Prince of Time (Book Two in the After Cilmeri series)

by Sarah Woodbury

  I stepped closer to Thomas. “Is King Edward really dead?”

  “Yes,” Thomas nodded vigorously. “The messenger rode into the castle just before you arrived. Uncle John spoke with him in private and then announced the news to everyone in the hall. They say it was plague but Uncle John doesn’t believe it. I heard them whispering about a traitor among King Edward’s men. He thinks the Welsh are involved. But you aren’t are you, since your Prince is dead too?”

  “What was that?” I asked.

  “They found a boy wearing the red dragon surcoat among the dead. Wouldn’t that be Prince Llywelyn’s son?”

  I turned to Ieuan and quickly translated what Thomas had said. He whistled through his teeth.

  “We had no hand in the death of your King, Thomas,” I said, turning back to the boy. “As a Welshman, you must understand that I don’t mourn him, but don’t fear for us in that regard.”

  Thomas surveyed me through three heartbeats. “I must go,” he said and disappeared. Light shone through the hole. I put my own eye to it. Thomas ran away from us across the courtyard without looking back.

  “I’d forgotten about that surcoat,” I said. “Edward ripped it from me during the fight and we just left it in a corner. All that work to hide our presence and erase any trace of our camp, and I made a foolish mistake like that.”

  “But look how it’s turned out,” Ieuan said. “Falkes will never suspect who you really are now.”

  “It must have been Moses,” I said, picturing him with his father. “He had all night to arrange the bodies as he saw fit.”

  Ieuan rubbed his hands together in gleeful expectation. “What mischief you could make, my lord, now that you’re dead!”

  I ignored that. No more Cadwaladr! No more Robin Hood! “I’ve been so focused on Edward’s death, that I’ve given little thought to the death of all the others: Edward’s brother, Edmund; Robert Burnell; the Mortimer boys”—Ieuan made a ‘hooray!’ sound at that—“Gilbert De Clare; John Gifford, not to mention my Uncle Dafydd,” I said. “What will happen now?”

  Ieuan swept a hand through his hair. It had come loose from the thong that normally held it at the nape of his neck. “Hereford,” he said. “He’s all that’s left.” Humphrey de Bohun, the third Earl of Hereford, Lord of the Marche.

  “He’s ambitious and clever,” I said, “much like Edward, in fact. What will he make of these deaths?”

  “Nothing good,” Ieuan said. “Worse, news of your death will spread and your father may hear of it before we can reach him.”

  I tried to picture it: Edward had tried to kill me on the evening of July 31st. The next morning, Carew, Aaron and I had observed the Scot encounter with the camp’s sole survivor, Aaron’s nephew, Moses. At the news of Edward’s death and the supposed plague in the camp, the Scots had turned tail and run the other way as fast as their horses could carry them. We’d departed from the fishing village of Poulton shortly thereafter.

  “We docked at Annan on the evening of August 2nd, only two days after Edward’s death. Tonight is August 3rd.”

  “It’s less than eighty miles from Lancaster to Carlisle. A man can ride that distance in a day if he pushes his horse,” Ieuan said.

  “Hereford could have arrived in the camp with the Archbishop of Canterbury within hours of our departure. He’s two days ahead of us; he’s had two days to plot something we’re not going to like,” I said.

  “First, he would have ridden as hard and as fast as he could to London,” Ieuan said. “Edward II is only sixteen months old. The deaths of Edward, Edmund, and the others, leaves a huge whole in the power structure of England that Hereford will be only too glad to fill.”

  “He has few allies in England,” I pointed out. “His loyalties have been to himself, far more than to Edward. Other men know that and won’t trust him.”

  “He’ll play that down, especially as so few men remain to gainsay him. Watch,” Ieuan said, “they’ll name him regent within a week.”

  “He holds one of those ‘Great Offices of State’ doesn’t he? What’s his—the sixth highest in England?” I asked.

  “He’s Lord High Constable. That makes him fifth, though at this point, he’s probably moved up because at least a couple of the men in front of him are dead.”

