The Reckoning - 3 (44 page)

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"I'll try," she agreed, quite unconvincingly. Belatedly recognizing the need for solitude that must have driven him up to the castle battlements, she offered, "Shall I leave you now?" and tried not to feej hurt when he nodded.
But as she reached the stairwell, she came to an abrupt halt. "I hate my father," she said, her voice thickening. "I'll never forgive him, never!" The door slamming upon what might have been a sob.
f Llewelyn started after her, then stopped, for what could he say? fwhat comfort could he offer? Turning back to the battlements, he tracked a kestrel's flight, hovering high above the earth as it searched for prey. He was not as reconciled to what must be as he'd led Caitlin to believe His head might be in control, but his heart was in rebellion, and he did not know how to silence the subversive inner voice still urging defiance, or how to steel himself for what lay ahead.
The sun was in retreat. As dusk muted the colors flaming in its wake, it disappeared beyond the distant hills. Daylight was fast ebbing away, and the landscape seemed to dim, taking on the soft, blurred contours of an autumn twilight. The wind had picked up, carried to him the faint chiming of church bells; Vespers was being rung. Still, Llewelyn did not move. He remained alone on the battlements, watching as the sky darkened and night descended upon the
Lledr Valley.
IN response to Llewelyn's peace overtures, Edward dispatched his clerk, Anthony Bek, and Otto de Grandison to Aberconwy Abbey to meet with Llewelyn's
Seneschal, Tudur ab Ednyved, and Tudur's cousin, Goronwy ap Heilyn. But although the English King was willing to accept a negotiated settlement, his terms for ending the war were harsh ones.
Llewelyn was compelled to yield to Edward the four cantrefs east of the River
Conwy, and all land seized by Edward. He was to be allowed to retain control of the island of Mon, but he would hold it only as a vassal, paying one thousand marks a year for that privilege, and if he died without heirs of his body, Mon would revert to the English Crown. He must pay a staggering fine of fifty thousand pounds, a sum to cripple the Welsh economy for years, and to yield ten highborn hostages. He must free his brother Owain, and come to terms with both Owain and Rhodri. He must also free the would-be assassin, Owen de la Pole, and the would-be defector, Rhys ap Gruffydd. The lords of Upper and
Lower Powys were to be restored to power. He was to swear homage and fealty to
Edward, and to repeat his submission every year, with his own subjects required to stand surety for his continued loyalty. Lastly, he was to forfeit the homage of all but five lords of Gwynedd, all others to owe homage only to the English King.

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Edward, on his part, agreed to allow Llewelyn to hold Davydd's share of
Gwynedd for his lifetime, providing for Davydd out of his own conquests, granting him two of the four cantrefs claimed by the Crown. He agreed that when disputes developed between English and Welsh, the law to apply would be that of the land in which the conflict arose, excluding the four cantrefs.
Llewelyn was absolved of the anathema of excommunication, restored to God's favor, the Interdict lifted from Wales. And he was permitted to retain the title that was now only a courtesy, Prince of Wales, a hollow mockery that seemed to Llewelyn the cruelest kindness of all.
On November 9th, Llewelyn came to Aberconwy Abbey to accept Edward's terms, feeling like a man asked to preside over his own execution. A remembered scrap of Scriptures kept echoing in his ears like a funeral dirge: Jerusalem is ruined and Judah is fallen. Gwynedd had been gutted by a pen, just as surely as by any sword thrust. He'd lost more than the lands listed upon parchment;
he'd lost the last thirty years of his life, for Gwynedd had been reduced to the boundaries imposed upon the Welsh by the Treaty of Woodstock in 1247.
Llewelyn had been just nineteen then, new to power and to defeat. That had been his first loss to England, and his lastuntil now, until the Treaty of
Aberconwy, which destroyed a lifetime's labor in the time it took to affix his great seal to the accord. Never had he known such despair. And the worst was still to come, for on the morrow he must ride to Rhuddlan Castle, there make a formal and public surrender to the English King.
20
RHUDDLAN CASTLE, WALES
November 1277
I HE sky was ashen, spattered with scudding ^ouds. The wind was churning the waters of the straits into a whitecapped cauldron. By the time they reached the Clwyd estuary, sleet had be gun to fall.

