The Reckoning - 3 (54 page)

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were admirably suited to his dark coloring. But as she smiled up at him, she saw that he was looking past her toward the Chapter House, where Edward stood framed in the doorway.
SINCE Edward was giving Ellen in marriage, he was the one who led her through the church and out onto the steps by the west door. Weddings were always performed outdoors to accommodate as many eyewitnesses as possible, and a sea of faces looked up at them; people had even gathered in the cemetery by the charnel chapel. But the crowd was well behaved, quieted at the command of the
Bishop of Worcester, so that Llewelyn could announce what lands he would be giving to Ellen to hold in dower. He then placed Ellen's ring upon the
Bishop's plate for the blessing, and the Bishop joined their hands, began the ceremony.
By then, Ellen was aware that something was wrong. Studying Llewelyn through her lashes, she had the eerie, unsettling sensation that she was holding hands with a stranger. In the bright glare of sunlight, she could detect in his face the evidence of stress; there were sharp grooves shadowing the corners of his mouth, and finely drawn lines around his eyes, the sort that crinkled when he laughed. But laughter seemed very alien to him at that moment, there on the church steps. Ellen had never given any thought to their age difference, for it was very common for a man to wed a much younger wife. This was the first time that he'd looked his age to her, looked drawn and tired and so remote that it alarmed her.
She barely heard Llewelyn's vows, and only a titter from the crowd jarred her from her troubled reverie in time to say her own vows. "I, Eleanor," she said hastily, "do take thee, Llewelyn, to be my wedded husband, to have and to hold from this day forth, for better or worse, for richer or poorer, in sickness and in health, till death us do part, if Holy Church it will ordain, and thereto I plight thee my troth."
The Bishop then handed Llewelyn the ring, and he slid it upon each of her fingers in turn, saying, "With this ring I thee wed, and this gold and silver
I thee give, and with my body I thee worship, and with all my wordly chattels
I thee endow, in the Name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit, Amen."
And then it was over, and they were throwing alms to the crowd before entering the church for the nuptial Mass, and Ellen could only look at her husband in uncomprehending dismay, for never in these past three years had he seemed so far from her as he had just then, while making that beautiful pledge of marital faith and fidelity.

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WORCESTER Castle had once been a royal stronghold, but upon the death Of King
John, the bailey and the King's houses within it were deeded to St Mary's
Priory. Here would be held the wedding feast, for although the castle keep, now held in fee by the Earl of Warwick, was in shabby condition, the monks had kept up repairs on the great hall, and it could accommodate more guests than even the Bishop's spacious lodgings. Richard de Feckenham, the Prior, found himself cast in the role of host, and he'd hastened from the church in order to bid his highborn guests welcome, thankful all the while that the banquet costs would be billed to Edward's Exchequer.
The monks had done an admirable job of transforming the ancient hall for this festive occasion; fresh rushes were spread about, the walls newly decorated with depictions of the Wheel of Fortune, the trestle tables draped in white linen, the table on the dais adorned with silver candlesticks. The musicians and minstrels were already on hand, and as Ellen and Llewelyn were ushered into the hall, they struck up a trumpet fanfare, focusing all eyes upon the bridal couple.
Ellen had tried to talk to Llewelyn as they left the priory, but then the church bells had begun their pealing, drowning out all conversation, and now it was too late. She knew what lay ahead. The feast would last until dark and then the entertainment and dancing would begin, the festivities eventually culminating in the bedding-down revelries. It would be at least eight, possible ten hours before she and Llewelyn were finally alone in their bridal bedchamber, and until then they would have no chance to talk in private. Eight or ten hours in which she must play yet another role, that of the carefree, blushing bride, smiling and laughing and dancing as if nothing were amiss. And she knew suddenly that she could not do it.
They were being congratulated now by Alexander, the Scots King, who offered graceful good wishes for their future happiness, hoping that they would find in their marriage the contentment that he had once enjoyed with Margaret, Edward's deceased sister. Under other circumstances, it was a conversation
Ellen might have enjoyed, for she had a genuine respect for Alexander, who'd been happily wed to an English Princess, maintained affable ties with his
English brother-in-law, and yet never forgot for a moment that Scotland's sovereignty was as safe with Edward as a chicken with a hawk. Now though, Ellen was hard put even to make a pretense of polite interest, to murmur the proper responses, to keep her eyes from her husband's face.
As soon as Alexander paused, she plunged into the breach, begged to be excused so that she might thank her cousin Edward for such a splendid wedding. And then she fled across the hall, not daring to look ac* at Llewelyn, to see a stranger again.

