The Reckoning - 3 (33 page)

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able to sail in mid-December, but it was just that, a "hope." It may that bad weather or unexpected delays had kept the cog at Harfleur
11 into the new year. Even if they had sailed on time, storms could ve forced her ship to seek shelter in any of a dozen coastal ports. If the wind was not with them, they'd make little headway in heavy seas.
He himself could testify to that, having once endured a vile winter crossing from Ireland. Ill winds had driven them back into Drogheda's harbor so many times that he'd lost count, had become convinced he'd have to begin life anew as an Irishman.
Logically, Llewelyn knew that Einion was right, that his concern was premature. But instinct stronger than reason was communicating a message impossible to ignore, that something was very wrong. He spent so much time staring out at the harbor that he at last moved his household six miles up the coast to his castle at Cricieth. But he did not succeed in leaving his anxiety behind at Pwllheli. At Cricieth, too, he found himself gazing out to sea, and his dreams were troubled, as dark and murky as those surging, shoreward tides.
For as he watched the waves splash over the rocks below the castle, he was slowly coming to the most appalling understanding of all, that he might never know what happened. If Ellen's ship had been lost at sea, there'd be no word of the disaster, only this endless, suffocating silence, a lifetime of silence.
And so when Hugh knelt and stammered out that Ellen had been taken by pirates off the coast of Cornwall, Llewelyn's reaction was one almost of relief. At least she was alive. As terrifying as her ordeal must have been, she was alive and could be rescued. Hugh's presence was proof of that, proof that she had been able to convince the pirates of her identity, not a woman to be raped and abused, one to be ransomed.
Hugh looked so distraught that he said reassuringly, "It will be all right, lad. We'll get her back, I promise. How much do they want for her release?"
Having to tell Nell and Ellen that Bran was dead was the most difficult task
Hugh had ever faceduntil now. "My lord . . . there is no ransom demand. It was not ill chance that put us in the pirates' path. They were waiting for your lady," he said, saw that Llewelyn was quick to comprehend.
"Christ Jesus . . . Edward?"
Hugh nodded miserably. "I do not know how he found out, my '°rd, for we took such care to keep the wedding secret. The man has ^holy luck. How else explain it? If there had been fog that day, we would have gotten by them, or if the winds had shifted ..." Hugh was t*ing too much, knew it, could not help himself.
Llewelyn was no longer listening. Moving to the window, he stared

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out at the churning sea, pressing his fist against the opaque glass pane ordered for Ellen. He had never even met her, although she wore his ring, bore his name. But even before they'd taken those holy vows, there had been a bond between them, a connection he could not fully explain Long after he'd disavowed their first plight troth, he'd found that he still cared about her safety, her welfare. A debt of honor, a memory made realwhatever the reason, when his need became urgent to take L a wife, there was but one choice, one woman.
if She was a stranger to him, but her presence in the room was almost tangible, for it had been furnished just for her. The walls had been wainscotted and then painted green and gold, in the English fashion The bed was piled high with fur-lined coverlets, embroidered with the de Montfort arms. To please her, there were silver candelabras and February flowering
Candlemas bells and delicate perfume vials. An ivory hairbrush and matching hand mirror had been laid out for her use. He had spared no expense to make her feel at home in an alien land, this young woman who'd gone from sheltered affluence to dishonored exile, from a Prince's betrothed to a dead rebel's daughter, all in the span of one bloodied sword thrust. He'd discovered that he wanted to give her back some of what she'd lost, and he'd begun here, at
Cricieth.
This was to have been Ellen's bridal chamber. But she would never see it now.
Her de Montfort blood and their marriage vows would condemn her to a lifetime's confinement in England. Edward would never let her go. Llewelyn had reached the table. Picking up the mirror, he turned it over; the back had been engraved with the letter E. When he flung it into the hearth, there was a splintering sound as the glass shattered, and Hugh flinched. With a sweep of his arm, Llewelyn sent the rest of the table's contents crashing into the floor rushes; a chair followed. Llewelyn's greyhound had begun to whimper softly, but all Hugh could hear was Llewelyn's ragged breathing. He was edging toward the door, stopped when Llewelyn looked toward him.
"Do you want me to go, my lord?"
Llewelyn shook his head, beckoned him back. It was very quiet after that;
Llewelyn said nothing and Hugh was willing to wait until he did. Finally
Llewelyn righted the over-turned chair, sat down, and gestured for Hugh to do the same.
There had been a flagon on the table; the floor rushes were soaking in mead.
Hugh unfastened a travel flask from his belt, held it out with a shy smile. He was pleased when Llewelyn took it, drank, and passed it back.
Looking at the wreckage-strewn floor, Llewelyn said, very low, "K

