Ellen’s high spirits lasted as long as it took her to cross the bailey and enter the great hall. Even before she reached the dais, the silence in the hall had alerted her that something was very wrong. The King’s courier was nowhere in sight, but Llewelyn held in his hand a parchment bearing the royal seal of the English Crown. “Here,” he said, as Ellen drew near. “Edward’s commission has issued its findings about Arwystli.”
There was not yet need for torches; the light lingered well into the evening hours during Welsh summers. Ellen took the writ, read that the royal commission had determined by inquest which laws and customs had been recognized in the reigns of Edward’s predecessors, and by these laws, so would justice be rendered unto the Prince of Wales. Ellen had grown up at court, was familiar with the deliberate ambiguities of diplomatic jargon. But even by those lax standards of clarity, this document was hopelessly obscure, so cryptic as to seem incomprehensible to her. “What exactly does this mean, Llewelyn?”
“It means,” he said tersely, “that we’ll not be using Welsh law,” and when his suspicions would later be proved correct, there was no surprise; by then, she had concluded, as he had done, that Edward would have no need for such deceptive equivocation if he meant to adhere to the Treaty, to let Welsh law control. Now, though, she could only look up into her husband’s face in dismay, seeing a man standing at the cliff’s edge.
Nine days after the findings of Edward’s commission were published, his court ruled that Gruffydd ap Gwenwynwyn’s suit against Roger de Mortimer must be decided by Welsh law, as the lands in issue were situated in Wales.
27
Hafod-Y-Llan, Nanhwynain, Wales
September 1281
Llewelyn often stayed at Nanhwynain, the largest of Aberconwy’s abbey granges, for its twelve thousand alpine acres encompassed some of the most scenic vistas in all of Gwynedd. From the open window, he could see the mountains he so loved, Eryri’s awesome “Haunt of Eagles.” Stars had begun to glimmer through the twilight, and he could hear the distant baaing of the sure-footed sheep that were the grange’s greatest resource. It was a peaceful, pastoral scene, but for once he was blind to the beauty of his homeland, so preoccupied was he with political strategy and statecraft, so intent upon his next move in his high-stakes chess game with England’s King.
Turning from the window, he said, “I wanted to speak with you both ere the council meets, to let you know what I shall propose to them. I have attempted to abide by the English King’s treaty, and what has it gotten me but mockery and insults? For a Welshman seeking justice, the least likely place to look must be in an English court. He’d have better luck hunting virgins in the bawdy-houses of the Southwark stews, tracking fabled beasts like the centaurs of ancient Greece, or the monster that is said to lurk in a lake on Cader Idris.”
Dai smiled at that, and Goronwy laughed outright, but their amusement was grim; these days, most humor in Wales had sharp edges. Llewelyn took a swallow of cider, regarding them intently as he drank. “We have,” he said, “been playing a game in which Edward provides the dice, keeps score, makes up the rules as he goes along, and has the power to cry ‘forfeit’ should he somehow lose. Well, I think it is time to teach him about Welsh games of chance. I mean to invite a new player into the game.”
Dai and Goronwy exchanged speculative glances. But Goronwy was, as always, too impatient to wait, and blurted out, “A Marcher lord?”
Llewelyn smiled. “Yes,” he said, “what better place to look for an ally than in the Marches? That stratagem served my grandfather well, for never did his power burn so bright as in those years after he’d allied himself with the Earl of Chester. Only time will tell if it works as well for me, but it is the only trail still open.”
Both Dai and Goronwy were nodding appreciatively, offering Llewelyn a foretaste of the approval he expected to get from his council. “Who, my lord? The Earl of Gloucester?” The guess was Goronwy’s, and it was a shrewd one, for Llewelyn and Gloucester had been allied together once before. But Llewelyn, still smiling, shook his head.
“No,” he said, “not Gloucester. My cousin, Roger de Mortimer.”
They looked startled, then dubious. “None would deny that Gloucester is about as affable as a cornered badger,” Dai said slowly, “but he does have a few scruples. Whereas de Mortimer would cut his own grandmother’s throat if you made it worth his while.”
