Daughter of Time: A Time Travel Romance (21 page)

Goronwy nodded. “Yes, my lord. If magic
swirls around your castle, better it work for you than
against.”

I was glad he accepted that, but wasn’t
entirely satisfied. Goronwy didn’t believe me. But then, he hadn’t
heard the tale from Meg herself. At this point, acceptance was
perhaps more than I had any right to hope, from him or anyone.

“Find your breakfast, Goronwy. I will finish
here.”

He stood, understanding that it wasn’t the
work I wanted, but to be alone. I stared at the documents, not
seeing them, and after a moment, found myself too restless to
remain inside. I followed him down the stairs and into the great
hall. Goronwy sat at one of the tables, but I simply held up one
hand to him and continued into the bailey. The air had remained
warm and the young men were out in force, working on their sword
practice. On a clear day it was possible to see the peak of Cadair
Idris towering above us, but today was muggy and overcast,
threatening more rain to melt the rest of the winter snows.

Humphrey was working with the squires in the
bailey. He was stripped to the waist, sweat glistening off him as
he stretched and lunged, blocking the sword of the youngster he was
fighting. His opponent was outclassed, but Humphrey didn’t press
his advantage as much as he could have.

That Humphrey was clearly winning was
obvious to me, but the other boy appeared not to realize it, so
careful was Humphrey not to reveal the extent of his skill. He kept
himself controlled, thinking and moving just enough ahead of the
other boy, keeping his feet steady on the uneven ground of the
bailey, just as if he were standing on the more even floor of a
great hall polished from years of use.

“My lord!” One of the guards at the top of
the gatehouse tower shouted to me. “A rider approaches! He wears
the Hereford colors!”

The shouting distracted Humphrey’s opponent,
rather than Humphrey who could have been forgiven for it. Humphrey
took the opportunity to relieve him of his sword. It clattered to
the rocky ground. Humphrey looked almost apologetic, but turned to
me.

“I would greet whoever has ridden here, my
lord,” he said.

“Come,” I said.

Humphrey handed his wooden sword to the boy
he’d been fighting, who took it with something like reverence, and
caught up his shirt and cloak. Like many of my castles, Castell y
Bere was built on a narrow spur, overlooking a valley. Two summers
ago, I’d commenced work on a second, more secure keep to the south
of the present one, and last year I’d reinforced the entrance with
a new gatehouse and curtain wall.

Thus, I led the way past the cistern and the
round tower on which the guard stood. to the old gate below, now
much more protected than before. A man could reach it only by
riding across the drawbridge, through the new, guarded outer gate,
up a flight of stairs, into the barbican, and then through the
inner gate. Humphrey and I walked quickly down the steps to the
outer gatehouse and then up through the tower, so we could peer
down at our visitor from above.

The man rode alone, and as the guard had
said, wore the red and gold of the Earl of Hereford, Humphrey’s
grandfather. I watched Humphrey closely, but even so, almost missed
the flash of recognition, hope—and then dismay—on Humphrey’s face
before he mastered it. The recognition and hope I expected, but the
dismay was a surprise.

I switched my gaze to the rider my guards
admitted. Though he would be seeking an audience with me, I allowed
him to go on without me. I wasn’t quite finished with Humphrey yet.
“The fight was well done,” I said, catching him in the act of
putting on his shirt.

He stopped, the shirt half over his head,
and then pulled it down smoothly. “Thank you, my lord. I was
focused on the fight and thus unaware of your presence. Otherwise,
I would have greeted you when you entered the bailey.”

“You had a task to complete,” I said, and
then spoke again quickly, trying to catch him off-guard. “Who’s the
rider?”

Humphrey’s face went blank. “One of my
grandfather’s men.”

“As I would expect. What I didn’t expect is
your uncertainty in seeing him here.”

Humphrey glanced at me and then looked away.
“We’ve had dealings in the past,” he said. “It’s of no
importance.”

“He has come a long way from England to see
you,” I said, still watching Humphrey closely, but he controlled
his expression and gave nothing away.

We returned to the keep. The messenger stood
in the center of the hall with Goronwy, who leaned against one of
the tables, his arms folded across his chest, mouth pursed, and
Hywel, who sat languidly in a chair behind the high table. They all
turned to look at our approach.

