That “even”, implying as it did that de Burgh was less guilty than a criminal, grated on Henry. Unwisely, he exploded, saying that offending the king was a crime worse than murder. Robert of Salisbury, in turn, drew himself up and told Henry plainly, very plainly, that a man’s soul belonged to God, whereas the pride of a king belonged to himself—and was a sin and an offense to God and might need humbling. When Henry became nearly incoherent with rage, the bishop withdrew, but not for long. His manner made it plain enough that this was only the first round and he felt he had won it.
Henry would have been glad to flee again, hoping to wear out the older, frailer man, but he could not. The conference at which Winchester’s next move was to be made was only two days away. A hasty message was sent to Peter des Roches, but he was already on his way. Alinor and Ian and Geoffrey and Joanna arrived very nearly on Winchester’s heels. Adam and Gilliane had taken all the children, except Sybelle, and had gone to see to the provisioning and sealing of all the vast properties.
The king would get nothing from the men and women of the Roselynde blood. They would not rebel, but even Ian felt that Geoffrey’s surety to Pembroke was a bond on all of them. If, in mercy, Richard did not call on Geoffrey to help him, the family must at the least refrain from giving any support to his enemy. It was not likely that the king would attack so powerful a clan when he already had one war on his hands, but others might use the family’s passive resistance as an excuse to nibble at their rich holdings.
One personal problem was generated by the arrival of the family. Ian and Alinor would expect Simon and Rhiannon to share a bed as they had at Oxford. Neither of them was willing to do this, but neither was willing to explain why. By unspoken mutual consent a quarrel about nothing was generated, which ended with Simon complaining bitterly that Rhiannon changed her mind about everything just to spite him. This led Ian to take his son to task for his maladroitness, saying he had never known Simon to be so clumsy in the handling of a woman. Whereupon Simon, with a single flickering glance at Rhiannon, which left Alinor—who was the only one who noticed—mute with surprise, took the excuse to remove himself to Geoffrey’s house some half a mile down the road.
Simon might have suffered from his half sister’s tongue had not his mother bade her daughter hold it. Alinor did not understand what was going on, but she had seen enough to tell her that Simon was not at fault. There was something wrong between the pair; Rhiannon was clearly oppressed and nervous, but for once in his life her self-centered son was sacrificing himself to another’s need. Age had increased Alinor’s patience—at least a little—and for once she decided not to meddle but to let nature take its course.
The course, however, was dreadfully painful for Rhiannon. She had said she would not marry Simon, yet in his family she had found the only women, aside from her mother, who were willing to accept her and be her friends. They did not fear her independence, and if they found her strange, that was only another attraction to their minds. She loved them all—men and women—and the more she loved them, the more some unnamable terror gripped her.
In Oxford Rhiannon had spent most of her time with the older women, but Alinor had realized that Rhiannon was not happy visiting and gossiping. Moreover, she knew that the wider society of London would only provide more jealous women to tell tales of Simon. Thus in London it was Sybelle who kept Rhiannon company. They soon found a common ground in their interest in the art of healing. Hours were spent in the carefully tended gardens, discussing the herbs and exchanging recipes for febrifuges and strengthening draughts, for pesticides and poisons. Sybelle knew the science of the cultivated herbs best, but Rhiannon knew more of the flora that grew wild in the forest, how to cull the mandrake so that its cry when torn from the earth would not drive one mad, and of those shy plants that grew only on the mossy banks of slowly trickling, deep-shaded brooks.
Less certainly, but with increasing confidence, they also exchanged views concerning men and marriage. Sybelle was much the younger in years but, because of her upbringing, was by far the more experienced and knowing on these subjects. As the putative chatelaine of the great lands of Roselynde, she needed to be able to hold her own against any man. Even though she would be protected by an adamantine marriage contract plus her brothers and other male relations who would take up arms in her defense if it was necessary, that would be a very undesirable way to solve differences of opinion with her husband.
