Rhiannon

by Roberta Gellis

  “Joanna, have you been advertising my imminent demise again?” Ian asked his daughter-by-marriage, half exasperated, half laughing. Nothing Joanna did was ever really wrong in his eyes, especially not the anxious care of him that so clearly demonstrated her love. “I know my lungs were affected again last winter,” he complained, “but I am hale and hearty now. There is no reason for Simon to hang over me, expecting me to fall on my deathbed at any moment.”

  “No, I did not ‘advertise your imminent demise’!” Joanna protested indignantly. “Anyway, the way Simon has been acting, he is more likely to throw you into your deathbed than help you out by his presence.”

  “I simply do not wish to go to Wales now,” Simon said in a more controlled voice. “I have been thinking it over and I, too, believe that Geoffrey is right. We should go to the council, and we should make clear our displeasure at the king’s behavior.”

  “Yes, but not in that tone of voice if you wish Henry to moderate his actions,” Geoffrey pointed out. “I do not say that Henry cannot be forced, but if he is, he will remember and hold a spite. On the other hand, if he can be convinced by soft words, the same end can be achieved without making him hate us.”

  A chorus of women’s voices agreed and went on to suggest methods of leading the king away from his folly, but Simon did not hear. When his father said the word Wales, a face had risen into his mind’s eye, a voice had sounded, not in his ear but on his heartstrings. Rhiannon! Rhiannon of the Birds—she whose bare feet twinkled like silver in the dew-starred, moonlit grass of a high valley, whose silvery white hands drew silver songs from the silver strings of her harp, whose streaming hair was perfumed with the wild flowers and mosses and rich earth, whose lips tasted of wild strawberries from the high pastures warmed with the spring sun. Rhiannon! The only woman he had ever loved—and she would not have him.

  * * * * *

  Simon could not remember a time when he had not tumbled females. Even before puberty, he had wielded his tool with great satisfaction to himself and his partners, if with little effect in the procreative sense—and never had he been refused. In fact, it was rare indeed that he needed to ask. The girls and women had always come after him. Nor did he refuse any—young and old, pretty and ugly. Simon gave them the best his magnificent body could produce. But he did not offer, did not even think or speak of love—and he warned all his lovers that he would be inconstant.

  The permanence of marriage held no appeal for Simon. His need for gentle warmth, for steadfast, unwavering affection was well supplied by his parents, his half sister and half brother, and their spouses. The unquestioning adoration of children, the need for heirs to the land that would be his when his father died, was also provided by his nieces and nephews. Simon already had his eye on one of Adam’s younger sons who seemed to him to him to have the temperament to deal with the northern barons.

  Yet, when he had first seen Rhiannon singing to her harp in her father’s hall, before he had even exchanged a word with her, he had been conquered. It was not her beauty, although she was beautiful; many more beautiful women had lain in his arms without touching his heart. Perhaps it was the wild tale she sang, full of enchantments and tragedy, that had sent love’s dart into him. She looked a part of that ancient tale herself. Her gown, heavy with gold and jewels, was a hundred years out of date; her hair, black and shining as the sleek feathers of a raven, flowed unconfined by veil or net or wimple down to her knees. Jewels hung in her ears and bound her brows. Simon had never seen a woman who appeared so wild and free.

  “Who is she?” Simon had asked Prince Llewelyn when Rhiannon’s song had ended.

  “My daughter,” the Lord of Gwynedd had answered, smiling, “or so I believe. Her mother is not a woman with whom a man would argue—or trifle—not even I. I say I do not believe in such things, but Kicva is a ‘wise woman’. Kicva’s father, Gwydyon, was bard to my court in those years, and she came to me and said she wished me to sire a daughter on her. It was no burden; she was a lovely thing. Later she brought Rhiannon to me from time to time that I should know her and she me, but she never asked for anything nor would even take what I offered freely. Of course, they were not in need. Gwydyon was a real power in the hills and Kicva also. Rhiannon…I do not know. She is stranger than her mother in some ways.”

