The Reckoning

  39

  Shrewsbury, England

  October 1283

  Edward was sure that Llewelyn ap Gruffydd’s death guaranteed an English victory. But even he was surprised by how fast it happened. Welsh resistance seemed to collapse overnight. Davydd was not long in making the bitter discovery that he could succeed his brother, but not supplant him. Men who’d have laid down their lives for Llewelyn were not willing to die for Davydd. Disheartened and demoralized by the loss of their Prince—the loss of hope—they began to surrender.

  Edward was quick to seize his advantage. Crossing the Conwy, he pushed into the very heart of Gwynedd and laid siege to Dolwyddelan. It fell to the English on January 18th, with enough speed to suggest a secret capitulation by the garrison. The capture of Llewelyn’s favorite castle sent shock waves throughout Wales, convincing the stricken Welsh that God had indeed turned His Face away from them. And with each day that passed, Edward flexed the might of the English Crown, strengthened by the arrival of Gascon mercenaries. Their second attempt to bridge the Menai Straits was successful; under Otto de Grandison’s command, English troops secured Bangor, marched along the coast to take Caer yn Arfon, and penetrated as far as Harlech. And as his army advanced at will into Llewelyn’s bleeding realm, Edward made ready to send in architects, masons, carpenters, men to build great stone fortresses for the Crown, castles to last a thousand years.

  The English called it “Davydd’s war” now, and none doubted the outcome. Davydd had withdrawn to Dolbadarn Castle once Dolwyddelan was imperiled. But he was soon forced to abandon Eryri for the mountain fastness of Meirionydd. In March he and his dwindling band of supporters took shelter at Castell y Bere, where Elizabeth gave birth, a month early, to a daughter, whom they named Gwladys. The wild beauty of the Dysynni Valley could offer refuge, though not for long. The English followed. After a ten-day siege, Castell y Bere fell on April 25th. Narrowly escaping capture, Davydd retreated back to Dolbadarn. But the noose was tightening, the end inevitable.

  It came on June 21st. Betrayed by Welsh seeking to curry favor with the English King, Davydd, his wife, and children were trapped, sent in chains to Edward at Rhuddlan Castle.

  Davydd’s capture quenched the last flickers of rebellion. Some of his allies had already surrendered. Others—Goronwy ap Heilyn and Dai ab Einion—were dead. The rest—Rhys Wyndod and his brothers, Rhys Fychan, Gruffydd ap Maredudd—now yielded, and were promptly cast into English prisons.

  But Davydd would not be joining them. Not for him a swift and ignominious disappearance into one of the Tower dungeons. For Davydd, Edward had other plans. Writs soon went out across England, summoning earls, barons, and knights to a parliament at Shrewsbury on the morrow after Michaelmas. Edward even summoned the citizens from each of twenty-one towns, a reform he’d resisted fiercely during Simon de Montfort’s time. But no prelates, no priests, no members of the clergy were called, for it was not thought seemly that clerics should take part in the purpose of this parliament—the shedding of blood.

  It was over, for the trial had taken but a day. Edward had mapped it out with his usual precision, as meticulously as he did his military campaigns, leaving nothing to chance. Under English law, a prince—even a Welsh one—had the right to be tried by his peers. And so Edward had summoned eleven earls and ninety-nine barons to Shrewsbury. The King could not act both as accusor and judge. He’d circumvented that inconvenience, though, by asking his parliament if Davydd’s crimes could be considered treasonous. When they agreed, not surprisingly, that it was so, he was then free to pass judgment through his justices.

  It was, Davydd thought, like watching a play in which the chief actor never set foot upon the stage, directing all the action from Acton Burnell, his Chancellor’s manor not far from Shrewsbury. This was the second time that Edward had refused a face-to-face confrontation, for he’d done the same at Rhuddlan Castle. And he’d gotten what he wanted—a guilty verdict on a charge of high treason. They were waiting now for his justices to reconvene the court, to pass sentence. But there was no suspense. Davydd knew that the English King would again get what he wanted—the death penalty.

