They had walked well up the glen, following the stream toward Aber’s white waterfall in their quest for privacy. Now Caitlin leaned back against the closest tree, for her knees had begun to tremble. This could not be her Hugh talking; he was never one to dwell upon danger, accepted risks as matter-of-factly as he did air to breathe. And then she understood. “You do not want to come back, do you?”
“No,” he admitted, and she felt pain that was physical. “You are right, lass. I do not want to return to Wales. This is your homeland, Caitlin, not mine, and now that my lady is dead, there is nothing here for me. That is why I want you to come with me.”
“What?”
“I said I want you to come with me, Caitlin.” Hugh had been pacing back and forth by the stream bank, but at that, he crossed swiftly to her, reached for her hand. “Why do you sound so surprised? What did you think I meant?”
“Hugh, I… I cannot!”
“Of course you can, sweetheart, and you must, for it is the only way. We can be wed in France, but here…here it could never be. We’d best face the truth, lass, that our one chance of winning over your uncle died with my lady. He will never give his consent now.”
“We do not know that for certes!”
“Yes,” he insisted, “we do. Let’s say it straight out. In Wales, I’ll never be good enough for you. But this is a land at war, and who knows what the future holds? In France, at least you’d be safe, and I know I could make you happy.” He put his arms around her then, but she stood stiff and rigid in his embrace, and he said gently, “I understand, lass, truly I do. What I ask is not easy. I know you’d miss Wales to the end of your days. But that is often a woman’s fate, for it is the wife who follows the husband, and your uncle might have chosen to wed you to an Englishman or a Scot or—”
“No! No, you do not understand. It would tear a hole in my heart to leave Wales, but I would do it for you. I have thought about this, too, you see, long and hard. You are right, Hugh. Ellen’s death does change everything, and I would go with you to France if that were the only way we could be together. But not now. Later, mayhap, but never now. How could I possibly leave my uncle with his wife just in her grave?”
“Caitlin, I know how much you love him. But—”
“He is fighting for the survival of his homeland, Hugh! And he’s not drawn an easy breath since Ellen died, not one. Do you truly think I could forsake him in the midst of a war? Jesú, you were there, you saw what Ellen’s death did to him! How could I give him more pain when he’s had so much? How could you even ask that of me?”
“I know it is not fair. But if you love me, you must make a choice, Caitlin. God help us, that is never the way I wanted it, but it is the way it must be.”
“What of your choice, Hugh? If I accepted yours, why can you not accept mine?”
“What choice? What do you mean?”
“When you told me that you must get Juliana safe back to France, did I try to talk you out of it? You know I did not! And when I now learn that you mean to chase off to Italy after Amaury de Montfort, what did I say? Go and Godspeed! I understand your loyalty to the de Montforts. Why can you not understand my loyalty to my uncle?”
“I do! But if you insist upon staying in Wales, we’ll not have another chance. Can you not see that? For God’s sake, Caitlin, think what you do, what you’ll be throwing away! You say you love me. Prove it then, come with me.”
She stepped back and slowly shook her head. “I cannot do that.”
Hugh was stunned, for he’d been sure she would agree. “I see,” he said huskily, but then pride came to his rescue, offering him a way to hide his hurt. “If that is your choice, I shall have to abide by it. I think, though, that you shall come to regret it, Caitlin. But by then, it will be too late. I’ll be gone.”
“If I asked you to stay, if I promised to go away with you once this accursed war is done… But no, you could not do that, could you? As long as there is a de Montfort to beckon, off you’ll go, even unto the ends of the earth! Bran, the Lady Nell, our Ellen, now Amaury. You’re running out of de Montforts, Hugh. What if evil befalls Amaury, too? Who, then, will be left for you to serve so blindly—Guy?”
“You’ve said enough!” Hugh was too angry now to risk remaining, for if he did, they’d cut each other to pieces with rash, reckless words, say what could not be forgotten or forgiven. Instead, he turned on his heel, strode off, and left her there in the quiet glen.
Caitlin let him go. “So be it,” she cried after his retreating back. “Go, then, to Italy, chase your de Montfort ghosts! Go to Persia, Cathay, or even to Hades, and see if I care! If you do not love me enough to stay, I’ll shed no tears for you, Hugh, nary a one!”
