Falls the Shadow (31 page)

Ednyved was expected at any time, and the table was laden with freshly baked wafers, fragrant fruit tarts. Davydd helped himself to one, leaned over to study the map covering one end of the table. Isabella stopped stroking the fox cub, watched her husband, instead. “Davydd, how long ere you go to war?”

“I expect we’ll be in the field within a fortnight.” He looked up. “Does it bother you, Isabella, that I shall be making war upon the English?”

“No,” she said slowly. It was not that she did not want him to fight the English. She did not want him to fight anyone. But that was not a confession she could ever make. War was an inevitable aspect of life; she might as well rail at the coming of winter. Men fought, and women waited. “I know naught of politics, Davydd,” she said. “If you say this war must be, I accept that. It is not for a wife to meddle in those matters best left to men.”

Davydd laughed. “I was just remembering,” he said, “the flaming fights my parents had about ‘those matters best left to men.’ I’ve known few women who were not eager to ‘meddle.’ My mother, for one. My sister Elen, for another. Senena—for certes! My sister Gwladys. Nell de Montfort. Even Henry’s Queen. I suspect that a truly docile woman would be as hard to find as Diogenes’s honest man!”

Isabella knew he was teasing her, but she felt a faint unease, nevertheless, for she could not keep from wondering if he’d have preferred a woman less dutiful, more spirited. Almost as if he’d read her mind, he crossed the chamber, drew her into his arms, kissed away her qualms. She wrapped her arms around his neck, thinking that it was a dreadful thing to find pleasure in a man’s death, for certes a sin. But she could not help it. Davydd was happier this spring than he’d been in the four years since his father’s death, and she rejoiced in it…even if it meant that she valued Davydd’s happiness higher than Gruffydd’s life.

Ednyved was to have arrived at noon, but he was now past seventy, afflicted with the “joint evil,” and it was well into the afternoon before he and his son Goronwy reached Dolwyddelan. They brought Davydd welcome news. Bitter over his expulsion from Kidwelly Castle, Prince Maredudd ap Rhys Gryg of Deheubarth was now willing to throw his lot in with Davydd.

“That means,” Davydd said, “that Gruffydd ap Gwenwynwyn and Gruffydd Maelor will stand alone. Even their kinfolk are with us. I had a message two days past from Gruffydd Maelor’s younger brother, Madog Fychan. When we take the field against the English, he’ll be there.”

“The Welsh are slow to learn, our country’s curse.” Ednyved propped a cushion behind his aching back. “But even the greatest fools are coming to understand that we hang together or one by one. They’ve seen what the English Crown has done in these three years past, the castles erected, the forests cleared, the roots put down in Welsh soil. I’ve spent my entire life striving to keep them out of Gwynedd, as did your father, Davydd, but the fight never ends…”

Davydd signaled for a servant to give Ednyved a revitalizing drink of mead. “I think the tide turned for us when Henry appointed those justices to hear Marcher and Welsh pleas. Jesú, it was so brazen! Offering the royal courts as an alternative to the courts of the Welsh Princes, the Marcher lords—Henry might as well have signed a confession of conquest.”

Goronwy tossed a tidbit to one of Davydd’s dogs. “Have you had any word, Davydd, about Senena? We know how enraged Henry was. Did he punish Senena for her part in that botched escape attempt?”

“I daresay he found much to say to the Constable of the Tower, those hapless guards. But Henry has never been one to turn his wrath upon a woman. Senena was not held accountable.”

“Is she still in London?”

Davydd shrugged. “As far as I know; her sons are there. Not surprisingly, she took Gruffydd’s death very hard. I was told she fainted at sight of his body.”

“Little wonder. When a man falls from a height like that…” Goronwy had heard some grisly stories about Gruffydd’s death, and he would have liked to ask Davydd if it was true that Gruffydd had been nearly decapitated in the fall. But Isabella was sitting within earshot, and he knew that was not a topic Davydd would wish to discuss in front of his sensitive wife. Curbing his curiosity, he said, instead, “What of Owain?”

“He did feel the brunt of Henry’s anger, is being held in close confinement.”

Ednyved had been watching Davydd. Leaning forward, he said, “The Abbot of Aberconwy means to petition the King to have Gruffydd’s body interred next to Llewelyn’s, in the abbey church. Henry has so far refused, but he might relent once his anger cools. What of you, Davydd? Would you object?”