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raw. "This morning . . . Edward came to the friary, and demanded th I agree to relinquish the right of sanctuary in Gwynedd."
Ellen stared at him, rendered mute at the very moment she had th most need of words. It all made sense now, dreadful sense: his pent up rage, his lacerated pride, even his coolness toward her. She had only to envision her father or one of her brothers confronted with Edward's treachery and she understood
Llewelyn's emotions as if they were her t own. And she knew without being told that his wounds were twofold, one that was Edward's doing, one that was self-inflicted. He confirmed that now by saying tautly, "You have not asked whether or not I agreed."
"Of course you did. What choice did you have? Llewelyn, you must not blame yourself for yielding. Better that you should blame me, for you did it for me.
No wonder you look at me as if . . ." She turned away, leaned for a moment against the edge of the table.
"Ellen, I do not blame you for this."
"How could you not blame me? When I think of all the griefs I've brought upon you, all the troubles that have haunted you since the day I became your wife .
. . Oh, God, Llewelyn, I am so sorry! I never"
"Ellen, listen to me. I do not blame you. I swear that to you upon the surety of my soul, upon the souls of our unborn sons. I do not blame you."
She had to steel herself to look up, so afraid was she that he was offering a lie born of kindness. But as she met his eyes, she found in them only an anguished honesty, and her despair gave way to bewilderment. "I believe you,"
she said, "and I thank God for it. But. . . but if you truly do not blame me, why is there suddenly so much distance between us? What is it, then, Llewelyn?
Please, you must tell me . . ."
How could he, though? How could he tell her what had been in his heart as he'd watched her laughing and jesting and even flirting a little with Edward, her cousin Ned. Later, yes, but not now, not until he could trust himself not to lash out at her, not to blame her for being so susceptible to the claims of kinship.
Watching as he moved to the window, Ellen saw that her pleading was in vain, that he would not or could not reveal the rest. But how could they leave it like this? Only a man could think it was possible to store grievances away like coins, bring them out to spend at a more convenient time. Through the haze of hurt and confusion, anger was slowly beginning to stir. He was still standing by the window, and on his face was that same shuttered look that she'd seen in the hall, just after Edward had kissed her. And then she knew.
"It is Edward," she said. "It is Edward and me."

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jjis head jerked up, so fast that she knew she'd guessed right. She eJIied dazed to him; even as he watched, she lost color, and he swore nder his breath. Why could she not have let it lie?
"Yes," he said, "it is you and Edward. I told myself that he was your kinsman, that he had been kind to your mother after Evesham, that the heart cannot always be trusted." And for a moment, he thought of Davydd. "I told myself, too, that I could learn to live with it. But not today, Christ, not today! And when I saw ..."
He got no further, for Ellen had begun to laugh. It held no humor, had an odd brittle ring to it, echoes of shattering glass, and he crossed the chamber in three strides, caught her by the shoulders. "Ellen!" He repeated her name, tightening his grip, and her laughter stopped as suddenly as it began. Her eyes looked enormous to him, almost black, the pupils so dilated that they swallowed all the light, all the green.
"When my father lay dying in the rain and the mud," she said, "his enemies were not content with that, with his death. So they cut off his head, chopped off his arms and legs, and gelded him. But even that was not enough for them, so they threw his mangled body to the dogs. And Roger de Mortimer claimed his head, a keepsake for his wife, I've been told. They impaled his head upon a pike, and then . . . then they took his severed privy member, stuffed it into his bloodied mouth. They did that to my father."
She stared up at him, eyes wide and glazed, but dry; she'd shed not a tear in the telling, although he could feel the tremors shaking her body. There were no words, and he knew that, did the only thing he could, pulled her against his chest, held her close. She was rigid in his arms, but after a few moments, she shuddered convulsively, and then she clung. He continued to hold her, gently stroking her hair, and after a time, she said, in a muffled voice, "I
never told anyone that I knew. My mother and brother tried to keep it from me, and for a long time, they did. But one day I overheard some of our men talking
..."
She looked up then, into his face, still tearless, but with a chalkwhite pallor that caught at his heart. "Edward did that," she said. "He may not have wielded the knife himself, but he let it happen. He was there, he had the command, and Roger de Mortimer was his friend, his boon companion. He dared to tell me that he'd wept for Harry, after letting my father be butchered, and when the monks crept out onto the field to bury my father's body, Edward ordered him dug up, as if he were a dog, denied him Christian burial. He would lie today in unconsecrated ground if not for Amaury. Edward's generosity to a fallen foe, and who knows, mayhap that is the real reason Amaury has passed
^gh on three years in English prisons. Even if Edward could somehow

