Bevyn
Bevyn ripped the sacking off his prisoner’s head. “Tell me your name!”
Perhaps if Dafydd had been here, he wouldn’t have condoned the sacking and rough treatment meted out to the assassin, but then again, the man had tried to kill him. Maybe he wouldn’t have been as forgiving as all that.
The man was dressed in faded breeches and an aged cloak that had been torn around the hem even before he’d tried to escape down the wall of the castle, swim a moat, and been shot with arrows. His buttocks and calf, where Morgan’s arrows had hit him, had been bandaged, but he wasn’t sitting very comfortably.
He did not appear, however, to be in any way subdued.
Lili stood a few feet behind Bevyn. She was dressed in her new skirt and breeches, with her bow and quiver on her back. Needless to say, the residents of Chester were on high alert, and that included the Queen of England. She’d denied herself inclusion in the war party that had left the castle for Beeston and sent Constance in her stead, but that didn’t make her any less determined to keep her family and her people safe.
The prisoner lifted his head. “My name doesn’t matter. The king is dead. I am avenged.” His Welsh was southern and fluent, though it had a lilt of something else that Bevyn couldn’t place. His facial structure spoke of Norman antecedents, but there’d been so much inbreeding among the Normans and Welsh in the south that it was hard to tell the difference between them anymore.
“Do you recognize him?” he asked Lili.
“No.” Her arms folded across her chest, Lili tipped her head to one side as she studied the prisoner. “His accent is noble, though, so I think he intended his garments to be a disguise.
“I know who he is.” Rupert, the Avalonian journalist, crossed the threshold of the guardroom that fronted the prisoner’s cell.
Bevyn guffawed. The journalist was quite literally the last person he had expected to remain behind. “Why aren’t you with the army?”
“Beeston will fall with or without me. There was a story here, perhaps the more important one. I’ll catch up.”
Lili laughed. “Rupert hates waiting. It’s only twelve miles to Beeston. If he leaves by noon, he’d make it walking by three.”
Rupert scowled. “It is a known fact that you will send someone to Callum once you get out of this fellow what can be got. I sent others ahead, and they’ll catch me up once I reconnect with them. In the meantime …” He brandished a foot-long piece of paper and held it facing outward so others could read what was written on it. Bevyn’s written English wasn’t great, but even he could make out the Wanted at the top. Below were two sketches labeled Thomas de Clare and Aymer de Valence. “See for yourself.”
Lili gasped and took the paper in order to look at the images more closely. “Where did you get this?”
“I had it made,” Rupert said. “I was intending to have many more printed than just this one. We were going to paper all of Britain and Ireland with them.”
Bevyn looked from the paper to his prisoner, whom he now knew to be Thomas de Clare. “Who drew these, and how did he know what these men looked like?”
“I met Aymer when we came through on the bus, remember? We all did. And plenty of people in Ireland knew what both men looked like. Thomas is married to a Fitzgerald after all. Then, in the aftermath of Tara, I suggested to David we cover the country with their pictures, to leave them no place to hide. I thought to print the poster on the press in Dublin once we returned there and get an artist to duplicate the images on every one.” He shrugged. “I’ll do a new one now without Thomas’s picture, and maybe we’ll get Aymer too.”
Bevyn felt a rumble of satisfaction welling up in his chest. Handing the paper back to Rupert, he moved to stand again in front of his prisoner and spoke in Welsh. Thomas’s family had held the Lordship of Glamorgan, in addition to the Earldom of Gloucester, which was how he’d learned the language. Gilbert de Clare had spoken it too. From all appearances, however, Thomas was a pale copy of his older brother. He didn’t have an outsized ambition or as sharp an intelligence. All he’d wanted was to be left alone in his little region of Ireland. Even his hair was a shade or two less red than the vibrant color Gilbert had grown.
And seemingly, with this latest attempt on Dafydd’s life, Thomas had become all rage and no brain, though Bevyn perceived a mind to be in there, somewhere, if he ever managed to put the anger aside.
