Crown of Passion

by Jocelyn Carew

  Rhys might well shrink from introducing this ragamuffin, no higher than his shoulder, slender as a boy, with a smeared, elfin face, as the true love of the great Lord of the Western Marches. She lifted her pointed chin and waited. And Rhys said nothing to the point.

  Caerleon had indeed said that Rhys would disappoint Gwyn if she trusted him. She tried to guess what would be in Rhys’s mind — and decided that like a true military commander he would have his men’s welfare at heart first. First he would see them clothed, warmed, and fed, given a night’s rest. Then he would explain to Griffith that he had, in fact, made a prior commitment and could not marry Nesta. Gwyn was then more contented and mentally applauded Rhys’s decision. For she herself could do with a long bath, a change of clothing, and a night’s sleep on a bed, or at least a pallet, anything other than the hard, frozen, wet ground.

  Suddenly she was very weary. It had been a long trek over the mountains, hazardous underfoot and cold nights, and now her body rebelled. A maidservant came to lead her to the women’s quarters, and she scarcely knew when she lay down on the pallet. She did not stir until the next morning.

  She awoke to hear birds singing strange songs that she did not recognize. Around her, far away, were the sounds of other people, the cries of men and horses, the harmony of an entire village going about its business.

  Before she was fully awake, her hand reached out for Rhys. Her fingers touched emptiness, felt the wooden floor beside her pallet. Then she remembered the arduous journey, the arrival at Brecknock … and Rhys who had not told Griffith he would not wed his sister.

  She sat bolt upright. He had betrayed her, as Caerleon said he would. She could not deep in her soul believe he would lie to her. Perhaps he waited merely until she was rested before seeking a priest to marry them.

  Or perhaps after he finished his business with Prince Griffith, he would decide not to linger here, but go on … possibly even to Port Madoc. She would like to be married under her grandfather’s roof. Perhaps Rhys planned to surprise her. She threw the covers back and reached for her clothing. She must see Rhys at once!

  Her hands fell on soft linen, finely woven wool, instead of the rough-spun and leather she had worn. The snowy chemise and the long tunic of scarlet drifted softly as thistle down over her shoulders and down to her ankles. A matching girdle to fasten around her waist, and she was ready. As she dressed, her faith in him came back, and when she emerged from the small room where she had slept, she stepped forth confidently to find her life’s love, in search of Rhys.

  But when she descended to the council chamber, she found that Rhys and Griffith were deep in discussion. Rhys was pressing Griffith to give him an exact answer. “How far will you support this war?”

  Griffith said mildly, “War is a hard word. I doubt that my people wish to wage battle out in the flatlands.”

  Rhys was irritated. If Griffith thought that the moorland surrounding Brecknock was mountainous, Gwyn thought, he had not ever traveled north of the river. The mountains in the northern part of Wales overpowered even the thought of mountains in south Wales. Rhys said, frustrated, “But your messenger said that you were willing to join with us under the Red Dragon and drive the Normans back into the sea.”

  Griffith said, “Did I say that? I fear my messenger mistook my meaning.”

  Seeing Gwyn for the first time, Griffith rose to his feet and welcomed her with graciousness. “I trust you are rested after your hard journey, following these rugged soldiers across some trails that were meant for goats, instead of men.” Griffith laughed gently. “But now you are here, and I am sure that my sister will not want you to leave right away.”

  Rhys turned to greet her. His eyes widened as he took in her elegant scarlet tunic, her dark hair freshly brushed and gleaming, falling to her shoulders. She had not seen that look in his eyes before, and she hid a mischievous smile. All would be all right, she told herself.

  He stepped toward her, but Prince Griffith forestalled him. He took Gwyn’s hand in his and carried it to his lips. “A beauty, Lord Rhys, and fit to grace some great lord’s castle. I wonder she has not yet wed?” Gracefully he turned to Rhys and lifted a questioning brow.

  Now is the time! She sent the message silently toward Rhys. But his face had shuttered against her, and he refused to look directly at her. It was as though in the short moments while Prince Griffith spoke to her, all that had lain between her and Rhys, all the promises they had made, were tossed into the dust and trampled upon.

