jl DOLWYDDELAN, NORTH WALES.

August 1212 I OANNA had moved a stool close to the bed, an for more than an hour she watched Llewelyn as he slept. His was sleep of utter exhaustion; he'd not stirred for the past three hours, even when Joanna removed his boots. The longer he slept, the m difficult it was for her to keep still. The urge to awaken him was bee379 jng all but overwhelming, for they'd been apart for more than a fortnight, and never had her need to talk to him been so urgent.

But she dreaded it, too. What if she could not make him understand? In warning her father of the conspiracy against him, she'd been thinking of Llewelyn's safety as much as John's. Hers had not been an act of impulse. It was born of despair and fear and an anguish of spirit that only one who'd faced her choices could ever understand. If she did nothing, there was a very real possibility that her father might be walking into a lethal trap. Yet if she warned him of the danger, she might be taking from Llewelyn his only edge, the advantage that might spare his life, his realm. For she knew that if her father won this war, Llewelyn would die.

In the end, she'd sent the most trusted of her servants to John, because she could not do otherwise, because she loved her father, because there was a chance that her warning might stop a war. But now she had to tell Llewelyn what she'd done, and she was not at all sure he would forgive her.

Llewelyn's lashes flickered, and she leaned over, kissed him on the mouth. He opened his eyes, smiled at her. But then he glanced down, saw how shadows were chasing sunlight across the floor rushes.

"Why did you not awaken me ere this, Joanna?"

As he sat up, she slid her arms around his waist. "Do not get up, not yet."

There was nothing either of playfulness or seduction in her voice; she sounded so plaintive that he turned, held her close for a moment.

"I do not understand it, Joanna. I know John gave the command to gather at Chester on the nineteenth. Three full days ago. Yet my scouts report no movement on the roads, nothing." He had his boots on by now, and as he rose to his feet, Joanna's hand tightened convulsively on his arm. He gave her a quizzical look, and her fingers unclenched; she le' him go.

He picked up his sword and scabbard, buckled it at his hip. "Did I 'ell you the latest word from the south? Rhys Gryg has taken and burned Swansea."

"Does it matter, Llewelyn? My father is not leading his army a'nst Rhys Gryg or Maelgwn. It is Gwynedd he means to invade. It is yu he means to destroy."

^ He glanced toward her, but said nothing. She knew she should ^Ve kept silent. That was not what he wanted to hear. He truly be- God d *is Was a war he could win' He had to believe that- she wou'd to ^ *e could believe it, too.

rr,^ lewelyn had reached the door. But something in Joanna's face him pause, come back to her. "I know how you're hurting," he380 said, and Joanna put her arms around his neck, clung tightly. She'd rarely seen him look so tired; his dark eyes were bloodshot, swollen from lack of sleep, and his skin was rough and scratchy against her throat. She did not mind, but Llewelyn rubbed his chin, said ruefully, " expect you'll want me to shave ere we go to bed tonight?"

"That depends upon what you do have in mind," she said, and he grinned.

"After a fortnight apart, need you even ask?"

Joanna managed an answering smile, but it was as strained as her banter.

Mayhap she should wait, not tell him until after they made love. But the longer she delayed, the harder it would get. And if he ever found out from someone else . .. That thought was frightening enough to give her courage, and she said abruptly, "Llewelyn, we must talk."

"It will have to wait till night, breila. I've lost too many hours of daylight as it is."

Joanna did not argue; a delay not of her own making was a reprieve she could accept in good conscience. "Tonight, then," she agreed. "You still have not told me how long you'll be at Dolwyddelan."

"That will depend upon John," he said, and opened the door just as Ednyved came through the porch entranceway.

"Llewelyn, an Englishman has ridden in with a flag of truce and a right strange story. He says he has a message of urgency for you, that it comes from John." "A royal courier?"

"No, that is what be so strange about it. He is not a courier at all, is a blacksmith from Shrewsbury. He claims he met John's courier in a Shrewsbury alehouse, that the man paid him to deliver John's message. Moreover, he insists upon telling his tale to you and only you. Do you want me to send him away?"

