THERE WERE THOSE at Cymaron who thought things might actually be better with Norman overlordship. Nobody was stupid enough to say it, but the king knew who they were; he knew as well that they would not go against the collective will of his barons, which he could usually manipulate. Some of the barons would also be inclined toward capitulation, but he knew how to handle them. He was almost looking forward to it now that they were all here.
Gwirion’s work would be simple that night, just a few tunes after Hywel’s raspy recitation of “The Sovereignty of Britain.” But he was fascinated by all the faces, both the familiar—Anarawd, the king’s cousin, for example—and the unknown. He scrutinized the guests as they laid their weapons in a pile by the door and made their way to the dais to receive a formal welcome from their king and queen. Of the forty or so men who attended the war council, more than a dozen had brought their mates, and of them, seven or eight had young children underfoot, offspring not yet old enough to have gone to wardens and foster parents for their upbringing. These men were mostly from the eastern border near Mortimer, and they had chosen the inconvenience of traveling with children over the anxiety of leaving them behind. Gwirion adored the children, and even had a sentimental flash that first chilly afternoon of wanting the queen to produce offspring so he could play with them. Ashamed of himself for falling prey to such sentimentality, he banished the image from his mind. She would probably never let him near her children anyway.
MORE than one man who was meeting his queen for the first time looked into her bewimpled face with surprise, and commented that he hadn’t heard her beauty praised as it deserved. At first she dismissed this as flattery, knowing the Celtic aesthetic differed from the continental, but when enough of them had said it, always after a brief, surprised stare, she beamed, beginning to believe the compliment. Noble enjoyed the glow in her tawny eyes. He still did not consider her beautiful—handsome, yes, perhaps pretty with her petite, efficient features and high forehead, but not beautiful—and he found it as surprising and flattering as she did that so many men were struck by her appearance. It made him want to gloat. They were an elegant couple tonight, matching in their heavier ceremonial crowns and long tunics of brocaded crimson silk edged with gold, she with a surcoat of velvet from England that all the women eyed covetously.
A dark-haired young man, her age or likely younger, knelt at their feet now, and kissed first the king’s hand, then the queen’s, before even lifting his eyes. He wore a green woolen tunic onto which had been sewn a yellow eagle displayed, and he was handsome, his features sharp and aristocratic. He too did an appreciative double take when he first saw her, but unlike the ones who had come before him, he seemed struck dumb. He took in a breath and finally turned to the king with a dazzled, guileless smile. “Your wife her ladyship is the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.”
“I thank you,” Noble said. “You may tell her so directly.”
He looked at the queen and then quickly back at the king. “I don’t think I can,” he said with complete sincerity.
Noble chuckled. “Conquer your shyness, lad.” He kept an eye on his wife, seeking her agreement as he added, “Sit by us tonight and share our cup if you like. See if you can bring yourself to talk to her.”
The young man’s face lit up. He nodded his thanks, and began to descend from the dais. “What is your name, sir?” the queen asked, holding him back with her words.
For a moment, he looked as though he really didn’t know the answer. Then he beamed reassuringly and announced, “Owain ap Ithel, milady.”
“Owain is a good name. We say John in England.”
“You may call me John if you like, milady. I would turn Norman for your sake.”
Noble almost snapped at this—but seeing that the young man was obviously too flustered to realize what he’d said, he smiled broadly instead and clapped him on the arm. “Good lad, not only talking to her but flirting! We’ll make a man of you yet.”
Owain nodded and excused himself. While waiting for the next man to cross up to them, Noble glanced at the queen and quietly baahed like a sheep.
“That’s not nice,” she scolded, laughing, both of them grateful for the moment of levity between them.
AFTER the official greetings, people dispersed to dress for supper. It was crowded, and most of them would be sleeping in the hall for the duration, pushing the servants to the lower end near the door. There were curtains hung for nighttime privacy along the outer edges of the room, and these were pulled closed now to change behind, while every pitcher and basin in the castle was collected for people to wash the road mud off their hands and boots. The custom of washing guests’ feet was suspended with the understanding that there were far too many feet and not enough washers.
