The Brothers of Gwynedd (138 page)

  "At least," said Llewelyn, "when he is at last satisfied that I approach treaties in good faith, he makes handsome acknowledgement, not grudgingly or by halves. He is doing me all the honour he can, and making a measure of amends to Eleanor. It would be churlish to resent even heavy-handed patronage, when it springs from goodwill and a wish for reconciliation all round."

  But for my part, though I understood his acceptance and pleasure, and his assumption that Edward's kindness meant what it purported to mean, I could not help remembering David's warning, and seeing the very choice of St. Edward's day as the king's way of setting his seal upon bride and bridegroom alike, and marking them for his, and all the lavish gifts and giving as the price he was willing to pay to purchase them, a price for which he expected full value, and would exact it if he failed to get it. Try as I would, I could not get this view of the king's proceedings out of my mind, but neither could I reject Llewelyn's view. It seemed to me that both might be true. Edward would not be the first nor the last to assert possession and manipulate people like dolls, as David had said, without himself fully realising what his true purpose was. It did not necessarily mean that his professed friendship was false, or his motives all unworthy.

  Llewelyn took the generous view because of his own generosity, that knew no tethered giving, and scorned to buy and sell favours. But David, who could not rule his own life or find his own way, yet saw deeper into other men than did his brother.

  It is true that there were other causes for disquiet concerning Edward's attitudes. He still had Amaury de Montfort in close imprisonment, together with several of the gentlemen of Eleanor's household, even now, when he was giving his blessing to the marriage which was the sole cause of their captivity. How could he justify himself? Llewelyn thought and said, and it may be truly, that Edward surely nursed some lingering suspicion that Amaury, even though he was not present, had contributed to the lasting hatred that brought about the death of Henry of Almain, and that was the cause of his lasting vindictiveness towards him. But what had those others done, knights and servants of Eleanor, and far removed from the crime at Viterbo? It was still some years before they all regained their liberty, after many, many prayers on their behalf.

  "Take what's offered," David had said, "and since he makes no conditions, force him to stand to that."

  Llewelyn said: "Let us take what he gives—all the more for fear it may be withdrawn—and then bid for what has not been offered us."

  In this they seemed not so far apart. Yet David spoke of putting up his own price, Llewelyn of pressing for the deliverance of others. There was not the meanest in Eleanor's service that he did not feel for as for his own. But the first consideration was the deliverance of Eleanor.

  As though he had been following the pilgrimage within my mind, Llewelyn beside me said: "We have been a great journey, you and I, Samson, since first you came into Aber with Owen Goch, to ward off his dagger from my back." We were riding a little ahead of his retinue, or he would not have spoken of that attempt. He had never said word of it to any but me. "But I doubt we have but ridden a great circle," he said, "to come back to where we began."

  I said no. For he was still prince of Wales, still had vassals, still enjoyed the recognition of his right within his own land by the crown of England, none of which was true when we began. And then we journeyed with our faces set towards a battle, but now towards a wedding-feast.

  "It is true," he said, his face kindling. "I have been taking too much upon myself. There is also a future, and a new generation comes with it. It may be my part will have been done, and my discharge honourably earned, when my son is born, out of the line of Gwynedd and out of that blood of hers, better than royal. Why should we try to rob those who come after us of their struggle and their glory? If I can hold what I still have, and hand it on to him undiminished for the ground of his own endeavour, that will be enough for me."

In Worcester, which is a very gracious town on the bank of the Severn, and blessed with many noble houses, the king's court was established in the bishop's palace, and the attendants of his guard in the castle, while the prince was lodged in the guesthouses of the monastic college. As soon as we were installed there, Llewelyn went to attend the king, and I to see if by any chance I could get word whether David and his family were also come to grace the wedding-day. I thought it most likely that Edward would expect his attendance, and certainly frown upon his absence, for if it was the royal policy to pacify and reconcile Wales with England and brother with brother, he would not tolerate the frustration of his plans by one he considered so deep in his debt. The retort at Rhuddlan may have been a little too sharp, but at least it had accorded well enough with what Edward now seemed to intend. Too blatant a recoil in the other direction would not be so coolly accepted.

  I went out into the court of the college, and sought for anyone I might know, going or coming about the palace, and walking in the cloister, a little fatter and a little greyer but always as smooth and neat as of old, I met Cynan.

  There was seldom anything to be asked about the movements of the court and courtiers that Cynan could not answer. We went out into the garth, where there was some sunshine and little wind, and sat for a while together, while he told me all the gossip of the palace.

