Rhiannon

by Roberta Gellis

  “No, but it works quite well with a thistle,” Simon said cheerfully. “When the thistle is heated, it unfolds, you know, and one can grasp its soft heart without being stung.”

  “I mark that match a draw and call a brief truce,” Ian stated, holding his hand like a referee judging a bout of fencing. “Now let us go in before a new engagement begins. Your mother will be delighted, Simon. I could tell her nothing of Lady Rhiannon, only having seen her as a child. Alinor has been imagining that you took advantage of some poor, shy, innocent maiden who normally hid herself in the dark corners of the women’s hall.”

  He led them in, retaining his grip on Rhiannon as if he realized that the clan gathered in Roselynde would be somewhat overwhelming to a stranger. As he introduced her around, her eyes grew larger and larger. Although she teased Simon about his lack of modesty, she was well aware that he was not nearly as vain as he might have been, considering his really astonishing beauty of face and form. Now she knew why.

  Rhiannon was called a beauty, but here she felt like an ugly duckling. Alinor was old; nonetheless the bones of her face showed beautiful still, and her eyes were like Simon’s, filled with dancing lights of gold and green. Gilliane, Joanna, and Sybelle were breathtaking, the first darkly glowing, the second a blazing flame, and the youngest golden and perfect as the sun.

  Of the men, Simon was perhaps now the most beautiful because of Ian’s age, but Adam was not far behind. He was more massive than Simon, like a great wall, except that he emanated the same feeling of leashed power. He was as handsome as Alinor must have been beautiful when she was young, and he, too, had her eyes. Rhiannon’s gaze rested on Geoffrey, and she felt a marked sense of kinship. He was the only one who was not a model for some god. His lips twitched with amusement and understanding, and his eyes glowed golden.

  “Do not let it trouble you,” he murmured in her ear. “They do not even realize what they do to people all together like this.”

  But it was not only the beauty, it was the warmth of welcome that troubled Rhiannon. They were really overjoyed; she was thanked again and again for making so long and hard a journey so that her betrothed’s parents could come to know her. Color rose in Rhiannon’s face. She had expected to be greeted politely, perhaps even with a slightly veiled hostility or with tepid approval. This open, eager, warm-hearted welcome was very pleasant but somewhat disconcerting. It made her feel guilty.

  “But it was not for that I came,” she blurted out. “My father wishes me to meet King Henry and, if there should be a threat to Gwynedd, to try to divert him from that purpose.”

  There was a moment of startled silence, broken by Simon’s laughter. “She is not yet perfected in diplomacy,” he chortled.

  Rhiannon turned on him. “One is not double-tongued with those who offer love,” she snapped. “I can say sweet enough words when there is falseness in the air.”

  “Thank you, my love,” Simon rejoined with dancing eyes. “Now do I better understand why you lash me with your tongue.”

  “If she does it for love, you are more fortunate than you deserve,” Alinor said, pleased by Rhiannon’s honesty and totally delighted by Simon’s obvious adoration. “Your father would never lay the rod on you as you merited. Perhaps Lady Rhiannon will tame you before you destroy yourself.”

  “Mama, if Papa had whipped me as I deserved, I would be dead,” Simon teased.

  “Certainly,” Alinor agreed cordially, “but for once you seem to have done something right. Come, Lady Rhiannon, sit down beside me and explain what it is Lord Llewelyn fears.”

  “You do not need to call me ‘lady’. Rhiannon alone is enough, Lady Alinor,” Rhiannon said, coming forward and sitting on a stool hastily vacated by Joanna’s youngest daughter.

  She was immediately more comfortable because of Alinor’s calm acceptance of and interest in what she had exposed. Beginning to explain, she was interrupted by eager questions. Some she answered, some she looked to Simon to answer. One at least, was unanswerable.

  “So you do not know whether Llewelyn really has reason to believe that Henry intends to make peace with Pembroke, or is only blocking every mousehole in his usual way,” Geoffrey said.

  “I think it must be the latter,” Rhiannon replied. “Since the Earl of Chester died, he has no source really close to the king except Lord Ian.”

