When Llewelyn had at last run out of words, one of the hands reached out, touched his hair in what seemed strangely like a caress. But Morgan’s caresses were sparingly doled out and surely would not be given now, not after what he’d just confessed. And yet the hand had not been withdrawn; it was brushing the hair back from his forehead, lingering.
“Morgan…” Bewildered, utterly at a loss.
“I’m proud of you, lad.”
“roud?” Llewelyn choked. “I shamed you, shamed us all. Did you not understand? I did what he demanded, I dishonored my blood, groveled before him.”
“And would you rather he’d broken your arm, mayhap maimed you for life?”
“No, but…”
“Listen to me, Llewelyn. Courage is a commendable quality, and a true test of manhood. You showed that today, and may rightly take pride in it. But for a prince of our people, courage alone is not enough; it must be tempered with common sense. You showed that too, today, lad, showed you were able to make a realistic recognition of superior strength. There’s no shame in that, Llewelyn, none whatsoever. Be thankful, rather, that in a world full of fools, Our Lord Saviour has blessed you with brains as well as boldness of spirit.”
“I was so ashamed…” Llewelyn whispered. “Not for the apology, but for the other, for saying my countrymen are thieves and cutthroats.”
“And does saying it make it so?” Morgan shook his head. “Do you know what the English say of us, Llewelyn? They say a Welshman’s word is worth spit in the wind. And they are right, lad. An oath given to an enemy is made to be broken; we understand that. We use what weapons we have available to us, and when we fight, we fight on our terms, not theirs.
“These are lessons you must learn, Llewelyn, and learn well. The day will come when you’ll return to Gwynedd, lay claim to the lands your uncles now rule. You must be ready to win back what is yours by right, and above all, to deal with the English.
“We are not a numerous people. For every Welshman born, the Lord God has seen fit to beget twenty of English blood. Our princes have been forced to accept the English king as their liege lord. But we have not been subjugated as the Saxons were, we have not become a nation of serfs and bondsmen. These Norman lords who rule England, and would rule Wales if they could, hate us above all others. And still we live free, with our own princes, our own ways and customs.”
Llewelyn nodded eagerly, intent on a lesson he’d long ago learned.
“This is because when the English come onto our lands,” Morgan continued, “our people drive their livestock up into the hills and then they hide themselves. The English burn our houses, but we are not bound to the land like the English peasants, and when they withdraw, our people rebuild. Nor do we despair when we fight the English and find ourselves outnumbered. When we see ourselves losing, we retreat—and hit them again on the morrow. When they send armies into our land, we fade away into the woods, and they cannot find us.
“If you understand this, Llewelyn, you must understand, too, that you’ve no reason to reproach yourself, no reason to feel shame.”
It seemed nothing less than miraculous to Llewelyn that Morgan could heal the worst of his hurts with so little effort, and he gave the priest a grateful smile. Morgan smiled back and then said briskly, “Now…is it your wish that I tell the Corbets about this boy?”
Llewelyn hesitated. Although he was feeling more and more comfortable about the role he’d played in that frightening encounter by Yokethul Brook, he still did not relish the prospect of confiding in his Corbet kin. “No,” he said slowly, “No matter what they did to him, he’d just take it out on Stephen afterward. I’d rather we let it lie, Morgan.” For now, he added silently. Walter de Hodnet. Not a name to be forgotten.
Morgan watched as Llewelyn touched his fingers to the puffy, discolored skin over his eye, to the swelling bruise high on his cheekbone, almost as if he were taking inventory of his injuries. And that, the priest knew, was precisely what the boy was doing, making a private acknowledgment of a debt due. Morgan sighed. Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord. On that, Holy Church spoke quite clearly. But his people parted company with their Church on this issue; they did not believe in forgiving a wrong, forgetting an injury—ever.
“Here,” he said, handing Llewelyn a brimming goblet. “The Lady Emma mixed some bryony root in wine, to ease your pain and help you sleep. Drink it down and I’ll stay with you till it does take effect. I have something of great importance to tell you. We learned this noon of a death, a death that will change the lives of us all.”
