Chapter Fourteen
Llywelyn
“You seem inordinately pleased with yourself this morning,” Goronwy said sourly as we met over my desk the next morning. He’d spent the previous evening going through the castle accounts with Castell y Bere’s steward. Goronwy had trained this man well, but sometimes two eyes were better than one.
I smiled at Goronwy. “I am.”
I’d just left Meg sleeping in our bed and was looking forward to breakfast with her later. I’d been reluctant to leave her warmth and the inviting curve of her hip, outlined under the blanket, but the duties of the day called. I found myself changed, in no more time than it took to turn a page in a book. Finally being acknowledged the Prince of Wales in the eyes of King Henry was like the closing of one chapter, and Meg’s coming into my life the beginning of another.
Goronwy rolled his eyes. He was slumped in his chair, his hair mussed, having run his hands through it time and again as he wrestled with the numbers on the pages. A scholar Goronwy was not, but of all my advisors, I most trusted him.
“We’ve lost a dozen men to death and injury,” he said, “we’ve progressed only a few days from Criccieth in nearly two weeks, and are no closer to deterring Clare’s despoiling of your land.”
“It’s winter,” I said. “Clare couldn’t have laid more than a few stones this week. The intrigue we’ve uncovered is more important; not only is Dafydd ricocheting around my lands wreaking havoc, but he’s in league with Owain of Powys, whose father claims loyalty to me. We must determine if Dafydd’s disloyalty has spread further than this.”
“To Powys, then, as we initially planned?”
“To Powys. We will summon Gruffydd to us at Brecon,” I said. “He must account for his son’s actions, even if he doesn’t countenance them.”
“And the boy, Humphrey?”
“We will escort him to his grandfather’s lands, or allow his grandfather to come get him. That is one young man I hate to let go, for he could become a great enemy some day. It’s my hope that our treatment of him will outweigh that danger, at least for now.”
“And ransom?”
“As I told the boy—no ransom,” I said. “I prefer that the senior Bohun is beholden to us.”
“He would prefer to pay ransom, I’m sure,” Goronwy said. “He will hate that you return Humphrey for free.”
“I look forward to greeting him in what was once his own hall,” I said. Then I stood abruptly, shut the door to the office, and pulled up a chair next to Goronwy, whose eyes turned wary. “I have something to tell you, old friend.”
He straightened, the gloom in his face lifting with the intensity in my voice. “What is it?”
“It’s about Meg,” I said.
Goronwy lifted his brows. He may not like numbers, but he was good with people. She’d impressed him on this journey, and he adored Anna, who’d attached herself to him whenever he was available. If I was going to tell anyone who they were, it was he.
“What do you make of her strangeness?” I said, by way of easing into the truth.
“We should simply call her Morgane and be done with it,” he said.
That made me sit up. “What makes you say that?”
“She comes from a faraway land, she’s a healer, and she’s bewitched the Prince of Wales. She even sings of apples.”
I laughed. “Everyone knows that song. No, the truth is strange enough without bringing Arthur into it.” I stopped.
“What is it, my lord?”
“She has come to us from a future time, Goronwy. Thus, her sudden appearance and the strange vehicle.”
Goronwy studied me, his gaze neither quizzical nor skeptical, just waiting. “What do you want me to say, my lord? I saw her chariot, so I can’t say what is and is not impossible, but I can’t see how what you say could be true.”
“I didn’t either, at first,” I said. “But after some reflection, and the more she spoke of the future we face, the more credible her story seems. On top of which, why would she lie about this? How could she invent such a story?”
“My lord, you know it can’t be true. The priests speak of a beginning and an end. There is no possibility of returning to a time once we’ve passed through it.”
“She gives me fourteen years, Goronwy,” I said, getting to the heart of the matter. “I am betrayed on a snowy hill at Cilmeri by the Mortimer boys, who profess to be seeking an alliance with me against Edward.”
“Ho,” Goronwy said, sitting back in his chair. “That is a tale.”
