Most reassuringly of all for Caitlin, Eva was no great beauty. Caitlin was familiar with the Welsh legends of the Mabinogion, with Chretien de Troyes’s French fables of King Arthur, and their romantic heroines did not look like the cheerful, buxom Eva, who was neither fair-skinned nor flaxen haired, and not at all elegant or aloof. Caitlin already knew, at age ten, that she was not likely to grow into a great beauty, either, not with her flyaway straight hair, her pointed little chin, and a dusting of freckles across her nose. While she was not one to brood upon it, she’d begun to wish that she could have been prettier, and so her uncle’s liaison with Eva seemed to bode well for her own future.
Ahead lay Llanrhychwyn, a small, rough-hewn chapel of weathered stone, shadowed by leafy clouds, surrounded by silence. Vast, ageless yew trees blotted out the sun, sentinels of a bygone time. Caitlin found it very easy to conjure up unseen ghosts in such a secluded setting, and Eva, too, hung back, for their first glimpse of this hillside church was not reassuring. It seemed to belong to a distant past, to the denizens of its dark woods, to those who slept under the high grass of its forlorn cemetery, not to the living, not to them.
To Llewelyn, though, the ancient church was enshrined in boyhood memory. “My grandfather and his wife often heard Mass here. The church down at Trefriw…that was his doing. He had it built for Joanna, to spare her the walk all the way up to Rhychwyn. He kept a fondness for the old church, though. I’ve not been up here for years, yet it is just as I remember.” Like Caitlin, he, too, sensed the presence of spirits. But his ghosts were joy-giving. With a light step, he led them inside.
Within, the little church was far more welcoming. There was only one window, set in the east wall. But the interior was whitewashed with lime, gave off a mellow ivory glow. The floor rushes were freshly laid, and a clean linen cloth had been draped across the altar, proof that the elderly priest caretaker was still serving God and St Rhychwyn.
Llewelyn moved toward the alms box, ran his fingers along the wood until he found what he sought. “My initials,” he said with a grin. “I carved them whilst waiting for my grandfather at Vespers. The Lady Joanna caught me at it, but never told on me. I was scared that she would, though, for my parents hated her enough to sicken upon it. You see, Caitlin, they believed that her son had usurped my father’s rightful place. My grandfather could not let his realm be split in twain. Instead, it was his family that was rent asunder, for my father never forgave him…”
His face had shadowed. Eva joined him by the alms box, pretended to look for the initials, all the while wondering how to exorcise his darker memories. “The most amazing tales are told of the Lady Joanna. Did she truly set fire to your grandfather’s bed?”
Her question was well chosen; Llewelyn’s grin came back. “I heard that, too, as a lad; finally got up the nerve to ask my grandfather. How he laughed! Because Joanna had been just fourteen when they wed, they’d not shared a bed at first. But of course he had a concubine, and when Joanna discovered that, she had a heated row with the woman, ordered Llewelyn’s bed dragged out to the bailey and burned. When my grandfather told me that story, Joanna had been dead for many months, yet he spoke of her as if she were waiting in the adjoining chamber, that jealous lass of fifteen who had dared to burn his bed.”
Eva could not help herself, had to ask. “I know he founded a Franciscan friary in her memory. Few women are so honored, so loved. And yet…did she not betray him? From childhood, I heard the stories, that he found her with a lover. I even remember my cousin pointing out the man’s grave to me, saying that Prince Llewelyn had hanged him. But Joanna, he forgave. How could he do that, Llewelyn? How could he ever forgive so great a sin?”
“I do not know, Eva. We never talked of it. I can tell you only that on his deathbed, it was her face he yearned to see.”
Caitlin was fascinated by these tantalizing snatches of family scandal. “Uncle,” she said shyly, “could you have forgiven such a betrayal?” And she was flattered when he considered her question as seriously as if it had been posed by an adult, thinking it over for some moments before finally shaking his head.
“No, lass,” he said quietly, “I do not think I could. For me, it is not easy to trust. When I do, though, it is absolute, unconditional. Faith like that can be given but once, Caitlin. If it is betrayed, it can be patched, it can be mended. But it can never be made whole again.”
