And I, too, remembered every day of that month-long negotiation, and it was fought fiercely, but I believe cleanly. But my mind misgave me that we were dealing with one who entered into undertakings in good faith enough, and yet when they began to irk him could find the most just and virtuous reasons for qualifying or discarding them, who could re-examine his own given word, and convince himself that it meant something quite other than it said, and that he would be false and recreant if he did not follow the newly-discovered spirit and repudiate the letter. Studied from under that drooping eyelid of his, that alone marred his grandeur as it had marred his father's grace, doubtless words slid obliquely from their original sense to spell out what Edward desired them to mean.
"His own law naturally seems to him the best, for us as for the English," said Llewelyn, "that I can understand. And ours, being alien, may seem to him distasteful and disordered. But he has promised to observe it faithfully, and let him twist and recant as he will, and with all the power in his hands, if I must fight him to the end of my life to pin him to his word, I will do it. If he prevails against me, what hope will any other Welshman have of justice? I am bound by the treaty, there is no weapon allowed me but law, and even that, it seems, even that I must wield with my hands manacled."
This matter of the Arwystli suit, which had now become a touchstone to determine the king's sincerity or duplicity, and affected every man of Welsh blood who had a grievance at law and hoped to right it by the code he knew and trusted, was not the only cause of vexation to the prince at this time, though it was the gravest. There were many other suits entangling him, some of them malicious and brought only to plague him, some collusive, to afford Griffith ap Gwenwynwyn legal cover, and assist him to manipulate the irritating delays in which he took such pleasure.
There was also another matter which had dragged on for some years, and was causing great annoyance and loss. Before the recent war a certain merchant ship had come to wreck in rough weather off our coast, and the men of Gwynedd had fished ashore such of the crew as survived, and salvaged all the goods the ship was carrying, which then legally belonged to the prince, who held right of wreck in all his lands. But after the peace was made, and the rush to law began, the owner of the vessel, one Robert of Leicester and a rich man, went to the king with the tale that his ship had not been lost by wreck, and the prince had no right to the goods she carried, and so he had obtained royal letters enabling him to bring suit for recovery of his merchandise or its value in the Chester shire-court, where naturally he had no difficulty in getting judgment in his favour.
Now this was in any case wrong in law, for the suit, if he wished to press his claim, should have been brought in the land where the loss complained of occurred, that is, in Llewelyn's own court in Wales, and therefore its process in Chester was an affront and infringement of the prince's sovereign right. In addition to this, the justice of Chester from then on proceeded to distrain on whatever property of Llewelyn fell into his hands, and as we relied on Chester for much of our buying of necessities, we suddenly found it unsafe to send there to buy in supplies, for as fast as they were paid for they were seized for their value against the sum claimed by Robert of Leicester. The prince suffered diminution of his right by the slight of his court, a challenge to his right of wreck which could never have arisen by Welsh law, and the repeated loss of his purchases, together with danger to his messengers if they attempted to keep them, for the justiciar's men were not gentle.
There were also, of course, those clashes along the border which wise chiefs discouraged, but also took for granted, and paid out the compensation due when just complaints were made against their men. This had always been done on an even footing, each side in conference with the other either admitting or disputing the charges made, until sensible agreement was reached, and each paid its score fairly. But at this time such encroachments were greatly aggravated along the marches of Salop, led by Griffith ap Gwenwynwyn and his sons, and willingly aided by many of the local men, and when Tudor went to the border to meet the sheriff of Salop and make mutual amends for all trespasses then charged, notwithstanding that most of the Welsh offences had already been paid for and the steward was willing to amend those remaining, the sheriff refused to make any such amends on his part unless he should receive direct orders from the king to do so. This again was not only an unjust imbalance, but a breach of treaty, though Llewelyn did not therefore charge it against Edward himself, for we knew only too well that the king's officials were arrogant and exacting beyond their master, and he could not know everything that was going on in all parts of his kingdom.
Thus all these vexed matters stood in the early spring of that year twelve hundred and eighty. In February the prince wrote to the king informing him of the distraints at Chester and the dispute on the Salop border, mindful that after Easter parliament would again assemble at Westminster, and determined to ensure that all his complaints were documented before his envoys must again appear in Edward's court. The king replied in the matter of the goods from the wreck, disclaiming all previous knowledge of the affair, which we could hardly accept, seeing Robert of Leicester had taken out royal letters before ever he could bring suit at Chester. At the coming parliament, said Edward, the prince's attorneys should be able and ready to inform him fully about the case, and he would do right, as was always his will and intent.
"Very heartily," said Llewelyn, "we'll do our part, if he'll do his. He shall not be able to say he was not fully informed." And once again he asked Brother William de Merton to be his special envoy and take all these affairs in his care when parliament met, and armed him with his best legal advisers, and with all manner of attestations from the clergy and friars of Gwynedd to show that the prince's right to have Welsh law in the Arwystli case was irrefutable.
