Falls the Shadow

by Sharon Kay Penman

  Following a guard up the stairwell in the northeast turret of the White Tower, Senena paused in the doorway. The top story of the keep contained an enormous hall, now blocked off, an elegantly austere chapel, and Henry’s great chamber, a spacious, well-lit room with soaring ceilings and numerous windows, encircled overhead by the most impressive mural gallery Senena had ever seen. The chamber afforded not only luxury, but privacy, too, partitioned off by a large, oaken screen.

  Emerging from behind the screen, Owain was hastening toward her, a jaunty smile of welcome upon his face. “I was beginning to fear you were not coming, Mama!”

  “How is your father, Owain?”

  His smile faded. “The same,” he said, saw her lashes sweep down. “Ah, Mama…Mama, do not do this to yourself. You are not to blame for what happened.”

  She neither agreed nor argued. As close as they were, he could see how hollowed were her eyes, webbed by worry lines, bloodshot from lack of sleep. “Mama, listen to me. I’ll not deny that when I first realized I was to go to the Tower, I was chilled to the very marrow of my bones. But look about us. Who could find fault with such a prison? Life is far better here than at Cricieth, that I can say for certes.”

  As he spoke, he was drawing her toward the nearest window. “Henry is a more generous gaoler than Davydd, God rot him. Time does not hang so heavily on my hands here. Davydd did allow us books, but I’ve never been much of a reader, and neither is Papa. Now we can play at tables, or dicing, or draughts. We’ve a servant to tend to our needs, even our own cook. Best of all, we can have visitors, can write and receive letters. We can learn what is happening beyond these walls, after nigh on a year of silence, of never knowing.”

  He gestured toward the window. “At Cricieth, we had nothing to do, nothing to watch but sea gulls. But Henry’s palace is right across the bailey, so there is constant activity, tradesmen and servants and soldiers milling about. I do not feel so cut off here, feel like I’m still part of the world. Above all, I feel safer here. Henry needs us alive. Davydd needed us dead. I never could understand why he did not have us put to death, and I’d much rather trust to Henry’s self-interest than to Davydd’s forbearance.”

  At that, she nodded. “Not a day passed that I did not fear for your lives,” she confessed. “Not an hour…”

  “You must see then that you’ve nothing to reproach yourself for. It is better here in all ways, Mama. Henry’s guards speak no Welsh, so Papa and I have far more privacy, need not watch every word. And our English guards are friendly, treat us like lords. Davydd’s men acted as if we were lepers, but I sometimes dice with our guards now, and they tell me all the court gossip, will share a flagon if I offer it.” He could see her disapproval that he should socialize with his inferiors, with his enemies, and he lowered his voice even though no one was within earshot. “The day could well come when a friendly guard might be a godsend, Mama.”

  “You are right,” she conceded. “By all means, cultivate these men if you can.” Reaching for a small leather pouch that swung from her belt, she held it out toward him. “Ere I forget, here is the money you asked for. To pay some of those dicing debts, I daresay?”

  Owain grinned, but did not answer. He carefully tucked the pouch inside his tunic, for he meant to put it to much better use than gambling. One of the guards had boasted that he knew a young whore with hair the color of silver-gilt, and he’d promised to bring her up into the keep if Owain made it worth his while. “The guards say I can have a pet if I’ve a mind to, Mama. Do you know what I’d like? One of those trained monkeys. I understand you can ofttimes find them offered for sale at the Smithfield Horse Fair, or down by the wharves, where foreign ships come in.”

  “I’ll find you a monkey, Owain, never fear. Now…” Senena drew a steadying breath. “Let us go in to your father.”

  The partitioned-off portion of the great chamber was still spacious enough to contain two large, canopied beds, a table and chairs. Gruffydd was sprawled in a window-seat, staring out into the Tower bailey. He looked up as his wife and son entered, but did not speak.

  “Good morrow, beloved.” Senena leaned over, kissed the corner of his mouth. He did not respond, but neither did he pull away, as he’d done in the past, and she took what meagre encouragement she could from that. As she sat down beside him, though, she could not keep from casting a wistful glance toward Gruffydd’s bed, could not help wondering if he’d ever take her behind those canopied curtains, if he’d ever forgive her.

