“Llewelyn!” Davydd reined in his roan beside his brother, sending up a wild spray of sand. Welsh warfare, so dependent upon hit-and-run tactics, was not suited to the cumbersome English armor. Like Llewelyn himself, Davydd shunned the heavy great helm for an old-fashioned kettle-style helmet with nose guard, for the Welsh preferred to take greater risks rather than to squint blindly at the enemy through slitted eye sights. Davydd’s face was streaked with sweat and a smear of blood that did not appear to be his; his eyes were blazing with excitement, greener than any cat’s. “I’ve an idea,” he panted. “Let’s see if we cannot set fire to the bridge!”
That same thought had occurred to Llewelyn, and he’d just put some of his bowmen to the task; several men were searching for wood that would be quick to kindle, as others hastily improvised makeshift fire arrows, knotting them with cloth that could be ignited. Turning in the saddle now to see if they would have time before the English reached the safety of the island, Llewelyn caught his breath, transfixed by what had just occurred out in the straits. “There is no need,” he said, “not now. Look!”
Davydd swung his mount around to see. “Jesus God,” he murmured softly, almost reverently, for the bridge was breaking up.
The calamity began with a terrified horse. Balking suddenly, it reared up, unseating its rider and creating panic, for the bridge then pitched and rolled alarmingly, sending men to their knees, grabbing for handholds. Other horses started to snort and fight the bit, lashing out in fear. The bridge had not been built to withstand such strain; it was meant to accommodate an orderly, measured passage, not this wild, frenzied mob, and it was dangerously overloaded. Moreover, it was now high tide, and the powerful ocean currents were at war with the anchors, surging against the sides of the barges, already riding too low in the water, in danger of swamping.
Now, as the horses kicked and plunged, the wooden platform finally gave way. Planks split asunder, collapsing a large section of the deck, and men were thrown about as the bridge seemed to fall out from under them. The sinking boats rapidly took on water, dragging the others down, too, and within moments, the icy straits were filled with floundering men and horses. Those who’d not yet reached the gap clutched at the chains, the heaving platform, one another, trying desperately to stay on the tossing, crippled bridge.
It was then that the Welsh sealed the bridge’s doom, for now that the fighting was done, they could turn all their attention to it. Racing to the grappling hooks, they began struggling to dig them up. One by one they were pried loose, and when the last grapnel was pulled from the earth, the bridge snapped sideways as if shot from a bow, whiplashed with such violence that some of the anchors were dragged up and the remaining soldiers were flung into the water.
The water was freezing. Sputtering and choking, Tom fought his way back to the surface, kicking to keep afloat. Unlike most of the men, he knew how to swim, but the water was so cold that his body was rapidly going numb, and he was encumbered by his clothing; he knew instinctively that he’d never be able to make the shore. Gervaise had been beside him when the bridge capsized, but now he was nowhere in sight. All around Tom, though, men were thrashing about in the water, screaming for help. The knights drowned first, their own armor dragging them down like anchors. Tom saw one flailing about just a few feet away, trying frantically to remove his great helm. As the boy looked on in horror, the man sank below the surface, did not come back up. A few of the knights had somehow managed to stay astride their mounts, and they would be among the small number of survivors, for their horses were swimming for the island. The others were on their own.
There were no longer as many men in the water with Tom; one by one, they were going under. Just then a riderless horse came within reach, and Tom mustered the last of his strength for a wild lunge. He swallowed so much salt water that he began to gag, and his groping hand fell just short of the saddle pommel. The horse veered away, and he sobbed. But then he saw a silvered streamer whipping through the water. He grabbed for it, his fingers entangling in the horse’s long, trailing tail. He sobbed again, held tight to that wet, blessed life-line as the stallion struck out for shore.
The screaming did not continue for long; the water was too cold. An eerie hush slowly settled over the straits, for the Welsh, too, had fallen silent by now, awed by the utter magnitude of their victory.
