The Reckoning

by Sharon Kay Penman

  “What did you tell him?”

  “The truth, that my heart would be with them, but I could not break faith with my Prince.” Goronwy was trembling with fatigue and cold, for although the rain had ended hours ago, he was soaked to the skin. Without waiting for Llewelyn’s permission, he slumped down upon the closest stool. “For three days now, I’ve been at war with myself, and it was not until yesterday that I knew what I must do. I never thought I’d be one for disavowing my sworn oath, but I came to understand that I’d rather betray my honor than betray you, my lord.”

  “You’ve served Wales well this day,” Llewelyn said, no more than that, but for a man chary of praise, sparing with accolades, it spoke volumes, and Goronwy flushed with pleasure. “This rising, Goronwy…can you tell me when or where?”

  “Alas, no, my lord. Only that Davydd said ‘soon.’”

  There was a bell-rope by the bed. Llewelyn grapsed it, yanked, and when a servant appeared, he gave terse instructions to rouse the cooks, bestir the men asleep in the hall, and saddle every horse in the stables. After that, he sent Goronwy off to the hall under orders to eat a hearty breakfast and steal an hour’s sleep if he could. And then, he was once again alone with his wife.

  They looked at each other in silence. Llewelyn covered her hand with his own. “I’ll put a stop to it,” he said, in what was both a prayer and a promise, and Ellen nodded somberly.

  “My lord husband,” she said, “go with God.”

  Llewelyn delayed his departure just long enough to gather as many men to his banners as he could on such brief notice. He had, of course, his teulu, the men of his household guard, and those of his Seneschal, as well, for Dai was already at Llanfaes, having been summoned as soon as Llewelyn’s first suspicions had begun to smolder. Goronwy, too, had brought an armed escort of his own, and as word spread, the island tenants of Llewelyn’s desmesne manors hastened to buckle their scabbards, to saddle their horses. The friary church bells had not yet rung for Morrow Mass as Llewelyn spurred his stallion into the waters of the narrow, perilous strait that separated Môn from the Welsh mainland. They headed east at first, following the coast until they reached the Conwy estuary. Spurning the abbey ferry as too slow, they forded the river at Cymryd, then swung inland.

  Goronwy guessed that they had at least thirty miles to cover, over roads still muddy in stretches. For a time, too, they were battling against a stiff headwind. But Llewelyn’s unspoken urgency had communicated itself to his men, and every last one of them was determined to ride until he could no longer stay in the saddle. The miles and hours blurred behind them. By late afternoon, they had reached Davydd’s lands in Rhufoniog, and the sky was still streaked with fading light as Dinbych Castle came into view.

  Dinbych was a formidable presence, set upon a high hill, the chief jewel in Davydd’s crown. Smoke curled up from chimneys, lights flickered at the upper windows of the apsidal towers, and armed men patrolled the walkways of the outer curtain walls. Llewelyn exchanged grim looks with Dai and Goronwy, sharing the same thought, that this was a castle garrisoned for war. For a moment, he wondered if Davydd would dare to deny him entry. But he soon saw there was no need even to demand admittance, for the drawbridge was coming down, the barbican going up. Llewelyn swiftly divided his men, taking with him enough to discourage treachery, leaving some behind to bear witness as a further precaution. His banner was known on sight throughout Wales; he passed without challenge into the heart of his brother’s citadel.

  As they strode into the great hall, they were greeted not by Davydd, though, but by his wife. Elizabeth seemed unnerved by their arrival, for her smile was brittle, her welcome overly effusive. The tension in the hall had affected her small son, too. Llelo had always struck Llewelyn as a cocky, inquisitive child. Yet now he hung back at their approach, shadowing his mother’s footsteps, a little fist tightly entwined in the folds of her skirt.

  “Elizabeth, I cannot afford the indulgence of good manners, not this day,” Llewelyn said abruptly, cutting off her prolonged queries about Ellen’s health. “I must speak with Davydd straightaway.”

  “He is not here, Llewelyn.”

  “Where is he?”

  Elizabeth averted her eyes. She had no qualms about lying to a man she mistrusted, but she did not want to lie to Llewelyn, and her reluctance showed in her face. Llewelyn stepped forward, caught her hand in his. “Tell me where he is, Elizabeth. You must not lie to me, lass. There is far too much at stake for lies.”