That was a lie, though, for her eyes were already burning. She sank down on the grass, wiping away tears with the back of her hand. “Why did you have to die, Ellen?” she whispered. “Why did God take you when we all needed you so much?”
Italy was in turmoil during the summer of 1282. The long-smoldering feud between the Guelphs and Ghibellines had heated up again, and the Pope had so far been unable to put down a Ghibelline rebellion in the papal state of Romagna. Charles, French-born King of Naples and Sicily, was facing the greatest challenge to his authority in his sixteen-year reign. An Easter Monday uprising in Palermo, known as the Sicilian Vespers, sent shock waves across Europe, for the rebellious Sicilians offered their island crown to the King of Aragon, and he accepted, landing at Trapani in late August. But Charles was not a man to be daunted by either royal rivals or insurgent subjects, and as he made ready to defend his disaffected realm, peace seemed as far from Italy as it did Wales.
Caught up in these dangerous currents was a mild-mannered, affable Frenchman, Simon de Brion, now His Holiness, Martin IV, Vicar of Christ. He’d been a reluctant Successor of Peter, for he was that rare man, one who knew his own limitations, and his misgivings were soon borne out; many of the Italians saw him as a French pawn, as Charles’s puppet. He’d been unable to be crowned at St. Peter’s, for the Romans denied him entry into the city, and eighteen months after his election, he was still at Orvieto, had yet to set foot in the Vatican.
But for one man, the political strife was a godsend. Guy de Montfort was once more in high favor, with both his King and his Pope, for in such turbulent times, a brilliant battle commander could name his own price. Blood spilled eleven years ago in a Viterbo church no longer mattered much—except to England’s King.
The Torre delle Milizie rose up over the slopes of the Quirinal, the northernmost of Rome’s seven hills. A formidable structure, dominating the quarter called the Biberatica, visible for miles, the Torre was presently in the custody of the powerful Annibaldi family, one of whom was Amaury’s host. Standing now at an open window, he looked out upon a breathtaking panorama of Rome.
Amaury had long had a special fondness for Rome. He’d heard it said that thirty-five thousand people dwelled within its ancient moss-covered walls, which made it a large city, indeed, by English standards, but not by Italian ones, for Florence, Genoa, and Naples all had populations in excess of a hundred thousand.
Nor was Rome one of the most vital or prosperous of Italian cities. But Amaury had never seen a place in which the past seemed so close, so real. Rome had the same labryinth of narrow, crooked streets to be found in any town in Italy, France, England. It also had triumphal arches built for long-dead emperors, broken aqueducts, crumbling public baths overgrown with grass, ruined stone bridges rising from the yellow waters of the Tiber, decaying marble monuments to heathen gods, remarkable relics of a vanished civilization. A pagan one, of course, Amaury knew. But an extraordinary one for all that, still casting a spell a thousand years after its glory had gone to dust.
The day was nearly done, but the sun still hovered above the horizon. It glinted upon the dome of Amaury’s favorite temple, the Pantheon, beat down upon the Market of Trajan at the foot of the hill, upon the houses scattered below the Torre, each with its thatched or shing
led roof, outside staircase leading to the upper floor, its small courtyard boasting an apple or olive tree. Farther on, it bedaubed the Tiber with a dull, tawny sheen. The riverbanks were crowded, as always, with Romans dipping drinking water from the muddy depths, collecting eel pots, dumping garbage, gossiping and joking in the fading glow of the September sun.
A triumphant laugh now drew Amaury’s attention back into the solar, where Raymond Nogeriis, Dean of Le Puy, had claimed yet another victim. Amaury was not surprised, for he’d had ample opportunity to test Raymond’s mettle during their journey from London. He was himself a superior chess player, but he’d been hard pressed to hold his own against Raymond, and he knew Adam Fourrier was no match for the papal legate.
Adam grimaced, saying tersely, “I yield.” He had never been one to lose with grace, as Amaury well knew, for their friendship stretched back to his university days at Padua. One of the many transplanted Frenchmen who’d followed Charles to Italy, Adam had seen his fortune turn golden in the years since Amaury had last encountered him; he now held the prestigious post of Rector of the papal Patrimony of Tuscany. He had arrived just that morn, having missed Amaury at Orvieto, bearing a wealth of rumor and gossip and a letter from Amaury’s brother Guy.
