The Reckoning

  Davydd sometimes suspected that he had a love of intrigue for its own sake. When he’d plotted with Edward against his brother, it had amused him enormously to insist upon a midnight meeting deep within the Welsh woods. Now he found himself relishing his clandestine role, and he wondered if men would be so quick to conspire were it not for the seductive trappings, the opportunity to play these high-risk games of espionage. He was still laughing softly as he entered the chamber of the Powys Prince.

  That was not a title Gruffydd could still claim, although his forebears once had. But Gruffydd had the misfortune to be born in the lifetime at Llewelyn ab Iorwerth, known even to his enemies as Llewelyn Fawr, Llewelyn the Great. Gruffydd’s father had challenged him, and died a broken man, a refugee at the English court. Gruffydd had grown up in English exile, not regaining the lost lands of Powys until Llewelyn Fawr’s death in 1240. But another Llewelyn was soon to overshadow Wales, for the grandson had become the keeper of the grandsire’s flame. Once again Gruffydd was forced to flee to England, and when he was eventually restored to his heritage, it was at a high price. This once proud Prince of Powys now held his lands as a vassal, swearing homage to his powerful neighbor to the north. Llewelyn’s highborn countrymen recognized him as Prince of Wales no less reluctantly than did the English Crown. Their jealousy was Llewelyn’s Achilles’ heel—or so Davydd hoped.

  Gruffydd seemed content to sit in silence, to let his son, Owen, and his English wife speak for him. There was no flash to the man; he was not one for shouting, for theatrical rages. Even his appearance was muted. Greyed and stooped, he showed every one of his fifty-eight years. But his hatred ran deep. Davydd knew that not many men would dare to defy Llewelyn.

  Owen, his firstborn, had all the panache that Gruffydd lacked. He’d inherited his mother’s English fairness, her sense of style, for Hawise was, at fifty, still an undeniably elegant woman. She’d been born a Lestrange, and Owen kept in close contact with his Marcher kin. He’d even adopted an English surname, calling himself Owen de la Pole instead of Owain ap Gruffydd. This misplaced pride was baffling to Davydd; he’d admit that English blood was no shame, but it was for certes nothing to boast about.

  Owen had been holding forth for a good quarter hour, talking fast and tough, his the self-confident swagger of youth and privilege and an untested manhood. That, at least, was Davydd’s acid assessment of his would-be ally. He listened, unimpressed, as Owen damned Llewelyn to eternal hellfire, vowed to reduce Dolforwyn to rubble.

  Davydd marveled that one rock-hewn castle could so obsess men on both sides of the border. For Gruffydd, Dolforwyn’s presence on Powys soil was one affront too many, was enough to push him into rebellion. And the English Crown had reacted with equal alarm, unwilling to allow a Welsh castle so close to their border stronghold at Montgomery. Acting in the absent Edward’s name, the regents had even forbidden Llewelyn to proceed with its construction.

  The bait was too tempting for Davydd to resist. “It sounds to me, Owen, as if you’ve been stricken with the same malady that infected the English court: Dolforwyn fever. They demanded that Llewelyn raze the castle, as I’m sure you know. But did I ever tell you about Llewelyn’s response? He pointed out that he had every right to build castles in his own principality and, since Edward knew that full well, he could only conclude that the Chancery’s letter must have been written without Edward’s knowledge!”

  Owen was not amused. “Are we here to plan Llewelyn’s overthrow—or to commend his sardonic sense of humor? Are you with us, Davydd, or not? If we must look elsewhere for aid, better we should know now.”

  “And where would you look? My brother Owain? I daresay he’d be interested, but prisoners do not make ideal conspirators—do they? Ah, well, there’s always my brother Rhodri. His grievance is real enough. Alas for you, though, Rhodri could walk across a field of new-fallen snow and not leave a single footprint.”

  Owen was accustomed to being treated with the deference due a prince’s son. He at once began to bristle, and his mother made haste to intercede, saying smoothly, “You are right, Davydd. We do need you. But you need us, too. Twice before you sought to overthrow your brother. Your first attempt gained you a year’s confinement; your second, four years in English exile. Our support will make the difference, and I think you know that, else you’d not be here.”