Caitlin understood perfectly. “Me, too,” she said, so solemnly that he struggled not to smile. “If I was betrayed, I’d not forgive, either…not ever.” She had another worry upon her mind, though, a fear sparked by her first sight of her uncle’s long boar spear, as ugly a weapon as she’d ever laid eyes upon. “Uncle…why must you fight that boar on foot? Would you not be safer on horseback?”
“You need not fret about me, lass. I’ve been hunting boars for more years than you can count. We’ll take the alaunts with us, for they’re the best boar dogs, and my greyhounds, too. Not Nia, though; she’s too young and unseasoned—”
As if on cue, Nia began to bark, and Caitlin giggled. “I think she wants to come!” But Llewelyn had read the dog better than she; he was already turning toward the door.
“Llewelyn? Are you inside?” A moment later, Tudur materialized in the doorway, blinking at the sudden loss of sunlight. “I’m sorry to intrude like this, but after you left, a Cistercian monk arrived, bearing an urgent message for you. He says he’ll speak to you and only to you, so I thought I’d best bring him along.”
Llewelyn cocked a brow. “He could not wait till I got back? Why, Tudur?”
“Because,” Tudur said, “this particular monk comes from the abbey of Ystrad Marchell…in Powys.”
Llewelyn’s face did not change, but Caitlin was close enough to see his hand tighten upon the edge of the alms box, and her heart began to race. Again, Powys! The word alone was enough to unnerve her these days, for it was somehow connected with her father, a connection as sinister as it was murky. But Llewelyn was already asking Eva to take her back to the lodge, and she had no choice except to obey, however reluctantly.
Tudur now ushered into the church a tall, gaunt monk of middle years, conspicuously clad in white. He was trailed by a younger man, this one bearded, wearing a habit of drab brown, the uniform of the conversi, the lay brothers who served God through manual labor. “Llewelyn, this is Brother Garmon, master of the lay brethren at Ystrad Marchell Abbey. That much I could get out of him!”
Brother Garmon cast Tudur an apologetic look. “What I have to say, my lord, is of a private nature. If you could—”
“He stays,” Llewelyn said. “What have you come to tell me, Brother Garmon?”
“It is not me, my lord. It is Padrig. Go on, lad. Tell him what you told me.” When the youth stayed mute, the monk sighed. “He is fearful, my lord. I ask you to be patient with him, for you must hear what he has to say. Padrig works at our grange at Tallerddig, in the mountains of western Powys. Tell him, Padrig. Tell him what happened at the grange in January.”
Padrig swallowed. “My lord Gruffydd, his lady wife, and his son, Owen, came to the grange. Took us by surprise, they did, for we’re at the back of beyond. They were waiting for someone, and he arrived at dusk, so muffled and hooded his own mother could not have recognized him.”
The boy was beginning to relax, even to enjoy being the center of attention, a novelty in his young life. “We were all curious, my lord, and so I was right pleased when I was told to fetch them wine. When I entered, the other man was standing in the shadows, his back to me. It was just his bad luck, my lord, that I’d grown up in Gwynedd. I knew him at once, you see, had seen him so often… It was your brother, my lord. It was Davydd.”
He paused, but Llewelyn did not react, continued to regard him impassively. Padrig swallowed again, felt color rising in his face, for it was hard to admit what came next. “As I said, my lord, I… I was curious. I wondered why they were meeting secretly like this, and so…when I left the chamber, I lingered at the
door, put my ear to the keyhole.” His blush deepened. “I ought not to have done it. But I—”
“What did you hear?” This from Tudur, impatiently.
“The talk was of a secret marriage. As far as I could tell, Lord Owen was going to wed one of Lord Davydd’s daughters. I heard names: Angharad, Gwenllian, and a right odd one, Caitlin. They settled upon Angharad, and Lord Davydd made a joke, said that he’d given her Ceri or Cydewain for her marriage portion. I did not understand it, and he was the only one who laughed. That is all I heard, for I was called back to the kitchen by Brother Rhun. My lord, I know I ought to have come forward ere this, but…but I was afraid…”
Again Padrig paused, again got no response. Llewelyn’s silence was beginning to frighten him. “My lord… I swear to you that I’m not lying. Upon the surety of my soul, I do swear it. It was Davydd, my lord. It was Davydd!”
