The Reckoning

by Sharon Kay Penman

  “And was I right, Sir Hugh? Is Edward your enemy, too?” Isaac asked quietly, and saw Hugh’s guileless blue eyes take on a sudden, hard sheen.

  “With my lady on her way to a Windsor prison, need you even ask?”

  They looked at each other, experiencing an odd sense of empathy, strong enough to take them both by surprise.

  “Shall I tell you the second reason why I decided to lend you that money?”

  “Because you were bedazzled by my juggling?” Hugh suggested with a grin.

  “No…because my son was.” And in those last fleeting moments before the barriers went back up, they exchanged smiles, as the child looked on, innocent, uncomprehending.

  The sky had been clear when Caitlin rode away from Cricieth Castle, but by noon, it was mottled with small, circular clouds. From time to time, she gazed upward uneasily, for those speckled wisps of white reminded her of the patterned splotches on a mackerel’s back, and she was familiar with the folklore, “Mackerel sky, rain is nigh.” Well, she’d have to risk it, for she did not know when she’d get another chance to seek out the soothsayer.

  If the woman had a name, Caitlin had never heard it. People just called her the hag, for she was as ancient and gnarled as Llŷn’s oldest oak trees. Sometimes they called her the witch. Caitlin was frightened of facing her alone, but she was determined to go through with it, for her uncle’s sake. If it was true that the old woman could foretell the future, mayhap she could reveal what had happened to Uncle Llewelyn’s English bride.

  Men said the witch lived in a hut on the eastern slope of Y Garn, a stone’s throw from the church at Dolbenmaen. Caitlin reckoned she could get there and back by dusk, for the trail was well marked, the snow packed down and solid. Glancing again at that dappled sky, she wondered if the hag could read minds, too. What if the witch could ferret out her own secret? If she could tell how much she’d dreaded the coming of the English bride?

  Caitlin bit her lip, for it shamed her to think of another person knowing of her jealousy. It was not that she’d ever believed the taunting of her spiteful cousins; she’d never liked Tegwared’s sons. Even if a new broom did sweep clean, even if the Lady de Montfort did not want Davydd’s bastard waif, she knew her uncle would not abandon her, would not send her away to please a new wife. But life would never be the same. Sometimes it seemed to Caitlin as if she could already feel the new wife’s disdain, see those elegant English eyebrows raising in the way ladies showed displeasure. And she’d begun to hope, even to pray, that her uncle’s marriage to Eleanor de Montfort would never come to pass.

  She’d often heard people joke that a man should watch what he prayed for, lest he get it. Like most adult humor, its point had escaped her—until now. Until the days dragged into weeks, January yielded to February, and her uncle’s gaze strayed again and again to the grey winter seas, searching the horizon for a distant sail.

  Caitlin looked skyward, but not this time to track clouds. “I did not mean it,” she cried. “I did not want any harm to befall her. I just wanted her to stay in France!” She’d turned inland now, no longer heard the rumble of the surf or the screeching of gulls, heard only the echoes of her own words, long after the wind had carried them away.

  So caught up was she in her own thoughts that she did not see the sudden dip in the trail until they were upon it. With another mount, it might not have mattered, but Caitlin’s mare had an idiosyncrasy peculiarly its own; every time it came to the crest of a hill, even a slight incline, the horse felt compelled to run down it. Now, as the ground suddenly sloped away, it bolted, and Caitlin, caught off balance, went sailing right over the filly’s head.

  A snowdrift cushioned her fall, but by the time she’d gotten to her feet, the mare was vanishing into the distance. There was nothing for Caitlin to do except brush the snow from her mantle, while calling the mare all those names she’d heard her uncle call the English King.

  There was no hope of catching the animal; she saw that at once. As furious with herself now as with her runaway filly, she turned, began the long, tiring trek back toward Cricieth. The horse might well find its way home on its own. But if the mare turned up, riderless, someone would surely recognize it, hasten to tell Llewelyn that his niece had suffered a mishap. She’d meant to ease his mind, not add to his troubles. Yet now it was likely all of Cricieth would be turned topsy-turvy, because of her. And once she was found, what in Heaven’s Name could she tell them? Uncle Llewelyn would want to know why she’d been out on the road by herself. She could not lie, not to him. But how could she tell him about the soothsayer?

