Bran nodded. “I know. But I had to come…”
Hugh nodded, too. He understood perfectly why Bran should have taken such a mad risk, and was ready to perform miracles in order to save Simon de Montfort’s son. “Mayhap we can hide him in the stables,” he implored Damian, but the monk was already shaking his head.
“They’d find him, lad. No, he must get farther away, but I doubt he can ride—”
“I can ride,” Bran interrupted, with a grim resolve that carried such conviction that they no longer doubted. “If I can reach the border, I’ll be safe enough in Wales.”
“For certes, Wales!” Damian marveled he hadn’t thought of it, for the powerful Welsh Prince, Llewelyn ap Gruffydd, had been Simon de Montfort’s most steadfast ally, betrothed to Simon’s daughter, Ellen. Llewelyn had disavowed the plight troth after Simon’s defeat, for royal marriages were based upon pragmatic considerations of statecraft, not sentiment. But Llewelyn had maintained his friendship with the de Montforts, and Damian was sure he would willingly extend his protection to Simon’s son. How could Bran manage so perilous a journey, though, weak as he was?
That had occurred to Hugh, too. “You’ll need a guide. Let it be me!”
Bran sat up, studying the boy’s eager face. “I accept your offer right gladly, lad, but only if you understand the risks.”
Hugh’s grin was radiant enough to light the way into Wales. “I do, I swear I do!” Whirling upon Damian when the monk gave a smothered sound of protest: “Brother Damian, do not object, I beg you! A fortnight, that is all I’ll be gone!”
Damian knew that to let Hugh go was madness. But when he started to refuse, he found the words wouldn’t come. Mayhap this was meant to be. “I shall pray for you both,” he said. “May you go with God.”
Twelfth Night at the court of Llewelyn ap Gruffydd promised to be a memorable one. The Prince of Wales had spared no expense, and the trestle tables in Dolwyddelan’s great hall were heavily laden with highly spiced dishes of venison and swan and salmon; rush lights blazed from every wall sconce, and haunting harp music floated out onto the snow-blinding alpine air. The wind carried its echoes for miles, occasionally interspersed with the distant howling of Welsh wolves. Beyond the castle’s walls a blizzard raged upon the peaks of Eryri, aptly named “Haunt of Eagles” by the Welsh and “Snowdon” by the English. But Dolwyddelan’s great hall was a citadel of cheer, defying nature to do its worst, offering warmth and light and pleasure to all fortunate enough to be sheltered before its open hearths.
The Welsh held poets in high esteem, and as Llygad Gwr approached the dais, he was accorded an enthusiastic reception. He strummed his harp until the audience fell silent, waiting expectantly for his latest composition. They were not disappointed. His song was a lyric tribute to his Prince, and Llewelyn heard himself acclaimed as a “chief of men, who rageth like fire from the flashes of lightning,” heard himself lauded as another Arthur, as the Lion of Gwynedd and the Dragon of Arfon. Llygad Gwr concluded with a dramatic flourish, with a final paean to the “lawful King of Wales,” and the hall resounded with exuberant applause.
Llygad Gwr was beckoned up onto the dais. People were discussing what they’d just heard, and few paid heed when another bard took center stage, for Llygad Gwr was the star and this man not known to them. His first verse, therefore, was all but drowned out by the clatter of knives and spoons, the clinking of cups. Only gradually did the hall quiet as men began to listen, heads swiveling in astonishment, mouths ajar, for if the bard was unknown to them, his song was not, a tribute penned by Y Prydydd Bychan to Owain ap Gruffydd, Llewelyn’s brother, Llewelyn’s prisoner.
A ruler bold is Owain, resolute
Round him the ravens flock,
All praise him bold in conflict,
From ancient kings descended.
By now there were no sounds to compete with the singer, but rarely had a poet performed in such strange isolation; every eye in the hall was riveted, not upon the bard, but upon the man on the dais. If Llewelyn was as astounded as the audience, it didn’t show upon his face. Whatever his initial reaction, he had his emotions well in hand, and his face was impassive as he listened to this seditious eulogy to his elder brother, imprisoned at Dolbadarn Castle for the past fifteen years.
