ALSO BY SHARON KAY PENMAN The Sunne in Splendour Here Be Dragons Falls the Shadow THE RECKONING SHARON KAY PENMAN Ballantine Books New York Sale of this book without a front cover may be unauthorized. If this book is coverless, it may have been reported to the publisher as "unsold or destroyed" and neither the author nor the publisher may have received payment for it. Copyright ® 1991 by Sharon Kay Penman All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. Published in the United States by Ballantine Books, a division of Random House, Inc., New York, and distributed in Canada by Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto. This edition published by arrangement with Henry Holt and Company, Inc. Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 92-90046 ISBN: 0-345-37888-1 Cover design by James R. Harris Cover art by Bryan Leister Manufactured in the United States of America First Ballantine Books Edition: October 1992 20 19 18 17 16 15 14 13 12 To my parents /*»<*«»-c/pvrr® £ <^ 6tjpo§x<«|<5a, /^ 0 ( /^ "^ * J| ,^^ ) , \ M&L: M9u*>a^] $ rv^vyt *&yaQ/aws l**$fJr ^ ,V-s> V X^Twaaafl!/! i2^^ , * «-i^?»to ^*^ Ti»i«t:«/-m siai-m-rti-ncr \^r»ntai-oic Th*ire> tV»*^\7 TAforo crreofoH V»\7 ^1117 H Of _, *, ^yA H since departing Montargis. There they were greeted by Guy de *}* w ' mat these Tuscan city-states were profoundly suspicious of ^V Predatory neighbors like the Count. And Guy de Montfort was^^ °r Podesta, of Siena's great rival, Florence. But even if they ^\^ vated more by expediency than heartfelt enthusiasm, the^ei\' oed buoyantly on the mild, sunlit air, and Guy acknowj^ ^ 8«du 'V 26 plaintive clarity of hindsight, Ellen could see that now, see how Guy had sought in vain to impress, to belong, as young brothers have done since time immemorial. And then, Evesham. Harry had died that day, and Guy almost did He lay for weeks near death, a pnsoner with nothing to do but to relive those last bloody moments, to watch his father fall again and again, and to wonder why Bran's army had not arrived. He cheated death, to the 'i ^surprise of all, and then escaped, which should not have been a surprise not to anyone who knew him. Fleeing to France, he set about finding his brother, with murder in his heart. But when he did, he'd discovered that he had to forgive Bran, if only because Bran could not forgive himself. And now, Italy. A brilliant battle commander, Guy had won a King's favor, won a future full of promise. Whilst Bran, Juliana acknowledged, had naught but a past, one full of pain. And it seemed to her that, even with the best will in the world, Bran and Guy were yoked together too tightly, shackled by too many memories, too many regrets. Bran leaned over, deposited her wine cup in the floor rushes. As he did, Juliana trailed her fingers along his chest, hovering over the new scar that zigzagged across his ribs. So much she'd wanted to do for him, to keep him safe from harm, to heal his wounds, to ease his pain, to stop his drinking. And she'd been able to do none of it. The only comfort she could offer was carnal, the only kind he seemed to want. "Make love to me, Bran," she whispered. "Make love to me now." SIENA, TUSCANY March 1271 OUCH did not see how they could get to Italy in time to rendezvous with Bran's brother. While couriers had been known to travel from London to Rome in just twenty-five days, sucn couriers often covered close to fifty miles a day, and most travelers 27 eed less than thirty. Hugh soon discovered, though, that Bran's m. j^ be as steely as that of his formidable father. He rode fast and de hard, and the knights of his household were pressed to keep Bv the time they reached the Mount Cenis Pass, they were avpace. vy erasing forty miles a day. A winter passage across the Alps was every traveler's nightmare. B an and his companions were more fortunate than many, for they were pared the most lethal perils of alpine crossings: blizzards and avalanches. Even so, their journey was a daunting one. A local guide was killed when he ventured ahead to mark their trail with wooden stakes. It was so bitter cold that the men's beards congealed with ice and Bran's wineskin froze solid. At one point, the slope was so glazed that they were forced to bind their horses' legs and lower them down on ropes. When they finally made their way to safety, Hugh was vowing that he'd live out the remainder of his days in Italy ere he'd face Mount Cenis again. Bran had laughed, mercifully forbearing to remind the boy that ahead of them still lay the mountains of the Italian Apennines. They crossed at La Cisa, took the ancient Via Francigena that led toward Rome, and rode into the city of Florence on March 2nd, just twenty-six days since departing Montargis. There they were greeted by Guy de Montfort and the powerful Tuscan lord who was his wife's father, Ildebrandino d'Aldobrandini, Count of Sovana and Pitigliano, known to all as "il Rosso" for the auburn color of his hair. Three days later they took the road south, reaching the city walls of Siena by midday on Saturday, the 7th of March. It was a day to banish their bone-chilling memories of those alpine glaciers, to evoke forgotten echoes of spring, a sundrenched noon under a vivid sapphire skyHugh's fifteenth birthday. ALTHOUGH Ildebrandino had a house in Siena, they accepted the hospitality of the Tolomei, an influential local family in uneasy alliance with the Count. Once they were settled in the Tolomei palazzo, their host suggested that they might enjoy watching a game of elmora, and in consequence, Hugh soon found himself riding through the steep, twisting streets that led to the Campo, listening to the applause of townspeople as they recognized il Rosso and his dashing son-in-law, the Vicar °' Tuscany. Hugh suspected that the welcome was politic, for he knew by now these Tuscan city-states were profoundly suspicious of powerful, Predatory neighbors like the Count. And Guy de Montfort was the Vicar, odesta, of Siena's great rival, Florence. But even if they were mo- ^ated more by expediency than heartfelt enthusiasm, the cheers still °ed buoyantly on the mild, sunlit air, and Guy acknowledged the 28 salutations with grace, with the polished poise of a man accustomed t0 public accolades. Just as his father had once been acclaimed in the streets of London, so was Guy acclaimed in the streets of Siena, as HugK watched and marveled that this de Montfort son should have found his destiny in a land so far from England. The fan-shaped Piazza del Campo was the converging point for the city's three hills, the heart of Siena. Here markets were held, livestock Sinned up, fresh fish kept in huge wooden vats. Here fairs were celeorated. Here were played the rough-and-tumble games of elmora, in which young men formed teams and did mock battle with quarter staves, and pugna, in which weapons were barred, and palone, a boisterous form of football. Here stood the baratteria, a stockade roofed in canvas that served as the city's gambling hall. And here were clustered the citizens of Siena, eager to take what pleasures they could in a bleak Lenten season, unwilling to squander such a spring-like Saturday on mundane matters of work. Hugh was enthralled by it allthe noise and confusion and merriment, the circling doves and pealing church bells, the sun slanting off the red roofs and rich russet-brown bricks of the houses fronting upon the square, even the clouds of dust stirred up by the brawling elmora players. Siena seduced with practiced ease, and as he elbowed his way through the crowd, following Bran toward the baratteria, he decided that Italy was verily like Cockayne, that legendary land in which night was day and hot was cold, so completely had his own expectations been turned upside-down. For he had been utterly certain that he would dislike Italy, and just as sure he would like Guy de Montfort, his lord's brother. Italy was a term of convenience. Hugh knew there was no "Italy" in the same sense that there was an "England" or a "France." The independent city-states of Tuscany and Lombardy were part of "Italy." So were the Papal States. So, too, was the Kingdom of Naples and Sicily, which was ruled by a Frenchman, Charles of Anjou, uncle to the French King Philippe, and Guy de Montfort's powerful patron. They were not linked by language, for each region had its own dialect, its own accent, its own idioms. Even in Tuscany, the Sienese speech was notably less guttural than that of their Florentine neighbors. Nor were they bound by political affinities. People were "Guelphs" or "Ghibellines," the distinction part of an enduring quarrel that had its roots in a forty-year-old breach between the Pope and the Holy Roman Emperor. Cities like Siena and Florence and Venice minted their own money, adhered to their own systems of weights and measures, even their own calendars. And their rivalry was known the length and breadth of Christendom; men spok£ 29 a and Florence or Venice and Genoa in the same breath with Rome and Carthage, Athens and Troy. So even before they reached the Apennines, Hugh had judged Italy , found it wanting; a veritable Tower of Babel, an alien land of bandits 4 d blood-feuds, a region notorious for its "pestilent air," its "Roman ers and catarrhs," a foreboding world of droughts and earthquakes, Icanic mountains that "belched forth infernal fire," and Lombard ney-lenders almost as unpopular as the Jews. It was the true measure f Hugh's devotion to Bran that he'd not balked upon learning that Italy lay at the end of their journey. He was to discover that the Italy of his imagination was not a total distortion of reality; the roads were indeed bad and fevers were rampant and he had trouble remembering that the lira was not a coin but still worth twenty silver soldi, the same as a gold florin. He'd not expected, though, that Italy would be so beautiful, a land of alpine grandeur and icy mountain lakes and deep valleys and burnished, bright sunshine. The Tuscany hills put him in mind of his native Shropshire; he took pleasure in the vales and woods of chestnut and cypress, the olive groves and vineyards, the snow-white oxen and the lingering twilight dusks. And he had not expected that the people would be so friendly, so quick to offer assistance to wayfarers, so tolerant of the peculiarities of foreigners. He liked the zestful, genial citizens of these Tuscan highlands, and he was impressed by the prosperity of their cities, by their paved streets, formidable walls, spacious piazzas, lavish palazzos, and elaborate public fountains, centers of privilege and vitality and beguiling worldliness. Within a noisy circle, men were casting dice, and Hugh squirmed closer, trying to see. Treading upon someone's toes, he quickly murmured, "Scusatemi," for he was determined to learn as much of this Tuscan language as he could. The man smiled; in the flow of words that followed, Hugh understood only "inglese" and acknowledged that "si," he was indeed English. There was a growing undercurrent of resentment directed against the French, for Charles had won his crown by the sword and there were many who begrudged him his battlefield sovereignty. But the English bore no such taint, and the Sienese grinned, told his neighbors to make room for the young inglese. Hugh came forward shyly, warmed by the crowd's friendliness. He could hear snatches of conversation, the name "Guido di Monteforte." o Hugh, it sounded like a brigand's name, conjuring up visions of andit chieftains and Barbary pirates. It was Hugh's secret conviction at.lf suited Guy de Montfort perfectly. It had come as a shock, the rea lzation that he distrusted Guy, for he adored Bran, was in awe of 30 the Lady Nell, bedazzled by the Lady Ellen. And Guy, too, was a de Montfort. So why, then, did he harbor such qualms about Bran's brother? Shifting, he gazed over at the Vicar of Tuscany. Guy was a magnet for stares, a man to turn heads, tall and dark, with a rakish grin and a soldier's swagger, the only one of Simon's sons to have inherited his battlefield brilliance. But he lacked his father's honor, flourishing in this world of tangled loyalties and tarnished allegiances as Simon himself Jcould never have done. One of Count Hdebrandino's squires had sworn tnat Guy had accepted four thousand florins that past year, money offered by the Florentines so that they could plunder their rival city of Poggibonsi. Hugh had been shaken by the revelation; how could a son of Simon de Montfort accept a bribe? But he did not doubt the accuracy of the squire's account; it rang true. He had watched Guy ride through the streets of Florence, Luciferproud, blind to beggars, with a tongue sharp as a Fleming's blade and an eye for the main chance. Even Hugh could not help but see how utterly Guy eclipsed his older brother. The more brightly Guy burned, the more shadowy Bran became, and the more he drank. Hugh could only hope that they would soon reach Viterbo, hope that after they answered Charles's summons, Bran would then be free to blaze his own path. He might head south to Avellino, the fief given to him by Charles that past December. Or he might choose to go north, toward the city of Padua, where Amaury de Montfort dwelled and studied. Hugh didn't care which road they took . . . just as long as they didn't ride it in tandem with Bran's brother Guy. Guy had more than three hundred soldiers in his service, most of them mercenaries of the Guelph League. But there were some Englishmen among their numbers, supporters of Simon de Montfort unable or unwilling to come to terms with the English Crown after Evesham. One of these exiles, Walter de Baskerville, had made his way to Bran's side, was murmuring intently in his ear. Their whispered colloquy caught Guy's attention. Sauntering over, he poked Bran playfully in the ribs. "And what sort of devilry are the two of you plotting?" "I was telling Bran that Pietro di Tolomei swears Siena has the best whorehouse in all of Tuscany. Just two streets away, La Sirena." "The Mermaid?" Guy's interest quickened. "I've heard of it. And you were going off without me? What am I of a suddena leper?" "I think you've forgotten someone, Guido," Bran gibed, and Guy's brows rose mockingly. "God save me, not a lecture on fidelity and the sacred bonds of wedlock!" "I did not mean your absent wife, Guy. I meant your wife's verypresent father. Or do you plan to invite him along?" 31 \ Glancing across the Campo at the sturdy, redoubtable figure of his father-in-law, Guy conceded defeat with a wry grimace. "Your point is taken, Bran. Be off with you, then. Enjoy yourselves, wallow in lechery. But for Christ's sake, try not to catch the pox!" They laughed, beckoned to Pietro, and began to thread their way through the crowd toward their horses. Bran remembered his squires just in time. Noel and Hugh were engrossed in a contest of zaro, a dice game similar to the English favorite, hazard. They came in reluctant response to his summons, but before he could speak, Noel asked plaintively, "Do you have need of us both, my lord? Hugh is willing to go in my stead, if that meets with your approval?" This was apparently a surprise to Hugh, who looked distinctly taken aback to hear he'd volunteered on Noel's behalf. Bran studied the two of them, a smile hovering at one corner of his mouth. "Actually, I was going to tell you both to stay. But I think your suggestion has some merit, lad. Can you find your way back by yourself, Noel? Just remember that the Tolomei palazzo is in the Camellia quarter, close by the church of San Cristoforo." Trapped, Hugh could only aim a muttered threat at Noel, sotto voce, before trailing dutifully after his lord, his unhappiness at leaving the Campo stoked by the echoes of Noel's jubilant laughter. Their arrival at the brothel created a stir. Pietro de Tolomei and the brother of Guido di Monteforte were customers to be catered to, and the men immediately became the center of attention, surrounded by flirtatious, scantily clad women, flattered and fawned upon and plied with the finest red wines of Chianti. There was much bawdy joking and laughter as Bran and Pietro and their companions drank and swapped raunchy stories and conducted increasingly intimate inspections of the prostitutes brought forth for their scrutiny and selection. Hugh sought to keep inconspicuously to the shadows, struggling with two conflicting emotions: disappointment that Bran should be betraying Juliana, embarrassed excitement at sight of so much alluring female flesh. Pietro di Tolomei had not exaggerated; La Sirena was a bordello for men with discriminating tastes and the money to indulge them. The women were much younger and sleeker and cleaner than the usual inhabitants of bawdy-houses, and wherever Hugh looked, he saw curving bosoms, trim ankles, glimpses of thigh. After a time, he began to attract glances himself. It flustered him, and he retreated into a corner, to no avail; still they giggled and whispered among themselves. It was only when one of the women came over, ran her fingers through his hair, and murmured, "Che biondo-chiaro!" that he understood; they Were intrigued by the uncommon flaxen color of his hair. Noticing the boy's discomfort, Bran looked about for Pietro. But the if pr < t 32 latter was nowhere in sight. He hesitated, then decided he'd try to make do without a translator; after nearly three years in Italy, he'd picked up enough of the local dialects to make himself understood. La Sirena's bawd was an unusually elegant woman in her forties. She came at once when he beckoned, ready to promise all the perversions known to man, so determined was she to please this free-spending English lord, kinsman to il Rosso. * 4 "What I want," Bran said in slow, but comprehensible Tuscan, "is a wench not too seasoned or jaded, one young and gentle in her ways, not brazen. You understand?" The woman thought she did. "An innocent," she said knowingly. "You are indeed in luck, signore, for it happens that I have a rare prize. Thirteen she is, with skin like milk and her maidenhead intact. Of course the price" But Bran was already shaking his head. "Too young. And I do not want a maiden," he said, politely masking his skepticism, for he equated whorehouse virgins with unicorns and like mythical beasts. "I am not seeking a child. I want a whore who does not look like one, a lass who knows how to coax a man along, to keep him from spilling his seed too soon." She hastily lowered her lashes so her surprise would not show. She prided herself upon her ability to size up a man's needs, and for this inglese, she would have picked Anna, who boasted she could set a bed afire without need of flint and tinder. Rapidly reassessing, she said thoughtfully, "I do have just such a one. She was christened Lucia, but we call her Serafina, so sweet is her voice, so angelic her smile." "A seraph?" Bran echoed, amused. Even allowing for the inevitable exaggeration in any sales pitch, Serafina still sounded promising. And when the girl herself appeared, slim and graceful and very young, he nodded approvingly. "Yes, she will do. But she's not for me. I'll take Anna, the wanton who was sitting on my lap. Serafina is for my squire." And reaching for the girl's hand, he led her across the room to Hugh. "Your birthday gift, lad," he said, and could not help laughing at the astonished look on the boy's face. Serafina was not as diffident as the bawd claimed; linking her arm in Hugh's, she sought to steer him toward the stairs. But he resisted, grabbing Bran's sleeve and pulling him into the stairwell with them. "What is it, Hugh? Is she not to your liking?" "No, she . . . she is very pretty. But my lord, the monks at Evesham Abbey taught us that whoring is a mortal sin!" Hugh had not meant to blurt it out like that. He bit his lip in dismay, for he did not think he could bear to be laughed at, not by Bran. But Bran did not laugh. 33 "Well, it is hard to dispute that, Hugh. The Church does indeed hold fornication to be a sin. But to be honest, lad, few men could endure an entire summer of drought; we all need a little rain in our lives. For what it is worth, I think there are very few sins that God could not forgive. Now I would suggest you follow Serafina above-stairs; you'd not want her to lose face before the others, would you? After that follow your conscience." Bran turned to go, then swung back, his grin at last breaking free. "But whatever you decide to do, lad, I hope you'll brag about it afterward to Noel!" THE chamber was so cramped that the bed seemed to reach from wall to wall. There was one shuttered window, a trestle table, a washing laver, a chamber pot, and a wick lamp, sputtering in a bowl of pungent fish oil. But the bed linen looked reasonably clean and there was a large flagon of wine cooling in the laver. Serafina sat down upon the bed, kicked off her shoes. She knew some of the other women wasted no time, began by bluntly instructing their customers to wash their privy members, but she preferred to ease into it, to pretend she was being seduced, not sold; she was fourteen and still in need of illusions. She smiled, asked Hugh to help her with the laces of her gown, before remembering that he didn't speak Tuscan. He had not yet moved from the door, looked as if he might bolt at any moment. She was perplexed by his behavior, and hobbled by their lack of language. She had been proud that she'd been chosen for this young inglese with the bright flaxen hair, but it no longer seemed such an honor. What was he waiting for? Most men pounced upon her ere she could even get her clothes off. She'd never bedded an inglese before; were they all so shy? She sighed, lay back on the bed in a seductive pose, and looked at him expectantly. Hugh was discovering that Serafina's silence spoke louder than any voice of conscience. His brain and body no longer worked in harmony, were suddenly at war. His head was filled with thoughts of sin, but Barnabas was throbbing with urgent need, caring naught for hellfire or the monks of Evesham. Jesu, she was so pretty, with dark eyes like Juliana and a mouth that needed no lip rouge, as soft and red as strawberries. He must not do this. But his legs received another message; they took a hesitant step toward the girl on the bed. She had an expressive face, had been regarding him in puzzlement that was slowly turning into impatience. But then she cried out and clapped her hands together. She had a light, pleasing voice, and her words pattered about him like raindrops, an assault of musical notes. 34 He seized upon a familiar word, the one she kept repeating. Primo. First. He nodded slowly and pointed to the bed. "Si," he said softly, "primo." Serafina was delighted to have her suspicions confirmed, delighted that she was to be the one to initiate this young inglese into the mysteries of manhood. It was great good luck to bed a virgin. Rising, she came toward him, took his hands in hers. "I know you do not understand fie. But I will teach you all you need to know. You shall find joy in my bA and you shall remember me, English. You shall remember me even when your hair has greyed and your bones ache with age. For a man never forgets his first." Raising up on tiptoe, she kissed Hugh on the mouth, then drew him toward the bed. When Hugh would later acquire the experience that allowed for comparison, he'd realize how well Bran had chosen for him, how fortunate he was to have found a Serafina. She was patient and tender and she made him forget the sordidness of their surroundings, forget the fire-and-brimstone sermons of Evesham's parish priest, forget that she was a Sienese whore. They might have been two youngsters out in a meadow, under a haystack, alone in a world whose borders ended at the bed's edge. Serafina was right; she did give him joy and he would remember her. Hugh was awed by his body's explosive response to Serafina's caresses. He understood for the first time why the Church looked upon women with such suspicion, for lust did indeed allow them to exercise great power over men. But then he thought of Juliana, risking pregnancy and scandal and damnation for Bran. Mayhap women, too, burned with the same fever. If so, it seemed unfair to blame them for the cravings of men. After a moment, he began to laugh. "I cannot believe that I am lying in your bed and thinking of theology!" Serafina did not understand a word he said, but she laughed, too, and he bent over, kissed her cheek. They were both very pleased with themselves, Hugh proud of his performance and Serafina proud of her tutoring. She was no less gratified by his attentiveness afterward, for she was accustomed to men who lost interest in the time it took to roll off of her. But Hugh continued to hold her in his arms, to murmur "bella" and "tesora." Men often told her she was pretty, but none had ever called her a "treasure." No man had taken her brush and combed out her long, dark hair, either. She was so delighted with Hugh's gallantry that when his hand slid from her shoulder to her breast and his mouth sought hers again, she did not rebuff him. Instead, she broke an iron-clad house rule, gave a customer two tumbles for the price of one. Fetching the wine flagon, Serafina offered Hugh the first swig. "For 35 a man's work, a man's thirst," she said coyly. Hugh accepted the flagon, but when she called him "Barnabas," he burst out laughing again. "Ah, no, lass, that was a joke! My real name is HughHugh," he repeated, thumping his chest. But she merely giggled. He was still trying to break through their language barrier when a knock sounded on the door. They both stiffened, not yet ready to have the real world intrude, to have Serafina claimed by her next customer. "Chi e?" she called out warily. "Sono io." A singularly unhelpful response: it's me. But then the door swung open and Bran entered. His eyes flicked to the clothing strewn wildly about the room, but he kept a straight face as he said, "I thought I'd best look in on you, lad, make sure you were not being held hostage by that conscience of yours." Hugh did not reply, made mute by a sudden realization, that behind Bran's banter lurked a genuine concern. He might never admit it, but he'd been worried enough to investigate, to make certain his birthday gift had not done more harm than good. Hugh was enormously touched by this evidence of affection. No more than Bran, though, could he have acknowledged such emotion. He sought, instead, to match Bran's playful mockery, saying with a bit of bravado, "Well, at least I shall have a right interesting sin to confess on the morrow!" But that was not his true voice, flippancy not his style. He hesitated, losing his smile. "My lord ... I can confess and promise to repent. But . . . but what if I sin again? In all honesty, I suspect I will." He looked so solemn and so trusting. Not for the first time, Bran wondered if he'd done Hugh a wrong by plucking him out of the peace of Evesham Abbey, putting him down in the midst of the de Montfort maelstrom. "Do not fret, lad. Priests expect you to keep on sinning, do not care as long as you keep on confessing, too. In fact, I think they prefer it that way, for if there were no sinners, why would we need them?" Hugh grinned; if he was tormented by remorse, he was hiding it extraordinarily well, and Bran had not been impressed by the boy's acting abilities. Picking up Hugh's hastily discarded belt, still holding a sheathed dagger and money pouch, he dropped it onto the foot of the bed, while fumbling for his own pouch. "When my brother Guy was fifteen, Harry and I took him to the Halfmoon, the best bawdy-house in Southwark. He always swore afterward that it was our fault he'd developed such a taste for carousing, claiming that if not for us, he'd likely have become a priest!" He laughed softly, then shook several coins onto the bed. "Un' altra volta per il ragazzo, signorina Serafina." Even Hugh could follow that without translation. As the door closed 36 quietly behind Bran, he shook his head regretfully, giving Serafina an apologetic smiie. "I doubt that I'm up to a third joust, lass," he began, miming a yawn to get his point across. But Serafina paid him no mind, and when she put her hand on his inner thigh, he discoveredto his own surprisethat mayhap he was not too tired, after all. It was only later that he remembered what Bran had said about his brothers, realized that this was the first time Bran had mentioned Harry's name. It pleased fcim very much, for he could not help thinking that this was a sign of trlst, proof that Bran was coming to understand how absolute was his loyalty, a bond beyond breaking. Or so he believed on that Saturday afternoon in Siena's best whorehouse. HUGH'S first glimpse of Viterbo was a disappointment. It was an important town, a papal residence, site of the current cardinals' conclave. But they, arrived at dusk, and all Hugh saw through the gusting rain were streets narrow as any maze, churned up with mud, and shuttered, overhanging buildings of dark tufa stone, black and wet and foreboding. Viterbo was filled to capacity, struggling to accommodate the entourages of two Kings, and the cardinals assembled to elect a pope. But a cousin of one of Count Ildebrandino's brothers-in-law had a palazzo close by the cathedral. Lodging as many of their attendants as they could in the great hall, they managed to find beds for the rest in neighboring inns. It was a tedious, protracted process, though, for men who'd been riding all day in a steady downpour, and by the time they were settled in, tempers were raw and patience in scarce supply. The palazzo cooks did their best to feed so many mouths, but the meatless Lenten menu did nothing to raise rain-dampened spirits. In the fourth week of this somber season of fasting and self-denial, most of the men were heartily sick of fish, yearning for forbidden foods cooked with butter and milk and cheese. While their host was able to provide stewed eels and fresh pike for the Count, Guy, and the fortunates seated upon the dais, those at the lower tables had to make do with the most disliked of all Lenten dishes, smoked red herring. Hugh usually had an appetite to put a starving wolf to shame, but tonight he could muster up no enthusiasm for the salt-embalmed fish on his trencher, and he was poking at it listlessly with his knife when Niccolo di Tavena generously offered to share the last dollop of hot mustard. "Senape," he said, "e pesce morto," for Niccol6 never missed an opportunity to increase Hugh's Tuscan vocabulary. His own French was quite good, but he magnanimously forbore to laugh, no matter how Hugh mangled his native tongue, for he'd met numerous French and English knights since Guy de Montfort had wed the daughter of his 37 lord, and Hugh was the only one who showed a genuine interest in the language of Tuscany. Hugh dutifully repeated the words. "Senapemustard, right? And pesce mortoherring?" "Nodead fish," Niccol6 said and grinned at the face Hugh made. "I have another one for you, so pay attentionfiglio di puttana. This is for Noelwhoreson!" Both boys laughed, for Hugh's relationship with Noel, fractious from the very first, had soured beyond redemption once Noel learned of Serafina. "Fair is fair, Niccolo. Let me teach you a blood-curdling French oath, one you" Hugh got no further. Voices were rising; the table rocked suddenly, and a bench overturned with a loud thud. Hugh swung about just in time to see one of the Florentines draw a dagger upon his neighbor. Evading that first thrust, the second man snatched up a table knife, slashed his assailant's sleeve. By now the hall was in an uproar: men shouting, shoving, dogs barking, other daggers being drawn. Into the very center of all this turmoil strode Count Ildebrandino. His own sword never left its scabbard, for his was the authority of blood and privilege, authority that took compliance for granted. Moving between the cornbatants, he quelled them by the very arrogance of his assurance, by his obvious disbelief that they would dare to disobey. In minutes it was over, the transgressors rebuked, banished from the hall. As calm returned, Niccolo explained to Hugh what had driven the men to daggers. "They fought over a past wrong. Florence and Siena have often been at war. This time the Florentines won, and after plundering Siena, they took a number of the city's young women back with them to Florence." Hugh was instantly on the side of the Sienese. "That is an outrage! Women are to be protected, not treated as spoils of war!" "Easy, lad, I agree. But ere you offer to lead a rescue mission, you ought to know thisthat abduction took place more than forty years ago, before either man was even born!" Niccolo laughed at Hugh's look of bemusement. "You see, Hugh, we Tuscans nurture our grievances, tend them well from one generation to the next. Forget not, forgive not; we live by that." Hugh nodded slowly. "The Welsh live by that creed, too." Within the hour, he was to be given disturbing, dramatic proof that so did the de Montforts. The quarrel set the tone for the night. Once the food was cleared away, men settled down to drinkand to trade stories of other war atrocities, of kingly cruelties and crimes of statecraft. It was a macabre game, but the menbored, restless, stranded indoors by the storm 38 entered into it with gusto, sought to outdo one another, and Hugh and Niccolo and the other squires listened in appalled awe to sagas in which soldiers raped nuns, stole from the dying and from God, melted down church chalices and candlesticks, sold false relics to gullible pilgrims, and broke each and every one of the Holy Commandments. As the evening advanced, the tales grew grimmer; men dredged up gossip steeped in blood. The Tuscans told of wars in which entire ^>wns were put to the torch. The French countered with accounts of the si4^e of Castle Gaillard, in which citizens who'd taken refuge within were expelled by the garrison, only to find themselves trapped between the castle walls and the besieging French army; huddled in this hellish no-man's-land, the wretched villagers began to die of hunger and cold and plague, and so desperate did they become that they seized and devoured a newborn baby. That reminded the English of their King John, who had cast into a dark dungeon the wife of a rebel baron, then starved her to death. Hugh thought that last story was rather tactless, given that King John was Guy and Bran de Montfort's grandfather. But they made no comments; they had so far taken no part at all in this grisly contest of griefs. Someone then brought up John's brother Richard, the King called Lionheart, who had put to the sword at Acre more than two thousand Saracens, most of them women and children. Others were quick to point out, though, that infidels had no souls. Walter de Baskerville mentioned John again, this time for hanging twenty-eight Welsh hostages at Nottingham Castle, many of them mere lads. But as with the Saracens, the nationality of the victims diluted audience sympathy; Wales was too foreign to the Tuscans and French, and too familiar to the English, to stir up much pity for its murdered children. Count Ildebrandino now came up with a crime so cold-blooded that Hugh involuntarily crossed himself, for this was a brutality not safely shrouded in the past. Twelve years ago, Michael Palaeologus was chosen as regent for his six-year-old cousin, rightful heir to the Byzantine Empire. Michael insisted upon being crowned with the boy, but swore a holy oath that he'd relinquish all authority once his young cousin came of age. Instead, he ordered the boy blinded, thus effectively rendering him unfit to rule. Men murmured among themselves. For the moment at least, the Count seemed to have won the bloody laurels. Glancing toward his sonin-law, he queried, "You've been curiously quiet, Guy, for a man who has seen so much of war himself. What say you? What wrongs do you judge beyond forgiving?" Guy raised his head, and there was something in his face that silenced the conversation in the hall. "That," he said, "is a question I 39 find very easy to answer. What more despicable, cowardly act can there be than the mutilation of the dead?" Hugh instinctively looked toward Bran. He'd made no outcry. Nor had he moved. But there was an unnatural stillness about him; he scarcely seemed to be breathing, his eyes riveted upon his brother's face. All other eyes were upon Guy, too, as he shoved his chair back. "Let's drink to that," he said loudly, "drink to the victors of Evesham. May they not be forgotten!" Walter de Baskerville was also on his feet now, rather the worse for wine. "To William de Mautravers and Roger de Mortimer, sons of perdition, spawn of the Devil!" Others were raising their wine cups, echoing this bitter toast. Hugh leaned over, whispered to Niccolo that de Mautravers was the man responsible for hacking Lord Simon's body into bloody pieces. "And de Mortimer sent Earl Simon's severed head to his wifeas a battlefield keepsake! They put it up over the gate of their castle at Wigmore, left it there till it rotted ..." Guy reached for a wine goblet, held it aloft. "And what of his Godcursed Grace? Edward Plantagenet, my father's godson, my kinsman who would be King! Why do you think scum like de Mautravers dared to butcher my father as he lay dying in the mud of Evesham? Because he knewthey all knewthat Edward would approve, that Edward wanted it done! No, give credit where due, Walter, to my cousin Ned, may we meet in Hell!" And with that, he flung the goblet into the fire. Hissing flames shot up wildly, ashes and embers rained into the floor rushes, clay shards ricocheted off the hearth stones, and men watched, mesmerized. Later, when Hugh had time to think upon what he'd witnessed, he would decide it was the unexpectedness of Guy's fury that was so frightening. Lightning searing a sky without clouds. A sudden burst of flame in a doused hearth. It was over almost as quickly as it began. Guy glanced at the clay fragments, said in a normal tone of voice that he owed his host some new crockeryas if that flare of killing rage had never been. Others did not find it so easy to forget. Hugh in particular was unsettled by what he'd seen, for it made him doubt his own judgment. He knew that Bran still bled, but Guy had seemed impervious to the past, so much so that Hugh even resented him a little for it, wondering why Bran must bear such deep scars when Guy bore so few. Now he knew better and wished he did not. THE one most affected by Guy's outburst was his brother. Bran began drinking in earnest even before the broken crockery was cleared away. 40 By midnight he was well and truly drunk, and was still badly hungover when he stumbled down to the great hall the next morning. Christians were expected to abstain from breakfast during Lent, but even the devout often found appetites overcoming obedience, and a number of men were helping themselves to tankards of ale and chunks of bread, soothing their consciences by eschewing butter. Others, those who had followed Bran's example, slumped on benches looking greensick, sip^>kig ale or herbal potions supposed to cure a morning-after malaise. Waving aside Noel's offer of hot bread, Bran drained a flagon of wine much too quickly, and, to the dismay of his squires, demanded another. Hugh had attempted to coax Bran to bed the night before, and in consequence, got his first taste of the fabled de Montfort temper. He was not eager to sample any more of it, but he watched Bran with growing unease, for they were meeting that forenoon with Charles and the King of France. In their months together, Hugh had never seen Bran publicly drunk, except for that night in Wales, when fever and mead had proved to be such a potent mixture. But he'd never seen his lord start drinking so early in the day, and he hovered about anxiously until Bran curtly told him to help Noel in saddling their horses. Even then he retreated from the hall with reluctance, with backward glances that Bran was determined to ignore. As fond as he was of Hugh, he was in no mood this morning to bear the burden of the boy's devotion. Noel was worried, too, about Bran, but he and Hugh were well past the point where they could share anything, even a mutual concern, and they headed for the stables in sullen silence. Friday the 13th was believed to be a day of ill omen, but after yesterday's torrential rains, the morning seemed off to a promising start. The sky was an infinite, azure blue, and the air was cold but very clear, as if the night's storm had washed the world clean. Niccold di Tavena was already in the stables, tightening the girth on the Count's flashy white stallion. He beckoned hastily at sight of them. "Who is Henry of Almain and what is he to the de Montforts?" It was an unexpected question. They exchanged quizzical looks, then answered almost in the same breath, Hugh saying, "Their cousin," and Noel, "Their enemy." Niccol6 frowned. "Which is it?" "Both." Before Hugh could elaborate, Noel seized control of the conversation. "He is the eldest son of the English King's brother Richard, which makes him a first cousin to the de Montforts and the Lord Edward. They're all roughly of an age, grew up together, and he was once a fervent supporter of the Lord Simon. He claimed to believe in the Earl's reforms, but then he renounced his allegiance, at a time when Lord Simon most needed his backing. The de Montforts saw it as a betrayal, 41 and there has been bad blood between them ever since. Why? The last we heard, he was on crusade with the Lord Edward. What put him in your mind this morn?" "He's herein Viterbo. It seems he arrived four days ago, with the two Kings. A couple of the English knights saw him in the marketplace. I heard them a few moments ago outside the stables; Walter de Baskerville was vowing to tell the de Montforts, and the other man was arguing against it, right vehemently, too. So I wondered who he was" "De Baskerville? We just passed him in the courtyard, headed for the hall!" Hugh spun around, started to run, with Noel and Niccolo right on his heels. They heard the shouting even before they reached the hall. Guy was gripping Walter de Baskerville by both arms, shaking the other man in his urgency to get answers. "Are you sure, truly sure it was Hal?" "Guy, I saw him, crossing the piazza bold as can be! It was him, I swear by my very soul!" Guy seemed stunned. "That God would deliver him into my hands ..." He swung away from de Baskerville, looking about for his squire. "Ancel, fetch my sword! Bran! Where in Christ did he go?" His eyes were sweeping the hall, singling out English exiles. "Walter, Geoffrey, Alan, you fought with me at Evesham. Are you with me now? Bran! Damn him!" Snatching up his scabbard, he buckled it with shaking hands. "Ancel, get to the stables, saddle my horse! What of the rest of you? Who rides with me?" It was like watching a fire blazing out of control. Some caught the contagion, too, began to shout for their own swords and horses. Others were backing away, as if the very air around Guy had become hot enough to singe. But when he turned to his father-in-law, the Count did not hesitate. "Of course I go with you/' he said, quite matter-of-factly. "A man must avenge his own." And it was then that Bran emerged from a corner privy chamber. He paused, blinking in the surge of sunlight, looking puzzled and a little wary to find the hall in such turmoil. Grabbing Bran's scabbard from the back of a chair, Guy strode forward, thrust it at his brother. "We've no time to lose, Bran. Hal is here, right here in Viterbo! I still cannot believe it, cannot believe God could be so good to us. But Christ, why could it not have been Ned?" Bran had always believed the folklore that a sudden shock could sober a man. He discovered now that it wasn't so. No matter how he Wed to focus his thoughts, to banish the wine-fumes from his brain, he could not cut through the confusion. Drink did not numb as easily as it once had, so why now? Why now when he had such need for clear thinking? He looked at his brother, seeing not Guy but Harry, his con- 42 stant, unseen companion, for who was more faithful than a ghost? Who understood better than the dead that there was no forgiveness, in this life or the next? What did Guy know of remorse, relentless and everpresent, goading a man toward madness? What did Guy know of that? And he must not ever learn! "Guy, listen to me!" Why did his voice sound so slurred, echo so strangely in his own ears? Why could he not find the right words? "But *& is Hal, not Ned. Hal. And he ... he was not even at Evesham!" He saw at once that he'd not gotten through to Guy; the look on his brother's face was one of disbelief, not comprehension. "Why are you so set upon destroying yourself? What will it change? You cannot even say that Papa would want this, Guy, for you know he would not!" It was a cry of desperation, honest as only a plea utterly without hope can be. But Guy reacted as if he'd been struck a physical blow. His head came up, breath hissing through clenched teeth, eyes narrowing into slits of incredulous rage. "You dare to talk of what Papa would have wanted, you who killed him! He and Harry died because of you, because of your criminal carelessness, your God-cursed folly! Where were you when we most needed you? Camped by the lake at Kenilworth Castle, out in the open so your men could bathe, by God, so Ned could come down upon you like a hawk on a pigeon! And Papa never knowing, keeping faith in you till the last! Even when we realized that Ned had used your banners as bait, we assumed you'd fought and lost, not that you'd let yourself be ambushed like some green, witless stripling, never that! Does it comfort you any, that our father went to his death still believing in you, never knowing how you'd betrayed him? I watched him die, damn you, and Harry and all the others. Not you, Branme! And mayhap this is why I did not die that day myself, so I could avenge our father, avenge Evesham!" Sweat stood out on Guy's forehead; his chest heaved as if he'd been running. He drew a deep, constricted breath, then said, more calmly but no less contemptuously, "You can come with me or not as you choose. But is it not enough that you failed Papa at Evesham? Are you truly going to fail him at Viterbo, too?" Bran's throat had closed up, cutting off speech. But he had nothing to say. No denials to make. No excuses to offer. Every embittered accusation that Guy had flung at him was one already embedded in his soul, five years festering. He could not defend himself. Nor could he save himself. All he could do was what he did nowreach for the sword that Guy was holding out to him. S*3 43 '°- Sunday or a holy day. As the bell rang for the Consecration, bem^. ejt Upon their prayer cushions, began to chant in unison with hurch of San Silvestro was only half-filled with parishioners, it not 1112 Sunday or a holy day. As the bell rang for the Consecration, bem^. ejt Upon their prayer cushions, began to chant in unison with ! -est "jesu, Lord, welcome Thou be, in form of bread as I Thee "They got no further; the door, barred to keep latecomers from se^'jjupting the Mass, was struck a shuddering blow, splintered under [he steel of thrusting blades. Bran was still blinded by the sun from the piazza; at first all he saw as blackness. Voices were rising from all corners of the church, bewildered, angry, alarmed. He could barely make out a shadowy figure standing by the altar. "Who are you that dare to intrude upon God's service?" A priest's voice, fearful but indignant, too. "You need not fear, Padre. We are not here for you." This voice Guy's, a voice like a knife. It cut through the murmuring protests just as surely as his sword had pierced the door, frightening to them all, familiar to one. He was on his feet now, his face a white blur, dark hollow eyes in a death mask, doomed and knowing it, for he'd recognized Guy. Their prey, their enemy, their cousin Hal. "What . . . what do you want?" he cried, beginning to back away, and again it was Guy who answered for them. "Retribution," he said, bringing up his sword. People would later ask why Hal had made no attempt to defend himself, why his attendants did not come to his aid. They were questions without answers. All that the eyewitnesses could report was what they saw, that Hal never drew his own sword. He fled, instead, to the altar, as if seeking sanctuary, and when Guy loomed over him, he was heard to gasp his cousin's name, to beg for God's mercy. Guy's reply burned itself into so many memories that parishioners would later be able to recall it word for word. He had said, they all agreed, "You shall have the mercy you showed my father and brother," and splattered San Silvestro's altar with the blood of his kinsman. Guy's second thrust split open Hal's skull, but still he dung to the altar, clung to life. The priest sought to intercede, and paid dearly for his courage. When they saw their priest struck down, the people panrcked, tried to flee. A melee broke out; other swords flashed. Bran saw it all, every gory detail imprinting itself upon his brain, to be relived again and again: the blood pooling in the chancel, caking on his boots, darkening the priest's cassock, even saturating the Host 'self, for the holy wafers had spilled out when the pyx overturned. Guy ^y broke Hal's death-grip on the altar, severing three fingers in the Process, and grabbed the dying man by the hair, began to drag him up e aisle, into the clear. Bran saw it all, the fingers still clutching the M doth, the candlesticks scattered underfoot, and always the blood, 44 so much of it, more than he'd ever seen on the battlefield, or even when pigs were butchered for Martinmas. How could one man's body hold so much? But he was forgetting the priest. And a parish clerk had been injured, too, was crumpled, moaning, by the sacristy door. Bran saw it all. But he felt none of it. For the rest of his life, he would be able to recall the murder scene in San Silvestro's church merely by dosing his eyes. But he could never remember how he'd felt or what Held thought as it was happening. * The sunlight in the piazza was dazzling, hurt his eyes. He shielded them with his hand, looked down upon the body sprawled at Guy's feet. Fair hair trailed in the mud; it, too, was turning red. Bran's swordarm hung at his side; when he started to sheathe the weapon, he saw blood on the blade. Passing strange, but he could not remember how it got there. Why could he not remember? Guy, too, was staring at their cousin's body. He was panting, drenched in blood, and soaked in sweat. "I have had my vengeance," he said, and spat with difficulty into the dirt. "Have you forgotten what they did to your father's body? How they hacked him to pieces, then threw him to the dogs?" The speaker was an English knight, one of the few survivors of Evesham. Bran knew him well, but now he found himself unable to recall the man's name. Guy whirled, and for a moment it looked as if he might turn upon his tormentor. But then he jerked his sword free of its scabbard again, slashed open his cousin's belly. Intestines spilled out in a gush of clotted black blood; a dreadful stench pervaded the piazza. As Guy swung a second time and then a third, a man fell to his knees, began to vomit. Bells suddenly echoed across the square; one of the parishioners was ringing the sanctus bell, sounding the alarm. Count Ildebrandino stepped toward his son-in-law, grabbed Guy's arm. "We are done here," he said. "You have avenged your father. Now it is time to goand to go quickly, whilst we still can." The Count's warning broke the spell. The men scattered, running for their mounts. Sheathing his sword again, Guy swung up into the saddle, raked his spurs into his stallion's flanks. The horse leapt forward, began to lengthen stride. But then Guy jerked on the reins, for as he looked back, he saw his brother still standing by the body. "Bran, you fool, what are you waiting for, the hangman? Get to your horse!" Bran turned at sound of his name. As their eyes met, Guy felt a queer chill, for Bran looked at him without apparent recognition. "Come on," he shouted. "Hurry!" Bran didn't move, continued to gaze down at Hal's body. Footsteps sounded suddenly on the muddy cobblestones; he looked up to see Hugh standing beside him. The boy's face was streaked with tears, and 45 not once did his eyes meet Bran's. But he was holding out the reins of Bran's stallion, and after a moment, Bran took them, mounted, and rode after his brother. People now emerged from hiding places, approached the body. Someone produced a blanket, draped it mercifully over the mangled remains. A woman in widow's black dropped a rosary into a maimed hand. It was all done in an eerie silence, as if the murder had shocked them beyond speech. But then a wailing began in the church, and an elderly merchant sent a servant to the Franciscans, where the Kings of Sicily and France were attending Mass. Hugh and Noel stood frozen, heedless of the activity beginning to swirl about them. Noel had started to shiver; even after a sympathetic spectator wrapped a mantle about his shoulders, he could not stop trembling. As if rousing himself from a trance, Hugh knelt on the cobblestones, made the sign of the cross over Hal's body. Straightening up, he moved toward the hitching post, untied their mounts. But Noel recoiled, looking at him in fresh horror. "Have you gone mad? We cannot go with them! They've doomed themselves this day, will be hunted down like outlaws, with every man's hand against them!" Hugh did not dispute him. "I know," he whispered, and shuddered. And then he mounted his gelding, sent it galloping across the piazza at a pace to outrun pursuit, but not memories of the murder. MONTARGIS, FRANCE April 1271 T1 IHE placid predictability of daily life in Montargis was shattered by the unexpected arrival of the French Queen. The vilagers abandoned their chores, deserting ploughs, churns, and looms m their eagerness to glimpse their sovereign's mother. Even the nuns c°uld not resist the turmoil, peeping surreptitiously from the windows 46 of frater, infirmary, and almonry as Marguerite and her entourage rode into the priory precincts. The Prioress hastened out to greet their royal guest, having already sent a servant to alert the de Montfort household, for all knew it was Nell whom Marguerite had come to see. By the time Marguerite reached the de Montfort lodgings, Nell was awaiting her in the doorway. If her curtsy displayed the deference due a Queen, her smile welcomed a friend. "Madame, what a joyful surprise! | I'm sorry my daughter is not here to greet you, too, but Ellen has been iiway for the past fortnight, visiting her de Montfort cousins at La Ferte-Alais. I expect her back today or tomorrow, though, and ..." Nell paused for breath, and only then did she become aware of the other woman's silence. "Marguerite? Is something wrong?" Marguerite nodded, her eyes filling with tears. THE church was very still, sun filtering through diamond-shaped panes of emerald- and ruby-tinted glass; the faint fragrance of incense hung in the air. Breathing in the perfumed scent, enveloping herself in the silence, it seemed to Nell that this shadowy chapel was her last refuge in a world gone mad. She did not approach the altar, though. In her despair, she turned not to God, but to Simon, and knelt by her husband's memorial stone. "Beloved," she whispered, "how unquiet is your grave ..." Another woman might have fumbled for a rosary; Nell reached for a ring. A sapphire set in the shape of a cross, it had once been Simon's, worn since Evesham on a chain around her neck. Fishing it from her bodice, she balanced it in her palm, then watched as her fingers curled around it, clenched into a fist. "Was ever a man so ill-served by the sons who loved him? If Harry had not allowed Edward to escape, if Bran had only understood the urgency of your need at Evesham, if only ..." Her voice wavered, then steadied. "How I hate those words! If only. What if. And the worst one of all, Simonwhy." After a while, she tried to pray, first for the soul of her murdered nephew, and then for her doomed sons. The prayers didn't help, for she had lost more at Evesham than her husband, her eldest son, and her country. She had lost, too, her faith in God's justice. From King's daughter to rebel's widowit was a free-falling plunge into depths not yet plumbed. She had in time made her peace with the Almighty, but after Evesham, she no longer truly trusted Him, and she no longer believed that heavenly prayers could ease earthly pain. "And now this," she said softly. "And now Viterbo. Simon . . Simon, I do not understand!" 47 It was an involuntary cry, one that seemed to echo on the hushed chapel air, lingering until dispelled by a slamming door, by a familiar voice. "Mama? Mama, we're back!" Ellen and Juliana were hastening up the nave. "There you are, Mama!" Even in such dimmed light, Ellen looked radiant. "We had a wonderful time. We went to Paris for a few days, heard Easter Mass at Notre Dame, and Cousin Alice took us to the apothecary who makes that jasmine perfume you fancy. Then, once we were back at La Fert£-Alais, they gave an elaborate feast, with dancing and jugglers and even a trained bear!" Ellen paused long enough to shoot a mischievous look in Juliana's direction. "Oh, yes, and Juliana made another conquest, One of the knights was so smitten with her that he followed her about like her own shadow, even" Juliana jogged Ellen's elbow. "She makes much ado over nothing, Madame. Can you tell us if it is true about the French Queen? She is here in Montargis?" "Yes." Nell had risen at sound of her daughter's voice. For a moment, her fingers tightened around her husband's ring, and then she said, "Come here, Ellen. You, too, Juliana, for this concerns Bran." The two girls exchanged startled, guilty glances, and Juliana flushed darkly, wondering how she and Ellen could have deluded themselves so easily, how they could ever have believed that the Countess knew naught of her liaison with Bran. They moved forward, losing all joy and laughter in the few brief steps it took to enter the chapel, looking tense, anxious, and young enough to break Nell's heart. "Marguerite came to tell me, Ellen," she said abruptly, "that your cousin Hal is dead." Ellen's lashes flickered, no more than that, and Nell felt a sense of weary wonderment that she and Simon could have bred this beautiful, impassive child, so unlike her volatile, impassioned parents. But Ellen had not always been so guarded. Growing up, she, too, had followed the de Montfort credo of no emotion denied, no thought left unspoken for Simon and Nell had both prided themselves upon their candor, then willingness to speak out before the most exalted of audiences. After one of Henry's many battlefield blunders, Simon had even dared to tell the English King that he belonged by rights in an asylum for the deranged of mind, an audacity Henry never forgave and other men never forgot Now, as Nell looked at Ellen's profile, so perfect and yet so inscrutable, she felt an old ache stirring, for Ellen's reticence was not hers by birthnght. It was a painful, learned response to a lesson no thirteen-yearold should ever have to master. Evesham had scarred her daughter no less than her sons. "Mama ..." Ellen took her time, choosing her words with care. "I 48 understand why you grieve for Uncle Richard. Indeed, I am sorry, too, for his pain. He is a decent man, and I know he truly tried to help us after Evesham. But please do not ask me to grieve for Hal. I cannot mourn him, Mama, for I cannot forgive him. If he had kept faith, Papa and Harry might still be alive. No, I can find no pity in my heart for Hal. I regret only that God gave him a crusader's death, for that is an honor he did not deserve." j There was no easy way to do it. "No, Ellen, you do not underhandnot yet. Hal did not die in the Holy Land. He died in Italy." Juliana's expression did not change; she continued to look puzzled and somewhat apprehensive. But Ellen's eyes widened; the mask cracked. "Italy," she echoed, and then, "Oh, Mama, no!" Nell nodded grimly. "For reasons known but to God, he directed Hal to Viterbo. There what you fear came to pass. As soon as your brothers learned of his presence, they . . . they seem to have gone stark mad. They burst into the church where Hal was hearing Mass, murdered him as he clung to the altar, and then Guy . . . Guy mutilated his body ere they escaped. Marguerite says they are believed to have taken refuge at Sovana, Count Ildebrandino's castle in" Juliana gave a smothered sob; Ellen caught her arm as she swayed. "No, Juliana, it is not true! Guy . . . yes, for he's like one crazed when it comes to Papa's enemies. But not Bran, not a killing like that. Juliana, will you stop weeping and pay heed to what I say? It is a mistake, it has to be. You know what happened at Evesham, you know that Bran got to the battle too late, that he ... God help him, but he saw our father's head on a pike. I cannot even begin to imagine what the ride back to Kenilworth must have been like for him. But the day's horror was not yet done. When the castle garrison heard, they went mad. My uncle Richard was being held at Kenilworth as a hostage, and they attacked him, would have killed him right there in the bailey if not for Bran. He stood over my uncle's body, sword drawn, and faced them down, just hours after seeing what Richard's allies had done to our father. Now you tell me, is that a man who'd murder during a Mass?" But Juliana continued to sob softly. It was Nell who reached out to her daughter, laid her hand gently on Ellen's arm. Ellen's mouth trembled. "Tell her, Mama. Please tell her it's not true . . ." Pulling away when Nell slowly shook her head. "My God, Mama, how can you believe that of Bran?" Nell did not flinch. "Because I know Bran's pain," she said quietly. "Because I know that he has spent the last five years looking for a way to punish himself. And I very much fear that he found it at Viterbo." Ellen could not speak. "What will happen to them?" she asked, once she was sure her voice would not betray her. 49 "They have been outlawed, their lands forfeit, and they'll be excommunicated as soon as there is a new pope to do it, to damn them. Then no man will dare to help them ..." Nell leaned back against the altar. "Child, there is more. Marguerite says suspicions have fallen upon Amaury, too." "But why? Amaury was not at Viterbo . . . was he, Mama? Even if so, I'll never believe he took part in a church killing, never!" "No, he was not in Viterbo. He was hundreds of miles away at Padua, had naught to do with the murder. But his blood alone convicts him in the eyes of some, and Marguerite says there has been talk of charging him with collusion." With an obvious effort, Nell pushed herself away from the altar, straightened her shoulders. "I must return to our bedchamber now, for I have a letter to write. I do not know where I shall find the words, though. How do I tell my brother that I am sorry my sons murdered his?" Ellen's breath broke on a shudder. "Mama, I am so sorry! You do not deserve this!" Nell's mouth twisted. "If we got what we deserved in this life, Simon would be in Westminster and Henry in Hell. Look after Juliana, and Ellen ... do not despair. We'll get through this somehow. You are Plantagenet and de Montfort, and a sword made from that steel is too finely tempered to break." Juliana sank to her knees, and Ellen knelt beside her, holding the other girl as she wept. Her own eyes were dry. She'd once cried easily: for a sorrowful song, a beggar's hunger, a homeless dog. Now she knew that tears availed for naught. "Where will he go, Ellen? What will he do? "I do not know." Juliana shivered, crossed herself. "What greater sacrilege can there be than a killing in God's own House? Do you think God could ever forgive him?" Ellen bit her lip. "It is not God's vengeance that they must fear now. It is my cousin's. Ned will follow them to Hades if need be." THE ship carrying Edmund Plantagenet, Earl of Leicester and Lancaster, second son of the English King, entered the port of Palermo at mid-day. Edmund was awed by his first sight of Sicily. He'd been told that it was a beautiful land, and he found it so: mountains soaring into infinity, harbors of translucent turquoise, a landscape on fire with flowers. He knew that it was a rich land, too, blessed with iron and salt mines, sugar cane, cotton. And as he looked upon this exotic island city, Edmund e" a sharp stab of regret, for it might have been his. 50 Although he had little interest in the past, Edmund was well-verseH in the history of Sicily. He knew it had been settled by the Phoenician a thousand years before the birth of the Lord Christ, that it had bee conquered by the Greeks, the Romans, the Saracens, and then th Normans. After the death of the Emperor Frederick, his empire had split asunder, and the Pope sought English support for his feud with Frederick's son by offering the throne of Naples and Sicily to Edmund then a lad of nine. Henry had been thrilled by the prospect of obtaining a crown for his younger son. But the English barons balked, unwilling to fight a war and drain the Exchequer in order to make Edmund ruler of a foreign realm. It had been a bitter disappointment for Henry, just one more grievance to tally up against Simon de Montfort's account. But Edmund soon came to terms with his loss. It was not that difficult, for his was an equable, genial nature, not given to grudges. Moreover, he might lack a coronet, but he did not lack for lands; Henry had bestowed upon him Simon de Montfort's estates, and those of Lancaster as well. Young, healthy, with a doting father, an elder brother he adored, an heiress for his child-bride, and two earldoms, he was indeed blessed, but it was his saving grace that he knew iteven on this April afternoon in Palermo harbor, gazing upon palm trees and flowering mimosa and lemon groves, a sight sure to beguile anyone accustomed to the cool grey mists and recurrent rains of England. Edmund had been told that his brother was staying at La Pavrah, a Norman palazzo a few miles southeast of Palermo. He was looking forward to his reunion with Edward, eager to fulfill his crusader's vow. But he was also somewhat apprehensive about his brother's frame of mind, for upon landing at Naples, he'd been told of the murder in Viterbo. Edmund had not been that well acquainted with Hal, who was ten years his senior. He was shocked, though, by the circumstances of his cousin's death, and he knew that Edward would not rest until the de Montforts paid a blood debt. His brother had a temper to rival the eruptions of Sicily's Mount Etna. As little as he liked to admit it, he could see Edward, too, raging into a church in pursuit of an enemy/ blind to all but his own fury. But no ... they said Hal had not resisted. Ned would not have struck down a defenseless man. A foe crossing swords with Ned had one chance of saving his life: surrender. In that, Guy de Montfort was utterly unlike Ned. Unlike his own father, for Edmund was sure that his uncle Simon would never have shed blood in a church. An ugly business, for certes. Poor Uncle Richard; it was his ill health that ha 51 bringing Hal home. Sad, so sad. Well, at least Hal would be been , jnat was a certainty. He knew his brother. aveng ^^ ^g ^ mogt magnificat palace Edmund had ever seen. urrounded on three sides by a vast man-made lake that stretched ''w / t of Monte Grifone.The grounds were crisscrossed with fish- A planted with oleanders and orange trees and cypress, and barges P°" H eold and silver floated upon the waters of the lagoon. The resi- H tial part of the palace encircled a large courtyard. The walls were of nt Spanish tile and white Parian marble. Red mosaics lined the tnways, an(j wherever Edmund's eye alighted, he saw cascading foun- Lns strutting peacocks, and graceful arcades adorned with honey- mb tracery. It was beautiful beyond compare, but in an alien, Arabic sort of way; Edmund had the uneasy sensation that a mosque would look more at home here than a chapel. A tall, elegantly gowned woman was walking by one of the fountains. She smiled at sight of him, held out her hands in welcome. Edmund did not begrudge his brother the English crownnot often but he did occasionally envy him his wife, for not only was Eleanora an alluring beauty in the dark Spanish style, she was utterly devoted to Edward, pledged to him heart, body, and soul. The best proof of her devotion was that she had left their three small children behind in England, knowing she would not see them for years, rather than be separated from Edward. Of course that could just be common sense, Edmund acknowledged wryly. Ned might be a loving husband, but he was not always a faithful one. Better to keep him close, lest temptation beckon. Kissing Eleanora's hand, he began to laugh, having belatedly become aware of her swelling silhouette. "Ned did not tell me! When is the babe due?" "Mid-summer, or so the midwife says. Eduardo tried to persuade me to remain here whilst he returns to the Holy Land. But I prevailed upon him, and we expect to sail for Acre within the fortnight." Eleanora had come to England as a child-bride of ten, but her voice still held echoes of her native Castile. "Edmundo ... do you know?" When he nodded, she sighed. "Never have I seen Eduardo so wroth," she confessed. "He is in council, making plans for his campaign against the infidel. Come, I shall take you to him." And linking her arm jn his, she led him across the courtyard toward a spacious south-west e Edmund was not surprised by the raised voices; his brother's strat- 8y sessions tended to be turbulent. The men with Edward were well- Lu°Wn to him: Thomas de Clare, Erard de Valery, and William de 'gnan, Earl of Pembroke. The first was a friend, the younger and 52 more amenable brother of the Earl of Gloucester. The second was a French knight who had the dubious distinction of having once saved Guy de Montfort's life. And the third was a kinsman, Henry's halfbrother and their uncle, a man detested by virtually every Englishman who'd had the bad fortune to cross paths with him. They were all arguing with Edward, each in his own fashion Thomas reasoning, Erard joking, and William de Lusignan blustering 4 but Edmund knew none were likely to prevail. His brother might not ^et have a king's crown, but he did have a king's will. So imperial was his bearing, so regal and forceful his demeanor, that people sometimes forgot he was a king-in-waiting, forgot the frail, aging shadow who blocked Edward's emergence into the sun. It saddened Edmund that their father's last days should be so meaningless, that he should be reduced to the status of a caretaker king, or worse, a ghost lingering beyond his time. Despite his manifest failings as a monarch, Henry had been a loving father, and Edmund ached for his twilight impotence, while understanding why England yearned for Edward's reign. Not that it had always been so. Edmund knew there'd been a time when men dreaded the day that Edward would be King. Edmund had no memories himself of his brother's lawless youth; he'd been just a child. But he'd heard the stories. Edward's escapades had gone far beyond the usual hell-raising expected of young men of rank. Galloping through villages at midnight, making enough clamor to awaken the dead. Appropriating wagons and abandoning them in cemeteries. Playing cat-and-mouse with the City Watch, getting drunk in Southwark whorehouses. Edward had done it all. But then his games took on darker tones. The brawling was no longer in sport. There was an ugly incident at Wallingford Priory, where monks were beaten and wine casks looted. There were reports of women being molested. And then a young man who'd somehow incurred Edward's displeasure was cruelly mutilated by Edward's servants, at Edward's command. And as these accounts were bruited about, people began to cross themselves and shiver at the thought of Edward wielding the manifold powers of kingship. But such fears had beenfor the most partlaid to rest during those tumultuous months between the battle of Lewes, in which Simon de Montfort scored a stunning victory over the forces of the Crown, and the battle of Evesham. Held hostage while Simon vainly sought to win him as ally, Edward had contrived a daring escape, and brought Simon to bay after a campaign brilliant in conception, flawless in execution. Men had called Simon de Montfort the "greatest soldier in Christendom." After Evesham, they began to say the same of Edward. It was Edmund's belief that the civil war had been for Edward a crucible, a trial by fire in which the sins of youth were burned away and his true 53 manhood emerged from the ashes, as it was meant to be. For others, coward's renowned skill with a sword was enough; much could be overlooked in a battle commander of Edward's caliber. As Edmund stepped forward, Edward was the first to glance up. "Well, now," he said, "if it is not the prodigal sheep!" The other men looked understandably baffled, for that was an old family joke, the result of Edmund's childish confusion between the biblical prodigal son and the proverbial lost sheep. Edmund was not surprised that Edward had remembered; his memory was as sharp as his sword. He grinned, moved to embrace his brother. Edward's bear hug took his breath. He was five feet, nine inches, the same height as their father, but Edward stood several fingers above six feet, so tall that men called him "longshanks." They were as unlike in appearance as they were in temperament. In childhood, Edward's hair had been as fair as Edmund's, but it had later darkened, was now a brownish-black, although in full sunlight, his beard still showed redgold flecks. His eyes were a pale, clear blue like Henry's, and like Henry, one eyelid drooped drowsily. A slight speech impedimenta faint lisp which would have put another man at a distinct disadvantage, was in Edward an irrelevancy, so impressive was his physique, so dominant his personality. White teeth flashed now as he laughed, throwing his head back, enveloping Edmund in another exuberant hug. "By God, lad, it's glad I am to see you! What word from England?" "I have a casket full of letters for you. Mama is thriving, as ever. But Papa is still ailing, and so is Uncle Richard. When he hears about Hal, it's like to kill him, Ned." "You know, then." Edward's voice was flat. "All of it?" Edmund nodded quickly, hoping thus to avert a gory reenactment of the crime. He would rather not dwell upon the brutal details of his cousin's death, although he was unwilling to admit this, lest the other men think him squeamish or soft. Edward had begun to pace back and forth, taking long, sweeping strides, every line of his body communicating his outrage. He had yet to notice his wife, who seemed content to wait until he did. "What I cannot understand," Edward said suddenly, "is why Hal did not fight back. If it had been me . . ." He shook his head, then gave Edmund a look of such searing intensity that his brother was thankful ne was not the real recipient. "I would have bartered my very soul for a chance to cross swords with Guy de Montfort," he said, and none doubted him. Moving to the window, Edward stood for some moments, staring °ut at the silver-sheened lake. "I would that I could lead the hunt to ack them down. But my army awaits me at Acre. Charles has promised, 54 though, that he'll see them brought to justice. Christ pity him if he does not, for I've sworn a holy oath that the de Montforts shall pay for Hal's murder, every one of them, and I" "Every one of them? Surely not Aunt Nell, too?" Edmund blurted out uneasily, and Edward gestured impatiently. "Of course not. Aunt Nell would not have countenanced such a killing." After a pause, he said grudgingly, "And neither would Simon." *^n acknowledgment to an enemy did not come easily to Edward; moving back to the table, he reached for a cup of sweet red wine, swallowed to take the taste away. "There was a time, though, when I would have said the same of Bran ..." William de Lusignan laughed. "I hear he has not drawn a sober breath in years. He was probably so besotted he thought the bloodletting to be some quaint Italian custom, part of the Mass!" Edmund and Thomas and Erard looked at him in distaste, the first two because they detested him, Erard because he had been Bran's friend. But then, so had Edwardonce. He was staring out onto the lake again, eyes narrowed against the white Sicilian sun. "It was mainly Guy's doing," he said. "I know that, for I know Guy, God rot his misbegotten soul! But the fact that his guilt is greater does not excuse Bran or Amaury. They, too, have a debt to pay, and I shall see that they do." "Amaury, too?" Edmund gasped, horrified that a priest might have taken part in a church killing. "I heard naught of Amaury at Naples!" Erard shifted uncomfortably in his seat, wanting to speak up for Amaury, but loath to remind Edward of his friendship with the de Montforts. Thomas was reluctant, too, to intervene, but he'd been burdened with an innate sense of fairness. "Ned, you know there is no proof whatsoever that Amaury was" Edward spun around. "Proof? He is Simon de Montfort's spawn, is he not? What more proof do I need? When I think of all that man has to answer for, the evil ideas he brought to England like some noxious French pox, the way he tried to cripple the God-given powers of kingship, I know he must be burning in eternal hellfire!" By then the others had realized he was speaking not of Amaury, but of Simon. "He would have torn asunder the very foundation of the realm, dashed us down into hellish chaos and darkness! Look at the allies he drew to him: the London rabble, Oxford students, unlettered village priests, Welsh rebels. But not men of good birth, not men of the peerage. And yet there are people who still hold his memory dear, who have made him into a martyr, who bleat that he died for them and their precious Runnymede Charter, for their 'liberties.' If Simon de Montfort is a saint, then I'm the living, breathing incarnation of Christ Jesus the 55 Redeemer! But fools flourish in England like the green bay tree, and still he wreaks havoc upon us, even now from the grave." None had dared to interrupt. When Edward at last fell silent, Eleanora crossed to his side, wiped away with gentle fingers the perspiration that trickled down his temples. He looked exhausted by his outburst, by this continuing struggle to defeat a phantom foe five years dead. "Do you know whom I truly blame for Hal's death? Simon de Montfort, for it was he who led us to the cliff's edge. He's beyond my powers to punish. But his sons are not, and I shall see them in Hell. This I swear upon the surety of Hal's soul." TALAMONE, THE MAREMMA, TUSCANY May 1271 V^JTHER men might envision Hell as a subterranean underworld, an abyss filled with flames and rivers of boiling blood. But to Hugh, Hell would forever after be the bleak, low-lying marshes of the Maremma. Hugh was not alone in hating it, this vast, barren swampland stretching north from Viterbo, south from Siena, a haven for snakes, wild boar, and pestilent fevers. Men who'd remained loyal to Bran, even after Viterbo, balked at the Maremma, and their numbers dwindled daily. None knew exactly what had passed between Bran and his brother; Bran said nothing and not even the bravest man dared to breach his frozen silence. That the rupture had come surprised no one, for Guy nad taken a bitter satisfaction in his act of vengeance, and Bran, once d sobered up, was sickened by it. Most of their men made the pre- 56 dictable and pragmatic decision to remain at Sovana Castle with Guy and his powerful father-in-law. But a score of knights had elected to follow Bran. These die-hard loyalists had not bargained upon the Maremma, though, had not bargained upon endless, empty days under a searing sun, a landscape of windswept desolation, muddy bogs, reed-choked ponds of stagnant water. The impoverished port of Orbetello, the shabby ^coastal village of Talamone, the inland town of Grosseto, then back to Talamonetheirs was an aimless wandering without purpose or plan, and to the disgruntled, uneasy men, it began to seem like the accursed odyssey of Cain. Bran shrugged off their queries, ignored their protests, and as their patience waned, one by one they slipped away. By this hot, humid Whitsunday in late May, they had all forsaken Bran but two Hugh and a French knight, Sir Roger de Valmy. Hugh had risen early, eager to escape the oppressive atmosphere of their inn. He'd meandered about the harbor for a while, practicing his Tuscan upon obliging passersby. Out of sheer boredom, he stopped to help the blacksmith shoe a recalcitrant filly and then drew well water for an elderly widow. When several youths invited him to join in a rough-and-tumble game of palone, he was quick to accept. Hugh was still surprised by the continuing friendliness of the Tuscan people. They were unabashedly curious about the Viterbo murder, but he found none of the hostility he'd expected. While he encountered no one who condoned the killing, he met no one who did not understand it, either. Blood-feuds were too familiar to shock. A pity, all agreed, before pointing out that it would not have happened if the Earl's body had not been so foully abused at Evesham. Two sides of the same coin, no? Men crossed themselves, then shrugged. For several hours the boys tossed a football back and forth. By the time the game broke up, Hugh was sweaty and out of breath and limping from a particularly energetic tackle, but happier than he'd been in weeks. His conscience was beginning to prickle, though, and he headed back toward the inn, in case Bran might have need of him. Reaching the stables, he detoured to check upon their horses, and it was there that he found Sir Roger de Valmy, saddling his stallion. Hugh could not conceal his dismay. "You are leaving?" The Frenchman nodded. "I ought to have gone weeks ago, but I kept hoping Bran would come to his senses." Buckling the saddle girth, he stepped from the shadows. A dark, stocky man of middle height, his most notable feature was an ugly scar, one that twisted his mouth askew, into a sinister smile that could not have been more deceptive, for he was by nature affable, generous, and perceptive. "Look, lad," he 57 jaid slowly, "I like Bran. But he is drifting into deep water, and I am n0t willing to drown with him." Hugh saw there was no point in arguing. "Where will you go?" "South. Charles keeps his court at Naples. I mean to seek him out, offer him my sword. I've fought for him in the past; he knows my worth." "But. . . but are you not afraid to face him? After Viterbo . . ." De Valmy smiled. "Have you not wondered, Hugh, why there was no pursuit? Why no efforts have been made to track Bran and Guy down? Oh, I daresay Charles disapproved of the killing. But no king willingly loses a good battle commander, and Guy de Montfort is one of the best. I'd wager a thousand livresif I had itthat Charles is going to wait for the furor to die down, for men to forget, and then, lo and behold, Guy will turn up in his service again." Hugh was shocked by de Valmy's cynicism. "But Guy and Bran have been outlawed, their lands forfeit!" De Valmy shrugged. "Yes, but you did not see Charles laying siege to Sovana Castle, did you? No, if Charles does not in time restore Guy to favor, it'll be only because he could find no way to appease Edward, not because of his moral outrage over the murder." "What of Bran? Does he know you're going?" De Valmy nodded again. "He did not even blink," he said, then swung up into the saddle. "You're a good lad, Hugh, and I'm in need of a squire. Come with me." "I thank you, Sir Roger. But I cannot." De Valmy did not look surprised. "No, I suppose not. But I did want you to have a choice, lad," he said, and rode out of the stable. His leaving sent Hugh's spirits plummeting. What would happen now? What were they going to do? He could not bring himself to face Bran, not yet, and he followed de Valmy into the blinding, white sunlight. The rest of the day passed in a blur. He spent much of it sitting on a secluded, rocky beach just east of the village. Lying back upon the hot sand, he stared out to sea, watched gulls circle and squabble overhead, flung shells into the surf, and sought to convince himself that a happy ending was still within Bran's grasp. He had in fact devised a plan, but he'd so far lacked the courage to broach the subject with Bran, for never had Bran been so unapproachable as in the weeks after Viterbo. As always, he kept his grieving to himself, and thus made it impossible for others to offer any sort of comfort. Hugh could only look upon his silent sorrowing, his daily drinking, and hope for a miracle. He dozed for a time, awoke with a start, with the guilty realization 56 dictable and pragmatic decision to remain at Sovana Castle with Guy and his powerful father-in-law. But a score of knights had elected to follow Bran. These die-hard loyalists had not bargained upon the Maremma, though, had not bargained upon endless, empty days under a searing sun, a landscape of windswept desolation, muddy bogs, reed-choked ponds of stagnant water. The impoverished port of Orbetello, the shabby ^coastal village of Talamone, the inland town of Grosseto, then back to Talamonetheirs was an aimless wandering without purpose or plan, and to the disgruntled, uneasy men, it began to seem like the accursed odyssey of Cain. Bran shrugged off their queries, ignored their protests, and as their patience waned, one by one they slipped away. By this hot, humid Whitsunday in late May, they had all forsaken Bran but two Hugh and a French knight, Sir Roger de Valmy. Hugh had risen early, eager to escape the oppressive atmosphere of their inn. He'd meandered about the harbor for a while, practicing his Tuscan upon obliging passersby. Out of sheer boredom, he stopped to help the blacksmith shoe a recalcitrant filly and then drew well water for an elderly widow. When several youths invited him to join in a rough-and-tumble game of palone, he was quick to accept. Hugh was still surprised by the continuing friendliness of the Tuscan people. They were unabashedly curious about the Viterbo murder, but he found none of the hostility he'd expected. While he encountered no one who condoned the killing, he met no one who did not understand it, either. Blood-feuds were too familiar to shock. A pity, all agreed, before pointing out that it would not have happened if the Earl's body had not been so foully abused at Evesham. Two sides of the same coin, no? Men crossed themselves, then shrugged. For several hours the boys tossed a football back and forth. By the time the game broke up, Hugh was sweaty and out of breath and limping from a particularly energetic tackle, but happier than he'd been in weeks. His conscience was beginning to prickle, though, and he headed back toward the inn, in case Bran might have need of him. Reaching the stables, he detoured to check upon their horses, and it was there that he found Sir Roger de Valmy, saddling his stallion. Hugh could not conceal his dismay. "You are leaving?" The Frenchman nodded. "I ought to have gone weeks ago, but I kept hoping Bran would come to his senses." Buckling the saddle girth, he stepped from the shadows. A dark, stocky man of middle height, his most notable feature was an ugly scar, one that twisted his mouth askew, into a sinister smile that could not have been more deceptive, for he was by nature affable, generous, and perceptive. "Look, lad," he 57 gaid slowly, "I like Bran. But he is drifting into deep water, and I am n0t willing to drown with him." Hugh saw there was no point in arguing. "Where will you go?" "South. Charles keeps his court at Naples. I mean to seek him out, offer him my sword. I've fought for him in the past; he knows my worth." "But. . . but are you not afraid to face him? After Viterbo ..." De Valmy smiled. "Have you not wondered, Hugh, why there was no pursuit? Why no efforts have been made to track Bran and Guy down? Oh, I daresay Charles disapproved of the killing. But no king willingly loses a good battle commander, and Guy de Montfort is one of the best. I'd wager a thousand livresif I had itthat Charles is going to wait for the furor to die down, for men to forget, and then, lo and behold, Guy will turn up in his service again." Hugh was shocked by de Valmy's cynicism. "But Guy and Bran have been outlawed, their lands forfeit!" De Valmy shrugged. "Yes, but you did not see Charles laying siege to Sovana Castle, did you? No, if Charles does not in time restore Guy to favor, it'll be only because he could find no way to appease Edward, not because of his moral outrage over the murder." "What of Bran? Does he know you're going?" De Valmy nodded again. "He did not even blink," he said, then swung up into the saddle. "You're a good lad, Hugh, and I'm in need of a squire. Come with me." "I thank you, Sir Roger. But I cannot." De Valmy did not look surprised. "No, I suppose not. But I did want you to have a choice, lad," he said, and rode out of the stable. His leaving sent Hugh's spirits plummeting. What would happen now? What were they going to do? He could not bring himself to face Bran, not yet, and he followed de Valmy into the blinding, white sunlight. The rest of the day passed in a blur. He spent much of it sitting on a secluded, rocky beach just east of the village. Lying back upon the hot sand, he stared out to sea, watched gulls circle and squabble overhead, flung shells into the surf, and sought to convince himself that a happy ending was still within Bran's grasp. He had in fact devised a plan, but he d so far lacked the courage to broach the subject with Bran, for never had Bran been so unapproachable as in the weeks after Viterbo. As always, he kept his grieving to himself, and thus made it impossible for others to offer any sort of comfort. Hugh could only look upon his silent sorrowing, his daily drinking, and hope for a miracle. He dozed for a time, awoke with a start, with the guilty realization 58 that this was Whitsunday and he'd not yet attended Mass. But what came to him next was worse. He'd been gone nigh on all day. What if Bran thought he'd ridden off with Sir Roger? Jumping to his feet, he started to run. Their room was the best in the inn, but that wasn't saying much. The chamber was cramped and cluttered and stifling, for Bran had not bothered to unshutter the lone window. A reeking tallow candle was | burning down toward the wick, a tray of untouched food had been dumped by the door, and several empty wine flagons lay scattered amidst the floor rushes. Bran was sprawled, fully dressed, upon the bed. Gaunt and unshaven, he looked like a stranger to Hugh, looked unnervingly like his brother Guy. The narrowed eyes were bloodshot, unfriendly. "So," he said, "you're still here, are you?" He sounded like a stranger, too; there was a harsh, mocking edge to his voice that Hugh had never heard before. "Of course I am here, my lord." "Why?" Hugh blinked. "My lord?" "A simple enough question, I should think. I asked why you did not go with Roger." Hugh had been poised to begin removing some of the litter. Instead, he straightened up, eying Bran warily. Drink had always acted as a buffer for Bran, isolating him behind a moat of ale and wine, not as fuel for an erratic temper, as Hugh had once feared. He did not know how to handle this sudden wine-soaked sarcasm. After glancing down at one of the empty flagons, he said, "I would not leave you, my lord." Bran gave a hoarse, rasping laugh. "Faithful to the grave, eh, Hugh? But did it ever occur to you that I do not want it, that steadfast, suffocating loyalty of yours? Christ, do not look at me like that! The truth is that I needed a squire, instead got a wet-nurse, and am heartily sick of it." Hugh didn't speak; he couldn't. His silence seemed to spur Bran on. Sitting up, he said impatiently, "Do you not understand what I am saying? Go home to England, Hugh, where you belong." And when the boy just stood there, staring at him, he reached for a leather pouch, flung it at Hugh. "For services rendered, a debt paid in full. Now what are you waiting for? I no longer want you with me, am bone-weary of your infernal hovering. How much more plainly can I speak than that?" Hugh caught the pouch, but it was an unthinking act. He looked at Bran, then kicked aside the flagon at his feet, turned, and bolted from the chamber. He went down the stairs so fast that only the reflexes of youth kept him from taking a headlong fall, and he did trip over the inn's aged dog, sound asleep in the doorway. The animal awoke with 59 snarl, its yellowed fangs snapping at Hugh's outstretched fingers, grazing his thumb. Hugh never felt the bite, did not notice the blood On his sleeve until hours later. He would have no recollection of saddling his horse. He took the road toward Grosseto, but that was not a conscious choice, either. Grosseto was only fifteen miles away, but Hugh did not reach it until dusk, for he'd allowed his horse to set its own pace. He was half-way there before he remembered his belongings, back in Bran's chamber. But nothing on earth could have induced him to return to Talamone. The first inn he tried was full, but the inn-keeper offered to let him sleep on the floor of the common room for a reduced rate. There were other inns in Grosseto, but Hugh didn't bother to check them out. The inn-keeper's wife made supper for the guests, but Hugh had no appetite. He'd left his bedroll at Talamone, bought a blanket from the inn-keeper, and passed the longest night of his life, listening to the snores of nearby sleepers, the yowling of stray cats, occasional bursts of barking, the wind rattling loose shutters, the creaking on the stairs as men stumbled down to use the outdoor privy. He awoke soon after dawn, so tired he ached. During those endless hours in the dark, he'd sought to summon up anger, resentment, outrage. But it was still too soon. All he felt was a stunned sense of betrayal. The smell of baking bread reminded him now that he'd not eaten for fully a day. As he sat up, stiff from a night on the floor, his brain, too, seemed to be stirring at last. It was a foolish move, going to Grosseto. He ought to have headed south, sought to overtake Sir Roger. Did he want to stay in Italy, though? Bran's taunting words came back at him, "home to England." Home. But what did England hold for him? His father's grave and lands no longer his. It occurred to him suddenly that even if he wanted to, he might not have the money to return to England. He'd forgotten about Bran's pouch, paying for his lodgings out of his own meagre funds. As he unfastened it now from his belt, he frowned at the unexpected weight. For a moment he balanced it in the palm of his hand, and even before he pulled the drawstring, he could feel the hairs beginning to rise along the back of his neck. The pouch was crammed with coins, too many to count, more money than he'd ever seen. AS Hugh dismounted, the Talamone inn-keeper burst through the doorWaY, waving his arms, gesturing back toward the inn. His speech was so rapid that Hugh could understand little of what he said. But the Wan s agitation only confirmed the worst of Hugh's fears. Handing over s reins, he hastened inside, taking the stairs three at a time. 60 The room was in darkness. Striding to the window, he jerked open the shutters. One glance at the man on the bed and he whirled toward the door, shouting for blankets and hot wine. Snatching up his forgotten bedroll, he covered Bran with blankets, then added Bran's mantle. But Bran's chills showed no signs of abating. He was shivering so violently that the bed itself was shaking, and when the inn-keeper brought up the hot wine, his teeth were chattering too much for him to manage more than a swallow or two. There was no doctor in Talamone. But Hugh did not need a doctor to diagnose Bran's ailment. Some called it ague, others tertian or quartan fever. Hugh was familiar with the symptoms; Brother Mark had enjoyed tutoring his young infirmary helpers. But he'd never before seen anyone stricken with the ague, as it was much more prevalent in the English Fenlands than in the Evesham vale. He understood now why tertian fever stirred such superstitious fears in men, for Bran did indeed seem possessed, so intense were the tremors convulsing his body. The chills continued for almost an hour before giving way to fever. As Bran struggled weakly to escape the coverlets, Hugh hastily bent over the bed, jerking the blankets off. "Here, my lord," he said, "try to drink this." Bran swallowed with difficulty, then lay still, watching the boy as he began to soak cold compresses. "You were a fool to come back, Hugh," he said huskily. "You're a fine one to talk about foolishness!" Hugh snapped, then almost dropped the water laver, so astounded was he by his own words. But the corner of Bran's mouth was twitching. Bringing the compresses to the bed, he put one of the wet cloths upon Bran's forehead. "When did you have the first attack, my lord?" "On Saturday, whilst you and Roger were in Grosseto." "It is a tertian fever then, for the quartan fever recurs every fourth day. If we can only find some cinquefoil leaves" Bran reached out, caught Hugh's wrist. The boy could not suppress a gasp, so hot was Bran's skin. How could the body be freezing one moment, on fire the next? "Tertian fever, quartan feverdoes it matter? What does is that it is contagious, Hugh! Do you not realize the risk?" "We do not know that for certes, my lord. Anyway, I've had it already." "Did you now? Doubtless due to all that time you spent in the great swamps of Evesham. Hugh, this is no game!" "I know that! I do understand the risk, and I accept it. Now you can insult and mock me again, but it will avail you naught, for I'll not leave you. My lord, I have to say this straight out. What you did was brave, but it was crazy, too." Hugh paused for breath, amazed by h15 61 wn daring. "I've had my say. Get angry if you will. But when your anger's done, I'll still be here." He waited tensely, soon saw that the emotion Bran was fighting was not anger. Perching on the edge of the bed, he carefully checked Bran's compresses, while mentally polishing the plea he was about to make. "My lord, I know this is not the best time, but we need to talk. This is what I think we must do. As soon as your fever breaks, we must eo to Grosseto, find a doctor. Then, once you have recovered, we must go to Siena, must" The corner of Bran's mouth twitched again. "Missing Serafina, are you, lad?" Hugh refused to be distracted. "My lord, I am serious! I ask your pardon for speaking bluntly again, but I know no other way to say this. Since the . . . since Viterbo, I have been remembering what I learned at the abbey school about the murder of the Archbishop of Canterbury, Thomas a Becket." He heard Bran's indrawn breath, and hurried on, before he lost his nerve. "I expect you know the story, my lord, how four of King Henry's knights decided to kill the Archbishop after hearing the King cry in a fit of rage, 'Will none rid me of this turbulent priest?' But did you know that after the deed was done and the Archbishop lay dead before the Cathedral altar, one of the knights, a man named de Tracy, set out at once for Rome, where he sought absolution from the Pope?" Bran had not interrupted, and Hugh took heart from that. "Do you not see, my lord? Why can you not do the same? Since there is no new pope yet, I propose that we go to the Bishop of Siena, that you confess your sins, tell him of your remorse, and ask him to impose a penance upon you. Then you do as he directs, whether it be a crusade, a pilgrimage, whatever." Hugh almost blurted out his belief that the Bishop would be sure to absolve Bran, for his contrition was beyond doubting and the greatest guilt lay with Guy, but he stopped just in time, knowing that Bran blamed no one but himself. "You must agree, my lord," he pleaded, "for it is your only chance. Once you satisfy the Bishop's penance, you'll be at peace again!" Bran knew better. But he could not bring himself to deny the boy this last shred of hope, for Hugh's eyes were shining with certainty, with the affecting innocence of unquestioning faith. "I agree," he said wearily. "We shall go to Siena, seek out the Bishop. But not later; now, as soon as I am able to ride ..." Hugh started to object, thought better of it. "As you wish, my lord," e agreed, rising to change the compress. Bran's forehead was searing 0 the touch, and he could tell Bran was in sudden pain by the way he 62 averted his eyes from the light, tangled his fist in the sheets. Remembering that severe, blinding headaches were a symptom of the ague, Hugh hastened to close the shutters, then went to find the inn-keeper, seeking chamomile and rue, herbs said to ease head pains. For the next four hours, Bran's fever burned higher and higher, then broke as suddenly as it had begun. Bran was soon drenched in sweat, almost at once fell into an exhausted sleep. Hugh pulled a chair u| to keep a bedside vigil and to plot strategy. They'd have to pass through Grosseto on the way to Siena. Once they were there, mayhap he could coax Bran into remaining till he was fully recovered. But what if he could not? Men oft-times went on holy pilgrimages barefoot, their bleeding footsteps trailing painful proof of their devotion, their willingness to suffer for God's favor. Bran might well see his quest in the same light, might think that a fevered trek would mean more to the Almighty. If so, at least they'd be able to get medicine from Grosseto's doctor ere they set out. Siena was about fifty miles away. With Bran's attacks coming every other day, they ought to be able to cover fifteen or twenty miles on his fever-free days. The weather was no threat, warm by day, mild by night, so camping out would present no problem. And if Bran did take a turn for the worse whilst on the road, there was a Cistercian abbey at San Galgano, about half-way to Siena, and monks were adept at healing. Hugh smiled at that, thinking fondly of Brother Mark. No, however he looked at it, their prospects seemed promising, and for the first time in more than two months, he dared to let himself hope. Men did die of tertian fever. But it was not an inevitable death sentence, not like consumption or cancers or spotted fever. And Bran was young and healthy. Why should he not recover? Hugh was getting sleepy himself, but he thought to add a drowsy "God willing," lest the Lord think him impertinent. THE doctor in Grosseto did not inspire Hugh with confidence. He seemed as old as Methuselah, spoke no French, and was taciturn even in his own Tuscan. After he tried to bleed Bran and botched it, puncturing Bran's arm repeatedly before he was able to find a vein, Hugh was not all that disappointed when he refused to accompany them to Siena. The malarial fever struck on schedule, the day after their arrival in Grosseto. At Bran's insistence, they set out on the following morning for Siena. Because Bran had to stop and rest so often, they were not able to cover as much ground as Hugh had hoped; he guessed they'd made only about fifteen miles by nightfall. The next day Hugh built a 63 bonfire to ease Bran's chills, meticulously measured out doses of the doctor's herbs, betony and sage, which he then mixed in strong ale. He had not tried very hard to dissuade Bran from starting for Siena, for he was half-afraid that if they loitered too long in Grosseto, Bran might change his mind about seeking absolution. Hugh was faintly ashamed that Bran's illness should give him so much hope. But he'd begun to despair that Bran would ever come back from wherever he'd gone after the killing in Viterbo. Now those dark silences had been banished by the ague. On his fever-free days, Bran was no longer a stranger; he listened, joked, even laughed occasionally. And soon they'd be in Siena, where Bran could confess to the Bishop; then all would be well. There was no reason why he could not visit Serafina again, too, whilst they were in the city. That Friday eve optimism was not to last, though. By the next day, Hugh's cheerful assurance had begun to falter. He'd not anticipated how rapidly these assaults of chills and fever would sap Bran's strength. He tired so easily that they managed to travel less than ten miles. On Sunday his seizures were more severe, more prolonged, than any that had come before; his fever burned out of control from noon till dusk, and, for the first time, he was stricken with bouts of nausea. On the following day he was weaker still. Each time he dismounted to rest, he found it harder to get back into the saddle, and by early afternoon, he was so exhausted that they had to halt, thus losing precious hours of daylight. That night they both slept badly, and they awoke on Tuesday to a sky marbled by clouds. Bran's chills began in mid-morning. In vain Hugh stoked their fire higher, piled blanket after blanket upon Bran's trembling body. He found the chills more frightening than the fever; it seemed to defy the very laws of nature, that a man could be shivering so under a summer sun. They had camped beside a shallow stream, and when Bran began to throw off the blankets, Hugh soaked compresses in the clear, cold water, fought the fever as best he could. This was the worst day yet; for a time Bran was delirious, drifting in and out of fevered dreams as Hugh desperately doubled the doses of betony, and clouds continued to gather overhead. Hugh kept an uneasy eye upon that darkening sky, for they'd left the Maremma behind, were in the highlands now, which meant that nights would be much cooler. What if it rained? If Bran got soaked in a downpour, could he survive a night out in the open? A distant rumbling of thunder stirred him to action, and he knelt by Bran's side. "My lord, can you hear me? I must leave you for a while, must find us some shelter ere that storm breaks. There is a wineskin right here. I'll not be gone long." 64 Bran's world was shot through with hot colors and swirling mist. It was not unpleasant, though, a slow spiraling down into the dark. But someone would not let him be; he could hear his own name, oddly muted, as if echoing from a great distance. He didn't want to heed it, to come back. But a hand was gripping his shoulder. His lashes seemed sealed with stones; he struggled to raise them, to focus on the white, tense face floating above him. f "Thank God! I was so scared when I could not wake you . . ." trabbing the wineskin, Hugh tilted it to Bran's lips. "My lord, listen. I found a shepherd and he says there is a castle not a mile from here. Lord Bran, can you try to stand? If we can just get you onto your horse ..." The lad might as well ask him to sprout wings and fly to Siena. The mere thought of moving was enough to give Bran a queasy pang; he wondered, with impersonal curiosity, if a man could get seasick on horseback. But Hugh looked so earnest, as if the world's fate hung upon his answer. A pity to let the lad down ... He made an enormous effort, said faintly, "Why not?" THE shepherd's "castello" was a small manor fortified with a weedchoked moat. As they approached the drawbridge, an unseen sentry ordered them to halt. A moment later he appeared in the doorway, a tall, rangy youth, hand on sword hilt. He lost his swagger, though, as soon as he got a good look at Bran. Shaking his head, he began to back up, waving them away from the castle. Hugh dismounted in dismay and started onto the drawbridge, entreating the guard to wait. But the man had already disappeared. Hugh was still on the drawbridge when the portcullis dropped down, barring the entrance. For a moment Hugh stared at the portcullis, and then all the fear and tension and strain of the past weeks exploded in a wild rage, unlike anything he'd ever experienced. He could see the guard through the portcullis bars; had he been within reach, he'd have flung himself at the man's throat. "You must give my lord entry! He'll die without shelter!" But in his fury, he'd forgotten his Tuscan. The surging torrent of French meant nothing to the guard; he shrugged, started to walk away. Hugh slammed his fist against the portcullis bars. "Damn you, wait!" A Tuscan curse came back to him then, obscene enough to spin the guard around in outrage. "Tell your castellan that Sir Simon de Montfort, Earl of Leicester and Lord of Avellino, seeks admittance!" Hugh shouted, in an uneven mix of French and Tuscan. At mention of his father's forfeit title and his own confiscated Italian fief, Bran laughed suddenly, a sound that chilled Hugh to the very bone. "My lord is 65 kinsman to Ildebrandino d'Aldobrandini, Count of Sovana and pjtigliano! Turn him away and, by God, you'll long regret it!" His threat had not yet died away before lightning stabbed the clouds above their heads, followed by a resounding crash of thunder. Hugh whirled as Bran cried out, reached him just as he started to slide from the saddle. Fortunately, Bran's stallion was well trained; it stood its ground as Hugh struggled to lower his lord onto the grass. Lightning blazed again, and Bran saw the sky through a blinding shower of bluewhite sparks. He could feel rain upon his skin now, a blessed relief, so cool it was. Hugh's face was wet, too, although with tears or rain he couldn't tell. The boy's anguish was his last regret; he yearned to make Hugh see that it was all right, that there was no need to grieve so. Cradling Bran's head in his lap, Hugh began to stammer whatever assurances he could think of, vowing to find the shepherd's hut. But he knew better, knew Bran was going to die there, out in the rain by the castle's mud-churned moat, a stone's throw from safety. It was then that he heard itthe sound of a windlass, straining to raise the portcullis gate. He did not dare to move, afraid to let himself hope. But several hooded figures had now emerged onto the drawbridge. Heedless of the gusting rain, the man in the lead strode toward them, knelt by Bran's side. "You are the Earl of Leicester's son, in truth?" he demanded, in accented but understandable French. His eyes searched Bran's face, found what he sought. Straightening up abruptly, he beckoned to his reluctant servants. "I apologize for my man's conduct. When he saw you were ailing, he feared the fever's contagion. You are welcome at my hearth, for as long as you wish." "Why?" Bran whispered. "I knew your lord father," the castellan said simply, as if that explained all, and ordered his men to assist Bran into the castle. Hugh had been stricken dumb by the sheer intensity of his relief. But then, to his horror, he heard Bran say, "No . . . wait. I must tell... tell you first what I did . . ." He had no breath for more, but the castellan understood. "You do not take advantage of my hospitality. I know about Viterbo. But that is between you and God." They were all drenched by now. Sheets of rain were blowing sideways, sharp as needles. Lightning split a cypress tree upon a distant slope, and an acrid, burning odor hung upon the air. Men were bringing a litter from the castle, and the castellan was instructing one of the guards t° ride for Siena, to fetch a doctor from the hospital of Santa Maria della Scala. Now that Bran's fate was in more competent hands than his, 66 Hugh was content merely to watch, to relinquish a responsibility too burdensome for any fifteen-year-old. Salvation come so suddenly had left him dazed. He could think only that Simon de Montfort had somehow managed a miracle in his son's hour of greatest need. HUGH stood at an open window, gazing out upon sunlit hills and dappled %Uve groves. A night's sleep in a real bed, a huge breakfast, and the reemergence of the summer sun had been enough to send his spirits soaring, and his step was light, jaunty, as he mounted the stairs to Bran's bedchamber. The room was shadowed, peaceful. "Does he still sleep?" Hugh whispered, and the castellan nodded. They stood for a time in silence, watching the man on the bed. Hugh was still marveling that they owed their deliverance to Simon de Montfort rather than Count Ddebrandino. "May I ask how you knew Earl Simon, my lord?" The castellan beckoned him away from the bed. "We fought together in Palestine. In fact, we sailed on the same ship for the Holy Land. His lady had accompanied him as far as Brindisi, doubtless would have gone on crusade, too, had she not been great with child! Thirty years ago, it was, but I remember him well. A remarkable man, in truth. Did you know the citizens of Jerusalem asked him to be their governor?" Hugh nodded, and then laughed. "I just realizedthat was Bran his lady mother was expecting! He told me once that he was born in Italy." An indistinct murmuring drew them back to the bed. "Ought the doctor to be here soon?" Hugh whispered, leaning over to smooth Bran's blankets. He straightened up almost at once. "Why is he so hot? This is one of his fever-free days . . ." He looked pleadingly at the castellan, had his answer in the older man's averted eyes, his sympathetic silence. THE doctor came slowly down the stairs, sank into the closest chair. Looking over at the castellan, he shook his head. "I've done all I can. I even bled him again, but . . ." He shrugged expressively. The castellan was gazing across the hall, searching out the boy amidst the shadows. Hugh had not moved for hours, refusing food or drink, all attempts at comfort. "I'll have to tell the lad," he said reluctantly, and the doctor pushed himself out of the chair. "I'll tell him. You'd best fetch your chaplain." Hugh did not look up, even when the doctor squatted down beside him. "I'm sorry, lad. He is in God's hands now. But as weak as he is, 67 I do not see how he can survive the morrow's onslaught of chills and fever ..." Hugh said nothing, hunched his shoulders when the doctors patted his arm in an awkward gesture of condolence. "I do not believe you," he said, almost inaudibly. The doctor sighed, did not argue. Hugh had his face against his drawn-up knees, clinging desperately to his disbelief. There was another strained silence, and then the castellan was coming swiftly toward them, trailed by a flustered priest. "No!" Hugh was on his feet. "He's not dead, he's not!" "No . . . not yet." The castellan was too agitated for diplomacy or discretion. "But he's gone stark mad, refuses to see my chaplain, refuses to be shriven!" The doctor swore softly. For a long moment, they looked at one another, and on each man's face, shock warred with appalled awe. As horrified as they were by Bran's refusal, they could not help seeing it as the ultimate gesture of atonement, for what greater sacrifice could a man make than to deny himself salvation? The chaplain shivered, hastily crossed himself. Hugh had been slow to comprehend the meaning of the castellan's words. When he did, he shoved the men aside, started for the stairs at a dead run. Bran's chamber was lit by candles. They flared up as Hugh flung the door open; several guttered out. Hugh did not hesitate. Approaching the bed, he said, "You cannot do this, my lord. The fever has clouded your wits. But there is still time" Bran started to shake his head and gasped, for the movement triggered a blinding flash of pain. Black hair fell forward over his eyes, but he had not the strength to brush it back. He'd begun to think of the bed as a boat, in his feverish imaginings, envisioned its moorings snapping, one by one, until only a solitary line kept it from drifting out to sea. For hours, he'd been waiting for that final hawser to fray enough to break. But now he sought to hold on for a while longer, for the boy's sake. Hugh sat on the edge of the bed. "Do you not remember what you told me in that Sienese bordello? You said there were few sins so great that God could not forgive. God will pardon your sins, too, my lord tf you'll but give Him the chance." Bran's lips moved, and Hugh leaned forward, caught only, "God nught, he'd not. . ." Those few words had come with such obvious effort that Hugh grew alarmed. "No, my lord, just listen, save your breath for the priest." Reaching over, he smoothed the hair away from Bran's forehead. " 'He'd not/ " he repeated. "Do you mean . . . your lord father?" 68 Bran's lips parted again; they were cracked and swollen, blistered by fever. Hugh was beginning to understand. "You think your father would not forgive you for Evesham or Viterbo, That I do not know, my lord. But this I can say for certesthat Earl Simon could never forgive you for the sin you are about to commit!" Bran was struggling to speak, and Hugh grasped his hand. "What 0 of your lady mother and your sister? Is it not enough they must mourn your death? How could they live with it, knowing your soul was damned to Hell for all eternity? If you inflict pain like that upon women who love you, Earl Simon will not be the only one unable to forgive you. Neither will I!" Bran's lashes quivered. His eyes were as dark as Hugh had ever seen them, a fever-glazed grey. "My father ..." Hugh bent over; Bran's breath just reached his ear. "He'd have liked you, lad," he whispered, and Hugh bit his lip, tasting blood. A creaking hinge warned him that they were no longer alone, and he turned, saw the priest hovering anxiously in the doorway. Hugh reluctantly released his grip on Bran's hand, but made no attempt to wipe away the tears streaking his face. "I'll leave you now, my lord," he said, as steadily as he could, "so you may make your peace with God." I LAMMAS DAY, the first of August, was one of the most popular festivals of high summer. At Morrow Mass, the priests of Montargis had blessed the loaves of freshly baked bread, offered thanks to the Almighty for another bountiful harvest. Later, a Lammas feast would be held in the Countess of Leicester's great hall. The Prioress and village elders had been invited, and Nell's cooks had created an elaborate castle out of marzipan, glazed with sugar. The enticing aroma of baking gingerbread and plum bread now wafted out onto the morning air, and Durand's mouth began to water in anticipation. Durand was looking forward eagerly to the feast, to the delicious drink known as lamb's wool, warm, spiced cider with baked apples floating on top, to the boisterous games and dancing, and lastly, to the candlelit evening procession that would bring the Lammas festivities to a close. Today's celebration would be the week's only joy for the members of the Countess's household, for they were approaching the anniversary of the battle of Evesham. Certain times were always harder for the Earl's women, but none more so than the day of Simon's death, and Nell's retainers and servants ached for her resurrected sorrow, while dreading her inevitably fraying temper. August 4th would be a bad day for all at Montargis. 