she fell, she felt a sudden surge of heat and she twisted desperately away from it. She avoided the open hearth, but hit the ground hard enough to drive all the air out of her lungs. Momentarily stunned, she lay still until her father reached her, with Olwen just a step behind.
“I am not hurt, Papa,” she insisted, and after she’d repeated it for the fourth time, he finally believed her. He was assisting her to her feet when Selwyn came back into the hall. Rhodri glanced from the boy to the offending whetstone, and then erupted. Ranulf had once told Rhiannon and Eleri about a legendary mountain called Vesuvius, said to belch forth fire and smoke. Rhiannon thought her father’s temper was like that volcano, usually so inert and sluggish that his rare explosions were terrifying. There was no doubt that Selwyn was thoroughly cowed, reduced to incoherent stammerings as Rhodri berated him furiously for his carelessness.
“The day I took you into my household, I warned you that you were never to leave things strewn about or to move furniture, did I not? You swore upon your very soul that you would be heedful…and so what happens? My daughter nearly fell into the fire because you did not put your whetstone away!”
Rhiannon eventually managed to reassure her father, assuage his anger, and spare Selwyn the worst of his wrath. By then she was exhausted, for she’d been more shaken by her fall than she was willing to admit. As soon as she could, she withdrew to the bedchamber she shared with Eleri, and lay down, fully clothed, upon the bed.
Her cheek was stinging and would likely bruise. But the bruises that troubled her were the ones on her memory. It would be a while before she could forget her terror as she felt the flames. What frightened her just as much was the reminder of how fragile the defenses of her world were. All it took was one misplaced whetstone to reveal how vulnerable she truly was.
When she finally fell asleep, it wasn’t peaceful. She was dreaming of Ranulf, but there was no joy in it, just unease and shadows and an ominous sense of foreboding, for they’d not gotten a letter from him in months, and Rhiannon had no proof that he was even still alive. She tossed and turned restlessly, and was glad to be awakened by the opening door.
It was a man’s footstep, too light for Rhodri, too heavy for Selwyn. Rhiannon sat up, puzzled, and listened again. Who else could it be but Papa or the lad? And then she caught her breath. “Ranulf?” she whispered, half afraid to let herself hope, and was rewarded with a sound sweeter to her than the heavenly harps of the Almighty’s own angels-Ranulf’s laughter.
“You are truly amazing, lass! How is it that you can remember the sound of my step after so many months?”
She could have told him it was because she’d heard those footsteps echoing through her dreams almost every night since he’d gone away, but of course nothing short of torture would have gotten that out of her. “I am so glad you’ve come back, Ranulf,” she said instead, and added a silent prayer that this time he would stay.
THE fortnight that followed was the happiest of Rhiannon’s life. She knew it couldn’t last, that sooner or later Ranulf would ride off again; he’d said as much, that he’d agreed to join Henry in Normandy. But she resolutely refused to think about that. He could always change his mind. For the moment, it was enough that he was safe and well and home.
Ranulf had returned in high spirits, bringing gifts and gossip from the world that lay beyond the mountains of Eryri. He enthralled them with dramatic accounts of the escape from Dursely and the triumph at Devizes. He horrified them with stories of the suffering Stephen had loosed upon his own subjects. And he fascinated them with reports of the scandal that had trailed the French monarchs all the way from Palestine.
Rhiannon and Eleri did not find Eleanor’s thwarted attempt to escape her marital bonds as surprising as Ranulf had; Welsh women enjoyed liberties unheard-of in the rest of Christendom, one of them being the right to walk away from a miserable marriage. They sympathized instinctively with the spirited French queen, were indignant that she should have been forced to accompany her husband from Antioch, and listened spellbound when Ranulf revealed the unexpected twist to this sad tale.
On their way home from the Holy Land, he related, they’d passed some days in Italy, as guests of the Pope, and the elderly pontiff had set himself a herculean task: mending the rift between these utterly mismatched souls. He had even gone so far, Ranulf divulged, as to escort them to bed and urge them to make their peace between the sheets. The Pope’s blessing seemed to have paid off, for Eleanor was now pregnant, for only the third time in thirteen years. The child was due that summer, and the French king’s subjects were waiting anxiously to see if, after a miscarriage and a daughter, she would at last bear him a son.
