The Reckoning - 3 (79 page)

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ABER, WALES
October 1282
LLEWELYN struck deep into South Wales during that war-shadowed summer, where he exacted a high price from Rhys ap Maredudd, one of the few Welsh lords to support the English Crown. The skies over Ystrad Tywi were soon fire scorched and smoke blackened.
Farther south, John Giffard was having some notable successes, although Roger de Mortimer was just holding his own in skirmishing along the Upper Severn.
But in the North, Edward was now able to take the field himself, and by July, he'd reached Rhuddlan Castle. He'd called upon the Cinque Ports, and soon had forty ships and two great galleys patrolling the waters of the Menai Straits, awaiting his planned invasion of Mon. By late August, he was ready, dispatched
Luke de Tany with a large force to occupy the island and seize its harvest.
The loss of M6n had been a devastating blow to the Welsh in the last war, and when Edward learned of de Tany's landing, he exulted, "I've just plucked the finest feather in Llewelyn's tail!"
But Edward had even more ambitious plans in mind for M6n. It was his intent to build a bridge from Mon to the mainland, thus enabling tow to strike at
Llewelyn's rear at the same time that he crossed the River Conwy, advanced upon Aber. Timber, iron, and nails were dispatched from Chester; so were carpenters and blacksmiths. It was an audacious undertaking, but by no means an easy one, and de Tany's men suffered t"eir share of setbacks, the worst occurring when it was discovered 'hat the pontoon boats they'd ordered were too large to be transPorted to the island by ship; local replacements had to be hastily built.
They were handicapped as well by the erratic Welsh weather, and f>e Welsh themselves did all they could to sabotage the construction;
1 e harassed workers found themselves performing their hazardous

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tasks under guard and often under fire. But Edward's will was not to be thwarted, and slowly the bridge took shape, three lines of barges attached to one another with heavy chains, anchored against the strait's treacherous currents, covered by a wooden platform wide enough for sixty men to cross abreast. Day by day, the bridge moved closer and closer to the Welsh shoreline.
But before Edward could launch his assault upon the Welsh heartland, he had to win back the four cantrefs of the Perfeddwlad, lands defended by Davydd's castles at Hawarden, Dinbych, Ruthin, and Dinas Bran. To this end, he brought to bear the full might of the English Crown, an army that numbered no less than seven hundred fifty cavalry, a thousand archers, and eight thousand foot soldiers. It took him three months to prevail, but eventually, he did. Davydd was forced to evacuate Hawarden. In early September, Ruthin Castle fell to
Reginald de Grey. By mid-October, Dinas Bran and Davydd's stronghold at
Dinbych were in English hands, too. Davydd was so hard pressed that Llewelyn had to abandon his campaign in the South, hasten back to his brother's aid.
Together, they made ready to defend Gwynedd.
"LLEWELYN!" Davydd burst into the great hall, bore down upon his brother, and all but dragged him away from his guest, an astonished Franciscan friar.
Llewelyn was irked and made no attempt to hide it once they'd reached the privacy of a window recess. "If you'd given me half a chance to introduce you to Brother John, you'd have realized the significance of his"
"I already know too many monks and priests, and my news could not wait. You'll not guess which of our enemies has been called to God ... or more likely, the
Devil. Roger de Mortimer is dead!"
"Are you sure? Was he struck down in battle? A fall from his horse?"
"Brace yourself for a surprise. Our de Mortimer cousin, a man born to hang if ever there was one, actually died in bed! I do not yet know what ailment killed him, but he was not sick for long. Now ... is this news not important enough to justify my lapse of manners?"
Llewelyn admitted that it was. De Mortimer's death was both a blow to the
English and a blessing to the Welsh, for his lands would likely be in turmoil for some time to come. His vassals and tenants were bound to be disturbed by this sudden upheaval in their lives, for loyalties were personal, and for most men, their local lord mattered more than a distant, unknown king. There was opportunity here for fishing ^ troubled waters, and Llewelyn and Davydd exchanged gratified glance5'

