Falls the Shadow (20 page)

Elen ducked her head so he’d not see her smile. “Rob was not free to come with me. An Essex neighbor of ours was found dead a fortnight ago, and Rob and several other knights were requested to hold an inquest, to try to determine the cause of death. But I could not wait; I knew Davydd would be meeting with Henry on the fifteenth…today.”

“Well, we ought to reach Gloucester by the morrow,” Richard said, and Elen nodded. She was not sorry she’d be a day late; she’d not truly wanted to watch as her brother was compelled to do homage to the English Crown.

It was midday when Elen and Richard de Clare rode through St Mary’s gate into the precincts of the Benedictine abbey of St Peter at Gloucester. Richard was impatient to reach the guest hall, but Elen halted her mare before the Abbot’s house, for she’d caught sight of a familiar face. “You go on, Richard,” she said, “and take my servants with you. I see a friend.”

She did think of Ednyved ap Cynwrig as just that. He’d been more than her father’s Seneschal, he’d been Llewelyn’s lifelong companion, had always been on hand whenever any of her family had need of him. She was glad to find him here at Gloucester, glad he was standing by Davydd in her brother’s time of trial, and she slid from her mare, moved swiftly toward him.

“Well, now,” he said, “if you’re not a sight to gladden these aging eyes. Llewelyn and I never could figure out how he’d managed to sire such handsome children.”

Elen’s smile was sad. “Papa casts a long shadow,” she said softly, and he nodded.

“Most of all for Davydd. I miss Llewelyn, lass, miss him like I’d miss an arm. But Davydd…he has to measure up to Llewelyn now, and that is a lot to ask of any man.”

“Tell me about the peace, Ednyved. Were Henry’s terms harsh ones?”

“He did not ask us to harvest the moon or cull the stars from the sky,” Ednyved said grimly, “but he stopped just short of it. Davydd had to agree to submit any Marcher claims to arbitration; that could call much of Llewelyn’s conquests into question. And no Welsh lord may do homage to Davydd, only to Henry. Llewelyn was the uncrowned Prince of all Wales, but the English seek to make of Davydd a mere vassal of the Crown. They did not even accord him a title, Elen, referred to him in the treaty documents as Davydd, son of Llewelyn, former Prince of North Wales.”

Elen had no divided loyalties. She might love an Englishman, live in England, but she was utterly and passionately Welsh. “Damn them!” she spat. “They are like vultures, the lot of them, always hovering about, preying upon Welsh weakness. Well, let them rejoice; it will not be for long. I know Davydd better than they do. Whatever he’s had to yield today, he’ll retake on the morrow.”

“You need not argue that with me, Elen. I agree with you. Davydd shall prove to be an unpleasant surprise to the English—if he’s given the chance.”

Elen stared at him. “What are you saying? That you truly think Gruffydd might prevail? Never!”

“I would I could be as sure of that, lass,” he said, sounding so bleak, so somber that Elen felt a sudden chill of fear.

“Davydd has to win,” she said. “God pity Wales if he does not…”

After learning from Ednyved that Davydd was at Gloucester Castle, Elen wasted no time in seeking her brother out. Crossing the moat into the castle bailey, she came upon a scene of utter chaos. Henry was constructing new quarters for his Queen, and carpenters and masons were rushing about, clambering up onto shaky scaffolding, dropping tools, exchanging curses and sarcasm. It was not unheard of for Henry to supervise his building projects, but now he was nowhere in sight. Elen was glad, for he was the last person she wanted to see at the moment. She guided her mare toward a horse block, and the nearest man hurried over to help her dismount.

She thanked him, then asked, “Where will I find Prince Davydd?” making defiant use of her brother’s title.

“I do not know.” The man didn’t recognize her, but he added “Madame” for safety’s sake; her gown and mantle were of high-quality wool. He pointed. “Mayhap the Earl of Leicester might know.”

“Simon!” Elen was delighted. “I got your letter, so I knew you were returning to claim your son, and wait until you see how much he’s grown! But I would not have expected to find you at Gloucester. Have you and Henry been reconciled, then?”