“My lord Prince,” the stranger said, and
bowed. “I am John de Lacey, riding from Huntington.”

I nodded. “You have news for me?”

“Lord Humphrey de Bohun, First Earl of
Essex, Second Earl of Hereford and Constable of England sends you
greetings and asks word of his grandson.”

I canted my head to where Humphrey stood,
clearly in the best of health. “You can see for yourself that he is
unharmed.”

“My lord was concerned at the . . .” John
hesitated.

I raised my eyebrows at his attempt at
diplomacy.

“ . . . the time it was taking to return
him.”

“These weeks have been eventful,” I said.
“When a prince’s life is threatened, he has the right to be
cautious.”

John bowed again, but not before shooting a
look at Humphrey, who stood impassive beside me. “I ask on behalf
of the Earl for the return of Lord Humphrey.”

“No,” I said. “Not yet.”

A general sigh eased around the room. “My
lord asks that you consider an exchange,” John said, not giving up.
He held out his hand in entreaty. “Not a ransom, my lord, but a
gift of information, in memory of his son who died at Evesham.”

Ah. So that’s the way of it?
“Perhaps
we should talk in private,” I said.

John barely waited for the door to my office
to close and his rear to hit the seat in front of my desk before he
started speaking, obviously barely able to contain his news.
“First, the Earl would like to say that he had no foreknowledge of
his grandson’s misadventure.”

“So I gathered.” I glanced at Humphrey whose
expression hadn’t changed and had assumed the same guarded position
as in the hall. Perhaps his insides churned at being treated like a
child—not undeservedly so, since he’d behaved like one—but he
didn’t allow it to show. “Humphrey made that clear.”

“My lord has sent word of the attack on you
and the identities of the perpetrators to Gruffydd ap Gwenwynwyn.
He too was unaware of the activities of his heir, Owain, and
pledges to take him in hand.”

“If Owain treats his father as he does me,
it will serve little purpose,” I said. “Both Owain and my brother
are grown men and not subject to the rule of any man, other than
me.”

John’s eyes widened at this. “Your brother!
Prince Dafydd was also involved?”

I grimaced. “I understand the nature of the
trade,” I said. “I’m sure your lord will be very interested in your
report when you return.”

“What my lord is most interested in is
avoiding, shall we say,
royal entanglements
,” John said. “He
too wants to be sure that news of the activities of Owain,
Humphrey, and your brother remain within Wales and the Marche.”

“He has reason to believe that others might
be interested? Or are already involved?”

“He does.” We sat and thought about that for
a minute.

“Edward, then,” I said. The name fell into
the silence like dropped crockery on a stone floor.

John nodded his head ever so slightly. “As
you say, my lord.”

“I don’t like it,” Goronwy said. “Are you
saying that Edward’s hand is to be found guiding these other
men?”

“I . . . I wouldn’t want to go that far,”
John said.

“Say what you mean, then,” Goronwy said.
“It’s easy enough for your lord to defer blame to a man whom we
cannot reach. Is it not enough that a Bohun sought the life of the
crowned Prince of Wales? Is it not enough that the Prince’s brother
and vassals plot against him? Humphrey should be in shackles, not
smirking here in this office as if he’s too young to know
better!”

“Goronwy,” I said.

“He was at Evesham!” Goronwy thundered. “He
knows what’s at stake!”

“I do know,” Humphrey said. It was as if he
was forcing the words past his teeth. “But I misjudged the nature
of the threat, spending too much time with those who are
discontented, thinking their lot my own. Owain and Dafydd think too
small. They are concerned only with their little patch of Wales. I
did lose my father at Evesham, and it was Edward himself who
ensured his death. My mistake was in forgetting which side I was
on.”

“Other than your own, you mean,” Goronwy
said.

“The enemy of my enemy is my friend, eh?”
Hywel asked, putting it into speech for the first time.

Humphrey ignored the others, staring at me,
his face stony. “I apologize, my lord, for forgetting my nobility
and yours.”

“Good men died,” I said. “You may ask their
forgiveness when you see them. For now, you will remain in my
household, as my guest, and we will continue as planned to
Brecon.”

