Children of Time (The After Cilmeri Series Book Four) (26 page)

“Arthur.” One of the men to John’s left, Rob, breathed the name first.

Carew nodded.

I rolled my eyes. “He’s just a man—”

John glared at me. “You doubt that Prince David is the return of Arthur? Your own liege lord?”

“Well … I …” I swallowed. The eyes of the Englishmen had turned hostile.

“Of course not.” Carew clapped me on the shoulder. “My friend here witnessed the storm last summer, and what it did to the men in the boats who meant to invade Wales from the sea.”

I had to play along. I had no choice. “I did.”

John and his companions grunted and nodded to themselves. “I hear it was a grandfather of a storm.”

“The winds and water were so strong, the Severn flowed the wrong way, upstream,” Carew said.

I barely managed not to snort into my beer. The Severn Estuary was tidal. It flowed ‘upstream’ twice a day, every day, as did the Wye River.

The men didn’t know that, however. “It’s one of the signs,” Will said.

“What signs?” I said.

“That Arthur has returned, of course,” Will said.

“I thought it was when the Tham—”

Carew stamped a foot on the toe of my boot. “Thanks for the beer, gentlemen. We’ll be off. Big day tomorrow.”

“The wedding.” John’s tone was sour. “Bohun’s thinking we’ll have a King William soon, don’t he?”

“That is, I believe, his plan,” I said, not worrying about giving Humphrey de Bohun away. Everyone knew by now that this was his plan.

“We’ll see about that,” Tom said, to more nods all around.

Carew had gotten to his feet, but now leaned over the table. “How will you see about that?” he said.

Tom shrugged, but his eyes slid sideways to look at his friends. “The people of London have always had a say in who’s to be king, and we don’t want William.”

“He’s a nice boy—” I began.

Tom stabbed a finger at me. “Exactly! A boy.”

“Who would you have as king instead?” Carew said.

“I think we ought to stick that crown on this David,” John said. “He’s got mettle—more than most. And we’ve heard he’s the grandson of old King Henry, which ought to satisfy those lords we’ve got sitting up there at Westminster.”

And with that comment, I finally understood—really understood—what was in these men’s minds. They were English. The Normans had conquered them and taken all of England for their own, just as they’d done to the Welsh in my old world, and Edward would have done to our Wales here if my father and I hadn’t defeated him. If the Welsh in the twenty-first century could remember their losses after more than seven hundred years, it wasn’t surprising these Englishmen held onto their grief after only two hundred. If they couldn’t have a king of their own choosing, maybe a Welsh prince who carried the mantle of Arthur was better than any Norman they already knew.

Trouble was, they wouldn’t be getting Arthur. They’d be getting me.

So I asked them: “You’d prefer to crown an upstart Welsh Prince with a half Scot, half Norman mother, who happens to be the illegitimate child of King Henry?” I said. “You think he’d be better than William de Bohun or any other baron?”

“He wasn’t ever as young as this William, even when he was that age,” Rob said. “Didn’t you say he killed a boar at fourteen?”

“He knows how to fight,” John said.

“And he isn’t Spanish neither,” Henry said, speaking for the first time. “That Alfonso fellow that’s betrothed to Eleanor is up to no good. Before you know it, we’ll have Spanish folk taking over.”

I tugged on Carew’s sleeve. “We need to go.”

Carew nodded. “Thank you, gentlemen, for a most instructive evening.” The men in the room rose to honor our departure. As we left the pub, I could hear them discussing the future of their country among themselves. Once outside, Carew turned to me, his face split by a grin. “This was your idea, my lord.”

“Don’t remind me.”

Chapter Twenty-One

19 November 1288

David

“
T
here he is.” Humphrey de Bohun leaned in from the left to whisper close in my ear. I had returned from the tavern with an hour to spare to wash and dress—and make sure Lili was okay—before the feast.

“Who?” I looked up from my meal, eyed Lili and William, who were talking together on my right side, and then glanced down the hall to where Humphrey indicated.

“Alfonso of Aragon.”

“And that must be Eleanor,” I said, “the would-be bride. And look who arrives with them.”

Humphrey’s face darkened. “Valence.” He practically spat the word. It was odd that he was allowing his emotions to show so easily tonight, given his title and station. I’d tried (probably unsuccessfully) to cultivate a look of impassivity, especially when presented with bad news. Maybe Humphrey was presented with bad news so often that nobody noticed any longer the constant reddening of his face.

