There was a moment of stunned silence, and then all within earshot began talking at once. Owain’s captains were shouting questions, but his response was drowned out by a sudden clap of thunder. Davydd’s mount shied as thunder sounded again, directly overhead this time, and he had to waste precious minutes calming the animal before he was able to push through to his brother’s side.
“Owain, you’ve got to send a man out with a flag of truce, offer to talk!”
Owain looked at him as if he’d lost his senses. “Talk? I’ll let my sword do my talking for me!”
“Owain, we’ve got to gain time! Our men are not ready to fight. They need to get their blood stirred up first, you know they do. Send word to Llewelyn that you want to negotiate, to—”
“And have Llelo think I fear him? I’d be damned first!”
“Owain, wait—” Davydd was never to know, though, if he might have prevailed, for Llewelyn had no intention of giving them the time they so needed. Even as they argued, his army was advancing. Owain swung his mount about, began to shout commands. Davydd found himself alone, forgotten.
Not knowing what else to do, he sought to follow his brother. But it was his stallion’s first battle, too. Already unnerved by the storm, the horse panicked at sight of the running, yelling men. It swerved suddenly, then bucked, and Davydd, taken by surprise, went flying over its head.
His first reaction was utter disbelief; he could not even remember the last time he’d been thrown from a horse. He shouted, but the stallion was already in full flight from the battlefield. Becoming aware of his danger, Davydd scrambled to his feet, unsheathing his sword.
He was shocked by what he saw. He had been prepared for a battle to be violent and bloody, but not so chaotic. Gazing about him at this seething mass of men, he wondered despairingly how he could even tell who was the enemy. Only lords wore heraldic devices; so who fought for Owain and who for Llewelyn?
He moved forward, caught up in the current. The rain was coming down heavily now, and the ground was growing slippery; men were losing their footing, stumbling in the muddy marsh grass. From the corner of his eye, Davydd saw a man fall. Before he could regain his feet, another soldier was astride him, wielding an axe. Davydd yelled and the man whirled to meet this new threat. As his would-be victim rolled out of range, he swung at Davydd; the blade sliced through the air only inches from Davydd’s helmet. He was raising the axe again when Davydd’s sword thrust through his leather gambeson, up under his ribs.
Davydd was no stranger to death; he’d seen executions, and once, a man murdered in a London street brawl. But those deaths lacked the awful intimacy, the immediacy of the battlefield. Splattered by the blood of the man he’d just stabbed, Davydd had to fight back a sudden queasiness. But at the same time, he felt a surge of pride. He’d matched his wits and his training and his courage against another man, and he’d won.
“My lord!” The soldier he’d saved was beside him now, grinning his gratitude. Only then did Davydd recognize him as one of their sentries, but that was something he meant to keep to himself. If the sentry survived the battle, he’d tell and retell the tale of his rescue. It never occurred to Davydd that he himself might not survive.
The ground squished under his feet, for they were well away from the road by now. Davydd knew there were extensive marshes between Mynydd Cenin and Bwlch Mawr. There were patches of quicksand, too, but he tried not to think of that. Sheets of silver rain were obscuring visibility; he could only speculate as to the whereabouts—or the well-being—of Owain and Llewelyn. Lightning seared the sky to the west, and he ran his hand uneasily along the metal links of his hauberk. As if he did not have enough worries at the moment!
A soldier was bearing down upon him, sword already well-bloodied. Davydd parried the man’s thrust, numbing his arm from wrist to elbow. The soldier staggered, regained his balance and lunged again. Again Davydd deflected the blow. He had always begrudged those tedious hours of tiltyard practice. Now he had only a moment to thank God for them, and then the man was once more pressing the attack.
They circled cautiously. When Davydd swung, his sword encountered only air, for the other man was as quick as a ferret. They were so intent upon the stalk that they didn’t realize the ground was becoming soft, not until the soldier took a backward step and found himself sinking up to his knees. He spat out a startled oath, and when he looked at Davydd, for the first time there was fear on his face.
Davydd was no longer a threat, though; he, too, was mired in the thick, viscous mud. He experienced a flash of instinctive panic, but froze until it passed, until he could slowly start to work his way back to firm ground. By the time he had extricated himself, he was panting, relieved out of all proportion to the danger posed by the quavering, sodden sands.
