“I know, love. But mayhap we should have!”
Ellen smiled, then confided, “I am not sure I believe it even now! I’ll be back after I tell Juliana.”
She was on her feet in an instant, dancing toward the door with a supple grace that Nell could not help envying, for her own body had once served her just as effortlessly. It was not death she despised, but that it had come to her in such an incapacitating, drawn-out guise. She would have preferred the sword to dropsy, would have chosen a bloody death over a lingering one. But nothing—not her chronic shortness of breath, not her heart palpitations, no amount of pain or weakness—could tarnish the triumph of this moment for her. As she watched her daughter glide across the chamber, her feet scarcely touching the floor, Nell had rarely been so happy, or so at peace.
Reaching the door, Ellen stopped suddenly, spun around to look at her mother. “It is almost like a miracle, Mama,” she said in wonderment, and Nell nodded.
“Indeed, Ellen, it is,” she agreed, no less gravely. And then she laughed, the husky, free-soaring laugh of the young girl she’d once been, the girl who had defied a King and a Pope to wed the man of her choice. “It would seem,” she said, “that it pays to have a saint in the family!”
Nell’s dreams were deeply rooted in her yesterdays. They were, for the most part, tranquil and reassuringly familiar. With the blurring of time’s boundaries, her loved ones were restored to her, her family was once more intact, inviolate. She awakened from such dreams with regret, often with confusion. So it was now. The darkness was aswirl with floating lights; they swam before her dazzled eyes like phosphorescent fish in a black, black sea. For a moment she was lost, adrift on unknown currents. But as her eyes adjusted to the dark, the fish transformed themselves into the flickering flames of a servant’s candelabra, and she returned to reality with a rueful smile. This was no alien world. She was in her chamber at Montargis, on an April eve in Holy Week, and although death waited in the shadows, she had nothing to fear, for she had made her peace with God.
There was a great comfort in knowing that all had been done. Her confessor had shriven her of her earthly sins, her will had been made, and she’d arranged for largesse to be distributed to members of her household, to the nuns and villagers who’d sought to make her exile easier. Nothing remained now except her farewells.
She was drifting back toward sleep when she heard familiar footsteps. “Mama, are you awake?” Bending over the bed, Ellen kissed her forehead. “Marguerite is here.”
Nell welcomed the French Queen with a drowsy smile, thinking how lucky she was to have those she loved at her deathbed. Not all were so fortunate; her father, King John, had died alone and unmourned.
Marguerite could not conceal her shock; Nell had retained her good looks even as she aged, but dropsy had proven to be a more merciless foe than the advancing years. Nell gently squeezed the fingers clasped in hers, a wordless reassurance. “Marguerite…” The other woman begged her not to speak, to save her strength, but she knew better, knew how little time was left to her. “Dearest, I have a favor to ask of you. I made my will…” She could go no further, began to cough. Amaury hastened over with an herbal potion, and Ellen held the cup while Nell drank. But as soon as her breath came back, she reached again for Marguerite’s hand.
“I want Ellen to have my jewels, Marguerite, except for my ruby pendant. That is for you. I’ve named Amaury as my heir, for Ellen will have Llewelyn to look after her, and the Church would not allow Guy to inherit. Dearest, will you and Philippe entreat Edward on my behalf, ask him to allow my will to be carried out? And…and urge him to be fair to my son. Amaury is innocent, should not have to pay for Guy’s sins. Make Edward see that, Marguerite, make him see that he ought to let Amaury come home…”
“Of course we will, Nell.” Marguerite tried to sound confident, as if she truly believed that Edward would heed them. But then, she doubted if Nell believed it, either. “Nell, you must not give up. I spoke to your doctor and he still has hope, thinks you might yet rally…”
“Simon does not think so,” Nell said softly, and then smiled at the startled, dismayed looks on their faces. “My wits are not wandering. I always knew that Simon would come for me when my time was nigh. And now…now he is close at hand. I can feel his presence…”
“Truly, Mama?” Ellen whispered, sounding both awed and envious.
“Truly, love. And you know your father; he’s never been one for waiting. He always swore that I’d be late for the Last Judgment…” Nell lay back weakly on the pillow, fighting for breath. “I will not let his first words to me be: ‘I told you so!’” she said, summoning up one last smile, and her children discovered that it was possible to laugh while blinking back tears.
