Jerking the blade free, Edward prepared to strike again. But there was no need. The man sank to his knees, his face contorted. Edward reeled back against the table, gasping for breath. During their life-or-death struggle, it had not even occurred to him to call out for help. Now he looked in horror at the blood staining his tunic, the couch cushions, the tiled floor, his blood.
Beginning to shout, he jerked the tablecloth loose, sending objects flying about the chamber. A glass flagon shattered in a spray of red wine; cups went rolling across the tiles. Candles flared, guttered out as the door burst open. Men were gasping, cursing, questioning, and a woman was screaming. It was not until she flung herself into his arms that Edward realized it was his wife.
Suddenly there were so many people in the chamber that they were bumping into one another, slipping in blood as they elbowed and jostled to get closer, staring open-mouthed at the dying assassin. Edward had been attempting to wrap the tablecloth around his wound, but his left arm hung, useless, at his side, and Eleanora was clinging like a limpet, sobbing in Spanish.
“What are you fools waiting for?” he raged. “Till I bleed to death?”
That galvanized them to action, too much so. Fully a dozen hands reached for the bloodied tablecloth. Edward was getting light-headed, and it was with real relief that he recognized the voice now shouting down the others. A good man, Erard, one to keep his wits in a crisis. Within moments, Erard had justified his confidence, steering him toward the couch, sending for a doctor, turning the tablecloth into a makeshift bandage, and emptying the chamber of superfluous spectators.
“I’ve sent for the Master of the Templars. I know you have no liking for them, my lord, but the Templars’ hospital is the best in Acre.”
Edward nodded grudging agreement, patted his wife soothingly if absent-mindedly, all the while watching the man sprawled upon the floor. “This was no act of impulse. He waited until the guards knew him as the Emir’s man, no longer bothered to search him.”
Erard moved away from the couch, stood staring down at the assassin. “Hashishiyun,” he said, and Eleanora shuddered, for the Hashishiyun, also known as the Assassins, were a Shiite sect infamous for political killings.
Edward looked thoughtful. “Yes,” he said, “that makes the most sense. And I know whose gold bought that dagger. I’d wager the surety of my soul that this is Baibars’s doing.”
At the mention of the Sultan’s name, the assassin stirred suddenly. Lying in a pool of his own blood, he must have been in intense pain, yet nothing showed on his face; he seemed to be listening to voices only he could hear. But now his eyes opened. He turned upon Edward a look of chilling malevolence, and then he laughed. It was a dreadful sound, a strangled cough that ended on a broken breath. Erard was bending over, for the man’s lips were moving. Looking at Edward, the man laughed again, then choked. A bubble of blood formed at the corner of his mouth.
“Well?” Edward said impatiently. “You know I do not speak Arabic. What did he say?”
Erard straightened up slowly, and Eleanora gasped, for his face had gone grey. “He said…he said that you are a dead man, that he poisoned the dagger.”
At sight of the man being ushered into the Citadel’s great hall, the Templars’ Grand Master beckoned hastily. “Reynard, thank God!”
Reynard wasted no time on preliminaries. “When did it happen?”
“Thursday eve. At first we gave him centaury and fennel powder in wine, and then we tried nettle seeds, for men say they ward off the effects of hemlock, henbane, and mandrake. But I very much fear it was a poison unknown to us.”
“Is he fevered?”
The Templar nodded. “The cut on his forehead seems to be healing, but the wound on his arm has begun to fester. It is swollen and discolored, first red, now yellow, and there is a foul smell.”
Reynard drew a quick breath. “It sounds,” he said grimly, “as if you sent for me too late.”
Edward’s bedchamber was in semi-darkness, drawn curtains offering a feeble defense against the noonday heat. Eleanora sat on the bed, wielding a fan as if Edward’s air supply depended upon her efforts alone. She did not look up as the two men approached the bed, but when the Grand Master introduced Reynard as a physician famed for his healing arts, she turned toward her husband with sudden, hungry hope. “Querido, did you hear?”
