The Reckoning

by Sharon Kay Penman

  Moving over to the trestle table, Amaury sent a servant for an ink horn, quill pen, and parchment—but not his scribe, for the letter was confidential, its contents too provocative to risk sharing them with a clerk. “To the Dean of Le Puy, Raymond Nogeriis, greetings.” Was Raymond still with the Pope in Orvieto? Well, if not, the courier would track him down. “I have a favor to ask of you, my friend. I want you to find out if it would be possible for me to sue Edmund, the English King’s brother, in the Court of Rome, demanding the restitution of the earldom of Leicester.”

  Amaury could not help grinning as he wrote. Not that such a lawsuit could succeed, of course. But nothing would be as likely to have Edward so outraged that he’d be raving and ranting and all but foaming at the mouth. Amaury poised the pen over the parchment, laughing quietly to himself.

  “My lord, a Cistercian monk is seeking entry. Shall we admit him?”

  “Of course. We can always find another bed for the night.” Amaury was reaching for the pen when the servant explained that the monk sought an audience, not a night’s lodging. Amaury hesitated, but curiosity won out. “I’ll see him.”

  The traditional white tunic of the Cistercians was hidden by a muddied black travel mantle, so long it swept the floor rushes. Pulling back his hood, the monk now revealed a tousled cap of reddish-brown hair, cropped at ear level, but lacking the tonsure, the shaven crown that proudly proclaimed a monk had taken his final vows. Amaury had already guessed, though, that his petitioner was a novice, for the monk’s extreme youth made that a certainty. So undersized he might have been taken for a child at first glance, with skin too smooth to have known a razor yet, he looked so bedraggled, so tense, and so obviously exhausted that Amaury felt a twinge of pity, made up his mind to grant the youngster’s plea, if he could.

  The monk’s companion wore the plain brown habit of the conversi, the lay brothers of the Cistercian order. He seemed fatigued and uneasy, too, and very young himself, for he had the barest beginnings of a beard, so pitifully skimpy and scraggly that only a youngster’s misplaced male pride could have endured it.

  But what intrigued Amaury the most was the dog. No bigger than a cat, wrapped in a blanket and cradled in the monk’s arms as if it were a baby, it peered suspiciously up at Amaury through rain-soaked tufts of dripping white fur, looking so comically belligerent that Amaury was hard put not to laugh. The Church was constantly scolding its brethren for keeping pets, but that was more of a problem in convents, where nuns stubbornly lavished love upon cats, spaniels, and caged birds, bishops’ edicts notwithstanding. Monasteries tended to have more serious disciplinary breaches, those involving the sins of the flesh, and the sight of this wet, shivering little dog only underscored the monk’s tender years. Watching this odd trio bear down upon him, Amaury was suddenly glad that he’d agreed to see them, for they promised an encounter that would be out of the ordinary.

  “You wish to see me?” he asked encouragingly, and then, seeing how the monk was trembling, he steered the youth over to a bench near the hearth. “You’re half-frozen, lad. This matter of yours must be urgent, indeed, for you to venture out on a night like this.”

  The monk was staring up at Amaury with a compelling intensity. “I was so afraid that you’d still be in Rome…”

  Amaury’s interest sharpened. “I was,” he said, “did not return to Paris until last month. What do you want of me?”

  “It…it is my heartfelt hope that you can tell me the whereabouts of Sir Hugh de Whitton.”

  “He is above-stairs,” Amaury said slowly. “Ranulf…fetch Hugh for me.” The monk’s French was excellent, but the intonations were slightly off, just enough to suggest that French might not be his native tongue. Amaury moved closer for a more critical scrutiny, remembering now what Ellen had told him, that the Welsh White Monks were devoted to Llewelyn.

  “Are you bringing Hugh a message from Wales?” he demanded, so unexpectedly that the monk, caught off balance, nodded. But when Amaury pressed him further, he merely shrugged, never taking his eyes from the far door, so still of a sudden that he scarcely seemed to be breathing. Amaury studied the boy’s profile, noticing the long sweep of his lashes, noticing, too, how slender and delicate were the fingers twisting in the dog’s wet fur, and he was struck by an extraordinary suspicion, one so outlandish that he was not sure how to confirm it, for if he was wrong, he’d be offering the young monk an unforgivable insult.

