After the trestle tables were cleared away, Alexander’s minstrel was called upon to entertain again, and he made ready to perform a lay written, he claimed, by a highborn lady.
I dwell in deep anxiety,
For a knight who gave himself to me.
I wish my knight might share my bed,
And hold me naked in his arms,
That now he might win joys for hours,
With me the pillow for his head.
The song was a great success with the audience, although not with the Bishop of Worcester, who’d been to enough weddings to know the bawdiness was just beginning. And as he feared, the minstrel’s next song was a rollicking account of a woman crusader, Maria Perez, who’d returned from the Holy Land laden with indulgences. Some were lost, some were stolen, but that, he explained, was because:
Maria’s treasure chest was not too safe
a place for that—indeed it could not be,
For since the time the padlock was first broken,
Her treasure chest has always been wide open.
After that, it was all downhill, at least in the Bishop’s eyes. At times like this, his Church’s teachings about the wages of sin seemed to fall on deaf ears. How else explain the laughter and lewd jokes, the cheers when the minstrel announced he’d now sing everyone’s favorite, “Under The Sun I Ride Along.”
The Bishop was all too familiar with the song, which had been written, God forgive him, by a highborn lord, a Count of Poitou, kinsman both to Edward and Ellen through his granddaughter, Eleanor of Aquitaine, but a man burning in Hell lo these many years past; of that, the Bishop was sure, for the Count’s life had been as lascivious as his music. But the minstrel was already into the song, a ribald tale of a knight who’d pretended to be mute, thus duping two lust-filled ladies into thinking it was safe to dally with him, for “Such sport as we’ll devise with him will ne’er be known.” They tested him first, set a savage tomcat to raking its claws along his back, but he made no sound, although “keen could I feel its talons ripping down my flank.” Convinced, they then took him off to bed, where for more than a week, he sinned lustily and often, “a hundred four score times and eight,” until “a woeful state they left me in, with harness torn and broken blade.” When he recovered, he sent his squire back to the women, “And tit for tat, ask them in memory of me, to kill that cat!”
For reasons that eluded the Bishop altogether, people never failed to find that last verse hilarious, and he knew that for the rest of the night, men would be crying out at odd intervals, “Kill that cat!” convulsing themselves by their own drunken wit.
Never did his sheep stray so far from the fold as when they flocked to weddings. Marriage was a Sacrament, yet these festivities more often resembled pagan rites than Christian nuptials. The Church frowned upon dancing, and yet they whirled from one carol to another until they reeled. The Church exhorted newly wed couples to refrain from consummating their marriage for the first few days, yet he’d never known a single case in which they did. And the Church’s attempts to discourage the bedding-down revelries met with obstinate resistance. No state was as exalted as virginity; when a woman lost it, even in wedlock, she was diminished, and to turn that loss into an excuse for drunken, shameful debauchery was truly deplorable. But the worst of it was that he’d have a part in it, for he’d have to bless the bed ere they could sin.
Einion had been watching Llewelyn closely throughout dinner, and he’d been heartened by what he saw. He still wanted, though, to be sure he was right, and he seized the first opportunity after the meal to have a few private moments with Llewelyn. But they were interrupted almost at once by Hugh de Whitton.
“My lord Llewelyn, may I have a word with you? I just heard a disturbing rumor, that King Edward plans to arrest all the Jews in England, charge them with coin clipping. I was wondering if you knew anything about it?”
“No, Hugh, I do not. I am not the best one to ask about this, for there are no Jews in Wales. But I do know that Edward loathes them. When he forbade them to act as money-lenders, it was inevitable that some of them would start clipping coins, for how else could they live? So it does not bode well for them, the innocent or the guilty. You’re thinking of the Bristol money-lender, the one who helped you?”
Hugh nodded unhappily. “My lord, do you think you might…?”
“All right,” Llewelyn said indulgently, “I’ll see what I can find out for you. But for now, look about you, Hugh. What do you see? People enjoying themselves. That is what you are supposed to do at a wedding, lad. Your cares will not go away; you’ll find they’re more loyal than greyhounds. So put them aside just for the night, go forth and have fun.”
Hugh grinned. “Diolch yn fawr,” he said, in very passable Welsh, and hied off to join the circle forming for the carol.
