Llelo retreated, but he could find no refuge, no way to outrun the memory of his grandfather, standing alone by a white stone coffin. Never before had Llelo experienced what it was like to identify with another’s pain, and he did not know how to deal with the hurting, the shattering sense of helplessness. In his misery, he sought out his father.
Gruffydd had expected to rejoice on this day, for he’d hated Joanna with a passionate hatred that only death could satisfy. Now she was dead, but as he’d looked upon his father’s stunned, silent grieving, he could feel no joy, only an unwilling sense of pity, pity his father did not deserve. He brooded now upon this, shamed by his weakness, by wayward emotions he did not understand, too troubled himself to see a small boy’s distress.
As soon as the rain stopped, Llelo fled the great hall, fled the court. No one paid him any mind. Aber’s full name was Aber Gwyngregyn—Mouth of the White Shell River—but the river was more in the nature of a stream. Following its meandering course, Llelo tracked it back to the cataract known as Rhaeadr Fawr—the Great Waterfall. It was more aptly named than the stream, a narrow spill of white water, surging more than a hundred feet over a sheer cliff. Llelo scrambled down the rocks until he stood at the base of the waterfall, close enough to feel the flying spray. Partway up the cliff, a crooked scrub tree struggled to survive, growing at an improbable angle out of the rock. Llelo amused himself by throwing stones at it, with occasional success. He was launching twig boats out into the foaming pool when the wind brought to him the sound of voices; instinctively, he dodged behind the rocks, a Welsh bowman awaiting the enemy’s approach.
As they came into view, he flattened himself against the ground, the gameplaying forgotten. Senena and Owain came to a stop less than fifteen feet from his hiding place. He heard a splash, knew that Owain must have thrown a pebble into the pool.
“Thank you for coming with me, Owain. I could not endure that hall a moment longer, God’s truth. If I’d heard one more fool babble on about Llewelyn’s great gesture, I’d have thrown a screaming fit. To think of honoring that harlot with a Franciscan friary!” Senena’s voice was trembling, so intense was her outrage. “Better he should have established a brothel in her memory!”
Owain laughed. Another rock thudded into the shallows, not too far from where Llelo crouched.
“I truly believe she was a witch, Owain. How else explain the way she ensorcelled Llewelyn, turned him against his own son?” Senena strode to the edge of the pool. “A pity,” she said, “that it was not Llewelyn we buried today at Llanfaes.”
“We’ll have that pleasure, Mama, never fear. He’s an old man, nigh on four and sixty. How much longer can he live?”
“I know. It is just that Gruffydd has waited so long…” Through a blur of tears, Llelo saw a flash of blue, his mother’s mantle. He lay very still, scarcely breathing, until she moved away.
“Mama…do you ever wonder if Papa truly wants the crown?”
“What mean you by that, Owain? Of course he wants it!”
“Well…” The boy sounded hesitant, uncharacteristically uncertain. “When we talk about it, he does not seem as eager as he ought. Oh, he says he hates Llewelyn, says he’ll never allow Gwynedd to pass to a weakling like Davydd. But…but sometimes, Mama, I wonder if his heart is truly in it.”
Her son had inadvertently touched a very raw nerve, indeed, for Senena, too, sometimes found herself fearing that those years at Deganwy Castle had crippled her husband’s spirit, had sapped his will to persevere, to fight for what was rightfully his.
“That is arrant nonsense, Owain! Never doubt this—that your father will one day rule in Llewelyn’s stead.”
“God grant it so,” Owain said, with enough passion to placate Senena.
“He will, Owain. He will.” She smiled at her son, linked her arm in his. “It is raining again; we’d best get back.”
Their voices grew less distinct. After a time, Llelo heard only the sounds of the river and the rain. His face was wet, but he did not pull up his mantle hood, sat there huddled against the rock, his knees drawn up to his chest. He’d begun to tremble. The light was fading, night coming on.
2
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Dolwyddelan, North Wales
April 1237
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Gwladys de Mortimer reached her father’s mountain castle of Dolwyddelan in mid-morning. She was accompanied by the armed escort that her rank and sex demanded; accompanied, too, by her small sons, Roger and Hugh, and—much to Elen’s pleasure—Llelo.
