The English soldiers were keenly disappointed, but Robert Body now reminded them that Llewelyn ap Gruffydd’s death was sure to please the King mightily, even if he was cheated of the chance to take his enemy alive. He would be open-handed, with bounty enough for all who’d played a part in the Welsh Prince’s downfall. They nodded among themselves, cheering up as they realized he spoke the truth, and when Trevor looked up again, he discovered that they were searching Llewelyn’s body.
If Trevor had almost given himself away in his grieving, he was even more endangered by his rage. As he watched them treat his lord so callously, rolling him over in the snow, stripping off his hauberk, and ripping his clothing in their hunt for valuables, Trevor’s hatred swept him to the very brink of reason. He grasped a low-hanging branch, held on to it as if it were an anchor, while he fought back his fury that these English hellspawn would dare to lay hands upon his Prince.
Their search was productive, and they gathered around to examine the results: two gold rings and a silver mantle clasp, Llewelyn’s privy seal, a small wooden comb, a lock of reddish-blond hair tied with a scrap of ribbon, a dagger with an ivory hilt, and a letter in Welsh. But it occurred then to Martin that they had a problem.
“How are we going to get him back, Rob? We do not have an extra horse.”
“So? We have to prove his identity, but we do not need his body for that.” And he strode over to Llewelyn, drawing his sword from its scabbard.
As Trevor watched, aghast, the blade came up, started on its downward swing. He averted his eyes just in time, and thus spared himself the sight of Robert Body lifting his Prince’s head up by the hair, brandishing it like a trophy for the others to see. “Take it over to the stream, Fulk, and wash away all this blood. I’d not have thought he had any more to lose!”
Trevor saw none of this. Crouching close to the ground, he wrapped his arms around his drawn-up knees, and wept, silently and hopelessly. Soon afterward, the soldiers rode off, for they had momentous news to deliver. Getting stiffly to his feet, Trevor stumbled out into the clearing. They’d left a blanket behind, blood-drenched by the decapitating. Trevor reached for it, began to drape it over Llewelyn’s body, taking great care. By the time it was done to his satisfaction, he’d gotten blood all over himself, too, but he did not mind, for it was his lord’s blood. Sitting down in the snow beside the body, he said, “I’ll not leave you, my lord. I’ll not leave you.”
And that was how Goronwy found them, long after the battle of Llanganten had been fought and lost.
37
Dolwyddelan, Wales
December 1282
“It pains me to say this, my lord, but I am beginning to believe you might be cheating.”
About to reach for the dice, Davydd gave his wife a look of wounded innocence. “Why ever should you think that?”
“I daresay it is just my suspicious nature. But this wanton game was your idea, the dice are yours, and after four throws, you’ve yet to forfeit so much as a belt buckle, whilst I am sitting here clad only in my chemise.”
Davydd shrugged. “Clearly,” he said, “God is on my side.” Getting off the bed, he stretched, then suggested, “Whilst I fetch us some wine, you can be deciding what to give up next.”
Elizabeth reclined against the pillows, watching as he crossed to the table. “Davydd, have you written to Llewelyn yet…about our baby?”
“No, not yet.”
“Dear heart, you cannot wait much longer. When Llewelyn left, I’d not begun to show yet. But I’m now past my fourth month. If you do not tell him soon, you risk him finding out from others.”
“I know,” Davydd conceded. “And I’ll tell him, I will. I just have not got around to it yet.”
Elizabeth let it go, for Davydd would balk all the more if pushed. She knew full well why he was so loath to tell Llewelyn about her pregnancy; it was bound to remind Llewelyn of all he’d lost. She only wished Davydd could admit as much. But if he could not, so be it. She’d long ago learned that she could not hope to change him, could only love him as he was. Fortunately, she thought, that was not difficult.
Davydd was coming back now with a brimming cup. Passing it to her, he said, “Well? I believe you still have a debt to pay, cariad. You are going to honor it, I trust?”
Elizabeth smiled demurely. “I always pay my debts,” she said, gesturing toward the foot of the bed, where her shoes, surcote, and blue wool gown were neatly piled. “I shall forfeit my stockings.” She was reaching for the hem of her chemise when Davydd caught her hand.
