Falls the Shadow

by Sharon Kay Penman

  “I know men say it is so.” Elen slowed her mare. “I know, too, that Englishmen claim the Welsh are a godless, barbaric people, who couple like beasts in the field and know nothing of honor. Some of them even fancy we have tails, Richard.”

  He flushed deeply, and she relented; he was, after all, very young. He did not understand, but that did not surprise her. She knew none who did.

  They rode in silence for a time, Richard wondering how he had offended, and Elen thinking of the four Jews who’d died at Norwich. Had they truly circumcised the boy? And even if so, did it warrant such a ghastly death?

  She was troubled from time to time by such questions, questions with no answers, questions no Christian should even pose. John the Scot had called her perverse; so did Rob, although he said it with pride. Neither man had understood how lonely it could be. Once she’d realized how deviant, how irregular her thoughts were, she rarely shared them with others. Even with Rob, whom she loved, there was much she left unspoken.

  Her wayward sympathy for the Jews was but part of a disquieting pattern; somehow she seemed ever out of step with her fellows. Holy Church taught that women must be subservient unto their husbands; English law guaranteed it. But such unquestioning obedience did not come easily to a daughter of Llewelyn Fawr; she’d always been one to balk at fences. Welsh women had rights of their own; Welsh law held that a woman was “to go the way that she willeth, freely.” Why were the ways of her people wrong? Could it not be the English who were in error? Or even the Church?

  At times it seemed to her that she was at war with her world. She was convinced that Welsh law was more just than Church law, too, in the treatment of bastard children, for she did not believe it was Christian to deny any child his birthright. Nor did she believe that women were by their very nature more susceptible to the Devil’s wiles. She did not understand why her Church so scorned man’s carnal needs, why St Jerome had admonished a grieving widow to mourn the loss of her virginity more than the loss of her husband, or why St Augustine had contended that, even in marriage, sexual intercourse could not be wholly free from sin. She did not—could not—believe that a baby who died unbaptized would be forever denied entry into Paradise. She could accept the existence of demons, but not dragons. She doubted that the wounds of a murdered man truly bled in the presence of his murderer. She felt certain that vervain would ill protect a man in battle, that rosemary was of little use in warding off lightning bolts. And she did not in her heart believe that the Jews were the veritable Antichrists.

  Now she looked over at Richard, at last said, “Rumors are the easiest of all crops to tend, Richard. You need only sow a few seeds about and in no time at all, you’ll reap a harvest of hatred. Have you never noticed that when men are goaded into attacking a Jewry, they are invariably led by those who owe debts to Jewish money-lenders?”

  “Who can blame them,” Richard protested, “when the Jews charge such outrageous interest rates?”

  Elen frowned. This was a familiar argument. She’d even heard it from Simon de Montfort; when she’d asked him why he’d expelled the Jews from Leicester, he’d replied that he’d acted to keep Christians from falling into the hands of Jewish money-lenders. No one, not even Simon, seemed to see what was, to Elen, the obvious connection between those high interest rates and the precarious position of the Jews, aliens and outcasts dangerously dependent upon the dubious good will of their Christian neighbors.

  “I never knew you felt so kindly toward the Jews,” Richard said suddenly. Before she could respond, he added, “But I’ll not speak of this to others. And…and I think it best if you do not, either, Lady Elen. People would not understand.”

  “No,” Elen conceded. “I do not suppose they would, Richard.” She laughed then, but without amusement. She was enough of a misfit as it was. Even before she’d defied convention by wedding Rob, the English had looked at her askance. In her own way, she was no less an object of suspicion than were the Jews.

  Richard was fumbling for a safer topic of conversation. “Why did your husband not accompany you to Gloucester?” He hesitated, then ventured a maladroit gallantry. “Were you my wife, I’d never let you wander about unescorted.”

  Elen ducked her head so he’d not see her smile. “Rob was not free to come with me. An Essex neighbor of ours was found dead a fortnight ago, and Rob and several other knights were requested to hold an inquest, to try to determine the cause of death. But I could not wait; I knew Davydd would be meeting with Henry on the fifteenth…today.”