The king had chosen two parties to honor with the only separate apartments the castle offered visitors. One was Anarawd his cousin, the man who was still for now his heir. Although Noble found him hateful he felt obliged to honor the kinship, so Anarawd’s entourage would stay in the king’s snug, unadorned audience room directly off the hall. Huw ap Maredudd was being coddled for quite another reason: His large manors high on the hills near Llanidloes, although poor in soil like much of northwestern Maelienydd and therefore nearly worthless in themselves, were full of mountain passes and put him closest to Llewelyn’s siren call, which he was openly intrigued by. He was one of the very few wealthy landowners with no traceable lineage to the king, and Noble needed to keep him pleased with his current sovereign; he would be staying with his wife above the steward and usher, in the quietest, most private room in the castle.
But Gwirion noticed the portly, middle-aged Huw standing now in the upper half of the hall near the fire, in personal audience with Noble as people unpacked and settled in around them in the din. The unobtrusive chandler had already lit the hall—it was dark hours before supper now, and a room with more people in it seemed to require more light. As Huw and Noble spoke, there spread across the king’s face an understated slyness that Gwirion historically associated with secret assignations. It surprised him: Noble nearly always used Gwirion as his interlocutor for intimate arrangements. He supposed Noble was requesting to detain some attendant lady in Huw’s retinue, but he idly wondered why the king was doing it himself instead of sending him.
Before he had a chance to glean the answer, he was conscripted into duty. The children, ten in all, were scampering through the hall, darting around the screens wreaking havoc and spreading mud, gleeful the journey and then the tiresome formalities were over, and a harried Hafaidd gave Gwirion the job of keeping them from mischief.
He decided to settle them by the hearth and explain to them what their parents were too busy or nervous to explain: why they were making this visit, and what the fuss was all about. He had finished his main narrative and was answering their questions when he noticed the young dark-haired baron who had been so inarticulate with the queen on the dais, his face washed and his travel outfit exchanged for a long black ceremonial tunic. He approached Gwirion and the children, and stood watching him with quiet interest.
Not noticing Owain, Isabel caught Gwirion and the children in her peripheral vision, and immediately handed the brychans she was carrying to a passing hall servant. “Take these to the men in that corner,” she ordered, and headed briskly back toward the hearth. She didn’t trust Gwirion with youngsters, so she was surprised and impressed to hear him engaging the children in an apparently sensible conversation, and paused out of sight to listen.
“But why do they want our land?” asked a six-year-old boy.
“I don’t really know, to be honest.” His face brightened. “Let’s ask the queen the next time we see her—she understands all about the English, she’s very fond of them. Those English seem to delight in taking other people’s things.” She bristled in her hiding place, but decided not to intervene. She almost hoped he’d say something worse and get himself thrown out of hall for the week.
“But why so much?” another child demanded.
Gwirion looked at their trusting, upturned faces and wondered if he should give in to a terrible impulse. Probably not, he thought.
Oh, what the hell, he thought.
“It has to do with genitals,” he said gravely. “Do you know that word?” They didn’t. Around the corner, listening, she assumed she had heard wrong, and tried to figure out what he’d actually said.
“When boys piss—you know how that’s different from girls pissing, of course.”
They all did, from the family livestock if nothing else. “You mean a penis,” said a little girl, gravely.
“Exactly.” Gwirion smiled. “Some men have very small penises. Roger Mortimer, for example, has a very—”
“That’s enough,” two voices announced in unison, as Isabel and Owain descended upon him from opposite sides at the same moment. They startled each other more than they startled Gwirion or the children, but both recovered at once, with a formality that was almost as risible as their embarrassment. Owain bowed—gracefully, to Gwirion’s surprise—and the queen nodded her head in acknowledgment.
“It’s Your Majesty’s prerogative,” he insisted, gesturing toward Gwirion as if he were a piece of furniture.
She smiled and shook her head. “I have such ample opportunity for this particular chastisement, I’ve grown weary of it. Please continue, I applaud your initiative.”
“They’re discussing who’s going to bawl me out over pissing,” Gwirion explained loudly, annoyed. He glanced up at them. “May I finish?”
