The Reckoning - 3 (23 page)

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The messenger was young and disheveled, each mud smear, each weat stain attesting to miles of hard riding. He showed no unease at finding himself in a
Prince's bedchamber, instead was looking about ^th unabashed curiosity; the
Welsh were less awed by authority than their English brethren. "Here it is,"
he said jauntily, holding out a folded parchment threaded through with cord, sealed with wax. "I ought to say straightaway that the man who gave it to me was a stranger. All I jmow is that he offered me the astonishing sum of two marks to get it to you, my lord Davydd. He told me not to spare my horse, said that if I reached you ere Morrow Mass, you'd owe me another two marks. Well, my lord, I did and you do!"
Davydd was already breaking the seal. "Pay him," he said, began to read.
The messenger was ushered out, with an appreciative over-theshoulder appraisal of Tangwystl. She was accustomed to male approval, though, paid him no heed.
Smothering a yawn, she poked Davydd playfully in the ribs. "If you are not going to collect your ransom, I am going to summon my maid. Davydd? Did you hear me?" He glanced up from the parchment, and she sat up suddenly, reached for his arm. "Jesii, you look ghastly! What is wrong?"
Davydd crumpled the message. Throwing the covers back, he rose from the bed, strode to the hearth, and thrust the parchment into the flames, then snatched the clothes hanging from a wall pole. Jerking up his braies, he knotted them about his hips. "Owen de la Pole has made a full confession. God rot him, the fool not only cut his own throat, he cut ours, too!"
"A confession Oh, my God, Davydd! You swore to me that you were innocent!"
By now he had his chausses gartered, was pulling his tunic over his head, his voice muffled within the folds of wool. "What did you expect me to say, that I
was as guilty as Cain?" Grabbing his surcote, he opened the door and shouted for Cadell, one of the few men he could trust. Turning back to the bed, he saw
Tangwystl, still clutching the sheets, staring at him in disbelief.
There was an odd feeling of familiarity about the scene, as if he'd somehow lived through it before. And then he realized that he had, eleven years ago.
Then, too, he'd been awakened at dawn with calamitous news: that his conspiracy had failed, Llewelyn knew all, and his only hope lay in flight.
TEMPERATURES plummeted suddenly during that first week in
November. As Llewelyn dismounted, the leaves crunching under his

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boots were brown and brittle, and the tree branches above his head had been transformed, as if by evil alchemy, into stark woodland skeletons stripped naked and barren by a relentless, alpine wind. The sky was clear and cloudless, but each breath that Llewelyn inhaled seemed glazed in ice, as if it were already deep winter.
He was close enough now to hear the rush of water. His people called it
Rhaeadr Ewynnol, the Foaming Fall, and indeed, where the River Llugwy spilled over a jagged barricade of moss-green rocks, it did churn up as much froth and spume as a cresting wave. Wales had been blessed with cataracts beyond counting, but Rhaeadr Ewynnol was one of the most spectacular, a white-water surge that not even summer drought could long diminish. It had always been a special place for Llewelyn, and he stood for a time at the cliff's very edge, feeling the flying spray on his face, watching as the twilit sky slowly darkened.
He'd been sequestered with his council for hours, focusing upon the political and military consequences of his brother's betrayal. Retribution must be swift and sure, for no prince could allow treason to go unpunished. The conquest of
Powys may have been inevitable; now it was urgent. A formal protest would have to be lodged with the English government, a demand made for Davydd's extradition. He and Edward were allies and his complaint was a just one. He did not hold much hope, though, that Edward would comply; the English Crown was far too fond of playing one Welsh prince off against another. But even if he did succeed in deposing Gruffydd ap Gwenwynwyn and bringing Davydd to trial, a shadow still lay across his land. No Welsh prince had ever scaled the heights that he had reached, had ever breathed such rarified air. Prince of
Walesnot even his grandfather had soared so high. But he was forty-six years of age, had no son of his own, and now, no heir to inherit his hard-won crown.
He'd been attempting, with some success, to put distance between himself and this latest betrayal, to see Davydd as a traitor, a failed rebel, not as the brother he'd loved. But this woodland glen harbored ghosts, and the wind echoed with whispers. It was his mother's voice he heard most clearly, his mother who'd never forgiven him for the sin of loving his grandfather. He could not remember a time when there'd been a true peace between them. But he did remember their meeting at Aberconwy Abbey. He'd just won a resounding victory over his brothers, repelling their invasion with ease, taking them both prisoner. Owain had been his mother's ally, her favorite, and she'd confronted him at Aberconwy, demanded that Owain be released at once. When he refused, she'd made a prediction that had sounded, even then, like a curse.
"You are going to pay a great price for Llewelyn Fawr's dream. The last words she'd ever spoken to him.

