More than a prophecy. An epitaph for Wales, for Llewelyn’s doomed principality. Davydd knew it had never been his, not truly. He’d ruled over a domain in its death throes. But if he could not be blamed for losing the war, he could be for starting it.
He still believed war would have come, eventually. But it need not have come when it did. Mayhap if he’d heeded Llewelyn, if he’d agreed to wait, if… He sat up angrily. “What if” was a game for fools. What if Edward had died of that poisoned dagger in Acre? Or if the Welsh had not lost the will to fight? If they’d only shown some faith, if they’d given him but one measure of the loyalty they’d given Llewelyn? No, there was blame and more to go around, and not all of it his.
He raised his head then, waiting. He knew what Llewelyn would say to that. What right had he to complain that the Welsh had let him down? What of all those he’d let down, those he’d failed? What of Llewelyn’s daughter? His brother’s dying plea was that he keep Gwenllian safe. But he had not been able to do it. And when he faced Llewelyn in the Hereafter, what could he say? For Edward had seized Llewelyn’s little lass, sent her into England, where she would live out her life behind convent walls, deep in the flat, marshy Fenlands, far from Wales. And his own babe. Gwladys, still suckling at Elizabeth’s breast, taken away, too, pledged to God ere she could talk, because the English King would have it so.
No, if the Welsh must bear some of the burden for their own ruin, and if Llewelyn, too, was not blameless, that could not be said for Gwenllian, for Gwladys. Or Elizabeth. What was her sin? Falling in love with the man she’d been forced to marry. What was it she’d said to Edward that November night at Worcester? “I’ll not be yoked to another rebel. I’ll not wed a Welsh malcontent whose only loyalty is to himself, for, sooner or later, he’ll fall…and drag me down with him!”
And yet she’d never thrown that up to him, not once in all those hellish months. If she had regrets, he never knew it. And after their betrayal and capture, when they’d been brought under guard to Rhuddlan Castle, she’d flung herself into his arms for the last time, clinging tightly before the soldiers pulled her away, again no recriminations, no accusations, just his name, over and over. Better for her if she’d died in childbed at Castell y Bere, like Ellen. He did not doubt that she would come to wish it had been so; mayhap she already did.
Elizabeth, I’m so sorry, lass, so sorry…. His eyes were stinging, his breathing grown ragged and hurtful. Where was she? Still held at Rhuddlan Castle? What would happen to her now? Would Edward convent-cage her like Gwenllian and Gwladys? Or would he think it safer to shackle her with another wedding band? Marry her off to a man of his choosing, lock her away in some remote English keep until the world forgot about her, and she alone remembered that she’d once been the wife of a Welsh Prince.
He’d known, of course, that if he fell into English hands, he was a dead man. But he’d not expected Edward to take vengeance upon Elizabeth or his daughters. He’d thought his sons would be spared too, that their youth would save them, for Owain was only three and Llelo five. The worst he’d feared was that they’d be taken as hostages, reared at the English court, as he and Rhodri had been. Merciful Christ, if only he’d realized what Edward had intended!
Slumping against the wall again, he watched as the candle burned closer and closer to the wick, nerving himself to relive one last memory, the worst of all.
He’d never known what day it was, sometime in July. When they’d brought him up from his dungeon, he’d thought that Edward had decided to confront him at last, and he was looking forward to it. At least he’d have the satisfaction of flinging the truth in Edward’s face. And—although it was not easy now to admit it—there’d even been a flicker or two of hope, for a lifetime of being able to talk his way out of trouble lay behind him.
But it was not Edward who’d summoned him to the solar. The man awaiting him was his old enemy, the Justiciar of Chester, Reginald de Grey. He learned now that Edward was no longer at Rhuddlan. It seemed he was at Caer yn Arfon, for Sir Richard de Boys had just arrived that morn with a royal writ. Davydd had not liked the sound of that, and when he’d asked—warily—why this writ should matter to him, de Grey had pointed to the window, told him to see for himself.
