Falls the Shadow (43 page)

“Bells…I dreamed of bells,” she whispered; why was it such an effort to talk? “But I still hear them. Rob…?” Her husband’s eyes were red-rimmed and swollen; he covered her hand with his own, squeezing so tightly that she gasped. The candles seemed inordinately bright, blurring and wavering, casting foreshortened shadows. Elen looked past Rob, her gaze wandering the room, moving from Nell to Llewelyn and then back to the priest.

“Sir Robert…” The priest cleared his throat, began again, saying with as much authority as he could muster, “You must withdraw now, leave me alone with your lady so she may make her peace with Almighty God and Christ the Redeemer.” Setting down the pyx that held the Host, he fumbled for his vial of holy water, sprinkled it upon the bed, and launched into the formula he knew by heart. “Thou shalt sprinkle me with hyssop, O Lord, and I shall be cleansed. Thou shalt—”

“No!” Elen was shaking her head, turning it weakly from side to side. “I cannot be dying, not now, not yet…”

How often had he heard that. To Christians, death offered deliverance; why did they cling so to life’s sorrows and woes? “It is God’s Will, my lady.”

“No!” Elen tried to sit up, sank back against the pillows. “I have a three-year-old daughter. She’d…she’d not even remember me! How could that be God’s Will?”

He had no answer for her. He shook his head mutely, watched helplessly as Rob knelt by the bed, gathering Elen into his arms. In the silence that followed, they could hear Rob’s voice, murmuring broken words and endearments. As desperately as he wanted to see Elen safely shriven, the priest could not bring himself to intrude upon a moment of such despair.

“Madame…” He turned at the sound, saw that the children’s nurse had slipped into the room, was conferring quietly with Nell. Catching a few words, he guessed the rest, and gave an involuntary cry of protest.

“No! God must come first!”

But Nell ignored his outburst, brushing past him and approaching the bed. “Elen…dearest, do you want to see your daughters now?” When Elen nodded, she leaned over and, with a corner of the sheet, gently blotted the tears from Elen’s face.

The young priest fidgeted, pacing a path to the hearth and back. He could feel Llewelyn’s dark, brooding gaze upon him all the while and that only intensified his unease, for in his heart he was convinced the Welsh were pagans, false Christians. Elen’s daughters had been up with her for at least an hour, mayhap the last hour of her life. When at last he heard Nell’s footsteps on the stairs, he hastened forward, only to come to an abrupt halt at sight of her, for her face was blanched of all color, a mask of such desolation that he impulsively put out a supportive hand, remembering just in time that she was the King’s sister.

“Madame, you must fetch the children. There is no time—”

“Are you mad? Think you that I would deny Elen this meagre comfort?”

“Madame, Lady Elen is dying! All that matters is her immortal soul. She’s been out of her head with fever for days, but she is lucid now, and that time is too precious to waste like this. She must make her confession ere the fever returns, for she cannot be shriven if she is not in her senses.”

Nell stared at him, and he wondered if she, too, might be feverish, for hectic patches of color suddenly stood out across her cheekbones. “She will be shriven,” she said huskily. “You will see to that.”

“My lady, you do not understand—”

“No,” she said, “you are the one who does not understand.” Reaching out, she caught his arm. He had never seen a hand so elegant, fingers long and tapering, nails perfectly manicured, a hand that had never known hard manual labor. He stared at it in fascination, accustomed to the broken nails and swollen knuckles of the village women, thinking that Nell’s hands were verily as white and smooth as the marble statue of the Blessed Lady he’d once seen in a Canterbury church. But those delicate, bejeweled fingers had a surprisingly strong grip, and as he looked up, he found himself frozen by what he saw in her eyes.

“Elen shall have this time with her daughters,” she said. “Then you shall hear her confession, see that she is shriven, and if she cannot make the proper responses, you will make them for her. You will give her the holy viaticum, and you will do all you can to ease her last hours. Above all, you will never even hint to Rob or her children that you have any doubts whatsoever as to the validity of these Sacraments.”

The priest was appalled. “But…but Madame, you are asking me to—”

“I am asking nothing. I am telling you that should you fail Elen in this, you will find that the Almighty’s mercy is far greater than mine.”

The priest swallowed. All knew the stories told of King John, that he was of the Devil’s brood, that the Plantagenet seed first took root in the womb of a witch, the demon Countess of Black Fulk of Anjou. He looked now at the woman before him, King John’s daughter, and even as he nodded, he thought, All true, Christ keep me safe, the tales be true!

