Rhiannon (28 page)

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.

“I am near certain I have an answer that will satisfy the
king,” Rhiannon offered. “Certainly it will not anger him more than departing
without leave or farewell. Let me try.”

Ian had agreed at once, but Simon protested all the way back
to the house. He was still angry while Rhiannon undressed him for bed. Ordinarily
she would have told him sharply that she needed nothing from him and, if he did
not like her behavior, he should cease to urge her to marry him. She was aware,
however, that his reaction was her fault. If she had not panicked at the king’s
implication that he intended to keep her—which she had momentarily and
irrationally connected with all the talk of de Burgh’s imprisonment—Simon would
not even have noticed the brief exchange.

Simon’s anger also reflected his own guilt for bringing her
to Court and urging her to display her talent. Understanding this, Rhiannon
curbed her impatience and uttered soothing murmurs that neither agreed to his
way nor insisted on hers. This did not work. Simon glowered at her, his
brilliant eyes dark.

“You need not treat me as if I were five years old,” he said
crossly.

Rhiannon bit her lip. She knew quite well that Simon
expected her to reply,
Then do not act that way
, which would pave the
path for a violent quarrel in which his tensions could be released.
Unfortunately, Rhiannon did not feel she could give him the outlet he desired.
The house Ian and Alinor had rented contained only the solar and the hall above
the vaulted ground floor. Menservants and men-at-arms slept below, while the
family and maids and some of Joanna’s and Gilliane’s children were distributed
between the hall and solar above.

This was not the place for an argument, Rhiannon decided.
Simon might not care who heard him, but Rhiannon was a private person. She
simply could not quarrel where everyone could hear. A quarrel, however, was not
the only way to relieve tensions. Rhiannon made her eyes large and allowed her
lips to droop.

“You are trying to quarrel with me,” she said tragically.
“You really do think it would be unnatural to make love to me in a bed.”

Simon had opened his mouth to say, quite furiously, that he
had no intention of quarreling with her, but the second sentence struck him
mute.

“You have avoided me altogether, ever since we came to
Roselynde,” Rhiannon went on dramatically.

This passionate statement was made with a total disregard
for the real truth, although it was quite factual. They had not slept together
after their last night on the road. However, it was Rhiannon’s fault that they
had not been together that first night at Roselynde. Although she had Alinor’s
permission, she found herself too shy to walk boldly down the stairs, across
the hall where the men-servants slept, and into Simon’s chamber. She knew quite
well it was impossible for him to come to her. No man but Ian, except under
very special circumstances, was permitted into the women’s quarters of
Roselynde keep. Simon had not been up those stairs since he left for fostering
when he was nine years old. Probably he would not climb them again until his
father or mother was dying.

As to the succeeding nights they had been apart, that was
the fault of circumstance. Kingsclere was so small that all except Alinor and
Ian, who shared the castellan’s own bed, had slept on pallets, men in the hall
and women in the solar. The following night Simon had been at Wallingford.

For a moment Simon was fooled by Rhiannon’s pretense of hurt
and her complaint that he had been avoiding her. “No!” he whispered. “No!” and
stepped toward her with his arms outstretched.

Realization came before he embraced her, however, and
instead of enfolding her gently in his arms, he grabbed her with one hand and
slapped her briskly on the buttock with the other.

“Monster!” Rhiannon gasped, leaning heavily against him.
“You do not love me any longer. Now you will beat me to death.”

“I am more likely to eat you alive,” Simon murmured,
applying his lips to her throat with an enthusiasm that gave a tinge of reality
to the threat.

“You will have a hard time chewing this gown, I am afraid,”
Rhiannon murmured after a few minutes.

Simon bit her ear lobe gently. “I have good teeth,” he
chuckled, “but I think you are right. Perhaps it would be better if we took it
off.”

To that he got no reply but a soft sigh, since he had
managed to undo one side of her bliaunt and slip his hand inside to stroke her
back. However, after unlacing the other side, he drew off the gown with a
briskness that was startling. Rhiannon stepped back silently to remove the rest
of her clothing, assuming that Simon, now aroused, would wish to get on with the
business quickly. During their travels his lovemaking had been rapid—but
thorough.

