She could hardly believe her good fortune. A glittering future awaited her. At last she would have something that she longed for. To be Ardewin was an honor indeed.
And to be able to see Rhoram again! To be his lover and to make him happy—until the time came for her to go to Y Ty Dewin, of course. She would bear his child and such a thing would bind them together forever.
So she left Brycheiniog with a high heart and journeyed to Arberth. It was not until she entered the King’s ystafell and looked into his eyes of brilliant blue that she understood that her life might become quite complicated indeed.
IN THE BEGINNING they were so happy. She lived in a golden world, warmed by Rhoram’s love. His eyes followed her even in a crowded hall. No other woman existed for him except her.
Rhoram’s children by Queen Christina—a son, Geriant, and a daughter, Sanon—loved Rhiannon and thought of her as their new mother. She spent hours with them teaching them to ride, picking wildflowers, fishing in the sea. Rhoram’s sister, Isalyn, was kind and the two women became friends. She and Achren also became good friends, the Caption teaching her some of the finer points of weaponry, improving her skill with a knife blade until Rhoram joked he didn’t feel safe with the two of them around and armed.
All was very well, until the day she discovered she was pregnant. Somehow she had managed to forget that this was the reason she was with Rhoram in the first place. She had managed to forget that her duty was now to leave her lover, to go to Y Ty Dewin and begin her instruction for the important post of Ardewin.
When she told Rhoram, hesitantly, the news that she was pregnant and explained that she must return to Y Ty Dewin, he begged her to stay. He could not live without her. He loved her so much. Could she wait for just a while? Would she do that for him?
She allowed herself to be persuaded; saying that it was only for a while. But deep down she knew that she could never willingly tear herself away from him.
And then the messages began. Messages from Myrrdin begging for her return. Messages from Dinaswyn, demanding her compliance. But she stubbornly resisted. She was in love with the King and he with her. They made each other happy and that was right. Others just didn’t understand. They were jealous of the love she had found.
She became pale and listless as her pregnancy advanced. She was terrified Rhoram would turn from her then. But he did not. He treated her more gently than ever. And he told her that, after the child was born, he would make her Queen of Prydyn.
In due course the child was born. They named her Gwenhwyfar and Rhoram was delighted with his tiny daughter.
And then Rhiannon began her long wait. She waited for Rhoram to keep his promise to marry her and make her Queen of Prydyn. But Rhoram, although he was as kind as ever, began to be distant. And Rhiannon began to be afraid.
“YOU DON’T LOVE me anymore, do you?” The question hung in the air for a moment before shattering the fragile peace of silence and pretense that existed between them.
Horrified, Rhiannon wished the words back the moment she uttered them. But it was too late. The words had been said and there was nothing that could change that.
So she waited for his answer. He laid down his pen and slowly turned to her. It broke her heart to see the caution in his eyes.
“Why do you ask that?” he asked carefully.
Too late to turn back, she went steadily on. “It is the truth, though, isn’t it? Never mind why I ask it. I just don’t understand why. What has happened?”
“Rhiannon. Stop. Don’t do this. I do love you. I truly do.”
The words she wanted so desperately to hear rang false, so terribly hollow, a death knell to all her hopes and dreams. And so the tears came. She wept with no sound, but the tears gathered and spilled over her white face, as blood from a gaping wound.
Rhoram, his sorrow and his guilt written so plainly on his weary face, looked everywhere else, looked at anything else in their sleeping chamber, except at her.
“It’s Efa, isn’t it? You’re in love with her,” she whispered. She had meant to accuse, to demand the truth, to shame him. But she knew before she started that she was beaten. And so the question came out as a strangled whisper, although she tried to make her voice steady.
“No. Truly, I am not,” he said earnestly. But the obvious falsehood in his weak denial robbed the words of comfort.
“Do you want me to go?”
At last a reaction, a real one. He jumped as though stung. “Go? No. Oh, no. You mustn’t go.” In this she had finally heard the ring of truth. He was not ready for her to leave him. He didn’t want her to go, but neither did he want her to stay. He didn’t know what he wanted.