Footsteps in Time

by Sarah Woodbury

  David held his gaze. “No.”

  A sigh blew around the tent.

  “No, you say?” Edward pulled his feet down and leaned forward. “You don’t even want to hear my terms?”

  “No,” David said again.

  Edward laid his hands flat on the table. “You would not trade your inheritance, such as it is, for land in England, yours free and clear? You would not, perhaps, enjoy the adventure of a crusade? You love your rocks and mountains so much, do you?”

  “You offered this to my father not long ago,” David said. “He gave you his reply. I have given you mine.”

  At that, Edward stood and pulled his sword from its sheath. He rounded the table and pointed his sword directly at David.

  “Edward! What are you doing?” Carew said.

  “You think a king shouldn’t get his hands dirty?” Edward said. “I’ve looked forward to this day for many months, ever since the Vale of Conwy, which I understand was your doing. Did you call upon the weather as well? You and that witch mother of yours?”

  “The Welsh need only God to assist us,” David said.

  “You’ll need more than that today.” He closed the distance between them, grasped David’s surcoat, and pulled. It ripped and came free. Edward held it in his left hand, spinning on one heel so everyone could see the red dragon in tatters. Then he dropped the cloth on the ground and kicked it away. “A king shouldn’t ask his men to do that which he’s not man enough to do himself.”

  “He doesn’t even have a sword, Edward,” Carew said. “You think to kill him in cold blood?”

  Edward brought his sword up and saluted Carew with it. “Give the boy his sword back.” He gestured to one of the soldiers, who pulled it from its sheath and tossed it at David. David caught the hilt and his guards backed away, leaving David alone in the center of the room, facing Edward.

  More comfortable now, David brought his sword up. He was young and strong. His men were hopelessly outnumbered, but if he could hold Edward off long enough, perhaps he would see reason, or his brother would—or perhaps even Uncle Dafydd would intervene, though David wasn’t going to hold his breath on that one.

  With no warning at all, Edward attacked. David parried his first blows, backing away to gauge what kind of fighter the king was. He was very skilled, which was no surprise given who he was. David held his ground and Edward backed off, sweat dripping down his face. David was sweltering, but so focused on Edward that everything else he saw or felt was as if from a great distance. As Edward attacked and David countered, David had an image of himself back in Castell y Bere with Bevyn shouting instructions and curses at him while he hacked away at Fychan.

  David tried every move that he knew and Edward had an answer for them all. The two men fought on, both tiring as the minutes passed, though David less than Edward, who was feeling his age perhaps. David put the king in his mid-forties—no young stripling but with a full head of dark hair and athletic build, David wasn’t going to underestimate him.

  Edward took a great stride toward David. He tried to trap David against a table to end the fight, but David twisted away. As Edward turned to follow, his foot slipped and he stumbled, falling forward onto one knee. Before he could recover, David swung his sword as hard as he could and swept the king’s blade aside. It tumbled across the grass that formed the floor of the tent.

  But David didn’t finish him. He couldn’t really kill the King of England—not in front of his own men—and live himself.

  Edward knew it too and took advantage. “Guards!”

  A soldier with a flail flicked his wrist, wrapped the end of the weapon around David’s blade, and pulled. David couldn’t recover quickly enough to stop two guards from hemming him in. They grabbed his arms whilst the man on David’s right used his free hand to grab his hair and pull back David’s head.

  Edward got to his feet, recovered his sword, pointed it at David, and smiled.

  “This is beneath you, Edward,” Carew tried again. “He is a Prince, your own cousin.”

  Edward kept his sword steady, pointed at David’s chest. “He is no prince, Carew! He’s an upstart bastard; a traitor just as you are. You and I both know traitors deserve death.”

  “Except for my uncle.” David’s eyes flicking to his uncle, Dafydd, who was still seated at the table.

  Uncle Dafydd’s mouth twisted in an angry moue. Perhaps it was mouthy of him, but Edward was going to kill him regardless of what he said. David ignored his uncle’s stutters and returned his concentration to Edward’s feet and hands in preparation for the moment the king moved against him.

