Llewelyn looked at him across the shadowed expanse of sand. It was too dark for Davydd to see his face. “Enough to make it a habit?”
“In a world where you get offered an English earldom, I’d say anything is possible,” Davydd said wryly, but he was smiling in the darkness. Starting to whistle again, he moved back into the shadows, heading home.
It was then that he caught it from the corner of his eye, a sudden streak of light. Stopping in his tracks, he swiftly scanned the heavens. All agreed that a comet was a harbinger of doom, blazing across the sky to foretell the coming death of a great lord or king. But people were more ambivalent about shooting stars, some convinced they were ill omens, too, others sure that they heralded good fortune for those lucky enough to spot them. Davydd was firmly in the latter camp, and he tracked the star’s plunging fall with delight, then spun around, eager to share this with Llewelyn. But as he did, he saw that his brother had missed the shooting star. Llewelyn had turned back toward the strait, toward Llanfaes.
36
Cwm-Hir Abbey, Wales
December 1282
“My lord!” Trevor leaned over the bed. “Wake up, my lord!” Llewelyn’s eyes opened at that, but they were still sleep-clouded, not yet focused. “You were having a bad dream. I heard you cry out…”
Llewelyn remembered now. He sat up slowly, feeling as if he’d not been to bed at all. His exhaustion was obvious; his eyes were bloodshot and smudged with shadows, his dark hair shot through with glints of silver, and in the cold, greying light of this December dawn, he looked like a man long past his youth, a man with too many cares, too few joys. Trevor started to speak, emboldened by anxiety, but the words caught in his throat.
He yearned to tell Llewelyn that he understood. During the day, memories could be held at bay, but at night, dreams became the Devil’s own accomplices. He knew his lord’s haunted dreams as if they were his own—dreams of the Lady Ellen’s death. Just as he knew that the other dreams were even worse, the ones in which she still lived, the ones that gave Llewelyn back all he’d lost, so that when he awakened, there was always a moment when he forgot, when he thought his world was still whole.
Llewelyn had yet to move, and Trevor hesitated no longer. “I know about death dreams,” he blurted out, plunging ahead before he could lose his nerve. “You see, my lord, I had a brother. There were just eleven months between us, and people oft-times mistook us for twins, so alike were we. One day, not long past Tegan’s thirteenth birthday, we were playing the fool as lads will, and I chased him into the stables, where he stepped upon a rake. It seemed a minor mishap, no more than that. But it festered, and soon he could no longer swallow. When he went into spasms, the doctors could do nothing for him. It…it was a hard death, my lord.”
Llewelyn felt pity stir; how little he’d known about this steadfast, earnest youngster. “Ere we depart Cwm-hir,” he said, “I think you and I ought to seek out Abbot Cadwgan, ask him to say a Mass for my lady and your brother.”
Trevor’s face lit up. “That would be a deed well done,” he said, and smiled. “What I wanted to tell you, my lord, is that it does get better in time. Now, when Tegan comes to me in dreams, it is a comfort.” Suddenly shy then, fearing he’d over-stepped, he turned away, made haste to bring Llewelyn his clothes, that their day might begin.
Llewelyn was soon standing by the unshuttered window, heedless of the cold air invading the chamber. Winter had come early to mid-Wales; the abbey grounds were carpeted in deep drifts of glistening white, and the River Clywedog was glazed with patches of brittle, sun-blinding ice. Cwm-hir meant “long valley” in Welsh, and the abbey was ringed by nature’s own battlements, densely wooded hills, dusted now with December snow. Llewelyn had often marveled at his homeland’s wild beauty, but few vistas had pleased him as much as this peaceful glen, a jewel hidden away from the world within the mountains of Maelienydd.
Turning reluctantly from the window, he took the razor from Trevor, waited for the boy to fetch a mirror. It was small and round and made of polished brass; as he held it up, Trevor wondered what had become of the magical, silvered mirror his lord had given the Lady Ellen. Llewelyn always insisted upon shaving himself, joking that his was the only hand he trusted to wield a blade against his throat, but Trevor knew he’d sometimes let his wife shave him. It seemed unfair indeed that even the most commonplace of tasks could salt a wound anew, and he spoke up quickly now, before his Prince’s memories could get past his defenses. She was a loving ghost, the Lady Ellen, too loving; it was time she let his lord go.