The top half of the window was glazed with glass, and after weeks in darkness, Davydd was dazzled by the light. It took him several moments before he could focus upon the sun-bright bailey below. A goodly number of horsemen were milling about; they wore the red-and-white colors of the King, and he assumed the man in command must be this Sir Richard de Boys. But then he caught his breath, for his wife and sons were emerging from a corner tower. Whirling to face de Grey, he’d demanded to know where they were being taken. And where was Gwladys? Elizabeth could not be long apart from the baby, for she was still suckling. Did they not know that?
De Grey had not answered him, and he’d swung back to the window. It was only then that he noticed there was no horse for Elizabeth. Even then, he was slow to comprehend, for as much as he hated Edward, it had never occurred to him that the English King would separate Elizabeth from their sons. But Elizabeth was embracing the boys now in a tearful farewell, and then Llelo was being lifted by one of the guards, up into the outstretched arms of a waiting rider. When it was Owain’s turn, though, he balked, clung to his mother, and began to cry. That was too much for Elizabeth. Her tenuous control shattered and she started to sob, too, as Davydd sought frantically to get the window open. He was still not used to the manacles, had not yet learned to compensate for their clumsiness, and by the time he’d worked the latches, soldiers had stepped in, dragging Elizabeth away from her son, forcing her back toward the tower. Owain was squirming in a soldier’s grip, screaming for “Mama.” But it was Llelo’s wail that froze Davydd at the window. Llelo had begun to struggle, too, and in his panic, he called out to the most powerful person in his small world, the only saviour he’d ever known. “Papa! Papa!” Each cry a dagger thrust into Davydd’s heart.
The rest of Davydd’s memories of that afternoon were blurred. He remembered very little beyond that moment, watching helplessly from the window as his sons were sent off to confinement at Bristol Castle. Elizabeth had been taken back inside by soldiers obviously discomfited with their duty, for several of them appeared to be making awkward attempts at consolation. Just before she vanished into the tower, she had looked up toward the window, but Davydd was never to know if she saw him through her tears. Reginald de Grey had begun then to twist the blade deeper, for Davydd had accumulated a lifetime of debts now due and payable. De Grey’s taunts were wasted, though; Davydd was beyond caring.
Not long afterward, they’d taken Gwladys and Gwenllian away from Elizabeth, dispatched them to nunneries in Lincolnshire. Reginald de Grey had made sure Davydd knew about that, too, and that Gwladys was not the only one of his daughters to be made a nun against her will, for the English King was casting a wide net. Davydd did not see Elizabeth again. In September, sixty archers had escorted him from Rhuddlan to Shrewsbury for his trial, and he would go to his death never knowing his wife’s fate.
The candle light was waning. A mouse bolder than most had ventured out to feed from his plate, then scurried back into the shadows when Davydd got to his feet. He had no memories of his own father, who’d died in that Tower fall when he was six, and even after siring two sons and seven daughters, he’d never given fatherhood a high priority; he’d always had too many other irons in the fire. He’d probably spent more time with his sons in their six-month odyssey to elude Edward’s troops than in all the years of their young lives. That they were bedazzled by him, he’d taken for granted; he’d found children as easy to charm as women, although the latter had held his interest far more than the former. But he’d been proud of them both, amused by Llelo’s sprouting sense of mischief, flattered by their total trust. And he did not doubt that they still clung to that childish faith, sure he’d soon come for them, even after two months’ captivity in Bristol Castle. They were to
o young yet to comprehend how utterly and unforgivably he had failed them.
Edward would never let them go. They would grow to manhood behind the walls of Bristol Castle. They would not know the joys and dangers and temptations that life could offer a man. They would learn naught of friendship or the urgency and sweetness of bedding a woman. They’d never have sons of their own. They would never see Wales again, and as their memories faded, they’d forget the world they’d known before Bristol Castle. They would forget him, forget Elizabeth, and not even know why they were doomed to live out their days as prisoners of the English King.
“Well? Are you satisfied, Llewelyn?” he said huskily. “You wanted a full confession, and by God, you got it, save for a few sins of the flesh, too minor to mention. What do you want to know now? If I’ll shame you on the morrow? You’ll just have to stop by the High Cross and see for yourself, like the rest of Shrewsbury.”
