Both men were staring at her. Davydd spoke first. “If you mean that,” he said incredulously, “then you are well and truly out of your mind!”
“Davydd, I have never meant anything more.”
“You are no fool, Elen,” Llewelyn snapped, “so stop talking like one. You may marry this man if you must, but not for a twelvemonth. To do otherwise would be to court disaster, to bring scandal down upon your name. A sudden marriage to a man of lesser rank would be taken as an admission of adultery. Not only would you besmirch your honor, you might well jeopardize your dower lands.”
“Papa, I do not care about the lands!” She’d never dared say that before; they looked so startled that she gave a shaken laugh. “I know that sounds like heresy, but it is true, nonetheless. Rob’s holdings are a mere pittance when compared to all John held, but he has manors of his own. We will not starve.”
Davydd reached out, put his hand on her arm. “I believe you when you say the lands mean nothing to you. But are you equally indifferent to suspicions of murder?”
Elen’s jaw dropped. “Murder? Davydd, that is ridiculous. No one could possibly believe that!”
Llewelyn was slowly shaking his head. “You are wrong, Elen. If you wed Robert de Quincy so soon after your husband’s death, most people will conclude that he must have been your lover. A hasty second marriage plants ugly seeds. For too many, gossip is their meat and drink. And once men begin to see a death as convenient, there’ll be those to see it, too, as contrived.”
It was obvious to Llewelyn that his daughter was shaken. What an innocent she was. And de Quincy was just as blind. God help them both. For a moment he allowed himself to hope that he’d gotten through to her. But even as he watched, Elen’s expression changed. He recognized the defiant jut of her chin, the sudden surge of color across her cheekbones. When she was a child, the easiest way to get her to do something she did not want to do was to dare her to do it. It seemed, he thought grimly, that she had not changed all that much.
“Those who know me would never believe that,” she said tautly. “The others do not matter.”
“I will not let you do this, Elen. I forbid it.”
Elen stood very still. “I do not want to defy you, Papa. Nothing could lessen the love I have for you. I want your blessings for my marriage, but I do not need your permission. I am Welsh, am free to wed whom I choose. Our laws give me that right, Papa, you know they do.”
Llewelyn started instinctively to rise, remembered just in time how cumbersome an act that now was. “Tell me this, Elen. You are willing to risk the loss of your dower lands, the loss of your honor. What if I cannot forgive you? Are you willing, too, to risk that?”
“Papa…” Elen’s voice wavered. “Papa, please listen. Who can know how much time is allotted to us? You’d have me sacrifice a year with Rob when that could be the only year we’d have. That time is too precious, Papa. You of all men should understand that, with Mama but five months dead.”
He was silent, and she saw him through a blur of tears. “I’ll depart for Chester on the morrow. I shall bid you farewell ere I go, Papa.” She waited, then turned, walked slowly toward the door.
Davydd crossed the chamber, poured mead for Llewelyn and for himself. Giving his father a brimming cup, he said, “Papa, how can you let her do this? How can you not stop her?”
“What would you have me do, Davydd? Put her under guard? Tie her to her bed?” Llewelyn looked down at the cup, then flung it from him, watched it shatter against the hearthstones. He at once regretted it; such ungoverned bursts of temper were not natural to him. “I am sorry, Davydd. My nerves are more on the raw these days than I like to admit.”
“I was in the wrong, Papa, not you. For in truth, I do not know how to stop Elen, either.” Davydd held out his own drink, and Llewelyn took it with a twisted smile.
“Go fetch her, Davydd. Bring her back.”
After Davydd departed in search of his sister, Llewelyn leaned back upon the settle, took several swallows of mead. Although the chamber was empty, he did not feel alone. In this bedroom he and Joanna had consummated their marriage. Elen had been conceived in that bed, born in it, too. Joanna had died in it.
“What else could I do, Joanna?” he said. “How could I not forgive her?”