  “So you know,” she said softly. “And you are enraged. Davydd said you would be. But you must not think he was plotting against you, Llewelyn, not this time. He wants you at his side, God’s truth, he does. He told me so, even quoted me a Welsh proverb, that stronger is the bowstring twisted than single…”

  She had rehearsed an eloquent plea upon her husband’s behalf, but she forgot it now as she gazed up into Llewelyn’s face. “Davydd said…he said this war would be unlike the last one, for this time the Welsh would be united against the English. Llewelyn…he is right? This is a war the Welsh can win?”

  Llewelyn’s hand tightened upon hers. “Tell me where he is, Elizabeth, ere it is too late.”

  Elizabeth’s mouth had gone dry. “It is already too late, Llewelyn. Hawarden Castle has been under siege for hours…”

  Llewelyn sucked in his breath; behind him, he heard someone swear. “Davydd began his war today? On Palm Sunday?”

  He sounded so incredulous that Elizabeth flushed. But she was too loyal to admit how distressed she was by Davydd’s sacrilegious strategy. “Davydd said…said it was the best time to launch an attack, for they’d never be expecting it, not on such a holy day…” She faltered for a moment. “I know how sinful that must sound, but Davydd explained to me about a Church doctrine called the ‘just war.’ He said that a just war could be waged even during God’s Truce—”

  But Llewelyn was no longer listening. He was half-way to the door.

  Hawarden Castle was less than twenty miles from Dinbych, but their horses were winded and lathered, had to be rested and watered and cooled down. Darkness had fallen by the time their journey was nearing its end. They’d ridden, for the most part, in a disquieted silence. Goronwy was berating himself for letting Davydd outwit him so easily. How well Davydd had known him, not disclosing his plot until the eleventh hour, until it would too be late for Llewelyn to thwart it. Dai was still grappling with his disbelief, his outraged piety. Battles were sometimes fought on holy days. He knew it was not always practicable to observe God’s Truce in the midst of war. Dai was deeply shocked, though, by this deliberate, calculated decision to shed blood on so blessed a Sunday. Even from Davydd, he’d not have expected such profane cynicism. Llewelyn had been taken aback, too, by Davydd’s willingness to exploit canon law, perverting men’s faith into a weapon to be used against them. But his own flawed judgment troubled him more than Davydd’s brazen breach of God’s Truce. What a fool he’d been, for he’d almost begun to believe that his brother’s betrayals were in the past. And as they spurred their horses toward Hawarden, there rode with them an unseen spectre, the looming shadow of Davydd’s war.

  The sun had set more than an hour ago, but there was an odd glow along the horizon. Halting his men, Llewelyn dispatched a scout to investigate. The man was soon back. “Well?” Llewelyn demanded tensely, still holding to a shredded hope, that Elizabeth might be wrong. “Is there a fire ahead? Is Hawarden under siege?”

  “Nay, my lord. The siege is over, the castle fallen!”

  Llewelyn had a very personal knowledge of Hawarden, for he’d destroyed the castle more than fifteen years ago, only to see it rebuilt in defiance of treaty terms. Boasting a large, circular stone keep situated upon a steep motte, its curtain wall was bolstered by a deep double ditch, and it had acted as a magnet for English settlers from nearby Cheshire. Although Hawarden had been granted no borough charter, houses had soon sprung up under the castle’s imposing silhouette, like small pilot fish shadowing a shark. B
ut the settlers had paid a high price for their reliance upon English might. Their thatched roofs and timbered beams had been easy targets for Welsh fire arrows, and all that remained now of those clustered cottages were smoldering shells, the unlucky occupants either having fled or lying dead within the smoking ruins.

  Llewelyn saw no siege engines, other than a lone mangonel, for Davydd had not needed them, gambling, instead, upon the lethal weapon of stealth, trusting to the storm and darkness to camouflage his army’s approach. Scaling ladders leaned against the curtain walls, and the drawbridge was down. The door to the gatehouse stood wide open, still intact, for they’d not needed to take a battering ram to it. The first intruders over the wall had swiftly overpowered the unsuspecting sentries, then opened the gates. The guards posted now at intervals along the walls were Welsh, and they raised no outcry at sight of Llewelyn. They showed neither surprise nor alarm at their Prince’s sudden appearance before the castle walls, and Llewelyn wondered bitterly just what they’d been told by Davydd. Dispatching some of his men to wait, as at Dinbych, he led the others forward, over the drawbridge and on into the bailey of the captured castle.

