Gwyn could remain silent no longer. “You talk of law and order, when the Lord of the Western Marches, whose only thought was to bring peace to the borders, is hurled into a dungeon?”
He lifted his hands helplessly and let them fall. “It is injustice like that I want to wipe out.” He pressed her closer to the wall.
Gwyn said, “You speak of England, and that is not my land. It was once, and could have been still, but for your brother.”
“I was to get Normandy, when my brother Robert did not return from the Holy Land. But he is coming back now, and Normandy is his. I have no wish to run him out of the land my father gave him. But England is now lying under a heavy charge, and I would deliver her from it.”
Gwyn said, “But it will be a long, hard way for any Norman to rule this land.”
Henry said eagerly, “And that is why I want you as my queen.”
Gwyn’s mind was numb. Queen?
Henry was fired with enthusiasm. “To mingle the bloodlines of our family with those who live here! This is the only way to bring peace to our country. I had hoped for a Saxon bride, but you, from that obstreperous kingdom of the west, would be even better. I dared not hope for as much.”
Gwyn said icily, “You dare not hope even now. What you want is any brood mare, and I am not in the marketplace.”
Henry said, “If you are my queen, you will be able to do much good for your people. There will be peace along the border. The Western Marches will prosper. And, my dear, no matter what you say, you are not entirely indifferent to me. As I am not indifferent to you.”
“You offer too late, sire. Had you offered me the crown earlier, before all this happened …” She gestured vaguely. “Then many now dead would still be alive.”
Henry grimaced. “We cannot go back. Not even go back to find a love as fresh as we might have had, once.”
A frown swept over his face. He moved away from her. “I put it badly. But Wales will lose in the long run, and you could save your land much trouble.”
Gwyn said, “Save Wales, as you saved the Saxons? No.”
Henry was still intent on persuading her. “My father was harsh, but he was fair. If I had a queen who would temper my judgments, I should not need to be harsh. I should always be fair, and even merciful, with you at my side.”
Gwyn said, “What of Nesta? She is a princess of Wales also.”
Henry laughed, a short bark of amusement. “You see that lady easing my temper? Anyone who gave her a jewel would have her total loyalty, for perhaps ten minutes.” Gwyn pulled away and strolled toward the edge of the lawn. Henry followed her.
Finally, Gwyn spoke in a ruminative voice. “To think that it was all for this! That Rhys left his bed, where he was still suffering from his wounds, to take horse and ride after Nesta, to preserve her from the fate that she so clearly prefers to any other. It was all for nothing. And now look what’s happened! I am a prisoner. Rhys, the most innocent of us all, is now in a dungeon. If he is not dead.”
The tears filled her green eyes and Henry reached out his hand to her. She did not take it, and he let it fall to his side. “Believe me, I had nothing to do with it.”
She said, “I believe you. But how can I get him out? Can you do it?”
Henry shook his head slowly. “I cannot, not yet. But soon, perhaps.”
Gwyn said impatiently, “But he’ll be dead soon. His wounds had not healed. I fear for his life.”
Henry eyed her narrowly. “What of my offer to you?”
Gwyn said, “Believe me, Henry, I am fond of you. But marry you, I cannot. Rhys is my love.”
Henry pursed his lips. “You will not wed me?”
Gwyn said, “It is too late, Henry.”
“That day you stood on the auction block. You would have welcomed marriage with me then. I should have —”
“But you did not.”
“I loved you, Gwyn, as much as I ever loved a woman.”
“But you loved your country more. I understand, Henry.”
Henry led her to where his companion waited with the horses. Henry gave Wat Tirel a long, measuring look. “You are right. I love my country more than all else in the world.” He laughed, then, in sheer exuberance, as though he had cast a mighty weight from his shoulders, as though, she remembered later, he had made a great decision. “Ready, Wat?”
Tirel said curtly, “I am ready, sire.”
Henry lifted her to the horse. “We ride back to Winchester,” he said. “It is time.”
