The Reckoning - 3 (69 page)

Bangor and St Asaph; in no other Christian land was Church law subordinate to secular law, and the Church was never so zealous as in defense of its own prerogatives. But at the moment her concerns were personal, not political.
"Poor Hugh," she said, and then, "Well, at least I know now why Caitlin has been balking every time we spoke of finding her a husband."
"You think she truly expected this to happen, Ellen?"
"She obviously had hopes that it might. That girl was much too knowledgeable about Welsh divorce law for it to be pure chance."
As Juliana took this new complication in, she shook her head in dismay. "Hugh has enough on his plate at the moment, needs no more grief. Surely Caitlin must know that she could have no future with Hugh? your husband would never give his consent."
"No," Ellen agreed sadly, "he would not. . . and he would be right. Hugh is very dear to me, but Caitlin is a daughter of the Welsh royal House, for illegitimacy counts for naught amongst Llewelyn's people. If she still has her heart set upon a landless English knight, she's going to get it broken, for certes."
It was quiet then, as both women considered the multitude of troubles Eluned had inadvertently set loose upon them all. Ellen was the first to rebel. "No,"
she said, "this time I shall prove Amaury wrong. He swears I cannot keep from seeking trouble out, but for once I shall wait for it to find me, if indeed it can. Eluned might even be right, and '"is may well be for the best. Hugh will need time to mourn his marriage,

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but at least he'll be free of Eluned. As for Caitlin, we'll just have to wait and watch. Hugh is the last man to dally with a girl both highborn and innocent. And I am no less confident that Caitlin would never willingly put
Hugh in peril. So it may well be that we need do nothing at all Juliana." When
Juliana did not reply, Ellen gave her a curious glance "You do not think so?"
"What I think is that you've been raiding your hope coffer again," «. Juliana said wryly. "I know you seem to have hope in amazing abundance these days, but it might still be prudent to store some of it away for leaner times."
Ellen grinned, putting up her hand to fend off Hiraeth's questing tongue.
"I'll admit that my garden now grows hope in lavish profusion, leaving little room for anything else. I suppose it has squeezed out more practical plants like caution and common sense. Still, though, hope does not flourish in every garden, and I feel thankful that it has taken root in mine," she said lightly, beginning to laugh. "But then, I've proved myself to be a superior gardener, for am I not soon to harvest a genuine miracle?"
ELIZABETH could not remember a colder winter. It had been a fortnight since the last snowfall, but the ground was still hidden under a treacherous glaze, snow packed-down and dirty where paths had been dug across the bailey, frozen in deep drifts wherever walls came together. The Christmas Eve sky was clear of clouds, but the stars glittered without warmth, piercing the blackness like scattered shards of ice. The cornparison was a natural one for Elizabeth to make, for ice had come to symbolize the worst of winter suffering. Davydd had told her of forest trails splattered with blood, of deer foundering in the snow, legs cut and gashed after breaking through the ice. Most rivers were frozen solid; the Thames had iced over all the way from Lambeth to
Westminster, and five arches of London's great bridge had cracked under the weight of so much snow. Even the wind put her in mind of an icy blade, for it slashed and thrust at her as she scurried across the open space separating
Dolwyddelan's hall and West Tower. Never had spring seemed so far away.
Elizabeth's sons were almost invisible under the pile of blankets heaped upon their pallet. Although stacked kindling still fed the hearth's flames, the air was chill. Davydd would probably want to make lovfi once the revelries were done, but afterward she'd take their lads in*0 bed with them, where it was warm and snug. Their nurse dozed in a chair by the fire; Elizabeth tiptoed around her, bent over the boys. They were in familiar poses, creatures of habit even in sleep, Llelo sprawled oti his back, Owain curled up like a cat, head ducked down under the covers;
she used to worry that he might somehow suffocate, and even n0w her eyes lingered upon his chest until reassured by its rhythmic fjse and fall. Her fingers brushed Llelo's cheek, gentle as a breath, and she carefully tucked
Owain's stuffed dog into the crook of his arm before departing the chamber.
She knew she'd done Ellen no kindness by bringing Llelo and Owain, and she was sorry for that. But she was not willing to be separated from them, for a mother's time with her sons was all too brief. The sons of English gentry were sent off to serve as pages at as young an age as seven. The Welsh were more flexible, but she knew their sons were often fostered in noble households, and she suspected that the time would come when Davydd would entrust Llelo into
Llewelyn's keeping, to be raised at his court as Caitlin had been. And she would not object, for such a sojourn might one day make her Llelo Prince of
Wales. But she would miss him with every breath she drew, fret that he was not eating as he ought, worry that he might be homesick or fevered or risking life and limb in the sort of rash foolhardiness little boys found so irresistible, for motherhood was both burden and blessing; once her sons were born, she'd realized that she would never again be free of fear.
Slipping inconspicuously back into the great hall, Elizabeth was pleased to see that her absence seemed to have passed unnoticed, for she knew Davydd thought she coddled their sons. Although she deferred willingly to Davydd in