“She also says that if Edward troubles us now, it’s nothing compared to the difficulties he will present when he becomes king.”
“That I can believe,” Goronwy said. “I’ve observed the man and he’s come into his own since Evesham. He awaits the day of his father’s death with impatience. He seeks to grasp the reins of England and ride her where he wishes. That day will not be a good one for Wales.”
“So Meg says.”
Goronwy looked thoughtful. “That a young woman such as she should expend her energies thinking of such things is best testimony to their truth, but surely, you can’t really believe she’s from the future?”
“I’m beginning to, Goronwy.”
“Perhaps she’s a throwback to an earlier time as I said before—that time of Morgane when a woman might see the future in a scrying bowl?” Goronwy said. “The world has changed from those days and perhaps she denies what is in herself for fear of retribution. Such a one would not be welcome in a church—or in a prince’s bed.” Goronwy lowered his voice to match the depth of his concern.
“I love her, Goronwy,” I said. “Whoever she is, she’s in my bed and there she will remain.”
Goronwy nodded. “Yes, my lord. If magic swirls around your castle, better it work for you than against.”
I was glad he accepted that, but wasn’t entirely satisfied. Goronwy didn’t believe me. But then, he hadn’t heard the tale from Meg herself. At this point, acceptance was perhaps more than I had any right to hope, from him or anyone.
“Find your breakfast, Goronwy. I will finish here.”
He stood, understanding that it wasn’t the work I wanted, but to be alone. I stared at the documents, not seeing them, and after a moment, found myself too restless to remain inside. I followed him down the stairs and into the great hall. Goronwy sat at one of the tables, but I simply held up one hand to him and continued into the bailey. The air had remained warm and the young men were out in force, working on their sword practice. On a clear day it was possible to see the peak of Cadair Idris towering above us, but today was muggy and overcast, threatening more rain to melt the rest of the winter snows.
Humphrey was working with the squires in the bailey. He was stripped to the waist, sweat glistening off him as he stretched and lunged, blocking the sword of the youngster he was fighting. His opponent was outclassed, but Humphrey didn’t press his advantage as much as he could have.
That Humphrey was clearly winning was obvious to me, but the other boy appeared not to realize it, so careful was Humphrey not to reveal the extent of his skill. He kept himself controlled, thinking and moving just enough ahead of the other boy, keeping his feet steady on the uneven ground of the bailey, just as if he were standing on the more even floor of a great hall polished from years of use.
“My lord!” One of the guards at the top of the gatehouse tower shouted to me. “A rider approaches! He wears the Hereford colors!”
The shouting distracted Humphrey’s opponent, rather than Humphrey who could have been forgiven for it. Humphrey took the opportunity to relieve him of his sword. It clattered to the rocky ground. Humphrey looked almost apologetic, but turned to me.
“I would greet whoever has ridden here, my lord,” he said.
“Come,” I said.
Humphrey handed his wooden sword to the boy he’d been fighting, who took it with something like reverence, and caught up his shirt and cloak. Like many of my castles, Castell y Bere was built on a narrow spur, overlooking a valley. Two summers ago, I’d commenced work on a second, more secure keep to the south of the present one, and last year I’d reinforced the entrance with a new gatehouse and curtain wall.
Thus, I led the way past the cistern and the round tower on which the guard stood. to the old gate below, now much more protected than before. A man could reach it only by riding across the drawbridge, through the new, guarded outer gate, up a flight of stairs, into the barbican, and then through the inner gate. Humphrey and I walked quickly down the steps to the outer gatehouse and then up through the tower, so we could peer down at our visitor from above.
The man rode alone, and as the guard had said, wore the red and gold of the Earl of Hereford, Humphrey’s grandfather. I watched Humphrey closely, but even so, almost missed the flash of recognition, hope—and then dismay—on Humphrey’s face before he mastered it. The recognition and hope I expected, but the dismay was a surprise.
