“Why you, though? Why not Davydd?”
He shrugged. “She’d passed her first three years at my court, so why uproot her? The little lass has had a hard enough road to travel. Being born out of wedlock is no shame in Wales, but being half English is. Mayhap if her mother had been highborn…. But she was a serving wench, and Davydd never made a secret of it. Then, too, Caitlin is…well, she’s not like other children. She goes off by herself for hours at a time, is so quiet that strangers have asked if she’s mute. She has a remarkable way with animals of any sort, and after people saw her playing in the meadows at Dolwyddelan with a wild fox cub, they started saying she was fey.”
Llewelyn set his wine cup down. “No, she’s not had an easy time. Children can be cruel to those who’re somehow different. I remember a few years ago, overhearing them taunting her, making fun of her Irish name, calling her ‘catleek’ and ‘catkin.’ Later, I took her aside, explained that there was a Welsh form of Caitlin, and suggested that she might like to call herself Catrin. She thought about it, keeping those great, green eyes on me all the while, and then she shook her head, said very solemnly, ‘But Caitlin is who I am.’”
He laughed, but Arwenna did not. Lord God, he was truly fond of the chit! She’d have to mend that fence and right quick. Now, though, she’d best tell her side first, ere Caitlin came whining to him.
“I have a confession, love,” she said and gave a light laugh. “I had my heart set upon being alone with you this eve, was not willing to share you with anyone else, and that included Caitlin. You do not mind, do you?”
“No, I suppose not. But what did Caitlin want?”
“She did not say, just mumbled something about it being ‘urgent.’” Arwenna laughed again, indulgently. “Children—how they dearly love to make mountains of every molehill!”
“No,” Llewelyn said slowly, “not Caitlin.” Arwenna could not hide her dismay, and he smiled reassuringly. “You need not fret. A few moments for the lass, and the night for you.”
By the time he’d sent a servant in search of Caitlin, Arwenna had regained her confidence, and when dinner arrived, she insisted upon serving him herself, buttering his bread, hanging on his every word, promising enough with her smiles to blot Caitlin’s very name from his memory—or so she hoped. But the servant soon returned, reported that the child was nowhere to be found.
Arwenna stood watching in disbelief as men fanned out, under orders to search all of the buildings in the castle bailey. Waiting until no others were within earshot, she said coaxingly, “My love, the dinner grows cold, and for what? No harm has befallen the girl. I’m a mother myself, remember? I know children, believe me. Caitlin is off sulking somewhere, will come out when she is ready.”
“No,” Llewelyn said again, “not Caitlin,” but this time in a very different tone, and Arwenna hastily changed tactics.
“Llewelyn, you told me yourself that she oft-times goes off to—”
But Llewelyn was turning away, for there was a sudden commotion by the door. Arwenna followed, inwardly seething; if that wretched child was not found soon, the entire evening would be spoiled. And then people were moving aside and she saw. One of the stable grooms stood in the doorway, holding a small limp body in his arms.
“I found her in á stall,” he said hesitantly. “At first I thought she had been kicked by one of the horses, but then I heard the cat. Trapped up on the rafters, it was, my lord, and I’d wager she tried to climb up after it…”
Llewelyn reached out, took the little girl carefully into his arms. Her eyes had rolled back in her head and her long, loose hair was matted with straw and blood. But as he lifted her, she made a small whimpering sound, and he took heart from that.
“Llewelyn…” Arwenna plucked at his sleeve as he passed. He gave her one glance, no more than that, but what she read in it caused her to shrink back, watching helplessly as he carried Caitlin into his bedchamber. She was soon able to convince herself, though, that he’d forgive her once his anger cooled. She’d not yield her dreams so easily, would not be thwarted by a moonstruck, misbegotten foundling and a flea-bitten stable cat.
When Caitlin was four, she had fallen into a pond. She still had bad dreams about it sometimes, reliving that slow-motion struggle to reach the surface. She was trapped in that same dream now, thrashing about in terrifying blackness, drowning all over again. Gradually, though, she could detect faint glimmerings of light, and she swam toward them, up out of the depths and into the shallows where it was safe.
