Nevertheless, as Llewelyn had said, a compounding between those two kings boded nothing of benefit to us, for our enemy's rear was thereby secured, and he could turn his attention all the more freely to Wales. Yet such are the chances of the time, it fell out otherwise. For always there is some unforeseen mercy, or unexpected chastening, waiting to be manifested.
The Christmas feast that year was chill and bright and windy. Contrary gales kept King Henry from landing at Dover until the day after St. Stephen's, and went driving down the coast of Wales like silver lances, cold as ice. And yet the skies were cloudless and full of stars, most beautiful to see, and there was but a little snow, that dried up in the frost and blew like white dust about the flats. For we kept the feast at Aber, after the old fashion.
We lacked only Rhodri and the Lady Senena at that feast. For Rhodri had at that time a certain lady who took up all his attention, and kept him at home in his own Uys, and the Lady Senena, though she made her stay mainly with David at Neigwl, having spent so much of her married life there and having a fondness for the spot, had journeyed in the autumn into the south, to pay a first visit to her daughter Gladys at Dynevor. Between that castle, willing subject to King Henry, and our princedom of Gwynedd, there was no contact, though before the Lady Senena came home to Wales the two princes, at Llewelyn's urging, had offered to Rhys Fychan and his house a compact of mutual aid and support, which remained, unhappily, no more than a parchment pledge, since the members of that house could not even agree among themselves. Yet I know that Llewelyn had blessed his mother's journey, and sent greetings in all kindness to his sister, whose stiff loyalty to her husband he did not any way blame. But no word came back, as he looked for none.
In the brightness of the day the brothers rode much, and by night in hall there was good food and drink in plenty, and good harping, for our bards were famous, and so was Llewelyn's patronage, so that many singers came from other parts to entertain in his hall, and none ever went away empty-handed or discontented with his reward. That Christmas we saw David in uneasy mood, either wildly elated and gay, or withdrawn into a black depression. And often his tongue bit sharply, but both his elders, seeing how deeply he had drunk, bore with him good-naturedly, and always he sprang back into the light in time to disarm us all. So though it was unusual in him, we thought nothing amiss.
He came to me late in an evening in the little chamber where I kept the rolls, and did my writing and reckoning on Llewelyn's business. I had left the hall early, having some matters waiting for me, and thinking this the best hour to withdraw and see the work done. There were certain complicated cases to be heard in my lord's commote court, two concerning the removal of boundaries, and also a matter of some wreckage cast up by the sea on the edge of the church lands of Bangor, the goods being in dispute between prince and bishop, for Bishop Richard was a contentious and obstinate man. Llewelyn relied on me to have all the needful information tabled and ready to his hand. True, he had also his chaplain and official secretary, but the clerking was left to me at my lord's wish, and it was I who accompanied him when he rode out to preside in all his district courts.
Over this labour David came in to me, alone, and stood by me for a little while reading over my shoulder. He was flushed with wine, but quiet, and very well able to carry what he had drunk with grace, as commonly he did.
"Samson," he said, after a while of silence, "you know Welsh law as well as any man here. Tell me, what is the law concerning the succession to a crown?"
"You know it as well as I," I said, and went on writing, for I had much to do. "The wise prince names his successor while he's well alive, and sees to it that he's accepted by all."
"And if the prince is less wise, and never names an edling to follow him?" he persisted in the same low and deliberate voice.
"Then his realm is liable to division among all his sons. But in practice it's far more like to go by consent to the eldest, and see some minor lands given to the others."
"True," he said, "but that's not Welsh law, and you know it, it's a convenience borrowed from the English. Four sons with an equal claim are entitled to fair shares of the inheritance."
"If they care to stand on their rights, and tear apart what has been laboriously put together," I said, still paying him little heed, "they may say so. But with a greedy neighbour waiting to pick off their portions one by one, I would not recommend it."
"Why, they could still work together and fight and plan together," he said, "each for all, could they not? And listen to me, if that is good Welsh law, and English law says the eldest takes all, and gives what he chooses and sees fit to the younger, then by what strange law, neither Welsh nor English, have we apportioned Gwynedd? Samson," he said reproachfully, seeing I still laboured to round off a word, "you might at least look at me! Time was when you were kinder." And he laid one long hand flat over the blank part of my parchment, and prevented me from continuing.
I looked up into his face then, perforce, sighing for my lost time, and he was smiling at me, but darkly, with only the glimmer of mischief in his eyes, for his mouth was petulant and sad.
"Am I your breast-brother, or no?" he demanded, and sat down beside me, leaning against my shoulder.
"You are," I said, "and my prince, and at this moment a little drunk, and more than a little perverse. And I have work to do."
"It will keep an hour. And I am not so far gone in wine as you imagine. Listen, Samson, for I'm in earnest. If law is to be respected, why have we neither gone by the old way, and parted everything fairly among us, nor openly adopted the new way, the English way, and given all to the eldest? By what rule can we claim this settlement was made?"