  “I have news,” she said, forcing a smile. “I need no longer stay at that noisome Southwark inn, have leased a house in Aldgate, not far from here.”

  “We are glad, Mama.” Owain returned her smile, but Gruffydd said nothing. He was fiddling with a wooden ball and cup, a child’s toy, flipping the ball into the air and catching it in the cup. Senena yearned to reach out, to stroke his cheek, his hair, noticing suddenly how many silvered hairs were scattered now amidst the red.

  “Yesterday,” she said, “I paid a visit to Davydd and Rhodri. They are well, Gruffydd, and…and they seem quite content.”

  His hand jerked and the ball bounced into the floor rushes. Senena reached over; her fingers just brushed his sleeve. “Gruffydd, listen to me. They are safe, I swear it. And they need not live at the King’s court, need not follow Henry on his journeys around the realm. He has agreed to keep them at Westminster, so I may see them often.”

  “How very magnanimous of him,” he said, so bitingly that color flooded her face. “So we have no cause for concern, then. Henry shall take our sons to his heart. They are safe, you say, they are well, they are even content. I wonder, though, how content Llelo is. I suppose you could ask, Senena—that is, if you knew where to find him!”

  “You are not being fair! Do you not think I care about Llelo’s whereabouts? I’ve had men searching all of Shropshire for the past month. What more would you have me do?”

  He gave her such a burning look that her breath lodged in her throat, and Owain made haste to intervene. Even knowing as he did that their guards could not eavesdrop, he was embarrassed, nonetheless, by their raised voices; quarrels sounded the same in any language. And as uncomfortable as he felt, being trapped like this between them, he found most of his sympathy flowing toward his mother.

  “I think Mama was right in what she did. Our lives were in peril; the lads’ lives are not. There are worse fates, Papa, than to be a hostage of the English Crown, and I think you are over—”

  “What do you know about it?” Gruffydd flung the wooden cup from him with such force that it splintered against the far wall. Rising to his feet, he swung about to confront his son. “You were not at Nottingham Castle the day John hanged the Welsh hostages. You were not trussed up like a pig for butchering, you did not lie for hours on a dirt-strewn floor, listening as your friends were taken out to die, expecting at any moment your own summons to the gallows. You did not hear their pleading, or see their bodies, swaying back and forth, see their black, swollen faces…”

  Gruffydd’s mouth twisted; he swallowed, spat into the floor rushes, said, “There were children amongst them, boys of nine or ten. So do not tell me that it is safe to be a hostage of the English King, do not tell me that youth is a shield and none would harm a child. I know better. I was there!”

  Senena, too, was on her feet now. “Henry is not John! Why can you not see that? Henry is not capable of his father’s cruelties, would never murder a child!”

  “You sound so sure of that, Senena. But then, you were sure, too, that Henry would honor his bargain with you, that he’d set me free!”

  Senena turned away, leaned for some moments against the door leading into the chapel. Neither Gruffydd nor Owain spoke. It was only then that they heard the footsteps approaching the partition.

  It was the most amiable of their guards, the freckled youth who claimed to know a whore with silver-gilt hair, and evidenced in both his blood and name the mingling of two cultures, two heritages, the ancient Saxon
of Edwin, the proud Norman-French of de Crecy.

  “You have visitors,” he said. “Sir Robert de Quincy and his wife, the Lady Elen.”

  Gruffydd was taken aback; Elen had long ago pledged her loyalties to Davydd. But Senena reacted at once, with utter outrage.

  “No, by God! There may be much I have to endure, but I’ll not let that bitch come to gloat. Send her away.”

  “No,” Gruffydd snapped. “I will see them.” And when his wife would have protested, he silenced her with an impatient, “Use your head, woman. If Elen is here, it can only mean she has word for me, and it might well be of Llelo.”

  Senena opened her mouth, shut it again. “You are right,” she said, sounding somewhat abashed. “I never even thought of that…”

  As the guard motioned them to come forward, another of the guards stepped in front of Llelo, holding out his hand. The boy looked at him blankly. Only when the man gestured, did he understand, slowly unsheathe his knife and hand it over. He gave Elen a crooked smile, then began to walk toward the partition. His feet were making an inordinate amount of noise, scuffling through the rushes, and he was suddenly very thirsty. His throat seemed to have closed up, so tight had the muscles become; he had not even enough saliva to spit.

