The Reckoning

by Sharon Kay Penman

  Amaury was pleased. “Well, this is a surprise for certes. Who is keeping Sherborne safe from enemy attack?”

  “Ah, but I am no longer its castellan, not since April fifth, when the King bade me turn it over to the Sheriff of Dorsetshire. I’ve a new and more interesting duty at hand, have brought you a visitor, an archdeacon no less, come on behalf of the Bishop of Bath and Wells.”

  “Edward’s Chancellor?” Amaury was intrigued, but wary, for Robert Burnell was Edward’s other self, far more loyal to Edward than to the Pope. “Where is he, then, this archdeacon of Burnell’s?”

  “He wanted to change his wet clothes. You’d think he was in danger of melting like sugar, the way he’s been griping about the rain. And I’ll wager he’s likely to want a nap, too, as soon as he sees a bed. Old bones chill easily, it seems. But I was glad of it, for I wanted to be the one to tell you. Your days at Taunton are done. You’d best start gathering up your books and such, for we leave on the morrow.”

  Amaury’s face did not change, but beneath his surface calm, fear was stirring. Blessed Lady Mary, not back to Corfe! “Where are we going?” he asked, once he was sure his voice would not give away his inner agitation.

  “To London. And then… Dover, I expect. After that…” But John could no longer keep a straight face. “I seem to remember you telling me that you bought a house in Paris after your lady mother died. Unless you want to go first to Italy and thank the Pope in person?”

  Amaury stared at the other man. “I’m to be freed? You swear it is so, John? This is not one of your jests?”

  “By the Rood, no! I fancy a joke as well as the next lad, but I’d not jest about this. God’s holy truth, the King has agreed to set you free. We’re to escort you to the Chancellor in London, where you must swear never to return to English shores. Then we hand you over to the papal nuncio, and off you go—with nary a regret, I’ll wager!”

  “I cannot believe it,” Amaury said softly, more to himself than to John. “I’d just about given up hope of it ever happening, for no less than three Popes have sought to gain my freedom. What made Edward relent? Why now?”

  “Judging from what the archdeacon said, and he’d talk the ears off a rabbit, give him half a chance, you owe your freedom to the Pope’s persistence and the rebellion of that Welsh brother-in-law of yours. The King has but one thought in mind these days—to bring the wrath of God down upon the Welsh—and he wants the Church to support him whilst he does it. According to the archdeacon, the Pope knows this full well, and was canny enough to exact a price for that support—you. It may be, too, that the King was growing weary of fighting with his own clergy about you, for the Archbishop of Canterbury has been right keen on getting you freed, lad, going to Devizes to argue your case. He’s another one who likes to talk, and when you’re wearing a mitre, even a king has to hear you out.”

  John was a talker, too, and Amaury rarely resisted an opportunity to twit him about his babbling brook of a tongue. But now John’s cheerful patter rained about him unaware, for he was caught up in the diabolic irony of it all, that the Welsh war could restore his world at the same time that it threatened Ellen’s. He looked so somber that John unfastened a wineskin from his belt, poured for them both, and then sloshed a wet wine cup into his hand.

  “I remembered that you’ve a taste for malmsey. Drink up, lad, for you’ll not have a better reason for rejoicing. So tell me, what is the first thing you mean to do once you’re free?”

  The corner of Amaury’s mouth twitched. “If you’d been locked away from the world for more than six years, what is the first thing you’d do?”

  John choked on his wine, then laughed so hard that he choked again. “That sounds suspiciously like sinning to me, and you a man of God!”

  Amaury grinned. “And precisely because I am a priest, I well know the cleansing power of confession and contrition,” he said, sending John off into another spasm of irreverent mirth. He’d strolled over to the window, stood looking out at the misted hills. “How far are we from Bristol, John, about fifty miles? Why could I not take ship from there?”

  John’s amiable manner cloaked a sharp wit. He frowned thoughtfully, and was not long in remembering that only a narrow stretch of water separated Bristol from the Welsh border. “Jesus God, lad, you’d best banish that notion straightaway! Even if you were free to wander off into Wales at your will, the country is up in arms against the English. Nor are we just going to shove you across the drawbridge on the morrow and wish you Godspeed. You’ll be in the custody of the Church until you have abjured the realm, and, to speak bluntly, the last thing you want is to give the King a reason—any reason—to change his mind. I understand your wish to bid your sister farewell. But your only concern now must be getting safe aboard the papal nuncio’s ship, watching Dover’s white cliffs fade into the distance.”