Nell de Montfort died on Saturday, the 13th of April in God’s Year, 1275, and was buried, in accordance with her wishes, in a quiet, simple ceremony at the priory church; her heart was taken to Paris, to be interred at the Abbey of St Antoine-des-Champs.
The following morning was mild and sun-splashed, an ideal day for travel. Friar Gwilym’s escort was already mounted, but he still tarried, exchanging farewells with his lord’s bride-to-be. Patting the breast of his tunic, he assured Ellen that he’d deliver her letter safely to Prince Llewelyn. “And what of you, my lady? Will you remain at Montargis?”
“No, it holds too many memories, too many ghosts. I think it best that I return to Paris with Amaury. Godspeed, Brother Gwilym. When we next meet, may it be in Wales.”
He kissed her hand with somber gallantry. “Once your mourning time is done, my lord will send trusted men to bring you to him. My lady, may I caution you to keep our secret close? Were the English King to learn of your marriage plans, he would move Heaven and earth to thwart them.”
After the friar’s departure, Ellen walked across the courtyard to her mother’s garden, where she filled a basket with violets and sunlit primroses. As she headed for the church, she was trailed at an unobtrusive distance by Hugh, and paused in the doorway to smile at him, touched by his silent, shadowy devotion. He would, she knew, willingly follow her to Wales, or anywhere else in Christendom, as would Juliana. A pity loyalty was not the coin of the realm; she’d have been a rich woman, indeed.
A hint of incense lingered in the air. Nell had been laid to rest before the High Altar; the funeral garlands of white and purple periwinkle blossoms had yet to wither, still exuded a light, flowery fragrance. Ellen scattered the violets and primroses about with a lavish hand, wishing that honeysuckle were in season, for her mother had always loved that sweet, heady scent.
“I am glad, Mama, that you are no longer in pain. But oh, how I shall miss you. I would that I could promise to name my first-born daughter after you. I am not sure, though, if ‘Eleanor’ can be translated into Welsh.” It was strange and somewhat unsettling, the realization that her world would soon be so foreign, so mysterious and unknown; even her language would be alien. But it was exciting, too.
The rain fell so relentlessly that September that even the Welsh, a people inured to wet weather, began to grumble. It was a very frustrating time for Llewelyn. He paced the confines of Ewloe Castle as if he were its prisoner, not its Prince, impatiently awaiting word from his emissaries, his uncle Einion and Maredudd, the Abbott of Aberconwy. They’d crossed the border days ago, and upon their success or failure might well depend the survival of his principality.
The summons had come as no surprise. As England’s King, Edward had the right to demand that Llewelyn do homage to him, vassal to liege lord. He had commanded Llewelyn to meet him at Chester. Less than a dozen miles now separated the two men, but they might as well have been mired in quicksand. Llewelyn would not do homage as long as Edward harbored the brother and ally who’d betrayed him. And Edward would not redress his grievance as long as he refused to do homage.
It was to end this dangerous impasse that Llewelyn had sent his most eloquent envoys to Chester, in the hopes that a compromise might still be reached. But with
each passing day, that seemed less and less likely. And so, when a shout from the castle battlements signaled incoming riders, Llewelyn crossed to the window with a leaden step, already braced for bad news.
The men ushered into the hall were shrouded in dripping, muddied mantles. As they jerked their hoods off, their tense, unhappy faces told all with no need of words. There were a few indrawn breaths, a few involuntary curses, and most drew back as they passed, as if failure, like plague, was catching.
Their uncle-nephew bond had always amused Einion and Llewelyn, for in age they were contemporaries; Einion was only seven years Llewelyn’s senior. But he seemed to have added another decade in Chester; never had Llewelyn seen him look so haggard. “We tried,” he said huskily. “As God is my witness, we did try.”
Llewelyn asked no questions. There would be time for that later. The spectre of war was never far from Wales, but now it was right there in the hall with them. Edward was no man to defy with impunity. But to yield would be to abdicate in all but name. And how long would the Welsh follow a puppet Prince? Blood in the snow invariably attracted wolves.
