“My uncle Owain spent much of his life in prison,” Dafydd said.
Actually, Lili knew that statement hardly conveyed the magnitude of what had been done to King Llywelyn’s brother, Owain. From the age of eighteen, he’d been imprisoned in succession by his grandfather, his uncle, the King of England, and his brother, for all but the last five years of his life. The 1277 treaty released Owain from Llywelyn’s custody. Subsequently, he had retired to his estates in Gwynedd. He died before Dafydd had come to Wales.
“But he was not kept in seclusion,” Clare said.
Dafydd scrubbed at his hair with both hands and then pulled at it. The ends stood straight up. Dafydd didn’t do anything to smooth them, just dropped his arms in resignation. “Apparently not.” He paced towards the window and back. “Today is definitely not the day I would have chosen for a long-lost cousin to come out of the woodwork, especially not a son of my father’s intemperate older brother.”
“I would be very surprised if your father doesn’t know of him,” Clare said.
Dafydd grimaced. That was something he would want to take up with his father, undoubtedly. Dafydd hated being surprised, and to Lili’s mind, for Llywelyn to omit that Dafydd had a cousin was tantamount to lying.
Dafydd pursed his lips. “Where did Valence find him?”
“He’s lived his life in England,” Clare said. “He speaks no Welsh and has never set foot in your country as far as I know.”
“You’ve met him?” Dafydd said.
“Yes,” Clare said. “Valence trotted him out when he was trying to convince me to join him.”
Dafydd made a sound of disgust. “I would guess, if Valence has a prince of Wales to place on my father’s throne, that an important part of his plan is the death of my father and me.”
“Yes,” Clare said.
“What’s this man’s name?” Lili said.
Clare had obviously enjoyed the imparting of his news to his incredulous audience, and continued to answer patiently. “Hywel. He was born in 1248, which makes him twenty years older than you, my lord, and the heir to all that your father kept from his older brother when he left him to rot in Dolbadarn Castle for so many years.”
“So—Valence thinks that by showing mercy to some Welsh soldiers in a few border castles, the populace as a whole will be more likely to accept Hywel?” Lili said.
Clare shrugged. “Better than not showing mercy. Though you Welsh seem to delight in keeping rebellion alive.”
“That must be it.” Dafydd turned to Lili, ignoring Clare’s inflammatory comment. “If Valence is going to trot out his puppet prince after this war is over, he doesn’t want to have the legacy of the murder of every man in every garrison in Wales to contend with.”
“If Valence wins,” Clare said, “Painscastle would, of course, return to Norman hands, but a resentful local populace could prove a handful for an upstart prince, and a rallying point for a new prince—even Dafydd, here, were he to survive and retreat into the mountains with a handful of men to support him.”
“He’d have more than a handful,” Lili said.
“Clever of Valence to think that far ahead,” Dafydd said.
Lili didn’t think it was clever at all. Evil, maybe. Wales had often been torn in two by rival claimants to the throne—usually brothers. For all that King Llywelyn had only fathered two children, it was a relief that only one was a son. Lili hoped for Dafydd’s sake that the child Meg carried now was a girl. Even twenty years younger than Dafydd, a younger brother could prove troublesome when he grew up.
“Valence and Hywel are holed up in Bristol Castle,” Clare said, “overseeing the southern advance.”
Now, Lili was confused. “I thought Bristol Castle was—”
“Mine. Yes.” Clare’s words left no room for further questioning. He glanced at Dafydd. “Bohun was to be taken there, not to the Tower.”
“Was he?” William’s eyes lit. He’d been keeping very quiet, focusing on the food before him as any good twelve year old boy should. At the mention of his father’s name, however, he woke up fully. He looked at Dafydd. “That’s far closer to where we are now than London.”
Dafydd’s face took on a look that Lili knew. The wheels of strategy were spinning in his head. He had an idea. “I agree. It changes everything.”
“Why does it?” Lili said.
“It really does?” William said.