Simon was no less pleased to see her. He smiled, kissed her cheek. “Well, I am here with Henry, am I not?”

Elen gave him a searching look. “So is Davydd,” she said, “but not by choice.”

Simon laughed; her candor was comforting after the hyprocrisy of Henry’s court. “He acted as if nothing had ever happened, Elen. He even said he’d missed me!”

He sounded bemused, but bitter, too. Elen understood exactly how he felt. “Why did you not bring Nell?”

“I thought it best to face Henry myself. His quarrel was never with Nell.” Simon paused; his smile flashed again. “She is with child; did she write to you?”

Elen nodded. “I am glad for you, Simon, glad for you both. Nell also wrote that you’ve taken the cross, mean to go on pilgrimage to the Holy Land.”

“Yes,” he said. “I came back for my son, for we were not willing to entrust him to others on so long and perilous a journey. But whilst I am here, I hope to sell some of my lands to raise funds for my pilgrimage. I do not intend to tarry longer than need be in England, though. I plan to sail with Harry within a fortnight’s time.”

“What of Nell? Now that you are welcome again at Henry’s court, will you send Nell back to England whilst you go on crusade?”

“You ought to know Nell better than that, Elen. She intends to go with me, at least as far as Italy; there she’ll await the birth of our child. If not for that, I daresay she’d have insisted upon accompanying me to the very gates of Jerusalem.” Simon’s smile was wry. “I have to confess, though,” he said, “that I did not try to dissuade her as much as I ought. I rather like having her with me.”

Elen laughed at his understated admission; coming from Simon, she thought, that was like the most impassioned of declarations. “Nell’s grandmother, Queen Eleanor of Aquitaine, went on crusade, so why not Nell? She must—Davydd!”

Simon watched as Elen and her brother embraced. Davydd was a stranger to him; they’d met only twice. But he was Nell’s kinsman, Elen’s brother, and Simon felt some sympathy for his plight. Had he known Davydd better, he might have thought to caution him about Henry, to warn him that despite Henry’s generous nature and kind heart, any man who trusted him was one of God’s great fools. Simon suspected, though, that such a warning would have been wasted. Davydd did not strike him as the trusting sort.

Davydd and Elen had sought privacy by the River Severn. Some yards away, their horses grazed. Behind them rose the walls of the castle bailey; ahead lay one of the wooden bridges that spanned the Severn. Davydd picked up a handful of pebbles, let them drop one by one into the muddy water. Elen waited, with uncommon patience, for him to speak.

“Did Ednyved tell you what they demanded of me?”

“Yes,” she said, and he dropped another pebble into the river, watched the ripples widen.

“The English tried for years to get Papa to arbitrate Marcher claims, tried and failed. What they could not get from him, they got from me, Elen, within one month of Papa’s death.”

“What choice did you have? You cannot fight Henry and Gruffydd both. Not even Papa could do that.” Elen moved toward him. “Davydd, look at me. Ednyved told me that the Marshals have captured Cardigan Castle, that Ralph de Mortimer is laying claim to Maelienydd. You had to end the war, had to come to terms with the English. And you know that, else you’d not be here today in Gloucester. So why are you blaming yourself like this? The English took advantage of your need and extorted some promises from you. What of it? Our people have a saying, Davydd, one you know well—rare is the promise that is kept.”

Davydd looked at her for a long moment. “As ever, you go right to the heart of things, Elen. I had to yield to Henry; I could not fight two wars at once. I know that. But knowing makes it no easier.”

Elen caught his arm. “Forget Henry!” she said fiercely. “It is Gruffydd who matters now. Davydd, you have to defeat him. Not just for your own sake, for Gwynedd, for Wales. He is not fit to rule, would bring us all to ruin if ever he had the power.”

“Not all of the Welsh would agree with you, Elen.”

