The Brothers of Gwynedd

by Edith Pargeter

  They rode the length of the front-line defences together. Llewelyn had his men strung in compact parties, each including some bowmen, along the edge of the forests, from close by Rhuddlan, overlooking the king's new coastal road, to Hawarden opposite Chester, thence southward by Hope and round the hills above the Dee to Dinas Bran, a line just within what we claimed as the border of Welsh land, but withdrawn only to the point where every company had safe cover at its back, either difficult hill country or deep forest, or indeed both together. South of the upper Dee our command passed to the men of Maelor and Cynllaith, and south again to the rebellious tenants of Griffith ap Gwenwynwyn in Powys.

  In all this planned line, the only salient was the castle of Hope, jutting well out into the lands securely held by English lords.

  "We'll hold on to it as long as we may," said David, who had fought so furiously for it at law, "and make it cost them as high as we can, but it is not worth keeping it when it begins to cost us as dear. They'll not attack it on their march to Chester, but wait until they have all their army massed, and their communications secured. He'll want to come at you, brother, by Flint and Rhuddlan, as he did before, there's no other way. But I fancy he'll want to clip my wings here in Tegaingl before he dare turn his back on me. With me here he'll not find it so easy to guard his flank as last time."

  Never did he scruple to speak of that last time, or show any sign of shame in harking back to it, or, indeed, try to dissemble or forget that he had then fought on the side of the invaders. And never by word or look did Llewelyn remind him.

  "The king is on the move by now," said Llewelyn. "The earliest we can hope to hinder him is after he's passed Oswestry. From Dinas Bran something might be done." And for the first few days of June he took a small company of us south with him to that castle, and thence we pushed raiding parties as far to the east as we dared, and waited for King Edward's army on its way to Chester.

  In a high summer once I watched Prince Edward's army closing in upon Evesham, where Earl Simon in the sprung trap waited with dignity for his death. Now in the early summer, from a hill-top above the winding Dee, I watched King Edward's army advancing upon my country with the same cold, confident discipline, learned from Earl Simon and turned against him then, bearing down now upon my lord. A strange, unearthly sight it was. We in our forests made our sudden assaults and rapid marches unseen and unheard, so quickly that we were come and gone before there was orderly sight of us or distinguishable sound. Edward with far greater numbers, too many for speed or stealth, made his slow, methodical way by full daylight and in the open, plodding inexorably like a great armoured beast, and surrounding his main body with a cloud of probing outriders, in restless, darting flight like the clouds of flies that accompany a drove of cattle. For miles before we had sight of man or horse we could detect their progress, for there hung over them in the air a faint, floating veil of bluish vapour and dust, hardly thick enough to be called a mist, for the season was not arid, but moist and mild. This serpent of vapour moved towards us over the green, rolling land, weaving as it came, and presently, before there was any colour or detail, came the sound of them, distant, rhythmic and continuous, a strange, murmuring, throbbing jingle, compounded of all manner of small sounds, but chiefly the tread of innumerable feet of men and horses drumming the earth. The light jangling of harness was there, too, the faint creak of the wheels of baggage carts, the chink of mail and clash of plate, the squeak of leather rubbing against leather, and the murmur of voices. Then, some time after this human river-music had reached us, came the first colours and lights, points of brightness scintillating through the cloud, lance-tips and pennants and the flashes of the sun fingering steel, then the whole dancing crest of the column in gleaming reds and blues and golds of flags and banneroles, the mane of the dragon, and at last the serried shapes of men and horses, the flesh and blood of the fabulous beast.

  We kept pace with them northwards along the march, they below and we in the hills, and the rest of that journey we did them what damage we could, picking off any outrider who ventured too far west and let himself be encircled, in places favourable to us darting down upon their fringes in sudden raids, killing and looting, especially cutting out, where we could, one of the wagons, stripping its goods, and disabling it if we could not get it clean away. By night we tested the watch kept on their camp, and found it all too good, but made our way past it once or twice, and did them some hurt before we drew off again. There was not much we could do to so orderly and drilled an army, but every man and bow and horse, every morsel of food we could strip from them, counted as something gained. But never once did they break formation to follow us into the hills, where we should have had them at disadvantage. Edward's will ruled them all, and Edward was not to be trapped into any rash act, his plans were made and he adhered to them.