  She began to protest, but the words that came out surprised her.

  Gwyn said, “I should like to go to my grandfather’s.”

  Griffith nodded. “So Lord Rhys has told me. And I heartily agree. Perhaps my men can take you there, after Lord Rhys has married my sister.”

  Gwyn’s shocked glance flew to meet Rhys’s eyes. He turned away, and she began to think he was never going to straighten the question out. What could she do? She could not force him to explain to Griffith that she and he were bound to each other. The lurking suspicion came to her that perhaps Rhys did not consider himself bound.

  After the noon meal Griffith escorted Gwyn to his sister’s lodgings. He said, “I am sure my sister can lend you suitable clothing. We are to have a great feast tonight in honor of our happy pair! You will wish to drink toasts to them!”

  Gwyn thought darkly, that is the last thing I expect to do! But they arrived at Princess Nesta’s rooms before she could give voice to her thoughts.

  She looked across the room, following the direction of Griffith’s gesture, and saw with a sinking heart the Princess Nesta of South Wales.

  She was the most beautiful woman Gwyn had ever seen. Nesta was no taller than Gwyn herself, but with a full, almost top-heavy bosom. Gold ribbon was braided into her long blonde hair. She wore, in spite of her small stature, an air of assurance, as one who had had her own way all her life. Her eyes were blue as summer skies, her features perfectly formed, and her skin as fair as rich cream.

  Gwyn’s heart sank. Princess Nesta was a regal mate, fit for Lord Rhys, as Griffith had said. Beauty, position, and the means to an alliance — Gwyn could not compete against all the princess offered. All she could offer Rhys was her heart and her loyalty. It would never be enough.

  Griffith introduced Gwyn to his sister and explained how it was that Gwyn had come without baggage. “And you will want to give her one of your gowns,” he finished.

  Then Princess Nesta spoke. Her voice was flat, without emphasis, harsh as a rook’s. “She may have one of my maid’s dresses, for I do not choose to give up any of my own.”

  Nesta looked at Gwyn then, a long look, and said, “Too bad your hair is so dark.”

  Gwyn was appalled. The fairest of faces in all Wales covered a commonplace mind, a squawking voice, and a selfish heart. She glanced at Griffith. His look told her much — the lady’s brother adored her, totally, protectively, indulgently. Understandable, she told herself, but still she was uneasy.

  She thanked the princess for her hospitality and, clad at last in a garment lent by Nesta’s smallest handmaiden, Gwyn hurried downstairs to meet Rhys before the feast.

  She found him alone, looking broodingly out across the courtyard. She went across the courtyard toward him.

  “Rhys, I’ve needed to talk to you all day.”

  He pointed across the bailey. “See that? Not one of those soldiers carries his dagger. Not one of them would be able to defend himself against a child. There’s too much soft living here. I like it not.”

  “Then why are we here?”

  “To get the banner. To get Griffith’s word to join us.”

  “Is his word worth all that much?”

  “With it I can pull in Dyfed and Powys and Gwynedd. Without his word, we are back where we started from, with raiding and bloodletting all along the Marches.”

  “A man’s word is good, then.” Her fingers fumbled with one of her braids. She was conscious of his nearness, of her longing to feel his han
ds on her, to see the light she knew in his deep blue eyes that told her she was his love. She could not think how to draw him back to her.

  “A man’s word should be.” He looked at her then with care. “You look lovely,” he said, as though the words were dragged from him.

  “As lovely as I can,” she said wryly, “in borrowed clothes.”

  “But not as beautiful as with none,” he said softly.

  “Never again,” she said with spirit, “until we are wed.”

  He drew back. “A cold winter lies ahead for us, then.”

  “Why? Rhys, why? You love me, you said. You cannot plan to marry Nesta when you love me! Tell Griffith at once, Rhys.” She moved closer and touched his chest. “Please.”

  Rhys reached for her, but she backed away. “What is there to tell?” he said. “I never told you I was not going to marry the princess.”