4
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Odiham Castle, England
October 1237
________
It was with a sense of foreboding that Mabel de Druual watched her lady read Simon de Montfort’s letter. Color had risen in Nell’s cheeks; her lips were softly parted. Since childhood, it had been so for her; her face was ever a mirror to her soul. Mabel had sometimes marveled at the irony of it, that King John’s daughter should be so lacking in artifice, even caution. A widow who’d been with her since Nell’s marriage to William Marshal, Mabel loved Nell for her candor, her impulsiveness, her high spirits. But it occurred to her now that those were the very qualities that were putting Nell so much at peril.
Nell looked up. “It is from the Earl of Leicester,” she said, needlessly, for Mabel had recognized Simon’s seal. “He has returned from York.”
“That is twice this year that he has acted as the King’s envoy, is it not? He must stand high, indeed, in the King’s favor,” Mabel said, because she knew how it pleased Nell to hear Simon praised.
“Yes,” Nell agreed, “he does.” She glanced down at the letter again, and her expression changed; her smile faded. “Simon has accepted my invitation to visit me here at Odiham,” she said, and so grave was she that Mabel took heart. Mayhap it was not too late, she thought, and she knelt beside Nell’s chair.
“Write at once to Lord Simon,” she pleaded. “Tell him not to come.”
Nell’s brows drew together; when she started to speak, Mabel put up an imploring hand. “Please, my lady, just hear me out. You must know it is only my love for you that bids me be so bold. I fear for you, for I know how much you care for Lord Simon.”
“Why do you say that, Mabel?”
“My lady, I have eyes to see. When you and he look upon each other, it is a wonder the air itself does not take fire. And now you would invite him here to your own manor. My lady, think what you do. Our flesh is weak; we are all daughters of Eve, sons of Adam, too susceptible to temptations, to Lucifer’s whispers in the dark. If you have Lord Simon here, under your own roof, it is all too likely that ere the night is done, you’ll have him in your bed, too.”
Nell jumped to her feet, but she was not a hypocrite; her indignant protest died on her lips. Mabel rose, too. “I know the Church says that fornication is a mortal sin. But I truly think the Almighty looks upon it with a more tolerant eye than do His bishops, His priests, for could He damn so many for a sin so common? Adultery…that is a more grievous offense; few would argue that. But my lady, the sin you contemplate is one of the most serious of all. You have sworn a holy oath of chastity, knelt before the Archbishop of Canterbury and pledged yourself to Christ. How could you then give yourself to a mortal man? I fear there could be no forgiveness for a betrayal so great, Madame.”
“You tell me nothing I do not already know, Mabel,” Nell said, more sharply than she’d intended. How could she fault Mabel for caring?
“I am thinking not only of your soul, Madame. I am thinking, too, of your heart. The earldom of Leicester is not a lucrative one; Lord Simon is deeply in debt, is ever hard pressed for money. Twice now he has sought a wealthy wife, first the Countess of Boulogne and, last year, the Countess of Flanders.”
“I know that, Mabel.” Neither in Nell’s voice nor in Mabel’s was there condemnation or criticism. Marriages were very practical matters, based upon realistic considerations of politics and profit, not passion, and to both women, it was perfectly natural that Simon should seek to better his fortunes through wedlock. “What of it? What mean you to say?”
“What I am saying, my lady, is that the time will come when Lord Simon must seek yet again to wed an heiress. What choice would he have, for how els
e could he hope to pay his debts, to fill his empty coffers? And could you ever endure that, Madame? Could you share him with another woman?” Mabel paused, but Nell bit her lip, said nothing.
“He may indeed love you well, Madame. In truth, I suspect he does. But there can be nothing between you but friendship. I beg you, do not risk so much for so little. Do not sacrifice your honor and chances of salvation for a sinful, stolen love.”
Nell was still silent. She glanced again at Simon’s letter, at the bold strokes of the writing, Simon’s own hand, not that of a scribe. “You make it sound so simple, Mabel. But it is not.” She looked up then, and Mabel saw tears in her eyes. “God help us both,” she whispered, “for it is not.”
