Davydd’s surprise was momentary. Almost at once, his skepticism reasserted itself. “I’d say that was most magnanimous of you, Llewelyn—if I did not know you so well. No prince forgives treason, not when such forbearance could prove fatal. What do you truly mean to do?”
Llewelyn’s smile was sudden, approving. “You may have your faults, Davydd, but slowness of wit is not amongst them. The truth, then? There is more to this plot than we know. There has to be, for Gruffydd is as wary as a treed cat, not one to jump till he is sure what lies below. If he’d moved into Ceri or Cydewain, I’d soon have followed, with an army at my back, and he would know that full well. So how did he hope to escape my vengeance? That is what I want to know, what I intend to find out.”
No longer smiling, he said, “I shall give Gruffydd a chance to explain, and then…just enough rope with which to hang himself.”
On April 17, Gruffydd ap Gwenwynwyn was called before the council of his liege lord, Llewelyn ap Gruffydd. Gruffydd’s son Owen blustered and ranted and denied—unconvincingly—all guilt. Gruffydd wisely chose to cut his losses, admitted that he had, indeed, been guilty of shameful disloyalty to his Prince. His was a public and harsh humiliation, followed by the seizure of the cantref of Arwystli and part of Cyfeiliog. He was compelled to yield his son Owen as a hostage for his future loyalty, and the remainder of his Powys lands were then restored to his control, with the significant, sinister proviso that, should further treachery come to light, he would forfeit all his estates in perpetuity.
But Owain’s fears for Davydd had been well founded. The Welsh soil had always been a fertile breeding ground for rumors. Now, fed by speculation and watered by suspicion, a new crop was soon ripe for harvesting. Eventually, inevitably, these rumors implicated Llewelyn’s younger brother, and in early October, Davydd was summoned to defend himself before Llewelyn’s council at Rhuddlan Castle.
10
Rhuddlan Castle, Wales
October 1274
Davydd was not surprised that Rhuddlan’s great hall should be so full, every seat taken, every corner filled with jostling, craning spectators, every eye upon him. He knew how men flocked to bear-baitings, cheered themselves hoarse at cock fights, turned out in huge numbers for any public hanging.
He paused deliberately in the doorway, in part to make a suitably dramatic entrance, in part to give himself a chance to identify the enemy. Like patches of ice in a field of melting snow, the unbleached habits of the White Monks stood out prominently amidst so many tunics of russet and green. Davydd recognized the Abbots of the abbeys of Aberconwy, Cwm-hir, and Cymer. Not much hope there; the Cistercians were Llewelyn’s, heart and soul. The Bishop of Bangor was a more promising prospect. He’d been feuding with Llewelyn for months, might balk out of sheer spite. Forget Tudur ab Ednyved; he’d want a front row seat at the gallows. Nor would he get any support from Goronwy ap Heilyn, Tudur’s nephew; he could not begin to count the whores and wine flagons they’d shared over the years, but their friendship had not survived his alliance of expediency with the English Crown. Dai ab Einion, another one who’d prefer to reach a guilty verdict straightaway, without the bother of a trial first. Rhys ap Gruffydd? He’d be sympathetic for certes, but lacked the backbone to defy Tudur and Llewelyn. Their uncle Einion liked him well enough, liked Llewelyn better. Even Owen de la Pole was on hand, looking far less sleek and self-assured as a hostage than he had as a would-be assassin. He glanced furtively at Davydd, then away, and Davydd thought he deserved all of this grief, if only for his bad judgment in ever taking Owen as an ally. There were other familiar faces in the hall, but he paid them no heed, knowing they would follow wherever Llewelyn led.
And where would that be? Davydd’s gaze focused at last upon his brother. Llewelyn was sitting in an oaken high-backed chair upon the dais. A spiked candle flared behind him, throwing his face into shadow; no accident, Davydd was sure. Never had there seemed so much distance between them. Davydd wondered briefly if this was how he’d feel come Judgment Day, and then he raised his head, swaggered into the hall, into the vortex.
The hall quieted. He walked toward the dais in the sort of funereal, respectful silence he’d always associated with the sickbed of a dying rich relative. The urge to shatter it, to shock, was overwhelming, but for once he resisted temptation. Halting before his brother, he made a very formal, elaborate gesture of obeisance, one that stopped just short of parody. “I am here, my lords. Ask of me what you will.”
