Here Be Dragons - 1 (18 page)

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lyn's bowmen had achieved their aim, forcing many of the English t0 retreat, and the Welsh headed now for these exposed areas, threw seal ing ladders against the walls, and began to scramble up, trailing ligu thong ladders over their shoulders.
By the time Llewelyn reached the walls, the battering ram vvas smashing through the oaken door. He was among the first to plunge through, fought his way clear of the gatehouse to find many of his rnei\ already within, clambering down their thong ladders to head off the English retreat. Of the buildings ranged along the curtain walls, only one was not of wood: a squat, two-story tower. Seeing themselves overwhelmed, the English soldiers were running for this, their last refuge, and Llewelyn shouted, "Christ, cut them off!"
But even as he raced for the keep, he knew they'd be too late. Men with torches were standing in the doorway. When most of the soldiers had made it to safety within, they scattered brushwood upon the stairs, tossed their torches onto the pile. The stairs ignited at once. One of the torchbearers was too slow, took a Welsh lance in his chest, and tumbled down into the flames, but the other ducked back inside; the door was slammed and bolted behind him.
SMOKE hung heavy over the inner ward; the wooden buildings had been put to the torch. Llewelyn and his captains had gathered in the gatehouse, were measuring the keep with speculative eyes.
Rhys gestured toward the charred ruins of the wooden stairway. "Even if we built a platform and then forced the door, all the advantages would lie with them; they could smite us down one by one as we sought to enter. Better we should build a mine, tunnel under the wall, and bring it down about their ears. Or else use the battering ram to smash into the cellar."
"The River Alyn sinks underground here; the ground is like to be too wet for tunneling." Ednyved took up a flask, drank, and passed it around. "But we could use the battering ram, though it'd be slow going. What say you, Llewelyn?"
Llewelyn considered. "If we go across the battlements, we can enter onto the roof of the keep. If we then stuff burning brushwood down the louvres, mayhap we can smoke them out. But ere we decide, I'd see if I cannot talk them out."
Moving to the door of the gatehouse, he raised his voice. "I would speak with your castellan or constable!"
There was a silence, and then a shutter was cautiously drawn back "I am Sir
Robert de Montalt. Identify yourself."
Llewelyn and his friends exchanged surprised looks; they'd not ex-

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, to hook so large a fish. "I am Llewelyn ab lorwerth, Prince of fSynedd below the Conwy."
The silence was even longer this time. "What would you say to me?"
"Just this. I shall take your keep. If nothing else, I need only wait, -ve you out. You can neither escape nor hope for succor. Your overd the Earl of
Chester, is in Normandy with your King. The Lord de Montalt, yOUr brother, is known to be ailing; nor has he the men to break my siege. Remain mewed up within the keep and you do but prolong your own suffering, do only delay what is writ in blood. Yield now and with honor. Your lives shall be spared, and you may ransom your freedom, with no shame to you, for a fight well fought."
The shutter opened wider. "And if I refuse to yield?"
"Need you ask? You know full well what's like to befall a besieged garrison that persists in holding out after all hope is gone. My people call this place
Yr Wyddgrug: the burial mound. If need be, I'll turn this ground into a burial mound in truth. I shall take this keep, easy or hard, but take it I shall, and when I do, all within shall be put to the sword. So the choice is yours. I do give you two hours to decide."
Llewelyn passed the next hour conferring with his captains, getting reports on the casualties suffered, the prisoners taken, and planning for their assault upon the keep, should it become necessary. There was still an hour remaining upon his deadline when Ednyved appeared at his side.
"Well, my lord, once more your silver tongue triumphs!" He pointed toward the keep. The door was opening. As they watched, elated, a ladder was slowly lowered over the side.
"MY grandfather took Mold Castle, too, Rhys. The garrison held out for three months before yielding, and he later said it was his sweetest victory ever."
"My lord!" Llewelyn and Rhys turned from the window, toward the man just entering the solar. He was carrying a large bolt of emerald velvet; this he held out to Llewelyn, saying, "As soon as I saw this, my lord, I knew your lady should have it. Nothing better becomes a woman with red hair than the color green."
Llewelyn fingered the cloth. "Indeed, you are right, Dylan. It shall please her greatly to make a gown of this."
"Llewelyn?" Ednyved paused in the doorway. "Is it your wish to see de Montalt now? And our men captured two English knights up on *e road. I'll fetch them, too."
Sir Robert de Montalt was no longer young, had advanced well into

