by Natasha Wild
Already, men and women rushed about in excitement, preparing for their lord’s arrival. Gwen halted in the shadowed entryway of the keep, pushing impatiently at a lock of hair that had fallen across her nose.
The men rode into the bailey, snow flying from beneath their sturdy ponies’ hooves as they skidded to a stop. Her father’s face was grim. She clutched the edge of her mantle with trembling fingers, her welcoming smile ebbing away.
Prince Llywelyn dismounted and handed his reins to a waiting groom. Einion, his seneschal, hurried to follow suit, his wrinkled face twisting in a grimace as he slid his old bones from the saddle.
“Llywelyn, you cannot surrender!” he hissed when he had caught up with the prince.
Llywelyn darted his gaze around furtively, then answered in a grinding whisper, “I will not wait for starvation to set in! ’Tis better to do it now while we still have our dignity.”
Gwen put a hand to her mouth to muffle her cry. The Prince of Wales surrendering to the English? ’Twas unthinkable!
The household continued about their frenzied tasks, heedless of the devastation they faced. Gwen ran headlong into her father’s arms, desperately needing his reassurances.
“You are home and safe!” she cried, hugging him tight. He stiffened and she loosened her grip to gaze up at him. Heavy lines creased his face, dark circles smudging the skin beneath his amber eyes.
“Aye, I am safe,” he said, patting her back briefly and clearing his throat.
Her heart ached, but she smiled and stepped back. He was a good man, never harsh. For the most part, his people loved him, although he had caused great upheaval many years ago when he first came to the throne of Wales. Defying tradition, he staked sole claim to the princedom, shutting his brothers out in a bloody civil war.
Some of the chieftains had never forgiven him. Neither had his brothers, only one of whom was still alive.
He was a great man. She knew it was because he always had so much to do, being the Prince of Wales, that he never seemed to have any time for her. He strode ahead, entering the ancient stronghold that had belonged to countless Welsh princes before him.
Einion winked, smiling weakly to cover his distress, and held out his arm. She took it and they followed Llywelyn’s lead.
“Are we truly surrendering, Einion?”
The old man stumbled. “Aye.”
“But we are Welsh, we cannot give up!”
He sighed. “I cannot talk him out of it. Your father has ruled Wales for thirty years and has gained more than any prince before him. He feels he must give in now to gain later.”
“Why? Why must he give up?” Her voice caught and she bit her lip to stifle her tears. It was not fair! Her father had worked so hard, gained so much, and now--now it was being wrung from him piece by precious piece.
“King Edward captured the mouth of the Conwy. He is building a castle to hold it.” Einion hesitated, then wet his lips before continuing, “Black Hawk de Claiborne blockaded Ynys Mon. Without the harvest, Gwynedd will starve.”
Gwen sucked in her breath. “Gwalchddu.”
Black Hawk. Northern Wales trembled at the name of the evil lord who controlled the borders with an iron fist. The court bards said he was ten feet tall and broad as an oak. His colors, like his legacy, were of blood and death, crimson and black.
She slammed a fist against her leg. “I hate the English! They are cruel and grasping. Unsatisfied with what they already have, they want Wales too!”
Einion patted her hand. “Aye, child, the Norman kings have been after us since William the Bastard conquered the Saxons. I am an old man now. I was but a youth when your great-grandfather was our leader, and I’ve watched Welsh princes struggle against an ever-tightening yoke. If only Llywelyn could have put aside his pride and sworn homage to Edward on his coronation!”
“But King Edward would not return Dafydd for punishment. Father could not swear fealty whilst the King harbored that traitor!”
“Aye. Your uncle’s defection was certainly the catalyst Edward needed.” He sighed heavily. “’Tis nearing the end, I am afraid. Edward is no hapless Henry or twisted John--he will succeed where they have failed, unless...”
“Unless what?”
Einion grasped her shoulders with sudden urgency. “’Tis prophesied that a Llywelyn will drive the Normans out of England and wear the crown of King Arthur and be ruler of all of Britain. Merlin made that prophecy. The bards say that your father is that Llywelyn.” His faded brown eyes searched her face. “You have the Sight, girl! Tell me, do you not see it?”
