The Brothers of Gwynedd

by Edith Pargeter

  And one month later, in his palace of Westminster, King Henry died as he had lived, among the turbulent outcries of a populace preoccupied with a minor quarrel over the mayor of London. His death was hastened, as many believed, because of his hurried pilgrimage to calm another local disorder in Norwich, which otherwise flickered out without great damage. All his life he was haunted and hunted by such annoyances, yet he had reigned for fifty-six years, and survived everything life and England could do against him. He lived to see his dearest dream take shape in this world, in his church at Westminster, and few men have that joy. And he died, for all the turmoils he had provoked and suffered, better regarded than in his youth, and the mourning for him was not feigned nor formal, though muted by the natural erosions of time, for he was old, and had had his span fairly.

  Since the deaths and burials even of kings give but very brief warning, Henry was in his tomb before ever we heard of his departure. The official word from the regents and the royal council did not reach us until the twenty-sixth day of November, being sent out along with the formal letters in the new king's name to all his sheriffs and officers in the land. But we had fuller information three days before that, for Cynan sent his lively Welsh groom to bring us the news, his master's letter supplementing his own account.

  "His Grace was buried," Cynan wrote, "in his abbey church four days after his death, and they have laid him according to his wish, in the tomb from which the relics of Saint Edward were translated three years ago. By one means or another he will make his way into heaven. The Lord Edward being absent, the council and his own proctors have taken charge, and for four days England had no king, though there was never any question of his peaceful succession or his welcome. After the funeral mass, before the tomb was closed, all the bishops and barons and others present went up to the high altar, and took the oath of fealty to King Edward. A new seal has been made for him, and King Henry's seal was broken by the archbishop of York after the oath had been sworn by all. The first to swear was Gloucester, who was sent for to the king on the day he died, and has pledged himself to forgo all old grudges against Edward, and guard the kingdom for him until he comes, and all the signs are that he means it and will do his best. They have written to Edward to let him know of his father's death, and urged him to return quickly. By this time his term in the east is over, and he must be on his way back, but as far as is known it was his intention to winter with Charles of Anjou in Sicily, as he did on his journey east. Now he may change his plans, but equally he may not, for he made good certain of his arrangements before sailing, and has absolute trust in his proctors to act now as his regents."

  These proctors were the archbishop of York, Robert Burnell, and my lord's cousin, Roger Mortimer, his troublesome and aggressive kinsman, neighbour and enemy in the middle march. Those two had an old rivalry that was also, after its fashion, a friendship. So we knew with whom we should have to deal in any disputes or agreements that might arise.

  "So the old man is gone," said Llewelyn, pondering his own regret with some surprise, "I have fought him most of my life, and never thought I might grieve for his death. But we had grown used to each other, and there was a certain security in that. Now we begin afresh. And not with Edward, not yet."

  The old man was gone, and the new man not yet come, and there could be no homage rendered until he did arrive in person in his kingdom. The oath of fealty, that the baronage had taken at the high altar after the burial, could indeed be sworn in the king's absence, but the meeting of hands was impossible, and it was somewhat unusual, though not unknown, for the two acts to be separated after this fashion. So we expected only to continue our dealings with England as before, until Edward's arrival, and were prepared to be as accommodating with his regents as we had tried to be with his father.

  At this time Llewelyn still had a number of matters at issue with England, and had listed his complaints after the normal fashion, and we were in process of arranging a meeting of the commission at the ford of Montgomery, the usual place of parley. When, therefore, he received a letter from the regents, he expected that it should be appointing a date for this arbitration. It was indeed a summons to the ford of Montgomery for an official meeting, but not of such a neighbourly kind as we had looked for. The regents sent a writ to order him to attend in person at the ford on the twentieth day of January of the coming year, to take the oath of fealty to King Edward in absence, in the persons of those who would be sent to represent the crown.

  This writ came to us in December, and bore the date of the twenty-ninth of November, and there was about this indecent haste an ominous note of incivility which both stung and amused Llewelyn. King Henry had been dead just two weeks when they called the prince, with less ceremony than would have been used to an earl. Surely they were pressed with business then, a great burden of legal adjustments necessary after the passing of one king and the succession of another, and they sent out all their official writs and documents in great haste, and made little distinction between persons. And yet this pricked and clung like a burr, even in my skin, and I am sure in Llewelyn's. But he also was a busy man, and wasted little indignation on the summons.

  "The dogs bark as loudly as they can when they are barking for a lion," he said good-humouredly. "Where's the haste, when I cannot do homage until Edward is here to close his hands on mine? Why should I swear my fealty to the king's shadow? I'll wait for Edward." And he went on with the business of his commote court, which was then occupying him, and for all I could see, forgot the whole matter.

