“I do not know, my liege. I did not have time to think that far ahead.”
“The Lady Eleanor left Bristol for Windsor on January twenty-ninth. Yet you did not turn up at Windsor until late March. What were you doing in those two months, lad?”
The question was deceptively casual, all the more deadly for being so offhandedly posed. Hugh felt as if Edward’s eyes were burning into his brain, smoking out his every secret. How could anyone dare lie to this man? “I was hurt, my liege, when the cog was taken.” Fumbling with his irons, he brushed back the hair from his forehead, revealing a thin red scar. “My wound festered, and afterward, I was too weak to travel. God knows what would have befallen me if not for the Holy Cross sailors.”
“Where did you get the money to buy a horse?”
This was the question Hugh had been most dreading, for he’d hidden Llewelyn’s money in his room at a Windsor inn, and Sir Geoffrey had told him the room had been searched. But he’d not mentioned the money. Why not? If they knew about it, he’d have no choice but to reveal it had come from Llewelyn’s coffers. He felt sure that the revelation would not matter in the least to Llewelyn. The Welsh Prince would move Heaven and earth to free his wife and cared not at all who knew it. But he felt sure, too, that the revelation would be disastrous for him. His one hope was that the money had been surreptitiously split up among the men sent to search his belongings. It was not a hope, though, that he’d ever wanted to test.
“I had a gold ring, my liege, bequeathed to me by my father. I hid it ere the pirates could steal it, and later…once I’d regained my strength, I sold it to a peddler in the Bristol market. I was loath to part with it, but I could think of no other way to raise the money, and I had to put my lady’s need first…”
Edward leaned back against the window cushions, his face unreadable. Hugh held his breath, waiting. “Very sharp-witted of you, lad,” he said at last, and Hugh felt almost dizzy with the intensity of his relief, for Edward was beginning to sound amused.
“Sharp-witted? I’d say gallant!”
Hugh turned his head, startled, and found himself looking up into a heart-shaped little face of piquant charm. As their eyes met, the Lady Blanche gave him a dimpled smile. “I think your devotion to your lady is wonderful,” she said warmly. “You must love her very much!”
To Blanche’s surprise, Hugh blushed beet red, and the other men guffawed. “My sister by marriage has yet to learn that the French courts of love never flourished in our fickle English climate,” Edward said with a grin, with such friendliness that Hugh took sudden heart, began to hope in spite of himself.
“I think it was only natural that my wife should have assumed—” Edmund began, but he got no further, provoking another burst of male laughter.
“Ah, now there’s a familiar sound,” Edward gibed. “The besotted bridegroom, ever on the ready to be his lady’s loyal echo, to swear white was black at her behest!”
Edmund took the raillery in stride. “I might swear Blanche was blanche,” he said mildly, making a play upon his wife’s name, and Blanche gave him a melting, seductive look that was only half in jest. Their marital harmony was so obvious that others deemed it either enviable or cloying, depending upon whether they were sentimentalists or skeptics.
Hugh now found himself another champion, this one even more unlikely than Blanche. “I think Sir Hugh is to be commended for his loyalty,” Eleanora said gravely, sounding as if she’d just disclosed a verdict rather than offered an opinion; her low, throaty voice, her heavily accented French, and her precise, purposeful delivery inevitably gave her most casual comments the weight of a royal pronouncement.
“Thank you, Madame,” Hugh stammered, taken aback at sight of so many approving faces. Even the Earl of Gloucester was regarding him with indulgence, for Hugh had unwittingly tapped into one of their society’s most enduring myths, that of the vassal steadfast and loyal, true to his liege lord unto death. If such faithful, stalwart knights existed more often as legend than as flesh-and-blood men, that just made Hugh’s fidelity seem all the more admirable. Only cynics like Davydd ap Gruffydd and Roger de Mortimer resisted the temptation to celebrate Hugh’s story as the Second Coming of Camelot. The others smiled benevolently upon the young knight, ready to reward him as the fables demanded—until Edward shook his head, said regretfully:
“It seems a pity that a quest such as yours must end in gaol.”
