The Reckoning

by Sharon Kay Penman

  With that, she leaned over, awkwardly sought his mouth with hers. It was her first kiss, and that was obvious; it was also a decided disappointment. When she drew back, tears had begun to well in the corners of her eyes, slowly spilled down her cheeks. Hugh wiped them away with his fingers, and then somehow they were kissing again, and this time it was different, was all she imagined it would be, for this time he was the one kissing her.

  It was customary to select maidens and young widows as attendants and companions for women of high birth, for life in a noble household offered numerous advantages, not the least of them being enhanced opportunities for marriage. But Ellen had broken with tradition in choosing Eluned’s replacement. Gwynora was a widow of fifty-one, the mother of eight children, a woman so knowledgeable in the ways of childbirth and pregnancy that even midwives sought her out. In the two months since she’d entered Ellen’s service, she’d proved to be a patient, good-natured guide, taking Ellen on a day-by-day tour of the unknown realm of pregnancy.

  On this third Wednesday in March, they were sitting side by side in a window-seat in Ellen’s bedchamber, needles flashing, Gwynora stitching the hem of a blanket for the baby’s cradle, Ellen at work upon a christening cloth of linen and lace, embroidering it with Llewelyn’s Welsh lions and the fork-tailed lion of the House of de Montfort. When she paused suddenly, laying a hand upon her abdomen, Gwynora gave her a knowing smile. “The little one is stirring, is he?”

  Ellen nodded. “At first it felt as if I’d swallowed a butterfly, but these days I’d swear he is playing a game of football in there!” Picking up her needle again, she stitched in contented silence for some moments. “Are you sure, Gwynora, that a babe does not quicken until the fourth month?”

  “Quite sure, my lady. I’ve never heard of it happening earlier than that.”

  “Well, I’ll know better what to expect with the next one,” Ellen said, and then laughed. “But I’d as soon you not mention that to my lord husband. I swore to him, you see, that I felt the babe quicken on Christmas Eve!”

  Gwynora laughed, too, was holding up her handiwork for Ellen’s approval as Juliana entered the chamber. Ellen’s needle froze in midair. “You have the queerest look on your face, as if you cannot decide whether you want to laugh or cry. Whatever is amiss?”

  “Do you remember, Ellen, saying that you’d wait for trouble to find you? Well…you’d best make ready to welcome it to Llanfaes. I saw none of this myself, but there was no lack of witnesses. It seems Caitlin caught our Hugh flirting with a local lass, and she doused him with cider, then fled into the stables, with Hugh but a stride or two behind. As if that were not enough to start tongues wagging, they did not emerge from the stable for the longest time, and when they did, they had straw in their hair and dazed, lovesick looks on their faces!”

  Ellen had a special fondness for the friary of the Franciscans at Llanfaes. It was here that she felt closest to Joanna, in the tranquil stillness of the church that was Llewelyn Fawr’s last gift to a well-loved wife. The candle she’d just lit for Joanna’s peace burned with a clear, bright flame. “I think you’d be so happy for me, Aunt Joanna, if you knew,” she said softly. “But then, you do know…”

  Footsteps sounded in the nave. But she felt no embarrassment, for talking to the beloved dead seemed very natural to her, a way to make life’s losses more bearable until that blessed reunion at God’s great throne. Turning away from the High Altar and Joanna’s marble tomb, she met Juliana on the other side of the rood screen.

  “Brother Gwilym told me you were here, Ellen. I could stand the suspense no longer. Did you talk to Caitlin yet?”

  “This morn, but it served for naught. When love comes in the door, common sense flies out the window.”

  “ ‘Common sense,’” Juliana echoed glumly. “Why did we ever assume that Hugh had any? This is the man, after all, who set his heart upon wedding Eluned ere he even knew her name! So why should we be surprised that he now claims he’s been in love with Caitlin all along and just never realized it until yesterday?”

  “Hugh is not our real problem. Even if we cannot rely upon his common sense, or the lack thereof, I still believe we can depend upon his sense of honor. But Caitlin… Caitlin is another matter altogether. And to think I once saw her as shy! That girl has a reckless streak to rival Davydd’s…and has, as well, his irksome ability to turn an argument upon its head. Do you know what she said to me, Juliana? She said that if she and Hugh ran away together, got married in England, Llewelyn would be furious, but he’d eventually forgive her…and of course she was right. We both know there are men capable of cutting off a son or daughter the way a doctor would amputate a festering arm, but Llewelyn is not one of them. So why, then, Caitlin asked, should she and Hugh be punished because they chose to do the honorable thing, to ask his permission?”

