The Reckoning - 3 (3 page)

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He was not accustomed to mead, the honeyed malt drink so favored by the Welsh, but he gamely took a deep swallow. "I had a right strange dream this afternoon. I was being tended by a most unlikely nurse, an Irish sprite who spoke French as if she were Paris born and bred, an elfin little lass" He got no further; Llewelyn had begun to laugh.
"That can only be our Caitlin. My niece, my brother Davydd's daughter."
"Yes, she did say she was called Caitlin. The lass's mother was Irish, then?"
"No, she was English. Caitlin was born during Davydd's years in exile. Since he was in no position to care for her, and her mother had died giving birth, he sent her back to Wales, to my court."
Bran drank again to conceal a grin, marveling at the sheer audacity of
Davydd's act, expecting the brother he'd betrayed to rear his bastard child.
"Why, then, 'Caitlin'? The name is Irish for certes, and if she's not... ?"
"Davydd fancied the name, and my brother," Llewelyn said wryly, "has ever been one to follow his fancies."
"Now why is it that you make 'following my fancies' sound only slightly less depraved than the Seven Deadly Sins?" Davydd queried good-naturedly, materializing as if from blue smoke. Bran started visibly, but Llewelyn was unperturbed; this time he'd noticed Davydd's circuitous approach.
"Eavesdroppers rarely hear good of themselves," he pointed out, gesturing for his brother to join them upon the dais. "Tell us," he said, glancing back toward Bran, "of the news from France."
Bran did, and they discussed the August death of the French King at Tunis, and its likely impact upon the crusade. The talk then turned to England. Their political affinities were quite compatible, for they shared the same enemies.
Bran and Llewelyn would both have bartered their very souls for a chance to wreak havoc upon the Earl of Gloucester, and they passed an interesting half hour dissecting Llewelyn's recent raid upon the Earl's Welsh castle at
Caerphilly.
"Gloucester has been awaiting his chance to disavow the Treaty of Montgomery.
Now that Edward's off chasing Saracens, he and that Marcher whoreson, de
Mortimer, are doing their utmost to encroach upon Welsh lands again. After all, who is going to rein them in Henry?"
Llewelyn's sarcasm was bitter; all knew of the English King's deteriorating mental faculties. Bran nodded in grim agreement. He and his cousin Edward had once been friends, and, even now, memory blurred the harsher edges of their enmity. He could not truly blame

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Edward for his father's death, not when he blamed himself more. But unlike
Edwardhis uncle the King had been vengeful in victory, had treated his sister, Bran's mother, with a singular lack of Christian charity, and that, Bran could not forgive.
Davydd signaled for another round of drinks. "We heard that your brother Guy made a brilliant marriage last summer with an Italian heiress. Gossip ... or gospel?"
* j "Guy wed Margherita, daughter of Ildebrandino d'Aldobrandini, Count of
Sovana, in Viterbo on August tenth," Bran said and smiled. "I daresay you know that Guy is Vicar-General of all of Tuscany. But you may not know that in
September, he was also named as Vicar of Florence. A comely wife, a father-in-law who holds Tuscany in the palm of his hand, rich lands of his own in the kingdom of Naples, and a King's favorall in all, I'd say it was a good year for Guy."
It was nothing obvious; Bran's smile was steady, his gaze even. But Davydd had a sophisticated, exhaustive knowledge of brotherly jealousy in all its guises.
Recognizing a kindred spirit when he saw one, he gave Bran a look of amused understanding, faintly flavored with sympathy. It was never easy, trailing after a brother whilst he blazed across the heavens like a flaming comet; who should know that better than he? A pity he and Bran could not commiserate with each other over their shared affliction, but he'd wager Bran would deny with his dying breath that he begrudged Guy's bedazzling success. Christendom was full to overflowing with those stricken by envy, but he alone seemed willing to admit it, that he was so jealous of his brother he was like to sicken on it. He laughed softly to himself, and at their questioning glances, said, "
Tis nothing, a private jest."
Llewelyn was asking about Bran's lady mother, offering his condolences for the loss of his younger brother Richard, who'd died unexpectedly that past spring.
Bran's face shadowed; draining the last of his mead, he beckoned for more.
"The doctors said it was a rupture. He was just twenty-one ..."
Davydd did not care for the morbid turn the conversation had taken; he saw no reason to mourn a man he'd never met, and after a moment of tactful silence, he posed some innocuous questions about Amaury de Montfort, who might not interest him overmuch, but at least was still alive. Amaury, he now learned, was thriving, studying medicine and religion at the University of Padua. But he soon grew bored with Brother Amaury, too, and giving Llewelyn a sideways smile of sudden mischief, he asked, "And how is your fair sister, the Lady
Ellen? By chance, might there be a husband on the horizon?"
Davydd was not motivated by malice, just an irresistible urge to