Sybelle was mostly concerned with her own doubts about the wisdom of taking Walter de Clare in marriage. She was greatly attracted to him, more than to any other man she knew, and her father favored him because of the disposition of his estates. However, Sybelle was afraid that the passion and strength of Walter’s nature, which attracted her so much, would be the cause of trouble between them.
While she was talking of Walter, Simon was continually mentioned in comparison and contrast. Sybelle knew Simon inside out, but the depth of her love by no means made her blind. Her innocent assumption that Rhiannon knew Simon as well as she did led her to speak with greater freedom than she might have in other circumstances. That freedom convinced Rhiannon that what she heard was no special pleading on Simon’s behalf. Yet in all the talk, Sybelle never once mentioned any fear that her husband’s affections would stray. Rhiannon finally raised the point herself and her question was greeted by an astonished lift of Sybelle’s brows.
“Our men do not do such things,” she said distastefully, and then, seeing that Rhiannon was embarrassed, began to laugh. “Oh, please do not think you have spoken amiss and exposed an innocent maid to the horrid truth. I know that Simon has been between every pair of female legs that would open for him—and Walter probably is not far behind in this enterprise. Ian, I have heard, was near as bad, and Adam must have been worse, for he, if he saw something he wanted, would pursue even the unwilling. That is ended when they take a wife.”
“I cannot believe it,” Rhiannon said. “Why should the leopard change its spots?”
“I do not think they change their spots. They shed their baby fuzz and their playful ways for their true coats. One reason, of course, is that there is no marriage made among us except for true desire on both parts.” Suddenly Sybelle looked at Rhiannon with frowning concern. “Surely you know the choice was free on Simon’s part and had nothing to do with your father’s desire.”
“Yes, I know that, but—but you are saying that the men never change their minds. That is surely ridiculous—”
“Not at all,” Sybelle interrupted. “Naturally, it is the part of the wife to make the marriage satisfying and interesting. If a woman loses interest in her man, he will soon begin to look elsewhere. But men are essentially simple creatures in matters of love. It is no burden to keep them anxious and eager.”
Her lofty condescension made Rhiannon laugh. “I do not find Simon very simple,” she confessed.
“That is because you are putting into him your thoughts and feelings,” Sybelle remarked with clear-eyed perspicacity. “He is speaking the plain truth, and you will not hear it. Rhiannon, he has told me of his women since I was a child. Never, not once, did he speak of love until he spoke of you. There will be no other woman for Simon now. His honor is bound as well as his heart.”
“I do not desire the grudging faith of honor,” Rhiannon said hotly.
Sybelle tsked with irritation at her friend’s obtuseness. “It will not be grudging unless you make it so by stupidity or cruelty. Why do you think so ill of yourself? You are beautiful. You have a—a strangeness that must entice any man. And Simon has already tasted all there is to taste in women. He has chosen you out of knowledge, not out of ignorance.”
Rhiannon was silenced, bitterly regretting that she had let herself be drawn into this talk. She knew what Sybelle said was true; Simon had said the same thing and there was a basic logic in it that made disbelief impossible. But it did not make Rhiannon happy. It only added guilt to her desire, by tearing away a false cover from terrors she would not admit
. And the more fiercely guilt and desire drove her toward Simon, the more terror she felt. All she knew was that the harder she loved, the more she would be hurt. She could not bear to think about it.
Fortunately, there was more than enough going on to thrust personal problems into the background. On the opening day of the council, the Bishop of Salisbury returned to the attack, with the Bishop of London in support. The king had gathered support also, but the king’s creatures shrank into silence before Roger of London’s pale eyes. His was truly a martyr’s face, marked by asceticism and denial, and the gorgeous robes that testified to the majesty and magnificence of the Church covered a hair shirt, which rasped a body torn by self-flagellation, unwashed and stinking to remind the mighty Church prelate of his own mortality and sinfulness.
