“Llelo, no!” Elizabeth thrust her baby at Ellen, hastily crossing the hall to corral her firstborn, just as he was about to take a swig from an untended wine flagon. Although caught in the act, he gave his mother a grin as unrepentant as it was contagious. As young as he was, he’d already learned that he would be called to account only for truly awesome misdeeds: the time he deliberately dropped a lit candle into the floor rushes, the time he put a frog in his mother’s bath, the time he put a cat in his brother’s cradle to watch it suck the baby’s breath, as his nurse said cats did. His cockiness proved justified now; instead of scolding, Elizabeth could not help grinning back at him, and he got a hug, not a swat on his bottom.
Across the hall, Ellen was unable to take her gaze from the boy, her husband’s nephew and potential heir. Llelo might bear Llewelyn’s Christian name, even his childhood nickname, but he was the mirror image of his father. To Ellen, it was a bit unsettling to see Davydd’s glinting green eyes in the chubby-cheeked face of a two-year-old. The baby in her arms hiccuped, began to whimper, and she rocked him gently until he quieted. He looked up at her, as solemn as a little owl. Never had she seen such feathery golden lashes; never had she touched skin so soft. “Shall I sing you to sleep, Owain? I know a song sure to please a darling lad like you—”
Ellen’s head jerked up, warned as much by instinct as by the approaching steps. For a moment, she and Davydd looked at each other, and then she summoned up a brittle, self-conscious smile. “You have a handsome son,” she said, and held Owain out to him. Davydd looked as nonplussed as if he’d been handed hot coals, and after failing to spot the baby’s wet-nurse, gave Owain hurriedly back to Ellen.
A gleeful shriek now drew their attention again to Llelo. He’d coaxed Elizabeth into a game of tag, and she had begun to chase him around the table. Flushed and breathless, she looked like a child herself at that moment, careless of her dignity, intent only upon pleasing her small son. Ellen glanced quickly at Davydd, curious as to his reaction, for she knew many men would not approve of such unladylike antics; highborn wives were not expected to be such doting mothers, at least not in public. But Davydd was watching with an indulgent smile, a smile that vanished as soon as he turned back to Ellen.
“I hope,” he said, “that Caitlin will at least make an appearance at dinner.”
Ellen gave him a look of polite surprise. “Surely you have not forgotten so soon? Caitlin is ailing, confined to bed with a fever.”
“Yes, so you said. But it must have come upon her right suddenly, for as we rode into the bailey, I saw her standing beside you at the solar window.”
Damn his hawk’s eye! Was there nothing he missed? “Mayhap I made more of it than I ought, for you are right; Caitlin is not bedridden. But she truly is unwell,” Ellen insisted, in good conscience, for was not an aching heart an ailment, too? “She did not feel fit for company.”
“But Elizabeth and I are not ‘company,’” Davydd pointed out coolly, “we are kin. Moreover, I have something of importance to discuss with her. She is about sixteen now, no? I think it is time I found her a husband.”
Ellen was stunned by his audacity. “That is for Llewelyn to do!”
“Caitlin is my daughter, not his,” Davydd snapped, and Ellen’s temper took fire, too fast for her to consider the consequences.
“You may have sired her,” she snapped back, “but Llewelyn is more of a father to that girl than you could ever hope to be!”
No sooner were the words out of her mouth than she’d have given anything to recall them, for she realized at once what a weapon she’d just handed Davydd. How could she have been so rash, she who was always so prudent? She raised her chin, looked into Davydd’s angry eyes, and waited for the blow to fall.
It did not come, though, the taunt she so dreaded about barren wives, princes without heirs. Davyyd gave her a cold, measuring look, but then he shrugged, said, “Caitlin would likely agree with you.”
Ellen was amazed by the reprieve, feeling as if an arrow had just been deflected, whizzing harmlessly over her head when it had been aimed right at her heart. She hesitated, wanting to let Davydd know that Caitlin’s refusal to see him was not personal, not this time, feeling that she owed him that much after his unexpected and inexplicable forbearance. But she could not betray Caitlin’s confidence, and she was seeking a way to reconcile these conflicting needs when a man burst into the hall with a startling message, that Llewelyn had just ridden into the bailey.
