Falls the Shadow (4 page)

For the span of an indrawn breath, Gruffydd looked startled, vulnerable. “No!” he said, too vehemently. “That would not be possible.”

“As you will.” Llewelyn drank again, then felt his wife’s hand upon his arm. “What say you, breila? Should you like to come?”

Joanna smiled, shook her head. “Alas, I’ve never shared your peculiar passion for hunting in the dead of winter!” Llelo was standing beside her, close enough to touch. She recognized the look of wistful yearning on his face; she, too, had been a solitary child. “Llewelyn…why not take Llelo in my stead?”

Llewelyn glanced at his grandson, surprised but not at all unwilling. “Well…think you that you’re old enough for a hunt, Llelo?”

“I’m nigh on nine, Grandpapa,” Llelo pleaded, and Llewelyn no longer teased, seeing the nakedness of the boy’s need.

“I can think of no better companion, lad, will take you right gladly…if your lord father has no objection.”

All eyes were now on Gruffydd. He looked at his son. The boy’s heartbreaking eagerness was painfully apparent, his mute entreaty far more poignant than begging or cajoling would have been. From the corner of his eye, Gruffydd saw his wife, knew she was silently willing him to say no.

“I often took you hunting when you were Llelo’s age.” Llewelyn’s voice was very quiet. “You remember, Gruffydd?”

“Yes…I remember.” Gruffydd bit back a harsh, humorless laugh. As if he could forget! “I’ll not forbid you, Llelo. The decision is yours.”

Llelo drew a sharp, dismayed breath, for he knew that his father wanted him to refuse. Yet he knew, too, that he could not do it.

The ten days that Llelo passed with his grandfather at the Cistercian abbey of Llyn Eglwystl were touched with magic. His grandfather had never had much time for him before; now they shared a chamber in the abbey guest house, and at night, Llelo would listen, enthralled, as Llewelyn and Ednyved reminisced, related stories of their boyhood, of a lifetime of wars with the English. Best of all, his grandfather kept his promise, took the boy hunting with him. On a cloudy, cold day in late January, a day Llelo would long remember, his had been one of the arrows that brought down a young hind, and when venison was served that night in the abbey guest hall and the infirmary, Llewelyn had announced to one and all that they were eating Llelo’s kill.

Only one shadow marred the utter perfection of the day, Llelo’s awareness that their time together was coming to an end; there were just four days remaining until they returned to Aber. But he soon forgot all else when Ednyved began to spin a tale of Saracens, hot desert sands, and queer humped beasts called camels. Ednyved was his grandfather’s Seneschal, a lifetime companion and confidant, and one of the few Welshmen who’d seen the Holy Land. He’d returned that year from a pilgrimage to Palestine, and Llelo was spellbound by the stories he had to tell; the only bedtime tales he enjoyed more were those accounts of Llewelyn’s rise to power. He’d begun a rebellion at fourteen, had eventually wrested control of Gwynedd from his uncles in a bloody battle at the mouth of the River Conwy, and Llelo never tired of hearing about it.

Propping himself up on his elbow, he glanced across at his grandfather’s pallet. The Cistercians were an austere order, and the Abbot did not have lavish private quarters to offer his Prince, as a Benedictine abbot could have done. Llewelyn had reassured his apologetic hosts that he was quite comfortable. He had, after all, done his share of sleeping around campfires, he’d laughed, and Llelo felt a sharp twinge of envy, yearning for the day when he, too, could sleep under the stars with a naked sword at his side. It had been some moments now since either Llewelyn or Ednyved had spoken, and he hastily sought for a conversational gambit, one that would keep sleep at bay for a while longer.

“Did you never want to go on crusade like Lord Ednyved, Grandpapa?”

“I thought about it, lad. But our English neighbors covet Wales too much; I never felt I could risk it.”

“My father hates the English.”

“He has reason, lad. He spent four years in English prisons.”

“He did? I did not know that! When? How?”

“I’ve told you how King John led an army into Gwynedd, how I had to send Joanna to his camp, seeking peace. When I yielded to him at Aberconwy, he compelled me to give up thirty hostages. He insisted that one of them be Gruffydd.” Llewelyn was staring into the hearth flames. After a time, he said, “He was just fifteen, and he suffered greatly at John’s hands.”

“Do you hate the English, too, Grandpapa?”

“I hated John. But no, I do not hate all the English. I’d hardly have found English husbands for my daughters if I did. Davydd’s wife is English, too. Of course they were marriages of policy, done for Gwynedd’s good.”

