Blanche looked up at him. “I was thinking of Ellen.”
Edward stiffened, hesitated, and then sat down across from her in the window-seat. “I know,” he said, “I know, lass. We are taught that the Almighty always has a divine purpose in mind, but sometimes it is hard to see…” He murmured a low “Thy Will be done,” crossed himself, and Blanche thought he would depart then.
He stayed there in the window-seat, though, and after a brief silence, said, “I never fretted much about Eleanora’s confinements. Birthings always came easily for her, even if the babe was too often sickly or stillborn. I suppose that after so many, childbirth had become too familiar, for I just took it for granted that nothing would go wrong. But then…then I learned about Ellen, may God assoil her, the poor lass. That last month, Blanche, till the babe was born, I’d lie in bed beside Eleanora, and all I could think about was what my life would be like without her…”
Blanche was both surprised and touched by his confession; it was the first time that Edward had given her a glimpse into any of the secret corners of his soul. “But you did not lose her,” she said. “Instead, she bore you a healthy baby girl. I’ve been meaning to ask you, Ned, about that. Why Elizabeth? That is not a common name, nor is it one from your family…is it?”
He smiled, shook his head. “I just fancied it, and after twelve babies, we were running out of names! I hear the servants are calling her ‘the Welshwoman.’ I imagine she’ll go through life as Elizabeth of Rhuddlan, for my daughter born in the Holy Land is known to one and all as Joanna of Acre.”
“I’ve heard rumors that you are thinking of wedding Joanna to the Earl of Gloucester?”
“Nothing is settled as yet, but yes, I am considering it. There are a few obstacles to be overcome… Gloucester’s wife, for one! They have been living apart for nigh on twenty years, but he never got around to petitioning the Pope to annul the marriage. Joanna is still a little lass, though, barely ten, so a year or two’s delay will not matter—” Edward broke off at that, for he’d noticed his brother entering the hall.
“Ah, there’s Edmund.” He grinned suddenly. “Alas, he just got himself snared by Rhodri ap Gruffydd…poor lad!”
Blanche craned her neck to see, for she was quite curious about Rhodri, the man Edward cruelly called “the least of Llewelyn’s brothers.” She could not help wondering what Rhodri thought about in his quiet hours, when he was alone. Did he ever think of his brothers at Aber? Had he any regrets?
“He is not at all like Llewelyn, is he? I see no resemblance whatsoever, and for certes he has not Llewelyn’s…whatever it is that enables a man to command others. Mayhap there is truth, after all, in those folk tales of changelings!”
“You are still fond of Llewelyn.”
It was not a question, not quite an accusation. Blanche made no attempt to deny it. “Yes,” she said, meeting her brother-in-law’s eyes squarely, “I am.”
She was not sure what his reaction would be, for there was an unpredictable streak in his nature that made him both interesting and dangerous. She waited now to see if he would be angered or amused by her candor.
Amusement won out, for he found boldness hard to resist—most of the time. “Such a shy, timid lass,” he said, but with a smile. “You must be right pleased, then, with the offer we made to Llewelyn. How often is a rebel awarded with an earldom?”
“Do you truly expect Llewelyn to accept?” Blanche asked, as neutrally as she could, and Edward shrugged.
“He is a fool if he does not,” he said, and then Edmund had reached them. Blanche made room for him on the seat, and he slid in. But his greeting for her was preoccupied, his attention focused upon his brother.
“Ned, we just got word from Roger de Springhouse. The sheriff of Shropshire,” he added, just for Blanche’s benefit; he knew Edward’s memory was far too keen to need any prompting about Crown officials. “As you ordered, he put Thomas de la Hyde in charge of de Mortimer’s castle at Clun. But that did not please de Mortimer’s widow. The Lady Maude complained to him right sharply, saying that her husband’s vassals would not welcome Crown meddling in de Mortimer lands. And there’s some truth to that, I’m sorry to say. This past week de Springhouse rode to Clun to confer with de la Hyde. When he arrived, the constable came out beyond the walls to greet him, and the castle garrison promptly locked him out.”
