The Reckoning - 3 (62 page)

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LLEWELYN had stripped off his muddied tunic and sweat-stained shirt, pje was standing at the laver, splashing water onto his face and chest as Ellen entered. "I'll get you a clean shirt," she said, crossing to a coffer. for the second time that day, she found herself at a loss for words. She could not heal his wounds any more than she could Caitlin's. But she had to try. However feeble her offeringsympathy and indignation when what he wanted was retributionshe had to try.
Llewelyn reached for a towel dangling from a wall pole. "You know?"
She nodded. "England has very harsh forest laws, darling, and it may-"
"Geneu'r Glyn is in Wales, not England!"
Ellen flinched. "I know that, Llewelyn. I meant only that it may not have been a deliberate attempt to demean you or undermine your authority. It might well be that these men were mere lackeys, shortsighted hirelings seeking to curry favor by enforcing the law no matter who"
"English law?" he said in a dangerously soft voice, and tears came suddenly to her eyes, more from frustration and helplessness than hurt.
"I am sorry," she whispered. "I wanted only to comfort you, but I seem to be making an utter botch of it . . ."
There was silence then, until he said wearily, "No, I am the one who is sorry, lass," and as she held out the shirt, his hand closed over hers. "My men wanted to hunt them down, take back our kill, and avenge Dion and Selwyn. Do you have any idea, Ellen, how much I wanted to let them?"
"Yes," she said, as the memory came flooding back, with unnerving intensity, that moment when she stood in the cabin of the Holy Cross and surrendered to
Thomas the Archdeacon the knife she so wanted to thrust into his jugular. "I
think I do."
"It was men from Geneu'r Glyn who raided into Meirionydd during Lent. Had I
been able to punish them as they deserved instead of having to seek justice from the English King, this would never have happened. The whoresons would not have dared"
The door opened before they could respond to the perfunctory knock. The surprise was in that opening door, not in the identity of the intruder; they were instinctively expecting to see Davydd, for who else wou]d have dared to enter Llewelyn's chamber uninvited?
"If my memory serves," Davydd said abruptly, "your lands in Meirionydd were plundered not long ago by Edward's Welsh lapdog, Rhys ab Einion, and when your men followed his bandits into Geneu'r Glyn to complain, they were attacked, some severely wounded."

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that my uncle Henry pleaded with my father to surrender at Evesharrt insisting that it was sheer madness to offer resistance when defeat was certain. My father said ... he said, 'I pity a man who has nothing in his life worth dying for.' "
She felt Llewelyn's hand on her arm then, and she spun away from the window, into his embrace. She could hear his heart beating against her ear, feel the faint tickle of his chest hair against her cheek, and through her lashes she could see the thin white line of an old scar slanting across his collarbone, along his shoulder. "I would not want to live without you," she said, so softly that Llewelyn could not be sure if she'd even meant for him to hear.
Because it was so likely that one day she would have to live without him, no matter what Edward did or did not do, and because there was so much pain in her voice, he almost made a grave mistake, almost fell back upon his last line of defense, his instinctive response to what he most dreaded. But if he had long ago taken his grandfather's credo as his ownthat there were in this world some troubles so great, some dangers so menacing, that all a sensible man could do was mock them he'd soon learned that his way was not his wife's way.
Her sense of humor was flawed in two areas; she was not in the least amused when he jested about death or the gap in their ages.
If he could not joke away her fears, neither could he lie them away. He could not offer her false hope, could not promise her a future free of shadows. She would not have believed him even if he could, for she'd learned about
Armageddon at a very early age.
And so he told her what he'd once told Caitlin, that "Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof," switching from French to his own tongue to call her his
"heart's joy," for he felt more comfortable expressing endearments in Welsh, and raising her face up so he could kiss her gently upon the eyelids, lashes, and mouth.
He'd meant the kiss as reassurance, but no sooner did their mouths meet than she entwined her arms around his neck, clung tightly. He suspected that her urgency had as much in it of despair as it did desire, but his body was already responding to her soft curves, hot mouth. He pulled off her wimple, and she shook her hair loose, an erotic, silken swirl against his skin, a sunset color so vivid that he never tired or looking at it, admiring it. They were halfway toward the bed when the rapping sounded at the door.
Ellen leaned against the table as Llewelyn crossed the chamber. She could not see who was outside, for he'd not opened the door all the way. As the fever faded, all the fear came back, and she found herself bitterly resenting whoever it was who'd interrupted, brought them ba<* to reality. It was then that Llewelyn glanced over his shoulder, saw u16

