Falls the Shadow (23 page)

“Llelo?” Davydd yawned, gave his brother a sleepy smile. “You woke me up,” he said, but without reproach. His eyes alighted upon the sack. “What is that? Are you going away?”

Llelo nodded, and Davydd yawned again. “Where? Can I go, too?”

For a mad moment, Llelo actually considered it. But Davydd was only three and Rhodri not yet two. His throat too tight for speech, he shook his head. As young as he was, Davydd was remarkably strong-willed, given to tantrums when his wishes were thwarted. Now, however, he was too sleepy to protest. “When will you be back? Tomorrow?”

Llelo did not answer. Fumbling with Elen’s crucifix, he jerked it from his neck, pulled it over his brother’s head. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, “so sorry…”

“Why?” But Davydd was admiring his new possession, not really listening. Llelo reached into the sack, drew out two sugared wafers.

“Here,” he said huskily. “Keep these for when you awake; one is for Rhodri.” He dared not remain longer. At the door, he looked back, in time to see Davydd secrete a wafer under his pillow, begin to munch contentedly upon the other one.

The abbey gatehouse was closed, but Llelo had noticed a small postern gate in the east wall. Only after he unbarred the door, slipped through into the dark did he give in to his fear, begin to run. He lost all sense of direction or time, ran until he had no more breath, until the abbey was no longer in view and the only light came from stars, until he was alone in the silent, shadowed woods.

From Shrewsbury, Henry and his Welsh allies rode north. After passing six days at Chester, the English army moved into Wales. No Welsh prince could hope to match the might of the English Crown. They depended, instead, upon the awesome wildness of their homeland, turning their mountains into fortresses, deep woods into barricades, rivers into moats. Davydd prepared to do battle as his people had always done. He razed Deganwy Castle to keep it from falling into enemy hands, made ready to withdraw into the impenetrable fastness of Eryri.

But in his time of need, he found himself forsaken not only by his Welsh allies, but by God. For the past four months, Wales had suffered under a severe drought. Crops shriveled in the fields; rivers that once surged were now sluggish under a relentless sun. Lakes grew muddy; fish floated belly-up in the shallows. Day followed day, and the sky remained bleached of color, barren of clouds. The great marsh of Rhuddlan was no longer the vast, tidal wetlands that had always proved such an obstacle to invasion. The English army crossed the quagmire with such astonishing ease that Davydd was caught by surprise, his retreat blocked by the fast-moving Welshmen of Gruffydd Maelor. Cut off from the sheltering heights of Eryri, abandoned by his Welsh allies and many of his own people, outnumbered and alone, facing a foe who had even the weather on his side, Davydd yielded to the inevitable, sent Henry word that he would come to the latter’s encampment at Gwern Eigron, there surrender to the English King.

Thursday, August 29, dawned hot and very humid; the air was utterly still, the sky such a metallic blue-white that it hurt to look up at it. They moved slowly east along the coastal road, turned south at the mouth of the River Clwyd. If Davydd even glanced toward the English banner that flew over Rhuddlan Castle, none of his men saw it. Within two miles, they reached the junction of the River Elwy. Ahead lay the English camp, where Henry awaited them.

Ednyved raised his arm, blotted sweat with his sleeve. From the corner of his eye, he could see his son Goronwy. His other son, Hywel, rode almost at his stirrup. No Christian was to befriend or break bread with an excommunicate, yet Hywel, Bishop of St Asaph, had not wavered in his loyalty to Davydd, and for that, Ednyved was very proud of his son. As their eyes met, they exchanged grim nods, each man dreading what was to come. For Ednyved, there was an eerie sense of familiarity about this day, so similar did it seem to another riverside surrender, another Welsh Prince, another English King. He spurred his stallion forward, caught up with Davydd.

“I have something to say to you,” he said, and guided his mount away from the path, into a shadowy grove of alder trees. Davydd followed, drew rein, and waited.

“It was in August, too, when your father had to yield to John at Aberconwy,” Ednyved said abruptly. “As hot as Hades it was, as hot as today. Thirty years ago, but still like yesterday to me, so well do I remember. John had agreed to spare Llewelyn’s life. That much he would do for his daughter, but no more. He made Llewelyn’s surrender as public as possible, as humbling, as painful as he could. And his terms were harder to swallow than wormwood and gall. He claimed twenty thousand cattle in tribute, demanded thirty hostages and damned near half of Gwynedd. That had to be one of the worst moments of Llewelyn’s life. But he survived it, Davydd, he learned from it, and within two years, he’d won back all he’d been forced to yield.”

Davydd’s face was expressionless. “I know that,” he said. “What point do you seek to make?”

Ednyved frowned, slowly shook his head. “No point, lad.” There was nothing more he could say. Davydd had his father’s courage. He had Llewelyn’s dream, his vision, possibly even his ability. But Llewelyn had one great advantage over Davydd. He’d known how to forgive himself.