This time, though, she could not have been more wrong. It
was true Simon had been brief on the way from Wales to Roselynde, although he
made sure she was both roused and contented. It had not occurred to Rhiannon
that this was owing to his consideration for her fatigue and the cold and damp
of the floor of the tent. Now, however, Simon had time to spare and all the
comfort of a warm, curtained bed to play in. Haste was very far from his mind.
Moreover, there was just a shade of truth in what Rhiannon had said. He did
feel a sense of strangeness in making love to her in a bed. Not that he was
unwilling, but the ordinary situation took on an exotic aura.

Having said he wished to eat her, Simon seemed to become
fixated on the words. As Rhiannon stepped back, he seized one of her hands and
raised it to his mouth. He nibbled the tips of her fingers, kissed her palm,
tickled it with his tongue—all the while busily unbuttoning the sleeve of her
tunic. His lips and tongue then proceeded to follow the path of the undone
buttons, coming to rest in the hollow of her elbow. Then he worked the other
sleeve.

Surprised at first, Rhiannon quickly slipped into a soft,
sensual haze. At that moment she was not as hotly excited as Simon could make
her by an assault on her lips, breasts, and thighs. Instead, she felt slightly
unfocused in her thinking, while all the nerve endings in her body increased in
sensitivity. It seemed that she could actually make out the shape of his mouth
when he kissed her and feel the separate tiny ridges on the tips of his
fingers.

Next to be undone was the neck of the tunic. Simon lipped
the little hollow where the collarbones meet and nibbled his way down her
chest, keeping carefully to the center of the cleft. Rhiannon stood passive,
except that her hands made lazy circles and stroking movements on her lover’s
bare back. She could feel the muscles twitch very slightly in response to the
caress.

As he bent lower to kiss the cleft between her breasts,
Simon reached down and grabbed her tunic. It came up as he straightened, but he
did not pull it over her head. Instead he maneuvered her through the curtains
with kisses and love bites, drawing the tunic off as he laid her down on the
bed. Now only the thin linen shift and shoes and stockings remained. The shoes
were easy. Simon simply pushed them off with one hand as he untied Rhiannon’s
garters with the other. The stockings were more fun. He rolled them down an
inch at a time, caressing the bared skin they disclosed.

Sometimes the kisses tickled Rhiannon almost unbearably, but
that only heightened her all-over sensitivity. Having reached her toes, Simon
began to work his way back up again, raising the shift as he went. Rhiannon’s
caresses became more urgent and her hands sought out the areas of Simon’s body
that woke the greatest response in him, like the inner thigh and the small of
the back just where the buttocks divide. Strangely, although she was now
growing very excited, Rhiannon did not reach for Simon’s genitals. It did not
seem necessary; all of him seemed peculiarly alive, as she herself was.

Neither had so far made a sound, aside from breathing rather
more quickly than usual. There was a piquancy in their silent communication,
for a hot glow of passion was now burning in each, and wordless demands were
being made and satisfied, using only the instinct of mutual desire. At last
Simon’s mouth closed on Rhiannon’s breast, and her hand went between his legs.

After so long a foreplay, their coupling was short and
violent, culminating in an explosion that locked Rhiannon’s powerful legs so
hard around Simon’s back that even his strong bones creaked. Mouth on mouth,
they muffled the sounds they could not contain in climax. Replete, they slid
apart and into sleep—another peculiarity, because usually they talked and
fondled each other for a little while after their passion was spent. But both
were too tired this time, partly because of the tension generated during their
meeting with the king.

Although Rhiannon slept well, Simon’s anxious dreams that
night cast a pall over his awakening in the morning. Although he could not
remember any specific event, the dreams intensified his resistance to
Rhiannon’s attending Court again. He should have spoken about the matter
directly and purged his system, but he did not wish to spoil Rhiannon’s joyous
morning mood. Then, immediately after they had broken their fast, he was called
away to an urgent conference with Ian’s and Geoffrey’s friends, who wanted to
know what Lord Llewelyn would do when—not if—the truce was broken.

