The news about the Lady Eleanor was altogether different, spoke not of earthly honors, but of man’s mortality, for she had recently died at Bristol Castle, where she’d been confined for decades. Llelo did not understand why a highborn woman, first cousin to the King, should have been a captive, and he’d gone to Gwladys for enlightenment. From her, he learned that the Lady Eleanor and her brother, Arthur, had been John’s only rivals for the English Crown. When they’d fallen into John’s hands, Arthur had vanished into one of John’s castles, never to be seen again, and Eleanor had been sent to England. For thirty-nine years, she had been kept in comfortable confinement, at various royal castles, first by John and then by Henry, until finally freed by death. Llelo was horrified by her sad story, for he could not help envisioning the same fate for his father.
As he wandered about the abbey grounds, alert for any mention of Gruffydd, Llelo learned that Henry’s lords did not hold their King in high esteem. They thought him erratic of purpose, too easily swayed, too indulgent a husband. Llelo soon determined that Henry’s foreign Queen had found little favor with his subjects, that they blamed her, however unfairly, for many of Henry’s shortcomings. Generosity was expected of every great lord, but Henry’s English barons faulted him for that very virtue, resented how lavishly he’d bestowed largesse upon Eleanor’s kindred. He’d managed to have one of her uncles chosen as Archbishop of Canterbury, had conferred the earldom of Richmond upon another uncle. As there were six more uncles to be provided for, it was questionable which would be exhausted first, the patience of Henry’s barons or the royal treasury.
But there was no talk of the forthcoming war. The English treated the Welsh campaign with insulting indifference. They acted as if Davydd’s defeat were a foregone conclusion, as if Henry had only to cross into Wales to bring Davydd to heel. And Llelo made a disconcerting discovery, that he did not want to see a Welsh Prince humbled before an English King—even Davydd, his uncle, his enemy.
At supper in the Abbot’s hall on the third night after Henry’s arrival, the King announced that he had reached an accord with the Lady Senena, and amidst laughter and cheering, men raised their wine cups high, drank to Gruffydd’s freedom, to Davydd’s defeat.
Llelo had hoped his mother would now honor her promise, but no sooner was supper over than she disappeared into her chamber with her brother and Ralph de Mortimer. Llelo restlessly roamed the monastery grounds, seeking to keep boredom at bay. He paid a visit to the stables, then wandered down to the abbey water mill, but the monks were gone, the sluice gate in place. He ended up in the gardens by the abbey pool, lying on his stomach by the water’s edge, listening to the twilight sounds of summer: frogs, crickets, the sharp chack of jackdaw, the cooing of woodpigeons. An occasional splash made him wish he had a fishing pole, but the monks would hardly be happy were he to poach their carp. After a time, he fell asleep in the grass.
He was awakened by voices close at hand. He started to sit up, recognized one of the voices just in time. Cautiously he wriggled toward a blackthorn hedge, found a viewing hole amidst the spiny branches. They were standing in a circle of moonlight: the English King; his Chancellor, John Mansel; Queen Eleanor’s unpopular uncle, the new Earl of Richmond; a fourth man Llelo could not identify.
From their conversation, it appeared the stranger had just arrived at the abbey. Henry called him Richard, called him brother, and that caused Llelo some confusion, for he knew the King’s brother Richard was in the Holy Land, like Simon de Montfort. As they talked, however, the boy was able to sort it out, to realize that this man was Richard Fitz Roy, one of King John’s numerous illegitimate sons. Richard Fitz Roy had occasionally been to the Welsh court, for he’d been close to the Lady Joanna, his sister. Llelo remembered now that he held a barony in Kent; King John had always done well by his bastards. But it appeared to be another futile eavesdropping endeavor, for Henry and Richard Fitz Roy were not discussing the campaign, were talking, instead, of their brother-by-marriage, Simon de Montfort.
Henry was telling Richard that Simon would not be accepting the governorship of Jerusalem, would be returning to England, at which point John Mansel muttered, “More’s the pity.”
The other men laughed, but Henry said mildly, “You must admit, John, that it was an uncommon honor they paid Simon. For certes, he does make an impression upon men, is not one to pass unnoticed.”
“He sees to that,” Mansel said caustically. “There is no one who values Simon’s abilities more than Simon.”