  She paused. “The terms of our offer are straight-forward enough. In return for assisting you to claim Llewelyn’s crown, Owen agrees to wed one of your daughters, and you cede to my husband the cantrefs of Ceri and Cydewain. That’s more than fair, Davydd. You want what we do—Llewelyn’s downfall. We are in agreement as to our aim. We need only agree upon our method.”

  Davydd’s smile was razor thin. “I believe the method you had in mind was murder.”

  “And since when does killing make you queasy?” Owen demanded. “It’s not as if we were asking you to do it yourself. All you have to do is get me and my men past Llewelyn’s household guards. I’ll take it from there. Damnation, Davydd, we told you that at our last meeting!”

  “Yes, you did,” Davydd said, “and I walked out.”

  Gruffydd stirred within the shadows. “But you came back,” he said softly.

  Davydd rose abruptly. “When I was nigh on seventeen, my brother Owain and I set out to claim my share of Gwynedd, led an army into Llewelyn’s lands. He was waiting for us in the Bwlch Mawr pass, and in less than an hour, our men were in flight and all our hopes were bleeding away into the Desoch marshes. Owain and I were both taken prisoner. Owain was sure he was a dead man. But Llewelyn just looked at him and said, ‘I am not Cain.’”

  Gruffydd and Hawise exchanged glances. When Owen would have spoken, she shook her head. Gruffydd got slowly to his feet. “Your brother is too dangerous to let live. You and I might chafe under his high-handed ways, but too many Welshmen see him as their last and best hope of holding off the English. As our prisoner, he’d be a magnet for every rebel and malcontent in Wales. And if he ever got free… I’m not willing to risk that, Davydd. Alive, Llewelyn becomes a martyr. Dead, a memory.”

  Davydd did not answer, moved, instead, to the window. Hawise followed. “How old are you, Davydd?”

  He gave her a bemused look, a terse “Thirty-six.”

  “You’re Llewelyn’s heir and likely to outlive him. But what of your brother Owain? He’s been Llewelyn’s prisoner for nigh on nineteen years, and he’s well past fifty, is he not? You can wait. Can he?”

  Davydd ignored her, reaching out and unlatching the shutters. The sudden blast of icy air caused him to gasp. The wind was raw and wet, coming from the east. The red wind of Shrewsbury, his people called it, gwynt coch Amythig. He’d begun to shiver, but he did not move until Hawise touched his arm. Only then did he close the shutters, turn again to face them.

  “You were right, Gruffydd,” he said. “I did come back.”

  Owen and Hawise could not conceal their jubilation. Gruffydd permitted himself a small smile. “I understand that Llewelyn will be at Cricieth Castle in late February, hearing appeals from the commote courts. Why not then?”

  Davydd shook his head. “No. Toward the end of this month, he’ll be staying at Llanfair Rhyd Castell, a grange owned by the monks of Aberconwy. It’s closer to Powys, and we’d not have to deal with the Cricieth Castle garrison, just his household guard.”

  Gruffydd nodded approvingly. “You’re right. I wonder I did not think of that myself. Let it be the abbey grange then, on Candlemas.”

  Owen smiled, too, but with an edge to it. “Are you sure you can gain entry for me and my men?”

  “Yes,” Davydd said, very evenly, “I am sure. He trusts me, you see.”

  The rain had begun to fall on Candlemas Eve. When dawn came, the darkness lingered. All day long the skies were the color of slate, and so torrential was the rain that the lay brothers of Llanfair Rhyd Castell began to worry that the river might rise. To ease their fears, Llewelyn set up a flood watch.

  The vile wi
nter weather had not deterred petitioners, and Llewelyn had spent the better part of the day presiding over the llys uchaf, his high court. He’d taken a brief break for dinner, but he then withdrew to a quiet corner of the guest hall, began a low-voiced, intent discussion with Tudur ab Ednyved, his Seneschal. Davydd was not surprised by his diligence; his brother’s work hours were legendary.