  Thus we accompanied the royal army almost to Chester, where they arrived about the tenth day of June, and then we drew off and left them, rejoining David in Hope. He had had fighting, too, in advance of the king's coming, for Reginald de Grey had sent out a strong company under one of his bannerets to probe up the valley of the Dee and establish a forward post some miles south of the city, and though the Welsh had contested the attempt and cost them heavy losses, Grey had reinforced the camp, and David had not been able to dislodge him.

  "He is already thinking he can cut me off here," he said, "and so he might, if I had any intention of staying here to fall into his hands. Hope has served its purpose. In a few days I think we must give it to him—what's left of it!"

  Three days we spent dismantling the defences, breaching the walls, undermining the towers, and the broken masonry and rubble we emptied into the two castle wells until they were filled up and useless. What David did to his well-loved fortress cost the English two months' delay, and a great sum to repair. When it was done, and the whole site desolate, we drew off into the hills to westward. We were there keeping guard when Grey himself rode into the shattered shell, and appointed a constable with a strong garrison under him. By our count he left there more than thirty horse, and about the same number of crossbowmen, with a great number, we guessed at more than a thousand, longbowmen. We saw the reason for such immense numbers when they began to bring in scores of labourers, carpenters and foresters, and set to work frantically on trying to clear the first well, and fetch down a tower that had been left perilously leaning. The archers were deployed all round the site to protect the workmen.

  "A pity," said Llewelyn, "if they should be disappointed since it seems they expect to be attacked. And a pity if they should begin to feel safe, and remove all those good bowmen to be used elsewhere."

  "Archers are useless by night," said David, "and there'll be no moon. And I have men here who know every way into Hope, and every way out, dark or light."

  Then some of his following proposed to test the new garrison that very night, and Llewelyn approved, for clearly if so many archers could be pinned down in this first capture, and prevent a further advance, or delay it for some weeks, it would be of the greatest service to us. There was ample cover in the hills around, small companies left to fend for themselves here and harry the repair work could easily lose any pursuit, even supposing the constable would countenance so rash a move, and could as easily be provisioned from the west, and rested at need. But he did not realise, until we missed David and looked for him in vain about the camp, that he had himself slipped away with his men to lead the foray.

  He came back to us three hours later, smelling of smoke and leaving an ominous red glow far behind him in the ruins of Hope. His teeth gleamed like ivory in a soiled face and there was blood on him, but not his own. Every one of his men came back with him, none bearing more than a scratch to show for the venture, and David was brought up sharply by Llewelyn's furious reproach.

  "Had you leave for any such folly, you who undertook this war in the name of Wales? It's easy to be daring, any fool boy can risk his head, but you are carrying the heads of all t
hose you've committed to a life and death fight, and you may not indulge your vanity. Guard the life of every man who follows you, yes, as far as care can be carried, but guard your own for the sake of those who depend on you."

  I looked for a hot reply, or a haughty, dutiful, formal submission such as David had flaunted like an arrogant banner aforetime. But after a moment's shocked silence he stooped his head and kissed his brother's hand, so candidly and lightly that it passed for graceful penitence generously given, rather than a vassal's acknowledgement of rebuke.

  "That was just," he said. "Very well, agreed, an end to childish games. I promise you I'll leave this to others now. But it was well worth the testing. That fire you see down there in the shell is their store of grain, and all the cords and some of the timber they've brought in for the work. And if they stop up the hole by which we got in undetected this time, there are some of us know of others. So spare to rend me!"

  And he set to work, unchastened, to select a company of good, sound men, familiar with all the country round Hope as well as the castle itself, to remain behind when we withdrew to Denbigh, and by whatever means they found, to delay the repair of the defences, and so pin down all those archers in a constant alert. And an excellent job they made of it. Though Grey brought up as many as seven hundred woodmen, more than three hundred carpenters and forty stone-masons to the work, and kept about a thousand bowmen throughout to protect them, it took them until the end of August to clear out the wells and restore the walls, to make Hope a habitable base for an army's next move.

