Falls the Shadow (21 page)

Davydd crossed the chamber, picked up the sword. He knelt then, by Gruffydd’s body, unsheathed his dagger. The Bishop still stood as if frozen, made mute by shock. Davydd straightened up, moved swiftly to the window, and beckoned. Within moments, one of his men had answered his summons. He did not even glance at the body on the floor, listened intently to Davydd’s low-voiced commands. The Bishop could catch an occasional word “…out-numbered…tell them…their lord’s life does depend upon their cooperation…” And the Bishop realized that Davydd was giving orders to seize Gruffydd’s men, awaiting him in the great hall.

As the man withdrew, Davydd strode toward the bed. Owain still snored, did not stir as Davydd bent over him, claimed his sword and dagger, found a hidden knife in his boot. Even now, the Bishop could not help noticing how economical Davydd’s every movement was, how deliberate, not a wasted motion. He edged his way around the wreckage of the table, moved slowly toward Gruffydd’s body.

“Jesú, you…you killed them!” he said incredulously.

“No,” Davydd said. “I gave them an uncommonly potent sleeping draught, well laced with henbane, but not enough to kill. They’re likely to feel utterly wretched when they awaken, but they’ll live.” He crossed to the window again, jerked the shutter back. Whatever he saw seemed to give him satisfaction. He said, almost inaudibly, “It is done, then.”

The Bishop knelt by Gruffydd, with some difficulty managed to turn him over onto his back. Gruffydd’s breathing was heavy, stentorian, but the Bishop’s searching fingers found a steady pulse, and he sighed with relief. He was still struggling with disbelief, for it was inconceivable to him that anyone would dare to defy the Church. “Have you gone mad? Do you not realize what you’ve done? Jesus God, you swore a holy oath that you’d not harm him!”

Davydd turned from the window. “I lied,” he said.

The Bishop’s jaw dropped. Gruffydd was forgotten. What was at stake now was far more important than the fate of one man, it was the very authority of the Church. “You’ll be damned for this, damned for all eternity! That I swear, by all I hold sacred in this life. I shall see to it, shall excommunicate you myself!”

Davydd nodded slowly. “Do what you must, my lord Bishop,” he said. “Just as I must.”

Although she had been the lady of the manor for almost six months, Isabella still did not feel completely comfortable dwelling in Llewelyn’s shadow. That was particularly true here at Dolwyddelan, which had been Llewelyn’s favorite residence. Even now, she found herself half-expecting him to enter, demand to know what she and Davydd were doing in his private chamber.

In fact, the room still looked much as it had when Llewelyn and Joanna had lived in it, for Isabella had made but one change, replacing Joanna’s old settle with one of finely carved oak. Davydd was slouched upon it now, idly strumming a small harp. He played well, as he did most things, but Isabella doubted that his mind was upon his music. He had the remote, inward look that was all too familiar to her, that so effectively shielded his thoughts, shut her out.

Isabella had a cushion cover spread across her lap; ostensibly, she was occupied in embroidering an elaborate floral design. But her needle remained poised over the linen. She was actually engaged in watching her husband, casting him covert, troubled glances whenever she thought he wasn’t looking.

After a time, he caught her at it. Their eyes locked. “You might as well say it, Isabella,” he said, and she flushed, bent hastily over her sewing.

“I’m sure you—you had good reasons for what you did, Davydd. But…” She bit her lip, let her words trail off.

Davydd finished the thought for her. “But it was less than honorable,” he said softly.

Isabella looked up quickly, but she could not tell if he was mocking her or not. She lowered her gaze to her embroidery, began to stitch. Needlework was one of her proudest accomplishments. Yet now she wielded her needle so awkwardly that soon she drew blood. Davydd had resumed playing, a lively, buoyant little melody that seemed an ironic selection under the circumstances. A tear suddenly splashed upon Isabella’s wrist. She and Davydd had been wed for ten years. She thought herself to be far more fortunate than most wives, for Davydd never maltreated her. He begrudged her nothing. They rarely quarreled. But they were strangers to each other. She knew no more of the secrets of his heart than he did of hers.

She was relieved when the Lord Ednyved was announced a few moments later. “I’ll leave you alone to talk,” she said, once greetings had been exchanged. Mayhap Davydd could unburden himself to Ednyved, his father’s friend, as he could not to her. Did he even feel such a need? She did not know.

As soon as the two men were alone, Ednyved’s smile faded. “I think,” he said tersely, “that you’d best find yourself another Seneschal.”

