Falls the Shadow (82 page)

Llewelyn almost laughed aloud. Ah, Simon, he thought gleefully, you’re proving to be a right lively ghost. May you haunt Edward till his dying day. It occurred to him now that this might be an opportunity to do Nell a good turn. “Whilst we are speaking of the de Montforts, Your Grace, I have a query regarding the Countess. She’d informed me that your lord father yielded this spring to the urgings of the French King, and agreed to restore her dower rights in the Pembroke estates, five hundred pounds a year. And it was my understanding that Bran was to be allowed to claim his father’s lands, with the provision that he must sell them to you or the King should you so demand. But that was four months ago. May I ask why the terms have not been fulfilled?”

Edward shrugged. “If de Montfort’s friends have not forgotten him, neither have his enemies,” he said, his eyes focusing for a moment upon the Earl of Gloucester, still holding Edmund captive with an impassioned monologue. “And the Exchequer is a dry well these days. Then, too, Bran seems loath to trust my father’s word. But it is my hope that we will be able to resume payments to my aunt ere too much time goes by.”

If not in this lifetime, the next, Llewelyn thought skeptically. “The Lady Nell has met with greater success at the French court. Within the past fortnight, the French parlement found in her favor, ordered her half-brother, Hugh de Lusignan, Count of La Marche, to pay her four thousand livres a year, as her rightful share of her lady mother’s Angoulême inheritance.”

He had at last startled Edward with news he’d not yet heard. He blinked, and then grinned. “Did they, by God? Good for Nell!”

Llewelyn was taken aback by Edward’s enthusiasm, so obviously unfeigned. It showed briefly on his face, and Edward’s smile turned quizzical. “Why look so surprised? I never wanted to see my aunt beggared, am right glad that she has bested my de Lusignan uncle, although it’ll be no small feat to squeeze so much as a sou from that one’s clenched fist.” He paused, studying Llewelyn over the rim of his cup. “I am very fond of my aunt,” he said, slowly and deliberately, “and of my cousin Ellen. Their well-being matters to me.”

So he’d finally come to it, and it was not the sons at all; it was Ellen.

“Ellen is a sweet lass. Whilst I was being held at Kenilworth, she often wrote to me, seeking to raise my spirits. I regret that she had to suffer for her father’s sins, and now that she is of an age for marriage—she turns fifteen next month—I’ve been thinking of the need to find a proper husband for her.”

“Have you, indeed?” Llewelyn said coolly. “I rather doubt that the de Montforts would welcome your interest.”

“The fact remains that Ellen’s marriage is bound to be of concern to the Crown. Her position is an awkward one, as I’m sure you’ll agree. Her value upon the English marriage market has been tainted by her father’s treason. I would not want to see her make a match of desperation, to demean herself by wedding beneath her rank. But neither would I have wanted to see her as Princess of Wales. I am glad, my lord Llewelyn, that you were prudent enough to realize how unwise such a marriage would have been.”

Llewelyn’s rage rendered him speechless—fortunately—for it was his father’s blood surging in his veins, it was Gruffydd’s white-hot hatred that seared to the very bone, heedless of consequence. By what right did this Englishman dare to tell a Welsh Prince whom he could or could not marry? But his heritage was not only Gruffydd’s passion; it was Llewelyn Fawr’s common sense, too, and he fought back his fury, the urge to fling his wine cup in Edward’s face.

Edward was watching him intently. Llewelyn forced himself to meet the younger man’s gaze, to finish his wine, waiting until he was sure that his anger had iced over, that his voice would reveal nothing of his inner turmoil.

“I am glad we had this chance to talk, for I’ve a question to put to you. I was hoping that you could clarify for me a peculiar disparity in your English justice—or so it seems to Welsh eyes. On the one hand, you have the Earl of Gloucester, who fought against the Crown at Lewes, and subsequently dared to defy the King—and you, my lord—by seizing London. His punishment was a full pardon. Then there are men like John d’Eyvill and Baldwin Wake, who fought for Simon de Montfort, and after surrendering to you at Bycarrs Dyke four months after Evesham, they renounced their allegiance again as soon as they were free. Nicholas Segrave was another who fought at Evesham, survived, and rebelled once his wounds healed. Yet all these men have been pardoned, given full seisin of their lands, no?”