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The fog was patchy, thicker to the north, blanketing the site Of Edward's new castle; Llewelyn could only guess how far the construction had advanced.
Downstream, Rhuddlan Castle was looming rising from the mists lying low upon the river. Llewelyn drew rein' staring up at the banner flying above the keep.
It flapped wildly in the wind, golden lions on a blood-red background, the royal arms Of England.
I After a time, Tudur nudged his stallion forward, joined Llewelyn
I at the water's edge. He was not the sort to offer counterfeit comfort, so he said nothing. They could detect movement now upon the castle's outer walls.
Sentries had finally taken notice of them, and they soon saw curious faces peering over the battlements, soldiers jostling and elbowing for space at the embrasures.
"It seems that I'm to be the afternoon's entertainment," Llewelyn said bitterly. Tudur glanced sharply into his face, then away. They sat their mounts in silence, gazing across at the castle until Otto de Grandison broke ranks behind them. A soldier of some renown, he believed in a kinship born of the battlefield, a bond that transcended the barriers built up by national boundaries, be they English, Welsh, or the borders of his own Burgundy, for boundaries were subject to change, but manhood and pride and courage were enduring, immutable. And so, while Anthony Bek fidgeted at the sudden delay, he ignored the priest's impatience, waited until he thought Llewelyn was ready. Only then did he come forward, politely query if he should now summon the ferry from the castle.
Llewelyn and Tudur looked at him as blankly as if he'd suggested that they cross the river by walking upon the water. "That will not be necessary,"
Llewelyn said, with courtesy and just a hint of amusement. Raising his arm, he signaled to his men, then spurred his stallion forward into the river.
The English were taken aback, but followed once they saw how shallow the water was at that point. As they splashed toward the far bank, Otto kicked his mount to catch up with Tudur. "How did he know the river could be forded here?"
Tudur gave him another bemused look. "Why would he not know it? This is his country."
Not anymore, Otto thought, not anymore. But he refrained from saying so, and watched admiringly as Llewelyn sent his stallion galloping toward Rhuddlan's gatehouse, scattering the English soldiers loitering by the drawbridge, outdistancing his own men, so that when he rode into the castle bailey, he appeared, for the moment, quit6 alone and unafraid.
r
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«*£
oGER DE MORTIMER was waiting for Llewelyn, leaning against the dooramb, blocking the entrance to the great hall. "You're right on time, Cousin. I
think you'll be pleased by the turnout, nigh on a hundred men eager to watch you surrender to the English King."
Llewelyn dismounted, dropped the reins to anchor his mount. "So many? That rivals the crowd likely to come out for your hanging."
To his credit, de Mortimer could take a jab as well as deliver one, and he grinned. "I see you've held on to your sense of humor. That is truly remarkable, considering the humbling ordeal ahead of you."
Llewelyn looked pensively at the other man, wondering how he could boast even a drop of Llewelyn Fawr's blood; it was almost enough to make him believe in those folk tales of babies switched at birth. "Make yourself useful, Roger.
See to my horse whilst I meet with the King," he said, and, pushing past the
Marcher lord, entered the hall.
De Mortimer had not exaggerated; the hall was thronged with spectators, many of whom had a very personal stake in his downfall. The Marchers were out in force, not surprisingly, for at one time or another, he'd crossed swords with virtually all of them. Roger Clifford and Roger Lestrange and the dangerous
John Giffard, looking as smug as creamfed cats. The Earl of Hereford, who'd

clashed with him over Brycheiniog. The Earl of Pembroke, whose disdain for the
Welsh was surpassed only by his lust for their lands. Reginald de Grey, a man capable of giving Lucifer himself lessons in vengeance. The tousled, redheaded
Earl of Gloucester, looking truculent even in triumph.
They were watching him intently, expectantly. Llewelyn could feel their hostility; the very air was charged with it, with that odd, singed stillness just before a storm broke. But he did not care that he served as a lightning rod for the Marchers. It was inevitable that they should have clashed, for their interests were irreconcilable. It was the presence of the others, the
Welsh lords, that he found hard to bear.
Llewelyn Fychan was standing several feet away. As his eyes met Lievvelyn's, he raised his head defiantly. He was one of the lords of Upper Powys, and a kinsman, too, ought to have been an ally, not an English accomplice. Where had he gone wrong? Why had he not been aWe to hold the men like this, to keep them loyal when it counted?
Gruffydd ap Gwenwynwyn had aged in the three years since LleWetyn had seen him last, not long before his flight to England. He looked S^yer, thinner than
Llewelyn remembered. But his eyes were blazing ^th hatred. Stepping forward, he said loudly, "Pel y gwyneir y ceir."
As you do unto others, so it shall be done unto you. But for claiming