Only Winchester stood his ground, but elaborate explanations and close reasoning failed before the single-minded flame of London’s faith. What was Caesar’s was rendered to Caesar, but what was God’s belonged to His Church.
“Sanctuary was violated,” the Bishop of London said firmly. “No one denies this. Hubert de Burgh must be returned to the spot from which he was seized in the condition in which he was taken.”
Twice Salisbury was nearly drawn into an argument that could only lead to a victory for Winchester’s more adroit, more legalistic mind. Each time London stopped him with a touch and repeated his statement. There was something about Roger of London that shook the soul. Even in the violence of his rage and frustration, Henry was weakening. He had crossed wills with Roger of London before and had lost. He remembered that and had already begun to wonder whether the contest was worthwhile. Sensing this, Winchester urged him to say he would take the matter under advisement, thereby ending the audience. Salisbury looked as if he were about to protest, but London stopped him again.
“Yes,” he said in his thin but carrying voice, “think about it. Think whether it is worth imperiling your immortal soul to spite an old, helpless, broken man.”
Since Henry was truly, if not intelligently, religious, that might have won the case, if he had not been immediately distracted and prevented from thinking it over. No sooner had the bishops been silenced than the trouble with the barons began. By now, all had heard of the outcome of the truce with Pembroke. If Henry had had any delusions about the indifference of his other nobles to Richard Marshal’s loss, he was very quickly brought back to reality.
The violation of that particular kind of agreement—the formal yielding and return of a keep—struck in each man a responsive, personal chord. Each saw the same kind of fate befalling him. It was common enough for any baron to yield a keep into the king’s hands for a defined period of time and for a particular purpose—for example, as a hostage for behavior, as a surety for a debt, or for a special defensive or offensive purpose. Every man now saw himself conceivably defrauded in the same way by the whim of the king. Naturally, each remembered what had started this quarrel in the first place—that Henry had, without trial or public reason, disseisined Gilbert Bassett of Upavon.
The meeting grew so stormy that the bishops were moved to intervene. Even Winchester pleaded for less heated discussion. Then, since it was obvious that tempers were too furious for calm to be restored, the council was dismissed to reconvene the following day.
The whole proceeding was thrashed out for the women in Alinor’s solar. Rhiannon was stunned to see that Alinor, Joanna, and Gilliane were even more excited than the men, even more adamant that tenure of land must be inviolate above every other cause, every other good and evil. She and Simon alone were relatively unmoved.
Both loved their homes—Simon, his four keeps, and Rhiannon Angharad’s Hall. Both would fight to preserve them. But the fanatic devotion to each stick, each shed, stalk of wheat, foot of ground, was not in them. Simon hunted the forests around his keeps, but if he found other huntsmen in them, he gaily asked them their luck and, if it was time for rest, would share his wine and food. Kicva’s cattle grazed the pasturage that belonged by right to Angharad’s Hall, but if there was enough grass, she had no objections to a neighbor’s herd joining hers.
In times of scarcity, of course, attitudes were not so friendly. Then Simon might order poachers killed, and Kicva might order the slaughter of intruding cattle. That was understood by all, as it was understood that a request for help in bad times must be honored if it was at all possible to do so.
It was shocking to Rhiannon that these women, who loved their men both passionately and devotedly, would send them out to fight for a nearly worthless patch of wasteland if that patch was theirs. Alinor might wince each time her husband’s breath caught or he coughed rackingly, but she firmed her lips and set her jaw when Rhiannon asked questions. But it was Sybelle who answered.
“It is because land is the basis of everything,” Sybelle said. “On the land men live, and from land wealth comes. With men and wealth, one has power. Without power, one is a helpless victim, at the mercy of anyone. I will be the Lady of Roselynde. I will die. But Roselynde will remain, and my sons’ and daughters’ sons and daughters will be free and strong because the land is theirs.”
