Elizabeth had jumped to her feet at sight of an intruder. Now, as she realized the identity of the man coming toward her from the shadows, she began to tremble. She was so obviously terrified that Davydd swore under his breath, half-expecting her to bolt at any moment.
“I startled you, I can see,” he murmured, and before she could retreat, he grasped her arm, gently but firmly steered her back toward the chair. “I think you ought to sit down, catch your breath, whilst I get you something to drink.”
Elizabeth sat on the very edge of the chair, watching as Davydd recovered the wine cup from the rushes, found a half-full flagon, favored her with a relaxed, reassuring smile. Gripping the cup with both hands, she drank until she’d gotten her courage back. “I know who you are,” she said, very low, glancing swiftly up at him through her lashes and then away. “So…so why are you being so kind to me? After what I said…”
“Hellfire, sweetheart, I’ve been called far worse than a ‘Welsh malcontent!’” But she did not return Davydd’s smile. He could see that her breathing had steadied. In another moment or so, she’d be composed enough to comprehend the significance of his presence here, to realize what a shabby trick he and Edward had played upon her. To head off that moment of reckoning, he said quickly: “I’m glad you brought it out into the open, though. After all, when the body is lying right on the floor in front of us, still warm and twitching, we can hardly ignore it, might as well dissect it.” But that earned him not even the glimmer of a smile. She looked at him so blankly that he sighed softly; this was not going to be easy. “The marriage,” he said patiently. “I think we ought to talk about it. It is only fair that I begin by discussing the disadvantages of marriage to me. But in all honesty, I can think of nary a one!”
Again, he failed to get a smile. “Well, on to the advantages. Does a crown catch your interest? There is a very real possibility that I might one day be Prince of Wales.”
That had not occurred to Elizabeth. But he might also end his days in English exile, dependent upon Edward’s charity. She did not dare to say that, though, kept her gaze locked upon the hands clasped in her lap.
“Of course some people claim my future is more likely to hold a gallows than a coronation,” Davydd joked, and she could not suppress a gasp, her eyes flying upward to his face; Jesú, had he read her mind?
He was laughing silently. “Be that as it may, there are other benefits to be found in marriage to me. Not the least of them is that I’d be able to secure your dower rights in the Marshal lands, to stop your stepson from cheating you. Then there is always the pleasure of my company. I’m easy to content, rarely riled, no small virtues in a husband, I would think. I’m not one for squabbling for its own sake, nor do I believe a man ought to take out his foul moods upon his wife. For certes, I’d never hit you, and—”
He’d thrown out that last reassurance almost as an afterthought. But her reaction stopped him in mid-sentence. Her head jerked up; a hand clenched on the arm of the chair. And he remembered stories he’d heard of the Earl of Derby’s savage temper, felt for this unhappy girl a sudden flicker of pity.
“That…that is easy enough to say.”
“Wales is not like England, Lady Elizabeth. Welsh law forbids a man to strike his wife except under extreme provocation, such as infidelity.” But Davydd could never be serious for long; his mouth twitching, he added, “I might well give you headaches, lass, but not bruises.”
That promise meant more to Elizabeth than the glimmer of a crown—if she could believe him. Reaching for her wine cup again, she was surprised to find she’d drained it dry. Davydd poured her another cupful; she drank gratefully, then remembered her manners and thanked him. “Does Welsh law truly protect women from beatings? Even the Church says a man has the right to discipline his wife…”
“Welshwomen have always been better off than their other sisters in Christendom. They can claim custody of their children, unlike English wives or widows. They have as much right as a man to end an unhappy marriage—although I ought not to be telling you that, should I? And unlike England, where a man can bring his concubine right into the castle keep if he so chooses, in Wales a man who did that would stir up a scandal of impressive proportions; he’d be answerable not only to his wronged wife, but to her outraged kinsmen, as well.”