Edward saw surprise ripple through the audience, followed by disappointment. But when he spoke, he sounded matter-of-fact, not defensive, for Edward never felt the need to justify himself to others. “I bear you no ill will, lad, in truth I do not. But I cannot let you go free, cannot have you lurking under the Lady Eleanor’s window with a ladder…now can I?”
Hugh did not know what to say. Before he could gather his wits, make an argument against imprisonment, a chaplain was approaching, leaning over with a message for the King’s ear. Edward rose without haste, then gestured toward Hugh, permitting him to rise, too.
“I can spare you no more time, for the Easter Mass is about to begin.” Beckoning to one of his household knights, Edward gave orders for Hugh to be lodged within the castle for the night, and on the morrow to be escorted back to Bristol. Glancing again at Hugh, he said, “I am indeed sorry it has to be this way. But you did know the risk you took. When you chose to follow your lady to Windsor, you chose, too, to gamble with your own freedom. Unfortunately, you lost.”
Hugh was mute, stunned by the swiftness of it all. Edward was already turning away. So were the others, for they might be sympathetic, but not to the point of quarreling with the King on his behalf. Just like that, he thought numbly. A snap of the royal fingers and it was over. As if to add insult to injury, he was jostled now by Davydd, with enough force to make him stumble. Davydd did not offer even the most perfunctory apology. Nor did he help Hugh regain his balance. What he did do, though, was so unexpected that Hugh could only stare after him in open-mouthed astonishment, wondering if he’d heard right. “Remind him,” Davydd had murmured, “of Lewes.”
There was no time to think it through, to think at all. Edward was nearing the door. “My lord King!” Hugh’s voice was urgent, impossible to ignore. “You were right, I did choose to wager my freedom on my lady’s behalf. But you made the very same choice I did!”
Edward had turned with his first words. “What are you talking about?”
Hugh was disconcerted by Edward’s changed tone, flint-hard and imperious. But it was too late to reconsider. “My father fought at Lewes, and he…he told me that the Londoners, being green to battle, broke and ran. He said you pursued them from the field, and when you returned, the battle was over. Your lord father the King had taken refuge within the priory, and Simon de Montfort had won a great victory. The lords with you…”
Hugh could not help himself. Turning his head, he looked straight at Roger de Mortimer and the Earl of Pembroke. “The lords with you…” he repeated hoarsely, for never had his mouth been so dry, his throat so tight, “they chose to flee the field, but you scorned flight, my liege. Instead, you fought your way into the priory. You surrendered to Simon de Montfort rather than forsake your father.”
There was utter silence when Hugh was done speaking. Edward had listened intently, eyes narrowed upon Hugh’s face, an iced blue gaze that revealed nothing whatsoever of his thoughts. Hugh was only now beginning to realize the full extent of his audacity. When was the last time anyone had dared to challenge the King like this? Jesú, he must have been mad to heed Davydd ap Gruffydd, of all men!
“Your father was right,” Edward said coolly. “It happened as you say. I did make the same choice that you did, and because of it, I lost a year’s freedom.” He paused then, very deliberately, for dramatic impact. “Since we both know so much about hard choices, I suppose it is only fair to offer you one now. You can go to Bristol on the morrow, join your companions in their confinement at the castle. Or…you can swear fealty to me, enter my service a
s one of the knights of the royal household.”
Hearing a chorus of indrawn breaths, Edward could not help grinning. He liked nothing better than taking others by surprise, convinced that unpredictability was a virtue every king should cultivate. He had to laugh outright now at the stunned expression on Hugh’s face; the lad looked like he’d been pole-axed, for certes. He thought that his solution—thwarting any threat Hugh might pose by keeping him close at hand—was as magnanimous as it was imaginative, and he’d fully expected Hugh to jump at the offer, as any sensible man would. When Hugh did not, Edward’s smile chilled. “Well, what say you? Or do you need time to think it over?”
Hugh missed the sarcasm, took Edward’s query at face value, and nodded gratefully. “Yes, my liege, I do. I was taught that a man ought never to give his word too lightly, for once given, he must stand by it,” he said, with such disarming earnestness that Edward’s mouth lost its hard edge. “My lord… Lady Ellen told me that you’d promised her she can join her husband in Wales once you and Prince Llewelyn resolve your differences. When that comes to pass, would I be free to go, too?”
