“And I was told you’re one for getting right to the heart of a matter. Shall we talk of my brother’s intended alliance with Simon de Montfort—and what you’re willing to do to thwart it?”
Edward had now taken the measure of his adversary, had begun to enjoy himself. “If you ally yourself with me, I’ll make it worth your while; we both know that. What I do not yet know is why you are willing to forsake your brother, to take up with his sworn enemies.”
“The answer to that is simple,” Davydd said. “I want my brother Owain freed from Dolbadarn Castle.”
Thomas abruptly revised his unfavorable estimation of Davydd, finding it truly admirable that Davydd should favor a brother powerless and forgotten over one who wore a crown. But Edward was regarding Davydd with a skeptical smile.
“I see,” he said. “So it’s to be a holy crusade to rescue Owain ap Gruffydd from his unjust confinement. Fair enough; every war needs its reason, and that will do as well as any, might even rally the Welsh to your side. But I am no unlettered Welsh herdsman, so spare me any heartrending tales of Brother Owain’s suffering. Men do not fight wars for love. They fight for vengeance or for power. Which spurs you on?”
Davydd’s face was utterly in shadow, but his voice was full of mockery. “God forbid that I should offend the King’s son, but why should I care whether you believe me or not?”
“Should I assume, then, that you seek nothing else for yourself? Your only demand is your brother’s freedom?” Edward murmured, no less mocking.
There was a silence, and then Davydd laughed. “I’m no unlettered Welsh herdsman, either, my lord. What do I want from you? As much as I can get, of course. In my place, would you ask for less?”
“No,” Edward admitted. “I’d ask for the moon. But I think we can come to terms. We’d find it acceptable for you and Owain to rule in Llewelyn’s stead. And what of Llewelyn? He’s kept you on a tight rein these six years past. Do you want him dead?”
“How you English fancy the blood-feuds of the Welsh! You are never happier than when we are fighting one another, are you? But I’m afraid I must disappoint you. I would see Llewelyn lose his crown, not his head. I cannot, of course, answer for Owain.”
Edward nodded. “That sounds straightforward enough. Which at once arouses all my suspicions!”
Davydd grinned. “I see,” he said, “that we do understand each other right well!”
Most men coordinated their labor with the sun; they rose at dawn, worked during the hours of daylight, and with the coming of darkness, they slept. But Llewelyn followed his own inner clock, devoting most of his waking hours to the governance of Gwynedd. It was not at all unusual for him to be awake and active long after the sun had set, and so, despite the lateness of the hour, Goronwy ab Ednyved was not surprised to find Llewelyn in Aber’s great hall, sharing a flagon of wine with his kinsmen, Tegwared and Einion.
They seemed to be celebrating. Llewelyn had tilted his chair back, was resting his feet on the table edge, in a rare moment of repose, and it was obvious the wine had been flowing freely. At sight of his Seneschal, Llewelyn grinned. “Goronwy! We did not expect you back till week’s end. But your timing could not be better, for we’ve reason for rejoicing. Come, join us, and hear the news from England.”
Goronwy was not accustomed to thinking of Llewelyn as vulnerable, yet looking at the younger man now, he found the words suddenly catching in his throat. But it was best done quick and clean, like an amputation. “Your news can wait,” he said brusquely. “Mine cannot. Davydd has allied himself with Edward, has risen up in rebellion against you.”
Llewelyn froze, and then very slowly lowered his chair back to the floor. “No,” he said, “that cannot be.” Goronwy did not contradict him, allowing him a few merciful moments of disbelief. But there’d been no conviction in Llewelyn’s denial. Beneath the surface shock, on another level of awareness, lay an instinctive understanding, that if loving Davydd was easy, trusting him was folly.
Shoving the chair back, Llewelyn got to his feet. Neither Einion nor Tegwared could meet his eyes; they, too, had laughed at Davydd’s irreverent humor, admired his courage, responded to his charm. Llewelyn moved away from the lamplight, into the sheltering shadows. Should he have seen this coming? He’d had his share of quarrels with Davydd, but even now, none that seemed serious in retrospect. So many hours spent discussing the prospects of their people, the future of Wales. Had Davydd ever shared his dream? Or had he been deluding himself all along?