Men expected Llewelyn to interrupt. He did not, and the bard’s rash assurance began to falter. He rushed through the final verses, no longer meeting his Prince’s cool gaze. Only then did Llewelyn turn away. Ignoring the puppet, he sought the puppeteer, knowing that but one man would have dared such an outrageous affront. Across the width of the hall, his eyes linked with those of his brother Davydd. For a long moment, they looked at each other, and then Davydd slowly, deliberately, raised his wine cup high.
“To the Dragon of Arfon,” he said, poisoning Llewelyn’s peace with a smile as dazzling as it was dangerous.
Men followed Davydd’s mocking lead, drank to their Prince’s health. Conversation resumed. It was almost as if the incident had never happened—almost. There were few in the hall who did not understand the significance of what they’d just seen, for there were few who were not familiar with the history of Llewelyn ap Gruffydd and his brothers. Owain had been the firstborn, but in Wales that counted for naught. Unlike the English, Welsh sons shared their patrimony—even a kingdom. In theory, at least; in practice, the ancient Welsh laws fostered fratricide more often than not. Such had been the case for the sons of Gruffydd, the grandsons of Llewelyn Fawr, greatest of the Welsh princes.
Llewelyn Fawr had seen his country too often convulsed by these winner-take-all bloodlettings, had decided there must be a better way, even if that meant emulating their English enemies. He had dreamed of a united Wales, bequeathing that dream to his favorite grandson and namesake. And in time it had come to pass. Llewelyn ap Gruffydd was the first Welsh ruler to claim suzerainty over the realms of Gwynedd, Powys, and Deheubarth, to accept the homage of the other Welsh lords, to be recognized as Prince of Wales by the English Crown.
His was a great accomplishment, achieved at great cost. Owain, underestimating the power of his brother’s dream, had led an army into Llewelyn’s half of Gwynedd, and paid for his folly with his freedom. Rhodri, the youngest brother, prudently kept to the shadows. But Davydd was not one to acknowledge defeat and not one to be overlooked.
Twice Davydd had rebelled against Llewelyn’s dominance. The first time, he was sixteen, riding at Owain’s side. Unlike Owain, he had been forgiven. The second time, he had not. After an abortive alliance with the English King’s son, he had fled into England. His exile was to last four years. But under the terms of the Treaty of Montgomery in 1267, he had been permitted to return. The Lord Edward had insisted upon it, for he saw Davydd—the discontented, the aggrieved—as the Trojan Horse in the Welsh Prince’s camp. Edward, for all his shrewdness, had not yet realized that Davydd did no man’s bidding but his own.
Dancing had begun, and the hall was soon aswirl with color. Llewelyn did not join the carol; he remained on the dais, absently sipping from a brimming cup of hippocras, ignoring the curious stares of his subjects. After a time, he felt a hand touch his elbow. Einion ap Caradog had watched the byplay between the brothers with a sad sense of inevitability. Uncle to them both, their mother’s youngest brother, he had often sought to act as peacemaker, usually to no avail. He understood divided loyalties, understood the danger in loving where there can be no trust, and he knew that Llewelyn did, too. There had always been bad blood between Llewelyn and Owain. But with Davydd, it was different. Theirs was a more complex relationship, one of tangled need and rivalry and wary affection, and Llewelyn bore the scars to prove it. Einion suspected that Davydd did, too, although with Davydd, one could never be sure of anything.
Einion had often thought that Llewelyn seemed alone even in a crowd. He smiled now, but there was a distance in his eyes. Survivor of a turbulent childhood, a war-ravaged youth, he was, at forty-two, a man who’d learned to deal with pain by denying it, a man wh
o shared few secrets of the soul. Einion moved closer, and as soon as no others were within earshot, he said quietly, “I thought you and Davydd were getting along better these days.”
“I suppose we are…when compared with Cain and Abel.” Llewelyn smiled again, briefly, without humor. “After I offered to make Davydd my heir, I thought we’d finally found a path through the marshes and onto secure footing. I told him I did not want to see him shut away from the sun—like Owain. But neither did I want to spend my days wondering how long he’d be loyal this time. And so I held out the promise of a crown. Only Davydd grows impatient. He has never been one for waiting, has he?”
Einion sighed. “You’re not being fair, Llewelyn,” he said, and the younger man gave him a quick, searching look.
“You think not?” he asked, and Einion slowly shook his head.
“Davydd is not utterly to blame. You restored to him his former lands, but you have kept a heavy hand on the reins. Knowing Davydd as we do, is it so surprising that he is balking?”
