Rhiannon Read Free

half brother, and their spouses. The
unquestioning adoration of children, the need for heirs to the land that would
be his when his father died, was also provided by his nieces and nephews. Simon
already had his eye on one of Adam’s younger sons who seemed to him to him to
have the temperament to deal with the northern barons.
    Yet, when he had first seen Rhiannon singing to her harp in
her father’s hall, before he had even exchanged a word with her, he had been
conquered. It was not her beauty, although she was beautiful; many more
beautiful women had lain in his arms without touching his heart. Perhaps it was
the wild tale she sang, full of enchantments and tragedy, that had sent love’s
dart into him. She looked a part of that ancient tale herself. Her gown, heavy
with gold and jewels, was a hundred years out of date; her hair, black and
shining as the sleek feathers of a raven, flowed unconfined by veil or net or
wimple down to her knees. Jewels hung in her ears and bound her brows. Simon
had never seen a woman who appeared so wild and free.
    “Who is she?” Simon had asked Prince Llewelyn when
Rhiannon’s song had ended.
    “My daughter,” the Lord of Gwynedd had answered, smiling,
“or so I believe. Her mother is not a woman with whom a man would argue—or
trifle—not even I. I say I do not believe in such things, but Kicva is a ‘wise
woman’. Kicva’s father, Gwydyon, was bard to my court in those years, and she
came to me and said she wished me to sire a daughter on her. It was no burden;
she was a lovely thing. Later she brought Rhiannon to me from time to time that
I should know her and she me, but she never asked for anything nor would even
take what I offered freely. Of course, they were not in need. Gwydyon was a
real power in the hills and Kicva also. Rhiannon…I do not know. She is stranger
than her mother in some ways.”
    “Is she married?” Even as he asked, Simon wondered why he
had done so. It had never mattered to him before whether an attractive woman
was married or not. Those who were ready to betray their husbands, Simon took
without a thought; those who loved their men, he did not pursue. But in the
infinitesimal pause before Llewelyn answered, Simon knew it was of great
importance to him, and his breath sighed out in relief when Llewelyn shook his
head.
    “God knows I have presented enough men to her,” Llewelyn
said, “and I am willing to dower her with lands as well as what she will have
from her mother. Rhiannon will have none of it. They are not marrying women.
Gwydyon did not marry Angharad, Kicva’s mother—or, more like, she would not
marry him.”
    “That is very strange,” Simon said. The ruses his unmarried
mistresses had used to attempt to trap him into marriage were myriad. He had
not thought the single state was ever a woman’s choice, except those who professed
the celibacy of a religious life. “Did they have many lovers?” he asked.
    Llewelyn laughed. “I never had the courage to ask Kicva, to
tell the truth, and Rhiannon just laughs at me and says it is not my business
when I ask her why she will not take a husband.”
    “But as her father it is your right—”
    “With Rhiannon it is easier to name a right than to enforce
it. I do not provide for her. I cannot even command her comings and goings.”
Suddenly Llewelyn shook his head. “Do not reach for Rhiannon, Simon; you will
get your fingers burnt.”
    “Do you forbid me, my lord?” Simon asked, his breath
catching again with a strange anxiety. “I mean you no dishonor.” His eyes
wandered to Rhiannon where she stood talking to her half brother Gruffydd.
    Llewelyn’s eyes followed Simon’s and then moved back to the
dark, incredibly handsome face. “That is something new in you,” he said
thoughtfully. There was a pause while Llewelyn considered what Simon had
proposed half unconsciously. “Certainly I would not oppose such a marriage,” he
went on, “but your father and mother might not