  There they abruptly reined in their mounts, transfixed by the scene that met their eyes, for it was bloody enough to startle even men well inured to violent death. Bodies were everywhere, sprawled in doorways, propped against walls, crumpled in the trampled grass of the inner bailey. Some wore chain mail, others just the clothes they’d snatched up as they rolled out of bed in those first chaotic, panicked moments of the assault. A whimpering dog cowered by the body of a youth with bloodied yellow hair and a shattered skull. Another corpse crouched, half-hidden, behind a horse trough, a spear protruding from his chest. Wherever Llewelyn looked, he saw bodies, so many he soon lost count. The stench of death overhung the bailey, a stench once encountered, never forgotten—the acrid odor of smoke mingling with the smell of pooled blood and the stink of voided bowels and bladders.

  “Christ Jesus,” Goronwy said hoarsely, “we’ve ridden into a charnel house!” Llewelyn nodded, glanced then at the others, battle-seasoned soldiers who, nevertheless, could not hide their surprise, for although it was not unheard-of to put an enemy garrison to the sword, it was not a commonplace, either.

  Summoned by one of his men, Davydd approached the hearth, stood looking down at the man shivering upon a wooden bench. Roger Clifford’s fear and hatred had ebbed away in the hours since their last confrontation. Now his flickering eyelids, contorted mouth, and clenched fists testified to pain, not defiance.

  “See, my lord? He’s hurt worse than we first thought. What would you have us do?”

  Davydd gazed impassively upon Clifford’s blanched face, noting the profuse sweating, the trickle of blood oozing from a bitten lip, the rasping sound he made as he gulped for air. He was quite unmoved by the other man’s suffering; what pity had Clifford ever shown the Welsh? “I’ll tell you what I’d like to do, Brychan, hang the whoreson from the rafters in his own great hall. But his day of reckoning must wait, for he might be of some use alive. Tend to his wounds ere he bleeds to death.”

  “What ought we to do with the chaplain, my lord? He’s so scared and—”

  It sounded as if he’d suddenly swallowed his own tongue. Davydd glanced up, curious, and saw that Brychan was staring over his shoulder. Turning quickly, he saw his brother standing in the doorway, flanked by Goronwy and Dai. He was surprised, but their confrontation was inevitable, and might as well be now as later. Moreover, he was not displeased that Llewelyn should arrive in time to witness the fall of the English fortress. Taking a castle like Hawarden in a matter of hours was a feat any battle commander might envy, even Llewelyn. Aye, let Llewelyn see for himself what his younger brother could accomplish on his own, let Llewelyn see that his was not the only voice to be heeded in Wales.

  “You’re just in time, Llewelyn. I’ve been trying to decide if I ought to make Clifford a hostage…or a corpse. Which do you fancy?”

  Llewelyn did not even glance toward the captive Englishman, kept his eyes riveted upon Davydd’s face. “I would talk with you—now,” he said, and hardly recognized the voice as his, so husky with fatigue was it, so slurred with rage, for his fury had been burning down to bedrock despair—until he’d reached Hawarden, until he saw what Davydd had wrought for Wales.

  Davydd had been braced for Llewelyn’s anger, and was prepared to appease it. But he still found himself bridling at his brother’s peremptory tone, for he invariably reacted badly to commands, especially Llewelyn’s. “I’m rather busy at the moment, Brother. You have noticed, I assume, that I’ve just captured an English castle? Mayhap later—”

  “It matters little to me whether there are witnesses or not. It might matter to you.”

  It did, and Davydd gave in with as much grace as he could muster up for the benefit of their audience. “That door over there, Brychan…where does it lead?”

  “To the chapel, my lord.”

  “Perfect,” Davydd said, stepping aside with exaggerated deference so Llewelyn could precede him. He was well aware how foolhardy it was to jest with a man who had such reason for rage, out still he couldn’t keep from adding wryly, “Quite convenient, too, for the survivor can seek absolution on the spot.”