“Well, he has reason for pride,” Henry said, and Llelo, listening, thought he’d never heard a man defended with so little conviction. It grew quiet then. Llelo scratched himself trying to peer through the blackthorn tangle, at last risked a quick glance around the hedge. John Mansel and the Earl of Richmond had withdrawn; Henry and Richard were standing several feet away.
“Well?” Richard asked. “Did you agree to aid Senena?”
“Yes,” Henry said. “She is a remarkable woman, that one.”
“She is a bitch,” Richard said flatly. “She gave our Joanna naught but grief; I’ve not forgotten. So…tell me. What did she promise? Or more to the point, what did you promise?”
Henry chuckled. “She is to pay me six hundred marks. I have promised to free Gruffydd and their son Owain. She agrees that England shall determine what share, if any, Gruffydd should have received of his father’s inheritance. She agrees, on Gruffydd’s behalf, to pay the Crown three hundred marks a year if he is restored to his half of Gwynedd. And as her pledges, she offers no less than three Marcher lords and five Welsh Princes.”
“She could offer the Lord Christ Himself as a pledge and I’d still not believe her. I know Gruffydd, know how he hates the English. Senena could swear in her own blood and it would avail her naught, Henry. You cannot believe he’ll hold to this agreement once he is free?”
“Senena realized I would have my suspicions. She sought to allay them by agreeing to yield up her younger sons as hostages.”
Richard drew an audible breath. “She actually agreed to that? You astonish me, in truth. It is not that many years, after all, since those Welsh hostages were hanged at Nottingham.”
“A deed ill done,” Henry said indignantly, “and one that shamed our father, both as King and as Christian. But are you suggesting I would ever do the same? I would never harm a child, never!”
“Of course you would not. I know that, Henry, for I know you well. But Senena does not. How could she be sure?”
Henry’s anger faded as quickly as it had flared. “I suppose,” he said, “that it is a measure, then, of her desperation, that she did agree. Gruffydd is lucky, indeed, to have so devoted a wife.”
“Henry…ere we go in, there is something I would say to you. I understand why you have agreed to intervene on Gruffydd’s behalf. Once Davydd had Gruffydd securely caged, he balked at honoring the arbitration agreement. Morever, this is a rare chance to regain all we lost to Llewelyn Fawr. A great man, few would deny it. Fortunately for England he was also mortal; a far easier task it is to confront the lion-whelp than the lion. But I do have qualms about this deal you have struck with Senena. I may sound an utter innocent for saying so, but I cannot help remembering that Davydd is Joanna’s son.”
Henry smiled. “There is no shame, Richard, in that. Indeed, I value you all the more for such feelings. You may rest assured that I share your sentiments. Davydd needs to be taught a sharp lesson. But I would not see our sister’s son brought to ruin if it could be avoided, and I think it can.”
They were moving away, their voices growing fainter. Still, Llelo did not move. He’d dropped down upon the ground, lay for a time with his face pressed into the grass. As the men withdrew, a starling whistled shrilly; its mate answered. Soon the garden air was alive again with the sounds of the night. Llelo was deaf to it all, seemed to hear only the wild, erratic beating of his own heart.
The stables, laundry, brew-house, bake-house, and kitchen were ranged together just
to the north of the abbey pool and gardens. When Llelo rose, he moved instinctively in that direction. The few people he encountered never even glanced his way; he found it very easy to sneak into the huge, stone chamber where the abbey cooking was done. It was deserted; the monks had long since retired, for they would rise for Matins at 2:00 A.M. Llelo tripped over a large mortar and pestle, bumped bruisingly into an enormous empty cauldron. He froze in fear, but none heard the noise. Finding a hemp sack upon the chopping block, he began methodically to fill it with food: large cheeses, apples and pears, even a jar of plum jelly. He then moved on to the abbey bake-house, where he took loaf after loaf of freshly baked bread, manchet for Henry and his lords, maslin for the monks. In a last gesture of sudden defiance, he appropriated an entire plateful of angel’s-bread, wafers baked expressly for the English King.
Until now, he’d acted without conscious deliberation, as if watching from a distance as his other self stuffed the sack with pilfered food. But as he gazed across the garth, saw the lights burning in the abbey guest house, his shield cracked, and he began to tremble. He knew, as did all the Welsh, of the hangings at Nottingham Castle. Twenty-eight hostages had died that day, dangling from a makeshift gallows in the middle bailey, died at King John’s command. Only Llewelyn’s sixteen-year-old son had been spared, only Gruffydd.