The soldier had also kept his head, and together they struggled back onto solid footing. For a moment or two they eyed each other warily, but they’d both lost the stomach for further killing. The soldier, moreover, was now looking beyond Davydd’s height and man’s build, seeing the boy.
“Get away whilst you still can, lad,” he said. “There is no madness like dying for a cause already lost.”
“Lost?” Davydd frowned, and the soldier gestured impatiently.
“Look around you. Owain ap Gruffydd’s men are on the run. Looting of bodies has begun, the surest sign yet that it’s done, and no surprise, for my lord Llewelyn is twice the soldier Owain could ever hope to be.” With that, he turned away, seeking to gain what he, too, could from the dead.
Davydd pulled off his helmet, ran his hand through his sweat-soaked hair. The sky was clearing; the storm had passed them by. So, it seemed, had the battle. His brother’s army—what was left of it—was in flight, some wading across the shallows of the River Desoch, some scattering toward the wooded slopes of Bwlch Mawr, others bogged down in the rain-drenched marshlands, easy prey for Llewelyn’s pursuing soldiers. Davydd found himself alone on a muddy field with the dead, the dying, and the looters. No one paid him any mind, and he did not know what to do next. At last he decided to head west, for there was a monastery a few miles away at Clynnog. Once there, he could then try to reach his own lands down in Lln. After that? He had no idea.
As it threaded its serpentine way through the marshes, the river gained in silt what it lacked in depth, and its color was an unappealing yellow-brown. But Davydd was too thirsty to care. Kneeling, he cupped the brackish water in his hands, drank greedily.
“Cadell, that’s him!”
“You’re daft, man! He’s a lord, would be mounted.”
“I’m telling you, it’s him. I’ve seen him often enough to know!”
Davydd did not like the sound of that. He jumped to his feet and spun around. Two men were approaching him, one from each side. He took an instinctive step backward, and nearly slid down the embankment into the river.
“Careful, lad!” One of the men was reaching out, as if to offer a hand, but retreated when Davydd raised his sword. “We mean you no harm, God’s truth! Our lord has promised a gold ring to the man who sees to your safety.”
“Llewelyn did that?” Davydd was startled enough to let down his guard. Both men nodded vigorously, and he felt a sudden pang of remorse, remembering Owain’s callous joking about graves. They saw his hesitation and the younger one held out his hand. It was a gesture as disarming as it was courageous, and Davydd impulsively lowered his sword, then offered it, hilt first.
They accepted it gravely, and for a moment all three of them took pleasure in the solemn formality of surrender, evoking as it did echoes of those tales told around campfires and winter hearths, tales of chivalry rooted in the Welsh legends of Arthur and his knights of the Table Round. Then the older soldier let out a gleeful whoop, clapped his companion on the back. “You stay here, Cadell, whilst I fetch our lord!”
He was off like a shot. Cadell looked suddenly uncertain. Glancing shyly at Davydd, he asked, “Have I your word, my lord, that you’ll not try to flee?”
Much relieved when Davydd nodded, he unfastened a flask from his belt, passed it politely to Davydd.
Sitting down on the river bank, they shared the flask, and Davydd found himself quaffing the warm ale as if it were vintage wine. Cadell was very young himself, and somewhat awed, for he’d never expected to be in such intimacy with one of his Princes. “This was my first battle,” he confessed, “and I cannot say I fancied it much. It was not at all as I thought it would be.”
Davydd reclaimed the flask. “The first time I lay with a whore,” he said, “that was a letdown, too. I wondered afterward why men craved women’s flesh more than meat or mead. But it did not take long to develop a taste for it. Mayhap it is the same with battles.”
Cadell laughed. “War and women…they both do heat the blood for certes. But between the bed and the battlefield, it’s not much of a choice. I know a lass called Enid who can light a bonfire just by…”
Davydd smiled, but he was no longer listening. He was thinking of the coming confrontation with his brother. Llewelyn was the very last man in Christendom whom he wanted to face right now. With that realization, he began to think of ways to avoid it, shooting Cadell a sideways, appraising look. No longer two against one. Moreover, his identity was in itself an invincible shield; Cadell would never dare to draw a sword upon his lord’s brother. He rose, stretched as casually as he could, and then reached over, snatched up his sword.