  “You’re right, of course,” Amaury admitted. “It was indeed a mad whim.” Turning back to the window, he watched the clouds drifting across the vale, as white as those chalk cliffs of Dover. “But it suddenly occurred to me that I might never see my sister again.”

  Llewelyn had moved his household across the strait to Aber, for memories were still raw of the last English invasion of Môn. He would have preferred to ensconce Ellen deep within the defenses of Eryri, but he’d hesitated to subject her to that long ride through the mountains to Dolwyddelan. It was easier, too, for him to return to Aber from the sieges of Flynt and Rhuddlan; he knew how much she needed him with her in these last months of her pregnancy. Torn betwen Ellen’s unspoken fears and the unrelenting demands of wartime command, he expended his energy and efforts with reckless abandon, seeking to give strength to his men, encouragement to his troubled subjects, and hope, the most finite of all his resources, to his wife.

  May had dawned in such summery, sunlit warmth that Ellen’s garden was soon ablaze with white and purple violets. Juliana was artistically arranging delicate blossoms in a glazed clay pitcher, but her eyes kept straying to the window-seat, where Ellen was intent upon her baby’s christening cloth.

  “I saw Hugh and Caitlin going into the chapel,” she said. “They may have been planning to pray, but I think it more likely that they were seeking a lovers’ sanctuary, a few stolen moments together. Are you sure, Ellen, that nothing need be done about them?”

  “Quite sure,” Ellen said, with an unaccustomed edge to her voice; she was discovering that exhaustion and impatience went hand in glove. “We had a long talk, and they agreed with me that Llewelyn has enough cares at the moment, needs no more burdens thrust upon him. Caitlin promised me that they would wait ere they sought Llewelyn’s permission to wed. She may love Hugh, but she loves Llewelyn, too, and now his need must come first.”

  “I do not mean to question their good faith, but they are very young, Ellen, and for the young, love can burn hotter than any fever. Do you truly think their resolve will hold if this war drags on?”

  “If you are asking whether I think they would lay together, no, I do not. Hugh would never dishonor my niece. Let them snatch a tryst or two, have some private moments in a quiet chapel, a walk on the beach. We both know that this brief time is all they’ll ever have.”

  Juliana nodded, then sighed. “But they are not discreet, look upon each other with far too much fondness for others to miss. Already there is talk, Ellen, and it will get worse.”

  Ellen shrugged, snapped her thread in two. “Gossip,” she said tersely, “is the least of my worries these days.”

  “Do you think Llewelyn might return to Aber this week?”

  “I do not know, Juliana. He could return on the morrow, or not for a fortnight. It depends upon the fortunes of war. I know that he will come if he can, and I must take comfort in that.”

  Ellen let her sewing drop onto the seat beside her, leaned back wearily against the cushions. “When Llewelyn promised me that he would not take the field until after Bran was born, I knew he meant it. But I knew, too, that circumstances of war might
make his promise impossible to keep. So far, though, he has held to it, has left the fighting in the south to Davydd, and not an hour passes that I do not thank God for it. One of Llewelyn’s bards once said of him, ‘Pan el i ryfel nid ymgyddia’—‘When he goes to war, he hides not himself.’”

  Juliana groped hastily for comfort, aware how lame her offering was even as she said, “But he is not fighting now in battles, Ellen. He is commanding a siege. That must be safer, surely?”

  “I keep telling myself that, too, Juliana. And I try not to remember that my grand-uncle, the King the English call ‘Lionheart,’ died whilst besieging a paltry, insignificant castle at Châlus.”

  Juliana moved to the table, poured for Ellen the rest of her posset, for that concoction of spiced milk and wine was known to benefit those ailing or heavy with child. “Have you heard from Llewelyn since you sent him word of his brother’s death?”

  “No, not yet. I know he loved Owain not, but even so…” Ellen accepted the posset, took several dutiful sips, then essayed a smile and a joke, one that held more raw honesty than humor. “You have no idea, Juliana, how often I’ve wished Llewelyn were an only child!”

