Falls the Shadow

by Sharon Kay Penman

  Llewelyn looked down at the crumbled cakes, felt his queasiness coming back. “Good lad. But that is too much for just one. Why not share it with me? You go ahead, and I’ll save mine for later, when I get truly hungry.”

  “If you’re sure…” Llelo whipped out his eating knife, conscientiously set about dividing his booty into equal halves. “I can get you more later,” he offered, settling himself on the edge of the bed.

  “No, thank you, lad.” Llewelyn watched the boy eat. There was no need to talk. But a memory was slowly stirring. “Why are you still here, Llelo?” he asked suddenly. “Ednyved told me Gruffydd had gone. How is it you did not go with him?”

  Llelo had stopped eating. He licked honey off his fingers, mumbled something about “staying behind.”

  “That I can see,” Llewelyn said dryly, but his eyes were puzzled. “Gruffydd permitted you to stay?” As soon as he heard his own question, he realized the utter unlikelihood of that. “Llelo?”

  The boy had averted his eyes. “I…I could not leave, Grandpapa. Not whilst you were so sick…”

  “Jesú!” It was an involuntary exclamation, a belated and appalled understanding of the choice the boy had been forced to make, of yet another wound he’d unwittingly inflicted upon his son.

  “Grandpapa?” Llelo was watching him with anxious eyes. “Grandpapa…do you not want me to stay?”

  The sins of the fathers. Llewelyn reached out, took his grandson’s small, sticky fingers in his own. “Yes, lad,” he said. “I do want you to stay. More than I knew.”

  3

  ________

  Llanfaes, North Wales

  May 1237

  ________

  Gruffydd reined in his horse at the edge of the wood, gazed out onto the beach. The narrow strait that separated the island of Môn from the mainland was swept by treacherous currents, the water surface churned by brisk winds. Llewelyn was sitting on the moss-covered spar of an old ship wreck, watching Llelo splash in the shallows. The boy gave a sudden shout, whirled and came running back to Llewelyn. The distance was too great for Gruffydd to see what he held; he thought it might be a crab. He watched as the man and boy bent their heads over Llelo’s find; he could not remember his son ever running to him like that. They had yet to notice him; Llewelyn’s dogs were upwind, ranging along the beach some yards away. Gruffydd’s mouth tightened. You’re getting careless, old man. You ought to have taken heed of me ere this. He urged his stallion forward, onto the sand.

  They saw him now. Llelo took an involuntary step backward. The two weeks Gruffydd had grudgingly promised him had unaccountably lengthened into four and then six. Each morn he wondered if this would be the day his father would come for him, and as the weeks passed, a poisonous fear began to entwine itself around his reluctance to leave his grandfather, the fear that his mother had spoken no less than the truth, that she would never forgive him. “Papa…you’ve come to take me back?”

  Gruffydd did not answer. He could not keep his eyes from his father, from the crutch Llewelyn had reached for as he rose to his feet. He thought he’d accepted the serious nature of Llewelyn’s illness, but the sudden and irrefutable reality of that wooden crutch shocked him, shook him profoundly. He dismounted, handed the reins to Llelo. “Take my mount back into the woods, let him graze awhile.”

  Llelo reached for the reins, retreated with obvious reluctance, with many backward glances over his shoulder. The two men looked at each other; the silence spun out between them, a web made of memories.

  “Are you in much pain, Papa?” This from Gruffydd, abruptly, awkwardly.

  “No…not much.” A faint smile touched Llewelyn’s mouth. “Given that men call apoplexy the half-dead disease, I’d have to say that I took the honors in our exchange, was left with fewer battle scars than most.”

  “Is there nothing you’ll not make light of—even that?” Gruffydd pointed an accusing finger toward that alien crutch. “You cannot make me believe this is easy for you!”

  Llewelyn’s eyes flicked from the crutch to his son’s face. “I did not say it was easy, Gruffydd. I feel naked without a sword. A few minutes past, Llelo took hold of my left hand, but I’d not have known had I not seen him do it. I am weighed down by an anchor, one of my own flesh. I find myself hobbled, and—for the first time in my life—helpless. Is that what you’d have me say? Is that the truth you seek?”

