The Reckoning

by Sharon Kay Penman

  Llewelyn and Tudur looked at him as blankly as if he’d suggested that they cross the river by walking upon the water. “That will not be necessary,” Llewelyn said, with courtesy and just a hint of amusement. Raising his arm, he signaled to his men, then spurred his stallion forward into the river.

  The English were taken aback, but followed once they saw how shallow the water was at that point. As they splashed toward the far bank, Otto kicked his mount to catch up with Tudur. “How did he know the river could be forded here?”

  Tudur gave him another bemused look. “Why would he not know it? This is his country.”

  Not anymore, Otto thought, not anymore. But he refrained from saying so, and watched admiringly as Llewelyn sent his stallion galloping toward Rhuddlan’s gatehouse, scattering the English soldiers loitering by the drawbridge, outdistancing his own men, so that when he rode into the castle bailey, he appeared, for the moment, quite alone and unafraid.

  Roger de mortimer was waiting for Llewelyn, leaning against the doorjamb, blocking the entrance to the great hall. “You’re right on time, Cousin. I think you’ll be pleased by the turnout, nigh on a hundred men eager to watch you surrender to the English King.”

  Llewelyn dismounted, dropped the reins to anchor his mount. “So many? That rivals the crowd likely to come out for your hanging.”

  To his credit, de Mortimer could take a jab as well as deliver one, and he grinned. “I see you’ve held on to your sense of humor. That is truly remarkable, considering the humbling ordeal ahead of you.”

  Llewelyn looked pensively at the other man, wondering how he could boast even a drop of Llewelyn Fawr’s blood; it was almost enough to make him believe in those folk tales of babies switched at birth. “Make yourself useful, Roger. See to my horse whilst I meet with the King,” he said, and, pushing past the Marcher lord, entered the hall.

  De Mortimer had not exaggerated; the hall was thronged with spectators, many of whom had a very personal stake in his downfall. The Marchers were out in force, not surprisingly, for at one time or another, he’d crossed swords with virtually all of them. Roger Clifford and Roger Lestrange and the dangerous John Giffard, looking as smug as creamfed cats. The Earl of Hereford, who’d clashed with him over Brycheiniog. The Earl of Pembroke, whose disdain for the Welsh was surpassed only by his lust for their lands. Reginald de Grey, a man capable of giving Lucifer himself lessons in vengeance. The tousled, redheaded Earl of Gloucester, looking truculent even in triumph.

  They were watching him intently, expectantly. Llewelyn could feel their hostility; the very air was charged with it, with that odd, singed stillness just before a storm broke. But he did not care that he served as a lightning rod for the Marchers. It was inevitable that they should have clashed, for their interests were irreconcilable. It was the presence of the others, the Welsh lords, that he found hard to bear.

  Llewelyn Fychan was standing several feet away. As his eyes met Llewelyn’s, he raised his head defiantly. He was one of the lords of Upper Powys, and a kinsman, too, ought to have been an ally, not an English accomplice. Where had he gone wrong? Why had he not been able to hold the men like this, to keep them loyal when it counted?

  Gruffydd ap Gwenwynwyn had aged in the three years since Llewelyn had seen him last, not long before his flight to England. He looked greyer, thinner than Llewelyn remembered. But his eyes were blazing with hatred. Stepping forward, he said loudly, “Fel y gwyneir y ceir.”

  As you do unto others, so it shall be done unto you. But for claiming Powys, for ousting Gruffydd, Llewelyn had no regrets. Had the murder plot been Gruffydd’s idea? Or Davydd’s? He paused, looked the older man up and down, very slowly and deliberately, letting his silence speak for itself. Gruffydd’s face contorted with rage, but after a moment, he moved aside.

  Llewelyn had yet to spot Rhodri, but that did not surprise him, for his youngest brother was easily overlooked in a crowd. The only one of Gruffydd’s four sons who’d not been blessed with his uncommon height, so unusual for a Welshman, Rhodri lacked presence, too, had never been able to command attention merely by entering a room.

  Davydd could, though. Davydd never went unnoticed; he made sure of that. So where was he? Llewelyn’s eyes swept the hall, cut toward the dais, where Edward awaited him. He ought to have been there, at Edward’s side. But he was not.

