Crown of Passion

by Jocelyn Carew

  From their seat they could look out across the village and beyond to the bay. The fishing fleet dotted the sparkling waters and they could even see the great nets being hauled in, full of fish. It was a prosperous scene. There was abundant wealth from the sea, and the sheep on the hillside showed that Port Madoc was a thriving village.

  At length, Caerleon said, “We must leave, my men and I, in the morning.”

  Gwyn cried out in dismay. “Oh, must you? We have so enjoyed your company.”

  His lips twisted wryly. “We don’t want to wear out our welcome. It seems to me that I have caught several dark looks from your young cousin. He does not trust me. I wonder why?”

  His secretive smile came and was gone.

  Gwyn protested. “Cledog? He’s just a boy. But possibly he thinks I spend too much time with you.”

  Caerleon said, “A man is never too young to be jealous.”

  They sat in silence awhile longer. Caerleon’s hand stole out to cover Gwyn’s. “Are you still brooding about Rhys? He does not deserve you, you know.”

  Gwyn’s eyes filled, against her will. She looked away, lest Caerleon see the tears.

  He went on, in his tender way. “Rhys has changed. He is not the leader I followed to London. All he wanted was a rich wife. This is why he married Princess Nesta. Not for the alliance. He could have married you. You are as well-born as Nesta, and your grandfather would have joined his troops to Rhys’s. Prince Madoc has told me many times that he longs to revenge your shame. He would not hesitate to declare war on King William.”

  Gwyn said stonily, “But Rhys didn’t want me.”

  It was a forlorn little phrase, and moved Caerleon to bend over and kiss her. The kiss, intended as consolation, turned abruptly serious. He pulled her close to him and kissed her thoroughly. To Gwyn’s own surprise, she responded eagerly to Caerleon’s masterful embrace. She had not realized how much of her heart lay vacant, waiting only for someone to move into Rhys’s place. As Caerleon pressed her close to him, she knew that the part of her that had been frozen when Rhys turned away from her could again become green with renewed life. One arm stole up around Caerleon’s neck.

  With a sense of unreality, she pulled his head down to hers, arching her body against his chest, feeling her breasts press hard against his leather hauberk. He growled in his throat, a soft animal moan of pleasure, and bore her backward to lie on the hard stone ledge.

  His lips never left hers, his probing kiss held her a willing captive, and he half fell across her. His hands reached up to hold her raven-dark hair in his fingers, and his iron-muscled thigh moved up to pin her legs beneath him.

  The assault upon her senses was brief, stormy, almost irresistible. But his knee moved to thrust her legs apart — and suddenly she came to herself.

  “No, no!” she cried out, her words muffled by his wet mouth. “I —” She struggled beneath him, and suddenly his eyes, slit-narrowed in his desire, opened and she could see the little golden flecks in them, like a cat’s. Reluctantly, slowly, he moved from her.

  “You will fend me off?” he said with a shaky laugh. “I could have sworn your were anxious to have me — as anxious as I.”

  “I am no village maid, to be taken like an animal in a field.”

  He watched her for a long time, his eyes never leaving her face. “Then,” he said at last, “we will wed. I shall speak to your grandfather at once.”

  Prince Madoc rejoiced. The prince, a victim of his own hopes and desires, did not see that those of his villagers who were closest to him were not as ecstatic as he was. Nor did he ever know that that night Gwyn, left alone with her memories and a deep sense of loss, cried herself to sleep.

  6

  They were married in the church in June.

  The church was a low building, so near the sea that in the winter the spray leaped over the white sand and came right up, coating the walls with ice. The walls were of thick stone, and the windows were mere slits, so that the air outside neither warmed nor cooled the interior. The chill that struck Gwyn, when she entered and put her hand into Caerleon’s before Hargan, was not entirely due to the damp stone. She saw Caerleon’s face as though through a mist, and there was no singing in her heart.

  It might have been a trick of the light — she could not tell. But suddenly, as once before, it was as though she were two people. One walked and talked, answered the priest, smiled at Caerleon, without knowing what she was doing, without thought. The other person she had become was the prey of unrelenting memory. Rhys ap Llewellyn stalked through her thoughts, his smile so winning and so real, that once she stepped toward him — but his face vanished in the dim shadows of the chapel.

