The Reckoning

by Sharon Kay Penman

  There were many hated officials of the English Crown—Bogo de Knovill, Roger Clifford, John Giffard, Roger Lestrange—but none were loathed as much as de Grey. Again and again his name was heard in the hall; until by repetition alone it began to sound like a curse. De Grey had forced free Welshmen to plough his lands like English serfs. English masons from Rhuddlan Castle assaulted a Welshwoman passing by, attacking her husband when he sought to defend her, and when the family of the slain woman captured the killers and brought them to de Grey for justice, he set them free, then arrested the complaining kinsmen. He accused the men of Rhos and Tegeingl of trespasses committed in the reign of the present King’s late father, and demanded money to forgo prosecution. He violated the terms of his King’s own treaty and harassed the Welsh so shamelessly that they despaired of ever finding justice in his courts. How long must they endure his tyranny? How long must they deal with the Devil?

  Later, when Llewelyn and his highborn guests were at ease in the great chamber of the castle’s new West Tower, those were questions that trailed after them, lurking unanswered beneath their guarded courtesies, shadowing their occasional silences.

  There was much that lay unspoken between these men, for most of them had abandoned Llewelyn four years ago to save their own lands. But there was also between them an affinity that could not be disavowed, one of blood. Rhys Wyndod, his brother Llewelyn, Rhys Fychan, and Cynan ap Maredudd were cousins, great-grandsons of the Lord Rhys, most renowned of all the southern princes. Rhys Wyndod and his brothers were also nephews of the Prince of Wales, son of Llewelyn’s long-dead sister. The Lords of North Powys, Llewelyn Fychan and Gruffydd Fychan, were his kinsmen, too, albeit much more distant ones. Llewelyn no longer trusted kinship, if ever he did; if a blood bond could not bind his brother to him, how could it hold fast nephews or cousins? But theirs was still a common heritage, a shared history in which regrets, resentments, ambitions, and jealousies all existed in uneasy accord.

  Servants stoked the hearth, refilled mead cups, and discreetly withdrew. The silence that had fallen as the servants entered lingered after they departed, a silence that was speculative, wary, and yet expectant. Llewelyn had been awaiting just such an opening. “I think it is time,” he said, “to speak of our own grievances against the English King.”

  There was a moment more of quiet, and then the chamber was reverberating with the sounds of anger. Voices were raised, chairs shoved back, fists slammed down upon the oaken table with enough force to alarm Nia, Llewelyn’s canine shadow. Llewelyn made no attempt to exert control, let them vent their rage as they pleased, interrupting one another in their haste to share the injustices each had suffered at English hands.

  None of their complaints were unfamiliar to Llewelyn; he’d kept a close watch upon all of their dealings with the English Crown, knew their wrongs as he did his own. His cousin of North Powys had seen his lands raided by the Marcher lord John Fitz Alan, had been feuding for several years now with the constable of Oswestry, Roger Lestrange. He had also endured the humiliation of being abducted by the sons of Gruffydd ap Gwenwynwyn, and then of being unable to avenge himself afterward upon his assailants, for none stood higher in royal favor than the Lord of South Powys. Llewelyn’s nephew, Rhys Wyndod, had lost his castles at Dinefwr, Carreg Cennen, and Llandovery, and when he’d sought to defend his rights in Hirwryn against the claims of John Giffard, he’d discovered that no Welsh quagmire could bog men down as hopelessly as an English court case. Cynan ap Maredudd and his absent brother had been deprived of their lands in Geneu’r Glyn and Creuddyn. And these were all men who’d yielded to Edward, lain down their swords in a vain attempt at self-preservation. Those who’d spurned accommodations had paid an even greater price; Rhys Wyndod’s brothers had been stripped of all they’d once held for their failure to forsake Llewelyn in those desperate months of 1277.

  Davydd had so far kept silent. But once some of their passion had been spent; once their fury no longer burned at full flame, he said, “Let Goronwy ap Heilyn be heard now, for I know no one who has greater grievances against Reginald de Grey, not even myself.”

  Davydd had been attracting more than his share of suspicious glances, for most men saw distinct differences between surrender and collaboration. But Goronwy commanded both liking and respect, and none begrudged him a chance to speak of his wrongs.

