Llewelyn reached out, brushed the hair back from Davydd’s eyes. He did not doubt now that Davydd was mouthing something he’d overheard; no six-year-old would ever have drawn such an analogy on his own. “You know that roan stallion of mine, the one I bought at Michaelmas? I got him in Powys, because they are celebrated for the fine horses they breed. Horses of Spanish stock, crossed with sturdy Welsh mares. Crossbreeding can bring out the best of two strains, Davydd. In horses…and in men.”
Had he said what the boy needed to hear? He was not yet sure, for Davydd’s was not an easy face to read. “We should have told you ere this. But your mother finds it painful to talk about her father, and so we kept waiting…”
“The English King is truly Mama’s father?” Davydd had absorbed too many shocks this night for one more to have much impact. “He’s a bad man, Papa.”
“Yes, lad, he is. That’s why it hurts your mother so.”
“I’m glad, then, that I did not talk to Mama, that I talked to you.” Davydd then astonished Llewelyn by saying, “To be both Welsh and Norman—is it like…like being a bridge, Papa?”
“Yes, Davydd, exactly like that.” Llewelyn was that rarity among parents, one capable of making a realistic assessment of his offspring, tallying up both strengths and shortcomings. He was very fond of Tegwared, but saw him for what he was, a good-natured, amiable youth, both generous and feckless, equally lacking in ambition or malice. Marared and Gwenllian were eager to please, easy to content, neither as clever nor as stubborn as Gwladys. Elen was his free spirit, his secret favorite. And Gruffydd was his firstborn, the son wild and reckless and courageous and wronged.
But Davydd had remained an enigma. A quiet, self-contained child, he was little given either to confidences or complaints, and he was so well behaved that Llewelyn sometimes found himself wishing the boy would break free, put frogs in his sister’s bath, or ink in the holy water. Such pranks were an exasperating but expected part of the rites of passage through boyhood, and it baffled Llewelyn to have a son so sedate, so unlike himself. This sudden glimpse into Davydd’s mind was a revelation, therefore, the first intimation he’d had that this son could be special.
“Your brother Gruffydd is back in the hall. Let’s go over and talk to him,” he suggested, not noticing when Davydd lagged behind.
“Papa…Papa, will Gruffydd go away again?”
Llewelyn turned, smiled reassuringly at the boy. “No, lad, he’ll not go away. Not ever again.”
Davydd stopped on the steps of the dais, stood watching as his father crossed to Gruffydd. Davydd’s sisters were already there, clustered around Gruffydd in an admiring circle. At the sight of Elen in Gruffydd’s lap, Davydd felt a sharp surge of a hitherto unfamiliar emotion, jealousy.
Something nudged his leg, and he looked down to see Math, gratefully wrapped his arms around the dog’s ruff. “I wish you’d bite him,” he whispered, but without any faith that Math would. Gruffydd would give him bones and win him over. Why should Math be any different than Papa, or Elen and Gwladys? They all thought Gruffydd was wonderful, that he could do no wrong. He was the only one in all of Dolwyddelan who was sorry that Gruffydd had come home.
He heard his father say, “And you actually refused to write the letter? You turned John down?” He sounded so amused, so proud, that Davydd felt tears prick his eyes. Never had he felt so alone. But at that moment he saw his mother. Joanna was standing by one of the hall screens. She, too, was watching Gruffydd and Llewelyn. Davydd’s unhappiness had honed his insight, and the look on his mother’s face gave him sudden, surprised comfort. He was not alone, after all. Mama was sorry, too, that Gruffydd was back.
38
Aber, North Wales
July 1215
“If it were me, I’d spit on his summons! Why should you be at John’s beck and call? You’re Prince of North Wales, not a lackey of the English King!”
It was suddenly very still in the hall. Llewelyn swung around in surprise, turned thoughtful brown eyes upon his eldest son. “For certes, I do not see myself as John’s lackey. But the fact is, Gruffydd, that the princes of Wales are vassals of the English crown, and John is within his rights in summoning us to his court to renew our oaths of homage. That is the price we must pay for the concessions he granted us in the Runnymede charter. I’ll not lie to you, lad. I’ll not pretend that I like it any. But I have to do it nonetheless.”
