The Reckoning - 3 (89 page)

Amaury stopped laughing. "I think," he said, "that it is time to talk about your plans. Have you had a chance to make any yet? No? Well, I have. You know that I was my mother's heir, and that she left me her share of her own mother's lands in Angouleme. They've been much neglected these eight years past, thanks to Edward. I need a man I can truly trust to look after them for me, to act as my agent, to make sure the revenues keep coming in. It would be a great responsibility, Hugh, one not lightly undertaken. In return for such valuable services, you'd hold one of the manors as my liege-man, and like any vassal, you'd then have the right to pass the manor on to your firstborn son.
That is, °f course, assuming you accept the offer?"
Hugh was stunned, and all but speechless. "My lord," he stammered, "I ... I do not know what to say! Your generosity is . . ."
As he fumbled for words, Amaury provided them: ". . . no more nan you deserve. For all you've done for my family in the past twelve years, you have earned yourself an earldom, at the very least. Regret-
-bty, an earldom is not in my power to bestow, and if it were," Amaury
°ntinued, with just the faintest glimmer of a smile, "I'd most likely
KeeP it for myself."
Hugh laughed. "Can I at least thank you?"

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"If you insist. But I'm also doing this for Caitlin. She is Ellen's niece and therefore my kinswoman, too. Despite all that Evesham and Edward have taken from us," Amaury said, suddenly quite grim, "the de Montforts still look after their own."
"My lord . . . Caitlin and I want to wed. We would be honored if you'd say the marriage Mass for us."
"It would be my pleasure. When? Before Lent ... or after?"
"As soon as possible. On the morrow?"
"You're truly willing to wait that long?" Amaury smiled then, at sight of the girl just entering the hall, clad in the only clothes she had, an over-sized white habit and black scapular. "I think," he said, "that we'd best consult
Caitlin about this. Whilst I'm perfectly willing to preside over a wedding in which the bride could be mistaken for a monk, I suspect that she might not find the prospect so pleasing!"
RAIN fogged the solar windows, and even a blazing candelabra could not dispel the gloom. Caitlin was seated closest to the candles, and as she talked, Amaury watched the light play across her face. Hugh had told him she'd been born not long before the battle of Lewes, which made her almost nineteen. It may have been the feathery short hair curling about her face, or the thin little wrists half-hidden by the hanging sleeves of her habit, or the faint scattering of freckles across her nose, but she seemed much younger to him than that . . . unless he looked into her eyes.
She'd been talking for much of the afternoon, mainly about Llewelyn. Tears had streaked her face at times, but she'd kept her voice steady, even as she told them how her uncle had died, alone amidst his English enemies, bleeding to death in a cold, December dusk as Edward's soldiers looked on, and the Welsh waited for him in vain upon the heights of Llanganten.
She told Amaury, too, about Gwenllian, assured him that Elizabeth truly loved the baby as if she were her own. Reaching then for a pouch at her belt, she drew out a wisp of soft black hair, neatly dipped by a yellow ribbon. "I cut two locks," she said, "one for me and one for you, my lord," and Amaury wrapped the gossamer curl around his finger, knowing this was as close as he'd ever get to his sister's child.
"It hurt to leave her," Caitlin confessed, "but I had no choice, could never have brought her with me. Even if it had not been so dangerous, I did not have the right to take away her birthright, to take away Wales.
Amaury nodded in agreement, although he suspected that was likely to happen anyway, for if Edward wonwhen Edward won^"1 war, he would probably send
Gwenllian into England to be raised a

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his court and, in time, married off to an English husband of his choosing.
Ellen would never have wanted that for her daughter, but there was not a blessed thing he could do about it, just hope that the fates would be kind to this de Montfort daughter of Wales, the niece he'd never get to see.
Caitlin fell silent as a servant entered, bringing mulled wine flavored with cinnamon and a platter of hot angel's-bread wafers. And as he looked at the girl, it occurred to Amaury that there had been one glaring omission in
Caitlin's account of her escape from Wales. Not once had she mentioned her father.
He knew, from Hugh, that she and Davydd were long estranged. And he knew, too, again from Hugh, that she had not confided in Davydd or Elizabeth, concocted an excuse for leaving Dolwyddelan, arranging with the Cistercian monks to send back a letter once she'd gotten safely into England. But he still thought it odd that she would not have made even a passing reference to the man who'd sired her, who now ruled Wales, confronting two formidable foes: the English
King and the larger-than-life shadow cast by his slain brother.
"So the war goes on," he said, and Caitlin nodded. For a moment, their eyes caught; then she glanced away. But in the brief look that passed between them, Amaury had seen that Caitlin knew the truth, knew that the war would never be won without Llewelyn, knew that Wales was already lost, and Davydd doomed.
39
SHREWSBURY, ENGLAND
October 1283
COWARD was sure that Llewelyn ap Gruffydd's atn guaranteed an English victory. But even he was surprised by how s i* happened. Welsh resistance seemed to collapse overnight. Davydd s not long in making the bitter discovery that he could succeed his ner, but not supplant him. Men who'd have laid down their lives

