The Reckoning - 3 (83 page)

glanced around, spotted a log not far away, moss-grown, half-buried irt sand.
"Have a seat, my lord Prince," he invited, deftly spreading the folds of his mantle to make himself as comfortable as possible. Llewelyn did, but he could not sit still for long, was soon up on his feet again, back at the water's edge.
"I thought I was doing the right thing, burying Ellen at Llanfaes. I thought she would have wanted that, being with Joanna. So I picked the friary over the abbey at Aberconwy, and now I cannot even visit her grave."
Davydd pushed himself off the log, slowly crossed the sand until he stood by
Llewelyn's side. "It is not getting any better, is it?" he asked, sounding as hesitant as he felt, for this was new and troubling territory, and he was not sure he wanted to venture too far into it.
Llewelyn shook his head. Keeping his eyes upon the black silhouette that was
Mon, he said, "I kept telling myself that if I could just get through October, if-I could do that, the worst would be over. October was so full of ambushesher birthday, our wedding anniversary. It is behind me now, and I
suppose I should be thankful. But I'd forgotten about December; I'd forgotten about Christmas."
Davydd bit his lip, not knowing what to say. He'd never lost anyone he'd loved, had never been bereaved. He did not even remember his father, had never forgiven his mother for offering him up so readily as a hostage, and while he'd been saddened by Owain's death, it had been neither unexpected nor tragic; for Owain, it had been a release. His silence seemed to be blanketing the beach, so thick they were like to smother in it; for certes, Llewelyn must be wondering why he did not at least make an attempt at consolation. He frowned, started to speak, stopped, and then saw that Llewelyn was not even aware of him at that moment, was alone with a dead woman and a wound that would not heal.
"Llewelyn ..." He reached out, his hand almost brushing Llewelyn's sleeve.
"Are you not ready to go back? You do have to get up ere the sun does . . .
remember?"
"Soon," Llewelyn said. "You go on, ere Elizabeth starts to worry.
Davydd nodded, backed away a few feet, then turned toward Aber. He'd not gone far, though, before he stopped again, swung around to face his brother. "The battle at the bridge last week," he said abruptly"That was the first time we fought together. Being on the same side found I liked it."
Llewelyn looked at him across the shadowed expanse of sand, was too dark for
Davydd to see his face. "Enough to make it a habit-
"In a world where you get offered an English earldom, I" ^ anything is possible," Davydd said wryly, but he was smiling in

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darkness. Starting to whistle again, he moved back into the shadows, heading home.
It was then that he caught it from the corner of his eye, a sudden streak of light. Stopping in his tracks, he swiftly scanned the heavens. All agreed that a comet was a harbinger of doom, blazing across the sky to foretell the coming death of a great lord or king. But people were more ambivalent about shooting stars, some convinced they were ill omens, too, others sure that they heralded good fortune for those lucky enough to spot them. Davydd was firmly in the latter camp, and he tracked the star's plunging fall with delight, then spun around, eager to share this with Llewelyn. But as he did, he saw that his brother had missed the shooting star. Llewelyn had turned back toward the strait, toward Llanfaes.
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CWM-HIR ABBEY, WALES
December 1282
iVlY lord!" Trevor leaned over the bed. "Wake up, my lord!" Llewelyn's eyes opened at that, but they were still sleepclouded, not yet focused. "You were having a bad dream. I heard you cry out.. ."
Llewelyn remembered now. He sat up slowly, feeling as if he'd not been to bed at all. His exhaustion was obvious; his eyes were bloodshot and smudged with shadows, his dark hair shot through with glints of silver, and in the cold, greying light of this December dawn, he looked |&e a man long past his youth, a man with too many cares, too few l°ys. Trevor started to speak, emboldened by anxiety, but the words caught in his throat.
He yearned to tell Llewelyn that he understood. During the day, Emories could be held at bay, but at night, dreams became the Devil's Wn accomplices. He knew his lord's haunted dreams as if they were his
°wndreams of the Lady Ellen's death. Just as he knew that the

