The Brothers of Gwynedd

by Edith Pargeter

  And to record a small act of restitution or revenge, according as you view it, from the ceremony in the abbey the archbishop of York was firmly shut out by his superior of Canterbury, because he insisted on his right to have his cross carried before him. So his former victory at the translation of Saint Edward was fully requited at the coronation of King Edward.

  As for Llewelyn's absence, there was never any sign that the king took it amiss, or failed to accept his excuses. Whatever men may have said afterwards in late wisdom, there was no ill-feeling then begun, no slight intended, and none suspected.

  The time for David's appearance at Llanfor drew near, and Llewelyn removed the court to Bala, and there waited for the day of the hearing in depression and agitation of mind, but resolute to have out the truth and deal full justice. For the sake of his own pride and position he could do no less, but even more for the sake of Wales.

  On the day appointed the council sat, and the bench of judges were prepared, and everyone waited for the accused to appear. But all that day passed, and the dark came down, and until full midnight we waited, that it might not be said we made him defaulter before his due day was ended. For there are delays and accidents on the road, and a man may be forgiven a lamed horse or a detour to ford a stream. But midnight passed, and David did not come. And then we knew he would not came.

  Llewelyn had sat out the death of the day grave and silent and with a motionless face, like a stone man in his chair. When it was dead past question, he turned his head towards Tudor, and said:

  "Take a guard of twenty men, and fetch him. Bring him in chains."

  CHAPTER VI

  That I was sent with that party was an afterthought on his part, and a concession. Not only had I almost a confessor's privilege with David, however he used me in despite of it, but also I was the person who knew the truth concerning that night at Aber, and I, better than any other, might relate to those events whatever David might do or say now at bay. We had great need of all the evidence we could glean. So when Tudor rode with his armed guard, I went with them into Lleyn, to the taking of David.

  I think Tudor already had it in mind that we should not find him. I know I had. Once before I had ridden to Neigwl to recall David to his duty, and found him flown, and that with less reason than now. So we asked at Criccieth if anything had been seen of him, but the answer was, nothing. Certainly he had not ridden through that town or halted at that castle. The castellan said that to the best of his knowledge David's court was at Nevin, and thither we went, but Tudor detached two men to ride northwards of our course, for if he had indeed run, and not by way of Criccieth, he must have gone by the pass of Bryn Derwin, where once in his turbulent youth he had stirred up Owen Goch to make war on Llewelyn for the whole of Gwynedd, and been unhorsed and made prisoner. The first of his three betrayals, forgiven in a year. I was sure in my heart then that this third would never be forgiven.

  We came down to the outer sea at Nevin in the blue autumn afternoon, the sun faintly overcast, the sky and the sea melting one into the other without division. Above the outer fence of the maenol there was smoke drifting languidly, but thin and rare, as from only one or two low fires. And there was a guard at the gate, but only two men, and they lethargic and dispirited, and at sight of us approaching in some fear and more resignation. About the yards a few maids moved, in the stables there were only two or three work horses, but the stock grazed in the outer meadows, cattle and sheep. The castellan, a man of the local tref, came out from the hall and stood before us, blank-faced but erect, for he had his orders from his lord, and he was still in his lord's service until another took possession.

  "In the prince's name," said Tudor, sure now what to expect, "where is the Lord David?"

  "He is not here," said the castellan. "He bade me say to the prince, or to the prince's messenger, that they are welcome to what remains in Nevin and in Lleyn, since he cannot take it with him where he is gone."

  "He is a defaulter and recreant," said Tudor, "and we need no permission of his to take possession of all his lands and goods. He has failed of his day and of his sworn word. You had better look to your duty to the prince now, for you are without any other master."

  "I know it," said the man, with a wooden face. "Now I have done his last behest, and I am free of him. Ask me what you need to know."

  "Where is he gone? When, and by what road? Is there still time to overtake him?"

