“Come on back to the hearth,” he said. “I want you to meet Brother John. He is Welsh, his name notwithstanding, a respected Franciscan theologian…and the Archbishop of Canterbury’s personal peace emissary.”
“You cannot be serious! Edward would sooner beg by the roadside ere he’d seek peace terms. He’s not ready, not yet, for he’s ever been one for learning lessons the hard way.”
“This is Peckham’s doing, not Edward’s…or so he says. He claims Edward balked like a mule at first, but it seems our lord Archbishop’s zeal to be a peacemaker would not be denied, and Edward reluctantly agreed to let him try to bring his erring sheep—that’s us—back to the fold.”
“ ‘Reluctantly agreed,’” Davydd echoed derisively. “How witless do they think we are? If Peckham’s an impartial mediator, I’m bidding fair to become the next Pope! How long did it take him to excommunicate us at Edward’s behest…and for what godless sin? ‘Disturbers of the King’s peace,’ not one of the Holy Commandments the last time I looked. This peace mission is Edward’s Trojan Horse, a clumsy attempt to distract us whilst they get that accursed bridge completed.”
“The bridge is well nigh done already. Nor are we likely to be caught off guard, for we have them under such close watch that if someone drops a hammer into the water, we know about it by the time it hits bottom.”
Davydd looked thoughtfully at his brother. “You’re even quicker than me to suspect the English of double-dealing. Yet you seem to be saying that you believe Peckham’s peace overture is sincere…why? What do you know that I do not?”
Llewelyn’s smile was fleeting, but it held a hint of approval, for whatever Davydd’s other failings, his fast thinking made him a useful ally. “You are right, there is a piece missing from this puzzle. It so happens that the Archbishop has offered to come to Aber, to discuss peace terms in person.”
Davydd’s jaw dropped. “He’d actually do that, make a journey through a land at war to break bread with men he himself had excommunicated? Jesus God above! I never heard of a prelate who’d even cross the path of one under the Church anathema! If he would truly come to us, no one could doubt his good faith—not even me! You will agree to see him?”
Llewelyn nodded. “In truth, I do not expect anything to come of it. But if the Archbishop would make such a remarkable concession, then I think we ought to hear him out. I owe him that much,” he said, suddenly sounding very tired, “for he did all he could to free Ellen’s brother from Edward’s gaol.”
A Truce was declared, and John Peckham, Archbishop of Canterbury, passed three days at Aber, earnestly seeking to convince the Welsh that the salvation of their souls depended upon submission to England’s King. They had sinned grievously in shedding blood on one of God’s holiest days, he told them, and the best proof of their repentance would be their readiness to make peace. They listened, accorded him the respect due his rank, and Llewelyn said that he would be willing to yield to the English King, but only if Edward agreed to honor their ancient customs and liberties. He would not surrender without such assurances from the Crown, for his people looked to him for protection, and he could not fail them. The Archbishop could offer no such assurances, though, for Edward’s terms were not open to interpretation, as simple as they were inflexible—“the entire and unconditional surrender of Llewelyn ap Gruffydd and his people”—terms utterly unacceptable to the Welsh. Bitterly disappointed, the Archbishop prepared to return to Rhuddlan Castle on the morrow, knowing that when this brief truce ended, the killing would begin again.
Brother John watched as the Archbishop restlessly paced the chamber’s length, then its breadth. He had expected their mission to fail, for Peckham was as tactless as he was well intentioned, and he had scant sympathy for the people he’d come to convert. Brother John knew that the Archbishop, like most of his fellow countrymen, believed the Welsh to be lazy, immoral, and untrustworthy. It was not surprising, then, that when the Welsh argued that they should be governed by their own laws, he turned a deaf ear. How could it be otherwise when he was convinced that Welsh law was contrary to reason and Holy Writ?
And yet Brother John knew, too, that the Archbishop’s dismay was genuine. He might loathe Welsh law, distrust the Welsh leadership, and scorn Welsh custom, but he truly cared about the salvation of Welsh souls. He’d been quite sincere when he called the Welsh his “lost sheep,” vowed to make his body “a bridge to bring them back to the safety of the Holy Church.” Now their souls would be lost to God, and even as he fumed at their intransigence, he grieved for their damnation.