Llewelyn could see his own thoughts reflected on the faces of his companions. It was Tudur who gave voice to their common concern. “If you balk, you’d best be ready to face Edward on the field, and we’d be fools to forget that he not only outfought Simon de Montfort at Evesham, he outwitted him, led him into a death trap as slick as you please. But if you do homage to Edward whilst he continues to shelter and befriend Davydd and Gruffydd ap Gwenwynwyn, what would your crown be worth? Your enemies would see it as weakness, Llewelyn, and I’d wager that Edward would, too. If you are going to risk all no matter what you do, then by God, follow your heart.”
They were looking at him intently, expectantly, awaiting his decision. But there was no suspense in their silence, for all knew what he would do, what he had to do.
Llewelyn moved back to the window, stood gazing out upon the misted, sodden hills. His enemies often accused him of arrogance, and it was true that he could be imperious and arbitrary. But he was driven by demons bred of his own success, the dark side of his grandfather’s legacy. Llewelyn Fawr had unified Wales, dictated peace terms to two English Kings, and by the time he died, even his foes called him Llewelyn the Great. Yet his triumphs had been as ephemeral, as fleeting as the good faith of the English Crown. His sons and grandsons lived to see the wreckage of his splendid, shining world; in seven short years, a lifetime’s work lay in ruins. Llewelyn was to win back all that had been lost, but he would ever after be haunted by a fateful awareness, the memory of how easily a small, fractious land could be subdued by a powerful, predatory neighbor. Welsh victories were writ in sand, whilst English borders moved ever westward.
After a time, Llewelyn turned from the window. “We are done here,” he said quietly. “Let’s go home.”
Chester castle was filled to overflowing with the King’s men. Cooped up indoors by the rain, they were edgy and bored, and the morning meal had been interrupted twice by sudden brawls, one involving the table cutlery. Edmund was beginning to understand how Cheshiremen had earned such a reputation for violence.
The rain stopped by noon, but all knew it would be a brief respite, and the hall was still crowded. Some of the men were throwing dice, but most were covertly enjoying the sight of two highborn lords snarling at each other like rival tomcats. Edmund even heard a few of the bolder ones making whispered wagers, trying to gauge how long it would be before the Earl of Gloucester’s volcanic temper erupted.
Gloucester was sitting bolt upright in a window-seat, glowering at his tormentor. He had a redhead’s fair, freckled skin, looked now as if he’d been sun-scorched, so deeply flushed were his face and throat. Men called him “Red Gilbert” and it was easy to see why. As unruly as it was bright, his hair stuck out in tousled, wayward tufts, bristling like the crimson quills of some unlikely paint-splattered hedgehog. Even at such solemn occasions as funerals, Gilbert’s hair always looked as if he’d never owned a comb. Edmund, who cheerfully spent truly exorbitant sums on his own clothes, was puzzled by Gloucester’s obvious indifference to fashion, for the man was, after all, one of the richest lords of the realm.
Because of his betrayal of his one-time ally, Simon de Montfort, Gloucester had gained a name for bad faith, for lightness of purpose, but Edmund thought that, in this, he’d been wronged. He’d readily agree that Gloucester was thin-skinned, irascible, obstinate enough to shame the balkiest mule, and so vengeful that men swore forgiveness was a word utterly alien to his vocabulary. Edmund did believe, though, that Gloucester was, in his own peculiar, prickly way, a man of some principles. And although he found Gloucester to be impossible to like, he could not help feeling a spark of sympathy for him now, the way he might briefly pity a raging, baffled bull, seeking to shake off a pack of wolves.
Edmund often thought of wolves in connection with the Marcher lords, for that was how he saw them, as tamed wolves who hunted for the English Crown, far more efficiently than any dog could have done. But a dog could be trusted, and Edmund trusted Roger de Mortimer about as much as he’d have trusted Sultan Baibars, who’d almost brought about Edward’s death at Acre.
