The Brothers of Gwynedd (21 page)

  "There were but two heirs here," I said, "when the Lord David your uncle died." Though truth to tell I might have gone further, and said that there was but one. "The council recommended them to share equally and rule Gwynedd together, and they consented, and so they have done to this day. All of which you know, so why torment me with such questions when I am busy?"

  "If we other two were elsewhere," he said, "that was no fault of ours, and should cost us none of our rights. And seeing we were elsewhere, was our fosterage with King Henry so different from any lawful Welsh fostering in the old days, when young princes were put out to grow up with lordly families? When it came to the succession to a crown, do you think every such lord did not back his own fosterling for the honour, and every fosterling make play with his foster-father's power and influence? Supposing I chose to call my royal foster-father to back my claim? And my princely brother, newly made lord of most of the borderlands?"

  His voice was wilful, soft and mischievous, and I knew he was but plaguing me. But there was a kind of restless malevolence in such teasing that vexed me, as much for his sake as my own, for it showed all too well he was not happy. So I put down my pen with a sigh, and turned to him.

  "Well, I see you must talk out your fill of nonsense, for you mean none of it. Both you and Rhodri were set up with very reasonable portions as soon as you came back to Gwynedd. You hold the lands your father held before you—"

  "A part of them," he said…

  "True, then, let us be exact, a part of them. Good land, however, richer than the rocks of Eryri. I thought you were very happy with Cymydmaen," I said, "what has made you so restless suddenly with your lot?"

  "Oh, Samson," he said, twisting his shoulders impatiently, "I am cramped! So narrow and poor a life, how can I settle to it? I could do so much! I know what is in me, and I want my due."

  "Have you spoken of this to your brothers?" I asked him.

  "Oh, Samson, do you not see I need your good word there? Llewelyn will listen to you, if you speak for me."

  I still did not believe that this was anything more than a black mood of frustration in him, one of the last echoes of his discontent when he remembered London and the glories of that court. Surely he needed to be rid of it, and as well pour it out upon me as venture a rougher welcome from his elders. But his need would be met when he had cleansed his breast at my expense, and slept off this evening's wine, which, as I knew, he did lightly and vigorously, rising fresh as a lark in the early morning. So I told him simply that I would not be his advocate, because I was not of his party, much as I loved him. I said that neither his plea nor mine would move Llewelyn, for reason enough, because he dreaded and would resist to his last breath the further partition of Gwynedd, which he felt in his heart and blood must be one to survive. I said that the dismemberment of the land, into parcels princed but locally and with no outward eye, would mean nothing but the sly swallowing of each portion in turn by England, until all were devoured. Which could mean nothing but loss and ruin to all. I said that only a single, united Wales could hold its own, in the end, with an England perhaps equally subject to faction, but infinitely stronger, not in courage or grandeur, but in resources of food, materials, weapons and men. I told him, lastly, that Llewelyn had once asserted in practical fashion his own faith in this great, hopeful unity, when it meant that he accepted a lesser part, and surrendered his father's legal right, and his own after it, to fight loyally for the uncle who dispossessed them. And I said that in like manner he, David, might most honourably stand to it as captain of the household guard to Llewelyn now, for the present penteulu was growing elderly, and there was no one on earth I would rather see keeping my lord's head than this, his favourite brother, and my own breast-brother.

  By the time I had ended this, and I am ashamed of it when I remember, my right hand was softly reaching again for my pen, and my left was smoothing the parchment and turning it stealthily, ready to continue writing. Which, though he never lowered his great harebell-blue eyes from my face, nevertheless he saw. He had listened unmoving to every word I had said to him, those eyes devouring me, and though I swear he had not so much as quivered, yet he seemed to have drawn back from me very slowly, by some foot or so of charged air, and to have receded into shadow. I remember now his face fronting me, the flush of wine misted over in shade, the broad, high bones of his cheeks and the narrowed, ardent angles of his jaw touched by gleams of light from the torches, and those eyes, like blue lakes, their depths concealed behind the shallow reflection of the sun.

  "Well," he said, "well! I have listened dutifully, have I not? I see you are his man." He had ever a very low and beguiling voice, and used it like an instrument of music. "Well, I do believe you honest towards us all," he said, "and I will think of what you have said. But I should never have plagued you so, and I will no more. You may go on with your work now."

  And he got up from his place beside me, and turned to the doorway. And truly I put down my pen, confounded, and would have called him back if I could, though I did not know why. For he went very gently and serenely, as though he had bled out of him all those humours that tortured him and disquieted him. And in the doorway he turned, and smiled back at me with all his youthful sweetness, and said:

  "My brother is a lucky man!"

  And with that he went out from me. And the next day he rode for Cymydmaen with all his retinue, gaily as ever, and kissed me on departing, very warmly. He said not a word of what had passed between us, and he embraced Llewelyn with particular fervour and affection.

  It was past Easter before I saw him again.

In the spring Owen Goch came visiting to Aber twice. On the second occasion, shortly after the Easter feast, David also rode up from Neigwl to join us for some days, in his best and most dutiful humour, full of his activities in his own lands, and willing to ask for advice and listen to it when given. It was not until after he had left us again that the quarrel broke out between Owen and Llewelyn that altered everything in our lives. The boy himself had raised not a word of any grievance, nor seemed to be cherishing any, rather to have put away from him all his regrets for his English glories, and to be bending all his energies to the right running of those lands he held. He was gone, and we were merry enough in hall at the day's end when Owen leaned to my lord, and said suddenly:

  "These young brothers of ours—have we done right by them? I tell you, I am not easy in my mind."