Llewelyn was silent, dark eyes opaque, unrevealing. Einion dared hope he’d planted a seed, but he was not sanguine about it taking root, for he knew that whenever the needs of the Prince came into conflict with those of the brother, the Prince prevailed. Llewelyn always put Wales first. And Davydd always put Davydd first. Was it so surprising, then, that they were once again on a collision course?
“My ears are burning. Might you have been talking about me?” Davydd had appeared without warning; he had a sorcerer’s flair for dramatic entrances and exits, and he grinned now at Llewelyn’s involuntary twitch. “Your nerves are on the raw tonight, Brother. Could it be that the entertainment was not to your liking?”
“On the contrary, Davydd. It never hurts to remind men of the high price of treason.”
For a fleeting second, so quickly they might have imagined it, Davydd’s smile seemed to flicker. But then he laughed. “Not very sporting of you, Llewelyn. After I went to so much trouble to vex you, you might at least give me the satisfaction of a scowl or two!”
Llewelyn’s smile was one that Davydd alone seemed to evoke, half-amused, half-angry. But before he could respond, a voice was calling out, “My lord Prince!” The man was one of the gatehouse guards, bundled up against the cold, well-dusted with snow. “Two men seek entry to the castle, my lord.”
“For God’s pity, bid them enter. I’d not turn away a stray cur on a night like this.”
“We knew that, my lord, admitted them at once. They’re half-frozen, for certes, although one of them is soaked with sweat, too, burning with fever. We thought you should know that he claims to be a highborn lord.”
Llewelyn and Davydd exchanged interested glances. “An English lord, I’d wager,” Davydd drawled, “for only an Englishman would be crazed enough to venture out in weather like this.”
The guard grinned, savoring the revelation to come. “You’re half right, my lord Davydd, for if he speaks true, our guest is but half-English. You see the lad with him swears by all the saints that he is Simon de Montfort’s son!”
Bran did not at once remember where he was. His bed was piled high with fur coverlets, and as he started to sit up, he discovered that his ribs were newly bandaged. Obviously he was amongst friends. His eyes were adjusting to the dark now, and he found Hugh asleep on a nearby pallet. The sight of the boy brought back memories of their harrowing journey into the mountains of Eryri.
Hugh’s name was forming on his lips, but he caught himself in time. No, let the lad sleep. He reached for a flagon by the bedside table and drank gratefully. They seemed to be in a corner of the great hall, screened off for privacy. He wondered what time it was, what day it was. He was drifting back toward sleep when the screen shifted; a shadow flitted through the opening.
The intruder was a child, slender and small-boned, with a tangled mane of reddish-brown hair that hid her face. She moved over the floor rushes as silently as a cat, paused by the bed, where she stared solemnly down at Bran. He watched her through half-closed eyes, drowsily amused by the intensity of her scrutiny. He judged her age to be about seven, and he wondered what had drawn her to his bedside. When she reached out, put something on his pillow, he smiled at her, asked her name.
She froze at the sudden sound of a human voice, as a wild creature might, not so much timid as wary. Bran had spoken without thinking in Norman-French, the language of the English upper classes, and he laughed now at his own foolishness; how could he expect this Welsh wraith to understand an alien tongue? But then she said, in flawless French, “I am Caitlin. Bran is a Welsh name. Are you Welsh?”
“No, but I had a Welsh nurse when I was a lad. Bran was her pet name for me, and it stuck.” He genuinely liked children, and usually they sensed it; Caitlin moved closer, tossing her hair back to reveal a thin little face, well smudged with grime, eyes of a truly startling green. Not pretty, perhaps, but appealing in an ethereal, fey sort of way, a fairy child to be conjured up by fever, or an overwrought imagination. Bran laughed again; should he ask if she were real? “What did you bring me, Caitlin?”
“Holly. You must keep it close whilst you are ailing, for it will ward off evil spirits,” she said gravely, and he promised no less gravely that he would. The holly leaves pricked his fingers, fell into the floor rushes. Soon he slept again.
When he awakened, candles had chased away some of the shadows, and Hugh was bending over the bed. “How do you feel, my lord? Well enough to sup with Prince Llewelyn?”