Bran awakened shivering, for the hall fire had long since gone out. Reaching for his clothes, he dressed hurriedly under the blankets, for he lacked a chamber pot and would have to go outdoors to relieve himself. But as he got to his feet, he noticed his mother, seated alone at the trestle table. Snatching up a man’s mantle from a nearby sleeper, he crossed the hall. Nell was leaning forward, her head buried in her arms, and he thought she slept. But as he draped the mantle about her shoulders, she raised her head. “Bran? Is it dawn yet?”

He nodded. Her gown was badly wrinkled, stained with sweat and water splotches. Even her hair had lost its lustre; spilling from an untidy chignon, it framed her face in stray wisps and tangled tendrils, lacking color or sheen in the harsh morning light. The mother Bran knew best was a glamorous, worldly creature, high-tempered and high-spirited, by turns sarcastic and merry, but always elegant, always unpredictable, utterly unlike the drab, ordinary mothers of his less-fortunate friends. This haggard, disheveled woman seemed a stranger. But if her sudden vulnerability unnerved him, it also fired his protective instincts, and when she rose, he trailed her across the hall.

Llewelyn was stretched out upon the settle. Nell leaned over, shook his shoulder. “Llewelyn, it is dawn.” He opened his eyes, and she saw that he had not slept, either. He was sitting up as the bedchamber door opened.

The young priest came wearily down the stairs. “It is over,” he said, making the sign of the cross. He had dozed during the night in a chair by Elen’s bed, so great was his relief that he had been able, after all, to administer the Last Rites, thus offending neither the Almighty nor the Countess of Leicester. But his position had been a cramped one, and his muscles were constricted and sore. As he sank down on a bench, his gaze fell upon the platter of food, flaky pasties filled with cheese and beef marrow, stone-cold, flecked with congealed grease, but still rich fare to an impoverished priest, and irresistible to a man who’d not eaten since noon the day before. Tucking a napkin into his cassock collar, he helped himself to a pasty, and then another.

“She was at peace, at the end, all her thoughts given over to God,” he volunteered, the falsehood not weighing heavily upon his conscience, for it was what he was expected to say, what the bereaved wanted to hear. “My lady…mayhap you might mention to your royal brother that I was the priest who ministered to his niece? It would be such an honor, that my name might be known to the King…” Nell’s response was not encouraging; she merely looked at him. Deciding it would not be seemly to push further, he sighed, swallowed the last mouthful of pasty, and gestured politely toward Llewelyn. “My lord, if you could pass me that flagon of ale…?”

Llewelyn reached for the flagon. It was full and the ale sloshed over the rim as he lifted it. His fingers clenched around the handle, and then the flagon was slamming into the wall with such force that men scattered in all directions, seeking to evade the flying shards. The priest scrambled to his feet in alarm, but Llewelyn never even glanced his way. He was gripping the edge of the table, staring at the platter heaped with pasties. With a wild sweep of his arm, he sent it spinning to the floor, and then brought his fist down upon the table, again and again, not stopping until the trestle boards buckled.

His breath was coming fast and uneven; he could hear it now, echoing in his ears. He could even hear his heart beating, no less rapidly, for so still was it of a sudden in the hall. He looked up, saw the silent men, the fearful priest, the watching women. No one spoke, but the manor dogs crept from hiding, began to feast warily upon the pasties strewn among the floor rushes. Davydd pushed his way toward Llewelyn. His eyes were wide, filled with wonder. As he passed the priest, he murmured, “Did no one tell you? My brother cannot abide ale,” and a few men laughed nervously.

Nell jerked the napkin from the priest’s neck, stepped toward Llewelyn, and it was only then that he became aware of the blood trickling down his wrist. He stood without moving as she bandaged his hand, then turned, walked toward the ash-filled hearth. Nell watched him go; no one else dared to follow.

As men began to clear away the wreckage, Nell laid claim to a soldier’s flask, tilted it up and drank deeply of the pungent, spiced wine, then startled the priest by passing the flask to him. He accepted gratefully, but it took several swallows to nerve him to approach Nell again.

“I am sorry, my lady,” he blurted out, “sorry I was not of more comfort, sorry I must now trouble you further. But the little lasses, they must be told. I daresay they’re awake by now, for this din was for certes enough to raise the dead—” He bit his lip; a lamentable choice of words! “My lady, Sir Robert is sore crazed with grief; never have I seen a man so stricken, in truth. I doubt that he can…” His words trailed away. For an awful moment, he feared that Nell might expect him to be the one to tell Elen’s daughters. But then Nell got slowly to her feet.