“Let me, my lady fair,” he said, with such mock gallantry that Elizabeth could not help giggling. Putting the wine cup down on the floor, she lay back, closing her eyes. His hand lingered on her ankle, moved up toward her knee, then began an unhurried exploration of her thigh.
“You have over-shot your target,” she pointed out. “My stockings are gartered at the knee.”
“I know,” he murmured. “But have you never heard of a scouting expedition?”
Elizabeth burst out laughing. “Ah, Davydd, I do adore you!”
“Words,” he said, “are cheap,” and she hit him with a pillow. He grabbed her wrist, pulled her into his arms, and they rolled to the very edge of the bed. Drawing out the last of her pins, Davydd let her hair fall free. It spilled over into the floor rushes, as soft as silk and as pale as moonlight. Davydd loved the silvered fairness of it, loved the feel of it against his skin, and made a flaxen rope of it now, entangling them both in its coils as he began to kiss her mouth, her throat. They heard neither the knock nor the opening door.
“My lord Davydd, you must—”
Davydd looked up with a scowl. “You may not have noticed, Math, but I am about to ravish my wife.” He could feel Elizabeth’s body quivering under him, shaking with silent mirth, and said flippantly, “Come back later—mayhap in a fortnight.”
That provoked another smothered giggle from Elizabeth, muffled against his shoulder. But from Math, it drew not even a smile. “You must come, my lord,” he repeated. “Goronwy ap Heilyn has just ridden into the bailey.”
By the time Davydd crossed the bailey, men were converging upon the great hall, stumbling, groggy and bleary-eyed, into the torch-light spilling out into the snow. Caitlin had just reached the doorway. She had a mantle modestly wrapped around her, but her hair hung over her shoulder in a long night plait, braided for sleep. She was shivering, and as Davydd glanced down, he saw why; beneath the folds of her mantle peeped a pair of embroidered bed slippers, soaked with snow. At sight of Davydd, she halted, looked up intently into his face.
“Do you know what has happened?” she asked, and Davydd shook his head. Elizabeth had caught up with him by then, for she’d tarried just long enough to retrieve her shoes and fling a mantle over her chemise. The wind was whipping her hair about untidily, and she would normally have been the focus of most male eyes, for a women with free-flowing, unbound hair was rarely seen outside the intimacy of the bedchamber. But now Elizabeth received only the most cursory of glances. The men heading for the hall were too preoccupied to pay heed to a pretty woman, even one with blonde hair. They knew that their Prince would never have dispatched so important a lord as Goronwy with a mundane message. The news he brought was sure to be significant.
“Trevor, you’ve been hurt!” Caitlin started forward, only to stop in bewilderment when he shrank back, refusing to meet her eyes. Davydd glanced at the bloodied bandage swathing the boy’s head, then at Goronwy, so haggard and fatigued that his mantle might well conceal a wound of his own.
“I think,” he said, “that what you’ve come to tell us, we’ll not want to hear.”
“No,” Goronwy said slowly, “no, you will not. On Friday eve, there was a battle fought at Llanganten, two miles west of the castle at Buellt. It…it was not planned. We held the bridge, believed ourselves to be secure behind the Irfon. In the afternoon hours, Llewelyn left us, rode off to meet with some of the Welsh who dwelled in the cantref. But whils
t he was gone, the English found a way to ford the Irfon. They captured the bridge, crossed the river, and took us by surprise.”
Someone now handed Goronwy a goblet, and he drank, not even aware of what he was swallowing. He’d not meant to begin with the battle. But he was not yet ready to tell them of Llewelyn’s death, and he found himself putting off the moment as long as he could, hoping that one of them would guess the truth and spare him this terrible task, sure to break his heart anew in the telling.
But as he looked about the hall, he saw that it was not to be. They were listening to him in a hushed silence, not needing to be told that the battle had gone against them, that their homeland would soon be echoing with the cries of Welsh widows and orphans, bewailing their losses on Llanganten’s bloody field. But no one yet realized where his dark, twisted tale was taking them, Davydd no more than the others. They waited patiently for him to continue, and he knew that they would not see the blow coming, not until it was too late.
