The Reckoning

by Sharon Kay Penman

  The King’s hall was situated along the northwest side of Rhuddlan Castle’s inner courtyard. Unlike the Queen’s apartments, which were still dark, light was flooding the glazed glass windows of Edward’s hall, and when Edmund opened the door, he came to a surprised halt. All around him were men recently roused from sleep, men who were laughing and drinking and joking, rejoicing. Spotting the Earl of Gloucester a few feet away, Edmund headed in that direction. He’d known the temperamental Earl all his life, a man so soured in his outlook that Edward claimed he must have vinegar, not blood, running through his veins. Yet now that man was beaming, looking upon the chaos around him with a benevolent air. Marveling, Edmund bore down upon the Earl. The noise level was considerable, and he had to shout to make himself heard. What he heard in return was so unexpected that he stared at Gloucester in disbelief, and then turned, began to shove his way across the hall, toward the stairwell leading up to his brother’s solar.

  Edward was alone in the chamber, standing by the hearth. Edmund paused in the doorway, just long enough to catch his breath. “Ned, is it true? Is Llewelyn ap Gruffydd dead?”

  “Yes.” Edward gestured toward the table. “See for yourself.”

  The letter bore the seal of Roger Lestrange. Holding it up toward the lamp light, Edmund began to read:

  Sire, know that the stout men whom you assigned to my command fought against Llewelyn ap Gruffydd in the region of Buellt on the Friday next after the feast of St. Nicholas, and that Llewelyn ap Gruffydd is dead, his army vanquished, and the whole flower of his army killed, as the bearer of this letter will tell you, and have credence in what he will tell you on my part.

  Edmund read it a second time, then a third. “But can you be sure this is true, Ned? Did Lestrange offer proof?”

  “Irrefutable proof, Little Brother—Llewelyn’s head.” Edward’s smile was grim. “Lestrange hoards his words like a miser does coins, and that is a lean epitaph, indeed. But an epitaph it is, for Llewelyn and for the rebellion that doomed him.”

  “You think then, that the war is over? That Davydd will surrender now?”

  Edward shook his head. “I know that he will not. But any chance the Welsh had of winning this war died on Friday eve with Llewelyn ap Gruffydd.” Moving toward the table, he said, “I was just going to send someone to fetch you, for this is a moment to be shared, Edmund. The Welsh have for too long been a burr under the Crown’s saddle. What an opportunity we now have, lad, to make our world anew!”

  There was a flagon on the table, and Edmund poured for them both. “Your luck,” he said, “never fails to amaze me.”

  “It was not luck, Edmund. I had right on my side, for I am doing the Almighty’s bidding. If Scriptures say a house divided against itself cannot stand, how can an island kingdom?”

  “Ned…what will you do with Llewelyn’s head?”

  “Show it to my army, then send it on to London, put it on a pike above the Tower so all may look upon it and learn what befalls rebels.”

  Edmund had expected as much. “You’re not planning, then, to display it first at Rhuddlan?”

  Edward shrugged. “I might…why?”

  “I’d rather you did not, Ned. I’d as soon Blanche not see it.”

  Edward said nothing, but managed to convey quite a bit by the upward slant of his brow, silent sarcasm not at all to Edmund’s liking. “I should think,” Edmund said, with a hint of coolness, “that you would not want Eleanora to see it, either. Llewelyn may have been an enemy of the Crown, but she did dance at the man’s wedding, after all!”

  “You may be right,” Edward admitted. “I did not think of it that way, and mayhap I should have, for women can be queasy about such sights.” He straddled a chair, then, reaching for his wine cup. “Edmund…you are gladdened by my triumph?”

  “I am, indeed. Why do you even ask?”

  “Because it gives off a right feeble glow, this joy of yours,” Edward said reproachfully, and Edmund acknowledged the thrust with a rueful smile.

  “I did not mean to cast a shadow upon your victory. You are my brother and my King. Of course I wanted you to win! But I’ll not deny that I think it a pity Llewelyn would not come to terms with you. I’d found in the man much to respect, and I suppose I do feel he deserved a better death than he got.”