“No, Gwirion,” Isabel said firmly, “it’s—”
“But why does having a small genital make someone want to take our land?” an older girl, about seven, asked. She was pleased with herself for incorporating the new vocabulary word. “Girls have smaller ones than boys and girls don’t do such things.”
They all looked expectantly at Gwirion. He held up his hands. “Alas, my friends, I’ve just been banned from speaking to you about this very timely topic. Query the grown-ups.” He lifted himself up from the hearth and walked off toward the side door with a huff of exaggerated indignation—then immediately ducked to hide behind the corner of the fireplace, where the queen herself had just been eavesdropping. Owain and his hostess were left looking at each other and the children in silence.
“So then?” one of the boys finally ventured. “Do you know the answer or not?”
The queen looked down at them. Other than Thomas she had no experience with children, and he had never demanded this kind of explanation. “Of course we do,” she said gamely. But her mind was a blank.
“Here’s what it is,” Owain announced, and gave her a reassuring smile before turning his attention to the children. “Men think the bigger they are there, the better they are. So men with smaller ones act the way they think men with big ones act, so everyone will think theirs are bigger too.” The children exchanged perplexed looks: This was so stupid, he had to be making it up.
“So why do men with big genitals take over land?” the seven-year-old pressed on behalf of the group.
“Oh, but they don’t,” Owain assured them, with doe-eyed sincerity, and without thinking it through he added, earnestly, “I’ve never stolen so much as a handful of dirt.” Her Majesty’s surprised laughter made him blink, and then blush. He glanced quickly at the children, but they hadn’t followed the logic and were already bored with him. He turned his attention nervously back to Isabel, who couldn’t check her amusement. After a hesitant moment, Owain chuckled sheepishly with her and when their glances met again, they both began laughing in earnest, although the blush stayed on his cheeks.
The exchange was delightful to Gwirion until the moment he realized they were enjoying themselves. That robbed him of his pleasure, and he skulked off toward the kitchen looking for something to eat. If he had to listen to them giggling all evening he would lose his appetite.
NOBLE was astounded by the change in Owain’s composure by the time the trestles were set up and supper served. Isabel must have taken the effort to put him at ease, and he was so guileless about his admiration of her that it was hard to begrudge him his oddly unassuming familiarity. There was nothing predatory in his attentions; he had no thought of his worship being given weight either by a married queen or by her lord. The dais had been disassembled and replaced by the high table before the fireplace, hosting only the royal couple and certain members of the court. But none of the dignitaries sat as close tonight as Owain did, right at the queen’s side and serving her from the platter they both shared with the king. She was unused to portioning food among three, and it was occasionally awkward keeping track of who wanted the mead and who the milk, but it was an awkwardness she found herself enjoying, and she laughed throughout the meal.
Owain and Isabel shared an interest in the stars, and each knew many constellations, although they ascribed different names and legends to them and it took some puzzling to figure out who was discussing what. Noble, amused by Owain’s uncomplicated amiability, suggested the three of them repair to the wall walk before the end of the council week to stargaze, and they both nodded, forgetting there was a full moon that would wash out the heavens. Gwirion rolled his eyes, but nobody saw him.
The king was enjoying his wife’s hilarity. Earlier in the evening she had been merely cheerful. Now she was effervescent. He had never seen her so lighthearted and he liked it. If this was the effect of her being unabashedly adored, he would have to round up lots of adorers to keep her in good humor. It could do remarkable things for his domestic life. As the tables were being cleared away he even suggested this to Gwirion, but Gwirion scowled at the idea. “And what if she falls in love with one of them?”
“Gwirion, look at him,” Noble scoffed. “His voice has barely changed—he only came into his inheritance last month. I’m not sure he’s even realized he’s flirting.”
The queen settled in her chair near the fire for the evening’s entertainment, and invited the young man to sit beside her until the king joined them. Owain pointed to Noble and Gwirion’s huddled conversation nearby. “And what’s that about, milady?” he asked.
She shook her head. “They have the strangest friendship. I don’t think I’ll ever understand it, and I am not sure I care to.” That was a lie. She wanted very much to understand it.
“Is he a bit off, then, that fellow?” Owain ventured thoughtfully, watching them. “May I ask Your Majesty what he does here?”