"There were but two heirs here," I said, "when the Lord David your uncle died." Though truth to tell I might have gone further, and said that there was but one. "The council recommended them to share equally and rule Gwynedd together, and they consented, and so they have done to this day. All of which you know, so why torment me with such questions when I am busy?"
"If we other two were elsewhere," he said, "that was no fault of ours, and should cost us none of our rights. And seeing we were elsewhere, was our fosterage with King Henry so different from any lawful Welsh fostering in the old days, when young princes were put out to grow up with lordly families? When it came to the succession to a crown, do you think every such lord did not back his own fosterling for the honour, and every fosterling make play with his foster-father's power and influence? Supposing I chose to call my royal foster-father to back my claim? And my princely brother, newly made lord of most of the borderlands?"
His voice was wilful, soft and mischievous, and I knew he was but plaguing me. But there was a kind of restless malevolence in such teasing that vexed me, as much for his sake as my own, for it showed all too well he was not happy. So I put down my pen with a sigh, and turned to him.
"Well, I see you must talk out your fill of nonsense, for you mean none of it. Both you and Rhodri were set up with very reasonable portions as soon as you came back to Gwynedd. You hold the lands your father held before you—"
"A part of them," he said…
"True, then, let us be exact, a part of them. Good land, however, richer than the rocks of Eryri. I thought you were very happy with Cymydmaen," I said, "what has made you so restless suddenly with your lot?"
"Oh, Samson," he said, twisting his shoulders impatiently, "I am cramped! So narrow and poor a life, how can I settle to it? I could do so much! I know what is in me, and I want my due."
"Have you spoken of this to your brothers?" I asked him.
"Oh, Samson, do you not see I need your good word there? Llewelyn will listen to you, if you speak for me."
I still did not believe that this was anything more than a black mood of frustration in him, one of the last echoes of his discontent when he remembered London and the glories of that court. Surely he needed to be rid of it, and as well pour it out upon me as venture a rougher welcome from his elders. But his need woul
d be met when he had cleansed his breast at my expense, and slept off this evening's wine, which, as I knew, he did lightly and vigorously, rising fresh as a lark in the early morning. So I told him simply that I would not be his advocate, because I was not of his party, much as I loved him. I said that neither his plea nor mine would move Llewelyn, for reason enough, because he dreaded and would resist to his last breath the further partition of Gwynedd, which he felt in his heart and blood must be one to survive. I said that the dismemberment of the land, into parcels princed but locally and with no outward eye, would mean nothing but the sly swallowing of each portion in turn by England, until all were devoured. Which could mean nothing but loss and ruin to all. I said that only a single, united Wales could hold its own, in the end, with an England perhaps equally subject to faction, but infinitely stronger, not in courage or grandeur, but in resources of food, materials, weapons and men. I told him, lastly, that Llewelyn had once asserted in practical fashion his own faith in this great, hopeful unity, when it meant that he accepted a lesser part, and surrendered his father's legal right, and his own after it, to fight loyally for the uncle who dispossessed them. And I said that in like manner he, David, might most honourably stand to it as captain of the household guard to Llewelyn now, for the present penteulu was growing elderly, and there was no one on earth I would rather see keeping my lord's head than this, his favourite brother, and my own breast-brother.
By the time I had ended this, and I am ashamed of it when I remember, my right hand was softly reaching again for my pen, and my left was smoothing the parchment and turning it stealthily, ready to continue writing. Which, though he never lowered his great harebell-blue eyes from my face, nevertheless he saw. He had listened unmoving to every word I had said to him, those eyes devouring me, and though I swear he had not so much as quivered, yet he seemed to have drawn back from me very slowly, by some foot or so of charged air, and to have receded into shadow. I remember now his face fronting me, the flush of wine misted over in shade, the broad, high bones of his cheeks and the narrowed, ardent angles of his jaw touched by gleams of light from the torches, and those eyes, like blue lakes, their depths concealed behind the shallow reflection of the sun.
"Well," he said, "well! I have listened dutifully, have I not? I see you are his man." He had ever a very low and beguiling voice, and used it like an instrument of music. "Well, I do believe you honest towards us all," he said, "and I will think of what you have said. But I should never have plagued you so, and I will no more. You may go on with your work now."
And he got up from his place beside me, and turned to the doorway. And truly I put down my pen, confounded, and would have called him back if I could, though I did not know why. For he went very gently and serenely, as though he had bled out of him all those humours that tortured him and disquieted him. And in the doorway he turned, and smiled back at me with all his youthful sweetness, and said:
"My brother is a lucky man!"
And with that he went out from me. And the next day he rode for Cymydmaen with all his retinue, gaily as ever, and kissed me on departing, very warmly. He said not a word of what had passed between us, and he embraced Llewelyn with particular fervour and affection.