  Now this is of importance, for some have thought that even at this time he had it in mind to avoid repeating to the son the homage he had rendered to the father, seeing this change in the monarchy as his opportunity to hold fast what he had gained and achieve a completely independent status for Wales, in alliance, certainly, but an alliance equal on both sides, without hint of vassalage of any kind. But this is false, and even the suggestion has arisen only of late. He had no such move in mind. He said as he meant, for in all border disputes he had relied more upon Edward than upon any other, and had very solid trust in him. But for some of his officials he felt no such kindness, and to affront them, I confess, was not unpleasant to him. They had caused him trouble enough. But to avoid his homage, no, he never entertained such a thought. By treaty he had pledged himself not only to King Henry but to his heirs, and as he had pledged, so he kept. But he did not think it of any importance to make a ceremony of vowing fealty while homage was impossible.

  He was more displeased, I believe, shortly after, when he received a curt reminder that there was one sum of the indemnity to England in arrears, and another instalment due at the Christmas feast. Which was true enough, though he had already despatched the arrears about the time of the king's death, and it was receipted later, and reminders in advance had never been customary or necessary, for there was no man in the treasury who did not know that the prince of Wales was not only the promptest payer the crown had, but in fact the only prompt payer. The monarchy was eternally in debt, Llewelyn almost never, and never for long.

  "This is insolent," he said, tossing the letter aside to me. "When they appoint me a day to put right the wrongs done to me in the borders, as I have asked and asked, then I'll pay them the next money due, and not before. And the earlier Edward comes home, the better pleased shall I be. I thought Burnell, at least, had a finer understanding."

  I said that I read in the tone of this demand, rather, the loud and arrogant voice of his cousin Mortimer. And at that he laughed, and said I might well be right, for Roger was a bull who made head-down for his adversary. And back he went to his work, and let the crude demand lie. I know on what terms we had dealt with England, and I say, and say again, that in this attitude he was justified, and I, who loved and lived for him, never thought then that there was any need to advise or persuade him to any other tone. Those who say the change was in him, they lie. He changed only when all changed. And had he remained constant when all changed, what
would it have availed him? Nothing!

  At the Christmas festival at Aber, according to custom, David came visiting, to preserve the proper form, but without his Elizabeth, for she was near her time, and therefore, to my grief, without Cristin, who was never parted from her, and to my ease, without Godred, either, for he resisted being parted from Cristin. This I put down, though not quite easily, to a desire to look like a good husband, for of real and loving care for his wife he had none, but a man must keep his status and his face. It was a snowy Christmas, as I recall, white across the salt flats and crusted with frost along the edge of the sea. The mountains hid in sparkling mist well into the new year, and we in the maenol under the cleft of the hills had a snug, smoky Christmas, no way troubled, unless it was by David's fretting for his beloved girl. We told him again and again she had the best of care, which he acknowledged, and that she had borne her first daughter in joy, within three hours, and laughing, which also he owned and vaunted. Even so, he grudged every moment away from her.

  Consequently he did not stay long with us after the new year began, but was in haste to get back to Lleyn, though he knew that Cristin would have had a messenger on the road hot-foot to him if there had been any need for his return. But he waited for a meeting of the council which was held in the first week of January, being still insistent upon his duty, even when his mind was elsewhere and he contributed little. He did, however, prick up his ears and look very thoughtful when he heard of the arbitrary letter from the regents, though Llewelyn mentioned the matter but currently in passing, with reference to the need to hold something in reserve to force amends for border infringements. For there is no doubt that these had increased since King Henry's death, not in any drastic fashion, but by local raids, and some interference with merchants and the passage of goods. I do not think this was in any sense official policy, or that the regents countenanced it or knew much about it. It was rather that with one king dead and another not yet come, those who lived a lawless life by choice in the marches, remote from the seat of power, and in the tenancy or service of almost equally lawless lords, felt themselves freed from any strong surveillance, and indulged their normal sport to the full. By the time law could get to them, they were again dispersed and about their innocent business. This was the case generally in the march, but in the centre and the south, especially where we were neighbour to the vast and powerful honours of Gilbert de Clare of Gloucester and Humphrey de Bohun of Hereford, it was not merely the lesser people who plundered as opportunists, but there were also some planned and methodical incursions by the lords themselves into land manifestly Welsh. The regents were able and hard-working men, but carried a great load, and were held by the sheer weight of their documentary business to London, where the needful offices were. The prospect of their coming in person to examine and suppress the raiding in the borders did not terrify the marchers at all. They might deal out verbal penalties from Westminster, but distance was blessed, and they were not Edward. So the borderers made hay while the good weather lasted, and the only means we had of preventing was in arms, and that we were anxious to limit to what was clearly fair defence, short of actual retaliation. "I have never been long in default with the money I am pledged to pay," Llewelyn said, "and I do not blink the fact that it is due by treaty. If I withhold it or delay it, it can be said that I am failing to fulfill my terms, and that goes against my grain. But it is truth that these pinpricks along the border have become dagger-wounds, and to my mind the terms of the treaty are already being broken from their side. I have lodged my complaints so often that I grow weary. The only direct weapon I have to my hand is this money. Perhaps I have been too prompt up to now. They write me into their accounts a month ahead of time, and have spent half what they get from me before they get it. It may cause them to read my letters more carefully and keep their own bond more exactly if I hold back what is now due. Let them perform their part, and I'll perform mine."

