Falls the Shadow (14 page)

“Frequently,” he agreed, and kissed her.

Across the chamber, Henry and his chaplain drank their wine in morose silence. The chaplain was wretchedly sure that he had sinned in performing this marriage, and he dreaded facing his superiors in the Church, having nothing to offer them but the feeble excuse that he had not dared to say nay to his King. He had shuddered when Simon placed a gold band upon Nell’s finger, remembering another ring, one that pledged her to Our Lord Jesus Christ. No good could ever come of such a marriage; he did not doubt that Simon de Montfort and the Lady Nell would pay dearly for this day.

“My liege?” He cleared his throat awkwardly. “Will you be the one to inform my lord Archbishop of Canterbury?”

“No,” Henry said hastily. “The Earl of Leicester shall have that signal honor.” But he could take no comfort from that, for he knew the Archbishop would then demand to know how he could have permitted this marriage, how he could have allowed them to make of him a partner in their crime. He believed himself to be a good son of the Church, yet now he must risk the wrath of God, he must defend the indefensible.

And what of his council? His brother Richard? How outraged they would be, as much with him as with Simon and Nell. Henry hated confrontations; he knew there were men who thrived on discord and turmoil, but he was not one of them. Yet now, through no fault of his own, he found himself in the middle of a maelstrom. What, he wondered, was he to say? But what else could he have done? Let his sister shame them all by bearing a bastard child?

Simon and Nell were coming toward them, and Henry tried to find a passable smile. What was done was done, and this was Nell’s wedding day. He would not spoil it for her.

“I drink to your happiness,” he said, as heartily as he could, and held his wine cup aloft. The chaplain looked as if he’d been asked to quaff hemlock, but he gamely followed suit.

Henry kissed his sister on the cheek, but he could not help thinking that it was indecent for her to look so radiant, so joyous. Had she no conscience at all? His eyes shifted to his brother-in-law’s face; a dark face, boldly featured, it was the eyes men first noticed, the eyes of a hawk, Henry thought, telling himself that Simon was his friend, that nothing had changed.

“When do you sail for France, Simon?”

They had decided that Simon should go to Rome, plead his case in person before the Pope. But Simon now said, “Not for some weeks yet. Nell and I talked it over, and we think it best if I wait until our marriage is revealed in council, until the dust settles.” There was an involuntary, sardonic twist to his mouth at that last; he knew how Henry feared the uproar sure to follow, and as much as he wanted to be grateful for Henry’s support, he could not deny that he felt, too, a certain contempt for the other man’s timidity.

Henry was heartened by Simon’s decision to remain; he could value in others qualities he knew he himself lacked, and he’d long admired Simon’s coolness under fire. “To my sister,” he said, raising his wine cup again. “And to her husband. God keep you both in His favor.” And he tried very hard to convince himself that he did indeed wish them well, that he had truly forgiven them for their betrayal, and that he bore them no grudge for all the trouble they were about to bring upon him.

“If you take much longer, Ednyved, moss will be forming on our chess pieces.”

But Llewelyn’s prompting was in vain; Ednyved refused to be rushed. “All things come to pass in God’s time,” he said sententiously, continuing his painstaking scrutiny of the chessboard, and Llewelyn glanced over at Hunydd.

“He always says that when he’s losing,” he said, and Hunydd smiled. He’d not noticed her doing it, but he saw that she’d brought a bowl of fruit to the table; her concern for his comfort was as constant as it was unobtrusive.

“Did you tell Lord Ednyved the news about Lady Joanna’s sister?” she murmured, and Llewelyn returned her smile, his eyes lingering upon her face. She was Joanna’s age, many years widowed, a serenely handsome woman who occasionally put him in mind of Tangwystl, Gruffydd’s long-dead mother. He’d remained friends with Hunydd after their liaison was over; they were still friends, good friends who sometimes shared a bed. She had many qualities that Llewelyn admired; not the least of them was her utter lack of jealousy. She did not begrudge Joanna his heart, making mention of Joanna’s name now without the slightest hesitation, neither self-conscious nor resentful, for she was too wise a woman to cast herself as Joanna’s rival.