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other dreams were even worse, the ones in which she still lived, the ones that gave Llewelyn back all he'd lost, so that when he awakened, there was always a moment when he forgot, when he thought his world was still whole.
Llewelyn had yet to move, and Trevor hesitated no longer. "I know about death dreams," he blurted out, plunging ahead before he could lose his nerve. "You see, my lord, I had a brother. There were just eleven months between us, and people oft-times mistook us for twins, so alike were we. One day, not long past Tegan's thirteenth birthday, we were playing the fool as lads will, and I
chased him into the stables, where he stepped upon a rake. It seemed a minor mishap, no more than that. But it festered, and soon he could no longer swallow. When he went into spasms, the doctors could do nothing for him. It
... it was a hard death, my lord."
Llewelyn felt pity stir; how little he'd known about this steadfast, earnest youngster. "Ere we depart Cwm-hir," he said, "I think you and I ought to seek out Abbot Cadwgan, ask him to say a Mass for my lady and your brother."
Trevor's face lit up. "That would be a deed well done," he said, and smiled.
"What I wanted to tell you, my lord, is that it does get better in time. Now, when Tegan comes to me in dreams, it is a comfort." Suddenly shy then, fearing he'd over-stepped, he turned away, made haste to bring Llewelyn his clothes, that their day might begin.
Llewelyn was soon standing by the unshuttered window, heedless of the cold air invading the chamber. Winter had come early to midWales; the abbey grounds were carpeted in deep drifts of glistening white, and the River Clywedog was glazed with patches of brittle, sunblinding ice. Cwm-hir meant "long valley"
in Welsh, and the abbey was ringed by nature's own battlements, densely wooded hills, dusted now with December snow. Llewelyn had often marveled at his homeland's wild beauty, but few vistas had pleased him as much as this peaceful glen, a jewel hidden away from the world within the mountains of
Maelienydd.
Turning reluctantly from the window, he took the razor from Trevor, waited for the boy to fetch a mirror. It was small and round and made of polished brass;
as he held it up, Trevor wondered what had become of the magical, silvered mirror his lord had given the Lady Ellen. Llewelyn always insisted upon shaving himself, joking that his was the only hand he trusted to wield a blade against his throat, but Trevor knew he'd sometimes let his wife shave him. It seemed unfair indee that even the most commonplace of tasks could salt a wound anew, an he spoke up quickly now, before his Prince's memories could get PaS

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his defenses. She was a loving ghost, the Lady Ellen, too loving; it was time she let his lord go.
"Lord Goronwy told me that there is much bad blood amongst the Marchers. He says that when you put so many tomcats in the same sack, they're bound to come out spitting and clawing. Is he right, my lord? Is it possible that they might start squabbling amongst themselves?"
Llewelyn shrugged, then winced, for he'd nicked his chin. "Possible, lad, but not likely. Oh, they're all ones for tending a grudge the way a shepherd looks to his lambs. Gruffydd ap Gwenwynwyn has been feuding with the Corbets and de
Mortimers for years. The Corbets also loathe the Lestranges, and none of them can abide John Giffard. But however much they detest one another, Trevor, they fear Edward more. The days are gone when the Marchers could play the Welsh off against the King, at least as long as the King happens to be one of the best battle commanders in Christendom." He smiled then, wryly. "I'd wager, lad, that there are times when they miss poor hapless King Henry even more than we do!"
Trevor removed the shaving basin, slopping soapy water into the floor rushes.
"We've had great success in Powys, men flocking to your banners. Where do we go next?"
"Fetch me the map and I'll show you," Llewelyn offered, and together they unrolled the parchment, held it toward the light. "It is my intent to venture as far south as Brycheiniog, Trevor. On the morrow, we'll move on into
Gwerthrynion, and then into Buellt. These lands were once mine; men will remember." He gestured with the razor, and water splattered the map, dripping down the winding trail of the River Gwy, onto the Crown castle that rose up on its south bank.
ON Friday morning, the llth of December, Llewelyn and the Welsh were on the hills northwest of that royal riverside fortress. An English town had sprung up around the castle, called by the Welsh Llanfair-ymMuallt, the Church of St.
Mary in Buellt. A brisk wind was blowing; it dispersed the drifting smoke of hearth fires, unfurled the banner flying from the castle keep, revealing the arms of its new castellan, John ^Ward. It was just past dawn, and there was little stirring below, either ^ the streets or upon the castle battlements;
they did not yet know the Welsh were on the heights above them.
At first light, Llewelyn began to divide his army, for they had agreed at his Seneschal would continue on to accept the homage of the men
0 Brycheiniog on his behalf, while he met with the local Welsh, sought