She closed her eyes. She had dreams sometimes, dreams that came true, but she had no control over when they occurred. The first time was when she was a little girl and she dreamed of a horrible snowstorm that locked up the mountain passes until spring. It was nothing significant, but when it came true, people began to whisper of her mother and the fairy gift of Sight. How could she tell Einion it couldn’t be forced?
“Nay... I... cannot... see... anything...” she said, her voice barely a whisper.
Einion gulped in air like a drowning man. “’Tis our last hope.” His eyes misted over and he squeezed her fondly before turning to limp after Llywelyn.
Gwen stood in mute shock, oblivious to the commotion around her. Good, sturdy Einion had shown her a side of himself she’d never seen, a side that was afraid for his prince and his country. It shook her to the core.
Whenever it was attention she craved from Llywelyn, Einion had always been there to fill the gaps. He had bounced her on his knee when she was a little girl, kissed her skinned elbows, and brought her presents of gold and silk and jewels. His old face was always ready with a smile. Never had he asked anything of her. Until now.
Brushing at the tears streaking her face, she ran to find Alys.
Alys would know what to do. The rosy-cheeked maid was more like the mother Gwen barely recalled having than a servant.
When she reached her chamber, she found Alys sitting calmly, nimble fingers working their magic on one of Gwen’s surcoats. The golden thread whipped in and out of the garment, a delicate bird beginning to take shape under her careful artistry.
Alys dropped the garment and got to her feet. “Whatever is the matter, Your Highness?”
“We are surrendering, Alys,” Gwen said, spilling the details in a rush. “’Tis the witch’s curse!”
Alys’s breath hissed sharply. “Your mother was not a witch! What tales have you been listening to?”
Gwen sank onto the bed and rubbed the back of her hand across her face. “Did he not meet her on the banks of Llyn Eleri in the twilight? She appeared out of the mist like a fey creature. She had no home, no clan. And she disappeared without a trace when I was but a babe.”
“Aye, but she was a fairy maiden, not a witch. Lady Eurwen was kind and beautiful. She loved your father! I do not believe she cursed him to a life of misfortune, no matter what tales the bards tell.”
“Then why did she leave?” Gwen asked miserably.
Alys sighed and picked up her work, plucking at a stitch. “I do not know, child. I do not know.”
* * *
An air of brooding hung over the great keep in the coming days. Warriors came and went, sometimes meeting with the Prince for many hours before the air erupted with angry shouts.
Nearly one by one, the chieftains who’d remained loyal to Llywelyn answered his summonses—and then stalked out.
When her father finally sent for her, Gwen ran all the way to his chamber. She was certain he would tell her it wasn’t true, that he really wasn’t surrendering to the King of England—and then life could be normal again.
The door was open and he stood with his back to her, his knuckles cracking softly.
“Father?”
He spun around. “Jesú, Gwenllian, you are as quiet as your mother was.”
Gwen smiled. It was unusual for him to mention her mother. It was also unusual for him to pay her this much attention. “You sent fo
r me?”
“Aye.” His gaze darted away. “I am to surrender to the King at Rhuddlan castle. You will accompany me. We leave on the morrow.”
“You are really surrendering?” Her heart pounded with excitement and fear. He had never before taken her anywhere with him.
“I have no choice, lass.”
“Oh,” Gwen replied. “I am sorry.”
“I’m tired, lass. I do not wish to discuss this with you. Go and have Alys ready your trunk.”
“Aye... trunk? But why—?”
“Don’t ask questions, girl! Just do it,” he snapped.
“Aye, Father. Forgive me,” she mumbled, hastening from the room. Why did she always disappoint him?
* * *
Richard de Claiborne, third Earl of Dunsmore, and his company of knights thundered over the water-logged ground, galloping toward the king’s headquarters. The rain had changed to sleet and it slapped against his armor, the sound an almost musical ping.
The strong odor of sweat and leather rose from the stallion laboring beneath him. Though the pace had been hard, the animal still gnashed his teeth with coiled energy, his black ears pinned against his head savagely.