“Lord Goronwy told me that there is much bad blood amongst the Marchers. He says that when you put so many tomcats in the same sack, they’re bound to come out spitting and clawing. Is he right, my lord? Is it possible that they might start squabbling amongst themselves?”
Llewelyn shrugged, then winced, for he’d nicked his chin. “Possible, lad, but not likely. Oh, they’re all ones for tending a grudge the way a shepherd looks to his lambs. Gruffydd ap Gwenwynwyn has been feuding with the Corbets and de Mortimers for years. The Corbets also loathe the Lestranges, and none of them can abide John Giffard. But however much they detest one another, Trevor, they fear Edward more. The days are gone when the Marchers could play the Welsh off against the King, at least as long as the King happens to be one of the best battle commanders in Christendom.” He smiled then, wryly. “I’d wager, lad, that there are times when they miss poor hapless King Henry even more than we do!”
Trevor removed the shaving basin, slopping soapy water into the floor rushes. “We’ve had great success in Powys, men flocking to your banners. Where do we go next?”
“Fetch me the map and I’ll show you,” Llewelyn offered, and together they unrolled the parchment, held it toward the light. “It is my intent to venture as far south as Brycheiniog, Trevor. On the morrow, we’ll move on into Gwerthrynion, and then into Buellt. These lands were once mine; men will remember.” He gestured with the razor, and water splattered the map, dripping down the winding trail of the River Gwy, onto the Crown castle that rose up on its south bank.
On Friday morning, the 11th of December, Llewelyn and the Welsh were on the hills northwest of that royal riverside fortress. An English town had sprung up around the castle, called by the Welsh Llanfair-ym-Muallt, the Church of St. Mary in Buellt. A brisk wind was blowing; it dispersed the drifting smoke of hearth fires, unfurled the banner flying from the castle keep, revealing the arms of its new castellan, John Giffard. It was just past dawn, and there was little stirring below, either in the streets or upon the castle battlements; they did not yet know the Welsh were on the heights above them.
At first light, Llewelyn began to divide his army, for they had agreed that his Seneschal would continue on to accept the homage of the men of Brycheiniog on his behalf, while he met with the local Welsh, sought to win them away from their enforced allegiance to the Crown. As soon as Dai departed, Llewelyn deployed his remaining men along the high ground between the River Gwy and its tributary, the Irfon. A narrow bridge spanned the latter river, and he wasted no time in dispatching an armed force to seize and hold it. Once that was done, the military advantages lay with the Welsh. Safe behind the barriers of the Gwy and Irfon, Llewelyn had the upper hand, for as long as he controlled the bridge, he could determine when or if battle would be joined.
John Giffard was not the only Marcher lord they faced across the width of the Irfon. Roger de Mortimer’s sons were known to be at Buellt Castle with Giffard, as were two sons of Gruffydd ap Gwenwynwyn. They were not long in discovering the presence of the Welsh, and soon sallied forth to assault the bridge. Although they were soundly repulsed, they were not convinced and launched a second attack, only to be beaten back again. After that, they withdrew into the castle while they considered their next move.
Just before noon, Llewelyn received reinforcements from the western reaches of Buellt. Rhosier ap Gruffydd had been Llewelyn’s steward in the years when the cantref had been under his rule; he w
as also a friend, one Llewelyn was well pleased to see. Llewelyn was already in good spirits, for the day had so far gone exactly as they’d planned. Moreover, he’d had a heartening encounter with a White Monk from Ystrad Fflur Abbey.
“He was on his way,” Llewelyn explained, “to their grange at Aberduhonw. He offered to say Mass for me in Llanganten Church, and when I felt honor-bound to remind him that I was excommunicate, he laughed scornfully. ‘That,’ he said, ‘was the English King’s doing, not the Almighty’s!’”
Rhosier grinned. “Why does that surprise you? The English can claim from now till Judgment Day that God is on their side; indeed, they seek to make him a veritable partner in their crimes! But what Welshman would ever believe it?” They were gathered in Llewelyn’s command tent; Rhosier moved closer to the fire, stripped off his gloves, and warmed his hands. “Well?” he queried. “What happens next? Do we fight this day…or not?”
