Crown of Passion

by Jocelyn Carew

  Gwyn, hearing that Caerleon was parleying with Rhys, snatched up a cloak — her new one of red wool lined with squirrel fur — and joined Rhys on the battlement.

  Nesta was already there. Rhys scarcely noticed Gwyn’s arrival, for he was considering the terrain between the fort and Henry’s camp. Nesta cried out to Gwyn, “How exciting to see the Normans! How handsome they all are. I think a man looks so much more valiant in the metal armor, don’t you?”

  “Looks are not everything,” commented Gwyn dryly. “The Normans are brutal within their handsome shells.”

  “But I shall not worry about that. For no one is cruel to me, you know. How courtly they appear!”

  By that time Caerleon had caught sight of Gwyn in her red cloak. Riding closer to the walls, he shouted up to her. “Gwyn, my love! Come down to me! I should like to see my dear love once more!”

  She called out defiantly. “Will you turn me over to King William? I doubt that I will live that long!”

  Gathering her red cloak around her, she leaned forward and spoke to Prince Henry. “Do you think you can keep me safe from Caerleon, when he has murdered all my people?” Henry seemed startled, and the thought crossed her mind that Henry did not know that Caerleon had married her. Following up what she considered her advantage, she cried, “Henry, do you think your brother will want me back? I no longer have the value he set on me. I am no longer virgin! Ask the traitor Caerleon — he has violated the king’s property!”

  Henry turned and spoke sharply to Caerleon. They seemed to be arguing. Then suddenly, without warning, Caerleon lifted his bow and arrow and loosed the arrow with stinging power toward the wall. He did not fire at Gwyn, but at Rhys.

  The truce was broken. The white flag of parley had been dishonored, and Caerleon and Henry were both in danger of being shot from the parapet. The Normans galloped away, and Gwyn spared a thought for what Henry would soon say to his ally, Caerleon.

  Nesta demanded an explanation. She had heard enough of the exchange between Gwyn and Prince Henry to whet her curiosity. She said, after Gwyn had explained, “You had lands of your own, and castles, and yet you are not even a princess?”

  Gwyn answered without feeling, “Rhys will get you a castle.”

  Nesta said vaguely, “Oh, yes, he will.”

  She sounded as though she had forgotten Rhys entirely.

  Another day of waiting was hard on the nerves of all who were not used to the endless patience that was a part of the Welsh way of battle. Nesta herself wandered from her tower, where she looked out through the slit windows in the direction of Prince Henry. She descended restlessly. Then, as though drawn by a magnet, she climbed up to look from the battlements. Gwyn pulled her down more than once, saying, “You want to get killed? They are within arrowshot now, you know.”

  Nesta said calmly, “But they will not shoot me.”

  “From that distance no bowman can tell whether you are princess or serf. Only a butt for an arrow.”

  Nesta laughed, but she dropped to her knees behind the barricade.

  “Gwyn, how far can an arrow shoot?”

  “See the trooper beside the young willow at river’s edge?”

  “Y — yes, I see him.”

  “He could be hit. I would not be able to send an arrow quite that far, but a strong man could.”

  Nesta’s glance was full of skepticism. “You think you can tell me anything and I’ll believe it. How do you know all this?”

  “Ramsey Manor withstood a few sieges in my father’s time,” Gwyn said absently, her eyes focused on the enemy camp.

  Nesta was not pleased. After a few moments she muttered, “I had not known until today that you had your own castle.” Slowly she added, once more smiling, “I shall have Rhys get me at least two. That will be more suitable.”

  Gwyn ignored her, still thinking about her wish for atonement. She had brought disaster upon her grandfather’s people. She had, to some extent, brought disaster upon Rhys, for he was called a traitor in the Norman court, and Prince Henry could not let him go.

  But it was Nesta who finally, unwittingly, brought things to a head. She bearded her brother and Rhys in the great hall. “This is a fine way to behave,” she began. She was showing more irritation than either of them had seen in her before.

  Rhys said, “As long as we stay within the castle walls, we can outwait the Normans, and we will be able to choose our own time of battle.”

  But Nesta was not listening.