  It seemed to her that the sky had darkened, and as she trudged along the winding trail, she thought she could hear the distant howling of wolves. People feared wolves more than any other predator, but her uncle had assured her that wolves were actually wary, cautious creatures, unlikely to attack men. If Llewelyn said it was so, that was enough for Caitlin; her faith was absolute. But she would rather not meet a wolf afoot and alone, would rather not put its character to such a tempting test, and she quickened her pace. When she stopped again to listen, the wind brought to her a far more familiar and reassuring sound, the jangle of a harness, the rhythmic thud of hooves upon hard, snow-encrusted ground.

  Caitlin’s spirits soared. But the horse now coming into view through the trees was not her fugitive mare, was a big-boned rangy bay. The gelding’s rider looked as startled as Caitlin. His reflexes were good, though; he reined in beside her in a spray of snow.

  While Caitlin would have preferred to find her mare, to keep her mishap between herself and the filly and the Almighty, she was grateful, nonetheless, for this stranger’s providential appearance; Cricieth would have been a long walk. “How glad I am that you happened by! My mare threw me; you did not see her, did you? Can you give me a ride as far as Cricieth Castle?”

  Puzzled by his silence, she moved closer, found herself looking up into eyes of a deep and uncomprehending blue. At the same time, she noted his beard, the blond hair shadowed by the wide-brimmed hat. “Blessed Lady, an Englishman!”

  Hugh had yet to understand a word she’d said. “I speak no Welsh,” he said apologetically, and Caitlin gave a vast sigh of relief.

  “French, thank Heaven! Some of your countrymen speak only English, or so I’ve been told. Does it not get confusing for you sometimes, like the Tower of Babel in Scriptures?”

  She stopped in surprise, for Hugh had begun to laugh. “If you are real, lad, and not conjured up by my lack of sleep, tell me what a Welsh imp speaking perfect French is doing all alone out here in this wilderness?”

  “My uncle made me learn French because it is the court lan—A lad? I am a girl!” Caitlin exclaimed indignantly, and jerked back her mantle hood to reveal a long shining braid.

  “Lord forgive me, so you are!” Hugh’s demeanor changed dramatically, from friendly to protective in the blink of an eye. “It is dangerous for a lass to be wandering about on your own like this. I’d best see you home straightaway, no arguments now!”

  “Who is arguing? No, there is no need to dismount; just give me your hand,” Caitlin directed, and to Hugh’s amusement, she scrambled up behind him, as nimbly as any boy. “Can you take me to Cricieth Castle?”

  “If you tell me how to get there,” Hugh said agreeably, and waited until her thin little arms were securely clasped about his waist before spurring his horse forward. “So…what is a little lass like you doing out here all by yourself?”

  “I am not so little, will be twelve next month. Anyway, what is an Englishman doing all by himself so deep in Wales?”

  Hugh grinned. “This uncle who taught you French must also have taught you military tactics. Whenever possible, carry the attack into the enemy’s territory!”

  Caitlin grinned, too. “I did not mean to pry, truly, but it is unusual to see an Englishman in this part of Gwynedd. Most of your countrymen keep to the south.”

  “I am on my way to Pwllheli, where I hope to find Prince Llewelyn.” />
  Caitlin stiffened. “What makes you think he is there?”

  Hugh hesitated from habit, before remembering that there was no longer reason for secrecy. “Because that is where he is awaiting his wife’s arrival from France.”

  Caitlin’s gasp was so audible that he turned in the saddle. “Prince Llewelyn is my uncle. Can you tell me, please, about the Lady Eleanor? We’ve been so worried. She is still coming?”

  “No…no, lass, she is not.”

  Llewelyn’s impressive self-control was acknowledged even by his enemies. But it had not come easily to him. He had learned wariness the hard way, only after years of youthful turmoil, scarred by irreconcilable family loyalties, by his unrelenting struggles with the English Crown, by his brother’s betrayals. He had learned, too, to keep his own counsel. And so he did not confide his uneasiness, his growing fears for Ellen’s safety.