  Gruffydd blinked rapidly, spun around to look out over the strait. “No,” he said, “no…” He strode to the water’s edge before turning back to face his father. “Can your doctors do nothing?”

  “I rather think they do too much,” Llewelyn said dryly. “I’ve swallowed one noxious concoction after another, have had my flesh prodded and poked, have permitted them to bleed me and then wrap my leg in the skin of a newly killed fox. But when their potions and plasters failed, they wanted to apply a red-hot needle to my leg, to raise blisters that would drain off the bile—or so they hoped. They took it quite badly when I balked,” Llewelyn said, the memory of his doctors’ indignation evoking a grim smile.

  “At that point,” he said, “I decided to rely upon common sense. I’ve healed my share of lamed horses with flaxseed poultices and rest. But I’ve seen other men stricken with palsy, and unless they made use of their crippled limbs, the muscles would wither, become too feeble to support their weight. So as soon as I could, I sought to walk. Each day now I come down to the beach, and each day I find I can go a little farther.”

  That matter-of-fact statement was not an accurate accounting of the past six weeks, omitting as it did all mention of how very easily he tired, of the times he’d fallen, the times he’d despaired. But it was as much as he could share. “There has been some healing.” He shifted his crutch. “God willing, there’ll be more.”

  Gruffydd was still staring at the crutch. “I do want you to get well, Papa,” he blurted out, then looked faintly surprised at his own words. “But I expect you do not believe that.”

  “Yes, I do, Gruffydd,” Llewelyn said, wondering if he lied. He decided to gamble with the truth, added softly, “I very much want to believe you,” and saw his son flinch. “You’ve come for the boy?”

  Gruffydd shook his head. “No,” he said, no longer meeting Llewelyn’s eyes. “I’ve decided to let him stay awhile longer.”

  Llewelyn was taken aback. He knew the risk he took in admitting how fond he’d become of Gruffydd’s son. But he felt he owed Gruffydd honesty for this unexpected generosity. “I cannot deny that I’m right pleased to hear that. May I ask why you changed your mind?”

  “No,” Gruffydd snapped, “you may not.” His rudeness was defensive; he had no answer for Llewelyn. He could not admit, even to himself, that he would willingly share his son’s love if that would ensure his father’s recovery. Still less could he acknowledge his uneasiness about his wife’s unrelenting attitude, her unreasonable hostility toward their child.

  Gruffydd had been wed to Senena for nineteen years, had found contentment in marriage to his cautious, grey-eyed cousin. He knew that hers was the greater love, even sensed that hers was the quicker wit. He might well have resented her for that; instead, he’d come to rely upon her shrewd, unsentimental advice, upon her loyalty, loyalty that was impassioned, absolute. They rarely disagreed; it was all the more unsettling to him now that they should be so at odds over their own son. It baffled him that Senena could judge Llelo as if he were a man grown, making no allowances for his extreme youth, and he’d at last concluded that time apart might be best for both mother and son. But he felt disloyal to Senena even in harboring such thoughts, could not have spoken them aloud to anyone, least of all to Llewelyn. He turned away from his father’s searching eyes, raised his voice. “Llelo! Come here!”

  Llelo came on the run. “I tied your horse to a tree, Papa,” he panted. “Do…do we go home today?”

  “No, Llelo. I’ve decided to let you spend the summer at your grandfather’s court.”

  “Truly?” There was so muc
h joy on the boy’s face that Gruffydd began to wonder if he’d not made a grievous mistake. “Thank you, Papa!” But then Llelo’s smile wavered. “Why, Papa?” he said. “Does Mama not want me back?”

  “Ah, no, lad!” Gruffydd knelt, put his hands on the boy’s shoulders. “Never think that, Llelo. Your mother loves you,” he said, “no less than I do.” He saw his son’s eyes widen, realized suddenly that he’d never said that to Llelo before, and then Llelo’s arms were around his neck, clinging tightly. He held the boy close, gave Llewelyn a look that was at once challenging and oddly triumphant. Just remember he is my son, not yours. He did not say the words aloud, did not need to, for his was an easy face to read.

