562 w 563 more at stake than cattle. "I'll think about it," Llewelyn said noncommittally. He'd noticed that Will kept glancing over at Davydd, had noticed, too, that it was making the boy uncomfortable. "You do know my son Davydd?" he said pointedly, but Will did not take up the challenge. "I suppose I was staring," he conceded calmly. "It's just that he looks so much like his mother. It's not often a blood kinship shows so plainly as that." Gruffydd set down his wineskin. "I always thought Davydd looked verily like John, God rot him." Will's eyes cut toward Gruffydd. "I'll drink to that, to John, King of England . . . and of Hell." Even in the subdued lantern light, Llewelyn could see the color rising in Davydd's face. It did not surprise him; if Joanna at thirty-two could not resolve her relationship with John, how could Davydd at fourteen? For his son's sake, he acted to end the conversation. "I'll give you my answer on the morrow." But Will did not move. "You must have hated John even as much as I did. Christ knows, he gave you reason enough!" Llewelyn looked over at Davydd, then nodded slowly. "Yes, I hated John." Will leaned forward. "Then . . . then how could you live in contentment with John's daughter?" Llewelyn was astonished. But as he studied Will's face, he saw that the younger man had not meant to offend. His grey eyes held Llewelyn's own; he seemed truly to want to know. Llewelyn had no intention, however, of answering a question so intensely personal. "I fail to see," he said coolly, "how my marriage is of concern to you." Will's eyes flickered; he was the first to look away. "You're right, of course. It is not my concern. If my curiosity has led me astray, I apologize." His smile was self-mocking. "If there is one thing we de Braoses pride ourselves upon, it is that we never offer an unintentional insult! Llewelyn was not taken in by Will's nonchalant disclaimer. He did not know Reginald's son well at all, but one thing he did not doubt, that the mere mention of John had touched a very raw nerve indeed. It was Davydd who told Will what he wanted to know. Davydd could not bear to have his mother associated in any way with the cruelties of the tn glish King, and he said abruptly, "My lady mother and King John were estranged for the last four years of his life." Gruffydd opened his mouth, but for once discretion prevailed, welyn had risen, and this time Will took the cue and rose, too. J were exchanging ironic courtesies when one of Llewelyn's men du under the tent flap. ) >. "My lord, one of our scouts has just ridden in, says it is urgent that he speak with you." The man was unshaven, begrimed, had obviously passed a full day jn the saddle. He knelt before Llewelyn, but wasted no further time on protocol. "My lord, I bear evil tidings. The English King and the Justiciar marched out of Hereford at dawn this morn, heading toward the Gwy Valleytoward Buellt." "How large an army?" "Too large, my lord. Mayhap twice the size of ours." Llewelyn turned aside. He heard Gruffydd cursing softly, damning the English to a particularly vile quarter of Hell; rarely had his son's sentiments so perfectly mirrored his own. It was at that moment that VVill de Braose did something as provocative as it was impolitic. He laughed. He at once regretted it, found himself the focus of icily measuring eyes. His hand dropped instinctively to his sword hilt, but he put greater faith in his
privileged status, a guest at Llewelyn's hearth. "Need I remind you that you swore to my safety?" "No, you need not. Just be thankful a Welshman's word is not as worthless as you Normans claim." Llewelyn turned to the closest man, said curtly, "Escort de Braose back to the castle." Will did not press his luck, held his tongue. But no one objected. Not even Gruffydd had seriously considered harming him, for it was understood that there were promises that could be broken and promises that must be kept; John might not have been so hated had he not blithely broken both kinds. Once Will had gone, they could give vent to their disappointment, their rage that their prize was to be so rudely snatched from their grasp. But they could not long afford to indulge their anger, not with an English army less than a day's march from Buellt. "Give the order to break cairip," Llewelyn said grimly. "We are done here. De Braose has won this time." ApTER raising the siege of Buellt, Henry and Hubert de Burgh continued "orth, feeding their troops with Welsh cattle, burning and pillaging. By Ptember 30, they had reached the border castle of Montgomery. Soon ereafter, they made use of their ultimate weaponthe Church of me- Llewelyn was excommunicated again, and warned that if he did capitulate, his subjects would be absolved of all oaths of allegiance. wh Llewelyn was not a man to repeat his mistakes; he'd learned n to fish and when to cut bait. He sent word to Henry that he and )
564 II the other Welsh Princes would come to Montgomery on the eighth of October, submit themselves to the English crown. OCTOBER 8 was a Sunday, God's day. An autumn sun shone upon the surrounding hills with a mellow warmth, burning away the mists that had shrouded the valleys for days and revealing blazing oaks, maples dappled in russet and saffron. But the day's beauty only deepened Davydd's forebodings. His unease intensified with each mile that brought them closer to Montgomery. He could think of nothing but the tales he'd heard of his father's surrender at Aberconwy. How could he watch as Papa humbled himself to Henry? What would the English demand of Papa? Would men blame him, too, remembering he was Henry's kin, half Norman? When the sun-silvered waters of the Severn came into view, Davydd could endure no more. Urging his mount forward, he reined in beside Llewelyn. "Papa, do you have to do this? Is there no other way? Why