Falls the Shadow (24 page)

Gruffydd had thought at first that Dolbadarn or Dolwyddelan would be their new prison. But when they moved into the wide, wooded valley of the River Conwy, he realized that he was to be caged again at Deganwy, Deganwy, which held for him so many ghosts, so many phantom griefs. Davydd had a hunting lodge at Trefriw, but they pressed on, bedded down for the night by the bank of the river. Gruffydd had lain awake for hours, gazing up at a sky aglimmer with pinpoint lights, with as many stars as he had regrets. The deepest regret of all lay asleep beside him, mouth ajar, fair skin mottled by so much sudden exposure to the sun. Gruffydd shifted on his blanket, at once attracting the eyes of those guards keeping a sleepless vigil. Turning awkwardly on his side, for he was bound hand and foot, he gazed for a long time at his sleeping son. Owain would never have come to Cricieth if not for him, would not have forfeited eleven months of his life had he not been so blind, so willfully, unforgivably blind. How could he have so misread his brother?

Before dawn, they were on the road again, reached the Cistercian abbey of Aberconwy by mid-morning. Ahead lay the great rock of Deganwy. But the castle Gruffydd so hated was in ruins. Blackened and scorched timber palisades lay smoldering in the sun; the wooden buildings within the bailey had been burned to the ground. Gulls wheeled overhead, occasionally shrieking, but no other sound intruded upon the eerie, death-like silence that overhung Deganwy. Gruffydd had rarely seen a sight so desolate, or so baffling. Who had destroyed it? And why?

Owain sought for a time to elicit answers from their taciturn guards, in vain. They moved on, once more heading into the sun. By late afternoon, they were within sight of the walls of Rhuddlan Castle. Rhuddlan had a checkered past. There had been a castle at the mouth of the River Clwyd for nigh on two hundred years; it was Welsh or English according to the vicissitudes of war. Owain’s sight was keenest; he saw it first. “Jesú,” he gasped. “Papa, look!” And Gruffydd gazed upward, saw the banner flying from the castle battlements—three golden lions on a bloodred background—the royal arms of England.

The castle bailey was filled with men, but not the men Gruffydd expected to see. The red and white livery of the King was everywhere present. Yet amidst the bearded English faces were mustached Welsh ones, too. No sooner had they ridden through the gatehouse than the Welsh surged forward; within moments, the riders were engulfed. A babble of voices rose up around Gruffydd, an incongruous mesh of three tongues, English, Welsh, and French. Men were shouting his name, making of it an exultant battle cry. He looked about in bewilderment, then saw a familiar figure shoving his way toward them: his young brother-by-marriage. Einion was only of average height, seemed to be struggling against a rising tide, but he finally thrust through the crowd, grabbed at Gruffydd’s boot.

His mouth was moving, but Gruffydd could not catch his words. “What are you doing here, Einion? What has happened?”

“You are free! Senena…she struck a deal with the English King. You are both free, Gruffydd!”

Owain heard enough to let out a jubilant yell. Gruffydd stared down at his brother-in-law. “Free?” he echoed. He sounded stunned. “At what price?”

Einion hesitated, then said, “No higher than need be.” Relieved when Gruffydd’s guards cut their conversation off, he followed them into the hall. Let Senena be the one to tell him. Not me, he thought, no, by God, not me!

The great hall was no less crowded than the castle bailey. Gruffydd’s guards formed a phalanx, bulled their way toward the dais. Gruffydd caught a glimpse of bright gold hair, recognized the English King. He was heartened at sight of the Princes of Powys, standing behind Henry upon the dais; he was not so friendless as he’d first thought. And then he saw his wife. Even as a young girl, Senena had never been a beauty. But there was such joy upon her face that she held the eye of every man in the hall. She was the acknowledged heroine of the hour, and when she started down the dais steps toward her husband, a path at once opened for her.

While she’d proven herself to be a passionate bedmate, she’d never been demonstrative in public. But now she threw her arms around Gruffydd’s neck, and when he lowered his head, she kissed him full on the mouth. She embraced Owain next, and then kissed Gruffydd again. “You are safe, beloved,” she murmured. “Safe at last…” Her laughter was a soaring sound of triumph. “And we have won, Gruffydd, we have won!”

But belief did not come easily to Gruffydd. “Is it true, Senena? You made a deal with the English King?”

