Falls the Shadow (3 page)

“Mama…”

“Hush, child, listen. I can understand, Llelo. Your grandfather is a man of uncommon talents, and he has ever been able to bedazzle when he so chooses. Over the hearth fires of our people, they talk of his exploits and the legends take wing. The bards sing his praises, call him the Lion of Gwynedd, Llewelyn the Great. What youngster would not take pride in such a celebrated kinsman?”

She reached out suddenly, grasped the boy by the shoulders. “But it must not be, Llelo. Under Welsh law, a man’s lands are divided amongst all his sons. That Gruffydd was base-born matters for naught in Wales. When Llewelyn dies, Gruffydd has a blood right to his share of Gwynedd.”

Her grip had tightened; she was unknowingly hurting her son. “But Llewelyn scorned the ancient laws of our countrymen, adopted the alien customs of our enemies. He decreed that Gwynedd should pass to Davydd, his younger son, his half-English son. He raised Davydd up over Gruffydd, and when Gruffydd protested the loss of his birthright, Llewelyn cast him into Deganwy Castle.”

“But he did free Papa, and gave him Ll
n, part of Lower Powys…” Llelo’s words trailed off, a broken breath atremble with swallowed tears.

“Ll
n, Powys!” Senena spat out the words. “What are they but crumbs from his table? He has cheated Gruffydd of a crown, has cursed his nights with dreams of Deganwy, and there can be no forgiveness for him. Not from Gruffydd, not from me, and not from you. To give love to Llewelyn is to betray your father.” She stepped back. “You’re old enough now to understand that,” she said, and turned away without another word, left him alone.

Gruffydd, his wife, and children reached Llewelyn’s palace at Aber soon after dusk on Monday, Epiphany Eve. As they entered the great hall, an expectant hush fell. Gruffydd moved toward the dais, greeted his father with brittle courtesy. If Gruffydd’s grievance lay open and bleeding, Llewelyn’s was an internal wound. His voice was even, his face impassive as he said, “You and your family are ever welcome at my court.”

As Llelo started forward, Owain grabbed his arm, murmured against his ear, “Remember, not a word to Llewelyn or his Norman-French slut about Papa’s bad dreams!”

Llelo jerked his arm away, and then turned at the sound of his name, turned with reluctance for he’d recognized her voice. The Lady Joanna, his grandfather’s consort. Sister to the English King Henry, daughter to King John of evil fame, the mother of Davydd. The woman Owain called the “Norman-French slut.” She was smiling at Llelo, making him welcome. She’d never been anything but kind to him, but he could not respond to her kindness; he dare not. She was his father’s enemy, the foreign witch who’d cast a sexual spell upon his grandfather, brought about Gruffydd’s ruin. Llelo knew the litany of his House by heart. That the witch herself was soft-spoken, friendly, and fair to look upon only made him fear her all the more, for he suspected that he, too, could fall prey to her alien charms.

“Ah, there is my namesake.” His grandfather had left the dais, was moving toward him. “Tell me, Llelo, do you want your New Year’s gift now? Of course if you’d rather, we can wait till the morrow?” Llewelyn grinned at the boy, and Llelo grinned back.

“Now,” he said, while trying to ignore Owain’s accusing grey eyes, eyes that brought a hot flush to his face, shame for a sin he could not disavow.

In England, dinner was the main meal of the day, served between ten and eleven in the forenoon. In Wales, however, there was but one meal, eaten in the evening, and Gruffydd and his family had arrived just in time for the festive repast: roast goose with Spanish rice, porpoise frumenty, stewed apples, venison pasty, a rissole of beef marrow and lamprey, sugared plums, wafers, even an elaborate English-style subtlety, a dramatic marzipan sculpture of a storm-tossed galley. When Llewelyn suggested, tongue-in-cheek, that this might depict the English ship of state, the best proof of the eased tensions between the two peoples was that his English guests laughed in unfeigned amusement, and afterward, Llelo overheard some of the Marcher border lords agreeing that England was indeed a ship without a firm hand at the helm, for King Henry was a good Christian, a loving husband, but a weak King.