<**

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for Llewelyn were not willing to die for Davydd. Disheartened and demoralized by the loss of their Princethe loss of hopethey began to surrender.
Edward was quick to seize his advantage. Crossing the Conwy, he pushed into the very heart of Gwynedd and laid siege to Dolwyddelan. It fell to the
English on January 18th, with enough speed to suggest a secret capitulation by the garrison. The capture of Llewelyn's favorite castle sent shock waves throughout Wales, convincing the stricken Welsh that God had indeed turned His
Face away from them. And with each day that passed, Edward flexed the might of the English Crown, strengthened by the arrival of Gascon mercenaries. Their second attempt to bridge the Menai Straits was successful; under Otto de
Grandison's command, English troops secured Bangor, marched along the coast to take Caer yn Arfon, and penetrated as far as Harlech. And as his army advanced at will into Llewelyn's bleeding realm, Edward made ready to send in architects, masons, carpenters, men to build great stone fortresses for the
Crown, castles to last a thousand years.
The English called it "Davydd's war" now, and none doubted the outcome. Davydd had withdrawn to Dolbadarn Castle once Dolwyddelan was imperiled. But he was soon forced to abandon Eryri for the mountain fastness of Meirionydd. In March he and his dwindling band of supporters took shelter at Castell y Bere, where
Elizabeth gave birth, a month early, to a daughter, whom they named Gwladys.
The wild beauty of the Dysynni Valley could offer refuge, though not for long.
The English followed. After a ten-day siege, Castell y Bere fell on April 25th
Narrowly escaping capture, Davydd retreated back to Dolbadarn. But the noose was tightening, the end inevitable.
It came on June 21st. Betrayed by Welsh seeking to curry favor with the
English King, Davydd, his wife, and children were trapped, sent in chains to
Edward at Rhuddlan Castle.
Davydd's capture quenched the last flickers of rebellion. Some of his allies had already surrendered. OthersGoronwy ap Heilyn and Dai ab Einionwere dead.
The restRhys Wyndod and his brothers, Rhys Fychan, Gruffydd ap Mareduddnow yielded, and were promptly cast into English prisons.
But Davydd would not be joining them. Not for him a swift and ignominious disappearance into one of the Tower dungeons. For Davydd, Edward had other plans. Writs soon went out across England, summoning earls, barons, and knights to a parliament at Shrewsbury on the morrow after Michaelmas. Edward even summoned the citizens from each of twenty-one towns, a reform he'd resisted fiercely during Simon de Montfort's time. But no prelates, no priests, no members of

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the clergy were called, for it was not thought seemly that clerics should take part in the purpose of this parliamentthe shedding of blood.
IT was over, for the trial had taken but a day. Edward had mapped it out with his usual precision, as meticulously as he did his military campaigns, leaving nothing to chance. Under English law, a princeeven a Welsh onehad the right to be tried by his peers. And so Edward had summoned eleven earls and ninety-nine barons to Shrewsbury. The King could not act both as accuser and judge. He'd circumvented that inconvenience, though, by asking his parliament if Davydd's crimes could be considered treasonous. When they agreed, not surprisingly, that it was so, he was then free to pass judgment through his justices.
It was, Davydd thought, like watching a play in which the chief actor never set foot upon the stage, directing all the action from Acton Burnell, his
Chancellor's manor not far from Shrewsbury. This was the second time that
Edward had refused a face-to-face confrontation, for he'd done the same at
Rhuddlan Castle. And he'd gotten what he wanteda guilty verdict on a charge of high treason. They were waiting now for his justices to reconvene the court, to pass sentence. But there was no suspense. Davydd knew that the English King would again get what he wantedthe death penalty.
The trial had been held in the Chapter House of the Benedictine abbey of St
Peter and St Paul. The chamber seemed vast to Davydd after three months in small prison cells, first at Rhuddlan and then Shrewsbury Castle. He wished the windows were not patterned with colored glass, for he would have enjoyed gazing up at the sky; the pleasures he'd always taken utterly for granted were those he'd missed the most in confinement.
The chamber was half empty; a number of the men had wandered off, having grown tired of waiting. A pity, Davydd thought, that he could not do the same. But
Shrewsbury's two bailiffs were watching him like hungry hawks, ready to pounce at his slightest move. They seemed to think he might vanish verily like Merlin if given half a chance; indeed, if they'd had their way, he would be shackled now at both wrists and ankles. Much to Davydd's surprise, though, he'd gotten some unexpected support from the sheriff of Shropshire, for Roger de
Springhouse had brushed aside the bailiffs' protests, saying curtly that wrist nanacles would be enough.
The sheriff was an unlikely ally. Davydd could only guess that his ^fiant stance had won de Springhouse's grudging respect. For months now, he'd been under siege, sorely beset on all sides by English loathing.

