Gwenllian sighed. She wanted very much not to care who her mother allied with. “Ever has he cast his lot with Edward,” she said wearily.
“He will back who lets him keep his lands,” countered her mother. She then launched on a lengthy explanation, once again, of the many ways to build this complicated web of political alliances and gain power in the places it was most needed.
Gwenllian reached out and took an apple, tracing over the skin of it with her thumbnail, resisting the urge to score it in one long, white line. She felt like a young girl again, sulking as her mother endeavored to teach her things she did not wish to learn. Intrigue and politicking were so needlessly complicated, while the sword was pleasingly straightforward. But she should listen, she knew. She should try to understand it all. At this rate, she would be enmeshed in a rebellion without even knowing who was ally and who was enemy.
Do not trust him now, Eluned was saying, but to succeed you must be forever looking ahead, mindful of potential, looking for the moment of opportunity. Plant the seeds now, she was saying. Do not make an enemy today in the place where you will need a friend tomorrow.
Gwenllian closed her eyes. She focused her attention on the smooth roundness of the apple against her palm.
“You must stop this, mother.”
It came out almost as a whisper, no hint of her words echoing back even in this great empty hall. They were alone. This latest guest had departed this morning, and Madog had taken the men to spar, leaving her and her mother to plot rebellion in solitude. Gwenllian would have preferred the warmth of the little room just behind the dais, but she feared such close quarters with her mother might actually bring her to tears.
She was close to it now, even in the vast coldness of the hall, even wearing her armor, with her sword at her hip. She had refused to take direct command of the men, insisting it was no longer her place and that she had come only to advise her mother. Every day that passed, she had more reason to be glad of the decision. She could not imagine what her men would make of her. They would not fail to see how near to weeping she was, so often, if she were among them.
Instead she passed the days with her mother, sitting silently while listening to various emissaries of possible allies. Eluned had taken care in the last few weeks to plant the notion of a new Gwenllian for a new Welsh rebellion, a symbol to rally reluctant men. It was a whisper that had become a rumble, and now began to grow and spread through the countryside.
“I ask you again to stop this,” she said now, loud enough to cut across her mother’s continued speech. Gwenllian repeated the litany of reasons she had recited every day since coming here. “The time is not ripe. Wait until Edward’s head is turned by more trouble in his French lands, or when he takes the Cross again as he intends. Were every man in Wales to fight tomorrow, still I say you cannot win against this king.”
Eluned’s face softened. To Gwenllian’s surprise, her mother walked to where she sat and placed her hand over the apple that Gwenllian held.
“All this have you said to me before.” She smoothed the hair beside Gwenllian’s face, tucking it behind her ear in an uncharacteristically gentle gesture. “You tire yourself in saying it so often.”
It was said tenderly, yet it incensed Gwenllian. She dropped the apple to the table and stood, toppling the chair as she did so. She glared at her mother.
“Is you who tires me. You will not listen! Why wish me here if you will not hear me?”
The familiar pinch of contradiction appeared in Eluned’s lips, but she did not answer. Gwenllian knew it was because the only answer could please neither of them: her mother wished her here to fulfill a role Gwenllian flatly refused. She wore her shirt of mail only from habit, for comfort and for show. But she would not lead men, nor make herself into a legend to lure them to fight the English king.
“Wait for their discontent to grow,” she said, striving to keep her temper. “In another year, as they are forced to live under English law and watch Edward build his castles on every hill of Wales, they will come to you without you ask them.”
Eluned shook her head. “Is already begun,” she said, the very picture of calm and reason. “We act soon, before Edward can suspect our strength.”
“How know you he cannot suspect your strength already?” Gwenllian burst out. Her voice echoed in the empty hall. A reckless anger gripped her, prompting her to shout. “Think you that the king does not already know all, that my husband has failed to tell him?”
She should not have mentioned him. Already her breath came short, her lungs full of air she could not seem to expel.
In the weeks since she had come to her mother, they had discussed everything but him. Just to think of it brought too many questions to mind, all of which she had fought to ignore. Would he tell Edward that she herself was involved, or would he name only her mother as conspirator? Would he plead for his wife’s life, if it came to that? Or would he bear the shame of her betrayal, and welcome the chance to be truly rid of her? There was no way to know, and to think of it sent a pain so sharp through her that she thought she might never recover.
“Your husband will not tell Edward.” Eluned’s voice was certain. “Not yet.”
“He will, is certain. He will not risk Morency.”
“I saw well how he looked at you, Gwenllian. I think him more likely to risk Morency than your life.”
Eluned wore the same look as when she mused on her endless political maneuverings – thoughtful, shrewd, calculating–and it was this more than anything that stopped the protest that came to Gwenllian’s lips.
She stared at her mother in silence, unsure of what to say, until Eluned looked slightly less certain and said, “As well did I see how you looked at him, and yet here you are.”
Gwenllian dropped her eyes. She wanted to ask how her mother could see so much in her brief a time at Morency, yet could not see how dangerous was King Edward. But her mother’s words had brought his face to mind – his face as he looked at her nakedness in the firelight, his laugh as they shared wine – and her breath came scarce again. To banish the picture of him, all smiling eyes and gentle mouth, she moved the conversation to safer ground.
