Crown of Passion

by Jocelyn Carew

  She lifted herself on her elbow and glared at him. “You can be sure it will not be a daughter?”

  “Too bad for you if it is,” he said. “I have not, as yet, allowed my temper to control me. But I warn you, I am not always so loving.”

  “Loving!” she cried out. “I have yet to see any loving from you!”

  The moment the words were out, she knew she had gravely erred.

  The yellow feline light flickered deep in his eyes, and for a moment she feared he would kill her. His fist raised in the air, he grinned terribly at her, and a prayer rose to her lips.

  Then, astoundingly, he smiled. “Well, then, wife, you have much to learn, and I shall devote my afternoon to teaching you.”

  “Don’t touch me again!”

  “Not even lovingly?” His smile did not reach his hot eyes, and he pulled her beneath him and lay on her. “Don’t worry,” he said with heavy sarcasm, “I do not mind spending my time in teaching such an eager pupil! If it takes all afternoon, and we do not return to the village until nightfall, so be it.” His voice changed, roughly. “Damn you, I believe you are barren!”

  Furious with herself and with him, she snarled, “Perhaps it is your fault!”

  He was struck by the thought. “Perhaps it is,” he said. “I wonder whether I should perhaps admit another to your bed — that would be the proof, of course. But — no, I fear my men are not overly tender with their women. I shall protect you, my love. But very gently, now.”

  His “gentle” lovemaking, the rest of that long afternoon, bruised her in mind and body so badly that she could scarcely bear the ride back to Port Madoc, in the deepening twilight, without screaming aloud.

  There was no way out for her. He would not let her go until an heir was assured. She was beginning to understand that her protests moved him in the opposite direction from what she had expected. She mentioned another woman — his attentions to her were doubled. She protested that Cledog was not sickly, and suddenly the boy fell from his pony and suffered painful bruises. The mood of the village was bristly, looking for trouble. And if one looks for trouble it is not far to find.

  It was a week after Caerleon had explained her duty that an ugly incident happened.

  Elfod, running through the village in pursuit of yet another of the maidens, brushed too close to a villager. The man, a cousin of the fleeing girl, thrust a foot in Elfod’s way and he fell.

  Elfod, his temper quicker than the villager, was on his feet in a moment, striking at the man. His great fists came up and down, up and down. The villager fell to his knees. By this time the entire village was in an uproar. They came from all directions, into the square, and suddenly the battle lines were drawn.

  Caerleon, thinking quickly, grabbed Cledog and held the boy like a shield before him. Caerleon called to Prince Madoc and said, “We’ve had about enough from your peasants here. I can’t hold my men back forever.”

  Prince Madoc, shaking with anger, roared, “I should be wary if I were you. Our people are terrible when they are aroused.”

  Caerleon shook young Cledog by the shoulders. “But, I have the upper hand now, for you see —”

  “You dare not harm a hair of the boy’s head!” bellowed Taran, bending forward and thrusting out his heavy jaw, like a bull about to charge his tormenter.

  Caerleon wheeled to face his new enemy, and Cledog saw his chance to kick his captor’s shin savagely with his heel.

  Caerleon’s eyes flickered, and his fingers dug into the boy’s shoulder. Prince Madoc flung out a hand to hold Taran back.

  “Perhaps I need not touch him,” said Caerleon, his angry voice turning shrill. “The boy looks sickly to me. Can you keep him from riding into the mountains? Can you protect every breath of his?”

  His eyes fixed Prince Madoc’s. For a long moment no one stirred. It was a test of wills.

  Cledog was frightened. Fear glistened in his eyes, and yet his chin stayed determined and his lips did not falter. Cledog stood defiantly under Caerleon’s heavy hands. But it was his grandfather who gave in first. He could not endure seeing his grandson manhandled, and while he knew that Caerleon would not dare kill the boy now, in front of all the villagers, yet the boy could not ever be safe again. He had already fallen by evil chance off his pony. Yet Cledog must ride again, he would sail his coracle again, and there was only one way to keep him safe.

