It was very easy for Simon to be positive on this subject. His mother had never violated her vows, nor had his sister Joanna, nor his sister-by-marriage, Gilliane—and the latter two were both superbly beautiful and he knew had been importuned by men in high places. He did not connect the behavior of the wives with the very obvious devotion of the husbands, although he knew that Ian, Geoffrey, and Adam had never taken a mistress and that the first two did not even use whores when they were separated from their wives. Probably, Simon thought, he would be like Adam, who relieved his sexual urge as he would relieve his bladder or bowels, but surely Rhiannon did not mean that—or did she?
Rhiannon was strange and did not think like other people. Still, he could not understand her doubts. To his mind, “everyone knew” that the men of Roselynde did not look elsewhere once their affections were fixed. Having achieved the goal of nearly fifteen years of longing, Ian truly had no desire for any woman other than Alinor. Geoffrey had been soured very young by a licentious court; he was no womanizer by nature and was too fascinated by the bright, exquisite “sun” of his life to think of deceiving Joanna. Adam loved his soft, seemingly submissive Gilliane, but he was no fool; he was aware of how often things went the way Gilliane desired rather than the way he had planned. He trusted his wife—yes—but he had no desire at all to give her a reason not to trust him. He had not forgotten that she had pushed her second husband out of a high window of Tarring keep.
What had begun quite naturally had hardened over the years into a fierce pride, partly as a result of ribald comment by other men and regretful admiration of women. The men of Roselynde might play in their youth, but once they chose a woman they were as faithful to the vows of matrimony as they were to their oaths of homage. Simon had been born into this atmosphere and had grown to manhood in it. He could not understand Rhiannon’s doubts, and he wished he could talk over the problem with someone.
As he entered Llewelyn’s presence, Simon wondered whether the prince could help him, but he remembered that Rhiannon’s father had told him from the beginning that he did not understand his daughter. Simon hesitated and smiled. Rhiannon’s father might not understand her, but her mother… What a fool he had been. Perhaps he could find out from Kicva what was wrong.
“You bear good tidings?”
Llewelyn’s voice snapped Simon back to the present, and he came forward quickly and bowed. “They are not ill, but whether good or not, I cannot say. I hope you will be better able to interpret them than I, my lord.”
“I hope so too,” Llewelyn said dryly. “It is not every day that a starving army, thrown back with heavy losses from an assault and plainly unable to maintain the siege or win the keep by attack, suddenly walks into it without a blow struck.”
Simon grinned. “Put like that, it does sound odd, but there was reason in it.” He then explained fully the terms of the truce, ending, “Do you think the king will keep his word, my lord?”
For some time Llewelyn did not answer. His bright, dark eyes stared at nothing. Then he sighed. “I know men, and in a long life I have learned to judge them well, but I cannot answer your question, Simon. No matter what his years, Henry is not a man; he is still a child. Children have bright dreams of what they will be. For most, these dreams are limited by what they are. A serf child does not dream of being a king—but he can dream of being a man-at-arms or a freeholder of his land. A woman cannot dream of being a brave knight, but she can desire many children, or none, or to rule her husband by stealth or by beauty. But to a child-king’s dreams, there are no limits.”
“Do you mean that Henry has always desired to grind his barons into dust?”
“Not at all.” Llewelyn looked sidelong at Simon and smiled a secret smile. “That is a baron’s way of putting it,” he said gently. “A king might call it being able to govern without being torn ten ways by different parties with different interests. However, if that were true, I could guess very well what Henry would do. No, that is not his dream.”
“Then what does he desire?”
“A different wish each day or week or month. That is what I was starting to say to you. For most children one dream becomes fixed as the child grows into a man or a woman. It may sprout odd shoots, but those shoots are fixed to the first stem of the dream. Henry, alas, has never grown into a man. Sometimes he dreams of being a builder of beautiful things; sometimes he dreams of being a great conqueror and of winning back all that his father lost and more; sometimes he dreams of being as powerful as God, sometimes of being as merciful as Mary, good as a saint, bountiful and magnanimous so that all will love him.”
