Falls the Shadow

by Sharon Kay Penman

  “That is welcome news, indeed.” Llewelyn smiled upon them both, remembering just in time to query politely, “And Senena?”

  “She is well, Papa.” It had always irked Gruffydd that the brother he so detested should have borne the name of the most celebrated of Welsh saints, and he relished this opportunity to reclaim it for one of his own. “We named him Davydd.” Adding quite needlessly, “After the saint, of course.”

  “He has reddish peach fuzz all over his head,” Llelo volunteered, “and at first he was all puckered up, like a prune.” His eyes had settled wistfully upon the orange in his grandfather’s hand, for oranges had to be imported from Spain, were considered rare delicacies. Llewelyn proved himself to be adroit at mind-reading; he separated the fruit into halves, passed one to Llelo, who gave him a grateful grin. “The wet nurse suckles him every three hours, Grandpapa, so he gets four meals a day!”

  Hunydd was pouring drinks for them all, mead for the men and watered-down wine for Llelo. She handed the first cup to Gruffydd, offering her good wishes, and he smiled. He approved heartily of this bedmate of his father’s, although he probably would have approved of any woman who was not English and not Joanna.

  As Gruffydd accepted Hunydd’s congratulations, Llewelyn looked thoughtfully at his grandson. The Welsh practice of partible succession—dividing all equally among a man’s sons—was in many ways a fairer system than the English one, which left all to the eldest son. But it was also a system to foster fratricide, for when a Welsh prince died, his sons inevitably fought each other for the succession, winner-take-all to the survivor; Llewelyn knew that his own uncommonly amicable relationship with his younger brother, Adda, had been possible only because of Adda’s lamed right leg. Llewelyn had long believed that Wales was ill served by a practice that so turned brother against brother, that so often fomented civil war, and he’d dared to defy centuries of tradition, naming Davydd as his sole heir. He was heartened now by Llelo’s delight in the birth of a baby brother; if change was to take root, what more fertile soil than childhood?

  “It truly pleases you, Llelo, having a brother?” he asked, and Llelo edged closer.

  “A baby brother,” he corrected, and then confessed, “It was never much fun, being the youngest. But I can look out for Davydd, teach him things—how to make a whistle from a water reed, how to catch frogs, how to make a fire without flint. And I can tell him scary stories at night, the ones my sister used to tell me ere she got married.” He grinned suddenly. “Then, too, now I will have someone to blame things on!”

  Llewelyn laughed. “You sound as if you’ve given this much thought, lad.”

  Llelo nodded. “Being a good brother will be easy, Grandpapa. I need only remember what Owain did—and then do the exact opposite!” He was still smiling, but Llewelyn was not taken in; in this past year, he’d learned that Llelo often offered bald truths camouflaged as jests. He reached out, rumpled the boy’s hair, and found himself thinking of an old Welsh proverb. Ni cherir yn llwyr oni ddelo’r wr. There will be no loving completely till the grandchild comes.

  “I have another riddle for you, Grandpapa. Why do men make the oven in the town?” Llelo waited expectantly, and when Llewelyn shook his head, he said triumphantly, “Because they cannot make the town in the oven!”

  Llewelyn was a good sport, groaned on cue, and then, as his eyes caught Gruffydd’s, he laughed, remembering a time, so many years past, when Gruffydd, too, had a passion for childhood rhymes and nonsense riddles. Gruffydd grinned, and Llewelyn knew that he was thinking of those same memories. They laughed together, in a rare moment of ease, were still laughing when the door opened, and they saw Davydd and Isabella standing in the doorway.

  Davydd’s eyes cut from his father to Gruffydd, back to Llewelyn. He did not acknowledge his brother in any other way; they were long past the pretense of civility. “I wanted to let you know I was back, Papa,” he said. “I have messages for you from both Rhys Mechyll and Maelgwn Fychan, have much to tell you.”

  Gruffydd set his cup down upon the table, so abruptly that mead sloshed onto the chessboard. He could see what was happening, could see how Davydd was taking upon himself more and more authority, acting in Llewelyn’s stead more and more frequently. Soon he’d be Prince in all but name. “I brought news of my own,” he said. “My wife has borne me yet another son. Do you not want to congratulate me, Davydd?”

