The Reckoning

by Sharon Kay Penman

  Never had Llewelyn missed Tudur so much as when he rode through the gateway of Rhuddlan Castle. His men shared his tension, and they were unusually silent, uncommonly subdued as they dismounted in the bailey, hands never straying far from sword hilts, eyes never straying far from their Prince. They were all anticipating trouble, were just not sure what form it would take.

  But right from the outset, nothing went as expected. The first surprise was the relaxed mood of the castle garrison; if Edward and Llewelyn were indeed on a collision course, no one had bothered to warn them of that fact. The second surprise was the identity of the man emerging from the hall to bid Llewelyn welcome; Edmund had passed most of the year in France, and word had not gotten out yet of his return. His cordial greeting was not in itself a surprise, for he’d always been on friendly terms with Llewelyn. But his message was most surprising: Edward wanted Llewelyn to join him in the stables.

  Powys was celebrated for its fast, spirited horses, and Llewelyn knew at once that the stallion was one of the best of the Powys breed, for it had the broad chest, the long fetlocks, and lengthy flanks that a knowledgeable horseman looked for and did not often find. Its coat was a deep, dappled grey, its tail a swirl of purest silver; it would have been an extremely handsome animal were it not in such obvious discomfort. The silver tail was switching ceaselessly, its withers were streaked with sweat, and it kept striking upward with a hind foot, as if trying to reach its belly.

  As Llewelyn drew near, Edward emerged from the stall. “Good, you’re here,” he said, with the disdainful disregard for protocol that only the very powerful could afford. “This is my new Welsh palfrey. I dare not tell you what he cost me, for you’d think me an utter fool, since it now seems that I might lose him. Will you take a look?”

  “Did this come upon him suddenly?” As Edward nodded, Llewelyn moved into the stall, speaking softly and soothingly until the stallion accepted his presence. After gently palpitating the animal’s belly, he ran his hand along each of its legs, and then felt the twitching ears. Straightening up, he said succinctly, “Colic.”

  “I thought so, too, but my head groom fears it could be an inflammation of the bowels. And I need not tell you that if he’s right, we might as well start digging the grave.”

  “He’s not. If he were, the belly would be tender, and the ears and legs would be cold. What have you been doing for him so far?”

  “We gave him a drench of hot water mixed with ginger, and then linseed oil. They insist I ought to bleed him, but to tell you true, I’ve never thought that does as much good as men claim.”

  Edward’s views on bleeding verged on the heretical, but Llewelyn happened to be another such heretic, and as their eyes met over the stallion’s back, they shared an unexpected flash of empathy, one that had nothing whatsoever to do with crowns or conquest, a moment in which they were just two men in a stable, united in a common concern for a suffering stallion. When Llewelyn suggested they try a hot bran poultice, Edward said he’d already ordered it, and Llewelyn nodded approvingly, one horseman to another.

  After giving the groom strict instructions to bring him hourly reports on the stallion’s progress and to fetch him straightaway if the palfrey took a turn for the worse, Edward swung the stall door open, and they walked back out into the sunlit bailey.

  “I have to admit,” Edward said, “that I feel more easy in my own mind now, knowing that you agree it’s colic.” Reaching out, he brushed straw from Llewelyn’s sleeve, surprising the Welshman not so much by the gesture itself as by the casual way he did it, as if they were intimates, not enemies. “I want to thank you,” Edward said, “for your letter of condolence when our baby died. At least she lived long enough to be baptized…”

  “And your Queen…she is well?” Llewelyn felt a genuine sympathy for Eleanora, who’d now borne Edward eleven children, and buried seven.

  “Eleanora is a very strong woman, as is her faith. She knows the ways of the Almighty are mysterious and not for us to question.” After a moment, Edward smiled. “It was a comfort, too, that she conceived again so soon. The babe will be born early next spring, a lucky time for a birthing, I’m told.”

  Even as Llewelyn offered his congratulations, he was puzzling over Edward’s behavior. Why would Edward reveal to him something so very personal?

  “I heard about the death of your Seneschal. He struck me as a man with a keen eye for the truth and no patience with pretense. I’m sure he’ll be missed.”