  The trial had been held in the Chapter House of the Benedictine abbey of St Peter and St Paul. The chamber seemed vast to Davydd after three months in small prison cells, first at Rhuddlan and then Shrewsbury Castle. He wished the windows were not patterned with colored glass, for he would have enjoyed gazing up at the sky; the pleasures he’d always taken utterly for granted were those he’d missed the most in confinement.

  The chamber was half empty; a number of the men had wandered off, having grown tired of waiting. A pity, Davydd thought, that he could not do the same. But Shrewsbury’s two bailiffs were watching him like hungry hawks, ready to pounce at his slightest move. They seemed to think he might vanish verily like Merlin if given half a chance; indeed, if they’d had their way, he would be shackled now at both wrists and ankles. Much to Davydd’s surprise, though, he’d gotten some unexpected support from the sheriff of Shropshire, for Roger de Springhouse had brushed aside the bailiffs’ protests, saying curtly that wrist manacles would be enough.

  The sheriff was an unlikely ally. Davydd could only guess that his defiant stance had won de Springhouse’s grudging respect. For months now, he’d been under siege, sorely beset on all sides by English loathing. At Rhuddlan Castle. In the streets of Shrewsbury. Above all, in this parliament summoned to decree his doom. But some of the men taking part in his trial had been reluctantly impressed by his bravado. He’d even overheard a few of them marveling at his courage in the face of certain death. God’s greatest fools were English, for certes. They thought he feared death? Christ, he was counting upon it!

  Noticing that the nearest bench was now vacant, Davydd turned toward it, seeing no reason why he should not be comfortable while awaiting the justices’ return. He was at once challenged, though, by John le Vileyn, the more vigilant of the two bailiffs. “Halt right there! Just where do you think you’re going?”

  Davydd gave the man a shrug, a look of weary contempt. “I thought I’d pass some time at the local ale-house, mayhap drop by the whorehouse over in Grope Lane. Does your wife still warm a bed above-stairs?”

  The bailiff gaped, then sputtered an outraged oath. It never failed to amaze Davydd how quickly they rose to the bait, each and every time. But the other bailiff had reached them, and Thomas Champeney had a cooler head. “Do not give him what he wants, John. Let him sit on the bench, no harm in that.”

  But as Champeney steered his infuriated colleague away from temptation, laughter suddenly rustled through the hall, and both men instinctively looked to Davydd as the source. Their suspicions were justified, for Davydd had stretched out on the bench, shading his eyes with his arms, like a man about to take a nap. That was too much for le Vileyn. Striding back toward his prisoner, he snapped, “Get up from there! This is the King’s court and you’ll show some respect for it!”

  Davydd opened one eye. “And if I do not? What will you do—hang me?”

  Le Vileyn flushed, then grabbed for Davydd’s chains. But Davydd’s indolent pose was deceptive. He came swiftly to his feet, making sure that the bench was between them. By now, though, they’d attracted attention; the sheriff of Shropshire was already bearing down upon them.

  “Let it be, man,” he said, in a tone that brooked no argument. But le Vileyn was too angry to heed common sense. When the sheriff turned away, he followed.

  “That misbegotten Welshman has been goading me all day. Let me teach him a lesson, Sir Roger! Why do you keep coming to his defense?”

  “Because I—” The sheriff caught himself just in time, shaken by how close he’d come to blurting out the truth, that he did pity the Welshman. Holy Jesus, how could he not, though, now that he knew what the King had in mind for the man? “Do what you’re told!” he said, then stalked away.

  Le Vileyn waited, seething, until the sheriff was out of hearing range. “Go on,” he taunted Davydd, “laugh whi
lst you can. For I’ve never yet heard of a man laughing as they dragged him up the steps of the gallows!”

  “Wake me up when the justices come back,” Davydd said, settling himself upon the bench again. Did they truly think they could scare him with talk of gallows and ropes? Not that any man would choose hanging of his own free will. Scriptures called it a shameful death. Moreover, it was a painful, lingering one, for unless a man was lucky enough to be hanged on horseback, he slowly choked to death. But Davydd could think of a far worse fate than hanging—being entombed alive in an English prison.

