Rhiannon Read online

“Men do vent their rage when they can,” Ian remarked. “Thus, if they have not come, it is fear, not rage, that restrains them. I have heard the lesser men say that there is a plan to seize those without strong overlords, to disseisin them, and to send Poitevins or other foreigners to take their lands.”

  “That is ridiculous,” Geoffrey said.

  Walter nodded. “Cornwall and Ferrars are worried, but not about such a thing as that. They talk to Henry and he wavers toward giving assurances that he will proceed only according to strict law. Then the Bishop of Winchester gets at him and tells him that he will be a laughingstock, forever shamed as a weakling, if he yields. But there is this shadow of a substance to the fear you mentioned, Lord Ian. Isabella tells me that there are foreigners in court—men with considerable retinues, although what they live on is a puzzle—and they flatter Henry and tell him that they would not so defy him if they were his vassals.”

  “This is madness,” Ian sighed. “Henry is behaving like a child—”

  “Which is not exactly unusual,” Sybelle snapped, thrusting a goblet of wine into Walter’s hand.

  Walter was so surprised by her interposition into the conversation that his hand almost failed to close, but Geoffrey and Ian, the two who had the most right to correct her, merely shrugged in a jaundiced way in agreement with what she had said.

  “It is not Henry I blame,” Ian went on. “Peter des Roches must know that he is pushing the king down a dangerous path. What is wrong with the man? Tomorrow I will go and talk to him.”

  “Ian—” Geoffrey and Adam said together, and Simon cried simultaneously, “No, Papa.”

  “Winchester may have forgotten much, but I do not think he has forgotten me,” Ian said grimly, ignoring the protests. “My very presence here is a testimony to my loyalty. Moreover, what can he do to me when all of you are here waiting for my return?”

  “And what can we do if he holds you and threatens you?” Adam asked angrily.

  “He will do no such thing,” Ian said calmly, and would not be moved from his decision.

  He did not have it all his own way, however. Adam and Simon conspicuously escorted him to the Bishop of Winchester’s lodging, fully armed and with a large troop of men. More ostentatiously still, they would not go in but sat on their horses a bowshot from the gates. Simon’s Welsh archers unlimbered their bows and strung them, although they did not pull any arrows from the long quivers slung across their backs.

  In spite of this, Ian was not denied access to the bishop, which many claimed was hard to obtain these days. Peter des Roches’ black eyes narrowed as Ian bowed to kiss his ring. Unlike many churchmen, he had not become portly with age. He had dried until he looked as hard as the rocks for which he was named. Yet he was no ascetic; his intensity and activity burned away what he ate and drank. “Why do you come here with such an escort, Lord Ian?” he asked.

  He could not have seen or heard the troop, but Ian was not surprised that he knew. Winchester had not reached his past and present eminence by having stupid servants or by being uninformed.

  “My sons,” Ian said quietly, “think I am too old to defend myself. And it is true that London is overfull of roistering men who take what they want when they think they have a sufficiently weak victim.”

  Winchester’s lips tightened, but he did not answer directly. “What brings you here?” he repeated, but the emphasis was different. There was almost relief in his voice because he thought Ian had some specific complaint about the lawlessness in the city.

  “Memories,” Ian replied. “When John was king, you and I thought much alike. We desired a peaceful realm where king and barons both knew their roles and carried them out with honesty.”

  “I desired peace, yes,” Winchester responded, but his mouth and eyes had gone hard. “And I still do, but neither this realm nor any other will ever be at peace when authority is torn and divided. It is the role of the king to command, that of his vassals to obey.”

  “In war, perhaps, but for day-to-day life, my lord, that would make all except the king slaves. Even the serfs have their small rights. There is the law—”

  “The king makes the law,” Winchester interrupted sharply.

  “Only in council with the approval of his barons,” Ian said. “That was signed and sealed at Runnymede, and Henry swore to the charter both when he was crowned and again when, no longer a child, he took the reins of government into his own hands.”