Ednyved reached for an apple. “What is the news about Nell?”

“I had a letter from Elen. She says that de Montfort was able to secure a dispensation from the Pope.”

Ednyved’s smile was sardonic. “I’d wager that cost him a right fair sum. But I suppose he feels it’s money well spent, and I daresay most of it was Nell’s!”

Llewelyn grinned. “I like Nell; I’ve always admired her pluck.” He began to peel an orange. “Elen says de Montfort will not be hastening back to England, though. That marriage stirred up so much turmoil that Nell and de Montfort thought it best if he was away for a while, giving tempers time to cool. I understood poor Henry took so much abuse that he retreated to the Tower, refused to come out!” There was in Llewelyn’s voice both detached amusement and faint sympathy, for while he had little respect for his royal brother-in-law, he did have a reluctant fondness for Henry; he’d often benefited from Henry’s heartfelt affection for Joanna.

“According to Elen,” he continued, “de Montfort has gone to aid his new brother-by-marriage, the Holy Roman Emperor, at the siege of Brescia. Marriage to Nell has suddenly given the man some truly illustrious kin, has it not? But he’ll be back ere the first frost for certes; Elen says Nell is with child.” Adding dryly, “To satisfy your unseemly curiosity, the babe is due in late November.”

Ednyved made an elaborate show of counting upon his fingers. “Nigh on eleven months. I suspect that will disappoint a great many people!”

Llewelyn was no longer listening; he’d cocked his head, looking toward the window. It was unshuttered, and there came clearly to them now the shrieks of seagulls, squabbling over the garbage dumped behind the kitchen. There came also the sound of arrival; horsemen had just ridden into the castle bailey. “That will be Davydd and Isabella,” he said. “They are due back today.”

Ednyved knew that Davydd had been down in South Wales, meeting with the Princes of Deheubarth, Rhys Mechyll and Maelgwn Fychan. Rhys and Maelgwn were the sons of Llewelyn’s former allies, and he thought, Llewelyn and I are outliving our friends as well as our enemies. But he was surprised by this mention of Isabella, for he knew no great passion burned between Davydd and his young English wife. “Did Davydd take his wife with him?”

“No, Isabella has been in South Wales for the past month, visiting her younger sisters. It was agreed upon that Davydd would escort her home once his council was done.” Llewelyn glanced expectantly at the door, hearing eager footsteps on the outer stairs. But it was not Davydd and Isabella who burst into the chamber; it was Llelo and Gruffydd.

Llewelyn was delighted, but also surprised. He’d sent Gruffydd word of his arrival at Cricieth, asked to see his grandson, and he’d been hopeful that Gruffydd would agree, for Cricieth was just fifteen miles from Gruffydd’s manor at Nefyn. He’d not expected, though, that Gruffydd would accompany the boy.

“We have good tidings, Grandpapa!” Lelo glanced back at his father. “Can I be the one to tell him, Papa?” and when Gruffydd nodded indulgently, he blurted out, “I have a baby brother!”

Gruffydd had told Llewelyn that Senena was not due till late August, but as Llewelyn’s eyes sought his son’s, Gruffydd grinned. “The babe was not willing to wait,” he said. “Last Wednesday eve, just after Vespers, Senena was brought to bed of a fine, healthy son.”

“That is welcome news, indeed.” Llewelyn smiled upon them both, remembering just in time to query politely, “And Senena?”

“She is well, Papa.” It had always irked Gruffydd that the brother he so detested should have borne the name of the most celebrated of Welsh saints, and he relished this opportunity to reclaim it for one of his own. “We named him Davydd.” Adding quite needlessly, “After the saint, of course.”