Had there been any eye-witnesses to the scene in the solar at Rhuddlan Castle, they’d have been hard pressed to say who was angrier, the Archbishop of Canterbury or England’s King.
“Such treachery was unforgivable, my liege. This shameful use of my peace mission made me an unwitting accomplice to their perfidy, might well have put our lives at risk, too. If the Welsh had not believed me—”
“Surely you are not suggesting, my lord Archbishop, that it was my doing?”
Peckham was not intimidated. “I would indeed hope not, my liege,” he said coldly.
“Of course it was not! What sort of fool do you take me for? After finally mending fences with the Church by freeing Amaury de Montfort, do you truly think I’d sacrifice all that papal good will by using you as bait?”
Edward wheeled, stalked over to the window, while he made a futile attempt to get his temper under control. “What a botch, what a bloody botch! All my plans set at naught, and for what? That hellspawn de Tany was to wait for word from me. Nothing was to happen until I was ready to cross the Conwy and move against Llewelyn at Aber…nothing!”
Whirling back to face the Archbishop, he said tautly, “Do you know what this crazed folly of his has cost me? I lost all chance of making a two-pronged assault upon the Welsh, lost my chance to put a quick end to this war. I had to send the fleet back to the Cinque Ports, for the towns were bemoaning the absence of their ships, vowing it would be the ruination of their trade. This means that what’s left of de Tany’s army is stranded on that accursed island!”
It was then that Edmund hastened into the chamber. “Ned, a courier had just arrived from the island!”
Edward was startled into a mildly sacrilegious retort. “However did he get here…walk on water?”
“A brave lad, this one. He waited until dark, swam his mount across the strait, then rode by night to elude capture, and somehow got to Rhuddlan without falling over a Welsh cliff or running into a Welsh spear. He’s about done-in, though. I sent him into the hall to get a meal and some sleep, told him that you’d question him at length later.”
Edward nodded. “See that he is amply rewarded, for that was a deed well done. Now…tell me the worst of it. What of de Tany? Was he amongst the dead?”
“Yes,” Edmund said, “he drowned when the bridge broke apart.”
“If he had not, I might have hanged him. What of the others? Were there many dead?”
“All England will mourn,” Edmund said bleakly. “The losses were…were beyond belief. How often does a lord die in battle? If his chain mail does not save him, his ransom price will. But fully fifteen knights died on Friday, most of them drowning. Lord Clifford’s son and heir. Lord Audley. The two sons of your Chancellor. Peter de la Mere. Rhys ap Gruffydd’s brother. At least thirty-two squires, mayhap more, and God alone knows how many men-at-arms, as many as a hundred and a half…”
Edward shook his head in disbelief. “The fools, the poor stupid fools! Did they never think to send out scouts? They ought to have known that Llewelyn would be watching that bridge like a cat at a mouse hole!”
The Archbishop listened impatiently as Edward launched into another scathing denunciation of the foolhardy de Tany, for he had no further interest in the man, although he did hope, of course, that de Tany had died in God’s Grace. But he had far more important matters to discuss now with the King, for the last faint hope for peace was about to be snuffed out like an unneeded candle.
“I ask you, my liege, to convene your council on the morrow, that we may talk further of peace terms.”
“What is there left to say, my lord Archbishop? You said they refused to
surrender, did you not?”
“How could they not refuse, my lord, when you offered them nothing, gave them no reason not to fight on?”
“I do not bargain with traitors and rebels!”
“Ned…we do it all the time,” Edmund contradicted him calmly. “There were no mass executions after Evesham. What was the Dictum of Kenilworth if not an offer to bargain? You wanted the de Montfort rebels to lay down their arms, and so you made it worth their while to do so. If it made sense then, why not now?”
