Llewelyn hesitated. “Well, to be honest, I have not told them yet,” he admitted, and flushed when they both laughed.
“Can you truly blame me?” he protested. “We’ll be bound to have a godawful row. I know not with whom my mother’ll be more wroth, me or my Uncle Gruffydd, for aiding and abetting me in this. As for Hugh, he’s like to have an apoplectic fit. You see, he’d arranged for me to enter the household of a Norman Earl.”
Llewelyn shook his head in mock regret. “Poor Hugh, how he has struggled to make of me a proper Norman. I once overheard his brother grumbling about turning a sow’s ear into a silk purse, and I daresay Hugh has had moments when he’s in heartfelt agreement!”
This last was said without rancor. Llewelyn never doubted that Hugh’s fondness for him was genuine, but he’d come to understand that affection and bias could take root in the same soil. In this he had the advantage of Rhys and Ednyved, and they looked so offended that he felt compelled to come to Hugh’s defense.
“Yet he is a good man for all that. My mother has been quite content with him, and I”—he grinned suddenly—“I even did come to forgive him for his greatest sin, that of not being born Welsh!”
But here they had no common meeting ground; neither Rhys nor Ednyved had English friends, English kin. Both looked blank, and then Rhys dismissed what he did not understand, saying, “You’ll not let them talk you out of it?”
“No.” Llewelyn sat up, his eyes searching their faces with sudden sober intent. “I shall have men to counsel me, men well lessoned in the ways of war. But no matter how much help I get from my Uncle Gruffydd or my cousins, I shall have to stand or fall on my own efforts. If I cannot convince people that my claim be just, if I cannot win their allegiance…nor can I expect my blood to count for aught should I fall into Davydd’s hands. And the risks will be no less for those who follow me.” He paused. “My Uncle Gruffydd has agreed to speak with your fathers, should you—”
“You want us to help you overthrow Davydd and Rhodri, to fight with you?” Rhys could wait no longer, and burst out eagerly, “Jesú, Llewelyn, need you even ask?”
Llewelyn smiled. “What of you, Ednyved? Does Rhys speak for you, too?”
“I’d as soon speak for myself,” Ednyved said, sounding quite serious for once. “I want to be sure I fully understand. We’d be camping out in the mountains of Gwynedd, harassing your uncles howsoever we could, living like outlaws, sleeping in the open, eating on the run, rebels with prices on our heads. Is that a fair summing up of what we could expect?”
“Very fair,” Llewelyn agreed, and a slow grin began to spread over Ednyved’s face.
“Who could possibly turn down an offer like that?”
“It is settled, then,” Rhys said briskly, never having doubted what his cousin’s answer would be. As he spoke, he was rolling up the sleeve of his tunic. Before Llewelyn and Ednyved realized what he meant to do, he unsheathed his dagger and, without the slightest hesitation, drew it swiftly across the bared skin of his forearm.
“This is too important for mere words,” he explained composedly, watching the flow of his own blood with indifferent eyes. “For this, we must swear in blood.”
It was a gesture as irresistible as it was melodramatic, at least to Llewelyn. Ednyved looked rather less enthusiastic, and when Rhys passed him the bloodied dagger, he took it with such reluctance that Llewelyn burst out laughing.
“Since you share the same blood as Rhys, mayhap you could swear, too, in his,” he gibed, and Ednyved grimaced, drew a few drops of blood.
“Here, my lord princeling,” he grunted. “Your turn.”
Llewelyn made a far more modest cut than Rhys had, saying, “If I’m to spill my blood, I’d as soon spill it in Gwynedd.” Rising, he searched the clearing until he’d gathered a handful of rock moss. This he brought back to Rhys, and leaning over, he applied it to the other boy’s arm.
“Hold this upon the cut till the bleeding ceases, or you might well end up as the first casualty of my war,” he said, and laughed again, realizing that he was as happy at this moment as he’d ever been in his life.
Hugh Corbet was surprised to find the great hall all but deserted; as in England, the hall was the heart of Welsh home life. But then he heard the voices, angry, accusing, and he understood. At the far end of the hall his wife and her elder brother Gruffydd were standing, and even Hugh, who knew no Welsh other than a few endearments Marared had taught him in bed, could tell at once that they were quarreling, quarreling bitterly. Gruffydd’s retainers and servants had wisely fled the battlefield; only Llewelyn, Adda, and Morgan ap Bleddyn, his wife’s chaplain, were still in the hall.
