The Reckoning - 3 (74 page)

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or two, have some private moments in a quiet chapel, a walk on the beach. We both know that this brief time is all they'll ever have."
Juliana nodded, then sighed. "But they are not discreet, look upon each other with far too much fondness for others to miss. Already there is talk, Ellen, and it will get worse."
Ellen shrugged, snapped her thread in two. "Gossip," she said tersely, "is the least of my worries these days."
"Do you think Llewelyn might return to Aber this week?"
"I do not know, Juliana. He could return on the morrow, or not for a fortnight. It depends upon the fortunes of war. I know that he will come if he can, and I must take comfort in that."
Ellen let her sewing drop onto the seat beside her, leaned back wearily against the cushions. "When Llewelyn promised me that he would not take the field until after Bran was born, I knew he meant it. But I knew, too, that circumstances of war might make his promise impossible to keep. So far, though, he has held to it, has left the fighting in the south to Davydd, and not an hour passes that I do not thank God for it. One of Llewelyn's bards once said of him, Tan el i ryfel nid ymgyddia''When he goes to war, he hides not himself.' "
Juliana groped hastily for comfort, aware how lame her offering was even as she said, "But he is not fighting now in battles, Ellen. He is commanding a siege. That must be safer, surely?"
"I keep telling myself that, too, Juliana. And I try not to remember that my grand-uncle, the King the English call 'Lionheart/ died whilst besieging a paltry, insignificant castle at Chalus."
Juliana moved to the table, poured for Ellen the rest of her posset, for that concoction of spiced milk and wine was known to benefit those ailing or heavy with child. "Have you heard from Llewelyn since you sent him word of his brother's death?"
"No, not yet. I know he loved Owain not, but even so . . ." Ellen accepted the posset, took several dutiful sips, then essayed a smile and a joke, one that held more raw honesty than humor. "You have no idea, Juliana, how often I've wished Llewelyn were an only child!"
"And if God had to give him a brother, a pity it could not have been Edmund.
Better yet, why could the Almighty not have grafted Davydd upon Edward's family tree?"
Ellen's laughter was half-hearted, hollow. "A perfect pairing that
^ould be, a match made in Hell," she said, striving gamely to echo
Juliana's bantering tone. But Juliana did not look convinced, and Ellen
Save up the pretense. "You should have made your escape whilst you could, Juliana, for I'm not fit company for man or beast these days. I'm
°t sleeping as I ought, and when I do ... I've been having this dreadful earn. It is always the same. I am alone on this dark, unfamiliar road.

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I can sense danger ahead, but I cannot go back, so I keep on, getting closer and closer, until the ground starts to slip under my feet, and I've nothing to hold on to . . ."
Juliana crossed swiftly to the window-seat, truly alarmed now, for she knew that such morbid fancies might well harm Ellen's babe; some people claimed that disfiguring birthmarks were the result of a bad scare whilst the child was still in the womb. But as she leaned over, her eye was caught by movement behind Ellen's head. Straightening up, she peered through the thick, greenish glass, and then laughed, out of sheer relief. "How about holding on to your husband? He has just ridden into the bailey."
"THE sieges still go on, then?"
Llewelyn nodded, shifting so he could slide his arm around Ellen's shoulders.
"Nothing has changed. They cannot get out, we cannot get in. But as long as they are penned up behind the walls of Rhuddlan and Flynt, they are not able to prey upon the Welsh countryside."
Ellen moved closer on the seat. When they'd been apart for a time, she usually liked to sit on his lap, but that was not a comfortable position now, not with just six weeks until the baby was due. "I had a Requiem Mass said for the repose of Owain's soul," she said, and Llewelyn gave her a quick, grateful kiss.
"Thank you, lass. I knew he'd been ailing, so it was not such a surprise. Nor can I say that I grieved for him, although Davydd might. But I was glad, nonetheless, that he'd not died at Dolbadarn."
"Llewelyn . . . how long can you stay this time?"
"Only a few days," Llewelyn said reluctantly. "This was not the best time for me to return to Aber, for I'd ordered several trebuchets to be built, and they'll be done any day. But I got news last night from England, and I had to come back, for I had to be the one to tell you."
He saw her flinch, then brace herself to be brave, and he said hastily/ "Ah, no, my love, the news need not always be bad! This is news to give you great joy, and I had to see your face when you heard it, f°r you've been waiting six years and more for this day. Your brother has been freed from Edward's prison."
He heard her indrawn breath, saw her eyes widen, and then she was in his arms, her breath warm upon his neck, and the words echoing in his ear were the same ones, over and over, a starkly simple "than" God, oh, thank God!" ^ 1
e*a

