The Reckoning - 3 (90 page)

Davydd sat up abruptly, the affectation of indifference forgotten. Jesu, no, not now, the memories could not come now. He'd had a lot of practice in fending them off, and he deliberately bit down on the inside of his mouth, focusing on the pain and only the pain. He could endure whatever the English might devise for him. He could endure knowing that Edward meant to turn Wales into another English shire. He could even endure thoughts of Elizabeth. But what he could not endure was the memory of the last time he'd seen her, the day they'd taken their sons away. He bit down harder, until he bled. And then men were turning toward the door; judgment was at hand.
JOHN DE VAUX was a justice of the eyre, a former sheriff, a man whose loyalty to Edward stretched back a quarter century. Davydd knew him slightly, having encountered him occasionally over the years at the English court. But he'd never seen de Vaux look as somber, as grim, as "e did now. He seemed in no hurry to proceed, waiting with unwonted Patience for the chamber to quiet, and then waiting for Davydd to be ,.f°ught forward. When he finally began to speak, he was no less debate, pausing often, choosing his words with care. ,.
You stand convicted of the most serious of crimes: treason, rebel-
V, sacrilege, murder. You have grievously offended your King and

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liege lord, a man who showed you naught but kindness. He received you as an exile, nourished you as an orphan, and endowed you with lands and honors, his own kinswoman, an English barony. And you repaid his generosity with treachery and betrayal. You led your people astray, you violated your sworn oath, and sinned against Almighty God by shedding blood on one of the holiest of His days. There can be no forgiveness for you, and no mercy. It is the King's will that your punishment match your crimes, that your fate serve as a warning to all who'd dare to defy the Crown. The King would have men remember how you died, Davydd ap Gruffydd."
There was a stirring throughout the chamber, quickly stilled. Men leaned forward, intent upon the justice's words, morbidly curious as to what form the
King's vengeance would take. Davydd was chilled by de Vaux's ominous pronouncement, but he hid it well, as always, and said scornfully, "I am no
English baron, and calling me one does not make it so. I am Prince of Wales, and I do not recognize this court's right to judge me. Let your King do his worst, for I would rather face the Almighty with my sins than with his."
His insolence provoked some angry muttering, but de Vaux remained impassive.
"Davydd ap Gruffydd," he said solemnly, "it is the judgment of this court that on the morrow, the second day of October in this, the tenth year of our sovereign lord's reign, you are to suffer the penalty reserved for those found guilty of treason. It is hereby decreed that you be dragged behind a horse through the streets of Shrewsbury, from the castle to the gallows set up by the High Cross."
There was no surprise in that; the sounds behind Davydd evidenced general satisfaction. De Vaux signaled for silence. "For the crime of murder, you are to be hanged. But you are to be cut down whilst you still live."
Davydd stiffened, staring at the justice in disbelief. The murmurings grew louder; no one had been expecting this. De Vaux paused until it again grew quiet. "For the crime of sacrilege, you are to be disemboweled alive, and your entrails burned before your eyes. Then, for the crime of plotting the King's death, you are to be beheaded and your body hacked into four quarters, which shall be sent to cities throughout the realm, to be put on public display so that people may know what befalls traitors and rebels."
There was a hush now throughout the Chapter House. De Vaux paused again. "Have you anything to say?"
Davydd's throat was too tight for speech. He shook his head, tasting blood in his mouth.
De Vaux hesitated, for now he always evoked God's pity upon the poor wretches he'd just condemned. The Welsh Prince was excomfliun