As Hugh moved up the center aisle, Gruffydd turned on his heel and stalked out the door behind the dais, slamming it resoundingly behind him. Hugh was secretly amused that his wife should be giving her brother such grief. He had discovered early in his marriage that Welshwomen were more outspoken and less submissive than their Norman sisters, and while he’d learned to accept Marared on her own terms, it pleased him to see Gruffydd reaping what he had sown. For certes, a society in which women were not taught their proper place was bound to lack harmony, a natural sense of order.
But he was taken aback by what happened next. Marared swung around on her eldest son, put a question to him, and when he shook his head, she slapped him across the face. Hugh was astonished, for he’d never seen her raise her hand to Llewelyn before, not even on occasions when the boy richly deserved it. He hastened toward them, wondering what sins would loom so large in her eyes.
Could Llewelyn have set his heart upon trading his gelding for an untamed stallion? No, Margaret was a doting mother, not a foolish one; she’d never sought to wrap the boy in soft wool. What, then? Had he gotten some village lass with child? That was likely enough. He was an attractive lad, and having discovered where his sword was meant to be sheathed, he seemed set upon getting as much practice as possible. But no, why should Margaret fret over a peasant wench ploughed and cropt? She was too sensible for that, would not blame Llewelyn for so small a sin.
Marared had turned away abruptly, sitting down suddenly on the steps of the dais. Llewelyn followed at once, hovering uncertainly at her side, his face troubled. But when he patted her shoulder awkwardly, she pushed his hand away. Hugh quickened his step, no longer amused.
“Margaret? What is wrong?”
“Ask Llewelyn,” she said tautly, and then, “He says he’s not going back to England with us. He wants to stay in Wales, to try to overthrow his uncles in Gwynedd.”
Her answer was so anticlimactic that Hugh felt laughter well up within him, dangerously close to the surface. He gave an abrupt, unconvincing cough, knowing she’d never forgive him if he laughed. But how like a woman, to let herself get so distraught over a boy’s caprice, a whim of the moment that bore little relationship to reality. Doubtless, too, she’d been seeking to scare Llewelyn with horror stories of the hardships he’d be facing, the dangers and deprivations, the hand-to-mouth existence of a rebel on the run. And what could be better calculated to appeal to a foolhardy fourteen-year-old?
“Is this true, Llewelyn?”
Llewelyn nodded, but his eyes were wary and Hugh hesitated, recognizing the need to tread lightly, not wanting to trample the boy’s pride into the dust.
“That is a rather ambitious undertaking, lad, too much so. In saying that, I do not mean to belittle your courage in any way. But courage alone is not enough, not when we are talking of rebellion.”
“I know.” Llewelyn slanted a sudden glance toward Morgan. “Courage without common sense is the least of God’s gifts.”
“It’s glad I am to hear you say that, Llewelyn. For should you go up against your uncles now—on your own—I fear the only ground in Gwynedd you’d claim would be enough to fill a grave.”
“I know,” Llewelyn said again, and when Hugh smiled, so did he. Before adding, “That is why I did appeal to my Uncle Gruffydd for advice and assistance. He thinks I
’m of an age to lay claim to what is mine, has promised to help me do just that.”
Hugh’s jaw dropped. “He what?” Jerking around to stare at his wife. “Your brother has agreed to this, to aid him in this madness?” he demanded, incredulous, and she nodded grimly.
Christ, no wonder Margaret was so wroth! “Of all the damned fool…! I am sorry, Llewelyn,” he said curtly, “but you must put this scheme from your mind. There is no way on God’s earth that I’d ever give my consent.”
“I’m sorry, too,” Llewelyn said softly. “I should’ve liked to have your approval.”
He’d spoken so politely that it was a moment or so before Hugh realized he’d just been defied.
“You’re not being offered a choice, Llewelyn! I’m telling you that you’re to forget this lunacy, you’re to return to Shropshire with your mother and me, and that will be the end of it. As for your uncle, I’d not speak ill of a man in his own house, but he had no right to encourage you in this, to go against our wishes. You are not his son, after all.”