The Archbishop suddenly stopped his pacing, shot Brother John a look that managed to be both accusatory and defensive. “I suppose,” he said tartly, “that you think I ought to have coddled them more, sugared the truth for the sake of good manners, pretended that I’d forgotten what Scriptures say, that rebellion is as the sin of witchcraft.”
Brother John hesitated, for his master was easy to respect, not so easy to serve. He had a prickly integrity of spirit that Brother John had found in few others, but he was also exceedingly thin-skinned, not a man to take kindly to criticism.
“It is not my place to judge you, my lord. I cannot help thinking, though, that candor is verily like salt. We need them both to season our conversations and our meals, but in moderation, my lord. Mayhap a whit less salt might have made your offer more palatable?”
Peckham’s mouth twitched in what was almost a smile. “What an odd pair we are, John. I use words like nails, forthrightly hammering them home, whilst yours flit about like butterflies, always offering a moving target. You’re referring, I assume, to my comments about Hywel Dda, the so-called giver of their laws?”
“Well, my lord, your remarks were somewhat…intemperate…might possibly have given offense—”
“Their very laws give offense,” the Archbishop snapped. “Mayhap I was too plain-spoken, but they were hardly blameless. Have you forgotten their response when I relayed the King’s message? When I told them what he said, that if they’d had reason to complain of any Crown official, they ought to have come to him, for he was always ready to do justice to all of his subjects, they…they laughed!”
“I never claimed, my lord, that the Welsh were blameless,” Brother John said mildly, and the Archbishop was forced to concede this was so, for he prided himself upon his sense of fairness.
“I did not mean to take out my foul temper on you, John. It is just so hard to accept failure when so much is at stake. Christian warring upon Christian…it is wrong, grieves our Holy Father and delights the Devil. I truly thought I could make them see reason…How can they hold this wretched barren land so dear, their souls so cheaply?”
Brother John moved to the table, piled high with testaments. “These Welsh petitions we are bringing back to the King…have you read any of them yet, my lord?”
“No, not yet. You think I should?”
“I think you might find them informative, possibly even illuminating, my lord.”
The Archbishop considered, then nodded. “I shall, then,” he said briskly, and upon retiring took the unwieldy stack of parchments to bed with him. The complaints spoke of Welsh laws flouted, but also of justice denied. The complainants were both highborn and of humble rank. They testified to lands unjustly confiscated and to oxen seized, to wrongs great and small, to a troubling abuse of royal power. The Archbishop frowned over these testaments as his candle dimmed, splattered wax onto the parchments. He read far into the night.
The Archbishop still rose early the next morning, as was his custom. He eschewed breakfast, for he was a man of austere habits, and soon after dawn, he was standing in the doorway of the great hall, bidding farewell to Llewelyn and Davydd.
“It is not yet too late,” he said. “I urge you to think upon what I’ve said, for this is not a war you can win. The King is expecting Gascon mercenaries any day now. As for myself, it would be with the greatest reluctance that I would lay all Wales under Interdict, but if I must—”
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br /> He got no further, drowned out by the sudden clamor from the bailey. As the gates swung open, a rider came racing through, shouting for Llewelyn even as he reined in his lathered, heaving stallion, flung himself from the saddle. Llewelyn pushed past the Archbishop, hastened out into the bailey, with Davydd but a stride behind.
“The English whoresons have broken the truce, my lord, are making ready to cross their bridge!”
The Archbishop spoke no Welsh, but the reaction of the men warned him that something was very wrong. Brother John gasped, whispered a few words in his ear. The Archbishop paled noticeably, and when Llewelyn and Davydd swung back to confront him accusingly, he said hoarsely, “I knew nothing of this! As God is my witness, I did not know!”
The Prior of the Dominican friary at Bangor was the grandson of the great Ednyved Fychan. But he was not loyal to his Prince; his sympathies were pledged to Llewelyn’s old adversary, the Bishop of Bangor. Two of his brothers were already in the English camp; Rhys ap Gruffydd, bearing a grudge for his months in Llewelyn’s gaol, had gone over to the English at the start of the war, and their younger brother Hywel was among those who’d landed upon Môn with Luke de Tany. But the Prior stayed behind in Bangor, where he and a few of his fellow friars secretly plotted with the English.