Edward cursed, fluently and so freely that Blanche knew he’d forgotten her presence. “That sort of unease is a contagion that can spread, Edmund. The sheriff had warned me that he found de Mortimer’s people to be ‘fickle and haughty,’ saying openly that they ‘have no lord now.’ I had not realized, though, that it was as bad as this.”
“I think you ought to invest de Mortimer’s eldest son with his lands as soon as possible, Ned.”
Edward nodded. “Let’s hope that will help, for if Maelienydd catches fire, you can be sure the Welsh will be right there to fan the flames. Of course, if Brother John was persuasive enough to make Llewelyn see reason, I can deal with de Mortimer’s discontented vassals at my leisure, and still be back in London in time for Christmas.”
“I would not rely on that,” Blanche said, and Edward gave her a cool glance, no longer amused.
“What makes you say that, Blanche? Has your fondness for Llewelyn ap Gruffydd given you some special insight into the man’s mind?”
“No insight,” she said composedly, “and not second sight, either. But the Archbishop of Canterbury is coming our way, and he does not look like a man with good news to share.”
“The Welsh are an accursed, insolent people, and I rue the day I ever tried to bring them back to God’s Grace!” The Archbishop halted in front of the window-seat, brandishing several pages of parchment. “I should have heeded you, my liege, for they are indeed beyond salvation.”
“Llewelyn refused the earldom?” Edward was incredulous.
“He said that your offer was neither safe nor honest, and he could never consent, for it would mean the destruction of his people.” The Archbishop thrust the letters at Edward. “See for yourself. He says that even if he’d been willing to agree to his own disinheritance, his council would never permit him to renounce his birthright…and he adds that they marveled such a proposal would even be made. The second letter is from his council. They say that these terms are utterly unacceptable, that they will never again do homage to strangers, to those whose tongue, manners, and laws are alien to them.”
Edward’s eyes glittered. “Will they not, indeed? And Davydd?”
“His was the most offensive answer of all. He says that if he is ever disposed to go to the Holy Land, he will do so for God, not for the English King. He even dares to say that he was amazed I should sanction an enforced pilgrimage, which could have no merit in God’s eyes. And he casts vile aspersions upon my neutrality and good faith, insists that they will win this war, that God would never reward English cruelty and treachery with victory.”
Edward began, then, to read the letters, and Edmund shifted position so he could see over his brother’s shoulder. The Archbishop was too angry to wait patiently, striding back and forth before the window-seat, his robes flaring out behind him. “I should have expected this, for they know no more of gratitude than they do of honor. Their priests are too often unlettered rustics who are ignorant of Latin and take wives or hearth-mates in defiance of Church law. Their own laws are a scandal throughout Christendom, for they permit divorce and they accord bastards the same rights as heirs born in holy wedlock, and they even claim that Church law should be subordinate to the laws of Hywel Dda. Assuming this law-giver of theirs ever lived, he quite clearly took his instructions from the Devil himself!”
Peckham paused for breath. “The whole of Welsh history is a shameful tale of treachery, massacres, arson, and other unspeakable crimes. I ought to have studied it ere I risked so much to save them, for I’d have realized that my efforts were doomed to fail. Why a people so slothful and wanton and faithless should take such pride
in their pitiful heritage is truly beyond the comprehension of reasonable men. After reading these letters, my liege, I can say only that an English conquest of Wales would be a blessing for these people, belatedly bringing them the benefits of Christian civilization.”
Edward put the letters down, got to his feet. “So be it,” he said, no more than that, but Blanche felt a chill, and she reached hastily for her husband’s hand. Edmund gave her fingers a reassuring squeeze, but his smile could not banish the vision that Edward’s words had conjured up: Wales in flames, a land stalked by death, and Edmund in the midst of it all, dying for his brother on a Welsh battlefield, in an ambush on a snow-shrouded hillside of Eryri.
Edmund had risen now, too. “You mean then, to wage the war throughout the winter?” he asked, and Edward nodded.
“As long,” he said grimly, “as it takes.”
The men did not linger, for Edward’s council must be told that the Welsh had chosen the sword over the olive branch. Blanche sat where she was, watching them go. “God keep you safe, Edmund,” she whispered, and God help Llewelyn ap Gruffydd. Mayhap Ned was right, and the Almighty had been merciful in taking Ellen when He did.