  Goronwy was not disconcerted to find himself the focus of all eyes. “I hardly know where to begin,” he said, “but I will confine myself to the most arrant offenses. One of my tenants was brought before the King’s court on a false charge, and although I sought to testify on his behalf, he was fined twenty-seven pounds, a sum so great he’d need three lifetimes in which to pay it. Then a man whose friendship I held dear, one whom I’d trusted to foster my son, was slain. His kinsmen brought the killer to Rhuddlan, demanding justice. But they were the ones cast into prison, whilst the killer went free. De Grey took away the bailiwick given to me by the King and sold it for his own profit. Then there was the trouble over Maenan and Llysfayn, lands I’d leased for a four-year term. Sir Robert Cruquer, a knight of de Grey’s household, attempted to evict me from these lands by force, and when I resisted, de Grey summoned me to answer in court. There he had men at arms ready to seize me, and would have done so had I not been warned beforehand, come accompanied by an armed force of my own. He even dared threaten to have me beheaded, and only the presence of the Bishop of St Asaph stayed his hand.”

  Goronwy’s dark eyes glinted with remembered rage, but he kept his voice even, as if recounting another man’s misfortunes, for so great was his sense of outrage that he’d been forced to distance himself from it. “Three times,” he said, “I traveled to London, seeking justice from the English King. Three times I came away with nothing but empty, hollow promises, promises that were never kept. I’ll not go a fourth time, that I swear upon the soul of my son.”

  There was not a man present who could not identify with Goronwy’s complaints, but their commiserations were cut short by Davydd, who said, “Now it is my turn. I’ll concede straightaway that my legal troubles with that whoreson de Vanabeles are less entangled than Rhys Wyndod’s lawsuit against John Giffard, and as for Arwystli…” Here he gave his brother a sudden, sideways grin. “Do they know yet, Llewelyn? Tell them about the latest twist in a road already as crooked as Edward’s ethics!”

  Llewelyn’s smile was almost amused, for he’d had more than a month to come to terms with Edward’s latest ploy. “Gruffydd ap Gwenwynwyn is now claiming that my case against him cannot proceed without the King’s writ. And Edward has informed me—brace yourselves for a great surprise—that they just cannot seem to find the original writ. Since they cannot, he is most regretful, but we’ll have to begin the case all over again, as if the past four years had never been. Who would have guessed that an English lawsuit could have as long a lifespan as any man’s? It gives a whole new meaning to the concept of perpetuity, does it not? The next time that I grant a charter ‘forever and aye,’ mayhap I ought to add, ‘or the end of the Arwystli lawsuit, whichever occurs first.’”

  There was laughter at that, but not from Rhys Wyndod, who could find no humor in the subject of lawsuits, not after being yoked to John Giffard in an English court for the past two years. “How can you jest about it?” he asked in genuine bemusement, and Llewelyn shrugged.

  “Because,” he said, “I’ll not let Edward rob me of laughter, too.” Glancing toward his brother, he said, “Go on, Davydd. Say what you will.”

  There were some startled looks, for few could remember the last time he’d addressed Davydd so affably. But if Davydd was surprised, too, he hid it well.

  “I could set forth my grievances in just three words: Reginald de Grey. But the truth is that he’s merely the puppet, doing the bidding of the royal puppeteer at Westminster. They’ve harassed my men, cut down my woods at Llyweny and Caergwrle, and refused to make good my losses. Nigh on four years ago I agreed to an exchange of manors with my wife’s s
tepson, provided that I would be compensated for the difference in value, but I’ve yet to receive so much as a farthing. And then there are the vills in Dyffryn Clwyd. They were held for life by my aunt, Gwenllian de Lacy. I never met the lady, for Llewelyn Fawr had wed her to one of the de Lacys ere I was even born, and she lived out all her days in Ireland. But I hold Dyffryn Clwyd now, and when she died last month, those vills ought to have passed to me. Instead Edward claimed them, proving once again that thievery and statecraft are but two sides of the same English coin.”

