The Reckoning

  They reached Westminster by mid-afternoon on the eve of Christmas, just ahead of gathering snow clouds. Arrangements had been made to billet Llewelyn’s men in the village of Islington, north of the city walls, and Roger de Mortimer elected to take them on to their lodgings, while Llewelyn and the Chancellor stopped at Westminster to advise Edward of their arrival.

  Upon his entry into the great hall, Llewelyn was welcomed so cordially by Edward that some of his suspicions began to abate. While he knew Edward was quite capable of violating a safe-conduct, he did not think the English King would publicly befriend a man he was about to imprison. Exchanging courtesies with Edward and his very pregnant Queen, Llewelyn took this opportunity to study his surroundings. Here on the morrow he would do homage to Edward, before the largest audience of his life. He’d never seen a hall the size of this one, well over two hundred feet long, more than fifty feet wide, and nearly twice as high. He’d heard tales of English feasts in which thousands of highborn guests were feted, had never believed such boasting—until now.

  As he watched the men gathering at the huge open hearth, mingling in the three vast aisles, Llewelyn was not surprised to see so many of the Marcher lords. But amidst the familiar faces was one he’d not expected to find, and as soon as he could politely take his leave of Edward, he crossed the hall to confront his brother.

  “Rhodri?”

  The younger man jutted out his chin. “You mean you actually recognized me?”

  “What are you doing here, Rhodri?”

  The peremptory tone brought a flush to Rhodri’s cheeks. “What do you think? Tomorrow is your day to eat humble pie, a meal I’d not have missed for the world!”

  Rhodri glared at his brother, but his triumph soured when Llewelyn gave him a scornful look, then turned away. It was as if they did not even think he was worth arguing with, for he’d gotten an identical response from Davydd earlier that day. “I’ll be here on the morrow,” he vowed bitterly. “You can count upon that!” But his threats served only to amuse some of the bystanders; Llewelyn did not look back.

  Llewelyn had been in London once before, visiting his father in the Tower soon after Gruffydd’s imprisonment began. He’d been just thirteen, but his memories of London had not faded much over the years, perhaps because they were not pleasant ones. He’d taken a great dislike to the English city, so noisy and crowded and dirty to a lad country-born and bred, had promised himself he’d never be back, and the man had kept faith with the boy’s vow—until now.

  But Westminster was utterly unknown to him, and he was admittedly curious about this palace of English kings. And so, when he and his companions exited the hall, he saw no reason to call at once for their horses. After admiring the cloistered quiet of St Stephen’s Chapel, they eventually found themselves walking by the river wall, through gardens dormant and bare, a lifetime away from spring’s rebirth.

  Ahead lay another expanse of gardens, sheltered within a courtyard formed by the King’s Painted Chamber, the Lesser Hall, and the chapel. As they approached, Tudur came to a halt. “I’ve got a cramp.” Limping over to one of the garden benches, he began to massage his leg. “I never realized,” he said, “that Rhodri hated you so much.”

  Llewelyn gave him an intent, sideways glance before admitting, “Neither did I.” He was amused now to see that the other men were taking a sudden interest in the frozen December landscape, dropping back upon the pathway so that he and Tudur might have some moments of privacy. “I could come to like the sort of service I’ve been getting lately,” he said. “I’m given what I want even before I know I want it! Unfortunately, theirs is the solicitude people usually save for those suffering a mortal illness.”

  Tudur smiled, momentarily forgetting his fatigue, for it had been days since he’d heard Llewelyn joke about anything, least of all his impending act of submission. In the ten years that he’d served as Llewelyn’s Seneschal, he’d gotten to know his Prince as few men had, and he continued to rub his calf muscles, waiting until Llewelyn was ready to talk about his brother.

  “I do not know him, Tudur, doubt that I ever did. Not so surprising, I suppose. He grew up at the English court, eleven years as a hostage. How could we not be strangers? He was always so quiet, so secretive; in truth, I never had a clue as to what he was thinking. I probably ought to have tried harder to find out. But I did not, and I have enough regrets on my plate right now, without fretting over one that’s twenty years too late.”

