The Reckoning - 3 (18 page)

100
she explained playfully, "that I loved God less, but that I loved Simon more!"
And Amaury justified her confidence by laughing softly.
"Ah, Amaury, how glad I am that you are here, that I can talk to you like this. I once askednay, demandedso much from life. If it be true that ambition is a grievous sin, then grievously did Simon and
I suffer for it. They're all gone, those old hungers, those high-flying dreams. Now I ask but one thingthat ere I die, I can see my daughter
L settled and safe. And yet I very much fear that is a wish beyond my
Igrasp."
Amaury was silent. As much as he wanted to confort her, she was the one person he could not lie to, and he, too, feared for Ellen's future.
9
TALERDDIG GRANGE, POWYS, WALES
January 1274
O, \^Jf all the granges owned by the monks of Ystrad Marchell, Talerddig was the most isolated, sequestered deep in the mountains of western Powys. The monks and lay brothers were astonished, therefore, by the unexpected arrival of
Gruffydd ap Gwenwynwyn, his wife, and son. Gruffydd was their lord, and they made haste to welcome him, wondering all the while what had brought him to this distant corner of his realm. Gruffydd did not enlighten them, and soon after dark, their cloistered quiet was broken by yet another arrival, a mystery guest muffled in a hooded mantle, acconv panied by a small escort of armed men who rebuffed all attempts at conversation. Their lord was no more forthcoming, demanded to be taken at once to Gruffydd, and although his identity was hidden within that shadowed hood, his voice carried the steely inflection of one born to command. The lay brothers did not think to challenge him; instead, they obeyed.

101
Davydd sometimes suspected that he had a love of intrigue for its
0\vn sake. When he'd plotted with Edward against his brother, it had ainused him enormously to insist upon a midnight meeting deep within the Welsh woods.
Now he found himself relishing his clandestine role, and he wondered if men would be so quick to conspire were it not for the seductive trappings, the opportunity to play these high-risk games of espionage. He was still laughing softly as he entered the chamber of the Powys Prince.
That was not a title Gruffydd could still claim, although his forebears once had. But Gruffydd had the misfortune to be born in the lifetime at Llewelyn ab lorwerth, known even to his enemies as Llewelyn Fawr, Llewelyn the Great.
Gruffydd's father had challenged him, and died a broken man, a refugee at the
English court. Gruffydd had grown up in English exile, not regaining the lost lands of Powys until Llewelyn Fawr's death in 1240. But another Llewelyn was soon to overshadow Wales, for the grandson had become the keeper of the grandsire's flame. Once again Gruffydd was forced to flee to England, and when he was eventually restored to his heritage, it was at a high price. This once proud Prince of Powys now held his lands as a vassal, swearing homage to his powerful neighbor to the north. Llewelyn's highborn countrymen recognized him as Prince of Wales no less reluctantly than did the English Crown. Their jealousy was Llewelyn's Achilles' heelor so Davydd hoped.
Gruffydd seemed content to sit in silence, to let his son, Owen, and his
English wife speak for him. There was no flash to the man; he was not one for shouting, for theatrical rages. Even his appearance was muted. Greyed and stooped, he showed every one of his fifty-eight years. But his hatred ran deep. Davydd knew that not many men would dare to defy Llewelyn.
Owen, his firstborn, had all the panache that Gruffydd lacked. He'd inherited his mother's English fairness, her sense of style, for Hawise was, at fifty, still an undeniably elegant woman. She'd been born a Lestrange, and Owen kept in close contact with his Marcher kin. He'd even adopted an English surname, calling himself Owen de la Pole instead of Owain ap Gruffydd. This misplaced pride was baffling to Davydd; he'd admit that English blood was no shame, but it was for certes nothing to boast about.
Owen had been holding forth for a good quarter hour, talking fast and tough, his the self-confident swagger of youth and privilege and an untested manhood. That, at least, was Davydd's acid assessment of s would-be ally. He listened, unimpressed, as Owen damned Llewelyn
0 eternal hellfire, vowed to reduce Dolforwyn to rubble.
Davydd marveled that one rock-hewn castle could so obsess men