69 But that was yet to come. Ahead lay a day of proven pleasures, and Durand was whistling as he emerged from the stables, only to halt abruptly at sight of the dog. It was one of the Countess's pampered greyhounds, but its sleek sides were heaving, its muzzle smeared with saliva. Durand's hand dropped to his sword hilt. He'd never seen a mad dog before, felt his muscles constrict in instinctive fear. People called them wood hounds, and their bites caused certain death. Had it been a stable or village dog, Durand would have slain it on the spot. But all knew what a store the Countess set by her greyhounds, and this white one was the most cherished of all, a gift from her husband in happier days. Slowly drawing his sword, he gestured to a youth standing by the door of the great hall. "Warn the others to stay inside, and tell the Countess that her greyhound is frothing at the mouth!" The boy gasped, ducked back into the hall. Durand kept a wary eye upon the dog, yearning to strike and have done with it. Within moments, Nell was hastening out into the courtyard. To Durand's horror, the dog shot forward at sight of its mistress. He shouted, lunged, and missed, sprawling onto the hard, sun-baked ground. By the time he regained his feet, Nell was kneeling by the dog, seeking to pry its jaws apart. "Christ, no! Madame, get back!" Nell paid him no heed, and a moment later gave a triumphant cry, holding up a small bone. "Blanchette got it wedged between her jaws. That is why she was slobbering so. The poor creature could not close her mouth." Before rising, she hugged the panting dog, then beckoned to one of the spectators. "Raoul, fetch her some water!" Durand was panting, too, and feeling rather foolish. "I am sorry I caused such an uproar, my lady. But when I saw" "This has happened before to Blanchette. But how were you to know?" Nell smiled suddenly. "I am glad you kept your head, Durand, did not do anything rash!" "I always try to think ere I act, my lady," Durand said virtuously. Inwardly, he was shaking. What if he'd run the damned dog through? Sweet Jesus, her Ladyship would have dismissed him from her service then and there! She was a fair mistress most of the time, and handsome for all her years. But if she had any of the mild, womanly softness that was supposed to characterize those of her sex, he'd yet to see a trace °r it. Men said the old Earl had possessed Lucifer's own temper. He and his prideful lady must have had some scorching fights, for certes! Durand glanced balefully at the greyhound, frisking at Nell's side as she started back into the hall. How close he'd come to disaster, and all because of a coddled cur that ate better than most men did! Now that the excitement had subsided, people returned to their 70 interrupted activities. Nell's scribe held out a parchment sheet for her inspection. "This is the letter we'd just begun, my lady, the one to Prince Llewelyn of Wales." Nell scanned it to refresh her memory. "Write as follows, Baldwin: 'It gladdens my heart to be able to tell you that my son Amaury has succeeded in clearing himself of any complicity in the Viterbo murder. The Bishop and chapter of Padua, the doctors at the university, iand the friars all gave sworn testimony that Amaury had not left the cny since October, and that on the day of the killing, he was confined to bed with a raging fever. This satisfied Charles and the French King, would have satisfied all reasonable men. But friends at the French court tell me that Edward is still not convinced, is still vowing to exact vengeance upon Amaury, too. I cannot say this surprises me, Llewelyn, for' " "My lady!" Durand reeled to a stop in the doorway, gasping for breath. "That English squire of Lord Bran'she's riding up the road from the village!" Nell's hand clenched upon the table's edge. "And my son?" Durand shook his head. "No, my lady. The lad is alone." HUGH had traveled more than a thousand miles, including a rough sea crossing from Genoa to Marseilles. But the last hundred yards of his journey were the hardest of all. The Countess was awaiting him in the priory gateway, flanked by Ellen and Juliana, and the hope on their faces pierced Hugh to the heart. For weeks, he'd been rehearsing what to say. But now that the moment had come, he found himself utterly at a loss. Nell watched as he reined in, slowly swung from the saddle to kneel before her. He was deeply tanned, tawny hair shaggy and windblown, seemed years older than the eager-eyed boy who had accompanied Bran to Montargis six short months ago; she could even detect the beginnings of a shadowy blond beard. He looked up at her in mute misery, and Nell knew what he had come to tell her. Without need of words, she knew. "My son is dead," she said softly. HUGH had been wandering about the priory grounds like a lost soul, not knowing where to go, what to do. For nearly two months, he'd had his quest to sustain him, his determination to bring word of Bran's death to Montargis. It had served as a lifeline, something to cling to even in the depths of despair. Now it was gone, and he felt bereft all over again, felt like a compass without a needle. He would have liked to offer up a prayer for Bran's soul. But Nell 71 was in the church, and he was loath to intrude upon her private grieving. jsjor did he want to return to the great hall, unwilling to run the gauntlet again of so many curious eyes. He ended up on a bench in Nell's garden. The air was heavy with honeysuckle, the sun hot upon his face. He could not summon up energy to seek the shade, though, sat there as the afternoon dwindled away, aimlessly shredding rose petals and dropping them into the grass at his feet. He supposed he ought to be thinking of the morrow, making plans of some sort. But he could not rouse himself from this peculiar lassitude. He felt numbed, so hollow it hurt. "How far away you look." He'd not heard her light tread upon the grass, and he jumped at sound of Ellen's voice, scrambled hastily to his feet. Ellen waved him back onto the bench, and then startled him by sitting down beside him. She looked pale, but composed. They sat in surprisingly companionable silence until, as if reading his mind, Ellen suddenly said, "I cannot cry. Mayhap it's because I'd be crying for myself, not for Bran." She saw his head swivel toward her, and smiled sadly. "How could I mourn on Bran's behalf after what you told us? How could I wish him back in such pain?" Hugh could not argue with that. "Will your lady mother be all right?" he asked shyly, acutely aware of Ellen's perfume, the silky sweep of her lashes; he'd never been so close to a lady of rank before. "Grief is an old adversary of my mother's, too familiar to catch her off guard. It is Juliana I fear for, Hugh. She loved my brother very much." Hugh nodded, not sure what she wanted from him. She was regarding him steadily, and he found himself thinking that she had beautiful eyes, not green as he'd once thought, but an uncommon, goldflecked hazel. "Hugh . . . Juliana has been weeping all afternoon, is like to make herself sick. She needs comfort. I hoped you might be able to give it to her." "Me? How?" "Can you not think back, try to remember something Bran might have said? A word, an act, anything to reassure Juliana that she was in his thoughts. If you but prodded your memory . . ." "My lady, I ... I do not know. Lord Bran was so ill in those last days ..." Those hazel eyes were fastened unwaveringly, hypnotically upon his face. "Not even words spoken in fever?" she suggested, but Hugh reluctantly shook his head. "No, nothing like that." He frowned in thought, then grinned. Wait, I do remember! On our second day in Siena, he bought a moon- 8 one brooch in the Campo, asked me if I thought Juliana would fancy 72 it. Of course it got left behind when we had to flee Viterbo, but it was very pretty, shaped like a heart. Do you think it would console Lady Juliana to know that?" "Oh, yes, Hugh, I do!" Ellen cried, and then embarrassed, astounded, and delighted him by kissing him on the cheek. "Come," she said, "I'll take you to Juliana now." Catching his hand, she pulled him to his feet. "A heart-shaped broochthat is perfect, Hugh! Is it true?" I "Lady Ellen, of course it is!" Astonishment was giving way to inAgnation. "I would not lie!" Ellen knew there was less than four years between them, but at that moment she felt old enough to be his mother, older in ways she hoped he'd never learn. "I did not mean to offend you, Hugh," she said soothingly. "If not for you, my brother might have died alone" And then, to her dismay, tears were clinging to her lashes, and she could not blink them back in time. "I'm going to be selfish, after all," she said and spun away from him. Hugh's instinct was to follow, to try to comfort. But she was too proud to cry upon his shoulder as Juliana might have done. He thought of her mother's solitary church vigil, thought of Bran's consciencestricken silences. Ellen had said grief was a familiar foe to the de Montforts. It was also one to be fought in private, and, understanding that, Hugh stood where he was, watching as Ellen fled the garden. HUGH hesitated, then moved into the chapel. "Madame? You sent for me?" Nell nodded. As she stepped into the light cast by his lantern, he felt a surge of pity, for she looked ravaged, her eyes puffy and shadowed, her skin ashen. "I wanted to see you alone," she said, "for there is something I must know, and only you can tell me. Hugh, did my son truly die in God's grace? Did he agree to be shriven, to" She saw the shock on his face and her breath stopped. "Jesu, no!" "Ah, no, Madame, you need not fear! He was shriven, I swear it! You just took me by surprise, for he did indeed refuse at first. But he did not persist in such madness. Madame, I would not lie to you." Nell had caught the altar for support, and Hugh waited until she regained her composure. "My lady . . . however did you guess?" "It was not second-sight, Hugh. That is the one crime my enemies have not accused me ofwitchcraft." Her smile was so wry, so like Bran's, that Hugh winced. "I knew my son, as simple as that. Bran was ever one for doing the wrong thing, always for the right reasons." Sifting through his own memories, both the good times and the bad, especially those last doomed weeks, Hugh had to agree with Nell's assessment of her son. "He tried to send me away when he was first 73 stricken with the ague," he confided, and Nell drew back into the shadows. "You have told me how my son died, and I thank you for that, Hugh. Now I would have you tell me why. I would hear about Viterbo." She saw him flinch and said swiftly, "No, lad, I do not mean the killing. I only wish I knew less of that, not more. I want you to tell me what happened that morn, ere they found Hal in that church." Hugh did, as conscientiously as memory's inevitable distortions would allow. "Bran made no attempt to defend himself," he concluded quietly, "not even when Guy accused him of killing Earl Simon and Harry. That was so cruel; I'll never forget the look on his face, never. Then Guy demanded to know if he would fail the Earl at Viterbo as he had at Evesham, and held out his sword. Lord Bran ... he took it, Madame. He never said a word, just took it. . ." In the silence that followed, Hugh began to have qualms about his candor. In his indignation, he'd almost forgotten that Guy was Nell's son, too. But then she said, very low, "Guy has much to answer for." With that, Hugh was in heartfelt agreement. He thought of what Ellen had told him about Amaury, and thanked God that Bran had never known. He thought of Nell, whose sorrows had only begun with Evesham. She'd borne seven children, and now four were dead and one was outlawed. And he thought of Ellen, who was once more a dubious marital prize. Just a few months ago, her prospects had seemed almost as bright as in the days of her father's glory. But it would take a brave man, indeed, to wed Ellen now, the sister of Edward's mortal enemy. It was not until Nell repeated his name that he came out of his reverie, hastily offered an apology. "You did ask me . . . what, Madame?" "Bran told me that you'd been educated by the Evesham monks. I assume then that you can read and write?" "Yes, my lady, I can," Hugh said, with pardonable pride, for that was not so common an accomplishment. She was looking at him expectantly, and so he continued self-consciously, baffled by her inexplicable interest in his education. "I studied arithmetic, too, but in all honesty, I'm not good with numbers, cannot seem to keep them in my head. But I am better with languages. In addition to French, I speak English and some Latin, and I picked up a useful amount of Tuscan during our months in Italy." Nell nodded approvingly. "You obviously are familiar with horses." "Yes, my lady. I learned to ride whilst my lord father was still alive." "I do not suppose that Bran had a chance to begin teaching you how to handle a sword?" "No, my lady. He gave me a few lessons on the road, said my schooling would begin in earnest after we'd met with the two Kings at 74 Viterbo ..." Hugh faltered, so great was his regret for what might have been. Nell came toward him. "We shall remedy that forthwith. I have spoken to Sir Olivier de Croix, the captain of my guards, and he is willing to take you on as his squire, if that be your wish." Hugh's eyes widened. "If I wish? Oh, my lady, I" "Wait, Hugh, hear me out. Ere you decide, I want you to know tjat you have a choice. If you would rather return to England, I will arrange for your passage and give you a letter to take to a Yorkshire knight, Sir John d'Eyvill. He was a friend of Bran's, and if I ask it of him, I am sure he will accept you into his service. Or you may stay here at Montargis. Sir Olivier is an exacting taskmaster, but a fair one. Give him but one-half the loyalty you gave Bran, and he'll be content. Let him teach you what you need to know, serve him well, and when you come of age, I will see that you are knighted. If then you wish to remain with my household" "My lady, nothing would give me greater joy!" Hugh was staring at Nell in awe. No one had ever been kinder to him than Bran. And now this! He yearned to pledge her his honor and his life, to swear to serve her and her family as long as he had breath in his body, but he feared to make himself ridiculous, feared that she might laugh at a raw boy making a knight's vow. Reaching out, Nell took his hand, her fingers cool and smooth in his. "You did not forsake my son," she said, and he saw that her eyes were brimming with tears. "How, then, could we forsake you?" 6 ACRE, KINGDOM OF JERUSALEM June 1272 /\LL day the sky had shimmered in a haze of heat, a bleached-bone shade neither white nor blue. Now the sun was flaming out, a fiery-red sphere that looked as if it were haloed in blood- 75 As Edward watched, it sank into the sea. For a moment, the waves churning shoreward were capped in sunset foam, and then the light was drowned, dusk settling over the land with breathtaking suddenness, a curtain rung down at play's end. Where there had been smeared crimson streaks, Edward could see the first glimmerings of stars. But twilight had not cooled the air. It was sweltering, almost too hot to breathe; Edward felt as if he were inhaling steam. Sweat was chafing his skin, stinging his eyes, and even the luxury of wine chilled with Lebanese snow could not assuage the desert-dryness of his throat. This Thursday in mid-June was Edward's thirty-third birthday; so far it had brought him little joy. The royal castle known as the Citadel was situated in the northern quarter of the city. Acre lay spread out below him like a chessboard, for all the roofs were flat, and many of the narrow streets were vaulted in sun-shielding stone. At this height, he had a spy's view of the inner courtyards of Acre's wealthy merchants, could see the silvery spray of private fountains, the silhouettes of palms and other tropical trees, and beyond, the darkening sapphire of the bay, the superb harbor that was the city's lifeblood. It was a sight alien and exotic, vibrantly alive, seductively compelling to most menbut not to Edward. Acre was a busy port, the capital of the Kingdom of Jerusalem. It was also, by all accounts, one of the world's most sinful cities. Prostitutes sauntered brazenly along its dusty streets, compering with beggars and vendors for the attention of passersby. Pickpockets and thieves were more discreet, but just as numerous, for Acre was a penal colony of sorts; foreign criminals were sometimes given the choice of prison or service in the Holy Land. But it was not the presence of felons and harlots that irked Edward. It was the sight of infidels mingling freely with Christians, for thousands of Arabs dwelled within the walls of this crusaders' city. The "Franks," those native-born Christians of European descent, were disturbingly complacent about such fraternizing. It was Edward's opinion that the torrid climate had sapped their crusading fervor, made them indolent and too receptive to Saracen guile. How else explain their willingness to let the enemy live in their very midst? Edward's sojourn in the Holy Land had been a disillusioning experience. Although he was neither a romantic nor an idealist, he had still believed in the chivalric myths of a holy quest, had envied men like "is celebrated great-uncle, Richard Lionheart, and Simon de Montfort, "Jen who'd worn the white crosses of crusaders, fought the infidel in the cradle of Christendom. Cv, uPon his arrival in Acre, those epic sagas of gallantry and stian martyrdom soon lost their lustre. Reality was far grittier, far 76 less heroic. Edward found a land in chaos, a handful of seacoast cities clinging to precarious survival in the shadow of a deadly foe, the ruthless Sultan of Egypt, Rukn ad-Din Baibars Bundukdari. Political rivalries flourished and corruption was epidemic; Acre's Venetian and Genoese merchants traded openly with the enemy, supplying Baibars with the weapons and slaves he needed to carry on his jihad, his holy war against the Christian kingdom of Jerusalem. j These months in Palestine had taught Edward some sobering les- 4ms, that few men were willing to die for the greater glory of God, that few princes were willing to empty their coffers for yet another crusade. The French King and Charles of Anjou had long since sailed for home; even Edward's brother had abandoned their quest. Edward found himself bereft of powerful allies, with less than a thousand soldiers, and his requests for additional money only brought pitiful letters from his ailing father, begging him to come back to England. More than three weeks had passed since Hugh de Lusignan, the young King of Jerusalem, had signed a ten-year truce with Sultan Baibars. Edward knew it was a sensible act, one that might buy the beleaguered kingdom some precious time. But boyhood dreams die hard, and there was a corner of his soul that cried out in protest, that had yet to accept the inevitable. Disappointment and frustration and stifling summer heat were flammable elements, and when a sudden knock sounded at the door, he spun away from the window with a snarled "What?" Erard de Valery showed no surprise; those in Edward's service soon grew accustomed to such flashes of temper. "I thought you'd want to know," he said impassively, "that a messenger has come from John de Montfort. He arrives in Acre on the morrow." Edward's response was obscene, imaginative, and predictable, for John's sins were twofold. He was a cousin to Simon and thus tainted by blood, and a stalwart friend to Guy de Montfort, which made him as welcome at Edward's court as the Saracen Sultan himself. But John was also the Lord of Tyre, brother-in-law to the King of Jerusalem, a man too powerful to be snubbed, to be treated with anything but icily correct courtesyand Edward well knew it. So did Erard, who waited patiently as Edward stalked about the chamber, damning John de Montfort to smoke and sulphur and hellish flames. "He dares to defend Guy even now, as if Viterbo were merely a lapse in manners! Fifteen months, Erard, fifteen months since Hal lay dying in the mud of that wretched piazza, and Guy is still free, living quite comfortably, too, I hear. Well, not for long, by God! When I get back to Italy, I'll see that murdering whoreson run to earth, even if I have to lead the hunt myself." 77 Edward's anger soon burned itself out, though; it was too hot for such intense emotion. Gesturing for Erard to pour them wine, he flung himself down upon a couch. Erard followed with the cups and they drank in silence for a time. "It's nigh oh two years since I left home," Edward said at last, "and all for what? I had a daughter born dead at Acre last year. My firstborn son died in England, half a world away. So did my uncle Richard, and that death, too, can be laid to Guy de Montfort's account; my uncle never got over Hal's murder. My father is ailing, and there's turmoil throughout the Marches, for that hothead Gloucester and Llewelyn ap Gruffydd are at swords' points again. I cannot help thinking that I ought never to have left England. Two years of my life and what did I gain? A ten-year truce that was not even my doing!" "My lord, thaf s not so! Baibars would never have agreed to the truce if not for you. Have you forgotten your raid into the Plain of Sharon? Granted, your siege of Ququn Castle failed, but you then took Nazareth" Erard bit off the word in mid-sentence, but not in time; Edward's mouth tightened noticeably. His capture of Nazareth had been an undeniable military triumph, but it had caused the first serious rift between Edward and his brother, Edmund. After taking the city, Edward had allowed his men to slay the Arab townspeople, a bloody act of reprisal for Sultan Baibars's massacre of Christians in Antioch and Jaffa. But Edmund had not approved, had argued in vain that at least the women and children should be spared. Edward's knights had been baffled by Edmund's objections, concluding that England was fortunate Edward was the firstborn, as Edmund was plainly too soft-hearted to wield a king's power. Erard was sure Edward did not regret the killings; they were infidels, after all. He knew, though, that Edward did regret the falling-out with his brother. They'd eventually mended the breach, but it had left a sour aftertaste, and he was sorry he'd reminded Edward of it. Conversation lagged; again Edward was the one to break the silence. His tone had changed; to Erard's surprise, he sounded almost wistful. "I've been thinking about my great-uncle Richard. At the battle of Jaffa, he fought so bravely that when his stallion was slain, Saladin sent out a horse under a flag of truce. Jesii, what a gallant gesture! It would have teen no disgrace to lose to such a foe. I came here seeking another ^aladin, found instead Baibars, who adorns his castle at Safad with Christian skulls . . ." Erard nearly blurted out that Edward had once faced a Saladin unon de Montfort. He gulped down the last of his wine, shaken, for e knew Edward would never have forgiven him for that. 78 "My lord ..." A servant hovered in the doorway. "A messenger has arrived from the Emir of Jaffa. Should we bid him enter?" Edward nodded, then glanced toward Erard. "I want you to fetch my wife," he said, for his conscience was beginning to stir. He'd been very curt with Eleanora that forenoon, was now regretting it. It was only a month since she'd been brought to bed of their babe, Joanna, . and it had been a difficult pregnancy; she'd conceived a scant two gnonths after the death of their daughter. The Emir's messenger was familiar to Edward; this was his fifth visit. Beckoning him toward the couch, Edward reached for the letter. They'd been corresponding for weeks; the Emir had even hinted he might consider converting to Christianity. Edward was skeptical, but the Emir was worth courting, for he'd make a valuable ally. Sitting up, he broke the seal, began to read. The man was quick. In one smooth motion, he drew a hidden dagger, plunged it toward the Englishman's heart. It would have been a lethal blow had Edward not been blessed with a soldier's reflexes. From the corner of his eye, he'd caught a blurred movement and instinctively flung up an arm, deflecting the knife. But the blade sliced deeply into his flesh, slashing from wrist to elbow; blood spurted wildly, splattering both men. The assassin recovered swiftly, lunged again. Edward was just as fast, though. Rolling off the couch, he snatched up a footstool as he hit the floor, threw it at his assailant. The man stumbled, and by the time he'd regained his balance, Edward was upon him. He took a gash across the forehead before he was able to immobilize his attacker's knife hand. Locked in a death embrace, they swayed back and forth, until they lurched into the table and Edward saw his chance. With his free hand, he grabbed for a candlestick, thrust the flame into the other man's face. As he recoiled, Edward slammed his wrist onto the table, and then he had the dagger, burying it to the hilt in his enemy's abdomen. Jerking the blade free, Edward prepared to strike again. But there was no need. The man sank to his knees, his face contorted. Edward reeled back against the table, gasping for breath. During their life-ordeath struggle, it had not even occurred to him to call out for help. Now he looked in horror at the blood staining his tunic, the couch cushions, the tiled floor, his blood. Beginning to shout, he jerked the tablecloth loose, sending objects flying about the chamber. A glass flagon shattered in a spray of red wine; cups went rolling across the tiles. Candles flared, guttered out as the door burst open. Men were gasping, cursing, questioning, and a woman was screaming. It was not until she flung herself into his artns that Edward realized it was his wife. 79 Suddenly there were so many people in the chamber that they were uuirtping into one another, slipping in blood as they elbowed and jostled to get closer, staring open-mouthed at the dying assassin. Edward had been attempting to wrap the tablecloth around his wound, but his left anrt hung, useless, at his side, and Eleanora was dinging like a limpet, sobbing in Spanish. "What are you fools waiting for?" he raged. "Till I bleed to death?" That galvanized them to action, too much so. Fully a dozen hands reached for the bloodied tablecloth. Edward was getting light-headed, and it was with real relief that he recognized the voice now shouting down the others. A good man, Erard, one to keep his wits in a crisis. Within moments, Erard had justified his confidence, steering him toward the couch, sending for a doctor, turning the tablecloth into a makeshift bandage, and emptying the chamber of superfluous spectators. "I've sent for the Master of the Templars. I know you have no liking for them, my lord, but the Templars' hospital is the best in Acre." Edward nodded grudging agreement, patted his wife soothingly if absent-mindedly, all the while watching the man sprawled upon the floor. "This was no act of impulse. He waited until the guards knew him as the Emir's man, no longer bothered to search him." Erard moved away from the couch, stood staring down at the assassin. "Hashishiyun," he said, and Eleanora shuddered, for the Hashishiyun, also known as the Assassins, were a Shiite sect infamous for political killings. Edward looked thoughtful. "Yes," he said, "that makes the most sense. And I know whose gold bought that dagger. I'd wager the surety of my soul that this is Baibars's doing." At the mention of the Sultan's name, the assassin stirred suddenly. Lying in a pool of his own blood, he must have been in intense pain, yet nothing showed on his face; he seemed to be listening to voices only he could hear. But now his eyes opened. He turned upon Edward a look of chilling malevolence, and then he laughed. It was a dreadful sound, a strangled cough that ended on a broken breath. Erard was bending over, for the man's lips were moving. Looking at Edward, the man laughed again, then choked. A bubble of blood formed at the corner °f his mouth. "Well?" Edward said impatiently. "You know I do not speak Arabic. What did he say?" Erard straightened up slowly, and Eleanora gasped, for his face had 8°ne grey. "He said ... he said that you are a dead man, that he poisoned the dagger." s*a 80 AT sight of the man being ushered into the Citadel's great hall, the Templars' Grand Master beckoned hastily. "Reynard, thank God!" Reynard wasted no time on preliminaries. "When did it happen?" "Thursday eve. At first we gave him centaury and fennel powder in wine, and then we tried nettle seeds, for men say they ward off the effects of hemlock, henbane, and mandrake. But I very much fear it was a poison unknown to us." I "Is he fevered?" * The Templar nodded. "The cut on his forehead seems to be healing, but the wound on his arm has begun to fester. It is swollen and discolored, first red, now yellow, and there is a foul smell." Reynard drew a quick breath. "It sounds," he said grimly, "as if you sent for me too late." EDWARD'S bedchamber was in semi-darkness, drawn curtains offering a feeble defense against the noonday heat. Eleanora sat on the bed, wielding a fan as if Edward's air supply depended upon her efforts alone. She did not look up as the two men approached the bed, but when the Grand Master introduced Reynard as a physician famed for his healing arts, she turned toward her husband with sudden, hungry hope. "Querido, did you hear?" Edward struggled upright. There was nothing prepossessing about the man before himat first glancefor he was thin, stoop-shouldered, hair and beard a muddy, grizzled brown, while his clothes proclaimed him one utterly indifferent to fashion; he wore an Arab kafiya upon his head, a too-short tunic, and monk's sandals. But he seemed unflustered by Edward's scrutiny, met the younger man's eyes with rare composure, heedless of the impression he was making, intent only upon those ugly blisters, that puffy, bruised flesh. "If I may," he said brusquely, and without waiting for permission, began a thorough inspection of the wound. His fingers were surprisingly deft, but even so light a touch brought pain; Edward bit down on his lower lip, bit back a cry. "Well?" he demanded. "Can you help me?" Reynard straightened up slowly. "There are remedies we can try. A poultice of darnel, a powder made of black hellebore" "Will these poultices save my life?" Edward asked bluntly, and sucked in his breath when Reynard shook his head. "What are you saying? That nothing can be done? I'll not accept that!" "I'll not lie to you, my lord. Yours is a grievous wound. There is a chance, but it will cause you great pain, mayhap for naught. I can cut away the putrid flesh" 81 "Dios, no!" Eleanora was on her feet, a hand jammed against her jnouth. "Eduardo, that would be certain death. I remember a young page back in my brother's palace at Seville. He fell on a rusty nail, and the doctors cut out the flesh as this man would do. That child died in agony, Eduardo! There must be another remedy . . ." She might as well have been speaking in Spanish for all the heed they paid her. Edward did not even glance her way, kept his eyes riveted upon Reynard's face. "Do it," he said at last, and Eleanora gave a muffled scream. The Templar looked questioningly at the man on the bed, and when Edward nodded, he gently but firmly grasped Eleanora by the elbows. "Forgive me, Madame, but you must come with me. Better you should weep than all England should mourn." rr was over. Reynard had given Edward a smooth piece of wood to bite upon, and the Templar and Erard de Valery stood ready to hold him down. There was no need, though. He'd quivered at the first cut of the knife, but after that, he'd lain remarkably still. Erard was astonished by his own queasiness, for he was a soldier, knew death in its goriest guises. But somehow this was different, and when Reynard heated the knife blade, began to cauterize the wound, this man who'd seen bodies beyond counting found himself sickened by the stench of burning flesh. Edward's impressive control failed him at the last; he'd jerked convulsively, then went so limp that Reynard reached hastily for the pulse in his throat. Having reassured himself that his patient still lived, he sagged down upon the nearest footstool, blotted away so much sweat that his sleeve was soon sopping wet. He was certain Edward had lost consciousness, was surprised now to see his lashes flicker. As he leaned over the bed, Edward's eyes opened. They were sunken back in his head, so swollen and bruised that they were little more than slits, but they were lucid. Edward tried to spit out the wood, failed, and Reynard gently pried it loose; it was bitten all the way through. Edward's chest was heaving. Reynard didn't like the sound of his breathing, not at all. But when he brought a cup to Edward's lips, he managed to swallow. "Tell my wife ..." The words so faint that Reynard had to put his ear almost to Edward's mouth. "Tell her that . . . that I shall live," Edward whispered, and the corner of Reynard's mouth softened in a sudden smile. "By Christ," he said, "if I do not think you will!" CASTELL Y BERE, WALES December 1272 1 HAT year winter was late in coming to Wales. The first storm of the season did not hit until early December, and even then, it was not a full-blown tempest. The top of Cader Idris was glazed with snow, but Llewelyn ap Gruffydd's stronghold on the lower slopes escaped with a mere dusting, and those traces were washed away by the next day's rain. By dusk the sky had cleared, and the moon was soon rising above the last lingering clouds. But a freezing wind had driven all the inhabitants of Castell y Bere indoors, vying for space before the open hearths. The south tower keep had been partitioned off to provide its Prince with a private chamber. Cadfael and Gwilym were standing by its door, casting wistful glances toward the fireside bench and their cooling drinks of mulled wine. But the Lady Arwenna was not one to be denied, and they'd been trapped for the past quarter hour as she laid out her instructions in meticulous, numbing detail. "You understand, then? As soon as Lord Llewelyn's scribe leaves his chamber, you're to see that no one else is admitted. The cooks are preparing a special dinner, and I want it served precisely half an hour after I enter my lord's chamber. But I want that sweet wine from Cyprus served first. And remember, we are not to be disturbedfor any reason whatsoever. Is that clear?" They nodded glumly, and she was off to intercept one of the wine bearers. She was a graceful woman, quite curvaceous, and Gwilym could not help admiring her sensual walk even as he yearned to see her fall flat on her shapely rump. "We serve our lord, not his doxy," he said indignantly. "Why did you not tell her so, Cadfael?" 83 Cadfael chuckled indulgently. "My God, but you're green! That is one fine-looking woman, as ripe as they come. And our lord has only j^en bedding her for the past fortnight. There's a lesson you'd best learn fast, my lad. If you want a man to share a flagon, you wait till he's drunk his fill." Gwilym had begun to bridle. "But Lord Llewelyn is not a man to let a woman meddle where she oughtn't" Cadfael was laughing again. "Gwilym, Gwilym, you've much to learn. A wise man lets a woman have her way in minor matters, a cheap price for household peace." Arwenna heard the laughter, could feel their eyes following her. She'd have been surprised if they didn't stare, for she was accustomed to attracting male attention; men even said hers was a beauty worth dying for. She was twenty-eight, twice widowed, and each of her husbands had died in her bed within a matter of months. Her mournful marital history had given rise to predictable lewd jokes about her potent sexual charms. Arwenna knew of these jokes but was not offended by them. In fact, she rather enjoyed the notoriety. Men's desire and women's jealousy were the coins of her realm, and she was a lavish spender. Tonight she had taken particular pains with her appearance, had mapped out her strategy with a military precision utterly at odds with her sultry image, for men dazzled by her beauty often failed to see the steely ambition camouflaged as feminine vanity. To be a Prince's concubine was no shame, and she'd settle for that if she had to, but she saw a chance for more, much more. She was the luckiest of women, for God had given her a lovely face, a voluptuous body, and a very fertile womb. Both of her husbands had been well past a man's prime, and yet with each she had conceived, giving birth to two healthy sons. If she could give Llewelyn ap Gruffydd a son, he might marry her. The strength of her plan lay in its very simplicity. She need only please Llewelyn, in bed and out, until, God willing, his seed took root in her womb. It was odd that none of his bedmates had gotten with child, for his wretch of a brother spawned like a salmon. But each of her husbands had been past sixty and Llewelyn was only forty and four. For once, time was on her side. She smiled at the thought, deliberately deepening her dimples, a smile she meant to use upon Llewelyn. She could arouse his lust easily enough, but could she ensnare his heart? He was not a man to be bewitched with sugared words, seduced with flattery. There was a wariness in the way he viewed the world; even in bed, he held back. Well, e need not love her, he need only marry her. v 84 A child crossed into her line of vision, that bastard get of his brother's. Davydd, the heir-apparent . . . for now. How she'd enjoy denying him a crown. She had not always disliked Davydd, although his indifference had rankled. She could not understand why he had never even flirted with her, for if only half the stories told of him were true, his conquests were approaching legendary proportions. Not that she'd have yielded; she set a higher price upon herself than he'd have been willing *^to pay. She had still wanted him to try, though, and had been irked when he had not. And then, a few months ago, she'd overheard several men teasing him about her, urging him on. But he had merely laughed, saying he preferred a challenge, and for that insult, Arwenna would never forgive him. The sight of his daughter brought back that memory, took the smile from her face. She did not like to be reminded of Davydd, did not see why Llewelyn must be burdened with his brother's brat. Well, not for long, not if she had her way, and she would. Llewelyn's scribe had finally departed, but as Arwenna started for the door, so, too, did Caitlin. Quickening her step, she headed the child off just in time. "Lord Llewelyn is not to be disturbed. Go on now, run along." Caitlin stood her ground. "But it is urgent," she said, and Arwenna's annoyance flared into active dislike. What an odd creature she was! How many eight-year-olds used words like urgent? No wonder she had no playmates. Mayhap Davydd was not so much to blame, after all, for not wanting her. She'd seen several of his other daughters. Pretty little lasses they were, beribboned and well-mannered. What a contrast to this bedraggled waif; did the child even own a comb? "Lord Llewelyn has no time for you. You'll have to wait," she said coolly. Even then, Caitlin did not move, stood watching until Arwenna closed the door. Llewelyn was rereading a letter he'd just dictated to the English government, yet another letter of protest. Not that he expected much from it. More fool he, for ever believing English promises. He'd had Gloucester's Caerphilly Castle at his mercy. But the Bishops of Lichfield and Worcester had begged him to lift the siege, swearing that Caerphilly would be put under royal control. In a moment of madnesshow else explain it?he'd accepted their assurances on behalf of the English government. And no sooner had he withdrawn than Gloucester retook the castle, set about making it the most formidable stronghold in all of South Wales. Llewelyn's hand tightened upon the parchment. Their double" dealing over Caerphilly only confirmed his worst fears about their good 85 faith. He could still hear his father's words, echoing across so many years. He could still see his father's face, the prison pallor, the haunted eyes, the bitterness of betrayal. Gruffydd ap Llewelyn, who'd deserved better from life than he'd gotten. He'd loved Wales with a doomed passion, but he'd died on alien soil, plunging to his death from the Tower of London's great keep in a foolhardy escape attempt. Yet he'd left a legacy worth more than gold, a cry from the heart. "Never forget, Llewelyn, that the world's greatest fool is a Welshman who trusts an English king." When the door opened, he glanced up with a preoccupied frown. At sight of Arwenna, though, he smiled, and she found herself marveling how easily he shed years and cares. "I'm glad," she said, "that you smile so seldom. I only wish you saved them all for me." She'd thought that was a well-crafted compliment, but saw now that it was a wasted effort. "Do I smile so seldom?" he echoed, sounding surprised, and she nodded, then very ostentatiously slid the door latch into place. "If I'd known it was so easy to capture a Prince," she murmured, "I'd have done it long ere this." Llewelyn's face was impassive, but she knew him well enough by now to catch an amused glint. "What are your terms?" "An entire night alone, just the two of us," she said, and as she moved within range, he rose, drew her to him. She came eagerly into his arms, lifting her mouth to meet his. But after a few moments, she stepped back, laughing up into his face, smoothing her gown. "Ah, my love," she said ruefully, "we've no time, for the dinner will soon be served: venison frumenty and marrow tarts, a fresh pike." "You feed your prisoners well. Those happen to be my favorite foods." "I think you'll find me to be a very generous gaoler/' she said, and as he laughed softly, she turned to open the door for the wine bearer. After pouring the wine, she moved behind him, began to massage his shoulders. "How tense you are, sweetheart!" Leaning over, she kissed the nape of his neck. "I happened to see your brother's Caitlin earlier this eve. Davydd has quite a few baseborn children, does he not?" Llewelyn grinned. "So many, in fact, that I've heard men claim it would be easier to find the Holy Grail than lasses who'd said Davydd nay!" "I would," Arwenna said righteously, but Llewelyn looked more amused than impressed by her avowal. 'Did he ask?" he said mischievously, much to Arwenna's irritation. She was too clever, though, to lie. 86 "No," she admitted tersely. "To get back to Caitlin, I do not understand why she does not live with Davydd. Does he not take care of his other children?" "He claims them as his, sees that they want for nothing. But I doubt if it even occurred to him to take any of them under his roof. Davydd's not one for rocking cradles. With his other children, it matters for naught; they live with their mothers' kin. But Caitlin's mother is dead." | "Why you, though? Why not Davydd?" He shrugged. "She'd passed her first three years at my court, so why uproot her? The little lass has had a haid enough road to travel. Being born out of wedlock is no shame in Wales, but being half English is. Mayhap if her mother had been highborn. . . . But she was a serving wench, and Davydd never made a secret of it. Then, too, Caitlin is ... well, she's not like other children. She goes off by herself for hours at a time, is so quiet that strangers have asked if she's mute. She has a remarkable way with animals of any sort, and after people saw her playing in the meadows at Dolwyddelan with a wild fox cub, they started saying she was fey." Llewelyn set his wine cup down. "No, she's not had an easy time. Children can be cruel to those who're somehow different. I remember a few years ago, overhearing them taunting her, making fun of her Irish name, calling her 'catleek' and 'catkin.' Later, I took her aside, explained that there was a Welsh form of Caitlin, and suggested that she might like to call herself Catrin. She thought about it, keeping those great, green eyes on me all the while, and then she shook her head, said very solemnly, 'But Caitlin is who I am.' " He laughed, but Arwenna did not. Lord God, he was truly fond of the chit! She'd have to mend that fence and right quick. Now, though, she'd best tell her side first, ere Caitlin came whining to him. "I have a confession, love," she said and gave a light laugh. "I had j my heart set upon being alone with you this eve, was not willing to j share you with anyone else, and that included Caitlin. You do not mind, ' do you?" "No, I suppose not. But what did Caitlin want?" "She did not say, just mumbled something about it being 'urgent.' " Arwenna laughed again, indulgently. "Childrenhow they dearly love to make mountains of every molehill!" "No," Llewelyn said slowly, "not Caitlin." Arwenna could not hide her dismay, and he smiled reassuringly. "You need not fret. A few moments for the lass, and the night for you." By the time he'd sent a servant in search of Caitlin, Arwenna had regained her confidence, and when dinner arrived, she insisted upon 87 erving him herself, buttering his bread, hanging on his every word, remising enough with her smiles to blot Caitlin's very name from his memoryor so she hoped. But the servant soon returned, reported that the child was nowhere to be found. Arwenna stood watching in disbelief as men fanned out, under orders to search all of the buildings in the castle bailey. Waiting until no others were within earshot, she said coaxingly, "My love, the dinner grows cold, and for what? No harm has befallen the girl. I'm a mother myself, remember? I know children, believe me. Caitlin is off sulking somewhere, will come out when she is ready." "No," Llewelyn said again, "not Caitlin," but this time in a very different tone, and Arwenna hastily changed tactics. "Llewelyn, you told me yourself that she oft-times goes off to" But Llewelyn was turning away, for there was a sudden commotion by the door. Arwenna followed, inwardly seething; if that wretched child was not found soon, the entire evening would be spoiled. And then people were moving aside and she saw. One of the stable grooms stood in the doorway, holding a small limp body in his arms. "I found her in a stall," he said hesitantly. "At first I thought she had been kicked by one of the horses, but then I heard the cat. Trapped up on the rafters, it was, my lord, and I'd wager she tried to climb up after it ..." Llewelyn reached out, took the little girl carefully into his arms. Her eyes had rolled back in her head and her long, loose hair was matted with straw and blood. But as he lifted her, she made a small whimpering sound, and he took heart from that. "Llewelyn . . ." Arwenna plucked at his sleeve as he passed. He gave her one glance, no more than that, but what she read in it caused her to shrink back, watching helplessly as he carried Caitlin into his bedchamber. She was soon able to convince herself, though, that he'd forgive her once his anger cooled. She'd not yield her dreams so easily, would not be thwarted by a moonstruck, misbegotten foundling and a flea-bitten stable cat. WHEN Caitlin was four, she had fallen into a pond. She still had bad dreams about it sometimes, reliving that slow-motion struggle to reach the surface. She was trapped in that same dream now, thrashing about m terrifying blackness, drowning all over again. Gradually, though, she could detect faint glimmerings of light, and she swam toward them, up °W of the depths and into the shallows where it was safe. At first the light hurt her eyes. She squinted until things came into 88 focus, until she recognized her surroundings, realizing, with a sense of groggy astonishment, that she seemed to be in her uncle's bed. "So you've finally decided to wake up, have you?" The voice was familiar and only added to her bewilderment. "Papa? What are you doing here?" "I just happened to be in the neighborhood." Davydd watched her eyes roam the chamber, to the oiled linen that shielded the window, back to his face. She seemed confused, but coherent, and he reached over, took a small hand in his own. "Do you remember what happened, Caitlin?" She started to nod, then winced. "I fell. But . . . but it was night and I can see sunlight ..." Davydd laughed. "Sweetheart, that was nigh on three days ago! You've been sleeping much of the time since then. We'd wake you up to swallow the doctor's potions, and off you'd go again. I'd heard that bears and hedgehogs sleep through the winter months, but I never knew that Caitlins did, too." That would have sent any of his other daughters into fits of giggles. Caitlin's gravity never failed to baffle him, so unchildlike was it, so alien to his own nature. "You truly did come here because I was hurt?" she asked, sounding so surprised that Davydd felt a faint prick of guilt. That was not a question she should need to ask. "Of course I did, sweetheart," he said, with unwonted seriousness, and was dazzled by her sudden smile. It was a stranger's smile, a flash of pure joy, and Davydd was unexpectedly moved by it. But then he realized that her gaze was aimed over his shoulder, and turning, he saw that her smile was not meant for him at all, was for his brother. Leaning over the bed, Llewelyn kissed his niece upon the forehead. "Welcome back, lass. You gave us quite a scare." "I'm sorry," she whispered. "But when that lady would not let me see you, Uncle, I did not know who else to turn to . . ." Both men were momentarily silent, Davydd struggling with what he recognized as an unworthy attack of jealousy, and Llewelyn stricken with remorse. Jesu, how alone she was, far more than he'd ever realized! And yet she was so pitifully grateful for his few crumbs of attention, his few scraps of affection. Looking into her eyes, he saw for the first time the true depths of her love and was awed by it, that she gave so much, asked for so little. "You need not worry, lass. That will never happen again. The next time you need to rescue a cat, you'll have more allies than you can count," he promised. Her lashes were shadowing her cheek, but she was fighting sleep, and he knew why. "Yes," he said, "we did save your cat," and she gave him a drowsy smile, a contented sigh. 89 They stood there for some moments, gazing down at the sleeping hild Then Llewelyn beckoned his brother away from the bed. "Come to the window. I've just had news from England." Davydd was in no hurry to hear it; news from England was invariblv bad. "Who was that 'lady' standing guard over your bedchamber?" "No one of importance. Davydd, listen. The English King is dead." Davydd did not even blink. "I'm surprised that anyone noticed. Evesham was Edward's coronation and all knew itall but Henry, who had the bad taste to linger on for another seven years. I daresay Westminster was the only English palace haunted by a living ghost!" As always when dealing with Davydd, Llewelyn ended up laughing in spite of himself. "I wonder if Edward knows yet. The last I heard, he'd finally left Acre, sailed for Sicily. It took weeks for his injury to heal, but it's a miracle he recovered at all. Not many men win against a poisoned dagger." "Had I been in Acre, I'd have wagered all I owned that he'd survive. Edward has the Devil's own luckthough of course he thinks it's God's favor. I know him, Llewelyn, better than you do. For three years, I lived at his court. We plotted together, fought together, even went whoring together. He can be a surprisingly good companion for an Englishman! None can deny his courage, and his wits are sharp enough, for certes. Hard to believe he could have been sired by such a milksop. If Henry's Queen was not such a cold-blooded bitch, I might suspect her of some furtive fun beneath the sheets." Davydd's grin slowly faded. "But whatever else Edward is or is not, only one fact truly mattersthat he is not to be trusted. Bear that in mind, Llewelyn. For your sake, always bear that in mind." "I well know I cannot trust Edward," Llewelyn said quietly. "So it is fortunate, is it not, that I can trust you?" Davydd was momentarily caught off balance. Had Llewelyn learned of his secret meeting with the lords of Powys? Their plan was as ambitious as it was dangerous, involving nothing less than Llewelyn's overthrow. He had not committed himself in any way, but his mere presence at such a meeting was akin to treason, at least in Llewelyn's eyes. He hesitated, then fell back upon a familiar tactic. "You can trust me with your very life, Llewelynon every other Thursday during Lent." 'I cannot tell you how that eases my mind, lad." Llewelyn's smile as wry/ but somewhat sad, too, and Davydd found himself at a rare oss for words. They looked at each other as the silence spun out between hem, a web sticky with all they dared not say. 8 MELUN, FRANCE August 1273 I\|ELL DE MONTFORT approached Melun with some trepidation, dreading what lay ahead of her. She'd never understood why her Church held humility to be a virtue, had never sought to curb her prideful nature, and as a result, she'd had little practice in cultivating the modest demeanor, the demure bearing that her society demanded of its women. Born a Plantagenet Princess, wed to a man just as hot-blooded, she had gloried in the tumultuous passion of their life together, matching Simon's reckless candor with her own brand of forthright boldness. Those were traits that had stood her in good stead during her years as the Countess of Leicester. They availed her naught now, on her way to Melun to entreat an enemy for aid. Upon her arrival at the French King's manor, she was personally welcomed by Philippe and his mother. Marguerite needed but one glance to detect Nell's inner agitation; Nell had not had such a perceptive woman friend since the death of her niece, Elen de Quincy. "Are you sure you want to do this, dearest?" Marguerite asked quietly, and when Nell nodded, the French Queen sighed, slipped a supportive arm through Nell's, and led her toward the solar for her audience with England's King. But Edward made it surprisingly easy. The mere fact that he'd chosen the private solar over the public great hall showed a sensitivity she'd not expected, and there was a genuine warmth in his greeting, in the cheerful informality of his "Aunt Nell." Mayhap not so surprising, though; she knew he'd always been very fond of her. She'd been fond of him, tooin another lifetime. Eight years had passed since she'd seen him last, the day she'd surrendered Dover Castle to his besieging army, with Simon two months dead and her world in ruins. Yet he'd been kind, then, heeding her plea on behalf of her household retainers- 91 He'd even argued against her own banishment, sought in vain to soften his father's heart toward her. She'd truly tried to be grateful, but she could not forget the brutal mutilation of her husband's body, a mutilation Edward had permitted. Eight years were not long enough to blur a memory like that. She was in no position, though, to scorn his truce, however fragile or false it might be. And he, too, seemed to be trying; if "Evesham" did not pass her lips, neither did "Viterbo" pass his. "Ellen did not come with you?" "No," Nell said hastily, "she's been ailing," for although she was willing to treat with the enemy for her children's sake, they were not. It was a transparent falsehood; she'd never been good at lying. But Edward let her save face by pretending to believe her, then launched into a dramatic account of his encounter with Baibars's Assassin. Nell listened with unfeigned interest, even admiration; in her hierarchy of values, courage headed the list. But when Edward described how Eleanora had been banished from his chamber by the Master of the Templars, her eyebrows shot upward and she exclaimed indignantly, "And she let herself be shunted aside like a wayward child? It would have taken a sword at my throat to get me from Simon's sickbed!" And then, hearing her own words, she drew an audible breath. Simon's name echoed in the air between them, and their truce hung in the balance. Edward had stiffened, but after a taut, suspenseful pause, he relaxed again. "I wonder, Aunt Nell, if you realize what good friends you have at the French court? Since I arrived in Paris, Philippe and Marguerite have done naught but bedevil me on your behalf, urging me to right my father's wrong." Nell was taken aback that he should broach the subject first. "You said they were persistent," she murmured. "Were they also persuasive?" Edward grinned, amused by the obliqueness of her approach, so unlike her usual devil-be-damned directness. "Yes," he said, "they were," and saw her eyes widen. "My father did indeed wrong you, Aunt Nell. He had no right to claim the dower lands from your first marriage. I cannot make amends for all your lost income, but I can make sure you suffer no further losses. I will order the heirs of your first husband to answer to the Exchequer for what they owe you. I will also take measures to restore the lands to your control." And because Philippe had confided that Nell's income had dwindled dramatically now that Guy was excommunicate, his estates forfeit, Edward added, And since it might take a while, I will order the Exchequer to advance you the, sum of two hundred pounds. Will that be enough?" Mute, she could only nod. To restore her lands was simple justice, although she'd been afraid to hope for even that much. But he'd gone ^yond that, had responded with a generosity she had not expected. A 92 lesser man would have made her beg. "I will repay your loan," she vowed, "without delay. I thank you, Edward. I could not bear that my daughter ..." She did not complete the sentence. As grateful as she was, she could not bring herself to confide in him her fears for Ellen's future. He did not seem offended by her reticence, though, saying with a smile, "I remember Ellen well, remember the letters she wrote to me at Kenilworth, seeking to cheer my confinement. She was all of what. ' twelve? Thirteen? I daresay she's grown into a beauty by now?" Nell nodded, marveling that they could be talking so easily of a time in which he'd been her husband's prisoner, as if it had somehow happened to other people. "You are making this difficult for me, Edward," she confessed. "You have been more than fair, and now I must risk seeming greedy and ungrateful, for I have yet another favor to ask of you!" They surprised themselves, then, by sharing a laugh. "Go ahead," Edward said, still grinning. "Do you not remember that folk wisdom, the one about striking whilst the iron is hot?" "Now that the Pope has pardoned the Bishop of Chichester for having supported Simon, he yearns to end his exile, to spend his last years in the land of his birth. Surely that is not so much to ask, Edward? He wants to come home . . . and to take my son, Amaury, with him." "No," he said abruptly, tersely. "But Edward, why? Chichester is an old man, and Amaury . . . why should you hate him so? He was not even at Evesham, bears no guilt for what his brothers did at Viterbo" Nell broke off. She'd never seen eyes as cold as Edward's. A vivid blue but moments before, they were now as colorless and chilling as ice, eyes that accused, judged, and damned her son without a word being said. "Amaury de Montfort will never be allowed to return to England, not whilst I draw breath. You tell him that, Madame. Tell him, too, that should he be foolhardy enough to disregard my warning, all his prayers and papal connections will not help him. Nothing will." NELL was frowning over the chessboard, her competitive instincts fully engaged. Across the table, her chaplain watched with a complacent smile. No matter how she studied the board, she could see no escape^ Ellen's interruption came, therefore, at a most opportune time. "The fair begins today, Mama. Juliana and I thought it worth a look." Nell felt a pang that her daughter should have no better entertainment than this, a paltry village market, she who'd attended Winchester's 93 famous St Giles Fair and London's equally celebrated St Bartholomew's Fair- "If you go," she said, "be sure to take an escortDurand or Roger." Ellen and Juliana exchanged grins. "We'd rather take Hugh," Ellen said, then lowered her voice to confide, "He's smitten with the apothecary's daughter. Have you not noticed how eagerly he offers to run errands in the village?" Hugh was cleaning Sir Olivier7 s saddle, conscientiously dipping a doth into a jar of foul-smelling sheep's tallow. When Ellen's summons came, he jumped to his feet as if launched from a crossbow, to a chorus of catcalls and hoots. But although every man in the hall would have welcomed a chance to attend the fair, there was no malice in their railery. They might enjoy teasing him about the apothecary's daughteran open secretbut none of them seriously begrudged the lad an afternoon with his girl. It had not always been that way. When he'd first joined the Countess's household, there'd been some resentment of his privileged position, for it was obvious to all that the Countess and the Lady Ellen took a personal interest in his welfare. But he'd won them over by never shirking the dirty jobs, by deflecting their taunts with unassuming good humor, and by pitching the most persistent of his tormentors into a horse trough. Now, as he grinned self-consciously and buckled his scabbard, they shouted ribald courting suggestions after him, and he, Ellen, and Juliana departed on a wave of laughter. It had been a hot, dry summer. For weeks on end, the skies had been as empty and vast and daunting as the uncharted seas that lay beyond Greenland. But September brought reviving showers of misty silver rain, perfect autumn days of mellow sun, the last flowering of village gardens and wild meadows. The River Loing flowed through Montargis like a swirl of moss-green ribbon, forking into two streams, winding and twisting and spilling over into a shallow lake, the site of the fair. Montargis had more shops than most villages, enriched by the presence of the castle and the convent. But they offered only those necessities people could neither provide for themselves nor do without. There was a cobbler to repair shoes, a farrier to shoe horses, an apothecary to mix healing potions, a tanner to turn hides into leather. The villagers baked their own bread in the Lord's oven, mended their own tables and wagons, spun their own flax, grew their own food, and slaughtered their own vestock at Martinmas. Theirs was a world self-sufficient and sequesered, a world in which choices were a luxury reserved for the highborn. On this sunlit Saturday, though, they were confronted by a range choices, just as dazzling as the jugglers who moved through the °wds with sure-footed grace, tossing apples and balls skyward as they untered past. There were merchants selling olive and almond and 94 linseed and poppy oil. There were peddlers with needles, mirrors, razors, and combs carved of bone, not wood. There were stalls draped i^ silks and fine Flanders wool. There was a booth filled with fragrant perfume vials of jasmine and rosewater. And there were the even more enticing aromas coming from a cook-shop tent: roasted joints and meat pasties and enough candied quince to satisfy the greediest sweet tooth. Hugh was not surprised that every man, woman, and child in Montargis not in need of the Last Rites had turned out for the occasion. The jugglers were not the only performers drawn by the lure of a large crowd. There were brightly clad tumblers and a woman rope dancer and a man leading a bear on a chain. But as soon as Ellen and Juliana had begun to exclaim over the silk merchant's selections, Hugh sped sure as an arrow for the booth of Mauger the Leech. Mauger was not really a doctor; that was merely a courtesy, recognition of his valuable services to the village, the castle, and the convent. He had spread out his spices and herbs and ointments upon a trestle table draped in burlap, but Hugh never gave them a glance. She was standing behind the table, her glossy brown hair demurely tucked under a white veil, a robust, big-boned girl, too tall for most men, but not for Hugh; at seventeen, he'd reached the same formidable height as England's King, two full fingers above six feet. Emma's dark eyes, dimples, and swaying walk had captivated him at first sight, and she seemed equally taken with his flaxen hair and good manners. "I have a token for you," he said, holding out a hair ribbon he'd bought from the silk merchant just moments before. "How pretty!" Reaching eagerly for the ribbon, she whispered, "Take care. My father is watching." "Ah, good morrow, lad." Mauger's smile was friendly, for he was genuinely fond of Hugh. But he was worldly enough to know that young men like Hugh did not wed girls like Emma. Occasionally an impoverished knight might take a wealthy merchant's daughter as his wife, but he could provide no marriage portion large enough to tempt a man into marrying beneath his class. If there'd be no wedding ring for Emma, he was determined that there'd be no tumble in a hayrick either, and he hovered close at hand, keeping his daughter and Hugh under his benevolent, paternal eyemuch to their mutual frustration. Soon, though, customers began to crowd around the stall, wanting to consult with Mauger about their various ailments. Hugh took advantage of the confusion to seize Emma's hand. "Are you not going to show me your wares?" Emma giggled. "Well . . . this is calament, a remedy for chest colds, best drunk hot. And this is sanide, a gargle for those poor souls with throat ulcers. And over there are leeks, which ward off lightning, an" 95 rinwood, which kills fleas. But here is our most costly restorative, wdered unicorn horn from Cathay. Men say it protects you from ison." Casting Hugh a seductive sideways glance, she murmured, i-jhey also say it does wonders for your manhood." Hugh's mouth twitched. "Do you think my manhood needs help?" Emma laughed low in her throat. "Jesii forfend!" But then, to her dismay, Hugh spun around. "I'll be back," he cried over his shoulder, before disappearing into the crowd. Emma's bewilderment was not long in giving wav to vexed understanding. By the rood, if he was not off to defend the Lady Ellen's honor again! Hugh was swearing under his breath, shoving and pushing against a wall of bodies. He ought never to have left her, not with so many strangers about, men ignorant of her identity, for if her dress was plain, her face was not. He'd developed a keen eye for potential trouble, had spotted the man almost at once, mounted on a blooded palfry, a fashionable mantle flung carelessly over his shoulder, just the sort of prideful young lordling to see a pretty village lass as fruit ripe for the picking. And this one was more brazen than most. He'd drawn rein, staring quite blatantly at the Lady Ellen, then slid from the saddle, tossing the reins to his servant. By then, though, Hugh was in motion, cursing himself for having allowed Emma to distract him from his duties. Ellen was laughing at the antics of a small trained terrier; it was dancing on its hind legs in time to its master's tambour. Her attention focused upon the dog, Ellen was unaware that she was about to be accosted, not until the man grabbed her arm. She whirled, giving a surprised cry that turned into a scream as Hugh came barreling through the crowd, sent the man sprawling. It was one of his better football tackles; his target reeled backward, sat down heavily in the dirt. Even before he regained his feet, Hugh sensed that he'd made a mistake. Revelers at a fair were a boisterous lot; nothing was likely to please them more than a brawl. Yet now he saw shock and disapproval upon the closest faces. "Are you daft, lad?" an elderly man remonstrated. "Whatever possessed you to clout a priest?" And it was only then that Hugh saw the well-tailored cassock beneath his victim's stylish mantle. As the young priest got to his feet, he was jostled again, this time ty Ellen, who flung herself into his arms with a joyful "Amaury!" Hugh's chagrin chilled into consternation. "I am so sorry! But I Bought that . . . that you were annoying my lady . . ." Amaury was not mollified. "Priests do not often ravish women at vwage fairs," he observed coolly, dusting himself off with some care, j^d Hugh could not help thinking that he was not entirely to blame for e mishap. For certes, this youngest de Montfort son could not be more 96 unlike his reckless, dark, and brooding elder brothers. He was only of average height, compact and sturdy, with curly chestnut hair, a neatly trimmed beard, and Ellen's hazel eyes. He looked elegant and urbane, and not amused in the least by Hugh's blunder. Although his anger was under restraint, it was real, nonetheless. Hugh started to stammer another apology, but Ellen forestalled him. "I do not blame you, Hugh," she said, struggling gamely to suppress J her laughter. "I've been warning Amaury for years that he looks more like a court fop than a servant of God. Little wonder you suspected the worst!" Turning back to her brother, she embraced him again. "I'd wager St Francis of Assisi was never once mistaken for a rake on the prowl! You might even take it as a compliment of sorts." When Amaury started to speak, she put a ringer to his lips. "Ere you say something you'll regret, I think you ought to know the identity of my champion. Amaury, may I present Hugh de Whitton?" Amaury's eyes cut sharply to Ellen. "The lad who was with Bran?" When she nodded, he glanced again at Hugh. And then he smiled. "Well, I'll say this for you, Hugh de Whitton. You make quite an impact upon a first meeting." Hugh, smiling back shyly, could only marvel that his loyalty to Bran should have proven to be such a golden key, giving him unconditional entry into the very heart of the House of Montfort. NELL found it difficult to forgive Guy for the havoc he had wreaked at Viterbo. He had committed the most profane of murders. Her nephew had not deserved such a death and well she knew it. Her brother Richard had never gotten over his son's murder, suffering an apoplectic seizure that proved fatal. Amaury had almost been sucked into the mire, too, splattered with the guilt of a blood-bond. Ellen had forfeited all chances of making a marriage that would be her salvation. Even Simon had not been spared, for now the proud name of de Montfort would evoke more than memories of his martyrdom. It would evoke images of a bloodstained altar cloth, a church defiled, a dying priest. And Brana grave on a lonely Tuscan hillside, eternal exile for an anguished, unquiet soul. But Guy's April excommunication had sent shock tremors through all her painstakingly constructed defenses. An excommunicate was to be shunned by his fellow Christians as a man with "leprosy of the soul." None could break bread with him, pray with him, even acknowledge his existence. He was legally dead, with no rights under the law. He was denied the solace of the Sacraments, and if he died with the Church's curse still upon him, he could not be buried in consecrated ground. And 97 an excommunicateher sonwas damned forever in the fires of Hell Everlasting. Nell had yet to take her eyes from Amaury's face. "You have news of Guy," she said, bracing herself for fresh grief. Amaury nodded. "I'm sure you've guessed that Ned was the one who finally prodded the Pope into action. When he reached Tuscany last February, he set about hunting Guy down. To his fury, though, the citizens of Siena and Florence balked. The Podesta of Siena even pleaded on Guy's behalf, and arranged for Guy to meet secretly in the city with Charles. That," he added, with a grin, "Ned never knewelse he'd have suffered a seizure for certes!" "Guy met with Charles?" Nell was no innocent; she was King John's daughter. But even she was startled by the extent of Charles of Anjou's cynicism. "Guy has not been forsaken, Mama. His father by marriage has stood by him, and his wife even appealed personally to the Pope. But with Ned in Tuscany, breathing down his neck, Guy thought it prudent to put some distance between them, and withdrew to the Count's castle at Monte Gemoli in the Cecina Valley. Once Ned realized that Guy was out of reach, he prevailed upon the Pope to excommunicate him, as you know." Amaury paused. "It was then that I decided it was time to talk some sense into Guy; the stakes were just too high. It was no easy task, for Guy is Lucifer-proud. My arguments about the salvation of his soul fell on deaf ears. But I eventually convinced him that his defiance was playing right into Ned's hands, that Charles would not dare to restore him to favor as long as he was accursed by God. I also pointed out that nothing would enrage Ned more than if Guy reconciled with the Pope." "Are you saying that Guy has made his peace with the Church?" Nell asked incredulously. Ellen, too, looked astonished. Again, Amaury nodded. "On July sixteenth, as the Pope left Florence, Guy met him on the road, barefoot as befitted a true penitent, with a rope halter about his neck." Amaury smiled thinly. "The Pope was impressed by such a spectacular act of contrition, and I did my best to convince him that Guy's repentance was heartfelt." Another hinted smile. "Being a papal chaplain does have its advantages; having the Pope's ear is most decidedly one of them. The result was that the Pope declared Guy a prisoner of the Church and put him into the custody of that gentle gaoler, Charles of Anjou. Charles promptly sent Guy to his castle at Lecco on Lake Como, with servants and fine wines to ease the burden of confinement." 'But I met with Edward at Melun in early August, and he made no mention of this!" 98 "He'd not yet heard. When he does, he's like to declare war upon ! the Holy See," Amaury joked, but neither his mother nor sister laughed. A silence fell, broken at last by Ellen. "I want to tell Juliana," she said, rising. "And Hugh has a right to know, too." As the door closed behind her, Nell reached out, entwined her fingers in Amaury's. "She knew I wanted some private time with you. | Where the two of you get your tact, the Lord God only knows; for certes, f not from me or Simon! Amaury, I must tell you of my meeting with Edward. He was far more generous than I'd expected, has agreed to restore my Pembroke dower lands. But he refused to allow you or the Bishop of Chichester to return to England." Her hand tightened upon his. "I do not know why he bears you such ill will. Mayhap because you refused to disown Guy. Or because you persuaded the Pope that Simon should be reburied in consecrated soil. He may even still believe you were implicated in the Viterbo killing. But this I do knowthat his hatred of you runs so deep a man might drown in it." Guy would have sneered; Bran might have shrugged. Amaury knew only a fool would make light of an English king's enmity. "I doubt then," he said, "that I shall be making any pilgrimages to English shrines. Mama, I want now to talk about you. Ellen wrote to me that you've been ailing." "Ellen is fretting for naught. Sometimes if I am too long on my feet, my ankles swell, and I get out of breath if I exert myself too much, but surely such minor complaints" Nell stopped abruptly, too late. So accustomed was she to underplaying her ailments that she'd forgotten Amaury would not be as easy to reassure as Ellen. Amaury had studied medicine at the University of Padua, and it was obvious that he'd at once comprehended the significance of her symptoms, making the same diagnosis as Marguerite's physician had done, that she was suffering from dropsy, an illness that was slow-paced but eventually fatal. "Ah, Amaury, do not look like that! My dearest, death comes to us all, and in God's time. I do not fear it, for I am nigh on fifty-eight, have had joys and sorrows enough for any two lifetimes. I have no regrets for myself. They are all for Ellen." Amaury was still in shock. But the son's need to hope was proving stronger than the doctor's diagnostic instincts. He could be wrong; it need not be dropsy. With an enormous effort, he focused upon what she was saying. "Ellen? What do you mean, Mama?" "In less than a fortnight, your sister will be twenty-one, well pafit the age when young women of good birth are wed. What is going to 99 happen *° ner' Amaury? A woman without a husband, without a male protector" "Christ, Mama, I'd give my life for Ellen!" "My darling, I know that you would! But it is the sword men fear, not the psalter. Because you are a priest, there might well be fools who'd tlunk that Ellen would have none to protect her or to avenge her, not with Bran dead, Guy in disgrace, and her cousin John in the Holy Land. That is just the way of men, those without honor. I need not tell you, Amaury, how often women are abducted, raped, forced into marriage against their will. Jesii, it nearly happened to my own grandmother, Eleanor of Aquitainetwice! Ellen is no longer a great heiress, but she is beautiful, and I fear for her, fear that lust-blinded men might see her as fair game." Hugh's protectiveness suddenly made sense to Amaury. "Then we must find her a husband, Mama, and the sooner the better." "You sound like a sailorany port in a storm! Would you have Ellen wed to some aged widower with foul breath and penny-pinching waysour Ellen? Yes, I want a husband for Ellen, but he must be worthy of her, must be a man who'd protect and cherish her, who'd not try to break her spirit. I know how marriage is for most women, Amaury, but it was never like that for me, not with Simon. He let me speak my mind, trusted my judgment, confided in me. Growing up, Ellen saw that, saw how your father treated me. And I realized early on that we must take great care in choosing her husband." Nell sat back in her chair, smiled sadly. "That is why I was so much in favor of the match with Llewelyn ap Gruffydd. Because he was a Prince, of course. But also because he was Welsh. The Welsh pamper their wives, lad, in truly astonishing ways. Their women cannot be wed against their will, as ours can. They cannot be beaten at a husband's whim. Under Welsh law, they can even object to a husband's infidelity! I'd seen how Llewelyn Fawr treated my sister Joanna, and I felt confident that his grandson would do right by Ellen. But it was not to be, and I regretted much more than the loss of a crown . . ." "Well," Amaury said, after some moments of thoughtful quiet, "there is an honorable alternative to marriage. Ellen could take the veil. With a handsome corrody and the de Montfort name, who knows, she ntight end up as an abbess one day." Nell was shaking her head. "Our Ellen's faith is deep, but we both know she has not the temperament for convent life. She'd find no contentment as a nun, no more than I could honor my vow of chastity n°t after I met your father." She hesitated only briefly, for she knew nis piety existed in harmony with a strong secular streak. "It was not," 100 she explained playfully, "that I loved God less, but that I loved Simon more!" And Amaury justified her confidence by laughing softly. "Ah, Amaury, how glad I am that you are here, that I can talk to you like this. I once askednay, demandedso much from life. If it be true that ambition is a grievous sin, then grievously did Simon and I suffer for it. They're all gone, those old hungers, those high-flying dreams. Now I ask but one thingthat ere I die, I can see my daughter L settled and safe. And yet I very much fear that is a wish beyond my Igrasp." Amaury was silent. As much as he wanted to confort her, she was the one person he could not lie to, and he, too, feared for Ellen's future. 9 TALERDDIG GRANGE, POWYS, WALES January 1274 O, \^Jf all the granges owned by the monks of Ystrad Marchell, Talerddig was the most isolated, sequestered deep in the mountains of western Powys. The monks and lay brothers were astonished, therefore, by the unexpected arrival of Gruffydd ap Gwenwynwyn, his wife, and son. Gruffydd was their lord, and they made haste to welcome him, wondering all the while what had brought him to this distant corner of his realm. Gruffydd did not enlighten them, and soon after dark, their cloistered quiet was broken by yet another arrival, a mystery guest muffled in a hooded mantle, acconv panied by a small escort of armed men who rebuffed all attempts at conversation. Their lord was no more forthcoming, demanded to be taken at once to Gruffydd, and although his identity was hidden within that shadowed hood, his voice carried the steely inflection of one born to command. The lay brothers did not think to challenge him; instead, they obeyed. 101 Davydd sometimes suspected that he had a love of intrigue for its 0\vn sake. When he'd plotted with Edward against his brother, it had ainused him enormously to insist upon a midnight meeting deep within the Welsh woods. Now he found himself relishing his clandestine role, and he wondered if men would be so quick to conspire were it not for the seductive trappings, the opportunity to play these high-risk games of espionage. He was still laughing softly as he entered the chamber of the Powys Prince. That was not a title Gruffydd could still claim, although his forebears once had. But Gruffydd had the misfortune to be born in the lifetime at Llewelyn ab lorwerth, known even to his enemies as Llewelyn Fawr, Llewelyn the Great. Gruffydd's father had challenged him, and died a broken man, a refugee at the English court. Gruffydd had grown up in English exile, not regaining the lost lands of Powys until Llewelyn Fawr's death in 1240. But another Llewelyn was soon to overshadow Wales, for the grandson had become the keeper of the grandsire's flame. Once again Gruffydd was forced to flee to England, and when he was eventually restored to his heritage, it was at a high price. This once proud Prince of Powys now held his lands as a vassal, swearing homage to his powerful neighbor to the north. Llewelyn's highborn countrymen recognized him as Prince of Wales no less reluctantly than did the English Crown. Their jealousy was Llewelyn's Achilles' heelor so Davydd hoped. Gruffydd seemed content to sit in silence, to let his son, Owen, and his English wife speak for him. There was no flash to the man; he was not one for shouting, for theatrical rages. Even his appearance was muted. Greyed and stooped, he showed every one of his fifty-eight years. But his hatred ran deep. Davydd knew that not many men would dare to defy Llewelyn. Owen, his firstborn, had all the panache that Gruffydd lacked. He'd inherited his mother's English fairness, her sense of style, for Hawise was, at fifty, still an undeniably elegant woman. She'd been born a Lestrange, and Owen kept in close contact with his Marcher kin. He'd even adopted an English surname, calling himself Owen de la Pole instead of Owain ap Gruffydd. This misplaced pride was baffling to Davydd; he'd admit that English blood was no shame, but it was for certes nothing to boast about. Owen had been holding forth for a good quarter hour, talking fast and tough, his the self-confident swagger of youth and privilege and an untested manhood. That, at least, was Davydd's acid assessment of s would-be ally. He listened, unimpressed, as Owen damned Llewelyn 0 eternal hellfire, vowed to reduce Dolforwyn to rubble. Davydd marveled that one rock-hewn castle could so obsess men 102 on both sides of the border. For Gruffydd, Dolforwyn's presence on Powys soil was one affront too many, was enough to push him into rebellion. And the English Crown had reacted with equal alarm, unwilling to allow a Welsh castle so close to their border stronghold at Montgomery. Acting in the absent Edward's name, the regents had even forbidden Llewelyn to proceed with its construction. The bait was too tempting for Davydd to resist. "It sounds to me, Owen, as if you've been stricken with the same malady that infected the English court: Dolforwyn fever. They demanded that Llewelyn raze the castle, as I'm sure you know. But did I ever tell you about Llewelyn's response? He pointed out that he had every right to build castles in his own principality and, since Edward knew that full well, he could only conclude that the Chancery's letter must have been written without Edward's knowledge!" Owen was not amused. "Are we here to plan Llewelyn's overthrowor to commend his sardonic sense of humor? Are you with us, Davydd, or not? If we must look elsewhere for aid, better we should know now." "And where would you look? My brother Owain? I daresay he'd be interested, but prisoners do not make ideal conspiratorsdo they? Ah, well, there's always my brother Rhodri. His grievance is real enough. Alas for you, though, Rhodri could walk across a field of newfallen snow and not leave a single footprint." Owen was accustomed to being treated with the deference due a prince's son. He at once began to bristle, and his mother made haste to intercede, saying smoothly, "You are right, Davydd. We do need you. But you need us, too. Twice before you sought to overthrow your brother. Your first attempt gained you a year's confinement; your second, four years in English exile. Our support will make the difference, and I think you know that, else you'd not be here." She paused. "The terms of our offer are straight-forward enough In return for assisting you to claim Llewelyn's crown, Owen agrees to wed one of your daughters, and you cede to my husband the cantrefs of Ceri and Cydewain. That's more than fair, Davydd. You want what we doLlewelyn's downfall. We are in agreement as to our aim. We need only agree upon our method." Davydd's smile was razor thin. "I believe the method you had in mind was murder." "And since when does killing make you queasy?" Owen demanded. "It's not as if we were asking you to do it yourself. All y°u have to do is get me and my men past Llewelyn's household guards I'll take it from there. Damnation, Davydd, we told you that at our las' meeting!" 103 "Yes, you did," Davydd said, "and I walked out." Gruffydd stirred within the shadows. "But you came back," he said softly. Davydd rose abruptly. "When I was nigh on seventeen, my brother Qwain and I set out to claim my share of Gwynedd, led an army into Llewelyn's lands. He was waiting for us in the Bwlch Mawr pass, and in less than an hour, our men were in flight and all our hopes were bleeding away into the Desoch marshes. Owain and I were both taken prisoner. Owain was sure he was a dead man. But Llewelyn just looked at him and said, 'I am not Cain.' " Gruffydd and Hawise exchanged glances. When Owen would have spoken, she shook her head. Gruffydd got slowly to his feet. "Your brother is too dangerous to let live. You and I might chafe under his high-handed ways, but too many Welshmen see him as their last and best hope of holding off the English. As our prisoner, he'd be a magnet for every rebel and malcontent in Wales. And if he ever got free . . . I'm not willing to risk that, Davydd. Alive, Llewelyn becomes a martyr. Dead, a memory." Davydd did not answer, moved, instead, to the window. Hawise followed. "How old are you, Davydd?" He gave her a bemused look, a terse "Thirty-six." "You're Llewelyn's heir and likely to outlive him. But what of your brother Owain? He's been Llewelyn's prisoner for nigh on nineteen years, and he's well past fifty, is he not? You can wait. Can he?" Davydd ignored her, reaching out and unlatching the shutters. The sudden blast of icy air caused him to gasp. The wind was raw and wet, coming from the east. The red wind of Shrewsbury, his people called it, gwynt coch Amythig. He'd begun to shiver, but he did not move until Hawise touched his arm. Only then did he close the shutters, turn again to face them. "You were right, Gruffydd," he said. "I did come back." Owen and Hawise could not conceal their jubilation. Gruffydd permitted himself a small smile. "I understand that Llewelyn will be at Cricieth Castle in late February, hearing appeals from the commote courts. Why not then?" Davydd shook his head. "No. Toward the end of this month, he'll be staying at Llanfair Rhyd Castell, a grange owned by the monks of Aberconwy. It's closer to Powys, and we'd not have to deal with the '-ricieth Castle garrison, just his household guard." Gruffydd nodded approvingly. "You're right. I wonder I did not think of that myself. Let it be the abbey grange then, on Candlemas." Owen smiled, too, but with an edge to it. "Are you sure you can Sain entry for me and my men?" 204 "Yes," Davydd said, very evenly, "I am sure. He trusts me, you see." THE rain had begun to fall on Candlemas Eve. When dawn came, the darkness lingered. All day long the skies were the color of slate, and so torrential was the rain that the lay brothers of Llanfair Rhyd Castell began to worry that the river might rise. To ease their fears, Llewelyn set up a flood watch. The vile winter weather had not deterred petitioners, and Llewelyn had spent the better part of the day presiding over the llys uchaf, his high court. He'd taken a brief break for dinner, but he then withdrew to a quiet corner of the guest hall, began a low-voiced, intent discussion with Tudur ab Ednyved, his Seneschal. Davydd was not surprised by his diligence; his brother's work hours were legendary. At Davydd's approach, Llewelyn looked up with a distracted smile. Tudur was less welcoming. His father, Ednyved ap Cynwrig, had been the greatest of Llewelyn Fawr's ministers. Tudur was the third of Ednyved's sons to serve as Seneschal to the Prince of Gwynedd. Like his brothers before him, he was blunt, shrewd, and not easily surprised. He'd never liked Davydd, had never bothered to hide it, either. At the sight now of those narrowed dark eyes and that thin-lipped mouth, Davydd had to reassure himself that Tudur's suspicions were nothing out of the ordinary, that he could have no inkling as to what the night would bring. "Over the years, I've managed to offend, at one time or another, the Church, the Welsh lords, and my own tenants. Well, we now have a chance to offend them all at once, in one fell swoop," Llewelyn said wryly. "We've decided to impose a tax upon cattle, three pence per head." Davydd whistled soundlessly. "That has never been done." "I know," Llewelyn conceded. "But the money is trickling in, Davydd, and gushing out. In addition to the five hundred marks I'm obliged to pay the English Crown every Michaelmas, I've incurred heavy expenses trying to stave off Marcher forays, and the cost of garrisoning Dolforwyn is higher than we'd expected. The English King levies tallages upon his subjects anytime he needs funds, so why should we not take a leaf from his book?" "But you're not the English King," Davydd said laconically, and Llewelyn laughed. "You're right, lad. I suppose I should be thankful for small favors!' Tudur laughed, too. Davydd did not, turned away abruptly. Intercepting one of the lay brothers, he grabbed a goblet from the man's trayBut he dared take no more than one swallow, dared not seek to steady 105 his nerves with mead. Glancing at a candle notched to show the hours, ne saw, disbelieving, that it was just past eight. More than five hours et to go, for Owen had told him to await them between midnight and Matins, when all would be asleep. He'd not expected this, to feel so hollow, so edgy, for he'd fought his share of battles, had first bloodied his sword at sixteen. But the death that crept into a darkened bedchamber was no kin to the death that claimed soldiers in the light of welyn?" "I'll not deny that the?*6 is a dan8er' O^- If I stav' l wa§er mY lands my freedom, mayh^P mX Ufe- But if l flee' l lose a11 for certes-" Owain was appalled. "Davydd, the danger is too great. I know Llewelyn, better than you - Do not delude vourself that You could §et him to forgive you. Have you learned nothing from my mistakes? I've lost nineteen years of my li/e because J held Llewelyn too cheaply, could not see the flint in his soul. K is irue that there was ever m ^ between us and it is no less true th^ tf he has a weakness, it is his fondness for you But do you truly thin* *«* he/d overlook murder? You could not talk your way out of this, lad- God helP you tf you m foolish enou8h 40 Davydd shrugged. "With so much at stake' Owain' God helP me if I do not try." DAVYDD and his men w^re having breakfast in the guest hall of Aberconwy Abbey. The o&eT abbey guests had departed at first light, but Davydd was a late rise?*"' and a hungry one. He'd never shared the common belief that breakfc»st was a shameless indulgence, liked to joke that he believed in indulging the flesh at everv opportunity, a jest that shocked the brothers of thi* austere Cistercian order. He saw no reason this morn to hurry out into the rain, not with such a long ride ahead of him; his lands in Dyffryn ^lwyd were a day's journey away, and the roads were mired in April &ud- He was signaling for more cheese when new arrivals were ushered >nto the hal1' but uPon recognizing the man in the lead, he pushed the bench back, the food forgotten. "What are you doing *ere, Rhys? This is an abbey, r not a border bawdy-house!" Rhys ap Gruffydd grii^ed' unoffended. He was Tudui^s nephew, grandson of the great Edny^611' and Uke his celebrated kin, he had been !°ng in Llewelyn's service. put Davydd knew what his brother did not, *at Rhys's loyalties were ^ot rooted deeP- They'd struck UP an easy friendship, "like recognizing Uke'" Davydd Joked' and to some degree, *at was indeed true. RhyS did find Davydd's rowdy companionship m°re congenial than that craning spectators, every eye upon him He knew how men 116 flocked to bear-baitings, cheered themselves hoarse at cock fights, turned out in huge numbers for any public hanging. He paused deliberately in the doorway, in part to make a suitably dramatic entrance, in part to give himself a chance to identify the enemy Like patches of ice in a field of melting snow, the unbleached habits of the White Monks stood out prominently amidst so many tunics of russet and green. Davydd recognized the Abbots of the abbeys of Aberconvvy, 'dCwm-hir, and Cymer. Not much hope there; the Cistercians were Llewelyn's, heart and soul. The Bishop of Bangor was a more promising prospect. He'd been feuding with Llewelyn for months, might balk out of sheer spite. Forget Tudur ab Ednyved; he'd want a front row seat at the gallows. Nor would he get any support from Goronwy ap Heilyn, Tudur's nephew; he could not begin to count the whores and wine flagons they'd shared over the years, but their friendship had not survived his alliance of expediency with the English Crown. Dai ab Einion, another one who'd prefer to reach a guilty verdict straightaway, without the bother of a trial first. Rhys ap Gruffydd? He'd be sympathetic for certes, but lacked the backbone to defy Tudur and Llewelyn. Their uncle Einion liked him well enough, liked Llewelyn better. Even Owen de la Pole was on hand, looking far less sleek and self-assured as a hostage than he had as a would-be assassin. He glanced furtively at Davydd, then away, and Davydd thought he deserved all of this grief, if only for his bad judgment in ever taking Owen as an ally. There were other familiar faces in the hall, but he paid them no heed, knowing they would follow wherever Llewelyn led. And where would that be? Davydd's gaze focused at last upon his brother. Llewelyn was sitting in an oaken high-backed chair upon the dais. A spiked candle flared behind him, throwing his face into shadow; no accident, Davydd was sure. Never had there seemed so much distance between them. Davydd wondered briefly if this was how he'd feel come Judgment Day, and then he raised his head, swaggered into the hall, into the vortex. The hall quieted. He walked toward the dais in the sort of funereal, respectful silence he'd always associated with the sickbed of a dying rich relative. The urge to shatter it, to shock, was overwhelming, but for once he resisted temptation. Halting before his brother, he made a very formal, elaborate gesture of obeisance, one that stopped just short of parody. "I am here, my lords. Ask of me what you will." Tudur was quick to take up the challenge; as Llewelyn's Seneschal/ it fell to him to act as Justiciar. "Serious accusations have been made against you, my lord Davydd. Witnesses have come forward, men o* good repute, who swear that you met secretly with Gruffydd ap Gwenwynwyn, Lord of Powys, on at least two occasions, at Mathrafa' "^ 117 ui the spring of 1273 and then at Gruffydd's castle at Trallwng last November." Davydd had long ago learned that scornful laughter vfas often the jnost effective weapon in his arsenal. But now he did not have to fake it; the laughter welled up on its own, so sweet and sweeping was his relief. If this was all they had, he could walk out ofthis trap blindfolded. "If I did not know you had no sense of humoi whatsoever, my lord Tudur, I'd think you must be joking. You summoned me before your high tribunal for this? Because ale-house gossip says I may have met with Gruffydd ap Gwenwynwyn nigh on two years ago?" Tudur was quite unmoved by his mockery. 'The first meeting took place on the last Sunday in Lent, the second on All Soul's Day. Does that prick your memory any?" "No . . . should it? If you're asking where I was on a March Sunday sometime last year, I'm damned if I know. I can tell you this, that I was not in Powys." "There are men willing to swear that you were," Llewelyn said, and his voice, too, was shadowed, utterly unrevealing- Davydd decided it was time for a flash of anger. "Well, if they do, they lie!" "Can you produce witnesses able to attest to your whereabouts on the dates in question?" Llewelyn sounded so cool, so detached, that Davydd no longer had to feign anger. Damn him, was this so easy for him? "Yes, I can provide witnesses," he snapped. Who, though? Tang\vystl? No, a bedmate would be too obvious. He needed someone of unimpeachable authority; a pity the Pope was otherwise occupied. But a monk, yes, a monk would do. Rhys ap Gruffydd had a brother who was a Dorninican friar, and he liked Llewelyn no more than Rhys did. If Llewelyn wanted witnesses, then by God, he'd get them, honorable and upright and ready to swear upon Llewelyn's fragment of the True Cross that he'd been on the moon if need be, anywhere but Powys. Tudur made no attempt to conceal his skepticism. Instead, he flaunted it, so well armored in sarcasm that he put Davydd in mind of a human hedgehog, one abristle with poisonous barbs. "I shall await their testimony with bated breath," he gibed. "Will a fortnight be time enough for you to ... find them?" Davydd shook his head, was about to launch into an impassioned plea for delay when Llewelyn said, "I shall be at Llanfor in Penllyn for Martinmas. Bring your witnesses there and I'll hear them." That was more than fair. As much as it galled Davydd to admit it, lt Was even generous, would give him the time he needed. "Penllyn at Martinmas. You may be sure I'll not forget." He moved forward then, 118 up onto the dais. "And now what?" he asked, pitching his voice for Llewelyn's ear alone. "Do I ride off into the sunset? Or do we talk?" He was close enough now to see the finely webbed lines around Llewelyn's eyes, the taut set of his mouth. No, not so easy, after all, he thought, with a queer sense of satisfaction, and then Llewelyn slowly nodded. "We talk," he said tersely. * ANDLES caught fire, dispelling some of the dark. Prodding the hearth with iron tongs, a servant stirred it back to life, rose, and discreetly disappeared. Einion and Tudur settled themselves inconspicuously n, one of the window-seats, but Nia, Llewelyn's young greyhound, planted itself at his feet. So closely did it shadow his every move that he laughingly called it his "bodyguard," but tonight there was an added dimension to its vigilance; like many dogs, it was sensitive to its master's moods, and the tension in the chamber was stoking all of the animal's protective instincts. The greyhound's watchful demeanor was not lost upon Davydd. "Your suspicions must be catching, Llewelyn. Even your bitch seems to have been infected with them. If I help myself to some wine, is she going to help herself to my forearm?" Llewelyn's mouth quirked. "We'll not know till you try." But then he crossed to the table, reached for a flagon, and poured. "If you are as innocent as you claim, why did you demand a safe-conduct ere you'd come to Rhuddlan?" Davydd took the cup. "That ought to be obvious. Because I am no longer sure that I can trust you." "Trust me?" Llewelyn echoed, incredulous. "That surprises you? It should not, for trust is a two-edged sword. Did it even occur to you that I might not be guilty? No, of course it did not. With you, suspicion and certainty are spokes on the same wheel." At that, Tudur could keep silent no longer. "This man's gall never fails to amaze me, Llewelyn. That he should dare to profess such righteous indignation" "And why not?" Davydd ignored Tudur, kept his eyes upon his brother. "I'm not entitled to be angry? Brace yourself for another surprise, Llewelyn, for I happen to think I'm the one who was wronged! And with cause, by God. For the past seven years, we've been allies ... or so I thought. I've been welcome at your court, a member of your council, privy to your secrets. You even led me to believe that you favored me as your heir. There was no breach between us, no falling out. And then thisan accusation without warning, without proof. HoV do you expect me to react?" 329 "1 expect you to remember your own past. You're no stranger to piracy and rebellion. Can you truly blame me for my suspicions? ce before you betrayed me, Davydd." "And twice you forgave me, or have you forgotten that? More fool for I thought we'd made our peace, put the past behind us. But if I'm ' ty judged again and again for old sins, then we'd best talk about them' ket's begin with my first rebellion. I was but sixteen, seeking only cjaim my fair share of Gwynedd. Now that may have been a mistake, kut it hardly makes me another Judas. And if I erred, I paid for it sixtegn months confinement at Cricieth Castle. I argued then that it was not treason to seek what was mine. Do you remember what you said? 'It is tf you l°se-' And I did lose. But Christ Jesus, Llewelyn, that was nigh on twenty years ago!" "Do you truly think I'd harbor a lifelong grudge for one act of youthful folly?" Llewelyn shook his head impatiently. "Davydd, I understood why you threw in with Owain. But that is more than I can say for your subsequent double-dealings with the English Crown. I'd forgiven you, restored you fully to favor, only to have you plot my overthrow with Edward. Since you saw fit to start this, finish it, then. Tell me how you justify an alliance with our greatest enemy." "I cannot justify itnot to you. But I daresay Owain saw it in a kinder light." "I see. So your only concern was freeing Owain. You should have spoken up sooner, lad. All this time we've been damning you as a rebel, instead of honoring you as a saint." "Do not mock me, Llewelyn. For once in my life, I am serious. Of course I wanted Gwynedd, or a good portion of it. I was heartily sick of holding my lands at your pleasure, and why not? Lest you forget, Welsh law was on my side, not yours. But I also wanted to free Owain from your gaol." "So you'd have me believe you rebelled to set Owain free. Why should I not believe, then, that you'd do so again? Owain is still my Pnsoner, still your brother. What has changed? If that was your motive °nce, why not a second time?" Tudur sat up straight, already hearing the trap jaws snapping shut. ut Davydd was smiling tightly. "What has changed? Good God, man, re than eleven years have passed! Mayhap time has not tarnished Ur good intentions, but my halo rusted away years ago. Lunatic gal- "ty came more easily to me at twenty-four. At thirty-six, I have too w c^ to lose. I'll not deny that I'd free Owain tomorrow if the power f0 * lrune. But it is not, and I'm not willing to barter my freedom iJavydd had forgotten his wine cup. He drained it now, too fast. 120 "I was not plotting with Gruffydd ap Gwenwynwyn. Jesii, Llewely^ how do I convince you? What would you have me do, swear upon my honor, upon the soul of our" "No," Llewelyn said hastily. "Whenever you start talking of honor Davydd, I always feel that I should start counting the spoons." Einion sucked in his breath, and Tudur smiled faintly, expectantly. But Llewelyn knew his brother better than they did. He alone was not surprised when Davydd burst out laughing. "I forget, at times, just how well you know me! But at least I nail my pirate's flag to the mast, never sail under false colors. Llewelyn, I've been honest with you tonight, at no small cost to my pride. Will you return the favor?" "What do you want to know? The names of our witnesses?" Davydd shook his head. "If someone had come to you, claiming that Tudur or Einion had met secretly with Gruffydd ap Gwenwynwyn, would you have asked either of them to verify their whereabouts? Would you even have given it a second thought?" Llewelyn found that an unexpectedly difficult question to answer. Of Gruffydd's four sons, only Owain had gotten his flaming red hair. Llewelyn's was dark, Davydd's a sunstreaked chestnut, and Rhodri's a lackluster brown. But Davydd did have their father's eyes, a clear, cornpelling shade of green, eyes that held his own without wavering. "No," he said reluctantly, "I'd not have believed it of them." Davydd felt a strange sort of letdown, almost as if he truly was the one wronged. "But for me, you believed it. You may not have wanted to, but you did. I can prove I was not in Powys conspiring with Gruffydd, but what of it? You said you'd forgiven my past betrayals. But tell me this, Llewelyn, and for God's sake, tell me the truth. Whenif ever do you start trusting me again?" Llewelyn could not lie to him; the question held too much raw honesty. "Davydd, I thought I did." Davydd's smile was bitter. "Until your faith was put to the test." Llewelyn frowned, said nothing. Davydd's accusers were men of good fame, men whose testimony could not be easily dismissed. But he thought it only fair to deny himself that defense, for he could not make the obvious offer, the one Davydd had a right to expect, that his word alone was enough. "Bring your witnesses to me in Penllyn," he said a* last, "and that will end it." Davydd studied him intently for a long moment. "Fair enough." A shallow bowl lay on the table between them, filled with dried figs and dates and a large, fragrant orange. The latter was not often found on Welsh tables, for it had to be imported from Spain. Davydd knew it ^ one of Llewelyn's few indulgences, and it was the orange he took o" 121 ujs way to the door. There he paused, glanced back over his shoulder. "Till Martinmas, then. Llewelyn!" Sending the orange spiraling through the air. Llewelyn looked startled, but he caught it easily enough, and Davydd grinned. "You see?" he said. "I do not covet all that is yours!" The door closing on echoes of his laughter. It was quiet after he'd gone. Llewelyn moved restlessly about the chamber, but he could feel their eyes following him. Turning abruptly, he said, "I'll not deny it. I want to believe him. Is that so hard to understand?" Einion silently shook his head; he, too, wanted to believe Davydd. Tudur had rarely heard Llewelyn sound so defensive, but he felt obliged, nonetheless, to speak his mind. "No," he said, "it is only natural that you'd want to believe him. But Davydd might well be counting upon that, Llewelyn." Llewelyn acknowledged the thrust with a twist of his mouth. "I know," he admitted. "It is just that I cannot forget what Davydd said, that I trusted him only until my faith was put to the test. If he is right, how can I ever make amends?" And this time, not even Tudur had an answer for him. IT was sometime in October when the black boar emerged from the lower slopes of Yr Wyddfa, began roaming the wooded valley of the River Conwy. Those who saw it gave awesome accounts of its vast size, its bloodied tusks, its blinding speed, and people began to wager when their lord would arrive. That he would come, they never doubted. No huntsman alive could resist such a challenge, for there was no greater sport than matching wits with a Welsh wild boar. Indeed, Llewelyn was soon hastening south, reaching his Trefriw hunting lodge at noon on the eve of All Saints, more commonly known as Hallowmas. Caitlin was delighted to have been included in the hunting party, although she would not be allowed to go on the hunt itself, of course. Like all princes, Llewelyn had a migratory court, and as he moved about his realm, so, too, did Caitlin, for her fall from the stable rafters had marked a turning point in her life, and nowadays her uncle rarely left her behind. But he'd not taken her to Rhuddlan Castle, and the waiting had been very hard, for she knew her father and uncle were somehow at odds. When her uncle said she'd be coming with him to meet Davydd m Penllyn, she'd been enormously relieved, for surely that must mean nev/d made their peace. She was not absolutely sure of that, though, and she wished she had someone to confide in, to explain the often Explicable adult world to her. She had begun to hope that in time Eva might become such a 122 confidante, for Eva was the first one of her uncle's ladies to befriend her. It was because of Eva that they were now following the steep, winding path that led from Trefriw up to the ancient church of Rhychwyn. Soon after their arrival, Eva had coaxed Llewelyn into showing it to her, and as they set out, she'd looked back over her shoulder. "Do not dawdle, child. We're counting upon you to blaze a trail for us!" Caitlin did, joyfully, racing Llewelyn's greyhound through a carpet *^>f autumn leaves. Sun gilded the trees, setting every hawthorn bush afire, and the air was so clear and cool that it was like breathing cider; when she told that to Llewelyn and Eva, they both laughed. That was another reason why she liked Eva so much, because her uncle laughed so readily when Eva was with him. Most reassuringly of all for Caitlin, Eva was no great beauty. Caitlin was familiar with the Welsh legends of the Mabinogion, with Chretien de Troyes's French fables of King Arthur, and their romantic heroines did not look like the cheerful, buxom Eva, who was neither fair-skinned nor flaxen haired, and not at all elegant or aloof. Caitlin already knew, at age ten, that she was not likely to grow into a great beauty, either, not with her flyaway straight hair, her pointed little chin, and a dusting of freckles across her nose. While she was not one to brood upon it, she'd begun to wish that she could have been prettier, and so her uncle's liaison with Eva seemed to bode well for her own future. Ahead lay Llanrhychwyn, a small, rough-hewn chapel of weathered stone, shadowed by leafy clouds, surrounded by silence. Vast, ageless yew trees blotted out the sun, sentinels of a bygone time. Caitlin found it very easy to conjure up unseen ghosts in such a secluded setting, and Eva, too, hung back, for their first glimpse of this hillside church was not reassuring. It seemed to belong to a distant past, to the denizens of its dark woods, to those who slept under the high grass of its forlorn cemetery, not to the living, not to them. To Llewelyn, though, the ancient church was enshrined in boyhood memory. "My grandfather and his wife often heard Mass here. The church down at Trefriw . . . that was his doing. He had it built for Joanna, to spare her the walk all the way up to Rhychwyn. He kept a fondness for the old church, though. I've not been up here for years, yet it is just as I remember." Like Caitlin, he, too, sensed the presence of spirits. But his ghosts were joy-giving. With a light step, he led them inside. Within, the little church was far more welcoming. There was only one window, set in the east wall. But the interior was whitewashed with lime, gave off a mellow ivory glow. The floor rushes were freshly lai<« and a clean linen cloth had been draped across the altar, proof that the elderly priest caretaker was still serving God and St Rhychwyn. Llewelyn moved toward the alms box, ran his fingers along the 123 wood until he found what he sought. "My initials," he said with a grin. "I carved them whilst waiting for my grandfather at Vespers. The Lady Toanna caught me at it, but never told on me. I was scared that she vvould, though, for my parents hated her enough to sicken upon it. You see, Caitlin, they believed that her son had usurped my father's rightful place. My grandfather could not let his realm be split in twain. Instead, it was his family that was rent asunder, for my father never forgave him " His face had shadowed. Eva joined him by the alms box, pretended to look for the initials, all the while wondering how to exorcise his darker memories. "The most amazing tales are told of the Lady Joanna. Did she truly set fire to your grandfather's bed?" Her question was well chosen; Llewelyn's grin came back. "I heard that, too, as a lad; finally got up the nerve to ask my grandfather. How he laughed! Because Joanna had been just fourteen when they wed, they'd not shared a bed at first. But of course he had a concubine, and when Joanna discovered that, she had a heated row with the woman, ordered Llewelyn's bed dragged out to the bailey and burned. When my grandfather told me that story, Joanna had been dead for many months, yet he spoke of her as if she were waiting in the adjoining chamber, that jealous lass of fifteen who had dared to burn his bed." Eva could not help herself, had to ask. "I know he founded a Franciscan friary in her memory. Few women are so honored, so loved. And yet. . . did she not betray him? From childhood, I heard the stories, that he found her with a lover. I even remember my cousin pointing out the man's grave to me, saying that Prince Llewelyn had hanged him. But Joanna, he forgave. How could he do that, Llewelyn? How could he ever forgive so great a sin?" "I do not know, Eva. We never talked of it. I can tell you only that on his deathbed, it was her face he yearned to see." Caitlin was fascinated by these tantalizing snatches of family scandal. "Uncle," she said shyly, "could you have forgiven such a betrayal?" And she was flattered when he considered her question as seriously as rf it had been posed by an adult, thinking it over for some moments before finally shaking his head. "No, lass," he said quietly, "I do not think I could. For me, it is not easy to trust. When I do, though, it is absolute, unconditional. Faith ji*e that can be given but once, Caitlin. If it is betrayed, it can be patched, can be mended. But it can never be made whole again." Caitlin understood perfectly. "Me, too," she said, so solemnly that struggled not to smile. "If I was betrayed, I'd not forgive, either . . . not ever." She had another worry upon her mind, though, a fear sparked y her first sight of her uncle's long boar spear, as ugly a weapon as 124 she'd ever laid eyes upon. "Uncle . . . why must you fight that boar on foot? Would you not be safer on horseback?" "You need not fret about me, lass. I've been hunting boars for more years than you can count. We'll take the alaunts with us, for they're the best boar dogs, and my greyhounds, too. Not Nia, though; she's too young and unseasoned" As if on cue, Nia began to bark, and Caitlin giggled. "I think she 4 wants to come!" But Llewelyn had read the dog better than she; he was Already turning toward the door. "Llewelyn? Are you inside?" A moment later, Tudur materialized in the doorway, blinking at the sudden loss of sunlight. "I'm sorry to intrude like this, but after you left, a Cistercian monk arrived, bearing an urgent message for you. He says he'll speak to you and only to you, so I thought I'd best bring him along." Llewelyn cocked a brow. "He could not wait till I got back? Why, Tudur?" "Because," Tudur said, "this particular monk comes from the abbey of Ystrad Marchell ... in Powys." Llewelyn's face did not change, but Caitlin was close enough to see his hand tighten upon the edge of the alms box, and her heart began to race. Again, Powys! The word alone was enough to unnerve her these days, for it was somehow connected with her father, a connection as sinister as it was murky. But Llewelyn was already asking Eva to take her back to the lodge, and she had no choice except to obey, however reluctantly. Tudur now ushered into the church a tall, gaunt monk of middle years, conspicuously clad in white. He was trailed by a younger man, this one bearded, wearing a habit of drab brown, the uniform of the conversi, the lay brothers who served God through manual labor. "Llewelyn, this is Brother Garmon, master of the lay brethren at Ystrad Marchell Abbey. That much I could get out of him!" Brother Garmon cast Tudur an apologetic look. "What I have to say, my lord, is of a private nature. If you could" "He stays," Llewelyn said. "What have you come to tell me, Brother Garmon?" I "It is not me, my lord. It is Padrig. Go on, lad. Tell him what you I told me." When the youth stayed mute, the monk sighed. "He is fearful, I my lord. I ask you to be patient with him, for you must hear what he has to say. Padrig works at our grange at Tallerddig, in the mountains of western Powys. Tell him, Padrig. Tell him what happened at the grange in January." Padrig swallowed. "My lord Gruffydd, his lady wife, and his son, Owen, came to the grange. Took us by surprise, they did, for we're at 125 back of beyond. They were waiting for someone, and he arrived at A sk. so muffled and hooded his own mother could not have recognized him." The boy was beginning to relax, even to enjoy being the center of ttention, a novelty in his young life. "We were all curious, my lord, nd so I was right pleased when I was told to fetch them wine. When I entered, the other man was standing in the shadows, his back to me. It was just his bad luck, my lord, that I'd grown up in Gwynedd. I knew him at once, you see, had seen him so often ... It was your brother, my lord. It was Davydd." He paused, but Llewelyn did not react, continued to regard him impassively. Padrig swallowed again, felt color rising in his face, for it was hard to admit what came next. "As I said, my lord, I ... I was curious. I wondered why they were meeting secretly like this, and so ... when I left the chamber, I lingered at the door, put my ear to the keyhole." His blush deepened. "I ought not to have done it. But I" "What did you hear?" This from Tudur, impatiently. "The talk was of a secret marriage. As far as I could tell, Lord Owen was going to wed one of Lord Davydd's daughters. I heard names: Angharad, Gwenllian, and a right odd one, Caitlin. They settled upon Angharad, and Lord Davydd made a joke, said that he'd given her Ceri or Cydewain for her marriage portion. I did not understand it, and he was the only one who laughed. That is all I heard, for I was called back to the kitchen by Brother Rhun. My lord, I know I ought to have come forward ere this, but . . . but I was afraid ..." Again Padrig paused, again got no response. Llewelyn's silence was beginning to frighten him. "My lord ... I swear to you that I'm not lying. Upon the surety of my soul, I do swear it. It was Davydd, my lord. It was Davydd!" "Yes," Llewelyn said softly. "Yes, lad, I know it was." LLEWELYN stood before the altar, gazing up at the stark wooden cross that adorned the east wall of the church. He was alone, for Tudur had seen his need, escorted Brother Garmon and Padrig down to the lodge. But he'd be back. And then they must decide what to do with this poisoned gift. Nia whimpered, pressed a cold nose against his hand. He stroked the dog's silky head absently. The numbness was fading. But there had never truly been surprise. Scriptures said that faith was the substance °' *hings hoped for, the evidence of things not seen. That could well s^e as the epitaph for the troubled brotherhood that bound him to avydd. Hope blighted, faith blind to the facts. There in the empty, 326 silent church, his anger was beginning to rise. He made no attempt to hold it back, even welcomed it. Of all the emotions surging toward the surface, rage was the safest, the easiest to acknowledge. Anger he could embrace, for a flood tide of fury swept all before it, engulfing more dangerous undercurrents. If anger could not heal, at least it could deflect. It was the greyhound's growl that alerted him to his Seneschal's return. Opening the door, Tudur strode forward, saying briskly, "I got them headed down the path to the lodge." * Llewelyn turned away from the altar. "I believed him, Tudur." "I know," Tudur conceded. "But let's give the Devil his due, Llewelyn. Davydd could lie his way to Hell and back, and never even work up a sweat. That is why we must lay our snare with caution. If only it were that dolt, Owen! But whatever his other failings, Davydd has never lacked for nerve. Even when we confront him with Padrig, I'll wager that he does not so much as blink." "We could show Davydd a confession in his own handwriting, writ in his own blood, and he'd still try to talk his way out of it," Llewelyn said bitterly. "No, I want an end to this, Tudur. I want proof beyond denying, proof beyond excusing, beyond forgiving." "What do you have in mind?" "You said it yourselfOwen de la Pole. The weak link in their chain, the link in our hands. I want a confession from him, Tudur, a full confession." Tudur nodded thoughtfully. "We do know enough nowthe marriageto try a bluff. But if the bluff fails? What then, Llewelyn? Do you care how I get the confession?" Their eyes caught, held. "No," Llewelyn said, "just get it," and Tudur nodded again, turned, and walked swiftly toward the door. Llewelyn moved back to the altar. Within moments, though, the door banged open again. The elderly priest was panting, had to catch the font for support. "Forgive me, my lord, for not being here to welcome you. I am Father Robat ... do you remember me? So long it's been!" He came forward, with a smile that faltered as the window's light fell across Llewelyn's face. His eyes were rheumy, clouded by cataracts, but age had yet to dim his inner sight. "My lord . . . can I be of help?" "Father Robat," Llewelyn said. "I do indeed remember you. But no ... no, you cannot help." OWEN was being held at Llewelyn's favorite castle of Dolwyddelan, only twelve miles south-west of Trefriw, and so Tudur was back within hours, just as the evening meal was about to begin. One look at Tudur's face and Llewelyn lost all appetite. Pushing away from the table, he in- 127 structed the startled servants to continue serving, strode across the hall to intercept his Seneschal. As their eyes met, Tudur nodded, almost imperceptibly, but that did not allay Llewelyn's edginess. Tudur should be triumphant. Instead, he would not have looked out of place at a funeral. Beckoning for his mantle, Llewelyn took a horn lantern from one of Tudur's men. "Come on," he said. "Let's go for a walk." It was a mild, clear night, the Hallowmas sky a vast, boundless black above their heads, afloat with hundreds of glimmering, bobbing lights, ships sailing an uncharted sea. From boyhood, Llewelyn had been intrigued by the study of astronomy, had long ago learned to use the North Star as a reckoning point, just as sailors did. Tonight he never even glanced at the starlit sky, kept his eyes upon Tudur. Leaning back against an ancient oak, he said, "What happened?" "You were right, Llewelyn. I've seen eggs harder to crack than Owen de la Pole. When I told him that we knew about the marriage plans, he lost color so fast I thought he was going to swoon like a lass. Whilst he was still so shaken, I informed him that Davydd had fled to England. There was a debt due, I said, a blood debt, one he'd have to pay now that his conspirators were out of reach. And with that, it was over. When I offered to spare his life, he snatched at my promise like a drowning man, told me all I wanted to know. Their plot, where they met, when they metit gushed out so fast my scribe was hard put to keep pace. He was truly a pitiful sight, as scared as I've ever seen a man. If our bluff had failed, it would have taken but the blink of an eye to force the truth from" "Tudur, enough! For a man usually as close-mouthed as an Anchorite recluse, you're all but babbling. We already knew there was a plot afoot. We needed only to learn the particulars. Now you have them, yet you seem strangely loath to share them with me. Why? What is it you do not want to tell me?" Tudur did not answer at once. "In truth," he said slowly, "I got more than I bargained for. We knew they had plotted your downfall. But we assumed they had rebellion in mind. They did not, for they lacked the courage to face you fairly ... on the battlefield. It was not the sword they meant to turn against you, Llewelyn, it was an assassin's dagger." "An assassin . . ." Llewelyn sounded stunned. "Davydd?" Tudur suddenly felt absurdly relieved to be able to answer in the negative. "No, Davydd was not to do the actual killing. Owen's men were to do that. Davydd was to get them past your guards, into your private chamber. But luck was not with them. Or rather, it was with y°u. On the night they were to" 128 "Candlemas," Llewelyn said, very low, and Tudur nodded. "Yes," he admitted, "the killing was to happen that night. But the storm washed out the roads. Owen ended up stranded near the Powys border." He waited for Llewelyn to ask the obvious question. When Llewelyn did not, he volunteered it on his own, while marveling that he, of all men, should be seeking now to paint Davydd's crime in less lurid colors. $ But Llewelyn's silence was filling his ears like a soundless scream. "I Asked why they did not make a second attempt. For what it is worth, Llewelyn, it was Davydd who balked." Llewelyn thrust the lantern at Tudur, moved farther into the shadows. "I want a writ issued for Davydd's arrest." "It shall be done at once." Tudur hesitated. "Llewelyn, I am sorry . . ." "No, Tudur. Save your pity for Gruffydd ap Gwenwynwyn. Save it for Davydd. My right beloved brother Davydd." TANGWYSTL awoke slowly, languidly, as she always did. She'd been too tired to plait her hair into its customary night braid, and as she stirred, she discovered that she was unable to move, for her hip-length tresses had become entangled under Davydd's body. She tugged in vain, finally leaned over and shook his shoulder. "Davydd!" Davydd's eyes opened, took in her predicament. "Well, look what I caught." When she made another attempt to free her hair, he slid his arm around her waist, drew her close against him. "What are you willing to offer up for your freedom, my love?" Tangwystl had a husky laugh, a low-pitched sultry voice that Davydd found irresistibly erotic. Now she practically purred as she nuzzled his ear, began to make some intriguing ransom offers. But before he could decide which of them was the most promising, there was a sharp knock on the door. "My lord, a man has just ridden in, claiming he has an urgent message for you. He says it is from the Lord of Cockayne. We've never heard of such a place, thought it might be in Ireland. But he is right persistent and" "I'll see him." Davydd was not surprised that none knew the Lord of Cockayne, for it was a fabled land, a mythical realm that existed only in the imagination. It was also a code concocted by Davydd and Rhys ap Gruffydd, used sometimes in jest, occasionally when either of them had news to impart, secrets he did not want attached to his own name or signet. As Davydd reached for the bedsheet, he was already sure that this would not be one of Rhys's jokes. 