“You’ve torn the sleeve of your shirt,” she said. “I’ll see that it is mended.” And then, “Llewelyn… I hate this. I can hardly breathe, feel as if a weight were pressing against my chest. How did things go so wrong between us, and…and what if we cannot get them right again?”
“I hate it, too, Ellen,” he admitted. “But I am not sure that now is the time to try to sort it all out. I’ve been in the saddle for hours, am bone-weary…”
“I am, too,” she said. “I lay awake till dawn, thinking. In truth, that is all I’ve done for these past two days. I thought about us, about my father, about Roger de Mortimer, about what you said to me yesterday morn, and the way you looked at me then, as if you did not like me very much at that moment.”
He seemed about to speak, and she shook her head. “Please…hear me out. I did not mean that as a reproach.” She found for him a very wan smile. “You see, I did not like you very much at that moment, either. And it scared me, that I did not.”
“I know,” he said quietly, for he did.
“I was so wroth with you, Llewelyn. But I was wretchedly unhappy, too, so unhappy I feared I’d sicken on it. I knew you thought I was being unreasonable, and so I forced myself to go over it in my mind, to remember all I’ve ever been told about Evesham.”
She drew a deep, hurtful breath, then gestured toward her swollen, bloodshot eyes. “I know you can tell I’ve been weeping. But my tears were not all for you. I wept, too, for my father and for the brutal way he died. I made myself think about how it must have been for him, and about what they did to him, all the shameful, loathsome cruelties… Roger de Mortimer’s cruelties. And when I was done, I knew that I could never forgive de Mortimer, never. And I knew, too, that I had the right to hate him. As Simon de Montfort’s daughter, I need make no apologies for that, nor will I.”
She saw him stiffen, and said quickly, “I am not done yet. There is more. I realized that you, too, had right on your side, for what you said was true. I had indeed forgotten what I owed to you, and for that, I do seek your pardon. Nothing in my life has given me greater joy than being your wife. In this past week, I let myself forget that, forget that my loyalties are pledged to you, just as my heart is. But I promise you that it will not happen again.”
Llewelyn crossed the space between them. “And you’ll be able to accept my alliance with Roger de Mortimer?”
She nodded somberly. “I shall have to, shan’t I?”
He felt no triumph; there was too much pain in her eyes for that. But he did feel an intense relief, overwhelming enough to render him speechless. Taking her in his arms, he held her close, for he now knew—they both knew—that marital vows might bind them unto death, but love was far more fragile, love could be lost.
On the 9th of October in God’s Year, 1281, a “treaty of peace and indissoluble concord” was entered into by Llewelyn ap Gruffydd, Prince of Wales, and Roger de Mortimer, Lord of Wigmore, in which they pledged to support each other, both in time of war and peace, against all men, save only the King of England, his brother, and heirs.
In early December, Llewelyn had a clandestine meeting with the man who was Seneschal to Gruffydd ap Gwenwynwyn, but privately pledged to Llewelyn. Their secret colloquy was cut short, however, by the inclement winter weather. It had been, all would agree, an odd, unpredictable year, heavy spring and summer rains yielding to a brief, beautiful autumn, and now ending in an unseasonably early cold spell. There had been one major snowstorm already, even before November was done. The roads were mired in frigid mud, sleet pelted the last leaves from the trees, and the wretched people huddling before their hearths knew that the worst still lay ahead. As the second week of Advent began, the sky was flying such storm warnings that Llewelyn and his covert ally agreed they’d best hasten their departure; it would, they joked grimly, ill serve their conspiracy to be snowbound together.
Llewelyn left Beddgelert Priory at dawn, raced the snowclouds north. He won, by the narrowest of margins. Snow had begun to fall by the time he reached the Lledr Valley, but Dolwyddelan was soon in sight, a torch-lit beacon beckoning from the crest of its high, rocky hill.
Trevor bolted from the great hall as they rode into the bailey. He’d not even paused to collect his mantle, so thankful was he that his lord had come safely back from his mysterious mission. He stood shivering in the snow as Llewelyn sent his men into the hall to thaw out, and squirmed in pleased embarrassment when Llewelyn chided him for courting frostbite. But when Llewelyn started for the keep, beckoning him to follow, he backed away in confusion.