It was past Easter before I saw him again.
In the spring Owen Goch came visiting to Aber twice. On the second occasion, shortly after the Easter feast, David also rode up from Neigwl to join us for some days, in his best and most dutiful humour, full of his activities in his own lands, and willing to ask for advice and listen to it when given. It was not until after he had left us again that the quarrel broke out between Owen and Llewelyn that altered everything in our lives. The boy himself had raised not a word of any grievance, nor seemed to be cherishing any, rather to have put away from him all his regrets for his English glories, and to be bending all his energies to the right running of those lands he held. He was gone, and we were merry enough in hall at the day's end when Owen leaned to my lord, and said suddenly:
"These young brothers of ours—have we done right by them? I tell you, I am not easy in my mind."
Llewelyn was somewhat surprised to have such a subject launched out of a clear sky, and gave him a long, considering look, though he was smiling. "Taking things all in all," he said, untroubled, "we did exceedingly well by them. We kept, between us, something to bestow on them, at least, and have kept them undisturbed in the possession of it ever since. They might have been still landless and in exile. I am by no means ashamed of my part. You must weigh your own conscience, mine's light as air."
I am sure he meant no reference to old quarrels and jealousies, but his tone had a certain bite, for he anticipated what was in the wind. But Owen took quick offence, and flamed as red as his hair.
"We have been told before, brother, of your exploits in the October war, while the rest of us sat by good roaring fires eating King Henry's meat. That's old history—or old legend, I doubt! There needs no repetition of that story here. Leave your praise to the bards, who do it with a better grace. I am talking of justice."
"God's life!" said Llewelyn, laughing. "I meant no such vaunt, as you should know. You and I between us, I said, have secured them the undisturbed possession of what is theirs, whether by fighting or good husbandry or sound policies, what does it matter? You say, have we done right by them. I say, we have. We—not I!"
"But I think not," said Owen, jutting his great jaw. "And it's time we spoke of it now in earnest, for they're no longer boys under tutelage, but young men grown, and will be in need of proper endowment, fitting their rank as princes ready to marry and father families. What's one commote, even the fattest? It belittles their birth to have so poor an establishment."
"It belittles mine," said Llewelyn, looking far past his brother, and narrowing his deep eyes upon a distance I could only guess at, "to sit here squeezed into the narrow measure of Gwynedd beyond Conway. Well, it seems it is not the lot of any son of Griffith to know content. What is it you want of me?"
"Not here," said Owen Goch, and looked about him with meaning, for I was but two places from my lord's right hand, and Goronwy as near on the other side of them, and chaplain and chamberlain close, and half the household guard and the retainers in the lower pan of the hall within earshot. There was noise and talk enough under the smoky timbers of the roof to cover the conversation at the high table, but Owen knew the power of his own voice when his temper was inflamed, and wanted no public dispute yet. Nor, I thought, did he yet intend to draw in the judge of the court, until he had sounded out his brother and had some sort of understanding with him. For if they two agreed, the more open discussion could be decorous and peaceable, and the officers and councillors would listen with respect, even if they demurred. For those two brothers, even the hotter and less governable, had practised this manner of restraint with success now for eight years, though they loved each other no better than the first day. Llewelyn was right, saying that between them they had preserved what could be preserved of Gwynedd, and that was great credit to Owen, for he was the one who took most hurt from containing his passions.
"Not here," said Owen, "but in private."
"Very well," said Llewelyn, "we'll withdraw early."
He waited only for the harper to make an end of his playing, and the wine to circulate freely at the end of the meal, and then made a sign to the silentiary, who struck the pillar of the hall opposite the royal seat with his gavel, and signified that the princes desired to retire. And the hall rose to pay respect to the brothers as they left the high table and withdrew into Llewelyn's private chamber.
"Come with us, Samson," said my lord, passing by my place. "Let us have a witness."
I would as lief he had chosen some other for the honour, but I knew why he did not. There was no other man in that court who knew what I knew about the first meeting of those two at Aber. Things could be said before me, if it came to the worst, that must not be heard, for Gwynedd's sake, by Goronwy or any other. Never unless the times changed
for us all, and Gwynedd grew too strong to be torn by any minor dissensions. So I followed into the inner room, and closed the heavy door upon the renewed hubbub of the hall, drawing the curtain over it to shut out even the notes of the harp.
"Now," said Llewelyn, "say your say, in as few words as you will."
There was wine set for them on a table there, and drinking horns, and the candlebearer had made haste to place lights at their coming. To justify, in some sort, my presence, and signify that I was a servant in formal attendance, I served them with wine, and drew back into shadow from the lighted place where they sat down. There was a small fire of split logs in a brazier, for the April night was chilly, and the kernel of flame and the scented curl of smoke made a barrier between them.
The Brothers of Gwynedd Page 15