“I believe so,” Dafydd said. “But I don’t want to get ahead of myself. Let’s get our men free from their prison here, and then we’ll decide what to do about Bohun, this upstart prince, and the Norman who holds his leash.”
Clare didn’t press him, though William opened his mouth to ask for more. Clare prevented that by heading for the door. He jerked his head at Dafydd before opening it. “What if you play the role of my nephew, with Lili as your wife, and William as your wife’s brother. Do you have any problems with that?”
Dafydd took Lili’s hand in his. “No problems here.”
William glanced at Dafydd and Lili and stood. “Okay,” he said.
“Then, let’s go,” Clare said.
Lili didn’t protest either. It was what she had suggested they tell the guards at the border crossing. She wanted to marry Dafydd. She just didn’t see how it would ever work, not with him destined to become the King of Wales. Who was she to be a queen? The thought was ludicrous. It wasn’t that she thought so little of herself, but King Llywelyn’s concerns were valid. Dafydd should marry a woman who could help Wales politically. Her head told her that, anyway, even if her heart denied it.
Lili trotted beside Dafydd, whose long strides followed hard on Clare’s heels. Clare nodded to the guard at the top of the steps to the keep as they went through the main door.
“Rain’s coming, my lord,” the man said as they passed him.
Lili, too, had forecast rain during their journey from Clifford Castle, and she felt in her bones that it was coming, but there was no sign of a storm yet.
While they’d been talking and resting inside, dawn had come. The motte at Painscastle rose above the surrounding countryside, according them a spectacular view beyond the curtain wall. The sun shone brightly on the green fields all around. Although the wind still blew, no clouds filled the western horizon.
As before, Clare showed that he knew his way around. He strode across the bailey and into the barracks. Upon his entrance in the doorway, the men lolling in the mess hall leapt as one to their feet. “My lord!” one of them said, a smart-looking Englishman with close-cropped hair and beard.
“As you were, men,” Clare said. “I have business with one of the Welshmen whom you’re keeping in here.”
“Yes, my lord!” the same soldier said. “This way.”
Clare accorded him a nod and the four companions followed the soldier down a short hallway to a set of stairs. The stairs led to a long but narrow guard room, twenty by ten, fronting five doors. Each door was made of solid oak, with an iron-barred window and a heavy lock.
Dafydd released Lili’s hand to come abreast with Clare as he faced the two guards who occupied the room. With a scraping of chairs on the stone floor, they stood to greet Clare. Lili halted on the bottom step, William right behind her. She turned slightly to speak to him. “Why would the former castellan of Painscastle have occasion to imprison so many people that he needed five cells?”
“It does seem an unusually high number, doesn’t it?” William said. “I can’t recall a time when my father has needed more than one.” He had answered her in English and Lili realized that she’d spoken in Welsh. From his position behind Clare’s left shoulder, Dafydd shot her a worried look. She should have known better than to speak Welsh in what was now a Norman castle.
Fortunately, the two soldiers who’d drawn the duty of guarding the Welsh prisoners had been busy talking to Clare, who covered for Lili by saying something she didn’t catch but that made them laugh.
“Yes, my lord,” one of the guards said. He bowed to C
lare, nodded at Dafydd, and approached the stairs where Lili waited. William had already stepped past her to quarter the room, perhaps trying to act more grown up and contribute to their endeavors—and perhaps to make up for the fact that it was because of him they were here in the first place.
Lili moved to the side to allow both guards to climb the stairs to the hallway above. The initial soldier who’d brought them downstairs was the last to leave. He glanced back at Clare, his brow furrowed.
Clare lifted a hand to him. “All is well. I won’t be a moment.”
“Yes, my lord,” the man said.
Lili wished she could tell what the soldier was thinking. “They didn’t mind leaving the prisoners with no guard?” she said.
“I assured them that we could handle them.” Clare eyed Dafydd up and down. “They seemed impressed with your husband’s size.”
Dafydd smirked. “I loosened my sword in its sheath and looked at them grimly. What could they do but give way?”
