The Reckoning - 3 (86 page)

"Words," he said, "are cheap," and she hit him with a pillow. He grabbed her wrist, pulled her into his arms, and they rolled to the very fidge of the bed.
Drawing out the last of her pins, Davydd let her hair fall free. It spilled over into the floor rushes, as soft as silk and as pale as moonlight. Davydd loved the silvered fairness of it, loved the feel of
1|: against his skin, and made a flaxen rope of it now, entangling them b°th in its coils as he began to kiss her mouth, her throat. They heard Cither the knock nor the opening door.
"My lord Davydd, you must"
Davydd looked up with a scowl. "You may not have noticed, Math,

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but I am about to ravish my wife." He could feel Elizabeth's body quivering under him, shaking with silent mirth, and said flippantly, "Come back latermayhap in a fortnight."
That provoked another smothered giggle from Elizabeth, muffled against his shoulder. But from Math, it drew not even a smile. "You must come, my lord,"
he repeated. "Goronwy ap Heilyn has just ridden into the bailey."
BY the time Davydd crossed the bailey, men were converging upon the great hall, stumbling, groggy and bleary-eyed, into the torch-light spilling out into the snow. Caitlin had just reached the doorway. She had a mantle modestly wrapped around her, but her hair hung over her shoulder in a long night plait, braided for sleep. She was shivering, and as Davydd glanced down, he saw why;
beneath the folds of her mantle peeped a pair of embroidered bed slippers, soaked with snow. At sight of Davydd, she halted, looked up intently into his face.
"Do you know what has happened?" she asked, and Davydd shook his head.
Elizabeth had caught up with him by then, for she'd tarried just long enough to retrieve her shoes and fling a mantle over her chemise. The wind was whipping her hair about untidily, and she would normally have been the focus of most male eyes, for a women with freeflowing, unbound hair was rarely seen outside the intimacy of the bedchamber. But now Elizabeth received only the most cursory of glances. The men heading for the hall were too preoccupied to pay heed to a pretty woman, even one with blonde hair. They knew that their
Prince would never have dispatched so important a lord as Goronwy with a mundane message. The news he brought was sure to be significant.
"Trevor, you've been hurt!" Caitlin started forward, only to stop in bewilderment when he shrank back, refusing to meet her eyes. Davydd glanced at the bloodied bandage swathing the boy's head, then at Goronwy, so haggard and fatigued that his mantle might well conceal a wound of his own.
"I think," he said, "that what you've come to tell us, we'll not want to hear."
"No," Goronwy said slowly, "no, you will not. On Friday eve, there was a battle fought at Llanganten, two miles west of the castle at BuelltIt... it was not planned. We held the bridge, believed ourselves to be secure behind the Irfon. In the afternoon hours, Llewelyn left us, rode off to meet with some of the Welsh who dwelled in the cantref. But whilst he was gone, the
English found a way to ford the Irfon. They captured the bridge, crossed the river, and took us by surprise."
Someone now handed Goronwy a goblet, and he drank, not eve

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aware of what he was swallowing. He'd not meant to begin with the battle. But he was not yet ready to tell them of Llewelyn's death, and he found himself putting off the moment as long as he could, hoping that one of them would guess the truth and spare him this terrible task, sure to break his heart anew in the telling.
But as he looked about the hall, he saw that it was not to be. They were listening to him in a hushed silence, not needing to be told that the battle had gone against them, that their homeland would soon be echoing with the cries of Welsh widows and orphans, bewailing their losses on Llanganten's bloody field. But no one yet realized where his dark, twisted tale was taking them, Davydd no more than the others. They waited patiently for him to continue, and he knew that they would not see the blow coming, not until it was too late.
"We were out-numbered," he said, "and unmanned by our lord's absence. But our men acquitted themselves well. They fought bravely, and they died. By the hundreds, they died, until both the Gwy and the Irfon ran red, and there were bodies beyond counting . . ." His voice hoarsened, pitched so low now that they had to crowd in closer to hear.
"They died," he said, "not knowing that the battle had been lost ere it ever began, not knowing that Llewelyn was already dead."
THEY had not believed Goronwy, not at first. They fought against belief, for they sensed, even then, just what had been lost. Their grieving, when it came, was raw, frenzied. Men wept and cursed, women sobbed brokenly, and Llewelyn's chaplain was too stunned himself to be of any comfort. When they learned that
Llewelyn had been beheaded, rage briefly vanquished pain. But the lamentations soon began again, until Davydd could endure the hall not another moment.
Striding toward the closest door, he plunged out into the December darkness.
It was a frigid night, too cold for snow. He had no idea where he was going, although he knew full well where he ought to beback in the hall, assuring those bereft, fearful men and women that Wales could survive his brother's death. Or if not there, up in his bedchamber, consoling his wife. Elizabeth had a generous heart, but he knew her tears were not just for Llewelyn; she wept, too, for her lost faith. She'd fruly believed in miracles and mercy and
God's blessed justice, and not even Ellen's death had shaken her little girl's trust in happy endings, "e must make sure that she got through this grief, too, with her hope mtact; he could not let her innocence die with Llewelyn.
And he would go to her, but later, later, ignoring the inner voice that whispered she had need of him now.
Davydd was not the only one who'd fled the hall. There were others,