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already thinking of lures and baited hooks. But first Llewelyn had news of his own to impart.
"Come on back to the hearth," he said. "I want you to meet Brother John. He is
Welsh, his name notwithstanding, a respected Franciscan theologian . . . and the Archbishop of Canterbury's personal peace emissary."
"You cannot be serious! Edward would sooner beg by the roadside ere he'd seek peace terms. He's not ready, not yet, for he's ever been one for learning lessons the hard way."
"This is Peckham's doing, not Edward's ... or so he says. He claims Edward balked like a mule at first, but it seems our lord Archbishop's zeal to be a peacemaker would not be denied, and Edward reluctantly agreed to let him try to bring his erring sheepthaf s us back to the fold."
" 'Reluctantly agreed,' " Davydd echoed derisively. "How witless do they think we are? If Peckham's an impartial mediator, I'm bidding fair to become the next Pope! How long did it take him to excommunicate us at Edward's behest. .
. and for what godless sin? 'Disturbers of the King's peace,' not one of the
Holy Commandments the last time I looked. This peace mission is Edward's
Trojan Horse, a clumsy attempt to distract us whilst they get that accursed bridge completed."
"The bridge is well nigh done already. Nor are we likely to be caught off guard, for we have them under such close watch that if someone drops a hammer into the water, we know about it by the time it hits bottom."
Davydd looked thoughtfully at his brother. "You're even quicker than me to suspect the English of double-dealing. Yet you seem to be saying that you believe Peckham's peace overture is sincere . . . why? What do you know that I
do not?"
Llewelyn's smile was fleeting, but it held a hint of approval, for whatever
Davydd's other failings, his fast thinking made him a useful alty. "You are right, there is a piece missing from this puzzle. It so happens that the
Archbishop has offered to come to Aber, to discuss Peace terms in person."
Davydd's jaw dropped. "He'd actually do that, make a journey through a land at war to break bread with men he himself had excom"lunicated? Jesus God above! I
never heard of a prelate who'd even cross "e path of one under the Church anathema! If he would truly come to Us> no one could doubt his good faithnot even me! You will agree to see him?"
Llewelyn nodded. "In truth, I do not expect anything to come of
1 °ut if the Archbishop would make such a remarkable concession,

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then I think we ought to hear him out. I owe him that much," he said suddenly sounding very tired, "for he did all he could to free Ellen's brother from
Edward's gaol."
A TRUCE was declared, and John Peckham, Archbishop of Canterbury, passed three days at Aber, earnestly seeking to convince the Welsh that the salvation of their souls depended upon submission to England's King. They had sinned grievously in shedding blood on one of God's holiest days, he told them, and the best proof of their repentance would be their readiness to make peace.
They listened, accorded him the respect due his rank, and Llewelyn said that he would be willing to yield to the English King, but only if Edward agreed to honor their ancient customs and liberties. He would not surrender without such assurances from the Crown, for his people looked to him for protection, and he could not fail them. The Archbishop could offer no such assurances, though, for Edward's terms were not open to interpretation, as simple as they were inflexible"the entire and unconditional surrender of Llewelyn ap Gruffydd and his people"terms utterly unacceptable to the Welsh. Bitterly disappointed, the
Archbishop prepared to return to Rhuddlan Castle on the morrow, knowing that when this brief truce ended, the killing would begin again.
Brother John watched as the Archbishop restlessly paced the chamber's length, then its breadth. He had expected their mission to fail, for Peckham was as tactless as he was well intentioned, and he had scant sympathy for the people he'd come to convert. Brother John knew that the Archbishop, like most of his fellow countrymen, believed the Welsh to be lazy, immoral, and untrustworthy.
It was not surprising, then, that when the Welsh argued that they should be governed by their own laws, he turned a deaf ear. How could it be otherwise when he was convinced that Welsh law was contrary to reason and Holy Writ?
And yet Brother John knew, too, that the Archbishop's dismay was genuine. He might loathe Welsh law, distrust the Welsh leadership/ ^ scorn Welsh custom, but he truly cared about the salvation of Welsh souls. He'd been quite sincere when he called the Welsh his "lost sheep/ vowed to make his body "a bridge to bring them back to the safety o the Holy Church." Now their souls would be lost to God, and even as he fumed at their intransigence, he grieved for their damnation.
The Archbishop suddenly stopped his pacing, shot Brother John a look that managed to be both accusatory and defensive. "I suppose' he said tartly, "that you think I ought to have coddled them &oje'

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sugared the truth for the sake of good manners, pretended that I'd forgotten what Scriptures say, that rebellion is as the sin of witchcraft."
Brother John hesitated, for his master was easy to respect, not so easy to serve. He had a prickly integrity of spirit that Brother John had found in few others, but he was also exceedingly thin-skinned, not a man to take kindly to criticism.
"It is not my place to judge you, my lord. I cannot help thinking, though, that candor is verily like salt. We need them both to season our conversations and our meals, but in moderation, my lord. Mayhap a whit less salt might have made your offer more palatable?"
Peckham's mouth twitched in what was almost a smile. "What an odd pair we are, John. I use words like nails, forthrightly hammering them home, whilst yours flit about like butterflies, always offering a moving target. You're referring, I assume, to my comments about Hywel Dda, the so-called giver of their laws?"
"Well, my lord, your remarks were somewhat. . . intemperate . . . might possibly have given offense"
"Their very laws give offense," the Archbishop snapped. "Mayhap I was too plain-spoken, but they were hardly blameless. Have you forgotten their response when I relayed the King's message? When I told them what he said, that if they'd had reason to complain of any Crown official, they ought to have come to him, for he was always ready to do justice to all of his subjects, they . . . they laughed!"
"I never claimed, my lord, that the Welsh were blameless," Brother John said mildly, and the Archbishop was forced to concede this was so, for he prided himself upon his sense of fairness.
"I did not mean to take out my foul temper on you, John. It is just so hard to accept failure when so much is at stake. Christian warring upon Christian ...
it is wrong, grieves our Holy Father and delights the Devil. I truly thought I
could make them see reason . . . How can they hold this wretched barren land so dear, their souls so cheaply?"
Brother John moved to the table, piled high with testaments. "These Welsh petitions we are bringing back to the King . . . have you read any °f them yet, my lord?"
"No, not yet. You think I should?"
. "I think you might find them informative, possibly even illuminatm8' my lord."
The Archbishop considered, then nodded. "I shall, then," he said kj V' and upon retiring took the unwieldy stack of parchments to . ^ith him. The complaints spoke of Welsh laws flouted, but also of
Ce denied. The complainants were both highborn and of humble

