Falls the Shadow

by Sharon Kay Penman

  The coolness within the tent was a welcome relief. Henry gestured and they seated themselves at a trestle table of polished oak. John Mansel began to fill their cups. When Davydd tasted his, he discovered that Henry had even thought to provide mead, a drink unfashionable in England but still popular among the Welsh. Henry was watching him, a faint smile playing about his mouth; he looked so expectant that Davydd said, “Thank you.” That was the best he could do, but it seemed to satisfy Henry.

  “I saw no reason,” he said, “to turn your surrender into a spectacle. Now…shall we speak freely? You are in no position to balk at any of my demands, Davydd. You do understand that?”

  He waited, got an all but imperceptible nod of the head in reluctant response. “Very well, then. Let me tell you what I want from you. You must surrender Mold Castle to Roger de Montalt. Lower Powys is to be returned to Gruffydd ap Gwenwynwyn. The cantref of Meirionydd is to go to the sons of Maredudd ap Cynan. For the Crown, I am claiming the commote of Tegeingl…and Buellt Castle.” He paused, anticipating objections, for Buellt Castle was Isabella’s marriage portion. He did not feel comfortable about penalizing Isabella, but Buellt was one of the most strategic castles in South Wales, too strategic to leave in the hands of a Welsh Prince. He was rather relieved, therefore, when Davydd said nothing.

  “Nor is that all, Davydd. You must also assume the costs of my campaign. And lastly, you must surrender to me the castle and manor of Ellesmere in Shropshire.”

  “Ellesmere was my mother’s marriage portion,” Davydd said, and Henry no longer met his eyes. John Mansel made haste to interrupt, for he had long ago learned how unpredictable Henry could be. If given time to reflect, he might well decide that since he would not have taken from Joanna whilst she lived, he could not in conscience do so now.

  “You must also yield up ten or more highborn hostages, my lord,” he said, and Davydd’s hazel eyes focused upon him with an unblinking, almost feline intensity. But at that, Henry leaned forward.

  “You need not fear for them, Davydd,” he said, quite earnestly. “They shall be well treated; you do have my word on that.”

  A silence fell. To Mansel, Henry’s assurances were absurd, for it was the threat that made the taking of hostages so effective a stratagem. But he knew better than to remonstrate with Henry. Henry never forgot who was King, never forgave a slight to his royal dignity. The man who wanted to manipulate Henry had to do so by indirection, had to plant his seeds and then wait patiently for them to take root, for Henry to conclude those first green shoots were the fruit of his own imagination.

  Davydd’s head was throbbing. There was an air of amiable unreality to this entire conversation that Henry should be savaging Gwynedd with a smile. He did not know the rules to this game. Should he be grateful that Henry meant to shackle him by the wrists and not the neck? “What of Gruffydd?” he said. “What happens to him?”

  “He must be turned over to the English Crown. So must Owain, and the other men you are keeping at Cricieth Castle.”

  Davydd had not realized he was holding his breath. “And then?”

  A parchment scroll lay on the table. Henry reached for it, slid it over to Davydd. Ednyved moved closer so he could read, too. It was written, of course, in Latin, and the Welsh names had been hopelessly mutilated in the translation process; at the bottom of the page were attached the seals of Gruffydd, Senena, and the English King. Davydd scanned it rapidly. “Agreement made at Shrewsbury, on the Monday before the Assumption…whereby the said Senana undertakes on behalf of Gruffino, her husband…that the King may deliver the said Gruffino and Oweyn, his son, from prison…that the King shall cause him to have justice, according to Welsh law…Senana shall give to the King Dauid and Rather, her sons, as hostages…” Davydd looked up at that. “Why not Llelo?”

  “It was intended that he, too, should be a hostage. But the lad disappeared from Shrewsbury, and Senena had no luck in finding him.”

  Davydd slid the charter roll back across the table. “So Gruffydd is to have his freedom,” he said, “and half of Gwynedd, too.” And try as he might, he could not keep the bitterness from his voice.

  “Well,” Henry said, “that is Senena’s understanding.”

  Davydd and Ednyved exchanged glances. “And your understanding, Uncle?”

