It was their silence that brought him back to his senses, to the reluctant realization that he was somehow in the wrong. “I am sorry,” he said, not very convincingly, for he’d not had much practice at apologies. “I should have knocked.”
“Yes,” Llewelyn said, “you should have.”
Edward was so astonished that anyone would dare to criticize the manners of the King that he forbore to take offense. He supposed he could not fairly blame the Welshman for being a bit churlish; in truth, he’d not have taken it with good grace either, had he been in Llewelyn’s place.
By now, Ellen had managed to reorient herself, had adjusted her gown to make sure she was not showing Edward what was for Llewelyn’s eyes only. But she had not drawn away from Llewelyn, had deliberately moved closer, in fact, and when he put his arm around her shoulders, she leaned back against him, then smiled at Edward. “You wanted something, Ned?”
“Edmund and Blanche are down in the great hall. I thought you might like to surprise them.” Edward was slowly beginning to see some humor in the situation, and he added, “It seems to be a day for surprises. Shall I send up your maid to you, Ellen?”
“Oh, you mean this?” she said, running her hand through that wild, coppery mane. “Thank you, but that will not be necessary. I’m sure my husband can help make me presentable.”
“As you wish,” Edward agreed, torn between amusement and annoyance at the emergence of this new Ellen. “When will you be ready?”
“Thursday,” Llewelyn suggested, so laconically that Edward took it as a joke and laughed.
“We will await you then, down in the hall.” As he moved toward the door, Edward began to laugh again. “I am going to have to learn the Welsh art of seduction, for certes. And to think I once thought that when it came to courting, Davydd was the quick one!”
Ellen could feel the muscles of Llewelyn’s arm contract under her hand, and she was relieved when he kept silent. As soon as they were alone, she reached up, touched his cheek. “You need not be angry on my behalf, love. Ned can tell the entire court, and I’d not care. You are my husband, and what happens between us is not cause for shame.”
Llewelyn tightened his arm around her, drawing her in against his chest. It was clear to him that she did not understand the significance of what had just occurred, or the probable consequences, but he could not bring himself to burden her with more cares. Smoothing her hair back over her shoulders, he kissed the corner of her mouth. “In truth, cariad, I am angry with myself, too, for it is folly to keep stoking a fire when there is no means at hand of quenching it. I may have cheated you of a courtship and a lavish wedding, but at the very least, I ought to provide a marriage bed.”
She laughed softly. “It is rather like being drunk, is it not?”
He grinned, thinking she spoke truer than she knew, and got reluctantly to his feet, got them both away from the tempting proximity of that cushioned window-seat. “You go to my head, Ellen, not to mention those body parts farther south. Being alone with you is going to put severe demands upon my self-control.” And although he said it as a joke, he knew it was not.
Ellen gave him a look of such yearning that he could feel his treacherous body already rebelling. “There is an easy answer to that,” she said. “Tomorrow we bolt the door.”
Llewelyn could only marvel at the mysterious ways of the Almighty. His world in charred ruins about him, a lifetime’s efforts set at naught, and suddenly this remarkable woman, this bond that went beyond a fever of the flesh. “No, cariad,” he said gently, “we cannot.”
“Why not? Why should we wait for Edward’s court wedding? That is a misguided generosity on his part, for we are man and wife in the eyes of God and Christendom. I have been your bride for two years, Llewelyn, but I want to be your wife. How can that be wrong?”
“It is not wrong, Ellen, but it is dangerous.” He saw she still did not comprehend. “We cannot risk laying together until you are free, for we cannot risk giving the English Crown two hostages for the price of one. What if you got with child?”
“Oh, God…” Ellen was shaken. “What a fool I am!” The thought of delivering her child, Llewelyn’s heir, into Edward’s power was so horrifying to her that she shuddered, and Llewelyn pulled her into a close embrace. Looking up into his face, she said, “I thought that if only we could meet, the separation would be more bearable. But it is not going to be easier at all, is it? It is going to be even harder now to abide being apart, to keep faith.”
She sounded desperately unhappy, she who’d been joyous but moments before. “I know,” he said. “In the past, I was counting the days till you were freed. Now I’ll be counting the nights, too.”
