Falls the Shadow (22 page)

The sun was shining directly into his eyes, and Llelo clung with one hand, raised the other to shield the glare. The houses blocked most of his view of Shrewsbury’s streets, but he could see beyond to the river, see the long, serpentine line that wound its way up the Abbey Foregate. Chain-mail armor was not meant for long rides, and the chivalric code had been amended accordingly, adding the caveat that it was not honorable to attack a knight unless he was fully armed, thus freeing men of the need to spend stifling hours in the saddle. But Henry had wanted his entry into Shrewsbury to be a memorable one, and his knights were clad in sun-blinding mail, brilliantly colored surcoats. Heralded by highflying, bright silk banners, by trumpets and pipes, the English army stretched as far as Llelo’s eye could see. It took his breath, raised a sweat that had nothing to do with the heat of the summer sun.

He abandoned his perch so hastily that he almost fell, would have if not for the blacksmith’s quick reflexes. Sliding to the ground, he said, “They come,” and when the provost translated from French to English, the spectators raised a cheer.

Whatever argument there might be about Henry’s abilities, all conceded that he was in appearance an ideal king. He wore a rich red gown, a jewel-encrusted hat, seemed impervious to heat and dust. Elegant and urbane, he showed no impatience with their slow progress through the crowded streets. Henry thrived upon pageantry and panoply, enjoyed the ceremonial aspects of kingship far more than he did the actual exercise of power.

As Henry approached the cross, he saw the provosts, ready to welcome him into Shrewsbury. But then he abruptly drew rein. “Lady de Mortimer,” he said, and the people looked at Gwladys with sudden interest, that she should be signaled out for the King’s notice.

“Your Grace, may I present my nephew, Llewelyn ap Gruffydd?”

Prompted by Gwladys, Llelo came forward, knelt in the dusty street. “Ah, the Lady Senena’s son,” Henry said and smiled. Llelo could find nothing to say. He stared mutely at the English King, unable to think, to see anything but that endless column snaking its way across the Shropshire countryside: knights, men-at-arms, supply carts, siege weapons. My God, Mama, he thought. My God, what have you done?

Henry was particular about his accommodations, and those at the castle were not to his liking. He chose, instead, to stay at the Benedictine abbey of St Peter and St Paul, in the Abbot’s private domicile. His household had to be lodged, too, and the abbey was soon filled to capacity. So, too, were the castles and inns, as Shrewsbury sought to absorb the King’s army.

Henry met several times in the days that followed with Senena, the Marcher lords, and the Princes of Powys and Deheubarth. But Senena refused to satisfy Llelo’s curiosity. Once it was settled, she said, she would explain everything to him, and Llelo had to be content with that grudging promise.

He saw no reason, though, why he should not seek to ferret out facts for himself, and he soon discovered that his youth and nationality offered unsurpassed opportunities for spying. He could mingle with Henry’s lords, eavesdropping with impunity, for on the rare occasions when he was challenged, he need only look blank, mumble in Welsh, and he was once more invisible.

He was frustrated, though, by what he heard, for the English lords showed little interest in discussing the captive Welsh Prince or his hostile half-brother. Instead, they passed the hot August days gossiping about Simon de Montfort and the Lady Eleanor of Brittany, cousin to the King.

Llelo knew Simon de Montfort had gone on crusade to the Holy Land. Now he learned that a great honor had been conferred upon him there. He had so distinguished himself that the barons, knights, and citizens of the kingdom of Jerusalem had petitioned the Holy Roman Emperor to have Simon act as Governor of their realm. Llelo’s memories of the Lady Nell had become rather blurred and misty with time, but he still remembered her low laugh, the way she’d turn all heads upon entering a room, and he felt mildly pleased that her husband had won such acclaim.

The news about the Lady Eleanor was altogether different, spoke not of earthly honors, but of man’s mortality, for she had recently died at Bristol Castle, where she’d been confined for decades. Llelo did not understand why a highborn woman, first cousin to the King, should have been a captive, and he’d gone to Gwladys for enlightenment. From her, he learned that the Lady Eleanor and her brother, Arthur, had been John’s only rivals for the English Crown. When they’d fallen into John’s hands, Arthur had vanished into one of John’s castles, never to be seen again, and Eleanor had been sent to England. For thirty-nine years, she had been kept in comfortable confinement, at various royal castles, first by John and then by Henry, until finally freed by death. Llelo was horrified by her sad story, for he could not help envisioning the same fate for his father.