229 The messenger was young and disheveled, each mud smear, each weat stain attesting to miles of hard riding. He showed no unease at finding himself in a Prince's bedchamber, instead was looking about ^th unabashed curiosity; the Welsh were less awed by authority than their English brethren. "Here it is," he said jauntily, holding out a folded parchment threaded through with cord, sealed with wax. "I ought to say straightaway that the man who gave it to me was a stranger. All I jmow is that he offered me the astonishing sum of two marks to get it to you, my lord Davydd. He told me not to spare my horse, said that if I reached you ere Morrow Mass, you'd owe me another two marks. Well, my lord, I did and you do!" Davydd was already breaking the seal. "Pay him," he said, began to read. The messenger was ushered out, with an appreciative over-theshoulder appraisal of Tangwystl. She was accustomed to male approval, though, paid him no heed. Smothering a yawn, she poked Davydd playfully in the ribs. "If you are not going to collect your ransom, I am going to summon my maid. Davydd? Did you hear me?" He glanced up from the parchment, and she sat up suddenly, reached for his arm. "Jesii, you look ghastly! What is wrong?" Davydd crumpled the message. Throwing the covers back, he rose from the bed, strode to the hearth, and thrust the parchment into the flames, then snatched the clothes hanging from a wall pole. Jerking up his braies, he knotted them about his hips. "Owen de la Pole has made a full confession. God rot him, the fool not only cut his own throat, he cut ours, too!" "A confession Oh, my God, Davydd! You swore to me that you were innocent!" By now he had his chausses gartered, was pulling his tunic over his head, his voice muffled within the folds of wool. "What did you expect me to say, that I was as guilty as Cain?" Grabbing his surcote, he opened the door and shouted for Cadell, one of the few men he could trust. Turning back to the bed, he saw Tangwystl, still clutching the sheets, staring at him in disbelief. There was an odd feeling of familiarity about the scene, as if he'd somehow lived through it before. And then he realized that he had, eleven years ago. Then, too, he'd been awakened at dawn with calamitous news: that his conspiracy had failed, Llewelyn knew all, and his only hope lay in flight. TEMPERATURES plummeted suddenly during that first week in November. As Llewelyn dismounted, the leaves crunching under his 130 boots were brown and brittle, and the tree branches above his head had been transformed, as if by evil alchemy, into stark woodland skeletons stripped naked and barren by a relentless, alpine wind. The sky was clear and cloudless, but each breath that Llewelyn inhaled seemed glazed in ice, as if it were already deep winter. He was close enough now to hear the rush of water. His people called it Rhaeadr Ewynnol, the Foaming Fall, and indeed, where the River Llugwy spilled over a jagged barricade of moss-green rocks, it did churn up as much froth and spume as a cresting wave. Wales had been blessed with cataracts beyond counting, but Rhaeadr Ewynnol was one of the most spectacular, a white-water surge that not even summer drought could long diminish. It had always been a special place for Llewelyn, and he stood for a time at the cliff's very edge, feeling the flying spray on his face, watching as the twilit sky slowly darkened. He'd been sequestered with his council for hours, focusing upon the political and military consequences of his brother's betrayal. Retribution must be swift and sure, for no prince could allow treason to go unpunished. The conquest of Powys may have been inevitable; now it was urgent. A formal protest would have to be lodged with the English government, a demand made for Davydd's extradition. He and Edward were allies and his complaint was a just one. He did not hold much hope, though, that Edward would comply; the English Crown was far too fond of playing one Welsh prince off against another. But even if he did succeed in deposing Gruffydd ap Gwenwynwyn and bringing Davydd to trial, a shadow still lay across his land. No Welsh prince had ever scaled the heights that he had reached, had ever breathed such rarified air. Prince of Walesnot even his grandfather had soared so high. But he was forty-six years of age, had no son of his own, and now, no heir to inherit his hard-won crown. He'd been attempting, with some success, to put distance between himself and this latest betrayal, to see Davydd as a traitor, a failed rebel, not as the brother he'd loved. But this woodland glen harbored ghosts, and the wind echoed with whispers. It was his mother's voice he heard most clearly, his mother who'd never forgiven him for the sin of loving his grandfather. He could not remember a time when there'd been a true peace between them. But he did remember their meeting at Aberconwy Abbey. He'd just won a resounding victory over his brothers, repelling their invasion with ease, taking them both prisoner. Owain had been his mother's ally, her favorite, and she'd confronted him at Aberconwy, demanded that Owain be released at once. When he refused, she'd made a prediction that had sounded, even then, like a curse. "You are going to pay a great price for Llewelyn Fawr's dream. The last words she'd ever spoken to him. 131 Picking up a rock, he flung it over the edge, watched it splash into the cauldron at the base of the cliff. Never had he felt so alone as he did at this moment, victorious, triumphant once again over his enemies. At his stallion's sudden nicker, he whirled, hand on sword hilt. The mare, a delicate, small-boned grey, picked its way through the dead leaves, acorns, and exposed roots as daintily as a lady lifting a trailing skirt. Above the animal's tossing mane, the child's face was framed within a wide red hood. As she reined in before Llewelyn, the hood slipped down, revealing skin of winter white, so ashen it looked bloodless, and eyes glistening with blinked-back tears. "How did you know I was here, Caitlin?" "I remembered how much you love Rhaeadr Ewynnol, and since it was so close to Trefriw . . ." He could see Caitlin's frosted breath, lacing her words with faint wisps of smoke. He could see her pain. When she said, suddenly timid, "I'll go back if you want to be alone," he shook his head. "No," he said, "we need to talk." Catching her as she slid from the saddle, he steered her toward a fallen tree. She settled herself upon the log almost primly, arranging her skirts in unconscious imitation of Eva, keeping those disturbing green eyes upon him all the while. Jesii, what could he say to her? How could he make this child understand what he could not fully understand himself? "Men are saying that my father plotted to kill you. Is that true?" He'd hoped to keep the worst from her, ought to have known it was bound to come out. How like her, though, to face it without flinching. Where in God's Name did she get her fearless, devil-be-damned honesty? For certes, not from Davydd. "Yes," he said, "it is true," and heard her give a soft sound, almost like a whimper, quickly cut off. She'd ducked her head; he could see only a swirl of windblown hair. Her hands had knotted in her lap, ringers clenching until the knuckles whitened. "Uncle Llewelyn ... do you want me to go away?" It was a moment before he realized what she was asking. "Ah, no, lass! None of Davydd's guilt attaches to you. You're my niece; nothing can change that." She raised her chin and he could see a faint glimmer upon her cheek, a solitary tear track. "I would that I had comfort to offer, Caitlin. But I know there is none. Better than most men, I understand about conflicting loyalties." "Your father and grandfather?" she whispered, and he nodded. "I passed my early years at my grandfather's court . . . did you know that? He was a great man, Caitlin. As a lad, I was so proud to be s blood-kin, loved him enough to forgive him anythingeven passing 132 over my father in favor of his younger son, Joanna's son. And as I got older, I realized that he'd been right, for God never meant my father to rule. He was too hot-headed, acted on impulse without ever considering the consequences, and his hatred of the English verged upon madness. If I understood, though, the rest of my family did not. They blamed my grandfather . . . and me, for loving him. But you see, lass, I loved my father, too, and I oft-times felt as if I were being torn in two" J "No!" Caitlin was shaking her head so vehemently that her hair fllw about like swirling leaves, half-blinding her. "No ... no, I do not love my father! I hate him, I hate him ..." She choked, and Llewelyn drew her to him, held her as she wept. Her sobs soon subsided, although an occasional tremor shook the frail little shoulders; once or twice, she hiccuped and swiped at her face with her sleeve. Llewelyn blotted her tears with the hem of her mantle, and then smoothed the hair back from her eyes. "Come on, lass," he said. "Let's go home." LLEWELYN led an army south, razing Gruffydd's castle at Trallwng to the ground. All of Powys was soon in his hands. But Gruffydd and his wife had fled to England, where they joined Davydd in exile at Shrewsbury. Edward not only gave them refuge, he provided for them generously, and with English backing, they began to launch forays across the Welsh border. Llewelyn raged in vain, and his suspicions of the English King's intentions grew apace with each rebel raid. // MONTARGIS, FRANCE March 1275 IN ELL was starved for sleep. She dreaded the nights now, for she knew the horrors each one held. She'd fall into a fitful doze, only to awaken gasping for breath, sure that she was stran- 133 eling- Propped up against pillows, she would lie alone in the dark, gtruggling to breathe. After endless hours, she'd finally get back to sleep. But by then, it would be dawn. Just as she refused to sleep during daylight hours, so did she balk at lying abed. Each morning she would muster her dwindling strength, insist upon dressing, determined to face the day without flinching. With Juliana's help, she settled herself into a high-backed chair, began to sort through her correspondence, for this was one task she would not turn over to Ellen or Arnaury. Juliana hovered close at hand. All in the Countess's household treated her as if she were made of cobwebs and rose petals, fragile enough to be blown away by a breath, for by now all knew that she was dying. But Juliana was an incorrigible optimist; life's cruelties still took her by surprise. She alone held on to hope, taking solace in Nell's high color, the brightness of her eyes. But when she offered such flawed comfort to Nell, the older woman said tersely, "It is the fever," although without the acerbic edge that foolishness usually provoked. It was a source of grim amusement to Nell that she should discover patience only now, as time ran out. Her throat was tightening and she made haste to request her potion of juniper, chamomile, and poppyseed. It headed off another coughing attack, but not, she knew, for long. She was about to summon her scribe when the Welsh messenger arrived. Juliana was surprised by Nell's grimace, for letters from Llewelyn ap Gruffydd were welcome occurrences, evoking echoes of those days when de Montforts defied kings and prevailed upon popes. "Do you not want to see Prince Llewelyn's messenger, Madame?" "No," Nell admitted, "for I know what message he brings. Ever since we learned of Davydd's treachery, I've been expecting it. Llewelyn lost more than a brother last November, he lost an heir. He will have to take a wife, try to sire a son. I thinkI fearthat is what his man has come to tell us, for Llewelyn is too well-bred to let us hear of his marriage from others." "But. . . Madame, surely you did not still harbor hopes that Prince Uewelyn and your daughter . . . ?" "No, Juliana, of course not. Ellen lost all chance of a crown on fcvesham field. She has had ten years to accept that. But she must have ^grets for what might have been. When Llewelyn takes a bride, how ^ it not stir up memories, salt old wounds? For God and we know it should have been Ellen!" Nell leaned back in her chair, for even this brief flare of passion was enough to exhaust her. For several moments she sat motionless, eyes d°sed. And then she said, "I'll see him now." 134 But her spirits lifted at sight of his grey cassock. The Grey Friars held a special place in her heart; her husband's most fervent supporters had come from the Franciscan ranks. And when Friar Gwilym revealed that he was a member of the Franciscan friary at Llanfaes, she favored him with the sort of smile she reserved for family and friends, for Llanfaes was very dear to Nell. The island friary had been founded in honor of her sister; Llanfaes was both Joanna's final resting place and a lasting tribute to her husband's love. ' Friar Gwilym seemed in no hurry to reveal his mission, and they passed some moments in polite, casual conversation. Prince Llewelyn and the English King were still at odds, he reported. How could it be otherwise, though, as long as Edward continued to shelter those accursed traitors, Davydd and Gruffydd ap Gwenwynwyn? Little wonder his Prince had refused to attend Edward's coronation. "Little wonder," Nell echoed, without conviction, for she knew Edward would never forgive such an affront to his royal dignity. But how could she fault Llewelyn for his recklessness? Her Simon would have done the very same thing. "Do you have a letter for me?" He nodded and reached for the pouch at his belt, withdrawing a sealed parchment. But he made no move to hand it to her. "Prince Llewelyn has entrusted me to speak for him, to ask of you" Nell interrupted with an inadvertent, embittered laugh, for the days were forever gone when she might do favors for princes. "And what could your lord possibly want of me or mine?" "Your daughter," Friar Gwilym said with a smile, and saw that he'd accomplished what her enemies swore to be impossible: he'd rendered the Countess of Leicester speechless. "Prince Llewelyn and the Lady Ellen would have wed years ago, if not for the tragedy of Evesham. It is his heartfelt wish to honor that broken vow, to take your daughter as his wife." Nell was still struggling with her disbelief. Too stunned to dissemble, she could only blurt out the truth. "But I can no longer provide Ellen with the marriage portion that a Prince would expect!" "My lord knows that, Madame. He does not seek to wed your daughter for gain." It had been a long time since a dream had become reality for Nell; it had been ten years. "I know why he needs a wife. But why Ellen?" Friar Gwilym's smile surfaced again. "My lord knows you well, my lady, for he foresaw just such blunt-spoken honesty, and he would answer you no less truthfully. Your daughter was an easy choice, indeed, the only choice. In disavowing the earlier plight troth, he acted in the interests of Wales, acted as a prince must. But he has long regretted forsaking the Lady Ellen in her time of need." 135 "What are you saying, that he seeks to satisfy a debt of honor?" "Yes, Madame, he does." He saw her brows draw together and added hastily, "I do not mean to imply that wedding your daughter is in any sense a sacrifice. She is Plantagenet and de Montfort; if there is any better blood in Christendom, it is to be found only in Wales!" That won him a smile, and he relaxed. "Moreover, Madame, the Lady Ellen is said to be a beauty . . . and having seen her mother, I cannot doubt it." "I had no idea that men of God were so gallant." If her words were wry, Nell's smile was dazzling. Her blinding, sunburst happiness did not deter her, though, from continuing her interrogation, not with so much at stake. "And what of Edward? My daughter is, as you say, beautiful and well-bred. She ought to have been wed years ago. But men fear the English King far too much to risk his wrath. If Llewelyn weds my daughter, Edward will be outraged." Friar Gwilym grinned. "I'd wager, Madame, that Prince Llewelyn is counting upon that!" Nell grinned, too; she had to, for she'd tweaked the lion's tail a time or two herself. "I thank you for your candor. I understand now why your lord seeks my daughter as his wife, and I approve." Holding up her hand before he could respond. "Wait, hear me out. When my husband and Prince Llewelyn agreed to the plight troth, it was only fitting that we should speak for Ellen; she was still a child, not yet thirteen. My daughter is now a woman grown, has the right to speak for herself. As I said, you have my approval. But you need her consent." FRIAR GWILYM was impressed by Ellen de Montfort's beauty, but at the same time, he felt a sudden unease, for he found her to be impossible to read. Her initial, obvious shock had given way almost at once to an impenetrable, protective poise. She had murmured a conventional courtesy, that Prince Llewelyn did her great honor, then moved, as if by chance, toward the window. Studying her profile in vain for clues, it occurred to him for the first time that she might balk. He knew that, to many Englishwomen, not even the prospect of a crown would be enough to lure them into Wales. What if this girl shared that common bias, if she, too, thought that Wales was a backward, barren land, that the Welsh were as sinful and wild as the English claimed? He knew his Prince's heart was now set upon Ellen de Montfort. How could he face Uewelyn if he failed? "I realize, my lady, that this is a decision of grave moment. I know my lord would not begrudge you the time you need. If you wish to ftink his offer over . . . ?" 136 Ellen turned from the window. "That will not be necessary. I ail prepared to give you my answer now. It was my father's wish that! wed Prince Llewelyn. I need no more guidance than that, for I havi utter faith in my father's judgment." "You accept, then?" And when she nodded, he began to beam. "Ah, my lady, you have just made two men very happy, a Prince of Wales and a humble Franciscan friar!" I "Not to mention a papal chaplain," Amaury chimed in, and with that, they all were laughing. Friar Gwilym hastened over to kiss Ellen's hand. "We have much to discuss. But I have a confession to make first. I am well nigh famished. Ere I pay my respects to the Prioress, might I have a meal?" Amaury put his arm around the friar's shoulders, deftly steered him toward the door. "Gwilym, you are about to get the best meal of your life, that I promise you upon the honor of the entire de Montfort clan!" As soon as they were alone again, Ellen flung her arms about her brother's neck. He laughed, whirled her around until they were both reeling and breathless. And as Nell watched, she felt tears pricking her lids, for Amaury's jubilant gesture was too familiar; it could have been Bran or Harry swinging Ellen in those giddy circles. Reluctantly setting Ellen on her feet again, Amaury promised to be back "as soon as I get our good friar fed." Ellen at once sped across the chamber and dropped to her knees by Nell's chair. "After Papa was killed and we had to leave England, I spun such romantic dreams, Mama. I was the damsel in distress and Llewelyn was my savior. In my darkest hour, he would ride up on his white horse and carry me away to his kingdom in Wales, having realized that we were fated to be together. Like Tristan and Iseult, Guinevere and Lancelot, my aunt Joanna and Llewelyn Fawr! Oh, I know they were foolish fantasies. I always knew that. Even though they did give me a measure of comfort, I never truly believed in them . . ." "I know, love. But mayhap we should have!" Ellen smiled, then confided, "I am not sure I believe it even now! I'll be back after I tell Juliana." She was on her feet in an instant, dancing toward the door with a supple grace that Nell could not help envying, for her own body had once served her just as effortlessly. It was not death she despised, but that it had come to her in such an incapacitating, drawn-out guise. She would have preferred the sword to dropsy, would have chosen a bloody death over a lingering one. But nothingnot her chronic shortness of breath, not her heart palpitations, no amount of pain or weakness could tarnish the triumph of this moment for her. As she watched her i 137 hter glide across the chamber, her feet scarcely touching the floor, Mell had rarelv been so haPPy' or so at Peace- Reaching the door, Ellen stopped suddenly, spun around to look her mother. "It is almost like a miracle, Mama," she said in wonderment, and Nell nodded. "Indeed, Ellen, it is," she agreed, no less gravely. And then she 1 Ughed, the husky, free-soaring laugh of the young girl she'd once been, the girl who had defied a King and a Pope to wed the man of her choice. "It would seem," she said, "that it pays to have a saint in the family!" NEIL'S dreams were deeply rooted in her yesterdays. They were, for the most part, tranquil and reassuringly familiar. With the blurring of time's boundaries, her loved ones were restored to her, her family was once more intact, inviolate. She awakened from such dreams with regret, often with confusion. So it was now. The darkness was aswirl with floating lights; they swam before her dazzled eyes like phosphorescent fish in a black, black sea. For a moment she was lost, adrift on unknown currents. But as her eyes adjusted to the dark, the fish transformed themselves into the flickering flames of a servant's candelabra, and she returned to reality with a rueful smile. This was no alien world. She was in her chamber at Montargis, on an April eve in Holy Week, and although death waited in the shadows, she had nothing to fear, for she had made her peace with God. There was a great comfort in knowing that all had been done. Her confessor had shriven her of her earthly sins, her will had been made, and she'd arranged for largesse to be distributed to members of her household, to the nuns and villagers who'd sought to make her exile easier. Nothing remained now except her farewells. She was drifting back toward sleep when she heard familiar footsteps. "Mama, are you awake?" Bending over the bed, Ellen kissed her forehead. "Marguerite is here." Nell welcomed the French Queen with a drowsy smile, thinking how lucky she was to have those she loved at her deathbed. Not all were so fortunate; her father, King John, had died alone and unturned. Marguerite could not conceal her shock; Nell had retained her good °oks even as she aged, but dropsy had proven to be a more merciless 06 than the advancing years. Nell gently squeezed the fingers clasped "* "ers, a wordless reassurance. "Marguerite . . ." The other woman §§ed her not to speak, to save her strength, but she knew better, 138 knew how little time was left to her. "Dearest, I have a favor to ask of you. I made my will ..." She could go no further, began to cough Amaury hastened over with an herbal potion, and Ellen held the cup while Nell drank. But as soon as her breath came back, she reached again for Marguerite's hand. "I want Ellen to have my jewels, Marguerite, except for my ruby pendant. That is for you. I've named Amaury as my heir, for Ellen will have Llewelyn to look after her, and the Church would not allow Guy to inherit. Dearest, will you and Philippe entreat Edward on my behalf, ask him to allow my will to be carried out? And . . . and urge him to be fair to my son. Amaury is innocent, should not have to pay for Guy's sins. Make Edward see that, Marguerite, make him see that he ought to let Amaury come home ..." "Of course we will, Nell." Marguerite tried to sound confident, as if she truly believed that Edward would heed them. But then, she doubted if Nell believed it, either. "Nell, you must not give up. I spoke to your doctor and he still has hope, thinks you might yet rally ..." "Simon does not think so," Nell said softly, and then smiled at the startled, dismayed looks on their faces. "My wits are not wandering. I always knew that Simon would come for me when my time was nigh. And now . . . now he is close at hand. I can feel his presence . . ." "Truly, Mama?" Ellen whispered, sounding both awed and envious. "Truly, love. And you know your father; he's never been one for waiting. He always swore that I'd be late for the Last Judgment. . ." Nell lay back weakly on the pillow, fighting for breath. "I will not let his first words to me be: 'I told you so!' " she said, summoning up one last smile, and her children discovered that it was possible to laugh while blinking back tears. NELL DE MONTFORT died on Saturday, the 13th of April in God's Year, 1275, and was buried, in accordance with her wishes, in a quiet, simple ceremony at the priory church; her heart was taken to Paris, to be interred at the Abbey of St Antoine-des-Champs. The following morning was mild and sun-splashed, an ideal day for travel. Friar Gwilym's escort was already mounted, but he still tarried, exchanging farewells with his lord's bride-to-be. Patting the breast of his tunic, he assured Ellen that he'd deliver her letter safely to Prince . e glare of sun, and Morgan hastened over to offer his arm. So did one of Amaury's companions, Sir William Dulay. He'd been solicitous of Juliana that Ellen suspected he was motivated by more 154 than knightly courtesy. If he did have courtship in mind, it was a campaign most likely doomed to failure. Ellen had long ago realized a sad truth, that no man could compete with a ghost. She'd loved her brother Bran dearly, but she'd not deified him in death as Juliana had done. She could only hope that Juliana, too, would find a new life in Wales. Slipping her arm through Amaury's again, she started cautiously toward t the aft-castle cabin. tf Hugh had joined Juliana by the time Ellen and Amaury made their way down the foam-slick deck. Upon hearing Hugh announce that Alain had been telling him the most amazing stories, Ellen frowned. The last time that Alain had been spinning yarns, he'd terrified them all with lurid accounts of sea serpents and whirlpools vast enough to engulf ships and multi-armed remora monsters that attached themselves to a ship's hull, held it motionless in the water until the crew and passengers perished of famine and thirst. "Hugh," Ellen said warningly, trying to catch his eye. She prided herself upon being less gullible than most people. She did not believe in fire-breathing, flying dragons. She did believe that the earth was round, just as scholars claimed. She understood that the child's fear of the dark was twin to the man's fear of demons. But as she gazed out upon that endless expanse of blue-grey ocean, rational thought was submerged in purely visceral dread. God alone knew what hid in those murky, dark depths. She needn't have worried, though. Hugh had no horror stories to relate, was interested only in sharing his new-found knowledge of ships. He was sure they knew that King Edward's royal galleys were more dependent upon sails than oars. But Alain said the Mediterranean galleys still relied mainly upon oarsmen for power. The Italian city-states of Genoa and Venice manned fleets with infidel slaves and convicted felons. "Alain says that the oarsmen are flogged whenever the galley needs a burst of speed. And they are chained to their oarlocks, go down with the ship if it sinks. They even have to bite upon wooden gags when a battle begins, so that if they are wounded, they will not be able to cry out!" Hugh was constantly being surprised by man's inhumanity to his fellow men. But even Amaury found himself agreeing with Hugh's indignant conclusion, that a galley slave need not fear Hell, for he was already there. Catching sight of Juliana, Brian yielded the tiller to another crewman, came over to tell her how glad he was to see her up and abou The sickness truly was worse for those who stayed penned up in the cabins, he insisted. Juliana could only nod weakly, unconvinced. A shout from the rigging drew all eyes. Diego, the Spanish lookou < 155 came slithering down the mast at breakneck speed. "A sail," he panted, flinging up an arm toward the sun. "Tell the master," Brian ordered. Amaury soon joined him at the larboard rail, and they watched the horizon intently, silently, until a sail rose above the swells, triangular, as bright as blood. Brian said softly, "A gaUeY'" no more tnan that, but Amaury felt a sudden chill. "Brian? Are we in peril?" "I'm not yet sure." Brian's eyes, sun-creased, were narrowed on that bobbing lateen sail. "It may come to nothing. But I'd say we have three reasons to worry. That it's a galley, for these days merchants favor cogs or nefs. That it's coming from those unholy isles. And that it's not flying any banners." "I see." Amaury's voice did not betray him, revealed nothing of the fear churning his stomach, flooding his veins. He dared not look back at his sister. "I want the truth. If the worst comes, can we hope to fend them off?" Brian's shoulders twitched, a half-shrug. "We might," he said slowly, "if those Welsh lads of yours are the bowmen they claim to be." "They are." They'd not heard Morgan's approach. Aside from that laconic assurance, he asked no questions, offered no counsel. But Amaury had encountered such reticence before, recognized it for what it was, the single-minded absorption of the soldier, the focused intensity of a man about to do battle. He gave the Welshman an approving look, thankful that Llewelyn had chosen so well, and as their eyes met, Morgan said quietly, "We'll keep her safe, my lord, that I swear." The ship's master had emerged from his fore-castle cabin, joining their vigil. Both of Llewelyn's Dominican friars were on deck now, too, jostling for space at the rail with the sailors and Welsh soldiers and French-born knights. Ellen had to push her way through to her brother's side, pulling Juliana along behind her. "Can we keep them from boarding us?" None but Amaury would know what that composed question cost her. Grateful that they'd not have to deal with womanly hysterics, the men hastened to assure her that she need not fear, that there was no danger to speak of, that even if it was a pirate galley, they'd be able to stave it off easily enough. "God willing," Ellen said softly, never taking her eyes from her rother's face. He alone had not spoken, he alone had not lied. Reaching OVer, he caught her hand in his, squeezing her fingers so tightly that *e had to suppress a gasp. I think," he said, "that you'd best wait in your cabin, Ellen." "No," she said, "not yet." Bran had once told her that when he'd been captured at the battle 156 of Northampton, a prisoner who'd just heard his own death sentence passed upon him, it had all seemed very unreal, as if it were happening to someone else. Ellen felt like that now, as she watched the galley rise above the waves, sink down, rise again. It rode very low in the water The hull was painted a garish red, the prow tipped in iron, like the battering rams her father had used in castle sieges. After a moment, she realized it served the same purpose, was meant to stave in the sides of I its quarry. She had no doubts as to its evil intent, for its very appearance f was predatory. Just as a rabbit froze instinctively when a falcon fle\v overhead, she knew that she was looking at a hawk of the seas, on the prowl for prey. The galley was tacking, a navigational technique Brian had explained to Ellen in exhaustive if incomprehensible detail; she'd understood only that it somehow enabled a ship to sail against the wind. She would have expected it to plot a course to intercept them; when it did not, she felt a sudden flicker of hope. But Brian had begun to swear, in Breton and French. "The whoresons are trying to get to windward of us!" Spinning away from the rail, he headed for the ship's stern. "Ivo, hard on the helm!" With that, the deck erupted into chaotic activity. Amaury disappeared in search of a weapon. At Morgan's command, the Welsh bowmen clambered up into the fore- and aft-castles. Sir William Dulay took charge of the knights, who began to position themselves along the rail, while Alain emerged from the hold with an armful of long staves. They would, he explained to Ellen, be useful for fending off grappling hooks, or for breaking heads. Not that he thought it would come to that, God's blessed truth! Her ladyship must not fret. These pirate scum would rue the day they'd taken on the Holy Cross. Why, the Welsh lads would turn them into pin-cushions, see if they did not! Ellen found herself agreeing with him, and not just because she so wanted to believe. Morgan's men had a superior vantage point from the heights of the fore- and aft-castles. Once the low-slung galley drew alongside and its crew sought to scramble up the cog's steep freeboard, they'd be facing a murderous fire, arrows raining down faster than the eye could follow. She knew about longbows, for her father had been most impressed with this Welsh weapon, even predicting it would eventually supplant the crossbow. How could the pirates overcome such formidable odds? And then, Diego, the lookout, shouted down from his skyward perch, "Oh, Jesus, sail ho!" As the second pirate galley hove into view, Ellen felt a hand upon her shoulder. "Madame." She turned, looked into the somber, ashen 157 face of Friar Anian, the older of the two Dominicans. "I think we'd best eo aft," he said. Once they reached the cabin, Friar Teilo tried to barricade the door with the sturdy oaken table, forgetting, in his agitation, that it was bolted to the floor. No one knew what to say. It seemed to take forever before he realized his mistake. He flushed bright red, looked suddenly so young and vulnerable that Ellen's breath stopped. How many men would die ere this day was done? Blessed Lady, spare Amaury and Hugh and Morgan and Brian. Mary, ever Virgin, save our honor, keep us from sin. By thy goodness, deliver us from evil. Please do not let my brother die. The cabin had but a single, small porthole; it was deep in shadow. Ellen sought to light a candle in one of the horn lanterns, but her hands were shaking too badly, and after she'd failed in several tries, Anian took the flint and tinder, struck a few, faint sparks. Teilo was slumped down on a coffer, clenching and unclenching his hands, rubbing his palms repeatedly against his worn wool habit. He fidgeted, then blurted out, "Is it true that . . . that when a ship is taken at sea, those captured are thrown overboard?" Anian frowned, jerked his head warningly toward the women. Juliana had perched precariously upon the very edge of the bed, like a bird about to take flight at any moment. She said nothing but flinched away from Teilo's words, and Ellen hastily shook her head. "No, Brother Teilo. Whilst that might well happen during a sea battle, pirates care for naught but profit. They would much rather ransom their prisoners than drown them." She swallowed dryly, hoping that her voice sounded more convincing to them than it had to her own ears, then sat down beside Juliana. The waiting began. Their cabin was located under the aft-castle; they could hear men moving about above their heads, hear occasional muffled shouts. Teilo climbed onto a. coffer, peered out the porthole. Because of the cog's pitching, he could get only a glimpse of sea or sky. But then he tumbled backward, crying, "They have overtaken us, are manning their oars now!" The noise on deck intensified. Occasionally they heard a scream, knew they were listening as men died. Juliana had closed her eyes, but tears were trickling through her lashes. Anian bowed his head, began to pray. The words made no sense to Ellen, sounded so garbled and slurred that she feared her wits were wandering. When she finally realized that Anian was entreating the Almighty in Welsh, she gave a sudden, shaken laugh. Their instant alarm was almost comical, but " was sobering, too. "Forgive me for interrupting, Brother Anian. Please . . . pray for us all." 158 The screams, shouts, and curses seemed much louder now. It was all too easy for Ellen to envision what was occurring beyond that bolted cabin door. The pirates were circling the cog, much like she'd seen mastiffs worrying a chained, baited bear, swinging their grappling hooks, awaiting the moment when the bear would drop its guard, allow them to leap for the jugular. The Welshmen's hail of arrows would keep them at bay for a time, just as the bear's claws held off the dogs. There 4 were always bloodied bodies crumpled in the arena, savaged by those mighty jaws. But the dogs kept on the attack, and the outcome was not in doubt. Like Evesham, Papa riding out to die. Sooner or later, the bear would be overwhelmed by sheer numbers. Rising inconspicuously, Ellen crossed to the coffer that held her silver-plate and cutlery. Selecting a slender-bladed eating knife, she tested its edge for sharpness. It traced a thin, white line across her finger. She felt no pain, but blood soon welled up, and she watched it drip down her hand. For so slight a wound, it took a surprisingly long time before the bleeding stopped. Teilo had remained, frozen, at the porthole. "Christ pity us," he gasped, "for we are truly doomed! There are four galleys!" They knew when the cog was taken, could tell by the changed, triumphant tone of the shouting. When the axe first thudded into the door, Ellen thought it was a demand for entry. So did Anian. He was reaching for the bolt when the wood splintered and a steel blade just missed his outstretched hand. I It took only three or four more blows to reduce the door to kindling. , There was no sudden surge of sun, for the man filling the doorway* blotted out the light, so huge was he. Towering above the friar, boasting! shoulders as wide as planks and a wild black beard, he lacked only an! eye patch to be the pirate of dark legend, the pirate of every seafarer's! nightmare, a man able to terrify by his very appearance. I Anian, with commendable courage, stood his ground. "These! women are under the protection of Holy Church. They must not be"^ The rest of his words were choked off. A mammoth fist twisted in the neck of his cowl. As if he were a child's rag doll, filled only with straw, he was lifted off his feet, flung across the cabin. Ellen had concealed the knife in the folds of her skirt. With her free hand, she drew Juliana in behind her. "I must speak to your chieftain," she said, as evenly as she could. "It will be worth his while, I swear it." He didn't reply, and she felt a new stab of fear. Jesu, what if he spoke no French? No man had ever dared to look at her with such blatant lust. Having stripped her with his eyes, he reached out, ran the back of his hand along her throat. She jerked free, retreated with Juliana 359 the far corner of the cabin, and when he followed, she brought up the dagger. He blinked, burst out laughing. "Give me that ere you hurt yourself," he said in accented but understandable Norman-French. When she shook her head, he grinned, started to turn away, then grabbed for her wrist. But it had been a clumsy feint and he recoiled in surprise, staring at his slashed palm. So intent was Ellen upon the black-bearded pirate that it was not until she heard the laughter that she became aware of the other man's presence. He was leaning against the shattered door, as if watching a play put on purely for his own amusement, and he laughed again when the giant said indignantly, "The bitch cut me!" "Just be thankful she aimed at your hand and not your ballocks. I thought you had more sense than to snatch at a naked blade like that." "So I was careless. But I've never yet known a wench who could tell a dagger from a serving spoon. These highborn milk-tit ladies, they're good only for" "You just never use your head, do you? The woman had five brothers. You think at least one of them would not have taught her how to defend herself?" Their exchange meant nothing to Juliana, for it had been in English. But Ellen had once spoken the language. She'd lost a lot of it during her ten years in French exile, but she was still able to get the gist of what was said. Her first reaction was one of enormous relief, for if they knew her identity, it must mean Amaury had survived the battle. Unless . . . unless Morgan or Brian had spoken out, trying to protect her honor and her life. But at least they seemed to believe it. She'd been so frightened that they might mock her claims. Ransom now seemed within reach again. Keeping the dagger close against her body, but tilted and at the ready, she transferred her attention to the second pirate. He was also uncommonly tall, but in all other respects, quite unlike his aggrieved companion. In appearance, he was very English, as fair as Hugh. The hair touching his tunic collar was a tawny yellow; it even looked clean. Surprisingly, so did his clothes. In fact, he had a hard-edged elegance about him that was utterly at odds with his chosen profession. She could not help thinking of all the times she'd teased Amaury about his vanity, so inappropriate in a priest. It would seem that pirates, too, could be *°ps. It should have reassured her that he was handsome and, judging orn his speech, educated, possibly even a man of her own class; it was n°t unheard-of for knights to turn to piracy. But it did not. To the Contrary, she found this man even more frightening than the first one. ever had she seen blue eyes so chilling, so devoid of warmth or pity. My lady de Montfort? I believe you were asking for me," he said, 260 making a mockery of the courteous rituals that structured the upper reaches of their society, but confirming her suspicions that he was indeed, born into her world. "I am Sir Thomas de . . . Well, no matter We tend to be careless of surnames on the high seas. My men know me as Thomas the Archdeacon. Mayhap you've heard of me?" She shook her head. Had he truly once taken holy orders? How could a man turn from God's Word, embrace the Devil so wholeheart- \ edly? Could it be a profane jest? And yet she knew the most infamous pirate in her grandfather's reign had been a one-time cleric, Eustace the Monk. "I think you ought to give me that dagger," he suggested, sounding polished and urbane and amused by her defiance. "You need have no fears for your safety or your honor. On that, you have my word." And what was the word of a pirate worth? The words hovered on her lips. Her mother would have flung them out, scornful of consequence. Ellen bit them back. "What of my household? The priest... my chaplain, was he hurt?" "I think he still lives. Your chaplain, is he? It had occurred to me that he just might be your brother." "My brother? No, Amaury is in Rome." Ellen met his eyes steadily, calmly, and rose slightly in his estimation. "Well, a natural mistake, you'll agree," he said and smiled. "A pity, though. You see, my men think it is bad luck to have a priest aboard. Conn," glancing back at the bearded giant, "that priest. . . throw him over the side." "No!" Even as she screamed, Ellen knew she'd been outbluffed. But that was not a bluff she could ever have called. He grinned, and she saw that he'd been playing with her, cat to mouse, had known Amaury's identity all the while. "Suppose we make a bargain," he said. "You give me that dagger and in turn, I'll let you go up on deck to tend to your brother." He swaggered forward, as if deliberately daring her to strike, and her fingers tightened on the dagger's ivory handle. He had been quite right about her; under Bran and Harry's tutelage, she'd not only become familiar with knives, she'd learned to throw one at close range with some accuracy. Now she had a sudden, savage urge to thrust the blade into the pulse at his throat. Reversing the dagger, she handed it to him/ hilt first. He was still laughing at her, eyes agleam with such sardonic amusement that she wondered if he'd somehow read her mind. "Thank you/ he said, and bowed mockingly. "Well, Lady Eleanor, shall we go?" Sprawled in a far corner, Friar Anian had begun to stir, to murnbl6 groggily. "See to him, Brother Teilo," Ellen said, and reached again tot 262 Juliana's hand, for she was not about to leave Juliana with the brutal Conn. As they edged around him, Conn stepped in front of them, barring their way. Thomas said something shortly, sharply, in English. Ellen caught only "damaged goods," but it was enough. She understood, and so did Conn. After a long moment, he grudgingly yielded, cleared the path to the door. Ellen paused briefly in the doorway, steeling herself for whatever lay ahead, not wanting them to know how much she dreaded what she might find on deck. Feeling Thomas's ironic gaze upon her, she said coolly, "I am ready." It was even worse than she'd feared, for almost at once, she stumbled over a body, recognized Alain, the boatswain. The deck was always wet, drenched by spray and waves breaking over the bow. But now she glanced down, discovered that the hem of her gown was trailing in blood. She stopped, sickened, and Thomas put a supportive hand upon her elbow, steering her toward the rail. His touch made her quiver, so intense was her loathing, but she dared not pull away, dared not demean him in front of his crew. He was too dangerous a man to defy openly. The surviving sailors and knights were under guard on the portside. She felt a surge of gratitude upon catching sight of Hugh's flaxen head. Blood matted his hair, streaked the side of his face, but when he saw Ellen, he struggled against his bonds, tried to regain his feet, only to be shoved back by one of the pirates. The man beside him sought to calm him, and Ellen thanked God for Brian's good sense, thanked God that Brian had not died in the assault upon the ship. As they reached the rail, she had an unobstructed view of the foreand aft-castles, and what she saw broke her heart. Bodies piled upon one another, some still clutching longbows, the Welshmen who'd died in her defense. The sailors had surrendered to save themselves, and for that she could not blame them. So had Amaury's knights, once all hope was gone. But the Welsh had held out until the last, offering up their lives for their lord's bride. Tears stung Ellen's eyes. There was no surprise, then, when she found Morgan's body, sprawled by the tiller, close enough for her to see the gaping wounds, the dark, clotted blood. Pulling away from Thomas's grip, she knelt by the young Welshman, and slowly made the sign of the cross. Reaching down, she gently closed his eyes, then glanced up at the pirate chieftain. "Where is my brother?" CITHER Ellen nor Juliana had ever been in the fore-castle cabin, and hey hesitated in the doorway, unable to see into the gloom. "Amaury?" 162 Ellen's whisper went unanswered, and she was suddenly terrified that Thomas the Archdeacon had lied, that Amaury was dead and this a cruel pirate hoax. "Ellen? Is he in there?" Juliana was whispering, too, her fingers clutching Ellen's arm in a grip that would leave bruises. Ellen took a tentative step into the cabin. Her eyes were slowly adjusting to the dark. "Amaury? Juliana, over here!" 4 The man on the bed did not stir as she bent over him, and again she was tormented by the fear that he might be dead. "Amaury, can you hear me? Juliana, I've got to have light. See if there is a lamp on the table." Amaury's skin felt cold and clammy. Searching for his pulse, Ellen discovered that his wrist was shackled to the bed. "Those whoring pirates have him in irons! Juliana, where is that lamp? Damn them, damn them all!" Juliana was still fumbling with the oil lamp, trying to get it lit. Ellen could wait no longer. Jumping up, she ripped open the porthole shutters. "Oh, dear God! Amaury . . ." Her voice broke, but almost at once, she began ransacking the cabin. Juliana was standing by the bed, staring down at Amaury. "Ellen, he must have been kicked in the face! What if ... what if his jaw is broken?" Ellen had finally located a water basin. Carrying it back to the bed, she started to clean the blood from her brother's face. "Do not say that," she hissed. "Do not even think that!" Amaury did not respond to her touch, not even to the cold water, and as she gently wiped his torn mouth, she found that he'd lost at least one tooth. "See if you can find a wine flask, Juliana." His breathing seemed shallow but steady, and she leaned over, pressed his free hand to her cheek. The blaze of sunlight was blinding. She looked up, saw Thomas the Archdeacon framed in the doorway, and she felt so much hatred that it choked all utterance. She moved hastily back into the shadows lest he read her face. "Has he come around yet?" "No," Ellen said tersely, digging her nails into her palm until she could trust herself. Handing the basin to Juliana, she got slowly to her feet. "Set your ransom. Whatever it is, my husband will pay it." He cocked a brow. "Husband?" Ellen held out her hand so that the sun glinted off the jeweled wedding band. "We were wed in Paris by proxy more than six weeks ago, at Martinmas. My husband is Llewelyn ap Gruffydd, Prince cf Wales, and he will pay well for my safe return, for my brother, and the rest of my companions." 163 When he didn't reply, she felt a throb of fear. Pirates always ranomed their captives, did they not? "Do you not believe me?" she demanded. "Llewelyn will pay your ransom, I swear it!" "Oh, I do believe you." He let his eyes roam lazily over her body, vvatched with amusement as angry color rose in her face. "I do not doubt that your husband would pay any price to get you back. If you were my woman, I would. But unfortunately for you, and for him, the deal has already been struck. You, my prideful, pretty lady, are a very valuable commodity. As soon as we were told you were fitting a cog at Harfleur, we've been stopping every ship heading for Wales." "What do you mean?" "I think you know," he said, and she did. But she could not admit it, not yet, not even to herself. "Listen to me," she said, in that moment more desperate than proud. "Whatever you've been offered, Llewelyn will match it and more. You need only name your price!" But he was already shaking his head in mock remorse. "Alas, we both know better. No matter how much your Welshman wants you, sweetheart, he cannot hope to outbid the King of England." 13 THE COG HOLY CROSS, OFF THE ISLES OF SCILLY January 1276 DY the time Thomas the Archdeacon responded to Ellen's urgent appeal, she was frantic with fear on her brother's behalf. AS Was customary for young women who'd one day be expected to nvanage vast households, she'd been given some medical training, was *jr'ovvledgeable about herbs and ointments and the dangers of "proud esh." She felt reasonably certain that Amaury's jaw was not broken, she'd discovered a bloodied gash above his left temple, almost hid- 164 den by his hair, and when he did not regain consciousness, her anxiety was soon spiraling out of sight. When the pirate chieftain finally came, he gave her no warning, suddenly thrust the door open, flashing the smile she was fast learning to hate. "I understand you crave my company, Lady Eleanor." Snatching up the oil lamp, she held it above the bed. "I do not know much about head injuries. His skin is clammy, his pulse rapid, | and he does not respond to my voice or my touch. I think that" * "Why are you sharing his symptoms with me? Do I look like a doctor?" The question itself was brusque enough to disconcert. Even more disturbing was his obvious indifference to Amaury's peril; he'd barely glanced at the bed. When Ellen had first begun to master the secrets of self-control, having learned how dangerous it was to let the world get too close, she'd resorted to a simple yet effective stratagem, combating raw emotion with deep, rhythmic breathing. It usually helped, and she tried it now, deliberately drawing breath into her lungs, willing herself into a state of camouflaged composure. Setting the lamp down, she sought to sound matter-of-fact, eminently reasonable. "I thought you might have a crewman skilled in healing, for I know many ships do . . ." But he was already shaking his head. "There are herbs that can bring a dazed man to his senses. I know the Holy Cross master keeps a hoard of medicinal potions and ointments. Could you speak to him, find out if he has fennel juice or pennyroyal? Also betony, sage, and" "Is that all? Why not a feather bed, a tun of fine French wine, a servant to soothe his fevered brow?" "I do not think you understand," Ellen said carefully, "just how dangerous head wounds can be. There is no way to know how serious it is. If my brother is denied care, he could die." He shrugged. "So?" She was shaken, but determined not to let him see it. "You told me you boarded and seized our ship at the English King's behest. He is not paying you to deliver a corpse!" "He is paying me, sweetheart, to deliver a bride. And if it eases your mind, he gave express orders that we see to your safety. But from what I hear, he's not likely to grieve if Amaury de Montfort is buried at sea." Ellen bit her lip, took another bracing breath. "Do you want me to beg, then? I will, if you'll but give me the herbs Amaury needs." He grinned. "As entertaining as that would be, I cannot spare the time. Mayhap later?" But as he turned toward the door, Ellen stepped in front of him/ 365 barring his way. "Edward is my cousin. You'd best remember that, for MS I swear. If my brother dies because of you, I will tell Edward that you raped me." "Is that an invitation?" They were close enough now for him to feel her fear, to see the involuntary flicker of her eyelids, the faint sheen of sweat on her upper lip. But she did not flinch away from him, nor did she back down. He was accustomed to intimidating women with ease. He was far from a fool, though, knew at once that this was no bluff, for she'd hit upon the only leverage she hadtheir society's insistence upon the virtue of highborn women. Having made her threat, Ellen did not elaborate upon it, for they both knew there was no need. Even if Edward meant to cast her into the Tower for the rest of her days, he'd demand a truly terrible vengeance should she be dishonored. Thomas had already taken pains to warn his crew of that, making sure they understood that the King's kinswoman was not fair game. And then he'd posted guards outside her cabin, for until he handed her over to the constable at Bristol Castle, she was his responsibility, and he was not about to risk his neck and private parts on the good faith of his men, some of whom would have rutted with the Virgin Mary herself if given half a chance. "That would not be very Christian of you, my lady," he said blandly. "An accusation like that could get a man strung up by his cock." "I would hope so," she said, without blinking an eye, and he burst out laughing. "I thought convent-bred blossoms like you were supposed to swoon dead away at the droop of a petal! Where did you learn to fight dirty, like a sailor in a whorehouse brawl?" He was laughing again, but Ellen could not tell if he was truly amused by her effrontery or merely saving face. She said nothing, afraid to push her luck any further, and was very relieved when he drew back, put some space between them. "I'll send a man to the cog's master." He paused, hand on the door latch. "In truth, I was going to give you the herbs all along. But by God, I'd not have missed your performance for the world!" Ellen waited until he stopped laughing. "When I was out on deck, I saw that some of my men were wounded, some of the crew, too. I would like to share the herbs and ointments with them." Adding tonelessly, "If that meets with your approval." "Why not?" He was still smiling. "You do have pluck, lass, damn me if you do not! I like that in a woman, have always fancied a cat with ckws. But I cannot help wondering if Eleanor of Brittany had pluck, tooin the beginning." Huddled in a far corner of the cabin, Juliana had been a mute and 166 miserable witness, immobilized as much by her seasickness as by her fear. As soon as the door closed, though, she struggled weakly to her feet, for Ellen had gone ashen. She sat down abruptly upon the edge of the bed, and Juliana fought back her nausea, lurched unsteadily across the cabin. It seemed to her that, for all his talk about Ellen's claws, Thomas was the one who'd drawn blood, and she found herself fumbling for comfort when there was none. *g "Your lady mother would have been so proud of you, Ellen. For certes, I was. But. . . but who is this Eleanor of Brittany?" Ellen leaned over, reassured herself that Amaury's breathing was still steady. "She was our kinswoman, my grandfather's niece. She and her brother Arthur were his rivals for the English crown, and when they fell into his hands, Arthur disappeared into one of John's strongholds, never to be seen again. As for Eleanor . . . she was but seventeen or so, said to be very pretty. John sent her to Bristol Castle, kept her in comfortable confinement..." Ellen's voice trailed off. After a long silence, she looked up at the other woman, her mask utterly gone. "They held her captive for the rest of her life, Juliana. For nigh on forty years . . ." WITH Ellen's knights and crew locked up in the hold, Thomas manned the cog with his own sailors and headed back for the Isles of Scilly. When they dropped anchor in a sheltered cove at St Mary's Island, he'd planned to sail at dawn. But fog crept in during the darkness, ghostly grey sea-clouds that muffled sound and blotted out the sky, trapping them in a blind man's world of eerie, shadowed silence. The pirates did not share Brian's faith in his magnetic sailing needle, would not venture from port until the fog lifted, and the days dragged by. Ellen had never been claustrophobicuntil now. The cabin walls seemed to be shrinking; at night she began to dream of sunless dungeon cells and open coffins. By the time they finally set sail, she was desperate to get under way again, even though Edward would be waiting at the end of her journey. No one would tell her anything, but by observing sunsets from the porthole, she was able to determine that they were sailing north. There was no surprise, then, when the cog and its escort galleys turned east into the Bristol Channel, for she'd already guessed their destination, the English port of Bristol. Ellen awakened at dawn. Beside her, Juliana still slept, and she rose as quietly as she could, making a half-hearted attempt to smooth some of the wrinkles from her gown. She'd always had her share of vanity* but it had not survived the first hours of her captivity. If she looked 167 jjsheveled and haggard upon landing, so much the better. She wanted the world to see her just as she was, a woman abducted and imprisoned against her will by England's King. Amaury was beginning to stir, and she crossed to the bed. "How do you feel this morn?" "Well, I'm breathing," he said and gave her a lopsided smile, for his face was still badly bruised and swollen. "But I'd like to meet the fool who put about the fable that sea air is good for a man's health." Ellen tried to smile back, although without much conviction. She knew he was still in pain. She had learned in this past week to recognize the subtle indications, for he would no more admit to his blinding headaches and aching jaw than he would to his fear. He had to be afraid; she herself was terrified for him and what he might face. But he'd chosen to confront that fate as his brothers would, and as much as she yearned for truth between them, she felt compelled to honor his choice. He was going to need whatever strength he could muster, from whatever source. "How is your headache? I think there is some sage left..." She was turning to look when he reached up, caught her hand. "Wait. I have something for you, kitten." Pulling a ring from his finger, he pressed it into her palm. "I want you to hold this for me." The ring, a sapphire set into the shape of a cross, was far more than a family heirloom. For the de Montforts, it was an icon. Ellen closed her eyes, seeing it flash on her father's hand, seeing her mother clutch it to her heart as if it were a rosary. "I cannot take Papa's ring. Mama wanted you to have it, Amaury." "And how long do you think I'd keep it?" he asked, quite evenly. "It will be safer with you." She did not know what to say, for to deny it was to lie, and to agree was to abandon even the pretense of hope. Threading the ring through her crucifix chain, she concealed it in the bodice of her gown. Just then a cresting wave slammed into the ship, and Ellen was sent careening across the cabin. She was clinging to the porthole as the cog righted itself, revealing the distant silhouette of snow-dusted hills. As she watched, they came into clearer focus, browned and stark, sloping down toward the sea, and she suddenly realized that she was looking upon Wales. It was her first glimpse of her husband's homeland, and it seemed likely it would be her last. ELLEN had assumed that once they were no longer in the pirate chieftain's Power, things were bound to get better. They did not. The constable of nstol Castle, Sir Bartholomew de Joevene, treated her with impeccable c°urtesy, installed her and Juliana in a spacious bedchamber, even re- 168 stored to her the personal belongings that had been seized on the ship. But she had been separated from Amaury soon after their arrival, and the constable politely refused to allow her to see him. He also rebuffed all her attempts to learn what Edward intended, and as the days passed, Ellen discovered that anxiety and isolation were as incendiary a cornbination as flint and tinder. She'd not realized how much strength she'd drawn from Amaury's presence. While on the Holy Cross, at least they'd been facing danger together, and there had been comfort in that. Now, not knowing what was happening to him or how he was being treated, she was finding it harder and harder to keep her fears in check. Her imagination seemed set upon sabotaging her self-control, conjuring up lurid images of royal dungeons, of prisoners left to rot in bitter-cold blackness. She'd been at her bedchamber window when her household knights were herded into the bailey, and she'd been disturbed to see them all in fetters and gyves, even the Franciscan friars. Was Amaury, too, shackled in chains? And she began to be haunted by a harrowing daylight dream, seeing her brother lying alone in darkness, listening to the rustling as rats crept closer in the straw. Ellen was worried, as well, about Hugh, for he had not been among the prisoners taken into custody by the Bristol constable. Where was he? Had he somehow managed to escape? Or had he died down in the cog's dank, fetid hold? Like so many of her questions, these, too, went unanswered. By the time her first week's captivity finally drew to an end, Ellen had begun to fear that nothing was going to change, that her world was to be bounded forevermore by the stone walls of Bristol Castle, peopled only by regrets, solitude, and the sorrowful ghost of Eleanor of Brittany. But on January 29th, the ninth day of her confinement, a young knight was ushered into her chamber, diffidently identified himself as Sir Nicholas de Seyton, and after some hemming and hawing, revealed that he was here to deliver her into the custody of Sir Geoffrey de Pychford, constable of Windsor Castle. De Seyton was so obviously embarrassed by his mission that Ellen took heart. Summoning up her most engaging smile, she assured him that she and Juliana would be ready to leave within the hour, "after I say farewell to my brother." He looked, if possible, even more discomfited. "My lady, I am truly sorry. I would that" But Ellen had at last reached her breaking point. "I am not going to Windsor Castle until I see Amaury! You'll have to drag me kicking and screaming out to the bailey, gag me and tie me to my horse, and even then" 169 "My lady, I would never do that! You do not understand. If it were up to me, I'd right gladly let you see your brother. But it is too late. He is gone." "Gone? Where?" De Seyton gave her a look of such unmistakable pity that Ellen's breath stopped. "According to the constable, Lord Amaury's escort left at first light... for Corfe Castle." THEY passed the first night of their journey at a hospice in the village of Chippenham. But the next day winter took a nasty turn, and by the time they reached the royal castle at Marlborough, they were half-frozen, rain-soaked and mud-splattered. Saturday dawned just as raw and wet, and Juliana was grateful when Sir Nicholas de Seyton announced that they would be remaining at Marlborough until the weather cleared. It was not often, she'd confided to Ellen, that prisoners were blessed with such a gentle gaoler. Ellen had turned away wordlessly, and Juliana could have bitten her tongue in two, for she knew what Ellen was seeingAmaury riding in shackles down a mud-mired West Country road. February arrived in a frigid downpour. They'd been given one of the most comfortable tower chambers, boasting a wall fireplace and glazed windows. But not even a flaming hearth-log could dispel the chill. Jerking a blanket from the bed, Juliana came over and draped it about Ellen's shoulders. "Ellen, we need to talk. When we were on that wretched cog, I was so greensick that I could be of no help at all. But now that I'm myself again, I can shoulder some of the burden, if you'll let me. At the least, I can listen. You've uttered nigh on a dozen words in the past three days, and I think I know why. It is Corfe Castle, is it not?" Ellen glanced up sharply, and Juliana said apologetically, "I asked Sir Nicholas last night and he told me of its ugly history. He said it has long been a royal prison, that it is" "Infamous. The Crown sends to Corfe those prisoners they want to disappear, to be forgotten by the rest of the world." "But well-guarded prisoners can be well-treated, too, Ellen. Remember what you told me about Prince Llewelyn's father? He was sent to the Tower! But you said he was kept in a large, comfortable chamber, even allowed visits from his wife. Why should you fear the worst for Amaury? He is Edward's cousin, after all." "My father was Edward's uncle and godfather. That availed him ^ught at Evesham." Ellen jumped up, began to pace. "If only I'd insisted that Amaury remain in France! If not for me, he'd be" 370 "Ellen, do not do this to yourself! I never met your lord father or Harry, but I loved Bran, and I know Amaury, and I've met Guy. The de Montfort men have always done just as they damned well pleased, and the Devil take the hindmost. How could you have stopped Amaury? Tied him to his bed whilst he slept? This is not your fault. Put the blame where it rightly belongs, squarely upon the head of your cousin the King!" i "I do," Ellen said, very low, "I do," and after that, there was not much more to be said. Juliana wandered over to the window. It was set in glass, which, if no longer such a rarity, was still exorbitantly expensive, the best being imported from Normandy and Venice at great cost. But from what Juliana had heard of King Edward's father, he'd never been one to stint himself, not where his comfort was concerned. Although the glass was supposed to be white, it had an unmistakable green tinge, and it was so uneven, thick in places, thinner in others, that even on a sunlit day, it was like peering into a pond, viewing distorted images through a wavering wall of water. But a flash of color had drawn Juliana's eye and she rubbed her fist against the clouded pane until a clear spot appeared. "Just as I thought, riders in the bailey!" She was pleased when Ellen came over to look, for this was the first flicker of curiosity to pierce Ellen's apathy in more than three days. "They look half-drowned, poor souls. How glad I am that we've passed the day at the hearth and not out on the road or in those fearful woods . . . what are they called again?" "Savernake. A royal forest, if my memory" Ellen broke off, leaned forward, and scrubbed furiously at the window moisture with the palm of her hand. "Dear God!" She spun away from the window with such haste that she stumbled, had to grab the back of a chair for support. "It was not the rain that kept us here. We've been waiting for him!" "Him?" Juliana looked again at the figures below, muffled and hooded and anonymous in muddied travel mantles. But as she strained to see, a gust of wind caught the sodden banner and it unfurled like a sail, revealing three golden lions on a field of crimson, the royal arms of the English Crown. "I cannot face him, Juliananot yet. I thought I'd have more time, I thought. . . What am I going to do?" "Ellen, why are you so distraught of a sudden? You must not give way like this. Just remember how you dared to defy Thomas the Archdeacon. Surely you do not fear Edward more than that accursed pirate?" 171 "It is not Edward I fear, it is myself, my weakness." "I do not understand." "In this past week, you've sought to cheer me, to offer hope, even though I knew there was none. I've said nothing as you dwelled at length upon Llewelyn's anger, the indignation of His Holiness the pope ... as if they could set us free by the righteous fervor of their wrath." "But surely" "No, Juliana, hear me out. Of course Llewelyn will be outraged. And the Pope will, indeed, protest, just as you say, for the Church tends to its own. But neither Llewelyn nor the Pope can prevail against Edward. God knows the Welsh do not lack for courage, but there are fully twenty Englishmen for every Welshman drawing breath. How could Llewelyn rescue me? He could only destroy himself in the attempt. As for the Church, if it comes to weighing a papal chaplain against a crusader-King, can you truly doubt how their scales will tip? And that would hold no less true for the French King; Edward is his cousin, a brother sovereign. You may be sure he'll not fight a war to right our wrong." "Ellen, you must not despair like this, must not surrender all hope!" "I cannot delude myself either, Juliana, not with so much at stake. Do you not see now why I am so frightened? Amaury and I are utterly at Edward's mercy, and I am not at all sure that he has any. We have just one chance, if I can somehow win him over, convince him that we pose no threat. But I am not ready for that, not yet. He is no fool. How can I make him believe ..." Too dispirited to continue, Ellen sank down in the chair, and Juliana dropped onto her knees beside her, caught Ellen's hand in her own. "Listen to me. You've never yet met a man you could not beguile. I know it will not be easy. But was it easy on the Holy Cross? You made yourself smile at that pirate, whilst wanting to spit in his face. You did what had to be done. You always do. I have faith, Ellen, faith in you." "Faith," Ellen echoed, so bitterly that on her lips, it sounded almost like an obscenity. "I would to God I" She stiffened, and Juliana heard it, too, footsteps drawing near their door. De Seyton looked like a man doing gallows duty against his will. 'My lady, forgive me for intruding upon your privacy. But the King's Grace has arrived, and he wishes to see you. I would be honored to escort you, if that meets with your approval?" Ellen got slowly to her feet. "I am ready," she said, and then, "Thank you, Sir Nicholas." His smile was pleased, but quizzical, too. "For what, Lady Eleanor?" 172 Ellen let her fingers slide along her crucifix chain until she fou^ her father's ring. "For making it sound," she said, "as if I had a choice " THE King's chamber was large and well-lit, wainscotted in Norway pine strewn with fragrant floor rushes. All it lacked was Edward. De Seyton escorted Ellen to a cushioned window-seat, prepared to wait with her . for Edward's return. She was heartened by his obvious protectiveness. If only Edward shared de Seyton's chivalry. Yes, and if wishes were horses, beggars would ride. Her father had been one for quoting that, he'd always liked to sound much more unsentimental than he truly was. Mayhap he had been as unforgiving and fiery-tempered as the rest of the world thought, but not to her, never to her. Thinking about Papa now would not help, though. She had to think about Edward, only Edward. Was he deliberately keeping her waiting? If so, he'd reckoned wrong, for she welcomed the reprieve. Let him stay away until Lent and she'd thank God fasting. The more time she had to steady her nerves, to settle upon a stratagem, the more grateful she'd be. Edward Plantagenet. Her cousin Ned. Harry had called him Longshanks, for he'd not always been the enemy. There'd been a time when he and Harry and Bran had been inseparable. Would it help or hurt to remind him of that? It was said he had wept over Harry's body. Just hours after allowing her father to be butchered, hacked into so many pieces there'd been little left to bury. Jesii, no, she must not think of that now. Why did everything begin and end with Evesham? "My Lady de Montfort." The man had come in a side door, which he was now holding open. Ellen rose, shadowed by the faithful de Seyton. Following him down a dark passage, she discovered it led into another large chamber, no less luxurious than Edward's. Servants were moving about, unpacking open coffers. They all turned to stare as Ellen entered. Raising her chin, she crossed the chamber and curtsied to her cousin's Queen. The last time they'd met, Ellen had been a lively ten-year-old, Eleanora a young wife of nineteen, shyly stubborn, desperately in love with her handsome husband. She'd always been kind to Ellen, who remembered her fondly in consequence. But as they looked at each other now, it was uncomfortably obvious that there lay between them far more than the passage of thirteen years. Eleanora's dark gaze was coolly appraising; Ellen sensed at once that she'd been measured and found wanting. She'd had no illusions about Eleanora's influence. No matter how much Edward cherished his wifeand by all accounts he did-" her sway did not extend beyond the boundaries of the marriage bed- 273 even if Eleanora did not possess the key to her prison, Ellen had d fc>r sympathy, woman to woman. It was not to be, though. Even f re a word was uttered, she saw that she had no friend in Edward's Seeant Spanish Queen. "Well you've grown up, for certes," Eleanora said at last. "Yes, Madame, I suppose I have," was all Ellen could think to say, . sj,e Was beginning to understand. There were wives who disliked instinct alone any woman who happened to be young and pretty. But there'd be little consolation in knowing that Eleanora's hostility was Ot personal, not when she had Edward's ear at night. No sooner had Ellen drawn this dismal conclusion, though, than Eleanora seemed to thaw a bit. At the least, she remembered her manners, gesturing toward a chair. "You may sit whilst we wait for Eduardo." Ellen sat as directed, and an awkward silence fell. Ellen would normally have felt obligated to keep the conversation going; she'd been taught that it was a woman's duty to smooth away rough edges, to put others at ease. Now, though, she rebelled, sat mutinous and still until Eleanora could stand the silence no longer, and began to talk grudgingly of that most innocuous and dependable of topics, the vile winter weather. Murmuring the appropriate replies, Ellen felt a perverse sense of pleasure. However petty her victory, it was a victory, nonetheless, the discovery that passive resistance could be a weapon in and of itself. She had an instant or two of warning, alerted by the radiance of Eleanora's sudden smile, as if a candle had flared in the dark. Getting to her feet, she watched as her cousin strode into the chamber, and time seemed to fragment, all the way back to March of God's Year, 1265. Harry had brought Edward, a hostage for his father's good faith, to their castle at Odiham. A fortnight later, he'd ridden west with her father and brothers, but he'd soon contrived to escape, set out upon the road that was to lead them all to Evesham. Edward bore the intervening eleven years lightly, looked no different as England's King than he had as her father's prisoner of state, vibrant, lordly, a fire at full blaze. As he reached her, Ellen sank down in a deep curtsy. Almost at once, though, he caught her hand in his, drawing her to her feet. Glory be, lass, look at you!" The laugh, too, was just as she remembered, loud, cocky, dangerously disarming. "When I saw Aunt pll at Melun, she said you'd blossomed, but I put it down to a mother's ond doting. What do you think, Eleanora? Has my little cousin not 8«>wn into quite a beauty?" Yes," Eleanora said, "she has," glazing the compliment in ice. Edward was still holding Ellen's hand. "I am truly sorry you had 174 to go through such an ordeal/' he said, so sincerely that Ellen stared at him in amazement. What was her abductionan act of God? "I was terrified," she said simply, for it seemed safer to keep to the truth as much as possible. His grip tightened. "I know, lass. I would to God there had been another way. But there was not, for Llewelyn ap Gruffydd and youj brother Amaury saw to that." "Ned, no! Amaury had nothing to do with it. This was my doing not his. I wanted the marriage!" In her agitation, she'd reverted without thinking to a childhood intimacy, to "Ned." But he seemed pleased rather than offended by the familiarity. "Of course you did," he said indulgently. "What lass would not be bedazzled by a crown? You could not be expected, though, to be aware of all the implications of such a union. I do not blame you, Cousin Ellen. There is a debt due, but you owe not a penny of it." His well-intentioned attempt to reassure her fell far short of the mark, for he had just confirmed all her fears for Amaury. But he had given her the cue she needed. She knew now what role to play for him, and she could only wonder why she had not seen it sooner. "I am sorry," she said softly, "that my marriage plans have stirred up so much trouble. It was never my intent to offend you, Cousin Ned. But it is already done. Llewelyn and I were wed in Paris by proxy last November." She saw at once that Thomas the Archdeacon had already broken the news, for he showed no surprise. "Very foresighted of Llewelyn," he said caustically. "But sometimes a man can be too clever by half, as your husband is about to learn." His smile was mockingly familiar, transporting Ellen back onto the Holy Cross, playing cat and mouse with her cousin's pirate. And she found that she could endure no more of it. No more suspense. No more cryptic threats. No more cruel games. "Your men would tell me nothing. I implore you to be more merciful. For God's sake, Ned, tell me the truth. If Windsor is to be my Bristol Castle, let me know and know now!" "Bristol?" he echoed, genuinely puzzled. "You mean . . . Eleanor of Brittany? Jesus wept, is that what you feared, that I would imprison you for the rest of your days? Ah, Ellen, lass, no! You are my kinswoman and dear to me. Surely you must know that I never bore you or you1 mother any ill will. I argued against your mother's exile, did I not?' That she knew to be true. He had spoken up on their behalf, had never understood that they could not forgive him. Reaching out, Edward slid his fingers under her chin, tilted it u" 275 that she had to meet his eyes. "I watched you grow up, teased you, brought you trinkets and sweets. And do you think I've forgotten your letters?" He glanced then toward his wife. "When I was being held at Kenilworth Castle, Ellen wrote to me often, trying to cheer me with Harry's worst jests and daft rhymes, whatever foolishness she thought might take my mind off my troubles." Turning back to Ellen, he said quietly, compellingly, "I hated your father, I'll not deny it. But I loved Harry- Christ, we were companions from the cradle. I could never hurt his little sister." But you could let his brother rot at Corfe Castle. Ellen swallowed with difficulty. "What do you mean to do with me, Ned?" He smiled. "I mean," he said, "to restore you to your husband." She did not believe him; she dared not. "When?" "Well . . . that will be up to Llewelyn." Beckoning a cup bearer into earshot, he ordered wine, waited until they'd all been served before continuing. "I will admit that I was set against this marriage. And I was wroth when I learned that you'd been wed in Paris. But once I thought about it, I began to see the advantages. Llewelyn has been a thorn in my side for some time. It has been eighteen months since I returned from the Holy Land, and he is still balking at doing homage to me. Such a brazen breach of a vassal's duty could not be tolerated, and a day of reckoning was coming. It was just a question of whenand how bloody. But now you've changed the equation, Ellen. Now I have something Llewelyn very much wantsyou." "I see," she said faintly, for she did, God help her, she saw all too well. "Ah, lass, do not look so distressed. You'll have your happy ending, you'll see, for I'll hold no grudges. As soon as Llewelyn repents his past folly, formally recognizes me as his sovereign and liege lord, I'll hand you over to him with my blessings." Edward grinned suddenly. "Hellfire, sweetheart, I'll even give you a royal wedding, paid out of my own coffers!" Ellen could not help herself. As much as it shamed her, she felt dizzy with the intensity of her relief, with the sudden resurgence of h°pe. He was offering her so much more than her freedom. He was offering to give her back her life with Llewelyn. But, Blessed Lady, at what cost? Making an enormous effort, she smiled at them both, sought to °°k shy and submissive and grateful, while almost choking on the bile her pent-up rage. But she would not make the mistakes her parents She would not give in to the compulsive Devil-be-damned candor 176 that they'd so prided themselves upon, fuel for the fire that had even, tually engulfed their world. "Cousin Ned, what of Amaury?" Edward's mouth hardened, almost imperceptibly, and she put a placating hand upon his arm. "I understand why you feel you must hold me as a hostage. But Amaury had naught to do with my marriage. He was simply acting as any brother would, seeing to my safety on a perilous journey. Ned, you would have done no less for yom own sisters, I know you would! He's done nothing to deserve your hatred, bears no guilt for that killing at Viterbo. I swear it, Ned swear" "Ellen, there is no need" "But he is innocent! If you would only talk to him, I know he could make you see that." "We'll discuss this later," he said, giving her a smile that never reached his eyes, and her hand slid from his arm. "Will you at least agree to that?" she pleaded, although she already knew the answer. "Will you talk to him?" "We'll see, lass," he said. "We'll see." JULIANA'S nerves were shredded by the time Ellen was escorted back to their chamber. She managed to hold her tongue until de Seyton withdrew, but not a moment longer. "Sit here by the fire whilst I fetch some wine. You have no color in your face at all. Was it as bad as that? Were you able to hide your true feelings from him?" "Yes." "Ellen, you are frightening me, for you look so ... My God, Ellen, what does he mean to do?" "He means," Ellen said, "to set me free," and Juliana put the wine flagon down with a thud. "I do not understand. Is it that. . . that you do not believe him, then?" "Oh, I do believe him, Juliana. He intends, you see, to use me as bait, luring Llewelyn into a war he cannot hope to win. Is that not a marvelous marriage portion to bring to my husband?" Juliana came hastily toward the hearth, thrust a dripping wine cup into Ellen's hand. "Mayhap it will not come to war. Mayhap they can settle their differences without bloodshed. Drink this, and move closer to the fire; you are trembling." "I know. I feel so cold, Juliana, so very cold . . ." "Ellen . . . did you talk to the King about Amaury?" 177 "Yes," Ellen said, her voice still sounding flat and far away. But eves had begun to brim with tears. "I pleaded with him. I begged, d Amaury would have hated that. He listened, my cousin the King, he never heard me." Her tears had broken free, were streaking her e but she made no attempt to wipe them away. When she finally ooke again, her voice was little more than a whisper. "I do not think that he will ever let Amaury go." 14 BRISTOL, ENGLAND January 1276 /ALTHOUGH the crew of the cog Holy Cross had been dumped, penniless, on the Bristol docks, their plight was not as bleak as it might seem, for sailors the world over tended to their own. Many of the crewman had formed friendships on past voyages to this busy English port, and up and down the waterfront nouses were opened to them. A few of the men took berths on out-going vessels, but so many ale-houses had extended credit that most of them elected to remain in Bristol until their cog could be ransomed. Bristol was a thriving, brawling riverport, so prosperous that its citizens had been able to afford a remarkably ambitious and costly undertaking; they'd diverted the natural flow of the River Frome, dug a new channel to intersect with the River Avon. With so many seagoing snips anchoring at the new quays, ale-houses, inns, and brothels soon sprang up to accommodate them. To sailors like Brian, these river wharves and waterfront alleys were the heart and soul of Bristol, and most of them never even ventured as far as the marketplace, for their every need could be met within sight and sound and smell of the harbor. At mid-morning on this last Wednesday in January, Brian was sit- "'g down to an enormous dinner in his favorite riverside tavern, the sty Goat. His trencher was heaped with sausages and poached eggs 378 and hot bread, for there were less than three weeks until Lent, and Briar, was set upon indulging his appetite while he still could. Every now and then he tossed a scrap of sausage to the huge grey cat curled up at his feet. It would not deign to beg, but accepted his offerings as loftily as any lord, at the same time keeping a daunting eye upon the tavern keeper's shaggy mongrel dog. "Brian!" A hand slammed into his shoulder in so boisterous a greet. ing that Brian nearly choked on a mouthful of sausage. But the face ' grinning down at him was a familiar one, and he swallowed his irritation with the sausage. "Where did you come from, Abel? I heard you were in Spain!" "I was. We dropped off a boatload of seasick pilgrims at Santiago de Compostela, then caught a fair wind for home. I got back yesterday, had heard the whole story by duskfall. Thomas the Archdeacon is a Bristol lad, so it's no surprise his latest outrage made such grist for our gossip mills. Hellfire, I'd not even kissed my own wife ere she was telling me about the Holy Cross!" Pulling a bench toward the table, he stopped at sight of the grey cat. "You even ransomed Hotspur?" "Why not? He's the best mouser we've ever had!" Brian flipped a crust of bread into the floor rushes, laughing at the cat's disdainful disappointment. "In truth, Abel, there was no ransom at all for the crew. Your local lad, the Archdeacon, did not need to bother collecting crumbs, not when he'd come away with the whole blessed bake-house. Rumor has it that he'll get two hundred marks for de Montfort's daughter!" Abel whistled soundlessly, and Brian nodded. "I suspect it is true, too, for I've seen him swaggering about the wharves with a whore on each arm, as bold as you please, looking like a man who could buy and sell sheriffs by the baker's dozen. And most likely he could, for in addition to his royal reward, he has the cargo we were going to unload in Ireland. Not to mention the ransom for the cog itself. The snip's master sailed last week for Rouen, bearing the bad tidings for the owner. He'll curse and fume and fret, but he'll come up with the money; what choice has he? I'd wager we'll be under sail again by Easter, and in the meantime, there are worse places to be stranded than Bristol." "God's Bones, yes! Remember Tenby?" They both laughed, and Abel helped himself to one of the sausages. "Well, you'd best come home with me. We'll fix you a bed near the hearth, and my Agneta s cooking will taste like Heaven's own fare after all this ale-house slop!' "I'd like that, Abel. But... well, there's a lad I've taken under my wing." "Bring him along, then," Abel said expansively. "If you vouch f°r him, that is good enough for me." 179 "It is not that simple." Brian hesitated, then leaned across the table, wering his v°ice- "This can go no further. Not even Agneta can know, f , jf word gets out, Hugh is likely to end up clapped in irons. The truth . f^oel, that Hugh is one of the Lady Eleanor's knights. But he is a ' j iad for all that, and so ... when those whoreson pirates came down into the hold to get the knights and the Welsh, I heard myself claiming that Hugh was a member of our crew." Abel grinned. "You've not changed a whit. As hard-baked on the outside as a rye tort, inside as soft as raw dough! So be it; we'll tell Agneta he's the Holy Cross boatswain. Now . . . where is this young lordling of yours?" He was peering about at the men sitting in the shadows, and Brian shook his head. "He is not here. Likely as not, he's lurking outside the castle, for that is where he's been for the past week, keeping a hopeless vigil for his lady." Brian sighed, speared a sausage with his knife. "I tried to tell him he's but wasting his time, for all the good it did me. He even began to frequent one of the Wine Street taverns because he'd heard the castle grooms drink there. He had this idea, you see, that the stablemen would be the first to know if they meant to move the lady from the castle." Brian paused to eat another sausage. "It sounded like a weak reed to me, but damned if he did not find a groom who pitied the Lady Eleanor's plight!" "You Bretons think history begins and ends on your side of the Channel. As often as you've been in port here, you did not know that Bristol held fast for Simon de Montfort?" Brian shook his head, and Abel snorted good-naturedly. "Hellfire, Brian, we took his reforms so to heart that we even rioted on his behalf, drove no less a lord than Edward himself to seek shelter within the castle! And when Edward burned the bridges across the Severn, trapping Earl Simon in Wales, we sent a fleet of flatboats to ferry his army across the Bristol Channel. But we were ambushed by Edward's galleys ere we could enter Newport harbor. Eleven ships we lost that day, and after Evesham, Edward bled us white, levied a thousand marks' fine upon °ur citizens. Memories like that do not fade, Brian, not in ten years' ftne. You were surprised Hugh found a friendly groom? I'd have been surprised if he had not. Half the men in this town would gladly turn a blind eye to help the Earl's lass." I'll confess, your English affairs always seem so murky to me that never even try to make sense of Ah, Hugh, there you are!" From the outset, Brian had been impressed by Hugh's good man- ers' for experience had taught him that the wellborn rarely squandered c°urtesy upon people like him. Hugh had been different, though, and 280 it was that difference that had prompted him to speak out on Hugh' behalf in that dark, foul-smelling hold. When Hugh now acknowledged the introductions with a distracted nod, Abel put it down to the usUaj high-handed rudeness of the gentry and began to regret offering hj. hospitality so readily. But Brian knew better. "You can speak freely in front of Abel, lad. Tell us what is wrong Has some evil befallen your lady?" Hugh nodded, hesitated, then blurted out his bad news in one breathless wretched rush. "She is gone, Brian, they are both gone!" "HUGH, you've not thought this through. Only a fool would try to cross those Welsh mountain passes in the dead of winter!" "I did it once beforewith Lord Brancan do it again," Hugh said stubbornly, and Brian and Abel exchanged frustrated glances, for they'd been laboring in vain for nigh on an hour now to talk some sense into the lad. Catching that look, Hugh strove for patience. "I have to get to Wales, Brian. Prince Llewelyn is the only man who might be able to help my lady. He has to know!" "I agree with you, just do not see why you must be the one to take such a risk. But if you're bound and determined to do this, we'd best start laying plans. Abel, know you any good-hearted Samaritans willing to lend Hugh a horse?" Abel looked as pained as if he'd been asked to produce an elephant. "Jesii, I do not know anyone who even owns a horse! I'm a sailor, Brian, have never so much as been astride one. There are two stables in town that rent mounts, but not for a winter trek into Wales. You'd have to buy the nag outright. How much does a horse cost, Hugh?" "A decent one, good enough to get me into Wales and back ... not likely less than ten marks," Hugh said reluctantly, knowing the sum would shock them. "And I'd need a saddle and bridle; also a sword. Supplies, too, for I doubt if there is an inn to be found in all of North Wales. So ... somehow I have to come up with at least fifteen marks." "Fifteen marks! You might as well ask for the keys to the King's Exchequer." Abel shook his head slowly. "Hugh, I'm sorry, I truly am/ for I'd like to help you, and I'd like to help the Earl's daughter. But I do not know a soul who has that much money to spare." "I know one," Hugh said grimly. "Thomas the Archdeacon." "Do not talk crazy," Brian said hastily. "Your life is worth a lot more than fifteen marks, lad. Just give me a moment to think. ... DO you not have Jews in Bristol, Abel? Mayhap Hugh could borrow from a money-lender?" r 181 Hugh looked suddenly hopeful, as if a door had begun to open. Auel hated to slam it in his face, but he was loath to lie, too. "I cannot it Brian. Ever since the King forbade any more money-lending" "What?" Hugh and Brian were both staring at him, and Abel beamed; it was always gratifying to be the one to reveal events sure to tartle. "You have not heard, then? Last November, the King issued an diet that Jews would no longer be permitted to charge interest on loans, usury being a mortal sin. Not," he added with a grin, "that such sinning ever kept our kings from claiming a fair measure of the profits! The Jews have fallen, though, on lean times. They might once have been the Crown's best milch cow, but their milk has dwindled down to a trickle, and who keeps a beast that's gone dry? When the Council of Lyons condemned usury so strongly last year, the King was stirred to action. Since his decree denied the Jews their only means of making a livelihood, he also proclaimed that they'd be allowed for the first time to become merchants or craftsmen. But that dog would not hunt, for what Christian would deal with a Jew if he did not have to?" Brian knew little of the plight of the Jews, cared less. "So what are you saying?" he demanded impatiently. "That they no longer lend money?" "Some were scared off, for certes. But others fear starving more than the King's wrath, and being a sly lot, they've sought to hide the interest charged on their loans, making the sum more than it was or calling it a 'courtesy' or a 'special fee.' But they've become as wary and skittish as any virgin lass, require much wooing ere they'll let you into their coffers!" It was Hugh's turn now to interrupt. "But they will still make loans?" Abel stopped laughing and scowled. "You'll never know if you are not willing to hear me out. The King's edict is but part of the problem. You see, we had some trouble here in Bristol a few months past. I do not know what set it off, but ere it was over, many of the Jews' houses had been looted and the Jewry was in flames. Since then, the Jews have been even more tight-fisted than usual. They're not about to make you a loan, Hugh, for you have nothing to pledge as security." "Hugh . . . would you ask that little serving maid to bring us some ^e?" Hugh looked surprised, but he rose without objection, far too fond °f Brian to balk. As soon as he was out of earshot, Brian leaned across 'he table again. "Abel, listen. I know Hugh, know how desperate he is n8ht now . . . mayhap even desperate enough to steal a horse. And if "e did, he'd be honorable enough to bring it back afterward, and get hanged for his pains. If we let him sit around and brood, he just might 182 go off to confront that whoreson pirate. Let's seek out a money-lende even if it comes to naught. Mayhap we'll have been able to think f another idea by then." Abel shrugged. "Hugh, come on back! My cousin Wat works for vintner who borrows from money-lenders. Mayhap he might know on not as grasping as most of that accursed breed are. I'd not give you false hope, but if you want to try, I'm willing, lad." Hugh's sudden smile was blinding. "What are we waiting f0r then?" ABEL'S cousin Wat had once accompanied his< employer into the Jewry and he claimed he could find the house of the money-lender, Isaac ben Asher. But he soon had them wandering about the Jewish quarter in ever widening circles, all the while insisting that their destination was just around the corner. Hugh, usually so tolerant of other men's foibles, found himself fighting an urge to shove Wat into the path of the next passing cart. It was not just his fear for Ellen that had rubbed his nerves so raw. As they backtracked along the narrow, twisting streets, he felt like an intruder, felt conspicuous and ill at ease in such alien territory. He had never had any personal contacts with Jews, for they were permitted to dwell in only twenty-seven English towns, and Evesham had not been one of them. Nor had there been any Jews in Montargis, for Jews throughout Christendom were barred from holding land and were, therefore, segregated by economic necessity in the cities. But if he'd never known any Jews, Hugh did know what was said of them. Servants of Satan. Disciples of the Devil. Infidels who dwelt in their very midst, crafty and false, enemies of the True Faith. Hugh frowned, and instinctively he groped for his crucifix chain, forgetting that his neck was bare; the pirates had taken everything of value. They finally found the money-lender's house at the end of Small Street. It was an impressive stone structure with slate roof and walled courtyard, and Wat and Abel exchanged quips about the wages of sin, but their humor had a hard edge to it. They were admitted by a young maidservant, using the name of Master Bevis, the vintner, as their password, and were asked to wait in a hall of surpassing comfort. Abel and Wat and Brian gaped at the spacious dimensions of the chamber, while conjuring up inevitable and embittered comparisons with their own cramped, sparse quarters. A decorated wooden screen closed off the door to the kitchen; a spiral stairway led up to additional chambers above. They wandered about the hall, examining the sturdy 183 tables, the cushioned chairs, the pewter plates stacked ma cup- SA and they thought of their own smoky hearths, the slile bread £3 b° ' _e(j as mealtime trenchers, their backless stools. Tkcounted H fl ming wax candles that ringed this room in light, thiitajofthe ^ ^V g tallow candles that they hoarded till dark. And to felt the & 'ngs of a deep and resentful rage, that good Christians sUdime ^ 5 1'ttle whilst this infidel unbeliever should have so much. Hugh, too, was looking about with unabashed curiosity, bit hs & a soldier's eye. He noted the heavy wooden shutters, thin door -^ holt He studied the thickness of the stone walls, admiring Iwdeverly ** door had been cut to fit into the stairway alcove, effectivd sealing 5 ff the upper chambers. And he remembered what Abel had aid ate ;£ trouble, about the Jewry in flames. Wat picked up a book, looked blankly at the Hebrew apt, and I set it down with a thud, as if he'd touched something undei "How -^ long does he mean to make us wait?" "We're being watched," Brian warned suddenly, makiijtonal 1 jump. They turned to stare suspiciously at the screen. It wasidistact rz letdown when a small boy toddled out. "Look at him," Wat marveled, "hair like flax! I'd wageiteiAH found a bit of English seasoning to flavor her stew!" "All Jews do not have dusky skin like Saracens," Hugh ad01% : he was fast losing patience with Abel's loud-mouthed cousin The unexpected testiness of his tone earned him speculate looks .-; from Abel and Brian. "Hugh is right," Brian said mildly. "Itisbeause ^ the Jews do look like us that your King Edward ordered thai to wear those yellow badges. Otherwise, they could pretend to be Ontans, could take unfair advantage of our unwariness." "I know one way they differ from us," Abel said mysteriously "I've heard it said that when a male child is born, the Jews notdiuscock, like we'd brand a horse, a secret way to know their own." "Christ!" The exclamation was Wat's, but Brian looked rote horrified. Hugh, however, was grinning widely. "You've got it half-right, Abel. They do not brand the kite, but they do cut off his foreskin. Lord Amaury says the Saracens in it, IDC, There is even a word for it, circumsomething." "Well, whatever you call it, the very thought of putting a knife to my privates makes my ballocks shrivel up like raisins," Brkdedaied J^th such heartfelt honesty that they all laughed, although oily Hugh tound any real humor in the subject. "I wonder what it looks like," Wat mused, staring so intently at Hw a that Hugh found himself tensing, in case the man m stupid 182 go off to confront that whoreson pirate. Let's seek out a money-lende even if it comes to naught. Mayhap we'll have been able to think of another idea by then." Abel shrugged. "Hugh, come on back! My cousin Wat works for a vintner who borrows from money-lenders. Mayhap he might know one not as grasping as most of that accursed breed are. I'd not give you fa]Se hope, but if you want to try, I'm willing, lad." < then?' Hugh's sudden smile was blinding. "What are we waiting f0r ABEL'S cousin Wat had once accompanied his_employer into the Jewry, and he claimed he could find the house of the money-lender, Isaac ben Asher. But he soon had them wandering about the Jewish quarter in ever widening circles, all the while insisting that their destination was just around the corner. Hugh, usually so tolerant of other men's foibles, found himself fighting an urge to shove Wat into the path of the next passing cart. It was not just his fear for Ellen that had rubbed his nerves so raw. As they backtracked along the narrow, twisting streets, he felt like an intruder, felt conspicuous and ill at ease in such alien territory. He had never had any personal contacts with Jews, for they were permitted to dwell in only twenty-seven English towns, and Evesham had not been one of them. Nor had there been any Jews in Montargis, for Jews throughout Christendom were barred from holding land and were, therefore, segregated by economic necessity in the cities. But if he'd never known any Jews, Hugh did know what was said of them. Servants of Satan. Disciples of the Devil. Infidels who dwelt in their very midst, crafty and false, enemies of the True Faith. Hugh frowned, and instinctively he groped for his crucifix chain, forgetting that his neck was bare; the pirates had taken everything of value. They finally found the money-lender's house at the end of Small Street. It was an impressive stone structure with slate roof and walled courtyard, and Wat and Abel exchanged quips about the wages of sin, but their humor had a hard edge to it. They were admitted by a young maidservant, using the name of Master Bevis, the vintner, as their password, and were asked to wait in a hall of surpassing comfort. Abel and Wat and Brian gaped at the spacious dimensions of the chamber, while conjuring up inevitable and embittered comparisons with their own cramped, sparse quarters. A decorated wooden screen closed off the door to the kitchen; a spiral stairway led up to additional chambers above. They wandered about the hall, examining the sturdy 183 tables, the cushioned chairs, the pewter plates stacked in a cup- j and they thought of their own smoky hearths, the stale bread served as mealtime trenchers, their backless stools. They counted h flaming wax candles that ringed this room in light, thinking of the kins tallow candles that they hoarded till dark. And they felt the f 'rrings of a deep and resentful rage, that good Christians should have i^ttle whilst this infidel unbeliever should have so much. Hugh, too, was looking about with unabashed curiosity, but his a soldier's eye. He noted the heavy wooden shutters, the iron door bolt He studied the thickness of the stone walls, admiring how cleverly door had been cut to fit into the stairway alcove, effectively sealing off the upper chambers. And he remembered what Abel had said about trouble, about the Jewry in flames. Wat picked up a book, looked blankly at the Hebrew script, and set it down with a thud, as if he'd touched something unclean. "How long does he mean to make us wait?" "We're being watched," Brian warned suddenly, making them all jump. They turned to stare suspiciously at the screen. It was a distinct letdown when a small boy toddled out. "Look at him," Wat marveled, "hair like flax! I'd wager his mother found a bit of English seasoning to flavor her stew!" "All Jews do not have dusky skin like Saracens," Hugh said curtly; he was fast losing patience with Abel's loud-mouthed cousin. The unexpected testiness of his tone earned him speculative looks from Abel and Brian. "Hugh is right," Brian said mildly. "It is because the Jews do look like us that your King Edward ordered them to wear those yellow badges. Otherwise, they could pretend to be Christians, could take unfair advantage of our unwariness." "I know one way they differ from us," Abel said mysteriously. "I've heard it said that when a male child is born, the Jews notch his cock, like we'd brand a horse, a secret way to know their own." "Christ!" The exclamation was Wat's, but Brian looked no less horrified. Hugh, however, was grinning widely. "You've got it half-right, Abel. They do not brand the babe, but they do cut off his foreskin. Lord Amaury says the Saracens do it, too. Inere is even a word for it, circumsomething." "Well, whatever you call it, the very thought of putting a knife to my privates makes my ballocks shrivel up like raisins," Brian declared jvith such heartfelt honesty that they all laughed, although only Hugh found any real humor in the subject. I wonder what it looks like," Wat mused, staring so intently at the ^d that Hugh found himself tensing, in case the man was stupid 184 enough to try to satisfy his curiosity then and there. The little boy w just starting to walk; he wobbled toward a chair, caught a rung fS support, and regarded them so solemnly that Hugh suddenly want H to see him smile. "Look, lad," he said, reaching for a bowl of nuts. "Shall I show v a trick I learned from a French jongleur? Watch carefully now." Defti juggling a walnut back and forth, he added a second one to the arc, and the boy's eyes widened. After a few moments, Hugh had a third walnut airborne, too, but when he tried to introduce a fourth one, walnuts wer suddenly raining everywhere. The child squealed with laughter as Hugh, laughing, too, knelt to retrieve them from the floor rushes "You're not supposed to laugh when I fail," he chided, and pretended to find one in the tot's ear. The boy giggled again, but from the corner of his eye, Hugh caught a blurred movement. Turning his head, he saw Isaac ben Asher standing in the stairwell, watching impassively as he crawled about on hands and knees. Hugh could feel his face getting hot. Scrambling hastily to his feet, he sought to recover his dignity as Isaac picked up the child, carried him behind the screen. He'd regained some of his poise by the time the man returned, but he could not hide his surprise, for Isaac ben Asher was not at all what he'd expected. He was young, not much past thirty, Hugh had assumed money-lending to be an old man's profession. His coloring was fair, and he seemed vaguely familiar. After a moment to reflect, Hugh realized why. As unlikely as it sounded, this Bristol Jew reminded him somehow of Amaury de Montfort. Isaac had Amaury's unaffected elegance, his air of quiet, watchful wariness. His eyes were blue, not greenish hazel like Amaury's, but they were startlingly similar, nonetheless, eyes that gave away no secrets, shuttered windows to a soul under siege. "I am Isaac ben Asher. You wish to talk to me?" Hugh nodded. "I am Sir Hugh de Whitton," he said, ignoring his companions' gasps of dismay. They had concocted an elaborate cover story to protect Hugh's identity, but he found now that he could not use it; it seemed dishonorable to lie to a man while asking that man for money. It was not easy to reveal his need so nakedly; Isaac's cool, guarded gaze did not invite confidences. But Hugh forced himself to continue, and slowly the story emerged. "And now," he concluded bleakly, "&e Lady Ellen has been taken to Windsor Castle. I must get to her husband, I must! You're my only hope." "And how much hope do you want to borrow?" "Fifteen marks," Hugh mumbled, as if garbling the sum wow somehow make it sound less exorbitant. "I know it is a lot, but P^ce 285 lyn would never begrudge me the money. You'll be paid back, I T-ril^G^ ^r° "Assuming you come back," Isaac said, and angry color flooded Hugh's face. "When I give my word, I keep it!" "I am not suggesting you would gainsay your promise," Isaac said Imlv "I was trimkin§ of the dangers you'd be facing. Have you not thought that you might die on this quest of yours?" In truth, Hugh had not. He opened his mouth to reassure Isaac, but the words caught in his throat. Why should this man risk so much upon the good intentions of a stranger? "I can indeed promise you that I'd hold to my word. But I cannot promise that no evil would befall me on the journey. I thank you for your time" "Will tonight be soon enough?" Hugh blinked. "What?" "If you return at dusk, I shall have the documents drawn up, the money waiting for you." There was a moment of stunned silence. Hugh's companions were even more astonished than he was, for they'd harbored no hope at all. "You mean it?" Hugh gasped, and the corner of Isaac's mouth hinted at a smile. But then Wat said aggressively, even angrily: "Ere this devil's deal is struck, Hugh, you'd best ask him how much interest he means to bleed from you. Master Bevis tells me he has paid as much as forty percent of the debt due!" "And has your Master Bevis told you about all the times your King has seen fit to cancel Christian debts outright?" Isaac's voice revealed no overt anger, but his eyes had narrowed, belying his apparent sangfroid. "Did he happen to mention those occasions when Christian borrowers decide to discharge their debts by burning all records of them and the Jewry, too?" Wat had begun to sputter, but before he could give voice to his outrage, Hugh was at his side, his fingers clamping down like talons on Waf s arm. "The Evesham monks taught me," he said softly, "that rt is the height of bad manners to insult a man in his own house." Abel was looking resentful, too, and for a suspenseful moment, "ugh's hopes seemed to hang precariously in the balance. But then nan took charge, ushering his friends hastily toward the door. "Hugh be back by dusk," he flung over his shoulder, muttering when Hugh hesitated, "Let's get out of here ere he changes his mind!" , At sound of the closing door, the maidservant emerged from behind e screen, leading Isaac's son by the hand. "May he play out here 186 "Come to me, Elias," Isaac said, and the little boy tottered tow him. He was lifting Elias up onto a high-backed chair when he h footsteps. Whirling, he saw Hugh standing just a few feet away "I came back," Hugh said, for when he was nervous, he tended belabor the obvious. "I wanted to thank you. You have no idea h ° much it means to me, that you agreed to give me the money." "I think I do," Isaac said dryly, "for you left without even askin what the interest would be." ° Hugh's smile was sheepish. "I'm not good at business matters," h confessed. "I'd never borrowed money before. In fact, I ... I'd neve met a Jew before. You are not what I expected, not at all." 'No cloven hoof, you mean?" Hugh flushed, but managed a game smile. "May I ask something? Why did you do it? Why did you agree to make the loan?" "Does it truly matter?" Isaac parried, sounding cautious, but curious, too. "Let me put a question to you, instead. Why did you tell me your true identity? Did you not fear that I might betray you?" Hugh shrugged. "It just did not seem right to lie, not when I was seeking a favor." Isaac was silent for so long that Hugh decided the conversation was at an end. He was about to retreat when Isaac said abruptly, unexpectedly, "You must have been very young when you entered Lady Eleanor's service, for loyalty like yours takes years to forge. I assume then, that you've been dwelling in France?" When Hugh gave a puzzled nod, Isaac hesitated, and there was another long pause. "It has never been easy to be a Jew in England," he said at last, speaking fast and very low. "But life is harder now than ever before, for King Edward despises us so. His father brought untold grief upon us by his attempts to convert us to your faith. He set up conversion houses throughout England, was truly disappointed when his nets caught so few fish. But Edward cares naught for our souls, cares only for the money he can wrest from us. And when a lemon is wrung dry, you throw it away . . . no?" "I suppose so," Hugh said uncertainly. "You are wondering what lemons have to do with this. But in the past year, the King's mother has banished all Jews from her dower towns, from Marlborough, Gloucester, Worcester, and Cambridge. The Gloucester Jews took refuge here in Bristol, so I saw for myself what misery the old Queen caused." "You truly think King Edward might do that? Expel all the Jews from England?" Hugh's astonishment was genuine; he'd never even considered the possibility before. "But. . . but where would you all gohe asked, and now it was Isaac who shrugged. 187 awkward silence fell. Isaac was standing behind his son's chair reached down, ruffled Elias's bright hair, but it was obvious his ^ hts were elsewhere; his was the taut, disquieted distraction of a t"° tartled by his own candor. But then Hugh smiled. "* "T think I understand. My lady tells me the Welsh have a saying, The enemy of my enemy is my friend.' " "And was I right, Sir Hugh? Is Edward your enemy, too?" Isaac ked quietly, and saw Hugh's guileless blue eyes take on a sudden, hard sheen. "With my lady on her way to a Windsor prison, need you even ask?" They looked at each other, experiencing an odd sense of empathy, strong enough to take them both by surprise. "Shall I tell you the second reason why I decided to lend you that money?" "Because you were bedazzled by my juggling?" Hugh suggested with a grin. "No . . . because my son was." And in those last fleeting moments before the barriers went back up, they exchanged smiles, as the child looked on, innocent, uncomprehending. THE sky had been clear when Caitlin rode away from Cricieth Castle, but by noon, it was mottled with small, circular clouds. From time to time, she gazed upward uneasily, for those speckled wisps of white reminded her of the patterned splotches on a mackerel's back, and she was familiar with the folklore, "Mackerel sky, rain is nigh." Well, she'd have to risk it, for she did not know when she'd get another chance to seek out the soothsayer. If the woman had a name, Caitlin had never heard it. People just called her the hag, for she was as ancient and gnarled as Llyn's oldest oak trees. Sometimes they called her the witch. Caitlin was frightened °f facing her alone, but she was determined to go through with it, for her uncle's sake. If it was true that the old woman could foretell the ture, mayhap she could reveal what had happened to Uncle Llewelyn's English bride. Men said the witch lived in a hut on the eastern slope of Y Garn, a stone's throw from the church at Dolbenmaen. Caitlin reckoned she could get there and back by dusk, for the trail was well marked, the now packed down and solid. Glancing again at that dappled sky, *e w°ndered if the hag could read minds, too. What if the witch could erret °ut her own secret? If she could tell how much she'd dreaded the coming of the English bride? 188 Caitlin bit her lip, for it shamed her to think of another person knowing of her jealousy. It was not that she'd ever believed the taunting of her spiteful cousins; she'd never liked Tegwared's sons. Even if a new broom did sweep clean, even if the Lady de Montfort did not want Davydd's bastard waif, she knew her uncle would not abandon her would not send her away to please a new wife. But life would never be the same. Sometimes it seemed to Caitlin as if she could already fee[ t the new wife's disdain, see those elegant English eyebrows raising in f the way ladies showed displeasure. And she'd begun to hope, even to pray, that her uncle's marriage to Eleanor de Montfort would never come to pass. She'd often heard people joke that a man should watch what he prayed for, lest he get it. Like most adult humor, its point had escaped heruntil now. Until the days dragged into weeks, January yielded to February, and her uncle's gaze strayed again and again to the grey winter seas, searching the horizon for a distant sail. Caitlin looked skyward, but not this time to track clouds. "I did not mean it," she cried. "I did not want any harm to befall her. I just wanted her to stay in France!" She'd turned inland now, no longer heard the rumble of the surf or the screeching of gulls, heard only the echoes of her own words, long after the wind had carried them away. So caught up was she in her own thoughts that she did not see the sudden dip in the trail until they were upon it. With another mount, it might not have mattered, but Caitlin's mare had an idiosyncrasy peculiarly its own; every time it came to the crest of a hill, even a slight incline, the horse felt compelled to run down it. Now, as the ground suddenly sloped away, it bolted, and Caitlin, caught off balance, went sailing right over the filly's head. A snowdrift cushioned her fall, but by the time she'd gotten to her feet, the mare was vanishing into the distance. There was nothing for Caitlin to do except brush the snow from her mantle, while calling the mare all those names she'd heard her uncle call the English King. There was no hope of catching the animal; she saw that at once. As furious with herself now as with her runaway filly, she turned, began the long, tiring trek back toward Cricieth. The horse might well find its way home on its own. But if the mare turned up, riderless, someone would surely recognize it, hasten to tell Llewelyn that his niece had suffered a mishap. She'd meant to ease his mind, not add to his troubles. Yet now it was likely all of Cricieth would be turned topsy-turvy, because of her. And once she was found, what in Heaven's Name could she tell them? Uncle Llewelyn would want to know why she'd been out on the road by herself. She could not lie, not to him. But how could she tell him about the soothsayer? 189 It seemed to her that the sky had darkened, and as she trudged 1 ne the winding trail, she thought she could hear the distant howling , wOjves. People feared wolves more than any other predator, but her cle had assured her that wolves were actually wary, cautious creatures, unlikely to attack men. If Llewelyn said it was so, that was enough for Caitlin; her faith was absolute. But she would rather not meet a wolf foot and alone, would rather not put its character to such a tempting test, and she quickened her pace. When she stopped again to listen, the wind brought to her a far more familiar and reassuring sound, the jangle of a harness, the rhythmic thud of hooves upon hard, snow-encrusted ground. Caitlin's spirits soared. But the horse now coming into view through the trees was not her fugitive mare, was a big-boned rangy bay. The gelding's rider looked as startled as Caitlin. His reflexes were good, though; he reined in beside her in a spray of snow. While Caitlin would have preferred to find her mare, to keep her mishap between herself and the filly and the Almighty, she was grateful, nonetheless, for this stranger's providential appearance; Cricieth would have been a long walk. "How glad I am that you happened by! My mare threw me; you did not see her, did you? Can you give me a ride as far as Cricieth Castle?" Puzzled by his silence, she moved closer, found herself looking up into eyes of a deep and uncomprehending blue. At the same time, she noted his beard, the blond hair shadowed by the wide-brimmed hat. "Blessed Lady, an Englishman!" Hugh had yet to understand a word she'd said. "I speak no Welsh," he said apologetically, and Caitlin gave a vast sigh of relief. "French, thank Heaven! Some of your countrymen speak only English, or so I've been told. Does it not get confusing for you sometimes, like the Tower of Babel in Scriptures?" She stopped in surprise, for Hugh had begun to laugh. "If you are real, lad, and not conjured up by my lack of sleep, tell me what a Welsh mp speaking perfect French is doing all alone out here in this wilderness?" "My uncle made me learn French because it is the court Ian A 'ad? I am a girl!" Caitlin exclaimed indignantly, and jerked back her mantle hood to reveal a long shining braid. "Lord forgive me, so you are!" Hugh's demeanor changed dramatically, from friendly to protective in the blink of an eye. "It is dan§erous for a lass to be wandering about on your own like this. I'd best ee you home straightaway, no arguments now!" 