can we not withdraw up into Gwynedd?" Llewelyn signaled for his companions to drop back. "Whilst it is true that my own domains are not endangered, that cannot be said of my allies. If we do not come to terms with the English, Maelgwn and Rhys Gryg and Owain risk losing all. And although Gwynedd is not yet threatened, my influence in Powys and Deheubarth is. By making peace now, we can still salvage something from this debacle. Henry has agreed to restore to the other Princes the lands they'd lost to Pembroke, and to" "But what of you? You'll have to yield up those Shropshire castles, and Carmarthen and Cardigan, too! It's not fair, Papa, you know it's not!" "I cannot pretend that I like losing those castles, Davydd. But I do not see that I have a choice . . . just the dubious consolation that we Welsh take as a tenet of faith, the understanding that no matter how grievous our troubles are, they can always get worse." "Jesii, Papa, how can you jest? You've told me how John sought to shame you, to" "Is that what you fear, another Aberconwy? Ah, no, lad. This is no life-or-death struggle; we're talking about a couple of castles, a loss face, no more than that. Most importantly, Henry is not John." Davydd was still dubious, but upon their arrival at Montgomery discovered that his father was right, an astute judge of men. *v ^ Henry would later reveal his fair share of human failings, vindictive ^ was never among them. He was genuinely glad to accept Llewe ^^ submission, had no intention of turning the occasion into an ugly °
565 lesson for the Welsh. Llewelyn was his sister's husband and therefore entitled to err. Henry pardoned the Welsh with artless generosity, with an ingenuous simplicity that was both his strength and his weakness, that he would never entirely outgrow. Nor did Llewelyn's foes gloat openly over their victory, Pembroke because his antagonism toward Llewelyn was impersonal and thus without rancor, and Hubert de Burgh because he was dangerously dependent upon Henry's goodwill. The Archbishop of Canterbury had already restored Llewelyn to God's grace, lifted the Interdict from Wales. All that remained to be done was to acknowledge the supremacy of the English crown, and this Llewelyn did, kneeling and pledging oaths of homage and fealty to the sixteen-year-old King. It was nowhere near as painful as Davydd had expected, and he watched with great relief, grateful that Henry had not his father's vengeful nature, that Llewelyn's English alliesChester, John the Scot, Jack de Braosewere there to lend moral support. As Maelgwn and Rhys Gryg came forward to swear fealty to Henry, Llewelyn crossed the hall, moved toward his son. "You see?" he said. "No lasting scars." Davydd nodded. "I'm learning, Papa," he said, and Llewelyn grinned, "I'm counting upon that, Davydd." But as he glanced about the great hall, his smile faded. "Where's Gruffydd?" "He walked out, Papa." Llewelyn said nothing, for what was there to say? How long, he wondered, would he keep expecting more than Gruffydd could deliver?
How long ere it stopped hurting? HENRY and Hubert de Burgh were planning to erect another castle at Montgomery, and construction had already begun at the new site, a mile to the south of the existing motte and bailey. As he wandered aimlessly about the bailey, Gruffydd heard the boisterous sounds of eh
566 Eryri, fought the English on their own land, their own terms. Papa need not have yielded, need not have come to Montgomery. To Gruffydd this was a dishonorable and indefensible surrender, one he could neither understand nor forgive. He knew he could not remain indefinitely out here in the bailey and braced himself to go back into the hall. But his good intentions were forgotten as he approached the steps, saw his brother standing in the sun. Gruffydd stopped abruptly, staring up at Davydd. "Why are you not inside with your English kindred? You cannot tell me that you needed to get away as I did. Not you, Henry's nephew, John's grandson. Why should you care if Welsh pride is trampled into the dust?" "I care." To Gruffydd's exasperation, that was all he got. No matter how he prodded Davydd, he could never break through the boy's defenses. When Davydd felt threatened, he simply withdrew into himself, and that only strengthened Gruffydd's contempt, his conviction that Davydd was utterly unfit to rule in Llewelyn's stead. He moved closer and Davydd backed up a step. But the knowledge that Davydd feared him did not give him any satisfaction. Christ pity Gwynedd, he thought, and suddenly he could keep silent no longer, the truth was bursting forth of its own accord, in a scalding surge of bitterness. "Prince Davydd. The heir apparent. The favorite. The usurper! Tell me, are you enough of a fool to believe that will ever come to pass?" He saw Davydd's jaw muscles tighten. But the boy's voice was colorless, devoid of emotion. "Papa will not change his mind." "I know," Gruffydd admitted, and that was the hurt beyond healing. "But Papa will not live forever," he said roughly. "And then we shall see. I could not fight Papa. But I shall take great pleasure in fighting you, in claiming what is rightfully mine!" Davydd swung around, started back into the hall. He was cautious by nature, as deliberate of action as he was quick of thought. He" learned to turn silence into a shield, understood Gruffydd far better than Gruffydd understood him. Gruffydd's were volatile and imp38' sioned rages, outbursts of heat and elemental energy, summer lightning in a cloudless sky. Davydd's rages were rare, seldom seen, and loflS smoldering; as slow as he was to anger, he was even slower to forgive Now, as he reached the door, he stopped, turned to face Gruffydd. "You are right," he said. "Papa will not live forever. But neither ^ I be fourteen forever. And then, just as you said, we shall see."
