Although it was only noon, the clouds were so thick and the rain so unrelenting that it seemed more like dusk. Even a blazing fire in the center hearth could not keep the chill from the hall, nor could it dispel the gloom. For more than an hour, Henry had listened as his barons voiced their complaints about the Welsh war. He was reminded that all they’d gained was a partially constructed castle, that their foraging parties were ambushed every time they ventured from camp, that their larders were as barren as their expectations of victory. They pointed out that his scheme to divide the Welsh by making use of Gruffydd’s son Owain had so far come to naught; he had released Owain from the Tower, granted him a house in Cheshire, but few rallied to his cause. They argued that they were not equipped for a winter campaign, and they pressed Henry from all sides, demanding that he lead them home.
Henry was not surprised by this lack of support. More and more, he was convinced that there were none he could rely upon, none he could truly trust. None who understood why he was so reluctant to retreat. None who understood his hunger for a victory, his need to blot out the shaming memories of his last military campaign, that costly, inglorious war with France.
He had moved closer to the hearth, although this was a chill of the spirit as much as of the body. Now he turned back, let his eyes move slowly from man to man, but not finding what he sought. Theirs was a common discontent; he saw it mirrored in the faces of his brother Richard, his cousin Will, the Earl of Winchester, even Marcher lords like the Earl of Gloucester and Humphrey de Bohun. As ever, he thought, I stand alone.
It was Richard’s resentment that bothered Henry the most. He could acknowledge that Richard had some cause for disgruntlement; Alan Buscell was the third of his household knights to die in Wales. But from the first, Richard had shown little enthusiasm for this campaign, had voiced his opposition so freely that rumors had begun to circulate, rumors that had Richard siding with his nephew Davydd rather than his brother the King. Henry knew better than that. The irony of such rumors was that he was probably more sympathetic to Davydd’s plight than Richard, for family ties had always meant more to him, and as angry as he was with his nephew’s intransigence, as determined to punish the Welsh, he had never sought Davydd’s utter destruction.
But as Henry looked at his silent brother, he felt an unease that went beyond Richard’s objections to this war, for he knew that there lay between them the shadow of Gascony, Gascony that he had promised to Richard, only to renege at Eleanor’s urgings. Upon their return from France, Richard had married Sanchia, Eleanor’s younger sister, and he and his new wife were often at Henry’s court. On the surface, their quarrel seemed to have been forgotten, peace restored…or so Henry had tried to believe. Yet he could never quite stifle a secret fear—that of all he’d lost in France, his greatest loss was not to be measured in terms of money spent or lands forfeited, but in the distance he now saw reflected in his brother’s eyes.
A sudden gust of rain-drenched wind turned all heads toward the opening door. Henry’s sense of foreboding only intensified at sight of his brother-in-law. Logically, he ought to be able to count upon Simon’s support, for how many men had been so favored by their King? But as he made ready to ask Simon for his opinion, he was already bracing himself for bad news, for betrayal. “My lords think we ought to abandon the campaign, withdraw into England. What say you, Simon? Are you in agreement with them?”
“Of course I am,” Simon said, sounding faintly surprised that the question should even be raised, for he could envision no greater lunacy than attempting to fight a winter campaign in Wales.
His tone was not lost upon Henry. As if he thought that men of common sense could not differ on this. As if his way was the only way. As if he did not owe his King better than this.
“I am astonished by your ingratitude, Simon, yea, and grievously disappointed. When I think of all I have conferred upon you…I gave you an earldom, even gave you my sister. Last year I granted you custody of Kenilworth Castle, one of the most formidable fortresses in the realm, and agreed to give Nell a marriage portion of five hundred marks a year. Just a year ago I gave you the lucrative wardship of Sir Gilbert de Hunfrunville’s son, even though my brother, too, wanted it, and I excused Nell from paying one hundred pounds she owed a Jewish money-lender. How can you then turn on me like this?”
