Crown of Passion

by Jocelyn Carew

She was drawn to him beyond her wishes, in spite of her resentment of his arrogant assurance that he knew best — so she told herself. But it was possible, said a part of her mind, that she was bent on unholy gratification, bringing him to his knees before her, admitting he was exceedingly aware of her existence, of her importance to him.

  She was trouble, so he said — a nuisance, a spoiled, willful Norman. He would eat those words, she vowed to herself — and without salt!

  She met him at the gate of the bailey when he returned one day, his men driving a herd of grunting, squealing porkers before them.

  She scoffed, “The Lord of the Western Marches has become a mere swineherd?”

  Rhys grinned, but there was no amusement in his eyes. He waved his hand toward the people camped in the stronghold of the castle. “You wish me to let them starve?”

  “Of course not. But one might think you were better advised to look to your defenses.”

  Rhys nodded quickly. “Of course William’s army will come. I would not even be surprised were de Lacy himself to ride at the head. What we saw under Rainault was only the van, and with de Lacy’s story, William can do nothing else but to send an army.”

  He started across the courtyard, but she hurried to catch up with him. “But what good is it going to do to hold this castle?” she asked. “When William comes, he’ll take it back, and you will have gained nothing.”

  “Just for now,” he said wearily, “there will be no raids on the border. We will have a chance to restore our arms, our food, and give our women a chance to breathe without fearing the Normans in the middle of the night.”

  Rhys glanced around the bailey. Before the cookhouse the sacks of grain leaned against each other. Beyond, at the smithy, Caerleon’s men were sharpening their arrow tips, a chore they appeared to relish. At the far wall stood the barracks, turned over to the Welsh families that had come seeking protection. A heavy burden on the commander of the castle, she thought, noting the new lines of weariness marking his cheeks.

  “A short respite, that’s all I can give them,” said Rhys heavily. “For when dc Lacy comes back, as he will …”

  He left the sentence unfinished.

  Now that they had possession of the castle, Gwyn wanted to journey onward, to Port Madoc and her mother’s people. But Rhys would not hear of it. He could spare her none of his men. This was a crucial time for Wales, he explained.

  “I have summoned Welsh leaders to this castle. When William sends de Lacy to lay siege to this place, we will have the strength to fight him. There is nobody I can spare to go with you.”

  “But I have no place here. This … this dream of yours, of a united Wales, this has nothing to do with me. I don’t belong here. You must let me go.”

  Rhys had lost patience with her. “If we are to have a strong Wales, then people like you will have to give up their petty, selfish needs. Send men off now, when we have this castle, because you want to be someplace else? It’s out of the question.”

  And for good measure he had his men keep watch on her so she could not sneak off alone. He realized, with a sinking heart, that she was foolish and stubborn enough to do just that!

  *

  After provisions had been laid in, enough for a long siege, Rhys and the other Welsh leaders held a council. The council was almost equally divided on whether to hold the castle against the Normans, or to abandon it, because it was too far in the open. Finally, Rhys, his strong voice cutting across the argument, gained their attention. “It does not truly matter whether we are captive within the fort, or captive in our mountains. As long as the Normans have free access to this River Teme, leading into our own mountains, we will never be safe from the invader.”

  One of the elders of the border tribes with firsthand experience of attacks in the night nodded soberly. “I misdoubt we will ever be free of the Normans.”

  Rhys thrust in quickly, “But we can if we demolish the Normans. And we can if we forget our petty feuds. We did it before, in the olden days, when all the Welsh came down on the Wessex Saxons and gave them such a lesson that they built a dike — under the guidance of King Offa — to keep us out.”

  “The Normans rebelled only three years ago,” recalled Rhudd. “And many a month it took to quell it. We could wait for the next uprising.”

  Maldwyn spoke for the first time. “But even so, the Normans will unite against us, no matter what their secret hearts say. We had better retreat into the mountains. I do not trust this fighting where I cannot be sure what lies at my back.”

  There it was — the old argument of mountain-folk against plainsfolk. An ingrained feeling, it was, that no logic or canny battle plan could rout.

