Falls the Shadow (47 page)

“The lordship of half of Ll
n, and the cantref of Dyffryn Clwyd.”

Davydd sucked in his breath. “Christ, Llewelyn, if you’d only offered that a year ago…” He turned away, almost at once swung back to face Llewelyn. “I will be accountable to you, of course. But what of the revenues? They’ll be mine?”

Llewelyn nodded. “You’ll earn them,” he said. “Lest you forget, Dyffryn Clwyd is still infested with the English. We’ll have to evict them ere you take possession, lad.”

Davydd grinned. “That,” he said, “will be half the fun!” But even as he spoke, a shadow crossed his face. “What of Owain?”

“I cannot trust him, Davydd,” Llewelyn said quietly. “You know I cannot.”

“Can you trust me?”

“I suppose I’m about to find out, am I not?”

Something flickered in Davydd’s eyes, too quick to catch. “You’re taking a great risk,” he said. “You do know that?”

“Yes,” Llewelyn said, “I know. But a beautiful woman once told me that there’s nothing worth having without risk, and who am I to dispute a lady?”

“I never thought women were ones for risk-taking.”

“This one is—Nell de Montfort,” Llewelyn said, and smiled at the boy’s surprise.

“I met her at Stevington. She is the King’s sister, no?”

“Yes, she is that. But first and foremost, she sees herself as Simon de Montfort’s wife.”

It was not working; banter could not dispel ghosts, could not exorcise Owain’s presence, and they both knew it. Davydd’s eyes narrowed, caught the light like a cat’s. “And how do you see yourself, Llewelyn?” he said, with sudden bitterness. “As the Saviour of Wales?”

Llewelyn’s gaze did not waver. “I think I’d prefer Holy Redeemer,” he murmured. “It has more of a ring to it, would probably look better on charters.”

A heartbeat’s pause, and then they both were laughing. Llewelyn opened the door and, still laughing, they left the chamber, emerged into the mild October sunlight, within sight and sound of the sea.

From the pen of a thirteenth-century Welsh monk, in
The Chronicle of the Princes:

Nature was occasionally bountiful, but never kind, and for two years now, the people of England and Wales had been suffering cruelly from its vagaries. Severe winters followed by late, cold springs had played havoc with the harvests, and famine soon stalked the unhappy land. When Richard, now King of the Romans, dispatched from Germany fifty ships heavily laden with grain to ease his countrymen’s misery, Henry provoked a torrent of outrage by seizing the ships and offering the cargos for sale at inflated prices; so infuriated were the Londoners that Henry was forced to back down. It was in this climate of ill will and mutual mistrust that the Hoketide parliament was scheduled to meet, to consider Henry’s urgent need for money and the no-less-urgent problem posed by the insurrection in Wales, where Llewelyn ap Gruffydd now reigned supreme.

Edward paused in the doorway of the great hall, looked back at his parents. He understood their somber demeanor, for the anniversary was approaching of their daughter Katherine’s death, and they were discussing with Henry’s chaplain their plans to mark Katherine’s year-mind. Edward knew they still grieved for the little girl, grieved, too, for the son they’d lost that same year, a sickly infant who passed, too quickly, from cradle to coffin. But Edward was not yet nineteen, too little schooled in grief himself to comprehend the sorrow of a parent for a dead child; it seemed to him that they ought to have come to terms with their loss by now, and he watched them with the inarticulate, impatient sympathy of the very young.

“Edwardo?” Eleanora was looking at him with concern, and he found a smile for her. He’d not yet bedded her, for she was just thirteen, but she was sweet-tempered, easy to please, so obviously adoring that he was confident she’d prove herself a most satisfactory wife, and he’d done what he could to ease her homesickness for Castile. Taking her hand, he led her out into the April dusk.

“They’ve aged so in the past year,” he said.

She knew whom he meant. “How old are they?”

“I’m not sure about my lady mother; she never would tell! She’s still of child-bearing age, though, and my father…he’ll be fifty-one come October.”

“But that is very old, Edwardo,” she pointed out, so earnestly that he had to smile.

“I know, lass, but it is more than age. It has not been a good year for them, or for England…”

She nodded. “The King was distraught by his failure in Wales—” She caught herself, but not in time. Wales was a sensitive subject, for it had been Edward’s failure, too. That past August he and Henry had led an army into Gwynedd, but their campaign had ended in disaster. They’d gotten no farther than Deganwy Castle, had been forced to retreat in less than a month, leaving Llewelyn ap Gruffydd in uncontested control of Edward’s Welsh lands. “I am sorry,” she began shyly, but Edward shrugged, leaned down to kiss her cheek.

“You are leaving?”

“I’m supping tonight with Hal and the de Montforts.” He beckoned to the captain of his guards, hovering within earshot, then raised Eleanora’s hand to his lips in a more formal farewell. He noticed neither the disappointment in her eyes nor that she stood there for some moments, watching him cross the New Palace yard.

“No, Giles, not to the stables, to the wharf. We need my barge, no horses this night; we’re for Southwark.”

The other man paused in the act of signaling to the waiting guards, looked at Edward in surprise. “Southwark? I thought, my lord, that you said you were meeting your cousins?”

