Gwladys glared at him, for she’d yet to give up hope. Davydd knew better. Llewelyn was smiling, but they all could read the question in his eyes, and none wanted to answer him. Elen finally said, with forced cheer, “Marared and Angharad arrived whilst you slept, Papa.”
That meant all of his children would be at his deathbed, save only Gwenllian, who was in Ireland…and Gruffydd, who could not forgive. Llewelyn lay back against the pillow, closed his eyes. “I never truly expected him to come,” he said wearily. “But I’d foolishly let myself hope that he might send the lad…”
Llewelyn awoke with a gasp. He lay still for a time, listening to his own labored breathing. More and more his lungs were putting him in mind of a broken bellows, for he never seemed to get enough air. He wondered almost impersonally how long they could operate at such a crippled capacity. He wondered, too, how long his spirit would be tethered like this.
A log still burned in the hearth, and as his eyes adjusted to the flickering firelight, he saw a shadow move. “I’m awake,” he said, glad of the company, and then, when he realized who was keeping vigil, his smile flashed, sudden, radiant. “I’d almost given up on you, lad,” he confessed, and Llelo moved forward, sat beside him on the bed.
“My mother tried to stop me,” he said, “but Papa…he understood.”
“Gruffydd did not come with you…did he?”
“I think he was afraid to come, Grandpapa, afraid he could not forgive you.”
Llewelyn’s mouth twisted down. “Or afraid he could.”
Llelo looked startled, then thoughtful, and Llewelyn reached out, rumpled the boy’s hair. “What do you hold there, behind your back?” he asked, and Llelo moved closer, showed him a small clay vial.
“Whilst the monks were at supper, I went into the church, filled this with holy water. I thought, Grandpapa, that we could rub it on your chest. It might make you better.” His words were coming faster now, rumbling out in a breathless, urgent rush, as if to forestall Llewelyn’s refusal. “Why not, Grandpapa? What can you lose?”
Llewelyn was quiet for some moments. “Of all the books of the Scriptures, I’ve always found the most comfort in Ecclesiastes. It tells us that time and chance happen to all men, that—”
“I know what it says, that everything has its season, its time—even death. Is that what you’d have me believe, Grandpapa, that it is your time?”
“Yes.” Llewelyn shoved a pillow behind his shoulders. The pain was back—by now an old and familiar foe—spreading down his arm, up to his neck. But he did not want the boy to know. He found a smile, said, “It has been more than three years, after all. Joanna grows impatient—and I’ve never been one to keep a lady waiting.”
Llelo’s head jerked up. “How can you do that? How can you jest about dying?”
He sounded angry. Llewelyn looked at him, at last said quietly, “What other way is there?”
Without warning, Llelo’s eyes filled with tears. He sought without success to blink them back, then felt his grandfather’s hand on his.
“Try not to grieve too much, lad. I’ve not been cheated; I’ve had a long life, with more than my share of joys. I sired sons and daughters. No man had better friends. I found two women to love, and a fair number to bed with. And I die knowing that Wales is in good hands…”
Llelo frowned. “Davydd?” he mumbled, and his grandfather nodded.
“Yes, Davydd…and you, Llelo.”
He heard the boy’s intake of breath. “Me?”
“Davydd has no son. God may yet bless him with one. But if not, he’ll need an heir. And in all of Christendom, he could do no better than you, Llelo.”
As young as he was, Llelo had learned some hard lessons in self-control. But he’d never felt the need for defenses with his grandfather, and Llewelyn could see the boy’s confusion, could see the conflict of pride and excitement and guilt.
Llewelyn shifted his position; the pain was starting to ease somewhat. He was very tired, and not at all sure that he should have shared his dream with the boy. But then Llelo said, “Do you truly have so much faith in me?” and there was wonderment in his voice.
Llewelyn swallowed with difficulty. He nodded, then leaned forward and gathered his grandson into his arms. Llelo clung tightly; he made no sound, but Llewelyn could feel him trembling. “I’d be lying if I said I had no regrets, Llelo. But I was not lying when I told you that I believe it is my time.” After a long silence, he said, very softly, “I should have liked, though, to have seen the man you will become.”