  He was still mulling it over as Hugh emerged from the stairwell. Hugh had a strained expression on his face, one that managed to be both eager and apprehensive, for it had occurred to him, too, that this mystery monk might be a messenger from Caitlin, but he was afraid to let himself hope, lest it be for nothing. He paused, eyes searching the hall, then started toward them. Almost at once, though, he came to an abrupt halt. The monk had risen at sight of him, took a hesitant step forward. And then Hugh was moving again, very fast this time. As Amaury watched in delight and the others in amazement, he startled and scandalized the hall by gathering the monk into his arms, into an exuberant, impassioned embrace.

  It was several moments before Hugh became aware of their exceedingly attentive audience. “This would be an ideal time,” Amaury suggested cheerfully, “to reassure all these good priests and friars that you are not about to commit a most grievous mortal sin. Assuming, of course, that I am right and we have just met the Lady Caitlin?”

  Hugh laughed. “Indeed you have, my lord!” But he had eyes only for the girl in his arms. “However did you get here, sweetheart? Never again will I ask the Almighty for anything, never again will I…Caitlin?” His joyful rush of words ebbed away as he got his first real look into her face. “Caitlin, what is it? What is wrong?”

  Tears had begun to burn Caitlin’s eyes, the first tears she’d been able to shed since that moment when she’d stood in Dolwyddelan’s great hall and heard Goronwy say that Llewelyn was dead. Her grieving had been all the more painful for that. She’d lain awake into the early hours of dawn, night after night, dry-eyed, her tears catching in her throat, until she’d feared she might choke on them, until nothing seemed real to her anymore. It was then that she’d known what she must do. But her flight had not seemed real to her, either. It was as if she’d become trapped within a terrifying daytime dream, one that would not end. How could her uncle be dead? How could God have forsaken him, forsaken Wales?

  “He is dead,” she whispered, and then she was crying at last, clinging to Hugh, sobbing as if she’d never stop, telling him again and again, as if saying it would somehow make it believable, “My uncle is dead…”

  Caitlin looked lost in the vastness of the bed. Her eyes were bruised and bloodshot, her lids drooping. But she was fighting off sleep, as a child might, and her lashes flickered as Hugh drew the sheets up over her bared shoulders. He leaned still closer, brushed his lips to the corner of her mouth, provoking a low growl from Hiraeth, muffled under the covers. “Try to sleep, sweetheart,” he entreated, but she stubbornly shook her head.

  “Trevor?”

  “We made him up a bed in the great hall, close by the hearth, and he slept as soon as his head touched the pillow.”

  Caitlin’s lashes fluttered downward. “Hugh…stay with me.”

  “Of course I will. I’ll be right here in this chair whilst you sleep, and I’ll be here when you awake,” he promised, and touched his fingers gently to her cheek. When they strayed into her hair, she stirred, opened her eyes again.

  “My hair looks dreadful,” she said drowsily. “I ought not to have minded cutting it off, but I did…”

  Hugh found himself blinking away tears. “It will grow back.”

  “Hugh…” Caitlin raised herself on her elbows, looking intently into his face. “You do still want me?”

  Hugh sat beside her upon the bed, ignored Hiraeth’s muted protest, and took her in his arms. “I want you so much,” he said, “that I was going back to Wales for you, even though it might mean my death.”

  Cai
tlin groped for his hand, held tight, and soon, she slept.

  “How is she faring this morn?”

  Hugh dropped down into a chair before the hearth, gave Amaury a tired smile. “Still sleeping.”

  “No surprise, not after the ordeal she’s been through.”

  “The worst of it, she said, was her fear that you’d still be in Italy, for she admitted to me that she had no idea what she would have done then. Her flight was,” Hugh said wonderingly, “truly an act of faith.”

  “God was obviously with her all the way. Of course she did her part, too, made it easy for the Almighty to get her safely to France. A monk…” Amaury shook his head admiringly. “What better way for a woman to travel?”

  “The credit belongs to Llewelyn, for he thought of it first, when we were trying to figure out how I could get into Corfe Castle to see you. Thank God that Caitlin remembered!” Hugh’s smile was fleeting, for Llewelyn’s name seemed to linger on the air. “I cannot believe it,” he said, “cannot believe he is dead. I wish you’d known him, my lord. He was a remarkable man, in truth, and your sister…she loved him so.”