Edward glared at his brother, who was quite unfazed. “I agree with my lord Archbishop, think we ought to be seeking a way to end this war. I know you can win…eventually. But is it worth the price you’ll have to pay? You yourself told me that the Exchequer has estimated that the costs might well run as high as a hundred fifty thousand pounds if the war drags on long enough…as it seems likely to do. A hundred and fifty thousand pounds, Ned…that is seven times the cost of the last Welsh war!”
Edward’s smile was sour. “Remind me not to confide in you so freely in the future, Little Brother.” But Edmund merely shrugged, and waited. Edward paced to the window again, then back to the hearth, where he stopped abruptly, spun around to confront them. “I will not yield those four cantrefs; they are Crown lands now. A fortnight ago I granted Dyffryn Clwyd to Reginald de Grey, and let Davydd be damned! As for the island—Anglesey, Môn, whatever you want to call it—it is mine!”
They both nodded, for these were Crown Commandments, carved in stone; none who heard him could doubt that. “Well, then,” Edmund said thoughtfully, “if that is what the Welsh must swallow, what we need to do is sugar it enough for them to get it down. But ere we begin to speak of inducements, we ought to discuss…retribution. How set are you, Ned, upon punishing them for their rebellion? For alas, if you are—”
“Ere you answer that, my liege,” the Archbishop said quickly, “there is something I would say. Rebellion is a grave offense against God and man, for it violates the natural order of things. Nevertheless, I am inclined to urge you to show mercy to the Welsh. I do not know if you’ve yet read the testaments I brought back from Aber, but I found them troubling, my liege. If the allegations they make are true, they have indeed been ill used by certain officials of the Crown. I am not saying that excuses their sedition or their sacrilege, but it may be that these mitigating circumstances do argue for clemency.”
Edward was scowling, but he had not interrupted, and they considered that a good sign. After a long silence, he said, “From what I’ve been hearing, it may be that Llewelyn ap Gruffydd was goaded into this war by that Judas brother of his. And God has already seen fit to punish him grievously for his sins, for I do not doubt that he truly loved my cousin. If he agrees to submit to the Crown, he will not find me unmerciful.”
The Archbishop favored Edward with one of his infrequent smiles, but he still thought it best to act at once, lest the King change his mind. “Might the council meet this day, my liege? We have much to do, after all, for we must somehow find a way to make the Welsh Prince realize that it is in his own best interest to end this accursed war. Our task will not be an easy one, but this I can assure you, that you’ll not regret your generosity.”
Edward looked skeptical. “That,” he said, “will depend upon Llewelyn ap Gruffydd.”
35
Aber, Wales
November 1282
“You are welcome, of course, at Aber,” Llewelyn said. “But I must admit, Brother John, that your return is a surprise. The English King demanded our surrender, and we refused. That does not leave much to discuss.”
“I bring you an offer, my lord, from King Edward,” Brother John said, lowering his voice so the others in the hall would not hear. “But it is not one I can present to your council. May I see you alone…you and your brother?”
Llewelyn and Davydd traded startled glances. Llewelyn did not like the sound of it, and he was inclining toward a refusal. But nothing attracted Davydd like intrigue. Leaning over, he murmured, “We have to hear him out, Llewelyn. If not, it’ll haunt me till the end of my days, wondering what devil’s brew Edward was stirring up! How can you not be at all curious?”
Llewelyn’s mouth curved. “So I am curious,” he conceded, and turned back to the waiting friar. “Let’s go.”
Waiting until a servant had poured wine and then withdrawn, Llewelyn waved the friar into a seat across the table. “Well, Brother John? Suppose you tell us what the English King would like to offer me?”
“An English earldom, my lord.”
Davydd was close enough for Llewelyn to hear his indrawn breath. The look they exchanged this time was one of utter astonishment. Llewelyn set his wine cup down upon the table, very carefully. “What?”
