“No arguments, not a word. As soon as I get your gown off, it’s into that bed.” Ignoring Elen’s half-hearted protests, Nell soon had the other woman stripped to her chemise. Removing Elen’s veil, she deftly uncoiled Elen’s thick, black hair—a pity Elen’s coloring was so unfashionable—and propelled Elen toward the bed.
“There, dearest, just lie back. You truly ought to rest awhile. I daresay you never suspected I could be so motherly!” Nell busied herself in fluffing the pillows, tucking the blankets in. “I think it is fortunate, indeed, Elen, that you are Prince Llewelyn’s daughter.”
Elen was not as surprised as she might have been; Nell’s conversations were often enlivened by such seeming non sequiturs. “Why?”
“Because he’ll look out for your interests, make sure your dower rights are protected. To tell you true, Elen, you’d best keep an eye on those sisters of John’s. Their husbands cannot wait to get their shares; I actually heard them wagering upon how many manors John had held! I doubt that they’d be overly scrupulous of a widow’s rights.”
Nell could see no interest on Elen’s face, and she said, more emphatically, “Elen, I know whereof I speak. My husband’s family did their damnedest to deny me my share of William’s estates.” She frowned, and Elen was momentarily forgotten, for her resentment was a sharp blade, indeed, hurt to handle. She’d have been better off had Llewelyn been the one to speak up for her. A man like that would have been a shrewd bargainer; for certes, he’d not let Elen be cheated of her just due. Whereas Henry… She sighed. She did love her brother, truly she did. But why was he so weak-willed, so easily swayed by stronger men? He was the King, yet he’d let the Marshals rob her blind. Even now he did not curb the Marshals as he ought, allowed them to delay her dower payments, to offer feeble excuses for their disobedience. How lucky were those women who had men to stand up for them, men who were not afraid of giving offense, men with courage.
Vexed by Elen’s indifference, Nell was mustering up new arguments, all her protective instincts now aroused, determined to save Elen from herself, when there was a knock on the door. She quickly reached up, drew the bed hangings, enclosing Elen in a cocoon of sarcenet silk. “You sleep; I’ll get rid of whoever it is.”
It was Simon. “One of John’s cousins has just arrived, wants to pay his respects to Elen. I tried to discourage him, but he’s remarkably persistent.” He smiled apologetically, and Nell found herself suddenly paying more attention to the shape of his mouth than to what he was saying.
“Simon, I cannot let her see anyone now. Truly, I’d send the Pope himself away.” John was related by blood or marriage to most of England’s nobility; he was a first cousin of the Scots King, cousin to the Earls of Winchester, Arundel, and Lincoln, nephew to the Earl of Derby. But as she opened the door a little wider, Nell saw that the man standing at Simon’s shoulder was not one of John’s titled kinsmen. She knew Robert de Quincy on sight, but he was only a casual acquaintance, the younger brother of Roger de Quincy, Earl of Winchester.
As she started to close the door, he stepped forward. “I must see her, if only for a few moments.”
Nell gave him a coolly reproving look, one mixed with curiosity, for in the past, his manners had always been impeccable. He was an attractive man, she conceded, not as tall as Simon, but with hair even blacker, and eyes of a truly startling blue. But he looked as if he’d not had much sleep, even less peace of mind. She’d not realized that he was so fond of John; their kinship was a distant one. “I am sorry, Sir Robert, but—”
To Nell’s astonishment, he paid her no heed, pushed past her into the chamber. “Sir Robert, wait!” Simon was almost as fast as Robert de Quincy; he followed, started to put a restraining hand on the other man’s arm. But at that moment, Elen jerked the bed hangings back.
“Rob?”
He froze where he was. For what seemed an endless moment, they looked at each other. And then, as if released from the same spell, they both moved. Elen swung her legs over the side of the bed, he started toward her, and they met in the middle of the chamber. As soon as his arms went around her, Elen began to weep.
“Rob, it was so awful. He suffered so…” She sobbed, and he drew her still closer, murmuring her name, kissing her hair, her temples, tasting her tears.