“Yes,” she said, “I did. I would have bargained with the Devil himself if that was what it took to free you.”

Gruffydd looked into those luminous grey eyes, at that red mouth, no longer laughing. “The Devil demands souls,” he said tautly. “What does Henry want?”

She would have to tell him, of course. But not now, not here. “That can wait, beloved. First we must cut these bonds.” She saw the protest forming on his lips—he was nothing if not single-minded—and added hastily, “Davydd is here.”

Gruffydd’s eyes narrowed, swept by her, raking the hall. She knew by his indrawn breath when he’d located his brother, and she gave his arm a supportive squeeze. “In time, love,” she said, “all in good time,” and then she turned back toward the English King.

Senena had no more regard for the English than did Gruffydd, but she believed in honoring her debts, and the smile she now gave Henry was unforced, genuinely grateful. “May I borrow your dagger, my liege? Let Gruffydd be freed by your knife—and my hand.”

She stretched out her arm, palm up, but Henry did not unsheathe the dagger. “I regret, Madame,” he said, “that it will not be possible to free your husband—not just yet.”

He’d spoken so quietly that many in the hall had not heard his words. But they had only to look at Senena’s face to know that something was terribly wrong. She was suddenly ashen. “What are you saying? You promised me that Gruffydd would be freed. You gave me your sworn word!”

Henry had the grace to look embarrassed. “I am not saying he will not be freed, Lady Senena, only that his release must be delayed. You did agree, after all, that we were to determine his legal rights under Welsh law. Well, that will take time. But until I can reach a decision, I will personally see to it that your husband and son lack for no comfort, that they—”

The rest of his sentence was lost. As Gruffydd’s supporters realized that they had been duped, they began to voice their shock, loudly and indignantly. Of all the Welshmen in the hall, Gruffydd alone was not surprised. “Where?” he demanded, his voice cutting sharply across the rising murmurs of protest. “Where do you mean to hold me?”

There was so much raw emotion in that question that Henry winced. “London,” he mumbled, temporizing in vain, for there was not a man there who did not know what he truly meant—the Tower.

“No!” The scream was Senena’s and it acted as a catalyst, unleashed pandemonium in the hall. The echoes of her scream were still reverberating as Gruffydd lunged at the nearest of his guards, made a desperate grab for the man’s dagger. But they’d been anticipating just such a move, and he was swiftly subdued. Owain, too, was struggling now, but to no avail. Some of Henry’s men had unobtrusively augmented Davydd’s force, and they made haste to defuse a dangerous situation, began to drag their prisoners toward the door behind the dais.

The Welsh were in an uproar. Both Princes of Powys were remonstrating angrily with Henry. Others were taking out their frustration and fury upon the closest targets, and English-Welsh quarrels were breaking out across the hall. Several men had hands on sword hilts, but the Welsh were hopelessly outnumbered. It was that sense of their own helplessness that gave such an edge to their rage. A few tried halfheartedly to intervene upon Gruffydd’s behalf, were shoved back by his guards.

Gruffydd had cut his hand upon the guard’s dagger, and the sight of his blood had so demoralized Senena that she’d stood frozen, watching in horrified disbelief. But then the guards reached the door, thrust their prisoners through, and again she cried out, darted forward to follow. One of the men pushed her aside. She staggered backward, fell to her knees, to the utter outrage of those close enough to see. Henry leaped to his feet, hastened down the steps of the dais.

“How dare you?” he raged. “I’ll not have any man maltreat a lady in my presence, not ever!” But when he sought to help Senena up, she gave him a look of such hatred that he recoiled. Stepping back, he said curtly, “She has my permission to accompany her husband. Is that understood?”

Senena’s mouth contorted. Getting slowly to her feet, she looked at Henry, then spat upon the floor. Only then did she turn, follow after her husband and son.

Amidst all the turmoil, the two men standing against the far wall seemed somehow out of place, for they alone had remained calm, detached eye-witnesses to disaster. After a time, they attracted the attention of Gruffydd Maelor, Prince of Upper Powys. He pushed his way toward them, his eyes flicking accusingly from Davydd to Ednyved, back to Davydd again.

“So you won, after all,” he said bitterly.

Davydd looked at him, saying nothing; he’d never realized that silence could be such an effective weapon. But when Davydd did speak, it was with such blistering contempt that the Prince of Powys could never forget it, nor ever forgive.