'Who is arguing? No, there is no need to dismount; just give me y°ur hand," Caitlin directed, and to Hugh's amusement, she scrambled 190 up behind him, as nimbly as any boy. "Can you take me to Cricietj. Castle?" "If you tell me how to get there," Hugh said agreeably, and Waited until her thin little arms were securely clasped about his waist before spurring his horse forward. "So . . . what is a little lass like you doing out here all by yourself?" "I am not so little, will be twelve next month. Anyway, what is an Englishman doing all by himself so deep in Wales?" Hugh grinned. "This uncle who taught you French must also have taught you military tactics. Whenever possible, carry the attack into the enemy's territory!" Caitlin grinned, too. "I did not mean to pry, truly, but it is unusual to see an Englishman in this part of Gwynedd. Most of your countrymen keep to the south." "I am on my way to Pwllheli, where I hope to find Prince Llewelyn." Caitlin stiffened. "What makes you think he is there?" Hugh hesitated from habit, before remembering that there was no longer reason for secrecy. "Because that is where he is awaiting his wife's arrival from France." Caitlin's gasp was so audible that he turned in the saddle. "Prince Llewelyn is my uncle. Can you tell me, please, about the Lady Eleanor? We've been so worried. She is still coming?" "No . . . no, lass, she is not." LLEWELYN'S impressive self-control was acknowledged even by his enemies. But it had not come easily to him. He had learned wariness the hard way, only after years of youthful turmoil, scarred by irreconcilable family loyalties, by his unrelenting struggles with the English Crown, by his brother's betrayals. He had learned, too, to keep his own counsel. And so he did not confide his uneasiness, his growing fears for Ellen's safety. For those who knew him well, though, there was no need for words. They watched him gazing out across Pwllheli's harbor, and they tried to help, each in his own way. His Seneschal, Tudur, sought to keep Llewelyn so busy, so preoccupied with statecraft and the affairs of Gwynedd that he'd have no time to worry. His cousin Tegwared tried to cheer him with jests and practical jokes, with surprise gifts and the songs of their best bards. And his uncle, Einion, confronted his fears head-on, brought them out into the open. Llewelyn must remember that they did not know the Lady Ellen s exact departure date. Her last letter had expressed the hope that they d 191 able to sail in mid-December, but it was just that, a "hope." It may that bad weather or unexpected delays had kept the cog at Harfleur 11 into the new year. Even if they had sailed on time, storms could ve forced her ship to seek shelter in any of a dozen coastal ports. If the wind was not with them, they'd make little headway in heavy seas. He himself could testify to that, having once endured a vile winter crossing from Ireland. Ill winds had driven them back into Drogheda's harbor so many times that he'd lost count, had become convinced he'd have to begin life anew as an Irishman. Logically, Llewelyn knew that Einion was right, that his concern was premature. But instinct stronger than reason was communicating a message impossible to ignore, that something was very wrong. He spent so much time staring out at the harbor that he at last moved his household six miles up the coast to his castle at Cricieth. But he did not succeed in leaving his anxiety behind at Pwllheli. At Cricieth, too, he found himself gazing out to sea, and his dreams were troubled, as dark and murky as those surging, shoreward tides. For as he watched the waves splash over the rocks below the castle, he was slowly coming to the most appalling understanding of all, that he might never know what happened. If Ellen's ship had been lost at sea, there'd be no word of the disaster, only this endless, suffocating silence, a lifetime of silence. And so when Hugh knelt and stammered out that Ellen had been taken by pirates off the coast of Cornwall, Llewelyn's reaction was one almost of relief. At least she was alive. As terrifying as her ordeal must have been, she was alive and could be rescued. Hugh's presence was proof of that, proof that she had been able to convince the pirates of her identity, not a woman to be raped and abused, one to be ransomed. Hugh looked so distraught that he said reassuringly, "It will be all right, lad. We'll get her back, I promise. How much do they want for her release?" Having to tell Nell and Ellen that Bran was dead was the most difficult task Hugh had ever faceduntil now. "My lord . . . there is no ransom demand. It was not ill chance that put us in the pirates' path. They were waiting for your lady," he said, saw that Llewelyn was quick to comprehend. "Christ Jesus . . . Edward?" Hugh nodded miserably. "I do not know how he found out, my '°rd, for we took such care to keep the wedding secret. The man has ^holy luck. How else explain it? If there had been fog that day, we would have gotten by them, or if the winds had shifted ..." Hugh was t*ing too much, knew it, could not help himself. Llewelyn was no longer listening. Moving to the window, he stared 192 out at the churning sea, pressing his fist against the opaque glass pane ordered for Ellen. He had never even met her, although she wore his ring, bore his name. But even before they'd taken those holy vows, there had been a bond between them, a connection he could not fully explain Long after he'd disavowed their first plight troth, he'd found that he still cared about her safety, her welfare. A debt of honor, a memory made realwhatever the reason, when his need became urgent to take L a wife, there was but one choice, one woman. if She was a stranger to him, but her presence in the room was almost tangible, for it had been furnished just for her. The walls had been wainscotted and then painted green and gold, in the English fashion The bed was piled high with fur-lined coverlets, embroidered with the de Montfort arms. To please her, there were silver candelabras and February flowering Candlemas bells and delicate perfume vials. An ivory hairbrush and matching hand mirror had been laid out for her use. He had spared no expense to make her feel at home in an alien land, this young woman who'd gone from sheltered affluence to dishonored exile, from a Prince's betrothed to a dead rebel's daughter, all in the span of one bloodied sword thrust. He'd discovered that he wanted to give her back some of what she'd lost, and he'd begun here, at Cricieth. This was to have been Ellen's bridal chamber. But she would never see it now. Her de Montfort blood and their marriage vows would condemn her to a lifetime's confinement in England. Edward would never let her go. Llewelyn had reached the table. Picking up the mirror, he turned it over; the back had been engraved with the letter E. When he flung it into the hearth, there was a splintering sound as the glass shattered, and Hugh flinched. With a sweep of his arm, Llewelyn sent the rest of the table's contents crashing into the floor rushes; a chair followed. Llewelyn's greyhound had begun to whimper softly, but all Hugh could hear was Llewelyn's ragged breathing. He was edging toward the door, stopped when Llewelyn looked toward him. "Do you want me to go, my lord?" Llewelyn shook his head, beckoned him back. It was very quiet after that; Llewelyn said nothing and Hugh was willing to wait until he did. Finally Llewelyn righted the over-turned chair, sat down, and gestured for Hugh to do the same. There had been a flagon on the table; the floor rushes were soaking in mead. Hugh unfastened a travel flask from his belt, held it out with a shy smile. He was pleased when Llewelyn took it, drank, and passed it back. Looking at the wreckage-strewn floor, Llewelyn said, very low, "K 193 been a long time since I lost control like that, more than twenty ars A woman very dear to me had miscarried of a baby, died of the ^ suiting fever, and afterward, I tried to put my fist through a table. It ... no{ help, and I damned near broke my hand, thought I'd learned a lesson ..." Hugh offered the flask again. "The woman . . . who was she, my lord?" "My aunt. Passing strange, her name was also Elen, spelled in the Welsh way. She was Nell's kinswoman, too, her sister Joanna's daughter Nell was there with me when Elen died. She was the one who bandaged my hand." "At least the Lady Nell was spared this," Hugh ventured, so desperate was he to offer consolation of any kind, and Llewelyn's mouth twisted down. "Yes, she died believing that I'd take care of her daughter," he said, so bitterly that Hugh's breath stopped. "What of Morgan? Is he dead?" He felt no surprise when Hugh nodded, and made a sign of the cross; he could do no more for his dead than he could for the living. "Tell me what happened," he said, and Hugh did, from their first glimpse of the pirate galley's crimson sail to the moment when he'd ridden away from Bristol on the horse purchased with Isaac ben Ashler's money. Llewelyn listened in silence. Only once did he interrupt, when Hugh revealed that Ellen had been taken at first to Bristol Castle. "Bristol ... I wonder if they gave her Eleanor of Brittany's old chamber." Hugh had never heard of Eleanor of Brittany until he was stranded in Bristol. But since then, he'd been haunted by that unhappy lady's fate, and now he found himself pleading, as much for his own sake as for Llewelyn's, "You must not give up hope, my lord. We have to believe she'll be set free." Llewelyn drank again. "How long have you been in my wife's service?" "It will be five years come the summer." "You must know her well then, Hugh. Tell me the truth. Do you think she is strong enough to survive this?" "To look at her, you'd think not," Hugh said slowly. "When I was 111 Tuscany, I saw an ivory carving of the Madonna; thaf s what the Italians call our Blessed Lady. I tell you this, my lord, because your lady seems just like that Florentine church sculpture, delicate and finely made, breakable. But Brother Teilo told me that when the cog was seized, Lady Ellen held off one of the pirates with a knife." He'd meant to reassure, saw how badly he'd miscalculated only as "** blood left Llewelyn's face. "She has not been harmed, my lord! I 194 am sure of it, for Thomas the Archdeacon would never be fool enouou to rape the King's cousin." Llewelyn rose abruptly, then bent down and picked up Ellen's hand mirror. The ivory case had been fashioned by a master craftsman, a thm sheet of clear glass fitted over a polished plate of copper. It had been pretty piece of work, but now the glass was smashed and the metal dented and scratched, both beyond repair. "I believe you, Hugh," j,e said softly. "But she ought never to have faced a danger like that. » Letting the mirror drop into the floor rushes, he turned back to the young Englishman. "You are welcome at my court, welcome in Wales I would be fortunate to have you in my service." Hugh felt a surge of grateful admiration for the Welsh Prince's deft touch; rarely had an offer of refuge been tendered so gracefully, camouflaged as praise. "You do me honor, my lord. But I cannot accept, not yet. I would be beholden to you, though, if you could give me the money to repay Isaac ben Asher, and enough to get me, then, to Windsor." "Windsor?" Llewelyn's voice was suddenly sharp. "You are following Ellen?" "Of course," Hugh said simply. "But first I mean to go to Corfe Castle, to see if there is anything to be done on Lord Amaury's behalf." Llewelyn had given no thought to Amaury's plight, no thought to anyone but Ellen. "Corfe Castle," he echoed somberly. "God pity him. Do you truly think you can even gain admittance? From what I've heard of Corfe, it would be easier to get into the Caliph of Baghdad's harem." "I have to try, my lord. From Corfe, I shall go to Windsor, seek out my lady. After that, it is in God's Hands." No, Llewelyn thought, in Edward's hands, God rot him. Strange, that hatred could burn with such a white-hot flame, yet be so utterly ice-cold at the core. But Hugh was still waiting patiently. "You'll not want for money, Hugh. Tell me ... if I were to give you a letter, do you think you'd be able to get it to Ellen?" "I'll find a way," Hugh vowed, "that I swear to you, my lord." He said no more, for there was no more to be said, quietly let himself out of the chamber. Llewelyn crossed to a coffer, brought out writing materials, and took them back to the table. But he found himself staring at the parchment as his pen dripped ink onto the page. What was he to say to her. He'd sworn a holy oath to protect her, to cherish her, yet he could do neither. In truth, there was nothing he could do for heronly rage and grieveand well he knew it. Looking blindly down at the blank parchment, he wondered if she knew it, too. 15 CORFE CASTLE, ENGLAND March J276 1 HE whitewashed wall above Amaury's pallet was streaked with grime and yellowed by smoke, scarred by the scratched messages of men long dead. Upon his arrival, Amaury had begun to mark the days of his confinement, stirring the ashes in his charcoal brazier and drawing crosses on the wall above his head. But as February gave way to March and the crosses multiplied, he had a sudden harrowing vision of what his future held: row after row of those cinder-smeared symbols, filling the walls from floor to ceiling, crosses beyond counting. After that he drew no more crosses, counted no more days. He'd been sleeping, awoke at sound of a key in the lock. He tensed, but the door did not open. He'd always been a realist, the only one of Simon de Montfort's sons capable of detached analysis, the only one not ruled by his passions, and he refusedeven nowto console himself with false hope, at least during his waking hours. His dreams, though, were of midnight escapes and miracles. Sitting up, he scratched a flea bite while trying to motivate himself to light a candle, for the daylight was fast fading. As barren and sparse as his prison was, he was thankful to be housed in the Butavant Tower's uppermost chamber. From his pallet, he could catch a grateful glimpse of sky, but the ground-floor dungeon was windowless. Below it, he'd been told, lay a chamber of even greater horrors, a pit deep in the earth, reached only through a trapdoor in the floor above. Amaury did not understand how a man could be buried alive like that and not go mad. Lying back on the pallet, he sought in vain to get comfortable upon the thin straw mattress. He'd taken some of his holy vows more seriously than others, had never seen why poverty enhanced a priesf s piety. Like Warty sons of noble families he'd found in the Church a career rather 196 than a calling. Well, he'd be honoring all his vows now, he'd be living as austerely as any recluse, those holy men who shunned the world and all its pleasures, mortifying the flesh whilst devoting their every waking thought to the glories of God Eternal and Life Everlasting. Here at Corfe, he had his anchorite's cell, and all the time he'd ever need for contemplative meditation upon his sins and hopes of salvation. He suspected, though, that he'd spare a thought or two for his royal I benefactor, his right beloved cousin Ned. if Yielding the bed to the fleas, he got stiffly to his feet, moved restlessly to the unshuttered window. Dusk had begun to blur the edges of the Purbeck Hills, and slate-color clouds promised rain before morning. He wondered what view Ellen looked out upon from her Windsor chamber. He wondered, too, how he'd fill the day's dwindling hours. He'd always imagined that boredom must be a prisoner's greatest foe. But he'd not expected the solitude to be equally burdensome. Even as a boy, he'd been as independent as any cat, accustomed to going his own way. It came as a shock, therefore, to discover that loneliness could be so crippling. So starved was he for companionship that he'd begun to look forward to those days when Bertram was on duty, for the genial, garrulous guard was always willing to linger and talk. A good-natured, unlettered man in his forties, Bertram had been untouched by the turmoil that had convulsed England during Simon de Montfort's struggle with King Henry. The boundaries of Bertram's world stretched no farther than the confines of his Dorsetshire village, and it mattered little to him that Amaury was a de Montfort. But that Amaury was a priest mattered greatly. Bertram did not believe a man of God ought to be imprisoned like a common felon, and when he learned that Amaury was a papal chaplain, his indignation led him to perform small acts of kindness whenever possible, seeing that Amaury had extra candles, another blanket, even a wooden comb. And Amaury, who'd once dined with kings and consorted with popes, could only reflect, with rueful bitterness, that what Scriptures said was all too true. Pride indeed did goeth before destruction, a haughty spirit before a fall. He stiffened suddenly, again thinking he'd heard the jangle of keys. This time, though, his senses had not played him false. As he turned from the window, the door swung open and Bertram entered with his supper tray. The food was the usual Lenten faresalted herring, half a loaf of barley bread, a dollop of apple butter, and a tankard of tepid aleedible, if not appetizing. But Bertram was beaming, looking as pleased as if he'd just brought Amaury a meal to grace a king's table- 197 "I've a joyful surprise for you, my lord," he declared, "a visitor!" And he stepped aside to reveal a grey-robed friar standing behind him ^ the shadows. Amaury was delighted. But as he came forward to welcome the friar, the man pulled his cowled hood back, and his gasp was as audible as it was involuntary. "FriarHugh!" It was a quick recovery, but needless; Hugh was grinning widely. "Bertram knows I'm no friar," he said breezily, and then found himself blinking back tears, for Amaury, the aloof, the proud, was embracing him like a brother. Bertram deposited the tray, collected the chamber pot, and headed for the door, warning that they had only till the Vespers bells sounded. They squandered a few of those moments listening to the receding echoes of his footsteps on the stairs. Then Hugh said regretfully, "I'd hoped there might be some way to set you freeuntil I drew rein before the outer bailey walls. It would take a Merlin to contrive an escape from Corfe, my lord." "I know, Hugh, indeed I know. I am astounded that you were even able to talk your way in to see me. That Franciscan disguisevery clever!" Hugh grinned again. "Well, in truth, it was Prince Llewelyn's idea," he confided, fumbling under his robes. "You've seen Llewelyn?" Amaury was incredulous. "By God, you truly are a marvel!" Having untied the burlap sack knotted about his waist, Hugh now brought it out with a flourish. "Even if I cannot offer the keys to your prison, I do not come empty-handed, my lord." Reaching into the sack, he withdrew a small prayer book and a coral rosary. "I've a psalter and pater noster for you. Bertram balked at the razor, but he agreed to bring you a washing laver on the morrow. I have a hairbrush for you, and some soft Bristol soap, too. And there's a change of clothing, a tunic, chausses, a shirt, and several pairs of braies." Amaury had resolutely refused to let himself think that far ahead, to the time when his clothes would become too ragged, threadbare, and (torty to be worn. "You've thought of everything, Hugh," he said, and when he looked into the sack, he saw that was, indeed, true. There Were extra candles, monkshood root to kill rats and mice, and a larkspur seed powder for lice and fleas. An ink horn, several quill pens, and rolled sheets of parchment. Dried figs. Even a packet of needles and 'ttead. "What prisoner could ask for more?" he said softly, and Hugh, ssing the irony altogether, gave him a sunlit smile. "There is more," he said, holding out a small, leather pouch; 198 Amaury heard the clinking of coins. "We thought this might come in handy, since most gaolers are more money-minded than Bertram. Ah I almost forgot . . . there are some books, too, in the bottom of the bag " Amaury was puzzled by his own emotions. He ought to be elated for Hugh's bounty was a genuine godsend. And he was grateful. But at the same time, there was a curious sense of letdown, too, for the gift of these basic necessities, items he'd always taken utterly for granted I served to bring home to him his impotence, his outcast status as a | prisoner, dependent upon others for even the most simple needs. But there was nothing in the least ambivalent about his reaction to the word books. "Ah, Hugh, bless you for that!" "I wish I could say it was my doing, but alas, it was not," Hugh confessed cheerfully, for although he was proud of his literacy, reading for pure pleasure was an alien concept to him. "It was Prince Llewelyn who thought books might help to banish boredom. Shall I see what we've got for you?" Drawing out a book bound with thin wooden boards, he held it up for Amaury's inspection. "Chretien de Troyes's Yvain, the Knight of the Lion. And here is Geoffrey of Monmouth's History of the Kings of Britain. The Song of Roland. I was fretting that you might have read some of these already, but Prince Llewelyn assured me that it is not unheard-of to read a book more than once!" Amaury was watching so avidly as the books piled up on his bed that Hugh began to laugh. "I feel as if I'm pouring gold coins out for the counting! I know you are fluent in Latin, so we included the Roman poet Ovid's Metamorphoses, and Robert Grosseteste's Dicta." Amaury reached out, picked up the last-named book. "My father had so many of Bishop Robert's books," he said, and only then did Hugh remember that Simon de Montfort and the Bishop of Lincoln had been more than friends; they had been political allies, spiritual soulmates who'd shared a vision of a new England, one in which the cleansing flames of a Christian chivalry could burn free and pure. "Passing strange," Amaury said, "that there should be so many men who see both my father and Bishop Robert as saints. They pray to the Bishop, too; did you know that, Hugh?" Hugh nodded. "The monks at Evesham used to tell us of a family who had brought their ailing child to pray at the Bishop's shrine. The lad swooned, and when he came to his senses, he said that the Bishop was not in his tomb, that he'd gone to be with his brother Simon, who was to die on the morrow at Evesham." Amaury said nothing, but there was such an odd, distant look upon his face that, for the first time, Hugh found himself wondering what it was like to be the son of a legend. "Do you ever wish," he askeo 199 'tantly, "that men did not see your lord father as ... as St Simon . cyesham? It must be strange at times, sorting out your memories, ° aking sense of it all . . ." He'd begun to stammer a bit, self-conscious, ring he might inadvertently have offended. No one had ever asked Amaury that before. "I think," he said lowly/ "that sometimes I feel . . . cheated, as if I'd been robbed of something that was mine . . . my family's." Hearing his own words, he smiled thinly. "Does that sound utterly mad to you?" "No, of course not," Hugh said, uncomprehending but invariably polite. "There is one more book in the bag. This one has a right interesting history. Your kinsman, the old Earl of Chester, bought it whilst on his way to the Holy Land, later gave it to his nephew, John the Scot, who was the husband of Llewelyn Fawr's daughter. John gave it to Llewelyn, and eventually it ended up in the hands of his grandson, our Lady Ellen's Llewelyn. He thought you might find it diverting, for it is all about alien lands, written by a Christian pilgrim. He relates some truly marvelous adventures, even includes a vocabulary of foreign words, mostly Arabic, I think." "I suppose learning Arabic is as good a way to fill the hours as any. Have you ever heard of Robert, the Duke of Normandy? No? He was a distant kinsman of mine, a son of William the Bastard, first of the Norman Kings. He was the eldest, but his younger brother Henry ended up on England's throne and he ended up in an English prison. For a while, he was held here at Corfe. But then he was moved to Cardiff Castle in Wales, where he learned to speak Welsh. Of course he had all the time in the world for study. You see, he was caged until he died, nigh on thirty years, if my memory serves." It occurred to Hugh that education could be a dubious blessing. For certes, it would have been better, he thought, if Prince Llewelyn had never heard of Eleanor of Brittany and Lord Amaury knew naught of this Robert of Normandy. He was determined, though, that their visit would not end on such a bleak note, and he said, as heartily as he could, "I've something else for you, my lord. Ale was never to your liking; I remember you saying you'd sooner swill goat's piss. Well, I have a full flask here of spiced red wine, and I thought we might celebrate my twentieth birthday together." "Your birthday?" Amaury echoed, and Hugh nodded, although it was actually still a few days hence. "I'd wager this is the oddest setting for any birthday you'll ever have, Hugh!" "No," Hugh said and grinned. "When I turned fifteen, your brother wan took me to a whorehouse in Siena!" "Did he for true?" Amaury almost laughed. "That does sound like wan. He always was a lad for" 200 He heard it before Hugh did, the sound of footsteps nearing th door. Bertram poked his head in, then tactfully withdrew, after alerting them to "say your farewells." "Quick, my lord." Hugh shoved a parchment across the bed. "From here I am going to Windsor, and if you write to Lady Ellen, I may be able to get it to her." As Amaury wrote, Hugh took this opportunity to inspect his prison L He'd not expected the chamber to be so bare, so stark, for he knew men if of Amaury's rank were often confined in considerable comfort, even allowed their own servants to tend to their needs. "I do not understand," he said suddenly, "why the English King is so set upon punishing you like this. Surely he cannot still believe you played a part in that killing at Viterbo. Jesii, the Bishop of Padua himself swore you'd never left the city!" "Edward well knows that I am innocent," Amaury said, and signed his name with deliberation. "Have you never heard of a scapegoat, Hugh? According to Scriptures, it is an unfortunate animal that shoulders the sins of others ere being banished into the wilderness." He saw that Hugh did not yet comprehend, and said quietly, "It is true that my cousin Hal betrayed our father, but he did not deserve to be hacked to death in a church. My brother Guy will never admit it, mayhap not even to himself, but he knows that to be true. God pity him, so did Bran. Hal died, not for his own sins, but for Edward's." "You are saying, then, that King Edward is punishing you because he cannot punish Guy? But . . . but there is no justice in that!" "Ah, but there is, Hugh," Amaury said trenchantly, "royal justice." "And what exactly is royal justice?" "Whatever the King says it is," Amaury said, with a cynicism that took Hugh's breath away. But when he opened his mouth to protest, he found himself unable to refute Amaury, for Edward was not his cousin and Corfe was not his gaol. AFTER encountering so many obstacles in his attempts to breach the defenses of Corfe Castle, Hugh approached Windsor with some trepidation. But he was to discover that his qualms had been needless. Corfe was a state prison and, of necessity, virtually impregnable. Windsor Castle proved to be far more accessible, a royal palace that comprised no less than three baileys, two half-timbered King's Houses, several chapels, numerous stables, kitchens, a bake-house and buttery, a great hall, an almonry, kennels, and gardens, all of this in addition to the circular castle keep and fortified towers, spread out over thirteen full acres of ground, an area even larger than that of the Tower of London. 201 lust twenty miles from Westminster, Windsor had long been a orite royal dwelling, and while Edward was not currently in resi- , CSi some of his children were, and the nurseries in the upper haileV resounded with their squeals, with the scolding of their harried urses. Amidst the comings and goings of tradesmen and servants j guards and townsmen, no one looked twice at a lone Franciscan friar. Unlike monks, who were not supposed to stray far from their monasteries, friars were expected, even obligated, to remain in the world, preaching God's Word in the streets and marketplaces. Hugh's presence, therefore, seemed not at all untoward, and he was able to wander at will about the castle grounds, prudently avoiding those buildings where security-minded sentries might be inclined to challenge him. There was not a stable groom, not a kitchen scullion, who did not know that Simon de Montfort's daughter was the King's unwilling guest, and they were all quite willing to gossip about her. Hugh soon learned that Ellen was lodged in an upper chamber of the Round Tower, that she was being treated with the deference due the King's kinswoman, and that more than a few pitied her plight. But the most useful information came from old Emo, the royal gardener. Emo was vastly proud of the gardens and vineyards that lay beyond the castle walls; more than five flowering acres, he boasted, enclosed within hedges of blackthorn and alder. But the poor lass would not get to see his masterwork. She was only allowed to walk in the small garden plots safely set within the castle baileys, would miss the glory of his roses in full summer bloom. King Henry had built a chapel in the northeast corner of the lower bailey, separated from the new royal apartments by a spacious cloistered garden. It was here that Hugh took up his post, safely hidden within the deep shadows of the silent chapel, watching the cloisters, waiting. His were virtuesa calm, steady nature, courage, and an enduring optimismthat were well suited for surveillance, and on the second day of his vigil, his patience was rewarded. Just before noon, a young Anight escorted Ellen and Juliana into the garden. Ellen was carrying the most exotic-looking dog Hugh had ever seen. The size of a small cat, with tufts of soft, milk-white fur, it put Hugh m mind of a walking powder-puff. As she bent down to put it on the Brass, he slipped through the chapel doorway and drew back his hood from his face. Juliana saw him first. She was the most spontaneous free spirit he'd *ver known, yet now she did not even blink, turning casually and touchm8 Ellen's arm. Ellen's response was equally circumspect; she gazed acr°ss at Hugh without a flicker of recognition. And then, in so smooth 202 a maneuver it might have been choreographed between them, Julian focused the full seductive power of her smile upon Sir Nicholas, dravvin him aside, and Ellen tossed her dog's toy up into the air. It landed almost at Hugh's feet, a small strand of braided rope, w,^ the puppy in panting pursuit. Scooping them both up, he sauntered across the cloister garth. "Is this your dog, my lady?" "Yes, thank you. She was a gift from my cousin, the King, cornes , from Bologna in Italy, he says ..." Ellen sounded quite normal, even nochalant, but had no idea what she'd just said. From the corner of her eye, she saw that Juliana had lured Sir Nicholas out of earshot, and she expelled a shaken breath. "We thought you were dead!" "Brian helped me to escape. Hold out your hand." Puzzled, she did, not comprehending until she felt something smooth and metallic hidden under the rope. Cupping it cautiously, she found herself looking at a heart-shaped topaz pendant. "Prince Llewelyn said to tell you that there are many who think topaz guards against grief. He does not know if he believes so himself, but he said that even if it is no talisman, it is a pledge, and that you can rely upon, my lady." Ellen's fingers closed around the pendant, gripping it so tightly it would leave an imprint in the palm of her hand. "You've seen Llewelyn?" she whispered, once she was sure she could trust her voice, and Hugh nodded. "Yes . . . and Lord Amaury, too. We were able to talk briefly at Corfe." "Amaury? The truth, Hugh, please! How is he faring? How are they treating him?" "His chamber is right Spartan, I'll not deny that. But it could be far worse, my lady. He has candles for the dark and blankets for the cold and two full meals a day. Fortunately, the King has agreed to pay for his keep" "Oh, has he?" Ellen all but hissed the words. "How very magnanimous of him!" "Ah, no, my lady, you do not understand. We could not take that for granted. It is customary for the Exchequer to pay for the maintenance of hostages, and sometimes, but not always, for Crown prisoners like Lord Amaury. But for other prisoners, there are no provisions. When a man is arrested, his family must pay for his food, candles, all frs needs. God pity the poor soul who is friendless. It is not unheard-of fc>r men to starve in the King's gaols. If King Edward had not . . " But Ellen was no longer listening. Although standing in the gl316 of high noon, she still could not suppress a shiver. "Thank God I neve' knew that!" Reaching down, she cuddled the puppy in her arms, walk6 r 203 v and forth along the pathway, trying to regain her composure, to contain her rage "Ere my lord father rode out to face the King's army at the battle , t evves, he told his men that he'd taken an oath to reform the realm, h told them that they were fighting for Christ's poor, for the weal of -ngiand, for the promises broken and the trust betrayed He knew, you he always knew what he risked He did not go blindly to his fate, iew what was at stake And Guy and Bran they must have understood the consequences of their killing Just as I, too, understood When I agreed to wed Llewelyn, I knew how enraged Edward would be But I chose to risk it, I chose1 Do you not see, Hugh? Each of us, in our own way, we chose all but Amaury He is not caged up at Corfe for anything he did, for any choice he made, and it is that which I find hardest to accept, to forgive " Hugh nodded somberly, he would not insult her with facile, false comfort, would not offer platitudes He'd kept a wary eye upon Sir Nicholas, knew that their time was running out, for the knight was beginning to cast curious glances their way "Shall I fetch you some flowers, my lady7" And without waiting for Ellen's response, he moved into the grassy center mead Ellen watched, baffled and faintly irked that he should waste their last moments like this It seemed to her that he took an eternity to pick a meagre bouquet of the first spnng flowers, a handful of Lent lilies, a few yellow primroses Holding it out to her, he smiled, said in a low voice, "There are two letters wrapped around the stems, from your brother and your husband " "Oh, Hugh " Ellen yearned to fling her arms around his neck, to cover his face with kisses With Sir Nicholas's footsteps drawing near on the path, she dared not even touch his hand "If I were not a married woman," she murmured, "I'd run away with you in a trice1" He laughed soundlessly "We may do just that," he promised recklessly, and saw her eyes widen as she took his meaning, filling with sunlight, with a sudden, desperate, dazzled hope THEY met again the following morning, and it went so well that they nsked a third encounter two days later By now they had worked out e basic elements of their escape Their plan was a simple one, for there Was less to go wrong that way Ellen would lure Sir Nicholas into the *mPty chapel, where Hugh would be waiting And while the knight y< bound, gagged, and helpless, in the chapel sacristy, three Franciscan <>rs would be calmly making their way across the lower bailey, through e outer gate to freedom 204 Ellen and Hugh both agreed that they must have allies. While Llewelyn was the natural choice, there were limits to what he could do for a Welsh accent would betray them all. They needed invisible acconv plices, English accomplices, and after some thought, Ellen came up with two names, John d'Eyvill and Baldwin Wake. The first was a Yorkshire knight, the second a Lincolnshire baron They'd been friends of her brothers, her father's most steadfast sup- t porters, and not even Evesham had reconciled them to the Crown Moreover, Baldwin Wake was wed to her cousin, Hawise de Quincy Hawise was Llewelyn's kinswoman, too, for Elen, her mother, had been the daughter of Llewelyn Fawr and Joanna Plantagenet. Hawise and her sisters had been Ellen's own playmates in childhood, often in the de Montfort household, and she felt confident that Hawise and Baldwin Wake would shelter her at one of their Lincolnshire manors until Llewelyn could get her safely into Wales. That made sense to Hugh, for he knew all the roads into Wales would be watched; it would not take a soothsayer, after all, to guess Ellen's destination. And so they agreed that on the morrow he would ride for the Wake manor of Bourne in Lincolnshire. Now that action was imminent, Hugh's brain was racing. Walking toward the gatehouse, he could have been on the moon, so preoccupied was he, so oblivious of all but the plan taking shape so promisingly. It might be a good idea if Baldwin could arrange for three Franciscan friars to serve as bait, to lead the hunt astray. But if Baldwin did agree to help, they'd have to get word first to Llewelyn. Hugh did not doubt that the Welsh Prince would be outraged if his wife's safety was put at risk without his knowledge. He had struck Hugh as a man accustomed to command, and he'd want a say in this for certes. At the very last moment, Hugh heard the sudden footsteps behind him and started to turn. But it was too late. There were three of them, and they hit him all at once, sending him sprawling onto the bailey ground. By the time he'd gotten his breath back, there was a sword poised at his throat. THEY left Windsor Castle the next morning, in a driving rainstorm. Hugh's guards were understandably disgruntled by the weather, and irked, too, by the timing, not relishing a separation from their families in Holy Week. They took out their frustrations upon Hugh, isolating him within a surly silence, and by the end of the second rain-drenched day/ knowing neither where he had been nor where he was going, Hugh had begun to despair. That was a new and frightening feeling for him; even during those 205 perate, fever-stalked days out on the Maremma with Bran, he'd still 1 ng to hope. But now he looked at what his future held, and it was fl^e gazing down into an abyss. He'd begun to wish fervently that he'd not been so stubborn. If he'd answered the Windsor constable's questions, he might have saved himself a great deal of grief. His bruises and scratches would heal. He Hidn't even blame the constable all that much; his obstinate silence might have provoked a less patient man than Geoffrey de Pychford. But had he openly admitted he was Ellen de Montfort's sworn man, he might well be on his way now to join her other household knights at Bristol Castle. If the Church was right and pride one of the Seven Deadly Sins, he could end up paying a terrible price for that presumptuous vice. Ridingwet, miserable, and manacledalong unknown roads toward an unknown fate, he found himself haunted by his own words. "God pity the poor soul who is friendless. It is not unheard-of for men to starve in the King's gaols." On the third day of their journey, the third of April, the sun reemerged, and the improvement in the weather brought a parallel upswing in the mood of one of Hugh's guards. Unlike his comrades, he had no wife waiting back at Windsor, was young enough to look upon their escort duty as an adventure now that they no longer seemed in danger of drowning. He'd been impressed, moreover, by Hugh's stoical courage, for the fiery-tempered constable of Windsor was not a man he'd have dared to defy himself. And so, as the air warmed, hinted at spring, his reticence rapidly thawed. Riding at Hugh's side, he was soon chatting companionably with his prisoner. Introducing himself as Henry of Dover, he volunteered that his friends called him Harry the Fleming, after the Flemish sailor who'd not hung around long enough to learn what a fine son he'd sired. Generously sharing his wine flask, he'd soon shared, as well, his entire history, at interminable length. But he'd also noticed that Hugh's wrists had been rubbed raw and bleeding by his manacles, and when they stopped to eat, he found rags to wrap around the irons. And he ended Hugh's suspense. They were heading north, he confided. They'd be halting that night at Leicester, again at Newark, with their final destination the royal castle at Lincoln. HUGH was awed by his first sight of Lincoln. The city was perched upon 'he summit of a hill so high that the cathedral's triple towers seemed to °£ scraping the clouds. As they passed through Stonebow Gate, they Were nearly deafened by the sudden, pulsing sound. For the three days "efore Easter, church bells throughout the realm had been silenced. 206 Now, on Easter morn, they burst forth in joyful peals, in a musir epiphany meant to echo toward Heaven itself. Hugh's chains seeded to clink in mocking harmony as he made an awkward sign of the cros Easter was one of the holy days upon which all Christians were expected to take Communion. This would be the first time that he would not receive the Blessed Sacrament, or be shriven of his sins. And it did not ease his conscience that his greatest regrets were not for those uncon fessed sins, but that he had failed his lady by his lack of care. The castle turrets loomed above them, crowning the crest of the hill. Hugh's stomach muscles tightened as he gazed up at the clouddrifted sky, for within the hour, this mild spring sunlight might be only a memory. Mushrooms thrived in the dark and damp, but how could men? So caught up was he in these morbid musings that he was taken aback when they turned suddenly onto Danesgate, heading away from the castle. Harry the Fleming was just as surprised by the detour, and urged his horse forward to catch up with the captain of the guards. He was back within moments, looking startled and excited. "I did not know, for our captain can be as close-mouthed as any clam. He's under orders to deliver you, not to the constable at Lincoln Castle, but to the Bishop of Lincoln's Palace. You must have stirred up more trouble than we thought, lad, for you're to be handed over to the King himself!" AS he followed his guards into the Bishop's great hall, Hugh could not help thinking of the many times Simon de Montfort must have crossed this same threshold, in the years when the Bishop of Lincoln had been the saintly Robert Grosseteste. But Grosseteste was long dead, and the current Bishop was the King's man. He repeated the words softly to himself, still unable to believe that he'd be facing the King within moments. He'd meant it when he told Isaac ben Asher that Edward was the enemy. But he was also God's anointed. He'd never bargained upon having to confront the King of England. Given a choice, he'd rather have braved those Welsh mountain passes again, mayhap even the Alps/ the touchstone by which he measured all perils. Leaning against one of the huge marble pillars, he tried to ignore the curious stares his shackles were attracting, and watched as the captain of his guards moved down the middle aisle. There was a spacious bay window at the upper end of the hall, and he knew without being told that the tall, dark-haired man sprawled within the recess was England's King. Beside him, Harry gave a low, wondering whistle"I think half the peers of the realm are here! I know most of them on sight, what with the King coming so often to Windsor. But the court's 207 I as gem-studded as this. I suppose they're here for the Easter / stjvities- "Or to plan for war against the Welsh," Hugh said, and Harry shot uto a surprised look. "Well/ I know naught of Wales," he admitted, conveying by his that he had no interest, either. "See that man in the red tunic? That is the Lord Edmund, the King's brother. Men say he's a good ster, easy to serve. That must be his new French wife, the Lady Blanche. I had no idea she was such a little bit of a lass! And that tall, rideful lady in velvet is the Queen. See how her skirts are swelling? When they were at Windsor in December, there were rumors that she had another loaf in the oven. Let's hope," he added piously, "that this one will be a lad. A king ought always to have sons to spare, and they've already buried two of their three boys." Harry was not in the least abashed by Hugh's lack of response, so intent was he upon showing off his familiarity with the King's court. "Now over there is the Earl of Gloucester, the one with the carrot-color hair. You might be right about war with Wales, for we do not often see so many Marcher lords this far from the border. They're a half-wild folk, the Marchers, doubtless from living so close to the Welsh. That kind of craziness can be catching!" Laughing at his own joke, he nudged Hugh with his elbow. "That is Roger Lestrange, one of the few Marchers who does not count his grievances like pater noster beads. Not like Roger de Mortimer; he's the most dangerous of the lot. That's him, the one looking lean and hungrylike a Welsh wolf! He is half Welsh, you know. The talk at Windsor is that his nerves are very much on the raw these days, for he lost a son a few months ago, his firstborn. His second son was pledged to the Church, had to be snatched back just as he was about to take his vows. Fancy, one day you're to be a priest, the next you're supposed to step into your dead brother's shoes! You think he feels reprieved ... or deprived?" Hugh shrugged. He'd yet to take his eyes from the King. The captain had given Edward a letter, doubtless the Windsor constable's indictment. He swallowed with difficulty, watched as Edward began to read. "See that lord hovering by the King?" Harry got his attention with Bother elbow jab. "You are looking at the most hated baron in all of England, God's truth. That is the Earl of Pembroke, the King's de Usignan uncle. A right fine gentleman, if you judge by the flaxen hair d the elegant clothes. But if he died tomorrow, there would be so ^y men lining up to spit into his coffin that they would not be able 0 b|«y him till Candlemas!" Never had Hugh felt so exposed, so vulnerable, for these men had 208 been Simon de Montfoif s most virulent enemies. They still were f in some strange sense, they seemed to hate him even more sin Evesham. Hugh raised his wrists, wincing as the shackles rubbed again*, his lacerated skin. What in God's Name was he doing in this den of vipers? Harry poked him again. "Now him I do not know, that tall one with a mustache and no beard. An odd style, for certes. He must be a foreigner." Hugh turned to look, and a dim memory flickered. "He is Welsh " he said tersely. "Prince Llewelyn's renegade brother." Never had he seen gathered in one place so many men deserving of damnation. "You look greensick," Harry said suddenly, cocking his head in a belated appraisal that was not altogether lacking in sympathy. "Not that I blame you, but try not to let the King see you are scared. He hates it when men grovel. But for Christ's sake, do not swagger, either, for he hates that even more!" Hugh had no chance to reply; the captain was beckoning to Harry. As they moved forward, people crowded in around them, straining to see. Hugh was not surprised, for he knew how impatient men were at the end of a hunt, how eager to be in on the kill. Kneeling before the King, he raised his head, forced himself to meet Edward's eyes. "Sir Geoffrey tells me you have a liking for disguises, first a friar, then a deaf-mute. I trust you will be more forthcoming with me," Edward said, and Hugh marveled that he could invest so simple a sentence with such ominous overtones. "You may begin by telling me who you are and why you were seeking out Eleanor de Montfort." "I am Sir Hugh de Whitton, and she is my liege lady." Edward nodded, almost imperceptibly. "Well, that is a start. Go on." Hugh did. The story he told was essentially true; his were lies of omission. He made no mention of Brian or Isaac ben Asher, said nothing of his detours to Wales and Corfe. What emerged was a straightforward account of a knight loyal to his lady. Could he be blamed for keeping faith? A frail reed in view of Amaury's fate, but the only defense he had. "So you avoided confinement by claiming to be a crew member, then followed the Lady Eleanor to Windsor. What then? What were you planning?" "I do not know, my liege. I did not have time to think that fa ahead." "The Lady Eleanor left Bristol for Windsor on January twenty-ninth Yet you did not turn up at Windsor until late March. What were you doing in those two months, lad?" 209 The question was deceptively casual, all the more deadly for being offhandedly posed Hugh felt as if Edward's eyes were burning into 5 brain, smoking out his every secret How could anyone dare he to , man7 "I was hurt, my liege, when the cog was taken " Fumbling th his irons, he brushed back the hair from his forehead, revealing a thin red scar "My wound festered, and afterward, I was too weak to travel God knows what would have befallen me if not for the Holy Cross sailors " "Where did you get the money to buy a horse'" This was the question Hugh had been most dreading, for he'd hidden Llewelyn's money in his room at a Windsor inn, and Sir Geoffrey had told him the room had been searched But he'd not mentioned the money Why not7 If they knew about it, he'd have no choice but to reveal it had come from Llewelyn's coffers He felt sure that the revelation would not matter in the least to Llewelyn The Welsh Prince would move Heaven and earth to free his wife and cared not at all who knew it But he felt sure, too, that the revelation would be disastrous for him His one hope was that the money had been surreptitiously split up among the men sent to search his belongings It was not a hope, though, that he'd ever wanted to test "I had a gold ring, my liege, bequeathed to me by my father I hid it ere the pirates could steal it, and later once I'd regained my strength, I sold it to a peddler in the Bristol market I was loath to part with it, but I could think of no other way to raise the money, and I had to put my lady's need first " Edward leaned back against the window cushions, his face unreadable Hugh held his breath, waiting "Very sharp-witted of you, lad," he said at last, and Hugh felt almost dizzy with the intensity of his relief, for Edward was beginning to sound amused "Sharp-witted7 I'd say gallant1" Hugh turned his head, startled, and found himself looking up into a heart-shaped little face of piquant charm As their eyes met, the Lady Blanche gave him a dimpled smile "I think your devotion to your lady is wonderful," she said warmly "You must love her very much1" To Blanche's surprise, Hugh blushed beet red, and the other men guffawed "My sister by marriage has yet to learn that the French courts °f love never flourished in our fickle English climate," Edward said with a gnn, with such friendliness that Hugh took sudden heart, began to h°pe in spite of himself "I think it was only natural that my wife should have assumed" tdrnund began, but he got no further, provoking another burst of male kughter 210 "Ah, now there's a familiar sound," Edward gibed. "The besotted bridegroom, ever on the ready to be his lady's loyal echo, to swear white was black at her behest!" Edmund took the raillery in stride. "I might swear Blanche was blanche," he said mildly, making a play upon his wife's name, and Blanche gave him a melting, seductive look that was only half in jes{ Their marital harmony was so obvious that others deemed it either envi- | able or cloying, depending upon whether they were sentimentalists or skeptics. Hugh now found himself another champion, this one even more unlikely than Blanche. "I think Sir Hugh is to be commended for his loyalty," Eleanora said gravely, sounding as if she'd just disclosed a verdict rather than offered an opinion; her low, throaty voice, her heavily accented French, and her precise, purposeful delivery inevitably gave her most casual comments the weight of a royal pronouncement. "Thank you, Madame," Hugh stammered, taken aback at sight of so many approving faces. Even the Earl of Gloucester was regarding him with indulgence, for Hugh had unwittingly tapped into one of their society's most enduring myths, that of the vassal steadfast and loyal, true to his liege lord unto death. If such faithful, stalwart knights existed more often as legend than as flesh-and-blood men, that just made Hugh's fidelity seem all the more admirable. Only cynics like Davydd ap Gruffydd and Roger de Mortimer resisted the temptation to celebrate Hugh's story as the Second Coming of Camelot. The others smiled benevolently upon the young knight, ready to reward him as the fables demandeduntil Edward shook his head, said regretfully: "It seems a pity that a quest such as yours must end in gaol." Edward saw surprise ripple through the audience, followed by disappointment. But when he spoke, he sounded matter-of-fact, not defensive, for Edward never felt the need to justify himself to others. "I bear you no ill will, lad, in truth I do not. But I cannot let you go free, cannot have you lurking under the Lady Eleanor's window with a ladder . . . now can I?" Hugh did not know what to say. Before he could gather his wits, make an argument against imprisonment, a chaplain was approaching, leaning over with a message for the King's ear. Edward rose without haste, then gestured toward Hugh, permitting him to rise, too. "I can spare you no more time, for the Easter Mass is about to begin." Beckoning to one of his household knights, Edward gave orders for Hugh to be lodged within the castle for the night, and on the morrow to be escorted back to Bristol. Glancing again at Hugh, he said, "I ^ indeed sorry it has to be this way. But you did know the risk you took. 211 yOU chose to follow your lady to Windsor, you chose, too, to ble wttk your own freedom. Unfortunately, you lost." ^ fftigh was mute, stunned by the swiftness of it all. Edward was ady turning away. So were the others, for they might be sympathetic, not to the point of quarreling with the King on his behalf. Just like hat he thought numbly. A snap of the royal fingers and it was over. AS if to add insult to injury, he was jostled now by Davydd, with enough ,: rce to make him stumble. Davydd did not offer even the most perfunctory apology. Nor did he help Hugh regain his balance. What he did do, though, was so unexpected that Hugh could only stare after him in open-mouthed astonishment, wondering if he'd heard right. "Remind him," Davydd had murmured, "of Lewes." There was no time to think it through, to think at all. Edward was nearing the door. "My lord King!" Hugh's voice was urgent, impossible to ignore. "You were right, I did choose to wager my freedom on my lady's behalf. But you made the very same choice I did!" Edward had turned with his first words. "What are you talking about?" Hugh was disconcerted by Edward's changed tone, flint-hard and imperious. But it was too late to reconsider. "My father fought at Lewes, and he ... he told me that the Londoners, being green to battle, broke and ran. He said you pursued them from the field, and when you returned, the battle was over. Your lord father the King had taken refuge within the priory, and Simon de Montfort had won a great victory. The lords with you ..." Hugh could not help himself. Turning his head, he looked straight at Roger de Mortimer and the Earl of Pembroke. "The lords with you ..." he repeated hoarsely, for never had his mouth been so dry, his throat so tight, "they chose to flee the field, but you scorned flight, my liege. Instead, you fought your way into the priory. You surrendered to Simon de Montfort rather than forsake your father." There was utter silence when Hugh was done speaking. Edward had listened intently, eyes narrowed upon Hugh's face, an iced blue gaze that revealed nothing whatsoever of his thoughts. Hugh was only now beginning to realize the full extent of his audacity. When was the last time anyone had dared to challenge the King like this? Jesii, he must have been mad to heed Davydd ap Gruffydd, of all men! "Your father was right," Edward said coolly. "It happened as you say- I did make the same choice that you did, and because of it, I lost a year's freedom." He paused then, very deliberately, for dramatic im- Pact. "Since we both know so much about hard choices, I suppose it is "uy fair to offer you one now. You can go to Bristol on the morrow, 212 join your companions in their confinement at the castle. Or ... you ^ swear fealty to me, enter my service as one of the knights of the royai household." Hearing a chorus of indrawn breaths, Edward could not help gj^ ning. He liked nothing better than taking others by surprise, convinced that unpredictability was a virtue every king should cultivate. He had to laugh outright now at the stunned expression on Hugh's face; the lad looked like he'd been pole-axed, for certes. He thought that his solutionthwarting any threat Hugh might pose by keeping him close at handwas as magnanimous as it was imaginative, and he'd fu]]y expected Hugh to jump at the offer, as any sensible man would. When Hugh did not, Edward's smile chilled. "Well, what say you? Or do you need time to think it over?" Hugh missed the sarcasm, took Edward's query at face value, and nodded gratefully. "Yes, my liege, I do. I was taught that a man ought never to give his word too lightly, for once given, he must stand by it," he said, with such disarming earnestness that Edward's mouth lost its hard edge. "My lord . . . Lady Ellen told me that you'd promised her she can join her husband in Wales once you and Prince Llewelyn resolve your differences. When that comes to pass, would I be free to go, too?" Fortunately for Hugh, Edward had begun to see some perverse humor in it, that Hugh should need to weigh a prison term against a place in the royal household. "Yes," he said wryly, "God forbid that you should have to spend the rest of your life in the service of the King." Glancing about, he beckoned to one of his knights. "Get him shed of those shackles, fed, and cleaned up, then bring him back here after the Mass." Reaching out suddenly, he caught Hugh by the arm. "I'll have your sworn word, too, that you'll be planning no Welsh pilgrimages for your lady, and should you break that vow, even Lucifer himself might pity your fate. Understood?" "I would not break my word" But before Hugh could protest further, the Earl of Gloucester shouldered him aside, saying in a loud, shocked voice: "What is this talk of sending de Montfort's daughter back to Llewelyn?" "What choice has he?" Davydd's voice was very bland. "For whom God hath joined together, let no man put asunder." That earned him a sharp, amused look from Edward. "My sentiments, exactly," he said, just as blandly, "provided that Llewelyn ap Gruffydd comes to his senses, of course." Roger de Mortimer was no less pleased to hear this than Gloucester/ and he was no less outspoken, either. "I thought you summoned us t 223 coin to plan a campaign against that Welsh whoreson. Yet now we're talking of his marriage plans?" "I'd not fret if I were you, Cousin," Davydd interjected, with a ff^e that could not have been more amiably insulting. "You are our .. srnan/ after all. If you ask him, Llewelyn might take pity and invite you to the wedding festivities." The number of Marcher lords who'd have treated Davydd's hanging a holiday was an impressive tribute to Davydd's trouble-making talents; his sardonic barbs often imbedded themselves deeper than even he realized. But few took their feuds quite as seriously as Roger de Mortimer, and Edward now thought it prudent to step between the two men. "You'd all best heed what I am about to say. As disappointing as this will be for many of you, it is not my intent to grind Wales into the dust. The Welsh have their own identity, their own ways, their own language. I recognize our differences, am willing, too, to respect them, if I can, although I do think Wales would benefit greatly from further exposure to English custom and English law. Unfortunately for the Welsh, they are not a practical people. Even you would have to admit, my lord Davydd, that your countrymen get drunk as often on dreams as they do on mead." "Would I?" Davydd said tonelessly, and Edmund, more intuitive than his brother, said hastily: "Do you mean, my liege, the Welsh claim that their princes ought to have the same rights as the Scots kings?" Edward nodded. "Precisely. It is dangerous enough for our island to be split in twain as it is now. To have it fragmented further could be fatal. A ship with more than one hand on the helm is likely to founder, to run aground on the rocks. But there'll be no shipwrecks during my reign, that I can swear upon the surety of my soul. Llewelyn ap Gruffydd can call himself Prince of Wales. He is still a vassal of the English Crown, no less than my other lords, but for certes, no more. That is a lesson he must learn. For my pretty cousin's sake, I hope he learns soon." Edward's manifesto produced varying responses in those listening, tleanora felt a surge of impassioned pride. Her life was not always easy. She'd come to dread her yearly pregnancies, so uncomfortable, confinmg/ and dangerous. Nor did she understand why the Almighty had chosen to claim so many of her babies in the cradle. But her husband's Je could still light up her world, and it was a rare dark day when he c°uld not convince her, as now, that she was blessed among wives. Edmund was equally impressed by his brother's articulate and ag- Slve concept of kingship, but he was taken aback, too, for this was 214 the first time that he'd realized Edward's ambitions extended bey0ntj the Scots border. Blanche, while giving every appearance of being the most rapt of listeners, was actually quite detached, for she was convinced that most men took themselves so very seriously that it behooved women to take them not seriously at all. The Earl of Gloucester was struggling with his disappointment, f0r he'd long been coveting additional lands in South Wales, lands he dared not annex as long as Llewelyn ap Gruffydd ruled in Gwynedd. Edward's uncle Pembroke was no less disgruntled; he, too, had ambitions in Wales. Roger de Mortimer was genuinely fond of Edward, and truly admiring of the younger man's superior military skills. But he could not help thinking that his interests, England's interests, would be better served with a weaker king on the throne at Westminster. He had hoped to see Llewelyn's wings clipped for good this time, and if the opportunity arose to pluck Davydd's poisoned tongue out by the roots, so much the better. But there was no point in bringing Llewelyn down if his power would then be claimed by the Crown. Looking at his friend, the King, de Mortimer found himself unexpectedly nostalgic for the chaotic days under the foolish, feckless Henry. But for Hugh, the most interesting reaction of all was Davydd's. As Edward was speaking, he'd glanced over, caught Davydd in a rare moment, one in which his defenses were down, and on his face, there blazed forth an intense, revealing rage. WHEN Hugh was escorted back into the Bishop of Lincoln's great hall, servants were dismantling the trestle tables, removing the last traces of an elaborate noonday dinner. "Wait here," Sir Gervase instructed, "whilst I tell the King's Grace that you are ready to swear fealty to him." Scrubbed clean of the grime of the road, freed of his manacles, Hugh felt much better physically upon his reentry into the hall. But emotionally, he was still shaken, still beset by doubts. He'd never actually accepted Edward's offer; that was just taken for granted. But even if he'd concluded that he could not be loyal to the King without being disloyal to his lady, he wondered whether he'd have dared to say Edward nay. The thought of finding himself day in, day out, in Edward s formidable presence was a daunting one. But then, so was the though of that Bristol gaol. And at least now he'd be able to see Lady Ellen and Juliana whenever the King held court at Windsor. Had he been impnS' oned at Bristol, she'd never even have known what had befallen him- "You look like a man about to barter his soul to the Devil- Con16 to think of it, I suppose you are!" 215 Hugh turned, found himself looking into green eyes full of laughter , gOOd-humored mockery. "I ought to thank you," he said reluctantly, d Davydd's brows shot upward. "But it sticks in your craw. If and when you ever reach Wales, you nd my sainted brother ought to get along right well. He is another one ho's sure he's pure enough to cast the first stone." There was nothing good-natured about the mockery now; it stung ijjje a whip. Hugh flushed but stood his ground. "I am uncomfortable with you, I'll not deny it. But it's not because I am judging you. It's because I do not understand you." "Well, you must know that Scriptures say the heart of kings is unsearchable. Mayhap that holds true, too, for rebel Welsh princes in English exile." "You can laugh at me if you will, my lord. I still cannot make the puzzle pieces fit. You betrayed your brother, even plotted his murder." Davydd's smile disappeared, and Hugh said swiftly, "But you also saved Bran de Montforf s life after he was captured at the battle of Northampton. He told me you kept the Earl of Pembroke from killing him." Davydd shrugged. "I saw a chance to do Pembroke an ill turn. I never could resist an opportunity to muddy the waters." "The way you did this forenoon, when you came to my aid? If not for you, I'd still be in irons." "I'd not make too much of that if I were you. I was just curious to see if a skilled puppeteer could pull the King's strings as easily as any other man's." "If you say so, my lord. I find it strange, though, that you seemed indifferent to a charge of treason, yet felt compelled to defend yourself against two accusations of simple kindness." Davydd snatched a wine cup from a passing servant's tray. "I am beginning to think I did you no favor. You'll be a lamb to the slaughter at Edward's court." "I doubt that you belong here, either, my lord. I was watching you whilst the English King laid out his plans to humble the Welsh. Judging from what I saw, I'd say that you're on the wrong side in this coming war. Whaf s more, I think you know it, too." "For Christ's sake, Hugh, nothing is as simple as you make it out to be!" 'Some things are, my lord." Hugh insisted, with such infuriating, mgenuous certitude that Davydd drained his wine cup in several deep Callows. Ere I forget to ask, how did my brother take it when you told him 8 bride had been snatched on the high seas? Did his vaunted control slipeven a little?" 216 "I ... I do not know what you mean. What makes you think I sa^v Prince Llewelyn?" "Of course you saw him, lad. Where else would you go during those two 'missing months' of yours?" Davydd laughed, turning away before Hugh could muster up a more convincing denial. Hugh watched him saunter across the hall, more disquieted by Davydd's parting shot than he wanted to admit. Mayhap Davydd was right. How was he to f cope at Edward's court, where nothing was as it seemed and men turned ^vords into weapons? What if the King guessed the truth, just as Davydd had done? "There you are," Sir Gervase said impatiently. "Why were you tarrying with that Welsh knave? Did you not see the King beckoning? You're not getting off to the best of starts, lad!" Hugh said nothing, followed Sir Gervase toward the dais, where the King awaited him. It did not seem real to him, any of it, and as he knelt before Edward, he found himself thinking that, of all the unlikely turns his life had taken in the past five years, nothing could be more improbable than this, that he should be pledging his fealty to the King of England himself, and all because on a cold January eve, he'd offered to help Brother Damian carry candles into the sacristy at Evesham Abbey. 16 WORCESTER, ENGLAND September 1276 1 HE citizens of Worcester turned out in a drenching rain-storm to welcome their King, escorting him through the mudmired streets to the Bishop of Worcester's palace. But the weather was less hospitable; the rain persisted. It was three days before Eleanora was able to enjoy the celebrated splendors of the Bishop's lush riverside gardens. Coming in with an armful of autumn roses and Michaelmas 217 daisies/ she forgot all about the flowers at sight of the man sharing a ^e flagon with Edward. Davydd rose politely to greet her, but Eleanora was not mollified hv his good manners, for Davydd's courtesy always seemed as suspect s njs motives. It irritated her enormously now to find him in their private chamber, utterly at ease, laughing and jesting with her husband as if *hev were boon companions, equals. Why did Eduardo find his insolence so amusing? "Davydd has brought me welcome tidings, sweetheart. Another of the lords of Upper Powys has agreed to forswear his allegiance to Llewelyn ap Gruffydd. Good work, Davydd! By the time we take the field against him, your brother will stand alone, bereft of allies and hope." Edward smiled, but his eyes were focused intently upon Davydd's face, probing for a reaction. Davydd was not about to give him one, though. "Yes," he said evenly, "that is quite likely." "I will authorize you to receive our new convert and his men into the King's Peace," Edward promised, and Davydd nodded, but his attention was straying from Edward to his Queen. Eleanora was bustling about the chamber, fetching a cushion for her husband's chair, then a bowl of shelled almonds, shifting the oil lamp so that he was closer to the light. Davydd was intrigued; was this the same woman who'd summon a servant to pour wine even if the flagon was right at her elbow? He'd occasionally wondered why their marriage was such an obvious success. Eleanora's ten pregnancies were irrefutable proof of the pleasure Edward found in his wife's bed, but Davydd had been blind to her appeal out of beduntil now. Good God, he thought, fighting back a grin, she dotes on him the way a mother might! Davydd was so caught up in these unseemly speculations about Edward and Eleanora's bedsport that Edward was able to take him by surprise. "As it happens, Davydd, I have good news for you, too. I've found you a wife." Davydd splashed wine onto his wrist. Setting the cup down, he said cautiously, "I was not aware that I'd lost one." "I ought not to have said 'wife.' I ought to have said 'jewel,' for she is that, in truth. She is young, about eighteen, and very highborn. Not only is she an Earl's daughter, she is my own cousin." "And you'd bestow this prize upon a Welsh rebel? Why ... is she a kper, by chance? A half-wit?" Eleanora stiffened indignantly; Edward just grinned. "Jesu, but you Welsh are a suspicious lot! All right, mayhap I did omit a few minor acts about your bride's background. There is a taint of treason in the «mily, but that ought not to bother you all that much, should it? Her 218 father was ever one for hunting with the hounds and running with the hares, and eventually his double-dealing caught up with him. He " But he needed to say no more. "Derby/' Davydd said, and Edward nodded. "None other. Now I'll grant you that some men might balk at taking Judas as their kinsman. But do not forget that the girl is my kinswoman too. Her mother was a de Lusignan, my father's niece." Davydd was well acquainted with the Earl of Derby's chequered * past. Robert de Ferrers had the dubious distinction of being the first English nobleman to have been imprisoned for a non-political offense. During the civil war between King Henry and his barons, Derby had taken advantage of the unrest to rob and plunder his Derbyshire neighbors, and Simon de Montfort had shattered tradition by casting him into the Tower of London. He'd been freed after Evesham, and had then been foolhardy enough to rebel again. Edward's response was swift, his anger understandable, but his justice less than scrupulous. Under the terms of the Dictum of Kenilworth, Derby's estates could not be confiscated outright. So Derby had been forced by buy his freedom for the exorbitant sum of fifty thousand pounds, a sum he could never hope to raise, and his lands and earldom were then forfeit to Edward's brother, Edmund. And there could be no better evidence of Derby's ability to make enemies that so blatant an extortion stirred up no sympathy among his fellow barons, who usually closed ranks against any abuse of royal power. Davydd shared the prevailing view that Derby deserved the raw deal he'd gotten. His concern now was not with Derby's fall from grace, but rather with the consequences of that fall. Leaning back in his chair, he drawled, "My people have a saying, 'Diwedd y gan yw y geiniog.' Roughly translated, 'The end of every song is money.' And I doubt that Derby has any, not after you and Edmund plucked him cleaner than a Michaelmas goose." "You ought to learn to be more forthright, Davydd, to speak your mind instead of hemming and hawing like this." Edward was still smiling, but his sarcasm had a sudden sting to it, for he had not been amused by the Michaelmas-goose gibe. "Derby is not destitute, still holds the manor of Chartley. I'll squeeze a marriage portion out of him. The lass has more to rely upon, though, than crumbs from Derby's table. She was wed as a child to William Marshal, a de Montfort supporter who died before Evesham, and she has dower rights in his manors at Cherleton, Norton, and Witlebury. So far she has not had much luck in asserting those rights, for Marshal had a son by an earlier marriage, and he has been resisting her claims. Of course, with a husband to support those claims ..." 219 Davydd did a few mental calculations. "You left out something, I think- The little widow is still a virgin . . . no?" Edward did some quick arithmetic of his own, then nodded. "You're right, by God. The marriage was never consummated for certes; she as Only seven or eight when she was widowed. And I expect that Derby keeps her on a tight lead. So unless she's been creeping into the stables to meet one of her father's grooms, I think we can safely say that you'll be her first." Edward and Eleanora were both looking at him expectantly. Davydd knew they were waiting for him to express his gratitude, his eagerness to wed Derby's daughter. Instead, he reached for his wine cup, saying, "Tell me what she is like." "What else do you need to know?" Edward sounded bemused. "I've already told you what matters. In all honesty, I do not know her very well. The few times that she has been at court, she seemed a bit on the sullen side . . . though to be fair, living with Derby would be enough to sour a saint!" "I very much doubt that she was ever a saint, Eduardo," Eleanora said, so sourly that Davydd gave her a speculative look, thinking that if Eleanora disapproved of his bride-to-be, the lass might have promise. "Eleanora is right," Edward conceded. "She does have a temper. But then you'd tire right quickly of a docile, biddable bride. Now . . . what else? She is a tiny little lass, looks light enough to float on a feather." Edward at once regretted his candor; his own sexual tastes ran to statuesque, big-breasted women like his voluptuous wife. "She is pretty, though," he added hastily, lest Davydd be put off, "with fair coloring. You could do a lot worse, Davydd. Do you not realize how many men would leap at the very chance to wed the King's cousin?" Davydd hid a smile. "Indeed," he agreed, "what Welsh prince would not consider himself blessed to be able to claim kinship to the King of England?" But he saw that Edward's patience was fast running out. "I am curious about one more thing," he said and grinned. "What is my bride's name?" Edward grinned, too, good humor restored once he saw that he was to have his way. This marriage mattered to him, for he thought that offering Derby's daughter to Davydd was a master stroke, satisfying Davydd's demands for money at the girl's expense, whilst humiliating that whoreson Derby anew, denying him any say whatsoever in the marital negotiations. "Elizabeth. Her name is Elizabeth. Now if you want to satisfy your curiosity further, I suggest that you keep close to the priory, for she arrives tonight." "I can see that you were awaiting my answer with bated breath!" But Edward had unwittingly planted a seed. Davydd began to look about 220 the chamber with new interest. "As large as this room is, a man could sit over there in that window-seat and never be noticedprovided it was dark enough. What does Your matchmaking Grace think?" Edward at once caught his drift, entered enthusiastically into the conspiracy. "We need only place a solitary candle here on the table, and everything beyond the flame will be utter blackness." Eleanora looked from one man to the other in disbelief. "Surely you £ are not planning what I think you are? You'd actually spy on the lass?" I Edward looked a little sheepish, but Davydd nodded. "Yes," he confessed cheerfully, "that is exactly what we have in mind." Eleanora had never liked Elizabeth de Ferrers. But now she felt a surge of sympathy for the girl. The poor child, was it not penance enough that she must share her life and her bed with this brazen Welsh rakehell? Men and their foolish games! She did her best to dissuade them, but soon realized that she was wasting her time. Conceding defeat, she made a dignified departure from the chamber, marred somewhat by the slamming door. Davydd pretended to flinch. "I do not think we are in your lady's good graces at this moment." "Oh, you never are," Edward said with a grin. "I'm sure that comes as no surprise, though, for Eleanora's not one for hiding her feelings. She is a wonderful woman, but bless her, she is so very serious about everything! Not long ago, I ended up making this lunatic wager with my laundress. I told her that if she could ride my roan destrier, I'd give him to her. What could be a safer wager than that? But would you believe she did it? She hiked up her skirts, scrambled into the saddle, and away they went! I had to buy him back from her. It was worth it, though, for that is a sight I'll never forget. I laughed so hard I damned near ruptured myself. But Eleanora . . . she never so much as smiled, said it was not seemly to make wagers with servants. You know, Davydd, there are times when I wonder if the Almighty forgot to give women a sense of humor." Davydd had begun to laugh. "That's passing strange, for the Welsh have long suspected the same about you English!" ALTHOUGH nothing in her past justified it, Elizabeth de Ferrers was an optimist. She could think of only two reasons why her cousin the King should have summoned her so abruptly to Worcester. Either he had found her a husband or he had finally secured her dower rights in her late husband's lands. And because she so very much wanted to believe it, Elizabeth soon convinced herself that the latter was true. 221 It was not that she did not want to remarry. She did, for she well i^ew that a woman's only choice was between the marriage bed and the nunnery, and Elizabeth did not want to become a nun. What she Canted was to escape the life she presently led, trapped at Chartley ^vith a father she feared and a stepmother she disliked, dependent upon their grudging charity, desperate for a home, a haven of her own. But she was not so naive as to see marriage as her way out. A ^e was too vulnerableto her husband's will, his whims, his fists. Elizabeth had no marital memories of her own, but she'd too often seen her stepmother serve as the scapegoat for her father's erratic temper, had too often played that role herself. She did not want to wake up in bed with a stranger, a man handpicked by Edward for purely political purposes. She wanted a say in so momentous a decision, and although she knew women were rarely, if ever, permitted that privilege, she had spun out a fantasy in which it was so. Edward would intervene on her behalf, compel her hateful stepson to honor her claims. She would be given her own manor, her own household, and soon there would be a proposal from one of her neighbors, a man handsome and highborn and approving of her independent spirit. To Elizabeth, that did not seem so much to ask, and by the time she reached Worcester, she was already anticipating her liberation ... at long last. She was utterly unprepared, therefore, for what happened that evening in a darkened bedchamber at the Bishop of Worcester's palace. She'd been heartened by the warmth of Edward's welcome, and was further encouraged when he took her aside for this private audience. When Edward clinked their wine cups together in a playful salute, she could restrain herself no longer. "Have we something to celebrate?" "Indeed, we have, sweetheart. I have made a brilliant marriage for you." Elizabeth had wondered why the chamber was so poorly lit. Now she was grateful for it, pulling back into the shadows as she sought to get her emotions under control. "Who . . . who is he?" "I've found you a Prince, Lisbet. Davydd ap Gruffydd, brother of" "No!" Elizabeth was on her feet, looking so horrified that Edward was hard put not to laugh outright, although he could not resist glancing toward Davydd's hiding place in the recessed window-seat. "Sweetheart, you cannot believe half of what you've heard about Davydd. The man has enemies, I'll not deny it. But I can assure you that he" "No . . . please, you must listen to me. My father and husband Were foolhardy enough to defy the Crown, and it cost them all they 222 had. I'll not be yoked to another rebel. I'll not wed a Welsh malcontent whose only loyalty is to himself, for sooner or later, he'll fall. . . and drag me down with him!" Elizabeth's first outburst had been involuntary, and she'd been encouraged to continue by Edward's unexpectedly mild reaction. But that indulgence, that odd amusement chilled with her first words of defiance. Getting slowly to his feet, Edward gave Elizabeth such a cold, forbidding J look that she shrank back, the rest of her protest catching in her throat. "You disappoint me, Elizabeth. I thought you had more confidence in my judgment. Do you truly think I'd have you wed a man who'd make you unhappy? Now . . . ere you say something you'll long regret, I would suggest that you think this over." Edward paused for emphasis, but he was mollified somewhat by Elizabeth's submissive silence, and he said, more kindly. "I do have your best interests at heart, lass." Gazing over her shoulder toward the window-seat, he bit his lip, and again that unaccountable look of amusement crossed his face. "In fact, I think you ought to stay right here, have some time alone. I'll be back in a while. In the meantime, you make yourself comfortable, and give some very serious thought to what I've said." Elizabeth stared at the closing door, fighting a mad urge to flee, for where could she go? She did not have the courage to defy Edward. Nor did her father; he feared Edward even more than he hated him. But . . . but what if she took holy vows? That would thwart Edward.| At what cost, though? Bride of Christ or bride of Davydd ap Gruffydd.l She'd heard that a trapped animal sometimes gnawed off its own leg inl order to escape the snare. But most of them waited passively for their fate, defenseless, doomed. All her life, Elizabeth had been drawn to drama. Even as a child, she'd been one for turning a scratched knee into a lethal wound, a playmate's rebuff into a blood feud, every joy, every slight, every dread magnified a hundredfold. She embroidered facts instead of threads, not because she was a liar, because she was a romantic. But now that she was facing a genuine calamity, she found herself unable to react, unable to scream or rebel or even to cry. She could only wait for Edward to return, listening for the sound of the hunter's footsteps in the snow. It was this sense of her own helplessness that stung her into a sudden flare of futile rage. She looked at Edward's wine cup, the cup he'd used to toast her marriage, and then she was lashing out, sending it spinning off the table, down into the floor rushes. Her burst of temper did not help. All she accomplished was to Jor m. rd.M m .eir^B 223 latter her skirt and to lose the light, for some of the wine spilled into the oil lamp. Elizabeth muttered one of her father's favorite oaths, sank down into the nearest chair. What now? To whom could she turn? Her erandrnother? No, she had disinherited Derby after his disgrace. Might the Queen . . . Elizabeth's head came up sharply. She was not frightened at first, for she knew that mice were no respecters of rank, as likely to be found in a palace as a peasant's hut. By now her eyes had adjusted to the darkness, and as she glanced toward the sound, she could make out a shadowy form within the window recess. "Who is there? What do you want?" Davydd had been hurling some very creative mental curses at Edward's absent head. But Elizabeth's quavering challenge brought him hastily to his feet. "Do not be afraid," he said soothingly. "I mean you no harm." His words were wasted, though; she heard only the accent. She'd spoken instinctively in English, for that was her first tongue. If French was the language of the court, English reigned in the nursery; like most children of the Norman-French nobility, Elizabeth had been tended since birth by English wet-nurses and English maids. Davydd had answered her in English, too, but with a distinctive cadence, one that held echoes of his native Wales. Elizabeth had jumped to her feet at sight of an intruder. Now, as she realized the identity of the man coming toward her from the shadows, she began to tremble. She was so obviously terrified that Davydd swore under his breath, half-expecting her to bolt at any moment. "I startled you, I can see," he murmured, and before she could retreat, he grasped her arm, gently but firmly steered her back toward the chair. "I think you ought to sit down, catch your breath, whilst I get you something to drink." Elizabeth sat on the very edge of the chair, watching as Davydd recovered the wine cup from the rushes, found a half-full flagon, favored her with a relaxed, reassuring smile. Gripping the cup with both hands, she drank until she'd gotten her courage back. "I know who you are," she said, very low, glancing swiftly up at him through her lashes and then away. "So ... so why are you being so kind to me? After what I said ..." "Hellfire, sweetheart, I've been called far worse than a 'Welsh malcontent!' " But she did not return Davydd's smile. He could see that er breathing had steadied. In another moment or so, she'd be composed en°ugh to comprehend the significance of his presence here, to realize what a shabby trick he and Edward had played upon her. To head off a* moment of reckoning, he said quickly: "I'm glad you brought it out 224 into the open, though. After all, when the body is lying right on the floor in front of us, still warm and twitching, we can hardly ignore it might as well dissect it." But that earned him not even the glimmer of a smile. She looked at him so blankly that he sighed softly; this was not going to be easy. "The marriage," he said patiently. "I think we ought to talk about it. It is only fair that I begin by discussing the disadvantages of marriage to me. But in all honesty, I can think of nary a one!" | Again, he failed to get a smile. "Well, on to the advantages. Does f a crown catch your interest? There is a very real possibility that I might one day be Prince of Wales." That had not occurred to Elizabeth. But he might also end his days in English exile, dependent upon Edward's charity. She did not dare to say that, though, kept her gaze locked upon the hands clasped in her lap. "Of course some people claim my future is more likely to hold a gallows than a coronation," Davydd joked, and she could not suppress a gasp, her eyes flying upward to his face; Jesu, had he read her mind? He was laughing silently. "Be that as it may, there are other benefits to be found in marriage to me. Not the least of them is that I'd be able to secure your dower rights in the Marshal lands, to stop your stepson from cheating you. Then there is always the pleasure of my company. I'm easy to content, rarely riled, no small virtues in a husband, I would think. I'm not one for squabbling for its own sake, nor do I believe a man ought to take out his foul moods upon his wife. For certes, I'd never hit you, and" He'd thrown out that last reassurance almost as an afterthought. But her reaction stopped him in mid-sentence. Her head jerked up; a hand clenched on the arm of the chair. And he remembered stories he'd heard of the Earl of Derby's savage temper, felt for this unhappy girl a sudden flicker of pity. "That . . . that is easy enough to say." "Wales is not like England, Lady Elizabeth. Welsh law forbids a man to strike his wife except under extreme provocation, such as infidelity." But Davydd could never be serious for long; his mouth twitching, he added, "I might well give you headaches, lass, but not bruises." That promise meant more to Elizabeth than the glimmer of a crownif she could believe him. Reaching for her wine cup again, she was surprised to find she'd drained it dry. Davydd poured her another cupful; she drank gratefully, then remembered her manners and thanked him. "Does Welsh law truly protect women from beatings? Even the Church says a man has the right to discipline his wife ..." 225 "Welshwomen have always been better off than their other sisters in Christendom. They can claim custody of their children, unlike English wives or widows. They have as much right as a man to end an unhappy marriagealthough I ought not to be telling you that, should I? And unlike England, where a man can bring his concubine right into the castle keep if he so chooses, in Wales a man who did that would stir up a scandal of impressive proportions; he'd be answerable not only to his wronged wife, but to her outraged kinsmen, as well." Elizabeth had never been alone with a man not her kinsman, and she could not quite believe she was really here now, sitting with Davydd ap Gruffydd in the tempting intimacy of a darkened bedchamber. He was very close, perched on the table edge, but his face was in shadow. Never had she been so physically aware of another person. His legs were long, booted to mid-calf in soft cowhide. One hand rested on his knee, and even in such subdued light, she could see a thin white scar snaking across his wrist; she wondered how the wound had occurred, wondered, too, if his body bore other scars. She drank again, and was then astonished to hear herself saying, "You said that . . . that you'd never bring a concubine under your wife's roof. But there would be concubines?'" She'd caught Davydd off balance. "Yes," he said at last, "there probably would be from time to time. But I'd never shame you, would never flaunt them in public. That I can promise you." In the silence that followed, he wondered whatever had possessed him to be so candid. But then Elizabeth startled him again. "Thank you," she said, "for being honest with me. My father ... he treats me like a child, and a dull-witted one at that. And Cousin Edward is no better. T have your best interests at heart,' he says ... in a pig's eye!" She paused for breath, no less surprised than Davydd by her outburst, and then glanced at him out of the corner of her eye. "I'd not have believed you had you sworn you'd always be faithful," she said, and Davydd finally saw her smile. Davydd grinned and reached over, took the wine cup out of her hand. "Slow down with that wine, sweetheart. Wine works wonders for seductions, but I need you sober for a serious conversation about marriage." "What is there to say? We both know that the King is giving me no choice in this." Davydd slid his fingers under her chin, tilted her face up toward s- "Is it so strange that I'd want your consent? I've never enjoyed riding an unwilling horse." To his amusement, Elizabeth blushed. "This is so odd," she said 226 shyly, "this talking in the dark. I can tell that you're tall, but not nmcj, more. Do you ... do you look like you sound?" "How do I sound?" he asked, predictably, and before she could stop herself, she blurted out, "Dangerous!" He laughed, and she could feel her face getting hot again. "You sound," she said tartly, "like the sort of man my stepmother is always warning me about!" He had drawn back into the shadows; she could hear him moving | about the chamber. "That ought to be enough to send you racing into if my arms, then. Do you not always do the very opposite of what Stepmother wants?" Elizabeth did not know what to say to that; she'd never met anyone who talked like Davydd, saying outrageous things in the most matterof-fact way. A sudden spark flared; Davydd had found flint and tinder. As the lamp's flame shot upward, she hastily averted her eyes. She could feel his gaze upon her, almost like a physical touching. Would he be pleased with her, find her pretty? When she mustered enough nerve to look up, she saw that he was smiling. "Shall I give you your first Welsh lesson, cariad? Trech wyneb teg na gwaddol/ or, 'better a fair face than a dowry.' Fortunately for me, you have both, for I've always been a greedy sort!" Elizabeth joined in his laughter; she was learning to like the sound of it. "My hair is a pale flaxen shade," she volunteered, for she was very proud of that; no hair color was more prized than hers. "See," she said, reaching up and unpinning the braid at the nape of her neck. Pulling it free of the wimple draping her throat, she triumphantly held up a plait of pure silver. Davydd entwined the braid around his fingers, wondering if the hair between her legs was as blonde and silky. "How long do you mean to keep me in suspense, Elizabeth de Ferrers? Shall I have to drag you, kicking and clawing, down the church aisle?" Elizabeth tried to look shocked and disapproving, but the corners of her mouth were curving up. Davydd brushed her cheek lightly with the tip of her braid. "Why are you still balking, cariad? Just what were you looking for in a husband? Not many mortal men have haloes." "I was not seeking a ... a saint," Elizabeth protested. "I just wanted what every woman wants, a man cheerful and good-natured, a devout Christian, a . . ." She was having unexpected difficulty concentrating upon the question. His mustache was lighter in color than his hair, held golden glints, and she found herself wondering if it would tickle when he kissed her. "Then I am still in the race, for I'm good-natured even early in the 227 Orn, and I am for certes a Christian. Not even my worst enemies have ver accused me of being a heathen! Go on, what else?" "He ... he should be brave." Elizabeth faltered; he was stroking her cheek with her own braid again. "Well, I agreed to marry you sight unseen. What could be braver than that?" She giggled and he moved closer. "What other virtues must your husband possess?" Elizabeth tilted her head so she could look up into his eyes, green and glittering and surprisingly long-lashed. "He ... he should be generous and good-hearted and ..." She got no further; he'd begun to laugh again. "Alas," he said, shaking his head in mock regret, "that I am not." Elizabeth was flustered. "Not . . . not generous?" "No . . good," he said softly, and Elizabeth felt an odd shiver go up her spine, a physical chill that was both fear and excitement. Davydd was very close now; his hand slid down her arm, propelling her forward until their bodies were touching. "Say yes, Elizabeth. I'll teach you to swear in Welsh and laugh in bed, and we'll have handsome children for certes!" Elizabeth had the strangest sensation, almost of vertigo, as if she were teetering upon a cliff's edge. She hesitated a moment longer, and then let herself go, trusting in Davydd to catch her as she fell. "Yes," she breathed, "yes," raising her face for his kiss. Davydd was too tall to embrace Elizabeth comfortably, a problem he solved by pulling her toward the chair, sitting down, and drawing her onto his lap. Edward had been right about her; she was featherlight and willow-slim, but he was discovering that her body was soft, with more curves than he'd first thought. He kept her kisses gentle, soon felt her lips part, her arms go up around his neck. Elizabeth was lost, amazed by her own body, by feelings unfamiliar, erotic, and compelling; she never heard the door opening. But Davydd did, glancing up in time to see Edward come to an abrupt halt. And the startled look on Edward's face was sweeter even than Elizabeth's eager, virginal kisses. ON November 12th of God's Year, 1276, the royal council of the English "^ing judged Llewelyn ap Gruffydd to be in rebellion, and war was declared against Wales. 17 *l WINDSOR CASTLE, ENGLAND May 1277 U, UPON his arrival at Windsor, Roger de Mortimer found Edward and Edmund in the sunlit upper bailey, watching a shooting match. Edward was in an expansive, relaxed mood; few would have suspected he was a man about to lead an army into Wales. "You're just in time, Roger. I want you to see this." They'd already drawn a number of spectators, men as intrigued by the contest as by the King's presence, for the archers were not using the crossbow. The staves of these weapons were much longer than those of the more familiar bow, more than five feet in length, and they were firing fletched arrows with eye-blurring speed, evoking murmurs of awe from those watching. Not from de Mortimer, though, for he was no stranger to the longbow; it was the weapon of choice in much of Wales, particularly in the South. Moreover, he was travel-stained and saddle-sore and irked by the nonchalance of Edward's greeting. Although Edward did not expect to take the field himself until the summer, he had been waging war against the Welsh for months, having launched a three-pronged assault upon Llewelyn's lands from Carmarthen, Montgomery, and Chester. His battle commanders had won some impressive victories, but none had been as spectacularly successful as de Mortimer, for in April he had seized Llewelyn's castle at Dolforwyn and restored Gruffydd ap Gwenwynwyn to power in Powys. Having dealt Llewelyn ap Gruffydd such a crippling blow, de Mortimer felt that he deserved a more effusive welcome than he'd gotten, and he listened impatiently as Edward extolled the virtues of the Welsh longbow instead of his own exploits. "Yes, yes, I know," he said testily, "the longbow has a greater 229 nge. And Your Grace is right; it is more easily mastered than the ossbovv. But do you not want to hear my report?" "Why? After all, you sent me word as soon as Dolforwyn and Buellt fell. What more is there to say?" De Mortimer's fatigue had dulled his perception. His temper flared; ot until Edward laughed did he realize he was being teased. Waving the others away, Edward clapped him playfully upon the back. "Tell us " he said, "and leave nothing out. If ever a man was entitled to boast a bit, you are for certes!" Mollified, de Mortimer began, "Well, it was lack of water that forced the Dolforwyn garrison to surrender . . ." By the time he concluded, the sun was hovering over the horizon, reflecting the burnt orange of a summer dusk. "And ere I left Buellt, I gave orders to begin construction of a new castle on the site. The old one was razed to the ground by Llewelyn years ago, was beyond restoring. But once it is done, you'll command the entire Wye Valley." "What of Llewelyn ap Gruffydd? Are his whereabouts known?" "I heard that he was fighting along the Upper Severn. He's all but lived in the saddle for months now, trying to hold back the tide. But once you cross the River Dee, he'll disappear into the fastness of Snowdon, dare us to follow. This is what the Welsh always do. You can rarely draw them into a pitched battle. They prefer will-o'-the-wisp tactics, excel at ambush and night raids, and when you try to track them down, they disappear into blue smoke." "They'd be fools to do otherwise," Edward said matter-of-factly. "No Welsh prince could ever hope to put as many men in the field as the English Crown can. So they rely upon that godforsaken, wild land of theirs to repel invaders. And often as not, it does. My greatgrandfather, my grandfather, and my fatherat one time or another, they all braved those Welsh mountain passes, and they all ended up fleeing back across the border, marking their trail with wooden crosses, shallow graves." Edward, too, had sought conquest and glory in Wales, had suffered a humiliating defeat at Llewelyn's hands. But de Mortimer was not the fool who'd remind him of that youthful failure; he kept a prudent silence. "No," Edward concluded, "whenever we did prevail, it was because we were able to turn their own weaknesses against them. Thank God they're such a jealous, quarrelsome people, more suspicious of one another than any enemy beyond their borders." De Mortimer grinned. "Ah, we're talking now of Davydd, are we? do owe you a debt, Ned, for not sending him to fight alongside me. 230 I hear he has driven poor Warwick well nigh mad with his griping and swaggering. Is it true he dared to demand that his men be paid wage as if he were an English lord? That he even balked at sharing the bootv from his raids into Wales?" Edward nodded ruefully. "All true and a trial to my patience, I must admit. Having him with us, though, is like having a lance leveled at Llewelyn's throat, so it is worth the trouble to keep him content. Bear that in mind, Roger, for he's on his way to Windsor even as we speak Warwick warned me that he's heard rumors about English lords laying claim to Welsh lands once the war is done, so we're going to be treated to yet another spectacle of Welsh indignation at full blaze. But now that you know, resist the temptation to bait him, if you please. He will be difficult enough to placate as it is." De Mortimer made a gesture of exaggerated, extravagant submission. "As Your Grace wills it, so shall it be ... even if it does spoil my fun! Now, if you have no further need of me, I am going to find myself a bath and a bed and a wench." Edmund had so far taken no part in the conversation. But as de Mortimer started to turn away, he said, "Roger, wait. There is something I would say to you. As you know, our kinswoman, Eleanor de Montfort, is dwelling here within the castle. Upon his past visits to Windsor, my brother has made her welcome at his court, and I assume this visit will be no different. But I have no doubt that Ellen would find your presence painful" "Why?" De Mortimer's brows rose mockingly. "Because I adorned my gatehouse at Wigmore with her whoreson father's head? Surely the lass would not hold a grudge over a trifle like that?" Edmund was not amused. "Stay away from her, Roger," he said bluntly. De Mortimer's surprise was no longer feigned. "And if I do not?" "You'll be giving grief to a girl who has had more than her share. And you'll be making an enemy, one you'll not want." De Mortimer laughed. "I think I can bear the great burden of Ellen de Montfort's enmity!" "Not Ellen . . . me, "Edmund said, and Roger de Mortimer stopped laughing. To Edmund, it was like watching a house preparing for a siege, shutters slamming, bolts sliding into place; de Mortimer's face went blank, black eyes narrowing in sudden, wary appraisal. It was a look he'd never given Edmund before, one that took an adversary's measure and found reason for caution. It was a look Edmund liked. He rarely felt the need to wield his power as the King's brother in so blatant 231 , gfuon, but he never forgot that he had it. After today, he knew de tfortimer would not forget it, either. Edward had been an interested, amused witness to this exchange. He genuinely enjoyed Roger de Mortimer's company, but he also enved seeing the cocky Marcher lord discomfited, and he moved to Fdmund's side, watching as de Mortimer strode away. "Very deftly done, Little Brother," he said approvingly. "Roger needs to be thwarted from time to time, or else he tends to become utterly insufferable. But you need not have feared for Ellen. I care as much for her welfare as you do, would not stand idly by if she were being baited by Roger." Edmund gave him a startled, searching look, but he could find no evidence of irony in his brother's last words; apparently Edward saw no conflict in being both Ellen's protector and her gaoler. "Ned . . . we're well into her second year of confinement. Surely you do not mean to hold her indefinitely?" "Of course not! I truly do care for the lass, Edmund, and not just because she's Harry's sister. She has pluck and common sense, and the very sight of her is enough to please any man not stone-blind!" Edward grinned. "No, I wish her well, and if I can, I will see her wed to her willful Welsh Prince. If I cannot, I'll find her a more suitable husband. One way or another, we'll soon know what her future holds." "And what do you think the future holds for Wales?" Edmund was very curious about his brother's ultimate aims in this war, felt he had a right to know, for he was to command Edward's army in South Wales. "I understand that you've ordered your Justiciar to introduce English law into Ireland, saying that Irish law is 'detestable to God.' I assume you are no less disapproving, then, of Welsh law and custom. And I know full well that you and Llewelyn ap Gruffydd were fated to clash, for you see him as just another of your vassals whilst he stubbornly insists upon seeing himself as an independent ally. So you have cornpelling reasons, both as a Christian and as a King, to seek the conquest of Wales. And I cannot help wondering if that is what you mean to do." Edward looked thoughtfully at the younger man. "What you say 18 true enough. As England's King, I do believe Wales must be more securely yoked to the Crown. And as a Christian, I have a duty to wean We Welsh away from their more heathenish practices. But I am also a soldier, lad, am not about to snatch at any crown that comes within reach, the way our father would, never thinking to count the cost. Look the needless trouble he brought upon himself by trying to make you ^"8 of Sicily! Yes, I want Wales. I am not sure, though, that it would worth the price I'd have to pay. We'll have to see what happens, 232 Edmund, once we've brought Llewelyn to bay. Then . . . mayhap the we'll know what God wants me to do." WINDSOR had always been a favorite residence of the English kings, and Edward was no exception. This was his fourth visit since Ellen had been brought from Bristol Castle, and each time the royal entourage rode into the lower bailey, she was assailed by such a conflicting welter of emo- 1 tions that she despaired of ever sorting them out. She'd been a prisoner now for seventeen months, and she was starved for news of the world beyond Windsor, desperate for any scrap of information about her husband or brother. She was also so lonely, so bored, and so restless that she welcomed the excitement of Edward's arrival, welcomed any escape from the deadly monotony of her days. One faded into the other, her life trickling away like the grains of sand in the hourglass by her bed, and if she found her comfortable confinement so onerous, what in God's Sweet Mercy must it be like for Amaury? And yet the mere sight of Edward was enough to set Ellen's every nerve on edge; it was, she thought, the way a rabbit must feel when it caught the scent of fox. After an evening in her cousin's company, she was often too tense to sleep, for the pretense was taking its toll. She was finding it harder and harder to hide her true feelings, to play the role Edward expected, that of Harry's sweet little sister, an innocent pawn in need of male protection. How could Edward be so blind? She and Juliana spent endless hours attempting to puzzle it out, for she was terrified that she might make a misstep, give herself away. They'd finally concluded that even the cleverest of men could have a flawed imagination, be utterly unable to put himself in another man's place, to see any point of view but his own. That made sense of sorts to Ellen, for it also seemed to explain why Edward could not admit that Llewelyn had genuine grievances. She well knew that if Llewelyn had dared to harbor a man who'd plotted Edward's assassination, her cousin would have been outraged. Yet he'd not only sheltered Davydd and Gruffydd ap Gwenwynwyn, he shrugged off Llewelyn's complaints as if they were of no consequence. Ellen suspected that most men shared Edward's affliction to some degree; her own brothers had, for certes. But whilst such singlemindedness had been vexing at times in Harry or Bran, it was truly frightening in a man who wielded the manifold and God-given powers of kingshipMuch to Ellen's disappointment, Hugh was not with Edward. He had been left behind at Westminster to nurse an infected tooth, would not be joining them until Edward departed for the west on June 10thQuestioning Edward at length, Ellen had been able to satisfy herseu 233 Hugh's malady was not life-threatening. But Hugh was her only dowto *ne worid' and she felt his loss keenly, now more than ever, ^th war so close at hand. She discovered, though, that even with Hugh gone, she would not , ve to face Edward alone and friendless, for Edmund and his wife were art of the royal entourage. Ellen and Blanche had known each other . prance; in the years before her marriage to the King of Navarre, Blanche was often at the French court, a favorite with her aunt, Marguerite, and her cousin, Philippe. And with Edmund, Ellen did not have to feign affection. She did not even mind that he had been given her father's forfeited earldom, for he had played no part in her family's downfall, having been stranded in France until after Evesham. But that nostalgic childhood fondness flared into intense, heartfelt gratitude once Blanche confided that Edmund had tried to persuade Edward to move Amaury from Corfe to Sherborne, a castle under his control. Ellen did not doubt that Edmund would be a far more generous gaoler than his brother, and she clung to the hope that he might yet sway Edward. It was a frail hopeshe knew thatbut the only one Amaury had. WATCHING as Eleanora bade goodnight to her small son, Alfonso, Blanche observed, "That is a rare sight, indeed, England's Queen without a swelling belly. But it's been fully a twelvemonth since she was brought to bed of her last babe. So any day now I expect an announcement that yet another one is due." Ellen nodded. "I cannot help wondering," she said, "if those constant pregnancies, one right after another, might be why her babies are so sickly. She never has a chance to regain her strength, does she? My mother raised six out of seven children, but Eleanora . . . My God, Blanche, she's lost five of her ten so far. How strong she must be, to have survived such sorrow ..." Blanche hesitated, on the verge of sharing a crucial confidence, that she suspected herself to be with child. But she did not, for she enjoyed keeping secrets; not even Edmund knew yet. "Edward has been very attentive to you tonight. Does he always show you such favor, Ellen?" "Yes, we are very friendly, my cousin and I. He thinks it is quite natural that I should let bygones be bygones. I daresay he expects me to bid him a fond farewell on Thursday next, waving gaily from my Prison window as he rides off to make war upon my husband." "Ah, Ellen, be bitter if you will. God knows you're entitled. But self-pity serves for naught. Do not give in to it, not yet. I have a suggestion to make ... if you're interested?" 234 "You know I am, Blanche. What do you have in mind?" "Well . . . you'll not like it, not at first. Just do not dismiss it Out of hand. I was watching as you and Edward were dancing earlier. He fancies you, girl. Nohear me out! If I'm right and he is partial to yOll you'd be a fool not to use it against him. Flirt with him, flatter him and" "I think you must be mad! Jesii, Blanche, how could you even \ suggest" if "I'm not saying you should let him bed you! Just . . . just a bit of dalliance. It would cost you nothing and might gain you a great deal." "You have an odd notion as to what comprises a risk. What happens when this little game of yours runs its course and he expects it to end in his bed?" "Dearest, you say no, as simple as that! I'll grant you that a woman's no would not matter to some men. But I've never heard it said that Edward was one to force a woman against her will. I'm sure he strays from time to time, but he's most discreet about it. Why, he almost qualifies as a faithful husband! And for a king, that is truly remarkable, you must admit. Clearly this is a man who is ruled by his head, not his loins. And you have the perfect excuse, should it ever come to that. You're his first cousin, after all. To couple with him would be a mortal sin, no? So if need be, remind him of that. Or use that wedding ring on your finger. Men always expect women to take marriage vows more seriously than they do; if truth be told, they get downright uneasy when we do not!" Ellen was laughing now in spite of herself. "Ah, Blanche, you have not changed a whit! But I cannot do what you suggest. I find it hard enough to be civil to Edward. Whenever I smile up at him, all I can see is Amaury, shackled to a bed in the cabin of that wretched cog." Blanche frowned. "I do not like to hear you talk like this, Ellen. You sound as if you've given up all hope." "I know," Ellen admitted, and smiled wryly. "If I were a rope, I'd be frayed to the breaking point. There are so many times when I truly think I cannot endure a moment more. But I must, and so I do." Blanche reached out, gave Ellen's arm a sympathetic squeeze. "I would to God I had words of cheer. But all I have is a warning. The King is coming this way." "WHENEVER you get that distant, distracted look, I can wager that you are contemplating some sort of mischief," Edmund murmured, slipping his arm around Blanche's waist. "Dare I hope it might take place in bed?" 235 "Oh, you can always hope." Blanche leaned back into his embrace. "Actually/ I was plotting a crime." He understood at once; he was far more attuned to the unspoken than most men. "Breaking out of Windsor Castle will not be easy, love. I hop6 you reconsider. Having lost one wife to fever, I'd rather not lose second to the gallows." His attempt at humor falling flat, he nuzzled her cheek. "Sweetheart, you know I sympathize with Ellen's plight. But she'll not be held much longer. Ned assures me of that, says it will soon be over." "Yes, but how? I'd not see Ellen a widow ere she had a chance to be a wife." Blanche sighed, but she let the subject drop. Why should she punish Edmund for his brother's misdeeds? She was about to ask him to dance when there was a sudden stir at the end of the hall. Turning to watch the man who'd paused, deliberately and dramatically, in the doorway, she wondered aloud, "Do you think Davydd ap Gruffydd ever enters a room the way other men do, just walks in without seeking to attract attention, to turn heads?" "Only if he's trying to sneak into some absent husband's bed. Now, that surprises me; he's brought Elizabeth with him. I wonder why he did not leave her at Frodesham, that Cheshire manor he coaxed out of Ned. Davydd is the last man I'd expect to be playing the doting bridegroom." "Edmund, use the eyes God gave you! It is obvious why he has her in tow, because she'd not be parted from him. You need only look at them to see it. That poor lass is daft about him. But then, she's too young yet to know no man deserves to be loved that much, least of all, hers." "No man? Not even me?" Edmund laughed, and then swore. "Christ on the CrossEllen! I warned de Mortimer away from her, but I never gave a thought to Davydd!" Edmund often thought he and Blanche made an excellent team; she proved it now. "I'll intercept Davydd and the little bride. You go find Ellen, ask her to dance, to run away with you, whatever it takes." She was as good as her word, soon had Davydd and Elizabeth engaged in animated conversation. Edmund was not as successful, for the dancing had begun again, and by the time he spotted Ellen, the carol had swept her and Edward into Davydd's line of vision. Hastening across the hall, Edmund saw Davydd break away from his wife and lanche. He could only shove his way toward them, knowing he'd be too late. Ellen at once noticed Davydd's approach, and for a moment, she herself hope that this Welshman might be one of Llewelyn's envoys, °r Edward had permitted her to meet with the Bishop of St Asaph that 236 past year. But Davydd's obeisance was flavored with too much fan^] iarity. Puzzled and curious, she moved closer. And then she drew a sharp breath, for she realized who he was. The brother who'd plotted Llewelyn's murder. Edward knew that Davydd invariably trailed trouble in his wake knew, too, that it would be no easy task allaying Davydd's suspicions' But he was pleased, nevertheless, to see Davydd, for whatever his other failings, the Welshman was always amusing company. "I've been exi pecting you," he said affably, waving Davydd to his feet. "I understand you've grown tired of bedeviling Warwick, think it is my turn. But not tonight, so hoard your grievances till the morrow. Now . . . tell me how my little cousin fares. Does she like Cheshire?" "Your Grace can ask her yourself, for she is here with me. I was loath to leave her," Davydd said blandly, "we being so recently wed. And as I know just how much Elizabeth's happiness matters to you, I daresay you'll be delighted to learn that she is so content." Edward tried not to laugh, and failed. "You sound even more smug than usual, which must mean that you've managed to do it again, to bedazzle yet another innocent lass! In truth, I have never understood your success. I've always found women to be cautious, timid creatures, leery of taking risks, wanting comfort and security above all else. It would go against the natural order of things to see a cat surrounded by mice, begging to be eaten. So how, then, do you end up with mice beyond counting?" By now, Davydd was laughing, too; he enjoyed their jousting fully as much as Edward. "Mayhap because I do not think women are cautious, timid creatures, leery of taking risks, wanting comfort and security above all else. But then, why not let the mice speak for themselves? The hall is full of lovely ladies. Why not ask them what they seek in a man?" Davydd's borderline insolences usually irritated any English within earshot; Eleanora was not alone in wondering why Edward indulged him. But this was the sort of game all enjoyed, verbal sparring between the sexes. Most of the women listening would have been quite willing to take Davydd's side. Unfortunately for him, when he looked about for allies, he chose the prettiest woman presentEllen. "What say you, my lady? Are Englishwomen truly timid and cautious? Or are Englishmen merely the most credulous in Christendom?" Edward had forgotten Ellen was nearby. Swinging about, he saw at once that she knew, that Davydd did not. He'd rarely had Davydd at such a disadvantage; the temptation to stand aside and savor the moment was considerable. But Ellen's silence was like sheeted ice, likely to splinter with her next breath. "I think," he said, "that I ought to introduce you, Davydd, to my cousin, the Lady Eleanor de Montfort- 237 pavydd's surprise was evident; there was an awkward silence. But made a quick recovery, smiled as if nothing was amiss. "I'd heard were here, Lady Eleanor," he murmured, with an oblique, glinting ''lance toward Edward. "But since I knew the King's Grace is holding u against your will, I assumed you'd be locked up somewhere. Welsh prisoners rarely get to dine with their captors." Davydd saw, to his satisfaction, that he'd annoyed Edward, and he n0w took advantage of a servant's passing to snatch wine cups from the man's up-raised platter. "Just what we need," he said, and thrust (flipping cups at Edward and Ellen. "Shall we drink to my brother's bride?" Ellen would normally have been grateful to have Edward's court reminded that she was indeed a prisoner, being held very much against her will. But now she could think only that the man standing before her was the brother who'd betrayed Llewelyn, who'd played into Edward's hands at every turn. If not for Davydd, Llewelyn would have been able to do homage as Edward demanded, and mayhap then Edward would not have felt so threatened by her marriage, mayhap he'd not have sent Thomas the Archdeacon after the Holy Cross. Because of Davydd's treachery, Amaury was shut away from the sun, she had yet to look upon the man she'd married, and Llewelyn might well be dead ere this wretched war was done. Wine sloshed from her cup, spilled over her fingers, so tightly was she gripping the stem. The urge to fling the contents into Davydd's face was overpowering, but she still clung to the shreds of her self-control. Instead, she held her cup out at arm's length, then tilted it, slowly and deliberately poured the wine into the floor rushes at Davydd's feet. Edward had given up the hope of ever seeing Davydd thoroughly discomfiteduntil now. For an endless andto Edwardenormously gratifying moment, Davydd was at a loss for words. Then he rallied his defenses and shrugged. "I suppose," he said, "that this means I shall not be invited to the wedding." He got what he'd aimed forlaughter but the flippancy was belied by the angry color still staining his face and throat. Ellen had already turned away; Edward was following. Davydd envied them their exit, for he would rather have been anywhere else in Christendom than the great hall of Windsor Castle. But he would not retreat, would never give his English audience that satisfaction. He °oked down at his wine cup, then raised it to his lips, discovering oo latethat it was hippocras, a wine so heavily sugared and spiced at he almost gagged. Even the English taste in wines was noxious. eave it to Llewelyn to find himself a woman just as self-righteous as e was. And she was beautiful, too, the de Montfort bitch. Llewelyn 238 would likely be smitten at first sightif ever he saw her. Davydd drank again, deeply; this time it went down more easily. He was about to drain the cup dry when he felt a hand tugging at his arm. "Davydd? What has happened?" Elizabeth's blue eyes were aiw ious, for although Blanche had managed to keep her out of earshot, sh knew at once that something was wrong; she was learning to read Davydd as monks read their prayer books. Davydd lowered the wine cup. He'd deliberately set out to make her fall in love with him, in part because it made sense to have a fond wife, in part to see if he could. But it had not been much of a challenge had been almost too easy. No one had ever shown Elizabeth tenderness before; it had taken no more than that. Once he realized the extent of his victory, Davydd had been assailed by qualms, fearing that he might drown in her devotion, find it cloying, a surfeit of sweets. Much to his surprise, he found that he liked it. Other women had loved him, of course, or so they'd claimed, but they'd not been his, and no one had ever loved him the way Elizabeth did, utterly and unconditionally and wholeheartedly. He'd thought himself to be familiar with love in all its erotic guises, had not known it could be soothing, too. "Davydd? Can you not tell me what is amiss?" "Later, cariad," he said, and found a passable smile for her. "I'll tell you later." And the odd thing, he thought, was that he probably would. ELLEN wanted only to escape the hall, and she followed Edward like a sleepwalker, let him lead her out into the mild June night. "I think you need some time away from prying eyes," he said, and steered her across the bailey. Moments later, she found herself sitting upon a bench in the chapel gardens where she'd once plotted an escape with Hugh, watching Edward stride back and forth in the moonlight, filling the cloisters with echoes of his laughter. "I nearly bit my tongue off, trying to keep from laughing aloud. Bless you, lass, for you've given me a memory to cherish into my dotage. I never thought it was possible to catch Davydd off balance; God knows, I've tried often enough!" At last becoming aware of Ellen's silence, Edward moved toward the bench. "You still have not gotten your color back. Davydd truly did distress you; I can see that now. You're very loyal, Ellen. Llewelyn is luckier than he knows." "I doubt that Llewelyn feels very lucky these days," Ellen said softly' Edward came closer. Straddling the bench, he reached over, tilted her face up toward his. Ellen went rigid at the touch of his fingers on he 239 hroat. He fancies you, girl. But after giving her a long, intent look, he leaned back, put space between them. "An interesting evening, and a revealing one. I discovered that navydd is not as imperturbable as he pretends to be, and that you do uave a temper, after all, Little Cousin. I often wondered about that, for Aunt Nell could flare up faster than Greek fire, and Simon's temper was even quicker to kindle. I was beginning to suspect you must be a foundling-" Ellen managed a flickering smile, fidgeted with her wedding ring. She knew he must see how nervous she was, but she could not bring herself to meet his eyes; his gaze was coolly probing, speculative, daunting. "I meant it when I commended you upon your loyalty, Ellen. That is an admirable trait. I daresay Llewelyn ap Gruffydd would be heartened to know that you've made his enemies your own. It does make me curious, though. When you tally up Llewelyn's grievances, why give so much more weight to Davydd's sins? I am his enemy, too, am I not?" Ellen's mouth had gone dry. "Yes," she agreed, "you are his enemy." She swallowed, then raised her lashes, looked him full in the face. "But you are not his brother. You never betrayed him, or took advantage of his trust. You never sat across a table from him, smiled whilst knowing your hired killers were on the way!" Her voice had risen, the rage spilling out at last. But it gave her outburst the ring of truth. Even before he nodded, she saw that he believed her. "I would that I could promise you a happy ending, Ellen," he said quietly. "But I cannot, and we both know that." She nodded, too, thinking that she'd liked it better when he lied. THE grass was Uttered with rose petals. Ellen had plucked them, one by one, until only the stem remained. It had taken her a while to convince Edward to return to the hall without her. He had balked at first, not agreeing until she confessed the truth, that she yearned, above all else, for time alone. He'd gone then, reluctantly, but he was likely to send someone out to check upon her if she did not soon return to the hall. ^ne knew that he did not fear she might escape, for what was she to do, jump over the walls, tunnel under them? No, she was coming to believe that his concern for her well-being was genuine. But it mattered or naught; he'd not be swayed by sentiment. Amaury could rot at Corfe Castle for the rest of his days. Llewelyn could lose all in this coming war, even his life. And there was nothing she could do for either of them. "My lady." She'd not heard the footsteps on the grassy inner garth, 240 and she jumped hastily to her feet, resentful that her solitude had been cut so short. But her irritation vanished as soon as she recognized the man coming toward her. Nicholas de Waltham was a Gilbertine canon from Lincoln, a man whose loyalty to the de Montfort family had endured, both in good times and bad. Ellen had noticed his arrival that morning, but had been chary of seeking him out in public, for his de Montfort credentials were well-known; Nell had even named him as 4 one of the executors of her will. What was not known, though, except fto a select few, was that Master Nicholas was also a spy, Llewelyn's eyes and ears at the English King's court. "When I saw you leave the hall with the King, I seized my chance," he said, and kissed her hand with a gallant flourish, for his manners had always been more evocative of the court than the priesthood. "But I'd best get right to the heart of the matter, for we ought not to be seen alone together." Reaching into the tunic of his cassock, he drew forth a small prayer book. "Reading this psalter will give you solace," he said sententiously, and then grinned. "But it will give you joy, too, especially the letter hidden within the bindinga message from your lord husband." Nicholas de Waltham well knew the risks he took, but moments like this made it worthwhile, for Ellen was looking at him as if he were a candidate for canonization. He'd wager it was a long time since anyone had seen the Earl's lass smile the way she was now smiling at him, and as he smiled back, it was almost as if he were still serving Earl Simon. "Lord Llewelyn is greatly concerned, my lady, that you do not despair. He worries lest you feel he has forsaken you, says" "No! Master Nicholas, that is not so! You must tell Llewelyn that for me, tell him that I know all he has done on my behalf. I know that he has appealed to the Pope. I know of the large ransom he offered for me. And I know that he even agreed to do homage as Edward demanded, offering to come to Montgomery or Oswestry under safe conductif only I were freed. Do you think I do not understand what it cost him to make that offer? He has nothing to reproach himself for, Master Nicholas, nothing!" "So I told him, too. But it will mean more, I suspect, coming from you. Now ... I have some news about your brother. His Holiness the Pope has instructed the Archbishop of Canterbury to speak out again on Amaury's behalf; they are seeking to have Amaury transferred into the custody of the Church. The Pope continues, too, to urge Edward to set you free. As does the King of France. So you see, my lady, you are not friendless, have not been forgotten." 