7 SHREWSBURY, ENGLAND August 1226 I AN January Henry fell gravely ill, and it was feared he might die. He did recover, but his Uncle Will of Salisbury was not as fortunate. Sailing from Gascony back to England, Will was shipwrecked, for a time was presumed lost. Although he survived several harrowing weeks at sea, his health declined. He died on March 7, much mourned, and was buried with great honors in the partially constructed cathedral church at Salisbury. HENRY watched complacently as Joanna scanned the letter he'd just handed her. "You see? Nell is quite content now with Pembroke. Did I not tell you that wedding was for the best?" "And it seems you were right," Joanna conceded. This buoyant, sprightly missive was a far cry from the tear-splotched, forlorn letter she'd gotten from Nell two years ago, pleading with Joanna to intercede for her, to persuade Henry not to make her marry the Earl of Pembroke. But Pembroke had been very kind to his child bride, indulging her every whim, and the little girl seemed to have found in her husband the father she could not remember. "I've something else for you, too, an early birthday present. I'm giving you the manor of Condover in Shropshire." Joanna was delighted. Until Henry had given her an English manor the preceding year, she'd not realized what a secure feeling there was in ^'ig a property owner, in having land of her own. "You spoil me as mucn as Pembroke spoils our Nell," she said, and Henry laughed. "I fry. I just like to make people happy, to surprise them. And this u§ht to do both." Henry was holding out a parchment scroll. But as
568 Joanna reached for it, he snatched it back. "How could I forget? You do not read Latin, do you? Ah, well, mayhap I could be coaxed into reading it to you." "Please do," Joanna said, utterly intrigued by now. Llewelyn and Davydd were no less curious. Only Elen did not join the circle, but stayed where she was in the window seat. Henry was thoroughly enjoying the suspense, took his time in unrolling the scroll. "You'll observe the papal seal, no doubt. I had it in my hands two months ago, but I wanted to wait, wanted to see your face, Joanna. Are you ready? 'Dispensation to Joanna, wife of Llewelyn, Prince of North Wales, daughter of King John, declaring her legitimate, but without prejudice to the King and realm of England.'" Their response was entirely satisfactory; they were staring at him in obvious astonishment. "Henry, I... I do not understand," Joanna said at last. "How can this be?" "Does it matter? Is it not enough that I asked and His Holiness the Pope obliged?" "But there had to be more to it than that, Henry!" "Ah, Joanna, it is not such a mystery. Papa's marriage to the Lady Avisa was dissolved, declared to have been void from its inception. That meant he was free to enter into another marriage or plight troth up to the time he wed my mother. Suppose he had pledged his troth with your mother. If that were so, you'd have a claim to legitimacy, would be entitled to recognition." "But, Henry, he did not plight troth with my mother!" "Since she's dead and Papa's dead, who is to say?" Henry grinned, held out his arms. "Are you pleased, Joanna? Did I surprise you?" "That you did, for certes!" Joanna moved into his embrace, while Llewelyn studied the papal dispensation. "'Without prejudice to the King and realm of England,'" he quoted. "I take it that means Joanna's legitimacy is qualified, bars her from any claim to the English crown?" "I knew you'd catch that straight off!" Henry laughed. "It seemed for the best. No offense, Llewelyn, but you've shown yourself to be too adroit at taking a weak claim and making of it an irresistible one!" They all laughed at that, and Joanna kissed Henry again. Henry was so delighted at the success of his stratagem that it was some time before Joanna was able to disengage herself, to join Elen in the window seat. "Darling, are you all right? Why are you sitting over here by y°ur self?" . fell "I'm fine, Mama, truly." Elen summoned up a smile. "So . me. How does it feel to be legitimate after all these years?"