Gwladys’s children were now being fed in the great hall, while Llelo was hastening down the west slope toward the river, intent upon overtaking Llewelyn, who’d taken his dogs out for a run. From a window in Llewelyn’s private chamber, Elen could track his progress; he vanished into a grove of trees, and she glanced back at Gwladys. “I’m right glad you’ve come. I shall have to return to Cheshire at week’s end, and I’ll feel better about leaving Papa now that you’re here. Papa was not expecting you?”
“No. But he’s been much on my mind these weeks past, and I’ve news, news that should cheer him.” Gwladys moved to the window, too; it was unshuttered, offering a sweeping view of the valley, the serpentine course of the River Lledr. “Elen, tell me. How is Papa?”
“Heartsick,” Elen said slowly, turning to face her sister. “His grieving is still raw, shows no signs of healing. He misses my mother so, and I’ve no comfort for him; no one has. I’ve been here a fortnight, but I’ve not had much time with him. He’s ever been a man of remarkable energy, but never have I seen him push himself like this. He rises before dawn, labors till well after dark, seeks to fill every waking moment with activity. And if by chance he has no meeting scheduled with his council or his rhagnalls, he takes that new chestnut stallion of his out for long rides, does not come back till the horse is lathered, till he is utterly exhausted.”
Gwladys sat down in the window-seat. “That sounds like a man trying to outrun his ghosts,” she said, and Elen nodded bleakly.
“In truth. And I ache for him so, Gwladys. I doubt that he sleeps much; I know for certes that he is eating poorly. And sometimes at night in the great hall, a silence will fall, and there’ll be on his face a look of such sadness…” Tears filled Elen’s eyes; she blinked them back, mustered up a smile. “Well…what news have you for Papa?”
“I’m with child again.”
Elen caught her breath; envy twisted like a blade, drew blood. “I am happy for you, Gwladys, truly I am.”
Gwladys was quiet for some moments, dark eyes intent, reflective. “We used to be close, Elen. But not for years now—not since Joanna’s infidelity.” She saw the younger woman stiffen, said swiftly, “You need not fear; I shall speak no ill of your mother. In truth, I was fond of her once, thought of her as a friend. But I could not forgive her for causing Papa so much pain. Even after he forgave her, I never could.” She rose, stepped toward her sister. “I should have, Elen. For Papa’s sake, I should have made my peace with her. I see that now, too late. When I realized I was with child, I thought…well, I thought that if I have a girl, I could name her after Joanna. Do you think that would please Papa?”
“I think Papa would be very pleased.” Elen turned back toward the window; talking about Joanna stirred up too many memories, too much pain. “There’s Llelo,” she said. “He’s reached the river. How do you happen to have him with you, Gwladys?”
“I asked Gruffydd if he could visit with me for a while.”
“You see it, too, then.”
“See what?”
“His need.”
Gwladys nodded. “Yes,” she admitted. She leaned forward, pulled the shutters all the way back. In the distance Llelo vaulted over a log, as nimbly as a colt. “I think,” she said, “that it will be good for Papa, too, having the lad here.”
Llewelyn had an old but erratic acquaintanceship with death. It had come into his life very early; he was still in his cradle when it claimed his father. But
then it had shown an unexpected and inexplicable sense of mercy. The years passed and there were no further visitations. He lost friends in battle, but those he most loved were spared—until the summer of his twenty-ninth year. In the span of but three months, he lost his mother and Tangwystl, Tangwystl with her flame-bright hair and Gruffydd’s green eyes, Tangwystl who’d given him love and four children. But after that summer of sorrow had come yet another mysterious reprieve. And as the years went by—so many years—it began to seem as if he’d been strangely blessed, able to walk in sunlight while other men trod in death’s shadow.
It was not true, of course. Death offered no deliverance, only delay. For nine years now, it had hovered close at hand, demanding payment for debts long deferred. Rhys and Catrin, friends who’d shared all his yesterdays. Two of his daughters’ husbands. The most steadfast of his English allies, Ranulf of Chester, uncle to John the Scot. Morgan, who’d been a father in all but blood. Adda, his brother. And then his son Tegwared.
