“What does that man have, second-sight?” Elen marveled, and crossing the chamber, she slid back the door latch.
“I thought I heard a babe cry. Did I?” Simon demanded, and when she nodded, he could wait no longer. Shoving the door open, he shouldered Elen aside, strode into the room.
The midwife gave a horrified shriek, sought with her own ample girth to block his view of Nell. “No, my lord, you cannot come in yet! You must withdraw; this is no sight for male eyes!”
“That is ridiculous,” Simon snapped. “I was there for the planting, so why should I not be there for the harvesting?” Thrusting her out of the way, he came to an abrupt halt at sight of his wife and child. “Is it a boy or girl? Is it whole, healthy?” he asked anxiously, glancing back toward the women.
Elen was laughing too much to talk, and the midwife and Mabel were still too flustered to respond. It was left to Nell to reassure him, which she did with a weary but elated smile. “I have given you a son,” she said, “a beautiful little son…”
Simon quickly covered the space that separated them, knelt by the birthing stool. “A son,” he said softly, staring in awe at the cord that still bound the baby to his wife; when he touched it, he could actually feel the blood pulsing through it.
“He looks as if he was dipped in wet flour, Nell. What is this white, sticky stuff?”
Nell did not know; she’d never witnessed a birth before. She glanced up at the midwife, and the older woman swallowed her resentment as best she could. “You need not worry, my lady. Babies are ofttimes born covered with this substance. I expect it must protect them in the womb.”
She’d given Nell a cup of salted water to drink; Nell took a swallow and grimaced. “Why must I—” She broke off in dismay. Her mouth twisted, and then, to Simon’s horror, blood gushed between her thighs.
“Nell! Christ, do something for her!”
But to his surprise, the women did not seem perturbed by this sudden flow of blood. Elen reached for string and scissors, saying calmly, “It is only the afterbirth coming. Simon, do step aside. I think one reason you men are barred from the birthing chamber is just to keep you from getting underfoot!” As she neatly tied and cut the cord, the midwife placed her hand on Nell’s abdomen, began to tug gently on the cord.
“It is coming,” she said, and Simon leaned forward to see, for he’d heard many stories about the mystical, magical properties of the afterbirth; it was widely believed that it could even attract demons. It was something of a disappointment, though; he thought the afterbirth resembled nothing so much as a chunk of raw liver.
While Elen and Mabel sponged the blood and mucus from Nell’s thighs, the midwife carried the baby to the table, where the maid servant had prepared a basin of warm water. Simon followed, watched his son have his first bath, so obviously fascinated that the midwife began to thaw somewhat. Laying the infant on a soft towel, she gently rubbed his skin with salt, while he proved again that his lungs were in superb operating order. When she dipped her finger in honey, Simon caught her hand.
“May I do that?” he asked, and she surrendered unconditionally. Under her guidance, he carefully inserted his finger in his son’s mouth, brushed those tiny gums and palate with honey. The baby seemed surprised at first, but soon began to suck upon his finger, and Simon burst out laughing.
The midwife laughed, too. “Whilst I swaddle the babe, my lord, will you carry your lady to the bed? And do not let her sleep for a while; that can be dangerous.”
Propped up by pillows, with her husband beside her and her son in her arms, Nell experienced a sudden sense of unease, for how could she ever know a moment of greater happiness? “I am not yet twenty-three years old,” she said, “and the rest of my life is bound to be a letdown, Simon, for nothing could possibly surpass this day for me.” And then she laughed. “Just a twelvemonth past, I had no Simons at all, and now by the grace of God Almighty, I do have two!”
They had agreed upon the names for their child: Joanna for a daughter, Simon for a son. But now Simon shook his head. “No,” he said, “not Simon. I think we should name him after the man who made this day possible for us. When I look at you, Nell, at our son, I can fully realize for the first time, I think, just how much I do owe him. I want to name our son Henry, after your brother.”
Nell nodded. “You are right. We do owe Henry a great deal, beloved.”
Simon leaned over, kissed her gently. “Look,” he said, and Nell smiled, for the baby had grasped Simon’s finger, was clinging tightly. But then she saw the tears in her husband’s eyes.
