And yet again her heart seemed to tremble, for she had believed that her father was immortal. He was beautiful and courageous and fine … but he was flesh and blood and had died like the next man.
The children were laughing. Spring had come and it was right that they should feel the renewal of life and laughter. She watched as they ran in the tall grass, allowed the tempest in her soul to fade, and then had dared to smile. She loved little Edmund. He had his father’s serious eyes and dark crop of hair, but he had something of his mother’s features and was a beautiful child.
She wondered what her children would look like and if they would resemble Rowan or herself. Rowan’s coloring was much like the king’s; he had wonderful mink-brown hair, a fine mustache and dark beard, and expressive hazel eyes. He was taller than the king, lean but strong, and—Rhiannon decided—was entirely wonderful.
She lay back for a moment in the tall grass, closing her eyes. Rowan was with Alfred now, and she prayed that he would soon return. When he took her into his arms, all would be well. She would forget the nightmares and would cease to fear the ice-eyed stranger.
And when the king had finished with the Danes at Rochester, she would marry Rowan. Alfred had been too preoccupied with war to sanction their union yet, but when the king returned, she would beg him to have the banns called from the church. Alfred was fond of Rowan, she knew. He would not protest. He had always smiled benignly on their love affair.
It was an appealing daydream. The king would give her to her bridegroom, and Alswitha would laugh with her and give her warnings about the night to come. But she was in love and not afraid of the bridal bed. Rather, she had loved the slow, sultry kisses that she and Rowan had exchanged, and she had been sweetly eager to know more. To give herself to Rowan seemed but a natural and beautiful thing to do. She loved to imagine being with him through the night, at his side.
She started, her reverie broken, as she felt a thundering against the earth. Edmund was shouting excitedly and drawing his sisters through the high grass. Rhiannon scrambled to her feet and saw that the gates were opening. The king was returning.
Looking toward the manor, Rhiannon saw Alswitha come from the house. She did not rush to meet her husband but waited. Alfred gave the order that his men were free to engage in leisurely pursuits, then he turned his mount toward the house. He dismounted, and there, as a groom came for his horse, he greeted his wife. Rhiannon watched them for a moment, glad of their love, and then she searched through the crowd of returning horsemen until she saw Rowan. Her heart went out to him, for he appeared tired and very forlorn, and she wondered with a new rush of fury what had happened on the coast for him to appear so pained. Like Alfred and his important aldermen—Allen, Edward of Sussex, William of Northumbria, and Jon of Wincester—Rowan was heading toward the manor, after the king. There was to be some kind of a council meeting, Rhiannon thought. But perhaps Alfred would allow her a moment with Rowan, a quick greeting, before he took sole use of the hall.
“Children, come!” she called to them. “Your father has come home!”
She did not need to tell the little ones, for they were already racing toward the manor. She followed, first at a run, then more discreetly, as befitted her station in life. But when she came to the house, she burst through the door as quickly as the children.
Serfs were already busy supplying the king and his men with ale. Alswitha was greeting them cordially. The children ran to their father, demanding his attention. Alfred’s eyes glanced at Rhiannon and slid away, and she was startled, for the king always looked everyone, man or woman, straight in the eyes. Edmund had reached him. He hugged his son and turned his back on Rhiannon. She stiffened. So he was still angry with her. Yet none of it was her fault.
She did not care, she thought, but she did. She did not love him so much because he was the king but because of his value as a man. She loved his quick wit and intuition and loved to listen as he expatiated on his dreams. Alfred saw an England in which learning and culture flourished once again.
Rhiannon bowed her head, acknowledging Allen, Edward, William, and Jon. She was fond of Jon and Edward; they were both men near her own age, quick to laughter and the use of flowery phrases, and ever her defenders. Allen she found too grim, yet she forgave him, for it was easy to understand his ever-serious nature. William sometimes frightened her. He watched her and studied her, twirling his fine, dark mustache as he did so, making her wonder what cunning lurked in his mind. He made her uneasy, but she nodded to him, anyway. Then she realized that they were all three staring at her and that each of them seemed very grave and serious and grim. She couldn’t understand it, for they had come back with their full number, so the Irish prince must have negotiated. There couldn’t have been another battle.
The king still held little Edmund, so Rhiannon felt that she was free to smile at the others and hurry past them in her efforts to reach Rowan. She quickened her pace as she neared him, casting herself into his arms.
“Rhiannon!” He whispered her name painfully.
Something was wrong. She knew it instantly. She stared into Rowan’s eyes and was certain that she saw a glaze of tears there. Nor would he hold her. He caught her arms and held her from him, and the confusion was almost more than she could bear.
“Rowan, what is the matter?”
“I—I’ve no more right to hold you,” he said softly, and only then did she realize that everyone in the room was staring at her—the king harshly and coldly; Alswitha with confusion; and each and every one of the men sorrowfully and with a keen discomfort.
They all knew something she did not.
“What has happened?” she demanded.
