Edward laughed; Llewelyn did not. To Edmund, it was very evident that his brother was expecting to be thanked profusely, but it was equally obvious to him that, whatever emotions Llewelyn was experiencing just then, gratitude was not among them. Edmund sighed, wondering how he so often found himself playing the role of peacemaker, instead of being able to stand back and enjoy the turmoil the way the Davydds and the de Mortimers seemed to do. But the habit was too deeply ingrained, and he was trying to think of a distraction when a glance out the window provided him with one.
“Ned, Eleanora and Blanche have just ridden in from the friary.” Making up his mind then, he said, “Llewelyn, I think you’ll want to go down to the bailey. Ellen is with them.”
The door was ajar, and they could hear the clinking of Llewelyn’s spurs in the stone stairwell, and then silence…until Edward said, “Are you going to tell me why you did that? You know Ellen’s arrival was meant to be a surprise.”
“Too many surprises can leave a bad taste in a man’s mouth, especially a man as prideful as that one, Ned. I just wanted to make sure that Llewelyn did not take offense when none was intended.”
Edward responded with a Welsh oath he’d learned from Davydd. “That is absurd. It is lucky that you have so many worthy qualities, for I’m sorry to say that you have no more humor than…” He paused, groping for a comparison, and Edmund supplied one.
“Than the Earl of Gloucester?” he suggested, with a straight face, and Edward struggled in vain to keep a straight face of his own.
“Jesú, no,” he said, “I am not that irked with you, lad!” A sudden clamor drew him then, to the open window, just in time to see Llewelyn reach up, lift Ellen from her saddle. She slid down into his arms, into an embrace ardent enough to stir enthusiastic cheers from the soldiers thronging the bailey.
Watching, Edward said wryly, “Are they ever coming up for air? You are right, Edmund, about his overweening pride. But to give the Devil his due, he does not lack for nerve. Not many men would have dared to challenge me the way he just did. No, the man has cojones,” Edward said approvingly, whetting Edmund’s interest, for he knew that slang Spanish expression, picked up from Eleanora’s brother, was Edward’s ultimate accolade; Edward’s creed was simplicity itself, that a man without courage was no man at all.
“Is that why you agreed to Llewelyn’s surrender last year? You think we’re better off with him than with Davydd?”
“By the Rood, no!” Edward said, and laughed. “Nothing could be further from the truth. Llewelyn poses a greater danger to England than Davydd ever could, for he is the one man the Welsh might rally around. They’d never trust Davydd. Why should they, when his loyalty is for sale to the highest bidder, for who can outbid the King? No, England would have been better served with Davydd at the helm, for he’d be far more likely than Llewelyn to run their ship up onto the rocks. But Llewelyn was not about to turn the helm over of his own free will. I told you once that I wanted Wales, but it would have cost more than I was willing to pay to see Davydd enthroned at Aber.”
“Was that why you turned a deaf ear to Rhodri’s plea?”
“Of course. Why would I risk pushing Llewelyn into rebellion again? To please a meagre whelp like Rhodri? Not bloody likely! Nor am I displeased with my new vassal so far.”
The noise from the bailey was intensifying, for the Welsh had emptied the hall, eager to get a first glimpse of their lord’s lady. Ellen and Llewelyn were encircled by jostling, jesting men, and to judge by all the smiles, Ellen was winning them over with ridiculous ease. Edward was not surprised, for it would have been hard to resist her at that moment. She was so radiant that not even the most cynical Welshman could doubt her joy at being reunited with her husband, and when, under Llewelyn’s coaching, she gamely attempted a few halting words in Welsh, Llewelyn’s men would willingly have forgiven her any sin under God’s sky, even the sin of being English. Edward watched for a few moments, then turned back to his brother.
“No,” he repeated, “I am not displeased. It was not easy to snare our Welsh hawk, and it took patience, but we’ve been able to bell him, to break him to the creance, and to teach him to fly to the lure. A pity we have to lose her now. But I suppose it is time to test his tameness, to see if he can be trusted to fly free.”