Now it chanced that at this time John Peckham, the new archbishop of Canterbury, who had held office just a year and was full of zeal for the wellbeing of his whole flock, in Wales as in England, was in correspondence with Llewelyn concerning a long-standing dispute between the prince and the bishop of Bangor, which Archbishop Peckham greatly desired to bring to a happier composition. This again was but one of the fruits of the recent war, like so many of our vexations, for by and large the prince had always a warm and affectionate relationship with this Bishop Einion. But the lot of such a bishop, subject to his prince and greatly dependent on his goodwill and protection, but equally subject to Canterbury and the papacy, and through his archbishop very much exposed to the grace or enmity of the king of England, too, was not easy in time of war, and kindly and pious though Einion was, I would not say he was cast in any heroic mould. When he received his archbishop's letters ordering him to promulgate the excommunication of Llewelyn as a rebel against Edward, he had small choice, short of heroism, but to obey and pronounce, and so he did, and thereafter was so uneasy for his safety, I think needlessly, for the prince gave very little thought to him then, that he fled into England until the peace was made. Afterwards he came back to his see, but we found him more than usually prickly and difficult and doubtless there was some stiffness also on the prince's side, after all that had passed. But I think it was the soreness of his conscience that kept the bishop so long estranged, and made him pick upon every real or imagined slight, or trespass upon the Church's rights, to prop up his self-esteem. Certainly Archbishop Peckham understood the tribulations and abrasions of trying to balance the privileges of prince and primate, and was well qualified to make peace between the two in Wales, and being an ardent, busy person, was pressing his services upon Llewelyn to that end.
"And indeed I should be glad to be friends with my bishop again," said Llewelyn. "He was never so thorny until now, and he has been a good friend in the past. Since the archbishop is well-disposed, why should we not make use of his good offices? I'll write and bid him here into Wales. Who knows but he may help us more ways than one!"
"Don't embroil him in law," said Eleanor. "Poor John Peckham has had enough of medd
ling with my cousin's prerogative there."
The new primate had indeed suffered a sharp lesson at Edward's hands, for he had come into his high post bursting with reforming zeal as a champion of the Church's pure rights and privileges, and felt strongly that the king was all too rapidly consolidating the crown's hold in fields formerly held to belong to the clergy. In particular, with his frenzy for law, he was infringing, or so Peckham felt, the jurisdiction of the clerical courts. The new archbishop set out to issue a stern warning, with a number of sweeping sentences of excommunication against certain kinds of people who seemed to him to be offending not against morality, but against the supreme rights of the Church. As, for instance, all those who procured letters from lay courts to impede trials he held to belong to courts ecclesiastical, or any officer who flouted the writ requiring him to arrest an excommunicated person. The king had a quick eye for such impertinence, and within two weeks the archbishop was summoned to appear before king and council in parliament, and made to withdraw three of these general sentences on sharp legal grounds, a humiliation he was not likely to forget easily.
"Oh, I'll not drag him into my lawsuits," the prince promised, laughing. "But he's been taking a friendly interest in Amaury's case, as well he may, being the Holy Father's deputy in England, if we can get him here in person, then we can solicit his help for your brother without fear of being misinterpreted."
She embraced the idea with delight, for Amaury was the one cloud upon her happiness. "Yes, oh, yes, for Amaury we can entreat his help without trespassing, he is very much the archbishop's business. If he can win what I've begged for so often without grace," she said with ardour, "I won't grudge it to him that I've been so long denied. Even if he could prevail on Edward to allow a visitor, that would be something!"
"That we may ask for at once, and of the king himself," said Llewelyn. "At the worst he can but refuse, and if he is surprised into giving his consent, so much the better. And the archbishop we'll reserve until you can work on him yourself, for if he can refuse you, love, then no other need try. When Brother William de Merton goes with my lawyers to attend this Easter parliament, Samson shall go with them and carry my invitation to the archbishop, and ask permission of the king to visit Amaury in Corfe. If the request is made publicly and without warning, it may be harder to refuse it. And if it is refused, then we'll enlist the archbishop's help and try yet again."
So Eleanor joyfully put together a few books which she thought might be approved without suspicion, and certain personal gifts for her brother, and also a purse of money for his use, for Edward was not celebrated for making generous living allowances to his prisoners, or paying for much in the way of service for them. And I learned many messages from her and from Llewelyn, some concerned with Amaury's own properties and business abroad, more with her affection and anxiety for him, and the efforts she had made and would continue to make on his behalf. And when Master William and his companions set out for London, I rode with them.
Further south than Westminster I had never been but once, and that was with Earl Simon's army in the days of his glory, when he won his battle at Lewes and gathered England into his hands. Now I rode to his youngest son, four years a prisoner for no crime but being a de Montfort, and drawing to himself, as the only man of his house within reach, all the hatred Edward felt for that whole detested race, all the more black and bitter because once he had worshipped the great earl, more truly than ever in his life he had worshipped any other but himself, or ever in his life was to worship any thereafter.
