The Reckoning

by Sharon Kay Penman

  “I do not see why you are so wrought up about this. Does it truly surprise you that I should want to abolish a dangerous custom, to prevent Llewelyn from giving shelter to my enemies?”

  “I am not objecting to what you demanded of him, but to the way you did it. Christ in Heaven, Ned, how could you go to the man on the very day of his wedding?”

  “What better time than today? When would he be most likely to yield?” Edward looked challengingly at his brother. “And he did yield, did he not? Do not make too much of this, Edmund. I did what I had to do; so did he. What else matters? Now I would… Good God, Edmund, will you look at that? Did you ever see a prettier sight in all your born days?”

  Eleanora and Blanche were laughing at Edward’s playful chivalry, but Edmund agreed with his brother, for they both did look lovely, each in her own way. Tall and stately, Eleanora was exceedingly elegant in a deep purple gown that matched Edward’s tunic, set off by a surcote of lavender fretted with seed pearls. She had the right to wear her hair loose, a privilege permitted only to queens and virgin brides, but she had chosen to conceal her dark hair under a linen barbette and fashionable fillet, so as not to draw attention away from Ellen on her wedding day. Quite a few people had noticed how much Eleanora had thawed toward Ellen as the date drew near for her departure into Wales. Blanche did not have Eleanora’s advantage of height, but she was still likely to turn heads, too, for her tastes were less traditional, more flamboyant, than Eleanora’s, and she was clad in a daring new Italian style. Her gown was cut conventionally, a royal shade of blue belted at the waist, but her surcote of burnt-orange velvet reached only to her knees, flaunted an exotic, uneven hem.

  “If you think we look alluring,” she said, “wait till you behold the bride!”

  Ellen paused in the doorway of the hall, then stepped out into the bright, blinding light. She wore an emerald-colored surcote over a gown of sunlit silk, a shade sure to startle, for yellow was no longer fashionable in England, that being the color of the badges worn by the Jews. But Ellen had been stubbornly set upon it, having learned that yellow was greatly favored by the Welsh. And though her choice might be controversial, none could deny that it was extremely becoming. Her most striking adornment, however, was her long, free-flowing hair, a coppery cascade that reached her hips, that stirred Edward to murmur admiringly, “If a woman hath long hair, it is a glory to her.”

  “Tell me the truth,” Ellen entreated. “How do I look? I decided not to wear a veil, after all; does it matter?” Laughing, then, at herself, she confided, “I cannot believe I am so nervous! It is just that I want today to be perfect, perfect in every way.”

  They assured her that she need not fret, that she looked lovely, that the day would be all she hoped and more. Only Edmund said nothing, for as he looked at Ellen, he was seeing again Llewelyn’s white, tense face, his blazing dark eyes, and he knew that Edward had done more than ruin the wedding for Llewelyn, he had ruined it for Ellen, too.

  The townspeople were eager to catch a glimpse of the wedding party, and Bishop’s Street, south Frerenstrete, and St Mary’s Knoll were lined with spectators. While the presence of their King was always exciting, on this sunlit October Thursday, they saved their loudest cheers for the bride. Ellen enjoyed herself immensely, reining in her new white mare before the priory’s great gate to accept a bouquet of daisies, to scatter coins to cocky street urchins, and to acknowledge the heady acclaim with smiles and waves. She had argued in vain against this wedding, had not found it easy to be parted from Llewelyn at Rhuddlan Castle, wanting only to ride pillion behind him into the heartland of his realm, far beyond Edward’s reach. But she could not deny that so much attention was flattering, and she was delighted to be reunited with her de Quincy cousins, to see again some of her father’s friends. Sometime in the past few days, this wedding had stopped being Edward’s, and become hers, and she had begun to feel the way a bride ought, she’d begun to have fun.

  Upon their arrival at the cathedral church, they found that Llewelyn was not yet there, and it was decided to await him in the priory Chapter House. As time passed and he still did not come, men began to make the usual trite jokes about reluctant husbands and absconding bridegrooms. Ellen bore it with good grace, and remained serenely self-possessed even as the delay lengthened, as the Bishop of Worcester and other guests grew increasingly impatient. She deflected the jests with a smile, and laughed outright when someone seriously suggested that Llewelyn truly might not be coming.

