Falls the Shadow

by Sharon Kay Penman

  Another silence fell. Ednyved’s eyes had softened. Reaching over, he clinked his wine cup against Davydd’s in a rueful, mock salute. “You do not ever believe in taking the easy way, do you, lad?”

  Davydd gave him a taut smile. “You’ve noticed that, have you?” He drank deeply, staring into his cup as if it held answers, not wine. “It was not enough to cage Gruffydd. As long as he lives, he will be a threat, a rallying point for rebels and malcontents. I should put him to death, Ednyved. I know that. And yet knowing is somehow not enough. For Christ help me, but I cannot do it.”

  10

  ________

  Shrewsbury, England

  August 1241

  ________

  By the time they rode through the gatehouse and into the abbey precincts, Senena was taut with apprehension. For so many months she had labored ceaselessly with but one objective in mind—to gain her husband’s freedom—and now that it seemed within reach, she was suddenly terrified that something might go wrong at the last moment, that the English King might refuse her plea.

  Ralph and Gwladys de Mortimer were waiting for her by the entrance to the guest house, but Senena was too preoccupied for courtesy. She ignored Gwladys, and as Ralph came forward to help her dismount, she said abruptly, “Has the English King arrived yet?”

  “No, he is not expected till noon. But Walter Clifford, Roger de Montalt, and the Princes of Powys are within, waiting for you.”

  Senena beckoned to the nearest of her servants. “See to the unpacking.” But before she could enter the hall, Llelo slid from his saddle, ran toward her.

  “May I come with you, Mama?”

  “No,” she said, turning away.

  Senena’s youngest brother, Einion, winced, for Llelo was thirteen, old enough, in Einion’s opinion, to be permitted some small part in his father’s rescue. But Einion was only twenty himself, and had too cheerful, too placid a nature to relish crossing wills with his sharp-tongued elder sister. He gave his nephew an apologetic pat upon his shoulder, followed Senena and Ralph de Mortimer into the hall.

  Einion was not the only one to sympathize with Llelo. Gwladys was finding it harder and harder to overlook Senena’s indifference to her second son. She had never been shy to speak her mind, but she was too well-mannered to make a public scene. Recriminations could wait; Llelo’s need could not.

  Llelo had watched until his mother entered the hall, then turned back to check upon his little brothers. Both children had long since fallen asleep, did not stir even as servants lifted them from the horse litter. It puzzled Llelo that his mother should have wanted them here for her meeting with the English King, but he was too grateful to question the whys and wherefores of his deliverance, so great had been his fear that he’d be left behind in Lln.

  Gwladys had come to stand beside him. “Whilst Ralph meets with your lady mother, shall we take a walk into the town?” she suggested, and was rewarded with a radiant smile. Their ride through Shrewsbury had been too rapid for Llelo to see very much, and he was eager to explore the town at closer range. He’d had no experience with towns; there were none in North Wales.

  Llelo was fascinated by the bridge that spanned the River Severn, a massive structure of red grit stone, complete with heavy drawbridge and portcullis; most Welsh rivers had to be forded. “The English must be very rich,” he marveled, as they turned into the street Gwladys called Sub Wila.

  Everywhere Llelo looked, he saw sights to astonish. The streets were very narrow, shadowed by the over-hanging stories of timber-framed houses, and they were packed with people, more people than he’d ever seen in all his life. Gwladys told him that Shrewsbury held nigh on two thousand inhabitants, a figure that seemed impossibly vast to Llelo. When his aunt laughed and said London had a population more than ten times the size of Shrewsbury, Llelo could only shake his head in disbelief.

  If London was truly so immense, he did not care to see it. As little as he liked to admit it, he was not comfortable amidst so many people. They crowded about him, jabbing him with their elbows, smelling of sweat and sour ale, assailing his ears with their loud, incomprehensible babble. It disconcerted him to discover that the citizens of Shrewsbury spoke a tongue entirely alien to him, for he’d studied Norman-French for fully five years.

