The Reckoning

by Sharon Kay Penman

  “Mayhap not, but I gained information from them that might well save our lives,” Llewelyn said, and Robyn turned sharply in the saddle to stare at him. The others urged their mounts closer to hear, too; Llewelyn had their undivided attention now. “I knew Edward had appointed Roger Lestrange to de Mortimer’s command, and I knew, too, that he was on his way to join Giffard at Buellt Castle. But what I did not know was that he’d already arrived, and with a large force from Montgomery and Oswestry.” Llewelyn paused, then added dryly, “With half our army on their way to Brycheiniog with Dai, I suppose it’s rather obvious that I did not know!”

  There was a silence after that, until Robyn gave voice to the thought uppermost in all their minds. “Thank God,” he said, “that we hold the bridge!”

  “Speaking of the bridge,” Llewelyn said, “we might as well take care of it now. Morgan, you and Andras ride on ahead to the camp, tell Goronwy and my cousin what we learned about Lestrange, and that we’ve gone to check upon the bridge. We’ll set it afire, and bring our men back with us to the camp. The day of reckoning with Giffard and Lestrange will have to wait.”

  It had snowed earlier in the day, and they were studying the sky as they rode, attempting to gauge the chances of snow on the morrow. But Robyn soon brought his stallion up to ride beside Llewelyn and Rhosier. “Whilst we were at Cwm-hir, I got to talking with one of the monks. He was almost as old as God, having reached his full three score years and ten, and he told me about an ambush that had taken place fifty years ago or more, involving Llewelyn Fawr and a monk of Cwm-hir. Do you know about that, my lord?”

  Trevor had been bristling over this new evidence of Robyn’s presumption, but at the mention of Llewelyn Fawr, he no longer minded so much. His lord could not yet bear to talk of his wife; that wound was still too raw. But he took great pleasure in reminiscing about the grandfather he’d so loved, and Trevor was glad to see those memories evoked now, even if it was Robyn’s doing. Already he could hear the laughter in his lord’s voice, just beneath the surface, as Llewelyn said, “Indeed, I do, lad. That was a story my grandfather loved to tell. It happened during one of his campaigns against the English King, Edward’s father. Henry’s men came upon a White Monk, who offered to show them a way to ford the Gwy. Instead he led them into a marsh, where they were soon bogged down and easy prey for the Welsh. Henry was so wroth with Cwm-hir that he burned one of their barns, levied a fine of three hundred marks—”

  They heard it, too, then, sounds echoing through the trees. As Llewelyn drew rein, he saw sudden fear on the faces of his men, fear for him. “Let me scout ahead,” Robyn urged. For once, though, Trevor was the bolder of the two youths; he was already in motion.

  But there was no need to seek out danger; it found them. Trevor had not yet reached the bend in the trail when he ran into a band of English horsemen. There was no knight among them, for they wore hooded coifs and leather gambesons, not the great helms and mail hauberks too costly for men-at-arms. They were clearly no novices to warfare and battlefield surprises, for they recovered swiftly and surged forward, confident that they would prevail; they easily outnumbered their Welsh foes.

  None of this mattered to Trevor; none of it even registered with him. He knew only that his Prince was in grave peril. Shouting over his shoulder, “My lord, save yourself!” he spurred his horse forward.

  Trevor barely had time to draw his weapon. As soon as a target was within range, he lashed out wildly with his sword, too frantic to feel any fear. The first man he encountered seemed startled by the ferocity of his attack, and veered off. Another swung at Trevor as he galloped past, but his battle axe just sliced through the air, harmlessly. Trevor’s rush had carried him into the very midst of the enemy ranks. As he tugged at his horse’s reins, seeking to turn it about, he risked a quick glance back, and what he saw took his breath like a blow. His lord had not fled. He was unsheathing his sword, making ready to defend himself.

  “No,” Trevor cried, “no!” He jerked again on the reins, wheeled his mount, and careened into the nearest rider. His sword struck the Englishman’s shield, glanced off. As the other man counter-thrust, Trevor twisted in the saddle to avoid the blow. But it was then that his horse’s hooves came down upon a patch of ice. It scrabbled to keep its footing, slid sideways, and went down heavily. Trevor was thrown clear, rolling over and over until he slammed into a tree. But his opponent was more interested in claiming Trevor’s floundering stallion than in confirming a kill, and paid no more heed to the boy sprawled in the snow, dazed and defenseless, under a barren alder tree.

