It was true. She would not dishonor him with lies in any case, but in this she would bend all her will to reassuring him. King Edward might once have suspected Ruardean’s loyalty to the crown – and the loyalty of Gwenllian’s husband, and Gwenllian herself – but the king could not doubt now that the Welsh rebellion had nothing to do with any of them. Eluned’s scheme to join the uprising had been thwarted years ago, and she had let it die. After so many months of watching the fight from afar, she would not rush in now at the moment when all was lost.
She broke his gaze to look at Master Edmund. The old man had stopped his examination of Madog, on whose body there was no sign of serious injury. His leg, perhaps – it was at an odd angle. She opened her mouth to ask what remedies they might have need of, only to feel a sick twist in her gut when Edmund gave a faint shake of his head. She knew better than to question the physician’s knowledge of unseen wounds.
“Will you take mead, Madog ap Rhys?” Master Edmund asked, and the question left no doubt.
“Aye, and I will hope it is your best brew. I would have that taste in my mouth at my last hour.”
They sat him up only a little, resting against Edmund’s knees, so that he could drink it. The men of Ruardean came by, one after another, to clasp his hand and bid him farewell. When they stood lined up beside him he turned his head, Eluned’s hand still in his grasp, and saw his father Rhys lying there.
“I came to fight by his side because I knew she would scorn to see me idle. Eluned–” A weak and wheezing cough broke off his words. His hand grasped hers tighter, pulling her face close to his. “I fought where she could not.”
“As you ever did,” she affirmed.
“It…is a good death,” he said, his eyes turning in his father’s direction again.
She did not contradict him. There was no use in saying that she had come to believe there was no such thing as a good death. There was only death, and it was always foul, and served no purpose but to clear way for new souls who would die in their turn. She could find no worthy purpose in any of it, until Madog looked at her and spoke again.
“God has blessed me, to send you here in my last hour. Your eyes are her eyes.” His voice was fading to almost nothing now. She was sure his pain was great, but he did not break her gaze.
“Would you have me tell her aught, Madog?” she asked him.
A look of amusement passed over his features. “Nay. There is no more to say but that we have been true friends. I only regret my death is not in service to her. For I would–” He drew a sharp breath, swallowed. “Happily would I have died for her.”
“I know it. Is certain she knows it too.” She felt his eyes searching hers. It was a look so filled with affection that she knew it was not meant for her, and it caused a new thought to come to her. It was so unlikely, but she had learned that it was impossible to predict everything, to see all. So she asked it. “Did you love her, Madog?”
She saw that he knew the kind of love she meant. Amusement came over his face again. He opened his mouth to draw breath and speak. But as she watched, the life left his eyes. He died with his mouth open and half-smiling, gazing into her eyes.
The men did not wail. They did not bemoan his fate or curse his killers, but they wept openly. They embraced each other, a tight knot of grief and friendship at his side, apart from her.
Tomorrow she would bring the bodies to the priory for burial. She would have the monks say a thousand masses for the repose of their souls. But tonight she washed them clean of mud and blood, rubbed them with fragrant oils, and covered them in fresh herbs before laying clean linen over them. When it was done, long past midnight, she sat on the ground between them and called on her bard to sing the history of their house.
Her left hand held her uncle’s hand, her right hand held Madog’s, as the bard ended with verses devoted to their great heroism. She remembered her uncle’s deep voice in song, his roar of laughter. She remembered the first time Madog had lost in a fight with her daughter. The memory of that look he had worn, of mingled dismay and pride and surprise, almost brought her to laughter as she held his still hand in hers. What a life he had lived, and so much of it at her bidding.
“How long does love live on, Madog, when it goes unfed?” she whispered into the empty night air. It was a stupid question, of course. Likely he had loved Gwenllian as a brother, no more. She did not know what he would have answered. She would never know. He would never speak again. “Does it ever die, or is it only hidden and starving in the dark?”
She watched sparks escape from the torch and fly up into the blackness of the night as she sat next to them and waited for dawn, holding their cold flesh next to hers.
The letter from King Edward came when summer was ended. It was Walter, her husband, who was named in the message that said a parliament would be held at Shrewsbury. But unlike the king, who had returned from the Holy Land ten years ago, her husband still wandered half-mad among the Hospitaller knights at Acre.
“And so we are sent this message,” she observed to her husband’s brother, “though Edward knows Ruardean cannot send its lord to speak in this parliament. Why think you he would do such a thing?”
She knew the answer. She thought she did, but her mind was so clouded these days that she had learned not to trust it. Many times she would wonder why her commands were ignored, only to discover she had never said the words out loud. Last week she had sat down to finish the embroidery of an altar cloth but found that it had been done and gifted to the bishop the week before, though she had no memory of it.
“Is certain the king only wishes Ruardean to be informed of such a gathering,” said Richard. “It is intended as a courtesy.”
Richard was an idiot. Her mind truly was disordered, if she thought he might see something she did not. She must try to make him understand it.
