Rhiannon

by Roberta Gellis

  “I see it too,” Joanna hissed furiously. “But the king will not call a levy. He will ask, instead, for scutage, and out of this he will pay his mercenaries.”

  “And they will have no land, no interest in this realm,” Alinor said. “They will do as the king orders without thought for what is best for the people.” Alinor’s voice was like a knell of doom. She had cared for the land and the people on it so long and so fiercely that she was like a tree with deep, wide-spreading roots buried in the soil of Roselynde.

  “In the long distance, only the king will have power,” Geoffrey pointed out bleakly. “Most will not see the end to which this will lead and will pay the scutage gladly. You know that the cost of service is always more than the scutage, although it does not offer the compensation of loot. But I am sure Winchester will find a way to restrict the loot a knight may take. Knight service will die because those who persist in keeping their men armed will be always the target of the king’s spite and attack. With the ending of knight service, our ability to resist the king’s will or even to defend ourselves against our neighbors will die also. If a wrong is done us, we will need to cry to the king to send his mercenaries to protect us.”

  There was a silence while everyone contemplated this horror. Rhiannon alone was not affected. She looked from face to face with puzzlement. Knight service was not really the foundation of power in Wales, although Llewelyn had incorporated some of its concepts into his rule. Armies were still generated on a blood or clan basis, and, to a certain extent, these armies were all mercenary. They expected to be maintained and rewarded directly by the leader who had called them, either with loot from the enemy or with treasure from the leader’s store.

  The word scutage—payment in money instead of time of fighting service—did not even have meaning to Rhiannon; such a practice did not yet exist in her country. She had listened to the conversation very closely, although she said nothing. The high emotional content of what was said was clear even if she could not understand the cause. One thing, however, she did understand, and everyone seemed to have overlooked this obvious point.

  “But,” Rhiannon’s voice was like a pure bell tone in the heavy silence, “you are all accounting a victory by the king’s mercenaries a sure thing. How is this possible? They could not defeat Pembroke last month, even with the assistance of some of the barons and when the earl was not willing to attack.”

  Simon was the first to laugh, and the reaction spread swiftly from one to another around the table. Rhiannon’s eyebrows rose, but Simon embraced her, crying, “Eneit, eneit, you are as wise as you are beautiful, and we are a gaggle of silly geese, sitting here afrighting ourselves by our own honking.”

  Geoffrey’s smile diminished. “The case is not so desperate as I made out,” he said, “but there is something to fear. Some twenty years ago Lord Llewelyn was defeated by our using his own tactics against him. King John ordered that all be burnt before and behind as we went. Each town and village was laid waste utterly, and the land and forest also. Winchester was close to John in those days. Perhaps he also remembers.”

  Now it was Rhiannon’s turn to grow rigid with fear. She had been less than five years old the summer of that bitter defeat, but she remembered it as a time of horror. Llewelyn had fled to Angharad’s Hall when all seemed hopeless. No army had followed him there, and they had not been attacked nor suffered directly. Nonetheless, for the first time in her happy life, Rhiannon had been surrounded by a pall of grief and bitterness and impotent rage. Sensitive as she was, she had never forgotten it.

  Simon put an arm around her. “That must not happen, and I think it will not. This time Richard must have his craw full of insult and treachery. I believe he will be ready to attack as well as defend. I am almost sure, also, that Prince Llewelyn will make alliance with Richard.”

  “You must warn him, Simon,” Rhiannon urged eagerly.

  “Oh, I will, dear heart,” Simon agreed, “but there is no hurry about it. For one thing, I am not sure your father needs telling. This may have been in his mind from the beginning. For another, the king cannot move against Richard until after October ninth, when the conference is set. Until then, he cannot be sure that Richard will not come in person to protest the failure to hold the conditions of the truce. Then he must send out his summons. Do not fret yourself, there will be time enough.”

  “Yes, and I think it very important that you engage the king’s friendship,” Geoffrey said.

  A look of strong distaste passed over Rhiannon’s face.