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too, who needed to be alone, keeping to the deeper shadows of the bailey. He was vaguely aware of them as he passed by, ghostly figures who did not seem quite real to him; but then, nothing about this night did. He was nearing the stables when a man lurched from the darkness, so unsteady on his feet that they almost collided.
"Have a care," Davydd snapped, and the man swerved just in time, tear-blinded, mumbling an apology. He was holding an open flagon, but seemed to have spilled as much as he'd drunk, for his mantle reeked of mead. Recognizing him nowDolwyddelan's blacksmithDavydd put out a supportive hand.
The blacksmith sucked in his breath, his eyes narrowing upon Davydd's face.
"You!" He recoiled in such haste that he staggered, almost fell. "It was a long waiteight yearsbut you finally got what you wanted. My congratulations!"
For a moment, Davydd honestly did not know what he meant. When he did, he grabbed the man by the neck of his tunic, shoved him roughly back against the stable wall. The blacksmith grunted in pain, and Davydd slowly unclenched his fist. Wheeling about, he walked rapidly away.
The chapel was deserted, dimly lit. As he moved into the choir, Davydd found himself unexpectedly remembering another empty chapel, the one at Hawarden
Castle, where Llewelyn had so angrily confronted him. "The destruction you have loosed upon us!" Llewelyn's words seemed to echo in the air; so vivid was the memory that it was almost as if he were still hearing his brother's voice.
But he knew better. Death takes and restores not.
He moved restlessly toward the altar, where candles still burned. Fool priest, to court fire like this. He began to snuff them out, until the only light left was the one smoldering in a wall sconce by the door. Had Llewelyn realized how much his people loved him? Had they even realized it themselves? His mouth twisted into a sardonic smile; there were none like the Welsh for learning a lesson too late. He slumped wearily against the edge of the altar, as an image formed behind his closed eyelids, that of his daughter's stricken face. God pity the lass, for she'd truly believed Llewelyn's every breath was blessed.
What could he say to her? What comfort could he offer?
He'd never had many thoughts to spare for Caitlin, might as well admit it. But she needed him now ... or did she? What if she shared that dolt of a blacksmith's suspicions? If she, too, thought he'd welcomed Llewelyn's death?
That was a troubling thought, but what followed it was far worse. Had Llewelyn believed that, too?
Pushing away from the altar, Davydd began to pace. That accursed plot with
Gruffydd ap Gwenwynwyn, the worst mistake of his life. "e a

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told Owain how much he'd regretted it, but he'd not told Llewelyn. Christ, why had he never told Llewelyn?
Davydd stretched out his arm, leaned for a moment against the chapel wall.
"Damn you, Llewelyn," he said suddenly, "damn you!" And then he was slamming his fist into the wall, again and again, until his knuckles were scraped and raw and the whitewash splotched with blood. When he heard footsteps in the nave, he spun around, snarling, "Get out!"
The footsteps slowed, but did not retreat. They grew louder then, until
Goronwy emerged from the shadows, out into the flickering light cast by the wall sconce. "I've been looking for you," he said, and Davydd shrugged.
"Well, now you've found me." He started to tell Goronwy to go, but instead, heard himself saying, "You told us that you buried Llewelyn at Cwm-hir. But what of the monks? They knew he was excommunicate. They did not object?"
"Object?" Goronwy's smile was sad. "They pleaded for the privilege! But we dared not bury him in the abbey itself, for we remembered how the Evesham monks buried Simon de Montfort in their church, only to have his enemies dig his body up, deny him a Christian burial. So we laid Llewelyn to rest where he would be safe and at peace, with the Welsh sky for his ceiling and the snow for his shroud."
Davydd frowned. "But still in hallowed ground?"
Goronwy nodded. "He loved Cwm-hir, Davydd, told me that more than once."
He sounded as if that was supposed to be a comfort. Davydd's frown deepened;
why were men such fools about death? What did it matter if Llewelyn had thought Cwm-hir was Eden on earth? He'd never heard of a grave with a view.
"Did he know?" he said abruptly. "Did he know he was dying?"
"He knew."
"What of the battle? Did he know of that?"
"Trevor thinks not," Goronwy said, and only then did Davydd see the boy hovering in the shadows.
Trevor came forward at sound of his name, saying softly, "It happened so fast, my lord. When we ran into that English patrol, we had to time to wonder how they'd gotten across the Irfon, for they were upon us at once ..."
Davydd had discovered that swallowing was becoming painful. His mouth was parched, and he'd have bartered his soul for a drink, ought to have taken the flagon from that besotted blacksmith. "I know we need to talk, Goronwy," he said. "But not tonight. Seek me out on the Borrow."