If he’d hoped that this tallying up of the benefits he’d bestowed upon Simon would stir in Simon a sense of shame, he had miscalculated. Simon had listened, first in astonishment, and then in anger. An accusation of ingratitude was perilously akin to one of disloyalty. The charge stung all the more because in the past year Simon had violated his conscience in Henry’s behalf. When the English clergy had refused Henry’s demands for additional moneys, Simon had reluctantly agreed to act as one of Henry’s spokesmen, a role that had brought him into conflict with the Bishop of Lincoln, the friend whose opinion Simon valued above all others.
“Turn on you?” he echoed coldly. “I came to Wales to fight for you, did I not? What more do you want from me?”
“I want your respect!”
To those watching, it was difficult to decide who looked more startled, Simon or Henry. Henry clasped his hand to his mouth, a gesture as involuntary as the words themselves had been. His discomposure was painful to look upon, and yet disarming, too. Simon felt his anger ebbing away, and he did not make the obvious cruel retort, that respect could not be commanded, must be earned. But his silence was eloquent in itself, and no less wounding to Henry.
No one spoke; no one knew what to say. Henry swung about, able to escape their eyes but knowing he could never outrun the memory of this moment, that every man here would remember it, he most of all. He summoned up the shreds of his dignity, said bitterly, “So be it, then. I cannot fight this war alone. We shall withdraw from Deganwy by week’s end.”
On the 28th of October, the English army retreated, leaving behind a garrison to hold Deganwy Castle. They then laid waste to the Welsh countryside in hopes of creating famine, and ravaged the neighboring English shire of Cheshire as well, so that the Welsh could find no succor there for the hunger that would soon stalk their land. Henry imposed a strict embargo on corn, salt, iron, steel, and cloth, and vowed that the war was not done.
From Chester, Henry and Richard returned to London. Will and Humphrey de Bohun rode toward their respective estates in the West Country. Peter de Montfort headed for his manor in Warwickshire. And Simon raced for Kenilworth Castle, arriving in time for the birth of his fourth son.
In Wales, they suffered, and they waited for the spring, when the English army would return.
17
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Maesmynan, North Wales
January 1246
________
Llewelyn was too tense to sit for long. He kept wandering to the shuttered window, back to the hearth, over to the trestle table, set for two. Reaching out, he realigned the trenchers, adjusted the spoons and knives. Napkins! Rummaging about in a coffer, he finally unearthed two linen squares. Righting an hourglass, he watched time trickle away, one grain after another. Where was she? Had she changed her mind?
The knock was so light, so tentative, that he could have imagined it. In two strides, he was at the door. She was enveloped in a long, dark mantle, a fragile wraith camouflaged in shadow. She smiled at sight of him, but seemed hesitant to cross the threshold. Llewelyn took her hand, drew her into his bedchamber, into the light.
“I alerted my servants. You had no trouble gaining admittance, Melangell?”
He so liked the sound of her name that he said it again. She shook her head, let him take her mantle. Her gown, a plain homespun, had been newly dyed forest-green, embroidered around the neckline. Llewelyn, who’d never paid any mind to women’s clothes, now found himself unexpectedly touched by the sight of that decorative stitching. He could imagine her huddled by the fire in her father’s cottage, laboriously seeking to adorn her gown—to catch his eye. The first time he had seen her, sh
e’d been kneeling by the river bank, barefoot, hair in curly disarray, singing softly to herself, as if she took joy in scrubbing a shirt. That was the girl he’d hoped to find tonight, a laughing river nymph, not this solemn stranger, hair demurely braided, eyes downcast. Never had they been so shy with each other. But never had they been alone in a firelit chamber, just a few steps away from a bed.
“I have something for you, Melangell.”
The locket was delicately crafted, engraved with a slanting M, exquisite enough to dispel Melangell’s unease. With a cry of wonder, she began to trace the M with her fingertips, in the way that Llewelyn had seen the blind explore the unknown. “Never have I seen anything so fine. These markings…they have meaning?”