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At Rhuddlan Castle. In the streets of Shrewsbury. Above all, in this parliament summoned to decree his doom. But some of the men taking part in his trial had been reluctantly impressed by his bravado. He'd even overheard a few of them marveling at his courage in the face of certain death. God's greatest fools were English, for certes. They thought he feared death? Christ, he was counting upon it!
Noticing that the nearest bench was now vacant, Davydd turned toward it, seeing no reason why he should not be comfortable while awaiting the justices'
return. He was at once challenged, though, by John le Vileyn, the more vigilant of the two bailiffs. "Halt right there! Just where do you think you're going?"
Davydd gave the man a shrug, a look of weary contempt. "I thought I'd pass some time at the local ale-house, mayhap drop by the whorehouse over in Grope
Lane. Does your wife still warm a bed above-stairs?"
The bailiff gaped, then sputtered an outraged oath. It never failed to amaze
Davydd how quickly they rose to the bait, each and every time. But the other bailiff had reached them, and Thomas Champeney had a cooler head. "Do not give him what he wants, John. Let him sit on the bench, no harm in that."
But as Champeney steered his infuriated colleague away from temptation, laughter suddenly rustled through the hall, and both men instinctively looked to Davydd as the source. Their suspicions were justified, for Davydd had stretched out on the bench, shading his eyes with his arms, like a man about to take a nap. That was too much for le Vileyn. Striding back toward his prisoner, he snapped, "Get up from there! This is the King's court and you'll show some respect for it!"
Davydd opened one eye. "And if I do not? What will you dohang me?"
Le Vileyn flushed, then grabbed for Davydd's chains. But Davydd's indolent pose was deceptive. He came swiftly to his feet, making sure that the bench was between them. By now, though, they'd attracted attention; the sheriff of
Shropshire was already bearing down upon them.
"Let it be, man," he said, in a tone that brooked no argument. But le Vileyn was too angry to heed common sense. When the sheriff turned away, he followed.
"That misbegotten Welshman has been goading me all day. Let me teach him a lesson, Sir Roger! Why do you keep coming to his defense.
"Because I" The sheriff caught himself just in time, shaken oy how close he'd come to blurting out the truth, that he did pity the Welshman. Holy Jesus, how could he not, though, now that he kne what the King had in mind for the man?
"Do what you're told! said, then stalked away.

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Le Vileyn waited, seething, until the sheriff was out of hearing range. "Go on," he taunted Davydd, "laugh whilst you can. For I've never yet heard of a man laughing as they dragged him up the steps of the gallows!"
"Wake me up when the justices come back," Davydd said, settling himself upon the bench again. Did they truly think they could scare him with talk of gallows and ropes? Not that any man would choose hanging of his own free will.
Scriptures called it a shameful death. Moreover, it was a painful, lingering one, for unless a man was lucky enough to be hanged on horseback, he slowly choked to death. But Davydd could think of a far worse fate than hangingbeing entombed alive in an English prison.
Thank God Edward was so set upon his death, for he was fortyfive, could have survived for years in one of the Tower dungeons. Never again to see the sun or sky. Never again to feel a woman's soft body writhing under him in bed. Never again to race a horse after a bolting stag. Never again to hear the hunting cry of a hawk, or the rising wind that foretold a coming storm, or the sound of Welsh. What man in his senses would not prefer death to that? The worst of it was the solitude, the silence. Being alone in the dark with rats and regrets and ghosts and memories no man could long abide, not without going mad.