“I’m here, beloved, I’m here,” he said, and Nell, an amazed witness, came abruptly back to reality. Jesú, the door! It had been wide open, giving all in the hall a front-row seat! She spun around, and then gave a sigh of sheer relief, blessing Simon for being so wondrously quick, for he’d whirled, slammed the door shut just in time, preventing those in the hall from seeing this lovers’ embrace.
As Simon and Nell passed through the abbey gate out onto Northgate Street, Nell paused uncertainly. People were milling about in the street, dogs and children darting here and there, getting underfoot, reveling in the excitement. Although it was more than a fortnight until the city’s annual fair, monks were already erecting stalls and booths in front of the abbey gateway. Some were there to trade their goods, others to witness secondhand the burial of a great lord. All stared openly at Simon and Nell, and it was this which made her hesitate, for she’d never been out amidst the common people without an escort, without the trappings and pageantry of rank. But Simon took her hand in his, and she soon decided she liked the novelty of it all, liked the bustle and color, even the admiring looks, for they were not entirely directed at her silk gown, at Simon’s fine tunic and gilded scabbard.
We’re a handsome couple, she thought, glancing sideways at Simon. It was usually easy to tell Welshmen from those of Norman-French descent, for the Welsh shaved their beards but retained their mustaches, while the Normans and Saxons were bearded. Simon was neither, was completely clean-shaven. Nell wondered whether this apparent disdain for fashion’s dictates was an act of rebellion or one of vanity, and she tucked the thought away, to tease him with at a more appropriate time.
“You did not know about Elen and Robert de Quincy?”
Nell shook her head. “I knew her marriage was not a happy one. But no, I did not know that…that…”
“…she and de Quincy were lovers. That is what you are so loath to say, is it not?”
“Simon…try not to think too badly of Elen. I am not defending her sin, but…but she is so very Welsh, you see.”
Simon gave her a look of faintly amused bafflement. “So? What are you saying? That the Welsh are truly as immoral as you English claim?”
“No, of course not. Adultery is no less a sin amongst the Welsh than amongst other peoples. But the Welsh treat their women differently. A Welshwoman has far greater freedoms than women of my England or your France. A Welshwoman cannot be forced to marry against her will; she has no less right than her husband to end an unhappy marriage; she cannot be beaten the way an erring English wife can. She can even divorce her husband if he brings his concubine into her home, Simon! Those are remarkable laws, you will admit, utterly unlike ours, unlike any in Christendom. And Elen grew up under them; she never learned proper obedience as an English girl would. So when she found herself trapped in a barren marriage, she felt free to…to look for happiness outside the marriage. Mind you, that is no excuse. But it does make her behavior more understandable, does it not?”
To Simon, it did not, but he did not want to hurt Nell by condemning her kinswoman, and so he shrugged, said lightly, “Had you been born a man, you’d have made a most persuasive lawyer.” Adding, “But it would have been a God-awful waste.”
Nell laughed. “In truth, I do not see what attraction de Quincy has for Elen. He is handsome enough, I suppose, but he always struck me as rather too easygoing, too carefree. Granted, I do not know him that well, but he seems to lack serious purpose, to lack ambition,” she said, somewhat reluctantly, for she wanted to be fair to the man and she could think of few more damning accusations. “Though he is more than a match for Elen in recklessness! It is a miracle to rank with the loaves and fishes, that they did not betray the
mselves long ere this.”
They were passing a street stall, and Simon stopped, fumbled for a few coins, and purchased two helpings of hot sausage. This, too, was a new experience for Nell, and she found herself envying Simon his wider horizons, the greater freedoms he enjoyed as a man. Reaching for her first taste of street sausage, she ate it with relish. Her innate honesty compelled her now to acknowledge that she was still much freer than most women her age, for she had no husband to answer to, to obey. But there was no longer joy in that freedom; she’d paid too high a price for it. Her gaze lingered on Simon’s dark, laughing face, and in that moment she knew the full measure of all she’d lost, of what was forever denied her.