Edward struggled upright. There was nothing prepossessing about the man before him—at first glance—for he was thin, stoop-shouldered, hair and beard a muddy, grizzled brown, while his clothes proclaimed him one utterly indifferent to fashion; he wore an Arab kafiya upon his head, a too-short tunic, and monk’s sandals. But he seemed unflustered by Edward’s scrutiny, met the younger man’s eyes with rare composure, heedless of the impression he was making, intent only upon those ugly blisters, that puffy, bruised flesh.
“If I may,” he said brusquely, and without waiting for permission, began a thorough inspection of the wound. His fingers were surprisingly deft, but even so light a touch brought pain; Edward bit down on his lower lip, bit back a cry.
“Well?” he demanded. “Can you help me?”
Reynard straightened up slowly. “There are remedies we can try. A poultice of darnel, a powder made of black hellebore—”
“Will these poultices save my life?” Edward asked bluntly, and sucked in his breath when Reynard shook his head. “What are you saying? That nothing can be done? I’ll not accept that!”
“I’ll not lie to you, my lord. Yours is a grievous wound. There is a chance, but it will cause you great pain, mayhap for naught. I can cut away the putrid flesh—”
“Dios, no!” Eleanora was on her feet, a hand jammed against her mouth. “Eduardo, that would be certain death. I remember a young page back in my brother’s palace at Seville. He fell on a rusty nail, and the doctors cut out the flesh as this man would do. That child died in agony, Eduardo! There must be another remedy…”
She might as well have been speaking in Spanish for all the heed they paid her. Edward did not even glance her way, kept his eyes riveted upon Reynard’s face. “Do it,” he said at last, and Eleanora gave a muffled scream.
The Templar looked questioningly at the man on the bed, and when Edward nodded, he gently but firmly grasped Eleanora by the elbows. “Forgive me, Madame, but you must come with me. Better you should weep than all England should mourn.”
It was over. Reynard had given Edward a smooth piece of wood to bite upon, and the Templar and Erard de Valery stood ready to hold him down. There was no need, though. He’d quivered at the first cut of the knife, but after that, he’d lain remarkably still. Erard was astonished by his own queasiness, for he was a soldier, knew death in its goriest guises. But somehow this was different, and when Reynard heated the knife blade, began to cauterize the wound, this man who’d seen bodies beyond counting found himself sickened by the stench of burning flesh. Edward’s impressive control failed him at the last; he’d jerked convulsively, then went so limp that Reynard reached hastily for the pulse in his throat. Having reassured himself that his patient still lived, he sagged down upon the nearest footstool, blotted away so much sweat that his sleeve was soon sopping wet.
He was certain Edward had lost consciousness, was surprised now to see his lashes flicker. As he leaned over the bed, Edward’s eyes opened. They were sunken back in his head, so swollen and bruised that they were little more than slits, but they were lucid. Edward tried to spit out the wood, failed, and Reynard gently pried it loose; it was bitten all the way through. Edward’s chest was heaving. Reynard didn’t like the sound of his breathing, not at all. But when he brought a cup to Edward’s lips, he managed to swallow.
“Tell my wife…” The words so faint that Reynard had to put his ear almost to Edward’s mouth. “Tell her that…that I shall live,” Edward whispered, and the corner of Reynard’s mouth softened in a sudden smile.
“By Christ,” he said, “if I do not think you will!”
7
Castell
Y Bere, Wales
December 1272
That year winter was late in coming to Wales. The first storm of the season did not hit until early December, and even then, it was not a full-blown tempest. The top of Cader Idris was glazed with snow, but Llewelyn ap Gruffydd’s stronghold on the lower slopes escaped with a mere dusting, and those traces were washed away by the next day’s rain. By dusk the sky had cleared, and the moon was soon rising above the last lingering clouds. But a freezing wind had driven all the inhabitants of Castell y Bere indoors, vying for space before the open hearths.
The south tower keep had been partitioned off to provide its Prince with a private chamber. Cadfael and Gwilym were standing by its door, casting wistful glances toward the fireside bench and their cooling drinks of mulled wine. But the Lady Arwenna was not one to be denied, and they’d been trapped for the past quarter hour as she laid out her instructions in meticulous, numbing detail.