“What about you, Llewelyn? I hope you mean to follow your own advice?”
“As it happens, Einion, I do.” Llewelyn smiled unexpectedly. “What better way to vex our royal host?”
There was at least one guest at the wedding, though, who was not following Llewelyn’s advice. Caitlin was not having any fun at all. Never had she felt so out of place. A fourteen-year-old girl was not likely to attract much notice in a gathering of adults, and Caitlin had the additional misfortune to look even younger than she was. Moreover, all her anxieties had come flooding back with her first glimpse of Llewelyn’s wife. Ellen was so fair; what man would not be bedazzled by her? And she could not help wondering if there would still be room for her in her uncle’s new life.
But these misgivings paled in comparison with the jolt of panic she experienced now, watching in dismay as the man she’d sought so desperately to avoid strode purposefully toward her, cutting off escape.
“Caitlin? Do you not think,” Davydd said, “that it is time we talked?”
It had been a long time since Maude Clifford had enjoyed herself so much. It had been a long time since anyone had treated her as if she truly mattered. She’d been shy at first, not sure why the Princess of Wales and the Countess of Lancaster should be showing such interest in her. But Ellen and Blanche were skilled practitioners of their society’s social graces, and they soon put Maude at ease. She blossomed under the attention, reminiscing with Ellen about mutual friends, telling them proudly about her young daughters. There was only one awkward moment, when Ellen impulsively extended an invitation to Llewelyn’s Christmas court. Maude’s smile seemed lit by a hundred candles as she accepted, but almost at once they dimmed, and she said in a voice suddenly dulled and flat that her husband would want her at Brimpsfield for Christmas. Ellen looked into the older woman’s face, and then heard herself saying that he would be welcome, too, for as she would later tell a bemused Blanche, at that moment she’d wanted only to see Maude’s smile come back, even if it meant—as it did—dining with the Devil.
“But ought you not to ask your lord husband first?” Maude asked anxiously. “Your offer was most generous, but I would understand if—”
“There is no need to fret about that, Cousin Maude. You are most welcome at my husband’s court, for I am sure Llewelyn would not mind if I speak for him in this,” Ellen said, with such blithe certainty that Maude could not help wincing, envious of Ellen’s innocence, but knowing, too, how dangerous it could be. As she started to speak, though, she saw that Ellen’s attention was wandering; she was staring across the hall. “I’ll be right back,” she said abruptly. “I think my husband’s little niece is in need of rescue.”
Davydd was surprised that he was encountering such resistance. “Do you not even want to hear my side of it, lass?”
“No,” Caitlin muttered, refusing to meet his eyes. All her life she’d been taught that she owed respect to her elders, and those lessons came back to haunt her now, so that her anger and confusion were compounded by guilt, too. But when Davydd touched her arm, she stiffened, spat out in shaken defiance, “I love Uncle Llewelyn, more than anyone!”
“Well and good.
I do not begrudge him your love. But he is not your father, Caitlin, I am.”
She felt the tears coming then, hot enough to burn. Her mouth contorted, but the voice that filled her ears was not her own. “There you are, Lady Caitlin!” And the next thing she knew, there was a hand upon her elbow and a stranger was sweeping her out onto the dance floor, smiling over his shoulder at Davydd. “You do not mind, do you, my lord, if I borrow her? She did promise me this next dance!”
The hall was still blurring for Caitlin; she blinked until the young Englishman came into focus, tall and flaxen haired and faintly familiar. “I am sorry,” she said, surrepititiously brushing the wetness from her cheeks. “Do I know you?”
“Of course you do,” Hugh said, thinking that she looked like a bedraggled kitten. Poor little lass. “Do you not remember? We met on a Welsh mountain road, and after you begged a ride back to Cricieth, we agreed to dance at your uncle’s wedding. No? You are sure? Well then, if I may ask now… Lady Caitlin, will you dance this carol with me?”
“I do remember you now,” she said, but she was thinking that she’d never seen eyes so blue. “I would indeed like to dance with you.”