  He had their attention, but Davydd could see thinly veiled satisfaction on some faces, a so-what skepticism on others. “When I learned that outlaws were lurking in the woods near my castle at Caergwrle and preying upon travelers,” he said in sudden anger, “I had them hunted down and hanged. My reward was to have de Grey accuse me of harboring them all along and warn me that my sons could always be held as hostages until I mended my manners!”

  There were murmurings at that, and even a few glances of surprised sympathy. “Yes,” Davydd said, still angrily, “at the moment I wanted to kill him, I admit it. But for what? For doing what he’s told? To hear men talk today, he might well be the true Prince of Darkness. But he’s not; he’s merely Edward of England’s lackey. And when he strews sundried straw about and then saunters by with a lit flame, it’s because Edward bloody well wants him to!”

  Davydd checked himself with an effort, ignored the others, and gave Llewelyn a probing look. “Is it your wish to speak now?” he asked, with a deference that was not entirely free of challenge. “Why did you summon us to Dolwyddelan?”

  “To talk,” Llewelyn said, “of war.”

  There was a stir among the men, but no real surprise, for that was what they were expecting—even hoping—to hear. Rhys Wyndod made an emphatic, involuntary gesture of assent, balling a fist and driving it into the palm of his hand, while the aggrieved Lord of North Powys nodded in grim satisfaction, and his brother sat up straight in his chair, squaring his shoulders with an odd mixture of bravado and resignation. Goronwy looked somber but approving, a few looked dubious, a few more, pleased. But no reaction was as spontaneous or as revealing as Davydd’s; he gave a loud, ringing laugh in which triumph vied with relief.

  “I knew it,” he exulted, “knew you’d come to see that there is no other way, that we have to fight!”

  Llewelyn regarded him impassively for a moment. “I doubt that there is a Welshman breathing who does not know war is coming,” he said. “But not yet. Not until we’ve done our part, for this will not be a war to leave to Fortune or Fate or even the manifold mercies of the Almighty. Against a foe like Edward, we shall have to make the most of every advantage, to turn to our benefit time and weather and random chance itself, and even then we’ll still need the luck of the angels, the blessings of every Welsh saint in martyrdom, and the prayers of all our people, both the living and the dead.”

  That was not what they’d wanted from him. Llewelyn saw it on their faces, saw their disappointment, and a stray, subversive thought came shooting from the back of his brain, came perilously close to escaping into speech: Just where were all these firebrands four years ago when an English army was starving Gwynedd into submission?

  Davydd was frowning. “That was eloquently said, vividly expressed. But what does it mean? That we continue to let the English treat us like serfs and bondsmen? How much offal can we swallow ere we choke on it? I’m not saying I do not understand your caution, Llewelyn. But if a wolf was raiding your flock, would you comfort yourself that he was only taking one sheep at a time? No, by God, you’d put a stop to it whilst you still had sheep left to steal!”

  Llewelyn lost all patience. “In case it has escaped your notice, we are not facing a lone, marauding wolf! One of the worst mistakes a man can make is to hold his enemies too cheaply. Edward Plantagenet is one of the greatest soldiers in Christendom, and we forget that at our peril. You’d best bear in mind that he not only out-fought Simon de Montfort at Evesham, he outwitted him first. And this ‘wolf’ of yours, Davydd, has all the resources of the English Crown at his command, wealth and men we cannot hope to match. Lastly, we need to remember that he truly believes he is doing God’s work in bringing Wales under his control, and a man with a sense of divine mission is a very dangerous foe, indeed.”

  “What are you saying, that we are bound to lose?”

  “I am saying, Davydd, that we can make no mistakes, none at all. We cannot afford to plunge ahead heedlessly, to be rash or reckless, not with so much at stake. We owe our children—and their children—better than that, for they, too, would have to pay the price for our failure, a price higher than most of us could imagine.”

  They were listening intently now, but with some resentment. Llewelyn knew why, knew the risks of lecturing proud men. But he could not help himself; his sense of urgency was too great, overriding all else, even political acumen.

  “So what, then, would you have us do, Uncle?”

