The Reckoning

by Sharon Kay Penman

  “Davydd? What has happened?” Elizabeth’s blue eyes were anxious, for although Blanche had managed to keep her out of earshot, she knew at once that something was wrong; she was learning to read Davydd as monks read their prayer books.

  Davydd lowered the wine cup. He’d deliberately set out to make her fall in love with him, in part because it made sense to have a fond wife, in part to see if he could. But it had not been much of a challenge, had been almost too easy. No one had ever shown Elizabeth tenderness before; it had taken no more than that. Once he realized the extent of his victory, Davydd had been assailed by qualms, fearing that he might drown in her devotion, find it cloying, a surfeit of sweets. Much to his surprise, he found that he liked it. Other women had loved him, of course, or so they’d claimed, but they’d not been his, and no one had ever loved him the way Elizabeth did, utterly and unconditionally and wholeheartedly. He’d thought himself to be familiar with love in all its erotic guises, had not known it could be soothing, too.

  “Davydd? Can you not tell me what is amiss?”

  “Later, cariad,” he said, and found a passable smile for her. “I’ll tell you later.” And the odd thing, he thought, was that he probably would.

  Ellen wanted only to escape the hall, and she followed Edward like a sleepwalker, let him lead her out into the mild June night. “I think you need some time away from prying eyes,” he said, and steered her across the bailey. Moments later, she found herself sitting upon a bench in the chapel gardens where she’d once plotted an escape with Hugh, watching Edward stride back and forth in the moonlight, filling the cloisters with echoes of his laughter.

  “I nearly bit my tongue off, trying to keep from laughing aloud. Bless you, lass, for you’ve given me a memory to cherish into my dotage. I never thought it was possible to catch Davydd off balance; God knows, I’ve tried often enough!”

  At last becoming aware of Ellen’s silence, Edward moved toward the bench. “You still have not gotten your color back. Davydd truly did distress you; I can see that now. You’re very loyal, Ellen. Llewelyn is luckier than he knows.”

  “I doubt that Llewelyn feels very lucky these days,” Ellen said softly. Edward came closer. Straddling the bench, he reached over, tilted her face up toward his. Ellen went rigid at the touch of his fingers on her throat. He fancies you, girl. But after giving her a long, intent look, he leaned back, put space between them.

  “An interesting evening, and a revealing one. I discovered that Davydd is not as imperturbable as he pretends to be, and that you do have a temper, after all, Little Cousin. I often wondered about that, for Aunt Nell could flare up faster than Greek fire, and Simon’s temper was even quicker to kindle. I was beginning to suspect you must be a foundling.”

  Ellen managed a flickering smile, fidgeted with her wedding ring. She knew he must see how nervous she was, but she could not bring herself to meet his eyes; his gaze was coolly probing, speculative, daunting.

  “I meant it when I commended you upon your loyalty, Ellen. That is an admirable trait. I daresay Llewelyn ap Gruffydd would be heartened to know that you’ve made his enemies your own. It does make me curious, though. When you tally up Llewelyn’s grievances, why give so much more weight to Davydd’s sins? I am his enemy, too, am I not?”

  Ellen’s mouth had gone dry. “Yes,” she agreed, “you are his enemy.” She swallowed, then raised her lashes, looked him full in the face. “But you are not his brother. You never betrayed him, or took advantage of his trust. You never sat across a table from him, smiled whilst knowing your hired killers were on the way!”

  Her voice had risen, the rage spilling out at last. But it gave her outburst the ring of truth. Even before he nodded, she saw that he believed her. “I would that I could promise you a happy ending, Ellen,” he said quietly. “But I cannot, and we both know that.”

  She nodded, too, thinking that she’d liked it better when he lied.

  The grass was littered with rose petals. Ellen had plucked them, one by one, until only the stem remained. It had taken her a while to convince Edward to return to the hall without her. He had balked at first, not agreeing until she confessed the truth, that she yearned, above all else, for time alone. He’d gone then, reluctantly, but he was likely to send someone out to check upon her if she did not soon return to the hall. She knew that he did not fear she might escape, for what was she to do, jump over the walls, tunnel under them? No, she was coming to believe that his concern for her well-being was genuine. But it mattered for naught; he’d not be swayed by sentiment. Amaury could rot at Corfe Castle for the rest of his days. Llewelyn could lose all in this coming war, even his life. And there was nothing she could do for either of them.