  Gwyn cried out, “What was I to think? That you would seduce a Welsh noblewoman, on a whim, and yet not intend to marry her? I had not thought you so base.”

  Rhys said, “You know that you are my heart. And yet, Wales is also dear to me. There is only one way to unite Wales.”

  Gwyn whirled away. “Have you tried any other way? No, you haven’t, don’t bother to answer me. Griffith might give you the troops you want without marrying her. Had you thought of that?”

  She threw him one beseeching look and then ran back to the women’s quarters. She did not see him again until the feast that night. She did not want to attend, but she could not stay away.

  After the fruit had been served and the remains of the dinner cleared away, the flagons began to be passed around the table. Nesta drank her toasts with the men. The liquor was a kind of fermented honey similar to the mead of the Saxons, but, Gwyn thought, more potent. The toast to marriage choked Gwyn, and she merely put the liquid to her lips and then set down the ornate silver cup. Nesta drained her cup, but Rhys, usually abstemious, barely touched his. The toasts continued, one after another, and Nesta quaffed them all to the dregs. Reluctantly, Rhys joined in. The only effect of the liquor on the princess was a peculiar stare in her lovely blue eyes under long-fringed lashes. Any effect on Rhys was imperceptible.

  At length Prince Griffith gave a toast to Rhys, Lord of the Western Marches. When Rhys rose to respond, Gwyn could tell by the murmurs of those at the banquet table that he was expected to give a speech.

  Rhys, clearly obsessed by his mission to South Wales, did not disappoint them. Gwyn scarcely heard it. The words in the dear, familiar voice flowed past her. She arranged an expression of attention on her features and then slipped away into her own fancies.

  Toward the end of his speech, she came reluctantly back to the present. Rhys, full of the vibrant quality of his vision of a united Wales, fighting under the Red Dragon, seemed scarcely to see his listeners. He turned imperceptibly toward Gwyn, and, at the last, he spoke to her alone.

  “To see our people, the ancient rulers of this land, still independent, free to pursue their own destiny, to fulfill the purpose that God gave us, this is a dream that is worthy of princes and shepherds alike. A dream worth any sacrifice, a goal that we can reach only if we all work together, in mutual accord.”

  His eyes bored into Gwyn’s, and she caught sight of the vision as well as he. It was truly a future they could work together on, a hope that would require the best of both of them. The sacrifices he spoke of, she realized, would be small indeed if weighed in the balance against a united Wales. The blood of her ancestors boiled in her once again. At that moment she would have marched at his side wherever he chose, do whatever he asked of her.

  But Princess Nesta, too, was moved. She said, leaning across the table and speaking confidentially to Gwyn, “If Lord Rhys is king of Wales, then I shall be his queen. I shall have a fine court, and you may be one of my ladies!”

  3

  The earth was turning toward winter. Already, when the Welsh had left Ludlow Castle, the trees along the ridge of Wenlock Edge held a hint of changing color. Higher in the mountains, the nights had been sparkling cold, and one morning they had awakened to a white world of glittering hoarfrost.

  Here in the south the days seemed to shorten more slowly. A purple mist veiled the tops of the Beacons and — so it seemed — held them safe awhile from snow.

  The feast of welcome, given by Griffith for his guests, Rhys ap Llewellyn, Caerleon of Dyfed, and the Lady Gwynllion, turned her thoughts back to feasts of thanksgiving for the harvest back home.

  September, the time of reaping at Ramsey Manor, the month when the fruits of the year were gathered in to be stored. This was Gwyn’s first winter away from home. She felt she had traveled years since the day when her father’s body was buried and the king’s emissary came to take her to Countess Maud. And yet it was only a few months.

  She had slept but little after the banquet. She was given a pallet in the room of Nesta’s waiting women. The women chattered noisily, gossiping about people Gwyn did not know, and it was almost daylight before sleep stilled their tongues.

  She awoke early, dressed hastily in her borrowed gown and cloak, and sought the freshness of morning. All was still. Even the sentry, clearly visible atop the watchtower, slumped over his thick staff, drowsing. Prince Henry, or any Norman, could have walked up to the gate without challenge.