Davydd had been about to rise. He sat back on the settle, his eyes searching the older man’s face. “I see,” he said. “So you, too, want to talk of honor.”

“No, not honor—honesty! If you could not trust me enough to confide in me, how can I continue to serve you?”

“I would trust you with my very life,” Davydd said, so simply that some of Ednyved’s anger began to ebb.

“Then why did you not tell me what you meant to do?”

“Because I knew what my action would cost me. No man defies the Church with impunity. Had you been involved, the curse of excommunication would have fallen upon you, too.”

Ednyved expelled his breath. Mollified, he stepped forward, straddled a chair. “If we are going to work together, lad, you’ll have to curb these motherly instincts of yours,” he said, and Davydd laughed.

“Need I explain myself, Ednyved?” he asked, felt an intense surge of relief when Ednyved shook his head. “If you do understand, you may be the only man in Christendom who does. Tell me, do you remember that Saracen saying you brought back from the Holy Land, something about tigers?”

Ednyved looked bemused, but nodded. “Not Saracen, though; men said it was a folk wisdom from Cathay: He who rides a tiger dares not dismount. Is that the one you had in mind?”

“The very one,” Davydd said. There was something about the tilt of his head, the sudden, self-mocking grin that took Ednyved by surprise. For a fleeting moment, he so resembled his father that Ednyved’s eyes filled with tears. He blinked them away, but made no attempt to hide them. He felt no shame; Llewelyn was worth grieving for.

Davydd was watching him. “You are thinking of my father,” he said, and he leaned forward, put his hand on Ednyved’s arm. “I cannot fail him, Ednyved. No matter what it costs, I must keep faith with him…I must!”

Ednyved had never heard him sound so impassioned; emotion was an indulgence Davydd rarely allowed himself. “You do know,” he asked, “that it is not over?”

“Christ, yes.” Davydd rose, moved restlessly toward the hearth. “There will be those to make of Gruffydd a martyr, to—” He stopped, frowning, then crossed quickly to the window.

Below, the bailey was in turmoil. Men were crowding about, dogs barking. Several of Davydd’s teulu, his household guard, had surrounded an intruder, who was struggling to break free. Davydd shoved the shutter aside. “Let him go,” he said sharply. He did not wait to be sure his command would be obeyed, took that for granted. Turning back to Ednyved, he said, “It is Llelo.”

They could now hear footsteps thudding on the outer stairs. A moment later, Llelo burst into the chamber. He was muddied and disheveled, so out of breath that he had to lean against the door. “Is it true?” he demanded. “Did you take my father prisoner?”

“Yes.”

Llelo moved forward into the room. “You swore a holy oath to his safety, swore upon the surety of your soul! How could you break such an oath? Do you truly think he would approve of such a betrayal?”

There was no need for Davydd to ask who
he
was. “I do not know, Llelo,” he admitted. “I can only hope he would have understood.”

Llelo’s eyes narrowed. “Well, I do not understand,” he said bitterly. “I will never understand—or forgive!”

Ednyved got stiffly to his feet. “Davydd knew he would be excommunicated, Llelo. But he was willing to risk eternal damnation to put an end to this dangerous war.”

Llelo looked at him, then away. “My name is Llewelyn, not Llelo.” His eyes flicked back to his uncle’s face. “I want to see my father,” he said. “So does my lady mother.”

Davydd’s gaze did not waver. “No, lad, I cannot allow that. Not yet.”

Llelo’s breath quickened. “You lured my father and brother into a trap. What of me? Do you mean to imprison me, too?”

Davydd shook his head. “No. You are free to go.”

Llelo was at a loss, even let-down. He’d been expecting hostility, not honesty, found it disconcerting and somewhat bewildering to have Davydd treat him not as an enemy, but as an adult. Defiant, confused, desperately unhappy, he began to back toward the door, keeping his eyes upon Davydd all the while. “You’ve not won,” he said, horrified to find his voice was no longer under his control. “You’ll be sorry for this, I swear it!”

Not surprisingly, Llelo slammed the door behind him. The two men looked at each other in silence. Ednyved finally moved to the table. Picking up a wine flagon, he said, “In just a year and a half, Llelo will be fourteen. When Llewelyn was fourteen, he celebrated his new-found manhood by beginning a civil war. You do know that you are taking a risk with that lad?”

“Yes, I know. But some risks are worth the taking.”

Ednyved paused in the act of pouring wine. Until that moment, he’d not known that Davydd, too, looked upon Llelo as a potential heir. “Have you never thought of divorcing your wife?” he asked, quietly enough not to offer offense. “Another woman might be able to give you a son.”