Simon cocked his head. “My father always said that—I mean, that Henry desired to be loved because his mother and father did not love him.”
“Ian is too soft to judge men well, but in this case he may be right. He may, indeed, be right. Nonetheless, it does not help, for at one moment Henry seeks to enforce love through power and the next seeks to win it by generosity, and—to the misfortune and confusion of his subjects—it is mostly impossible to guess which side of him will show.” He shook his head. “We can only wait and see. At least his next move will not fall upon me. There will be time to prepare. So what will you do now, Simon?”
“With your leave, my lord, I will go to Angharad’s Hall,” Simon said eagerly.
Llewelyn smiled. “Still pursuing? You have not grown weary?”
“I will never grow weary. If I do not succeed, I will take no wife. There is no need. I have nephews enough to serve as heirs, and they are all good boys.”
“You are set on this, Simon? Really set?” Llewelyn’s smile was gone.
“I will give oath to you—in blood if you will.”
“Hmmm. I had better write to your father, then, and to Kicva also. Do you wish to know with what I will dower her?”
“It is not needful, my lord. I am not such a fool as to say I do not care. I do care. But you know what lands I have, and I am sure it will be in your interest as well as in mine to dower Rhiannon with what will march well. I will leave it to your wisdom and your generosity, my lord.”
Llewelyn burst out laughing. “Very clever. I especially like the inclusion of the words wisdom and generosity. They should certainly encourage me in the direction you want me to lean.”
Simon laughed too. “But my lord, what do you want me to say? You have always been generous to me, and even your enemies say you are wise. I cannot help it if I sound like an idle flatterer. Would it be better to tell a lie rudely or be sullenly silent?”
“Go,” Llewelyn said with raised brows. “You are incorrigible! Go to bed and then, if you will, to Angharad’s Hall. But if you do not remain there for any reason, come back to me. There will be strong stirrings in Henry’s court one way or another, and I might need ears or a mouth there.”
Chapter Fourteen
Although it was late when Simon went to bed, he was among the first to stir in the morning. His mood was happy. From Llewelyn’s last words, he thought that the war would be renewed—if not immediately, then soon enough. That provided a prospect of amusement and profit. Far more important, Llewelyn had, at last, recognized that his intention to have Rhiannon was fixed and serious—and would most likely succeed. Under no other circumstances would the prince write a proposal of marriage to Ian.
Simon could hardly believe his good fortune. Although Llewelyn had said more than once that he favored the match, Simon had always believed he was half jesting and did not really believe Simon had much chance to win his wayward daughter. Even a natural-born daughter of a prince could look much higher for marriage than a younger son, no matter how rich and well connected his parents. But Simon did not miss the advantages for Llewelyn either. Rhiannon was obviously a special case. He thought of her married to a man who held a great court—and burst out laughing so that he was cursed sleepily by those around him who were not prepared to wake so early.
Just think of the wife of a man like Richard of Cornwall or one of the ducs o
f France running barefoot after game in the fields and woods with her hair all unbound, dressed only in a rough, dirt- and grass-stained kirtle. And Rhiannon was not one who could be forced into a pattern of behavior because it was considered correct. She would run away or might even kill a man who tried to enforce his will on her. In addition, there was the question of dower. For a great marriage, Llewelyn would need to find a large sum of money or a very substantial amount of property. Without being told, Simon knew that Llewelyn was not willing to do that. Money was always a problem, for Wales was dreadfully poor. Any of the great Marcher lords might be happy to take land, but Llewelyn was completely unwilling to increase the influence of any man whose primary loyalty must be to the King of England. Doubtless he knew that Simon would inherit his father’s northern properties when Ian died, but with both a wife and the major portion of his lands in Wales—and his heart there also—Llewelyn had reason to trust that Simon would stand with the Welsh in any conflict of loyalties.