He nodded, and then, inspired, he led her toward the table. Picking up a sheet of parchment, he scrawled a large letter M. “M—for Melangell.” As she watched, enthralled, he filled in the rest of her name. She had never seen it spelled out before, and she sought to trace the parchment as she had the locket, recoiling in dismay when her fingers smeared the ink. Llewelyn hastily recopied her name, then added his own beside it, like parallel branches on the same tree. Beneath he inked in the date of his birth—April 1228—and when he explained the meaning of these new scribblings, she laughed aloud.
“But that is my birthday, too! I was born in April just as you were, in 1230, at the time of the great scandal, when your lord grandfather’s wife was caught with her English lover.”
The parchment was forgotten. They smiled at each other, marveling at this most amazing of coincidences, that they should share the same birth-month.
Llewelyn reached out; his fingers followed the curve of her cheek. “How fair you are to look upon…”
He could feel heat rise in her face. “No,” she said regretfully, “I am not. When the bards sing of great beauties, such women always have hair like flax, lips like cherries, and skin like snow.”
“Then the bards are blind,” he said, “for you are beautiful.” He hesitated, compelled to honesty, yet fearing its consequences. “I would not lie to you, Melangell. You hold my heart. But I cannot wed you.”
She had long-lashed brown eyes, eyes that widened now in astonishment that he should even mention such an impossibility. “I know that, my love. You are a Prince and I am a tanner’s daughter. I am not worthy—” She got no further; Llewelyn kissed her.
In the past, their kisses had been stolen, furtive; this was a kiss of possession. She did not protest when he began to loosen her primly coiled braids, shook her head playfully, and gave him back his river hoyden. “You said your father will be in Bangor until Thursday? I shall go to him upon his return, shall promise him that I will take care of you, that you’ll want for nothing. And if…when we have children, I shall be proud to recognize them as mine. On that, he will have my sworn word, Melangell.”
Melangell felt a sweet, sweeping relief, for as much as she’d needed such a guarantee, she’d been loath to broach the subject herself. Now her future—and more important, that of their children—was assured. “Is it true,” she asked, suddenly shy again, “that the English do not provide for children born out of wedlock? I’ve heard it said, but can scarce give it credence, so cruel it seems…”
“It is true, nonetheless. Even if the father acknowledges a child as his, the child has no legal rights of inheritance under English law. It is a hard land, hardest of all upon bastards and the women who bear them.”
“Bastard” was a word that had no sting in Wales. Any children born to Melangell and Llewelyn would be no less his heirs than those subsequently born in wedlock, in the marriage of state she knew he must one day make. She slid her arms up his back, feeling an enormous sense of pity for those English girls who must live in a society that made them either wives or whores. “I am so lucky, Llewelyn, lucky to be Welsh, lucky to have been on the river bank that day you passed by…”
Llewelyn’s elaborate dinner plans came to naught; neither could eat a bite. But he poured wine with a lavish hand. Melangell drank gratefully. It was highly spiced and potent; one cupful and she felt warmed, mellowed. She’d never been on a feather mattress before; she clung to it as if it were a thick, fleecy cloud likely to float out from under her. Llewelyn was not having much success with the lacings of her gown. His fingers were too eager, so clumsy that she could not help giggling. When he sought to remove her chemise, though, she put her hand on his chest.
“Llewelyn, wait. I must tell you…”
She was suddenly flushed. Llewelyn propped himself up on his elbow, looked intently into her face. “This is your first time?”
She nodded. “And you?” she whispered.
“No.” He leaned over, kissed the curve of her mouth. “Ere I came to terms with my uncle Davydd, I ofttimes stayed with my aunt Gwladys on her Shropshire manors. Every now and then, I would accompany her husband’s squires to Shrewsbury on errands, and whilst there, we’d go to the bawdy houses in Grope Lane.” He kissed her again. A familiar fragrance clung to her hair, her skin, sweet-smelling basil and rosemary, spices of the kitchen, the only perfume she could afford. “I love you, Melangell,” he said, and her eyes filled with tears.