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Picking up a rock, he flung it over the edge, watched it splash into the cauldron at the base of the cliff. Never had he felt so alone as he did at this moment, victorious, triumphant once again over his enemies.
At his stallion's sudden nicker, he whirled, hand on sword hilt. The mare, a delicate, small-boned grey, picked its way through the dead leaves, acorns, and exposed roots as daintily as a lady lifting a trailing skirt. Above the animal's tossing mane, the child's face was framed within a wide red hood. As she reined in before Llewelyn, the hood slipped down, revealing skin of winter white, so ashen it looked bloodless, and eyes glistening with blinked-back tears.
"How did you know I was here, Caitlin?"
"I remembered how much you love Rhaeadr Ewynnol, and since it was so close to
Trefriw . . ." He could see Caitlin's frosted breath, lacing her words with faint wisps of smoke. He could see her pain. When she said, suddenly timid, "I'll go back if you want to be alone," he shook his head.
"No," he said, "we need to talk." Catching her as she slid from the saddle, he steered her toward a fallen tree. She settled herself upon the log almost primly, arranging her skirts in unconscious imitation of Eva, keeping those disturbing green eyes upon him all the while. Jesii, what could he say to her?
How could he make this child understand what he could not fully understand himself?
"Men are saying that my father plotted to kill you. Is that true?"
He'd hoped to keep the worst from her, ought to have known it was bound to come out. How like her, though, to face it without flinching. Where in God's
Name did she get her fearless, devil-be-damned honesty? For certes, not from
Davydd.
"Yes," he said, "it is true," and heard her give a soft sound, almost like a whimper, quickly cut off. She'd ducked her head; he could see only a swirl of windblown hair. Her hands had knotted in her lap, ringers clenching until the knuckles whitened.
"Uncle Llewelyn ... do you want me to go away?"
It was a moment before he realized what she was asking. "Ah, no, lass! None of
Davydd's guilt attaches to you. You're my niece; nothing can change that."
She raised her chin and he could see a faint glimmer upon her cheek, a solitary tear track. "I would that I had comfort to offer, Caitlin. But I know there is none. Better than most men, I understand about conflicting loyalties."
"Your father and grandfather?" she whispered, and he nodded.
"I passed my early years at my grandfather's court . . . did you know that? He was a great man, Caitlin. As a lad, I was so proud to be s blood-kin, loved him enough to forgive him anythingeven passing

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over my father in favor of his younger son, Joanna's son. And as I got older, I realized that he'd been right, for God never meant my father to rule. He was too hot-headed, acted on impulse without ever considering the consequences, and his hatred of the English verged upon madness. If I understood, though, the rest of my family did not. They blamed my grandfather . . . and me, for loving him. But you see, lass, I loved my father, too, and I oft-times felt as if I were being torn in two" J "No!" Caitlin was shaking her head so vehemently that her hair fllw about like swirling leaves, half-blinding her.
"No ... no, I do not love my father! I hate him, I hate him ..."
She choked, and Llewelyn drew her to him, held her as she wept. Her sobs soon subsided, although an occasional tremor shook the frail little shoulders; once or twice, she hiccuped and swiped at her face with her sleeve. Llewelyn blotted her tears with the hem of her mantle, and then smoothed the hair back from her eyes.
"Come on, lass," he said. "Let's go home."
LLEWELYN led an army south, razing Gruffydd's castle at Trallwng to the ground. All of Powys was soon in his hands. But Gruffydd and his wife had fled to England, where they joined Davydd in exile at Shrewsbury. Edward not only gave them refuge, he provided for them generously, and with English backing, they began to launch forays across the Welsh border. Llewelyn raged in vain, and his suspicions of the English King's intentions grew apace with each rebel raid.
//
MONTARGIS, FRANCE
March 1275
IN ELL was starved for sleep. She dreaded the nights now, for she knew the horrors each one held. She'd fall into a fitful doze, only to awaken gasping for breath, sure that she was stran-