Llewelyn knew he had been luckier than most men, for he’d sired eight children, buried but one—Tegwared. He’d been an amiable, cheerful youngster, quick to jest, easy to love, utterly unlike his brothers, lacking Davydd’s ability, Gruffydd’s passion. He’d grown into a placid, carefree young man, apparently content with the provisions Llewelyn made for him, and if he felt cheated that he was never in contention for a crown, if he had yearned to join in the lethal blood-rivalry between his half-brothers, none but he ever knew. But for Llewelyn there would always be an unease of mind, the awareness that he’d not been entirely fair to this third son of his, and two years after Tegwared’s mortal illness, he still felt that of all death’s claims, this had been the most merciless, and the most unjust.
An intimate enemy, death, capricious and cruel, ultimately invincible. But Llewelyn did not fear his own demise, and he truly thought he’d taken its measure, knew the worst it could do. And then death claimed his wife.
There was a Welsh proverb: for every wound, the ointment of time. To Llewelyn, it was an empty promise, a hollow mockery. Time would not heal. Till the day he died, he would grieve for Joanna. Now he sought only to learn to live without her. But so far it was a lesson that eluded him, for Joanna’s was an unquiet grave. She came to him in the night, filled every room with her unseen presence, a tender, tempting ghost, beckoning him back to a past that was far more real to him than the joyless, dismal world he now inhabited. It had been more than two months, the longest he’d ever gone without a woman in his bed, but he felt no stirrings of desire. The woman he wanted was dead. It was April, and all about him were the miracles of new life. He looked upon this verdant, blossoming spring, a spring Joanna would never see, he looked upon a field of brilliant blue flowers—the bluebells Joanna had so loved—and at that moment he’d willingly have bartered all his tomorrows for but one yesterday.
His dogs had begun to bark, and his hand dropped to his sword hilt. But the barking had lost its challenging tone; the dogs had encountered a friend. Llewelyn waited, and within moments his young grandson burst into the clearing. “Grandpapa!” Llelo skidded to a halt, suddenly shy, and Llewelyn smiled.
“Come, give me a proper greeting,” he said, and Llelo hurtled forward, into his arms. He swung the boy up into the air, pretended to stagger, slowly sinking to the ground under Llelo’s weight. It was a game they’d occasionally played, but Llewelyn had not reckoned upon the enthusiastic participation of his alaunts. Both dogs joined eagerly in the fray, and Llewelyn was knocked flat, buried under one hundred sixty pounds of squirming, yelping alaunt, laughing for the first time in weeks.
“Wolf! You’re squashing me!” Wriggling free, Llelo lay panting in the grass. “Aunt Gwladys brought me,” he confided as soon as he’d gotten his breath back. “She says we can stay for at least a week, mayhap even till my birthday.”
Llewelyn’s mouth quirked. “I’m having a perilous day. First nearly smothered by these fool dogs, and now assailed by flaming hints.”
Llelo grinned, unabashed. “You did say you had a bad memory for dates, Grandpapa.”
“That I did,” Llewelyn conceded. “Well, now that we happen to be talking of birthdays, I daresay you’ve a suggestion or two to offer.”
“Just one. I would like you to take me hunting again,” Llelo said promptly. But to his disappointment, Llewelyn shook his head.
“I’m sorry, lad. We’ll have to wait; the season is past. But it’ll be worth it, for the best time for hunting is during the summer, when the bucks are well grazed, fleshed out.” Llewelyn smiled at the boy. “I remember instructing your father in hunting lore, too, more years ago than I care to count. The second season—for does—starts in November, lasts till…Candlemas.”
The pause was so prolonged that Llelo looked up, saw that his grandfather’s face had shadowed. He started to speak, then remembered. The Lady Joanna had died on Candlemas. He did not know how to comfort, at last said softly, “You must miss her a lot.”
Llewelyn’s eyes cleared, focused on the boy. “We’d have been wed thirty-one years next month. Nigh on half my life…”
“Grandpapa, do we keep on loving the dead?”
“Unfortunately, lad, we do.” Llewelyn lay back in the grass, stared up at the sun; it soon blurred in a haze of brightness. He’d been troubled in recent days by sudden, severe headaches, could feel one coming on. “She was so much younger than I was, Llelo. I always expected to die first, never thought…” He stopped; a silence settled over the clearing.