Llewelyn didn’t dispute it. “Fortunately for me,” he said dryly, “I am not the man’s grandmother. If we begin to tally up all his flaws of character, we’ll still be talking come Judgment Day. But he has certain attributes that make him an ideal ally for my purposes. He is clever, ambitious, ruthless, and”—Llewelyn paused—“Gruffydd ap Gwenwynwyn’s neighbor.”
Dai had gone, Goronwy still lingered. Dai had seen the advantages of Llewelyn’s scheme, but he’d seen the dangers, too. If Goronwy did, he must have dismissed them as negligible, for his imagination was soaring, unencumbered by any earthly tethers. His zestful enthusiasm was contagious, appealing, a very likable aspect of his personality. But it was also why Llewelyn had chosen Dai as his Seneschal. Goronwy’s opinions were always interesting, often amusing, occasionally ingenious, but never objective, never balanced. Now his partisan passion was at full flame, so pleased was he that Llewelyn was laying plans to hold on to Arwystli, that he was not going to let it be stolen away in an English court. If these plans risked war, so be it; Goronwy tended to look upon war as he did the coming of winter: as unwelcome, onerous, and inevitable.
Draining his cider cup, Goronwy said suddenly, “I must confess, my lord, that one thing about this alliance does trouble me.”
“Only one?” Llewelyn asked, but Goronwy was impervious to irony, and nodded vigorously.
“How can we be sure,” he asked, “that de Mortimer shall be willing?”
That was the least of Llewelyn’s worries. “I know the man,” he said, with enough certainty to satisfy Goronwy. But his was an easy face to read. Llewelyn waited, then prompted, “Well? What else bothers you?”
“What of your lady?”
Goronwy’s query was so unexpected, so presumptuous, that Llewelyn realized almost at once that it could only be motivated by a very genuine concern. It was an undeniable familiarity, but one spurred on by friendship, and Llewelyn acknowledged it as such with the candor it deserved.
“I would to God there was another way, Goronwy,” he conceded quietly, “for she would sooner see me in league with Lucifer than allied with Roger de Mortimer. But my wife is a reasonable woman. She will understand.”
Llewelyn was awakened by the screeching of gulls. The raucous clamor puzzled him at first, until he remembered that they were no longer at the mountain grange of Hafod-y-Llan. He’d moved his household to his coastal castle at Cricieth, where Ellen was to remain while he journeyed south to meet with Roger de Mortimer.
The squabbling of the gulls had grown louder; it sounded as if they were fighting over a fish right under his window. It had been left unshuttered, open to the night air, for the weather had been unusually mild that September, as if Nature seemed set upon making amends for such a chill, rain-sodden spring and summer. Llewelyn lay still for a few moments, breathing in the tangy salt air. Almost lulled back to sleep by the rhythmic sound of ocean waves breaking upon the rocks below the castle, he reached drowsily for Ellen. But his seeking hand encountered only the rumpled folds of the bed sheets.
Fully awake now, he raised himself on his elbow. Ellen was awake, too, reclining upon a pillow propped against the headboard, with the breadth of the bed between them. As he stirred, her lashes quivered, but her eyes stayed downcast. So close to the edge of the mattress was she that a careless move could have sent her tumbling onto the floor. She looked pale and tired in the dawn light, and Llewelyn felt a sudden surge of tenderness. It was time to heal this foolish rift, to make things right between them. The first overtures would have to be his, but that was fair, for her grievance was a real one. He’d no
t begrudged her right to anger, had just not expected that she would cling to it so stubbornly.
Leaning across the bed, he reached for her long braid, entwining its tip around his fingers. “It is lonely over here by myself, Ellen,” he murmured coaxingly. “I am accustomed to finding you beside me when I awake, and I’ve missed that, cariad, missed your warmth, the feel of your breath on my skin as you slept. You once said our marriage bed was a haven, but in this past week, it has begun to resemble a kingdom split in twain and under siege. If I could tempt you into venturing into my half of our disputed domain, I feel sure we could find a way to mend this breach, to make our peace.”