  “Ridiculous! A charter extorted by force from the father, and pushed upon a child who knew no better until the man was made to believe—”

  “You were beside him then and beside the father when he first swore!” Ian exclaimed, his voice rising as his temper erupted.

  “Both oaths were under compulsion, and you know it, Lord Ian,” Winchester said more calmly. He realized it would do no good to make Ian angry. “And you also know the Holy Father absolved both John and Henry of that pernicious oath.”

  “It was not pernicious. It was necessary so that the barons would know what was their right and what belonged to the king to decide as he willed. My lord, I beg you to reconsider. You know I am no rebel. You know that I held by my fealty to King John when others did not. You see I am here, in answer to the king’s summons—”

  “Indeed, I know you to be a true man,” Winchester agreed, smiling, “which is why I care nothing if your sons sit outside and glower.” The smile faded. “True men have naught to fear, but too many are unlike you, Lord Ian. Bethink you, as an example, how the French lands were lost because of the narrow vision of the English lords. When the king called for men and money for war, all he received was argument—how it was no man’s duty to serve outside the realm; how foreign wars were not to be laid on the backs of the English vassals. If the king had been obeyed, half of France would still be in Henry’s hands.”

  “Perhaps. Or perhaps there would have been more money and more blood lost and the result would have been the same. God knows, John was no soldier, and…” Ian paused, then shrugged. “Henry is no better.”

  “That is not true—or, at least, it was not the cause of the defeats. They were largely owing to the need for dependence on the disloyal vassals of Anjou and Poitou. It was treachery, not lack of military skill, that lost the French lands.”

  There was more than enough truth in that to make Ian abandon that line of reasoning. He sighed. “You may well be right, my lord, but I still beg you to think again and to urge the king to moderate his ways. There is long custom in this land supporting the right of the barons to take part in the king’s decisions. I believe this to be just, but I did not come to contest with you over our differing opinions of absolute right or wrong. All I wish to tell you is that—right or wrong—the lords of England will not endure the abrogation of Magna Carta. They will fight.”

  “Are you threatening me?” Winchester asked softly.

  “You know I am not,” Ian said. “I have given my fealty, and I will support the king in all that is just. I am trying to explain how the barons think—for I am one of them and you, forgive me, my lord, are not. Moreover, you have been long away and you may not understand how things are. You think you achieved a great victory when you overthrew Hubert de Burgh, but that was accomplished because he was grown too powerful, and the lords would not lift a finger to support him or even give him a refuge.”

  “Yet he had been benefactor to many,” Winchester remarked cynically. “Does this not prove that it is unwise for the king to trust in love and favor? It is strength he needs.”

  “There is not so much strength to be had in the whole world as to tame this baronage while they believe they are wronged. My lord, can you not see that the king’s strength lies in the habit of the lords of snapping and snarling at each other so that he must settle their quarrels? Thus if a few cry out unfairly that they are oppressed, all the others support the king. Believe me, my lord, I am not threatening. I am warning you that what you are doing is causing the barons to forget their private quarrels.”r />
  Winchester laughed. “Oh, they will all curse and rage, but the moment it comes to acting… They are all so swollen with pride that they will fall to fighting over who should lead. Unless Pembroke—” He stopped suddenly, having said more than he had intended, even to an old friend.

  Ian pretended he had not heard the last words. “Do not press them too far,” he urged. “Show only a little yielding. Say a few sweet words. You are wise and subtle, my lord. These men can be led little by little to where you want them to go, but if you try to drive them by force, you will drive them instead to unite.”

  “They will never unite.” Winchester sneered, misunderstanding why Ian had ignored his reference to Richard Marshal. “If they could not unite against John, who had such faults of person that he was hated, they surely will not unite against Henry, who is not flawed as his father was. Now you listen to my warning, Lord Ian. Henry will rule this land of himself, without let or hindrance from his vassals, who, by God’s will, derive all their power only from the king.”