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lost look on her face. "Later," he said, and closed the door. As Ellen
Batched, he slid the bolt into place, andfor a brief whileshut out the rest of the world.
26
SHERBORNE CASTLE, DORSETSHIRE, ENGLAND
March 128]
IHE mild, fair days so prized by most people could be a cruel kindness for captives. There had been times when Amaury de Montfort had actually prayed for rain, for weather so vile that only a lunatic would have willingly ventured from his hearth. Never did he feel so trapped, so fettered and shackled, as when he stood at an open window, gazing out upon the sunlit, seductive world beckoning just beyond the walls of Sherborne Castle.
This spring ought to have been to his liking, therefore, for it could not have gotten off to a soggier, chillier start. Instead, he found himself yearning for the merest glimpse of blue sky, for the faintest flicker of cheer. He'd suffered bouts of depression before, of course, but he'd always been able to check his fall, to grab a handhold, however precarious. Now . . . now he felt as if he were spiraling down into darkness, mto a pit so deep that he'd never be able to climb out.
He was not even sure why he'd so suddenly lost his balance, his Motional equilibrium. He supposed that the Pope's death had played a part. For more than six months now, there'd been no hand on the Papal helm, no one to pressure the English Crown on his behalf. And even worse might lie ahead. When the cardinals finally got around to Meeting a new Vicar of Christ, what if they anointed a man indifferent
0 his plight? He well knew that if he were ever to regain his freedom, " Would only be at the Pope's behest. Should he lose his papal ally, he

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would languish for the rest of his wretched days as Edward of England'
prisoner.
That was a daunting prospect to a man of five and thirty years If it came to that, he knew he'd rather die. But his cousin the King wa not about to put an end to his suffering, and if he found a way to do it himself, he'd be swapping a lifetime's misery for an eternity's damnation. Amaury was not yet so desperate that he could not see the drawf J>acks in such a deal.
' It shocked him, though, that he'd even considered it, that he was so close to abandoning all hope. But as he began his sixth year of confinement, he was discovering that hope had become as slippery and elusive as the greased pigs he'd seen chased at village fairs. And now he'd gotten word that he was to be moved from Sherborne; within the week, he would be taken under guard to yet another prison. He'd never been to Taunton Castle, but he could see it clearly in his mind's eye a bleak, secluded fortress looming over the barren, treeless moors of the West
Country, well away from towns and roads and the memories of men.
He was lodged in the upper chamber of the keep, with a window overlooking one of the castle's three gateways. The window lacked glass panes, but the castellan had gotten an oiled linen screen to fit into the frame, and Amaury had moved his table to take advantage of that filtered light. Sometimes, unless it was truly frigid, he removed the top half of the screen, willing to endure the cold for the sake of the view. But today he had not even bothered to unlatch the shutters, much less monitor the bailey below. He still lay on his bed in the shadowed gloom, although it was almost noon.
He was taken by surprise, therefore, by the sudden entrance of John de
Somerset, Sherborne's castellan. John was in an ambiguous position, for he was more than Amaury's gaoler; in the past three years, he'd also become Amaury's friend. That often required him to balance competing needs, as now, when he knocked briskly, according Amaury a privacy to which a prisoner was not entitled, and then entered without waiting for a response.
"Lord, lad, if you're not turning into a sluggard! But you've no more time for lying abed. You'd best hurry and make yourself presentable, for you've got company waiting out in the stairwell."
Amaury's mood took an abrupt, dramatic upswing. A man who d once wanted fame and wealth and power, his hungers had diminished as his world had contracted;
these days he craved only freedom an° companionship. He was already dressed, had hastily combed his hair in those moments before John ushered his visitor into the chamber.

