The Reckoning

by Sharon Kay Penman

  Above their heads, Llewelyn’s eyes met Elizabeth’s; a message passed between them. Swallowing her own tears, she slipped quietly from the chamber, went to fetch the priest.

  Davydd’s scouts kept the English under close surveillance, and he had plenty of warning when Reginald de Grey led an army out of Chester, toward his castle at Caergwrle. Abandoning the castle, Davydd withdrew without haste to safety at Dinbych. But before retreating, he dismantled Caergwrle’s walls, filled in its wells, did all he could to render the castle a worthless prize. It gave him a certain grim amusement to envision Reginald de Grey’s bitter disappointment once he discovered his prey had eluded him. The English were born fools, and their chief failing was that they assumed their enemies were fools, too. As if he’d hole up in Caergwrle like a fox run to earth, wait tamely for the English to starve him out. The slowest-witted Welshman had more sense than that! Let de Grey have his fun trying to put Caergwrle right; it had been only half-done, anyway, for the war had overtaken his ambitious building plans. And he still held Dinbych, Dinas Bran, and Hawarden. He was winning his war; he knew it even if Edward did not…yet.

  Night had fallen by the time they were approaching Aber. However much he sought to deny it, Davydd was vaguely uneasy about seeing his brother. They’d had but two brief, tense meetings since their confrontation at Hawarden, and Davydd was not looking forward to another one. It baffled him a bit that Llewelyn had not come around by now, for the war was going their way, just as he’d known it would. Most likely Lady de Montfort was doing all she could to poison the well. He could only hope that she’d be too busy with the birthing to muddy the waters on this visit; by his reckoning, she was due any day now.

  They were almost upon Aber when he had a stroke of good luck, the sort of fortunate happenchance that so often came his way. They encountered a hard-riding courier from Rhys Wyndod, bringing Llewelyn word of a great Welsh victory in the south. The Earl of Gloucester had succeeded in retaking Carreg Cennen Castle, was on his way to Dinefwr when he was ambushed by Rhys Fychan and Rhys Wyndod. The ensuing battle ended in an utter rout of the English. Gloucester barely escaped with his life, and among the dead was the son of the much-loathed Earl of Pembroke. It was an enormous setback for Edward, and Davydd was delighted that he should be the one to give the news to Llewelyn. The Welsh triumph at Llandeilo Fawr would go far toward melting Llewelyn’s icy anger, and he meant to take full advantage of the thaw.

  But from the moment he drew rein in the inner bailey at Aber, Davydd knew something was amiss. He’d always been sensitive to atmosphere, and here the very air seemed charged with tension. The faces of the men in the bailey confirmed his suspicions, for he’d seen more cheer at hangings. He’d just dismounted when his wife came running across the bailey, flung herself into his arms.

  “Davydd, thank God! Never have I needed you more!” Burying her face against his chest, she burst into gasping, convulsive sobs.

  Davydd had never seen her so distraught. “Elizabeth, what has happened? For Christ’s sake, tell me?!”

  “Ellen…she is dying!”

  Davydd’s shock was genuine. Although he’d known, of course, how risky childbirth could be, he’d always lived his life as if he and his were somehow invulnerable to the every-day dangers that struck down others. He’d borne no liking for Ellen, but he’d still included her within his charmed circle, for she belonged to his brother. “How? What went wrong?”

  “Everything. She was in travail for nigh on two days, and when the babe was born, she bled heavily. All night she lay senseless, and by yesterday morn, she was afire with fever…”

  “And the babe?”

  “A lass.”

  Davydd felt a shamed sense of relief. “Llewelyn must be…” He slowly shook his head, for he could not begin to imagine his brother’s grieving; nor did he even want to, in truth.

  Elizabeth had regained some of her composure by now. Clinging tightly to his arm, she said, “Come, I’ll take you to him.” They crossed the bailey in silence, but as they neared the door of Llewelyn’s chamber, Davydd’s steps began to lag. Elizabeth had been about to reach for the door latch. “Davydd?”

  He was staring at the door, and the expression on his face was one she was not familiar with. It was the first time she’d seen her husband flustered, utterly at a loss. “Llewelyn was besotted with that woman,” he said. “What do I say to him, Elizabeth? What can I say?”