"No. Either he is telling the truth or he is willing to risk his life for a preposterous lie. Whichever it is, I want to know."

Ednyved nodded. "I rather thought you would. He is waiting below."

The man looked to be Llewelyn's age, in his late thirties, with the callused hands and heavily muscled forearms that were the inevitable badges of his trade. What was most distinctive about him was his extreme nervousness. He knelt, and when Llewelyn gestured for him to rise, he shifted awkwardly from foot to foot, darting sidelong glances from under lashes matted with dust and sweat, and then blurted out, thank you for seeing me, my lord. Men call me Ralph the Smith, for a smithy in Shrewsbury, not far from the church of St Alkmund.'

The information appeared gratuitous, but was not; Llewelyn un ^ stood that the man was seeking to establish his credibility, showing I.

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he was, as a man of property, one deserving of belief. "I understand you have a message for me?"

"My lord, I must ask you to bear with me, let me tell it my way. I fear you'll not believe me unless I explain how I happened to come by what I know. This past Saturday I'd stopped in a riverside tavern for a few tankards of ale.

There was a stranger there . . . half drunk, a talker. He said he was King John's courier, and indeed he was wearing the King's livery. He was telling anyone who'd listen that the King had entrusted him with a message for you, a message he was loath to deliver. He was offering two pence to the man who'd take it for him, half now, half afterward. That was a day's wages, and I was not the only one who took an interest. But . . . but when he told us what the message was . " He paused, for the first time looked Llewelyn full in the face.

"It was not just the money, my lord. Not after I heard the message. You see, my first wife . . . she was of your blood. I am telling you this because . . .because I want you to understand. It seemed to me that you had a right to know. I kept thinking of my own boy ..." His eyes were small and close-set, all but obscured by thick, shaggy brows, eyes brimming over with so much pity that Llewelyn's breath stopped.

"For Christ's sake, man, what do you have to tell me? Just say it!"

"Your son, my lordhe's dead. AH the hostages are dead. King John hanged them last Tuesday at Nottingham Castle."

For a merciful moment, the words had no meaning for Llewelyn. But then his numbed brain absorbed the full impact of what he'd just been told. Gruffydd was dead. They were all dead. He'd given them up to John, and John had murdered them.

He turned away, without purpose or direction, stumbled against the table. The trestle boards tilted, spilled over onto the floor. He stared down at the wreckage, at the shattered flagon, and then picked up one of the broken clay shards. It was sharp-edged, sticky with wine, beyond mending. He tightened his fingers around it, squeezing until Joanna's hand closed over his own.

"My love, you'll cut yourself," she pleaded, and he opened his fist, 'et the shard drop back into the floor rushes.

"He died because of me. They all did."

"No, Llewelyn, that's not so!"

'Gruffydd was sixteen," he said, as if she'd not spoken at all.

orne of them were even younger. Twelve, thirteen. I thought . . .

ought their youth would protect them, that John would be less likely Maltreat youngsters" His voice thickened, broke. He pulled away rm lanna, walked rapidly from the chamber.

''T 1.

Llewelyn, wait!" But when Joanna would have followed after him, nyved stepped in front of her, blocking her way.382 T.

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"Let him go, Joanna. You are the last one who can help him now."

"I'm his wife!"

"You are also John's daughter."

Joanna took a step backward, stared at him. "I see. So you believe it, too.

Well, it is not true, Ednyved. It is not true!"

Ednyved said nothing, but she saw his disbelief, and her eyes narrowed. "There is no evidence to support this man's story, none whatsoever. Have you not learned by now not to accept alehouse babble as gospel? You need only think upon the wild rumors that have been circulating all summer long. First we heard that the royal treasury at Gloucester had been plundered. But that turned out to be false, did it not? And then we got word that my father's Queen had been abducted and raped, their baby son killed. But that was not true, either. It was no more than vicious gossip, tales spread by men with nothing better to do than give grief to the unwary." She drew a bracing breath, said, "And this ugly accusation is no different, Ednyved. This is no less a lie."

