Falls the Shadow

by Sharon Kay Penman

  Llelo was intrigued, but uncomprehending. “I do not fully understand,” he admitted, with such obvious reluctance that Llewelyn smiled.

  “Just listen, lad; you will. You know, of course, that Welsh law divides a man’s lands up amongst his sons. But how do you divide a kingdom, Llelo? It cannot be done. In the past, our law did but lead to needless bloodshed, set brother against brother. So it was with my own family; my father was slain by his brothers. And Gwynedd was torn asunder by their wars, bled white. I could not let that happen again. I had to keep my realm whole, could not let it be broken into fragments when I died. How else could we hope to stave off English attacks? We’re at peace now with England, but it was a peace I won at sword-point, bought with blood. The moment we seem vulnerable, the English will seek to regain their conquests, and what could be more vulnerable than a land ravaged by civil war?”

  Llelo reached over, picked up one of the arrow halves. “I think I see. You put Gwynedd first, did what you thought was best for Wales.”

  Llewelyn was delighted. “Just so, lad.”

  “But why did you choose Davydd? Why did you not want my papa to have Gwynedd? He was your firstborn. Why Davydd?”

  That was the question Gruffydd had put to him, too. And he’d never been able to answer it to Gruffydd’s satisfaction, never been able to make him understand. Would he have any better luck with the boy?

  “A prince of Gwynedd must be practical, Llelo. He must be able to understand the limits of his power. No Welsh prince could ever hope to equal the might of the English Crown. To survive, to safeguard our sovereignty, we must come to terms with England. That is why every Welsh prince since my grandfather’s time has sworn allegiance to the English king. But Gruffydd was never able to accept that. Over the years, his hatred of the English festered, until it was beyond healing. If ever he had my power, he’d start a war with England, a war he could not win. I do not blame him, Llelo; he cannot be other than as he is. But I could not let him destroy himself, and I could not let him destroy Gwynedd.”

  It was very quiet; Llewelyn knew that Ednyved, too, had been listening. Llelo had bowed his head, and Llewelyn could see only a crown of dark hair; it showed brown glints in the sun, but now looked as black as Llewelyn’s own hair had once been. “Llelo?”

  “Did you never try to make my papa understand? Mayhap if he knew why, if he did not think you loved Davydd more, then he’d…he’d be more content.”

  “Yes, lad,” Llewelyn said. “I tried.” Llelo asked no more questions, and after a moment, Llewelyn leaned over, quenched the candle flame.

  “Llelo?” Ednyved spoke for the first time from the darkness. “I want to tell you something. Your lord grandfather spoke of a peace with England. What he did not tell you was that it was dictated on his terms. You see, lad, Llewelyn did what men thought impossible; he united the other Welsh Princes, got them to hold with him against England. Wales has never been stronger, more secure, and it is your grandfather’s doing. He was too shrewd to lay claim to the title, knowing it would but stir up jealousies and rancors amongst the other Princes, but in truth, lad, Llewelyn is Prince of all Wales, Prince of all our people.”

  Llewelyn was taken aback. Ednyved was not a friend who flattered; his was an affection most often barbed by flippancy and sarcasm. “That is the sort of praise a man rarely gets to hear, Ednyved,” he said wryly. “It is usually reserved for funeral orations!”

  “Well, try not to let it go to your head, my lord. I just thought the lad ought to know.”

  No one spoke after that. Llelo snuggled deeper under the blankets. He was drowsy, not far from sleep. But his last conscious thought was one to give him great comfort. He need feel no shame for loving his grandfather. He was not disloyal. He knew now that his grandfather had never been his father’s enemy.

  Llelo awoke to darkness. The shutters were still drawn, and the hearth had gone out. The chamber was very cold; a thin crust of ice had formed over the water in the washing lavers. He knew instinctively that the abbey bells had not yet rung Prime. So why had he awakened? He yawned, then saw that his grandfather and Ednyved were stirring, too. Across the chamber, Llewelyn’s attendants were rolling hastily from their blankets. Llewelyn sat up, and Llelo felt a throb of excitement when he saw the sword in his grandfather’s hand. The intruder shrank back, gave a frightened bleat.

  “I am Brother Marc! I intend no evil, God’s truth!”