“You knew Valence was going to be here,” I said. “We can’t avoid him.”

“When I learned that he had Alfonso in his pocket, too,” Humphrey said, “it became clear to me that he would barely notice the loss of your cousin, Hywel.”

As far as I could tell, nobody was mourning Hywel’s loss at all. When I’d returned from Westminster, Lili (having survived the encounter with her father) had been full of court news, including the gossip about my dead cousin. She reported that he had been accepted at court well enough, but neither liked nor disliked—it was more that he had very little personality. Given the huge egos and personalities of so many of the barons, that could have been construed as a good thing. Though it wouldn’t have made him a very good King of Wales.

Alfonso, on the other hand, had nothing but personality. He swept towards the dais with long strides, Eleanor on his arm. He wore a hat—felted perhaps, since knitting hadn’t been invented yet—with a huge floppy brim and a three foot peacock feather. Wales was certainly on the edge of the fashionable world, even with our current relative wealth, but I had never seen anything like that hat before. Lili and William both snorted into their soup. Lili glanced at me, her eyes streaming with unreleased mirth. “Quite a confection,” she said.

Evan and Bevyn had found places against the wall near the entrance to the hallway that led to our suite. Carew, who was sitting at the near end of one of the long tables stretching down the cavernous hall, stood as Alfonso passed him. In the last few days, Carew had taken upon himself a position of close advisor to me, much as he had when we’d gone to England to meet King Edward three years ago. Now, he’d gone on alert. It seemed I had many people watching out for me.

Alfonso approached the high table where Lili and I sat with the Bohuns, Princess Joan, the Archbishop Peckham, both Roger and Edmund Mortimer (sitting at opposite ends of the table), and several other high-ranking Norman barons. Clare hadn’t yet put in an appearance, nor had Kirby, the other regent. Alfonso, Eleanor, and Valence had been given seats on the far side of Bohun and the Archbishop, who sat in the central position on the dais. Bohun had ceded it to him tonight because, with all these people who hated each other in the same room, Peckham might be a steadying influence.

Alfonso looked directly at William, who stood with Joan to greet him and Eleanor. “Congratulations,” Alfonso said. “I am delighted that we are about to be brothers.”

“It is an honor, sir.” William gave Alfonso a stiff bow. At thirteen, he was ten years younger than Alfonso and had to be feeling that difference acutely. Alfonso was everything you might want in a Spanish nobleman, with jet black hair, a strong jaw, and a wild light in his eyes. In my old world, he had died at the age of twenty-seven, having never even met Eleanor, and certainly not gotten this close to marrying her. The death of King Edward had changed many fortunes, not only that of Wales.

Alfonso’s eyes tracked to mine. He tipped his head stiffly, and I nodded back. “Welcome to London,” I said. It was hardly my place to welcome him to a city to which I’d just arrived, but I had to say something.

Carew had warned me about the protocol here. So many of us were equals or near equals in station, it was a matter of constantly negotiating who should be bowing to whom. I hadn’t risen to my feet alongside William, which implied that I thought I was better than Alfonso and William. But then, neither had Bohun or anyone else at the table. Alfonso was the King of Aragon, with lands far more expansive than Wales, but in this case, I was happy to go along with the general sentiment. These Normans had French ancestry. To them, the Spanish didn’t count.

With a pinched smile in my direction, Alfonso walked to his seat beside Valence and Eleanor, and gradually the general conversation at the table re-ensued. Bohun sat staring at Alfonso for another minute, however. It was no wonder Bohun’s face had darkened. If Alfonso succeeded in marrying Eleanor, he would not only outrank William for the English throne, but put Valence back in power.

Towards the end of the meal, as some of the diners began to depart, Clare nudged me as he slipped into the chair recently vacated by Lili, who’d had enough of the official meal and needed to lie down. Bevyn had escorted her to our chamber and returned. Bohun, still seated on my left, was in close conversation with the Archbishop. Carew had found himself a seat at the high table next to Edmund. People had drunk enough of the very good beer not to care anymore who outranked whom.

“How goes it with you?” Clare said.

“Well enough,” I said.

“And your bride?”

“She is well, too.”

“No problems at this stage, then?” Clare’s face was earnest and intent. “The pregnancy goes well?”