  “My lady.” She’d not heard the footsteps on the grassy inner garth, and she jumped hastily to her feet, resentful that her solitude had been cut so short. But her irritation vanished as soon as she recognized the man coming toward her. Nicholas de Waltham was a Gilbertine canon from Lincoln, a man whose loyalty to the de Montfort family had endured, both in good times and bad. Ellen had noticed his arrival that morning, but had been chary of seeking him out in public, for his de Montfort credentials were well-known; Nell had even named him as one of the executors of her will. What was not known, though, except to a select few, was that Master Nicholas was also a spy, Llewelyn’s eyes and ears at the English King’s court.

  “When I saw you leave the hall with the King, I seized my chance,” he said, and kissed her hand with a gallant flourish, for his manners had always been more evocative of the court than the priesthood. “But I’d best get right to the heart of the matter, for we ought not to be seen alone together.” Reaching into the tunic of his cassock, he drew forth a small prayer book. “Reading this psalter will give you solace,” he said sententiously, and then grinned. “But it will give you joy, too, especially the letter hidden within the binding—a message from your lord husband.”

  Nicholas de Waltham well knew the risks he took, but moments like this made it worthwhile, for Ellen was looking at him as if he were a candidate for canonization. He’d wager it was a long time since anyone had seen the Earl’s lass smile the way she was now smiling at him, and as he smiled back, it was almost as if he were still serving Earl Simon.

  “Lord Llewelyn is greatly concerned, my lady, that you do not despair. He worries lest you feel he has forsaken you, says—”

  “No! Master Nicholas, that is not so! You must tell Llewelyn that for me, tell him that I know all he has done on my behalf. I know that he has appealed to the Pope. I know of the large ransom he offered for me. And I know that he even agreed to do homage as Edward demanded, offering to come to Montgomery or Oswestry under safe conduct—if only I were freed. Do you think I do not understand what it cost him to make that offer? He has nothing to reproach himself for, Master Nicholas, nothing!”

  “So I told him, too. But it will mean more, I suspect, coming from you. Now… I have some news about your brother. His Holiness the Pope has instructed the Archbishop of Canterbury to speak out again on Amaury’s behalf; they are seeking to have Amaury transferred into the custody of the Church. The Pope continues, too, to urge Edward to set you free. As does the King of France. So you see, my lady, you are not friendless, have not been forgotten.”

  “How glad I am,” Ellen said, “that you sought me out tonight, for I was much in need of cheer. Master Nicholas…is there any way you could get a letter back to my husband?”

  “I fear not. The roads have already become too dangerous, and once the King crosses into Wales…” He hesitated. “My lady…there is something else you must know, and I’d rather you hear it from me. The Archbishop of Canterbury has acted to excommunicate Prince Llewelyn and lay Wales under Interdict. It was done at the King’s behest, of course. It is indeed sad, my lady, that political needs should carry such weight in spiritual matters, but that is the way of our world. The very threat of excommunication is enough to strike fear in any man’s soul, and for that very reason,
it is so effective—and so often abused. My lady, I know of a case where a Bishop excommunicated the men who dared trespass in his hunting park! Can you believe that the Almighty would deny a man salvation for so trivial a sin?”

  “There is no need to convince me, Master Nicholas. I well know how meaningless—and how unjust—excommunication can be. I am Simon de Montfort’s daughter, after all. No more devout Christian ever drew breath than my father, yet he died excommunicate, made an outcast amongst men of faith—because the Pope would curry favor with England’s King.”

  Nicholas nodded. “I am glad you see that, my lady. Now I’d best get back to the hall ere I’m missed. But I do not want to leave you…”

  “I think I’d like to be alone,” Ellen said, mustering up one last smile for his benefit. But as soon as his footsteps faded away, she sank down on the bench. For all her brave talk about the dubious worth of a politically motivated damnation, it was not so easy to defy the teachings of a lifetime, and it chilled her to realize that Llewelyn must ride into battle with God’s curse upon him.

  Clutching the psalter to her breast, she made a hasty sign of the cross. “How can you ever forgive me, Llewelyn,” she whispered, “for what I’ve brought upon you?”