Davydd set his wine cup down. Isabella, too, was waiting for his answer. “No,” he said, “I would not object. Gruffydd should be buried in Welsh soil.”

There was a moment’s silence. To Davydd’s relief, he saw that they understood, neither read too little nor too much into his answer. Reaching for the map, he used his dagger to pinpoint his target. “I think we should move first against Henry’s new castle at Disserth.”

“We ought to make a few raids into Powys, too,” Goronwy suggested. “Let Gruffydd ap Gwenwynwyn learn what it’ll cost him to be an ally of the English King.” Crossing to the window, he opened the shutter, curious as to the sudden clamor. “Damn me if it’s not Llelo!” Turning toward Davydd, he said, “Did you not hear me, Davydd? Does that not surprise you any?”

Davydd shook his head. “I’ve been expecting him.”

Ednyved smiled at that, but Goronwy looked skeptical. “Davydd, the lad’s been in rebellion against you for the past two years! Granted, he’s not done much damage, but he did closely ally himself with Ralph de Mortimer, Senena’s brothers, the Bishop of Bangor, men who love you not. Every discontented knave along the Marches found his way to Llelo’s manor at Maesmynan, almost as if it were a court in exile. And yet you say you expected him to come to you?”

“Yes,” Davydd said, “I did. In your own words, his rebellion did little damage. Why not? Because his heart was never in it.”

“My lord!” The guard was one of Davydd’s household teulu; he looked no less startled than Goronwy. “Your nephew, Llewelyn ap Gruffydd, has just ridden in, and alone, by God! Will you see him, and if so, shall we disarm him first?”

“Yes to your first question, no to your second.” Davydd got to his feet. Ednyved rose, too, limped to his side.

“No son of Gruffydd’s would ever lack for courage,” he said. “But Senena will never forgive him for this.”

“No,” Davydd agreed, “probably not. But I expect he knows that.”

Llewelyn’s appearance was a surprise to them both. The unhappy, gangling boy Davydd had last seen in the Tower bailey was a tall, wary youth well on the way to manhood. But to Ednyved, it was as if time’s boundaries had blurred, giving him a brief, precious glimpse of a beloved ghost lost in memory these fifty years past. “My God, lad,” he said, “if you’re not the very image of Llewelyn at sixteen!”

Llewelyn gave him one swift, guarded glance, and the illusion faded. The coloring was there, and the stance, the body language. But the boy was more tightly coiled than the man had ever been, far more defensive, and—as young as he was—more deeply scarred. Ednyved smiled sadly, suddenly feeling very old and very tired. Deferring to Davydd, he stepped back, sank down in the window-seat.

Llewelyn slowly unsheathed his sword, just as slowly walked forward. Silently he held out the sword, knelt before his uncle. “I would make my peace with you. Punish me as you will.”

He made it sound more like a challenge than a submission, but Davydd understood the raw pride of sixteen. He reached for the sword, then reversed it, handed it back to the boy.

Llewelyn rose, looking not so much relieved as suspicious. “You pardon me? Just like that? Why?”

“Why did you rebel against me?”

Llewelyn frowned, said nothing.

“Because your father asked it of you. Am I right?”

“Yes.” A grudging answer, but honest.

“And why do you want to make peace with me?”

This time there was no hesitation. “Because,” Llewelyn said, “England is the enemy,” and the faintest of smiles touched his uncle’s mouth.

“Do I still need to explain why I pardoned you?”

Llewelyn shook his head. But it had been too easy, and it was with a trace of defiance that he said, “I admit I was in the wrong. Say of me what you will. But I’ll let no man speak ill of my lord father, not now, not ever!”

“Fair enough,” Davydd said quietly, and Llewelyn was at last able to draw an unconstricted breath. Ednyved was looking at him with heartening good will, and he could now offer a smile of his own.

“Tell the lad what you’ve done, Davydd. Show him the Pope’s letter.”

“The Pope?” Llewelyn sounded so bewildered that the men laughed. Isabella rose, brought Davydd an ivory casket. Davydd easily found the letter he sought, but he was not sure if Llewelyn’s Latin was adequate for the task, and rather than embarrass the boy, he said,

“It is simple, in truth. We need allies, and who better than the Pope? When I was fourteen, my father was able to secure papal recognition of my claims to the principality of Gwynedd. I reminded His Holiness of that, arguing that I had in effect been made a ward of the Church, and offering to hold Gwynedd as the Pope’s vassal.”

Davydd had said his plan was simple, but Llewelyn was dazzled by its daring. “And the Pope has agreed to this?”

