The Reckoning - 3 (73 page)

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to convince myself that I could, but I knew better, knew I had no choice but to make Davydd's war mine." Llewelyn silenced her protest then by grasping her shoulders, compelling her to look up into his face.
"My love, you must listen," he said. "I have sworn allegiance and fealty to
Edward as my King and liege lord. Once he learns that Wales is in rebellion, he will summon his vassals to put down this rising, and he will expect me to be amongst them. English law gives him that right, and he will exercise it.
But do you truly think I could answer that summons? That I could fight with
Edward against my own people?"
Ellen's throat had closed up. She shook her head mutely, leaned for a moment within his embrace, resting her cheek against his chest. "No," she said, almost inaudibly, "of course you could not. . ."
Llewelyn held her close for a heartbeat or two. "You'd best sit down," he said, thinking that Davydd deserved damnation for this alone, for the look on his wife's face.
His solicitude usually amused her, for she'd been unable to convince him that a pregnant woman was not made of gossamer and glass, likely to break if breathed upon. Now, though, she needed his support, and let him lead her toward a chair. "What if Edward did not summon you to aid him, Llewelyn?
Surely he'd rather have you remain neutral than allied against him. If he could be made to see what he risked, mayhap he'd be willing to let you be ..."
"He would not, lass. Even if he did, how could I stand aloof whilst Wales went up in flames? If I played no part in the war, and the Welsh lost, they would blame me for that lossjustly so. And if Davydd somehow managed to defeat
Edward, who, then, would have the better claim to be Prince of Wales? Do you not see how much is at stake? A lifetime's travail and the legacy I would leave my son . . . mayhap even the survival of Wales. For if Edward wins this war"
He stopped, looked sharply down into her averted face. "Ah, Ellen, do not weep," he entreated, "lest you break my heart. I know how much you fear for our child, but you must be strong, you must try to understand. Cariad, I
cannot fight you and Edward both."
"I do understand," she whispered. "That is why I weep, because you are right.
This war must be won, and you are the one man who can win it. I'll not deny that I am afraid. But I have faith in you, faith in the Almighty, and I know you will prevail."
Llewelyn tilted her face up to his, kissed her tears, and then her mouth, with sudden urgency, with passion indistinguishable from despair. "I promise you,"
he said, "that I'll be with you when our babe is born."
He left her then, as late as it was, for he had much still to do befoi* he could sleep. She knew his writs would soon be going out across

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Wales, summoning men to fight the English King. To fight his brother's battle, she thought, dry-eyed now, bitter beyond words, for never had she hated anyone so much as she hated Davydd ap Gruffydd at that moment. She supposed she ought to go to the chapel, offer up prayers for her husband, her son, and Wales. But she could not find the energy to move from the chamber, from the chair.
"How did you do it, Mama?" she murmured. "During that last dreadful year, you never once lost faith, you never begged Papa to seek safety in France. You never asked him to choose between his honor and his life. Where did you get the strength?"
She paused, then, almost as if she were expecting a ghostly response. She already knew the answer, though. Her mother had never doubted that Simon would win. How often she'd told him what Ellen had said to Llewelyn just moments ago, that right would triumph justice would prevail. "But you truly believed it, Mama," Ellen said softlv "whilst I ... I lied. . . ." y/
THE Wiltshire castle of Devizes had long been a favorite fortress of the
English Crown. Situated on a hillside just west of the town, it possessed spacious living accommodations, formidable defenses, and the most powerful lure of all, a pallisaded deer park. It was at Devizes that Edward had planned to celebrate Easter, and it was at Devizes that he learned of the Palm Sunday attack upon Hawarden Castle and the town of Oswestry.
April was an unreliable escort, heralding spring's approach one day signaling its retreat the next. The sun seemed to have caught the same contagion^ For more than a week now, its appearances were hesitant, fltrul, each flash of blue sky soon clouding over, every sunlit interlude Mowed by brief, drenching downpours. This Saturday of Easter Week was no different, for it had begun in drizzle, hinted at clearing skies then reneged with clouds gathering low upon the horizon, sweeping in from Wales. 6
It was mid-day, but the great hall at Devizes was already lit with °rcnes, wall rushlights, and an overhead candelabra. The hearth was ba'f6' *P?' 3S was the temPer of En§land's King. Edward was striding ** and forth, dictating rapidly to a harried scribe. The man's task was wankless one, for Edward was too angry to frame his thoughts in erent form, and it was up to the scribe to capture the gist of his ^88 outpouring, then recast it into the conventional, formal mold «ror letters, even a letter such as this one, going to the King's brother u«mnd, in France.
14 had taken just three days for news of the Welsh rebellion to reach