“May I stay with him, then?” John asked.

I studied him. “Do you vouch for him,
Humphrey?”

Humphrey’s expression was one of a man who’d
sipped some very sour wine. “I do, my lord. He is one of my
grandfather’s trusted servants.”

Goronwy snorted.

I nodded. “So be it. We leave tomorrow. If
needed, I expect you both to use your sword on our behalf.”

Humphrey and John bowed, dismissed, and left
the room, talking low in French. “I want them watched,” I said.

“It is already done,” Goronwy said, and
closed the door behind them.

“That was quite an outburst, my friend,” I
said. “You were hard on the boy”

“At his age you ruled lands of your own in
Gwynedd and had begun to gather men around you who followed your
lead, even to death,” Goronwy said. “Humphrey is the same age as
Dafydd was when he challenged you at Bryn Derwin. If we had been
harder on him, perhaps we wouldn’t be where we are today, paying
the price for his lack of restraint.”

“Humphrey is a small problem,” Hywel said.
“I’m most concerned about Edward.”

“That rutting son of a goat!” Goronwy said,
his color rising again.

I allowed myself a smile, as the goat to
whom he referred was the king of England himself.

“I’ve never met the man and I already hate
him,” Hywel said. “If we’d been at Evesham, we could have defeated
him.”

“We would not have won,” I said. “I couldn’t
afford to risk my throne for a lost cause, not with all England and
half the Marche arrayed against Montfort. He couldn’t see it, but I
didn’t need Meg’s soothsaying to know what would happen.”

Goronwy harrumphed again. It was an old
argument. Simon de Montfort, married to King Henry’s sister, had
brought the English crown to its knees, ruling for a time in
Henry’s stead. A parliament of barons, Humphrey’s father and
grandfather among them, who resented Henry for his capriciousness,
mismanagement of the realm and favoritism towards his French
relatives who’d aided him. Montfort had recognized me as the Prince
of Wales in 1265 and I’d held him a friend, but he’d been unlucky
in battle, and in the end, the rising star of Prince Edward could
not be stopped.

It had become clear to me before that final
battle at Evesham that the tide had turned on Montfort. Bad luck
was partly to blame for bringing him down, but also his own
arrogance. He’d believed himself invincible. He thought that God
rode at his side, an ancient failing for rulers of every
stripe.

More immediately, as had happened to me more
times than I could count, the allies who had supported him—Marcher
lords and English barons—had switched sides, as inconstant as the
wind in their allegiances. Edward had taken advantage of their
weakness and pugnacity, and had known the exact moment when their
desire for personal power trumped their sworn loyalties. At that
moment he’d struck, convincing all but a very few to come over to
his side, whether with cajolery, righteous anger, or outright
bribes.

Edward was unlike his father, Henry, in
every way imaginable. His power grew with every passing month.
Humphrey’s father had died at the head of the foot soldiers he
commanded and refused to abandon. But honor meant something
different to him than to Edward. To Edward, power was the only
thing that mattered.

I
was glad Elisa
wasn’t with me. She would have had dark words for me about being
with Llywelyn. Mom, on the other hand, once she got over the
existence of time travel and all that, would have been just as
starry-eyed over Llywelyn as I was.
He’s the Prince of Wales!
Our beloved, lost Llywelyn!

Elisa thought I should have gotten therapy
after I left Trev. The idea that I’d married Llywelyn—at least in
our own eyes—would have sent her running for the phone book. I
could hear her in my head: “You’ve known him for
how
long?”
or “You’re on the rebound” or “He’s too old for you. You’re still
trying to replace Dad.” She was probably right. I didn’t have any
answers for her, other than that I loved Llywelyn. Back in Radnor
that might not have been enough. Here in Wales, it most definitely
was.

Nobody treated me any differently than
before, but I felt different about myself. By the first week in
March, I’d been with Llywelyn for over a month. Each day we woke,
traveled a little further on our journey to Brecon, and went to bed
at night, whether that was in a castle, a manor, or one time in a
tent on the ground. None of this was worthy of notice or comment by
anyone other than me. I was surprised, even, by how easily
Llywelyn’s men accepted me. I was Llywelyn’s woman, always
there
, and that was enough to be going on with.