  “She truly believes that she and Hugh will be permitted to wed?”

  Ellen nodded. “She asked me to speak to Llewelyn on their behalf.” She was no longer meeting Juliana’s eyes. “I told her that I’d have to think about it.”

  Juliana was taken aback. “Ellen? Surely you do not believe this to be a suitable match?”

  “No,” Ellen said quietly, “of course I do not. If Caitlin is too young and headstrong to think of her children’s future, we must do it for her. It is foolhardy and even dangerous to wed one of a lower rank. It is true that many felt my father had overreached himself when he wed a King’s daughter, but he did hold an earldom, and his House was one of France’s proudest. My mother knew he’d be able to provide for their children, that there’d be a title for their eldest son. But Hugh is no earl, not even a baron, and there is hardly a soul in Christendom who would see him as a fit husband for Caitlin.”

  Ellen paused, seemed to sigh. “But…but I am finding it so hard, Juliana, to heed my head and not my heart. I love them both, and I cannot bear to see them hurt…”

  Juliana sighed, too, for she feared they’d all be hurt before this storm had blown over. “Hugh is very dear to me,” she said, “but if he had to go stark, raving mad like this, why could he not have waited until after your baby was born?”

  That brought back Ellen’s smile; thoughts of her baby always did. By now they’d reached the door. As they emerged onto the cloister path, Ellen headed for one of the wooden benches bordering the grassy inner garth. She tired quite easily these days, for her pregnancy was now into its sixth month. They were still sitting there in the sun when Caitlin and Hugh found them.

  “Aunt Ellen, we’ve been searching everywhere for you. Please…you must help us! I tried to convince Hugh to wait, but he said he could not, that he owed it to my uncle to be honest with him, and now—”

  Ellen sat up straight on the bench, ignoring her aching back. “Llewelyn would not give his consent.”

  “No,” Hugh said, sounding as miserable as he looked. “I knew there was a likelihood that he might refuse me, but… My lady, he never hesitated, not for a moment, just said no straightaway, and that was all. In truth, it was almost as if he were not even listening to me.”

  Ellen had heard enough. “Help me up, Hugh,” she said, holding out her hand. “I have to get back to the manor, for something is wrong.” When they still showed no comprehension, she said impatiently, “I realize you have naught on your minds but each other, but you ought to have seen it. Llewelyn holds you in high esteem, Hugh. I do not mean that he’d think you a suitable husband for his niece; indeed, I warned you that he would not. But he would be fair, and he would try to be kind. He would hear you out, and he would seek to make you understand why it could not be. He would never shame you, never—”

  Breaking off, she began to walk up the cloister path, as briskly as her girth would allow. Juliana was quick to follow, and after a moment, so did Hugh and Caitlin, clasping their hands together in a despairing, defiant act of faith.

  Ellen watched her husband closely during dinner that night. He smiled occasionally, responded whenever she spoke
to him, showed no overt anger, no unease. But Ellen knew him as no one else did. She noticed that he’d been pushing his food around on the trencher, eating only a few mouthfuls at most. She noticed that he did not really listen when his bard approached the dais to sing of Llewelyn Fawr’s fame. And she noticed that in quiet moments, his eyes focused upon the hearth’s flames with an unnerving intensity, taking him far from the hall, far from her.

  They retired early to their own chamber, at Ellen’s urging. She’d rarely seen Llewelyn so restless. As she removed the pins binding her hair, he prowled aimlessly about the room, picking up and discarding books at random, fingering a quill pen so absently that it snapped in two. But he came back to the settle when Ellen reached for a brush, took it from her hand, and began to draw it through her hair.

  “Llewelyn…did you talk to Hugh this afternoon?”

  “I may have,” he said, sounding so dubious that her hand clenched upon his arm. Jesú, Hugh was more right than he knew! But what had distracted him to such an extent? What dark spectre was he seeing?