“It is the trial of Prince Dafydd, for the crime of treason. Writs have been sent to many other earls and barons, summoning them to sit judgment.” Such was the news that had reached her, and it spoke to the seriousness of Edward’s intent. “This is not courtesy. It is a pointed invitation to view the spectacle. I will go to Shrewsbury.”
So she did as she was sure the king wanted, though Edward himself stayed a careful distance from the events at Shrewsbury. It was clever in a way that was new in her experience of him, giving the illusion that the outcome of the trial was the will of the people and not his own. It was a smart bit of political maneuvering. At last this king’s head seemed fit for its crown.
Dafydd was found guilty of treason and more, in less than a day. She watched as they brought the prisoner up to the hall to hear his sentence proclaimed, and listened as he declared himself Prince of Wales. It was foolish pride that would not save him. But then, nothing would.
His sentence was to first be dragged by a horse through the streets of Shrewsbury. For murder, he would be hanged. But he would be cut down alive so that he may be disemboweled for the crime of sacrilege. For treason, his head would be struck off. And for the benefit of any who would dare such rebellion again, his body would be cut into four pieces and sent to the corners of the realm.
She listened to the people in the hall exclaim and gasp in horror at the torture that was planned for a prince. It was barbaric. She had never heard of such a punishment, yet it did not shock her so deeply. King Edward had something to say to reluctant subjects, and he had found a way to be certain his message was heard. Oh, how cunning had this king become.
Eluned made sure she was seen in the crowd surrounding the gallows. She kept her face blank while she watched them pull the rope tight about Dafydd’s neck. Wales is no more, she thought, as the executioner picked up the knife. She was careful never to look away from any part of it, so that any spies for King Edward would be able to tell him she saw it all. She could not stop the look of disgust that crossed her face when they burned his entrails before him, but at least she did not weep at all.
There is no more Wales, she said
to herself as they hacked his body into quarters. It was Edward’s message, and it resounded through her easily, nothing left to impede its echo. Wales is no more.
She repeated it to herself as she made her way back to Ruardean. One day, perhaps, it would feel more real. Right now nothing felt real except for the cold. She was glad that winter would come soon, relieved that finally there was an end to the parade of death and loss that had marched through her life in these last months. It was over. Now she could stop anticipating the worst.
And of course that was when the last blows came.
One day she looked up from where she sat staring out the solar window, pondering where love went when it vacated a heart, to find her son standing there.
“Mother, do you not make yourself ill?” He looked with concern at the open window, where she sat with the chill air flowing over her face.
He was nearly grown to manhood now. She forced herself to count the years and realized he was sixteen years old. They had last seen each other two years ago, when she had visited him at Lancaster’s court. She had given him to Lancaster’s household for training, to be reared as a knight and lord in her husband’s absence. This had been her husband’s command. It had made her son a stranger to her. In exchange for giving her son entirely to the Norman way, she had claimed her daughter’s life and destiny. It had seemed a fair enough bargain, until now. Now, when both son and daughter were lost to her.
“William,” she said, rousing herself from the numbness she had gratefully sunk into for months. “I am well.”
It was not a lie, nor was it truth. Nor was it an answer to the question he had asked, she realized, as he crossed to her with a look of concern on his face. She rose to meet him, and he held her shoulders as he bent to kiss her cheek. He was tall like his father, like his sister. For all the influence of Lancaster’s worldly household, William seemed to grope clumsily for words. He must be thinking he should offer her comfort on the loss of her brother, her uncle, her cousin, her country. She spoke quickly to prevent it.
“Why are you come to Ruardean? You should have sent word of your coming.”
“I rode to meet Brother Dominic on his journey here.” At her uncertain look, he gave her shoulders a gentle squeeze. “I would escort my father home.”
She could not ever remember being so paralyzed with amazement. It had been fourteen years since Walter had taken the cross and left for the Holy Land. The only word she ever had of him came through Brother Dominic, one of the Hospitaller knights who tolerated his ravings. For nearly half her marriage, her husband had wandered through Antioch telling anyone who would listen that he saw angels and devils. Sometimes he was lucid, more often not, and whether he was raving or calm he declared to the patient Hospitallers that he would not come home to England until men of Christ ruled Jerusalem.
She had taken this as assurance she would never suffer his presence again, and blasphemously hoped the Muslims would hold the Holy Land so long as she lived.
And they did. Yet William said he was come home.
Now she remembered the letter she had ignored. She had not wanted to hear again about her husband’s madness, preferring to dwell instead on thoughts of those lost things she had loved. So she had told the cleric to leave it unopened. It still waited for her, gathering dust instead of preparing her for her husband’s return.
“He is in the chapel,” said William, and she went forward, avoiding his offered arm and his sympathetic look. Her son seemed to think she was frail, in body or in mind. Perhaps she would be, soon, if she must play wife to Walter once more.
When they stepped into the chapel there was only her own confessor and an unfamiliar man in a red surcoat with a white cross emblazoned on it. He was Brother Dominic, and he spoke in hushed tones about the long journey and the will of God while her eyes scanned the room. Walter was nowhere to be seen.