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Edwarc^ j he ha
ce °* au
<^se^ith sinister significance.
tj ard had not yet begun his letter to Edmund, having interrupted himv ,, {0
greet John Giffard, newly arrived for the morrow's council of war T, ere was but one topic of conversation at court these days, the perf\ , Of the Welsh, and although de Mortimer caught only an occasiorv word, i' was easY enough to fill in the blank spaces. At a burst of p^ . uiarly vigorous and vivid cursing from Edward, he concluded thak n ^dd v'as the one under discussion, for he had noticed that Edvv , reserve(i his most scathing condemnation for his one-time ally For a* ^elyn an(* the Welsh people, Edward employed such stinging tenx f contempt as "disloyal, lawless, faithless, and false." But Dav^ , i was ifl°re than a traitor, he was an ingrate as well, and whenevd EdCJ A beeai1 to blister the air with "misbegotten, treacherous son o' Sat^ an
Mortiff1611 agreed wholeheartedly with Edward's vitriolic asses^ L/C

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ment of Davydd's character, and he was entertained, as well, by Edward's colorful turn of phrase. But he was puzzled by the genuine echoes of indignation in Edward's voice. To hear Edward tell it now, he'd welcomed
Davydd at his court out of sheer Christian kindness, moved by pity for
Davydd's woeful plight. It amused de Mortimer enormously to hear Davydd described as an orphan of the storm, instead of a sword leveled at Llewelyn's throat. It was true that Edward had shown Davydd considerable favor. It was also true that Edward would have let Davydd starve by the roadside had he not been so useful a weapon to the English Crown. So why then, did his outrage sound so sincere when he decried Davydd's ingratitude?
De Mortimer was willing to wager his hopes for salvation that selfinterest was the one drink no man refused, but he had never understood why most men must sweeten it so lavishly ere they could swallow it. It seemed, though, that even a King had need of sugar, and he felt a faint flicker of the contempt that weakness of any kind always aroused in him. But he took care to keep such dangerous thoughts safely buried in the back of his brain, for a king could afford the luxury of lying to himselfif he was also the greatest soldier in
Christendom.
Dismissing Giffard, Edward turned back to his patiently waiting scribe. "This next letter goes to my brother, the Earl of Lancaster. You add his other titles. I believe he is still at La Ferte' Milon. The usual greetings. Say then, that I would advise him of recent happenings in Wales; he already knows of their Palm Sunday treachery. Tell him that two days afterward, the Welsh lured the constable of Aberystwyth Castle away, under the pretext of inviting him to dine with them. Instead, they seized him, and then attacked the town, killing English citizens and taking the castle. That same weekHoly Week it was, too, for the Welsh are as impious and ungodly as even the Jews and
Saracensthe Welsh captured castles at Llandovery and Carreg Cennen. And on
Good Friday, they attacked Oswestry again, left it in flaming ruins."
Edward paused, staring past the scribe with blind, inward eyes. The man squirmed uneasily under the intensity of that blue-white
8926, and Edward eventually came back to the moment, back to the hall.
"Tell Edmund that I have called upon my vassals and the shire 'evies. I have also engaged fifteen hundred Gascon crossbowmen, and 'shall be laying claim to the services of the ships of the Cinque Ports. Jruffydd ap Gwenwynwyn has vowed to hold fast for the Crown, and
I havi
Maredi
'e received pledges of loyalty from Rhys ap Gruffydd, Rhys ap udd, and the least of Llewelyn ap Gruffydd's brothers. But the

<*

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his thoughts and his fears were focused far to the west, upon Wales and his pregnant sister's peril.
Amaury had often heard that the blind were compensated for the loss of their sight by the enhancement of their other senses, and he'd come to believe that it was true, as well, for prisoners. Never had his hearing been more acute, and he heard the footsteps long before they approached his door. He was on his feet, waiting, when it opened and John de Somerset entered.
Amaury was pleased. "Well, this is a surprise for certes. Who is keeping
Sherborne safe from enemy attack?"
"Ah, but I am no longer its castellan, not since April fifth, when the King bade me turn it over to the Sheriff of Dorsetshire. I've a new and more interesting duty at hand, have brought you a visitor, an archdeacon no less, come on behalf of the Bishop of Bath and Wells."
"Edward's Chancellor?" Amaury was intrigued, but wary, for Robert Burnell was
Edward's other self, far more loyal to Edward than to the Pope. "Where is he, then, this archdeacon of Burnell's?"
"He wanted to change his wet clothes. You'd think he was in danger of melting like sugar, the way he's been griping about the rain. And I'll wager he's likely to want a nap, too, as soon as he sees a bed. Old bones chill easily, it seems. But I was glad of it, for I wanted to be the one to tell you. Your days at Taunton are done. You'd best start gathering up your books and such, for we leave on the morrow."
Amaury's face did not change, but beneath his surface calm, fear was stirring.
Blessed Lady Mary, not back to Corfe! "Where are we going?" he asked, once he was sure his voice would not give away his inner agitation.
"To London. And then . . . Dover, I expect. After that. . ." But John could no longer keep a straight face. "I seem to remember you telling me that you bought a house in Paris after your lady mother died. Unless you want to go first to Italy and thank the Pope in person?"
Amaury stared at the other man. "I'm to be freed? You swear it is so, John?
This is not one of your jests?"
"By the Rood, no! I fancy a joke as well as the next lad, but I'd not jest about this. God's holy truth, the King has agreed to set you free. We're to escort you to the Chancellor in London, where you must swear never to return to English shores. Then we hand you over to the papal nuncio, and off you gowith nary a regret, I'll wager!"
"I cannot believe it," Amaury said softly, more to himself than to John. "I'd just about given up hope of it ever happening, for no tess than three Popes have sought to gain my freedom. What made Edward relent? Why now?"

