Falls the Shadow

by Sharon Kay Penman

  “He gives you good advice, Gruffydd,” Davydd said, but he was looking at the Bishop, not his brother. “I find it interesting,” he said, “that you do champion Gruffydd’s rights. It was my understanding that the Church refuses to recognize sons born out of wedlock.”

  “Welsh law holds otherwise,” the Bishop snapped, not comfortable with the unexpected turn the conversation had taken. He had his reasons for backing Gruffydd. Wales was unique among Christian nations, in that under its laws, the Church was subordinate to the State. To the Bishop, that was heresy, and he hoped that Gruffydd would be more malleable than Davydd in this regard, less likely to challenge Church doctrine. Gruffydd might hate the English with a demented passion, but at least he’d always shown himself to be a good son of the Church, and the Bishop thought he’d be receptive to the right approach, the right adviser. He’d known Gruffydd long enough to determine that the Welshman was as straightforward as he seemed. But subtlety was not likely to be lacking in the grandson of King John, and there were few qualities that the Bishop mistrusted more.

  “I find it curious that I should be upholding the position of the Church,” Davydd murmured, “whilst you, my lord Bishop, do argue for the old laws of Wales,” and his smile was sardonic enough to bring a flush to the Bishop’s face.

  “We digress, my lord,” he said coldly. “What ought to concern us is the good of Gwynedd. For nigh on six months now, this war has been waged between you and the Lord Gruffydd. Neither of you has been able to gain an advantage, but the country has been bled white, and every day good men die so that one of you might be Prince. What purpose does it serve to continue this strife?”

  “There is truth to what you say,” Davydd conceded. “But you do not fully understand our problem.” He looked, then, at Gruffydd. “If I were to offer you half of Gwynedd, would that end your rebellion?”

  Taken aback, Gruffydd gained time by reaching for his wine cup, swallowing a generous measure of mead. “No,” he said at last. “I fight not just for myself, but for Gwynedd. You could not be trusted to defend our land against the English. You’ve already proven it by that accursed deal you struck with them at Gloucester, that craven agreement to arbitrate Marcher claims.”

  Davydd showed neither surprise nor resentment. Instead, he nodded. “I expected no less. Whatever our other differences, Gruffydd, I’ve never doubted your sincerity.” And then he startled Gruffydd by smiling, a strange smile, for to Gruffydd, it seemed to be mocking them both, and yet somehow sad, too. He was puzzling over it as Davydd turned back toward the Bishop.

  “Do you see the problem now? Gruffydd is convinced that I am not a worthy Prince for Gwynedd. Unfortunately, I feel no less strongly that he is utterly unfit to rule, that he would be a disaster for Gwynedd, for Wales, for us all. That does not give us much room for compromise, does it?”

  “Compromise be damned!” Owain emphasized his opinion with a sweeping gesture, too sweeping; his arm struck his empty wine cup, sent a platter of wafers crashing to the floor. “Damnation,” he muttered, sounding faintly embarrassed. “How did I do that?”

  Gruffydd felt embarrassment, too, on his son’s behalf, but also annoyance. Owain had a notoriously poor head for wine. To Gruffydd, that was no excuse, though; Owain should have known better than to gulp mead like water, today of all times. “Here,” he said brusquely, shoving a platter toward his discomfited son. “Eat something.”

  Owain obediently picked up a caus pobi, only to drop it hastily. “I…I’d best not,” he said. “I feel queasy of a sudden, and lightheaded, too…”

  Gruffydd swore under his breath. But his son’s pallor was quite pronounced now, and he’d begun to sweat. “Lie down for a while,” Gruffydd said, jerking his head toward Davydd’s canopied bed, and then glared at Davydd, daring him to jeer at Owain’s folly.

  If Davydd was amused by Owain’s gaucherie, it did not show on his face. The Bishop was less tactful, though, could not repress a grimace of disgust. Owain rose unsteadily, yawned, and shambled toward the bed.

  The Bishop decided it was time he took the helm. “It grieves me that brothers could be so filled with hate, that you should so disregard the example of Our Lord Jesus Christ. You both share the blood of Llewelyn Fawr; I think it time you remembered that. If you cannot come to terms, the Church might have to compel a settlement.”