Unlike the open, wooden stairway that led to Elen’s bedchamber, this was a narrow, spiral staircase, giving access to the roof, the battlements, and the small loft squeezed under the eaves. Gazing upward, Nell could not detect a glimmer of light, nor a whisper of sound. She lifted her skirts, put her foot on the first step, but could go no farther. Clutching the rope railing, she faltered, then sank down upon the stairs.

At approaching footsteps, she looked up reluctantly. But it was Llewelyn, not the priest, and when he held out his hand, she readily took it, let him help her to her feet.

They stood quietly in the shadows of the stairwell. From the sound of her breathing, he suspected that she wept. He put his arm around her shoulders and she leaned against his chest. After a time, she said softly, “There can be burdens too onerous, too painful to be borne. Whenever I feel that I cannot…cope, I try to think what Simon would do. I know he’d find the strength to do what he must, and knowing that, I can somehow find the strength, too. Until now…”

Since his frenzied outburst, his futile, rending denial, Llewelyn had felt nothing, only exhaustion, numbness. Now a surprising emotion flickered faintly—envy for Simon de Montfort, for how many men were ever loved so passionately? But then there came to him his last memory of Rob, his desperate deathbed vigil. Rob had been well loved, too. Yet what man in his right senses would envy Rob now? Llewelyn drew a constricted breath. God pity Rob, God pity all who gave their hearts with such reckless abandon. “Nell…do you want me to go up with you?”

“No. No, it is best that a woman be the one to tell them.” Nell stood for a moment longer in his embrace, and then, lifting her skirts again, she started up the stairs.

They’d been roused from sleep, and they stumbled, yawning, into Llewelyn’s bedchamber, blinking at the sudden flaring of torch-light. Llewelyn stood motionless in the shadows, listening in silence as his scout told them what he already knew—that his brothers, Owain and Davydd, were leading an invading army into his lands.

He watched them intently, saw their faces change, their sleepiness vanish. Only his cousin Tegwared seemed truly startled; Tegwared inhaled optimism as naturally as he did air. Gruffydd and Goronwy ab Ednyved had followed in their father’s footsteps, wielding their swords in the service of Gwynedd’s Prince. Like Ednyved, they were shrewd, cynical, and utterly unsentimental, not to be surprised by a brother’s betrayal. His uncle Einion showed no surprise, either, only dismay. Llewelyn understood, and felt honor-bound to offer a reprieve.

“This is no quarrel of yours, Uncle, not when you’d find kinsmen on both sides of the battlefield.”

“Ah, but that is the Welsh way, lad.” That was too true for humor, though; only Einion smiled. He was greatly tempted to take advantage of Llewelyn’s generosity. It would be no pleasant task, explaining to Senena that he’d backed the wrong son. Moreover, he sympathized with Davydd’s claim, for in his heart he believed that Gwynedd ought to be divided equally amongst all of Gruffydd’s sons, as the ancient Welsh laws decreed. But his affections ran contrary to common sense, and he heard himself saying, “It is an easier choice than you think, Llewelyn. I have never liked Owain.”

This time Llewelyn did smile. “Neither have I,” he said, no more than that, but Einion needed no more. He returned his nephew’s smile and for the moment, at least, his sister, Senena, was forgotten.

Llewelyn moved into the light. “Mayhap it was inevitable that Owain and I would have a day of reckoning. Now that it has come so be it. But I want our men to understand this, that Davydd is not to be harmed.”

Tegwared and Einion nodded approvingly, but Llewelyn caught the skeptical look that passed between Ednyved’s sons, and he could not keep a defensive note from creeping into his voice. “As young as Davydd is, he does not fully comprehend the consequences of what he’s done.”

Goronwy carefully avoided his brother’s eye. He’d have wagered that Davydd was no innocent; even as a lad, he had been one for poking sticks into hornets’ nests. But he knew better than to argue. Instead, he said, “What mean you to do, Llewelyn?”

Llewelyn crossed to the table. The map was crudely drawn, but that didn’t matter. He’d had twenty-seven years to learn the lay of his land, knew the depths of every river, the twistings of every mountain trail.

“They circled around Cricieth Castle, are now heading north. To get from Eiffionydd into Arfon, they’ll use the Bwlch Mawr Pass.” He gestured toward the map, then said grimly, “And there they will find us waiting for them.”