  “Well, we ought to reach Gloucester by the morrow,” Richard said, and Elen nodded. She was not sorry she’d be a day late; she’d not truly wanted to watch as her brother was compelled to do homage to the English Crown.

  It was midday when Elen and Richard de Clare rode through St Mary’s gate into the precincts of the Benedictine abbey of St Peter at Gloucester. Richard was impatient to reach the guest hall, but Elen halted her mare before the Abbot’s house, for she’d caught sight of a familiar face. “You go on, Richard,” she said, “and take my servants with you. I see a friend.”

  She did think of Ednyved ap Cynwrig as just that. He’d been more than her father’s Seneschal, he’d been Llewelyn’s lifelong companion, had always been on hand whenever any of her family had need of him. She was glad to find him here at Gloucester, glad he was standing by Davydd in her brother’s time of trial, and she slid from her mare, moved swiftly toward him.

  “Well, now,” he said, “if you’re not a sight to gladden these aging eyes. Llewelyn and I never could figure out how he’d managed to sire such handsome children.”

  Elen’s smile was sad. “Papa casts a long shadow,” she said softly, and he nodded.

  “Most of all for Davydd. I miss Llewelyn, lass, miss him like I’d miss an arm. But Davydd…he has to measure up to Llewelyn now, and that is a lot to ask of any man.”

  “Tell me about the peace, Ednyved. Were Henry’s terms harsh ones?”

  “He did not ask us to harvest the moon or cull the stars from the sky,” Ednyved said grimly, “but he stopped just short of it. Davydd had to agree to submit any Marcher claims to arbitration; that could call much of Llewelyn’s conquests into question. And no Welsh lord may do homage to Davydd, only to Henry. Llewelyn was the uncrowned Prince of all Wales, but the English seek to make of Davydd a mere vassal of the Crown. They did not even accord him a title, Elen, referred to him in the treaty documents as Davydd, son of Llewelyn, former Prince of North Wales.”

  Elen had no divided loyalties. She might love an Englishman, live in England, but she was utterly and passionately Welsh. “Damn them!” she spat. “They are like vultures, the lot of them, always hovering about, preying upon Welsh weakness. Well, let them rejoice; it will not be for long. I know Davydd better than they do. Whatever he’s had to yield today, he’ll retake on the morrow.”

  “You need not argue that with me, Elen. I agree with you. Davydd shall prove to be an unpleasant surprise to the English—if he’s given the chance.”

  Elen stared at him. “What are you saying? That you truly think Gruffydd might prevail? Never!”

  “I would I could be as sure of that, lass,” he said, sounding so bleak, so somber that Elen felt a sudden chill of fear.

  “Davydd has to win,” she said. “God pity Wales if he does not…”

  After learning from Ednyved that Davydd was at Gloucester Castle, Elen wasted no time in seeking her brother out. Crossing the moat into the castle bailey, she came upon a scene of utter chaos. Henry was constructing new quarters for his Queen, and carpenters and masons were rushing about, clambering up onto shaky scaffolding, dropping tools, exchanging curses and sarcasm. It was not unheard of for Henry to supervise his building projects, but now he was nowhere in sight. Elen was glad, for he was the last person she wanted to see at the moment. She guided her mare toward a horse block, and the nearest man hurried over to help her dismount.

  She thanked him, then asked, “Where will I find Prince Dav
ydd?” making defiant use of her brother’s title.

  “I do not know.” The man didn’t recognize her, but he added “Madame” for safety’s sake; her gown and mantle were of high-quality wool. He pointed. “Mayhap the Earl of Leicester might know.”

  “Simon!” Elen was delighted. “I got your letter, so I knew you were returning to claim your son, and wait until you see how much he’s grown! But I would not have expected to find you at Gloucester. Have you and Henry been reconciled, then?”

  Simon was no less pleased to see her. He smiled, kissed her cheek. “Well, I am here with Henry, am I not?”

  Elen gave him a searching look. “So is Davydd,” she said, “but not by choice.”

  Simon laughed; her candor was comforting after the hyprocrisy of Henry’s court. “He acted as if nothing had ever happened, Elen. He even said he’d missed me!”

  He sounded bemused, but bitter, too. Elen understood exactly how he felt. “Why did you not bring Nell?”