  “Is she married?” Even as he asked, Simon wondered why he had done so. It had never mattered to him before whether an attractive woman was married or not. Those who were ready to betray their husbands, Simon took without a thought; those who loved their men, he did not pursue. But in the infinitesimal pause before Llewelyn answered, Simon knew it was of great importance to him, and his breath sighed out in relief when Llewelyn shook his head.

  “God knows I have presented enough men to her,” Llewelyn said, “and I am willing to dower her with lands as well as what she will have from her mother. Rhiannon will have none of it. They are not marrying women. Gwydyon did not marry Angharad, Kicva’s mother—or, more like, she would not marry him.”

  “That is very strange,” Simon said. The ruses his unmarried mistresses had used to attempt to trap him into marriage were myriad. He had not thought the single state was ever a woman’s choice, except those who professed the celibacy of a religious life. “Did they have many lovers?” he asked.

  Llewelyn laughed. “I never had the courage to ask Kicva, to tell the truth, and Rhiannon just laughs at me and says it is not my business when I ask her why she will not take a husband.”

  “But as her father it is your right—”

  “With Rhiannon it is easier to name a right than to enforce it. I do not provide for her. I cannot even command her comings and goings.” Suddenly Llewelyn shook his head. “Do not reach for Rhiannon, Simon; you will get your fingers burnt.”

  “Do you forbid me, my lord?” Simon asked, his breath catching again with a strange anxiety. “I mean you no dishonor.” His eyes wandered to Rhiannon where she stood talking to her half brother Gruffydd.

  Llewelyn’s eyes followed Simon’s and then moved back to the dark, incredibly handsome face. “That is something new in you,” he said thoughtfully. There was a pause while Llewelyn considered what Simon had proposed half unconsciously. “Certainly I would not oppose such a marriage,” he went on, “but your father and mother might not welcome it.”

  “My father would not object, my lord,” Simon said eagerly. “He loves you well and would be glad of another bond with your house. My mother, I think, would welcome any marriage I was willing to make and—” his eyes wandered to Rhiannon again, “and she would understand Lady Rhiannon better than most other women. She is old now, but her spirit is still strong.”

  Llewelyn smiled reminiscently. He knew Alinor well. “That is true, but I fear they will never meet despite the ease with which we seem to have decided this matter. I do not believe you will ever get Rhiannon so far from her hills. You may try for her with my blessing, but remember I have no power to give you more. Rhiannon is a law unto herself. I fear you will have only grief from her.”

  Simon had not believed him, nor had he noticed the sly glance that touched him and moved away. It would serve his purposes very well, Llewelyn thought, if Simon married Rhiannon; he should have thought of it himself, but at least he had applied the right spurs now that his brain had been jogged. He watched with mild amusement the confident carriage as Simon crossed the hall. This would be a struggle worth witnessing.

  There was no reason for Simon to lack confidence. No woman except those whose hearts were already given had ever refused him. When he approached Rhiannon he was more concerned that he would be disappointed by her on closer acquaintance than that she would not welcome his attentions. At first, indeed, it seemed as if he would succeed with her as easily as he expected. When he came near, Gruffydd looked up from his half sister’s face and said rather nastily, “Here is our tame Saeson.”

  It was a remark calculated to raise animosity in both Simon and any full-blooded Welshwoman, but Rhiannon kn
ew her half brother and turned to look at Simon without apparent reluctance. A slow, appreciative smile dawned on her face.

  “Heavens, how beautiful you are,” she said. “A veritable work of Danu.”

  “I might say that as well for you, Lady Rhiannon,” Simon rejoined, but his voice did not hold the light laughter with which he usually addressed and flattered women.

  Close up she was even more impressive, although actually less lovely. Her nose was a trifle too long, her mouth too full and wide for absolute beauty; however, it was not possible for Simon to think of such things. Her eyes did not drop as a modest maiden’s should; they seized him and held him boldly. They were large, almond shaped, tipped upward at the outer corners, and of a clear green—a color Simon had never seen except on a cat. More intriguing still, she examined him with the frank, slightly contemptuous appraisal that a feline bestows upon humans. No blush mantled her cheeks, although her skin, denied the sun that tanned it in milder weather, was white as snow.