“Yes,” Llewelyn said softly. “Yes, lad, I know it was.”
Llewelyn stood before the altar, gazing up at the stark wooden cross that adorned the east wall of the church. He was alone, for Tudur had seen his need, escorted Brother Garmon and Padrig down to the lodge. But he’d be back. And then they must decide what to do with this poisoned gift.
Nia whimpered, pressed a cold nose against his hand. He stroked the dog’s silky head absently. The numbness was fading. But there had never truly been surprise. Scriptures said that faith was the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen. That could well serve as the epitaph for the troubled brotherhood that bound him to Davydd. Hope blighted, faith blind to the facts. There in the empty, silent church, his anger was beginning to rise. He made no attempt to hold it back, even welcomed it. Of all the emotions surging toward the surface, rage was the safest, the easiest to acknowledge. Anger he could embrace, for a flood tide of fury swept all before it, engulfing more dangerous undercurrents. If anger could not heal, at least it could deflect.
It was the greyhound’s growl that alerted him to his Seneschal’s return. Opening the door, Tudur strode forward, saying briskly, “I got them headed down the path to the lodge.”
Llewelyn turned away from the altar. “I believed him, Tudur.”
“I know,” Tudur conceded. “But let’s give the Devil his due, Llewelyn. Davydd could lie his way to Hell and back, and never even work up a sweat. That is why we must lay our snare with caution. If only it were that dolt, Owen! But whatever his other failings, Davydd has never lacked for nerve. Even when we confront him with Padrig, I’ll wager that he does not so much as blink.”
“We could show Davydd a confession in his own handwriting, writ in his own blood, and he’d still try to talk his way out of it,” Llewelyn said bitterly. “No, I want an end to this, Tudur. I want proof beyond denying, proof beyond excusing, beyond forgiving.”
“What do you have in mind?”
“You said it yourself—Owen de la Pole. The weak link in their chain, the link in our hands. I want a confession from him, Tudur, a full confession.”
Tudur nodded thoughtfully. “We do know enough now—the marriage—to try a bluff. But if the bluff fails? What then, Llewelyn? Do you care how I get the confession?”
Their eyes caught, held. “No,” Llewelyn said, “just get it,” and Tudur nodded again, turned, and walked swiftly toward the door.
Llewelyn moved back to the altar. Within moments, though, the door banged open again. The elderly priest was panting, had to catch the font for support. “Forgive me, my lord, for not being here to welcome you. I am Father Robat…do you remember me? So long it’s been!” He came forward, with a smile that faltered as the window’s light fell across Llewelyn’s face. His eyes were rheumy, clouded by cataracts, but age had yet to dim his inner sight. “My lord…can I be of help?”
“Father Robat,” Llewelyn said. “I do indeed remember you. But no…no, you cannot help.”
Owen was being held at Llewelyn’s favorite castle of Dolwyddelan, only twelve miles southwest of Trefriw, and so Tudur was back within hours, just as the evening meal was about to begin. One look at Tudur’s face and Llewelyn lost all appetite. Pushing away from the table, he instructed the startled servants to continue serving, strode across the hall to intercept his Seneschal. As their eyes met, Tudur nodded, almost imperceptibly, but that did not allay Llewelyn’s edginess. Tudur should be triumphant. Instead, he would not have looked out of place at a funeral.
Beckoning for his mantle, Llewelyn took a horn lantern from one of Tudur’s men. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s go for a walk.”
It was a mild, clear night, the Hallowmas sky a vast, boundless black above their heads, afloat with hundreds of glimmering, bobbing lights, ships sailing an uncharted sea. From boyhood, Llewelyn had been intrigued by the study of astronomy, had long ago learned to use the North Star as a reckoning point, just as sailors did. Tonight he never even glanced at the starlit sky, kept his eyes upon Tudur. Leaning back against an ancient oak, he said, “What happened?”