  And that one way went sorely against Prince Madoc’s grain. Prince Madoc gulped down his angry words, and his flushed face, suddenly old, nodded. “Let the boy go.”

  At once Cledog was freed and he darted to his grandfather’s side. “You shouldn’t have done that, sire,” he said, but it was more than Prince Madoc could do to respond.

  Gwyn watched them go back toward Prince Madoc’s house, the old man’s shoulders drooping, his grandson’s hand held tightly.

  It was her fault — she had been the bait that had drawn Caerleon to the village. And so she must be the one to seek a remedy.

  Caerleon was too watchful for her to put her plan into operation at once, but by the next day, seeing that the village remained quiet, through fear of himself and his men, he relaxed his vigilance. Gwyn skipped out of the village and made her meandering way up the mountain. She knew the ledge where Cledog had seen the old priest, and believed that there she, too, would find Aidua. She climbed for perhaps an hour, approaching her goal by a devious route in case Caerleon had set his men to spy on her. But at last she reached the ledge and sat down to wait for Aidua to find her.

  She did not have long to wait. She sat there, listening to the slightest of scratching noises behind her. Without turning her head, she said, “I have come to seek your help.”

  Aidua, reassured, came out to sit with her. Above them the slopes went on up, dotted with white sheep. Now and then a scurrying little brown sheep dog circled its charges, keeping them in order. The old priest listened, intently, as she told him what was happening below. She finished, “You were right. It is a tragedy.”

  The old man seemed to have slipped into half madness. On his lips were phrases of broken incantations, but when his eyes turned toward her, she saw they were as shrewd as ever.

  “Is that a guise that you put on, to fool those who might see you here on the mountain?”

  The old man answered, “There is much value in the old chants, for the sounds themselves have power. Yon priest below does not know this, and never will.”

  “But what shall I do?” she demanded. “I have brought nothing but trouble on my people.”

  “The roots of trouble lie far away,” said the old man. “And who is to blame? Is it your lady mother, who married a Norman? Is it the king of the Normans, who was spawned by the devil? Or is it the man below there, who will soon find his fate riding after him?” Aidua pointed to the village at the foot of the mountain.

  It was later that afternoon. They had talked until there was nothing more to say, and she felt there was no better answer to her problems now than there had been before. But it was strangely comforting just to talk to the old priest.

  The sun westered, and still Gwyn was reluctant to leave the sanctuary blessed by Aidua. She knew that she must descend into the hell that Caerleon had made for her, but still she did not stir.

  Suddenly Aidua spoke, his voice startling three warblers pecking busily at the ground nearby.

  “The clouds gather,” said Aidua, slipping into the singsong that sent a chill prickling along the back of her neck. “Dark clouds, gathering over the village, over the houses below — do you not see them? Look yonder!”

  He pointed a bony finger toward the roofs of Port Madoc, clustered below along the shore of the bay. She shook her head at last. “No, I cannot see them,” she told him reluctantly. His mood darkened her thoughts, and she feared what was to come. He could see great trouble — and she believed him.

  While they sat, watching the slopes below, seeing the village so small that the people looked like ants, a lone traveler came riding from the
south. He was alone on the road, clearly exhausted. His horse plodded slowly. Even from here it could be seen that the rider slumped wearily over his saddle.

  But Aidua saw more than Gwyn did. “The cloud has swallowed him up,” said Aidua. “He will never ride out again.”

  Gwyn looked carefully, but all she saw was the horse and rider. The messenger coming from the south, she realized, might bring news of the man whose name she had not mentioned even to herself for months. She left the blankets and the food that she had brought for the priest and started down the mountain. Approaching her lodge from the rear, she was still unnoticed when the messenger met Caerleon. She remembered the man from Rhys’s camp. It seemed natural to her that Niclas would seek out Caerleon first. She paused in the shadow, not wishing to interrupt them. She heard more than she expected.

  Niclas told Caerleon that he had come from Rhys, that he had started out with five men, and he was the only one left. The mountains had taken their toll, and they had also met robbers in the mountain passes. She joined them, and then went to tell her grandfather that a messenger had arrived. He was sunk in gloom. Without raising his head, he said, “How did he get past my sentry?”