  Llewelyn agreed. For the life of him, he could not figure what Edward was up to. It made no sense that he should be so friendly, not with Rhodri’s claim leveled at the heart of Gwynedd, a weapon sharp as any sword.

  Edward continued to make easy, offhand conversation as they crossed the bailey, offering to show Llewelyn the downstream site of his new castle, pausing to dispatch a servant to fetch the Queen from the Dominican friary, explaining to Llewelyn that was where he and Eleanora were lodging, expressing the hope that Llewelyn had included a few attorneys in his entourage. “I’d have wagered that Wales had more sheep than lawyers,” he said with a grin, “and I’d have been wrong, for Gruffydd ap Gwenwynwyn rode in yesterday with enough lawyers to sue half the souls in Christendom.”

  By now they’d reached the steps of the great hall, and Edward stopped suddenly, put his hand on the other man’s arm. “Llewelyn, there is something I would say to you ere we go inside…about Rhodri. He had the right to plead his case before my court, and the session is set for the morrow. But I think we’d do better to try to settle this amongst ourselves. Rhodri awaits us above-stairs in the solar. Let’s go up and talk to him. We ought to be able to come to terms, I should think, as long as we are reasonable, willing to compromise.”

  Llewelyn shrugged, said with equal nonchalance, “It is a bad bow that will not bend,” words just as empty and hollow as he knew Edward’s to be. At least he was not to be kept in suspense. Whatever game the English King was playing, it was about to begin.

  Rhodri was pacing restlessly back and forth. At sound of the opening door, he spun around to confront his brother, shoulders squared defiantly, eyes narrowed to suspicious slits, for although he was sure that he at last had the upper hand, he could not stifle an irrational fear that victory might still be snatched away at any moment.

  Llewelyn noted Rhodri’s nervousness, but it was the other man in the solar who drew his attention. Davydd was perched on the edge of a table, looking very much at ease, in decided contrast to their last two meetings. “Let the games begin,” he said breezily. “That is what the Roman emperors said, was it not? Just before they sent the Christians out to convert the lions?”

  “Now why,” Llewelyn said, “am I not surprised to find you here, Davydd?”

  Davydd grinned. “You know me, Llewelyn. I would never miss one of our fond family reunions.”

  “Or a chance to meddle,” Rhodri snapped, and Llewelyn dismissed any lingering suspicions that the two of them might be in collusion.

  A servant had followed them up to the solar, and began now to pour wine. Edward waited until he was done before saying pointedly, “It is going to be difficult to mediate if I cannot understand what is being said. I would suggest that you leave Welsh by the wayside for the rest of the conversation, confine yourself to French or English. Edmund, can you get the door? My lord Rhodri, let’s hear your grievance.”

  “My claim is a simple one, my lord King, and impossible to refute. Welsh law provides for the equal inheritance of all sons. I want my fair share of Gwynedd, want what is mine.”

  “That claim is no longer valid,” Llewelyn said coolly. Drawing a parchment from the pouch at his belt, he unrolled it and handed it to Edward. “I have here a deed in which Rhodri renounced all rights to Gwynedd in return for payment of one thousand marks. As you can see, it is dated at Caer yn Arfon more than six years ago, and that is Rhodri’s signature, Rhodri’s seal.”

  “It is in Latin? Ah, good.” Edward scanned the deed rapidly, but the content
s came as no surprise, for although Rhodri had omitted any mention of it, Davydd had been more forthcoming. Edward wondered just how freely Rhodri had entered into this pact, but he was much more interested in Llewelyn’s motivation. It would seem he had an unease of conscience where his brothers were concerned, else why would he have bothered to redeem Rhodri’s claim? God knows, it was not to eliminate a threat. Glancing up from the deed, Edward gave Rhodri a look of amiable contempt, and then turned his gaze upon Llewelyn. “This does seem to be in order. Lord Rhodri?”

  “I agreed to it because I hoped to wed an Irish heiress, the daughter of John Botillier. But the marriage plans came to naught, and I never received the money.” Rhodri swung back toward Llewelyn, said challengingly, “Why not tell the King how you defaulted on the deal? Tell him how you refused to pay me my thousand marks!”

