Edward had been an interested, amused witness to this exchange. He genuinely enjoyed Roger de Mortimer’s company, but he also enjoyed seeing the cocky Marcher lord discomfited, and he moved to Edmund’s side, watching as de Mortimer strode away.
“Very deftly done, Little Brother,” he said approvingly. “Roger needs to be thwarted from time to time, or else he tends to become utterly insufferable. But you need not have feared for Ellen. I care as much for her welfare as you do, would not stand idly by if she were being baited by Roger.”
Edmund gave him a startled, searching look, but he could find no evidence of irony in his brother’s last words; apparently Edward saw no conflict in being both Ellen’s protector and her gaoler. “Ned…we’re well into her second year of confinement. Surely you do not mean to hold her indefinitely?”
“Of course not! I truly do care for the lass, Edmund, and not just because she’s Harry’s sister. She has pluck and common sense, and the very sight of her is enough to please any man not stone-blind!” Edward grinned. “No, I wish her well, and if I can, I will see her wed to her willful Welsh Prince. If I cannot, I’ll find her a more suitable husband. One way or another, we’ll soon know what her future holds.”
“And what do you think the future holds for Wales?” Edmund was very curious about his brother’s ultimate aims in this war, felt he had a right to know, for he was to command Edward’s army in South Wales. “I understand that you’ve ordered your Justiciar to introduce English law into Ireland, saying that Irish law is ‘detestable to God.’ I assume you are no less disapproving, then, of Welsh law and custom. And I know full well that you and Llewelyn ap Gruffydd were fated to clash, for you see him as just another of your vassals whilst he stubbornly insists upon seeing himself as an independent ally. So you have compelling reasons, both as a Christian and as a King, to seek the conquest of Wales. And I cannot help wondering if that is what you mean to do.”
Edward looked thoughtfully at the younger man. “What you say is true enough. As England’s King, I do believe Wales must be more securely yoked to the Crown. And as a Christian, I have a duty to wean the Welsh away from their more heathenish practices. But I am also a soldier, lad, am not about to snatch at any crown that comes within reach, the way our father would, never thinking to count the cost. Look at the needless trouble he brought upon himself by trying to make you King of Sicily! Yes, I want Wales. I am not sure, though, that it would be worth the price I’d have to pay. We’ll have to see what happens, Edmund, once we’ve brought Llewelyn to bay. Then…mayhap then we’ll know what God wants me to do.”
Windsor had always been a favorite residence of the English kings, and Edward was no exception. This was his fourth visit since Ellen had been brought from Bristol Castle, and each time the royal entourage rode into the lower bailey, she was assailed by such a conflicting welter of emotions that she despaired of ever sorting them out. She’d been a prisoner now for seventeen months, and she was starved for news of the world beyond Windsor, desperate for any scrap of information about her husband or brother. She was also so lonely, so bored, and so restless that she welcomed the excitement of Edward’s arrival, welcomed any escape from the deadly monotony of her days. One faded into the other, her life trickling away like the grains of sand in the hourglass by her bed, and if she found her comfortable confinement so onerous, what in God’s Sweet Mercy must it be like for Amaury?
And yet the mere sight of Edward was enough to set Ellen’s every nerve on edge; it was, she thought, the way a rabbit must feel when it caught the scent of fox. After an evening in her cousin’s company, she was often too tense to sleep, for the pretense was taking its toll. She was finding it harder and harder to hide her true feelings, to play the role Edward expected, that of Harry’s sweet little sister, an innocent pawn in need of male protection.
How could Edward be so blind? She and Juliana spent endless hours attempting to puzzle it out, for she was terrified that she might make a misstep, give herself away. They’d finally concluded that even the cleverest of men could have a flawed imagination, be utterly unable to put himself in another man’s place, to see any point of view but his own.
That made sense of sorts to Ellen, for it also seemed to explain why Edward could not admit that Llewelyn had genuine grievances. She well knew that if Llewelyn had dared to harbor a man who’d plotted Edward’s assassination, her cousin would have been outraged. Yet he’d not only sheltered Davydd and Gruffydd ap Gwenwynwyn, he shrugged off Llewelyn’s complaints as if they were of no consequence.