  One of Llewelyn’s squires had the wit to unlatch a shutter, revealing a glimpse of greying sky, revealing the white habit and black scapular of a Cistercian monk. Llewelyn’s men lowered their swords in disgusted relief, muttering among themselves at the incredible innocence that had sent the monk bursting into a sleeping Prince’s chamber, never thinking that his sudden, unsanctioned entry might well be taken for an assassination attempt.

  “My lord, forgive me, but I did not know what else to do. I was on watch at the gatehouse when he sought entry, and he insisted he be taken to you at once. He says he has an urgent message from Lord Davydd and—”

  “Christ Jesus, man, why do you tarry then? Bid him enter!” Flinging the blankets back, Llewelyn grabbed for his clothes. He was wide awake now, but baffled. Wales was not at war. The other Welsh Princes were his allies. Nor did he believe the English King was likely to violate the peace. A Marcher border lord? Again, not likely; they were like wolves, preyed upon the weak. But Davydd was never one to take alarm at trifles. So what…Jesú, Gruffydd! Had he risen up in rebellion again? Llewelyn shot a troubled glance toward his grandson. And then an unshaven, begrimed man was kneeling before him, a man who’d obviously spent long, hard hours in the saddle, a man who could not meet his eyes.

  “I bear grievous tidings, my lord. Your lady wife has been taken ill. Lord Davydd urges you to return to Aber with all haste.”

  Llewelyn had been buckling his scabbard; his hands froze on the belt. “Joanna?” There was shock in his voice, and disbelief, but no fear, not yet. “How ill? What ails her?”

  “I know not the answer to that, my lord. But she burns with fever, and Lord Davydd said…he said you dare not delay.”

  The men dressed rapidly, wordlessly, casting sidelong glances at Llewelyn’s graven profile. In his haste, Llelo pulled his shirt on backwards, nearly panicked when he could not find his boots, and then heard what he most dreaded, Ednyved’s flat, dispassionate voice saying, “It might be best to leave the boy here with the monks.”

  “No! I want to come. I’ll not slow you down, I swear!”

  Ednyved looked into the boy’s upturned face, and then over at Llewelyn. But Llewelyn’s eyes were turned inward; he had no thoughts for Llelo, no thoughts for anyone but the woman lying ill at Aber. Ednyved hesitated, and then nodded.

  The abbey at Lln Eglwystl was more than fifty miles from Llewelyn’s seacoast palace at Aber, but they covered the distance in less than two days, arriving at dusk on the second day. The men were chilled, soaked by hours of steady, winter rain, their horses lathered and mud-splattered, but none had protested Llewelyn’s punishing pace. Llelo was in a daze, so exhausted that he’d not even noticed when Llewelyn lifted him onto his saddle; he’d settled back sleepily in his grandfather’s arms, awakening only when rain dripped over the edge of his mantle hood, trickled onto his cheek. Now someone was reaching up for him, depositing him upon the ground. He staggered, and Llewelyn put a steadying hand on his arm, but the gesture was automatic; Llewelyn had already forgotten the boy, saw Davydd and only Davydd.

  For two days Llewelyn had sought to convince himself that he feared for naught, that Joanna could not truly be in danger. But at sight of his son’s ashen face, he heard himself say huskily, “She still lives?”

  Davydd nodded, but then said, “Thank God you’ve come, Papa. We so feared you’d not be in time…”

  “Why did you not summon me at once?”

  “She would not let me, Papa. She swore it was but a chill, and indeed, at first it did seem so. When she worsened, it took us with
out warning.”

  Llewelyn had never been a man to shrink from hard truths; unless he knew the nature of his enemy, how could he know what strategy might stave off defeat? “Tell me,” he said. “Tell me all.”

  “The chill was followed by fever, and despite all her doctors could do, it burns ever higher.” Tears had filled Davydd’s eyes, but he somehow managed to keep his voice steady. “She has pain in breathing, and a constant cough. The doctors have given her sage and vervain, wine with powdered anise and fennel, and Mama’s confessor has not left the chapel all day, lighting candles to the Blessed Mary and to St Blaise. But Papa, I’ll not lie to you. Nothing has helped, nothing. She grows weaker by the hour. The doctors…they hold out no hope.”

