Falls the Shadow (25 page)

Elen fought back a smile. “Darling, if that is the only sin you ever have to answer for, you’ll never even see Purgatory, will go straight to Paradise!”

“There is more,” he said. “You see, after I drank the holy water, suddenly it began to rain—for the first time in months! I knew God was telling me something, but what? I stayed in the church, waiting for the rain to stop and then I fell asleep. When I awoke, it was morning and the priest was standing over me.”

Llelo smiled suddenly. “That was not the best way to begin my day! He was very wroth at first, too. I think he suspected I was a runaway serf,” he said reluctantly, frowning in recollection of such an insult. But once I spoke French to him, he realized that I was no peasant, that I must be of good birth. Unfortunately, he knew no more than a few words of French. Is there anyone in this blessed country who does speak that language?”

They laughed, and Llelo ate the rest of the wafer before resuming. “The priest fed me, gave me a bed in return for doing chores. I passed a few days with him, days I could ill afford to spare. Then on Sunday, he said Mass for the villagers, and I realized how foolish I’d been. But I’d never thought to try Latin. I could scarcely wait for Mass to be done. Only…only he did not truly speak Latin, did but chant from memory.” Echoes of remembered disappointment crept into the boy’s voice, and bafflement, too, for the only priests Llelo had known were cultivated chaplains of the Welsh court, princes of the Church like Bishop Hywel.

“He did understand, though, that Dominae Albae meant White Ladies, and it finally dawned upon him that I sought the priory. It was only then that I learned White Ladies lay to the east of Shrewsbury, that I’d long since passed it by. The priest gave me a sack of apples and some bread, drew a map for me on the sack, and I set off again. It took me another six or seven sunsets—I lost count—and I had no adventures worth recounting, but I got here.” He looked from Elen to Rob, back to Elen again, and said, with quiet yet intense satisfaction, “I got here.”

Elen had so often wished that Llelo could have been her son and not Gruffydd’s, but never more so than now. “I am so proud of you, lad.”

“Aunt Elen, there is something I must ask you, and I must have the truth. I heard the English King swear that he’d never harm a child. Are my little brothers safe with him? Did he speak true?”

“Yes,” she said, “I do believe he spoke true.”

There had been no hesitation before she spoke, and Llelo took heart from that; Elen was one of the very few people whom he did not believe would lie to him. “I pray God you are right,” he said. “I’d have taken them with me if only I could, hope they’ll understand that one day. My mother will not understand, though…not ever. She’ll never forgive me for running away, for putting her plans in jeopardy.” He caught the look, quick as it was, that flashed between Elen and Rob, and stiffened, throwing his head up as a colt would, scenting danger. “What is it? What has happened?”

Elen looked very troubled, but she did not mince words. “I’m afraid your mother’s plans did go awry, Llelo, but through no fault of yours. A fortnight ago Davydd was forced to surrender to the English, to turn Gruffydd and Owain over to Henry. But Henry then broke faith with the Welsh. Instead of freeing Gruffydd, he sent Gruffydd into England, to the Tower of London.”

“Jesú…” It was little more than a whisper; Llelo’s teeth had bitten into his lower lip. For a long moment, he stared at Elen, then pushed away from the table, so violently that his chair tipped over, clattered to the floor. Elen rose to her feet, too, but then she hesitated. Llelo had turned away from them both. He was standing by the window, shoulders hunched forward, head down, and Elen found herself at a loss, unable to decide which was greater, his need for comfort or his need for privacy.

“Llelo?” He did not respond, and as the minutes trickled away, it seemed to Elen that the last of his childhood was ebbing away, too. And as she watched him, she remembered a conversation she’d long since forgotten, remembered his plaintive request on the day of her father’s funeral, that he be called by his given name, his grandfather’s name.

“Llewelyn?” she said huskily, and he turned to face her.

He had lost color, and his lashes were wet and tangled, but his eyes were dry. “Will you take me to my father?” he said.