Edward grinned. “I am—at the Half-Moon.”

The captain grinned, too, for the Half-Moon was one of the better known of the bankside brothels. “This is one night,” he said, “when those men not on duty will be right envious of those who are!”

Edward could have predicted what he would find at the Half-Moon, for he knew his cousins well. There was no sign of Hal, who was late again. Bran was in the midst of a noisy, high-stakes dice game, while Harry had managed, as always, to snare the prettiest whore in the house, a surprisingly fresh-faced lass who’d yet to lose her country-girl bloom, and whose hair was not only the shade of newly churned butter, but even looked reasonably clean. Seated on Harry’s lap, she was occupying most of his attention, and he did not notice Edward’s approach, not until Edward leaned over, claimed his tankard of ale.

Unfazed by the theft, Harry looked up, gave his cousin a wide, welcoming grin. He was slightly drunk, but his good humor was not dependent upon ale; he had none of his father’s intensity or fervor, none of his brother Bran’s perverse unpredictability. Harry was by far the best-liked of the de Montfort sons, for he had a happy-go-lucky disposition, a cheerful outlook, and a generosity of spirit that enabled him to defer to Edward’s compulsive need to command. Because he was also willing to accept any dare, willing to follow Edward into the seediest bankside tavern, to defy the City Watch and take part in midnight horse races, heedless of risk, he had long been Edward’s favorite companion, and their friendship had not yet suffered from the increasing animosity of their fathers.

With Bran, it was not so simple; he and Edward had a much more erratic relationship. There was affection on both sides, and a mutual, grudging admiration, but their rivalry was constant, for tension was inevitable with both youths so unwilling to relinquish the reins. Bran acknowledged Edward’s entrance now with a casual wave, but did not come over; he would not leave the game as long as he was winning.

Edward took a seat opposite Harry, signaling to one of the girls for more ale. Brothels were not allowed to serve food or drink, but Edward’s ale was delivered with dispatch; he and his de Montfort cousins were known here, and treated with an uneasy mixture of awe and apprehension.

Within the quarter hour, Hal hastened in, flushed and out of breath. He had arrived only that morning from his father’s manors in the West Country. With Richard in Germany, much of the responsibility for maintaining his vast English estates had fallen upon Hal, and he at once launched into a humorous account of his troubles with guileful bailiffs and unruly tenants. He showed no resentment, though, when Edward interrupted. Although he was twenty-two, he seemed much younger—given to sudden enthusiasms, readily influenced, Edward’s eager echo.

“We’ve more important matters to discuss, Hal. Harry, get rid of the wench.”

“Go to the Devil,” Harry said amiably, slipping his hand into the girl’s bodice. But when Edward persisted, he gave an exaggerated sigh. “What is your name, sweetheart?” When she murmured “Maud,” all three of them looked at her with new interest, for harlots invariably chose for themselves fanciful names like Clarice and Petronilla. Maud was real, spoke of an innocence but recently lost. Harry pressed a coin into her palm, coaxed a promise to wait, and as she slid off his knee, he shot Edward a look of warning. “You’ll have much to answer for, Ned, if I lose that one!”

“She’ll keep,” Edward said. It was probably true; he could not deny that Harry had a way with women, even with whores, who were usually as sentimental as horse-traders. “Hal needs to know what has been happening whilst he’s been gone.”

“That’s easy,” Harry said. “Parliament met, Uncle Henry sought money to pay off the Pope, the lords balked, and all Hell broke loose.”

Edward ignored Harry, kept his eyes upon Hal. “Right from the opening session, there was trouble. John Fitz Geoffrey leveled charges against our de Lusignan uncle Aymer, claiming that Aymer’s servants attacked his manor at Shere, killing one of his men. He demanded justice of my father the King, and when my father was loath to bring charges against Aymer, most of the barons took Fitz Geoffrey’s side. But it was our Welsh woes that stirred up the most commotion.”

“Is it true what I heard in the West Country, that Llewelyn ap Gruffydd has made a pact with the lords of Scotland?”

Edward nodded grimly; his memories of their abortive summer campaign still rankled. “Llewelyn is drunk on delusions, which the Welsh fancy even more than mead. There are rumors that he now dares to call himself Prince of Wales.”

“What you call delusions, Ned, Llewelyn doubtless calls victories.” None had heard Bran’s approach, not until his voice cut through the smoky air above their heads. “He did drive Gruffydd ap Gwenwynwyn out of Powys, did overrun the Perfeddwlad, and did send your army reeling back across the border…did he not?”

This was the sort of razor-edged banter in which they all engaged, but Bran’s mockery had a sharper bite than usual, cut a little too close to the bone; he, too, had been drinking. Edward regarded him with unfriendly eyes, then turned back to Hal.

“William de Lusignan was sorely affronted by Llewelyn’s triumphs, and—”

“Of course,” Hal interrupted, nodding knowingly. “He has the most to lose, after all, what with his wife being heiress to the Pembroke estates in South Wales.” He had an unfortunate penchant for belaboring the obvious; all knew William de Lusignan was Earl of Pembroke by right of his wife—that being the most controversial of the lucrative marriages Harry had made on behalf of his de Lusignan kindred, and Hal earned himself an impatient look from Edward.