“You were right, Llewelyn. I’ve seen eggs harder to crack than Owen de la Pole. When I told him that we knew about the marriage plans, he lost color so fast I thought he was going to swoon like a lass. Whilst he was still so shaken, I informed him that Davydd had fled to England. There was a debt due, I said, a blood debt, one he’d have to pay now that his conspirators were out of reach. And with that, it was over. When I offered to spare his life, he snatched at my promise like a drowning man, told me all I wanted to know. Their plot, where they met, when they met—it gushed out so fast my scribe was hard put to keep pace. He was truly a pitiful sight, as scared as I’ve ever seen a man. If our bluff had failed, it would have taken but the blink of an eye to force the truth from—”
“Tudur, enough! For a man usually as close-mouthed as an Anchorite recluse, you’re all but babbling. We already knew there was a plot afoot. We needed only to learn the particulars. Now you have them, yet you seem strangely loath to share them with me. Why? What is it you do not want to tell me?”
Tudur did not answer at once. “In truth,” he said slowly, “I got more than I bargained for. We knew they had plotted your downfall. But we assumed they had rebellion in mind. They did not, for they lacked the courage to face you fairly…on the battlefield. It was not the sword they meant to turn against you, Llewelyn, it was an assassin’s dagger.”
“An assassin…” Llewelyn sounded stunned: “Davydd?”
Tudur suddenly felt absurdly relieved to be able to answer in the negative. “No, Davydd was not to do the actual killing. Owen’s men were to do that. Davydd was to get them past your guards, into your private chamber. But luck was not with them. Or rather, it was with you. On the night they were to—”
“Candlemas,” Llewelyn said, very low, and Tudur nodded.
“Yes,” he admitted, “the killing was to happen that night. But the storm washed out the roads. Owen ended up stranded near the Powys border.”
He waited for Llewelyn to ask the obvious question. When Llewelyn did not, he volunteered it on his own, while marveling that he, of all men, should be seeking now to paint Davydd’s crime in less lurid colors. But Llewelyn’s silence was filling his ears like a soundless scream. “I asked why they did not make a second attempt. For what it is worth, Llewelyn, it was Davydd who balked.”
Llewelyn thrust the lantern at Tudur, moved farther into the shadows. “I want a writ issued for Davydd’s arrest.”
“It shall be done at once.” Tudur hesitated. “Llewelyn, I am sorry…”
“No, Tudur. Save your pity for Gruffydd ap Gwenwynwyn. Save it for Davydd. My right beloved brother Davydd.”
Tangwystl awoke slowly, languidly, as she always did. She’d been too tired to plait her hair into its customary night braid, and as she stirred, she discovered that she was unable to move, for her hip-length tresses had become entangled under Davydd’s body. She tugged in vain, finally leaned over and shook his shoulder. “Davydd!”
Davydd’s eyes opened, took in her predicament. “Well, lo
ok what I caught.” When she made another attempt to free her hair, he slid his arm around her waist, drew her close against him. “What are you willing to offer up for your freedom, my love?”
Tangwystl had a husky laugh, a low-pitched sultry voice that Davydd found irresistibly erotic. Now she practically purred as she nuzzled his ear, began to make some intriguing ransom offers. But before he could decide which of them was the most promising, there was a sharp knock on the door.
“My lord, a man has just ridden in, claiming he has an urgent message for you. He says it is from the Lord of Cockayne. We’ve never heard of such a place, thought it might be in Ireland. But he is right persistent and—”
“I’ll see him.” Davydd was not surprised that none knew the Lord of Cockayne, for it was a fabled land, a mythical realm that existed only in the imagination. It was also a code concocted by Davydd and Rhys ap Gruffydd, used sometimes in jest, occasionally when either of them had news to impart, secrets he did not want attached to his own name or signet. As Davydd reached for the bedsheet, he was already sure that this would not be one of Rhys’s jokes.
The messenger was young and disheveled, each mud smear, each sweat stain attesting to miles of hard riding. He showed no unease at finding himself in a Prince’s bedchamber, instead was looking about with unabashed curiosity; the Welsh were less awed by authority than their English brethren. “Here it is,” he said jauntily, holding out a folded parchment threaded through with cord, sealed with wax. “I ought to say straightaway that the man who gave it to me was a stranger. All I know is that he offered me the astonishing sum of two marks to get it to you, my lord Davydd. He told me not to spare my horse, said that if I reached you ere Morrow Mass, you’d owe me another two marks. Well, my lord, I did and you do!”