  "Surely he's here," he said, when I asked him of David. "Who is not here? The prince will have enough noble witnesses. Not only Edward and his queen, but the king of Scots into the bargain, as well as all the officers of the realm. King Alexander is being wooed and urged to renew the homage he made to the English crown long ago. And doubtless he will, but only by way of putting himself under the roof of Edward's power, though his Grace would like more, and has a way of speaking of the act of homage as "for the kingdom of Scotland," as though Alexander held it from him and was his vassal-in-chief like any other magnate. At least he has not ventured to attempt so much against the prince of Wales. Not yet! But bear it in mind, bear it in mind! Appetite grows with tasty food, and the larger the man, the more food he requires."

  I said even he might have some trouble swallowing the crags of Snowdon, but that, to do him justice, he seemed to have no ambitions now in that direction. His intentions had never seemed more reasonable and friendly.

  "True," said Cynan, spreading his palms over his firm round belly, "but I have known more convincing doves. Still, speak as we find! He has other things on his mind to keep him busy. Archbishop Kilwardby was called to be cardinal-bishop of Porto in the summer, the king seized his opportunity to press Bishop Burnell's claims again, and this time the monks of Canterbury took good heed in what waters their best fish would be caught, and voted as he wanted them to vote, and he has sent a strong mission to Rome to urge his chancellor's case, but it seems that Pope Nicholas is in no hurry to commit himself. I judge the pontiff thinks they make a formidable enough team as they are, and all he has to enforce his own views here is this appointment to Canterbury. He'd be a fool to throw away his one weapon. Edward won't get his way."

  I asked if Burnell himself wanted the primacy, for able though he was, well capable of filling that post to good effect, he might find himself less free to act, and more directly responsible to Rome, than in his profitable double calling.

  "Better hope for him to stay where he is," said Cynan. "If any man has influence on the king, he has, and he's well-disposed and shrewd, he could be a useful friend yet. But you were asking about David. He's lodged in the town with his lady, at St. Wulstan's hospice, though himself he's usually about the king's presence. It's not far, down hill from the gate and you'll find it."

  "He has the children with him?" I asked.

  "The whole brood. He gets beautiful, vigorous children," said Cynan appreciatively. "Strange how these things go! The king with all his health and strength fathers puny little creatures who sicken from birth. The girls survive, but the boys dwindle and die. He's lost two, and his third is a poor little wretch more often ill than well. And David's progeny come bursting into the world as pretty as flowers and as lusty as hound pups, and never look back."

  I left him still musing fatly in the cloister garth over the curious workings of providence, and went out into the town as he had directed me, to the old house Bishop Wulstan founded as a hospice for travellers. There were apartments there for many guests, and the courtyard and stables were full of comings and goings, and busy as a fair. Beyond, there was a small kitchen garden, and an enclosed court, and there I saw the three eldest of those same beautiful and lusty children playing with a half-grown cat belonging to the house, rolling a woollen ball for her to chase. But Cristin was not there, only a little nursemaid of sixteen years sat on the stone rim of the well sewing, and watching over the children.

  I asked her if Cristin was within, but she said that she was gone with the Lady Elizabeth to hear vespers, and afterwards to make some small alterations in the veil of the head-dress the queen had purchased in the town as a gift to the princess of Wales. For the people of Worcester were known for the making of fine fabrics and stuffs, and the quality of their brocades, and so was Cristin for the delicacy of her needlework.

  So I was disappointed, and yet I took heart even at knowing that she was well and valued, and close in Elizabeth's confidence as always. I turned back through the stable-yard to the gate, resigned to waiting until the morrow for a glimpse of her.

Llewelyn came from the king's audience, ate but very little and drank less and went in deep solemnity of mind to hear compline, and to spend some time in prayer after wards in the church. Now that he was come to the very eve of the apotheosis of his life, so strangely linked with the fall of his worldly fortunes, that balance hung in his mind like the consummation of a long pilgrimage, at once chastening and testing, and blissful reward. As he was without personal vanity, though he had a hot and devoted pride in his state and his land, so he accepted discipline and loss as a part of his human due, and probably earned, like the next man's. And as he possessed the true and assured humility of those who respect themselves and others, and ask no special favours, so the near approach of great happiness astonished and awed him, as being beyond his deserts, and demanding of him the utmost in generous effort by way of acknowledgement.