“I am not your son, either.”
Hugh stiffened. The boy’s matter-of-fact reminder hurt more than he’d have expected or Llewelyn had intended. It was a hurt that camouflaged itself in rage, and he clenched his fist, his face darkening with a sudden surge of blood. But while Llewelyn felt that his mother had a perfect right to hit him if she chose, he did not accord Hugh the same privilege, and he’d prudently put distance between them.
“No, you are not my flesh and blood. But when I wed your mother, your wardship passed into my hands. That means, Llewelyn, that you are answerable to me, and will be until you do come of legal age. Once you reach your majority, you may do what you damned well please, may sell your life as cheaply as you like. But for the next seven years you’ll do what I say. Is that clear?”
“Very.”
It was Llewelyn’s composure that struck the first false note. The boy was too calm, was arguing more like an adult than a youngster with a head full of fanciful dreams, and Hugh said warningly, “If you think to run away once we’re back in Shropshire, Llewelyn…”
Llewelyn was shaking his head. “I’ve heard you out, Hugh. Now I’d have you do as much for me. I’d not have you think me ungrateful…and I do not deny your right of wardship over me until I come of legal age. As we both know, in England that is twenty-one. But what you plainly do not know is that in Wales it is fourteen…and I did turn fourteen in February.”
Hugh stared at his stepson. Llewelyn’s dark eyes were shining with triumph; a smile he could not quite repress quirked one corner of his mouth. Hugh caught his breath, swore softly. Little wonder the lad had been so cocky; he’d known from the first that he was playing with loaded dice.
Hugh was swallowing bile, spat into the floor rushes. Rob was right; there was no reasoning with the Welsh, they were all mad, beyond redemption or understanding. What were they to tell Chester? The opportunity of a lifetime lost to them, all because a headstrong boy wanted to play the rebel!
“And what of your brother? Would you leave him without a qualm, knowing he has such need of you, knowing you go where he cannot follow—”
“Adda hears just fine! Do not speak of him as if he were not even here!”
There was a strained silence. Adda had gone very pale, but he said, quite evenly, “I want Llewelyn to go, want him to claim what is his. So would I, had God not willed otherwise.”
Hugh felt a touch of shame; it was Llewelyn he’d wanted to wound, not the innocent Adda. Llewelyn was staring at him, accusing, defiant. Whatever chance he might have had of prevailing was utterly gone now. Llewelyn might, he knew, forgive a slight on his own behalf, but on Adda’s, never. He’d not yield in this, knowing he had the full backing of his Welsh kinsmen. All their plans set at naught, their hopes of an alliance with Chester now gall and wormwood, ashes in his mouth.
“Go to Gwynedd and be damned, then!” he said bitterly, and turned away.
They watched in silence as Hugh strode from the hall. But when Marared rose to follow him, Llewelyn stepped in front of her. “Mama…”
“No, Llewelyn. Do not expect my blessings. Do not expect my forgiveness, either.”
He’d won. But he could take no pleasure in it, not now. Llewelyn sank down on the dais steps, passed some moments disconsolately sliding his dagger up and down its sheath. The excitement he’d experienced in sharing his plans with Ednyved and Rhys had gone suddenly sour, tarnished by his mother’s tears.
“Adda?” Marared let her hand linger on her younger son’s shoulder. “Are you coming, lad?”
“Yes, Mama.”
As Adda rose, Llewelyn looked up, said, “Hugh did not mean that, Adda. He was angry, just did not think…”
“People never do, do they?” Adda smiled thinly. “Yet we’d be apart, too, once you were sent off to serve as Chester’s squire. Better you should follow your heart.”
Their eyes caught, pulled away. Marared was waiting. Adda reached for his crutch and angled it under his armpit. Watching his brother limp toward the door, Llewelyn felt a protective pang. What Adda had just said was true. It was also true that he was being left behind.
“Morgan…Morgan, am I doing the right thing?”
“If I said no, would you heed me?”
Llewelyn considered, and then gave the priest a rueful smile. “No,” he conceded. “Gwynedd is my birthright. But it’s like to take years to claim it. Years I can ill afford to squander in Shropshire. I have to do this, Morgan. I have to.”