  Davydd’s eyes filled with shadows. “Congratulations,” he said, flinging the word down like a stone—or a gauntlet.

  “Thank you. I do feel that I have indeed been blessed, for Senena has now given me a daughter and three healthy sons—whilst so many men have no sons at all.”

  Davydd stiffened, said nothing. But Isabella clasped her hand to her mouth, as if to stifle a cry; her eyes brimmed with tears. She spun around, and Davydd reached for her. She was too fast, though; his hand just brushed her sleeve.

  “Isabella, wait!” Davydd started after her, stopped to look back at his brother. “You bastard,” he said, and his voice was raw with rage, with such hatred that Gruffydd instinctively dropped his hand to his sword hilt. But Davydd had not waited; he plunged through the doorway, and they heard him call out his wife’s name.

  Gruffydd stared at that open door. He was a skilled archer; so why, then, did so many of his arrows misfire? He cared nothing for Isabella, had always found her to be timid and demure and cloyingly sweet. And she was English, Davydd’s wife. But he would not have deliberately hurt her; he had only contempt for the man who would shoot a nesting duck, run down a newborn fawn. He turned reluctantly to face the others, defiant, daring them to object.

  No one did. Nor did they meet his eyes. Ednyved’s was not a face to give away secrets; impassive, he drank the last of his mead. Hunydd at once began to busy herself with the cups and flagons. But Llelo looked troubled, and Llewelyn suddenly looked very, very tired.

  “I promised the boy he could stay,” Gruffydd said, while staring into space above his father’s head. “I’ll send someone for him on the morrow.”

  “But Papa—Papa, you said you’d stay for dinner. Do you not remember?”

  “Yes,” Gruffydd said, “I remember,” and the anger drained from his voice. He started to speak, then swung about, moved swiftly toward the door.

  Llewelyn pushed his chair back, limped to the window. After a moment, Llelo followed, and Llewelyn reached out, put his right arm around the boy’s shoulders. The window opened onto the bailey; beyond, he could see a sunlit shimmer, the silver-blue of the bay. Davydd had caught up with Isabella. They were standing together in the shadow of the great hall; it seemed to Llewelyn that she was weeping.

  Llewelyn shifted his weight onto his good leg. His Church had been forced to find a way to reconcile the absolutism of the Sixth Commandment—Thou shalt not kill—with the realities of their world. And so the concept of a “Just War” had evolved. Rules were laid down, moral boundaries drawn. And all agreed that noncombatants were not to be harmed. Women were to be spared, as were children, priests, diplomatic envoys, pilgrims. But Llewelyn knew better. In war, the innocent were usually the first to suffer.

  As he and Llelo watched, Gruffydd rode through the castle gateway, without looking back. “I wanted Papa to stay,” Llelo said softly. “I’d hoped…” His voice trailed off, and Llewelyn tightened his arm about the boy’s shoulders.

  “I know, lad,” he said. “I know.”

  The great castle of Kenilworth had been in the possession of the English Crown since the twelfth century. It was a formidable citadel, but it had never been one of Henry’s favorite residences, and he’d temporarily turned it over to his sister. It was here that Nell had awaited Simon’s return to England, and here that she now awaited the birth of their child.

  It had been an unusually hot, dry summer, but a wet, chill autumn. A cold November rain slanted against the shuttered windows of Kenilworth’s great hall. Richard Plantagenet, Earl of Cornwall, moved closer to the hearth. The other castle gues
ts had also drawn their chairs nearer to the flames. Richard knew them all, although not well. Peter de Montfort was a Warwickshire knight, an intimate friend of Simon’s, but no relation despite the fact they bore the same surname. The other men were all clerics, also friends of Simon’s. Adam Marsh was a friar, rector of the Franciscan school at Oxford, a man with a notable reputation as a scholar, theologian, and mathematician. Walter de Cantilupe was the new Bishop of Worcester, and Robert Grosseteste the Bishop of Lincoln.

  Richard was particularly impressed by the Bishop of Lincoln’s presence, for the man was even more celebrated as a scholar than Adam Marsh. He was known to speak fluent Greek and Hebrew, he had been the first Chancellor of the University of Oxford, and he was admired as much for his piety and rectitude as for his intellectual accomplishments. Richard had heard that he was a friend to Simon, but he’d not realized how close the friendship was, close enough to bring the Bishop posthaste from Canterbury in a drenching rainstorm, a conclusive demonstration of loyalty for a man of Grosseteste’s age and frail health.

