“My lord Davydd!” Davydd turned, and then swore under his breath, for Hugh de Whitton was hastening toward him. “The camp is awash in rumors. Men are saying that the King told his council it is to be war to the utmost, with no quarter given. You were there. Is it true?”
“Well…they are about to carve up the pie.” Hugh frowned, looking so earnest, so honorable, so steadfast, that Davydd wanted suddenly to see him shaken out of that righteous rectitude. “I can tell you this much, that you’d best hope your lady looks good in black.” He got what he wanted; Hugh could not hide his dismay. But the satisfaction it gave him was spurious, the sort to leave a sour after-taste.
Monks were pacing the walkways, paying no heed to Davydd and Hugh. But there was one very intent eye-witness. Sheltered within one of the shaded study carrels along the church’s north wall, Rhodri ap Gruffydd had been watching his brother from the moment Davydd entered the cloister garth, waiting for Davydd to notice him.
Rhodri was better informed than Hugh, for Edward had spared him the indignity of finding out from camp gossip. He had not been surprised by Edward’s disclosure, that once again Davydd had managed to land on his feet, with all nine lives intact. None knew better than he that sooner or later, Davydd always got what he wanted.
But he had been deeply shocked to learn that Owain was to be elevated from prisoner to reigning Prince. Why Owain? Why a soured, tired old man long past his prime? Why Owain and not him?
There may have been a time when he’d pitied Owain’s plight—a little. No more than that, though, for Owain had always been a stranger. Twenty years Rhodri’s senior, brusque and quick-tempered, Owain had played no role in Rhodri’s life; he’d seemed as remote as the father who’d died when Rhodri was five. Llewelyn had been the elder brother who’d mattered—once. He, too, had seemed remote, beyond reach. But the eleven years between them had not been as formidable a barrier, and as Rhodri entered his teens, Llewelyn’s star was already rising. Rhodri had been proud of his brother’s renown. He might even have been content with Llewelyn’s casual kindness, Owain’s benign indifference—had it not been for Davydd, Davydd whom they loved.
Rhodri had not begrudged Davydd that love, not at first, for he’d loved Davydd, too. Davydd had been all that Rhodri so desperately wanted to be himself, cocksure and droll and game for anything. Nothing ever daunted Davydd, not even a childhood as odd and unstable as theirs had been, seven years as hostages of the English Crown. Rhodri thought it only natural that Davydd should be the one favored, indulged, wanted. Even when the English King demanded a hostage again and he was sent back to England, at age eleven, even then he understood why it must be him and not Davydd. Or so he told himself.
And when Owain began a war with Llewelyn on Davydd’s behalf, Rhodri sought to understand that, too. Owain had paid a high price, two decades at Dolbadarn Castle, but Davydd had been forgiven. Less than seven years later, he’d rebelled a second time, and when he fled to England, Rhodri waited, patiently, for Llewelyn to turn to him. It never happened. Instead, Davydd was forgiven yet again.
Rhodri was never sure when he’d begun to hate Llewelyn, but he knew exactly when he’d begun to hate Davydd—when he came back from English exile, jaunty, unrepentant, still able to take from Rhodri without even trying. Rhodri supposed it had always been that way. But he was no longer that bedazzled little brother, satisfied with their leavings. And so he’d tried to claim his fair share of Gwynedd, succeeded in attracting Llewelyn’s attention at last; his brother cast him into prison. Owain’s captivity was a source of some controversy. He had many sympathizers among those who held to the old ways, the old laws. Bards sang of Owain’s lonely days at Dolbadarn, compared him to a caged eagle. When Rhodri was imprisoned, no one protested, and when he was freed, no one noticed.
Defecting to the English King had been Rhodri’s vengeance. But that had not worked out, either—because of Davydd. Always Davydd. He seemed to have won over Edward as easily as he’d once beguiled Owain and Llewelyn. Rhodri was awed by the English King’s generosity. He’d given Davydd his own kinswoman, an heiress who doted upon Davydd’s every whim. He’d granted Davydd the use of a Cheshire manor. Just a fortnight ago, he’d even knighted Davydd. That might not be a Welsh custom, but it was a notable honor, one Rhodri would have cherished. Instead it had gone to Davydd, who cared naught for English accolades, joking that he’d rather be St Davydd than Sir Davydd. No, nothing had changed. Edward paid him two shillings a day, whilst Davydd was to be rewarded with a crown. Nothing had changed at all.