Tudur was quick to take up the challenge; as Llewelyn’s Seneschal, it fell to him to act as Justiciar. “Serious accusations have been made against you, my lord Davydd. Witnesses have come forward, men of good repute, who swear that you met secretly with Gruffydd ap Gwenwynwyn, Lord of Powys, on at least two occasions, at Mathrafal in the spring of 1273 and then at Gruffydd’s castle at Trallwng last November.”
Davydd had long ago learned that scornful laughter was often the most effective weapon in his arsenal. But now he did not have to fake it; the laughter welled up on its own, so sweet and sweeping was his relief. If this was all they had, he could walk out of this trap blindfolded. “If I did not know you had no sense of humor whatsoever, my lord Tudur, I’d think you must be joking. You summoned me before your high tribunal for this? Because ale-house gossip says I may have met with Gruffydd ap Gwenwynwyn nigh on two years ago?”
Tudur was quite unmoved by his mockery. “The first meeting took place on the last Sunday in Lent, the second on All Soul’s Day. Does that prick your memory any?”
“No…should it? If you’re asking where I was on a March Sunday sometime last year, I’m damned if I know. I can tell you this, that I was not in Powys.”
“There are men willing to swear that you were,” Llewelyn said, and his voice, too, was shadowed, utterly unrevealing.
Davydd decided it was time for a flash of anger. “Well, if they do, they lie!”
“Can you produce witnesses able to attest to your whereabouts on the dates in question?”
Llewelyn sounded so cool, so detached, that Davydd no longer had to feign anger. Damn him, was this so easy for him? “Yes, I can provide witnesses,” he snapped. Who, though? Tangwystl? No, a bedmate would be too obvious. He needed someone of unimpeachable authority; a pity the Pope was otherwise occupied. But a monk, yes, a monk would do. Rhys ap Gruffydd had a brother who was a Dominican friar, and he liked Llewelyn no more than Rhys did. If Llewelyn wanted witnesses, then by God, he’d get them, honorable and upright and ready to swear upon Llewelyn’s fragment of the True Cross that he’d been on the moon if need be, anywhere but Powys.
Tudur made no attempt to conceal his skepticism. Instead, he flaunted it, so well armored in sarcasm that he put Davydd in mind of a human hedgehog, one abristle with poisonous barbs. “I shall await their testimony with bated breath,” he gibed. “Will a fortnight be time enough for you to…find them?”
Davydd shook his head, was about to launch into an impassioned plea for delay when Llewelyn said, “I shall be at Llanfor in Penllyn for Martinmas. Bring your witnesses there and I’ll hear them.”
That was more than fair. As much as it galled Davydd to admit it, it was even generous, would give him the time he needed. “Penllyn at Martinmas. You may be sure I’ll not forget.” He moved forward then, up onto the dais. “And now what?” he asked, pitching his voice for Llewelyn’s ear alone. “Do I ride off into the sunset? Or do we talk?”
He was close enough now to see the finely webbed lines around Llewelyn’s eyes, the taut set of his mouth. No, not so easy, after all, he thought, with a queer sense of satisfaction, and then Llewelyn slowly nodded. “We talk,” he said tersely.
Candles caught fire, dispelling some of the dark. Prodding the hearth with iron tongs, a servant stirred it back to life, rose, and discreetly disappeared. Einion and Tudur settled themselves inconspicuously in one of the window-seats, but Nia, Llewelyn’s young greyhound, planted itself at his feet. So closely did it shadow his every move that he laughingly calle
d it his “bodyguard,” but tonight there was an added dimension to its vigilance; like many dogs, it was sensitive to its master’s moods, and the tension in the chamber was stoking all of the animal’s protective instincts.
The greyhound’s watchful demeanor was not lost upon Davydd. “Your suspicions must be catching, Llewelyn. Even your bitch seems to have been infected with them. If I help myself to some wine, is she going to help herself to my forearm?”
Llewelyn’s mouth quirked. “We’ll not know till you try.” But then he crossed to the table, reached for a flagon, and poured. “If you are as innocent as you claim, why did you demand a safe-conduct ere you’d come to Rhuddlan?”
Davydd took the cup. “That ought to be obvious. Because I am no longer sure that I can trust you.”
“Trust me?” Llewelyn echoed, incredulous.
“That surprises you? It should not, for trust is a two-edged sword. Did it even occur to you that I might not be guilty? No, of course it did not. With you, suspicion and certainty are spokes on the same wheel.”