  “Most regrets serve for naught, and that one for certes, Llewelyn. You could not have agreed to cut up Gwynedd like a Christmas pie, and what else would have satisfied him?” Tudur rose stiffly from the bench, stamping his feet to get the blood flowing again. “I can see why Rhodri is so jealous of you, but what puzzles me is that he’s turned against Davydd, too. They were close as lads, were they not?”

  Llewelyn was quiet, looking beyond the desolate gardens toward the frigid grey gleam of the river. “When Owain and I came to Woodstock to surrender to the English King, we found our mother there, with the lads. Another of Henry’s misguided kindnesses. He meant well, but it never occurred to him that we’d not want them to witness our shame, no more than I’d have wanted Caitlin at Westminster Hall on the morrow. I can still see Davydd standing on the stairs; he was only eight or so, but if he was afraid, he was hiding it well. Rhodri was there, too, and yet I have no memory of him, Tudur, none at all.”

  Tudur nodded slowly. “I see what you mean. Davydd, damn his soul, always did cast a long shadow, even as a lad.”

  “You asked why Rhodri was jealous of Davydd. A harder question is why he was so often overlooked, and for that, I have no answer. It seems too simple to say he had the bad luck to be the lastborn. Mayhap if we’d all been closer in age… There was Owain, and nine years later, there was me, and then, when I was ten, my mother gave birth again, long after they must have given up hope. I remember how joyful we all were. To my parents, Davydd must have seemed like a gift from God, and to me, he was a blessing, too, special if only because he was not Owain!” Llewelyn smiled, without mirth. “So our family doted upon Davydd, right from the first breath he drew, and then, fifteen months later, there was Rhodri. But a second miracle baby is somehow not quite as wondrous, is it? Davydd was the marvel, Rhodri the afterthought, and I suspect that’s how they saw it, too.”

  They’d begun to walk again, and as they drew nearer the Painted Chamber, a group of women came out. Eleanora had withdrawn from the great hall soon after greeting Llewelyn, and he assumed now that these were ladies in attendance upon her. One of the women stopped abruptly at sight of him, then hastened down the stairs.

  “My lord Llewelyn? I am right, am I not? You are the Prince of Wales?” She was close enough now for him to appreciate how pretty she was, enveloped in a bright wool mantle, her face framed by a graceful hood lined with silver fox fur. As he confirmed his identity, he found himself looking down into dancing dark eyes, eyes that were studying him quite openly and unabashedly. “Oh, my, yes,” she murmured, “you will definitely do!”

  Llewelyn laughed. “Dare I ask for what?”

  She laughed, too. “Lord, how that must have sounded! I was just so gladdened at the sight of you—Damnation, I did it again! I was speaking on behalf of a friend, but I suppose that sounds odd, too?”

  “Yes” he said, grinning, “but I am not complaining.”

  “I think,” she said, matching his grin with one of her own, “that we’d best start over.” Holding out a soft hand for him to kiss, ablaze with jewels. “I’m afraid I dare not curtsy,” she confessed, “for I might not get up again. Beneath this mantle is one very expectant mother-to-be. I hear the court is laying wagers as to who begins her confinement first, the Queen or me!”

  “I’m learning more about you by the moment. I know now that you are a wife, soon to be a mother, and I’d venture that you are French,” Llewelyn said, for he had a good ear for languages, and her pronunciation was more precise than that of most speakers of N
orman-French, whose speech reflected more than two centuries of English influence. “I can also say with certainty that you are highborn and very lovely, that you have a sense of humor and a lively sense of mischief, too, I suspect. So far all I’m lacking is a name.”

  “I knew I’d forgotten something! I am the Lady Blanche Capet, Countess of Lancaster and Champagne, Queen of Navarre.”

  “I am honored, Madame,” Llewelyn said, and kissed her hand again, with flawless courtesy.

  But Blanche suddenly felt as if they were on opposite sides of a yawning chasm, one that was widening with every breath she took. “Wait, my lord,” she said hastily. “Do not haul up the drawbridge just yet. I am indeed the King’s sister-in-law. But I am also your wife’s friend.”

  “You know Ellen?” Llewelyn’s fingers tightened on hers; only when she winced did he realize he’d inadvertently hurt her, and swiftly eased his grip. “Can you tell me how she does—truly?”

