Falls the Shadow Read Free

dotage.”
    Simon’s breath stopped. “You mean to do it,” he said in wonderment. “You mean to recognize my claim!”
    Chester nodded. “But do not ask me why, lad, for I’m damned if I know!”
    He’d never seen any man’s eyes take the light like Simon’s. He’d never seen such joy, and for just a moment he allowed himself to share in it, to revel in his young kinsman’s jubilation.
    “I will never forget this, my lord, never. It is a debt of honor I shall be proud to owe, although I know it is one I can never repay.”
    “Speaking of debts…” It was a relief to Chester to recognize the habitual tones of irony, to hear echoes of the mordant wit that for so long had served as his shield. Back on familiar ground, he said, “Between my momentary madness and Henry’s good will, we might make you an Earl, Simon, but a rich man you’ll not be. The Leicester lands are heavily mortgaged, the woods despoiled…”
    “But they’ll be mine,” Simon pointed out, and Chester abandoned the attempt to anchor Simon’s dream in reality, accepted the younger man’s euphoric expressions of gratitude, and secretly marveled at what he’d done.
    He was still in the solar, sitting alone at the table, when Pembroke entered.
    “I just encountered de Montfort,” he said. “The last time I saw a man looking so elated, he’d been reprieved on the very steps of the gallows. Jesú, Ranulf, you did not agree, did you?”
    Chester nodded, and Pembroke could not suppress a startled oath. “Sweet bleeding Christ, man, why?”
    “The truth, Will? I’m not sure. Mayhap because I remember what it is like to be afire with ambition, with the sort of hunger that burns clean through to the bone. Mayhap to liven up Henry’s court. I suspect that my cousin Simon is not one to pass unnoticed; I’ll wager he hits England like one of those Saracen windstorms!”
    He grinned; Pembroke did not. He looked so perplexed that Chester sighed, then shrugged. “All I did, Will, was to give the lad a chance. But it will be right interesting to see what he makes of it.”

1
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Nefyn, North Wales
    December 1236
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    Just before midnight on the eve of Christmas, the storm swept in off the Irish Sea, struck the little hamlet that had grown up around the manor house of Gruffydd ap Llewelyn, Lord of the cantref of Lln. The village herring boats were battered and broken by the surging tide, thatched roofs were ripped away, and lightning blazed across the dark December sky, setting afire a venerable oak in the priory garth, an oak that had survived two hundred winters, Norse raids, searing summer droughts, and the invasion of the Norman-French adventurers who’d followed William the Bastard to England in God’s year 1066. With the coming of light, the Welsh villagers would look upon the blackened, splintered tree and mourn its loss. Now they huddled for shelter in shuddering cottages, fretted for their livestock, and prayed for Christ’s mercy.
    As thunder echoed overhead, Llelo jerked upright on his pallet. Slowly his eyes adjusted to the darkness; the foreboding shadows took on familiar forms. His dream had been of his grandfather’s court, where he’d lived for most of his eight years, where he’d been happy. It took him a moment to remember that this was Nefyn, his father’s manor.
    A section of the great hall had been screened off for their sleeping quarters, but he was alone; his brother Owain’s pallet was empty. The storm was seeking entry at every shutter. Llelo was not a timid child, accepted nature’s fury as unthinkingly as he did its softer favors. But the violence of this Christmas tempest was too awesome to be ignored. He pulled his blanket up to his chin, sought refuge in sleep. Too late. He was wide awake now, unable to shut out the eerie keening of the wind, the relentless pelting of the rain.
    So uneasy had Llelo become that he even found himself wishing for Owain’s return, and he usually looked upon