  “But,” said Rhys, “I agree. My hope is that there will be no fighting anywhere, on mountain or in valley. William’s brother Robert Shorthose will soon come home from the Crusades, and he will make trouble wresting his own lands in Normandy away from William. The Pope, too, has recalled his loan, and William cannot repay. No, Maldwyn, I doubt not that he will find himself too busy to raise the border against us.”

  “What do you want then, Rhys?” said Rhudd, after they had fallen into thought. “If we don’t stay, and we don’t fight — then what?”

  “Then,” said Rhys, drawing himself up, as though his thoughts were larger than he himself, a dream bigger than the man making him somehow larger than life. “Then we need to bring in Owen of Powys, Griffith of South Wales — and your prince, Wil — and confront the Normans with a united Wales. The threat will be enough to bring peace, long enough for the border to become settled, with Welsh and Norman living side by side, in harmony.”

  The dream caught hold of them, one after another. Gwyn could see the spark of it — the light of a coming era of prosperity and peace — move from one to another, catching as a torch lights a second flame.

  The northern Welsh, all of whose leaders were represented around the campfire, felt alien from the Welsh of the south, and Caerleon and his cousin stirred uneasily. They were from Dyfed, which boasted — or spoke with shame of — Pembroke, the sole settlement in Wales established by William the First.

  The council voted, and Rhys, the most literate of the leaders, was instructed to write to Prince Griffith of South Wales, inviting him to join in the attack on the Normans, to drive them back toward London and preserve the mountains for Welsh freedom.

  Gwyn realized again that Rhys was thoroughly committed to making a stand in Ludlow Castle. The castle stronghold was the pivot of Rhys’s strategy, and he must hold the fort at all costs. Rhys’s plans would not include an expedition over the mountains to restore Gwyn to her grandfather. Rhys shrugged off her second request impatiently. “I have my people to lead, as I have already told you. I have to put the affairs of all Welshmen above the affairs of one Welsh woman.”

  “So!” exclaimed Gwyn, stung. “At least I am a woman! I am glad you remember that.”

  Rhys spoke with rising indignation. “You think I’m a Norman, with as much fidelity as a tomcat? When I take time for a woman, she will be the light of my life, a fire in my blood. One woman, for all my life!”

  “You have not yet had time to find such a woman?” There was a wistful note in Gwyn’s voice that she could not hide, and Rhys looked at her with dawning interest. She waited hopefully, but his tongue was silent. Only his eyes spoke, and she was not sure she could read them rightly.

  He repeated, “I have no time now for women. Women make too many demands — if you hold to one alone. Soon she begins to think she owns you,” scoffed Rhys.

  “And men do not think so? A man has only to take a notion — so he thinks — and a woman is to leap and do his bidding. Like a hound, for example. Or a serf. And you say women make too many demands! I could tell you —”

  “At least,” interrupted Rhys fiercely, “we do not cling and whine. And pester for something we can’t have!”

  Gwyn said between gritted teeth, “I’ll never pester you!”

  His eyes lit up with
unholy glee. “I hope I may depend on that!”

  Left alone, she climbed the stairs to her room and looked out through the slit window toward the west, where she could see the mountains of her homeland. The mountains were purple velvet in the shadows, and the sun tipped their regal peaks with gold. They seemed so close she might reach out and touch them. Along the base of the mountain, above the line of trees on Wenlock Edge, rose a wispy veil of haze as though the mountain were pulling a covering modestly about itself.

  But her mother had said, once, that the mountains oi Wales were masculine, unlikely to possess such whimsy as a veil of modesty.

  *

  A week came and went, and still William’s army did not come. The messenger had gone to Brecknock with Rhys’s invitation to Prince Griffith to join the northern Welsh in attacking the Normans.

  Prince Griffith replied swiftly. The council gathered to listen as Prince Griffith’s messenger, standing near Rhys, recited his message in a singsong fashion, as the bards memorized the great stories of the heroes of old.