  “Even the Lady Gwynllion has owned a castle. Lord Rhys, you have not fulfilled your promise to me. You have not conquered any land. I am waiting for you to give me at least one castle, to begin with. It should not be difficult. If the Lady Gwyn has had one castle, then I, in deference to my rank, must have at least two. I shall not settle for less. And in the meantime, while I wait for you to stir yourself, Lord Rhys, I am a true prisoner in this — this crude hovel!” She turned to Griffith. “And even you do nothing but sit and moan about the scarcity of food. I had not thought that both my brother and my bridegroom would be such notable cowards.”

  It was the longest speech she had ever made. Leaving them to contemplate her remarks, she turned and left the great hall.

  Rhys dropped her tirade into the oblivion it deserved. But her brother could not do that.

  Griffith was indolent by nature and by habit, and his life had suited him very well until the northerners invaded it. Rhys was a veritable demon for action. And Griffith thought moodily that the Lord of the Western Marches would make an uncomfortable brother-in-law at best.

  The constant warlike comings and goings; the ominous stockpiling of food and wood and weapons, in anticipation of a long siege; the talk, talk, talk of marching out to face an enemy who had not even appeared until now — all chafed Griffith beyond bearing.

  “I’m no longer master in my own house!” he fretted.

  It took two or three days for Griffith to react. Stifled by the forced inactivity, he brooded upon his sister’s words until he felt the urgent need for action.

  The prince stormed up to the battlements. “What are they doing out there?” he bawled.

  Rhys, crouching behind cover, reached up to pull him down just as an arrow sped past, piercing the air where, seconds before, Griffith’s head had been. Griffith’s eyes bulged.

  “They could have killed me!” he roared indignantly.

  Scrambling to his feet, he raced toward the ladder. His feet slipped on the rungs and he half fell to the ground.

  Rhys called, “Daffyd!” and dropped to the ground, racing across the courtyard in pursuit of the prince.

  Griffith, far from being cowed by his brush with death, was incandescent with rage. He bawled orders to his servants and then contradicted them. “Bring my buckler! Take it away! I shall show the dastards a Welsh prince has no fear!”

  Rhys pulled him away from the gate, wondering how he could reason with Prince Griffith. He was fast beginning to understand that the siege had put Griffith beyond the realm of sense.

  Rhys then turned his thoughts to the questions of supply, and some time elapsed before he thought of Griffith again. A stir around him brought his attention quickly from supplies to the little knot of activity that was taking place in the courtyard. To Rhys’s undisguised horror, Griffith had dressed in his armor. Followed by a handful of men, he had ordered the gates opened. He and his men then rode out to do battle with the Normans. Rhys roared after him, shouting, to stop him, but to no avail.

  The Prince of South Wales had belatedly, and by mischance, been roused to action.

  5

  Unaware of the activities outside, Gwyn had wandered into the women’s hall. It seemed unusually quiet, and for once she could not hear Nesta’s placid, unaccented voice. That woman, thought Gwyn, talked more and said less than anyone she had ever known!

  The hall was empty. The fire burned low on the hearth and had not been mended for some hours.

  She passed through the hall. The first beginnings
of anxiety were beginning to prickle along the back of her neck. As she walked, she unfastened her red cloak, folded it so that the warm fur lining was protected, and laid the garment on an oaken chest along the wall. It was the only bright spot in the dark room, she thought in passing.

  The door at the far end of the hall — Nesta’s bedroom — was closed. Gwyn’s footfall had been heard, however, for the door opened abruptly and Sara emerged. Catching sight of Gwyn, she closed the door behind her and hurried to join her.

  “Well, the fat’s in the fire,” said Sara at once. “That girl’s gone again.” At Gwyn’s bewildered expression, Sara clarified her statement, “That Siôned.” Suddenly she gave a startling imitation of Nesta’s voice — “The only one who can do my hair.”

  Gwyn couldn’t hold back her giggle, and Sara winked. “You thought I could see no flaw in my little princess? She was spoiled too much when she was little. I did my share of that, I admit.”

  For the first time Gwyn noted the lines on the old retainer’s face — lines of disappointment, perhaps, of anxiety over what would come of the child on whom she had lavished all her spinster’s love. Impulsively, Gwyn reached out to touch Sara’s hand. “She is so beautiful,” whispered Gwyn.