  "I doubt it," said the castellan. "He left, with the most of his armed men and his family and attendants, in the night, four days ago." That was a well-judged time, not so soon as to be still under close watch, since if he went about his business confidently and calmly to within four days of his hearing it might seem to all men that he was sure of the outcome, and in no fear of facing it. And not so late that he could not, by night, get his party across Wales either to Chester or Shrewsbury before he was hunted. "The road he took he did not confide to me, there were none in the secret but his guard, not even the lady. But I know they set off by Bryn Derwin, and it's my belief they'll make for Shrewsbury by Cymer, and pass well south of Bala."

  "They'll have circled round us the night before we sat waiting for him," said Tudor, "and gained two miles for every mile we rode westward. Still, we'll make the attempt." And he sent two riders with fresh horses and orders to get remounts by the way, on the fastest route eastward, to enquire at all halts and alert all garrisons, and two more back to Llewelyn to carry word and get his orders.

  "And now," said Tudor grimly, "let's see what he has taken, besides a wife hardly recovered yet after his son's birth, and that same son, and two small girls. With that burden we may take him yet."

  I knew already who else was gone, I knew it by the strings of my heart stretched out to breaking. God knows how he had accounted to Elizabeth for that night flight, though she would have followed him wherever he led. But I am sure he never let any word of it out to Cristin until they mounted and rode, for though she was in his service, or in his wife's service, she would not have let him go without a fight, for his own sake no less than for Llewelyn's. But when she was faced with the decision, and no time for argument or prevention, she would go with Elizabeth and the children. What else could she do? Unwilling, unhappy, loyal, knowing to what risk and sorrow he was dragging his defenceless lady, Cristin could not desert her. She was gone, and I might never see her again. Gone with Godred, for certainly Godred knew all, while I was left here without even the sweet anguish of seeing her face, and knowing that she loved me.

  We went through the maenol, the castellan attending. David had taken his gold, his jewellery, all his portable treasure, and by the emptiness of the stables, some thirty knights and troopers, no doubt carefully chosen, together with his wife and children, with Cristin and perhaps one other maidservant to care for them. Nevin was an empty shell, deserted by its lord.

  As soon as Tudor's messenger reached him, Llewelyn sent out riders to all his garrisons along the border, and they scoured the Welsh side of the march, but in vain. David was already through the net and gone to earth in England, and for some weeks we heard of him no more. And still we did not know what lay behind all this coil of conspiracy and treachery, and had no way now of probing to the final truth.

  "Yes, one way, perhaps," said Llewelyn. "We know him guilty now, and do not know of what, and I cannot leave it there. Let's see what someone else can make of this flight, someone who does know what the crime was, and is still in my hands to dread paying in full for it. Let Owen ap Griffith in his prison know that David is fled. And if he so receives the news as to think we know more than we do, so much the better, he'll sweat the more."

  So it was done. And sweat he did, being left now to bear the whole burden of the prince's revenge, and the more it delayed, the more did he fear it. All in all, I think he did well to sit out the rest of that month without blabbing, for as he was left to carry all, so he had the option of speaking out without contradiction, and piling the whole crime, or the lion's sha
re of it, upon David.

  I remember that November of Edward's first regnal year as a fatal month, the time when an opportunity for accord and understanding was not so much neglected or missed, as snatched away wantonly by chance, never to be repeated. It may well be that the fortunes of Wales turned about purely because of this mishap, and if that is true, then no man was to blame for it, and all the wisdom on earth could not have prevented it.

  This is what befell: As soon as his coronation was well over, and he had looked about him and secured control of all those matters outstanding in Westminster—and I repeat, with no sign of dissatisfaction or reproach at Llewelyn's absence from his crowning—King Edward turned to an accommodation with Wales, such as his father had achieved before him, and with every expectation of a peaceful continuance. He sent to the prince, early in November, to ask him to send envoys to meet him at Northampton, to make arrangements for receiving Llewelyn's fealty and homage in person, as the prince had desired, at a place and time agreeable to both. And Llewelyn gladly sent his proctors as requested, for it was no advantage to him to have this matter hanging unresolved, any more than to Edward. The messengers came back satisfied with their reception, and reported that they had agreed to the date the king had suggested, which was the twenty-fifth day of this same month, and the place, which was Shrewsbury. It was a sensible and proper arrangement, and Llewelyn had no fault to find with it.

