“My lord King and liege lord, I, Llewelyn ap Gruffydd, Prince of Wales and Lord of Eryri, do willingly enter into your homage and faith and become your sworn man, and to you faithfully will I bear body, chattels, and earthly worship, and I will keep faith and loyalty to you against all others.”
The act of homage was not a humbling experience for English vassals; they saw it as a natural expression of the obedience owed to one’s liege lord, for theirs was an ordered, hierarchical society structured upon military tenure of land. But it was an alien concept to the Welsh, imposed upon them by force of arms. Llewelyn had been the first Welsh prince able to turn this English weapon against them, to use homage as a means of unifying Wales. He would have found it easier to do homage himself if he could have believed that the English King recognized and respected the very real differences that existed between the English and the Welsh. He was convinced, though, that Edward saw no distinction between Wales and any English earldom, and that made his act of homage an act of self-betrayal.
But he’d done it, and he waited now for Edward to perform his part, to make an utter mockery of these solemn oaths sworn before God and witnessed by men. For homage was a reciprocal obligation, bound both men to each other in a relationship of dependence and protection. Just as the vassal must obey his liege lord, so must the liege lord make the vassal’s enemies his own.
Edward looked out upon their audience, back toward Llewelyn. “We do promise to you, as my vassal and liegeman,” he said gravely, “that we and our heirs will guarantee to you and your heirs the Welsh lands you hold of us, against all others, that you may hold said lands in peace.”
And then, Llewelyn having sworn allegiance to the man who’d sheltered his would-be assassins and abducted his wife, Edward raised him to his feet and gave him the ritual kiss of peace.
Lifting his wine cup, Edward suggested, “Shall we drink to new beginnings?” Llewelyn clinked his cup against the King’s, and the hall erupted in applause.
Edmund and Blanche were approaching, and Edward beckoned them up onto the dais. “You know my brother, of course, but you have not yet had the pleasure of meeting his wife…or have you?” Edward amended, for Blanche and Llewelyn were smiling at each other like old and familiar friends.
“Oh, the Prince of Wales and I have known each other forever,” Blanche said blithely, amusing Llewelyn and baffling everyone else within hearing, except Edmund, who was no longer surprised by anything his wife said or did.
Eleanora was frowning, and knowing that his sister-in-law was nothing if not literal-minded, Edmund said hastily, “Eleanora, trust me. Do not even ask.”
“Sometimes I suspect that if we traveled to Persia, Blanche would still encounter old friends,” Edward said, with a smile and just a suggestion of sarcasm, for he found his sister-in-law to be very entertaining company, but a bit too flippant for his taste; the irreverent humor that amused him coming from a Davydd or a Roger de Mortimer seemed inappropriate in a woman’s mouth. “But I see someone whom I know for certes that you have not yet met, my lord Llewelyn, even though she is your kinswoman twice-over. Fortunately we can remedy that right now. Davydd, bring Lisbet up onto the dais.”
Clinging to Davydd’s arm, Elizabeth mounted the steps of the dais, where she curtsied first to Edward and then to Llewelyn. “Lady Elizabeth,” Llewelyn said, and kissed her hand. “You’d be a welcome addition to any family.” And because he was not about to expose Welsh wounds to English eyes, he looked then at his brother, said coolly, “Davydd, what a surprise.”
“A happy one, I trust.” But Davydd’s riposte lacked his usual verve; to Llewelyn, who knew him so well, he looked tired and tense.
“Marital alliances entangle us in the most remarkable webs,” Edward said, his eyes shifting curiously between Llewelyn and his brother. “Who could have guessed that one day I would be kinsman to you both, compliments of my lovely cousins, Elizabeth and Ellen.” He smiled at Elizabeth, before turning his attention back to Llewelyn.
“Ellen is our phantom guest,” he said wryly, “unseen but not forgotten. I know she is foremost in your thoughts. I can tell you, too, what those thoughts are. You’ve come to Westminster, done homage at my Christmas court. Now you want me to hold to our bargain. Fair enough, and I have every intention of honoring my word. We obviously cannot talk here and now, with the trestle tables about to be set up at any moment. But I doubt that you’ll want to wait, for in truth, I’ve never met a more restive people than you Welsh! Will tomorrow be soon enough?”