23
Worcester, England
October 1278
All the towns in the Marches were eager to host a royal wedding, but it was Worcester that won the coveted prize. Its citizens were delighted at the prospect of such a splendid spectacle taking place in their midst, although the town was hard put to accommodate so many highborn visitors. The Bishop of Worcester had the honor of providing hospitality for the King, his Queen, and the bride. The Prior of St Mary’s turned his own residence over to Edward’s brother-in-law, the King of Scotland, and the Franciscan friary was chosen to lodge Llewelyn and his entourage. The other wedding guests had to find beds as best they could: in the priory guest hall, in the old castle, in the few inns, with local gentry. To the awed townspeople, it began to seem as if Worcester had suddenly become the center of the world.
Unlatching the shutters of his chamber, Llewelyn looked out upon a day of surpassing fairness, upon colors vivid enough to delight the most exacting artist’s eye: gold-tinted sunlight, autumn-splashed trees vying for attention with the last lingering flowers of summer, under a sky so bright it could not long take unshaded stares. Joining him at the window, Einion breathed in the clear, crisp air, saying, “I know this day has been long in coming, but now that it’s here, it’s well nigh perfect. I have to admit, Llewelyn, that Edward has surprised me. I had no idea this wedding would be so lavish, that Edward could be so generous.”
“Generous? I suppose so,” Llewelyn said, but he sounded skeptical. “It is just that I cannot help thinking how unnecessary this wedding is, Einion. In the eyes of the Almighty and all of Christendom, Ellen and I have been husband and wife for nigh on three years. But Edward would insist that we marry again, almost as if we are not well and truly wed without his approval, his blessing.”
He glanced sideways at his uncle, then smiled. “I’m not exactly overflowing with gratitude, am I? Mayhap I ought to make a vow, that I’ll give Edward the benefit of every doubt—just for today! It is true that he has been open-handed, and I’ll not deny that he gave me a right welcome wedding gift when he agreed to free my hostages. I only wish he’d thought to consult Ellen and me about what we might have wanted for this wedding.”
“You mean the guests,” Einion said shrewdly, and Llewelyn nodded.
“Indeed. Pembroke, Clifford, Hereford—those are men who’d rather be attending my wake than my wedding!” Llewelyn laughed shortly. “At least I was able to prevail upon Edward about de Mortimer; Edward agreed that his presence would be distressing to Ellen. But he insisted upon inviting Gloucester. He said de Mortimer might not like being omitted, but he’d understand, whereas Gloucester would have nursed a grievance to his grave, and I have to admit he is likely right about that. We’ll just have to see that he stays away from Ellen.”
“Is it true that Davydd will be here?”
“Yes, I regret to say he will. He told Edward that Elizabeth wanted to come.” Llewelyn said no more, and Einion tactfully changed the subject, asked if it was true Llewelyn had postponed sessions of his high court for the next fortnight.
“Yes, I wanted to have enough free time to show Wales to Ellen—and vice versa. We’ll pass a few days at Dolwyddelan, and then move up the Conwy valley to the abbey and on to Aber. Then we’ll cross over to Môn, for Ellen wants to visit the friary at Llanfaes where Joanna is buried.” Turning from the window, Llewelyn moved to the table, reaching for a small casket. “Let me show you Ellen’s bride’s gift.”
“I thought you gave her that white mare?”
“I did. When I found out that my grandfather had given Joanna a mare on their wedding day, I knew nothing would please Ellen more. Whilst we were at Rhuddlan, I asked her if she wa
nted a new wedding ring, too, but she said no, that the one she’d been given in France had been a talisman for her during these past months. So we’ll have it blessed anew by the Bishop during the ceremony. But I got the idea then, to give her this.” Llewelyn held up a circular silver brooch for Einion’s inspection. “The inside of her ring is engraved in French with ‘You are my heart’s joy.’ I had this brooch engraved with the same words, in Welsh!”
The expression was a conventional motto, to be found in many wedding bands and lover’s rings, in itself meant little. But Llewelyn’s smile gave it an echo of truth. He seemed to sense that himself, for he laughed suddenly. “Do I sound like one of those lovesick fools the bards like to sing about? Jesú, I hope not! But in truth, Einion, Ellen is indeed special.”