102
on both sides of the border. For Gruffydd, Dolforwyn's presence on Powys soil was one affront too many, was enough to push him into rebellion. And the
English Crown had reacted with equal alarm, unwilling to allow a Welsh castle so close to their border stronghold at Montgomery. Acting in the absent
Edward's name, the regents had even forbidden Llewelyn to proceed with its construction.
The bait was too tempting for Davydd to resist. "It sounds to me, Owen, as if you've been stricken with the same malady that infected the English court:
Dolforwyn fever. They demanded that Llewelyn raze the castle, as I'm sure you know. But did I ever tell you about Llewelyn's response? He pointed out that he had every right to build castles in his own principality and, since Edward knew that full well, he could only conclude that the Chancery's letter must have been written without Edward's knowledge!"
Owen was not amused. "Are we here to plan Llewelyn's overthrowor to commend his sardonic sense of humor? Are you with us, Davydd, or not? If we must look elsewhere for aid, better we should know now."
"And where would you look? My brother Owain? I daresay he'd be interested, but prisoners do not make ideal conspiratorsdo they? Ah, well, there's always my brother Rhodri. His grievance is real enough. Alas for you, though, Rhodri could walk across a field of newfallen snow and not leave a single footprint."
Owen was accustomed to being treated with the deference due a prince's son. He at once began to bristle, and his mother made haste to intercede, saying smoothly, "You are right, Davydd. We do need you. But you need us, too. Twice before you sought to overthrow your brother. Your first attempt gained you a year's confinement; your second, four years in English exile. Our support will make the difference, and I think you know that, else you'd not be here."
She paused. "The terms of our offer are straight-forward enough In return for assisting you to claim Llewelyn's crown, Owen agrees to wed one of your daughters, and you cede to my husband the cantrefs of Ceri and Cydewain.
That's more than fair, Davydd. You want what we doLlewelyn's downfall. We are in agreement as to our aim. We need only agree upon our method."
Davydd's smile was razor thin. "I believe the method you had in mind was murder."
"And since when does killing make you queasy?" Owen demanded. "It's not as if we were asking you to do it yourself. All y°u have to do is get me and my men past Llewelyn's household guards I'll take it from there. Damnation, Davydd, we told you that at our las' meeting!"

103
"Yes, you did," Davydd said, "and I walked out."
Gruffydd stirred within the shadows. "But you came back," he said softly.
Davydd rose abruptly. "When I was nigh on seventeen, my brother Qwain and I
set out to claim my share of Gwynedd, led an army into Llewelyn's lands. He was waiting for us in the Bwlch Mawr pass, and in less than an hour, our men were in flight and all our hopes were bleeding away into the Desoch marshes.
Owain and I were both taken prisoner. Owain was sure he was a dead man. But
Llewelyn just looked at him and said, 'I am not Cain.' "
Gruffydd and Hawise exchanged glances. When Owen would have spoken, she shook her head. Gruffydd got slowly to his feet. "Your brother is too dangerous to let live. You and I might chafe under his high-handed ways, but too many
Welshmen see him as their last and best hope of holding off the English. As our prisoner, he'd be a magnet for every rebel and malcontent in Wales. And if he ever got free . . . I'm not willing to risk that, Davydd. Alive, Llewelyn becomes a martyr. Dead, a memory."
Davydd did not answer, moved, instead, to the window. Hawise followed. "How old are you, Davydd?"
He gave her a bemused look, a terse "Thirty-six."
"You're Llewelyn's heir and likely to outlive him. But what of your brother
Owain? He's been Llewelyn's prisoner for nigh on nineteen years, and he's well past fifty, is he not? You can wait. Can he?"
Davydd ignored her, reaching out and unlatching the shutters. The sudden blast of icy air caused him to gasp. The wind was raw and wet, coming from the east.
The red wind of Shrewsbury, his people called it, gwynt coch Amythig. He'd begun to shiver, but he did not move until Hawise touched his arm. Only then did he close the shutters, turn again to face them.
"You were right, Gruffydd," he said. "I did come back."
Owen and Hawise could not conceal their jubilation. Gruffydd permitted himself a small smile. "I understand that Llewelyn will be at Cricieth Castle in late
February, hearing appeals from the commote courts. Why not then?"
Davydd shook his head. "No. Toward the end of this month, he'll be staying at
Llanfair Rhyd Castell, a grange owned by the monks of Aberconwy. It's closer to Powys, and we'd not have to deal with the '-ricieth Castle garrison, just his household guard."
Gruffydd nodded approvingly. "You're right. I wonder I did not think of that myself. Let it be the abbey grange then, on Candlemas."
Owen smiled, too, but with an edge to it. "Are you sure you can Sain entry for me and my men?"