“Well, he did accept the five hundred marks I tendered as my first payment.” Davydd no longer feigned nonchalance, acknowledged the extent of his triumph with a sudden grin. “When King John turned England over to the Church, he reaped some remarkable benefits, for the Pope at once forbade the French to invade England. It is too much to hope that Innocent might lay such a stricture upon Henry. But in the Pope’s letter, he did say, Llelo, that he was planning to appoint the Abbots of Aberconwy and Cymmer as inquisitors, to have them investigate my claims against Henry. And that is a beginning.”

There was no warmth in the look Llewelyn now gave Davydd, but there was no small measure of respect. “No one calls me Llelo anymore,” he said, without belligerence. Davydd nodded agreeably, and when Llewelyn asked, passed him the Pope’s letter. Llewelyn read rapidly; he was fluent in French, Welsh, and Latin, had begun to learn English. The letter confirmed all that Davydd had said, opened up resplendent vistas for Wales, offered hope. And although he knew that his father would not have understood, could not have forgiven, for the first time since Gruffydd’s death Llewelyn felt at peace.

For a time it had seemed as if Davydd’s bold gamble would succeed. The Pope appointed the Abbots of Aberconwy and Cymmer to investigate Davydd’s grievance against the English King, and Henry was summoned to defend himself in the Welsh village of Caerwys. Outraged, Henry sent his agents to Rome. Embroiled in a bitter feud with Frederick, the Holy Roman Emperor, the Pope was now seeking to have Frederick formally deposed, and he welcomed the news that the English clergy would vote his way at the upcoming Council of Lyons. He then reassessed Davydd’s claim, and withdrew the papal protection from the Welsh Prince.

It was on a cool afternoon in late September that Simon returned to the King’s encampment on the banks of the River Conwy. England and Wales had been at war for more than a year, but Henry had not bestirred himself until August; a month ago, he had led an army into Gwynedd, where he set about rebuilding at Deganwy the castle razed by Davydd four years earlier. As Simon dismounted in the bailey, he saw that some progress had been made; the great hall had been roofed. But the castle still had a raw, unfinished appearance, looked to be what it was, an alien outpost in an enemy land.

Dispatching his squires to unsaddle their horses, Simon mounted the steps into the great hall. His friends were seated at a wooden trestle table—Will, Peter de Montfort, and Humphrey de Bohun, son and heir of the Earl of Hereford. Stopping a servant, Simon ordered wine, then crossed the hall.

Will was the first to see him. “No! You truly were crazed enough to come back?”

“I gave Henry my word that I would,” Simon said, and sat down. “What has happened whilst I was gone?”

They all grimaced. Will was, of course, the one to give voice to their discontent. “Just the usual pleasures of a Welsh campaign. We’re running out of provisions again. It’s gotten so bad that a soldier with a farthing loaf can sell it for fivepence. So we get to dine on stale bread and hard cheese. And we get to fight off Welsh attacks at any hour of the day…or night, since the Welsh know nothing of the rules of warfare, make raids when all men of common sense are abed. Then we get to chase them into the woods, where they can ambush us. What do the Welsh call this accursed land of theirs—Cymru? Had they only asked me, I’d have suggested Purgatory.”

“Welsh wars are always ugly,” Humphrey de Bohun said trenchantly, “if only because there’s so little profit in them. But this one is bloodier than most. We hanged some Welsh hostages and now they take no prisoners. Just as Will said, our supplies are nigh on gone, and our men’s spirits are scraping the bottom of the barrel, too. Most would head for home tomorrow if they had a say in it. As for me, I’m beginning to envy Rob de Quincy his back ailment!”

They all laughed at that, all but Simon. Few believed Rob’s excuse for not joining the campaign; his injury was too convenient to be credible. But few begrudged his reprieve, or blamed him for being loath to fight his wife’s brother, for Rob was generally well liked, not being ambitious enough to make lasting enemies. Simon was very protective of his friends, however, and he said, somewhat defensively, “Rob had good reason for wanting to stay close to home. His wife’s birthing was a hard one; he almost lost her.”

This was news to them all, and a matter of mild concern to Will, for Elen was his cousin. “I knew she was with child again, but not that her time was nigh. Was she able to give Rob a lad this time?”

Simon shook his head regretfully. “Another lass.”

There was a moment of sympathetic silence, broken by Humphrey. “Well, Rob’s a younger son, with no title to pass on. Mayhap a son is not so needful for him.”