  Llewelyn said nothing. The sight of his son and grandson together gave him no disquiet, only unexpected hope. He’d feared that Llelo’s love would act as a knife, severing those last tattered shreds of the bond that linked him to his son. Now he dared to wonder whether the boy’s love might instead act as a bridge between them.

  There was shouting in the distance. As they glanced toward the sound, they saw that riders had ventured out onto the Lafan Sands, were signaling to the Llanfaes ferry. The boatmen were already rowing out, and Llewelyn, his son, and grandson started up the beach, for visitors to Llanfaes would be visitors for Llewelyn. Gruffydd could not help noticing how naturally his son slowed his pace to match Llewelyn’s, and somewhat self-consciously, he, too, shortened his stride. The ferry had reached the Aber shore, was picking up several passengers. They had an impressive escort; fully a score of men were urging their mounts into the water. Slowly the ferry moved back toward the Llanfaes beach. Gruffydd could now make out the slender figure of a woman sitting in the bow. With recognition came a rush of resentment. He hated his father’s marital ties to the English Crown, hated the bond Joanna had forged between Wales and its powerful, predatory neighbor to the east.

  “It is the English King’s sister,” he said coldly. “A vain, flighty woman if ever there was one. But I daresay you’ll make her welcome.”

  “Nell is Joanna’s sister, too.” Llewelyn’s voice was no less cool. “I will indeed make her welcome.”

  Llelo looked from one man to the other in dismay, sensing the sudden tension, but unable to understand why it was so.

  It was a mild day; Welsh spring always came into flower first on Môn. Elen had removed her mantle and veil, and her long, dark hair was blowing about untidily. From time to time she’d brush it back impatiently, intent upon the task at hand. She was kneeling beside her mother’s tomb. Putting her spade aside, she reached for the first plant, a blooming yellow primrose, removed the sacking from its roots and carefully lowered it into its waiting hole. The next plant was the vibrant gorse that was carpeting the island in gold. So absorbed was Elen in her work that she was oblivious of all else, unaware that she was no longer alone.

  Nell was amused by Elen’s wind-whipped hair, the grass stains on her skirt. She’d never known a beautiful woman as lacking in vanity as Elen. Nor did it surprise her to find Elen performing a chore she could more easily have entrusted to a servant. “I’m glad you chose the gorse,” she said. “That was ever one of Joanna’s favorite flowers.”

  “Nell!” Elen jumped to her feet, ran to embrace the younger woman. There were only eight years between them; in many ways, they were more like sisters than niece and aunt.

  There was a wooden bench just a few feet from Joanna’s tomb. Catching Nell’s querying look, Elen said, “Davydd had it brought out, so Papa could rest when he visits Mama’s grave. You’ve seen him already?”

  “Yes, down on the beach. He told me where to find you.” Nell unfastened her mantle, sat down on the bench. “When I first heard of Llewelyn’s seizure, I feared the worst. But he seems much better, Elen, seems like to make a true recovery.”

  Elen nodded. “I’d say it was miraculous—if I did not know Papa so well. He’s never been one to recognize defeat, and there’s never been a foe he could not outfight…or outwait. Even when King John forced him to make that humiliating surrender at Aberconwy; within two years he’d won back all he’d been forced to yield to John.”

  Nell was neither defensive nor self-conscious when others spoke ill of her father, for she’d never known him; he’d died while she was still in her cradle. “I stopped at your manor in Delamere Forest on my way into Wales,” she said, “and John gave me a letter for you.”

  Elen showed no great interest in her husband’s letter. She’d joined Nell on the bench, now turned her face up like a flower, toward the sun. “I’ve been back in Cheshire but once since Papa’s illness. I suppose John is growing restless for my return. Tell me, Nell. How long can you stay? You did not bring St Cecily with you, I trust?”

  Cecily de Sanford had been Nell’s governess, and later, one of her ladies in waiting. She was a deeply pious woman, a widow with an utterly unblemished past. But Elen detested her, for it was Cecily who had prevailed upon Nell to take a holy oath of chastity when Nell’s husband died. To a grieving fifteen-year-old, so dramatic a gesture had proved irresistible, and Nell had been easily induced to follow Cecily’s austere example. Both women had sworn their oaths before the Archbishop of Canterbury, put aside their silks for homespun, put upon their fingers the rings that proclaimed them brides of Christ. Cecily was well suited to a nun’s life; she’d found great contentment in privation, self-denial, and celibacy.