  At Davydd’s approach, Llewelyn looked up with a distracted smile. Tudur was less welcoming. His father, Ednyved ap Cynwrig, had been the greatest of Llewelyn Fawr’s ministers. Tudur was the third of Ednyved’s sons to serve as Seneschal to the Prince of Gwynedd. Like his brothers before him, he was blunt, shrewd, and not easily surprised. He’d never liked Davydd, had never bothered to hide it, either. At the sight now of those narrowed dark eyes and that thin-lipped mouth, Davydd had to reassure himself that Tudur’s suspicions were nothing out of the ordinary, that he could have no inkling as to what the night would bring.

  “Over the years, I’ve managed to offend, at one time or another, the Church, the Welsh lords, and my own tenants. Well, we now have a chance to offend them all at once, in one fell swoop,” Llewelyn said wryly. “We’ve decided to impose a tax upon cattle, three pence per head.”

  Davydd whistled soundlessly. “That has never been done.”

  “I know,” Llewelyn conceded. “But the money is trickling in, Davydd, and gushing out. In addition to the five hundred marks I’m obliged to pay the English Crown every Michaelmas, I’ve incurred heavy expenses trying to stave off Marcher forays, and the cost of garrisoning Dolforwyn is higher than we’d expected. The English King levies tallages upon his subjects anytime he needs funds, so why should we not take a leaf from his book?”

  “But you’re not the English King,” Davydd said laconically, and Llewelyn laughed.

  “You’re right, lad. I suppose I should be thankful for small favors!”

  Tudur laughed, too. Davydd did not, turned away abruptly. Intercepting one of the lay brothers, he grabbed a goblet from the man’s tray. But he dared take no more than one swallow, dared not seek to steady his nerves with mead. Glancing at a candle notched to show the hours, he saw, disbelieving, that it was just past eight. More than five hours yet to go, for Owen had told him to await them between midnight and Matins, when all would be asleep. He’d not expected this, to feel so hollow, so edgy, for he’d fought his share of battles, had first bloodied his sword at sixteen. But the death that crept into a darkened bedchamber was no kin to the death that claimed soldiers in the light of day. He’d not known that until this Friday eve, watching his brother laugh and drink and plan for the morrow. Like most men of his class, Davydd had a passion for the hunt, but he’d never before known what it was like to identify with the hunter’s prey.

  The door opened and Einion hastened inside, swathed from head to foot in a protective mantle, but soaking wet, nonetheless. Dripping his way toward the hearth, he joked to Davydd in passing that they’d best see if there were any local carpenters with experience in ark building. Einion’s arrival yesterday had jolted Davydd, for he was fond of his uncle. What was to happen seemed somehow uglier, less defensible, if viewed through Einion’s eyes.

  When Einion entered, Llewelyn’s wolfhounds had begun to bark thunderously, but they quieted as Caitlin moved among them, bestowing pats and table scraps. Caitlin’s presence at Llanfair Rhyd Castell had been the nastiest surprise of all; Davydd had assumed that Llewelyn would not bring her, for females were no more welcome at Aberconwy’s granges than they were at the abbey itself. But here she was, and no matter how he tried, Davydd could think of no plausible excuse for sending her away, not without arousing dangerous suspicions. All he could do was to make sure she was not an actual eye-witness to Llewelyn’s death, and in his heart he knew that was not enough, not nearly enough.

  Never had Davydd been so restless. The windows were all tightly barred, but he could hear the rain thudding against the shutters. Men venturing outdoors told of broken branches strewn about like twigs, and one monk claimed that the normally placid Conwy was surging at such a flood-tide that it looked verily like a white-water cauldron. Not for the first time, it occurred to Davydd that Owen and his men might be held up by the storm. The way his luck was going so far, they were likely not to arrive till dawn—just in time for breakfast with Llewelyn.

  Davydd laughed at that, but without humor. Einion had joined Llewelyn and Tudur, and Davydd was not surprised when his daughter drifted over, too. He soon followed, unable to help himself. Their conversation was easy, random; one of the lay brothers brought them a plate of jam-filled wafers, mead for the men, cider for the child. They talked, naturally, of the storm, and then of a tragic fire that had recently claimed the lives of a valley herdsman, his family, and a passing stranger, who’d sought in vain to drag them to safety. His act was one of great gallantry, they all agreed, and the talk turned to other exploits of courage. Tudur related several stories of battlefield bravery. Einion paid a moving tribute to a priest he’d known, one who’d chosen to live amidst lepers, “so they’d not think God, too, had forsaken them.” “What say you, Davydd?” he queried, once he was done. “What was the bravest act you ever saw?”