Having offered her an olive branch, he felt a sense of relief; he ought to have done this days ago, spared them both some unquiet nights. Her lashes flickered again, no longer hovered along her cheeks, and he found himself looking into eyes utterly opaque and inscrutable. He could see color rising in her face and throat. She glanced away, then, sat up, and slid over onto his side of the bed.
Llewelyn did not want to talk, for he realized there was nothing he could say to ease her discontent; only time could do that. He knew she’d never like it, his association with Roger de Mortimer. But she’d learn to accept it; what other choice had she? “I have a confession to make,” he said, gently smoothing back the stray tendrils of hair framing her face. “Nothing under God’s sky disheartens me more than quarreling with you.” Her lashes had veiled her eyes again; he brushed his lips against her eyelids and temples before seeking her mouth.
Ellen offered no resistance, but neither did she respond. She simply lay there, let him kiss and caress her as he wished, and when he pulled back, ended the embrace, he was as angry as she’d ever seen him. “How long,” he demanded, “is this going to continue?”
She did not pretend to misunderstand him. “I am not refusing you, Llewelyn,” she pointed out coolly. “I am ready to perform all of my wifely duties when and as you will.”
“How very noble,” he snapped. “And what am I supposed to do—just wake you when it’s over?”
“I would suggest that you take what is offered, because duty is about all I can muster up at the moment!”
Llewelyn could have been looking at a stranger. “Of a sudden,” he said, “I do not feel as if I know you at all.”
“I can return the compliment, my lord, for I do not think I know you either, not anymore. I would have wagered my life that you’d never willingly hurt me—and I’d have been wrong!”
“Christ Jesus, woman, must we get into this again? What more is there to say? You know why I am doing this—”
“And you know what Roger de Mortimer did to my father! We stood in our bridal chamber at Worcester Castle and you listened as I told you what I’d never told another living soul, how that evil, ungodly man maimed and mutilated my father’s body—need I repeat all the vile, disgusting details? De Mortimer and his cutthroats butchered my father, hacked him into bloody pieces, threw what was left of him to the dogs. And this is the man you would have me break bread with! You tell me how, my lord husband, how do I do that? As I sit across the table and smile at him, how do I not think of Wigmore Castle…and my father’s head rotting above the gateway?”
“Stop it, Ellen! That would never happen, and you know it. Did I not promise you that you’d not have to lay eyes upon the man, much less make him welcome at our hearth? Is my word no longer enough for you?”
“I am neither a fool nor a child, Llewelyn. You can offer me a plenitude of promises today—and mean each and every one of them. But should the day ever come when your new ally arrives unexpectedly at your gate, wanting to conspire with you against Gruffydd ap Gwenwynwyn, we both know you’ll not turn him away, you’ll not risk offending him to spare my feelings.”
“For God’s sake, Ellen, you’re more important to me than Roger de Mortimer!”
“Am I? Prove it to me, then. Give up this accursed idea.”
What hurt her the most was that he did not even hesitate. “I cannot do that. There is too much at stake.”
She’d already gone further than she’d intended, but the utter matter-of-factness of his answer goaded her on. “So you’re saying, then, that avenging yourself upon Gruffydd ap Gwenwynwyn matters more than our marriage.”
“No…but the survival of Wales does,” he said, with a bluntness that took her breath away, and after that, there was nothing left to be said. Rising from the bed, Llewelyn strode to an open coffer, pulling out garments more or less at random. Ellen reached for her bedrobe, began to unbraid her hair with fingers that shook. They summoned neither his squires nor her ladies, dressed themselves in utter and suffocating silence. Llewelyn was still fumbling with his belt as he reached the door. There he paused, glancing back at his wife.
“You think I do not understand your anger,” he said abruptly, “and you are wrong, for I do.” Ellen put her hairbrush down, watching him warily, for although his words sounded conciliatory, his voice did not; it seemed edged in flint. “You have every reason to loathe de Mortimer, and your loyalty to your father is both natural and commendable. But we owe a greater loyalty to the living than to the dead, and you seem to have forgotten that. You are more than Simon de Montfort’s daughter. You are also my wife, and that, too, you seem to have forgotten. I can only hope that your memory improves, Ellen—for both our sakes.”