Fortunately for Hugh, Edward had begun to see some perverse humor in it, that Hugh should need to weigh a prison term against a place in the royal household. “Yes,” he said wryly, “God forbid that you should have to spend the rest of your life in the service of the King.” Glancing about, he beckoned to one of his knights. “Get him shed of those shackles, fed, and cleaned up, then bring him back here after the Mass.” Reaching out suddenly, he caught Hugh by the arm. “I’ll have your sworn word, too, that you’ll be planning no Welsh pilgrimages for your lady, and should you break that vow, even Lucifer himself might pity your fate. Understood?”
“I would not break my word—” But before Hugh could protest further, the Earl of Gloucester shouldered him aside, saying in a loud, shocked voice:
“What is this talk of sending de Montfort’s daughter back to Llewelyn?”
“What choice has he?” Davydd’s voice was very bland. “For whom God hath joined together, let no man put asunder.”
That earned him a sharp, amused look from Edward. “My sentiments, exactly,” he said, just as blandly, “provided that Llewelyn ap Gruffydd comes to his senses, of course.”
Roger de Mortimer was no less pleased to hear this than Gloucester, and he was no less outspoken, either. “I thought you summoned us to Lincoln to plan a campaign against that Welsh whoreson. Yet now we’re talking of his marriage plans?”
“I’d not fret if I were you, Cousin,” Davydd interjected, with a smile that could not have been more amiably insulting. “You are our kinsman, after all. If you ask him, Llewelyn might take pity and invite you to the wedding festivities.”
The number of Marcher lords who’d have treated Davydd’s hanging as a holiday was an impressive tribute to Davydd’s trouble-making talents; his sardonic barbs often imbedded themselves deeper than even he realized. But few took their feuds quite as seriously as Roger de Mortimer, and Edward now thought it prudent to step between the two men.
“You’d all best heed what I am about to say. As disappointing as this will be for many of you, it is not my intent to grind Wales into the dust. The Welsh have their own identity, their own ways, their own language. I recognize our differences, am willing, too, to respect them, if I can, although I do think Wales would benefit greatly from further exposure to English custom and English law. Unfortunately for the Welsh, they are not a practical people. Even you would have to admit, my lord Davydd, that your countrymen get drunk as often on dreams as they do on mead.”
“Would I?” Davydd said tonelessly, and Edmund, more intuitive than his brother, said hastily:
“Do you mean, my liege, the Welsh claim that their princes ought to have the same rights as the Scots kings?”
Edward nodded. “Precisely. It is dangerous enough for our island to be split in twain as it is now. To have it fragmented further could be fatal. A ship with more than one hand on the helm is likely to founder, to run aground on the rocks. But there’ll be no shipwrecks during my reign, that I can swear upon the surety of my soul. Llewelyn ap Gruffydd can call himself Prince of Wales. He is still a vassal of the English Crown, no less than my other lords, but for certes, no more. That is a lesson he must learn. For my pretty cousin’s sake, I hope he learns soon.”
Edward’s manifesto produced varying responses in those listening. Eleanora felt a surge of impassioned pride. Her life was not always easy. She’d come to dread her yearly pregnancies, so uncomfortable, confining, and dangerous. Nor did she understand why the Almighty had chosen to claim so many of her babies in the cradle. But her husband’s smile could still light up her world, and it was a rare dark day when he could not convince her, as now, that she was blessed among wives.
Edmund was equally impressed by his brother’s articulate and aggressive concept of kingship, but he was taken aback, too, for this was the first time that he’d realized Edward’s ambitions extended beyond the Scots border.
Blanche, while giving every appearance of being the most rapt of listeners, was actually quite detached, for she was convinced that most men took themselves so very seriously that it behooved women to take them not seriously at all.