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icate though one damned for all eternity. But as he looked upon the
Th S^ZT ^T ^ ^ W°rdS Came °f their ° volition and he added, "May God have mercy upon your soul "
>AVYDD gasped, jerking upright on the blanket, for he remembered at
P-once where he was and what he faced on the morrow. How could he have fallen asleep? And how long had he slept? They had brought lum a candle with supper, but it wasn't notched, so he had no way of knoT
ing how much time had passed, how much time he had left to live
His last meal lay untouched by the door. They'd given him a double
^! P£§ M °%? S°rt °f foh SteW and 3 M1 flaS°n of ^-execution eve chanty. He'd brought the flagon back to the bed, and he reached^
now, ^allowed and grimaced at the flat, tepid taste. The cell was damp and chilly but his tunic was splotched with sweat; although he could not remember his dream, he'd wager it held a gallows and a grave But n°c ' ', "°f 3 ^^ PaSSln8 Strang6'for he/d not wanted to be buried in England, and now Edward had seen to it. Even the Saracens did not
SdatS otr.burial-oniy the most chdstian «* °f E^-d
He'd never doubted his courage, not ever. Until today, it had not even crossed his mind that his nerve might fail him. But how could flesh and blood and bone not shrink from such deliberately drawn-out suf Sing" d ^ ^ ^ ^ he/d *
3ble t0 face » without
He was not accustomed to asking hard questions; that had never been.his way.
But he'd had three months and more of solitary conSe ment time in which he'd been forced to confront the consequenceTof
£ a'Sn c^ 3 mtime °f CVadin8 ^ there WaS n° "-
faith"6? alWayS g°tten WS Strength from Ws utter Confidence, from his wa'sT-d ? T,abreS- What C°Uld he fa" back °n now? T^ Almi'ht was said to be deaf to the pleas of an excommunicate. Even though he well b^ ^ G°d W3S °n England'S Side' divine rcy Sght
H L^SeSCarCe " Edrd'S- ThOSC ^^ flun8 at"» fa the oX ofS to Cimef y,f
En§Ush ^ n0t ta Ws- But he had no fack
^S^ST or' ,H Te's Trth * h be told-How could he
«e that God would understand? Llewelyn never had
Blessed M ^ ^f " theSe P3St m°nths' * was usua"y to the
* SrS K, KW3yS ^ bettCT ^ With W°men' a though! s«Ppresda °n blasPhemy and * ^ knew it. But he could not He'J not 3n Uneasv s"spicion that
God no longer heard his prayers not even tried to get his excommunication lifted, for only the

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Archbishop of Canterbury or the Pope could do that, and he knew he could never have satisfied Edward's Archbishop. Absolution required contrition, confession, and penance, none of which he was willing to offer to an English prelate.
Never, though, had he so needed the solace of the Church, and he fervently wished he still had the Croes Naid, Llewelyn's fragment of the True Cross. But
Edward held it now, just as he held the crown of Arthur, the coronet that was once Llewelyn's andso brieflyhis. Reaching for the flagon, he drank again.
Well, if God would not get him through the morrow's ordeal, that left only pride. He smiled bleakly at that, seeing the twisted humor in it. For if pride was to be his deliverance, it had also been his downfall. If not for pride and jealousy, would the bond between brothers have frayed so badly? If not for pride, it might have held fastand Wales with it.
Leaning back against the wall, he made a careless move, almost knocking the flagon over with his chain; he righted it just in time. "I'll admit it," he said, "I got more than I bargained for. But fair is fair, Llewelyn. Even you cannot deny that it is also more than I deserved."
He could not remember when he'd begun to talk to his brother. It had been a joke at first, a self-mocking attempt to deny his pain, and perhaps, too, an expression of his hunger to hear a voice, even his own, to escape the smothering burden of silence, for he'd never been utterly alone before, not like this. But although he jeered at his own need telling himself that confiding in the dead offered distinct advantages over confessing to the livingit had given him an odd sort of comfort, and he was fast learning to take comfort anywhere he could find it.
"If you happen to be free on the morrow, Llewelyn, if nothing is going on at
God's Throne, I'd not mind if you wanted to hover close by the gallows," he said, and then gave a shaken laugh. Christ keep him, he was beginning to babble, and did not even have the excuse of being drunk, not on this weak, English ale. If only he knew the time! Midnight? Matins? Or nigh unto dawn?
He lay down on the blanket again, closed his eyes. But sleep wouldn't come, and he swore suddenly, savagely. "So I lied, Llewelyn! Mayhap I do deserve it.
Is that what you'd have me say? You want me to confess my sins? For that, I'd need more time than I've got, much more ..."
He was lying again, though. There was time. So be it, then. Wales, the greatest casualty of his war. Just as Llewelyn had foreseen. "We'd become aliens in our own land," he'd warned, "denied our own laws, our own language, even our yesterdays, for a conquered people are no allowed a prideful past.
Worst of all, we'd be leaving our children an grandchildren a legacy of misery and loss, a future bereft of hope.