  The priest pronounced words that made her the wife — and chattel — of her husband. She turned to speak, but the wrong name trembled on her lips. What had she done?

  Then she saw in Caerleon’s eyes a great leaping happiness, and she realized that he must love her very much. She had not known how much until now. Besides the vows over which Hargan presided, she made another vow to herself, to forget Rhys, never to compare Caerleon with Rhys. She would be a better wife to Caerleon than Rhys deserved. Dimly she remembered the auction at Winchester, when she would have looked upon this marriage with Caerleon as the closest thing to heaven that she could expect.

  The wedding was celebrated with a great feast. Prince Madoc had an open hand in entertaining, and the banquet for his granddaughter’s marriage outdid all others. There was sadness though, for Mechel and Cledog did not want to see her go. But Efa did not even try to conceal her happiness that Gwyn would leave the village.

  Beside her Caerleon leaned toward her. “Smile, my dear. Do not look as though you had seen a ghost. Or perhaps you have?”

  His strange eyes held hers in a kind of challenge. She turned his question back with a casual remark. “No ghosts walk through my sleep.”

  “Sleep?” The corners of his mouth turned up, and he winked wickedly. “No sleep this night, my fair one. For I have promised myself a reward for my weeks of abstinence. I’m no monk. Or perhaps you did not expect one?”

  Her eyes were steady. “I am not demanding, my husband. You will not find me hanging on your sleeve, begging your kind looks.”

  “I am content with what I have. But very soon I shall expect — what does the poet say? The pretty fruits of love?”

  “My duty will come first with me.”

  It did not occur to her that the conversation was less than ardent. For she remembered the previous time when she had — most oddly — felt as though she were two selves. That was when William Rufus had set her on the auction block!

  She glanced down the trestle table, seeing faces she had come to love. Taran, her grandfather’s good friend, was unwontedly grave as he gazed in her direction. She essayed a small smile for him, but he was looking past her — at Caerleon.

  Elin, her sparkling eyes watching her adored husband Owain, in spite of Jenkyn whispering in her ear, blew a kiss toward Gwyn. There was Penry the harpist, Dai the shepherd, Cynan the steward. Closer at hand, on the other side of Prince Madoc, sat dear Mechel. Behind Gwyn stood Dewi the loyal, always nearby since that first night outside Winchester.

  Her new husband downed another beaker of the potent golden drink and set the goblet down with a thump. He took her hand in his and pulled it over to lie along his thigh. She drew away, but he held her fingers imprisoned. “Here,” he whispered, “feel this — full of desire for you.” He tucked her hand, under cover of his short cloak, between his legs. “You will learn this night what a man really is!”

  “Not if you’re too drunk!” she retorted angrily.

  There were speeches. Prince Madoc himself toasted the bride and groom, more than once. Gwyn remembered Nesta’s drinking as her brother and his men proposed toast after toast, and Gwyn thought that she could well follow Nesta’s example. Surely the strong drink would dull her growing feeling of apprehension, almost fear. For Caerleon’s eyes glittered in a way tha
t she remembered, and she thought that he, too, was drinking too much.

  But Prince Madoc was a happy man. He had his granddaughter back, as he said, and she was now married to a fine man. A warrior, Caerleon of Dyfed, who will go off to fight for Wales, he said. “We will drive the invaders back to the sea, and Caerleon’s name will ring down the years in the great epic poems of the Welsh.”

  Caerleon responded in kind, the flowery Celtic language coming easily to his lips. And yet all was not harmonious, for at the far end of the table Gwyn saw Aidua, the priest, and remembered suddenly that he had not been in the chapel.

  Aidua was pure Celt. And while he was a Christian, he was yet moved by the old poetry. He rose now, his long beard and white hair making him look like a figure out of the old tales, and raised one arm. His thin hand demanded attention, and the company fell silent. “Sorrow! Sadness! I see the world running red, red with blood!” he chanted.

  The company uprose as one man, and Prince Madoc raised his hand in protest. But the old priest was not yet through.