Even after more than a fortnight, Senena was not yet accustomed to the splendor of her husband’s prison. Until recently the great chamber and hall in the White Tower had been the King’s residence. But with the completion of the magnificent, octagonal Blundeville Tower, Henry had no need for the keep’s great chamber. Moreover, he did feel some genuine conscience pangs for having so betrayed a lady. In consequence, Gruffydd and Owain found themselves in a very gilded cage, indeed.

Following a guard up the stairwell in the northeast turret of the White Tower, Senena paused in the doorway. The top story of the keep contained an enormous hall, now blocked off, an elegantly austere chapel, and Henry’s great chamber, a spacious, well-lit room with soaring ceilings and numerous windows, encircled overhead by the most impressive mural gallery Senena had ever seen. The chamber afforded not only luxury, but privacy, too, partitioned off by a large, oaken screen.

Emerging from behind the screen, Owain was hastening toward her, a jaunty smile of welcome upon his face. “I was beginning to fear you were not coming, Mama!”

“How is your father, Owain?”

His smile faded. “The same,” he said, saw her lashes sweep down. “Ah, Mama…Mama, do not do this to yourself. You are not to blame for what happened.”

She neither agreed nor argued. As close as they were, he could see how hollowed were her eyes, webbed by worry lines, bloodshot from lack of sleep. “Mama, listen to me. I’ll not deny that when I first realized I was to go to the Tower, I was chilled to the very marrow of my bones. But look about us. Who could find fault with such a prison? Life is far better here than at Cricieth, that I can say for certes.”

As he spoke, he was drawing her toward the nearest window. “Henry is a more generous gaoler than Davydd, God rot him. Time does not hang so heavily on my hands here. Davydd did allow us books, but I’ve never been much of a reader, and neither is Papa. Now we can play at tables, or dicing, or draughts. We’ve a servant to tend to our needs, even our own cook. Best of all, we can have visitors, can write and receive letters. We can learn what is happening beyond these walls, after nigh on a year of silence, of never knowing.”

He gestured toward the window. “At Cricieth, we had nothing to do, nothing to watch but sea gulls. But Henry’s palace is right across the bailey, so there is constant activity, tradesmen and servants and soldiers milling about. I do not feel so cut off here, feel like I’m still part of the world. Above all, I feel safer here. Henry needs us alive. Davydd needed us dead. I never could understand why he did not have us put to death, and I’d much rather trust to Henry’s self-interest than to Davydd’s forbearance.”

At that, she nodded. “Not a day passed that I did not fear for your lives,” she confessed. “Not an hour…”

“You must see then that you’ve nothing to reproach yourself for. It is better here in all ways, Mama. Henry’s guards speak no Welsh, so Papa and I have far more privacy, need not watch every word. And our English guards are friendly, treat us like lords. Davydd’s men acted as if we were lepers, but I sometimes dice with our guards now, and they tell me all the court gossip, will share a flagon if I offer it.” He could see her disapproval that he should socialize with his inferiors, with his enemies, and he lowered his voice even though no one was within earshot. “The day could well come when a friendly guard might be a godsend, Mama.”

“You are right,” she conceded. “By all means, cultivate these men if you can.” Reaching for a small leather pouch that swung from her belt, she held it out toward him. “Ere I forget, here is the money you asked for. To pay some of those dicing debts, I daresay?”

Owain grinned, but did not answer. He carefully tucked the pouch inside his tunic, for he meant to put it to much better use than gambling. One of the guards had boasted that he knew a young whore with hair the color of silver-gilt, and he’d promised to bring her up into the keep if Owain made it worth his while. “The guards say I can have a pet if I’ve a mind to, Mama. Do you know what I’d like? One of those trained monkeys. I understand you can ofttimes find them offered for sale at the Smithfield Horse Fair, or down by the wharves, where foreign ships come in.”

“I’ll find you a monkey, Owain, never fear. Now…” Senena drew a steadying breath. “Let us go in to your father.”

The partitioned-off portion of the great chamber was still spacious enough to contain two large, canopied beds, a table and chairs. Gruffydd was sprawled in a window-seat, staring out into the Tower bailey. He looked up as his wife and son entered, but did not speak.

