for her in the blanched noon sunlight of the ward, that there might be no shadows to hide from me any quiver of motion and feeling that passed over her muted but eloquent face. If Godred wondered at this, small blame to him. But I think he did not wonder, for in that summer he lived willingly out of doors, and could have been content like a bird, without roof or nest after the brooding of the spring. On other matters perhaps he did wonder, for he watched the doorway as insatiably as did I. If he had not been so blithe and sunlit a creature I would have said he was nervous of his welcome.
The great doorway of the hall showed black like the opening of a cavern, the sun being at an angle that slanted across the opening but fingered only a pace or so within, where it had nothing on which to rest, until she came. Thus she blazed suddenly out of that darkness like a star, so impetuously that her skirts danced as though in a fresh wind, and being dazzled by the flood of light in her face, as abruptly halted and stood stock-still on the upper step until she had her sight again. And having regained it, she looked for me.
There was not left one grain of caution in me to doubt it, for I saw her close and clear, and doubt there was none. So bright she was, there was no bearing her radiance. When she was called forth to a messenger, she knew what face the messenger must wear. She stood smiling in happy expectation, and her gaze swept across the court like a beam of the sun itself, and lit upon me, and was satisfied. She took one flying step to meet me, and her hands came up as if to fill themselves with warmth and light. Then, having found me, she found him beside me.
I cannot say the sun went out, for she was so gilded she could not but be golden. But she was a carven figure, who had been only an instant since a sparkling flame. A second time she was still, and the airy flying of her garments settled about her into carven folds. In her eyes the fire turned to ash. On her mouth the smile was petrified into stone. Yet she kept her countenance. In truth I never knew her to lose it, only to close it like a marbledoor, as then she did.
It was not with any hate or fear she looked at him, only with the dulled remembrance of old things past, which she, like me, had never thought to see move and breathe again. I would not have said, then, that there was anything amiss with him but that he was not Samson, and that he stood between Cristin and Samson like a great stone wall, long as the world and high as the sky. And God knows, sorry as I was for myself, I was sorrier yet for my secret brother, so comely and so light, quivering here beside me for dread of this meeting after eight months of absence, and not loved as I, God help me, was loved. Whatever he had been and done, he had not deserved this, nor was he at all armed to resist and conquer it. He did not move until I laid my hand on his shoulder and thrust him towards her. Then he went forward, slowly at first but with a quickening step, his hands held out to her.
And she, too, moved, slowly that woman of golden ice moved and came down the steps to the beaten earth of the courtyard, pale as clay in the rainless midsummer. She did not extend her hands, they were tightly linked under her breast, as if to hold in the heart that cried and fluttered to go free, like a mewed hawk. He went to her and folded his arms about her, and strange it was to find him clumsy about it. And over his leaning shoulder she looked constantly at me, and her eyes were great lamps that had all but gone out, only the last glimmer of a flame alive in them, even while hands stole about his body and lay like delicate, inert carvings under his shoulderblades, clasping him with resignation to her heart. Even when he stooped his head and kissed her, I swear she never took her eyes from me until his nearness cut me off from sight. And then she closed them.
As for me, the kiss was more than I could endure. I, too, turned my eyes away. I had my bridle rein still in my hand, I span round upon it like a hanged man spinning upon the cord in the convulsion of death, and groped my toes into the stirrup and mounted, and the horse veered under me, feeling my disquiet and despair. I rode through the dark archway from the inner ward, across the ditch and out by the great gatehouse, and never looked back. At a heavy, languid walk we went, for there was no haste to be anywhere, only to be away from that place. But all down the slope to the roadway I could feel the strings of my heart and hers drawn out infinitely fine to breaking with every pace I took away from her. For now indeed I knew the best and the worst of it, and they were one, and in this world, short of murder, which it seemed was not among my skills, there was no remedy.
I rode for Aber by way of the Conway valley. At Llanrwst they told me that the host was already mustering in strength at Chester, according to the king's decree, but Henry had not yet arrived in that city. At Caerhun, before I struck off to the left over the old Roman road across the high moors, I heard it rumoured that the Cinque Ports fleet was on its way coastwise to Anglesey, and that help had been promised from Ireland. Truly a formidable army threatened us, and a fleet far stronger, if not more manageable in our waters, than the small craft Llewelyn had built and gathered together in defence. Where I appeared, there I was known for his right-hand man, and eagerly apprised of all that went forward, and no man saw anything wrong in me, neither in my bearing, nor in the way I received and responded to the news. So does the impetus of habit continue to carry us when the heart has ceased to put forth any power or passion. For I was an empty shell, too numbed as yet to be fully sensible to the pain of my loss.
That came later, and with the suddenness of lightning flash or flight of arrow, when at Aber I left my horse to the grooms, and asked after Llewelyn. They said that he was in his royal chapel, and there I went to seek him.
