Crown of Passion

by Jocelyn Carew

  She was too intent upon her own unhappiness to notice what was going on around her. Young Cledog, out of growing affection for his cousin, spent much of his time with her. When he was not with her, he spoke of her often, so that Efa, for one, began to look darkly upon Gwyn.

  Until now Efa had been the first lady of Port Madoc, for she was the niece of Prince Madoc himself. Efa dared not complain to her mother for Mechel had a strong sense of what was due to Prince Madoc. If he welcomed his granddaughter, then Mechel would welcome her too.

  But Efa found a ready ear in one of Gwyn’s own companions. Ifan, although appearing sane, had allowed his hatred of Gwyn to fester within him. He blamed Gwyn for Morwyth’s death, even though it had been an accident, and Morwyth would have died by now anyhow, from her lung fever. Nothing that Aidua could tell him made any difference. Ifan would simply smile and say, “No doubt you’re right.” And still nothing had changed within him.

  In his own way Ifan could have understood Gwyn’s loneliness. He had grown to love Morwyth as himself, her body one with his, so that in her death it was as though he had died, too, and yet walked.

  His aching need was not assuaged, for he was too sullen, too wrapped in grief, to find aught but sympathy in the village. There were girls who looked upon him at first with favor, and — had he stretched out his hand — he could have bedded one. But he hardly noticed them.

  The winter wore on, slowly, and one day seemed much like the next. Gwyn allowed the slow rhythm of the days at Port Madoc to soothe her, to heal her, and she was unaware of small signs that might have told her that trouble was brewing.

  The spring came on at last. A great feast was planned to celebrate the approaching rebirth of the grazing, of all growing things, and the glorious resurrection of Lord Jesus. Gwyn had fashioned a new kirtle for herself, to wear to the feast. It was the color of new grass. She had worked a design in gold thread along the hem.

  The afternoon of the feast, she decided to lay out the green wool kirtle and choose a tunic to wear with it. The afternoon sun slanted across the village as she hurried back, earlier than she had planned, from her walk. She took the kirtle out of the chest where she had stored it and shook it out. She dropped it as though it burned her fingers.

  She could not believe what she saw. She picked the garment up again, her hands trembling. She must have been mistaken, she thought — a trick of the light, no more. But there was no mistake. The kirtle had been slashed savagely into ribbons.

  Slowly it came to her that this destruction went beyond ordinary mischief. Her fingers smoothed the soft fabric, tried to restore the broken threads to their place, while her mind darted like a trapped leveret. Who could have done this? Had he thought, in his twisted mind, that he was cutting Gwyn herself?

  And then she thought, he?

  It did not have to be a man. It was a woman’s trick. Only a woman would know how much a new kirtle, destroyed in such a way, would touch the owner. But there was no one in the village she thought capable of doing such damage.

  She sat on a stool, holding the damaged kirtle to her breast, and rocking it back and forth as though it were a wounded child. Then as she brooded, little things came back to her, tiny signs of jealousy, small malicious, spiteful darts. She was suddenly sure she knew who the culprit was. It could be none other than Efa. Only Efa, living in this house, could easily find the opportunity to do this.

  But I have done nothing to hurt her! wailed Gwyn in her mind. And yet, she knew well enough that a mind capable of such hatred did not need a reason. It was sufficient that Gwyn had come, and that her grandfather had bestowed his great love on her. Prince Madoc had taken nothing from Efa, but she was jealous and fearful.

  What could Gwyn do? Could she run to her grandfather and complain? She might be wrong, and she had no proof. And it would do no good. It would simply draw the battle lines, and neither one would win. Instead there was a much better way!

  She set to work at once, glad she had come in early, for even so she barely had time to follow out her plan. Borrowing from the new fashions she had seen in King William’s court, she turned the kirtle into a long-sleeved tunic, sewing up as many rips as she could, concealing them in underarm seams. Embroidery fashioned edges to the graceful sleeves. She wore an old pelisson beneath the new tunic.