  Tudur and Einion had followed Llewelyn into the hall, hastening to overtake him before he reached the dais. He gave them both a glance of wordless gratitude, then murmured, “Have either of you seen Davydd?”

  Tudur jerked his head toward the right. “Over there, against the far wall, looking strangely vexed for one of the victors.”

  Llewelyn followed his gaze. Davydd was standing in the shadows, arms folded over his chest, eyes narrowed and guarded, giving away nothing. For a moment, they looked at each other across the length of the hall, and then Llewelyn turned back to Tudur. “You’re right, he does seem out of humor. You must remember, though, that he did not get all he wanted. I’m still alive, after all.”

  Tudur nodded grim agreement. Einion looked unhappy with Llewelyn’s acerbic assessment of Davydd’s aims, but he did not dispute it. Llewelyn glanced from one to the other, hoping they knew how much they were valued. “Wait for me here,” he said quietly. “This I must do alone.”

  As he began walking toward the dais, men moved aside, clearing a path for him. Edward was sitting in a high-backed chair, much like a throne. He was enjoying this moment of triumph, made no attempt to hide his satisfaction. But there would be no unseemly gloating, no salting of open wounds. He’d won, as he’d known he would, was prepared now to staunch his defeated foe’s bleeding, for he prided himself upon those very attributes his enemies swore he lacked, the generosity, forthrightness, and gallantry of the knight errant.

  “My lord Llewelyn,” he said, “you may approach the dais.”

  Llewelyn did, pausing just before he reached the dais steps to unsheathe his sword. Holding it out to Edward, hilt first, he knelt, saying very evenly, in a voice meant to be heard throughout the hall, “I submit myself unto the King’s will.”

  Llewelyn could not find fault with Roger de Mortimer’s derisive description of his surrender—a humbling ordeal. The worst moment had occurred upon his arrival, as he drew his sword from its scabbard, handed it over to the English King. If this treaty was, indeed, bait for a trap, that would have been the time to spring it. He would have chosen death over captivity in England, for he was haunted by his father’s fate, shut up within the Tower of London, returning to Wales only for burial. Surrendering his sword was surrendering, too, his ability to make such a choice. Without its familiar weight at his hip, he felt vulnerable as never before, naked and defenseless before his enemies, a new and daunting sensation for him.

  But if Edward did have treachery in mind, he was biding his time. He had accepted Llewelyn’s sword, symbol of his surrender, and then handed it back once the ritual of submission was done. The following morning, after a Martinmas High Mass in the castle chapel, attended by English and Welsh, they assembled in the great hall, where Llewelyn swore an oath of fealty to England’s King.

  Llewelyn had brought Tudur, Einion, Goronwy ap Heilyn, and Dai ab Einion, and Edward was attended by the Earls of Warwick and Gloucester, Otto de Grandison, Anthony Bek, and the ever-present de Mortimer. Servants passed back and forth, pouring wine, serving honey-filled wafers, lighting candles. Llewelyn was slowly beginning to relax, the spectre of an English betrayal no longer hovering at his shoulder, and in an atmosphere of wary civility, agreement was reached for the surrender of Llewelyn’s ten hostages to the Crown.

  They sat across a table, these men more accustomed to meeting across a battlefield, waiting now for Edward’s return. No one spoke; even the irrepressible de Mortimer was taciturn, nursing a throbbing head, a stomach queasy from a surfeit of wine.

  The door banged suddenly; Edward entered, laughing. “I regret the interruption,” he said, reclaiming his seat. “B
ut the news was worth it, news too good to keep to myself. The courier came from my Queen, but his tidings came from the Holy Land. The Sultan of Egypt, Rukn ad-Din Baibars Bundukdari, is dead.”

  The death of Edward’s Saracen foe meant little to the Welsh, but they politely chimed in when the English congratulated their King. Edward had begun to laugh again. “Nay, it is not his death that I find so pleasing, although it was right welcome, of course. He was an evil man; I still bear the scars from his Assassin’s dagger. But he has reaped what he had sown, for God is not mocked.”

  Llewelyn felt a flicker of interest. “Was he murdered, then?”

  “Better, far better! He’d prepared a poisoned goblet, one meant for a man he would murder. Instead, by mischance only the Almighty could have contrived, he drank from it himself!”

  There was an astonished silence, and then a burst of awed laughter. It was, they all agreed, almost too perfect, a jest to amuse both God and the Devil, justice at once divine and diabolic.