She looked hastily away, lest her heart show in her eyes. “I cannot imagine, Simon, that Elen would want to marry de Quincy…can you? After all, she is the King’s niece, a Prince’s daughter, now the widow of the richest Earl in the realm, and Rob de Quincy is but a knight. He’s not a suitable match for her, could never—What? Why do you laugh?”
“I was amused,” he admitted, “by the contrast. You look like a wayward angel, and then you open your mouth and you do sound practical enough to put a Cheapside fishmonger to shame!”
Nell bit her lip, sought to stifle her laughter. “You have queer notions as to what comprises a compliment, Simon de Montfort!”
“On the contrary,” he said, “I just paid you the highest compliment a man can give a woman. I told you that you were beautiful…and clever. Do you not know, Nell, how rare a combination that is?”
She was used to bantering with men; her reputation as a flirt was deserved. But now she found herself suddenly tongue-tied, as flustered as if she were still a raw girl. She was accustomed to men looking at her with desire. But Simon was looking at her with approval, and that she found far more unsettling. “I want to thank you,” she said hastily, “for what you did in the Abbot’s chamber. It was kind of you, Simon; by your quick thinking, you saved Elen’s good name. I know you did it for your cousin John, but Elen—”
“No,” he said. “I did it for you, Nell. I did it because Elen is your kinswoman.” He reached for her hand, brought it up to his mouth, pressed a kiss into her palm. He was not smiling. “Why do you think I came to Darnhall? Because Henry told me you were there, and I thought you might have need of me. There is nothing I would not do for you, Nell. Do you not know that?”
“Oh, Simon…” Nell’s voice had dropped to a whisper. “Simon…whatever are we going to do?”
On July 5, Elen had a Requiem Mass said for her husband on his month-mind. The next morning she made an early departure from Chester, rode west into Wales. In summer, travel was possible at a rapid pace, and she reached her father’s manor at Aber two days later.
“Papa will be so pleased.” Davydd came forward, helped her to dismount. “Why did you not tell us you were coming, though?”
“I was not sure you’d be here, Davydd. Were you not going to meet with the English King on Papa’s behalf?”
“Our meeting was delayed.” Although Davydd was not usually demonstrative, he embraced his sister. “Are you all right, Elen? You look tired,” he said, and then realized how easily expectations could distort perceptions. In truth, she did not look tired at all, neither careworn nor troubled. Those were the words that came to mind when one thought of a woman widowed but a month; they did not apply. For Elen looked radiant.
Llewelyn watched as, one by one, the candles flared into life. He waited until the servant had withdrawn from the chamber, then beckoned to his daughter. “Come here, lass,” he said. “Sit beside me on the settle.”
She did, gave him a smile that caught at his heart, so loving was it, so like her mother’s smile. “I was so glad, Papa,” she said, “to find Llelo still with you.”
“It means much to me,” Llewelyn admitted, “having him here. But first, lass, I want to speak of you. I suspect, Elen, that the wolves will soon be gathering. John held land in ten shires, held two earldoms, a rich prize, indeed, to be up for the taking. I understand the husband of John’s niece is laying claim to the earldom of Chester. It would not surprise me, though, if Henry is loath to let it go. For nigh on twenty years, Cheshire and Wales have been united, an alliance not in the interests of the English Crown. Whilst Ranulf and then John lived, there was little Henry could do. But now…” He was frowning, and Elen reached up, kissed him on the cheek.
“I am so sorry, Papa. I know how important that alliance was to you, to Wales.”
It was indeed important; for Llewelyn, John’s death had been catastrophic. He did not want to burden her, though, not so newly widowed, and he smiled at her, said, “Be that as it may, I do have good news for you. Henry has assured me there will be no difficulties about your dower rights.”
“Thank you, Papa.”
“Henry listens best to whoever reaches him last.” Davydd spoke dryly from the shadows. “But Papa has been able to hold him to his word in the past, Elen, so I think your prospects look promising.”
“Promising? Oh, yes, Davydd,” she said, “yes.”