  Trevor put his hand up to his head; his fingers came away bloodied. He tried to sit up, sagged back against the trunk of the tree. His vision was slow to clear. When it did, he saw Rhosier’s body crumpled nearby. Robyn was unhorsed, struggling to hold off a soldier armed with a deadly chained mace. But it was Llewelyn whom the boy sought, Llewelyn alone who filled his world. He was some yards away, but Trevor heard the shivering sound his sword made as it deflected his enemy’s slashing blade. The other man was bleeding, and when Llewelyn struck again, the Englishman’s sword went spinning out of his grip, fell into the trampled snow between their horses. But Llewelyn did not see the second rider bearing down upon him, lance couched and at the ready. Lurching to his knees, Trevor screamed, “My lord, beware! Look to your left!”

  Llewelyn heard his warning. Turning in the saddle, he started to bring up his shield. But it was too late, for the man was coming fast, was already upon him. The chain mail of his hauberk proved no protection against the penetrating power of a lance. It hit him in the side, with the full weight of horse and rider behind it, chain links breaking apart as the weapon plunged into his flesh, thrust up under his ribcage. The impact of the blow sent him reeling against the saddle cantle. There was a burning pain as the lance blade tore free, and unable to catch himself, he went over backward into the snow. The rider followed, reined in, and for a moment, the lance hovered above Llewelyn’s throat, splattering him with his own blood. But then it was withdrawn. Satisfied that there was no need for a second strike, the Englishman set off in pursuit of Llewelyn’s stallion.

  Llewelyn sought to raise himself up on his elbows, only to sink back, defeated. It was as if his body no longer belonged to him, obeyed no more orders from his brain. He was bleeding heavily, and the snow was rapidly turning crimson. He put the palm of his hand over the wound and pressed. That caused fresh pain, but the blood continued to drain away, and his strength with it. He watched in disbelief as it soaked his glove, seeped through his fingers, a river of red that showed no signs of stopping. How could it end like this? Was this where God had been leading him, to this December dusk and a thrusting lance? What of Wales?

  The English were riding off, triumphant. Trevor reached Llewelyn first, and then Robyn. Blood was still streaming down Trevor’s face, and Robyn’s right arm hung useless at his side, at an odd angle. But neither youth seemed even aware of his own injuries. Their faces ashen, their eyes filled with horror, they knelt beside their Prince, saying his name in unison, almost like a prayer.

  It was Robyn who took control. Jerking off his mantle, he said tautly, “Help me wrap this about the wound, Trevor, and hurry! If we do not stop the bleeding…” Trevor still seemed to be in a state of shock, but he did as Robyn bade, and then took off his own mantle, made of it a pillow for his Prince’s head.

  “Rhosier?” Llewelyn’s voice was slurred and breathless, but Trevor had never heard a sound more welcome to his ears. The question, though, was one he did not want to answer, and he felt a surge of gratitude when Robyn did it for him.

  “Rhosier has gone to get help, my lord.” They could not tell if Llewelyn believed the lie, for he’d closed his eyes again. Robyn was finding it harder to ignore the dull throbbing of his broken arm, but he knew he could not give in to it, not yet. “I’ll bring back men and horses,” he told Trevor quietly. “Stay with him.”

  Alone with Llewelyn in the twilit clearing, Trevor gently r
emoved his coif, smoothing his lord’s hair with fingers that shook. Llewelyn’s skin was cold to the touch, and almost as pale as the surrounding snow. Their makeshift bandage seemed to have slowed the gush of blood, but not enough. Not, he knew, nearly enough.

  “Are you thirsty, my lord?” It was all he could offer, and he was thankful when Llewelyn nodded, so desperate was he to do something for his Prince, anything. He had no wineskin or flask, but after several moments of hurried searching, he found a small stream amidst a grove of alder trees. Dipping Rhosier’s helmet into the icy water, he hastened back to Llewelyn. After he poured water into his cupped hands, Llewelyn managed to swallow a little. But when Trevor looked again at the bandage, the stain had spread, and he was unable to choke back a sob.