She laughed ironically. “What doesn’t he do would be easier to answer. He certainly doesn’t do anything useful.” She softened. “That’s not true. He saved my brother’s life a month ago.”
“Really?” he asked. “I’m glad to hear it. What was it, then, an accident?”
She gave him an awkward smile. “Not quite. Mostly he pulls elaborate pranks that take weeks or months of planning, and he doesn’t care about the victims as long as the prank comes off. He’s insulting, rude, bawdy…and very good at what he does. We despised each other the first six months I was here.” She was surprised, and glad, that she could put that in the past tense.
“Why?”
She didn’t discuss this with anyone, even her ladies, and she knew it was impolitic to broach it with one of the men Noble needed for his mission. But she liked the easy innocence in his eyes. And she was lonely; Noble was the only one she could talk to without enduring officiousness or boredom, and his attentions had been entirely on this conference for a fortnight. “We were both mad with jealousy for the king’s attention,” she explained and then, oversimplifying, “It took a while to accept the pecking order.”
Owain made a face of expansive sympathy. “I can see how it would be hard for him to yield up pride of place.”
“He didn’t.”
He was incredulous. “The funny fellow comes before you? How could the king make such—forgive me, Your Majesty, but how could he make such a choice?”
She smiled tightly and shook her head; Noble was making his way toward them and they dropped the matter. When he reached them he gave Owain a warm smile of greeting, then settled between them into his cushioned chair and took his wife’s hand. “That’s enough gallivanting for you tonight, young lady,” he teased, kissing her cheek. Her unprecedented levity made him sincerely grateful for the first time since last spring to have her as a companion. There was something almost Enid-like about it. With Lord Huw’s cooperation, he had already negotiated an early evening rendezvous, but if she was still glowing like this later on…He kissed her quickly on the lips and then turned to listen to Gwirion play, not noticing her smile waver for a moment.
It was the condescension that annoyed her, the assumption that his wife would docilely obey the marriage vows he so blithely broke.
If my receiving such attention is amusing, I’ll amuse you with it until it’s not amusement anymore. What a simple plan. She should have tried it months ago.
AFTER Gwirion’s performance that evening, Owain asked a dozen harried servants where to find the harpist, and finally somebody suggested that he try the king’s private receiving chamber just off the hall. Owain was shown to the room and knocked. When nobody answered, he tried the latch, and the big oak door swung inward.
The room was crowded with sleeping blankets, but none of their inhabitants had claimed them yet. The usual furniture—Noble’s leather chair, the cushioned settle, and the chest that doubled as a table—had been pushed to the side, and across the room was a blazing hearth. The room, with walls almost twice as thick as the solar above it, was cozy and wonderfully warm. It was a relief to be out of the crowd.
Gwirion sat curled up like a cat in front of the fire, gazing into the flames. He did not turn when Owain entered.
“Excuse me,” Owain said pleasantly. Moving only his eyes, Gwirion briefly glanced toward him, then back to the fire.
“It’s you,” Gwirion said, as if that implied something.
“Yes,” Owain said, smiling, as if he was content with whatever it might imply. “Me.”
A silence. Gwirion wondered whether his ease came from stupidity or cockiness. Or perhaps—although it was hard to imagine it—genuine innocence.
“Do you want something, then?” Gwirion asked, still not turning toward him.
“You play exquisitely.”
“Thank you.”
“Do you compose as well?”
“Ah.” Gwirion uncurled and finally turned toward the younger man. “You want me to compose a song on your behalf extolling the beauty of the queen.”
Owain was surprised. “Yes!” he said, pleased. “How did you know that?”
Gwirion was about to give a mocking answer but reconsidered and simply smiled. “Call it a hunch,” he said. “But I can’t help you.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t find her attractive, myself. I think she’s sexless.”
“How can you say that?” Owain scolded gently. “Those eyes? That smile?”
Before Gwirion could pretend to vomit, the door opened and the subject of their conversation stood in the doorway, looking slightly less elated than she had before. Because he had taken a few steps away, Owain was hidden behind the door as it swung inward, and Gwirion was backlit by the fire, his face in shadow. “I wondered if you would care to join me on the wall walk to look at the constellations,” she said to Gwirion. “I have been displaced from my quarters for a little while and I thought to enjoy your company until my bed is ready.”