Raymond rose, stretched, and gave Adam a complacent compliment upon a game “well played.” Noticing then that Amaury had begun to reread his brother’s letter, he queried, “What says Guy?”
“He regrets not being able to come to Orvieto to greet me, but the Pope sent him into Romagna with reinforcements for John d’Eppe. He says the campaign is not going well, which likely means he thinks he ought to be directing the siege at Meldola instead of d’Eppe.”
“He may well get his chance,” Adam predicted. “Rumor has it that the Pope grows daily more discontented with d’Eppe, especially after his failure at Forli. My source tells me he’s thinking of giving d’Eppe’s command to Guy.”
“Captain-general of the papal army,” Amaury said softly, then flashed a smile that was sudden and sardonic. “What I would not give to see Edward’s face when he hears that!” he said, and the other men laughed.
Picking up his brother’s letter again, Amaury said, “Guy also tells me that I’m an uncle. Margherita bore him a daughter last year, whilst I was still caged at Taunton.”
“A belated congratulations, then,” Raymond said heartily, “twice-over!” Seeing Adam’s puzzlement, he explained, “Amaury’s sister is wed to a Welsh Prince, and when we left England, she was great with child. Due in June, did you not say, Amaury?”
“It must be vexing,” Adam sympathized, “that here it is September, and still you know not if it is a lad or lass. But then, you’re not likely to hear from her till the war’s done, are you?”
“I keep hoping,” Amaury admitted. “If Ellen could smuggle a letter into England, there are friends of our lord father who’d right gladly find for her a pilgrim or merchant bound for Rome. It would not be easy, but it could be done, and my sister has never lacked for mother-wit. She’ll find a way.”
They were interrupted then, by a young servant, bearing brimming, gilded goblets of a Tuscan red wine that Amaury fancied. He also brought a bowl of pears, Amaury’s favorite fruit. Raymond and Adam watched in amusement as the boy hovered at Amaury’s elbow, shyly waiting to see if he could be of further service, not withdrawing until Amaury dismissed him with a smile and a “Grazie, Giovanni.”
“This is the second time he’s brought us wine, unbidden,” Adam marveled. “Who does this lad think you are, Amaury—his long-lost father?”
Amaury grinned. “I may have sired a by-blow or two in my wilder days, but Giovanni is not one of them. The lad suffered a nasty mishap a few days ago, was trying to break up a fight down in the kitchens, and fell into the hearth. I happened to notice his blistered arm, gave him an aloe salve that eased his pain, and I’ve been fending off his gratitude ever since!”
“That medical training of yours can be right useful at times. A pity you’re so set upon returning to France, for we can never have enough doctors in these pestilent parts. Roman air is as unhealthy as can be found anywhere in Christendom, and fevers and agues strike down more people than—” Adam caught himself, too late, and gave Amaury an apologetic look. “Damnation, me and my flapping tongue! I forgot for the moment that your brother died of a tertian fever…sorry.”
“That is no longer a raw wound, Adam. I—” Amaury turned then, toward the door, for Giovanni was back, breathless and excited.
“My lord…for you, a visitor,” the boy stammered, managing at last to convey, in his very faulty French, that one of Amaury’s countrymen, “un inglese rubio,” was seeking him out, on a matter most urgent.
His journey to Rome had been an unending ordeal for Hugh. It had stirred up all his buried memories of Bran, and at times he felt as if he were reliving that nightmare odyssey from Tuscany to Montargis, bearing Nell de Montfort word of her son’s death. Grieving for Ellen, haunted by Bran, wretchedly unhappy at having failed to reconcile his differences with Caitlin, he raced his ghosts and his regrets through the stifling summer heat, pushed himself to the limits of his endurance as he tracked Amaury to the papal residence at Orvieto, then on to Rome. And now he was here, after so many weeks, and so many miles, and he still did not know how he was going to tell Amaury that his sister was dead.
But he’d forgotten how quick-witted Amaury was. As Raymond and Adam looked on, puzzled, Amaury got slowly to his feet, staring at the dusty, disheveled Englishman with disbelief that gave way almost at once to comprehending horror. Only death could have torn Hugh from Ellen’s side, and Amaury knew that, even as he made one desperate attempt at denial. “No! Oh, Christ Jesus, no…”
Hugh’s eyes filled with tears. Pulling a leather pouch from his tunic, he stumbled forward, spilling its contents onto the table in front of Amaury: a frayed, folded letter that bore the royal seal of Wales and a sapphire ring cut in the shape of a cross.