  He halted in the screen doorway, not knowing what to expect. He heard his mother cry out his name, but his eyes were already riveted upon his father. He’d never seen Gruffydd with a beard before; he was both astonished and disconcerted that it should be so streaked with grey. For one dismaying moment, he felt as if he were staring at a stranger. And then Gruffydd smiled.

  “Thank God,” he said simply. That was all, was more than enough. Llelo forgot his fears, his qualms, even his guilt, moved forward into his father’s arms. But when he stepped back, there was a sudden awkwardness. He looked at his mother, not knowing what to say. She, too, seemed at a loss, seemed no less uncertain than he.

  “Come here,” she said at last. But the embrace was forced, unfamiliar, gave neither of them the comfort they sought. Senena’s fingers brushed Llelo’s cheek, smoothed his untidy, dark hair, while her other hand tightened on his shoulder. “Do you know what a scare you gave us, Llelo? I think you have some explaining to do!”

  Llelo tensed anew, but his father was shaking his head. “No, Senena,” he said, “he does not.” His eyes cut from his son to the woman now standing in the doorway. “Is it safe for him to be here?”

  Elen nodded. “You need not fear; he has a safe-conduct. Rob and I are leaving now, Llewelyn, will await you in the bailey.”

  “That will not be necessary.” Senena’s was a poisoned politeness, for she was seething with rage, with aggrieved and baffled resentment that her runaway son should have turned to Elen, to Elen of all women. “My son belongs with me, will be returning to my house in Aldgate.”

  Elen’s eyes narrowed. “That,” she said, “will depend entirely upon the lad!”

  Llelo flushed, stared down at the floor, and Gruffydd made haste to say, “Thank you, Elen, for taking care of my son.” Putting his arm, then, around Llelo’s shoulders, he said, “Come with me, lad,” and Llelo followed him gratefully into the chapel.

  There Llelo came to an abrupt halt, dazzled by what he saw. The King’s chapel of St John the Evangelist was splendid beyond all expectations, a superb crafting of man’s skill and God’s spirit. Henry had recently ordered it white-washed, and the stone walls glowed with ivory light. It was the windows that caught Llelo’s gaze, however, for three of them were set with costly stained glass, brilliantly shaded depictions of the Virgin and Child, the Holy Trinity, and St John the Evangelist. Crimson and emerald and purple—the panes shimmered and sparkled, until even the shadows held flickers of lavender and rose-tinted sunlight.

  Against the west wall was Henry’s private pew. Gruffydd pushed the gate aside, sat down deliberately upon Henry’s plush velvet cushions, gesturing for Llelo to join him. “Tell me the truth,” he said. “You ran away from Shrewsbury because you learned you were to be offered up as a hostage, did you not?”

  Llelo nodded, and Gruffydd grinned. “Good lad! Now tell me the rest,” he said, and Llelo did. He was accurate, but not entirely honest. The account he’d offered Elen was far closer to the truth than the version he now spun out for his father, sketched in fact but colored by imagination. What Gruffydd got was a tale of high adventure, one utterly lacking in dark shadings, and when it was done, Gruffydd said again, “Good lad,” in tones of pride and approval.

  “Papa…what happens now?”

  “I would that I knew.” The boy looked so troubled, though, that Gruffydd roused himself. “As much as it galls me to be a prisoner of the English, the truth is, lad, that I am probably better off here than at Cricieth. Davydd would never have set me free. Henry would free me tomorrow if he thought it served his interests to do so. In that sense, my prospects are not as bleak. And then, too, there are other ways out of prison. Not even Merlin could have managed an escape from Cricieth, so tightly was that bottle corked. But here…” He laughed scornfully. “As lax as Henry’s guards are, I could be gone fully a day ere I’d even be missed!”

  “Aunt Elen told me that a Bishop once escaped from the Tower, from your very chamber, by sliding down a rope, as slick as you please.” Llelo hesitated, then said reluctantly, “What do you want me to do, Papa? Would you have me go home with Mama?”