Davydd’s edgy mood was not improved by Hugh’s meddlesome chivalry. He felt no real surprise when he later spotted Hugh and Caitlin on the dais with Ellen, for he well knew whose lapdog Hugh was. So his new sister-in-law was already throwing down the gauntlet. Had Llewelyn confided in her? Yes, he’d wager she knew. He alone did not.
By now Davydd was thoroughly frustrated, for he’d had no luck whatsoever in finding out what sort of wedding surprise Edward had sprung upon his brother. He’d known something was amiss for hours, ever since his first look at Llewelyn’s face in the priory cloisters. And once he concluded that Llewelyn had been stabbed in the back, it was easy enough to identify the suspect. But so far he’d been thwarted at every turn. He’d had no chance at all to confront Llewelyn directly, for his brother was doing a masterful job of keeping him at a distance, never so obvious as to be conspicuous, but always just out of reach. So he’d tackled their uncle Einion, only to be met with a blank stare, a shrug. He’d tried Goronwy next, and had finally approached Dai ab Einion, Llewelyn’s new Seneschal, who distrusted him even more than Tudur had, if that was possible. But they’d closed ranks against him, treating him like an outsider, like an Englishman.
Looking about for Elizabeth, he at last located her by the open hearth, and as he drew near, he saw that the man engaging her in animated conversation was Goronwy. Coming up quietly behind them, he said coldly, “Stop flirting with my wife.”
Elizabeth looked startled, for he had never shown a possessive streak before. But Goronwy did not seem flustered, and as Davydd slipped his arm about her waist, she realized that he was jesting. “Take care, Elizabeth,” he said, “for this man could not be trusted with a novice nun, much less a tempting morsel like you. And I know whereof I speak, for I was an eye-witness to many of his unseemly escapades.”
“What he neglects to tell you, Lady Elizabeth,” Goronwy parried, “is that I was merely following in his footsteps. Indeed, some of his exploits have since passed into folklore, amongst those too depraved to know any better.”
To a casual ear, it might have sounded like the usual barbed male banter, but Elizabeth sensed undercurrents just beneath the surface, and remembered that Davydd and Goronwy had once been friends.
“Goronwy was once a veritable patron saint for sinners, Elizabeth. But these days he has moved on to greater things, showing off a sleight of hand that even Merlin might envy. Not only has he been appointed to act as a justice in Edward’s new commission, he has agreed to serve as bailiff in one of the cantrefs Edward took from Llewelyn.”
“Why is that so surprising?” Goronwy said coolly. “Where can I do more good? Whom do you think the Welsh would rather turn to for help? Me—or someone like your renegade friend, Rhys ap Gruffydd?”
“We’re not talking about Rhys; we’re talking about you. The truly amazing aspect of all this, Elizabeth, is that he has somehow managed to stay in Llewelyn’s favor. Other men get fevers; my brother, bless him, gets suspicions. So suppose you tell us how you do it, Goronwy? How is it that Llewelyn is of a sudden willing to trust a servant of the English Crown?”
“That is very easy to answer. You see, Llewelyn well knows that my loyalties are pledged to Wales, only to Wales.”
Davydd’s eyes narrowed. “You think mine are not?”
Goronwy gave him an intent look. “If they are,” he said, “then I am indeed sorry for you, Davydd,” and to Davydd’s fury, he sounded quite sincere.
Ellen was surrounded by friends. Her de Quincy cousins, who bore the blood of Joanna and Llewelyn Fawr: Hawise, wed to Baldwin Wake, and Joanna, who’d been widowed at Evesham. John d’Eyvill and his wife, Matilda. Nicholas Segrave. These men had been loyal unto death to her father; Nicholas Segrave was one of the few who’d survived the carnage of Evesham, and Baldwin Wake and John d’Eyville had been with Bran during his last doomed campaign. For them, there was a special poignancy in this reunion with their dead lord’s daughter, a brief escape from Edward’s England to what might have been, and they laughed and jested and remembered, even if they dared not share those memories aloud.
There’d been a break in the dancing, and Ellen gave a theatrical moan when the musicians moved back onto the dance floor. She’d always loved dancing, but a bride was expected to dance with any man who asked her, and she’d already spun through so many carols that night that she felt like a child’s whirling top. They commiserated playfully with her plight, and John d’Eyvill suggested that the men link arms, refuse to let any of her would-be partners up onto the dais.