  “And if God had to give him a brother, a pity it could not have been Edmund. Better yet, why could the Almighty not have grafted Davydd upon Edward’s family tree?”

  Ellen’s laughter was half-hearted, hollow. “A perfect pairing that would be, a match made in Hell,” she said, striving gamely to echo Juliana’s bantering tone. But Juliana did not look convinced, and Ellen gave up the pretense. “You should have made your escape whilst you could, Juliana, for I’m not fit company for man or beast these days. I’m not sleeping as I ought, and when I do… I’ve been having this dreadful dream. It is always the same. I am alone on this dark, unfamiliar road. I can sense danger ahead, but I cannot go back, so I keep on, getting closer and closer, until the ground starts to slip under my feet, and I’ve nothing to hold on to…”

  Juliana crossed swiftly to the window-seat, truly alarmed now, for she knew that such morbid fancies might well harm Ellen’s babe; some people claimed that disfiguring birthmarks were the result of a bad scare whilst the child was still in the womb. But as she leaned over, her eye was caught by movement behind Ellen’s head. Straightening up, she peered through the thick, greenish glass, and then laughed, out of sheer relief. “How about holding on to your husband? He has just ridden into the bailey.”

  “The sieges still go on, then?”

  Llewelyn nodded, shifting so he could slide his arm around Ellen’s shoulders. “Nothing has changed. They cannot get out, we cannot get in. But as long as they are penned up behind the walls of Rhuddlan and Flynt, they are not able to prey upon the Welsh countryside.”

  Ellen moved closer on the seat. When they’d been apart for a time, she usually liked to sit on his lap, but that was not a comfortable position now, not with just six weeks until the baby was due. “I had a Requiem Mass said for the repose of Owain’s soul,” she said, and Llewelyn gave her a quick, grateful kiss.

  “Thank you, lass. I knew he’d been ailing, so it was not such a surprise. Nor can I say that I grieved for him, although Davydd might. But I was glad, nonetheless, that he’d not died at Dolbadarn.”

  “Llewelyn…how long can you stay this time?”

  “Only a few days,” Llewelyn said reluctantly. “This was not the best time for me to return to Aber, for I’d ordered several trebuchets to be built, and they’ll be done any day. But I got news last night from England, and I had to come back, for I had to be the one to tell you.”

  He saw her flinch, then brace herself to be brave, and he said hastily, “Ah, no, my love, the news need not always be bad! This is news to give you great joy, and I had to see your face when you heard it, for you’ve been waiting six years and more for this day. Your brother has been freed from Edward’s prison.”

  He heard her indrawn breath, saw her eyes widen, and then she was in his arms, her breath warm upon his neck, and the words echoing in his ear were the same ones, over and over, a starkly simple “thank God, oh, thank God!”

  Amaury had been turned over to the papal nuncio, Raymond Nogeriis, Dean of Le Puy, on the 21st of April. They sailed at once for France. On the 22d of May, Amaury wrote to Edward from Arras, in northern France, thanking his royal cousin for his “grace,” pledging fidelity, and asking for the liberty to sue Edmund in an English court for the recovery of the earldom of Leicester. The letter infuriated Edward, as it was clearly meant to do.

  32

  Aber, Wales

  June 1282

  Llewelyn awakened to the sweet, heavy scent of honeysuckle, for Ellen had filled their bedchamber with blooming woodbine. It was just after dawn; light had begun to filter through the window glass, and the night shadows were in retreat. He shifted his position carefully, not wanting to disturb Ellen. But when he glanced over, he found himself gazing into clear hazel eyes. Leaning toward her, he brushed his lips against her cheek. “I’d hoped to let you sleep.”

  “I’ve been awake for a while,” Ellen said and smiled at him. “I think this might be the day.”

  To her amusement, her drowsy husband shot up in bed as if stung. “Why did you not wake me, Ellen? Thank Christ the midwife is already at Aber!” He was flinging aside the covers when she caught his arm.