  Thank God Edward was so set upon his death, for he was forty-five, could have survived for years in one of the Tower dungeons. Never again to see the sun or sky. Never again to feel a woman’s soft body writhing under him in bed. Never again to race a horse after a bolting stag. Never again to hear the hunting cry of a hawk, or the rising wind that foretold a coming storm, or the sound of Welsh. What man in his senses would not prefer death to that? The worst of it was the solitude, the silence. Being alone in the dark with rats and regrets and ghosts and memories no man could long abide, not without going mad.

  Davydd sat up abruptly, the affectation of indifference forgotten. Jesú, no, not now, the memories could not come now. He’d had a lot of practice in fending them off, and he deliberately bit down on the inside of his mouth, focusing on the pain and only the pain. He could endure whatever the English might devise for him. He could endure knowing that Edward meant to turn Wales into another English shire. He could even endure thoughts of Elizabeth. But what he could not endure was the memory of the last time he’d seen her, the day they’d taken their sons away. He bit down harder, until he bled. And then men were turning toward the door; judgment was at hand.

  John de vaux was a justice of the eyre, a former sheriff, a man whose loyalty to Edward stretched back a quarter century. Davydd knew him slightly, having encountered him occasionally over the years at the English court. But he’d never seen de Vaux look as somber, as grim, as he did now. He seemed in no hurry to proceed, waiting with unwonted patience for the chamber to quiet, and then waiting for Davydd to be brought forward. When he finally began to speak, he was no less deliberate, pausing often, choosing his words with care.

  “You stand convicted of the most serious of crimes: treason, rebellion, sacrilege, murder. You have grievously offended your King and liege lord, a man who showed you naught but kindness. He received you as an exile, nourished you as an orphan, and endowed you with lands and honors, his own kinswoman, an English barony. And you repaid his generosity with treachery and betrayal. You led your people astray, you violated your sworn oath, and sinned against Almighty God by shedding blood on one of the holiest of His days. There can be no forgiveness for you, and no mercy. It is the King’s will that your punishment match your crimes, that your fate serve as a warning to all who’d dare to defy the Crown. The King would have men remember how you died, Davydd ap Gruffydd.”

  There was a stirring throughout the chamber, quickly stilled. Men leaned forward, intent upon the justice’s words, morbidly curious as to what form the King’s vengeance would take. Davydd was chilled by de Vaux’s ominous pronouncement, but he hid it well, as always, and said scornfully, “I am no English baron, and calling me one does not make it so. I am Prince of Wales, and I do not recognize this court’s right to judge me. Let your King do his worst, for I would rather face the Almighty with my sins than with his.”

  His insolence provoked some angry muttering, but de Vaux remained impassive. “Davydd ap Gruffydd,” he said solemnly, “it is the judgment of this court that on the morrow, the second day of October in this, the tenth year of our sovereign lord’s reign, you are to suffer the penalty reserved for those found guilty of treason. It is hereby decreed that you be dragged behind a horse through the streets of Shrewsbury, from the castle to the gallows set up by the High Cross.”

  There was no surprise in that; the sounds behind Davydd evidenced general satisfaction. De Vaux signaled for silence. “For the crime of murder, you are to be hanged. But you are to be cut down whilst you still live.”

  Davydd stiffened, staring at the justice in disbelief. The murmurings grew louder; no one had been expecting this. De Vaux paused until it again grew quiet. “For the crime of sacrilege, you are to be disemboweled alive, and your entrails burned before your eyes. Then, for the crime of plotting the King’s death, you are to be beheaded and your body hacked into four quarters, which shall be sent to cities throughout the realm, to be put on public display so that people may know what befalls traitors and rebels.”

  There was a hush now throughout the Chapter House. De Vaux paused again. “Have you anything to say?”

  Davydd’s throat was too tight for speech. He shook his head, tasting blood in his mouth.

  De Vaux hesitated, for now he always evoked God’s pity upon the poor wretches he’d just condemned. The Welsh Prince was excommunicate, though, one damned for all eternity. But as he looked upon the silent, stunned man before him, the words came of their own volition, and he added, “May God have mercy upon your soul.”

  Davydd gasped, jerking upright on the blanket, for he remembered at once where he was and what he faced on the morrow. How could he have fallen asleep? And how long had he slept? They had brought him a candle with supper, but it wasn’t notched, so he had no way of knowing how much time had passed, how much time he had left to live.