“I would not.”
“You would,” Llewelyn said evenly, “if you were Prince of Gwynedd.”
Gruffydd’s eyes flickered. “I should think a Prince could do as he pleased.”
There was so much innocence in his son’s arrogance that Llewelyn no longer had to strive for patience. “I’m doing this, too, lad, because the Archbishop of Canterbury asks it of me. I owe him, Gruffydd; he assumed personal responsibility for assuring your release. He’s a good man, and Lord help him, but he truly believes a peace can be made between John and his barons. Which brings me to the third reason why I shall go to Oxford: it will afford me an opportunity to judge for myself how much time we have ere war breaks out.”
“Well, it is your decision, Papa,” Gruffydd said, managing to make a statement of simple fact sound as if he were making a concession of sorts. Llewelyn looked faintly amused, Ednyved pensive, while Joanna drew farther back into the shadows of the window seat so none could read her face.
“Ednyved, I’ll need you with me, and Rhys, too. Morgan? Have you any yearning to see Oxford?”
The priest smiled, shook his head. “My bones are getting too old and brittle for journeys like that.”
“What about you, Gruffydd? Would you be willing to come with me?”
Gruffydd raised his head. “The next time I cross the border into England,” he said, “it will be at the head of an army.”
It had gotten very quiet again. But Llewelyn said only, “As you will.” He turned away, crossed the hall, and stopped before Joanna.
“What about you, breila?” he said softly, and with so much understanding that Joanna suddenly found herself blinking back tears.
“I cannot, Llewelyn. I just cannot face him—not yet.”
As shadows began to spill out of the corners, John called for torches. Dusk was settling over the city, and the sight of that darkening sky filled him with dread. The pain was bad enough during the day, but at night it became intolerable. And there seemed to be little his doctors could do. They mumbled that gout rarely struck in summer, admitted they knew neither its cause nor its cure, had no greater comfort to offer than their assurances that such an attack usually ran its course within ten days.
With infinite care, John shifted position. He was among men he trusted: his Justiciar, Hubert de Burgh; the Earls of Chester and Pembroke; his cousin Warenne. But even with them he was unwilling to show weakness, to reveal the full extent of his suffering. “It’s been over a month since we met at Runnymede. In that month I’ve released hostages, dismissed some of my Poitevin captains, granted Hertford Castle to Fitz Walter; Fotheringhay to the Earl of Huntingdon, Mountsorrel to that turncoat de Quincy. And what have they done? They’ve fortified their castles for war, defied officers of the crown, refused to give me a written pledge of their loyalty. And still they hold London!”
“We may be able to reach a compromise there, Your Grace. The Archbishop of Canterbury is sorely distressed by their intransigence, but he still thinks he can persuade them to yield control of the city in August, on the feast of the Assumption—provided that all have taken oaths of obedience to their twenty-five by then, and that you have satisfied their claims for disputed castles.”
“You call that a compromise, Hubert? By those terms they could justify holding London till Judgment Day! Satisfy their claims, you say? There’s no way on God’s earth that I can ever do that. But what I can do is stop this charade.”
John picked up a letter, threw it onto the table. “This arrived at noon. The Pope has commanded all of Christ’s faithful to support me, and he dire
cts Langton and Pandulf to excommunicate the barons if they do not come to terms in eight days. Langton is balking, contending that the Pope’s letter was written without knowledge of the Runnymede charter. But he’ll not be able to make that claim for long. I’ve appealed to the Pope, advising him of the shameful settlement I was forced into making at Runnymede and formally requesting that he annul the charter.”
“John, I must talk—” Isabelle was already in the room before she took notice of the other men. “I did not know you were in council. I will come back later…”
John shook his head. “No, we’ll continue this on the morrow.” Her entry could not have been better timed, for his foot was beginning to throb again, and he was grateful that Isabelle had given him so plausible an excuse to cut the meeting short. All knew a pregnant woman had to be humored, and he’d far rather appear as an indulgent husband than as a crippled King.