“Yes,” I said. “What is it, Clare?”

“I’m concerned about Hywel’s death—”

He broke off at a sudden uproar coming from the other end of the table. We both stood. Alfonso had his hands to his throat and appeared to be choking.

“I think it’s a bone! I warned him—” Eleanor was on her feet too, clutching at Alfonso’s sleeve.

I reached Alfonso in two strides. Kicking away his chair, I grabbed him from behind, clasped my hands underneath his diaphragm, and jerked upward. An olive pit popped out of his mouth and skittered under the table. Alfonso gasped real air. I set him down gently, onto his hands and knees. His breath came in ragged gasps, but it was breath.

“My God,” he said.

I crouched beside him. “You should be okay now.” I held out my hand. He clasped it and levered himself to his feet. I eased him back into his chair beside Eleanor, whose hands fluttered and shook.

“Thank you, my lord! Thank you.” Eleanor leapt to her feet and threw herself into my arms. Then she embraced Alfonso, who patted her shoulder and leaned back in his chair. Eleanor reached for the wine goblet they were sharing and offered it to him.

Alfonso shook his head. “Give me a moment for my breath to return before I eat or drink anything, my dear.” He looked up at me. “Thank you, Prince David.”

Meanwhile, Eleanor took a long drink from the goblet, which seemed to steady her. A servant reached between them to refill the cup. At that exact moment, Alfonso looked away from me and jostled his arm. Wine spilled to the floor and Alfonso cursed.

“No problem.” I turned back to my seat, not wanting to witness another display of poor behavior on the part of a nobleman towards someone he viewed as beneath him. Clare sat sideways in his chair, one arm draped across the back and an elbow on the table.

“That was noble of you,” he said.

“That’s me, noble to a fault.” I pulled out my chair while Clare smirked.

And then Alfonso cursed again, louder this time.

I spun around. Eleanor held her hands to her throat, but not because she was choking on an olive pit. She’d flushed red and staggered, her eyes hugely dilated. Alfonso sat useless, staring, so I bounded forward. This time I could do nothing to help. Still, I grabbed her as she toppled from her seat and felt in her mouth with my fingers, just to make sure I couldn’t clear a blockage in her throat. Nothing. She stopped breathing. It all happened so fast I found myself staring down at her in horror. I whipped around to look at Alfonso.

“What happened?”

“I-I-I don’t know!” Alfonso gazed at me blankly. “One moment she was well, caring for me, and the next …”

“Perhaps the wine.” Clare had come to help.

Nobody seemed to know what to do. The Bohuns stared at Eleanor wide-eyed, Alfonso was cursing steadily, and even Valence had both hands in his hair, running his fingers through it. I stepped back and away to allow others to crowd closer. I eyed the row of abandoned food and drink. Every chair on the dais had an empty trencher and accompanying goblet in front of it. I waved at Bevyn and Evan. They skirted the dais and approached.

“I need you to work fast. Gather all the goblets on this table. Handle them carefully, with the tips of your fingers. Do not let anyone else touch them and I want you to remember which goblet went to which man or woman.” They had no idea what I really wanted, but after a quick glance, they obeyed. The nobles would be surprised when they returned to their seats and found their drinks missing. Clare eyed me, but he didn’t argue either. If I could have used modern techniques, I would have dusted the goblets for fingerprints. As it was, I simply wanted no more poisoned nobles tonight.

The dozen shocked men and women continued to huddle around Eleanor’s fallen body, gazing at her in stunned silence. It was Valence who was the first to recover, and instead of expressing sympathy to Joan, or Alfonso, he shouldered through the crowd to stand between me and the corpse. He put his face right into mine. “What did you do to her?”

My hands came up. “Hey—”

Edmund Mortimer stepped in front of me and put his hand on Valence’s chest. “Back off, Valence. The Prince saved Alfonso’s life. You saw it. He had nothing to do with Eleanor’s death.”

Others of Valence’s allies, including Roger Mortimer, Edmund’s brother, pulled on Valence’s arm, trying to get him to retreat. Valence glared at me over Edmund’s shoulder, his mouth working and his face flushed so red I feared his heart might fail him. He was a stout man, used to fine dinners and rich foods. “Don’t think I can’t see what you’re doing! All of your rivals fall like dead flies!”