The Reckoning

by Sharon Kay Penman

  “Jesú, is that Owain?” Tudur sounded shocked. “Do you think they released the wrong man?” he asked, not completely in jest.

  Llewelyn said nothing. Owain was dismounting, having guided his stallion over to a horse block, Owain who had always jeered at men who could not leap, unaided, into the saddle. He seemed to favor his left leg, started toward the great hall at an unhurried, measured pace. He’d yet to look up, had not noticed Llewelyn, or given his surroundings more than a cursory glance. He did not appear cowed like Owen de la Pole, merely detached, and that, too, could not have been more unlike the Owain Llewelyn remembered. But then Owain smiled, a smile from his turbulent past, and quickened his step, moving forward into Davydd’s boisterous, exuberant embrace. As Llewelyn watched, they stepped back, embraced again, then entered the hall together.

  It was dusk by the time Llewelyn returned to his chamber. Servants had been there before him; the hearth had been stoked, a spiked candle lit, a flagon and cups put out upon the table. It was a welcome sight; never had Llewelyn been so exhausted; body and soul. But as he crossed the threshold, he was suddenly sure that he was not alone. It was an instinctive awareness, a sixth sense, a soldier’s sense, one he’d learned to trust. He froze, hand on the door latch, eyes probing the darkened corners of the room. “Who is there?” he challenged, dropping his other hand to his dagger hilt.

  He heard the sound of a chair being shoved back. And then Davydd stepped out of the shadows. “I’ve been waiting for you.”

  “Why?”

  “For nigh on two days now, you’ve been looking right through me. I was beginning to think I’d become invisible, like poor Rhodri. Since we need to talk, I thought I’d best seek you out ere you go deaf as well as blind.”

  Llewelyn had yet to move from the door. Nor had he closed it. Opening it still farther now, he stepped aside, clearing the way for Davydd’s departure. “I have nothing to say to you.”

  “Oh, but you do! You’ve had three years to think about what you wanted to say to me, and most of it would likely blister the paint off these walls. Well, this is your chance. Here I am, so go ahead, say it!”

  Earlier that day, Owain had seemed like a stranger; so now did Davydd. Llewelyn had never heard him sound so angry, a raw, exposed rage that could not be faked, even by as accomplished an actor as Davydd. He moved closer, curious in spite of himself. “You’re oddly out of sorts for a man on the winning side in this war.”

  “On the winning side?” Davydd echoed. “Is that a joke?”

  “You can be sure I do not see the Treaty of Aberconwy as a joke.” Their eyes caught, held; Davydd was the first to look away. As he drew back, out of the range of the light, Llewelyn followed.

  “So you do not think you won? I do not see that you have much to complain of, in truth. You did not come away empty-handed, profited almost as much as Edward from this English peace—the cantrefs of Rhufoniog and Dyffryn Clwyd, the lordships of Dinbych and Caergwrle. That would content most men. Ah, but then I am forgetting that you expected so much more. It must have been a great disappointment to you when I came to terms with Edward. You were counting upon him to do your killing for you.”

  “If I wanted you dead, Llewelyn, you’d have died three years ago!”

  “I damned near did die three years ago, and likely would have, if not for the one thing you could not foresee—that Candlemas storm!”

  “Storms pass, floods abate. We had other chances, had we wanted to take them.”

  “Jesus God!” Llewelyn gave an incredulous, angry laugh. “Only you could botch a murder attempt, then expect to get credit because you lacked the nerve to try again!”

  Davydd spat out an extremely obscene oath. “The one thing I’ve never lacked was nerve, and you, of all men, know it!”

  “What are you telling me, Davydd? That I should be grateful to you for confining yourself to just one assassination attempt? Or am I supposed to believe this is some sort of oblique apology?”

  “No, damn you!”

  “So what you’re saying, then, is that you did plot my murder, but you did not really want me dead, and you’re not sorry, but you’ll not do it again. Do I have it right?”