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been a long time since I lost control like that, more than twenty ars A woman very dear to me had miscarried of a baby, died of the
^ suiting fever, and afterward, I tried to put my fist through a table. It
... no{ help, and I damned near broke my hand, thought I'd learned a lesson ..."
Hugh offered the flask again. "The woman . . . who was she, my lord?"
"My aunt. Passing strange, her name was also Elen, spelled in the
Welsh way. She was Nell's kinswoman, too, her sister Joanna's daughter Nell was there with me when Elen died. She was the one who bandaged my hand."
"At least the Lady Nell was spared this," Hugh ventured, so desperate was he to offer consolation of any kind, and Llewelyn's mouth twisted down.
"Yes, she died believing that I'd take care of her daughter," he said, so bitterly that Hugh's breath stopped. "What of Morgan? Is he dead?" He felt no surprise when Hugh nodded, and made a sign of the cross; he could do no more for his dead than he could for the living. "Tell me what happened," he said, and Hugh did, from their first glimpse of the pirate galley's crimson sail to the moment when he'd ridden away from Bristol on the horse purchased with
Isaac ben Ashler's money. Llewelyn listened in silence. Only once did he interrupt, when Hugh revealed that Ellen had been taken at first to Bristol
Castle. "Bristol ... I wonder if they gave her Eleanor of Brittany's old chamber."
Hugh had never heard of Eleanor of Brittany until he was stranded in Bristol.
But since then, he'd been haunted by that unhappy lady's fate, and now he found himself pleading, as much for his own sake as for Llewelyn's, "You must not give up hope, my lord. We have to believe she'll be set free."
Llewelyn drank again. "How long have you been in my wife's service?"
"It will be five years come the summer."
"You must know her well then, Hugh. Tell me the truth. Do you think she is strong enough to survive this?"
"To look at her, you'd think not," Hugh said slowly. "When I was
111 Tuscany, I saw an ivory carving of the Madonna; thaf s what the Italians call our Blessed Lady. I tell you this, my lord, because your lady seems just like that Florentine church sculpture, delicate and finely made, breakable.
But Brother Teilo told me that when the cog was seized, Lady Ellen held off one of the pirates with a knife."
He'd meant to reassure, saw how badly he'd miscalculated only as "** blood left Llewelyn's face. "She has not been harmed, my lord! I

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am sure of it, for Thomas the Archdeacon would never be fool enouou to rape the King's cousin."
Llewelyn rose abruptly, then bent down and picked up Ellen's hand mirror. The ivory case had been fashioned by a master craftsman, a thm sheet of clear glass fitted over a polished plate of copper. It had been pretty piece of work, but now the glass was smashed and the metal dented and scratched, both beyond repair. "I believe you, Hugh," j,e said softly. "But she ought never to have faced a danger like that. » Letting the mirror drop into the floor rushes, he turned back to the young Englishman. "You are welcome at my court, welcome in Wales I would be fortunate to have you in my service."
Hugh felt a surge of grateful admiration for the Welsh Prince's deft touch;
rarely had an offer of refuge been tendered so gracefully, camouflaged as praise. "You do me honor, my lord. But I cannot accept, not yet. I would be beholden to you, though, if you could give me the money to repay Isaac ben
Asher, and enough to get me, then, to Windsor."
"Windsor?" Llewelyn's voice was suddenly sharp. "You are following Ellen?"
"Of course," Hugh said simply. "But first I mean to go to Corfe Castle, to see if there is anything to be done on Lord Amaury's behalf."
Llewelyn had given no thought to Amaury's plight, no thought to anyone but
Ellen. "Corfe Castle," he echoed somberly. "God pity him. Do you truly think you can even gain admittance? From what I've heard of Corfe, it would be easier to get into the Caliph of Baghdad's harem."
"I have to try, my lord. From Corfe, I shall go to Windsor, seek out my lady.
After that, it is in God's Hands."
No, Llewelyn thought, in Edward's hands, God rot him. Strange, that hatred could burn with such a white-hot flame, yet be so utterly ice-cold at the core. But Hugh was still waiting patiently. "You'll not want for money, Hugh.
Tell me ... if I were to give you a letter, do you think you'd be able to get it to Ellen?"
"I'll find a way," Hugh vowed, "that I swear to you, my lord." He said no more, for there was no more to be said, quietly let himself out of the chamber.
Llewelyn crossed to a coffer, brought out writing materials, and took them back to the table. But he found himself staring at the parchment as his pen dripped ink onto the page. What was he to say to her. He'd sworn a holy oath to protect her, to cherish her, yet he could do neither. In truth, there was nothing he could do for heronly rage and grieveand well he knew it. Looking blindly down at the blank parchment, he wondered if she knew it, too.