“My lord, I… I cannot go up to your chamber. Your lady wife…she is taking a bath!”
Llewelyn arched a brow. “And just how do you know that?”
Trevor flushed bright red, began to stammer that he’d seen the servants lugging buckets of water up the stairs. But then he looked more closely into his lord’s face, gave an abashed smile. “Oh! You were jesting!”
“Yes, lad,” Llewelyn said patiently, “I was jesting.” Llewelyn had grown fond of Trevor, whose devotion to duty even Hugh might envy. But the boy insisted upon taking Llewelyn’s lightest utterances as Holy Writ, and Llewelyn sometimes suspected that Trevor had been cheated of one of life’s strongest shields, a sense of humor. He smiled now at his squire—young, eager, turning blue with cold—and ordered him back into the hall before he froze those body parts he would least like to lose. Trevor grinned shyly, trotted off through the snow. It was falling faster now; Llewelyn quickened his step, grateful that he would not be out on the roads this night, but snug before his own hearth.
He encountered a servant on the stairs, laden with a flagon and ginger-filled wafers. Taking the tray himself, Llewelyn crossed the forebuilding drawbridge, knocked briskly on his bedchamber door. Fortunately, it was not Eluned who opened it, for Hugh’s young wife would have spoiled his surprise then and there. But Juliana needed no prompting. She bit back the cry that rose to her lips, gave Llewelyn a coconspirator’s grin, and then she was gone, snatching up her mantle and making a discreet departure for the hall. Llewelyn spared a moment to bless both her tact and her timing, and then shut the door upon the storm, slid the bolt into place.
Ellen’s back was to the door. The tub had been dragged so close to the hearth that she risked being singed by its heat, but she liked to linger over her bath until the water began to cool. Llewelyn had never known anyone who took such sensual delight in bathing, and once he’d learned of her secret vice, he’d been quite willing to indulge it. The wooden tub had been custom-made to his specifications, twice the usual size, round and deep and well sanded to protect her skin from splinters, the rim padded so she could lie back in comfort. By now Llewelyn knew the rituals she would follow, knew that the water would be scented with rosemary and chamomile, that she would lather herself with liquid French soap, and as she soaked, she would slowly sip a goblet of wine. Then, when she was done and dried off, she would dust herself lavishly with a fragrant powder. The routine never varied, and he had yet to tire of watching it, especially on a night like this, when the wind was rising, and the castle lay under a white, silent siege.
Ellen’s hair had been swept up, but a few long strands were defying their pins. They trailed in the water, lay wet and gleaming against her breasts, giving her the look of a modest mermaid, one who happened, however, to be singing a song bawdy enough to have made her confessor blush. Llewelyn would have lingered a moment longer by the door, enjoying the flickering play of firelight upon her skin. But she interrupted her song to ask Juliana if that had been the wine, and he crossed the chamber, reached down for her outstretched, waiting hand, and pressed a kiss into her palm.
Ellen’s eyes snapped open; she sat up with a splash. “Llewelyn!” More water splashed, but as quickly as she rose from the tub to fling her arms around his neck, just as quickly did she recoil, for his mantle was glazed with unmelted snow.
Llewelyn laughed, freed the clasp, and let the mantle fall to the floor. “Let’s try tha
t again,” he said, and Ellen came back into his arms, warm and wet and smelling of rosemary. The tub was so full that her movements sent water sloshing over the sides, onto the floor and Llewelyn’s boots. He got even wetter as he lifted her out of the tub, but he did not care. Plucking the pins from her hair, he kissed her mouth, then her throat.
“When a mortal man catches a mermaid, does she not have to pay a forfeit for her freedom? If memory serves, I think he gets to keep her tail.”
“That is a scandalous way to talk to your wife,” Ellen scolded, but she would have been more convincing had her voice not quivered with laughter. “We did not expect you back until Thursday, at the earliest. I had such a special welcome planned,” she said and sighed regretfully. “We were going to have all your favorite foods, Gruffydd ab yr Ynad Coch was composing a song for your pleasure, and I was going to wear my newest gown, the crimson one with the lace—”
She got no further; he kissed her again. “Actually,” he said, “I like you better like this, soft and slippery.”