“We were outnumbered,” he said, “and unmanned by our lord’s absence. But our men acquitted themselves well. They fought bravely, and they died. By the hundreds, they died, until both the Gwy and the Irfon ran red, and there were bodies beyond counting…” His voice hoarsened, pitched so low now that they had to crowd in closer to hear.
“They died,” he said, “not knowing that the battle had been lost ere it ever began, not knowing that Llewelyn was already dead.”
They had not believed Goronwy, not at first. They fought against belief, for they sensed, even then, just what had been lost. Their grieving, when it came, was raw, frenzied. Men wept and cursed, women sobbed brokenly, and Llewelyn’s chaplain was too stunned himself to be of any comfort. When they learned that Llewelyn had been beheaded, rage briefly vanquished pain. But the lamentations soon began again, until Davydd could endure the hall not another moment. Striding toward the closest door, he plunged out into the December darkness.
It was a frigid night, too cold for snow. He had no idea where he was going, although he knew full well where he ought to be—back in the hall, assuring those bereft, fearful men and women that Wales could survive his brother’s death. Or if not there, up in his bedchamber, consoling his wife. Elizabeth had a generous heart, but he knew her tears were not just for Llewelyn; she wept, too, for her lost faith. She’d truly believed in miracles and mercy and God’s blessed justice, and not even Ellen’s death had shaken her little girl’s trust in happy endings. He must make sure that she got through this grief, too, with her hope intact; he could not let her innocence die with Llewelyn. And he would go to her, but later, later, ignoring the inner voice that whispered she had need of him now.
Davydd was not the only one who’d fled the hall. There were others, too, who needed to be alone, keeping to the deeper shadows of the bailey. He was vaguely aware of them as he passed by, ghostly figures who did not seem quite real to him; but then, nothing about this night did. He was nearing the stables when a man lurched from the darkness, so unsteady on his feet that they almost collided.
“Have a care,” Davydd snapped, and the man swerved just in time, tear-blinded, mumbling an apology. He was holding an open flagon, but seemed to have spilled as much as he’d drunk, for his mantle reeked of mead. Recognizing him now—Dolwyddelan’s blacksmith—Davydd put out a supportive hand.
The blacksmith sucked in his breath, his eyes narrowing upon Davydd’s face. “You!” He recoiled in such haste that he staggered, almost fell. “It was a long wait—eight years—but you finally got what you wanted. My congratulations!”
For a moment, Davydd honestly did not know what he meant. When he did, he grabbed the man by the neck of his tunic, shoved him roughly back against the stable wall. The blacksmith grunted in pain, and Davydd slowly unclenched his fist. Wheeling about, he walked rapidly away.
The chapel was deserted, dimly lit. As he moved into the choir, Davydd found himself unexpectedly remembering another empty chapel, the one at Hawarden Castle, where Llewelyn had so angrily confronted him. “The destruction you have loosed upon us!” Llewelyn’s words seemed to echo in the air; so vivid was the memory that it was almost as if he were still hearing his brother’s voice. But he knew better. Death takes and restores not.
He moved restlessly toward the altar, where candles still burned. Fool priest, to court fire like this. He began to snuff them out, until the only light left was the one smoldering in a wall sconce by the door. Had Llewelyn realized how much his people loved him? Had they even realized it themselves? His mouth twisted into a sardonic smile; there were none like the Welsh for learning a lesson too late. He slumped wearily against the edge of the altar, as an image formed behind his closed eyelids, that of his daughter’s stricken face. God pity the lass, for she’d truly believed Llewelyn’s every breath was blessed. What could he say to her? What comfort could he offer?
He’d never had many thoughts to spare for Caitlin, might as well admit it. But she needed him now…or did she? What if she shared that dolt of a blacksmith’s suspicions? If she, too, thought he’d welcomed Llewelyn’s death? That was a troubling thought, but what followed it was far worse. Had Llewelyn believed that, too?
Pushing away from the altar, Davydd began to pace. That accursed plot with Gruffydd ap Gwenwynwyn, the worst mistake of his life. He’d told Owain how much he’d regretted it, but he’d not told Llewelyn. Christ, why had he never told Llewelyn?
