Rhiannon (32 page)

“But if he is pent up in a church…”

Simon shrugged again. “Not for long. This is an act of final
desperation. He must have heard that Henry was ready to give charge of Devizes
to Winchester. That, he feared, would be his death warrant. Perhaps the gaolers
feared it also and did not want the death to stain their hands, so they let him
go. But it is six of one and half a dozen of the other. The king will set men
to surround the church and prevent food and water from being carried to him.
That is how he was taken last time. To save himself from starving he came out
of sanctuary. Of course, last time he expected mercy. This time…”

But matters were not allowed to work themselves out in a
natural way. Another messenger came pounding in to London the very next night with
a much longer letter. Hubert’s escape had not been the decision of the majority
of his gaolers. Two young guards, William de Millers and Thomas the
Chamberlain, had been stirred to pity by the broken old man. One had carried
him, fetters and all, to the church. However, the master of Devizes, seeing
ruin staring him in the face, sent out the whole garrison. They had found the
fugitive and, instead of respecting the sanctuary, had beaten him and driven
him back to Devizes, regardless of his clinging to the altar with a cross in
his hands.

Simon grunted with excitement when he read this. It was a
grave mistake, he thought, for the king was a religious man. Not only that, but
the insult to the Church was just what his family had been trying to find that
would rouse the bishops to combine against their fellow prelate. At present,
Ian had written, Henry was so enraged that there was no approaching him, and he
had ordered de Burgh strictly confined to the vault in which he had formerly
been placed and fastened with three pairs of manacles; he was to have speech
with no man whatsoever, including his guards. This, of course, was a further
offense to the Church, that a man should be punished for seeking sanctuary.
And, as Simon expected, the last of the letter directed him to take this news
to the Bishop of London.

Early next morning Simon rode to the palace, where, to his
relief, he heard that the bishop was in residence. His request for audience was
granted. Simon prefaced his news by mentioning that his father did not believe
in meddling with matters that belonged to the Church. This was quite true,
although Simon had to pause a moment to control unwelcome mirth when he
recalled certain actions his mother and Joanna had taken in the past against
priests who differed with them.

The pause was quite effective, although Simon had not
intended it as a dramatic device. The bishop urged him on, assuring him that he
would not be considered officious or interfering. Properly cued, Simon told his
tale, and Roger of London was suitably horrified. Although he said nothing to
Simon about his intentions, there was a steely glitter in his eyes and a
certain rigidity of his lips and jaw that indicated to Simon that his mission
had been a success. Robert of Salisbury, the bishop in whose See the violation
had occurred, would have to take the initiative, but the saintly Roger of
London would be there to back him up—and London had already won one
passage-at-arms with the king.

A few days passed without further developments, and then
Ian’s letters began to come again. Robert of Salisbury had taken up the cudgels
for Hubert de Burgh—or rather, for the privilege of the Church. First he had
gone to the castellan of Devizes and ordered him to send Hubert back to the
church. The castellan had pleaded various reasons for the actions of his men
and, when these were rejected, said flatly that they had rather Hubert be
hanged than they. Robert of Salisbury, no more inclined to accept this reason
than the others, promptly excommunicated all the offenders and set out for
Oxford, where he remonstrated with the king with only slightly less vehemence.

The king, leaving the Bishop of Winchester to argue with his
brother prelate, fled to Westminster. Simon and Rhiannon had warning of this
and also that Geoffrey thought it would be a nice touch if Rhiannon presented
herself voluntarily with an offer to sing, since Winchester was not at court.
To Simon’s delight—for a touch of jealousy had been roused in him by Rhiannon’s
response to the king’s admiration—she was reluctant, although she admitted it
would be the best thing to do. She felt more vulnerable in London, as if the
wild countryside, which could shield her, was farther away and left her more at
Henry’s mercy. Simon, too, said he thought it would be best, but he did not
urge her beyond that simple statement. In the end Rhiannon’s conscience
overrode her fear, and she agreed.

She hoped Henry would be too busy or too angry to accept the
offer Simon delivered. The king, however, had a similarity to Rhiannon beyond
his love of music; he also tried to run away from his problems. He was
delighted with the suggestion and closed with it at once, sending the strongest
assurances of his pleasure in her willingness to come to him. He greeted her with
great kindness and even made a jesting reference to the necessary freedom of
songbirds.