  “And where will the king’s strength come from, if not from the support of his vassals?” Ian asked, lifting his brows.

  “From those who are paid to obey, who understand that the king made them and can unmake them.”

  “From where will the money come to pay them?” Ian asked sardonically. Taxation was not in the king’s hands and Winchester knew that. In the end it was that power which had to be seized, of course, but the country would need to be reduced to abject surrender first and for that, money would be needed before the surrender.

  “From the dues owing to the king, which will come to him instead of slipping into this sheriff’s coffers and that bailiff’s purse—or not being paid at all through the taking of bribes or giving of favors.” This time it was Winchester’s voice that rose in passion.

  Ian did not reply. Again there was enough truth in the claim to preclude a simple denial, and this was not the time for explanations and qualifications that Winchester knew perfectly well.

  “You will not achieve it.” Ian sighed. “You will bring us to war—brother against brother, father against son.”

  “If it must be, it must be,” Winchester said, his face set like flint. “Lord Ian, we have known each other long, and I see that you mean well. I am not blind to the selfish anger of the barons. It is they who are blind. When all are obedient, the king will be a mild and just master. His word will be law, and the whole land will obey and be at peace. If a brief war must be fought to lesson those who will not accept that this is the Divine Will, that one alone should rule, so it must be. Thus, there is only one God, one Holy Father, and there must be one king for each realm.”

  Ian stood up. “God gives man free will.”

  Winchester raised his eyes to Ian’s face. “But those who use this free will to transgress are cast into everlasting torment. On earth also. Those who obey will flourish; those who transgress will be cast out.”

  Once more Ian bowed and kissed the bishop’s ring. There was no purpose in further talk. He had not had much hope when he came, for he knew that Winchester was an astute man. However, Ian had not wished to ignore the small chance that the bishop had failed to gauge the depth of feeling against him and the strong possibility of a civil war. Even that faint hope was gone. Plainly, Winchester saw the situation quite clearly and was convinced that the rebellion could be put down both quickly and firmly enough to end resistance once and for all.

  When he came out, Ian’s face told the story to Adam and Simon. They hardly had patience to listen to the report Ian gave Geoffrey, crying out that they should go home and stuff and garnish their keeps for war.

  “No, you will not!” Ian exclaimed. “This is all talk. So far the king has done nothing—except for the dismissal of Rodune—that is not within his right. That dismissal is a little thing, no cause for war. You must not act in such a way as to give Henry an excuse to punish you. For God’s sake, do you want to find yourselves opposed to me on a field of battle?”

  “This is no time for hasty action of any kind,” Geoffrey interposed quickly, seeing that Adam was about to point out that even Henry would not be so foolish as to summon a man to attack his own sons, particularly Ian, who was well known to be a doting father. “All is not yet lost. You should have known, Ian, that Winchester could not be bent, but the king is not so inflexible.”

  “Not so inflexible, but more dangerous,” Adam pointed out. “Winchester might have decided to hold Ian or may act against him in some other way for political reasons, but he is not likely to fly into a fit of rage and say or do something out of spite which, later, he cannot back away from.”

  “I did not intend to go to the king—not at first,” Geoffrey said. “If we have any hope, it will come from Richard of Cornwall.”

  “But Cornwall has already done and said everything,” Simon protested in disgust.

  “He has done and said too much,” Geoffrey admitted wryly. “You know his temper. He called Henry an ungrateful cur for being so harsh with de Burgh and a long-eared ass when he dismissed the officers of the court. He has bellowed like a mad bull in council, threatened violence, stormed out of Westminster, and ridden back to Wallingford, refusing to speak to Henry at all… No, I do not need to urge Richard to say more, but perhaps I can convince him to say the same words in a manner that will not make the king too angry to listen.”

  Geoffrey went out in midafternoon, soon after dinner, but returned almost at once accompanied by Walter, who had been staying with Cornwall, whose wife, Isabella, was his brother’s widow. The earl, Walter reported, had ridden away to attend the funeral of the father of a very close friend.