Simon arrived at Odiham at dusk on the third Friday in October. Supper was generally a casual, rather cursory meal, but for Simon Nell set a lavish table. Even the Friday fish menu had not daunted Nell’s cooks; Simon and his men were served savory, highly spiced dishes of herring, lampreys, and oysters. Simon’s squires were quite impressed by such rich fare, but they soon concluded that their lord was much more impressed by the Countess of Pembroke. The Lady Nell was clad in a gown of brocade silk, a vibrant ruby-red threaded through with strands of gold, and Simon had yet to take his eyes from her. His squires watched their lord, they watched the King’s sister, and they were both awed and uneasy that Simon dared aim so high.
After the meal was done, there was dancing. Nell showed Simon about the hall; it encompassed most of the keep’s second story, save for a small chamber to the north, which had been set aside for Simon’s use. Nell was very proud of Odiham, and she told Simon that the castle had been built by her father, King John, “begun in 1207, the year of my brother Henry’s birth.”
“The year before I was born,” Simon observed, and Nell suddenly realized that she’d not even known how old he was. It was a surprisingly unsettling thought, for it made her aware of how much there was that she did not know about Simon de Montfort.
“Your Lady Mabel has been eyeing me askance, but I’ve yet to see your dragon. Is Dame Cecily lurking about in the shadows? I cannot imagine her straying far from your side, not with a wolf prowling midst her flock.”
“Is that how you see yourself, Simon?” Nell asked, and he grinned.
“No, but that is how your dragon does. Can you deny it?”
She shook her head. “Well, this is one lamb in no need of a shepherd. Dame Cecily is not at Odiham. I gave her leave to visit her son.”
“I see,” he said. Their eyes caught, held. “I daresay Dame Cecily was much beholden to you. I know I am,” he murmured, and Nell’s breath quickened.
The dancing was about to resume. Simon held out his hand, and Nell let him lead her out to join in the carol. When the dance ended, they shared a cup of hippocras, while Nell told him of Odiham’s proudest hour, those fifteen days that the castle held out under a French siege in 1216. “They say the French were astounded when the garrison at last yielded and just thirteen men did march out to surrender.”
Simon showed no surprise. “I’ve seen few castles better situated,” he said. “King John had a good eye for defense. By placing the castle in a bend of the Whitewater, he made the river into a second moat.”
“We do depend upon more than the river for our defenses. My lord father had trenches dug to the west, which could be flooded in times of danger, making the ground all but impassable,” Nell said, and saw Simon’s eyes kindle with a soldier’s interest. She drank the last of the wine before saying, with studied nonchalance, “From the keep battlements, the canals are clearly visible.”
She needed to say no more. Simon took the cue as if it had been rehearsed between them. “I should very much like to see these canals, for I’ve never encountered a defense of that sort. Could I persuade you to show me?” he asked, and Nell allowed herself to be persuaded. Mabel and Simon’s squires sought to look noncommittal. No one ventured to comment upon the difficulties of inspecting a castle’s defenses in the dark.
The great keep of Odiham towered forty-five feet, afforded—by day—a spectacular view of the Hampshire countryside. A harvest moon lit the dark, a misty, mellow gold haloed by feathery, wispy clouds. The light from the heavens was so clear, so lucent that Nell found no need for her lantern. She set it down within the embrasure, began to point out landmarks to Simon: the slow-moving silver of the river, the castle moat, the marshes where John’s defensive ditches lay, camouflaged by the night.
“To the northeast lies my deer park,” she said proudly. “Henry gave me the castle and manor last year, but he only recently allowed me the park and hunting privileges. It offers good sport, Simon, as you may judge for yourself on the morrow. I’ve planned a hunt after dinner…if that meets with your approval.”
“Everything you do meets with my approval,” Simon said, to his own surprise, for he’d never been one to indulge in glib, shallow gallantries. What he’d just said to Nell was no less than the truth, although he did not know how to reassure her of that. They were, the both of them, treading an unmarked road, but wherever it led, it was too late to turn back.
The silence was making Nell uneasy; she could read too much into it. “I had a letter some days past from Elen de Quincy,” she said. “She had good news for me. Her lord father has prevailed upon Henry, and an agreement has been reached as to her dower lands. Unlike mine, hers will be a fair settlement: manors in the shires of Bedford, Huntingdon, Middlesex, Rutland, and Essex.”
“That marriage caused much talk, most of it ugly.”