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rank. They testified to lands unjustly confiscated and to oxen seized, to wrongs great and small, to a troubling abuse of royal power. The Archbishop frowned over these testaments as his candle dimmed, splattered wax onto the parchments. He read far into the night.
The Archbishop still rose early the next morning, as was his custom He eschewed breakfast, for he was a man of austere habits, and soon after dawn, he was standing in the doorway of the great hall, bidding farewell to Llewelyn and Davydd.
"It is not yet too late," he said. "I urge you to think upon what I've said, for this is not a war you can win. The King is expecting Gascon mercenaries any day now. As for myself, it would be with the greatest reluctance that I
would lay all Wales under Interdict, but if I must"
He got no further, drowned out by the sudden clamor from the bailey. As the gates swung open, a rider came racing through, shouting for Llewelyn even as he reined in his lathered, heaving stallion, flung himself from the saddle.
Llewelyn pushed past the Archbishop, hastened out into the bailey, with Davydd but a stride behind.
"The English whoresons have broken the truce, my lord, are making ready to cross their bridge!"
The Archbishop spoke no Welsh, but the reaction of the men warned him that something was very wrong. Brother John gasped, whispered a few words in his ear. The Archbishop paled noticeably, and when Llewelyn and Davydd swung back to confront him accusingly, he said hoarsely, "I knew nothing of this! As God is my witness, I did not know!"
THE Prior of the Dominican friary at Bangor was the grandson of the great
Ednyved Fychan. But he was not loyal to his Prince; his sympathies were pledged to Llewelyn's old adversary, the Bishop of Bangor. Two of his brothers were already in the English camp; Rhys ap Gruffydd, bearing a grudge for his months in Llewelyn's gaol, had gone over to the English at the start of the war, and their younger brother Hyvvel was among those who'd landed upon Mon with Luke de Tany. But the Prior stayed behind in Bangor, where he and a few of his fellow fna15 secretly plotted with the English.
On this cold, clear Friday in early November, they sent Luke « Tany the signal he'd been awaiting, and he gave the order to se the mainland side of the bridge, which was done with grapnels, sive grappling hooks that bit deep into the ground. The bridge was ready and waiting.

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They began to cross at dawn, under a sky so blue it might have been summer, although the brisk, gusting wind let no one forget it was actually November.
Even at low tide, it was not an easy crossing. The horses had to be blindfolded and led across, and the boats pitched and tossed upon the swirling current, causing men to stumble and swear uneasily. One clumsy youth tripped and dropped his pike into the water, much to the amusement of his comrades.
But they all eventually made it over, men and horses both, a score of knights, twice that many squires, and a large number of foot soldiers, thankful that the worst was behind them, for now they were safe on dry land again, and ahead lay the chance for plunder and looting, for the rich prizes that a man could hope to gain in war, a hope that would have gone aglimmering if the Archbishop succeeded in his peace mission.
It had been decided beforehand to avoid the narrow coast road, where they'd be more likely to encounter Welsh who'd raise the alarm. Their Dominican allies had told them of an inland road, built long ago by the Romans but still in use, which would enable them to approach Bangor undetected, perhaps even to risk a raid upon Aber itself, for both targets were well within striking distance, Bangor only three or four miles to the east and Aber just six miles farther on. Flying a multitude of banners, for among the knights were scions of some of England's proudest Houses, they left the beach behind, headed inland toward the Roman road.
Some of the men were battle-scarred veterans of the last Welsh war, a few had fought in skirmishes in Gascony or the Holy Land, and others were raw youths about to get their baptism by fire. One of the latter was a young foot soldier in the service of Sir Roger Clifford, son of the lord held hostage since the capture of Hawarden Castle. The Cumbrian village of Appleby seemed very far away indeed to Thomas, a goodnatured, affable lad who bore with equanimity the inevitable teasing about his bright red hair, profusion of freckles, and rustic North Country accent. He missed Appleby dearly, missed the security of knowing what each day held, a comfort he'd not valued until he'd lost it. But he was still enormously proud to be serving a lord like Sir Roger, who claimed the lordship and Honour of Appleby through his wife, Tom's «ege lady.
Not that torn saw much of Sir Roger, a brusque, impatient man ho had no time to spare for underlings. But he had struck up a tentative toertdship with Gervaise Fitz Alan, one of Sir Roger's squires, for they'd scovered that their difference in rank seemed somehow less significant
"the occupied Welsh island; that they were both seventeen, homesick, feeing their first battle mattered more. Now torn tried to keep dose