“And shivering,” she added with a smile, and began to wrap herself in a towel, deftly sidestepping his attempt to snatch it away.
“Are all mermaids so skittish? Why are you in such a hurry to put your clothes on? It would make more sense if I got rid of mine, joined you in the bath. Generous lass that you are, you’ve shared half of it with me, already.”
Ellen giggled. “The last time we tried that, we flooded the room! But if you really want to risk drowning again, I am willing. Not yet, though. First we must talk, beloved. I have a gift for you, and I would give it now.”
“A New Year’s gift? But that is still more than a fortnight away.”
“I know, but I cannot wait any longer, not another moment. And it is not just a New Year’s gift. It is also a very early birthday gift, a belated anniversary gift.”
“One gift in lieu of all that? I think I am sure to come out on the losing side here, for how could any one gift possibly be as wondrous as…as that?”
She caught the telling pause, so quickly covered up, knew exactly what he’d found himself thinking at that moment, and it hurt her to see how swiftly he’d rejected it, as if hope had become the enemy.
“Say it, my love,” she entreated. “Say what we both know to be true—that only one gift could be as great as that—a son and heir.”
“Ah, Ellen…” he said softly, and she reached up, gently laid her fingers to his lips.
“You do not understand, not yet. That is what I am telling you, Llewelyn, that is my gift. I am with child.”
Llewelyn’s breath stopped. “You are sure?”
Ellen nodded. “Yes, my darling, yes…oh, yes!” She laughed up at him, and there was on her face a look of such pure and perfect happiness that he no longer doubted.
“I kept telling myself it was not to be, and I tried to accept it, God Above, how I tried!” He touched his fingers to her cheek. “I’ve loved no woman as I’ve loved you,” he said huskily, “and now you have given me what no other woman could…” She thought she saw the glint of tears, but before she could be sure, he’d caught her up in his arms, carrying her across the room and putting her down upon the bed, all the while looking at her with such tenderness that she felt sure she’d never know such intense, abiding joy again—not until that moment when she held her son for the first time.
She’d lost her towel on the way to the bed, and he amused her now by insisting she get under the covers at once, not sitting beside her until he had positioned pillows behind her back. “How far along are you, Ellen?”
“Last week I missed my flux again—for the third time.”
“Three!” Llewelyn was taken aback. “Why did you not tell me ere this…and how were you able to hide it?”
“Why is obvious, beloved. I would not raise your hopes only to see them cruelly dashed down. I wanted to tell you so much, Llewelyn, but I had to be sure first. I could not bear to break your heart with a false hope. As for how, that was rather easy. I missed my first flux in October, whilst you were at Radnor with Roger de Mortimer. That was as hard a thing as I’ve ever done, keeping silent when you returned! And then, I missed again in Martinmas week. I did not lie, my love, just said nothing. I knew you did not keep track of my monthly flux on your own, not since the first months of our marriage, and as you were away twice in November, I felt sure you’d assume it must have come during one of your absences…and you did, no?”
He nodded, and she caught his hand, pressed it between her breasts. “Can you feel my heart, Llewelyn? I hope it is not sinful to be so happy! Last week, when again my flux failed to come, I began to count the hours until you got home, until I could tell you. On Sunday I had Hugh take Juliana and me up the road to Trefriw, and I consulted secretly with Dame Blodwen, for I’d heard she is one of the best midwives in all of Gwynedd. She confirmed what I already knew, that I am indeed pregnant.”
Llewelyn could not stop touching her, stroking her damp, disheveled hair, following the golden gleam of her crucifix chain. “When, cariad?”
“Mid-June. When I told the midwife that my last flux had been whilst we were at Hafod-y-Llan in September, she said I conceived in the following fortnight—during our time at Cricieth, during one of those nights after we’d made our peace and ere you left for Radnor.” She smiled suddenly, wickedly. “Remember what I told you, that those were nights I’d not soon forget?”
“If we are picking one in particular when the deed was done,” he said with a grin, “I’d put my money on that Thursday, the night I came back from Einion’s.” June…a good time to bring a child into the world. Summer babies, he knew, had an easier time of it than those born during the dark, bleak days of a Welsh winter.
“Llewelyn…can we pick a name tonight?”
