Falls the Shadow (34 page)

Much to Llewelyn’s surprise, Tegwared never even glanced toward the girl in the bed. He sank down upon the nearest coffer, struggling for breath. “Lord Ednyved…he bade me fetch you straightaway to Aber. Jesú, Llewelyn, something dreadful has happened!”

“What? Tell me!”

“It is our uncle Davydd. He has been taken ill.” Tegwared’s shoulders slumped; the face he turned up to Llewelyn’s was freckled and dirt-smeared and frightened. “Llewelyn, it is serious. You know how Aunt Isabella is; she’d flood Aber with her tears for a kitten’s cries or a torn gown. But Lord Ednyved could face down the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse without qualms, and yet when he told me to get to you, he said…he said not to spare my horse.”

Isabella had been sobbing steadily since Llewelyn’s arrival; he marveled that she still had tears to shed. Ednyved had not moved for hours, sat staring into the hearth as if it held the answers the doctors had yet to give them. Llewelyn rose restlessly, crossed to a window-seat. So did Tegwared, who’d become as adhesive as his own shadow. “Llewelyn,” he whispered, “what if he dies?”

That was a fear to be ignored at all costs; recognition might give it reality. Llewelyn said sharply, “Do not talk nonsense!”

Ednyved’s son Goronwy brought his father a cup of mead. He drank, as he did all else, with deliberation. When he spoke, it took them all by surprise, as if silence had become natural, safer. “You never suspected he was ailing?”

Only belatedly did Isabella realize that she was the one being addressed, the one who must answer. Ednyved’s tone was flat, reflected only exhaustion. But she flinched away from the words, as if from weapons. “I knew he was troubled,” she sobbed. “He’s been sleeping so poorly, and losing weight. But he had no appetite. I thought it was this accursed war…”

Whatever else she meant to say was lost, so bitterly was she crying. She was clad in a scarlet gown, an incongruous shade for the sickroom, and looked to Llewelyn like a brightly colored butterfly, innocent and ineffectual. He pitied her grieving, yet found himself yearning for his mother’s taut, gritty competence, yearning for someone to take charge. What would befall them if Davydd did die? He’d sometimes indulged in daydreams of power, envisioning himself as Gwynedd’s Prince, hearing again his grandfather’s dying declaration of faith. But such fantasies were safely set in a distant future. Davydd was only thirty-seven; he’d never given serious thought to his uncle’s mortality. Now, watching Davydd’s weeping wife, watching Edynved age before his eyes, watching that closed bedchamber door, he could think of nothing else.

Ednyved had summoned Einion ap Rhiwallon, one of the famed physicians of Myddfai, an unwelcome ghost from Llewelyn’s past, stirring up too many memories of his grandfather’s seizure. When he finally emerged, his face was utterly blank, a mask of such resolute stoicism that Llewelyn’s hand closed roughly, involuntarily, upon Tegwared’s arm. Isabella got to her feet, but did not speak. It was left to Ednyved to say in a dulled, tired voice, “Well?”

Einion’s eyes did not linger on Ednyved’s face, focused instead on the far wall. “Prince Davydd’s court physician has been treating him for what he believes to be a disorder of the liver. After closely examining the Prince, and testing his urine, I find myself in agreement with his doctor.”

“A liver disorder.” Isabella echoed the doctor’s words with no emotion, like one parroting a foreign tongue. “What can you do to ease his pain, to make him well?”

“His doctor has been giving him potions of dandelion root. I would continue that treatment. Even though January is not an auspicious month for blood-letting, I would still recommend it. And there are herbs we can try: vervain, centaury, chickweed, poultices of burdock.”

Those were herbs familiar to Isabella, too familiar, the ingredients of recipes for headache, coughing fits. She wanted more than home remedies for Davydd, wanted exotic, alien cures, wanted the medicine of magic. She drew several ragged, shallow breaths before repeating, “And that will make him well?”