Each morning, Rhiannon awakened with the same subversive thought, one she quickly disavowed: Would this be the day that Ranulf announced he’d soon be leaving? But it was not Ranulf who brought this interlude to an abrupt end; it was her father.
A damp darkness had fallen by the time Rhiannon started out to the stables with a jug of milk, meant for the stable cat and her kittens. Cats were rarely kept as pets, except in nunneries, but Rhiannon was enchanted by them, for she did not need sight to appreciate their sleek lines and soft fur and lulling purr. She had just reached their well when Rhodri rode in. Hastily dismounting, he sent his horse off to the stables with Selwyn, and hurried toward his daughter.
“Is Ranulf within? I must talk to him straightaway, lass. I’ve come up with a way to keep him in Wales, here with us where he belongs!”
Rhiannon’s heartbeat picked up a quicker rhythm. “Truly, Papa? How?”
Rhodri reached out and gripped her by the elbows; she could tell by the tone of his voice that he was smiling. “I am going to name him as my heir and convince him to take Eleri as his wife.” He heard her gasp and enveloped her in an expansive hug; she found her face pressed against the wet wool of his mantle, the feel scratchy and smothering. “It is the ideal solution, Rhiannon. Where could I hope to find a better brother-in-law for you? And Ranulf and Eleri will have a good marriage, whilst making their home and raising their children on our land. I tell you, lambkin, it is well-nigh perfect!”
Rhiannon was too stunned to respond, but Rhodri was too jubilant to notice. “You’d best go feed those flea- bitten cats ere I decide to drown the sorry lot,” he teased. “But do not tarry longer than need be with the mangy beasts, for we’ll have much to celebrate this night!”
Rhiannon caught the edge of the well enclosure, held on so tightly that the stones left imprints in the palms of her hands. She needed the physical contact, a way of reassuring herself that there was still something in her world that was familiar, safe. She’d sometimes wondered what it must be like to be drunk, to have all her senses blurred by mead. Now…she knew. Reality as she’d known it had fled forever as soon as her father had begun speaking.
Gradually some of the shock faded, and her numbed brain started to function again. She could not let this happen. She must stop her father ere it was too late. She’d dropped the milk jug, tripped over it now as she moved away from the well, but managed to keep her footing. She’d gotten herself turned around, though, and when she started for the house, she was actually going in the opposite direction. It was not until she caught the smell of hay and horses that she realized her mistake. Spinning away from the stable, she began to retrace her steps, nearly weeping with frustration and fear that she’d not be in time. When she heard her name called behind her, she grabbed Selwyn’s arm as he came up beside her. “Take me to the hall,” she demanded, “quickly!”
Selwyn was surprised, for Rhiannon could be as prickly as a hedgehog when her independence was concerned. But he did as she bade, and led her back across the bailey, doing his best to avoid the worst patches of mud. Rhiannon would not have noticed had he steered her into a swamp, and she forgot to thank him when they at last reached the hall. “Papa,” she cried, “Papa, where are you?”
“Whatever is the man up to, Rhiannon? Never have I seen Rhodri look so full of himself, like a lad who’d discovered where his birthday present was hidden away!” The voice was Enid’s, amused and fondly indulgent. “He said nary a word, did not even shed his mantle ere he dragged Ranulf off to our bedchamber! Do you know what-”
Rhiannon heard no more. Turning away, she plunged through the doorway, back out into the blackness of the bailey. It was all she could think to do, for she could not go to her bedchamber; Eleri was there and would need one look at her face to know something was dreadfully wrong. She could not deal with Eleri or Enid now. She had to have some time alone, time to decide what to do. The afternoon drizzle had stopped and the air was dry but very cold. She stepped unheedingly into the puddles, getting her feet wet and her skirts muddied. She was shivering, and when she tasted salt on her tongue, she realized she was crying, too, but for the moment, all that mattered was reaching the stables, the only sanctuary she had left.