  “This is a sad day, a day of infamy, a day that will long be remembered, and there will be no heroes!”

  Caerleon leaped to his feet, thrusting back the bench with his powerful legs. “Old man, you lie! I’ll have your filthy beard for this!” He started toward Aidua, pulling out his dagger as he moved.

  Aidua summoned his strength, and it appeared to Gwyn that all the spirits of the past ranged themselves at his side. The priest lifted a hand as though in benediction. His terrible eyes blazed with red fire.

  The feasters fell silent. Outside the wind gusted suddenly, sending the red flames of the hearth fire into frenzied leaping. Caerleon hesitated.

  Then slowly, deliberately, the priest brought his upraised hand down until the long bony forefinger pointed directly at Caerleon’s heart.

  “You,” Aidua intoned in a voice like the roaring of the sea on the shingle, “Lord of Dogs, will be killed by that which you most fear! Mark me well. In the hour of death you will remember, and call my name!”

  Caerleon moved then. In a high, grating voice, he screeched, “You will not live to see that day!”

  Gwyn had been paralyzed by the sudden tumult. Now she threw herself upon Caerleon. “Don’t! Leave him be!”

  Now Aidua faltered, and suddenly his old face crumpled. Prince Madoc roared, “Get that man out of here! Out of town! See that he is no longer in my territory by morning!”

  But Gwyn could not see the man who had helped her so much, for whom she had a real affection, thrown out in such a fashion. Beckoning Dewi to her side, she told him in an undertone, “See that he has food and a blanket, and whatever else he needs.”

  Dewi nodded once and started toward the door. But Elfod, one of Caerleon’s men, stopped Dewi. “Do not try to help the old man,” said Elfod, “for the man must pay for his foolish ramblings.”

  Prince Madoc, already repenting his hasty banishment, intervened, his voice dripping ice. “Caerleon, call off your man. I need no help in running my people.”

  Caerleon, flushed of face, signaled to Elfod, and his man slunk back to his side. Dewi, following his own instructions, disappeared through the door. But the feasting was over, leaving a sour taste and uneasiness behind. Not only did Aidua’s gloomy prophecies disturb them, but also the exchange between Caerleon and the prince.

  Once out of the banquet hall, the festivities took a lighter tone. The torches were reflected in shimmering lights on the sea, and the calm waters of the bay doubled the image of the procession. They turned away from the sea and moved toward the village.

  The villagers followed the bridal couple to their bower, in observance of the age-old tradition. The bower belied its name. Prince Madoc had provided a small building as a temporary home for the newly-weds. It was built of stone, with two small windows high on the wall, facing the mountains.

  “Looks like an old storehouse,” commented Caerleon, as they approached. “Nonetheless, it will serve.”

  He pretended to stumble over a nonexistent stone in the path and reached for Gwyn to break his fall. In the flurry her cloak fell back on her shoulders, and his groping hand closed on her breast. She gasped with the hurt of it.

  “Sorry,” he said, smiling. “I could not wait to survey my dominions.”

  When Gwyn and Caerleon entered the bridal chamber, he barred the door behind them. Around their feet rose the aroma of new rushes on the floor, the fragrance of meadowsweet, and over all the musty smell of old grain, hastily removed for the bride and groom.

  Caerleon lighted the single candle. There was a pallet on the floor, two chairs, and a chest. Caerleon stripped off his wedding finery and tossed it carelessly on the chest. Then he turned to her. “You are keeping me waiting,” he said, his voice mild, but the light in his eyes glowing red.

  “If what happened yonder is a foretaste,” she said sturdily, “then you will wait even longer. Your touch pains me.”

  She stood quietly, wrapping her cloak tightly, like a shield, around her slender body.

  His naked body shone pearly in the candlelight, but his face was in shadow. “What will you do if I steal, say, a small kiss? Scream?”

  “I might.”

  “In the village they will think it a scream of ecstasy. Many women do scream in passion, you know. And they will wonder at it coming so soon.”

  She moved uneasily. His attitude puzzled her, for her sharp words seemed to bounce off his skin as though he did not even feel them.

  “I was wrong,” she said in a low voice. “I do not love you.”

