The Reckoning - 3 (16 page)

88
focus, until she recognized her surroundings, realizing, with a sense of groggy astonishment, that she seemed to be in her uncle's bed.
"So you've finally decided to wake up, have you?"
The voice was familiar and only added to her bewilderment. "Papa? What are you doing here?"
"I just happened to be in the neighborhood." Davydd watched her eyes roam the chamber, to the oiled linen that shielded the window, back to his face. She seemed confused, but coherent, and he reached over, took a small hand in his own. "Do you remember what happened, Caitlin?"
She started to nod, then winced. "I fell. But . . . but it was night and I can see sunlight ..."
Davydd laughed. "Sweetheart, that was nigh on three days ago! You've been sleeping much of the time since then. We'd wake you up to swallow the doctor's potions, and off you'd go again. I'd heard that bears and hedgehogs sleep through the winter months, but I never knew that Caitlins did, too."
That would have sent any of his other daughters into fits of giggles.
Caitlin's gravity never failed to baffle him, so unchildlike was it, so alien to his own nature. "You truly did come here because I was hurt?" she asked, sounding so surprised that Davydd felt a faint prick of guilt. That was not a question she should need to ask.
"Of course I did, sweetheart," he said, with unwonted seriousness, and was dazzled by her sudden smile. It was a stranger's smile, a flash of pure joy, and Davydd was unexpectedly moved by it. But then he realized that her gaze was aimed over his shoulder, and turning, he saw that her smile was not meant for him at all, was for his brother.
Leaning over the bed, Llewelyn kissed his niece upon the forehead. "Welcome back, lass. You gave us quite a scare."
"I'm sorry," she whispered. "But when that lady would not let me see you, Uncle, I did not know who else to turn to . . ."
Both men were momentarily silent, Davydd struggling with what he recognized as an unworthy attack of jealousy, and Llewelyn stricken with remorse. Jesu, how alone she was, far more than he'd ever realized! And yet she was so pitifully grateful for his few crumbs of attention, his few scraps of affection. Looking into her eyes, he saw for the first time the true depths of her love and was awed by it, that she gave so much, asked for so little.
"You need not worry, lass. That will never happen again. The next time you need to rescue a cat, you'll have more allies than you can count," he promised. Her lashes were shadowing her cheek, but she was fighting sleep, and he knew why. "Yes," he said, "we did save your cat," and she gave him a drowsy smile, a contented sigh.

89
They stood there for some moments, gazing down at the sleeping hild Then
Llewelyn beckoned his brother away from the bed. "Come to the window. I've just had news from England."
Davydd was in no hurry to hear it; news from England was invariblv bad. "Who was that 'lady' standing guard over your bedchamber?"
"No one of importance. Davydd, listen. The English King is dead."
Davydd did not even blink. "I'm surprised that anyone noticed.
Evesham was Edward's coronation and all knew itall but Henry, who had the bad taste to linger on for another seven years. I daresay Westminster was the only
English palace haunted by a living ghost!"
As always when dealing with Davydd, Llewelyn ended up laughing in spite of himself. "I wonder if Edward knows yet. The last I heard, he'd finally left
Acre, sailed for Sicily. It took weeks for his injury to heal, but it's a miracle he recovered at all. Not many men win against a poisoned dagger."
"Had I been in Acre, I'd have wagered all I owned that he'd survive. Edward has the Devil's own luckthough of course he thinks it's God's favor. I know him, Llewelyn, better than you do. For three years, I lived at his court. We plotted together, fought together, even went whoring together. He can be a surprisingly good companion for an Englishman! None can deny his courage, and his wits are sharp enough, for certes. Hard to believe he could have been sired by such a milksop. If Henry's Queen was not such a cold-blooded bitch, I
might suspect her of some furtive fun beneath the sheets."
Davydd's grin slowly faded. "But whatever else Edward is or is not, only one fact truly mattersthat he is not to be trusted. Bear that in mind, Llewelyn.
For your sake, always bear that in mind."
"I well know I cannot trust Edward," Llewelyn said quietly. "So it is fortunate, is it not, that I can trust you?"
Davydd was momentarily caught off balance. Had Llewelyn learned of his secret meeting with the lords of Powys? Their plan was as ambitious as it was dangerous, involving nothing less than Llewelyn's overthrow. He had not committed himself in any way, but his mere presence at such a meeting was akin to treason, at least in Llewelyn's eyes.
He hesitated, then fell back upon a familiar tactic. "You can trust me with your very life, Llewelynon every other Thursday during Lent."
'I cannot tell you how that eases my mind, lad." Llewelyn's smile as wry/ but somewhat sad, too, and Davydd found himself at a rare oss for words. They looked at each other as the silence spun out between hem, a web sticky with all they dared not say.