“Where’s Aymer?”
Thomas sneered. “I wouldn’t know. Sulking in a cave, no doubt.”
“You were allies,” Lili said.
“He’s weak. A coward. He wouldn’t come with me here to finish the job. He didn’t have the stomach for a real fight.”
“The real fight being shooting the King of England with a crossbow from thirty yards away?” Bevyn said. “Today wasn’t exactly a battle. King Dafydd was unarmed. Who’s the real coward?”
Thomas’s jaw clenched tight, and he didn’t answer.
Bevyn folded his arms across his chest. “How did you get into the castle?” Now that they knew the identity of the prisoner, his questioning had taken on a new urgency. Bevyn needed to know if they had another traitor in their midst, one within the staff, perhaps, or among the garrison, who’d conspired with Thomas. He’d penetrated the castle’s defenses, and Bevyn wanted to know how he’d managed not only to get inside but to acquire a crossbow from the armory.
“Why would I possibly tell you?” Thomas was genuinely incredulous.
Bevyn made an expansive gesture. “Where are your friends now? It seems to me they convinced you to sacrifice your life for a cause from which you will gain nothing. You owe Roger Mortimer that much, do you?”
Thomas spat on the ground. “I didn’t do it for him.”
“Then it’s Balliol who holds your allegiance?” Lili spoke softly from behind Bevyn. “Why? What did he ever do for you?”
Thomas focused his attention on her. “He gave me a chance to regain my honor. David took everything from me.”
Bevyn scoffed. “King Dafydd had nothing to do with your inability to hold onto Thomond. You decided before he ever set foot in Ireland, before you’d even met him, that you were going to betray him—out of fear of what he might do rather than waiting to hear what he proposed and giving him a chance to earn your trust.”
“He killed my brother.” Thomas looked like he might spit again.
“That wasn’t Dafydd.” Bevyn moved to catch Thomas’s chin in his gloved hand. “Don’t disrespect your king.”
Thomas grimaced around Bevyn’s pinching fingers. His lip was bleeding, and he had blood on his teeth. Somewhere along the way, someone had hit him in the mouth. “He was never my king, and he can’t ever be mine now that he’s dead.”
“But he isn’t dead. Hadn’t you gathered that yet? You should have waited a moment longer to make sure you achieved your goal before you fled.” Bevyn laughed. “King Dafydd went to Avalon. He’ll be back before you know it.”
Lili’s eyes glittered. “There’s nowhere you can run now where he isn’t your liege lord: Ireland, Wales, and England are all his. And Scotland soon will be.”
“And, of course, a Clare can have no land on the continent either,” Rupert said in an aside, as if he didn’t know Thomas could hear him. “France will be no more willing to harbor him than any other lord, since King Philip of France will hardly hold one such as he in high esteem.” He looked hard at their prisoner. “Your brother saw to that.”
“I guess it’s Germany for you. Or maybe the Danes will take you in.” Bevyn laughed again. “Oh wait, what exactly do you have to barter with?”
“And that’s only if he gets out of here.” Lili was studying Thomas’s face. “Which he won’t.”
Bevyn released Thomas and stepped back. Despite the easy mockery of his captors, Thomas wasn’t nearly as subdued as Bevyn thought he should be, and he was searching for something to say that would wipe that superior expression off the traitor’s face. “Now that he’s failed again, how well is that first conversation with Balliol going to go?”
Gratifyingly, Thomas appeared to gnash his teeth. “King David has proved to be everything we thought him. He will take all Britain for himself, just as she said.” He lifted his chin to point at Lili, and then returned his gaze to Bevyn. “How can you remain loyal, knowing what he is? Knowing what he will do?”
“Because I approve entirely of what he is. If he had the whole world at his beck and call, I could not be more content.” Bevyn had perhaps never stated his position as clearly as that, and he was disconcerted that Thomas had pulled the admission from him. It made him question who was interviewing whom. Still, upon reflection, Bevyn was unafraid to speak from the heart. He believed in Dafydd so completely it scared even him sometimes.