Elizabeth had never been alone with a man not her kinsman, and she could not quite believe she was really here now, sitting with Davydd ap Gruffydd in the tempting intimacy of a darkened bedchamber. He was very close, perched on the table edge, but his face was in shadow. Never had she been so physically aware of another person. His legs were long, booted to mid-calf in soft cowhide. One hand rested on his knee, and even in such subdued light, she could see a thin white scar snaking across his wrist; she wondered how the wound had occurred, wondered, too, if his body bore other scars. She drank again, and was then astonished to hear herself saying, “You said that…that you’d never bring a concubine under your wife’s roof. But there would be concubines?’”
She’d caught Davydd off balance. “Yes,” he said at last, “there probably would be from time to time. But I’d never shame you, would never flaunt them in public. That I can promise you.”
In the silence that followed, he wondered whatever had possessed him to be so candid. But then Elizabeth startled him again. “Thank you,” she said, “for being honest with me. My father…he treats me like a child, and a dull-witted one at that. And Cousin Edward is no better. ‘I have your best interests at heart,’ he says…in a pig’s eye!” She paused for breath, no less surprised than Davydd by her outburst, and then glanced at him out of the corner of her eye. “I’d not have believed you had you sworn you’d always be faithful,” she said, and Davydd finally saw her smile.
Davydd grinned and reached over, took the wine cup out of her hand. “Slow down with that wine, sweetheart. Wine works wonders for seductions, but I need you sober for a serious conversation about marriage.”
“What is there to say? We both know that the King is giving me no choice in this.”
Davydd slid his fingers under her chin, tilted her face up toward his. “Is it so strange that I’d want your consent? I’ve never enjoyed riding an unwilling horse.”
To his amusement, Elizabeth blushed. “This is so odd,” she said shyly, “this talking in the dark. I can tell that you’re tall, but not much more. Do you…do you look like you sound?”
“How do I sound?” he asked, predictably, and before she could stop herself, she blurted out, “Dangerous!” He laughed, and she could feel her face getting hot again. “You sound,” she said tartly, “like the sort of man my stepmother is always warning me about!”
He had drawn back into the shadows; she could hear him moving about the chamber. “That ought to be enough to send you racing into my arms, then. Do you not always do the very opposite of what Stepmother wants?”
Elizabeth did not know what to say to that; she’d never met anyone who talked like Davydd, saying outrageous things in the most matter-of-fact way. A sudden spark flared; Davydd had found flint and tinder. As the lamp’s flame shot upward, she hastily averted her eyes. She could feel his gaze upon her, almost like a physical touching. Would he be pleased with her, find her pretty? When she mustered enough nerve to look up, she saw that he was smiling.
“Shall I give you your first Welsh lesson, cariad? ‘Trech wyneb teg na gwaddol,’ or, ‘better a fair face than a dowry.’ Fortunately for me, you have both, for I’ve always been a greedy sort!”
Elizabeth joined in his laughter; she was learning to like the sound of it. “My hair is a pale flaxen shade,” she volunteered, for she was very proud of that; no hair color was more prized than hers. “See,” she said, reaching up and unpinning the braid at the nape of her neck. Pulling it free of the wimple draping her throat, she triumphantly held up a plait of pure silver.
Davydd entwined the braid around his fingers, wondering if the hair between her legs was as blonde and silky. “How long do
you mean to keep me in suspense, Elizabeth de Ferrers? Shall I have to drag you, kicking and clawing, down the church aisle?”
Elizabeth tried to look shocked and disapproving, but the corners of her mouth were curving up. Davydd brushed her cheek lightly with the tip of her braid. “Why are you still balking, cariad? Just what were you looking for in a husband? Not many mortal men have haloes.”
“I was not seeking a…a saint,” Elizabeth protested. “I just wanted what every woman wants, a man cheerful and good-natured, a devout Christian, a…” She was having unexpected difficulty concentrating upon the question. His mustache was lighter in color than his hair, held golden glints, and she found herself wondering if it would tickle when he kissed her.
“Then I am still in the race, for I’m good-natured even early in the morn, and I am for certes a Christian. Not even my worst enemies have ever accused me of being a heathen! Go on, what else?”
“He…he should be brave.” Elizabeth faltered; he was stroking her cheek with her own braid again.