Henry’s camp by the River Elwy was crowded with both Welsh and English. It was an additional bitterness for Davydd that so many of his own countrymen had fought against him. Almost at once he saw the Princes of Powys, Gruffydd ap Gwenwynwyn and Gruffydd Maelor. They had done as much as any man there to bring him to this moment, and the irony was that they had been his father’s enemies, not his. Gruffydd ap Gwenwynwyn had grown up in English exile, forced to flee when his father lost Lower Powys to Llewelyn a quarter century past. And Gruffydd Maelor had nursed a grudge against Llewelyn ever since one of his brothers had murdered the other. Llewelyn had promptly punished the fratricide, and Gruffydd Maelor had neither forgotten nor forgiven the Prince of Gwynedd’s intervention into the affairs of Upper Powys. But neither Prince had dared to challenge Llewelyn. They sought, instead, to gain from the son what they could never have gotten from the sire. And they had, Davydd thought. They had.

But if the Princes of Powys were enemies he’d inherited, ahead were those he’d earned, clustered around the King of England’s oaken chair. Senena’s two brothers, Einion and Gruffydd ap Caradog. The Bishop of Bangor. Senena. Her brothers were openly gloating; the Bishop, too, was showing a most unchristian satisfaction. But there was no overt triumph upon Senena’s face, only hate. It was a potent force, Senena’s hatred; Davydd could almost feel it, no less scorching than the sun, no less implacable.

Surrounded by such intense, virulent hostility, Henry seemed almost benign by contrast. He was grave, as befitting so solemn an occasion, but his eyes were shining. It wasn’t often that one of his political ploys met with such unqualified success.

Dismounting, Davydd handed the reins to one of his men. He kept his eyes upon his uncle, ignored the others as best he could. Unsheathing his sword, he handed it to Henry, then knelt, saying in a low voice, “I submit myself to the King’s will.”

Henry accepted the sword, passed it to John Mansel. His happiness had honed his powers of observation. He saw the flicker of Davydd’s eyelids, the sweat beading his temples, the secret signs that belied his nephew’s outward calm, and he felt a nostalgic tenderness for his dead sister, a surge of pity for her son. Rising, he said, “I think we will be more comfortable in my tent.”

That was a mercy Davydd had not expected; he’d braced himself for the worst, for the most public of humiliations. He rose, followed Henry into the tent; so did Ednyved and John Mansel. But when Senena, the Bishop, and the Princes of Powys would have entered, too, Henry held up his hand. “I regret there is room only for the four of us.” An English king suffered few hardships, even while campaigning; Henry’s tent was spacious enough to accommodate a bed, table, coffers, and fully a score of witnesses. Before the tent flap dropped, Davydd had a quick glimpse of outraged faces. But for all that he had spoken pleasantly, Henry had given a command, and they had no choice but to obey it.

The coolness within the tent was a welcome relief. Henry gestured and they seated themselves at a trestle table of polished oak. John Mansel began to fill their cups. When Davydd tasted his, he discovered that Henry had even thought to provide mead, a drink unfashionable in England but still popular among the Welsh. Henry was watching him, a faint smile playing about his mouth; he looked so expectant that Davydd said, “Thank you.” That was the best he could do, but it seemed to satisfy Henry.

“I saw no reason,” he said, “to turn your surrender into a spectacle. Now…shall we speak freely? You are in no position to balk at any of my demands, Davydd. You do understand that?”

He waited, got an all but imperceptible nod of the head in reluctant response. “Very well, then. Let me tell you what I want from you. You must surrender Mold Castle to Roger de Montalt. Lower Powys is to be returned to Gruffydd ap Gwenwynwyn. The cantref of Meirionydd is to go to the sons of Maredudd ap Cynan. For the Crown, I am claiming the commote of Tegeingl…and Buellt Castle.” He paused, anticipating objections, for Buellt Castle was Isabella’s marriage portion. He did not feel comfortable about penalizing Isabella, but Buellt was one of the most strategic castles in South Wales, too strategic to leave in the hands of a Welsh Prince. He was rather relieved, therefore, when Davydd said nothing.

“Nor is that all, Davydd. You must also assume the costs of my campaign. And lastly, you must surrender to me the castle and manor of Ellesmere in Shropshire.”

“Ellesmere was my mother’s marriage portion,” Davydd said, and Henry no longer met his eyes. John Mansel made haste to interrupt, for he had long ago learned how unpredictable Henry could be. If given time to reflect, he might well decide that since he would not have taken from Joanna whilst she lived, he could not in conscience do so now.

“You must also yield up ten or more highborn hostages, my lord,” he said, and Davydd’s hazel eyes focused upon him with an unblinking, almost feline intensity. But at that, Henry leaned forward.

“You need not fear for them, Davydd,” he said, quite earnestly. “They shall be well treated; you do have my word on that.”

