The Reckoning - 3 (25 page)

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lifetime's work lay in ruins. Llewelyn was to win back all that had been lost, but he would ever after be haunted by a fateful awareness, the memory of how easily a small, fractious land could be subdued by a powerful, predatory neighbor. Welsh victories were writ in sand, whilst English borders moved ever westward.
After a time, Llewelyn turned from the window. "We are done here," he said quietly. "Let's go home."
CHESTER CASTLE was filled to overflowing with the King's men. Cooped up indoors by the rain, they were edgy and bored, and the morning meal had been interrupted twice by sudden brawls, one involving the table cutlery. Edmund was beginning to understand how Cheshiremen had earned such a reputation for violence.
The rain stopped by noon, but all knew it would be a brief respite, and the hall was still crowded. Some of the men were throwing dice, but most were covertly enjoying the sight of two highborn lords snarling at each other like rival tomcats. Edmund even heard a few of the bolder ones making whispered wagers, trying to gauge how long it would be before the Earl of Gloucester's volcanic temper erupted.
Gloucester was sitting bolt upright in a window-seat, glowering at his tormentor. He had a redhead's fair, freckled skin, looked now as if he'd been sun-scorched, so deeply flushed were his face and throat. Men called him "Red
Gilbert" and it was easy to see why. As unruly as it was bright, his hair stuck out in tousled, wayward tufts, bristling like the crimson quills of some unlikely paint-splattered hedgehog. Even at such solemn occasions as funerals, Gilbert's hair always looked as if he'd never owned a comb. Edmund, who cheerfully spent truly exorbitant sums on his own clothes, was puzzled by
Gloucester's obvious indifference to fashion, for the man was, after all, one of the richest lords of the realm.
Because of his betrayal of his one-time ally, Simon de Montfort, Gloucester had gained a name for bad faith, for lightness of purpose, but Edmund thought that, in this, he'd been wronged. He'd readily agree that Gloucester was thin-skinned, irascible, obstinate enough to shame the balkiest mule, and so vengeful that men swore forgiveness was a word utterly alien to his vocabulary. Edmund did believe, though, that Gloucester was, in his own peculiar, prickly way, a man of some Principles. And although he found
Gloucester to be impossible to like, ne could not help feeling a spark of sympathy for him now, the way he nught briefly pity a raging, baffled bull, seeking to shake off a pack of Wolves.
Edmund often thought of wolves in connection with the Marcher

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lords, for that was how he saw them, as tamed wolves who hunted for the
English Crown, far more efficiently than any dog could have done But a dog could be trusted, and Edmund trusted Roger de Mortimer about as much as he'd have trusted Sultan Baibars, who'd almost brought about Edward's death at
Acre.
Roger de Mortimer was half Welsh; he was, in fact, a first cousin to Llewelyn ap Gruffydd, for his mother, Gwladys, had been one of
4 Llewelyn Fawr's daughters. From his Marcher father, he'd gotten his ^height, his big-boned Norman-French body, from his Welsh mother, his snapping black eyes and straight dark hair. But Edmund was convinced that his knife-bladed tongue and utter lack of mercy could only have come from the Devil. He'd never met a man who took such perverse pleasure in muddying clear, calm waterswith the possible exception of Llewelyn's renegade brother Davydd. And just as he could not understand why Edward seemed to enjoy Davydd's contrary company, so was he perplexed by Edward's willingness to call de Mortimer "friend."
It was Edmund's conviction that asking the Marcher lords for advice in Welsh affairs was like asking those aforesaid wolves to guard a herd of sheep. He'd watched in disapproval as they did their best to hamstring the negotiations with Llewelyn's envoys. And in such a poisoned atmosphere, it was not surprising that the Welsh entreaties fell upon deaf ears. To Edmund, Llewelyn's presence in nearby Ewloe was proof that he did, indeed, want to resolve their differences. But to Edward, the only evidence that counted was that oath of homage, the oath Llewelyn had yet to swear.
It seemed to Edmund that his brother's eagle-eyed vision suddenly dimmed whenever he focused upon the rights and prerogatives of kingship. He had only to perceive a threat to his sovereignty, be it purported or real, and nothing else appeared to matter.
Edmund understood why this was so, for he, too, was a son of the hapless Henry
In. He knew that Edward had loved the weak, wellmeaning man who'd been their father, for in parenthood, Henry had excelled. In fact, he'd lavished such love upon his royal brood that many of his subjects saw his devotion as unseemly, even unmanly. When he and his Queen showed no shame, only pride, in their tiny deaf-mute daughter, that convinced many people that he was too sentimental to rule England's troubled realm. And Edward, growing up prideful and strong-willed and fearless, took each slur and insult to heart, swearing upon the surety of his soul that once he was King, no man would ever dare to defy him as they'd so often defied his father.
Yes, Edmund understood. The problem was that he also understood Llewelyn ap
Gruffydd's position. The Welsh Prince did, in truth, have a legitimate grievance, for lordship was not like a river; the rights and