“He has reddish peach fuzz all over his head,” Llelo volunteered, “and at first he was all puckered up, like a prune.” His eyes had settled wistfully upon the orange in his grandfather’s hand, for oranges had to be imported from Spain, were considered rare delicacies. Llewelyn proved himself to be adroit at mind-reading; he separated the fruit into halves, passed one to Llelo, who gave him a grateful grin. “The wet nurse suckles him every three hours, Grandpapa, so he gets four meals a day!”

Hunydd was pouring drinks for them all, mead for the men and watered-down wine for Llelo. She handed the first cup to Gruffydd, offering her good wishes, and he smiled. He approved heartily of this bedmate of his father’s, although he probably would have approved of any woman who was not English and not Joanna.

As Gruffydd accepted Hunydd’s congratulations, Llewelyn looked thoughtfully at his grandson. The Welsh practice of partible succession—dividing all equally among a man’s sons—was in many ways a fairer system than the English one, which left all to the eldest son. But it was also a system to foster fratricide, for when a Welsh prince died, his sons inevitably fought each other for the succession, winner-take-all to the survivor; Llewelyn knew that his own uncommonly amicable relationship with his younger brother, Adda, had been possible only because of Adda’s lamed right leg. Llewelyn had long believed that Wales was ill served by a practice that so turned brother against brother, that so often fomented civil war, and he’d dared to defy centuries of tradition, naming Davydd as his sole heir. He was heartened now by Llelo’s delight in the birth of a baby brother; if change was to take root, what more fertile soil than childhood?

“It truly pleases you, Llelo, having a brother?” he asked, and Llelo edged closer.

“A baby brother,” he corrected, and then confessed, “It was never much fun, being the youngest. But I can look out for Davydd, teach him things—how to make a whistle from a water reed, how to catch frogs, how to make a fire without flint. And I can tell him scary stories at night, the ones my sister used to tell me ere she got married.” He grinned suddenly. “Then, too, now I will have someone to blame things on!”

Llewelyn laughed. “You sound as if you’ve given this much thought, lad.”

Llelo nodded. “Being a good brother will be easy, Grandpapa. I need only remember what Owain did—and then do the exact opposite!” He was still smiling, but Llewelyn was not taken in; in this past year, he’d learned that Llelo often offered bald truths camouflaged as jests. He reached out, rumpled the boy’s hair, and found himself thinking of an old Welsh proverb. Ni cherir yn llwyr oni ddelo’r w
r. There will be no loving completely till the grandchild comes.

“I have another riddle for you, Grandpapa. Why do men make the oven in the town?” Llelo waited expectantly, and when Llewelyn shook his head, he said triumphantly, “Because they cannot make the town in the oven!”

Llewelyn was a good sport, groaned on cue, and then, as his eyes caught Gruffydd’s, he laughed, remembering a time, so many years past, when Gruffydd, too, had a passion for childhood rhymes and nonsense riddles. Gruffydd grinned, and Llewelyn knew that he was thinking of those same memories. They laughed together, in a rare moment of ease, were still laughing when the door opened, and they saw Davydd and Isabella standing in the doorway.

Davydd’s eyes cut from his father to Gruffydd, back to Llewelyn. He did not acknowledge his brother in any other way; they were long past the pretense of civility. “I wanted to let you know I was back, Papa,” he said. “I have messages for you from both Rhys Mechyll and Maelgwn Fychan, have much to tell you.”

Gruffydd set his cup down upon the table, so abruptly that mead sloshed onto the chessboard. He could see what was happening, could see how Davydd was taking upon himself more and more authority, acting in Llewelyn’s stead more and more frequently. Soon he’d be Prince in all but name. “I brought news of my own,” he said. “My wife has borne me yet another son. Do you not want to congratulate me, Davydd?”

Davydd’s eyes filled with shadows. “Congratulations,” he said, flinging the word down like a stone—or a gauntlet.

“Thank you. I do feel that I have indeed been blessed, for Senena has now given me a daughter and three healthy sons—whilst so many men have no sons at all.”

Davydd stiffened, said nothing. But Isabella clasped her hand to her mouth, as if to stifle a cry; her eyes brimmed with tears. She spun around, and Davydd reached for her. She was too fast, though; his hand just brushed her sleeve.