He was well into middle age, and he knew enough of men by now to understand that someone like Dafydd came along once in a hundred years, if not longer. King Llywelyn was a remarkable leader, as had been his grandfather, Llywelyn Fawr. But Dafydd was the result of a special kind of alchemy, where the universe—and God—had conspired to produce someone so suited to his time and place that it was impossible to imagine the world without him. While he’d been born in Avalon, in that country called America, he belonged to Britain. To place him anywhere else would be to completely misunderstand who he was.
Of course, Thomas sneered at Bevyn’s faith. Bevyn contemplated back-handing him across the face, which would be a mild reproof compared to what he would like to do to him. Thomas was an example of a man who’d formed a clear opinion, unreasonable as it was, that he could not be shaken out of, no matter the provocation. Thomas had never met Dafydd, so his prejudices were based on hearsay and others’ understandings.
And because of it, he could not be persuaded by anything Bevyn said or did. Thomas’s anger dated back to a time long before Dafydd’s crowning as King of England or the death of Thomas’s brother, beloved or not. His anger was rooted in his struggle for control of his lands in Thomond. Bevyn could understand how Thomas had come to the conclusions he had. He just wished they hadn’t resulted in yet another attempt on Dafydd’s life.
“Bevyn, may I have a moment with you?” Lili tugged lightly on the sleeve of his coat.
He followed Lili out of the tower and up the stairs to the rampart, as always the best place for a moment of privacy in a crowded castle. Dafydd had almost died on the wall-walk, but it nonetheless drew his wife.
When she reached the third merlon along the battlement, Lili turned to face him. “Thomas knows he has all the power and isn’t going to talk unless he wants to. He has the air of a man who has already decided that he has nothing left to lose except his life—and has convinced himself that he is willing to part with that too.”
Bevyn let out a sharp breath. “I know it. I’ve known it from the moment we realized who he was. Perhaps we should give him what he wants and hang him. Whatever his plan, it’s dead now.”
But Lili shook her head. “I don’t think we’re ready for that step quite yet—nor do I think he really has lost everything. Revenge alone didn’t bring him here, else he wouldn’t have so carefully arranged his escape. If all he cared for was triumph, why escape at all? Why not stay and gloat over Dafydd’s corpse?”
Bevyn tapped a finger to his lips. “Because when it comes to it, few men are actually ready to die.”
Lili shook her head again. “When he shot that crossbow this morning, Thomas wanted to live and had hope for the future, even if a faint one. We need to know where that hope came from and what piece of a larger puzzle Dafydd’s assassination fits into.”
Bevyn pursed his lips. “That takes us back to Mortimer and Balliol. Thomas was doing it for them. If Dafydd had died, they could still have won.”
“But Thomas’s life was, by his lights, already over,” Lili said. “He’d already lost Ireland for good, and Dafydd had confiscated all of the Clare lands in Wales, England, and Aquitaine. What was Thomas hoping for?”
“He can’t think his wife has the resources to ransom him either,” Bevyn said. “Juliana FitzGerald has four small children, no husband, father, or brother, and is in no position to bargain.”
Lili canted her head. “On top of which, the head of the Fitzgerald clan is dead on the floor of Trim’s great hall—at the hand of Thomas’s co-conspirators.” Her tone was more than a little bitter, not surprising since her husband was supposed to have been numbered among the dead.
Bevyn snorted. “His Irish wife aside, he didn’t come here to regain what he lost there. He must know by now that the only reason Balliol and Mortimer included Irish barons in their plans was because they believed Dafydd was more vulnerable at Trim—with his self-imposed terms of engagement—than he ever would be in Wales or England. Roger Mortimer doesn’t care about Ireland at all, except as a means to power. Balliol might care slightly more, but again, only as an extension of his own influence. They must have promised Thomas something else.”
“Land in Britain somewhere, most likely,” Lili said. “But that is still only an incentive if Thomas escapes, and even a hot-headed fool like Thomas should have seen in advance that the chance of escape was slight. What does he gain if he’s dead or captured?”