  It was a question, but she did not mention the solution that came obviously to her — that it was Caerleon who had been summoned to let the man through. Then she realized that could not be the truth, for Caerleon was at the lodge when the messenger arrived. It was not a question she could answer. But she roused Madoc long enough to instruct his men to prepare a feast for the visitor, and then she went to get Niclas to take him to her grandfather. Before she reached the lodge, Mechel stopped her. “Do you know that Efa is with child?”

  Gwyn looked surprised, and Mechel went on. “It’s Jenkyn, that man of your husband’s.”

  Gwyn, on the defensive, said, “Or is it Ifan?”

  Mechel said, “I don’t know. But I doubt it, for Ifan has not dared approach Efa since Jenkyn came. But one way or another, these invaders must go.”

  Gwyn agreed silently, even though she did not know how to reassure Mechel. She was sure that Jenkyn had no serious purpose with Efa, and she could not help but think that Efa herself was partly to blame. For she did not hold herself of any value, or she would not have given in out of jealousy, or for any other reason, to Ifan. Gwyn came back to the lodge to find Niclas and Caerleon still talking. Niclas looked at her with surprise. “I just found out that you and Caerleon have married.”

  She nodded her assent. Caerleon began to frown. But Niclas, unheeding, blundered on. “Lord Rhys will not take this news smiling.”

  Gwyn said sharply, “It is none of Lord Rhys’s affair.” Niclas looked honestly bewildered and said, “But Rhys is expecting you to come back. He sent Caerleon, you know, to bring back your answer. He wished you to come back to court.”

  Caerleon tried without success to close Niclas’s mouth. “I have told the Lady Gwyn all this.”

  But Gwyn turned on him. “You told me nothing like that, Caerleon. You said that Rhys had married and was —”

  Niclas burst in. “But Lord Rhys has not married the Princess Nesta. And it does not look as if he is going to.”

  Gwyn started, her fists clenched, toward Caerleon, but the glitter in his eyes warned her. “I was so much in love that I lied,” said Caerleon.

  A lie! thought Gwyn. But she was truly wed, and she could not retrieve what was passed. Caerleon looked sidelong at Niclas, and suddenly Gwyn remembered that the priest had seen the messenger riding in a dark cloud.

  She turned to Caerleon with a wordless cry. Caerleon, too late to silence the messenger, was determined that no one else should hear the message. He started toward Niclas, but Gwyn leaped between the two men. “Don’t kill him!”

  But Caerleon, his fists upraised to strike Niclas, could not stop before hitting Gwyn. She cried out in pain, but her intervention had given Niclas the time he needed. He turned and ran around the side of the lodge, and made his escape from Caerleon. Gwyn had fallen to her knees, and Caerleon could not quickly get around her. It was sufficient time to allow Niclas to escape.

  But Niclas was not destined to leave Port Madoc. For Elfod was waiting at the back of the lodge. The dark cloud that Aidua had seen above Niclas now descended on him, as he blundered around the corner in full flight. Elfod raised his fist once, twice. Light glinted off the knife blade, and Niclas lay on the ground, his life flowing from him in a long red stream. The deed had been done at the back of the lodge, but not entirely out of sight. For Gwyn, hearing Niclas’s first cry, had twisted and seen what happened.

  Slowly she got to her feet and faced Caerleon, her green eyes burning with hatred. She was unarmed, but Caerleon was half afraid of her in her fury. He moved back a step.

  “I’m sorry I hit you,” he said quickly.

  She answered nothing, but continued her slow, inexorable progress toward him.

  “But now you know the truth,” said Caerleon. “And that’s too bad, for it means that everything is over here.”

  He lifted his hand. Elfod, recognizing it as their signal, ripped his sword from its sheath and loosed a long, wordless battle cry.