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CORFE CASTLE, ENGLAND
March J276
1 HE whitewashed wall above Amaury's pallet was streaked with grime and yellowed by smoke, scarred by the scratched messages of men long dead. Upon his arrival, Amaury had begun to mark the days of his confinement, stirring the ashes in his charcoal brazier and drawing crosses on the wall above his head. But as February gave way to March and the crosses multiplied, he had a sudden harrowing vision of what his future held:
row after row of those cinder-smeared symbols, filling the walls from floor to ceiling, crosses beyond counting. After that he drew no more crosses, counted no more days.
He'd been sleeping, awoke at sound of a key in the lock. He tensed, but the door did not open. He'd always been a realist, the only one of Simon de
Montfort's sons capable of detached analysis, the only one not ruled by his passions, and he refusedeven nowto console himself with false hope, at least during his waking hours. His dreams, though, were of midnight escapes and miracles.
Sitting up, he scratched a flea bite while trying to motivate himself to light a candle, for the daylight was fast fading. As barren and sparse as his prison was, he was thankful to be housed in the Butavant Tower's uppermost chamber.
From his pallet, he could catch a grateful glimpse of sky, but the ground-floor dungeon was windowless. Below it, he'd been told, lay a chamber of even greater horrors, a pit deep in the earth, reached only through a trapdoor in the floor above. Amaury did not understand how a man could be buried alive like that and not go mad.
Lying back on the pallet, he sought in vain to get comfortable upon the thin straw mattress. He'd taken some of his holy vows more seriously than others, had never seen why poverty enhanced a priesf s piety. Like Warty sons of noble families he'd found in the Church a career rather

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than a calling. Well, he'd be honoring all his vows now, he'd be living as austerely as any recluse, those holy men who shunned the world and all its pleasures, mortifying the flesh whilst devoting their every waking thought to the glories of God Eternal and Life Everlasting.
Here at Corfe, he had his anchorite's cell, and all the time he'd ever need for contemplative meditation upon his sins and hopes of salvation. He suspected, though, that he'd spare a thought or two for his royal I
benefactor, his right beloved cousin Ned.
if Yielding the bed to the fleas, he got stiffly to his feet, moved restlessly to the unshuttered window. Dusk had begun to blur the edges of the Purbeck
Hills, and slate-color clouds promised rain before morning. He wondered what view Ellen looked out upon from her Windsor chamber. He wondered, too, how he'd fill the day's dwindling hours. He'd always imagined that boredom must be a prisoner's greatest foe. But he'd not expected the solitude to be equally burdensome. Even as a boy, he'd been as independent as any cat, accustomed to going his own way. It came as a shock, therefore, to discover that loneliness could be so crippling.
So starved was he for companionship that he'd begun to look forward to those days when Bertram was on duty, for the genial, garrulous guard was always willing to linger and talk. A good-natured, unlettered man in his forties, Bertram had been untouched by the turmoil that had convulsed England during
Simon de Montfort's struggle with King Henry. The boundaries of Bertram's world stretched no farther than the confines of his Dorsetshire village, and it mattered little to him that Amaury was a de Montfort. But that Amaury was a priest mattered greatly.
Bertram did not believe a man of God ought to be imprisoned like a common felon, and when he learned that Amaury was a papal chaplain, his indignation led him to perform small acts of kindness whenever possible, seeing that
Amaury had extra candles, another blanket, even a wooden comb. And Amaury, who'd once dined with kings and consorted with popes, could only reflect, with rueful bitterness, that what Scriptures said was all too true. Pride indeed did goeth before destruction, a haughty spirit before a fall.
He stiffened suddenly, again thinking he'd heard the jangle of keys. This time, though, his senses had not played him false. As he turned from the window, the door swung open and Bertram entered with his supper tray. The food was the usual Lenten faresalted herring, half a loaf of barley bread, a dollop of apple butter, and a tankard of tepid aleedible, if not appetizing. But
Bertram was beaming, looking as pleased as if he'd just brought Amaury a meal to grace a king's table-