  But in the days immediately following the return of the envoys, came also the hoped-for message from Owen ap Griffith's custodian. Terror for himself had overcome Owen's obstinate silence. He begged that he might have audience of the bishop of Bangor, or some other reverend man, and cleanse his bosom by confession.

  "Now we may learn the truth at last," said Llewelyn, relieved, and as glad as it was well possible to be, with David so heavy on his heart. "Whatever it may be, I shall be grateful to have it out in the open. I had best not make him face me on the occasion. We'll hale him out to Bangor, and confront him with bishop, dean, chapter and all, if it will make his tongue wag more freely. But, Samson, be present for me. I would have you stay unseen, and take down what he has to say."

  Relations between Llewelyn and the bishop of Bangor at this time were most cordial, and so they were with all the abbots of all the Cistercian houses of Wales. In St. Asaph, in Anion II, he had a most difficult and contentious prelate, so jealous for the privileges of his see that he resented others having any rights at all, and was endlessly embroiled in lawsuits of all kinds. Anion had even complained of the prince to king and pope as hostile to the church, by which he meant hostile to Anion, or at least a match for Anion, and all the Cistercian priors of Wales had combined to send an indignant letter of rebuttal to the pope against this slur on a most just and devout prince. But Einion of Bangor was loyal, humane and reasonable, and with deep concern accepted the task of taking confession from Owen ap Griffith. In the chapter-house of his cathedral this meeting took place, in the middle of November, and I, who recorded it, remember it still, word for word as it unfolded.

  They brought in Owen from his prison, greyish-pale from close confinement, and fretted and thin with his long companionship with fear. He had not been ill-used or starved, and his modish cotte and chausses were still elegant, and his light brown hair and short beard well-trimmed, and yet he looked both wretched and neglected, so eaten up with fear was he. He looked from face to face round the circle of reverend men, with uneasy eyes, all in one rapid glance, and came and kneeled at the bishop's feet, and kissed Einion's hand with obsequious fervour.

  "There is something you wish to say to us," said the bishop, "for the relief of your soul. You may speak out without fear. Confession will be health to you."

  It was rather for the best advantage of his body, to my mind, that Owen had made up his mind to speak, sure that everything was bound to come out, and thinking it wiser it should come from him, and he get whatever remittance was possible out of it. He joined his hands in entreaty, and cast down his eyes nervously, and made his confession on his knees. I had thought he might even then be exercising some devious discretion as to what he told and what he omitted, and rearranging truth to his own best showing, but no, it was a straightforward tale he told, now that his mind was made up. If he revealed all, then nothing more could emerge to damn him.

  "My lord, to my shame I have not only offended against the prince's grace, but in fear I have lied to cover my worse guilt. I desire to make full confession now, in the hope of your lordship's intercession and the lord prince's mercy. But I am in your hands and in his, to dispose of as he pleases. I acknowledge it, and whatever he does with me, I make no complaint. I have deserved his anger. But I would have this burden of secrecy and sin off my heart at all costs."

  Not all, perhaps, but it was worth a bold cast to try to salvage something out of the wreck. The bishop bade him speak, and promised to do for him, body and soul, what could be done.

  "Do you make this statement of your own free will, or has any threatened or forced you, or put the words into your mouth?"

  "My lord, no one has prompted me, I speak of my own free will, being sound in mind, and knowing what I do. I am come now to a better condition, I would make such restitution as I can."

  "Then speak," said the bishop, "and put away doubts and fears." Which in Owen's situation was easier to say than to do, but he judged the fear upon that side to threaten him less than elsewhere, and plunged into his story.