  Llewelyn’s lashes flickered, his eyes searching the boy’s tear-streaked face. “Do not grieve so, lad,” he said huskily, “for there are far worse ways to die. Think of Simon…”

  He saw that Trevor did not understand, but talking was too much of an effort, and he could not explain that he was thinking of Simon de Montfort, who’d died knowing that his dreams for reform died with him on Evesham Field. But his war would go on without him. Almighty God would not forsake Wales. Never had his people been so united. They’d mourn his death, but they’d not lose heart. They’d hold fast for Davydd.

  It was easier than he’d ever expected, accepting that his wound was mortal. There was almost a relief in letting go, in knowing that he’d done all he could, that it was now up to others, up to Davydd. No, he was far luckier than Simon. He left no grieving widow, no sons who might suffer for his sins. How Simon must have feared for Nell, for his family as he rode out to die. But Ellen awaited him at God’s Throne, and Gwenllian was a little lass, safe as a son might not be, whilst Wales… Wales was Davydd’s now.

  It was becoming more and more difficult for Llewelyn to focus his thoughts. The pain was not as intense as he’d have imagined it would be, but he was cold, so very cold, even though sweat had broken out on his face and throat. Trevor was saying his name, entreating him not to die, but he was hearing other voices now, for his dead were close at hand. He was drifting again. Making a great effort, he said weakly, “Tell Davydd…”

  Trevor leaned over. “What, my lord? Tell him what?”

  “I commend Gwenllian to his care,” Llewelyn said, very low. “And Caitlin…” He’d had her for a lifetime, only fair to give her back. Davydd must look after them both, as he must look after Wales. A great burden, a great trust. God All-merciful, let him prove worthy of it. “All in his keeping now…”

  “I will tell him, my lord, I promise. Is there…is there nothing else I can do for you?” the boy pleaded, and Llewelyn nodded.

  “Pray for me, lad,” he said, and Trevor sobbed again. He had no crucifix, and Llewelyn’s sword, which held a holy relic within its hilt, had been taken by the English soldiers. But he remembered then that Llewelyn’s dagger hilt was fashioned in the shape of the Holy Cross, and he unsheathed it, put it in Llewelyn’s hand, and closed his fingers around the haft.

  “Dear Lord God and Father Everlasting, into Thy Hands and those of Thy Blessed Son, now and forever I commit to Thee the body, soul, and spirit of Thy servant, Llewelyn. Grant him remission of all his sins, Lord…”

  Trevor’s tears were flowing faster now. He drew a strangled breath, and then his head jerked up sharply. “Oh, Christ Jesus, the English…they are coming back!”

  “Go, then, and go quickly, whilst you still can!”

  Trevor shook his head vehemently. “I’ll not leave you!”

  “Trevor, I command you!”

  But the youth shook his head again. “My lord, I… I cannot!”

  “What is the worst they can do, cheat me of a few final breaths? If you love me, go and go now. Would you make me watch you die?”

  Still, Trevor hovered beside him, in his face so much anguished indecision that Llewelyn feared he’d not obey, even now. Only at the last possible moment did he snatch up Llewelyn’s hand, press it to his lips, and disappear into the darkness.

  Tears of relief welled in Llewelyn’s eyes. The sounds were growing louder; he heard the jangling of spurs, the snorting of horses, and then the wind brought to him the voices.

  “But why do you think it was a lord that Stephen struck down, Rob? He said the man’s shield was plain, not emblazoned.”

  “Mayhap not, but Stephen showed me that stallion. In all my born days, I’ve rarely seen a finer animal, one even a king would not scorn to ride. And there was a garnet set in the man’s sword hilt, one that seemed real to these eyes. He must be a lord of some sort, and at the least, worth a second look.”

  The first voice was eager now. “Think you that he might have a gold ring, then?”

  “You can be sure I did not ride back to see that he gets a Christian burial!” There was laughter at that, and then they were there, for from the corner of his eye, Llewelyn could see the snow kicked up by their horses.

  “Did I not tell you this was the place? Look, there is the body!” A horse was reined in a few feet away, and then a soldier was bending over Llewelyn. Reaching down, he grasped Llewelyn’s wrist and started to strip off the glove, only to recoil suddenly. “Jesú, he is still alive!”

  “They’re a tough breed, God rot them. Send him to Hell, and let’s get on with this.”

  The first soldier rose to his feet, unsheathing his sword. He was, Llewelyn now saw, quite young, only a few years older than Trevor. He brought the sword up, then slowly lowered it again. “He’s already dying, Rob.”