Davydd shrugged. “Another man might be able to give Isabella a son.”

Ednyved’s brows rose. Even though all knew of women whose first marriages were barren, second marriages blessed with babes, conventional wisdom still faulted the wife, not the husband, for failure to produce an heir. “Why are you so sure that the problem lies with you and not Isabella?”

Davydd took one of the wine cups. “I lay with my first woman when I was nigh on sixteen. In less than two months, I will be thirty-two. And in all those years, Ednyved, no woman of mine has ever gotten with child. When we breed horses, if a stallion fails to get his mares in foal, we find another stallion. But when a marriage is barren, we find another wife.”

Another silence fell. Ednyved’s eyes had softened. Reaching over, he clinked his wine cup against Davydd’s in a rueful, mock salute. “You do not ever believe in taking the easy way, do you, lad?”

Davydd gave him a taut smile. “You’ve noticed that, have you?” He drank deeply, staring into his cup as if it held answers, not wine. “It was not enough to cage Gruffydd. As long as he lives, he will be a threat, a rallying point for rebels and malcontents. I should put him to death, Ednyved. I know that. And yet knowing is somehow not enough. For Christ help me, but I cannot do it.”

By the time they rode through the gatehouse and into the abbey precincts, Senena was taut with apprehension. For so many months she had labored ceaselessly with but one objective in mind—to gain her husband’s freedom—and now that it seemed within reach, she was suddenly terrified that something might go wrong at the last moment, that the English King might refuse her plea.

Ralph and Gwladys de Mortimer were waiting for her by the entrance to the guest house, but Senena was too preoccupied for courtesy. She ignored Gwladys, and as Ralph came forward to help her dismount, she said abruptly, “Has the English King arrived yet?”

“No, he is not expected till noon. But Walter Clifford, Roger de Montalt, and the Princes of Powys are within, waiting for you.”

Senena beckoned to the nearest of her servants. “See to the unpacking.” But before she could enter the hall, Llelo slid from his saddle, ran toward her.

“May I come with you, Mama?”

“No,” she said, turning away.

Senena’s youngest brother, Einion, winced, for Llelo was thirteen, old enough, in Einion’s opinion, to be permitted some small part in his father’s rescue. But Einion was only twenty himself, and had too cheerful, too placid a nature to relish crossing wills with his sharp-tongued elder sister. He gave his nephew an apologetic pat upon his shoulder, followed Senena and Ralph de Mortimer into the hall.

Einion was not the only one to sympathize with Llelo. Gwladys was finding it harder and harder to overlook Senena’s indifference to her second son. She had never been shy to speak her mind, but she was too well-mannered to make a public scene. Recriminations could wait; Llelo’s need could not.

Llelo had watched until his mother entered the hall, then turned back to check upon his little brothers. Both children had long since fallen asleep, did not stir even as servants lifted them from the horse litter. It puzzled Llelo that his mother should have wanted them here for her meeting with the English King, but he was too grateful to question the whys and wherefores of his deliverance, so great had been his fear that he’d be left behind in Ll
n.

Gwladys had come to stand beside him. “Whilst Ralph meets with your lady mother, shall we take a walk into the town?” she suggested, and was rewarded with a radiant smile. Their ride through Shrewsbury had been too rapid for Llelo to see very much, and he was eager to explore the town at closer range. He’d had no experience with towns; there were none in North Wales.

Llelo was fascinated by the bridge that spanned the River Severn, a massive structure of red grit stone, complete with heavy drawbridge and portcullis; most Welsh rivers had to be forded. “The English must be very rich,” he marveled, as they turned into the street Gwladys called Sub Wila.

Everywhere Llelo looked, he saw sights to astonish. The streets were very narrow, shadowed by the over-hanging stories of timber-framed houses, and they were packed with people, more people than he’d ever seen in all his life. Gwladys told him that Shrewsbury held nigh on two thousand inhabitants, a figure that seemed impossibly vast to Llelo. When his aunt laughed and said London had a population more than ten times the size of Shrewsbury, Llelo could only shake his head in disbelief.

If London was truly so immense, he did not care to see it. As little as he liked to admit it, he was not comfortable amidst so many people. They crowded about him, jabbing him with their elbows, smelling of sweat and sour ale, assailing his ears with their loud, incomprehensible babble. It disconcerted him to discover that the citizens of Shrewsbury spoke a tongue entirely alien to him, for he’d studied Norman-French for fully five years.

