Chapter 1 #2
The company slowed to a walk before they reached the massive gates. The road was a slosh of mud from the constant traffic of the laborers. Carpenters, carters, plumbers, masons, and diggers traversed this path daily as they worked to complete the fortress.
Richard let his gaze slide up the sheer walls. Jesú, but the king had chosen right when he picked Sir James of St. George to be his master builder. Even now, men perched on scaffolding high above the bailey. Occasionally, the ring of hammers sounded over the din in the courtyard.
Richard reined in the prancing stallion. He chuckled to himself when a groom came forward, eyes widening as the giant horse snorted great plumes of steaming breath into the frigid air.
“Do not eat the boy, Sirocco,” Richard said, sliding from the horse’s back and patting the arched neck. He handed the reins to the groom.
“Walk him ’til he’s cool or I will have your hide,” Richard threatened, sensing the boy’s intention to put the horse in a stall and get away from him.
“Aye, milord,” the boy replied, swallowing. His hand trembled as he closed it around hard leather. Sirocco pranced half a step and then settled, following like a puppy.
Richard strode up the wooden steps and into the Great Hall. The room was still rough, hewn from stone and wood and not yet whitewashed. The green smell of fresh timber hung heavy in the air.
Numerous knights were seated at the trestle tables, drinking ale and carousing with the serving wenches. Shrill laughter rose from female throats as girls passed from lap to lap.
One particularly lusty wench slapped the hand of the man who had just pinched her, and turned to watch Richard’s progress across the room.
He smiled in answer. It had been weeks since he’d had a woman. She tipped her head before picking up her tray and hastening to the buttery for more ale. He would not sleep alone tonight.
He continued through the hall and up the steps to the third level, where he found King Edward closeted in his solar with Prince Llywelyn’s brother, Dafydd ap Gruffydd.
“Ah, Richard. Thank heavens you are here at last,” Edward said.
“I came as quickly as possible, Ned.”
“Llywelyn signed the treaty yesterday. He will be here today to formally surrender.”
“I look forward to it, Majesty.” Llywelyn could not be humiliated enough as far as he was concerned. He sank into a chair opposite the King and stripped the gauntlets from his fists before unlacing the chain-mail coif and pushing it from his head.
Mud splattered his chausses, and his cloak dripped water onto the carved chair, trickling into a puddle at his feet. He took the mug of ale the servant held out for him, grimacing only slightly as the bitter liquid washed down his throat.
“’Twas a stroke of genius cutting off Ynys Mon like that, Lord de Claiborne,” Dafydd said.
Richard leaned back and swept Dafydd with an appraising stare. When he spoke, his voice was a drawl. “’Tis funny you find it so, but could not manage to suggest it yourself. You are a Welshman after all, and you know the importance of that island.”
Something glittered in the depths of Dafydd’s green eyes before it was extinguished and replaced with a complacent look.
“If I had thought of it, I most certainly would have suggested it. Alas, I am not the great battle commander you are.” He smiled and Edward nodded pleasantly.
“I should say not. I would not have failed if I had planned to kill Llywelyn.”
Dafydd leapt to his feet, clenching his fists at his side. Richard offered him the ultimate insult by not bothering to rise to the mute challenge.
Dafydd spun on his heel to face the King. “If you will excuse me, Majesty, I must see to my men.”
“Certes, Dafydd. You will join us at table?”
“’Twould be an honor, Sire,” Dafydd replied, glaring at Richard before stalking from the room.
Edward sighed in exasperation. “Why do you antagonize him?”
“I do not like him. He speaks false, and he is shrewder than you think. He of all people would know how to bring Wales to its knees.”
“Mmm, but if ever he were to make peace with his brother—two wolves are worse than one and they can hound a bear to death.”
Richard laughed. “Llywelyn is no fool, Ned. How many times now has Dafydd betrayed him? Two? Three? He’ll not work his way into the den so easily this time.”
“Aye, but I still prefer to keep him close. You should be grateful to Dafydd. If not for his failed murder attempt, we would not have Llywelyn in this position now.”
