He’d meant the kiss as reassurance, but no sooner did their mouths meet than she entwined her arms around his neck, clung tightly. He suspected that her urgency had as much in it of despair as it did desire, but his body was already responding to her soft curves, hot mouth. He pulled off her wimple, and she shook her hair loose, an erotic, silken swirl against his skin, a sunset color so vivid that he never tired of looking at it, admiring it. They were half-way toward the bed when the rapping sounded at the door.
Ellen leaned against the table as Llewelyn crossed the chamber. She could not see who was outside, for he’d not opened the door all the way. As the fever faded, all the fear came back, and she found herself bitterly resenting whoever it was who’d interrupted, brought them back to reality. It was then that Llewelyn glanced over his shoulder, saw the lost look on her face. “Later,” he said, and closed the door. As Ellen watched, he slid the bolt into place, and—for a brief while—shut out the rest of the world.
26
Sherborne Castle, Dorsetshire, England
March 1281
The mild, fair days so prized by most people could be a cruel kindness for captives. There had been times when Amaury de Montfort had actually prayed for rain, for weather so vile that only a lunatic would have willingly ventured from his hearth. Never did he feel so trapped, so fettered and shackled, as when he stood at an open window, gazing out upon the sunlit, seductive world beckoning just beyond the walls of Sherborne Castle.
This spring ought to have been to his liking, therefore, for it could not have gotten off to a soggier, chillier start. Instead, he found himself yearning for the merest glimpse of blue sky, for the faintest flicker of cheer. He’d suffered bouts of depression before, of course, but he’d always been able to check his fall, to grab a handhold, however precarious. Now…now he felt as if he were spiraling down into darkness, into a pit so deep that he’d never be able to climb out.
He was not even sure why he’d so suddenly lost his balance, his emotional equilibrium. He supposed that the Pope’s death had played a part. For more than six months now, there’d been no hand on the papal helm, no one to pressure the English Crown on his behalf. And even worse might lie ahead. When the cardinals finally got around to electing a new Vicar of Christ, what if they anointed a man indifferent to his plight? He well knew that if he were ever to regain his freedom, it would only be at the Pope’s behest. Should he lose his papal ally, he would languish for the rest of his wretched days as Edward of England’s prisoner.
That was a daunting prospect to a man of five and thirty years. If it came to that, he knew he’d rather die. But his cousin the King was not about to put an end to his suffering, and if he found a way to do it himself, he’d be swapping a lifetime’s misery for an eternity’s damnation. Amaury was not yet so desperate that he could not see the drawbacks in such a deal.
It shocked him, though, that he’d even considered it, that he was so close to abandoning all hope. But as he began his sixth year of confinement, he was discovering that hope had become as slippery and elusive as the greased pigs he’d seen chased at village fairs. And now he’d gotten word that he was to be moved from Sherborne; within the week, he would be taken under guard to yet another prison. He’d never been to Taunton Castle, but he could see it clearly in his mind’s eye—a bleak, secluded fortress looming over the barren, treeless moors of the West Country, well away from towns and roads and the memories of men.
He was lodged in the upper chamber of the keep, with a window overlooking one of the castle’s three gateways. The window lacked glass panes, but the castellan had gotten an oiled linen screen to fit into the frame, and Amaury had moved his table to take advantage of that filtered light. Sometimes, unless it was truly frigid, he removed the top half of the screen, willing to endure the cold for the sake of the view. But today he had not even bothered to unlatch the shutters, much less monitor the bailey below. He still lay on his bed in the shadowed gloom, although it was almost noon.
He was taken by surprise, therefore, by the sudden entrance of John de Somerset, Sherborne’s castellan. John was in an ambiguous position, for he was more than Amaury’s gaoler; in the past three years, he’d also become Amaury’s friend. That often required him to balance competing needs, as now, when he knocked briskly, according Amaury a privacy to which a prisoner was not entitled, and then entered without waiting for a response.
“Lord, lad, if you’re not turning into a sluggard! But you’ve no more time for lying abed. You’d best hurry and make yourself presentable, for you’ve got company waiting out in the stairwell.”