  18

  Aberconwy Abbey, Wales

  July 1277

  English invading armies rarely penetrated so far west. But whenever they did succeed in crossing the Conwy, they invariably fell upon the abbey spread out along the river’s left bank, plundered and looted and burned. In these hot, humid July days, the White Monks of the Cistercian abbey of St Mary dreaded what might lie ahead for them.

  Rumors traveled even faster than Llewelyn’s hard-riding scouts in this summer of fear and foreboding. All knew that the English King had reached Chester, that he was poised for an assault into the very heartland of Llewelyn’s realm. The monks knew, too, that he had assembled the largest army ever to threaten Gwynedd, four hundred archers and crossbowmen, more than fifteen thousand foot-soldiers. After months of border raids, after months of turmoil along the Marches, after months of tension and reversals and retreats, the conflagration seemed almost upon them, and they could only search the horizon with anxious eyes, awaiting the first smudges of smoke.

  The monks were much heartened, therefore, by the unexpected arrival of their Prince. They took an instinctive, elemental comfort in his presence, made excuses to neglect their chores and slipped into the guest hall, where they kept inconspicuously to the shadows, following Llewelyn with eyes full of faith, expectant in spite of themselves, willing him to find one more miracle for their abbey, for Wales.

  Llewelyn’s relations with the Welsh Church were not always harmonious; he’d had serious disputes with both the Bishop of Bangor and the Bishop of St Asaph. But with the White Monks of Wales, he had forged a bond beyond breaking. They scorned the Archbishop of Canterbury’s English edict, scorned the perfidy of the Bishop of Bangor, the only Welsh prelate willing to publish the excommunication order, which he’d done with unseemly stealth, just before fleeing to England.

  Cowardice seemed to be catching, the monks agreed. Most of their Prince’s Welsh allies had bolted to the English camp. And the rumor sweeping the guest hall was that Prince Llewelyn was at Aberconwy to await a prisoner, one of his own bailiffs, seized ere he could flee to Edward. They speculated among themselves as to the identity of this latest traitor, damning him all the while in most un-monk-like language. Let others think only of saving their own skins. They’d hold fast, would not abandon their lord. And if they truly were facing Armageddon, then by the soul of St Davydd, they’d face it together, as Welshmen and Christians and free men.

  As he moved among them, their Abbot heard these whispered pledges of fealty, heard, too, their murmured solicitude, and he had to smile, for these austere brothers of God sounded almost maternal in their worries for their lord’s well-being, expressing concern that he was demanding too much of himself, that he was not sleeping or earing as he ought. Although he smiled, Maredudd was inclined to agree with them, for never had he seen Llewelyn so finely drawn, like a man fighting a fever, dark eyes hollowed and glittering, every line of his body communicating a taut, watchful wariness. Even now, sitting at ease in the window-seat, long legs entangled in the sprawled, sleeping wolfhounds at his feet, he put Maredudd in mind of an arrow nocked against a drawn bowstring, ready to fire. Appropriating the nearest man’s mead cup, Maredudd carried it across the hall, handed it to his Prince.

  Up close, Llewelyn’s exhaustion was even more apparent, the sort of fatigue that burned into the bone, so familiar it was no longer noticed. “You look dreadful,” the Abbot said, with the candor permitted of a long-time friend, and Llewelyn shrugged, then smiled.

  “I know,” he conceded. “I almost fell asleep in the saddle this forenoon. Luckily my stallion had no mischief in mind, else I might have gone head over arse into a blackthorn bush. I remember reading that Alexander the Great once stumbled whilst leaping from a boat, sprawled flat in front of his entire army. He saved face, though, by claiming he was embracing the terra firma of the Asian land he’d come to conquer. But the Welsh are a less credulous lot; they’d likely have laughed.”

  “I’d say that—” Maredudd got no further. Llewelyn was staring past him, toward the door. He turned, felt a jolt at sight of the man being escorted into the hall, shackled at the wrists. He’d thought he was beyond shock, but Rhys ap Gruffydd was a scion of one of the great families of Gwynedd, grandson of Llewelyn Fawr’s legendary Seneschal, Ednyved ap Cynwrig. Maredudd liked to believe that breeding mattered, that good blood told in men as it did in horses. Remembering then that Rhys had been a favorite carousing companion of Davydd ap Gruffydd, he felt some of his surprise begin to recede, for he also believed the Latin maxim, “Qui cum canibus concumbent cum pulicibus surgent.” He who lies with dogs will rise with fleas.