  “Such a decision cannot be made in haste. I shall need time to ponder all the implications, the consequences, ere I can make up my mind. And whilst we deliberate, we think it best that Gruffydd remain in confinement. I have made arrangements, therefore, for Sir John Lexington to escort Gruffydd and Owain to London, to the Tower.”

  If Henry had expected Davydd’s reaction to be one of relief or reprieve, he was disappointed. The younger man set his wine cup down. He had, Henry decided, an unnervingly direct gaze, one that seemed to see too much. “So Gruffydd and I both lose,” he said, quite tonelessly.

  Gruffydd ap Llewelyn was forty-five years old, and had passed eleven of those years as a prisoner. His most comfortable confinement had been his six years in the great keep of Deganwy Castle, for he’d been permitted the company of his wife and children, all the material solace his wealth could provide. He’d been treated most harshly by the English King. In contrast to John, Davydd at least allowed him certain basic amenities—baths, clean clothing, mead, even a chess set and dice. But for Gruffydd, such favors were trifles, mere flickers of light amidst the all-enveloping dark. Cricieth was the worst ordeal of all.

  During his imprisonment in England, he’d had hatred to sustain him—and hope. The young always have hope. He’d never utterly despaired, never given up his belief that one day he’d be free. Now…now he stared out at the distant silhouettes of Eryri, and knew these were the sights he’d see till the day he died, for Davydd would never let him go. And he hated Davydd no less for his forbearance than for his treachery, hated Davydd for denying him the mercy of death.

  So the days had passed for him, one into the other, yesterdays indistinguishable from tomorrows. The months changed, the seasons changed; nothing else did. And then, on a morning in early September, they were awakened before dawn, ordered to dress, and within the hour, they were riding toward a horizon aglow with light, riding into the most vivid, vibrant sunrise Gruffydd had ever seen.

  He could only conclude that they were being transferred to another of Davydd’s castles, although he did not understand why Davydd would take such a needless risk, for his brother was no fool—had he only realized that eleven months ago, he might not have walked so trustingly into Davydd’s trap. As they moved inland, he prayed, as never before, that Senena had been foresighted enough to keep Cricieth under surveillance. But the sun rose over the mountains, they moved through narrow ravines ideal for ambush, emerged unscathed. By the time they reached the valley of the River Lledr, Gruffydd no longer deluded himself, knew that no rescue would be forthcoming. It was up to him.

  Unfortunately, their guards were seasoned soldiers, cat-quick and as wary as wolves. By day’s end, they’d given neither Gruffydd nor Owain opportunity for escape. They took no chances, from time to time would check their prisoners’ bonds, and they kept Gruffydd and Owain’s horses on tight leads. While they stopped fairly frequently to rest in the heat of midday, they untied their prisoners’ wrists only to allow them to urinate, and then kept watch in a circle, swords drawn—although they’d not crowded in quite so closely after Owain had urinated upon the nearest pair of feet. But even so deliberate a provocation had failed to crack their icy composure. The men remained tight-lipped, aloof, unfriendly—and ever watchful.

  Gruffydd had thought at first that Dolbadarn or Dolwyddelan would be their new prison. But when they moved into the wide, wooded valley of the River Conwy, he realized that he was to be caged again at Deganwy, Deganwy, which held for him so many ghosts, so many phantom griefs. Davydd had a hunting lodge at Trefriw, but they pressed on, bedded down for the night by the bank of the river. Gruffydd had lain awake for hours, gazing up at a sky aglimmer with pinpoint
lights, with as many stars as he had regrets. The deepest regret of all lay asleep beside him, mouth ajar, fair skin mottled by so much sudden exposure to the sun. Gruffydd shifted on his blanket, at once attracting the eyes of those guards keeping a sleepless vigil. Turning awkwardly on his side, for he was bound hand and foot, he gazed for a long time at his sleeping son. Owain would never have come to Cricieth if not for him, would not have forfeited eleven months of his life had he not been so blind, so willfully, unforgivably blind. How could he have so misread his brother?