  Gruffydd set his cup down with a thud. “I think not! I’ll not be coerced into acting against my conscience, not even for the Church.” His defiance might have had more impact, however, had it not been punctuated by a loud snore from his son.

  Davydd rose, moved to pour himself another drink. “I think you’d best consult with the English King ere you issue any ultimatums, my lord Bishop. I rather doubt that Henry shares your desire for peace. This war betwixt Gruffydd and myself serves none better than the English, and well they know it.”

  The Bishop was becoming more and more convinced that his instincts had been right, that Davydd ap Llewelyn would bear close scrutiny, indeed. He changed his tack, no longer spoke of his Church’s power, spoke, instead, of its compassion. They must forswear the example of Cain and Abel, he argued earnestly, must put aside their grievances and work together for the good of Gwynedd, for their Welsh brothers and sisters in Christ.

  Gruffydd was hard put to hide his impatience. While he’d always shown the Bishop every respect, it was the priest he honored, not the man. He knew the Bishop had his own axe to grind, even if he was not yet sure what the Bishop hoped to gain. For now, he was willing to accept support where he could find it, but he thought that having to listen to an interminable sermon upon brotherhood was a high price, indeed, to pay for that support.

  Only one of the windows was unshuttered; the chamber seemed very stuffy to Gruffydd. As the Bishop droned on, he actually found himself dozing off. He hastily gulped the last of his mead, but it did not seem to help. He’d begun to sweat, tasted salt on his upper lip. How hot it had become! Mayhap he ought to open another window. But when he rose to his feet, he discovered, to his astonishment, that his legs would not support him. He sank back weakly in his chair, and the Bishop gave him a look of sudden concern.

  “Gruffydd, are you ill?”

  “I…I am not sure. I feel strange, in truth…” It took an effort to form the words, to get them out without slurring. The Bishop was leaning across the table, asking if he wanted to lie down. He did, craved nothing so much as to sink into a deep, deep sleep. He sought desperately to clear his head of cobwebs, to get his thoughts back into coherent order, but it was hard, so hard. The Bishop was looking alarmed. Davydd, too, was watching him. He was standing near a wall sconce; his eyes caught the light, seemed to take on golden glints. Cat eyes, intent, unblinking. King John’s eyes.

  Gruffydd’s gasp was audible to both men. He swung around, stared at the bed. His eyes darted to his empty wine cup, back up to Davydd’s impassive face. “Christ, you poisoned us!”

  The Bishop recoiled. “Mother of God,” he whispered, staring in horror at his own wine cup.

  “No,” Davydd said, “not poison.” His denial did not even register with Gruffydd. Lurching to his feet, he fumbled for his sword. He managed to get it free of his scabbard, but almost lost his balance, reeling back against the table. The trestle boards separated, overturning the table; the Bishop scrambled clear just in time. Davydd had not moved. He stood watching as Gruffydd staggered toward him, two steps, three. But then Gruffydd’s knees were buckling. The sword slipped from his numbed fingers, clattered to the floor. Gruffydd’s last awareness was of falling, of plummeting down into the dark.

  Davydd crossed the chamber, picked up the sword. He knelt then, by Gruffydd’s body, unsheathed his dagger. The Bishop still stood as if frozen, made mute by shock. Davydd straightened up, moved swiftly to the window, and beckoned. Within moments, one of his men had answered his summons. He did not even glance at the body on the floor, listened intently to Davydd’s low-voiced commands. The Bishop could catch an occasional word
“…out-numbered…tell them…their lord’s life does depend upon their cooperation…” And the Bishop realized that Davydd was giving orders to seize Gruffydd’s men, awaiting him in the great hall.

  As the man withdrew, Davydd strode toward the bed. Owain still snored, did not stir as Davydd bent over him, claimed his sword and dagger, found a hidden knife in his boot. Even now, the Bishop could not help noticing how economical Davydd’s every movement was, how deliberate, not a wasted motion. He edged his way around the wreckage of the table, moved slowly toward Gruffydd’s body.

  “Jesú, you…you killed them!” he said incredulously.

  “No,” Davydd said. “I gave them an uncommonly potent sleeping draught, well laced with henbane, but not enough to kill. They’re likely to feel utterly wretched when they awaken, but they’ll live.” He crossed to the window again, jerked the shutter back. Whatever he saw seemed to give him satisfaction. He said, almost inaudibly, “It is done, then.”

