He had come to Aberconwy as much for this as for Rhys ap Gruffydd, for here were buried the dead of his House. His grandfather’s sepulchre had been given the place of greatest honor, close to the High Altar. Nearby lay his sons, united in death as never they’d been in life. Davydd, the half-English son, Joanna’s son, his heir, who’d died before his time. Llewelyn’s own father, Gruffydd, the son fated to play Absalom to his sire’s David, who’d died in a plunging fall from the uppermost chamber in the Tower of London’s great keep. They were all many years dead. Llewelyn had been twelve when the grandfather he’d so loved had gone to God, sixteen when his father’s escape attempt failed, and not yet eighteen when his uncle died suddenly at thirty-seven, bequeathing to Llewelyn and his elder brother Owain a land at war with England.
Footsteps sounded in the nave. As the Abbot paused by the rood screen, his gaze fell upon the impressive marble tomb of Llewelyn Fawr, and it occurred to him that history truly did repeat itself, just as men claimed, for these dead Welsh Princes had also been damned by compliant Popes. Thinking there might be comfort for Llewelyn in that, he said, “Your grandfather was excommunicated, too, was he not?”
“Indeed he was, fully three times.” Llewelyn smiled as an old memory surfaced. “I remember him joking that he ought to have a turnstile installed in his private chapel. That was always his way; he found few troubles so great that they could not be laughed at. Never have I known a man so free of doubts. He truly could not conceive of defeat. Delays and setbacks, but not defeat. Even death did not daunt him. As he lay dying, he was joking that he must make haste about it, lest he keep his wife, Joanna, waiting. I did not understand, for I was just a lad, and loath to lose him. I demanded to know how he could jest even about death. I’ve never forgotten his answer. He said simply, ‘What other way is there?’”
“Mayhap he could not conceive of defeat, but he knew it, nonetheless,” Tudur said, moving into the torchlight. “It was right here at this abbey that he was forced to make an abject surrender to England’s King John, forced to give up his own son, your father, as a hostage. Just as his son Davydd was compelled to yield to John’s son thirty years later, almost to the very day.”
“What are you saying, Tudur?” Llewelyn sounded amused. “That in losing to Edward, I would merely be upholding an old family tradition?”
Tudur gave a snort of abashed laughter. “I must be more tired than I thought. You do not usually read me so easily!”
Llewelyn grinned. “Yes, I do. I just do not always let you know it!”
Maredudd was bemused by their bantering. “How can the two of you be joking, now of all times?”
They both laughed at that. “Because,” Tudur said wryly, “the Welsh are always at their best when things are at their worst.”
“And,” Llewelyn added, just as dryly, “things are so often at their worst that we get plenty of practice in staving off disaster.” But he was not surprised when Maredudd still looked uncomprehending, for what could a monk know of soldiers’ secrets, or battlefield bravado and gallows humor?
“It is an odd thing, Maredudd,” he said, “but sometimes it is almost a relief to have the worst happen, to have the waiting done…at last. Can you understand that?”
Maredudd nodded. “Do you see no hope at all then?” he asked quietly, and was startled when Llewelyn responded with an explosive oath.
“Christ’s Blood, Maredudd, of course I have hope! I’m still breathing, am I not? Rhys ap Gruffydd is a misbegotten malcontent, not a soothsayer. You need not instruct the bards to begin my eulogy because Rhys claims I am doomed! We still have a chance to stave off disaster again. Edward might be rash enough to follow me into the heights of Eryri. And even if he does keep to the coast, we may be able to wait him out. He will need vast amounts of food to feed that vast army of his. Hunger has sent more than one English king reeling back across the border. Then, too, the Almighty might send the autumn rains early this year, or even better, an early snow. Only a fool would dare attempt a winter campaign in Wales, and Edward Plantagenet is no man’s fool.”
Llewelyn had moved back to his grandfather’s tomb, stood looking down at the red and gold enameled lions, a heraldic device he’d adopted as his own, just as he’d adopted Llewelyn Fawr’s ambitious dream, that of a united, independent Wales. He’d never begrudged the cost, was not about to start now.
“So you see,” he said, “the outcome of this war is still very much in God’s Hands.” He paused, then concluded with a gleam of very grim humor, “I only wish I could rid myself of an unsettling suspicion, one that comes too readily to mind whenever I think of our land’s never-ending troubles—that God just might be English!”
