Falls the Shadow (5 page)

For two days Llewelyn had sought to convince himself that he feared for naught, that Joanna could not truly be in danger. But at sight of his son’s ashen face, he heard himself say huskily, “She still lives?”

Davydd nodded, but then said, “Thank God you’ve come, Papa. We so feared you’d not be in time…”

“Why did you not summon me at once?”

“She would not let me, Papa. She swore it was but a chill, and indeed, at first it did seem so. When she worsened, it took us without warning.”

Llewelyn had never been a man to shrink from hard truths; unless he knew the nature of his enemy, how could he know what strategy might stave off defeat? “Tell me,” he said. “Tell me all.”

“The chill was followed by fever, and despite all her doctors could do, it burns ever higher.” Tears had filled Davydd’s eyes, but he somehow managed to keep his voice steady. “She has pain in breathing, and a constant cough. The doctors have given her sage and vervain, wine with powdered anise and fennel, and Mama’s confessor has not left the chapel all day, lighting candles to the Blessed Mary and to St Blaise. But Papa, I’ll not lie to you. Nothing has helped, nothing. She grows weaker by the hour. The doctors…they hold out no hope.”

“Devil take the doctors,” Llewelyn said savagely. “Do you think I’ll just stand by, let her die? She almost died before, giving birth to you. But I did not let it happen. I’m here for her now, and that will make the difference. I’ll not lose her, Davydd. Whatever it takes to save her, I’ll do. I’ll find a way. I always do.” He was turning away when Davydd caught his arm.

“Papa, wait. She…she’s out of her head now with the fever. Papa, I doubt that she’ll even know you.”

Llewelyn stared at him, and then pulled his arm free.

His bedchamber had been draped with red, in vain hopes of banishing fever. Isabella, Davydd’s young wife, burst into tears at sight of Llewelyn; so, too, did Nia, Joanna’s maid. The doctors stood helplessly by; they looked exhausted, and not a little apprehensive. Llewelyn brushed them aside, leaned over the bed.

“Joanna? Breila, I’m here,” he said, and then his breath caught in his throat as she turned toward the sound of his voice. Splotches of hot color burned high on her cheekbones, but her skin was bloodless, had taken on a frightening, waxlike pallor. Her eyes looked bruised, so deeply circled were they, sunken back in her head, glazed and unseeing, and even when he took her in his arms, held her close, he could find no flicker of recognition in their fevered depths.

Llelo awakened just before dawn. As early as it was, the great hall was already astir. Joanna had not been popular with her husband’s people, but she was well-loved by those in her own household, and a pall had settled over the court. Even those who could not mourn Joanna, the unfaithful, foreign wife, even they grieved for the pain her death would give their Prince, and Llelo saw only somber, grim faces, saw people too preoccupied to pay heed to a bewildered eight-year-old.

Llewelyn had spent the night at Joanna’s bedside, had at last fallen into a fitful sleep. When he awoke, it was with a start, with a sick surge of fear that subsided only a little as he glanced toward the bed, reassured himself that Joanna still lived. Her breathing was labored, rapid and shallow, but her sleep seemed easier, and he took heart from that. For much of the night, she’d tossed and turned, in her fever seeking to throw off the sheets, from time to time crying out his name, agitated, incoherent, imprisoned in a twilight world of delirium and shadows, just beyond his reach. But now she seemed calmer, and he leaned over, touched his lips to her forehead.

As he straightened up, he winced. His was no longer a young man’s body, and his muscles were cramping badly, inflamed by the abuses of the past three days. He slumped back in the chair, for the first time noticed his grandson. The boy said nothing, shyly held out a clay goblet. Llewelyn took it, drank without tasting.

“Llelo, fetch me that casket on the window-seat.” Llelo was in motion before he’d stopped speaking, and a moment later was watching, amazed, as Llewelyn dumped the contents onto the foot of the bed: a gleaming treasure-trove of gold and silver, garnets, amethysts, pendants and pins. “I once gave Joanna an amber pater noster. Help me find it, lad.”

Llelo had the sharper eye, soon spied the yellow-gold prayer beads. “Here, Grandpapa! Why do you want it?”

“Men say that amber helps to ease fevers.” Llewelyn leaned over, fastened the rosary around Joanna’s wrist. Isabella had entered with a laver. Taking it from her, he sat on the bed, began to sponge cooling water onto Joanna’s face and throat. When her lashes fluttered, he said soothingly, “I seek to lower your fever, breila.” The words came readily, so often had he said them to her in the past twelve hours. But then the sponge slipped from his fingers, for her eyes had focused on him, no longer blind. “Joanna?”