8
MELUN, FRANCE
August 1273
I\|ELL DE MONTFORT approached Melun with some trepidation, dreading what lay ahead of her. She'd never understood why her Church held humility to be a virtue, had never sought to curb her prideful nature, and as a result, she'd had little practice in cultivating the modest demeanor, the demure bearing that her society demanded of its women. Born a
Plantagenet Princess, wed to a man just as hot-blooded, she had gloried in the tumultuous passion of their life together, matching Simon's reckless candor with her own brand of forthright boldness. Those were traits that had stood her in good stead during her years as the Countess of Leicester. They availed her naught now, on her way to Melun to entreat an enemy for aid.
Upon her arrival at the French King's manor, she was personally welcomed by
Philippe and his mother. Marguerite needed but one glance to detect Nell's inner agitation; Nell had not had such a perceptive woman friend since the death of her niece, Elen de Quincy. "Are you sure you want to do this, dearest?" Marguerite asked quietly, and when Nell nodded, the French Queen sighed, slipped a supportive arm through Nell's, and led her toward the solar for her audience with England's King.
But Edward made it surprisingly easy. The mere fact that he'd chosen the private solar over the public great hall showed a sensitivity she'd not expected, and there was a genuine warmth in his greeting, in the cheerful informality of his "Aunt Nell." Mayhap not so surprising, though; she knew he'd always been very fond of her. She'd been fond of him, tooin another lifetime. Eight years had passed since she'd seen him last, the day she'd surrendered Dover Castle to his besieging army, with Simon two months dead and her world in ruins. Yet he'd been kind, then, heeding her plea on behalf of her household retainers-

91
He'd even argued against her own banishment, sought in vain to soften his father's heart toward her. She'd truly tried to be grateful, but she could not forget the brutal mutilation of her husband's body, a mutilation Edward had permitted. Eight years were not long enough to blur a memory like that. She was in no position, though, to scorn his truce, however fragile or false it might be. And he, too, seemed to be trying; if "Evesham" did not pass her lips, neither did "Viterbo" pass his.
"Ellen did not come with you?"
"No," Nell said hastily, "she's been ailing," for although she was willing to treat with the enemy for her children's sake, they were not. It was a transparent falsehood; she'd never been good at lying. But Edward let her save face by pretending to believe her, then launched into a dramatic account of his encounter with Baibars's Assassin.
Nell listened with unfeigned interest, even admiration; in her hierarchy of values, courage headed the list. But when Edward described how Eleanora had been banished from his chamber by the Master of the Templars, her eyebrows shot upward and she exclaimed indignantly, "And she let herself be shunted aside like a wayward child? It would have taken a sword at my throat to get me from Simon's sickbed!"
And then, hearing her own words, she drew an audible breath. Simon's name echoed in the air between them, and their truce hung in the balance. Edward had stiffened, but after a taut, suspenseful pause, he relaxed again. "I
wonder, Aunt Nell, if you realize what good friends you have at the French court? Since I arrived in Paris, Philippe and Marguerite have done naught but bedevil me on your behalf, urging me to right my father's wrong."
Nell was taken aback that he should broach the subject first. "You said they were persistent," she murmured. "Were they also persuasive?"
Edward grinned, amused by the obliqueness of her approach, so unlike her usual devil-be-damned directness. "Yes," he said, "they were," and saw her eyes widen. "My father did indeed wrong you, Aunt Nell. He had no right to claim the dower lands from your first marriage. I cannot make amends for all your lost income, but I can make sure you suffer no further losses. I will order the heirs of your first husband to answer to the Exchequer for what they owe you. I will also take measures to restore the lands to your control." And because Philippe had confided that Nell's income had dwindled dramatically now that Guy was excommunicate, his estates forfeit, Edward added, And since it might take a while, I will order the Exchequer to advance you the, sum of two hundred pounds. Will that be enough?"
Mute, she could only nod. To restore her lands was simple justice, although she'd been afraid to hope for even that much. But he'd gone ^yond that, had responded with a generosity she had not expected. A