  “Devil take the doctors,” Llewelyn said savagely. “Do you think I’ll just stand by, let her die? She almost died before, giving birth to you. But I did not let it happen. I’m here for her now, and that will make the difference. I’ll not lose her, Davydd. Whatever it takes to save her, I’ll do. I’ll find a way. I always do.” He was turning away when Davydd caught his arm.

  “Papa, wait. She…she’s out of her head now with the fever. Papa, I doubt that she’ll even know you.”

  Llewelyn stared at him, and then pulled his arm free.

  His bedchamber had been draped with red, in vain hopes of banishing fever. Isabella, Davydd’s young wife, burst into tears at sight of Llewelyn; so, too, did Nia, Joanna’s maid. The doctors stood helplessly by; they looked exhausted, and not a little apprehensive. Llewelyn brushed them aside, leaned over the bed.

  “Joanna? Breila, I’m here,” he said, and then his breath caught in his throat as she turned toward the sound of his voice. Splotches of hot color burned high on her cheekbones, but her skin was bloodless, had taken on a frightening, waxlike pallor. Her eyes looked bruised, so deeply circled were they, sunken back in her head, glazed and unseeing, and even when he took her in his arms, held her close, he could find no flicker of recognition in their fevered depths.

  Llelo awakened just before dawn. As early as it was, the great hall was already astir. Joanna had not been popular with her husband’s people, but she was well-loved by those in her own household, and a pall had settled over the court. Even those who could not mourn Joanna, the unfaithful, foreign wife, even they grieved for the pain her death would give their Prince, and Llelo saw only somber, grim faces, saw people too preoccupied to pay heed to a bewildered eight-year-old.

  Llewelyn had spent the night at Joanna’s bedside, had at last fallen into a fitful sleep. When he awoke, it was with a start, with a sick surge of fear that subsided only a little as he glanced toward the bed, reassured himself that Joanna still lived. Her breathing was labored, rapid and shallow, but her sleep seemed easier, and he took heart from that. For much of the night, she’d tossed and turned, in her fever seeking to throw off the sheets, from time to time crying out his name, agitated, incoherent, imprisoned in a twilight world of delirium and shadows, just beyond his reach. But now she seemed calmer, and he leaned over, touched his lips to her forehead.

  As he straightened up, he winced. His was no longer a young man’s body, and his muscles were cramping badly, inflamed by the abuses of the past three days. He slumped back in the chair, for the first time noticed his grandson. The boy said nothing, shyly held out a clay goblet. Llewelyn took it, drank without tasting.

  “Llelo, fetch me that casket on the window-seat.” Llelo was in motion before he’d stopped speaking, and a moment later was watching, amazed, as Llewelyn dumped the contents onto the foot of the bed: a gleaming treasure-trove of gold and silver, garnets, amethysts, pendants and pins. “I once gave Joanna an amber pater noster. Help me find it, lad.”

  Llelo had the sharper eye, soon spied the yellow-gold prayer beads. “Here, Grandpapa! Why do you want it?”

  “Men say that amber helps to ease fevers.” Llewelyn leaned over, fastened the rosary around Joanna’s wrist. Isabella had entered with a laver. Taking it from her, he sat on the bed, began to sponge cooling water onto Joanna’s face and throat. When her lashes fluttered, he said soothingly, “I seek to lower your fever, breila.” The words came readily, so often had he said them to her in the past twelve hours. But then the sponge slipped from his fingers, for her eyes had focused on him, no longer blind. “Joanna?”

  “You came back…” A joyful whisper, so faint that none but he heard. Only when he thrust the laver aside did the others realize she was lucid again.

  “Hold me,” she entreated, and he slid his arm around her shoulders, cradled her against his chest. “Llewelyn…I cannot remember. Was…was I shriven?”

  “Indeed, love. Davydd did assure me of it, said your confessor administered the Sacraments whilst you were still in your senses.” Brushing her hair back, he kissed her forehead, her eyelids, the corner of her mouth. “But it matters for naught now, breila, for you’re going to recover. You need only—”

  “My darling…my darling, not even you can…can deny death…” The corner of her mouth twitched, tried to smile. “Davydd?” she whispered, and Llewelyn nodded, unable to speak.

  “I’m here, Mama.” Davydd came forward, into her line of vision. “Right here.” He saw her lips move, knew what she asked, slowly shook his head. “No, Mama. But Elen is on her way, should be here soon.”