  Amaury’s eyes darkened. “They did not have much time together, not long at all. They ought to have had more, her years of confinement at Windsor Castle. Edward cheated Ellen of those years, Hugh. Whenever I think of her death, I cannot help thinking, too, of that stolen time, and what might have been—if not for my cousin the King, may he rot in Hell.”

  It was not often that Hugh heard Amaury reveal such bitterness; his were hidden currents, surging well beneath the surface. A silence fell, a mourning silence, broken after a time by Amaury. “How long,” he asked, “do you mean to make me wait, Hugh? When do I get to hear of your Caitlin’s perilous quest?”

  “She was so clever, my lord,” Hugh said proudly, “for she sought out the White Monks at Aberconwy Abbey. Abbot Maredudd died last year, but there was no dearth of monks willing to help their Prince’s niece. They at once begged a safe-conduct from Edward, contriving a reason why they had to visit their brother monks at Vale Royal, across the border in Cheshire.”

  “Vale Royal? Is that not Edward’s new abbey? My memories are somewhat dim, but I seem to recall that Edward was caught in a storm at sea, feared he was going to drown, and swore to found an abbey in honor of the Blessed Virgin if only he were spared. Unfortunately, he was, and eventually, he did. I suppose even Edward thinks it prudent to keep his word to the Almighty. Vale Royal, a very shrewd choice, indeed. I’d wager the monks got their safe-conduct in the barest blink of an eye!”

  Hugh grinned. “They did, and Caitlin crossed into England with them, just one more sheep in the flock. It was agreed that Caitlin and Trevor would then take ship for Ireland, where they’d arrange passage to France. But the monks talked it over amongst themselves, decided that such a long winter sea voyage held too many dangers, and they insisted upon escorting Caitlin all the way to Southampton.”

  Hugh grinned again. “I suspect that they were relishing their newfound freedom, and wanted to savor it whilst they could, ere they’d have a new abbot to answer to. But bless them, each and every one, for Caitlin could not have been safer in their midst. At Southampton, she and Trevor sailed on the first ship for France, changed to a smaller river craft at Rouen, and anchored yesterday at the Paris wharves. She then set about finding you and—”

  Cutting himself off in mid-sentence, Hugh excused himself, hastening around the other side of the hearth, where Trevor was just starting to stir upon his pallet. “I’ve been waiting all morning to talk to you, to thank you. I will be in your debt till the day I die, Trevor.”

  Trevor sat up stiffly. “I was glad to help Lady Caitlin, need no thanks for it.” He looked at Hugh, then said softly, “It was the last service I could do for my lord.”

  Amaury watched as the two young men talked quietly for several moments. Hugh then spoke briefly with a servant, and headed back across the hall as Trevor began to pull his habit on, under cover of the blankets. “I am sorry, my lord,” Hugh explained, “but I owe Trevor more than I could ever repay, and I wanted to tell him so. Then I had to order him a meal from the kitchen, for Lord knows what they might have made of his Welsh!”

  “The lad speaks no French? Did that not pose a risk whilst they were still in England?”

  “It might have, but Caitlin saw to that, too. She told people that Trevor was a mute, and whenever they were in sight of others, he took care to communicate only with signs.”

  Amaury leaned back in his chair, beginning to laugh. “A lass pretending to be a monk, a youth feigning to be mute, and lest we forget, a powderpuff disguised as a dog—by God, Hugh, I do like your lady’s style!”

  “She could not leave the dog behind, my lord,” Hugh said earnestly. “Hiraeth belonged to Lady Ellen.”

  Amaury stopped laughing. “I think,” he said, “that it is time to talk about your plans. Have you had a chance to make any yet? No? Well, I have. You know that I was my mother’s heir, and that she left me her share of her own mother’s lands in Angoulême. They’ve been much neglected these eight years past, thanks to Edward. I need a man I can truly trust to look after them for me, to act as my agent, to make sure the revenues keep coming in. It would be a great responsibility, Hugh, one not lightly undertaken. In return for such valuable services; you’d hold one of the manors as my liege-man, and like any vassal, you’d then have the right to pass the manor on to your firstborn son. That is, of course, assuming you accept the offer?”

