Falls the Shadow

  “A seizure,” Isabella said faintly. “He suffered a brain seizure.”

  Gruffydd sucked in his breath. “Apoplexy?” He sounded stunned. “Christ Jesus!”

  “Does he still live?” Senena’s voice was so sharp that Isabella flinched; Senena, too, she feared.

  “Oh, yes! He—” She had been about to assure them that Llewelyn was in no danger, but she checked herself, certain that was not what Senena—and possibly Gruffydd—wanted to hear. She stood alone, watching as Gruffydd hastened toward the castle keep, very thankful that she need not be a witness to the scene to come.

  Llewelyn’s bedchamber was still shuttered, lit only by cresset wall torches and a sputtering hearth fire. The bed hangings were closely drawn. Five people were seated at a table near the door: Davydd, Elen, Gwladys, Ednyved, and another man Gruffydd did not recognize. He never even noticed his younger son, slouched in the shadows of a window-seat. He strode into the room, stopped before Davydd.

  “Your wife claims Papa had an apoplectic seizure. Is that true?”

  Davydd’s mouth thinned. “Think you that Isabella would lie about something like that? Yes, it is true.”

  “Why did you not tell me at once?”

  “When I sent you that message, I did not yet know what ailed him.”

  “My lords, I must ask you to keep your voices down.” The stranger rose, moved around the table toward Gruffydd. “Your lord father has at last fallen asleep, ought not to be disturbed.”

  “Who are you?”

  The man smiled. “I am Einion ap Rhiwallon of Myddfai.” The name was known throughout Wales; his was a family of doctors, celebrated for their healing arts. But Gruffydd did not react as expected.

  “You’re a doctor?” he said brusquely, and Einion’s smile faded.

  “My father was court physician to Prince Rhys Gryg,” he said, somewhat stiffly. “I happened to be at Beddgelert Priory, and Lord Ednyved called me in to consult with Prince Llewelyn’s physician, as I’ve had much experience in treating—”

  Senena could wait no longer. “Do you expect Llewelyn to live?”

  Einion’s smile came back. “God willing, Madame, I do. Prince Llewelyn was fortunate, in that the seizure was a relatively mild one. He ought to make a good recovery.”

  Gruffydd drew back into the shadows, lest the others read his face. Why should he feel such relief? How could he still care?

  Senena glared at the doctor. “Do not lie to us!”

  “Madame, I assure you I am not lying!”

  “A mild seizure! A good recovery! What sort of fools do you think we are? Apoplexy kills, it cripples, it affects a man’s wits, his—”

  “Not always, Madame, not in this case. It is true that Prince Llewelyn is showing some signs of palsy, some paralysis in his left arm and leg, but I feel that in time he will—”

  “Paralysis—I knew it!”

  Gruffydd was frowning. “Knew what, Senena?”

  “Oh, think, Gruffydd, think! What happens if your father is disabled by this seizure, bedridden, unable to talk? Who do you think would then rule Gwynedd for him? Who would have control of the privy seal? They would!” She pointed at Davydd and Ednyved. “What is to keep Davydd from issuing orders in Llewelyn’s name—orders for your arrest? Gruffydd, do you not see your danger?”

  Gruffydd hadn’t—until now. He swung about, stared at Davydd. How could he have been so blind?

  Elen stopped striving for patience. “Davydd would never do that!”

  “He’d do it,” Gruffydd said grimly. “You think he has not been laying plans for Papa’s death? He knows Papa’s people would choose me if given half a chance, knows—”

  Davydd shoved his chair back, rose to his feet. “I was a fool to send for you, a fool to think you’d want to know of Papa’s illness. His suffering means nothing to you, nothing at all.”

  Gruffydd stepped toward him. “Damn you! I’ve had—”

  “Grandpapa!” The cry was Llelo’s; he alone had noticed the bed curtains being pulled back.

  It was suddenly very still. Llewelyn’s eyes moved slowly from face to face. “I think it best,” he said, “that you keep this deathbed vigil elsewhere,” and Senena’s fear began to ease, for his voice had been low, but very distinct and very cold. So the doctor had not lied, after all. She’d nursed the sick often enough to recognize the distinctive aura of coming death, and she could not find it now in Llewelyn’s face. How long, she marveled, was he to have the Devil’s own luck? How long must they wait? But at least he’d not be Davydd’s puppet. She sighed; thank Christ Almighty for that much!