  “Oh, you might say that and any number of other pretty things, I should think,” she answered, laughing. “I imagine you are a great master at saying sweet things to women.”

  “I tell them what they wish to hear,” Simon said, stung by her amusement. “What do you wish to hear? That your singing still sounds within me? That the bright glance of your eyes has blinded me to all other beauty? I will say it, and it is true. I am no liar—even to women.”

  “How can you tell a woman what she wishes to hear and yet be no liar?” Rhiannon asked. There was no sneer in her voice. She sounded genuinely interested in the solution to such a paradox.

  “Deep within, each woman knows her own beauty. There is always something lovely in a woman, unless her soul is corroded beyond hope with evil. The ugliest may have a sweet smile or a soft skin or a warm, gracious voice. Women are not fools. They may seem to desire and to accept untrue flattery, but if you praise what is truly beautiful in them, you will strike them to the heart.”

  The laughter vanished from Rhiannon’s face and the contempt from her eyes. She stared unwinking at Simon, then shuddered slightly. “You are a very dangerous man, very. It would behoove me to have no more to say to you.”

  “Are you afraid?” Simon’s eyes sparkled with challenge.

  “Yes.”

  Simon laughed. “Your father has just told me that I should not reach for you lest my fingers be burnt. In response to that, I asked for your hand in marriage.”

  “No!” Gruffydd spat. He had been listening to them with a steadily blackening scowl, and now he exploded. “My sister will not be sold to a Saeson. I will bestow her on a suitable man in Wales when I—”

  “I will be sold to no one,” Rhiannon interrupted sharply. “I will marry where I choose, when I choose, and not at all if I choose. You have no right to bestow me any more than does Lord Llewelyn. Do not be a worse fool than you can help, Gruffydd. You are allowing this Norman-English-Welsh matter to unsettle your thinking. Not all Cymry are paragons of virtue and not all Saeson are evil.”

  “Perhaps not all Welshmen are perfect,” Gruffydd snarled, “but I still prefer to live and breed within my own kind. I say my sister will not go to a stranger—”

  “What a fool you are!” Rhiannon repeated in an exasperated voice and, in defiance, placed her fingers on Simon’s wrist. “Let us go,” she urged.

  “I am sorry,” Simon said as he led her away. “I did not mean to make a quarrel with your brother. Nor, I hope, will you misunderstand me. Your father neither sold nor bestowed you. What he said was that I might try for you with his blessing, but that you were a law unto yourself and he had no power over you.”

  A faint blush of pleasure tinted Rhiannon’s translucent skin, but it receded at once. The green eyes lifted to Simon’s. “Oh, you are clever,” she exclaimed. “You are a very devil for seeing into my heart.”

  “I have seen nothing,” Simon denied, but that was not really true. Unlike most other men, Simon was intimately acquainted with passionately independent women, and he understood a great deal. “I have only repeated to you your father’s words to me,” he went on. “He also said you would bring me only grief. But I am not afraid. It is not possible to know joy without daring sorrow—and I see in you a hope of joy such as I have never known.”

  “No doubt you see that same hope in each woman you pursue,” Rhiannon remarked, the laughter coming back into her eyes. “To say that you hope would be no lie. Each time you would only need to confess that your hope had not been fulfilled.”

  “I see someone has been warning you against me,” Simon sighed. “The half of it is not true at all, the other half much exaggerated. Were I what is said of me, I would need seven of everything a man uses to make love and the ability to send each to a different place at one time.”

  Rhiannon burst out laughing at the mock plaintiveness in Simon’s voice and the spurious, outraged innocence of his expression. “You are wrong,” she told him. “I have read what you are in your face. I do not even know your name.”

  “I beg your pardon, Lady Rhiannon. My name is Simon de Vipont, and I am son to Lord Ian and Lady Alinor of Roselynde. I was knighted by King Henry last Christmas and did fealty to your father for the keep at Llyn Helfyg, Crogen Keep, Caerhun, and Dinas Emrys at the May Day festival. How is it that you were not there, my lady?”