Finally, she noticed them all looking toward a jeweled box before the altar, and began to understand.
“Do you tell me he is dead?”
Their confusion and hesitation told her that this too was in the letter she had refused to read. Before she could stop it, a bark of laughter burst from her. “This is Walter? This is my husband come home?”
She threw off their hands and walked to the chest. It was too small for a body, and she turned to them in question.
“His bones,” said Brother Dominic. And she laughed again, a reaction that seemed perfectly rational to her, yet clearly alarmed them. She must be careful or they would think his madness had transferred to her. She bit her lips together, trying to stem the hilarity that gripped her as the man explained. “My lady, he did say to lay his heart in the Holy Land, and his bones in England. But when we found him, there were only the bones to bring on the long journey here.”
“You are satisfied it is him?” What a merry jest it would be, to think him dead when he was not. “You are sure?”
“The men who found him as he lay dying in the desert knew him. They made a cairn for him, and described the place to us so that we might find him and give him a Christian burial.” He held out his hand to William, and she saw Walter’s ring in it. “He was well known to many in that land, lady. There is no mistake.”
She ran a hand over the garnets that studded the top of the chest.
She said, “You will leave me. All of you. I would be alone with my husband one more time.”
They did, and she felt a twinge of regret at the forlorn look that came over William as the others ushered him out. But he would have time enough with these bones, more than he ever had with his father alive.
She knelt next to the chest and lifted the heavy lid. There was a square of embroidered silk to pull away and then there were his bones, a pile of thick sticks.
“I wonder what killed you in the end,” she said to them. “Did you think you would join your angels at last?”
The bones of his hand lay against the rib cage. She remembered the strength of them, clasped hard on her jaw as he shouted that she must guard against Satan, compelling her to beg the Virgin to guide her soul. It was a lifetime ago, but she remembered the strength of him.
“Haps I deserved it, for the sin I committed,” she said to his bones. It was so long ago. She could look back now and see the long string of consequences that came from his actions then. Not all were bad. And yet the anger in her was not dulled. The resentment still rose up in her on a great wave of bile.
She let a stream of spittle fall from her lips into the place where his eye would have been. “Forgiveness is for God,” she told him. “I am but a woman.”
She slid the lid back onto the chest, satisfied at the scraping sound of it, the echo it made as it closed him up alone in a dark little box.
Later, William came and found her in her solar again, where she stared out the window into the frigid air. He spoke and she made herself attend his words. He said he was old enough and would assume his place now, as lord of Ruardean. Lancaster, the king’s brother, would counsel him well. Indeed he was to marry Lancaster’s little daughter, was that not happy news?
Eluned looked at him, unable to muster any care for her son’s ambitions. She only heard that she would no longer rule Ruardean. It was the last thing left to her, and now it too was lost. The cold air wafted her veil as he spoke and she began to accept that she had lived too long.
“I will go and live among the sisters of Saint Anne,” she said. It would suit her better than any alternative she could think of.
“Nay, you must marry again,” answered her son. And he began to detail the careful plan that would bring them yet more lands and fortune, and secure an even greater place for him among Edward’s nobles.
She only looked at him, distantly noting that this was the only time in her life that she did not even want to think of how this might be used to further her own aims. She had no aims to further, anymore.
How unexpected, that this son had inherited from her a talent she had not passed on to her daughter. He co
uld calculate and scheme, see advantages and opportunities where others only saw obstacles. The world was a chess board, and he a budding master of the game. Even now, when she did not respond to these grand plans, he saw her reluctance and shrewdly adjusted his approach to leave room for her refusal. He allowed that endowing an abbey might in time bear fruit almost as plentiful as this marriage scheme, did she not wish to marry again.
“Who do you think to marry me to?” she asked.
“Robert de Lascaux.”
The name was nothing to her in the moment she heard it, and then a breath later it was everything. She wanted to laugh again, she wanted to weep. Her whole world taken from her, and Robert de Lascaux offered up in its place. Eighteen years too late.
She did not need count them to know. Eighteen years.
“You will give me tonight to consider which course is best. In the morning, I will tell you my decision.”
Her son was not quite yet the lord he meant to be, for he easily obeyed her unspoken command to leave her now. She went back to her chair before the window, where a servant was pulling a tapestry over the casement to block the icy wind that now flowed in.
“Stop. You will leave it open.”
“But my lady Eluned,” protested one of her ladies with concern. “Night falls. You will be chilled to the bone.”
“Leave it,” she commanded, and sat there remembering long into the night, calling up the past and examining the future, staring at the stars in the black sky until the cold reached her heart.
Chapter 2
The Lover
“Yes,” he said, a word that leaped out of him, loud and eager. Belatedly, he realized that no one had exactly posed a question to him, so he clarified. “I will marry her, and gladly.”
He endured the incredulous look of his brother and the slightly stunned look of his friend, simply by avoiding them. Instead he watched his father, whose mouth had fallen open for the briefest of moments before snapping shut. The amazed look was replaced with suspicion.
Fair, Bright, and Terrible Page 2