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Powys, for ousting Gruffydd, Llewelyn had no regrets. Had the murder plot been
Gruffydd's idea? Or Davydd's? He paused, looked the older man up and down, very slowly and deliberately, letting his silence spegj, for itself.
Gruffydd's face contorted with rage, but after a moment, he moved aside.
Llewelyn had yet to spot Rhodri, but that did not surprise him, f0r his youngest brother was easily overlooked in a crowd. The only one of Gruffydd's four sons who'd not been blessed with his uncommon height, so unusual for a
Welshman, Rhodri lacked presence, too, had never been able to command attention merely by entering a room.
Davydd could, though. Davydd never went unnoticed; he made sure of that. So where was he? Llewelyn's eyes swept the hall, cut toward the dais, where
Edward awaited him. He ought to have been there, at Edward's side. But he was not.
Tudur and Einion had followed Llewelyn into the hall, hastening to overtake him before he reached the dais. He gave them both a glance of wordless gratitude, then murmured, "Have either of you seen Davydd?"
Tudur jerked his head toward the right. "Over there, against the far wall, looking strangely vexed for one of the victors."
Llewelyn followed his gaze. Davydd was standing in the shadows, arms folded over his chest, eyes narrowed and guarded, giving away nothing. For a moment, they looked at each other across the length of the hall, and then Llewelyn turned back to Tudur. "You're right, he does seem out of humor. You must remember, though, that he did not get all he wanted. I'm still alive, after all."
Tudur nodded grim agreement. Einion looked unhappy with Llewelyn's acerbic assessment of Davydd's aims, but he did not dispute it. Llewelyn glanced from one to the other, hoping they knew how much they were valued. "Wait for me here," he said quietly. "This I must do alone."
As he began walking toward the dais, men moved aside, clearing a path for him.
Edward was sitting in a high-backed chair, much like a throne. He was enjoying this moment of triumph, made no attempt to hide his satisfaction. But there would be no unseemly gloating, no salting of open wounds. He'd won, as he'd known he would, was prepared now to staunch his defeated foe's bleeding, for he prided himself upon those very attributes his enemies swore he lacked, the generosity, forthrightness, and gallantry of the knight errant.
"My lord Llewelyn," he said, "you may approach the dais."
Llewelyn did, pausing just before he reached the dais steps to unsheathe his sword. Holding it out to Edward, hilt first, he knelt, saying

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_y evenly, in a voice meant to be heard throughout the hall, "I submit ^Lelf unto the King's will."
, JVVELYN could not find fault with Roger de Mortimer's derisive decription of his surrendera humbling ordeal. The worst moment had occurred upon his arrival, as he drew his sword from its scabbard, handed it over to the English
King. If this treaty was, indeed, bait for a trap, that would have been the time to spring it. He would have chosen death over captivity in England, for he was haunted by his father's fate, shut up within the Tower of London, returning to Wales only for burial. Surrendering his sword was surrendering, too, his ability to make such a choice. Without its familiar weight at his hip, he felt vulnerable as never before, naked and defenseless before his enemies, a new and daunting sensation for him.
But if Edward did have treachery in mind, he was biding his time. He had accepted Llewelyn's sword, symbol of his surrender, and then handed it back once the ritual of submission was done. The following morning, after a
Martinmas High Mass in the castle chapel, attended by English and Welsh, they assembled in the great hall, where Llewelyn swore an oath of fealty to
England's King.
LLEWELYN had brought Tudur, Einion, Goronwy ap Heilyn, and Dai ab Einion, and
Edward was attended by the Earls of Warwick and Gloucester, Otto de Grandison, Anthony Bek, and the ever-present de Mortimer. Servants passed back and forth, pouring wine, serving honey-filled wafers, lighting candles. Llewelyn was slowly beginning to relax, the spectre of an English betrayal no longer hovering at his shoulder, and in an atmosphere of wary civility, agreement was reached for the surrender of Llewelyn's ten hostages to the Crown.
THEY sat across a table, these men more accustomed to meeting across a battlefield, waiting now for Edward's return. No one spoke; even the irrepressible de Mortimer was taciturn, nursing a throbbing head, a stomach queasy from a surfeit of wine.
The door banged suddenly; Edward entered, laughing. "I regret *e interruption," he said, reclaiming his seat. "But the news was worth ||, news too good to keep to myself. The courier came from my Queen, but his tidings came from the Holy Land. The Sultan of Egypt, Rukn ad-Din Baibars Bundukdari, is dead."