  “Yes, I can. She has not been maltreated. You may set your mind at rest on that. I think Edward has become genuinely fond of her, and he has seen to it that her confinement is comfortable. But she is heartsick, my lord, and her hurt will not heal, not until the day she can join you in Wales.”

  It had begun to snow by the time Llewelyn returned to his companions. They were waiting patiently, all but Tudur, who was feeling the cold keenly this winter, feeling his age as never before. He was restlessly pacing up and down by the river wall, but his scowl faded as Llewelyn came closer. “You must have gotten good news,” he said, and Llewelyn nodded.

  “I did. I learned that Ellen is not as friendless as I feared.” Now Llewelyn was the one to frown, taking notice of the older man’s sallow color. “Tudur? Are you ailing?”

  Tudur shook his head, and Llewelyn did not press it; he knew Tudur too well for that. “Come on,” he said, “let’s get our horses, see if we can find this English hamlet. What was it called again, Islington?”

  The snow was coming down more heavily now, and the afternoon light was fast fading. They’d almost reached the great hall when they saw familiar figures hastening toward them. “My lord, we’ve been searching everywhere for you!” Goronwy quickened his pace, with Dai ab Einion on his heels.

  “What are you doing here, Goronwy? Why are you not with our men?”

  “Our men are back at Islington. But I could wait no longer, had to find you, to tell you what happened in London.”

  Goronwy’s agitation was not that unusual, for his emotions always lay close to the surface. But Dai ab Einion was older, cooler, so dignified that he occasionally seemed somewhat pompous, and yet he was as flushed now as Goronwy, as obviously angry; for once, the two men seemed in rare accord. Llewelyn looked from one to the other. “Tell me,” he said.

  “You warned me that we’d be stared at, my lord, and you were so right. The Londoners gaped at us as if we were circus freaks, pointing and smirking. I swear I’ve never been so wroth in all my born days. But I remembered what you said, that we were not to let them provoke us, though by Christ, it was not easy!”

  Dai and Goronwy had never been friendly; they were too unlike for a genuine rapport to develop. But now Dai gave the younger man an approving look. “Goronwy speaks true, my lord. His conduct was admirable. He refused to be goaded by those lowborn knaves and malcontents, and between us, we kept our men under control—until we got to that accursed ale-house.”

  “Ale-house? What were you doing at an ale-house?” Llewelyn demanded, for he could imagine no more dangerous a combination than English, Welsh, and wine.

  “Ah, no, my lord, we were not drinking! De Mortimer said Aldersgate would be the quickest way out of the city, but St Martin’s Lane was blocked by a huge cart; it had broken a wheel, spilled its load into the street. De Mortimer rode over to harry the driver, and a crowd gathered. There was an ale-house nearby, and the customers came out to watch. Those besotted hellspawn began to laugh at us, my lord! They started to yell out insults, wanting to know if we had tails, if we were heathens like the Jews and Saracens, if it was true that we bedded down in the stables with our cattle!”

  Llewelyn’s men began to swear, to mutter among themselves. But he made no attempt to mute their outrage; he shared it. “Go on,” he said tersely. “What happened then?”

  “It was God’s mercy, my lord, that most of our men speak no English.” Dai shook his head slowly. “It was bad enough as it was, but had they known how foul, how offensive were the insults—”

  “We could take just so much, my lord! Surely you see that?” Goronwy’s dark eyes glittered like polished jet. “The worst of the lot was a loud-mouthed lout with a laugh like a mule’s bray. He kept egging the others on, and as I tried to calm our lads down, he turned his taunts upon me, shouted out that he had a riddle for us. How could we tell the difference between a whore and a Welshwoman? His answer, my lord, was that there was no difference!”

  Tudur said, “Oh, Christ,” very softly, and he and Llewelyn exchanged grim glances, bracing themselves for the worst.

  “What did you do, Goronwy? You did not kill him?”