Whatever it was had to be awful, she knew. She looked at Rowan again. His features were taut with pain and he held her tightly but away from him. A slow chill swept through her. It took root at the base of her spine; swept upward, catching her nape; then spread to her limbs.
“Rowan—”
“The king must tell you,” he said. He set her from him and quickly addressed Alfred in a choking voice. “I would leave now, Sire.”
The king nodded. Rhiannon stared at Alfred, demanding an answer with her eyes.
“What is it?” she asked again at last. She tried to keep her voice low. Then she knew. They had not been able to dislodge the Viking from her land. Viking? she thought bitterly. Nay—the Irishman. The king kept insisting that the usurpers were Irish.
“My home,” she said. “It is lost.”
“All of you, leave us,” Alfred said.
“Alfred—” Alswitha began.
“Leave us!” the king repeated to his wife.
She heard the men turn and leave. She didn’t see them; her eyes were locked with the king’s. She was dimly aware that Alswitha called to the children, and then Rhiannon was alone with the king, and an awful terror filled her heart.
“Alfred, tell me!” she cried hoarsely.
For a moment she thought that he meant to stall, to speak to her as gently as possible and to try to soften the cruelty of his coming words.
But then he spoke flatly, in a tone of voice he had never used to her before.
“You are to be married.”
Married. She had just been dreaming of such a blissful state. But if she were to marry Rowan, there would not be this awful tension in the room.
“Married?” she repeated, and her tone was as cool as his.
“Immediately.”
“To whom, may I ask, my noble king?” The tone of her voice was subtly sarcastic. The inflection was not lost upon Alfred.
“I am sorry to hurt you in any way, Rhiannon, but I am doing what I must. I have betrothed you to Eric of Dubhlain. The wedding will take place here, in two weeks.”
She could not believe him. The words washed over her and then seemed to fall at her feet like cold droplets of rain.
She shook her head. “No. This is some jest.”
“Nay, Rhiannon, no jest.”
Th
e cold seized her. It surged through her. He meant to give her to some unknown prince. To an Irishman, a foreigner with Norse blood. He had used her like some playing piece in a game, as an appeasement for what had happened.
“Alfred, you cannot mean this. You cannot do this to me. I am in love with Rowan and he with me.”
“Rhiannon, love is a luxury I cannot allow you at this time. Rowan has understood that I had no choice. You must do the same.”
Seconds elapsed. She stared at him, stricken. For the first time in her life she did not know how to deal with the king.
Supplication, she thought swiftly. She had always been one of his favorites. She must plead.
“No. Please!” she whispered, and she hurried to him, falling upon her knees before him. “Alfred, however I have offended you, I beg your pardon! And I beg your mercy! Please—”
“Stop it! Stop it!” he roared at her. “Get off your knees. You have not offended me. This is no punishment. You will do as you are told, for I have commanded that it will be so. I have done you no injury! I have given you to the son of a king, and the grandson of the great king of all Ireland. You will not shame me by protesting this arrangement.” He jerked his hand away and turned from her. “Get up.”
Stunned, amazed, Rhiannon stared at him. She could not believe that he would turn so callously from her.
She stood slowly, staring at the back he presented to her. Her voice trembled as she spoke. “I cannot. I will not do it. Perhaps your Irish prince never stepped ashore, but his Norse henchmen destroyed my town and my people. I will not marry the man.”
He swung around in fury. “You will!”
“No,” she said softly, emphatically. She felt so very cold, almost numb. The king was not angry. He was not seeking revenge, and she could not plead her case before him. He was a man obsessed; he had set his mind and issued his command. And he was the king.
“You have no choice,” he told her flatly. “If you continue to argue with me, I will have you imprisoned until the day of the wedding.”
“Do what you will, I will not marry this man!” she vowed.
“You force my hand, Rhiannon.”
She remained silent. “Allen!” he called out sharply.
“What are you doing?” she demanded desperately. She hadn’t wanted to lose her control, her dignity. Now he was calling upon one of her least favorite of his men to … to do something with her.
Her control snapped. He was her cousin, her guardian. Tears formed in her eyes and hovered on her lashes. She sprang to life, her dignity abandoned, and raced toward him. She slammed against him with passion and fury, beating against his chest. He caught her arms and her hands fell futilely against his chest. She met his eyes and thought that he was glad of her wrath, that he welcomed the storm of her fury, for it somehow absolved him.
“Alfred, whom the English hail as great!” she whispered scathingly. “I will never forgive you for this. Nor will I marry this man!” she promised.
For one moment it seemed that he would soften. His lips parted as if he would speak, his hands moving as if he would stroke her hair. He did not. He thrust her from him. “Allen!” he called again.
Allen came at the second call. Rhiannon kept staring at the king. Allen touched her arm, and she jerked free of him, approaching the king heatedly once again. “I’ll not do it! You cannot force me! I will run to the holy sisters, I will seek refuge in Paris—I will go to the Danes!”
The last caught the king’s attention. He spun around and returned to her.