  “I heard that you had an unusual visitor today, a shabbily dressed stranger, very ill at ease, who begged to see you alone. Hugh said this man was being ushered out just as he was given entry into your chamber. My love, I can see how troubled you are. Did this man bring you evil tidings?” When he hesitated, she said urgently, “Llewelyn, I entreat you to tell me the truth. Your silence cannot protect me, can only stoke my fears higher.”

  Llewelyn laid the brush down, took her hand in his. “It first struck me as odd when my nephew, Rhys Wyndod, paid a Lenten visit to my cousin in North Powys, Llewelyn Fychan. They were the last two men I’d have expected to find together, for there has long been bad blood between them. And then I learned that my constable in Penllyn, Madog Goch, has had at least two clandestine meetings with Llewelyn Fychan since Candlemas. That seemed more than odd. Call it a sixth sense if you will, but it is one I’ve come to trust. Still, though, I had nothing but suspicions…until today.”

  “I was right, then, about that man?”

  “Yes. He brought me a right strange story, gotten from a cousin deep in his cups. Mayhap it was the mead talking, mayhap not. But the man was boasting that he knew a valuable secret, one that the English would pay well to hear, that plans were being laid to steal lead from the King’s mine at Flynt.”

  Ellen understood the significance of that at once, for dinner-table talk in the de Montfort household had focused more often than not upon sieges, wars, and weaponry. “Lead for mangonels and trebuchets,” she said, and Llewelyn nodded. “Did this braggart reveal who was planning the theft?”

  “Indeed, he did,” Llewelyn said, with a twisted, mirthless smile. “Me.”

  “What? I do not understand!”

  “Neither did I, lass…at first. But what better way to reassure would-be rebels than to make the rising mine? The irony of it is that is why our good samaritan rode for Llanfaes in such haste, to warn me that my plans were being put in peril by his cousin’s bragging. Did I mention yet that this cousin is a man of Powys, having lived all his life in the commote of Maelor Cymraeg?”

  Ellen gasped. “Llewelyn Fychan’s lands,” she said, and again he nodded grimly. “I remember you telling me that he was one of the lords most stubbornly set upon war. But would he dare to defy you, Llewelyn? Would he dare to make use of your name like this?”

  “Not if left to his own devices. He does not lack for courage, but neither is he a man to seize the moment. If he truly is laying plans for a rebellion against the English Crown, we can be sure he is following, not leading.”

  “Who, then? Rhys Wyndod?”

  “He is a more likely suspect than Llewelyn Fychan. But I do not think he’d dare to defy me like this, either, not after our December meeting at Dolwyddelan.” He looked at her somberly, the strain and exhaustion showing clearly now in his face. “In truth, Ellen, I can think of only one man who would.”

  Ellen swallowed. Jesus God. “Your brother?”

  “Who else? I found myself remembering something at dinner tonight. My cousin of Powys was one of the first Welsh lords to surrender to the English Crown, within weeks after Edward declared war upon us. Can you guess who accepted his surrender, who most likely talked him into it?”

  “Davydd,” Ellen whispered. Dear God Above, no, not now. Her sudden pallor alarmed Llewelyn. He reached out swiftly, drew her into his arms.

  “You must not be afraid, cariad. If these are indeed straws in the wind, I’ll soon know for certes. I’ve already taken measures to deal with this, have summoned Madog Goch to Llanfaes, and sent men to find out more about that theft at the Flynt mine. If need be, I’ll confront Davydd with my suspicions, too. I cannot do that yet, beloved, not without proof that he is the cat amongst the pigeons. But this I swear to you, that if something is afoot, I’ll put a stop to it. I’ll not let any man put at risk what I’ve worked all my life to protect. And I’ll let no harm come to you or our son. I promise you that, Ellen,” he said, and kissed her gently upon the mouth. “Now I want you to make a promise in return, that you’ll put this from your mind, that you’ll not let your peace be poisoned by shadows and suspicions.”

  Ellen entwined her fingers in his. “I promise,” she said, and they smiled at each other, as if they did not know she lied.

  30

  Llanfaes, Wales

  March 1282

  By midnight, the storm had spent its fury. The last echoes of unseasonal thunder were dying away in the distance, and the wind no longer banged relentlessly against creaking shutters or sent roof shingles spiraling up into the black, cloud-choked sky. Quiet cloaked the Welsh countryside, and soon, so did sleep.