  I slid down the wall until I sat on the floor, my knees bent in front of me, and placed my chin in my hands. “We’ll see what develops tonight,” I said. “Right now Falkes is too busy with the news of Edward to worry about us.”

  “So we can hope,” Ieuan said.

  Chapter Two

  Ieuan

  I couldn’t rest. I paced around the small space, not more than four strides across, while my lord sat on the floor, his chin in his hands.

  “I could break through that wall with my boot in two kicks,” I said. Prince Dafydd turned to look at the wall behind him and then back at me.

  “One kick if I stood beside you,” he said. “But I think we shouldn’t act before dark, and maybe not even then. Ideally, I’d like to see Falkes again, to better know his mind.”

  “Why?” I asked.

  “These behind-the-scenes machinations are beyond me,” he said. “The more exposure I have to men such as Falkes, the better I’ll be able to treat with them when I become Prince of Wales, and better able to advise my father in the interim.”

  “Not if you’re dead,” I said. “We’re Welsh. Most Englishmen think the only good Welshman is a dead Welshman.”

  “I’ve not forgotten, Ieuan,” Dafydd said, his voice suddenly soft, and I felt bad for speaking as I had. He was so young and had so many responsibilities. But then, his destiny was a straight road, laid out before him that all could see. He couldn’t shirk it; nor can I.

  “You think they mean to kill us?” he asked.

  “I do, my lord, and that’s not just the fear talking or the hate I hold for the English. Falkes may have plans and ideas about what really happened with Edward, but it’s not your job to find out what those are. It’s your job to get yourself clear, back to Wales.”

  “You and Bevyn,” Dafydd said. “You always feel the need to remind me of who I am.”

  “I apologize, my lord,” I said, “for speaking out of turn.”

  “You didn’t speak out of turn,” Dafydd said. “You’re right. That’s why you’re here. My father does not entirely trust my judgment and rightfully so.”

  “In that you aren’t correct,” I said. “We sons always seem to disappoint our fathers, but no father has ever thought more of his son than Prince Llywelyn thinks of you.”

  Dafydd looked up at me and I gritted my teeth, knowing I’d said too much. “Like you disappointed your father?” Dafydd asked, as if he’d read my thoughts. Given his other abilities, I wouldn’t be surprised to learn that he could.

  “It’s not important, my lord,” I said, trying to head him off. He had a disconcerting frankness that seemed to encourage a similar candidness in his men.

  “Isn’t it?” But Dafydd nodded. “Another time, then. I won’t forget.”

  I groaned inwardly. He wouldn’t, either. I turned to the door, pretending to inspect it while my innards roiled as I attempted to dampen my emotions. My father hadn’t been a bad man, just stubborn and unbending. He’d never even beaten me unless I deserved it. It was his silence that hurt; his cold disapproval; the knowledge that I, as his only son, was ever a disappointment. My mother had comforted me once, explaining that fathers and sons never understood each other—but I knew she was wrong; knew it even then; knew it even before she died with the son for whom my father longed, the one he hoped would grow into the man I could never be.

  * * * * *

  Darkness fell, late as always this far north. Prince Dafydd and I sat beside each other, arms crossed, waiting for the time when the castle was at its quietest. Neither of us slept.

  “Falkes doesn’t know you are the Prince,” I repeated, more to reassure myself than him.

  “It’s a nice thought,”
Dafydd said.

  “Still,” I said, “he must have noticed something about you, my lord. Something that struck him as not quite right, or we wouldn’t be here now.”

  “He didn’t think my mother was quite right either,” Dafydd said. “Although as a woman she’d have been of little interest. He probably forgot about her the moment she was out of his sight. That is, until he encountered me.”

  “You are too well dressed,” I said. “Your horse is too fine, your sword to well-made to be a simple merchant from Chester.”

  “My original intent was to pass myself off as a younger son of a knight,” he said. “I miscalculated in thinking that Falkes would view me more favorably as Marged’s son, although now I’m glad I mentioned her. It will cast doubt on the notion that I was associated with the death of Edward.”

  “Imagine if he knew you were Prince Llywelyn’s son too,” Ieuan said.

  Dafydd grunted, “I’d be dead by now.”

