The morning of their arrival at Gloucester, Rhiannon had the men cook a rabbit they had caught the day before. She wanted them calm and steady when they faced the man who had, after all, conquered their country and been responsible for the slaughter or displacement of many of their kin and countrymen. She had changed into the soft green gown, brushed her hair until it shone, leaving it loose save for one shining braid to keep it from her face, the gold braid that Mair had transferred to the collar making her feel as well dressed as any lady she might be compared to. It was as well the dress was long enough to cover her worn, roughboots, and that the fashion for jewels was that they be worn at night, and only then by married women. Owain and Rufus had both subjected themselves to haircuts, shaving, and being forced into more formal clothes than they had worn in years. The effects were surprisingly convincing. Glancing at them as they rode either side of her, Rhiannon was confident they did not give the appearance of men who had spent two winters living on the side of a mountain.
Gloucester had gained its importance from its geographical position, as was the case through history with so many towns which might otherwise have passed unremarked through the centuries. It was here that Edward had planted his fortification the better to keep an eye on the warring Welsh princes on the other side of the river Severn. Now, the Norman king used the palace of Kingsholm as one of his administrative centres. Taxes were collected here, endowments distributed, alliances formed and cemented by trade and bartering. William saw, as his predecessor had, the strategic importance of the place, and pressed on with the construction of a new, grand, stone castle. For now, however, the timber framed building with its capacious hall, served very well. As Rhiannon urged Tudor’s horse across the bridge and towards the gateway of the royal residence she felt her stomach constrict. Foryears their one aim had been to avoid any contact with the Normans, indeed to remain invisible to them. When they had been forced to encounter them things had never gone in their favour, with just the single exception. De Chapelle was now dead. They had defeated him. He could no longer pursue his bitter lust for revenge against her. He had slaughtered her family and stolen her birthright. She could do nothing to bring back her beloved parents. She could, she believed, do something about reclaiming the land and title that were rightfully hers. She brought her mind to the incantation that Mamgi had taught her, mumbling the words under her breath, knowing she must not falter when she delivered them. She must be word perfect, and speak with courage and conviction. Her hand instinctively went to the small bundle at her hip. The little package was wrapped in a remnant of fine cloth from an old headdress that had belonged to her mother. It was tied with a precious strip of blue ribbon. That so much depended on something so fragile, so humble, unnerved her. And yet, she knew success was hers for the taking. All rested on her, in the end, and this time, she would not be thrown aside and left to fade to nothing. She was no longer a girl. She was Rhiannon, Witch of the White Shadow, and she would take back what was hers.
The guards at the gate stepped onto the road, pikes crossed, barring their way.
‘Name yourselves!’ one demanded in heavily accented English.
‘I am the daughter of Llewelyn ap Iorath. These are my liegemen. I am here to see the king.’
The guards barely succeeded in stifling their mirth.
‘And why would the king wish to be bothered with a Welsh maid?’
‘My business is between me and King William.’
The shorter of the two guards openly laughed at this. The taller one shook his head.
‘Go home, daughter of a dead man. This is no place for the likes of you.’
Rhiannon was aware of Owain’s hand moving to his sword hilt and Rufus fidgeting, allowing his horse to step forwards. They must remain calm and respectful or they would never gain entry. Quickly, she slid from her horse, passing its reins to Owain. She walked softly up to the guards, smiling at them as she spoke. The prettiness of that smile, its warmth and light, worked its own magic, so that she saw a small but significant mellowing in the expressions of the men.
Thanking her mother for seeing to her schooling, she addressed the guards in their native French. ‘Good sirs, I wish only to speak to His Majesty of my allegiance tohim, to reassure him of the peace that can exist between the Welsh and our new ruler. As you see, I am a maid, unarmed, with only two servants.’ Here she leaned forward and whispered conspiratorially. ‘To tell you the truth, one is quite simple, and the other too old in his bones to be of much use, but I cannot see them without employment…’
The men greatly enjoyed sharing a joke at the expense of the visitors. Almost as much as they enjoyed hearing their own tongue spoken so gently. Nearly as much as they enjoyed the soothing way Rhiannon’s breath settled upon them, making them feel unexpectedly uplifted and reassured. They exchanged glances and a shrug.
‘Go on then,’ the shorter one said as they both stepped aside, lowering the pikes. ‘Present yourself at the door to the hall and speak with the adjutant. Let him decide what’s to be done with you.’
Rhiannon’s smile grew even brighter. She signalled to the others, who brought the horses along behind her. She did not remount, but made a point of greeting any city dwellers she passed with a nod and a smile, spreading goodwill and calm as she went. Had she not been engaged in such an important and risky venture, she would have been drawn into the clamour and bustle of the town. Even as she walked the short stretch ofroad to the palace, she was astonished at the sheer number of people, the variety of costumes and colours and sounds and smells. The city and all its business was separated from their mountain home by so much more than a few miles. Here was interaction with men from distant shores. Here silk and spices were traded. Here women paraded in their finery trying to outdo each other. Here soldiers were ennobled and rewarded for their loyalty to the king. Here fortunes were made. She forced herself to keep her mind on the single matter of speaking with the king. This was not the moment to be distracted.
When they reached the door of the great hall, the others dismounted. Rhiannon told Rufus to stay with the horses, while she and Owain stepped forward. Once again their progress was halted by two guards, though these boasted fine swords and wore mail beneath their tunics.
‘I seek an audience with the king!’ she called out, knowing that however fine the soldiers were, they were not in charge. Sure enough, the door opened just a little and a dour looking man dressed in black emerged. He had about him the air of a man of letters, and an expression that suggested nothing ever met with his approval.
Rhiannon continued to speak in French. The adjutant narrowed his eyes at her and looked down his long nose at Owain.
‘The king has many petitioners already waiting in the hall. Give me a reason I should add you to their number.’
‘I am here in the name of my father, Llewellyn ap Iorath, Lord of Cwmdu.’
The man reacted minutely at the mention of the name.
‘I understand your father was relieved of that title some time back. Is he not dead?’
‘He is.’
‘And is there not a new Lord of Cwmdu?’
Her sweet smile unfaltering Rhiannon replied. ‘Also dead.’
Despite himself, the man in black gasped in surprise to hear this news.
‘How come you by this information?’
‘It was I who killed him.’
The man’s surprise now turned to shock. Before he could respond, Rhiannon continued.
‘He killed my father, and my mother…’