  “Do not blame Henry too much for this, my dear,” Alinor said. “He is easily led to unwise enthusiasms, I am afraid, but he is not evil. The blame really should rest on Winchester. He should know the men of this realm better.”

  “There I cannot agree with you,” Joanna remarked dryly. “I fear that Winchester knows the barons of England very well indeed, and has devised this incredible lunacy because he despairs of ever bringing them to agree on anything.”

  “My dearling Joanna,” Ian exclaimed, his expression changing from depression to surprise, “that is just what he said to me when I spoke to him in June—and I did not really listen! He is wrong, very wrong in what he is doing, but now I see he means well, not ill. It lay most heavily on my heart that a man I knew so long and respected should seem to change into a monster. He thinks that when the barons are powerless the realm will be at peace—yes! He said that also.”

  “And that is what he has convinced Henry to believe.” Geoffrey also looked relieved. “He may even be right,” Geoffrey added thoughtfully. “If there were no power in the land but the king’s, it might bring peace.”

  “Graves are also peaceful,” Adam growled, “but I have no particular wish to inhabit one.”

  Geoffrey smiled at this sardonic reminder. “Well, I agree to that, and Winchester must not be allowed to accomplish his purpose. But, Rhiannon, I assure you if we removed Winchester’s influence, Henry would soon lose interest in the bishop’s ideas. My cousin is not at all warlike at heart.”

  “No, he is not,” Ian said. “He is a man of strong affections, which is why Winchester has had so easy a conquest. He was one of Henry’s guardians when the king was a child. Partly owing to his close association with King John, he was not well liked and was pushed out as de Burgh gained ascendency. Naturally, when Henry began to resent de Burgh, he turned to Winchester.”

  “It will be worse soon,” Walter said. “I have heard that Winchester seeks control of Devizes. That is what I came to tell you all before I was drawn into the other matter. I fear that if Peter des Roches becomes de Burgh’s warder, de Burgh will die.”

  Geoffrey uttered an obscenity, which startled everyone because it was most unlike him to use such crudities. However, he made no direct comment on Walter’s news except a warning glance at him. Instead, he looked at Rhiannon.

  “We have not really strayed from the need to win Henry’s friendship. As Lady Alinor said, the king is easily led; as Ian said, he is a man of strong emotions; as Walter implied, he is spiteful. If you can gain his affection and esteem, Rhiannon, it may be that you can turn aside his spite from your father and point it in the right direction—toward Winchester.”

  “I see it,” Rhiannon sighed, “but I am the last person to be useful for such a purpose. Simon will tell you that I am not the softest-spoken woman in the world, nor the most tactful.”

  “Anyone who can deal with Math can deal with Henry,” Simon said, grinning. “Fix it in your mind that the king is a two-legged Math with more self-love and less common sense, and all will go well.”

  Rhiannon burst out laughing while Simon explained Math to the others. There was only the most halfhearted protest from Geoffrey and Ian, but Gilliane did not join the others in their smiles and laughing objections.

  “But Simon is perfectly right,” Gilliane said seriously. “Henry is just like a cat. I never thought of it before, but it is so. He loves to be praised. He enjoys being stroked—when it is convenient
for him. He loves to be kind—when it does not inconvenience him. He is quite clever about anything he desires and is deaf, dumb, and blind to anything he regards as unpleasant. And he can be quite vicious when he is displeased, even to those he loves.”

  Gilliane’s serious analysis drew another round of laughter, but it was of enormous help to Rhiannon when she met Henry the next afternoon. Since she did not feel the same repugnance over a broken truce as did the others, her understanding of the king and her fear of making a misstep with him were, respectively, enhanced and reduced. To her eyes, the suggestion Gilliane had made was confirmed by sight of Henry. There was something catlike in the way he lounged against the cushions of his chair—an inordinate love of physical comfort—and in the rather blank stare of his blue eyes, to which the drooping lid of one eye gave a measure of slyness.

  By the time Rhiannon reached his chair of state, the king was no longer lounging. A pool of silence had moved with her and her escorts—Ian to her right and Simon to her left—as they came up the long room toward Henry. She wore the black dress and the jeweled mesh to hold back her hair, which hung loose to her knees, and she walked the long passage between the staring courtiers with the grace of a doe and the proud bearing of a queen.