  The Bishop knelt by Gruffydd, with some difficulty managed to turn him over onto his back. Gruffydd’s breathing was heavy, stentorian, but the Bishop’s searching fingers found a steady pulse, and he sighed with relief. He was still struggling with disbelief, for it was inconceivable to him that anyone would dare to defy the Church. “Have you gone mad? Do you not realize what you’ve done? Jesus God, you swore a holy oath that you’d not harm him!”

  Davydd turned from the window. “I lied,” he said.

  The Bishop’s jaw dropped. Gruffydd was forgotten. What was at stake now was far more important than the fate of one man, it was the very authority of the Church. “You’ll be damned for this, damned for all eternity! That I swear, by all I hold sacred in this life. I shall see to it, shall excommunicate you myself!”

  Davydd nodded slowly. “Do what you must, my lord Bishop,” he said. “Just as I must.”

  Although she had been the lady of the manor for almost six months, Isabella still did not feel completely comfortable dwelling in Llewelyn’s shadow. That was particularly true here at Dolwyddelan, which had been Llewelyn’s favorite residence. Even now, she found herself half-expecting him to enter, demand to know what she and Davydd were doing in his private chamber.

  In fact, the room still looked much as it had when Llewelyn and Joanna had lived in it, for Isabella had made but one change, replacing Joanna’s old settle with one of finely carved oak. Davydd was slouched upon it now, idly strumming a small harp. He played well, as he did most things, but Isabella doubted that his mind was upon his music. He had the remote, inward look that was all too familiar to her, that so effectively shielded his thoughts, shut her out.

  Isabella had a cushion cover spread across her lap; ostensibly, she was occupied in embroidering an elaborate floral design. But her needle remained poised over the linen. She was actually engaged in watching her husband, casting him covert, troubled glances whenever she thought he wasn’t looking.

  After a time, he caught her at it. Their eyes locked. “You might as well say it, Isabella,” he said, and she flushed, bent hastily over her sewing.

  “I’m sure you—you had good reasons for what you did, Davydd. But…” She bit her lip, let her words trail off.

  Davydd finished the thought for her. “But it was less than honorable,” he said softly.

  Isabella looked up quickly, but she could not tell if he was mocking her or not. She lowered her gaze to her embroidery, began to stitch. Needlework was one of her proudest accomplishments. Yet now she wielded her needle so awkwardly that soon she drew blood. Davydd had resumed playing, a lively, buoyant little melody that seemed an ironic selection under the circumstances. A tear suddenly splashed upon Isabella’s wrist. She and Davydd had been wed for ten years. She thought herself to be far more fortunate than most wives, for Davydd never maltreated her. He begrudged her nothing. They rarely quarreled. But they were strangers to each other. She knew no more of the secrets of his heart than he did of hers.

  She was relieved when the Lord Ednyved was announced a few moments later. “I’ll leave you alone to talk,” she said, once greetings had been exchanged. Mayhap Davydd could unburden himself to Ednyved, his father’s friend, as he could not to her. Did he even feel such a need? She did not know.

  As soon as the two men were alone, Ednyved’s smile faded. “I think,” he said tersely, “that you’d best find yourself another Seneschal.”

  Davydd had been about to rise. He sat back on the settle, his eyes searching the older man’s face. “I see,” he said. “So you, too, want to talk of honor.”

  “No, not honor—honesty! If you could not trust me enough to confide in me, how can I continue to serve you?”

  “I would trust you with my very life,” Davydd said, so simply that some of Ednyved’s anger began to ebb.

  “Then why did you not tell me what you meant to do?”

  “Because I knew what my action would cost me. No man defies the Church with impunity. Had you been involved, the curse of excommunication would have fallen upon you, too.”

  Ednyved expelled his breath. Mollified, he stepped forward, straddled a chair. “If we are going to work together, lad, you’ll have to curb these motherly instincts of yours,” he said, and Davydd laughed.

  “Need I explain myself, Ednyved?” he asked, felt an intense surge of relief when Ednyved shook his head. “If you do understand, you may be the only man in Christendom who does. Tell me, do you remember that Saracen saying you brought back from the Holy Land, something about tigers?”