241 "How glad I am," Ellen said, "that you sought me out tonight, for T was much in need of cheer. Master Nicholas ... is there any way you could get a letter back to my husband?" "I fear not. The roads have already become too dangerous, and once the King crosses into Wales . . ." He hesitated. "My lady . . . there is something else you must know, and I'd rather you hear it from me. The Archbishop of Canterbury has acted to excommunicate Prince Llewelyn and lay Wales under Interdict. It was done at the King's behest, of course. It is indeed sad, my lady, that political needs should carry such weieht in spiritual matters, but that is the way of our world. The very threat of excommunication is enough to strike fear in any man's soul, and for that very reason, it is so effectiveand so often abused. My lady, I know of a case where a Bishop excommunicated the men who dared trespass in his hunting park! Can you believe that the Almighty would deny a man salvation for so trivial a sin?" "There is no need to convince me, Master Nicholas. I well know how meaninglessand how unjustexcommunication can be. I am Simon de Montfort's daughter, after all. No more devout Christian ever drew breath than my father, yet he died excommunicate, made an outcast amongst men of faithbecause the Pope would curry favor with England's King." Nicholas nodded. "I am glad you see that, my lady. Now I'd best get back to the hall ere I'm missed. But I do not want to leave you ..." "I think I'd like to be alone," Ellen said, mustering up one last smile for his benefit. But as soon as his footsteps faded away, she sank down on the bench. For all her brave talk about the dubious worth of a politically motivated damnation, it was not so easy to defy the teachings of a lifetime, and it chilled her to realize that Llewelyn must ride into battle with God's curse upon him. Clutching the psalter to her breast, she made a hasty sign of the cross. "How can you ever forgive me, Llewelyn," she whispered, "for what I've brought upon you?" 18 ABERCONWY ABBEY, WALES July 1277 ENGLISH invading armies rarely penetrated so far west. But whenever they did succeed in crossing the Conwy, they invariably fell upon the abbey spread out along the river's left bank, plundered and looted and burned. In these hot, humid July days, the White Monks of the Cistercian abbey of St Mary dreaded what might lie ahead for them. Rumors traveled even faster than Llewelyn's hard-riding scouts in this summer of fear and foreboding. All knew that the English King had reached Chester, that he was poised for an assault into the very heartland of Llewelyn's realm. The monks knew, too, that he had assembled the largest army ever to threaten Gwynedd, four hundred archers and crossbowmen, more than fifteen thousand foot-soldiers. After months of border raids, after months of turmoil along the Marches, after months of tension and reversals and retreats, the conflagration seemed almost upon them, and they could only search the horizon with anxious eyes, awaiting the first smudges of smoke. The monks were much heartened, therefore, by the unexpected arrival of their Prince. They took an instinctive, elemental comfort in his presence, made excuses to neglect their chores and slipped into the guest hall, where they kept inconspicuously to the shadows, following Llewelyn with eyes full of faith, expectant in spite of themselves, willing him to find one more miracle for their abbey, for Wales. Llewelyn's relations with the Welsh Church were not always harmonious; he'd had serious disputes with both the Bishop of Bangof and the Bishop of St Asaph. But with the White Monks of Wales, he had forged a bond beyond breaking. They scorned the Archbishop ot Canterbury's English edict, scorned the perfidy of the Bishop of Bang"1' the only Welsh prelate willing to publish the excommunication order/ 243 hich he'd done with unseemly stealth, just before fleeing to England. Cowardice seemed to be catching, the monks agreed. Most of their prince's Welsh allies had bolted to the English camp. And the rumor weeping the guest hall was that Prince Llewelyn was at Aberconwy to wait a prisoner, one of his own bailiffs, seized ere he could flee to cjvvard. They speculated among themselves as to the identity of this latest traitor, damning him all the while in most un-monk-like language. Let others think only of saving their own skins. They'd hold fast, would not abandon their lord. And if they truly were facing Armageddon, then by the soul of St Davydd, they'd face it together, as Welshmen and Christians and free men. As he moved among them, their Abbot heard these whispered pledges of fealty, heard, too, their murmured solicitude, and he had to smile, for these austere brothers of God sounded almost maternal in their worries for their lord's well-being, expressing concern that he was demanding too much of himself, that he was not sleeping or eating as he ought. Although he smiled, Maredudd was inclined to agree with them, for never had he seen Llewelyn so finely drawn, like a man fighting a fever, dark eyes hollowed and glittering, every line of his body communicating a taut, watchful wariness. Even now, sitting at ease in the window-seat, long legs entangled in the sprawled, sleeping wolfhounds at his feet, he put Maredudd in mind of an arrow nocked against a drawn bowstring, ready to fire. Appropriating the nearest man's mead cup, Maredudd carried it across the hall, handed it to his Prince. Up close, Llewelyn's exhaustion was even more apparent, the sort of fatigue that burned into the bone, so familiar it was no longer noticed. "You look dreadful," the Abbot said, with the candor permitted of a long-time friend, and Llewelyn shrugged, then smiled. "I know," he conceded. "I almost fell asleep in the saddle this forenoon. Luckily my stallion had no mischief in mind, else I might have gone head over arse into a blackthorn bush. I remember reading that Alexander the Great once stumbled whilst leaping from a boat, sprawled "at in front of his entire army. He saved face, though, by claiming he was embracing the terra firma of the Asian land he'd come to conquer. But the Welsh are a less credulous lot; they'd likely have laughed." "I'd say that" Maredudd got no further. Llewelyn was staring Past him, toward the door. He turned, felt a jolt at sight of the man king escorted into the hall, shackled at the wrists. He'd thought he as beyond shock, but Rhys ap Gruffydd was a scion of one of the great nulies of Gwynedd, grandson of Llewelyn Fawr's legendary Seneschal, nyved ap Cynwrig. Maredudd liked to believe that breeding mattered, at good blood told in men as it did in horses. Remembering then that 244 r 245 Rhys had been a favorite carousing companion of Davydd ap Gruffyd^ he felt some of his surprise begin to recede, for he also believed th' Latin maxim, "Qui cum canibus concumbent cum pulicibus surgent" He who lies with dogs will rise with fleas. Rhys ap Gruffydd was stiff from so many unwilling hours in the saddle. He was also angry and afraid. But after one quick glance about the hall, he decided he had as much to fear from his own kinsmen as he did from his betrayed lord. Llewelyn seemed to have his rage under f control. His uncle Tudur, though, looked like a man contemplating a killing. His cousin, Goronwy ap Heilyn, gave him a burning stare, then spat deliberately into the floor rushes. Einion, a kinsman by marriage, wed to Rhys's elder sister, was standing by the door, yet he said not a word as Rhys passed, just slowly shook his head. Rhys swallowed with difficulty. He knew Llewelyn ap Gruffydd had never put a political foe to death. But he'd never been backed onto a cliff's edge before, either. Rhys had often teased Davydd about his "forked tongue," but he'd have given virtually anything now for the merest measure of Davydd's glibness. Shoved to his knees, he struggled to regain his balance, sought to sound properly indignant as he cried, "My lord Llewelyn, what is this about? If this is the way you treat men of good faith, men loyal" "I know." Llewelyn did not raise his voice. Yet those two softly uttered words set the blood thudding in Rhys's ears. He'd always known Llewelyn ap Gruffydd was a dangerous man to cross. But the English King was just as dangerous, so what in Christ's pity was a man supposed to do? "Did you hear me, Rhys? I said I knew." Llewelyn had not yet risen from the window-seat. Reaching out, he grasped the chain binding Rhys's wrists. "You've been in secret communication with my brother Davydd. He procured for you a royal safe-conduct. And then you waited, trying to judge the most opportune time to go over to Edward. Unfortunately for you, you waited too long." Llewelyn's voice was still pitched low, but held so much scorn that Rhys flushed darkly. His uncle had moved to Llewelyn's side. "I am thankful," Tudur said roughly, "that your father is not alive to see how you've shamed us, Rhys." Rhys could have dealt with their anger. But he found now that he could not endure their contempt. With a sudden yank, he sought to pull his shackles free, but Llewelyn had too firm a grip. He tightened the chain around his fist, jerked, and Rhys sprawled into the fl°°r rushes. Hearing laughter, both from Llewelyn's men and the monks* he forgot all else but his own rage. "I deny nothing," he snarled. "I was indeed going to make pea th the English King. And it would have been an easy trail to take, for ceded only to follow all who'd gone before meincluding your own bothers! Yes, I said brothers! Rhodri is with Edward now, too. Ah, you Hid not know that? It ought not to surprise you. Why should men be ^^lling to die with you? For you are going to die, you know. All of you , ojs are," he jeered, "unless you save yourselves whilst you still can!" There was a silence, and then someoneRhys never knew whether t was a monk or a soldiershouted, "We'd rather die with our Prince than live as bondsmen under an alien, foreign-tongued King!" But Rhys paid that unknown voice no heed. Panting, he waited for the only verdict that mattered, and as Llewelyn leaned forward, he flinched from what he saw in the other man's eyes. For a moment, Llewelyn pulled the chain taut, then let it go. "You are the one who is a fool, Rhys," he said scathingly. "We all die sooner or later, every mother's son. But there are far worse ways for a man to die than defending his homeland." THE church was very still. The scent of incense lingered in the air, and wall torches bathed the choir in flickering red light. Llewelyn did not approach the candle-lit High Altar. God did not serve the King of England, would not deny salvation for the sin of loving Wales. By what right did they dare to appropriate the Almighty, seek to make of Him an accomplice in their plot to annex Wales for the English Crown? But no man was ever utterly deaf to whispers in the dark. When the priests banished an unrepentant soul from God's Grace, they cast flaming candles onto the ground, plunging the churchand the sinnerinto darkness. Llewelyn gazed upward, his eyes probing the shadows until he found the carved crucifix high above his head. Only then did he turn back toward the tombs. He had come to Aberconwy as much for this as for Rhys ap Gruffydd, for here were buried the dead of his House. His grandfather's sepulchre had been given the place of greatest honor, close to the High Altar. Nearby lay his sons, united in death as never they'd been in life. Davydd, the half-English son, Joanna's son, his heir, who'd died before his time. Llewelyn's own father, Gruffydd, the son fated to play Absalom to his sire's David, who'd died in a plunging fall from the uppermost Camber in the Tower of London's great keep. They were all many years dead. Llewelyn had been twelve when the grandfather he'd so loved had gone to God, sixteen when his father's escape attempt failed, and not yet eighteen when his uncle died suddenly at thirty-seven, be- 2Ueathing to Llewelyn and his elder brother Owain a land at war with En§land. 246 Footsteps sounded in the nave. As the Abbot paused by the rood screen, his gaze fell upon the impressive marble tomb of Llewelyn Fawr and it occurred to him that history truly did repeat itself, just as men claimed, for these dead Welsh Princes had also been damned by corn. pliant Popes. Thinking there might be comfort for Llewelyn in that, he said, "Your grandfather was excommunicated, too, was he not?" | "Indeed he was, fully three times." Llewelyn smiled as an old mem- 4ory surfaced. "I remember him joking that he ought to have a turnstile installed in his private chapel. That was always his way; he found few troubles so great that they could not be laughed at. Never have I known a man so free of doubts. He truly could not conceive of defeat. Delays and setbacks, but not defeat. Even death did not daunt him. As he lay dying, he was joking that he must make haste about it, lest he keep his wife, Joanna, waiting. I did not understand, for I was just a lad, and loath to lose him. I demanded to know how he could jest even about death. I've never forgotten his answer. He said simply, 'What other way is there?' " "Mayhap he could not conceive of defeat, but he knew it, nonetheless," Tudur said, moving into the torchlight. "It was right here at this abbey that he was forced to make an abject surrender to England's King John, forced to give up his own son, your father, as a hostage. Just as his son Davydd was compelled to yield to John's son thirty years later, almost to the very day." "What are you saying, Tudur?" Llewelyn sounded amused. "That in losing to Edward, I would merely be upholding an old family tradition?" Tudur gave a snort of abashed laughter. "I must be more tired than I thought. You do not usually read me so easily!" Llewelyn grinned. "Yes, I do. I just do not always let you know it!" Maredudd was bemused by their bantering. "How can the two of you be joking, now of all times?" They both laughed at that. "Because," Tudur said wryly, "the Welsh are always at their best when things are at their worst." "And," Llewelyn added, just as dryly, "things are so often at their worst that we get plenty of practice in staving off disaster." But he was not surprised when Maredudd still looked uncomprehending, for what could a monk know of soldiers' secrets, or battlefield bravado and gallows humor? "It is an odd thing, Maredudd," he said, "but sometimes it is almost a relief to have the worst happen, to have the waiting done ... at las Can you understand that?" , Maredudd nodded. "Do you see no hope at all then?" he aske quietly, and was startled when Llewelyn responded with an explosive oa "Christ's Blood, Maredudd, of course I have hope! I'm still breatn- 247 ing, am I not? Rhys ap Gruffydd is a misbegotten malcontent, not a oothsayer. You need not instruct the bards to begin my eulogy because r^ys claims I am doomed! We still have a chance to stave off disaster again. Edward might be rash enough to follow me into the heights of Eryri- And even ^ ne does keep to the coast, we may be able to wait jum out. He will need vast amounts of food to feed that vast army of jus. Hunger has sent more than one English king reeling back across the border. Then, too, the Almighty might send the autumn rains early this year, or even better, an early snow. Only a fool would dare attempt a winter campaign in Wales, and Edward Plantagenet is no man's fool." Llewelyn had moved back to his grandfather's tomb, stood looking down at the red and gold enameled lions, a heraldic device he'd adopted as his own, just as he'd adopted Llewelyn Fawr's ambitious dream, that of a united, independent Wales. He'd never begrudged the cost, was not about to start now. "So you see," he said, "the outcome of this war is still very much in God's Hands." He paused, then concluded with a gleam of very grim humor, "I only wish I could rid myself of an unsettling suspicion, one that comes too readily to mind whenever I think of our land's neverending troublesthat God just might be English!" 19 BASINGWERK ABBEY, WALES August 1277 COWARD set up his headquarters at the abbey of Blessed Virgin Mary in mid-July, at once began construction of a j^tie at the mouth of the River Dee. As soldiers stood guard, workmen gan to dig a deep, defensive ditch. Others were dispatched to build r°ad along the Welsh coast. By month's end, more than two thousand emen, carpenters, masons, blacksmiths, quarrymen, hod carriers, and rcoal burners were laboring on the King's behalf, and, as they hacked burned their way through the ancient oak forests that had for so 248 many centuries repelled foreign invaders, it was as if the very landscanp of Wales was under assault. The day was promising scorching heat, for already the sky had take on a brittle blue-white glaze that put Edward in mind of the sun-bleached sky over Acre. He tilted his head, but could see nary a cloud. So drv had the summer been in this land of lingering mist and iridescent rain that it seemed to Edward's army that even the Almighty was on his side; Edward himself had no doubts whatsoever about that. He took one last approving look at that barren, cloud-free blue above his head then moved into the shadows of the Chapter House. The high stone ceiling deflected some of the heat, and as he stepped across the threshold, Edward felt a welcome rush of cooler air upon his face. He was late, his council already assembled. The men lounging on the uncomfortably austere monastery benches leapt to their feet at sight of him, but he waved them back. Striding toward the huge central pillar, he paused for a moment, looking out upon his audience. They were all here, the premier lords of his realm. John Beauchamp, the Earl of Warwick, who'd had the unenviable task of keeping Davydd ap Gruffydd in good humor. Roger de Mortimer, just come up from Montgomery, and Edmund, his son, whose career in the Church had been aborted by his elder brother's untimely death. Gilbert de Clare, the temperamental Earl of Gloucester, and the unpopular William de Lusignan, King's uncle and Earl of Pembroke. Humphrey de Bohun, the young Earl of Hereford, and Edward's de Warenne cousin, the Earl of Surrey. Otto de Grandison, Burgundian nobleman and King's friend. The Marcher lords, Roger Lestrange and Roger Clifford. John Giffard, a de Montfort partisan who'd been one of the first to abandon the Earl and his doomed cause, ambitious, ruthless, and remarkably able. Bogo de Knovill, the tough, battle-tested sheriff of Shropshire. Reginald de Grey, one-time Jusriciar of Chester, a man even more detested by the Welsh than Pembroke. And three men whose presence here gave Edward considerable satisfaction, for all threeNicholas Segrave, Baldwin Wake, and John d'Eyvillhad been the sworn men of Simon de Montfort, unreconstructed rebels even after Evesham, now dutiful vassals, proving by their compliance that he was not a monarch to be defied with impunity, like his unhappy father, but one to be feared and respected and obeyed, for Edward had never made Henry's mistake, had never been so naive as to believe a king ought to be loved. As his eyes swept their ranks, a frown began to form. "Where is Davydd ap Gruffydd?" "Here, my liege, hanging upon your every word." Turning towaro the sound of Davydd's voice, Edward saw that the Welsh Prince ensconced himself in one of the recessed window-seats, lolling had back 249 cushions, a flagon at his elbow. Edward wondered idly where 'd found cushions in this monk's lair, wondered, too, if he'd bothered rise with the other men; probably not. But he looked so lazily content t Edward smiled in spite of himself. As vexing as Davydd could be, he challenge of reining him in and breaking him to the royal will was one Edward relished. "Try not to doze off," he said archly, "for I've a matter to discuss that will actively engage your self-interest. But first, I have news to share. A courier has arrived from my brother. Edmund's army has reached Aberystwyth, and he has begun construction of a new castle for the Crown." There were pleased murmurs at that. Edward waited until they subsided. "I also have had word from Stephen de Penecestre, the Warden of the Cinque Ports. The fleet is under sail, will be at the mouth of the River Clwyd within a fortnight. Eighteen ships, with another seven to join us next month." De Mortimer had arrived at Basingwerk Abbey only the day before, and was not conversant, therefore, with Edward's naval strategy. "Why so many ships? You could enforce your embargo with half that number." "I mean to put them to better use than merely patrolling the Menai Straits, Roger. I mean to land an army upon Anglesey. What do you Welsh call that island, DavyddMon? For those of you who are not Marchers, Anglesey is the only fertile, flat land in all of Gwynedd, and harvest time draws nigh." Edward's smile was grim. "Llewelyn hopes to starve us out, the way Welsh princes have always done. But no English king ever had twenty-five ships at his commanduntil now, and the prideful Prince of Wales is about to learn that hunger can stalk Welsh encampments, too." Turning back toward Davydd, Edward nodded to Anthony Bek, his clerk. The priest produced a parchment roll, carried it across the chamber, and handed it to Davydd. "A belated birthday gift for the new Lord of Snowdon," Edward said, with another smile, and Davydd sat up suddenly, for the title "Lord of Eryri" was one that belonged to the royal House of Gwynedd. "Whilst my lord Davydd reads the grant, I shall tell the rest of you what it encompasses. I have promised to vest Davydd and his elder Mother Owain in one-half of Gwynedd west of the River Conwy, the other half to remain in the control of the Crown. Should I decide, how- Ver' to retain the entire isle of Anglesey, Davydd and Owain shall then ^de up all of Gwynedd beyond the Conwy. The four Welsh cantrefs st of the Conwy shall be Crown lands again, as they were in those ^ars between the death of Llewelyn Fawr and the rise to power of Ue*elyn ap Gruffydd." 250 Edward paused to see if anyone wished to comment; no man H'H Theirs was the silence, though, of prudence, not approval. The March lords in particular looked disgruntled, and with reason, for this gran would forever alter the balance of power in Wales, making the King England the greatest Marcher lord of all. Edward was not surprised b their conspicuous lack of enthusiasm, for the Marchers defended the prerogatives with the passion that other men expended upon women and were, indeed, no less suspicious of the Crown's intent than th Welsh themselves. But Edward had known they would acquiesce, however little they liked it, for they were slowly learning that a new day had dawned in their dealings with their King. What did surprise Edward, though, was Davydd's continuing silence. He was still studying the document, his face hidden; Edward could see only a thick thatch of hair, reddish-brown where the sunlight struck it, dark in the shadows. "Well?" he demanded, only partly in jest. "I've just offered you half of a kingdom, for Christ's pity! Have you nothing to say? I should think a 'thank you' would be in order at the very least!" Davydd's head came up at that, but his face revealed nothing. "Words fail me, Your Grace," he said, and in his voice, too, there was no emotion. "Let it last, O Lord, let it last," Roger de Mortimer muttered, an aside meant to be heard, evoking laughter. Davydd did not take the bait, did not even glance in the other man's direction. Looking down again at the parchment roll, it occurred to him that he was holding Llewelyn's death warrant, and, without warning, he found himself assailed by memory, so strong and so vivid that it seemed to blur time's boundaries. For a split-second, he was no longer in the Chapter House of the Cistercian abbey at Basingwerk. He was sixteen, riding again at Owain's side as they led their army into Llewelyn's lands, and the voice echoing in his ears was his own: "Shall we leave nothing to Llewelyn, then?" Owain's answer, coming back as if it were yesterday, as if those twenty-some intervening years had never been. "I'd leave him enough ground to be buried in." His own cry, one of genuine shock, "I do not want Llewelyn killed!" Owain reining in then, saying gravely, "I thought you wanted this, lad. I thought you wanted what was rightfully yours." And his answer, "I do!" 252 He still did. And by God, why not? It was his birthright, a claim rdated by Welsh law, the Welsh law Llewelyn flouted. Now Edward V promising to restore part of his lost patrimony. But not because it his just due, as a son of Gruffydd ap Llewelyn. No . . . this was a .^ for betrayal, coming in the guise of royal largesse, as if the English King had a God-given right to apportion out Wales as he pleased. Half c Gwynedd ... if and only if Edward claimed Mon, Gwynedd's granary. Could the Welsh survive such a loss? And what of the forfeit lands ast of the Conwy? Welsh cantrefs to be transformed overnight into English shires, a feat worthy of Merlin. No, not half of Gwynedd, the bleeding scraps left over once the dismemberment was done. And yet still more than he had now, than Llewelyn had ever offered him. It was what he wanted, what he'd craved as long as he could remember, at last within reach. But on Edward's terms. He was to hold his Welsh lands at the English King's will. He and Owain were to come to the English parliaments when summoned, "as our other earls and barons come." English earls and barons. An English earldom with Welsh trappings, that was what he was truly being offered. Davydd raised his eyes from the parchment, met Edward's gaze. "What of my brother Rhodri?" "What of him?" Edward shrugged, then grinned. "What was it you said about him? Ah, yes . . . that men would not follow Rhodri out of a burning building!" There was more laughter at that. Davydd did not join in, for once regretting his sharp tongue, his penchant for saying whatever came into his head, never counting the cost. He did not repent the cruel honesty of his gibe, only that it had been offered for English ears, English amusement. But Edward was waiting for his response, looking expectant, pleased, and somewhat impatient. Davydd got to his feet, crossed the chamber, and thanked the English King for showing him such favor. He could be quite convincing when he chose, and Edward was not disposed to doubt him, for who would not be overjoyed at the offer of a crown? Only one man present sensed something discordant in Davydd's reaction. His quiet expression of gratitude just did not ring frue to his de Mortimer cousin; that wasn't Davydd's style. But although suspicion came easily to Roger, in this case answers did not. For the life °r him, he could not understand why Davydd was not triumphant. DAVYDD could not understand it, either. He'd always known that Edward °uld demand a high price for his help; there were very real risks in 252 taking the King of England as an ally. Edward's ally? Or his dup > Davydd came to an abrupt halt on the cloister path. Christ, now he \v beginning to sound like Llewelyn, even to himself Those would have been Llewelyn's very words, though. Edward' dupe. He could well imagine the scornful sound of them, the dis dainful tone, Almighty God talking down to mere mortals, to feckles younger brothers. Well, death stilled the most insistent voice, even Llewelyn's. ' Cistercian abbeys were meant to be havens of calm, spiritual sanctuaries untouched by the turmoil and chaos of the real world. But such cloistered serenity could not withstand the arrival of a royal army; reality had intruded with a vengeance, penetrating into every quiet corner of their earthly refuge. As he stood in the sunlight of the inner garth, there came to Davydd a cacophony of sound, raucous, strident, assailing his ears, grating upon his nerves. Many of Edward's workmen and men-at-arms were camped three miles away, at the site of the new castle, already christened "Flynt" by Edward. Others had pushed on toward Rhuddlan. For more than two hundred years, a castle had guarded the mouth of the River Clwyd, Welsh or English, depending upon the ebb and flow of border warfare. Llewelyn had held Rhuddlan since 1263, but now it was back in English hands. Edward's ambitions were not about to be satisfied, though, by such a simple motte and bailey structure; he'd begun to draw up plans for a new castle downstream. Yet a third castle was to be erected farther upstream at Ruthin, but it was Rhuddlan that preyed upon Davydd's peace; he'd been astounded by the sheer magnitude of Edward's undertaking. Not only would the castle itself be the most formidable stronghold in all of North Wales, Edward even meant to divert the course of the River Clwyd, meandering and shallow as it neared the sea. Davydd had listened, stunned, as Edward explained how he would dig a two-mile channel, deep enough for English ships. The garrison could never be starved out then, he said, could outlast any Welsh siege, and Davydd, nodding numbed agreement, knew then and there that his brother was doomed. How could Llewelyn hope to repel an enemy able to impose his will upon the very rivers of their land? He heard now the shouts that heralded the arrival of the expected supply carts, loaded with crossbow bolts, limestone, pickaxes and chisels and saws and hammers, thick sides of bacon and sacks of flour and salt, plus five barrels full of silver pennies, pay for the men aiding and abetting the English King's conquest of Wales. A goodly portion of those men were Welsh, too. He ought not to forget that. He was not the only Welshman to side with the Crown 253 ajnst Llewelyn. Their numbers were legion, some motivated by the oney/ others aggrieved by Llewelyn's high-handed ways. But had any f them truly considered the consequences of an English victory? Had , ey thought what life might be like under Edward's rule? Llewelyn had, for certes. "Edward is a crusader King. He'd open the flood-gates to English settlers, charter English towns on Welsh soil, turn Gwynedd into an English shire." Davydd's mouth twisted down. One conscience was burden enough for any sensible man. Why was he of a sudden accursed with two, his own and his brother's? "My lord Davydd!" Davydd turned, and then swore under his breath, for Hugh de Whitton was hastening toward him. "The camp is awash in rumors. Men are saying that the King told his council it is to be war to the utmost, with no quarter given. You were there. Is it true?" "Well . . . they are about to carve up the pie. "Hugh frowned, looking so earnest, so honorable, so steadfast, that Davydd wanted suddenly to see him shaken out of that righteous rectitude. "I can tell you this much, that you'd best hope your lady looks good in black." He got what he wanted; Hugh could not hide his dismay. But the satisfaction it gave him was spurious, the sort to leave a sour after-taste. MONKS were pacing the walkways, paying no heed to Davydd and Hugh. But there was one very intent eye-witness. Sheltered within one of the shaded study carrels along the church's north wall, Rhodri ap Gruffydd had been watching his brother from the moment Davydd entered the cloister garth, waiting for Davydd to notice him. Rhodri was better informed than Hugh, for Edward had spared him the indignity of finding out from camp gossip. He had not been surprised by Edward's disclosure, that once again Davydd had managed to land on his feet, with all nine lives intact. None knew better than he that sooner or later, Davydd always got what he wanted. But he had been deeply shocked to learn that Owain was to be elevated from prisoner to reigning Prince. Why Owain? Why a soured, faed old man long past his prime? Why Owain and not him? There may have been a time when he'd pitied Owain's plighta httle. No more than that, though, for Owain had always been a stranger. Wenty years Rhodri's senior, brusque and quick-tempered, Owain had played no role in Rhodri's life; he'd seemed as remote as the father who'd died when Rhodri was five. Llewelyn had been the elder brother ^ho'd matteredonce. He, too, had seemed remote, beyond reach. But "e eleven years between them had not been as formidable a barrier, ^d as Rhodri entered his teens, Llewelyn's star was already rising. 254 Rhodri had been proud of his brother's renown. He might even hav been content with Llewelyn's casual kindness, Owain's benign indjf ferencehad it not been for Davydd, Davydd whom they loved. Rhodri had not begrudged Davydd that love, not at first, for he'd loved Davydd, too. Davydd had been all that Rhodri so desperatel wanted to be himself, cocksure and droll and game for anything. Noth ing ever daunted Davydd, not even a childhood as odd and unstable as theirs had been, seven years as hostages of the English Crown. Rhodri thought it only natural that Davydd should be the one favored, indulged wanted. Even when the English King demanded a hostage again and he was sent back to England, at age eleven, even then he understood why it must be him and not Davydd. Or so he told himself. And when Owain began a war with Llewelyn on Davydd's behalf Rhodri sought to understand that, too. Owain had paid a high price, two decades at Dolbadarn Castle, but Davydd had been forgiven. Less than seven years later, he'd rebelled a second time, and when he fled to England, Rhodri waited, patiently, for Llewelyn to turn to him. It never happened. Instead, Davydd was forgiven yet again. Rhodri was never sure when he'd begun to hate Llewelyn, but he knew exactly when he'd begun to hate Davyddwhen he came back from English exile, jaunty, unrepentant, still able to take from Rhodri without even trying. Rhodri supposed it had always been that way. But he was no longer that bedazzled little brother, satisfied with their leavings. And so he'd tried to claim his fair share of Gwynedd, succeeded in attracting Llewelyn's attention at last; his brother cast him into prison. Owain's captivity was a source of some controversy. He had many sympathizers among those who held to the old ways, the old laws. Bards sang of Owain's lonely days at Dolbadarn, compared him to a caged eagle. When Rhodri was imprisoned, no one protested, and when he was freed, no one noticed. Defecting to the English King had been Rhodri's vengeance. But that had not worked out, eitherbecause of Davydd. Always Davydd. He seemed to have won over Edward as easily as he'd once beguiled Owain and Llewelyn. Rhodri was awed by the English King's generosity. He'd given Davydd his own kinswoman, an heiress who doted upon Davydd's every whim. He'd granted Davydd the use of a Cheshire manor. Just a fortnight ago, he'd even knighted Davydd. That might not be a Welsh custom, but it was a notable honor, one Rhodri would have cherished. Instead it had gone to Davydd, who cared naught for English accolades, joking that he'd rather be St Davydd than Sir Davydd. No, nothing had changed. Edward paid him two shillings a day, whilst Davydd was to be rewarded with a crown. Nothing had changed at all. Rhodri stiffened suddenly, for Davydd had turned away fronl 255 Hugh/ was striding rapidly up the pathway. But he did not glance in Rhodn's direction, passed the carrel without looking within. Rhodri said nothing' let him go by. early September, an English army landed on the island of Mon. The soldiers were accompanied by more than two hundred reapers, and VVelsh wheat soon fell to English scythes and sickles. At the same time, Edward moved west along the coast to the ruins of Deganwy Castle, razed to the ground by Llewelyn in more auspicious days. The River Conwy had always proved to be a formidable barrier for English invaders; only once in the past hundred years had it been crossed. But now Edward was in a position to strike from Mon, threatening Llewelyn's flank. The Welsh were masters at guerrilla warfare; despite the uneven odds, Llewelyn might have held his own had Edward attempted to follow him into the soaring, sky-high heartland of his realm. But Edward did not. He kept to the coast, and kept up the pressure. A deadly waiting game had developed. If the alpine citadel of Eryri was Llewelyn's most invincible fortress, it was now a citadel under siege. DOLWYDDELAN was where Llewelyn stored his coffer chests, jewels, English money, for no Welsh prince minted his own coins. But Dolwyddelan held another treasure-trove, one made of memories. It had always been his favorite castle, the place where he felt most at peace. He'd walked by the river with his grandfather, hunted on the wooded slopes of Moel Siabod, taken more than one woman to see Rhaeadr Ewynnol by moonlight, and he'd once hoped to show Ellen de Montfort the view from the castle battlementsmountains and sky and a deep forest glen, festooned by a flowing ribbon of river, a haven to rival any earthly Eden. The autumn was not a season he liked, winter's accomplice, slowly, inexorably stealing the daylight and icing the heights of Eryri. Llewelyn, a man who'd spent much of his life sleeping around campfires, living m the saddle, braving snow and drenching rains, harbored a secret loathing of the cold. But he knew that, even in springtime, the Lledr Valley would never look as beautiful as it did now, aflame with October golds and reds and burnished browns. There were hawthorn bushes by the river as bright and clear as claret, and mountain ash the shade of Welted honey, rustling clouds of oak and alder, leaves swirling upon a deceptively mild breeze, the merest whisper of the winter winds to come. 'Uncle?" Caitlin burst through the doorway onto the battlements, 256 disheveled and out of breath. She'd climbed the stairs so rapidly that she had to grab on to the closest merlon for support, waiting for the stitch in her side to ease. "I've been searching for you everywhere," she panted. "Is ... is it true? Are you going to surrender to the English King?" "Yes." "But... but why?" f "Because," Llewelyn said tiredly, "this is a war I cannot hope to win." Caitlin hastened along the parapet. "I do not understand. Why can you not stay here at Dolwyddelan, where you're safe, wait for the English King to lose heart and go home?" "He is not going anywhere, lass, not until he has my seal upon a treaty of surrender ... or my head upon a pike. England is so much larger than Wales, so much richer . . . and so many of our people do not fully comprehend the danger, even now. We dwell on the very brink of a cliff, and if we've managed so far to avoid plunging into the abyss, it is only because no English king was willing to commit all the resources of the Crown to a war with Walesuntil now. That is the message Edward was sending me when he struck that devil's deal with Davydd. There'll be no winter respite for us, no English withdrawal till the spring thaw. Edward is the first of their kings able to sustain a winter campaign, and if need be, he will." "Because of the grain he stole?" Llewelyn nodded. "That was a two-edged theft, hurting us as much as it helped him. But his true power lies in his fleet. If he cannot be starved out, Caitlin, how can he lose? He is building castles to last until Judgment Day, putting down roots so deep he'll never be dislodged. If he can claim Eryri, tooor give it over to a puppet Welsh prince of his choosingwe will never be able to throw off the English yoke . . . never. Unless I can hold on to Eryri, the land west of the Conwy, we are well and truly doomed." "But what can you gain by surrendering? Even if you are bound to lose, why make it easy for Edward? Why put the noose around your own neck?" "My defeat may well be inevitable, lass, but it would also be prolonged, costly, and bloody. I said Edward could fight a winter campaign; I did not say he'd want to do so. As long as I've not been defeated on the field, I do not come empty-handed to the bargaining table. By yielding now, I have a chance to save Gwynedd from utter destruction. Id be sparing our people further suffering, a winter haunted by famineAnd I'd be gaining Ellen her freedom. I'll not deny the danger involved* but with so much at stake, it is a risk worth taking." 257 Caitlin did not agree. "Uncle Llewelyn, please do not do this! The cnglish King cannot be trusted. Did you not tell me that Edward's word would not bear a feather's weight? You said he'd left a trail of broken oaths across the length and breadth of England, that he'd made a truce with Harry de Montfort when he was trapped in Gloucester Castle, only to recant as soon as Harry rode away, and Harry was his friend!" She vvas running out of breath by now, but she plunged on, as if he might reconsider if only he'd hear her out. "You said he even dared to renege upon an oath given to the Bishop of Worcester, and . . . and when London's Mayor trusted to his safe-conduct after Evesham, he threw the poor man into a Windsor dungeon! Why should he not do the same to you? What is to keep him from casting you into a dungeon, too, once you're in his power?" "Nothing," Llewelyn admitted reluctantly. "I'll not lie to you, lass. If I ride into Edward's camp, I may not ride out. Since I cannot trust in Edward's good faith, I shall have to put my trust in the Almighty." "I am sure your father trusted in God, too. But he still spent his last days in an English prison! How can you hold your own life so cheaply? Are you not afraid?" "Not being a fool, of course I am," Llewelyn snapped. But she was not quick enough; as she turned away, he saw how her mouth was trembling. Thirteen had been a troubled age for him; he'd never felt utterly at ease, even in his own body, no longer a child, not yet a man, buffeted by emotions and urges beyond his ken. Thirteen was an odd and unsettling time for lasses, too, he was discovering; in the past year, he'd learned to stand aside, to let his niece try her fledgling wings, flutter to earth, then try again. She was angrily blinking back tears now, Caitlin who never cried, and he reached out, grasped her shoulders, and drew her toward him. "Listen to me, lass. I must do this. You'd not believe me if I said it was going to be easy for me. Even if Edward does keep faith, it will be the most difficult thing I've ever done, in this life or the next, I'd wager. Now I need you to accept what must be, just as I must. Can you do that for me, Caitlin?" She bit her lip, nodded. "But. . . but what if Edward does not keep raith?" she whispered, and he hid a smile, marveling that such a fey little creature, as fine-boned and fragile as a bird in the hand, could be as stubbornly tenacious as a bear-baiting mastiff. "Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof," he said softly. "Do you ^ow what that means, lass?" "It... it is from Scriptures, I think," she ventured, "but . . ." "It means that we'd do better to face our troubles as they come, °ne at a time. I want you to keep that in mind." 258 "I'll try," she agreed, quite unconvincingly. Belatedly recognizing the need for solitude that must have driven him up to the castle battlements, she offered, "Shall I leave you now?" and tried not to feej hurt when he nodded. But as she reached the stairwell, she came to an abrupt halt. "I hate my father," she said, her voice thickening. "I'll never forgive him, never!" The door slamming upon what might have been a sob. f Llewelyn started after her, then stopped, for what could he say? fwhat comfort could he offer? Turning back to the battlements, he tracked a kestrel's flight, hovering high above the earth as it searched for prey. He was not as reconciled to what must be as he'd led Caitlin to believe His head might be in control, but his heart was in rebellion, and he did not know how to silence the subversive inner voice still urging defiance, or how to steel himself for what lay ahead. The sun was in retreat. As dusk muted the colors flaming in its wake, it disappeared beyond the distant hills. Daylight was fast ebbing away, and the landscape seemed to dim, taking on the soft, blurred contours of an autumn twilight. The wind had picked up, carried to him the faint chiming of church bells; Vespers was being rung. Still, Llewelyn did not move. He remained alone on the battlements, watching as the sky darkened and night descended upon the Lledr Valley. IN response to Llewelyn's peace overtures, Edward dispatched his clerk, Anthony Bek, and Otto de Grandison to Aberconwy Abbey to meet with Llewelyn's Seneschal, Tudur ab Ednyved, and Tudur's cousin, Goronwy ap Heilyn. But although the English King was willing to accept a negotiated settlement, his terms for ending the war were harsh ones. Llewelyn was compelled to yield to Edward the four cantrefs east of the River Conwy, and all land seized by Edward. He was to be allowed to retain control of the island of Mon, but he would hold it only as a vassal, paying one thousand marks a year for that privilege, and if he died without heirs of his body, Mon would revert to the English Crown. He must pay a staggering fine of fifty thousand pounds, a sum to cripple the Welsh economy for years, and to yield ten highborn hostages. He must free his brother Owain, and come to terms with both Owain and Rhodri. He must also free the would-be assassin, Owen de la Pole, and the would-be defector, Rhys ap Gruffydd. The lords of Upper and Lower Powys were to be restored to power. He was to swear homage and fealty to Edward, and to repeat his submission every year, with his own subjects required to stand surety for his continued loyalty. Lastly, he was to forfeit the homage of all but five lords of Gwynedd, all others to owe homage only to the English King. 259 Edward, on his part, agreed to allow Llewelyn to hold Davydd's share of Gwynedd for his lifetime, providing for Davydd out of his own conquests, granting him two of the four cantrefs claimed by the Crown. He agreed that when disputes developed between English and Welsh, the law to apply would be that of the land in which the conflict arose, excluding the four cantrefs. Llewelyn was absolved of the anathema of excommunication, restored to God's favor, the Interdict lifted from Wales. And he was permitted to retain the title that was now only a courtesy, Prince of Wales, a hollow mockery that seemed to Llewelyn the cruelest kindness of all. On November 9th, Llewelyn came to Aberconwy Abbey to accept Edward's terms, feeling like a man asked to preside over his own execution. A remembered scrap of Scriptures kept echoing in his ears like a funeral dirge: Jerusalem is ruined and Judah is fallen. Gwynedd had been gutted by a pen, just as surely as by any sword thrust. He'd lost more than the lands listed upon parchment; he'd lost the last thirty years of his life, for Gwynedd had been reduced to the boundaries imposed upon the Welsh by the Treaty of Woodstock in 1247. Llewelyn had been just nineteen then, new to power and to defeat. That had been his first loss to England, and his lastuntil now, until the Treaty of Aberconwy, which destroyed a lifetime's labor in the time it took to affix his great seal to the accord. Never had he known such despair. And the worst was still to come, for on the morrow he must ride to Rhuddlan Castle, there make a formal and public surrender to the English King. 20 RHUDDLAN CASTLE, WALES November 1277 I HE sky was ashen, spattered with scudding ^ouds. The wind was churning the waters of the straits into a whitecapped cauldron. By the time they reached the Clwyd estuary, sleet had be gun to fall. 260 The fog was patchy, thicker to the north, blanketing the site Of Edward's new castle; Llewelyn could only guess how far the construction had advanced. Downstream, Rhuddlan Castle was looming rising from the mists lying low upon the river. Llewelyn drew rein' staring up at the banner flying above the keep. It flapped wildly in the wind, golden lions on a blood-red background, the royal arms Of England. I After a time, Tudur nudged his stallion forward, joined Llewelyn I at the water's edge. He was not the sort to offer counterfeit comfort, so he said nothing. They could detect movement now upon the castle's outer walls. Sentries had finally taken notice of them, and they soon saw curious faces peering over the battlements, soldiers jostling and elbowing for space at the embrasures. "It seems that I'm to be the afternoon's entertainment," Llewelyn said bitterly. Tudur glanced sharply into his face, then away. They sat their mounts in silence, gazing across at the castle until Otto de Grandison broke ranks behind them. A soldier of some renown, he believed in a kinship born of the battlefield, a bond that transcended the barriers built up by national boundaries, be they English, Welsh, or the borders of his own Burgundy, for boundaries were subject to change, but manhood and pride and courage were enduring, immutable. And so, while Anthony Bek fidgeted at the sudden delay, he ignored the priest's impatience, waited until he thought Llewelyn was ready. Only then did he come forward, politely query if he should now summon the ferry from the castle. Llewelyn and Tudur looked at him as blankly as if he'd suggested that they cross the river by walking upon the water. "That will not be necessary," Llewelyn said, with courtesy and just a hint of amusement. Raising his arm, he signaled to his men, then spurred his stallion forward into the river. The English were taken aback, but followed once they saw how shallow the water was at that point. As they splashed toward the far bank, Otto kicked his mount to catch up with Tudur. "How did he know the river could be forded here?" Tudur gave him another bemused look. "Why would he not know it? This is his country." Not anymore, Otto thought, not anymore. But he refrained from saying so, and watched admiringly as Llewelyn sent his stallion galloping toward Rhuddlan's gatehouse, scattering the English soldiers loitering by the drawbridge, outdistancing his own men, so that when he rode into the castle bailey, he appeared, for the moment, quit6 alone and unafraid. r 261 «*£ oGER DE MORTIMER was waiting for Llewelyn, leaning against the dooramb, blocking the entrance to the great hall. "You're right on time, Cousin. I think you'll be pleased by the turnout, nigh on a hundred men eager to watch you surrender to the English King." Llewelyn dismounted, dropped the reins to anchor his mount. "So many? That rivals the crowd likely to come out for your hanging." To his credit, de Mortimer could take a jab as well as deliver one, and he grinned. "I see you've held on to your sense of humor. That is truly remarkable, considering the humbling ordeal ahead of you." Llewelyn looked pensively at the other man, wondering how he could boast even a drop of Llewelyn Fawr's blood; it was almost enough to make him believe in those folk tales of babies switched at birth. "Make yourself useful, Roger. See to my horse whilst I meet with the King," he said, and, pushing past the Marcher lord, entered the hall. De Mortimer had not exaggerated; the hall was thronged with spectators, many of whom had a very personal stake in his downfall. The Marchers were out in force, not surprisingly, for at one time or another, he'd crossed swords with virtually all of them. Roger Clifford and Roger Lestrange and the dangerous John Giffard, looking as smug as creamfed cats. The Earl of Hereford, who'd clashed with him over Brycheiniog. The Earl of Pembroke, whose disdain for the Welsh was surpassed only by his lust for their lands. Reginald de Grey, a man capable of giving Lucifer himself lessons in vengeance. The tousled, redheaded Earl of Gloucester, looking truculent even in triumph. They were watching him intently, expectantly. Llewelyn could feel their hostility; the very air was charged with it, with that odd, singed stillness just before a storm broke. But he did not care that he served as a lightning rod for the Marchers. It was inevitable that they should have clashed, for their interests were irreconcilable. It was the presence of the others, the Welsh lords, that he found hard to bear. Llewelyn Fychan was standing several feet away. As his eyes met Lievvelyn's, he raised his head defiantly. He was one of the lords of Upper Powys, and a kinsman, too, ought to have been an ally, not an English accomplice. Where had he gone wrong? Why had he not been aWe to hold the men like this, to keep them loyal when it counted? Gruffydd ap Gwenwynwyn had aged in the three years since LleWetyn had seen him last, not long before his flight to England. He looked S^yer, thinner than Llewelyn remembered. But his eyes were blazing ^th hatred. Stepping forward, he said loudly, "Pel y gwyneir y ceir." As you do unto others, so it shall be done unto you. But for claiming 262 Powys, for ousting Gruffydd, Llewelyn had no regrets. Had the murder plot been Gruffydd's idea? Or Davydd's? He paused, looked the older man up and down, very slowly and deliberately, letting his silence spegj, for itself. Gruffydd's face contorted with rage, but after a moment, he moved aside. Llewelyn had yet to spot Rhodri, but that did not surprise him, f0r his youngest brother was easily overlooked in a crowd. The only one of Gruffydd's four sons who'd not been blessed with his uncommon height, so unusual for a Welshman, Rhodri lacked presence, too, had never been able to command attention merely by entering a room. Davydd could, though. Davydd never went unnoticed; he made sure of that. So where was he? Llewelyn's eyes swept the hall, cut toward the dais, where Edward awaited him. He ought to have been there, at Edward's side. But he was not. Tudur and Einion had followed Llewelyn into the hall, hastening to overtake him before he reached the dais. He gave them both a glance of wordless gratitude, then murmured, "Have either of you seen Davydd?" Tudur jerked his head toward the right. "Over there, against the far wall, looking strangely vexed for one of the victors." Llewelyn followed his gaze. Davydd was standing in the shadows, arms folded over his chest, eyes narrowed and guarded, giving away nothing. For a moment, they looked at each other across the length of the hall, and then Llewelyn turned back to Tudur. "You're right, he does seem out of humor. You must remember, though, that he did not get all he wanted. I'm still alive, after all." Tudur nodded grim agreement. Einion looked unhappy with Llewelyn's acerbic assessment of Davydd's aims, but he did not dispute it. Llewelyn glanced from one to the other, hoping they knew how much they were valued. "Wait for me here," he said quietly. "This I must do alone." As he began walking toward the dais, men moved aside, clearing a path for him. Edward was sitting in a high-backed chair, much like a throne. He was enjoying this moment of triumph, made no attempt to hide his satisfaction. But there would be no unseemly gloating, no salting of open wounds. He'd won, as he'd known he would, was prepared now to staunch his defeated foe's bleeding, for he prided himself upon those very attributes his enemies swore he lacked, the generosity, forthrightness, and gallantry of the knight errant. "My lord Llewelyn," he said, "you may approach the dais." Llewelyn did, pausing just before he reached the dais steps to unsheathe his sword. Holding it out to Edward, hilt first, he knelt, saying 263 _y evenly, in a voice meant to be heard throughout the hall, "I submit ^Lelf unto the King's will." , JVVELYN could not find fault with Roger de Mortimer's derisive decription of his surrendera humbling ordeal. The worst moment had occurred upon his arrival, as he drew his sword from its scabbard, handed it over to the English King. If this treaty was, indeed, bait for a trap, that would have been the time to spring it. He would have chosen death over captivity in England, for he was haunted by his father's fate, shut up within the Tower of London, returning to Wales only for burial. Surrendering his sword was surrendering, too, his ability to make such a choice. Without its familiar weight at his hip, he felt vulnerable as never before, naked and defenseless before his enemies, a new and daunting sensation for him. But if Edward did have treachery in mind, he was biding his time. He had accepted Llewelyn's sword, symbol of his surrender, and then handed it back once the ritual of submission was done. The following morning, after a Martinmas High Mass in the castle chapel, attended by English and Welsh, they assembled in the great hall, where Llewelyn swore an oath of fealty to England's King. LLEWELYN had brought Tudur, Einion, Goronwy ap Heilyn, and Dai ab Einion, and Edward was attended by the Earls of Warwick and Gloucester, Otto de Grandison, Anthony Bek, and the ever-present de Mortimer. Servants passed back and forth, pouring wine, serving honey-filled wafers, lighting candles. Llewelyn was slowly beginning to relax, the spectre of an English betrayal no longer hovering at his shoulder, and in an atmosphere of wary civility, agreement was reached for the surrender of Llewelyn's ten hostages to the Crown. THEY sat across a table, these men more accustomed to meeting across a battlefield, waiting now for Edward's return. No one spoke; even the irrepressible de Mortimer was taciturn, nursing a throbbing head, a stomach queasy from a surfeit of wine. The door banged suddenly; Edward entered, laughing. "I regret *e interruption," he said, reclaiming his seat. "But the news was worth ||, news too good to keep to myself. The courier came from my Queen, but his tidings came from the Holy Land. The Sultan of Egypt, Rukn ad-Din Baibars Bundukdari, is dead." 264 The death of Edward's Saracen foe meant little to the Welsh, b they politely chimed in when the English congratulated their King, gj ward had begun to laugh again. "Nay, it is not his death that I finder. Not being a bleeding saint, of course I was envious of you, en°ugh to choke on it!" Why are you telling me this now?" Because I realized tonight that, after dwelling so many years in ,^ur Snadow, I might be the lucky one, after all. You see, I can do ething you cannot. I can just walk away." pa j ;)8 the cup down, Owain turned toward the door. But there he There is one more thingabout Davydd." 272 "Let it be, Owain," Llewelyn said sharply. "There is nothing y0u can say about Davydd that I'd want to hear." "Do you remember the first time he saw a pond? He was just a tadpole, two at most. He took one look, dived in, and sank like a stone would have drowned for certes if you had not fished him out. I cannot believe you've forgotten?" "I remember. What of it?" ^ "He's gone through his whole life doing that, never looking ere he leaps. Inevitably, he sometimes dives into water over his head. He told me about that murder plot, had no reason to lie, not to me. I'm telling you this, not for your sake, but for his. He truly did regret it, Llewelyn." Llewelyn's mouth tightened. "He could have more regrets than Rome has priests, and I'd not care . . . not now, not ever again." Owain smiled thinly. "You care," he said, and moved into the stairwell, closing the door firmly behind him. THE flagon was almost empty and the candle had burned down to its wick. Llewelyn had moved a chair closer to the hearth. Gazing into the flames, slowly drinking the last of the wine, he traveled again the road that led to Rhuddlan Castle, reliving the past, reviewing his choices, his decisions, his mistakes. What should he have done differently? Where had he gone astray? Must he believe that this was fated to be, God's Will? No, not God's WillEdward's. Poor Wales, so far from Heaven, so close to England. His grandfather's jest, humor that twisted like a knife. The hearth was sputtering; he leaned over, prodded it with the tongs, and the flames shot upward in a sizzle of white-gold sparks. A pity hope could not be so easily rekindled. Would Edward ever let Ellen go? He could sense her presence at times, marveled that he could feel so dose to a woman he'd never met, a woman who might never look upon his homeland, yet bound to him by more than a Sacrament, by thwarted hopes and bitter regrets, by all that might have been. A sudden, loud knock pulled him away from Windsor, back to the realities of Rhuddlan Castle. Glancing over his shoulder at the door, he said, "Come in, Rhodri." After a moment, the door swung open. "It is not Rhodri, my lord; it is me." Goronwy ap Heilyn hesitated on the threshold. "Jesii, it & dark in here! Are you expecting Rhodri? I think I saw him in the hall. "I was just waiting for the circle to close. Never mind, Goronwy' it is a private jest... of sorts. Find yourself a seat." Goronwy was a nephew of Llewelyn Fawr's celebrated Senesch31' 273 c^nyved ap Cynwrig. Ednyved had briefly served as Llewelyn's cgneschal, too, and after him, his sons. They'd been all stamped from the same mold, sardonic, brusque, and dispassionate. Goronwy was an anomaly, therefore, for he was by nature impulsive, voluble, and given to hell-raising. But he did share certain attributes with his more cynical kinsmena quick wit, courage, and loyalty to last until his final breath traits that had guaranteed his rapid rise in Llewelyn's service. Dragging a chair over to the hearth, Goronwy glanced at Llewelyn's empty flagon, then unfastened a wineskin from his belt. "It looks like the well ran dry. But I come prepared for every crisis, have a flask full of mead I'm right happy to share, much better than the sugared swill the English like to guzzle." Passing the flask to Llewelyn, Goronwy dropped down into the chair, stretching his legs toward the fire. "I have something to tell you, my lord, for I thought you'd best hear it from me. I know you like it not when your orders are disobeyed. You warned us not to let the English bait us into doing anything foolish, and I did not. . . well, not exactly ..." "It is amazing," Llewelyn muttered, "how consistent this day has been. Spare me any more suspense, Goronwy. What did you do?" "It was not all my fault, my lord. That whoreson cousin of mine was the one to seek me out, and I did try to hold on to my temper, but I swear Rhys could provoke the Pope. I could stomach just so much of his boastful crowing. When I reached my limit, I hit him in the mouth, and that caused a ... a bit of commotion." " 'A bit of commotion.' That would not be your quaint way of describing a riot?" "Oh, it was not as bad as that," Goronwy said reassuringly, "some bruises and broken furniture, some spilled ale, mayhap a few blackened eyes. In truth, it could have been far worse!" "I daresay," Llewelyn said laconically. "Tell me, did you, by chance, break Rhys's jaw?" Goronwy's relief found expression now in laughter. "No such luck! But I did chip a toothif that counts?" "It will have to do." Llewelyn drank deeply of Goronwy's flask, then handed it back, and Goronwy drank, too, delighted to be sharing 80 private a moment with his Prince. "You said Rhodri was below in the hall. What of Owain and Davydd? Were they there, too?" "Owain has gone to bed. I overheard the castellan offering him one the English whores who'd followed Edward's army, but he said he anted only to sleep. I do not know where Davydd is." Goronwy, who'd 274 once considered Davydd a friend, could not help frowning. "I expert he's off licking his wounds. I do not know what ails him, but I've nevp caught seen him in such a brooding, black mood, almost as bad" He caught himself, not in time. "As bad as mine," Llewelyn said, finishing the thought for him and he nodded, unperturbed. "You have reason, my lord," he said, with such unaffected, heartfelt * f empathy that Llewelyn allowed himself a rare indulgence; he droppe(j his defenses. Goronwy was watching him, wondering if there were words to ease so great a hurt. "You did your best, my lord." Llewelyn's dark eyes flicked toward him, then away. "Yes," he said, "but it was not good enough." There was an odd intimacy about the moment; the firelit darkness seemed to invite confidences. "You're too hard on yourself," Goronwy said softly, not surprised when Llewelyn merely shrugged. "What will you do now, my lord?" Llewelyn was quiet for a time, keeping his eyes upon the smoldering hearth. The log was charred and blackened, but the fire was not yet spent; as he watched, dancing flickers of flame sprang up again, flared into fitful life. Reaching for the flask, he gave the younger man a crooked smile. "Tonight," he said, "we shall get quietly and thoroughly drunk, Goronwy, in memory of all that was lost. And on the morrow, I begin the struggle to win it back." 27 WESTMINSTER, ENGLAND December 1277 COWARD provided Llewelyn with an impressiv escort for his journey to London, a delegation headed by his Chancellor/ the Bishop of Bath and Wells, and the Marcher lords, Roger de Mortimer 275 nd Roger Clifford. Llewelyn had been given a royal safe-conduct, which he thought to be worth as much as Davydd's sworn word. But he no I nger riac^ tne "Snt °^ refusal, could only hope that the English King had nothing more sinister in mind than a public humiliation. They reached Westminster by mid-afternoon on the eve of Christmas, just ahead of gathering snow clouds. Arrangements had been made to billet Llewelyn's men in the village of Islington, north of the city Avails, and Roger de Mortimer elected to take them on to their lodgings, vvhile Llewelyn and the Chancellor stopped at Westminster to advise Edward of their arrival. Upon his entry into the great hall, Llewelyn was welcomed so cordially by Edward that some of his suspicions began to abate. While he knew Edward was quite capable of violating a safe-conduct, he did not think the English King would publicly befriend a man he was about to imprison. Exchanging courtesies with Edward and his very pregnant Queen, Llewelyn took this opportunity to study his surroundings. Here on the morrow he would do homage to Edward, before the largest audience of his life. He'd never seen a hall the size of this one, well over two hundred feet long, more than fifty feet wide, and nearly twice as high. He'd heard tales of English feasts in which thousands of highborn guests were feted, had never believed such boastinguntil now. As he watched the men gathering at the huge open hearth, mingling in the three vast aisles, Llewelyn was not surprised to see so many of the Marcher lords. But amidst the familiar faces was one he'd not expected to find, and as soon as he could politely take his leave of Edward, he crossed the hall to confront his brother. "Rhodri?" The younger man jutted out his chin. "You mean you actually recognized me?" "What are you doing here, Rhodri?" The peremptory tone brought a flush to Rhodri's cheeks. "What do you think? Tomorrow is your day to eat humble pie, a meal I'd not have missed for the world!" Rhodri glared at his brother, but his triumph soured when Llewelyn 8ave him a scornful look, then turned away. It was as if they did not even think he was worth arguing with, for he'd gotten an identical response from Davydd earlier that day. "I'll be here on the morrow," he vowed bitterly. "You can count upon that!" But his threats served my to amuse some of the bystanders; Llewelyn did not look back. EVVELYN had been in London once before, visiting his father in the er soon after Gruffydd's imprisonment began. He'd been just thir- 276 teen, but his memories of London had not faded much over the years, perhaps because they were not pleasant ones. He'd taken a great dislik to the English city, so noisy and crowded and dirty to a lad country born and bred, had promised himself he'd never be back, and the man had kept faith with the boy's vowuntil now. But Westminster was utterly unknown to him, and he was admit tedly curious about this palace of English kings. And so, when he and , his companions exited the hall, he saw no reason to call at once for their horses. After admiring the cloistered quiet of St Stephen's Chapel, they eventually found themselves walking by the river wall, through gardens dormant and bare, a lifetime away from spring's rebirth. Ahead lay another expanse of gardens, sheltered within a courtyard formed by the King's Painted Chamber, the Lesser Hall, and the chapel. As they approached, Tudur came to a halt. "I've got a cramp." Limping over to one of the garden benches, he began to massage his leg. "I never realized," he said, "that Rhodri hated you so much." Llewelyn gave him an intent, sideways glance before admitting, "Neither did I." He was amused now to see that the other men were taking a sudden interest in the frozen December landscape, dropping back upon the pathway so that he and Tudur might have some moments of privacy. "I could come to like the sort of service I've been getting lately," he said. "I'm given what I want even before I know I want it! Unfortunately, theirs is the solicitude people usually save for those suffering a mortal illness." Tudur smiled, momentarily forgetting his fatigue, for it had been days since he'd heard Llewelyn joke about anything, least of all his impending act of submission. In the ten years that he'd served as Llewelyn's Seneschal, he'd gotten to know his Prince as few men had, and he continued to rub his calf muscles, waiting until Llewelyn was ready to talk about his brother. "I do not know him, Tudur, doubt that I ever did. Not so surprising, I suppose. He grew up at the English court, eleven years as a hostage. How could we not be strangers? He was always so quiet, so secretive; in truth, I never had a clue as to what he was thinking. I probably ought to have tried harder to find out. But I did not, and I have enough regrets on my plate right now, without fretting over one that's twenty year8 too late." "Most regrets serve for naught, and that one for certes, Llewelyn. You could not have agreed to cut up Gwynedd like a Christmas p16' and what else would have satisfied him?" Tudur rose stiffly from the bench, stamping his feet to get the blood flowing again. "I can see why Rhodri is so jealous of you, but what puzzles me is that he's turne against Davydd, too. They were close as lads, were they not?" 277 Llewelyn was quiet, looking beyond the desolate gardens toward he frigid grey gleam of the river. "When Owain and I came to Wood- tock to surrender to the English King, we found our mother there, with the lads- Another of Henry's misguided kindnesses. He meant well, but t never occurred to him that we'd not want them to witness our shame, o more than I'd have wanted Caitlin at Westminster Hall on the mor- row. I cart sn^ see Davydd standing on the stairs; he was only eight or jo, but if he was afraid, he was hiding it well. Rhodri was there, too, ^d yet I have no memory of him, Tudur, none at all." Tudur nodded slowly. "I see what you mean. Davydd, damn his soul, always did cast a long shadow, even as a lad." "You asked why Rhodri was jealous of Davydd. A harder question is why he was so often overlooked, and for that, I have no answer. It seems too simple to say he had the bad luck to be the lastborn. Mayhap if we'd all been closer in age . . . There was Owain, and nine years later, there was me, and then, when I was ten, my mother gave birth again, long after they must have given up hope. I remember how joyful we ail were. To my parents, Davydd must have seemed like a gift from God, and to me, he was a blessing, too, special if only because he was not Owain!" Llewelyn smiled, without mirth. "So our family doted upon Davydd, right from the first breath he drew, and then, fifteen months later, there was Rhodri. But a second miracle baby is somehow not quite as wondrous, is it? Davydd was the marvel, Rhodri the afterthought, and I suspect that's how they saw it, too." They'd begun to walk again, and as they drew nearer the Painted Chamber, a group of women came out. Eleanora had withdrawn from the great hall soon after greeting Llewelyn, and he assumed now that these were ladies in attendance upon her. One of the women stopped abruptly at sight of him, then hastened down the stairs. "My lord Llewelyn? I am right, am I not? You are the Prince of Wales?" She was close enough now for him to appreciate how pretty she was, enveloped in a bright wool mantle, her face framed by a graceful hood lined with silver fox fur. As he confirmed his identity, he found himself looking down into dancing dark eyes, eyes that were studying him quite openly and unabashedly. "Oh, my, yes," she murmured, "you will definitely do!" Llewelyn laughed. "Dare I ask for what?" She laughed, too. "Lord, how that must have sounded! I was just 80 gladdened at the sight of you Damnation, I did it again! I was Peaking on behalf of a friend, but I suppose that sounds odd, too?" 'Yes" he said, grinning, "but I am not complaining." I think," she said, matching his grin with one of her own, "that e d best start over." Holding out a soft hand for him to kiss, ablaze 278 with jewels. "I'm afraid I dare not curtsy," she confessed, "for I might not get up again. Beneath this mantle is one very expectant mother-to, be. I hear the court is laying wagers as to who begins her confinement first, the Queen or me!" "I'm learning more about you by the moment. I know now that you are a wife, soon to be a mother, and I'd venture that you are French " Llewelyn said, for he had a good ear for languages, and her pronunciation was more precise than that of most speakers of Norman-French whose speech reflected more than two centuries of English influence' "I can also say with certainty that you are highborn and very lovely that you have a sense of humor and a lively sense of mischief, too, I suspect. So far all I'm lacking is a name." "I knew I'd forgotten something! I am the Lady Blanche Capet, Countess of Lancaster and Champagne, Queen of Navarre." "I am honored, Madame," Llewelyn said, and kissed her hand again, with flawless courtesy. But Blanche suddenly felt as if they were on opposite sides of a yawning chasm, one that was widening with every breath she took. "Wait, my lord," she said hastily. "Do not haul up the drawbridge just yet. I am indeed the King's sister-in-law. But I am also your wife's friend." "You know Ellen?" Llewelyn's fingers tightened on hers; only when she winced did he realize he'd inadvertently hurt her, and swiftly eased his grip. "Can you tell me how she doestruly?" "Yes, I can. She has not been maltreated. You may set your mind at rest on that. I think Edward has become genuinely fond of her, and he has seen to it that her confinement is comfortable. But she is heartsick, my lord, and her hurt will not heal, not until the day she can join you in Wales." IT had begun to snow by the time Llewelyn returned to his companions. They were waiting patiently, all but Tudur, who was feeling the cold keenly this winter, feeling his age as never before. He was restlessly pacing up and down by the river wall, but his scowl faded as Llewelyn came closer. "You must have gotten good news," he said, and Llewelyn nodded. "I did. I learned that Ellen is not as friendless as I feared." Now Llewelyn was the one to frown, taking notice of the older man's sallow color. "Tudur? Are you ailing?" Tudur shook his head, and Llewelyn did not press it; he knew Tudur too well for that. "Come on," he said, "let's get our horses, see if we can find this English hamlet. What was it called again, Islington?" 279 The snow was coining down more heavily now, and the afternoon , v,t was fast fading. They'd almost reached the great hall when they w familiar figures hastening toward them. "My lord, we've been arching everywhere for you!" Goronwy quickened his pace, with Dai ab Einion on his heels. "What are you doing here, Goronwy? Why are you not with our men?" "Our men are back at Islington. But I could wait no longer, had to j^d you, to tell you what happened in London." Goronwy's agitation was not that unusual, for his emotions always lay dose to the surface. But Dai ab Einion was older, cooler, so dignified that he occasionally seemed somewhat pompous, and yet he was as flushed now as Goronwy, as obviously angry; for once, the two men seemed in rare accord. Llewelyn looked from one to the other. "Tell me," he said. "You warned me that we'd be stared at, my lord, and you were so right. The Londoners gaped at us as if we were circus freaks, pointing and smirking. I swear I've never been so wroth in all my born days. But I remembered what you said, that we were not to let them provoke us, though by Christ, it was not easy!" Dai and Goronwy had never been friendly; they were too unlike for a genuine rapport to develop. But now Dai gave the younger man an approving look. "Goronwy speaks true, my lord. His conduct was admirable. He refused to be goaded by those lowborn knaves and malcontents, and between us, we kept our men under controluntil we got to that accursed ale-house." "Ale-house? What were you doing at an ale-house?" Llewelyn demanded, for he could imagine no more dangerous a combination than English, Welsh, and wine. "Ah, no, my lord, we were not drinking! De Mortimer said Aldersgate would be the quickest way out of the city, but St Martin's Lane was blocked by a huge cart; it had broken a wheel, spilled its load into the street. De Mortimer rode over to harry the driver, and a crowd gathered. There was an ale-house nearby, and the customers came out to watch. Those besotted hellspawn began to laugh at us, my lord! They started to yell out insults, wanting to know if we had tails, if we were heathens like the Jews and Saracens, if it was true that we bedded down 111 the stables with our cattle!" Llewelyn's men began to swear, to mutter among themselves. But he made no attempt to mute their outrage; he shared it. "Go on," he ^d tersely. "What happened then?" "It was God's mercy, my lord, that most of our men speak no 280 IT 281 English." Dai shook his head slowly. "It was bad enough as it was, bm had they known how foul, how offensive were the insults" "We could take just so much, my lord! Surely you see that?" Goronwy's dark eyes glittered like polished jet. "The worst of the 10( was a loud-mouthed lout with a laugh like a mule's bray. He kept egging the others on, and as I tried to calm our lads down, he turned his taunts upon me, shouted out that he had a riddle for us. How could we tell the difference between a whore and a Welshwoman? His answer, my lord, was that there was no difference!" Tudur said, "Oh, Christ," very softly, and he and Llewelyn exchanged grim glances, bracing themselves for the worst. "What did you do, Goronwy? You did not kill him?" "No, my lord," Goronwy said, but he was too honest to claim credit he did not deserve. "I might have, though. I'll never know for sure, as I did not get the chance. Roger de Mortimer came back then, just in time to hear. He reined in his stallion beside the man, smiled, and said, 'My lady mother was Welsh.' He'd sounded almost pleasant, and so it took us all by surprise, what happened next. Ere anyone realized what he was about, he swung his boot free of the stirrup, kicked the man in the face. He went down like a felled tree, spitting blood and teeth," Goronwy said, with savage satisfaction. "The others sobered up right fast after that, retreated back into the ale-house in the blink of an eye, leaving their comrade bleeding and retching into the gutter. So there you have it, my lord. If you want to chastise me ..." "For what, Goronwy? You did not act upon your anger," Llewelyn said, and turned away. They watched him go, held by Tudur's upraised hand. After a moment, Dai said, "I must admit that de Mortimer rose somewhat in my estimation. I never had much use for the manuntil today." "I'm not surprised by what he did," Tudur said, rather absently, for his eyes were following Llewelyn. "For all that he chose his father's people, he never scorned his Welsh blood. Though no man could have been ashamed of a mother like the Lady Gwladys. She was a remarkable woman, and de Mortimer was devoted to herGoronwy, wait!" But Gornowy paid him no heed. Llewelyn had stopped by the river wall, and turned with reluctance, for he was not sure he had his emotions under control yet. Fury, frustration, an almost intolerable sense of helplessnessit all showed briefly upon his face as Goronwy drew near. came as a surprise to Goronwy, the realization that his Prince's passions were no less intense or heartfelt than his own, just ridden with a cur bit. He looked at the other man, feeling such a surge of desperate' despairing loyalty that it momentarily robbed him of speech. "It is very clear," Llewelyn said, "that we must confine our men carnp at Islington. Only the most trustworthy can be allowed into ondon. Now . . . what of you, Goronwy? Will you be able to keep your k. _i i, ».u >" temper in check on the morrow?" "If you ask it of me, yes," Goronwy promised solemnly, and after a moment, Llewelyn nodded. "Good lad, for I confess that I do want you with me." He paused, ujs eyes searching the younger man's face. "I understand your rage, Goronwy, more than you know. Having to tell our men that they must endure English insults and abuse was as difficult a command as I've ever given. But I had no choice." He paused again, then said bleakly, "That is what happens when we lose a war." CHRISTMAS DAY in the great hall of Westminster was a scene of splendor. A yule log burned in the open hearth, and evergreen festooned the window recesses, holly decorated the dais, mistletoe adorned the doorways. Candles and torches and cresset lamps blazed from all corners of the hall. Fresh, sweet-smelling rushes had been laid down, and the air was fragrant with costly incenses from the Holy Land. Soon there would be an elaborate feast in which the traditional fare, a roasted boar's head, would be served with great pomp and ceremony. There would be venison and swans and oysters and feathered peacocks, and such seasonal favorites as frumenty porridge and minced pies. To drink, there would be sweet milk possets and free-flowing wine, and the spiced ale of the wassail cup. Afterward, there would be dancing and a mumming and a shepherd's play, and the night would end with the chiming of church bells throughout all Christendom, with each joyful peal heralding the blessed birth of the Holy Child. And the revelries would continue from Christmas until Epiphany, twelve precious days in which to defy winter and cold and dark, to embrace the light one last time before the season of deprivation and want, the coming of Lent. Llewelyn had already removed his spurs and his mantle, bared his head. Slowly he unbuckled his scabbard. But as he handed his sword to Tudur, he drew a sudden, sharp breath. At Tudur's questioning look, he said, very low, "I just saw my brother." "Well, Rhodri did say he'd be here, God rot him" "No . . . Davydd." Tudur gave a startled oath, calling Davydd a highly unflattering "^e. More than that, he could not do, and he watched helplessly now *h the other Welshmen as Llewelyn strode into the center of the hall, . ed until all eyes were upon him, and then began his walk toward medais. 282 Edward's dark head was graced by a royal crown, worn only up0tl occasions of state. He looked quite regal in red velvet, blue eyes intent upon the Welsh Prince. Kneeling before Edward, Llewelyn placed his hands together in the prescribed gesture of submission, for the ceremony of homage was choreographed down to the last detail. Edward rose to his feet, took Llewelyn's hands in his own, and Llewelyn began to speak ^ "My lord King and liege lord, I, Llewelyn ap Gruffydd, Prince of * | Wales and Lord of Eryri, do willingly enter into your homage and faith and become your sworn man, and to you faithfully will I bear body, chattels, and earthly worship, andJ will keep faith and loyalty to you against all others." The act of homage was not a humbling experience for English vassals; they saw it as a natural expression of the obedience owed to one's liege lord, for theirs was an ordered, hierarchical society structured upon military tenure of land. But it was an alien concept to the Welsh, imposed upon them by force of arms. Llewelyn had been the first Welsh prince able to turn this English weapon against them, to use homage as a means of unifying Wales. He would have found it easier to do homage himself if he could have believed that the English King recognized and respected the very real differences that existed between the English and the Welsh. He was convinced, though, that Edward saw no distinction between Wales and any English earldom, and that made his act of homage an act of self-betrayal. But he'd done it, and he waited now for Edward to perform his part, to make an utter mockery of these solemn oaths sworn before God and witnessed by men. For homage was a reciprocal obligation, bound both men to each other in a relationship of dependence and protection. Just as the vassal must obey his liege lord, so must the liege lord make the vassal's enemies his own. Edward looked out upon their audience, back toward Llewelyn. "We do promise to you, as my vassal and liegeman/' he said gravely, "that we and our heirs will guarantee to you and your heirs the Welsh lands you hold of us, against all others, that you may hold said lands in peace." And then, Llewelyn having sworn allegiance to the man whoa sheltered his would-be assassins and abducted his wife, Edward raised him to his feet and gave him the ritual kiss of peace. LIFTING his wine cup, Edward suggested, "Shall we drink to new beginnings?" Llewelyn clinked his cup against the King's, and the n erupted in applause. , Edmund and Blanche were approaching, and Edward beckon r 283 jjjein up onto the dais. "You know my brother, of course, but you have not y^ nac* the pleasure of meeting his wife ... or have you?" Edward ajnended, for Blanche and Llewelyn were smiling at each other like old ajui familiar friends. "Oh, the Prince of Wales and I have known each other forever/' Blanche said blithely, amusing Llewelyn and baffling everyone else Within hearing, except Edmund, who was no longer surprised by anything his wife said or did. Eleanora was frowning, and knowing that his sister-in-law was nothing if not literal-minded, Edmund said hastily, "Eleanora, trust me. Do not even ask." "Sometimes I suspect that if we traveled to Persia, Blanche would still encounter old friends," Edward said, with a smile and just a suggestion of sarcasm, for he found his sister-in-law to be very entertaining company, but a bit too flippant for his taste; the irreverent humor that amused him coming from a Davydd or a Roger de Mortimer seemed inappropriate in a woman's mouth. "But I see someone whom I know for certes that you have not yet met, my lord Llewelyn, even though she is your kinswoman twice-over. Fortunately we can remedy that nght now. Davydd, bring Lisbet up onto the dais." Clinging to Davydd's arm, Elizabeth mounted the steps of the dais, where she curtsied first to Edward and then to Llewelyn. "Lady Elizabeth," Llewelyn said, and kissed her hand. "You'd be a welcome addition to any family." And because he was not about to expose Welsh wounds to English eyes, he looked then at his brother, said coolly, "Davydd, what a surprise." "A happy one, I trust." But Davydd's riposte lacked his usual verve; to Llewelyn, who knew him so well, he looked tired and tense. "Marital alliances entangle us in the most remarkable webs," Edward said, his eyes shifting curiously between Llewelyn and his brother. "Who could have guessed that one day I would be kinsman to YOU both, compliments of my lovely cousins, Elizabeth and Ellen." He smiled at Elizabeth, before turning his attention back to Llewelyn. "Ellen is our phantom guest," he said wryly, "unseen but not forgotten. I know she is foremost in your thoughts. I can tell you, too, what those thoughts are. You've come to Westminster, done homage « my Christmas court. Now you want me to hold to our bargain. Fair enough, and I have every intention of honoring my word. We obviously cannot talk here and now, with the trestle tables about to be set up at ^y moment. But I doubt that you'll want to wait, for in truth, I've never met a more restive people than you Welsh! Will tomorrow be soon enough?" "No," Llewelyn said, and smiled, "but it will have to do." 284 "Good, it is settled then. I'll be at the Tower in the morning. MQM me there at noon, and we'll see if we cannot reach an agreement abo^ Ellen's release." "At the Tower?" For a moment, Llewelyn could not believe what he'd heard, for Edward was still smiling, and the others showed no signs that anything out of the ordinary had just been said. It was only when he glanced over at Davydd, saw his brother's face mirroring his own shock, that he knew he had not misunderstood. The English King had indeed ordered him to come to the royal fortress that was England's most notorious prison, where his father had been confined and where he had died. LLEWELYN shivered as the wind gusted through the cloisters, for he had seized his first chance to leave the hall, and he'd not bothered to retrieve his mantle. Snow glazed the ground of the inner garth, but he could catch glimpses of sun amidst the circling clouds. Hungry birds wheeled overhead, and he heard an occasional muffled shout as boatmen hailed one another; even Christmas was not a day of rest on the River Thames. He knew he had to go back inside soon, before he was missed. But he was not yet ready, still seething with rebellious, impotent rage. "There you are!" Llewelyn whirled at the sound of Welsh, saw Davydd hurrying toward him along the path. Flushed and out of breath, he stopped a few feet away. "Jesii, but it's cold out here! You were too quick, I did not see you leave. Llewelyn, listen. Edward did not mean that as it sounded. I know him better than you. Granted, he can be mean-spirited, but not like this. I do not think he even realized that he'd given mortal offense. Most likely he just did not remember that our father What? Why do you look at me like that?" "What sort of twisted game are you playing now, Davydd? You make a two-hundred-mile journey on winter roads, just so you can watch me bleed before the English court, and then you dare to pretend concern over my peace of mind? Do you truly think I'm that big a fool?" "That is not so! I did not come here to gloat!" "No? Then why did you come? I believed your lies often enough in the past, God knows, but I'm no longer as easily duped. So you'd best make this tale a memorable one!" Davydd's eyes narrowed. "As it happens, it has naught to do with you. My wife wanted to come to her cousin's Christmas court, and since she's breeding, I thought it best to humor her whims. Does that satisfy you? And now I am going back into the hall, and you . . . you can go to Hell!" Davydd spun around, stalked back up the pathway. Llewelvn 285 tched njm gO j-jg'd begun to shiver again, for the wind was coming ff the river now. But he was too angry to risk returning to the hall. He glanced around, then crossed to the south walkway, entered the chapel of St Stephen. Within, all was quiet, so still that he could hear the sound of his own breathing, rapid, uneven. His inner turmoil seemed to make a mockery of God's peace. Moving down the nave, he paused before the High Altar, ringed with flaming white candles. His father's temper had been the stuff of which legends are made. His rages had been as spontaneous as they were spectacular, for he'd remained as ignorant and as innocent as a child about the consequences of those firestorms of fury. And he'd passed on the lion's share of that fabled temper to his son Owain, who'd followed all too closely in Gruffydd's scorched footsteps. Llewelyn, too, had been bequeathed a portion of that dubious and dangerous legacy. But he'd long ago learned what Gruffydd never had, hard lessons in self-control. That was why he was so shaken now by his confrontation with Davydd. Why had he let his temper catch fire like that? How was it that Davydd always managed to get past the moat and the outer walls, to assault the keep itself? Why could he not master the one defense that could never be overcomeindifference? Hearing footsteps in the nave, he turned, expecting to see a priest. But it was his young sister-in-law. Elizabeth stopped by the rood screen. "Forgive me for intruding like this," she said hesitantly, "but I needed to talk to you alone, and I did not know when another opportunity might arise." "You are a welcome diversion, not an intrusion," Llewelyn said, not altogether truthfully, and smiled at her. As Elizabeth stepped forward, he saw that she'd been more sensible than he or Davydd, for she was wrapped in a warm wool mantle. "I understand that congratulations are in order. Davydd tells me that you are with child." "It is still too early yet to be utterly sure, but I have hopes." She smiled suddenly. "God willing, I will give Davydd a son in the new year," she said, and Llewelyn felt an unwonted prick of envy. Moving toward her, he shook his head when she called him "my lord," saying, "We have no need for formality between us, for not only ^e you my sister by marriage, you are my wife's cousin. What can I do f°r you, Elizabeth?" "Davydd and I are staying at the Swan Inn on Thames Street. It is Very comfortable and conveniently located, just above the bridge. I ... I was wondering if you might come there and dine with us." She looked like an eager child to Llewelyn, squeezing her hands ogether as she spoke, biting her lip as she waited now for his answer. fc«Ward had told him her agenineteenbut she seemed much 286 younger to him at that moment, and he found it unexpectedly difficuu to turn her down. "I am sorry, lass," he said, as kindly as he could. "I cannot do that" Elizabeth was quiet for a moment, struggling with her disappointment. "I suppose I knew all along that you would not," she admitted "But I had to try." "Davydd does not know about this planned dinner of yours, does *^ he?" Her silence confirmed his suspicions, and he said, very seriously "Elizabeth, I am sure you meant well. But you'd do better not to involve yourself in our conflict. I am afraid, lass, that Davydd would be very wroth with you should he find out what you tried to do." "Do you think I fear Davydd's anger?" She sounded surprised, and then indignant. "You know Davydd, so you should know better! I get so heartily sick of it, the way people always think the worst of him. This is why I hate coming to Edward's court. They all act as if I were a ... a sacrificial lamb. And the older women, they are the worst. Giving me motherly pats and covert looks of pity. The fat cows, if they only knew!" Llewelyn glanced away so she'd not see his grin. The change in her was startling; he tended to forget that even a kitten had claws. "So you do not like visits to the English court?" he asked, and she responded with an emphatic shake of her head, a forceful "Jesu forfend," one of Davydd's favorite oaths. "That is odd," he said, "for Davydd told me that he'd come to Westminster merely to please you." The blue eyes flickered, but she never hesitated. "Yes," she said, "I did coax him into coming. The Christmas court, after all, is different, is not to be missed." Llewelyn looked into her upturned face. "You are very loyal," he said quietly, "and Davydd is very lucky." "No," Elizabeth said, "I am the lucky one!" She turned to go, then gave him one last hopeful look over her shoulder. "If you should change your mind ..." He said nothing, but there was something implacable in his silence, and she sighed, mouthing under her breath another of the oaths she'd learned from Davydd. At the rood screen, she paused again. "I never knew what it was like to be happy," she said softly, and without waiting for his response, she moved toward the door, leaving behind echoes of her quick, light steps, faint traces of her perfume, and a few puddles of melting ice upon the floor of the chancel, where her skirts had swept the snow-laden ground of the cloisters. Llewelyn followed her to the door. He did not think it was easy to be a woman in their world, but he had known a number of women who could match any man in daring, determination, and common sense. Joanna, his grandfather's wife, had often acted as his envoy to the English court, had once averted a war. His aunt, Elen de Quincy, had 287 braved public scandal to wed the man she loved. His own mother had made a devil's deal with the English King in a vain attempt to gain her husband's freedom. Nell de Montfort had ridden the whirlwind with Simon for nigh on thirty years, his partner, his confidante, his consort, gut now, as he stood, watching as Elizabeth headed back toward the hall/ Llewelyn thought he had never known any woman so in need of protection as his brother's young, pregnant wife. rr snowed again that night, and by the next morning London's streets were shrouded in white. The sky was still overcast, and wind-blown drifts covered the usual refuse and debris littering the city's center gutters. The streets were almost deserted, for Sunday was God's day, and most Londoners were home before their hearths. Llewelyn's escort had been handpicked for their equanimity, all but Goronwy, who was pledged to be on his best behavior, but Llewelyn was glad, nonetheless, that his men's sangfroid would not be put to the test. They crossed the city without incident, and shortly before noon they rode through the landgate into the outer bailey of the vast, formidable stronghold known, with sinister simplicity, as the Tower. The White Tower, the fortress's great keep, soared ninety feet into the somber winter sky. Llewelyn reined in his stallion, gazing up at those grey stone battlements. Gruffydd had knotted sheets together, climbed out of one of the chapel windows, and begun a slow, laborious descent toward the ground so far below. But courage was not always its own reward, and his makeshift rope had given way. They'd found him crumpled at the base of the forebuilding, and Llewelyn had heard that men sickened at sight of the body, for Gruffydd's head had been driven into his chest upon impact. The ground had been snow-covered that night, too, and for days afterward, people had come to stare at the blood-soaked snow, at the dried blood splattering the roof and wall of the forebuilding, until the Tower constable obliterated the evidence with shovels and whitewash. Llewelyn had demanded all the gory details, for he'd been only sixteen, too young to realize that sometimes it was better not to know. A muscle twitched in his cheek. More time passed, and then he looked over at his men, watching in a hushed, respectful silence; some had even doffed their hats, as they would in a church or cemetery. "Lef s S°/" he said. "The English King is waiting." The great hall was packed with jostling, shoving men, echoing with °isterous laughter, catcalls, and curses. Edward broke away from the others, strode over to greet Llewelyn with cheerful, disarming informality. "If the Archbishop of Canterbury hears about his, he'll pitch a fit 288 V for certes. Cockfighting on a Sunday is bound to be a sin of some sort!" He grinned, and Llewelyn wondered if Davydd had been right, after all. Was he here at the Tower as a spiteful exercise of royal power? Or merely as a matter of royal convenience? "My private chamber in the Blundeville Tower adjoins the hall. We can talk there whilst your men lose their money on the fight," Edward . said, to Goronwy's obvious dismay. He looked so alarmed that Llewelyn ^drew him aside, quietly assured him that if Edward had planned treachery, it would have occurred before he'd done homage, not afterward. Goronwy did not look completely convinced, but the rest of their men had already joined the circle of spectators, and as Llewelyn and Edward exited the hall, they looked back upon a scene of rare English-Welsh harmony. "I thought we'd do better on our own," Edward explained. "It is not as if we need an interpreter, after all. I want you to know, Llewelyn, that I'll not keep Ellen in England a day longer than necessary. But I have to be sure that she'll not find herself wed to a rebel, trapped in an alien land at war with the Crown." "It seems then, that we are in agreement," Llewelyn said, hoping he'd managed to keep all traces of sarcasm from his voice. "We both want Ellen in Wales, not Windsor. So it is just a question of when. I suggest we begin by discussing something we can agree upon here and now. I've been hearing about the efficiency of the English Chancery. Why not put it to a test, see if they can get a safe-conduct issued for me by the morrow?" By now they'd reached the end of the passageway, were at the door of Edward's chamber in the Blundeville Tower. "A safe-conduct? For where?" "Scotland," Llewelyn said, a little too sharply. "Windsor, where else? It is only twenty miles from here, is it not?" Edward nodded, and then stunned Llewelyn by saying, "Well. . I do not really see a need for that." As difficult as Llewelyn found it to give Edward the benefit of the doubt in anything, it still had not occurred to him that Edward might refuse him the right to visit Ellen at Windsor. Edward had already opened the door, and he followed the English King into the chamber, too outraged to keep up the pretense. "So you do not think I need to meet my wife? You'd best explatf1 yourself!" "That was not what I said," Edward protested, with surprising mildness. "What I said was that there was no need for you to go to Windsor." And then he grinned, and Llewelyn realized, belatedly/ tha they were not alone in the chamber. 289 A woman was standing on the far side of the room, holding what looked like a white fur muff. But as Llewelyn turned toward her, she set the muff in one of the window-seats, revealing it to be a very small dog/ an(i sank down in a deep curtsy. "My lord Prince of Wales," Edward said, "I have the pleasure to present to you my kinswoman and your wife, the Lady Eleanor de Montfort." Llewelyn crossed swiftly to Ellen, reached down, and raised her to her feet, then brought her hand up and kissed it. Ellen gave him a dazzling smile, then turned it upon Edward. "Ned," she said, "do you not have an invasion to plan or a castle to besiege?" Edward's grin widened. "No, sweetheart," he said innocently, "I have the entire afternoon free to spend with you and Llewelyn." "Ned. Dearest Cousin. Go away," Ellen said, giving him a playful push toward the door. He leaned down then, whispered something in her ear, and at last made a jaunty departure, leaving behind a trail of laughter. Llewelyn was not often disconcerted, but he was now, caught off balance first by Edward's surprise, and then by the surge of emotions it set free. The pendulum had swung too far, too fast, from fury to astonishment to joy to wariness. When he'd envisioned his first meeting with Ellen, he'd never imagined for a moment that she might not be to his liking. But that was indeed his first, instinctive reaction. Watching as she exchanged quips with Edward, he found himself wondering suddenly if he'd not made a great mistake. She was beautiful, one of the most beautiful women he'd ever seen. But her nonchalance, her perfect poise in an admittedly awkward situation struck uneasy echoes deep within his memory, bringing to mind another woman from his past, one he'd bedded briefly and long since forgotten, or so he'd thought. The name came back nowArwenna and so did the memories. She'd been just as lovely as Ellen, just as worldly, as sure of her power to enchant. And she'd also been shallow, selfish, and frivolous. That did not sound, he knew, like the Ellen de Montfort he'd been led to expect. But then, he'd not expected, either, to find her on such intimate, affectionate terms with her cousin and ^Ptor, the English King. Ellen shut the door, and when she turned back to face Llewelyn, "e found himself looking at a different woman altogether. The bright, bnttle pose fell away; even her voice changed timbre. "Can you ever orgive me," she said, almost in a whisper, "for all the trouble and grief ve brought upon you?" 'Ah, no, lass, there is nothing to forgive!" In three strides, Llewelyn Was at her side, taking her hand in his. "I'll not deny that this war 290 wreaked havoc upon my homeland. But you were one of its victims Ellen, not its cause. This I can tell you for an utter certainty, that all n^ regrets were for your abduction, your suffering, and our separation Never for our marriage." Ellen's eyes never left his face; her fingers had entwined with his "I so needed to hear you say that. This has been one of the worst mornings of my life, and it should have been one of the best. But the longer I had to wait, the more nervous I became. No woman ever had \ more reason to be grateful to the man she married, and whilst on that cog, I vowed that you would never be sorry. By now I ought to have borne you our first son. Instead, you had two years in Hell. I kept telling myself that I could not blame you if you did regret our marriage, but 1 think it would have broken my heart." Llewelyn's hand tightened upon hers. "You could as easily have blamed me, for a wife has the right to expect her husband to keep her safe. But I failed you twice-over, in letting you be taken, and then in not being able to win your release." She shook her head. "I am Simon de Montfort's daughter," she said, with a sad smile. "Who would know better than I the might of the English Crown?" After that, a silence fell, but not an uncomfortable one, for they were rapt in their discovery of each other. They were standing close enough for Llewelyn to catch a faint hint of violets. It was a fragrance that he had never fancieduntil nowbreathing in Ellen's perfume, a scent of spring twilight on a day of drifting December snow. Ellen had the advantage of Llewelyn, for she'd not been taken by surprise. But now she found herself doubting the evidence of her own senses. "For nigh on half my life," she said, "I've been holding fast to a memory of you. It was not my memory, of course, although it came in time to seem as if it were, as if my mother's recollections had somehow become mine, so vivid was your image to me, so real. I saw you through her eyes, tall and dark, with a smile that she called 'sudden.' When you walked in that door, it was as if you'd walked out of my own past, for you were just as I'd envisioned you. I suppose that is not so surprising/ but. . . but you also sound exactly as I imagined you would, your voice low-pitched and husky, with a wonderful Welsh lilt. How did I know that? Have I been stealing into your dreams? Or have you been invading mine?" Llewelyn was intrigued by her candor, and by gold-flecked cat eyes, long-lashed, as clear as crystal. "I might be what you expected," ne confided, "but you, my lady, are a surprise for certes!" "In what way?" r 291 She was flirting with him so obviously now that he grinned, tilted ujs head to the side in a very approving appraisal. "Well . . . you are more beautiful than I expected, more worldly, more assured, and best of all, you are not still thirteen!" She looked so puzzled then, that Llewelyn could not help laughing. "VVe have an odd history, you and I, twelve years in the making. I cannot say that you haunted my dreams, as you aver, but you did claim a corner of my brain and took up residence. You were so young then, and you'd been hurt so much. I did what I must, I disavowed our plight troth, but I was troubled by that lost little girl, more than I realized. If someone had asked me today how old you are, I would have answered without hesitation: that you are twenty and five. But that little lass of thirteen was a most persistent ghost, always hovering close at hand, in need of all the protection I'd denied her after Evesham, and in some strange sense, it was she I expected to find." He laughed again, this time at himself. "Does that sound as mad to you as it does to me?" Ellen was touched by his admission. But she was not surprised that he should have felt so responsible for that "lost little girl," even after severing their betrothal bond, for it seemed to bear out her own secret, heartfelt hope, that their marriage was fated to be, that just as they'd defied the odds and somehow survived the ruination of Evesham, so, too, would they be able to prevail over Edward. "It does not sound mad at all," she said softly. "I do not mind in the least being a surprise, as long as I am not a disappointment?" Llewelyn grinned again. "A woman surpassingly fair instead of a timid child bride? What man would not be disappointed?" Ellen was quite unrepentant and not at all abashed at being caught out. "Mea culpa," she said, "I was indeed fishing for a compliment. But I had no courtship; would you begrudge me a bit of flattery?" "I think," Llewelyn said, "that I would begrudge you very little in this life." He still held her hand, and drew her now toward the windowseat nearest the hearth. They settled themselves side by side on the cushions, joined at once by Ellen's little dog. Llewelyn watched as she sought in vain to push the animal away, for he was unable to take his eyes off her. "I cannot begin to count the people who told me you were a beauty, starting with Simon. I assumed, though, that you'd resemble Nell, and you do not. You have the most astonishing eyes; they catch ^e light like gemstones. That color is rare in my homeland. I've seen Jt but once that I can remember, and she was a kinswoman of yours my grandfather's wife." Ellen was delighted. "My aunt Joanna! It is one of the great regrets °f my life that I never knew her. Are my eyes truly like hers?" 292 "The color is the same, water over mossy rocks. But I doubt that her eyes could change as quick as yours do. What of your hair color? Js it as dark as Joanna's was?" "See for yourself," she said, and reaching up, she removed her veil She began to unfasten her wimple next, and Llewelyn found himself staring at the slender white throat she'd just bared, wanting suddenly to touch her, to see if her skin was as soft, as smooth as it looked. But she was an innocent, he must not forget that, must go slowly for her sake. She'd withdrawn the last of the wimple's pins, revealing a crown of bright hair, a shade Llewelyn had not seen before, a deep coppergold midway between blonde and red. "Your hair is like your eyes," he marveled, "a color all your own," and she smiled at him, then unpinned her fret, the fashionable net of gold mesh binding her hair. She smiled again, then shook her head, and Llewelyn caught his breath, for as her hair swirled about her shoulders and cascaded down her back, framing her face in provocative disarray, she looked suddenly and wonderfully wanton, looked like a woman just risen from a lover's bed. "Good Lord, girl," he said, with a shaken laugh, "do you have any idea what you just did to me?" To his surprise, she flushed deeply. "Ellen? I did not mean to discomfit you. But in truth, you did not seem shy." "Shyme?" Ellen's smile was wry. "That very suggestion would have sent my brothers rolling onto the floor with laughter." "You may not be shy, but you are flustered," Llewelyn said, and when she did not deny it, he reached for her hand again. "Can you tell me why?" She hesitated, but she had to be honest; with him, there could be no other way. "I am not sure I can make sense of what I am feeling, for I've never felt like this before, so ... so anxious. You said I was assured, and you were right; usually I am. That is what being pretty does for a woman, for I learned early on that I could turn male heads without even trying. What I did not learn was how to play the role of the proper modest maiden, to keep my eyes downcast and my speech demure. I always spoke my mind." "That is hardly surprising for the daughter of Nell de Montfort, he said, and made her pulse jump by turning her hand over, pressing a kiss into her palm. She focused her thoughts with an effort. "Moreover, I had nve doting brothers, in whose eyes I could do no wrong; it amused thenj enormously that their little sister could swear like a soldier, that I coul tell a bawdy joke and keep their guilty secrets. And so, when I ke8a. to attract men in earnest, at the French court, I saw no reason to gu3* 293 y speech, to pretend to be what I was not. In truth, the hypocrisy of 't all seemed ridiculous. Women are supposed to be daughters of Eve, born temptresses, or so the Church would have us believe. But virgins are expected to act as timid and skittish as newborn fawns." He laughed at that, and she said reproachfully, "You know I am speaking true. Men want their wives to be nuns before marriage and concubines afterward. At least the men at the French court did. I never fretted, though, that I might be giving the wrong impression, for none of those men mattered to me. They would flirt, try to get me into bed, fail, and I'd forget them. I never truly cared about pleasing a man . . . until now. When I let down my hair for you, I knew full well what I was doing. I wanted you to want me. But when you jested about it, I was of a sudden assailed by doubts, by the fear that I might have seemed too ... too brazen." Llewelyn was awed by her utter honesty. Just as she'd bared her throat, now she was baring her soul, and he knew better than most men the courage that took. "Ah, lass," he said, "you do not realize just how dangerous you are." When he lifted her hand, she thought he meant to kiss it again. Instead, he held it against his cheek, a gentle gesture at variance with what she read in his eyes. "I do not think you are brazen, cariad, only that I am luckier than I deserve." He smiled, then leaned toward her, and she closed her eyes, raised her face for his kiss. But they'd forgotten they were being watched by jealous eyes, and as Llewelyn took Ellen in his arms, the dog went into action, squirming between its mistress and the intruder with ferret-like speed, so that their first kiss proved to be memorable in a most unexpected manner; they found themselves sputtering, inhaling mouthfuls of fluffy white fur. "Blessed Lady Mary!" Ellen gasped, at the same time that Llewelyn said something in Welsh, which by the tone of it, sounded suspiciously like an oath. Rubbing the back of her hand against her mouth, she glared at the dog, then looked apologetically at her husband. No sooner did their eyes meet, though, than they began to laugh. The dog had staked out possession of Ellen's lap, daring Llewelyn trespass again. But there was a leather lead on the table, and before t"6 little creature could rally its defenses, it found itself tucked under tne enemy's arm, being carried across the room. Looping the leash over 'chair, Llewelyn said, "This dog has got to be an agent of the English °^n/' sending Ellen into a fresh fit of giggles. My God, how did you guess? Ned gave her to me!" Again it jarred, the easy familiarity of "Ned." But this time Llewelyn . Ve« it aside, back into the shadows where it could be ignored. A dsome pair of deerskin gloves lay on the table, and picking up one, 294 F he handed it to the disgruntled dog as a consolation prize. "I'm sure " he said, "that Edward would not begrudge a glove or two in the interest of marital harmony," making Ellen laugh again. But as he reached for the wine flagon, she said something so unexpected that he spun around to stare at her, the wine forgotten. "Say that again," he demanded. "I said that I'd given her a Welsh name, that I'd called her 'Hiraeth.' " Llewelyn came back to the window-seat, pulled Ellen to her feet and into his arms. "How in the world did you know about that?" "My aunt Joanna. She once tried to explain to my mother why it was that the Welsh sickened when they were uprooted, banished from Wales. She said the Welsh had a special name for ithiraeththat it meant a love of their homeland, a sadness for what had been lost, a yearning for what could be" She got no further, for it was then that Llewelyn kissed her. Their second effort was much more satisfactory than their first, and Ellen felt bereft when he let her go, not wanting the embrace to end. He smiled at her, then retrieved the wine from the table, and brought it back to the window-seat, where he kissed her again. She knew she was being foolish, but it bothered her to see how deftly he'd tilted their wine cup as he embraced her; it was too smoothly done, the sort of trick a man learned only by experience. How could she be jealous of his past? That would be madness, for he'd lived almost half of it ere she was even born. But she wanted him to feel what she felt now, the wonder and newness of it, and that was impossible, for there were twenty-four years between them, and God only knows how many women. She accepted the wine cup, watching him as she drank. Well, she could never be his first love, but by all that was holy, she'd be his last. "How long do we have ere Edward sends you back to Windsor?" She'd been worried that he might think her presence here meant Edward had relented, and she was glad that he seemed to read her cousin so well. "Only a few days," she said, wondering how she could endure being parted from him now. He'd begun to kiss her throat, and she shivered, for he was evoking the most amazing sensations. How wonderful that their lust was sanctioned by Holy Church, so she could give in to it without guilt! He was stroking her hair, brushing it aside to kiss her throat again, and she pressed closer, sliding her hands up his back, thinking that if only she held him tightly enough, mayhap the world would go away. Llewelyn was the one to break free first. "Ellen ..." No more than that, just her name, but it was enough. Ellen felt a surge of triufflp ' sure now that he wanted her, too, just as much as she wanted ruin- "Llewelyn ... is it always like this between men and women- 295 "No," he said, discovering that she liked being kissed on her ear lobe. "The flame burns hotter at some times than others, cariad." "And with us? Is this one of those times?" He seemed to be considering. "Well," he said at last, "I think we're jdndling a fair amount of heat." She knew she was being teased, did not mind at all. "How much heat? Enough to melt a candle? To start a bonfire? Could you be more precise, please?" By now they both were laughing. "Enough heat to set half of Wales ablaze," he said, drawing her across his lap so that her head nestled into the crook of his arm and her long hair swept the floor. "I think you're right. It is a pity we had no courtship. Then I could have told you how very fair you are. I could have compared your hair to autumn bracken and your skin to silk, said all the foolish and fanciful things smitten lovers have said down through the ages." "Why can you not say them now?" "Alas, it is too late, two years too late. No man ever says things like that to his wife." "No? We shall see about that," Ellen promised, and entwined her arms around his neck, pulling his head down so she could kiss him. This time it was different; the passion flared up between them so fast that Llewelyn was caught by surprise, and he stopped thinking, yielded to it. So did Ellen, shifting so he could unpin the brooch closing the neckline of her bodice, stroking his face, his hair, gasping as he licked the soft hollow between her breasts. He was murmuring Welsh endearments she could not understand, but the sound of his voice stirred her senses almost as much as his breath on her throat, his hands on her body. "Oh, love," she whispered, "love, yes," not even knowing what she said, wanting only to taste his mouth on hers, to feel the weight of his body pressing down upon hers, and when he lowered her back onto the cushions, she looked up at him with starlit eyes and a smile to make him forget everything but the here and now, the woman under him in fhe window-seat. He was never to know what stopped him, whether it was simply a lifetime's habit of control, or a protective urge stirred by her utter trust, °r even the insistent whimpering of the dog. It took an intense effort will to pull away from the soft body straining against his, but as he *' UP, he became aware that the dog was no longer whining; it had gun to growl. His reaction came without thought, came from instinct ned sharp as any sword. Grasping Ellen's wrist, he jerked her upright the seat, just as the door opened and Edward entered. tdwards smile froze, and for one of the few times in his life, his nse of humor failed him; instead, he experienced something oddly 296 like embarrassment. Ellen's hair streamed down her back in tanelecj disorder. Clinging to Llewelyn as if she needed support, she gazed UD at him with glazed, unfocused eyes; it was a look he'd often seen upon his own wife's face, but only in the privacy of their marriage bed. Edward knew that he was staring. He couldn't seem to help himself, though unable to believe that this disheveled, desirable wanton was his proper' f staid little cousin, Ellen the untouchable, the ice maiden. But whatever *had been happening in here, it was for certes not rape. It was their silence that brought him back to his senses, to the reluctant realization that he was somehow in the wrong. "I am sorry," he said, not very convincingly, for he'd not had much practice at apologies. "I should have knocked." "Yes," Llewelyn said, "you should have." Edward was so astonished that anyone would dare to criticize the manners of the King that he forbore to take offense. He supposed he could not fairly blame the Welshman for being a bit churlish; in truth, he'd not have taken it with good grace either, had he been in Llewelyn's place. By now, Ellen had managed to reorient herself, had adjusted her gown to make sure she was not showing Edward what was for Llewelyn's eyes only. But she had not drawn away from Llewelyn, had deliberately moved closer, in fact, and when he put his arm around her shoulders, she leaned back against him, then smiled at Edward. "You wanted something, Ned?" "Edmund and Blanche are down in the great hall. I thought you might like to surprise them." Edward was slowly beginning to see some humor in the situation, and he added, "It seems to be a day for surprises. Shall I send up your maid to you, Ellen?" "Oh, you mean this?" she said, running her hand through that wild, coppery mane. "Thank you, but that will not be necessary. I'm sure my husband can help make me presentable." "As you wish," Edward agreed, torn between amusement and annoyance at the emergence of this new Ellen. "When will you be ready?' "Thursday," Llewelyn suggested, so laconically that Edward took it as a joke and laughed. "We will await you then, down in the hall." As he moved toward the door, Edward began to laugh again. "I am going to have to leaf11 the Welsh art of seduction, for certes. And to think I once thought that when it came to courting, Davydd was the quick one!" Ellen could feel the muscles of Llewelyn's arm contract under her hand, and she was relieved when he kept silent. As soon as they wet* alone, she reached up, touched his cheek. "You need not be angry ° my behalf, love. Ned can tell the entire court, and I'd not care. You a16 297 husband, and what happens between us is not cause for shame." Llewelyn tightened his arm around her, drawing her in against his chest- It was clear to him that she did not understand the significance f what had just occurred, or the probable consequences, but he could not bring himself to burden her with more cares. Smoothing her hair hack over her shoulders, he kissed the corner of her mouth. "In truth, cariad, I am angry with myself, too, for it is folly to keep stoking a fire when there is no means at hand of quenching it. I may have cheated you of a courtship and a lavish wedding, but at the very least, I ought to provide a marriage bed." She laughed softly. "It is rather like being drunk, is it not?" He grinned, thinking she spoke truer than she knew, and got reluctantly to his feet, got them both away from the tempting proximity of that cushioned window-seat. "You go to my head, Ellen, not to mention those body parts farther south. Being alone with you is going to rut severe demands upon my self-control." And although he said it as a joke, he knew it was not. Ellen gave him a look of such yearning that he could feel his treacherous body already rebelling. "There is an easy answer to that," she said. "Tomorrow we bolt the door." Llewelyn could only marvel at the mysterious ways of the Almighty. His world in charred ruins about him, a lifetime's efforts set at naught, and suddenly this remarkable woman, this bond that went beyond a fever of the flesh. "No, cariad," he said gently, "we cannot." "Why not? Why should we wait for Edward's court wedding? That is a misguided generosity on his part, for we are man and wife in the eyes of God and Christendom. I have been your bride for two years, Llewelyn, but I want to be your wife. How can that be wrong?" "It is not wrong, Ellen, but it is dangerous." He saw she still did not comprehend. "We cannot risk laying together until you are free, for we cannot risk giving the English Crown two hostages for the price of one. What if you got with child?" "Oh, God ..." Ellen was shaken. "What a fool I am!" The thought °f delivering her child, Llewelyn's heir, into Edward's power was so horrifying to her that she shuddered, and Llewelyn pulled her into a dose embrace. Looking up into his face, she said, "I thought that if only We could meet, the separation would be more bearable. But it is not S°ing to be easier at all, is it? It is going to be even harder now to abide king apart, to keep faith." She sounded desperately unhappy, she who'd been joyous but mojttents before. "I know," he said. "In the past I was counting the days you Were freed. Now I'll be counting the nights, too." As he'd hoped, that coaxed a smile. "So will I," she said, with a 298 fervency that was only partially exaggerated for comic effect, "oh, j^. deed, so will I." But she had an idea then, and fumbling in the bodice of her gown, she drew out a man's ring looped upon a beaten gold chain. "So that is what I felt," Llewelyn said, and she gave him another smile, this one bright and bewitching and hot enough to singe his good intentions. 'g "This is my father's ring, never off his finger until he rode out to die on Evesham's bloody field. It became my mother's most cherished keepsake, and on her deathbed, she bequeathed it to my brother Amaury. I in turn promised that I'd hold it for him, keep it safe until he regains his freedom. I want you to wear it, Llewelyn, and each time you look at it, think of me and know that we'll soon be together in Wales." "I shall guard it well, cariad," he said, "and return it to you upon our wedding night." He kissed her then, long and hard, for never had their wedding night, their life together, seemed so far out of reach. It was no longer a matter of honor, of marital vows and injured pride. There was just one woman now in all of Christendom whom he wanted, whom he had to have, no matter the cost. But God help them both, for Edward now knew that, too. 22 WINDSOR CASTLE, ENGLAND January 1278 1 HE sky was still shrouded at noon, for the ran1 had yet to slacken, a stinging, icy rain that spilled steadily from cloud thick enough to smother the sun, threatening to blot out the ligh* *° days to come. As she stared down into the dismal, deserted quagi^ of the middle bailey, Ellen found it easy to believe that the rain coui go on like this till spring. She had been sitting in the window-seat for hours, heedless or 299 .j]] and damp and Juliana's futile attempts at cheer. Juliana had never n her moods swing so wildly as in these days after her return to Windsor; she was either in euphoria or despair, sometimes within the nan of the same hour. Juliana was still adjusting to the change; it was revelation that the even-tempered Ellen could be just as volatile as her high-strung mother. But Juliana needed no doctor to diagnose Ellen's ailment, for it was evident to her that Ellen was smitten with her own husband. And remembering her sweet, stolen moments with Bran, Juliana was both thankful and envious that Ellen was to have so much more, a lifetime moreif Edward could be trusted to keep faith. Juliana was about to propose a chess game in another effort to raise Ellen's spirits. But Sir Nicholas de Seyton spared her the trouble. Drenched to the skin by his dash across the bailey, he dripped his way toward the hearth, and between sneezes, announced that the Lady Ellen had a visitor, one sanctioned by the King. The unexpected guest was just as rain-soaked as Sir Nicholas, but he did not seem to mind it as much. He looked surprisingly cheerful for a man so mud-splattered, and immediately made a favorable impression upon Juliana, who liked his slanting dark eyes and cleft chin, and could not help noticing, too, his compact, sturdy build. All that Ellen saw, though, was that he was clean-shaven. "You are Welsh!" "Indeed I am," he confirmed, stroking his telltale mustache. Striding over to kiss her hand, he gave her an appraising look, and then, a boyish, summertime smile. "I am Goronwy ap Heilyn, my lady, and I have been sent by my lord Prince to speak with youin private," he added pointedly. "That was deftly done," Ellen said approvingly as soon as Sir Nicholas withdrew. "You do know how to get your own way, I can see that. But come over by the fire ere you catch a chill. Juliana, do we have any wine?" Goronwy was amused. "I came only from London, my lady, not the Holy Land, and if there are any folk in Christendom inured to rain, for certes it is the Welsh. My lord has good news for you. On the Friday eve after Christmas, the Countess of Lancaster gave birth to a son." "That is indeed good news. Blanche and the babe are both well?" He nodded. "They christened him Thomas, after the holy martyr, ^cket. Nor is that all. What I have to tell you now, my lady, will be Ven more welcome. The English King has agreed to turn your brother er to the Archbishop of Canterbury and the Bishops of Worcester and ,^ter Ah, no, my lady, Lord Amaury has not been set free! But he now be held in the more merciful custody of the Church, and will ^°n be transferred from Corfe to the Lord Edmund's castle at Sheroorne" 300 He got no further. Ellen had whirled and flung her arms around Juliana. To Goronwy's delight, she embraced him next, laughing and. smearing lip rouge across his cheek, and Goronwy, who'd doubted that any mortal woman was truly good enough for his Prince, decided that mayhap this one would do well enough. "Thank God Almighty, thank the Lord Jesus and the Blessed Mary and all the saints! You do not know, Lord Goronwy, two years at Corfe Castle, two years penned up in that hellhole ..." "I do know, my lady," he said softly. "You see, I was once a hostage of the English Crown, too. No one can give your brother back those two years, but at least he'll have some comfort at Sherborne. Now ... I have something else likely to be of interest to you." Smiling, he drew forth from under his sodden mantle a parchment threaded through with braided red cord and sealed with green wax. Ellen could not hide her eagerness, all but snatched the letter from his hand. "Would you think me very rude if I read it now?" He shook his head and grinned, for she was already retreating toward the window-seat, pausing only long enough to grab a wick lamp. Accepting a wine cup from Juliana, Goronwy watched with alert interest as Ellen read her husband's love letter. That it was a love letter, he did not doubt, for the soft curve of Ellen's mouth and the color in her cheeks testified to its contents without need of words. It intrigued Goronwy to discover that the man he'd fought beside and drunk with and would, if need be, die for was not so different, after all, from other men, not when it came to love and lust and those secrets to be shared only with women, only in bed. Ellen read Llewelyn's letter twice, knowing she would soon have every word committed to memory. "He wanted to bid me farewell," she said at last, more for Juliana's benefit than Goronwy's, for he already knew they were soon to depart for Wales. She'd found it almost intolerable this past week, knowing Llewelyn was just twenty miles from Windsor. But Wales was so far away, a world away. "He says that Edward is sending agents of the Crown into Wales, so they may inspect and approve those lands Llewelyn means to assign to me in dower. She could well imagine how much Llewelyn must have resented that. For herself, she was infuriated that Edward dared to play the role o benevolent guardian while holding her against her will. But soon non of that would matter, very soon now. . "One thing does perplex me, Lord Goronwy," she confide "Llewelyn says that Edward is insistent upon giving us a courtwe ^-m But he says nothing of when that wedding is to be. We have less two months, for there can be no marriages during Lent..." She pa 301 for the Welshman's face was an easy one to read. "What is it? What have you kept from me?" "Lord Llewelyn told me that I was to say nothingunless you asked. He has no proof, my lady, just suspicions, and he did not want to burden you with them. But he fears that there will be no wedding by Lent, mayhap not for many months." "No!" The cry was Juliana's. Ellen said nothing, just stared at Goronwy with eyes that would haunt him in days to come. "But why?" Again the protest came from Juliana. "It is all settled. Llewelyn has done homage as Edward demanded. What more does he want? Why should he continue to hold Ellen prisoner?" To Goronwy, the answer was obvious. 