most matters, she did not think he was all that reliable a judge of maternal behavior, for his own mother's affections had been doled out in unequal, sparing portions, with the lion's share going to Owain, her firstborn.
Shedding her mantle, Elizabeth looked about the hall with keen interest.
Candle light, scented evergreen, silver-stringed harps, lively carols, and later, a dalliance with Davydd: Elizabeth could not have have envisioned a more perfect Christmas Eve. She was still shivering, had started toward the hearth when an arm snaked suddenly about her waist and a familiar voice breathed against her ear, "You're lucky I have such a trusting nature, or I
might have suspected you of sneaking out of the hall to meet a lover."
Elizabeth smiled sheepishly. "I just wanted to make sure the lads w^re settled down for the night, love. Ah, Davydd, you should have seen them; they looked so sweet, almost angelic."
"So they were asleep, then?" Davydd murmured, and Elizabeth laughed, let him lead her over to the center hearth.
"I did not miss the surprise, did I?"
Davydd looked puzzled. "What surprise?"
"It might be nothing; I could be wrong. But I've been watching Ellen

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"If that is what women want, would it not be easier just to buy a dog? I admit
Hugh does look rather pitiful, but let's spare a few crumbs of sympathy for the runaway wife. I'd wager that life with St Hugh was about as much fun as a
Lenten fast. The poor lass probably never got a good nighf s sleep, for do haloes not glow in the dark?"
Elizabeth could not help laughing. "You have such a wicked tongue!"
He arched a brow, gave her so suggestive a look that color rose in her cheeks, much to his amusement. "I cannot believe," he said, "that I can still make you blush! Anyone would think you were still a virgin maid instead of a wife almost five years wed."
Elizabeth was unperturbed, both by her blushing and his teasing; she sometimes feigned a modesty she'd long ago outgrown, simply because she knew it beguiled
Davydd. "I do not often feel like a wife," she confessed, "more like an unrepentant sinner sharing her bed with a wayward, wanton lover, never knowing if he'll still be there in the morning."
She'd revealed more than she realized, but Davydd was so pleased with the compliment that he never noticed. Taking her hand, he pressed a hot kiss into her palm, then ushered her across the hall. Elizabeth tensed once she saw that he meant to intercept Hugh and Caitlin. But Hugh looked so despondent that
Davydd could not bring himself to joke at the Englishman's expense, and to
Elizabeth's relief, he soon showed that he was on his good behavior, deftly piloting the conversation away from the shoals of marriage, divorce, and flighty, fickle
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wives.
There was only one awkward moment, occurring as Hugh went to flag down a passing servant and bring them back wine. Davydd took advantage of his brief absence to subject his daughter to a discerning scrutiny. "You are very loyal, Caitlin. I hope that you are also prudent."
Caitlin had been unexpectedly cordialso far. But now her eyes narrowed, and her chin jutted up, surprising Elizabeth by how much she suddenly looked like
Davydd in one of his tempers. Before she could respond, though, people began to turn toward the dais, where Llewelyn was signaling for silence.
"My chaplain has informed me that time is drawing nigh for the Midnight Mass."
Llewelyn paused; for a moment his eyes sought out Ellen, standing by the steps of the dais. "Ere we depart for the chapel/ I have something to say. Tonight, when you give thanks to the Almighty for His bounty and divine mercy, for giving us His Only Begotten Son that we might have life everlasting, I ask you to pray, too, for the health of my beloved wife and the child she carries."
There were a few seconds of silence, no more than that, and then* pandemonium.
Elizabeth spoke very little Welsh, not enough to folio*'
tfjiat Llewelyn had said. But she understood almost at once, for the joy surging through the hall needed no translation. Spinning around, cat

ragged around the edges. Llewelyn was besieged by well-wishers. Never had
Davydd seen him look so jubilant, so unguarded. Had it not occurred to him that this miracle babe might be a lass? Davydd stepped back, loosening his hold upon Elizabeth, and only then, when he was able to fake both his smile and his swagger, did he walk across the hall to congratulate his brother.
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LLANFAES, WALES
March 1282
I HE bitter cold spell lingered on. January and february were so frigid and wind-lashed that the roads had rarely been jj8 deserted, or as safe, for even the bandits were holed up by their own earths. Few had high hopes for March, the most mercurial of months, ut this year it ushered in an early spring thaw. By Passion Week, the