“You came back…” A joyful whisper, so faint that none but he heard. Only when he thrust the laver aside did the others realize she was lucid again.

“Hold me,” she entreated, and he slid his arm around her shoulders, cradled her against his chest. “Llewelyn…I cannot remember. Was…was I shriven?”

“Indeed, love. Davydd did assure me of it, said your confessor administered the Sacraments whilst you were still in your senses.” Brushing her hair back, he kissed her forehead, her eyelids, the corner of her mouth. “But it matters for naught now, breila, for you’re going to recover. You need only—”

“My darling…my darling, not even you can…can deny death…” The corner of her mouth twitched, tried to smile. “Davydd?” she whispered, and Llewelyn nodded, unable to speak.

“I’m here, Mama.” Davydd came forward, into her line of vision. “Right here.” He saw her lips move, knew what she asked, slowly shook his head. “No, Mama. But Elen is on her way, should be here soon.”

Joanna closed her eyes; tears squeezed through her lashes. So much she wanted to say, but she had not the strength. “Beloved…promise me…”

Llewelyn stiffened. She’d fought so hard to gain the crown for their son. Did she mean to bind him now with a deathbed vow? He waited, dreading what she would ask of him, to safeguard the succession for Davydd. Knowing there was but one certain way to do that—to cage Gruffydd again. And how could he do that to his son? How could he condemn him to a life shut away from the sun? But how could he deny Joanna? Could he let her go to her grave without that comfort?

“Llewelyn…pray for me,” she gasped, and only then did he fully accept it, that she was indeed dying, was already lost to him, beyond earthly cares, worldly ambitions.

“I will, Joanna.” He swallowed with difficulty, brought her hand up, pressing his lips against her palm. “You will have my every prayer.”

“Bury me at…at Llanfaes…”

His head jerked up. He had an island manor at Llanfaes; it was there that Joanna had been confined after he had discovered her infidelity. “Why, Joanna? Why Llanfaes?”

Her mouth curved upward. “Because…I was so happy there. You came to me, forgave me…”

“Oh, Christ, Joanna…” His voice broke; he pulled her into an anguished embrace, held her close.

Llelo had been a petrified witness; at that, he began to sob. Isabella, too, was weeping. Davydd turned on his heel, bolted from the chamber. Ednyved took the boy by the arm. Gently but insistently, he ushered Llelo and Isabella into the antechamber. Then quietly he closed the door, left Llewelyn alone with his wife.

Elen arrived at Aber in mid-afternoon, but by then Joanna was delirious again. She never regained consciousness, died in the early hours of dawn on Candlemas, February 2. At week’s end, her body was ferried across the strait to the island of Môn, where she was buried, as she’d requested, in a seaside garden near Llewelyn’s manor at Llanfaes.

It was a cold, blustery day, a day of wet winds and intermittent rains. Despite the raw, winter weather, there was a large turnout for the funeral of Llewelyn’s lady; well-born Welsh lords stood shoulder to shoulder with Marcher barons as the Bishop of St Asaph performed the funeral Mass under a darkening sky. The Bishop had consecrated a burial ground within sight of the sea, and the people murmured among themselves, wondering why Llewelyn had chosen to bury Joanna here, rather than in the village church. They had their answer at the conclusion of the Mass, when Bishop Hugh announced that Prince Llewelyn had vowed to found a house of Franciscan friars at Llanfaes, to pray for the soul of the Lady Joanna.

None doubted the depths of Llewelyn’s grieving; it was there for all the world to see in the haggard face, the hollowed dark eyes. But few had expected a gesture of such spectacular and dramatic dimensions. Llelo was standing close enough to hear his mother’s indrawn breath. As inconspicuously as possible, he backed away, then circled around the mourners, at last reached his grandfather’s side.

Llewelyn was standing with his son and daughter by Joanna’s tomb. He’d put artisans to work day and night to complete it in time; the coffin lid bore his wife’s effigy, was decorated with floriated crosses, foliage, a winged dragon. The coffin had been sprinkled with holy water; it was being splattered now with rain drops, with Elen’s silent tears as she bent over, touched her lips to the cold, carven stone.

“My lord?” The Bishop of St Asaph waited at a respectful distance, knowing how difficult it always was for the living to bid farewell to their dead. “My lord Llewelyn, shall we return to Aber now?”