Einion at last forced his eyes to her face. “Madame…one’s health depends upon the proper equilibrium of the four humors, those of blood, phlegm, white bile, and black bile. Should that balance be disturbed, men sicken. Some of the most grievous ailments result from a surfeit of hot, black bile. We call them melancholic ulcers, cancers—”

He saw the blood drain from Isabella’s face, saw her lashes flutter, and darted forward as she swayed. Goronwy was even closer, and no less quick-witted; he caught her just in time, steered her toward the settle while shouting for her ladies.

Ednyved had yet to move. He watched for several silent moments as Einion ministered to Isabella, then turned abruptly, limped from the chamber. When Einion straightened up, he found Llewelyn standing but a few feet away.

“What can we do for my uncle?” he asked softly, and the doctor seemed to sigh.

“You can pray for him, lad,” he said. “You can pray for him.”

Davydd’s dreams had become so troubled that his doctors had begun to give him peony seeds in hot wine. He’d been skeptical, but had just passed one of the few restful nights he’d known in weeks. He did not remember the particulars of his dream upon awakening, only the precious sense of peace. He lay still for a time, eyes closed, for he could hear people moving about the chamber. As February ebbed away in a relentless deluge of icy winter rain, he was finding it harder and harder to rally his dwindling strength, to make the effort that the presence of others required.

Like flotsam cast up on the receding shores of memory, a sudden image came to him, vividly, as he lay there. Behind his closed eyelids, a woman’s face was taking form, floating above the bed, haloed by candlelight. He remembered now. In his dream, he had been ill, burning with fever, and then his mother was there, summoned by his need, keeping vigil through the night, keeping time and death itself at bay.

The irony of such a dream was not lost upon him, but neither was its poignancy. He bit his lip, unsure whether he meant to stifle laughter or curses, and then opened his eyes as he heard a woman’s step approaching the bed.

He was braced for the sight of his wife, whose need for comfort was beyond him, a burden he could no longer bear. He was wretchedly aware that Isabella and he were both victims of his mortal illness. But the woman now bending over the bed was no stricken blonde Madonna; she had level, clear brown eyes, dark braids swinging free—the one person in Christendom he’d most wanted to see ere he died—his sister Elen.

He caught his breath in disbelief. “Are you truly here? How can it be?”

She sat on the bed, with her habitual disdain for sickroom protocol, took his hand. “What, and did you think the small matter of a war would keep me away? For shame, Davydd, you ought to know me better than that! Rob accompanied me to the border, where Ednyved had an escort waiting. So simple it was, I wonder we did not think of it sooner. I would have brought my girls, too, had I but—” She stopped, for his hand had tightened upon hers.

“You are talking too much,” he said, and saw her eyes fill with tears.

“I know,” she said, and leaned over, kissed him on the forehead.

For some moments, neither spoke. Elen’s tears had broken free, were trickling down her cheeks. She made no move to wipe them away, her grieving so matter-of-fact, so natural, that she relieved him of the need to respond to it, no more than he had to respond to the rain he now heard slanting against the roof.

“You were here last night,” he said suddenly. And when she nodded, he smiled. “I sensed your presence. Only…only I thought it was Mama…”

Elen’s throat closed up, cutting off all speech. She gained time by turning toward the bedside table, pouring for him a cup of mead. It was as strong as men could make it, for he refused to take sleeping draughts during the day, and the mead was his only defense against the pain. She took a deep swallow herself before leaning over, helping him to drink.

“Mama died in February, too,” he murmured, and then his despair broke through. “Christ Jesus, Elen, why? If I had but a little more time…What is going to happen to Wales?” His mouth twisted. “Almost, I could believe that God must be English!”

She was shocked neither by his bitterness nor his blasphemy; she, too, had cried unto the heavens, had railed against Fate, even God, upon learning that he was dying. But she summoned up a smile. “You need not fear for Wales, Davydd. You have stalwart allies in Papa’s greatest friend and his grandson. Who could you better entrust Gwynedd to than Ednyved and Llewelyn?”

A man enfeebled by the burden of seventy-three winters. A green lad of seventeen. But Davydd choked back the words, for Elen would give him hope, not a gift to be scorned. If it was pretense, it was noble pretense. “Yes,” he agreed, very low. “Between them, they’ll serve Wales well.”