“We can do whatever you like, cariad. I have an uneasy suspicion that the balance of power has suddenly shifted in this marriage,” he said, and laughed.
Ellen laughed, too, for laughter came to them both as easily as breathing this night. “I know better than that, my lord Prince of Wales, and I shall mercifully refrain from holding you to those rash words once you sober up!”
He realized there was truth in her teasing, for he knew now that it was indeed possible to get as drunk on joy as on mead. Sliding his arm around her shoulders, he drew her in against his chest. “If my lady wants to talk of names, then we shall. How about Siwan for a girl and—” He stopped in surprise, for Ellen was already shaking her head. “I thought you would fancy that one for certes. You do know, cariad, that Siwan is Welsh for Joanna?”
“Yes, I do. But we have no need to consider names for a lass. I am carrying a son.”
“God grant it so. But how can you be so sure?”
“I just know,” she said simply, with such utter conviction that he found it very easy to believe her, to believe that mayhap women truly could tell such things.
“I want you to choose the name, Llewelyn. I ask only that it be a name I can pronounce…and that it not be Davydd. I know he is the patron saint of the Welsh, but I think one Davydd in your family is more than enough! The Welsh do not often name sons after the fathers, do they? What of Gruffydd, then, after your own father?”
“No, lass, I have another name in mind. A name that the Welsh will like well, for it belonged to a man whose exploits were celebrated in our Mabinogi. And one that will please you, too, Ellen, for it will be a living link between your past and our future.” Raising her face up to his, he said, “Should you like to name our son Bran?”
He had just betrayed himself, for the name came too rapidly to his lips, a name born of long hours of wishful yearning, of a hunger so deep it burned to the bone, but one he’d denied again and again in these past three years—for her sake, for a beloved, barren wife. Tears filled Ellen’s eyes. She nodded mutely, the words catching in her throat, and reached for his hand. Drawing it under the covers, she laid it against her belly.
“My lord husband,” she said, “meet Bran ap L
lewelyn. Meet your son.”
28
Dolwyddelan, Wales
December 1281
The brutal winter weather had not kept the lords of Wales from braving the high mountain passes. From North Powys came Llewelyn Fychan ap Gruffydd Maelor, Lord of Nanheudwy and Cynllaith, and his brother Gruffydd Fychan, Lord of Ial. From the south came Cynan ap Maredudd and Rhys Fychan, Lords of Ceredigion, and Rhys Wyndod, Lord of the Vale of Tywi, and his younger brother, Llewelyn ap Rhys of Is Cennen. And from the Perfeddwlad came the most surprising arrival of all, the Lord of Dinbych and Yr Hob, Llewelyn ap Gruffydd’s brother Davydd.
And as word spread of their presence at Dolwyddelan, Llewelyn’s troubled countrymen began to converge upon his court, bearing their grievances against the English Crown like Christmas offerings for their Prince. One by one they rose to speak in the great hall, to reveal their wrongs, their rage, and their yearning for vengeance.
Some of their complaints spoke to affronted pride, others struck at the heart, but through them all echoed a common cry, one of loss—of lands, of dignity, of hope.
Men whose lands had been seized to build Edward’s castle at Flynt charged that the royal promises of compensation were never honored. Men who’d brought goods to sell in the new borough of Rhuddlan told how they were compelled to sell only to the English, at prices set by the English, and those who balked were gaoled and beaten. Their woods were cut down, without recompense. Their laws were mocked. And as each man came forward to bare his wounds, the hall fell silent; here at least their voices would be heard.
Einion ab Ithel claimed that because he drove his oxen through the streets of Oswestry, he was beaten and both of his oxen taken from him. Ithel ap Gwysty was fined a vast sum for a crime committed by his father forty years before. Iorwerth ap Gwrgwneu was fined for escaping from an English prison during the war. Others spoke of the harshness of the English forest laws, so alien to the Welsh; three men lost all they owned for one foot of a stag found in a dog’s mouth. The church of St Davydd at Llangadog was used by the English as a stable, the priest stabbed and left bleeding before the altar, and none were called to account for it. The new Justiciar of Chester, Reginald de Grey, claimed the lands of the men of Merton without cause and bestowed them upon the Abbot of Basingwerk.
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