“Nay, lady, you will not. I will keep you under lock and key until the moment you are wed. And if you persist in this infamy, I will pray that he is more Viking than Irishman and that he will take all necessary measures to silence you! Allen!” he roared. “Take her from my sight!”
Allen grasped her arm hard. She turned to face him and saw that there was a malicious gleam in his eye, as if he enjoyed her discomfort.
“Let go of me, Allen!” she demanded. “I will walk where you so choose. Just keep your hands off me.”
His smile straightened, his mustache falling low over his mouth. His gaze upon her darkened. “Lady, I would watch your noble tongue!” he warned her.
“I will watch nothing!” she said. She jerked free and hurried past him, storming out the door. Within seconds he was behind her. He caught hold of her arm just as Edward reached them both. “Please, let me take her!” Edward implored.
She didn’t look at Allen; she was too close to tears. It seemed that he acquiesced, for Edward was leading her then. She stumbled, amazed that the sun could still be shining, that the clash of steel could still be heard as men practiced the arts of war.
But now there was no one close to the king’s house.
“I’m sorry, Rhiannon,” Edward said to her. “So very sorry.”
“Where are you taking me?”
“The spring house.”
It was a small, unfurnished structure down the slope of the valley, usually used for storage. There was nothing at all within it now. One single high window let in the light.
“Don’t bolt me in. Let me escape,” she pleaded.
“You know that I cannot,” Edward told her sadly.
She managed to square her shoulders and step into the small building. She slammed the door of her prison, and sank down to the dirt floor.
Then she burst into tears, trying to muffle the sound so that no one set to guard her might hear her. She cried in silence until the darkness descended. No one came near her. No one brought so much as a drop of water. She sat through the dark, silent night in abject misery, her resolve stiffening.
She slept, but her dreams were filled with terror. The Irish prince had turned her over to his blond Norse henchman, and the man was stalking her. Her arrow protruded from his thigh, and blood cascaded down his leg as he shouted at her, “Pray, lady. Pray that we do not meet again.”
In the morning the queen came to her. Rhiannon was pale and exhausted and bitter.
She told Alswitha that she wanted to see the king.
Alfred had betrayed her. The king had cast her to the enemy, but she would not consent to his decree. Somehow she would elude them all. And they would never suspect.
Alswitha brought her to Alfred. Rhiannon knelt down before him and whispered that she acquiesced to his will.
She could not face him as she lied; yet a lie was her only road to freedom.
He took her into his arms again and held her tightly. He whispered that he was glad and grateful that he loved her and would always be there for her.
I hate you! she cried inwardly.
But she didn’t really hate him. She remembered her father and knew that Alfred could die at any time. She held him tightly in return; she could not obey him but she did love him.
She just couldn’t forgive what he had done. She could not accept it. There seemed to be a coldness that wound around her heart and turned it to ice. He was unrelenting. She could be the same, Rhiannon knew, yet if she did not pretend to accept his will, then she would have little chance to change her fate.
She had already bought her freedom from the spring house.
The next morning she went out to the stables. She longed to take the roan that had brought her there and fly with the creature, fly into the wind, to the north, to the south, to oblivion. She knew that she had to be patient, though, and cunning. She fervently wished that she had not fought the king so forcefully when he had first brought the news to her, for now she would have to cultivate his trust carefully. Today she would just stay here for the morning and stroke the soft noses of the animals. She would whisper to them and choose her mount. She needed the strongest and swiftest of them. She could not judge them easily here, but she was familiar with horseflesh and breeding and could choose a sound mount to ride when the time to escape rolled around.
She smiled, pausing where the roan was stalled. He was not the finest beast but had delivered her once from imminent danger. She paused to st
roke the creature and then heard her name whispered softly, brokenly, and heartrendingly.
“Rhiannon!”
She turned; she knew the voice. Rowan stood there, tall and handsome in his linen chemise, short leather tunic, and sturdy hose. His sword was at his side, his eyes plagued by misery. His face remained ashen, yet she thought that it had taken courage for him to come there after the king had spoken on her fate.
She cried out his name and rushed to him. His arms tightened around her. He swept her from her feet and carried her to a mound of hay, and they fell there together. He held her as if she were a priceless treasure. She reached up and touched the curling locks of his hair that fell to his neck, then moved her palm lovingly over his bearded chin. “Rowan!” she whispered, and sobs bubbled up within her.
He saw the tears in her eyes. He touched her lips with his fingers. And suddenly she remembered everything about him, remembered why she loved him. He had been with the party that had returned her father’s body to the coast when Garth had died, and when she had fallen over his form in tears, Rowan had taken her up. When the horror had been too much, he had lifted her into his arms. And in the days that followed, he had spoken of her father’s courage and determination. He had given much of Garth back to her, and for that alone she could have adored him.
He held her away and stroked her cheeks, staring at her face as if he could imprint the memory of it forever on his heart. She felt a new surge of fear, for she now realized how fully he had accepted the king’s will and realized that she truly had no help for it.
“We should have married before,” he said dully. “We should have married ere now and the king could not have done this thing.”
“It is not done yet,” she murmured.