As most people gave way before Dafydd, Lili wasn’t surprised, but it was probably equally likely that Clare’s authority convinced them. Who would believe that Gilbert de Clare could work with the Welsh, especially with all that had happened in the twenty years since Evesham? And yet, Valence should have known that Clare had always put himself first. He had spent those twenty years supporting King Edward, true, but just because Valence was stepping in to fill the hole left by the king’s death, didn’t mean that Clare had any intention of following him.
“Did they leave the keys too?” Lili said.
“Over here.” William lifted a thick ring off a hook on the wall.
Clare held out his hand for the key ring, and then dropped his arm before William could hand the keys to him. “You release them, Prince Dafydd. I’ll watch the stairs.”
Dafydd didn’t question Clare’s reasons. Clare was probably right that releasing Welsh prisoners was a task better left to a Welshman. Dafydd took the keys from William and went to the first door.
“They’ll need weapons.” Dafydd shot the comment over his shoulder as he stuck the key in the lock, and then added, “Lili and William, see what those chests over there contain.”
Lili went to the closest one and opened it. “It’s a jumbled mess is all,” William said, looking with her. They pawed through it, but other than a dull belt knife, the contents consisted of worthless items: broken earthenware cups, a pitcher, two ragged cloaks, and a couple of helmets.
They moved on to the second chest, which proved to have more satisfactory contents. It was nearly full to the brim with real weaponry: knives, swords sheathed in worn scabbards, and even an axe with a finely honed blade.
Lili and William each took two swords and brought them to the table. Meanwhile, Dafydd opened the door to the first cell. “Is everyone all right in here?” he said.
“A few bruises, nothing more.” A heavy-set, dark haired man stepped through the door, followed by five other men. They gazed around the room, taking in the four companions. William handed the first man a weapon and he grinned as he took it. “Who are you?” he said.
William didn’t answer and Dafydd moved on to the second cell. “Be as quiet as you can,” he said to the six men who filed into the main room.
Two went to help William and Lili with the weapons they’d unearthed. “Excuse me … uh … Miss,” said a youth no older than Lili herself, looking her up and down.
“We’re getting you out of here,” Lili said, ignoring his surprise at what she was wearing. At the bottom of the trunk, she found a quiver of arrows to match the three bows that someone had propped in the far corner. One of the bows looked small enough to suit her.
Dafydd got stiff nods from the newly freed men, some curious looks, but otherwise, no resistance. By the time Dafydd got to the fourth cell, the guardroom was crowded with relieved men, hastily buckling on weaponry.
“Hurry!” Clare said. “We shouldn’t linger.”
“Last one.” Dafydd unlocked the fifth cell, pulled the door wide, and then stopped. The cell contained only one man, who lay slumped on the floor.
Dafydd hurried forward and crouched before its occupant. Lili took a lantern from its hook on the wall, without Dafydd needing to ask for it, and brought it into the cell.
William followed. Before the boy could shout, Clare, who’d noted Dafydd’s attention and had left his post at the foot of the stairs, came up behind him and clapped a hand over his mouth.
Before them lay Humphrey de Bohun, regent of England.
Chapter 18
28 August 1288
Painscastle
David
Ignorance, stupidity, and blind luck. The phrase had been one of David’s high school history teacher’s favorites, referring to how often the course of history was changed by events unforeseen by any of the players in it. The words went through David’s head as he stared down at the damaged body of the Earl of Hereford. Humphrey moaned and David gently lifted him up so he could sit with his back to the wall. Humphrey painfully stretched out his legs, one by one, and only then did he open his eyes.
“Father!” William gasped as he fell to his knees beside Humphrey.
“I thought I recognized your voice,” he said to William, speaking in French, “but I was sure that I was dreaming.”
“That this is a dream does seem more probable than us finding you here,” David said. “We had word that you’d been captured, but that you were to be taken elsewhere.”
“They killed all of my men. Savages!” Despite his weakness, Humphrey spit out the word.
“What have they done to you?” William gazed at his father, taking in his damaged face and weakened limbs.