All the better, Simon thought, as he kicked Siorl awake and told him to get the men up. He would get a much smaller dower than a greater man, but Llewelyn would be aware of what he had saved and would be glad over the giving. But best of all was the fact that Llewelyn said he would write to Kicva. To tell Rhiannon he had made a serious proposal for her marriage would probably do nothing but enrage her. On the other hand, if Kicva approved, Simon knew he would have a strong ally, and one who could deal with Rhiannon.
The letter was waiting for him when he went to take his leave of his lord, and Simon flushed a little when he took it. It was large and official-looking, sealed with the seal of Gwynedd. It must be a formal proposal, he thought. He thanked Llewelyn passionately, and his lord looked at him with considerable amusement, but he only gave him leave to go without extraneous comment.
They went as far as Powys castle that night and slept soft and dry, for there was peace—at that moment—between its lord and Prince Llewelyn. The next day, Simon sent Siorl with most of the men to Krogen. Echtor and four others continued north and west with him. They camped on the shore of Llyn Tegid that night and then crept over the mountains, mostly leading their horses rather than riding them, to arrive at Angharad’s Hall in time for dinner. Kicva did not seem surprised to see them, and Simon guessed they had been watched and their progress reported for many miles.
For the first time since he left Rhiannon at Aber, Simon’s confidence was shaken. He had expected her to drop out of the hills any time since noon of that day, but she had not. And now she was not even present to greet him in her mother’s house, where she had told him he would be welcome. However, his sinking heart was lifted by Kicva’s smile.
“I have a letter for you from Prince Llewelyn,” Simon said after greeting her, but his eyes asked, Where is Rhiannon?
Kicva took the letter and looked at the broad seal, which marked it as an official communication rather than as a friendly note. Then her eyes flicked to her loom, where a heavy roll of fabric lay beneath the portion on which she was still working. It was good, she thought, that she had not hesitated in her task. And then she had mercy on poor Simon, who was shifting from foot to foot with the impatience of a small child who cannot bear to wait but is afraid to speak.
“Out on the hill,” she said, answering the question in his eyes, and began to ask whether Simon wished to eat before he went—but he was gone, and she laughed at her own silliness and opened Llewelyn’s letter.
In spite of the official-looking seal, it was friendly in tone rather than imperative, and it contained some matters of considerable interest aside from the message Kicva had expected. Llewelyn had found over many years of difficult dealings with King John that the best unofficial ambassador is a woman. First of all, nine out of ten men dealing with a woman are at a grave disadvantage by thinking her stupid and of no account by nature. Then, when pleading is necessary, a woman would go down on her knees and rain tears without shame. Provided the woman was clever, she could obtain more information more quickly than most men—she would not be suspect; a man would. And most men, particularly King Henry, who had chivalric dreams, found it much harder to imprison, punish, or threaten a woman, even if she were taken as a hostage.
For many years Llewelyn had thus employed his wife Joan. Now that was impossible. What he had proposed to Kicva was to use Rhiannon instead. At first sight the idea was ludicrous. Rhiannon had no knowledge of a complex, corrupt Court like that of Henry of England and had no connection with it. Joan had been King John’s daughter and Henry’s half sister, but Rhiannon was no relative at all. Nor was she famous for tact or likely to become a favorite with the women of the Court.
However, when taken in context with the proposal of marriage to Simon, the idea suddenly began to look possible, even promising. Llewelyn gave Kicva a brief summary of Simon’s family. Kicva knew Ian; in fact she had considered him as a father for her child before she fixed on Llewelyn. It seemed as if the women would be the most likely of any to accept Rhiannon. And, for Llewelyn’s purposes, the intimacy of Lord Geoffrey with the king was almost as valuable as Joan’s blood tie.