After the trestle tables were cleared away, Davydd Benfras, Llewelyn’s court bard, entertained for his Prince’s guests, and then there was dancing. Having succeeded in eluding Owain’s watchful eye, Llelo was wandering about the hall, admiring the bright silks and velvets, enjoying the cheerful chaos. At his father’s manor, the English were not welcome; Gruffydd did not dine with his enemies. But Aber on Epiphany Eve was a crucible in which the Welsh and their Norman-French neighbors could meet as friends, at least for the evening.

Llewelyn’s daughters had married into the English nobility, and three of them were at Aber this night: Marared and her husband, Walter Clifford; Gwladys, Gruffydd’s favorite sister, and her Marcher lord, Ralph de Mortimer; Elen, Countess of Chester, and John the Scot, Earl of Chester, Llewelyn’s most powerful English ally. Although she’d been wed to John the Scot for fourteen years, Elen’s marriage was still barren, and she’d been forced to gratify her maternal instincts by lavishing love and attention upon her young nieces and nephews. Llelo adored Elen, but his affections were tainted by guilt, for he feared that this allegiance, too, was suspect; Elen was the Lady Joanna’s daughter, Davydd’s sister.

Someone had brought in a tame monkey, and Llelo was so captivated by its antics that he bumped into a man threading his way amidst the dancers. He recoiled, staring tongue-tied at his uncle Davydd, mortified to see he’d spilled Davydd’s drink. But Davydd took the mishap in good humor, smiled, and moved on. Llelo had never seen Davydd in a rage. The contrast between his turbulent father and his self-contained uncle could not have been greater. At age forty, Gruffydd was no longer young, but he was tall, big-boned, with all the force and vibrant color of a fire in full blaze, a man to turn heads. Llelo thought he utterly overshadowed Davydd, who was twelve years younger, six inches shorter, as dark as Gruffydd was fair, with pitch-black hair and slanting hazel eyes that revealed little, missed even less.

Davydd had stopped to talk to his mother’s English kin, come from the King’s Christmas court at Winchester. Llelo knew them both, Richard Fitz Roy, Joanna’s half-brother, and her half-sister, the Lady Nell, Countess of Pembroke, youngest of King John’s legitimate offspring. Nell was just twenty-one to Joanna’s five and forty, and like her brother, the English King, she’d turned to Joanna for the mothering they’d never gotten from John’s Queen.

Llelo thought the Lady Nell was as lovely as a wood nymph, but he’d often heard his mother call her a harlot. Nell had been wed in childhood to the powerful Earl of Pembroke, and when she’d been widowed in her sixteenth year, she’d impulsively taken a holy oath of chastity. Although she’d never repudiated the oath, she’d soon abandoned her homespun for soft wools and Alexandrine velvets, soon returned to her brother’s royal court, where she’d earned herself a reputation as a flirt. Llelo was old enough to know what a whore was, a bad woman, but he still could not help liking Nell’s fragrant perfumes, her lilting laugh.

Across the hall, he saw his father, surrounded by Welsh admirers. The Marcher lords might look at Gruffydd askance, but he was popular with his own; there were many among the Welsh who thought he’d been wronged. Llelo would have gone to him, had he not noticed Owain hovering at his father’s elbow. Instead, Llelo found himself gravitating toward the dais, where his grandfather was, as always, the center of attention.

“Say that again, John,” Llewelyn instructed, “but more slowly.”

His son-in-law smiled, obligingly repeated, “Nu biseche ich thee.”

Although Llewelyn spoke Welsh and Norman-French and Latin, he had never learned English. “And that means?”

“Now beseech I thee,” John the Scot translated, adding, accurately if immodestly, “I have always had a gift for languages. In addition to my native French, I speak my father’s Gaelic, Latin, a smattering of your Welsh, and I’ve picked up some English. It does come in handy at times; English is still the tongue of the peasants, the villeins on my Cheshire manors. Shall I lesson you in English, my lord Llewelyn? What would you fancy learning?”