  Edward shifted, the sword two feet from David’s throat. “Don’t you dare speak of him again. He’s twice the man you are.”

  “Or twice the traitor,” David said.

  Then both men moved—David a half a second before the king. Edward stepped forward, his face suffused with anger while David brought his left foot up and drove it sideways into the right knee of the guard on his left. As he fell sideways, David grabbed the guard and pulled him forward, just as Edward slashed at David’s head. Instead of hitting David, Edward’s sword ripped through the back of the guard’s neck.

  David continued the spin, swinging the man into the guard on his right, who couldn’t withstand the weight. Using the guard’s momentum as a pendulum, David twisted around to make space for himself between the tables. Though shocked, Edward’s men moved quickly to surround him.

  “Stay back! Do not interfere. He’s mine!” Edward said.

  Again, David stared across the open space at the king. Edward was breathing hard, one hand clenched to his chest, his face pale. Is he ill? His sword wavered and Edward hesitated. David didn’t.

  He strode forward, closing the distance between them in two steps. With the flat of his left hand, safely covered by his half-glove gauntlet, David batted the blade of Edward’s sword away and then drove his right fist into the king’s face. Edward staggered back, falling into the table behind him, blood pouring from his nose. David grasped the sword he’d dropped and held it to Edward’s throat.

  The nobles had gotten to their feet in an uproar, but above the noise, someone said, “Do not kill him, I beg you.”

  David glanced to his left. Edmund, Edward’s brother, had risen unsteadily to his feet, his hand out, beseeching him. David gazed down at Edward. “A prince does not kill another, Edward.” David stepped back, pointing the sword at the ground.

  Edward looked up at David, and the loathing on his face caused David to take another step back. “You have not won, cur. I am too ill to fight tonight.” Edward nodded to the men behind David. “Bind him. I will deal with him tomorrow.”

  But David wasn’t going down without a fight. He swung around to hold them off. This time, however, they didn’t make the mistake of trying to grab him. Instead, a soldier held his knife to Carew’s throat. Carew’s eyes met David’s as silence descended on the tent.

  “You can escape, my lord,” Carew said. “I am only one man. You are Wales.”

  David couldn’t do it and couldn’t think of a way out, not that wouldn’t end in Carew’s death as well as David’s own. Twenty Englishmen still stood between him and the door. David lowered his sword and a mass of guards crowded him. Once again, they stripped his sword from his hand. This time, they bound David as they had his men. By the time David was trussed, Edward was gone and the tent all but deserted. Only two guards remained, standing sentry at the entrance to the tent. David wished then that he had his mother’s talent for laughing at impossible situations, but the skill seemed to have deserted him.

  Edward’s soldiers had tethered David to a post at least ten feet from the rest, his hands tied behind his back. The tent flaps were closed and David could see nothing of the camp outside. Carew stared at his feet, unable to meet David’s eyes.

  “You should have run, my lord,” Bevyn said.

  “I wouldn’t have gotten far and you know it,” David said. “Besides, we’re not dead yet.”


  “You fought well.” Bevyn’s grudging admission almost made David smile.

  Still, he didn’t regret his decision not to abandon his companions. Exhausted, David slid down the pole and sat with his back against the post and his feet splayed in front of him. He leaned his head back, trying to relax, and found himself replaying the fight in his head. What should I have done differently? How am I going to salvage this situation, without losing my life or the lives of my men? The light outside had faded during David’s fight with Edward, and now the candles flickered, close to going out.

  Soon it was full dark, with a single candle guttering in its dish. The wind gusted outside, but no other noise penetrated the tent. At one point, the changing of the guard caught David’s attention. One of the guards left, and the second was replaced by a third man.

  Then, Carew spoke. “I didn’t betray you, my lord.” In his agitation, he had reverted to French, and David answered in the same language.

  “I thought it only for a heartbeat, Carew,” David said. “I apologize for thinking it at all.”