Ellen suspected that most men shared Edward’s affliction to some degree; her own brothers had, for certes. But whilst such singlemindedness had been vexing at times in Harry or Bran, it was truly frightening in a man who wielded the manifold and God-given powers of kingship.
Much to Ellen’s disappointment, Hugh was not with Edward. He had been left behind at Westminster to nurse an infected tooth, would not be joining them until Edward departed for the west on June 10th. Questioning Edward at length, Ellen had been able to satisfy herself that Hugh’s malady was not life-threatening. But Hugh was her only window to the world, and she felt his loss keenly, now more than ever, with war so close at hand.
She discovered, though, that even with Hugh gone, she would not have to face Edward alone and friendless, for Edmund and his wife were part of the royal entourage. Ellen and Blanche had known each other in France; in the years before her marriage to the King of Navarre, Blanche was often at the French court, a favorite with her aunt, Marguerite, and her cousin, Philippe. And with Edmund, Ellen did not have to feign affection. She did not even mind that he had been given her father’s forfeited earldom, for he had played no part in her family’s downfall, having been stranded in France until after Evesham.
But that nostalgic childhood fondness flared into intense, heartfelt gratitude once Blanche confided that Edmund had tried to persuade Edward to move Amaury from Corfe to Sherborne, a castle under his control. Ellen did not doubt that Edmund would be a far more generous gaoler than his brother, and she clung to the hope that he might yet sway Edward. It was a frail hope—she knew that—but the only one Amaury had.
Watching as Eleanora bade goodnight to her small son, Alfonso, Blanche observed, “That is a rare sight, indeed, England’s Queen without a swelling belly. But it’s been fully a twelvemonth since she was brought to bed of her last babe. So any day now I expect an announcement that yet another one is due.”
Ellen nodded. “I cannot help wondering,” she said, “if those constant pregnancies, one right after another, might be why her babies are so sickly. She never has a chance to regain her strength, does she? My mother raised six out of seven children, but Eleanora… My God, Blanche, she’s lost five of her ten so far. How strong she must be, to have survived such sorrow…”
Blanche hesitated, on the verge of sharing a crucial confidence, that she suspected herself to be with child. But she did not, for she enjoyed keeping secrets; not even Edmund knew yet. “Edward has been very attentive to you tonight. Does he always show you such favor, Ellen?”
“Yes, we are very friendly, my cousin and I. He thinks it is quite natural that I should let bygones be bygones. I daresay he expects me to bid him a fond farewell on Thursday next, waving gaily from my prison window as he rides off to make war upon my husband.”
“Ah, Ellen, be bitter if you will. God knows you’re entitled. But self-pity serves for naught. Do not give in to it, not yet. I have a suggestion to make…if you’re interested?”
“You know I am, Blanche. What do you have in mind?”
“Well…you’ll not like it, not at first. Just do not dismiss it out of hand. I was watching as you and Edward were dancing earlier. He fancies you, girl. No—hear me out! If I’m right and he is partial to you, you’d be a fool not to use it against him. Flirt with him, flatter him, and—”
“I think you must be mad! Jesú, Blanche, how could you even suggest—”
“I’m not saying you
should let him bed you! Just…just a bit of dalliance. It would cost you nothing and might gain you a great deal.”
“You have an odd notion as to what comprises a risk. What happens when this little game of yours runs its course and he expects it to end in his bed?”
“Dearest, you say no, as simple as that! I’ll grant you that a woman’s no would not matter to some men. But I’ve never heard it said that Edward was one to force a woman against her will. I’m sure he strays from time to time, but he’s most discreet about it. Why, he almost qualifies as a faithful husband! And for a king, that is truly remarkable, you must admit. Clearly this is a man who is ruled by his head, not his loins. And you have the perfect excuse, should it ever come to that. You’re his first cousin, after all. To couple with him would be a mortal sin, no? So if need be, remind him of that. Or use that wedding ring on your finger. Men always expect women to take marriage vows more seriously than they do; if truth be told, they get downright uneasy when we do not!”
Ellen was laughing now in spite of herself. “Ah, Blanche, you have not changed a whit! But I cannot do what you suggest. I find it hard enough to be civil to Edward. Whenever I smile up at him, all I can see is Amaury, shackled to a bed in the cabin of that wretched cog.”
