Llewelyn liked the story immensely. “Did he truly do that for her?”
“Indeed he did, cut his arm and said that of all the wounds he’d ever gotten, that had to be the strangest one of all!” Ellen laughed, moved over beside him. “Joanna told my mother about it years later, no surprise that, for it does put him in a very favorable light! And eventually Mama told me. I take it, then, that I win the wager?”
He nodded. “It is passing strange, the odd twists life takes. Imagine their reaction on that long-ago wedding night if a soothsayer had told them that seventy-some years later, his grandson would be wed to her niece.” He reached over then, pulled her closer. “Now, about that wager…”
She smiled. “I am so glad,” she said, “that you are a man who pays his debts!” Which he proceeded to do, to their very mutual satisfaction.
Llewelyn awoke reluctantly several hours later, exhaustion warring with an enormous sense of well-being. The last of the candles had guttered out; so had the fire. Reaching for Ellen, he discovered that he was alone in the bed. He was starting to sit up when he saw the slender blanket-clad figure huddled in the window-seat.
“Ellen?” She jerked at sound of his voice, turning toward him a face white and streaked with tears. “What is wrong?” There was so much shock in his voice that she flinched, came hurriedly back to the bed.
“Ah, no,” she cried, “it is nothing you’ve done, I swear it!”
Sliding over, he made room for her in the bed, keeping his eyes upon her all the while. Dropping the blanket, she climbed in, reassuring him by how readily she now sought his embrace.
“Will you hold me?” she asked, blotting away the last of her tears with the corner of the sheet. “I am so sorry, Llewelyn. I did not want to ruin our first day together…”
“Can you tell me?”
“I woke up first, watched you whilst you slept, and I was so happy, Llewelyn, that it actually scared me a little. How often do we get in this life all that we ever wanted? Today, I told myself, today we will ride into Wales, into Llewelyn’s world—my world now, too—and I thought about the life we’d have together. I thought of the pleasures of your bed, and how easily you make me laugh, and I thought of the children we’ll have. And then I thought of Amaury, and what this day would bring for him.”
She drew an uneven breath, said more calmly. “I know he is better off now that he is at Sherborne, not Corfe. But it is nigh on three years, Llewelyn. What if Edward never lets him go?”
“I think Edward will eventually have to free him, for it is becoming obvious that the Church is not going to forsake Amaury. Sooner or later, Edward must conclude that whatever pleasure he is getting from Amaury’s captivity is not worth the trouble he is getting from the Pope.” Llewelyn smoothed her tumbled hair over her shoulders, held her quietly for a few moments. “I realize,” he said, “that it is hard to derive much comfort from a hope so far in the future. But at least now you can help.”
She looked so bewildered that he saw she’d not comprehended yet that she was no longer powerless. “You are not a prisoner of the English Crown anymore,” he said, “you are the Princess of Wales. You can petition the Pope every day on Amaury’s behalf, appeal to the Kings of France and Scotland, to every prince in Christendom. And you can make Amaury’s life easier, more comfortable, until that day when he is freed. My love, you can send him anything your heart desires—books, clothes, food, games of chance, whatever you think he’d want—every hour on the hour if you wish.”
“But what if Edward refuses to let me do that?”
“He’ll not dare refuse, for you will ask him today, before the King of Scotland and his brother, Edmund, and the Bishop, and the entire English court. All know that Amaury has done nothing to deserve his fate. We are talking not of Guy, but of a priest who never took up arms against the English Crown, a papal chaplain still in favor with the Pope. And now his sister asks only to be able to send him a few comforts in his wretched confinement. To turn down your plea—before so many witnesses—would be an act so mean-spirited, so petty, so impossible to justify that he’ll have no choice but to agree.”
The look Ellen gave him now was even more ardent than the looks he’d gotten from her during their lovemaking. “I think,” she said softly, “that I must give you fair warning, for I am afraid that I am going to fall hopelessly in love with you.”
“Why a warning?”