Bran nodded, and with Hugh’s help, managed to dress. His lingering weakness was a source of unease; for most of his thirty years, his body had done whatever he’d demanded of it. “I owe you a debt, Hugh,” he said, but the boy shrugged off his thanks with a smile. Hugh seemed preoccupied, and after assisting Bran in pulling on his boots, he said abruptly:
“My lord, may we talk? Now that your fever has broken, I… I thought I ought to be starting back to the abbey. But what of the horse you bought for me? I need a mount for my return journey, but I could sell it in Evesham, send the money to you if that meets with your approval…” Hugh struggled to sound matter-of-fact, not wanting to reveal how reluctant he was to see their adventure end. He had fantasized a few times that Bran might permit him to keep the horse, but logic told him that was too extravagant a reward. Hugh had long ago learned to ride his expectations with a tight rein; he was less likely to be disappointed that way.
Bran sat back on the bed, gesturing for Hugh to do the same. During their days on the road, Hugh had talked freely about himself and the father who’d died on Evesham field. It had been easy enough for Bran to fill in the blanks, and as he looked now at the boy, he felt an impulse stirring. Hugh had done him a great service, and he was a likable lad; why not? “Hugh, let us speak plainly. Do you truly want to go back to the abbey? From what you have told me, there is not much for you there.”
Hugh frowned. “What choice have I?”
“You could stay with me. I’ve need of another squire, and—” Bran paused, for Hugh was staring at him in wonderment. He had never seen such joy in another’s eyes, and he said hastily, “Wait, lad, think it over ere you decide. It would mean exile, Hugh, mean leaving England—”
“My lord, I would follow you to the outer reaches of Hell!”
Bran smiled, because it was expected of him. But in truth, he was neither amused nor flattered by the boy’s hero-worship. He did not deserve it. “No, not Hell,” he said. “Italy.”
Bran had just proposed a graceful tribute to his host. As he set his wine cup down, it was immediately refilled by a solicitous servant. He was not accustomed to mead, the honeyed malt drink so favored by the Welsh, but he gamely took a deep swallow. “I had a right strange dream this afternoon. I was being tended by a most unlikely nurse, an Irish sprite who spoke French as if she were Paris born and bred, an elfin little lass—” He got no further; Llewelyn had begun to laugh.
“That can only be our Caitlin. My niece, my brother Davydd’s daughter.�
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“Yes, she did say she was called Caitlin. The lass’s mother was Irish, then?”
“No, she was English. Caitlin was born during Davydd’s years in exile. Since he was in no position to care for her, and her mother had died giving birth, he sent her back to Wales, to my court.”
Bran drank again to conceal a grin, marveling at the sheer audacity of Davydd’s act, expecting the brother he’d betrayed to rear his bastard child. “Why, then, ‘Caitlin’? The name is Irish for certes, and if she’s not…?”
“Davydd fancied the name, and my brother,” Llewelyn said wryly, “has ever been one to follow his fancies.”
“Now why is it that you make ‘following my fancies’ sound only slightly less depraved than the Seven Deadly Sins?” Davydd queried good-naturedly, materializing as if from blue smoke. Bran started visibly, but Llewelyn was unperturbed; this time he’d noticed Davydd’s circuitous approach.
“Eavesdroppers rarely hear good of themselves,” he pointed out, gesturing for his brother to join them upon the dais. “Tell us,” he said, glancing back toward Bran, “of the news from France.”
Bran did, and they discussed the August death of the French King at Tunis, and its likely impact upon the crusade. The talk then turned to England. Their political affinities were quite compatible, for they shared the same enemies. Bran and Llewelyn would both have bartered their very souls for a chance to wreak havoc upon the Earl of Gloucester, and they passed an interesting half hour dissecting Llewelyn’s recent raid upon the Earl’s Welsh castle at Caerphilly.
“Gloucester has been awaiting his chance to disavow the Treaty of Montgomery. Now that Edward’s off chasing Saracens, he and that Marcher whoreson, de Mortimer, are doing their utmost to encroach upon Welsh lands again. After all, who is going to rein them in—Henry?”
Llewelyn’s sarcasm was bitter; all knew of the English King’s deteriorating mental faculties. Bran nodded in grim agreement. He and his cousin Edward had once been friends, and, even now, memory blurred the harsher edges of their enmity. He could not truly blame Edward for his father’s death, not when he blamed himself more. But—unlike Edward—his uncle the King had been vengeful in victory, had treated his sister, Bran’s mother, with a singular lack of Christian charity, and that, Bran could not forgive.
The Reckoning Page 2