On this cold, clear Friday in early November, they sent Luke de Tany the signal he’d been awaiting, and he gave the order to secure the mainland side of the bridge, which was done with grapnels, massive grappling hooks that bit deep into the ground. The bridge was now ready and waiting.
They began to cross at dawn, under a sky so blue it might have been summer, although the brisk, gusting wind let no one forget it was actually November. Even at low tide, it was not an easy crossing. The horses had to be blindfolded and led across, and the boats pitched and tossed upon the swirling current, causing men to stumble and swear uneasily. One clumsy youth tripped and dropped his pike into the water, much to the amusement of his comrades. But they all eventually made it over, men and horses both, a score of knights, twice that many squires, and a large number of foot soldiers, thankful that the worst was behind them, for now they were safe on dry land again, and ahead lay the chance for plunder and looting, for the rich prizes that a man could hope to gain in war, a hope that would have gone aglimmering if the Archbishop succeeded in his peace mission.
It had been decided beforehand to avoid the narrow coast road, where they’d be more likely to encounter Welsh who’d raise the alarm. Their Dominican allies had told them of an inland road, built long ago by the. Romans but still in use, which would enable them to approach Bangor undetected, perhaps even to risk a raid upon Aber itself, for both targets were well within striking distance, Bangor only three or four miles to the east and Aber just six miles farther on. Flying a multitude of banners, for among the knights were scions of some of England’s proudest Houses, they left the beach behind, headed inland toward the Roman road.
Some of the men were battle-scarred veterans of the last Welsh war, a few had fought in skirmishes in Gascony or the Holy Land, and others were raw youths about to get their baptism by fire. One of the latter was a young foot soldier in the service of Sir Roger Clifford, son of the lord held hostage since the capture of Hawarden Castle. The Cumbrian village of Appleby seemed very far away indeed to Thomas, a good-natured, affable lad who bore with equanimity the inevitable teasing about his bright red hair, profusion of freckles, and rustic North Country accent. He missed Appleby dearly, missed the security of knowing what each day held, a comfort he’d not valued until he’d lost it. But he was still enormously proud to be serving a lord like Sir Roger, who claimed the lordship and Honour of Appleby through his wife, Tom’s liege lady.
Not that Tom saw much of Sir Roger, a brusque, impatient man who had no time to spare for underlings. But he had struck up a tentative friendship with Gervaise Fitz Alan, one of Sir Roger’s squires, for they’d discovered that their difference in rank seemed somehow less significant on the occupied Welsh island; that they were both seventeen, homesick, and facing their first battle mattered more. Now Tom tried to keep close to Gervaise, his eyes locked upon Clifford’s checkered blue-and-gold banner as they began their march into the Welsh interior.
The hills were not high, not yet, but the horizon was shadowed by the formidable peaks of Snowdon; Gervaise had told him that the Welsh called the mountains Eryri, and Tom tried to say it under his breath, but had trouble trilling his r’s. He was very glad that they’d not have to brave those redoubtable heights, for he found these lowlands daunting enough. He had never seen a country so heavily wooded. He’d heard that King Edward had cut wide swathes through the Welsh forests, but these towering trees had never known an axe. Winter had not yet stripped them bare, and Tom felt as if he were trapped in a tunnel, for the trail was walled in on each side by high hedges, brambles, and camouflaging clouds of brown, brittle leaves.
It took little imagination to envision a Welsh archer lurking behind every tree trunk, and Tom looked enviously at his lord’s chain-mail armor. He knew it did not render its wearer invulnerable; it could not ward off broken bones, nor save a man if the metal links broke under pressure. And he was not without protection himself. His gambeson, a thickly padded leather tunic, was surprisingly effective at absorbing a blow’s impact, and not all that easy to pierce—so he’d been told. But he’d still have traded it in the blink of an eye for Sir Roger’s hauberk and great helm.