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bedevil Llewelyn a bit, for his brother still felt a sense of responsibility for Ellen de Montfort. She'd been not yet thirteen when her world fell apart, and although the Prince knew he'd had no choice but to disavow the plight troth, the man could not help feeling that he'd failed an innocent in her time of need. Davydd knew this well, for he knew his brother was at heart a secret romantic, however pragmatic the Prince might appear. What he had not anticipated was the response of Ellen's brother.
Bran was looking at Llewelyn as if the question had been his. "No," he said slowly, never taking his eyes from the Welsh Prince's face. "She is not yet wed. She's of an ageeighteen last Octoberand beautiful. I daresay there'd be men willing to take her for herself alone, so fair is she to look upon. She'll not lack for a marriage portion, though, even if I have to beggar myself on her behalf. She'll want for nothing; we'll see to that. But she was cheated of her rightful destiny, for she was to have been a Prince's consort. You should have married her, Llewelyn. You broke her heart and for what? Christ, man, you could not have done better for a bride, in this world or the next!"
Llewelyn had stiffened with Bran's first words, listening with disbelief that soon flared into fury. But as he studied Bran, he saw what had escaped him until now, that his English guest was drunk. Not a loud or belligerent drunk, just an honest one. And his anger ebbed away in a surge of pity for Simon de
Montfort's son.
Bran downed two more cups of mead before his speech began to slur, his eyes to glaze. Hugh had been hovering close at hand, and as Bran mumbled his excuses, the boy waved away Llewelyn's servants, insisting that he be the one to help his lord to bed. Llewelyn and Davydd watched in silence as Bran stumbled from the hall.
"Five years is a long time to grieve," Llewelyn said at last, and Davydd shook his head.
"Grief heals," he said. "Guilt does not." He saw Llewelyn's brows shoot upward and the corner of his mouth curved. "Jesii, what an easy face yours is to read, Brother! You wonder what I should know of guilt, do you not? I'll grant you it is not an emotion I've ever taken to heart. But a man need not be born in a country in order to speak the language."
"No," Llewelyn agreed, "mayhap not." After another silence, he said softly, "We ought not to be so surprised. For who would cast a longer shadow than
Simon de Montfort?"

MONTARGIS, FRANCE
February 1271
iVloNTARGis was ensconced within a bend of the River Loing. It was also crisscrossed with canals, Bran told Hugh, putting him in mind of Venice. And even as Hugh nodded, it came to him that he would soon be seeing Venice for himself, a thought so preposterous that he burst out laughing.
It had all happened too fast. In four fleeting weeks, his world had expanded beyond all borders of belief. He, who'd never even set foot in a rowboat, suddenly found himself in a swift little esneque under sail for Rouen. He hadn't liked the sea voyage; his stomach was soon heaving in harmony with the pitching waves. But then their ship reached the mouth of the Seine. Three days later, they docked at the Grand Pont, and before Hugh's bedazzled eyes lay the city of Paris.
Nothing had prepared him for this. The largest town he'd ever seen was
Shrewsbury; country-born and bred, he'd been very impressed by its size, for it had more than two thousand people. But now there was Pariswith perhaps a hundred thousand inhabitants, with paved streets and formidable stone walls, with so many churches that the city \ seemed a forest of steeples, with a river island that held both a palace j and a cathedral, with sights to take away Hugh's breath and noise enough to rouse Heaven itselfParis, pride of France, glory of
Christendom.
In just one day, Hugh saw more beggars, dogs, prostitutes, and friars than he could count. He saw his first water clock, watched in morbid fascination as a man accused of blasphemy was held down and burned upon the tongue, nearly went deaf from the constant chiming of so many church bells, ate the best sausage of his life at the market by St Germain 1'Auxerois, and met a Queen.
The Queen was Marguerite, widow of the saintly Louis, who'd died