  Joanna closed her eyes; tears squeezed through her lashes. So much she wanted to say, but she had not the strength. “Beloved…promise me…”

  Llewelyn stiffened. She’d fought so hard to gain the crown for their son. Did she mean to bind him now with a deathbed vow? He waited, dreading what she would ask of him, to safeguard the succession for Davydd. Knowing there was but one certain way to do that—to cage Gruffydd again. And how could he do that to his son? How could he condemn him to a life shut away from the sun? But how could he deny Joanna? Could he let her go to her grave without that comfort?

  “Llewelyn…pray for me,” she gasped, and only then did he fully accept it, that she was indeed dying, was already lost to him, beyond earthly cares, worldly ambitions.

  “I will, Joanna.” He swallowed with difficulty, brought her hand up, pressing his lips against her palm. “You will have my every prayer.”

  “Bury me at…at Llanfaes…”

  His head jerked up. He had an island manor at Llanfaes; it was there that Joanna had been confined after he had discovered her infidelity. “Why, Joanna? Why Llanfaes?”

  Her mouth curved upward. “Because…I was so happy there. You came to me, forgave me…”

  “Oh, Christ, Joanna…” His voice broke; he pulled her into an anguished embrace, held her close.

  Llelo had been a petrified witness; at that, he began to sob. Isabella, too, was weeping. Davydd turned on his heel, bolted from the chamber. Ednyved took the boy by the arm. Gently but insistently, he ushered Llelo and Isabella into the antechamber. Then quietly he closed the door, left Llewelyn alone with his wife.

  Elen arrived at Aber in mid-afternoon, but by then Joanna was delirious again. She never regained consciousness, died in the early hours of dawn on Candlemas, February 2. At week’s end, her body was ferried across the strait to the island of Môn, where she was buried, as she’d requested, in a seaside garden near Llewelyn’s manor at Llanfaes.

  It was a cold, blustery day, a day of wet winds and intermittent rains. Despite the raw, winter weather, there was a large turnout for the funeral of Llewelyn’s lady; well-born Welsh lords stood shoulder to shoulder with Marcher barons as the Bishop of St Asaph performed the funeral Mass under a darkening sky. The Bishop had consecrated a burial ground within sight of the sea, and the people murmured among themselves, wondering why Llewelyn had chosen to bury Joanna here, rather than in the village church. They had their answer at the conclusion of the Mass, when Bishop Hugh announced that Prince Llewelyn had vowed to found a house of Franciscan friars at Llanfaes, to pray for the soul of the Lady Joanna.

  None doubted the depths of Llewelyn’s grieving; it was there for all the
world to see in the haggard face, the hollowed dark eyes. But few had expected a gesture of such spectacular and dramatic dimensions. Llelo was standing close enough to hear his mother’s indrawn breath. As inconspicuously as possible, he backed away, then circled around the mourners, at last reached his grandfather’s side.

  Llewelyn was standing with his son and daughter by Joanna’s tomb. He’d put artisans to work day and night to complete it in time; the coffin lid bore his wife’s effigy, was decorated with floriated crosses, foliage, a winged dragon. The coffin had been sprinkled with holy water; it was being splattered now with rain drops, with Elen’s silent tears as she bent over, touched her lips to the cold, carven stone.

  “My lord?” The Bishop of St Asaph waited at a respectful distance, knowing how difficult it always was for the living to bid farewell to their dead. “My lord Llewelyn, shall we return to Aber now?”

  “Yes, go.” Llewelyn did not move, though. “Take the others back, Davydd. You, too, lass,” he said, when Elen would have objected. “I would have some last moments alone with her,” he said softly, and his children no longer protested, left him there in the bleak, windswept garden.

  The rain was coming down heavily by the time the mourners were ferried back to Aber. The great hall was soon filled to overflowing with cold and hungry guests. Davydd’s wife had made herself ill with her weeping, had taken to bed, but both Davydd and Elen were still in the hall, accepting condolences with the brittle, prideful gallantry of noblesse oblige. Joanna’s sister Nell had borne up with equal fortitude, but now her composure cracked and she covered her face with her hands, began to sob. Llelo was closest to her, but he did not know how to comfort, willingly relinquished the field to a French cousin of John the Scot. Simon de Montfort moved swiftly to Nell’s side, gently led her toward the greater privacy of a window-seat, then hovered protectively nearby until Nell had regained composure.