  It was an ill-advised joke, and a moment later, turned very sour, indeed, for Llewelyn slammed the chapel door shut, shoved him roughly back against it. “I ought to kill you now, right where you stand!”

  The words themselves did not trouble Davydd unduly, for he often said things he did not mean. What sobered him so swiftly was the look upon his brother’s face, and the fact that Llewelyn’s hand had dropped to the hilt of his sword. Wrenching free, he snapped, “You can try!”

  The chapel had been ransacked by Davydd’s men, the altar overturned, prayer cushions slashed open and strewn about the floor rushes, the candlesticks and chalices taken for use in Welsh churches. A rushlight still burned in a wall sconce, casting an eerie, flickering light upon the chapel debris, upon the taut, shadowed faces of the two men. Davydd was the first to recover his composure, to remember the need for conciliation.

  “I knew you’d be wroth, Llewelyn, and I do not begrudge your anger, but—”

  “Do you not, by God? How magnanimous of you!”

  “Will you at least hear me out?” Davydd was growing impatient again; playing the penitent was not a role that came easily to him. “I assume you do want to know why I—”

  “The whys and wherefores count for naught. Words always come easily to you, feathers on the wind. But all that matters now is this—” With a sweeping gesture that encompassed the devastation that lay beyond the chapel walls. “The destruction you have loosed upon us!”

  “Those are English bodies out in the bailey, Llewelyn, and this blood on my sword,” Davydd said hotly, jerking his blade half-way out of its scabbard, “is English, not Welsh!”

  “Today the dying was done by the English. But what of the morrow? Or do you expect Edward to surrender because you captured one castle in the middle of the night? Christ, Davydd, do you not realize what you’ve done? Almost I might believe you possessed, or in the pay of the English Crown, for you have played right into Edward’s hands! Damn you to Hell, you knew better! You are no fool, are too clever by half. And you were at Dolwyddelan, you heard me give my reasons why we must wait—”

  “Ah, yes, I heard your reasons: we all did. But did it ever occur to you that we might not agree with them? No, of course not, for you gave us the Gospel according to the Lord God Llewelyn, and what more could we ask than that? Well, I tried to tell you then, and I tell you now—that you are wrong. Delay accomplishes nothing, it but serves to let the English entrench themselves even further in Wales.”

  “And what did you accomplish this day? You began a war at Eastertide, thus giving Edward all spring and summer in which to quell the rising, giving him six months or more ere he need worry about fighting a war during a Welsh winter. You chose a day sure to outrage the P
ope, the Church, and all of Christ’s faithful, and you struck at a time when Edward was at Devizes, less than two days’ ride from the Welsh border, when just a few months hence, he’d have been in France!”

  “You can never see any point of view but your own, can you? Because you do not want war with England, any man who argues otherwise must be crazed or an English pawn! I suggest, my lord Prince, that you scrutinize your own motives ere you be so quick to cast aspersions upon the motives of other men!”

  “Just what does that mean?”

  “That your reasons for seeking to stave off war were not all political, were personal, too. You’re not going to like what I’m about to say, but it needs to be said. You’re past fifty, you’ve got a young wife who dotes on you like you’re the Lord Christ come down to earth again, and at long last, there is a loaf in the oven. I do not mean that you should not be gladdened by Ellen’s pregnancy. How could you not be? But you’ve let this babe shackle you to the nursery at a time when your people have need of you on the battlefield. Can you deny it, Llewelyn? Can you in all honesty tell me that you’d still be so loath to challenge Edward if there were no child?”

  “I think it must be a remarkable child, indeed, who can act both as my anchor and your goad!”

  “You’re talking in riddles!”

  “Am I? I think not. For fifteen years or more, you expected to be my heir. Even after you became impatient enough to give murder a try, you still thought to claim my crown, for who would deny your right once I was dead? Not Owain, and for certes, not Rhodri. But if I should ever have a son… Are you going to tell me they are unrelated happenings, connected by pure chance, my wife’s pregnancy and your sudden haste to take the field against England? When did you decide upon a spring campaign, Davydd—at Dolwyddelan on Christmas Eve?”