92
lesser man would have made her beg. "I will repay your loan," she vowed, "without delay. I thank you, Edward. I could not bear that my daughter ..."
She did not complete the sentence. As grateful as she was, she could not bring herself to confide in him her fears for Ellen's future. He did not seem offended by her reticence, though, saying with a smile, "I remember Ellen well, remember the letters she wrote to me at Kenilworth, seeking to cheer my confinement. She was all of what. ' twelve? Thirteen? I daresay she's grown into a beauty by now?"
Nell nodded, marveling that they could be talking so easily of a time in which he'd been her husband's prisoner, as if it had somehow happened to other people. "You are making this difficult for me, Edward," she confessed. "You have been more than fair, and now I must risk seeming greedy and ungrateful, for I have yet another favor to ask of you!"
They surprised themselves, then, by sharing a laugh. "Go ahead," Edward said, still grinning. "Do you not remember that folk wisdom, the one about striking whilst the iron is hot?"
"Now that the Pope has pardoned the Bishop of Chichester for having supported
Simon, he yearns to end his exile, to spend his last years in the land of his birth. Surely that is not so much to ask, Edward? He wants to come home . . .
and to take my son, Amaury, with him."
"No," he said abruptly, tersely.
"But Edward, why? Chichester is an old man, and Amaury . . . why should you hate him so? He was not even at Evesham, bears no guilt for what his brothers did at Viterbo" Nell broke off. She'd never seen eyes as cold as Edward's. A
vivid blue but moments before, they were now as colorless and chilling as ice, eyes that accused, judged, and damned her son without a word being said.
"Amaury de Montfort will never be allowed to return to England, not whilst I
draw breath. You tell him that, Madame. Tell him, too, that should he be foolhardy enough to disregard my warning, all his prayers and papal connections will not help him. Nothing will."
NELL was frowning over the chessboard, her competitive instincts fully engaged. Across the table, her chaplain watched with a complacent smile. No matter how she studied the board, she could see no escape^ Ellen's interruption came, therefore, at a most opportune time.
"The fair begins today, Mama. Juliana and I thought it worth a look."
Nell felt a pang that her daughter should have no better entertainment than this, a paltry village market, she who'd attended Winchester's

93
famous St Giles Fair and London's equally celebrated St Bartholomew's Fair-
"If you go," she said, "be sure to take an escortDurand or Roger."
Ellen and Juliana exchanged grins. "We'd rather take Hugh," Ellen said, then lowered her voice to confide, "He's smitten with the apothecary's daughter.
Have you not noticed how eagerly he offers to run errands in the village?"
Hugh was cleaning Sir Olivier7 s saddle, conscientiously dipping a doth into a jar of foul-smelling sheep's tallow. When Ellen's summons came, he jumped to his feet as if launched from a crossbow, to a chorus of catcalls and hoots.
But although every man in the hall would have welcomed a chance to attend the fair, there was no malice in their railery. They might enjoy teasing him about the apothecary's daughteran open secretbut none of them seriously begrudged the lad an afternoon with his girl. It had not always been that way. When he'd first joined the Countess's household, there'd been some resentment of his privileged position, for it was obvious to all that the Countess and the Lady
Ellen took a personal interest in his welfare. But he'd won them over by never shirking the dirty jobs, by deflecting their taunts with unassuming good humor, and by pitching the most persistent of his tormentors into a horse trough. Now, as he grinned self-consciously and buckled his scabbard, they shouted ribald courting suggestions after him, and he, Ellen, and Juliana departed on a wave of laughter.
It had been a hot, dry summer. For weeks on end, the skies had been as empty and vast and daunting as the uncharted seas that lay beyond Greenland. But
September brought reviving showers of misty silver rain, perfect autumn days of mellow sun, the last flowering of village gardens and wild meadows. The
River Loing flowed through Montargis like a swirl of moss-green ribbon, forking into two streams, winding and twisting and spilling over into a shallow lake, the site of the fair.
Montargis had more shops than most villages, enriched by the presence of the castle and the convent. But they offered only those necessities people could neither provide for themselves nor do without. There was a cobbler to repair shoes, a farrier to shoe horses, an apothecary to mix healing potions, a tanner to turn hides into leather. The villagers baked their own bread in the
Lord's oven, mended their own tables and wagons, spun their own flax, grew their own food, and slaughtered their own vestock at Martinmas. Theirs was a world self-sufficient and sequesered, a world in which choices were a luxury reserved for the highborn.
On this sunlit Saturday, though, they were confronted by a range choices, just as dazzling as the jugglers who moved through the
°wds with sure-footed grace, tossing apples and balls skyward as they untered past. There were merchants selling olive and almond and