“Yes, go.” Llewelyn did not move, though. “Take the others back, Davydd. You, too, lass,” he said, when Elen would have objected. “I would have some last moments alone with her,” he said softly, and his children no longer protested, left him there in the bleak, windswept garden.

The rain was coming down heavily by the time the mourners were ferried back to Aber. The great hall was soon filled to overflowing with cold and hungry guests. Davydd’s wife had made herself ill with her weeping, had taken to bed, but both Davydd and Elen were still in the hall, accepting condolences with the brittle, prideful gallantry of noblesse oblige. Joanna’s sister Nell had borne up with equal fortitude, but now her composure cracked and she covered her face with her hands, began to sob. Llelo was closest to her, but he did not know how to comfort, willingly relinquished the field to a French cousin of John the Scot. Simon de Montfort moved swiftly to Nell’s side, gently led her toward the greater privacy of a window-seat, then hovered protectively nearby until Nell had regained composure.

Llelo retreated, but he could find no refuge, no way to outrun the memory of his grandfather, standing alone by a white stone coffin. Never before had Llelo experienced what it was like to identify with another’s pain, and he did not know how to deal with the hurting, the shattering sense of helplessness. In his misery, he sought out his father.

Gruffydd had expected to rejoice on this day, for he’d hated Joanna with a passionate hatred that only death could satisfy. Now she was dead, but as he’d looked upon his father’s stunned, silent grieving, he could feel no joy, only an unwilling sense of pity, pity his father did not deserve. He brooded now upon this, shamed by his weakness, by wayward emotions he did not understand, too troubled himself to see a small boy’s distress.

As soon as the rain stopped, Llelo fled the great hall, fled the court. No one paid him any mind. Aber’s full name was Aber Gwyngregyn—Mouth of the White Shell River—but the river was more in the nature of a stream. Following its meandering course, Llelo tracked it back to the cataract known as Rhaeadr Fawr—the Great Waterfall. It was more aptly named than the stream, a narrow spill of white water, surging more than a hundred feet over a sheer cliff. Llelo scrambled down the rocks until he stood at the base of the waterfall, close enough to feel the flying spray. Partway up the cliff, a crooked scrub tree struggled to survive, growing at an improbable angle out of the rock. Llelo amused himself by throwing stones at it, with occasional success. He was launching twig boats out into the foaming pool when the wind brought to him the sound of voices; instinctively, he dodged behind the rocks, a Welsh bowman awaiting the enemy’s approach.

As they came into view, he flattened himself against the ground, the gameplaying forgotten. Senena and Owain came to a stop less than fifteen feet from his hiding place. He heard a splash, knew that Owain must have thrown a pebble into the pool.

“Thank you for coming with me, Owain. I could not endure that hall a moment longer, God’s truth. If I’d heard one more fool babble on about Llewelyn’s great gesture, I’d have thrown a screaming fit. To think of honoring that harlot with a Franciscan friary!” Senena’s voice was trembling, so intense was her outrage. “Better he should have established a brothel in her memory!”

Owain laughed. Another rock thudded into the shallows, not too far from where Llelo crouched.

“I truly believe she was a witch, Owain. How else explain the way she ensorcelled Llewelyn, turned him against his own son?” Senena strode to the edge of the pool. “A pity,” she said, “that it was not Llewelyn we buried today at Llanfaes.”

“We’ll have that pleasure, Mama, never fear. He’s an old man, nigh on four and sixty. How much longer can he live?”

“I know. It is just that Gruffydd has waited so long…” Through a blur of tears, Llelo saw a flash of blue, his mother’s mantle. He lay very still, scarcely breathing, until she moved away.

“Mama…do you ever wonder if Papa truly wants the crown?”

“What mean you by that, Owain? Of course he wants it!”

“Well…” The boy sounded hesitant, uncharacteristically uncertain. “When we talk about it, he does not seem as eager as he ought. Oh, he says he hates Llewelyn, says he’ll never allow Gwynedd to pass to a weakling like Davydd. But…but sometimes, Mama, I wonder if his heart is truly in it.”

Her son had inadvertently touched a very raw nerve, indeed, for Senena, too, sometimes found herself fearing that those years at Deganwy Castle had crippled her husband’s spirit, had sapped his will to persevere, to fight for what was rightfully his.

“That is arrant nonsense, Owain! Never doubt this—that your father will one day rule in Llewelyn’s stead.”