The Reckoning

by Sharon Kay Penman

  “Davydd? You look so odd, love. Is something amiss?”

  “No,” he said. “It was just that…that for a moment, I found myself wondering if Ellen could possibly be with child.”

  Elizabeth had a face that mirrored her every mood. He watched now as the emotions chased across it, like sun and shadow, first joy, giving way to dismay as she realized that Ellen’s pregnancy would put her own sons’ prospects at risk, followed by shame that she could begrudge her cousin the child Ellen so desperately wanted. “Do you truly think it may be so?” she asked hesitantly, and he shook his head, bent down and brushed his mouth to hers.

  “It was a daft notion, lass. Think no more on it.”

  Elizabeth was quite willing to heed him, for she was acutely uncomfortable with ambivalence, usually dealt with it by denying it. “I’ve been thinking about babies a lot lately,” she confided. “Now that Owain is into his second year, it would be a good time to have another one. I just hope the Almighty agrees with me! I’d dearly love a lass next time. Would that please you, Davydd? Would you not want a daughter?”

  Davydd already had six daughters, and he almost reminded her of that. But he caught himself in time; the most conclusive proof of his fondness for Elizabeth was that he had learned to do for her what he’d never done for anyone else: exercise a mild form of self-censorship. “Yes, I’d fancy a little lass,” he said, “as long as she looked like you, cariad.”

  Elizabeth smiled, shook her head. “No, love, I’d want her to have your coloring…like Caitlin.” She came close to adding, “only prettier,” but did not, for that would have been unkind, and tonight, at least, not altogether true, for she’d noticed earlier that evening that Caitlin was looking unusually appealing. In part, it was the gown, a rich dusky gold that set off her slender figure to its best advantage. But it was more than velvet and moonstones. Elizabeth had never seen the girl so animated, so quick to laugh. Her green eyes were glowing, catching the candle light like emeralds. Unfortunately, she was casting that glow where she oughtn’t, Elizabeth thought, gazing across the hall at Davydd’s daughter and that young English knight, the married one.

  It would not do for her to talk to the girl, for Caitlin would take it badly. But she might ask Ellen to have a word with her. What an odd little creature she was, at one and the same time as skittish as a woodland fawn and as stubborn as a Spanish mule. Her rudeness to Davydd was irksome, indeed, but still she ought to be alerted to the risks of the real world, warned about gossip and jealous Welsh wives.

  “Davydd…have I met Hugh de Whitton’s wife? Which one is she?”

  “I forgot to tell you, then? Can you not see it in Hugh’s face? He’s been moping about the hall all night like a puppy that lost a bone, only in his case, it was a wife. She left him last week, packed up and went home to her kinfolk in Meirionydd.”

  Elizabeth was not surprised that Davydd should be so well informed about Hugh’s marital woes; he had an uncanny knack for smoking out choice gossip. But she was so shocked by what she’d just heard that she could only stare at Davydd in disbelief. “A Welsh wife can do that? What a fool she must be! Most women would barter their hopes of salvation for a husband like Hugh, good and kind and faithful—”

  “If that is what women want, would it not be easier just to buy a dog? I admit Hugh does look rather pitiful, but let’s spare a few crumbs of sympathy for the runaway wife. I’d wager that life with St Hugh was about as much fun as a Lenten fast. The poor lass probably never got a good night’s sleep, for do haloes not glow in the dark?”

  Elizabeth could not help laughing. “You have such a wicked tongue!”

  He arched a brow, gave her so suggestive a look that color rose in her cheeks, much to his amusement. “I cannot believe,” he said, “that I can still make you blush! Anyone would think you were still a virgin maid instead of a wife almost five years wed.”

  Elizabeth was unperturbed, both by her blushing and his teasing; she sometimes feigned a modesty she’d long ago outgrown, simply because she knew it beguiled Davydd. “I do not often feel like a wife,” she confessed, “more like an unrepentant sinner sharing her bed with a wayward, wanton lover, never knowing if he’ll still be there in the morning.”