“Oh, Christ,” the harpist groaned, standing up and moving toward her so she could see his face in the light from the hall. “You’re even worse than he is.”
She started when she realized who it was. “I thought you were—”
“Yes, I know. He’s right behind the door. Take him and good riddance. I assume you don’t want a threesome.”
He left. She took a step farther into the room so that she could see Owain. “That was embarrassing,” she said, not sounding embarrassed. “Did you hear my invitation?”
“Thank you, milady, I’d like that very much. But don’t you think the king might like to join us?”
“The king is otherwise engaged,” she said with tight finality. “He is entertaining one of our female guests.” Seeing the startled look on his face, she laughed in the dim light. “I’m telling you all our little secrets. You must forgive me. I’m so desperate for somebody to talk to. And I’ve had more wine than usual. Would you like to come up and look at the stars?”
Owain said he’d be delighted to.
GWIRION wasn’t sure what to do now. It was one thing when their guest was innocently drooling over the queen, but for the queen to encourage or return the attention drastically altered the picture, and suggesting they stargaze when there were no stars was a declaration of mischief. She must have learned that the king had gone for a “nap” and was motivated by a reckless sense of revenge. Surely she wasn’t actually interested in Owain? Impossible, he decided, and dropped it. Noble had enough on his mind already. He didn’t want to be a snitch.
SO it was without malice of intent—quite the contrary—that he worked his way through the crowded hall, across the chilly yard, and up the stairs to the king’s chamber. As he expected, the king’s massive doorkeeper Gethin was standing in the anteroom looking bored, ignoring the sounds of sexual rapture from within. Any vicarious thrill to be had from the job had worn off years ago.
“Some servant of Lord Huw’s, is it?” Gwirion asked, remembering the conversation he’d overseen earlier.
“Actually it’s his lordship’s wife.”
Gwirion looked impressed, then confused. “His lordship condoned it?”
Gethin grinned confidentially. “For a price. The king offered him a stable boy he had his eye on.”
Gwirion was stunned. He forced himself to leer. “Ah. So everyone wins.”
“Except the stable boy,” said Gethin, and chortled. Gwirion pretended to join him, but turned his face away to hide a flash of anger. That explained why Noble had not used Gwirion as a go-between; he knew Gwirion would never broker such an arrangement, would probably even sabotage it. He sat on the floor, resting his back against the wall. It was cold down there, but the cold was numbing and he needed to calm himself.
After half an hour, the noises from the inner chamber stopped for good, and a few minutes later the door opened. A tall, graceful woman noticeably older than the king came out of the room in a very elegant russet gown that was in slight disarray. Her hair was uncovered and loose, tumbling long, dark, and unruly down the curves of her body, and she looked both sleepy and giddy at the same time. She was strikingly beautiful and exuded that rare smoky sensuality that deepens with maturity. Not noticing Gwirion, she gave the ogling doorkeeper an engaging smile as she passed him to descend the steps. Gwirion had never seen her here before today, but she must have had some arrangement with her husband to be so casual about cuckolding him. He tried to imagine the queen agreeing to such an arrangement and shook his head.
“Scrumptious,” he said when she was out of earshot. “I want one.” But he was still angry about the boy.
The king’s voice called out. Gethin stuck his head into the room, received an order, and shut the door again, heading for the stairs down to the yard. Gwirion leapt to his feet. “The queen?” he asked.
The man nodded. Because of the horde of guests, the queen’s chamber had been turned into a dormitory for the children, with her three women and several visiting nursemaids jammed in as well, so she and her husband were sharing his bed for the week no matter what his recreational intentions.
“She’s not in hall, I’ll get her,” said Gwirion. “She’s outside, it’s cold, you stay snug in here.” Before Gethin could respond Gwirion dashed out onto the open wall walk.
The temperature had dropped while he’d been waiting by Noble’s door, and the cold hit him like a slap. He wrapped his arms around his body wishing he had brought at least a cloak. The winter night was biting but mesmerizing, cloudless, the moon so brilliant its light washed out the constellations. A hundred feet away from him, near the opening to her own antechamber, stood the queen and her admirer, each wrapped in purple cloaks, absurdly pretending to stargaze and clearly distracted by their proximity. Gwirion observed them for a moment, fascinated.