  “So shall all my enemies be vanquished,” Edward said, reaching for a wafer. “Now then, my lord Llewelyn, shall we resume? I believe you had a question ere I was called away?”

  “Yes, Your Grace, I do have a query,” Llewelyn said, although he’d already guessed what the answer would be. “I wondered why you asked only that I swear fealty to you this forenoon, and not homage, as well.”

  “Ah, that is easily explained. I thought an act of homage deserved a greater audience, a better setting, if you will, than a shabby border castle. I think it more fitting that you come to my Christmas court, do homage to me there,” Edward said and smiled.

  Llewelyn had suspected as much. “Your Christmas court…it will be held in London?”

  “Where else?” Edward asked blandly. “I thought you might enjoy a visit to my capital, for I understand you’ve not seen London since boyhood.”

  For Llewelyn, London would forever evoke thoughts of his father and the Tower. Edward’s demand did far more than lacerate his pride; it drew blood, slashed through his defenses to the heart. He was grateful now that he’d been braced for just such a dagger thrust. “It sounds,” he said, “as if you mean this to be a Christmas I’ll long remember.”

  Edward’s mouth curved. “I do, indeed. I’ll make sure a safe-conduct reaches you by Advent.” He signaled for a servant to pour more wine, all the while regarding Llewelyn thoughtfully. “Speaking of safe-conducts, I must confess that you gave me grievous offense last year.”

  “Only last year?” Llewelyn said dryly, but he had tensed. So had the other Welshmen, for they, too, were wary of entrapment.

  “Mayhap I should have said you affronted me more than usual,” Edward acknowledged good-humoredly. “It was when you offered to come to Montgomery or Oswestry to do homage, provided that I restore the Lady Eleanor de Montfort to you. You were insistent upon safeconducts, too, requesting them from the Earls of Gloucester, Surrey, Norfolk, and Lincoln, my lord de Mortimer, the Archbishop of Canterbury, and the Bishop of Worcester—amongst others. Even taking into account the suspicious nature of the Welsh, that seemed rather excessive—and rather insulting, for you neglected to seek a safe-conduct from me. A man might well conclude that you thought a royal safe-conduct would be worthless. Tell me, my lord, was that indeed what you did think?”

  Llewelyn reached for his wine cup and drank, seeking to gain time. Was this the moment when the trap was sprung? Was Edward daring him to admit the truth, that there was no coin of the realm as false as the King’s sworn word? Or did Edward truly see himself as a man of honor? The de Montfort partisans had given him an insulting epithet—Pard—claiming that, like the leopard, he changed his spots at whim. But he had chosen “Keep troth” as his motto. Was it done in irony? Llewelyn thought not.

  As his silence stretched out, suspense began to build. Tudur stirred uneasily, unable to see how Llewelyn could give an honest answer without offering the English King a deadly insult. He was contemplating a desperate gambit, distracting Edward by answering the question himself, in terms Edward would never forgive, when Llewelyn set his wine cup down, leaned across the table.

  “I do find it difficult to trust the English Crown,” he said, with a candor Edward had not expected. He stiffened, seemed about to interrupt. But Llewelyn gave him no chance. “When my father was being held at Cricieth Castle by his half-brother, my lady mother sought help from the English monarch. King Henry agreed, promised that he would be freed, and on the strength of that promise, many Welshmen joined in his war against Davydd ap Llewelyn. Davydd was defeated, but King Henry did not keep faith. Instead, he sent my father and my brother Owain to the Tower. I know you are aware of this history, my liege. But I lived it, and it left scars, like the dagger of Sultan Baibars’s Assassin.”

  Edward did not respond immediately, nor was his face easy to read. But Tudur slumped back in his chair, too relieved to care about hiding it, sure that Llewelyn had managed the impossible, satisfying Edward while not being false to himself.

  “Yes,” Edward said at last, “we are all our fathers’ sons.” Another silence fell. Edward kept his gaze upon Llewelyn. “I think,” he said, “that we do understand each other. It is my hope that this treaty will mark a turning point in the history of our two lands. Now…now I want to discuss payment of that fifty thousand pounds. I’ve been told that you would find it very difficult to satisfy this debt. Is that true?”