“You are a constant surprise to me, Simon,” she said slowly. “In truth, I did not think it would mean so much to you.”
Simon glanced up at her, then down again at his son. “In truth,” he confessed, “neither did I.”
The Welsh Princes had come to the Cistercian abbey of Ystrad Fflur in response to Llewelyn’s summons. There in the Chapter House of the monastery, they gathered to pledge oaths of fealty to Llewelyn’s son Davydd.
It should have been an occasion of great satisfaction to Llewelyn. It was not. He’d wanted more for Davydd, much more. It had been his intent to have the Welsh lords swear homage to Davydd. But the English had reacted with alarm, had forbidden Davydd to accept oaths of homage.
Llewelyn had once committed a tactical error of monumental proportions; he had overestimated his own power and underestimated that of the English Crown. It was a mistake that had almost cost him his life and the sovereignty of Gwynedd. He had been spared by the grace of God and a ruthless King’s love for his daughter, for Joanna had interceded with her father and John had listened. That memory was twenty-seven years past, but Llewelyn had not forgotten; nor had he made that mistake again.
He was troubled now not so much by the need to back down, to defer to the English Crown, as by the implications for Davydd. The other Welsh Princes had done homage to him in the past. That the English were applying two different standards—according him concessions they were not willing to concede to Davydd—did not bode well for Davydd’s future. Once he was dead and Davydd was in power, the English Crown would begin whittling away again at Gwynedd, seeking to reclaim all he’d won, to overthrow a lifetime’s work. What sort of a legacy was he leaving his son?
The Abbot had brought in heavy, oaken, high-backed chairs for Davydd and Llewelyn; they sat side by side as the Princes of Deheubarth and Powys and the lords of Llewelyn’s Gwynedd came forward, knelt and swore formal oaths of fealty to Llewelyn’s heir.
Gruffydd stood apart, watching as Ednyved and his sons pledged fealty to Davydd. His bitterness was twofold, that it was Davydd who was being acknowledged as the next Prince of Gwynedd, and that Llewelyn should have yielded to English pressure yet again. This was an old and festering grievance, for he would never understand how a man of his father’s proven courage could allow the English Crown to meddle in Welsh affairs. He had hated John, was scornful of Henry, would have defied them both had the power only been his.
“Gruffydd?” Senena had come quietly through the crowd, slid her hand into his. “Remember, beloved,” she said softly. “It is just empty words, no more than that.”
For a moment, his eyes held hers. “It is a holy oath,” he said, “sworn before God.”
Senena’s hand tightened. “An oath sworn under duress, Gruffydd. The Church does not hold a man to such an oath, beloved. Nor will the Almighty.”
He said nothing, but he knew she was right, knew what he must do. Near the dais, he saw his sons, Owain and Llelo. As unlike as they were, they shared now a remarkably similar expression, one of anxious unease. He smiled reassuringly at them, and then heard his name echoing across the chamber. He drew several steadying breaths, walked slowly toward the dais.
As he knelt before Davydd, his brother silently handed him a sword. It was specially crafted for such swearing ceremonies, with a hollowed hilt that contained the most sacred of relics, a tooth of St Davydd and a scrap of cloth from the mantle of the Bl
essed Mother Mary. Gruffydd’s fingers closed gingerly around the hilt, never quite making contact. He knew how Davydd must be relishing this moment, but the younger man’s face was utterly inscrutable. He had always envied Davydd that uncanny self-control, for he knew his every emotion blazed forth upon his own face for all the world to see.
The silence was becoming awkward. Never had Gruffydd been so preternaturally sensitive to his surroundings. No detail of the scene escaped him; he noticed how the floor tiles were patterned with pallid sunlight, how his father had leaned forward in his chair, even how mud was caking Davydd’s boots.
“Well?” Davydd said at last. “Are you going to swear?”
And with that, Gruffydd’s tension was gone. He felt strangely calm, almost peaceful. “No,” he said, “I am not.” Rising without haste, he very deliberately dropped the sword at Davydd’s feet. “I will not swear fealty to you. Not now. Not ever.”