It was a very clear answer, but it meant little to Rhiannon, and Simon grinned and drew her aside. “Now do you see why I thanked God that my mother’s lands go to my sister and then to Sybelle? Oh, I do not mind fighting for the land, but anything to do with it is given the same weight with them. If a single field yields less one year than another, my mother is there asking questions, looking at the soil, examining the seed grains. Better Sybelle than I. I would rather eat chestnuts by the fire in winter than manchet bread, if to get the bread I must labor all the rest of the year harder than the serfs.”
“I understand power,” Rhiannon replied, “but it seems a high price to pay for it.”
Simon shrugged. “Not to them. You may not believe it, but Sybelle takes pleasure in counting bushels of oats and barley and accounting this year against last year. It is only that you and I are different.”
That was true, and it made him that much more precious. Rhiannon felt as if her whole being were a naked heart and that a pinprick on Simon would stab her so deeply that she would bleed to death. Terrified, she tried to withdraw into herself, to build a shell of uncaring, but Simon was the greatest hindrance. He seemed to have taken warning from what she said in Oxford about stroking and hinting of love; instead he was open-heartedly ready to be friends again, to laugh together over their bond of sympathy in their mutual lack of possessiveness.
Simon’s nature was optimistic. He saw in the events of the next few days the culmination, both personal and political, that he desired. Henry’s vassals would withdraw from him, the king would attack Pembroke with largely mercenary troops, Llewelyn would join Pembroke, and their forces would triumph. In any case, he saw that the council could not last long, which meant he would soon be free to take Rhiannon home. He told himself that, either on the way or once he had her in Wales, he would win her back.
Simon’s first expectation seemed in a fair way to be satisfied. Henry used the urgent necessity of settling with his barons as an excuse to avoid further discussion of the violation of sanctuary. This did not rid him of the bishops, but it disclosed Roger of London’s delicate perception of the rights and powers of the Church. Where he had demanded with burning eyes in the matter of violation of sanctuary, he now pleaded softly, begging the king to listen to and satisfy, if he could, the just demands of his barons.
Others were less moderate and less clear on the fact that a violation of sanctuary was Church business, whereas the king’s relationship with his barons was not. They pointed out that the custom of the land had been violated, that those the king had outlawed and deprived of their property had never been tried by their peers. This brought a sneering Winchester to his feet. There were no peers in England, he said. They were all small men and not like the great, independent nobles of France. Therefore, the king of England had a right to banish or otherwise punish any person through the just
iciaries he appointed.
This offended everyone so much that the bishops began to threaten to excommunicate all those who gave the king such evil advice. To speak the truth, Henry was himself offended. He liked the notion of being all-powerful, but he did not like the denigration of his men with respect to those of his old enemy of France. In fact, Henry was so annoyed that Winchester’s snobbery might have won the barons’ case for them had not the news that Pembroke had taken back Usk arrived that very evening.
The king was nearly hysterical. What he had not been able to do with a full army and siege train, Richard had accomplished in a few days with a third of the men. Henry’s pride was lacerated. He would hear nothing further on the rights or wrongs of the question and stormed into the hall on the next day, demanding furiously that the bishops excommunicate Richard Marshal for his crime. None was willing, and their spokesman was Roger of London.
In the thin voice that pierced like a knife and was as impervious as steel, Roger ripped away Henry’s pretensions. There was no sin, he said, in a man’s taking back what was his own, what he had been deprived of unjustly and dishonorably by a king who violated his own oath and word of honor. More likely the Church would bless Pembroke than disown him, for he had been true, letter and spirit, to what he swore on the relics of the saints.
The cheers that followed this statement were so prolonged and so loud that the king was frightened out of his rage, at least temporarily. He abandoned his notion then and there of ordering a levy. He did not expect, nor even want, a positive response. He agreed now with Winchester that it was hopeless to expect to govern a country where each little lordling set himself up as the equal of the king. When the barons saw that the king had conquered Pembroke, their strongest, they would be less quick to cheer when the monarch was insulted. All murmurs against him would die. Then he would be able to be gentle and merciful, and all would come to admire and to love him.
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