Cadell at once tensed. “What is it? Where do you go?”
“I just remembered a pressing need to be elsewhere. Convey my regrets to Llewelyn.”
But what Davydd had not anticipated was Cadell’s outrage. Jumping up, he cried, “You gave me your sworn word!”
Davydd shrugged, then leveled the sword. “That is far enough,” he warned. Cadell paid him no heed, continued to advance, and Davydd discovered that he could not thrust his blade into the other youth’s belly. With an oath, he flung the sword aside, and swung at Cadell. The blow never connected; Cadell was quicker than he looked, and as he ducked, Davydd’s fist just brushed his chin. They traded punches, then grappled until Cadell slipped in the wet grass, dragging Davydd down with him.
They rolled about, pummeling each other. Davydd’s was the greater weight and he was eventually able to pin Cadell down. “Will you yield?” he panted, but Cadell stubbornly shook his head.
“You gave me your word,” he repeated, as if nothing else mattered, and Davydd swore again. Neither he nor Cadell had realized they’d gathered an audience, not until Davydd turned his head, caught a glimpse of muddied boots. He struggled to sit up, his heart thudding wildly, for he already knew what he would see. The stallion was a smoke-grey, well lathered, its mane smeared with blood, Llewelyn’s favorite destrier. Davydd’s breath froze in the seconds before he forced himself to meet his brother’s eyes. Llewelyn’s face was shadowed by his helmet; he sat motionless on the grey stallion, staring down at Davydd, saying nothing, until the silence itself became more intolerable to Davydd than any reproaches Llewelyn could make.
He got slowly to his feet, began to walk toward Llewelyn. He made no attempt, though, to wipe the mud from his face, hoping it might camouflage some of the hot color burning his cheeks and throat. “I’ve always heard tales,” he said, “about men emerging from battle covered with glory. But I cannot remember anyone ever mentioning mud!”
He’d long ago learned that humor was a most effective defense, particularly with Llewelyn; amusement, no less than charity, covered a multitude of sins. But now he searched his brother’s face in vain, could find not the least glimmer of a smile, and as they looked at each other, Davydd began to realize that he had at last committed an offense which could not be laughed away.
The rain had not dissipated the heat, and Llewelyn’s tent was stifling. When Davydd rose, the guards tensed, watching him intently as he crossed to a coffer. Picking up a flask, he retraced his steps, thrust it at his brother. “Drink,” he said. “If ever we had an excuse to get drunk, it’s now.”
Owain accepted the flask with the indifference that had characterized his every act since the moment of his capture. Still utterly stunned by the magnitude of his defeat, he seemed in a state of shock, and the grey eyes that now focused upon Davydd were dulled by disbelief. “I will never understand,” he said, “how God could so favor Llelo.”
Davydd bit back the tart reply that God usually favored the better battle commander. “It could be worse,” he pointed out. “You could have been horribly maimed, skewered through like a stuck pig and left for dead with your guts spilling out into the mud. There are worse things to lose than a battle, Owain—like your head, or Jesú forfend, your privy member!” His mock shudder was not entirely feigned. He grinned, then said, more seriously, “At least you are alive, Owain.”
Owain gave him a sourly patronizing smile. “For the moment,” he said, investing his words with such ominous portent that Davydd lost patience.
“For the love of Christ, Owain! You cannot truly believe Llewelyn would have you put to death?”
At that moment, the tent flap was pulled aside and Llewelyn entered, followed by Goronwy ab Ednyved. At sight of his brother, Davydd cried, “Tell him, Llewelyn. Tell him his life is in no danger!”
Llewelyn’s eyes cut toward Owain. “I am not Cain,” he said tersely. Davydd was about to utter a triumphant “I told you so” when Llewelyn added, “You’d best make yourself ready, Owain. Your guards are waiting to escort you to Dolbadarn Castle.”
Owain rose to his feet. “Post your guards,” he said. “It will avail you naught, for your prison will not hold me for long.”