  “Would it surprise you if I said I agreed? I, too, found him a worthy foe. It was meant to be, Edmund, that Wales should come under the control of the English Crown. But Llewelyn ap Gruffydd need not have died as he did. I gave him a chance to save himself. Did I not offer him an English earldom?” Edward shook his head slowly. “And I will never understand,” he said, “why he did not accept.”

  As Elizabeth entered the bedchamber, the nurse rose to meet her. “I just wanted to look in on them once more,” Elizabeth whispered. “Have they been sleeping?”

  “Owain, yes. But Llelo is still restive, keeps waking up.”

  Elizabeth frowned. “He may be too young to understand about death, but not about fear,” she said, and sighed. He was too clever by half, her firstborn, picked up much more than people realized. Crossing to the bed, she leaned over, began to tuck the blankets about them. As she did, Llelo opened his eyes.

  “What is the matter, love? Another bad dream?” When he nodded, Elizabeth sat beside him on the bed. “Do you want to talk about it? No? Well, suppose I tell you about a bad dream I had? In it, I was scared and alone, and it was so dark I did not know where I was. Does that sound like your dream, Llelo? It does? Would you like to know how my dream ended? Your father came looking for me, not at all daunted by the dark or the wolves. Did I forget to mention the wolves?”

  “I’m not afraid of wolves.”

  “You are braver then, than I am, love, for I am very much afraid of them.”

  “Did Papa find you?”

  “Yes, he did, and guess what? I was not scared anymore, then.” Elizabeth smoothed back his hair from his eyes. “Llelo…there is no reason for you to be scared, either. We are all very sad about your uncle Llewelyn, and we will miss him very much. But the Welsh are so lucky, for in their time of need, they could turn to your father. Uncle Llewelyn’s council met and all agreed that your father should be Prince of Wales now. They know he will keep Wales safe. So…the next time you get scared, I want you to remember that Papa would never let harm befall us.”

  Llelo kept his eyes upon her face, green eyes, like Davydd’s. It was hard to tell what he was thinking; Elizabeth was learning that a four-year-old’s mind could take some unexpected turns. “If Papa is Prince of Wales, does that make you a Princess, Mama?”

  Elizabeth smiled. “Yes, love,” she said, sounding faintly surprised, for that had not yet occurred to her, “I suppose it does.”

  She was still thinking of this later, as she hastened across the snowbound bailey, back toward the great hall. Davydd had told her, upon their first meeting, that she might one day wear a crown, but she’d not believed him. Had he believed it? Probably so; she’d never known anyone so sure of himself. It was a wondrous blessing, Davydd’s confidence, a shield to deflect her own doubts and fears, a well that never ran dry.

  The night was overcast and bitter-cold, but her steps began to slow as she neared the hall. She’d sworn she’d not do this, would not let herself think of last December at Dolwyddelan. But memories knew no more of mercy than men, came whether she willed them or not: Ellen pulling Llewelyn behind the hall screen, laughing up at him, pressing his hand to her belly so he could feel their babe. Tears were stinging Elizabeth’s eyes. They must see that Gwenllian wanted for naught in her life, not ever. How hard it was at times to understand the ways of the Almighty.

  She was approaching the hall when the door suddenly swung open. Caitlin brushed past, unseeing, stopping only when Elizabeth reached out and caught her arm. “Caitlin? What is it?”

  The girl’s mouth trembled, but her eyes were dry, beyond tears. “Gruffydd has written a tribute to my uncle,” she said. “I thought I could stay, listen
to it. But I cannot, I’m sorry, I cannot—” She pulled away, then, from Elizabeth’s grasp, fled into the darkness.

  Gruffydd could only be Gruffydd ab yr Ynad Goch—Gruffydd, son of the Red Judge—Llewelyn’s court bard. Elizabeth had heard him perform occasionally, but was unable to assess his talent, for she had only the most rudimentary knowledge of Welsh. She hesitated, then decided it would be a greater kindness to let Caitlin go, and turned back toward the hall.

  Davydd was seated on the dais, with Goronwy standing close by, befitting his new eminence, for Davydd had chosen him as his Seneschal. Like all the others in the hall, they were listening intently to Gruffydd’s requiem for his slain Prince.

