Prince of Time (23 page)

We walked into the early morning. Once the sky began to lighten, I boosted Bronwen onto the second horse. If Dafydd had been more cognizant, I would have ridden with her, but as it was, I didn’t dare leave him. Lili was such a little thing, I wasn’t sure how long she could hold him up. It did seem as the hours passed, though, that my lord became more aware and coherent.

Finally, we approached Buellt. Taking the risk that all was well, at least in the castle the Prince of Wales defended, I led the horses onto the road and right up to the front gate. BuelltCastle sat atop a motte—a high, rounded hill—which supported a great round keep. The English had built two Norman baileys, an inner one and an outer one, and surrounded them by a curtain wall with six towers, all accessed through a twin-towered gatehouse. Inside the walls lay a kitchen block, the great hall, a chapel, and quarters for a hundred soldiers.

My spirits rose as we approached. The familiar blonde head of Sir Nicholas de Carew looked down at us, meaning he, at least, had come home safely from Lancaster. Now that he was on our side, he wore a surcoat sporting Prince Dafydd’s red dragon of Wales, but his stance and attitude remained the same:
My blood is purer, my arm stronger, my heart more honorable than that of any other man.

As we approached, I waved at him, and he returned the greeting but then froze with his hand above his head. “Mother of God!” he said. He left the battlements, moving pretty quickly for an old fellow, and was through the gate with another dozen men before we’d covered the last ten yards.

“How—how—how did you get here?” he stuttered when he reached us, and then was distracted by Dafydd’s face. “By the saints!” he said, “what happened?”

Together we reached up and helped Dafydd off the horse. He was able to stand, though he swayed, and we held him up between us.

“Carew,” Dafydd said, “how is my father?”

I silently thanked our Savior for my lord’s coherence and realized that the prince must have been working hard to speak so that Carew could understand him.

“He’s much fevered my lord. According to Goronwy, a single arrow caught him in the midst of his men as he rode on a routine patrol last week. No one thought the English were within ten miles, and the culprit was not caught.”

“Perhaps he wasn’t English,” I said. “It has happened before.”

“So Goronwy suggested, but Tudur isn’t convinced.”

“Tudur betrays us,” Dafydd said. He laid one foot in front of the other, carefully pacing across the bailey, making slow but steady progress as we supported him on either side. Dafydd hadn’t spoken loudly enough for other men to hear, but I cringed, thinking that the prince wasn’t strong enough to confront the man.

“What?” Carew said. “What did he say?”

“The castellan of Aberedw says that he’s Tudur’s man,” I replied.

“He’s responsible for my wounds, for he administered them to me personally,” Dafydd said. With each step he enunciated more clearly and his voice became stronger. “He named Tudur as the traitor—as the one who will ensure my father never rises from his bed again. Cadoc knew of Edward of England’s attempt on my life, although he doesn’t know that Edward is dead, and I certainly didn’t tell him.”

“I don’t know the man at Aberedw, but I can’t believe Tudur would betray our cause,” Carew said.

“I also didn’t tell Cadoc my real name,” Dafydd added, his eyes focused on his feet.

“When did you arrive here, Lord Carew?” I said.

“Last evening, Sir Ieuan, late. We encountered a storm in the Irish Sea that delayed our return to Wales. Fortunately, we survived it without losing the ship or our lives. We rode hard from Rhuddlan, stopping only at Dinas Bran where I spoke with your mother and Lord Mathonwy. I’ve only had a chance to speak with Goronwy, Tudur, and Gruffydd ap Gwenwynwyn of Edward’s death, as your father is too ill to hear it.”

“Did anyone say anything of me?” Dafydd said.

“Rumor only, that you’d perished in Lancaster. I assured them it wasn’t true.”

“Did anyone send word to my mother that my father is ill?”

“Not that I am aware, my lord,” Carew said.

“Take me to him,” Dafydd said. He gritted his teeth. “The wound is infected?”

“Yes, my lord,” Carew said, “and the poison spreads.”

“Ieuan,” Dafydd said, “your pills.”

“They were in the pack,” I said, dismayed. “Where are my lord’s things, Lili?”

“We brought the pills,” Bronwen said, speaking for the first time. She’d dismounted, along with Lili, and had followed silently behind. “I kept them out. At the time, I was mad at Ieuan for not taking them as he should.”