  “Many speak French, too,” Gwladys explained. “For certes, the provosts and merchants do. But English has remained the language of the common people. Passing strange; it ought to have died out by now. It is nigh on two hundred years, after all, since William the Bastard defeated the Saxon thanes. French is undoubtedly a far more cultured tongue, but it is useful, too, to know some English, for the peasants cling to it so. My husband speaks it; so do most of the Marcher lords. None of their kings have, of course, but Henry plans to have his son tutored in English. He…”

  Llelo was no longer listening. The crowds were parting, men squeezing up against the stalls that lined both sides of the street. When Llelo saw why they were retreating, he, too, shrank back. Two black-garbed figures had come into view, shaking latten clappers to warn of their approach; never had Llelo heard a sound so doleful.

  Gwladys made the sign of the cross. “Lepers,” she said and shuddered. “Poor souls. At least they fare better in Shrewsbury than in many places. They have a lazar house beyond the abbey grounds, and King John granted them a portion of all flour sold in St Alkmund’s market.”

  “Poor souls,” Llelo echoed softly, thankful that their cowled hoods shadowed their faces, hid their ravaged flesh.

  Gwladys was fumbling in a small leather pouch that swung from her belt. Withdrawing a few coins, she walked toward the two lepers. Llelo felt a surge of pride as his aunt calmly wished them Good Morrow, dropped the coins into their alms cup.

  Unfortunately, she then found herself besieged by beggars. She scattered a handful of pennies into their outstretched palms, then moved on. Her servants kept the beggars at a respectful distance, but they continued to trail after her, pleading their poverty in loud, importunate voices. Llelo was shocked at their numbers, for beggars were rare in Wales, where every man’s hearth was open to those passing by and the kinship of the clan was a sacred trust.

  To Llelo, the most unnerving aspect of Shrewsbury was its noise. Church bells pealed out the hour, summoning Christ’s faithful to High Mass, tolling mournful “passing bells” for dying parishioners. Men wandered the streets shouting “Hot meat pies” and “Good ale,” seeking to entice customers into cook-shops and ale-houses. Itinerant peddlers hawked their goods, offering nails, ribbons, potions to restore health, to bestir lust. People gathered in front of the cramped, unshuttered shops, arguing prices at the tops of their voices. Heavy carts creaked down the street, their lumbering progress signaled by loudly cracking whips. Dogs darted underfoot, and pigs rooted about in the debris dumped in the center gutter. Apprentices, pilgrims, cripples dragging about on crutches and wooden legs, would-be thieves, Shropshire villagers come to watch the King’s procession to the castle, people come to trade at St Alkmund’s weekly market, an occasional Black Friar—it was all rather intimidating to a youngster country born and bred.

  Gwladys seemed to sense Llelo’s unease, for she began to talk, telling him that his grandfather had captured Shrewsbury in 1215, that the red and gold lions of Gwynedd had flown from the battlements of Shrewsbury’s royal castle. “He rode right up this very lane—known to some as Gomsall Street, to others as Haystrete. The provosts were awaiting him at the stone cross, offered to surrender if he’d warrant the townspeople’s safety, which he did, Llelo.” She caught herself, too late, smiled ruefully. “I did forget again—Llewelyn.”

  Llelo shrugged, unoffended by her lapse. At least she tried, which was more than the rest of his family did. The knowledge that Shrewsbury had been conquered by his grandfather was a sudden source of comfort, and he looked about with renewed confidence. To his left lay an open stretch of ground, a dark, foul-smelling pond. A crowd had gathered at the water’s edge, and Llelo gasped at what he
saw now—a man trussed up with rope, bound to a wooden plank, about to be lowered into the pond.

  “Jesú! Aunt Gwladys, look! They mean to drown that man!”

  Gwladys merely laughed. “No, just a good dousing. When a brewer is caught watering down his ale, or a baker weighing his loaves too lightly, the culprit is dragged to the ducking pond for a quick, albeit wet, chastisement.”

  Now that he knew the man was in no danger, Llelo watched with considerable interest as he was pulled, sputtering and choking, from the murky pond. A sudden stench warned that they were nearing the Shambles, the butchers’ row, but as they passed a narrow alley, Llelo’s attention was caught by a woman lounging in an open doorway. What first drew his eye was her spill of wind-blown, bright hair; only young girls went bare-headed in public, yet this woman wore neither veil nor wimple. Nor had Llelo ever seen hair the color of hers, a harsh, metallic gold, a shade never intended by nature. She was drinking from a wineskin, beckoned to a discomfited passer-by, and made a lewd gesture when the man continued on his way.