“Mayhap some blood-chilling English oaths?” Llewelyn suggested, and the men laughed. So did Llelo, until he saw that Owain had joined them. He flushed, edged away from his grandfather, from his brother’s suspicious stare.

Pausing only to retrieve his mantle, he slipped through a side door, out into the bailey. There he tilted his head back, dazzled by so many stars. His grandfather had once offered to teach him how to find his way by making use of the stars, but had never found the time. Llelo fumbled at his belt, drew forth his grandfather’s gift. The handle was ivory; the slender blade caught glints of moonlight. He’d had an eating knife, of course, but this knife was longer, sharper; with a little imagination, he could pretend it was a real dagger. Ahead lay the stables, where his true New Year’s gift awaited him, for his grandfather’s favorite alaunt bitch had whelped, and tonight he’d promised Llelo the pick of the litter, as soon as they were weaned.

The stables were dark, quiet. Mulling over names for his new pet, Llelo did not at once realize he wasn’t alone. He was almost upon them before he saw the man and woman standing together in the shadows of an empty box stall. Instinctively, he drew back, would have retreated. But they’d whirled, moved apart.

“Llelo?” Although the voice was low, breathless, he still recognized it as Elen’s.

“Yes,” he said, and she came toward him. The man followed her into the moonlight. He, too, was known to Llelo, and it took him but a moment to recollect the name: Robert de Quincy, a cousin of Elen’s husband.

“I vow, Llelo, but you’d put a ferret to shame, padding about on silent cat-feet! You’re like to scare the wits out of me, God’s truth,” Elen said and laughed. Her laughter sounded strange to Llelo, high-pitched and uneven.

“I am sorry,” he said, and she reached out, ruffled his hair.

“No matter. But I was talking with Sir Robert on a private matter, so I’d be beholden to you, love, if you’d not mention that you saw us out here together.” She gave him a crooked smile. “It will be our secret, Llelo…agreed?”

He nodded, hesitated, and then turned, began to retrace his steps toward the great hall. They watched him go, not daring to speak until they were sure he was safely out of earshot. Then Robert said softly, “Can he be trusted?”

She bit her lip. “Yes. But Jesú, how I hated to do that to him!”

He forced a smile. “You need not fret, sweetheart. What youngling does not like to be entrusted with a secret?”

Elen still frowned. “Mayhap,” she whispered. “Mayhap…”

Llelo had lost all interest in viewing the puppies. He did not know why he felt so uneasy, knew only that he did. He’d been proud to share his father’s secret. But he sensed that Elen’s secret was different. He loved his aunt Elen, worried that she was somehow in peril, worried, too, that he might inadvertently give her secret away. He’d never been good at keeping secrets before, but he would have to learn. He had two now that he must not betray, Papa’s and Aunt Elen’s.

Llelo’s father had joined those gathered around Llewelyn, so Llelo could in good conscience do likewise. Llewelyn noticed his approach, welcomed him into the circle with a smile, but did not interrupt himself, having just revealed his plans to meet with Gruffydd Maelor, the new Prince of the neighboring realm of Upper Powys.

“His father, Madog, was my cousin, a steadfast ally.” This said for the benefit of his English listeners. “He died at Martinmas, may God assoil him, and was buried at Llyn Eglwystl, the abbey you English know as Valle Crucis. That is where Ednyved and I have agreed to meet his son.”

“And I daresay you’ll find the time to do some hunting along the way,” Joanna murmured, with the indulgent smile of a longtime wife, and Llewelyn laughed.

“And would it not be a deed of Christian charity to feed my own men, rather than to have the poor monks empty their larders on our behalf?” Llewelyn accepted a wine cup from a servant, and his eyes strayed from Joanna, came to rest upon his eldest son. He drank, watching Gruffydd, and then said, “You have ever loved the hunt, Gruffydd. Should you like to accompany us?”