It was uncommonly warm for late April, and the fire had been allowed to burn out. Llewelyn found himself standing before a smoldering hearth, staring down at the dying embers, flickering weakly amidst the charred, powdery ashes. His friends did not approach; they waited.
“Goronwy.”
The older man untangled his legs, pushed away from the table. “What can I tell you?”
“Rhodri…is he, too, rebelling?”
“As far as I know, he seems to be holding aloof.”
Llewelyn could take some consolation in that, but not much. “Rhodri’s loyalties are to Davydd, not to me,” he said. “We’d best keep him close, lest temptation beckon.”
His voice was quite even. Goronwy looked intently into his face, was satisfied with what he saw. “We’ll keep Rhodri under watch, discreetly done, of course,” he said approvingly. “What of Davydd?”
“I could have forgiven Davydd much, but not an alliance with the English Crown. He might as well have invited the English army into Wales, as our mother did. It was not just his own future he was willing to risk, it was the sovereignty of Wales. And that,” Llewelyn said, still in deceptively dispassionate tones, “I am not likely to forget.”
“I think most of our people will hold fast for you. But Davydd will attract followers—malcontents, self-seekers, and those who feel Owain has been wronged. There are more of them than you wish to admit, Llewelyn. We must move quickly, therefore, to cut Davydd off from his would-be allies. I would suggest we lead an army into his lands, lay waste to the Dyffryn Clwyd—”
“It will not come to that, Goronwy. I think it is time you heard my news. Davydd was shrewd enough to realize he’d have no chance to overthrow me without English aid. But he is about to learn an important lesson in English reliability. You see, come the morrow his English ally will be departing Deganwy with all haste. Henry has urgently summoned Edward back to England.”
Goronwy gave an audible gasp, then roared with laughter. “I think I’d barter my birthright to see the look on Davydd’s face once he knows!” That thought sent him into another paroxysm of laughter, but he soon sobered. “Llewelyn, this makes no sense. Even for Henry, this is a remarkably bone-headed blunder. Surely he must know that, by recalling Edward, he is crippling Edward’s ambitions for Wales?”
“He knows, Goronwy. But though Henry sees me as a threat, he is now facing a greater one. On Wednesday last, Simon de Montfort landed at Dover.”
They had ridden all night, by dawn were approaching the English border. But there was no trace of sun; the sky was swathed in a wet, grey mist. By now they were only a few miles from Cheshire. Eleri felt no surprise, though, when Davydd suddenly signaled for a halt. It was true that England meant safety. It also meant exile.
A short distance from the road, a narrow stream wound its way through the damp grass. Davydd slackened the reins, allowed his mount to drink. A few of the men took advantage of this respite and dismounted, stretching and yawning. Eleri followed Davydd to the stream.
“There is still time,” she said softly. “Return to Aber, beloved, seek Llewelyn’s pardon.”
“By all means,” he snapped. “Owain is right lonely, after all. I daresay he’d be delighted to share his quarters at Dolbadarn with me.”
“Llewelyn loves Owain not. You he loves well. He’d forgive you, Davydd. Mayhap not at once, but in time—”
“No!”
Eleri reached over, touched his arm. She was only twenty to his twenty and four, but at
that moment, she felt much the older of the two. “I know how painful it would be to humble your pride, but Davydd, think! Would you truly rather rely upon Edward’s charity than Llewelyn’s mercy?”
He jerked free. “It is not charity! Edward will make me welcome, and not out of Christian kindness. If I had to depend upon his benevolence, I’d end up begging my bread by the roadside. But he needs me, Eleri. Our first attempt to overthrow Llewelyn was thwarted by fate, Simon de Montfort, and Edward’s half-witted father. But our chance will come again, and when it does, Edward can have no better weapon at hand than Llewelyn’s brother.”
This was said with a certain degree of bravado, for Davydd was not as sure of his prospects at the English court as he’d have Eleri believe. But she did not seem impressed by his argument. She was looking at him somberly, and when he stopped speaking, she urged her horse closer.
“Kiss me, Davydd,” she said, and he leaned toward her. When his fingers touched her cheek, he found her skin wet, but whether she wept or not, he couldn’t tell, for a light, warming rain had begun to fall.