  “My husband is worth waiting for,” she was assuring them when a sudden burst of cheering wafted through the doorway. Lifting her skirts, Ellen hastened out into the cloisters just as Llewelyn came through the south passage, emerged into the sun. Belatedly remembering Eleanora’s lectures about maidenly decorum, Ellen did not fling herself into his arms, instead sank down on the pathway in a deep curtsy. As Llewelyn raised her to her feet, she whispered, “You look so handsome,” for she thought his red wool tunic and gold sleeveless surcote were admirably suited to his dark coloring. But as she smiled up at him, she saw that he was looking past her toward the Chapter House, where Edward stood framed in the doorway.

  Since Edward was giving Ellen in marriage, he was the one who led her through the church and out onto the steps by the west door. Weddings were always performed outdoors to accommodate as many eyewitnesses as possible, and a sea of faces looked up at them; people had even gathered in the cemetery by the charnel chapel. But the crowd was well behaved, quieted at the command of the Bishop of Worcester, so that Llewelyn could announce what lands he would be giving to Ellen to hold in dower. He then placed Ellen’s ring upon the Bishop’s plate for the blessing, and the Bishop joined their hands, began the ceremony.

  By then, Ellen was aware that something was wrong. Studying Llewelyn through her lashes, she had the eerie, unsettling sensation that she was holding hands with a stranger. In the bright glare of sunlight, she could detect in his face the evidence of stress; there were sharp grooves shadowing the corners of his mouth, and finely drawn lines around his eyes, the sort that crinkled when he laughed. But laughter seemed very alien to him at that moment, there on the church steps. Ellen had never given any thought to their age difference, for it was very common for a man to wed a much younger wife. This was the first time that he’d looked his age to her, looked drawn and tired and so remote that it alarmed her.

  She barely heard Llewelyn’s vows, and only a titter from the crowd jarred her from her troubled reverie in time to say her own vows. “I, Eleanor,” she said hastily, “do take thee, Llewelyn, to be my wedded husband, to have and to hold from this day forth, for better or worse, for richer or poorer, in sickness and in health, till death us do part, if Holy Church it will ordain, and thereto I plight thee my troth.”

  The Bishop then handed Llewelyn the ring, and he slid it upon each of her fingers in turn, saying, “With this ring I thee wed, and this gold and silver I thee give, and with my body I thee worship, and with all my wordly chattels I thee endow, in the Name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit, Amen.”

  And then it was over, and they were throwing alms to the crowd before entering the church for the nuptial Mass, and Ellen could only look at her husband in uncomprehending dismay, for never in these past three years had he seemed so far from her as he had just then, while making that beautiful pledge of marital faith and fidelity.

  Worcester Castle had once been a royal stronghold, but upon the death of King John, the bailey and the King’s houses within it were deeded to St Mary’s Priory. Here would be held the wedding feast, for although the castle keep, now held in fee by the Earl of Warwick, was in shabby condition, the monks had kept up repairs on the great hall, and it could accommodate more guests than even the Bishop’s spacious lodgings. Richard de Feckenham, the Prior, found himself cast in the role of host, and he’d hastened from the church in order to bid his highborn guests welcome, thankful all the while that the banquet costs would be billed to Edward’s Exchequ
er.

  The monks had done an admirable job of transforming the ancient hall for this festive occasion; fresh rushes were spread about, the walls newly decorated with depictions of the Wheel of Fortune, the trestle tables draped in white linen, the table on the dais adorned with silver candlesticks. The musicians and minstrels were already on hand, and as Ellen and Llewelyn were ushered into the hall, they struck up a trumpet fanfare, focusing all eyes upon the bridal couple.

  Ellen had tried to talk to Llewelyn as they left the priory, but then the church bells had begun their pealing, drowning out all conversation, and now it was too late. She knew what lay ahead. The feast would last until dark and then the entertainment and dancing would begin, the festivities eventually culminating in the bedding-down revelries. It would be at least eight, possible ten hours before she and Llewelyn were finally alone in their bridal bedchamber, and until then they would have no chance to talk in private. Eight or ten hours in which she must play yet another role, that of the carefree, blushing bride, smiling and laughing and dancing as if nothing were amiss. And she knew suddenly that she could not do it.