I felt the urge to kiss her.
Come to think of it, I am going to kiss her, just as soon as I can
.

Another few steps and we reached the bottom of the stairs to the keep. We looked up and my lord’s mouth twisted wryly. He took a deep breath and we began to climb. “It’s not my legs that hurt,” he explained when we paused, half-way up, “but my ribs ache and my stomach muscles scream at me every time I move. We’re quite a pair, Ieuan, are we not?”

“As you say, my lord,” I said. My ribs were much better, in part because I’d become accustomed to their constant ache. After my shower at Aunt Elisa’s, Bronwen had retaped them and wrapped an ‘elastic’ bandage around my entire torso. No doubt Dafydd needed the same treatment.

The keep loomed ahead of us. Goronwy met us at the door. His face blanched when he saw us.

“My lord,” he said, his eyes riveted on the disaster that was Dafydd’s face.

“Goronwy,” Dafydd said. “Send a rider, right this moment, to my mother. Tell her that I’m alive and that I need her. No one else is to leave the castle.
No one
. Is that clear?” He put out his hand and gripped Goronwy’s arm, making sure that he was paying close attention and there would be no mistakes.

Goronwy nodded. “Yes, my lord.”

Dafydd released him and then allowed us to lead him to the staircase at the rear of the hall, from which we could reach the offices and bedrooms on the floor above.

“No sign of Aaron?” Dafydd asked Carew. We stood at the bottom of the stairs, looking up them. Again, a look of resolution crossed Dafydd’s face.

“None,” Carew said. “I thought he was with you.”

“We got separated,” Dafydd said, without explaining further. “Who has cared for my father since he fell ill?”

“I don’t know, my lord,” Carew said, “but I will find out.”

Tudur met us at the door to the apartment that normally held the castle’s castellan, but now housed the Prince. Before last year the castellan had sworn loyalty to the Mortimers, but now Gruffydd ap Gwenwynwyn ruled here. I liked the man, though he was another we didn’t know if we could trust. The list of the Prince’s enemies, and former enemies turned friends, was long.

“You!” Tudur took a step back.

“How is he?” Dafydd said, and I marveled that he could keep his anger in check.

“Not well,” Tudur said. “We’ve tried everything.”

“Not everything.” Dafydd turned to the company who crowded the stairs behind him. “Carew, Ieuan, with me. The rest of you return to the hall.”

Tudur bowed, but didn’t follow the others.

“You too, Tudur,” Dafydd said. “Please leave us.”

“My lord,” Tudur said.

Dafydd stared at him hard.

Tudur returned his gaze, puzzlement in his eyes, but backed away.

Dafydd didn’t wait. He shook Carew and me off and strode towards the room behind the office in which his father rested. The room was hot and musty, and the smell of the Prince’s sickness turned my stomach.

“How could they allow this?” Dafydd said.

“I was unable to see the Prince until now, but all looks in order,” Carew said.

Bronwen walked to the window and pushed open the wooden shutters. Fresh air flooded through the room. Dafydd had already gone to his father and pulled back the covers. The smell of rotting flesh hung in the air. Dafydd lifted the cloth that covered the Prince’s ribs where the wound seeped pus.

“You see before us, Ieuan, what I feared for you,” Dafydd said. “We’d better not be too late.”

Chapter Twenty-One

Bronwen

D
avid switched to English, perhaps so his father wouldn’t understand, though I wondered at Sir Nicholas’s ability to keep up. David didn’t appear to care. He directed his attention to me.

“Okay, what do we do?”

“This is a little outside my range of experience,” I said. “But I saw enough wounds in Nepal to know that we need clean it first. I don’t know what is available, but pure alcohol would be best, though it’ll hurt like hell.”

“He’s past caring,” David said. “I think that’s what my mom would do too.”

“Then the pills,” I said. “He’s of a similar size to Ieuan, with a similar wound. He should take them in the same quantity as Ieuan, just like it says on the bottle.”

“Will Ieuan be okay without them?” David said.

“He got IV antibiotics in the hospital, didn’t he? These pills were probably precautionary. Ieuan’s wound looked fine three days ago and I taped it really well. I know it’s not ideal, but your father needs them more than Ieuan now.”

“I agree,” David said.

He turned to Ieuan and switched back to Welsh. “I need a bowl of really hot water, clean cloths, a knife, and the most powerful alcohol you can find on short notice. We also need a pitcher of drinking water and a cup.”