There were a few swallows left in the flagon. He drained it dry and then flung it into the darkness beyond the candle. It made a metallic clang as it struck the wall, another as it bounced off onto the floor, dented but still intact; prisoners were not trusted with breakable crockery. God forbid, Davydd thought, that some poor soul might cheat the hangman, and then he was turning, straining to hear, his heart beginning to thud wildly in his ears as the sound grew louder, more distinct: footsteps approaching the door.
There were four of them, all known to Davydd, all hostile, for his barbed tongue had won him no friends at Shrewsbury Castle. In the lead was a tall, heavyset man with a soldier’s bearing and skin like leather, browned by twenty years’ exposure to blazing sun and desert heat, for he’d seen long service in the Holy Land. It was that service which had given him his odd name, for he’d been at Jaffa when it fell to Sultan Baibars, talked about it so often that his fellow guards had dubbed him “Jaffa.” He was the first into the cell, raking Davydd with glittering eyes, a jeering smile.
“Surprised to see me, Welshman? I asked for today’s duty, would not have missed it for all the whores in Babylon. I heard that they are paying your executioner right well—a full pound for his labors. A pity they did not know I’d have taken on the job for free!”
When Davydd said nothing, Jaffa feigned astonishment. “Can you truly be at a loss for words? What is the matter, you did not sleep well? I see you did not eat much. A little queasy, no?”
One of the other guards frowned, said impatiently, “Come on, Jaffa. Let’s get this over with.”
“Oh, I’m in no hurry. What about you, Welshman? I’d wager you’re in no hurry, either. So…shall I tell you what you’ve got to look forward to this morn? I’m sorry to say that it was decided you’re to be dragged to the gallows on a hurdle. I suppose they wanted to make sure they’d not be delivering a corpse to the hangman, but I’d have let you take your chances. By the way, you’ve drawn quite a crowd, for it looks like half of Shrewsbury has turned out to watch you die. Now…where was I? Ah, yes, hanging you alive. I’ve never seen this done, can only guess they’ll cut you down once you start to turn blue in the face.”
“Jaffa, let it be.”
Jaffa ignored the protest, kept his eyes on Davydd. “Then they’ll hold you down and heat a knife. They’ll start by cutting off your cock, then take out your guts, your heart, your—”
“Christ Jesus, Jaffa, enough!” The speaker was not the only one glaring at Jaffa now. The other guards were beginning to look uncomfortable, and when the youngest of them happened to make eye contact with Davydd, he hastily glanced away.
“But I’m not done yet. I’m sure he wants to know how eager the towns all were to claim a portion of the prize. After all, they took him back to the castle ere the bickering began. Only the delegates from Lincoln balked, and I hear the King was right vexed by that, means to levy a goodly fine upon the town as punishment. But the others…ah, they were hot to have a piece of your carcass, Welshman. The Mayor of London will be taking your head back with him, to feed the ravens atop the Tower next to your hellspawn brother. York gets the right arm, having won out over Winchester. Northampton gets the right leg and hip. I believe Bristol claimed the left arm, and the left leg goes to Hereford. Let’s see…did I leave any part out?”
Davydd’s mouth was very dry. He swallowed with difficulty, but his voice held steady, held a hard, mocking edge as he said, “It sounds like they’ll be wasting the best part. But then, I keep forgetting that you English know nothing of manhood. They could nail my cock up over the dais in Westminster Hall and none of you would even know what it was—least of all, Edward.”
Jaffa was big, but not fast. When he swung, Davydd sidestepped and the blow missed him altogether, grazed the wall behind him. Jaffa swore, swung again, but by then the other guards were between them. A brief scuffle broke out, and then they were backing away, warily eying the man in the doorway.
Jaffa was deeply flushed. He gave Davydd a murderous look before turning to face the sheriff. “He asked for it, Sir Roger, I swear he did! He said—”
“I heard.” Roger de Springhouse moved forward into the dungeon, stopped in front of Davydd. “That tongue of yours would put a viper to shame. A pity you never learned to curb it.”
“I know,” Davydd said. “I expect it will get me into trouble one of these days.”
The corner of de Springhouse’s mouth twitched, and then he startled them all by unfastening the flask of his belt, offering it to Davydd. “I’ll say this for you, that you do not lack for nerve.”