“Isabella, wait!” Davydd started after her, stopped to look back at his brother. “You bastard,” he said, and his voice was raw with rage, with such hatred that Gruffydd instinctively dropped his hand to his sword hilt. But Davydd had not waited; he plunged through the doorway, and they heard him call out his wife’s name.

Gruffydd stared at that open door. He was a skilled archer; so why, then, did so many of his arrows misfire? He cared nothing for Isabella, had always found her to be timid and demure and cloyingly sweet. And she was English, Davydd’s wife. But he would not have deliberately hurt her; he had only contempt for the man who would shoot a nesting duck, run down a newborn fawn. He turned reluctantly to face the others, defiant, daring them to object.

No one did. Nor did they meet his eyes. Ednyved’s was not a face to give away secrets; impassive, he drank the last of his mead. Hunydd at once began to busy herself with the cups and flagons. But Llelo looked troubled, and Llewelyn suddenly looked very, very tired.

“I promised the boy he could stay,” Gruffydd said, while staring into space above his father’s head. “I’ll send someone for him on the morrow.”

“But Papa—Papa, you said you’d stay for dinner. Do you not remember?”

“Yes,” Gruffydd said, “I remember,” and the anger drained from his voice. He started to speak, then swung about, moved swiftly toward the door.

Llewelyn pushed his chair back, limped to the window. After a moment, Llelo followed, and Llewelyn reached out, put his right arm around the boy’s shoulders. The window opened onto the bailey; beyond, he could see a sunlit shimmer, the silver-blue of the bay. Davydd had caught up with Isabella. They were standing together in the shadow of the great hall; it seemed to Llewelyn that she was weeping.

Llewelyn shifted his weight onto his good leg. His Church had been forced to find a way to reconcile the absolutism of the Sixth Commandment—Thou shalt not kill—with the realities of their world. And so the concept of a “Just War” had evolved. Rules were laid down, moral boundaries drawn. And all agreed that noncombatants were not to be harmed. Women were to be spared, as were children, priests, diplomatic envoys, pilgrims. But Llewelyn knew better. In war, the innocent were usually the first to suffer.

As he and Llelo watched, Gruffydd rode through the castle gateway, without looking back. “I wanted Papa to stay,” Llelo said softly. “I’d hoped…” His voice trailed off, and Llewelyn tightened his arm about the boy’s shoulders.

“I know, lad,” he said. “I know.”

The great castle of Kenilworth had been in the possession of the English Crown since the twelfth century. It was a formidable citadel, but it had never been one of Henry’s favorite residences, and he’d temporarily turned it over to his sister. It was here that Nell had awaited Simon’s return to England, and here that she now awaited the birth of their child.

It had been an unusually hot, dry summer, but a wet, chill autumn. A cold November rain slanted against the shuttered windows of Kenilworth’s great hall. Richard Plantagenet, Earl of Cornwall, moved closer to the hearth. The other castle guests had also drawn their chairs nearer to the flames. Richard knew them all, although not well. Peter de Montfort was a Warwickshire knight, an intimate friend of Simon’s, but no relation despite the fact they bore the same surname. The other men were all clerics, also friends of Simon’s. Adam Marsh was a friar, rector of the Franciscan school at Oxford, a man with a notable reputation as a scholar, theologian, and mathematician. Walter de Cantilupe was the new Bishop of Worcester, and Robert Grosseteste the Bishop of Lincoln.

Richard was particularly impressed by the Bishop of Lincoln’s presence, for the man was even more celebrated as a scholar than Adam Marsh. He was known to speak fluent Greek and Hebrew, he had been the first Chancellor of the University of Oxford, and he was admired as much for his piety and rectitude as for his intellectual accomplishments. Richard had heard that he was a friend to Simon, but he’d not realized how close the friendship was, close enough to bring the Bishop posthaste from Canterbury in a drenching rainstorm, a conclusive demonstration of loyalty for a man of Grosseteste’s age and frail health.