Kicva smiled to herself when she thought how clever Llewelyn was, for the thing worked both ways. To couple the marriage with a most necessary duty to her father and to Gwynedd was to provide a perfect excuse for Rhiannon to back down from her refusal to marry. This would save her pride and make Simon very happy also. It was typical of Llewelyn and the key to his success as a ruler that he so often found a way to benefit his subjects—at no cost to himself—while they performed duties necessary to his purposes. Having read the letter a second time, Kicva settled before her loom while she considered how best to present the facts to Rhiannon. She worked quickly while she thought; there would not be many days to finish this piece of work before it was needed.
Hours earlier when the first message announcing the arrival of visitors was called across the valleys from hilltop to hilltop, Rhiannon knew it was Simon coming. Of course, each of the three warnings of a visitor over the past two weeks had, in her opinion, heralded Simon, but this time she was certain again. For a short time she sat still, fighting the urge to run out and meet him. It would be horrible, she knew, to meet under the eyes of all the people in the hall or the courtyards. Even in the garden, maids and men would peep, murmuring to each other that Lady Rhiannon had at last chosen a man. But it would be little better to meet surrounded by Simon’s men, unable to touch him or ask the questions she wanted to ask.
Her mother was not looking at her. She had begun to make ready for the guests, telling the servants where to place the bed that would be set up for Simon’s use and to which stable to take his horses, issuing instructions to the cooks for an extra dish or two to add festivity to the meal. There was nothing in Kicva’s voice, expression, or manner to show that she was even aware of her daughter. Nonetheless, Rhiannon felt the mingled amusement and sympathy. She controlled a desire to scream. It never paid to scream at Kicva, who merely looked at one with laughter or scorn in her quiet eyes.
Math stalked into the hall, his tail twitching from side to side. He crossed to where Rhiannon sat and looked up at her. There was no sympathy in his eyes and he was not offering the comfort of his roaring purr. Restraining a desire to kick Math, who was not laughing at her, Rhiannon rose to her feet with all the dignity she could muster and did what Math and Kicva—and all the others in the hall—were waiting for her to do.
“If you want me,” she said to the open space of the hall, “I will be on the hill.”
Simon did not need to ask Kicva which hill and eagerness lent wings to his feet. Had Rhiannon intended to hide from him, she would have fled into the forest. This particular hill was one of her favorite spots when she wanted to be away from the bustle of the hall and yet still remain close by. It was some half-mile from the house up a steep rise where some fall of land or ancient excavation had created a cuplike hollow, bare of trees and facing south. The depression caught and held the heat of the sun so that from
early spring until the deep snow fell it was warm enough to sit there and read or dream.
Never having ridden to the place when he had been at Angharad’s Hall in the spring, Simon did not think of mounting Ymlladd. However, when he had gone to the hill with Rhiannon, he had not been burdened with mail and a heavy cloak. He was gasping for breath as he came up the final rise, but the sight of Rhiannon standing tensely waiting gave him one more burst of strength and he leapt the last ledge and ran toward her.
Rhiannon ran also. They met with such eagerness and so little caution that a most unromantic ooff was wrenched from both as they collided. They clung together, off balance, laughing.
“Are you whole, Simon?” Rhiannon asked when she could speak. “Are you safe and whole?”
“Yes, of course. How silly you are. You see me in excellent health.”
“Then why are you breathing so hard?”
“If I had a speck of common sense, I would say that your beauty had rendered me breathless, but I am incurably truthful. I must confess it is because mail was not designed to be worn while climbing hills.”
“Truthful!” Rhiannon exclaimed, laughing heartily. “You are a monster of deceit. You only tell the truth when you will profit by it.”
“That is a gross injustice,” Simon complained, dropping his cloak to the ground and fumbling at the lacing of his hood.
“Very well,” Rhiannon conceded, pushing away his hands and loosening the ties for him. “Perhaps you also tell the truth when you know a lie would be easily found out.” Before he could protest again, she asked. “Shall I take the hauberk off altogether?”
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