As he’d hoped, that coaxed a smile. “So will I,” she said, with a fervency that was only partially exaggerated for comic effect, “oh, indeed, so will I.” But she had an idea then, and fumbling in the bodice of her gown, she drew out a man’s ring looped upon a beaten gold chain.
“So that is what I felt,” Llewelyn said, and she gave him another smile, this one bright and bewitching and hot enough to singe his good intentions.
“This is my father’s ring, never off his finger until he rode out to die on Evesham’s bloody field. It became my mother’s most cherished keepsake, and on her deathbed, she bequeathed it to my brother Amaury. I in turn promised that I’d hold it for him, keep it safe until he regains his freedom. I want you to wear it, Llewelyn, and each time you look at it, think of me and know that we’ll soon be together in Wales.”
“I shall guard it well, cariad,” he said, “and return it to you upon our wedding night.” He kissed her then, long and hard, for never had their wedding night, their life together, seemed so far out of reach. It was no longer a matter of honor, of marital vows and injured pride. There was just one woman now in all of Christendom whom he wanted, whom he had to have, no matter the cost. But God help them both, for Edward now knew that, too.
22
Windsor Castle, England
January 1278
The sky was still shrouded at noon, for the rain had yet to slacken, a stinging, icy rain that spilled steadily from clouds thick enough to smother the sun, threatening to blot out the light for days to come. As she stared down into the dismal, deserted quagmire of the middle bailey, Ellen found it easy to believe that the rain could go on like this till spring.
She had been sitting in the window-seat for hours, heedless of the chill and damp and Juliana’s futile attempts at cheer. Juliana had never seen her moods swing so wildly as in these days after her return to Windsor; she was either in euphoria or despair, sometimes within the span of the same hour. Juliana was still adjusting to the change; it was a revelation that the even-tempered Ellen could be just as volatile as her high-strung mother. But Juliana needed no doctor to diagnose Ellen’s ailment, for it was evident to her that Ellen was smitten with her own husband. And remembering her sweet, stolen moments with Bran, Juliana was both thankful and envious that Ellen was to have so much more, a lifetime more—if Edward could be trusted to keep faith.
Juliana was about to propose a chess game in another effort to raise Ellen’s spirits. But Sir Nicholas de Seyton spared her the trouble. Drenched to the skin by his dash across the bailey, he dripped his way toward the hearth, and between sneezes, announced that the Lady Ellen had a visitor, one sanctioned by the King.
The unexpected guest was just as rain-soaked as Sir Nicholas, but he did not seem to mind it as much. He looked surprisingly cheerful for a man so mud-splattered, and immediately made a favorable impression upon Juliana, who liked his slanting dark eyes and cleft chin, and could not help noticing, too, his compact, sturdy build. All that Ellen saw, though, was that he was clean-shaven. “You are Welsh!”
“Indeed I am,” he confirmed, stroking his telltale mustache. Striding over to kiss her hand, he gave her an appraising look, and then, a boyish, summertime smile. “I am Goronwy ap Heilyn, my lady, and I have been sent by my lord Prince to speak with you—in
private,” he added pointedly.
“That was deftly done,” Ellen said approvingly as soon as Sir Nicholas withdrew. “You do know how to get your own way, I can see that. But come over by the fire ere you catch a chill. Juliana, do we have any wine?”
Goronwy was amused. “I came only from London, my lady, not the Holy Land, and if there are any folk in Christendom inured to rain, for certes it is the Welsh. My lord has good news for you. On the Friday eve after Christmas, the Countess of Lancaster gave birth to a son.”
“That is indeed good news. Blanche and the babe are both well?”
He nodded. “They christened him Thomas, after the holy martyr, Becket. Nor is that all. What I have to tell you now, my lady, will be even more welcome. The English King has agreed to turn your brother over to the Archbishop of Canterbury and the Bishops of Worcester and Exeter—Ah, no, my lady, Lord Amaury has not been set free! But he will now be held in the more merciful custody of the Church, and will soon be transferred from Corfe to the Lord Edmund’s castle at Sherborne—”
He got no further. Ellen had whirled and flung her arms around Juliana. To Goronwy’s delight, she embraced him next, laughing and smearing lip rouge across his cheek, and Goronwy, who’d doubted that any mortal woman was truly good enough for his Prince, decided that mayhap this one would do well enough.