  Tudor approved, though cautiously. Some of the council were prepared to go further, having border troubles in their own commotes, and all shrugged aside the summons to the ford as of little importance, which was certainly Llewelyn's own opinion. He preferred direct dealings with Edward always, and had found them by far the best way of getting grievances attended to and wrongs righted.

  "When the king comes home," he said confidently, "we shall have no more trouble and misunderstanding, even if there's no lasting cure for a contentious border as long as men are men. I rely on Edward's goodwill and good sense. It is these officials who offend."

  So with general approval we held back the payment due that Christmas, though it was his habit to have the amount ready and waiting, so far as that was possible, whenever it fell due. And with that the council dispersed. But David, frowning and thoughtful, sought out Llewelyn before he gathered his people and rode for home.

  "Take care," he said seriously, "how you deal with these regents. Never take them too lightly; they are not light men."

  "Did you disapprove?" said Llewelyn, surprised. "Why did you not say so?"

  "No, it's well enough to stand upon the treaty, and insist they do their part. But don't take it too far, if you'd be wise. These officials are Edward. Make no mistake. Edward will not uphold you or any against them; they represent his name and right—however they conduct themselves. They may do in his absence things he would rather they had not done, but if they are done in his name they will be law and binding, and he will maintain them, and oppose all those who challenge them. Even you!"

  All this he said earnestly but coolly, as he performed all his vassal duties, not as a brother warning his brother of unwisdom. And I, who was watching his face and guessing at the mind behind it, judged from the distant spark in his eyes that more than half of him was already away with Elizabeth, and in a vision he held in his arms the son she had promised him, the first of a line, the founder of a dynasty. For all the controlled austerity of his face, there was triumph in his eyes. It was the first time I had ever seen him look upon Llewelyn with something near to pity. Punctiliously he warned him of possible danger. Once I had said to my lord that as often as David's right hand struck at his brother, his left would reach to parry the blow.

  I went down with him to the stables, and walked beside him as far as the gate when he rode, swathed in furs against the cold. I asked him to give my greetings and service to Elizabeth, and to Cristin, and when he said he would, his voice was quick and warm, and he laid a hand upon my shoulder. There was little he did not know concerning Cristin and me, though I think Godred remained to him a bright, shallow mystery.

  "I would you had my happiness!" he said, and meant it.

  "Do you wish as much to him?" I said.

  David shook his shoulders impatiently. "It is his own choice to be barren and alone. It is not yours."

  "He will not always be so," I said, and prayed that my heart might be as certain of it as my voice sounded.

  "You think not?" said David.

  "Surely not! God forbid I should look forward hopefully to any death, but the Countess Eleanor cannot live for ever, even if she continues adamant all her life, and nothing else stands in the way. After all this time, who can raise any objection?"

  "The Countess Eleanor is no more than a dozen years or so older than he is," said David, and his voice was slow, considering and cool. "No man can tell when his time will come. He may yet go before her…And here is this heritage without an heir, and he values it so little! A kingdom, and he will not give it a prince!"

  It was the same text to which Tudor spoke frequently and at length, though less often to Llewelyn these days, knowing it would be vain. But Tudor said these things with anxiety and exasperation and sorrow. In David's voice was none of these; it kept its soft, speculative level and the calm of its music unshaken by any indignation. A very beautiful voice he had, but as I knew from my own long alliance with him, it could fret and scald and slash with passion enough when he so pleased.

  "While I," he said, so soft
ly and drily that he seemed to be speaking to himself rather than to me, though I knew it was meant for my ears, and meant to disquiet a little, "I have heirs—perhaps a prince by now!—but no kingdom. Thus is this world arranged at cross-purposes, Samson. Have you never wished to move the pieces into a better pattern? Or do you still believe God knows best, and should not have his elbow jogged?"

  "Go home," I said, "and take your mischief with you, and forbear from plaguing your wife as you delight in plaguing me."

  And at that he laughed aloud, and stooped low from the saddle to embrace me about the shoulders, and rode out of the gate with a plunge of his heel and swirl of his cloak, keeping the rimy edges of grass along the coast road to avoid the glassy ice. And after him his retinue, well-mounted, rich and bright with colours, equipped and harnessed most princely, a king's retinue.

  CHAPTER IV

  A small judgment awaited David and Elizabeth that January for their too much pride and delight in their fruitfulness, for the expected son was a second daughter, as fine and dark and bold as the first, but not so beautiful, taking after her mother rather than her sire but for the black hair. She came as sweetly and readily as the other, for this lady was gifted for bearing as few women are, and all her children lived and flourished, and she, meantime, remained so young and vigorous that after some years of tending her girls she appeared rather as their elder sister than their mother.