“Oh, an overly fond wife is a mixed blessing. There are disadvantages, too. I would be harder to neglect, I’d want to be with you all the time, I’d probably discomfit you before your friends by hanging on your every word and praising you to the heavens, and you may be sure I’d be jealous. Now I well know you did not live like a monk these three years past, and I did not begrudge you those bedmates, truly I did not. But if infidelity at a distance is understandable, infidelity at close quarters is grounds for murder, my love.”
She smiled so sweetly then, that he began to laugh. “Let me guess,” he said. “Joanna just happened to tell your mother, too, that Welsh law condemns adultery for husbands as well as wives!”
“She may have mentioned it.” Ellen reached out, ran her fingers gently along his arm, tracking the path of an old wound, not the first one she’d found, for he’d passed most of his life in the saddle and on the battlefield, and although that life had made his body hard and lean, that body bore the scars of sword-thrusts he’d failed to deflect, old injuries that now took on a frightening immediacy to her. “Llewelyn, I have a question to put to you. Do you think you could learn to love me?”
“You asked me that last night, cariad.”
“I remember,” she said. “But I wanted to hear your answer when we both were sober.”
Laughing, he leaned over, kissed the curve of her smile. “I think,” he said, “that it would be very easy to love you.”
From the English Chronicle of Osney: Thus did Llewelyn win, “with a heart that leapt for joy, his beloved spouse, for whose loving embraces he had so long yearned.”
From the Welsh Chronicle of the Princes: “King Edward and Edmund, his brother, gave Eleanor, their first cousin, daughter of Simon de Montfort, to Llewelyn at the door of the great church at Worcester. And there he married her. And that night their wedding banquet was held. And on the following day, Llewelyn and Eleanor returned joyfully to Wales.”
24
Abbey of Aberconwy, Wales
September 1279
On November 12, 1278, the Jews throughout England were arrested, and a house-to-house search was made in all the Jewrys of the country. Six hundred and eighty men and women were sent to the Tower of London for trial on a charge of coin clipping. The number of Jews hanged was given as nineteen in the official records, as two hundred and ninety-three by the chroniclers of the time.
The Bishop of Bangor departed the abbey in a soft September mist, but even as the Abbot bade farewell to his distinguished guest, thunder was echoing down the Conwy Valley. As lightning blazed through the clouds, showering the abbey garth in sparks, Maredudd flinched, made a hasty sign of the cross. By the time he reached the shelter of the cloisters, he was soaked.
As he plunged into the parlor, a gust of wind caught the door, slammed it resoundingly behind him. The two men seated by the hearth turned startled faces toward the sound. “You look half-drowned, Maredudd. Get over here by the fire.” Maredudd did, quite gladly, pulling up a chair beside Llewelyn, accepting a wine cúp from Goronwy. Watching as the Abbot stripped off his muddied sandals, wrung out the sodden folds of his habit, Llewelyn said, “I hope the Bishop knows how to swim.”
He sounded, though, as if he hoped just the opposite, a sentiment that Maredudd not only understood but shared; he had no more liking for Bishop Anian than Llewelyn did. He was not surprised that the Bishop and his Prince had failed once again to reconcile their differences; they were both proud men. Nor had Edward helped any by siding with the Bishop. To the contrary, he’d flung a few more boulders onto an already rock-strewn r
oad by ordering Llewelyn to be more conciliatory, more accommodating to Anian’s demands. Maredudd could not recall a time when the English Crown was not eager to meddle in Welsh matters, but never before had the meddling been so blatant or so pervasive. He’d often heard men laud Edward as a superb rider; so why then, did the English King have such a heavy hand on the reins?
“If the storm does not abate by the morrow, I’ll inform our hospitaller that you will be delaying your departure until Wednesday.” To Maredudd’s surprise, though, Llewelyn was shaking his head. “Why not, my lord? I should think you’ve had more than your share of wretched rides in vile weather. Why get wet when there is no need for it?”
Llewelyn hid a smile, for he knew that if he admitted the real reason for his haste, Maredudd would be even more baffled; the aging, celibate monk was not a man to understand the lure of a loving young wife. But Goronwy did, without a doubt; he was grinning widely.