19
Basingwerk Abbey, Wales
August 1277
Edward set up his headquarters at the abbey of the Blessed Virgin Mary in mid-July, at once began construction of a castle at the mouth of the River Dee. As soldiers stood guard, workmen began to dig a deep, defensive ditch. Others were dispatched to build a road along the Welsh coast. By month’s end, more than two thousand axemen, carpenters, masons, blacksmiths, quarrymen, hod carriers, and charcoal burners were laboring on the King’s behalf, and, as they hacked and burned their way through the ancient oak forests that had for so many centuries repelled foreign invaders, it was as if the very landscape of Wales was under assault.
The day was promising scorching heat, for already the sky had taken on a brittle blue-white glaze that put Edward in mind of the sun-bleached sky over Acre. He tilted his head, but could see nary a cloud. So dry had the summer been in this land of lingering mist and iridescent rain that it seemed to Edward’s army that even the Almighty was on his side; Edward himself had no doubts whatsoever about that. He took one last approving look at that barren, cloud-free blue above his head, then moved into the shadows of the Chapter House.
The high stone ceiling deflected some of the heat, and as he stepped across the threshold, Edward felt a welcome rush of cooler air upon his face. He was late, his council already assembled. The men lounging on the uncomfortably austere monastery benches leapt to their feet at sight of him, but he waved them back. Striding toward the huge central pillar, he paused for a moment, looking out upon his audience.
They were all here, the premier lords of his realm. John Beauchamp, the Earl of Warwick, who’d had the unenviable task of keeping Davydd ap Gruffydd in good humor. Roger de Mortimer, just come up from Montgomery, and Edmund, his son, whose career in the Church had been aborted by his elder brother’s untimely death. Gilbert de Clare, the temperamental Earl of Gloucester, and the unpopular William de Lusignan, King’s uncle and Earl of Pembroke. Humphrey de Bohun, the young Earl of Hereford, and Edward’s de Warenne cousin, the Earl of Surrey. Otto de Grandison, Burgundian nobleman and King’s friend. The Marcher lords, Roger Lestrange and Roger Clifford. John Giffard, a de Montfort partisan who’d been one of the first to abandon the Earl and his doomed cause, ambitious, ruthless, and remarkably able. Bogo de Knovill, the tough, battle-tested sheriff of Shropshire. Reginald de Grey, one-time Justiciar of Chester, a man even more detested by the Welsh than Pembroke. And three men whose presence here gave Edward considerable satisfaction, for all three—Nicholas Segrave, Baldwin Wake, and John d’Eyvill—had been the sworn men of Simon de Montfort, unreconstructed rebels even after Evesham, now dutiful vassals, proving by their compliance that he was not a monarch to be defied with impunity, like his unhappy father, but one to be feared and respected and obeyed, for Edward had never made Henry’s mistake, had never been so naive as to believe a king ought to be loved.
As his eyes swept their ranks, a frown began to form. “Where is Davydd ap Gruffydd?”
“Here, my liege, hanging upon your every word.” Turning toward the sound of Davydd’s voice, Edward saw that the Welsh Prince had ensconced himself in one of the recessed window-seats, lolling back upon cushions, a flagon at his elbow. Edward wondered idly where he’d found cushions in this monk’s lair, wondered, too
, if he’d bothered to rise with the other men; probably not. But he looked so lazily content that Edward smiled in spite of himself. As vexing as Davydd could be, the challenge of reining him in and breaking him to the royal will was one Edward relished.
“Try not to doze off,” he said archly, “for I’ve a matter to discuss that will actively engage your self-interest. But first, I have news to share. A courier has arrived from my brother. Edmund’s army has reached Aberystwyth, and he has begun construction of a new castle for the Crown.”
There were pleased murmurs at that. Edward waited until they subsided. “I also have had word from Stephen de Penecestre, the Warden of the Cinque Ports. The fleet is under sail, will be at the mouth of the River Clwyd within a fortnight. Eighteen ships, with another seven to join us next month.”
De Mortimer had arrived at Basingwerk Abbey only the day before, and was not conversant, therefore, with Edward’s naval strategy. “Why so many ships? You could enforce your embargo with half that number.”
