Falls the Shadow

by Sharon Kay Penman

  Richard was shaking his head. “It is too late, Nell. You did Henry a wrong, but today he did you a far greater one, and he knows it. You cannot believe he ever meant to blurt out the truth like that…before half the court? He is sick with shame at what he’s done, and he cannot own up to it. That is not Henry’s way, not any king’s way. All he can do is to take refuge in rage. Why else would he have ordered you to the Tower, Simon? He is trying very hard to convince himself that he is blameless, that you brought all of this upon yourself.”

  Simon studied his brother-in-law, impressed in spite of himself. “And so where does that leave me?”

  “In peril,” Richard said bluntly. “You have your share of enemies, Simon, men who begrudged you the King’s sister. Even as we speak, one of them could be with Henry now, all too eager to salt Henry’s wound anew, to goad him into punishing you as he so wants to believe you deserve. I was there to dissuade him today; tomorrow you might not be so fortunate.” He paused. “I’ve sent a man to the docks, told him to engage passage for you on the first ship sailing for France.”

  Simon glanced at Nell, saw her face mirror his own shock. “You truly think my danger is as great as that?”

  “Yes,” Richard said, “I do. I would not see you made the scapegoat for Henry’s shame. Nor would I see Henry do that which he’d regret for the rest of his life. As long as you are in England, within reach of Henry’s rage, you are not safe—and neither is Henry.”

  “Simon!” Nell closed the space between them, flung herself into Simon’s arms, and as he watched, Richard’s eyes—as blue as Henry’s but more analytical, less innocent—lost some of their detached distance.

  “You’d best withdraw at once to Odiham, Nell,” he said quietly. “Give Henry time to heal.”

  “Odiham?” she echoed, incredulous. “Do you truly believe I would remain in England whilst my husband is forced into exile? I go with Simon.”

  Simon forgot the others, saw only Nell. He touched her face with his fingers, his eyes searching hers. “Are you sure, Nell? Truly sure?”

  “How can you even ask that, Simon? You are mine no less than I am yours. Whatever happens, I will not be parted from you.”

  She turned then, toward Richard. “But we cannot sail so soon, not tonight, not until we have our son.”

  “Nell, Simon would be in the Tower now had I not been there when Henry gave the order. You have no time to spare, no margin for error. As for the child, I have a suggestion. Why not send him to my wife, have him join my household at Berkhamsted—”

  “No!” Simon and Nell spoke at once, sounding so distraught that Elen’s eyes began to burn with tears. But if she could never have what Nell did, a child born of her body, born of love, she could ease Nell’s fears for that child.

  “Nell, listen. On the morrow Rob and I will go Kenilworth, will take your son back to London. You may entrust Harry to us; we will—” The rest of her promise was lost. Nell embraced her, clung to Elen for a revealingly long moment; only then did Elen discover how Nell was trembling. “Simon,” she said, “my lord father will make you welcome in Wales.”

  Simon had long since revised his earlier unfavorable opinion of Elen; her adultery seemed of little consequence when measured against her absolute, unswerving loyalty to Nell. “That is a generous offer, Elen, and no less than I’d expect from you. But if I agreed, I’d be paying you back in false coin. I cannot put another man at risk, would not have Henry turn his wrath upon Llewelyn.”

  Just a few short months ago, Simon’s elder brother Amaury had paid a visit to the English court, had been fêted by Henry, and left much impressed by Simon’s soaring fortunes. The thought of returning as a fugitive, his splendid future in ruins, lacerated Simon’s pride as surely as any knife blade could. But what choice had he? “I will take Nell to France,” he said. “To my brother’s castle at Montfort l’Amaury.”

  Richard had found only two ships ready to sail at such short notice, a sturdy cogge and a lighter, faster esneque. The cogge was the larger of the two, but this particular ship must have been built during the reign of Nell’s father or possibly even her grandfather, for it could offer no better shelter from the weather than a faded and frayed canvas tent. Simon chose the esneque; however cramped its rear-castle chamber, it would at least provide Nell with some small degree of protection and privacy.