"I know there has never been a true friendship between us, Joanna. But believe me now, that I am speaking as a friend. For your sake as well as Llewelyn's, leave him be."

"Leave him be?" she echoed incredulously. "My husband thinks that his son is dead, and it's not true. I will not stand helplessly by whilst he breaks his heart over a lie, I will not! Now please move away from the door."

He did. "I hope you will remember," he said, "that I did try to stop you."

IT was unnaturally still. The birds had muted their songs at Llewelyn's approach, and he heard only the sound of his boots on the wet gravel of the riverbank. It had been a dry summer, and the river was shallow and slow-moving; mossy rocks jutted up toward the sun, seeming to offer a safe passage to the far shore for those willing to take the risk. How many youths had stood on this bank, gathering up their courage to put those beckoning stepping stones to the slippery test? For risk-taking was t e measure of a man. Had he not taught Gruffydd that from birth?

Llewelyn knelt, cupped his hands, and splashed river water on o his face. Yes, he'd taught Gruffydd about risk-taking and manhood an^ pride. But he'd not taught him how to die on an English gallows, fydd would have fought them, knowing no other way, would have p^ defiance until the rope choked off all breath. Llewelyn could hearfil). own breathing grow ragged; it was coming in harsh, uneven gasp ' ing the quiet woodland clearing with strangled sound.

bum6*1 For a time he knelt motionless on the riverbank, and there uehind his closed eyelids a gallows laden with bodies, bodies left to rot in the summer sun, because he had been a risk-taker.

His instincts for self-preservation had long since become second nature to him; when a branch snapped underfoot, his head jerked up. The sound came again. Someone was following the trail he'd taken from the castle. He rose swiftly, hand on sword hilt. A moment later a large black alaunt broke through the underbrush, bounded joyfully toward him.

At sight of the dog, Llewelyn's eyes filled with tears. Math was his son's dog, had been Gruffydd's veritable shadow, and when Gruffydd went away, the big dog's grieving had been heartrending. When he'd begun to refuse food, Llewelyn had taken over the dog's feeding, slowly coaxed the alaunt back to health, and in the past year, Math was never willingly far from his side.

Llewelyn bent down, gathered the dog to him. Math began to bark, swiped at his face with a rough, wet tongue, and he pulled back. Only then did he see his wife standing at the edge of the clearing.

Llewelyn was the first to speak. "Go back to the castle, Joanna. This is not the time to talk."

There was no emotion in his voice; he sounded like a stranger. Joannahesitated, and then stepped toward him. "Llewelyn ..."

"Not now," he said, much more sharply this time. He turned away, began to walk along the riverbank.

"Llewelyn, wait!" Hastening after him, she found she could not match his pace, and caught his arm, forcing him to stop.

"My love, you must listen to me. This one time you must believe me. Your grieving is for naught. Gruffydd is not dead."

"Joanna, no!" But she clung to his arm with surprising strength; he could not free himself without hurting her.

'"rou must hear me out, Llewelyn. Please, beloved, please listen. % father is not a good man. Mayhap not even a kind one. But he would never murder Gruffydd and the other hostages. He is not capable of a "uelty like that, Llewelyn. I know he's not, know"

'No, you do not know! You've never known John, never!" Llewe- yn jerked free, saying bitterly, "But I did. I knew how vicious he could when cornered, how merciless, for I knew what he'd done to Maude e Braose. I knew all too well, and yet, God forgive me, I still turned my jn over to him" He broke off abruptly, turned to stare blindly out at 1116 sun-glazed water.

Ij What he'd done to Maude de Braose.' What do you mean by that, >vith n?" ^aising ner hand to her forehead, Joanna found it damp as SWeat. She was suddenly aware of the hot, humid air, utterly still, enveloping as a shroud; the sun had begun to hurt her eyes. told *hem, Llewelyn?" A