“Thank God Almighty, thank the Lord Jesus and the Blessed Mary and all the saints! You do not know, Lord Goronwy, two years at Corfe Castle, two years penned up in that hellhole…”
“I do know, my lady,” he said softly. “You see, I was once a hostage of the English Crown, too. No one can give your brother back those two years, but at least he’ll have some comfort at Sherborne. Now… I have something else likely to be of interest to you.” Smiling, he drew forth from under his sodden mantle a parchment threaded through with braided red cord and sealed with green wax.
Ellen could not hide her eagerness, all but snatched the letter from his hand. “Would you think me very rude if I read it now?”
He shook his head and grinned, for she was already retreating toward the window-seat, pausing only long enough to grab a wick lamp. Accepting a wine cup from Juliana, Goronwy watched with alert interest as Ellen read her husband’s love letter. That it was a love letter, he did not doubt, for the soft curve of Ellen’s mouth and the color in her cheeks testified to its contents without need of words. It intrigued Goronwy to discover that the man he’d fought beside and drunk with and would, if need be, die for was not so different, after all, from other men, not when it came to love and lust and those secrets to be shared only with women, only in bed.
Ellen read Llewelyn’s letter twice, knowing she would soon have every word committed to memory. “He wanted to bid me farewell,” she said at last, more for Juliana’s benefit than Goronwy’s, for he already knew they were soon to depart for Wales. She’d found it almost intolerable this past week, knowing Llewelyn was just twenty miles from Windsor. But Wales was so far away, a world away. “He says that Edward is sending agents of the Crown into Wales, so they may inspect and approve those lands Llewelyn means to assign to me in dower.” She could well imagine how much Llewelyn must have resented that. For herself, she was infuriated that Edward dared to play the role of benevolent guardian while holding her against her will. But soon none of that would matter, very soon now.
“One thing does perplex me, Lord Goronwy,” she confided. “Llewelyn says that Edward is insistent upon giving us a court wedding. But he says nothing of when that wedding is to be. We have less than two months, for there can be no marriages during Lent…”She paused, for the Welshman’s face was an easy one to read. “What is it? What have you kept from me?”
“Lord Llewelyn told me that I was to say nothing—unless you asked. He has no proof, my lady, just suspicions, and he did not want to burden you with them. But he fears that there will be no wedding by Lent, mayhap not for many months.”
“No!” The cry was Juliana’s. Ellen said nothing, just stared at Goronwy with eyes that would haunt him in days to come. “But why?” Again the protest came from Juliana. “It is all settled. Llewelyn has done homage as Edward demanded. What more does he want? Why should he continue to hold Ellen prisoner?”
To Goronwy, the answer was obvious. “To prove that he can,” he said bitterly. Ellen had turned away. Moving back to the window-seat, she stared unseeingly at the clouded window pane. The rain was still coming down in torrents, streaking the glass like tears. But her eyes were dry, for she would not weep. That she had sworn to herself, that Edward would never again make her cry.
“A Prophet is not without honor, save in his own country.” There were times that spring when Llewelyn felt tempted to amend Scriptures, to add: “not until it is too late.” After failing to rally his countrymen in the defense of their homeland, he now found himself forced to listen to their complaints about the English Crown. Men who had seen Edward as the lesser of evils, reasoning that Westminster was much farther away than Aber, were now reaping what they’d sown, having to argue Welsh ways and Welsh customs with haughty English castellans and bailiffs. Men who’d chafed under Llewelyn’s demands now began to make their way to Aber and Dolwyddelan, to pour out their grievances to the man who, for all his willfulness and inflexibility and impatience with dissent, was one of their own.
Llewelyn might have taken a certain ironic amusement in the turnaround, had so much not been at stake. What did it matter if he was proved right, if the forfeit demanded was the loss of Welsh autonomy? He had his own grievances, too. Some of them were wounds to his pride. They were painful, but would heal. Others were likely to fester.