“For the love of God, Davydd! You can ill afford hurt pride. Yes, some of the Welsh would prefer Gruffydd if given the choice. People fear change; they cling mindlessly to the old ways, to what they know. When Papa broke with tradition, named you as his sole heir, it frightened them. Let them be frightened, the sheep! You do not need them, Davydd. You will prevail without them.”

For the first time since his arrival at Gloucester, Davydd smiled. “Your faith is heartening, Elen. And not ill founded.” From the corner of his eye, he caught a flash of bright blue, turned to watch as a kingfisher streaked by, all but skimming the surface of the river.

“What will you do, Davydd?”

“I mean to win this war.” Adding dryly, “I cannot well afford not to win, can I?”

They had followed the coast road since dawn, but the sun was high overhead by the time they caught their first glimpse of Cricieth Castle. Like all Welsh castles, it sprang up without warning, was suddenly there before them, an awesome, grey stone silhouette rising against the vivid September sky. It seemed haloed by clouds, so high was its hill, and afforded sweeping views of the Ll
n Peninsula, the distant heights of the Eryri mountain range, the brilliant, blue waters of the bay. But the beauty before him was wasted upon Owain, for he saw only the banner that flew from the castle’s Great Tower—the quartered lions of Davydd ap Llewelyn.

He nudged his horse closer to his father’s mount. “I still do not understand, Papa, why you have agreed to meet with Davydd.”

“How often do I have to tell you?” Gruffydd said impatiently. “I did agree because the Bishop of Bangor asked it of me.”

To Owain, that was a highly unsatisfactory answer. And what, he wondered, if the Bishop asked you to ride off a cliff, Papa? But so disrespectful a question could never be voiced. It was not fear that silenced him; Owain feared only leprosy and demons. Yet if he did not fear his father, he did love him, and that love effectively hobbled his tongue.

The Bishop of Bangor had overheard their exchange, urged his mount up alongside them. “Holy Church has pledged both your safety and that of Lord Davydd. So what, then, can you lose by this meeting?”

Owain’s mouth twisted. The Bishop did but belabor the obvious; of course their safety was assured. But he was wrong to think there was nothing to lose. What if Davydd offered his father half of Gwynedd? What then? For as much as Owain wanted to believe his father would scorn the offer, he shrank from seeing Gruffydd put to such a tempting test.

Despite himself, Gruffydd felt a sudden unease as he passed through the castle gateway; Cricieth was a place of unpleasant memories for him. It was here, on an August afternoon twelve years past, that he had goaded his father into riding an unbroken stallion. Llewelyn had been thrown, but suffered no serious hurt, and Gruffydd had felt a shamed sense of relief. But afterward, the hatred that had long burned between his brother and him had at last flared into violence, into a sudden brawl. He was then thirty-two to Davydd’s nineteen; the victory had been his. At sight now of Davydd, awaiting them by the stairs of the Great Tower, Gruffydd drew a sharp breath, swore silently that this victory, too, would be his.

Owain demanded to be present at the meeting, as if daring Davydd to object. But Davydd merely shrugged, then led the way up into the Great Tower. The Bishop, Gruffydd, and Owain followed.

The trestle table was laden with food: cheese toasted on thin slices of bread, cold Michaelmas goose, sweet wafers. But no servants were in evidence. “I thought we’d speak more freely amongst ourselves,” Davydd said. Moving to the sideboard, he began to pour mead into waiting cups, as the men settled themselves around the table. Owain alone showed interest in the food. Reaching for a caus pobi, he bit deeply into the melted cheese, washed it down with a large swallow of mead.

“You set a good table, Uncle,” he drawled. “I suppose you learned such niceties from your kin at the English court.” His rudeness was calculated; it had occurred to him that if he could provoke Davydd into a rage, he might bring this council to an abortive end. But his sarcasm was ignored; neither Gruffydd nor the other men so much as gave him a glance.

“Well?” Gruffydd leaned back in his chair, watching Davydd as he drank. “What have you to say to me?”

“He wants to buy peace, Papa; what else?” Owain interjected, and this time his father silenced him with an abrupt gesture.