“I know,” Nell admitted. “But I could find in Elen’s letter no echoes of regret. She did a foolish thing, but also a brave one. It does take courage, Simon, to value love above honor.”
“I should hope,” he said, “that one could have love with honor.”
Nell’s smile flickered, sadly. “In an ideal world, so might it be.” She leaned back against the parapet, let her eyes wander at will over Simon’s face. How finely cut his mouth was, mayhap not quick to smile, but when he did…She sighed, said, “Elen had good news, too, about her father. Prince Llewelyn can now walk without the aid of a crutch. And he has picked up the threads of an old liaison, once again has a woman in his life. Elen spelled the woman’s name as H-u-n-y-d-d, which should be said as Hi-ith…I think. I confess, my tongue has ever tripped over Welsh!”
To Simon, it was only to be expected that Llewelyn should take a mistress; it had been more than nine months since his wife’s death. But he knew women could be foolishly sentimental about such matters. “Does Elen resent this woman?” he asked, and Nell shook her head. Their hands rested together on the parapet wall, not quite touching.
“She says she did once—very much. This Hunydd was Llewelyn’s concubine, you see, during those wretched months after Joanna’s infidelity, when she was being held at Llanfaes. Elen detested Hunydd then, could not bear to see her in Joanna’s place. But now she says she thanks God for her. She knows there is great danger in grieving too much.”
“Did Llewelyn love your sister as much as that?” Simon asked, and then, “I expect he must have; how else could he have forgiven her?”
Nell longed to ask if he could have forgiven as Llewelyn did. But she did not, sensing that the answer would not have been to her liking. She said, instead, “Llewelyn loved Joanna well, and she him. I remember a visit to their court a few years past. One night the talk turned to remarriage. Few who lose a mate do not eventually wed again, and sometimes, with unseemly haste. Someone—Lord Ednyved’s wife, I think—made mention of this to Joanna, mayhap in jest. But to Joanna, that was a joke bitter as gall. She always feared that Llewelyn would die ere she did, and she said, right sharply, that she’d take no husband after Llewelyn. It grew quiet, until Llewelyn dispelled the tension, made us all laugh. He said that he would want Joanna to wed again, would not begrudge her a second husband, no matter how young or handsome—provided that the man was utterly incapable in bed!”
Nell laughed; so did Simon
. “My sister and Llewelyn were so lucky, Simon, so very lucky. They found together a rare love, a happiness few ever know. I…I would that I could have been so blessed.”
“I never thought much about love,” Simon said slowly. “I loved my mother, but she died ere I was thirteen. I can scarce remember my father. As for women, I suppose I’ve had my share. Some I fancied more than others. But I never met one to grieve over, I never thought to find one I’d need as I need bread to eat, air to breathe.”
Nell’s hand sought his on the parapet; his fingers closed tightly around her own. “And now, Simon?”
“Now I do want you, Nell, and only you.”
“Simon…” Nell was not sure what she meant to say, never found out, for Simon was done with waiting. He took her in his arms. She raised her face to him, closing her eyes, and then felt his mouth on hers.
Nell had been wed against her will at the age of nine, given by her brother to a man much older than she. But William Marshal had been kind to her, and she’d learned to love him. When she was fourteen, they’d consummated their marriage, and he’d been kind then, too; her few memories of the marriage-bed were pleasant ones, memories of warmth and security and tenderness. Nothing in her past experience had prepared her for Simon.
He was kissing her mouth, her eyelids, her temples, removing her veil and wimple, kissing her throat, and Nell forgot her qualms, forgot her fears; she returned his kisses with abandon, with a passion to match his own. She loved this man. She loved him so much. How could she ever give him up?
Simon had not meant for their lovemaking to take fire so fast. But her response was so ardent, so eager that he found himself unable to hold back. Never had he been so aware of a woman’s fragrance. It was subtle, elusive, clung to her hair, her skin; even the air seemed perfumed with a faint, flowery scent. She did not object as his caresses became bolder, more intimate, allowing him to pull the top of her bodice down, allowing him to fondle her breasts. Their kisses were hard, bruising, for there was in their desire a desperation, too, as if these fevered moments alone upon the castle battlements might be all they’d ever have.
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