Falls the Shadow (46 page)

“It would take a veritable miracle for Henry to raise that kind of money,” Nell said. “But if he does not, the Pope will excommunicate him and lay all England under Interdict!”

Hugh laughed again. “Henry must be a source of constant and abiding comfort to his enemies! So much for his Sicilian folly. What was this talk about Castile?”

Nell shook her head. “It was not Henry’s finest hour. He was in Gascony at the time, after he’d been forced to ask Simon’s help in putting down Gaston de Béarn’s rebellion. Richard and Eleanor had remained in England, acting as regents in his absence, and he sent them an urgent request for money, claiming that Gaston de Béarn’s ally, the King of Castile, was about to invade Gascony. But it was not true; although no one in England knew it yet, Henry had dispatched John Mansel to Castile with a peace offer. Unfortunately for Henry’s scheme, whilst parliament was debating his demand, Simon happened to arrive unexpectedly in England. He was astonished by this talk of invasion, and explained that negotiations were in progress for Edward’s marriage to the King of Castile’s sister. Simon was right, of course; the marriage took place ere the year was out. But Henry’s barons never forgave him for so blatant a lie. Now he could swear upon the Holy Cross itself, and I doubt they’d believe him.”

“You are sure Henry is King John’s flesh and blood? How any son of John’s could be so inept at intrigue…” Hugh shrugged. “I daresay we could stay here till Vespers, swapping droll stories of Henry’s blunders. But I suspect you had more in mind when you lured me down from London. Just what is it that you want from me?”

Richard could not help bridling. “I assure you we were not making sport of Henry’s weaknesses. We were seeking to convince you that he has ventured out beyond his depth, that he right desperately needs someone to throw him a lifeline. We hoped it might be you.”

Nell found no encouragement in Hugh’s skeptical smile, but she was determined to try. “Henry is more vulnerable than he realizes, Hugh. Things cannot continue as they are now. Unless Henry agrees to make reforms, they are going to be forced upon him. But he still has time to mend his ways, and he could help himself immeasurably by reining in his de Lusignan half-brothers, your brothers.”

Richard was nodding grim agreement. “You must understand, Hugh, just how hated they are. To be honest, even had they been saints, they’d have stirred up jealousy, so lavish has Henry been with his gifts, wardships, benefices. But believe me when I say they have acted more like men possessed than saints. Not even a bishopric has sobered Aymer. So bitterly has he quarreled with his monks at Winchester that he went so far as to lock them in the abbey church, kept them confined without food for a full three days! Christ Jesus, how can you laugh? You find that fitting behavior for a Prince of the Church?”

Nell was equally outraged. “I wonder,” she said, “if you will find this story amusing, too. When one of Henry’s cooks somehow offended your brother Geoffrey, he had the man seized, taken to Guildford, where he entertained himself by hanging the man by his heels, then having every hair plucked from his head. The man died, Hugh, and Geoffrey dismissed the killing with jests about bad cooking!”

Hugh was no longer laughing. “I assume complaints were made to Henry?”

“Yes,” Nell admitted. “Henry’s master of cooks came to him, as did the poor soul’s family. Henry…he refused to take any action.”

“Then what, pray, do you expect me to do?”

“Henry is unwilling—or unable—to curb their excesses,” Richard said slowly. “You’re their elder brother; they might listen to you. If they care naught for Henry’s welfare, they must care for their own. If they continue to act in so lawless and unchristian a manner, they might well find themselves answering to men far less indulgent than Henry.”

“They’ve feathered a right soft nest for themselves,” Nell interjected bitterly. “I doubt that they’d want to lose it. If you tell them that, Hugh—”

“No,” he said, “I think not. They are Henry’s problem, not mine, and I’d as soon keep it that way. Better they should be in England, bleeding Henry white, than back in Poitou, bleeding me white!”

Nell stood watching as Hugh headed toward the manor, with Richard trailing him like a laggard shadow, shackled by the bonds of hospitality. Not so Nell. She turned, wandered down the slope toward the river. Rows of ash trees lined the bank, deep-green foliage feathered with clusters of amber, the seeds of autumn. Occasionally she trod a leaf underfoot. The sky seemed boundless, putting her in mind of a seascape, one that lacked even a single sail. She could see not a wisp of clouds, but it was a September blue, too bright and metallic for summer indolence.