Llelo knew, too, of the other hanging. Another Welsh hostage, the seven-year-old son of Prince Maelgwn ap Rhys. He’d died that same August, before Shrewsbury’s stone cross, died because the English King had willed it so.
The guest house was filled to capacity, and men were milling about in the great hall, upon the stairs. But none paid heed to youngsters; Llelo passed unnoticed up to the chamber alloted to his mother. The door to her room was still shut, a murmur of voices coming from within. He wasted precious moments staring at that closed door, then moved into the chamber he and his brothers shared with Einion. Neither Einion nor the children’s nurses were within; the room was dark, quiet. Llelo knelt in the moonlight by Davydd’s pallet, looked down at the sleeping child.
“Llelo?” Davydd yawned, gave his brother a sleepy smile. “You woke me up,” he said, but without reproach. His eyes alighted upon the sack. “What is that? Are you going away?”
Llelo nodded, and Davydd yawned again. “Where? Can I go, too?”
For a mad moment, Llelo actually considered it. But Davydd was only three and Rhodri not yet two. His throat too tight for speech, he shook his head. As young as he was, Davydd was remarkably strong-willed, given to tantrums when his wishes were thwarted. Now, however, he was too sleepy to protest. “When will you be back? Tomorrow?”
Llelo did not answer. Fumbling with Elen’s crucifix, he jerked it from his neck, pulled it over his brother’s head. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, “so sorry…”
“Why?” But Davydd was admiring his new possession, not really listening. Llelo reached into the sack, drew out two sugared wafers.
“Here,” he said huskily. “Keep these for when you awake; one is for Rhodri.” He dared not remain longer. At the door, he looked back, in time to see Davydd secrete a wafer under his pillow, begin to munch contentedly upon the other one.
The abbey gatehouse was closed, but Llelo had noticed a small postern gate in the east wall. Only after he unbarred the door, slipped through into the dark did he give in to his fear, begin to run. He lost all sense of direction or time, ran until he had no more breath, until the abbey was no longer in view and the only light came from stars, until he was alone in the silent, shadowed woods.
11
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Gwern Eigron, North Wales
August 1241
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From Shrewsbury, Henry and his Welsh allies rode north. After passing six days at Chester, the English army moved into Wales. No Welsh prince could hope to match the might of the English Crown. They depended, instead, upon the awesome wildness of their homeland, turning their mountains into fortresses, deep woods into barricades, rivers into moats. Davydd prepared to do battle as his people had always done. He razed Deganwy Castle to keep it from falling into enemy hands, made ready to withdraw into the impenetrable fastness of Eryri.
But in his time of need, he found himself forsaken not only by his Welsh allies, but by God. For the past four months, Wales had suffered under a severe drought. Crops shriveled in the fields; rivers that once surged were now sluggish under a relentless sun. Lakes grew muddy; fish floated belly-up in the shallows. Day followed day, and the sky remained bleached of color, barren of clouds. The great marsh of Rhuddlan was no longer the vast, tidal wetlands that had always proved such an obstacle to invasion. The English army crossed the quagmire with such astonishing ease that Davydd was caught by surprise, his retreat blocked by the fast-moving Welshmen of Gruffydd Maelor. Cut off from the sheltering heights of Eryri, abandoned by his Welsh allies and many of his own people, outnumbered and alone, facing a foe who had even the weather on his side, Davydd yielded to the inevitable, sent Henry word that he would come to the latter’s encampment at Gwern Eigron, there surrender to the English King.
Thursday, August 29, dawned hot and very humid; the air was utterly still, the sky such a metallic blue-white that it hurt to look up at it. They moved slowly east along the coastal road, turned south at the mouth of the River Clwyd. If Davydd even glanced toward the English banner that flew over Rhuddlan Castle, none of his men saw it. Within two miles, they reached the junction of the River Elwy. Ahead lay the English camp, where Henry awaited them.