“It needs nothing more than a spy for Edward here among us, to let the king and all his court know your allies and your plans.”
Eluned gave a very faint sigh and looked down at the table in deep thought. Her fingers smoothed over the apple that Gwenllian had dropped, as though trying to read some message there.
“We have agreed we must suspect them all equally. Think you any of them may have seen more than we intend them to see?”
Gwenllian shrugged. Long before her arrival, from the moment he had suspected an informer in their midst, Madog had worked to keep the extent of her mother’s plans a closely held secret.
“Nor would he need see much more than who comes and who goes, to guess at your intent. If he has wit enough to marry this intent to the rumors of rebellion among the common Welsh, then may you be sure Edward knows all.”
“Aye,” said Eluned, deep in thought. “The king has wit enough, even though his spy may not.”
With Madog, they had examined the family ties of all the household, to see who might betray them. It could be none of the fighting men, whose loyalties were deep and whose actions and words Madog so closely observed. It might be any among the servants here at Tredum, who were not so well known to them, but they could not discover who among the handful of eager faces might hide disloyalty so well.
Gwenllian often thought that this was her only purpose here. It was her own task, her only way to give meaning to her coming here. Find the informant, persuade her mother at least to delay this fight against Edward, and then…
And then her imagination failed her. And then… back to Ruardean, where she could never hope to live as she had before he’d come there. Back to the sword and the daily toiling to prove herself worthy to lead men, when she did not want to lead them. And before any of that, back to a decision
that she had put off. Back to myrtle leaves stripped in haste and tucked safely in her saddlebag still, back to a decision she could delay no more.
A disturbance at the door of the hall interrupted her thoughts. Just outside was the sound of men arguing. Not shouting, but voices raised and tense. Then there was quiet, and the door came open.
For a moment she could only see figures backed by daylight. Then he stepped forward, and she heard a soft gasp of surprise from her mother. Gwenllian only felt a mixture of confusion and shock at the sight of her husband. She could only stare at him, wordless, feeling the pounding of her heart.
It seemed to her that her mother said something – to him or to her, she did not know. Nothing in the room, in the world, seemed to matter but him. The beauty and power of him, stark in the bright light, struck her like a blow. All at once she felt how foolish she had been, to believe that any amount of training or balance could ever have prepared her to meet Ranulf of Morency.
He walked forward a few leisurely paces in the silence, as though he had come merely to peruse the tapestries that hung on the wall. His eyes roamed over everything – the windows, the table and the basket of apples upon it, her mother – until finally his eyes touched her face. There was a flutter in her belly, so strong and strange that her hands flew up to it in surprise. In the same instant, she felt his attention move to her hands, her stomach. Instinctively she covered the move with a more familiar gesture, gripping her sword and frowning her confusion at him.
Immediately, she knew her mistake. His eyes froze on her hands, her sword, the center of an unintentional stance that signaled doubt and aggression. Too late, she forced her hands away, letting them hang at her sides as she breathed deep.
Too late, because his face had already hardened to stone and turned away from her.
“My ladies, Lord Morency has traveled far to join you.”
Gwenllian had not noticed the priest who had entered with Ranulf. He was a little man who had served this place for years, whom she avoided as she did all church men, but seemed harmless and agreeable enough. Now she saw that he was anxious and uncertain, his eyes darting between Ranulf and herself as he walked toward where she stood.
It made her want to rest her hand on her sword again, this time in warning. The priest wore a look of such condescension, such pitying contempt, that she could not stop her own hostility from showing on her face.
“I would have Lady Gwenllian return to my keeping, for she is mine as commanded by king and ordained by God.” Ranulf’s voice reached her, a light and faintly amused tone in it. But he looked to her mother, and not to his wife. “Your good priest has agreed to meddle in your affairs.”
Her mother seemed to find this to be a deeply interesting idea, raising her brows and uttering an enlightened, “Ah!”
“In faith, daughter,” said the priest earnestly to Gwenllian, “where your husband wishes you, there should you go. Is natural to feel love and loyalty to your mother, yet we are taught that marriage must by necessity supplant the earlier bond.”
Gwenllian stared at the man, at a loss to respond. He made it sound so logical, so easy that she wished she could believe in it. Cleave to her husband, as a woman ought, without question or doubt. She would never have to wonder what to do and where to love, if only she would obey men like this one.
“You must know that you risk your immortal soul, to continue in this sin. Often have I cautioned your mother against your style of dress, that it is a transgression that can only lead to greater sin. I have prayed for you…”
“And I have told you,” her mother cut in, “that it is a style long honored among the people of Wales, and carries no such import as it might among the Normans with whom you are more familiar.”
Gwenllian quickly averted her eyes so the priest would not see her reaction to this outrageous declaration. She had just enough wits to hold her breath and wait for his response. If this priest knew the tales that were spreading like wildfire among the common folk, he might say now that he had heard tales of the old Gwenllian of legend, and of the whispers that she lived again and would fight again. For the rumor to reach even his ears would mean her mother had outdone herself. It would also mean that other churchmen and Normans knew of it, which might be disastrous if it connected to her.