  The day following David's raid, the princes with their body-guards withdrew to Denbigh.

  We had not been an hour inside the wards, barely time for David to kiss his wife and shed his mail, when there was a commotion of someone riding in at the gates in great haste, and clamouring for the prince of Wales. Llewelyn was just crossing the inner ward to the hall, and turned at the cry. A young page on a blown and trembling horse, and himself streaked with sweat and dust from a hard ride, fell rather than alighted from his saddle, and flung himself at the prince's feet.

  "My lord, my lord, pardon the bringer of ill news! Pardon!" he said, panting, and began to sob, with the hem of the prince's tunic pressed to his face.

  "Child!" said Llewelyn, startled and dismayed, and bent to take him by the arms and raise him, but the boy clung and wept. "What is it?" demanded Llewelyn in quick alarm, and the mild wonder dashed from his face. "Speak up! Tell truth, and you cannot be at fault. What has happened?"

  "My lord, I'm sent from Aber to fetch you. Come, come as quickly as you can! The princess…" He choked and swallowed.

  Llewelyn gripped and snatched him to his feet, and jerked up the boy's streaming face to stare into the drowned despair of his eyes. "The princess! What has befallen her?" Such grief threatened the worst of terrors. "She is not dead?" he cried.

  "No, no, not dead, but very sick…and growing weak…Two days in labour, and still no birth! Oh, my lord," he wailed, "they are afraid for her, we are all afraid!"

  Llewelyn took his hands from him so abruptly that the child almost fell, and whirled towards the stables, and David, who had come out from the hall at the sound of the messenger galloping in, met and caught his brother in his arm, aghast at the sight of his face. "What is it? What ails you?"

  "Eleanor!" said the prince. "You must manage here alone. I must go to my wife. Two days in labour, and no child—a bad birth…Let me go!"

  "Oh, God!" said David, stricken, and followed him into the stables, and I went after. Even if my lord had bidden me to stay, I would not have let him ride alone. "No, it cannot be so grave," said David feverishly. "She has been so well, she's so mistress of everything she touches, how can she fail even at this? It will be well, you'll see! It will end with a son in her arms, and she in yours. But take my Saracen, he's fresh and fast.…"

  It was David who shook and stammered, Llewelyn was steady and silent. He put aside, not roughly, the groom who fumbled in his agitation, and himself saddled the horse, David's tall English horse that was Edward's gift, with sure, rapid hands. When I also saddled up beside him, he met my eyes briefly, not refusing me though he had no part of him left then to welcome me, he was so far flown already on the road to her. We led out the horses, and he kissed David, and said he would come back when he could. And when the boy who had brought the news came creeping, smudged with tears, to hold his stirrup, frantic for some look or touch of comfort, he looked down at him as though with astonished recognition, and then compunction, and laid his palm with brusque gentleness against the boy's cheek.

  "Take your earned rest," he said, "and follow me home tomorrow. And leave grieving, rather pray."

  In this manner, in mourne silence and leaving mourne silence behind us, we galloped out of Denbigh to attend the birth of the prince's first and only child.

  They were watching for us on both roads, by the coast and by the upland track over the hills from Caerhun, which is the shorter way. It was late afternoon when we left Denbigh, but barely dusk when we came over the last ridge by the old Roman road, and dropped into the head of the wooded valley that winds down to Aber. I doubt if that ten-league distance was ever covered faster. The watchman on the hills signalled our approach to the watchman on the wall below, there was sun enough yet to catch the red and white flutter of his pennant and the steel of his lance. When we passed at a gallop he saluted us and fell in at our heels, and thus heralded and escorted we came down to the long wall of the maenol and the village under it.

  All that way he had not uttered one word to me, intent only on reaching her side as soon as he might. Nor had we any need of words, or, God knows, any matter for speech, being both in dread and doubt and hope so alike that I had nothing to offer him, and he nothing to ask of me. We rode towards her, and that was all we had mind or will for then. And prayed every mile of the way, as he had bidden the wretched boy to pray.

