Emma Bloet, Abbess of Godstow, stared at the tall red-haired young man who confronted her. He and his two companions wore dark cloaks over their mail and she could see no identifying arms stitched to their surcoats, but his arrogance betrayed his breeding. She drew herself up.
‘I am sorry. Nobody can see the Princess of Aberffraw.’ Her tone implied clearly that she found his use of the title distasteful.
‘Why not?’ Eyeing her with a distrust and dislike which matched her own, Llywelyn was beginning to regret coming to Godstow. To rescue his uncle’s widow from the clutches of King Henry and incarceration in a convent of old women had seemed a good idea at the time. It would tweak Henry’s nose when the King of England, embroiled in his barons’ demands for reform, could ill afford any more problems on his doorstep. And having Isabella de Braose back in Wales would serve his purpose well now, provided he kept her away from Aber. But his boyish romantic plan – light relief from his quarrel with Owain and his new-found pre-eminence as Prince of Wales, a title he had used only in the last year or two – seemed to have misfired.
He had planned to be in and out of England within three days, but this woman with her starched wimple and foot-long carved crucifix at her belt had kept him outside the convent wall like a supplicant for that long already. He was wishing heartily that he had brought some Welsh footsoldiers with him. They would have walked all over this grey forbidding place and liberated every pretty nun in the place. He hid the smile which threatened to replace the scowl on his face and with a sigh tried again.
‘Holy mother, I beg you, allow me to see her. I was like a son to the princess. She would want to see me, I assure you.’ He was sure Isabella would forgive the lie. The second part of his statement would undoubtedly be true.
For the first time the abbess’s face softened. ‘You didn’t say you were close to her.’
‘Very close.’ He smiled winningly. He could hardly tell her how close or the wretched woman might guess she had the Prince of Wales in her parlour!
The abbess seemed to be making up her mind. ‘Under the circumstances, perhaps I can allow you to see her. Poor woman, she has had few enough visitors all these years. Perhaps your presence will ease her last hours.’
‘Her last hours?’ Llywelyn echoed. ‘What do you mean?’
The abbess frowned. ‘I’m sorry. I thought you knew. I thought that was why you had come. Sister Isabella is dying.’
XXV
Isabella lay in the end bed in the infirmary, nearest the fire. The others were occupied by two frail old nuns who no longer had the strength to walk, and a novice whose agonising sore throat and fever did not prevent her from pulling herself up in bed to watch the tall young stranger follow the infirmarian down the room.
He sat on Isabella’s bed; dismissing his guide curtly, he took her hand. It was thin and brittle between his own.
‘Aunt Isabella? You have to get better. I’ve come to take you back to Wales.’ His whisper seemed loud in the silent room.
He thought she hadn’t heard him, but after a minute or two she opened her eyes.
‘Llywelyn
He grinned. ‘The same.’
‘You’d take me back to Aber?’
He squeezed her hand gently. ‘As soon as you are fit to travel.’
‘I was fit enough to travel last year.’ Her voice assumed some of its old tartness, ‘And the year before that and the year before that. Why did you not come then? Why did you not answer my letters?’
‘The time was not right.’ He met her gaze steadily.
‘The time was not right.’ She repeated the words softly. ‘And now the time is not right for me. It’s too late, Llywelyn
‘Of course you will…’ His tone was bracing. ‘We’ll have you carried there in a litter.’
‘No. If you did that, it would be my corpse you carried home.’ She smiled and he saw the pain in her eyes. ‘And it’s not worth doing that. Liberating my poor bones would scarcely annoy Henry at all. That’s what you had in mind, didn’t you?’ She smiled again. ‘I thought so. We’d have made a pair, you and I, Llywelyn son of Gruffydd, if we’d had the chance to know each other. We’re both realists.’
She eased herself up painfully against the pillows. Her bedlinen was soft and clean, he noted, whereas the old nun in the next bed had sheets so coarse he could see the rough weave from where he sat.
‘I nearly got away, you know,’ she went on, ‘Eleyne agreed to take me.’ She snorted. ‘I pestered her with letters until I got to her conscience and she persuaded Henry. Then she died.’
‘Aunt Eleyne isn’t dead.’
Isabella ignored him. ‘There was a fire. No one told me, no one bothered. They forgot.’ Her voice was thin and bitter. ‘Then the abbess heard. Eleyne was killed. The poppy syrup they give me for the pain makes me confused, but I remember that. Eleyne was killed at Suckley.’
There was compassion in Llywelyn’s eyes as he leaned forward. ‘No. Henry chose to believe she was dead, but it isn’t true. She was taken to Scotland by Lord Fife.’
For a moment he wondered if she had heard what he said. Her eyes were closed, and it was several moments before she spoke again. ‘She’s alive?’ she asked weakly. ‘In Scotland?’
He nodded. ‘She and Lord Fife were married.’
‘I see.’ She turned her head away from him. ‘And do they have children?’
‘They have two sons.’
‘I see.’ Her voice was muffled. ‘Was she so much more beautiful than me, that men rushed to marry her and fight for her body and take care of her, while I was left to rot, childless and without love?’
Llywelyn cursed himself under his breath for telling her the truth. ‘She could not help herself, Aunt Isabella; and she could not help you. I suspect had she had the choice she would have wished to remain her own mistress as you have done. After all, to the English courts she is dead. Her dower, her lands, her two daughters by de Quincy – all were taken from her. As far as the English records are concerned, she died in 1253.’
Isabella’s eyes were wet with tears. ‘And as far as the English records are concerned, I shall probably never die. The death of a nun in an English convent does not merit an entry in the records. My dower has gone to the church. There are no children of my womb to mourn. No one will read what happened to Isabella de Braose, the widow of Dafydd ap Llywelyn.’
‘Of course they will.’ Llywelyn took her hands again, his voice cheerful. ‘When you die, full of years and with a dozen grandchildren, the world shall read about you in the chronicles. My bards will compose poems about you which each take a month to recite and your beauty will be sung to harps all over Wales.’
She smiled. ‘You are like your Uncle Dafydd, you have charm when you want. Are you married yet?’ He shook his head and she sighed. ‘You must marry, have children, ensure there are heirs to follow you.’ She patted his hand. ‘Your grandfather would have been so proud of you. Now, go home, forget me. I’ll be dead before you reach the Welsh border. Pay someone to say a requiem mass for me in Hay. I was so happy there when I was a child. Go.’ She pushed him away feebly. ‘Before the abbess guesses who you are.’
Reluctantly he stood up. ‘Is there anything you want?’
She shook her head. ‘Just tell the Countess of Fife that her curse worked better than she could ever have dreamed. My body has been eaten day by day by the crab she set growing in my womb with her evil eye and her vicious spells. As she cursed me, so I curse her. I pray that her famous fertility will be her downfall. I pray she will die in Scotland in as much agony as I die in, here in England, and I shall no doubt meet her again in hell!’
Her voice had risen and the other nuns stared at her in horror.
With a sob, the girl with the sore throat hauled herself out of bed and staggered to Isabella, pulling off the crucifix she wore around her neck. ‘Sister, for pity’s sake, for the love of the Blessed Virgin don’t say such things! That is mortal sin!’ She pressed Isabella’s fingers around the cross. ‘Please say you didn’t mean it.’
‘I meant it!’ Isabella summoned the last of her strength to sit up and hurl the cross from her. ‘I meant every word!’