  “I stopped payment because you rebelled.”

  “I rebelled because you stopped payment!” Rhodri was flushed with rage. “Only God can disinherit a man, and you, for all your accursed ambition and high-flying ways, are not God! You, my lord Prince of Wales, are a vassal of the English King, no more, no less—just as I am!”

  “I owe you nothing, Rhodri. You were not turned out to starve. But what have you ever done to deserve Gwynedd? Do you think it was given to me? I earned whatever I hold, and I have the scars to prove it. I was willing to put Wales first, to fight and bleed for it.” Llewelyn was not even aware that he’d lapsed back into Welsh; in his fury, it came naturally to his tongue, for only Welsh could convey his outrage. “Where were you when I was struggling to keep the English at bay? We both know the answer to that—you were in their camp, on their side. And now you expect me to gut Gwynedd further for you? For you—the English King’s lapdog? I will never agree to that, never!”

  “A very pretty speech, but that is all it is—just words! You seem to have forgotten that you are no longer the king of your own little dunghill. You’ll give me what I want, for the English King will give you no choice!”

  Edward and Edmund had been riveted by the intensity of the exchange, even without understanding a word of it. But now Edward said impatiently, “Enough!” Glancing toward Davydd, he demanded, “What did they say?”

  Davydd had yet to take his eyes from his brothers. “Llewelyn expressed his reluctance to partition Gwynedd any further. And Rhodri declared his faith in English justice.”

  There was a moment’s silence, and then Llewelyn gave an abrupt, involuntary laugh, turned aside to pick up his wine cup. Edward looked at him, then back at Davydd, beginning to think that nothing was as it seemed in Wales. What could have been more simple than a blood-feud between brothers? Davydd, the aggrieved, the resentful one, an ideal ally for the English Crown. And Llewelyn, the ruthless one, the victor. So simple…or was it?

  “For all I care, you can shout at each other from now till Judgment Day. But not in Welsh! Actually, I think I can resolve this right quickly, if given half a chance.”

  “Do you?” Llewelyn said softly. “Do you, indeed?”

  “Yes, I do. It is rather simple, in truth. We have the answer at hand—here,” Edward said, holding up the deed. “What say you, Llewelyn? Are you willing to abide by its terms, to pay Rhodri the thousand marks?”

  Llewelyn was trying to master his shock. “Yes,” he said warily, unable to believe Edward was taking his side, “I am willing.”

  Rhodri was even more stunned. “Well, I am not! I do not want the money, I want the lands!”

  “You may, of course, make that argument tomorrow before my court.” Edward leaned back in his chair, watching Rhodri over the rim of his wine cup. “But I would offer you some advice. When you cannot get what you want, it is wiser sometimes to want what you can get.”

  Rhodri was mute, so enraged and dumfounded and disappointed that he feared he might choke upon it. His throat had closed up; each breath he drew hurt. “What proof would I have that I’d get so much as a farthing? What reason do I have to trust his word?”

  Edward glanced toward Llewelyn. “Can you provide sureties for payment?”

  “Yes,” Llewelyn said grudgingly, giving Rhodri a look that all but seared the air between them, “I will provide sureties.” But then, prompted by an impulse he could not explain even to himself, he said, “What about you, Davydd? Do you want to act as a pledge for my good faith?”

  If he’d meant to startle Davydd, he’d succeeded. But if his intention was to discomfit his brother, he’d failed. As their eyes met, Davydd grinned. “Why not? We might as well keep it in the family.”

  “A right fine pairing,” Rhodri said acidly, “for your word is as worthless as his!”

  “Did you always whine so much back when we were lads?” Davydd asked, still with a smile. “If so, little wonder my memories of you are so dim. I must have blotted them out in sheer self-defense.”