“No,” Llewelyn said, and smiled, “but it will have to do.”
“Good, it is settled then. I’ll be at the Tower in the morning. Meet me there at noon, and we’ll see if we cannot reach an agreement about Ellen’s release.”
“At the Tower?” For a moment, Llewelyn could not believe what he’d heard, for Edward was still smiling, and the others showed no signs that anything out of the ordinary had just been said. It was only when he glanced over at Davydd, saw his brother’s face mirroring his own shock, that he knew he had not misunderstood. The English King had indeed ordered him to come to the royal fortress that was England’s most notorious prison, where his father had been confined and where he had died.
Llewelyn shivered as the wind gusted through the cloisters, for he had seized his first chance to leave the hall, and he’d not bothered to retrieve his mantle. Snow glazed the ground of the inner garth, but he could catch glimpses of sun amidst the circling clouds. Hungry birds wheeled overhead, and he heard an occasional muffled shout as boatmen hailed one another; even Christmas was not a day of rest on the River Thames. He knew he had to go back inside soon, before he was missed. But he was not yet ready, still seething with rebellious, impotent rage.
“There you are!” Llewelyn whirled at the sound of Welsh, saw Davydd hurrying toward him along the path. Flushed and out of breath, he stopped a few feet away. “Jesú, but it’s cold out here! You were too quick, I did not see you leave. Llewelyn, listen. Edward did not mean that as it sounded. I know him better than you. Granted, he can be mean-spirited, but not like this. I do not think he even realized that he’d given mortal offense. Most likely he just did not remember that our father—What? Why do you look at me like that?”
“What sort of twisted game are you playing now, Davydd? You make a two-hundred-mile journey on winter roads, just so you can watch me bleed before the English court, and then you dare to pretend concern over my peace of mind? Do you truly think I’m that big a fool?”
“That is not so! I did not come here to gloat!”
“No? Then why did you come? I believed your lies often enough in the past, God knows, but I’m no longer as easily duped. So you’d best make this tale a memorable one!”
Davydd’s eyes narrowed. “As it happens, it has naught to do with you. My wife wanted to come to her cousin’s Christmas court, and since she’s breeding, I thought it best to humor her whims. Does that satisfy you? And now I am going back into the hall, and you…you can go to Hell!”
Davydd spun around, stalked back up the pathway. Llewelyn watched him go. He’d begun to shiver again, for the wind was coming off the river now. But he was too angry to risk returning to the hall. He glanced around, then crossed to the south walkway, entered the chapel of St Stephen.
Within, all was quiet, so still that he could hear the sound of his own breathing, rapid, uneven. His inner turmoil seemed to make a mockery of God’s peace. Moving down the nave, he paused before the High Altar, ringed with flaming white candles. His father’s temper had been the stuff of which legends are made. His rages had been as spontaneous as they were spectacular, for he’d remained as ignorant and as innocent as a child about the consequences of those firestorms of fury. And he’d passed on the lion’s share of that fabled temper to his son Owain, who’d followed all too closely in Gruffydd’s scorched footsteps. Llewelyn, too, had been bequeathed a portion of that dubious and dangerous legacy. But he’d long ago learned what Gruffydd never had, hard le
ssons in self-control. That was why he was so shaken now by his confrontation with Davydd. Why had he let his temper catch fire like that? How was it that Davydd always managed to get past the moat and the outer walls, to assault the keep itself? Why could he not master the one defense that could never be overcome—indifference?
Hearing footsteps in the nave, he turned, expecting to see a priest. But it was his young sister-in-law. Elizabeth stopped by the rood screen. “Forgive me for intruding like this,” she said hesitantly, “but I needed to talk to you alone, and I did not know when another opportunity might arise.”
“You are a welcome diversion, not an intrusion,” Llewelyn said, not altogether truthfully, and smiled at her. As Elizabeth stepped forward, he saw that she’d been more sensible than he or Davydd, for she was wrapped in a warm wool mantle. “I understand that congratulations are in order. Davydd tells me that you are with child.”
