The Brothers of Gwynedd

by Edith Pargeter

  "Nor I, believe me," said David. "I value my life too high to toss away the hope of keeping it. But if he strikes, so may we, and harder. But this half-Gascon courtier will never really venture?" he said, marvelling and rejecting. "Against Edward's orders?"

  "Who can tell," said Llewelyn, "what men will dare do? I see no limits to human rashness." He looked into his brother's face, bent most earnestly, brow and eye, to search his heart and mind. He smiled, bewildered and rueful, as one who stakes nothing of value, and sees others dear to him hurl their souls away. "I teach where I have learned," he said. "Go and set your snare, David, but leave Tany to spring it. Edward will not forgive that, and the guilt will not be yours. We have a mediator, and a truce. It is not time yet to think of how to die."

  Thus we manned our defences above Bangor, and held reserves ready in the hills behind the strait, and made no further move, bound by that autumnal silence that was heavy and still as the lull between storm-winds. While Brother John Peckham argued and sweated both for us and for England, and for his pope and his God, who hated, the one as the other, dissent among believing creatures, and the shedding of Christian blood. I do acquit him whom sometimes I have resented, reviled and damned, of any insincerity. He did as he saw right, he never lied, he never left grieving. It was not his fault if he could not see beyond the end of a very short nose, or stretch his academic mind into the bleak, bare summits of our mountains, and comprehend the love we had for our barren, beautiful land. He came from a softer soil and a narrower learning. He did his best.

  In the afternoon of the sixth day of November, in that year twelve hundred and eighty-two, Brother John of Wales rode into our outposts from Rhuddlan, bearing the desperate and devoted fruit of his archbishop's labours on behalf of peace. In camp at Garthcefn, in the highlands of our Snowdon, Llewelyn received Archbishop Peckham's envoy, and the terms of peace he brought us.

  Three letters Brother John brought with him on this occasion, and asked at once for private audience with the prince, which was at once granted. Therefore until the council met, which was late in the same afternoon, none but the prince knew what was contained in those two scrolls committed to Llewelyn, or the third, which was for David. After the friar had withdrawn the prince sent for his brother, and those two were closeted together until they came forth into the assembly of the council. Because of the truce we had an unusually full gathering for time of war, as was right and proper when the whole fate of Wales hung upon our proceedings.

  When the prince took his place, his countenance was stone-still but calm. The grey that had salted his temples was now a silver dust over the thick autumnal bracken- brown of his whole head, and this gradual frost had overtaken him since Eleanor died. He stood at the threshold of a double winter, of the year and of his own glory, unless God willed a miracle to Wales. I saw, as suddenly I was seeing for the first time clearly all the signs of his advancing age and mine, that he had lost flesh, and the bones of his face stood clear and hard and polished, rather bronze than stone. The chill winds of war and death had driven him past the bright summer of his prime. There was no way now to go but towards old age and the dark. What mattered was the manner of the going.

  I looked at David, who sat close at his side, very pale and grim, and noted how from time to time he watched his brother with strained and passionate attention, as though he, too, was seeing the threat of ruin as great as the former glory. But he saw it as in part his own work, and was aghast and stricken mute before that knowledge.

  "By favour of Archbishop Peckham and Brother John of Wales," said the prince, "we have received replies to those articles we sent in our defence, asking for justice. Before I put them before this council, I must tell you what Brother John reports of the reception our letters received in Rhuddlan. The archbishop presented to the king my reply that I am willing to submit myself to his will, saving always my sovereign dignity and my duty to my people. King Edward refuses to allow any conditions. We must submit to his will absolutely, without reserve. I am grateful to the archbishop for this, that he understood and said that unless we were offered honourable terms we would not surrender, and as Brother John reports, he persisted until he induced the king to agree that he might consult the magnates present at Rhuddlan, and with them try to draw up terms which should be mutually acceptable. For what the king's own magnates agreed to could hardly be derogatory to the king's sovereignty and honour. What I now hold is the fruit of those discussions, and to these terms the king has given his consent, though I am told not gladly." He looked round about at all the intent faces, and said with slow emphasis: "I make it clear—if this form is not accepted, we may very well ask the archbishop to continue his efforts. But whether he will again prevail upon the king to allow another form to be put forward, that I question. It is fair," he said, "that you should know what is at stake."

  Out of their great, expectant hush Tudor asked: "Does Brother John report his archbishop as believing these terms to be fair and just? Does he expect us to find them so?"

  "Brother John says it cost his archbishop long and hard labour to get agreement to them, and he is satisfied he could do no better for us. Yes, as I judge, he expects compliance," said Llewelyn, and briefly and terribly smiled. "There are three letters. The first and shorter of the two addressed to me I am free to lay before this council, the second is superscribed to be delivered to me in private, and so has been. I make no distinction. My fate and the fate of Wales march together, and Wales must know as fully as I everything that is proposed concerning this war and this peace."

  "Read them," said Tudor. And David said in a low voice: "For God's sake, put us all out of our pain! Peace or war I could bear, but this headlong falling in the cleft between the two is too much for me."