  Before dawn, they were on the road again, reached the Cistercian abbey of Aberconwy by mid-morning. Ahead lay the great rock of Deganwy. But the castle Gruffydd so hated was in ruins. Blackened and scorched timber palisades lay smoldering in the sun; the wooden buildings within the bailey had been burned to the ground. Gulls wheeled overhead, occasionally shrieking, but no other sound intruded upon the eerie, death-like silence that overhung Deganwy. Gruffydd had rarely seen a sight so desolate, or so baffling. Who had destroyed it? And why?

  Owain sought for a time to elicit answers from their taciturn guards, in vain. They moved on, once more heading into the sun. By late afternoon, they were within sight of the walls of Rhuddlan Castle. Rhuddlan had a checkered past. There had been a castle at the mouth of the River Clwyd for nigh on two hundred years; it was Welsh or English according to the vicissitudes of war. Owain’s sight was keenest; he saw it first. “Jesú,” he gasped. “Papa, look!” And Gruffydd gazed upward, saw the banner flying from the castle battlements—three golden lions on a bloodred background—the royal arms of England.

  The castle bailey was filled with men, but not the men Gruffydd expected to see. The red and white livery of the King was everywhere present. Yet amidst the bearded English faces were mustached Welsh ones, too. No sooner had they ridden through the gatehouse than the Welsh surged forward; within moments, the riders were engulfed. A babble of voices rose up around Gruffydd, an incongruous mesh of three tongues, English, Welsh, and French. Men were shouting his name, making of it an exultant battle cry. He looked about in bewilderment, then saw a familiar figure shoving his way toward them: his young brother-by-marriage. Einion was only of average height, seemed to be struggling against a rising tide, but he finally thrust through the crowd, grabbed at Gruffydd’s boot.

  His mouth was moving, but Gruffydd could not catch his words. “What are you doing here, Einion? What has happened?”

  “You are free! Senena…she struck a deal with the English King. You are both free, Gruffydd!”

  Owain heard enough to let out a jubilant yell. Gruffydd stared down at his brother-in-law. “Free?” he echoed. He sounded stunned. “At what price?”

  Einion hesitated, then said, “No higher than need be.” Relieved when Gruffydd’s guards cut their conversation off, he followed them into the hall. Let Senena be the one to tell him. Not me, he thought, no, by God, not me!

  The great hall was no less crowded than the castle bailey. Gruffydd’s guards formed a phalanx, bulled their way toward the dais. Gruffydd caught a glimpse of bright gold hair, recognized the English King. He was heartened at sight of the Princes of Powys, standing behind Henry upon the dais; he was not so friendless as he’d first thought. And then he saw his wife. Even as a young girl, Senena had never been a beauty. But there was such joy upon her face that she held the eye of every man in the hall. She was the acknowledged heroine of the hour, and when she started down the dais steps toward her husband, a path at once opened for her.

  While she’d proven herself to be a passionate bedmate, she’d never been demonstrative in public. But now she threw her arms around Gruffydd’s neck, and when he lowered his head, she kissed him full on the mouth. She embraced Owain next, and then kissed Gruffydd again. “You are safe, beloved,” she murmured. “Safe at last…” Her laughter was a soaring sound of triumph. “And we have won, Gruffydd, we have won!”

  But belief did not come easily to Gruffydd. “Is it true, Senena? You made a deal with the English King?”

  “Yes,” she said, “I did. I would have bargained with the Devil himself if that was what it took to free you.”

  Gruffydd looked into those luminous grey eyes, at that red mouth, no longer laughing. “The Devil demands souls,” he said tautly. “What does Henry want?”

  She would have to tell him, of course. But not now, not here. “That can wait, beloved. First we must cut these bonds.” She saw the protest forming on his lips—he was nothing if not single-minded—and added hastily, “Davydd is here.”

  Gruffydd’s eyes narrowed, swept by her, raking the hall. She knew by his indrawn breath when he’d located his brother, and she gave his arm a supportive squeeze. “In time, love,” she said, “all in good time,” and then she turned back toward the English King.

  Senena had no more regard for the English than did Gruffydd, but she believed in honoring her debts, and the smile she now gave Henry was unforced, genuinely grateful. “May I borrow your dagger, my liege? Let Gruffydd be freed by your knife—and my hand.”

  She stretched out her arm, palm up, but Henry did not unsheathe the dagger. “I regret, Madame,” he said, “that it will not be possible to free your husband—not just yet.”