  The silence was a strained one; none of Llewelyn’s children could meet his eyes. Elen was the first to recover; she moved swiftly across the chamber, bent over the bed. “Papa, we’re so sorry! We never meant for you to hear that.” She glanced back accusingly over her shoulder, said, “Do you want Gruffydd and Senena to leave?”

  “Yes,” Llewelyn said, but then he added, “I want you all to leave,” and Elen straightened up in dismay.

  “But Papa…” Her protest trailed off; Einion was already beside her.

  “Madame,” he said, politely but firmly, and she reluctantly let him escort her from the chamber. The others followed slowly.

  No one spoke as they moved out onto the porch, crossed the narrow drawbridge that led to the stairs, descended into the bailey. But there Gwladys balked. She was turning to reenter the keep when Einion barred her way.

  “I have to go back,” she said. “I know how we must have sounded—like dogs squabbling over a choice bone.”

  “Worse—like birds of prey drawn by the stench of carrion,” Elen interjected bitterly, and angry color rose in Senena’s face.

  Einion still blocked the stairs. “Madame, I understand. But now is not the time to talk to your lord father.” He paused, speaking to them all. “I said I expected Prince Llewelyn to recover…and I do. But it will not be easy for him. You must try to understand how he feels—stunned, helpless, betrayed by his own body. He needs time to come to terms with it. What he does not need is another confrontation. My lord Davydd, I must speak bluntly. Your father was lucky—this time. But there is always the risk of a second seizure, and that one might well be fatal.”

  Elen paled. “What you are saying, then, is that Senena could have caused my father to have another seizure!”

  “I did nothing wrong,” Senena said heatedly. “I did but express fears for my husband’s safety, well-founded fears! Do you think I can ever forget those years at Deganwy Castle?”

  “Gruffydd forced my father to do that. Again and again he’d forgiven Gruffydd, even when Gruffydd took up arms against him.” When Gruffydd would have interrupted, Elen turned to face him. “You know I speak the truth, Gruffydd. Papa loves you—even now—but you’ve given him naught but grief, you’ve—”

  “He loves me?” Gruffydd echoed, incredulous. “Lest you forget, I spent six years in Deganwy’s great keep at his command, my loving father, who would deprive me of my rightful inheritance, bestow it upon Davydd, the son of his Norman-French har—”

  “Do not say it.” Davydd’s voice was even, dispassionate, a calm belied by the glittering hazel eyes. “My mother had nothing to do with your downfall. You brought it upon yourself. Papa found you unfit to rule, and because he was not willing to sacrifice Gwynedd to spare your pride, you’ve done all you could to punish him, to make him suffer for your sins. But no more—not when it’s now a matter of Papa’s very life. I’ll not let you put his recovery at risk.” He paused. “Until he regains his strength, you are not to see him.”

  “You dare to tell me I cannot see my own father?” Gruffydd felt first shock, and then, murderous rage.

  Davydd saw it, but had only a split-second in which to react. His first instinct was to order Gruffydd subdued. But the command died on his lips. The bailey was packed with people, exacting eyewitnesses who’d judge common sense as cowardice. He measured his brother with coldly appraising eyes; Gruff
ydd had the height and the reach, but he was quicker, younger, and as Gruffydd’s hand dropped to his sword hilt, he, too, reached for his sword.

  A woman screamed; people cried out, surged forward. But before Gruffydd’s sword could clear its scabbard, a hand clamped down upon his wrist. Ednyved’s voice was pitched low, but throbbed with fury no less intense than Gruffydd’s.

  “Enough,” he snarled. “Davydd may not arrest you, but by Christ, I will! Do you think I’d let you do this to Llewelyn?”

  Gruffydd jerked free. Ednyved raised his hand, and his household guards moved forward, waiting for orders. Davydd’s sword was drawn, but lowered now; he, too, waited, warily. Owain was hovering a few feet away; he had his sword half-way up its scabbard, seemed at a loss as to what to do next. Gruffydd looked first at his brother, and then at his father’s Seneschal.

  Ednyved, too, was unusually tall; his eyes were on a level with Gruffydd’s own; hard, unrelenting eyes. He was, Gruffydd well knew, not a man to bluff. “For once, Gruffydd, use your head. Do you truly want to see Deganwy again?”

  “Gruffydd, he is right.” Senena was beside him now, tugging at his arm. “Beloved, Davydd is not worth it. Please…let’s go from here.”