A silence fell. To Mansel, Henry’s assurances were absurd, for it was the threat that made the taking of hostages so effective a stratagem. But he knew better than to remonstrate with Henry. Henry never forgot who was King, never forgave a slight to his royal dignity. The man who wanted to manipulate Henry had to do so by indirection, had to plant his seeds and then wait patiently for them to take root, for Henry to conclude those first green shoots were the fruit of his own imagination.

Davydd’s head was throbbing. There was an air of amiable unreality to this entire conversation that Henry should be savaging Gwynedd with a smile. He did not know the rules to this game. Should he be grateful that Henry meant to shackle him by the wrists and not the neck? “What of Gruffydd?” he said. “What happens to him?”

“He must be turned over to the English Crown. So must Owain, and the other men you are keeping at Cricieth Castle.”

Davydd had not realized he was holding his breath. “And then?”

A parchment scroll lay on the table. Henry reached for it, slid it over to Davydd. Ednyved moved closer so he could read, too. It was written, of course, in Latin, and the Welsh names had been hopelessly mutilated in the translation process; at the bottom of the page were attached the seals of Gruffydd, Senena, and the English King. Davydd scanned it rapidly. “Agreement made at Shrewsbury, on the Monday before the Assumption…whereby the said Senana undertakes on behalf of Gruffino, her husband…that the King may deliver the said Gruffino and Oweyn, his son, from prison…that the King shall cause him to have justice, according to Welsh law…Senana shall give to the King Dauid and Rather, her sons, as hostages…” Davydd looked up at that. “Why not Llelo?”

“It was intended that he, too, should be a hostage. But the lad disappeared from Shrewsbury, and Senena had no luck in finding him.”

Davydd slid the charter roll back across the table. “So Gruffydd is to have his freedom,” he said, “and half of Gwynedd, too.” And try as he might, he could not keep the bitterness from his voice.

“Well,” Henry said, “that is Senena’s understanding.”

Davydd and Ednyved exchanged glances. “And your understanding, Uncle?”

“Such a decision cannot be made in haste. I shall need time to ponder all the implications, the consequences, ere I can make up my mind. And whilst we deliberate, we think it best that Gruffydd remain in confinement. I have made arrangements, therefore, for Sir John Lexington to escort Gruffydd and Owain to London, to the Tower.”

If Henry had expected Davydd’s reaction to be one of relief or reprieve, he was disappointed. The younger man set his wine cup down. He had, Henry decided, an unnervingly direct gaze, one that seemed to see too much. “So Gruffydd and I both lose,” he said, quite tonelessly.

Gruffydd ap Llewelyn was forty-five years old, and had passed eleven of those years as a prisoner. His most comfortable confinement had been his six years in the great keep of Deganwy Castle, for he’d been permitted the company of his wife and children, all the material solace his wealth could provide. He’d been treated most harshly by the English King. In contrast to John, Davydd at least allowed him certain basic amenities—baths, clean clothing, mead, even a chess set and dice. But for Gruffydd, such favors were trifles, mere flickers of light amidst the all-enveloping dark. Cricieth was the worst ordeal of all.

During his imprisonment in England, he’d had hatred to sustain him—and hope. The young always have hope. He’d never utterly despaired, never given up his belief that one day he’d be free. Now…now he stared out at the distant silhouettes of Eryri, and knew these were the sights he’d see till the day he died, for Davydd would never let him go. And he hated Davydd no less for his forbearance than for his treachery, hated Davydd for denying him the mercy of death.

So the days had passed for him, one into the other, yesterdays indistinguishable from tomorrows. The months changed, the seasons changed; nothing else did. And then, on a morning in early September, they were awakened before dawn, ordered to dress, and within the hour, they were riding toward a horizon aglow with light, riding into the most vivid, vibrant sunrise Gruffydd had ever seen.

He could only conclude that they were being transferred to another of Davydd’s castles, although he did not understand why Davydd would take such a needless risk, for his brother was no fool—had he only realized that eleven months ago, he might not have walked so trustingly into Davydd’s trap. As they moved inland, he prayed, as never before, that Senena had been foresighted enough to keep Cricieth under surveillance. But the sun rose over the mountains, they moved through narrow ravines ideal for ambush, emerged unscathed. By the time they reached the valley of the River Lledr, Gruffydd no longer deluded himself, knew that no rescue would be forthcoming. It was up to him.

Unfortunately, their guards were seasoned soldiers, cat-quick and as wary as wolves. By day’s end, they’d given neither Gruffydd nor Owain opportunity for escape. They took no chances, from time to time would check their prisoners’ bonds, and they kept Gruffydd and Owain’s horses on tight leads. While they stopped fairly frequently to rest in the heat of midday, they untied their prisoners’ wrists only to allow them to urinate, and then kept watch in a circle, swords drawn—although they’d not crowded in quite so closely after Owain had urinated upon the nearest pair of feet. But even so deliberate a provocation had failed to crack their icy composure. The men remained tight-lipped, aloof, unfriendly—and ever watchful.