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eling- Propped up against pillows, she would lie alone in the dark, gtruggling to breathe. After endless hours, she'd finally get back to sleep. But by then, it would be dawn.
Just as she refused to sleep during daylight hours, so did she balk at lying abed. Each morning she would muster her dwindling strength, insist upon dressing, determined to face the day without flinching. With Juliana's help, she settled herself into a high-backed chair, began to sort through her correspondence, for this was one task she would not turn over to Ellen or
Arnaury.
Juliana hovered close at hand. All in the Countess's household treated her as if she were made of cobwebs and rose petals, fragile enough to be blown away by a breath, for by now all knew that she was dying. But Juliana was an incorrigible optimist; life's cruelties still took her by surprise. She alone held on to hope, taking solace in Nell's high color, the brightness of her eyes.
But when she offered such flawed comfort to Nell, the older woman said tersely, "It is the fever," although without the acerbic edge that foolishness usually provoked. It was a source of grim amusement to Nell that she should discover patience only now, as time ran out. Her throat was tightening and she made haste to request her potion of juniper, chamomile, and poppyseed. It headed off another coughing attack, but not, she knew, for long. She was about to summon her scribe when the Welsh messenger arrived.
Juliana was surprised by Nell's grimace, for letters from Llewelyn ap Gruffydd were welcome occurrences, evoking echoes of those days when de Montforts defied kings and prevailed upon popes. "Do you not want to see Prince
Llewelyn's messenger, Madame?"
"No," Nell admitted, "for I know what message he brings. Ever since we learned of Davydd's treachery, I've been expecting it. Llewelyn lost more than a brother last November, he lost an heir. He will have to take a wife, try to sire a son. I thinkI fearthat is what his man has come to tell us, for
Llewelyn is too well-bred to let us hear of his marriage from others."
"But. . . Madame, surely you did not still harbor hopes that Prince Uewelyn and your daughter . . . ?"
"No, Juliana, of course not. Ellen lost all chance of a crown on fcvesham field. She has had ten years to accept that. But she must have ^grets for what might have been. When Llewelyn takes a bride, how ^ it not stir up memories, salt old wounds? For God and we know it should have been Ellen!"
Nell leaned back in her chair, for even this brief flare of passion was enough to exhaust her. For several moments she sat motionless, eyes d°sed. And then she said, "I'll see him now."

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But her spirits lifted at sight of his grey cassock. The Grey Friars held a special place in her heart; her husband's most fervent supporters had come from the Franciscan ranks. And when Friar Gwilym revealed that he was a member of the Franciscan friary at Llanfaes, she favored him with the sort of smile she reserved for family and friends, for Llanfaes was very dear to Nell. The island friary had been founded in honor of her sister; Llanfaes was both
Joanna's final resting place and a lasting tribute to her husband's love.
' Friar Gwilym seemed in no hurry to reveal his mission, and they passed some moments in polite, casual conversation. Prince Llewelyn and the English King were still at odds, he reported. How could it be otherwise, though, as long as
Edward continued to shelter those accursed traitors, Davydd and Gruffydd ap
Gwenwynwyn? Little wonder his Prince had refused to attend Edward's coronation.
"Little wonder," Nell echoed, without conviction, for she knew Edward would never forgive such an affront to his royal dignity. But how could she fault
Llewelyn for his recklessness? Her Simon would have done the very same thing.
"Do you have a letter for me?"
He nodded and reached for the pouch at his belt, withdrawing a sealed parchment. But he made no move to hand it to her. "Prince Llewelyn has entrusted me to speak for him, to ask of you"
Nell interrupted with an inadvertent, embittered laugh, for the days were forever gone when she might do favors for princes. "And what could your lord possibly want of me or mine?"
"Your daughter," Friar Gwilym said with a smile, and saw that he'd accomplished what her enemies swore to be impossible: he'd rendered the
Countess of Leicester speechless. "Prince Llewelyn and the Lady Ellen would have wed years ago, if not for the tragedy of Evesham. It is his heartfelt wish to honor that broken vow, to take your daughter as his wife."
Nell was still struggling with her disbelief. Too stunned to dissemble, she could only blurt out the truth. "But I can no longer provide Ellen with the marriage portion that a Prince would expect!"
"My lord knows that, Madame. He does not seek to wed your daughter for gain."
It had been a long time since a dream had become reality for Nell; it had been ten years. "I know why he needs a wife. But why Ellen?"
Friar Gwilym's smile surfaced again. "My lord knows you well, my lady, for he foresaw just such blunt-spoken honesty, and he would answer you no less truthfully. Your daughter was an easy choice, indeed, the only choice. In disavowing the earlier plight troth, he acted in the interests of Wales, acted as a prince must. But he has long regretted forsaking the Lady Ellen in her time of need."