  Davydd flushed; he was not accustomed to being the one mocked. “You have not changed at all! Still so self-righteous, so sure God is on your side, even with an English dagger pricked at your throat. Whatever I did or did not do, you’re not blameless in this. For all your fine talk about Wales, about the need to defend Welsh sovereignty, Welsh borders, and Welsh tradition, you are the one who was defying Welsh law!”

  “You still do not see, do you? We’re well past arguing about Gwynedd’s succession. It has now become a question of Gwynedd’s survival. How can you not understand that?”

  Davydd did; that was the trouble. He said nothing, and Llewelyn strode to the window, jerked the shutters open. “That castle they are building out there will control the vale of Clwyd, and that is only one of Edward’s planned strongholds. He told me today that he intends to charter a town here, too. I suppose you knew that already. Did you also know that no Welsh will be allowed to live in that town? Or in the other towns he means to establish on Welsh soil—”

  “Oh, no, by God, no! You’re not going to blame me for Edward’s victory. I’ll be damned if I’ll take the responsibility for your mistakes!”

  “Or your own mistakes, either! You’ve gone through your whole life like that, never once taking responsibility for what you’ve done!”

  “Damn your—” Davydd began, then started visibly as the door slammed behind him. Llewelyn flinched, too, spun around even faster than Davydd.

  Owain was standing by the door, regarding them both indignantly. “Do the two of you know how long I’ve been here, listening to you?” he demanded. “It’s not enough that you were shouting to be heard across the English border, no, you had to leave the door open, too! What if I’d been Gruffydd ap Gwenwynwyn, or one of the Marchers who speak Welsh, like de Mortimer?”

  “Bugger de Mortimer!” Davydd said savagely. “Let him hear, let all of England hear!” He drew a deep, constricted breath, then looked back at Llewelyn. “My lord Prince of Wales, rot in Hell!” Wheeling toward the door, he roughly shouldered Owain out of the way when he did not move aside quickly enough, banging it behind him with such force that the candle guttered out.

  Llewelyn stood very still for a moment, then startled Owain by slamming the shutter back, hammering it into place with his fist when it recoiled. The wood was aged, warped by years of exposure to Welsh rain and wind, and it splintered near a hinge when he hit it again. He swore then, long and hard; it didn’t help.

  “If you mean to break anything else, give me fair warning,” Owain said calmly. “My nerves are not as steady as they once were.” He was moving about the chamber, relighting the candle with a spark from the hearth. Returning to the table, he poured wine into two cups. “It’s odd,” he said, “but watching the two of you together tonight, I finally understood what the bards meant when they claimed that love and hate were two sides of the same coin.”

  Llewelyn moved away from the window. “What do you want, Owain?”

  “Edward told me that I have a choice. I can stand trial in your high court for my past offenses, or I can make peace with you. I am here to make peace. Settle some of my old lands in Llŷn upon me, Llewelyn, so I can go home.”

  “Just like that?” Llewelyn circled around the table. “I’m supposed to believe it is that simple for you? That you bear me no grudge for the last twenty years? What kind of a fool do you take me for, Owain? You never forgave a wrong in your life, not until you’d repaid it twice-over!”

  “Twenty-two years, four months—if we’re counting. And yes, you’re right. I did take ‘an eye for an eye’ as my own verse of Scriptures. But where did it get me? Nigh on half my life as someone’s prisoner, first our uncle Davydd’s, then the English King’s, then yours. You’d think I’d have figured out that I was doing something wrong, but I was e
ver a slow learner.”

  “Until now?” Llewelyn sounded quite skeptical, and Owain nodded.

  “You do not believe me. But is it truly so surprising? Do I look like a man in his prime? Why should I squander my last years seeking vengeance against a man I could not hope to defeat on the field—and for what? You only did to me what I would have done to you, had fortune favored me that day.”

  “That sounds very logical, very rational, very unlike you, Owain.”

  Owain almost smiled. “Do not mistake me. I’d never be one to weep at your funeral. But I do not seek revenge, not anymore. The Owain you remember may have hoarded his grievances as if they were gold, but would he lie about them?”

  Llewelyn gave the older man a long, searching look. “No,” he said slowly, “you were never a liar, Owain. If you truly do want peace, we can reach an agreement about the lands in Llŷn. I think it only fair to warn you, though, that if you play false with me, you will have reason to regret it.”