Llewelyn had hoped to see one last Easter; he missed it by but four days. He died at twilight on the eleventh of April, as the abbey bells were summoning the monks to Vespers. He was laid to rest before the High Altar in the abbey he’d loved, and men came in great numbers to mourn.
As she emerged from the church, Elen saw her brother and the Lord Ednyved standing apart from the other mourners. They shared a like expression, one so grim that she quickened her step.
“There is trouble,” she said. “Tell me.”
“You might as well know; all will soon enough.” Ednyved sounded very tired; to Elen, he seemed to have aged shockingly in the days since her father’s death. “We just learned that Owain led a raid upon our granges at Dolbadarn and Nant Gwynant. They burned the barns, ran off the cattle, and killed more than a dozen men.”
“They could not even wait until my father was decently buried!” There was so much bitterness in Davydd’s voice that Elen winced. She knew how deeply he’d loved their father, and it seemed monstrously unfair to her that he should be denied even a single day to mourn.
They’d been joined now by Ednyved’s sons, Bishop Hywel and Goronwy. The former sighed, said sadly, “So it is to be war,” and none disputed him. He remembered, then, the boy. “What of Llelo?” He had pledged the honor of his Church for Llelo’s safety, but he did not remind Davydd of that now, saw no need. Nor did Davydd disappoint him.
“Send the lad home, Hywel,” he said, turned and walked away. The others knew enough not to follow.
Elen roused herself with an effort. “Llelo is still in the church. I’ll fetch him,” she said, thinking that Llelo, too, would have little time to mourn.
The church was quiet; the scent of incense still lingered. Elen encountered neither monks nor mourners as she moved into the nave. Her father’s tomb was encircled by flaring, white Syze candles. It had been constructed during Llewelyn’s lifetime, was as impressive a sepulchre as Elen had ever seen. She looked at the arms emblazoned upon the side of the tomb, and Llewelyn’s lions blurred in a haze of hot tears.
Llelo had turned at the sound of her footsteps. “It is a fine tomb, one befitting a great Prince.” He reached out, gently stroked one of the enameled red lions. “Not that Grandpapa needs a monument of marble,” he said huskily. “Men will remember him.”
“Yes,” Elen said, “they will.” She moved closer, dreading what had to be done. “Darling, you can no longer stay at the abbey. Your brother Owain has attacked two of my father’s—two of Davydd’s granges. Your father will want you back at Nefyn. Davydd will provide an escort, and I’m sure Bishop Hywel will accompany you if—”
“No,” he said, “that will not be necessary,” and what Elen found saddest of all was that he did not seem surprised.
Llelo had yet to move. He was reluctant to leave Llewelyn’s tomb, knelt and whispered one final prayer for his grandfather’s soul. Rising, he said, very low and very fast, “Aunt Elen, shall we still be friends?”
“Yes,” she said, “oh, yes, love!” She knew he’d placed his crucifix in Llewelyn’s coffin, and she fumbled with the clasp of hers. “Here,” she said, “I want you to have this, Llelo.”
Llelo took the proffered cross, carefully tucked it away inside his tunic. “Llelo is a boy’s name. I’m twelve now, old enough to be called by my given name—Llewelyn.”
Elen’s throat closed up. She nodded mutely, then held out her hand. He took it, and they walked in si
lence from the church.
8
________
Abbey of St Mary and St John the Evangelist, Reading, England
April 1240
________
Henry shifted in his seat. There were few if any men whom he trusted more than these two, his Chancellor, John Mansel, and his brother Richard. He knew their advice was sound, would have to be followed. But he could not stifle his pangs of conscience, wondered why he was so often faced with such unpalatable choices.
“I know, I know,” he said impatiently. “Davydd is vulnerable right now, and we’d be mad not to take advantage of his plight, not to extract all the concessions we can. But I take no pleasure in it. He is Joanna’s son, our kinsman, Richard. I’d much rather offer him our aid in putting down Gruffydd’s rebellion.”
Richard and John Mansel exchanged weary glances; Henry’s sentimentality was often a severe trial to them both. “We are in agreement, then?” Richard persisted, and Henry gave a grudging nod.