  The messenger began to speak. “Greetings from Prince Griffith, Lord of South Wales. In answer to the letter from Lord Rhys of the Western Marches and his worthy council, the response of our elders is favorable. South Wales will fight under the Red Dragon, the great pennant of King Cadwallon, now in our possession, uniting all the tribes of Wales.”

  “Red Dragon! That will bring Prince Owen in,” said Wil of Ruthin.

  “Is he able? I heard he was crippled in his bones,” objected Elkyn. “We did not cross Powys, but instead came north of the Beacons, lest he rise from his sickbed.”

  “The Red Dragon banner flew before King Cadwallon of Gwynedd as he advanced to battle with Osric and destroyed him,” recalled Rhudd. “But then Oswald had the luck of it, and our great King Cadwallon was slain by Oswald’s own hand, may it rot!”

  “Why, then, does South Wales keep the banner?” wondered Gwyn.

  “It was saved by a priest,” explained Rhys, “and it is said to be renewed by Merlin’s magic every hundred years.”

  “And,” added Rhudd of the Vale, “the priests keep it hidden, and move it, so that it can never be found by our enemies. It waits for a leader who can unite all our people, and when he comes, a Welshman will sit on the throne of the Saxons.”

  “Normans,” corrected Caerleon. “But who knows when such a leader will rise?”

  “Our men will,” continued the messenger, “be ready to march. It is fitting, our elders believe, that such an important alliance should be symbolized, and ratified, by marriage. My lady sister, Princess Nesta, is willing to become the bride of Lord Rhys of the Western Marches. When this wedding is accomplished, then the tribes of South Wales will march, uniting all the strength of the mountains behind them, and drive the Normans back into the sea from whence they came.”

  The messenger finished in total silence. A dull flush crept up Rhys’s strong neck, suffusing his cheeks. Someone said in an undertone, “A hard bargain, but one that I would make in his place.”

  Rhys brought his fist down hard on his knee and said, “This price is not something I will pay.”

  Maldwyn protested. “This is an offer of unity, and we must not turn it down.”

  Rhys got to his feet, storming, “Can’t the man see that the unity of the Welsh tribes is what will save us all, not whether his sister gets married or not?”

  The council burst into angry talk. Finally Rhys became aware once again of the messenger. “Go and get food, and rest this night before I return my answer.”

  Rhys’s glance fell smoldering on Gwyn. A message flashed from Gwyn to Rhys. You don’t have time for ladies?

  Rhys sat quietly, his face in shadow.

  Maldwyn, as was his custom, spoke quietly. “It will go hard for a land whose leader balks at marriage with a princess. If his heart is with the Cymry, he will wed where the Red Dragon leads him.”

  “Lord Rhys?” urged Wil. “You will answer Griffith?” Caerleon crowed, “My lord Rhys is not human, you know, Wil. For he passes up a known beauty at hand in order to bed a political advantage! Now you or I, Wil, have strong juices. But Lord Rhys weds an idea!”

  Rhys stood up heavily, as though the yoke of the world had fallen on his broad shoulders. Visibly bowed, he stalked from the council. Gwyn followed him out, but he was out of sight before she reached the courtyard.

  Caerleon, too, had left the council, and he caught up with her at the door of the keep. “The great man is no better than anyone else, marrying where he sees advantage,” he said.

  Gwyn said absently, “He has not said so.”

  Caerleon took her hand, and held it. Earnestly, he said, “I have a holding toward St. David’s on the Sea. It is small, but it is enough for me, and for you, and I would make you happy.”

  He looked down at her, his secret smile tucking in the corners of his mouth. “You need never worry again about battles — or fighting.” His coaxing laugh sounded in her ears. “For you would not fight me.”

  She glanced at him. “You would desert the cause of the Cymry?”

  “Desert is a harsh word,” he frowned. “There is always a fight to be had, you know. Whether a forlorn cause such as a united Wales, or a mere border skirmish to acquire a few sheep — a man can always find a battle. But a woman to warm the night, to heat the blood, bewitch the senses? One only. For me, you are the one.”

  She hardly heard him — a grave mistake.

  “Which way did he go?” she said.