  "In the name of God, then," said Llewelyn, and unrolled the first of the archbishop's two scrolls. "This contains the open terms." And he read aloud:

  "These to be delivered to the prince in council:

  "First: That the lord king will entertain no discussion or dealings concerning the Middle Country, and those lands already granted by him to his magnates, nor concerning the island of Anglesey.

  "Item: As to the tenants of the aforesaid cantrefs, if they come to the king's peace they shall be treated as befits and is pleasing to the king's majesty. But we are confident that he will deal with them mercifully if they accept of peace, and with other friends we propose to do our utmost to achieve this end, and are confident of success.

  "Item: As to the Lord Llewelyn, we have been able to get no other response but that he must submit simply and absolutely to the lord king's will, and we are convinced that the lord king will deal mercifully with him. To which end we promise to labour with all our might, together with other friends, and we are certain our efforts will be effective."

  "It is no offer of honourable terms at all," cried young Llewelyn, burning indignantly for his uncle's sake, "it is an ultimatum, and nothing more!"

  "Wait!" said the prince, wryly smiling. "It is the covering letter of an offer of sorts. The king cannot afford, or thinks he cannot, for the sake of his standing with his own magnates, who may also at some time offend him and be brought to submission—to cede the formula of absolute surrender to his will. The archbishop's intimations about the magnates and their undertakings to obtain mercy for us mean more than they say. He has already extorted King Edward's agreement, however grudging, to what is contained in this second roll—the private provisions which qualify this public declaration."

  He unrolled the second letter, which was but little longer and read in a voice deliberate and firm:

  "These to be put to the prince in secret:

  "First: This is the form of the royal grace drawn up by the king's magnates: The Lord Llewelyn having submitted himself to the king's will, the king will provide for him honourably, bestowing upon him an estate to the value of a thousand pounds sterling, with the rank of an earl, in some part of England. In accordance with which, the said Llewelyn shall cede
to the lord king, absolutely, perpetually and peaceably, his seisin of Snowdonia. And the king himself will provide for the prince's daughter, in accordance with his obligations to his own blood-kin. To this end the magnates are confident of being able to incline the king's mind to tenderness.

  Item: Should the said Llewelyn take a second wife, and by her have male issue, the magnates undertake to procure of the lord king that such heirs shall succeed in perpetuity to Llewelyn's inheritance, in his earldom of one thousand pounds' value.

  "Item: Concerning those people presently subject to the prince, in Snowdonia or elsewhere, provision shall be made for them as God sanctions, and as is consistent with the safety, honour and wellbeing of such people. To which course the king's mind is already strongly inclined, since he desires to provide for all his people with conciliatory clemency."

  Round that table there were muted cries of disbelief and anger long before he reached the end, but all those who opened their mouths to exclaim aloud held their breath again and heard him out, not because his visage was wrung or his voice torn and jagged, but because his awesome calm rode over them, as a calm at sea takes the air out of a ship's sails, and lays it drifting and helpless.

  When he was done he looked up at us all, and in his bleak but serene face his eyes had their old red brilliance, the fire that burned up out of the depths when he was most roused to contempt and disdain. Then indeed they began to cry out, many voices together.

  "And we," cried Tudor, half-choked with his own gall, half so incredulous he could hardly forbear from laughing, "we are to be handed over with Snowdon, delivered to whatever overlord Edward pleases to set over us, to do homage to a stranger? It is infamous! They have run mad!"

  "Say no word yet," said Llewelyn, loudly and peremptorily. "We have time for thought, and we have need of thought. After a fashion, make no mistake, this is intended generously by those who send it. We are all offered life—life of a kind, and the means of living. And I require," he said, his eyes burning into gold flame, "that no man here shall lightly cast his life away, or prejudice the judgment of another. I require, further, that your answer shall be made only after proper consideration of what you do, for your own future, and without regard to me. In that answer I have nothing to say, it is you who speak for Wales. It would be unworthy to act in haste, for there will be no more such offers."

  "But your answer?" cried his nephew, clinging in desperation to the prince's sleeve. "How can we speak without you?"

  "My answer I'll tell you willingly, when you have conferred without me, and not today. Tudor may call you together when he sees fit, and when you need me, send for me. But my answer need not compromise yours. I shall leave you now, and if you will you may continue this council, but I advise that no voice be taken yet, not until tomorrow, or the day after tomorrow. We have a truce. We have time."

  So he said, and in the face of their seething distress, confusion and anger, he rose to put an end to the meeting, but David laid a hand on his arm and checked him.

  "Wait! There is one more letter to be made public—mine. I am a Welshman, too, by the prince's grace I am even in fealty, but I hold no lands. I have still a word to say, and I have leave to answer for myself and myself only, having lost already my two cantrefs and all the Welsh who were my charge."

  He stood with the parchment unrolled, in his hands, and there was sweat on his brow and his lips, I saw the torchlight dewed into bright beads there, and saw the anguish of his face, and guessed at the deeper anguish of the mind within.