Llewelyn was looking thoughtfully at his daughter. It was passing strange. He’d never thought she truly resembled Joanna; the resemblance had always been more pronounced in Davydd. But since her mother’s death, she seemed more and more like Joanna. Of all his children, she’d been his secret favorite, so passionate, so stubborn, so vulnerable, the rebel to whom everything had always come so hard. “You have something to tell me, I think,” he said.
“Yes,” Elen said. “Yes, Papa, I have.”
“You do not wear mourning.”
She nodded. “Papa…I mean to wed again.”
She heard Davydd draw a quick breath. Llewelyn’s eyes narrowed. She’d seen that look before, had seen him change in the span of seconds from the fond, indulgent father to the Prince. “Go on,” he said. “Is it anyone I know?”
She tried not to let his sarcasm sting, said as steadily as she could, “You’ve met him. Sir Robert de Quincy, brother to the Earl of Winchester.”
“I can well understand why he’d want to wed you. He could not hope to do better. But you could, Elen. Surely you do know that?”
“I love him, Papa.”
“Do you?” Llewelyn’s voice was very cool. “Why? What sort of man is he, that he’d let you come alone to Aber? Is he so lacking in courage that he dare not face me? How can such a man be worthy of your love, Elen?”
“Rob is no coward!” Elen jumped to her feet, began to pace back and forth as she sought to get her rage under control. “He wanted to come with me, wanted us to see you together. I would not let him. I knew what would happen. You’d blame him, you’d not listen. I thought I had a better chance of making you understand.”
She turned back to face him. “You know I did not want to marry John. Surely you remember, Papa, how I pleaded with you, how I wept? And so you told me I did not have to wed him, and then…then you explained how very important this marriage was for Wales, how important for you. I was fifteen, Papa, I yielded, did as you wanted. I married John.”
Llewelyn was quiet, silenced by those echoes of bitterness. “You must know,” he said at last, “that we never wanted to see you hurt. Your mother and I wanted you to be happy, Elen.”
Elen’s mouth softened. “I know, Papa, I do. I know, too, that I am disappointing you now. But try to understand. I have loved Rob for so long, for years. But as much as I loved him, I knew we could never have more than a few stolen moments. We could not run away together. I could not do that to John, could not hurt him like that, make him such a cruel laughingstock. I could not do that to you. I knew how much your alliance meant. And Mama…it would have raked up all the old gossip, the ugliness. Men would have said, ‘Like mother, like daughter.’ They would have remembered her mistake, judged her by my sin, judged her all over again. And Rob…you called him a coward, Papa, but that’s not so. He would have run away with me anytime in the past four years; he would have ruined himself for me and n
ever counted the cost. But I could not risk his life. John’s honor was all to him, and he was Earl of Chester and Huntingdon, kin to the Scots King. Had I run away with his cousin, John would not have rested until he’d avenged himself upon Rob.”
She knelt suddenly, took Llewelyn’s hand between her own. “But now we can wed, Papa. We cannot hurt John or Mama now, and your alliance…it died with John.” The hand she held lay still, unresponsive in hers; tears trembled on her lashes. But then he put his other hand upon hers, and she realized it was his left hand she held. “Oh, Papa…”
“Hush,” he said, “hush,” and he tilted her chin, looked for a long moment into her upturned face. “I’ll not lie to you, Elen; I’ll not pretend I do like it much. But you made one marriage to please me. It is only fair that you now make one to please yourself.”
She’d not expected it to be so easy. She knew he loved her, but she knew, too, that he’d always put Wales first. “You’ve made me very happy,” she said, and Llewelyn found for her a reasonably convincing smile.
“May your Rob de Quincy make you happy, too. Davydd, pour mead for us, and we’ll drink to Elen’s marriage, to Elen’s homecoming.” Llewelyn had always been adept at reading faces; for a prince, that was much more than a social skill. “What is amiss? Surely you intend to return to Wales whilst you mark your mourning time? Where else would you—”
“There will be no mourning time, Papa. Rob and I mean to wed as soon as the banns can be posted.”
Falls the Shadow Page 9