  “I agree,” Simon said. “It was more likely that he just saw a way to solve several problems at once.”

  As he went on to explain how he had reasoned out Llewellyn’s intentions, Rhiannon realized she had been accepted, absorbed—just as simply as that. She was now a part of this family. Simon was presently the focus of questions and attention, and there was time to watch the interactions. It was fascinating to her that the women were as interested and as involved in the discussion as the men. It was very different from her father’s Court. Lady Joan had been included in the political talk when relations with England were concerned, but that was an exception.

  Of course, Rhiannon admitted to herself, she had never tried to be included. She had never had any interest in affairs of state, aside from discovering whether there would be any danger to Angharad’s Hall. She wondered what her father’s reaction would have been had she wished to be involved. But it did not matter. Rhiannon knew that her interest would fade again when the matter did not concern her directly. There was a more important aspect to it, however. These women who spoke and listened so eagerly might not run wild on the hills, but they were also free. It was in their voices and the bearing of their bodies and in the bright intelligence in their eyes. Then she saw the look Gilliane turned on her husband, and Rhiannon’s throat tightened. They were not free, these women; they were enslaved as only a woman who had given her heart can be enslaved.

  Adam had growled that it was a mistake to let the matter hang unsettled. “It is not enough that peace should be made between Pembroke and the king unless it is also made clear that Henry will no longer rule by decree. It would be better to continue the war, and I will say so and offer my support to Pembroke rather than see Henry discard Magna Carta.”

  Rhiannon saw terror flash in Gilliane’s dark eyes, but she lowered them to a small piece of work in her lap and her voice was clear, sweet, and steady. “But Adam, there are better ways to make a man see reason than by beating him to death. From what Papa Ian has told us, it is Winchester who is at the root of the trouble. If Henry can be convinced that Peter des Roches is leading him wrongly, he will mend his ways without adding to the bitterness between him and his barons.”

  “It took near twenty years to prove to him that de Burgh was wrong,” Adam remarked impatiently. “I do not care to contemplate twenty years of Winchester’s rule.”

  “That is not fair,” Geoffrey pointed out. “I felt as most others did, that de Burgh had grown too mighty and that he dropped too much into his own purse. But mostly his rule was wise, and he certainly never bade the king cast aside the advice of his council.”

  “He worked in other ways,” Alinor commented sardonically.

  “Henry was furious with Winchester over the debacle at Usk,” Joanna said thoughtfully. “But the bishop may have talked the king around already. It is unfortunate that Rhiannon and Simon were not here sooner.”

  “How could they have come sooner?” Ian protested, leaning forward to pat Rhiannon’s shoulder protectively. “Simon needed to go to Llewelyn first. Then, it is slow traveling through the hills of Wales.”

  “I am not blaming Rhiannon, Ian,” Joanna assured him, smiling. “It was the same as if I said, that is too bad it is raining. But it is too bad. If we could have presented her sooner, she could have said this and that to remind Henry that Winchester led him wrong in Wales.”

  “Wait, now,” Simon said. “I do not mind being a cat’s paw myself in a good cause, but I do not think I like the idea of Rhiannon incurring Henry’s wrath—and I do not think that was what Prince Llewelyn intended.”

  “Nor is it what Joanna intended either
.” Gilliane’s silken, soothing voice somehow smothered Joanna’s indignant retort. “To the contrary, Rhiannon’s theme must have been of Llewelyn’s regard for Henry—they are, after all, related by marriage—and of his regret that bad management and bad advice had caused the king’s discomfiture. She could have said, with perfect truth, that foreign mercenaries are useless in Wales. It was Winchester who proposed the use of mercenaries, was it not, Adam?”

  “Yes, it was.” Adam’s bright eyes fixed on Rhiannon.

  “Yes, and I could say—also with perfect truth—that my father even dangled me as bait to keep the young bucks at Court and prevent them from raiding. Only, of course, once Henry crossed onto Welsh lands, nothing would hold them back.”