At first the light hurt her eyes. She squinted until things came into focus, until she recognized her surroundings, realizing, with a sense of groggy astonishment, that she seemed to be in her uncle’s bed.
“So you’ve finally decided to wake up, have you?”
The voice was familiar and only added to her bewilderment. “Papa? What are you doing here?”
“I just happened to be in the neighborhood.” Davydd watched her eyes roam the chamber, to the oiled linen that shielded the window, back to his face. She seemed confused, but coherent, and he reached over, took a small hand in his own. “Do you remember what happened, Caitlin?”
She started to nod, then winced. “I fell. But…but it was night and I can see sunlight…”
Davydd laughed. “Sweetheart, that was nigh on three days ago! You’ve been sleeping much of the time since then. We’d wake you up to swallow the doctor’s potions, and off you’d go again. I’d heard that bears and hedgehogs sleep through the winter months, but I never knew that Caitlins did, too.”
That would have sent any of his other daughters into fits of giggles. Caitlin’s gravity never failed to baffle him, so unchildlike was it, so alien to his own nature. “You truly did come here because I was hurt?” she asked, sounding so surprised that Davydd felt a faint prick of guilt. That was not a question she should need to ask.
“Of course I did, sweetheart,” he said, with unwonted seriousness, and was dazzled by her sudden smile. It was a stranger’s smile, a flash of pure joy, and Davydd was unexpectedly moved by it. But then he realized that her gaze was aimed over his shoulder, and turning, he saw that her smile was not meant for him at all, was for his brother.
Leaning over the bed, Llewelyn kissed his niece upon the forehead. “Welcome back, lass. You gave us quite a scare.”
“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “But when that lady would not let me see you, Uncle, I did not know who else to turn to…”
Both men were momentarily silent, Davydd struggling with what he recognized as an unworthy attack of jealousy, and Llewelyn stricken with remorse. Jesú, how alone she was, far more than he’d ever realized! And yet she was so pitifully grateful for his few crumbs of attention, his few scraps of affection. Looking into her eyes, he saw for the first time the true depths of her love and was awed by it, that she gave so much, asked for so little.
“You need not worry, lass. That will never happen again. The next time you need to rescue a cat, you’ll have more allies than you can count,” he promised. Her lashes were shadowing her cheek, but she was fighting sleep, and he knew why. “Yes,” he said, “we did save your cat,” and she gave him a drowsy smile, a contented sigh.
They stood there for some moments, gazing down at the sleeping child. Then Llewelyn beckoned his brother away from the bed. “Come over to the window. I’ve just had news from England.”
Davydd was in no hurry to hear it; news from England was invariably bad. “Who was that ‘lady’ standing guard over your bedchamber?”
“No one of importance. Davydd, listen. The English King is dead.”
Davydd did not even blink. “I’m surprised that anyone noticed. Evesham was Edward’s coronation and all knew it—all but Henry, who had the bad taste to linger on for another seven years. I daresay Westminster was the only English palace haunted by a living ghost!”
As always when dealing with Davydd, Llewelyn ended up laughing in spite of himself. “I wonder if Edward knows yet. The last I heard, he’d finally left Acre,
sailed for Sicily. It took weeks for his injury to heal, but it’s a miracle he recovered at all. Not many men win against a poisoned dagger.”
“Had I been in Acre, I’d have wagered all I owned that he’d survive. Edward has the Devil’s own luck—though of course he thinks it’s God’s favor. I know him, Llewelyn, better than you do. For three years, I lived at his court. We plotted together, fought together, even went whoring together. He can be a surprisingly good companion for an Englishman! None can deny his courage, and his wits are sharp enough, for certes. Hard to believe he could have been sired by such a milksop. If Henry’s Queen was not such a cold-blooded bitch, I might suspect her of some furtive fun beneath the sheets.”
Davydd’s grin slowly faded. “But whatever else Edward is or is not, only one fact truly matters—that he is not to be trusted. Bear that in mind, Llewelyn. For your sake, always bear that in mind.”
“I well know I cannot trust Edward,” Llewelyn said quietly. “So it is fortunate, is it not, that I can trust you?”
