Davydd set his chair down with a crash. “That is ridiculous! Why should you feel guilty when it was none of your doing?” He’d spoken so sharply that they were all staring at him. Shoving his chair back, he pushed away from the table.
Snatching up his mantle, he strode toward the door. But as soon as he jerked it open, he reconsidered. The rain was gusting sideways, stung like sleet. He stood there for a time in the porch recess, watching the storm’s fury, struggling with an anger no less intense and just as unforeseen. He’d often heard people speak of a “keening” wind, had dismissed it as poetic hyperbole—until tonight. As it whipped through the trees, his ears were filled with the sound, a high-pitched wailing that did evoke haunting echoes of grief.
“Davydd?” The wind had muffled Llewelyn’s footsteps, and Davydd jerked violently at the sudden touch upon his arm. Swearing, he leaned back against the porch railing, away from the revealing glimmer of Llewelyn’s lantern.
“Davydd, what is amiss? I’ve never seen your nerves on the raw like this. All night you’ve been shying at shadows.” Davydd caught a flash of white, a fleeting smile. “I’d have wagered you were the one cock whose feathers could not be ruffled—had I not been watching you for these past hours. Is it trouble you can talk about?”
“Can you not guess? Whenever you see a man playing the fool, can you doubt that you’re looking at a woman’s handiwork?”
Llewelyn fought back a grin, tried to remember the name of Davydd’s latest lady. “Tangwystl?”
“She wants us to wed, and I do not, was reckless enough to tell her so. Women do not fight fair. There are no formal declarations of war, no truces, and they take no prisoners. I won the battle. So why do I feel like the sort of lowborn knave who’d steal from a church alms box, seduce a nun, and for good measure, kick Caitlin’s puppy?”
Llewelyn was laughing openly by now. “As you said, you won the battle. Just be sure to invite me to the wedding. Listen—did you hear that?”
Davydd had. He tensed as riders took form out of the wet blackness beyond the porch. They were heading for the stables when the lead rider recognized Llewelyn. “My lord, it’s me—Cynan ab Ivor! We set out this morn from Llyn Tegid, did not think we’d make it this far. The roads to the south are all washed out, and we just missed a mudslide on the Powys border. I have never been so scared in all my born days, God’s truth!”
“See to your mounts, Cynan, then go into the hall to dry off and get fed.” The wind had shifted; the rain had begun to slant under the porch roof, and Llewelyn jogged Davydd’s arm. “Let’s go inside ere we drown.”
Davydd did not hear him, had heard nothing after “The roads to the south are all washed out.” He stared at his brother, and then began to laugh. So God, too, was on Llewelyn’s side!
Dolbadarn rose up on a spur of high ground between two ice-blue lakes. Shadowed by the highest peaks of Eryri, the castle’s vistas were among the most scenic in Gwynedd. Year after year, Owain ap Gruffydd had gazed out across the lake, watching as low-lying clouds drifted in from the southwest, spangling the valley with showers of silver rain, watching as December snows crowned the summit of Yr Wyddfa, as barren oaks budded anew and mountain ash embraced autumn gold. He watched wood sorrel bloom and die, watched as swallows arrived each April, fled before the first frost, watched as eagles soared above the crags of Eryri. The seasons blurred, his youth melted away with the spring thaws, and, ever so slowly, so did a lifetime’s rage.
His hatred had sustained him during the early years of his captivity, his visions of vengeance. But time had proved to be as much his enemy as Llewelyn. It became harder and harder to cling to hope. Eventually he was forced to face a shattering truth, that the brother he’d so underestimated was not going to free him. Llewelyn had won their war. The years that followed were the worst, for, without hope, he had only self-pity to hold on to. When it had begun to change, he could not say, so gradual had it been. He still hated Llewelyn, but it was a muted passion now, a banked fire when once it had been an inferno.
His confinement was not stringent. He was denied no comforts, treated with the deference due his bloodlines, and he was permitted an occasional visitor, was not cut off entirely from the world beyond Dolbadarn’s walls. He had his good days, a bedmate when he had need of one, the satisfaction of knowing that he’d not been forgotten, that even among Llewelyn’s staunchest supporters, he could find some sympathy for his plight. All he lacked was all that mattered—his freedom.
