Children of Time (The After Cilmeri Series Book Four) (32 page)

Bevyn swallowed. “I did not order the death of Eleanor and Joan.” He bowed low. “I apologize, my lord, for I did not think to aim that high.”

“Ah,” I said. “So the death of Hywel is another matter, isn’t it? You poisoned him, then?”

Bevyn picked at the mortar between two stones with one finger. “How did you know?”

“From the discoloration in his fingers, at the very least,” I said. “And because it was too much of a coincidence to believe that Hywel could possibly die so conveniently.”

“I did what I thought was best,” Bevyn said.

“I know you did,” I said. “Who else knows?”

“Three of us, no more than that,” Bevyn said.

“Both of these others are in the Order of the Pendragon?” I said. “Is one of them Huw or Aeddan?”

“No, my lord.”

“Where are the other two?” I said.

“I sent them back to Wales the moment the deed was done,” Bevyn said. “They won’t talk.”

“All men talk, eventually,” I said. “I am about to take the throne of England. Tell me why I shouldn’t throw you to the wolves?”

Bevyn wiped at the corners of both eyes with his thumb. “I have no answer, my lord.”

I sighed and watched a boat slide downstream, heading towards the center of London. The barons were going to crown me king and in so doing cover up murder, deceit, and conspiracy. I could not condone what Bevyn had done, but at the same time, if I let Bohun or Valence go free, how could I punish Bevyn for believing in me too much?

“Go home, Bevyn,” I said.

Bevyn straightened and stepped back from the wall. “My lord?”

“You have a wife and child. See to them.”

I stared out at the river and the city for a long time after Bevyn’s footsteps had faded into the distance.

Chapter Twenty-Six

24 November 1288

Meg

“
M
y lady.” William de Bohun cleared his throat. “Madam. If I might speak with you?”

I brushed a hand across my eyes. None of us had gotten to bed until after two in the morning any day this week, and this morning we’d slept only until six. David’s capitulation had been wholly unexpected. Not even the Archbishop of Canterbury could believe his good fortune. He’d rushed around, making plans and sending out messengers with the good news. The people had spoken, Parliament had been summoned and put their stamp of approval on David’s ascendancy, and Westminster Palace swelled with men of importance. Every single one wanted a piece of David, and he’d had no more than a few moments to breathe in three days.

Even Humphrey de Bohun, after an initial cold look, had accepted what we should have known was inevitable. David had stuck out his hand to him and he’d taken it—reluctantly, but he’d taken it. He’d said, “My lord David. I knew this day would come. My attempt to put William on the throne was doomed to fail from the start, wasn’t it?”

“I had no role in any of this—”

Humphrey scoffed. “God is on your side, remember? You need do no more than hold up your hand and the world falls at your feet.”

To my surprise, Bohun had grinned then, and his eyes had lit. “I’m not going anywhere, Sire.”

“I wouldn’t have it any other way,” David said. “I’m counting on your vocal, even outspoken opinions on all matters, large and small.”

“You will hear them,” Bohun had said.

I knew what Humphrey did not, that he had been a thorn in King Edward’s side up until the day of his death, always demanding more say in the running of the country and the taxation of the barons, to the point of withdrawing his forces from fighting in Scotland in order to force the king’s hand. The man had power—he exuded it—and more importantly, he loved to wield it.

In the old universe, he allied with Bigod to write
The Remonstrances
. Of similar tone to the
Magna Carta
, the document was a complaint against Edward for heavy taxation and for forcing his barons to participate in his French wars, about which the Norman lords had come to care nothing.

Now, I gazed at Humphrey’s son with no idea what to say to him. Humphrey hadn’t actually accused David of usurping his throne, but William had to feel that he had. I couldn’t even tell him that David didn’t want it. It would be unfair.

“I would ask that you thank your son for saving Joan’s life,” William said.

“You really should speak to him yourself,” I said.