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skies were clear, the snows had melted, and budding primroses had begun to adorn the high mountain meadows. And the people of England and Wales, starved for sun and warmth, gloried in it all.
To the casual eye, Caitlin, too, seemed to have succumbed to the spring fever sweeping Wales. She danced through her days with a light nimble step, lavished smiles and pleasantries upon all who crossed her path, and thanked the
Almighty fervently and frequently, for Hugh was free and, at last, beginning to heal.
She'd feared for a time that he wouldn't, that his grieving might outlast his marriage. It frightened her at first, for she'd convinced herself that he'd never truly loved Eluned. So why, then, was he so troubled by her departure?
But she'd soon supplied her own answer. Hugh was English; it was as simple as that. The laws that seemed so natural and sensible to her were alien to him, and he was afraid to trust them. Once Caitlin understood that, she sought out the Bishop of Bangor, for although he was no friend to her uncle, she knew no one so knowledgeable about Church law or history. Puzzled but pleased by her sudden interest in subjects so dear to his heart, he'd unwittingly given her the informationand ammunitionshe needed.
It had taken a bit of coaxing on her part, but she'd gotten Hugh to confirm her suspicions, that it was the Church's shadow, not Eluned's, that was preying upon his peace. Under her gentle, insistent prodding, he blurted out his doubts, his unease of mind. If the Church said marriage was for life, how could Welsh law say it nay?
Indeed, Caitlin agreed readily, marriage was a bond eternal and unbroken. Of course Lady Ellen's grandfather, the English King John, had divorced his first wife to wed a beautiful young heiress, Isabelle d'Angouleme. And then there was John's remarkable mother, that most illustrious lady, Eleanor of
Aquitaine. She'd been fifteen years wed to the King of France, mother to his two daughters, when the Pope granted them a divorce because they were third cousins once removed, a kinship known but ignored until the marriage had become inconvenient. Once Eleanor was free, she straightaway wed Henry
Plantagenet, he who would soon be England's King, although Henry was her cousin, too! Did Hugh not think it odd that the Church would wink at the second marriage whilst declaring the first one null and void?
She'd given him no chance to answer, plunged ahead. Did Hugh know how often the highborn sought divorce . . . and how often the Church accommodated them?
It was true that popes occasionally balkedi as when Philippe Auguste tried to disavow his Danish bride the mornii1? after their wedding; Ingeborg had been more fortunate, though, && many rejected wives, for her brother had been a
King, too. But what o
PhilipPe/s brother sovereigns? Every French king in the span of a hundred and half years had gotten at least one divorce, and King Robert the Pious had even been granted two! And what of the Earl of Gloucester
^ But by then, Hugh was grinning, holding up his hand in mock surrender.
They'd not talked of it again. In the days and weeks that followed, though, she could see the shadow receding, and she sensed that he was no longer at war with himself, no longer denying that Eluned's rejection was in reality a reprieve. Woundsbe they of the body or spirit needed time to heal, and Caitlin was willing to be patient, content to give him that time, so sure was she that this was meant to be. Nothing could penetrate the shield of her utter certainty, not even Ellen's wellintentioned words of warning. Caitlin had, like Ellen, become a devout believer in miracles.
The bailey was dappled in sun and shadow, the sky patterned with drifting cotton clouds. Standing in the doorway of the great hall, Caitlin paused to adjust her soft, gossamer veil; although many Welshwomen had adopted the
English fashion and wore wimples like their Prince's lady, Caitlin clung to

the old, Welsh style. Having secured the pins anchoring her veil, she stepped out into the sunlight and almost bumped into Trevor, just rounding the corner.
He was precariously balancing a cumbersome platter, piled so high with bread and dried figs and a brimming goblet that he was sloshing cider with every step. Reaching out, Caitlin steadied the goblet. "I did not know you fancied noonday dinners, like the English do," she teased.
Trevor smiled diffidently. "Oh, this is not for me, Lady Caitlin. Lord
Llewelyn's roan mare is foaling."
"Well ... I think she might prefer carrots over brown bread, Trevor."
Caitlin's attempts at levity were hesitant, for they took her into unfamiliar terrain. But her jokes were wasted upon Trevor, who knew even less than
Caitlin about the mysteries of humor.
"This is not for the mare, my lady," he said gravely. "Dion was up ^ night with her, and I ... I thought to bring him something to eat ." He shrugged self-consciously, and Caitlin wondered why men seemed so uncomfortable when caught doing good deeds; even Hugh acted at times as if kindness was something to be done under cover of darkness, and he with a heart so soft he could not let a kitten be drowned.
"I think I'd best take this," she said, reaching again for the cup, whilst you still have cider left to spill." Brushing aside his thanks, she
*" into step beside him. "I owe Dion more than a breakfast, Trevor.
e may well have saved my life." She smiled at Trevor's look of surprise.
happened a long time ago, nigh on ten years. I was trying to rescue