Llelo wrapped his arms around his knees, coaxed one of the dogs within petting range, but he kept his eyes upon his grandfather’s face, and he seemed to hear again his brother Owain’s voice—How much longer can he live?
“Grandpapa, is sixty and four very old?”
Llewelyn turned his head; he looked amused. “Catch me on a bad day and I feel verily as old as Methuselah. But I’ll share a secret with you, lad. No matter how gnarled the tree, ensconced within is the soul of a green sapling. The shell ages, Llelo, not the spirit.”
“Then…then you’re not going to die soon?”
There was fear in the boy’s voice, and Llewelyn heard it. “No,” he said, and he reached over, brushed grass from Llelo’s hair. “Not soon. I promise.”
Not long afterward, they rose, started back along the river bank. Llelo was—at Llewelyn’s suggestion—gathering bluebells and wood-sorrel for Elen and Gwladys. “What you said before, about sharing a secret. That was not a true secret, was a joke. But what if you had a real secret, Grandpapa? A…shameful secret? What if you knew that if you kept silent, bad things would happen? But if you spoke out, it might be worse. If you had such a secret, what would you do?”
“That is no easy question to answer. I suppose I’d weigh the evils, try to decide which would be the greater harm. Can you tell me more, Llelo?”
The boy looked up at him, then slowly shook his head. “No,” he said, “no…”
Llewelyn knew better than to press. “As you will,” he said, and they walked on. It had been a very wet March, a month of heavy rains, and the river surged against its banks, covered the mossy rocks that usually jutted above the water, stepping-stones that beckoned irresistibly to adventuresome youngsters. Llelo felt cheated; he’d often tested his nerve on those rocks, and he’d hoped to impress his grandfather with his daring. He bent down, searching for a large, flat pebble.
“Watch, Grandpapa,” he said, and sent the stone skimming across the surface of the water. “Could you skip stones like that when you were my age?”
“I still can,” Llewelyn said. “Find me a stone and I’ll show you.” Under his grandson’s skeptical eye, he moved toward the bank. The sun was shimmering upon the water; the river had taken on a glittering, silvered sheen. It dazzled him, blinded him. The stone soared upward, much too high, splashed into the shallows, and Llelo gave a triumphant laugh.
“That was not even close! Grandpapa, you—Grandpapa?”
Llewelyn did not appear
to hear. There was on his face a look Llelo would never forget, a look of utter astonishment. He stumbled, and then his left leg buckled and he made a wild grab for the nearest tree. But his body no longer took commands from his brain, and he fell backward into the damp spring grass.
“Grandpapa!” Llelo dropped to his knees beside his grandfather. “Grandpapa!” Llewelyn’s face was flushed; his eyes were dazed, full of disbelief and fear. The corner of his mouth had begun to sag, and when he spoke, his voice was so blurred that he sounded drunk to Llelo. “Get help,” he gasped, “hurry…”
Llelo snatched off his mantle, made a pillow for Llewelyn’s head. “I will,” he sobbed, “I will!” He gave one last terrified look over his shoulder, began to run.
On a Saturday morning six days later, Gruffydd, his wife, and eldest son rode into the castle bailey, just as Davydd’s wife, Isabella, emerged from the great hall. Isabella halted, irresolute, yearning to retreat. She’d been a child-bride, wed at ten, and even now, after almost seven years as Davydd’s wife, she did not feel at home in Wales. Although her husband treated her well, his courtesy was impersonal, his kindness disinterested; theirs was a marriage lacking true intimacy, even in the marriage-bed. Isabella was grateful to Davydd, wanted to be a dutiful wife, a satisfactory bedmate, but she knew he did not love her. His mother, Joanna, she had loved, loved dearly. Llewelyn, she had come to respect. But Gruffydd—volatile, impassioned, unpredictable—Gruffydd, she feared. She glanced back toward the hall, but she’d waited too long; they were dismounting.
Gruffydd spared no time for social amenities. “What ails my father?” he demanded. “Davydd’s message said he’d been taken ill. Papa’s never sick, never. What did—”
Falls the Shadow Page 5