“He has other concerns,” William said. “If not for him, she would be dead and I still wouldn’t be the King of England.”

I shook my head. “I’m sorry, William. You know it wasn’t David’s intent—”

“Don’t you think I know that?” William drew himself up to his full height and took on an air of pomposity that reminded me very much of his father. “I am not a child any longer. I can accept hard truths.”

After Humphrey had gone after Joan, William had eventually followed, but she had refused to reconsider her decision to join a convent. Afterwards, she had written William a letter and included the Archbishop of Canterbury in the greeting, indicating that her choice was final. What could Peckham—or anyone else—say to that? She was a princess and could be coerced, but not away from the Church, not in the Middle Ages.

Llywelyn came up behind me and slipped my hand into the crook of his arm. “It’s time,
cariad.
”

Time to see my son crowned.

William the Bastard (or more politely, William the Conqueror) was crowned King of England on Christmas Day, 1066, at Westminster Abbey. The last Saxon king, Edward the Confessor, was buried here, and because King Henry idolized the old king (he’d named his eldest son for him, after all), he’d begun a rebuilding program in 1245 and was buried here too. And so it was at the Abbey that David was to be crowned King of England—not, however, on Christmas Day. David’s advisors, including Peckham, were in too much of a hurry to get him started.

So it’s a crowning: blah, blah, blah. Get on with it already..
.

Those had been David’s exact words. My son could be most irreverent sometimes. Thank goodness he said it in private and only to me, in American English, and then shut up about it.

I appreciated his perspective. Like funerals and some weddings, the ceremony was less about
him
than it was about those watching. It was a public statement of his ascendancy, and he had a miniscule amount of patience for any of it, even if he understood why he had to go through it.

Llywelyn and I had front-row seats. Callum settled himself against a side wall next to Evan, whose mustache twitched as he glanced at the newcomer. Evan didn’t move away, though, and nodded a greeting. Maybe David had been right to tell Callum that it would get better. He was looking more comfortable with each day that passed. It helped that David had let it be known that Callum had been a soldier. I missed Bevyn, but he’d already returned to Wales, spreading the news of David’s coronation.

As David walked down the aisle, I had a terrible feeling that he was walking to the gallows instead of his crowning, but as he passed me, he shot me a grin and his blue eyes sparked with laughter. The Archbishop presided, and while to my eyes the accoutrements of the ceremony bore a striking resemblance to the aborted wedding of William and Joan, the people in the church appeared more joyous than they had on that occasion.

Once he reached the Archbishop, David turned to face the packed church. The Archbishop raised his hands, and the people cheered. David nodded his head, and they cheered some more. David took his seat—on his throne—on the raised dais so everyone could see him. The Archbishop and various lords then went to the four corners of the Church, proclaiming David’s sovereignty and asking the people if they willingly acknowledged him as their King.

They did.

As the Archbishop returned to David, ready to hear his oath, I leaned my head against Llywelyn’s arm, near to tears. He patted my hand and put his arm around my shoulders.

David repeated the oath from memory—in Latin, then in English, and only then in French:

I will grant and keep, and by my oath confirm, to the people of England, the laws and customs given to them by their previous just and God-fearing kings. I grant and promise that in all my judgments, so far as it in me lies, to preserve to God and the Holy Church, and to the people and clergy, entire peace and concord before God. So far as it in me lies, I will cause justice to be rendered rightly, impartially, and wisely, in compassion and in truth. I will grant and observe the just laws and customs that the people of my realm shall determine, and will, so far as it in me lies, defend and strengthen them to the honour of God. This is my promise.

* * * * *

“The scepter and crown weigh a ton, Mom, and my leg hurts like hell.”

“We can’t leave yet,” Llywelyn said. “You have …” Llywelyn stood on tiptoe to peer over the heads of the people in the crowd, “… approximately three hundred more people to greet.”

“Excellent,” David said, without sincerity.

“The mantle is nice,” Lili said. “I’m warm for the first time in days.”