As he wandered about the abbey grounds, alert for any mention of Gruffydd, Llelo learned that Henry’s lords did not hold their King in high esteem. They thought him erratic of purpose, too easily swayed, too indulgent a husband. Llelo soon determined that Henry’s foreign Queen had found little favor with his subjects, that they blamed her, however unfairly, for many of Henry’s shortcomings. Generosity was expected of every great lord, but Henry’s English barons faulted him for that very virtue, resented how lavishly he’d bestowed largesse upon Eleanor’s kindred. He’d managed to have one of her uncles chosen as Archbishop of Canterbury, had conferred the earldom of Richmond upon another uncle. As there were six more uncles to be provided for, it was questionable which would be exhausted first, the patience of Henry’s barons or the royal treasury.

But there was no talk of the forthcoming war. The English treated the Welsh campaign with insulting indifference. They acted as if Davydd’s defeat were a foregone conclusion, as if Henry had only to cross into Wales to bring Davydd to heel. And Llelo made a disconcerting discovery, that he did not want to see a Welsh Prince humbled before an English King—even Davydd, his uncle, his enemy.

At supper in the Abbot’s hall on the third night after Henry’s arrival, the King announced that he had reached an accord with the Lady Senena, and amidst laughter and cheering, men raised their wine cups high, drank to Gruffydd’s freedom, to Davydd’s defeat.

Llelo had hoped his mother would now honor her promise, but no sooner was supper over than she disappeared into her chamber with her brother and Ralph de Mortimer. Llelo restlessly roamed the monastery grounds, seeking to keep boredom at bay. He paid a visit to the stables, then wandered down to the abbey water mill, but the monks were gone, the sluice gate in place. He ended up in the gardens by the abbey pool, lying on his stomach by the water’s edge, listening to the twilight sounds of summer: frogs, crickets, the sharp chack of jackdaw, the cooing of woodpigeons. An occasional splash made him wish he had a fishing pole, but the monks would hardly be happy were he to poach their carp. After a time, he fell asleep in the grass.

He was awakened by voices close at hand. He started to sit up, recognized one of the voices just in time. Cautiously he wriggled toward a blackthorn hedge, found a viewing hole amidst the spiny branches. They were standing in a circle of moonlight: the English King; his Chancellor, John Mansel; Queen Eleanor’s unpopular uncle, the new Earl of Richmond; a fourth man Llelo could not identify.

From their conversation, it appeared the stranger had just arrived at the abbey. Henry called him Richard, called him brother, and that caused Llelo some confusion, for he knew the King’s brother Richard was in the Holy Land, like Simon de Montfort. As they talked, however, the boy was able to sort it out, to realize that this man was Richard Fitz Roy, one of King John’s numerous illegitimate sons. Richard Fitz Roy had occasionally been to the Welsh court, for he’d been close to the Lady Joanna, his sister. Llelo remembered now that he held a barony in Kent; King John had always done well by his bastards. But it appeared to be another futile eavesdropping endeavor, for Henry and Richard Fitz Roy were not discussing the campaign, were talking, instead, of their brother-by-marriage, Simon de Montfort.

Henry was telling Richard that Simon would not be accepting the governorship of Jerusalem, would be returning to England, at which point John Mansel muttered, “More’s the pity.”

The other men laughed, but Henry said mildly, “You must admit, John, that it was an uncommon honor they paid Simon. For certes, he does make an impression upon men, is not one to pass unnoticed.”

“He sees to that,” Mansel said caustically. “There is no one who values Simon’s abilities more than Simon.”

“Well, he has reason for pride,” Henry said, and Llelo, listening, thought he’d never heard a man defended with so little conviction. It grew quiet then. Llelo scratched himself trying to peer through the blackthorn tangle, at last risked a quick glance around the hedge. John Mansel and the Earl of Richmond had withdrawn; Henry and Richard were standing several feet away.

“Well?” Richard asked. “Did you agree to aid Senena?”

“Yes,” Henry said. “She is a remarkable woman, that one.”

“She is a bitch,” Richard said flatly. “She gave our Joanna naught but grief; I’ve not forgotten. So…tell me. What did she promise? Or more to the point, what did you promise?”