It was a moment of appalling familiarity to Llewelyn, as if time had somehow come full circle. Ten years ago an embittered quarrel with Gruffydd had flared into a harrowing test of will. Gruffydd had refused to recognize Davydd as the heir, had promised civil war, and he had responded as the Prince of Gwynedd, had ordered his eldest son’s confinement at Deganwy Castle. It had been the most difficult act of his life, and as he looked now upon his defiant, dangerous firstborn, he knew suddenly that he could not summon up the strength to do it again.
“That is your choice,” Davydd said, quite coolly, and Llewelyn realized that Davydd was not at all surprised. He had expected Gruffydd to balk, for he’d always understood Gruffydd better than Gruffydd understood him. “But every choice carries with it consequences. After defying our lord father and his council, you cannot expect to be entrusted with so much of Lower Powys. You may retain the lordship of Ll n. But you have just forfeited the commotes of Arwystli, Ceri, Cyfeiliog, Mawddwy, Mochnant, and Caereinion.”
“I’ve forfeited nothing! It is my father who still wields the power in Gwynedd, not you!” Gruffydd took a step toward the dais, but toward Llewelyn, not Davydd. “Tell him, Papa. Remind him who is the Prince of Gwynedd!”
Llewelyn’s throat closed up. He swallowed, said as evenly as he could, “Davydd speaks for me in this.” Knowing he could say nothing else, but knowing, too, that he’d be haunted till the end of his days by the memory of his son’s stricken face.
Davydd was sitting in the window-seat of the abbey parlor, drinking directly from a flagon of highly spiced red wine. It stung his eyes, burned his throat. He glanced up as the door opened, then held out the flagon to Ednyved. “I could not find any wine cups.”
Ednyved came forward, reached for the flagon. “You handled that well,” he said, and Davydd’s mouth twisted.
“Liar,” he said amiably. “Since when do you approve of half-measures? You know as well as I what I ought to have done. I ought to have given the order then and there for his arrest.” He reclaimed the flagon, drank deeply. “But I just could not do that to Papa.”
Ednyved sat down beside him in the window-seat. “Pass the flagon,” he said, and they drank in silence.
When Llewelyn entered the parlor, Davydd rose to his feet. “I had no choice, Papa. I could not allow Gruffydd to defy me. If I had, I’d have forfeited the respect of every man in the chamber.”
“I know, Davydd.” Llewelyn lowered himself onto the closest bench. “These four years that he’s been free, I tried to mend the breach between us,” he said wearily. “I sought to convince him that I still loved him. And I succeeded too well. I saw that on his face this afternoon, saw that he’d persuaded himself I might relent. Instead…instead I betrayed him yet again.”
“You did not betray him, Papa.”
“He thinks I did. And he’ll not forgive me. Not this time.”
Davydd put his hand on his father’s shoulder. He would never know what meagre comfort he might have offered, for just then the door opened. Llelo was panting, as if he’d been running; he looked flushed and disheveled. “I can stay but a moment, Grandpapa. My father is leaving the abbey and…and I must go with him.”
“Yes,” Llewelyn said. “I know, lad.”
Llelo moved closer. “I do not think he will let me visit you again.”
“No, Llelo, I do not expect he will.”
Llelo was near enough now for Llewelyn to see his tears. “In less than four years,” he said, “I shall be fourteen. I’ll have the legal right then to make my own decisions, to see you as often as I want.”
Llewelyn nodded wordlessly. But four years seemed an eternity to a ten-year-old boy just at the beginning of his life and a sixty-five-year-old man coming to the end of his. Llelo flew forward into his grandfather’s arms, and for a long moment Llewelyn held him close. “Grandpapa, if you come to Cricieth,” he pleaded, “I can still see you. It is not far from Nefyn; I can slip away for a few hours, and none need know.”
He’d feared that Llewelyn might seek to dissuade him, to make an adult’s arguments about obedience and patience. But Llewelyn did not. “Till Cricieth, lad,” he said huskily, and gave Llelo one final farewell hug.
Llelo blinked back the last of his tears; as young as he was, he was already learning that tears were an indulgence he could ill afford. At the door he paused, dark eyes seeking Llewelyn’s face. “I do not understand,” he said, “why it must be like this.”