Blanche frowned. “I do not like to hear you talk like this, Ellen. You sound as if you’ve given up all hope.”
“I know,” Ellen admitted, and smiled wryly. “If I were a rope, I’d be frayed to the breaking point. There are so many times when I truly think I cannot endure a moment more. But I must, and so I do.”
Blanche reached out, gave Ellen’s arm a sympathetic squeeze. “I would to God I had words of cheer. But all I have is a warning. The King is coming this way.”
“Whenever you get that distant, distracted look, I can wager that you are contemplating some sort of mischief,” Edmund murmured, slipping his arm around Blanche’s waist. “Dare I hope it might take place in bed?”
“Oh, you can always hope.” Blanche leaned back into his embrace. “Actually, I was plotting a crime.”
He understood at once; he was far more attuned to the unspoken than most men. “Breaking out of Windsor Castle will not be easy, love. I hope you reconsider. Having lost one wife to fever, I’d rather not lose a second to the gallows.” His attempt at humor falling flat, he nuzzled her cheek. “Sweetheart, you know I sympathize with Ellen’s plight. But she’ll not be held much longer. Ned assures me of that, says it will soon be over.”
“Yes, but how? I’d not see Ellen a widow ere she had a chance to be a wife.” Blanche sighed, but she let the subject drop. Why should she punish Edmund for his brother’s misdeeds? She was about to ask him to dance when there was a sudden stir at the end of the hall. Turning to watch the man who’d paused, deliberately and dramatically, in the doorway, she wondered aloud, “Do you think Davydd ap Gruffydd ever enters a room the way other men do, just walks in without seeking to attract attention, to turn heads?”
“Only if he’s trying to sneak into some absent husband’s bed. Now, that surprises me; he’s brought Elizabeth with him. I wonder why he did not leave her at Frodesham, that Cheshire manor he coaxed out of Ned. Davydd is the last man I’d expect to be playing the doting bridegroom.”
“Edmund, use the eyes God gave you! It is obvious why he has her in tow, because she’d not be parted from him. You need only look at them to see it. That poor lass is daft about him. But then, she’s too young yet to know no man deserves to be loved that much, least of all, hers.”
“No man? Not even me?” Edmund laughed, and then swore. “Christ on the Cross—Ellen! I warned de Mortimer away from her, but I never gave a thought to Davydd!”
Edmund often thought he and Blanche made an excellent team; she proved it now. “I’ll intercept Davydd and the little bride. You go find Ellen, ask her to dance, to run away with you, whatever it takes.”
She was as good as her word, soon had Davydd and Elizabeth engaged in animated conversation. Edmund was not as successful, for the dancing had begun again, and by the time he spotted Ellen, the carol had swept her and Edward into Davydd’s line of vision. Hastening across the hall, Edmund saw Davydd break away from his wife and Blanche. He could only shove his way toward them, knowing he’d be too late.
Ellen at once noticed Davydd’s approach, and for a moment, she let herself hope that this Welshman might be one of Llewelyn’s envoys, for Edward had permitted her to meet with the Bishop of St Asaph that past year. But Davydd’s obeisance was flavored with too much familiarity. Puzzled and curious, she moved closer. And then she drew a sharp breath, for she realized who he was. The brother who’d plotted Llewelyn’s murder.
Edward knew that Davydd invariably trailed trouble in his wake, knew, too, that it would be no easy task allaying Davydd’s suspicions. But he was pleased, nevertheless, to see Davydd, for whatever his other failings, the Welshman was always amusing company. “I’ve been expecting you,” he said affably, waving Davydd to his feet. “I understand you’ve grown tired of bedeviling Warwick, think it is my turn. But not tonight, so hoard your grievances till the morrow. Now…tell me how my little cousin fares. Does she like Cheshire?”
“Your Grace can ask her yourself, for she is here with me. I was loath to leave her,” Davydd said blandly, “we being so recently wed. And as I know just how much Elizabeth’s happiness matters to you, I daresay you’ll be delighted to learn that she is so content.”