On this mild day in mid-March, he was dicing with Dolbadarn’s castellan when the guards brought word of his brother’s arrival. Owain was always delighted to have any visitors at all, but no one was more welcome than Davydd, the one person in Christendom to whom he still felt connected, his lifeline to memories of the man he used to be.
Davydd rushed through the usual courtesies, dismissed the castellan as soon as it was politely possible. As always, he felt a small shock at sight of his brother, found himself thinking: Jesú, he’s an old man! Owain was fifty-five. In his youth, he’d been called Owain Goch—Owain the Red—a tribute as much to his fiery temper as to his fiery red hair. The hair had long since gone grey, and the temper was not much in evidence these days, either. Sometimes Davydd had the unsettling sense that he was visiting a ghost, tending a flame already quenched.
Once they were alone, Davydd shot the bolt into place, leaned back against the door. “Make yourself comfortable, Big Brother, for I have quite a tale to tell. Have you ever heard of a rebellion that was rained out?”
Owain was soon sitting bolt upright on the bed. But he did not interrrupt. Although it was obvious he was listening intently, his face was impassive. Usually his every emotion was flourished aloft like a battle banner, but now Davydd could read nothing of his thoughts. When Davydd finally concluded with a deliberately dramatic account of the Candlemas storm, Owain waited a moment and then said crisply, “Go on.”
“Go on? Is that not enough? What else would you like me to confess whilst I’m at it?”
For the first time, Owain showed surprise. “You did not make another attempt on Llewelyn’s life?”
“No.” Davydd’s smile was sardonic. “Owen was nearly swept off a cliff by one of those mudslides. His night out in the rain seems to have dampened his zeal for our noble enterprise.”
Owain did not share his smile, for as fond as he was of Davydd, he’d always been baffled by his brother’s perverse brand of humor. “So it is Owen who is now loath to pursue this plot further?” he asked, with enough skepticism to shake Davydd’s bravado.
“And me? Is that what you’re asking, if I want to let it lie? What if I do?”
Owain had rarely heard him sound so defensive. “You know, lad,” he said quietly, “there is no shame in balking at murder.”
Davydd expelled a pent-up breath. “I had not expected it to be so hard, Owain. I had the right. It is Llewelyn who makes a mockery of Welsh law, not us. Why should I not try to take what was mine? But sitting across the table from him that night, knowing what I knew… Christ, Owain, I could not do that again. There has to be another way.”
“I wish you’d known our father the way I did,” Owain said unexpectedly, sounding so earnest that Davydd had to smile. “Papa used to say that each man’s honor depended upon where he drew the line. Papa drew it too far out; it made him slow to suspect, easy to betray. I’ve wondered at times, lad, where you drew it.”
“So did I,” Davydd said slyly, and Owain smiled.
“Well, at least now you know. But why did it have to be murder? I’d have been more than willing to let Llewelyn have my chamber here at Dolbadarn.”
Davydd gave him a look of amused affection, for that was as close as Owain ever came to humor. “Gruffydd and Owen were loath to take such a risk. They wanted him dead.”
“I cannot blame them for that,” Owain conceded. “Llewelyn makes a bad enemy. I should know!” Rising, he moved to the table, poured wine into two cups. Handing one to Davydd, he said,
“But I shall miss you, lad. It’s not likely, after all, that we’ll meet again.”
“Why not? Owain, are you ailing?”
“No, but you’ll have to seek safety in England—” Owain broke off, staring at the younger man. “Mother of God, Davydd, you cannot mean to stay!”
“Why not?” Davydd repeated, quite coolly this time.
“Because it’s bound to come out! Too many people are involved—the men Owen took with him, Gruffydd’s retainers at Trallwng Castle, the monks at Tallerddig, your own escort. They do not even have to know all that much, just that you’d met secretly with the lords of Powys. How long ere someone confides in his wife, or begins to brag after a few tankards of ale? How long ere someone begins to wonder what his secret might be worth to Llewelyn?”
“I’ll not deny that there is a danger, Owain. If I stay, I wager my lands, my freedom, mayhap my life. But if I flee, I lose all for certes.”