“And what happens when Dafydd finds out you don’t intend to make him Prince of Wales? That you have allowed Llywelyn to keep the title?”
Edward’s jaw tightened. “I am a king first, my friend. This victory has been more complete than either of us imagined. I no longer need to remove Llywelyn. Besides, you said yourself that you do not trust Dafydd. Should I trust him as Prince of Wales?”
“I was not suggesting you should. Llywelyn has behaved treasonably by refusing to acknowledge you as his overlord, despite all his claims you harbored his enemies.” He leaned forward abruptly, his voice coming hard-edged and low, “Let me challenge him to single combat.”
“Nay!” The word bounced off the walls, echoing in the bare chamber.
“’Tis my right to avenge my father!”
“Not at the expense of my kingdom!”
Richard clenched his teeth, his lungs filling to bursting as he sucked in air that was stale with the smell of ripening wood and newly chiseled stone. He let it out again in a great rush, savoring for an instant the light as a feather feeling that accompanied his escaping breath.
Edward raked a hand through dark blonde curls, then turned to stare out the oriel windows. Side by side, three floor-to-ceiling windows faced the sea, imparting a view that was somehow even grander than the gardens of Windsor.
“You know I cannot allow it. Is it not enough we have reduced him to this? He has less now than when he inherited his throne. Wales is mine. It is what we both wanted.”
Richard drew in a ragged breath. “’Twill never be enough, Ned. He can never pay for what he has done. When he has nothing left, when he lies cold at my feet, it will not be enough.”
Silence stretched between them. Richard accepted another mug of ale, the cool liquid doing little to soothe his dry throat.
Edward tapped a beringed finger on the arm of his chair. “Was the harvest brought in?”
Richard nodded. “I left the garrison on Ynys Mon—Anglesey—in charge of loading it on the ships. What are you going to do with it?”
Edward grinned suddenly, all else seemingly forgotten. “I plan to sell it back to Llywelyn.”
Richard stared at his friend for a moment. Edward’s face creased in a broad smile, his blue eyes twinkling. Richard threw back his head and laughed, and Edward joined him.
Both sides of the Great Hall were lined with English lords, some Marchers, some not. Dafydd stood next to the dais, his face split in a triumphant grin. Other Welsh chieftains who had joined the cause stood with him.
Edward settled onto his throne, and Richard stepped behind him.
The hum of the crowd rose sharply to a buzz, then cut off altogether when Prince Llywelyn appeared in the entryway. He strode into the great hall of Rhuddlan, his back stiff, his mouth set in a grim line.
He looked neither right nor left, his gaze focused only on the King as he refused to acknowledge the gloating lords around him. His boots clopped against the wooden floor, the dull thud echoing the beating of Richard’s heart.
Llywelyn stopped before the dais and unsheathed his sword. His hands clenched over the hilt for the space of one moment. Two. Three. The tip wavered, pointing at the King.
Richard gripped his own sword until his knuckles were white.
Do it. Try to strike the King down.
Llywelyn’s eyes shifted to his, icy contempt flaring in them, before he jerked his gaze back to Edward.
And then he kneeled and reversed the blade, handing it hilt first to Edward. His voice rang out over the gathering. “I submit unto the king’s will and the king’s justice.”
“Rise, Prince Llywelyn,” Edward said, turning the sword and handing it back to him.
“By the terms of the Treaty of Conway, you may keep the cantref of Gwynedd and your title. You will cede the Isle of Anglesey, Ynys Mon as you call it, and all lands east of the Conwy River. Upper and Lower Powys will be returned to my vassal, Gruffydd ap Gwynwynwyn.”
Llywelyn flushed at the reminder of all he had lost, but said nothing. Gruffydd ap Gwenwynwyn beamed. The look on Dafydd’s face could only be termed mute shock. He shot Richard an accusing look, full of loathing.
“Name the ten highborn hostages you will give into my keeping to ensure your loyalty,” Edward commanded.
Llywelyn sheathed his sword, then swallowed and stood silent for a long moment. His voice was cold and emotionless as he began to recite the names.
“My daughter, Princess Gwenllian. Goronwy ap Tudur, son of the chieftain of...”