Her skin was a warm, dusky color, and her hands were work-roughened, her nails of necessity clipped to the quick, for vanity rarely found a dwelling place in a tanner’s cottage. She was right; she was no knight’s ideal of ethereal blonde beauty. But when she pulled her chemise over her head, the body she revealed to Llewelyn was, to him, perfection. He touched a scrape on her knee, then bent over, put his mouth to the full, smooth breasts, and she wound her arms tightly around his neck as they sank down into the softness, into her cloud.
For Llewelyn, what followed was a revelation. His few hurried, awkward couplings with the whores of Shrewsbury had given him both satisfaction and shame. In the practiced embraces of bought women bored with a boy’s greenness, women who kept their eyes open as the candle burned down toward his allotted time, his body’s needs would soon blot out all else, even the scratchy straw mattress, the smell of sweat, the grunting from nearby cubicles. All too soon, there would be relief, of the sort gained by shooting an arrow skyward, and then he would lie quivering, much like that spent bow, aware again of the itch of flea bites, the stench from chamberpot and sour ale, the woman’s indifference. At seventeen, sex was not yet a pleasure, was rather a burning, urgent hunger that was neither convenient nor dignified, but impossible to deny.
Now he shared a bed with a girl his own age, a girl with trusting eyes, a soft, clean body, and he discovered that her youth and innocence and adoration were far greater aphrodisiacs than mead or oysters or pomegranates. He wanted to be gentle, wanted to please Melangell. But his need was too intense, the fire too hot. He gave himself up to it gladly, came back to reality with reluctance, dazed and euphoric and drenched in sweat. It was then that he saw the tears glistening on her lashes, felt the warm stickiness of her blood on his thigh.
He was at once horrified, contrite. “Melangell, I am sorry, I swear I am. I never meant to hurt you…”
“It…it is supposed to hurt, I think.” There were echoes of tears in her voice, but she managed a wan smile. When he put his arms around her, she found in physical intimacy the pleasure that had eluded her in the sexual act itself. He was very tender, murmuring endearments and reassurances, and she decided pain was a small price to pay for this quiet contentment. She was innocent but not ignorant, knew that the hurting would lessen now that he’d pierced her maidenhead. She knew, too, that many women took great joy in laying with a man. While she could not yet comprehend how that could be, she remembered vividly how Llewelyn had shuddered and groaned, and she felt a pride she’d never experienced before, that she’d been able to give him such pleasure.
When he wanted wine, she insisted upon fetching it for him; she meant to take care of him now that he was her man. He seemed to share her sentiments, for as soon as she got back into bed, he said, “Melangell, what can I do for your family?
If I offered your father five milk cows, would he accept?”
“Oh, yes!” Her father was a proud man, but these were lean times, and she had four younger sisters.
Llewelyn was pleased, although not surprised. This was the hardest winter he could recall. “I suppose it was to be expected that the English King would ravage Gwynedd ere he led his army back across the border. But I will never understand, Melangell, how he could then have laid waste to Cheshire, too. It served his purposes, increased our suffering, but the people of Cheshire are English, his own subjects. Did he care naught for them?”
That was not a question Melangell could answer; she knew nothing of politics, nothing of kings, and until now, nothing of war. But that would have to change. In the spring, the English army would return, and Llewelyn would be amongst the first to answer Prince Davydd’s summons. She looked at her lover, and for a moment of heart-stopping horror, she could actually see him lying dead on a blood-soaked battlefield. “Llewelyn, tell me the truth. Do you think Prince Davydd can win this war?”
Llewelyn was torn between an instinctive desire to protect her and the need to speak his mind freely and frankly to one he could truly trust. “Yes,” he said, because he had to believe that. Then he added, “But I am not sure that my uncle Davydd does. As ever, he keeps his own counsel, yet it is so obvious that he is sorely troubled, Melangell. He looks drawn and haggard, looks like a man who has forgotten what it is like to get a good night’s sleep. He picks at his food as if suspecting poison, and he hoards his words like the most mean-spirited of misers. In truth, I do not know why King Henry should cast so long a shadow; men say he is a pitiful soldier. But Davydd is no coward, and yet I see fear in his face.”
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