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hiigations flowed both ways. In return for a vassal's homage and fealty, .
jjgge lord owed protection. Giving refuge to a vassal's sworn enemies s by even the most liberal interpretation, a breach of that duty.
Edward once claimed that Edmund had been cursed by a lamentable defect of vision, that he always saw both sides of every issue. He had eant it, possibly, as a jest, but not as a compliment, and like many of Edward's insights, it hit the target dead-center. Edmund sometimes envied men like his brother and his martyred de Montfort uncle, envied their absolute certainty, the distinctive blacks and whites of their world, j^e'd heard that some men were born color-blind, unable to distinguish reds and greens. He'd wager, though, that for Edward and Simon, the missing shade would be grey.
He had attempted to argue Llewelyn's case; perhaps not wholeheartedly, but he had tried. He felt, therefore, that he'd satisfied his sense of fairness, need feel no responsibility for whatever was to follow. The truth was that he had little interest in Wales or the Welsh. These days all of his thoughts were focused upon France. In just a few short months, he was to make the marriage of his dreams.
Blanche d'Artois was his kinswoman, for like him, she was a first cousin of
Philippe, the French King. She was also the widow of Henry, King of Navarre and Count of Champagne. And she was beautiful. No man could ask for more, a wife who'd bring the riches of Champagne to his coffers and passion to his bed. She was fertile, too, having borne a healthy daughter for her late husband, and an infant son who'd died in a tragic accident. Edmund did not doubt that she'd soon give him a son and heir. He did hope, though, that she'd not be as fertile as Ned's Queen. Poor Eleanora seemed to conceive if she got within five feet of Ned; eight children in the past twelve years and another one due any day. But they were frail little bairns, five buried already, and their only surviving son, Alfonso, was a sickly lad. Alfonso, named after
Eleanora's brother, the King of Castile. A queer name, though, for a future
King °f England! No, better that his Blanche was not quite so fecund, for more women died in childbirth than did men in battles. He'd lost one wife already, Aveline, dead of a fever at fifteen. He'd not loved Aveline, but he thought it would be very easy to love Blanche, Blanche with her Sreat dark eyes, her smooth, soft skin and impish humor, her bountiful estates.
Edmund was so caught up in these pleasant reveries that the sudden urst of obscenity was particularly jarring. He blinked, found himself ack in a congested hall that smelled of sweaty men, spilled ale, and
"dy, dank hunting dogs, listening to a beet-red Earl of Gloucester
Koger de Mortimer a misbegotten son of a Welsh whore.
Whenever ale flowed freely, so did insults. But Gloucester had, in

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his blind rage, crossed the line. For a fleeting second, the faintest of smiles seemed to find de Mortimer's mouth; it was gone so quickly that Edmund might have imagined ithad he not known de Mortimer so well. But the bait having been taken, de Mortimer need only play the role of a man wronged.
Rising slowly and dramatically to his feet, he demanded satisfaction.
Edward had been lounging on the dais, paying little heed to the escalating hostility. He saw at once that this confrontation was partly his fault, for he ought to have headed it off before it got so close to bloodshed. Both men now had hands on sword hilts. The trouble was that he liked de Mortimer, was amused by the man's lively malice, and he'd let him indulge that malice too long at Gloucester's expense.
"I'll not have us fighting amongst ourselves," he said coldly. "That benefits no one but Llewelyn ap Gruffydd."
Roger de Mortimer bowed to the royal will; he was always clever enough to know when to fish and when to cut bait. But Gloucester never made anything easy, for himself or anyone else. He continued to bluster, and Edmund hastily pushed his chair back, for he knew that Gloucester's complaints would drone on until
Edward lost all patience. There was no question who would win; Gloucester would eventually subside, sulking. But Edmund saw no reason to subject himself to it. Rising, he headed for the door.
The hall porch led into the tower chapel. As Edmund started down the nave, a young chaplain stepped from the shadows, shyly offering his assistance, and
Edmund explained that he wanted to light candles for his dead. For Aveline, his young wife. For his lord father. For his sisters, who'd both died that past spring. Edmund had not been close to either one; they'd long ago made brilliant marriagesMargaret to Alexander, the Scots King, Beatrice to the Duke of Brittanyand left England for foreign shores. But their deaths had come as a shock, for they were only in their thirties. Of their father's seven children, that left just him and Ned now, a sobering thought. He sighed, instructed the priest to pray, too, for Ned and Eleanora's dead babies, for his cousin Hal, martyred at Viterbo, and, as an afterthought, for his aunt Nell. It occurred to him that mayhap he ought to include Llewelyn ap Gruffydd in his prayers, for Ned was now talking about the man as if he were the enemy, and Ned's enemies did not prosper.
When Edmund returned to the hall, Gloucester was nowhere to be seen, although de Mortimer was still very much in evidence, trading affable insults with
Reginald de Grey, the Justiciar of Chester. To Edmund's jaundiced eye, he looked verily like a king holding court. That must mean that Ned was elsewhere, for if he was present, the#