“I thank you for your hospitality, Maredudd. As always, I have enjoyed my stay at the abbey. But I do need to depart at dawn, rain or not. I am expecting a courier from the English King,” Llewelyn said, avoiding Goronwy’s amused eyes.
Maredudd nodded sympathetically; duty he understood, for it had long been his own taskmaster. “May I ask if the King’s letter concerns Arwystli? I must confess, my lord, that I do not see why your case has not yet been heard. It has been dragging on now for…” He paused to calculate and Llewelyn supplied the answer for him.
“Nigh on eighteen months,” he said, and though his voice was even, his mouth had a bitter twist to it. “We have not even resolved the issue as to which law should apply, Welsh or English. Edward’s court keeps adjourning on one pretext after another. The latest was the claim that my lawyers had not been properly empowered to act on my behalf. The truth is that Edward fears my claim will prevail if ever it is heard, and he owes Gruffydd ap Gwenwynwyn too much to let that happen.”
There was a moment of silence, and then Goronwy said, “To English justice,” and raised his wine cup high, a salute meant in jest, but the mockery was hollow.
There was another silence. “No,” Llewelyn said, “not English justice. Edward’s justice.”
It was quiet after that, a pensive, brooding quiet that lasted too long for Goronwy’s liking. The sooner they exorcised Edward’s intrusive ghost the better, he decided, and set about doing just that. “Have you heard yet, my lord, about what your brother did in Cheshire?”
“Davydd? The last I heard, his time was taken up building new castles in the lands Edward gave him, at Caergwrle and Dinbych.” Although Llewelyn sought to sound casual, he was not entirely successful; despite their estrangement, Davydd could still kindle his interest as easily as ever. “What trouble has he been stirring up now?”
“For once it is not trouble of his making. An English knight named de Vanabeles brought suit against him in shire court, seeking a writ of entry.”
Llewelyn’s eyes narrowed. Davydd was not the first Welshman to have to defend himself in an English court, and he would for certes not be the last. “Did Davydd come as summoned?”
“Indeed he did, and they’re likely still talking about it! He strode into the court, declared that he was not answerable to English law, for the lands in question were located in Wales, not Cheshire. Suit could be brought in Wales, he said, or by God, not at all. And then he turned around and stalked out, without so much as a by-your-leave.”
Goronwy paused, ostensibly to take a swallow of wine, actually to gauge Llewelyn’s reaction. He need not have worried, though. Llewelyn’s dark eyes were aglint with amusement. “I often thought Davydd would have made a marvelous actor,” he said wryly, “for he has always had a remarkable talent for staging dramatic entrances and departures.” But there was no malice in his observation; both Goronwy and Maredudd caught the echoes of approval.
When the hospitaller entered a few moments later with word of new arrivals, the Abbot was not surprised; there’d be many travelers seeking shelter from the storm, for Wales had no inns. But he could not suppress a gasp at sight of the man who now appeared in the doorway. Llewelyn noticed the look of fleeting dismay on his face, and turned to see who was so unwelcome, just as Davydd sauntered into the parlor, almost as if he’d been lurking in the wings, awaiting Goronwy’s cue to take center stage.
“A clever conjuring trick, Goronwy,” Llewelyn muttered, but his humor was forced, and he watched warily as his brother moved toward them, offering jaunty greetings that belied his rain-soaked, mud-splattered appearance. The responses Davydd garnered were notably lacking in enthusiasm, for none of the men were in the mood for the verbal jousting that passed for conversation whenever Davydd was present. If he noted the coolness, Davydd gave no indication of it, and as Maredudd excused himself to confer with the hospitaller and their cooks about that evening’s dinner menu, Davydd appropriated the Abbot’s chair, helping himself, as well, to the Abbot’s wine cup.
“Did you know,” he queried, “that if you get an English invitation to dine, they actually expect you to show up well before noon? And then they have the gall to mock us for dining at dusk! I can never make up my mind whether they are mere philistines or true barbarians—except for their women, of course,” he added, with a sideways smile aimed in Llewelyn’s direction. “Speaking of which, where is your bride? I’ve heard you’ve been keeping her even closer than your own shadow.”