  Rhys ap Gruffydd was stiff from so many unwilling hours in the saddle. He was also angry and afraid. But after one quick glance about the hall, he decided he had as much to fear from his own kinsmen as he did from his betrayed lord. Llewelyn seemed to have his rage under control. His uncle Tudur, though, looked like a man contemplating a killing. His cousin, Goronwy ap Heilyn, gave him a burning stare, then spat deliberately into the floor rushes. Einion, a kinsman by marriage, wed to Rhys’s elder sister, was standing by the door, yet he said not a word as Rhys passed, just slowly shook his head. Rhys swallowed with difficulty. He knew Llewelyn ap Gruffydd had never put a political foe to death. But he’d never been backed onto a cliff’s edge before, either.

  Rhys had often teased Davydd about his “forked tongue,” but he’d have given virtually anything now for the merest measure of Davydd’s glibness. Shoved to his knees, he struggled to regain his balance, sought to sound properly indignant as he cried, “My lord Llewelyn, what is this about? If this is the way you treat men of good faith, men loyal—”

  “I know.” Llewelyn did not raise his voice. Yet those two softly uttered words set the blood thudding in Rhys’s ears. He’d always known Llewelyn ap Gruffydd was a dangerous man to cross. But the English King was just as dangerous, so what in Christ’s pity was a man supposed to do?

  “Did you hear me, Rhys? I said I knew.” Llewelyn had not yet risen from the window-seat. Reaching out, he grasped the chain binding Rhys’s wrists. “You’ve been in secret communication with my brother Davydd. He procured for you a royal safe-conduct. And then you waited, trying to judge the most opportune time to go over to Edward. Unfortunately for you, you waited too long.”

  Llewelyn’s voice was still pitched low, but held so much scorn that Rhys flushed darkly. His uncle had moved to Llewelyn’s side. “I am thankful,” Tudur said roughly, “that your father is not alive to see how you’ve shamed us, Rhys.”

  Rhys could have dealt with their anger. But he found now that he could not endure their contempt. With a sudden yank, he sought to pull his shackles free, but Llewelyn had too firm a grip. He tightened the chai
n around his fist, jerked, and Rhys sprawled into the floor rushes. Hearing laughter, both from Llewelyn’s men and the monks, he forgot all else but his own rage.

  “I deny nothing,” he snarled. “I was indeed going to make peace with the English King. And it would have been an easy trail to take, for I needed only to follow all who’d gone before me—including your own brothers! Yes, I said brothers! Rhodri is with Edward now, too. Ah, you did not know that? It ought not to surprise you. Why should men be willing to die with you? For you are going to die, you know. All of you fools are,” he jeered, “unless you save yourselves whilst you still can!”

  There was a silence, and then someone—Rhys never knew whether it was a monk or a soldier—shouted, “We’d rather die with our Prince than live as bondsmen under an alien, foreign-tongued King!” But Rhys paid that unknown voice no heed. Panting, he waited for the only verdict that mattered, and as Llewelyn leaned forward, he flinched from what he saw in the other man’s eyes. For a moment, Llewelyn pulled the chain taut, then let it go.

  “You are the one who is a fool, Rhys,” he said scathingly. “We all die sooner or later, every mother’s son. But there are far worse ways for a man to die than defending his homeland.”

  The church was very still. The scent of incense lingered in the air, and wall torches bathed the choir in flickering red light. Llewelyn did not approach the candle-lit High Altar. God did not serve the King of England, would not deny salvation for the sin of loving Wales. By what right did they dare to appropriate the Almighty, seek to make of Him an accomplice in their plot to annex Wales for the English Crown? But no man was ever utterly deaf to whispers in the dark. When the priests banished an unrepentant soul from God’s Grace, they cast flaming candles onto the ground, plunging the church—and the sinner—into darkness. Llewelyn gazed upward, his eyes probing the shadows until he found the carved crucifix high above his head. Only then did he turn back toward the tombs.