Daffyd was nearby and came over to help her remount. He rumbled, “Pay no attention to my lord, for he does not always speak his heart.”
Gwyn said, more tartly than she wished, “I should hope no Welsh heart is as hard as his!”
She was not quite sure why disappointment was sore within her breast. What had she expected? A knight slaying a fire-breathing dragon at her feet? A knight to tie her favor on the end of his lance in the tilt yard?
The days of dragons were gone. Only wolves and ugly cruel men were left, and nary an honest man to rescue a maiden. Rhys ap Llewellyn was, in fact, leading her to safety, but he did so in spite of himself. It had taken a Saxon maiden, grateful for past help, to get her away from Winchester.
What should she do next? She could not think. The two persons who lived in her body now seemed to sleep. She was too sore, too battered by grief and fear, too ready to fall from her saddle in weariness, to think. And if she fell, she would make no move to get up, she knew, for she cared no longer for anything in this world.
She put her pony into a fast trot, and Daffyd and the great hound followed. She ached in every joint, longed for a rest, but she would not give Rhys the chance to call her “trouble.” He had said so, and she would put the lie to his words.
But when the moon set and all the land became dark, even the Welsh decided it was time to stop. Caerleon came back to help her down. “We do not know the trackway well, having been over it only once. It is best to wait until daylight, don’t you agree?” He lifted her down and let his hands linger around her waist. She was too exhausted even to protest, and at length he let his hands drop and said, “Not the time, I see. But there will come a time. Now best get some rest.”
She dropped to the ground almost where she stood, and someone covered her with a small blanket. When she woke, as the birds overhead gave voice to the dawn, she found the great hound had lain near her all night.
They traveled northwest all that day. An ancient trackway turned off directly west, but they left that behind, trending ever north toward the mountains. She set her mind doggedly to keep up with the soldiers. She surely could ride, she thought, as far as the men could trot. Although she had vowed not to give in, she was very close to asking Lord Rhys for a respite. But at length Rhys apparently thought they were far enough away from Winchester, and he ordered an early halt.
The camp was on a grassy plain near a small river, whose name she did not know. After a meager supper, there was a conference among the leaders. Contrary to Norman practice, she noticed that all the men of the troop, the soldiers, even those who tended the animals, all gathered around the tiny campfire and listened to their leader.
“We came,” said Rhys, pulling together the threads of his thought into an ordered scheme, “with the blessing of Prince Owen of Powys to make an alliance with the Normans. We hoped to cement a pact between us, one that would bring the other principalities to join us in uniting all Wales.”
Caerleon looked up sharply. “Dyfed will join — if we show a victory.”
“We did not want a victory,” Rhys reminded him, “only a treaty that would enable both peoples to live in peace along the Western Marches. Powys, Clwyd, even Gwynedd — all would join us. But the possibility is now past. This Norman king is treacherous. He would stab us to the heart, from the back.”
“Then it means war,” said Caerleon lightheartedly. “I vote for that. Teach the Norman dogs to bark a new scent!” There was a stir among the men. Daffyd growled, “Not all of us hold our skins this lightly.”
“Nor,” cried Elkyn, who came from Dyfed with his leader, “do all of us fear shadows!”
Daffyd’s hand moved toward his dagger hilt, but at a motion from Rhys, he did not draw his weapon.
“We will take Ludlow Castle,” said Rhys, “and then send word to the mountain folk. Now, we will need all our rest. Dewi, do you cover the fire. Ifan …”
He gave orders to secure the camp for the night. Gwyn, troubled over many things she had heard, thought she would not sleep. She laid her head down on a folded jacket belonging to one of the men and fell asleep instantly.
Caerleon spoke only once during the next day’s ride. Then it was, predictably, to find fault with his leader. “Ludlow isn’t full of booty, the way the Northern Marches are,” he complained. “If we could have agreed to harry the border, we could have come back to our land rich enough to buy King William himself!”
No one bothered even to answer him.