  He swayed a little on the balls of his feet. “Love? What is love? A sop for foolish schoolboys, no more.”

  “Caerleon, leave me alone tonight.”

  “You beg? Not, I see, on your knees. But even so, a novelty. I wonder — did you beg Lord Rhys to leave you alone?”

  She knew now what a horrible mistake she had made — a blunder that could well be the death of them both. For jealousy of Rhys ate at Caerleon’s soul, envy of her onetime lover corroded her husband’s mind — until he had become half mad.

  In one stride he crossed the tiny room. “Come now, my pretty. You have a husband now, legally wedded, and not a paramour — isn’t that a pleasant Norman word? — for love, it means. Now, wife, you have a husband for love. And I do not wish to wait.”

  Still she stood mute, dreading the next hours. “Caerleon …”

  It was the last word she spoke on her wedding night.

  Before the echo of his name had died away within the stone walls, he put his hands to the neck of her cloak and cupped her white throat within his palms. “Unfasten for me, my love, else I rend your garments to shreds, and then what will your women say in the morning?”

  With shaking hands she fumbled with the silver brooch and felt it loosen. The cloak dropped like a cloud to her feet. Suddenly Caerleon lost the remaining tatters of his patience. With one swift motion he stooped to lift the hem of her tunic and pull the garment over her head, careless of hurting her.

  Somehow her kirtle was thrust away, and she shivered in the cold wind. The candle flame guttered in the wind, and a shadow passed over the room, like the wings of a great bat.

  She backed to the wall; the cold stone chilled her and she caught her breath. He pressed his body against her, fitting himself to her. She could feel him, moving, swelling, against her belly.

  He muttered a word she did not understand and then — unexpectedly — drew away from her. Without ceremony he shoved her toward the pallet and she fell full-length on it. The room darkened, and she knew he had blown out the candle. His rough hand grabbed her shoulder, pulling her over onto her back, and he fell on her. This time he did not leave her.

  When his desire was slaked, he did not move. She stirred beneath him, to ease his weight from her, but her writhing only roused him.

  “Ready again? So soon? I vow I have a jewel of a wife — but don’t look to anyone else to satisfy your unseemly lust!” Then he fastened hi
s mouth cruelly on her bruised lips, his hands kneaded her breasts, and his desire rose again in him.

  Although Caerleon had invaded her body, he had not touched Gwyn herself. She knew it that night, even in her wretchedness. And as time went by, she knew that Caerleon could never touch the inner strength that was Gwyn herself. Never could he stir her to her depths, as Rhys had.

  And she regretted that she had learned from Rhys how deeply she could feel.

  The days wore on, and still Caerleon and his men did not leave the village. Madoc himself began to express impatience, and more and more irritation. He let it be known that his idea of a great warrior was not one who lingered during the summer in the village, feasting every day upon lamb, upon fish, and giving no evidence of a warrior-like attitude.

  But Prince Madoc, for reasons known only to himself, did not allow his irritation to become so noticeable as to challenge Caerleon.

  One day, announcing himself weary of the ordinary fare, Prince Madoc organized a great hunt to go up into the mountains and come home with venison. Gwyn, although she had often participated in hunts in England, found that the custom here was not to include ladies in the hunt. She busied herself repairing her wardrobe, replenishing it, a task she had put off for several weeks. She did not know whether Caerleon would want her to go with him, when he went to join the army in Brecknock, or whether he would let her stay here among her own people. Until that had been decided, she scarcely knew what to do with herself. But she had only worked half a day on her clothes, when she heard a shout in the village and ran out to see what had happened. It was her grandfather, coming home on his fine Welsh pony. The pony was sorely limping. Cledog rode anxiously beside him.

  The pony had gone lame, without any reason. Prince Madoc was at a loss to understand why, but it had effectively ruined his hunt for the day. And yet she was conscious of an underlying sense of relief, and did not know why.

  As soon as he had seen his grandfather into his house, Cledog came into Gwyn’s room with an air of conspiracy, and she watched him with growing curiosity. He made sure that the door behind them was barred. Bending his head low to whisper in her ear, he said, “I saw Aidua up the mountain.”