  She’d revealed more than she realized, but Davydd was so pleased with the compliment that he never noticed. Taking her hand, he pressed a hot kiss into her palm, then ushered her across the hall. Elizabeth tensed once she saw that he meant to intercept Hugh and Caitlin. But Hugh looked so despondent that Davydd could not bring himself to joke at the Englishman’s expense, and to Elizabeth’s relief, he soon showed that he was on his good behavior, deftly piloting the conversation away from the shoals of marriage, divorce, and flighty, fickle wives.

  There was only one awkward moment, occurring as Hugh went to flag down a passing servant and bring them back wine. Davydd took advantage of his brief absence to subject his daughter to a discerning scrutiny. “You are very loyal, Caitlin. I hope that you are also prudent.”

  Caitlin had been unexpectedly cordial—so far. But now her eyes narrowed, and her chin jutted up, surprising Elizabeth by how much she suddenly looked like Davydd in one of his tempers. Before she could respond, though, people began to turn toward the dais, where Llewelyn was signaling for silence.

  “My chaplain has informed me that time is drawing nigh for the Midnight Mass.” Llewelyn paused; for a moment his eyes sought out Ellen, standing by the steps of the dais. “Ere we depart for the chapel, I have something to say. Tonight, when you give thanks to the Almighty for His bounty and divine mercy, for giving us His Only Begotten Son that we might have life everlasting, I ask you to pray, too, for the health of my beloved wife and the child she carries.”

  There were a few seconds of silence, no more than that, and then, pandemonium. Elizabeth spoke very little Welsh, not enough to follow what Llewelyn had said. But she understood almost at once, for the joy surging through the hall needed no translation. Spinning around, catquick, she flung her arms around Davydd’s neck and kissed him on the mouth, shielding him from the stares that would soon be winging his way, giving him the time he needed to master his shock.

  That Davydd was shocked, she did not doubt, and she was right. He was as stunned by his own emotional turmoil as he was by Llewelyn’s impending fatherhood. This was a possibility he’d long ago relegated to the far reaches of supposition, until it had seemed no less improbable to him than unicorns or winged dragons or the chance that he might fail to get all he wanted from this life. He was shaken now by his overwhelming sense of loss, as if something vital and valuable had been taken from him, something that went beyond the fading, golden glimmer of a crown.

  “Well…mayhap Simon de Montfort is a saint, after all. For certes, someone wrought a miracle here.” These bitter words were for Elizabeth’s ear alone. For the hall, the world, and Llewelyn, he found a taut smile, still ragged around the edges. Llewelyn was besieged by well-wishers. Never had Davydd seen him look so jubilant, so unguarded. Had it not occurred to him that this miracle babe might be a lass? Davydd stepped back, loosening his hold upon Elizabeth, and only then, when he was able to fake both his smile and his swagger, did he walk across the hall to congratulate his brother.

  29

  Llanfaes, Wales

  March 1282

  The bitter cold spell lingered on. January and February were so frigid and wind-lashed that the roads had rarely been as deserted, or as safe, for even the bandits were holed up by their own hearths. Few had high hopes for March, the most mercurial of months, but this year it ushered in an early spring thaw. By Passion Week, the skies were clear, the snows had melted, and budding primroses had begun to adorn the high mountain meadows. And the people of England and Wales, starved for sun and warmth, gloried in it all.

  To the casual eye, Caitlin, too, seemed to have succumbed to the spring fever sweeping Wales. She danced through her days with a light, nimble step, lavished smiles and pleasantries upon all who crossed her path, and
thanked the Almighty fervently and frequently, for Hugh was free and, at last, beginning to heal.

  She’d feared for a time that he wouldn’t, that his grieving might outlast his marriage. It frightened her at first, for she’d convinced herself that he’d never truly loved Eluned. So why, then, was he so troubled by her departure? But she’d soon supplied her own answer. Hugh was English; it was as simple as that. The laws that seemed so natural and sensible to her were alien to him, and he was afraid to trust them. Once Caitlin understood that, she sought out the Bishop of Bangor, for although he was no friend to her uncle, she knew no one so knowledgeable about Church law or history. Puzzled but pleased by her sudden interest in subjects so dear to his heart, he’d unwittingly given her the information—and ammunition—she needed.

  It had taken a bit of coaxing on her part, but she’d gotten Hugh to confirm her suspicions, that it was the Church’s shadow, not Eluned’s, that was preying upon his peace. Under her gentle, insistent prodding, he blurted out his doubts, his unease of mind. If the Church said marriage was for life, how could Welsh law say it nay?