  Not wanting to draw attention away from his performance, Elizabeth took a circuitous path to the dais, as inconspicuously as possible. In the past, she’d made a few half-hearted attempts to master her husband’s language, to no avail. But as she looked out now upon the hushed hall, she vowed to try again, for she felt suddenly like an intruder, an outsider unable to appreciate the grieving eloquence of Llewelyn’s bard. That it was a work of extraordinary power, crafted and polished by pain, she never doubted, for many in the audience were weeping openly, while others were slipping away, too overcome to risk remaining.

  Taking her place beside Davydd on the dais, Elizabeth did not like what she saw. His face was pale and set, his jaw muscles so tightly clenched that she yearned to reach out, caress away those signs of strain. If only he could untether his emotions like Goronwy, who was unselfconsciously wiping away tears. Leaning over, she laid her hand upon her husband’s arm, squeezed gently.

  Davydd did not notice, his eyes riveted upon the solitary figure in the center of the hall. Gruffydd’s elegy was, in some ways, a traditional song of lament, a harmonious weave of alliteration and rhyme, relying upon the familiar imagery of sceptre and sword. It eulogized Llewelyn as a “hawk free of reproach,” the “strong lion of Gwynedd,” and “lord of the red lance.” But it held depths of emotion rarely found in such formalized, epic verse. In language all the more affecting for being so stark, Gruffydd was giving voice to the anguish of an entire people, and there were many who found his impassioned artistry too much to bear.

  When he’d avowed that it was for him to rave against God, for him to pass all his lifetime sorrowing for his lord, Trevor had bolted the hall in tears, and others soon followed. Davydd had expected nothing like this, not so much a tribute as a rending cry from the heart. He groped hastily for his wine cup, drank deeply.

  Gruffyd had paused, and there was a slight stirring, some thinking he was done. But he was not, and in a voice that carried clearly throughout the hall, he demanded of them all:

  See you not the rush of wind and rain?

  See you not the oaks lash each other?

  See you not the ocean scourging the shore?

  See you not the truth is portending?

  See you not the sun hurtling the sky?

  See you not that the stars have fallen?

  Have you no belief in God, foolish men?

  See you not that the world is ending?

  By now, sobbing was audible throughout the hall. The poet had to halt, briefly, as he struggled to keep his own composure. After a few moments, he was able to continue, and eventually concluded with a conventional expression of hope for Llewelyn’s eternal peace: “King right royal of Aberffraw, may Heaven’s fair land be his home.” But Davydd, listening incredulously from the dais, knew full well that what men would remember was the haunting cry, “Ah, God, that the sea would cover the land! What is left us that we should linger?”

  There was no applause; those in the hall paid Gruffydd a far greater compliment, with their silence and their tears. He stood motionless, shoulders slumping, revealing what an ordeal it had been for him, too. And then he started slowly toward the dais, in answer to Davydd’s summons.

  Davydd did not care if Goronwy heard or not, and he knew Elizabeth’s Welsh was meagre enough to speak safely in front of her. Beckoning Gruffydd up onto the dais, he said in a voice low-pitched and filled with fury, “How dare you? That was no lament for Llewelyn. That was for Wales!”

  The poet met his gaze and his anger, unflinching. He looked for a long moment into Davydd’s accusing eyes, his own bright with unshed tears. “Yes,” he said at last, “it was.”

  He did not wait for Davydd’s response, turned away. Davydd watched him go, then took a hard, probing look around the hall. On every face he saw grief, which was only to be expected. He saw fear, too, and that was also to be expected. But he refused to accept the other, the utter despair. No, by God, he vowed silently, it is not over. Let them mourn you, Llewelyn; I’ll not begrudge it. I might even mourn you, too, though you’re not likely to believe that. But you are not Wales, Llewelyn. Wales will survive without you.

  From the Welsh chronicle, Brenhinedd Y Saesson, having related the death of Llewelyn ap Gruffydd near Llanganten on the eleventh day of December: “And then all Wales was cast to the ground.”

