Falls the Shadow (44 page)

As it threaded its serpentine way through the marshes, the river gained in silt what it lacked in depth, and its color was an unappealing yellow-brown. But Davydd was too thirsty to care. Kneeling, he cupped the brackish water in his hands, drank greedily.

“Cadell, that’s him!”

“You’re daft, man! He’s a lord, would be mounted.”

“I’m telling you, it’s him. I’ve seen him often enough to know!”

Davydd did not like the sound of that. He jumped to his feet and spun around. Two men were approaching him, one from each side. He took an instinctive step backward, and nearly slid down the embankment into the river.

“Careful, lad!” One of the men was reaching out, as if to offer a hand, but retreated when Davydd raised his sword. “We mean you no harm, God’s truth! Our lord has promised a gold ring to the man who sees to your safety.”

“Llewelyn did that?” Davydd was startled enough to let down his guard. Both men nodded vigorously, and he felt a sudden pang of remorse, remembering Owain’s callous joking about graves. They saw his hesitation and the younger one held out his hand. It was a gesture as disarming as it was courageous, and Davydd impulsively lowered his sword, then offered it, hilt first.

They accepted it gravely, and for a moment all three of them took pleasure in the solemn formality of surrender, evoking as it did echoes of those tales told around campfires and winter hearths, tales of chivalry rooted in the Welsh legends of Arthur and his knights of the Table Round. Then the older soldier let out a gleeful whoop, clapped his companion on the back. “You stay here, Cadell, whilst I fetch our lord!”

He was off like a shot. Cadell looked suddenly uncertain. Glancing shyly at Davydd, he asked, “Have I your word, my lord, that you’ll not try to flee?” Much relieved when Davydd nodded, he unfastened a flask from his belt, passed it politely to Davydd.

Sitting down on the river bank, they shared the flask, and Davydd found himself quaffing the warm ale as if it were vintage wine. Cadell was very young himself, and somewhat awed, for he’d never expected to be in such intimacy with one of his Princes. “This was my first battle,” he confessed, “and I cannot say I fancied it much. It was not at all as I thought it would be.”

Davydd reclaimed the flask. “The first time I lay with a whore,” he said, “that was a letdown, too. I wondered afterward why men craved women’s flesh more than meat or mead. But it did not take long to develop a taste for it. Mayhap it is the same with battles.”

Cadell laughed. “War and women…they both do heat the blood for certes. But between the bed and the battlefield, it’s not much of a choice. I know a lass called Enid who can light a bonfire just by…”

Davydd smiled, but he was no longer listening. He was thinking of the coming confrontation with his brother. Llewelyn was the very last man in Christendom whom he wanted to face right now. With that realization, he began to think of ways to avoid it, shooting Cadell a sideways, appraising look. No longer two against one. Moreover, his identity was in itself an invincible shield; Cadell would never dare to draw a sword upon his lord’s brother. He rose, stretched as casually as he could, and then reached over, snatched up his sword.

Cadell at once tensed. “What is it? Where do you go?”

“I just remembered a pressing need to be elsewhere. Convey my regrets to Llewelyn.”

But what Davydd had not anticipated was Cadell’s outrage. Jumping up, he cried, “You gave me your sworn word!”

Davydd shrugged, then leveled the sword. “That is far enough,” he warned. Cadell paid him no heed, continued to advance, and Davydd discovered that he could not thrust his blade into the other youth’s belly. With an oath, he flung the sword aside, and swung at Cadell. The blow never connected; Cadell was quicker than he looked, and as he ducked, Davydd’s fist just brushed his chin. They traded punches, then grappled until Cadell slipped in the wet grass, dragging Davydd down with him.

They rolled about, pummeling each other. Davydd’s was the greater weight and he was eventually able to pin Cadell down. “Will you yield?” he panted, but Cadell stubbornly shook his head.

“You gave me your word,” he repeated, as if nothing else mattered, and Davydd swore again. Neither he nor Cadell had realized they’d gathered an audience, not until Davydd turned his head, caught a glimpse of muddied boots. He struggled to sit up, his heart thudding wildly, for he already knew what he would see. The stallion was a smoke-grey, well lathered, its mane smeared with blood, Llewelyn’s favorite destrier. Davydd’s breath froze in the seconds before he forced himself to meet his brother’s eyes. Llewelyn’s face was shadowed by his helmet; he sat motionless on the grey stallion, staring down at Davydd, saying nothing, until the silence itself became more intolerable to Davydd than any reproaches Llewelyn could make.