569 "I'm not sure My father would likely have found this hilarious, but I doubt that my mother would have seen the joke. How could she7" "Speaking of jokes, what did Papa say to make you laugh so7" Joanna grinned "Oh, that He asked me if conditional legitimacy was like being somewhat pregnant HeElen, what is it7" For Elen had not been able to turn away in time, Joanna had seen the sudden tears well m her daughter's eyes "Elen " Rising, Joanna caught Elen's hand, drew her reluctant daughter to her feet "Let's go out into the gardens, where we can talk " "I have nothing to say, Mama " "Well, I do,"Joanna said, propelling Elen toward the door The garden at Shrewsbury was enclosed by whitethorn hedges, within the flowery mead were several wooden benches and a small fountain Joanna and Elen halted before the fountain, while Joanna searched for the right words "Elen sometimes men act kindly toward their wives in public, seem to be loving husbands But these same men then treat their wives very differently in private Most women have no choice but to suffer in silence But that is not true for you, darling I know you are unhappy If that is why, if John is abusive or cruel to you, for God's sake, tell me We can help, Elen But we can do nothing as long as yqu keep silent " Elen had plucked a briar rose, was dropping the petals, one by one, into the fountain "Oh, Mama, do you not know me better than that7 Do you truly think I'd stay with a man who beat me?" "Well, then, what is it7 Is he openly unfaithful7 Has he brought a mistress into the castle keep7" "Are those your standards for sympathy, Mama7 If he beats me or flaunts his sluts, I'm deserving of pity If not, I bear my lot as best I can " "Elen, I did not say that1" Elen picked up a daisy this time, it soon joined the shredded rose in the fountain "No," she admitted after a long pause, "you did not, did }ou7 To answer your question, I cannot say with certainty that John is faithful, but he is discreet You and Papa were ri
ght about him He is "ideed a good manpious, courageous, steadfast, and honest " She urned away from the fountain, began to pace "What woman could ask °rmore in a man7 What woman would have the right to ask for more7" Joanna followed her across the grassy mead "Yet you are not content" E'en shook her head "No I feel feel trapped I expect that c Unc's right foolish, but it's true all the same Do you remember that °ed magpie I had as a child, how fond I was of it7 I will not permit " maids to keep pet birds on any of our manors, cannot abide them
570 Joanna caught her breath. "Ah, child, why did you not confide jn me ere this?" Elen shrugged. "I did once, Mama. I told you I did not want to marry John, and what did that avail me?" As always when she was distraught, she could not keep still, but moved restlessly back and forth heedlessly trampling flowers underfoot. "John and I never quarrel' Would you believe me if I told you that in nigh on four years I've never seen him well and truly wroth? He believes in control, you see. He does not argue, he analyzes. He even explains my own emotions to rne, pa. riently shows me not only how I erred, but why. So you need not fear, Mama. He hardly sounds like an abusive husband, does he?" "No," Joanna said slowly. "Just an unloved one," and Elen turned her head away, surreptitiously brushed the back of her hand against her cheek. "At first I was glad when I did not get with child; that may be sinful, but I was. After a time, though, I could not help wondering why I did not become pregnant. And . . . and then I began to want a baby, my baby. For the first time in my life, I took an interest when other women talked of birthing and children and the marriage bed, of the ways a barren wife might conceive. So I put mistletoe over our bed. I drink feverfew and anise, in wine. I pray to St Margaret. And each month I count the days, dread that first spotting of blood ..." "Darling, you must not give up hope. Isabelle was barren for six full years ere she finally conceived. But she then was able to give my father five healthy children, and four so far to Hugh de Lusignan. Nor is she the only" "Mama, I know you mean well. But that is no comfort. Better I should face the truth, that my marriage is barren." Elen laughed suddenly, mirthlessly. "Barren in every sense of the word!" Choking back a sob, she spun about, fled the garden. Joanna reached out, caught the edge of the fountain for support. This was her fault, all her fault. When she'd wept upon being told she must wed a Welsh Prince, Isabelle had sought to comfort her, assuring her she'd learn in time to be content with Llewelyn. Isabelle had been right; most women did adjust, did find a measure of contentment in a but the most wretched marriages. But not Elen. And she should have realized that, should have known the marriage was doomed. When n Elen ever learned to compromise? Did it even matter that she brougf much of her unhappiness upon herself? How could she blame Elen the nature God had given her? It was like blaming her for having bt°" eyes. But if anyone should have foreseen this, it was she. For who ^ better than she how stubborn Elen could be, how passionate and, her bravado, how easily hurt?
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