  Indeed, Caitlin agreed readily, marriage was a bond eternal and unbroken. Of course Lady Ellen’s grandfather, the English King John, had divorced his first wife to wed a beautiful young heiress, Isabelle d’Angoulême. And then there was John’s remarkable mother, that most illustrious lady, Eleanor of Aquitaine. She’d been fifteen years wed to the King of France, mother to his two daughters, when the Pope granted them a divorce because they were third cousins once removed, a kinship known but ignored until the marriage had become inconvenient. Once Eleanor was free, she straightaway wed Henry Plantagenet, he who would soon be England’s King, although Henry was her cousin, too! Did Hugh not think it odd that the Church would wink at the second marriage whilst declaring the first one null and void?

  She’d given him no chance to answer, plunged ahead. Did Hugh know how often the highborn sought divorce…and how often the Church accommodated them? It was true that popes occasionally balked, as when Philippe Auguste tried to disavow his Danish bride the morning after their wedding; Ingeborg had been more fortunate, though, than many rejected wives, for her brother had been a King, too. But what of Philippe’s brother sovereigns? Every French king in the span of a hundred and half years had gotten at least one divorce, and King Robert the Pious had even been granted two! And what of the Earl of Gloucester and—But by then, Hugh was grinning, holding up his hand in mock surrender.

  They’d not talked of it again. In the days and weeks that followed, though, she could see the shadow receding, and she sensed that he was no longer at war with himself, no longer denying that Eluned’s rejection was in reality a reprieve. Wounds—be they of the body or spirit—needed time to heal, and Caitlin was willing to be patient, content to give him that time, so sure was she that this was meant to be. Nothing could penetrate the shield of her utter certainty, not even Ellen’s well-intentioned words of warning. Caitlin had, like Ellen, become a devout believer in miracles.

  The bailey was dappled in sun and shadow, the sky patterned with drifting cotton clouds. Standing in the doorway of the great hall, Caitlin paused to adjust her soft, gossamer veil; although many Welshwomen had adopted the English fashion and wore wimples like their Prince’s lady, Caitlin clung to the old, Welsh style. Having secured the pins anchoring her veil, she stepped out into the sunlight and almost bumped into Trevor, just rounding the corner. He was precariously balancing a cumbersome platter, piled so high with bread and dried figs and a brimming goblet that he was sloshing cider with every step. Reaching out, Caitlin steadied the goblet. “I did not know you fancied noonday dinners, like the English do,” she teased.

  Trevor smiled diffidently. “Oh, this is not for me, Lady Caitlin. Lord Llewelyn’s roan mare is foaling.”

  “Well… I think she might prefer carrots over brown bread, Trevor.” Caitlin’s attempts at levity were hesitant, for they took her into unfamiliar terrain. But her jokes were wasted upon Trevor, who knew even less than Caitlin about the mysteries of humor.

  “This is not for the mare, my lady,” he said gravely. “Dion was up all night with her, and I… I thought to bring him something to eat…” He shrugged self-consciously, and Caitlin wondered why men seemed so uncomfortable when caught doing good deeds; even Hugh acted at times as if kindness was something to be done under cover of darkness, and he with a heart so soft he could not let a kitten be drowned.

  “I think I’d best take this,” she said, reaching again for the cup, “whilst you still have cider left to spill.” Brushing aside his thanks, she fell into step beside him. “I owe Dion more than a breakfast, Trevor. He may well have saved my life.” She smiled at Trevor’s look of surprise. “It happened a long time ago, nigh on ten years. I was trying to rescue a cat caught up in the stable rafters, and I fell. It was Dion who found me. He even went back afterward for the cat! So I would right gladly—”

  Not only did she cut herself off in mid-sentence, she stopped so abruptly that cider splashed onto the skirt of her gown. There was such a stricken look on her face that Trevor’s puzzlement gave way to concern. But a glance about the bailey revealed nothing to cause her distress. People were strolling about in the sun. Dogs sprawled in the spring grass. Laundresses were soaking sheets in a solution of wood ashes and caustic soda. Several friars from the nearby friary were chatting with Llewelyn’s chaplain and the parish priest. And Hugh de Whitton was engaging in a playful tug of war with a lass from the village, insisting upon taking her basket of eggs, ignoring her demure protests. Such gallantry did not seem out of the ordinary to Trevor, not for Hugh, especially since the girl was very pretty; he’d have been quite happy to tote her basket himself. At the moment, though, he had eyes only for his lord’s niece and the unknown threat lurking unseen in the sunlit bailey.