  She did not answer him at once, but stood staring. “You hold Dinas Emrys that looks over the Vale of Waters?”

  “Yes. It is the most beautiful place in the world, is it not? From the keep I can look down Nant Gwynant until I feel the soul drawn out of me into the blue distance.”

  “You love it,” Rhiannon said. It was a statement, not a question.

  “The best of all my holds,” Simon confirmed. “Although each is dear to me in a special way.”

  “Do you hear nothing in the winds that play around Emrys rock?” Rhiannon asked, her eyes fathomless.

  “Perhaps, but nothing that I need fear,” Simon replied. “I am no unwelcome conqueror to this land—in spite of what Gruffydd said. Llewelyn gave the lands to my father out of love and trust. I was squire to William Marshal, Earl of Pembroke, and served in south Wales, but my heart has always been here—which is why my father ceded the lands to me while he yet lives. But you did not answer me, Lady Rhiannon. Why have I never seen you in your father’s court before?”

  “Because, I suppose, you came in spring or summer. I am seldom at any keep then. I go to my mother’s place, Angharad’s Hall, in the hills, after the New Year’s festival in March. Why are you here in the dead of winter, Sir Simon?”

  “The lands are mine now, and I must oversee them in all seasons. I will be here in Wales always—except at such short times as I visit my family.”

  There was an odd expression in Rhiannon’s face, approval mingled with apprehension; however, all she said was, “You say so, but you will soon tire of our barbaric ways and hie you back to the softer air of England.”

  Simon laughed. “No one can know the future, but it is very amusing that it is foretold so differently for me on each side of the border. My family sent me here because they believed I could not be content with the tame ways of Sussex. Now you tell me I will soon tire of the wild ways of Wales. I do not think so. I do not think I will ever wish to leave my lands, except for some small times to be with those I love.”

  “You are too young to know what you believe,” Rhiannon said sharply, as if she were trying to convince herself.

  “Ah, grandmother,” Simon teased, “your gray hair and wrinkles make me sure the wisdom of great age infuses the words you speak. How old are you, Rhiannon? Sixteen? Seventeen?”

  “I am one and twenty, and women are always older than men.” She paused, bit her lip, and said even more sharply, “And when did I so shame myself that I have descended from Lady Rhiannon to Rhiannon alone?”

  “I beg your pardon, my lady.” Simon bowed deeply and without mockery, but his eyes still twinkled with mischief. “No af
front was intended. You so enchanted me with your time-won knowledge of men that for a moment I lost my sense of propriety and spoke as a man to his loved one, without formality.”

  “You never had a grain of propriety to lose,” Rhiannon snapped, but the corners of her mouth turned upward. “Do you not know it is highly improper to ask a woman’s age? And do not bother to find another smooth reply. I am not your beloved—”

  “Yes, you are,” Simon interrupted. “You may refuse to love me, but you cannot stop me from loving you.”

  At which point, Rhiannon gave in and began to laugh again. She put out her hand. “Come, let us be friends. I would like to be the friend of a man who does not fear the voices in the winds around Dinas Emrys, and who has firmly decided he is in love with me after half an hour’s acquaintance.”

  But Simon would not take her hand. “I do not wish to be your friend,” he said seriously. “I want to be your husband. This is not the time or place for passionate declarations, so I speak lightly, but I have never said those words to any woman and I have—as you said—known many.”

  “In the names of Danu and Anu, if this is not a jest—why?”

  “I do not know,” Simon replied with perfect honesty. “I only know that I felt for you, while you were singing, and feel now, what I have never felt before.”

  Rhiannon took his hand and held it between hers. “Today, you feel; tomorrow, you will forget. It was the strangeness of my song and my dress, perhaps. Love comes and goes, but friendship endures.”

  “Both endure when they are true. It is an easy enough matter to prove. Let me attend you. If I weary of your company, I will soon drift away from it.”