“Yes, my lord,” Ieuan said.

“I’ll help you.” Lili left the room at a run.

I sat next to the Prince and held his hand. He was a tall man, though thin, perhaps thinner than he should’ve been now that he was ill. He’d once had black hair, but it was graying. I put a hand to his forehead. He was burning up—the fever of which the castellan at Aberedw had spoken.

“He needs a cool washcloth,” I said.

Dafydd leaned over a washbasin and sniffed the water. “Smells okay,” he said. A cloth lay on the table beside the basin and he soaked it, squeezed it out, and brought it to me. I laid it on the Prince’s forehead, and he surprised me by opening his eyes enough to look into mine.

“Dafydd’s here,” I said in Welsh. “We’re going to help you.”

“Who?” he said, which I interpreted to mean
who are you?

“Bronwen. A friend from the land of Madoc,” I said.

Llywelyn’s eyes brightened before closing again. “Good.”

Meanwhile, David had been talking earnestly with Carew, and I picked up the last of their conversation:

“I need you to speak with Goronwy, Gruffydd, and Tudur. All three know that Edward is dead, but none of them are aware that I’ve been to Aberedw. Only the traitor thought I should be dead instead of here, and knows that the English have increased their patrols on either side of the border in preparation for my father’s death.”

“You suspect Goronwy instead?” Carew said.

“I would as easily mistrust myself,” David said. “It’s easier to suspect Gruffydd than Tudur, but the castellan at Aberedw was very sure of himself. Now that we’re here, I see that any one of them could have orchestrated my father’s illness.”

“But you trust me?” Carew said. “Not long ago you said that you didn’t.”

“Maybe I shouldn’t trust you; maybe you’re playing a
very
long game,” David said. “Given the events at Lancaster, not trusting you seems foolish.”

A ghost of a smile hovered around Carew’s lips. He nodded, bowed, and left.

A minute later, Lili appeared with a pitcher and a jug, followed by a maid with a basin of hot water and fresh cloths. Ieuan hurried after them with a knife and a flask. I held my hand out to Lili and she put two of Ieuan’s pills into it. I turned to Llywelyn and got him to open his eyes. I held up a pill between my thumb and forefinger.

“I’m going to put two pills, one at a time between your teeth. Hold the pill there while I tip water into your mouth. When your mouth is full of water, release the pill and swallow it along with the water. Do you understand?”

The Prince nodded.

I looked at David. “Can you sit him up?”

David got his arm underneath his father’s shoulders. “We’ve been here before, haven’t we, Dad?”

Llywelyn smiled, then, just a little, and swallowed the antibiotics. When he’d finished, without choking once, David laid him down. David continued to hold his hand, with Llywelyn holding on tight.

“Son,” Llywelyn said. “You’re alive. Heard voices … speaking in the next room … said you were dead.”

David leaned closer and spoke in his ear. “It’s Edward who’s dead, Dad.”

Llywelyn turned his head, his eyes full of questions. “You?”

David shook his head. “I wasn’t to kill a royal cousin, remember? One of his servants poisoned him.”

Llywelyn turned his head and looked up at the ceiling. “I need to live.”

“You will,” I said. Then Dafydd and I looked at each other, asking the dreaded question
who is going to do it?

Not David; not to his own father.
It will have to be me.
“Can you heat the knife in the fire, Ieuan?”

While Ieuan did as I asked, I knelt on the floor beside the low bed with what passed for medical equipment spread out around me. The wound was still open, not having healed at all, oozing and, quite frankly, gross. Purple bruising and red, angry-looking striations spread out from it on all sides. I soaked a cloth in hot water and dabbed at Llywelyn’s wound, squeezing at the pus and trying to get most of it out. Then, I soaked a different cloth in alcohol and taking the knife, lifted the flap of skin that half-covered the wound. I squeezed the alcohol into the wound, and then gently scraped around the inside of it.

It had to hurt, but Llywelyn lay still. When the pus no longer seeped, I took another deep breath, and poured more of the alcohol over the wound. I was screaming inside my head, my teeth gritted, but Llywelyn lay still with his eyes closed. He gripped David’s hand on one side, and held onto Lili with the other. David whispered to him constantly, and I could just hear his words, repeated over and over again:
The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want
…