Had I come by daylight he would have known the moment of my entrance by the light entering with me, though the chapel was withdrawn beyond a small antechamber. But it was late evening, and the light of the one altar-lamp within, though dim and red, was greater than the last remnant of twilight without, and the door was curtained, and opened silently, and there was no sound to disturb him. Thus I came into the chapel with him, and he did not know he was not alone. And seeing him thus on his knees before the cross and lamp at the altar, I drew aside and stood in the darkness, unwilling to touch with movement or sound so profound a stillness and concentration as I beheld in him.
His eyes were open and his head erect, his hands pressed palms together before his breast. His sword, the one he commonly preferred and carried, was laid upon the altar. I think there was not one tremor of movement in all his braced body and reared head, not even the quiver of a hair. He was always plain in his attire, less from humility than indifference, never feeling any need of trappings or jewels to make him royal, who was royal from head to foot and from the heart within to the hand without. But his blessed plainness kept him man among men as well as a prince among his people. He was twenty-eight years old and in the rising prime of his vigour and power, and I saw his profile drawn in red by the light of the lamp, the spare, cropped beard no more than a heightening of the lean lines of his bones, and saw in that face, in its stillness and unawareness of me, what was not to be seen in the bright mobility of his daily life. There was an ordinary man's solemnity and dread in him, beholding as he did with wide-open eyes the immensity of the burden that lay upon him. And upon him alone, for there was no other being in all his land of Wales who could lift any part of that load from him. He knew it without pride, and accepted it without reluctance, but the weight of what he carried was a fearful and a wonderful thing.
I do not know what prayers he made, for aloud he made none. Whatever was said was said within. I do know that I beheld in him so fierce and purging a flame of resolute love, and so deep a recognition of the perilous nature of his pilgrimage towards the Wales of his desire, that I was suddenly enlarged out of my cramping shell of self, and understood the nature of love, and felt its pain, in such measure that it was hardly to be borne. And all the more, being thus enlarged, did I burn in anguish for Cristin, and for myself, and for Godred whose grief was different but surely no less, and for all poor souls under the skies who bear in silence and fortitude the sorrows of man. For only
in beholding something greater did I realise how great was my own scope, the well of passion within me how deep.
I crept into the darkest corner there, and waited out with him the term of his vigil. After a while he stirred and rose from his knees, and lifting his sword from the altar, kissed the cross of its hilt and shot it back into the scabbard. Then he went out, still unaware of me, a shadow among the shadows.
I went forward then and took his place before the altar, for I was no longer an empty shell, but a fountain of feeling and longing, overflowing without restraint, and there was a great need in me of a channel into which I could empty all the passion with which I was charged, for even my pain was power, and pure, and could not be left to run to waste.
What befell me there in the chapel was not so much prayer as a wild disputation with God, before the stream I fed had a bed and banks, and ran with the force of a mountain river. And sometimes the voice that argued against me and for me seemed rather to be the voice of Meilyr, my mother's husband, demanding, for so he had a right to demand, of what I complained, for I loved, which is great blessing, as now he himself knew and acknowledged, and I was loved, which is great blessing also. And who has two such dowers may not cavil because he has not the third, to see his happiness fulfilled in this world. For love is a joy and a force of itself alone, looking for no advantage.
But still rebelliously I complained of my pain, for it was very great, and so clamoured in me that I knew it for a daunting and formidable thing, either for good or evil, and what was I to do with it, to make living still possible, even profitable?
Then that with which I contended said to me that I must offer it to God as an earnest, as a weapon, as the squire proffers his lord a sharp lance in a just cause. And so I did at last, embracing it ungrudgingly and offering it with a whole heart, for such a cause I had, the cause of my lord. This and more I will bear, I said in my soul, and never speak loth word, so my prince speeds well in this coming storm. Let every pain of mine count to him as one step on the hard road to his vision of Wales free and glorious. Transmute my every darkness into a light on his way. For this door closed against me, open to him the door into his heart's fulfilment, and if need be, let my death pay to prolong his life until his work is accomplished.
When I was eased of my too much fervour, I went in to him in the high chamber, where he was closeted with Goronwy and Tudor and a messenger newly in from Chester, from our smith who went in and out as doctor to the garrison horses. Llewelyn rose and embraced me, and was altogether as I always knew him, practical, alert and unassuming. I looked upon him with earnest attention, for I had just accepted him as my reason for being, the one pure purpose and justification I had, having acquiesced in the loss of everything else. And I saw that he was enough, and my life would be filled having nothing more.
He asked me of Godred and Cristin, and I told him, without stumbling, how I had left them embracing. And all must have been well with my voice and face, for he was glad. And in the midst of much perplexity and pain I was glad of his gladness, and even the lie of my content which I offered in his service I commended to God as one grain towards my lord's harvest.
So ended that journey. And so began the campaign of that August and September, for the news from Chester was that King Henry was arrived in the city, and slowly all that ponderous mass of engines, foot-soldiers and cavalry was toppling into motion and rolling westwards like a flood tide to overwhelm us.