Llewelyn sat up. “Who, Morgan?”
“Young Henry, the English King’s eldest son and heir. We had word today that he died in France on the eleventh of June, of the bloody flux. He knew he was dying and pleaded with his father to come to him so they might reconcile ere he died. But Henry did not believe him, fearing it was a trick. They are an accursed family, in truth, the Devil’s brood.” He shook his head, made the sign of the cross.
“What will happen now, Morgan?”
Ordinarily the priest would have insisted that Llewelyn be the one to tell him that. But it was late and the boy was bruised and sore, in no condition to be interrogated about lessons of history and statecraft. “You know, Llewelyn, that the English give all to the firstborn son. Since young Henry had no son of his own, the heir to the English throne is now his brother Richard. So this means that Richard will one day be King.”
“That is not good for us, is it, Morgan? If Richard is as able a soldier as men say…”
“He is.”
Llewelyn swallowed some more wine. “I’m sorry Henry died,” he said regretfully. “Since he was to be King one day, you made me learn as much as I could about him. And now all that effort goes for naught and I have to begin all over again with Richard!”
That triggered one of Morgan’s rare laughs. “It is even worse than you know, lad. It is very likely that one of Richard’s brothers might one day be King after him, so that means you must familiarize yourself with Geoffrey and John, too.”
“All three? But why, Morgan? Richard will surely marry and beget a son. How, then, can Geoffrey or John ever be King?”
Morgan did not respond at once, seemingly lost in thought. “Aye,” he said at last. “I reckon you are old enough to know. I take it that your mother and her brothers have spoken to you of carnal matters, explaining how a woman gets with child?”
“Of course! Mama and my Uncle Gruffydd told me what I needed to know ages ago.”
A youngster growing up around livestock could not remain sheltered for long, and Llewelyn’s were an uninhibited people who viewed sex as a natural urge and a very enjoyable pleasure; nor was theirs a society in which the stigma of illegitimacy carried much sting. Morgan was not surprised, therefore, by the boy’s emphatic answer.
Actually, Llewelyn knew far more about carnal matters than Morgan suspected, for he knew about Gwynora. The average parish priest, be he Welsh or English or French, was not a well-educated man; Morgan was an exception. Most were simple villagers, and the burden of celibacy was one that not many could shoulder with equanimity. It was not at all uncommon for these lonely men to take to their hearths wives and live-in concubines, and while the Church officially decried these liaisons, they were tacitly accepted by most people as inevitable and even natural. Unlike so many of his fellow clerics, Morgan had never taken a wife or hearthmate, and the occasions were few when he’d found his vow of chastity too onerous for mortal flesh. He was always quite discreet, and it was purely by chance that Llewelyn had found out about Gwynora. He had told no one, and would never have dreamed of saying a word to Morgan; it gave him a warm glow of pleasure to keep a secret for this man he so loved.
“I know all about carnal matters, Morgan,” he said loftily. “But what has that to do with one of Richard’s brothers becoming King?”
Morgan hesitated. “Richard is a brilliant battle commander, one of the best in Christendom. Nor, for all his tempers, is he an
impious man. It is well known that he yearns to take the cross.”
“You mean go on pilgrimage to the Holy Land?”
Morgan nodded and then hesitated again. “The fact remains, however, that Richard has been known to indulge in an unnatural vice. He would rather satisfy his lust with men than with women.”
Llewelyn’s eyes widened. “But…but how?” he blurted out, then saw Morgan frown, and lapsed into a chastened silence. Men laying with other men? How was that possible? He’d seen enough animals mating to be able to envision a coupling between a man and woman, but when it came to coupling between men, his imagination failed him.
“Morgan…do Richard’s brothers share this sin?”
“It is not a hereditary vice, Llewelyn; it does not pass with the blood,” Morgan said dryly. “Young Henry was happily wed, though childless. Geoffrey’s sins are beyond counting, but he does confine those of the flesh to adultery. As for John, his wenching is notorious. As young as he is, he has at least one bastard and seems destined for a life of debauchery and lechery.” His mouth tightened.