  There was no comfort to be found in any face that met us, though in every one was a desperate, heartfelt welcome. The guards at the gates opened for us before we drew near, and their eyes strained for our approach and followed after our passing. The grooms in the outer ward ran to take our bridles, and they had the same look, fearful of a word, a sound, a breath, that might tip the balance between life and death. So we knew what awaited us, even before the castellan came running out of the hall to greet his lord, and Llewelyn cried out to him: "The princess?" and all he could get out from a faltering throat was: "Living!" There was nothing better than that to be said.

  Llewelyn leaped from the saddle and went in through the hall, and I after him, and all the menservants and maidservants of the household, creeping wretchedly about their business, stood stock-still before him, and made their reverences as he passed with the same dazed and unbelieving eyes, many of the women smudging away tears. There had been little sound before we entered, only subdued voices and few words, but as we passed there was silence. Llewelyn clove through the midst as though he saw none of them, and had almost reached the door of the high chamber when it opened, and one of Eleanor's women came out. It was Alice, the older of those two who had been prisoners with the princess after their voyage from France, and felt her to be in a special way theirs. At sight of her Llewelyn halted abruptly at gaze, for she had a shawl-wrapped bundle in her arms.

  "It is come, then?" he said in a whisper, drawing careful breath of hope.

  Her face was white and tired, and her hair awry, as though she had not slept at all since her lady's labour began. She said tremulously: "Four hours ago. The lord prince has a daughter. She is whole and fine…"

  She leaned to hold out the child to him, and turn back the shawl from its face, but he never glanced down.

  "Then the worst is past?" he said, hoping and dreading. "Eleanor…?"

  She turned her head aside, and the tears came slowly rolling from under her closed lids, and for the weight and burning of them she could not speak. But without words she turned and went before him to the tower st
airway. By the time we had climbed to the level of the guard-walk on the wall she had her voice again, though it struggled through aching grief.

  "We made the bed for her lying-in not in the great bedchamber, but in the room with a door on to the wall. It was so hot and dark and airless within, she was better there. She loves the sun." Her tears fell on the child's shawl. "Oh, my lord, it has been cruel! She is torn—she has lost so much blood…"

  I think he knew then that Alice, at least, had no hope, that her tears were already tears of mourning. He put her aside gently at the door, and went in.

  There were four of them about the bed, the prince's physician, the chaplain, and two of her women, and all of them turned their eyes upon him as he entered. In every face there was the same helplessness and resignation. They drew back from the bed as he drew near, and left her to him.

  She lay under only a light linen cover, for it was indeed the height of a very hot summer. Her hands were spread upon the linen at her sides, transparent, bluish white, like broken lilies. Her hair was unbraided, for a braid might have caused her discomfort, and for the sake of coolness they had drawn it up from under her neck, and spread it back in a great aureole over a wide pillow. The very perfection of the halo, strand drawn out evenly by strand, showed that for some long time she had not moved her head. All that lustrous dark gold, darker than usual with the sweat of her anguish but radiant and vivid still, sprang aloft from a broad brow and smooth temples no longer of ivory, but alabaster, so crystal-clear that what blood she still had in her gleamed through in the softest of blues, like the tracery of veins in the petals of an anemone. Her closed eyelids—I had never before seen her so—had the same delicate texture, large, domed eyelids to cover great, candid eyes. Her mouth was folded firmly, like a budding rose, but a white rose, even the shadows that shaped it rather blue than rosy. Her cheeks were fallen and silver-white, her body under the linen cover lay straight and slight and frail, and so still that she might have been the carven woman she seemed, but for the dew of exhaustion and pain on her lips and her forehead, and the faint, slow rise and fall of her breast. If this was life, she still lived, and they had told us truth. But it was such life that to touch or breathe upon it would destroy it. Everyone in that room moved with slow and careful stealth, avoiding sound, for fear she should be startled through the doorway in which she hovered.