As soon as they were alone, John pulled aside the blanket, stared down at his afflicted ankle. It was swollen to twice its normal size, so discolored by a dark purple rash that his skin seemed covered with blotched, ugly bruises; even the veins were distended, protuberant. John covered it with the blanket again, sagged back in his chair.
Isabelle placed a wine cup on the table within his reach, then lowered herself onto a nearby bench. This was the first of her five pregnancies to cause her so much discomfort. She felt bloated, her back ached all the time, and her queasiness was continuing although she was well into her fourth month. She wondered if it was because she’d become pregnant so soon after Isabella’s birth. At the time she’d welcomed this pregnancy; what better way to offer John tangible proof of her fidelity? But in the sweltering heat of high summer, the child she carried was becoming more and more of a burden. She’d never felt so ungainly, so vulnerable.
John had closed his eyes, and as she studied his face, she felt a new and chilling fear. John, too, looked vulnerable. What if he was? What if he lost this war? What would happen to her?
“When we leave Oxford, I mean to send you and the children to Corfe. It’s the strongest of my castles; you ought to be safe there.” John reached for the wine cup, pushed it away after one swallow. “Send down to the buttery for hippocras; I cannot drink this swill. But first, what have you to tell me?”
“John…” Isabelle braced herself. “The Welsh Princes have ridden in,” she said, and winced at his sudden smile. “My love, I’m so sorry, but…but Llewelyn did not bring Joanna with him. John, he came alone.”
Whenever he stayed in Oxford, John held court in the palace known as the Domus Regis, the King’s House; it was his birthplace and a favorite royal residence. But it was also situated outside the city walls, and for his July confrontation with the charter committee of twenty-five, he by-passed the more comfortable King’s House for the greater security of the eleventh-century castle. It was there that he welcomed the Welsh Princes, and there that he accepted their oaths of homage and fealty.
As Llewelyn glanced about the chamber at the men mingling in apparent harmony, his sense of unreality intensified. He could almost believe he’d stumbled into some lunatic land in which nature’s laws were mocked and madness reigned. The committee of twenty-five had been in session all week, hearing appeals of men who felt themselves wronged by John, and Oxford seemed populated by John’s enemies. Giles de Braose alone was absent; he and his brother Reginald had balked at taking part in the Runnymede settlement, at making any peace with John.
Llewelyn was turning as a voice murmured just behind him, in Welsh, “Would you care to wager how long their Runnymede peace lasts?”
“Till Michaelmas?” Llewelyn hazarded, and Maelgwn gave a shrug, a twisted smile.
“I’ve just heard a story I can scarce credit, but Saer de Quincy swears it to be true. John was to arrive on Thursday last from Woodstock, but he did not reach the city till the morrow, and sent word that his illness would prevent him from leaving the castle. He wanted the barons to hold their council in his chamber, but they refused, insisted that he come to them.”
Maelgwn drained his wine cup. “I would,” he said, “have given a great deal to witness that.”
Llewelyn would never think of Maelgwn as a friend, but in the three years they’d been allies, he had developed a grudging respect for the other man. He’d watched as Maelgwn knelt before John, received the kiss of peace from the man who’d murdered his sons, and wondered if he’d have found Maelgwn’s resolve had Gruffydd, too, died at Nottingham Castle.
“I said Michaelmas, but it could be even sooner. John has as many enemies as he has barons, and I truly think that at last he is going to reap what he’s sown. And when he does, Maelgwn, Christ Jesus, what an opportunity for the Welsh! Once John is hopelessly bogged down in a war with his own barons, we move into South Wales, move against the Norman enclaves in Deheubarth and Powys.”
“We?” Maelgwn echoed, cocking a sardonic brow. “So the Prince of Gwynedd will lead an army south to fight with us against the Normans? Most magnanimous, my lord, but I wonder what Gwenwynwyn will think of your generosity. I suspect he’d say we might be exchanging one army of occupation for another.”
“I daresay he will. But what of you, Maelgwn? What say you?”