“Many speak French, too,” Gwladys explained. “For certes, the provosts and merchants do. But English has remained the language of the common people. Passing strange; it ought to have died out by now. It is nigh on two hundred years, after all, since William the Bastard defeated the Saxon thanes. French is undoubtedly a far more cultured tongue, but it is useful, too, to know some English, for the peasants cling to it so. My husband speaks it; so do most of the Marcher lords. None of their kings have, of course, but Henry plans to have his son tutored in English. He…”

Llelo was no longer listening. The crowds were parting, men squeezing up against the stalls that lined both sides of the street. When Llelo saw why they were retreating, he, too, shrank back. Two black-garbed figures had come into view, shaking latten clappers to warn of their approach; never had Llelo heard a sound so doleful.

Gwladys made the sign of the cross. “Lepers,” she said and shuddered. “Poor souls. At least they fare better in Shrewsbury than in many places. They have a lazar house beyond the abbey grounds, and King John granted them a portion of all flour sold in St Alkmund’s market.”

“Poor souls,” Llelo echoed softly, thankful that their cowled hoods shadowed their faces, hid their ravaged flesh.

Gwladys was fumbling in a small leather pouch that swung from her belt. Withdrawing a few coins, she walked toward the two lepers. Llelo felt a surge of pride as his aunt calmly wished them Good Morrow, dropped the coins into their alms cup.

Unfortunately, she then found herself besieged by beggars. She scattered a handful of pennies into their outstretched palms, then moved on. Her servants kept the beggars at a respectful distance, but they continued to trail after her, pleading their poverty in loud, importunate voices. Llelo was shocked at their numbers, for beggars were rare in Wales, where every man’s hearth was open to those passing by and the kinship of the clan was a sacred trust.

To Llelo, the most unnerving aspect of Shrewsbury was its noise. Church bells pealed out the hour, summoning Christ’s faithful to High Mass, tolling mournful “passing bells” for dying parishioners. Men wandered the streets shouting “Hot meat pies” and “Good ale,” seeking to entice customers into cook-shops and ale-houses. Itinerant peddlers hawked their goods, offering nails, ribbons, potions to restore health, to bestir lust. People gathered in front of the cramped, unshuttered shops, arguing prices at the tops of their voices. Heavy carts creaked down the street, their lumbering progress signaled by loudly cracking whips. Dogs darted underfoot, and pigs rooted about in the debris dumped in the center gutter. Apprentices, pilgrims, cripples dragging about on crutches and wooden legs, would-be thieves, Shropshire villagers come to watch the King’s procession to the castle, people come to trade at St Alkmund’s weekly market, an occasional Black Friar—it was all rather intimidating to a youngster country born and bred.

Gwladys seemed to sense Llelo’s unease, for she began to talk, telling him that his grandfather had captured Shrewsbury in 1215, that the red and gold lions of Gwynedd had flown from the battlements of Shrewsbury’s royal castle. “He rode right up this very lane—known to some as Gomsall Street, to others as Haystrete. The provosts were awaiting him at the stone cross, offered to surrender if he’d warrant the townspeople’s safety, which he did, Llelo.” She caught herself, too late, smiled ruefully. “I did forget again—Llewelyn.”

Llelo shrugged, unoffended by her lapse. At least she tried, which was more than the rest of his family did. The knowledge that Shrewsbury had been conquered by his grandfather was a sudden source of comfort, and he looked about with renewed confidence. To his left lay an open stretch of ground, a dark, foul-smelling pond. A crowd had gathered at the water’s edge, and Llelo gasped at what he saw now—a man trussed up with rope, bound to a wooden plank, about to be lowered into the pond.

“Jesú! Aunt Gwladys, look! They mean to drown that man!”

Gwladys merely laughed. “No, just a good dousing. When a brewer is caught watering down his ale, or a baker weighing his loaves too lightly, the culprit is dragged to the ducking pond for a quick, albeit wet, chastisement.”

Now that he knew the man was in no danger, Llelo watched with considerable interest as he was pulled, sputtering and choking, from the murky pond. A sudden stench warned that they were nearing the Shambles, the butchers’ row, but as they passed a narrow alley, Llelo’s attention was caught by a woman lounging in an open doorway. What first drew his eye was her spill of wind-blown, bright hair; only young girls went bare-headed in public, yet this woman wore neither veil nor wimple. Nor had Llelo ever seen hair the color of hers, a harsh, metallic gold, a shade never intended by nature. She was drinking from a wineskin, beckoned to a discomfited passer-by, and made a lewd gesture when the man continued on his way.

