Children of Time (The After Cilmeri Series Book Four) (28 page)

“Carew says that Peckham called you
Arthur
at your departure,” Bevyn said.

Dafydd ground his teeth. “He did. And that is a claim I cannot shake, no matter how I try.”

* * * * *

Dafydd, my love. Wake up!” I prodded him, and he rolled over.

“Why?”

“I couldn’t sleep and—” I broke off, too much in a hurry to explain what I had seen and overheard. He had to hear it for himself. “Can you please come with me?”

Dafydd opened his eyes and looked at me. I didn’t try to hide the fact that I was anxious and he touched my cheek. “Okay.” He swung his legs out of bed, pulled on his breeches, and then reached for his boots, but I gestured that he should follow me out the door without them.

“You don’t need them and they make noise.”

He eyed me, a smile on his lips, but nodded and allowed me to lead him on tiptoe along the corridor from our room. Castle building had evolved in England faster than in Wales, and even though Dafydd and his father had added luxuries as they could afford them and felt them worthwhile, King Edward had done the same on a much grander scale, as a monument to his power.

Westminster Palace, which had been the seat of the Norman kings since William Rufus built the first castle here, had been the object of much of Edward’s largesse. In addition to the enormous great hall, corridors within the twelve foot-thick walls made it possible to travel everywhere within the castle without going outside. Meg had told me that in her old world, after he’d conquered Wales, Edward had built this feature into the castles he built at Caernarfon and on Anglesey. If those castles looked anything like Westminster, they would have dominated the landscape, and I was glad he hadn’t had the chance to build them.

Our suite was on the second floor of the palace, and I led Dafydd past half a dozen latrines and smaller rooms until we approached a small chapel. “In here.” I drew him into an alcove, protected by a curtain, in which a brazier burned but no man guarded.

“They sent the sentry away.” I kept my voice to a whisper.

“Who’s they—?” Dafydd stopped because he could hear them himself. I pointed to a slit in the stones that separated the alcove from the chapel. He peered through the crack. The brazier was the only light in the alcove and it flickered behind us but wasn’t as bright as the lights in the chapel.

Gilbert de Clare, Nicholas de Carew, and Edmund Mortimer stood in a circle ten feet from us. They appeared to be arguing, their voices low, but not so low that we couldn’t hear them.

“The key question remains,” Clare said, “does Kirby know that we know that he forged the papers?”

“No.” Carew shook his head. “How could he?”

“What about Eleanor?” Mortimer said.

“Her death has nothing to do with us,” Clare said. “We stay the course, as we planned.”

Dafydd’s throat worked. “Kirby forged the papers?” He drew his eyes away from the slit. “Why would he do that?”

“It seems that like Peckham, he has weighed his options and chosen you,” I said.

“I must talk to them—”

“No!” I caught his arm and tugged hard. “No, you mustn’t!”

“What? Why?” Dafydd had pulled aside the curtain, but now let it drop and came back to me. “I hate all these secrets.”

I crowded him up against the wall of the alcove. He was much larger than I, so he could have continued with his original intention of confronting his Norman allies, but he didn’t push me aside.

I peered into the slit. “They’re leaving.” I pressed a hand on Dafydd’s chest, holding him still until the sound of the men’s footsteps had faded down the corridor.

“Lili—”

“Let them have their secrets,” I said. “You heard what they said, didn’t you? They are loyal to you but fear how you might react if you knew the truth.”

“I understand that, but now that I know the truth—”

“You can’t control everyone, Dafydd, and you must choose your battles. What would have happened if you’d burst in on them?”

“They would have had to admit to their deception,” Dafydd said, “and they would have known that they couldn’t pull the wool over my eyes.”

“No.” I shook my head. “You would have embarrassed them—and yourself—and they would have lied through their teeth, pretending they were speaking of something entirely different. And then they would have gone further underground. These men plot as easily as they breathe. This time, they are plotting
for
you. Let them.”

“It feels wrong, Lili,” Dafydd said.