  The chamber was deep in shadows. Llewelyn was alone with his wife, sitting very still in a chair by the bed. He did not look up as they entered, not until Elizabeth said his name. He showed no surprise at sight of Davydd, showed no emotion at all. Davydd stepped forward, still not knowing what he would say. “Llewelyn…” He stopped, started again. “I’m sorry. Christ, but I’m so sorry… How does she?”

  Llewelyn was holding Ellen’s hand in his, staring down at the jeweled wedding band, the ring she’d called her talisman, her luck. Just when Davydd had decided he was not going to answer, he said tonelessly, “She is dead.”

  Eleanor de Montfort died on Friday, June 19th, feast day of St Gervasius and Prothasius, less than four months from her thirtieth birthday. She was buried beside Joanna in the Franciscan friary at Llanfaes, following her kinswoman in death as she had in life.

  Joanna had been buried on a raw day in February. Llewelyn had been just a boy, only eight, but more than four decades later, the memory was still vivid, sharply etched; he had only to close his eyes to see his grandfather standing alone by Joanna’s marble tomb. Now it was his turn to bury a wife at Llanfaes, and as the day dragged on, it began to seem as if his grieving and his grandfather’s pain had become inextricably entwined, much like their lives. Each time he looked up, saw the soft June sunlight spilling through the window, he felt a dulled sense of surprise, expecting to see the panes streaked by a frigid February rain.

  On their return to Aber, Llewelyn remained for a time in the great hall, accepting condolences, acknowledging the expressions of sympathy and regret. Some of those who’d come to mourn their Prince’s lady were impressed by his composure; he was bearing up well, they agreed among themselves. Others knew better.

  Davydd was standing in a window recess, watching his brother. After a time he was joined by Goronwy, and then, Elizabeth. Goronwy was the first to put it into words, the fear that all three shared. “I do not think,” he said, “that he is going to get over this.”

  Davydd frowned. “I never thought to find myself tongue-tied, but I do not know what to say to him. I keep thinking there must be something I can do, something that will help. But mayhap not. Mayhap there is nothing anyone can do.”

  “I think there is,” Elizabeth said, after a long silence. The two men looked at her curiously, but she did not elaborate, and the moment passed. They continued to watch as Llewelyn moved among the mourners, as he did what was expected of him.

  Llewelyn was standing before his bedchamber door. He’d not crossed that threshold since Ellen’s death, and he was still not sure if he could do it now. His fist tightened on the latch, and then he was shoving the door inward.

  The room was bright with sun, scrubbed clean and scented with fragrant incense. The smell of death was gone, lingered only in his memory. He’d been dreading to see Ellen’s perfume vials and hairbrush on the table, her bed slippers in the floor rushes, her gowns hanging neatly from wall poles, as if she’d just stepped out for a moment, would soon be back. But Caitlin and Elizabeth had obviously anticipated that, for the chamber had been cleared of his wife’s possessions. Clothes, books, even her favorite silver candlesticks—all had been whisked from sight, hidden away. It was as if Ellen had come into his life and gone and left no trace of her passing. And that was infinitely worse than finding a room awaiting her return.

  As he moved toward the center of the chamber, not yet ready to approach the bed, he caught movement from the corner of his eye. Ellen’s little dog was crouched on the window-seat, watching him warily. “Hiraeth,” he said, “
come, lass.” But it retreated as he advanced, scrambled down and hid under the bed. “Contrary to the last,” he said ruefully, and then drew a breath sharp enough to hurt, for he’d recognized the crumpled cloth the dog had dragged up onto the window-seat. It was one of Ellen’s stockings.

  He never knew how long he stood there, staring down at that scrap of bright scarlet. Eventually he became aware of the knocking on the door. “Enter,” he said, and Elizabeth came into the chamber, carrying the baby.

  Elizabeth halted a few feet away. “I have never suffered a loss like yours,” she said, “but I think I can understand a little of your pain, for I’d go stark mad if evil ever befell Davydd or my sons. I know it is no comfort now, not yet, but Ellen left you more than memories. She left you part of herself, Llewelyn.”