  Caerleon, his cunning returning, backed into the lodge. Gwyn followed him, still in that trance-like state, formed of rage, shock, and despair. Caerleon was not sure she even saw him anymore, and he slipped behind her. She stood, waiting, as he barred the door behind them. He went to her and turned her toward him. Looking down into her vacant green eyes, he said, “I wish you had not learned this. For now it is all over between us. I shall, of course, have to kill you, as everyone outside is being killed by my men. We planned this ahead of time. I knew full well that sooner or later Rhys would catch up with me. I had not thought it would be so soon.” His hands tightened on her shoulders. And he thrust his fingers within her tunic.

  “I shall kill you, of course, but first …”

  With his fingers inside the neckline of her tunic, he rent her tunic into shreds. Then, as she stood in her trance, he tore off her kirtle. An unholy look in his eyes, he threw her down onto the pallet.

  8

  On the far side of the village, while Gwyn was hearing the truth she could not bear to hear — that Rhys had not wed his princess, but had, in truth, sent for her — Taran’s son Owain and his wife Elin were inside their house.

  Elin’s loving eyes rested softly on the delight of her life. He was shaping a new longbow, but he was conscious of her attention. He looked up and smiled gently at her.

  “You’ve seen me make a longbow before, my darling,” he said, teasing. “Why is this one so different that you must watch me?”

  Elin had taken off the tunic she had worn while cleaning the small house, and now stood nearby, her thin chemise fresh and sweet-smelling. He could see the pointed outline of her small breasts against the linen.

  “I love to watch you,” she retorted. “Your hands are so strong.”

  “I will be glad to show you how strong,” he said, grinning, “Come a step closer.”

  “I do not doubt you,” she said. But she stood where she was.

  Deliberately, he set his knife down and shoved the wood away from him. He turned on the stool to look squarely at her and said gently, “Elin? What is it?”

  “I cannot —”

  “I did not think there was aught that you could not say to me.” He placed a finger beneath her chin and lifted her face to his. “Elin, you cry?” He frowned in puzzlement.

  She took both his hands in hers and looked long at them. He knew she was summoning courage, and that troubled him more than anything else. She had never needed to fear him.

  “Owain,” she said in a voice so low he could hardly hear it. “These hands could build a cradle, could they not?”

  She gazed into his face, her own eyes brimming with tears so that the dear features blurred to her vision. It took a moment for him to understand, and then he whooped, a glad cry that almost lifted the rafters.

  “You mean it? A son! Oh, El
in, my darling darling —”

  He spread his knees apart and pulled her to him, holding her close. He buried his face in her breasts, half sobbing, half laughing. “So long, so long! Oh, Elin — you wonderful, beautiful, beloved — mother!” He lifted the hem of her chemise, and she could feel his lips moving on her, his tears of joy damp on her bare skin. In that moment, she thought, she was as close to heaven as she would ever be while she lived on earth. She pressed his face closer to her, and kissed the top of his head.

  For a long time there was no sound but their broken murmurs, speaking of thoughts that were too deep for words.

  But then the rising shouts and one scream became too insistent for them to ignore.

  *

  The sound of tearing fabric broke Gwyn’s trance. With a wild cry she wrenched away from him, striking his arm with her outflung fist.

  “You lied to me!” she screamed. “You said he was married! You filthy rotten liar!”

  “For the sake of heaven, shut your screaming!”

  She flung herself on him, pounding with her small fists upon his chest. “You lied to me!”

  He threw one arm around her shoulders and clapped his open palm over her face. “Be quiet!” he ordered. Her teeth sank into the fingers over her mouth, and he let her go with a vicious shove. She stumbled backward over the pallet to the floor. “What devil has gotten into you?” he demanded, sucking at the bite on his hand.

  “The devil — the devil calls himself my husband!”

  He moved toward her, skirting the pallet, fixing his pale eyes upon hers. “My submissive wife —”

  “Exists no more!” she shouted. “Why did you lie about Rhys?”

  “Not me, my love,” said Caerleon. His rage turned blood hot. “Niclas lied.”

  “Why did you kill him then, if he lied? It was the truth you would not hear!”

  “He would have stirred up the village, all for naught.” She fell to her knees and buried her face in her hands. “Why did I come here? What misery I have brought!”