34
Aber, Wales
October 1282
Llewelyn struck deep into South Wales during that war-shadowed summer, where he exacted a high price from Rhys ap Maredudd, one of the few Welsh lords to support the English Crown. The skies over Ystrad Tywi were soon fire scorched and smoke blackened.
Farther south, John Giffard was having some notable successes, although Roger de Mortimer was just holding his own in skirmishing along the Upper Severn. But in the North, Edward was now able to take the field himself, and by July, he’d reached Rhuddlan Castle. He’d called upon the Cinque Ports, and soon had forty ships and two great galleys patrolling the waters of the Menai Straits, awaiting his planned invasion of Môn. By late August, he was ready, dispatched Luke de Tany with a large force to occupy the island and seize its harvest. The loss of Môn had been a devastating blow to the Welsh in the last war, and when Edward learned of de Tany’s landing, he exulted, “I’ve just plucked the finest feather in Llewelyn’s tail!”
But Edward had even more ambitious plans in mind for Môn. It was his intent to build a bridge from Môn to the mainland, thus enabling him to strike at Llewelyn’s rear at the same time that he crossed the River Conwy, advanced upon Aber. Timber, iron, and nails were dispatched from Chester; so were carpenters and blacksmiths. It was an audacious undertaking, but by no means an easy one, and de Tany’s men suffered their share of setbacks, the worst occurring when it was discovered that the pontoon boats they’d ordered were too large to be transported to the island by ship; local replacements had to be hastily built.
They were handicapped as well by the erratic Welsh weather, and the Welsh themselves did all they could to sabotage the construction; the harassed workers found themselves performing their hazardous tasks under guard and often under fire. But Edward’s will was not to be thwarted, and slowly the bridge took shape, three lines of barges attached to one another with heavy chains, anchored against the strait’s treacherous currents, covered by a wooden platform wide enough for sixty men to
cross abreast. Day by day, the bridge moved closer and closer to the Welsh shoreline.
But before Edward could launch his assault upon the Welsh heartland, he had to win back the four cantrefs of the Perfeddwlad, lands defended by Davydd’s castles at Hawarden, Dinbych, Ruthin, and Dinas Bran. To this end, he brought to bear the full might of the English Crown, an army that numbered no less than seven hundred fifty cavalry, a thousand archers, and eight thousand foot soldiers. It took him three months to prevail, but eventually, he did. Davydd was forced to evacuate Hawarden. In early September, Ruthin Castle fell to Reginald de Grey. By mid-October, Dinas Bran and Davydd’s stronghold at Dinbych were in English hands, too. Davydd was so hard pressed that Llewelyn had to abandon his campaign in the South, hasten back to his brother’s aid. Together, they made ready to defend Gwynedd.
“Llewelyn!” Davydd burst into the great hall, bore down upon his brother, and all but dragged him away from his guest, an astonished Franciscan friar.
Llewelyn was irked and made no attempt to hide it once they’d reached the privacy of a window recess. “If you’d given me half a chance to introduce you to Brother John, you’d have realized the significance of his—”
“I already know too many monks and priests, and my news could not wait. You’ll not guess which of our enemies has been called to God…or more likely, the Devil. Roger de Mortimer is dead!”
“Are you sure? Was he struck down in battle? A fall from his horse?”
“Brace yourself for a surprise. Our de Mortimer cousin, a man born to hang if ever there was one, actually died in bed! I do not yet know what ailment killed him, but he was not sick for long. Now…is this news not important enough to justify my lapse of manners?”
Llewelyn admitted that it was. De Mortimer’s death was both a blow to the English and a blessing to the Welsh, for his lands would likely be in turmoil for some time to come. His vassals and tenants were bound to be disturbed by this sudden upheaval in their lives, for loyalties were personal, and for most men, their local lord mattered more than a distant, unknown king. There was opportunity here for fishing in troubled waters, and Llewelyn and Davydd exchanged gratified glances, already thinking of lures and baited hooks. But first Llewelyn had news of his own to impart.
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