  "My lord, you know already that the lord prince got wind, early in the year, of my father's disaffection and mine, and how we had put into the field a war party with evil intent against him, and how he believed that we had attempted the destruction of his castle of Dolforwyn, out of jealousy and despite because of our rights and privileges close by at Pool. And when he impeached us of this offence, seeing that it was useless to deny, we confessed our guilt, and let it be thought that the rivalry of Dolforwyn was all the matter of contention, and that we had indeed intended its razing, and nothing more. My lord, we lied. The enterprise was larger, and the sin, too. And it touches also, most deeply, the Lord David, who is now fled into England. I was set to win him into our plan, and so I did. In everything we did, he was a willing partner."

  "And who," asked the bishop, "so set you on to seduce him? Was it your father?"

  For the first time the young man faltered even in his desire to have this ordeal finished. "No," he said, very low, and writhed, and in a moment got out, even lower: "My mother!"

  "Then your father took no part? Did he know of your plotting?"

  "He did know. He did take part. But not the leading part. Do not ask me further to accuse her! I was guilty, let that be enough." And indeed he had said enough already to be understood by any who had ever known that slender, steely lady of Pool, Hawise Lestrange the marcher's daughter. Into whatever plan she conceived, she could drive both husband and son, and that without ever raising her voice.

  "Go on," said the bishop.

  "My part was to win over David, and I did it. He has often shown discontent with his lands, and he is bold and able. He entered into a bond with us to enlarge both his estate and ours. He promised his eldest daughter to me in marriage, and he promised my father, and me after him, both Kerry and Cydewain to be added to Powys, in return for the armed aid we pledged him to accomplish what he most desired. I was to lead a strong company in secret to the lord prince's maenol at Aber, and that we sought to do, but the floods turned us back at the Dee and prevented our evil."

  "You say it was to Aber you were bound?" said the bishop, still astray and in great amazement. "In the name of God, with what intent? What could you hope to do there, in the very heart of the lord prince's power?"

  "What God in his wisdom prevented," said Owen, and knotted his hands in dread of his own words, and wrung out frantic tears. "We conspired to murder the prince in his bedchamber, and make the Lord David prince of Wales in his place."

  In the blank hush that came upon us all I heard not even a
breath, and then the long, faint sigh of every man present, so soft that it might have been the sound of the sudden, bleak November sunlight creeping across the flagged floor. The bishop sat chilled to stone. My pen had stabbed deep into the parchment and splayed its point, blotting the leaf. God knows what we had expected to hear, but it was not this, never quite this. Bishop Einion drew back a little from being touched by Owen's shaking hands, and himself shook with anger and disbelief.

  "Wretch, do you know what you say? Are you lying still for some purpose of your own? If this was what you intended, the Lord David surely cannot have known it was meant to go so far."

  "I do know!" said Owen, shaking and weeping. "As God sees me, I am telling the truth. The proofs are written and sealed, my mother keeps all the agreements we made in a coffer at Pool, you may send for them. David's seal is there. He did know! He knew all! On the second night of February we were appointed to reach Aber in the darkness, and he was to let us in."

  Then there was no more mystery for me in all the curious detail of that night in Aber, David's face in the red glow of the altar lamp in the chapel, tormented and ravaged between exultation and loathing. David's restless prowling as he watched the weather, his words, his frozen vigil above the postern gate, that was barred but not guarded. Llewelyn was never as careful of his personal safety as he should have been, and who knew it better than David? Who could better lead a party of armed raiders to the prince's bedchamber in the dark, and in silence? But God had prevented, and saved him from the act. No one could save him from the intent. And perhaps only God, not even David, knew the content of those desperate prayers of his that night, whether they were for clearing skies and hardy fellow-conspirators and a princely heritage for his son, or that God would tear the skies open and send down the torrents of judgment to make an impassable moat about Aber. For as often as David's right hand launched a blow at Llewelyn—David who never repented his evil against any other—his left hand would reach to parry it.