It was not lack of sleep that had soured Davydd’s enthusiasm. He was still young enough to savor novelty, and camping out under the stars seemed part of the adventure. Nor was he fazed by the weather. It was surprisingly hot and humid for June, and rain had been falling intermittently since dawn, but rain was so common an occurrence in Wales that Davydd never gave it a thought. It was his quarrel with his brother that rankled.

Davydd had tried to be tactful, but Owain had flared up almost at once, pointing out scathingly that, as he was thirty-six whilst Davydd still lacked a fortnight till his seventeenth birthday, his battlefield experience was considerably greater than his brother’s. Davydd could not dispute that, but it did occur to him that Owain had fought two wars, one against their uncle Davydd and one against the English King, and he’d lost them both.

Davydd still felt that their campaign was being conducted in a haphazard, needlessly risky manner, lacking clear objectives. So far they’d plundered Llewelyn’s lands in Eiffionydd, to no great effect, and this morning they’d pillaged the abbey grange at Cwm, for Owain believed the Aberconwy monks to be too favorably inclined toward Llewelyn. But Davydd wondered what they’d accomplished, aside from scattering a flock of panicked sheep.

Pitched battles were rare in Wales, where warfare most commonly consisted of hit-and-run raids. It might well be that Llewelyn would yield before their show of force and offer terms; Davydd fervently hoped so. But he thought it was at least as likely that Llewelyn would choose to confront them. They had the greater numbers, but he would be able to choose the time and the terrain, and Davydd felt they should be taking more precautions, posting additional guards at night, sending out scouts to range farther afield. Suggestions that had seemed eminently sensible to him, but to Owain presumptuous enough to spark their most serious altercation, one that still smoldered after several hours of morose silence.

Rain had begun to fall again; the peaks of Bwlch Mawr and Mynydd Craig Goch were shrouded in grey mist. Owain could hear his men beginning to grumble; they’d soon have to call a halt. Glancing over his shoulder, he sighed. Davydd’s face was too expressive for his own good. So the lad was still brooding. He eased his stallion, waited for Davydd to catch up. “We’d best give some thought as to how we’ll be dividing Gwynedd. I’ll have all of Môn and Ll
n and Arfon, but the rest is up for the taking. Just remember, ere you put in your bid, that we must make some provisions for Rhodri, too.”

“Do you mean to leave nothing to Llewelyn, then?”

Owain smiled. “I’d leave him enough ground to be buried in, I suppose.”

Davydd swung about in the saddle. For certes, Owain was jesting…or was he? “I do not want Llewelyn killed!”

Owain forgot at times just how young the boy was. “I do not seek Llelo’s death. But I know what can happen on a battlefield. This is no game, Davydd.” Drawing rein, he reached over, put his hand on his brother’s arm. “I thought you wanted this, lad. I thought you wanted what is rightfully yours.”

“I do! But…but I would that there was another way.”

“There is not,” Owain said, then raised his hand for silence, frowning. By now Davydd heard it, too. Heads were turning, men straining to see. One of their scouts was galloping toward them, gesturing wildly.

“There’s an army at the head of the pass, my lord,” he gasped. “Your brother’s army, waiting to do battle!”

There was a moment of stunned silence, and then all within earshot began talking at once. Owain’s captains were shouting questions, but his response was drowned out by a sudden clap of thunder. Davydd’s mount shied as thunder sounded again, directly overhead this time, and he had to waste precious minutes calming the animal before he was able to push through to his brother’s side.

“Owain, you’ve got to send a man out with a flag of truce, offer to talk!”

Owain looked at him as if he’d lost his senses. “Talk? I’ll let my sword do my talking for me!”

“Owain, we’ve got to gain time! Our men are not ready to fight. They need to get their blood stirred up first, you know they do. Send word to Llewelyn that you want to negotiate, to—”

“And have Llelo think I fear him? I’d be damned first!”

“Owain, wait—” Davydd was never to know, though, if he might have prevailed, for Llewelyn had no intention of giving them the time they so needed. Even as they argued, his army was advancing. Owain swung his mount about, began to shout commands. Davydd found himself alone, forgotten.

Not knowing what else to do, he sought to follow his brother. But it was his stallion’s first battle, too. Already unnerved by the storm, the horse panicked at sight of the running, yelling men. It swerved suddenly, then bucked, and Davydd, taken by surprise, went flying over its head.