  Soon she stood in the doorway of the banquet hall, allowing all to look their fill at her. She looked back, smiling. Her glance fell on Efa, next to Ifan, and the same expression on both their faces was enough to tell Gwyn the truth. Efa and Ifan had bolstered each other’s malice and hatred, and she recognized now that they were truly enemies.

  Perhaps because they knew she was on guard, or perhaps because their hatred was temporarily sated, there were no further attacks. Nonetheless, she decided to watch her step, and she kept to her resolve all through the spring.

  May arrived, and the grass greened on the slopes. The shepherds took the sheep and the frisky new lambs up to mountain pastures. The fishing boats went out every day, except when it was very bad weather. The catch was usually very good. The women diligently salted the fish to store against the next winter, when storms often kept the boats ashore. An air of prosperity enveloped the village.

  The life of the village revolved around the rhythm of the waves and the winds. Even Gwyn turned more to the sea, first in the morning, to see the soft, pearly light on the whispering waves of Tremadoc Bay — Brian’s “milk-white sea” in truth — and the last thing before bed, when the dark, mysterious ocean moved gently, as though breathing softly in sleep.

  One day when she wandered down to look for the small fishing boats far out on the bay, she found a small coracle, beached, with a paddle nearby. She recognized it as Cledog’s. It was not of use to him at the moment, for he was out with the fleet.

  Dare she try to paddle the coracle on her own? The sea seemed quiet, even mirror smooth along the shore, beyond the village. The rocky cliffs rose sheer from the water when the tide was full, and trees crowned the heights. The scene lured her.

  She pushed off, alone, to try her skill as Cledog had taught her. It was the first time she had been out alone. Before long the rhythm of the paddle came easily, and she worked her way out toward the fishing fleet. She stopped well before she got to them, so as not to snag the nets, and moved in close to the shore.

  It was a beautiful country, with little waterfalls forming veils of mist as they leaped from higher rocks to the lower pools, and she was lost in the wonder of her own land. She thought she would never tire of watching the sight of the swift clouds making shadows and the sunlight.

  Caught up in the wonder of the scenery, Gwyn did not notice that the fishing fleet had disappeared. When at last she looked around, she realized that she was alone on the bay. Where had they gone?

  She could not see beyond the rim of her coracle. The fog — the baneful fog — had stolen along the shore, channeled by the high cliffs, toward her, and now it wrapped her like a gray cloak, damp, and smelling of fish.

  The fleet, no doubt — she thought in passing — had had warning sufficient to bring them hurriedly back to shore. But they would not know she was on the water, for the fog had already swallowed her up.

  She could not see the shore. She listened, to hear the water splash at the foot of the cliffs, but there was no sound. She watched the fog roll on itself like a heavy blanket. She turned in sudden panic to return to the village.

  She was frightened. There was fog around her, and she could not get her bearings. Then she realized that she could in her ignorance paddle herself onto the rocks along the shore and rip the bottom out of her coracle. She must stay well away from the shore, but she did not know where the shore was. She did not know how much time passed while she paddled one way, and then, in fear, sheered away from a danger she could not see. All directions were the same, in the fog. She heard sounds, but they were distorted, and she could not trust them.

  It must have been a long time, for suddenly she knew it was alread
y night. There was nothing else to do but keep paddling. Perhaps she was already out of the bay and into the great ocean — she had been paddling long enough, she thought, to reach the fabled land of Avalon.

  If she were able to get to the shore, she might even take a chance and perch on a rock all night, if her coracle sank beneath her. And then she remembered the jagged teeth of the rocks and went cold with fear.

  Her arms grew weary with paddling, and yet she dared not stop. She drew too close to the shore, more than once, and saw the jagged teeth of the rocks. She paddled quickly away, but her coracle swung around, so that she was not sure anymore of her directions. For the rocks, which should be on her left hand, were suddenly on her right hand. She must be going out to sea. But at last, she heard, incredibly, the splash and drip of a paddle, coming closer. Then, as though from far away, and an instant later as though it were next to her, came the sound of water whispering along the leather shell of another coracle.