  Llewelyn was somewhat surprised to have such a subject launched out of a clear sky, and gave him a long, considering look, though he was smiling. "Taking things all in all," he said, untroubled, "we did exceedingly well by them. We kept, between us, something to bestow on them, at least, and have kept them undisturbed in the possession of it ever since. They might have been still landless and in exile. I am by no means ashamed of my part. You must weigh your own conscience, mine's light as air."

  I am sure he meant no reference to old quarrels and jealousies, but his tone had a certain bite, for he anticipated what was in the wind. But Owen took quick offence, and flamed as red as his hair.

  "We have been told before, brother, of your exploits in the October war, while the rest of us sat by good roaring fires eating King Henry's meat. That's old history—or old legend, I doubt! There needs no repetition of that story here. Leave your praise to the bards, who do it with a better grace. I am talking of justice."

  "God's life!" said Llewelyn, laughing. "I meant no such vaunt, as you should know. You and I between us, I said, have secured them the undisturbed possession of what is theirs, whether by fighting or good husbandry or sound policies, what does it matter? You say, have we done right by them. I say, we have. We—not I!"

  "But I think not," said Owen, jutting his great jaw. "And it's time we spoke of it now in earnest, for they're no longer boys under tutelage, but young men grown, and will be in need of proper endowment, fitting their rank as princes ready to marry and father families. What's one commote, even the fattest? It belittles their birth to have so poor an establishment."

  "It belittles mine," said Llewelyn, looking far past his brother, and narrowing his deep eyes upon a distance I could only guess at, "to sit here squeezed into the narrow measure of Gwynedd beyond Conway. Well, it seems it is not the lot of any son of Griffith to know content. What is it you want of me?"

  "Not here," said Owen Goch, and looked about him with meaning, for I was but two places from my lord's right hand, and Goronwy as near on the other side of them, and chaplain and chamberlain close, and half the household guard and the retainers in the lower pan of the hall within earshot. There was noise and talk enough under the smoky timbers of the roof to cover the conversation at the high table, but Owen knew the power of his own voice when his temper was inflamed, and wanted no public dispute yet. Nor, I thought, did he yet intend to draw in the judge of the court, until he had sounded out his brother and had some sort of understanding with him. For if they two agreed, the more open discussion could be decorous and peaceable, and the officers and councillors would listen with respect, even if they demurred. For those two brothers, even the hotter and less governable, had practised this manner of restraint with success now for eight years, though they loved each other no better than the first day. Llewelyn was right, saying that between them they had preserved what could be preserved of Gwynedd, and that was great credit to Owen, for he was the one who took most hurt from containing his passions.

  "Not here," said Owen, "but in private."

  "Very well," said Llewelyn, "we'll withdraw early."

  He waited only for the harper to make an end of his playing, and the wine to circulate freely at the end of the meal, and then made a sign to the silentiary, who struck the pillar of the hall opposite the royal seat with his gavel, and signified that the princes desired to retire. And the hall rose to pay respect to the brothers as they left the high table and withdrew into Llewelyn's private chamber.

  "Come with us, Samson," said my lord, passing by my place. "Let us have a witness."

  I would as lief he had chosen some other for the honour, but I knew why he did not. There was no other man in that court who knew what I knew about the first meeting of those two at Aber. Things could be said before me, if it came to the worst, that must not be heard, for Gwynedd's sake, by Goronwy or any other. Never unless the times changed for us all, and Gwynedd grew too strong to be torn by any minor dissensions. So I followed into the inner room, and closed the heavy door upon the renewed hubbub of the hall, drawing the curtain over it to shut out even the notes of the harp.

  "Now," said Llewelyn, "say your say, in as few words as you will."

  There was wine set for them on a table there, and drinking horns, and the candlebearer had made haste to place lights at their coming. To justify, in some sort, my presence, and signify that I was a servant in formal attendance, I served them with wine, and drew back into shadow from the lighted place where they sat down. There was a small fire of split logs in a brazier, for the April night was chilly, and the kernel of flame and the scented curl of smoke made a barrier between them.

  "We are four brothers," said Owen, "of whom all have rights in law. When you and I parted Gwynedd between us there was no other here to dispute our rights, but that time is past. We are at peace, and our brothers wait for us to do them justice. I want a fit and proper partition of our common inheritance, fair shares for all."

  "I admire," said Llewelyn, "your generosity, but not your wisdom. Are you willing, then, to give away half of what you hold? Or have you in mind that I should surrender all?"

  "It would mean each of us surrendering some part of our holding," said Owen. "It need scarcely be half. But it is not right or just that David and Rhodri should have only the crumbs, and I say the whole of Gwynedd must be divided afresh."

  "And which of them," Llewelyn asked shrewdly, "put you up to be spokesman? And what reward did he propose for you, to compensate for what you will be losing?"

  Owen began to fume, and to drink more deeply to feed his fire. "I need no

prompting," he said haughtily, "to show me where I am compounding injustice. I know the old law, and so do you, though you may close your eyes against it. I say there must be a proper partition made."

  Llewelyn laid down his drinking-horn with a steady hand. "And I say this land shall be parcelled out no more. This endless division and redivision is the ruin of Wales and the delight of her enemies, since they can feed fat on one commote after another, while every little princeling shivers and clings to his own maenol, trusting to be spared while he lets his neighbour be dispossessed, and fool enough not to see it will be his turn next. My answer is no. Nor now nor ever at any future time will I be party to dismembering my land."