“Was your marriage done for Gwynedd, too, Grandpapa?”

“Indeed, lad. Joanna was the English King’s bastard daughter, just fourteen when we wed.” Llewelyn laughed suddenly. “An appealing little lass she was, too, but so very young. I can scarce believe we’ve been wed for more than thirty years.”

Llelo sat up on the pallet. He knew, of course, of the great scandal that had scarred his grandfather’s marriage; he’d heard his parents discuss it often enough. Six years ago the Lady Joanna had taken an English lover, and Llewelyn had caught them in his bedchamber. He’d hanged the lover, sent Joanna away in disgrace. But in time, he’d forgiven her, had created another scandal by taking her back. Llelo yearned now to ask why, did not dare.

“Grandpapa, may I ask you a question? I do not want to vex you…”

Llewelyn turned on his side, toward the boy. “Ask,” he said, and Llelo blurted it out in one great, breathless gulp.

“Grandpapa, why did you choose Davydd over my father? Why did you keep him in Deganwy? Do you hate him so much?”

“Hate him? No, Llelo.”

A silence settled over the room. Llelo shivered, drew his blanket close. “Are you angry?”

“No, lad. I was but thinking how best to answer you, how to make you understand. Do you see our hunting gear in yon corner? Fetch me a quiver of arrows.”

Mystified, Llelo did. Llewelyn sat up, spilled arrows onto the bed. “Think of these arrows as the separate Welsh principalities. This first arrow is for Gwynedd. These two shall be for Upper and Lower Powys. And this one for South Wales, for Deheubarth. Now add these others for the lesser lords, those who stand by their princes.” Holding them up, he said, “Watch, lad, whilst I try to break them. There…you see? It cannot easily be done, can it? But take Gwynedd alone, take a lone arrow…” He gripped a single shaft in his fists; there was a loud crack as the wood splintered, broke in two.

Llelo was intrigued, but uncomprehending. “I do not fully understand,” he admitted, with such obvious reluctance that Llewelyn smiled.

“Just listen, lad; you will. You know, of course, that Welsh law divides a man’s lands up amongst his sons. But how do you divide a kingdom, Llelo? It cannot be done. In the past, our law did but lead to needless bloodshed, set brother against brother. So it was with my own family; my father was slain by his brothers. And Gwynedd was torn asunder by their wars, bled white. I could not let that happen again. I had to keep my realm whole, could not let it be broken into fragments when I died. How else could we hope to stave off English attacks? We’re at peace now with England, but it was a peace I won at sword-point, bought with blood. The moment we seem vulnerable, the English will seek to regain their conquests, and what could be more vulnerable than a land ravaged by civil war?”

Llelo reached over, picked up one of the arrow halves. “I think I see. You put Gwynedd first, did what you thought was best for Wales.”

Llewelyn was delighted. “Just so, lad.”

“But why did you choose Davydd? Why did you not want my papa to have Gwynedd? He was your firstborn. Why Davydd?”

That was the question Gruffydd had put to him, too. And he’d never been able to answer it to Gruffydd’s satisfaction, never been able to make him understand. Would he have any better luck with the boy?

“A prince of Gwynedd must be practical, Llelo. He must be able to understand the limits of his power. No Welsh prince could ever hope to equal the might of the English Crown. To survive, to safeguard our sovereignty, we must come to terms with England. That is why every Welsh prince since my grandfather’s time has sworn allegiance to the English king. But Gruffydd was never able to accept that. Over the years, his hatred of the English festered, until it was beyond healing. If ever he had my power, he’d start a war with England, a war he could not win. I do not blame him, Llelo; he cannot be other than as he is. But I could not let him destroy himself, and I could not let him destroy Gwynedd.”

It was very quiet; Llewelyn knew that Ednyved, too, had been listening. Llelo had bowed his head, and Llewelyn could see only a crown of dark hair; it showed brown glints in the sun, but now looked as black as Llewelyn’s own hair had once been. “Llelo?”

“Did you never try to make my papa understand? Mayhap if he knew why, if he did not think you loved Davydd more, then he’d…he’d be more content.”

“Yes, lad,” Llewelyn said. “I tried.” Llelo asked no more questions, and after a moment, Llewelyn leaned over, quenched the candle flame.

“Llelo?” Ednyved spoke for the first time from the darkness. “I want to tell you something. Your lord grandfather spoke of a peace with England. What he did not tell you was that it was dictated on his terms. You see, lad, Llewelyn did what men thought impossible; he united the other Welsh Princes, got them to hold with him against England. Wales has never been stronger, more secure, and it is your grandfather’s doing. He was too shrewd to lay claim to the title, knowing it would but stir up jealousies and rancors amongst the other Princes, but in truth, lad, Llewelyn is Prince of all Wales, Prince of all our people.”