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his fifties, time enough to have acquired a philosophical approach to tk vicissitudes of fortune. If he felt any resentment now at being ushere(j/
prisoner, into his own solar, he was too politic to let it show in his face
"My lord Llewelyn," he said, stiffly correct. "I assume, of course that you mean to raze the castle."
"Of course," Llewelyn agreed politely, secretly amused, as always at the
Norman insistence upon preserving the amenities. As if war \vete a game of sorts, to be played according to recognized rules.
Robert de Montalt gestured toward the table. "I will, with your per. mission, write to my brother, tell him that our men shall be set free once your forces withdraw. May I ask what price you mean to put upon my freedom?"
Llewelyn calculated rapidly. "I think seven hundred marks to be a fair sum."
It was steep, but not exorbitant, and de Montalt nodded. "You will take partial payment in cattle and horses, I trust?"
"Naturally," Llewelyn said, no less gravely, not daring to meet Ednyved's eyes lest he laugh, reveal what a charade he thought this to be.
The other men were now being escorted into the solar. The first was a flaxen-haired youth, expensively armed. He did not look particularly pleased by his predicament, but neither did he look all that worried. Here, Llewelyn saw, was another games-player, confident that men of rank would always make common cause against those of inferior birth, acknowledge their membership in an international aristocracy of class. They would never understand, Llewelyn knew, that he felt a greater kinship to the least-born Welshman than to the highest-born Norman lord.
His eyes narrowed, though, at sight of the second man. "Well, torn," he said coolly, "you're a long way from home."
Thomas was not cowed. "So are you," he shot back. "This is Powys, not
Gwynedd."
Aubrey decided Thomas Corbet was indeed mad. All knew the Welsh were as unpredictable a people as could be found in Christendom, and common sense dictated that a man did not bait a bear in its own den. "You are, of course, Prince Llewelyn," he said hastily. "I am Sir Aubrey de Mara of Falaise, cousin to Lord Ralph and Sir Robert de Montalt." He turned then to de Montalt, smiled ruefully. "I regret I must impose upon our kinship, Cousin, must request that your brothe' pay my ransom. My lord father will, naturally, reimburse you."
With such a victory, Llewelyn could afford to be generous. "AJd another hundred marks for your cousin, Sir Robert, and I shall be content."
Aubrey grinned. "I do not know whether I should be thankful to escape so cheaply," he confessed, "or insulted that you do not value my
Sr^ore highly!"
Llewelyn laughed, and upgraded Aubrey in his estimation; generwhen a man was bested in combat, his sense of humor was the first casualty-
"Well, you two can barter what you will for your freedom, but I'll be damned ere I pay so much as a penny for mine," Thomas said trucuI ntly/ aru*
Aubrey and de Montalt jerked their heads about, stared at him in astonishment.
There was on Aubrey's face grudging admiration for so bold a stance, yet resentment, too, for his own easy acceptance of his plignt suddenly seemed less than honorable when contrasted with Thomas's defiance.
Llewelyn was regarding Thomas with unconcealed contempt, but it was to Aubrey that he said, "Mwyaf trwst llestri gweigion. In your language that translates as, 'Empty vessels make the most noise.' Your heroic friend knows full well that his release is already secured, bought with his Corbet blood. I do owe
Hugh Corbet too much to claim the life of his nephew, and, as ever, he does trade upon that."
Thomas had flushed angrily. "I accept no favors from Welshmen!" Llewelyn, too, was angry now. "You're an even bigger fool than I once thought. . . Cousin.

That does not, however, alter the debt I owe your uncle. But come the day when he's gone to God, I shall be sorely tempted to burn Caus Castle around your head. I'd think on that, if I were you."
Thomas opened his mouth, and Aubrey jabbed him with an elbow. "For Christ's sake," he hissed, "do not stretch your luck!"
"My Prince!" It was Dylan again, pushing before him a fearful youngster of eighteen or so. "This one ran right into our scouts, claims he has an urgent message for de Montalt."
The boy fumbled within his tunic and withdrew two rolled parchments. With an apologetic glance toward Robert de Montalt, he knelt and handed the messages to Llewelyn.
De Montalt had stiffened. He watched tensely as Llewelyn broke his brother's seal. He saw surprise upon the latter's face; Llewelyn said something in
Welsh, and the others looked no less startled.
"Cousin?" Aubrey had sidled closer. "See the second dispatch? Does it not bear
His Grace of Chester's seal? The news, then, is from Normandy."
The Welsh were still talking among themselves, with considerable arumation.
Several were smiling, but Llewelyn looked suddenly penSlye. He walked toward them, said to de Montalt, "Your brother has just received a letter from the
Earl of Chester. Your King Richard was sore w°unded whilst besieging Chalus
Castle; he died on the sixth of April."