“I mean to put them to better use than merely patrolling the Menai Straits, Roger. I mean to land an army upon Anglesey. What do you Welsh call that island, Davydd—Môn? For those of you who are not Marchers, Anglesey is the only fertile, flat land in all of Gwynedd, and harvest time draws nigh.” Edward’s smile was grim. “Llewelyn hopes to starve us out, the way Welsh princes have always done. But no English king ever had twenty-five ships at his command—until now, and the prideful Prince of Wales is about to learn that hunger can stalk Welsh encampments, too.”
Turning back toward Davydd, Edward nodded to Anthony Bek, his clerk. The priest produced a parchment roll, carried it across the chamber, and handed it to Davydd. “A belated birthday gift for the new Lord of Snowdon,” Edward said, with another smile, and Davydd sat up suddenly, for the title “Lord of Eryri” was one that belonged to the royal House of Gwynedd.
“Whilst my lord Davydd reads the grant, I shall tell the rest of you what it encompasses. I have promised to vest Davydd and his elder brother Owain in one-half of Gwynedd west of the River Conwy, the other half to remain in the control of the Crown. Should I decide, however, to retain the entire isle of Anglesey, Davydd and Owain shall then divide up all of Gwynedd beyond the Conwy. The four Welsh cantrefs east of the Conwy shall be Crown lands again, as they were in those years between the death of Llewelyn Fawr and the rise to power of Llewelyn ap Gruffydd.”
Edward paused to see if anyone wished to comment; no man did. Theirs was the silence, though, of prudence, not approval. The Marcher lords in particular looked disgruntled, and with reason, for this grant would forever alter the balance of power in Wales, making the King of England the greatest Marcher lord of all. Edward was not surprised by their conspicuous lack of enthusiasm, for the Marchers defended their prerogatives with the passion that other men expended upon women, and were, indeed, no less suspicious of the Crown’s intent than the Welsh themselves. But Edward had known they would acquiesce, however little they liked it, for they were slowly learning that a new day had dawned in their dealings with their King.
What did surprise Edward, though, was Davydd’s continuing silence. He was still studying the document, his face hidden; Edward could see only a thick thatch of hair, reddish-brown where the sunlight struck it, dark in the shadows. “Well?” he demanded, only partly in jest. “I’ve just offered you half of a kingdom, for Christ’s pity! Have you nothing to say? I should think a ‘thank you’ would be in order at the very least!”
Davydd’s head came up at that, but his face revealed nothing. “Words fail me, Your Grace,” he said, and in his voice, too, there was no emotion.
“Let it last, O Lord, let it last,” Roger de Mortimer muttered, an aside meant to be heard, evoking laughter.
Davydd did not take the bait, did not even glance in the other man’s direction. Looking down again at the parchment roll, it occurred to him that he was holding Llewelyn’s death warrant, and, without warning, he found himself assailed by memory, so strong and so vivid that it seemed to blur time’s boundaries. For a split-second, he was no longer in the Chapter House of the Cistercian abbey at Basingwerk. He was sixteen, riding again at Owain’s side as they led their army into Llewelyn’s lands, and the voice echoing in his ears was his own:
“Shall we leave nothing to Llewelyn, then?”
Owain’s answer, coming back as if it were yesterday, as if those twenty-some intervening years had never been. “I’d leave him enough ground to be buried in.”
His own cry, one of genuine shock, “I do not want Llewelyn killed!”
Owain reining in then, saying gravely, “I thought you wanted this, lad. I thought you wanted what was rightfully yours.”
And his answer, “I do!”
He still did. And by God, why not? It was his birthright, a claim validated by Welsh law, the Welsh law Llewelyn flouted. Now Edward was promising to restore part of his lost patrimony. But not because it was his just due, as a son of Gruffydd ap Llewelyn. No…this was a bribe for betrayal, coming in the guise of royal largesse, as if the English King had a God-given right to apportion out Wales as he pleased. Half of Gwynedd…if and only if Edward claimed Môn, Gwynedd’s granary. Could the Welsh survive such a loss? And what of the forfeit lands east of the Conwy? Welsh cantrefs to be transformed overnight into English shires, a feat worthy of Merlin. No, not half of Gwynedd, the bleeding scraps left over once the dismemberment was done. And yet still more than he had now, than Llewelyn had ever offered him. It was what he wanted, what he’d craved as long as he could remember, at last within reach. But on Edward’s terms. He was to hold his Welsh lands at the English King’s will. He and Owain were to come to the English parliaments when summoned, “as our other earls and barons come.” English earls and barons. An English earldom with Welsh trappings, that was what he was truly being offered.