“You understand, then? As soon as Lord Llewelyn’s scribe leaves his chamber, you’re to see that no one else is admitted. The cooks are preparing a special dinner, and I want it served precisely half an hour after I enter my lord’s chamber. But I want that sweet wine from Cyprus served first. And remember, we are not to be disturbed—for any reason whatsoever. Is that clear?”
They nodded glumly, and she was off to intercept one of the wine bearers. She was a graceful woman, quite curvaceous, and Gwilym could not help admiring her sensual walk even as he yearned to see her fall flat on her shapely rump.
“We serve our lord, not his doxy,” he said indignantly. “Why did you not tell her so, Cadfael?”
Cadfael chuckled indulgently. “My God, but you’re green! That is one fine-looking woman, as ripe as they come. And our lord has only been bedding her for the past fortnight. There’s a lesson you’d best learn fast, my lad. If you want a man to share a flagon, you wait till he’s drunk his fill.”
Gwilym had begun to bridle. “But Lord Llewelyn is not a man to let a woman meddle where she oughtn’t—”
Cadfael was laughing again. “Gwilym, Gwilym, you’ve much to learn. A wise man lets a woman have her way in minor matters, a cheap price for household peace.”
Arwenna heard the laughter, could feel their eyes following her. She’d have been surprised if they didn’t stare, for she was accustomed to attracting male attention; men even said hers was a beauty worth dying for. She was twenty-eight, twice widowed, and each of her husbands had died in her bed within a matter of months. Her mournful marital history had given rise to predictable lewd jokes about her potent sexual charms. Arwenna knew of these jokes but was not offended by them. In fact, she rather enjoyed the notoriety. Men’s desire and women’s jealousy were the coins of her realm, and she was a lavish spender.
Tonight she had taken particular pains with her appearance, had mapped out her strategy with a military precision utterly at odds with her sultry image, for men dazzled by her beauty often failed to see the steely ambition camouflaged as feminine vanity. To be a Prince’s concubine was no shame, and she’d settle for that if she had to, but she saw a chance for more, much more. She was the luckiest of women, for God had given her a lovely face, a voluptuous body, and a very fertile womb. Both of her husbands had been well past a man’s prime, and yet with each she had conceived, giving birth to two healthy sons. If she could give Llewelyn ap Gruffydd a son, he might marry her.
The strength of her plan lay in its very simplicity. She need only please Llewelyn, in bed and out, until, God willing, his seed took root in her womb. It was odd that none of his bedmates had gotten with child, for his wretch of a brother spawned like a salmon. But each of her husbands had been past sixty and Llewelyn was only forty and four. For once, time was on her side.
She smiled at the thought, deliberately deepening her dimples, a smile she meant to use upon Llewelyn. She could arouse his lust easily enough, but could she ensnare his heart? He was not a man to be bewitched with sugared words, seduced with flattery. There was a wariness in the way he viewed the world; even in bed, he held back. Well, he need not love her, he need only marry her.
A child crossed into her line of vision, that bastard get of his brother’s. Davydd, the heir-apparent…for now. How she’d enjoy denying him a crown. She had not always disliked Davydd, although his indifference had rankled. She could not understand why he had never even flirted with her, for if only half the stories told of him were true, his conquests were approaching legendary proportions. Not that she’d have yielded; she set a higher price upon herself than he’d have been willing to pay. She had still wanted him to try, though, and had been irked when he had not. And then, a few months ago, she’d overheard several men teasing him about her, urging him on. But he had merely laughed, saying he preferred a challenge, and for that insult, Arwenna would never forgive him.
The sight of his daughter brought back that memory, took the smile from her face. She did not like to be reminded of Davydd, did not see why Llewelyn must be burdened with his brother’s brat. Well, not for long, not if she had her way, and she would.
Llewelyn’s scribe had finally departed, but as Arwenna started for the door, so, too, did Caitlin. Quickening her step, she headed the child off just in time. “Lord Llewelyn is not to be disturbed. Go on now, run along.”