“I’ve won, you say? When the English can now use Gruffydd as a sword at my throat, a threat to extort whatever they damned well please? They know I dare not balk at their demands, for they need only release Gruffydd to start another bloody civil war, to tear Wales asunder again. There was but one winner here at Rhuddlan, the King of England, and if you cannot see that, you deserve what is like to befall you. Unfortunately, your people do not, although they will be the ones to suffer for your stupidity. Till the day he died, my father fought to hold the English at bay. And he did, he kept them from overrunning Gwynedd and yes, your Powys, too, as they had Deheubarth. If not for him, much of Powys would be an English shire by now. Yet his dream did survive him by just sixteen scant months. His life’s work is in ruins about us, and I must bear my share of the blame for that. But if I have reason to rue this day, so do you, Gruffydd Maelor. You are going to learn a very hard lesson about English power and Welsh consequences.”

The guest house of the Augustinian nunnery lay to the north of the priory church. Elen’s maid was standing in the sun before their chamber; she smiled at sight of her lady, and they entered together. Aveline was making idle conversation about the delightfully warm September weather, but almost at once Elen signaled for silence. Surprised, Aveline complied, a little hurt until she saw Elen’s husband asleep on the bed.

Rob had removed only his shoes and sword. He looked utterly at peace, and in repose, very youthful for a man in his mid-forties. Aveline smiled, thinking that if he were her man, it would have been fun to fluff his pillow, to tiptoe about the chamber whilst he slept. Elen, too, was smiling down at Rob, but with none of Aveline’s maternal solicitude. She was dressed in the Welsh style, wore a veil but no wimple. Reaching up, she unpinned the veil, let it flutter to the floor. “Help me,” she whispered, beginning to unbraid her hair.

Although she obeyed without question, Aveline was shocked; lovemaking in the middle of the day seemed somehow sinful to her. Almost as if reading her thoughts, Elen laughed, gestured for Aveline to unlace her gown. These past six months had been a revelation to the younger woman. Marriage was an immutable fact of life, every woman’s fate, but until joining Elen’s household, Aveline had not known that a marriage could be like Elen’s, that a wife need not be beaten, that a man and woman could take genuine joy in each other.

Elen dropped her dress into the floor rushes, slid into bed. When Aveline started to draw the bed hangings, she shook her head. “It will be too hot,” she said softly, and Aveline blushed, moved rapidly toward the door.

Rob had yet to stir, but as Elen moved closer, breathing into his ear, molding her body to his, he sighed, buried his face against her breasts. “Rosamund,” he mumbled, and Elen nipped his ear lobe between sharp, white teeth. He laughed, rolled over on top of her. But almost at once, he jerked back, nearly falling off the bed, so abrupt was his recoil.

“Jesú, Elen, for a moment I did forget! Are you all right, love?”

“Aside from being squashed as flat as a water reed? I—Rob, I was but teasing! You must not treat me as if I am a frail flower, else I’ll start to take shameless advantage of my condition. Unless, of course, you would like to wait upon me hand and foot for the next six months?”

He grinned, lay down beside her. “The next time I get the urge to pamper you, I’ll fight it,” he promised, and Elen rolled over into his arms, gave him a lingering kiss that was no less of a promise.

“I know you’ve been impatient to get back to Essex, Rob, but it meant much to me, spending these weeks here. White Ladies holds special memories for me.”

“You were here as a little lass, were you not?”

She nodded. “During a troubled time in my parents’ marriage. John had just hanged the Welsh hostages, and my mother was seeking to come to terms with it. I was but five, yet my memories are still as sharply edged as your best sword. I remember my mother’s despair, my homesickness, remember the day my father came for us. Their marriage could have broken apart on those rocks, but they somehow managed to salvage it. They reconciled in this very chamber, probably in this very bed!” She grinned, slipped her hand into Rob’s shirt. “In later years, my mother always spoke of White Ladies with fondness, and when her eyes would meet Papa’s, they’d share a very private moment. I thought if I were to come back, that I’d feel close to them both, that it would be almost like telling them…”

Rob reached over, laid his hand upon her abdomen. “Your belly feels as flat as your aforesaid water reed. Elen, you are sure…?”