“I leave you here,” she said. “Go with God, my love.”
“What? But you’re coming with me!”
“No,” she said, “I am not.”
Davydd sucked in his breath; that was a defection he’d not expected. Pride prevailed, though. “I see,” he said cuttingly. “I suppose I ought to have foreseen as much. After all, you only promised to love me unto death and beyond. Not a word was ever said about exile!”
“I do love you, Davydd. I loved you enough to share your bed without a priest’s blessing.”
“If you love me, why will you not come with me?”
“I should think the answer to that would be obvious. I was willing to play the whore for you, with no regrets. But I will not play the fool. I speak no English, no French. I know not a single soul in all of England. What would befall me, my love, once you tired of me?”
“What makes you think I would tire of you?” he demanded, and she smiled sadly.
“You tired of all the others, Davydd,” she said, and pulled up the hood of her mantle. “Farewell.”
“Eleri!” But she was already turning her mare. The rain was coming down heavily now. “Go then,” Davydd said. “If you have so little faith in me, go and be damned! And tell Llewelyn this for me, tell him I’ll be back!”
27
________
Tower of London
June 1263
________
Simon and his supporters met at Oxford in May, vowed to treat as enemies those who would not uphold the Provisions, saving only the King and his family. But Henry held his ground, and the long-simmering discontent soon flared into violence. The Earl of Derby, wild and lawless and true only unto himself, sacked the town of Worcester and burned the Jewry. The young Earl of Gloucester led an army west, and seized the Bishop of Hereford, most hated of Henry’s foreign advisers, casting him into prison and laying siege to the royal castle at Gloucester. Simon then assumed command, and they marched north to besiege Bridgnorth. The attack was coordinated with Llewelyn of Wales, and the town and castle soon surrendered. Simon then swung south, toward London, and a panicked Henry took refuge within the Tower.
Edward reached London in late June, at once sought out his father. As he crossed the Tower’s inner bailey, he came upon his uncle Richard, and together they made their way toward the royal apartments.
“I hope the sight of you gladdens Henry’s eyes. In truth, lad, you’ll find him sorely distraught. He has been greatly disheartened by the ease of Simon’s victories, and—”
Edward spat out a virulent oath. “I am heartily sick of hearing Simon de Montfort lauded as another Caesar. I for one do not fear to face him on the battlefield. Indeed, the sooner the reckoning comes, the better for England, for us all.”
Richard did not agree. His was a lonely, unorthodox conviction that war was man’s ultimate failure. But that was not a view he would ever share, much less seek to proselytize, for so foreign a philosophy would win him no converts, only scorn.
They’d passed through the great hall, had now reached the stairs leading to Henry’s private chamber in the Blundeville Tower. Richard reached out, put his hand on his nephew’s arm. “Wait,” he said. “Ere we go up, I would speak with you about Bristol. The accounts we heard were garbled, confused. What is the truth of it?”
Edward shrugged. “Briefly put, some of my soldiers ran afoul of the townsfolk. Most likely, one of them got too familiar with a citizen’s wife or daughter. Mayhap it took no more than their Flemish accents; never have I seen so much suspicion of foreigners. But whatever sparked the fire, in no time the city was ablaze. It got so ugly that we had to retreat into the castle, and soon found ourselves under siege!” Edward shook his head in remembered astonishment. “Fishmongers and tanners and peddlers—Jesú alone knows where they found the courage! We were in a deep hole, in truth, for the castle larders were poorly victualed. Fortunately, the Bishop of Worcester was within a day’s ride of Bristol. He came, at my urging, and managed to placate the townspeople, in return for my pledge to make peace with de Montfort and the other rebel barons.”
“A pledge you had no intention of honoring,” Richard said quietly, and Edward gave him a surprised smile.
“Of course not, Uncle. Have you forgotten who Worcester is? He’s de Montfort’s pawn!”
“No, Edward, he is not. He is a man of conscience, deserves better than he got from you. But my concern is not for Worcester, it is for you. There are two things no man can hope to outrun in this life—his shadow and a reputation for duplicity and double-dealing. You give your word too lightly, lad. A king who cannot be trusted—”
“Uncle, enough. I know you mean well, but I need no lecture upon the sacred worth of a man’s sworn oath. That sounds suspiciously like the gospel preached by my uncle Simon.” Edward put his foot on the stairs, then paused. “Tell me,” he said, “have you had word from Hal?”