'To prove that he can," he said bitterly. Ellen had turned away. Moving back to the window-seat, she stared unseeingly at the clouded window pane. The rain was still coming down in torrents, streaking the glass like tears. But her eyes were dry, for she would not weep. That she had sworn to herself, that Edward would never again make her cry. "A PROPHET is not without honor, save in his own country." There were times that spring when Llewelyn felt tempted to amend Scriptures, to add: "not until it is too late." After failing to rally his countrymen in the defense of their homeland, he now found himself forced to listen to their complaints about the English Crown. Men who had seen Edward as the lesser of evils, reasoning that Westminster was much farther away than Aber, were now reaping what they'd sown, having to argue Welsh ways and Welsh customs with haughty English castellans and bailiffs. Men who'd chafed under Llewelyn's demands now began to make their way to Aber and Dolwyddelan, to pour out their grievances to the man who, for all his willfulness and inflexibility and impatience with dissent, was one of their own. Llewelyn might have taken a certain ironic amusement in the turnaround, had so much not been at stake. What did it matter if he was Proved right, if the forfeit demanded was the loss of Welsh autonomy? e had his own grievances, too. Some of them were wounds to his Pflde. They were painful, but would heal. Others were likely to fester. 1 wo of his men had been hanged in the town of Oswestry, in ance of the King's safe-conduct, and so far his complaints had gained n° more than a promise to investigate. Edward had appointed seven in HI an<^ ^e^s^ justices to hear and determine all lawsuits and pleas e Marches and Wales. To Llewelyn, this was an outrageous en- ^chine, Int upon Welsh law, upon his own courts. He had no choice, 300 He got no further. Ellen had whirled and flung her arm Juliana. To Goronwy's delight, she embraced him next, laughj310^ smearing lip rouge across his cheek, and Goronwy, who'd doubt H ^ any mortal woman was truly good enough for his Prince, decid H mayhap this one would do well enough. **t "Thank God Almighty, thank the Lord Jesus and the Blessed Vt and all the saints! You do not know, Lord Goronwy, two years at r^ Castle, two years penned up in that hellhole . . ." e "I do know, my lady," he said softly. "You see, I was once a ho of the English Crown, too. No one can give your brother back those h!f years, but at least he'll have some comfort at Sherborne. Now j u, ° something else likely to be of interest to you." Smiling, he drew forth from under his sodden mantle a parchment threaded through with braided red cord and sealed with green wax. Ellen could not hide her eagerness, all but snatched the letter from his hand. "Would you think me very rude if I read it now?" He shook his head and grinned, for she was already retreating toward the window-seat, pausing only long enough to grab a wick lamp Accepting a wine cup from Juliana, Goronwy watched with alert interest as Ellen read her husband's love letter. That it was a love letter, he did not doubt, for the soft curve of Ellen's mouth and the color in her cheeks testified to its contents without need of words. It intrigued Goronwy to discover that the man he'd fought beside and drunk with and would, if need be, die for was not so different, after all, from other men, not when it came to love and lust and those secrets to be shared only with women, only in bed. Ellen read Llewelyn's letter twice, knowing she would soon have every word committed to memory. "He wanted to bid me farewell," she said at last, more for Juliana's benefit than Goronwy's, for he already knew they were soon to depart for Wales. She'd found it almost intolerable this past week, knowing Llewelyn was just twenty miles from Windsor. But Wales was so far away, a world away. "He says that Edward is sending agents of the Crown into Wales, so they may inspect and approve those lands Llewelyn means to assign to me in c*°w^' She could well imagine how much Llewelyn must have resented tna ^ For herself, she was infuriated that Edward dared to play the roleo^ benevolent guardian while holding her against her will. But soon of that would matter, very soon now. fi .^ "One thing does perplex me, Lord Goronwy," she c°Tji]1g "Llewelyn says that Edward is insistent upon giving us a court we ^ But he says nothing of when that wedding is to be. We have les ^ two months, for there can be no marriages during Lent. -)*ie " 301 ighman's face was an easy one to read. "What is it? What f°f ^ou kept from me?" have/ , Llewelyn told me that I was to say nothingunless you H has no proof, my lady, just suspicions, and he did not want 35 A you with them. But he fears that there will be no wedding w bur t^ayhap not for many months-" ^^Jj'i" The cry was Juliana's. Ellen said nothing, just stared at wv with eyes that would haunt him in days to come. "But why?" 10 the protest came from Juliana. "It is all settled. Llewelyn has done as Edward demanded. What more does he want? Why should Staue to hold Ellen prisoner?" To Goronwy, the answer was obvious. 'To prove that he can," he d bitterly. Ellen had turned away. Moving back to the window-seat, , starecj unseeingly at the clouded window pane. The rain was still mine down in torrents, streaking the glass like tears. But her eyes were dry, for she would not weep. That she had sworn to herself, that Edward would never again make her cry. "A PROPHET is not without honor, save in his own country." There were times that spring when Llewelyn felt tempted to amend Scriptures, to add: "not until it is too late." After failing to rally his countrymen in the defense of their homeland, he now found himself forced to listen to their complaints about the English Crown. Men who had seen Edward as the lesser of evils, reasoning that Westminster was much farther away than Aber, were now reaping what they'd sown, having to argue Welsh ways and Welsh customs with haughty English castellans and bailiffs. Men who'd chafed under Llewelyn's demands now began to make their way to Aber and Dolwyddelan, to pour out their grievances to the man who, for all his willfulness and inflexibility and impatience with dissent, was one of their own. Llewelyn might have taken a certain ironic amusement in the turnwound, had so much not been at stake. What did it matter if he was proved right, if the forfeit demanded was the loss of Welsh autonomy? ad his own grievances, too. Some of them were wounds to his Pntip TTi _ mey were painful, but would heal. Others were likely to fester. defi ° ^S men ^ac^ been hanged in the town of Oswestry, in h^ Ce °* *e King's safe-conduct, and so far his complaints had gained £1,^ more than a promise to investigate. Edward had appointed seven in the iw ^e^sn Justi'ces to hear and determine all lawsuits and pleas ^chm 3 an<* Wales. To Llewelyn, this was an outrageous enent uP°n Welsh law, upon his own courts. He had no choice, 302 though, but to acquiesce in this further erosion of Welsh sov even to plead before this alien court himself, for he was invol '^^ bitter dispute with his old enemy, Gruffydd ap Gwenwynwyri * lordship of Arwystli. ' Ver fte Arwystli had long been a source of contention between POWv Gwynedd, its possession shifting with the fortunes of war I ] ^ had ousted Gruffydd ap Gwenwynwyn from Arwystli as pur,; L ^" for his aborted assassination plot, and he was determined to hold ^ it, for the upland cantref was strategically vital to the defense TV southern borders. Gruffydd was just as set upon regaining it. Llew i was not worried by his challenge, though, for he thought GruffvdHp11 argument to be ludicrous in the extreme; Gruffydd contended that h* was a baron of the March, a vassal of the English King, and theref the case ought to be tried in the King's court under English comm law. Since Arwystli was undeniably in Wales, both claimants were Welsh, and the Treaty of Aberconwy itself provided that Welsh law should apply to disputes arising in Wales, Llewelyn did not see how he could not prevail, even in Edward's court. Yet he did not. Instead, the suit dragged on, and when he protested, he received a brusque reply from the English King, that he was to come before the King's justices whenever and wherever he was summoned, to receive "what justice shall dictate." To Llewelyn, that was a barb that lodged near the heart, dripped daily poison into suspicions already raw and inflamed. If Edward was not willing to abide by his own treaty, what would keep him from meddling further in Welsh matters, taking more and more until all the meat was stripped from the bone? As he tallied up his losses in that summer of God's Year, 1278, Llewelyn could see naught but troubles ahead. His griefs were not all to be laid at Edward's door, though. Death claimed the man who'd been his mainstay, his Seneschal, and his friend for ten turbulent years. Tudur had died slowly, in great pain, and Llewelyn could do nothing for him. His passing was, for Tudur, a mercy, for Llewelyn, an amputation. Like a man who still felt phantom pain for a lost limb, he ached for his other self, for that rarest of God's blessings, a soulmate. , And then there was Ellen. There was always Ellen. He had braced himself for the worst, or so he'd thought. But even in his most despa^S moments, he'd not truly believed that Edward would hold her in* nitely. Yet now it was eight months since he'd done homage a ^ minster, and still she languished at Windsor, his wife, Edw prisoner. ^ When Edward wrote that he would be at Rhuddlan Castie ^ ^ tember, Llewelyn's first reaction was one of relief. He and ^^^^ive Gwenwynwyn could plead their cases before the King's court, 303 , £or an. And he could confront Edward in person, demand '""cn'n be released. t^at 'thin a fortnight of his summons to Rhuddlan Castle, Llewelyn. A second communication from Edward, this one far more omre<*'veH , j t,een half-expecting Davydd to start muddying the waters, 1110115 A antage of his weakened position. When trouble came, though, W from another quarter, from Rhodri. He had brought suit in '* '^'"d's court for his share of Gwynedd, and Edward was giving formal ^Walthat Llewelyn should be prepared to answer Rhodri's claim at n0tlfidlan in September. He also warned Llewelyn that if he defaulted Rh dri royal officers would be sent into Wales to distrain his lands t0 H chattels. Llewelyn could only marvel that he'd been so blind, for **[ ploy could be more obviousor more dangerous? He would never * to rend Gwynedd further, and surely Edward knew that. But when herefused, he would be giving Edward the perfect excuse to keep Ellen m England, mayhap even to renew the war. IN the ten months since the Treaty of Aberconwy, Edward had effected dramatic changes in the Welsh landscape. His castles had taken root like the dragons' teeth of folklore, formidable strongholds silhouetted against the blue September sky, testifying to the might of England and the indomitable will of its King. Llewelyn had long known of Edward's plan to divert the flow of the River Clwyd. It still came as a shock, though, to see for himself just how fast the work had progressed; eighteen hundred ditches had been dug, channeling the river into a canal that would wash the walls of Edward's new castle. But for Llewelyn, the most troubling sight of all was the earthen banks and deep trenches encircling Edward's new borough, a town on Welsh soil in which no Welsh would be permitted to dwell. Never had Llewelyn missed Tudur so much as when he rode though the gateway of Rhuddlan Castle. His men shared his tension, and they were unusually silent, uncommonly subdued as they dis- unted in the bailey, hands never straying far from sword hilts, eyes ^eyer straying far from their Prince. They were all anticipating trouble, eryust not sure what form it would take. ut n8ht from the outset, nothing went as expected. The first sur- WelVrnWaS ^ relaxed mood of the castle ganison; if Edward and Llethetn ere indeed on a collision course, no one had bothered to warn emerei ^3Ct' ^e second surprise was the identity of the man most of 8/r°m tne nal1 to bid Llewelyn welcome; Edmund had passed retun, IT- 6 ^ear in France, and word had not gotten out yet of his 18 cordial greeting was not in itself a surprise, for he'd always .' '"V «r .' '"V- \ ' *T 305 304 ... , lewelyn. But his message was most Sui. ^^^fetr^sss^ u»,v PnS1"g'L «as celebrated for its las , j rf ^ p ^eine- Edwara w*""~ - - , t spinteu nv»^, «"~ ureweiyn P PW was celebrated for its fas P ^ rf ^ powys fcJTonce that f "^^fcflock.. and lengthyBlanks that a £f£ had the broad ^'*£& and did not often «****«*»* vJLledKeable horseman K**ea f rest silver; it would have been .Spied grey, its **> a f^fJLt in such obvious discomfort 3 eX'emly haSsome animal were * no ^ ^^ ^ ^"wassw^^^^^ sweat, andrtkep s ^ sweat, and it kept strued tti(, 314 315 "I thought you gave her that white mare?" "I did. When I found out that my grandfather had given Joanna a mare on their wedding day, I knew nothing would please Ellen more Whilst we were at Rhuddlan, I asked her if she wanted a new wedding ring, too, but she said no, that the one she'd been given in France had been a talisman for her during these past months. So we'll have it blessed anew by the Bishop during the ceremony. But I got the idea then, to give her this." Llewelyn held up a circular silver brooch for Einion's inspection. "The inside of her ring is engraved in French with 'You are my heart's joy.' I had this brooch engraved with the same words, in Welsh!" The expression was a conventional motto, to be found in many wedding bands and lover's rings, in itself meant little. But Llewelyn's smile gave it an echo of truth. He seemed to sense that himself, for he laughed suddenly. "Do I sound like one of those lovesick fools the bards like to sing about? Jesu, I hope not! But in truth, Einion, Ellen is indeed special." Einion agreed that she was, with such evident sincerity that Llewelyn felt a surprising surge of pleasure; he was only now discovering how much it pleased him to hear Ellen praised. "You and I can see her virtues easily enough, but will our people? Joanna was never popular with the Welsh. Tell me the truth, Einion. Do you think Ellen will fare better?" Einion did not give a snap reply, for that was a serious query, deserving of serious consideration; a ruler's troubles could be cornpounded by an unpopular consort. Henry Ill's subjects had detested his French Queen, blaming Henry both for his own flaws and hers, too. But Einion knew that if the man was securely in power, the impact would be negligible, as was the case with Llewelyn's grandfather. Or Edward, for Eleanora was not beloved by the English, who suspected her of being grasping, and convicted her of being foreign. Edward was too well entrenched, though, for whispers and gossip to matter. Whether that was still true or not for Llewelyn, Einion did not know. "You were too young to remember much about Joanna," he said slowly. "I do, though. She was shy in public, and people oft-times thought her aloof, even arrogant, when nothing could be further from the truth. Then, too, she squandered whatever good will she'd earned over the years with that one mad act, taking a lover, and an English lover at that. Even from the first, though, our people viewed her askance, f°r there were those who could not forgive her for a sin of birth, for being King John's daughter. But I think Ellen has already won Welsh sy^' pathy; who'd not pity her plight these three years past? Nor is she sh/' your lady, will find it easier than Joanna to woo Welsh hearts. And our people are not likely to blame her for her kinship to the English King, for who does not know about Evesham?" Llewelyn gave him a sharp, probing look, for between them, there was not always a need of words. "You see it, too," he said, and Einion nodded. "Yes," he admitted. "I'll not deny it did surprise me, that she seems so at ease with Edward. I did not expect that." "Nor did I." "Have you talked to her about it, Llewelyn?" "No, not yet. We've had so little time together. And ... I thought it would be fairer to Ellen if I wait until she feels at home in Wales, until we know each other better." "And if she is as fond of him as she seems to be?" "I doubt that I could ever understand it. But I suppose I'd have to try to accept it." That was a prospect that troubled Llewelyn more than he was willing to admit, even to himself. Today was not the time to dwell upon it, though, and he began to tell Einion about the remarkably vivid names the English gave to the streets of their towns and cities, about London's Cheapside, Fish Street, Cock's Lane, and Stinking Lane, about Shrewsbury's Dogpole, the Shambles, and Grope Lane, where, as a lad of thirteen, he'd seen his first harlot. He was trying to convince Einion that Worcester really did have a Cut-throat Lane when Goronwy and Dai sought entry. "Ere we depart for the church, I want to give you these, my lord." Goronwy produced a woven sack, and launched into a perfect mimicry of those glib-tongued, itinerant peddlers who could make wooden beads seem like pearls beyond price. "Well, what do we have here? It looks li^6indeed it isa shard of unicorn horn. Very useful for a man about to dine with the English, for you need only drop it into your wine cup, and lo, it will protect you from poison." "Whilst mortally offending the English King," Llewelyn said, and they all laughed, envisioning for a moment Edward's incredulous rage at such an insult. "What?" Goronwy feigned a peddler's dismay. "You'd turn down so rare a relic? Indeed, my lord, you are a hard man to please. Mayhap this will be more to your liking?" "What is that?" Llewelyn reached for the root. "A turnip?" ' A turnip? My lord, this is mandragora! Coax your lady into taking ^ one bite, and she will ever after be bedazzled by you, loving, docile, obedient to your every whim." I'd rather bedazzle her myself." Llewelyn dropped the ugly, 316 twisted root back into the sack. "What else have you in your bag Of tricks?" "You are indeed in luck, my lord, for I have here a patch of wolf's hair, plucked from the rump of a live wolf." With a flourish, Goronwv held it up, scowling at sight of their grins. "Do not scoff, my lords " he said loftily, "for all know wolf's hair plucked from a live animal 4 will give a man great vigor, enable him to perform truly miraculous ifeats, all night long." Goronwy abandoned the game then, grinned at Llewelyn. "In truth, I was tempted to keep this for myself. I doubt that you'll have need of it, for I've seen your lady." Llewelyn laughed. "I'd wager a beautiful woman will always embolden a man more than a clump of fur! What does a man do with this, anyway? Stick it under his pillow? God forbid, swallow it?" They were all laughing now, able to imagine any number of indelicate uses for the wolf charm, and were still laughing when the friary warden ushered in two unexpected guests, the King and his brother. They both were magnificently attired, Edward in a purple silk tunic under a bright green surcote, and Edmund less colorfully but no less richly dressed in contrasting shades of blue. They were well matched in high spirits, too, for few occasions offered more opportunities for revelry than a wedding. "The women chased us out," Edward complained cheerfully. "They said they needed time to dress and then to make Ellen ready, and we'd just get underfoot. So we're here to wish you well, and to give you this." He held out a small leather pouch. "The gold and silver to put on the Bishop's plate ere he blesses Ellen's ring." The coins in question were of no great value, but the gesture was a symbolic one, a sign of royal favor. Brushing aside Llewelyn's thanks, Edward said, with a smile, "I daresay you are still set upon departing for Wales on the morrow. I daresay, too, that you have no idea how much baggage your bride is bringing. You've not yet learned about wives and their chattels, or that after today, you'll not have a coffer chest to call your own. But as one burdened husband to another, I want to pay the costs of transporting Ellen's belongings and the wedding gifts into Wales, as far as ... shall we say Oswestry?" "That is very generous," Llewelyn said, and got from Edward another smile, a shrug. "I am very fond of Ellen, want to get her marriage off to a good start. Now, we'd best ride back to the Bishop's Palace, for Eleanora made me swear a blood oath that we'd not be late for the ceremonyEre we go, there is one minor matter to be dealt with, so if I may have a few moments of the Prince's time, I promise that you'll have the res of the dayand nightfor the bridegroom." 317 Llewelyn's smile was quizzical and slightly wary, but he took the parchment Edward was holding out, moved to the window, and began to read. Edward leaned back against the door to wait. Edmund's attention, though, was drawn to an object on the table. "Is that what I think it is? Wolf's hair, right? I hear that it works wonders in bestirring a man's lust/' he said with a grin. "Is it for sale?" Recognizing a kindred spirit, Goronwy grinned back, and they began a bawdy, enthusiastic discussion about the various aids and potions and herbs that were thought to be aphrodisiacs. But then Goronwy happened to glance toward the window, toward his Prince. "My lord, what is it?" He'd spoken instinctively in Welsh, but Edmund caught the undertones of concern, and turned, too. Llewelyn was staring at Edward; if he'd heard Goronwy, he gave no sign of it. "Is this some sort of jest?" he said, and there was disbelief in his voice, but also the first flames of a white-hot rage. "It is," Edward said calmly, "just what it appears to be." The Welsh were now clustered around Llewelyn, and as they read the document he held, they, too, looked first incredulous, and then, enraged. "What is happening here?" Getting no answer from Llewelyn, Edmund swung back toward his brother. "Ned, what is this about? What does that charter say?" "It states that Llewelyn agrees he no longer has the right to offer sanctuary or refuge to men who are the King's enemies. It is not an unreasonable demand," Edward said coolly, "and I do not see why it should stir up such a commotion. It is, after all, merely an admission of the sovereignty of the English Crown in Wales." EDMUND had loved his father, but Henry was not a parent a son could take pride in; he was too weak, too ineffectual. As far back as Edmund could remember, though, Edward had filled that void, for who would not have been proud of such a brother? He'd given his admiration as unstintingly as he did his love, and he was shaken now by what he was feeling as they rode back to the Bishop of Worcester's Palace, for he would not have believed it possible that he could ever be ashamed of Edward. He was unwilling to speak out in front of their men, but as soon as they dismounted before the Bishop's great hall, he drew Edward s'de. Edward did not object, and followed him into the Bishop's riv- siae garden. Coming to a halt by a trellised arbor, Edmund said ab- P%, "Whatever possessed you, Ned? I'd not have believed it had I seen it with my own eyes!" 318 "I do not see why you are so wrought up about this. Does it truly surprise you that I should want to abolish a dangerous custom, to prevent Llewelyn from giving shelter to my enemies?" "I am not objecting to what you demanded of him, but to the way you did it. Christ in Heaven, Ned, how could you go to the man on the very day of his wedding?" "What better time than today? When would he be most likely to yield?" Edward looked challengingly at his brother. "And he did yield, did he not? Do not make too much of this, Edmund. I did what I had to do; so did he. What else matters? Now I would . . . Good God, Edmund, will you look at that? Did you ever see a prettier sight in all your born days?" Eleanora and Blanche were laughing at Edward's playful chivalry, but Edmund agreed with his brother, for they both did look lovely, each in her own way. Tall and stately, Eleanora was exceedingly elegant in a deep purple gown that matched Edward's tunic, set off by a surcote of lavender fretted with seed pearls. She had the right to wear her hair loose, a privilege permitted only to queens and virgin brides, but she had chosen to conceal her dark hair under a linen barbette and fashionable fillet, so as not to draw attention away from Ellen on her wedding day. Quite a few people had noticed how much Eleanora had thawed toward Ellen as the date drew near for her departure into Wales. Blanche did not have Eleanora's advantage of height, but she was still likely to turn heads, too, for her tastes were less traditional, more flamboyant, than Eleanora's, and she was clad in a daring new Italian style. Her gown was cut conventionally, a royal shade of blue belted at the waist, but her surcote of burnt-orange velvet reached only to her knees, flaunted an exotic, uneven hem. "If you think we look alluring," she said, "wait till you behold the bride!" Ellen paused in the doorway of the hall, then stepped out into the bright, blinding light. She wore an emerald-colored surcote over a gown of sunlit silk, a shade sure to startle, for yellow was no longer fashionable in England, that being the color of the badges worn by the Jews. But Ellen had been stubbornly set upon it, having learned that yellow was greatly favored by the Welsh. And though her choice might be controversial, none could deny that it was extremely becoming. Her most striking adornment, however, was her long, free-flowing hair, a coppery cascade that reached her hips, that stirred Edward to murmur admi*' ingly, "If a woman hath long hair, it is a glory to her." "Tell me the truth," Ellen entreated. "How do I look? I decided not to wear a veil, after all; does it matter?" Laughing, then, at herself, &e 319 confided/ "I cannot believe I am so nervous! It is just that I want today to be perfect, perfect in every way." They assured her that she need not fret, that she looked lovely, that the day would be all she hoped and more. Only Edmund said nothing, for as he looked at Ellen, he was seeing again Llewelyn's white, tense face, his blazing dark eyes, and he knew that Edward had done more than ruin the wedding for Llewelyn, he had ruined it for Ellen, too. THE townspeople were eager to catch a glimpse of the wedding party, and Bishop's Street, south Frerenstrete, and St Mary's Knoll were lined with spectators. While the presence of their King was always exciting, on this sunlit October Thursday, they saved their loudest cheers for the bride. Ellen enjoyed herself immensely, reining in her new white mare before the priory's great gate to accept a bouquet of daisies, to scatter coins to cocky street urchins, and to acknowledge the heady acclaim with smiles and waves. She had argued in vain against this wedding, had not found it easy to be parted from Llewelyn at Rhuddlan Castle, wanting only to ride pillion behind him into the heartland of his realm, far beyond Edward's reach. But she could not deny that so much attention was flattering, and she was delighted to be reunited with her de Quincy cousins, to see again some of her father's friends. Sometime in the past few days, this wedding had stopped being Edward's, and become hers, and she had begun to feel the way a bride ought, she'd begun to have fun. Upon their arrival at the cathedral church, they found that Llewelyn was not yet there, and it was decided to await him in the priory Chapter House. As time passed and he still did not come, men began to make the usual trite jokes about reluctant husbands and absconding bridegrooms. Ellen bore it with good grace, and remained serenely selfpossessed even as the delay lengthened, as the Bishop of Worcester and other guests grew increasingly impatient. She deflected the jests with a smile, and laughed outright when someone seriously suggested that Llewelyn truly might not be coming. "My husband is worth waiting for," she was assuring them when a sudden burst of cheering wafted through the doorway. Lifting her skirts, Ellen hastened out into the cloisters just as Llewelyn came through the south passage, emerged into the sun. Belatedly remembering k'eanora's lectures about maidenly decorum, Ellen did not fling herself mto his arms, instead sank down on the pathway in a deep curtsy. As Llewelyn raised her to her feet, she whispered, "You look so handsome," for she thought his red wool tunic and gold sleeveless surcote 320 were admirably suited to his dark coloring. But as she smiled up at him, she saw that he was looking past her toward the Chapter House, where Edward stood framed in the doorway. SINCE Edward was giving Ellen in marriage, he was the one who led her through the church and out onto the steps by the west door. Weddings were always performed outdoors to accommodate as many eyewitnesses as possible, and a sea of faces looked up at them; people had even gathered in the cemetery by the charnel chapel. But the crowd was well behaved, quieted at the command of the Bishop of Worcester, so that Llewelyn could announce what lands he would be giving to Ellen to hold in dower. He then placed Ellen's ring upon the Bishop's plate for the blessing, and the Bishop joined their hands, began the ceremony. By then, Ellen was aware that something was wrong. Studying Llewelyn through her lashes, she had the eerie, unsettling sensation that she was holding hands with a stranger. In the bright glare of sunlight, she could detect in his face the evidence of stress; there were sharp grooves shadowing the corners of his mouth, and finely drawn lines around his eyes, the sort that crinkled when he laughed. But laughter seemed very alien to him at that moment, there on the church steps. Ellen had never given any thought to their age difference, for it was very common for a man to wed a much younger wife. This was the first time that he'd looked his age to her, looked drawn and tired and so remote that it alarmed her. She barely heard Llewelyn's vows, and only a titter from the crowd jarred her from her troubled reverie in time to say her own vows. "I, Eleanor," she said hastily, "do take thee, Llewelyn, to be my wedded husband, to have and to hold from this day forth, for better or worse, for richer or poorer, in sickness and in health, till death us do part, if Holy Church it will ordain, and thereto I plight thee my troth." The Bishop then handed Llewelyn the ring, and he slid it upon each of her fingers in turn, saying, "With this ring I thee wed, and this gold and silver I thee give, and with my body I thee worship, and with all my wordly chattels I thee endow, in the Name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit, Amen." And then it was over, and they were throwing alms to the crowd before entering the church for the nuptial Mass, and Ellen could only look at her husband in uncomprehending dismay, for never in these past three years had he seemed so far from her as he had just then, while making that beautiful pledge of marital faith and fidelity. acks in such a deal. ' It shocked him, though, that he'd even considered it, that he was so close to abandoning all hope. But as he began his sixth year of confinement, he was discovering that hope had become as slippery and elusive as the greased pigs he'd seen chased at village fairs. And now he'd gotten word that he was to be moved from Sherborne; within the week, he would be taken under guard to yet another prison. He'd never been to Taunton Castle, but he could see it clearly in his mind's eye a bleak, secluded fortress looming over the barren, treeless moors of the West Country, well away from towns and roads and the memories of men. He was lodged in the upper chamber of the keep, with a window overlooking one of the castle's three gateways. The window lacked glass panes, but the castellan had gotten an oiled linen screen to fit into the frame, and Amaury had moved his table to take advantage of that filtered light. Sometimes, unless it was truly frigid, he removed the top half of the screen, willing to endure the cold for the sake of the view. But today he had not even bothered to unlatch the shutters, much less monitor the bailey below. He still lay on his bed in the shadowed gloom, although it was almost noon. He was taken by surprise, therefore, by the sudden entrance of John de Somerset, Sherborne's castellan. John was in an ambiguous position, for he was more than Amaury's gaoler; in the past three years, he'd also become Amaury's friend. That often required him to balance competing needs, as now, when he knocked briskly, according Amaury a privacy to which a prisoner was not entitled, and then entered without waiting for a response. "Lord, lad, if you're not turning into a sluggard! But you've no more time for lying abed. You'd best hurry and make yourself presentable, for you've got company waiting out in the stairwell." Amaury's mood took an abrupt, dramatic upswing. A man who d once wanted fame and wealth and power, his hungers had diminished as his world had contracted; these days he craved only freedom an° companionship. He was already dressed, had hastily combed his hair in those moments before John ushered his visitor into the chamber. 385 "Hugh!" Amaury could not have been more delighted, for the faithkj young Englishman was his link to Ellen. Hugh grinned. "Do not be squandering your welcome on me, my lord. This time I'm not the company, merely the escort." Amaury tensed, afraid to take Hugh's words at face value, afraid to risk so bitter a disappointment. But Hugh's grin had widened; he looked so joyful that Amaury no longer doubted. He started forward ust as Hugh stepped aside, revealing the woman in the doorway. Amaury had time only to say Ellen's name before she was in the room, in his arms. AMAURY watched in amusement as his sister surreptitiously inspected his surroundings. Her relief at what she found was so obvious that he realized she'd not allowed herself to believe Hugh's optimistic reports, and he felt regretful that she'd become so wary, so like him. He also felt very thankful that she'd never seen his Spartan cell at Corfe Castle. "So tell me," he joked, "you just happened to be passing by?" "Something like that," she said, but when he asked, only halfplayfully, whom she'd had to bribe, she lost her smile. "Not a bribe," she said, "a bone thrown to a starving dog." Amaury understood. "You went to Ned," he said. "You entreated him to free me, and he refused." Ellen nodded. "I paid a visit last month to our cousin's court at Windsor. Ned made me welcome, seemed honestly gladdened to see me. Mayhap he even was, for I've never known anyone blessed with such a selective memory. Sometimes I think he truly does see me just as Harry's little sister ..." "Until you made mention of me," Amaury said, and again she nodded, reluctantly this time. "He seemed so friendly, Amaury, so encouraging, even fond. But as soon as I brought up your name, he stopped listening. I might as well have been speaking in Welsh. He heard me out, politely, patiently, and then he said no, regretfully, of course, for all the world as if your imprisonment for the past five years was no doing of his!" Ellen had not meant to let her bitterness get away from her like this, but her sense of failure was still too raw to bear the slightest touch. "I am so sorry, Amaury," she said. "There must have been a way to rgach him. But I could not find it, and it was all for naught. . ." "No, not all for naught. You're here, are you not? A sop to his conscience, a bone from his table, whatever you want to call your visit, Must thank the Lord for it," Amaury said fervently, before adding, with «r 386 a thinly astringent smile, "the 'Lord' in question being the One VVh rules the Kingdom of Heaven, not the realm of England." Ellen was much heartened by that barbed aside; her secret fear, not even shared with her husband, was that captivity might break her brother's spirit. "I did not come empty-handed," she said. "I bring giacj tidings. Whilst I was at Windsor, the Archbishop of Canterbury sent word that the cardinals have finally chosen a new Pope, to be known henceforth as Martin IV. But you know him as Simon de Brion, former Chancellor to the French King." Amaury, usually so self-contained, gave a jubilant shout. "God has not forsaken me then, and for certes, neither will the new Pope. I know him well, Ellen. Not only was he a friend of our father, he has close ties to Guy's patron, Charles of Sicily." The castellan had sent up a flagon of spiced red wine, and they drank to Martin's accession, to the resurgence of hope. "Now," Ellen said, "I have other news for you, too parlous to commit to a letter. Last year a rumor reached Ned that Guy was in Norway. He at once wrote to the Norwegian Crown, seeking to have the man arrested and turned over to English agents. The Norwegian King complied, but the unlucky soul suspected of being Guy was eventually able to prove his identify. As for Guy's actual whereabouts, he is still in Italy, and openly back in Charles's favor. It must have given him a jolt, though, to learn that Ned was casting his nets even as far as the lands of the Norsemen." Amaury did not want to talk about his brother's return to royal favor. He did not blame Guy for his troubles, at least not consciously, but he preferred not to dwell upon the ironic inequities of their respective circumstances. "Tell me," he said, "about the nets Ned has been casting in Wales. From what your letters sayand all you leave unsaidI gather that the Welsh are not yet reconciled to their new lives as inferior Englishmen?" In just one succinct, memorable sentence, he had gone to the heart of the Welsh dilemma, summed up the troubled state of affairs in her husband's unhappy homeland. Ellen was impressed, but not at all surprised; she'd often suspected Amaury of being the cleverest of all the de Montforts. " 'Inferior Englishmen,' " she said somberly. "Not even Llewelyn could have put it better than that." Amaury poured them both more wine. "And by balking, they do but confirm the worst of Edward's suspicions, that they are a reckless, rebellious, vexatious people who need to be tamed, broken to the royal willfor their own good, of course." "You understand exactly how it is," she marveled, "and yet you've never set foot in Wales!" "I know Edward, know how he thinks," he said simply. "Life in Wales these days \^__ right words. "It is like waiting'f' ' about our daily tasks with an eye°* Ellen L horizon, feeling the wetness 0 th\8N(Vd, fumblin , we'll have ere it hits." % ** cm 3 break' ^Un8 for the Amaury was chilled as mUc, Wd %clo4 *«?. We go bleakness of her vision. "It is t W \^ h m'ng on the "Yes," she confided, "Go,} ^ ^ h«r ^ 6 w "^ch time the Welsh are becoming more G ^ .* bav ^li^_ ,, *°U mean i mean in Chester. And Arwystli, alw9y ' A ^Hpon u . Iou mean to burden you with the rest. guAV^ % UeweWs huntsLlewelyn protests to the King Ut ^ ysaM!V0flJewei investigate Llewelyn's comply nq Jch (J* . well .W* goods the last we ever hear of it." ' ^w^ tt,e Ks^ ^ no need Ellen drank too deeply, lw ^ that,,,%»« him I*6 sameyou about the distraints, did I?^! ^ \^ *at he will the same rights over shipwre^ n^ 'coug]1, ' ^d that is years ago a prosperous Engli^ \ P«, Jn, not think a ship in Welsh waters, and n \c the L\ law eiv e to ashore. But after the Treaty of A^lV*Chat>t \ kin« «! 'tS Princes brought suit against Llewely^V^ d^V^f £*» A few Llewelyn did not even know ^ ^ \e careo ^ lost into Chester to buy honey, aM ,,Ut ^ E^S, / nat washed he confiscated their horses, to0 *e # not J Co^d'f thls merchant IT ,_..,. .... , bm^\«^. %i. urt tor restit,,*4 Llewelyn's goods whenever t- m% sttcia, \m f,. resn'tution. plained to Edward. He got a ^C^^Vseted^? r°de fered his apologies for the ^^^L^^' that he would order the Justi^ ?\VatlJ ^Ises u to ^strain letter myself. Yet he then wjw ,° ^^diik, t«uh/ * ^ corn- plained to Edward. He got a Ob*611'^H seizedtJT r°de fered his apologies for the mi"8* \^rS M^,"* honey. of- letter myself. Yet he then wrote Van<>ly' too ,7" c°m- 2ures. Is it any wonder that O^H'* p,^^d.of~ when confronted with such b^ fe|iO Just, \d eoodsQ Llewelyn made to feel helpless, least of ^>><* approv^ that "What about his suit agai^' V NO \^nger and L *e Sei~ notbeensettledyetr 'S^' V^^Jg- \^ g ^^ynwyn?Hasthat *t* 388 Ellen's laugh held little humor. "It has been more than trustee Llewelyn first brought suit, and they have yet even to de ^I^5 first issue, whether Welsh or English law should apply. Llew iC cnrplv vpvpH V»v all thp rlplavs anH who ran hlamp ViirvO" * *S sorely vexed by all the delays, and who can blame him?" ^ "Jesu forfend that I sound as if I am defending our right b 1 cousin," Amaury said, and grinned. "But in truth, sweetheart I ^ why he is so loath to allow it to be litigated. From what you've s 'H ^ your letters, Llewelyn has a good claim under Welsh law. But Ned "" Gruffydd ap Gwenwynwyn too much to let him lose. At the same tim65 he'd not want to risk pushing Llewelyn into rebellion. So delay m ' seem like the only road open to him." "But it is unjust!" Ellen said sharply, and Amaury hid another grin thinking that his little sister might not look like their late, lord fathe ' but she for certes sounded like him. Curbing her indignation, Ellen continued with the tangled tale of the Arwystli suit. "It has been adjourned more times than I can remember. Then, at Ned's Easter Parliament last year, it was decided to appoint a commission to inquire into Welsh laws and customs. They did not even choose the members until December, and when they did, surprise of surprises, all three happened to be English, and one was a man greatly loathed by the Welsh, Reginald de Grey. But even so, they'll have no choice but to find that Welsh law applies. The Treaty says so, Amaury, in most unambiguous terms, says that if Llewelyn brings claim against any lands occupied by others than the lord King, the King will do him full justice according to the laws and customs of those parts in which the lands lie. And," she concluded triumphantly, "not even Edward can deny that Arwystli is in Wales!" Amaury felt no surprise that she should take such an active interest in the politics of her husband's realm; theirs had never been a family in which women dutifully deferred to the greater wisdom of their menfolk. The very thought amused Amaury no end, for he doubted that his lady mother would have deferred to the Devil himself; Simon had even entrusted her with the wartime defense of Dover Castle. Ellen's impassioned partisanship on Llewelyn's behalf was no less than he'd have expected of Nell de Montfort's daughter. "Moreover," Ellen said, with a sudden, unexpected grin, "we nav a most unlikely ally in the Arwystli suit, even if that's not his inten^, none other than that misbegotten hellspawn, Roger de Mortimer. ° see, Gruffydd ap Gwenwynwyn sued de Mortimer for thirteen viu Cydewain, and when de Mortimer did not respond, Gruffydd soug a judgment in default. But de Mortimer is now contesting that, ar^7w that since the land is in Wales, Welsh law should apply, for Welsh happens to allow three defaults!" 389 "Well it does sound as if Llewelyn has both law and logic on his " Amaury admitted. "So why, then, are your nerves so on the raw? S'de borrow trouble ere the debt is due, Ellen?" ^"Is that what I am doing, Amaury? I wish I could be sure that was vish I could be more like Elizabeth ..." 501 -Elizabeth? Our de Ferrers cousin?" She nodded. "I have not told you all, have not told you about jj ne and Elizabeth and their young sons stayed briefly with us r stell y Bere last summer. It was not a pleasant visit, but it was a ling one Davydd has his own grievances against the English r own arid he seems, too, to have developed a conscience of late. I . QW that sounds unlikely, but I do not know how else to explain his turnaround. He wants war, Amaury, mayhap for the novelty of being on the Welsh side for once. I know I sound uncharitable, but he frightens me He is so . . . so unpredictable, so irresponsible, and he has caused Llewelyn so much pain ..." "But you mentioned Elizabeth. How does she come into this? Do you not like her, Ellen?" "As a matter of fact, I do. I admire her pluck and I like her forthnghtness, although I'll admit to being baffled by her inexplicable devotion to Davydd. I could not endure being wed to a man I could not respect. But I do not doubt that she loves him, even if I cannot understand it. I only wish she could influence him to the good, provide the voice of reason that he seems so utterly to lack. Instead, she indulges his every whim, no matter how outrageous. I believe that a wife ought to defer to her husband, of course, but Elizabeth is truly besotted with the man, and it has blinded her to the dangers we face. I tried to talk to her, but she is serenely sure that all will be well, that her darling Davydd will always prevail, that he is invincible merely because she wills it so." Ellen paused, but Amaury was an attentive listener, clever at coax- mg confidences, able to loosen tongues by his very silence. "I would at I c°uld share her certainty, Amaury. Blessed Lady, how I wish it! is not *at I lack faith in Llewelyn. It is just that. . . that I cannot help remembering that Mama was as trusting as Elizabethonce. She, too, eved that God would always favor the just, that our father would mWays triumph over his enemies. She believed that right up to the a °ment we stood together in the great hall of Dover Castle and heard vveeping man teU her^ ,They are dea(J^ my lady They are al] dead , das Silence fel1 between them. Amaury reached across the table, ^Ped his fingers around hers. After a while, she said, "I was there, The ^' at Evesham. We stopped at the abbey on our way to Windsor. ot Was very kind, escorted me into the church and then left me 390 r 392 alone. I prayed for Papa and for Harry, but I could not stop thinking of Bran, risking his life to make that reckless, desperate pilgrimage to Evesham, to make his peace with Papa ..." She looked up then, into bright hazel eyes very like her own. "j thought I'd find comfort there, but I did not. It was a disappointment to Hugh, too, for the monk who'd befriended him, Brother Damian, was gone, having been sent to another of the Benedictine Houses, the one at Shrewsbury. Hugh had so looked forward to their reunion, though, that I shall have to find some errand that needs doing in Shrewsbury." "I doubt that you'd be doing the lad much of a favor," Amaury said impishly. "I'm sure he'd much rather be snug in his young wife's bed than chasing about Shrewsbury after a monk he's not laid eyes upon in ten years!" He was very adroit at reading faces, and after studying Ellen's, he sat back in surprise. "Trouble in Eden so soon? They've been wed less than a year, hardly time enough, I would think, for them to have grown bored with each other." "It is lucky that you're a priest, for any man so cynical would have made a most unsatisfactory husband! But you're quick, I'll grant you that. Indeed, all is not well betwixt Hugh and Eluned. Not that he'd ever admit it, not our Hugh. I daresay he'd endure trial by fire ere he'd speak ill of her. But I know he is hurting, Amaury, and I think I know why. There is no way I can say this without sounding cruel, but the truth is that although the Lord bestowed beauty in plenitude upon Eluned, He was not as generous in His other gifts. She is a good-hearted lass, but not, I fear, at all clever or quick-witted. To some men, that would not matter, to others it would. From what I've heard, her first husband felt no lack in her; he was older than she, proud to have such a desirable wife, amused by her child-like ways. But what so charmed him no longer charms Hugh, and the poor lass does not know why. I do feel sorry for her, Amaury; she truly wants to please, and senses that she is disappointing Hugh somehow, but does not understand how she is failing him. And Hugh ... he breaks my heart, for he is wretched, and I suspect he's likely blaming himself for his discontent. Llewelyn's people have a saying, 'Hir amod ni ddaw yn dda,' or 'A long betrothal is not lucky.' But in this case, it might have saved Hugh and Eluned a lifetime of misery." "A pity," Amaury said, and meant it; his flippancy notwithstanding/ his fondness for Hugh was quite genuine. "But if a man is a. fool to wed for love, he must be utterly daft to wed for lust. No one with sense would expect a candle to burn forever, so why should a flame kindled in bed?" Ellen laughed. "To hear you talk, if you'd been in Eden, you'd have sided with the snake! Speaking for myself, my marital candle is burning quite merrily, thank you, and I have every confidence that it shall stay lit, too. They are not as rare as you seem to think. You cannot deny that our parents found a candle to last the life of their marriage. It's quite obvious to anyone with eyes to see that Ned and Eleanora do not lack for light or heat in their marriage bed. And Edmund and Blanche can jdndle a fire without flint or tinder, too. The best part of my English sojournuntil nowwas the time I had with them" Breaking off, she entreated, "Ah, Amaury, do not look like that! I know you begrudge Edmund Papa's earldom, but would you rather it had gone to that whoreson de Mortimer or to Gloucester or that Judas, John Giffard? Edmund and Blanche have been good friends to me, and I am right glad that they have found such contentment in their marriage. They have a second son now, did you know? Blanche gave birth to a fine, healthy lad a fortnight after Christmas, christened him Henry." Amaury gave his sister a discerning look. He didn't say anything, but he didn't have to, for they understood each other as few people ever did. Ellen smiled sadly, shook her head. "No," she said quietly, "it did not hurt as much as you thinkor I feared. In truth, I found it much harder to look upon Davydd and Elizabeth's little lads. I do not envy Blanche her sons, would not begrudge her a nursery-full. Hers was a loss no mother should ever have to suffer" "What are you talking about? What loss?" "Surely you could not have forgotten? Not a death so bizarre, so But then, you never knew! How could you, for you were in Italy when it happened, whilst Blanche was still wed to her first husband, the King of Navarre. Their young son was killed in a dreadful accident. His nurse was walking with him upon the battlements of their castle at Estrella, and somehow she tripped, dropped the baby over the wall, down into the bailey." "Jesus wept!" "I doubt that a wound like that could ever truly heal. Blanche has never spoken to me about it, and I would never ask. I just hope that the sons she has borne Edmund give her joy in full abundant measure, for she deserves nothing less." "So do you, lass. Will you tell me the truth, Ellen? Does Llewelyn ever blame you for your failure to conceive?" "No," she said, "no, dearest, you may set your mind at rest. Llewelyn has never reproached me for my barrenness, never. Indeed, ne has done all he could to comfort me, to reassure me that if I cannot §ive him a son, he will see that as God's Will, not as my failing. I may not be blessed with a fertile womb, but I have been truly blessed in my marriage." 392 Amaury was vastly relieved. "I think," he said, "that I could get t0 like that husband of yours, Little Sister." Ellen laughed. "I'm somewhat fond of him myself. Now I want you to promise me that you'll stop fretting about me. No man on God's green earth could take better care of me than Llewelyn does. And I have by no means given up my hopes of motherhood, shall do my best to make you an uncle. I still have time, for a woman of twenty and eight ought to have another twelve childbearing years at the very least, mayhap more. In fact, I have a plan in mind." F.llen's eves shone in the candle light. She leaned toward him, eager -' '"-i -i i___ 1 393 to Ellen's eves shone in tne caiuuc ugm. ^' ~ to sharehe/secret. "There is a holy well in North Wales, close by BasSerk Abbey. It is dedicated to a Welsh saint, Gwenfrewi, and * wXflre said to have wondrous healing powers, espeaally for women lab e to conce ve. Upon my return home, I shall make a pilgnmage to unable to conceive V J ^..^r,,; tr, heed my prayers, that I l_*U4_r.u. «£2 -j waters are said to have wondrous healing powers, especially ior women unable to conceive. Upon my return home, I shall make a pilgrimage to her well, Amaury, beseech St Gwenfrewi to heed my prayers, that I may give Llewelyn a son." "God grant it so," he said, and never had he meant any prayer more. "Ere I forget, I have something for you." Ellen reached into^ bodice of her gown, drew out a thin gold chain. "Papa's nng. I ve kep it safe for you8as I promised. But I think it is time now for you to have it back." As she held the ring out to him, Amaury caught her hand. "No," he said, "not yet. You hold on to it a while longer, until I am freed, until I can come into Wales to fetch it backand to see your son." ' ' 1- <-1..4.^l,. until I can come into Wales to reiui u. vm^.^.- _, Ellen's eyes searched his face, and then she nodded slowly. Clutching the ring so tightly that the sapphire dug into her palm, clutching it as if it were a holy relic, she echoed softly, "God grant it so." THAT cold, wet spring eventually yielded to a rainy, cool summer. The Welsh had almost given up hope of seeing the sun again when, without warning, the second Saturday in June dawned to vividly blue skies, an all-but-forgotten warmth, and a mild, southerly breeze. The inhabitants of Llewelyn's seacoast manor at Aber and the village that had grown up in its shadow soon found plausible excuses to escape into that dazzling white-gold light, to make the most of Nature's sudden reprieve. Ellen loved their times at Aber. She loved to walk upon the beach and gaze across the straits toward Llanfaes. She loved to follow the shallow, meandering river that flowed through a deeply wooded glen, and she loved to watch for that flash of silver amidst the trees ahead, anticipating her first glimpse of the surging waterfall that splashed ovei a sheer cliff in a narrow ribbon of white water. She loved lying beside Llewelyn at night in the same chamber where Joanna had once slept with her Llewelyn. Aber was the heart of her husband's realm; it was here that she felt the pull of the past most strongly, and she never came back to Abergwyngregynmusical Mouth of the Whiteshell River without feeling as if she were coming home. Ellen was an avid gardener, and she'd lavished loving care upon the gardens at Aber. Accompanied by Juliana and Edwyn, an aged gardening wizard whose plant-lore was legendary, Ellen prepared to survey her verdant, flowering domains. They went first to the small vegetable plot; the Welsh were no more keen for vegetables than were the English, and Edwyn's kitchen garden held only onions, leeks, garlic, and cabbage. Ellen's inspection was rather cursory, and they soon moved on to the evenly spaced rows of the herb garden. Here were grown the medicinal plants used to make ointments and potions. The scent of rue wafted toward them upon the balmy summer air, and all about them was the evidence of Edwyn's industry, his Merlin's touch. Juliana watched a fragile white butterfly dance upon the breeze while Ellen and Edwyn discussed his strategy for repelling the moles that were every gardener's scourge. But Ellen's usual enthusiasm was oddly lacking today; in a surprisingly short time, Edwyn was free to resume his other duties and the women were entering the flower garden that was Ellen's Welsh Eden. Enclosed by neatly trimmed hawthorn hedges, the garden had been laid out with exacting care, for symmetry and proportion and uniformity were the gardener's goal; it would have been unheard-of to allow flowers to grow in the helter-skelter disorder to be found in Nature. The rectangular, raised beds were bordered by low wattle fences, and the centerpiece was a flowery mead, a sea of billowing Welsh grass adrift with daisies. Turf benches were scattered about, and a small fountain bubbled beside a trellised arbor, a shaded haven besieged by climbing roses and entwining honeysuckle. Setting down her watering pot, Ellen took the scissors Juliana was preferring, began to gather an eclectic bonquet of Madonna lilies, blue columbines, and peonies. "If you take these," she said, "I'll cut some roses." "Ellen ... I do not mean to pry. But I'd have to be blind not to see that you're troubled. Would it help to talk?" Ellen shook her head, a moment later let out an unladylike oath. With Juliana's help, she managed to extract the thorn embedded in her thumb. Picking up a dropped rose, its ivory-white petals smeared with Wood, she hesitated, then said, "I suppose I have been distracted this ^orn. It is just that. . . that Llewelyn and I quarrel so rarely. It was so needless, too, an argument that blew up like a summer storm, with no 394 warning, no sense to it. I know I am making more of it than I ought But this was the first time that we'd quarreled and then gone to bed angry . . ." Juliana plucked a red rose, held it out to Ellen. "Send him a peace offering." Ellen reached for the flower. "I know the rose is a token of love but I think Llewelyn might be won over more quickly by a roast carp " rice savory, and those angel-bread wafers he so fancies." "Well, then, why are we tarrying in the garden when we ought to be seeking out the cooks?" Juliana prompted, and within moments they were on their way to the kitchens. Taking action had done much to raise Ellen's spirits, and by the time they returned to her bedchamber, she was discussing her planned "peace dinner" with a resurgence of enthusiasm. As they set about putting their cut flowers in clay pitchers, it was Juliana who first noticed the white cloth trailing from the bed canopy. Puzzled, she walked over for a closer look. "Ellen, what is this doing here?" But Ellen was a soldier's daughter. One glance at that makeshift white banner and she began to laugh, for she understood its significance at once. Flying over her marriage bed was a flag of truce. ELLEN was alone in their bedchamber when Llewelyn entered, sitting in a window-seat as she embroidered a linen altar cloth. She was an accomplished needlewoman, had been laboring that summer upon a new set of vestments for the priest of Dolwyddelan's parish church. Nestled beside Ellen in the window-seat, Hiraeth gave Llewelyn an intent, faintly suspicious stare; although the little dog was resigned by now to this intruder's presence in its mistress's life, it had yet to offer him more than a grudging tolerance. Fortunately, he got a warmer welcome from his wife. Putting aside her sewing, she rose at once, facing him with just the hint of a smile. The white flag had been taken down, folded neatly, and laid upon Llewelyn's pillow. "Does that mean," he asked, "that you reject my offer of a truce?" "No, my lord husband. It means that you've no need of a truce, for I would make an unconditional surrender." "Without even knowing my terms? How very brave of you," he said, and they both laughed, moved into each other's arms. When they turned toward the settle, they discovered, though, that Hiraeth had already anticipated them, and was comfortably curled up on the cushions, regarding them with regal forbearance, a queen deigning to share 395 j,er domain. "Never doubt that I love you," Llewelyn said wryly, "for Only a man hopelessly smitten would put up with that beast of yours, tfovv ... I have a suggestion, Ellen. If the Truce of God can forbid shedding of blood on holy days or in the Lord's House, why can we not consecrate our marriage bed, too, as a place where no quarreling shall be permitted?" Ellen laughed, agreed that henceforth the boundaries of their bed would be as hallowed as the church threshold, and they sealed their pact with a kiss. "I wanted to make a proper, formal surrender," she confided, "but as a woman, I was at a distinct disadvantage, having no sword to offer up to you, my lord." To her amusement, he gallantly promised her free use of his sword, and she agreed, with mock gravity, to accept his offer that very night. But as much as she delighted in their erotic banter, she felt that she owed him a genuine apology, one she tendered now in all sincerity, for it was a wife's duty to keep harmony in the home. "My ill temper was even more inexcusable," she said, "for I well knew why you were so testy these past few days. Is the tooth any better, my lovethe truth now?" "Much better," he said, so emphatically that she knew he lied, and decided to ask Edwyn for feverfew, since the cloves did not seem to be helping. Dislodging Hiraeth, she insisted that he stretch out upon the settle and pillow his head in her lap, all the while marveling that a man so conversant with the perils of the battlefield would yet go to such stubborn lengths to avoid having a tooth pulled. "Just lie back," she coaxed. "The world will not come to an end because you take your ease for a brief while." She stroked his hair, gently caressing his temples, a smile hovering about her mouth, for their jesting about swords had triggered an old memory. "My parents quarreled far more frequently than we do/' she said, "but it never seemed to poison the pleasure they took in each other . . . mayhap because they both thrived upon chaos! I remember °ne quarrel in particular, when I was eleven. My father had broken his leg in a fall from his horse, and it could not have happened at a worse tone, for he'd been about to sail for France, where the French King had agreed to mediate his dispute with the English Crown. Instead of arguing his cause in Paris, he found himself bed-ridden at Kenilworth Castle, i" a truly vile temper. On the day in memory, he'd had a blazing row ^th my mother, and she'd stalked out, leaving him to lie alone in bed ^d fume. When I came into the bedchamber, he demanded to know why his squire had not answered his summons, and I explained that fte rest of the household were loath to face him when he was in such 396 a foul mood. He seemed surprised, asked if he was such a bad patient and was quite taken aback when I told him he'd been a truly dreadful patient so far!" Ellen laughed softly, and Llewelyn reached up, traced the curve of her cheek. "You were not afraid to be so plain-spoken, cariad?" "Afraidof my father?" Ellen laughed again, this time incredulously. "Not ever! He was always gentle with me, more than I doubtless deserved, for looking back, I can see I was more indulged than I ought to have been. My brothers, too. Papa demanded so much of all others, especially himself, and not enough of us. But to return to Kenilworth Castle, he said that I'd convinced him that he'd best make amends with Mama, and he needed my help. He sent me back to the great hall, Llewelyn, proudly bearing his battle sword to surrender to my mother!" This was a pastime they both enjoyed, swapping memories of the yesterdays they'd not shared, for their marriage was still new enough that they had much to learn about each other. Ellen in particular liked reliving her past and delving into his, although it saddened her to discover that her childhood had been so much happier than his. The de Montfort family's binding cords had been hammered out of finely tempered steel, like the best swords almost impossible to break, but Llewelyn could not recall a time when his family had not been torn asunder by conflicting loyalties, by the estrangement between his father and grandfather. Ellen found it a little easier to understand the puzzling, often inexplicable contradictions in his troubled relationship with Davydd after getting glimpses into her husband's storm-buffeted boyhood. And the more she learned, the more she yearned to give him children. "They are all too rare," she said regretfully, "our quiet moments together like this," and indeed, the words were no sooner out of her mouth than her sentence was punctuated by a discreet knock. Llewelyn gave Ellen a rueful look, shrugged, and within moments was gone, hastening back to the great hall to receive a courier from the English King. By now, Ellen was accustomed to such abrupt disappearances. Fetching her sewing from the window-seat, she resumed working upon the altar cloth. But Eluned and Juliana soon entered, and she put i' aside for more secular concernsmaking herself ready to preside wi"1 Llewelyn over the evening's meal. She would not normally have changed clothes, for they entertained no guests at Aber that night. Bu' her reconciliation with her husband still had a final act to be played out later, in the privacy of their newly sanctified marriage bed, and she wanted to look as pleasing as possible for him. 397 With her ladies' help, she donned a softly draped gown of emerald silk, Llewelyn's favorite shade, and over it, a pale green surcote. y\j. though the Church constantly preached against the use of cosmetics earnestly deplored the sin of vanity, Ellen found herself squarely on the side of majority opinion, that there was nothing wrong in seeking to enhance God's gifts, which she proceeded to do with powder, lip rouge, perfume, and a mouthwash of honey and myrrh. She was already anticipating her private time alone with Llewelyn much later that night, and as she turned away from her mirror, she laughed suddenly, remembering Amaury's skepticism about bonfires and beds, thinking that a priest, even a priest as clever as Amaury, could not hope to understand the bond that could be forged between a man and a woman, if they truly committed themselves to their marriage vows, if they were reasonable in their expectationsand if they were very lucky. Ellen's high spirits lasted as long as it took her to cross the bailey and enter the great hall. Even before she reached the dais, the silence in the hall had alerted her that something was very wrong. The King's courier was nowhere in sight, but Llewelyn held in his hand a parchment bearing the royal seal of the English Crown. "Here," he said, as Ellen drew near. "Edward's commission has issued its findings about Arwystli." There was not yet need for torches; the light lingered well into the evening hours during Welsh summers. Ellen took the writ, read that the royal commission had determined by inquest which laws and customs had been recognized in the reigns of Edward's predecessors, and by these laws, so would justice be rendered unto the Prince of Wales. Ellen had grown up at court, was familiar with the deliberate ambiguities of diplomatic jargon. But even by those lax standards of clarity, this document was hopelessly obscure, so cryptic as to seem incomprehensible to her. "What exactly does this mean, Llewelyn?" "It means," he said tersely, "that we'll not be using Welsh law," and when his suspicions would later be proved correct, there was no surprise; by then, she had concluded, as he had done, that Edward would have no need for such deceptive equivocation if he meant to adhere to the Treaty, to let Welsh law control. Now, though, she could °nly look up into her husband's face in dismay, seeing a man standing at the cliff's edge. NINE days after the findings of Edward's commission were published, ^ court ruled that Gruffydd ap Gwenwynwyn's suit against Roger de Mortimer must be decided by Welsh law, as the lands in issue were s'tuated in Wales. <^T T 399 27 HAFOD-Y-LLAN, NANHWYNAIN, WALES September 1281 LLEWELYN often stayed at Nanhwynain, the largest of Aberconwy's abbey granges, for its twelve thousand alpine acres encompassed some of the most scenic vistas in all of Gwynedd. From the open window, he could see the mountains he so loved, Eryri's awesome "Haunt of Eagles." Stars had begun to glimmer through the twilight, and he could hear the distant baaing of the sure-footed sheep that were the grange's greatest resource. It was a peaceful, pastoral scene, but for once he was blind to the beauty of his homeland, so preoccupied was he with political strategy and statecraft, so intent upon his next move in his high-stakes chess game with England's King. Turning from the window, he said, "I wanted to speak with you both ere the council meets, to let you know what I shall propose to them. I have attempted to abide by the English King's treaty, and what has it gotten me but mockery and insults? For a Welshman seeking justice, the least likely place to look must be in an English court. He'd have better luck hunting virgins in the bawdy-houses of the Southwark stews, tracking fabled beasts like the centaurs of ancient Greece, or the monster that is said to lurk in a lake on Cader Idris." Dai smiled at that, and Goronwy laughed outright, but their amusement was grim; these days, most humor in Wales had sharp edges. Llewelyn took a swallow of cider, regarding them intently as he drank"We have," he said, "been playing a game in which Edward provides the dice, keeps score, makes up the rules as he goes along, and has the power to cry 'forfeit' should he somehow lose. Well, I think it is time to teach him about Welsh games of chance. I mean to invite a new player into the game." Dai and Goronwy exchanged speculative glances. But Goronwy ^as, as always, too impatient to wait, and blurted out, "A Marcher lord?" Llewelyn smiled. "Yes," he said, "what better place to look for an ally than in the Marches? That stratagem served my grandfather well, for never did his power burn so bright as in those years after he'd allied himself with the Earl of Chester. Only time will tell if it works as well for me, but it is the only trail still open." Both Dai and Goronwy were nodding appreciatively, offering Llewelyn a foretaste of the approval he expected to get from his council. "Who, my lord? The Earl of Gloucester?" The guess was Goronwy's, and it was a shrewd one, for Llewelyn and Gloucester had been allied together once before. But Llewelyn, still smiling, shook his head. "No," he said, "not Gloucester. My cousin, Roger de Mortimer." They looked startled, then dubious. "None would deny that Gloucester is about as affable as a cornered badger," Dai said slowly, "but he does have a few scruples. Whereas de Mortimer would cut his own grandmother's throat if you made it worth his while." Llewelyn didn't dispute it. "Fortunately for me," he said dryly, "I am not the man's grandmother. If we begin to tally up all his flaws of character, we'll still be talking come Judgment Day. But he has certain attributes that make him an ideal ally for my purposes. He is clever, ambitious, ruthless, and"Llewelyn paused"Gruffydd ap Gwenwynwyn's neighbor." DAI had gone, Goronwy still lingered. Dai had seen the advantages of Llewelyn's scheme, but he'd seen the dangers, too. If Goronwy did, he must have dismissed them as negligible, for his imagination was soaring, unencumbered by any earthly tethers. His zestful enthusiasm was contagious, appealing, a very likable aspect of his personality. But it was also why Llewelyn had chosen Dai as his Seneschal. Goronwy's opinions were always interesting, often amusing, occasionally ingenious, but never objective, never balanced. Now his partisan passion was at full flame, so pleased was he that Llewelyn was laying plans to hold on to Arwystli, that he was not going to let it be stolen away in an English c°urt. If these plans risked war, so be it; Goronwy tended to look upon War as he did the coming of winter: as unwelcome, onerous, and instable. Draining his cider cup, Goronwy said suddenly, "I must confess, my lord, that one thing about this alliance does trouble me." "Only one?" Llewelyn asked, but Goronwy was impervious to °ny< and nodded vigorously. 400 "How can we be sure," he asked, "that de Mortimer shall be willing?" That was the least of Llewelyn's worries. "I know the man," ne said, with enough certainty to satisfy Goronwy. But his was an easy face to read. Llewelyn waited, then prompted, "Well? What else bothers you?" "What of your lady?" Goronwy's query was so unexpected, so presumptuous, that Llewelyn realized almost at once that it could only be motivated by a very genuine concern. It was an undeniable familiarity, but one spurred on by friendship, and Llewelyn acknowledged it as such with the candor it deserved. "I would to God there was another way, Goronwy," he conceded quietly, "for she would sooner see me in league with Lucifer than allied with Roger de Mortimer. But my wife is a reasonable woman. She will understand." LLEWELYN was awakened by the screeching of gulls. The raucous clamor puzzled him at first, until he remembered that they were no longer at the mountain grange of Hafod-y-Llan. He'd moved his household to his coastal castle at Cricieth, where Ellen was to remain while he journeyed south to meet with Roger de Mortimer. The squabbling of the gulls had grown louder; it sounded as if they were fighting over a fish right under his window. It had been left unshuttered, open to the night air, for the weather had been unusually mild that September, as if Nature seemed set upon making amends for such a chill, rain-sodden spring and summer. Llewelyn lay still for a few moments, breathing in the tangy salt air. Almost lulled back to sleep by the rhythmic sound of ocean waves breaking upon the rocks below the castle, he reached drowsily for Ellen. But his seeking hand encountered only the rumpled folds of the bed sheets. Fully awake now, he raised himself on his elbow. Ellen was awake, too, reclining upon a pillow propped against the headboard, with the breadth of the bed between them. As he stirred, her lashes quivered, but her eyes stayed downcast. So close to the edge of the mattress was she that a careless move could have sent her tumbling onto the flooi' She looked pale and tired in the dawn light, and Llewelyn felt a sudden surge of tenderness. It was time to heal this foolish rift, to make thing5 right between them. The first overtures would have to be his, but tha was fair, for her grievance was a real one. He'd not begrudged her righ to anger, had just not expected that she would cling to it so stubbornly Leaning across the bed, he reached for her long braid, entwining T 402 its tip around his fingers. "It is lonely over here by myself, Ellen," he murmured coaxingly. "I am accustomed to finding you beside me when j awake, and I've missed that, cariad, missed your warmth, the feel of your breath on my skin as you slept. You once said our marriage bed was a haven, but in this past week, it has begun to resemble a kingdom split in twain and under siege. If I could tempt you into venturing into my half of our disputed domain, I feel sure we could find a way to mend this breach, to make our peace." Having offered her an olive branch, he felt a sense of relief; he ought to have done this days ago, spared them both some unquiet nights. Her lashes flickered again, no longer hovered along her cheeks, and he found himself looking into eyes utterly opaque and inscrutable. He could see color rising in her face and throat. She glanced away, then, sat up, and slid over onto his side of the bed. Llewelyn did not want to talk, for he realized there was nothing he could say to ease her discontent; only time could do that. He knew she'd never like it, his association with Roger de Mortimer. But she'd learn to accept it; what other choice had she? "I have a confession to make," he said, gently smoothing back the stray tendrils of hair framing her face. "Nothing under God's sky disheartens me more than quarreling with you." Her lashes had veiled her eyes again; he brushed his lips against her eyelids and temples before seeking her mouth. Ellen offered no resistance, but neither did she respond. She simply lay there, let him kiss and caress her as he wished, and when he pulled back, ended the embrace, he was as angry as she'd ever seen him. "How long," he demanded, "is this going to continue?" She did not pretend to misunderstand him. "I am not refusing you, Llewelyn," she pointed out coolly. "I am ready to perform all of my wifely duties when and as you will." "How very noble," he snapped. "And what am I supposed to do )ust wake you when it's over?" "I would suggest that you take what is offered, because duty is about all I can muster up at the moment!" Llewelyn could have been looking at a stranger. "Of a sudden," he ^d, "I do not feel as if I know you at all." "I can return the compliment, my lord, for I do not think I know you either, not anymore. I would have wagered my life that you'd never Singly hurt meand I'd have been wrong!" "Christ Jesus, woman, must we get into this again? What more is tllere to say? You know why I am doing this" "And you know what Roger de Mortimer did to my father! We * °od in our bridal chamber at Worcester Castle and you listened as I fnl J J told you what I'd never told another living soul, how that evil, ungodly 402 man maimed and mutilated my father's bodyneed I repeat all the vi] disgusting details? De Mortimer and his cut-throats butchered my f ath~ hacked him into bloody pieces, threw what was left of him to the dOg ' And this is the man you would have me break bread with! You tell m how, my lord husband, how do I do that? As I sit across the table and smile at him, how do I not think of Wigmore Castle . . . and my father's head rotting above the gateway?" "Stop it, Ellen! That would never happen, and you know it. Dy > not promise you that you'd not have to lay eyes upon the man, much less make him welcome at our hearth? Is my word no longer enough for you?" "I am neither a fool nor a child, Llewelyn. You can offer me a plenitude of promises todayand mean each and every one of them. But should the day ever come when your new ally arrives unexpectedly at your gate, wanting to conspire with you against Gruffydd an Gwenwynwyn, we both know you'll not turn him away, you'll not risk offending him to spare my feelings." "For God's sake, Ellen, you're more important to me than Roger de Mortimer!" "Am I? Prove it to me, then. Give up this accursed idea." What hurt her the most was that he did not even hesitate. "I cannot do that. There is too much at stake." She'd already gone further than she'd intended, but the utter matter-of-factness of his answer goaded her on. "So you're saying, then, that avenging yourself upon Gruffydd ap Gwenwynwyn matters more than our marriage." "No . . . but the survival of Wales does," he said, with a bluntness that took her breath away, and after that, there was nothing left to be said. Rising from the bed, Llewelyn strode to an open coffer, pulling out garments more or less at random. Ellen reached for her bedrobe, began to unbraid her hair with fingers that shook. They summoned neither his squires nor her ladies, dressed themselves in utter and suffocating silence. Llewelyn was still fumbling with his belt as he reached the door. There he paused, glancing back at his wife. "You think I do not understand your anger," he said abruptly, "and you are wrong, for I do." Ellen put her hairbrush down, watching him warily, for although his words sounded conciliatory, his voice did not; it seemed edged in flint. "You have every reason to loathe de Mortimerand your loyalty to your father is both natural and commendable. But we owe a greater loyalty to the living than to the dead, and you sees1 to have forgotten that. You are more than Simon de Montfort's daughter You are also my wife, and that, too, you seem to have forgotten. Ican only hope that your memory improves, Ellenfor both our sakes/ 403 Ellen did not reply, and he jerked the door open, barely resisting urge to slam it behind him She sat very still, long after he'd gone, ^jng blindly at that closed door The dawn mist had burned off by yf and a patch of sapphire-blue sky shimmered within the window's , ained opening The day was promising all the false, lulling warmth of f^chaelmas summer, but only the innocent would be taken in, those vho'd not yet learned that such brief, bittersweet respites too often led lolling frost and the bone-crippling cold of an early winter ILEWELYN spared no tame for breakfast, plunged at once into the day's W0rk He dictated letters to Madog Goch ap lorwerth, constable of penllyn, to the Abbot of Aberconwy, and the Jusnciar of Chester He got a report about storm damage to the Menai ferry He discussed with his chamberlain the collection of court amercements, a major source of princely revenue He agreed to preside over a perjury case during his Christmas court at Dolwyddelan He authorized a Michaelmas payment due upon the thousand marks owed to his brother Rhodn And he interrogated the eye-witness to a brawl that had broken out when one of his rhmgylls had attempted to confiscate the goods of a man convicted of receiving stolen property To all appearances, he'd passed a busy and productive morning But he was finding it unexpectedly difficult to concentrate upon the matters at hand He struggled against the tide until noon, refusing to admit that the husband's distraction could prove stronger than the Prince's will But eventually he gave up, sent Trevor to fetch his sword and scabbard from his bedchamber, and ordered his horse saddled His departure was delayed by the strenuous objections of his teulu, but Llewelyn's need for solitude was increasingly urgent, and he prevailed His stallion was young and spirited, eager to run He gave the animal its head, setting so swift a pace that Cricieth Castle soon disappeared into the distance He was riding into the wind and it whipped his hair about wildly, burned his face He barely felt it, though, was equally oblivious to the low-lying hills and marshes stretching along either side of the road He forded the River Dwfor at the commotal settlement of Dolbenmaen, and foe tenants tending its desmesne lands stopped their work to gape as 116 passed, astonished that their Pnnce should suddenly appear in their "udst like this, alone, accompanied by none of his household guard Llewelyn had not planned to depart for his meeting with Roger de ^ortimer until Fnday of the following week, for he'd wanted to be with ~"en on her twenty-ninth birthday Now, though, he was reconsidering "kyhap it might be for the best if he left early, if they had some time 404 T 405 apart. He realized what an inadequate solution that was, but he was unable to come up with a better one. And underlying his anger and frustration was a new and unsettling anxiety. For the first time, he found himself thinking what would have been unthinkable even hours ago What if Ellen did not come to her senses? Or when she did, what if, by then, it was too late? Once a foundation cracked, it put the entire building at risk. Was that true, as well, for a marriage? Llewelyn's stallion shied as a hare broke from the bushes, flashed in front of them. Reining in, he stroked the horse's neck. It was lathered with sweat, and only then did he realize just how far they'd come. He had to go no more than twenty feet from the road to find water; Llyn was crisscrossed with serpentine streams and shallow, muddy rivers. As the horse drank, he stretched his stiff muscles, measured the westward slide of the sun. He'd forgotten a flask, now knelt, cupped his hands, and drank, too. But he was also hungry and tired, and as he gazed at the road winding its way south, he knew suddenly that he did not want to make that long, wearying ride back to Criciethand Ellen. Llewelyn studied the surrounding terrain, needing but a few moments to get his bearings, for he carried a mental map of his Welsh domains. Off to the southwest lay Bwlch Mawr; he'd once fought a battle within its shadow, scored a sweeping victory over the invading army led by his brothers, Owain and Davydd. He was only a few miles, then, from the monastery at Clynnog. His uncle Einion had a manor just south of Clynnog. Why not ride over, stay the night? Einion's health was failing, and he kept close to his own hearth these days; it would be good to pass some time together. It was an easy decision for Llewelyn to make; Einion's manor was far closer than Cricieth. But so reluctant was he to face Ellen while he was still so angry with her that he'd have found a way to justify his choice had the distance been twice as great. Mounting his horse again, he abandoned the road and headed west, cutting cross-country toward the ocean. He knew when he was nearing the sea, alerted by the soft glow of light that hovered upon the horizon. Reaching the coast road, he drew rein, passed a few moments savoring the view. But as he was about to start south toward Clynnog, he heard the sound of approaching riders. A small group of horsemen were coming from the north, from the direction of Caer yn Arfon. Even at such a distance, Llewelyn could tell that they were well armed and well mounted. Curious, he wheeled W6 stallion, waited for them. It would have been difficult to say which one was the more startled/ Llewelyn or Davydd. Davydd was certainly the more pleased. After reining in abruptly at sight of his brother, he did a deliberately coin1*- doubletake, then spurred his stallion forward, laughing. "I rarely s# apparitions without a fair helping of wine, but I'd hardly expect to find fae Lord Prince of Wales and Eryri loitering on the Clynnog Roadand alone, too, by God! If I had a suspicious mind, Llewelyn, I'd think you must have a tryst planned with some local lass. Of course you could have been waiting patiently by the roadside to bid me a personal, warm welcome, but even I find that far-fetched!" It may have been Davydd's cocky grin. Or that recent ride through Bvvlch Mawr Pass, where a lifetime's conflict with Davydd had begun. Or simply that he was tired, his nerves on edge. But suddenly Llewelyn heard himself saying belligerently, "What are you doing in Llyn, Davydd? Do you think you can come and go in my domains as you will?" Davydd lost his smile in a hurry. "I wrote last month," he said, "to let you know I'd be coming into Llyn to see Owain. I thought that would be sufficient. Should I have asked for a safe-conduct?" Llewelyn almost lashed back with the obvious retort, that in light of their history, he was the one likely to be in need of a safe-conduct. But he caught himself in time, for he was remembering now that Davydd had indeed written as he claimed. And Davydd's stiff, prideful tone did not completely camouflage what he'd never admit, that Llewelyn's angry rebuff had stung. "It is my memory that is at fault," Llewelyn said reluctantly, "not you. I've much on my mind, and I forgot about your letter." Had it been anyone but Davydd, Llewelyn would have gone further, offered a genuine apology rather than a hinted one. With Davydd, though, this was the best he could do. It was still more than Davydd had expected, and he nudged his mount closer, his eyes searching Llewelyn's face. "What are you really doing out in the middle of nowhere by yourself, Llewelyn?" "I'm sorry to disappoint you, but the explanation is not a sinister one. I was out riding, went farther than I'd meant to, and rather than "ding all the way back to Cricieth, I decided to beg a meal and a bed from Einion." Davydd was not buying that, but he let it drop, for the moment. Is that why you look so careworn . . . hunger pangs? Lucky for you 'hat I happened along when I did." Glancing back toward his waiting men, he waved them forward. "We'll stop here for a while, rest the horses, and eat." Llewelyn started to protest, then stopped. Why not? In truth, he ^as ravenous, for he'd not had a morsel since yesterday. Davydd's men Were already dismounting, unpacking the food, throwing flasks and sults about with equal abandon. Davydd gave his retainers a lot of "When a mortal man catches a mermaid, does she not iw 425 , -t £or her freedom? If memory serves, I think he gets to keep her "That is a scandalous way to talk to your wife," Ellen scolded, but oiild have been more convincing had her voice not quivered with 5 . ter "\Ve did not expect you back until Thursday, at the earliest. d such a special welcome planned," she said and sighed regretfully. \i\a were going to have all your favorite foods, Gruffydd ab yr Ynad , was composing a song for your pleasure, and I was going to wear newest gown, the crimson one with the lace" She got no further; he kissed her again. "Actually," he said, "I like you better like this, soft and slippery." "And shivering," she added with a smile, and began to wrap herself m a towel, deftly sidestepping his attempt to snatch it away. "Are all mermaids so skittish? Why are you in such a hurry to put your clothes on? It would make more sense if I got rid of mine, joined you in the bath. Generous lass that you are, you've shared half of it with me, already." Ellen giggled. "The last time we tried that, we flooded the room! But if you really want to risk drowning again, I am willing. Not yet, though. First we must talk, beloved. I have a gift for you, and I would give it now." "A New Year's gift? But that is still more than a fortnight away." "I know, but I cannot wait any longer, not another moment. And it is not just a New Year's gift. It is also a very early birthday gift, a belated anniversary gift." "One gift in lieu of all that? I think I am sure to come out on the losing side here, for how could any one gift possibly be as wondrous as . . as that?" She caught the telling pause, so quickly covered up, knew exactly what he'd found himself thinking at that moment, and it hurt her to see how swiftly he'd rejected it, as if hope had become the enemy. 'Say it, my love," she entreated. "Say what we both know to be true--that only one gift could be as great as thata son and heir." Ah, Ellen . . ."he said softly, and she reached up, gently laid her Hers to his lips. 'You do not understand, not yet. That is what I am telling you, Uewelyn, that is my gift. I am with child." Llewelyn's breath stopped. "You are sure?" « hi nodded- "Yes' my darling, yes ... oh, yes!" She laughed up , ' and there was on her face a look of such pure and perfect PPWess that he no longer doubted. Abov telling myself it was not to be, and I tried to accept it, God e' how I tried!" He touched his fingers to her cheek. "I've loved T 439 ^ 28 DOLWYDDELAN, WALES December 1281 1 HE brutal winter weather had not kept the lords of Wales from braving the high mountain passes. From North Powys came Llewelyn Fychan ap Gruffydd Maelor, Lord of Nanheudwy and Cynllaith, and his brother Gruffydd Fychan, Lord of lal. From the south came Cynan ap Maredudd and Rhys Fychan, Lords of Ceredigion, and Rhys Wyndod, Lord of the Vale of Tywi, and his younger brother, Llewelyn ap Rhys of Is Cennen. And from the Perfeddwlad came the most surprising arrival of all, the Lord of Dinbych and Yr Hob, Llewelyn ap Gruffydd's brother Davydd. And as word spread of their presence at Dolwyddelan, Llewelyn's troubled countrymen began to converge upon his court, bearing their grievances against the English Crown like Christmas offerings for their Prince. One by one they rose to speak in the great hall, to reveal their wrongs, their rage, and their yearning for vengeance. Some of their complaints spoke to affronted pride, others struck at the heart, but through them all echoed a common cry, one of lossof lands, of dignity, of hope. Men whose lands had been seized to build Edward's castle at Flynt charged that the royal promises of compensation were never honored. Men who'd brought goods to sell in the new borough of Rhuddlan told how they were compelled to sell only to the English, at prices set by the English, and those who balked were gaoled and beaten. Their woods were cut down, without recompense. Their laws were mocked. And as each man came forward to bare his wounds, the hall fell silent; here at least their voices would be heard. Einion ab Ithel claimed that because he drove his oxen through the streets of Oswestry, he was beaten and both of his oxen taken from himIthel ap Gwysty was fined a vast sum for a crime committed by his father forty years before. lorwerth ap Gwrgwneu was fined for escaping from an English prison during the war. Others spoke of the harshness Of the English forest laws, so alien to the Welsh; three men lost all they owned for one foot of a stag found in a dog's mouth. The church of St pavydd at Llangadog was used by the English as a stable, the priest stabbed and left bleeding before the altar, and none were called to account for it. The new Justiciar of Chester, Reginald de Grey, claimed the lands of the men of Merton without cause and bestowed them upon the Abbot of Basingwerk. There were many hated officials of the English CrownBogo de Knovill, Roger Clifford, John Giffard, Roger Lestrangebut none were loathed as much as de Grey. Again and again his name was heard in the hall, until by repetition alone it began to sound like a curse. De Grey had forced free Welshmen to plough his lands like English serfs. English masons from Rhuddlan Castle assaulted a Welshwoman passing by, attacking her husband when he sought to defend her, and when the family of the slain woman captured the killers and brought them to de Grey for justice, he set them free, then arrested the complaining kinsmen. He accused the men of Rhos and Tegeingl of trespasses committed in the reign of the present King's late father, and demanded money to forgo prosecution. He violated the terms of his Ring's own treaty and harassed the Welsh so shamelessly that they despaired of ever finding justice in his courts. How long must they endure his tyranny? How long must they deal with the Devil? Later, when Llewelyn and his highborn guests were at ease in the great chamber of the castle's new West Tower, those were questions that trailed after them, lurking unanswered beneath their guarded courtesies, shadowing their occasional silences. There was much that lay unspoken between these men, for most of them had abandoned Llewelyn four years ago to save their own lands. But there was also between them an affinity that could not be disavowed, one of blood. Rhys Wyndod, his brother Llewelyn, Rhys Fychan, and Cynan ap Maredudd were cousins, great-grandsons of the Lord Rhys, most renowned of all the southern princes. Rhys Wyndod and his brothers were also nephews of the Prince of Wales, son of Llewelyn's long-dead sister. The Lords of North Powys, Llewelyn Fychan and Gruffydd Fychan, were his kinsmen, too, albeit much more distant ones. Llewelyn no longer trusted kinship, if ever he did; if a blood bond could not bind his brother to him, how could it hold fast nephews or cousins? °ut theirs was still a common heritage, a shared history in which regrets, resentments, ambitions, and jealousies all existed in uneasy accord. Servants stoked the hearth, refilled mead cups, and discreetly with(toew. The silence that had fallen as the servants entered lingered after 420 w 421 they departed, a silence that was speculative, wary, and yet expectant Llewelyn had been awaiting just such an opening. "I think it is time," he said, "to speak of our own grievances against the English King." There was a moment more of quiet, and then the chamber was reverberating with the sounds of anger. Voices were raised, chairs shoved back, fists slammed down upon the oaken table with enough ^ force to alarm Nia, Llewelyn's canine shadow. Llewelyn made no at"' tempt to exert control, let them vent their rage as they pleased, interrupting one another in their haste to share the injustices each had suffered at English hands. None of their complaints were unfamiliar to Llewelyn; he'd kept a close watch upon all of their dealings with the English Crown, knew their wrongs as he did his own. His cousin of North Powys had seen his lands raided by the Marcher lord John Fitz Alan, had been feuding for several years now with the constable of Oswestry, Roger Lestrange. He had also endured the humiliation of being abducted by the sons of Gruffydd ap Gwenwynwyn, and then of being unable to avenge himself afterward upon his assailants, for none stood higher in royal favor than the Lord of South Powys. Llewelyn's nephew, Rhys Wyndod, had lost his castles at Dinefwr, Carreg Cennen, and Llandovery, and when he'd sought to defend his rights in Hirwryn against the claims of John Giffard, he'd discovered that no Welsh quagmire could bog men down as hopelessly as an English court case. Cynan ap Maredudd and his absent brother had been deprived of their lands in Geneu'r Glyn and Creuddyn. And these were all men who'd yielded to Edward, lain down their swords in a vain attempt at self-preservation. Those who'd spurned accommodations had paid an even greater price; Rhys Wyndod's brothers had been stripped of all they'd once held for their failure to forsake Llewelyn in those desperate months of 1277. Davydd had so far kept silent. But once some of their passion had been spent; once their fury no longer burned at full flame, he said, "Let Goronwy ap Heilyn be heard now, for I know no one who has greater grievances against Reginald de Grey, not even myself." Davydd had been attracting more than his share of suspicious glances, for most men saw distinct differences between surrender and collaboration. But Goronwy commanded both liking and respect, and none begrudged him a chance to speak of his wrongs. Goronwy was not disconcerted to find himself the focus of all eyes. "I hardly know where to begin," he said, "but I will confine myself to the most arrant offenses. One of my tenants was brought before the King's court on a false charge, and although I sought to testify on h15 behalf, he was fined twenty-seven pounds, a sum so great he'd nee" three lifetimes in which to pay it. Then a man whose friendship I he dear, one whom I'd trusted to foster my son, was slain. His kinsmen brought the killer to Rhuddlan, demanding justice. But they were the ones cast into prison, whilst the killer went free. De Grey took away the bailiwick given to me by the King and sold it for his own profit. Then there was the trouble over Maenan and Llysfayn, lands I'd leased for a four-year term. Sir Robert Cruquer, a knight of de Grey's household, attempted to evict me from these lands by force, and when I resisted, de Grey summoned me to answer in court. There he had men at arms ready to seize me, and would have done so had I not been warned beforehand, come accompanied by an armed force of my own. He even dared threaten to have me beheaded, and only the presence of the Bishop of St Asaph stayed his hand." Goronwy's dark eyes glinted with remembered rage, but he kept his voice even, as if recounting another man's misfortunes, for so great was his sense of outrage that he'd been forced to distance himself from it. "Three times," he said, "I traveled to London, seeking justice from the English King. Three times I came away with nothing but empty, hollow promises, promises that were never kept. I'll not go a fourth time, that I swear upon the soul of my son." There was not a man present who could not identify with Goronwy's complaints, but their commiserations were cut short by Davydd, who said, "Now it is my turn. I'll concede straightaway that my legal troubles with that whoreson de Vanabeles are less entangled than Rhys Wyndod's lawsuit against John Giffard, and as for Arwystli ..." Here he gave his brother a sudden, sideways grin. "Do they know yet, Llewelyn? Tell them about the latest twist in a road already as crooked as Edward's ethics!" Llewelyn's smile was almost amused, for he'd had more than a month to come to terms with Edward's latest ploy. "Gruffydd ap Gwenwynwyn is now claiming that my case against him cannot proceed without the King's writ. And Edward has informed mebrace yourselves for a great surprisethat they just cannot seem to find the original writ. Since they cannot, he is most regretful, but we'll have to begin the cas>e all over again, as if the past four years had never been. Who would have guessed that an English lawsuit could have as long a lifespan as ^y man's? It gives a whole new meaning to the concept of perpetuity, does it not? The next time that I grant a charter 'forever and aye,' mayhap ' °ught to add, 'or the end of the Arwystli lawsuit, whichever occurs first.' " There was laughter at that, but not from Rhys Wyndod, who could ^d no humor in the subject of lawsuits, not after being yoked to John ^iffard in an English court for the past two years. "How can you jest a°out it?" he asked in genuine bemusement, and Llewelyn shrugged. 422 "Because," he said, "I'll not let Edward rob me of laughter, too " Glancing toward his brother, he said, "Go on, Davydd. Say what you win " There were some startled looks, for few could remember the last time he'd addressed Davydd so affably. But if Davydd was surprised too, he hid it well. "I could set forth my grievances in just three words: Reginald de Grey. But the truth is that he's merely the puppet, doing the bidding of the royal puppeteer at Westminster. They've harassed my men, cut down my woods at Llyweny and Caergwrle, and refused to make good my losses. Nigh on four years ago I agreed to an exchange of manors with my wife's stepson, provided that I would be compensated for the difference in value, but I've yet to receive so much as a farthing. And then there are the vills in Dyffryn Clwyd. They were held for life by my aunt, Gwenllian de Lacy. I never met the lady, for Llewelyn Fawr had wed her to one of the de Lacys ere I was even born, and she lived out all her days in Ireland. But I hold Dyffryn Clwyd now, and when she died last month, those vills ought to have passed to me. Instead Edward claimed them, proving once again that thievery and statecraft are but two sides of the same English coin." He had their attention, but Davydd could see thinly veiled satisfaction on some faces, a so-what skepticism on others. "When I learned that outlaws were lurking in the woods near my castle at Caergwrle and preying upon travelers," he said in sudden anger, "I had them hunted down and hanged. My reward was to have de Grey accuse me of harboring them all along and warn me that my sons could always be held as hostages until I mended my manners!" There were murmurings at that, and even a few glances of surprised sympathy. "Yes," Davydd said, still angrily, "at the moment I wanted to kill him, I admit it. But for what? For doing what he's told? To hear men talk today, he might well be the true Prince of Darkness. But he's not; he's merely Edward of England's lackey. And when he strews sundried straw about and then saunters by with a lit flame, if s because Edward bloody well wants him to!" Davydd checked himself with an effort, ignored the others, and gave Llewelyn a probing look. "Is it your wish to speak now?" he asked, with a deference that was not entirely free of challenge. "Why did you summon us to Dolwyddelan?" "To talk," Llewelyn said, "of war." There was a stir among the men, but no real surprise, for that was what they were expectingeven hopingto hear. Rhys Wyndod made an emphatic, involuntary gesture of assent, balling a fist and driving i* into the palm of his hand, while the aggrieved Lord of North Povvy8 nodded in grim satisfaction, and his brother sat up straight in his chair* 423 squaring his shoulders with an odd mixture of bravado and resignation. Goronwy looked somber but approving, a few looked dubious, a few more, pleased. But no reaction was as spontaneous or as revealing as pavydd's; he gave a loud, ringing laugh in which triumph vied with relief. "I knew it," he exulted, "knew you'd come to see that there is no other way, that we have to fight!" Llewelyn regarded him impassively for a moment. "I doubt that there is a Welshman breathing who does not know war is coming," he said. "But not yet. Not until we've done our part, for this will not be a war to leave to Fortune or Fate or even the manifold mercies of the Almighty. Against a foe like Edward, we shall have to make the most of every advantage, to turn to our benefit time and weather and random chance itself, and even then we'll still need the luck of the angels, the blessings of every Welsh saint in martyrdom, and the prayers of all our people, both the living and the dead." That was not what they'd wanted from him. Llewelyn saw it on their faces, saw their disappointment, and a stray, subversive thought came shooting from the back of his brain, came perilously close to escaping into speech: Just where were all these firebrands four years ago when an English army was starving Gwynedd into submission? Davydd was frowning. "That was eloquently said, vividly expressed. But what does it mean? That we continue to let the English treat us like serfs and bondsmen? How much offal can we swallow ere we choke on it? I'm not saying I do not understand your caution, Llewelyn. But if a wolf was raiding your flock, would you comfort yourself that he was only taking one sheep at a time? No, by God, you'd put a stop to it whilst you still had sheep left to steal!" Llewelyn lost all patience. "In case it has escaped your notice, we are not facing a lone, marauding wolf! One of the worst mistakes a man can make is to hold his enemies too cheaply. Edward Plantagenet is one of the greatest soldiers in Christendom, and we forget that at our peril. You'd best bear in mind that he not only out-fought Simon de Montfort at Evesham, he outwitted him first. And this 'wolf' of yours, Davydd, has all the resources of the English Crown at his command, wealth and men we cannot hope to match. Lastly, we need to remember that he fruly believes he is doing God's work in bringing Wales under his control, and a man with a sense of divine mission is a very dangerous foe, indeed." "What are you saying, that we are bound to lose?" "I am saying, Davydd, that we can make no mistakes, none at all. e cannot afford to plunge ahead heedlessly, to be rash or reckless, n°t with so much at stake. We owe our childrenand their children better than that, for they, too, would have to pay the price for our failure, a price higher than most of us could imagine." 426 posure. "I could not help noticing that Uncle Llewelyn's spirits vver soaring sky-high this past week, but I never suspected . . . No one els knows yet?" "Very few, just Juliana and Dame Blodwen, the midwife. Oh, and Hugh, for he was my escort, but he swore he'd tell no one, not even Eluned." Caitlin thought that was a prudent promise, for confiding in Eluned was the quickest way to get word out and about; it was her private conviction that Hugh's wife could not have kept a secret unless she was bound and gagged. But she said nothing, for even with Ellen she was circumspect, resolutely denying herself the dubious comfort of snide slurs and gibes, as much to safe-guard her own self-respect as to spare Hugh's feelings. "Caitlin, I would like you to have this length of topaz velvet. It would suit your coloring perfectly, and we still have a few days, can make it into a dazzling Christmas gown. No, lass, do not thank me, not until you've heard the bad news, too. You know that Rhys Wyndod has stayed over for the festivities. Goronwy will be coming back, as will Dai, and the Abbot of Aberconwy is expected, and so is Brother Gwilym and Tudur's son and numerous others . . . including Davydd and Elizabeth." Caitlin's fingers froze upon the velvet folds, then clenched into a small fist. "I suppose I ought not to be surprised," she said, "for he delights in thrusting himself into places where he is not wanted." "In truth," Ellen admitted, "I am no longer sure that is so. Llewelyn was rather vague about it, which leads me to wonder if this invitation might not be his doing. I doubt that there could ever be a true reconciliation between them, but having said that, I do sense something different when I see them together. I cannot pretend that I'd understand or approve if Llewelyn did choose to make peace with Davydd, but I would accept it, Caitlin, for his sake." Caitlin knew what was being asked, ever so subtly, without the risk of words, and she felt a flicker of envy, wishing she had just a portion of Ellen's tact. "So would I, Aunt Ellen," she said quietly, "so would I." Just then, the door swung open, letting in a rush of frigid air. "K is only me," Juliana said cheerfully. "But Eluned is on her way up, too. She wants you to meet her brother, Ellen." Eluned's brother was living, breathing proof that her beauty was no fluke, for Hywel ab lago was handsome enough to turn most female heads, and Ellen, Juliana, and Caitlin all eyed him appreciatively & Eluned made the introductions. But his polished courtesy was devoid of charm, for it was devoid of warmth, and he cut short the amenities with the brusque assurance of a man accustomed to getting his own way. "I am here, Madame," he said, "to take my sister home." 427 Ellen was surprised, for Hugh had said nothing to her of these plans. But she was heartily in favor of a Christmas visit to Eluned's fatuity' hoping this was an indication that they were finally thawing toward Hugh. "By all means," she said, and smiled at Eluned. "Take as much time as you like. Shall you be leaving as soon as Hugh gets back from Beddgelert?" Although the question was directed at Eluned, it was her brother v^ho answered. "You do not seem to understand, Madame. Eluned will not be returning. This marriage of hers was a great mistake. My sister sees that now, and she wants to end it." Ellen stared at them. "Eluned, I fear you have been misled. The process of dissolving a marriage is very lengthy, very expensive, and such pleas are rarely granted. The Church will not end a marriage. It will declare one void from the outset, but only if there existed a prior plight troth, kinship within the fourth degree, or the sort of spiritual consanguinity that results from acting as godparent. Eluned, you can claim none of those impediments, so how can you hope to end the marriage?" Hywel did not interrupt, heard Ellen out, but with obvious impatience. As soon as she was done, he said, "You are not one of us, Madame, so it is to be expected that you'd be ignorant of our ways. Whether the Church agrees or not is immaterial, for Welsh law provides a number of grounds for dissolving a marriage, one of which is mutual assent of the husband and wife. If the Englishman is as chivalrous as he would have us believe, he will do the decent thing, let my sister go." "I think you are the one who should go," Ellen said icily. "So far you've done all the talking. Now I would hear Eluned speak for herself. You may wait in the great hall whilst we talk." Hywel was furious, but he was not so foolhardy as to defy his Prince's wife. As soon as he had gone, Ellen swung about toward Caitlin. "What he said of Welsh law ... is it true?" "Yes," Caitlin said, "it is. A wife can divorce her husband if he brings his harlot under their roof, if he is incapable in bed, is stricken with leprosy, or ... Well, this is not the time for a lesson in Welsh law. But Eluned is quite within her rights as a Welshwoman in seeking to end her marriage." "I see," Ellen said grimly. "But is this what you truly want, Eluned? I know your family opposed this match. If they have put pressure upon you to disavow Hugh, you need only say so." Eluned had yet to meet Ellen's gaze. But now silky, sable lashes fluttered upward, revealing eyes of a remarkable lavender-blue. "It is n°t like that, my lady. Hywel and my other brothers have always been Protective of me, for I was the youngest and the only lass . . . like you. But they want only what is best for me. I ought to have heeded them 428 T ' 429 when they warned me that it was folly to wed an Englishman," she said, quite ingenuously, for her insults were always unintentional "Once I abandoned the pretense, admitted how miserable I was in this marriage, Hywel came to fetch me home." "I thought you loved Hugh." This from Juliana, who could no longer hold her indignation in check. "I thought I did," Eluned said simply. "Eluned, listen to me." Ellen often found herself talking to the girl in the overly patient tones one would use with a child, but now she was hard put to keep her anger from surfacing. "You have only been wed a brief while, little more than a year" "Seventeen months, my lady." "Seventeen months, then. But that is not very long, not in the life of a marriage. If you and Hugh commit yourselves anew to each other, I am sure you can find contentment together. Wait a while, do not do anything rash." "Wait till what, my lady? Till I get with child?" "I think Eluned is right," Caitlin said suddenly, ignoring the withering, warning look Ellen shot her way. "Marriage is a sacred trust to us, too, Aunt Ellen. We take it no less seriously than do other Christians. But we understand that men and women are flawed, often impetuous, not always steadfast. We can make mistakes, our needs can change. Why yoke a couple for life if they'd both rather be free of each other? No sensible person would drink from a salted well, but a marriage gone sour is just as poisoned, and our laws merely recognize the reality of that. In truth, I could never see the logic in the Church's insistence that marriage must last from the altar to the grave. Why is it that there is forgiveness for sins, but not for mistakes?" Eluned was favoring Caitlin with a dazzling smile, grateful to have an advocate who could plead her case so persuasively. Ellen was considerably less pleased with Caitlin, but her niece met her eyes with studied innocence. Turning back to Eluned, Ellen said abruptly, "And what of Hugh? Does he, too, want to end your marriage?" Eluned shook her head. "No ... he is being very stubborn, very English, with his talk of duty and honor and binding vows. I've tried to make him understand, my lady, truly I have." She sighed, looking/ for that moment, quite forlorn. "I thought . . . hoped that you might talk to Hugh, my lady, make him see it is the only way. Hywel has written him a letter, and if you could give it to him . . . ?" Ellen blinked. "Hywel wrote it?" "Well, I told him what I wanted to say. I do not know how to write myself." Eluned was eager to be gone, uncomfortably aware of Ellen s disapproval. Not sure how to extricate herself, she looked to Caitlin for guidance, and the other girl stepped forward, saying: "If you like, Eluned, I can help you pack?" "Yes, please." Eluned made a hasty, graceful curtsy to Ellen, looked apologetically at the stony-faced Juliana, and then said softly, "I want Hugh to be happy, too, my lady. He is a good man, and I wish him vvell. This is for the best, you'll see." Juliana had been seething, and as the door closed, she snatched up a cushion, flung it across the chamber. "That bitch," she said succinctly. Ellen watched glumly as her dog pounced on the cushion, began to drag it through the floor rushes. "I suppose we ought to be thanking God that Hugh no longer loves her. It will still leave a lasting scar, though. And the blow to his pride will not be the worst of it. I think he is bound to feel a secret sense of relief, and he's sure to be guilt-stricken over it. He's likely to forgive Eluned long ere he forgives himself. . . ." Juliana called Eluned another harsh name, rescued the cushion from Hiraeth. Ellen sat down on the settle, beckoned the disappointed dog up into her lap. She understood now why Llewelyn was so often at odds with the Bishops of Bangor and St Asaph; in no other Christian land was Church law subordinate to secular law, and the Church was never so zealous as in defense of its own prerogatives. But at the moment her concerns were personal, not political. "Poor Hugh," she said, and then, "Well, at least I know now why Caitlin has been balking every time we spoke of finding her a husband." "You think she truly expected this to happen, Ellen?" "She obviously had hopes that it might. That girl was much too knowledgeable about Welsh divorce law for it to be pure chance." As Juliana took this new complication in, she shook her head in dismay. "Hugh has enough on his plate at the moment, needs no more grief. Surely Caitlin must know that she could have no future with Hugh? your husband would never give his consent." "No," Ellen agreed sadly, "he would not. . . and he would be right. Hugh is very dear to me, but Caitlin is a daughter of the Welsh royal House, for illegitimacy counts for naught amongst Llewelyn's people. If she still has her heart set upon a landless English knight, she's going to get it broken, for certes." It was quiet then, as both women considered the multitude of troubles Eluned had inadvertently set loose upon them all. Ellen was the first to rebel. "No," she said, "this time I shall prove Amaury wrong. He swears I cannot keep from seeking trouble out, but for once I shall wait for it to find me, if indeed it can. Eluned might even be right, and '"is may well be for the best. Hugh will need time to mourn his marriage, 430 T 431 but at least he'll be free of Eluned. As for Caitlin, we'll just have to wait and watch. Hugh is the last man to dally with a girl both highborn and innocent. And I am no less confident that Caitlin would never willingly put Hugh in peril. So it may well be that we need do nothing at all Juliana." When Juliana did not reply, Ellen gave her a curious glance "You do not think so?" "What I think is that you've been raiding your hope coffer again," «. Juliana said wryly. "I know you seem to have hope in amazing abundance these days, but it might still be prudent to store some of it away for leaner times." Ellen grinned, putting up her hand to fend off Hiraeth's questing tongue. "I'll admit that my garden now grows hope in lavish profusion, leaving little room for anything else. I suppose it has squeezed out more practical plants like caution and common sense. Still, though, hope does not flourish in every garden, and I feel thankful that it has taken root in mine," she said lightly, beginning to laugh. "But then, I've proved myself to be a superior gardener, for am I not soon to harvest a genuine miracle?" ELIZABETH could not remember a colder winter. It had been a fortnight since the last snowfall, but the ground was still hidden under a treacherous glaze, snow packed-down and dirty where paths had been dug across the bailey, frozen in deep drifts wherever walls came together. The Christmas Eve sky was clear of clouds, but the stars glittered without warmth, piercing the blackness like scattered shards of ice. The cornparison was a natural one for Elizabeth to make, for ice had come to symbolize the worst of winter suffering. Davydd had told her of forest trails splattered with blood, of deer foundering in the snow, legs cut and gashed after breaking through the ice. Most rivers were frozen solid; the Thames had iced over all the way from Lambeth to Westminster, and five arches of London's great bridge had cracked under the weight of so much snow. Even the wind put her in mind of an icy blade, for it slashed and thrust at her as she scurried across the open space separating Dolwyddelan's hall and West Tower. Never had spring seemed so far away. Elizabeth's sons were almost invisible under the pile of blankets heaped upon their pallet. Although stacked kindling still fed the hearth's flames, the air was chill. Davydd would probably want to make lovfi once the revelries were done, but afterward she'd take their lads in*0 bed with them, where it was warm and snug. Their nurse dozed in a chair by the fire; Elizabeth tiptoed around her, bent over the boys. They were in familiar poses, creatures of habit even in sleep, Llelo sprawled oti his back, Owain curled up like a cat, head ducked down under the covers; she used to worry that he might somehow suffocate, and even n0w her eyes lingered upon his chest until reassured by its rhythmic fjse and fall. Her fingers brushed Llelo's cheek, gentle as a breath, and she carefully tucked Owain's stuffed dog into the crook of his arm before departing the chamber. She knew she'd done Ellen no kindness by bringing Llelo and Owain, and she was sorry for that. But she was not willing to be separated from them, for a mother's time with her sons was all too brief. The sons of English gentry were sent off to serve as pages at as young an age as seven. The Welsh were more flexible, but she knew their sons were often fostered in noble households, and she suspected that the time would come when Davydd would entrust Llelo into Llewelyn's keeping, to be raised at his court as Caitlin had been. And she would not object, for such a sojourn might one day make her Llelo Prince of Wales. But she would miss him with every breath she drew, fret that he was not eating as he ought, worry that he might be homesick or fevered or risking life and limb in the sort of rash foolhardiness little boys found so irresistible, for motherhood was both burden and blessing; once her sons were born, she'd realized that she would never again be free of fear. Slipping inconspicuously back into the great hall, Elizabeth was pleased to see that her absence seemed to have passed unnoticed, for she knew Davydd thought she coddled their sons. Although she deferred willingly to Davydd in most matters, she did not think he was all that reliable a judge of maternal behavior, for his own mother's affections had been doled out in unequal, sparing portions, with the lion's share going to Owain, her firstborn. Shedding her mantle, Elizabeth looked about the hall with keen interest. Candle light, scented evergreen, silver-stringed harps, lively carols, and later, a dalliance with Davydd: Elizabeth could not have have envisioned a more perfect Christmas Eve. She was still shivering, had started toward the hearth when an arm snaked suddenly about her waist and a familiar voice breathed against her ear, "You're lucky I have such a trusting nature, or I might have suspected you of sneaking out of the hall to meet a lover." Elizabeth smiled sheepishly. "I just wanted to make sure the lads w^re settled down for the night, love. Ah, Davydd, you should have seen them; they looked so sweet, almost angelic." "So they were asleep, then?" Davydd murmured, and Elizabeth laughed, let him lead her over to the center hearth. "I did not miss the surprise, did I?" Davydd looked puzzled. "What surprise?" "It might be nothing; I could be wrong. But I've been watching Ellen 434 "If that is what women want, would it not be easier just to buy a dog? I admit Hugh does look rather pitiful, but let's spare a few crumbs of sympathy for the runaway wife. I'd wager that life with St Hugh was about as much fun as a Lenten fast. The poor lass probably never got a good nighf s sleep, for do haloes not glow in the dark?" Elizabeth could not help laughing. "You have such a wicked tongue!" He arched a brow, gave her so suggestive a look that color rose in her cheeks, much to his amusement. "I cannot believe," he said, "that I can still make you blush! Anyone would think you were still a virgin maid instead of a wife almost five years wed." Elizabeth was unperturbed, both by her blushing and his teasing; she sometimes feigned a modesty she'd long ago outgrown, simply because she knew it beguiled Davydd. "I do not often feel like a wife," she confessed, "more like an unrepentant sinner sharing her bed with a wayward, wanton lover, never knowing if he'll still be there in the morning." She'd revealed more than she realized, but Davydd was so pleased with the compliment that he never noticed. Taking her hand, he pressed a hot kiss into her palm, then ushered her across the hall. Elizabeth tensed once she saw that he meant to intercept Hugh and Caitlin. But Hugh looked so despondent that Davydd could not bring himself to joke at the Englishman's expense, and to Elizabeth's relief, he soon showed that he was on his good behavior, deftly piloting the conversation away from the shoals of marriage, divorce, and flighty, fickle If 435 wives. There was only one awkward moment, occurring as Hugh went to flag down a passing servant and bring them back wine. Davydd took advantage of his brief absence to subject his daughter to a discerning scrutiny. "You are very loyal, Caitlin. I hope that you are also prudent." Caitlin had been unexpectedly cordialso far. But now her eyes narrowed, and her chin jutted up, surprising Elizabeth by how much she suddenly looked like Davydd in one of his tempers. Before she could respond, though, people began to turn toward the dais, where Llewelyn was signaling for silence. "My chaplain has informed me that time is drawing nigh for the Midnight Mass." Llewelyn paused; for a moment his eyes sought out Ellen, standing by the steps of the dais. "Ere we depart for the chapel/ I have something to say. Tonight, when you give thanks to the Almighty for His bounty and divine mercy, for giving us His Only Begotten Son that we might have life everlasting, I ask you to pray, too, for the health of my beloved wife and the child she carries." There were a few seconds of silence, no more than that, and then* pandemonium. Elizabeth spoke very little Welsh, not enough to folio*' tfjiat Llewelyn had said. But she understood almost at once, for the joy surging through the hall needed no translation. Spinning around, cat "I was right, then, about that man?" ' v "Yes. He brought me a right strange story, gotten from a cousin dee-j? ^^^^r'^^P in his cups. Mayhap it was the mead talking, mayhap not. But the man rv- ^ rdsn was boasting that he knew a valuable secret, one that the English wox-oUtf-^,-^*-*011^ pay well to hear, that plans were being laid to steal lead from the K^ ^zf se King'8 mine at Flynt." H; Ellen understood the significance of that at once, for dinner-table talk_ j^j .