“It is still too early yet to be utterly sure, but I have hopes.” She smiled suddenly. “God willing, I will give Davydd a son in the new year,” she said, and Llewelyn felt an unwonted prick of envy.
Moving toward her, he shook his head when she called him “my lord,” saying, “We have no need for formality between us, for not only are you my sister by marriage, you are my wife’s cousin. What can I do for you, Elizabeth?”
“Davydd and I are staying at the Swan Inn on Thames Street. It is very comfortable and conveniently located, just above the bridge. I… I was wondering if you might come there and dine with us.”
She looked like an eager child to Llewelyn, squeezing her hands together as she spoke, biting her lip as she waited now for his answer. Edward had told him her age—nineteen—but she seemed much younger to him at that moment, and he found it unexpectedly difficult to turn her down.
“I am sorry, lass,” he said, as kindly as he could. “I cannot do that.”
Elizabeth was quiet for a moment, struggling with her disappointment. “I suppose I knew all along that you would not,” she admitted. “But I had to try.”
“Davydd does not know about this planned dinner of yours, does he?” Her silence confirmed his suspicions, and he said, very seriously, “Elizabeth, I am sure you meant well. But you’d do better not to involve yourself in our conflict. I am afraid, lass, that Davydd would be very wroth with you should he find out what you tried to do.”
“Do you think I fear Davydd’s anger?” She sounded surprised, and then indignant. “You know Davydd, so you should know better! I get so heartily sick of it, the way people always think the worst of him. This is why I hate coming to Edward’s court. They all act as if I were a…a sacrificial lamb. And the older women, they are the worst. Giving me motherly pats and covert looks of pity. The fat cows, if they only knew!”
Llewelyn glanced away so she’d not see his grin. The change in her was startling; he tended to forget that even a kitten had claws. “So you do not like visits to the English court?” he asked, and she responded with an emphatic shake of her head, a forceful “Jesú forfend,” one of Davydd’s favorite oaths. “That is odd,” he said, “for Davydd told me that he’d come to Westminster merely to please you.”
The blue eyes flickered, but she never hesitated. “Yes,” she said, “I did coax him into coming. The Christmas court, after all, is different, is not to be missed.”
Llewelyn looked into her upturned face. “You are very loyal,” he said quietly, “and Davydd is very lucky.”
“No,” Elizabeth said, “I am the lucky one!” She turned to go, then gave him one last hopeful look over her shoulder. “If you should change your mind…” He said nothing, but there was something implacable in his silence, and she sighed, mouthing under her breath another of the oaths she’d learned from Davydd. At the rood screen, she paused again. “I never knew what it was like to be happy,” she said softly, and without waiting for his response, she moved toward the door, leaving behind echoes of her quick, light steps, faint traces of her perfume, and a few puddles of melting ice upon the floor of the chancel, where her skirts had swept the snow-laden ground of the cloisters.
Llewelyn followed her to the door. He did not think it was easy to be a woman in their world, but he had known a number of women who could match any man in daring, determination, and common sense. Joanna, his grandfather’s wife, had often acted as his envoy to the English court, had once averted a war. His aunt, Elen de Quincy, had braved public scandal to wed the man she loved. His own mother had made a devil’s deal with the English King in a vain attempt to gain her husband’s freedom. Nell de Montfort had ridden the whirlwind with Simon for nigh on thirty years, his partner, his confidante, his consort. But now, as he stood, watching as Elizabeth headed back toward the hall, Llewelyn thought he had never known any woman so in need of protection as his brother’s young, pregnant wife.
It snowed again that night, and by the next morning London’s streets were shrouded in white. The sky was still overcast, and wind-blown drifts covered the usual refuse and debris littering the city’s center gutters. The streets were almost deserted, for Sunday was God’s day, and most Londoners were home before their hearths. Llewelyn’s escort had been handpicked for their equanimity, all but Goronwy, who was pledged to be on his best behavior, but Llewelyn was glad, nonetheless, that his men’s sangfroid would not be put to the test. They crossed the city without incident, and shortly before noon they rode through the landgate into the outer bailey of the vast, formidable stronghold known, with sinister simplicity, as the Tower.