  Nell had not. She was a young woman who loved bright colors, sweetmeats, harp music, and laughter, a woman who liked the company of men, who’d come to yearn for the marriage and motherhood that her oath denied her. There’d been a time when she’d rush indignantly to Cecily’s defense. Those days were past. Now she said only, “That is not kind, Elen,” and then she grinned. “Do you know what Simon calls her? My very own dragon!”

  Elen arched a brow. “Simon? Would that by any chance be Simon de Montfort, Earl of Leicester?”

  “Who else?” Nell gave the other woman a sidelong glance. “What do you think of him, Elen?”

  “Simon?” Elen smiled, shrugged. “Well…he is handsome enough, for certes. And he has a honeyed tongue, in truth. How else could he ever have coaxed John’s uncle Ranulf into yielding up to him Ranulf’s claim to the earldom of Leicester? Granted, Simon’s claim was a just one. But how many men serve justice if it will take money from their own coffers? No, your Simon must have been remarkably persuasive!”

  “He is, indeed,” Nell agreed, and then, belatedly, “He is not ‘my’ Simon, though. But you’ve told me very little, Elen. He is John’s cousin; surely you must know him better than that. What do you truly think?”

  Elen reached down, picked a stray daisy. “I think,” she said, after a very long pause, “that Simon de Montfort is a man of great ability—and even greater ambition.”

  She’d not meant that as a compliment, but she saw now that Nell had taken it as one. She was smiling, and as Elen looked at her, she felt a sudden protective pang. She started to speak, stopped. What was there to say? Nell knew the dangers, knew she could not allow herself to care for Simon de Montfort, to care for any man.

  “Do you come from the court, Nell? How fares Henry?”

  “Well enough. Although he still dotes shamelessly upon that childbride of his.” Nell made a comic grimace. “If she asked for the stars, I daresay he’d begin calculating how to harvest the heavens for her!”

  Elen laughed. In the past year, Henry had finally wed, taking as his Queen the daughter of the Count of Provence. Eleanor was only fourteen, less than half Henry’s age, but she was an undeniably pretty girl, high-spirited, well educated, and she’d utterly captivated Henry—if not Nell, who so far seemed immune to Eleanor’s bright, brittle charm. By all accounts, Eleanor was indeed spoiled, but Elen suspected, too, that Nell felt some jealousy at seeing her place usurped by the young Queen, for Nell had long been treated as the first lady of her brother’s court, the King’s favorite sister.

  “I think, Nell,” she began, and then paused.
“Did you hear—”

  “Aunt Elen!” The voice was Llelo’s, so shrill, so full of fear that Elen whitened.

  “No, not Papa!” Coming to her feet so fast that she nearly tripped on her skirts, she started to run. She’d taken but a few strides before Llelo came into view. At sight of her, he slowed, caught at the garden wall for support.

  “Grandpapa said to fetch you,” he gasped. “A courier…” He could say no more, did not know how to deliver news so dire. “I outran him…” He pointed and Elen now saw the man hastening up the slope toward them. Her initial fear had begun to ebb, but it flared anew as the man came into recognition range—Fulke Fitz Alan, one of her husband’s young squires.

  “Fulke, why are you here? What is wrong?”

  He had to struggle for breath. “You…you must come home, my lady. Our lord is taken ill…”

  “Ill?” Elen’s mouth went dry. Her husband was not a man to coddle himself; if he sent for her so urgently, he must be very ill, indeed. “Tell me,” she said.

  “It began with a chill, with pains in his head, his back. We did not worry, my lady, not at first. But he soon burned with fever. Then on the fourth day…” He looked her full in the face for the first time. “On the fourth day, he broke out in spots. All over his shoulders, then spreading down his chest, his arms, legs. The lesions were rose-colored, but they soon darkened, took on a mulberry coloration…”