  Llelo’s eyes widened. He forgot his manners, stared openly, never having seen a harlot before. He kept craning his neck, glancing over his shoulder, so intent upon keeping the whore in view that he walked right into a pig, almost fell over the animal’s back. Gwladys laughed, and he flushed, then grinned self-consciously, wondering if she’d noticed the whore, too.

  “And that is known as Grope Lane,” Gwladys said dryly, “for obvious reasons. There are other streets that have bawdy houses, too, but Grope Lane has more than its share.”

  Llelo knew, of course, that there were Welsh whores, too, “women of the bush and brake.” But he’d not known that there were houses for whores, that English harlots lived together just as nuns did. The comparison was so unexpected, so ludicrous, that his embarrassment yielded to amusement, and he began to laugh.

  Gwladys stopped a peddler, bought Llelo an apple. “You missed your aunt Elen by one day, I fear. She and Rob de Quincy came to Shrewsbury to talk to my husband; Elen hoped to persuade him not to take part in the coming campaign, not to pledge his support to Gruffydd. But she had no more success with Ralph than she had with King Henry. When she could not sway Ralph, she and Rob departed for the White Ladies Priory, to the north of here, where they will wait for word on the war’s outcome.”

  Llelo was keenly disappointed, for he’d not seen Elen since his grandfather’s funeral. He hastily looked away, but not in time; Gwladys saw.

  “She did not know Senena was bringing you, Llewelyn, else she’d have waited. Elen is right fond of you.”

  He very much wanted to believe that, but he was learning to live with doubts. He said nothing, ate the last of the apple, and threw the core to the scavenging pig. They turned into the Shambles, walked for a time in silence.

  “There.” Gwladys pointed. “That is the cross where the provosts waited for your grandfather, where we will await Henry’s arrival. The provosts and the town’s common council are already gathering.”

  Llelo barely glanced their way. His enthusiasm for Shrewsbury and its marvels was fast waning. So swiftly had his mood soured that he felt only guilt; how could he take such pleasure in trifles when so much was at stake? “Nothing is more important than freeing my father from Cricieth Castle—nothing!”

  Gwladys nodded, waited, and at last he said, very low, “But…but was there not another way to do it? My grandfather fought all his life to keep the English out of Wales. And now an English army is about to invade Gwynedd—at my mother’s invitation.”

  Gwladys did not know what to tell him. Her father would have been appalled by what Senena meant to do. She was not even sure that Gruffydd would approve. And she knew why the Marcher lords were allying themselves with Senena. Roger de Montalt, Walter Clifford, her own husband—they all stood to gain by Davydd’s defeat. A weakened, divided Gwynedd was what the other Welsh Princes sought, too. They had not shared the dream of Llewelyn Fawr, his belief that for Wales to retain its independence, it must be united. The Princes had long chafed at Gwynedd’s dominance, hoped now to restore the balance of power among the Welsh principalities.

  “I’ll not lie to you, lad,” she said slowly. “Yes, your mother is taking a great risk. But to whom could she go if not to the English King? And in truth, I find it hard to fault her for it, for I, too, want Gruffydd freed.”

  Llelo nodded. He understood quite clearly that this might be his father’s only chance for freedom. But he could not stifle an uneasy suspicion that Gruffydd’s good and Gwynedd’s good might not be one and the same. “It is just that I know what Grandpapa would have said, that we are inviting a wolf in to protect our herd from foxes.”

  Gwladys did not dispute him. “Desperate needs require desperate remedies,” she said and sighed. “And loyalties…what a tangled coil they make. I am a Welshwoman wed to a Norman-French lord, have borne him five children. Am I Llewelyn Fawr’s daughter—or Ralph de Mortimer’s wife? Sister to Gruffydd—or to Davydd? I would to God I knew…”

  There was a sudden stir in the crowd gathered about the cross. One of the provosts, recognizing Ralph de Mortimer’s lady, sauntered over to explain the raised voices, the rumblings of discontent. “Some of them claim they heard a trumpet fanfare, whilst others insist they are but deluding themselves. Tempers are growing short; it has been a long wait, under a hot sun. That loud-mouthed blacksmith wants someone to climb the cross, keep watch for the King, but he can find no one nimble enough—or sober enough—to attempt it.”