Davydd stretched out his arm, leaned for a moment against the chapel wall. “Damn you, Llewelyn,” he said suddenly, “damn you!” And then he was slamming his fist into the wall, again and again, until his knuckles were scraped and raw and the whitewash splotched with blood. When he heard footsteps in the nave, he spun around, snarling, “Get out!”
The footsteps slowed, but did not retreat. They grew louder then, until Goronwy emerged from the shadows, out into the flickering light cast by the wall sconce. “I’ve been looking for you,” he said, and Davydd shrugged.
“Well, now you’ve found me.” He started to tell Goronwy to go, but instead, heard himself saying, “You told us that you buried Llewelyn at Cwm-hir. But what of the monks? They knew he was excommunicate. They did not object?”
“Object?” Goronwy’s smile was sad. “They pleaded for the privilege! But we dared not bury him in the abbey itself, for we remembered how the Evesham monks buried Simon de Montfort in their church, only to have his enemies dig his body up, deny him a Christian burial. So we laid Llewelyn to rest where he would be safe and at peace, with the Welsh sky for his ceiling and the snow for his shroud.”
Davydd frowned. “But still in hallowed ground?”
Goronwy nodded. “He loved Cwm-hir, Davydd, told me that more than once.”
He sounded as if that was supposed to be a comfort. Davydd’s frown deepened; why were men such fools about death? What did it matter if Llewelyn had thought Cwm-hir was Eden on earth? He’d never heard of a grave with a view.
“Did he know?” he said abruptly. “Did he know he was dying?”
“He knew.”
“What of the battle? Did he know of that?”
“Trevor thinks not,” Goronwy said, and only then did Davydd see the boy hovering in the shadows.
Trevor came forward at sound of his name, saying softly, “It happened so fast, my lord. When we ran into that English patrol, we had no time to wonder how they’d gotten across the Irfon, for they were upon us at once…”
Davydd had discovered that swallowing was becoming painful. His mouth was parched, and he’d have bartered his soul for a drink, ought to have taken the flagon from that besotted blacksmith. “I know we need to talk, Goronwy,” he said. “But not tonight. Seek me out on the morrow.”
Goronwy did not argue, turned to go. But Trevor stood his ground. “I have a message for you, my lord Davydd.”
Davydd stiffened. “From Llewelyn?”
“Yes. He said—” Trevor got no further, breaking off in bewilderment as Davydd flung up his hand, bade him be silent.
Gronowy looked no less puzzled than Trevor. Davydd felt their eyes upon him, and he would have choked his cry back if only he could. But it was too late. He could hear his heart hammering wildly, hear the uneven, rapid rhythm of his own breathing. Llewelyn’s message…what had he been thinking as he watched his life bleed away? That this war was not of his making? Had he drawn his last breath out in a curse? So much left unsaid between them, and the final words now to be Llewelyn’s. Jesú, what an unfair advantage the dead had over the living, for there could be no rebuttal, no denial, nothing but the accusing silence of the grave.
“So be it,” he said then, defiantly. “Tell me!”
“He entrusted you with his daughter, my lord, and with the Lady Caitlin.”
Davydd reached out, grasped Trevor’s wrist. “That is truly what he said? You swear it?”
“Yes, my lord. He was quiet after that, for talking was an effort, and I thought he was done speaking. But then he said, so low I barely heard him, ‘…in his keeping now.’”
“He meant… Gwenllian?”
Trevor shook his head. “No, my lord. I think he meant Wales,” he said, and his face blurred then, for Davydd, in a haze of hot tears.
Edmund dressed in the dark, with the help of a sleepy squire, shunning the candle light that might have awakened Blanche. She stirred once, and he bent over the bed, grazed her cheek with a kiss. “Sleep well, sweet,” he said, “and I’ll be back soon.”
He hoped that would indeed be so, hoped the noise that had awakened him did not herald disaster. Coming on the heels of Luke de Tany’s calamity in the Menai Straits, another defeat would be dangerously disheartening for their men. Not that it would shake his brother’s resolve. Ned would have victory, no matter the cost. Even if that meant—God help them—a winter campaign in the Welsh mountains. Edmund gave his sleeping wife one last, lingering look, then moved into the cold, dark stairwell.
The Reckoning Page 75