Caerleon was mutinous, Gwyn could see that. But on the other hand, Caerleon knew well who was the leader, and he feared to make his voice heard.
But Gwyn, seeing that Caerleon had no inclination to defy his leader, felt that no such limits applied to her. “You say you do not want war, but peace. Then leave Ludlow alone, for if you take it, the Normans will surely return to take it back again.”
“We’ll defend it,” said Rhys with confidence.
“Why? When you will lose it in the end?”
Rhys patiently explained. “I buy time — time to get our people together. The Cymry — that means fellow countrymen, you know — need time to cement their aims into one goal. Cadwallon did it, and all the folk fought under his pennant of the Red Dragon. The land can be ours again — but we will have to fight for it. The Normans are a greedy people, and they will never let us go.”
Rhys glanced at her from under his heavy eyebrows. “We are against the Normans. But also we must keep from giving the invaders the idea that reprisals are due. This has been the long story of the border. The Western Marches on one hand are beset by our own people, and on the other side by the invader. We must have peace, one way or another.”
“You are wasting your breath,” Caerleon told her. “The great Lord Rhys has no time for dalliance.”
After Caerleon had left her alone and only the great dog Maxen lay at her side, Gwyn fell victim to brooding worry. The strain of the last few days was beginning to tell. She had been cast down to the depths, so she thought, and the degradation that her king had inflicted upon her would never be wiped from her mind. But she had, with Hyrtha’s help, escaped from the Norman fortress, where no escape seemed possible, and cast her lot in with her Welsh countrymen.
If William found out that Gwyn were with the Welsh, Rhys might well turn her over to William, in order not to provoke war between the two. She had suddenly no illusions as to where she stood with Rhys. Nothing but trouble, he had said. And his word apparently was law. Her only ally in the whole camp was Caerleon. He alone had sufficient authority to rebel against his leader.
Later she broached the subject to Caerleon. “Rhys could give me back to William, couldn’t he?”
Caerleon thought a long moment before he nodded, reluctantly.
The journey was resumed. They were now well into the Cotswolds, the mountain range that lay slanting across the face of England. The ancient trackways here were not as clearly traveled as before. When they had reached a crossroad, one marked with a gray stone nearly as high as Gwyn’s shoulder, they had taken the fork to the right. She had seen Dewi surreptitiously cross himself. Later she asked him, “What was that stone back there? A milestone?”
Dewi shied away, almost like a wild pony. But under her curious eyes, he swallowed heavily and told her. “It was a hallowed place, a place where the gods were, in olden times, that is. I am Christian, of course, but the old ways sometimes die hard.”
As she trudged along, walking to save the pony, she reflected upon how, indeed, the old ways died hard. She was now a Welsh tribeswoman tramping on a climb over the spine of the mountains, and yet she still thought of herself sometimes as a Norman lady. Ramsey Manor was far away, lost to her forever, but it had been so much a part of her until the last few months that she knew it would sing in her blood forever.
Lost in these reflections, and possessed of secret doubts as to whether she could, in fact, endure long enough to reach the track that crossed the ridge of the mountain ahead, she did not hear, unt
il all the rest had stopped to listen, the sound that she had unconsciously been dreading.
Now that it was here, ringing in her ears, the sound of hoofbeats behind them, she knew that at last she would find her fate. Whether she would stay with the Welsh, or whether the party riding behind, and approaching rapidly, would take her back to William. For she could recognize now as the hoofbeats grew closer that there was a large party, and riding fast. There was no question in her mind but that William’s men had at last found her.
Now that she had gone so far with the Welsh, traveling fast to reach the valley of the Teme before word could reach Ludlow Castle that the Welsh were at large, she had been able to forget for hours at a time the horrors she had left behind. Her rescue now seemed less of a miracle than before, and she had begun to look ahead, to believe that there were to be years in her future, instead of mere hours.
But with the sound of pounding hooves, of the far-off clang of metal on metal, the jingling harness — all telling of a troop of armed men, Norman knights — a fear such as she had never known, not even in the forest or on the raised platform in Winchester bailey, struck terror to her heart and turned her bones to jelly.
