She sighed. It was a puzzle she would never solve. She could only thank God that she and Rhys had been saved.
8
It was Sunday, August 5, three days after Gwyn had found King William’s lifeless body in the forest. Henry had ridden to Westminster to seize the Exchequer, the core and heart of the administration of the King of England. The dead king and his brother Robert of Normandy had made a pact, so it was rumored, that whichever of them survived would unite both dominions. Henry, the youngest, had been left out of this agreement.
But he knew that Robert was on his way back from the Holy Land. There was no time to waste. Henry, with the backing of the more powerful nobles, had claimed the throne for himself, and was now in possession of the records, and the treasury, of the country. Possession of the machinery of government was almost all he needed. There was one more necessary step.
Henry, kneeling at the altar of Westminster Cathedral in London, was anointed king. The bishop placed a golden circlet on his head. As the act was done, sealing Henry as king in the sight of God and man, a shout went up from the handful of people attending the coronation.
After the hasty ceremony the anointed king returned to Winchester. He rode into the bailey at the head of his growing army. He had many more men than he had commanded on Thursday.
The news that the Wolf-of-the-Devil William Rufus weltered in his own black blood spread like swampfire, and prudent magnates looked to their own best interests. Henry was now the anointed ruler, and besides, he held the Exchequer, the records and money of the realm. Every day more nobles flocked to his standard.
Henry’s first action was to liberate Gwyn and Rhys from their secure lodging. “Can he travel?” the king demanded, looking doubtfully at the Lord of the Western Marches.
“Yes,” said Rhys, “thanks to you. I cannot express my deepest gratitude for my life —”
“Then do not try,” Henry responded crisply. Gone was the vacillation he had often shown. Henry was king, now, and Henry knew the fullness of royal power. “We ride at daylight.”
“We?” echoed Gwyn.
“I ride with you part of the way. We have much to atone for on my brother’s account, and we wish to see you safely on your way.”
He had changed, she realized. Overnight he had seized the reins of government, and his new royal dignity sat well on him. She would not dare, now, to jest with him as she had once.
“Nesta?” she murmured as he turned away. “She returns with us?”
For a moment Henry’s expression remained blank. Then, with an effort of memory, he understood. “Oh, yes. The Welsh beauty.” He settled his sword belt more securely around his waist. “I’ll see to her hereafter.”
The next day, Monday, the sixth of August, they were on their way back to Gwyn’s beloved mountains. Henry had provided them with horses and led the heavily armed escort for two days. The third day he turned back. “Flambard has escaped to France, but there are others in the land who are no friends of mine. I do not wish you to be a hostage again, Gwyn.”
The Norman troops were to escort them only as far as the border. Henry said, “I need them back, for my brother Robert is halfway to Normandy already, and I doubt not that he wants this land. I will need-every man I can get.”
The little cavalcade, bristling with lances and swords, marched on, without the king, into the foothills of the Cotswolds.
They had traveled another two days when suddenly they heard the sound of approaching horses. They formed quickly into a position of defense, with Gwyn and Rhys both in the middle, for Rhys was not yet strong enough to carry his armor or hurl a lance.
When the approaching horsemen came into view, Rhys, peering through the ranks of Norman soldiers, gave a mighty shout: “Daffyd!” and tried to burst through the Norman defense. They kept him within the circle, however, saying that the approaching troops might run him through before they knew who he was; “You can’t trust a barbarian anyway.”
Gwyn, on tiptoe, could see Daffyd, his great red beard and hair glowing in the light, as the troops came full tilt toward the Normans. There was Dai and Dewi! She felt the ecstasy of homecoming flood through her, even though she was still many miles from Wales. These were her people! And where her people were, where Rhys was, that was all the home she needed.
The Welsh troops had come, at great peril to themselves, to liberate Rhys. They were willing to tackle all of King William’s men, his entire well-trained and heavily armored army, to succor their lord and their lady.
That night the two armies camped together. By the time morning came the Normans were grudgingly respectful of the Welsh, and the Welsh were happy to allow their relief and pleasure at having Rhys and Gwyn back spill over to their new-found Norman friends.
When they broke camp the next morning, Rhys and the leader of the Normans shook hands. “I will send you back to your king,” said Rhys, “for he needs you. Thanks to my people, we will be safe now. I appreciate your great courtesies, and I am glad that you are our friends, not our enemies.”
The Norman leader said, “We are for now, but when my king tells me to fight, I must.”
Rhys nodded agreement. “We are allies until I get back into the mountains. Then, since I am still Lord of the Western Marches, I will hope for lawfulness along the border, or …”
There was no need to go further. Each understood the other. With respect for each other’s integrity and ability, they bade farewell.
Gwyn was filled with happiness. Whatever was to be, they had come through thus far — together. She was with Rhys and with their men — Daffyd, Dai, and her own Dewi, who had been with her through all the terrible days at Port Madoc, all the hard days on the track. They waited until the Normans clattered out of sight. Looking after them, Gwyn thought, That is the last of my Norman bloody for now my destiny lies ahead.
Deliberately she turned her back on England, the Norman kingdom, King Henry, and even Princess Nesta. She smiled at Rhys, stretched her hand out to him, and hand in hand they rode at the head of their own men on the upward track to Wales.
Her woman’s sign was overdue, but she hugged the knowledge to herself. If she were with Rhys’s child, born of their free giving to each other in the sweetness of love, there in the pool at Bath, there was time enough to rejoice. She believed now that she was not barren, believed that she could bear Rhys many stalwart sons, men worthy to carry on their father’s dream of a united Wales.
The dream Rhys believed in had not died at Brecknock, nor could the Normans’ unspeakable cruelty do more than bank its fires. The Flame Sword would again light all the land. The Red Dragon Standard would wave once more, when the time was right.
Just now, it was time to keep Rhys’s dream alive, a time for sowing. Their sons would bring the time of reaping.
If you enjoyed Crown of Passion check out Endeavour Press’s other books here: Endeavour Press - the UK’s leading independent publisher of digital books.
For weekly updates on our free and discounted eBooks sign up to our newsletter.
Follow us on Twitter and Goodreads.
Crown of Passion Page 45