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Thomas did not appear overly affected by the news of his KW demise, but de
Montalt was stunned and Aubrey stricken. He sagge(, back against the wall, whispered, "Jesu have mercy upon his soul."
Thomas dutifully crossed himself at that, then blurted out, with the single-mindedness of the true pragmatist, "Whom did he name as hls heir, John or Arthur?"
"His brother John." Llewelyn's eyes flicked from the letter to the ashen-faced de Montalt. "If you wish," he said, "your chaplain rnay offer up prayers for
Richard's soul."
De Montalt swallowed, nodded. "He ... he was a great soldier."
Llewelyn nodded, too; that he could acknowledge in all honesty.
AS soon as the Welsh were alone in the solar, Llewelyn's companions crowded around him. "What of Arthur, Llewelyn? Did he not put in his claim, too?"
Llewelyn glanced again at the letter. "Indeed he did, Ednyved. Chester says rebel barons of Brittany and Touraine laid siege to Angers and Le Mans, proclaimed Arthur as Richard's rightful heir. He says John almost fell into their hands at Le Mans, but he was able to reach safety at Rouen, and there the Norman lords did rally to him, answering his call to arms. He led an army back into Anjou, razed the castle at Le Mans, and burned the city. Arthur escaped, fled to the French court, and John seems like to prevail. Chester writes that he was invested as Duke of Normandy on the twenty-fifth, that he sails for England within the fortnight."
"Llewelyn?" Rhys was frowning. "What means this to us? Are we the better or the worse for his death?"
"I would that I knew, Rhys. For certes, I'd rather have seen Arthur crowned over John; a twelve-year-old lad would cast no great shadow in Wales. As for
John ... I hope I am wrong, but he may well prove to be more troublesome than ever his brother was. For all his vaunted skill with a sword, Richard never bothered much with Wales. Or with England, either, if truth be told. He was
King for ten years, and how often was he even on English soil? Twice, I do believe! But John has no interest in crusades or foreign campaigns, is like to make England the central jewel in his crown. And he knows our ways better than most; he was, as Earl of Gloucester, himself a Marcher border lord. No, I
suspect we've no reason for rejoicing that John is to be King.
"King John," Llewelyn repeated softly. "Morgan is a better prophe'

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even he knows. Once, years ago, he told me our lives should en'ne John's and mine. And, so it now seems, they shall."
10
FONTEVRAULT ABBEY, PROVINCE OF ANJOU
June 1200
J.HE royal abbey of St Mary of Fontevrault was young in years when measured against the timeless span of stone and mortar, but few religious orders were as influential or as wealthy. Matilda de Boheme, the proud, pious woman who ruled as Abbess, was related both by blood and marriage to the great Houses of
Champagne and Blois, and the thriving community within Fontevrault's walls included a convent for wellborn nuns, a monastery for monks and lay brothers, a hospital for lepers, a home for those nuns and monks grown too old to serve
God in other than prayer, even a shelter for penitent prostitutes. At
Fontevrault were buried the Plantagenet dead of Henry's House, and Eleanor was often an honored guest of the Abbess. Taken ill that spring, she had chosen to convalesce in the white-walled stillness of the abbey, and lingered there weeks later, having found an unexpected contentment in the cloistered and placid peace, so utterly lacking in the turbulence and high drama that had marked her life for almost eight decades.
The Abbess Matilda welcomed her with heartfelt gladness; theirs was a friendship of genuine affection, if not genuine intimacy. She wondered, though, how long it would be before Eleanor's restless spirit would begin to yearn for the pleasures of the world that was truly hers, we glittering court at Poitiers, where for almost sixty-five years she had reigned in her own right as Duchess of Aquitaine. Eleanor was not, she knew, a woman ever to renounce power, no matter the accompanying Pain . . . and pain there had been in plenitude.
Looking pensively at Eleanor's sculptured profile, at the face so familiar and yet so unrevealing, Matilda found herself thinking of all the

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griefs Eleanor had endured in recent months. Death had claimed four 0{ her children in a heartbreakingly brief span. Both the daughters born Of her marriage to the French King were now dead; Richard had died in her arms, and not five months later, she'd stood a ghastly vigil over y^ another child, as
Joanna died giving birth to a stillborn son. She had, Matilda thought, been no luckier as a mother than she had been as a wife. Of the ten children she'd borne, she'd buried eight, had only a daughter in distant Castile and the son she was even now awaiting, the last of her eagletsand the least loved.
And yet Matilda knew she had labored tirelessly for that same son to gain for him the Angevin crown, had then exhausted herself seeking to win recognition of his right. She'd traversed the length and breadth of her domains on his behalf, formally designated him as heir to her duchy of Aquitaine, and, lastly, undertaken for him a grueling journey that would have daunted a woman half her age. This past January, Philip and John had come to terms, sought to secure peace with the marriage of Philip's son and John's niece. Eleanor took it upon herself to fetch the young Spanish bride, child of the daughter sent so long ago to wed the King of Castile. Daring a dangerous winter crossing of the Pyrenees, she'd brought her granddaughter to Normandy for the wedding that would one day make her Queen of France. But however indomitable her spirit still was, her body was in its seventy-ninth year, and she'd fallen gravely ill upon her return, had been forced to miss the royal wedding she'd done so much to bring about.
Eleanor rose, moved restlessly to the window and back again. John had sent word that he'd be arriving at noon; he was already two hours late.
"This will be the first time that you've seen your son since the wedding, will it not, Madame?" Matilda would have liked to discuss the controversial peace that the wedding was meant to warrant. The treaty was not proving popular in
England, where men long accustomed to Richard's readiness to wage war for honor and profit looked askance at any resolution not bought with blood. Among those most eager for plunder and among those who'd have cheered the campaign on from the battle lines of London alehouses, John had earned himself a derisive sobriquet, one utterly at odds with the admiring "Richard Lion-Heart"
that had been bestowed upon his brother: "John Softsword." But Matilda knew better than to broach the subject; Eleanor did not share confidences, least of all about her youngest son.
"Madame . . ."A young novice nun stood in the doorway"Madame, the King's Grace has just ridden into the garth."