2
They had come so far, and yet not far enough. The Normans had caught up with them.
They were somewhere east of the broad Severn, the river that rose in Wales — and was there called the Hafren — and circled through the lands conquered by the Normans. They must yet ford the stream to reach Ludlow. They had come far on their journey in five days, but not quite far enough.
Leading his men and riding furiously was William de Monfichet, a man she had last seen at King William’s court. She expected him to be surprised to see her, until she realized that she was weathered by the days in the sun and wind. Clad in the Saxon clothes she still wore, she was not recognizable. Monfichet pulled up sharply at sight of the Welsh, and then, recognizing Lord Rhys, he doffed his helm and dismounted.
“You have traveled fast, Lord Rhys,” said Monfichet. His voice was surprisingly high, but it carried far, like a silver trumpet in battle, fashioned to command by the intricate sequence of the clarion notes. “One might almost think you had reason to cover ground.”
“Nay, sir,” said Rhys, answering the Norman in his own language. “It is only that I do not stay in a court from which decency has fled.”
“You are not alone,” confessed Monfichet. “But it has been learned that the maid is not with Prince Henry. Were I a countryman of hers, I would make sure to watch my defenses.”
“Then the king thinks I took the lady?” queried Rhys. “How did I get her out of that castle? A dog could not have escaped!”
Monfichet laughed, remembering. “He spoke — our good Christian king — of Merlin the magician, even of Druid wizards. He thinks you are capable of magical things.”
“It would be too much to hope, though, that he would fear to send men after us?”
“Entirely too much.”
“I thank you for your warning.”
Monfichet lowered his voice. “I should not want you to think that all Normans are of the same stamp as the man who now calls himself king.”
Caerleon whispered in Gwyn’s ear. “He was one of the men who were opposed to that auction. He surely has not come to bring you back.”
Touching her shoulder in reassurance, Caerleon moved out to stand beside Rhys. Gwyn edged closer, the better to hear. Sir William’s remarks were short and to the point. “I dare not say too much, Lord Rhys. But I shall tell you this. The Red King may find himself without a kingdom. It is too bad that all the young men who would rebel to preserve their rights have gone off to Jerusalem. A crusade would have been better directed at abuses here at home. But I do not doubt that when the men return from the Holy Land, having blooded themselves in battle, they will form a force that even King William cannot hope to defeat. But until then, I am riding back to my lands, and I do not expect to leave them.”
Gwyn, in her curiosity, had moved closer. She felt Sir William’s eyes sweep across her, and his start told her that he had recognized her. But his eyes slid deliberately past her and focused once again on Lord Rhys. She had nothing to fear from Sir William, she knew.
And yet, Sir William was not finished. He said, “If I were you, Lord Rhys, I would do the same. Surely you have time enough to gain your mountain retreats. Once there, William cannot send his men after you.”
“Why should the king pursue us? We came to his court in peace and departed in peace. Surely the king looks closer at hand for his ward?”
Monfichet turned thoughtful. “Prince Henry, it is true, spent that night outside the walls of Winchester Castle and had an opportunity to hide the girl away. But William is convinced that the girl has not sought shelter with his brother. That seems so” — he grinned broadly — “for the prince seems as anxious as the king himself. But I carry the king’s writ, Lord Rhys, and it occurs to me that you might like to cast your eyes on it. Were you to force me,” he continued, his voice heavy with meaning, “I could not refuse to let you see it.”
Rhys’s smile was sour. “I should not like to test the strength of your gallant men, but I have sufficient force at my back to seize the writ, were it not proffered me in friendship.”
“Not, perhaps, in friendship,” corrected Monfichet. “Let us consider it as under a truce.” He fished in the pouch attached to his saddle and brought out a thin rolled document
“The king’s writ,” said Monfichet. “You read Latin?”