Henry chuckled. “She is to pay me six hundred marks. I have promised to free Gruffydd and their son Owain. She agrees that England shall determine what share, if any, Gruffydd should have received of his father’s inheritance. She agrees, on Gruffydd’s behalf, to pay the Crown three hundred marks a year if he is restored to his half of Gwynedd. And as her pledges, she offers no less than three Marcher lords and five Welsh Princes.”

“She could offer the Lord Christ Himself as a pledge and I’d still not believe her. I know Gruffydd, know how he hates the English. Senena could swear in her own blood and it would avail her naught, Henry. You cannot believe he’ll hold to this agreement once he is free?”

“Senena realized I would have my suspicions. She sought to allay them by agreeing to yield up her younger sons as hostages.”

Richard drew an audible breath. “She actually agreed to that? You astonish me, in truth. It is not that many years, after all, since those Welsh hostages were hanged at Nottingham.”

“A deed ill done,” Henry said indignantly, “and one that shamed our father, both as King and as Christian. But are you suggesting I would ever do the same? I would never harm a child, never!”

“Of course you would not. I know that, Henry, for I know you well. But Senena does not. How could she be sure?”

Henry’s anger faded as quickly as it had flared. “I suppose,” he said, “that it is a measure, then, of her desperation, that she did agree. Gruffydd is lucky, indeed, to have so devoted a wife.”

“Henry…ere we go in, there is something I would say to you. I understand why you have agreed to intervene on Gruffydd’s behalf. Once Davydd had Gruffydd securely caged, he balked at honoring the arbitration agreement. Morever, this is a rare chance to regain all we lost to Llewelyn Fawr. A great man, few would deny it. Fortunately for England he was also mortal; a far easier task it is to confront the lion-whelp than the lion. But I do have qualms about this deal you have struck with Senena. I may sound an utter innocent for saying so, but I cannot help remembering that Davydd is Joanna’s son.”

Henry smiled. “There is no shame, Richard, in that. Indeed, I value you all the more for such feelings. You may rest assured that I share your sentiments. Davydd needs to be taught a sharp lesson. But I would not see our sister’s son brought to ruin if it could be avoided, and I think it can.”

They were moving away, their voices growing fainter. Still, Llelo did not move. He’d dropped down upon the ground, lay for a time with his face pressed into the grass. As the men withdrew, a starling whistled shrilly; its mate answered. Soon the garden air was alive again with the sounds of the night. Llelo was deaf to it all, seemed to hear only the wild, erratic beating of his own heart.

The stables, laundry, brew-house, bake-house, and kitchen were ranged together just to the north of the abbey pool and gardens. When Llelo rose, he moved instinctively in that direction. The few people he encountered never even glanced his way; he found it very easy to sneak into the huge, stone chamber where the abbey cooking was done. It was deserted; the monks had long since retired, for they would rise for Matins at 2:00
A.M.
Llelo tripped over a large mortar and pestle, bumped bruisingly into an enormous empty cauldron. He froze in fear, but none heard the noise. Finding a hemp sack upon the chopping block, he began methodically to fill it with food: large cheeses, apples and pears, even a jar of plum jelly. He then moved on to the abbey bake-house, where he took loaf after loaf of freshly baked bread, manchet for Henry and his lords, maslin for the monks. In a last gesture of sudden defiance, he appropriated an entire plateful of angel’s-bread, wafers baked expressly for the English King.

Until now, he’d acted without conscious deliberation, as if watching from a distance as his other self stuffed the sack with pilfered food. But as he gazed across the garth, saw the lights burning in the abbey guest house, his shield cracked, and he began to tremble. He knew, as did all the Welsh, of the hangings at Nottingham Castle. Twenty-eight hostages had died that day, dangling from a makeshift gallows in the middle bailey, died at King John’s command. Only Llewelyn’s sixteen-year-old son had been spared, only Gruffydd.

Llelo knew, too, of the other hanging. Another Welsh hostage, the seven-year-old son of Prince Maelgwn ap Rhys. He’d died that same August, before Shrewsbury’s stone cross, died because the English King had willed it so.

The guest house was filled to capacity, and men were milling about in the great hall, upon the stairs. But none paid heed to youngsters; Llelo passed unnoticed up to the chamber alloted to his mother. The door to her room was still shut, a murmur of voices coming from within. He wasted precious moments staring at that closed door, then moved into the chamber he and his brothers shared with Einion. Neither Einion nor the children’s nurses were within; the room was dark, quiet. Llelo knelt in the moonlight by Davydd’s pallet, looked down at the sleeping child.