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AMAURY had been turned over to the papal nuncio, Raymond Nogerfcis, Dean of Le
Puy, on the 21st of April. They sailed at once for Francrre. On the 22d of
May, Amaury wrote to Edward from Arras, in northezm France, thanking his royal cousin for his "grace," pledging fidelity, ai-»d asking for the liberty to sue
Edmund in an English court for the recovery of the earldom of Leicester. The letter infuriated Edward, as it was clear-ly meant to do.
32
ABER, WALES
June 1282
LLEWELYN awakened to the sweet, heavy scent of honeysuckle, for Ellen had filled their bedchamber with blooming woodbine. It was just after dawn; light had begun to filter through thue window glass, and the night shadows were in retreat. He shifted his position carefully, not wanting to disturb Ellen. But when he glanced over, he found himself gazing into clear hazel eyes. Leaning toward her, he brushed his lips against her cheek. "I'd hoped to let you sleep."
"I've been awake for a while," Ellen said and smiled at him. "1 'hink this might be the day."
To her amusement, her drowsy husband shot up in bed as if stung. Why did you not wake me, Ellen? Thank Christ the midwife is already a Aber!" He was flinging aside the covers when she caught his arm.
"Llewelyn, there is no need for haste. The baby will not pop out e a cork from a bottle!" Laughing, she drew him back into bed beside j r- I am not even sure yet, for I've been having pains come and go th t,3^8 now' Gwynora did say, though, that the true pangs start in "ty ,ac^' and that is where I am feeling these, so . . ." She smiled again, y e ^ know soon enough. But for now, I'd like to stay here in bed witH
' Or tnis is the last time we'll be alone until the babe is born. Once

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my lying-in begins, you'll not be able to set foot across this threshold
Prince or no!"
She let Llewelyn prop pillows behind her, let him cradle her within the safe circle of his arms. When her next pain came, he massaged the small of her back until it passed, then confessed, "It does not seem real to me yet."
"I know," she confessed. "To me, either. It is so odd, for never have I longed for any happening, not even our wedding, as I've longed for this day. Yet now that it is nigh, I almost wish it were not . . ."
His fingers had been caressing the nape of her neck, now were suddenly still.
"Are you afraid, Ellen?"
She shook her head. "No. Well. . . maybe a little. A woman's first birth is said to be the hardest. But my mother was brought to bed of seven healthy babies, a right reassuring family tradition. And I have faith in Dame Blodwen.
I also will have Gwynora with me, and Elizabeth and Juliana. If I would hold time back, it is not that I am fearful. It is because once our child is born, you'll leave me, ride off to war."
From the corner of her eye, she saw him wince, and was at once contrite. "Ah, love, I am sorry! I ought never to have said that, for I know you have no choice. Do what you must, and your son and I will be here to welcome you home once this war is done."
"You need never apologize for saying what you think, lass. I understand. How could you ever forget that Evesham summer, waiting with your mother at Dover
Castle for word of your father's fate? But it will not be like that this time, Ellen. A letter a dayI promisedelivered by swift-riding couriers whose only duty will be to keep you informed of my whereabouts, my well-being, and, of course, my triumphs!"
"You know me so well," she said softly. "I shall hold you to that vow, too.
Llewelyn . . . I've seen a change in you during these past few weeks. You seem more at ease, more at peace with yourself. Even after Reginald de Grey was able to raise your sieges at Flynt and Rhuddlan, you did not appear much troubled by it. Will you answer me honestly? Will you tell me if you truly believe you can win this war?"
He'd have lied without any qualms whatsoever, if that would give her the strength she needed to face the ordeal that lay ahead of her. But he did not have to lie, for she'd read him correctly; he was indeed more hopeful now than at any time since Davydd's Palm Sunday W" trayal. "Yes," he said slowly, "I do believe it is a war we can win. Never have my people been so united, so determined to hold fast against tn English invaders. Edward has accomplished what I never could, » ' brought us together. Who knows, one day far in the future men wW well see him as the patron saint of Welsh unity." .
Ellen smiled at that, as he'd hoped she might. "Edward is a supe"