Roger de Mortimer was half Welsh; he was, in fact, a first cousin to Llewelyn ap Gruffydd, for his mother, Gwladys, had been one of Llewelyn Fawr’s daughters. From his Marcher father, he’d gotten his height, his big-boned Norman-French body, from his Welsh mother, his snapping black eyes and straight dark hair. But Edmund was convinced that his knife-bladed tongue and utter lack of mercy could only have come from the Devil. He’d never met a man who took such perverse pleasure in muddying clear, calm waters—with the possible exception of Llewelyn’s renegade brother Davydd. And just as he could not understand why Edward seemed to enjoy Davydd’s contrary company, so was he perplexed by Edward’s willingness to call de Mortimer “friend.”
It was Edmund’s conviction that asking the Marcher lords for advice in Welsh affairs was like asking those aforesaid wolves to guard a herd of sheep. He’d watched in disapproval as they did their best to hamstring the negotiations with Llewelyn’s envoys. And in such a poisoned atmosphere, it was not surprising that the Welsh entreaties fell upon deaf ears. To Edmund, Llewelyn’s presence in nearby Ewloe was proof that he did, indeed, want to resolve their differences. But to Edward, the only evidence that counted was that oath of homage, the oath Llewelyn had yet to swear.
It seemed to Edmund that his brother’s eagle-eyed vision suddenly dimmed whenever he focused upon the rights and prerogatives of kingship. He had only to perceive a threat to his sovereignty, be it purported or real, and nothing else appeared to matter.
Edmund understood why this was so, for he, too, was a son of the hapless Henry III. He knew that Edward had loved the weak, well-meaning man who’d been their father, for in parenthood, Henry had excelled. In fact, he’d lavished such love upon his royal brood that many of his subjects saw his devotion as unseemly, even unmanly. When he and his Queen showed no shame, only pride, in their tiny deaf-mute daughter, that convinced many people that he was too sentimental to rule England’s troubled realm. And Edward, growing up prideful and strong-willed and fearless, took each slur and insult to heart, swearing upon the surety of his soul that once he was King, no man would ever dare to defy him as they’d so often defied his father.
Yes, Edmund understood. The problem was that he also understood Llewelyn ap Gruffydd’s position. The Welsh Prince did, in truth, have a legitimate grievance, for lordship was not like a river; the rights and obligations flowed both ways. In return for a vassal’s homage and fealty, his liege lord owed protection. Giving refuge to a vassal’s sworn enemies was, by even the most liberal interpretation, a breach of that duty.
Edward once claimed that Edmund had been cursed by a lamentable defect of vision, that he always saw both sides of every issue. He had meant it, possibly, as a jest, but not as a compliment, and like many of Edward’s insights, it hit the target dead-center. Edmund s
ometimes envied men like his brother and his martyred de Montfort uncle, envied their absolute certainty, the distinctive blacks and whites of their world. He’d heard that some men were born color-blind, unable to distinguish reds and greens. He’d wager, though, that for Edward and Simon, the missing shade would be grey.
He had attempted to argue Llewelyn’s case; perhaps not wholeheartedly, but he had tried. He felt, therefore, that he’d satisfied his sense of fairness, need feel no responsibility for whatever was to follow. The truth was that he had little interest in Wales or the Welsh. These days all of his thoughts were focused upon France. In just a few short months, he was to make the marriage of his dreams.
Blanche d’Artois was his kinswoman, for like him, she was a first cousin of Philippe, the French King. She was also the widow of Henry, King of Navarre and Count of Champagne. And she was beautiful. No man could ask for more, a wife who’d bring the riches of Champagne to his coffers and passion to his bed. She was fertile, too, having borne a healthy daughter for her late husband, and an infant son who’d died in a tragic accident. Edmund did not doubt that she’d soon give him a son and heir. He did hope, though, that she’d not be as fertile as Ned’s Queen. Poor Eleanora seemed to conceive if she got within five feet of Ned; eight children in the past twelve years and another one due any day. But they were frail little bairns, five buried already, and their only surviving son, Alfonso, was a sickly lad. Alfonso, named after Eleanora’s brother, the King of Castile. A queer name, though, for a future King of England! No, better that his Blanche was not quite so fecund, for more women died in childbirth than did men in battles. He’d lost one wife already, Aveline, dead of a fever at fifteen. He’d not loved Aveline, but he thought it would be very easy to love Blanche, Blanche with her great dark eyes, her smooth, soft skin and impish humor, her bountiful estates.
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