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More than a prophecy. An epitaph for Wales, for Llewelyn's doomed principality. Davydd knew it had never been his, not truly. He'd ruled over a domain in its death throes. But if he could not be blamed for losing the war, he could be for starting it.
He still believed war would have come, eventually. But it need not have come when it did. Mayhap if he'd heeded Llewelyn, if he'd agreed to wait, if ... He sat up angrily. "What if" was a game for fools. What if Edward had died of that poisoned dagger in Acre? Or if the Welsh had not lost the will to fight?
If they'd only shown some faith, if they'd given him but one measure of the loyalty they'd given Llewelyn? No, there was blame and more to go around, and not all of it his.
He raised his head then, waiting. He knew what Llewelyn would say to that.
What right had he to complain that the Welsh had let him down? What of all those he'd let down, those he'd failed? What of Llewelyn's daughter? His brother's dying plea was that he keep Gwenllian safe. But he had not been able to do it. And when he faced Llewelyn in the Hereafter, what could he say? For
Edward had seized Llewelyn's little lass, sent her into England, where she would live out her life behind convent walls, deep in the flat, marshy
Fenlands, far from Wales. And his own babe. Gwladys, still suckling at
Elizabeth's breast, taken away, too, pledged to God ere she could talk, because the English King would have it so.
No, if the Welsh must bear some of the burden for their own ruin, and if
Llewelyn, too, was not blameless, that could not be said for Gwenllian, for
Gwladys. Or Elizabeth. What was her sin? Falling in love with the man she'd been forced to marry. What was it she'd said to Edward that November night at
Worcester? "I'll not be yoked to another rebel. I'll not wed a Welsh malcontent whose only loyalty is to himself, for, sooner or later, he'll fall
. . . and drag me down with him!"
And yet she'd never thrown that up to him, not once in all those hellish months. If she had regrets, he never knew it. And after their betrayal and capture, when they'd been brought under guard to Rhuddlan Castle, she'd flung herself into his arms for the last time, clinging tightly before the soldiers pulled her away, again no recriminations, no accusations, just his name, over and over. Better for her if she'd died in childbed at Castell y Bere, like
Ellen. He did not doubt that she would come to wish it had been so; mayhap she already did.
Elizabeth, I'm so sorry, lass, so sorry. . . . His eyes were stinging, his breathing grown ragged and hurtful. Where was she? Still held at Rhuddlan
Castle? What would happen to her now? Would Edward convent-cage her like
Gwenllian and Gwladys? Or would he think it ^er to shackle her with another wedding band? Marry her off to a man his choosing, lock her away in some remote English keep until the

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world forgot about her, and she alone remembered that she'd once been the wife of a Welsh Prince.
He'd known, of course, that if he fell into English hands, he was a dead man.
But he'd not expected Edward to take vengeance upon Elizabeth or his daughters. He'd thought his sons would be spared too, that their youth would save them, for Owain was only three and Llelo five. The worst he'd feared was that they'd be taken as hostages, reared at the English court, as he and
Rhodri had been. Merciful Christ, if only he'd realized what Edward had intended!
Slumping against the wall again, he watched as the candle burned closer and closer to the wick, nerving himself to relive one last memory, the worst of all.
He'd never known what day it was, sometime in July. When they'd brought him up from his dungeon, he'd thought that Edward had decided to confront him at last, and he was looking forward to it. At least he'd have the satisfaction of flinging the truth in Edward's face. And although it was not easy now to admit itthere'd even been a flicker or two of hope, for a lifetime of being able to talk his way out of trouble lay behind him.
But it was not Edward who'd summoned him to the solar. The man awaiting him was his old enemy, the Justiciar of Chester, Reginald de Grey. He learned now that Edward was no longer at Rhuddlan. It seemed he was at Caer yn Arfon, for
Sir Richard de Boys had just arrived that morn with a royal writ. Davydd had not liked the sound of that, and when he'd askedwarilywhy this writ should matter to him, de Grey had pointed to the window, told him to see for himself.
The top half of the window was glazed with glass, and after weeks in darkness, Davydd was dazzled by the light. It took him several moments before he could focus upon the sun-bright bailey below. A goodly number of horsemen were milling about; they wore the red-and-white colors of the King, and he assumed the man in command must be this Sir Richard de Boys. But then he caught his breath, for his wife and sons were emerging from a corner tower. Whirling to face de Grey, he'd demanded to know where they were being taken. And where was
Gwladys? Elizabeth could not be long apart from the baby, for she was still suckling. Did they not know that?
De Grey had not answered him, and he'd swung back to the window. It was only then that he noticed there was no horse for Elizabeth. Even then, he was slow to comprehend, for as much as he hated Edward, it had never occurred to him that the English King would separate Elizabeth from their sons. But Elizabeth was embracing the boys now in a tearful farewell, and then Llelo was being lifted by one of the guards, up into the outstretched arms of a waiting rider.
When it was Owain s

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