  I returned to my reverie. Best to not get back on the topic of fathers and sons. I leaned my head against the rough planks at my back and closed my eyes. I entertained myself by wondering what my sister Lili was up to, what kind of trouble she’d gotten into recently. I smiled, but then stilled. The door to our prison creaked open.

  “My lord!” I nudged Dafydd, but he was already getting to his feet.

  A small person stood silhouetted in the doorway. Thomas.

  He spoke, his voice high and excited.

  “What’s he done?” I whispered as we joined him at the door.

  Thomas had our horses saddled and our swords strapped to the saddlebags. I didn’t want to think about what this might cost him if he were caught—if we were caught. My father would have killed me.

  He led us to the unguarded postern gate a few yards away and pulled it open. We slipped through the door and Thomas knelt to wedge a stone between the door and the frame to keep the door from closing completely. In single file, we walked our horses along the castle wall, keeping to its shadow. After a dozen yards, Thomas stopped. He and Dafydd conferred briefly. Dafydd nodded. We mounted while Thomas turned back to the castle. As he passed me, he patted Llywd’s neck. Then a light flashed in the darkness of the wall. Thomas had slipped back through the postern gate.

  Dafydd was no more than a shadow in front of me. A few men shouted on the other side of the wall, frustrating me again by my lack of English. I understood simple sentences and words, having sat with Aaron a time or two, but not enough to help Prince Dafydd. I wanted to know what Thomas had said but held my impatience in check. Now was not the time.

  Carlisle Castle perched in the northwestern corner of the city, surrounded by water on three sides: the river Caldew to the south and west and the Eden to the north. We’d escaped by a western gate, which was all to the good as far as I was concerned. West was where I wanted to be, but in order to reach the sea, we had to follow the wall around to the north and cross the Eden River where it looped around the city, before heading west through Scotland to the sea.

  “Thomas pointed me to a bridge to the north of the castle,” Dafydd said. “When we come around the wall, we shouldn’t have to ride far before we see it.”

  “Guarded, of course,” I said.

  “Of course. He apologized for not being able to encourage the guards to over-drink as he had the men at the postern gate.”

  “There’s nothing to draw these away from their post either,” I said.

  “Unfortunately not,” Dafydd agreed.

  “We may have to kill them,” I said.

  “Let me try to talk our way past, first,” Dafydd said. “Dead bodies will give Falkes more reason to come after us.”

  “Agreed,” I said, albeit reluctantly. The longer we were in England, the more anxious I was to get my lord home, by whatever means necessary. Killing, at least, was efficient.

  Two torches lit the wooden bridge that spanned the river, held in sconces designed for that purpose. I fell back, letting Dafydd take the lead as he’d asked. I swung my quiver onto my back, tightened the strap across my chest, and tugged my bow from its rest. I held it down at my side so as not to appear threatening.

  Dafydd shot a wicked look back at me. Before I could worry about what he was up to (again), he straightened in the saddle and began to sing:

  “Ohhhh, the cow kicked Nelly in the belly in the barn,

  Oh, the cow kicked Nelly in the belly in the barn,

  Oh, the cow kicked Nelly in the belly in the barn

  And the doctor said it wouldn’t do any harm.

  Second verse! Same as the first! A little bit louder and a little bit worse!”

  His deep voice echoed through the trees. The song was ridiculous and dreadful. He could have been pissing his pants in fear, and instead, he sang. As Dafydd launched into the third verse, he reached the guards, who’d dropped their pikes and stood, one with his hand on his hip, the other pushing back his helmet to scratch his head. The guard on the left was a hefty fellow with a thick brown beard, which was all I could see of him in the darkness that the torchlight couldn’t penetrate.

  He interrupted Dafydd in the middle of a note. In response, Dafydd laughed and spoke. He gestured with one hand to me. I held up my hand in greeting and the guard nodded. Without questioning my lord further, the men raised their pikes and waved us through. Dafydd was whistling the song as he reached the end of the bridge and by then I’d encouraged Llywd to catch him. We trotted down the road on the other side of the Eden together.

  “What did you say to them?” I asked.

  “I told them I was escorting you to your wedding at the behest of Sir John de Falkes,” Dafydd said.