  “I underestimated their hatred of you,” Carew continued, not really hearing David. “I never seriously considered that Edward would seek to murder you in his own pavilion. What would King Alexander of Scotland think of that? No ruler would ever trust him again. That is why a king doesn’t kill a king, my lord. It’s not out of honor that he refrains, but because the price he pays, even if he succeeds, is too high.”

  “That hasn’t stopped the English from killing us before,” David said. “Cadwaladr ap Seisyll is a case in point.”

  “Yes.” Carew sighed.

  “And English kings have hanged Welsh captives when they outlived their usefulness or as punishment for their father’s deeds.”

  “Yes,” Carew said, “but never the son of the Prince of Wales.”

  “There’s always a first time,” David said. “But I swear to you that prince will not be me.”

  “You should have let them kill me and won free yourself,” Carew said. “Now we will all die—”

  He broke off. David’s attention had wandered and Carew followed David’s gaze. The soldier at the entrance to the tent was conversing with someone outside the flap. The soldier gave an abrupt nod before he closed the flap, turned toward David, and pulled a knife from his belt. David tried to scramble to his feet but the bindings hindered his movement and he managed to reach only his knees. Eyes wide, David watched the knife come towards him. Beyond, Carew’s face showed what David could only interpret as pity.

  “My lord, it’s time,” the soldier said.

  Then he leaned down and cut David’s bonds.

  “I’m sorry, my lord,” the man said. “I would have released you sooner, but you were safer inside the tent. But now it’s time to move.”

  “Who are you?” David flexed his hands. They throbbed as the blood rushed back into them.

  “Samuel ben Aaron.” The soldier cut through the rope that held David’s feet and turned to do the same for Carew.

  Free, David ran to Bevyn. “Tell me you have a knife up your sleeve.”

  “Of course, I do,” Bevyn said. “Bloody maddening that Edward’s lackeys were upon me before I could reach it.”

  David slipped it out.

  Samuel spoke again. “You must leave here at once. I’ve strapped your weapons to your horses, which are tethered just outside. Hurry!”

  “Where are our guards?” David said. “Are they drunk?”

  “A great sickness has overtaken the camp,” Aaron said. “Everyone is ill.”

  Before David could ask for more of an explanation, Bevyn put a hand to his arm, listening hard to the sounds outside. Carew doused the candle, leaving them in darkness. David lifted a corner of the flap and peered outside. Proof of Samuel’s words lay before him.

  Chaos reigned in the camp. What David had heard as wind was actually a chorus of moaning men. Whatever the source of the sickness, David wasn’t going to waste this chance. As one, he and his companions, Samuel among them, threw themselves on their mounts and spurred them to the exit. As David rode the last yards to freedom, a soldier reached for him in supplication. David didn’t stop.

  They pounded across the grass towards their camp. “Sentries!” Bevyn’s voice rang out. “Prince Dafydd returns!”

  “My lord!” Ieuan ran to catch David’s reins. “What’s happened?”

  David dismounted in front of him. “It was a trap. Edward never intended to make peace with us. We’ve spent the last hours bound, but Aaron’s son released us.” David gestured to Samuel, who pulled up and dismounted.

  “I recommend we don’t dally,” Carew said.

  “What sickness is this?” said Aaron, his question for Samuel.

  Samuel shifted from one foot to another. He glanced at David and then back to his father.

  “Tell us,” David said.

  “I was among those who patrolled the exterior of the camp this evening. My shift ended after you arrived. I reported to my commander, intending to seek out my dinner, when Moses waylaid me. He insisted that I dine with him and Uncle.

  “I’d never dined with them before, seeing as how we disguised the intimacy of our acquaintance as a matter of course. I was shocked that he wanted to draw attention to our relationship by having me eat with them. But Moses told me that Uncle Jacob desired that I come to his tent and argued for it most insistently.

  “So I joined them. Having fulfilled his obligations to Edmund as food taster, Jacob arrived a few moments after I. We ate our meal and conversed over our wine for a time, but it was not long before Jacob became ill.