Ellen laughed, shook her head. “That is a most chivalrous offer, but I mean to do something even more scandalous. For the rest of the night, I shall dance only with my husband. So I’d best seek him out, ere the music begins again.”
Rising, she experienced a moment of light-headedness, not her first warning that she was fast approaching the limits of her wine intake. Normally she was a moderate drinker, but they’d begun the festivities with hippocras, followed by a hearty red wine, then claret, and for the past hour, an adoring-eyed young page had shadowed her every move, keeping her cup brimming with vernage, her favorite white wine. Holding the cup carefully now, she lifted her skirts so she could descend the shallow steps of the dais. But she was concentrating so intently upon her long, trailing train that she did not even notice the man in her path, not until it was too late.
She stumbled, but managed to regain her balance and even to direct her spilled wine away from him; only a few drops splattered onto his surcote sleeve, the rest splashing into the floor rushes. “I am indeed sorry,” she began, but her smile froze as she realized that the man she’d almost drenched was Davydd.
“I have never met a woman so set upon wasting good wine. Are you always like this, or is it only around me that you get the urge to water the floor rushes?”
She supposed she had to give him credit for daring to remind her of the way she’d discomfited him at Windsor, but then, he’d never lacked for gall. “If you will excuse me…?”
But he did not move aside. “There is no need to run away,” he said, “for have you not noticed that I’m on my best behavior? I’ve not gotten into a single brawl today, I’ve gallantly refrained from claiming the traditional dance with the bride, much less a bridal kiss. And,” he added, with a smile that mixed both mischief and malice, “I have not reminded Edward about your quaint English custom, the one that supposedly gives a lord the right to spend the first night with his vassal’s bride.”
He was intrigued to see how green her eyes suddenly shone; just like, he thought, a cat on the prowl.
“You remind me,” she said, “of my brothers. You see, in their youth, they, too, took a perverse pleasure in saying things they hoped would astound or dismay. But they outgrew it.”
“This is just conjecture, of course, but I am beginni
ng to suspect you do not like me very much, Lady Ellen.”
She smiled. “I do not like you at all, and you well know it. Moreover, I doubt that I’m one of your favorite people, either. So I cannot help wondering why you took the trouble to seek me out.” She paused expectantly. “Well? Do not tell me that you, of all men, are at a loss for an answer?”
“Oh, I have any number of answers. I was just deciding which one you’d be most likely to believe.”
“Why not be truly daring and try the truth?”
“We Welsh have a saying, ‘cynghor y gobenydd,’ which translates as, ‘the advice of the pillow.’ It occurred to me that your pillow talk might be more dangerous than most, since my brother is obviously smitten. So I thought I’d best find out if hostilities are about to begin. Being a de Montfort, I assume that you would at least issue a declaration of war first?”
Ellen was surprised, for she’d never expected that he really would be honest with her. “You may set your mind at rest, my lord Davydd. I’ll not try to turn Llewelyn against you,” she said, thinking that he’d already done that all on his own.
Davydd seemed to read her thoughts, saying, “You’ll leave that up to me, then? Fair enough, I—Oh, Christ Jesus, Hugh, not again! Believe me, your lady is no maiden in distress. In fact, I’d back her against the dragon any day.” He smiled, bowed mockingly, and was gone before either Ellen or Hugh could respond.
“Thank you, Hugh.” Ellen raised up, kissed him on the cheek. “But Davydd was right for once; I was not in need of rescue.” Shaking her head, she said wonderingly, “How can two brothers be so different, like chalk and cheese?”
“In truth, my lady, Lord Davydd is not as much the black sheep as he would have people think.” Hugh saw her eyes widen, and said hastily, before her indignation could take fire, “I have not forgotten how he plotted against Lord Llewelyn’s life, and indeed, that is a betrayal only God could forgive. But he can be kind, too, at times, for whatever reasons. He did intercede, after all, for Lord Bran at the battle of Northampton. And I never got the chance to tell you this, but he came to my aid when I was dragged before the King at Lincoln. If not for him, Lady Ellen, I’d have been banished to a Bristol gaol.”
The Reckoning Page 47