Rhodri stiffened suddenly, for Davydd had turned away from Hugh, was striding rapidly up the pathway. But he did not glance in Rhodri’s direction, passed the carrel without looking within. Rhodri said nothing, let him go by.
In early September, an English army landed on the island of Môn. The soldiers were accompanied by more than two hundred reapers, and Welsh wheat soon fell to English scythes and sickles. At the same time, Edward moved west along the coast to the ruins of Deganwy Castle, razed to the ground by Llewelyn in more auspicious days. The River Conwy had always proved to be a formidable barrier for English invaders; only once in the past hundred years had it been crossed. But now Edward was in a position to strike from Môn, threatening Llewelyn’s flank. The Welsh were masters at guerrilla warfare; despite the uneven odds, Llewelyn might have held his own had Edward attempted to follow him into the soaring, sky-high heartland of his realm. But Edward did not. He kept to the coast, and kept up the pressure. A deadly waiting game had developed. If the alpine citadel of Eryri was Llewelyn’s most invincible fortress, it was now a citadel under siege.
Dolwyddelan was where Llewelyn stored his coffer chests, jewels, English money, for no Welsh prince minted his own coins. But Dolwyddelan held another treasure-trove, one made of memories. It had always been his favorite castle, the place where he felt most at peace. He’d walked by the river with his grandfather, hunted on the wooded slopes of Moel Siabod, taken more than one woman to see Rhaeadr Ewynnol by moonlight, and he’d once hoped to show Ellen de Montfort the view from the castle battlements—mountains and sky and a deep forest glen, festooned by a flowing ribbon of river, a haven to rival any earthly Eden.
The autumn was not a season he liked, winter’s accomplice, slowly, inexorably stealing the daylight and icing the heights of Eryri. Llewelyn, a man who’d spent much of his life sleeping around campfires, living in the saddle, braving snow and drenching rains, harbored a secret loathing of the cold. But he knew that, even in springtime, the Lledr Valley would never look as beautiful as it did now, aflame with October golds and reds and burnished browns. There were hawthorn bushes by the river as bright and clear as claret, and mountain ash the shade of melted honey, rustling clouds of oak and alder, leaves swirling upon a deceptively mild breeze, the merest whisper of the winter winds to come.
“Uncle?” Caitlin burst through the doorway onto the battlements, disheveled and out of breath. She’d climbed the stairs so rapidly that she had to grab on to the closest merlon for support, waiting for the stitch in her side to ease. “I’ve been searching for you everywhere,” she panted. “Is…is it true? Are you going to surrender to the English King?”
“Yes.”
“But…but why?”
“Because,” Llewelyn said tiredly, “this is a war I cannot hope to win.”
Caitlin hastened along the parapet. “I do not understand. Why can you not stay here at Dolwyddelan, where you’re safe, wait for the English King to lose heart and go home?”
“He is not going anywhere, lass, not until he has my seal upon a treaty of surrender…or my head upon a pike. England is so much larger than Wales, so much richer…and so many of our people do not fully comprehend the danger, even now. We dwell on the very brink of a cliff, and if we’ve managed so far to avoid plunging into the abyss, it is only because no English king was willing to commit all the resources of the Crown to a war with Wales—until now. That is the message Edward was sending me when he struck
that devil’s deal with Davydd. There’ll be no winter respite for us, no English withdrawal till the spring thaw. Edward is the first of their kings able to sustain a winter campaign, and if need be, he will.”
“Because of the grain he stole?”
Llewelyn nodded. “That was a two-edged theft, hurting us as much as it helped him. But his true power lies in his fleet. If he cannot be starved out, Caitlin, how can he lose? He is building castles to last until Judgment Day, putting down roots so deep he’ll never be dislodged. If he can claim Eryri, too—or give it over to a puppet Welsh prince of his choosing—we will never be able to throw off the English yoke…never. Unless I can hold on to Eryri, the land west of the Conwy, we are well and truly doomed.”
“But what can you gain by surrendering? Even if you are bound to lose, why make it easy for Edward? Why put the noose around your own neck?”