“Ellen is at Dolwyddelan. Strange, is it not, how often our paths seem to cross? What are the odds that we’d both be at St Mary’s Abbey today?”
“Marriage has not mellowed you much, has it? Save your sarcasm, Llewelyn. I am not going to claim this was a chance encounter. I heard you were at the abbey, and I needed to talk to you.”
Llewelyn was not disarmed by Davydd’s candor; he knew from painful experience that honesty was just one more weapon in his brother’s armory. “Talk to me about what?”
“About the corn crop and chess and mayhap the weather…what else would we have to discuss? Hellfire, Llewelyn, you know what I want to talk about, a conversation that begins and ends with Edward. I daresay Goronwy told you that I was summoned to defend my possession of Welsh lands in an English shire court? But you do not yet know the worst of it. When I complained to Edward, I told him that the laws of Wales ought to be honored no less than the laws of other lands. And Edward’s response? He said he would uphold only such Welsh laws as he deemed ‘just and reasonable.’”
Both Llewelyn and Goronwy well knew that Davydd could summon up anger purely for effect, and quite convincingly, too. They exchanged speculative looks now, trying to decide if his outrage was sincere or not. Davydd waited with obvious impatience, then demanded, “Well? Have you nothing to say to that, Llewelyn?”
“I do not know what you want of me, Davydd. What you say hardly comes as a surprise to me. I find it difficult to understand how it could be a surprise to you, either. You were Edward’s ally, ought to know the workings of his brain if any man does—”
“Christ on the Cross! I cannot believe we’re still bogged down in the same swamp. Whilst you dwell on old grievances, the English King is laying snares all over Wales!”
“ ‘Old grievances’?” Goronwy sputtered, sounding so incredulous that Llewelyn almost laughed. He was more amused than angry himself, amazed by the sheer sweep of his brother’s presumption.
“You are right,” he said and grinned. “How could I be so petty as to still hold a grudge? It is not as if you’ve ever given me reason!”
Davydd could and did shrug off mockery—from any man but Llewelyn. “And of course you have nothing to reproach yourself for,” he snapped. “No, you were the aggrieved innocent, as always. After all, we both know you never make mistakes, not like the rest of us mere mortals!”
Llewelyn frowned. Did Davydd mean that he’d come to see his betrayal as a mistake? He started to ask that, but Davydd gave him no chance. Getting abruptly to his feet, he slammed his wine cup down with such force that the clay cr
acked wide open. Davydd did not even notice, never taking his eyes from Llewelyn. “What I could never understand,” he said, “was why you bothered with a crown. What need did you have of it, when you had your very own halo? Tell the Abbot that my men and I will not be staying.”
Davydd turned away, then looked back at his brother. “I do have other news for you. My Elizabeth is with child again. I suppose I should ask if your wife is pregnant yet. Wales is about due for a miracle, after all.”
That was a thrust Llewelyn had not been expecting. His hand jerked, wine splashing into the floor rushes. Davydd whirled, in three strides was at the door. But there he halted, his fingers clenching upon the latch. Without turning around, he said, very low and very fast, “More fool I, for I somehow keep forgetting that words are verily like arrows, and once fired, cannot be called back. You are not likely to believe me, and so be it. But the truth is that I know as much about regrets as any other man.” He did not wait for Llewelyn’s response, disappeared into the rain-drenched dusk beyond the door.
Goronwy glanced at the door, then at Llewelyn. “I’ve known Davydd for many years,” he said, “and that was as close as I’ve ever heard him come to offering an apology. I think he had more in mind, my lord, than one heedless taunt.”
“Yes,” Llewelyn agreed, “I think he did, too.”
Goronwy was, for once, displaying uncharacteristic discretion. “Tell me, my lord, if I am treading too close to that swamp Davydd mentioned…?”
That earned him a quick smile. “Ask your question, Goronwy,” Llewelyn said, for Goronwy might be the one person able to understand, as even Ellen could not, that some bridges could not be burned.
“Are you coming to believe then, that Davydd wants to make his peace with you? As for myself, I truly think he does. Why else would he have named his son…” Goronwy stopped, looking quizzical, as Llewelyn held up his hand.
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