Gwenllian found she didn’t care if he knew, though it was her own life at stake. She was tired of all of it, the intrigue and the endless maneuvering. She found she only cared that Ranulf still did not look at her, did not even seem to remark her presence.
Now he spoke to the priest, politely curious.
“You have mentioned this to Brother Anselm?”
The priest blinked at him, surprised. “Brother Anselm?”
Ranulf cast an apologetic look at Eluned. “Who serves the abbot at Abingdon, and is a dear friend to Lord Burnell. In truth, full half the news of the Marches comes to the king’s court by way of Brother Anselm. And for this reason,” he said, turning back to the priest, “I would know if they have learned of Lady Gwenllian’s style of dress.”
Many times had she seen the servants at Morency reduced to pale speechlessness when confronted with the most mild and harmless glance from their master. But now she was reminded of what it could do to a man, when Ranulf wished to put fear into him with a look.
“I… the strangeness to the Norman… the Welsh… no cause, I think…” The priest stammered and blinked into the forceful gaze of Lord Morency, conveying nothing except the depth of his own fear. He gradually looked away and subsided into mumbling, almost to himself, something about how it was a strange household he served.
When Ranulf’s hand landed lightly on the man’s shoulder, he jumped as though scalded. “I would have you say me yea or nay, if you have spoke aught of my wife to Anselm.”
“I have told him that she came to dwell here, and she is ever with Lady Eluned to greet the many guests who have come here.” His voice was fairly pleading. “Nor can I say if I described her dress with any detail except that it is exceeding strange and savage, as so much of the Welsh ways are.”
“And when last did you send word to this Brother Anselm?” Her mother asked sharply. The priest’s eyes swiveled gratefully toward her.
“Only last month, my lady, near two weeks past.”
A look passed between Eluned and Ranulf, which Gwenllian could not read. She felt slow and thick-headed, as though she had lost all her wits. One thing penetrated the fog of her mind: this, then, was the traitor in their midst, and he seemed not even to grasp it. The priest had seemed too oblivious to cause them any alarm, and indeed he was as unaware as they had believed him. Still, he had written to others of who came and went here, who spoke with her mother and how cordial were their words. That, along with other telling whispers, would travel a winding but swift path to Edward’s ear.
Ranulf stepped back now, a less menacing distance from the nervous priest. “Soon I will hear rumors from the court, no doubt, of how I could not long endure without my wife’s embrace, and so fled to her side. But I beg that you will go now to hear the confession of the boy who accompanied me on my journey. He is in sore distress.”
The priest looked at him, bewildered. “My lord? It is my glad duty to give counsel to Lady Gwenllian and make her mindful that marriage is a holy sacrament–”
“I shall remind my daughter of her duty.” Lady Eluned’s voice cut across him, strong and sharp. It caused an anxious twisting in Gwenllian’s belly to hear it, a sudden childlike fear of a parent’s reprimand. “Go you now and hear the boy’s confession. Soon I will find you in the chapel, to give you my own.”
The priest, so neatly dismissed, did not pause in his exit from the hall. He left behind him only a ringing silence. Gwenllian stood on the dais, rooted to the spot, wishing Ranulf would look at her, and dreading it. She did not know what she felt, but thought that if only he would look at her again, she might discover what lay in her own heart. She waited, everything in her suspended in silent anticipat
ion of what might happen next.
But he did not turn his face to her, nor even his eyes. He stood in the middle of the hall, far enough that her mother must raise her voice slightly to make him hear her clearly.
“How knew you it was the priest?”
Ranulf gave a slight shrug. “Is no hard task to find such men, when one knows where to look. You can be sure Edward will know yet more, from such eyes as he has in the households of those men who have plotted with you.”
“Haps he already knows all from you, his faithful servant.” There was something strange in Eluned’s demeanor, something both confident and reserved. Gwenllian felt her mother’s eyes on her briefly. “Certain my daughter believes it.”
He did not react to this, not even to look at her at last. He did not move in any way, and yet she felt him become even more remote. She remembered the sight of him so long ago, when he was held at Ruardean and she watched as his swordplay was interrupted by a sudden rain. Just as then, she stood with her mother in a world apart from him, looking down at where he stood alone. Just as then, he was cold, untouchable, unbearably beautiful. Just as then, she felt the dreadful pull toward him even as Eluned spoke.
“But I have said that you are more like to risk Morency, and your own life, than hers.”
“Our lives and fortunes are bound by God, and by law.” His voice was stiff and formal, as she had never heard it. “To risk one life is to risk both. Nor can the two be separated.”
Her mother’s gown rustled faintly as she moved closer to where Gwenllian stood, stopping just behind her. “And yet they are,” Eluned observed lightly. “By choice have they been sundered.”
The barely hidden note of triumph in her mother’s voice should have angered Gwenllian. As though I am a possession she has won, she thought. But she felt no anger. Her mother only spoke the truth.
The King's Man Page 24