  She found the stairs that led up to the top of the wall. Climbing them on tiptoe, lest her footsteps echo in the silent courtyard, she reached the walk along the parapet and looked over the wooden palisade. The walk was cunningly designed so that a bowman could kneel to fit his arrow to the bow, stand to aim, release the arrow, and duck down to shelter again. She was hardly tall enough to see over the pointed timbers of the wall, but the view was breathtaking.

  After a while she realized that she was not alone. She turned quickly. Rhys stood no more than arm’s length away.

  “Oh, you startled me!”

  “I fear I interrupt your dreams,” he said. “Or is it that your head thrums as mine does?”

  “I drank little,” she said, understanding the furrows on his brow. “But you matched beaker for beaker?”

  “As guest I could do no less. The heads of these southerners must be made of rock,” he groaned.

  They leaned in companionable silence against the palisade. He clung to the timbers with both hands and lowered his head to rest on them. At length he muttered, “If only they fought as well as they drink!”

  “Why can’t we leave?” she asked urgently. “Griffith is too indolent to do your cause any good — all he wants is a husband for his sister. And you cannot waste your life on such a one as she!”

  As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she would have given much to take them back. The time was wrong, his mood was savage, and she knew she had made a grave mistake.

  “Rhys —” she began in apology.

  He turned to her angrily. “Even though your voice is soft as a dove’s and sweeter to hear,” he said, taking a deep breath and shuddering, “yet I do not wish to hear it this morning. I must get Griffith to join us for he keeps the banner. And without the Red Dragon of Cadwalla, we may as well hide in our mountain caves and wait for the invaders to kill us.”

  “I’m sorry, Rhys. But it seems to me we’re wasting time here.”

  “Your time, maybe,” he said without thinking. “Mine will be well spent —”

  “With that rook-voiced nothing they call a princess?” Suddenly Gwyn was as angry as he. “How dare you bring me here, and tell me all the time you love me, when you intended to wed her? I shall tell them, believe me, what you have promised me, and then we will see about your precious blonde.”

  He shut his eyes and shuddered. “Once more, Gwyn, please.”

  “Your head hurts? It’s a wonder it doesn’t fall off!” she raged. “Don’t come to me for comfort, for I have none for you. You use me and cast me off like a ragged shirt.”

  He turned with a snarl and grabbed her by the shoulders. “Be quiet! I
cannot stand this — my head —”

  The touch of his hands on her shoulders stirred her, and she longed to cradle him in her arms, press his fevered aching head to her breast. He caught something of her longing and his fierce grip eased. Almost without his knowing it, his hands stroked her shoulders, moved up to caress her neck, touch her cheeks, and tuck one raven lock behind her ear.

  Shaking with thirst for the touch of his dearly familiar lips on hers, and yet not daring to yield, she summoned all her strength to pull away. “Rhys …”

  The moment shattered. “So, I’m too drunk to — to give you what you want.”

  “All I want is you, Rhys, darling. But I want all of you. I will not share you with another woman.”

  He turned back to the palisade and looked to the southeast. “I should not have expected more. Strange, how I am suddenly sober. I cannot account for it, unless you have put a spell on the wine witch and made her harmless to me.”

  “I cast no spells.”

  “No, I suppose not. But I would have thought that any woman with pity in her soul could remember the tales that Ulric brought, the death that rages along the border, the burning, the killing, the rape —”

  “What do you mean? I remember them. I remember all that I saw, and much that I heard.”

  “But you do not care enough about your land to see it free.”

  “You’re not fair!” she protested angrily. “I only ask what you promised me. Never separated, you said. We belong together forever, you told me. Or was it simply lust speaking?”

  He clenched his fist and pounded the upright timber in front of him. “Lust? Perhaps that first time. But not since then, never after that. But I must walk warily here, for there is more at stake than you and me. I must deal softly with Griffith. I do not quite see my way yet, but I will.” The anguish he felt was clear on his face. She could not bear it. In a moment she would throw herself on him and beg him to let her stay by his side, wed or not. Just to see his heart’s desire come to him — that would be all she ever wanted from life. “Trust me, Gwyn.”