Edward tried not to laugh, and failed. “You sound even more smug than usual, which must mean that you’ve managed to do it again, to bedazzle yet another innocent lass! In truth, I have never understood your success. I’ve always found women to be cautious, timid creatures, leery of taking risks, wanting comfort and security above all else. It would go against the natural order of things to see a cat surrounded by mice, begging to be eaten. So how, then, do you end up with mice beyond counting?”
By now, Davydd was laughing, too; he enjoyed their jousting fully as much as Edward. “Mayhap because I do not think women are cautious, timid creatures, leery of taking risks, wanting comfort and security above all else. But then, why not let the mice speak for themselves? The hall is full of lovely ladies. Why not ask them what they seek in a man?”
Davydd’s borderline insolences usually irritated any English within earshot; Eleanora was not alone in wondering why Edward indulged him. But this was the sort of game all enjoyed, verbal sparring between the sexes. Most of the women listening would have been quite willing to take Davydd’s side. Unfortunately for him, when he looked about for allies, he chose the prettiest woman present—Ellen.
“What say you, my lady? Are Englishwomen truly timid and cautious? Or are Englishmen merely the most credulous in Christendom?”
Edward had forgotten Ellen was nearby. Swinging about, he saw at once that she knew, that Davydd did not. He’d rarely had Davydd at such a disadvantage; the temptation to stand aside and savor the moment was considerable. But Ellen’s silence was like sheeted ice, likely to splinter with her next breath. “I think,” he said, “that I ought to introduce you, Davydd, to my cousin, the Lady Eleanor de Montfort.”
Davydd’s surprise was evident; there was an awkward silence. But he made a quick recovery, smiled as if nothing was amiss. “I’d heard you were here, Lady Eleanor,” he murmured, with an oblique, glinting glance toward Edward. “But since I knew the King’s Grace is holding you against your will, I assumed you’d be locked up somewhere. Welsh prisoners rarely get to dine with their captors.”
Davydd saw, to his satisfaction, that he’d annoyed Edward, and he now took advantage of a servant’s passing to snatch wine cups from the man’s upraised platter. “Just what we need,” he said, and thrust dripping cups at Edward and Ellen. “Shall we drink to my brother’s bride?”
Ellen would normally have been grateful to have Edward’s court reminded that she was indeed a prisoner, being held very much against her will. But now she could think only that the man standing before her was th
e brother who’d betrayed Llewelyn, who’d played into Edward’s hands at every turn. If not for Davydd, Llewelyn would have been able to do homage as Edward demanded, and mayhap then Edward would not have felt so threatened by her marriage, mayhap he’d not have sent Thomas the Archdeacon after the Holy Cross. Because of Davydd’s treachery, Amaury was shut away from the sun, she had yet to look upon the man she’d married, and Llewelyn might well be dead ere this wretched war was done.
Wine sloshed from her cup, spilled over her fingers, so tightly was she gripping the stem. The urge to fling the contents into Davydd’s face was overpowering, but she still clung to the shreds of her self-control. Instead, she held her cup out at arm’s length, then tilted it, slowly and deliberately poured the wine into the floor rushes at Davydd’s feet.
Edward had given up the hope of ever seeing Davydd thoroughly discomfited—until now. For an endless and—to Edward—enormously gratifying moment, Davydd was at a loss for words. Then he rallied his defenses and shrugged. “I suppose,” he said, “that this means I shall not be invited to the wedding.” He got what he’d aimed for—laughter—but the flippancy was belied by the angry color still staining his face and throat.
Ellen had already turned away; Edward was following. Davydd envied them their exit, for he would rather have been anywhere else in Christendom than the great hall of Windsor Castle. But he would not retreat, would never give his English audience that satisfaction. He looked down at his wine cup, then raised it to his lips, discovering—too late—that it was hippocras, a wine so heavily sugared and spiced that he almost gagged. Even the English taste in wines was noxious. Leave it to Llewelyn to find himself a woman just as self-righteous as he was. And she was beautiful, too, the de Montfort bitch. Llewelyn would likely be smitten at first sight—if ever he saw her. Davydd drank again, deeply; this time it went down more easily. He was about to drain the cup dry when he felt a hand tugging at his arm.
The Reckoning Page 33