Davydd took the flask, drank deeply. The wine was strong, heavily spiced, burned his throat. He drank again, then handed the flask back to the Englishman. “Are you going to be there?”
The sheriff nodded slowly. “Yes.”
“Good. I want you to watch, to watch closely, to miss nothing. And then,” Davydd said tautly, “you go back to Acton Burnell, and you tell your whoreson English King how a Welsh Prince died!”
40
Shrewsbury, England
October 1283
“Abbot John has sent someone to fetch Brother Damian. We do not have a guest parlor at the abbey, but you may await him in here.” Smiling, the hospitaller ushered them into the Chapter House, left them alone.
Hugh followed the monk to the door, made sure he’d truly gone. It was not in his nature to be so suspicious, but his sense of foreboding had become too strong to ignore. He’d known from the first that they ought never to have returned to England. But Caitlin had been adamant, deaf to reason, entreaty, his most impassioned arguments. It was not that he’d feared for her safety. The war was over. But he did fear for Caitlin’s welfare; her grieving for Llewelyn was still raw, unhealed. How would she deal with Davydd’s death, too?
He was sure that she’d not be permitted to see Davydd. He even thought it might be for the best if she were not. After years of silence, what could be said in an English gaol, in the shadow of the gallows? But once they’d learned of Davydd’s capture and upcoming trial for treason, Caitlin had insisted she must go back, she must see her father ere he died. And so Hugh had reluctantly acquiesced, booked passage for them from Harfleur.
But upon their Michaelmas arrival in Bristol, he’d discovered that the stakes were far higher than he’d realized. Almost by chance, he’d learned that Davydd’s small sons—Caitlin’s half-brothers—were incarcerated at Bristol Castle. Stunned, he’d made some discreet queries, soon learned that Gwenllian and Davydd’s daughters had been taken into England, too, disappeared into the cloistered seclusion of Gilbertine nunneries at Sempringham, Sixhills, and Alvingham.
Hugh would have sailed for France with the next tide. But Caitlin would not agree, and—not for the first time—Hugh found that his wife’s will was stronger than his own. Her urgent desire to see her father had by now become a compulsion. She could not explain it, other than to say over and over that she must make peace with Davydd ere he was executed by the English King. But Hugh sensed that her need owed as much to her uncle’s death and the Welsh defeat
as it did to Davydd’s peril.
Caitlin knew that Hugh was acting against his better judgment, and she’d done what she could to ease his mind, pointing out how unlikely it was that any Englishman would recognize her as Davydd’s daughter, for she’d crossed the border only to attend her uncle’s wedding at Worcester, and then to flee in disguise. But Hugh remained wary, insisting they proceed with the utmost caution. To placate him, Caitlin promised to do nothing foolhardy, to do nothing without his consent. She even conceded that it was not likely she’d succeed in seeing Davydd, whatever the stratagem they hit upon. Yet she had to try; surely Hugh could see that she had to try?
And so they’d come to Shrewsbury on this second Friday in October, had gone straight from their Mardevol Street inn to the Benedictine abbey of St Peter and St Paul. They’d decided to rely upon the ruse that had served them both so well in the past, but first Hugh wanted to know the lay of the land, and what better scout could he have than Brother Damian? It boded well for them, he’d told Caitlin, that God had seen fit to send Damian to Shrewsbury, and as he assured her of that again, the door opened.
Damian looked just as Hugh remembered, blinking a little as he left the sunlight behind, a quizzical smile on his face. “Abbot John said you wanted to see me?” He came closer, still smiling, still showing no signs of recognition. But then Hugh grinned and conjured up for Damian a ghost, twelve years gone, not yet forgotten. “No,” he cried, “it cannot be! Hugh de Whitton? Is it truly you, lad?”
Hugh laughed. “It can be and is!”
Brother Damian was almost smothered in Hugh’s hug, for the gangling youngster he’d befriended at Evesham Abbey now topped his own height by at least half a foot. “Look at you, lad,” he marveled. “Tall as an oak and just as sturdy! Ah, Hugh, how the sight of you gladdens my eyes. I thought of you often over the years, wondered where you were, how you were faring.”
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