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on crusade five months past. Marguerite had valid reasons to dislike the de
Montforts; her sister Eleanor was wife to King Henry. But affection and reason were not always compatible, and Marguerite had become Nell de Montfort's staunchest friend, doing all she could to soften the rigors of Nell's exile.
Bran bore one of her letters in his saddlebags as they rode toward Montargis, for if he was an outlaw in England, in France he was still the scion of a noble House and welcome at the French court.
When he had impulsively offered to share Bran's flight, Hugh had expected danger and adventure, both of which he found in full measure. But he had not expected to have his life transformed as if by magic; he had not expected
Paris. He could feel his joy rising again, and he twisted around in the saddle to look upon his young lord, laughter about to spill out.
What he saw froze the smile upon his face. It was not yet noon and Bran was already reaching for the wineskin dangling from his saddle pommel. Hugh hastily glanced away, and they rode on in silence.
Hugh had often heard lurid tales of the young de Montforts' hellraising. The three elder sons, Harry, Bran, and Guy, had been notorious for their whoring and carousing and ale-house brawling, in decided and dramatic contrast to their austere father, for Simon, a crusader who'd twice taken the cross and adhered to a rigid code of honor, a moralist who'd worn a hair shirt into that last doomed battle of his life, had been utterly devoted to his wife.
Like most youngsters, Hugh was intrigued by scandal, by these colorful accounts of Bran's turbulent past. It puzzled him, therefore, that the Bran of legend was so unlike the Bran he now knew. For a man reputed to have such a blazing temper, Bran seemed surprisingly equable. Not once in these four weeks had Hugh seen him angry; even the inevitable vexations of the road were shrugged off with admirable aplomb. At first, Hugh had much marveled at Bran's unfailing forbearance. Only slowly did he begin to suspect the truth, that
Bran's patience was actually indifference.
Bran was not taciturn, and he and Hugh had often whiled away the boredom of the road in banter, filling their hours with easy conversation. Hugh had confided his entire life's story long before they'd reached Wales. And Bran, in turn, had shared with the boy memories of his own youth, of the two brothers they would soon join in Italy, of the mother and sister awaiting him at Montargis. But not once did he speak of Evesham, or of the father and brother who had died for his nustake. And Hugh came gradually to realize how deceptive was Bran de Montfort's affability, how effective a shield. Bran remained a man in shadow; he might lower the drawbridge into his outer bailey, but there

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would be no admittance into the castle keep. Even after a month in Bran's constant company, all Hugh could say with certainty was that Simon's son was generous, utterly fearless, and that he drank too much.
When Hugh first comprehended the extent of Bran's drinking, he had been dismayed and alarmed. All he knew of drunkards came from overheard shreds of gossip: an ale-house stabbing, garbled accounts of cypshotten villagers taking out their tempers upon wives and children. Hwhad observed Bran's drinking, therefore, with some trepidation. But his qualms were soon assuaged, for Bran did not act like the quarrelsome drinkers who'd so enlivened Evesham folklore.
He did not become bellicose, did not bluster or swagger or seek out fights.
Drunk or sober, he treated Hugh with the same casual kindness. But drink he did, quietly, steadily, beginning his day with ale, ending it with hippocras, taking frequent swigs from his wine flask with the distant, distracted air of a man quaffing a doctor's brew. Hugh could only watch, bewildered; if drink brought Bran so little pleasure, why did he seek it so diligently?
A small castle overlooked Montargis, but it was not there that Nell de
Montfort and her daughter had found a haven. The woman born to palaces now lived in a rented house upon the grounds of a Dominican convent.
Hugh was eagerly anticipating their arrival; his curiosity about the Countess of Leicester was intense. Like her husband, she was a figure of controversy, both loved and hated, for she had never been one tamely to await her fate, as women were expected to do. This youngest daughter of King John and Isabelle d'Angouleme had been a royal rebel. It was said she got her beauty from her mother, her willfulness and her temper from John. She had been wed as a child to the Earl of Pembroke, widowed at fifteen, and in the first throes of grief, she had sworn a holy oath of chastity, thus condemning herself to a lifelong widowhood. But then she'd met the young Frenchman, Simon de Montfort. Simon was not the first man to look upon Nell with forbidden desire. He was the first, however, who dared to defy King and Church for her.
Their marriage had scandalized Christendom, but they never looked back, forging a passionate partnership that was to survive court intrigues and wars and her brother's obsessive jealousy of Simon. Nell's loyalty to her husband never wavered, even when it meant forsaking the brothers she loved. She bore
Simon seven children, saw him raised up to undreamed-of heights of power, for fifteen months as England's uncrowned King. And when he fell at Evesham, she lost alllands, titles, even Englandbut not her faith in him. She sailed into exile as proudly as any queen, and if she had regrets, none but she knew of them.
To Simon's enemies, she was a dangerous, maddeningly presumptuous woman, who deserved all the grief that had befallen her. To those