“I know.” I stepped back. “But now you have the advantage. There may come a time when you find the need to whisper into Clare’s ear, to mention the conversation he had in the chapel at Westminster Palace. It might not be for a month from now, or a year, but he will remember, and wonder how you knew, and why you kept silent, and what long game
you
are playing.”

“I’m not playing any game,” Dafydd said.

I laughed and threw my arms around my husband’s neck. “
I
know that. But you don’t have to let everyone else know it, too.”

Chapter Twenty-Three

20 November 1288

David

A
s we arrived at St. Paul’s Cathedral, I leaned down to whisper in Lili’s ear: “I thought we’d never make it.”

Lili humored me by giggling and squeezing my hand. The wedding was due to start at any minute. Once it was out of the way, along with the council meeting tomorrow, we could go home.

Lili and I had defied our handlers once again. Although we’d ridden from Westminster, we’d left the horses at Baynard’s Castle because it was so much easier to walk from there than navigate London traffic with two dozen horses. Clare and Edmund Mortimer had looked at me askance when I’d suggested it, but then Edmund’s mouth twitched—that ever-present, dry amusement rising to the surface—and they both had agreed. It was my guess that neither man ever mingled with the people of London. Like the rich in the modern world, they didn’t want to contaminate themselves by contact with commoners.

I had to remind myself that ruling England was about power and fortune, and to try to discuss quality of life issues with a Norman was futile. It was bad enough that they still spoke French among themselves, though more were learning English every year. Peckham was the only Norman I’d ever heard talk seriously about the English as a people, as if he were one of them instead of a foreign overlord perched atop a conquered populace. But then again, most of my interactions had been with Marcher lords, who held on to their Norman ancestry more strongly, and looked down on the English (as well as the Welsh) over whom they ruled.

St. Paul’s Cathedral was ancient, even by medieval standards, having been built in Saxon times when Christianity had no more than a foothold in Britain. It occupied the highest of London’s three ‘hills’, which were puny by Welsh standards at a whopping 60 feet above sea level. But still, the Cathedral had a view.

Clare walked up the steps to the front doors with us. “The Bishop of London has been busy,” he said.

“I can see that,” I said, noting the construction materials surrounding the cathedral and the uncompleted spire. Mom had told me that this particular version of St. Paul’s would burn down in London’s great fire of 1666. I didn’t mention it to Clare. It might not even happen in this world and wouldn’t be our problem if it did.

The nave was already full of people. I could never get used to the way churchgoers were expected to stand for an entire two hour service, when they weren’t kneeling on cold stone. Today, William stood in front of the public altar. It was common practice these days to marry at the church door and not inside the church itself, but it was cold outside and too fraught with security issues for the future King of England and Princess Joan to expose themselves in that way. It was unseemly for them to be getting married at all, given Eleanor’s death last night, but Bohun would not be gainsaid, not with the throne of England within his grasp. In fact, it wasn’t unusual among the Normans to claim a crown before the body of a fallen ruler had gone cold.

The Bishop of London, Richard Gravesend, stood beside William at the head of the nave. Gravesend had to be ambitious to have achieved his position in life, but not so much that he had taken part in the back and forth of politics and succession that had consumed Peckham.

Clare approached so could Lili take his arm. He led her to a spot near the front of the worshipers, while I made my way to William’s side. He had several other lords—some younger than I—standing up with him today. Humphrey de Bohun stood close by too, and he sidled over to me. I could see the glee in his face as he rubbed his hands together. “Are you ready for this?”

“I have nothing to fear. I’m already married,” I said. “How’s William?”

“Nervous,” Humphrey said, “not that I can blame him. Tomorrow he could be the King of England.”

“Do you think the barons will approve his ascension at the council meeting?” I said.

“How can they not?” Humphrey said. “With Eleanor dead, all other claimants fall to the side.” He paused. “Except for you, of course.”

“I’ve told you that I will not challenge William’s claim,” I said. “I am a loyal friend.”

Humphrey acknowledged that pledge with a bow. “As we are loyal to you, my lord.”