Davydd was frowning. “I thought you said Llewelyn was hunting?”
“He was.” Ellen was just as baffled as Davydd by Llewelyn’s early return, and more than a little uneasy, for men never cut the hunt short unless the weather turned foul or there was a mishap of some sort. Beckoning to Juliana, she handed her the sleeping child, for she did not want Llewelyn to see her holding Davydd’s son. She was turning toward the door when it opened and her husband strode into the hall.
Even before she saw the injured—one man cradling his arm in a makeshift sling, another whose tunic was torn, whose hair was matted with blood—Ellen knew something had gone amiss. The men were grim-faced, oddly silent, with none of the raucous boasting that normally heralded a hunting party’s return. Llewelyn stopped abruptly at sight of Davydd and Elizabeth, but he recovered swiftly, and made a credible attempt to meet the demands of hospitality, to make them welcome at his hearth. He greeted them politely, sidestepped their queries without overtly appearing to do so, and then excused himself so he might change out of his muddied hunting clothes. His young squire started to follow, then stopped, uncertain, for he’d been told that Llewelyn never wanted servants hovering about when he was angry or in a hurry. But he was newly come to Llewelyn’s service, and he did not want his lord to think he was shirking his duty. He dithered for a moment or so, not sure what to do, and was relieved when Ellen made the decision for him, drawing him aside to ask:
“Trevor? What happened on the hunt?”
“It began so well, my lady, to have ended so badly. Almost at once the lymer hound sniffed out fresh tracks, and when we uncoupled the running hounds, they flushed a prize stag, a ten pointer! Cynan got off an arrow shot, but it did not bring him down, and as we gave chase, Morgan’s stallion stumbled and threw him. By the time we’d seen to him and retrieved his horse, the dogs were out of sight, and when we caught up with them, they’d lost the scent. We concluded the stag must have gone into the river, so we swam our mounts across.”
Ellen felt a sudden chill, for the lands across the River Dyfi were now Crown lands; Edward had claimed the commote of Geneu’r Glyn as spoils of war. “The river…it was the Dyfi?”
The boy nodded. “What else could we do?” he asked, a question Ellen knew to be rhetorical, for she also knew it was a point of honor with hunters that once an animal was wounded, it must be slain.
Davydd had joined them by now, but she kept her eyes on Trevor. “Go on,” she said. “What happened then?”
“Some of us went downstream, the others upstream, seeking to find where the stag had come ashore. I rode with Dion and Selwyn, and our dogs soon picked up the trail again. We decided to follow them a short way ere we summoned the others, to be sure they were on the right scent. But we’d gone no more than half a mile when we came upon the beast, down and foundering. We saw then why we’d seen no blood, for Cynan had gut-shot him. We sounded the horn, and Selwyn hamstrung him and gave the coup de grace.”
Ellen had been listening with mounting impatience. She appreciated Trevor’s slow, deliberate Welsh, for her grasp of her husband’s language was still a tenuous one, but she wished he did not feel the need to relate a moment-by-moment account of the hunt. She’d been about to urge him to cut to the bone when he threw in that sudden French phrase, looking so proud of himself that she did not have the heart to rein him in.
Davydd was not so tolerant, however. “Do you suppose, lad, that you could pick up the pace a bit? I’m sure Lady Ellen never meant you to make this tale your life’s work.”
Trevor finally paused for breath. “By the time we reached the clearing, they were gone, the stag was stolen, and Dion and Selwyn lay bruised and bleeding upon the ground. How could that happen, my lady? How could they dare to treat our Prince like a trespasser in his own country?”
Llewelyn had stripped off his muddied tunic and sweat-stained shirt. He was standing at the laver, splashing water onto his face and chest as Ellen entered. “I’ll get you a clean shirt,” she said, crossing to a coffer. For the second time that day, she found herself at a loss for words. She could not heal his wounds any more than she could Caitlin’s. But she had to try. However feeble her offering—sympathy and indignation when what he wanted was retribution—she had to try.