Davydd was momentarily caught off balance. Had Llewelyn learned of his secret meeting with the lords of Powys? Their plan was as ambitious as it was dangerous, involving nothing less than Llewelyn’s overthrow. He had not committed himself in any way, but his mere presence at such a meeting was akin to treason, at least in Llewelyn’s eyes.
He hesitated, then fell back upon a familiar tactic. “You can trust me with your very life, Llewelyn—on every other Thursday during Lent.”
“I cannot tell you how that eases my mind, lad.” Llewelyn’s smile was wry, but somewhat sad, too, and Davydd found himself at a rare loss for words. They looked at each other as the silence spun out between them, a web sticky with all they dared not say.
8
Melun, France
August 1273
Nell de Montfort approached Melun with some trepidation, dreading what lay ahead of her. She’d never understood why her Church held humility to be a virtue, had never sought to curb her prideful nature, and as a result, she’d had little practice in cultivating the modest demeanor, the demure bearing that her society demanded of its women. Born a Plantagenet Princess, wed to a man just as hot-blooded, she had gloried in the tumultuous passion of their life together, matching Simon’s reckless candor with her own brand of forthright boldness. Those were traits that had stood her in good stead during her years as the Countess of Leicester. They availed her naught now, on her way to Melun to entreat an enemy for aid.
Upon her arrival at the French King’s manor, she was personally welcomed by Philippe and his mother. Marguerite needed but one glance to detect Nell’s inner agitation; Nell had not had such a perceptive woman friend since the death of her niece, Elen de Quincy. “Are you sure you want to do this, dearest?” Marguerite asked quietly, and when Nell nodded, the French Queen sighed, slipped a supportive arm through Nell’s, and led her toward the solar for her audience with England’s King.
But Edward made it surprisingly easy. The mere fact that he’d chosen the private solar over the public great hall showed a sensitivity she’d not expected, and there was a genuine warmth in his greeting, in the cheerful informality of his “Aunt Nell.” Mayhap not so surprising, though; she knew he’d always been very fond of her. She’d been fond of him, too—in another lifetime. Eight years had passed since she’d seen him last, the day she’d surrendered Dover Castle to his besieging army, with Simon two months dead and her world in ruins. Yet he’d been kind, then, heeding her plea on behalf of her household retainers. He’d even argued against her own banishment, sought in vain to soften his father’s heart toward her. She’d truly tried to be grateful, but she could not forget the brutal mutilation of her husband’s body, a mutilation Edward had permitted. Eight years were not long enough to blur a memory like that. She was in no position, though, to scorn his truce, however fragile or false it might be. And he, too, seemed to be trying; if “Evesham” did not pass her lips, neither did “Viterbo” pass his.
“Ellen did not come with you?”
“No,” Nell said hastily, “she’s been ailing,” for although she was willing to treat with the enemy for her children’s sake, they were not. It was a transparent falsehood; she’d never been good at lying. But Edward let her save face by pretending to believe her, then launched into a dramatic account of his encounter with Baibars’s Assassin.
Nell listened with unfeigned interest, even admiration; in her hierarchy of values, courage headed the list. But when Edward described how Eleanora had been banished from his chamber by the Master of the Templars, her eyebrows shot upward and she exclaimed indignantly, “And she let herself be shunted aside like a wayward child? It would have taken a sword at my throat to get me from Simon’s sickbed!”
And then, hearing her own words, she drew an audible breath. Simon’s name echoed in the air between them, and their truce hung in the balance. Edward had stiffened, but after a taut, suspenseful pause, he relaxed again. “I wonder, Aunt Nell, if you realize what good friends you have at the French court? Since I arrived in Paris, Philippe and Marguerite have done naught but bedevil me on your behalf, urging me to right my father’s wrong.”
Nell was taken aback that he should broach the subject first. “You said they were persistent,” she murmured. “Were they also persuasive?”