I switched my gaze to the rider my guards admitted. Though he would be seeking an audience with me, I allowed him to go on without me. I wasn’t quite finished with Humphrey yet. “The fight was well done,” I said, catching him in the act of putting on his shirt.
He stopped, the shirt half over his head, and then pulled it down smoothly. “Thank you, my lord. I was focused on the fight and thus unaware of your presence. Otherwise, I would have greeted you when you entered the bailey.”
“You had a task to complete,” I said, and then spoke again quickly, trying to catch him off-guard. “Who’s the rider?”
Humphrey’s face went blank. “One of my grandfather’s men.”
“As I would expect. What I didn’t expect is your uncertainty in seeing him here.”
Humphrey glanced at me and then looked away. “We’ve had dealings in the past,” he said. “It’s of no importance.”
“He has come a long way from England to see you,” I said, still watching Humphrey closely, but he controlled his expression and gave nothing away.
We returned to the keep. The messenger stood in the center of the hall with Goronwy, who leaned against one of the tables, his arms folded across his chest, mouth pursed, and Hywel, who sat languidly in a chair behind the high table. They all turned to look at our approach.
“My lord Prince,” the stranger said, and bowed. “I am John de Lacey, riding from Huntington.”
I nodded. “You have news for me?”
“Lord Humphrey de Bohun, First Earl of Essex, Second Earl of Hereford and Constable of England sends you greetings and asks word of his grandson.”
I canted my head to where Humphrey stood, clearly in the best of health. “You can see for yourself that he is unharmed.”
“My lord was concerned at the . . .” John hesitated.
I raised my eyebrows at his attempt at diplomacy.
“ . . . the time it was taking to return him.”
“These weeks have been eventful,” I said. “When a prince’s life is threatened, he has the right to be cautious.”
John bowed again, but not before shooting a look at Humphrey, who stood impassive beside me. “I ask on behalf of the Earl for the return of Lord Humphrey.”
“No,” I said. “Not yet.”
A general sigh eased around the room. “My lord asks that you consider an exchange,” John said, not giving up. He held out his hand in entreaty. “Not a ransom, my lord, but a gift of information, in memory of his son who died at Evesham.”
Ah. So that’s the way of it? “Perhaps we should talk in private,” I said.
John barely waited for the door to my office to close and his rear to hit the seat in front of my desk before he started speaking, obviously barely able to contain his news. “First, the Earl would like to say that he had no foreknowledge of his grandson’s misadventure.”
“So I gathered.” I glanced at Humphrey whose expression hadn’t changed and had assumed the same guarded position as in the hall. Perhaps his insides churned at being treated like a child—not undeservedly so, since he’d behaved like one—but he didn’t allow it to show. “Humphrey made that clear.”
“My lord has sent word of the attack on you and the identities of the perpetrators to Gruffydd ap Gwenwynwyn. He too was unaware of the activities of his heir, Owain, and pledges to take him in hand.”
“If Owain treats his father as he does me, it will serve little purpose,” I said. “Both Owain and my brother are grown men and not subject to the rule of any man, other than me.”
John’s eyes widened at this. “Your brother! Prince Dafydd was also involved?”
I grimaced. “I understand the nature of the trade,” I said. “I’m sure your lord will be very interested in your report when you return.”
“What my lord is most interested in is avoiding, shall we say, royal entanglements,” John said. “He too wants to be sure that news of the activities of Owain, Humphrey, and your brother remain within Wales and the Marche.”
“He has reason to believe that others might be interested? Or are already involved?”
“He does.” We sat and thought about that for a minute.
“Edward, then,” I said. The name fell into the silence like dropped crockery on a stone floor.
John nodded his head ever so slightly. “As you say, my lord.”
“I don’t like it,” Goronwy said. “Are you saying that Edward’s hand is to be found guiding these other men?”
“I . . . I wouldn’t want to go that far,” John said.