She’d never given much thought to the seasons. She’d always taken her world just as it was, a world vibrant and vital and earthy and at times implacable, shy of nuance, alien to subtleties. But now she found herself caught up in an inexplicable surge of sadness, a nostalgic longing that seemed somehow rooted in her sudden awareness of the ebbing summer.

“Nell?”

“Simon?” She spun around. “Hold me,” she said, surprising herself as much as Simon. She saw a dark brow arch upward, but he put his arms around her, drew her under the wavering shadows of a nearby ash.

“At the time, I thought it best not to linger,” he said. “I did not trust myself, in truth. Was I wrong, Nell? Ought I to have stayed?”

“No, Simon. We did but waste our time, waste our breath.” She said no more, and he asked no questions; he’d known their appeal would fail. Nell slid her hands up his back; she could feel the tautness of muscle, the body less supple than in his youth, but no less lean, the flesh still firm. A body she knew better than her own. She still found it hard to sleep in a bed alone, needing to be able to reach out to him, to hear his breathing in the dark.

“Did de Lusignan’s refusal distress you so much, then?” he asked softly, bending his head so that he could touch his lips to the downcast curve of her mouth.

“No, it’s not that. This will sound foolish, but of a sudden I felt so very sad, as if I’d suffered a loss.” In the distance, Nell could hear voices, loud and youthful, boisterous; their sons were approaching. She released Simon’s arm and stepped back, no longer the lover, once more the practical helpmate, the political partner.

“I did learn something whilst we talked, Simon, and it is not good. I think the rumors are true. I think Richard does mean to gain for himself the German crown.”

“I’d feared it was so,” he confessed. “I’ve no reason to wish Richard ill, but for England’s sake, I hope he fails. Without him, Henry will be a ship without a rudder.”

“You see a storm gathering,” she said, and he nodded.

“Yes,” he said. “I can tell you that for a certainty, Nell. I can tell you, too, where it will break first—over Wales.”

Rhodri ap Gruffydd arrived at Cricieth Castle on a drear, blustery afternoon in mid-October. The sea churning the shore was a dull, leaden grey, and the rain was constant. Rhodri was not surprised to get a sullen, ungracious welcome from his brother; on such a dismal day, not even a saint could have mustered much cheer.

Davydd showed no interest in Rhodri’s gossip, and he brusquely refused his brother’s offer to play chess or tables. After a few sarcastic rebuffs, Rhodri lapsed into a faintly offended silence. He thought he deserved better; he’d ridden through a rainstorm for Davydd, after all. But he had to admit that Davydd was generally good company. Captivity had not repressed his flippant, irreverent humor, and even within the confines of Cricieth Castle, he somehow found material for ribald, comical anecdotes and practical jokes. Rhodri wondered how he could be so blithe, so cocksure after more than fifteen months at Cricieth. But then, Davydd had always been an enigma to him. He loved Davydd, envied him, by turns resented and admired him. Yet he’d never understood him.

It was not even the natural rivalry of brothers so close in age, for he could not remember a time when Davydd had not utterly overshadowed him. He’d heard that Davydd had distinguished himself in the fighting at Bwlch Mawr, would have expected no less. Davydd never lacked for courage, had always raced recklessly ahead while he hung back. He could not change his nature, could not help being cautious, deliberate, introspective, not traits to be scorned by any means, but traits that seemed dull, bland—even to him—when compared with Davydd’s hell-for-leather dazzle.

Was that why Davydd had garnered all the love, all the approval? Rhodri had no memory of his father, but he had few illusions about the other members of his family. His mother had never paid him much mind, and for his brothers, it was always Davydd who mattered, Davydd who came first. When, three years after the Treaty of Woodstock, the English King had demanded that Owain and Llewelyn again yield up a brother as hostage, Rhodri knew they’d never even considered surrendering Davydd. He, Rhodri, was the last-born, the after-thought, the expendable one. And so he had returned to England, passed four more years at Henry’s court, comfortable years, not unpleasant ones. But always the question remained, a query to come to him in the early hours of dawn, in moments of solitude. Why was it always Davydd? Why Davydd and never him?

As he stretched his muddied boots toward the hearth, Rhodri’s eye was drawn to an object half-hidden in the floor rushes. Leaning down, he fished out a woman’s garter. “Yours?” he said, and Davydd grinned.

“The lass who does my laundry. We were wondering where she left it.” Reaching for the garter, he deftly tucked it away under his pillow.

