Rhiannon by Vicki Grove Page A

her own imaginings were silly. Because by the time they went back this way, the shadows would be much, much longer . . .
    â€œI can see the castle!” Daisy suddenly cried, clapping her hands. Rhia squinted into the distance and gratefully focused on that splendid sight.
    The motte, as the Normans called the man-made mountain beneath the castle, had been built up on the beach by order of King William just after the Conquest. The local peasants had used the glistening beach rock to construct it, then on top of it they’d built the tower, gatehouse, and stockades with huge burnished oak logs from Clodaghcombe Forest. When the sun shone bright as it shone today, the whole thing, sandy motte and oaken castle, seemed to be crafted from the same big chunk of sparkling gold.
    How could ancient haunts thrive in the vicinity of such a modern wonder? Rhiannon felt the phantoms of the woods give up the last of their clinging hold. The power, might, and sheer beauty of the castle could fend against anything!
    She crouched and pointed, her arm around the child’s waist. “Look how you can see the goings-on inside the castle bailey from way up here, Daisy. What a view! Our own high trail is the only place in the shire to have such a vantage of the country all round, wouldn’t you say so, Granna?”
    But Granna had no interest in praising their trail.
    â€œI had a fine vantage when I was a girl, all right,” Granna muttered, resuming her downward trudge. “Afore that mountain was built by these invaders where God’s beach had once stood. And now I hear tell they’ll be building all over again in stone! Stone! There’ll be the crushing of some workmen’s good skulls. Saxon skulls and Welsh skulls and none of them Norman, you can wager on that. Why, if . . .”
    Granna raved on quite contentedly as she went, and Jim followed a few good yards behind her, not eager for another of her quick stops to tilt him off-balance. Rhiannon stood up but stayed still a moment longer, clutching Daisy’s hand.
    She’d just spotted a lone walker on the beach, someone she’d not seen around before.
    â€œRhiannon, why are the pretty red flags no longer flying from the castle towers?” Daisy asked quietly. “Once my mother brought us to the beach and I saw that the castle flags were red and had yellow lions on them. I liked the lions.”
    â€œAll King Henry’s castles fly black flags just now, Daisy,” Rhia murmured, her attention elsewhere. “Prince William Aethling lies drowned beneath the waves.”
    Not much beyond her own age, she’d have said the walker was, long of limb and graceful in his movements. He wore a coarse black robe snatched up at the bottom and hitched into his rope belt so his legs to the knees were bare for wading. A young priest, then, but with straight and shiny brown hair blowing in the wind, not tonsured, priestly hair at all. His eyes were deep-set above cheekbones so high and sharp they’d purple shadows pooled beneath them. He seemed to be thinking about something, surely something extraordinary and important from the intelligent look upon his face. His feet were skinny and white. She thought them comical and smiled.
    â€œRhia!” Daisy squealed, jerking her arm.
    Rhiannon had nearly stepped right off the trail and into thin air.

Chapter 5
    Now they had finally reached the flat land with Woethersly in clear sight, but they’d still the River Woether to ford and then the common barley field beyond to trek through.
    â€œI wonder where upon this riverbank the foul murder was committed,” Rhiannon murmured as they waded the shallow crossing. She kept her eyes on little Daisy, who splashed and whirled, laughing with delight as she slip-slid over the smooth river grasses.
    Granna put a hand on Jim’s shoulder to steady her crossing, then again used him for balance while she turned her wet shoes to pour out the river