--^c-jLJk in the de Montfort household had focused more often than not upon sieg^esjw ^^^-ges, wars, and weaponry. "Lead for mangonels and trebuchets," she saica, vfT ~^*^*i&, and Llewelyn nodded. "Did this braggart reveal who was planning the t5j ^~ se theft?" -» "Indeed, he did," Llewelyn said, with a twisted, mirthless smile. "Me." - "What? I do not understand!" - "Neither did I, lass ... at first. But what better way to reassure womolij,^.^-crould-be rebels than to make the rising mine? The irony of it is that is wh~y yr_*^-»-^'riy our good Samaritan rode for Llanfaes in such haste, to warn me tha-t }~_^*st mY plans were being put in peril by his cousin's bragging. Did I me:«^*nt=.^^r:«*ntion yet that this cousin is a man of Powys, having lived all his life in fclufy t* the commote of Maelor Cymraeg?" ~ Ellen gasped. "Llewelyn Fychan's lands," she said, and again he nodak^-^c^a'dded grimly. "I remember you telling me that he was one of the lords mo> s»«r^ ^>scast stubbornly set upon war. But would he dare to defy you, Llewelyn? Wc^tmj^-^c^ oould he dare to make use of your name like this?" "Not if left to his own devices. He does not lack for courage, but neL-tt~tj;.__=s*-i*t"ither is he a man to seize the moment. If he truly is laying plans for a reti^ .f ^a-rebellion against the English Crown, we can be sure he is following, not H Jc^»1 not H },-?* *»t leading." "Who, then? Rhys Wyndod?" "He is a more likely suspect than Llewelyn Fychan. But I do not thi^olft,_-»i3^*nk ne'cl dare to defy me like this, either, not after our December me^-«*93 ^oseting at Dolwyddelan." He looked at her somberly, the strain and exii^fk^J-vrfhaustion showing clearly now in his face. "In truth, Ellen, I can think of ^m<> ^^ ^^ only one man wno would." Ellen swallowed. Jesus God. "Your brother?" "Who else? I found myself remembering something at dinner tonij^lwk- 4«iSnt- MY cousin of Powys was one of the first Welsh lords to surrender to -tH} .y ** the English Crown, within weeks after Edward declared war upon us_ O ^, . . Can you guess who accepted his surrender, who most likely talked him nj^jx-an into it?" T 445 "Davydd," Ellen whispered. Dear God Above, no, not now sudden pallor alarmed Llewelyn. He reached out swiftly, drew he his arms. "You must not be afraid, cariad. If these are indeed straws i ^rjnd, I'll soon know for certes. I've already taken measures to deal this, have summoned Madog Goch to Llanfaes, and sent men tc out more about that theft at the Flynt mine. If need be, I'll con Davydd with my suspicions, too. I cannot do that yet, beloved without proof that he is the cat amongst the pigeons. But this I s to you, that if something is afoot, I'll put a stop to it. I'll not le man put at risk what I've worked all my life to protect. And I'll I harm come to you or our son. I promise you that, Ellen," he said kissed her gently upon the mouth. "Now I want you to make a prc in return, that you'll put this from your mind, that you'll not let peace be poisoned by shadows and suspicions." Ellen entwined her fingers in his. "I promise," she said, and smiled at each other, as if they did not know she lied. 30 LLANFAES, WALES March 1282 DY midnight, the storm had spent its fury, last echoes of unseasonal thunder were dying away in the distance, the wind no longer banged relentlessly against creaking shutters or r°of shingles spiraling up into the black, cloud-choked sky. ( doaked the Welsh countryside, and soon, so did sleep. But for Llewelyn, sleep was becoming harder and harder to c ^d then, to keep. He'd dozed fitfully, jerking awake at every t derclap. Even after the storm passed over, he tossed and turned vely, unable to shut out the sounds ricocheting about in his head "istinctive inner voices that whispered of dire forebodings, that arj 444 since Candlemas. That seemed more than odd. Call it a sixth sense if you will, but it is one I've come to trust. Still, though, I had nothing but suspicions . . . until today." "I was right, then, about that man?" "Yes. He brought me a right strange story, gotten from a cousin deep in his cups. Mayhap it was the mead talking, mayhap not. But the man was boasting that he knew a valuable secret, one that the English would pay well to hear, that plans were being laid to steal lead from the King's mine at Flynt." Ellen understood the significance of that at once, for dinner-table talk in the de Montfort household had focused more often than not upon sieges, wars, and weaponry. "Lead for mangonels and trebuchets," she said, and Llewelyn nodded. "Did this braggart reveal who was planning the theft?" "Indeed, he did," Llewelyn said, with a twisted, mirthless smile. "Me." "What? I do not understand!" "Neither did I, lass ... at first. But what better way to reassure would-be rebels than to make the rising mine? The irony of it is that is why our good Samaritan rode for Llanfaes in such haste, to warn me that my plans were being put in peril by his cousin's bragging. Did I mention yet that this cousin is a man of Powys, having lived all his life in the commote of Maelor Cymraeg?" Ellen gasped. "Llewelyn Fychan's lands," she said, and again he nodded grimly. "I remember you telling me that he was one of the lords most stubbornly set upon war. But would he dare to defy you, Llewelyn? Would he dare to make use of your name like this?" "Not if left to his own devices. He does not lack for courage, but neither is he a man to seize the moment. If he truly is laying plans for a rebellion against the English Crown, we can be sure he is following, not leading." "Who, then? Rhys Wyndod?" "He is a more likely suspect than Llewelyn Fychan. But I do not think he'd dare to defy me like this, either, not after our December meeting at Dolwyddelan." He looked at her somberly, the strain and exhaustion showing clearly now in his face. "In truth, Ellen, I can think of only one man who would." Ellen swallowed. Jesus God. "Your brother?" "Who else? I found myself remembering something at dinner tonight. My cousin of Powys was one of the first Welsh lords to surrender to the English Crown, within weeks after Edward declared war upon us. Can you guess who accepted his surrender, who most likely talked him into it?" 445 "Davydd," Ellen whispered. Dear God Above, no, not now. Her sadden pallor alarmed Llewelyn. He reached out swiftly, drew her into his arms. "You must not be afraid, cariad. If these are indeed straws in the vvjnd, I'll soon know for certes. I've already taken measures to deal with this, have summoned Madog Goch to Llanfaes, and sent men to find out more about that theft at the Flynt mine. If need be, I'll confront Pavydd with my suspicions, too. I cannot do that yet, beloved, not without proof that he is the cat amongst the pigeons. But this I swear to you, that if something is afoot, I'll put a stop to it. I'll not let any man put at risk what I've worked all my life to protect. And I'll let no harm come to you or our son. I promise you that, Ellen," he said, and Idssed her gently upon the mouth. "Now I want you to make a promise in return, that you'll put this from your mind, that you'll not let your peace be poisoned by shadows and suspicions." Ellen entwined her fingers in his. "I promise," she said, and they smiled at each other, as if they did not know she lied. 30 LLANFAES, WALES March 1282 DY midnight, the storm had spent its fury. The last echoes of unseasonal thunder were dying away in the distance, and the wind no longer banged relentlessly against creaking shutters or sent r°of shingles spiraling up into the black, cloud-choked sky. Quiet doaked the Welsh countryside, and soon, so did sleep. But for Llewelyn, sleep was becoming harder and harder to catch, and then, to keep. He'd dozed fitfully, jerking awake at every thunderclap. Even after the storm passed over, he tossed and turned res"Vefy, unable to shut out the sounds ricocheting about in his head, the instinctive inner voices that whispered of dire forebodings, that argued 446 f for action. Dawn was still three hours away when he made the decision to yield to them. It had been two days since he'd learned of the planned theft at the Flynt mine. Two days since he'd sent for his constable, Madog Goch. But he could wait no longer; already his nerves were stretched as taut as a hide staked out for scraping. Madog Goch was not the only key to this puzzle. Llewelyn Fychan would also have the answers he sought, and he meant to have them with no more delay. He had no doubts whatsoever that in any clash of wills with his cousin, he would prevail. If only it were not a holy day, he'd leave at first light. But this dawning Sunday was one of the most sacred on the Church calendar. Yew and willow would be blessed in lieu of palm, and triumphantly borne round churchyards throughout England and Wales, and the rood, veiled during this bleak season of penitence and self-denial, would be revealed for the eyes of the faithful, from morning Mass till evensong. Lent was at last ending. Holy Week was upon them, and the time for rejoicing was nigh. No, he could not ride out on Palm Sunday, for then Ellen would know how truly troubled he was. He shifted so he could see his wife's face. Her breathing was even, peaceful; he could only hope that so were her dreams. Carefully lifting the corner of the sheet, he let his eyes wander over her body, lingering upon her swollen belly. As he watched, he saw the skin ripple, like the surface of a pond, and he smiled, thinking Bran was wakeful, too, this night. The wonder of it had yet to fade, that he could actually see his son moving within Ellen's womb. He'd always assumed that intimacy was to be found in bed. But now he knew better. Naked bodies could entwine like ivy and oak without souls ever touching; he'd coupled with women whose names he could not even remember afterward. There could be no greater intimacy than this, watching as his wife grew large with child, nurturing within her body a life sprung from his seed. How could men take such a marvel for granted? Why seek out miracles and yearn after holy relics when God's greatest blessing was bestowed so close to home? Ellen stirred in her sleep and he drew the coverlets up over her shoulders, gently extricated her long night plait from under his arm. In past wars with the Crown, he'd feared defeat, not death. It had been easy enough to say "Thy Will be done" when his life alone was at stake. But now the scales were out of balance, and he found himself haunted by the greatest dread of all, the fear of those who loved. If he died fighting the English King, what would befall his wife and son? Eventually, though, his exhaustion muffled his internal voices, and he slept. When he awoke again, the room was still dark, he'd lost all sense of time, and his name was being whispered in an urgent under- 447 tone. Opening his eyes, he saw a worried face peering through the bed hangings. "Goronwy ap Heilyn has just ridden in, my lord, insists upon seeing you straightaway" "What time is it?" "Very early, my lord, a good two hours yet till dawn. But he swore by all the saints that his news could not wait." "Tell him," Llewelyn said softly, "that I'll meet him in the great hall after I dress" "Llewelyn." Ellen's hand slid along his arm. "I am awake," she said, "and I would hear, too, what brought Goronwy to you at such an ill-omened hour ... if I may?" He was deceived neither by her quiet question nor her calm demeanor, could gauge in her eyes the depths of her fear. "Fetch Goronwy here," he said, and when Goronwy was ushered into the bedchamber, he dispelled the younger man's doubts with a brusque, "You may speak freely in front of my wife." Goronwy was mantled in wet wool, unshaven, bleary-eyed. One glance at him was enough to confirm Llewelyn's suspicions, that he'd ridden all night to bring his "news that could not wait." He made a perfunctory obeisance, politely averted his gaze from his lord's lady, even though Ellen had the coverlets drawn up to her chin, and said, without any preamble whatsoever, "This past week your brother sought me out, swore me to secrecy, and then confided that he and your kinsmen in Powys and Ceredigion were soon to rise up against the English King. He said he knew how raw my own grievances were, and he thought I deserved a chance to throw my lot in with them." "What did you tell him?" "The truth, that my heart would be with them, but I could not break faith with my Prince." Goronwy was trembling with fatigue and cold, for although the rain had ended hours ago, he was soaked to the skin. Without waiting for Llewelyn's permission, he slumped down upon the closest stool. "For three days now, I've been at war with myself, and it was not until yesterday that I knew what I must do. I never thought I'd be one for disavowing my sworn oath, but I came to understand that Id rather betray my honor than betray you, my lord." "You've served Wales well this day," Llewelyn said, no more than that, but for a man chary of praise, sparing with accolades, it spoke volumes, and Goronwy flushed with pleasure. "This rising, ^oronwy . . . can you tell me when or where?" "Alas, no, my lord. Only that Davydd said 'soon.' " There was a bell-rope by the bed. Llewelyn grapsed it, yanked, and when a servant appeared, he gave terse instructions to rouse the cooks, 44S bestir the men asleep in the hall, and saddle every horse in the stables After that, he sent Goronwy off to the hall under orders to eat a hearty breakfast and steal an hour^s sleep if he could. And then, he was once again alone with his wife. They looked at each other in silence. Llewelyn covered her hand with his own. "I'll put a stop to it," he said, in what was both a prayer and a promise, and Ellen nodded somberly. "My lord husband," she said, "go with God." LLEWELYN delayed his departure just long enough to gather as many men to his banners as he could on such brief notice. He had, of course, his teulu, the men of his household guard, and those of his Seneschal, as well, for Dai was already at Llanfaes, having been summoned as soon as Llewelyn's first suspicions had begun to smolder. Goronwy, too, had brought an armed escort of his own, and as word spread, the island tenants of Llewelyn's desmesne manors hastened to buckle their scabbards, to saddle their horses. The friary church bells had not yet rung for Morrow Mass as Llewelyn spurred his stallion into the waters of the narrow, perilous strait that separated Mon from the Welsh mainland. They headed east at first, following the coast until they reached the Conwy estuary. Spurning the abbey ferry as too slow, they forded the river at Cymryd, then swung inland. Goronwy guessed that they had at least thirty miles to cover, over roads still muddy in stretches. For a time, too, they were battling against a stiff headwind. But Llewelyn's unspoken urgency had communicated itself to his men, and every last one of them was determined to ride until he could no longer stay in the saddle. The miles and hours blurred behind them. By late afternoon, they had reached Davydd's lands in Rhufoniog, and the sky was still streaked with fading light as Dinbych Castle came into view. Dinbych was a formidable presence, set upon a high hill, the chief jewel in Davydd's crown. Smoke curled up from chimneys, lights flickered at the upper windows of the apsidal towers, and armed men patrolled the walkways of the outer curtain walls. Llewelyn exchanged grim looks with Dai and Goronwy, sharing the same thought, that this was a castle garrisoned for war. For a moment, he wondered if Davydd would dare to deny him entry. But he soon saw there was no need even to demand admittance, for the drawbridge was coming down, the barbican going up. Llewelyn swiftly divided his men, taking with him enough to discourage treachery, leaving some behind to bear witness as a further precaution. His banner was known on sight throughout Wales; he passed without challenge into the heart of his brother's citadel- T 449 As they strode into the great hall, they were greeted not by Davydd, though, but by his wife. Elizabeth seemed unnerved by their arrival, for her smile was brittle, her welcome overly effusive. The tension in the hall had affected her small son, too. Llelo had always struck Llewelyn as a cocky, inquisitive child. Yet now he hung back at their approach, shadowing his mother's footsteps, a little fist tightly entwined in the folds of her skirt. "Elizabeth, I cannot afford the indulgence of good manners, not this day," Llewelyn said abruptly, cutting off her prolonged queries about Ellen's health. "I must speak with Davydd straightaway." "He is not here, Llewelyn." "Where is he?" Elizabeth averted her eyes. She had no qualms about lying to a man she mistrusted, but she did not want to lie to Llewelyn, and her reluctance showed in her face. Llewelyn stepped forward, caught her hand in his. "Tell me where he is, Elizabeth. You must not lie to me, lass. There is far too much at stake for lies." "So you know," she said softly. "And you are enraged. Davydd said you would be. But you must not think he was plotting against you, Llewelyn, not this time. He wants you at his side, God's truth, he does. He told me so, even quoted me a Welsh proverb, that stronger is the bowstring twisted than single ..." She had rehearsed an eloquent plea upon her husband's behalf, but she forgot it now as she gazed up into Llewelyn's face. "Davydd said ... he said this war would be unlike the last one, for this time the Welsh would be united against the English. Llewelyn ... he is right? This is a war the Welsh can win?" Llewelyn's hand tightened upon hers. "Tell me where he is, Elizabeth, ere it is too late." Elizabeth's mouth had gone dry. "It is already too late, Llewelyn. Hawarden Castle has been under siege for hours . . ." Llewelyn sucked in his breath; behind him, he heard someone swear. "Davydd began his war today? On Palm Sunday?" He sounded so incredulous that Elizabeth flushed. But she was too loyal to admit how distressed she was by Davydd's sacrilegious strategy. "Davydd said . . . said it was the best time to launch an attack, for they'd never be expecting it, not on such a holy day ..." She faltered for a foment. "I know how sinful that must sound, but Davydd explained to me about a Church doctrine called the 'just war.' He said that a just WM could be waged even during God's Truce" But Llewelyn was no longer listening. He was half-way to the door. c*s 450 V HA WARDEN Castle was less than twenty miles from Dinbych, but their horses were winded and lathered, had to be rested and watered and cooled down. Darkness had fallen by the time their journey was nearing its end. They'd ridden, for the most part, in a disquieted silence Goronwy was berating himself for letting Davydd outwit him so easily How well Davydd had known him, not disclosing his plot until the eleventh hour, until it would too be late for Llewelyn to thwart it. Dai was still grappling with his disbelief, his outraged piety. Battles were sometimes fought on holy days. He knew it was not always practicable to observe God's Truce in the midst of war. Dai was deeply shocked, though, by this deliberate, calculated decision to shed blood on so blessed a Sunday. Even from Davydd, he'd not have expected such profane cynicism. Llewelyn had been taken aback, too, by Davydd's willingness to exploit canon law, perverting men's faith into a weapon to be used against them. But his own flawed judgment troubled him more than Davydd's brazen breach of God's Truce. What a fool he'd been, for he'd almost begun to believe that his brother's betrayals were in the past. And as they spurred their horses toward Hawarden, there rode with them an unseen spectre, the looming shadow of Davydd's war. The sun had set more than an hour ago, but there was an odd glow along the horizon. Halting his men, Llewelyn dispatched a scout to investigate. The man was soon back. "Well?" Llewelyn demanded tensely, still holding to a shredded hope, that Elizabeth might be wrong. "Is there a fire ahead? Is Hawarden under siege?" "Nay, my lord. The siege is over, the castle fallen!" LLEWELYN had a very personal knowledge of Hawarden, for he'd destroyed the castle more than fifteen years ago, only to see it rebuilt in defiance of treaty terms. Boasting a large, circular stone keep situated upon a steep motte, its curtain wall was bolstered by a deep double ditch, and it had acted as a magnet for English settlers from nearby Cheshire. Although Hawarden had been granted no borough charter, houses had soon sprung up under the castle's imposing silhouette, like small pilot fish shadowing a shark. But the settlers had paid a high price for their reliance upon English might. Their thatched roofs and timbered beams had been easy targets for Welsh fire arrows, and all that remained now of those clustered cottages were smoldering shells, the unlucky occupants either having fled or lying dead within the smoking ruins. Llewelyn saw no siege engines, other than a lone mangonel, for Davydd had not needed them, gambling, instead, upon the lethal I 452 weapon of stealth, trusting to the storm and darkness to camouflage his army's approach. Scaling ladders leaned against the curtain walls, and the drawbridge was down. The door to the gatehouse stood wide open, still intact, for they'd not needed to take a battering ram to it. The first intruders over the wall had swiftly overpowered the unsuspecting sentries, then opened the gates. The guards posted now at intervals along the walls were Welsh, and they raised no outcry at sight of Llewelyn. They showed neither surprise nor alarm at their Prince's sudden appearance before the castle walls, and Llewelyn wondered bitterly just what they'd been told by Davydd. Dispatching some of his men to wait, as at Dinbych, he led the others forward, over the drawbridge and on into the bailey of the captured castle. There they abruptly reined in their mounts, transfixed by the scene that met their eyes, for it was bloody enough to startle even men well inured to violent death. Bodies were everywhere, sprawled in doorways, propped against walls, crumpled in the trampled grass of the inner bailey. Some wore chain mail, others just the clothes they'd snatched up as they rolled out of bed in those first chaotic, panicked moments of the assault. A whimpering dog cowered by the body of a youth with bloodied yellow hair and a shattered skull. Another corpse crouched, half-hidden, behind a horse trough, a spear protruding from his chest. Wherever Llewelyn looked, he saw bodies, so many he soon lost count. The stench of death overhung the bailey, a stench once encountered, never forgottenthe acrid odor of smoke mingling with the smell of pooled blood and the stink of voided bowels and bladders. "Christ Jesus," Goronwy said hoarsely, "we've ridden into a charnel house!" Llewelyn nodded, glanced then at the others, battle-seasoned soldiers who, nevertheless, could not hide their surprise, for although it was not unheard-of to put an enemy garrison to the sword, it was not a commonplace, either. SUMMONED by one of his men, Davydd approached the hearth, stood looking down at the man shivering upon a wooden bench. Roger Clifford's fear and hatred had ebbed away in the hours since their last confrontation. Now his flickering eyelids, contorted mouth, and clenched fists testified to pain, not defiance. "See, my lord? He's hurt worse than we first thought. What would you have us do?" Davydd gazed impassively upon Clifford's blanched face, noting 'he profuse sweating, the trickle of blood oozing from a bitten lip, the rasping sound he made as he gulped for air. He was quite unmoved by 452 the other man's suffering; what pity had Clifford ever shown the Welsh? "I'll tell you what I'd like to do, Brychan, hang the whoreson from the rafters in his own great hall. But his day of reckoning must wait, for he might be of some use alive. Tend to his wounds ere he bleeds to death." "What ought we to do with the chaplain, my lord? He's so scared and" It sounded as if he'd suddenly swallowed his own tongue. Davydd * glanced up, curious, and saw that Brychan was staring over his shoulder. Turning quickly, he saw his brother standing in the doorway, flanked by Goronwy and Dai. He was surprised, but their confrontation was inevitable, and might as well be now as later. Moreover, he was not displeased that Llewelyn should arrive in time to witness the fall of the English fortress. Taking a castle like Hawarden in a matter of hours was a feat any battle commander might envy, even Llewelyn. Aye, let Llewelyn see for himself what his younger brother could accomplish on his own, let Llewelyn see that his was not the only voice to be heeded in Wales. "You're just in time, Llewelyn. I've been trying to decide if I ought to make Clifford a hostage ... or a corpse. Which do you fancy?" Llewelyn did not even glance toward the captive Englishman, kept his eyes riveted upon Davydd's face. "I would talk with younow," he said, and hardly recognized the voice as his, so husky with fatigue was it, so slurred with rage, for his fury had been burning down to bedrock despairuntil he'd reached Hawarden, until he saw what Davydd had wrought for Wales. Davydd had been braced for Llewelyn's anger, and was prepared to appease it. But he still found himself bridling at his brother's peremptory tone, for he invariably reacted badly to commands, especially Llewelyn's. "I'm rather busy at the moment, Brother. You have noticed, I assume, that I've just captured an English castle? Mayhap later" "It matters little to me whether there are witnesses or not. It might matter to you." It did, and Davydd gave in with as much grace as he could muster up for the benefit of their audience. "That door over there, Brychan . . . where does it lead?" "To the chapel, my lord." "Perfect," Davydd said, stepping aside with exaggerated deferen so Llewelyn could precede him. He was well aware how foolhardy was to jest with a man who had such reason for rage, but still he cow n keep from adding wryly, "Quite convenient, too, for the survivor seek absolution on the spot." It was an ill-advised joke, and a moment later, turned very 453 indeed, for Llewelyn slammed the chapel door shut, shoved him roughly back against it. "I ought to kill you now, right where you stand!" The words themselves did not trouble Davydd unduly, for he often said things he did not mean. What sobered him so swiftly was the look upon his brother's face, and the fact that Llewelyn's hand had dropped to the hilt of his sword. Wrenching free, he snapped, "You can try!" The chapel had been ransacked by Davydd's men, the altar overturned, prayer cushions slashed open and strewn about the floor rushes, the candlesticks and chalices taken for use in Welsh churches. A rushlight still burned in a wall sconce, casting an eerie, flickering light upon the chapel debris, upon the taut, shadowed faces of the two men. Davydd was the first to recover his composure, to remember the need for conciliation. "I knew you'd be wroth, Llewelyn, and I do not begrudge your anger, but" "Do you not, by God? How magnanimous of you!" "Will you at least hear me out?" Davydd was growing impatient again; playing the penitent was not a role that came easily to him. "I assume you do want to know why I" "The whys and wherefores count for naught. Words always come easily to you, feathers on the wind. But all that matters now is this" With a sweeping gesture that encompassed the devastation that lay beyond the chapel walls. "The destruction you have loosed upon us!" "Those are English bodies out in the bailey, Llewelyn, and this blood on my sword," Davydd said hotly, jerking his blade half-way out of its scabbard, "is English, not Welsh!" "Today the dying was done by the English. But what of the morrow? Or do you expect Edward to surrender because you captured one castle in the middle of the night? Christ, Davydd, do you not realize what you've done? Almost I might believe you possessed, or in the pay of the English Crown, for you have played right into Edward's hands! Damn you to Hell, you knew better! You are no fool, are too clever by half. And you were at Dolwyddelan, you heard me give my reasons why we must wait" "Ah, yes, I heard your reasons: we all did. But did it ever occur to you that we might not agree with them? No, of course not, for you gave "s *e Gospel according to the Lord God Llewelyn, and what more n°uld we ask than that? Well, I tried to tell you then, and I tell you 'e°Th~that y°U are Wron8- Delav accomplishes nothing, it but serves to the English entrench themselves even further in Wales." East And What did y°U accomPlish this day? You began a war at "^de, thus giving Edward all spring and summer in which to 454 quell the rising, giving him six months or more ere he need worry about fighting a war during a Welsh winter. You chose a day sure to outrage the Pope, the Church, and all of Christ's faithful, and you struck at a time when Edward was at Devizes, less than two days' ride from the Welsh border, when just a few months hence, he'd have been in France!" "You can never see any point of view but your own, can you? Because you do not want war with England, any man who argues otherwise must be crazed or an English pawn! I suggest, my lord Prince, that you scrutinize your own motives ere you be so quick to cast aspersions upon the motives of other men!" "Just what does that mean?" "That your reasons for seeking to stave off war were not all political, were personal, too. You're not going to like what I'm about to say, but it needs to be said. You're past fifty, you've got a young wife who dotes on you like you're the Lord Christ come down to earth again, and at long last, there is a loaf in the oven. I do not mean that you should not be gladdened by Ellen's pregnancy. How could you not be? But you've let this babe shackle you to the nursery at a time when your people have need of you on the battlefield. Can you deny it, Llewelyn? Can you in all honesty tell me that you'd still be so loath to challenge Edward if there were no child?" "I think it must be a remarkable child, indeed, who can act both as my anchor and your goad!" "You're talking in riddles!" "Am I? I think not. For fifteen years or more, you expected to be my heir. Even after you became impatient enough to give murder a try, you still thought to claim my crown, for who would deny your right once I was dead? Not Owain, and for certes, not Rhodri. But if I should ever have a son . . . Are you going to tell me they are unrelated happenings, connected by pure chance, my wife's pregnancy and your sudden haste to take the field against England? When did you decide upon a spring campaign, Davyddat Dolwyddelan on Christmas Eve?" "No! The one had naught to do with the other!" "You cannot stop lying, can you? Even to yourself!" "I'll say this once more, and only once. You were not the target, not this time. Whatever mistakes I've made in the past, I know full well who the enemy is. Not you, Llewelyn . . . Edward!" Davydd spat out the English King's name as if it were a curse, and striding to the window, jerked back the shutters. "Those bodies down in the bailey . . . you saw them?" "They were hard to miss." 455 "Jesii, how quick you are to judge! I did not give the command to spare none. I would have, but there was no need for it. For nigh on gve years, my men have been cheated and mocked and treated like aliens, like intruders in their own homeland. They had years of abuse to avenge, avenge it they did, and who can blame them? For certes, not jne. That is what we should be discussing, Llewelyn, not our rivalry their rage. This is not my war, it is theirs, and we both know it. I may have been the one to strike the first spark, but flint cannot ignite without tinder. The kindling had to be there, awaiting that spark, and it was, in abundant measure." Llewelyn was silent. He had stepped into the wavering range of the rushlight, and such exhaustion showed now in his face that Davydd could almost believe he was bleeding from a hidden wound. But the hollowed dark eyes threw back the light like splinters of ice; they held such a glazed, unforgiving glitter that Davydd felt a stirring sense of disquiet. Llewelyn was proving to be harder to placate than he'd expected. "Who else, Davydd? Who helped you to stoke this fire?" Davydd was quite willing to reveal the rest, for he was proud of the breadth and reach of his conspiracy, a masterwork of timing and forethought and clandestine communication. "Our cousins in Powys were my first converts. Llewelyn Fychan and his brothers and your constable, Madog Goch, were to assault Oswestry this morn, to coincide with my attack upon Ha warden. Gruffydd ap Maredudd and the men of Ceredigion are allies, too. We came up with a strategy for taking the King's castle at Aberystwyth, and he'll soon put it to the test. Rhys Wyndod wanted to throw in with us, but not without you. Once he hears that you are now with us, he'll be right eager" "What makes you think I am willing to fight your war?" Davydd blinked. "You cannot be serious," he said warily. "Of course you'll be with us. That was always part of the plan." "Your plan, not mine." Davydd moved hastily from the window. "You do not mean that, Llewelyn. Blame me if you will, but we cannot win this war without you!" Llewelyn did not answer. Davydd's words hung in the air between them, even as Llewelyn turned away. As Davydd watched in disbelief, he walked out and did not look back. BUT why? Why must you involve yourself in this madness? Davydd °egan this war, not you. Let him be the one to fight it!" "Ellen, I cannot do that. On the ride back from Hawarden, I sought 456 to convince myself that I could, but I knew better, knew I had no choice but to make Davydd's war mine." Llewelyn silenced her protest then by grasping her shoulders, compelling her to look up into his face. "My love, you must listen," he said. "I have sworn allegiance and fealty to Edward as my King and liege lord. Once he learns that Wales is in rebellion, he will summon his vassals to put down this rising, and he will expect me to be amongst them. English law gives him that right, and he will exercise it. But do you truly think I could answer that summons? That I could fight with Edward against my own people?" Ellen's throat had closed up. She shook her head mutely, leaned for a moment within his embrace, resting her cheek against his chest. "No," she said, almost inaudibly, "of course you could not. . ." Llewelyn held her close for a heartbeat or two. "You'd best sit down," he said, thinking that Davydd deserved damnation for this alone, for the look on his wife's face. His solicitude usually amused her, for she'd been unable to convince him that a pregnant woman was not made of gossamer and glass, likely to break if breathed upon. Now, though, she needed his support, and let him lead her toward a chair. "What if Edward did not summon you to aid him, Llewelyn? Surely he'd rather have you remain neutral than allied against him. If he could be made to see what he risked, mayhap he'd be willing to let you be ..." "He would not, lass. Even if he did, how could I stand aloof whilst Wales went up in flames? If I played no part in the war, and the Welsh lost, they would blame me for that lossjustly so. And if Davydd somehow managed to defeat Edward, who, then, would have the better claim to be Prince of Wales? Do you not see how much is at stake? A lifetime's travail and the legacy I would leave my son . . . mayhap even the survival of Wales. For if Edward wins this war" He stopped, looked sharply down into her averted face. "Ah, Ellen, do not weep," he entreated, "lest you break my heart. I know how much you fear for our child, but you must be strong, you must try to understand. Cariad, I cannot fight you and Edward both." "I do understand," she whispered. "That is why I weep, because you are right. This war must be won, and you are the one man who can win it. I'll not deny that I am afraid. But I have faith in you, faith in the Almighty, and I know you will prevail." Llewelyn tilted her face up to his, kissed her tears, and then her mouth, with sudden urgency, with passion indistinguishable from despair. "I promise you," he said, "that I'll be with you when our babe is born." He left her then, as late as it was, for he had much still to do befoi* he could sleep. She knew his writs would soon be going out across 457 Wales, summoning men to fight the English King. To fight his brother's battle, she thought, dry-eyed now, bitter beyond words, for never had she hated anyone so much as she hated Davydd ap Gruffydd at that moment. She supposed she ought to go to the chapel, offer up prayers for her husband, her son, and Wales. But she could not find the energy to move from the chamber, from the chair. "How did you do it, Mama?" she murmured. "During that last dreadful year, you never once lost faith, you never begged Papa to seek safety in France. You never asked him to choose between his honor and his life. Where did you get the strength?" She paused, then, almost as if she were expecting a ghostly response. She already knew the answer, though. Her mother had never doubted that Simon would win. How often she'd told him what Ellen had said to Llewelyn just moments ago, that right would triumph justice would prevail. "But you truly believed it, Mama," Ellen said softlv "whilst I ... I lied. . . ." y/ THE Wiltshire castle of Devizes had long been a favorite fortress of the English Crown. Situated on a hillside just west of the town, it possessed spacious living accommodations, formidable defenses, and the most powerful lure of all, a pallisaded deer park. It was at Devizes that Edward had planned to celebrate Easter, and it was at Devizes that he learned of the Palm Sunday attack upon Hawarden Castle and the town of Oswestry. April was an unreliable escort, heralding spring's approach one day signaling its retreat the next. The sun seemed to have caught the same contagion^ For more than a week now, its appearances were hesitant, fltrul, each flash of blue sky soon clouding over, every sunlit interlude Mowed by brief, drenching downpours. This Saturday of Easter Week was no different, for it had begun in drizzle, hinted at clearing skies then reneged with clouds gathering low upon the horizon, sweeping in from Wales. 6 It was mid-day, but the great hall at Devizes was already lit with °rcnes, wall rushlights, and an overhead candelabra. The hearth was ba'f6' *P?' 3S was the temPer of En§land's King. Edward was striding ** and forth, dictating rapidly to a harried scribe. The man's task was wankless one, for Edward was too angry to frame his thoughts in erent form, and it was up to the scribe to capture the gist of his ^88 outpouring, then recast it into the conventional, formal mold «ror letters, even a letter such as this one, going to the King's brother u«mnd, in France. 14 had taken just three days for news of the Welsh rebellion to reach 458 Edwarc^ j he hace °* au Mortiff1611 agreed wholeheartedly with Edward's vitriolic asses^ L/C 459 ment of Davydd's character, and he was entertained, as well, by Edward's colorful turn of phrase. But he was puzzled by the genuine echoes of indignation in Edward's voice. To hear Edward tell it now, he'd welcomed Davydd at his court out of sheer Christian kindness, moved by pity for Davydd's woeful plight. It amused de Mortimer enormously to hear Davydd described as an orphan of the storm, instead of a sword leveled at Llewelyn's throat. It was true that Edward had shown Davydd considerable favor. It was also true that Edward would have let Davydd starve by the roadside had he not been so useful a weapon to the English Crown. So why then, did his outrage sound so sincere when he decried Davydd's ingratitude? De Mortimer was willing to wager his hopes for salvation that selfinterest was the one drink no man refused, but he had never understood why most men must sweeten it so lavishly ere they could swallow it. It seemed, though, that even a King had need of sugar, and he felt a faint flicker of the contempt that weakness of any kind always aroused in him. But he took care to keep such dangerous thoughts safely buried in the back of his brain, for a king could afford the luxury of lying to himselfif he was also the greatest soldier in Christendom. Dismissing Giffard, Edward turned back to his patiently waiting scribe. "This next letter goes to my brother, the Earl of Lancaster. You add his other titles. I believe he is still at La Ferte' Milon. The usual greetings. Say then, that I would advise him of recent happenings in Wales; he already knows of their Palm Sunday treachery. Tell him that two days afterward, the Welsh lured the constable of Aberystwyth Castle away, under the pretext of inviting him to dine with them. Instead, they seized him, and then attacked the town, killing English citizens and taking the castle. That same weekHoly Week it was, too, for the Welsh are as impious and ungodly as even the Jews and Saracensthe Welsh captured castles at Llandovery and Carreg Cennen. And on Good Friday, they attacked Oswestry again, left it in flaming ruins." Edward paused, staring past the scribe with blind, inward eyes. The man squirmed uneasily under the intensity of that blue-white 8926, and Edward eventually came back to the moment, back to the hall. "Tell Edmund that I have called upon my vassals and the shire 'evies. I have also engaged fifteen hundred Gascon crossbowmen, and 'shall be laying claim to the services of the ships of the Cinque Ports. Jruffydd ap Gwenwynwyn has vowed to hold fast for the Crown, and I havi Maredi 'e received pledges of loyalty from Rhys ap Gruffydd, Rhys ap udd, and the least of Llewelyn ap Gruffydd's brothers. But the <* 462 his thoughts and his fears were focused far to the west, upon Wales and his pregnant sister's peril. Amaury had often heard that the blind were compensated for the loss of their sight by the enhancement of their other senses, and he'd come to believe that it was true, as well, for prisoners. Never had his hearing been more acute, and he heard the footsteps long before they approached his door. He was on his feet, waiting, when it opened and John de Somerset entered. Amaury was pleased. "Well, this is a surprise for certes. Who is keeping Sherborne safe from enemy attack?" "Ah, but I am no longer its castellan, not since April fifth, when the King bade me turn it over to the Sheriff of Dorsetshire. I've a new and more interesting duty at hand, have brought you a visitor, an archdeacon no less, come on behalf of the Bishop of Bath and Wells." "Edward's Chancellor?" Amaury was intrigued, but wary, for Robert Burnell was Edward's other self, far more loyal to Edward than to the Pope. "Where is he, then, this archdeacon of Burnell's?" "He wanted to change his wet clothes. You'd think he was in danger of melting like sugar, the way he's been griping about the rain. And I'll wager he's likely to want a nap, too, as soon as he sees a bed. Old bones chill easily, it seems. But I was glad of it, for I wanted to be the one to tell you. Your days at Taunton are done. You'd best start gathering up your books and such, for we leave on the morrow." Amaury's face did not change, but beneath his surface calm, fear was stirring. Blessed Lady Mary, not back to Corfe! "Where are we going?" he asked, once he was sure his voice would not give away his inner agitation. "To London. And then . . . Dover, I expect. After that. . ." But John could no longer keep a straight face. "I seem to remember you telling me that you bought a house in Paris after your lady mother died. Unless you want to go first to Italy and thank the Pope in person?" Amaury stared at the other man. "I'm to be freed? You swear it is so, John? This is not one of your jests?" "By the Rood, no! I fancy a joke as well as the next lad, but I'd not jest about this. God's holy truth, the King has agreed to set you free. We're to escort you to the Chancellor in London, where you must swear never to return to English shores. Then we hand you over to the papal nuncio, and off you gowith nary a regret, I'll wager!" "I cannot believe it," Amaury said softly, more to himself than to John. "I'd just about given up hope of it ever happening, for no tess than three Popes have sought to gain my freedom. What made Edward relent? Why now?" 463 "Judging from what the archdeacon said, and he'd talk the ears off a rabbit, give him half a chance, you owe your freedom to the Pope's persistence and the rebellion of that Welsh brother-in-law of yours. The j(jng has but one thought in mind these daysto bring the wrath of God down upon the Welshand he wants the Church to support him whilst he does it. According to the archdeacon, the Pope knows this full well, and was canny enough to exact a price for that supportyou. It may be, too, that the King was growing weary of fighting with his own clergy about you, for the Archbishop of Canterbury has been right keen on getting you freed, lad, going to Devizes to argue your case. He's another one who likes to talk, and when you're wearing a mitre, even a king has to hear you out." John was a talker, too, and Amaury rarely resisted an opportunity to twit him about his babbling brook of a tongue. But now John's cheerful patter rained about him unaware, for he was caught up in the diabolic irony of it all, that the Welsh war could restore his world at the same time that it threatened Ellen's. He looked so somber that John unfastened a wineskin from his belt, poured for them both, and then sloshed a wet wine cup into his hand. "I remembered that you've a taste for malmsey. Drink up, lad, for you'll not have a better reason for rejoicing. So tell me, what is the first thing you mean to do once you're free?" The corner of Amaury's mouth twitched. "If you'd been locked away from the world for more than six years, what is the first thing you'd do?" John choked on his wine, then laughed so hard that he choked again. "That sounds suspiciously like sinning to me, and you a man of God!" Amaury grinned. "And precisely because I am a priest, I well know the cleansing power of confession and contrition," he said, sending John off into another spasm of irreverent mirth. He'd strolled over to the window, stood looking out at the misted hills. "How far are we from Bristol, John, about fifty miles? Why could I not take ship from there?" John's amiable manner cloaked a sharp wit. He frowned thoughtfully, and was not long in remembering that only a narrow stretch of water separated Bristol from the Welsh border. "Jesus God, lad, you'd best banish that notion straightaway! Even if you were free to wander °ff into Wales at your will, the country is up in arms against the English, ^or are we just going to shove you across the drawbridge on the morrow and wish you Godspeed. You'll be in the custody of the Church until y°u have abjured the realm, and, to speak bluntly, the last thing you ar>t is to give the King a reasonany reasonto change his mind. I 464 understand your wish to bid your sister farewell. But your only concern now must be getting safe aboard the papal nuncio's ship, watching Dover's white cliffs fade into the distance." "You're right, of course," Amaury admitted. "It was indeed a mad whim." Turning back to the window, he watched the clouds drifting across the vale, as white as those chalk cliffs of Dover. "But it suddenly occurred to me that I might never see my sister again." LLEWELYN had moved his household across the strait to Aber, for memories were still raw of the last English invasion of Mon. He would have preferred to ensconce Ellen deep within the defenses of Eryri, but he'd hesitated to subject her to that long ride through the mountains to Dolwyddelan. It was easier, too, for him to return to Aber from the sieges of Flynt and Rhuddlan; he knew how much she needed him with her in these last months of her pregnancy. Torn betwen Ellen's unspoken fears and the unrelenting demands of wartime command, he expended his energy and efforts with reckless abandon, seeking to give strength to his men, encouragement to his troubled subjects, and hope, the most finite of all his resources, to his wife. MAY had dawned in such summery, sunlit warmth that Ellen's garden was soon ablaze with white and purple violets. Juliana was artistically arranging delicate blossoms in a glazed clay pitcher, but her eyes kept straying to the window-seat, where Ellen was intent upon her baby's christening doth. "I saw Hugh and Caitlin going into the chapel," she said. "They may have been planning to pray, but I think it more likely that they were seeking a lovers' sanctuary, a few stolen moments together. Are you sure, Ellen, that nothing need be done about them?" "Quite sure," Ellen said, with an unaccustomed edge to her voice; she was discovering that exhaustion and impatience went hand in glove. "We had a long talk, and they agreed with me that Llewelyn has enough cares at the moment, needs no more burdens thrust upon him. Caitlin promised me that they would wait ere they sought Llewelyn's permission to wed. She may love Hugh, but she loves Llewelyn, too, and now his need must come first." "I do not mean to question their good faith, but they are very young* Ellen, and for the young, love can burn hotter than any fever. Do you truly think their resolve will hold if this war drags on?" "If you are asking whether I think they would lay together, no/ do not. Hugh would never dishonor my niece. Let them snatch a try 465 or two, have some private moments in a quiet chapel, a walk on the beach. We both know that this brief time is all they'll ever have." Juliana nodded, then sighed. "But they are not discreet, look upon each other with far too much fondness for others to miss. Already there is talk, Ellen, and it will get worse." Ellen shrugged, snapped her thread in two. "Gossip," she said tersely, "is the least of my worries these days." "Do you think Llewelyn might return to Aber this week?" "I do not know, Juliana. He could return on the morrow, or not for a fortnight. It depends upon the fortunes of war. I know that he will come if he can, and I must take comfort in that." Ellen let her sewing drop onto the seat beside her, leaned back wearily against the cushions. "When Llewelyn promised me that he would not take the field until after Bran was born, I knew he meant it. But I knew, too, that circumstances of war might make his promise impossible to keep. So far, though, he has held to it, has left the fighting in the south to Davydd, and not an hour passes that I do not thank God for it. One of Llewelyn's bards once said of him, Tan el i ryfel nid ymgyddia''When he goes to war, he hides not himself.' " Juliana groped hastily for comfort, aware how lame her offering was even as she said, "But he is not fighting now in battles, Ellen. He is commanding a siege. That must be safer, surely?" "I keep telling myself that, too, Juliana. And I try not to remember that my grand-uncle, the King the English call 'Lionheart/ died whilst besieging a paltry, insignificant castle at Chalus." Juliana moved to the table, poured for Ellen the rest of her posset, for that concoction of spiced milk and wine was known to benefit those ailing or heavy with child. "Have you heard from Llewelyn since you sent him word of his brother's death?" "No, not yet. I know he loved Owain not, but even so . . ." Ellen accepted the posset, took several dutiful sips, then essayed a smile and a joke, one that held more raw honesty than humor. "You have no idea, Juliana, how often I've wished Llewelyn were an only child!" "And if God had to give him a brother, a pity it could not have been Edmund. Better yet, why could the Almighty not have grafted Davydd upon Edward's family tree?" Ellen's laughter was half-hearted, hollow. "A perfect pairing that ^ould be, a match made in Hell," she said, striving gamely to echo Juliana's bantering tone. But Juliana did not look convinced, and Ellen Save up the pretense. "You should have made your escape whilst you could, Juliana, for I'm not fit company for man or beast these days. I'm °t sleeping as I ought, and when I do ... I've been having this dreadful earn. It is always the same. I am alone on this dark, unfamiliar road. 466 I can sense danger ahead, but I cannot go back, so I keep on, getting closer and closer, until the ground starts to slip under my feet, and I've nothing to hold on to . . ." Juliana crossed swiftly to the window-seat, truly alarmed now, for she knew that such morbid fancies might well harm Ellen's babe; some people claimed that disfiguring birthmarks were the result of a bad scare whilst the child was still in the womb. But as she leaned over, her eye was caught by movement behind Ellen's head. Straightening up, she peered through the thick, greenish glass, and then laughed, out of sheer relief. "How about holding on to your husband? He has just ridden into the bailey." "THE sieges still go on, then?" Llewelyn nodded, shifting so he could slide his arm around Ellen's shoulders. "Nothing has changed. They cannot get out, we cannot get in. But as long as they are penned up behind the walls of Rhuddlan and Flynt, they are not able to prey upon the Welsh countryside." Ellen moved closer on the seat. When they'd been apart for a time, she usually liked to sit on his lap, but that was not a comfortable position now, not with just six weeks until the baby was due. "I had a Requiem Mass said for the repose of Owain's soul," she said, and Llewelyn gave her a quick, grateful kiss. "Thank you, lass. I knew he'd been ailing, so it was not such a surprise. Nor can I say that I grieved for him, although Davydd might. But I was glad, nonetheless, that he'd not died at Dolbadarn." "Llewelyn . . . how long can you stay this time?" "Only a few days," Llewelyn said reluctantly. "This was not the best time for me to return to Aber, for I'd ordered several trebuchets to be built, and they'll be done any day. But I got news last night from England, and I had to come back, for I had to be the one to tell you." He saw her flinch, then brace herself to be brave, and he said hastily/ "Ah, no, my love, the news need not always be bad! This is news to give you great joy, and I had to see your face when you heard it, f°r you've been waiting six years and more for this day. Your brother has been freed from Edward's prison." He heard her indrawn breath, saw her eyes widen, and then she was in his arms, her breath warm upon his neck, and the words echoing in his ear were the same ones, over and over, a starkly simple "than" God, oh, thank God!" ^ 1 e*a 467 AMAURY had been turned over to the papal nuncio, Raymond Nogerfcis, Dean of Le Puy, on the 21st of April. They sailed at once for Francrre. On the 22d of May, Amaury wrote to Edward from Arras, in northezm France, thanking his royal cousin for his "grace," pledging fidelity, ai-»d asking for the liberty to sue Edmund in an English court for the recovery of the earldom of Leicester. The letter infuriated Edward, as it was clear-ly meant to do. 32 ABER, WALES June 1282 LLEWELYN awakened to the sweet, heavy scent of honeysuckle, for Ellen had filled their bedchamber with blooming woodbine. It was just after dawn; light had begun to filter through thue window glass, and the night shadows were in retreat. He shifted his position carefully, not wanting to disturb Ellen. But when he glanced over, he found himself gazing into clear hazel eyes. Leaning toward her, he brushed his lips against her cheek. "I'd hoped to let you sleep." "I've been awake for a while," Ellen said and smiled at him. "1 'hink this might be the day." To her amusement, her drowsy husband shot up in bed as if stung. Why did you not wake me, Ellen? Thank Christ the midwife is already a Aber!" He was flinging aside the covers when she caught his arm. "Llewelyn, there is no need for haste. The baby will not pop out e a cork from a bottle!" Laughing, she drew him back into bed beside j r- I am not even sure yet, for I've been having pains come and go th t,3^8 now' Gwynora did say, though, that the true pangs start in "ty ,ac^' and that is where I am feeling these, so . . ." She smiled again, y e ^ know soon enough. But for now, I'd like to stay here in bed witH ' Or tnis is the last time we'll be alone until the babe is born. Once 468 my lying-in begins, you'll not be able to set foot across this threshold Prince or no!" She let Llewelyn prop pillows behind her, let him cradle her within the safe circle of his arms. When her next pain came, he massaged the small of her back until it passed, then confessed, "It does not seem real to me yet." "I know," she confessed. "To me, either. It is so odd, for never have I longed for any happening, not even our wedding, as I've longed for this day. Yet now that it is nigh, I almost wish it were not . . ." His fingers had been caressing the nape of her neck, now were suddenly still. "Are you afraid, Ellen?" She shook her head. "No. Well. . . maybe a little. A woman's first birth is said to be the hardest. But my mother was brought to bed of seven healthy babies, a right reassuring family tradition. And I have faith in Dame Blodwen. I also will have Gwynora with me, and Elizabeth and Juliana. If I would hold time back, it is not that I am fearful. It is because once our child is born, you'll leave me, ride off to war." From the corner of her eye, she saw him wince, and was at once contrite. "Ah, love, I am sorry! I ought never to have said that, for I know you have no choice. Do what you must, and your son and I will be here to welcome you home once this war is done." "You need never apologize for saying what you think, lass. I understand. How could you ever forget that Evesham summer, waiting with your mother at Dover Castle for word of your father's fate? But it will not be like that this time, Ellen. A letter a dayI promisedelivered by swift-riding couriers whose only duty will be to keep you informed of my whereabouts, my well-being, and, of course, my triumphs!" "You know me so well," she said softly. "I shall hold you to that vow, too. Llewelyn . . . I've seen a change in you during these past few weeks. You seem more at ease, more at peace with yourself. Even after Reginald de Grey was able to raise your sieges at Flynt and Rhuddlan, you did not appear much troubled by it. Will you answer me honestly? Will you tell me if you truly believe you can win this war?" He'd have lied without any qualms whatsoever, if that would give her the strength she needed to face the ordeal that lay ahead of her. But he did not have to lie, for she'd read him correctly; he was indeed more hopeful now than at any time since Davydd's Palm Sunday W" trayal. "Yes," he said slowly, "I do believe it is a war we can win. Never have my people been so united, so determined to hold fast against tn English invaders. Edward has accomplished what I never could, » ' brought us together. Who knows, one day far in the future men wW well see him as the patron saint of Welsh unity." . Ellen smiled at that, as he'd hoped she might. "Edward is a supe" 469 soldier, cariad, but he is also a King, with a King's far-reaching concerns, and too much common sense to let himself be caught up in battlefield bravado. If we can make this war costly enough and bloody enough, he'll offer terms, settle for what he can get. It will not be easy and it will not be soon. We'll have to pay a high price for victory, Ellen. But it's within our reach. God willing, it is also within our grasp." Ellen pillowed her head in the crook of his shoulder. "Why should God not will it? You've fought three wars with Edward, have won two. I do" She jerked suddenly in his embrace, then expelled an uneven breath. "Well, it is no longer in doubt," she said, and began to laugh. "Bran is definitely knocking on the door!" THAT Tuesday, the 16th of June in God's Year, 1282, did not at first appear out of the ordinary. It was warm, skies overcast, an erratic breeze wafting seaward from the inland mountains. Those at Aber did not seem to be aware of its odder aspects. Only Llewelynand possibly Hugh had guessed the truth, that it somehow held more hours than those allotted to other days. As the morning ebbed away, Llewelyn began to revise all his ideas of eternity. He paced and waited and blazed a path from the hall to Ellen's lying-in chamber, each time getting the same impatient answer, that the babe would come in God's own time and not sooner. He made such a nuisance of himself that Elizabeth finally promised to seek him out every hour without fail, even if there was naught to report. After that, he waited and paced, and he and Hugh took turns reassuring each other that Ellen would soon be delivered of a healthy, handsome son. In mid-afternoon, Dai and Goronwy arrived, bearing unwelcome news. The English had burned the town of St Asaph, not sparing even 'he cathedral. Anian, St Asaph's Bishop, had long been at odds with Llewelyn, but he'd refused to obey the Archbishop of Canterbury's command, refused to publish the edict that excommunicated Llewelyn, ^d he'd now paid a great price for his defiance. But not even the vivid image of a town in flames could keep Llewelyn's thoughts from straying across the bailey, and Dai and Goronwy gallantly conceded Ellen the victory, no longer tried to talk to Uewelyn of strategy and his coming campaign in the south. Instead, mey began to make the heavy-handed, well-meaning jokes that people evitably inflicted upon first-time fathers. Llewelyn did not mind, °uSh; he was grateful for any distraction, for anything or anyone who ild stop him from dwelling upon his wife's ordeal, upon all that could 80 Wr°ng in a birthing. klizabeth kept her word, and when she did not come herself to the 470 hall, she sent Juliana or Caitlin. Whoever the messenger was, though, the message seemed woefully inadequate to Llewelyn, that all was going as it ought. But soon after dusk Elizabeth brought more encouraging word. Ellen's waters had broken, she reported cheerfully, a sure sign that the babe would soon be delivered. The evening hours passed. Dinner was served. Dai and Goronwy ate heartily, Llewelyn very little. Juliana had assured him they were feeding Ellen honey and wine to keep her strength up, insisted that her spirits were good. He found himself marveling more and more at the quiet, unsung courage of women. And he'd begun to wish fervently that he knew more about the female mysteries of the birthing chamber. By his reckoning, Ellen had been in labor now for eighteen hours, but he did not know if that was what the midwives termed a "lingering" delivery. By prodding boyhood memories, he seemed to remember his mother giving birth to Davydd in ten hours or so; he could stir up no recollection of Rhodri's birth. The women continued to offer vague, evasive assurances that he no longer believed. As the night advanced, so, too, did his sense of foreboding. Llewelyn could not sleep, lay watchful and tense upon a pallet in the great hall. All around him, men were snoring, fumbling for blankets as the hearth burned low. Dogs prowled about amidst the sleepers, scratching fleas, sniffing out food dropped into the floor rushes. Out in the dark beyond the hall, an owl screeched, and Llewelyn raised his head, listening uneasily, for that was an ill omen for certes; all his life he'd heard it said that owls, like howling dogs, heralded an impending death. When he could endure neither the solitude nor his own thoughts any longer, he rose and, trailed by Nia, crossed the hall, stepped out into the bailey. He'd begun to think the night would never end, but the sky was slowly greying to the east. He stood for a time gazing across the bailey; the shutters of Ellen's lying-in chamber were in place, but a few glimmers of light escaped through the cracks. The owl cried again, and he hesitated no longer, began to walk toward the silent, darkened chapel. The door was ajar. As Llewelyn moved into the shadows of the nave, he saw a lantern flickering upon the altar. A woman was kneeling within its feeble glow. She was cloaked in a long, full mantle, and it was not until she turned at sound of his footsteps that he recognized his sister-in-law. He looked into the pale, tear-streaked face upturned to his, and then he reached down, pulled Elizabeth to her feet. "You've been lying to me," he said. "Why?" "Ellen made us promise not to tell you. She said it would serve & naught, that you were anxious enough about the birthing, needed no more cares thrust upon you, and she would not be denied." 471 Llewelyn was silent for a moment. "More fool I, for not expecting that of Ellen." Grasping Elizabeth by the elbow, he steered her back into the lantern light. "Now I'd have the truth," he said. "Why is the birth taking so long? What has gone wrong?" "Only the Almighty could answer that with certainty. All we can do is guess. Ellen's pains are sharp and too frequent for her to get any rest, but the mouth of her womb has not dilated as it ought by now. Dame Blodwen said she has seen this happen when the babe is large and the mother narrow across the hipslike Ellen. It may be" "Christ! Are you saying she cannot deliver the baby?" "No!" Elizabeth's cry, shrill and scared, focused Llewelyn's attention fully upon her for the first time, and he saw now the toll Ellen's travail was taking upon Elizabeth. Her eyes were red-rimmed, her lips bitten raw, and she looked even younger than her twenty-four years, looked like a weary, bewildered child kept up past her bedtime. "You're about done-in, lass," he said, in a gentler voice. "Just tell me the truth. No more lies. How bad is it?" "You must not despair, Llewelyn. I'll not deny that she's suffering, or that the midwives are very disquieted, but they have not given up hope, I swear they have not. It is just so hard to see her in such pain and not be able to help her ... If only her waters had not broken!" "But you said that was a good sign! Or was that a lie, too?" "No! When the waters break, that usually means the birth is drawing nigh. But sometimes it does not happen, and then the risk to the mother and baby is much greater. Her pains become more severe, you see, and if the labor lingers on too long, she loses heart, her strength bleeds away . . ."Elizabeth's voice faltered, then steadied again. "But not Ellen! I've never seen a woman so set upon giving her husband a son, and she will, Llewelyn, I know she will!" Llewelyn loosened his grip upon her arm, turned away as he sought to master his fear. By now it ought to have been a familiar foe, a presence sensed if not seen since Ellen's lying-in began, hovering close at hand these long hours past, awaiting its chance. But Elizabeth had just given 't legitimacy, infused it with enough raw power to gain the upper hand, to become the only voice he heeded, and he swung around abruptly, started for the door. Elizabeth had seen his face, though, and she darted forward, her small, slender body a barricade thrust into his path, arms outstretched. "No," she cried, "you cannot do that, Llewelyn! You cannot go to her< not now, not until the babe is born." "I have to do something! Can you not see that?" "I understand," she said, "I truly do, for you're more like Davydd an either of you know. Nothing is harder for you than waiting, but 472 that is all you can do for Ellen now. It would not help to go to her, for you could not ease her pains, you could not make the babe come a blessed moment sooner. All you could do would be to burden her with your fear, and she is not strong enough to bear it. Men are always barred from the birthing chamber, always. You take but one step into that room and Ellen will know the truth, that you think she's dying." Llewelyn started to speak but the words wouldn't come, for there was no way to refute her argument, and even half-crazed with fear, he knew it. "You'll tell me how she is faring?" She nooded, tears brimming over again. "I'll hold nothing back," she promised. "I swear it upon the souls of my own sons." He was too tall for her to kiss. Instead, she took his hand, pressed it against her cheek. "God will not abandon Ellen in her time of need," she said, and then she was gone, dark mantle blending into the shadows, her steps too light and quick to linger long on the quiet air. She'd forgotten her lantern, and the candle's fluttering white flame drew Llewelyn back to the altar. Thy Will be done. The Christian's greatest test of faith. Llewelyn knew the words by heart, the prayer of the Saviour at Gethsemane just before His betrayal. "Father, all things are possible to Thee. Remove this cup from me. Yet not what I will, but what Thou wilt." He knew the words by heart. But they caught in his throat. He could not say "Thy Will be done" if that meant Ellen might die in childbirth. Instead, he pleaded and he bargained, offered up to God all that he had, his soul, his tomorrows, hopes of salvation, if only the Almighty would save his wife and son. AT Gwynora's urging, Ellen would try to swallow a spoonful of honey. Juliana kept wiping her hot face with a wet cloth, massaging her legs when they cramped. Caitlin fanned her, brushed her hair, rubbed her temples with rosewater. They gave her feverfew, and wine mixed with the bark of cassia fistula. Elizabeth found an eaglestone for her to hold when the pain got too bad. And they offered their hope and cheer in abundant measure, assuring her that she had nothing to fear, that the child was coming soon. Ellen knew better, knew she and her baby were in grave dangerThe chamber was stifling, dimly lit, the shutters still latched. It was unexpectedly disconcerting, not knowing day from night, and she kep asking what time it was. Wednesday, love, mid-morning. Nigh on noon, lass. Mayhap about four, my lady. Over Ellen's head, their eyes met m the same silent, frightened query. Thirty-six hours. How much long6 could her strength hold out? 473 Ellen could deny her fear, but not her fatigue. She was no longer able to walk across the room to the privy chamber; they had to bring her the chamber pot now. Exhaustion was becoming as great an enemy as the pain, and her brain had begun to play queer tricks. She got it jnto her head that Blanche was on her way to Aber, could not understand when they told her Blanche was in France. She would ask about Llewelyn, receive Elizabeth's assurances that he was enduring the waiting as well as men ever did, forget she asked, and ask again. And she suddenly had to have her dog, would not rest until Caitlin brought the little creature into the chamber, where it huddled by the birthing stool, whining and getting underfoot. Dame Blodwen was again lowering herself onto her knees before the birthing stool. She was a statuesque woman, full figured, and stiff in the joints, but she managed the awkward maneuver without losing her dignity. She held out her hands, and Gwynora poured thyme oil into her cupped palms. Reaching for the hem of Ellen's chemise, she raised the skirt, uttering a polite "By your leave, my lady" that Ellen thought preposterous under the circumstances. The next contraction came then, and she forgot Dame Boldwen's probing fingers, forgot all but the pain. When it was over, she slumped back upon the stool, just in time to catch the troubled look that passed between Dame Blodwen and Gwynora. "Is it the baby? Is he dead? Is that why I have not been able to bring him forthbecause he is dead?" "Ah, no, my lady! The babe is not dead!" But now that Ellen had at last asked the unspeakable, she was not to be so easily satisfied. Gwynora saw her disbelief, and leaned over, catching Ellen's hand in her own. "Listen to me, child," she said, forgetting that Ellen was her mistress, seeing only a young woman urgently in need of comfort. "Dame Blodwen spoke true; the babe is not dead. If he were, you'd not be feeling him move in the womb, your nipples would be contracted, your eyes sunken, and your skin cold as iceand none of that is true, is it now?" She'd been specific enough to prevail over Ellen's doubts, aided by Ellen's desperate desire to believe her. "What is wrong, then? Why is rt taking so long, Gwynora? Is it that . . . that he is positioned wrong »> *e womb?" Dame Blodwen started to deny it, but Gwynora risked offending . and by yesterday morn, she was afire with fever ..." "And the babe?" "A lass." Davydd felt a shamed sense of relief. "Llewelyn must be . . ." He slowly shook his head, for he could not begin to imagine his brr >tlter/s grieving; nor did he even want to, in truth. Elizabeth had regained some of her composure by now. ClH^Lrxging tigh^y to his arm, she said, "Come, I'll take you to him." They ccr»-ossed the bailey in silence, but as they neared the door of Llewelyn's cha -Dumber, Davydd's steps began to lag. Elizabeth had been about to reach f-^zroir the door latch. "Davydd?" He was staring at the door, and the expression on his face w^^as one she was not familiar with. It was the first time she'd seen her hua^sb>and flustered, utterly at a loss. "Llewelyn was besotted with that worrarrban," he said. "What do I say to him, Elizabeth? What can I say?" THE chamber was deep in shadows. Llewelyn was alone with his - wife, sitting very still in a chair by the bed. He did not look up as they ena-Ttexed, not until Elizabeth said his name. He showed no surprise at si}-«ytvt of Davydd, showed no emotion at all. Davydd stepped forward, sti BIT not knowing what he would say. "Llewelyn . . . "He stopped, started a^^gain. "I'm sorry. Christ, but I'm so sorry . . . How does she?" Llewelyn was holding Ellen's hand in his, staring down at the" ~ * Jeweled wedding band, the ring she'd called her talisman, her luck Just when Davydd had decided he was not going to answer, he said tonelessly, "She is dead." ELEANOR DE MONT-FORT died on Friday, June 19th, feast day of St Gervasius and Prothasius, less than four months from her thirtieth 1 >Lrthday. She was buried beside Joanna in the Franciscan friary at Llar**-».faes, following her kinswoman in death as she had in life. J°ANNA had been buried on a raw day in February. Llewelyn had Just a boy, only eight, but more than four decades later, the mei W:*s still vivid, sharply etched; he had only to close his eyes to se S^ndfather standing alone by Joanna's marble tomb. Now it wa; ^ to bury a wife at Llanfaes, and as the day dragged on, it begt ein as if his grieving and his grandfather's pain had become ineJ 486 ably entwined, much like their lives. Each time he looked up, saw the soft June sunlight spilling through the window, he felt a dulled sense of surprise, expecting to see the panes streaked by a frigid February rain. On their return to Aber, Llewelyn remained for a time in the great hall, accepting condolences, acknowledging the expressions of sympathy and regret. Some of those who'd come to mourn their Prince's lady were impressed by his composure; he was bearing up well, they agreed among themselves. Others knew better. Davydd was standing in a window recess, watching his brother. After a time he was joined by Goronwy, and then, Elizabeth. Goronwy was the first to put it into words, the fear that all three shared. "I do not think," he said, "that he is going to get over this." Davydd frowned. "I never thought to find myself tongue-tied, but I do not know what to say to him. I keep thinking there must be something I can do, something that will help. But mayhap not. Mayhap there is nothing anyone can do." "I think there is," Elizabeth said, after a long silence. The two men looked at her curiously, but she did not elaborate, and the moment passed. They continued to watch as Llewelyn moved among the mourners, as he did what was expected of him. LLEWELYN was standing before his bedchamber door. He'd not crossed that threshold since Ellen's death, and he was still not sure if he could do it now. His fist tightened on the latch, and then he was shoving the door inward. The room was bright with sun, scrubbed clean and scented with fragrant incense. The smell of death was gone, lingered only in his memory. He'd been dreading to see Ellen's perfume vials and hairbrush on the table, her bed slippers in the floor rushes, her gowns hanging neatly from wall poles, as if she'd just stepped out for a moment, would soon be back. But Caitlin and Elizabeth had obviously anticipated that, for the chamber had been cleared of his wife's possessions. Clothes, books, even her favorite silver candlesticksall had been whisked from sight, hidden away. It was as if Ellen had come into his life and g°ne and left no trace of her passing. And that was infinitely worse than finding a room awaiting her return. As he moved toward the center of the chamber, not yet ready approach the bed, he caught movement from the corner of his e)' Ellen's little dog was crouched on the window-seat, watching him w ^ ily. "Hiraeth," he said, "come, lass." But it retreated as he advance - P 487 scrambled down and hid under the bed. "Contrary to the last," he said ruefully, and then drew a breath sharp enough to hurt, for he'd recognized the crumpled cloth the dog had dragged up onto the windowseat. It was one of Ellen's stockings. He never knew how long he stood there, staring down at that scrap of bright scarlet. Eventually he became aware of the knocking on the door. "Enter," he said, and Elizabeth came into the chamber, carrying the baby. Elizabeth halted a few feet away. "I have never suffered a loss like yours," she said, "but I think I can understand a little of your pain, for I'd go stark mad if evil ever befell Davydd or my sons. I know it is no comfort now, not yet, but Ellen left you more than memories. She left you part of herself, Llewelyn." She crossed the chamber then, thrust the baby toward him. For a moment, she feared he would refuse, but although he hesitated, he did take the child from her. "As Gwenllian grows into girlhood, there will come a day when you'll look at her and you'll see Ellen. It might be the tilt of her head, or her laugh, or mayhap the color of her eyes, but you'll know then that you've not lost Ellen, after all, that she lives on in your daughter." Llewelyn turned toward the light. This was the first close look that he'd gotten at his daughter. She seemed frighteningly fragile, a tiny little doll, not quite real. She had long, golden lashes, which she raised now as the sun warmed her skin. He was startled to see that she had blue eyes. But then he remembered something Ellen had told him, that all babies had blue eyes, at first. He did not hear the door closing quietly behind Elizabeth, continued to gaze down at his daughter. "Gwenllian," he said, and realized with a shock that this was the first time he'd said her name. Her face was blurring, for tears had begun to burn his eyes, too hot to hold back. Ellen was cheated of so much," he said softly. "But you've been cheated, too, lass, cheated of your mother." 33 ABER, WALES June 1282 LLEWELYN held his daughter until she began to cry. He handed her then to his sister-in-law. Elizabeth stroked the baby's dark, downy hair, all the while looking up intently at Llewelyn. "You need not fear for Gwenllian whilst you are gone," she said earnestly. "She will want for nothing, that I promise you." "I know," he said, and embraced her briefly, then did the same to Caitlin. Watching from the window-seat, Davydd rose as the women departed the chamber. "Are you ready?" he queried, but Llewelyn shook his head. "Not yet. I have to bid farewell to Hugh and Juliana." The words were no sooner out of his mouth than Trevor was on his way to fetch them. Davydd settled down again in the window-seat, wondering if his brother realized just how much his people loved him, grieved for his pain. It was hard to tell; never had Llewelyn seemed so remote to him, so distant, as in these days after Ellen's death. As Hugh and Juliana were ushered into the chamber, Llewelyn moved forward to meet them. "Are you still sure this is what you want to do?" he asked, and Juliana nodded. "I must, my lord," she said, speaking so softly that Davydd barely heard her. "I was with . . ." She faltered, for even now she could not bring herself to say Ellen's name. ". . . With my lady for sixteen years, nigh on half my life. I could not bear to be here without her. . "I understand. I've written to Edward, asking him to grant you bo ^ a safe-conduct into England. Once it comes, my men will escort y under a flag of truce to Chester." n. Hugh cleared his throat. "What if the English King will not sent?" ,, "He wiU. He'll do it for ... for Ellen." Llewelyn found it no easie1 489 Juliana to say his wife's name. A silence fell. It seemed to Davydd f hours passed before Llewelyn reached out, handed Hugh a leather 35 h "For y°ur lodgings, and your passage to France. I think this Culd cover your expenses." Hugh though: so, too; the pouch lay heavy in his hand. He started thank Llewelyn, then saw that the Welsh Prince was holding out mething else; a sealed letter and a small casket. "I would be grateful, Hugh, if you could deliver these to Amaury e Welsh themselves did all they could to sabotage the construction; 1 e harassed workers found themselves performing their hazardous 498 tasks under guard and often under fire. But Edward's will was not to be thwarted, and slowly the bridge took shape, three lines of barges attached to one another with heavy chains, anchored against the strait's treacherous currents, covered by a wooden platform wide enough for sixty men to cross abreast. Day by day, the bridge moved closer and closer to the Welsh shoreline. But before Edward could launch his assault upon the Welsh heartland, he had to win back the four cantrefs of the Perfeddwlad, lands defended by Davydd's castles at Hawarden, Dinbych, Ruthin, and Dinas Bran. To this end, he brought to bear the full might of the English Crown, an army that numbered no less than seven hundred fifty cavalry, a thousand archers, and eight thousand foot soldiers. It took him three months to prevail, but eventually, he did. Davydd was forced to evacuate Hawarden. In early September, Ruthin Castle fell to Reginald de Grey. By mid-October, Dinas Bran and Davydd's stronghold at Dinbych were in English hands, too. Davydd was so hard pressed that Llewelyn had to abandon his campaign in the South, hasten back to his brother's aid. Together, they made ready to defend Gwynedd. "LLEWELYN!" Davydd burst into the great hall, bore down upon his brother, and all but dragged him away from his guest, an astonished Franciscan friar. Llewelyn was irked and made no attempt to hide it once they'd reached the privacy of a window recess. "If you'd given me half a chance to introduce you to Brother John, you'd have realized the significance of his" "I already know too many monks and priests, and my news could not wait. You'll not guess which of our enemies has been called to God ... or more likely, the Devil. Roger de Mortimer is dead!" "Are you sure? Was he struck down in battle? A fall from his horse?" "Brace yourself for a surprise. Our de Mortimer cousin, a man born to hang if ever there was one, actually died in bed! I do not yet know what ailment killed him, but he was not sick for long. Now ... is this news not important enough to justify my lapse of manners?" Llewelyn admitted that it was. De Mortimer's death was both a blow to the English and a blessing to the Welsh, for his lands would likely be in turmoil for some time to come. His vassals and tenants were bound to be disturbed by this sudden upheaval in their lives, for loyalties were personal, and for most men, their local lord mattered more than a distant, unknown king. There was opportunity here for fishing ^ troubled waters, and Llewelyn and Davydd exchanged gratified glance5' 499 already thinking of lures and baited hooks. But first Llewelyn had news of his own to impart. "Come on back to the hearth," he said. "I want you to meet Brother John. He is Welsh, his name notwithstanding, a respected Franciscan theologian . . . and the Archbishop of Canterbury's personal peace emissary." "You cannot be serious! Edward would sooner beg by the roadside ere he'd seek peace terms. He's not ready, not yet, for he's ever been one for learning lessons the hard way." "This is Peckham's doing, not Edward's ... or so he says. He claims Edward balked like a mule at first, but it seems our lord Archbishop's zeal to be a peacemaker would not be denied, and Edward reluctantly agreed to let him try to bring his erring sheepthaf s us back to the fold." " 'Reluctantly agreed,' " Davydd echoed derisively. "How witless do they think we are? If Peckham's an impartial mediator, I'm bidding fair to become the next Pope! How long did it take him to excommunicate us at Edward's behest. . . and for what godless sin? 'Disturbers of the King's peace,' not one of the Holy Commandments the last time I looked. This peace mission is Edward's Trojan Horse, a clumsy attempt to distract us whilst they get that accursed bridge completed." "The bridge is well nigh done already. Nor are we likely to be caught off guard, for we have them under such close watch that if someone drops a hammer into the water, we know about it by the time it hits bottom." Davydd looked thoughtfully at his brother. "You're even quicker than me to suspect the English of double-dealing. Yet you seem to be saying that you believe Peckham's peace overture is sincere . . . why? What do you know that I do not?" Llewelyn's smile was fleeting, but it held a hint of approval, for whatever Davydd's other failings, his fast thinking made him a useful alty. "You are right, there is a piece missing from this puzzle. It so happens that the Archbishop has offered to come to Aber, to discuss Peace terms in person." Davydd's jaw dropped. "He'd actually do that, make a journey through a land at war to break bread with men he himself had excom"lunicated? Jesus God above! I never heard of a prelate who'd even cross "e path of one under the Church anathema! If he would truly come to Us> no one could doubt his good faithnot even me! You will agree to see him?" Llewelyn nodded. "In truth, I do not expect anything to come of 1 °ut if the Archbishop would make such a remarkable concession, 500 then I think we ought to hear him out. I owe him that much," he said suddenly sounding very tired, "for he did all he could to free Ellen's brother from Edward's gaol." A TRUCE was declared, and John Peckham, Archbishop of Canterbury, passed three days at Aber, earnestly seeking to convince the Welsh that the salvation of their souls depended upon submission to England's King. They had sinned grievously in shedding blood on one of God's holiest days, he told them, and the best proof of their repentance would be their readiness to make peace. They listened, accorded him the respect due his rank, and Llewelyn said that he would be willing to yield to the English King, but only if Edward agreed to honor their ancient customs and liberties. He would not surrender without such assurances from the Crown, for his people looked to him for protection, and he could not fail them. The Archbishop could offer no such assurances, though, for Edward's terms were not open to interpretation, as simple as they were inflexible"the entire and unconditional surrender of Llewelyn ap Gruffydd and his people"terms utterly unacceptable to the Welsh. Bitterly disappointed, the Archbishop prepared to return to Rhuddlan Castle on the morrow, knowing that when this brief truce ended, the killing would begin again. Brother John watched as the Archbishop restlessly paced the chamber's length, then its breadth. He had expected their mission to fail, for Peckham was as tactless as he was well intentioned, and he had scant sympathy for the people he'd come to convert. Brother John knew that the Archbishop, like most of his fellow countrymen, believed the Welsh to be lazy, immoral, and untrustworthy. It was not surprising, then, that when the Welsh argued that they should be governed by their own laws, he turned a deaf ear. How could it be otherwise when he was convinced that Welsh law was contrary to reason and Holy Writ? And yet Brother John knew, too, that the Archbishop's dismay was genuine. He might loathe Welsh law, distrust the Welsh leadership/ ^ scorn Welsh custom, but he truly cared about the salvation of Welsh souls. He'd been quite sincere when he called the Welsh his "lost sheep/ vowed to make his body "a bridge to bring them back to the safety o the Holy Church." Now their souls would be lost to God, and even as he fumed at their intransigence, he grieved for their damnation. The Archbishop suddenly stopped his pacing, shot Brother John a look that managed to be both accusatory and defensive. "I suppose' he said tartly, "that you think I ought to have coddled them &oje' 507 sugared the truth for the sake of good manners, pretended that I'd forgotten what Scriptures say, that rebellion is as the sin of witchcraft." Brother John hesitated, for his master was easy to respect, not so easy to serve. He had a prickly integrity of spirit that Brother John had found in few others, but he was also exceedingly thin-skinned, not a man to take kindly to criticism. "It is not my place to judge you, my lord. I cannot help thinking, though, that candor is verily like salt. We need them both to season our conversations and our meals, but in moderation, my lord. Mayhap a whit less salt might have made your offer more palatable?" Peckham's mouth twitched in what was almost a smile. "What an odd pair we are, John. I use words like nails, forthrightly hammering them home, whilst yours flit about like butterflies, always offering a moving target. You're referring, I assume, to my comments about Hywel Dda, the so-called giver of their laws?" "Well, my lord, your remarks were somewhat. . . intemperate . . . might possibly have given offense" "Their very laws give offense," the Archbishop snapped. "Mayhap I was too plain-spoken, but they were hardly blameless. Have you forgotten their response when I relayed the King's message? When I told them what he said, that if they'd had reason to complain of any Crown official, they ought to have come to him, for he was always ready to do justice to all of his subjects, they . . . they laughed!" "I never claimed, my lord, that the Welsh were blameless," Brother John said mildly, and the Archbishop was forced to concede this was so, for he prided himself upon his sense of fairness. "I did not mean to take out my foul temper on you, John. It is just so hard to accept failure when so much is at stake. Christian warring upon Christian ... it is wrong, grieves our Holy Father and delights the Devil. I truly thought I could make them see reason . . . How can they hold this wretched barren land so dear, their souls so cheaply?" Brother John moved to the table, piled high with testaments. "These Welsh petitions we are bringing back to the King . . . have you read any °f them yet, my lord?" "No, not yet. You think I should?" . "I think you might find them informative, possibly even illuminatm8' my lord." The Archbishop considered, then nodded. "I shall, then," he said kj V' and upon retiring took the unwieldy stack of parchments to . ^ith him. The complaints spoke of Welsh laws flouted, but also of Ce denied. The complainants were both highborn and of humble 502 rank. They testified to lands unjustly confiscated and to oxen seized, to wrongs great and small, to a troubling abuse of royal power. The Archbishop frowned over these testaments as his candle dimmed, splattered wax onto the parchments. He read far into the night. The Archbishop still rose early the next morning, as was his custom He eschewed breakfast, for he was a man of austere habits, and soon after dawn, he was standing in the doorway of the great hall, bidding farewell to Llewelyn and Davydd. "It is not yet too late," he said. "I urge you to think upon what I've said, for this is not a war you can win. The King is expecting Gascon mercenaries any day now. As for myself, it would be with the greatest reluctance that I would lay all Wales under Interdict, but if I must" He got no further, drowned out by the sudden clamor from the bailey. As the gates swung open, a rider came racing through, shouting for Llewelyn even as he reined in his lathered, heaving stallion, flung himself from the saddle. Llewelyn pushed past the Archbishop, hastened out into the bailey, with Davydd but a stride behind. "The English whoresons have broken the truce, my lord, are making ready to cross their bridge!" The Archbishop spoke no Welsh, but the reaction of the men warned him that something was very wrong. Brother John gasped, whispered a few words in his ear. The Archbishop paled noticeably, and when Llewelyn and Davydd swung back to confront him accusingly, he said hoarsely, "I knew nothing of this! As God is my witness, I did not know!" THE Prior of the Dominican friary at Bangor was the grandson of the great Ednyved Fychan. But he was not loyal to his Prince; his sympathies were pledged to Llewelyn's old adversary, the Bishop of Bangor. Two of his brothers were already in the English camp; Rhys ap Gruffydd, bearing a grudge for his months in Llewelyn's gaol, had gone over to the English at the start of the war, and their younger brother Hyvvel was among those who'd landed upon Mon with Luke de Tany. But the Prior stayed behind in Bangor, where he and a few of his fellow fna15 secretly plotted with the English. On this cold, clear Friday in early November, they sent Luke « Tany the signal he'd been awaiting, and he gave the order to se the mainland side of the bridge, which was done with grapnels, sive grappling hooks that bit deep into the ground. The bridge was ready and waiting. 503 They began to cross at dawn, under a sky so blue it might have been summer, although the brisk, gusting wind let no one forget it was actually November. Even at low tide, it was not an easy crossing. The horses had to be blindfolded and led across, and the boats pitched and tossed upon the swirling current, causing men to stumble and swear uneasily. One clumsy youth tripped and dropped his pike into the water, much to the amusement of his comrades. But they all eventually made it over, men and horses both, a score of knights, twice that many squires, and a large number of foot soldiers, thankful that the worst was behind them, for now they were safe on dry land again, and ahead lay the chance for plunder and looting, for the rich prizes that a man could hope to gain in war, a hope that would have gone aglimmering if the Archbishop succeeded in his peace mission. It had been decided beforehand to avoid the narrow coast road, where they'd be more likely to encounter Welsh who'd raise the alarm. Their Dominican allies had told them of an inland road, built long ago by the Romans but still in use, which would enable them to approach Bangor undetected, perhaps even to risk a raid upon Aber itself, for both targets were well within striking distance, Bangor only three or four miles to the east and Aber just six miles farther on. Flying a multitude of banners, for among the knights were scions of some of England's proudest Houses, they left the beach behind, headed inland toward the Roman road. Some of the men were battle-scarred veterans of the last Welsh war, a few had fought in skirmishes in Gascony or the Holy Land, and others were raw youths about to get their baptism by fire. One of the latter was a young foot soldier in the service of Sir Roger Clifford, son of the lord held hostage since the capture of Hawarden Castle. The Cumbrian village of Appleby seemed very far away indeed to Thomas, a goodnatured, affable lad who bore with equanimity the inevitable teasing about his bright red hair, profusion of freckles, and rustic North Country accent. He missed Appleby dearly, missed the security of knowing what each day held, a comfort he'd not valued until he'd lost it. But he was still enormously proud to be serving a lord like Sir Roger, who claimed the lordship and Honour of Appleby through his wife, Tom's «ege lady. Not that torn saw much of Sir Roger, a brusque, impatient man ho had no time to spare for underlings. But he had struck up a tentative toertdship with Gervaise Fitz Alan, one of Sir Roger's squires, for they'd scovered that their difference in rank seemed somehow less significant "the occupied Welsh island; that they were both seventeen, homesick, feeing their first battle mattered more. Now torn tried to keep dose ff> 504 to Gervaise, his eyes locked upon Clifford's checkered blue-and-golcj banner as they began their march into the Welsh interior. The hills were not high, not yet, but the horizon was shadowed by the formidable peaks of Snowdon; Gervaise had told him that the Welsh called the mountains Eryri, and torn tried to say it under his breath, but had trouble trilling his fs. He was very glad that they'd not have to brave those redoubtable heights, for he found these lowlands daunting enough. He had never seen a country so heavily wooded. He'd heard that King Edward had cut wide swathes through the Welsh forests, but these towering trees had never known an axe. Winter had not yet stripped them bare, and torn felt as if he were trapped in a tunnel, for the trail was walled in on each side by high hedges, brambles, and camouflaging clouds of brown, brittle leaves. It took little imagination to envision a Welsh archer lurking behind every tree trunk, and torn looked enviously at his lord's chain-mail armor. He knew it did not render its wearer invulnerable; it could not ward off broken bones, nor save a man if the metal links broke under pressure. And he was not without protection himself. His gambeson, a thickly padded leather tunic, was surprisingly effective at absorbing a blow's impact, and not all that easy to pierceso he'd been told. But he'd still have traded it in the blink of an eye for Sir Roger's hauberk and great helm. torn knew very little about the Welsh, and what he did know was bad; he'd been told that they were despoilers of churches, that they had neither honor nor courage. torn secretly hoped that they were as craven as Gervaise claimed, that they hid in the hills, leaving their houses and goods and livestock for the soldiers to share. For as excited as he was about this chance to make his fortune, torn did not really want to kill anyone. He'd been given a mace, for Sir Roger spared no expense in outfitting his men, but he could not truly imagine himself splitting a man's head open, gouging out an eye, maiming or murdering. Gervaise assured him that it would be different in battle, that men's blood heated up so that killing became easy, but torn could not help wondering how Gervaise knew that for certes; he was a battlefield virgin, too. They'd advanced several miles inland, had almost reached the Roman road when it happened. They had no warning whatsoever, were suddenly under attack. Shrill yells erupted all around them, and a spear went hurtling through the trees, buried itself in an English chest. The man fell to his knees, almost close enough for torn to touch. Other spears were finding targets now, the knights and crossbowmen we# shouting and cursing, fumbling for swords and crossbows, Welsh arrows were fanning the air, aimed with lethal accuracy, and the men around torn began to die. 505 The Welsh had picked an ideal spot for ambush, for there were boulders and thick cover on both sides of the narrow trail, and the English found themselves caught in a deadly cross-fire. Luke de Tany saw at once that they could not defend themselves against an unseen enemy, and he hastily ordered them back to the beach. The Welsh followed, forest phantoms who continued to fire upon them, picking off stragglers one by one. Several times they turned on their tormentors, daring them to come out into the open, but they raged in vain. Mocking laughter floated from the woods, and then another hail of arrows. De Tany sought to maintain some order, shouting commands, trying to stop his men from panicking. torn was breathless and bruised, for he'd taken a jolting fall. Fortunately, Gervaise had pulled him roughly to his feet, for those who could not keep pace were easy prey for the pursuing Welsh. torn had never been so scared, had never been so glad to see anything as he was that beckoning blue sheen of the Menai Straits. But it was then that a group of Welsh horsemen came galloping up the coast road. torn stood rooted, gaping at these new arrivals. "Jesu, it's him!" Gervaise was pointing at the red-and-gold banner. "It's their Prince!" torn had no time to react to that, for Luke de Tany and the other knights were trying hastily to close ranks, to stave off this new threat. But Llewelyn gave them no chance. Spurring their horses forward, the Welsh careened into the English, and a wild melee broke out there upon the beach. What followed was utter horror for torn. All around him were plunging horses and grappling, struggling men. Swords clashed, blood spurted, and the trampled sand was soon splattered with crimson. As a Welsh horseman bore down upon him, torn swung his mace in a haphazard arc. His blow never connected, and the stallion then swerved into him, sent him sprawling. For several terrifying seconds, there was nothing in his world but flailing hooves. By some miracle, though, the horse did not step on him. Rolling clear, he got shakily to his feet, just m time to be knocked flat by a Welsh lord upon a huge roan stallion, so intent upon crossing swords with the nearest English knight that he hadn't even a glance to spare for torn. Once again the boy scrambled to his feet, half-dazed by the fall. And then Gervaise was jerking at his arni/ shouting at him to run, and he stumbled after the others, joined toe desperate dash for the bridge. It was a retreat that almost at once became a rout. It was chaos then, as n\en sought only to save themselves, reeling and gasping as they Plashed into the shallows. Llewelyn led his men in close pursuit, cut °" some of the knights and men-at-arms, and another bloody clash 506 F 507 took place within yards of the bridge. Breaking free, the surviving English knights forced their horses right onto the end of the bridge, trampling a few of their own men, those not quick enough to jump out of the way. The Welsh pursued them to the water's edge, then turned back to deal with those still trapped upon the beach. Those fortunate enough to have gotten onto the bridge shoved and pushed as they sprinted for the far shore. But they were not out of arrow range, and at Llewelyn's signal, Welsh bowmen sent arrows winging across the water at eye-blurring speed, finding such easy targets that several of the knights soon had multiple arrow shafts caught in the links of their chain mail, much like bristling porcupine quills. "Llewelyn!" Davydd reined in his roan beside his brother, sending up a wild spray of sand. Welsh warfare, so dependent upon hit-andrun tactics, was not suited to the cumbersome English armor. Like Llewelyn himself, Davydd shunned the heavy great helm for an oldfashioned kettle-style helmet with nose guard, for the Welsh preferred to take greater risks rather than to squint blindly at the enemy through slitted eye sights. Davydd's face was streaked with sweat and a smear of blood that did not appear to be his; his eyes were blazing with excitement, greener than any cat's. "I've an idea," he panted. "Let's see if we cannot set fire to the bridge!" That same thought had occurred to Llewelyn, and he'd just put some of his bowmen to the task; several men were searching for wood that would be quick to kindle, as others hastily improvised makeshift fire arrows, knotting them with cloth that could be ignited. Turning in the saddle now to see if they would have time before the English reached the safety of the island, Llewelyn caught his breath, transfixed by what had just occurred out in the straits. "There is no need," he said, "not now. Look!" Davydd swung his mount around to see. "Jesus God," he murmured softly, almost reverently, for the bridge was breaking up. The calamity began with a terrified horse. Balking suddenly, it reared up, unseating its rider and creating panic, for the bridge then pitched and rolled alarmingly, sending men to their knees, grabbing for handholds. Other horses started to snort and fight the bit, lashing out in fear. The bridge had not been built to withstand such strain; it w*s meant to accommodate an orderly, measured passage, not this wu / frenzied mob, and it was dangerously overloaded. Moreover, it w now high tide, and the powerful ocean currents were at war with anchors, surging against the sides of the barges, already riding too in the water, in danger of swamping. » Now, as the horses kicked and plunged, the wooden platform n gave way. Planks split asunder, collapsing a large section of the and men were thrown about as the bridge seemed to fall out from under them. The sinking boats rapidly took on water, dragging the others down, too, and within moments, the icy straits were filled with floundering men and horses. Those who'd not yet reached the gap clutched at the chains, the heaving platform, one another, trying desperately to stay on the tossing, crippled bridge. It was then that the Welsh sealed the bridge's doom, for now that the fighting was done, they could turn all their attention to it. Racing to the grappling hooks, they began struggling to dig them up. One by one they were pried loose, and when the last grapnel was pulled from the earth, the bridge snapped sideways as if shot from a bow, whiplashed with such violence that some of the anchors were dragged up and the remaining soldiers were flung into the water. THE water was freezing. Sputtering and choking, torn fought his way back to the surface, kicking to keep afloat. Unlike most of the men, he knew how to swim, but the water was so cold that his body was rapidly going numb, and he was encumbered by his clothing; he knew instinctively that he'd never be able to make the shore. Gervaise had been beside him when the bridge capsized, but now he was nowhere in sight. All around torn, though, men were thrashing about in the water, screaming for help. The knights drowned first, their own armor dragging them down like anchors. torn saw one flailing about just a few feet away, trying frantically to remove his great helm. As the boy looked on in horror, the man sank below the surface, did not come back up. A few of the knights had somehow managed to stay astride their mounts, and they would be among the small number of survivors, for their horses were swimming for the island. The others were on their own. There were no longer as many men in the water with torn; one by °ne, they were going under. Just then a riderless horse came within reach, and torn mustered the last of his strength for a wild lunge. He swallowed so much salt water that he began to gag, and his groping hand fell just short of the saddle pommel. The horse veered away, and e sobbed. But then he saw a silvered streamer whipping through the Water. He grabbed for it, his fingers entangling in the horse's long, wailing tail. He sobbed again, held tight to that wet, blessed life-line as e stallion struck out for shore. the screaming did not continue for long; the water was too cold. fall eeiie hUSh slowly settled over the straits, for the Welsh, too, had en si'ent by now, awed by the utter magnitude of their victory. 508 T 509 HAD there been any eye-witnesses to the scene in the solar at Rhuddlan Castle, they'd have been hard pressed to say who was angrier, the Archbishop of Canterbury or England's King. "Such treachery was unforgivable, my liege. This shameful use of my peace mission made me an unwitting accomplice to their perfidy might well have put our lives at risk, too. If the Welsh had not believed me" "Surely you are not suggesting, my lord Archbishop, that it was my doing?" Peckham was not intimidated. "I would indeed hope not, my liege," he said coldly. "Of course it was not! What sort of fool do you take me for? After finally mending fences with the Church by freeing Amaury de Montfort, do you truly think I'd sacrifice all that papal good will by using you as bait?" Edward wheeled, stalked over to the window, while he made a futile attempt to get his temper under control. "What a botch, what a bloody botch! All my plans set at naught, and for what? That hellspawn de Tany was to wait for word from me. Nothing was to happen until I was ready to cross the Conwy and move against Llewelyn at Aber . . . nothing!" Whirling back to face the Archbishop, he said tautly, "Do you know what this crazed folly of his has cost me? I lost all chance of making a two-pronged assault upon the Welsh, lost my chance to put a quick end to this war. I had to send the fleet back to the Cinque Ports, for the towns were bemoaning the absence of their ships, vowing it would be the ruination of their trade. This means that whaf s left of de Tany's army is stranded on that accursed island!" It was then that Edmund hastened into the chamber. "Ned, a courier had just arrived from the island!" Edward was startled into a mildly sacrilegious retort. "However did he get here . . . walk on water?" "A brave lad, this one. He waited until dark, swam his mount across the strait, then rode by night to elude capture, and somehow got to Rhuddlan without falling over a Welsh cliff or running into a Welsh spear. He's about done-in, though. I sent him into the hall to get a meal and some sleep, told him that you'd question him at length later." Edward nodded. "See that he is amply rewarded, for that was a deed well done. Now . . . tell me the worst of it. What of de Tany? Was he amongst the dead?" "Yes," Edmund said, "he drowned when the bridge broke apart"If he had not, I might have hanged him. What of the others? Were there many dead?" "All England will mourn," Edmund said bleakly. "The losses were . . . were beyond belief. How often does a lord die in battle? If his chain mail does not save him, his ransom price will. But fully fifteen knights died on Friday, most of them drowning. Lord Clifford's son and heir. Lord Audley. The two sons of your Chancellor. Peter de la Mere, ghys ap Gruffydd's brother. At least thirty-two squires, mayhap more, and God alone knows how many men-at-arms, as many as a hundred and a half . . ." Edward shook his head in disbelief. "The fools, the poor stupid fools! Did they never think to send out scouts? They ought to have known that Llewelyn would be watching that bridge like a cat at a mouse hole!" The Archbishop listened impatiently as Edward launched into another scathing denunciation of the foolhardy de Tany, for he had no further interest in the man, although he did hope, of course, that de Tany had died in God's Grace. But he had far more important matters to discuss now with the King, for the last faint hope for peace was about to be snuffed out like an unneeded candle. "I ask you, my liege, to convene your council on the morrow, that we may talk further of peace terms." "What is there left to say, my lord Archbishop? You said they refused to surrender, did you not?" "How could they not refuse, my lord, when you offered them nothing, gave them no reason not to fight on?" "I do not bargain with traitors and rebels!" "Ned ... we do it all the time," Edmund contradicted him calmly. "There were no mass executions after Evesham. What was the Dictum of Kenilworth if not an offer to bargain? You wanted the de Montfort rebels to lay down their arms, and so you made it worth their while to do so. If it made sense then, why not now?" Edward glared at his brother, who was quite unfazed. "I agree with my lord Archbishop, think we ought to be seeking a way to end this war. I know you can win ... eventually. But is it worth the price you'll have to pay? You yourself told me that the Exchequer has estimated that the costs might well run as high as a hundred fifty thousand pounds " the war drags on long enough ... as it seems likely to do. A hundred and fifty thousand pounds, Ned ... that is seven times the cost of the last Welsh war!" Edward's smile was sour. "Remind me not to confide in you so e«y'in the future, Little Brother." But Edmund merely shrugged, and aited. Edward paced to the window again, then back to the hearth Yield" K Stopped abruptty' sPun around to confront them. "I will not a those four cantrefs; they are Crown lands now. A fortnight ago I ce, said, "I never fretted much about Eleanora's confinements. Birth^gs always came easily for her, even if the babe was too often sickly °r stillborn. I suppose that after so many, childbirth had become too fmiliar, for I just took it for granted that nothing would go wrong. But en . then I learned about Ellen, may God assoil her, the poor lass. 514 That last month, Blanche, till the babe was born, I'd lie in bed beside Eleanora, and all I could think about was what my life would be like without her ..." Blanche was both surprised and touched by his confession; it was the first time that Edward had given her a glimpse into any of the secret corners of his soul. "But you did not lose her," she said. "Instead, she bore you a healthy baby girl. I've been meaning to ask you, Ned, about that. Why Elizabeth? That is not a common name, nor is it one from your family ... is it?" He smiled, shook his head. "I just fancied it, and after twelve babies, we were running out of names! I hear the servants are calling her 'the Welshwoman.' I imagine she'll go through life as Elizabeth of Rhuddlan, for my daughter born in the Holy Land is known to one and all as Joanna of Acre." "I've heard rumors that you are thinking of wedding Joanna to the Earl of Gloucester?" "Nothing is settled as yet, but yes, I am considering it. There are a few obstacles to be overcome . . . Gloucester's wife, for one! They have been living apart for nigh on twenty years, but he never got around to petitioning the Pope to annul the marriage. Joanna is still a little lass, though, barely ten, so a year or two's delay will not matter" Edward broke off at that, for he'd noticed his brother entering the hall. "Ah, there's Edmund." He grinned suddenly. "Alas, he just got himself snared by Rhodri ap Gruffydd . . . poor lad!" Blanche craned her neck to see, for she was quite curious about Rhodri, the man Edward cruelly called "the least of Llewelyn's brothers." She could not help wondering what Rhodri thought about in his quiet hours, when he was alone. Did he ever think of his brothers at Aber? Had he any regrets? "He is not at all like Llewelyn, is he? I see no resemblance whatsoever, and for certes he has not Llewelyn's . . . whatever it is that enables a man to command others. Mayhap there is truth, after all, in those folk tales of changelings!" "You are still fond of Llewelyn." It was not a question, not quite an accusation. Blanche made no attempt to deny it. "Yes," she said, meeting her brother-in-law's eyes squarely, "I am." She was not sure what his reaction would be, for there was an unpredictable streak in his nature that made him both interesting and dangerous. She waited now to see if he would be angered or amused by her candor. Amusement won out, for he found boldness hard to resistnios of the time. "Such a shy, timid lass," he said, but with a smile. "^ou 515 must be right pleased, then, with the offer we made to Llewelyn. How often is a rebel awarded with an earldom?" "Do you truly expect Llewelyn to accept?" Blanche asked, as neutrally as she could, and Edward shrugged. "He is a fool if he does not," he said, and then Edmund had reached them. Blanche made room for him on the seat, and he slid in. But his greeting for her was preoccupied, his attention focused upon his brother. "Ned, we just got word from Roger de Springhouse. The sheriff of Shropshire," he added, just for Blanche's benefit; he knew Edward's memory was far too keen to need any prompting about Crown officials. "As you ordered, he put Thomas de la Hyde in charge of de Mortimer's castle at Clun. But that did not please de Mortimer's widow. The Lady Maude complained to him right sharply, saying that her husband's vassals would not welcome Crown meddling in de Mortimer lands. And there's some truth to that, I'm sorry to say. This past week de Springhouse rode to Clun to confer with de la Hyde. When he arrived, the constable came out beyond the walls to greet him, and the castle garrison promptly locked him out." Edward cursed, fluently and so freely that Blanche knew he'd forgotten her presence. "That sort of unease is a contagion that can spread, Edmund. The sheriff had warned me that he found de Mortimer's people to be 'fickle and haughty,' saying openly that they 'have no lord now.' I had not realized, though, that it was as bad as this." "I think you ought to invest de Mortimer's eldest son with his lands as soon as possible, Ned." Edward nodded. "Let's hope that will help, for if Maelienydd catches fire, you can be sure the Welsh will be right there to fan the flames. Of course, if Brother John was persuasive enough to make Llewelyn see reason, I can deal with de Mortimer's discontented vassals at my leisure, and still be back in London in time for Christmas." "I would not rely on that," Blanche said, and Edward gave her a cool glance, no longer amused. "What makes you say that, Blanche? Has your fondness for Llewelyn ap Gruffydd given you some special insight into the man's mind?" "No insight," she said composedly, "and not second sight, either. °ut the Archbishop of Canterbury is coming our way, and he does not look like a man with good news to share." "The Welsh are an accursed, insolent people, and I rue the day I eyer tried to bring them back to God's Grace!" The Archbishop halted ^ front of the window-seat, brandishing several pages of parchment. should have heeded you, my liege, for they are indeed beyond sal- vation." "Llewelyn refused the earldom?" Edward was incredulous. 516 "He said that your offer was neither safe nor honest, and he could never consent, for it would mean the destruction of his people." The Archbishop thrust the letters at Edward. "See for yourself. He says that even if he'd been willing to agree to his own disinheritance, his council would never permit him to renounce his birthright . . . and he adds that they marveled such a proposal would even be made. The second letter is from his council. They say that these terms are utterly unacceptable, that they will never again do homage to strangers, to those whose tongue, manners, and laws are alien to them." Edward's eyes glittered. "Will they not, indeed? And Davydd?" "His was the most offensive answer of all. He says that if he is ever disposed to go to the Holy Land, he will do so for God, not for the English King. He even dares to say that he was amazed I should sanction an enforced pilgrimage, which could have no merit in God's eyes. And he casts vile aspersions upon my neutrality and good faith, insists that they will win this war, that God would never reward English cruelty and treachery with victory." Edward began, then, to read the letters, and Edmund shifted position so he could see over his brother's shoulder. The Archbishop was too angry to wait patiently, striding back and forth before the windowseat, his robes flaring out behind him. "I should have expected this, for they know no more of gratitude than they do of honor. Their priests are too often unlettered rustics who are ignorant of Latin and take wives or hearth-mates in defiance of Church law. Their own laws are a scandal throughout Christendom, for they permit divorce and they accord bastards the same rights as heirs born in holy wedlock, and they even claim that Church law should be subordinate to the laws of Hywel Dda. Assuming this law-giver of theirs ever lived, he quite clearly took his instructions from the Devil himself!" Peckham paused for breath. "The whole of Welsh history is a shameful tale of treachery, massacres, arson, and other unspeakable crimes. 