  They were being congratulated now by Alexander, the Scots King, who offered graceful good wishes for their future happiness, hoping that they would find in their marriage the contentment that he had once enjoyed with Margaret, Edward’s deceased sister. Under other circumstances, it was a conversation Ellen might have enjoyed, for she had a genuine respect for Alexander, who’d been happily wed to an English Princess, maintained affable ties with his English brother-in-law, and yet never forgot for a moment that Scotland’s sovereignty was as safe with Edward as a chicken with a hawk. Now though, Ellen was hard put even to make a pretense of polite interest, to murmur the proper responses, to keep her eyes from her husband’s face.

  As soon as Alexander paused, she plunged into the breach, begged to be excused so that she might thank her cousin Edward for such a splendid wedding. And then she fled across the hall, not daring to look back at Llewelyn, to see a stranger again.

  She had a stroke of luck now, though, was able to catch Edward between conversations, to draw him toward the comparative privacy of the dais. “Ned, I need your help. I must have a few moments alone with Llewelyn, for I… I have something to give him.”

  “I’m sure you do, sweetheart, but if you’ve waited this long, you ought to be able to wait until tonight.”

  He smiled at her, and Ellen longed to slap him. “Ned, I am not jesting. This is very important to me, and you well know we cannot just leave the hall. Will you help me…please?” she added, for if she could not afford anger, neither could she afford pride. But at that moment, she found an unexpected ally. Eleanora had come up just in time to hear, and said:

  “Eduardo, do not tease her. Of course he will help you, Ellen.”

  “Women,” he said, with a comic grimace. “What other English King ever suffered the indignity of having to play Cupid? Just what do you want me to do, Little Cousin?”

  “I want you to wait till I slip from the hall, then seek Llewelyn out, tell him you need to speak with him in private.”

  “I daresay he’ll be thrilled to hear that,” Edward said, very dryly, and Ellen was suddenly sure he already knew the answers she hoped to get from Llewelyn. “But I never could resist a maiden in distress, at least not when she has my own wife acting as her champion. Very well, I’ll do it. Here, first give me my bridal kiss,” he said, sliding his fingers under Ellen’s chin and lowering his head. She stiffened in spite of herself, but his mouth barely grazed hers, and then he stepped back, laughing. “Go now, make your escape.”

  Ellen remembered just in time to thank them both. As she turned, she already knew that Llewelyn would be watching them, his face stonily impassive, dark gaze opaque and impossible to read. Damn you, Ned, what have you done? Ellen drew several bracing breaths, and then saw the man she wanted.

  “Hugh, I need you.” Pulling him away from a pretty girl with a rudeness she hoped her desperation would excuse, she said softly and urgently, “I want you to wait till I make my way across the hall to the screen. Then create a diversion, the noisier the better.” She never had more reason to bless the day Bran had found him at Evesham Abbey, for Hugh never even blinked, even more remarkably, asked no questions, and once she’d drifted casually over to the screened entrance, he came through for her as always, crashing into a servant laden with a tray full of brimming wine cups. Ellen felt unexpected tears prick her eyes, knowing that there was not another man in Christendom who’d have been so willing to make a fool of himself for her sake, without even knowing why. And then she seized the chance Hugh had gallantly given her, ducked behind the screen.

  The solars and bedchambers of Edward’s reign were now being built above the great hall, but the castle dwellings dated from the time of Edward’s grandfather, when the king’s bedchamber adjoined the hall, so Ellen had only to go through one doorway, into another, and she was in her bridal chamber.

  It was like walking into a garden, so fragrant was it, for the floor was strewn with basil, marjoram, sweet woodruff, and costmary; cinnamon and cloves had been burned to perfume the air; and the chamber was filled with late-blooming flowers, daisies, honeysuckle, lavender. The walls had been painted green, starred in gold, and a beech log was stacked in the hearth, ready to be fired. The bed hangings were drawn back to reveal turned-down linen sheets, swansdown pillows, and coverlets garnished with a scattering of rose petals. The windows lacked glass, for it had been many years since this chamber had housed a royal guest, and the shutters were opened to the streaming afternoon sun. There was even a caged nightingale on the table, an imaginative touch that could only have come from Blanche. The bedchamber was perfect, Ellen thought, perfect, and she stifled a mirthless laugh.