  “My lady, what is it? What is wrong?”

  Caitlin did not appear to have heard him; he saw now that her gaze was locked upon Hugh and the village lass, but that provided no enlightenment. Hugh and the girl were laughing, so intent upon each other that they did not notice Caitlin and Trevor, not until they were almost upon them. Hugh smiled then, at Caitlin, just scant seconds before she flung the contents of the cider cup at him.

  Hugh recoiled with an astonished oath, the girl gave a muffled scream, and Trevor was so startled that he dropped the platter, carpeting the ground with bread and figs. For a stunned moment, no one moved, not even Caitlin, who seemed shocked herself by what she’d done. But then she threw the goblet into the grass at Hugh’s feet, spun around, and began to walk swiftly away. That brought Hugh out of his disbelieving daze. “Caitlin, wait!” She did not look back, and within a few steps, she was running. As Trevor and the girl and a score of intrigued eye-witnesses watched in fascination, she fled into the stable, with Hugh in close pursuit.

  Coming from sun to shadow, Caitlin collided with Dion, drawn by the clamor out in the bailey. She staggered backward, grabbing the nearest post for support, not even hearing his apologies for the blood thudding in her ears.

  “Caitlin!” Hugh filled the doorway, blocking out the light. He sounded out of breath, perplexed, and angry, and Caitlin squeezed her hands together to still their trembling.

  “Go away,” she said. “I have nothing to say to you.”

  “Yes, you do, by God! You owe me an explanation, if not an apology, and I mean to have it.”

  “You’ll have a long wait!”

  They glared at each other, never even noticing the embarrassed Dion, who was in hasty retreat back into the foaling stall. Hugh swung around and slammed the door shut behind him. But Caitlin knew there was another door, one leading out into the stable yard. By the time Hugh turned toward her again, she was already in flight. Ignoring Hugh’s shout, she raced for the rear of the stable. As quick as she was, though, Hugh was faster. He overtook her before she could reach the door, and grabbed for her arm. Whirling, she tried to pull free, but lost her balance, lurched against Hugh, and th
ey both went sprawling over a bale of hay, tumbling down into the straw of the nearest stall.

  Hugh got his breath back first. “Are you all right, Caitlin?” Not trusting her voice, she nodded, wishing she could lie there forever in the sheltering, shadowy gloom, never have to face anyone ever again. But Hugh was already sitting up.

  “At least,” he said, “you had the foresight to fall into a stall without a horse in it.” To Caitlin’s dismay, he was beginning to sound amused. What would she do when he asked her again, quietly and calmly this time, to explain herself? Blessed Lady, what could she tell him?

  When she didn’t move, Hugh reached over, put his arm around her shoulders and gently drew her up beside him. She’d lost her veil in their struggle and her hair was tumbling down her shoulders in disarray, tickling the back of his hand. He’d never seen it wild and loose like this, started to brush it away from her face, but stopped just before his fingers touched her skin, for that suddenly seemed too intimate a gesture. “I do not know what I did to make you so vexed with me, but I’d not hurt you for the world, Caitlin, that I swear. Tell me so I may make it right.”

  Caitlin drew a constricted breath, and suddenly she was angry again, angry with herself, with that wretched girl and her rotten eggs, with all those avid spectators out in the bailey, but above all, with Hugh, whose blue eyes were blinder than any bat’s.

  “I was willing to wait for you,” she said, in a voice both hot and husky, “to wait as long as it took for you to see that I was no longer a child, was a woman grown. I was so sure you would, so sure… But no, you had to let yourself be snared by Eluned, Eluned who could not outwit Nia, my uncle’s greyhound! So then I waited for you to come to your senses, to realize what a mistake you’d made. And for these past three months, I’ve waited again, whilst you mourned your marriage. But no more. I am done with waiting for you, Hugh de Whitton!”