Lili wore a golden circlet on her head because, naturally, she had become the Queen of England.

The ceremony had gone off without a hitch. No stray arrows struck my son; no poisoned goblets of wine were presented to him. The Archbishop Peckham, who’d put the crown on David’s head, had tasted the ceremonial wine before he’d given it to David to drink. I was tempted from now on to allow David only to eat food that I made with my own hands. It wasn’t possible, of course. Truth be told, none of us were really sure what was.

Llywelyn, Goronwy, and I were headed home tomorrow, even if I had to walk the whole way, given my advanced pregnancy. If I didn’t go home now, I would have to stay in London until the babies were born, and that I refused to do. I needed Aaron and Anna. I needed these children to be born in Wales.

David, Lili, and their burgeoning entourage would stay in London for a few more days and then begin a month-long circuit of England. Their trip would culminate in the celebration of the Christmas Feast at Caerphilly with us. The purpose of the trip was to show David and Lili off, receive the homage of some of the northern barons who hadn’t traveled to London for the crowning (or for William de Bohun’s wedding), and proclaim to all and sundry that England had a new king.

His royal name was
David Arthur Llywelyn Pendragon,
King of England.

My son.

The End

Thank you for purchasing
Children of Time
, Book Four in the
After Cilmeri
Series.  This journey through medieval Wales wouldn’t have been possible without your best wishes and support. I have always been passionate about these books, and it’s wonderful to be able to share my stories with readers who love them too.

For more about Wales in the Dark and Middle Ages, links to my other books, and information about future releases, please see my web page:
www.sarahwoodbury.com

Read on for a sample of
Exiles in Time
, the next book in the
After Cilmeri
series, available to purchase at
Amazon
and
Amazon UK
:

Sample: Exiles in Time

Two years in Afghanistan; four years working for MI-5, the British security service; and the death of both of his parents from cancer. At the age of thirty-four, Callum thought he’d experienced the worst that life could throw at him. That is, until his boss ordered him to open a buried file on his desk and to take it seriously. His new assignment: to detain and question a pregnant woman and her ailing husband—and if need be, to stop them from returning to medieval Wales.

Until today, Callum believed in his job and always followed orders. Until today, he thought time travel wasn’t real …

Buy
Exiles in Time
at
Amazon
and
Amazon UK

Chapter One

May 1289

Kings Langley Palace, Hertfordshire, England

Callum

C
allum brought his sword down on David’s shield and then sidestepped a countering move by mere inches. The king had gotten the jump on Callum early in the fight and had kept him on the defensive ever since. The two men drove back and forth—thrust, parry, block—until Callum’s arm was shaking with the effort. For the mock fight, they were using blunted swords that were a half pound heavier than Callum’s personal blade. The added weight made the fourteen years Callum had on David and the years of swordplay David had on Callum more evident with each minute that passed.

David’s shield splintered. He dropped it, leaping to the attack with two hands on the hilt of his sword. Callum countered yet again, using his greater weight to push back until the two men grappled together, their faces a foot apart. They’d been going at it for half an hour now. David had cleared the small courtyard of watchers, but Callum could feel the eyes of the garrison on them, watching surreptitiously from the battlement and the top of the keep.

 “Enough!” David shoved Callum away from him.

Callum dropped his sword and shield to the ground and bent forward with his hands on his knees, breathing hard. “Give up, do you?”

“I wouldn’t want an old man to get hurt.”

“You’re only twenty,” Callum said. “I wouldn’t call that old.”

David laughed and gazed at Callum with that particular expression he often wore—of amusement and intelligence and
am I really the King of England?
He didn’t often turn it on Callum, and it made Callum straighten and forget the fight, instantly wary of what might be coming.

 “You’ll have muddy roads all the way north, unless this good weather lasts,” David said.

Callum swallowed down laughter and incredulity. “So that’s what this was all about? A test? You wanted to see if I was ready to go off on my own?”