At that, Tudur could keep silent no longer. “This man’s gall never fails to amaze me, Llewelyn. That he should dare to profess such righteous indignation—”
“And why not?” Davydd ignored Tudur, kept his eyes upon his brother. “I’m not entitled to be angry? Brace yourself for another surprise, Llewelyn, for I happen to think I’m the one who was wronged! And with cause, by God. For the past seven years, we’ve been allies…or so I thought. I’ve been welcome at your court, a member of your council, privy to your secrets. You even led me to believe that you favored me as your heir. There was no breach between us, no falling out. And then this—an accusation without warning, without proof. How do you expect me to react?”
“I expect you to remember your own past. You’re no stranger to conspiracy and rebellion. Can you truly blame me for my suspicions? Twice before you betrayed me, Davydd.”
“And twice you forgave me, or have you forgotten that? More fool I, for I thought we’d made our peace, put the past behind us. But if I’m to be judged again and again for old sins, then we’d best talk about them. Let’s begin with my first rebellion. I was but sixteen, seeking only to claim my fair share of Gwynedd. Now that may have been a mistake, but it hardly makes me another Judas. And if I erred, I paid for it—sixteen months confinement at Cricieth Castle. I argued then that it was not treason to seek what was mine. Do you remember what you said? ‘It is if you lose.’ And I did lose. But Christ Jesus, Llewelyn, that was nigh on twenty years ago!”
“Do you truly think I’d harbor a lifelong grudge for one act of youthful folly?” Llewelyn shook his head impatiently. “Davydd, I understood why you threw in with Owain. But that is more than I can say for your subsequent double-dealings with the English Crown. I’d forgiven you, restored you fully to favor, only to have you plot my overthrow with Edward. Since you saw fit to start this, finish it, then. Tell me how you justify an alliance with our greatest enemy.”
“I cannot justify it—not to you. But I daresay Owain saw it in a kinder light.”
“I see. So your only concern was freeing Owain. You should have spoken up sooner, lad. All this time we’ve been damning you as a rebel, instead of honoring you as a saint.”
“Do not mock me, Llewelyn. For once in my life, I am serious. Of course I wanted Gwynedd, or a good portion of it. I was heartily sick of holding my lands at your pleasure, and why not? Lest you forget, Welsh law was on my side, not yours. But I also wanted to free Owain from your gaol.”
“So you’d have me believe you rebelled to set Owain free. Why should I not believe, then, that you’d do so again? Owain is still my prisoner, still your brother. What has changed? If that was your motive once, why not a second time?”
Tudur sat up straight, already hearing the trap jaws snapping shut. But Davydd was smiling tightly. “What has changed? Good God, man, more than eleven years have passed! Mayhap time has not tarnished your good intentions, but my halo rusted away years ago. Lunatic gallantry came more easily to me at twenty-four. At thirty-six, I have too much to lose. I’ll not deny that I’d free Owain tomorrow if the power were mine. But it is not, and I’m not willing to barter my freedom for his.”
Davydd had forgotten his wine cup. He drained it now, too fast. “I was not plotting with Gruffydd ap Gwenwynwyn. Jesú, Llewelyn, how do I convince you? What would you have me do, swear upon my honor, upon the soul of our—”
“No,” Llewelyn said hastily. “Whenever you start talking of honor, Davydd, I always feel that I should start counting the spoons.”
Einion sucked in his breath, and Tudur smiled faintly, expectantly. But Llewelyn knew his brother better than they did. He alone was not surprised when Davydd burst out laughing.
“I forget, at times, just how well you know me! But at least I nail my pirate’s flag to the mast, never sail under false colors. Llewelyn, I’ve been honest with you tonight, at no small cost to my pride. Will you return the favor?”
“What do you want to know? The names of our witnesses?”
Davydd shook his head. “If someone had come to you, claiming that Tudur or Einion had met secretly with Gruffydd ap Gwenwynwyn, would you have asked either of them to verify their whereabouts? Would you even have given it a second thought?”
Llewelyn found that an unexpectedly difficult question to answer. Of Gruffydd’s four sons, only Owain had gotten his flaming red hair. Llewelyn’s was dark, Davydd’s a sunstreaked chestnut, and Rhodri’s a lackluster brown. But Davydd did have their father’s eyes, a clear, compelling shade of green, eyes that held his own without wavering. “No,” he said reluctantly, “I’d not have believed it of them.”