“My defeat may well be inevitable, lass, but it would also be prolonged, costly, and bloody. I said Edward could fight a winter campaign; I did not say he’d want to do so. As long as I’ve not been defeated on the field, I do not come empty-handed to the bargaining table. By yielding now, I have a chance to save Gwynedd from utter destruction. I’d be sparing our people further suffering, a winter haunted by famine. And I’d be gaining Ellen her freedom. I’ll not deny the danger involved, but with so much at stake, it is a risk worth taking.”
Caitlin did not agree. “Uncle Llewelyn, please do not do this! The English King cannot be trusted. Did you not tell me that Edward’s word would not bear a feather’s weight? You said he’d left a trail of broken oaths across the length and breadth of England, that he’d made a truce with Harry de Montfort when he was trapped in Gloucester Castle, only to recant as soon as Harry rode away, and Harry was his friend!” She was running out of breath by now, but she plunged on, as if he might reconsider if only he’d hear her out. “You said he even dared to renege upon an oath given to the Bishop of Worcester, and…and when London’s Mayor trusted to his safe-conduct after Evesham, he threw the poor man into a Windsor dungeon! Why should he not do the same to you? What is to keep him from casting you into a dungeon, too, once you’re in his power?”
“Nothing,” Llewelyn admitted reluctantly. “I’ll not lie to you, lass. If I ride into Edward’s camp, I may not ride out. Since I cannot trust in Edward’s good faith, I shall have to put my trust in the Almighty.”
“I am sure your father trusted in God, too. But he still spent his last days in an English prison! How can you hold your own life so cheaply? Are you not afraid?”
“Not being a fool, of course I am,” Llewelyn snapped. But she was not quick enough; as she turned away, he saw how her mouth was trembling. Thirteen had been a troubled age for him; he’d never felt utterly at ease, even in his own body, no longer a child, not yet a man, buffeted by emotions and urges beyond his ken. Thirteen was an odd and unsettling time for lasses, too, he was discovering; in the past year, he’d learned to stand aside, to let his niece try her fledgling wings, flutter to earth, then try again. She was angrily blinking back tears now, Caitlin who never cried, and he reached out, grasped her shoulders, and drew her toward him.
“Listen to me, lass. I must do this. You’d not believe me if I said it was going to be easy for me. Even if Edward does keep faith, it will be the most difficult thing I’ve ever done, in this life or the next, I’d wager. Now I need you to accept what must be, just as I must. Can you do that for me, Caitlin?”
She bit her lip, nodded. “But…but what if Edward does not keep faith?” she whispered, and he hid a smile, marveling that such a fey little creature, as fine-boned and fragile as a bird in the hand, could be as stubbornly tenacious as a bear-baiting mastiff.
“Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof,” he said softly. “Do you know what that means, lass?”
“It…it is from Scriptures, I think,” she ventured, “but…”
“It means that we’d do better to face our troubles as they come, one at a time. I want you to keep that in mind.”
“I’ll try,” she agreed, quite unconvincingly. Belatedly recognizing the need for solitude that must have driven him up to the castle battlements, she offered, “Shall I leave you now?” and tried not to feel hurt when he nodded. But as she reached the stairwell, she came to an abrupt halt. “I hate my father,” she said, her voice thickening. “I’ll never forgive him, never!” The door slamming upon what might have been a sob.
Llewelyn started after her, then stopped, for what could he say? What comfort could he offer? Turning back to the battlements, he tracked a kestrel’s flight, hovering high above the earth as it searched for prey. He was not as reconciled to what must be as he’d led Caitlin to believe. His head might be in control, but his heart was in rebellion, and he did not know how to silence the subversive inner voice still urging defiance, or how to steel himself for what lay ahead.
The sun was in retreat. As dusk muted the colors flaming in its wake, it disappeared beyond the distant hills. Daylight was fast ebbing away, and the landscape seemed to dim, taking on the soft, blurred contours of an autumn twilight. The wind had picked up, carried to him the faint chiming of church bells; Vespers was being rung. Still, Llewelyn did not move. He remained alone on the battlements, watching as the sky darkened and night descended upon the Lledr Valley.