Edward grinned, amused by the obliqueness of her approach, so unlike her usual devil-be-damned directness. “Yes,” he said, “they were,” and saw her eyes widen. “My father did indeed wrong you, Aunt Nell. He had no right to claim the dower lands from your first marriage. I cannot make amends for all your lost income, but I can make sure you suffer no further losses. I will order the heirs of your first husband to answer to the Exchequer for what they owe you. I will also take measures to restore the lands to your control.” And because Philippe had confided that Nell’s income had dwindled dramatically now that Guy was excommunicate, his estates forfeit, Edward added, “And since it might take a while, I will order the Exchequer to advance you the sum of two hundred pounds. Will that be enough?”
Mute, she could only nod. To restore her lands was simple justice, although she’d been afraid to hope for even that much. But he’d gone beyond that, had responded with a generosity she had not expected. A lesser man would have made her beg. “I will repay your loan,” she vowed, “without delay. I thank you, Edward. I could not bear that my daughter…”
She did not complete the sentence. As grateful as she was, she could not bring herself to confide in him her fears for Ellen’s future. He did not seem offended by her reticence, though, saying with a smile, “I remember Ellen well, remember the letters she wrote to me at Kenilworth, seeking to cheer my confinement. She was all of what…twelve? Thirteen? I daresay she’s grown into a beauty by now?”
Nell nodded, marveling that they could be talking so easily of a time in which he’d been her husband’s prisoner, as if it had somehow happened to other people. “You are making this difficult for me, Edward,” she confessed. “You have been more than fair, and now I must risk seeming greedy and ungrateful, for I have yet another favor to ask of you!”
They surprised themselves, then, by sharing a laugh. “Go ahead,” Edward said, still grinning. “Do you not remember that folk wisdom, the one about striking whilst the iron is hot?”
“Now that the Pope has pardoned the Bishop of Chichester for having supported Simon, he yearns to end his exile, to spend his last years in the land of his birth. Surely that is not so much to ask, Edward? He wants to come home…and to take my son, Amaury, with him.”
“No,” he said abruptly, tersely.
“But Edward, why? Chichester is an old man, and Amaury…why should you hate him so? He was not even at Evesham, bears no guilt for what his brothers did at Viterbo—” Nell broke off. She’d never seen eyes as cold as Edward’s. A vivid blue but moments before, they were now as colorless and chilling as ice, eyes that accused, judged, and damned her son without a word being said.
“Amaury de Mon
tfort will never be allowed to return to England, not whilst I draw breath. You tell him that, Madame. Tell him, too, that should he be foolhardy enough to disregard my warning, all his prayers and papal connections will not help him. Nothing will.”
Nell was frowning over the chessboard, her competitive instincts fully engaged. Across the table, her chaplain watched with a complacent smile. No matter how she studied the board, she could see no escape. Ellen’s interruption came, therefore, at a most opportune time.
“The fair begins today, Mama. Juliana and I thought it worth a look.”
Nell felt a pang that her daughter should have no better entertainment than this, a paltry village market, she who’d attended Winchester’s famous St Giles Fair and London’s equally celebrated St Bartholomew’s Fair. “If you go,” she said, “be sure to take an escort—Durand or Roger.”
Ellen and Juliana exchanged grins. “We’d rather take Hugh,” Ellen said, then lowered her voice to confide, “He’s smitten with the apothecary’s daughter. Have you not noticed how eagerly he offers to run errands in the village?”
Hugh was cleaning Sir Olivier’s saddle, conscientiously dipping a cloth into a jar of foul-smelling sheep’s tallow. When Ellen’s summons came, he jumped to his feet as if launched from a crossbow, to a chorus of catcalls and hoots. But although every man in the hall would have welcomed a chance to attend the fair, there was no malice in their railery. They might enjoy teasing him about the apothecary’s daughter—an open secret—but none of them seriously begrudged the lad an afternoon with his girl. It had not always been that way. When he’d first joined the Countess’s household, there’d been some resentment of his privileged position, for it was obvious to all that the Countess and the Lady Ellen took a personal interest in his welfare. But he’d won them over by never shirking the dirty jobs, by deflecting their taunts with unassuming good humor, and by pitching the most persistent of his tormentors into a horse trough. Now, as he grinned self-consciously and buckled his scabbard, they shouted ribald courting suggestions after him, and he, Ellen, and Juliana departed on a wave of laughter.
The Reckoning Page 13