  “Llewelyn, there is no need for haste. The baby will not pop out like a cork from a bottle!” Laughing, she drew him back into bed beside her. “I am not even sure yet, for I’ve been having pains come and go for days now. Gwynora did say, though, that the true pangs start in the back, and that is where I am feeling these, so…” She smiled again. “We’ll know soon enough. But for now, I’d like to stay here in bed with you, for this is the last time we’ll be alone until the babe is born. Once my lying-in begins, you’ll not be able to set foot across this threshold, Prince or no!”

  She let Llewelyn prop pillows behind her, let him cradle her within the safe circle of his arms. When her next pain came, he massaged the small of her back until it passed, then confessed, “It does not seem real to me yet.”

  “I know,” she confessed. “To me, either. It is so odd, for never have I longed for any happening, not even our wedding, as I’ve longed for this day. Yet now that it is nigh, I almost wish it were not…”

  His fingers had been caressing the nape of her neck, now were suddenly still. “Are you afraid, Ellen?”

  She shook her head. “No. Well…maybe a little. A woman’s first birth is said to be the hardest. But my mother was brought to bed of seven healthy babies, a right reassuring family tradition. And I have faith in Dame Blodwen. I also will have Gwynora with me, and Elizabeth and Juliana. If I would hold time back, it is not that I am fearful. It is because once our child is born, you’ll leave me, ride off to war.”

  From the corner of her eye, she saw him wince, and was at once contrite. “Ah, love, I am sorry! I ought never to have said that, for I know you have no choice. Do what you must, and your son and I will be here to welcome you home once this war is done.”

  “You need never apologize for saying what you think, lass. I understand. How could you ever forget that Evesham summer, waiting with your mother at Dover Castle for word of your father’s fate? But it will not be like that this time, Ellen. A letter a day—I promise—delivered by swift-riding couriers whose only duty will be to keep you informed of my whereabouts, my well-being, and, of course, my triumphs!”

  “You know me so well,” she said softly. “I shall hold you to that vow, too. Llewelyn… I’ve seen a change in you during these past few weeks. You seem more at ease, more at peace with yourself. Even after Reginald de Grey was able to raise your sieges at Flynt and Rhuddlan, you did not appear much troubled by it. Will you answer me honestly? Will you tell me if you truly believe you can win this war?”

  He’d have lied without any qualms whatsoever, if that would give her the strength she needed to face the ordeal that lay ahead of her. But he did not have to lie, for
she’d read him correctly; he was indeed more hopeful now than at any time since Davydd’s Palm Sunday betrayal. “Yes,” he said slowly, “I do believe it is a war we can win. Never have my people been so united, so determined to hold fast against the English invaders. Edward has accomplished what I never could, lass, brought us together. Who knows, one day far in the future men might well see him as the patron saint of Welsh unity.”

  Ellen smiled at that, as he’d hoped she might. “Edward is a superior soldier, cariad, but he is also a King, with a King’s far-reaching concerns, and too much common sense to let himself be caught up in battlefield bravado. If we can make this war costly enough and bloody enough, he’ll offer terms, settle for what he can get. It will not be easy and it will not be soon. We’ll have to pay a high price for victory, Ellen. But it’s within our reach. God willing, it is also within our grasp.”

  Ellen pillowed her head in the crook of his shoulder. “Why should God not will it? You’ve fought three wars with Edward, have won two. I do—” She jerked suddenly in his embrace, then expelled an uneven breath. “Well, it is no longer in doubt,” she said, and began to laugh. “Bran is definitely knocking on the door!”

  That Tuesday, the 16th of June in God’s Year, 1282, did not at first appear out of the ordinary. It was warm, skies overcast, an erratic breeze wafting seaward from the inland mountains. Those at Aber did not seem to be aware of its odder aspects. Only Llewelyn—and possibly Hugh—had guessed the truth, that it somehow held more hours than those allotted to other days.

  As the morning ebbed away, Llewelyn began to revise all his ideas of eternity. He paced and waited and blazed a path from the hall to Ellen’s lying-in chamber, each time getting the same impatient answer, that the babe would come in God’s own time and not sooner. He made such a nuisance of himself that Elizabeth finally promised to seek him out every hour without fail, even if there was naught to report. After that, he waited and paced, and he and Hugh took turns reassuring each other that Ellen would soon be delivered of a healthy, handsome son.