Amaury’s mood took an abrupt, dramatic upswing. A man who’d once wanted fame and wealth and power, his hungers had diminished as his world had contracted; these days he craved only freedom and companionship. He was already dressed, had hastily combed his hair in those moments before John ushered his visitor into the chamber.
“Hugh!” Amaury could not have been more delighted, for the faithful young Englishman was his link to Ellen.
Hugh grinned. “Do not be squandering your welcome on me, my lord. This time I’m not the company, merely the escort.”
Amaury tensed, afraid to take Hugh’s words at face value, afraid to risk so bitter a disappointment. But Hugh’s grin had widened; he looked so joyful that Amaury no longer doubted. He started forward just as Hugh stepped aside, revealing the woman in the doorway. Amaury had time only to say Ellen’s name before she was in the room, in his arms.
Amaury watched in amusement as his sister surreptitiously inspected his surroundings. Her relief at what she found was so obvious that he realized she’d not allowed herself to believe Hugh’s optimistic reports, and he felt regretful that she’d become so wary, so like him. He also felt very thankful that she’d never seen his Spartan cell at Corfe Castle.
“So tell me,” he joked, “you just happened to be passing by?”
“Something like that,” she said, but when he asked, only half-playfully, whom she’d had to bribe, she lost her smile. “Not a bribe,” she said, “a bone thrown to a starving dog.”
Amaury understood. “You went to Ned,” he said. “You entreated him to free me, and he refused.”
Ellen nodded. “I paid a visit last month to our cousin’s court at Windsor. Ned made me welcome, seemed honestly gladdened to see me. Mayhap he even was, for I’ve never known anyone blessed with such a selective memory. Sometimes I think he truly does see me just as Harry’s little sister…”
“Until you made mention of me,” Amaury said, and again she nodded, reluctantly this time.
“He seemed so friendly, Amaury, so encouraging, even fond. But as soon as I brought up your name, he stopped listening. I might as well have been speaking in Welsh. He heard me out, politely, patiently, and then he said no, regretfully, of course, for all the world as if your imprisonment for the past five years was no doing of his!”
Ellen had not meant to let her bitterness get away from her like this, but her sense of failure was still too raw to bear the slightest touch. “I am so sorry, Amaury,” she said. “There must have been a way to reach him. But I could not find it, and it was all for naught…”
“No, not all for naught. You’re here, are you not? A sop to his conscience, a bone from his table, whatever you want to call your visit, I just thank the Lord for it,” Amaury said fervently, before adding, with a thinly astringent smile, “the ‘Lord’ in question being the One Who rules the Kingdom of Heaven, not the realm of England.”
Ellen was much heartened by that barbed aside; her secret fear, not even shared with her husband, was that captivity might break her brother’s spirit. “I did not come empty-handed,” she said. “I bring glad tidings. Whilst I was at Windsor, the Archbishop of Canterbury sent word that the cardinals have finally chosen a new Pope, to be known henceforth as Martin IV. But you know him as Simon de Brion, former Chancellor to the French King.”
Amaury, usually so self-contained, gave a jubilant shout. “God has not f
orsaken me then, and for certes, neither will the new Pope. I know him well, Ellen. Not only was he a friend of our father, he has close ties to Guy’s patron, Charles of Sicily.”
The castellan had sent up a flagon of spiced red wine, and they drank to Martin’s accession, to the resurgence of hope. “Now,” Ellen said, “I have other news for you, too parlous to commit to a letter. Last year a rumor reached Ned that Guy was in Norway. He at once wrote to the Norwegian Crown, seeking to have the man arrested and turned over to English agents. The Norwegian King complied, but the unlucky soul suspected of being Guy was eventually able to prove his identify. As for Guy’s actual whereabouts, he is still in Italy, and openly back in Charles’s favor. It must have given him a jolt, though, to learn that Ned was casting his nets even as far as the lands of the Norsemen.”
Amaury did not want to talk about his brother’s return to royal favor. He did not blame Guy for his troubles, at least not consciously, but he preferred not to dwell upon the ironic inequities of their respective circumstances. “Tell me,” he said, “about the nets Ned has been casting in Wales. From what your letters say—and all you leave unsaid—I gather that the Welsh are not yet reconciled to their new lives as inferior Englishmen?”