Llewelyn reached for a towel dangling from a wall pole. “You know?”
She nodded. “England has very harsh forest laws, darling, and it may—”
“Geneu’r Glyn is in Wales, not England!”
Ellen flinched. “I know that, Llewelyn. I meant only that it may not have been a deliberate attempt to demean you or undermine your authority. It might well be that these men were mere lackeys, shortsighted hirelings seeking to curry favor by enforcing the law no matter who—”
“English law?” he said in a dangerously soft voice, and tears came suddenly to her eyes, more from frustration and helplessness than hurt.
“I am sorry,” she whispered. “I wanted only to comfort you, but I seem to be making an utter botch of it…”
There was silence then, until he said wearily, “No, I am the one who is sorry, lass,” and as she held out the shirt, his hand closed over hers. “My men wanted to hunt them down, take back our kill, and avenge Dion and Selwyn. Do you have any idea, Ellen, how much I wanted to let them?”
“Yes,” she said, as the memory came flooding back, with unnerving intensity, that moment when she stood in the cabin of the Holy Cross and surrendered to Thomas the Archdeacon the knife she so wanted to thrust into his jugular. “I think I do.”
“It was men from Geneu’r Glyn who raided into Meirionydd during Lent. Had I been able to punish them as they deserved instead of having to seek justice from the English King, this would never have happened. The whoresons would not have dared—”
The door opened before they could respond to the perfunctory knock. The surprise was in that opening door, not in the identity of the intruder; they were instinctively expecting to see Davydd, for who else would have dared to enter Llewelyn’s chamber uninvited?
“If my memory serves,” Davydd said abruptly, “your lands in Meirionydd were plundered not long ago by Edward’s Welsh lapdog, Rhys ab Einion, and when your men followed his bandits into Geneu’r Glyn to complain, they were attacked, some severely wounded.”
“Yes,” Llewelyn said tersely, “your memory serves.”
“I also heard that you’d lodged a complaint at Edward’s Easter Parliament. But I have not heard that the culprits were brought to justice. Were they?”
“No…not yet.”
“Now why does that not surprise me?”
“What do you want, Davydd?”
“I’d rather talk about what Edward wants. When any two Welshmen get together these days, their conversation is not about the vile Welsh weather. They swap stories about English double-dealing and thievery. You are shielded by Eryri and the River Conwy, are not harassed unless your men venture beyond your own borders. But my lands abut those seized by Edward, and rarely does a week go by without some sort of confrontation with English bailiffs and sheriffs and their minions. My woods have been cut down, I’ve been accused of harboring outlaws, and Edward has yet to respond to my request for a writ of certiorari against that Cheshire wretch who sued me in shire court. And my complaints can be multiplied a hundredfold all over Wales. I’d wager there is nary a Welshman to be found who does not nurse some grievance against the King’s men.”
“You think I do not know that? That you would dare to preach to me about Welsh suffering at English hands, you of all—”
“You’re twisting my words! I am not the enemy, Llewelyn, not this time. It is becoming very clear that Edward wants war, that he means to provoke us into rebellion. Well, I’ve always been an obliging sort. I say we give the man what he wants.”
Ellen had mastered enough Welsh to get the gist of what was being said, and at that, she could not suppress a gasp. But neither man noticed; they were intent only upon each other.
“What would you have me do, Davydd? Go to war over a stolen stag?” Llewelyn asked, with an angry smile, one sardonic enough to burn hot color into Davydd’s face.
“Do not mock me, Llewelyn!”
“Do you truly think you’re telling me anything I do not already know? Do you honestly think I am blind to Edward’s predatory nature? Or his plans for Wales?”
Davydd started to speak, stopped, and then mustered up a tight smile of his own. “Some things never change, do they? I did not mean to offend you—for once—and I well know that you’re the last man in Christendom to be taken in by the English King. I am just not sure if you realize yet how very close the day of reckoning is.”