Richard slowly shook his head; his eldest son’s defection to Simon de Montfort was a constant ache. “Hal has been caught up in the fervor for reform,” he said. “As a lad, he was always bedazzled by tales of Camelot. But in time he’ll realize that this is a false quest.”
His apologetic defense would have found no favor with Henry, who saw Hal’s apostasy as a particularly reprehensible form of treason, but Edward was more indulgent; he, too, wanted to believe that Hal was a victim of Simon’s sorcery, that the spell could be broken. “Sooner or later, we’ll have a chance to talk, Uncle, and Hal will heed me. He always does.”
Henry’s chamber was a magnificent octagon, gleaming in white and gold, lit by four soaring bay windows; there was even a small, private oratory, hidden behind an elaborately carved screen. But the room was empty, Henry nowhere in sight. Puzzled, Edward moved forward. “Papa?”
“Edward?” Henry poked his head around the screen. “Edward, thank Christ!” He stumbled on the oratory step, flung his arms around his son’s neck. He was five inches shorter than Edward, forty pounds lighter, but never had he seemed so frail, so slight; his very bones were as hollow and brittle as a bird’s, Edward thought, shocked. He put his arm around his father’s shoulders, catching the smell of sweat, the heavily sugared wine Henry so liked. “Disheartened,” his uncle Richard had said, “distraught.” Nay, this was far worse; this was defeat.
“I was praying,” Henry confided. “But…but sometimes I fear that the Lord no longer listens. If I have not offended Him, why has He forsaken me in my time of trial? I am alone amongst my enemies, Edward, and I know not whom I can trust.”
“Papa, that is not so. You have me and Uncle Richard, the support of the French King and His Holiness the Pope. Even here in London, you are not friendless. The rabble and their renegade Mayor may have been beguiled by de Montfort, but the citizens of substance, the aldermen, still hold fast for the Crown.”
“Do they? Do they indeed?” Henry laughed shrilly. “Tell me this, th
en. If the aldermen and merchants are so loyal, why have they refused to lend me any more money? My coffers are well-nigh empty, Edward, and they know my need, yet they will not extend me another farthing of credit! I threatened and cajoled by turns, even beseeched, to no avail. What will we do now, lad? How can we fight a war without money? Your Flemish mercenaries will desert you in droves if you cannot pay them, and—”
“Papa, this serves for naught. What of the Templars? Did they, too, refuse you credit?” Henry nodded mournfully, and Edward swore, began to pace. “You must not fret, Papa. Leave this to me; I’ll not let you down.”
Henry’s shoulders slumped; he mumbled an indistinct “Gratia Dei,” moved to the table and poured more wine. To Richard, there was something pathetic about his instant relief, his utter trust. How many people, he wondered, realized that Edward was, at the untried age of twenty-four, the uncrowned King of England? This talk of money gave him more than a twinge of guilt, for he had vast resources at his disposal; shrewd business dealings had made him one of the richest men in England. But he had never been a prodigal spender, and Henry was already deeply in his debt, money never to be repaid. He watched Edward stride about the chamber, while Henry settled himself into a cushioned window-seat; he seemed much calmer now that the burden had been shifted onto Edward, asked no awkward questions. It was Richard who finally said, “Just what do you have in mind, lad?”
Edward flung himself into Henry’s chair of state, swung a long leg over the lacquered arm-rest. “What would you do if the drawbridge were closed to you, Uncle? You’d look for a postern gate, no? Well, so shall I.”
The New Temple of the Knights Templar lay beyond the city walls, between Fleet Street and the River Thames. The Templars, “soldiers of Christ,” were the most martial of the religious orders, and the wealthiest, for although they had originally been founded to fight the infidel, they had in time become the financiers of Europe, money-lenders and bankers for the Crown, the Church, prosperous merchants, the trade guilds. Their London preceptory looked at first glance like a small city in and of itself, but a city without denizens, for the knights retired at Compline. Edward had known this; he and his men passed through the gateway into a world of cloistered silence and deepening summer shadows, a world of deceptive, timeless peace.
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