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could be no confusion as to who was King. One glance confirmed this, and John de Arenwey, Chester's amiable Mayor, volunteered that the j^g's Grace had been called away for an urgent message. That was enough to send Edmund hastening to his brother's private chamber, for Eleanora had taken to her bed at Windsor
Castle, awaiting the imminent birth of her ninth child.
Edward was alone, and there was something in his face that gave Edmund pause.
"What is amiss?" he asked uneasily. "My God, Ned, Eleanora is not ... ?"
Edward shook his head. "My news was not from Windsor, but from France."
The news was obviously unwelcome. It was not likely to come from the French court, for Philippe and Ned were allies, cousins, friends. Ned's only complaint against the French King was that he had not pressed the hunt for Guy de Montfort with sufficient vigor. De Montfort... of course! Guy de Montfort must have gotten the Pope to lift his sentence of excommunication. What else could make Ned look so grim?
"Did de Montfort" He got no further; the mere mention of the de Montfort name was enough to unleash a torrent of profanity, some of it quite colorful. He listened admiringly as Edward damned the de Montforts to Hell Everlasting, but he was brought up short by a sudden "double-dealing Welsh whoreson."
"Ned?" With a quizzical smile. "You travel too fast for me. I thought we were in France with the de Montforts. How did we get back to Wales?"
Edward was not amused, was on the verge of rebuking him for his levity. But then he remembered; Edmund did not yet know. "Llewelyn ap Gruffydd was not content just to dally with treason. No, he must take it into his bed. You'll not believe what he has dared to do, Edmund. He has revived the plight troth, has sworn to take de Montfort's daughter as his wife."
Edmund was always astonished by men willing to defy his brother. He could never decide if such men were brave beyond belief or simply crazed. "Ned, are you sure? That would be so foolhardy, so . . ."
He fumbled for the right word, and Edward supplied a chilling one. So fatal.
Yes, I am sure. I have my share of French spies, people well Paid to keep a close watch upon Amaury de Montfort. The best of them got herself a place in
Marguerite's household. It has been a long wait, but it was worth it. Llewelyn and Ellen de Montfort plighted their troth ast spring, and she is preparing to join him in Wales."
Edmund was suddenly glad that he had not argued more persua-

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sively on Llewelyn's behalf. "Do you think it is true," he wondered, "that all the Welsh are born half-mad? I do not suppose it would do any good to forbid the marriage?"
Edward had begun to pace. "God rot his worthless soul, he is not going to get away with this!"
"Ned, I know you mean that. But what can you do to prevent the marriage?"
I Edward did not answer at once. "I do not knowyet," he admitted, f
"But I will find a way." He swung around then, turned burning blue eyes upon his brother. "This I can tell you for certes, Edmund. That marriage will never come to pass."
12
THE ENGLISH CHANNEL, OFF THE COAST OF CORNWALL
January 1276
WHEN a sailor pointed out the distant Cornish cliffs, Amaury and Ellen hastened over to the rail to look, for it would be their last glimpse of land for a while. The master of the Holy Cross had warned them that once they headed north into the Atlantic, they'd no longer be shadowing the coast.
It had taken Amaury weeks to find the right ship. Because they would be sailing at the most dangerous time of year, he'd been determined to engage a cog. The cog was neither fast nor easy to maneuver. But it was almost impossible to capsize, and its high sides would make it difficult to be boarded at sea, a paramount concern in the pirateinfested waters of the
Channel. Amaury might not be able to spare his sister the manifold miseries of a winter sea voyage, but he meant to do all that was humanly possible to see to her safety.
The Holy Cross was a French-owned merchant ship, based & Harfleur. Its master was French, too, but most of the eighteen-man crew