Ellen did not reply, and he jerked the door open, barely resisting the urge to slam it behind him. She sat very still, long after he’d gone, staring blindly at that closed door. The dawn mist had burned off by now, and a patch of sapphire-blue sky shimmered within the window’s framed opening. The day was promising all the false, lulling warmth of a Michaelmas summer, but only the innocent would be taken in, those who’d not yet learned that such brief, bittersweet respites too often led to killing frost and the bone-crippling cold of an early winter.
Llewelyn spared no time for breakfast, plunged at once into the day’s work. He dictated letters to Madog Goch ap Iorwerth, constable of Penllyn, to the Abbot of Aberconwy, and the Justiciar of Chester. He got a report about storm damage to the Menai ferry. He discussed with his chamberlain the collection of court amercements, a major source of princely revenue. He agreed to preside over a perjury case during his Christmas court at Dolwyddelan. He authorized a Michaelmas payment due upon the thousand marks owed to his brother Rhodri. And he interrogated the eye-witness to a brawl that had broken out when one of his rhingylls had attempted to confiscate the goods of a man convicted of receiving stolen property.
To all appearances, he’d passed a busy and productive morning. But he was finding it unexpectedly difficult to concentrate upon the matters at hand. He struggled against the tide until noon, refusing to admit that the husband’s distraction could prove stronger than the Prince’s will. But eventually he gave up, sent Trevor to fetch his sword and scabbard from his bedchamber, and ordered his horse saddled.
His departure was delayed by the strenuous objections of his teulu, but Llewelyn’s need for solitude was increasingly urgent, and he prevailed. His stallion was young and spirited, eager to run. He gave the animal its head, setting so swift a pace that Cricieth Castle soon disappeared into the distance.
He was riding into the wind and it whipped his hair about wildly, burned his face. He barely felt it, though, was equally oblivious to the low-lying hills and marshes stretching along either side of the road. He forded the River Dwfor at the commotal settlement of Dolbenmaen, and the tenants tending its desmesne lands stopped their work to gape as he passed, astonished that their Prince should suddenly appear in their midst like this, alone, accompanied by none of his household guard.
Llewelyn had not planned to depart for his meeting with Roger de Mortimer until Friday of the following week, for he’d wanted to be with Ellen on her twenty-ninth birthday. Now, though, he was reconsidering. Mayhap it might be for the best if he left early, if they had some time apart. He realized what an inadequate solution that was, but he was unable to co
me up with a better one. And underlying his anger and frustration was a new and unsettling anxiety. For the first time, he found himself thinking what would have been unthinkable even hours ago. What if Ellen did not come to her senses? Or when she did, what if, by then, it was too late? Once a foundation cracked, it put the entire building at risk. Was that true, as well, for a marriage?
Llewelyn’s stallion shied as a hare broke from the bushes, flashed in front of them. Reining in, he stroked the horse’s neck. It was lathered with sweat, and only then did he realize just how far they’d come. He had to go no more than twenty feet from the road to find water; Llŷn was crisscrossed with serpentine streams and shallow, muddy rivers. As the horse drank, he stretched his stiff muscles, measured the westward slide of the sun. He’d forgotten a flask, now knelt, cupped his hands, and drank, too. But he was also hungry and tired, and as he gazed at the road winding its way south, he knew suddenly that he did not want to make that long, wearying ride back to Cricieth—and Ellen.
Llewelyn studied the surrounding terrain, needing but a few moments to get his bearings, for he carried a mental map of his Welsh domains. Off to the southwest lay Bwlch Mawr; he’d once fought a battle within its shadow, scored a sweeping victory over the invading army led by his brothers, Owain and Davydd. He was only a few miles, then, from the monastery at Clynnog. His uncle Einion had a manor just south of Clynnog. Why not ride over, stay the night? Einion’s health was failing, and he kept close to his own hearth these days; it would be good to pass some time together. It was an easy decision for Llewelyn to make; Einion’s manor was far closer than Cricieth. But so reluctant was he to face Ellen while he was still so angry with her that he’d have found a way to justify his choice had the distance been twice as great. Mounting his horse again, he abandoned the road and headed west, cutting cross-country toward the ocean.
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