Two of his men had been hanged in the town of Oswestry, in defiance of the King’s safe-conduct, and so far his complaints had gained him no more than a promise to investigate. Edward had appointed seven English and Welsh justices to hear and determine all lawsuits and pleas in the Marches and Wales. To Llewelyn, this was an outrageous encroachment upon Welsh law, upon his own courts. He had no choice, though, but to acquiesce in this further erosion of Welsh sovereignty, even to plead before this alien court himself, for he was involved in a bitter dispute with his old enemy, Gruffydd ap Gwenwynwyn, over the lordship of Arwystli.
Arwystli had long been a source of contention between Powys and Gwynedd, its possession shifting with the fortunes of war. Llewelyn had ousted Gruffydd ap Gwenwynwyn from Arwystli as punishment for his aborted assassination plot, and he was determined to hold on to it, for the upland cantref was strategically vital to the defense of his southern borders. Gruffydd was just as set upon regaining it. Llewelyn was not worried by his challenge, though, for he thought Gruffydd’s argument to be ludicrous in the extreme; Gruffydd contended that he was a baron of the March, a vassal of the English King, and therefore the case ought to be tried in the King’s court under English common law. Since Arwystli was undeniably in Wales, both claimants were Welsh, and the Treaty of Aberconwy itself provided that Welsh law should apply to disputes arising in Wales, Llewelyn did not see how he could not prevail, even in Edward’s court. Yet he did not. Instead, the suit dragged on, and when he protested, he received a brusque reply from the English King, that he was to come before the King’s justices whenever and wherever he was summoned, to receive “what justice shall dictate.” To Llewelyn, that was a barb that lodged near the heart, dripped daily poison into suspicions already raw and inflamed. If Edward was not willing to abide by his own treaty, what would keep him from meddling further in Welsh matters, taking more and more until all the meat was stripped from the bone?
As he tallied up his losses in that summer of God’s Year, 1278, Llewelyn could see naught but troubles ahead. His griefs were not all to be laid at Edward’s door, though. Death claimed the man who’d been his mainstay, his Seneschal, and his friend for ten turbulent years. Tudur had died slowly, in great pain, and Llewelyn could do nothing for him. His passing was, for Tudur, a mercy, for Llewelyn, an amputation. Like a man who still felt phantom pain for
a lost limb, he ached for his other self, for that rarest of God’s blessings, a soulmate.
And then there was Ellen. There was always Ellen. He had braced himself for the worst, or so he’d thought. But even in his most despairing moments, he’d not truly believed that Edward would hold her indefinitely. Yet now it was eight months since he’d done homage at Westminster, and still she languished at Windsor, his wife, Edward’s prisoner.
When Edward wrote that he would be at Rhuddlan Castle in September, Llewelyn’s first reaction was one of relief. He and Gruffydd ap Gwenwynwyn could plead their cases before the King’s court, resolve it once and for all. And he could confront Edward in person, demand that Ellen be released.
But within a fortnight of his summons to Rhuddlan Castle, Llewelyn received a second communication from Edward, this one far more ominous. He’d been half-expecting Davydd to start muddying the waters, to take advantage of his weakened position. When trouble came, though, it came from another quarter, from Rhodri. He had brought suit in Edward’s court for his share of Gwynedd, and Edward was giving formal notice that Llewelyn should be prepared to answer Rhodri’s claim at Rhuddlan in September. He also warned Llewelyn that if he defaulted to Rhodri, royal officers would be sent into Wales to distrain his lands and chattels. Llewelyn could only marvel that he’d been so blind, for what ploy could be more obvious—or more dangerous? He would never agree to rend Gwynedd further, and surely Edward knew that. But when he refused, he would be giving Edward the perfect excuse to keep Ellen in England, mayhap even to renew the war.
In the ten months since the Treaty of Aberconwy, Edward had effected dramatic changes in the Welsh landscape. His castles had taken root like the dragons’ teeth of folklore, formidable strongholds silhouetted against the blue September sky, testifying to the might of England and the indomitable will of its King. Llewelyn had long known of Edward’s plan to divert the flow of the River Clwyd. It still came as a shock, though, to see for himself just how fast the work had progressed; eighteen hundred ditches had been dug, channeling the river into a canal that would wash the walls of Edward’s new castle. But for Llewelyn, the most troubling sight of all was the earthen banks and deep trenches encircling Edward’s new borough, a town on Welsh soil in which no Welsh would be permitted to dwell.
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