  “Moses stood over his father as he retched on the ground. I asked what was wrong and he said, ‘Open the flap. See what’s happening in the camp.’ I did as he asked. The camp...well,” Samuel gestured helplessly. “You saw it. One man crawled to Jacob’s door. I bent down to hear his words and he said, ‘the King...the Earl...ill...please help them.’”

  Samuel paused. Aaron and he stared at each other. “Finish it, Samuel,” Aaron said.

  “Jacob poisoned everyone. He used every poison in his collection: water hemlock among the parsnips, belladonna in the wine, Herba Paris in the stew, foxglove, henbane, nightshade, mandrake, monkshood...none could withstand it. The combination would look to those who come after like plague.”

  “Yet it’s not plague,” David said.

  “No,” Samuel said. “But it kills just the same.”

  Carew took a step towards Samuel. “The King is dead?”

  Samuel nodded. “The King is dead.”

  * * * * *

  The next morning, Carew and David stood at the edge of a copse of trees and looked toward the English camp, some two hundred yards away. As they watched, the Scot force galloped into the valley and across the meadow. They reached the English camp and, noting the absence of sentries, milled around in confusion before one of them dismounted.

  The camp was silent, and David could practically feel the uncertainty coming off the Scot cavalryman. Then, a tent flap inside the camp swung up and a man appeared.

  Aaron hissed from behind David. “I know you told me to stay with the ship, but I had to see. Forgive me.”

  The Scot spoke to Moses. The conversation was short. The cavalryman backed away, calling to his men. He mounted his horse and his entire company galloped back the way they’d come, the dust kicked up from their horses’ hooves hovering in the still air behind them.

  “The story will spread as quickly as men can tell it,” Carew said. “Soon, the English will notice their king is missing, and someone will send a force to the camp. It will probably not happen today, however, and by the time it does, any trace of Jacob’s work will have disappeared.”

  Once the Scots were out of sight, Moses left the camp.

  “Your father will call it murder,” Aaron said.

  “It was murder,” David said, “but he’ll feel no dismay at Edward’s death either. My Uncle Dafydd, however...” David t
railed off. Uncle Dafydd had betrayed his brother too many times, but his death was still not going to be easy to encompass.

  Aaron nodded. “Please excuse me, my lord.” He headed down the hill to intercept Moses.

  “And what do you say?” Carew said when Aaron was out of earshot.

  David hesitated, and then decided to trust Carew with the truth. “Even now, this constant killing is something I find hard to accept. I fear for my own soul, and the soul of every man who marches with me. To take another’s life becomes easier the more one does it and I ask myself what kind of man I will be when it begins to come more easily. Yet, I fear that I cannot become the kind of ruler I need to be, unless it does.”

  Carew reached out a hand and gripped David’s shoulder. “You worry needlessly, my lord. There are none in Wales who share your fears. They see only a son, who walks in his father’s footsteps and fills them.”

  David looked once more upon the devastation in Edward’s camp, and then turned Bedwyr towards the village of Poulton and the boats.

  “Come,” David said. “Let’s go home.”

  The End

  Author’s Note

  Llywelyn Fawr, the great Prince of Wales, had two sons: Dafydd and Gruffydd. Dafydd became Prince when his father died in 1240, but died himself in 1246. Gruffydd had already died in 1244 while attempting to escape from the Tower of London where King Henry had imprisoned him. That left Gruffydd’s four sons to split power in Wales: Owain, Llywelyn, Dafydd, and Rhodri. Of those four, only Llywelyn was both old enough, determined enough—and free—to step into his uncle’s shoes.

  By 1282, when the events of Footsteps in Time take place, Dafydd had grown from the eight year old boy he was in 1246, to a forty-four year old man who’d spent half his life supporting Llywelyn, and half his life fighting him. Dafydd grew up in the Tower of London, a close companion to Edward, King Henry’s son and the future King of England. Only a year apart in age, their love never wavered, and the hate that grew between them after Dafydd revolted in 1282 was a product of two powerful, egotistical, arrogant men on opposites sides in war.