  “My wedding!”

  “One of the men asked why I was drunk instead of you and I told him that I’d met the girl and you hadn’t.”

  I shook my head. I never knew what was going to come out of his mouth next. Dafydd, however, was no longer laughing. “Do you know where to go from here?”

  “North and west,” I said. “As quickly as we possibly can.”

  “Agreed. Hopefully, when Falkes notices our absence, he’ll dismiss us, realizing we’re unimportant in the long run. His charge is to defend against the Scots, not Welshmen.”

  “That would be my hope as well,” I said.

  “Hey!”

  I glanced over my shoulder. A man on a horse leaned down to confer with one of the guards who was looking in our direction and pointing.

  “Ride!” Dafydd said.

  * * * * *

  To evade our pursuers, we rode hard for nearly five miles, and then trotted our horses off the main road. We then proceeded to spend the entire day and into the evening leading our horses through the trees. Now, my lord Dafydd and I crouched near a trail, our horses tethered a few feet from us. Not knowing the region at all, I’d been pleased to discover that the terrain became much more wooded a few miles from Carlisle.

  I was, quite frankly, astonished that Falkes had put this much effort into finding us. With his King dead, he surely had much greater concerns than a young boy from Chester and his servant. Unless, of course, he’d discovered that Dafydd was the Prince, after all? I dismissed the idea. Perhaps Falkes is simply stubborn.

  We waited, listening to the forest around us. It wasn’t my forest but the feeling it gave me was similar to what I’d felt a thousand times before.

  The great Cadwaladr ap Seisyll peers through the underbrush, a massive bow on his back and a dozen arrows in his quiver. Braose’s men are scouring the bushes on the other side of the valley looking for him, but of course the great Cadwaladr is invisible to evil men such as they. Cadwaladr stifles a laugh, and turns to—

  “What are you doing, Ieuan?”

  I twist around to look into the face of my little sister, Lili. Instead of answering, I grit my teeth at her and hiss.

  “Are you being Cadwaladr again?” she asks.

  “Sshh!” I yank her down beside me and we peer together through the bush to the other side of
the field, where the Earl of Hereford patrols with his men. If I didn’t recognize him from other visits to these woods, I would have thought him an ordinary man. He’s of middle height with red-brown hair and beard.

  “Him!” Lili says, trying to whisper.

  A dozen of Hereford’s knights cluster around him. I can’t hear his words—and wouldn’t understand them could I hear them—but his men listen attentively. Watching him speak, it makes me angry to think that the man might be a good leader, that his men might fight for him for more than the gold he offers.

  I shift, setting my arrow into the bow and sighting on Hereford’s head. It’s an easy shot, not even a hundred yards. Then, Lili bumps against me and my shoulders sag. Would Cadwaladr have achieved greatness if he’d had his little sister tagging along behind him all the time? What would the real Cadwaladr have done? Throttled her? Probably not. Nobody had been able to sneak up on him, except the last English soldiers, there at the end.

  Cadwaladr has been dead for a hundred years but I still feel the weight of his sacrifices. My uncle’s lands of Twyn y Garth, near Aberedw, abut those of the English usurpers, and we live with the constant reminder the English encroachment, what they’ve done to us, and what they still do to us daily. Braose is long dead, though the Earl of Hereford is becoming equally infamous among the Welsh. Braose or Bohun—it makes no difference to me. These English overlords are cut from the same cloth. Thieves and murderers to a man.

  I look hard at my sister, still smiling at me, and then fling my arm around her shoulders. “Come with me,” I say. “I’ll teach you to shoot a bow and that way even when I’m not here, you can defend our family from our enemies.”

  Lili skips out from under my arm and takes off running. “I’ll set up the butts,” she shouts at me over her shoulder. “I’ll be as good as you someday! You’ll see!”

  I shake my head but she’s too far away to see. She has no idea how much practice she will need. Every day I work until my arms shake but still the heavy bow is more than I can handle. And it’s not even a full six feet as yet. My uncle has already cut a new stave for seasoning, and when I turn fourteen next spring, he’ll string it for me one last time. I will be a man then, with a man’s responsibilities.