Falls the Shadow by Sharon Kay Penman Read Free Book Online Page B

boy’s distress.
    As soon as the rain stopped, Llelo fled the great hall, fled the court. No one paid him any mind. Aber’s full name was Aber Gwyngregyn—Mouth of the White Shell River—but the river was more in the nature of a stream. Following its meandering course, Llelo tracked it back to the cataract known as Rhaeadr Fawr—the Great Waterfall. It was more aptly named than the stream, a narrow spill of white water, surging more than a hundred feet over a sheer cliff. Llelo scrambled down the rocks until he stood at the base of the waterfall, close enough to feel the flying spray. Partway up the cliff, a crooked scrub tree struggled to survive, growing at an improbable angle out of the rock. Llelo amused himself by throwing stones at it, with occasional success. He was launching twig boats out into the foaming pool when the wind brought to him the sound of voices; instinctively, he dodged behind the rocks, a Welsh bowman awaiting the enemy’s approach.
    As they came into view, he flattened himself against the ground, the gameplaying forgotten. Senena and Owain came to a stop less than fifteen feet from his hiding place. He heard a splash, knew that Owain must have thrown a pebble into the pool.
    “Thank you for coming with me, Owain. I could not endure that hall a moment longer, God’s truth. If I’d heard one more fool babble on about Llewelyn’s great gesture, I’d have thrown a screaming fit. To think of honoring that harlot with a Franciscan friary!” Senena’s voice was trembling, so intense was her outrage. “Better he should have established a brothel in her memory!”
    Owain laughed. Another rock thudded into the shallows, not too far from where Llelo crouched.
    “I truly believe she was a witch, Owain. How else explain the way she ensorcelled Llewelyn, turned him against his own son?” Senena strode to the edge of the pool. “A pity,” she said, “that it was not Llewelyn we buried today at Llanfaes.”
    “We’ll have that pleasure, Mama, never fear. He’s an old man, nigh on four and sixty. How much longer can he live?”
    “I know. It is just that Gruffydd has waited so long…” Through a blur of tears, Llelo saw a flash of blue, his mother’s mantle. He lay very still, scarcely breathing, until she moved away.
    “Mama…do you ever wonder if Papa truly wants the crown?”
    “What mean you by that, Owain? Of course he wants it!”
    “Well…” The boy sounded hesitant, uncharacteristically uncertain. “When we talk about it, he does not seem as eager as he ought. Oh, he says he hates Llewelyn, says he’ll never allow Gwynedd to pass to a weakling like Davydd. But…but sometimes, Mama, I wonder if his heart is truly in it.”
    Her son had inadvertently touched a very raw nerve, indeed, for Senena, too, sometimes found herself fearing that those years at Deganwy Castle had crippled her husband’s spirit, had sapped his will to persevere, to fight for what was rightfully his.
    “That is arrant nonsense, Owain! Never doubt this—that your father will one day rule in Llewelyn’s stead.”
    “God grant it so,” Owain said, with enough passion to placate Senena.
    “He will, Owain. He will.” She smiled at her son, linked her arm in his. “It is raining again; we’d best get back.”
    Their voices grew less distinct. After a time, Llelo heard only the sounds of the river and the rain. His face was wet, but he did not pull up his mantle hood, sat there huddled against the rock, his knees drawn up to his chest. He’d begun to tremble. The light was fading, night coming on.

2
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Dolwyddelan, North Wales
    April 1237
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    Gwladys de Mortimer reached her father’s mountain castle of Dolwyddelan in mid-morning. She was accompanied by the armed escort that her rank and sex demanded; accompanied, too, by her small sons, Roger and Hugh, and—much to Elen’s pleasure—Llelo.
    Gwladys’s children were now being fed in the great hall, while Llelo was hastening down the