Llelo’s eyes widened. He forgot his manners, stared openly, never having seen a harlot before. He kept craning his neck, glancing over his shoulder, so intent upon keeping the whore in view that he walked right into a pig, almost fell over the animal’s back. Gwladys laughed, and he flushed, then grinned self-consciously, wondering if she’d noticed the whore, too.

“And that is known as Grope Lane,” Gwladys said dryly, “for obvious reasons. There are other streets that have bawdy houses, too, but Grope Lane has more than its share.”

Llelo knew, of course, that there were Welsh whores, too, “women of the bush and brake.” But he’d not known that there were houses for whores, that English harlots lived together just as nuns did. The comparison was so unexpected, so ludicrous, that his embarrassment yielded to amusement, and he began to laugh.

Gwladys stopped a peddler, bought Llelo an apple. “You missed your aunt Elen by one day, I fear. She and Rob de Quincy came to Shrewsbury to talk to my husband; Elen hoped to persuade him not to take part in the coming campaign, not to pledge his support to Gruffydd. But she had no more success with Ralph than she had with King Henry. When she could not sway Ralph, she and Rob departed for the White Ladies Priory, to the north of here, where they will wait for word on the war’s outcome.”

Llelo was keenly disappointed, for he’d not seen Elen since his grandfather’s funeral. He hastily looked away, but not in time; Gwladys saw.

“She did not know Senena was bringing you, Llewelyn, else she’d have waited. Elen is right fond of you.”

He very much wanted to believe that, but he was learning to live with doubts. He said nothing, ate the last of the apple, and threw the core to the scavenging pig. They turned into the Shambles, walked for a time in silence.

“There.” Gwladys pointed. “That is the cross where the provosts waited for your grandfather, where we will await Henry’s arrival. The provosts and the town’s common council are already gathering.”

Llelo barely glanced their way. His enthusiasm for Shrewsbury and its marvels was fast waning. So swiftly had his mood soured that he felt only guilt; how could he take such pleasure in trifles when so much was at stake? “Nothing is more important than freeing my father from Cricieth Castle—nothing!”

Gwladys nodded, waited, and at last he said, very low, “But…but was there not another way to do it? My grandfather fought all his life to keep the English out of Wales. And now an English army is about to invade Gwynedd—at my mother’s invitation.”

Gwladys did not know what to tell him. Her father would have been appalled by what Senena meant to do. She was not even sure that Gruffydd would approve. And she knew why the Marcher lords were allying themselves with Senena. Roger de Montalt, Walter Clifford, her own husband—they all stood to gain by Davydd’s defeat. A weakened, divided Gwynedd was what the other Welsh Princes sought, too. They had not shared the dream of Llewelyn Fawr, his belief that for Wales to retain its independence, it must be united. The Princes had long chafed at Gwynedd’s dominance, hoped now to restore the balance of power among the Welsh principalities.

“I’ll not lie to you, lad,” she said slowly. “Yes, your mother is taking a great risk. But to whom could she go if not to the English King? And in truth, I find it hard to fault her for it, for I, too, want Gruffydd freed.”

Llelo nodded. He understood quite clearly that this might be his father’s only chance for freedom. But he could not stifle an uneasy suspicion that Gruffydd’s good and Gwynedd’s good might not be one and the same. “It is just that I know what Grandpapa would have said, that we are inviting a wolf in to protect our herd from foxes.”

Gwladys did not dispute him. “Desperate needs require desperate remedies,” she said and sighed. “And loyalties…what a tangled coil they make. I am a Welshwoman wed to a Norman-French lord, have borne him five children. Am I Llewelyn Fawr’s daughter—or Ralph de Mortimer’s wife? Sister to Gruffydd—or to Davydd? I would to God I knew…”

There was a sudden stir in the crowd gathered about the cross. One of the provosts, recognizing Ralph de Mortimer’s lady, sauntered over to explain the raised voices, the rumblings of discontent. “Some of them claim they heard a trumpet fanfare, whilst others insist they are but deluding themselves. Tempers are growing short; it has been a long wait, under a hot sun. That loud-mouthed blacksmith wants someone to climb the cross, keep watch for the King, but he can find no one nimble enough—or sober enough—to attempt it.”

“I will,” Llelo said promptly, and the provost grinned.

“Good lad,” he said, and before Gwladys could object, Llelo was being ushered toward the cross, where he was at once surrounded by approving Englishmen. He could not understand their speech, but their smiles needed no translation. Within moments, he was boosted onto the blacksmith’s shoulders, scrambled up onto the cross.