204
"Yes," Davydd said, very evenly, "I am sure. He trusts me, you see."
THE rain had begun to fall on Candlemas Eve. When dawn came, the darkness lingered. All day long the skies were the color of slate, and so torrential was the rain that the lay brothers of Llanfair Rhyd Castell began to worry that the river might rise. To ease their fears, Llewelyn set up a flood watch.
The vile winter weather had not deterred petitioners, and Llewelyn had spent the better part of the day presiding over the llys uchaf, his high court. He'd taken a brief break for dinner, but he then withdrew to a quiet corner of the guest hall, began a low-voiced, intent discussion with Tudur ab Ednyved, his
Seneschal. Davydd was not surprised by his diligence; his brother's work hours were legendary.
At Davydd's approach, Llewelyn looked up with a distracted smile. Tudur was less welcoming. His father, Ednyved ap Cynwrig, had been the greatest of
Llewelyn Fawr's ministers. Tudur was the third of Ednyved's sons to serve as
Seneschal to the Prince of Gwynedd. Like his brothers before him, he was blunt, shrewd, and not easily surprised. He'd never liked Davydd, had never bothered to hide it, either. At the sight now of those narrowed dark eyes and that thin-lipped mouth, Davydd had to reassure himself that Tudur's suspicions were nothing out of the ordinary, that he could have no inkling as to what the night would bring.
"Over the years, I've managed to offend, at one time or another, the Church, the Welsh lords, and my own tenants. Well, we now have a chance to offend them all at once, in one fell swoop," Llewelyn said wryly. "We've decided to impose a tax upon cattle, three pence per head."
Davydd whistled soundlessly. "That has never been done."
"I know," Llewelyn conceded. "But the money is trickling in, Davydd, and gushing out. In addition to the five hundred marks I'm obliged to pay the
English Crown every Michaelmas, I've incurred heavy expenses trying to stave off Marcher forays, and the cost of garrisoning Dolforwyn is higher than we'd expected. The English King levies tallages upon his subjects anytime he needs funds, so why should we not take a leaf from his book?"
"But you're not the English King," Davydd said laconically, and Llewelyn laughed.
"You're right, lad. I suppose I should be thankful for small favors!'
Tudur laughed, too. Davydd did not, turned away abruptly. Intercepting one of the lay brothers, he grabbed a goblet from the man's trayBut he dared take no more than one swallow, dared not seek to steady

105
his nerves with mead. Glancing at a candle notched to show the hours, ne saw, disbelieving, that it was just past eight. More than five hours et to go, for
Owen had told him to await them between midnight and Matins, when all would be asleep. He'd not expected this, to feel so hollow, so edgy, for he'd fought his share of battles, had first bloodied his sword at sixteen. But the death that crept into a darkened bedchamber was no kin to the death that claimed soldiers in the light of

106
claimed the lives of a valley herdsman, his family, and a passing stranger, who'd sought in vain to drag them to safety. His act was one of great gallantry, they all agreed, and the talk turned to other exploits of courage.
Tudur related several stories of battlefield bravery. Einion paid a moving tribute to a priest he'd known, one who'd chosen to live amidst lepers, "so they'd not think God, too, had forsaken them." "What say you, Davydd?" he queried, once he was done. "What was the bravest k^act you ever saw?"
* Davydd tilted his chair at a gravity-defying angle. "I was never sure if it was an act of braveryor bravado. It occurred at the siege of Northampton, about a month ere Simon de Montfort won the battle of Lewts. Bran de Montfort had been taken prisoner by men-at-arms unable to believe their good fortune, for no ransom would be too high for Simon's son. But King Henry's whoreson half-brother rode up, William de Lusignan, the one who married into the earldom of Pembroke. De Lusignan told Bran that he'd spare his lifeif he begged for it. We all knew he meant it, too, yet Bran never even blinked. 'Rot in Hell,' he said."
Caitlin's eyes had widened. "What happened to him?"
"Your father saw fit to spoil de Lusignan's fun," Llewelyn said with a faint smile, "reminding them that Edward did not want Bran harmed. They were cousins, you see, Caitlin, and still friendsthen."
Davydd had not realized that Llewelyn had heard of the part he'd played at
Northampton. "You know me, Llewelyn," he said with a shrug. "I never could resist a chance to meddle."
That earned him a laugh, from all but Tudur. Llewelyn now began to share his story of courage, one that hit home for Davydd, as it involved ; their father.
Speaking to the child, Llewelyn explained how his grand- ' father had been forced to yield thirty highborn hostages to the English King, John of evil fame.
"One of them was my father, lass. The following year, John hanged the Welsh hostages at Nottingham Castleall but Gruffydd. He was just sixteen, watched as his friends were dragged out to die, expecting his turn would be next. But
John decided he'd be worth more alive. Do you remember, Caitlin, that John's daughter Joanna was my grandfather's wife? Well, John did love her in his way, and so he commanded Gruffydd to write to Llewelyn, to request that Joanna pay a visit to the English court. This was less than a year after the hangings a'
Nottingham. Yet Gruffydd dared to balk, refusing to write that letter The Earl of Chester was present, and he told my grandfather years later that John had warned he could make Gruffydd write that letter if need be. But Gruffydd just said, Tou can try.' "
There was a moment of appreciative silence. Hostage taking was a fact of life on both sides of the border. Caitlin knew hostages could be