  “That she is,” said Sara, wiping a sudden tear from her eye. “But the nub is, Siôned’s gone again and who knows where? My lady thinks of herself, but I’m wondering just where the minx has gone. Back to them out there? With all she knows?” Sara identified “them” with a jerk of her head in the direction of the Norman encampment.

  “Perhaps she’s still somewhere in the fort,” suggested Gwyn, without much hope. Convinced as she had been that Siôned was merely spying out the defenses of Brecknock for her lover, Gwyn was sure the girl had gone.

  She left Sara and embarked upon a search of the fort. There were few places where the girl could hide, if she wanted to, for the enclosure was crowded with people, confined within the protective walls, afraid to emerge.

  She asked for Siôned, but no one had seen her. She made the rounds before she reached the sentries at the gate. They had seen Siôned.

  “She walked through the gates, early, I think,” said one sentry, scratching his ear. “Is there something wrong, lady? The maid was on an errand for the princess, she said. Didn’t I do right?”

  “I don’t know, truly.”

  She left an anxious sentry behind and sought out Lord Rhys. She told him about Siôned. “Walked right through the gate,” she marveled. “That took a lot of nerve.”

  Rhys frowned. “Not as much as you might think. No one stopped her, did they?” He thought for a moment. She had time to notice the lines that the winter had brought to his face, the worries over warfare that would come as surely as the spring.

  Then she left Rhys to chew over the new information. It was at this point that Griffith made his mad exit, along with his men, and Rhys was forced to rescue him.

  “Gwyn!” he roared. “Daffyd! Dai!” Calling his men, he sped to the postern gate. “Gwyn, do you hold, this gate after me. That fool Griffith has gone to fight. Daffyd, get the men. We’ve got to rescue the idiot.”

  She called Taran and Cynan to help her guard the gate. Half a dozen men, still buckling on their weapons, raced down the slope after Rhys. His voice rose above everything else as he shouted to Griffith, but it was too late to stop the prince. Gwyn stood rooted, the postern still open, Taran and Cynan behind her, as she looked down the hill.

  The sun was past its zenith, and a bank of clouds moved in from the west. Soon the day would be overcast, and a chill wind from the peaks already gusted around the fort. The river, charcoal under the darkening sky, moved silently between brush and the debris brought down by the spring floods that lodged along the banks.

  Below at the foot of the hill, Rhys caught up with Griffith. She could not hear their voices, but their gestures were fierce. Taran muttered, “It takes a fool of a southerner to play jester. But Lord Rhys will bear the pain of it.” He glanced furtively toward Gwyn.

  Taran was wise in the matters of men, but he had never learned to fathom the depth of any woman. His wife had died in childbirth and left only his son Owain. The tempering effect a wife might have had on him had gone undone, and subtlety was not a part of him. But he had a shrewd idea of the direction Gwyn’s heart took, and the anxiety now naked on her face told him he was right.

  “I have work to do, lady,” said Taran, “I leave you to see to the gate. I must join the battle.”

  “Do you keep him safe,” begged Gwyn, her eyes wet with tears.

  “I shall,” promised Taran, and it did not occur to either that they had not mentioned Rhys by name. Their thoughts marched as one.

  Henry had brought only a handful of men. He knew full well that William had sent him on this errand only to get him away from court, to keep him from joining forces with their brother, Count Robert. Yet there was a prize he fought for — the witch Gwynllion, whose tilted green eyes and provocative elfin figure danced through Henry’s dreams far too often for his comfort.

  Henry became aware now of a disturbance at the fort, and he ran to the edge of the camp and peered up the river.

  Griffith, running down the slope too fast, lost his balance on the steep stony scree. He fell heavily, and it knocked the breath out of him. In rage he clenched his fists and pounded the earth futilely.

  The men following him could not tell at first what had happened. One of them turned to shout back to the fort, “They’ve killed him!”

  Rhys heard the cry and raced to take revenge upon the foe.

  “Dead is he?” demanded Rhys. “I had not thought they were near enough to shoot an arrow deep enough to kill a man.”