  “I thought it best to face Henry myself. His quarrel was never with Nell.” Simon paused; his smile flashed again. “She is with child; did she write to you?”

  Elen nodded. “I am glad for you, Simon, glad for you both. Nell also wrote that you’ve taken the cross, mean to go on pilgrimage to the Holy Land.”

  “Yes,” he said. “I came back for my son, for we were not willing to entrust him to others on so long and perilous a journey. But whilst I am here, I hope to sell some of my lands to raise funds for my pilgrimage. I do not intend to tarry longer than need be in England, though. I plan to sail with Harry within a fortnight’s time.”

  “What of Nell? Now that you are welcome again at Henry’s court, will you send Nell back to England whilst you go on crusade?”

  “You ought to know Nell better than that, Elen. She intends to go with me, at least as far as Italy; there she’ll await the birth of our child. If not for that, I daresay she’d have insisted upon accompanying me to the very gates of Jerusalem.” Simon’s smile was wry. “I have to confess, though,” he said, “that I did not try to dissuade her as much as I ought. I rather like having her with me.”

  Elen laughed at his understated admission; coming from Simon, she thought, that was like the most impassioned of declarations. “Nell’s grandmother, Queen Eleanor of Aquitaine, went on crusade, so why not Nell? She must—Davydd!”

  Simon watched as Elen and her brother embraced. Davydd was a stranger to him; they’d met only twice. But he was Nell’s kinsman, Elen’s brother, and Simon felt some sympathy for his plight. Had he known Davydd better, he might have thought to caution him about Henry, to warn him that despite Henry’s generous nature and kind heart, any man who trusted him was one of God’s great fools. Simon suspected, though, that such a warning would have been wasted. Davydd did not strike him as the trusting sort.

  Davydd and Elen had sought privacy by the River Severn. Some yards away, their horses grazed. Behind them rose the walls of the castle bailey; ahead lay one of the wooden bridges that spanned the Severn. Davydd picked up a handful of pebbles, let them drop one by one into the muddy water. Elen waited, with uncommon patience, for him to speak.

  “Did Ednyved tell you what they demanded of me?”

  “Yes,” she said, and he dropped another pebble into the river, watched the ripples widen.

  “The English tried for years to get Papa to arbitrate Marcher claims, tried and failed. What they could not get from him, they got from me, Elen, within one month of Papa’s death.”

  “What choice did you have? You cannot fight Henry and Gruffydd both. Not even Papa could do that.” Elen moved toward him. “Davydd, look at me. Ednyved told me that the Marshals have captured Cardigan Castle, that Ralph de Mortimer is laying claim to Maelienydd. You had to end the war, had to come to terms with the English. And you know that, else you’d not be here today in Gloucester. So why are you blaming yourself like this? The English took advantage of your need and extorted some promises from you. What of it? Our people have a saying, Davydd, one you know well—rare is the promise that is kept.”

  Davydd looked at her for a long moment. “As ever, you go right to the heart of things, Elen. I had to yield to Henry; I could not fight two wars at once. I know that. But knowing makes it no easier.”

  Elen caught his arm. “Forget Henry!” she said fiercely. “It is Gruffydd who matters now. Davydd, you have to defeat him. Not just for your own sake, for Gwynedd, for Wales. He is not fit to rule, would bring us all to ruin if ever he had the power.”

  “Not all of the Welsh would agree with you, Elen.”

  “For the love of God, Davydd! You can ill afford hurt pride. Yes, some of the Welsh would prefer Gruffydd if given the choice. People fear change; they cling mindlessly to the old ways, to what they know. When Papa broke with tradition, named you as his sole heir, it frightened them. Let them be frightened, the sheep! You do not need them, Davydd. You will prevail without them.”

  For the first time since his arrival at Gloucester, Davydd smiled. “Your faith is heartening, Elen. And not ill founded.” From the corner of his eye, he caught a flash of bright blue, turned to watch as a kingfisher streaked by, all but skimming the surface of the river.

  “What will you do, Davydd?”

  “I mean to win this war.” Adding dryly, “I cannot well afford not to win, can I?”