  Alinor tsked with irritation. “You could have indeed, but it is too late. Winchester has had ten days and more to explain his failure and blame it elsewhere.”

  “Yes,” Geoffrey sighed, “and I fear that Llewelyn is not so far off in his guesses as I would like. If the truce with Pembroke is allowed to stand, blame must be fixed elsewhere. Still, all is not lost, and here, too, Llewelyn has seen most clearly. A girl like Rhiannon, speaking gently, is the most likely to make Winchester’s advice less palatable if he tries to rouse Henry against the Welsh.”

  “There will be no trouble presenting her to the king, but she must be able to catch and hold his attention also,” Joanna pointed out.

  “She can do that,” Simon said eagerly, “and just in the right way so that Henry will be often reminded she is Welsh but with no ill flavor. Eneit, where is your harp?”

  “I packed it,” Rhiannon assured him, “but where it is now I have no idea. The servants took the baggage in, I suppose—”

  She broke off as Alinor rose to her feet with an exclamation. “Poor child,” she went on, “you must think us monsters. We have not offered you even a cup of wine or a chance to take off those dusty clothes. You must forgive us. We are all so deep in this problem that we can think of nothing else. Come above with me, and we will find your clothing and anything else you want.” Alinor gestured, and Joanna and Gilliane, who had also started to rise, sat back. Mama wishes to speak to Rhiannon alone, each thought.

  In her concentration on the people she had met, Rhiannon had paid scant attention to her surroundings. It was only when she was led into the chamber that had been Joanna’s, and now was Sybelle’s, that she really saw the luxury with which those in Roselynde surrounded themselves. There was a rich carpet on the floor, tapestries kept the damp of the walls from invading the room, and beside the hearth stood chairs with backs and arms rather than stools or benches; what was more, every chair was richly cushioned. There were wall holders for torches, but the walls and tapestries near them were free of soot. Torches had not been used in a long time. The many-branched candle holders of intricate design showed that a better, cleaner kind of lighting was used here, regardless of the cost of candles.

  “You will share with Sybelle—if you wish,” Alinor said. She read the startled expression on Rhiannon’s face and one question was answered. She had expected to sleep with Simon. Alinor smiled. “No one will stop you from walking down the stairs, my dear, but Simon is not welcome in the women’s quarters. All I can spare for him is a small wall chamber while Adam and Geoffrey are with us. It will be more comfortable for you to dress and keep your clothing here. There is no need for you to be troubled,” she went on in response to Rhiannon’s expression. “I wished you to have a choice, but I understand that customs are different. And even in England, a betrothal—”

  “You are so kind, madam,” Rhiannon interrupted hastily. “It will be terrible to distress you all, but—but Simon and I may never marry.”

  “Do you mean that Simon—”

  “Not Simon,” Rhiannon said. “It is not Simon who is reluctant. It is I.”

  Rhiannon did not notice that Alinor had stopped speaking before she was interrupted. She had realized before Rhiannon said it that, if there was an impediment to the marriage, it was not of Simon’s making. Although it was nearly inconceivable to Alinor that any woman would not leap at a chance to be Simon’s wife, in this case it was true. Rhiannon did not wish to marry Simon. But that was ridiculous. She was already sharing Simon’s bed; their fencing with words made it plain that they knew each other well and were companionable; both sets of parents agreed it was a good match. There were no impediments at all. What ailed the girl, then?

  “Why?” Alinor asked flatly. She could be devious when necessary, but this, she judged, was neither the time, the place, nor the person.

  “Because I do not believe him capable of being faithful, and I am not a woman who can share a man.”

  “Neither am I,” Alinor agreed, smiling slightly as she remembered the months of misery she had inflicted upon herself and her husband only because she thought he carried a dream of another woman in his heart.

  “Then why should I marry?” Rhiannon asked heatedly. “He may wander as he pleases, but I will be constrained to keep my faith. I do not need his lands, nor his protection, nor the dower my father offers.”

  “You are fortunate in that,” Alinor said, realizing that the girl must have lands of her own. “From whom do your lands come?” Alinor asked. Simon might have done even better by this marriage than they had thought, and they had been well satisfied with Llewelyn’s offer alone.