Simon did not enjoy the conference. He never took pleasure
as Geoffrey did in political maneuvering. He disliked intensely needing to
watch and measure his words so that what Llewelyn had told him would come
across clear and undistorted by his own desires and prejudices. Equally, he
disliked needing to attend closely to what the others said, trying to judge the
half-truths so that he could render to his overlord a good account of what he
had learned.

All adjudged the situation dangerous to desperation, and to
Simon’s greater displeasure, it was decided that it would be best to include
Richard of Cornwall in the discussion. Thus, the whole group rode out, but not
as a group. To avoid bringing their intention too strongly to Winchester’s
notice, they went singly and in twos by different gates. As one of the
youngest, Simon was sent out by the westward gate, which added several miles to
his ride and a few degrees to the temperature of his temper.

This was not at all cooled by the knowledge that they would
dine and spend the night at Wallingford. Nor did it help that he had to repeat
nearly everything he had said before and have it thrashed out thoroughly for a
third time. That night, deprived of Rhiannon’s company, he awakened in the dark
to the irrational fear that she had gone to Court alone and had been seized and
hidden away from him. One part of his mind knew perfectly well that this was
ridiculous. His mother would never permit such a thing; also, Henry was not
perfect, but he did not abduct women. The other part of his mind insisted the
fear was an evil omen.

Perhaps if Simon could have ridden directly back to Oxford
in the morning or could have discussed the matter with someone, the whole thing
would have shrunk back to its real proportions. However, he was extremely aware
of his father’s haunted eyes, of Geoffrey’s haggardness, of the fact that even
Adam was deeply worried. There were those who had particular fears of or hatreds
for the Welsh. They were his burden, and when a group of them asked him to join
a hunting party, he could not refuse. He had, of course, shaken off the stupid
notion that Henry would seize his betrothed, but he was left with an even
stronger distaste for another Court appearance.

The day was hot and the long hunt led them even farther from
Oxford. Simon’s companions elected to stop for dinner at—of all places—one of
his mother’s properties. Had it been anywhere else, Simon would have excused
himself and ridden back alone, but he could not offer such a gratuitous
insult—which might even be taken as a mark of dissatisfaction—to a faithful
servant. By the time Simon was free to return to Oxford, he was half-mad with
the frustration of needing to seem interested and absorbed in the problems of
his companions, which in fact meant very little to him.

Over the period of separation, Rhiannon’s mood had changed.
Until this day, she had been busy every moment with movement and distracted by
new experiences. Alter the menfolk left, however, a second stage of female
activity began. At home, she would have ignored this. She would have run out
into the woods and spent the day most happily luring wild creatures to her hand
or shooting game for the pot or gathering herbs for her lotions and potions.

Instead she was wimpled and gowned with the most rigid
propriety and dragged out on a round of visits with Joanna and Gilliane.
Rhiannon understood that this was not an idle waste of time. She had displayed
the romantic and barbaric aspect of Wales and now had to show that the Welsh
could also be proper and civilized. There was information to be seeded and
information to be gleaned, rumors to be picked up and those, more suitable to
the purposes of Roselynde, to be spread. Rhiannon knew that Gilliane and Joanna
were working as hard as their menfolk and toward the same purpose. She judged
their efforts both necessary and useful, for she was no fool, and did what she
could to assist them. Nonetheless, she found it weary, distasteful work.

Returning to the house tired and irritable, Rhiannon
discovered that more of the same awaited her. Since Alinor had received a
message from Ian to the effect that all the menfolk would neither dine nor
sleep at home, she had invited various women to join her and her daughters. The
ostensible purpose was to meet Rhiannon, newly betrothed to Alinor’s youngest
son—so Rhiannon had no choice but to attend. The real purpose was the same as
before, to gain and disseminate information and opinion.

Unfortunately, in a larger group, it was not possible for
the ladies of Roselynde to shield Rhiannon as effectively. Politics was not the
only thing discussed, or rather, politics was most often discussed from a
personal angle. This resulted in Rhiannon’s being inundated with information
about who was sleeping with whom. Henry’s Court was not deliberately licentious
the way John’s had been; Henry himself was not a lecher. Nonetheless, he was a
young, full-blooded man, no prude, and he would not think of troubling himself
with moral regulations that were, in his opinion, the business of the Church
and would make many of his dear friends miserable and resentful.