  Darkness had descended upon the city. Now and then a flickering light floated by, as they passed another boat. An occasional riverside house gave off a dim glow. But ahead the Southwark bank seemed ablaze. Simon’s mouth tightened; he watched until Winchester House had receded into the distance. It was with a sense of utter unreality that he realized it was less than ten hours since he and Nell had been making love in the Bishop’s bed.

  Nell was standing alone near the bow. He crossed to her, wrapped his mantle around her shoulders. “The ship’s master tells me it may take a few days to navigate the river, but he says that if the winds are with us, we should make it from Dover to Wissant in nine or ten hours.”

  “Where is Montfort l’Amaury?” It was too dark to see her face and he could read little in her voice.

  “It is about thirty miles south of Paris. I always meant to take you there, Nell. But not like this.”

  “I know,” she said. “I know…”

  An immense, imposing wall suddenly seemed to loom ahead, and Simon slid his hand along Nell’s arm. “We are about to shoot the bridge. Mayhap you ought to go aft, wait with Mabel in the rear-castle,” he suggested, for the bridge acted almost as a dam and the current surged through its arches with awesome force; a year never passed without some unlucky Londoners drowning as their boats splintered against the massive piers. “Nell,” he said, “it can be right dangerous.”

  “I’d be more frightened if I was unable to see what was happening,” she said, and he put his arm around her, drew her close. Nell tried not to look at the rushing water, stared instead up at the ship’s towering mast, at the drawbridge opening above their heads. The ship gave a sickening lurch, the arch enveloping them on both sides. Nell felt as if they were in a dark, wet tunnel, and she shuddered, clung to Simon. And then they were through, the bridge was behind them, ahead only open water. Nell put a hand up to her face. “We’re drenched in spray,” she said, and then, almost inaudibly, “I hate boats, hate the sea. When I was a little girl, I’d dream sometimes of drowning…”

  “Nell…Nell, I am so sorry—” he began, and she reached up, put her fingers to his lips.

  “No, Simon. You’ve nothing to be sorry for, nothing!”

  Lights lit the dark to their left. They turned, stared up at the steep outer walls, the whitewashed, moonlit silhouette of the Tower keep. Richard believed that time was their ally. Henry would have such a queasy conscience, he insisted, that eventually he would have to make amends, and he would do it the only way he could, by pretending nothing had ever happened, by welcoming Nell and Simon back at his court as if their estrangement and exile had never been. That was a frail reed to cling to, yet it was all Nell had. But now, as she watched the Tower slowly slide past, she thought, What if Richard is wrong? What if Henry never relents? What would become of us, then? What future would our Harry have?

  “Simon…” She swallowed with difficulty. “Simon, might all this be retribution? Mayhap our marriage was indeed a sin, mayhap we did grievously offend the Lord when we wed…”

  “I find it very hard to see Henry as the instrument of the Almighty,” he said, with such bitterness that Nell shivered. Even if Henry does relent, she thought, nothing will ever be the same again. Simon will never be able to forgive Henry for this, never. And sheltered by the darkness, with only Simon to see, she at last allowed herself to weep.

  7

  ________

  Nefyn, North Wales

  March 1240

  ________

  Gruffydd leaned over the cradle, gazed down at his infant son. Rhodri was a remarkably placid baby; amidst all the tumult in the hall, he s
lept as soundly as an overfed cat. So easily contented was he that Gruffydd occasionally worried lest he lack for attention. Davydd’s birth—coming so many years after Llelo’s—had been a source of incredulous joy, a rare blessing. In contrast, Rhodri seemed almost like an afterthought, the fourth son…the forgotten son.

  Gruffydd touched his finger to the baby’s cheek, then turned toward a sudden squeal of laughter. Davydd and Llelo were squatting by the hearth, where Llelo had cleared a space amidst the floor rushes. He was skillfully whipping a top, and as it spun, Davydd laughed again. Gruffydd smiled. Davydd’s hair was the burnished shade of October bracken, his eyes the color of rock moss, full of light and devilry. He kept the household in turmoil with his pranks and persistence and curiosity, but few begrudged him his moments of mischief; the boy’s charm was all the more potent for being so artless, so innocent.