“I think you could find a woman in a Benedictine monastery,” Rhodri said, and Davydd grinned again.

“From what I’ve heard about some of the monasteries, that would be no great trick!” Davydd’s spirits were beginning to rise; he could never be depressed for long. Sprawling upon the bed, he said, “Have you seen Owain?”

Rhodri nodded. “I was at Dolbadarn a fortnight ago. He’s doing as well as could be expected.” The words sounded stilted, even to him; he saw Davydd’s eyes flick toward him, then away. “Davydd…how long do you intend to stay here?”

“That is a question you ought to be asking of Llewelyn, not me.”

“You hold the key to that door, and you well know it. Llewelyn would have released you months ago if you’d only curb your temper and your tongue. He does care for you, Davydd.”

Davydd glanced up, and Rhodri marveled that his eyes could seem so luminous one moment, so frigid the next. “I suppose he does,” he said. “But he put Gwynedd first, Rhodri. Owain put me first.”

“What are you seeking to prove, Davydd? How does it help Owain to have you caged, too? I never knew you had such a craving for martyrdom!”

Davydd scowled, but his mouth was twitching, and in a moment, he was laughing. “I know how you like to lecture me, but I suspect there’s more to this than you’re telling. What do you know that I do not?”

Rhodri’s smile was sheepish. “You always did read me too well. You’re right, I have found out something. Llewelyn is coming to see you again. I thought that if you had advance warning, you’d have time to think, to realize what is at stake. For God’s sake, Davydd, tell him what he wants to hear and he’ll set you free. It is as simple as that!”

Davydd leaned back against the headboard, then slowly shook his head. “You are wrong, Rhodri,” he said. “Nothing is as simple as that.”

Llewelyn dismissed servants and guards before turning toward his brother. Davydd was leaning against the table, his pose a little too calculated, his nonchalance not quite convincing. Llewelyn shut the door. “We need to talk, Davydd.”

Davydd’s shoulders shifted, a half-shrug. “It’s fortunate, then,” he said, “that you happened to find me in.”

Llewelyn parried the thrust with ironic agreement. “Very fortunate.” He moved into the room, not halting until Davydd was but an arm’s length away. “What do you know of the Lord Edward’s dealings in Wales?”

That was not the opening Davydd had anticipated. “The English King’s son? That’s a right odd question; Cricieth is no hermit’s cell, after all. Edward has held the crown lands in Wales for nigh on two years now, and I could almost believe he was secretly in your pay, so faithfully has he been sowing seeds of rebellion.”

That mordant appraisal drew from Llewelyn an involuntary smile. “Your arrow just hit the target dead-center,” he said approvingly. “Edward has indeed played into my hands at every turn—appointing corrupt or inept officials, entrusting so much authority to Geoffrey Langley, a man foolish enough to think he could treat Welsh freemen like English serfs.”

Despite his determination to remain aloof, Davydd felt his interest catching fire; something was in the wind. “I always thought Langley would eventually make one mistake too many. Has he?”

“He seeks to introduce English law into the Perfeddwlad. He would scorn the ancient laws of Wales, would govern our cantrefs as if they were part of Cheshire. He would make our people aliens in their own land, and they’ll have none of it. There were some who hoped Edward would see his folly, but this August he paid his first visit into Wales, and nothing changed. Now…it will. The men of the Perfeddwlad have come to me, have asked my help in ridding them of these English intruders. I told them I would.”

Davydd’s eyes had begun to shine. “So it is to be war,” he said, and Llewelyn nodded.

“I expect to be ready to cross the River Conwy by All Saints’ Day. I’d like to have you at my side when I do, Davydd.”

“And what do I have to do first?” Davydd demanded. “Grovel? Beg forgiveness? Swear a blood-oath of loyalty?”

“No.”

“No? Just like that?” Davydd’s unease flared into an emotion he was more comfortable with—anger. “Why?”

That was a reaction Llewelyn had expected, though; he was still young enough himself to remember that at eighteen, pride could burn higher than any fever. He waited, saying nothing, and Davydd finally blurted out, “So I am to be released, restored to favor. What else?”

“Is that not enough?” Llewelyn asked dryly, already knowing the answer he’d get.

Davydd raised his chin. “No,” he said, greatly daring, and then his brother’s smile told him that he had in truth risked nothing at all.