Which was the first admission I’d ever wrung from Humphrey that our relationship went beyond momentary convenience. Not that I made the mistake of trusting him, and especially not if Maud had poisoned Eleanor, as Bevyn suspected. One thing this trip had made me realize, almost more than anything else, was that
trust
was something precious, and not to be bestowed lightly. I was pretty sure the only person I trusted completely here today was Lili. My father would no doubt have said it was high time I’d come to that realization.

A modern wedding was easily the most commonplace medieval ceremony still in existence, and for that reason, the format of William’s wedding was familiar to me. I found a spot to William’s right, facing inwards, towards the center of the church. William and Joan had actual chairs to sit on (they resembled nothing less than thrones—coincidence?
I think not)
and sat facing the audience.

Gravesend, since it was his church, performed the ceremony. He stood in front of William and Joan, facing the audience too, which made more sense than what we did in the twenty-first century, which was spend the whole service staring at the couple’s backs.

I stood at parade rest, trying not to shift from one foot to the other while Gravesend droned on in Latin. At least there was music, a boys’ choir, which I could have joined once upon a time. I didn’t sing nearly enough these days. It wasn’t without precedent for a Prince of Wales to sing. Hywel, the son of Owain Gwynedd, had been known throughout Wales as a warrior-poet. I would have liked that role, as long as I didn’t have to sing any songs about King Arthur.

St. Paul’s Cathedral was laid out in typical medieval fashion, though bigger than any church I’d ever been in. It was hugely long from east to west and the service was taking place with Gravesend standing in the exact middle, at the intersection of the north/south and east/west transepts. The main altar lay at the eastern end, behind him—behind William and Joan—in the choir, which was off-limits to common folk. Churches like this were built so that the rising sun would shine through an eastern window, but as this was November, there was no sun to speak of.

Giant columns supported the roof and a narrow second floor balcony protected by a solid railing with wooden panels, not spindles, ran all around the interior of the nave. It culminated in a larger space above the porch which allowed people to look down on the churchgoers below. Humphrey had cordoned off that area today for security purposes. Given the events of last night, I couldn’t blame him—nor blame him for following through with the wedding today, even if it was shockingly soon after Eleanor’s death.

Joan, for her part, was keeping it together better than anyone expected. She sat a foot from William, her hands on the arms of the chair. I couldn’t see her face, since she wore a veil, but she wasn’t sobbing. Maybe she and Eleanor hadn’t been close. English royal families were often as cutthroat as Welsh or Marcher ones.

Gravesend lifted his hands in conclusion to a prayer and then turned around to face William and Joan. Finally, it was time for the actual vows, after which the pair would be officially married in the eyes of the Church. William reached for Joan’s hand and helped her to rise. As she did so, I caught a flash of movement from the second floor balcony at the far end of the church, a hundred feet away, which was supposedly off-limits. A man appeared, lifted a bow over the railing, and nocked an arrow into it.

Too much had happened in the twenty-four hours since we’d arrived in England for me to hesitate, and the only thought that passed through my head was that the assassin was in my line of sight and no one else’s, now that Gravesend had turned his back on the crowd.

I coiled my body and launched myself at William, like a goalkeeper stretching for a ball that was headed towards the upper corner of the goal. My arms wrapped around his shoulders and I brought him down. As we fell, we cannoned into Joan, who screamed as we came down on top of her.

I rolled off of William and he rolled off of Joan, ending up with all three of us lying flat on the floor. The force of the fall had knocked the air from my lungs and I felt a searing pain in my left hip, which was odd since I’d landed more on my right side than my left. Gravesend’s face swam above me. “Son! Son! God be praised you’re alive. Help is coming!”

That’s good
. I tried to say it, but my mouth felt thick and cottony. Lili appeared above me too and pressed her cheek to mine. I pushed onto one elbow and turned my head. Joan and William had sat up as well, though Joan was sobbing into William’s chest. He gazed at me with a stunned expression, but all I could see was the yard-long arrow to the left of his head, buried in the headrest of Joan’s chair. If I hadn’t knocked William into Joan, thinking the arrow was meant for him, she would have been skewered through the chest as she rose to her feet.