It was an ill-chosen remark, for Will had never been formally invested with the earldom of Salisbury, and the legal tangles surrounding his title were such that it was at least likely that his son would never inherit it. He scowled, not so much at Humphrey as at the lunatic complexities of the law, and Peter de Montfort, ever the peacemaker, said swiftly, “What of your lady, Simon? When is her babe due?”

“November, around Martinmas.”

Will grinned; it never took much to restore his good humor. “Another lad, I’ll wager. Are you going to name him after me?”

Simon’s mouth twitched. “I might name a hunting dog after you, Will, but for certes not an innocent babe. Nell and I have decided upon Joanna for a lass, and Amaury for a lad, after my brother.” He looked about in vain for a wine-bearing servant. “That means,” he concluded, only half in jest, “that we have just six weeks to win this war. I got back from Rome in time for Harry’s birth, I delayed sailing for Acre until Nell was brought to bed of our son Bran, and Guy, of course, was born whilst we were at Bordeaux. I promised Nell I’d be there for this one, too.”

“I’ll tell Henry of your need,” Will said dryly. “But who’ll tell Davydd?”

Davydd and Humphrey de Bohun were brothers by marriage—his wife was Isabella’s younger sister—but at mention of the Welsh Prince’s name, he looked as if he’d tasted something sour, for the de Bohuns were Marcher lords, their fortunes rooted deep in the disputed soil of Wales. “Did you know,” he said indignantly, “that the whoreson is daring to call himself Prince of Wales?”

Simon merely shrugged. “If ambition be a sin, we can all expect to burn. Davydd may call himself the King of Jerusalem for all I care. My concern is to make the best of this botched campaign, to gain what concessions we can, and to get back to Kenilworth by Martinmas.”

“Best of luck to you, lad. I’ve long since reached the sorry conclusion that wars with the Welsh are unwinnable.”

“Not so, Will.” Simon leaned forward, no longer indifferent. “The Welsh could be defeated by the right man, the right strategy. But an English king bent on conquest would have to be willing to spend vast sums of money, to spill a veritable ocean of blood. First he ought to put a total embargo on those goods the Welsh get from England, blockade the Welsh coast. Then he should strike at Wales in a triple thrust, from our bases at Chester, Montgomery, and Carmarthen, a three-pronged attack from the east, south, and west. And as he advances toward the heart of Gwynedd, he must build castles to hold what he’s won. At the same time, he ought to take advantage of the great weakness of the Welsh—their quarrelsome, jealous nature—and stir up dissension amidst the other Welsh princes. Lastly, he should fight the Welsh on their own terms, make lightning raids and retreats, use lightly armed troops just as they do. I’d also train our men in the use of the Welsh longbow; it can fire half a dozen arrows in the time it takes one crossbowman to take aim.”

Simon paused for breath, pleased by how attentive his audience had become; even Will looked impressed. Having just coolly laid out a plan for the annihilation of Wales, he now confessed, “But to be honest, I hope it never comes to that, for I would rather befriend the Welsh than destroy them.”

Humphrey gasped, his outrage at such heresy so obvious that Simon laughed. “I know,” he conceded. “I might feel differently had I lands in Wales; I admit as much. But the fact is that neither Nell nor I have holdings in the Marches, just a manor or two in Worcestershire, and so I can afford to be objective. I have no grievances with the Welsh. I admire their grit, their pluck, their mad gallantry. Nor can I fault them for wanting to curb Henry’s influence in Wales. I would that there was a way to curb his influence in England!”

Will burst out laughing, but Humphrey and Peter were not amused. Peter winced visibly. “Jesú, Simon! If anything ought to be curbed, it is that reckless tongue of yours.”

Simon shrugged again. “A man should be able to speak his mind with his friends, Peter.”

Will gave a hoot. “Then you must count all the souls in Christendom as your friends, Simon, for you speak freely to every man, be he carpenter or cardinal…or king.”

Simon was unrepentant. “I’m not good at dissembling,” he said, in so sweeping an understatement that Will laughed again. The servant had finally arrived with wine. Simon’s throat was parched, for he’d been in the saddle for most of the day, and he took a deep swallow, gagged, and spat the wine into the floor rushes. “What was that swill?” he gasped.

Will laughed till he choked. “Henry’s butler swears it is white wine, but we suspect it could be anything from verjuice to goat’s piss. A land of milk and honey, this Wales!”