  “Have you known my brother-by-marriage very long, Your Grace?”

  “We first became acquainted whilst I was still Archdeacon of Leicester, some six or seven years past, soon after Simon’s arrival in England.”

  The Bishop’s eyes shifted across the hall, followed Simon as he paced restlessly back and forth. There was such obvious affection in that glance that Richard found himself thinking Simon was lucky, indeed, to have so illustrious an ally as this honored and honorable Prince of the Church. For there were other clerics who still bitterly opposed Simon’s marriage to Nell, clerics who had not been appeased by the papal dispensation.

  Richard’s eyes, too, now rested upon Simon. He acknowledged that Simon’s relationship with the Bishop of Lincoln should not be suspect; a friendship of seven years was surely not open to charges of opportunism. But he instinctively searched for an element of calculation in all that Simon did, for he was still of two minds about his new brother-in-law, respecting Simon’s abilities while remaining dubious about his motives. He had, however, made his peace with Simon, and whatever his private doubts, he’d not voice them aloud. The marriage was now a fact, and Richard no more quarreled with facts than he wasted time on idle regrets.

  “How fares the King’s Grace?” The query came from Peter de Montfort; he looked questioningly at Richard. “We here in Warwickshire were sorely distressed that the King might have come to harm in our very midst.”

  “Come to harm?” Simon echoed, having joined them just in time to catch the last of Peter’s comment. “What harm?”

  “The assassination attempt upon my brother the King this past September at Woodstock,” Richard explained. “Nell did tell you?”

  “Yes,” Simon said, “she did.” So had Henry, and at great length. He’d been very fortunate, for when the would-be assassin climbed into the window of Henry’s bedchamber at his Woodstock manor, Henry was not there, having chosen to spend the night in his Queen’s bed. One of the Queen’s ladies had encountered the intruder; her screams had drawn others, and the man was quickly overpowered. But although Henry had escaped bodily harm, he’d been greatly shaken by the fortuitous nature of his deliverance, confiding to Simon that had he not fallen asleep, he’d have returned to his own bed.

  Richard was telling them now of the fate of the assassin, “…taken to Coventry, where he was tied to horses and torn limb from limb. Henry chose not to witness it. Passing strange, for had it been me, I would have been there for certes.”

  Simon’s eyes narrowed; the boasting rang false, for Richard’s reputation was for aloof competence, not derring-do or lordly swagger. It seemed that Richard and Henry were not as unlike as he’d first thought; they shared the same fondness for high-flown language, for suspect bravado. But no, that might well be too harsh a judgment. He did not want to be unfair to his wife’s brothers. He could not deny, though, that they puzzled him. There were but fifteen months between them, fifteen months that had cost Richard a crown. Did Richard ever resent Henry for that? Simon wondered. He did not doubt there was a genuine bond between the brothers, but neither did he doubt, too, that Richard believed himself capable of being a far better King than Henry could ever be.

  As he looked at the other man, Simon suddenly found himself remembering a bleak February morning, the day he’d gone to ask Richard’s pardon for his clandestine marriage to Richard’s sister. It had not been easy for him. Even knowing as he did how crucial Richard’s support was, he might not have been able to do it had it not been for the Bishop of Lincoln. Simon respected Robert Grosseteste as he did no other man in Christendom; when Grosseteste urged him to make peace with Richard, he listened to the Bishop’s advice, and then reluctantly acted upon it. Richard was known to have an extremely healthy regard for material gain. So when Simon sought a truce, he did not come empty-handed. It had taken some finely bred stallions and silver plate, had taken some equally well-crafted words of apology and assurance, but Simon had inveigled Richard’s grudging consent. It had to be done; Simon knew that. But it was not a memory he cared to dwell upon.

  Simon’s eyes strayed again toward the door. When he looked back, he discovered that they were all watching him. “Why is it taking so long?” he said, and Richard smiled indulgently.

  “Let me give you some advice, Simon. I’ve gone through three such birth vigils, so I know of what I speak. You must be patient, and hope for the best, all a man can do at these times.”