Humphrey put out a hand to William. “I’m all right, son. Nothing but cuts and bruises. I’ll mend.”
David looked over at Clare, who stood silhouetted in the doorway. “This is a slight complication.”
“A minor one,” Clare said. “Not insurmountable. And leastwise saves you a journey to Bristol Castle.”
David leaned down to grip William’s shoulder. “You and Lili should stay with your father,” he said. “The sooner Clare and I—and these men—move, the better.”
Humphrey squinted towards the door, his eyes reacting to the glare of Lili’s lantern. She lowered it and half-blocked it with her body to ease his transition from darkness to light.
“What’s your plan?” Humphrey said.
“We’ve freed the Welsh garrison,” David said. “We’re going to take the castle back.”
“Wait.” Humphrey bent forward, one hand to the floor, and very painfully got to his feet. He stood, one arm wrapped around his ribs, and the other using William’s shoulder as a crutch. “I need to see whom they imprisoned down here.”
David accommodated him, though surely they were short on time. The guards on the floor above would soon begin to wonder how long Clare meant to spend with the prisoners.
The members of the Welsh garrison—all twenty of them—gazed at Humphrey as he staggered out the door of his cell, one arm over William’s shoulder, with David holding onto him from behind. The boy was the perfect height to help his father, who wove back and forth in the doorway. He settled, finally, with weight on both feet and his shoulder resting on the frame of his cell door. He surveyed the men before him. “Is this all there is?” he said, in Welsh.
“Llelo’s just here,” one of the men said, helpfully moving aside to reveal a man squatting against the wall by the guard table.
“That’s the man I want,” Humphrey said.
Llelo made a break for the stairs.
David started forward. “Stop him!”
One of the men closest to Llelo grabbed his leg as he tried to disappear up the stairs. Llelo fell to his knees on the stone steps and then turned onto his back, kicking out with his free leg at the man. His foot connected with his captor’s chin and he fell back, but other hands grabbed Llelo and dragged him down the stairs. Llelo fought madly and managed to get away fr
om his handlers long enough to pick up one of the two spindle chairs in the room. From a far corner, he held it, legs out, like a lion tamer. “I’ll shout a warning if you don’t let me go!”
“If you were going to, you would have already done it,” Humphrey said. “You’re a spy, but one who can be bought, is that it?”
The man opened his mouth to shout and then … thwtt!
An arrow appeared in Llelo’s throat, cutting off whatever sound he’d hoped to make. Lili had loosed one of her borrowed arrows. With Llelo only fifteen feet away, it had been the easiest shot she’d ever taken. And maybe the hardest. She lowered her bow.
Llelo dropped the chair, staggered back, and fell to his rear. His hands scrabbled at the shaft. He didn’t have the strength to pull out the arrow, and it wouldn’t have saved him to do so anyway. He collapsed onto his back. The other Welshmen who’d been his companions observed him, their expressions ranging from surprise and horror, to cold belief.
It was a dangerous moment, perhaps more dangerous than when Llelo had tried to shout. David had assumed all would be well once he released the prisoners, but Lili had just killed one of their own. Blood began to pool under Llelo’s head.
“Lili,” David said, keeping his voice low and gentle. “Give me the bow.”
She didn’t move, didn’t relinquish it. He stepped closer to her and put a hand on her shoulder. She didn’t look at him but kept her eyes on Llelo. Her face was pale and her hands shook. David wanted to put his arms around her and comfort her—but he couldn’t, not in front of all these people, not when they had so little time.
The same burly soldier in his late thirties who’d come out of the first cell David had opened glared towards Bohun. “You name Llelo a traitor?”
“And you are?” Humphrey said.
“Madoc,” the man said.
“I do, Madoc,” Humphrey said. “This is the man who opened Painscastle to the English.”
“How do you know?” David said, forcing his attention away from Lili to pick up his responsibilities again. “Although from his behavior, we should have no cause to doubt you.”
Crossroads in Time (The After Cilmeri Series) Page 15