“Yes, yes. But no more of this now.” He had begun to smile, and Richard, turning, saw why, saw Eleanor approaching with Edward, Henry’s ten-month-old son.
Richard had a well-loved son of his own, a frail five-year-old named after Henry, cherished all the more for being the only one of Richard’s four children to survive infancy. But he felt Henry’s devotion was excessive, and he watched disapprovingly as Henry dandled little Edward upon his knee, utterly indifferent to his royal dignity.
John Mansel rolled his eyes, knowing there was little chance now of keeping Henry’s mind upon affairs of state. The sound of Eleanor’s giggling set his teeth on edge, for he thought her a frivolous, vain young woman, a bad influence upon Henry. Richard found it easier than the priest to understand the appeal of a pretty, vivacious seventeen-year-old, but his own wife was just three months dead. He’d once contemplated divorcing her, fearing she could not give him an heir, but he’d been sincerely attached to her, mourned her still, and the sight of Henry’s domestic bliss rubbed raw against his nerves, stirring feelings of resentment no less intense for being illogical, and he followed Mansel as the Chancellor moved away from the dais.
“Has Henry given you the news yet?” he murmured. “Eleanor is with child again, and already Henry is laying out plans for new nurseries at his favorite manors. He has even given orders to prepare a luxurious lying-in chamber for her, although the babe is not due till after Michaelmas!”
“Yes, he told me,” the priest said glumly. He was pleased, of course, that Eleanor had satisfactorily performed her primary duty as a Queen, bearing a healthy male heir, for Henry was so uxorious a husband that Mansel feared he would not have parted with her even had she proved barren. Fortunately, that fear had been laid to rest. Mansel welcomed this second pregnancy. While Edward seemed to be a sturdy, robust child, death came so often for the young that it was well to have sons to spare. But he also knew that Eleanor’s pregnancy would distract Henry even more than usual.
Richard was still pondering the problem posed by Wales. “As soon as they got word of Llewelyn’s death, the Marshals crossed into Ceredigion. They’d not have dared whilst Llewelyn still lived—to give the old lion his due. But their timing suits us well, puts all the more pressure upon Davydd. I do not see how he can—” He stopped, gave the priest a curious look. “What is it?”
Mansel was staring across the hall. “Jesus wept,” he muttered. “When did he return to England?”
Richard peered about, but the abbey hall was crowded and he was very near-sighted, one of the reasons why he had so little enthusiasm for battlefield heroics. “Who?” he demanded, and Mansel gestured.
“Simon de Montfort,” he said, sounding far from pleased.
Richard caught his breath. “Devil take him, whatever is he thinking of?”
Simon was striding toward the dais, a path opening before him as if by magic; a man in the King’s disfavor was shunned like a leper. Richard glanced back at Henry, then hurried to intercept his brother-in-law.
“What are you doing here? I told you Henry would need time—”
“It has been eight months, time enough, I should think.”
“But I’ve had no chance to prepare Henry for your return! Christ, Simon, why must you be so reckless?”
Men had often accused him of that failing, although Simon could never understand why; by his lights, he was just doing what had to be done. But he did not resent Richard’s aggrieved, peevish tone, for he knew Richard’s concern was genuine. “I’ve never held patience to be a virtue,” he said, and then the corner of his mouth curved. “Mayhap because I have so little of it,” he admitted, and Richard swore under his breath. He had little patience himself with men who made jests in the face of disaster.
“In that, you and Nell are remarkably well matched. At least you had the common sense to keep her away. Go on, then, seek Henry out. I wash my hands of it,” he warned, but as Simon moved away, he made haste to follow.
Henry was tickling Edward, while the child wriggled and squirmed happily. He was slow to become aware of the silence, was not alerted until Eleanor squeezed his arm. At sight of Simon, blood rushed to his face; his mouth puckered strangely. He looked so stricken that Simon almost felt a flicker of pity—almost. “My liege,” he said, began to kneel. But the sound of his voice shattered Henry’s trance.
“Simon! No, do not kneel. Come up here, onto the dais. How it gladdens me to see you,” he exclaimed, and then, to Simon’s astonishment, he found himself embraced by his King. His recoil was instinctive, but if Henry noticed, he gave no sign. “We’ve missed you at court…have we not, Eleanor? But where is Nell? Is she not with you?”