“Oh, I see.” Bevyn frowned as he thought, finding nothing insightful coming to him.
Just then, her expression pensive, Bronwen came out of the keep and mounted the stairs to the wall-walk. “I hear we have Thomas de Clare in custody, and he isn’t talking.”
“He is not.” Bevyn related the gist of their conversation, and what he’d been discussing with Lili.
“I think you might be right that Thomas could have been operating under the assumption that he would be ransomed if caught,” Bronwen said, “just not by his wife.”
Bevyn grunted. “You mean Balliol would pay for him? He might negotiate for Red Comyn because he loves his sister, but I can’t see him caring that much for Thomas.”
Lili’s expression cleared as if a light had just dawned. “If Dafydd had been killed, we would have been desperate and grateful to have a man of Thomas’s standing to ransom for our own freedom.” She paused. “Could this plot be that intricate?”
“It’s already absurdly intricate and based upon assumptions that have clearly proved to be false.” Bronwen chewed on her lower lip. “Maybe Balliol promised to take care of Thomas’s children.”
“I suppose.” Bevyn was dubious. “But Thomas would have no way of knowing if Balliol followed through on his promise. On the other hand, I can believe that a desire to see his family again would be enough for him to do his best to escape, even if he had little hope of it.”
Lili gave a sardonic laugh. “How’s this for ironic? He may have believed that even were he caught, Dafydd would keep him alive because he is weak and loath to do what must be done.”
“Namely, hang him,” Bevyn said. “After all, Red Comyn molders in a cell in Dublin Castle.”
“If that’s the case,” Bronwen spoke slowly as she chose her words, “maybe he can still be persuaded that all is not lost. He has a young wife and four children whom he wants to see again. We are not desperate like he hoped, but he still has something we want.”
“We could use his family’s welfare as leverage,” Lili said, “but you didn’t see him in there. He is nothing if not defiant.”
“I am friends with Margaret, his sister,” Bronwen said.
“Who’s married to the Earl of Cornwall?” Bevyn started chewing on his lip too.
Edmund de Almain, the Earl of Cornwall, had been a powerful magnate under King Edward and, in addition to the Jews and the Italians, one of his principal moneylenders. Upon Edward’s death, Almain had been shut out of the regency by more conniving men like Humphrey de Bohun. On the whole, Bevyn assumed Almain had been caught on the hop by Edward’s death and the speed at which his rivals had moved to install themselves as regents, but he hadn’t balked at Dafydd’s ascension to the throne either.
To Bevyn’s mind, Almain was a prime example of a man, like John de Warenne, who’d found favor under Edward but had been slighted under Dafydd—not intentionally, but simply because Dafydd was a different man with his own favorites.
Upon Dafydd’s return to Wales two weeks ago, Almain had been among the first men Dafydd had contacted to acquaint him with his resurrection. Even now, he was supposed to be marching north with a host of men to join with Dafydd’s forces—now Callum’s—at Beeston Castle. Bevyn had met him and found him arrogant, not to say haughty. He insisted on being called Almain because his father had been one of the claimants to the kingship of Germany.
But if Margaret was Bronwen’s friend, Bevyn wasn’t going to argue. “Where is she?”
“At the holy well of Saint Gwenffrewi.” It was eighteen miles away.
Bevyn brow furrowed. “Almain has put her aside?” Loveless marriages were more the norm than not, and Margaret had not given her husband any children. In her forties now, ten years older than Bronwen, she was unlikely ever to do so, but if it was to happen, then the healing well was a place to start.
“She was raised in Wales like her brother. The Welsh are not so foreign to her. I think that was why she sought me out after David was crowned and Ieuan and I stayed at his side, to be a friend when I needed one—because she needed one too.”
Bevyn nodded. “I will send a rider for her at once.”
Bronwen made a sour face. “Meanwhile, I suggest we allow Thomas time to contemplate his sins.”