Edward nodded. “Sometimes clemency is not only an act of Christian piety,” he said dryly, “but also one of policy.”

“But it is an exclusive privilege, your English clemency…no? How else explain that these men have been restored to favor whilst the Mayor of London, who neither went back on his word nor took up arms against you, still languishes in a Windsor dungeon?”

Llewelyn saw at once that his thrust had hit home. Edward’s jaw muscles tensed, his fair skin darkening; his eyes of a sudden reflected the wintry, bleached blue of a December sky. Llewelyn had seen other men look at him as Edward did now, battlefield foes who’d just crossed swords, taken his measure as an opponent, returning to the fight with a greater wariness.

“You are more like de Montfort than I realized,” Edward said, with a tight smile. They were both on their feet now, and Edward turned as if to go, then struck back, still with a smile. “Whilst you are pondering the mysteries of our laws, my lord Llewelyn, you might think on this. It was English justice that restored your brother Davydd to his rightful place.”

Dusk was smudging the contours of the distant mountains, but Llewelyn could still see the walls of Montgomery, spreading out to the south of the castle. It was not a sight to give him pleasure, for Montgomery was an English town on Welsh soil, chartered by Henry forty years earlier.

After returning to his chamber to prepare for the evening’s entertainment, Llewelyn had given Einion and Goronwy ab Ednyved an account of his midday conversation with Edward, sparking in his uncle and Seneschal an outrage to equal his own. Having finally exhausted all the abusive possibilities he could conjure up to describe Edward, Goronwy rose, but at the door he paused to deliver a final, cautionary verdict upon the English King’s son. “Do not let your guard down with him, Llewelyn. It sounds to me as if his comments were intended as more than a condescending pat on the head. I think they were also meant as a warning.”

“I do not doubt it,” Llewelyn agreed. “You need not worry, Goronwy. Edward Plantagenet is no man to hold cheaply. Far better to take him at his own inflated estimation!”

Goronwy exited, laughing, and Einion rose to pour mead for Llewelyn and himself. “Edward will not be easy to outwit, lad—not like Henry.”

“I’m not worried about outwitting Edward, but about outfighting him. Any man who could outmaneuver Simon de Montfort—”

When the knock sounded, they both assumed that Goronwy had returned. “I wonder what he forgot,” Einion said, starting for the door. As he reached for the latch, Llewelyn had a sudden premonition, and he swung away from the window just in time to see his brother framed in the doorway.

Davydd sauntered into the chamber with his usual aplomb. He was, they now saw, trailed by a castle page, a youngster bearing a tray piled with fragrant wafers. “Set it down there, lad,” he said, and flipped the boy an English coin before turning toward Einion with a cajoling smile. “I’d gladly ask you to join us, Uncle, but there are three things best done in privacy: laying with a wench, confessing to a priest, and bloodletting between brothers.”

The corner of Einion’s mouth quirked in spite of himself. But it was to Llewelyn that he looked for confirmation, not withdrawing until the latter nodded.

“Thank God, you’ve got mead! They drink naught but noxious ales and sugared wines in England, as backward a country as I’ve ever encountered.” Appropriating Einion’s cup, Davydd slid the platter across the table. “Help yourself. The castle cook is Welsh, and he gave me the angel’s-bread baked for Henry. You do not want any?” Straddling a chair, he tilted it at a precarious angle to study his silent brother.

“I missed you, Llewelyn. Did you not miss me—not even a little? No, I see not. So much for my fabled charm! And yet you must admit that I can be good company, for I have a cheerful nature, an inexhaustible supply of bawdy stories, and more sources for gossip than I can begin to count. I do not mean stale gossip, either. For example, I’m sure you know that Gloucester is pressing a lawsuit against his own mother. But do you also know that his estranged wife is sharing her bed with Edward?”

Davydd paused for breath, took several deep swallows of mead, watching Llewelyn all the while. “I cannot keep this up forever. For Christ’s pity, Llewelyn, say something—anything!”