Einion agreed that she was, with such evident sincerity that Llewelyn felt a surprising surge of pleasure; he was only now discovering how much it pleased him to hear Ellen praised. “You and I can see her virtues easily enough, but will our people? Joanna was never popular with the Welsh. Tell me the truth, Einion. Do you think Ellen will fare better?”
Einion did not give a snap reply, for that was a serious query, deserving of serious consideration; a ruler’s troubles could be compounded by an unpopular consort. Henry III’s subjects had detested his French Queen, blaming Henry both for his own flaws and hers, too. But Einion knew that if the man was securely in power, the impact would be negligible, as was the case with Llewelyn’s grandfather. Or Edward, for Eleanora was not beloved by the English, who suspected her of being grasping, and convicted her of being foreign. Edward was too well entrenched, though, for whispers and gossip to matter. Whether that was still true or not for Llewelyn, Einion did not know.
“You were too young to remember much about Joanna,” he said slowly. “I do, though. She was shy in public, and people oft-times thought her aloof, even arrogant, when nothing could be further from the truth. Then, too, she squandered whatever good will she’d earned over the years with that one mad act, taking a lover, and an English lover at that. Even from the first, though, our people viewed her askance, for there were those who could not forgive her for a sin of birth, for being King John’s daughter. But I think Ellen has already won Welsh sympathy; who’d not pity her plight these three years past? Nor is she shy, your lady, will find it easier than Joanna to woo Welsh hearts. And our people are not likely to blame her for her kinship to the English King, for who does not know about Evesham?”
Llewelyn gave him a sharp, probing look, for between them, there was not always a need of words. “You see it, too,” he said, and Einion nodded.
“Yes,” he admitted. “I’ll not deny it did surprise me, that she seems so at ease with Edward. I did not expect that.”
“Nor did I.”
“Have you talked to her about it, Llewelyn?”
“No, not yet. We’ve had so little time together. And… I thought it would be fairer to Ellen if I wait until she feels at home in Wales, until we know each other better.”
“And if she is as fond of him as she seems to be?”
“I doubt that I could ever understand it. But I suppose I’d have to try to accept it.” That was a prospect that troubled Llewelyn more than he was willing to admit, even to himself. Today was not the time to dwell upon it, though, and he began to tell Einion about the remarkably vivid names the English gave to the streets of their towns and cities, about London’s Cheapside, Fish Street, Cock’s Lane, and Stinking Lane, about Shrewsbury’s Dogpole, the Shambles, and Grope Lane, where, as a lad of thirteen, he’d seen his first harlot. He was trying to convince Einion that Worcester really did have a Cut-throat Lane when Goronwy and Dai sought entry.
“Ere we depart for the church, I want to give you these, my lord.” Goronwy produced a woven sack, and launched into a perfect mimicry of those glib-tongued, itinerant peddlers who could make wooden beads seem like pearls beyond price. “Well, what do we have here? It looks like—indeed it is—a shard of unicorn horn. Very useful for a man about to dine with the English, for you need only drop it into your wine cup, and lo, it will protect you from poison.”
“Whilst mortally offending the English King,” Llewelyn said, and they all laughed, envisioning for a moment Edward’s incredulous rage at such an insult.
“What?” Goronwy feigned a peddler’s dismay. “You’d turn down so rare a relic? Indeed, my lord, you are a hard man to please. Mayhap this will be more to your liking?”
“What is that?” Llewelyn reached for the root. “A turnip?”
“A turnip? My lord, this is mandragora! Coax your lady into taking but one bite, and she will ever after be bedazzled by you, loving, docile, obedient to your every whim.”
“I’d rather bedazzle her myself.” Llewelyn dropped the ugly, twisted root back into the sack. “What else have you in your bag of tricks?”
“You are indeed in luck, my lord, for I have here a patch of wolf’s hair, plucked from the rump of a live wolf.” With a flourish, Goronwy held it up, scowling at sight of their grins. “Do not scoff, my lords,” he said loftily, “for all know wolf’s hair plucked from a live animal will give a man great vigor, enable him to perform truly miraculous feats, all night long.” Goronwy abandoned the game then, grinned at Llewelyn. “In truth, I was tempted to keep this for myself. I doubt that you’ll have need of it, for I’ve seen your lady.”