  “Listen to her, Gruffydd,” Gwladys implored. “Papa has a hunting lodge at Trefriw, just twelve miles from here. You and Senena can stay there whilst Papa regains his strength. As for this, it will be forgotten. Nothing happened. Davydd?” She turned challengingly toward her younger brother. “You would not want to trouble Papa for naught, would you?”

  “No.” Slowly, deliberately, Davydd sheathed his sword. “I agree with Gwladys, think it best you go to Trefriw. We’ll send you word if Papa’s condition worsens.”

  “I’ll go and right gladly—but not to Trefriw. I’ll withdraw to my own lands in Powys, and I will not be back.” Gruffydd whirled, gestured to the closest of his men. “Fetch the horses.”

  Senena’s relief was such that she closed her eyes for the briefest of moments, gave silent thanks to God and His angels, to the saint she’d adopted as her own. But she would not breathe easily until they were safely on the road south, and she glanced nervously toward her sons. “Owain, sheathe your sword. There is no time to saddle a mount for you, Llelo; you can ride behind your brother.”

  Owain did as she bade, but Llelo did not move. “No,” he said, almost inaudibly. “No.”

  Senena turned. “What?”

  Llelo hunched his shoulders, stared at the ground. “I’ll not go. I’ll not leave Grandpapa, not whilst he’s so sick.”

  For Senena, it was almost a relief to have a tangible target for her rage. “You’ll do as you’re told!”

  Llelo shook his head stubbornly, took a backward step, and then another. “I’ll not leave Grandpapa,” he repeated. “I cannot…”

  Owain was regarding his brother with disgust, but no surprise. “Shall I fetch him for you, Mama?”

  Senena, too, was staring at her youngest child. “You’ve always been willful, Llelo, and irresponsible. But I would not let myself believe Owain was right; I could not believe you were disloyal, too. And yet this is your answer to our Christmas Eve talk! You say you cannot leave your grandfather? Stay with him, then. But if you do this to your father, I will never forgive you—never!”

  Llelo gasped, and the look on his face brought tears to Elen’s eyes. But she did not dare intervene; she was the last woman in Christendom whom Senena would heed.

  “Christ, woman, what are you saying?” Gruffydd was looking at Senena as if she’d lost her wits. “You know you do not mean that!” He did not wait for her reply, strode past her toward his son.

  “I’ll hear no more arguments from you, no more back talk. You’ll come with us, come home where you belong. Do I make myself clear?”

  Llelo swallowed. His eyes were brimming with tears, but again he shook his head. “I cannot,” he whispered. “Please, Papa, I cannot…”

  Gruffydd swore, reached for the boy, his fingers digging into Llelo’s shoulder, jerking him forward, so roughly that Llelo stumbled. His face had lost all color; his eyes looked enormous, dark wells of such despair that Gruffydd’s breath stopped. Slowly his fingers unclenched, his grip loosened. Until that moment, he’d not realized how much his son feared him.

  Llelo’s tears were falling free now. He brushed them away with the back of his hand, smeared his face with dirt. “Please, Papa…what if he dies? Please…”

  Gruffydd said nothing; he stood there, looking down at the boy, and then caught the fragrance of perfume, felt a woman’s hand touch his sleeve. “Let the lad stay, Gruffydd,” Gwladys entreated, very softly. “I’ll look after him. What harm can a few days do?”

  Gruffydd’s mouth twisted. “What harm, indeed? He’s taken all else from me; why not my son, too?”

  “Ah, Gruffydd…” Gwladys’s hand tightened on his arm. “I’m not asking you for Papa’s sake, but for Llelo’s. If you must lay blame about, blame Senena, then, for sending Llelo to live at Papa’s court. Blame Papa if you must. But not the boy, Gruffydd, not the boy.”

  Gruffydd stepped back, looked again at his son. “A fortnight,” he said harshly. “But no longer. You understand, Llelo? No longer.”

  “I know not why it is so, my lord, but I’ve treated many apoplexy patients, and when the right side of the body is stricken, it is more likely that the powers of speech are also afflicted.” The doctor waited, but Llewelyn gave no sign he’d heard. He hesitated, then said, “In truth, my lord, you were lucky.”