Owain was appalled. “Davydd, the danger is too great. I know Llewelyn, better than you. Do not delude yourself that you could get him to forgive you. Have you learned nothing from my mistakes? I’ve lost nineteen years of my life because I held Llewelyn too cheaply, could not see the flint in his soul. It is true that there was ever ill will between us, and it is no less true that if he has a weakness, it is his fondness for you. But do you truly think that he’d overlook murder? You could not talk your way out of this, lad. God help you if you are foolish enough to try.”
Davydd shrugged. “With so much at stake, Owain, God help me if I do not try.”
Davydd and his men were having breakfast in the guest hall of Aberconwy Abbey. The other abbey guests had departed at first light, but Davydd was a late riser, and a hungry one. He’d never shared the common belief that breakfast was a shameless indulgence, liked to joke that he believed in indulging the flesh at every opportunity, a jest that shocked the brothers of this austere Cistercian order. He saw no reason this morn to hurry out into the rain, not with such a long ride ahead of him; his lands in Dyffryn Clwyd were a day’s journey away, and the roads were mired in April mud. He was signaling for more cheese when new arrivals were ushered into the hall, but upon recognizing the man in the lead, he pushed the bench back, the food forgotten.
“What are you doing here, Rhys? This is an abbey, not a border bawdy-house!”
Rhys ap Gruffydd grinned, unoffended. He was Tudur’s nephew, grandson of the great Ednyved, and like his celebrated kin, he had been long in Llewelyn’s service. But Davydd knew what his brother did not, that Rhys’s loyalties were not rooted deep. They’d struck up an easy friendship, “like recognizing like,” Davydd joked, and to some degree, that was indeed true. Rhys did find Davydd’s rowdy companionship more congenial than that of his aloof, intense elder brother.
“I thought you were with Llewelyn at Aber?”
“I was, rode out just this morn. I’m on my way to Creuddyn, but one of our horses threw a shoe. Davydd…” Lowering his voice. “Something right strange is going on at Aber. Yesterday a man high in Gruffydd ap Gwenwynwyn’s favor was secretly taken to Llewelyn’s chamber, and after he left, Llewelyn was as tautly drawn as my best longbow. My uncle Tudur was also in a vile mood, even more soured than usual. And soon after, Llewelyn announced abruptly that he would be leaving on the morrow for his castle at Dolforwyn. I know for certes that he’d planned to remain at Aber for another fortnight. Something is in the wind, but what? And why Powys?”
Rhys was disappointed that his news had such little impact; Davydd said nothing. “Are you heading east, too, Davydd? If so, we can ride together.”
Davydd roused himself with an effort. “Where I go, you’d not want to follow.”
Rhys couldn’t tell if Davydd was joking or not. “And where is that, pray tell?”
“Into the lion’s den,” Davydd said, without a glimmer of a smile.
Llewelyn’s seacoast manor at Aber had long been a favorite residence of the princes of Gwynedd. One of its advantages was its location; it was but six miles from the see of the Bishop of Bangor, eight miles from the abbey of Aberconwy. Davydd rode through the gateway before noon. There he drew rein, looking upon a scene of utter confusion. Men were splashing through the mud, carrying saddles and bridles, leading pack horses from the stables. Others were lugging out small coffer chests and bedrolls and wooden crates. Dogs darted underfoot, barking furiously, dodging kicks from harried servants. The air was thick with sputtered oaths, with threats and counterthreats. Moving a princely household from one manor to another was a massive undertaking even under the most ideal circumstances. With but a day’s warning, all was predictable chaos.
It was a sight that would normally have had Davydd roaring with laughter. As it was, the unintentionally comic antics of these pressured men barely registered with him. The impulse that had sent him galloping for Aber, that had compelled him to face trouble head on, rather than waiting and wondering, while fearing the worst, suddenly seemed an act of incredible folly. But it was too late to retreat. His uncle was emerging from the great hall, swerved abruptly in his direction.
“Davydd? What are you doing here, lad?”
Einion looked surprised, but not suspicious, and Davydd took heart from that. Surely Llewelyn would have confided in him? Or would he? Mustering a smile, he said, “Actually, Uncle, I was on my way into Llŷn to see you, was just stopping at Aber to pay my respects to Llewelyn. I had not known you were here, too…although not for long, it seems. Where does Llewelyn go in such a mad rush?”