Llewelyn laughed. “I’d wager a beautiful woman will always embolden a man more than a clump of fur! What does a man do with this, anyway? Stick it under his pillow? God forbid, swallow it?” They were all laughing now, able to imagine any number of indelicate uses for the wolf charm, and were still laughing when the friary warden ushered in two unexpected guests, the King and his brother.
They both were magnificently attired, Edward in a purple silk tunic under a bright green surcote, and Edmund less colorfully but no less richly dressed in contrasting shades of blue. They were well matched in high spirits, too, for few occasions offered more opportunities for revelry than a wedding.
“The women chased us out,” Edward complained cheerfully. “They said they needed time to dress and then to make Ellen ready, and we’d just get underfoot. So we’re here to wish you well, and to give you this.” He held out a small leather pouch. “The gold and silver to put on the Bishop’s plate ere he blesses Ellen’s ring.”
The coins in question were of no great value, but the gesture was a symbolic one, a sign of royal favor. Brushing aside Llewelyn’s thanks, Edward said, with a smile, “I daresay you are still set upon departing for Wales on the morrow. I daresay, too, that you have no idea how much baggage your bride is bringing. You’ve not yet learned about wives and their chattels, or that after today, you’ll not have a coffer chest to call your own. But as one burdened husband to another, I want to pay the costs of transporting Ellen’s belongings and the wedding gifts into Wales, as far as…shall we say Oswestry?”
“That is very generous,” Llewelyn said, and got from Edward another smile, a shrug.
“I am very fond of Ellen, want to get her marriage off to a good start. Now, we’d best ride back to the Bishop’s Palace, for Eleanora made me swear a blood oath that we’d not be late for the ceremony. Ere we go, there is one minor matter to be dealt with, so if I may have a few moments of the Prince’s time, I promise that you’ll have the rest of the day—and night—for the bridegroom.”
Llewelyn’s smile was quizzical and slightly wary, but he took the parchment Edward was holding out, moved to the window, and began to read. Edward leaned back against the door to wait. Edmund’s attention, though, was drawn to an object on the table. “Is that what I think it is? Wolf’s hair, right? I hear that it works wonders in bestirring a man’s lust,” he said with a grin. “Is it for sale?” Recognizing a kindred spirit, Goronwy grinned back, and they began a bawdy, enthusiastic discussion about the various aids and potions and herbs that were thought to be aphrodisiacs. But then Goronwy happened to glance toward the window, toward his Pr
ince.
“My lord, what is it?” He’d spoken instinctively in Welsh, but Edmund caught the undertones of concern, and turned, too. Llewelyn was staring at Edward, if he’d heard Goronwy, he gave no sign of it.
“Is this some sort of jest?” he said, and there was disbelief in his voice, but also the first flames of a white-hot rage.
“It is,” Edward said calmly, “just what it appears to be.”
The Welsh were now clustered around Llewelyn, and as they read the document he held, they, too, looked first incredulous, and then, enraged.
“What is happening here?” Getting no answer from Llewelyn, Edmund swung back toward his brother. “Ned, what is this about? What does that charter say?”
“It states that Llewelyn agrees he no longer has the right to offer sanctuary or refuge to men who are the King’s enemies. It is not an unreasonable demand,” Edward said coolly, “and I do not see why it should stir up such a commotion. It is, after all, merely an admission of the sovereignty of the English Crown in Wales.”
Edmund had loved his father, but Henry was not a parent a son could take pride in; he was too weak, too ineffectual. As far back as Edmund could remember, though, Edward had filled that void, for who would not have been proud of such a brother? He’d given his admiration as unstintingly as he did his love, and he was shaken now by what he was feeling as they rode back to the Bishop of Worcester’s Palace, for he would not have believed it possible that he could ever be ashamed of Edward.
He was unwilling to speak out in front of their men, but as soon as they dismounted before the Bishop’s great hall, he drew Edward aside. Edward did not object, and followed him into the Bishop’s riverside garden. Coming to a halt by a trellised arbor, Edmund said abruptly, “Whatever possessed you, Ned? I’d not have believed it had I not seen it with my own eyes!”