“Good morrow, beloved.” Senena leaned over, kissed the corner of his mouth. He did not respond, but neither did he pull away, as he’d done in the past, and she took what meagre encouragement she could from that. As she sat down beside him, though, she could not keep from casting a wistful glance toward Gruffydd’s bed, could not help wondering if he’d ever take her behind those canopied curtains, if he’d ever forgive her.

“I have news,” she said, forcing a smile. “I need no longer stay at that noisome Southwark inn, have leased a house in Aldgate, not far from here.”

“We are glad, Mama.” Owain returned her smile, but Gruffydd said nothing. He was fiddling with a wooden ball and cup, a child’s toy, flipping the ball into the air and catching it in the cup. Senena yearned to reach out, to stroke his cheek, his hair, noticing suddenly how many silvered hairs were scattered now amidst the red.

“Yesterday,” she said, “I paid a visit to Davydd and Rhodri. They are well, Gruffydd, and…and they seem quite content.”

His hand jerked and the ball bounced into the floor rushes. Senena reached over; her fingers just brushed his sleeve. “Gruffydd, listen to me. They are safe, I swear it. And they need not live at the King’s court, need not follow Henry on his journeys around the realm. He has agreed to keep them at Westminster, so I may see them often.”

“How very magnanimous of him,” he said, so bitingly that color flooded her face. “So we have no cause for concern, then. Henry shall take our sons to his heart. They are safe, you say, they are well, they are even content. I wonder, though, how content Llelo is. I suppose you could ask, Senena—that is, if you knew where to find him!”

“You are not being fair! Do you not think I care about Llelo’s whereabouts? I’ve had men searching all of Shropshire for the past month. What more would you have me do?”

He gave her such a burning look that her breath lodged in her throat, and Owain made haste to intervene. Even knowing as he did that their guards could not eavesdrop, he was embarrassed, nonetheless, by their raised voices; quarrels sounded the same in any language. And as uncomfortable as he felt, being trapped like this between them, he found most of his sympathy flowing toward his mother.

“I think Mama was right in what she did. Our lives were in peril; the lads’ lives are not. There are worse fates, Papa, than to be a hostage of the English Crown, and I think you are over—”

“What do you know about it?” Gruffydd flung the wooden cup from him with such force that it splintered against the far wall. Rising to his feet, he swung about to confront his son. “You were not at Nottingham Castle the day John hanged the Welsh hostages. You were not trussed up like a pig for butchering, you did not lie for hours on a dirt-strewn floor, listening as your friends were taken out to die, expecting at any moment your own summons to the gallows. You did not hear their pleading, or see their bodies, swaying back and forth, see their black, swollen faces…”

Gruffydd’s mouth twisted; he swallowed, spat into the floor rushes, said, “There were children amongst them, boys of nine or ten. So do not tell me that it is safe to be a hostage of the English King, do not tell me that youth is a shield and none would harm a child. I know better. I was there!”

Senena, too, was on her feet now. “Henry is not John! Why can you not see that? Henry is not capable of his father’s cruelties, would never murder a child!”

“You sound so sure of that, Senena. But then, you were sure, too, that Henry would honor his bargain with you, that he’d set me free!”

Senena turned away, leaned for some moments against the door leading into the chapel. Neither Gruffydd nor Owain spoke. It was only then that they heard the footsteps approaching the partition.

It was the most amiable of their guards, the freckled youth who claimed to know a whore with silver-gilt hair, and evidenced in both his blood and name the mingling of two cultures, two heritages, the ancient Saxon of Edwin, the proud Norman-French of de Crecy.

“You have visitors,” he said. “Sir Robert de Quincy and his wife, the Lady Elen.”

Gruffydd was taken aback; Elen had long ago pledged her loyalties to Davydd. But Senena reacted at once, with utter outrage.

“No, by God! There may be much I have to endure, but I’ll not let that bitch come to gloat. Send her away.”