6
________
London, England
August 1239
________
Simon looped his wife’s hair around his hand, slowly pulled it taut, until she laughed and rolled back into his arms. “Each time,” he said, “you always cry out my name, and you always sound surprised.”
“Do I?” Nell thought it a pity that none but she would ever know Simon’s smile could be so tender. “That proves I do not yet take you for granted,” she said. “But I daresay you’ve scandalized the entire household, seducing your wife in the middle of the day!”
“Was that a seduction? I rather thought it a reconciliation.”
Nell grimaced. “A deft thrust, my lord, right to the heart. I am sorry we quarreled, Simon; I always am. You must admit, though, that I did warn you. I cautioned you on our wedding day that I did not think I could be a dutiful wife.”
“Yes, you did,” he agreed, “but not until after we’d already said our vows,” and Nell hit him with a pillow. He grabbed for her, and she squealed, but then they heard a discreet cough; Simon pulled the bed hangings back, saw his squire standing in the doorway.
Adam coughed again; it never failed to amaze him that his serious-minded, prideful lord was the same man who indulged in pillow fights and tickling matches in the privacy of the marriage bed. Allowing himself one circumspect glimpse of Nell’s white shoulders and flaxen hair, he said politely, “Dame Mabel asked me to remind you, my lord, that the Queen’s churching is set for mid-afternoon, lest you be late.”
While Simon was scrupulously punctual, Nell was invariably tardy, and Simon’s squires often wagered as to whose habit would prevail. Now as Simon rose from the bed, signaling for his clothes, Nell settled back comfortably against the pillow, and Adam grinned, thinking his money was as good as won.
“Eleanor will have a magnificent churching,” she said, somewhat wistfully. “Henry will spare no expense now that she’s finally given him a son.” Sitting up, she shook her hair back. “I’ve never fully understood the churching ceremony, Simon. The priests say that until it is done, a woman is impure, that she cannot touch holy water or make bread or serve food. But why should childbirth make a woman unclean?”
Simon paused in the act of reaching for his shirt, momentarily diverted, for he was fascinated by theology. “I do not know,” he admitted. “I shall ask Bishop Robert when next we meet. Now bestir yourself, Nell. Your study of Scriptures can wait; your brother the King cannot.”
Henry had leased the Bishop of Winchester’s bankside manor house to Simon and Nell, and it was but a short journey upriver to We
stminster Palace. Simon hastened his wife along the King’s wharf, across the New Palace yard, not slowing stride until they entered the great hall, saw that the procession to the abbey had yet to begin. Only then did Simon relax, pausing to speak to Richard Renger, London’s Mayor, for he was no less intrigued by political craft than he was by canon law. The Mayor greeted him warmly; when Simon’s interest was sparked, so, too, was his charm. Nell continued on toward the dais, where she curtsied to her brother’s teenage Queen.
Eleanor was dressed in regal splendor; Nell’s eyes moved hungrily over the iridescent cloth-of-gold gown, the plush velvet mantle, the necklet of emeralds and rubies. There was no ease, no affection between the two young women; each one envied the other’s hold upon Henry’s heart. They made stilted but courteous conversation, drawing upon their only common interest: motherhood. Eleanor spoke lovingly of her newly born son, Edward, and Nell no less proudly of her Harry, now entering his ninth robust month. A dark imp, she said fondly, who was already trying to stand erect. Eleanor smiled politely, thinking that for certes her little Ned would be no less forward than Nell’s wonder-child. She brightened at sight of Simon approaching, for she was like Nell in one other way, she preferred the company of men to that of women.
She extended her hand for Simon’s kiss, while feeling a twinge of conscience. She genuinely liked Simon, who was handsome and spoke the French of the Île-de-France, not the bastardized Norman-French of Henry’s court, and she hoped she had not gotten him into Henry’s bad graces. Favoring Simon with a dazzling smile, she began to complain of Henry’s tardiness.
“That man will be late for his own wake,” she sighed, and pouted prettily. “Simon, will you not go to his chamber, hasten him along? He listens to you.”
“Make yourself easy, Madame,” Simon said, and both women watched as he began to thread his way through the crowded hall, Nell with possessive pride and Eleanor with a satisfied smile.
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