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"Judging from what the archdeacon said, and he'd talk the ears off a rabbit, give him half a chance, you owe your freedom to the Pope's persistence and the rebellion of that Welsh brother-in-law of yours. The j(jng has but one thought in mind these daysto bring the wrath of God down upon the Welshand he wants the Church to support him whilst he does it. According to the archdeacon, the
Pope knows this full well, and was canny enough to exact a price for that supportyou. It may be, too, that the King was growing weary of fighting with his own clergy about you, for the Archbishop of Canterbury has been right keen on getting you freed, lad, going to Devizes to argue your case. He's another one who likes to talk, and when you're wearing a mitre, even a king has to hear you out."
John was a talker, too, and Amaury rarely resisted an opportunity to twit him about his babbling brook of a tongue. But now John's cheerful patter rained about him unaware, for he was caught up in the diabolic irony of it all, that the Welsh war could restore his world at the same time that it threatened
Ellen's. He looked so somber that John unfastened a wineskin from his belt, poured for them both, and then sloshed a wet wine cup into his hand.
"I remembered that you've a taste for malmsey. Drink up, lad, for you'll not have a better reason for rejoicing. So tell me, what is the first thing you mean to do once you're free?"
The corner of Amaury's mouth twitched. "If you'd been locked away from the world for more than six years, what is the first thing you'd do?"
John choked on his wine, then laughed so hard that he choked again. "That sounds suspiciously like sinning to me, and you a man of God!"
Amaury grinned. "And precisely because I am a priest, I well know the cleansing power of confession and contrition," he said, sending John off into another spasm of irreverent mirth. He'd strolled over to the window, stood looking out at the misted hills. "How far are we from Bristol, John, about fifty miles? Why could I not take ship from there?"
John's amiable manner cloaked a sharp wit. He frowned thoughtfully, and was not long in remembering that only a narrow stretch of water separated Bristol from the Welsh border. "Jesus God, lad, you'd best banish that notion straightaway! Even if you were free to wander °ff into Wales at your will, the country is up in arms against the English, ^or are we just going to shove you across the drawbridge on the morrow and wish you Godspeed. You'll be in the custody of the Church until y°u have abjured the realm, and, to speak bluntly, the last thing you ar>t is to give the King a reasonany reasonto change his mind. I

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understand your wish to bid your sister farewell. But your only concern now must be getting safe aboard the papal nuncio's ship, watching Dover's white cliffs fade into the distance."
"You're right, of course," Amaury admitted. "It was indeed a mad whim."
Turning back to the window, he watched the clouds drifting across the vale, as white as those chalk cliffs of Dover. "But it suddenly occurred to me that I
might never see my sister again."
LLEWELYN had moved his household across the strait to Aber, for memories were still raw of the last English invasion of Mon. He would have preferred to ensconce Ellen deep within the defenses of Eryri, but he'd hesitated to subject her to that long ride through the mountains to Dolwyddelan. It was easier, too, for him to return to Aber from the sieges of Flynt and Rhuddlan;
he knew how much she needed him with her in these last months of her pregnancy. Torn betwen Ellen's unspoken fears and the unrelenting demands of wartime command, he expended his energy and efforts with reckless abandon, seeking to give strength to his men, encouragement to his troubled subjects, and hope, the most finite of all his resources, to his wife.
MAY had dawned in such summery, sunlit warmth that Ellen's garden was soon ablaze with white and purple violets. Juliana was artistically arranging delicate blossoms in a glazed clay pitcher, but her eyes kept straying to the window-seat, where Ellen was intent upon her baby's christening doth.
"I saw Hugh and Caitlin going into the chapel," she said. "They may have been planning to pray, but I think it more likely that they were seeking a lovers'
sanctuary, a few stolen moments together. Are you sure, Ellen, that nothing need be done about them?"
"Quite sure," Ellen said, with an unaccustomed edge to her voice; she was discovering that exhaustion and impatience went hand in glove. "We had a long talk, and they agreed with me that Llewelyn has enough cares at the moment, needs no more burdens thrust upon him. Caitlin promised me that they would wait ere they sought Llewelyn's permission to wed. She may love Hugh, but she loves Llewelyn, too, and now his need must come first."
"I do not mean to question their good faith, but they are very young* Ellen, and for the young, love can burn hotter than any fever. Do you truly think their resolve will hold if this war drags on?"
"If you are asking whether I think they would lay together, no/ do not. Hugh would never dishonor my niece. Let them snatch a try