  “You still find it hard to believe me. Does it truly seem so incomprehensible to you, that a man might grow weary of the strife, the endless struggle? Yes… I see it does.”

  Owain drained one of the wine cups. “It is passing strange. I never liked you, Llewelyn, never, and, for a goodly number of years, I can say that I hated you, as I’ve never hated another living soul. You knew that, of course. Did you also know how envious I was of you?”

  Llewelyn was startled; that was the last thing he’d have expected to hear from Owain. “Envious of me? Why?”

  “You were my younger brother. You ought to have followed my lead, my advice. But you blazed your own trail, and soon it seemed to me that you’d left me far behind. Men paid heed to you, as young as you were, trusted in your judgment, in your damnable, dazzling vision for Wales. You had a way of making a border raid sound like a holy crusade, for you knew how to take words and send them soaring as high as hawks. Me…hellfire, I could count myself lucky if I’d not trip over my own tongue. I was fully nine years older than you, and I had to stand by whilst you proved yourself to be a better rider than me, a better hunter than me, and then—at Bwlch Mawr—a better battle commander. Not being a bleeding saint, of course I was envious of you, enough to choke on it!”

  “Why are you telling me this now?”

  “Because I realized tonight that, after dwelling so many years in your shadow, I might be the lucky one, after all. You see, I can do something you cannot. I can just walk away.”

  Setting the cup down, Owain turned toward the door. But there he paused. “There is one more thing—about Davydd.”

  “Let it be, Owain,” Llewelyn said sharply. “There is nothing you can say about Davydd that I’d want to hear.”

  “Do you remember the first time he saw a pond? He was just a tadpole, two at most. He took one look, dived in, and sank like a stone, would have drowned for certes if you had not fished him out. I cannot believe you’ve forgotten?”

  “I remember. What of it?”

  “He’s gone through his whole life doing that, never looking ere he leaps. Inevitably, he sometimes dives into water over his head. He told me about that murder plot, had no reason to lie, not to me. I’m telling you this, not for your sake, but for his. He truly did regret it, Llewelyn.”

  Llewelyn’s mouth tightened. “He could have more regrets than Rome has priests, and I’d not care…not now, not ever again.”

  Owain smiled thinly. “You care,” he said, and moved into the stairwell, closing the door firmly behind him.

  The flagon was almost empty and the candle had burned down to its wick. Llewelyn had moved a chair closer to the hearth. Gazing into the flames, slowly drinking the last of the wine, he traveled again the road that led to Rhuddlan Castle, reliving the past, reviewing his choices, his decisions, his mistakes. What should he have done differently? Where had he gone astray? Must he believe that this was fated to be, God’s Will? No, not God’s Will—Edward’s.

  Poor Wales, so far from Heaven, so close to England. His grandfather’s jest, humor that twisted like a knife. The hearth was sputtering; he leaned over, prodded it with the tongs, and the flames shot upward in a sizzle of white-gold sparks. A pity hope could not be so easily rekindled. Would Edward ever let Ellen go? He could sense her presence at times, marveled that he could feel so close to a woman he’d never met, a woman who might never look upon his homeland, yet bound to him by more than a Sacrament, by thwarted hopes and bitter regrets, by all that might have been.

  A sudden, loud knock pulled him away from Windsor, back to the realities of Rhuddlan Castle. Glancing over his shoulder at the door, he said, “Come in, Rhodri.”

  After a moment, the door swung open. “It is not Rhodri, my lord; it is me.” Goronwy ap Heilyn hesitated on the threshold. “Jesú, it is dark in here! Are you expecting Rhodri? I think I saw him in the hall…”

  “I was just waiting for the circle to close. Never mind, Goronwy, it is a private jest…of sorts. Find yourself a seat.”