  Davydd tilted his chair at a gravity-defying angle. “I was never sure if it was an act of bravery—or bravado. It occurred at the siege of Northampton, about a month ere Simon de Montfort won the battle of Lewes. Bran de Montfort had been taken prisoner by men-at-arms unable to believe their good fortune, for no ransom would be too high for Simon’s son. But King Henry’s whoreson half-brother rode up, William de Lusignan, the one who married into the earldom of Pembroke. De Lusignan told Bran that he’d spare his life—if he begged for it. We all knew he meant it, too, yet Bran never even blinked. ‘Rot in Hell,’ he said.”

  Caitlin’s eyes had widened. “What happened to him?”

  “Your father saw fit to spoil de Lusignan’s fun,” Llewelyn said with a faint smile, “reminding them that Edward did not want Bran harmed. They were cousins, you see, Caitlin, and still friends—then.”

  Davydd had not realized that Llewelyn had heard of the part he’d played at Northampton. “You know me, Llewelyn,” he said with a shrug. “I never could resist a chance to meddle.”

  That earned him a laugh, from all but Tudur. Llewelyn now began to share his story of courage, one that hit home for Davydd, as it involved their father. Speaking to the child, Llewelyn explained how his grandfather had been forced to yield thirty highborn hostages to the English King, John of evil fame.

  “One of them was my father, lass. The following year, John hanged the Welsh hostages at Nottingham Castle—all but Gruffydd. He was just sixteen, watched as his friends were dragged out to die, expecting his turn would be next. But John decided he’d be worth more alive. Do you remember, Caitlin, that John’s daughter Joanna was my grandfather’s wife? Well, John did love her in his way, and so he commanded Gruffydd to write to Llewelyn, to request that Joanna pay a visit to the English court. This was less than a year after the hangings at Nottingham. Yet Gruffydd dared to balk, refusing to write that letter. The Earl of Chester was present, and he told my grandfather years later that John had warned he could make Gruffydd write that letter if need be. But Gruffydd just said, ‘You can try.’”

  There was a moment of appreciative silence. Hostage taking was a fact of life on both sides of the border. Caitlin knew hostages could be held for years, as was the case with Tudur’s son, Heilyn. But she’d not known they might be sacrificed. The hangings at Nottingham gave a new and sinister significance to the practice, and she turned troubled green eyes upon her father. “Were you not once a hostage of the English, too, Papa?”

  Davydd nodded. “For seven years. My mother turned Rhodri and me over to the English King in return for his help in freeing my father.”

  There was much Caitlin did not know of her own House’s history, for although Llewelyn enjoyed reminiscing about his grandfather, he rarely spoke of his childhood, the other members of their fam
ily. “What of you, Uncle?” she asked. “Why were you not offered as hostage, too?”

  “That was my mother’s intent. She’d brought Davydd, Rhodri, and me with her to Shrewsbury, where she hoped to come to terms with the English King. My father was being held at Cricieth Castle by his half-brother; war had broken out between them upon my grandfather’s death. Henry promised her his aid. Of course he later reneged, sent my father and Owain to the Tower. But at the time, she believed him, agreed to surrender her sons. Davydd was only three, Rhodri even younger, but I was past thirteen, with a mind of my own. I overheard the English King talking in the abbey garden, and that same night, I ran away.”

  “You came first to our bedchamber,” Davydd said suddenly, and Llewelyn gave him a surprised look.

  “Yes, I did. You remember that?”

  Davydd was surprised, too. “Yes… I do. You gave me something?”

  Llewelyn nodded. “My crucifix. Also two of the angel’s bread wafers I’d stolen from the abbey kitchen, one for you and one for Rhodri. Of course you ate them both!” Then his grin faded. “You asked to come with me, and for a mad moment, I truly considered it. I soon realized, though, that I’d not get far, a green, scared stripling with two bairns in tow. But it was hard, lad, leaving you behind.” He smiled ruefully. “For the longest time afterward, I suffered the guilt pangs of the damned, fretted that—”