Davydd raised his eyes from the parchment, met Edward’s gaze. “What of my brother Rhodri?”
“What of him?” Edward shrugged, then grinned. “What was it you said about him? Ah, yes…that men would not follow Rhodri out of a burning building!”
There was more laughter at that. Davydd did not join in, for once regretting his sharp tongue, his penchant for saying whatever came into his head, never counting the cost. He did not repent the cruel honesty of his gibe, only that it had been offered for English ears, English amusement.
But Edward was waiting for his response, looking expectant, pleased, and somewhat impatient. Davydd got to his feet, crossed the chamber, and thanked the English King for showing him such favor. He could be quite convincing when he chose, and Edward was not disposed to doubt him, for who would not be overjoyed at the offer of a crown? Only one man present sensed something discordant in Davydd’s reaction. His quiet expression of gratitude just did not ring true to his de Mortimer cousin; that wasn’t Davydd’s style. But although suspicion came easily to Roger, in this case answers did not. For the life of him, he could not understand why Davydd was not triumphant.
Davydd could not understand it, either. He’d always known that Edward would demand a high price for his help; there were very real risks in taking the King of England as an ally. Edward’s ally? Or his dupe? Davydd came to an abrupt halt on the cloister path. Christ, now he was beginning to sound like Llewelyn, even to himself
Those would have been Llewelyn’s very words, though. Edward’s dupe. He could well imagine the scornful sound of them, the disdainful tone, Almighty God talking down to mere mortals, to feckless younger brothers. Well, death stilled the most insistent voice, even Llewelyn’s.
Cistercian abbeys were meant to be havens of calm, spiritual sanctuaries untouched by the turmoil and chaos of the real world. But such cloistered serenity could not withstand the arrival of a royal army; reality had intruded with a vengeance, penetrating into every quiet corner of their earthly refuge. As he stood in the sunlight of the inner garth, there came to Davydd a cacophony of sound, raucous, strident, assailing his ears, grating upon his nerv
es.
Many of Edward’s workmen and men-at-arms were camped three miles away, at the site of the new castle, already christened “Flynt” by Edward. Others had pushed on toward Rhuddlan. For more than two hundred years, a castle had guarded the mouth of the River Clwyd, Welsh or English, depending upon the ebb and flow of border warfare. Llewelyn had held Rhuddlan since 1263, but now it was back in English hands. Edward’s ambitions were not about to be satisfied, though, by such a simple motte and bailey structure; he’d begun to draw up plans for a new castle downstream.
Yet a third castle was to be erected farther upstream at Ruthin, but it was Rhuddlan that preyed upon Davydd’s peace; he’d been astounded by the sheer magnitude of Edward’s undertaking. Not only would the castle itself be the most formidable stronghold in all of North Wales, Edward even meant to divert the course of the River Clwyd, meandering and shallow as it neared the sea. Davydd had listened, stunned, as Edward explained how he would dig a two-mile channel, deep enough for English ships. The garrison could never be starved out then, he said, could outlast any Welsh siege, and Davydd, nodding numbed agreement, knew then and there that his brother was doomed. How could Llewelyn hope to repel an enemy able to impose his will upon the very rivers of their land?
He heard now the shouts that heralded the arrival of the expected supply carts, loaded with crossbow bolts, limestone, pickaxes and chisels and saws and hammers, thick sides of bacon and sacks of flour and salt, plus five barrels full of silver pennies, pay for the men aiding and abetting the English King’s conquest of Wales.
A goodly portion of those men were Welsh, too. He ought not to forget that. He was not the only Welshman to side with the Crown against Llewelyn. Their numbers were legion, some motivated by the money, others aggrieved by Llewelyn’s high-handed ways. But had any of them truly considered the consequences of an English victory? Had they thought what life might be like under Edward’s rule? Llewelyn had, for certes. “Edward is a crusader King. He’d open the flood-gates to English settlers, charter English towns on Welsh soil, turn Gwynedd into an English shire.” Davydd’s mouth twisted down. One conscience was burden enough for any sensible man. Why was he of a sudden accursed with two, his own and his brother’s?
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