  “If you are not as squeamish as a maid! Get out of the way, then, and I’ll do it.”

  Someone had a lantern. Night-blinded, Llewelyn averted his eyes from its glare, and braced himself for the sword’s rending thrust.

  But it did not come. Instead, it was a voice that cut through the darkness, amazed, urgent. “Rob, wait! I know him! Mother of God, it’s their Prince!”

  “You’re daft!”

  “I tell you it’s him! I’ve seen him often enough, for certes, for did I not serve my lord de Mortimer for twenty years and more? Just last year he came to Radnor Castle, signed that pact with my lord, and as close to me then as he is now. It is Llewelyn ap Gruffydd, no mistake!”

  “I think Fulk is right, Rob. I’ve seen the man, too, and by God, it does look like him!” There was a moment of awed silence, and then they all began laughing and talking at once, unable to believe their good fortune. They were made men, every one of them, for no reward would be too much for those who could deliver Llewelyn ap Gruffydd into the King’s hands.

  Robert Body had the command, and began, then, to snap out orders. “Get a few blankets from your bedrolls. Fulk, you and Harry start cutting down some branches, for we’re going to need a litter. The King’s joy will be all the greater if we can keep him alive.”

  They scattered, under his prodding. The first youth claimed the lantern, raised it so he could look into Llewelyn’s face. “Is it true?” he asked. “Are you the Welsh Prince?”

  Llewelyn labored to draw enough air into his lungs. “I am Llewelyn, son of Gruffydd, son of Llewelyn Fawr, Prince of Wales and Lord of Eryri,” he said, softly but distinctly, “and I have urgent need of a priest.”

  The young Englishman seemed momentarily nonplussed. “I’d fetch one,” he said hesitantly, “if it were up to me.” Kneeling in the snow, he unhooked his flask, supported Llewelyn’s head while he drank. “There will be a doctor at the castle,” he said, and then, surprisingly, “I’m Martin.”

  “Thank you, Martin,” Llewelyn whispered, and drank again. He was almost amused by their solicitude, their determination to keep him from dying. He could envision no worse fate than to be handed over, alive and helpless, to Edward. But he did not fear it, for he knew it would not come to pass. He’d be dead ere they reached Buellt Castle, mayhap much sooner. He measured his life now not in hours or even moments, but in breaths, and he would answer for his sins to Almighty God, not
the English King.

  Another of the soldiers was coming back. “Here, Martin, put this about him.”

  Martin took the blanket. “He’s in a bad way, Fulk,” he murmured, as if Llewelyn ought not to hear. Fulk picked up the lantern, and swore under his breath at the sight of the blood-soaked snow.

  “Christ,” he said, and then, to Llewelyn, almost fiercely, “You hold on, hear? We’re going to get you a doctor, for the King wants you alive!”

  Llewelyn gazed up at him, marveling. “Indeed,” he said, “God forbid that I should disoblige the English King by dying.” It was only when he saw that Fulk and Martin were uncomprehending that he realized he’d lapsed into Welsh. But he made no effort to summon back his store of Norman-French. A man ought to die with his own language echoing in his ears.

  The English soldiers were discussing his wound in troubled tones. But their voices seemed to be coming now from a distance, growing fainter and fainter until they no longer reached Llewelyn. He heard only the slowing sound of his heartbeat, and he opened his eyes, looked up at the darkening sky.

  “Well,” Fulk said finally, “we have to try. You watch over him whilst I help get that litter put together.” As he swung the lantern about, its flickering light fell across Llewelyn’s face, and he stiffened, then bent swiftly for a closer look at the Welsh Prince. Blood was trickling from the corner of Llewelyn’s mouth, and the dark eyes staring up at Fulk were blind. Fulk reached hastily for Llewelyn’s throat, fumbling to find a pulse.

  “Hellfire and furies!” Straightening up, he shook his head in disgust. “Too late, Martin. He is dead, damn him.”

  Trevor had retreated only as far as a copse of trees on the far side of the clearing. Fulk’s words struck at his heart, and he jammed his fist up against his mouth, bit down upon his glove to keep from crying out. His throat closed up, his chest heaved, and so great was his grief that he honestly thought he might die of it. Snatches of conversation came to him, but he did not really hear them, his ears still ringing with Fulk’s blunt, brutal avowal, “He is dead.”