  She crossed the chamber then, thrust the baby toward him. For a moment, she feared he would refuse, but although he hesitated, he did take the child from her. “As Gwenllian grows into girlhood, there will come a day when you’ll look at her and you’ll see Ellen. It might be the tilt of her head, or her laugh, or mayhap the color of her eyes, but you’ll know then that you’ve not lost Ellen, after all, that she lives on in your daughter.”

  Llewelyn turned toward the light. This was the first close look that he’d gotten at his daughter. She seemed frighteningly fragile, a tiny little doll, not quite real. She had long, golden lashes, which she raised now as the sun warmed her skin. He was startled to see that she had blue eyes. But then he remembered something Ellen had told him, that all babies had blue eyes, at first.

  He did not hear the door closing quietly behind Elizabeth, continued to gaze down at his daughter. “Gwenllian,” he said, and realized with a shock that this was the first time he’d said her name. Her face was blurring, for tears had begun to burn his eyes, too hot to hold back. “Ellen was cheated of so much,” he said softly. “But you’ve been cheated, too, lass, cheated of your mother.”

  33

  Aber, Wales

  June 1282

  Llewelyn held his daughter until she began to cry. He handed her then to his sister-in-law. Elizabeth stroked the baby’s dark, downy hair, all the while looking up intently at Llewelyn. “You need not fear for Gwenllian whilst you are gone,” she said earnestly. “She will want for nothing, that I promise you.”

  “I know,” he said, and embraced her briefly, then did the same to Caitlin. Watching from the window-seat, Davydd rose as the women departed the chamber.

  “Are you ready?” he queried, but Llewelyn shook his head.

  “Not yet. I have to bid farewell to Hugh and Juliana.”

  The words were no sooner out of his mouth than Trevor was on his way to fetch them. Davydd settled down again in the window-seat, wondering if his brother realized just how much his people loved him, grieved for his pain. It was hard to tell; never had Llewelyn seemed so remote to him, so distant, as in these days after Ellen’s death.

  As Hugh and Juliana were ushered into the chamber, Llewelyn moved forward to meet them. “Are you still sure this is what you want to do?” he asked, and Juliana nodded.

  “I must, my lord,” she said, speaking so softly that Davydd barely heard her. “I was with…” She faltered, for even now she could not bring herself to say Ellen’s name. “…With my lady for sixteen years, nigh on half my life. I could not bear to be here without her….”

  “I understand. I’ve written to Edward, asking him to grant you both a safe-conduct into England. Once it comes, my men will escort you under a flag of truce to Chester.”

  Hugh cleared his throat. “What if the English King will not consent?”

  “He will. He’ll do it for…for Ellen.” Llewelyn found it no easier than Juliana to say his wife’s name. A silence fell. It seemed to Davydd as if hours passed before Llewelyn reached out, handed Hugh a leather pouch. “For your lodgings, and your passage to France. I think this should cover your expenses.”

  Hugh thought so, too; the pouch lay heavy in his hand. He started to thank Llewelyn, then saw that the Welsh Prince was holding out something else; a sealed letter and a small casket.

  “I would be grateful, Hugh, if you could deliver these to Amaury de Montfort.”

  Hugh’s jaw muscles clenched as he fought to keep his emotions under control. He nodded wordlessly, knowing what the casket contained: Simon de Montfort’s sapphire-star ring.

  Llewelyn was turning toward the table. “I am holding Ellen’s jewelry for Gwenllian. But I know she would want you each to have something of hers, for she loved you both.”

  When Juliana saw what he was offering her, Ellen’s gold-and-coral rosary, she could no longer blink back her tears. She wanted to assure him that she’d cherish it, but her composure was fast shredding. She managed a choked “Thank you,” then fled the chamber before her sobs could overtake her; she was determined not to break down in front of Llewelyn, determined not to salt his grief anew by seasoning it with hers.

  “I should like you to have her psalter, Hugh,” Llewelyn said, and the young Englishman reached out blindly for his lady’s prayer book, clutching it close against his chest as he backed toward the door. There he halted, saying hoarsely:

  “God keep you safe, my lord Llewelyn.”

