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
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
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.’
‘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 in the fire if Rhonwen had not rescued me -’ She did not try to hide the bitterness in her voice.
‘Your mother was in no state to remember you, Eleyne. She was probably half dead; she was certainly unconscious – ’
‘She forgot me.’ Eleyne closed her lips tightly. Rhonwen had told her the story many times. She turned away at the sound of the watchman’s horn, glad of the excuse to avoid Gruffydd’s scrutiny. She did not want anyone to know, ever, how much she hated her mother.
‘Perhaps that is them, back already.’ Gruffydd went to the first-floor window and looked down into the courtyard. His eyes narrowed at the sight of the armed men milling around the house. His father’s standard flew jauntily above them, and nearby he saw that of his father’s wife.
Llywelyn had already dismounted near the door to the great hall and had turned to help Joan from her saddle when Dafydd appeared at the head of the flight of steps. Running down two at a time, he bowed low to his father and kissed his mother.
Gruffydd frowned. ‘Look how he runs to them. I knew it! He has told father I’m here. Already he is spreading poison.’ Below them all three had turned to look up at the solar window. Eleyne, running to Gruffydd’s side, saw Dafydd’s face, politely inscrutable; saw her mother’s smile vanishing, to be replaced by a frown, and her father’s tired expression blackening to a scowl. She was suddenly afraid for the man at her side.
‘Gruffydd, I think you should go.’ She tugged at the sleeve of his tunic. ‘Come back when papa has rested and is in a better mood.’ She looked out of the window again. Her parents and her brother were already mounting the steps to the solar. She saw her father swing around with a curt word to his followers, who fell back and turned away. ‘Please, don’t wait for them.’
They could hear clearly now the sound of spurs on the slate slabs of the floor as Llywelyn and his son came through the storeroom below, and then their heavy tread as they mounted the wooden stair to the solar. Eleyne slid off the table and slipped across to the window seat, leaving her brother standing alone in the centre of the room. If her mother saw her, she would send her away.
Llywelyn stopped by the door and stared round. He looked very angry. ‘So, Gruffydd, I do not remember giving you permission to come to Aber.’ At fifty-five Llywelyn ap Iorwerth, Prince of Aberffraw, broad-shouldered and of powerful build, had the figure of a man in his prime. Though his hair and beard were grizzled, they showed still the signs of the red gold which had been his glory as a young man. He wore a corselet of steel over his gown and his sword was still at his waist.
‘I wanted to see you, father.’ Gruffydd went to him and knelt down on one knee. ‘Alone.’ He had seen his half- brother waiting in the shadows at the top of the stairs.
Eleyne pressed herself back into the window embrasure out of sight, but neither of them looked at her.
‘There’s nothing you can say to me which can’t be said in front of Dafydd,’ Llywelyn said stiffly. ‘I hope there’s to be no more nonsense about your claim, my son. All that is done with.’
His voice sounded very weary. Eleyne frowned, as always sensitive to her father’s every mood. He was not well – she could see it at once – and Gruffydd was going to make him worse. Llywelyn might normally look far younger than his years but today, as he unbuckled his sword and laid it on the table, he was stooped as if in pain.