“Not,” Llewelyn said. “I’ve agreed to meet with some of the local Welsh, men whose hearts are with us, but who are too wary of their English overlords to come openly into my camp, lest they be left to face Giffard’s wrath once I’m no longer here to protect them. I’m putting Goronwy and my cousin, Llewelyn Fychan, in command whilst I’m gone, but I’d as soon have you at my side, Rhosier. You know these men, and I trust your judgment.”
At that, Goronwy started to speak, stopped himself just in time. He’d already made his objections known to Llewelyn, to no avail. It was not that he disagreed with Llewelyn’s aims. He, too, thought it worthwhile to meet with the local Welsh, and was willing to overlook their timidity, for Buellt was occupied territory, and King’s men like Giffard would be quick to suspect, quicker to strike. But he did not want his Prince to be the one to seek them out.
This was an old grievance between them, for he’d long worried that Llewelyn was far too casual when it came to his own safety, too quick to take risks better left to others. In that, he was much like Davydd; Goronwy thought the brothers had more in common than they realized, or were willing to admit. But like Davydd, too, Llewelyn shrugged off unwelcome advice, deflecting with sarcasm what he did not want to hear. Goronwy’s remonstrances had fallen on deaf ears.
And so now he kept silent as Llewelyn picked a mere handful of men to accompany him, knowing Llewelyn would only have pointed out—with some justification—that a clandestine meeting would become conspicuous right quickly if he brought an army along. But as Llewelyn swung up into the saddle, he could not help himself. “You’ll not be gone long? Dusk comes early in December, and you’re not familiar with these roads, my lord.”
Llewelyn shot him a look that was both amused and irked. “What are you asking, Goronwy? That I do not play after dark?”
The other men were grinning widely. Goronwy managed a sheepish smile of his own, and as Llewelyn and Rhosier rode out of their encampment, they were followed by the cheering echoes of laughter.
There was little laughter, however, in the English castle at Buellt. Roger Lestrange, commander of the King’s forces in mid-Wales, was stalking about the great hall as if it were a cage. He had little space for pacing, though, for it was overflowing with men, women, and wide-eyed children; the townspeople had sought refuge in the castle upon learning that there was a Welsh army positioned above them at Llanganten. The younger children had quickly grown bored, and they were playing a noisy game of tag; the castle dogs had eagerly joined in, and the hall was soon a scene of sheer bedlam, much to Lestrange’s annoyance.
He was not usually so thin-skinned, but he bore a heavy burden these days, as Roger de Mortimer’s successor, and he well knew that all were watching him closely, wondering if he’d be up to the task at hand; de Mortimer, whatever his vices, had cast a long shadow. The sudden appearance of the Welsh Prince in their midst was the sort of opportunity that might not come again, and God save him if he botched it, as he seemed likely to do.
His frustration intensified as the day wore on. Just one wretched bridge lay between him and what might be the decisive battle of the war. But the Irfon was running high with snow-melt, and they had no hope of crossing it unless they could take the bridge, as they’d conclusively proved they could not do. So now they waited, and Llewelyn ap Gruffydd, damn his soul to Hell, took his ease behind the Irfon, Lestrange thought sourly, laughing at them.
The continuing clamor was one aggravation too many in a day so full of disappointments, and when Lestrange spotted John Giffard’s wife, he went over to complain. He’d meant to speak sharply to her; after all, she was the lady of the manor, and responsible for maintaining some semblance of order. But as he looked into Maude’s tired, troubled face, he found himself softening his words.
Lestrange had known Maude Clifford in her youth, remembered her as a handsome lass, flirtatious and given to giggling, but that was before her abduction and marriage to John Giffard. This woman was a stranger, a pitiful, drab creature, wan as a ghost, timid as a hedge-sparrow. Her oldest daughter by Giffard, a girl of ten, clung to her skirts. Katherine had inherited Maude’s dark coloring, but none of her father’s swagger; she seemed unwilling to leave Maude’s side for even a moment. Lestrange was not normally one for speculating about what went on in women’s heads, but he found himself recalling now that Maude was a kinswoman of the Welsh Prince; which one, he wondered, did she pray for—husband or cousin?