But the name of William de Lusignan had acted upon the de Montforts as a goad. Harry no longer slouched bonelessly in his seat, and Bran made a sweeping gesture, came close to knocking the candle from the table into Hal’s lap.

“That whoreson de Lusignan claimed that the other lords lacked the will to fight the Welsh,” he said tautly. “He accused my father and the Earl of Gloucester of having a secret understanding with Llewelyn, and then…then he even dared to call my father a traitor!”

Hal whistled through his teeth; he could not imagine any man having the courage to challenge his uncle Simon like that, not to his face. “He said that and still lives?” he asked, amazed, and Harry nodded.

“Regretfully, yes. Papa would have killed him then and there had the King not thrust himself between them!”

“What I’d not have given to see that!” Hal’s eyes sparkled. Harry and Bran did not share his amusement; they passed some moments indignantly denouncing William de Lusignan. Hal was tempted to tease, to remind them that William de Lusignan was their uncle, too, but decided against it; Simon’s sons were unlikely to find any humor in that particular blood-bond.

The young harlot was back, whispering something in Harry’s ear that brought him swiftly to his feet. “It’s now or never,” he said dramatically, and swaying slightly, headed for the stairs, his arm around the girl’s waist. A moment later, Bran rose, too, and as Edward and Hal followed his gaze, they saw why. Hal pointed. “That lad, there, is that not your brother Guy?”

Bran grinned. “Harry and I thought it was time he ploughed his first furrow. He is fifteen, after all. But I think he’s had his fill of ale. If he gets too greensick, this visit may not only put him off ale, it could put him off whores, too!”

They joined in his laughter, watched as he made his way across the crowded common chamber toward Guy. And then Edward leaned across the table. “I’ve more to tell you, but I had to wait till we were alone. There is a meeting being held this very night, one that bodes ill for my father. I do not know all their names yet, but our uncle Simon and the Earls of Gloucester and Norfolk are the leaders.”

Hal was impressed. “How did you find out about this meeting, Ned?”

Edward shrugged. “How do you think? I have eyes and ears where I need them; money loosens most tongues. I do not know what their intent is, but I like it not. They are men whose voices would be heeded, and they have long been disgruntled with my father’s government.”

“Ned…do not take this amiss, but we all know there is a need for reforms of some sort. Even you have said as much. So why oppose them now, why not—”

“Why not? Would you let these men dictate terms to my father, to the King? A king is responsible for his subjects, not to them. It is true that a king ought to be ruled by the laws he makes, but no man can force him to obey the law. A king’s transgressions must be left to the judgment of God. For certes, he is not accountable to self-seeking knaves like Gloucester!”

“But what of Uncle Simon? Do you not believe he is sincere?”

Edward hesitated; his feelings for Simon were clouded with ambiguities and ambivalence. “Yes,” he said, “I do believe Simon is sincere. And that, Hal, might well make him the most dangerous of the lot.” But he saw that his cousin did not comprehend. Reaching across the table, he caught Hal’s hand. “Swear to me,” he said. “Swear that whatever happens, you’ll stand by me.”

“Jesú, Ned, of course I will!”

“No,” Edward said, with such intensity that Hal’s smile faded. “Not like that. Swear to me not as your kinsman, but as your King-to-be.”

His fingers were digging into Hal’s wrist; they were perilously close to the candle flame. Hal felt a thrill of edgy excitement, a sense that they were on the verge of momentous happenings. He nodded, said with self-conscious gravity, “I do so swear.” Neither youth noticed that they were being watched. Across the chamber, Bran drank and bantered with his companions, but kept his eyes upon his cousins all the while.

It was Simon’s turn to take the oath. He came forward, picked up the crucifix, and for a moment his eyes flicked from face to face—solemn, shadowed by torch-light. Richard de Clare, Earl of Gloucester, no friend of his. Roger Bigod, Earl of Norfolk, England’s Marshal. His younger brother, Hugh. Their brother-in-law, John Fitz Geoffrey, so recently wronged by the de Lusignans. Peter of Savoy, Earl of Richmond, for they’d found a surprising ally in the Queen’s uncle. And, as always, Peter de Montfort. Simon closed his fingers around the crucifix, held it up to the light.

“I do swear,” he said, “as you have done, to help one another and those belonging to us, against all people, doing right and taking nothing that we cannot take without doing wrong, saving faith to our lord the King of England and to the Crown.”

On the last day of April, they came in full armor to Westminster. Although they put aside their swords before entering Henry’s presence, he was so alarmed that he blurted out, “What is this? Am I your prisoner?” The Earl of Norfolk hastened to assure him that was not so, but then set forth their demands, that Henry and his heir, the Lord Edward, swear upon the Holy Gospels that they would accept the counsel and advice of “twenty-four good men of England.” Not for the first time, Henry shrank from confrontation, reluctantly swore that he would accept their reforms—much to Edward’s dismay—and it was agreed that parliament would reconvene on June 11 in the Dominican friary at Oxford.