“South…into Powys.” Einion moved closer to Davydd’s stallion. “There is trouble, lad. But I’d best let Llewelyn tell you.”
As he followed Einion into Llewelyn’s bedchamber, Davydd’s nerves steadied; he’d always found the time before a battle to be more stressful than the action itself. “What has happened?” he asked, and then Llewelyn was turning toward him, and as their eyes met, he felt a surge of hot triumph. So Llewelyn did not know!
So intense was his relief that it took him a few moments to focus upon what his brother was saying. Gruffydd had been betrayed, but it was not as bad as he’d feared, as it could be. The informant knew nothing of the assassination plot, nothing of his own involvement. The details were sketchy, the tipster’s account filled with life-saving blanks. But he’d learned—and revealed—enough to put Gruffydd in a very precarious position, under strong suspicion of scheming to annex the cantrefs of Ceri and Cydewain.
“Well?” Tudur said tersely. “Have you nothing to say?”
“I suppose I am still taking it in. I have to admit that I am surprised. I never thought Gruffydd ap Gwenwynwyn to be a fool—until now.”
“He’s not a fool, Davydd. He’s Welsh,” Llewelyn said, with such bitterness that Davydd caught his breath. It was not often that he saw his brother with his defenses down like this.
Llewelyn had begun to pace. “Our grandfather used to say that we Welsh were our own worst enemies. God Above, how right he was! How long are we going to play the game by English rules? They need not sow seeds of dissension amongst us; that is our most bountiful crop!”
Davydd was so elated by his reprieve that he’d cheerfully have agreed with virtually anything Llewelyn might have said at this point. “Too true,” he said quickly. “A pity envy was not a cash crop, else Wales would be the most prosperous realm in Christendom.”
“Why can we not make them understand, Davydd, how much is at stake? Why do they think the Scots have managed to keep the English from carving up their kingdom? Because the Scots have the sense to rally around their kings, to put their differences aside whenever they’re threatened by the English Crown. But we Welsh…was ever a people so stiff-necked, so willfully blind? The Marcher lords have sunk their roots so deep into Welsh soil that we’ll never be free of them. Why can our people not see the danger? Wales must be united, whole, with one prince to speak for us, as the Scots kings do. How can I hope to fend off the wolf at our door if I must constantly be on the alert for foxes under the window
?”
Davydd said nothing, and Llewelyn gave him a sudden, searching look. “I know there are many who complain that I keep too heavy a hand on the reins. The Welsh are likely to balk at the first prick of the spurs—if not sooner. But do they truly think that Edward would be a more benevolent overlord?”
Davydd shrugged. “London is a lot farther away than Aber, Llewelyn.”
“They think miles are all that matter?” Llewelyn sounded incredulous. “They honestly believe Edward would be content to reign, that he’d not want to rule, too? The English scorn us as a backward, primitive people, Godless and befouled with sin. Edward is a crusader King; he’d see it as his divine duty to bring us the dubious benefits of English custom and English law. And he’d open the floodgates to English settlers, charter English towns on Welsh soil, turn Gwynedd into an English shire. We’d become aliens in our own land, denied our own laws, our own language, even our yesterdays, for a conquered people are not allowed a prideful past. Worst of all, we’d be leaving our children and grandchildren a legacy of misery and loss, a future bereft of hope.”
Llewelyn stopped abruptly, and for some moments, there was only silence, one haunted by his harrowing vision of a Welsh Apocalypse. “I would die ere I let that come to pass,” he said at last. “Why is that not enough for the Gruffydd ap Gwenwynwyns? What more do they want of me?”
“If they could only have heard you just now, Llewelyn, you’d have converted half of Wales to your cause,” Davydd said, and meant it. “For certes, you’d have gotten me to join your crusade,” he added jauntily, and he meant that, too—almost—for his quarrel was with the messenger, not the message. “But your eloquence is wasted upon Gruffydd ap Gwenwynwyn. What happens now? Dolforwyn is conveniently close to his castle at Trallwng. I assume you’ve a siege in mind?”
Llewelyn slowly shook his head. “We shall summon Gruffydd before my council to answer these charges. If he can, well and good. If not, a forfeit will be levied against a portion of his lands.”
The Reckoning Page 16