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soldier, cariad, but he is also a King, with a King's far-reaching concerns, and too much common sense to let himself be caught up in battlefield bravado.
If we can make this war costly enough and bloody enough, he'll offer terms, settle for what he can get. It will not be easy and it will not be soon. We'll have to pay a high price for victory, Ellen. But it's within our reach. God willing, it is also within our grasp."
Ellen pillowed her head in the crook of his shoulder. "Why should God not will it? You've fought three wars with Edward, have won two. I do" She jerked suddenly in his embrace, then expelled an uneven breath. "Well, it is no longer in doubt," she said, and began to laugh. "Bran is definitely knocking on the door!"
THAT Tuesday, the 16th of June in God's Year, 1282, did not at first appear out of the ordinary. It was warm, skies overcast, an erratic breeze wafting seaward from the inland mountains. Those at Aber did not seem to be aware of its odder aspects. Only Llewelynand possibly Hugh had guessed the truth, that it somehow held more hours than those allotted to other days.
As the morning ebbed away, Llewelyn began to revise all his ideas of eternity.
He paced and waited and blazed a path from the hall to Ellen's lying-in chamber, each time getting the same impatient answer, that the babe would come in God's own time and not sooner. He made such a nuisance of himself that
Elizabeth finally promised to seek him out every hour without fail, even if there was naught to report. After that, he waited and paced, and he and Hugh took turns reassuring each other that Ellen would soon be delivered of a healthy, handsome son. In mid-afternoon, Dai and Goronwy arrived, bearing unwelcome news. The English had burned the town of St Asaph, not sparing even
'he cathedral. Anian, St Asaph's Bishop, had long been at odds with Llewelyn, but he'd refused to obey the Archbishop of Canterbury's command, refused to publish the edict that excommunicated Llewelyn, ^d he'd now paid a great price for his defiance.
But not even the vivid image of a town in flames could keep
Llewelyn's thoughts from straying across the bailey, and Dai and
Goronwy gallantly conceded Ellen the victory, no longer tried to talk to
Uewelyn of strategy and his coming campaign in the south. Instead, mey began to make the heavy-handed, well-meaning jokes that people evitably inflicted upon first-time fathers. Llewelyn did not mind, °uSh; he was grateful for any distraction, for anything or anyone who ild stop him from dwelling upon his wife's ordeal, upon all that could
80 Wr°ng in a birthing.
klizabeth kept her word, and when she did not come herself to the

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hall, she sent Juliana or Caitlin. Whoever the messenger was, though, the message seemed woefully inadequate to Llewelyn, that all was going as it ought. But soon after dusk Elizabeth brought more encouraging word. Ellen's waters had broken, she reported cheerfully, a sure sign that the babe would soon be delivered.
The evening hours passed. Dinner was served. Dai and Goronwy ate heartily, Llewelyn very little. Juliana had assured him they were feeding Ellen honey and wine to keep her strength up, insisted that her spirits were good. He found himself marveling more and more at the quiet, unsung courage of women.
And he'd begun to wish fervently that he knew more about the female mysteries of the birthing chamber. By his reckoning, Ellen had been in labor now for eighteen hours, but he did not know if that was what the midwives termed a
"lingering" delivery. By prodding boyhood memories, he seemed to remember his mother giving birth to Davydd in ten hours or so; he could stir up no recollection of Rhodri's birth. The women continued to offer vague, evasive assurances that he no longer believed. As the night advanced, so, too, did his sense of foreboding.
Llewelyn could not sleep, lay watchful and tense upon a pallet in the great hall. All around him, men were snoring, fumbling for blankets as the hearth burned low. Dogs prowled about amidst the sleepers, scratching fleas, sniffing out food dropped into the floor rushes. Out in the dark beyond the hall, an owl screeched, and Llewelyn raised his head, listening uneasily, for that was an ill omen for certes; all his life he'd heard it said that owls, like howling dogs, heralded an impending death. When he could endure neither the solitude nor his own thoughts any longer, he rose and, trailed by Nia, crossed the hall, stepped out into the bailey.
He'd begun to think the night would never end, but the sky was slowly greying to the east. He stood for a time gazing across the bailey; the shutters of
Ellen's lying-in chamber were in place, but a few glimmers of light escaped through the cracks. The owl cried again, and he hesitated no longer, began to walk toward the silent, darkened chapel.
The door was ajar. As Llewelyn moved into the shadows of the nave, he saw a lantern flickering upon the altar. A woman was kneeling within its feeble glow. She was cloaked in a long, full mantle, and it was not until she turned at sound of his footsteps that he recognized his sister-in-law. He looked into the pale, tear-streaked face upturned to his, and then he reached down, pulled
Elizabeth to her feet.
"You've been lying to me," he said. "Why?"
"Ellen made us promise not to tell you. She said it would serve & naught, that you were anxious enough about the birthing, needed no more cares thrust upon you, and she would not be denied."