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"Hugh!" Amaury could not have been more delighted, for the faithkj young
Englishman was his link to Ellen.
Hugh grinned. "Do not be squandering your welcome on me, my lord. This time
I'm not the company, merely the escort."
Amaury tensed, afraid to take Hugh's words at face value, afraid to risk so bitter a disappointment. But Hugh's grin had widened; he looked so joyful that
Amaury no longer doubted. He started forward ust as Hugh stepped aside, revealing the woman in the doorway. Amaury had time only to say Ellen's name before she was in the room, in his arms.
AMAURY watched in amusement as his sister surreptitiously inspected his surroundings. Her relief at what she found was so obvious that he realized she'd not allowed herself to believe Hugh's optimistic reports, and he felt regretful that she'd become so wary, so like him. He also felt very thankful that she'd never seen his Spartan cell at Corfe Castle.
"So tell me," he joked, "you just happened to be passing by?"
"Something like that," she said, but when he asked, only halfplayfully, whom she'd had to bribe, she lost her smile. "Not a bribe," she said, "a bone thrown to a starving dog."
Amaury understood. "You went to Ned," he said. "You entreated him to free me, and he refused."
Ellen nodded. "I paid a visit last month to our cousin's court at Windsor. Ned made me welcome, seemed honestly gladdened to see me. Mayhap he even was, for
I've never known anyone blessed with such a selective memory. Sometimes I
think he truly does see me just as Harry's little sister ..."
"Until you made mention of me," Amaury said, and again she nodded, reluctantly this time.
"He seemed so friendly, Amaury, so encouraging, even fond. But as soon as I
brought up your name, he stopped listening. I might as well have been speaking in Welsh. He heard me out, politely, patiently, and then he said no, regretfully, of course, for all the world as if your imprisonment for the past five years was no doing of his!"
Ellen had not meant to let her bitterness get away from her like this, but her sense of failure was still too raw to bear the slightest touch. "I am so sorry, Amaury," she said. "There must have been a way to rgach him. But I
could not find it, and it was all for naught. . ."
"No, not all for naught. You're here, are you not? A sop to his conscience, a bone from his table, whatever you want to call your visit, Must thank the Lord for it," Amaury said fervently, before adding, with

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a thinly astringent smile, "the 'Lord' in question being the One VVh rules the
Kingdom of Heaven, not the realm of England."
Ellen was much heartened by that barbed aside; her secret fear, not even shared with her husband, was that captivity might break her brother's spirit.
"I did not come empty-handed," she said. "I bring giacj tidings. Whilst I was at Windsor, the Archbishop of Canterbury sent word that the cardinals have finally chosen a new Pope, to be known henceforth as Martin IV. But you know him as Simon de Brion, former Chancellor to the French King."
Amaury, usually so self-contained, gave a jubilant shout. "God has not forsaken me then, and for certes, neither will the new Pope. I know him well, Ellen. Not only was he a friend of our father, he has close ties to Guy's patron, Charles of Sicily."
The castellan had sent up a flagon of spiced red wine, and they drank to
Martin's accession, to the resurgence of hope. "Now," Ellen said, "I have other news for you, too parlous to commit to a letter. Last year a rumor reached Ned that Guy was in Norway. He at once wrote to the Norwegian Crown, seeking to have the man arrested and turned over to English agents. The
Norwegian King complied, but the unlucky soul suspected of being Guy was eventually able to prove his identify. As for Guy's actual whereabouts, he is still in Italy, and openly back in Charles's favor. It must have given him a jolt, though, to learn that Ned was casting his nets even as far as the lands of the Norsemen."
Amaury did not want to talk about his brother's return to royal favor. He did not blame Guy for his troubles, at least not consciously, but he preferred not to dwell upon the ironic inequities of their respective circumstances. "Tell me," he said, "about the nets Ned has been casting in Wales. From what your letters sayand all you leave unsaidI gather that the Welsh are not yet reconciled to their new lives as inferior Englishmen?"
In just one succinct, memorable sentence, he had gone to the heart of the
Welsh dilemma, summed up the troubled state of affairs in her husband's unhappy homeland. Ellen was impressed, but not at all surprised; she'd often suspected Amaury of being the cleverest of all the de Montforts. " 'Inferior
Englishmen,' " she said somberly. "Not even Llewelyn could have put it better than that."
Amaury poured them both more wine. "And by balking, they do but confirm the worst of Edward's suspicions, that they are a reckless, rebellious, vexatious people who need to be tamed, broken to the royal willfor their own good, of course."
"You understand exactly how it is," she marveled, "and yet you've never set foot in Wales!"
"I know Edward, know how he thinks," he said simply.