  Hugh was stunned, and all but speechless. “My lord,” he stammered, “I… I do not know what to say! Your generosity is…”

  As he fumbled for words, Amaury provided them: “…no more than you deserve. For all you’ve done for my family in the past twelve years, you have earned yourself an earldom, at the very least. Regrettably, an earldom is not in my power to bestow, and if it were,” Amaury continued, with just the faintest glimmer of a smile, “I’d most likely keep it for myself.”

  Hugh laughed. “Can I at least thank you?”

  “If you insist. But I’m also doing this for Caitlin. She is Ellen’s niece, and therefore my kinswoman, too. Despite all that Evesham and Edward have taken from us,” Amaury said, suddenly quite grim, “the de Montforts still look after their own.”

  “My lord…Caitlin and I want to wed. We would be honored if you’d say the marriage Mass for us.”

  “It would be my pleasure. When? Before Lent…or after?”

  “As soon as possible. On the morrow?”

  “You’re truly willing to wait that long?” Amaury smiled then, at sight of the girl just entering the hall, clad in the only clothes she had, an over-sized white habit and black scapular. “I think,” he said, “that we’d best consult Caitlin about this. Whilst I’m perfectly willing to preside over a wedding in which the bride could be mistaken for a monk, I suspect that she might not find the prospect so pleasing!”

  Rain fogged the solar windows, and even a blazing candelabra could not dispel the gloom. Caitlin was seated closest to the candles, and as she talked, Amaury watched the light play across her face. Hugh had told him she’d been born not long before the battle of Lewes, which made her almost nineteen. It may have been the feathery short hair curling about her face, or the thin little wrists half-hidden by the hanging sleeves of her habit, or the faint scattering of freckles across her nose, but she seemed much younger to him than that…unless he looked into her eyes.

  She’d been talking for much of the afternoon, mainly about Llewelyn. Tears had streaked her face at times, but she’d kept her voice steady, even as she told them how her uncle had died, alone amidst his English enemies, bleeding to death in a cold, December dusk as Edward’s soldiers looked on, and the Welsh waited for him in vain upon the heights of Llanganten.

  She told Amaury, too, about Gwenllian, assured him that Elizabeth truly loved the baby as if she were her own. Reaching then for a pouch at her belt, she drew out a wisp of soft black hair, neatly clipped by a
yellow ribbon. “I cut two locks,” she said, “one for me and one for you, my lord,” and Amaury wrapped the gossamer curl around his finger, knowing this was as close as he’d ever get to his sister’s child.

  “It hurt to leave her,” Caitlin confessed, “but I had no choice, could never have brought her with me. Even if it had not been so dangerous, I did not have the right to take away her birthright, to take away Wales.”

  Amaury nodded in agreement, although he suspected that was likely to happen anyway, for if Edward won—when Edward won—the war, he would probably send Gwenllian into England to be raised at his court and, in time, married off to an English husband of his choosing. Ellen would never have wanted that for her daughter, but there was not a blessed thing he could do about it, just hope that the fates would be kind to this de Montfort daughter of Wales, the niece he’d never get to see.

  Caitlin fell silent as a servant entered, bringing mulled wine flavored with cinnamon and a platter of hot angel’s-bread wafers. And as he looked at the girl, it occurred to Amaury that there had been one glaring omission in Caitlin’s account of her escape from Wales. Not once had she mentioned her father.

  He knew, from Hugh, that she and Davydd were long estranged. And he knew, too, again from Hugh, that she had not confided in Davydd or Elizabeth, concocted an excuse for leaving Dolwyddelan, arranging with the Cistercian monks to send back a letter once she’d gotten safely into England. But he still thought it odd that she would not have made even a passing reference to the man who’d sired her, who now ruled Wales, confronting two formidable foes: the English King and the larger-than-life shadow cast by his slain brother.

  “So the war goes on,” he said, and Caitlin nodded. For a moment, their eyes caught; then she glanced away. But in the brief look that passed between them, Amaury had seen that Caitlin knew the truth, knew that the war would never be won without Llewelyn, knew that Wales was already lost, and Davydd doomed.