  It was quiet after Hugh left. Davydd waited what he thought was a discreet interval, and then got to his feet again. Llewelyn’s venture into South Wales had been long in the planning, long before Ellen died. He was to lead his army across the River Dyfi, penetrate into Cyfeiliog and Ceredigion, even into Ystrad Tywi, while Davydd guarded the mountain passes of Eryri. But Davydd was discovering that he had conflicting feelings about his brother’s campaign. He thought a military command might prove to be Llewelyn’s salvation in the difficult weeks that lay ahead; he’d have little time for grieving, that was for certes. But how trustworthy was the judgment of a man numbed and heartsick? Might he not be likely to take more chances, run greater risks?

  Llewelyn had buckled his scabbard, was starting for the door. “Llewelyn, wait!” He did, turning back to face Davydd. Their exchanges were invariably polite now. He showed no signs of the anger that had burned so hot in the weeks after Hawarden. What Davydd did sense, though, was an emotion far more chilling than rage, the one emotion he’d never gotten from Llewelyn in even the worst of times—indifference.

  “Yes?” Llewelyn said, without impatience. But without much interest, either, Davydd thought bleakly.

  “I just wanted to say…to tell you to…to take care of yourself,” he concluded lamely, thwarted as much by his own confusion as by Llewelyn’s reticence, for in truth, he did not know himself what he’d wanted to say.

  Trevor had brought up Llewelyn’s stallion. The other men were already mounted, waiting. Llewelyn was surprised to find the bailey so crowded. Elizabeth was standing a few feet away, holding his daughter. Caitlin was nearby, too, as was Hugh. Dai stood in the shade by the hall, smiled as their eyes met, but Goronwy was astride a restive chestnut, having made an eleventh-hour decision to accompany Llewelyn south. And Trevor was making haste now to mount, too.

  It touched Llewelyn to see so many familiar faces, to realize that all of Aber had turned out to see him off; even Davydd was there, lingering in the doorway as if by chance. The spectators cheered as he emerged into the sunlight, wished him Godspeed and farewell and great victories over the English. But as Llewelyn swung up into the saddle, the only voice he heard was Ellen’s. “Do what you must, and your son and I will be here to welcome you home once this war is done:”

  Llewelyn’s men were taken aback when he so suddenly spurred his horse forward, and had to urge their own mounts to catch up with him. As soon as they were through the gateway, Llewelyn gave his stallion its head, not easing the rapid pace until they were well onto the road south, until Aber had receded into the distance.

  “I do not understand.” Caitlin stopped so abruptly that her shoe slid on the wet grass, and she stumbled, had to catch Hugh’s arm for support. “It was all agreed betw
een us. You’d escort Juliana safe home to France, seek out Ellen’s brother, and then you’d come back. Hugh, we agreed!”

  “I know,” he conceded. “But it was a fool’s bargain, for certes. I ought to have known better, suppose my wits were addled by my grieving. Wait, Caitlin, hear me out! You’ll see that I’m right, that we did not think this through. Getting Juliana safe to her brother’s manor ought not to be too hard a task now that we’ve got the King’s safe-conduct. But suppose Lord Amaury is not in Paris? What if he has gone on to Rome? Is it not likely that he’d want to thank the Pope personally for gaining his freedom?”

  To Caitlin, the solution to that was obvious. “Well, then you’d leave the ring and letter with Juliana. Then you could… Hugh? Are you saying that you’d feel honor-bound to go to Italy after him?”

  He nodded somberly. “I’d have to, lass. I have to be the one to tell him. Surely you see that?”

  She did not, but neither did she argue; she’d long ago learned that his devotion to the de Montforts was the lodestar of his life. “So you do what you must, then,” she said. “I will wait.”

  “I would that it were so simple. But it is not. If I must journey to Italy, it will take me at least six weeks from Paris, mayhap much longer, for I’d rather take the sea route from Marseilles than brave the Alps again. So I’d not get to Rome till summer’s end. And coming back, even if I encountered no unexpected delays, no bandits or pirates or storms at sea, I’d still not be able to reach France until the first frost. And then what? I could not take ship for Wales, not with the English King’s fleet prowling the Channel for prey. I’d have to sail for an English port like Bristol, try to slip across the border into Wales, then make my way north into Gwynedd, at risk from English and Welsh alike. The King’s men would be right quick to suspect an Englishman wandering about in the midst of a Welsh war, and the Welsh would never take me for one of their own, not with this yellow hair of mine, would likely shoot first and ask afterward.”