The White Tower, the fortress’s great keep, soared ninety feet into the somber winter sky. Llewelyn reined in his stallion, gazing up at those grey stone battlements. Gruffydd had knotted sheets together, climbed out of one of the chapel windows, and begun a slow, laborious descent toward the ground so far below. But courage was not always its own reward, and his makeshift rope had given way. They’d found him crumpled at the base of the forebuilding, and Llewelyn had heard that men sickened at sight of the body, for Gruffydd’s head had been driven into his chest upon impact. The ground had been snow-covered that night, too, and for days afterward, people had come to stare at the blood-soaked snow, at the dried blood splattering the roof and wall of the forebuilding, until the Tower constable obliterated the evidence with shovels and whitewash.
Llewelyn had demanded all the gory details, for he’d been only sixteen, too young to realize that sometimes it was better not to know. A muscle twitched in his cheek. More time passed, and then he looked over at his men, watching in a hushed, respectful silence; some had even doffed their hats, as they would in a church or cemetery. “Let’s go,” he said. “The English King is waiting.”
The great hall was packed with jostling, shoving men, echoing with boisterous laughter, catcalls, and curses. Edward broke away from the others, strode over to greet Llewelyn with cheerful, disarming informality.
“If the Archbishop of Canterbury hears about his, he’ll pitch a fit for certes. Cockfighting on a Sunday is bound to be a sin of some sort!” He grinned, and Llewelyn wondered if Davydd had been right, after all. Was he here at the Tower as a spiteful exercise of royal power? Or merely as a matter of royal convenience?
“My private chamber in the Blundeville Tower adjoins the hall. We can talk there whilst your men lose their money on the fight,” Edward said, to Goronwy’s obvious dismay. He looked so alarmed that Llewelyn drew him aside, quietly assured him that if Edward had planned treachery, it would have occurred before he’d done homage, not afterward. Goronwy did not look completely convinced, but the rest of their men had already joined the circle of spectators, and as Llewelyn and Edward exited the hall, they looked back upon a scene of rare English-Welsh harmony.
“I thought we’d do better on our own,” Edward explained. “It is not as if we need an interpreter, after all. I want you to know, Llewelyn, that I’ll not keep Ellen in England a day longer than necessary. But I have to be sure that she’ll not find herself wed to a rebel, trapped in an alien land at war with th
e Crown.”
“It seems then, that we are in agreement,” Llewelyn said, hoping he’d managed to keep all traces of sarcasm from his voice. “We both want Ellen in Wales, not Windsor. So it is just a question of when. I suggest we begin by discussing something we can agree upon here and now. I’ve been hearing about the efficiency of the English Chancery. Why not put it to a test, see if they can get a safe-conduct issued for me by the morrow?”
By now they’d reached the end of the passageway, were at the door of Edward’s chamber in the Blundeville Tower. “A safe-conduct? For where?”
“Scotland,” Llewelyn said, a little too sharply. “Windsor, where else? It is only twenty miles from here, is it not?”
Edward nodded, and then stunned Llewelyn by saying, “Well… I do not really see a need for that.”
As difficult as Llewelyn found it to give Edward the benefit of the doubt in anything, it still had not occurred to him that Edward might refuse him the right to visit Ellen at Windsor. Edward had already opened the door, and he followed the English King into the chamber, too outraged to keep up the pretense.
“So you do not think I need to meet my wife? You’d best explain yourself!”
“That was not what I said,” Edward protested, with surprising mildness. “What I said was that there was no need for you to go to Windsor.” And then he grinned, and Llewelyn realized, belatedly, that they were not alone in the chamber.
A woman was standing on the far side of the room, holding what looked like a white fur muff. But as Llewelyn turned toward her, she set the muff in one of the window-seats, revealing it to be a very small dog, and sank down in a deep curtsy.
“My lord Prince of Wales,” Edward said, “I have the pleasure to present to you my kinswoman and your wife, the Lady Eleanor de Montfort.”
Llewelyn crossed swiftly to Ellen, reached down, and raised her to her feet, then brought her hand up and kissed it. Ellen gave him a dazzling smile, then turned it upon Edward. “Ned,” she said, “do you not have an invasion to plan or a castle to besiege?”