  9

  ________

  Cricieth, North Wales

  September 1240

  ________

  They had followed the coast road since dawn, but the sun was high overhead by the time they caught their first glimpse of Cricieth Castle. Like all Welsh castles, it sprang up without warning, was suddenly there before them, an awesome, grey stone silhouette rising against the vivid September sky. It seemed haloed by clouds, so high was its hill, and afforded sweeping views of the Lln Peninsula, the distant heights of the Eryri mountain range, the brilliant, blue waters of the bay. But the beauty before him was wasted upon Owain, for he saw only the banner that flew from the castle’s Great Tower—the quartered lions of Davydd ap Llewelyn.

  He nudged his horse closer to his father’s mount. “I still do not understand, Papa, why you have agreed to meet with Davydd.”

  “How often do I have to tell you?” Gruffydd said impatiently. “I did agree because the Bishop of Bangor asked it of me.”

  To Owain, that was a highly unsatisfactory answer. And what, he wondered, if the Bishop asked you to ride off a cliff, Papa? But so disrespectful a question could never be voiced. It was not fear that silenced him; Owain feared only leprosy and demons. Yet if he did not fear his father, he did love him, and that love effectively hobbled his tongue.

  The Bishop of Bangor had overheard their exchange, urged his mount up alongside them. “Holy Church has pledged both your safety and that of Lord Davydd. So what, then, can you lose by this meeting?”

  Owain’s mouth twisted. The Bishop did but belabor the obvious; of course their safety was assured. But he was wrong to think there was nothing to lose. What if Davydd offered his father half of Gwynedd? What then? For as much as Owain wanted to believe his father would scorn the offer, he shrank from seeing Gruffydd put to such a tempting test.

  Despite himself, Gruffydd felt a sudden unease as he passed through the castle gateway; Cricieth was a place of unpleasant memories for him. It was here, on an August afternoon twelve years past, that he had goaded his father into riding an unbroken stallion. Llewelyn had been thrown, but suffered no serious hurt, and Gruffydd had felt a shamed sense of relief. But afterward, the hatred that had long burned between his brother and him had at last flared into violence, into a sudden brawl. He was then thirty-two to Davydd’s nineteen; the victory had been his. At sight now of Davydd, awaiting them by the stairs of the Great Tower, Gruffydd drew a sharp breath, swore silently that this victory, too, would be his.

  Owain demanded to be present at the meeting, as if daring Davydd to object. But Davydd merely shrugged, then led the way up into the Great Tower.
The Bishop, Gruffydd, and Owain followed.

  The trestle table was laden with food: cheese toasted on thin slices of bread, cold Michaelmas goose, sweet wafers. But no servants were in evidence. “I thought we’d speak more freely amongst ourselves,” Davydd said. Moving to the sideboard, he began to pour mead into waiting cups, as the men settled themselves around the table. Owain alone showed interest in the food. Reaching for a caus pobi, he bit deeply into the melted cheese, washed it down with a large swallow of mead.

  “You set a good table, Uncle,” he drawled. “I suppose you learned such niceties from your kin at the English court.” His rudeness was calculated; it had occurred to him that if he could provoke Davydd into a rage, he might bring this council to an abortive end. But his sarcasm was ignored; neither Gruffydd nor the other men so much as gave him a glance.

  “Well?” Gruffydd leaned back in his chair, watching Davydd as he drank. “What have you to say to me?”

  “He wants to buy peace, Papa; what else?” Owain interjected, and this time his father silenced him with an abrupt gesture.

  “Your son is right,” Davydd said, and Gruffydd stiffened.

  “What are you offering?”

  “If we come to terms, I will allow you to retain the lordship of Lln, and I will restore to you two of the commotes you forfeited at Ystrad Fflur: Arwystli and Ceri. In time, I might be willing to restore the other four commotes, too.”

  “Might you be willing, indeed!” Although Gruffydd’s outrage was real enough, it was threaded through with relief, too. He still believed his cause was just, his war was winnable. But what if Davydd’s had been a genuine offer to share power, to share Gwynedd? Better that he never know. “You want my answer? Rot in Hell,” he said, started to push away from the table.

  The Bishop caught his arm. “You are too hasty, my lord. When you seek to strike a bargain, do you make your best offer first?” Adding in an undertone, “Trust me, Gruffydd. We’re not done here yet.”