She understood his doubt; her smile was tender. “My flux first came at twelve, Rob, and in the years since, I’ve been as reliable as the lunar tides. Not once have I ever missed a flux, and now I’ve missed three. And then there is my morning queasiness. Not to mention the wonderful way my bosom has been swelling of late. I never did think I’d gotten my fair share, but better late than never!” She laughed, then slid her chemise down her shoulder, slowly baring one breast. “Lastly, see how the circle round the nipple has darkened?”

“No,” he said, “I think I need a closer look,” and Elen’s chemise soon joined her gown in the floor rushes. Rob sat up to free himself of his tunic. Elen then took his hand, placed it again on her belly. He leaned over, kissed the soft skin below her navel. “Is it too early,” he asked, “to talk of names?”

“Would we be tempting fate?” She shook her head, so vehemently that cascading black hair swirled upon the pillow. “No. It would be an act of faith, love. As soon as I began to suspect, I began, too, to think of names. If it is a boy, I want to call him Robert,” she said, saw by his smile how much she had pleased him.

“And if it is a girl?” he prompted. “Joanna, I expect.”

To his surprise, she shook her head. “After I awake each morn, Robyn, there is a moment when memory comes flooding back, when I think to myself: It is no dream; I truly am with child. And the wonder does strike me anew, as if for the first time. Who could blame me for doubting? As John’s wife, I was barren for nigh on fifteen years. And it has been four years since we wed. I’d long ago given up all hope. That I should conceive at last, in my thirty-fourth year…it seems nothing less than miraculous to me, beloved. What can it mean but that the Almighty has forgiven our adultery? I think, therefore, that if I have a daughter, we ought to name her Anne, after the mother of Our Lady.”

“Anne or Robyn it shall be then,” Rob agreed. “And for the next one…”

But to Elen, that
was
tempting fate. She hastily put her fingers to his mouth. “One babe at a time,” she murmured, and kissed him.

They’d gotten rid of his shirt, were fumbling with the cords fastening his braies to his chausses when they heard the door open. Rob swore, raised up to jerk the bed hangings into place. At sight of his squire, he scowled. “For your sake, Gervaise, you’d best be here to warn me the priory is afire.”

Gervaise shifted his feet. Rob was such an easy master to serve, so rarely riled that his household had little practice in dealing with his tempers. “I am indeed sorry, my lord, but I thought you should know that there is a youth out in the garth, demanding to see you at once. An impudent rascal he is, and I’d have sent him on his way with a few bruises to nurse had he not claimed to be your lady’s nephew. I do not believe him, in truth; as bedraggled and filthy as he is, he looks more like beggar than prince. Still, I thought it best to—”

“Llelo?” Elen’s head poked through the bed hangings. Unable to reach her gown, she snatched up the chemise, instead, and a moment later tumbled out of bed. Brushing past Gervaise, she ran out into the garth, Rob following much more slowly. The men reached the door just in time to see Elen embrace a very scruffy-looking youngster, utterly heedless of her astonished, scandalized audience.

Equally unfazed, Rob leaned back against the door and grinned at his squire. “I think, Gervaise,” he said, “that we can safely assume the lad spoke true.”

“I once owned a mastiff who could bolt down a shank of beef at each meal and still look for more. I must say, though, Llelo, that he could not hold a candle to you!” No sooner were the words out of his mouth than Rob regretted them, for he did not know Llelo well enough to risk teasing him. For certes, the lad’s father had never been noted for his sense of humor! But Llelo glanced over his shoulder, gave him a quick grin between bites.

“Pay him no heed, Llelo. You can eat a whole cow if you’ve a mind to!” Elen had deferred to propriety to the extent of putting on her shoes and gown, but she had not bothered to braid her hair, and as she leaned over to ladle more venison frumenty onto Llelo’s trencher, she looked far more like a young hoyden than the lady of the manor, so disheveled and yet so desirable that Rob found himself sorely lamenting Llelo’s sense of timing.

This was Llelo’s second meal in as many hours. He’d eaten a full plate of roast beef, an entire loaf of bread, and a fat carp from the priory fish-pond. After a desperately needed hot bath, he was now devoting all his attention to a generous helping of venison stew. Vowing she meant to burn his clothes, Elen had given him one of Rob’s tunics to wear; it was too big, of course, but did not dwarf him as much as she’d expected.