“Is Edward truly coupling with Gloucester’s wife?” Llewelyn asked, and Davydd laughed in relief.

“God’s truth! Oh, he’s being discreet about it. He always is, for he seems fond of his wife, does not flaunt his concubines at court. But he has even more reason for caution this time. Although it would take an act of God to get Gloucester into Alice’s bed again, I’d wager that he expects her to live as chastely as a nun till the end of her days, and if he ever found out…well, that’s something to think about, is it not?”

Reaching for a wafer, Davydd tilted the chair back even farther. “Ere I forget to ask, how is my daughter doing?”

Llewelyn slowly shook his head. Even after three years, the memory retained the vivid clarity of utter astonishment. The arrival of Davydd’s messenger was in itself not so great a surprise. Davydd’s fortunes had plummeted after Lewes, and although Llewelyn didn’t expect it, it was not inconceivable that Davydd might swallow his pride, seek a reconciliation. But when the messenger was ushered into Aber’s great hall, it was not an olive branch he bore, but a green-eyed baby girl.

“Only you,” he said, “would have had the gall to send your bastard offspring to the brother you’d betrayed.”

Davydd shrugged. “What else could I do? Mary—her mother—had died in childbirth, and Mary’s kin took her in…as long as I made it worth their while. But after Lewes, I could not be so free-spending, and they would no longer keep her. What could I do with a babe? I was on the run, remember! I was not going to abandon her, for she’s of my blood—our blood. Would you have had me deposit her at de Montfort’s door? You were the only one I could think of, Llewelyn.”

He leaned forward. “Tell me…how fares she? Did you find a family to take her? Or did you keep her at court?”

“I kept her at court,” Llewelyn admitted, and Davydd laughed again.

“I knew you would!”

Davydd’s laughter had always been contagious. It came as a shock to Llewelyn, though, to hear himself laughing, too, as if there were no shadows between them. He stopped abruptly, reached across the table, and grasped Davydd’s wrist. “Do you truly think I’d ever be able to trust you again?”

The question was more than challenging; it was insulting—deliberately so. But Davydd seemed quite unfazed. “No,” he conceded, almost cheerfully, “probably not. Hellfire, Llewelyn, I doubt if I’d trust me, either!”

By now, Llewelyn was well aware that his brother’s smile was a weapon in and of itself, dangerously disarming. But even so, he was not as immune to its effects as he would have wished. Releasing the younger man’s arm, he said with sudden bitterness, “I would to God I knew when you were being serious—if you ever are.”

Davydd no longer looked amused. “For what it’s worth,” he said, “it was not personal. I never wished you harm, Llewelyn. I wanted only to free Owain and claim my fair share of Gwynedd.”

“Understandable aims; some might even say laudable ones. But you were not very squeamish about how you achieved them, were you?”

“Because I turned to the English for help?” Davydd set his chair back upon the floor, with a thud. “Jesú, Llewelyn, if the ends do not justify the means, what on God’s earth does?”

“Honesty at last!”

“I wish you did not sound so surprised. The truth is not an utterly alien tongue to me, even if I do not get much practice with it.” Davydd splashed more mead into his cup, did the same for Llewelyn. “I must say that you’re taking the return of the Prodigal Brother rather well…why?”

“It is not as if you were sprung upon me at the eleventh hour. I expected Edward to make use of you. Few men are as skilled as he at sowing seeds of dissension, and with you, Little Brother, he has a readymade Trojan Horse, does he not?”

“He thinks he does,” Davydd said. “So…what happens now?”

Llewelyn did not respond at once. “If I had a month to prepare myself for your return, I had four years to think about your departure, about what you did—and why. Would it surprise you if I said that I could understand?”

“Yes—exceedingly.”

“Well, I can. There is some justice in your claims, Davydd…and they are well grounded in Welsh law. I am the one who is in violation of it, not you. Under the old ways, you and Owain and Rhodri have an equal right to the governance of Gwynedd.”

“Somehow I doubt that you’re about to recant, to offer to divide your crown into four equal portions.”