As he was about to enter the great hall at Aber, Llewelyn came to a sudden halt. “Go on in,” he told his companions, Dai and Goronwy and his cousin of Powys, “and I’ll join you soon.”
Crossing the bailey then, he stopped before the cradle. Caitlin was bending over the baby, and looked up, startled, as his shadow fell across the blankets. “Uncle Llewelyn! Is it all right to have Gwenllian out here? Elizabeth probably would not approve, but it’s not that cold today, and she’s well wrapped up…see?”
“She looks quite content, lass.” Llewelyn had noticed signs of strain between his niece and sister-in-law since his return to Aber, and now he understood why. Elizabeth, a mother of two, would naturally assume she knew best where Gwenllian was concerned, but her proprietary attitude clearly did not sit well with Caitlin. He was not sure what he could do about it, though, for he’d be gone again by week’s end; they’d just have to settle it themselves. Reaching down, he gave Gwenllian his finger to hold, and she blinked up at him curiously, began to make soft, cooing sounds.
“Her eyes are getting cloudier,” he said. “Will they be brown, do you think?”
“Elizabeth says so. I hope they will stay this shade, for it is such a pretty color, a pale gold-brown, lighter than your eyes, darker than Aunt Ellen’s.”
“Yes,” he agreed, “it is,” and then he smiled, for he’d just noticed the small dog curled up at Caitlin’s feet. “How did you ever win Hiraeth over, lass?”
“It took time and patience and a prayer or two. But I’d heard that dogs like Hiraeth, the sort that loved but one master, have been known to pine away, and I was not going to let that happen to Aunt Ellen’s dog.”
“I’m glad,” he said, “that you were so persistent. It could not have been easy, though, for she loved Ellen and only Ellen. I’d tried halfheartedly to befriend her at first, for I am fond of dogs, even one that looks like a barking ball of yarn. But she never accepted me except on sufferance…although she did seem more tolerant of Hugh; at least she never bit him!” He saw his niece’s lashes flicker, saw her react to Hugh’s name, and he said quietly, “You miss him, I think…very much.”
Caitlin’s eyes flew to his face, but she did not find what she’d feared. He did not know! She spared a moment for a swift, silent prayer of thankfulness, for he already had trouble and griefs enough to last a lifetime and more. “Yes,” she said, “I do miss Hugh, for he was a good friend. Uncle Llewelyn…is it true that you are again going south?”
“Yes,” he said. “The Welsh down in Ceredigion and Ystrad Tywi are in danger of losing heart, for their resistance seems to have waned once I returned to Gwynedd. Moreover, since Edward means to continue his campaign during the winter months, we’ll need to take some of the pressure off Gwynedd, and what better way to do it than to give Edward trouble elsewhere? Lastly, Roger de Mortimer’s death has shaken Maelienydd to its very core, and if we are to take advantage of that unrest, I need to be there.”
“I suppose,” she said grudgingly, but she could not keep from adding, “I still wish you’d send Davydd instead, whilst you stayed in Gwynedd.”
“I’ve done more fighting down in those cantrefs than Davydd has, know the lay of the land better than he does.” Leaving unsaid what she knew to be an equally important consideration, that he could encourage the faithful, embolden the wavering, as Davydd could not.
She looked so somber, so forlorn that Llewelyn found himself fumbling for comfort. “Ere I depart, we shall have a great feast at Aber, to rejoice in the favor the Almighty has shown us and to celebrate last week’s triumph over the English invaders. I would be beholden to you, Caitlin, if you would plan the meal, consult with my bard, undertake all that must be done, and act as my hostess at the high table…as Ellen did whenever we had guests.”
Her eyes widened. “Truly, Uncle? You are sure you want me to do that? Not Elizabeth?”
“Quite sure,” he said, and was rewarded with a smile bright enough to blind. It had been a long time, he thought, since he’d seen her smile like that, since he’d seen her smile at all.
The feasting at Aber had gone on for hours. The Welsh drank to their victory upon the shores of the Menai Straits. They listened raptly as Llewelyn’s court bard sang of past glories. They dined upon roast venison, sturgeon pie, egg custard, stewed capon, hot sugared wafers filled with fruit, and wine and mead in spiced abundance. Llewelyn withdrew when the dancing began, for he rode south at first light, and the sound of the music followed him back to his own chamber, floating for miles upon the quiet night air.