  His last meal lay untouched by the door. They’d given him a double helping of some sort of fish stew and a full flagon of ale—execution eve charity. He’d brought the flagon back to the bed, and he reached for it now, swallowed and grimaced at the flat, tepid taste. The cell was damp and chilly, but his tunic was splotched with sweat; although he could not remember his dream, he’d wager it held a gallows and a grave. But no…not a grave. Passing strange, for he’d not wanted to be buried in England, and now Edward had seen to it. Even the Saracens did not deny a man decent burial. Only the most Christian King of England would think of that.

  He’d never doubted his courage, not ever. Until today, it had not even crossed his mind that his nerve might fail him. But how could flesh and blood and bone not shrink from such deliberately drawn-out suffering? How could he be sure that he’d be able to face it without flinching?

  He was not accustomed to asking hard questions; that had never been his way. But he’d had three months and more of solitary confinement, time in which he’d been forced to confront the consequences of his actions, after a lifetime of evading them. There was no room to run in a prison cell.

  He’d always gotten his strength from his utter confidence, from his faith in his own abilities. What could he fall back on now? The Almighty was said to be deaf to the pleas of an excommunicate. Even though he did not believe that God was on England’s side, divine mercy might well be as scarce as Edward’s. Those charges flung at him in the Chapter House were crimes only in English eyes, not in his. But he had no lack of sins to answer for, a lifetime’s worth if truth be told. How could he be sure that God would understand? Llewelyn never had.

  When he’d prayed in these past months, it was usually to the Blessed Mary, for he’d always had better luck with women, a thought that bordered on blasphemy and well he knew it. But he could not suppress an uneasy suspicion that God no longer heard his prayers. He’d not even tried to get his excommunication lifted, for only the Archbishop of Canterbury or the Pope could do that, and he knew he could never have satisfied Edward’s Archbishop. Absolution required contrition, confession, and penance, none of which he was willing to offer to an English prelate.

  Never, though, had he so needed the solace of the Church, and he fervently wished he still had the Croes Naid, Llewelyn’s fragment of the True Cross. But Edward held it now, just as he held the crown of Arthur, the coronet that was once Llewelyn’s and—so briefly—his. Reaching for the flagon, he drank again. Well, if God would not get him through the morrow’s ordeal, that left only pride. He smiled bleakly at that
, seeing the twisted humor in it. For if pride was to be his deliverance, it had also been his downfall. If not for pride and jealousy, would the bond between brothers have frayed so badly? If not for pride, it might have held fast—and Wales with it.

  Leaning back against the wall, he made a careless move, almost knocking the flagon over with his chain; he righted it just in time. “I’ll admit it,” he said, “I got more than I bargained for. But fair is fair, Llewelyn. Even you cannot deny that it is also more than I deserved.”

  He could not remember when he’d begun to talk to his brother. It had been a joke at first, a self-mocking attempt to deny his pain, and perhaps, too, an expression of his hunger to hear a voice, even his own, to escape the smothering burden of silence, for he’d never been utterly alone before, not like this. But although he jeered at his own need—telling himself that confiding in the dead offered distinct advantages over confessing to the living—it had given him an odd sort of comfort, and he was fast learning to take comfort anywhere he could find it.

  “If you happen to be free on the morrow, Llewelyn, if nothing is going on at God’s Throne, I’d not mind if you wanted to hover close by the gallows,” he said, and then gave a shaken laugh. Christ keep him, he was beginning to babble, and did not even have the excuse of being drunk, not on this weak, English ale. If only he knew the time! Midnight? Matins? Or nigh unto dawn?

  He lay down on the blanket again, closed his eyes. But sleep wouldn’t come, and he swore suddenly, savagely. “So I lied, Llewelyn! Mayhap I do deserve it. Is that what you’d have me say? You want me to confess my sins? For that, I’d need more time than I’ve got, much more…”

  He was lying again, though. There was time. So be it, then. Wales, the greatest casualty of his war. Just as Llewelyn had foreseen. “We’d become aliens in our own land,” he’d warned, “denied our own laws, our own language, even our yesterdays, for a conquered people are not allowed a prideful past. Worst of all, we’d be leaving our children and grandchildren a legacy of misery and loss, a future bereft of hope.”