Turning, he took Ellen by surprise, catching her hand and raising it to his lips. “My apologies, Sister-in-law mine, for breaking into your bower. But we both know how bad-mannered I am.” As an exit line, he did not think it could be improved upon, and he headed then for the door, wondering all the while if Llewelyn would summon him back, and yet knowing that Llewelyn would not.
Glancing down at the shirt he still held, Llewelyn discovered that he’d crumpled it in his fist, rendering it unwearable. “Where are my shirts, Ellen, in which… Ellen?”
She’d been staring at the door, now looked at him so blankly that he reached out, put his hands on her shoulders. “What is it? You’ve heard Davydd and me quarrel before…”
Ellen was shaking her head. “Not like this. I’ve never trusted your brother, that you well know. But he never frightened me—until now.”
“Because you do not believe he is sincere?”
“No…because I do believe he is. His outrage was very real and very raw; not even Davydd could feign that. He sees now what you always saw, and it scares him. And that is what scares me, Llewelyn. A man burdened with so many regrets is not going to rest until he gets rid of them. Other sinners seek redemption in church, but Davydd seems to think it is to be found on the battlefield.”
Llewelyn bent his head, kissed her on the forehead. “There is truth in what you say, cariad. But there was some truth in what Davydd said, too.”
Ellen stepped back so she could see his face. “Then you also think that Edward wants war?” she asked anxiously, and was very relieved when he shook his head.
“No,” he said, “I do not think he wants war.” And then he added, “But he does want Wales. He lusts after an island empire, which means that he thinks Wales and Scotland are his for the taking. It is enough that he wants a thing; he needs no more justification than that, for never have I known anyone who so confused appetite with entitlement. But he is as far from a fool as any man can get, and he would much rather whittle away Wales piecemeal than pay an honest price for it in English blood. Davydd is wrong; he wants no rebellion. But he’ll keep taking more and more, insisting all the while that he acts in good faith, mayhap even believing it. And he’ll not understand until it is too late, that men pushed to a cliff’s edge have nothing left to lose.”
Ellen’s mouth was suddenly v
ery dry. “Llewelyn…would you be willing to fight a war you could not hope to win?”
Llewelyn did not want to answer her. She saw that at once, and turned away to gaze blindly out the window at a sky oddly empty of clouds, not a Welsh sky at all. After a moment, she said, “Guy told me that my uncle Henry pleaded with my father to surrender at Evesham, insisting that it was sheer madness to offer resistance when defeat was certain. My father said…he said, ‘I pity a man who has nothing in his life worth dying for.’”
She felt Llewelyn’s hand on her arm then, and she spun away from the window, into his embrace. She could hear his heart beating against her ear, feel the faint tickle of his chest hair against her cheek, and through her lashes she could see the thin white line of an old scar, slanting across his collarbone, along his shoulder. “I would not want to live without you,” she said, so softly that Llewelyn could not be sure if she’d even meant for him to hear.
Because it was so likely that one day she would have to live without him, no matter what Edward did or did not do, and because there was so much pain in her voice, he almost made a grave mistake, almost fell back upon his last line of defense, his instinctive response to what he most dreaded. But if he had long ago taken his grandfather’s credo as his own—that there were in this world some troubles so great, some dangers so menacing, that all a sensible man could do was mock them—he’d soon learned that his way was not his wife’s way. Her sense of humor was flawed in two areas; she was not in the least amused when he jested about death or the gap in their ages.
If he could not joke away her fears, neither could he lie them away. He could not offer her false hope, could not promise her a future free of shadows. She would not have believed him even if he could, for she’d learned about Armageddon at a very early age.
And so he told her what he’d once told Caitlin, that “Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof,” switching from French to his own tongue to call her his “heart’s joy,” for he felt more comfortable expressing endearments in Welsh, and raising her face up so he could kiss her gently upon the eyelids, lashes, and mouth.
The Reckoning Page 53