  At last rescue was on the way! She called to give direction to her rescuer. At length the other boat drew close enough, and she cried out in welcome. The newcomer, muffled to the eyes, took one look at her, and then — impossible to believe! — faded again into the fog. She called and called, but he did not return. And it was only a suspicion, perhaps born of her fevered mind, that it was Ifan himself who had come to rescue her and then, filled with his unreasoning hatred, left her to die alone in the fog.

  In the morning, when the fog burned off, she was still afloat. Gradually her numbed mind told her where she was, where the current had brought her along the shore toward the head of Tremadoc Bay.

  To her left, the rocky shore stretched to the west; the trees were touched with the pink light of early day. The coracle bumped gently on the sand, and as though in a dream, she knew that she would be safe!

  She beached the boat, drawing it, high up on the sands, and started to walk along the shore toward the village. She was so tired! She thought that every step was going to be her last. Her feet dragged through the sand, the golden beach held her back with every footstep.

  She fell finally to her knees, longing only to lie down and sink into sleep, or death, when she heard voices ahead of her. Coming to meet her, showing every sign of great relief, was Ifan! He could not have been the stranger, for Ifan seemed delighted to see her. Only a strange look in his eyes told her otherwise. With him were Dewi, Taran, Dai, Cadi, and young Prince Cledog, tense and worried. Cledog ran ahead of the others and threw his arms around her. Their eyes were on a level, for she was still on her knees, and he cried, “Are you all right? Everybody has been searching all night! We feared you had drowned!”

  Her return to the village was even more joyous than her first arrival had been, for now they knew her. She was clasped in a suffocating embrace. Hearing her grandfather’s heart pound in his barrel chest, she felt at last that she had come home. If Ifan had intentionally left her in the fog, he could not have known what would happen to her. After all, he had come this morning along the strand to rescue her. She must have been wrong.

  She decided to say nothing about the muffled figure in the fog, the one who had heard her — and had vanished without a word. She thought Hargan might even tell her it was only an evil spirit.

  “It was frightening out there, wasn’t it?” said Efa, later in the day. “I wonder you didn’t throw yourself overboard out of sheer panic.”

  Gwyn chuckled. “I was far too frightened to move.”

  “What were you afraid of, the Ceffyl-Dwr?” scoffed Efa. “You come from beyond the mountains, so no doubt you don’t know that the Water-Horse lives in fresh water, not in the sea.”

  Gwyn said gently, “I did not know that. But indeed I saw nothing that looked like a Ceffyl-Dwr.”

  Nor like Efa herself, Gwyn added to herself.

  In a few days there came an alarm from the border where the bridge spanned the river. Prince Madoc himself rode out, Gwyn with him, to meet the strangers. If they came in peace, they would be welcome. But if they came to do battle, then Prince Madoc himself would have to give the word to fight.

  “From the South?” breathed Gwyn. “It could be Rhys! Or at least news of him.”

  Efa glared at her. “You think he would send for you? I doubt it much! He would not have let you go in the first place if he wanted you with him. He would have roared out after you that first day!”

  Since Efa’s jibes rang so close to her own sorrow, she had no answer. “Well, we will see, won’t we?” she said, and wheeled to follow her grandfather and Taran.

  “Do you know who comes?” she whispered to Taran when she caught up with them, “Is it the Lord of the Western Marches?”

  “I doubt it. The spring thaws fill the streams even yet, and no one travels the mountains now except on a matter of urgency. If it is indeed your Rhys ap Llewellyn, then I fear affairs have gone greatly amiss in Brecknock.” He shook his head and hurried to follow Prince Madoc, Gwyn digging her heels into her pony’s flanks.

  Although she had not truly expected Rhys, the discovery that it was not he cast her down. But then she recognized the leader of the little troop and, in spite of herself, glowed with pleasure. It had been a long time since she had seen any of Rhys’s men at all!

  It was Caerleon.

  She introduced him to her grandfather. Then Caerleon, Jenkyn, and Elfod, followed by the rest of their men, clattered across the stone bridge.