  For those who knew him well, though, there was no need for words. They watched him gazing out across Pwllheli’s harbor, and they tried to help, each in his own way. His Seneschal, Tudur, sought to keep Llewelyn so busy, so preoccupied with statecraft and the affairs of Gwynedd that he’d have no time to worry. His cousin Tegwared tried to cheer him with jests and practical jokes, with surprise gifts and the songs of their best bards. And his uncle, Einion, confronted his fears head-on, brought them out into the open.

  Llewelyn must remember that they did not know the Lady Ellen’s exact departure date. Her last letter had expressed the hope that they’d be able to sail in mid-December, but it was just that, a “hope.” It may be that bad weather or unexpected delays had kept the cog at Harfleur well into the new year. Even if they had sailed on time, storms could have forced her ship to seek shelter in any of a dozen coastal ports. If the wind was not with them, they’d make little headway in heavy seas. He himself could testify to that, having once endured a vile winter crossing from Ireland. Ill winds had driven them back into Drogheda’s harbor so many times that he’d lost count, had become convinced he’d have to begin life anew as an Irishman.

  Logically, Llewelyn knew that Einion was right, that his concern was premature. But instinct stronger than reason was communicating a message impossible to ignore, that something was very wrong. He spent so much time staring out at the harbor that he at last moved his household six miles up the coast to his castle at Cricieth. But he did not succeed in leaving his anxiety behind at Pwllheli. At Cricieth, too, he found himself gazing out to sea, and his dreams were troubled, as dark and murky as those surging, shoreward tides. For as he watched the waves splash over the rocks below the castle, he was slowly coming to the most appalling understanding of all, that he might never know what happened. If Ellen’s ship had been lost at sea, there’d be no word of the disaster, only this endless, suffocating silence, a lifetime of silence.

  And so when Hugh knelt and stammered out that Ellen had been taken by pirates off the coast of Cornwall, Llewelyn’s reaction was one almost of relief. At least she was alive. As terrifying as her ordeal must have been, she was alive and could be rescued. Hugh’s presence was proof of that, proof that she had been able to convince the pirates of her identity, not a woman to be raped and abused, one to be ransomed.

  Hugh looked so distraught that he said reassuringly, “It will be all right, lad. We’ll get her back, I promise. How much do they want for her release?”

  Having to tell Nell and Ellen that Bran was dead was the most difficult task Hugh had ever faced—until now. “My lord…there is no ransom demand. It was not ill chance that put us in the pirates’ path. They were waiting for your lady,” he said, saw that Llewelyn was quick to comprehend.

  “Christ Jesus… Edward?”

  Hugh nodded miserably. “I do not know how he found out, my lord, for we took such care to keep the wedding secret. The man has unholy luck. How else explain it? If there had been fog that day, we would have gotten by them, or if the winds had shifted…” Hugh was talking too much, knew it, could not help himself.

  Llewelyn was no longer listening. Moving to the window, he stared out at the churning sea, pressing his fist against the opaque glass pane, ordered for Ellen. He had never even met her, although she wore his ring, bore his name. But even before they’d taken those holy vows, there had been a bond between them, a connection he could not fully explain. Long after he’d disavowed their first plight troth, he’d found that he still cared about her safety, her welfare. A debt of honor, a memory made real—whatever the reason, when his need became urgent to take a wife, there was but one choice, one woman.

  She was a stranger to him, but her presence in the room was almost tangible, for it had been furnished just for her. The walls had been wainscotted and then painted green and gold, in the English fashion. The bed was piled high with fur-lined coverlets, embroidered with the de Montfort arms. To please her, there were silver candelabras and February flowering Candlemas bells and delicate perfume vials. An ivory hairbrush and matching hand mirror had been laid out for her use. He had spared no expense to make her feel at home in an alien land, this young woman who’d gone from sheltered affluence to dishonored exile, from a Prince’s betrothed to a dead rebel’s daughter, all in the span of one bloodied sword thrust. He’d discovered that he wanted to give her back some of what she’d lost, and he’d begun here, at Cricieth.