They rounded a bend in the road and suddenly before them rose Rhuddlan Castle, its new walls and high towers jutting out of the Welsh mist that clung to it like a ghostly wraith.
The tang of salt mixed with the sleet and the faint white bodies of gulls circled in the distance, their piercing cries carrying on the wind. Storm clouds, black and ominous, hung low over the Irish Sea.
Three golden lions on a blood-red background rippled over the turrets of Rhuddlan, proclaiming to all of Wales that King Edward Plantagenet was here to stay.
The company slowed to a walk before they reached the massive gates. The road was a slosh of mud from the constant traffic of the laborers. Carpenters, carters, plumbers, masons, and diggers traversed this path daily as they worked to complete the fortress.
Richard let his gaze slide up the sheer walls. Jesú, but the king had chosen right when he picked Sir James of St. George to be his master builder. Even now, men perched on scaffolding high above the bailey. Occasionally, the ring of hammers sounded over the din in the courtyard.
Richard reined in the prancing stallion. He chuckled to himself when a groom came forward, eyes widening as the giant horse snorted great plumes of steaming breath into the frigid air.
“Do not eat the boy, Sirocco,” Richard said, sliding from the horse’s back and patting the arched neck. He handed the reins to the groom.
“Walk him ’til he’s cool or I will have your hide,” Richard threatened, sensing the boy’s intention to put the horse in a stall and get away from him.
“Aye, milord,” the boy replied, swallowing. His hand trembled as he closed it around hard leather. Sirocco pranced half a step and then settled, following like a puppy.
Richard strode up the wooden steps and into the Great Hall. The room was still rough, hewn from stone and wood and not yet whitewashed. The green smell of fresh timber hung heavy in the air.
Numerous knights were seated at the trestle tables, drinking ale and carousing with the serving wenches. Shrill laughter rose from female throats as girls passed from lap to lap.
One particularly lusty wench slapped the hand of the man who had just pinched her, and turned to watch Richard’s progress across the room.
He smiled in answer. It had been weeks since he’d had a woman. She tipped her head before picking up her tray and hastening to the buttery for more ale. He would not sleep alone tonight.
He continued through the hall and up the steps to the third level, where he found King Edward closeted in his solar with Prince Llywelyn’s brother, Dafydd ap Gruffydd.
“Ah, Richard. Thank heavens you are here at last,” Edward said.
“I came as quickly as possible, Ned.”
“Llywelyn signed the treaty yesterday. He will be here today to formally surrender.”
“I look forward to it, Majesty.” Llywelyn could not be humiliated enough as far as he was concerned. He sank into a chair opposite the King and stripped the gauntlets from his fists before unlacing the chain-mail coif and pushing it from his head.
Mud splattered his chausses, and his cloak dripped water onto the carved chair, trickling into a puddle at his feet. He took the mug of ale the servant held out for him, grimacing only slightly as the bitter liquid washed down his throat.
“’Twas a stroke of genius cutting off Ynys Mon like that, Lord de Claiborne,” Dafydd said.
Richard leaned back and swept Dafydd with an appraising stare. When he spoke, his voice was a drawl. “’Tis funny you find it so, but could not manage to suggest it yourself. You are a Welshman after all, and you know the importance of that island.”
Something glittered in the depths of Dafydd’s green eyes before it was extinguished and replaced with a complacent look.
“If I had thought of it, I most certainly would have suggested it. Alas, I am not the great battle commander you are.” He smiled and Edward nodded pleasantly.
“I should say not. I would not have failed if I had planned to kill Llywelyn.”
Dafydd leapt to his feet, clenching his fists at his side. Richard offered him the ultimate insult by not bothering to rise to the mute challenge.
Dafydd spun on his heel to face the King. “If you will excuse me, Majesty, I must see to my men.”
“Certes, Dafydd. You will join us at table?”
“’Twould be an honor, Sire,” Dafydd replied, glaring at Richard before stalking from the room.
Edward sighed in exasperation. “Why do you antagonize him?”
“I do not like him. He speaks false, and he is shrewder than you think. He of all people would know how to bring Wales to its knees.”