  “No, my lord,” Goronwy said, but he was too honest to claim credit he did not deserve. “I might have, though. I’ll never know for sure, as I did not get the chance. Roger de Mortimer came back then, just in time to hear. He reined in his stallion beside the man, smiled, and said, ‘My lady mother was Welsh.’ He’d sounded almost pleasant, and so it took us all by surprise, what happened next. Ere anyone realized what he was about, he swung his boot free of the stirrup, kicked the man in the face. He went down like a felled tree, spitting blood and teeth,” Goronwy said, with savage satisfaction. “The others sobered up right fast after that, retreated back into the ale-house in the blink of an eye, leaving their comrade bleeding and retching into the gutter. So there you have it, my lord. If you want to chastise me…”

  “For what, Goronwy? You did not act upon your anger,” Llewelyn said, and turned away.

  They watched him go, held by Tudur’s upraised hand. After a moment, Dai said, “I must admit that de Mortimer rose somewhat in my estimation. I never had much use for the man—until today.”

  “I’m not surprised by what he did,” Tudur said, rather absently, for his eyes were following Llewelyn. “For all that he chose his father’s people, he never scorned his Welsh blood. Though no man could have been ashamed of a mother like the Lady Gwladys. She was a remarkable woman, and de Mortimer was devoted to her—Goronwy, wait!”

  But Gornowy paid him no heed. Llewelyn had stopped by the river wall, and turned with reluctance, for he was not sure he had his emotions under control yet. Fury, frustration, an almost intolerable sense of helplessness—it all showed briefly upon his face as Goronwy drew near. It came as a surprise to Goronwy, the realization that his Prince’s passions were no less intense or heartfelt than his own, just ridden with a curb bit. He looked at the other man, feeling such a surge of desperate, despairing loyalty that it momentarily robbed him of speech.

  “It is very clear,” Llewelyn said, “that we must confine our men to our camp at Islington. Only the most trustworthy can be allowed into London. Now…what of you, Goronwy? Will you be able to keep your temper in check on the morrow?”

  “If you ask it of me, yes,” Goronwy promised solemnly, and after a moment, Llewelyn nodded.

  “Good lad, for I confess that I do want you with me.” He paused, his eyes searching the younger man’s face. “I understand your rage, Goronwy, more than you know. Having to tell our men that they must endure English insults and abuse was as difficult a command as I’ve ever given. But I had no choice.” He paused again, then said bleakly, “That is what happens when we lose a war.”

  Christmas Day in the great hall of Westminster was a scene of splendor. A yule log burned in the open hearth, and evergreen festooned the window recesses, holly decorated the dais, mistletoe adorned the doorways. Candles and torches and cresset lamps blazed from all corners of the hall. Fresh, sweet-smelling rushes
had been laid down, and the air was fragrant with costly incenses from the Holy Land.

  Soon there would be an elaborate feast in which the traditional fare, a roasted boar’s head, would be served with great pomp and ceremony. There would be venison and swans and oysters and feathered peacocks, and such seasonal favorites as frumenty porridge and minced pies. To drink, there would be sweet milk possets and free-flowing wine, and the spiced ale of the wassail cup.

  Afterward, there would be dancing and a mumming and a shepherd’s play, and the night would end with the chiming of church bells throughout all Christendom, with each joyful peal heralding the blessed birth of the Holy Child. And the revelries would continue from Christmas until Epiphany, twelve precious days in which to defy winter and cold and dark, to embrace the light one last time before the season of deprivation and want, the coming of Lent.

  Llewelyn had already removed his spurs and his mantle, bared his head. Slowly he unbuckled his scabbard. But as he handed his sword to Tudur, he drew a sudden, sharp breath. At Tudur’s questioning look, he said, very low, “I just saw my brother.”

  “Well, Rhodri did say he’d be here, God rot him—”

  “No… Davydd.”

  Tudur gave a startled oath, calling Davydd a highly unflattering name. More than that, he could not do, and he watched helplessly now with the other Welshmen as Llewelyn strode into the center of the hall, waited until all eyes were upon him, and then began his walk toward the dais.

  Edward’s dark head was graced by a royal crown, worn only upon occasions of state. He looked quite regal in red velvet, blue eyes intent upon the Welsh Prince. Kneeling before Edward, Llewelyn placed his hands together in the prescribed gesture of submission, for the ceremony of homage was choreographed down to the last detail. Edward rose to his feet, took Llewelyn’s hands in his own, and Llewelyn began to speak.