  The heads of the two boys were almost touching, bright against dark, a sight to give Gruffydd pleasure. But as he watched, the game came to an abrupt end. Owain strode toward the hearth, swung Davydd up into the air. As Davydd shrieked with laughter, Llelo’s face shadowed. He let the top spin out, rose slowly to his feet. Too often Gruffydd had seen the jealousy flare up like this; even their love for Davydd was tainted by the rancor of their rivalry. He would have had it otherwise, but did not know how to mend the rift. For what could he say to them? He, too, loved his brother not.

  Owain had put Davydd back upon his feet, ignoring the child’s protests. “Papa,” he said, and Gruffydd turned, watched the men being ushered into the hall. He recognized them both—Hywel ab Ednyved, the newly consecrated Bishop of St Asaph, and his brother Goronwy—and his suspicions ignited. Ednyved had nine sons, several of whom were Gruffydd’s long-time companions. But he’d never counted Hywel or Goronwy among his friends. So why, then, had they ventured into his lands? He was not at war with his father—not a declared war. In the months after their confrontation at Ystrad Fflur, he had sought in vain to stir up the embers of rebellion. Men who might willingly fight Davydd on his behalf were not so willing to defy Llewelyn Fawr. Gruffydd had raged at his comrades for their cowardice, but for all his taunts about aging lions, he’d accepted defeat too readily for Senena and Owain; it was their unspoken fear that Gruffydd was no more eager to war upon his father than were his allies.

  To Gruffydd, courtesy was a needless indulgence when dealing with the enemy. “Why are you here?”

  “We have come at Prince Llewelyn’s behest. It is his heartfelt wish that you accompany us back to Aberconwy Abbey.” The Bishop paused. “You and the lad,” he said.

  Gruffydd felt a sudden surge of anger. Why would his father not let him be? And when would he ever learn to harden his heart against these overtures? He sought to gain time with the first query to come to mind. “Why is my father at the abbey?” No sooner were the words out of his mouth than he regretted them, for the question was too obviously transparent, too obviously a delaying device. His father had always favored the White Monks, often accepted their hospitality; why should he not be at the abbey? But the answer he got was totally unexpected, shocking him profoundly.

  “Prince Llewelyn does dwell there now. A fortnight ago he did take holy vows.”

  Gruffydd’s jaw dropped. It was true his father had always been devout. It was no less true that his concerns had always been more secular than spiritual in nature. He was no man to relinquish power. Gruffydd felt certain of that, so certain that he dared to call a Bishop of his Church a liar. “Why should I believe you?”

  Goronwy began to bristle. “If my brother’s word is not good enough—”

  Hywel put a restraining hand on the other man’s arm. “I spoke true. There comes a time when even the most worldly of men must put aside earthly pleasures, think only upon God. Your lord father understands that, has—”

  “He is ill?” Gruffydd demanded roughly, and the Bishop nodded.

  There was a sudden silence, broken at last by Owain. “He’ll need more than a monk’s cowl to get through Heaven’s gate,” he jeered. “Mayhap he truly is ill. Mayhap not. This could well be a ruse, Papa, a cowardly trick to lure you back to his court, into his power.”

  “That is not so,” Llelo said hotly. “Grandpapa has been ailing for months—” Too late did he realize his mistake, realize he’d just betrayed himself. But much to his relief, neither his mother nor Owain seemed to have understood the significance of his words. He expelled his breath, then braced himself to look at his father. When he did, he saw that his father had known of his clandestine afternoons at Cricieth, had known and said nothing. Guilt rose in Llelo’s throat like bile. He could not even promise Papa he’d never go again to Cricieth, for it would be a lie. But…but would Grandpapa ever come back to Cricieth now? Mayhap he’d stay at the abbey with the monks, and if so, when would they see each other again?

  Senena glanced impatiently at her husband; how could he be so slow to see the truth? “What you are saying is that Llewelyn is dying, are you not?”

  The Bishop resented her bluntness, would have preferred to break the news more gently, for the boy’s sake. “Yes,” he said reluctantly. “He is dying.”

  “Dying?” Gruffydd sounded so stunned that Senena felt both pity and irritation; did he think the old man was immortal? She would have gone to him, but Gruffydd had begun to pace. He moved to the hearth, did not turn back to face them as he said, “He had another seizure?”