When he suggested, far more kindly than he’d intended, that Lady Maude ought to quiet the hall, Maude hastily complied—or tried to. Watching as she attempted to restore calm, Lestrange soon saw how ineffectual her efforts were. She might be a great heiress and John Giffard’s lady wife, but she seemed unable to daunt a single soul in the hall, even the youngest ones. Lestrange turned away, stopped a servant, and ordered a flagon of hippocras.
It was then that John Giffard strode into the hall. Coming to an abrupt halt, he scowled, and shouted, “Quiet!” Children froze where they were, and the babble of voices subsided, gave way to subdued hush. Giffard paused just long enough to locate Lestrange. “Roger! I need to talk to you!”
Lestrange did not appreciate the other man’s peremptory tone, but Giffard never even noticed. He was close enough now for Lestrange to see how flushed he was. His eyes had a glazed, blue glitter that Lestrange associated with too much wine, but Giffard was quite sober. “What was it you said, Roger…that we needed a miracle? Well, I’ve brought you one.” Turning, he beckoned to a man who’d trailed him into the hall. “Meet your miracle, also known as Helias Walwyn. Go on, Helias, tell him.”
The man was not known to Lestrange, but his name identified him as a fellow countryman; the English had been settling in Wales in ever growing numbers, lured by their King’s promises of profit and opportunity. Helias Walwyn seemed to be relishing the attention. He grinned, brushed back a shock of blond hair, letting the suspense build, like a child about to share a secret.
“I know of a way to cross the Irfon, my lord. There is a ford not far from where the Wye and Irfon meet. It will be a hazardous crossing, what with the water running so high. But if we are willing to risk it, we can hit the Welsh defenders from the rear, take the bridge, and then fall upon Llewelyn ap Gruffydd ere he realizes his danger.”
Just as Goronwy had predicted, December dusk descended swiftly upon the wooded hills and valleys of Buellt. The last light had begun to fade from the winter sky as Llewelyn rode back toward Llanganten. Somewhere in the distance, Vespers was being rung. “Llanynys Church, most likely,” Rhosier concluded, tilting his head to listen. “A pity that it is on the wrong side of the Irfon, or we could have stopped for the service. I had no obliging White Monk to say Mass for me today,” he said, casting Llewelyn a sideways glance of mock reproach.
“Ah, but you’ve led such a sinless life that you’re always in a state of grace,” Llewelyn said blandly, although the corner of his mouth gave him away, twitching as he sought to suppress a grin. The other men hooted loudly at that, but Rhosier was not offended, for he was a man quick to laugh, even a
t his own expense.
Only Llewelyn and Rhosier had attended the meeting in a secluded grange barn. Their escort had waited at a discreet distance, out of hearing range, and they were quite curious about the outcome. One youth was especially eager to know the particulars, and as Robyn ap Gwern seized control of the conversation, Trevor fought back a disapproving frown. Robyn was a newcomer to his lord’s household, a well-born youth who was connected by marriage to Llewelyn’s nephew, Rhys Wyndod. But Trevor found him to be insufferably cocky and brash, and it vexed him now to hear Robyn interrogating his lord as if they were equals; that Llewelyn did not seem to mind only irritated him all the more.
“Well…what happened? Did they pledge you their support, my lord? Or swoon dead away at the mere thought of committing themselves?”
“I hope,” Llewelyn said, “that the Almighty is more forgiving of men’s failings than you are, Robyn.” Although Trevor could not see his face, it sounded as if he was smiling. “It has not been easy for them, living in the shadow of the Crown. Edward’s lackeys have ruled Buellt with a heavy hand these five years past. They’ve had to learn caution, to embrace it as an article of faith. In fact, so skittish have they become that the letter they gave me is so cryptic and obscure it reads as if it were in code!”
Robyn was too young, though, to empathize with those who were half-hearted, apprehensive, or downtrodden. “That just proves what I’ve been saying, that I’ve seen field mice with more backbone. If they lack courage enough even to seek you out in daylight, how likely is it that they’d take up arms on your behalf? If I may be blunt, my lord, this is one quest that will yield no Holy Grail!”
The Reckoning Page 73