Tom knew very little about the Welsh, and what he did know was bad; he’d been told that they were despoilers of churches, that they had neither honor nor courage. Tom secretly hoped that they were as craven as Gervaise claimed, that they hid in the hills, leaving their houses and goods and livestock for the soldiers to share. For as excited as he was about this chance to make his fortune, Tom did not really want to kill anyone. He’d been given a mace, for Sir Roger spared no expense in outfitting his men, but he could not truly imagine himself splitting a man’s head open, gouging out an eye, maiming or murdering. Gervaise assured him that it would be different in battle, that men’s blood heated up so that killing became easy, but Tom could not help wondering how Gervaise knew that for certes; he was a battlefield virgin, too.
They’d advanced several miles inland, had almost reached the Roman road when it happened. They had no warning whatsoever, were suddenly under attack. Shrill yells erupted all around them, and a spear went hurtling through the trees, buried itself in an English chest. The man fell to his knees, almost close enough for Tom to touch. Other spears were finding targets now, the knights and crossbowmen were shouting and cursing, fumbling for swords and crossbows, Welsh arrows were fanning the air, aimed with lethal accuracy, and the men around Tom began to die.
The Welsh had picked an ideal spot for ambush, for there were boulders and thick cover on both sides of the narrow trail, and the English found themselves caught in a deadly cross-fire. Luke de Tany saw at once that they could not defend themselves against an unseen enemy, and he hastily ordered them back to the beach. The Welsh followed, forest phantoms who continued to fire upon them, picking off stragglers one by one. Several times they turned on their tormentors, daring them to come out into the open, but they raged in vain. Mocking laughter floated from the woods, and then another hail of arrows.
De Tany sought to maintain some order, shouting commands, trying to stop his men from panicking. Tom was breathless and bruised, for he’d taken a jolting fall. Fortunately, Gervaise had pulled him roughly to his feet, for those who could not keep pace were easy prey for the pursuing Welsh. Tom had never been so scared, had never been so glad to see anything as he was that beckoning blue sheen of the Menai Straits. But it was then that a group of Welsh horsemen came galloping up the coast road.
Tom stood rooted, gaping at these new arrivals. “Jesú, it’s him!” Gervaise was pointing at the red-and-gold banner. “It’s their Prince!” Tom had no time to react to that, for Luke de Tany and the other knights were trying hastily to close ranks, to sta
ve off this new threat. But Llewelyn gave them no chance. Spurring their horses forward, the Welsh careened into the English, and a wild mêlée broke out there upon the beach.
What followed was utter horror for Tom. All around him were plunging horses and grappling, struggling men. Swords clashed, blood spurted, and the trampled sand was soon splattered with crimson. As a Welsh horseman bore down upon him, Tom swung his mace in a haphazard arc. His blow never connected, and the stallion then swerved into him, sent him sprawling. For several terrifying seconds, there was nothing in his world but flailing hooves. By some miracle, though, the horse did not step on him. Rolling clear, he got shakily to his feet, just in time to be knocked flat by a Welsh lord upon a huge roan stallion, so intent upon crossing swords with the nearest English knight that he hadn’t even a glance to spare for Tom. Once again the boy scrambled to his feet, half-dazed by the fall. And then Gervaise was jerking at his arm, shouting at him to run, and he stumbled after the others, joined the desperate dash for the bridge.
It was a retreat that almost at once became a rout. It was chaos then, as men sought only to save themselves, reeling and gasping as they splashed into the shallows. Llewelyn led his men in close pursuit, cut off some of the knights and men-at-arms, and another bloody clash took place within yards of the bridge. Breaking free, the surviving English knights forced their horses right onto the end of the bridge, trampling a few of their own men, those not quick enough to jump out of the way. The Welsh pursued them to the water’s edge, then turned back to deal with those still trapped upon the beach. Those fortunate enough to have gotten onto the bridge shoved and pushed as they sprinted for the far shore. But they were not out of arrow range, and at Llewelyn’s signal, Welsh bowmen sent arrows winging across the water at eye-blurring speed, finding such easy targets that several of the knights soon had multiple arrow shafts caught in the links of their chain mail, much like bristling porcupine quills.
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