  Caerleon stared at her without speaking and the prolonged silence caught her attention. She looked up at him. Belatedly she realized what he had said, the offer he had made and ashamed of her own lack of response, she said, “You are being kind, Caerleon, and I will not hold you to such a handsome offer.”

  A leaping light flared in Caerleon’s eyes, and he said, roughly, “Not serious? I’ll show you!” He took her by the arm, and pinned her against the wall. He stooped to kiss her, a long probing, intimate kiss that took her by surprise. She moved to escape, and suddenly, abruptly, roughly, he let her go. She fell back against the wall and gazed at him fearfully. “Don’t worry!” His voice was rough with emotion. “Next time you will be more willing! And I’ll have you, sooner or later.”

  He left her there then, panting for breath, and making a vow to herself. There would be no next time, for she would take good care to stay out of Caerleon’s reach. She knew that if she told Rhys that Caerleon had forced himself on her, it would prove a barrier between the two, and she must not do that. Rhys needed all Caerleon’s help as they prepared to fight the Normans.

  It was a little later when she at last caught up with Rhys, who looked broodingly out over the forest to the east “Where are the Normans?” said Rhys, pounding his fist against the parapet. “They will get here before Griffith can join us!”

  Gwyn felt her heart turn cold within her. “Then you have decided to marry the princess?”

  Rhys looked at her, a long steady look. Finally, he said stiffly, “I have decided to advance the freedom of my people.”

  5

  The next few days Caerleon, acting as though the episode the other day had never happened, hovered within reach, ever attentive to Gwyn’s slightest wishes.

  Caerleon shrewdly did not refer to his abortive approach again. Instead, he was ever in her sight, allowing her to come — his vanity counseled him — to her senses.

  She grew to count on his presence, his thought for her comfort, and she began to compare the two men who loomed largest in her life.

  Rhys — he of the rough tongue, the fierce temper — stood above average height, but his broad chest and strong legs made him seem shorter. His hair was not quite red, but rather the color of oak leaves after the first frost, his eyebrows reddish and heavy. His eyes were dark blue, almost black when he was angry. He planted his feet firmly on the ground as though he might take root like the mountains.

  But Caerleon, half a head taller and slender as a willow
, seemed like a sapling. He bent to the winds of fortune, rather than defy them. She told herself that he did not press her with attentions because he was thoughtful, although at times she watched his thoughts play over his mobile face like — she could not help but think — dragonflies hovering over a stream. Where Rhys was granite, Caerleon was quicksilver.

  But most often, she sank into the morass of her own thoughts. Would Rhys marry the Princess Nesta?

  *

  One day Cledog returned early in the afternoon with news. Rhys and Wil had gone foraging as always — for Caerleon found excuses not to turn “swineherder” — and the scout panted his discovery to Caerleon. “There are signs of Normans, crossing the ford in the forest. I misdoubt they will be here by nightfall! A good-sized army!”

  Caerleon said in a low voice, “So they have come at last!”

  Cledog left him. Caerleon turned over the information in his mind. There must be a way to capitalize upon the information, if he could just see it. At least for the moment, he decided, he would keep the information to himself.

  Gwyn and Morwyth were watching the cakes baking in the earthen oven. Gwyn leaned back on her heels. “This is the last of the cakes, thank goodness! I don’t think I could bear another hour in this heat! But you don’t seem to mind it?”

  Morwyth said, “It feels good to me.” She had caught a cold, and the cough still lingered. “Do you go on, lady, and I’ll take these out when they’re done.”

  Gwyn hesitated. Morwyth urged, “No, I am glad to stay here. Please go. Your face is so flushed! I fear you will take sick.”

  With a hug of thanks, Gwyn crossed the bailey and went out through the postern gate to the north of the castle. The meadow stretched invitingly, bright with late summer asters and feathery golden flowers, and — blessedly — cool breezes from the forest to the east, that same forest where the Welsh had lain in wait, the night before they took the castle from de Lacy. Where was he now? she wondered idly. The threat of the Normans was ever present, but the scouts would surely have brought back word if they were anywhere near. She wandered on.