Rhys nodded once, taking no pleasure from Monfichet’s surprise. He knew himself better educated than the majority of Norman knights. He was grateful for his education, but not overly proud.
“The writ says?” prodded Rhys.
Monfichet glanced over it. “It instructs me to take Ludlow Castle and send de Lacy back to court. The king is much displeased with him.”
Rhys looked over his shoulder at his men. They were brown as tree boles, small, wiry, looking like a band of forest outlaws. He turned from them to note Monfichet’s heavily armed soldiers, chain-mail protected, bristling with lances and spears, against the Welsh longbows.
“I need Ludlow,” Rhys told Monfichet.
Monfichet murmured, “I cannot hold it. De Lacy, although he does not yet know it, is to go into exile.” The Norman held the writ oddly, almost as though daring the other to snatch it away. “I have no stomach for losing my life for such a king!”
Shrewdly, Rhys assessed the man on horseback. Monfichet was trying to tell him something that he did not want to put into words.
Rhys tore the writ from Monfichet’s fingers. “Take Ludlow …” read Rhys, half aloud, “send de Lacy … return the girl if she can be found … bring Rhys ap Llewellyn as a traitor in chains … in chains? Traitor!” The last word was a bellow.
Sir William said, “Now perhaps you will understand better how we feel. I wish you well.”
His eyes swept once again over Gwyn, pausing the slightest fraction of a second, and the message that he sent her was clear. I shall not betray your presence, and I wish you well.
Rhys nodded acknowledgement, and then, apparently satisfied, Monfichet pulled down his visor. He gave the signal to ride back the way they had come, and in moments the earth ceased to shake under the heavy hooves and the Normans were out of sight.
They made camp where they were for the night. A small fire was built, and the ponies were turned out to graze. Rhys was sunk in such a black mood that no one dared approach him. Finally, Gwyn, in compassion, tiptoed silently over and sat next to him. She offered him a cup of water from the river, and absently he took it and drank it. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he looked at her ruefully. “I thought I could keep you safe,” he said. “Your king suspects the truth too soon.”
Gwyn hastened to protest. “He is no king of mine.”
“Nor of ours,” said Caerleon, surprisingly close to them. Once more Gwyn thought, the man moves like a shadow!
; “Strange,” he continued, smoothing his hair with a feline gesture. “He didn’t even try to get the writ back.” He turned to Rhys. “What was in it, besides traitor? That word you bellowed to the skies!”
Rhys handed it to his captain, and Gwyn, leaning close to Caerleon, read it aloud. “Bring me back!” said Gwyn. “I shall not see the day I go back!”
Rhys said musingly, “There was a reason for Monfichet to give me the writ — for he made no effort to hold it back. If he speaks the truth, then he is returning to his own lands and he will not defy us at Ludlow. There is a way to use this calfskin.”
Caerleon objected. “Any man who reads this will know you are not Monfichet!”
“But that,” exclaimed Rhys with enlightenment, “is the beauty of it! How many Normans can read? If de Lacy cannot, then I have a fine use for this writ!”
“I cannot make it out,” fretted Caerleon, poring over the parchment. “Tis ill writ in heathenish letters!”
After Caerleon stomped away, Gwyn said slowly, “If the king sends men after me, then he will take you as a traitor. And you know treason means hanging.”
Rhys, still on the verge of anger, said testily, “So?”
Gwyn said, “If you will give me one or two men, I will turn back and give myself up to the king. I dare not put you in more danger.”
“Send you back? You have lost your senses, I think.” Impatience rode him. “I’ve got more to do than to watch you spit yourself on the spear of sacrifice! Besides, I can’t spare the men!”
“Then I shall go alone!” cried Gwyn. She picked up the bit of cheese she had been eating for the noonday meal and checked to see that the small dagger still hung at her belt. She looked across at the men around the fire, their faces reflecting disbelief, or amusement, and turned her back on them. Plunging into the track and stepping out smartly in the way they had come, she was soon out of sight in the leafy shadows.
Crown of Passion Page 21