  Llewelyn glanced thoughtfully at Rhys Wyndod, then let his gaze shift to take in the others, moving slowly from face to face. “We can begin,” he said, “by talking of iron and salt and cloth and corn and wine, all the goods that we buy from England. Our people have to be ready for a long, drawn-out siege. Our larders must be stocked and our coffers filled, for Edward’s fleet will enforce an embargo we cannot hope to break.”

  “That does make sense,” Cynan ap Maredudd said grudgingly. “But whilst we lay plans for the morrow, what about today? What about the abuses and injustices heaped upon us now? Do we just endure it all as best we can?”

  His tone was incredulous, that of a man suggesting a tactic he’d already dismissed as ludicrous. His shock was all the greater, therefore, when Llewelyn said, with brutal candor, “Yes, that is exactly what we do.”

  “I doubt that I can do that,” Llewelyn Fychan said, and mutterings of agreement went rustling around the table. “I’ve had a bellyful of English insults, do not think I can force down another morsel. You make it sound so easy, Cousin, but it is not, is—”

  “Easy?” Llewelyn echoed. “You think it was easy for me to come to Edward at Rhuddlan, to seek a pardon from the man who had ravaged my lands and abducted my wife? Easy to humble myself before the English court at Westminster? But I did it, and you will, too, all of you, for it’s not a matter of choice!”

  It was the throb of raw fury in his voice that stopped Llewelyn. He regained control by resorting to Ellen’s trick, drawing several deep, deliberate breaths, giving other tempers a chance to cool, too. “I know how much I ask,” he said. “But there is no other way. You must not let them goad you into rebellion ere we are ready, for this war must be fought on our terms. Our people’s suffering will not be for naught. Each time that a man is abused because he is Welsh, each time that our laws are denied us and our traditions mocked, we strengthen our grip upon the hearts of our people. Edward may not know it yet, but not a day passes that he does not convert new rebels to our cause. And thank God for that, for too often Welsh unity has been the first casualty of our wars. This time it must be different. This time we must recognize the enemy and hold fast against him.”

  In the silence that followed, very few could meet Llewelyn’s eyes, for too many of them had the blood of that Welsh unity on their own hands. He’d won no friends by reminding them of that, but none could refute what he’d just said, either.

  “It is writ in Scriptures that he who is not with me is against me. Never has that been more true than now. There can be no forgiveness for those who aid and abet the English. When the war comes, the lords of Wales must stand together. Those few who would whore after English favors—Rhys ap Gruffydd, Rhys ap Maredudd, and above all, Gruffydd ap Gwenwynwyn—must learn that there is a debt due for past treacheries. This time Edward will not be able to claim he seeks to end a civil war, to bring peace to a primitive, quarrelsome people warring amongst themselves. This time he’ll have no Welsh pawns to play, to flaunt as false allies. We must
see to that.”

  Although Llewelyn did not look toward Davydd as he spoke so scathingly of Welsh pawns, all the others did. Davydd’s color had deepened, but he said nothing, kept his eyes upon his brother. It was Goronwy who asked the question uppermost in their minds. “When do we rise up against our oppressors, my lord? How long must we wait?”

  “I do not know, Goronwy,” Llewelyn admitted, “for I am no soothsayer, cannot foresee what might occur in the coming months. There is this to consider, though, that it has been five years since Edward swore that he would lead another crusade to the Holy Land. My sources at the papal court tell me that ere long, the new Pope will urge him to make good that vow. What better time to throw off the English yoke than whilst their King is half-way to Palestine? But even if that never comes to pass, Edward is soon to visit his cousin, the French King, to occupy himself in French matters, just as he did two years ago.”

  “I see,” Davydd said at last. “You would have us lay our plans and then bide our time, awaiting that moment when Fortune is most likely to favor us.”

  Llewelyn nodded bleakly. “I know that is not what some of you wanted to hear. I know, too, that it will not be an easy road to travel. We all agree that this is a war we must fight.” He let a pause develop then, to give his words more impact, before adding with quiet, compelling conviction: “But above all, it is a war we cannot lose.”

  Caitlin gave a joyful cry, jumped to her feet, and embraced Ellen. “How I bless the day you came to us! I could see at once that you made my uncle happy, and I loved you for it, but now…a child! He rarely spoke of it, but I knew how much he wanted a son, we all knew, and—”