  Ednyved looked bemused, but nodded. “Not Saracen, though; men said it was a folk wisdom from Cathay: He who rides a tiger dares not dismount. Is that the one you had in mind?”

  “The very one,” Davydd said. There was something about the tilt of his head, the sudden, self-mocking grin that took Ednyved by surprise. For a fleeting moment, he so resembled his father that Ednyved’s eyes filled with tears. He blinked them away, but made no attempt to hide them. He felt no shame; Llewelyn was worth grieving for.

  Davydd was watching him. “You are thinking of my father,” he said, and he leaned forward, put his hand on Ednyved’s arm. “I cannot fail him, Ednyved. No matter what it costs, I must keep faith with him…I must!”

  Ednyved had never heard him sound so impassioned; emotion was an indulgence Davydd rarely allowed himself. “You do know,” he asked, “that it is not over?”

  “Christ, yes.” Davydd rose, moved restlessly toward the hearth. “There will be those to make of Gruffydd a martyr, to—” He stopped, frowning, then crossed quickly to the window.

  Below, the bailey was in turmoil. Men were crowding about, dogs barking. Several of Davydd’s teulu, his household guard, had surrounded an intruder, who was struggling to break free. Davydd shoved the shutter aside. “Let him go,” he said sharply. He did not wait to be sure his command would be obeyed, took that for granted. Turning back to Ednyved, he said, “It is Llelo.”

  They could now hear footsteps thudding on the outer stairs. A moment later, Llelo burst into the chamber. He was muddied and disheveled, so out of breath that he had to lean against the door. “Is it true?” he demanded. “Did you take my father prisoner?”

  “Yes.”

  Llelo moved forward into the room. “You swore a holy oath to his safety, swore upon the surety of your soul! How could you break such an oath? Do you truly think he would approve of such a betrayal?”

  There was no need for Davydd to ask who he was. “I do not know, Llelo,” he admitted. “I can only hope he would have understood.”

  Llelo’s eyes narrowed. “Well, I do not understand,” he said bitterly. “I will never understand—or forgive!”

  Ednyved got stiffly to his feet. “Davydd knew he would be excommunicated, Llelo. But he was willing to risk eternal damnation to put an end to this dangerous war.”

  Llelo looked at him, then away. “My name is Llewelyn, not Llelo.” His eyes flicked back to his uncle’s face. “I want to see my father,” he said. “So does my lady mothe
r.”

  Davydd’s gaze did not waver. “No, lad, I cannot allow that. Not yet.”

  Llelo’s breath quickened. “You lured my father and brother into a trap. What of me? Do you mean to imprison me, too?”

  Davydd shook his head. “No. You are free to go.”

  Llelo was at a loss, even let-down. He’d been expecting hostility, not honesty, found it disconcerting and somewhat bewildering to have Davydd treat him not as an enemy, but as an adult. Defiant, confused, desperately unhappy, he began to back toward the door, keeping his eyes upon Davydd all the while. “You’ve not won,” he said, horrified to find his voice was no longer under his control. “You’ll be sorry for this, I swear it!”

  Not surprisingly, Llelo slammed the door behind him. The two men looked at each other in silence. Ednyved finally moved to the table. Picking up a wine flagon, he said, “In just a year and a half, Llelo will be fourteen. When Llewelyn was fourteen, he celebrated his new-found manhood by beginning a civil war. You do know that you are taking a risk with that lad?”

  “Yes, I know. But some risks are worth the taking.”

  Ednyved paused in the act of pouring wine. Until that moment, he’d not known that Davydd, too, looked upon Llelo as a potential heir. “Have you never thought of divorcing your wife?” he asked, quietly enough not to offer offense. “Another woman might be able to give you a son.”

  Davydd shrugged. “Another man might be able to give Isabella a son.”

  Ednyved’s brows rose. Even though all knew of women whose first marriages were barren, second marriages blessed with babes, conventional wisdom still faulted the wife, not the husband, for failure to produce an heir. “Why are you so sure that the problem lies with you and not Isabella?”

  Davydd took one of the wine cups. “I lay with my first woman when I was nigh on sixteen. In less than two months, I will be thirty-two. And in all those years, Ednyved, no woman of mine has ever gotten with child. When we breed horses, if a stallion fails to get his mares in foal, we find another stallion. But when a marriage is barren, we find another wife.”