  “My lord king,” Ian said formally when they reached Henry and Rhiannon sank into a deep curtsy, “in accordance with your gracious permission, I make bold to present you to my son Simon’s betrothed wife, Rhiannon uerch Llewelyn.”

  “Goodness gracious,” Henry exclaimed, smiling broadly, “had I known what Llewelyn was hiding, I would have come seeking it myself. You are a most fortunate man, Simon. Oh, rise, do rise, Lady Rhiannon. No need to hold that silly pose. Forgive me. I was so astonished at your loveliness.”

  Rhiannon stood upright and smiled. It was utterly impossible not to do so. What might have been an offensive leer was the simplest expression of surprised friendliness. The voice also was warm, unaffected, open. Rhiannon suddenly became aware why, after all the harsh things were said and all the hard plans were made to thwart him, nearly everyone who knew him defended the king. There was great sweetness, great charm in him.

  Henry’s admiration was as innocent as it was sincere. Obviously he was a man who could enjoy beauty for its own sake without desiring to touch or possess it. Had she been as exquisite as the moon or the sun, Rhiannon knew she would also have been as untouchable in Henry’s mind.

  “Thank you, my lord,” she murmured. “My father assured me you would receive me kindly.”

  “Oh, did he?” Henry laughed. “Well, Lord Llewelyn knows I have a great admiration for beauty.”

  “So he does, my lord, and he sent to you two gifts, not of great worth, perhaps, but most curious.”

  With the words, Rhiannon handed over a broach for fastening a cloak, and a belt buckle, both of the same pattern. Each showed the lion and the lamb lying down together in peace. In terms of a gift from one ruler to another, the two pieces were of little value, there being no mass of gold or fine, large gems. But the work was very old, very cunningly wrought, the lion in gold, with a deeply carved curly mane and eyes of topaz, and the lamb of silver so delicately worked that one could almost swear the fleece was real.

  Henry’s eyes showed his appreciation of the beauty of the pieces. He handled the broach and buckle almost reverently. “I do not agree as to the little worth,” he said. “These are precious things. The skill that made them does not come often to a man’s hands. Two fine gifts, indeed.”

  “That is only one of the gifts,” Rhiannon said. “The other needs some time to deliver. It is a song.”

  “There is time now,” Henry replied instantly, with lively expectation. “Let us have the singer in at once.”

  “The singer is in, my lord.” Rhiannon smiled at him. “I need only my harp and, if you will give me leave to sit, a stool, for I must hold the harp in my lap.”

  She sang a song of Culhwch and Olwen, whose tale reached back into the mists of time when men drank the sea, ran on the tips of grass without bending it, and held their breaths for nine days and nine nights. It told of the geas Culhwch’s stepmother set upon him to marry Olwen, daughter of Ysbaddaden, Chief Giant, and of the feats of magic and mystery Culhwch and his companions performed to win her. There was grief and laughter in it and great heroism, but Rhiannon had chosen it because Culhwch, who was obviously Welsh, was accepted by King Arthur as his first cousin.

  Rhiannon had considered her repertory very carefully, and decided that Culhwch and Olwen was best. The song started with a rather aggressive passage between Arthur and Culhwch and ended in complete amity. Rhiannon thought this song best conveyed the ideas she wanted Henry to absorb.

  Whether her performance would eventually produce the desired effect, Rhiannon was not sure. The initial success was overwhelming. Henry was so moved that he rose from his chair to come down and kiss her, but that appreciation was completely emotional and technical. He had not really thought about the story or what it could mean, only about the beauty of the sound.

  As the afternoon wore away to evening, it became apparent that Rhiannon’s careful planning had been wasted. She probably could have sung Branwen, Daughter of Llyr, which had violent anti-English feeling, without producing a political effect in the king. This both enchanted and annoyed her, for the artist in Henry had totally supplanted the king. He did not think about the meaning of anything, nor even about the fact that Llewelyn’s daughter might well have business for her father in hand. All Henry could think of was Rhiannon’s art.