  “Yes,” Gruffydd said, pretended not to see the boy flinch. “Your rightful place is, of course, with your mother. But I would not have you remain in England any longer than need be, will not truly breathe easy till you are back in Wales. Gwladys and de Mortimer are in London, plan to return to the Marches within the next fortnight or so, and when they go, you are to go with them.”

  Llelo’s relief was soaring. Although he would have preferred living with Elen, he was quite content to stay with Gwladys, would have turned to her for help had her husband not been one of Senena’s pledges. “I’d as soon live in a lazar-house as in London,” he confessed, and Gruffydd gave him a grimly amused smile.

  “You did not let me finish, lad. I do not mean for you to stay with Gwladys. Send word to Senena’s brothers, and they will come for you, take you back into Gwynedd. My war is not done, will not be as long as I draw breath. But since I cannot fight it, it is up to my friends—and up to you, Llelo.”

  “You want me to war upon Davydd?”

  Gruffydd misread the boy’s dismay, said swiftly, reassuringly, “You will not be alone, lad. Senena’s brothers will be there to counsel you; Einion in particular is well worthy of your trust. So, too, is Gruffydd Maelor of Powys. But it is you whom men will rally to, lad. The men who would fight for me will fight now for my son—for you.”

  Llelo got to his feet, moved into the brightest patch of sunlight. According to Elen, Henry was already building a new stone castle at Disserth. How many more English castles would be rising up from Welsh soil? How many crops did Henry mean to harvest from those bitter seeds sown at Gwern Eigron? And it was Davydd who stood alone against him, Davydd who was Gwynedd’s only bulwark against further English conquest. Yet now, with the dike so dangerously weakened, leaking like a sieve, Papa would act, not to shore it up, but to tear it down, to let the flood waters engulf them all!

  Gruffydd had risen, too, disturbed by his son’s silence. “Well? I need you, Llewelyn, need you to play a man’s part, to do what I cannot. You’ll not let me down?”

  Never before had he called Llelo by his given name. The boy turned slowly to face him. “No, Papa,” he said, “I will not let you down, will do whatever you ask of me.”

  He looked so somber, though, that Gruffydd felt a conscience pang, could only hope he was not burdening the lad too unfairly, too soon. But there was no help for it.

  “Your mother meant well, but she was wrong to offer our sons as hostages, and she was wrong to put her trust in Henry. Take this lesson to heart, lad, and never forget it, never—that the world’s greatest fool is a Welshman who trusts an English
King.”

  In October, Henry summoned Davydd to London, where he did homage to the English King, ratified the Treaty of Gwern Eigron, and was forced to yield all rights to Deganwy Castle to the English Crown.

  The sun was low in the sky, sinking toward the west, as Davydd emerged from Henry’s palace into the inner bailey of the Tower of London. He stood motionless upon the steps of the great hall, seemingly blind to the chaos swirling about him. Tradesmen come to sell their goods mingled with servants from the royal brewery and bake-house and dovecote, grooms from the stables exchanged banter with men herding doomed pigs toward the kitchen stock-pen, while soldiers and small boys gathered to watch a drover struggling to free his mud-mired cart, and the ever-present stray dogs prowled about, hopeful for handouts. Davydd was oblivious to it all, did not move even as their horses were brought up; he’d made use of the land-gate, for like most Welshmen, he had little regard for river travel. Still, he stood there, staring unseeingly at his own restive stallion, as his men shifted uneasily, began to murmur among themselves.

  Ednyved had followed Davydd down the steps. He’d rarely felt so tired or so dispirited or so heavy with years, yet he stood by patiently, willing to give the younger man the time he needed. But then he saw the boy.

  It was not by chance; Llelo had been waiting for more than two hours for his uncle to emerge from the King’s private chambers. He’d had more than two hours, though, in which to rehearse what he would say. He’d had more than a year, the thirteen months since he’d confronted Davydd at Dolwyddelan Castle.

  Ednyved frowned, reached and touched Davydd’s arm in warning. “Llelo is below, watching for you.”

  Davydd seemed to sigh, then shrugged. “So be it,” he said wearily, moved down the steps toward his nephew.