It had never occurred to him that the queen could feel desire, attraction, any independent emotion at all besides peevishness. He felt no protective loyalty toward her, but he knew he had to nip the infatuation in the bud. Their backs were to him and he could hear an unfamiliar cooing quality in the queen’s voice that made him ill. Soundlessly, he drew up behind, easily visible but entirely unnoticed in their mutual absorption. As a silence settled on them and the queen smiled at her escort with an inexcusably stupid level of invitation, Gwirion lunged forward and clapped his hands together between them.
Isabel gasped and they both spun around. His teeth flashed in the moonlight.
“And how is heaven this evening?” he asked.
“What are you doing here?” demanded Isabel.
“Saving you from yourself,” Gwirion replied loftily.
“You can’t be serious,” the queen said. “We’re not even alone.” She gestured to the guards standing watch over on the tower keep, a hundred yards away across the trench and twenty feet above them.
“You might have had an orgy and those men wouldn’t have known of it. It would behoove Her Majesty to keep a guard with her at all times now,” Gwirion retorted testily. “The castle’s full of strange men. Even their allegiance to the king can’t guarantee their behavior toward you. They can be very dangerous—one of them even wanted to compose a song about you.”
“All right, now,” Owain interjected awkwardly.
Ignoring him, Gwirion jerked his head up the walk. “He’s ready for you.”
Isabel looked down at her feet for a moment, stalling, pushing a stray pebble about with her shoe. “Is he in his chamber?” she asked at last.
“Better than that, in his bed. Probably asleep. Be grateful—he really worked over your proxy, she could hardly walk when she left.”
“Don’t speak to your queen that way!” Owain gasped, shocked, and raised a gloved hand to smack Gwirion, but she grabbed his arm and stopped him.
“Don’t hurt him, it’s the only hanging offense in the castle,” she said resentfully.
“I’m doing you a favor coming here,” Gwirion snapped. “He sent his doorkeeper for her. Do you know what would have happened if he’d had to look all over the castle for her and then bring her back with the report that she’d been alone up here with you? Stargazing?” he added sarcastically, waving at the moon.
“How is it any better if you tell him?” she demanded.
“I’m not going to tell him.”
In the diffused light he could clearly see her surprise. He didn’t know if she was relieved or annoyed—it must have been the latter, if she was doing this just to get back at the king for his tryst.
“Thank you,” she said stiffly. She turned to Owain, bid him a polite but impersonal good night, and headed along the walk until she disappeared into Noble’s tower.
Alone, the two men looked at each other in the moonlight.
“I’m sorry,” Owain said, sincere and slightly sheepish. “I didn’t realize how serious it was.”
“Were you raised by wolves? A married woman, any married woman, knows better than to be alone with—”
“She invited me!” he insisted.
“Of course she did, she wanted to enrage her husband. You should have respectfully declined.” Gwirion began to head back toward the stairs. “Excuse me, there’s a boy in the stables who needs tending.”
“Ah, did old Huw get his hands on him, then?” Owain asked casually.
Gwirion stopped and turned back to him. “You know about that?”
“Everyone in the western baronies knows Huw,” Owain said with an awkward smile. “Not that anyone cares about Huw, but his wife…” He laughed nervously, then explained in a confiding tone: “She gave him three boys, but late in life, and something happened with the third and she couldn’t conceive anymore. So he decided he didn’t care what she did as long as she didn’t care what he did. Their marriage is, mmm, well-known near the border. I doubt there’s a local gentleman who hasn’t…been affected by it.”
“Are you one of them?” Gwirion demanded.
“It would be ungentlemanly of me to reveal that,” Owain stammered.
Gwirion felt a wave of alarm. This cherub might be capable of things the king assumed he wasn’t. “Owain, the king and queen don’t have such a relationship. Her attentions toward you are not foreplay, they’re to punish the king for his philandering. You’re just a pawn. Don’t think you’re anything special.”
BY the following evening, Gwirion was painfully eating his words.