The Earl of Gloucester was struggling with his disappointment, for he’d long been coveting additional lands in South Wales, lands he dared not annex as long as Llewelyn ap Gruffydd ruled in Gwynedd. Edward’s uncle Pembroke was no less disgruntled; he, too, had ambitions in Wales. Roger de Mortimer was genuinely fond of Edward, and truly admiring of the younger man’s superior military skills. But he could not help thinking that his interests, England’s interests, would be better served with a weaker king on the throne at Westminster. He had hoped to see Llewelyn’s wings clipped for good this time, and if the opportunity arose to pluck Davydd’s poisoned tongue out by the roots, so much the better. But there was no point in bringing Llewelyn down if his power would then be claimed by the Crown. Looking at his friend, the King, de Mortimer found himself unexpectedly nostalgic for the chaotic days under the foolish, feckless Henry.
But for Hugh, the most interesting reaction of all was Davydd’s. As Edward was speaking, he’d glanced over, caught Davydd in a rare moment, one in which his defenses were down, and on his face, there blazed forth an intense, revealing rage.
When Hugh was escorted back into the Bishop of Lincoln’s great hall, servants were dismantling the trestle tables, removing the last traces of an elaborate noonday dinner. “Wait here,” Sir Gervase instructed, “whilst I tell the King’s Grace that you are ready to swear fealty to him.”
Scrubbed clean of the grime of the road, freed of his manacles, Hugh felt much better physically upon his reentry into the hall. But emotionally, he was still shaken, still beset by doubts. He’d never actually accepted Edward’s offer; that was just taken for granted. But even if he’d concluded that he could not be loyal to the King without being disloyal to his lady, he wondered whether he’d have dared to say Edward nay. The thought of finding himself day in, day out, in Edward’s formidable presence was a daunting one. But then, so was the thought of that Bristol gaol. And at least now he’d be able to see Lady Ellen and Juliana whenever the King held court at Windsor. Had he been imprisoned at Bristol, she’d never even have known what had befallen him.
“You look like a man about to barter his soul to the Devil. Come to think of it, I suppose you are!”
Hugh turned, found himself looking into green eyes full of laughter and good-humored mockery. “I ought to thank you,” he said reluctantly, and Davydd’s brows shot upward.
“But it sticks in your craw. If and when you ever reach Wales, you and my sainted brother ought to get along right well. He is another one who’s sure he’s pure enough to cast the first stone.”
There was nothing good-natured about the mockery now; it stung like a whip. Hugh flushed but stood his ground. “I am uncomfortable with you, I’ll not deny it. But it’s not because I am judging you
. It’s because I do not understand you.”
“Well, you must know that Scriptures say the heart of kings is unsearchable. Mayhap that holds true, too, for rebel Welsh princes in English exile.”
“You can laugh at me if you will, my lord. I still cannot make the puzzle pieces fit. You betrayed your brother, even plotted his murder.” Davydd’s smile disappeared, and Hugh said swiftly, “But you also saved Bran de Montfort’s life after he was captured at the battle of Northampton. He told me you kept the Earl of Pembroke from killing him.”
Davydd shrugged. “I saw a chance to do Pembroke an ill turn. I never could resist an opportunity to muddy the waters.”
“The way you did this forenoon, when you came to my aid? If not for you, I’d still be in irons.”
“I’d not make too much of that if I were you. I was just curious to see if a skilled puppeteer could pull the King’s strings as easily as any other man’s.”
“If you say so, my lord. I find it strange, though, that you seemed indifferent to a charge of treason, yet felt compelled to defend yourself against two accusations of simple kindness.”
Davydd snatched a wine cup from a passing servant’s tray. “I am beginning to think I did you no favor. You’ll be a lamb to the slaughter at Edward’s court.”
“I doubt that you belong here, either, my lord. I was watching you whilst the English King laid out his plans to humble the Welsh. Judging from what I saw, I’d say that you’re on the wrong side in this coming war. What’s more, I think you know it, too.”
“For Christ’s sake, Hugh, nothing is as simple as you make it out to be!”
“Some things are, my lord.” Hugh insisted, with such infuriating, ingenuous certitude that Davydd drained his wine cup in several deep swallows.
“Ere I forget to ask, how did my brother take it when you told him his bride had been snatched on the high seas? Did his vaunted control slip—even a little?”
The Reckoning Page 30