  The lad Lloy, who had first shouted the alarm back to the fort, knelt sobbing by his lord. Rhys glanced at him and then, struck by something in the silence of the others, took a closer look at Griffith.

  “Turn him over,” said Rhys, “so that I may see how deep the arrow truly is.”

  The men rolled Griffith over onto his back. “There’s no arrow!” Rhys exclaimed. “Not even a wound!”

  Griffith groaned and struggled to sit up. “I suppose you think a fall like that is nothing!” he moaned indignantly.

  But Rhys was looking down the slope. “Nothing compared to what may happen before this day is over,” he said calmly. “For look you, the Normans stir from their camp like bees from a hive.”

  Henry and his men were hastening to the fray. Never loathe to trade sword blows, the Normans ran eagerly toward the knot of Welshmen.

  In moments the battle was joined. The Normans realized, soon enough, that the Welsh were not beaten yet. Henry hung back, thrusting here and there, aiding one man, then another, as the battle surged back and forth. More Welsh poured out of the castle. The wide gates swung back, permitting as many as could to go to the aid of their hard-pressed fellows.

  The Normans fighting in their heavy armor were like beetles. And like hard-shelled insects, they could not maneuver well. Once he had fallen, a knight needed the help of two others to get him on his feet again, and two Normans who were not engaged by the battling Welsh were hard to find.

  Maxen had come at a lope when he saw Rhys burst through the postern gate. Gwyn caught his collar of fur and held with both hands.

  “Stay, Maxen!” she ordered. “He may be back in a short while.”

  Maxen whined, but he obeyed. His sharp eyes watched his lord wading through his opponents, and the dog moved restlessly. When the man she had been watching disappeared in the wave of Normans surging up from their camp, she drew in a sharp breath. Maxen’s eyes fixed on hers. She could not resist the dog’s appeal, especially when she knew that his thoughts and hers were one. She loosed the hound and watched him charge down the slope and vanish into the thick of the battle.

  Maxen, who had spent his entire life with the sounds of conflict, feared nothing. He had the cunning patience of the wolf, his ancestor, and a savage desire for revenge that he had le
arned from his human associates.

  He flew to the side of his lord. All went well with Lord Rhys, his canine sense told him. But soon a dim scent touched his sensitive nostrils — the dim scent that he knew so well, and hated and feared. And his hatred of Caerleon was rooted in the deepest recesses of his being. That hatred drove him now.

  Somewhere in the fearsome clashes of men and metal lived the source of the scent that stirred him. He set out to hunt for it.

  When Maxen caught up with Caerleon, the man was facing away from the battle. He had lost his stomach for the fray, since he could see that the Normans were getting the worst of it. He had no desire to leave his own carcass on the field, and looked now to his own safety.

  He heard behind him the deep menace of Maxen’s growl. He turned in time to see the hound bare his fangs and crouch, ready to spring.

  Caerleon’s fear rose in one high-pitched scream. “Get away!” he screeched. He raised his battle ax high overhead, and the dog hesitated, calculating the exact moment when the ax would be hurtled through the air and his quarry would then be unarmed.

  The sound of his master’s voice interrupted the duel. Rhys had followed the dog. “Here you are, Maxen,” said Rhys. “You have nosed out the traitor — well done.”

  Caerleon shuddered. “I had not thought the day would come when I would welcome your arrival, Rhys. But perhaps I don’t — you call me traitor?”

  “As you are.” Rhys was deadly calm, and Caerleon laughed uneasily.

  “Traitor to what?” sneered Caerleon. It was sheer bravado. “To my country? Your united Wales does not yet exist!”

  “But loyalty between men has not died, except in you. You betrayed me when you took my words to Port Madoc, and twisted them.”

  “But the wench was willing enough to wed me.”

  “You lie!” snarled Rhys.

  “She wed me, did she not?” taunted Caerleon. Rhys did not notice that Caerleon inched gradually away and now was out of the reach of Rhys’s powerful grip. In what he thought was his moment of triumph, Caerleon could not refrain from baiting his hated lord. “She leaped into my arms, you know. I could not begin to tell you how often we made love. Ask her, some day, about the pine woods —”