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Goronwy did not argue, turned to go. But Trevor stood his ground. "I have a message for you, my lord Davydd."
Davydd stiffened. "From Llewelyn?"
"Yes. He said" Trevor got no further, breaking off in bewilderment as Davydd flung up his hand, bade him be silent.
Gronowy looked no less puzzled than Trevor. Davydd felt their eyes upon him, and he would have choked his cry back if only he could. But it was too late.
He could hear his heart hammering wildly, hear the uneven, rapid rhythm of his own breathing. Llewelyn's message . . . what had he been thinking as he watched his life bleed away? That this war was not of his making? Had he drawn his last breath out in a curse? So much left unsaid between them, and the final words now to be Llewelyn's. Jesii, what an unfair advantage the dead had over the living, for there could be no rebuttal, no denial, nothing but the accusing silence of the grave.
"So be it," he said then, defiantly. "Tell me!"
"He entrusted you with his daughter, my lord, and with the Lady Caitlin."
Davydd reached out, grasped Trevor's wrist. "That is truly what he said? You swear it?"
"Yes, my lord. He was quiet after that, for talking was an effort, and I
thought he was done speaking. But then he said, so low I barely heard him, '.
. .in his keeping now.' "
"He meant. . . Gwenllian?"
Trevor shook his head. "No, my lord. I think he meant Wales," he said, and his face blurred then, for Davydd, in a haze of hot tears.
EDMUND dressed in the dark, with the help of a sleepy squire, shunning the candle light that might have awakened Blanche. She stirred once, and he bent over the bed, grazed her cheek with a kiss. "Sleep well, sweet," he said, "and
I'll be back soon."
He hoped that would indeed be so, hoped the noise that had awakened him did not herald disaster. Coming on the heels of Luke de Tan/s calamity in the
Menai Straits, another defeat would be dangerously disheartening for their men. Not that it would shake his brother's resolve. Ned would have victory, no matter the cost. Even if that meant God help thema winter campaign in the
Welsh mountains. Edmund gave his sleeping wife one last, lingering look, then moved into the cold/ dark stairwell.
The King's hall was situated along the north-west side of Rhuddlan Castle's inner courtyard. Unlike the Queen's apartments, which were still dark, light was flooding the glazed glass windows of Edward's haU<

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and when Edmund opened the door, he came to a surprised halt. All around him were men recently roused from sleep, men who were laughing and drinking and joking, rejoicing. Spotting the Earl of Gloucester a few feet away, Edmund headed in that direction. He'd known the temperamental Earl all his life, a man so soured in his outlook that Edward claimed he must have vinegar, not blood, running through his veins. Yet now that man was beaming, looking upon the chaos around him with a benevolent air. Marveling, Edmund bore down upon the Earl. The noise level was considerable, and he had to shout to make himself heard. What he heard in return was so unexpected that he stared at
Gloucester in disbelief, and then turned, began to shove his way across the hall, toward the stairwell leading up to his brother's solar.
Edward was alone in the chamber, standing by the hearth. Edmund paused in the doorway, just long enough to catch his breath. "Ned, is it true? Is Llewelyn ap Gruffydd dead?"
"Yes." Edward gestured toward the table. "See for yourself." The letter bore the seal of Roger Lestrange. Holding it up toward the lamp light, Edmund began to read:
Sire, know that the stout men whom you assigned to my cornmand fought against
Llewelyn ap Gruffydd in the region of Buellt on the Friday next after the feast of St. Nicholas, and that Llewelyn ap Gruffydd is dead, his army vanquished, and the whole flower of his army killed, as the bearer of this letter will tell you, and have credence in what he will tell you on my part.