  Edward acted with a swiftness she’d not expected. She’d been in the chamber only a few moments when the door swung open. She heard Llewelyn’s voice first, barely recognizing it as his. “After this morning, what else is there to say…or surrender?” He saw Ellen then, came to an abrupt halt.

  “Here you are, lass,” Edward said. “I always deliver what I promise. But bear this in mind, that the longer you are gone from the hall, the greater the scandal.” For once he did not make a grand exit, closed the door quietly behind him.

  Ellen took several steps toward her husband. “I realized today that I do not know you as well as I thought I did,” she said, “but I do know that something is very wrong. I could not wait until tonight, had to talk to you now.”

  “And so you turned to Edward for help.” The fury that had slurred his voice just moments ago was gone, but he sounded very distant to Ellen, as if he felt the need to weigh his every word, and that frightened her.

  “I can see you do not want to talk about it, and I know this is not the time. But can you at least tell me if it is something I have done?”

  He knew then that he had to tell her, and he resented her for it, for making him lay bare his shame whilst it was still so inflamed and raw. “This morning… Edward came to the friary, and demanded that I agree to relinquish the right of sanctuary in Gwynedd.”

  Ellen stared at him, rendered mute at the very moment she had the most need of words. It all made sense now, dreadful sense: his pent-up rage, his lacerated pride, even his coolness toward her. She had only to envision her father or one of her brothers confronted with Edward’s treachery and she understood Llewelyn’s emotions as if they were her own. And she knew without being told that his wounds were twofold, one that was Edward’s doing, one that was self-inflicted. He confirmed that now by saying tautly, “You have not asked whether or not I agreed.”

  “Of course you did. What choice did you have? Llewelyn, you must not blame yourself for yielding. Better that you should blame me, for you did it for me. No wonder you look at me as if…” She turned away, leaned for a moment against the edge of the table.

  “Ellen, I do not blame you for this.”

  “How could you not blame me? When
I think of all the griefs I’ve brought upon you, all the troubles that have haunted you since the day I became your wife… Oh, God, Llewelyn, I am so sorry! I never—”

  “Ellen, listen to me. I do not blame you. I swear that to you upon the surety of my soul, upon the souls of our unborn sons. I do not blame you.”

  She had to steel herself to look up, so afraid was she that he was offering a lie born of kindness. But as she met his eyes, she found in them only an anguished honesty, and her despair gave way to bewilderment. “I believe you,” she said, “and I thank God for it. But…but if you truly do not blame me, why is there suddenly so much distance between us? What is it, then, Llewelyn? Please, you must tell me…”

  How could he, though? How could he tell her what had been in his heart as he’d watched her laughing and jesting and even flirting a little with Edward, her cousin Ned. Later, yes, but not now, not until he could trust himself not to lash out at her, not to blame her for being so susceptible to the claims of kinship.

  Watching as he moved to the window, Ellen saw that her pleading was in vain, that he would not or could not reveal the rest. But how could they leave it like this? Only a man could think it was possible to store grievances away like coins, bring them out to spend at a more convenient time. Through the haze of hurt and confusion, anger was slowly beginning to stir. He was still standing by the window, and on his face was that same shuttered look that she’d seen in the hall, just after Edward had kissed her. And then she knew. “It is Edward,” she said. “It is Edward and me.”

  His head jerked up, so fast that she knew she’d guessed right. She seemed dazed to him; even as he watched, she lost color, and he swore under his breath. Why could she not have let it lie?

  “Yes,” he said, “it is you and Edward. I told myself that he was your kinsman, that he had been kind to your mother after Evesham, that the heart cannot always be trusted.” And for a moment, he thought of Davydd. “I told myself, too, that I could learn to live with it. But not today, Christ, not today! And when I saw…”