1 ought to have studied it ere I risked so much to save them, for I'd have realized that my efforts were doomed to fail. Why a people so slothful and wanton and faithless should take such pride in their pitiful heritage is truly beyond the comprehension of reasonable men. After reading these letters, my liege, I can say only that an English conquest of Wales would be a blessing for these people, belatedly bringing them the benefits of Christian civilization." Edward put the letters down, got to his feet. "So be it," he said/ no more than that, but Blanche felt a chill, and she reached hastily f°r her husband's hand. Edmund gave her fingers a reassuring squefi ' but his smile could not banish the vision that Edward's words ha conjured up: Wales in flames, a land stalked by death, and Edmund 517 the midst of it all, dying for his brother on a Welsh battlefield, in an ambush on a snow-shrouded hillside of Eryri. Edmund had risen now, too. "You mean then, to wage the war throughout the winter?" he asked, and Edward nodded. "As long," he said grimly, "as it takes." The men did not linger, for Edward's council must be told that the Welsh had chosen the sword over the olive branch. Blanche sat where she was, watching them go. "God keep you safe, Edmund," she whispered, and God help Llewelyn ap Gruffydd. Mayhap Ned was right, and the Almighty had been merciful in taking Ellen when He did. AS he was about to enter the great hall at Aber, Llewelyn came to a sudden halt. "Go on in," he told his companions, Dai and Goronwy and his cousin of Powys, "and I'll join you soon." Crossing the bailey then, he stopped before the cradle. Caitlin was bending over the baby, and looked up, startled, as his shadow fell across the blankets. "Uncle Llewelyn! Is it all right to have Gwenllian out here? Elizabeth probably would not approve, but it's not that cold today, and she's well wrapped up ... see?" "She looks quite content, lass." Llewelyn had noticed signs of strain between his niece and sister-in-law since his return to Aber, and now he understood why. Elizabeth, a mother of two, would naturally assume she knew best where Gwenllian was concerned, but her proprietary attitude clearly did not sit well with Caitlin. He was not sure what he could do about it, though, for he'd be gone again by week's end; they'd just have to settle it themselves. Reaching down, he gave Gwenllian his finger to hold, and she blinked up at him curiously, began to make soft, cooing sounds. "Her eyes are getting cloudier," he said. "Will they be brown, do you think?" "Elizabeth says so. I hope they will stay this shade, for it is such a pretty color, a pale gold-brown, lighter than your eyes, darker than Aunt Ellen's." "Yes," he agreed, "it is," and then he smiled, for he'd just noticed we small dog curled up at Caitlin's feet. "How did you ever win Hiraeth °ver, lass?" It took time and patience and a prayer or two. But I'd heard that °gs like Hiraeth, the sort that loved but one master, have been known pine away, and I was not going to let that happen to Aunt Ellen's 6- l m glad," he said, "that you were so persistent. It could not have ^n easy, though, for she loved Ellen and only Ellen. I'd tried half- 516 "He said that your offer was neither safe nor honest, and he could never consent, for it would mean the destruction of his people." The Archbishop thrust the letters at Edward. "See for yourself. He says that even if he'd been willing to agree to his own disinheritance, his council would never permit him to renounce his birthright. . . and he adds that they marveled such a proposal would even be made. The second letter is from his council. They say that these terms are utterly unacceptable, that they will never again do homage to strangers, to those whose tongue, manners, and laws are alien to them." Edward's eyes glittered. "Will they not, indeed? And Davydd?" "His was the most offensive answer of all. He says that if he is ever disposed to go to the Holy Land, he will do so for God, not for the English King. He even dares to say that he was amazed I should sanction an enforced pilgrimage, which could have no merit in God's eyes. And he casts vile aspersions upon my neutrality and good faith, insists that they will win this war, that God would never reward English cruelty and treachery with victory." Edward began, then, to read the letters, and Edmund shifted position so he could see over his brother's shoulder. The Archbishop was too angry to wait patiently, striding back and forth before the windowseat, his robes flaring out behind him. "I should have expected this, for they know no more of gratitude than they do of honor. Their priests are too often unlettered rustics who are ignorant of Latin and take wives or hearth-mates in defiance of Church law. Their own laws are a scandal throughout Christendom, for they permit divorce and they accord bastards the same rights as heirs born in holy wedlock, and they even claim that Church law should be subordinate to the laws of Hywel Dda. Assuming this law-giver of theirs ever lived, he quite clearly took his instructions from the Devil himself!" Peckham paused for breath. "The whole of Welsh history is a shameful tale of treachery, massacres, arson, and other unspeakable crimes. I ought to have studied it ere I risked so much to save them, for I'd have realized that my efforts were doomed to fail. Why a people so slothful and wanton and faithless should take such pride in their pitiful heritage is truly beyond the comprehension of reasonable men. After reading these letters, my liege, I can say only that an English conquest of Wales would be a blessing for these people, belatedly bringing them the benefits of Christian civilization." Edward put the letters down, got to his feet. "So be it," he said, no more than that, but Blanche felt a chill, and she reached hastily f°r her husband's hand. Edmund gave her fingers a reassuring squeeze, but his smile could not banish the vision that Edward's words had conjured up: Wales in flames, a land stalked by death, and Edmund in 527 the midst of it all, dying for his brother on a Welsh battlefield, in an ambush on a snow-shrouded hillside of Eryri. Edmund had risen now, too. "You mean then, to wage the war throughout the winter?" he asked, and Edward nodded. "As long," he said grimly, "as it takes." The men did not linger, for Edward's council must be told that the Welsh had chosen the sword over the olive branch. Blanche sat where she was, watching them go. "God keep you safe, Edmund," she whispered, and God help Llewelyn ap Gruffydd. Mayhap Ned was right, and the Almighty had been merciful in taking Ellen when He did. AS he was about to enter the great hall at Aber, Llewelyn came to a sudden halt. "Go on in," he told his companions, Dai and Goronwy and his cousin of Powys, "and I'll join you soon." Crossing the bailey then, he stopped before the cradle. Caitlin was bending over the baby, and looked up, startled, as his shadow fell across the blankets. "Uncle Llewelyn! Is it all right to have Gwenllian out here? Elizabeth probably would not approve, but it's not that cold today, and she's well wrapped up ... see?" "She looks quite content, lass." Llewelyn had noticed signs of strain between his niece and sister-in-law since his return to Aber, and now he understood why. Elizabeth, a mother of two, would naturally assume she knew best where Gwenllian was concerned, but her proprietary attitude clearly did not sit well with Caitlin. He was not sure what he could do about it, though, for he'd be gone again by week's end; they'd just have to settle it themselves. Reaching down, he gave Gwenllian his finger to hold, and she blinked up at him curiously, began to make soft, cooing sounds. "Her eyes are getting cloudier," he said. "Will they be brown, do you think?" "Elizabeth says so. I hope they will stay this shade, for it is such a pretty color, a pale gold-brown, lighter than your eyes, darker than Aunt Ellen's." "Yes," he agreed, "it is," and then he smiled, for he'd just noticed the small dog curled up at Caitlin's feet. "How did you ever win Hiraeth over, lass?" "It took time and patience and a prayer or two. But I'd heard that dogs like Hiraeth, the sort that loved but one master, have been known to pine away, and I was not going to let that happen to Aunt Ellen's dog." "I'm glad," he said, "that you were so persistent. It could not have °een easy, though, for she loved Ellen and only Ellen. I'd tried half- 518 heartedly to befriend her at first, for I am fond of dogs, even one that looks like a barking ball of yarn. But she never accepted me except on sufferance . . . although she did seem more tolerant of Hugh; at least she never bit him!" He saw his niece's lashes flicker, saw her react to Hugh's name, and he said quietly, "You miss him, I think . . . very much." Caitlin's eyes flew to his face, but she did not find what she'd feared. He did not know! She spared a moment for a swift, silent prayer of thankfulness, for he already had trouble and griefs enough to last a lifetime and more. "Yes," she said, "I do miss Hugh, for he was a good friend. Uncle Llewelyn ... is it true that you are again going south?" "Yes," he said. "The Welsh down in Ceredigion and Ystrad Tywi are in danger of losing heart, for their resistance seems to have waned once I returned to Gwynedd. Moreover, since Edward means to continue his campaign during the winter months, we'll need to take some of the pressure off Gwynedd, and what better way to do it than to give Edward trouble elsewhere? Lastly, Roger de Mortimer's death has shaken Maelienydd to its very core, and if we are to take advantage of that unrest, I need to be there." "I suppose," she said grudgingly, but she could not keep from adding, "I still wish you'd send Davydd instead, whilst you stayed in Gwynedd." "I've done more fighting down in those cantrefs than Davydd has, know the lay of the land better than he does." Leaving unsaid what she knew to be an equally important consideration, that he could encourage the faithful, embolden the wavering, as Davydd could not. She looked so somber, so forlorn that Llewelyn found himself fumbling for comfort. "Ere I depart, we shall have a great feast at Aber, to rejoice in the favor the Almighty has shown us and to celebrate last week's triumph over the English invaders. I would be beholden to you, Caitlin, if you would plan the meal, consult with my bard, undertake all that must be done, and act as my hostess at the high table ... as Ellen did whenever we had guests." Her eyes widened. "Truly, Uncle? You are sure you want me to do that? Not Elizabeth?" "Quite sure," he said, and was rewarded with a smile bright enough to blind. It had been a long time, he thought, since he'd seen her smile like that, since he'd seen her smile at all. THE feasting at Aber had gone on for hours. The Welsh drank to the" victory upon the shores of the Menai Straits. They listened raptly a Llewelyn's court bard sang of past glories. They dined upon roast veniso / 519 sturgeon pie, egg custard, stewed capon, hot sugared wafers filled with fruit, and wine and mead in spiced abundance. Llewelyn withdrew when the dancing began, for he rode south at first light, and the sound of the music followed him back to his own chamber, floating for miles upon the quiet night air. Llewelyn was not tired, though, knew it would be hours before he could sleep. He roamed the chamber restlessly, then abruptly insisted that Trevor return to the festivities, and as soon as the boy had gone, he, too, left the chamber. It was cold, but the wind was still, and the sky spilling over with stars. The gatehouse guards looked startled, but something in Llewelyn's face kept them quiet, and they watched in puzzlement as he passed through. He told himself a walk would help him sleep, clear his head of mead, and he would have insisted that he was merely wandering at random, with no set destination in mind. But his steps took him unerringly into the darkness, until his boots were scuffed with sand and he no longer heard the harp music from the hall, heard only the sounds of waves breaking upon the beach. He stopped at the water's edge and glanced over his shoulder half expecting to see a sleek shadow racing toward him across the sand; Nia had loved the shore more than any dog he'd ever had. But Nia, two months dead, ran now only in memory. He was gazing across the strait when he heard a sudden crunch the sound a boot might make stepping upon a shell. He swung around and saw that his instincts had served him well, for he was no longer alone. A figure was emerging from the darkness, not yet close enough to recognize. But he had no need of moonlight or lanterns, somehow knewhow he was not even sure himselfwho it had to be. He Waited and a few moments later Davydd sauntered out of the shadows, whistling softly, as if he took a midnight stroll along Aber's beach every eve of his life. "I never knew you numbered night tracking amongst your talents, Davydd." "Actually, I do not." Davydd picked up a shell, examined it in Painstaking detail, then pitched it into an incoming wave. "I stopped °y your chamber to chat, what with you leaving in the morn, and found you gone. So ... I came looking for you." "How," Llewelyn asked, genuinely surprised, "did you guess that I'd be here?" "Where else would you be on a night when you could not sleep?" avydd said, and they both turned at that, looked across the water toward Llanfaes. A wave splashed upon the beach, almost at their feet. Davydd 520 glanced around, spotted a log not far away, moss-grown, half-buried irt sand. "Have a seat, my lord Prince," he invited, deftly spreading the folds of his mantle to make himself as comfortable as possible. Llewelyn did, but he could not sit still for long, was soon up on his feet again, back at the water's edge. "I thought I was doing the right thing, burying Ellen at Llanfaes. I thought she would have wanted that, being with Joanna. So I picked the friary over the abbey at Aberconwy, and now I cannot even visit her grave." Davydd pushed himself off the log, slowly crossed the sand until he stood by Llewelyn's side. "It is not getting any better, is it?" he asked, sounding as hesitant as he felt, for this was new and troubling territory, and he was not sure he wanted to venture too far into it. Llewelyn shook his head. Keeping his eyes upon the black silhouette that was Mon, he said, "I kept telling myself that if I could just get through October, if-I could do that, the worst would be over. October was so full of ambushesher birthday, our wedding anniversary. It is behind me now, and I suppose I should be thankful. But I'd forgotten about December; I'd forgotten about Christmas." Davydd bit his lip, not knowing what to say. He'd never lost anyone he'd loved, had never been bereaved. He did not even remember his father, had never forgiven his mother for offering him up so readily as a hostage, and while he'd been saddened by Owain's death, it had been neither unexpected nor tragic; for Owain, it had been a release. His silence seemed to be blanketing the beach, so thick they were like to smother in it; for certes, Llewelyn must be wondering why he did not at least make an attempt at consolation. He frowned, started to speak, stopped, and then saw that Llewelyn was not even aware of him at that moment, was alone with a dead woman and a wound that would not heal. "Llewelyn ..." He reached out, his hand almost brushing Llewelyn's sleeve. "Are you not ready to go back? You do have to get up ere the sun does . . . remember?" "Soon," Llewelyn said. "You go on, ere Elizabeth starts to worry. Davydd nodded, backed away a few feet, then turned toward Aber. He'd not gone far, though, before he stopped again, swung around to face his brother. "The battle at the bridge last week," he said abruptly"That was the first time we fought together. Being on the same side found I liked it." Llewelyn looked at him across the shadowed expanse of sand, was too dark for Davydd to see his face. "Enough to make it a habit- "In a world where you get offered an English earldom, I" ^ anything is possible," Davydd said wryly, but he was smiling in 521 darkness. Starting to whistle again, he moved back into the shadows, heading home. It was then that he caught it from the corner of his eye, a sudden streak of light. Stopping in his tracks, he swiftly scanned the heavens. All agreed that a comet was a harbinger of doom, blazing across the sky to foretell the coming death of a great lord or king. But people were more ambivalent about shooting stars, some convinced they were ill omens, too, others sure that they heralded good fortune for those lucky enough to spot them. Davydd was firmly in the latter camp, and he tracked the star's plunging fall with delight, then spun around, eager to share this with Llewelyn. But as he did, he saw that his brother had missed the shooting star. Llewelyn had turned back toward the strait, toward Llanfaes. 36 CWM-HIR ABBEY, WALES December 1282 iVlY lord!" Trevor leaned over the bed. "Wake up, my lord!" Llewelyn's eyes opened at that, but they were still sleepclouded, not yet focused. "You were having a bad dream. I heard you cry out.. ." Llewelyn remembered now. He sat up slowly, feeling as if he'd not been to bed at all. His exhaustion was obvious; his eyes were bloodshot and smudged with shadows, his dark hair shot through with glints of silver, and in the cold, greying light of this December dawn, he looked |&e a man long past his youth, a man with too many cares, too few l°ys. Trevor started to speak, emboldened by anxiety, but the words caught in his throat. He yearned to tell Llewelyn that he understood. During the day, Emories could be held at bay, but at night, dreams became the Devil's Wn accomplices. He knew his lord's haunted dreams as if they were his °wndreams of the Lady Ellen's death. Just as he knew that the 522 other dreams were even worse, the ones in which she still lived, the ones that gave Llewelyn back all he'd lost, so that when he awakened, there was always a moment when he forgot, when he thought his world was still whole. Llewelyn had yet to move, and Trevor hesitated no longer. "I know about death dreams," he blurted out, plunging ahead before he could lose his nerve. "You see, my lord, I had a brother. There were just eleven months between us, and people oft-times mistook us for twins, so alike were we. One day, not long past Tegan's thirteenth birthday, we were playing the fool as lads will, and I chased him into the stables, where he stepped upon a rake. It seemed a minor mishap, no more than that. But it festered, and soon he could no longer swallow. When he went into spasms, the doctors could do nothing for him. It ... it was a hard death, my lord." Llewelyn felt pity stir; how little he'd known about this steadfast, earnest youngster. "Ere we depart Cwm-hir," he said, "I think you and I ought to seek out Abbot Cadwgan, ask him to say a Mass for my lady and your brother." Trevor's face lit up. "That would be a deed well done," he said, and smiled. "What I wanted to tell you, my lord, is that it does get better in time. Now, when Tegan comes to me in dreams, it is a comfort." Suddenly shy then, fearing he'd over-stepped, he turned away, made haste to bring Llewelyn his clothes, that their day might begin. Llewelyn was soon standing by the unshuttered window, heedless of the cold air invading the chamber. Winter had come early to midWales; the abbey grounds were carpeted in deep drifts of glistening white, and the River Clywedog was glazed with patches of brittle, sunblinding ice. Cwm-hir meant "long valley" in Welsh, and the abbey was ringed by nature's own battlements, densely wooded hills, dusted now with December snow. Llewelyn had often marveled at his homeland's wild beauty, but few vistas had pleased him as much as this peaceful glen, a jewel hidden away from the world within the mountains of Maelienydd. Turning reluctantly from the window, he took the razor from Trevor, waited for the boy to fetch a mirror. It was small and round and made of polished brass; as he held it up, Trevor wondered what had become of the magical, silvered mirror his lord had given the Lady Ellen. Llewelyn always insisted upon shaving himself, joking that his was the only hand he trusted to wield a blade against his throat, but Trevor knew he'd sometimes let his wife shave him. It seemed unfair indee that even the most commonplace of tasks could salt a wound anew, an he spoke up quickly now, before his Prince's memories could get PaS w 523 his defenses. She was a loving ghost, the Lady Ellen, too loving; it was time she let his lord go. "Lord Goronwy told me that there is much bad blood amongst the Marchers. He says that when you put so many tomcats in the same sack, they're bound to come out spitting and clawing. Is he right, my lord? Is it possible that they might start squabbling amongst themselves?" Llewelyn shrugged, then winced, for he'd nicked his chin. "Possible, lad, but not likely. Oh, they're all ones for tending a grudge the way a shepherd looks to his lambs. Gruffydd ap Gwenwynwyn has been feuding with the Corbets and de Mortimers for years. The Corbets also loathe the Lestranges, and none of them can abide John Giffard. But however much they detest one another, Trevor, they fear Edward more. The days are gone when the Marchers could play the Welsh off against the King, at least as long as the King happens to be one of the best battle commanders in Christendom." He smiled then, wryly. "I'd wager, lad, that there are times when they miss poor hapless King Henry even more than we do!" Trevor removed the shaving basin, slopping soapy water into the floor rushes. "We've had great success in Powys, men flocking to your banners. Where do we go next?" "Fetch me the map and I'll show you," Llewelyn offered, and together they unrolled the parchment, held it toward the light. "It is my intent to venture as far south as Brycheiniog, Trevor. On the morrow, we'll move on into Gwerthrynion, and then into Buellt. These lands were once mine; men will remember." He gestured with the razor, and water splattered the map, dripping down the winding trail of the River Gwy, onto the Crown castle that rose up on its south bank. ON Friday morning, the llth of December, Llewelyn and the Welsh were on the hills northwest of that royal riverside fortress. An English town had sprung up around the castle, called by the Welsh Llanfair-ymMuallt, the Church of St. Mary in Buellt. A brisk wind was blowing; it dispersed the drifting smoke of hearth fires, unfurled the banner flying from the castle keep, revealing the arms of its new castellan, John ^Ward. It was just past dawn, and there was little stirring below, either ^ the streets or upon the castle battlements; they did not yet know the Welsh were on the heights above them. At first light, Llewelyn began to divide his army, for they had agreed at his Seneschal would continue on to accept the homage of the men 0 Brycheiniog on his behalf, while he met with the local Welsh, sought 524 to win them away from their enforced allegiance to the Crown. As soon as Dai departed, Llewelyn deployed his remaining men along the high ground between the River Gwy and its tributary, the Irfon. A narrow bridge spanned the latter river, and he wasted no time in dispatching an armed force to seize and hold it. Once that was done, the military advantages lay with the Welsh. Safe behind the barriers of the Gwy and Irfon, Llewelyn had the upper hand, for as long as he controlled the bridge, he could determine when or if battle would be joined. John Giffard was not the only Marcher lord they faced across the width of the Irfon. Roger de Mortimer's sons were known to be at Buellt Castle with Giffard, as were two sons of Gruffydd ap Gwenwynwyn. They were not long in discovering the presence of the Welsh, and soon sallied forth to assault the bridge. Although they were soundly repulsed, they were not convinced and launched a second attack, only to be beaten back again. After that, they withdrew into the castle while they considered their next move. Just before noon, Llewelyn received reinforcements from the western reaches of Buellt. Rhosier ap Gruffydd had been Llewelyn's steward in the years when the cantref had been under his rule; he was also a friend, one Llewelyn was well pleased to see. Llewelyn was already in good spirits, for the day had so far gone exactly as they'd planned. Moreover, he'd had a heartening encounter with a White Monk from Ysrrad Fflur Abbey. "He was on his way," Llewelyn explained, "to their grange at Aberduhonw. He offered to say Mass for me in Llanganten Church, and when I felt honor-bound to remind him that I was excommunicate, he laughed scornfully. 'That/ he said, 'was the English King's doing, not the Almighty's!' " Rhosier grinned. "Why does that surprise you? The English can claim from now till Judgment Day that God is on their side; indeed, they seek to make him a veritable partner in their crimes! But what Welshman would ever believe it?" They were gathered in Llewelyn's command tent; Rhosier moved closer to the fire, stripped off his gloves, and warmed his hands. "Well?" he queried. "What happens next? Do we fight this day ... or not?" "Not," Llewelyn said. "I've agreed to meet with some of the local Welsh, men whose hearts are with us, but who are too wary of their English overlords to come openly into my camp, lest they be left to face Giffard's wrath once I'm no longer here to protect them. I'm putting Goronwy and my cousin, Llewelyn Fychan, in command whilst In* gone, but I'd as soon have you at my side, Rhosier. You know these men, and I trust your judgment." At that, Goronwy started to speak, stopped himself just in tin16- 525 J-Ie'd already made his objections known to Llewelyn, to no avail. It was not that he disagreed with Llewelyn's aims. He, too, thought it worthwhile to meet with the local Welsh, and was willing to overlook their timidity, for Buellt was occupied territory, and King's men like Giffard would be quick to suspect, quicker to strike. But he did not want his prince to be the one to seek them out. This was an old grievance between them, for he'd long worried that Llewelyn was far too casual when it came to his own safety, too quick to take risks better left to others. In that, he was much like Davydd; Goronwy thought the brothers had more in common than they realized, or were willing to admit. But like Davydd, too, Llewelyn shrugged off unwelcome advice, deflecting with sarcasm what he did not want to hear. Goronwy's remonstrances had fallen on deaf ears. And so now he kept silent as Llewelyn picked a mere handful of men to accompany him, knowing Llewelyn would only have pointed outwith some justificationthat a clandestine meeting would become conspicuous right quickly if he brought an army along. But as Llewelyn swung up into the saddle, he could not help himself. "You'll not be gone long? Dusk comes early in December, and you're not familiar with these roads, my lord." Llewelyn shot him a look that was both amused and irked. "What are you asking, Goronwy? That I do not play after dark?" The other men were grinning widely. Goronwy managed a sheepish smile of his own, and as Llewelyn and Rhosier rode out of their encampment, they were followed by the cheering echoes of laughter. THERE was little laughter, however, in the English castle at Buellt. Roger Lestrange, commander of the King's forces in mid-Wales, was stalking about the great hall as if it were a cage. He had little space for pacing, though, for it was overflowing with men, women, and wide-eyed children; the townspeople had sought refuge in the castle upon learning that there was a Welsh army positioned above them at Llanganten. The younger children had quickly grown bored, and they were playing a noisy game of tag; the castle dogs had eagerly joined in, and the hall Was soon a scene of sheer bedlam, much to Lestrange's annoyance. He was not usually so thin-skinned, but he bore a heavy burden 'fose days, as Roger de Mortimer's successor, and he well knew that *U Were watching him closely, wondering if he'd be up to the task at and; de Mortimer, whatever his vices, had cast a long shadow. The Sudden appearance of the Welsh Prince in their midst was the sort of PPortunity that might not come again, and God save him if he botched "' as he seemed likely to do. 526 His frustration intensified as the day wore on. Just one wretched bridge lay between him and what might be the decisive battle of the war. But the Irfon was running high with snow-melt, and they had no hope of crossing it unless they could take the bridge, as they'd conclusively proved they could not do. So now they waited, and Llewelyn ap Gruffydd, damn his soul to Hell, took his ease behind the Irfon L Lestrange thought sourly, laughing at them. The continuing clamor was one aggravation too many in a day so hill of disappointments, and when Lestrange spotted John Giffard's wife, he went over to complain. He'd meant to speak sharply to her; after all, she was the lady of the manor, and responsible for maintaining some semblance of order. But as he looked into Maude's tired, troubled face, he found himself softening his words. Lestrange had known Maude Clifford in her youth, remembered her as a handsome lass, flirtatious and given to giggling, but that was before her abduction and marriage to John Giffard. This woman was a stranger, a pitiful, drab creature, wan as a ghost, timid as a hedgesparrow. Her oldest daughter by Giffard, a girl of ten, clung to her skirts. Katherine had inherited Maude's dark coloring, but none of her father's swagger; she seemed unwilling to leave Maude's side for even a moment. Lestrange was not normally one for speculating about what went on in women's heads, but he found himself recalling now that Maude was a kinswoman of the Welsh Prince; which one, he wondered, did she pray forhusband or cousin? When he suggested, far more kindly than he'd intended, that Lady Maude ought to quiet the hall, Maude hastily compliedor tried to. Watching as she attempted to restore calm, Lestrange soon saw how ineffectual her efforts were. She might be a great heiress and John Giffard's lady wife, but she seemed unable to daunt a single soul in the hall, even the youngest ones. Lestrange turned away, stopped a servant, and ordered a flagon of hippocras. It was then that John Giffard strode into the hall. Coming to an abrupt halt, he scowled, and shouted, "Quiet!" Children froze where they were, and the babble of voices subsided, gave way to subdued hush. Giffard paused just long enough to locate Lestrange. "Roger! I need to talk to you!" Lestrange did not appreciate the other man's peremptory tone, but Giffard never even noticed. He was close enough now for Lestrange to see how flushed he was. His eyes had a glazed, blue glitter that Lestrange associated with too much wine, but Giffard was quite sober. "What was it you said, Roger . . . that we needed a miracle? Well, I've brought yo one." Turning, he beckoned to a man who'd trailed him into the ha»- 527 "Meet your miracle, also known as Helias Walwyn. Go on, Helias, tell him-" The man was not known to Lestrange, but his name identified him as a fellow countryman; the English had been settling in Wales in ever growing numbers, lured by their King's promises of profit and opportunity. Helias Walwyn seemed to be relishing the attention. He grinned, brushed back a shock of blond hair, letting the suspense build, like a child about to share a secret. "I know of a way to cross the Irfon, my lord. There is a ford not far from where the Wye and Irfon meet. It will be a hazardous crossing, what with the water running so high. But if we are willing to risk it, we can hit the Welsh defenders from the rear, take the bridge, and then fall upon Llewelyn ap Gruffydd ere he realizes his danger." JUST as Goronwy had predicted, December dusk descended swiftly upon the wooded hills and valleys of Buellt. The last light had begun to fade from the winter sky as Llewelyn rode back toward Llanganten. Somewhere in the distance, Vespers was being rung. "Llanynys Church, most likely," Rhosier concluded, tilting his head to listen. "A pity that it is on the wrong side of the Irfon, or we could have stopped for the service. I had no obliging White Monk to say Mass for me today," he said, casting Llewelyn a sideways glance of mock reproach. "Ah, but you've led such a sinless life that you're always in a state of grace," Llewelyn said blandly, although the corner of his mouth gave him away, twitching as he sought to suppress a grin. The other men hooted loudly at that, but Rhosier was not offended, for he was a man quick to laugh, even at his own expense. Only Llewelyn and Rhosier had attended the meeting in a secluded grange barn. Their escort had waited at a discreet distance, out of hearing range, and they were quite curious about the outcome. One youth was especially eager to know the particulars, and as Robyn ap Gwern seized control of the conversation, Trevor fought back a disapproving frown. Robyn was a newcomer to his lord's household, a well-born youth who was connected by marriage to Llewelyn's nephew, Rhys Wyndod. But Trevor found him to be insufferably cocky and brash, and it vexed him now to hear Robyn interrogating his lord as if they were equals; that Llewelyn did not seem to mind only irritated him all the more. "Well . . . what happened? Did they pledge you their support, my °rd? Or swoon dead away at the mere thought of committing themselves?" 'I hope," Llewelyn said, "that the Almighty is more forgiving of *-w 528 men's failings than you are, Robyn." Although Trevor could not see his face, it sounded as if he was smiling. "It has not been easy for them, living in the shadow of the Crown. Edward's lackeys have ruled Buellt with a heavy hand these five years past. They've had to learn caution, to embrace it as an article of faith. In fact, so skittish have they become that the letter they gave me is so cryptic and obscure it reads as if it were in code!" Robyn was too young, though, to empathize with those who were half-hearted, apprehensive, or downtrodden. "That just proves what I've been saying, that I've seen field mice with more backbone. If they lack courage enough even to seek you out in daylight, how likely is it that they'd take up arms on your behalf? If I may be blunt, my lord, this is one quest that will yield no Holy Grail!" "Mayhap not, but I gained information from them that might well save our lives," Llewelyn said, and Robyn turned sharply in the saddle to stare at him. The others urged their mounts closer to hear, too; Llewelyn had their undivided attention now. "I knew Edward had appointed Roger Lestrange to de Mortimer's command, and I knew, too, that he was on his way to join Giffard at Buellt Castle. But what I did not know was that he'd already arrived, and with a large force from Montgomery and Oswestry." Llewelyn paused, then added dryly, "With half our army on their way to Brycheiniog with Dai, I suppose if s rather obvious that I did not know!" There was a silence after that, until Robyn gave voice to the thought uppermost in all their minds. "Thank God," he said, "that we hold the bridge!" "Speaking of the bridge," Llewelyn said, "we might as well take care of it now. Morgan, you and Andras ride on ahead to the camp, tell Goronwy and my cousin what we learned about Lestrange, and that we've gone to check upon the bridge. We'll set it afire, and bring our men back with us to the camp. The day of reckoning with Giffard and Lestrange will have to wait." It had snowed earlier in the day, and they were studying the sky as they rode, attempting to gauge the chances of snow on the morrow. But Robyn soon brought his stallion up to ride beside Llewelyn and Rhosier. "Whilst we were at Cwm-hir, I got to talking with one of the monks. He was almost as old as God, having reached his full three score years and ten, and he told me about an ambush that had taken place fifty years ago or more, involving Llewelyn Fawr and a monk or Cwm-hir. Do you know about that, my lord?" Trevor had been bristling over this new evidence of Robyn's pi*" sumption, but at the mention of Llewelyn Fawr, he no longer minde so much. His lord could not yet bear to talk of his wife; that wound was 529 still too raw. But he took great pleasure in reminiscing about the grandfather he'd so loved, and Trevor was glad to see those memories evoked now, even if it was Robyn's doing. Already he could hear the laughter in his lord's voice, just beneath the surface, as Llewelyn said, "Indeed, I do, lad. That was a story my grandfather loved to tell. It happened during one of his campaigns against the English King, Edward's father. Henry's men came upon a White Monk, who offered to show them a way to ford the Gwy. Instead he led them into a marsh, where they were soon bogged down and easy prey for the Welsh. Henry was so wroth with Cwm-hir that he burned one of their barns, levied a fine of three hundred marks" They heard it, too, then, sounds echoing through the trees. As Llewelyn drew rein, he saw sudden fear on the faces of his men, fear for him. "Let me scout ahead," Robyn urged. For once, though, Trevor was the bolder of the two youths; he was already in motion. But there was no need to seek out danger; it found them. Trevor had not yet reached the bend in the trail when he ran into a band of English horsemen. There was no knight among them, for they wore hooded coifs and leather gambesons, not the great helms and mail hauberks too costly for men-at-arms. They were clearly no novices to warfare and battlefield surprises, for they recovered swiftly and surged forward, confident that they would prevail; they easily outnumbered their Welsh foes. None of this mattered to Trevor; none of it even registered with him. He knew only that his Prince was in grave peril. Shouting over his shoulder, "My lord, save yourself!" he spurred his horse forward. Trevor barely had time to draw his weapon. As soon as a target was within range, he lashed out wildly with his sword, too frantic to feel any fear. The first man he encountered seemed startled by the ferocity of his attack, and veered off. Another swung at Trevor as he galloped past, but his battle axe just sliced through the air, harmlessly. Trevor's rush had carried him into the very midst of the enemy ranks. As he tugged at his horse's reins, seeking to turn it about, he risked a quick glance back, and what he saw took his breath like a blow. His lord had not fled. He was unsheathing his sword, making ready to defend himself. "No," Trevor cried, "no!" He jerked again on the reins, wheeled his mount, and careened into the nearest rider. His sword struck the Englishman's shield, glanced off. As the other man counter-thrust, Trevor twisted in the saddle to avoid the blow. But it was then that his horse's hooves came down upon a patch of ice. It scrabbled to keep its °oting, slid sideways, and went down heavily. Trevor was thrown clear, °Uing over and over until he slammed into a tree. But his opponent 530 was more interested in claiming Trevor's floundering stallion than in confirming a kill, and paid no more heed to the boy sprawled in the snow, dazed and defenseless, under a barren alder tree. Trevor put his hand up to his head; his fingers came away bloodied. He tried to sit up, sagged back against the trunk of the tree. His vision was slow to clear. When it did, he saw Rhosier's body crumpled nearby. Robyn was unhorsed, struggling to hold off a soldier armed with a deadly chained mace. But it was Llewelyn whom the boy sought, Llewelyn alone who filled his world. He was some yards away, but Trevor heard the shivering sound his sword made as it deflected his enemy's slashing blade. The other man was bleeding, and when Llewelyn struck again, the Englishman's sword went spinning out of his grip, fell into the trampled snow between their horses. But Llewelyn did not see the second rider bearing down upon him, lance couched and at the ready. Lurching to his knees, Trevor screamed, "My lord, beware! Look to your left!" Llewelyn heard his warning. Turning in the saddle, he started to bring up his shield. But it was too late, for the man was coining fast, was already upon him. The chain mail of his hauberk proved no protection against the penetrating power of a lance. It hit him in the side, with the full weight of horse and rider behind it, chain links breaking apart as the weapon plunged into his flesh, thrust up under his ribcage. The impact of the blow sent him reeling against the saddle cantle. There was a burning pain as the lance blade tore free, and unable to catch himself, he went over backward into the snow. The rider followed, reined in, and for a moment, the lance hovered above Llewelyn's throat, splattering him with his own blood. But then it was withdrawn. Satisfied that there was no need for a second strike, the Englishman set off in pursuit of Llewelyn's stallion. Llewelyn sought to raise himself up on his elbows, only to sink back, defeated. It was as if his body no longer belonged to him, obeyed no more orders from his brain. He was bleeding heavily, and the snow was rapidly turning crimson. He put the palm of his hand over the wound and pressed. That caused fresh pain, but the blood continued to drain away, and his strength with it. He watched in disbelief as it soaked his glove, seeped through his fingers, a river of red that showed no signs of stopping. How could it end like this? Was this where God had been leading him, to this December dusk and a thrusting lance What of Wales? The English were riding off, triumphant. Trevor reached Llewel, first, and then Robyn. Blood was still streaming down Trevor's ia ' and Robyn's right arm hung useless at his side, at an odd angleneither youth seemed even aware of his own injuries. Their faces asn 531 their eyes filled with horror, they knelt beside their Prince, saying his name in unison, almost like a prayer. It was Robyn who took control. Jerking off his mantle, he said tautly, "Help me wrap this about the wound, Trevor, and hurry! If we do not stop the bleeding ..." Trevor still seemed to be in a state of shock, but he did as Robyn bade, and then took off his own mantle, made of it a pillow for his Prince's head. "Rhosier?" Llewelyn's voice was slurred and breathless, but Trevor had never heard a sound more welcome to his ears. The question, though, was one he did not want to answer, and he felt a surge of gratitude when Robyn did it for him. "Rhosier has gone to get help, my lord." They could not tell if Llewelyn believed the lie, for he'd closed his eyes again. Robyn was finding it harder to ignore the dull throbbing of his broken arm, but he knew he could not give in to it, not yet. "I'll bring back men and horses," he told Trevor quietly. "Stay with him." Alone with Llewelyn in the twilit clearing, Trevor gently removed his coif, smoothing his lord's hair with fingers that shook. Llewelyn's skin was cold to the touch, and almost as pale as the surrounding snow. Their makeshift bandage seemed to have slowed the gush of blood, but not enough. Not, he knew, nearly enough. "Are you thirsty, my lord?" It was all he could offer, and he was thankful when Llewelyn nodded, so desperate was he to do something for his Prince, anything. He had no wineskin or flask, but after several moments of hurried searching, he found a small stream amidst a grove of alder trees. Dipping Rhosier's helmet into the icy water, he hastened back to Llewelyn. After he poured water into his cupped hands, Llewelyn managed to swallow a little. But when Trevor looked again at the bandage, the stain had spread, and he was unable to choke back a sob. Llewelyn's lashes flickered, his eyes searching the boy's tearstreaked face. "Do not grieve so, lad," he said huskily, "for there are far worse ways to die. Think of Simon . . ." He saw that Trevor did not understand, but talking was too much °f an effort, and he could not explain that he was thinking of Simon de Montfort, who'd died knowing that his dreams for reform died with him on Evesham Field. But his war would go on without him. Almighty 5°d would not forsake Wales. Never had his people been so united. They'd mourn his death, but they'd not lose heart. They'd hold fast for °avydd. It was easier than he'd ever expected, accepting that his wound was °rtal. There was almost a relief in letting go, in knowing that he'd °ne aU he could, that it was now up to others, up to Davydd. No, he 532 was far luckier than Simon. He left no grieving widow, no sons who might suffer for his sins. How Simon must have feared for Nell, for his family as he rode out to die. But Ellen awaited him at God's Throne, and Gwenllian was a little lass, safe as a son might not be, whilst Wales . . . Wales was Davydd's now. It was becoming more and more difficult for Llewelyn to focus his thoughts. The pain was not as intense as he'd have imagined it would be, but he was cold, so very cold, even though sweat had broken out on his face and throat. Trevor was saying his name, entreating him not to die, but he was hearing other voices now, for his dead were close at hand. He was drifting again. Making a great effort, he said weakly, "Tell Davydd ..." Trevor leaned over. "What, my lord? Tell him what?" "I commend Gwenllian to his care," Llewelyn said, very low. "And Caitlin . . ." He'd had her for a lifetime, only fair to give her back. Davydd must look after them both, as he must look after Wales. A great burden, a great trust. God All-merciful, let him prove worthy of it. "All in his keeping now ..." "I will tell him, my lord, I promise. Is there ... is there nothing else I can do for you?" the boy pleaded, and Llewelyn nodded. "Pray for me, lad," he said, and Trevor sobbed again. He had no crucifix, and Llewelyn's sword, which held a holy relic within its hilt, had been taken by the English soldiers. But he remembered then that Llewelyn's dagger hilt was fashioned in the shape of the Holy Cross, and he unsheathed it, put it in Llewelyn's hand, and closed his fingers around the haft. "Dear Lord God and Father Everlasting, into Thy Hands and those of Thy Blessed Son, now and forever I commit to Thee the body, soul, and spirit of Thy servant, Llewelyn. Grant him remission of all his sins, Lord . . ." Trevor's tears were flowing faster now. He drew a strangled breath, and then his head jerked up sharply. "Oh, Christ Jesus, the English . . . they are coming back!" "Go, then, and go quickly, whilst you still can!" Trevor shook his head vehemently. "I'll not leave you!" "Trevor, I command you!" But the youth shook his head again. "My lord, I... I cannot!' "What is the worst they can do, cheat me of a few final breaths? If you love me, go and go now. Would you make me watch you die?' Still, Trevor hovered beside him, in his face so much anguished indecision that Llewelyn feared he'd not obey, even now. Only at "i last possible moment did he snatch up Llewelyn's hand, press it to rus lips, and disappear into the darkness. 533 ft Tears of relief welled in Llewelyn's eyes. The sounds were growing louder; he heard the jangling of spurs, the snorting of horses, and then the wind brought to him the voices. "But why do you think it was a lord that Stephen struck down, Rob? He said the man's shield was plain, not emblazoned." "Mayhap not, but Stephen showed me that stallion. In all my born days, I've rarely seen a finer animal, one even a king would not scorn to ride. And there was a garnet set in the man's sword hilt, one that seemed real to these eyes. He must be a lord of some sort, and at the least, worth a second look." The first voice was eager now. "Think you that he might have a gold ring, then?" "You can be sure I did not ride back to see that he gets a Christian burial!" There was laughter at that, and then they were there, for from the corner of his eye, Llewelyn could see the snow kicked up by their horses. "Did I not tell you this was the place? Look, there is the body!" A horse was reined in a few feet away, and then a soldier was bending over Llewelyn. Reaching down, he grasped Llewelyn's wrist and started to strip off the glove, only to recoil suddenly. 'Jesii, he is still alive!" "They're a tough breed, God rot them. Send him to Hell, and lef s get on with this." The first soldier rose to his feet, unsheathing his sword. He was, Llewelyn now saw, quite young, only a few years older than Trevor. He brought the sword up, then slowly lowered it again. "He's already dying, Rob." "If you are not as squeamish as a maid! Get out of the way, then, and I'll do it." Someone had a lantern. Night-blinded, Llewelyn averted his eyes from its glare, and braced himself for the sword's rending thrust. But it did not come. Instead, it was a voice that cut through the darkness, amazed, urgent. "Rob, wait! I know him! Mother of God, it's their Prince!" "You're daft!" "I tell you if s him! I've seen him often enough, for certes, for did ' not serve my lord de Mortimer for twenty years and more? Just last year he came to Radnor Castle, signed that pact with my lord, and as ^ose to me then as he is now. It is Llewelyn ap Gruffydd, no mistake!" "I think Fulk is right, Rob. I've seen the man, too, and by God, it a°cs look like him!" There was a moment of awed silence, and then "ey all began laughing and talking at once, unable to believe their good r*Une. They were made men, every one of them, for no reward would 534 be too much for those who could deliver Llewelyn ap Gruffydd into the King's hands. Robert Body had the command, and began, then, to snap out orders. "Get a few blankets from your bedrolls. Fulk, you and Harry start cutting down some branches, for we're going to need a litter. The King's joy will be all the greater if we can keep him alive." They scattered, under his prodding. The first youth claimed the lantern, raised it so he could look into Llewelyn's face. "Is it true?" he asked. "Are you the Welsh Prince?" Llewelyn labored to draw enough air into his lungs. "I am Llewelyn, son of Gruffydd, son of Llewelyn Fawr, Prince of Wales and Lord of Eryri," he said, softly but distinctly, "and I have urgent need of a priest." The young Englishman seemed momentarily nonplussed. "I'd fetch one," he said hesitantly, "if it were up to me." Kneeling in the snow, he unhooked his flask, supported Llewelyn's head while he drank. "There will be a doctor at the castle," he said, and then, surprisingly, "I'm Martin." "Thank you, Martin," Llewelyn whispered, and drank again. He was almost amused by their solicitude, their determination to keep him from dying. He could envision no worse fate than to be handed over, alive and helpless, to Edward. But he did not fear it, for he knew it would not come to pass. He'd be dead ere they reached Buellt Castle, mayhap much sooner. He measured his life now not in hours or even moments, but in breaths, and he would answer for his sins to Almighty God, not the English King. Another of the soldiers was coming back. "Here, Martin, put this about him." Martin took the blanket. "He's in a bad way, Fulk," he murmured, as if Llewelyn ought not to hear. Fulk picked up the lantern, and swore under his breath at the sight of the blood-soaked snow. "Christ," he said, and then, to Llewelyn, almost fiercely, "You hold on, hear? We're going to get you a doctor, for the King wants you alive!" Llewelyn gazed up at him, marveling. "Indeed," he said, "God forbid that I should disoblige the English King by dying." It was only when he saw that Fulk and Martin were uncomprehending that he realized he'd lapsed into Welsh. But he made no effort to summon back his store of Norman-French. A man ought to die with his own language echoing in his ears. The English soldiers were discussing his wound in troubled tones. But their voices seemed to be coming now from a distance, growing fainter and fainter until they no longer reached Llewelyn. He heard only the slowing sound of his heartbeat, and he opened his eyes, looked up at the darkening sky. 535 "Well," Fulk said fmaJUTly, "we have to toy. You watch over him whilst I help get that litter p~i^t together.'' As he swung the lantern about its flickering light fell across ^Llewelyn's face, and he stiffened, then bent swiftly for a closer look at fc^he Welsh Prince. Blood was trickling from the corner of Llewelyn's nT.«=r,uth/ and the dark eyes staring up at Fulk were blind. Fulk reached haasstily for Llewelyn's throat, fumbling to find a pulse. "Hellfire and furies!" Straightening up, he shook his head in disgust. "Too late, Martin. He is dead/ damn him." Trevor had retreated or^y as far as a copse of trees on the far side of the clearing. Fulk's words, struck at his heart, and he jammed his fist up against his mouth, bit do-^vn upon his glove to keep from oy^g out His throat closed up, his ctx^st heaved, and so great was his grief that he honestly thought he mis^t die of it. Snatches of conversation came to him, but he did not really ^eaT them/ his ears still ringing with Fulk's blunt, brutal avowal, "He is dead." The English soldiers w^re keenly disappointed, but Robert Body now reminded them that Llewelyn ap Gruffydd's death was sure to please the King mightily, e>^-^n if he was cheated of the chance to take his enemy alive. He would -fce open-handed, with bounty enough for all who'd played a part in t*-ie Weish Prince's downfall. They nodded among themselves, cheering -up as they realized he spoke the truth, and when Trevor looked up agai^ he discovered that they were searching Llewelyn's body. If Trevor had almost gi^en himself away in his grieving, he was even more endangered by KS.S rage. As he watcned them treat his lord so callously, rolling him ovc^ ^ the snow, stripping off his hauberk, and ripping his clothing Ln their hunt for valuables, Trevor's hatred swept him to the very brink o^ reason. He grasped a low-hanging branch, held on to it as if it were an ^nchor, while he fought back his fury that these English hellspawn wox^Jd dare to lay hands upon his Prince. Their search was productive, and they gathered around to examine the results: two gold rings a»^d a silver mantle clasp, Llewelyn's privy seal, a small wooden comb, a lock of reddish-blond hair tied with a scrap of ribbon, a dagger with an iVOry hilt, and a letter in Welsh. But it occurred then to Martin that they had a problem. "How are we going to ge?t him back, Rob? We do not have an extra horse." "So? We have to prove l-^ identity, but we do not need his body or that." And he strode over to Llewelyn, drawing his sword from its scabbard. As Trevor watched, aghast, the blade came up, started on its down*a swing. He averted his eyes just in time, and thus spared himself 536 the sight of Robert Body lifting his Prince's head up by the hair, brandishing it like a trophy for the others to see. "Take it over to the stream, Fulk, and wash away all this blood. I'd not have thought he had any more to lose!" Trevor saw none of this. Crouching close to the ground, he wrapped his arms around his drawn-up knees, and wept, silently and hopelessly. Soon afterward, the soldiers rode off, for they had momentous news to deliver. Getting stiffly to his feet, Trevor stumbled out into the clearing. They'd left a blanket behind, blood-drenched by the decapitating. Trevor reached for it, began to drape it over Llewelyn's body, taking great care. By the time it was done to his satisfaction, he'd gotten blood all over himself, too, but he did not mind, for it was his lord's blood. Sitting down in the snow beside the body, he said, "I'll not leave you, my lord. I'll not leave you." And that was how Goronwy found them, long after the battle of Uanganten had been fought and lost. 37 DOLWYDDELAN, WALES December 1282 IT pains me to say this, my lord, but I am beginning to believe you might be cheating." About to reach for the dice, Davydd gave his wife a look of wounded innocence. "Why ever should you think that?" "I daresay it is just my suspicious nature. But this wanton game was your idea, the dice are yours, and after four throws, you've yet to forfeit so much as a belt buckle, whilst I am sitting here clad only in my chemise." Davydd shrugged. "Clearly," he said, "God is on my side." Getting off the bed, he stretched, then suggested, "Whilst I fetch us some wine, you can be deciding what to give up next." 537 Elizabeth reclined against the pillows, watching as he crossed to the table. "Davydd, have you written to Llewelyn yet . . . about our baby?" "No, not yet." "Dear heart, you cannot wait much longer. When Llewelyn left, I'd not begun to show yet. But I'm now past my fourth month. If you do not tell him soon, you risk him finding out from others." "I know," Davydd conceded. "And I'll tell him, I will. I just have not got around to it yet." Elizabeth let it go, for Davydd would balk all the more if pushed. She knew full well why he was so loath to tell Llewelyn about her pregnancy; it was bound to remind Llewelyn of all he'd lost. She only wished Davydd could admit as much. But if he could not, so be it. She'd long ago learned that she could not hope to change him, could only love him as he was. Fortunately, she thought, that was not difficult. Davydd was coming back now with a brimming cup. Passing it to her, he said, "Well? I believe you still have a debt to pay, cariad. You are going to honor it, I trust?" Elizabeth smiled demurely. "I always pay my debts," she said, gesturing toward the foot of the bed, where her shoes, surcote, and blue wool gown were neatly piled. "I shall forfeit my stockings." She was reaching for the hem of her chemise when Davydd caught her hand. "Let me, my lady fair," he said, with such mock gallantry that Elizabeth could not help giggling. Putting the wine cup down on the floor, she lay back, closing her eyes. His hand lingered on her ankle, moved up toward her knee, then began an unhurried exploration of her thigh. "You have over-shot your target," she pointed out. "My stockings are gartered at the knee." "I know," he murmured. "But have you never heard of a scouting expedition?" Elizabeth burst out laughing. "Ah, Davydd, I do adore you!" "Words," he said, "are cheap," and she hit him with a pillow. He grabbed her wrist, pulled her into his arms, and they rolled to the very fidge of the bed. Drawing out the last of her pins, Davydd let her hair fall free. It spilled over into the floor rushes, as soft as silk and as pale as moonlight. Davydd loved the silvered fairness of it, loved the feel of 1|: against his skin, and made a flaxen rope of it now, entangling them b°th in its coils as he began to kiss her mouth, her throat. They heard Cither the knock nor the opening door. "My lord Davydd, you must" Davydd looked up with a scowl. "You may not have noticed, Math, 538 but I am about to ravish my wife." He could feel Elizabeth's body quivering under him, shaking with silent mirth, and said flippantly, "Come back latermayhap in a fortnight." That provoked another smothered giggle from Elizabeth, muffled against his shoulder. But from Math, it drew not even a smile. "You must come, my lord," he repeated. "Goronwy ap Heilyn has just ridden into the bailey." BY the time Davydd crossed the bailey, men were converging upon the great hall, stumbling, groggy and bleary-eyed, into the torch-light spilling out into the snow. Caitlin had just reached the doorway. She had a mantle modestly wrapped around her, but her hair hung over her shoulder in a long night plait, braided for sleep. She was shivering, and as Davydd glanced down, he saw why; beneath the folds of her mantle peeped a pair of embroidered bed slippers, soaked with snow. At sight of Davydd, she halted, looked up intently into his face. "Do you know what has happened?" she asked, and Davydd shook his head. Elizabeth had caught up with him by then, for she'd tarried just long enough to retrieve her shoes and fling a mantle over her chemise. The wind was whipping her hair about untidily, and she would normally have been the focus of most male eyes, for a women with freeflowing, unbound hair was rarely seen outside the intimacy of the bedchamber. But now Elizabeth received only the most cursory of glances. The men heading for the hall were too preoccupied to pay heed to a pretty woman, even one with blonde hair. They knew that their Prince would never have dispatched so important a lord as Goronwy with a mundane message. The news he brought was sure to be significant. "Trevor, you've been hurt!" Caitlin started forward, only to stop in bewilderment when he shrank back, refusing to meet her eyes. Davydd glanced at the bloodied bandage swathing the boy's head, then at Goronwy, so haggard and fatigued that his mantle might well conceal a wound of his own. "I think," he said, "that what you've come to tell us, we'll not want to hear." "No," Goronwy said slowly, "no, you will not. On Friday eve, there was a battle fought at Llanganten, two miles west of the castle at BuelltIt... it was not planned. We held the bridge, believed ourselves to be secure behind the Irfon. In the afternoon hours, Llewelyn left us, rode off to meet with some of the Welsh who dwelled in the cantref. But whilst he was gone, the English found a way to ford the Irfon. They captured the bridge, crossed the river, and took us by surprise." Someone now handed Goronwy a goblet, and he drank, not eve I a 539 aware of what he was swallowing. He'd not meant to begin with the battle. But he was not yet ready to tell them of Llewelyn's death, and he found himself putting off the moment as long as he could, hoping that one of them would guess the truth and spare him this terrible task, sure to break his heart anew in the telling. But as he looked about the hall, he saw that it was not to be. They were listening to him in a hushed silence, not needing to be told that the battle had gone against them, that their homeland would soon be echoing with the cries of Welsh widows and orphans, bewailing their losses on Llanganten's bloody field. But no one yet realized where his dark, twisted tale was taking them, Davydd no more than the others. They waited patiently for him to continue, and he knew that they would not see the blow coming, not until it was too late. "We were out-numbered," he said, "and unmanned by our lord's absence. But our men acquitted themselves well. They fought bravely, and they died. By the hundreds, they died, until both the Gwy and the Irfon ran red, and there were bodies beyond counting . . ." His voice hoarsened, pitched so low now that they had to crowd in closer to hear. "They died," he said, "not knowing that the battle had been lost ere it ever began, not knowing that Llewelyn was already dead." THEY had not believed Goronwy, not at first. They fought against belief, for they sensed, even then, just what had been lost. Their grieving, when it came, was raw, frenzied. Men wept and cursed, women sobbed brokenly, and Llewelyn's chaplain was too stunned himself to be of any comfort. When they learned that Llewelyn had been beheaded, rage briefly vanquished pain. But the lamentations soon began again, until Davydd could endure the hall not another moment. Striding toward the closest door, he plunged out into the December darkness. It was a frigid night, too cold for snow. He had no idea where he was going, although he knew full well where he ought to beback in the hall, assuring those bereft, fearful men and women that Wales could survive his brother's death. Or if not there, up in his bedchamber, consoling his wife. Elizabeth had a generous heart, but he knew her tears were not just for Llewelyn; she wept, too, for her lost faith. She'd fruly believed in miracles and mercy and God's blessed justice, and not even Ellen's death had shaken her little girl's trust in happy endings, "e must make sure that she got through this grief, too, with her hope mtact; he could not let her innocence die with Llewelyn. And he would go to her, but later, later, ignoring the inner voice that whispered she had need of him now. Davydd was not the only one who'd fled the hall. There were others, 540 too, who needed to be alone, keeping to the deeper shadows of the bailey. He was vaguely aware of them as he passed by, ghostly figures who did not seem quite real to him; but then, nothing about this night did. He was nearing the stables when a man lurched from the darkness, so unsteady on his feet that they almost collided. "Have a care," Davydd snapped, and the man swerved just in time, tear-blinded, mumbling an apology. He was holding an open flagon, but seemed to have spilled as much as he'd drunk, for his mantle reeked of mead. Recognizing him nowDolwyddelan's blacksmithDavydd put out a supportive hand. The blacksmith sucked in his breath, his eyes narrowing upon Davydd's face. "You!" He recoiled in such haste that he staggered, almost fell. "It was a long waiteight yearsbut you finally got what you wanted. My congratulations!" For a moment, Davydd honestly did not know what he meant. When he did, he grabbed the man by the neck of his tunic, shoved him roughly back against the stable wall. The blacksmith grunted in pain, and Davydd slowly unclenched his fist. Wheeling about, he walked rapidly away. The chapel was deserted, dimly lit. As he moved into the choir, Davydd found himself unexpectedly remembering another empty chapel, the one at Hawarden Castle, where Llewelyn had so angrily confronted him. "The destruction you have loosed upon us!" Llewelyn's words seemed to echo in the air; so vivid was the memory that it was almost as if he were still hearing his brother's voice. But he knew better. Death takes and restores not. He moved restlessly toward the altar, where candles still burned. Fool priest, to court fire like this. He began to snuff them out, until the only light left was the one smoldering in a wall sconce by the door. Had Llewelyn realized how much his people loved him? Had they even realized it themselves? His mouth twisted into a sardonic smile; there were none like the Welsh for learning a lesson too late. He slumped wearily against the edge of the altar, as an image formed behind his closed eyelids, that of his daughter's stricken face. God pity the lass, for she'd truly believed Llewelyn's every breath was blessed. What could he say to her? What comfort could he offer? He'd never had many thoughts to spare for Caitlin, might as well admit it. But she needed him now ... or did she? What if she shared that dolt of a blacksmith's suspicions? If she, too, thought he'd welcomed Llewelyn's death? That was a troubling thought, but what followed it was far worse. Had Llewelyn believed that, too? Pushing away from the altar, Davydd began to pace. That accursed plot with Gruffydd ap Gwenwynwyn, the worst mistake of his life. "e a 541 told Owain how much he'd regretted it, but he'd not told Llewelyn. Christ, why had he never told Llewelyn? Davydd stretched out his arm, leaned for a moment against the chapel wall. "Damn you, Llewelyn," he said suddenly, "damn you!" And then he was slamming his fist into the wall, again and again, until his knuckles were scraped and raw and the whitewash splotched with blood. When he heard footsteps in the nave, he spun around, snarling, "Get out!" The footsteps slowed, but did not retreat. They grew louder then, until Goronwy emerged from the shadows, out into the flickering light cast by the wall sconce. "I've been looking for you," he said, and Davydd shrugged. "Well, now you've found me." He started to tell Goronwy to go, but instead, heard himself saying, "You told us that you buried Llewelyn at Cwm-hir. But what of the monks? They knew he was excommunicate. They did not object?" "Object?" Goronwy's smile was sad. "They pleaded for the privilege! But we dared not bury him in the abbey itself, for we remembered how the Evesham monks buried Simon de Montfort in their church, only to have his enemies dig his body up, deny him a Christian burial. So we laid Llewelyn to rest where he would be safe and at peace, with the Welsh sky for his ceiling and the snow for his shroud." Davydd frowned. "But still in hallowed ground?" Goronwy nodded. "He loved Cwm-hir, Davydd, told me that more than once." He sounded as if that was supposed to be a comfort. Davydd's frown deepened; why were men such fools about death? What did it matter if Llewelyn had thought Cwm-hir was Eden on earth? He'd never heard of a grave with a view. "Did he know?" he said abruptly. "Did he know he was dying?" "He knew." "What of the battle? Did he know of that?" "Trevor thinks not," Goronwy said, and only then did Davydd see the boy hovering in the shadows. Trevor came forward at sound of his name, saying softly, "It happened so fast, my lord. When we ran into that English patrol, we had to time to wonder how they'd gotten across the Irfon, for they were upon us at once ..." Davydd had discovered that swallowing was becoming painful. His mouth was parched, and he'd have bartered his soul for a drink, ought to have taken the flagon from that besotted blacksmith. "I know we need to talk, Goronwy," he said. "But not tonight. Seek me out on the Borrow." 542 Goronwy did not argue, turned to go. But Trevor stood his ground. "I have a message for you, my lord Davydd." Davydd stiffened. "From Llewelyn?" "Yes. He said" Trevor got no further, breaking off in bewilderment as Davydd flung up his hand, bade him be silent. Gronowy looked no less puzzled than Trevor. Davydd felt their eyes upon him, and he would have choked his cry back if only he could. But it was too late. He could hear his heart hammering wildly, hear the uneven, rapid rhythm of his own breathing. Llewelyn's message . . . what had he been thinking as he watched his life bleed away? That this war was not of his making? Had he drawn his last breath out in a curse? So much left unsaid between them, and the final words now to be Llewelyn's. Jesii, what an unfair advantage the dead had over the living, for there could be no rebuttal, no denial, nothing but the accusing silence of the grave. "So be it," he said then, defiantly. "Tell me!" "He entrusted you with his daughter, my lord, and with the Lady Caitlin." Davydd reached out, grasped Trevor's wrist. "That is truly what he said? You swear it?" "Yes, my lord. He was quiet after that, for talking was an effort, and I thought he was done speaking. But then he said, so low I barely heard him, '. . .in his keeping now.' " "He meant. . . Gwenllian?" Trevor shook his head. "No, my lord. I think he meant Wales," he said, and his face blurred then, for Davydd, in a haze of hot tears. EDMUND dressed in the dark, with the help of a sleepy squire, shunning the candle light that might have awakened Blanche. She stirred once, and he bent over the bed, grazed her cheek with a kiss. "Sleep well, sweet," he said, "and I'll be back soon." He hoped that would indeed be so, hoped the noise that had awakened him did not herald disaster. Coming on the heels of Luke de Tan/s calamity in the Menai Straits, another defeat would be dangerously disheartening for their men. Not that it would shake his brother's resolve. Ned would have victory, no matter the cost. Even if that meant God help thema winter campaign in the Welsh mountains. Edmund gave his sleeping wife one last, lingering look, then moved into the cold/ dark stairwell. The King's hall was situated along the north-west side of Rhuddlan Castle's inner courtyard. Unlike the Queen's apartments, which were still dark, light was flooding the glazed glass windows of Edward's haU< 543 and when Edmund opened the door, he came to a surprised halt. All around him were men recently roused from sleep, men who were laughing and drinking and joking, rejoicing. Spotting the Earl of Gloucester a few feet away, Edmund headed in that direction. He'd known the temperamental Earl all his life, a man so soured in his outlook that Edward claimed he must have vinegar, not blood, running through his veins. Yet now that man was beaming, looking upon the chaos around him with a benevolent air. Marveling, Edmund bore down upon the Earl. The noise level was considerable, and he had to shout to make himself heard. What he heard in return was so unexpected that he stared at Gloucester in disbelief, and then turned, began to shove his way across the hall, toward the stairwell leading up to his brother's solar. Edward was alone in the chamber, standing by the hearth. Edmund paused in the doorway, just long enough to catch his breath. "Ned, is it true? Is Llewelyn ap Gruffydd dead?" "Yes." Edward gestured toward the table. "See for yourself." The letter bore the seal of Roger Lestrange. Holding it up toward the lamp light, Edmund began to read: Sire, know that the stout men whom you assigned to my cornmand fought against Llewelyn ap Gruffydd in the region of Buellt on the Friday next after the feast of St. Nicholas, and that Llewelyn ap Gruffydd is dead, his army vanquished, and the whole flower of his army killed, as the bearer of this letter will tell you, and have credence in what he will tell you on my part. Edmund read it a second time, then a third. "But can you be sure this is true, Ned? Did Lestrange offer proof?" "Irrefutable proof, Little BrotherLlewelyn's head." Edward's smile was grim. "Lestrange hoards his words like a miser does coins, and that is a lean epitaph, indeed. But an epitaph it is, for Llewelyn and for the rebellion that doomed him." "You think then, that the war is over? That Davydd will surrender now?" Edward shook his head. "I know that he will not. But any chance the Welsh had of winning this war died on Friday eve with Llewelyn aP Gruffydd." Moving toward the table, he said, "I was just going to send someone to fetch you, for this is a moment to be shared, Edmund. The Welsh have for too long been a burr under the Crown's saddle, ''hat an opportunity we now have, lad, to make our world anew!" There was a flagon on the table, and Edmund poured for them both. °Ur luck," he said, "never fails to amaze me." 544 "It was not luck, Edmund. I had right on my side, for I am doing the Almighty's bidding. If Scriptures say a house divided against itself cannot stand, how can an island kingdom?" "Ned . . . what will you do with Llewelyn's head?" "Show it to my army, then send it on to London, put it on a pike above the Tower so all may look upon it and learn what befalls rebels." Edmund had expected as much. "You're not planning, then, to display it first at Rhuddlan?" Edward shrugged. "I might. . . why?" "I'd rather you did not, Ned. I'd as soon Blanche not see it." Edward said nothing, but managed to convey quite a bit by the upward slant of his brow, silent sarcasm not at all to Edmund's liking. "I should think," Edmund said, with a hint of coolness, "that you would not want Eleanora to see it, either. Llewelyn may have been an enemy of the Crown, but she did dance at the man's wedding, after all!" "You may be right," Edward admitted. "I did not think of it that way, and mayhap I should have, for women can be queasy about such sights." He straddled a chair, then, reaching for his wine cup. "Edmund . . . you are gladdened by my triumph?" "I am, indeed. Why do you even ask?" "Because it gives off a right feeble glow, this joy of yours," Edward said reproachfully, and Edmund acknowledged the thrust with a rueful smile. "I did not mean to cast a shadow upon your victory. You are my brother and my King. Of course I wanted you to win! But I'll not deny that I think it a pity Llewelyn would not come to terms with you. I'd found in the man much to respect, and I suppose I do feel he deserved a better death than he got." "Would it surprise you if I said I agreed? I, too, found him a worthy foe. It was meant to be, Edmund, that Wales should come under the control of the English Crown. But Llewelyn ap Gruffydd need not have died as he did. I gave him a chance to save himself. Did I not offer him an English earldom?" Edward shook his head slowly. "And I will never understand," he said, "why he did not accept." AS Elizabeth entered the bedchamber, the nurse rose to meet her. "I just wanted to look in on them once more," Elizabeth whispered. "Have they been sleeping?" "Owain, yes. But Llelo is still restive, keeps waking up." Elizabeth frowned. "He may be too young to understand about death, but not about fear," she said, and sighed. He was too clever by half, her firstborn, picked up much more than people realized. Crossing 545 to the bed, she leaned over, began to tuck the blankets about them. As she did, Llelo opened his eyes. "What is the matter, love? Another bad dream?" When he nodded, Elizabeth sat beside him on the bed. "Do you want to talk about it? No? Well, suppose I tell you about a bad dream I had? In it, I was scared and alone, and it was so dark I did not know where I was. Does that sound like your dream, Llelo? It does? Would you like to know how my dream ended? Your father came looking for me, not at all daunted by the dark or the wolves. Did I forget to mention the wolves?" "I'm not afraid of wolves." "You are braver then, than I am, love, for I am very much afraid of them." "Did Papa find you?" "Yes, he did, and guess what? I was not scared anymore, then." Elizabeth smoothed back his hair from his eyes. "Llelo . . . there is no reason for you to be scared, either. We are all very sad about your uncle Llewelyn, and we will miss him very much. But the Welsh are so lucky, for in their time of need, they could turn to your father. Uncle Llewelyn's council met and all agreed that your father should be Prince of Wales now. They know he will keep Wales safe. So ... the next time you get scared, I want you to remember that Papa would never let harm befall us." Llelo kept his eyes upon her face, green eyes, like Davydd's. It was hard to tell what he was thinking; Elizabeth was learning that a fouryear-old's mind could take some unexpected turns. "If Papa is Prince of Wales, does that make you a Princess, Mama?" Elizabeth smiled. "Yes, love," she said, sounding faintly surprised, for that had not yet occurred to her, "I suppose it does." She was still thinking of this later, as she hastened across the snowbound bailey, back toward the great hall. Davydd had told her, upon their first meeting, that she might one day wear a crown, but she'd not believed him. Had he believed it? Probably so; she'd never known anyone so sure of himself. It was a wondrous blessing, Davydd's confidence, a shield to deflect her own doubts and fears, a well that never ran dry. The night was overcast and bitter-cold, but her steps began to slow as she neared the hall. She'd sworn she'd not do this, would not let herself think of last December at Dolwyddelan. But memories knew no more of mercy than men, came whether she willed them or not: Ellen pulling Llewelyn behind the hall screen, laughing up at him, pressing his hand to her belly so he could feel their babe. Tears were stinging Elizabeth's eyes. They must see that Gwenllian wanted for naught in "er life, not ever. How hard it was at times to understand the ways of *e Almighty. 546 She was approaching the hall when the door suddenly swung open. Caitlin brushed past, unseeing, stopping only when Elizabeth reached out and caught her arm. "Caitlin? What is it?" The girl's mouth trembled, but her eyes were dry, beyond tears. "Gruffydd has written a tribute to my uncle," she said. "I thought I could stay, listen to it. But I cannot, I'm sorry, I cannot" She pulled away, then, from Elizabeth's grasp, fled into the darkness. Gruffydd could only be Gruffydd ab yr Ynad GochGruffydd, son of the Red JudgeLlewelyn's court bard. Elizabeth had heard him perform occasionally, but was unable to assess his talent, for she had only the most rudimentary knowledge of Welsh. She hesitated, then decided it would be a greater kindness to let Caitlin go, and turned back toward the hall. Davydd was seated on the dais, with Goronwy standing close by, befitting his new eminence, for Davydd had chosen him as his Seneschal. Like all the others in the hall, they were listening intently to Gruffydd's requiem for his slain Prince. Not wanting to draw attention away from his performance, Elizabeth took a circuitous path to the dais, as inconspicuously as possible. In the past, she'd made a few half-hearted attempts to master her husband's language, to no avail. But as she looked out now upon the hushed hall, she vowed to try again, for she felt suddenly like an intruder, an outsider unable to appreciate the grieving eloquence of Llewelyn's bard. That it was a work of extraordinary power, crafted and polished by pain, she never doubted, for many in the audience were weeping openly, while others were slipping away, too overcome to risk remaining. Taking her place beside Davydd on the dais, Elizabeth did not like what she saw. His face was pale and set, his jaw muscles so tightly clenched that she yearned to reach out, caress away those signs of strain. If only he could untether his emotions like Goronwy, who was unselfconsciously wiping away tears. Leaning over, she laid her hand upon her husband's arm, squeezed gently. Davydd did not notice, his eyes riveted upon the solitary figure in the center of the hall. Gruffydd's elegy was, in some ways, a traditional song of lament, a harmonious weave of alliteration and rhyme, relying upon the familiar imagery of sceptre and sword. It eulogized Llewelyn as a "hawk free of reproach," the "strong lion of Gwynedd," and "lord of the red lance." But it held depths of emotion rarely found in such formalized, epic verse. In language all the more affecting for being s° stark, Gruffydd was giving voice to the anguish of an entire people, an" there were many who found his impassioned artistry too much to bear- When he'd avowed that it was for him to rave against God, for rU"1 547 to pass all his lifetime sorrowing for his lord, Trevor had bolted the hall in tears, and others soon followed. Davydd had expected nothing like this, not so much a tribute as a rending cry from the heart. He groped hastily for his wine cup, drank deeply. Gruffyd had paused, and there was a slight stirring, some thinking he was done. But he was not, and in a voice that carried clearly through" out the hall, he demanded of them all: See you not the rush of wind and rain? See you not the oaks lash each other? See you not the ocean scourging the shore? See you not the truth is portending? See you not the sun hurtling the sky? See you not that the stars have fallen? Have you no belief in God, foolish men? See you not that the world is ending? By now, sobbing was audible throughout the hall. The poet had to halt, briefly, as he struggled to keep his own composure. After a few moments, he was able to continue, and eventually concluded with & conventional expression of hope for Llewelyn's eternal peace: "King right royal of Aberffraw, may Heaven's fair land be his home-" But Davydd, listening incredulously from the dais, knew full well that what men would remember was the haunting cry, "Ah, God, that the sea would cover the land! What is left us that we should linger?" There was no applause; those in the hall paid Gruffydd a far greater compliment, with their silence and their tears. He stood motionless, shoulders slumping, revealing what an ordeal it had been for him, too. And then he started slowly toward the dais, in answer to Davydd's summons. Davydd did not care if Goronwy heard or not, and he knew Elizabeth's Welsh was meagre enough to speak safely in front of her. Beckoning Gruffydd up onto the dais, he said in a voice low-pitched and filled with fury, "How dare you? That was no lament for Llewelyn. That was for Wales!" The poet met his gaze and his anger, unflinching. He looked for a '°ng moment into Davydd's accusing eyes, his own bright with unshed tears. "Yes," he said at last, "it was." He did not wait for Davydd's response, turned away. Davydd Batched him go, then took a hard, probing look around the hall. On eyery face he saw grief, which was only to be expected. He saw fear, °°/ and that was also to be expected. But he refused to accept the other, 'he utter despair. No, by God, he vowed silently, it is not over. Let them 548 mourn you, Llewelyn; I'll not begrudge it. I might even mourn you, too, though you're not likely to believe that. But you are not Wales, Llewelyn. Wales will survive without you. FROM the Welsh chronicle, Brenhinedd Y Saesson, having related the death of Llewelyn ap Gruffydd near Llanganten on the eleventh day of December: "And then all Wales was cast to the ground." 38 PARIS, FRANCE January 1283 IHE weather had been cold and wet for weeks, and spring had begun to seem very far away. On this rain-drenched evening in late January, Amaury's great hall was filled with guests, some of them friends, others fellow clerics who found the accommodations of his town house far more comfortable than the lodgings offered by local inns. Several chess games were in progress; so was a lively dice game, for the Church's exhortations against gambling were little heeded. Another group had gathered near the settle, where a Franciscan friar was reading aloud from the Arthurian chronicle, Wace's Roman de Brut. But Amaury was not tempted by any of these entertainments. Crossing the hall, he put his hand on the shoulder of a young man seated close by the hearth. Hugh had been staring intently into the flames, unaware of Amaury's approach. He jerked around in surprise, then smiled sheepishly. Amaury claimed a chair, stretching his legs toward the fire's warmth. "It has been a long drought, but it has broken at last. I actually have some good news to share. I've a letter here from Juliana, inviting us to a wedding." "Hers?" Hugh asked hopefully, and beamed when Amaury nodded. "Who?" 549 "A neighbor of her brother's. He holds a manor in Artois, is liegeman to a cousin of the Count, so he sounds like a man of some substance. And he has a need, for certes; he lost his wife in childbed last year, leaving him with two small sons to raise, boys who seem to have stolen Juliana's heart. Oh, she speaks well of her betrothed, too, says he is good-natured and open-handed and a man of his word. But I suspect it is those little lads who are the true lure." Hugh nodded. "Juliana has ever had a fondness for children. I often thought it a pity that she had none of her own. Well, God willing, now she may, for she is still young enough. I'd wager that she'll soon have all threehusband and stepsonsutterly smitten." He paused then, giving Amaury an approving look. "Men have always been drawn to Juliana. Like bees to the honey hive, they kept buzzing around, to no avail. But she'd not have gotten a wedding ring, my lord, for all her charms, if not for that generous marriage portion you gave her." Amaury shrugged. "If I had not," he said, "Ellen would have haunted me to the grave." Looking around, he beckoned for wine. "Lef s drink to Juliana and her tomorrows. It would indeed have been folly to mourn all her life for a man who did not love her. But then, what Bran needed, no woman could giveabsolution." Hugh had not realized that Amaury knew about Bran and Juliana. He felt no surprise, though, for he well knew that the youngest de Montfort son turned upon the world an aloof, ironic gaze that, nevertheless, missed very little. Amaury had passed him Juliana's letter, waited until he'd read it before saying, "Now . . . let's talk of your plight. I do understand, Hugh, how difficult it is for you, not knowing what is happening in Wales. But by now, the French King will have gotten my letter. If anyone is likely to have word about the Welsh war, it will be Philippe." "God grant it so," Hugh said, so fervently that Amaury's eyes narrowed thoughtfully on the younger man's face. "You are not still thinking of going back, Hugh? We agreed that would be madness." Hugh said nothing, but his silence spoke for him, and Amaury frowned. "It is your choice, for it is your life you'd be risking. But I think you'd be making a great mistake, mayhap a fatal °ne. Let us assume that you do get from England into Wales, somehow avoiding English patrols and Welsh archers. How are you going to find your lass in the midst of a war? But we'll assume again that God once m°re favors you with your own personal, private miracle, and you do. "'hat then? If she would not leave Llewelyn last summer, why would s«e do so now? And if you stayed with her, and the war turned against "tew, as I fear it must, you might well end up facing a charge of treason ^d a gallows." 550 "Treason?" Hugh echoed, sounding startled. "You are English, Hugh, owe your allegiance to the King. Do you truly think Edward would overlook that?" "No," Hugh admitted reluctantly, "I do not suppose he would. But you do not know what it is like, my lord, to feel so helpless, so cut off" He stopped, color flooding his face. Who would know such feelings better than Amaury de Montfort? Amaury charitably forbore to say so. "I know that if you set your mind upon this, I'll not be able to talk you out of it. I ask only that you think long and hard ere you decide, and that you do nothing till the spring. You cannot possibly hope to survive a war and a Welsh winter, too." Hugh could not deny the common sense of that. Unfortunately, the inner voice counseling him these days was one more attuned to passion than reason. He soon excused himself, went up to bed, and as Amaury watched him go, he knew that his advice was not apt to prevail. All he could do was to delay Hugh as long as possible, and hope that the Welshlike Hughmight find for themselves an unlikely miracle or two. Moving over to the trestle table, Amaury sent a servant for an ink horn, quill pen, and parchmentbut not his scribe, for the letter was confidential, its contents too provocative to risk sharing them with a clerk. "To the Dean of Le Puy, Raymond Nogeriis, greetings." Was Raymond still with the Pope in Orvieto? Well, if not, the courier would track him down. "I have a favor to ask of you, my friend. I want you to find out if it would be possible for me to sue Edmund, the English King's brother, in the Court of Rome, demanding the restitution of the earldom of Leicester." Amaury could not help grinning as he wrote. Not that such a lawsuit could succeed, of course. But nothing would be as likely to have Edward so outraged that he'd be raving and ranting and all but foaming at the mouth. Amaury poised the pen over the parchment, laughing quietly to himself. "My lord, a Cistercian monk is seeking entry. Shall we admit him?" "Of course. We can always find another bed for the night." Amaury was reaching for the pen when the servant explained that the monk sought an audience, not a night's lodging. Amaury hesitated, but curiosity won out. "I'll see him." The traditional white tunic of the Cistercians was hidden by a muddied black travel mantle, so long it swept the floor rushes. Pulling ba(* his hood, the monk now revealed a tousled cap of reddish-brown hair< cropped at ear level, but lacking the tonsure, the shaven crown tha proudly proclaimed a monk had taken his final vows. Amaury had already guessed, though, that his petitioner was a novice, for the monk 551 extreme youth made that a certainty. So undersized he might have been taken for a child at first glance, with skin too smooth to have known a razor yet, he looked so bedraggled, so tense, and so obviously exhausted that Amaury felt a twinge of pity, made up his mind to grant the youngster's plea, if he could. The monk's companion wore the plain brown habit of the cortversi, the lay brothers of the Cistercian order. He seemed fatigued and uneasy, too, and very young himself, for he had the barest beginnings of a beard, so pitifully skimpy and scraggly that only a youngster's misplaced male pride could have endured it. But what intrigued Amaury the most was the dog. No bigger than a cat, wrapped in a blanket and cradled in the monk's arms as if it were a baby, it peered suspiciously up at Amaury through rain-soaked tufts of dripping white fur, looking so comically belligerent that Amaury was hard put not to laugh. The Church was constantly scolding its brethren for keeping pets, but that was more of a problem in convents, \vhere nuns stubbornly lavished love upon cats, spaniels, and caged birds, bishops' edicts notwithstanding. Monasteries tended to have more serious disciplinary breaches, those involving the sins of the flesh, and the sight of this wet, shivering little dog only underscored the monk's tender years. Watching this odd trio bear down upon him, Amaury was suddenly glad that he'd agreed to see them, for they promised an encounter that would be out of the ordinary. "You wish to see me?" he asked encouragingly, and then, seeing how the monk was trembling, he steered the youth over to a bench near the hearth. "You're half-frozen, lad. This matter of yours must be urgent, indeed, for you to venture out on a night like this." The monk was staring up at Amaury with a compelling intensity. "I was so afraid that you'd still be in Rome . . ." Amaury's interest sharpened. "I was," he said, "did not return to Paris until last month. What do you want of me?" "It... it is my heartfelt hope that you can tell me the whereabouts of Sir Hugh de Whitton." "He is above-stairs," Amaury said slowly. "Ranulf . . . fetch Hugh tor me." The monk's French was excellent, but the intonations \vere s%htly off, just enough to suggest that French might not be his native tongue. Amaury moved closer for a more critical scrutiny, remembering now what Ellen had told him, that the Welsh White Monks were devoted to Llewelyn. "Are you bringing Hugh a message from Wales?" he demanded, so unexpectedly that the monk, caught off balance, nodded. But wtien maury pressed him further, he merely shrugged, never taking his eyes OIfi the far door, so still of a sudden that he scarcely seemed to be 552 breathing. Amaury studied the boy's profile, noticing the long sweep of his lashes, noticing, too, how slender and delicate were the fingers twisting in the dog's wet fur, and he was struck by an extraordinary suspicion, one so outlandish that he was not sure how to confirm it, for if he was wrong, he'd be offering the young monk an unforgivable insult. He was still mulling it over as Hugh emerged from the stairwell. Hugh had a strained expression on his face, one that managed to be both eager and apprehensive, for it had occurred to him, too, that this mystery monk might be a messenger from Caitlin, but he was afraid to let himself hope, lest it be for nothing. He paused, eyes searching the hall, then started toward them. Almost at once, though, he came to an abrupt halt. The monk had risen at sight of him, took a hesitant step forward. And then Hugh was moving again, very fast this time. As Amaury watched in delight and the others in amazement, he startled and scandalized the hall by gathering the monk into his arms, into an exuberant, impassioned embrace. It was several moments before Hugh became aware of their exceedingly attentive audience. "This would be an ideal time," Amaury suggested cheerfully, "to reassure all these good priests and friars that you are not about to commit a most grievous mortal sin. Assuming, of course, that I am right and we have just met the Lady Caitlin?" Hugh laughed. "Indeed you have, my lord!" But he had eyes only for the girl in his arms. "However did you get here, sweetheart? Never again will I ask the Almighty for anything, never again will I... Caitlin?" His joyful rush of words ebbed away as he got his first real look into her face. "Caitlin, what is it? What is wrong?" Tears had begun to burn Caitlin's eyes, the first tears she'd been able to shed since that moment when she'd stood in Dolwyddelan's great hall and heard Goronwy say that Llewelyn was dead. Her grieving had been all the more painful for that. She'd lain awake into the early hours of dawn, night after night, dry-eyed, her tears catching in her throat, until she'd feared she might choke on them, until nothing seemed real to her anymore. It was then that she'd known what she must do. But her flight had not seemed real to her, either. It was as if she a become trapped within a terrifying daytime dream, one that would not end. How could her uncle be dead? How could God have forsaken him, forsaken Wales? "He is dead," she whispered, and then she was crying at last, clinging to Hugh, sobbing as if she'd never stop, telling him again an again, as if saying it would somehow make it believable, "My uncle dead . . ." cr^s 553 CAITUN looked lost in the vastness of the bed. Her eyes were bruised and bloodshot, her lids drooping. But she was fighting off sleep, as a child might, and her lashes flickered as Hugh drew the sheets up over her bared shoulders. He leaned still closer, brushed his lips to the corner of her mouth, provoking a low growl from Hiraeth, muffled under the covers. "Try to sleep, sweetheart," he entreated, but she stubbornly shook her head. "Trevor?" "We made him up a bed in the great hall, close by the hearth, and he slept as soon as his head touched the pillow." Caitlin's lashes fluttered downward. "Hugh . . . stay with me." "Of course I will. I'll be right here in this chair whilst you sleep, and I'll be here when you awake," he promised, and touched his fingers gently to her cheek. When they strayed into her hair, she stirred, opened her eyes again. "My hair looks dreadful," she said drowsily. "I ought not to have minded cutting it off, but I did ..." Hugh found himself blinking away tears. "It will grow back." "Hugh ..." Caitlin raised herself on her elbows, looking intently into his face. "You do still want me?" Hugh sat beside her upon the bed, ignored Hiraeth's muted protest, and took her in his arms. "I want you so much," he said, "that I was going back to Wales for you, even though it might mean my death." Caitlin groped for his hand, held tight, and soon, she slept. "HOW is she faring this morn?" Hugh dropped down into a chair before the hearth, gave Amaury a tired smile. "Still sleeping." "No surprise, not after the ordeal she's been through." "The worst of it, she said, was her fear that you'd still be in Italy, for she admitted to me that she had no idea what she would have done then. Her flight was," Hugh said wonderingly, "truly an act of faith." "God was obviously with her all the way. Of course she did her Part, too, made it easy for the Almighty to get her safely to France. A m°nk ..." Amaury shook his head admiringly. "What better way for a woman to travel?" The credit belongs to Llewelyn, for he thought of it first, when we *Te trying to figure out how I could get into Corfe Castle to see you. a"k God that Caitlin remembered!" Hugh's smile was fleeting, for etyn's name seemed to linger on the air. "I cannot believe it," he 554 said, "cannot believe he is dead. I wish you'd known him, my lord. He was a remarkable man, in truth, and your sister . . . she loved him so." Amaury's eyes darkened. "They did not have much time together, not long at all. They ought to have had more, her years of confinement at Windsor Castle. Edward cheated Ellen of those years, Hugh. Whenever I think of her death, I cannot help thinking, too, of that stolen time, and what might have beenif not for my cousin the King, may he rot in Hell." It was not often that Hugh heard Amaury reveal such bitterness; his were hidden currents, surging well beneath the surface. A silence fell, a mourning silence, broken after a time by Amaury. "How long," he asked, "do you mean to make me wait, Hugh? When do I get to hear of your Caitlin's perilous quest?" "She was so clever, my lord," Hugh said proudly, "for she sought out the White Monks at Aberconwy Abbey. Abbot Maredudd died last year, but there was no dearth of monks willing to help their Prince's niece. They at once begged a safe-conduct from Edward, contriving a reason why they had to visit their brother monks at Vale Royal, across the border in Cheshire." "Vale Royal? Is that not Edward's new abbey? My memories are somewhat dim, but I seem to recall that Edward was caught in a storm at sea, feared he was going to drown, and swore to found an abbey in honor of the Blessed Virgin if only he were spared. Unfortunately, he was, and eventually, he did. I suppose even Edward thinks it prudent to keep his word to the Almighty. Vale Royal, a very shrewd choice, indeed. I'd wager the monks got their safe-conduct in the barest blink of an eye!" Hugh grinned. "They did, and Caitlin crossed into England with them, just one more sheep in the flock. It was agreed that Caitlin and Trevor would then take ship for Ireland, where they'd arrange passage to France. But the monks talked it over amongst themselves, decided that such a long winter sea voyage held too many dangers, and they insisted upon escorting Caitlin all the way to Southampton." Hugh grinned again. "I suspect that they were relishing their newfound freedom, and wanted to savor it whilst they could, ere they'd have a new abbot to answer to. But bless them, each and every one, f°r Caitlin could not have been safer in their midst. At Southampton, she and Trevor sailed on the first ship for France, changed to a smaller river craft at Rouen, and anchored yesterday at the Paris wharves. She then set about finding you and" Cutting himself off in mid-sentence, Hugh excused himself, has' tening around the other side of the hearth, where Trevor was just starts 555 to stir upon his pallet. "I've been waiting all morning to talk to you, to thank you. I will be in your debt till the day I die, Trevor." Trevor sat up stiffly. "I was glad to help Lady Caitlin, need no thanks for it." He looked at Hugh, then said softly, "It was the last service I could do for my lord." Amaury watched as the two young men talked quietly for several moments. Hugh then spoke briefly with a servant, and headed back across the hall as Trevor began to pull his habit on, under cover of the blankets. "I am sorry, my lord," Hugh explained, "but I owe Trevor more than I could ever repay, and I wanted to tell him so. Then I had to order him a meal from the kitchen, for Lord knows what they might have made of his Welsh!" "The lad speaks no French? Did that not pose a risk whilst they were still in England?" "It might have, but Caitlin saw to that, too. She told people that Trevor was a mute, and whenever they were in sight of others, he took care to communicate only with signs." Amaury leaned back in his chair, beginning to laugh. "A lass pretending to be a monk, a youth feigning to be mute, and lest we forget, a powderpuff disguised as a dogby God, Hugh, I do like your lady's style!" "She could not leave the dog behind, my lord," Hugh said earnestly. "Hiraeth belonged to Lady Ellen." Amaury stopped laughing. "I think," he said, "that it is time to talk about your plans. Have you had a chance to make any yet? No? Well, I have. You know that I was my mother's heir, and that she left me her share of her own mother's lands in Angouleme. They've been much neglected these eight years past, thanks to Edward. I need a man I can truly trust to look after them for me, to act as my agent, to make sure the revenues keep coming in. It would be a great responsibility, Hugh, one not lightly undertaken. In return for such valuable services, you'd hold one of the manors as my liege-man, and like any vassal, you'd then have the right to pass the manor on to your firstborn son. That is, °f course, assuming you accept the offer?" Hugh was stunned, and all but speechless. "My lord," he stammered, "I ... I do not know what to say! Your generosity is . . ." As he fumbled for words, Amaury provided them: ". . . no more nan you deserve. For all you've done for my family in the past twelve years, you have earned yourself an earldom, at the very least. Regret- -bty, an earldom is not in my power to bestow, and if it were," Amaury °ntinued, with just the faintest glimmer of a smile, "I'd most likely KeeP it for myself." Hugh laughed. "Can I at least thank you?" 556 "If you insist. But I'm also doing this for Caitlin. She is Ellen's niece and therefore my kinswoman, too. Despite all that Evesham and Edward have taken from us," Amaury said, suddenly quite grim, "the de Montforts still look after their own." "My lord . . . Caitlin and I want to wed. We would be honored if you'd say the marriage Mass for us." "It would be my pleasure. When? Before Lent ... or after?" "As soon as possible. On the morrow?" "You're truly willing to wait that long?" Amaury smiled then, at sight of the girl just entering the hall, clad in the only clothes she had, an over-sized white habit and black scapular. "I think," he said, "that we'd best consult Caitlin about this. Whilst I'm perfectly willing to preside over a wedding in which the bride could be mistaken for a monk, I suspect that she might not find the prospect so pleasing!" RAIN fogged the solar windows, and even a blazing candelabra could not dispel the gloom. Caitlin was seated closest to the candles, and as she talked, Amaury watched the light play across her face. Hugh had told him she'd been born not long before the battle of Lewes, which made her almost nineteen. It may have been the feathery short hair curling about her face, or the thin little wrists half-hidden by the hanging sleeves of her habit, or the faint scattering of freckles across her nose, but she seemed much younger to him than that . . . unless he looked into her eyes. She'd been talking for much of the afternoon, mainly about Llewelyn. Tears had streaked her face at times, but she'd kept her voice steady, even as she told them how her uncle had died, alone amidst his English enemies, bleeding to death in a cold, December dusk as Edward's soldiers looked on, and the Welsh waited for him in vain upon the heights of Llanganten. She told Amaury, too, about Gwenllian, assured him that Elizabeth truly loved the baby as if she were her own. Reaching then for a pouch at her belt, she drew out a wisp of soft black hair, neatly dipped by a yellow ribbon. "I cut two locks," she said, "one for me and one for you, my lord," and Amaury wrapped the gossamer curl around his finger, knowing this was as close as he'd ever get to his sister's child. "It hurt to leave her," Caitlin confessed, "but I had no choice, could never have brought her with me. Even if it had not been so dangerous, I did not have the right to take away her birthright, to take away Wales. Amaury nodded in agreement, although he suspected that was likely to happen anyway, for if Edward wonwhen Edward won^"1 war, he would probably send Gwenllian into England to be raised a 557 his court and, in time, married off to an English husband of his choosing. Ellen would never have wanted that for her daughter, but there was not a blessed thing he could do about it, just hope that the fates would be kind to this de Montfort daughter of Wales, the niece he'd never get to see. Caitlin fell silent as a servant entered, bringing mulled wine flavored with cinnamon and a platter of hot angel's-bread wafers. And as he looked at the girl, it occurred to Amaury that there had been one glaring omission in Caitlin's account of her escape from Wales. Not once had she mentioned her father. He knew, from Hugh, that she and Davydd were long estranged. And he knew, too, again from Hugh, that she had not confided in Davydd or Elizabeth, concocted an excuse for leaving Dolwyddelan, arranging with the Cistercian monks to send back a letter once she'd gotten safely into England. But he still thought it odd that she would not have made even a passing reference to the man who'd sired her, who now ruled Wales, confronting two formidable foes: the English King and the larger-than-life shadow cast by his slain brother. "So the war goes on," he said, and Caitlin nodded. For a moment, their eyes caught; then she glanced away. But in the brief look that passed between them, Amaury had seen that Caitlin knew the truth, knew that the war would never be won without Llewelyn, knew that Wales was already lost, and Davydd doomed. 39 SHREWSBURY, ENGLAND October 1283 COWARD was sure that Llewelyn ap Gruffydd's atn guaranteed an English victory. But even he was surprised by how s i* happened. Welsh resistance seemed to collapse overnight. Davydd s not long in making the bitter discovery that he could succeed his ner, but not supplant him. Men who'd have laid down their lives <** 558 for Llewelyn were not willing to die for Davydd. Disheartened and demoralized by the loss of their Princethe loss of hopethey began to surrender. Edward was quick to seize his advantage. Crossing the Conwy, he pushed into the very heart of Gwynedd and laid siege to Dolwyddelan. It fell to the English on January 18th, with enough speed to suggest a secret capitulation by the garrison. The capture of Llewelyn's favorite castle sent shock waves throughout Wales, convincing the stricken Welsh that God had indeed turned His Face away from them. And with each day that passed, Edward flexed the might of the English Crown, strengthened by the arrival of Gascon mercenaries. Their second attempt to bridge the Menai Straits was successful; under Otto de Grandison's command, English troops secured Bangor, marched along the coast to take Caer yn Arfon, and penetrated as far as Harlech. And as his army advanced at will into Llewelyn's bleeding realm, Edward made ready to send in architects, masons, carpenters, men to build great stone fortresses for the Crown, castles to last a thousand years. The English called it "Davydd's war" now, and none doubted the outcome. Davydd had withdrawn to Dolbadarn Castle once Dolwyddelan was imperiled. But he was soon forced to abandon Eryri for the mountain fastness of Meirionydd. In March he and his dwindling band of supporters took shelter at Castell y Bere, where Elizabeth gave birth, a month early, to a daughter, whom they named Gwladys. The wild beauty of the Dysynni Valley could offer refuge, though not for long. The English followed. After a ten-day siege, Castell y Bere fell on April 25th Narrowly escaping capture, Davydd retreated back to Dolbadarn. But the noose was tightening, the end inevitable. It came on June 21st. Betrayed by Welsh seeking to curry favor with the English King, Davydd, his wife, and children were trapped, sent in chains to Edward at Rhuddlan Castle. Davydd's capture quenched the last flickers of rebellion. Some of his allies had already surrendered. OthersGoronwy ap Heilyn and Dai ab Einionwere dead. The restRhys Wyndod and his brothers, Rhys Fychan, Gruffydd ap Mareduddnow yielded, and were promptly cast into English prisons. But Davydd would not be joining them. Not for him a swift and ignominious disappearance into one of the Tower dungeons. For Davydd, Edward had other plans. Writs soon went out across England, summoning earls, barons, and knights to a parliament at Shrewsbury on the morrow after Michaelmas. Edward even summoned the citizens from each of twenty-one towns, a reform he'd resisted fiercely during Simon de Montfort's time. But no prelates, no priests, no members of 559 the clergy were called, for it was not thought seemly that clerics should take part in the purpose of this parliamentthe shedding of blood. IT was over, for the trial had taken but a day. Edward had mapped it out with his usual precision, as meticulously as he did his military campaigns, leaving nothing to chance. Under English law, a princeeven a Welsh onehad the right to be tried by his peers. And so Edward had summoned eleven earls and ninety-nine barons to Shrewsbury. The King could not act both as accuser and judge. He'd circumvented that inconvenience, though, by asking his parliament if Davydd's crimes could be considered treasonous. When they agreed, not surprisingly, that it was so, he was then free to pass judgment through his justices. It was, Davydd thought, like watching a play in which the chief actor never set foot upon the stage, directing all the action from Acton Burnell, his Chancellor's manor not far from Shrewsbury. This was the second time that Edward had refused a face-to-face confrontation, for he'd done the same at Rhuddlan Castle. And he'd gotten what he wanteda guilty verdict on a charge of high treason. They were waiting now for his justices to reconvene the court, to pass sentence. But there was no suspense. Davydd knew that the English King would again get what he wantedthe death penalty. The trial had been held in the Chapter House of the Benedictine abbey of St Peter and St Paul. The chamber seemed vast to Davydd after three months in small prison cells, first at Rhuddlan and then Shrewsbury Castle. He wished the windows were not patterned with colored glass, for he would have enjoyed gazing up at the sky; the pleasures he'd always taken utterly for granted were those he'd missed the most in confinement. The chamber was half empty; a number of the men had wandered off, having grown tired of waiting. A pity, Davydd thought, that he could not do the same. But Shrewsbury's two bailiffs were watching him like hungry hawks, ready to pounce at his slightest move. They seemed to think he might vanish verily like Merlin if given half a chance; indeed, if they'd had their way, he would be shackled now at both wrists and ankles. Much to Davydd's surprise, though, he'd gotten some unexpected support from the sheriff of Shropshire, for Roger de Springhouse had brushed aside the bailiffs' protests, saying curtly that wrist nanacles would be enough. The sheriff was an unlikely ally. Davydd could only guess that his ^fiant stance had won de Springhouse's grudging respect. For months now, he'd been under siege, sorely beset on all sides by English loathing. I 560 At Rhuddlan Castle. In the streets of Shrewsbury. Above all, in this parliament summoned to decree his doom. But some of the men taking part in his trial had been reluctantly impressed by his bravado. He'd even overheard a few of them marveling at his courage in the face of certain death. God's greatest fools were English, for certes. They thought he feared death? Christ, he was counting upon it! Noticing that the nearest bench was now vacant, Davydd turned toward it, seeing no reason why he should not be comfortable while awaiting the justices' return. He was at once challenged, though, by John le Vileyn, the more vigilant of the two bailiffs. "Halt right there! Just where do you think you're going?" Davydd gave the man a shrug, a look of weary contempt. "I thought I'd pass some time at the local ale-house, mayhap drop by the whorehouse over in Grope Lane. Does your wife still warm a bed above-stairs?" The bailiff gaped, then sputtered an outraged oath. It never failed to amaze Davydd how quickly they rose to the bait, each and every time. But the other bailiff had reached them, and Thomas Champeney had a cooler head. "Do not give him what he wants, John. Let him sit on the bench, no harm in that." But as Champeney steered his infuriated colleague away from temptation, laughter suddenly rustled through the hall, and both men instinctively looked to Davydd as the source. Their suspicions were justified, for Davydd had stretched out on the bench, shading his eyes with his arms, like a man about to take a nap. That was too much for le Vileyn. Striding back toward his prisoner, he snapped, "Get up from there! This is the King's court and you'll show some respect for it!" Davydd opened one eye. "And if I do not? What will you dohang me?" Le Vileyn flushed, then grabbed for Davydd's chains. But Davydd's indolent pose was deceptive. He came swiftly to his feet, making sure that the bench was between them. By now, though, they'd attracted attention; the sheriff of Shropshire was already bearing down upon them. "Let it be, man," he said, in a tone that brooked no argument. But le Vileyn was too angry to heed common sense. When the sheriff turned away, he followed. "That misbegotten Welshman has been goading me all day. Let me teach him a lesson, Sir Roger! Why do you keep coming to his defense. "Because I" The sheriff caught himself just in time, shaken oy how close he'd come to blurting out the truth, that he did pity the Welshman. Holy Jesus, how could he not, though, now that he kne what the King had in mind for the man? "Do what you're told! said, then stalked away. 561 Le Vileyn waited, seething, until the sheriff was out of hearing range. "Go on," he taunted Davydd, "laugh whilst you can. For I've never yet heard of a man laughing as they dragged him up the steps of the gallows!" "Wake me up when the justices come back," Davydd said, settling himself upon the bench again. Did they truly think they could scare him with talk of gallows and ropes? Not that any man would choose hanging of his own free will. Scriptures called it a shameful death. Moreover, it was a painful, lingering one, for unless a man was lucky enough to be hanged on horseback, he slowly choked to death. But Davydd could think of a far worse fate than hangingbeing entombed alive in an English prison. Thank God Edward was so set upon his death, for he was fortyfive, could have survived for years in one of the Tower dungeons. Never again to see the sun or sky. Never again to feel a woman's soft body writhing under him in bed. Never again to race a horse after a bolting stag. Never again to hear the hunting cry of a hawk, or the rising wind that foretold a coming storm, or the sound of Welsh. What man in his senses would not prefer death to that? The worst of it was the solitude, the silence. Being alone in the dark with rats and regrets and ghosts and memories no man could long abide, not without going mad. Davydd sat up abruptly, the affectation of indifference forgotten. Jesu, no, not now, the memories could not come now. He'd had a lot of practice in fending them off, and he deliberately bit down on the inside of his mouth, focusing on the pain and only the pain. He could endure whatever the English might devise for him. He could endure knowing that Edward meant to turn Wales into another English shire. He could even endure thoughts of Elizabeth. But what he could not endure was the memory of the last time he'd seen her, the day they'd taken their sons away. He bit down harder, until he bled. And then men were turning toward the door; judgment was at hand. JOHN DE VAUX was a justice of the eyre, a former sheriff, a man whose loyalty to Edward stretched back a quarter century. Davydd knew him slightly, having encountered him occasionally over the years at the English court. But he'd never seen de Vaux look as somber, as grim, as "e did now. He seemed in no hurry to proceed, waiting with unwonted Patience for the chamber to quiet, and then waiting for Davydd to be ,.f°ught forward. When he finally began to speak, he was no less debate, pausing often, choosing his words with care. ,. You stand convicted of the most serious of crimes: treason, rebel- V, sacrilege, murder. You have grievously offended your King and <#* 562 liege lord, a man who showed you naught but kindness. He received you as an exile, nourished you as an orphan, and endowed you with lands and honors, his own kinswoman, an English barony. And you repaid his generosity with treachery and betrayal. You led your people astray, you violated your sworn oath, and sinned against Almighty God by shedding blood on one of the holiest of His days. There can be no forgiveness for you, and no mercy. It is the King's will that your punishment match your crimes, that your fate serve as a warning to all who'd dare to defy the Crown. The King would have men remember how you died, Davydd ap Gruffydd." There was a stirring throughout the chamber, quickly stilled. Men leaned forward, intent upon the justice's words, morbidly curious as to what form the King's vengeance would take. Davydd was chilled by de Vaux's ominous pronouncement, but he hid it well, as always, and said scornfully, "I am no English baron, and calling me one does not make it so. I am Prince of Wales, and I do not recognize this court's right to judge me. Let your King do his worst, for I would rather face the Almighty with my sins than with his." His insolence provoked some angry muttering, but de Vaux remained impassive. "Davydd ap Gruffydd," he said solemnly, "it is the judgment of this court that on the morrow, the second day of October in this, the tenth year of our sovereign lord's reign, you are to suffer the penalty reserved for those found guilty of treason. It is hereby decreed that you be dragged behind a horse through the streets of Shrewsbury, from the castle to the gallows set up by the High Cross." There was no surprise in that; the sounds behind Davydd evidenced general satisfaction. De Vaux signaled for silence. "For the crime of murder, you are to be hanged. But you are to be cut down whilst you still live." Davydd stiffened, staring at the justice in disbelief. The murmurings grew louder; no one had been expecting this. De Vaux paused until it again grew quiet. "For the crime of sacrilege, you are to be disemboweled alive, and your entrails burned before your eyes. Then, for the crime of plotting the King's death, you are to be beheaded and your body hacked into four quarters, which shall be sent to cities throughout the realm, to be put on public display so that people may know what befalls traitors and rebels." There was a hush now throughout the Chapter House. De Vaux paused again. "Have you anything to say?" Davydd's throat was too tight for speech. He shook his head, tasting blood in his mouth. De Vaux hesitated, for now he always evoked God's pity upon the poor wretches he'd just condemned. The Welsh Prince was excomfliun 563 icate though one damned for all eternity. But as he looked upon the Th S^ZT ^T ^ ^ W°rdS Came °f their ° volition and he added, "May God have mercy upon your soul " >AVYDD gasped, jerking upright on the blanket, for he remembered at P-once where he was and what he faced on the morrow. How could he have fallen asleep? And how long had he slept? They had brought lum a candle with supper, but it wasn't notched, so he had no way of knoT ing how much time had passed, how much time he had left to live His last meal lay untouched by the door. They'd given him a double ^! P£§ M °%? S°rt °f foh SteW and 3 M1 flaS°n of ^-execution eve chanty. He'd brought the flagon back to the bed, and he reached^ now, ^allowed and grimaced at the flat, tepid taste. The cell was damp and chilly but his tunic was splotched with sweat; although he could not remember his dream, he'd wager it held a gallows and a grave But n°c ' ', "°f 3 ^^ PaSSln8 Strang6'for he/d not wanted to be buried in England, and now Edward had seen to it. Even the Saracens did not SdatS otr.burial-oniy the most chdstian «* °f E^-d He'd never doubted his courage, not ever. Until today, it had not even crossed his mind that his nerve might fail him. But how could flesh and blood and bone not shrink from such deliberately drawn-out suf Sing" d ^ ^ ^ ^ he/d * 3ble t0 face » without He was not accustomed to asking hard questions; that had never been.his way. But he'd had three months and more of solitary conSe ment time in which he'd been forced to confront the consequenceTof £ a'Sn c^ 3 mtime °f CVadin8 ^ there WaS n° "- faith"6? alWayS g°tten WS Strength from Ws utter Confidence, from his wa'sT-d ? T,abreS- What C°Uld he fa" back °n now? T^ Almi'ht was said to be deaf to the pleas of an excommunicate. Even though he well b^ ^ G°d W3S °n England'S Side' divine rcy Sght H L^SeSCarCe " Edrd'S- ThOSC ^^ flun8 at"» fa the oX ofS to Cimef y,f En§Ush ^ n0t ta Ws- But he had no fack ^S^ST or' ,H Te's Trth * h be told-How could he «e that God would understand? Llewelyn never had Blessed M ^ ^f " theSe P3St m°nths' * was usua"y to the * SrS K, KW3yS ^ bettCT ^ With W°men' a though! s«Ppresda °n blasPhemy and * ^ knew it. But he could not He'J not 3n Uneasv s"spicion that God no longer heard his prayers not even tried to get his excommunication lifted, for only the <#* 564 Archbishop of Canterbury or the Pope could do that, and he knew he could never have satisfied Edward's Archbishop. Absolution required contrition, confession, and penance, none of which he was willing to offer to an English prelate. Never, though, had he so needed the solace of the Church, and he fervently wished he still had the Croes Naid, Llewelyn's fragment of the True Cross. But Edward held it now, just as he held the crown of Arthur, the coronet that was once Llewelyn's andso brieflyhis. Reaching for the flagon, he drank again. Well, if God would not get him through the morrow's ordeal, that left only pride. He smiled bleakly at that, seeing the twisted humor in it. For if pride was to be his deliverance, it had also been his downfall. If not for pride and jealousy, would the bond between brothers have frayed so badly? If not for pride, it might have held fastand Wales with it. Leaning back against the wall, he made a careless move, almost knocking the flagon over with his chain; he righted it just in time. "I'll admit it," he said, "I got more than I bargained for. But fair is fair, Llewelyn. Even you cannot deny that it is also more than I deserved." He could not remember when he'd begun to talk to his brother. It had been a joke at first, a self-mocking attempt to deny his pain, and perhaps, too, an expression of his hunger to hear a voice, even his own, to escape the smothering burden of silence, for he'd never been utterly alone before, not like this. But although he jeered at his own need telling himself that confiding in the dead offered distinct advantages over confessing to the livingit had given him an odd sort of comfort, and he was fast learning to take comfort anywhere he could find it. "If you happen to be free on the morrow, Llewelyn, if nothing is going on at God's Throne, I'd not mind if you wanted to hover close by the gallows," he said, and then gave a shaken laugh. Christ keep him, he was beginning to babble, and did not even have the excuse of being drunk, not on this weak, English ale. If only he knew the time! Midnight? Matins? Or nigh unto dawn? He lay down on the blanket again, closed his eyes. But sleep wouldn't come, and he swore suddenly, savagely. "So I lied, Llewelyn! Mayhap I do deserve it. Is that what you'd have me say? You want me to confess my sins? For that, I'd need more time than I've got, much more ..." He was lying again, though. There was time. So be it, then. Wales, the greatest casualty of his war. Just as Llewelyn had foreseen. "We'd become aliens in our own land," he'd warned, "denied our own laws, our own language, even our yesterdays, for a conquered people are no allowed a prideful past. Worst of all, we'd be leaving our children an grandchildren a legacy of misery and loss, a future bereft of hope. 565 More than a prophecy. An epitaph for Wales, for Llewelyn's doomed principality. Davydd knew it had never been his, not truly. He'd ruled over a domain in its death throes. But if he could not be blamed for losing the war, he could be for starting it. He still believed war would have come, eventually. But it need not have come when it did. Mayhap if he'd heeded Llewelyn, if he'd agreed to wait, if ... He sat up angrily. "What if" was a game for fools. What if Edward had died of that poisoned dagger in Acre? Or if the Welsh had not lost the will to fight? If they'd only shown some faith, if they'd given him but one measure of the loyalty they'd given Llewelyn? No, there was blame and more to go around, and not all of it his. He raised his head then, waiting. He knew what Llewelyn would say to that. What right had he to complain that the Welsh had let him down? What of all those he'd let down, those he'd failed? What of Llewelyn's daughter? His brother's dying plea was that he keep Gwenllian safe. But he had not been able to do it. And when he faced Llewelyn in the Hereafter, what could he say? For Edward had seized Llewelyn's little lass, sent her into England, where she would live out her life behind convent walls, deep in the flat, marshy Fenlands, far from Wales. And his own babe. Gwladys, still suckling at Elizabeth's breast, taken away, too, pledged to God ere she could talk, because the English King would have it so. No, if the Welsh must bear some of the burden for their own ruin, and if Llewelyn, too, was not blameless, that could not be said for Gwenllian, for Gwladys. Or Elizabeth. What was her sin? Falling in love with the man she'd been forced to marry. What was it she'd said to Edward that November night at Worcester? "I'll not be yoked to another rebel. I'll not wed a Welsh malcontent whose only loyalty is to himself, for, sooner or later, he'll fall . . . and drag me down with him!" And yet she'd never thrown that up to him, not once in all those hellish months. If she had regrets, he never knew it. And after their betrayal and capture, when they'd been brought under guard to Rhuddlan Castle, she'd flung herself into his arms for the last time, clinging tightly before the soldiers pulled her away, again no recriminations, no accusations, just his name, over and over. Better for her if she'd died in childbed at Castell y Bere, like Ellen. He did not doubt that she would come to wish it had been so; mayhap she already did. Elizabeth, I'm so sorry, lass, so sorry. . . . His eyes were stinging, his breathing grown ragged and hurtful. Where was she? Still held at Rhuddlan Castle? What would happen to her now? Would Edward convent-cage her like Gwenllian and Gwladys? Or would he think it ^er to shackle her with another wedding band? Marry her off to a man his choosing, lock her away in some remote English keep until the