  Goronwy was a nephew of Llewelyn Fawr’s celebrated Seneschal, Ednyved ap Cynwrig. Ednyved had briefly served as Llewelyn’s Seneschal, too, and after him, his sons. They’d been all stamped from the same mold, sardonic, brusque, and dispassionate. Goronwy was an anomaly, therefore, for he was by nature impulsive, voluble, and given to hell-raising. But he did share certain attributes with his more cynical kinsmen—a quick wit, courage, and loyalty to last until his final breath—traits that had guaranteed his rapid rise in Llewelyn’s service.

  Dragging a chair over to the hearth, Goronwy glanced at Llewelyn’s empty flagon, then unfastened a wineskin from his belt. “It looks like the well ran dry. But I come prepared for every crisis, have a flask full of mead I’m right happy to share, much better than the sugared swill the English like to guzzle.”

  Passing the flask to Llewelyn, Goronwy dropped down into the chair, stretching his legs toward the fire. “I have something to tell you, my lord, for I thought you’d best hear it from me. I know you like it not when your orders are disobeyed. You warned us not to let the English bait us into doing anything foolish, and I did not…well, not exactly…”

  “It is amazing,” Llewelyn muttered, “how consistent this day has been. Spare me any more suspense, Goronwy. What did you do?”

  “It was not all my fault, my lord. That whoreson cousin of mine was the one to seek me out, and I did try to hold on to my temper, but I swear Rhys could provoke the Pope. I could stomach just so much of his boastful crowing. When I reached my limit, I hit him in the mouth, and that caused a…a bit of commotion.”

  “ ‘A bit of commotion.’ That would not be your quaint way of describing a riot?”

  “Oh, it was not as bad as that,” Goronwy said reassuringly, “some bruises and broken furniture, some spilled ale, mayhap a few blackened eyes. In truth, it could have been far worse!”

  “I daresay,” Llewelyn said laconically. “Tell me, did you, by chance, break Rhys’s jaw?”

  Goronwy’s relief found expression now in laughter. “No such luck! But I did chip a tooth—if that counts?”

  “It will have to do.” Llewelyn drank deeply of Goronwy’s flask, then handed it back, and Goronwy drank, too, delighted to be sharing so private a moment with his Prince.

  “You said Rhodri was below in the hall. What of Owain and Davydd? Were they there, too?”

  “Owain has gone to bed. I overheard the castellan offering him one of the English whores who’d followed Edward’s army, but he said he wanted only to sleep. I do not know where Davydd is.” Goronwy, who’d once considered Davydd a friend, could not help frowning. “I expect he’s off licking his wounds. I do not know what ails him, but I’ve never seen him in such a brooding, black mood, almost as bad—” He caught himself, not in time.

  “As bad as mine,” Llewelyn said, finishing the thought for him, and he nodded, unperturbed.

  “You have reason, my lord,” he said, with such unaffected, heartfelt empathy that Llewelyn allowed himself a ra
re indulgence; he dropped his defenses.

  Goronwy was watching him, wondering if there were words to ease so great a hurt. “You did your best, my lord.”

  Llewelyn’s dark eyes flicked toward him, then away. “Yes,” he said, “but it was not good enough.”

  There was an odd intimacy about the moment; the firelit darkness seemed to invite confidences. “You’re too hard on yourself,” Goronwy said softly, not surprised when Llewelyn merely shrugged. “What will you do now, my lord?”

  Llewelyn was quiet for a time, keeping his eyes upon the smoldering hearth. The log was charred and blackened, but the fire was not yet spent; as he watched, dancing flickers of flame sprang up again, flared into fitful life. Reaching for the flask, he gave the younger man a crooked smile.

  “Tonight,” he said, “we shall get quietly and thoroughly drunk, Goronwy, in memory of all that was lost. And on the morrow, I begin the struggle to win it back.”

  21

  Westminster, England

  December 1277

  Edward provided Llewelyn with an impressive escort for his journey to London, a delegation headed by his Chancellor, the Bishop of Bath and Wells, and the Marcher lords, Roger de Mortimer and Roger Clifford. Llewelyn had been given a royal safe-conduct, which he thought to be worth as much as Davydd’s sworn word. But he no longer had the right of refusal, could only hope that the English King had nothing more sinister in mind than a public humiliation.