“Your son is right,” Davydd said, and Gruffydd stiffened.

“What are you offering?”

“If we come to terms, I will allow you to retain the lordship of Ll
n, and I will restore to you two of the commotes you forfeited at Ystrad Fflur: Arwystli and Ceri. In time, I might be willing to restore the other four commotes, too.”

“Might you be willing, indeed!” Although Gruffydd’s outrage was real enough, it was threaded through with relief, too. He still believed his cause was just, his war was winnable. But what if Davydd’s had been a genuine offer to share power, to share Gwynedd? Better that he never know. “You want my answer? Rot in Hell,” he said, started to push away from the table.

The Bishop caught his arm. “You are too hasty, my lord. When you seek to strike a bargain, do you make your best offer first?” Adding in an undertone, “Trust me, Gruffydd. We’re not done here yet.”

“He gives you good advice, Gruffydd,” Davydd said, but he was looking at the Bishop, not his brother. “I find it interesting,” he said, “that you do champion Gruffydd’s rights. It was my understanding that the Church refuses to recognize sons born out of wedlock.”

“Welsh law holds otherwise,” the Bishop snapped, not comfortable with the unexpected turn the conversation had taken. He had his reasons for backing Gruffydd. Wales was unique among Christian nations, in that under its laws, the Church was subordinate to the State. To the Bishop, that was heresy, and he hoped that Gruffydd would be more malleable than Davydd in this regard, less likely to challenge Church doctrine. Gruffydd might hate the English with a demented passion, but at least he’d always shown himself to be a good son of the Church, and the Bishop thought he’d be receptive to the right approach, the right adviser. He’d known Gruffydd long enough to determine that the Welshman was as straightforward as he seemed. But subtlety was not likely to be lacking in the grandson of King John, and there were few qualities that the Bishop mistrusted more.

“I find it curious that I should be upholding the position of the Church,” Davydd murmured, “whilst you, my lord Bishop, do argue for the old laws of Wales,” and his smile was sardonic enough to bring a flush to the Bishop’s face.

“We digress, my lord,” he said coldly. “What ought to concern us is the good of Gwynedd. For nigh on six months now, this war has been waged between you and the Lord Gruffydd. Neither of you has been able to gain an advantage, but the country has been bled white, and every day good men die so that one of you might be Prince. What purpose does it serve to continue this strife?”

“There is truth to what you say,” Davydd conceded. “But you do not fully understand our problem.” He looked, then, at Gruffydd. “If I were to offer you half of Gwynedd, would that end your rebellion?”

Taken aback, Gruffydd gained time by reaching for his wine cup, swallowing a generous measure of mead. “No,” he said at last. “I fight not just for myself, but for Gwynedd. You could not be trusted to defend our land against the English. You’ve already proven it by that accursed deal you struck with them at Gloucester, that craven agreement to arbitrate Marcher claims.”

Davydd showed neither surprise nor resentment. Instead, he nodded. “I expected no less. Whatever our other differences, Gruffydd, I’ve never doubted your sincerity.” And then he startled Gruffydd by smiling, a strange smile, for to Gruffydd, it seemed to be mocking them both, and yet somehow sad, too. He was puzzling over it as Davydd turned back toward the Bishop.

“Do you see the problem now? Gruffydd is convinced that I am not a worthy Prince for Gwynedd. Unfortunately, I feel no less strongly that he is utterly unfit to rule, that he would be a disaster for Gwynedd, for Wales, for us all. That does not give us much room for compromise, does it?”

“Compromise be damned!” Owain emphasized his opinion with a sweeping gesture, too sweeping; his arm struck his empty wine cup, sent a platter of wafers crashing to the floor. “Damnation,” he muttered, sounding faintly embarrassed. “How did I do that?”

Gruffydd felt embarrassment, too, on his son’s behalf, but also annoyance. Owain had a notoriously poor head for wine. To Gruffydd, that was no excuse, though; Owain should have known better than to gulp mead like water, today of all times. “Here,” he said brusquely, shoving a platter toward his discomfited son. “Eat something.”