Simon shook his head. He was not easily flustered, but he was utterly discountenanced now by the warmth of Henry’s welcome. He’d come prepared to accord Henry the respect and honor due his rank. But he did not know how to deal with this, did not know how to fake friendship. While he did not begrudge Henry a King’s homage, he could not share Henry’s pretense, could not blot out memory of the past eight months. He thought of Nell, of the nights she’d wept in his arms, grieving for their son, for the shame Henry had brought upon them. He thought of his brother Amaury, of his humiliation in having to ask Amaury for shelter. And he felt anger begin to stir, that Henry would deny them both their dignity like this, force upon him this charade, this hollow mockery of a reconciliation.
He had yet to speak, did not know what to say. But before his silence became awkward, Eleanor raised up, kissed him on the cheek. “We have indeed missed you, Simon,” she said gaily, while her green eyes pleaded for his cooperation, his complicity, and the moment thus passed when Simon could have objected, could have salvaged his pride.
Richard had mounted the dais, too. He was somewhat chagrined that Simon had not needed his help after all, but he felt honor-bound, nonetheless, to do his part. Simon looked strangely grim for a man just restored to the royal favor, and Eleanor’s merriment had a brittle, edgy sound to it. But Henry’s smile was dazzling; he was beaming fondly at Simon, as if genuinely joyful at his return. In time he would almost convince himself of that. Role-playing was Henry’s reality. Richard knew it, wondered if Simon did.
That spring had been a dry, mild one, and as Richard de Clare, Earl of Gloucester, left London and rode west, he found the roads crowded with fellow travelers: merchants, itinerant peddlers, pilgrims, an occasional fast-riding courier. When he stopped for lodging in Oxford, he was pleased to discover that Elen de Quincy had also sought shelter with the Franciscans, and when he learned that she, too, was heading for the river port of Gloucester, he suggested that they travel together. Elen agreed readily, grateful both for the company and the added protection, and they passed the remainder of their journey quite pleasantly, troubled neither by outlaws nor by the notoriously erratic May weather.
Richard de Clare glanced often at Elen as they rode. He knew, of course, of the faint scent of scandal that clung to her. She was the King’s niece. But she was also h
alf-Welsh, and when she’d made the shockingly unsuitable marriage to Robert de Quincy, there were many who explained it in terms of her tainted blood. Richard knew she was no longer young, for she had confessed quite nonchalantly that she was in her thirty-third year. Nor did she measure up to their society’s concept of beauty. Her hair was midnight-black instead of flaxen, her eyes were dark, and her skin seemed sun-warmed all year round; by English standards, she was an undeniable exotic. Yet for all that, Richard thought her quite the most fascinating woman he’d ever seen, her appeal all the more alluring for its unsanctioned, sinful nature. But it had not occurred to him to make improper advances; he was just eighteen and too well-bred to envision so highborn a lady as a bedmate. Moreover, Elen was known to be blazingly outspoken, and he shrank from putting her Welsh temper to the test.
Elen had gone straight from her father’s funeral to one of her dower manors in Essex, and so was not that conversant with current London gossip. Richard happily brought her up to date, informed her that the Earl of Warenne was ill unto death, that her uncle Richard, Earl of Cornwall, would soon be ready to depart upon his long-planned pilgrimage to the Holy Land, that four Norwich Jews accused of circumcising a Christian boy had been torn asunder by wild horses.
“They say most of Norwich was there to watch.” Richard was surprised when Elen grimaced; he’d not have thought her to be the squeamish sort. “It is well that women have softer hearts than men,” he said, quite earnestly, “but pity ought not to be wasted on Jews, Lady Elen. They deserved to die.”
“Did they?”
He swung about in the saddle to stare at her. “How can you doubt it? Jews are the Devil’s disciples, the enemies of the True Faith. Think upon the evil that they do. They steal the Eucharist, stab it till it bleeds. They lure Christian children away and then sacrifice them in vile rites. They poison wells, Lady Elen! Surely you know all this?”