“Oh, I expect I will give you the benefit of the doubt. But what I will not give you is Ceredigion.”
Llewelyn laughed. “I prefer to make new mistakes, not to keep repeating the same ones over and over. I learned a hard lesson four summers ago at Aberconwy, but I learned it well. Welsh disunity is the most potent weapon the Normans have, and we alone can deny it to them.”
“My lord…” A servant was approaching, clad in the King’s livery. “My lord, the King wants to speak with you. Will you follow me to his chamber?”
This was a summons Llewelyn had been expecting. “Like all here in Oxford, I serve the King’s pleasure,” he said dryly, and Maelgwn laughed for the first time since arriving at the English King’s court.
“I want no war with the Welsh. I want this peace to last.” John spoke slowly, drawing his words out for emphasis, to stress his sincerity. “I would hope you believe that.”
Llewelyn did; even John could handle only one war at a time. This was the first close encounter he’d had with John since the oath-taking, and he was startled to see what ravages three years had wrought. John’s eyes were bloodshot and puffy, his waist thickening, his gestures abrupt. He looked more than ill, he looked haunted, and Llewelyn suddenly remembered the judgment he’d once heard an Augustinian monk pass upon the English King. A great Prince, the monk had said, but scarcely a happy one.
A silence had fallen between them. John knew he had more dangerous enemies than the Welsh Prince, but there were few he hated as much, and rarely had anything come harder to him than this overture of peace. “To prove to you that I mean what I say, I am granting you two English manors, Bidford in Warwickshire and Suckley in Worcestershire.”
Llewelyn was not impressed. How much English land did John think the lives of twenty-eight Welsh hostages were worth? “I shall hold the manors for my daughter Elen,” he said coolly, “to be part of her marriage portion when she’s of an age to wed.”
John nodded. Assuming he’d been dismissed, Llewelyn rose, made an obeisance as meaningless to him as the oath of homage he’d had to offer to the English King. But as he reached the door, John could hold back no longer.
“I freed your son, just as I promised. So why, then, did you not bring Joanna with you? She’s not seen me for three years; how could you keep her away?”
“I did not forbid Joanna to come. That was her choice.”
“You expect me to believe that?”
“I do not much care what you believe.”
“I know you’ve tried to turn Joanna against me. But I know my daughter, know she’d not believe your lies, your—”
“Lies?” Llewelyn moved away from the door. “There are twenty-eight families to testify to the truth of Nottingham Castle. To you, a Welsh death m
ight count for less. But to Joanna, a child is a child. You murdered my hostages to take vengeance upon me, but you hurt Joanna, too. She still dreams of that lad you hanged at Shrewsbury, Maelgwn’s son. Only in her dreams, it is Davydd, her son, on your gallows.”
“I’ll tell you who I blame for Joanna’s pain—you! If you’d let her come to me, I could have explained, could have made her understand that I only did what I had to do. I hanged those hostages because you broke faith. They’d still be alive now, had you not betrayed them. Once you did, I had no choice. I had to set an example, but you forced me to it.”
“It does not surprise me that you find it so easy to justify the deaths of children. But what of murder done in the dark? How do you justify starving a woman and her son to death?”
To Llewelyn’s surprise, John flushed. Only then did he realize that this might well be the first time John had been held accountable for Maude’s murder, for her family and friends had been exiled or intimidated, and John’s family and friends did not truly want to know.
“They died in one of my prisons,” John said, after a lengthy pause, “but I did not seek their deaths. Despite what you and others think, I am not responsible.”
For a man nurtured on parental falsehoods, a man to whom lying was now not so much habitual as reflex, it was a surprisingly unconvincing defense. Llewelyn slowly shook his head. “Is that what you truly want me to tell your daughter?”
For once, John could think of nothing to say. The look on Llewelyn’s face was one he’d seen before. The man who’d come to tell him that Maude and her son were dead was a trusted servant, a man who’d shown himself to be immune to conscience, impervious to scruples. Yet there’d been in his eyes something John had never expected, a look of judgment, of involuntary revulsion. And it was only then that John had realized the full measure of what he’d done.
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