He got slowly to his feet, began to walk toward Llewelyn. He made no attempt, though, to wipe the mud from his face, hoping it might camouflage some of the hot color burning his cheeks and throat. “I’ve always heard tales,” he said, “about men emerging from battle covered with glory. But I cannot remember anyone ever mentioning mud!”

He’d long ago learned that humor was a most effective defense, particularly with Llewelyn; amusement, no less than charity, covered a multitude of sins. But now he searched his brother’s face in vain, could find not the least glimmer of a smile, and as they looked at each other, Davydd began to realize that he had at last committed an offense which could not be laughed away.

The rain had not dissipated the heat, and Llewelyn’s tent was stifling. When Davydd rose, the guards tensed, watching him intently as he crossed to a coffer. Picking up a flask, he retraced his steps, thrust it at his brother. “Drink,” he said. “If ever we had an excuse to get drunk, it’s now.”

Owain accepted the flask with the indifference that had characterized his every act since the moment of his capture. Still utterly stunned by the magnitude of his defeat, he seemed in a state of shock, and the grey eyes that now focused upon Davydd were dulled by disbelief. “I will never understand,” he said, “how God could so favor Llelo.”

Davydd bit back the tart reply that God usually favored the better battle commander. “It could be worse,” he pointed out. “You could have been horribly maimed, skewered through like a stuck pig and left for dead with your guts spilling out into the mud. There are worse things to lose than a battle, Owain—like your head, or Jesú forfend, your privy member!” His mock shudder was not entirely feigned. He grinned, then said, more seriously, “At least you are alive, Owain.”

Owain gave him a sourly patronizing smile. “For the moment,” he said, investing his words with such ominous portent that Davydd lost patience.

“For the love of Christ, Owain! You cannot truly believe Llewelyn would have you put to death?”

At that moment, the tent flap was pulled aside and Llewelyn entered, followed by Goronwy ab Ednyved. At sight of his brother, Davydd cried, “Tell him, Llewelyn. Tell him his life is in no danger!”

Llewelyn’s eyes cut toward Owain. “I am not Cain,” he said tersely. Davydd was about to utter a triumphant “I told you so” when Llewelyn added, “You’d best make yourself ready, Owain. Your guards are waiting to escort you to Dolbadarn Castle.”

Owain rose to his feet. “Post your guards,” he said. “It will avail you naught, for your prison will not hold me for long.”

Llewelyn merely shrugged, and Davydd glanced uneasily from one to the other. The enmity between his brothers had always been a secret source of amusement to him, and it had fed his sense of superiority that Llewelyn should nurture childhood grudges, that Owain should obstinately cling to the use of “Llelo” as if a boy’s name somehow diminished his brother’s manhood. Davydd had long ago learned how to turn their rivalry to his own advantage, had become adroit at playing them off against each other to his benefit. But his fondness for them both was genuine, and only now was he realizing how greatly he’d underestimated the depths of their rancor.

“How long do you mean to keep Owain at Dolbadarn?” he demanded, had his answer in Llewelyn’s silence. “My God, Llewelyn, you cannot—”

“Davydd!” Owain grabbed his arm, swung him around. “Do not beg for me,” he said fiercely, “not now, not ever!”

“But it is my fault!”

“No.” Owain’s grip loosened; he shifted his hands to Davydd’s shoulders. “No, lad,” he repeated, “it is not. I knew the stakes even if you did not.”

Davydd did not know what to say, and watched mutely as Owain followed his guards from the tent. Llewelyn ignored his departure, keeping his eyes upon his younger brother. Davydd reached for Owain’s forgotten flask, drank until he’d gotten his bravado back.

“What now? What happens to me? Am I to be imprisoned, too?”

“Yes.”

Davydd dropped the flask. “For how long?”

“That depends upon you, Davydd. I’ll release you as soon as I can be sure you comprehend the consequences of treason.”

Davydd flushed. “It is not treason to claim what is rightfully mine!”

“It is,” Llewelyn said, “when you lose.”

He gestured and the guards moved forward. Davydd did not balk, but as they led him from the tent, he shouted defiantly, “I’ll never say I’m sorry, never! My only regret is that we lost!”

Llewelyn said nothing. For a time, neither did Goronwy. Bending down, he retrieved the flask, handed it without comment to Llewelyn. “You ought not to have promised him his freedom,” he said at last. “Better to have kept him in suspense.”