  “Nonetheless,” Simon said. “I think I’ll seek Elen out again.”

  “If you keep running back and forth in the rain, you’ll catch your death of cold,” Richard predicted, “whilst getting nothing from Elen. Women like to make much mystery of the birthing process; they give away no female secrets. In truth, Simon, you need not fret so. Nell may look as fragile as gossamer, but as her brother, I can assure you she is actually as tough as hemp! She—” He stopped, for Simon was no longer listening; he’d already turned away.

  Nell had chosen the main room of the castle keep for her lying-in chamber, so each time Simon went to check upon her progress, he had to cross the bailey. The rain was falling heavily, and he was shivering by the time he reached the forebuilding. He rapidly mounted the stairs to the second story. It held a small chapel, but he did not pause there, moved toward the door of Nell’s chamber. He had to knock several times before it opened, just a crack. Mabel peered out, eyeing him warily. It seemed to Simon that it took an inordinately long time before Elen joined him in the chapel.

  “I’m beginning to think,” he said, “that I’d find it easier to gain entry into a convent of Benedictine nuns.”

  Elen laughed. “You make them nervous, Simon. Whilst I do understand your concern, there is nothing yet to tell you.”

  “But it’s been nigh on eleven hours!”

  “The babe will come in its own good time, Simon. All is progressing as it ought, truly. And it should not be long now. Nell’s water has broken,” she said, having earlier explained the significance of that to Simon. “You’d best go back to the hall. I shall send for you as soon as the babe is born, I swear it.”

  “I would rather wait here, in the chapel,” he said, and Elen gave him a sympathetic smile, vanished back into his wife’s chamber. He stood there for a time, and then crossed to the altar, where he knelt and prayed for God’s forgiveness if he had indeed sinned by marrying Nell, prayed that if punishment was due, it should fall upon him and not upon Nell, not upon their innocent child.

  As the pain subsided, Nell looked over at Elen, and the other woman reached for a soft cloth, began to blot away the sweat streaking Nell’s face. “Simon is in the chapel,” she said. “I think he is having a harder time than you are, Nell!”

  “Indeed, Madame,” Mabel chimed in. “Each time he knocks on the door, I fear he will come bursting right in!”

  Between pains, Nell had been sipping wine laced with feverfew. She took a swallow, tried to smile.

 
“My father actually did that,” Elen said. “My mother had been in labor with my brother Davydd for fully a day and night, and she’d begun to lose strength, to lose heart. When one of Mama’s ladies told Papa that she’d begun to bleed, he forced his way into the chamber, stayed with her till Davydd was safely born.”

  Mabel and the midwife looked so appalled that Elen laughed. Nell managed another smile, this one more convincing; that story was folklore in her family. “Only Llewelyn would have dared,” she whispered. “Or Simon—” She gasped, and the women hovered helplessly around her, waiting for the pain to pass.

  “Soon, Madame,” the midwife soothed. “Soon now. Here, take this.” She thrust a small, silvery rock into Nell’s hands. “Eaglestone has wondrous powers, my lady. Hold it tight when the pains come.”

  In the corner was a shaft, leading down to the cellar well. Mabel crossed to it, helped a young maid servant to operate the pulley, to draw up another bucket of well water. Elen stayed by Nell’s side, offering what small comfort she could, words of encouragement and affection. The midwife poured thyme oil onto her hands, knelt before the birthing stool, and raised Nell’s skirt.

  “It is coming, Madame! I can just see the crown of its head,” she exclaimed, and made haste to pull off Nell’s soiled and bloodied chemise. Nell was groaning, writhing upon the stool; the eaglestone had fallen into the floor rushes. The contractions were constant now, and the midwife put her hands on Nell’s thighs, spread them farther apart.

  “No, lass, no,” she warned. “You must not bear down, now, lest you tear yourself. Do not fight the pain, my lady. Let the babe do the work now…”

  She kept up these continuous murmurings, seeking to lull Nell with the rhythm of her words, knowing the sound was as important as the sense. Nell groaned again, and the midwife gave a triumphant cry, for the baby’s head was emerging. She swiftly leaned over, made sure that the navel cord was not caught around the infant’s neck, and Nell had the first glimpse of her child, saw a small, wet head, surprisingly dark.