Llewelyn was not tired, though, knew it would be hours before he could sleep. He roamed the chamber restlessly, then abruptly insisted that Trevor return to the festivities, and as soon as the boy had gone, he, too, left the chamber.
It was cold, but the wind was still, and the sky spilling over with stars. The gatehouse guards looked startled, but something in Llewelyn’s face kept them quiet, and they watched in puzzlement as he passed through. He told himself a walk would help him sleep, clear his head of mead, and he would have insisted that he was merely wandering at random, with no set destination in mind. But his steps took him unerringly into the darkness, until his boots were scuffed with sand and he no longer heard the harp music from the hall, heard only the sounds of waves breaking upon the beach.
He stopped at the water’s edge and glanced over his shoulder, half expecting to see a sleek shadow racing toward him across the sand; Nia had loved the shore more than any dog he’d ever had. But Nia, two months dead, ran now only in memory.
He was gazing across the strait when he heard a sudden crunch, the sound a boot might make stepping upon a shell. He swung around and saw that his instincts had served him well, for he was no longer alone. A figure was emerging from the darkness, not yet close enough to recognize. But he had no need of moonlight or lanterns, somehow knew—how he was not even sure himself—who it had to be. He waited, and a few moments later Davydd sauntered out of the shadows, whistling softly, as if he took a midnight stroll along Aber’s beach every eve of his life.
“I never knew you numbered night tracking amongst your talents, Davydd.”
“Actually, I do not.” Davydd picked up a shell, examined it in painstaking detail, then pitched it into an incoming wave. “I stopped by your chamber to chat, what with you leaving in the morn, and found you gone. So… I came looking for you.”
“How,” Llewelyn asked, genuinely surprised, “did you guess that I’d be here?”
“Where else would you be on a night when you could not sleep?” Davydd said, and they both turned at that, looked across the water toward Llanfaes.
A wave splashed upon the beach, almost at their feet. Davydd glanced around, spotted a log not far away, moss-grown, half-buried in sand. “Have a seat, my lord Prince,” he invited, deftly s
preading the folds of his mantle to make himself as comfortable as possible. Llewelyn did, but he could not sit still for long, was soon up on his feet again, back at the water’s edge.
“I thought I was doing the right thing, burying Ellen at Llanfaes. I thought she would have wanted that, being with Joanna. So I picked the friary over the abbey at Aberconwy, and now I cannot even visit her grave.”
Davydd pushed himself off the log, slowly crossed the sand until he stood by Llewelyn’s side. “It is not getting any better, is it?” he asked, sounding as hesitant as he felt, for this was new and troubling territory, and he was not sure he wanted to venture too far into it.
Llewelyn shook his head. Keeping his eyes upon the black silhouette that was Môn, he said, “I kept telling myself that if I could just get through October, if I could do that, the worst would be over. October was so full of ambushes—her birthday, our wedding anniversary. It is behind me now, and I suppose I should be thankful. But I’d forgotten about December; I’d forgotten about Christmas.”
Davydd bit his lip, not knowing what to say. He’d never lost anyone he’d loved, had never been bereaved. He did not even remember his father, had never forgiven his mother for offering him up so readily as a hostage, and while he’d been saddened by Owain’s death, it had been neither unexpected nor tragic; for Owain, it had been a release. His silence seemed to be blanketing the beach, so thick they were like to smother in it; for certes, Llewelyn must be wondering why he did not at least make an attempt at consolation. He frowned, started to speak, stopped, and then saw that Llewelyn was not even aware of him at that moment, was alone with a dead woman and a wound that would not heal.
“Llewelyn…” He reached out, his hand almost brushing Llewelyn’s sleeve. “Are you not ready to go back? You do have to get up ere the sun does…remember?”
“Soon,” Llewelyn said. “You go on, ere Elizabeth starts to worry.”
Davydd nodded, backed away a few feet, then turned toward Aber. He’d not gone far, though, before he stopped again, swung around to face his brother. “The battle at the bridge last week,” he said abruptly. “That was the first time we fought together. Being on the same side… I found I liked it.”
The Reckoning Page 72