“Well, I’d best find Henry, let him know I’m here—” Simon paused, frowning, for he had acute hearing. “Someone is shouting,” he said, just as two men burst into the hall. Simon knew them both, John de Grey, Constable of Deganwy, and Sir Alan Buscell, one of the knights in Richard of Cornwall’s household. He and Will were the men of highest rank in the hall and the newcomers headed their way.

“One of our Irish supply ships…” Buscell was badly winded, almost incoherent, and so it was de Grey who gave them the unhappy news.

“That fool pilot,” he panted. “He ran the ship aground as he tried to enter the estuary—on the Welsh side of the river!”

Simon and Will exchanged grim looks. “We’d best make haste, Simon. The Welsh will swarm over that ship like bees out of a hive, pluck it cleaner than a Michaelmas goose!”

Will often mixed metaphors, although rarely with such abandon, but Simon had no time now to savor his friend’s eccentricities of speech. “Tell the King and Earl Richard,” he instructed de Grey, then glanced back at Will. “I have not even unpacked yet,” he said wearily.

Hastening down to the estuary, Simon and Will saw that de Grey and Buscell had not exaggerated the ship’s plight. The Welsh had been keeping Deganwy under constant surveillance, and they were not slow to take advantage of this gift from the sea. They were further favored by the timing of the accident, for it was low tide, thus enabling them to approach the ship from the landward side. Some had already succeeded in boarding the crippled vessel, were scuffling with the ship’s crew. The English had begun launching small boats out into the estuary. Simon and Will joined the rush, scrambled into a rapidly filling flatboat. Soon more than three hundred men were crammed into all available boats, a motley mix of Norman-French knights, Gascon crossbowmen, Welsh mercenaries, English foot-soldiers, a rescue force that far outnumbered the Welsh attackers.

The Welsh at once broke off their assault, were in flight by the time the first boats reached the shore. Several boats headed toward the disabled ship, the others for the beach. But as men splashed into the shallows, they reeled backward under a hail of arrows. A lethal weapon, the longbow; it now confirmed all of Simon’s suspicions as to its superiority over the English crossbow. Faster than the eye could follow, arrows fanned the air, found targets of flesh and bone; men screamed, began to die.

Yet the aerial onslaught was a holding action, no more than that. The Welsh bowmen knew they could slow down but not stop the enemy advance, and they soon abandoned the attack, retreated toward the surrounding woods. After some confusion, the English survivors set out in wrathful pursuit.

Ahead lay the Cistercian abbey of Aberconwy, and some of the fleeing Welsh disappeared into the monastery grounds, but most vanished into the woods. Following at as fast a pace as the weight of their armor would allow, the English soon found themselves alone in an unfamiliar forest, dark and silent.

It was the silence that was so disquieting to Simon, for he knew that it was deceptive, that all around them were wary, watching eyes. The autumn trees of oak and birch, the thickets of aspen and hedges of hawthorn provided an impenetrable shield for the denizens of these deeply shadowed, dangerous woods: stoats, weasels, foxes, deer, rabbits brought over by the Normans for their sport, deadly and unpredictable wild boar, wolves that no longer roamed English hills—and waiting Welsh bowmen?

Their great helms might deflect a lance, but they limited vision, too. Simon was acutely aware that he could be leading his men into a lethal trap. He estimated that they’d covered about two leagues in this mad plunge of theirs, which put them two leagues too far into the enemy’s terrain. Raising his hands, he signaled for a halt. The quiet was absolute, eerie; even the woodpigeons were stilled.

“I’ve learned to trust my sixth sense,” he said softly to Will, “and it is telling me that we’re doing just what the Welsh want us to do. I think we’d best get back to the ship.”

Will needed no convincing. “Right gladly. A soothsayer once promised me that I’d die in the Holy Land, and I’m damned if I’m willing to settle for Wales.”

Their men were no more eager than Will to chase after ghosts, and welcomed Simon’s command with obvious relief. They had less than an hour till sunset, and they retraced their steps with nervous haste, casting back over their shoulders the uneasy glances of hunters who might now be the hunted. The ground was scattered with acorns, broken branches, dried leaves; the forest seemed to echo with the sounds of their retreat, floating on the wind toward unfriendly ears. So intent were they upon possible pursuit or ambush that they did not at once smell the smoke, catch sight of the black clouds that spiraled up through the trees ahead.

It was Simon’s squire Miles, with the sharp eyes of youth, who was the first to notice the smudged sky. “My lord, fire!”