In just one succinct, memorable sentence, he had gone to the heart of the Welsh dilemma, summed up the troubled state of affairs in her husband’s unhappy homeland. Ellen was impressed, but not at all surprised; she’d often suspected Amaury of being the cleverest of all the de Montforts. “ ‘Inferior Englishmen,’” she said somberly. “Not even Llewelyn could have put it better than that.”
Amaury poured them both more wine. “And by balking, they do but confirm the worst of Edward’s suspicions, that they are a reckless, rebellious, vexatious people who need to be tamed, broken to the royal will—for their own good, of course.”
“You understand exactly how it is,” she marveled, “and yet you’ve never set foot in Wales!”
“I know Edward, know how he thinks,” he said simply.
“Life in Wales these days…” Ellen hesitated, fumbling for the right words. “It is like waiting for a storm to break, Amaury. We go about our daily tasks with an eye ever on those clouds looming on the horizon, feeling the wetness on the wind, wondering how much time we’ll have ere it hits.”
Amaury was chilled as much by her matter-of-fact tones as by the bleakness of her vision. “It is truly as bad as that, Ellen?”
“Yes,” she confided, “God help us, it is. With every day that passes, the Welsh are becoming more and more aggrieved and resentful, for Edward’s crown officials are exercising power with a heavy hand, indeed. It may be that Edward is not fully aware of the extent of their arrogance, their insufferable contempt for all things Welsh. But he is certainly aware of Llewelyn’s own grievances, and he has yet to redress any of those wrongs.”
Amaury prodded his memory to recall her past letters. “You mean those men hanged at Oswestry? And the attack upon Llewelyn’s huntsmen?”
“And the raid into Meirionydd. And the seizure of Llewelyn’s goods in Chester. And Arwystli, always Arwystli. And…well, I see no need to burden you with the rest. But each time the result is the same. Llewelyn protests to the King, and Edward assures him that he will investigate Llewelyn’s complaints, see that justice is done. And that is the last we ever hear of it.”
Ellen drank too deeply, began to cough. “I do not think I wrote to you about the distraints, did I? Briefly put, Welsh law gives its princes the same rights over shipwrecks that the English kings enjoy. A few years ago a prosperous English merchant, Robert of Leicester, lost a ship in Welsh waters, and Llewelyn claimed the cargo that washed ashore. But after the Treaty of Aberconwy was signed, this merchant brought suit against Llewelyn in an English court for restitution. Llewelyn did not even know about it, not until some of his men rode into Chester to buy honey, and the Justiciar not only seized the honey, he confiscated their horses, too. Since then, he has continued to distrain Llewelyn’s goods whenever the opportunity arises. Llewelyn complained to Edward. He got a most sympathetic reply, too. Edward offered his apologies for the misunderstanding, and promised Llewelyn that he would order the Justiciar to return the seized goods. I saw that letter myself. Yet he then wrote to his Justiciar and approved the seizures. Is it any wonder that Llewelyn feels such anger and frustration when confronted with such bad faith? No man can long endure being made to feel helpless, least of all, mine.”
“What about his suit against Gruffydd ap Gwenwynwyn? Has that not been settled yet?”
Ellen’s laugh held little humor. “It has been more than three years since Llewelyn first brought suit, and they have yet even to decide the first issue, whether Welsh or English law should apply. Llewelyn is sorely vexed by all the delays, and who can blame him?”
“Jesú forfend that I sound as if I am defending our right beloved cousin,” Amaury said, and grinned. “But in truth, sweetheart, I can see why he is so loath to allow it to be litigated. From what you’ve said in your letters, Llewelyn has a good claim under Welsh law. But Ned owes Gruffydd ap Gwenwynwyn too much to let him lose. At the same time, he’d not want to risk pushing Llewelyn into rebellion. So delay must seem like the only road open to him.”
“But it is unjust!” Ellen said sharply, and Amaury hid another grin, thinking that his little sister might not look like their late, lord father, but she for certes sounded like him.