To Elen’s surprise, Llelo was now taller than she, endearingly awkward, as if he’d not yet grown into this new body of his; the long legs he’d entangled under his chair were as cumbersome as any colt’s, but his shoulders had begun to broaden, and when she sought to wipe dirt from his upper lip, she discovered that the smudge was the first faint shadow of a mustache.

Not having seen Llelo in the seventeen months since her father’s funeral, Elen had missed the day-by-day changes, and she felt cheated somehow. Do not grow up so very fast, lad, she wanted to say. She did not, of course; instead, she watched Llelo gulp down a goblet of strong cider. In just seven short months, he would be fourteen. Too young, she thought, too young to take on the burdens of manhood, and she hoped suddenly that the child she carried within her would be a girl.

Llelo put down an apple-filled wafer, half-eaten. “I cannot eat as much as I thought I could. You knew, then, that I was missing?”

“Of course we did. Your mother had men out scouring the entire countryside for you, lad.” And it seemed inutterably sad to Elen that the boy should look so obviously surprised.

“That did not occur to me,” he admitted. “But I did fear the King’s men might be in pursuit, that they might even send lymer hounds after me. So I waded in Meole Brook to throw them off the scent, and at first, I traveled only at night, stayed hidden during the day.”

“Hidden, indeed! It was as if you’d vanished into blue smoke. Where have you been all these weeks, Llelo? How did you fend for yourself? What did you eat?”

“Whatever I could find,” he said, and grimaced. “After my food ran out, I foraged where I could. I found blackberries and elderberries in the woods. I caught a few fish and frogs. One time I came upon an orchard, though the apples were so green I got a right sharp belly ache! I roasted chestnuts, once even snared a rabbit, and whenever I could find them, I plundered English gardens. Of course I had to watch out for dogs, and—”

“But how?” Ellen was astonished by the matter-of-fact tone of his voice. “How could you make fires? Or catch fish? Or hunt? How could you manage without proper weapons?”

Llelo looked quizzically amused. “I had my knife,” he pointed out patiently. “What more did I need? I made fish hooks from thorns, and fishing lines from vines; what could be easier? A rabbit snare is simple to make; you need only watch for tracks, then set the loop along the trail. As for making a fire without flint, I’ve known how to do that since I was eight years old. You find a hard stone like agate or quartz, hit your knife against it till you strike sparks. With shredded birchbark for tinder, it flames up right quick. Were you never taught such tricks, Aunt Elen?” he asked, in some surprise, and she slowly shook her head.

“The different worlds in which men and women live,” she marveled. “But I suspect it could not have been as simple as you make it sound, lad. And I should like to know where you’ve been all this time. White Ladies is no more than twenty-five miles from Shrewsbury, if even that. It should not have taken you a full month to get here.”

“I got lost,” Llelo confessed. “Aunt Gwladys said it was to the north, so I headed north. But she was wrong, Aunt Elen. White Ladies is east of Shrewsbury, not north! I’m just lucky I did not end up in Scotland.”

Elen laughed, then reached across the table, took his hand. “Tell me,” she said, “the good and the bad. Were you never scared, Llelo?”

Llelo hesitated only briefly. “All the time,” he said softly. “I was scared that the King’s men might find me. I was scared that I’d not find you, that I’d not get to White Ladies in time, that you’d be gone and I’d have nowhere else to go.” He slumped back in his chair, the role-playing forgotten, no longer the hero of his own adventure saga, just a thirteen-year-old boy out of his depth.

“Being hungry was not so bad,” he said. “I got used to it. The worst was the loneliness. Once I was well away from Shrewsbury, I thought I could risk asking people how to get to the priory. But I could find no one who understood French.”

It had been fun to swagger a bit, to gild his exploits with what he fancied to be adult bravado. But it could not compare to the utter relief of speaking the truth. “Do you know what my greatest problem was, Aunt Elen? Lack of water, for the drought has dried up so many of the brooks and ponds. Sometimes I even had to put pebbles in my mouth. And one day I could not find any streams, any ponds at all. Finally I came upon a hamlet, just a few houses and a church. I waited till dark, but the village dogs were loose, and I could not risk approaching their wells. At last I went into the church.”

He looked down into his goblet, back up at Elen. “I suppose it was a sin to steal from gardens, but I thought God would understand. I am not sure, though, that he would understand what I did in the church, Aunt Elen. I drank from the font, drank holy water.”