  “No.” The Bishop looked toward Llelo, then said slowly, “In recent months Llewelyn has begun to suffer from pains in his chest. At first they would subside if he rested awhile. But as Lent drew nigh, they became more frequent, more severe. The last attack was a bad one; he was in pain for several hours. He is better now, but he knows not for long. A man with heart-pain counts his days, does well to take each moment as it comes.”

  He waited, but Gruffydd was silent. “My lord? Will you go to him?”

  “No.” Gruffydd had yet to move from the hearth. “No.”

  Hywel was not surprised. “As you will.”

  But Goronwy could not dissemble so well. “Are you sure that is a decision you can live with?” he said scornfully, and Gruffydd spun around.

  “You have your answer! What more do you want from me?”

  Hywel caught his brother’s eye, shook his head. “What of the lad?” he asked. “Have we your permission to take Llelo back with us?”

  Llelo had yet to move, to speak. At mention of his name, he raised his head. Senena was startled by his sudden pallor; he’d lost color so quickly that he looked ill. She stepped toward him, then saw the tears glimmering behind his lashes, tears for Llewelyn. “No,” she said curtly, “indeed you do not, my lord Bishop. Llelo is not going to Aberconwy.”

  “Yes, Mama, I am.”

  Senena stared at her son. “I am thinking of your safety, Llelo. When a man lies near death, his influence wanes very quickly. It is Davydd whose commands do matter now. Harm might well befall you if—”

  “Would you truly care?”

  Senena gasped, and Llelo swung about, toward his father. “Papa,” he said, “tell her I can go.”

  The boy was taut; to Gruffydd, he seemed very like a wild colt, ready to bolt at the slightest movement. But he was not pleading, and his eyes never wavered from Gruffydd’s face. Gruffydd nodded. “Yes,” he said, “go ahead, lad.”

  “Gruffydd…” Senena bit her lip, bit back her protest. Gruffydd was already turning away.

  The wind was blowing in from the west, a wet, sea-borne wind that held no hint of coming spring. Gruffydd had left his mantle in the hall and he stood shivering in the bailey, staring up at the darkening sky, a sky adrift in smoke-color clouds. They hung low over the horizon, blotted out the last traces of day. There’d be a storm soon, he thought, and it would be a bad one.

  “Papa.” Llelo was standing several feet away; how had he not heard the boy approach? “Papa,” Llelo said again. “Come with me…please.”

  Gruffydd discovered his thro
at was suddenly tight; the words had to be forced out. “I cannot, Llelo.” His voice sounded strange to him, too, thick and scratchy. “I cannot…”

  Llewelyn’s lashes flickered. A woman was bending over him; a long, black braid swung loose, lightly brushed his cheek. “Joanna?” he murmured, and his daughter flinched.

  “No, Papa,’” she said, as steadily as she could. “It’s Elen.”

  He opened his eyes. “So it is,” he said, sounding drowsily amused. “I was dreaming of your mother, lass,” he explained, as if he’d read her mind, her fear that his wits had begun to wander. “It seemed so real,” he added, “and, I regret to say, not at all the sort of dream I ought to be having, not after taking holy vows.”

  Elen found herself smiling through tears. “You always could make me laugh, Papa.” As much as she’d mourned her mother, she knew her grieving would be even greater for Llewelyn. Even now, forced to face the mortal nature of his illness, she could not truly imagine a world in which he no longer walked or laughed, and as she clasped her father’s hand in hers, she felt not like a woman grown, a woman with a husband and life of her own, but rather like a child lost in the dark.

  Gwladys stepped from the shadows surrounding the bed. “Papa, do you think you could drink some of this?”

  The wine was bitter, so strongly flavored was it with marigold and rosemary and lemon juice, other herbs he could not identify. Llewelyn drank these potions without complaint, more to please his daughters than his doctors, and now he forced himself to take several deep swallows before Gwladys reclaimed the cup. “Jesú, what a waste of good wine,” he muttered, heard a low laugh, and felt no surprise when his son moved into his line of vision. Davydd rarely left his bedside; sometimes he even kept vigil at night.

  “Do not fret, Papa,” he said. “I’ve some mead in my chambers, and I promise to smuggle it past your doctors.”