  He wanted to know everything; when and where she learned, where the songs came from, who had translated them into French from the Welsh. He listened intently, and her answers generated more questions. He examined her harp minutely and reverently, recognizing at once its great age and that it was a masterwork even finer than the broach and buckle that Llewelyn had sent him.

  The artist in Rhiannon responded enthusiastically, charmed with Henry’s delight, sincere interest, and manner. However, the part of her that was daughter of a Welsh prince, who had come to England with a purpose other than singing songs, was thoroughly annoyed. More than once, with more tact than she knew she had, Rhiannon tried to turn the talk to the meaning of Culhwch’s relationship with Arthur, to the forbearance King Arthur had shown his too-eager, too-quarrelsome cousin just because he was so much the stronger. As far as Rhiannon could tell, it all went right over Henry’s head. The king responded quite naturally, but he praised the beauty of the lines that described the lofty sentiments. There seemed to be no connection at all in his mind between himself and English Arthur, and Llewelyn, a Welsh Culhwch.

  When, almost by force, Henry was at last separated from Rhiannon to speak to more important people waiting for his attention, other listeners closed in on her. But Henry could not be kept away for long. He shook loose from his duty as soon as he saw Ian and Simon steering Rhiannon toward an exit, to ask how long a stay she would make. She opened her mouth to say it depended on whether or not he attacked Wales, but Ian was before her, smoothly regretting that this visit must be short, as she had been given no long leave from her father’s Court. Henry began to protest petulantly that Llewelyn had had her for years; why had she been hidden away?

  “I was not hidden away,” Rhiannon said, then laughed. “I only come to Court after the harvest is in and the flocks are in winter pasture. When the snows come, there is nothing for me to do in Angharad’s Hall, so I come to my father. Indeed, my lord, my father has not seen much more of me than you have—which is nothing—since early spring.”

  If that was not the precise truth this year, because of Rhiannon’s unusual visit to Aber in July, it was true in general. Henry was somewhat placated, although he continued to grumble that Llewelyn should allow such a priceless gem to be buried in the Welsh hills.

  “I would display you every day, like the best jewel in my crown,” Henry exclaimed.

  Suddenly Rhiannon became aware of how tense Simon had grown and of the
anxiety in Ian’s eyes. “But I love my hills,” she cried, shrinking back into Simon’s encircling arm. “And I am not so hard as a gem, my lord. I would soon wear out. The songs come out of the quiet days in the hills. Even Gwydyon could not always sing. He, too, returned to the hills to be renewed.” Rhiannon’s eyes were wide with fear.

  “I did not mean to frighten you,” Henry said, with unusual perceptiveness, “but I must hear you again. Surely you do not go so soon as to prohibit that.”

  “No, my lord.” It was Simon who replied. “Unless there is some urgent reason to go, we will follow the Court until October ninth, at least.”

  A black cloud passed over Henry’s face, and he bowed stiffly to Rhiannon and moved away.

  “Was that wise, Simon?” Ian murmured.

  “Yes, because he thinks now that we do not yet know or believe what is planned for Richard. I gave no promise. We may leave tomorrow if we choose.”

  Rhiannon shook her head. She had recovered from the momentary sense of claustrophobia that had nearly choked her when she saw what seemed a threat of imprisonment. “I must sing for him again,” she insisted, “and also promise to return to his Court in the future. Otherwise he will be bitterly angry and hurt, and what good my father hoped I could do would be turned all to evil.”

  But Simon was angry still. “Jewel in his crown,” he muttered, “you are none of his.”

  “Indeed I am not. He is an artist in his soul, but not a creator. He does not mean ill, only desires to draw into himself what he lacks. Yet, not being a creator, he cannot understand that to bind the art is to destroy it.”

  “Then perhaps it is not wise to tempt him?” Ian was uncertain. Would it be worse if Rhiannon left at once or sang again, as tacitly promised, and then openly refused to perform a third time? Henry had a horrible tendency to agree to something—like Rhiannon’s leaving—and then keep putting it off from one day to another until it never happened.