  “I will,” Llelo said promptly, and the provost grinned.

  “Good lad,” he said, and before Gwladys could object, Llelo was being ushered toward the cross, where he was at once surrounded by approving Englishmen. He could not understand their speech, but their smiles needed no translation. Within moments, he was boosted onto the blacksmith’s shoulders, scrambled up onto the cross.

  The sun was shining directly into his eyes, and Llelo clung with one hand, raised the other to shield the glare. The houses blocked most of his view of Shrewsbury’s streets, but he could see beyond to the river, see the long, serpentine line that wound its way up the Abbey Foregate. Chain-mail armor was not meant for long rides, and the chivalric code had been amended accordingly, adding the caveat that it was not honorable to attack a knight unless he was fully armed, thus freeing men of the need to spend stifling hours in the saddle. But Henry had wanted his entry into Shrewsbury to be a memorable one, and his knights were clad in sun-blinding mail, brilliantly colored surcoats. Heralded by highflying, bright silk banners, by trumpets and pipes, the English army stretched as far as Llelo’s eye could see. It took his breath, raised a sweat that had nothing to do with the heat of the summer sun.

  He abandoned his perch so hastily that he almost fell, would have if not for the blacksmith’s quick reflexes. Sliding to the ground, he said, “They come,” and when the provost translated from French to English, the spectators raised a cheer.

  Whatever argument there might be about Henry’s abilities, all conceded that he was in appearance an ideal king. He wore a rich red gown, a jewel-encrusted hat, seemed impervious to heat and dust. Elegant and urbane, he showed no impatience with their slow progress through the crowded streets. Henry thrived upon pageantry and panoply, enjoyed the ceremonial aspects of kingship far more than he did the actual exercise of power.

  As Henry approached the cross, he saw the provosts, ready to welcome him into Shrewsbury. But then he abruptly drew rein. “Lady de Mortimer,” he said, and the people looked at Gwladys with sudden interest, that she should be signaled out for the King’s notice.

  “Your Grace, may I present my nephew, Llewelyn ap Gruffydd?”

  Prompted by Gwladys, Llelo came forward, knelt in the dusty street. “Ah, the Lady Senena’s son,” Henry said and smiled. Llelo could find nothing to say. He stared mutely at the English King, unable to think, to see anything but that endless column snaking its way across the Shropshire countryside: knights, men-at-arms, supply
carts, siege weapons. My God, Mama, he thought. My God, what have you done?

  Henry was particular about his accommodations, and those at the castle were not to his liking. He chose, instead, to stay at the Benedictine abbey of St Peter and St Paul, in the Abbot’s private domicile. His household had to be lodged, too, and the abbey was soon filled to capacity. So, too, were the castles and inns, as Shrewsbury sought to absorb the King’s army.

  Henry met several times in the days that followed with Senena, the Marcher lords, and the Princes of Powys and Deheubarth. But Senena refused to satisfy Llelo’s curiosity. Once it was settled, she said, she would explain everything to him, and Llelo had to be content with that grudging promise.

  He saw no reason, though, why he should not seek to ferret out facts for himself, and he soon discovered that his youth and nationality offered unsurpassed opportunities for spying. He could mingle with Henry’s lords, eavesdropping with impunity, for on the rare occasions when he was challenged, he need only look blank, mumble in Welsh, and he was once more invisible.

  He was frustrated, though, by what he heard, for the English lords showed little interest in discussing the captive Welsh Prince or his hostile half-brother. Instead, they passed the hot August days gossiping about Simon de Montfort and the Lady Eleanor of Brittany, cousin to the King.

  Llelo knew Simon de Montfort had gone on crusade to the Holy Land. Now he learned that a great honor had been conferred upon him there. He had so distinguished himself that the barons, knights, and citizens of the kingdom of Jerusalem had petitioned the Holy Roman Emperor to have Simon act as Governor of their realm. Llelo’s memories of the Lady Nell had become rather blurred and misty with time, but he still remembered her low laugh, the way she’d turn all heads upon entering a room, and he felt mildly pleased that her husband had won such acclaim.