  Llewelyn had long known that Davydd had an uncanny knack for hitting where it would hurt the most; he bore enough scars of his own to testify to that. But he doubted that Davydd had meant to draw this much blood, for Rhodri lost color so fast that he looked suddenly ill, and then, murderous. The Welsh came tumbling out as if escaping, engulfing them in an outpouring of embittered, venomous invective that needed no translation, that seemed to echo in the air even after Rhodri whirled toward the door, slammed it resoundingly behind him.

  Davydd slid off the table, setting down his wine cup. “Ere you ask,” he said to Edward, “Rhodri urged the Almighty to smite me with leprosy, to shrivel my crops in the fields and bedchamber, to curse my name down through the ages, and I might be mistaken, but he may have thrown in something about Llewelyn and snakes. Now…if the afternoon’s entertainment is done up here, I think I’ll go back to the hall. I’m sure I can find some way to amuse myself: see how long it takes to bait Gloucester into a foaming frenzy, tell Clifford what I heard de Mortimer say about that haughty French wife of his… The possibilities are endless.”

  Davydd was talking too fast, trying a little too hard to be clever, and Llewelyn caught it, saw that Edward had not. But then, he had a distinct advantage over Edward, had a lifetime’s experience in trying to read Davydd’s mercurial moods—for all the good it had ever done him. He looked at his brother, and, against his will, he found himself remembering the night that forever changed things between them, the night when Davydd had laughed and joked and lied, all the while expecting him to be dead before dawn.

  Davydd was half-way to the door when Edward stopped him. “Do not go just yet, Davydd. First let’s drink to your good fortune. Did he tell you, Llewelyn? My cousin Elizabeth has borne him a son.”

  Llewelyn had never known before how powerful an emotion envy could be. The impact was physical, a blow that he’d not been braced to withstand, for he’d not expected to feel like this—cheated. He did not like the feeling; envy was a petty emotion, a sin too shameful to admit. With an effort, he shook it off, retreating behind the impenetrable shield of courtesy, and offered Davydd his congratulations. “You both must be very thankful,” he said evenly, “for a man’s first son is indeed a blessing from God. Tell Elizabeth how pleased I am for her. What did you name the lad? Gruffydd, after our father?”

  Davydd hesitated, and an enigmatic, guarded look crossed his face. He smiled then, but the smile, too, had an odd edge to it, was both defensive and defiant, with a hint of his familiar mockery. “No,” he said, “as it happens, I named him Llewelyn,” and watched, still with that twisted smile, as his brother choked on his drink.

  It was quiet after Davydd departed the solar. Edward finished the last of his wine, watching Llewelyn intently all the while. “You expected me to back Rhodri’s claim,” he said abruptly, almost accusingly. “You could have spared yourself a great deal of anxiety had you only remembered that I swore to defend your possession of Gwynedd against all others. Why would that not include Rhodri? Sooner or later, you are going to have to learn to trust me, Llewelyn.”

  Llewelyn looked at the younger man for a
long moment. “I would find it easier to rely upon your good faith,” he said, “if you were not still holding my wife at Windsor.”

  Edmund drew an audible breath, swiveling toward his brother. But Edward seemed unperturbed. “You need not fret, Edmund,” he said. “I did not take offense. We cannot in fairness blame the man for wanting his wife.” Edward then looked again at Llewelyn. “I understand your impatience. But you have to understand that I promised Ellen I’d give her a court wedding, and that takes time.”

  Llewelyn surprised himself; he somehow refrained from pointing out that in the eight months since he’d done homage, they could have married off half of Wales. “I have a suggestion to make. I never knew any bowman who did not need a target to aim for. Let’s aim for one then, give your wedding planners the proper incentive. Since Ellen and I are already wed, we need not wait to post the banns. So…why not a fortnight from now, in Michaelmas week?”

  “Well… I am not adverse to picking a date. But I have a better one in mind than that. What could be a more propitious day for a wedding than St Edward’s Day?”

  “October thirteenth? This October thirteenth?”

  Edward grinned. “Yes, this October thirteenth! There may be a more suspicious soul than you walking God’s green earth, but if so, I hope to Christ I never meet him! I’m making all the arrangements, assuming all the costs, taking care of everything. All I ask is that you be at the church on time, that you do not leave my little cousin stranded at the altar.”