His first reaction was utter disbelief; he could not even remember the last time he’d been thrown from a horse. He shouted, but the stallion was already in full flight from the battlefield. Becoming aware of his danger, Davydd scrambled to his feet, unsheathing his sword.

He was shocked by what he saw. He had been prepared for a battle to be violent and bloody, but not so chaotic. Gazing about him at this seething mass of men, he wondered despairingly how he could even tell who was the enemy. Only lords wore heraldic devices; so who fought for Owain and who for Llewelyn?

He moved forward, caught up in the current. The rain was coming down heavily now, and the ground was growing slippery; men were losing their footing, stumbling in the muddy marsh grass. From the corner of his eye, Davydd saw a man fall. Before he could regain his feet, another soldier was astride him, wielding an axe. Davydd yelled and the man whirled to meet this new threat. As his would-be victim rolled out of range, he swung at Davydd; the blade sliced through the air only inches from Davydd’s helmet. He was raising the axe again when Davydd’s sword thrust through his leather gambeson, up under his ribs.

Davydd was no stranger to death; he’d seen executions, and once, a man murdered in a London street brawl. But those deaths lacked the awful intimacy, the immediacy of the battlefield. Splattered by the blood of the man he’d just stabbed, Davydd had to fight back a sudden queasiness. But at the same time, he felt a surge of pride. He’d matched his wits and his training and his courage against another man, and he’d won.

“My lord!” The soldier he’d saved was beside him now, grinning his gratitude. Only then did Davydd recognize him as one of their sentries, but that was something he meant to keep to himself. If the sentry survived the battle, he’d tell and retell the tale of his rescue. It never occurred to Davydd that he himself might not survive.

The ground squished under his feet, for they were well away from the road by now. Davydd knew there were extensive marshes between Mynydd Cenin and Bwlch Mawr. There were patches of quicksand, too, but he tried not to think of that. Sheets of silver rain were obscuring visibility; he could only speculate as to the whereabouts—or the well-being—of Owain and Llewelyn. Lightning seared the sky to the west, and he ran his hand uneasily along the metal links of his hauberk. As if he did not have enough worries at the moment!

A soldier was bearing down upon him, sword already well-bloodied. Davydd parried the man’s thrust, numbing his arm from wrist to elbow. The soldier staggered, regained his balance and lunged again. Again Davydd deflected the blow. He had always begrudged those tedious hours of tiltyard practice. Now he had only a moment to thank God for them, and then the man was once more pressing the attack.

They circled cautiously. When Davydd swung, his sword encountered only air, for the other man was as quick as a ferret. They were so intent upon the stalk that they didn’t realize the ground was becoming soft, not until the soldier took a backward step and found himself sinking up to his knees. He spat out a startled oath, and when he looked at Davydd, for the first time there was fear on his face.

Davydd was no longer a threat, though; he, too, was mired in the thick, viscous mud. He experienced a flash of instinctive panic, but froze until it passed, until he could slowly start to work his way back to firm ground. By the time he had extricated himself, he was panting, relieved out of all proportion to the danger posed by the quavering, sodden sands.

The soldier had also kept his head, and together they struggled back onto solid footing. For a moment or two they eyed each other warily, but they’d both lost the stomach for further killing. The soldier, moreover, was now looking beyond Davydd’s height and man’s build, seeing the boy.

“Get away whilst you still can, lad,” he said. “There is no madness like dying for a cause already lost.”

“Lost?” Davydd frowned, and the soldier gestured impatiently.

“Look around you. Owain ap Gruffydd’s men are on the run. Looting of bodies has begun, the surest sign yet that it’s done, and no surprise, for my lord Llewelyn is twice the soldier Owain could ever hope to be.” With that, he turned away, seeking to gain what he, too, could from the dead.

Davydd pulled off his helmet, ran his hand through his sweat-soaked hair. The sky was clearing; the storm had passed them by. So, it seemed, had the battle. His brother’s army—what was left of it—was in flight, some wading across the shallows of the River Desoch, some scattering toward the wooded slopes of Bwlch Mawr, others bogged down in the rain-drenched marshlands, easy prey for Llewelyn’s pursuing soldiers. Davydd found himself alone on a muddy field with the dead, the dying, and the looters. No one paid him any mind, and he did not know what to do next. At last he decided to head west, for there was a monastery a few miles away at Clynnog. Once there, he could then try to reach his own lands down in Ll
n. After that? He had no idea.