We arrived in Westminster more than a week before parliament was due to meet, and went in a body to an audience of the king, to present our credentials, and there before a large company of his officers and counsellors I made my request on the prince's behalf. It sounded mild and innocent enough, and came unexpectedly, and I had thought that Edward might give his consent as a matter of policy, since there were several of his lords spiritual present, who knew very well that the pope had expressed impatience and displeasure at Amaury's long detention. But Edward was never to be trapped into making a hasty answer that he might soon regret. He sat erect in his great chair, dark-gowned and sombre and huge, and looked at me impassively across the table, his face austere and still his left eyelid markedly drooping over the large brown eye.
"We take due note of the lord prince's petition," he said in the most deliberate and reasonable of voices, "but it should not be addressed to us, and we must be held excused if we cannot answer it. The Lord Amaury de Montfort is not in our keeping, but in that of the lord archbishop of Canterbury."
And that was all! So simple it was to deny without denying. We were dismissed graciously, and he had done us and our lord no wrong. Yet in some degree, I considered when I thought it over in quietness, he had committed himself to a statement, and before witnesses enough, and could not withdraw it. He had not said such a visit could not take place nor that such a request should not have been made, but only that it should not have been made to him, for he was the wrong authority. Well, if I was turned away from one court of appeal, I could spare the time and the effort to seek out another. I went straightway, and made enquiry for Archbishop Peckham, but here I met with another check, for they told me that he was not in London at that time, but on a tour of the middle shires, making his pastoral visitations, and had last written from Trentham, in Staffordshire, a week ago.
I was crossing by the infirmary gardens to the stables, determined not to give up so easily, when I saw among the people emerging from the gateway of the farmery a large, bulky, comfortable figure in a black, clerkly gown, pacing with an easy gait I thought I should know. Indeed, he was sure of me before I could be sure of him, and came up to me bountifully and broadly smiling.
"Well, well! Samson it is! I thought I should know that thrusting walk. What brings you to Westminster again? It's long since we saw you here."
"The prince's business, as always," I said, "and as always, you may be very useful to me in carrying it out."
"I'll walk with you," said Cynan, "wherever you're bound, for it seems you're in more haste than I am." But he shook his head when he saw I was leading him towards the stables. "Not leaving us again so soon, and I've but just found you?"
He was not greatly changed in the last few years, except that he had put on yet more flesh, and his forehead had grown taller as his black hair receded. Always he was neat and well-brushed, never a speck of dust on his gown, and his smooth, pale hands ringed and placidly folded, Cynan was accomplished and discreet, and had been many years about the court, but he had never forgotten his Welsh blood. He was comfortable where he was, and little tempted to throw away his comforts, and after his own fashion he had played fair with his English masters and given them zealous service while they played fair with Wales. But where he considered they were breaking faith and dealing unfairly, he had felt himself free to inform the prince accordingly, whether in peace or war. Many times his own head might have paid for its dual loyalties if luck, as well as skill, had not been on his side.
I told him what my business was in Westminster, and how it was thwarted, and what I had learned concerning the movements of the archbishop. At Peckham's name Cynan grinned hugely at some private glee.
"About his pastoral visitations!" he said fatly. "So he is, the good, stubborn man. And so he did write a letter to the king just eight days ago, and I saw the look on the royal face after he had read it, and kept well out of his way the rest of the day. Those two are like oil and water, my friend! Peckham writes lovely letters—I know more of them than I should, but I'm in the chancellery now, and moderately close to Burnell's confidence, and there's no great love lost there, either. This is the way of it! The king had forbidden Peckham to include in his visitations the royal free chapels, and Peckham is absolute for his right to visit, and doling out excommunications freely if any try to prevent. Except his Grace, of course! This last letter was a fair example of their exchange. Peckham deprecates his own unworthiness, but insi
sts on the church's rights, and will visit, with God as his warrant. They've put every obstacle in his way, even armed men, but go he will. In the last line but one he tells his Grace that God will take vengeance for the wrong done against the Church by his Grace's order. In the last, he prays the blessing of God on his Grace and all those who loyally love him."
"Do you tell me this," I asked curiously, "to warn me off from pursuing this obstinate archbishop into the midlands?"
"Far be it from me!" said Cynan devoutly. "Rather to assure you of an interested listener, and one with a strong motive for sanctioning what you ask. Did not his Grace himself say it rested with Peckham? So be it, and his Grace must stand by his word. At least try it. And, I tell you what, put it into his mind that should there be any question of your integrity, it may be guaranteed by having a trusted chancellery clerk travel with you. I spoil for exercise here, I grow fat. A few days of country air would do me good."
So he was always, with his smooth, innocent hands turning men the way he would have them go, and usually laughing, though often behind a demure, unlaughing face.
"After Trentham," he said, considering, "he was heading for Lichfield and Stafford. Somewhere there you will find him. Go safely! If I cannot be sowing the seed until you return, at least I'll be cultivating the ground."