“They are not admirable men, lad, but one of them will one day be England’s King, and your lives will be inextricably entwined, yours and his. Know thine enemy, Llewelyn. I can teach you no more valuable lesson than that.”
“Lessons? At this time of night? Good God, Morgan, have you no mercy?” Marared had come quietly into the room. Laughing at Morgan, she bent over Llewelyn’s pallet, enveloping him in a perfumed cloud.
“Here, darling, I thought you should have a pillow tonight. And I brought you this…” She opened her palm. “See? It’s a coral pater noster. You put it under your pillow and you’ll not be troubled by bad dreams.”
She began to adjust the covers, tucking him in, all the while keeping up a running commentary about his “battle scars,” telling him of fights his father had gotten into as a youngster. He had reached the age where he’d begun to shy away from caresses, and she confined herself to a playful kiss on the tip of his nose, saying cheerfully, “Get some sleep now, sweeting, and when next there is a full moon, we’ll go out by the moat and catch a frog. Then we’ll draw a circle around it, throw a handful of salt about, and you whisper to the frog the name of the wretch who gave you that fearsome black eye…and within a month he’ll find himself covered with loathsome, hairy warts!”
She got the response she was aiming for; her son grinned. But as she straightened up, Morgan touched her elbow, drew her away from the pallet.
“I do wish, Madame,” he murmured, “that you would refrain from filling the boy’s head with such fanciful thoughts. Superstitions of that sort are rooted in pagan rites and have no place in Christian belief.”
Marared laughed, unrepentant. “Do not be such a stick, Morgan!” But then her amusement chilled as if it had never been. The dark eyes narrowed, the full red mouth thinned noticeably. It was as if he were of a sudden looking at a different woman altogether.
“I want the names, Morgan.”
“Names, Madame?”
“The names of the hellspawn who did that to my son,” she hissed. “I know he told you, he tells you everything.”
“He does not want you to know, Madame. It’s better forgotten.”
“Forgotten? That is my son, flesh of my flesh! I’ll not let—”
“Mama?”
They both turned back toward the bed. Marared leaned down, smiled at her son. “Are you not sleepy yet, sweeting?”
“Yes…” The day’s trauma and the medicinal wine had loosened Llewelyn’s tongue at last. “Mama, I do hate it here. So does Adda. I’m so homesick, Mama. I miss Rhys and Ednyved and Uncle Gruffydd and—”
“Ah, Llewelyn…” Marared’s eyes filled with tears.
“Please, Mama, can we not go back where we belong? Can we not go home?”
“You will, lad,” Morgan said quietly. “I promise you that the day shall come when you will.”
Llewelyn stared up at him and then turned his head aside on the pillow. “You mean we have to stay here for now.”
“Yes…for now.” Morgan stepped back, stood looking down at the boy. “But you will go back to Wales, Llewelyn. You will go home.”
2
Shropshire, England
June 1187
“Think you, then, that there’ll be war?”
Hugh Corbet hesitated. It was no easy thing to be a younger brother in an age in which all passed by law to a man’s eldest son. But Hugh had been luckier than most. His was a family of considerable wealth; the Corbets held lands not only in Shropshire, but in Normandy, Warwickshire, Worcestershire, and Wales. Robert Corbet had inherited the barony of Caus, but there were manors to spare for Hugh, too, and his relationship with his brother was blessedly free of the poisonous jealousy that bred such strife between a fortunate firstborn and his landless siblings.
Much of the time they were in harmony, working in tandem for the common Corbet good. But in this they were at odds. In this they were a House divided, much like the rival royal masters they served, for Robert’s loyalties lay with Richard, King Henry’s eldest son and heir, and Hugh’s sympathies went out to the beleaguered, aging King.
Hugh was silent, considering Robert’s grim query. “I would hope to God it will not come to that, Rob,” he said at last. “Father against son—that is the ugliest of all feuds; it goes against the natural order of things.”
Robert took this as a veiled jab at Richard, the unfilial son. “It would never have come to this if Henry would but formally recognize Richard as his heir!”