  “From whom? Who knows?” Rhiannon replied. “Perhaps they were gifted to my grandfather Gwydyon, or my grandmother Angharad, or they may have been his or hers by long descent. All I know is that there is Angharad’s Hall and the flocks and servants and hunting rights. They are Kicva’s now and will be mine.”

  Alinor did not like such a casual attitude toward property. Every foot of land that belonged to her was deeded and affirmed since the first patch had come to her remote ancestor when William the Bastard conquered England. However, she had learned through Ian’s dealings with his Welsh lands that customs differed. Where little was under cultivation and population was low, ownership was less crucial. However, if Rhiannon’s mother had the right to hunting and grazing, that was tantamount to ownership. She was also aware that neither Simon nor Rhiannon had her sense of possession. Still, land mattered, and the children would be well found between what Simon had and what Rhiannon would bring.

  Although she and Ian had not thought of it, this was clearly the only marriage possible for Simon. They had offered enough English heiresses to him, God knew, and he had set his jaw and said he would never marry. In fact, despite their pleasure in Llewelyn’s proposal, both had been a trifle hurt that their son was more obedient to his overlord than to them. Alinor had understood, as soon as she saw Ian come into the hall with one arm around Rhiannon and his face glowing with happiness, that the girl was Simon’s choice and had not been forced on him. Now she barely restrained laughter. Simon certainly would get what he deserved, good properties and a woman who would never really surrender, so that all his life he would need to pursue her.

  “Different lands, different customs,” Alinor said, referring to Rhiannon’s description of Kicva’s ownership of her property, “and customs change with time also. My dear, we have enough to worry about in considering what foolishness Winchester may lead the king to do. Your father and my husband are agreed on the marriage. Let matters stand thus until we have time and peace to study private troubles more closely.”

  “I am very willing for that,” Rhiannon replied with a sigh of relief.

  She had feared that Simon’s mother would be angry, would accuse her of using Simon to further her father’s political purposes. Nonetheless, she could not bear to be so warmly welcomed on false pretenses. Now that she had told all the truth, she had the right to enjoy the interest and excitement offered by contact with the family of Roselynde keep.

  It was all new and different. At Angharad’s Hall, she and Kicva were usually in basic agreement. Even when she was opposed and angry, all the anger was her own. Most of the time, though, they were only two,
and it was quiet talk that took place there. Rhiannon was also familiar with the crowd, color, and movement, the quick give-and-take of her father’s Court. However, there was no real unity at Llewelyn’s Court. One could feel, even among friends, the alert desire for advantage, the seeking for personal gain. In Roselynde, however, Rhiannon sensed the rapport she had with Kicva allied with the differences that provided the stimulation in Llewelyn’s Court. Quarrels there might be in Roselynde, loud and furious, but the purpose of the quarrel would always be to help, not to hurt or to profit.

  Rhiannon was prepared for more searching questions, but all Alinor asked was whether she had brought Court dress. There was no offense implied. A girl coming to visit her betrothed’s family would bring fine clothes but not necessarily clothing sumptuous enough for Court. Then Alinor remembered that Llewelyn’s purpose had been to send Rhiannon to Court, and she began to apologize, but Rhiannon shook her head.

  “Other lands, other customs,” she said, smiling. “I have Court dress, but whether it is fitting you must judge.”

  She laid out the garments while Alinor stepped out of the chamber to see why the maids were so slow about bringing the bath she had ordered. When she returned, Alinor’s eyes opened wide in surprise.

  “It is not in your style, I know,” Rhiannon said, “but it is my purpose to catch the eye of the king. If you think it will give cause for mockery rather than attention, however, I have this.” She displayed the cloth of birds. “Perhaps a gown can be made for me in time.”

  Alinor gasped. “Where had you this?” she asked in awe.

  “It is of my mother’s weaving. The birds are my sign. I am named after a princess in an old Welsh tale—Rhiannon of the Birds.”

  “This was no quick work,” Alinor said, looking into Rhiannon’s eyes.