  “It will bleed us dry,” Llewelyn said tautly, for his outrage at that monstrous fine had yet to abate. Even in the most prosperous times, his annual income had never exceeded six thousand pounds.

  “I want to be fair, do not want to impose upon you a burden you cannot hope to meet. I am willing, therefore, to remit payment of the fifty thousand pounds. And as proof of my good will, I will also waive the first annual rent due for the island of Anglesey.”

  He’d caught the Welsh off balance. As they exchanged startled looks, the same suspicion flashed silently among them, that Edward had deliberately demanded a sum they could not pay, so that he could then make this dramatic, magnanimous gesture. But whether his generosity was spontaneous or calculated, it was desperately needed. “Diolch yn fawr,” Llewelyn said. “Thank you, my liege.”

  Edward glanced inquiringly around the table. “Well, I believe we have concluded all the matters of importance. I would suggest we return to the hall, make ready to dine.”

  “There is still one very important matter to settle,” Llewelyn objected, “for we have not yet discussed my wife’s release. I would like to arrange for her to be escorted to the Welsh border as soon as possible.”

  “Ah, yes, Ellen…” Edward had been about to rise, sat down again, and smiled across the table at Llewelyn. “We shall, indeed, have to discuss her future. But I think we ought to wait until you come to my Christmas court.”

  Llewelyn sucked in his breath. “What are you saying, that you do not intend to set her free? I was assured that you would not detain her once I yielded to you.” He shot Otto de Grandison a burning look of accusation, before swinging back to confront Edward again. “Do you mean to renege upon your sworn word?”

  “No, I do not. I did agree to release Ellen, and I will do so—as soon as I can be sure of your good faith.”

  “And when will that be?”

  “That is up to you, my lord Llewelyn.”

  Llewelyn’s fury was evident to them all, more intense and less controlled than Edward had anticipated. “I do not see why you are so surprised by my concern for Ellen’s safety,” he said brusquely. “She is my kinswoman, after all, and I want to do right by her.”

  “Ellen is not your ward,” Llewelyn said, in a voice husky with rage. “She is my wife.”

  “I am not denying that,” Edward snapped. “Prove to me that you mean to keep this peace and I will give her to you gladly, with my blessings! As I said, it is up to you.”

  The tension did not subside. One spark and the air itself might kindle, Otto de Grandison thought morosely, not at
all happy with this unexpected turn of events. Had he so misread Edward, ignored the strings trailing from the offer to restore the Prince’s lady? Had it truly been his mistake? He thought not, but it was now, for kings did not err. He gave Llewelyn an apologetic look, then turned at the sound of a muffled shout. Striding to the closest window, he unlatched the shutters. “My liege, the Welsh prisoners have just ridden into the bailey!”

  Rhys ap gruffydd had not been held long enough—four brief months—for it to have left its mark. He looked and acted like a man set upon savoring every moment of his triumph, shouting a bawdy greeting to Davydd, glancing up toward the open window and saluting Llewelyn with a mocking grin. But Owen de la Pole had been a prisoner for three years, and it showed. Utterly gone was the bluster, the swagger. Pale and nervous, he squinted suspiciously in the pallid winter sunlight, not seeming to trust in his changed fortunes until his father came forward and took the reins of his horse. Gruffydd ap Gwenwynwyn gazed up then, stared challengingly at the man standing at the window, just as Rhys had done.

  Llewelyn would normally have been stung by their defiance, for he was not accustomed to it. But now it barely registered with him. His eyes were riveted upon the third prisoner, all others forgotten. Staring down at Owain, he was stunned by the realization that he’d not recognized his brother, not at first.

  Owain Goch. Owain the Red. Stubborn, courageous, hot-tempered, proud, vengeful. Fettered memories now broke free, a lifetime of discord and strife, for Llewelyn could not remember a time when he and his elder brother had not been at odds. When last they’d met, in Llewelyn’s command tent after the battle in the pass at Bwlch Mawr, Owain had been defiant even in defeat. “Post your guards,” he’d said, with the bravado that came as naturally to him as breathing. “Your prison will not hold me for long.” He’d been wrong about that, as he’d been wrong about so much. That was Owain, the brother who’d led an army onto his lands, the red-haired rebel who had learned every lesson in life the hard way, not this man below in the bailey, not this gaunt, aged stranger with silvered hair and hooded eyes.