Ednyved raised his arm, blotted sweat with his sleeve. From the corner of his eye, he could see his son Goronwy. His other son, Hywel, rode almost at his stirrup. No Christian was to befriend or break bread with an excommunicate, yet Hywel, Bishop of St Asaph, had not wavered in his loyalty to Davydd, and for that, Ednyved was very proud of his son. As their eyes met, they exchanged grim nods, each man dreading what was to come. For Ednyved, there was an eerie sense of familiarity about this day, so similar did it seem to another riverside surrender, another Welsh Prince, another English King. He spurred his stallion forward, caught up with Davydd.
“I have something to say to you,” he said, and guided his mount away from the path, into a shadowy grove of alder trees. Davydd followed, drew rein, and waited.
“It was in August, too, when your father had to yield to John at Aberconwy,” Ednyved said abruptly. “As hot as Hades it was, as hot as today. Thirty years ago, but still like yesterday to me, so well do I remember. John had agreed to spare Llewelyn’s life. That much he would do for his daughter, but no more. He made Llewelyn’s surrender as public as possible, as humbling, as painful as he could. And his terms were harder to swallow than wormwood and gall. He claimed twenty thousand cattle in tribute, demanded thirty hostages and damned near half of Gwynedd. That had to be one of the worst moments of Llewelyn’s life. But he survived it, Davydd, he learned from it, and within two years, he’d won back all he’d been forced to yield.”
Davydd’s face was expressionless. “I know that,” he said. “What point do you seek to make?”
Ednyved frowned, slowly shook his head. “No point, lad.” There was nothing more he could say. Davydd had his father’s courage. He had Llewelyn’s dream, his vision, possibly even his ability. But Llewelyn had one great advantage over Davydd. He’d known how to forgive himself.
Henry’s camp by the River Elwy was crowded with both Welsh and English. It was an additional bitterness for Davydd that so many of his own countrymen had fought against him. Almost at once he saw the Princes of Powys, Gruffydd ap Gwenwynwyn and Gruffydd Maelor. They had done as much as any man there to bring him to this moment, and the irony was that they had been his father’s enemies, not his. Gruffydd ap Gwenwynwyn had grown up in English exile, forced to flee when his father lost Lower Powys to Llewelyn a quarter century past. And Gruffydd Maelor had nursed a grudge against Llewelyn ever since one of his brothers had murdered the other. Llewelyn had promptly punished the fratricide, and Gruffyd
d Maelor had neither forgotten nor forgiven the Prince of Gwynedd’s intervention into the affairs of Upper Powys. But neither Prince had dared to challenge Llewelyn. They sought, instead, to gain from the son what they could never have gotten from the sire. And they had, Davydd thought. They had.
But if the Princes of Powys were enemies he’d inherited, ahead were those he’d earned, clustered around the King of England’s oaken chair. Senena’s two brothers, Einion and Gruffydd ap Caradog. The Bishop of Bangor. Senena. Her brothers were openly gloating; the Bishop, too, was showing a most unchristian satisfaction. But there was no overt triumph upon Senena’s face, only hate. It was a potent force, Senena’s hatred; Davydd could almost feel it, no less scorching than the sun, no less implacable.
Surrounded by such intense, virulent hostility, Henry seemed almost benign by contrast. He was grave, as befitting so solemn an occasion, but his eyes were shining. It wasn’t often that one of his political ploys met with such unqualified success.
Dismounting, Davydd handed the reins to one of his men. He kept his eyes upon his uncle, ignored the others as best he could. Unsheathing his sword, he handed it to Henry, then knelt, saying in a low voice, “I submit myself to the King’s will.”
Henry accepted the sword, passed it to John Mansel. His happiness had honed his powers of observation. He saw the flicker of Davydd’s eyelids, the sweat beading his temples, the secret signs that belied his nephew’s outward calm, and he felt a nostalgic tenderness for his dead sister, a surge of pity for her son. Rising, he said, “I think we will be more comfortable in my tent.”
That was a mercy Davydd had not expected; he’d braced himself for the worst, for the most public of humiliations. He rose, followed Henry into the tent; so did Ednyved and John Mansel. But when Senena, the Bishop, and the Princes of Powys would have entered, too, Henry held up his hand. “I regret there is room only for the four of us.” An English king suffered few hardships, even while campaigning; Henry’s tent was spacious enough to accommodate a bed, table, coffers, and fully a score of witnesses. Before the tent flap dropped, Davydd had a quick glimpse of outraged faces. But for all that he had spoken pleasantly, Henry had given a command, and they had no choice but to obey it.