Hugh had to concede the truth of that. Finding himself forced to defend the indefensible, he at once took the offensive, saying sharply, “Be that as it may, Richard had no right to ally himself with the King of France—not against his own sire!”
“You know damned well why he felt that need, Hugh! With their brother Geoffrey dead in France last summer, that does leave but Richard and John in line for the succession, and Richard knows all too well that his father loves him not. He knows, too, that Henry has ever favored John. What else can Richard think, except that his father means to raise John up to the place that is rightfully his?”
“And a right fine fear that be,” Hugh scoffed, “one to cover a multitude of sins. You know fully as well as I that Henry could anoint John as the very King of Heaven for all it’d avail him. The lords of this realm would never countenance so flagrant a breach of the laws of inheritance. Nor can you doubt the outcome. Whatever John might be given, he’d not long hold—not against Richard. No, Rob, if that be the balm Richard uses to soothe his conscience, he is a man much in need of absolution.”
Robert’s face was mottled, splotched with resentful red. “Richard is to be our next King, should God so will it, and I’ll not have you speak ill of him in my hearing.”
Hugh sighed. By now he could recite the dialogue verbatim for these acrimonious exchanges. Rob was as blind as a barn owl in a noonbright sun, dazzled by Richard’s celebrated skill with a sword. Mayhap it was true that he was the finest soldier in Christendom, but if he had in him the makings of a good King, Hugh had yet to see any signs of it. Like as not, he’d pawn London itself to raise the gold he needed for his foreign wars. And John…would John be any better? Hugh thought not.
He came abruptly to his feet. Why offend Rob and unsettle himself? To what end? Let it lie.
They were sequestered in the uppermost chamber of the castle keep, alone but for a bored page and a dozing mastiff, Robert’s faithful shadow. The window was unshuttered; in winter it would be screened with oiled and thinly scraped hide, but this was summer and it was open to sun and sound from the tiltyard below. Hugh went to it and watched for a while.
“What do you watch?” The question was polite in tone, conciliatory in intent; Robert thrived on family discord no more than Hugh.
“Llewelyn and some of his friends.” As Robert joined him, Hugh gestured toward a small group of youngsters gathered below. Llewelyn was mounted on a burnished chest
nut gelding; as the boys watched, he lowered his lance, took aim, and sent the gelding cantering across the tiltyard. He hit the target off-center and the quintain swung about in a wide arc, the sandbag slicing through the air like an opponent’s counterblow. It should have sent him tumbling from the saddle to the straw meant to soften youthful falls. But Llewelyn twisted sideways in the saddle, leaning so far to his left that it seemed inevitable he’d be unhorsed, and the sandbag swept by harmlessly overhead.
Hugh grinned. It was a showy stunt, an undeniably impressive feat of horsemanship, one that Hugh had seen before. Robert had not, however, and he swore in startled wonder.
“How in Christ did he do that without breaking his neck?”
Hugh laughed. “You’d not credit what I’ve seen that lad do on a horse. I truly believe the Welsh do learn to ride even ere they’re weaned.”
Below them, Stephen de Hodnet was taking his turn upon Llewelyn’s gelding. He, too, hit the quintain awry and, seconds later, went sprawling into the straw, with a bruising impact that earned him no sympathy from the two watching men; they had suffered too many such spills themselves during their own years as knightly apprentices.
Reclaiming Sul, Llewelyn led it over to the fence, held out the reins to his brother. Adda shook his head, but Llewelyn persisted, maneuvering the gelding up to the fence so the younger boy could mount. Once securely in the saddle, Adda shed much of his awkwardness, and while he did not attempt the quintain, he put the gelding through several intricate maneuvers, showing himself to be a better rider than most of Llewelyn’s friends.
Robert frowned. No matter how often he told himself that it was unchristian to feel such abhorrence of deformity, he could not control his distaste, could not keep his eyes from Adda’s twisted leg. Thank the Lord Jesus that his Tom was sound of limb, that the younger boys, too, were whole.
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