“Well, I agreed to marry you sight unseen. What could be braver than that?” She giggled and he moved closer. “What other virtues must your husband possess?”
Elizabeth tilted her head so she could look up into his eyes, green and glittering and surprisingly long-lashed. “He…he should be generous and good-hearted and…” She got no further; he’d begun to laugh again.
“Alas,” he said, shaking his head in mock regret, “that I am not.”
Elizabeth was flustered. “Not…not generous?”
“No…good,” he said softly, and Elizabeth felt an odd shiver go up her spine, a physical chill that was both fear and excitement.
Davydd was very close now; his hand slid down her arm, propelling her forward until their bodies were touching. “Say yes, Elizabeth. I’ll teach you to swear in Welsh and laugh in bed, and we’ll have handsome children for certes!”
Elizabeth had the strangest sensation, almost of vertigo, as if she were teetering upon a cliff’s edge. She hesitated a moment longer, and then let herself go, trusting in Davydd to catch her as she fell. “Yes,” she breathed, “yes,” raising her face for his kiss.
Davydd was too tall to embrace Elizabeth comfortably, a problem he solved by pulling her toward the chair, sitting down, and drawing her onto his lap. Edward had been right about her; she was featherlight and willow-slim, but he was discovering that her body was soft, with more curves than he’d first thought. He kept her kisses gentle, soon felt her lips part, her arms go up around his neck.
Elizabeth was lost, amazed by her own body, by feelings unfamiliar, erotic, and compelling; she never heard the door opening. But Davydd did, glancing up in time to see Edward come to an abrupt halt. And the startled look on Edward’s face was sweeter even than Elizabeth’s eager, virginal kisses.
On November 12th of God’s Year, 1276, the royal council of the English King judged Llewelyn ap Gruffydd to be in rebellion, and war was declared against Wales.
17
Windsor Castle, England
May 1277
Upon his arrival at Windsor, Roger de Mortimer found Edward and Edmund in the sunlit upper bailey, watching a shooting match. Edward was in an expansive, relaxed mood; few would have suspected he was a man about to lead an army into Wales. “You’re just in time, Roger. I want you to see this.”
They’d already drawn a number of spectators, men as intrigued by the contest as by the King’s presence, for the archers were not using the crossbow. The staves of these weapons were much longer than those of the more familiar bow, more than five feet in length, and they were firing fetched arrows with eye-blurring speed, evoking murmurs of awe from those watching.
Not from de Mortimer, though, for he was no stranger to the longbow; it was the weapon of choice in much of Wales, particularly in the South. Moreover, he was travel-stained and saddle-sore and irked by the nonchalance of Edward’s greeting.
Although Edward did not expect to take the field himself until the summer, he had been waging war against the Welsh for months, having launched a three-pronged assault upon Llewelyn’s lands from Carmarthen, Montgomery, and Chester. His battle commanders had won some impressive victories, but none had been as spectacularly successful as de Mortimer, for in April he had seized Llewelyn’s castle at Dolforwyn and restored Gruffydd ap Gwenwynwyn to power in Powys. Having dealt Llewelyn ap Gruffydd such a crippling blow, de Mortimer felt that he deserved a more effusive welcome than he’d gotten, and he listened impatiently as Edward extolled the virtues of the Welsh longbow instead of his own exploits.
“Yes, yes, I know,” he said testily, “the longbow has a greater range. And Your Grace is right; it is more easily mastered than the crossbow. But do you not want to hear my report?”
“Why? After all, you sent me word as soon as Dolforwyn and Buellt fell. What more is there to say?”
De Mortimer’s fatigue had dulled his perception. His temper flared; not until Edward laughed did he realize he was being teased. Waving the others away, Edward clapped him playfully upon the back. “Tell us,” he said, “and leave nothing out. If ever a man was entitled to boast a bit, you are for certes!”
Mollified, de Mortimer began, “Well, it was lack of water that forced the Dolforwyn garrison to surrender…” By the time he concluded, the sun was hovering over the horizon, reflecting the burnt orange of a summer dusk. “And ere I left Buellt, I gave orders to begin construction of a new castle on the site. The old one was razed to the ground by Llewelyn years ago, was beyond restoring. But once it is done, you’ll command the entire Wye Valley.”