  That got a response; Llewelyn’s eyes cut sharply toward him. “You find that a hard mouthful to swallow. But in time it’ll go down easier. For you were indeed lucky, my lord. Apoplexy can maim, can leave men with their senses bereft, their tongues hobbled. But God has spared you that. Your wits are clear; so, too, is your speech. Your left arm and leg are benumbed, weak. But it may well be that in time you’ll regain some use of them. I do believe that, my lord. You never lost consciousness; that is a good sign. And the muscles in your face were afflicted for but a few hours. That, too, bodes well for your recovery. But you must be patient, my lord. Above all, you must not lose heart.”

  Llewelyn did not reply, and after a few moments heard the doctor’s retreating footsteps. But he was not yet alone; Ednyved still stood by the bed. “I know your thoughts,” he said, not sounding like Ednyved at all; for once, there was no mockery in that quiet voice, no sarcasm.

  “Do you?”

  “Yes. You do not understand why the Lord God took Joanna from you, why He then did not take you. And as you lie there in that bed, you wish He had.”

  Llewelyn turned his head on the pillow, looked at the other man. “Could you blame me if that were so?”

  “I, too, lost my wife within the past twelvemonth, but never did I love Gwenllian, not as you loved Joanna. Nor am I the one stricken with palsy. Blame you? No, Llewelyn, no. I can but tell you this. The ways of the Almighty are beyond our understanding. Why does He strike down the innocent with the guilty? Why does He claim a babe in its cradle? Why did He afflict my son with leprosy?” He leaned over the bed. “We need you still, Llewelyn. That is why the Lord stayed His hand. That is why you must not despair.”

  He stepped back. “Davydd, Elen, and Gwladys were sorely troubled by what happened this forenoon. They love you well, Llewelyn.”

  “I know,” Llewelyn said, sounding so weary that Ednyved winced.

  “Well, I shall leave you now, that you may rest.” Adding reluctantly, “You must be told, though. Gruffydd has withdrawn into Powys.” He received no answer, but then, he had not expected one.

  Llewelyn’s dream was disjointed, confused, but held such dark overtones of menace that he awoke with a gasp. The chamber was deep in shadows; he’d lost all sense of time, of place. But then he started to sit up, found himself wrenched back to the brutal reality of his plight, to the dead weight where his left leg should have been.

  He raised himself up awkwardly on his elbow, threw off the c
overlets. His body was still lean, showed the effects of a lifetime of hard activity, of riding, fighting. Across his ribcage, along his collar bone was the evidence of old wounds; the only serious sickness he’d ever known had been inflicted at sword-point. A third scar zigzagged down the upper thigh of his left leg. The leg was bent at the knee, angled away from his body, the muscles constricted, as if in spasm. He reached over, tracked the knotted path of the scar, felt nothing, as if he were touching foreign flesh, not his own. He’d begun to shiver; he pulled the blankets up, lay back against the pillow.

  His left arm had drawn itself up to his chest. He stared at his hand, willed it to move, concentrated upon that to the exclusion of all else. His fingers twitched, slowly curved inward, formed a fist. He exhaled his breath, staring down at the hand, a stranger’s hand. But no matter how he tried, he could not get his fist to unclench. At last he gripped those frozen fingers in his right hand, pried them apart; his eyes filled with tears.

  A sudden creaking alerted him that he was no longer alone; the door had just opened. He wanted no witnesses, wanted no solace, no pity. “Get out,” he said roughly. “Get out—now!”

  No footsteps sounded; the door did not open again. All was still, the only sound that of his own uneven breathing. He grabbed for the bed hangings, jerked them back. In the center of the room a light flickered weakly, a horn lantern holding a single tallow candle. Above it he could just make out the chalk-white face of his grandson.

  The boy had begun to back toward the door. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, “I’m sorry,” and Llewelyn struggled upright.

  “Llelo…wait. Come back.”

  The lantern light swayed, seemed to float toward the bed. Llelo bent down, set it on the floor, almost as if he sensed that the man wanted no illumination, no close scrutiny.

  “I brought you something, Grandpapa. I know your chaplain gave you a dispensation to eat meat whilst you’re ailing. But when I was in the hall, I heard that you’d refused to eat the pasty the cooks made for you, even though it was stuffed with marrow and currants and dates…” There was wonder in Llelo’s voice; he could not understand anyone spurning beef marrow, especially after so many weeks of meatless Lenten fare. “I thought you ought to eat, Grandpapa, so I went to the kitchen, and when the cooks were not looking, I smuggled this out.” Lifting his mantle, he drew out a napkin, began to unwrap it. “See? I’ve got some ginger cake for you, two Lenten fritters, with apples and real sugar, and best of all, an angel’s-bread wafer.”