“Say what you mean, then,” Goronwy said. “It’s easy enough for your lord to defer blame to a man whom we cannot reach. Is it not enough that a Bohun sought the life of the crowned Prince of Wales? Is it not enough that the Prince’s brother and vassals plot against him? Humphrey should be in shackles, not smirking here in this office as if he’s too young to know better!”
“Goronwy,” I said.
“He was at Evesham!” Goronwy thundered. “He knows what’s at stake!”
“I do know,” Humphrey said. It was as if he was forcing the words past his teeth. “But I misjudged the nature of the threat, spending too much time with those who are discontented, thinking their lot my own. Owain and Dafydd think too small. They are concerned only with their little patch of Wales. I did lose my father at Evesham, and it was Edward himself who ensured his death. My mistake was in forgetting which side I was on.”
“Other than your own, you mean,” Goronwy said.
“The enemy of my enemy is my friend, eh?” Hywel asked, putting it into speech for the first time.
Humphrey ignored the others, staring at me, his face stony. “I apologize, my lord, for forgetting my nobility and yours.”
“Good men died,” I said. “You may ask their forgiveness when you see them. For now, you will remain in my household, as my guest, and we will continue as planned to Brecon.”
“May I stay with him, then?” John asked.
I studied him. “Do you vouch for him, Humphrey?”
Humphrey’s expression was one of a man who’d sipped some very sour wine. “I do, my lord. He is one of my grandfather’s trusted servants.”
Goronwy snorted.
I nodded. “So be it. We leave tomorrow. If needed, I expect you both to use your sword on our behalf.”
Humphrey and John bowed, dismissed, and left the room, talking low in French. “I want them watched,” I said.
“It is already done,” Goronwy said, and closed the door behind them.
“That was quite an outburst, my friend,” I said. “You were hard on the boy”
“At his age you ruled lands of your own in Gwynedd and had begun to gather men around you who followed your lead, even to death,” Goronwy said. “Humphrey is the same age as Dafydd was when he challenged you at Bryn Derwin. If we had been harder on him, perhaps we wouldn’t be where we are today, paying the price for his lack of restraint.”
“Humphrey is a small problem,” Hywel said. “I’m most concerned about Edward.”
“That rutting son of a goat!” Goronwy said, his color rising again.
I allowed myself a smile, as the goat to whom he referred was the king of England himself.
“I’ve never met the man and I already hate him,” Hywel said. “If we’d been at Evesham, we could have defeated him.”
“We would not have won,” I said. “I couldn’t afford to risk my throne for a lost cause, not with all England and half the Marche arrayed against Montfort. He couldn’t see it, but I didn’t need Meg’s soothsaying to know what would happen.”
Goronwy harrumphed again. It was an old argument. Simon de Montfort, married to King Henry’s sister, had brought the English crown to its knees, ruling for a time in Henry’s stead. A parliament of barons, Humphrey’s father and grandfather among them, who resented Henry for his capriciousness, mismanagement of the realm and favoritism towards his French relatives who’d aided him. Montfort had recognized me as the Prince of Wales in 1265 and I’d held him a friend, but he’d been unlucky in battle, and in the end, the rising star of Prince Edward could not be stopped.
It had become clear to me before that final battle at Evesham that the tide had turned on Montfort. Bad luck was partly to blame for bringing him down, but also his own arrogance. He’d believed himself invincible. He thought that God rode at his side, an ancient failing for rulers of every stripe.
More immediately, as had happened to me more times than I could count, the allies who had supported him—Marcher lords and English barons—had switched sides, as inconstant as the wind in their allegiances. Edward had taken advantage of their weakness and pugnacity, and had known the exact moment when their desire for personal power trumped their sworn loyalties. At that moment he’d struck, convincing all but a very few to come over to his side, whether with cajolery, righteous anger, or outright bribes.
Edward was unlike his father, Henry, in every way imaginable. His power grew with every passing month. Humphrey’s father had died at the head of the foot soldiers he commanded and refused to abandon. But honor meant something different to him than to Edward. To Edward, power was the only thing that mattered.