Tirel nodded once curtly and said no more. But Gwyn later remembered the long look of speculation that passed between the two men.
William had been waiting impatiently for her return. When she came, she was only given time to refresh herself before she was summoned across the courtyard to William’s reception hall. William said genially, “I trust you enjoyed your outing? I had wondered whether my brother would bring you back, but he knows better than to go against my wishes.”
Gwyn thought, then William did not know that Henry was going to offer to marry me.
Somehow, having a secret from the king made her feel better able to stand against him. For the first time she saw the tiniest lapse in William’s omniscience, and it gave her strength.
William was unusually jovial. “I have thought better of the plan to auction off my valuable asset,” he said. “A widow has less value than a maid. It is not worth my trouble to try and find a high bidder for you. So I have, to fulfill a promise I made, gotten a husband for you.”
She did not answer, and William nodded. “No thank you? No throwing yourself on your knees asking my pardon for your misbehavior? No begging to know who your bridegroom will be?”
Gwyn said quietly, “I go to my knees for no man.”
The king sneered. “Not on your knees? On your back then?” He laughed at his own crudity, and then snapped, “Tell me, do you wish to save the Welshman?”
“Yes.”
“There could be a way … I am glad to see that you have not lost your spirit. You may have need of it, for I have promised you to one of my valuable men, to make up for a promise I could not keep. And I just might give up my prisoner in exchange.”
Gwyn bit back a sharp retort. William was not one to keep promises, even when it was easy to do so.
Now he was smiling as genially as a wolf. He said, “You will wed FitzOmer, when he has recovered from his trip to the Holy Land.”
Gwyn was stung. “FitzOmer? But he’s the man that Jeanne de Guilbert …” She saw too late where that was leading her. Jeanne was the promise that William had failed to keep.
“FitzOmer is right, you know. I owe him a bride for the one he paid for and lost.”
Gwyn said calmly, “I will kill him.”
To her surprise, William was not taken aback. He laughed again. “No matter. It would ease me much if you did, for I fear he could make himself a nuisance to me.”
“But he’s old enough to be my father!” Her remarks amused William. He threw his head back and laughed the full-throated laugh that was an imitation of his father’s. “That does not matter. You will see.”
Gwyn said, “But he frightened Jeanne so that she killed herself. Are you not afraid that I will do the same?”
William suddenly became serious. “Do you frighten that easily? I see you don’t. If I were FitzOmer I would fear a dagger in my ribs. But you will remember that you owe me something, for spoiling my auction, for running away from me. You’ve made me a laughingstock in my own court, and I cannot let that go unnoticed. You will wed him in two days.”
Back in the tower, under close guard, she sank into a chair. She now had a servant to build her fire and bring her food, but otherwise she was entirely alone. She had time to think, even to eye the slit of a window through which Jeanne had plunged to her death. There was no way out. Gwyn wished for a fleeting moment that she had taken Prince Henry’s offer. And yet, deep inside, she knew that would only prolong her agony.
Her thoughts wer
e gloomy and darkening, but a disturbance outside the tower brought her to the window. Below in the courtyard she could recognize Rhys, brought up from the dungeon for “exercise.” William’s men were inflicting that exercise on the Lord of the Western Marches.
Rhys was stripped naked. His chains were monstrously heavy, and even from her window she could see where the metal had chafed his unprotected skin. He was placed on the back of a horse, which was led around the courtyard at a trot, until Rhys fell off. The horse continued, dragging Rhys in the dirt behind him. Gwyn screamed, bringing the guards to her side. She turned and struck out, screaming and blindly pummeling whoever was in reach, until she was dragged away from the window.
She sat sobbing in her chair, until the twilight lengthened, and Rhys was sent back to his straw cell. Then she was told that she must dress and go to dinner with the king. For FitzOmer was here to meet his bride. She was reluctant to leave her room, but the guards moved closer, and she had no choice.