  38

  Paris, France

  January 1283

  The weather had been cold and wet for weeks, and spring had begun to seem very far away. On this rain-drenched evening in late January, Amaury’s great hall was filled with guests, some of them friends, others fellow clerics who found the accommodations of his townhouse far more comfortable than the lodgings offered by local inns. Several chess games were in progress; so was a lively dice game, for the Church’s exhortations against gambling were little heeded. Another group had gathered near the settle, where a Franciscan friar was reading aloud from the Arthurian chronicle, Wace’s Roman de Brut. But Amaury was not tempted by any of these entertainments. Crossing the hall, he put his hand on the shoulder of a young man seated close by the hearth.

  Hugh had been staring intently into the flames, unaware of Amaury’s approach. He jerked around in surprise, then smiled sheepishly. Amaury claimed a chair, stretching his legs toward the fire’s warmth. “It has been a long drought, but it has broken at last. I actually have some good news to share. I’ve a letter here from Juliana, inviting us to a wedding.”

  “Hers?” Hugh asked hopefully, and beamed when Amaury nodded. “Who?”

  “A neighbor of her brother’s. He holds a manor in Artois, is liegeman to a cousin of the Count, so he sounds like a man of some substance. And he has a need, for certes; he lost his wife in childbed last year, leaving him with two small sons to raise, boys who seem to have stolen Juliana’s heart. Oh, she speaks well of her betrothed, too, says he is good-natured and open-handed and a man of his word. But I suspect it is those little lads who are the true lure.”

  Hugh nodded. “Juliana has ever had a fondness for children. I often thought it a pity that she had none of her own. Well, God willing, now she may, for she is still young enough. I’d wager that she’ll soon have all three—husband and stepsons—utterly smitten.” He paused then, giving Amaury an approving look. “Men have always been drawn to Juliana. Like bees to the honey hive, they kept buzzing around, to no avail. But she’d not have gotten a wedding ring, my lord, for all her charms, if not for that generous marriage portion you gave her.”

  Amaury shrugged. “If I had not,” he said, “Ellen would have haunted me to the grave.” Looking around, he beckoned for wine. “Let’s drink to Juliana and her tomorrows. It would indeed have been folly to mourn all her life for a man who did not love her. But then, what Bran needed, no woman could give—absolution.”

  Hugh had not realized that Amaury knew about Bran and Juliana. He felt no surprise, though, for he well knew that the youngest de Montfort son turned upon the world an aloof, ironic gaze that, nevertheless, missed very little. Amaury had passed him Juliana’s letter, waited until he’d read it before saying, “Now…let’s talk of your plight. I do understand, Hugh, how difficult it is for you, not knowing what is happening in Wales. But by now, the French King will have gotten my letter. If anyone is likely to have word about the Welsh war, it will be Philipp
e.”

  “God grant it so,” Hugh said, so fervently that Amaury’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully on the younger man’s face.

  “You are not still thinking of going back, Hugh? We agreed that would be madness.” Hugh said nothing, but his silence spoke for him, and Amaury frowned. “It is your choice, for it is your life you’d be risking. But I think you’d be making a great mistake, mayhap a fatal one. Let us assume that you do get from England into Wales, somehow avoiding English patrols and Welsh archers. How are you going to find your lass in the midst of a war? But we’ll assume again that God once more favors you with your own personal, private miracle, and you do. What then? If she would not leave Llewelyn last summer, why would she do so now? And if you stayed with her, and the war turned against them, as I fear it must, you might well end up facing a charge of treason—and a gallows.”

  “Treason?” Hugh echoed, sounding startled.

  “You are English, Hugh, owe your allegiance to the King. Do you truly think Edward would overlook that?”

  “No,” Hugh admitted reluctantly, “I do not suppose he would. But you do not know what it is like, my lord, to feel so helpless, so cut off—” He stopped, color flooding his face. Who would know such feelings better than Amaury de Montfort?

  Amaury charitably forbore to say so. “I know that if you set your mind upon this, I’ll not be able to talk you out of it. I ask only that you think long and hard ere you decide, and that you do nothing till the spring. You cannot possibly hope to survive a war and a Welsh winter, too.”

  Hugh could not deny the common sense of that. Unfortunately, the inner voice counseling him these days was one more attuned to passion than reason. He soon excused himself, went up to bed, and as Amaury watched him go, he knew that his advice was not apt to prevail. All he could do was to delay Hugh as long as possible, and hope that the Welsh—like Hugh—might find for themselves an unlikely miracle or two.