Llewelyn merely shrugged, and Davydd glanced uneasily from one to the other. The enmity between his brothers had always been a secret source of amusement to him, and it had fed his sense of superiority that Llewelyn should nurture childhood grudges, that Owain should obstinately cling to the use of “Llelo” as if a boy’s name somehow diminished his brother’s manhood. Davydd had long ago learned how to turn their rivalry to his own advantage, had become adroit at playing them off against each other to his benefit. But his fondness for them both was genuine, and only now was he realizing how greatly he’d underestimated the depths of their rancor.
“How long do you mean to keep Owain at Dolbadarn?” he demanded, had his answer in Llewelyn’s silence. “My God, Llewelyn, you cannot—”
“Davydd!” Owain grabbed his arm, swung him around. “Do not beg for me,” he said fiercely, “not now, not ever!”
“But it is my fault!”
“No.” Owain’s grip loosened; he shifted his hands to Davydd’s shoulders. “No, lad,” he repeated, “it is not. I knew the stakes even if you did not.”
Davydd did not know what to say, and watched mutely as Owain followed his guards from the tent. Llewelyn ignored his departure, keeping his eyes upon his younger brother. Davydd reached for Owain’s forgotten flask, drank until he’d gotten his bravado back.
“What now? What happens to me? Am I to be imprisoned, too?”
“Yes.”
Davydd dropped the flask. “For how long?”
“That depends upon you, Davydd. I’ll release you as soon as I can be sure you comprehend the consequences of treason.”
Davydd flushed. “It is not treason to claim what is rightfully mine!”
“It is,” Llewelyn said, “when you lose.”
He gestured and the guards moved forward. Davydd did not balk, but as they led him from the tent, he shouted defiantly, “I’ll never say I’m sorry, never! My only regret is that we lost!”
Llewelyn said nothing. For a time, neither did Goronwy. Bending down, he retrieved the flask, handed it without comment to Llewelyn. “You ought not to have promised him his freedom,” he said at last. “Better to have kept him in suspense.”
“I know,” Llewelyn admitted. “But I had to give him that reassurance, Goronwy. You see,” he said softly, “beneath all that bluster, he was afraid.”
Although Anian, the Abbot of the Cist
ercian abbey of Aberconwy, was both friend and ally to Llewelyn, he was not pleased to be told that Llewelyn had just ridden into the abbey garth. The abbey had benefited in no small measure from the favor of its greatest patron, Llewelyn Fawr. It was he who had generously absolved the White Monks of the need to entertain the princes of Gwynedd or their households. As no prince traveled without a large retinue, this was no insignificant saving to the abbey larders. But it was a privilege rarely invoked, for abbots were not political innocents—if they were, they weren’t abbots—and there was nothing politic in refusing hospitality to one’s liege lord. Anian could only hope that Llewelyn’s entourage would not be too numerous, or too hungry.
He forgot all about the abbey larders, though, at sight of the woman. He was too pragmatic to deny entry to his Prince’s concubine, but he was enough of a moralist to want to, and he could not help giving Llewelyn a look of wordless reproach. When he did, Llewelyn burst out laughing.
“I know how heartsick you’ll be,” he bantered, “but we cannot accept your hospitality. We’re on our way down the Conwy valley to Trefriw, where I have a hunting lodge.”
Anian laughed, too, from sheer relief. “How then may we serve you, my lord?”
Llewelyn’s smile faded. “I’ve come to visit my grandfather’s tomb.”
“Your lord father is buried here, too, is he not?”
Llewelyn nodded. “The English King finally gave his consent and he lies now where he belongs, with his kinsmen.”
Eurwen arched a brow. “I do hope he does not lie too close to your uncle Davydd,” she murmured slyly, “else they’d get precious little Eternal Peace.”
Llewelyn grinned, slid his arm around her waist as they entered the abbey. The women in his life were usually slim and dark, sweet-tempered bedmates who evoked unconscious echoes of the gentle Melangell. Eurwen was an anomaly, therefore, as she was cheerful and cheeky, uncommonly tall for a woman, with a vigorous brisk stride, a buxom hour-glass figure, and masses of thick, tawny hair which more than did justice to her name, for “Eurwen” was derived from the Welsh word for “gold.” Llewelyn was fonder of her than he had yet to admit, and he was suddenly glad that she was here with him, sharing the culmination of his victory in the mountain pass at Bwlch Mawr.
Falls the Shadow Page 42