Owain obediently picked up a caus pobi, only to drop it hastily. “I…I’d best not,” he said. “I feel queasy of a sudden, and lightheaded, too…”

Gruffydd swore under his breath. But his son’s pallor was quite pronounced now, and he’d begun to sweat. “Lie down for a while,” Gruffydd said, jerking his head toward Davydd’s canopied bed, and then glared at Davydd, daring him to jeer at Owain’s folly.

If Davydd was amused by Owain’s gaucherie, it did not show on his face. The Bishop was less tactful, though, could not repress a grimace of disgust. Owain rose unsteadily, yawned, and shambled toward the bed.

The Bishop decided it was time he took the helm. “It grieves me that brothers could be so filled with hate, that you should so disregard the example of Our Lord Jesus Christ. You both share the blood of Llewelyn Fawr; I think it time you remembered that. If you cannot come to terms, the Church might have to compel a settlement.”

Gruffydd set his cup down with a thud. “I think not! I’ll not be coerced into acting against my conscience, not even for the Church.” His defiance might have had more impact, however, had it not been punctuated by a loud snore from his son.

Davydd rose, moved to pour himself another drink. “I think you’d best consult with the English King ere you issue any ultimatums, my lord Bishop. I rather doubt that Henry shares your desire for peace. This war betwixt Gruffydd and myself serves none better than the English, and well they know it.”

The Bishop was becoming more and more convinced that his instincts had been right, that Davydd ap Llewelyn would bear close scrutiny, indeed. He changed his tack, no longer spoke of his Church’s power, spoke, instead, of its compassion. They must forswear the example of Cain and Abel, he argued earnestly, must put aside their grievances and work together for the good of Gwynedd, for their Welsh brothers and sisters in Christ.

Gruffydd was hard put to hide his impatience. While he’d always shown the Bishop every respect, it was the priest he honored, not the man. He knew the Bishop had his own axe to grind, even if he was not yet sure what the Bishop hoped to gain. For now, he was willing to accept support where he could find it, but he thought that having to listen to an interminable sermon upon brotherhood was a high price, indeed, to pay for that support.

Only one of the windows was unshuttered; the chamber seemed very stuffy to Gruffydd. As the Bishop droned on, he actually found himself dozing off. He hastily gulped the last of his mead, but it did not seem to help. He’d begun to sweat, tasted salt on his upper lip. How hot it had become! Mayhap he ought to open another window. But when he rose to his feet, he discovered, to his astonishment, that his legs would not support him. He sank back weakly in his chair, and the Bishop gave him a look of sudden concern.

“Gruffydd, are you ill?”

“I…I am not sure. I feel strange, in truth…” It took an effort to form the words, to get them out without slurring. The Bishop was leaning across the table, asking if he wanted to lie down. He did, craved nothing so much as to sink into a deep, deep sleep. He sought desperately to clear his head of cobwebs, to get his thoughts back into coherent order, but it was hard, so hard. The Bishop was looking alarmed. Davydd, too, was watching him. He was standing near a wall sconce; his eyes caught the light, seemed to take on golden glints. Cat eyes, intent, unblinking. King John’s eyes.

Gruffydd’s gasp was audible to both men. He swung around, stared at the bed. His eyes darted to his empty wine cup, back up to Davydd’s impassive face. “Christ, you poisoned us!”

The Bishop recoiled. “Mother of God,” he whispered, staring in horror at his own wine cup.

“No,” Davydd said, “not poison.” His denial did not even register with Gruffydd. Lurching to his feet, he fumbled for his sword. He managed to get it free of his scabbard, but almost lost his balance, reeling back against the table. The trestle boards separated, overturning the table; the Bishop scrambled clear just in time. Davydd had not moved. He stood watching as Gruffydd staggered toward him, two steps, three. But then Gruffydd’s knees were buckling. The sword slipped from his numbed fingers, clattered to the floor. Gruffydd’s last awareness was of falling, of plummeting down into the dark.