Wat Tirel came to meet her. His eyes were full of sympathy, and there was a tension about him that spoke of some inner turmoil. He took her arm and escorted her across the courtyard.
They moved on into the reception hall. As they entered, a hush fell over the room. And then, shuffling toward her, came the remains of Reginald FitzOmer, home from the Crusades.
William stood to one side, enjoying every moment. He had gathered his minions, including fluttery Brian du Pré, and all prepared to witness the meeting of Gwyn and her betrothed. It was a spectacle that they were prepared to enjoy to the hilt.
The shuffling hulk came closer, close enough at last for Gwyn to identify the swollen broken features of FitzOmer. His body had been shattered on the trip to the holy sepulcher. It was with difficulty that she recognized him, but the voice was FitzOmer’s. “My dear,” he said, “I have suffered, in the service of my lord. But I still …”
His hands made obscene gestures, unmistakable and repulsive. William, lest she not get the full import of this confrontation, explained, “The Turks have robbed him of what he considered most valuable. But you will be glad to learn that his lust survives!”
FitzOmer bared his teeth in a ghastly travesty of a smile. “The Turks,” he gritted savagely, “may the fiends rot in hell! But they taught me other ways. The guards in prison gave me much practice, fools that they were! They did not think I would live, and they made a game of me — but I outfoxed them!”
His hand had fallen to the level of his waist. The fingers curled as though they had an unhealthy life of their own, and his short thumb made rhythmic, thrusting jabs. She could not take her eyes away from the repulsive motion. “No seed here!” he crowed vilely. “But then, no time lost in bearing, either!”
His grin was fiendish, and her stomach heaved once, and again. “You will learn pleasures of which you never dreamed …”
Gwyn heard nothing more but the rushing of great winds as she slid, unconscious, to the floor.
6
It was the next day. She did not recall returning to the round tower. She thought Rhys was still alive, for she had heard his voice raving in the courtyard. Or had she only dreamed it?
She could hardly move. She was enveloped in a lethargic numbness, as she had been after Port Madoc.
That noon Gwyn was marched to the great hall for dinner. William wanted his court to see her, to know that she was in his power once more, ruled entirely by him. It would ease his humiliation over her escape of the year before.
Brian had changed the most of all the courtiers. Instead of the shy, tender, talented young poet, singing little songs to soothe Jeanne, playing his lute, he was now a simpering king’s favorite, a gross man who had lost his integrity, his talent, all but the desire to please. No doubt the sight of her ruined son was the reason Countess Maud had gone to Normandy to immure herself behind convent walls.
If Brian had changed, then Gwyn had also changed. She now knew the clean mountain air of Wales, the rugged scenery unspoiled by the touch of evil men, the clear water. And she knew the fierce loyalty of her clansmen. She had accepted her Welsh heritage. She now belonged to the land where men of high calling and noble courage slept in the mountains, waiting for Pendragon, the chief of kings, to give the signal to rise again.
She retreated now into herself, imagining that she was doing two things at once. The real Gwyn, she fancied, hid out of sight, whimpering in a cave in the dark. But the outer Gwyn sat at dinner with a crust of bread, pushing food around on her trencher.
To everyone’s surprise — especially the king’s — Prince Henry rode in that afternoon, alone except for his grooms and squire.
“Methought your charmer would have kept you busy!” rallied William. “Don’t tell me that your attention already strays elsewhere?” The king shot a meaningful glance down the table in Gwyn’s direction.
Henry laughed, a little too loudly. “No, brother, I have no ambitions that way.”
William looked sourly at him. “Best curb ambition, brother, lest it prove an unruly steed to ride.”
Henry acknowledged the advice with a short word and a laugh. Then he moved among the diners, laughing and joking. He did not speak to Gwyn at all.
If anyone had noted his progress, it would have been apparent that he spoke only to the knights who were in William’s court, but not truly of it. Perhaps the only man there who might have looked upon Henry’s conversations with suspicion was Ranulf Flambard, but his thoughts were elsewhere. So Henry’s movements were not closely observed.