In response to Llewelyn’s peace overtures, Edward dispatched his clerk, Anthony Bek, and Otto de Grandison to Aberconwy Abbey to meet with Llewelyn’s Seneschal, Tudur ab Ednyved, and Tudur’s cousin, Goronwy ap Heilyn. But although the English King was willing to accept a negotiated settlement, his terms for ending the war were harsh ones.
Llewelyn was compelled to yield to Edward the four cantrefs east of the River Conwy, and all land seized by Edward. He was to be allowed to retain control of the island of Môn, but he would hold it only as a vassal, paying one thousand marks a year for that privilege, and if he died without heirs of his body, Môn would revert to the English Crown. He must pay a staggering fine of fifty thousand pounds, a sum to cripple the Welsh economy for years, and to yield ten highborn hostages. He must free his brother Owain, and come to terms with both Owain and Rhodri. He must also free the would-be assassin, Owen de la Pole, and the would-be defector, Rhys ap Gruffydd. The lords of Upper and Lower Powys were to be restored to power. He was to swear homage and fealty to Edward, and to repeat his submission every year, with his own subjects required to stand surety for his continued loyalty. Lastly, he was to forfeit the homage of all but five lords of Gwynedd, all others to owe homage only to the English King.
Edward, on his part, agreed to allow Llewelyn to hold Davydd’s share of Gwynedd for his lifetime, providing for Davydd out of his own conquests, granting him two of the four cantrefs claimed by the Crown. He agreed that when disputes developed between English and Welsh, the law to apply would be that of the land in which the conflict arose, excluding the four cantrefs. Llewelyn was absolved of the anathema of excommunication, restored to God’s favor, the Interdict lifted from Wales. And he was permitted to retain the title that was now only a courtesy, Prince of Wales, a hollow mockery that seemed to Llewelyn the cruelest kindness of all.
On November 9th, Llewelyn came to Aberconwy Abbey to accept Edward’s terms, feeling like a man asked to preside over his own execution. A remembered scrap of Scriptures kept echoing in his ears like a funeral dirge: Jerusalem is ruined and Judah is fallen. Gwynedd had been gutted by a pen, just as surely as by any sword thrust. He’d lost more than the lands listed upon parchment; he’d lost the last thirty years of his life, for Gwynedd had been reduced to the boundaries imposed upon the Welsh by the Treaty of Woodstock in 1247. Llewelyn had been just nineteen then, new to power and to defeat. That had been his first loss to England, and his last—until now, until the Treaty of Aberconwy, which destroyed a lifetime’s labor in the time it took to affix his great seal to the accord. Never had he known such despair. And the worst was still to come, for on the morrow he must ride to Rhuddlan Castle,
there make a formal and public surrender to the English King.
20
Rhuddlan Castle, Wales
November 1277
The sky was ashen, spattered with scudding clouds. The wind was churning the waters of the straits into a white-capped cauldron. By the time they reached the Clwyd estuary, sleet had begun to fall.
The fog was patchy, thicker to the north, blanketing the site of Edward’s new castle; Llewelyn could only guess how far the construction had advanced. Downstream, Rhuddlan Castle was looming, rising from the mists lying low upon the river. Llewelyn drew rein, staring up at the banner flying above the keep. It flapped wildly in the wind, golden lions on a blood-red background, the royal arms of England.
After a time, Tudur nudged his stallion forward, joined Llewelyn at the water’s edge. He was not the sort to offer counterfeit comfort, so he said nothing. They could detect movement now upon the castle’s outer walls. Sentries had finally taken notice of them, and they soon saw curious faces peering over the battlements, soldiers jostling and elbowing for space at the embrasures.
“It seems that I’m to be the afternoon’s entertainment,” Llewelyn said bitterly. Tudur glanced sharply into his face, then away. They sat their mounts in silence, gazing across at the castle until Otto de Grandison broke ranks behind them. A soldier of some renown, he believed in a kinship born of the battlefield, a bond that transcended the barriers built up by national boundaries, be they English, Welsh, or the borders of his own Burgundy, for boundaries were subject to change, but manhood and pride and courage were enduring, immutable. And so, while Anthony Bek fidgeted at the sudden delay, he ignored the priest’s impatience, waited until he thought Llewelyn was ready. Only then did he come forward, politely query if he should now summon the ferry from the castle.
The Reckoning Page 36