“What of Llewelyn ap Gruffydd? Are his whereabouts known?”
“I heard that he was fighting along the Upper Severn. He’s all but lived in the saddle for months now, trying to hold back the tide. But once you cross the River Dee, he’ll disappear into the fastness of Snowdon, dare us to follow. This is what the Welsh always do. You can rarely draw them into a pitched battle. They prefer will-o’-the-wisp tactics, excel at ambush and night raids, and when you try to track them down, they disappear into blue smoke.”
“They’d be fools to do otherwise,” Edward said matter-of-factly. “No Welsh prince could ever hope to put as many men in the field as the English Crown can. So they rely upon that godforsaken, wild land of theirs to repel invaders. And often as not, it does. My great-grandfather, my grandfather, and my father—at one time or another, they all braved those Welsh mountain passes, and they all ended up fleeing back across the border, marking their trail with wooden crosses, shallow graves.”
Edward, too, had sought conquest and glory in Wales, had suffered a humiliating defeat at Llewelyn’s hands. But de Mortimer was not the fool who’d remind him of that youthful failure; he kept a prudent silence.
“No,” Edward concluded, “whenever we did prevail, it was because we were able to turn their own weaknesses against them. Thank God they’re such a jealous, quarrelsome people, more suspicious of one another than any enemy beyond their borders.”
De Mortimer grinned. “Ah, we’re talking now of Davydd, are we? I do owe you a debt, Ned, for not sending him to fight alongside me. I hear he has driven poor Warwick well nigh mad with his griping and swaggering. Is it true he dared to demand that his men be paid wages, as if he were an English lord? That he even balked at sharing the booty from his raids into Wales?”
Edward nodded ruefully. “All true and a trial to my patience, I must admit. Having him with us, though, is like having a lance leveled at Llewelyn’s throat, so it is worth the trouble to keep him content. Bear that in mind, Roger, for he’s on his way to Windsor even as we speak. Warwick warned me that he’s heard rumors about English lords laying claim to Welsh lands once the war is done, so we’re going to be treated to yet another spectacle of Welsh indignation at full blaze. But now that you know, resist the temptation to bait him, if you please. He will be difficult enough to placate as it is.”
De Mortimer made a gesture of exaggerated, extravagant
submission. “As Your Grace wills it, so shall it be…even if it does spoil my fun! Now, if you have no further need of me, I am going to find myself a bath and a bed and a wench.”
Edmund had so far taken no part in the conversation. But as de Mortimer started to turn away, he said, “Roger, wait. There is something I would say to you. As you know, our kinswoman, Eleanor de Montfort, is dwelling here within the castle. Upon his past visits to Windsor, my brother has made her welcome at his court, and I assume this visit will be no different. But I have no doubt that Ellen would find your presence painful—”
“Why?” De Mortimer’s brows rose mockingly. “Because I adorned my gatehouse at Wigmore with her whoreson father’s head? Surely the lass would not hold a grudge over a trifle like that?”
Edmund was not amused. “Stay away from her, Roger,” he said bluntly.
De Mortimer’s surprise was no longer feigned. “And if I do not?”
“You’ll be giving grief to a girl who has had more than her share. And you’ll be making an enemy, one you’ll not want.”
De Mortimer laughed. “I think I can bear the great burden of Ellen de Montfort’s enmity!”
“Not Ellen…me,” Edmund said, and Roger de Mortimer stopped laughing. To Edmund, it was like watching a house preparing for a siege, shutters slamming, bolts sliding into place; de Mortimer’s face went blank, black eyes narrowing in sudden, wary appraisal. It was a look he’d never given Edmund before, one that took an adversary’s measure and found reason for caution. It was a look Edmund liked. He rarely felt the need to wield his power as the King’s brother in so blatant a fashion, but he never forgot that he had it. After today, he knew de Mortimer would not forget it, either.
The Reckoning Page 32