  But for Llewelyn, sleep was becoming harder and harder to catch, and then, to keep. He’d dozed fitfully, jerking awake at every thunderclap. Even after the storm passed over, he tossed and turned restively, unable to shut out the sounds ricocheting about in his head, the instinctive inner voices that whispered of dire forebodings, that argued for action. Dawn was still three hours away when he made the decision to yield to them.

  It had been two days since he’d learned of the planned theft at the Flynt mine. Two days since he’d sent for his constable, Madog Goch. But he could wait no longer; already his nerves were stretched as taut as a hide staked out for scraping. Madog Goch was not the only key to this puzzle. Llewelyn Fychan would also have the answers he sought, and he meant to have them with no more delay. He had no doubts whatsoever that in any clash of wills with his cousin, he would prevail.

  If only it were not a holy day, he’d leave at first light. But this dawning Sunday was one of the most sacred on the Church calendar. Yew and willow would be blessed in lieu of palm, and triumphantly borne round churchyards throughout England and Wales, and the rood, veiled during this bleak season of penitence and self-denial, would be revealed for the eyes of the faithful, from morning Mass till evensong. Lent was at last ending. Holy Week was upon them, and the time for rejoicing was nigh. No, he could not ride out on Palm Sunday, for then Ellen would know how truly troubled he was.

  He shifted so he could see his wife’s face. Her breathing was even, peaceful; he could only hope that so were her dreams. Carefully lifting the corner of the sheet, he let his eyes wander over her body, lingering upon her swollen belly. As he watched, he saw the skin ripple, like the surface of a pond, and he smiled, thinking Bran was wakeful, too, this night. The wonder of it had yet to fade, that he could actually see his son moving within Ellen’s womb. He’d always assumed that intimacy was to be found in bed. But now he knew better. Naked bodies could entwine like ivy and oak without souls ever touching; he’d coupled with women whose names he could not even remember afterward. There could be no greater intimacy than this, watching as his wife grew large with child, nurturing within her body a life sprung from his seed. How could men take such a marvel for granted? Why seek out miracles and yearn after holy relics when God’s greatest blessing was bestowed so close to home?

>   Ellen stirred in her sleep and he drew the coverlets up over her shoulders, gently extricated her long night plait from under his arm. In past wars with the Crown, he’d feared defeat, not death. It had been easy enough to say “Thy Will be done” when his life alone was at stake. But now the scales were out of balance, and he found himself haunted by the greatest dread of all, the fear of those who loved. If he died fighting the English King, what would befall his wife and son?

  Eventually, though, his exhaustion muffled his internal voices, and he slept. When he awoke again, the room was still dark, he’d lost all sense of time, and his name was being whispered in an urgent undertone. Opening his eyes, he saw a worried face peering through the bed hangings.

  “Goronwy ap Heilyn has just ridden in, my lord, insists upon seeing you straightaway—”

  “What time is it?”

  “Very early, my lord, a good two hours yet till dawn. But he swore by all the saints that his news could not wait.”

  “Tell him,” Llewelyn said softly, “that I’ll meet him in the great hall after I dress—”

  “Llewelyn.” Ellen’s hand slid along his arm. “I am awake,” she said, “and I would hear, too, what brought Goronwy to you at such an ill-omened hour…if I may?”

  He was deceived neither by her quiet question nor her calm demeanor, could gauge in her eyes the depths of her fear. “Fetch Goronwy here,” he said, and when Goronwy was ushered into the bedchamber, he dispelled the younger man’s doubts with a brusque, “You may speak freely in front of my wife.”

  Goronwy was mantled in wet wool, unshaven, bleary-eyed. One glance at him was enough to confirm Llewelyn’s suspicions, that he’d ridden all night to bring his “news that could not wait.” He made a perfunctory obeisance, politely averted his gaze from his lord’s lady, even though Ellen had the coverlets drawn up to her chin, and said, without any preamble whatsoever, “This past week your brother sought me out, swore me to secrecy, and then confided that he and your kinsmen in Powys and Ceredigion were soon to rise up against the English King. He said he knew how raw my own grievances were, and he thought I deserved a chance to throw my lot in with them.”