Curbing her indignation, Ellen continued with the tangled tale of the Arwystli suit. “It has been adjourned more times than I can remember. Then, at Ned’s Easter Parliament last year, it was decided to appoint a commission to inquire into Welsh laws and customs. They did not even choose the members until December, and when they did, surprise of surprises, all three happened to be English, and one was a man greatly loathed by the Welsh, Reginald de Grey. But even so, they’ll have no choice but to find that Welsh law applies. The Treaty says so, Amaury, in most unambiguous terms, says that if Llewelyn brings claim against any lands occupied by others than the lord King, the King will do him full justice according to the laws and customs of those parts in which the lands lie. And,” she concluded triumphantly, “not even Edward can deny that Arwystli is in Wales!”
Amaury felt no surprise that she should take such an active interest in the politics of her husband’s realm; theirs had never been a family in which women dutifully deferred to the greater wisdom of their menfolk. The very thought amused Amaury no end, for he doubted that his lady mother would have deferred to the Devil himself; Simon had even entrusted her with the wartime defense of Dover Castle. Ellen’s impassioned partisanship on Llewelyn’s behalf was no less than he’d have expected of Nell de Montfort’s daughter.
“Moreover,” Ellen said, with a sudden, unexpected grin, “we have a most unlikely ally in the Arwystli suit, even if that’s not his intent, none other than that misbegotten hellspawn, Roger de Mortimer. You see, Gruffydd ap Gwenwynwyn sued de Mortimer for thirteen vills in Cydewain, and when de Mortimer did not respond, Gruffydd sought a judgment in default. But de Mortimer is now contesting that, arguing that since the land is in Wales, Welsh law should apply, for Welsh law happens to allow three defaults!”
“Well, it does sound as if Llewelyn has both law and logic on his side,” Amaury admitted. “So why, then, are your nerves so on the raw? Why borrow trouble ere the debt is due, Ellen?”
“Is that what I am doing, Amaury? I wish I could be sure that was so, wish I could be more like Elizabeth…”
“Elizabeth? Our de Ferrers cousin?”
She nodded. “I have not told you all, have not told you about Davydd. He and Elizabeth and their young sons stayed briefly with us at Castell y Bere last summer. It was not a pleasant visit, but it was a revealing one. Davydd has his own grievances against the English Crown, and he seems, too, to have developed a conscience of late. I know that sounds unlikely, but I do not know how else to explain his turnaround. He wants war, Amaury, mayhap for the novelty of being on the
Welsh side for once. I know I sound uncharitable, but he frightens me. He is so…so unpredictable, so irresponsible, and he has caused Llewelyn so much pain…”
“But you mentioned Elizabeth. How does she come into this? Do you not like her, Ellen?”
“As a matter of fact, I do. I admire her pluck and I like her forthrightness, although I’ll admit to being baffled by her inexplicable devotion to Davydd. I could not endure being wed to a man I could not respect. But I do not doubt that she loves him, even if I cannot understand it. I only wish she could influence him to the good, provide the voice of reason that he seems so utterly to lack. Instead, she indulges his every whim, no matter how outrageous. I believe that a wife ought to defer to her husband, of course, but Elizabeth is truly besotted with the man, and it has blinded her to the dangers we face. I tried to talk to her, but she is serenely sure that all will be well, that her darling Davydd will always prevail, that he is invincible merely because she wills it so.”
Ellen paused, but Amaury was an attentive listener, clever at coaxing confidences, able to loosen tongues by his very silence. “I would that I could share her certainty, Amaury. Blessed Lady, how I wish it! It is not that I lack faith in Llewelyn. It is just that…that I cannot help remembering that Mama was as trusting as Elizabeth—once. She, too, believed that God would always favor the just, that our father would always triumph over his enemies. She believed that right up to the moment we stood together in the great hall of Dover Castle and heard a weeping man tell her, ‘They are dead, my lady. They are all dead.’”
A silence fell between them. Amaury reached across the table, clasped his fingers around hers. After a while, she said, “I was there, Amaury, at Evesham. We stopped at the abbey on our way to Windsor. The Abbot was very kind, escorted me into the church and then left me alone. I prayed for Papa and for Harry, but I could not stop thinking of Bran, risking his life to make that reckless, desperate pilgrimage to Evesham, to make his peace with Papa…”
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