Davydd felt a strange sort of letdown, almost as if he truly was the one wronged. “But for me, you believed it. You may not have wanted to, but you did. I can prove I was not in Powys conspiring with Gruffydd, but what of it? You said you’d forgiven my past betrayals. But tell me this, Llewelyn, and for God’s sake, tell me the truth. When—if ever—do you start trusting me again?”
Llewelyn could not lie to him; the question held too much raw honesty. “Davydd, I thought I did.”
Davydd’s smile was bitter. “Until your faith was put to the test.”
Llewelyn frowned, said nothing. Davydd’s accusors were men of good fame, men whose testimony could not be easily dismissed. But he thought it only fair to deny himself that defense, for he could not make the obvious offer, the one Davydd had a right to expect, that his word alone was enough. “Bring your witnesses to me in Penllyn,” he said at last, “and that will end it.”
Davydd studied him intently for a long moment. “Fair enough.” A shallow bowl lay on the table between them, filled with dried figs and dates and a large, fragrant orange. The latter was not often found on Welsh tables, for it had to be imported from Spain. Davydd knew it was one of Llewelyn’s few indulgences, and it was the orange he took on his way to the door. There he paused, glanced back over his shoulder. “Till Martinmas, then. Llewelyn!” Sending the orange spiraling through the air. Llewelyn looked startled, but he caught it easily enough, and Davydd grinned. “You see?” he said. “I do not covet all that is yours!” The door closing on echoes of his laughter.
It was quiet after he’d gone. Llewelyn moved restlessly about the chamber, but he could feel their eyes following him. Turning abruptly, he said, “I’ll not deny it. I want to believe him. Is that so hard to understand?”
Einion silently shook his head; he, too, wanted to believe Davydd. Tudur had rarely heard Llewelyn sound so defensive, but he felt obliged, nonetheless, to speak his mind. “No,” he said, “it is only natural that you’d want to believe him. But Davydd might well be counting upon that, Llewelyn.”
Llewelyn acknowledged the thrust with a twist of his mouth. “I know,” he admitted. “It is just that I cannot forget what Davydd said, that I trusted him only until my faith was put to the test. If he is right, how can I ever make amends?” And this time, not even Tudur had
an answer for him.
It was sometime in October when the black boar emerged from the lower slopes of Yr Wyddfa, began roaming the wooded valley of the River Conwy. Those who saw it gave awesome accounts of its vast size, its bloodied tusks, its blinding speed, and people began to wager when their lord would arrive. That he would come, they never doubted. No huntsman alive could resist such a challenge, for there was no greater sport than matching wits with a Welsh wild boar. Indeed, Llewelyn was soon hastening south, reaching his Trefriw hunting lodge at noon on the eve of All Saints, more commonly known as Hallowmas.
Caitlin was delighted to have been included in the hunting party, although she would not be allowed to go on the hunt itself, of course. Like all princes, Llewelyn had a migratory court, and as he moved about his realm, so, too, did Caitlin, for her fall from the stable rafters had marked a turning point in her life, and nowadays her uncle rarely left her behind. But he’d not taken her to Rhuddlan Castle, and the waiting had been very hard, for she knew her father and uncle were somehow at odds. When her uncle said she’d be coming with him to meet Davydd in Penllyn, she’d been enormously relieved, for surely that must mean they’d made their peace. She was not absolutely sure of that, though, and she wished she had someone to confide in, to explain the often inexplicable adult world to her.
She had begun to hope that in time Eva might become such a confidante, for Eva was the first one of her uncle’s ladies to befriend her. It was because of Eva that they were now following the steep, winding path that led from Trefriw up to the ancient church of Rhychwyn. Soon after their arrival, Eva had coaxed Llewelyn into showing it to her, and as they set out, she’d looked back over her shoulder. “Do not dawdle, child. We’re counting upon you to blaze a trail for us!”
Caitlin did, joyfully, racing Llewelyn’s greyhound through a carpet of autumn leaves. Sun gilded the trees, setting every hawthorn bush afire, and the air was so clear and cool that it was like breathing cider; when she told that to Llewelyn and Eva, they both laughed. That was another reason why she liked Eva so much, because her uncle laughed so readily when Eva was with him.
The Reckoning Page 17
