cannot prevent me from seeing my father!’
Gruffydd ap Llywelyn smashed his fist down on to the table. ‘Where is he?’
‘He is not here!’ His half-brother Dafydd looked at him coldly. ‘Here’ was the ty hir, the long stone-built house which formed the royal family’s private living quarters in the palace or llys at Aber on the northern edge of Gwynedd, nestling on its hillside on the edge of the mountains of Eryri, overlooking the sea and the Isle of Anglesey.
‘You are lying!’
Gruffydd swung round to face his small sister who was standing miserably between them. ‘Where is he, cariad?’
‘He’s not here – Dafydd’s telling the truth.’ Eleyne looked from one brother to the other unhappily. Their father had ridden towards Shrewsbury to meet his wife who had gone three weeks before to try to intervene in the quarrels between her husband and the King of England. In the continuing problems over the Welsh borders between Llywelyn and her half-brother, King Henry III, Princess Joan had proved herself an able and intelligent ambassador. That her efforts were all intended to ensure her son Dafydd’s succession over Gruffydd’s had not endeared her to the latter, nor to his followers.
‘And in Shrewsbury she has tried yet again to interfere on Gwynedd’s behalf with the English king, I suppose!’ Gruffydd turned away in exasperation. ‘Dear God in heaven! Can father not see what she is doing?’
‘She is working for peace, Gruffydd,’ Dafydd put in smoothly. ‘By negotiating with her brother.’
‘Her brother!’ Gruffyd exploded into anger. ‘King Henry recognises her as his sister now it suits him. Not so long ago she was just another of King John’s bastards!’
‘How dare you!’ Dafydd had his hand on his dagger. ‘My mother was declared legitimate by Pope Honorious III. And at least she’s married to our father.’ He laughed harshly. ‘You are the bastard here, brother, and father can’t wait to disown you, from all I see.’
Gruffydd let out an oath. ‘That is not true!’ he shouted. ‘My father respects and honours me as he honoured my mother under Welsh law.’
‘Does he?’ Dafydd smiled. ‘We shall see. If I were you, I should leave Aber now. Father knows what you have been up to – abusing his trust – working against him and against me, and he has sworn to clip your wings.’
Gruffydd’s face was white with anger. Controlling himself with an effort, he turned his back on Dafydd and smiled grimly at Eleyne. ‘When will father return? I need to see him.’
She shrugged. ‘Soon.’ She wanted to reach out and touch his hand, soothe his anger, just as much as she wanted to leap at Dafydd and scratch his eyes. She did neither. She was learning, slowly, not to become involved in her brothers’ quarrels. As Dafydd had grown to manhood it became harder to pass their hatred off as jealousy and sibling rivalry. Llywelyn’s determination to put his younger son first in everything had sown a deadly seed; instinctively Eleyne knew this was a quarrel which neither could win and where she should try not to take sides.
‘Is it true that Sir William de Braose has taken the field against father?’ she asked, trying to change the subject. She bit her lip. Since his championship of her wish to ride his charger at Hay six months before, she had retained a secret fondness for Isabella’s father.
‘It is.’ Gruffydd laughed harshly. ‘The father of the bride! How embarrassing for you, Dafydd bach. How do you feel about your prospective wife now?’
Eleyne stared unhappily from one brother to the other. Gruffydd, older by some six years, was a short fiery-headed man with brilliant angry eyes. His broad shoulders and muscular build made him seem larger than Dafydd, though they were of roughly the same height. Dafydd, his pale gold hair cut long on his neck, his eyes green like his sister’s, was the more handsome of the two. And the calmer. He had long ago perfected the art of goading his brother to fury and standing back to watch the results.
Now he was looking grim. ‘There will be other ladies for me to marry. Isabella de Braose is no great loss.’
‘But you must marry Isabella!’ Eleyne cried. She saw her cherished plans vanishing before her eyes. ‘It’s not her fault that Sir William has to fight for King Henry. Once you are married, he won’t fight any more.’
‘Oh sweet naive sister!’ Dafydd was exasperated. ‘You don’t understand anything. You’re just a child!’
‘I do understand!’ She stamped her foot. ‘He must still want Isabella to marry you. Gwladus won’t be a de Braose any more now Sir Reginald is dead and he needs the marriage to keep the alliance. Besides, you are a prince.’
‘But not the true heir,’ Gruffydd put in quietly. ‘No doubt he has noticed that fact. What a shame for de Braose that the true heir to Gwynedd is already married.’ Gruffydd’s wife, Senena, had recently given birth to their second son, who had promptly and tactfully been named Llywelyn after his grandfather.
‘You are not, and never will be, his heir!’ Dafydd put in, through gritted teeth. ‘The eldest you may be, but bastards can’t inherit!’
‘I am the heir by Welsh law and custom!’ Gruffydd hit the table with his fist.
Dafydd smiled. ‘But I have been acknowledged heir by father; by King Henry, by the pope, and by the people. That doesn’t leave much doubt, does it? Welsh custom has been dropped and feudal rules of tenure accepted. Now we all know where we stand! And you, brother, don’t stand anywhere.’ He picked up his cloak which had been lying across the table, and swinging it over his shoulders he walked out of the room.
Gruffydd closed his eyes in an effort to control his temper. ‘He won’t win, Eleyne. He can’t take my inheritance from me! I have the support of the people, whatever he thinks.’
‘And you and papa have been getting on better, haven’t you?’ Eleyne said cautiously. It was not altogether true, she knew. She hitched herself up on to the table, and put her arms around her knees. The atmosphere in the room had relaxed the moment Dafydd walked out. ‘Papa will listen to you, I know he will.’ She smiled hopefully.
Gruffydd leaned across and ruffled her hair affectionately. ‘You have always been on my side, little sister, haven’t you? Bless you for that.’
Eleyne bit her lip uncomfortably. ‘You are the eldest. Rhonwen says you are the rightful heir.’
‘And, by God, I’ll win father’s recognition of the fact, if I have to fight English-boy David for the rest of my life!’ Princess Joan always called her son David.
Gruffydd smiled down at his little sister, winding her long, wildly curling hair gently into his hand. ‘So, where is my champion, Rhonwen? It’s not like her to leave you alone. Shouldn’t you be at your lessons?’
Eleyne smiled. ‘I’ve had my lessons today. Later we’re going across to the island. We’re to wait for my mother at Llanfaes.’
My mother, Gruffydd noticed, never mama.
‘You don’t want to greet her here, at Aber?’ he said gently.
She shrugged. ‘She’ll have enough to talk about with papa and Dafydd – and you of course,’ she added hastily. ‘She won’t want to see me, or Rhonwen.’
Gruffydd’s eyes narrowed. ‘That’s not true.’ He hesitated. ‘Your mother and Rhonwen are still enemies, then?’
‘It isn’t Rhonwen’s fault – ’
‘I know, I know. If anything, it’s mine. Rhonwen served my mother; Princess Joan could never forgive her that. I am sorry you should be so torn between them, little one.’
Eleyne tossed her head. ‘I am not torn. Papa gave me to Rhonwen the day I was born. My mother had forgotten me! She would have left me to die