When Llewelyn had come to terms with Davydd, he unwittingly opened the door to his brother’s cage. Henry and his council decided that Owain might be more useful as a rival Prince than as a prisoner, and he had been released in July 1244. He had proven to be an unsuccessful lure, for the Welsh stayed loyal to Davydd. But Henry had not revoked his freedom; he had been dwelling for months now at Henry’s manor of Shotwick in Cheshire. It was there that he got word of Davydd’s death. Within the hour, he was riding west into Wales.

The messenger, sent by an old ally of Gruffydd’s, told him that Davydd had died at Aber that Sunday past, that he was to be buried at the abbey of Aberconwy. The messenger had confided that Davydd had taken holy vows upon his deathbed, just as his father had done. Owain had laughed when told that, sure it would avail Davydd naught. No more than it had availed Llewelyn Fawr, burning in Hell these six years past, or so he most fervently hoped.

Owain blamed Davydd for all the griefs that had befallen his family, and he rejoiced in Davydd’s death. But above all, he rejoiced in his return to Wales. After so long and bitter an exile, he was going home, home to claim a crown.

He reached Aberconwy Abbey at dusk on Thursday. The monks recognized him on sight, even after an absence of five years. From childhood, he had been called Owain Goch—Owain the Red—and not even a winter twilight could dim the fiery luster of his hair. When the hospitaller murmured a deferential saint’s day greeting, he almost laughed aloud, for he had forgotten the date. The first of March. St Davydd’s Day. Two years since his father’s death. It suddenly seemed very symbolic to him that he should arrive at the abbey on this, of all days, seemed the most promising of portents. I could not avenge you, Papa, he thought, but I can rule Wales for you, and by God, I will. He turned toward the hospitaller. “Where,” he demanded, “is the Lord Ednyved?”

The nave of the abbey was lit with flickering funeral candles; beyond, all was blackness. Ednyved was standing on the steps of the High Altar, close enough to reach out, touch the cold marble tomb of Llewelyn Fawr. He watched impassively as Owain strode toward him, looking so ravaged by time and too many sorrows that Owain almost did not recognize him.

“You do not seem surprised to see me,” he said, and the older man shrugged.

“I am not. I was expecting you.”

“Were you, indeed?” Owain took a step toward the High Altar. “I am here,” he said, “to claim what is mine, the crown that Davydd, damn his soul, stole from my father.”

“Liar!” Elen stepped from the shadows. Starkly clad in mourning black, her eyes circled by darkness, aglitter with anguished rage, she made a dramatic, compelling figure, one to give Owain pause, for no son of Senena would ever dismiss women as the weaker, softer sex. Had he sensed her presence, he would have chosen his words with greater care, for he did not begrudge her the right to grieve for her brother. He decided that the etiquette of bereavement demanded he accord her the last word, and turned, instead, back to Ednyved, saying defiantly:

“Are you challenging my right to the throne of Gwynedd?”

“I am.” Like Elen’s, this voice, too, came from the shadows behind him. Owain spun around, watched warily as this new threat moved into the light. It took him a moment or so before he realized he was facing his brother.

“Well, well.” He shook his head, smiling sourly. “I almost did not recognize you, Llelo. You’ve grown some, in truth, have even begun to shave, I see.”

“I recognized you straightaway, Owain. You’ve not changed…not at all.”

There was an echo of mockery underlying the innocence of the words, a coolly ironic tinge to the tone, neither of which gibed with Owain’s memories of an annoying, irksome little brother. He gave Llewelyn a second, appraising look. It was a distinctly unpleasant shock to find their eyes were level; Owain had always been rather proud of his uncommon height.

Ednyved had been watching the two of them watch each other. “Today I buried my Prince, a man I loved. I have no patience for game-playing. Let us settle this—now. None would deny the validity of your claim, Owain.” Before Owain’s triumphant grin could blossom further, he added, “But your claim is no better than Llewelyn’s.”

“Llewe—” Owain’s eyes flicked toward his grandfather’s tomb. “You mean…Llelo?” His laughter was loud, but not as hearty as he’d hoped. “That is absurd! He’s but a raw boy!”