Nonetheless, Rhiannon felt choked and smothered, and she
sang of the sorrows of the Rhiannon whose namesake she was, how the jealous
women of her husband’s court accused her of murdering her babe and smeared her
with a pup’s blood, and of the bitter sorrow and unmerited punishment she
suffered until her husband’s long faith in her was vindicated when the truth
was exposed.

By chance the song fitted Henry’s mood exactly, but for once
he was as interested in the meaning under the tale as in the artistry with
which it was told. “If Pwyll believed in her, he was a fool to yield to the
demands of his barons,” Henry said, after he had complimented Rhiannon on her
singing.

“He did not do so,” Rhiannon replied. “They bade him put her
away, and he would not. It was for the sake of peace in the land and ease in
the minds of his liegemen that he agreed to Rhiannon’s penance—and, remember,
she agreed with him and did the penance, if not gladly, willingly for the sake
of peace.”

“Peace is not everything,” Henry said, starting to look
black.

“I am a woman,” Rhiannon murmured. “It is everything to me.”

The frown cleared from Henry’s face. “And that is as it
should be. That is surely the woman’s part, to make peace.”

Rhiannon curtsied, as if in thanks for the king’s approval,
but it was a signal to Simon, who came to her side and asked solicitously
whether she was tired. It had been planned between them and worked well; Henry
took the hint quickly, excusing them graciously from further attendance. As
Rhiannon curtsied again, he took her hand.

“You will not run away again if I just say I hope you will
sing for me soon, Lady Rhiannon?”

“I will not run away from
you
, my lord,” she assured
him. “However, it is not a matter of my choice. My mother is alone. I must soon
go home to make ready for the winter. It is a very hard time in the hills where
we live. Sometimes the snow is so heavy that the hunters cannot go out and we
are sealed into our dwellings. Much must be done in gathering stores to keep us
over the worst months. But I promise I will come again, as soon as I can, and
most gladly.”

“All the way from Wales, just to sing for me?” Henry asked,
raising his brows.

“Yes,” Rhiannon said, “all the way from Wales to sing for
you, my lord, for there are very few who listen as you do. You understand and
appreciate my art. If you will receive me—disregarding how events may change in
the future—I will come.”

“I will receive you at any time. Between us, in the name of
art, there will always be peace,” Henry assured her, and it was quite plain
that he understood her implications that there might be enmity between her
father and himself. He had, almost openly, promised he would not blame her for
what she had no power to change or control.

She and Simon got away after that, but Rhiannon’s hand was
tight on his wrist until they were clear of the hall. Outside, Simon put his
arm around her as they waited for their horses, and she did not pull away.

“I am not cut out for this work,” she sighed. “Gilliane was
right. The king is like a wild cat. It may come to call and even let itself be
gentled, but one cannot look away or trust it. With such a man, there must be
strong bonds to hold him, for his own spirit is not master of itself.”

“Your father said it was because he was king too young,”
Simon responded, but for the moment he was blessing Henry, whose erratic
character had made Rhiannon willing to rest in his embrace.

“I want to go home,” Rhiannon said pathetically.

“Then you shall,
eneit,
” Simon agreed instantly. “I
will write to my father tonight, and we will go tomorrow.”

“No,” she sighed. “It will not do. It would turn everything
I said into a lie. We must stay until the Bishop of Winchester comes, at least.
Simon, you should not yield so readily to anything I ask.”

“I love you.”

Whether she would have replied at all and what she would
have said remained forever lost. The horses arrived at that moment, and
Rhiannon pulled away from Simon and moved forward at once to mount. Simon was
furious, but to punish the grooms would have offended Rhiannon. It was better
to let the opportunity go than to destroy by ill temper the good that had been
accomplished already.

There was no need for Rhiannon to fear another summons from
the king, for a powerful diversion was provided to turn Henry’s mind from light
entertainment. The Bishop of Salisbury, more knowing than Henry had hoped, did
not stay to argue with Peter des Roches. Warned that Henry had left Oxford, he
never went near his fellow prelate—who might not have been above laying hands
upon him—but followed the king to London and was welcomed warmly by Roger of
London. Reinforced by that saintly man’s approval—and determination—he again
fronted the king.

Henry squirmed and protested that what was done was his
right. Restraining his temper, Robert of Salisbury reasoned gently but with
total inflexibility; Hubert de Burgh must be returned to the church from which
he was taken. Sanctuary was inviolable for
anyone
. Even the blackest
criminal, the bloodiest murderer, was sacred when under the protection of the
Church and could not be returned to prison or executed as long as he remained
on holy ground.

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.”