  He’d spoken so quietly that many in the hall had not heard his words. But they had only to look at Senena’s face to know that something was terribly wrong. She was suddenly ashen. “What are you saying? You promised me that Gruffydd would be freed. You gave me your sworn word!”

  Henry had the grace to look embarrassed. “I am not saying he will not be freed, Lady Senena, only that his release must be delayed. You did agree, after all, that we were to determine his legal rights under Welsh law. Well, that will take time. But until I can reach a decision, I will personally see to it that your husband and son lack for no comfort, that they—”

  The rest of his sentence was lost. As Gruffydd’s supporters realized that they had been duped, they began to voice their shock, loudly and indignantly. Of all the Welshmen in the hall, Gruffydd alone was not surprised. “Where?” he demanded, his voice cutting sharply across the rising murmurs of protest. “Where do you mean to hold me?”

  There was so much raw emotion in that question that Henry winced. “London,” he mumbled, temporizing in vain, for there was not a man there who did not know what he truly meant—the Tower.

  “No!” The scream was Senena’s and it acted as a catalyst, unleashed pandemonium in the hall. The echoes of her scream were still reverberating as Gruffydd lunged at the nearest of his guards, made a desperate grab for the man’s dagger. But they’d been anticipating just such a move, and he was swiftly subdued. Owain, too, was struggling now, but to no avail. Some of Henry’s men had unobtrusively augmented Davydd’s force, and they made haste to defuse a dangerous situation, began to drag their prisoners toward the door behind the dais.

  The Welsh were in an uproar. Both Princes of Powys were remonstrating angrily with Henry. Others were taking out their frustration and fury upon the closest targets, and English-Welsh quarrels were breaking out across the hall. Several men had hands on sword hilts, but the Welsh were hopelessly outnumbered. It was that sense of their own helplessness that gave such an edge to their rage. A few tried halfheartedly to intervene upon Gruffydd’s behalf, were shoved back by his guards.

  Gruffydd had cut his hand upon the guard’s dagger, and the sight of his blood had so demoralized Senena that she’d stood frozen, watching in horrified disbelief. But then the guards reached the door, thrust their prisoners through, and again she cried out, darted forward to follow. One of the men pushed her aside. She staggered backward, fell to her knees, to the utter outrage of those close enough to see. Henry leaped to his feet, hastened down the steps of the dais.

  “How dare you?” he raged. “I’ll not have any man maltreat a lady in my presence, not ever!” But when he sought to help Senena up, she gave him a look of such hatred that he recoiled. Stepping back, he said curtly, “She has my permission to accompany her
husband. Is that understood?”

  Senena’s mouth contorted. Getting slowly to her feet, she looked at Henry, then spat upon the floor. Only then did she turn, follow after her husband and son.

  Amidst all the turmoil, the two men standing against the far wall seemed somehow out of place, for they alone had remained calm, detached eye-witnesses to disaster. After a time, they attracted the attention of Gruffydd Maelor, Prince of Upper Powys. He pushed his way toward them, his eyes flicking accusingly from Davydd to Ednyved, back to Davydd again.

  “So you won, after all,” he said bitterly.

  Davydd looked at him, saying nothing; he’d never realized that silence could be such an effective weapon. But when Davydd did speak, it was with such blistering contempt that the Prince of Powys could never forget it, nor ever forgive.

  “I’ve won, you say? When the English can now use Gruffydd as a sword at my throat, a threat to extort whatever they damned well please? They know I dare not balk at their demands, for they need only release Gruffydd to start another bloody civil war, to tear Wales asunder again. There was but one winner here at Rhuddlan, the King of England, and if you cannot see that, you deserve what is like to befall you. Unfortunately, your people do not, although they will be the ones to suffer for your stupidity. Till the day he died, my father fought to hold the English at bay. And he did, he kept them from overrunning Gwynedd and yes, your Powys, too, as they had Deheubarth. If not for him, much of Powys would be an English shire by now. Yet his dream did survive him by just sixteen scant months. His life’s work is in ruins about us, and I must bear my share of the blame for that. But if I have reason to rue this day, so do you, Gruffydd Maelor. You are going to learn a very hard lesson about English power and Welsh consequences.”