  “Is it an excuse?” Simon asked, his eyes glinting with interest. “I thought he intended to attend the council.”

  “The council is canceled,” Walter told them. “The earls—Cornwall, Norfolk, and Ferrars, who are the only ones who have come—refused to hold a meeting when nearly no one else is here and, in particular, when Richard Marshal is not here. It is mainly his complaint that was to be heard. But that is just an excuse because Isabella is sure Richard is on the way and would be here in time. As to the funeral, that is no excuse. Richard was in this man’s keeping for some years, just before and after King John died, and he has remained closely tied to the son. Even if the council had been held, he would have gone.”

  “Then it is just as well that it is canceled,” Ian remarked. “But what the devil are we to do now? Stay here? Go home?” He was frowning, and there was anxiety in his eyes. “Does Cornwall know what his brother plans to do next?”

  “I do not think so,” Walter replied. “At present they are not speaking to each other, and Isabella tells me that Henry is so furious that he will lash out at someone.”

  There was a brief silence while everyone considered this statement. Then Geoffrey put his hand on Ian’s arm. “There is something else. What is it?”

  Ian stared at nothing, then said slowly, “A slip of the tongue—if it was a slip—during my talk with Winchester. He said that instead of uniting, the barons would fall to fighting over who should lead ‘unless Pembroke—’ and he stopped. I do not like it. There was no real reason to call this council, and Winchester and the king must have known there was little likelihood that many would come. Yet…”

  “Yet the king dismissed Rodune, which must infuriate Richard Marshal, and offered this council to discuss the matter—which meant that Richard would probably be here nearly alone.” Simon’s voice was too loud in the quiet that had followed Ian’s unhappy remarks.

  Geoffrey covered his face with his hand momentarily. “Your questions are answered, Ian. We must stay. Norfolk and Ferrars and Cornwall have delayed matters by gaining this cancellation, but that has only increased Henry’s anger. Walter is right. Henry will lash out at someone.”

  Chapter Three

  Rhiannon lay in the long grass of the high meadow and watched the clouds drift across the sky forming and re-forming, building keeps and beasts,
men and monsters, mountains and rivers. Always the high meadows had brought her the peace of absolute freedom, but she found no peace there now—not in the soft, warm air of a sunny day, nor by moonlight, nor in mist or rain.

  She found no peace anywhere. In the flames that burned in her mother’s hearth, a dark face formed and flickered. When she hunted, she found herself turning to look for the astonished and delighted expression of a laughing companion who had kept pace and had not outrun her—although he could have. And when she sang, she felt the draw of the longing in the green-gold-flecked eyes that had added a meaning to the words describing the love of the heroes for their ladies.

  It was not only when she sang that Rhiannon felt the pull of Simon’s desire. Often she woke in the night with the feeling that someone had whispered her name, and now, lying on the sun-warmed earth, she found her head turning toward the east, where Rhuddlan keep lay, or to where Dinas Emrys towered above the Vale of Waters. She told herself that one naturally chose a southern meadow because there the sun felt warmest, and the mornings in the hills were chilly even in the end of July on the fairest day. But when the wind murmured Simon seeks across the tall grass, Rhiannon rose and fled.

  “I am not happy,” she cried to her mother, whom she found seated before her loom.

  Kicva lifted her head from the intricate pattern she was weaving and looked steadily at her daughter. They were alike to an unusual degree, except that the mother’s hair was lighter and streaked with gray; Rhiannon’s thick black mane came from her father.

  “I have noticed,” she said, and looked back at her weaving to hide the amusement in her eyes.

  It was a wool as fine as silk with which Kicva worked, dyed just the leaf-green color of Rhiannon’s eyes, and the pattern in gleaming gold was of interlaced branches upon which many birds perched. Rhiannon did not look at her mother’s work; Kicva was always about some household task. The daughter’s sensitive nostrils flared with irritation.