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to win them away from their enforced allegiance to the Crown. As soon as Dai departed, Llewelyn deployed his remaining men along the high ground between the River Gwy and its tributary, the Irfon. A narrow bridge spanned the latter river, and he wasted no time in dispatching an armed force to seize and hold it. Once that was done, the military advantages lay with the Welsh. Safe behind the barriers of the Gwy and Irfon, Llewelyn had the upper hand, for as long as he controlled the bridge, he could determine when or if battle would be joined.
John Giffard was not the only Marcher lord they faced across the width of the
Irfon. Roger de Mortimer's sons were known to be at Buellt Castle with
Giffard, as were two sons of Gruffydd ap Gwenwynwyn. They were not long in discovering the presence of the Welsh, and soon sallied forth to assault the bridge. Although they were soundly repulsed, they were not convinced and launched a second attack, only to be beaten back again. After that, they withdrew into the castle while they considered their next move.
Just before noon, Llewelyn received reinforcements from the western reaches of
Buellt. Rhosier ap Gruffydd had been Llewelyn's steward in the years when the cantref had been under his rule; he was also a friend, one Llewelyn was well pleased to see. Llewelyn was already in good spirits, for the day had so far gone exactly as they'd planned. Moreover, he'd had a heartening encounter with a White Monk from Ysrrad Fflur Abbey.
"He was on his way," Llewelyn explained, "to their grange at Aberduhonw. He offered to say Mass for me in Llanganten Church, and when I felt honor-bound to remind him that I was excommunicate, he laughed scornfully. 'That/ he said, 'was the English King's doing, not the Almighty's!' "
Rhosier grinned. "Why does that surprise you? The English can claim from now till Judgment Day that God is on their side; indeed, they seek to make him a veritable partner in their crimes! But what Welshman would ever believe it?"
They were gathered in Llewelyn's command tent; Rhosier moved closer to the fire, stripped off his gloves, and warmed his hands. "Well?" he queried. "What happens next? Do we fight this day ... or not?"
"Not," Llewelyn said. "I've agreed to meet with some of the local Welsh, men whose hearts are with us, but who are too wary of their English overlords to come openly into my camp, lest they be left to face Giffard's wrath once I'm no longer here to protect them. I'm putting Goronwy and my cousin, Llewelyn
Fychan, in command whilst In* gone, but I'd as soon have you at my side, Rhosier. You know these men, and I trust your judgment."
At that, Goronwy started to speak, stopped himself just in tin16-

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J-Ie'd already made his objections known to Llewelyn, to no avail. It was not that he disagreed with Llewelyn's aims. He, too, thought it worthwhile to meet with the local Welsh, and was willing to overlook their timidity, for Buellt was occupied territory, and King's men like Giffard would be quick to suspect, quicker to strike. But he did not want his prince to be the one to seek them out.
This was an old grievance between them, for he'd long worried that Llewelyn was far too casual when it came to his own safety, too quick to take risks better left to others. In that, he was much like Davydd; Goronwy thought the brothers had more in common than they realized, or were willing to admit. But like Davydd, too, Llewelyn shrugged off unwelcome advice, deflecting with sarcasm what he did not want to hear. Goronwy's remonstrances had fallen on deaf ears.
And so now he kept silent as Llewelyn picked a mere handful of men to accompany him, knowing Llewelyn would only have pointed outwith some justificationthat a clandestine meeting would become conspicuous right quickly if he brought an army along. But as Llewelyn swung up into the saddle, he could not help himself. "You'll not be gone long? Dusk comes early in
December, and you're not familiar with these roads, my lord."
Llewelyn shot him a look that was both amused and irked. "What are you asking, Goronwy? That I do not play after dark?"
The other men were grinning widely. Goronwy managed a sheepish smile of his own, and as Llewelyn and Rhosier rode out of their encampment, they were followed by the cheering echoes of laughter.
THERE was little laughter, however, in the English castle at Buellt. Roger
Lestrange, commander of the King's forces in mid-Wales, was stalking about the great hall as if it were a cage. He had little space for pacing, though, for it was overflowing with men, women, and wide-eyed children; the townspeople had sought refuge in the castle upon learning that there was a Welsh army positioned above them at Llanganten. The younger children had quickly grown bored, and they were playing a noisy game of tag; the castle dogs had eagerly joined in, and the hall Was soon a scene of sheer bedlam, much to Lestrange's annoyance.
He was not usually so thin-skinned, but he bore a heavy burden 'fose days, as
Roger de Mortimer's successor, and he well knew that *U Were watching him closely, wondering if he'd be up to the task at and; de Mortimer, whatever his vices, had cast a long shadow. The Sudden appearance of the Welsh Prince in their midst was the sort of
PPortunity that might not come again, and God save him if he botched "' as he seemed likely to do.

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