It was Flambard’s job to provide ever more titillating pastimes for the king. Now, as always, he kept his plans secret. He merely said, “The morrow will bring sport for all of us. We have a rare opportunity, and I trust my king will look with pleasure upon the day’s diversion.” He rubbed his hands together. “The Welshman will be taken to the New Forest tomorrow, and there —” Flambard burst into laughter, a harsh, unpleasant sound, while the king prodded him, urging him to tell his plans.
Flambard said, “Young Brian du Pré has a score to settle with the savage Welshman. Is that right?”
Brian bared his teeth in a grin of agreement, and Flambard went on. “We will give Brian this opportunity to even his score. On the morrow, all will be revealed.” He repeated with a laugh, “All. I mean all will be revealed!”
He leered around the table, giving licentious winks to his rapt listeners, and as the jest was understood, great roars of laughter filled the hall. It was the same kind of laughter Gwyn had heard when they seduced Brian that long-ago night.
The laughter was broken as Gwyn’s voice rose higher and higher. “If you torment the Lord of the Western Marches, then your name, King, will be shamed throughout the world. I doubt the Pope will approve, when he hears of this!”
William turned on her fiercely and hissed through clenched teeth, “I should set my hounds on you! Brian, and the others — they would fall on you and tear you to pieces at my word!”
“Do this if you dare! You may silence me, but tongues will carry word of this far and wide. The way you treat an ally! The Pope will hear and speedily! Your dogs indeed! But word of this will fly on wings of air — you cannot silence the world, King!”
She did not notice Henry’s worried frown. Nor, had she seen it, would she have stopped. Wat Tirel, standing nearby, seized her arm and pulled her down to the bench. “Hush, lady, else all is lost!” he hissed.
She hardly heard him. She covered her face with her hands and rocked back and forth.
William started toward her, then lifted his jeweled hand. But Flambard reached out a hand to stop him. In an undertone he said, “Sire, she is of Norman blood. Let us not allow our two-legged dogs to spill Norman blood. For if it is Gwyn’s blood first, what is to stop the next Norman blood from being yours or mine?”
Gwyn glanced up and saw that Wat Tirel, who had been standing behind her, now stood near the outer door, looking more than nervous. Henry, on the far side of the table, looked unusually anxious as well. His
groom had disappeared. Henry’s dark eyes flashed her a message. She wanted to read reassurance in it, but she could not be sure what he was trying to say.
Soon she was returned to her rooms and left entirely alone all the rest of that day and night.
Thursday the second of August, 1100, dawned bright and golden. The sun broke through the golden hazy mist that rose from the river, and birds sang on the far side of the stream.
She was brought to the courtyard, where the hunting party was being formed. She noticed, vaguely, that William and his brother Henry had a long talk at the edge of the gathering. William wanted Henry kept under his eye. “For I know that our sport is not to your taste, but you will remember that this is my court, and you will be well advised to keep your peace.”
“I go today, brother,” said Henry peaceably, “to hunt a wolf.”
“The wolf can wait,” William grunted. “If there is a wolf.”
“Surely a ravening wolf deserves to be killed,” countered Henry, a quizzical expression lighting his square face, “before he devastates his range?”
For once William seemed unsure of himself. He had been violently ill in the night, everyone knew, and the rumor ran fast that he had been poisoned. True or not, it was obvious that even the king’s great strength had been sapped by the ordeal. “I do not trust you, brother,” he said leadenly.
Henry said, “But there is only one wolf that needs killing. He has been preying on your deer, and ruining all your hunting. You may have sport today. Tomorrow the wolf will no longer be a menace. I will hunt in another part of the forest.” Then he said, with wry meaning, “No need to worry, for I take only two men with me.”
Gwyn dreaded the day. She could do nothing to stop Flambard’s entertainment, but perhaps if Rhys knew she was nearby, he would be comforted. She must be with him, as near as she could manage to be, while he yet breathed.
Crown of Passion Page 43