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convince me that he was not to blame for what they did to my father's body, even if I could somehow forgive him for that, how could 1 ever forgive him for
Amaury?"
"That," he confessed quietly, "was what I could not understand "
"I had to make him believe I bore him no grudge. If I could have bought Amaury's freedom with my smiles, I'd have given him every one I had. If we had not been wed I might even have offered more than smiles. But I could not bring dishonor to your name, even for Amaury's sake."
She at once worried that she'd been too honest, but he did not seem shocked.
"You are very loyal to your brother," he said, and she nodded somberly.
"Loyalty is all that was left to us after Evesham. But I will be just as loyal to you, Llewelyn. I'll never give you reason to doubt me, that
I swear to you."
He looked for a long moment into her upturned face, then kissed her, very gently. "This ought to have been a day you'd take joy in remembering. But between us, Edward and I have turned it into one you'll want only to forget."
"It does not matter," she said, and discovered, to her surprise, that she meant it. "All that matters is this . . ." Sliding her hand up his chest and over his heart. "When I touch you now, our souls touch, too. That may sound foolish, but I truly did feel as if you'd gone where I could not follow, and it frightened me. Llewelyn ... I realize you are not a man accustomed to sharing secrets of the heart. And I will try not to ask of you more than you are able to give. But do you think you can learn to be more forthcoming, to treat me not just as a wife, but also as a confidante?"
"You are right," he said, "I've never been one for confiding your 'secrets of the heart.' But then, I've never had a wife before. I cannot promise you that
I can change overnight. But I can promise you that I'll try. That is the least
I can do for you, my love."
She smiled, almost as pleased by the endearment as by the promise. But what could she do for him? She seemed to have been able to staunch the bleeding, but the wound was a deep one, would take a long time to heal. She could think now of only one offer to make, and she said softly, "We do not have to return to the hall, Llewelyn. We can bolt the door, stay right here in our bridal chamber. I do not imagine you are much in the mood for wedding revelries."
She was right, he wasn't. "That is a very tempting offer. But we'd be creating a great scandal." "I do not care about that." "No," he said, "this is your wedding day. I'll not cheat you of &
Ellen. Every bride deserves that much, her time in the sun, and this is yours, cariad. Kiss me now to seal our bargain, to remind me what I have to look forward to, and then we'll return to the hall and enjoy our wedding."
"Are you sure?" she asked, and he nodded.
"Very sure. If we do not, Edward will have won. And I think he has already won enough today."
THE wedding guests were not long in noticing their absence, and when they returned to the hall, they were subjected to merciless teasing, to a bawdy bombardment that gave them a foretaste of the bedding-down revelries still to come. But Llewelyn and Ellen did not seem unduly perturbed. Although some of the jokes caused Ellen to blush, they met all queries about their disappearance with shrugs and enigmatic smiles. Blanche, watching intently, heaved a heartfelt sigh of relief. The dinner was about to begin, and she took advantage of the accompanying confusion to pull Ellen aside.
"All is well now between you?" she asked quietly, and Ellen nodded.
"I think so. You know then, Blanche?"

"Edmund told me. He was truly taken aback, thinks that Edward's timing is lamentable. I'd say it was well nigh perfect."
"Yes," Ellen said grimly, "so would I." She felt very thankful at that moment for Blanche's friendship, started to tell her so. But a young woman was bearing down upon them. Reaching the dais, she made a deep curtsy, as Ellen looked at her in dismay, having seen her earlier with Davydd.
"Cousin Eleanor, I am Elizabeth de Ferrers, Davydd's wife. I ... I want to ask your pardon. A bride should be able to choose her own wedding guests, and I
know you would not have invited Davydd and me of your own free will."
Ellen was startled by the girl's stark honesty, was silent for a moment as she decided how to respond to it. "Elizabeth, I'll not insult you by Pretending I
do not know what you mean. Nor will I tell you that you are welcome here, for although it is true, I do not think you would want to be welcome if Davydd were not. Ah, Elizabeth, I truly do not want you to be uncomfortable. Today I
want only to enjoy my wedding. As for Davydd . . . well, he is Llewelyn's brother, so he probably has more n§nt to be here than many of the others. You need only look over there, a* the Earl of Gloucester. I want him at my wedding for certeswhen P'gs roost in trees!"
Blanche grinned, amused by how deftly Ellen had managed to steer