  There was a great feast for the strangers that night, though Prince Madoc told Taran privately, “These folk are from the South and I mislike them, but they are welcome this time for they come from Lord Rhys, of the Western Marches.”

  In the great hall the dinner went on.

  Caerleon’s light blond head moved quickly from side to side, as he watched her grandfather and Taran and even Dai with a fixity of gaze that was oddly disconcerting. Gwyn thought suddenly of a kitten she had once owned. A white ball of playful fluff, the kitten became a different creature whenever a bug chanced nearby. Then the kitten stalked her prey with deadly intent. It was an odd flash of the imagination, Gwyn thought, thrusting the unwelcome comparison away.

  She found time, after dinner, to talk to Caerleon alone.

  Caerleon said, “You left Brecknock too soon. You missed the wedding.”

  He eyed her narrowly to see how she took the news.

  “Wedding?” she asked faintly.

  Caerleon nodded. “Yes,” he said, “it is the worst thing that could have happened.”

  Gwyn could only agree, but she said nothing. Caerleon added, “The lady is beautiful, true, but her effect on Rhys is one I never would have imagined. He is too smitten with love, too intent with just gazing at the lady, to pay any attention to his mission of driving the Normans into the sea. I had not thought he would fall so much in love. I had thought his heart given to another.”

  Gwyn had thought so, too. She was sick at heart. She loved Rhys, and had believed he returned that love. All his promises, whispered in the night, his confession that Gwyn was his heart, that he would never love another — could all that have been forgotten? She tried hard to imagine Rhys following Princess Nesta around, swooning with love. It did not fit, not at all. But Caerleon seemed so sure.

  Caerleon laughed silently, secretly. “Every night after dinner — which they eat almost in each other’s arms — they vanish into the women’s quarters. And poor Sara!”

  “What of Sara?” demanded Gwyn.

  “Not only thrust out of her mistress’s room after all these years, but she claims …” He was overcome by embarrassment.

  “Well?” said Gwyn.

  “She says — mind you, I do not know how much truth there is in it, probably none, for a jealous woman is not to be trusted — that Rhys’s lusty appetite is so constant and so strenuous that she fears the princess may die of it.”

  “Die of it?” It was the merest breath of a whisper.

  “But you should know what kinds of demands Rhys would make. Perhaps he is truly in
love now.”

  Caerleon veiled his glance under his long lashes. Satisfied, however, with what he saw in her face, he lifted Gwyn’s passive hand to his lips and kissed the palm. “I shall see you in the morning, lady? Sleep well.”

  She scarcely heard him. Her world was crashing around her ears.

  After a day or two Gwyn firmly decided that she was mourning something she had never really had. It was more the loss of what might have been, she thought. If he were so ready to forget their love, then he was not the man she had loved.

  Caerleon and his men stayed in Port Madoc for a few days. Prince Madoc seemed delighted. He said to Gwyn, “Now here is a real man. He fights, he is fiery of spirit. I confess I was wrong about the southerners. This one, at least, is not soft and lazy. See how he keeps his men sharp and ready to fight? They were out on the square last evening, drilling their small arms swords. I do like to see a good show of cut and thrust!” He was silent a moment. “It does occur to me that he may even be too hard, too — too military. But that is not a fault in a man!” he declared stoutly.

  Gwyn noticed that Caerleon bent every effort to please her grandfather. If Rhys were not the man she had thought him, then neither was Caerleon. He smiled, he agreed gracefully to any diversion offered him by the townspeople, and his admiring glance fell often on Gwyn. She could not but expand under his ardent warmth, and soon she began to lean on him. Not for his own charm, she told herself, but to prove that even if Rhys had forsaken her, she could still arouse the desire of a man as attractive as Caerleon.

  On an uncommonly fine day Caerleon sought her out and asked her to walk with him. They strolled slowly up the mountains toward the sheep pastures. Caerleon was unusually silent, as though he had much on his mind. They reached a ledge and sat down on the rock. From here they could look out over the grassy slopes, the gentle pastures full of sheep, the lambs more than half grown now, and beginning to be less frisky, more serious.