  "Thus Archbishop Peckham writes to me," he said, high and clear:

  "These to be delivered to David:

  "First: If, to God's honour and his own, he will take upon him the burden of the Cross, and journey to aid the crusade in the Holy Land, he shall be provided with an establishment suitable to his rank, on condition that he shall never return unless recalled by the king's mercy. We will ask, and we are sure successfully, that the lord king shall provide for his children.

  "To all the Welsh, of our own initiative, we add these warnings, that dangers will threaten them ever more gravely as time passes, as we have already admonished them by word of mouth, and written to them most urgently, for it grows infinitely burdensome to continue in arms for a longer time, only in the end to be totally extirpated, for the perils menacing you will every day be aggravated.

  "Item: After a longer time it grows ever more difficult to live in a state of war, in anguish of heart and body, for ever among malignant perils, and at last to die in mortal sin and anger.

  "Item: Which grieves us sorely, if you do not come to peace to the best you may, we dread the necessity of urging ecclesiastical feeling against you to the last extreme, by reason of your excesses, for which there is no way you can be excused. But in which you shall find mercy, if you come to peace.

  "Concerning the above, let me have written answer."

  The beauty of David's voice, whether in mirth, or malice, or ferocious disdain, was equal to the beauty of his face, and even then it kept its piercing sweetness. And most of those who listened, perhaps, heard first how savagely he mimicked Peckham's hectoring and caressing tone in the warning to the people. But I heard the ache of longing and temptation, and was wrung with him. And I saw, as he was seeing, Elizabeth among her darling brood in Dolbadarn, the little, merry brown English mouse bestowed on him in cold largesse by Edward, and charmed alive into limitless excess and delight of love by God's gift and David's, not Edward's, so that she poured out her hidden treasure upon him in lovely, vivid children. And I saw suddenly how little he had believed in deliverance from this, his last act of rebellion, and how immense a gift mere life could be, having his charm and persuasion, and years ahead in which to earn his recall from crusade to wife and children, and a future not all without lustre. He was not wedded to Wales, as Llewelyn was in his widowerhood, he exulted in his children and worshipped his wife, he was by upbringing almost as English as he was Welsh, he had suffered his dual allegiance lifelong, eternally torn, he could as well have chosen England once for all, as twice he had chosen it before, only to be torn anew.

  Also, he was afraid of death, as once he had told me, reared up to confront it as he spoke, for fear, though it agonised him, never deflected him. And all this I remembered, watching him shattered and re-created before my eyes, there in the hall of Garthcefn, and loving him, as I did, only a little less than I loved his brother.

  "Thus the archbishop writes," said David, "to me and to all men of Welsh blood, and now you understand that I had a need to let this council know of this last warning, for it concerns them as well as me."

  He turned his head and stared insatiably upon Llewelyn, as Llewelyn was also earnestly regarding him. Eye to eye they questioned and answered each other in silence, and there were no secrets between them then. The prince lifted a hand, and said quickly: "Let it rest now! Say no word more till we meet again. This is not the moment."

  But indeed it was the moment, and that was why he spoke. It was the one moment on which David had never counted, the moment when he was offered escape from the consequences of his own act. He had life in his hands again, his submission depended upon no other man, and with compelling eye and compassionate face Llewelyn gave him leave in silence to deliver himself, without blame, fending him off from too impulsive self-committal while his blood was hot, before fear and selfinterest had time to work upon him.

  "But with your leave I will speak," said David, deadly quiet, "for I am the one man concerned, so Edward would say, only with my own personal fortunes, holding no land in Wales, and now none in the Middle Country, which is excluded from the argument. I am the one who has no legal right in the council of Wales, and none to speak for her, and what I say now is no prejudice to any but myself."

  He paused to moisten dry lips, and I saw how Tudor watched him with narrowed eyes, ready to condemn, for Tudor had never loved David or been beguiled by him, and now he thought he caught the drift of this exposition, and knew where i
t was leading, and where he had expected it to lead. And truly at that moment it could have been what he thought, a cautious withdrawal, the apology for submission.

  "I am also," said David, "the one who began this war, and whether I owe fealty to the lord prince for lands or not, I have paid it for more than lands, and whether I have rights in Wales or not, I have a great debt to her. And I say now, that no matter what others may answer, my answer to King Edward is no! No, I will never forsake this land in which I hold no seisin. No, I will not be a party to these insulting terms. No, I will not go on crusade at any man's bidding, nor wait on any man's word before I dare enter my own country. I cast my lot here and now, rather for war to the death than for such a peace!"

  And having reached this ending, with a loud, clear voice but a white and desperate countenance, he turned and went out from us, a little clumsily, as though he could not see very well before him.

  Llewelyn rose in his chair with authority to close that session.

  "As for my brother's decision," he said, "it cannot be accepted as binding until this council has had time to consider the terms without heat or haste. I will not have the remaining door closed, by my brother's hand or any other, until we have heard all men's voices."