Caitlin stood her ground. “But it is urgent,” she said, and Arwenna’s annoyance flared into active dislike. What an odd creature she was! How many eight-year-olds used words like urgent? No wonder she had no playmates. Mayhap Davydd was not so much to blame, after all, for not wanting her. She’d seen several of his other daughters. Pretty little lasses they were, beribboned and well-mannered. What a contrast to this bedraggled waif; did the child even own a comb?
“Lord Llewelyn has no time for you. You’ll have to wait,” she said coolly. Even then, Caitlin did not move, stood watching until Arwenna closed the door.
Llewelyn was rereading a letter he’d just dictated to the English government, yet another letter of protest. Not that he expected much from it. More fool he, for ever believing English promises. He’d had Gloucester’s Caerphilly Castle at his mercy. But the Bishops of Lichfield and Worcester had begged him to lift the siege, swearing that Caerphilly would be put under royal control. In a moment of madness—how else explain it?—he’d accepted their assurances on behalf of the English government. And no sooner had he withdrawn than Gloucester retook the castle, set about making it the most formidable stronghold in all of South Wales.
Llewelyn’s hand tightened upon the parchment. Their double-dealing over Caerphilly only confirmed his worst fears about their good faith. He could still hear his father’s words, echoing across so many years. He could still see his father’s face, the prison pallor, the haunted eyes, the bitterness of betrayal. Gruffydd ap Llewelyn, who’d deserved better from life than he’d gotten. He’d loved Wales with a doomed passion, but he’d died on alien soil, plunging to his death from the Tower of London’s great keep in a foolhardy escape attempt. Yet he’d left a legacy worth more than gold, a cry from the heart. “Never forget, Llewelyn, that the world’s greatest fool is a Welshman who trusts an English king.”
When the door opened, he glanced up with a preoccupied frown. At sight of Arwenna, though, he smiled, and she found herself marveling how easily he shed years and cares. “I’m glad,” she said, “that you smile so seldom. I only wish you saved them all for me.” She’d thought that was a well-crafted compliment, but saw now that it was a wasted effort.
“Do I smile so seldom?” he echoed, sounding surprised, and she nodded, then very ostentatiously slid the door latch into place.
“If I’d known it was so easy to capture a Prince,” she murmured, “I’d have done it long ere this.”
Llewelyn’s face was impassive, but she knew him well enough by now to catch an amused glint. “What are your terms?”
“An entire night alone, just the two of us,” she said, and as she moved within range, he rose, drew her to him. She came eagerly into hi
s arms, lifting her mouth to meet his. But after a few moments, she stepped back, laughing up into his face, smoothing her gown.
“Ah, my love,” she said ruefully, “we’ve no time, for the dinner will soon be served: venison frumenty and marrow tarts, a fresh pike.”
“You feed your prisoners well. Those happen to be my favorite foods.”
“I think you’ll find me to be a very generous gaoler,” she said, and as he laughed softly, she turned to open the door for the wine bearer. After pouring the wine, she moved behind him, began to massage his shoulders. “How tense you are, sweetheart!” Leaning over, she kissed the nape of his neck. “I happened to see your brother’s Caitlin earlier this eve. Davydd has quite a few baseborn children, does he not?”
Llewelyn grinned. “So many, in fact, that I’ve heard men claim it would be easier to find the Holy Grail than lasses who’d said Davydd nay!”
“I would,” Arwenna said righteously, but Llewelyn looked more amused than impressed by her avowal.
“Did he ask?” he said mischievously, much to Arwenna’s irritation. She was too clever, though, to lie.
“No,” she admitted tersely. “To get back to Caitlin, I do not understand why she does not live with Davydd. Does he not take care of his other children?”
“He claims them as his, sees that they want for nothing. But I doubt if it even occurred to him to take any of them under his roof. Davydd’s not one for rocking cradles. With his other children, it matters for naught; they live with their mothers’ kin. But Caitlin’s mother is dead.”
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