“I know,” Llewelyn admitted. “But I had to give him that reassurance, Goronwy. You see,” he said softly, “beneath all that bluster, he was afraid.”

Although Anian, the Abbot of the Cistercian abbey of Aberconwy, was both friend and ally to Llewelyn, he was not pleased to be told that Llewelyn had just ridden into the abbey garth. The abbey had benefited in no small measure from the favor of its greatest patron, Llewelyn Fawr. It was he who had generously absolved the White Monks of the need to entertain the princes of Gwynedd or their households. As no prince traveled without a large retinue, this was no insignificant saving to the abbey larders. But it was a privilege rarely invoked, for abbots were not political innocents—if they were, they weren’t abbots—and there was nothing politic in refusing hospitality to one’s liege lord. Anian could only hope that Llewelyn’s entourage would not be too numerous, or too hungry.

He forgot all about the abbey larders, though, at sight of the woman. He was too pragmatic to deny entry to his Prince’s concubine, but he was enough of a moralist to want to, and he could not help giving Llewelyn a look of wordless reproach. When he did, Llewelyn burst out laughing.

“I know how heartsick you’ll be,” he bantered, “but we cannot accept your hospitality. We’re on our way down the Conwy valley to Trefriw, where I have a hunting lodge.”

Anian laughed, too, from sheer relief. “How then may we serve you, my lord?”

Llewelyn’s smile faded. “I’ve come to visit my grandfather’s tomb.”

“Your lord father is buried here, too, is he not?”

Llewelyn nodded. “The English King finally gave his consent and he lies now where he belongs, with his kinsmen.”

Eurwen arched a brow. “I do hope he does not lie too close to your uncle Davydd,” she murmured slyly, “else they’d get precious little Eternal Peace.”

Llewelyn grinned, slid his arm around her waist as they entered the abbey. The women in his life were usually slim and dark, sweet-tempered bedmates who evoked unconscious echoes of the gentle Melangell. Eurwen was an anomaly, therefore, as she was cheerful and cheeky, uncommonly tall for a woman, with a vigorous brisk stride, a buxom hour-glass figure, and masses of thick, tawny hair which more than did justice to her name, for “Eurwen” was derived from the Welsh word for “gold.” Llewelyn was fonder of her than he had yet to admit, and he was suddenly glad that she was here with him, sharing the culmination of his victory in the mountain pass at Bwlch Mawr.

Eurwen seemed to sense his mood, for she came to a sudden halt, then said with unwonted seriousness, “I think your grandfather would be very proud of you this day.”

Llewelyn nodded. “Yes,” he agreed softly, “I think he would.”

The abbey was not utterly dark, for the Cistercians believed stained-glass windows to be sinfully ornate. But coming in from sun-dazzling daylight, Llewelyn and Eurwen were momentarily blinded. They did not see the woman standing in the shadows of the choir, and they both jumped when she suddenly spoke.

“I knew you’d come here sooner or later,” she said.

As she stepped forward, Eurwen understood why they’d not noticed her, for she wore, like a cloak of invisibility, the stark black of mourning. She wondered who this aging widow was, that she dared to speak to Llewelyn with such familiarity, and then the woman said, “Get rid of your harlot. We need to talk.”

Eurwen gave a gasp of pure outrage, started indignantly down the nave. But Llewelyn put a restraining hand on her arm. “Your grievance is with me. Mother,” he said coldly, “not with Eurwen. Do not take out your anger on her.”

Eurwen’s eyes widened. She glanced quickly at Llewelyn, then at Senena. “I’ll await you in the cloisters, my lord.” He nodded and she moved reluctantly up the aisle, casting numerous glances back over her shoulder.

“I demand that you free your brothers. I want you to give the order for their release now, this very day.”

“I will release Davydd right gladly—once he’s shown he can be trusted. I cannot free Owain, and you well know it, Mother.”

Senena’s hand closed upon his arm. “What if I can persuade Owain to agree to your terms?”

“Even if—allowing for miracles—you did get him to agree, he’d never hold to it. Once free, he’d devote every waking hour to vengeance, and that, too, you know.”

Llewelyn looked for a long moment into his mother’s face. “Wales is not yet whole,” he said. “All of Gwynedd east of the Conwy still lies in English control. I mean to remedy that, to regain what was stolen from us at Woodstock. But I cannot fight the English and Owain, too, not if I can help it—and I can.”