Morgan nodded slowly; he’d expected no less. He, more than anyone else, had nurtured in Llewelyn a love for his heritage, his homeland, had molded youthful clay into adult ambition. He was proud of what he had accomplished, proud of Llewelyn’s resolve, his daring. But he could not help feeling fear, too, for Llewelyn was the son he’d never have.
“I cannot say I approve, lad.” And then, very softly, “But I do understand.”
3
Chinon Castle, Province of Touraine
June 1189
“What is your name, girl?”
“Lucy…” She added “my lord” for safety’s sake; a fortnight at Chinon had not been long enough for her to absorb the intricacies of the castle hierarchy. She knew only that this man was a bailiff, a being as far above her as stars in the firmament, and she was trembling with dread that she’d somehow displeased, that she might be dismissed in disgrace.
“Turn around,” he directed, and as she complied in bewilderment, he gave a satisfied nod. “Yes, you’ll do once you’re cleaned up some; he’s right particular about such niceties. Agnes, see that she has a bath first. I expect it is too much to hope that you would still be a virgin?”
Lucy gasped so audibly that several men laughed, and the bailiff looked at her with the first flicker of genuine interest. “Well, well. That is a stroke of luck for you, girl. How many wenches get to lose their maidenheads in a royal bed?” He laughed, moved on to other matters, and Lucy was forgotten.
She stood there, rooted, until Agnes stepped forward and slipped a supportive arm around her waist. “Shall we get you that bath?” she said, and giving Lucy no chance to balk, she guided the girl toward the door. “Do not look so stricken, lass. It’ll not be as bad as you think; you might even enjoy it.”
“But…but he’s so old and sickly!” Lucy shuddered. She’d seen the old King infrequently since his arrival at Chinon. There was in his face the haggard, grey gauntness of coming death; it would, she thought with horror, be like embracing a corpse.
“Old?” Agnes echoed and then laughed. “You need not fear, Lucy, you’re not for poor King Henry. God pity him, he’s beyond feeling the itch that only a woman can scratch. No, his son rode in within the hour, and it is a rare night when that one does not want a wench to warm his bed.”
“Lord John?”
“Well, for certes not Richard!” Agnes giggled, but thought better of pursuing that particular brand of high-risk humor; instead, she took it upon herself
to allay Lucy’s fears. “He’s handsome, is Lord John. Not as tall as Richard, of stocky build like his father, although dark as a Barbary pirate. And young, one and twenty against his sire’s six and fifty, a far better age for bedding!”
But Lucy did not seem to appreciate her good fortune; she looked dazed. Agnes thought she knew why, and glanced about to make sure no others were within earshot.
“You must not believe all you hear, child. It is true John does have men about him who’d make even Hell the fouler for their presence. He might not rein them in as he ought, but he does not seem to be one for sharing their nastier sport. In the five years I’ve been at Chinon, I’ve never heard it said that he takes pleasure in a woman’s pain, and whilst I cannot speak firsthand, mind you, I’ve been told he has no quirks a woman would not enjoy, too. And he’s ever been generous in the past, will be sure to give you something after.”
She hesitated. “But in all honesty, his temper’s like to be on the raw. God knows, he has reason and more, with his father ailing, with Richard and the French King encamped outside Tours, just a day’s march from here. Richard has much to answer for, in truth. To war upon his own father…” She shook her head. “At least John is loyal.”
Henry moaned, turned his face into the pillow. His shirt was soaked with sweat; so, too, were the sheets, damp and darkly splotched. A servant had removed his shoes and chausses, and his legs looked absurdly white and frail, utterly incongruous supports for that barrel chest, those massive shoulders. But even that once-mighty chest seemed somehow shrunken, diminished. It was impossible for John to recognize in this bedridden invalid the father who’d cast so colossal a shadow, larger than life, omnipotent: King of England, Lord of Ireland and Wales, Duke of Normandy and Gascony, Count of Anjou, Touraine, and Maine, liege lord of Brittany, Auvergne, and Toulouse.
Henry was breathing through his mouth, gulping air as if each breath might be his last. Saliva had begun to dribble down his chin, but John could not bring himself to wipe it away, shrank from touching that wasted flesh. He was profoundly shocked that in a mere fortnight his father’s illness should have made such lethal inroads; until this moment he’d not acknowledged that the illness might be mortal.