Llewelyn was taken aback. Ednyved was not a friend who flattered; his was an affection most often barbed by flippancy and sarcasm. “That is the sort of praise a man rarely gets to hear, Ednyved,” he said wryly. “It is usually reserved for funeral orations!”

“Well, try not to let it go to your head, my lord. I just thought the lad ought to know.”

No one spoke after that. Llelo snuggled deeper under the blankets. He was drowsy, not far from sleep. But his last conscious thought was one to give him great comfort. He need feel no shame for loving his grandfather. He was not disloyal. He knew now that his grandfather had never been his father’s enemy.

Llelo awoke to darkness. The shutters were still drawn, and the hearth had gone out. The chamber was very cold; a thin crust of ice had formed over the water in the washing lavers. He knew instinctively that the abbey bells had not yet rung Prime. So why had he awakened? He yawned, then saw that his grandfather and Ednyved were stirring, too. Across the chamber, Llewelyn’s attendants were rolling hastily from their blankets. Llewelyn sat up, and Llelo felt a throb of excitement when he saw the sword in his grandfather’s hand. The intruder shrank back, gave a frightened bleat.

“I am Brother Marc! I intend no evil, God’s truth!”

One of Llewelyn’s squires had the wit to unlatch a shutter, revealing a glimpse of greying sky, revealing the white habit and black scapular of a Cistercian monk. Llewelyn’s men lowered their swords in disgusted relief, muttering among themselves at the incredible innocence that had sent the monk bursting into a sleeping Prince’s chamber, never thinking that his sudden, unsanctioned entry might well be taken for an assassination attempt.

“My lord, forgive me, but I did not know what else to do. I was on watch at the gatehouse when he sought entry, and he insisted he be taken to you at once. He says he has an urgent message from Lord Davydd and—”

“Christ Jesus, man, why do you tarry then? Bid him enter!” Flinging the blankets back, Llewelyn grabbed for his clothes. He was wide awake now, but baffled. Wales was not at war. The other Welsh Princes were his allies. Nor did he believe the English King was likely to violate the peace. A Marcher border lord? Again, not likely; they were like wolves, preyed upon the weak. But Davydd was never one to take alarm at trifles. So what…Jesú, Gruffydd! Had he risen up in rebellion again? Llewelyn shot a troubled glance toward his grandson. And then an unshaven, begrimed man was kneeling before him, a man who’d obviously spent long, hard hours in the saddle, a man who could not meet his eyes.

“I bear grievous tidings, my lord. Your lady wife has been taken ill. Lord Davydd urges you to return to Aber with all haste.”

Llewelyn had been buckling his scabbard; his hands froze on the belt. “Joanna?” There was shock in his voice, and disbelief, but no fear, not yet. “How ill? What ails her?”

“I know not the answer to that, my lord. But she burns with fever, and Lord Davydd said…he said you dare not delay.”

The men dressed rapidly, wordlessly, casting sidelong glances at Llewelyn’s graven profile. In his haste, Llelo pulled his shirt on backwards, nearly panicked when he could not find his boots, and then heard what he most dreaded, Ednyved’s flat, dispassionate voice saying, “It might be best to leave the boy here with the monks.”

“No! I want to come. I’ll not slow you down, I swear!”

Ednyved looked into the boy’s upturned face, and then over at Llewelyn. But Llewelyn’s eyes were turned inward; he had no thoughts for Llelo, no thoughts for anyone but the woman lying ill at Aber. Ednyved hesitated, and then nodded.

The abbey at Ll
n Eglwystl was more than fifty miles from Llewelyn’s seacoast palace at Aber, but they covered the distance in less than two days, arriving at dusk on the second day. The men were chilled, soaked by hours of steady, winter rain, their horses lathered and mud-splattered, but none had protested Llewelyn’s punishing pace. Llelo was in a daze, so exhausted that he’d not even noticed when Llewelyn lifted him onto his saddle; he’d settled back sleepily in his grandfather’s arms, awakening only when rain dripped over the edge of his mantle hood, trickled onto his cheek. Now someone was reaching up for him, depositing him upon the ground. He staggered, and Llewelyn put a steadying hand on his arm, but the gesture was automatic; Llewelyn had already forgotten the boy, saw Davydd and only Davydd.