Brother John smiled; if it had been exciting before to be a witness to history, how much more exhilarating it was to be a participant, to make peace happen. “I do not blame you for doubting, my lord, for rarely—if ever—has a king made so generous an offer to a rebel vassal. But it is genuine, I can assure you. King Edward is willing to grant you lands in England worth a thousand pounds a year. He will also provide honorably for your daughter, his cousin. And if you should wed again and your new wife gives you a male heir, your son can inherit the earldom. For all this, you need only submit to the Crown, and then put the King in peaceful possession of Snowdon, what you call Eryri, those lands west of the River Conwy.”
Llewelyn said nothing, leaning back in his chair, his face unreadable to the friar. But Davydd could see how Llewelyn’s hands had clenched upon the arms of his chair. Reaching for his wine cup, he raised it in a mock salute. “Amazing,” he said, “truly amazing. But do not keep me in suspense, Brother John. After hearing what Edward has just offered Llewelyn, I cannot wait to hear what he has in mind for me!”
A flicker of distaste crossed the friar’s face, and was quickly gone. “If you agree, my lord Davydd, to go on crusade to the Holy Land, and not to return except upon the King’s pleasure, he will then undertake to provide for your wife and children.”
Brother John paused for a response, but Davydd was no more forthcoming now than his brother. “The Archbishop bade me, my lords, to assure you that he will do all in his power to secure merciful and just treatment for the King’s Welsh subjects if you agree to these terms.”
He was becoming uncomfortable with their continuing silence. “It was my intent to return to Rhuddlan on the morrow with your answers. But if you need more time, my lord Llewelyn, I will be glad to wait—”
“No,” Llewelyn said, “I need no more time.” He pushed his chair back then, and the friar took the hint, got to his feet.
“I shall leave you now, my lords,” he said politely, “for I am sure you wish to discuss this between yourselves.” He got all the way to the door before he could bring himself to convey the rest of the royal message, for he was at heart a man of peace, and he found it both demeaning and disturbing to have to resort to threats, even if it was at the King’s behest.
“My lords… I would that I did not have to say this to you, but there is too much at stake for discretion. My lord Archbishop would be loath to do it, but if this war continues, he will have no choice but to lay all Wales under Interdict. And the King wants you to understand that this is your last chance to save yourselves. If you spurn his generosity, he will bring to bear all the manifold power and resources of the English Crown in the conquest of Wales. It will be war to the utmost, a war of extermination. Forgive me for putting it so bluntly, my lords, but those were the King’s very words.”
Davydd shoved aside his wine cup, stood up, and followed the friar to the door, shouting for a servant, returning in a few moments with another flagon. “I thought,” he said, “that we needed a stronger drink than this watered-down French wine,” and he proceeded to empty their cups into the rushes, refilling them to the brim with mead.
They drank in silence for a time. “I have been trying to decide,” Llewelyn said at last, “which of us rec
eived the greater insult.”
“Well, they think I can be scared into submission and you can be bribed. If insults were horses and this a race, I’d venture that they’d reach the finish line in the same stride,” Davydd said, and as they looked at each other, they began to laugh, laughter that held echoes of outrage and disbelief and even a few mordant traces of a very bitter humor.
Edward was so reluctant to be separated from Eleanora that he’d taken her with him into Wales, even though she was heavily pregnant at the time. And when Edmund arrived from France at the end of July, he, too, brought his wife, eloquent testimony to English self-confidence, and irrefutable proof that a marriage of state could be more than a practical, political alliance, much more.
Blanche was sitting in a window-seat in the great hall at Rhuddlan. The new castle was not yet completed, and living accommodations there were not as comfortable as she was accustomed to enjoying. But that was not the reason why she yearned to return to England; for Blanche, Wales was haunted. She had a book open upon her lap, a French version of the story of the star-crossed lovers Tristan and Iseult, but she was not reading. She was inconspicuously daubing at the corner of her eye, did not hear the approaching footsteps until it was too late.
Edward was surprised to catch a glimmer of tears, for his sister-in-law was not a woman who wept easily. “Is the book as sad as that, Blanche?”
The Reckoning Page 71