“Mmm, but if ever he were to make peace with his brother—two wolves are worse than one and they can hound a bear to death.”
Richard laughed. “Llywelyn is no fool, Ned. How many times now has Dafydd betrayed him? Two? Three? He’ll not work his way into the den so easily this time.”
“Aye, but I still prefer to keep him close. You should be grateful to Dafydd. If not for his failed murder attempt, we would not have Llywelyn in this position now.”
“And what happens when Dafydd finds out you don’t intend to make him Prince of Wales? That you have allowed Llywelyn to keep the title?”
Edward’s jaw tightened. “I am a king first, my friend. This victory has been more complete than either of us imagined. I no longer need to remove Llywelyn. Besides, you said yourself that you do not trust Dafydd. Should I trust him as Prince of Wales?”
“I was not suggesting you should. Llywelyn has behaved treasonably by refusing to acknowledge you as his overlord, despite all his claims you harbored his enemies.” He leaned forward abruptly, his voice coming hard-edged and low, “Let me challenge him to single combat.”
“Nay!” The word bounced off the walls, echoing in the bare chamber.
“’Tis my right to avenge my father!”
“Not at the expense of my kingdom!”
Richard clenched his teeth, his lungs filling to bursting as he sucked in air that was stale with the smell of ripening wood and newly chiseled stone. He let it out again in a great rush, savoring for an instant the light as a feather feeling that accompanied his escaping breath.
Edward raked a hand through dark blonde curls, then turned to stare out the oriel windows. Side by side, three floor-to-ceiling windows faced the sea, imparting a view that was somehow even grander than the gardens of Windsor.
“You know I cannot allow it. Is it not enough we have reduced him to this? He has less now than when he inherited his throne. Wales is mine. It is what we both wanted.”
Richard drew in a ragged breath. “’Twill never be enough, Ned. He can never pay for what he has done. When he has nothing left, when he lies cold at my feet, it will not be enough.”
Silence stretched between them. Richard acc
epted another mug of ale, the cool liquid doing little to soothe his dry throat.
Edward tapped a beringed finger on the arm of his chair. “Was the harvest brought in?”
Richard nodded. “I left the garrison on Ynys Mon—Anglesey—in charge of loading it on the ships. What are you going to do with it?”
Edward grinned suddenly, all else seemingly forgotten. “I plan to sell it back to Llywelyn.”
Richard stared at his friend for a moment. Edward’s face creased in a broad smile, his blue eyes twinkling. Richard threw back his head and laughed, and Edward joined him.
* * *
Both sides of the Great Hall were lined with English lords, some Marchers, some not. Dafydd stood next to the dais, his face split in a triumphant grin. Other Welsh chieftains who had joined the cause stood with him.
Edward settled onto his throne, and Richard stepped behind him.
The hum of the crowd rose sharply to a buzz, then cut off altogether when Prince Llywelyn appeared in the entryway. He strode into the great hall of Rhuddlan, his back stiff, his mouth set in a grim line.
He looked neither right nor left, his gaze focused only on the King as he refused to acknowledge the gloating lords around him. His boots clopped against the wooden floor, the dull thud echoing the beating of Richard’s heart.
Llywelyn stopped before the dais and unsheathed his sword. His hands clenched over the hilt for the space of one moment. Two. Three. The tip wavered, pointing at the King.
Richard gripped his own sword until his knuckles were white.
Do it. Try to strike the King down.
Llywelyn’s eyes shifted to his, icy contempt flaring in them, before he jerked his gaze back to Edward.
And then he kneeled and reversed the blade, handing it hilt first to Edward. His voice rang out over the gathering. “I submit unto the king’s will and the king’s justice.”
“Rise, Prince Llywelyn,” Edward said, turning the sword and handing it back to him. “By the terms of the Treaty of Conway, you may keep the cantref of Gwynedd and your title. You will cede the Isle of Anglesey, Ynys Mon as you call it, and all lands east of the Conwy River. Upper and Lower Powys will be returned to my vassal, Gruffydd ap Gwynwynwyn.”