  This was to have been Ellen’s bridal chamber. But she would never see it now. Her de Montfort blood and their marriage vows would condemn her to a lifetime’s confinement in England. Edward would never let her go. Llewelyn had reached the table. Picking up the mirror, he turned it over; the back had been engraved with the letter E. When he flung it into the hearth, there was a splintering sound as the glass shattered, and Hugh flinched. With a sweep of his arm, Llewelyn sent the rest of the table’s contents crashing into the floor rushes; a chair followed. Llewelyn’s greyhound had begun to whimper softly, but all Hugh could hear was Llewelyn’s ragged breathing. He was edging toward the door, stopped when Llewelyn looked toward him.

  “Do you want me to go, my lord?”

  Llewelyn shook his head, beckoned him back. It was very quiet after that; Llewelyn said nothing and Hugh was willing to wait until he did. Finally Llewelyn righted the over-turned chair, sat down, and gestured for Hugh to do the same.

  There had been a flagon on the table; the floor rushes were soaking in mead. Hugh unfastened a travel flask from his belt, held it out with a shy smile. He was pleased when Llewelyn took it, drank, and passed it back.

  Looking at the wreckage-strewn floor, Llewelyn said, very low, “It has been a long time since I lost control like that, more than twenty years. A woman very dear to me had miscarried of a baby, died of the resulting fever, and afterward, I tried to put my fist through a table. It did not help, and I damned near broke my hand, thought I’d learned a lesson…”

  Hugh offered the flask again. “The woman…who was she, my lord?”

  “My aunt. Passing strange, her name was also Elen, spelled in the Welsh way. She was Nell’s kinswoman, too, her sister Joanna’s daughter. Nell was there with me when Elen died. She was the one who bandaged my hand.”

  “At least the Lady Nell was spared this,” Hugh ventured, so desperate was he to offer consolation of any kind, and Llewelyn’s mouth twisted down.

  “Yes, she died believing that I’d take care of her daughter,” he said, so bitterly that Hugh’s breath stopped. “What of Morgan? Is he dead?” He felt no surprise when Hugh nodded, and made a sign of the cross; he could do no more for his dead than he could for the living. “Tell me what happened,” he said, and Hugh did, from their first glimpse of the pirate galley’s crimson sail to the moment when he’d ridden away from Bristol on the horse purchased with Isaac ben Asher’s money. Llewelyn listened in silence. Only once did he interrupt, when Hugh revealed that Ellen had been taken at first to Bristol Castle. “Bristol… I wonder if they gave her Eleanor of Brittany’s old chamber.”

  Hugh had never heard of Eleanor of Brittany until he was stran
ded in Bristol. But since then, he’d been haunted by that unhappy lady’s fate, and now he found himself pleading, as much for his own sake as for Llewelyn’s, “You must not give up hope, my lord. We have to believe she’ll be set free.”

  Llewelyn drank again. “How long have you been in my wife’s service?”

  “It will be five years come the summer.”

  “You must know her well then, Hugh. Tell me the truth. Do you think she is strong enough to survive this?”

  “To look at her, you’d think not,” Hugh said slowly. “When I was in Tuscany, I saw an ivory carving of the Madonna; that’s what the Italians call our Blessed Lady. I tell you this, my lord, because your lady seems just like that Florentine church sculpture, delicate and finely made, breakable. But Brother Teilo told me that when the cog was seized, Lady Ellen held off one of the pirates with a knife.”

  He’d meant to reassure, saw how badly he’d miscalculated only as the blood left Llewelyn’s face. “She has not been harmed, my lord! I am sure of it, for Thomas the Archdeacon would never be fool enough to rape the King’s cousin.”

  Llewelyn rose abruptly, then bent down and picked up Ellen’s hand mirror. The ivory case had been fashioned by a master craftsman, a thin sheet of clear glass fitted over a polished plate of copper. It had been a pretty piece of work, but now the glass was smashed and the metal dented and scratched, both beyond repair. “I believe you, Hugh,” he said softly. “But she ought never to have faced a danger like that…” Letting the mirror drop into the floor rushes, he turned back to the young Englishman. “You are welcome at my court, welcome in Wales. I would be fortunate to have you in my service.”

  Hugh felt a surge of grateful admiration for the Welsh Prince’s deft touch; rarely had an offer of refuge been tendered so gracefully, camouflaged as praise. “You do me honor, my lord. But I cannot accept, not yet. I would be beholden to you, though, if you could give me the money to repay Isaac ben Asher, and enough to get me, then, to Windsor.”