CHAPTER XII
The host moved upon us on the nineteenth day of August, crossing into Tegaingl the same day, and upon Welsh soil they lumbered westward like a mountain moving, as heavily and as terribly. We took the field the next day, but divided into raiding parties, not as a massed army, and with orders to hold off from any major engagement, but miss no opportunity of picking off any who strayed unwisely from the host. If we were forced to mass and meet them, we could move far more quickly than they could. But as we had expected, they kept to the northern ways, being bent on relieving Diserth. The ships from the Cinque Ports, for which the muster had been waiting, had by this time made the voyage round to our north coast, and with their cover from the sea the castle was relieved. We thought it no good sense to interfere with this operation, which could be no more than a temporary ease unless the whole of the Middle Country could again be occupied and settled, and this they made little attempt to ensure. So we contented ourselves with penning them securely into these northern lands, and we knew we could isolate Diserth just as effectively a second time as soon as they drew off.
They crossed the Clwyd into Rhos near to Rhuddlan, and among these rivers they lost a considerable number of horses and men, and especially baggage beasts, in our pitted fords. But still we forebore from encountering them in pitched battle, which would have been their desire and gain, their superiority in numbers being so great. So they came, the ships keeping pace with them, along the north coast to Degannwy by the twenty-sixth day of August, and lifted the siege of that castle also, as Llewelyn had foretold they would and allowed them to do. One ship at least they lost for some days, grounded in Conway sands, until a high tide lined her off, though only at the cost of throwing overboard much of the provision she carried, in order to lighten her. And there at Degannwy Ring Henry camped ingloriously, and sat inactive day after day until the fourth of September. We could not make out why they should sit there so still and ineffective, but it seemed that they were waiting for their promised reinforcements from Ireland, and these never came. Nor did we see any sign of ships in the offing, our sea patrols off Anglesey keeping constant watch, for we were determined not to lose our harvest in that island granary without a fight. But the need never arose. The weather then was breaking, and on the fifth of September the English struck camp, and began the long withdrawal to Chester, with little accomplished.
For Llewelyn these were ideal conditions, for there is nothing better suited to our Welsh manner of fighting than a retreat in formal order by a larger force. Withdrawal then can easily be turned into rout, measured speed harried into flight, and order broken apart into disorder. But here we attempted not too much, but only hung on their skirts all the way back to Chester, lopping off such as fell behind or ranged too far ahead. And on the hither side of Dee we drew off and let them go.
"He calculates too warily," said Llewelyn in judgment on the king, without prejudice or malice, "he begins too late, he gathers way too slowly. In short, he is not a soldier. There are things he does excellently well, but not this."
Thus ended King Henry's last great expedition into Wales, with little gain and less glory. All those too thorough preparations we had made were needless, though the experience was useful. The mountains of Snowdon remained inviolate, and our women and children and old men came cheerfully back to their villages in the lowlands before the autumn descended. Llewelyn's conduct of this defence, though not gravely tested, had been immaculate, sparing of our men and resources and countryside, and even chivalrous towards the enemy, for we could well have done them far greater damage at little more cost to ourselves. But the prince would not have it so, being more intent on conserving our own forces than destroying theirs.
All this time, as we moved about the Middle Country on the fringes of the English host, I had half-expected Godred to appear among us and offer his lance to add to ours, but he never came. And when the enemy had all crossed the Dee and withdrawn into Chester, there to disperse, and I returned with Llewelyn first to Aber, and then to Dolwyddelan, we heard there from the castellan left in charge that Godred had taken his wife, and ridden south for Dynevor.
"For though the knight would rather have stayed and come to Aber to join you," he said, "the lady strongly entreated that he would take her home, and could not wait to be away."
"It's no marvel," said Llewelyn. "She has suffered anxiety and sorrow among us—what could we do against it, until Samson found her husband for her? But surely she'll be glad to be home with him, where she has been happy, and with my sister who values he
r. And a good lance in the south is as sound value to us as a good lance here in Gwynedd. It is all one."
As for me, I said not a word.
So was I sealed into my own silence that I wanted for fellows, as though a curtain had been drawn between me and other men, and it was both affront and relief when that one creature came back, some ten days after us, from whom nothing that passed within me was secret, and to whom nothing was sacred. For I had seen little of David while the fighting lasted, he having his own command and I being always with Llewelyn, so that when he rode into Dolwyddelan from Chester he had still all to learn concerning the coming and passing of Godred, and having learned some part of it in easy innocence from Llewelyn himself, kept his mouth shut upon his thoughts, but came flying to me. I was at my work, and had not known of his arrival, but before I could rise to greet him—and indeed I was glad of him—I saw that he was in a great rage with me.
"What's this I hear," he said, "of Cristin leaving us? You've let her slip through
your fingers, after all this coil? And you—can it be true?—you brought the fellow here to fetch her away? Fool, did I not as good as tell you, the first time I set eyes on the pair of you together, that she was yours for the taking? And when you were too deaf and blind to take the drift, did I dot show you she was steel proof against all others, and would go with you to the world's end if you lifted your finger? When she would not give one thought to me, but followed you into the snow as she had followed you from Brecon to the north? Could you never conceive, in your priestly modesty, that a woman might set her heart on you for her own good reasons, and throw the rest of the world to the winds? One night it took Cristin to make up her mind, and a year was not enough to open your eyes! And now see what you have done to her!"
The Brothers of Gwynedd Page 32
