“Unhand me, sir. How dare
you thus insult me? Let go my hand, or I summon
help instantly. I am come to seek the king.
Will you raise a tumult within hearing of his private
apartments? Unhand me, I say,” and Arthyn’s
cheeks flamed dangerously, whilst her eyes flashed
fire.
But Raoul Latimer, though a craven
before the face of an armed foe, could be resolute
enough when he had only an unprotected woman to deal
with, and was quite disposed to show his valour by
pressing his unwelcome salutations upon the cheek
of the girl he regarded as his future wife. His
surprise at encountering Arthyn, whom he believed far
away in her father’s castle, hastening alone
down one of the long corridors of Carnarvon Castle,
had been very great. He could not imagine what
had thus brought her, and was eager to claim from her
the greeting he felt was his due.
But Arthyn had never lacked for spirit,
and had always confessedly abhorred Raoul, nor had
absence seemed to make the heart grow fonder, at least
in her case. She repulsed him with such hearty
goodwill that his cowardly fury was aroused, and had
not the girl cried aloud in her anger and fear, he
might have done her some mischief. But even as
she lifted her voice a door in the corridor was flung
open, and the king himself strode forth, not, as it
chanced, in response to the call, which had not reached
his ears, but upon an errand of his own. Now when
he saw that at the doors of his own private apartments
one of his own gentlemen had dared to lay rude hands
upon a woman, his kingly wrath was stirred, and one
blow from his strong arm sent Raoul reeling across
the corridor till the wall stopped his farther progress.
“How now, malapert boy?”
cried Edward in deep displeasure. “Is it
thus you disgrace your manhood by falling upon the
defenceless, and by brawling even within hearing of
your sovereign? You are not so wondrous valiant
in battle, Raoul Latimer, that you can afford to blast
the small reputation you have.
“Sweet lady, be not afraid;
thy king will protect thee from farther insult.
“Ha, Arthyn, is it thou, my
child? Nay, kneel not in such humbly suppliant
fashion; rise and kiss me, little one, for thou art
only less dear to me than mine own children.
Come hither, maiden, and speak to me. What has
brought thee here alone and unannounced? And what
has raised this storm betwixt ye twain?”
“Sire my king
hear me,” cried Arthyn in a choked voice; “and
bid that wicked youth, whom I have ever hated, leave
us. Let me speak to you alone and in private.
It is to you, gracious lord, that I have come.
Grant me, I pray you, the boon of but a few words alone
and in private. I have somewhat to tell your
grace your royal pardon to ask.”
“Pardon? tush, maiden! thou
canst not have offended greatly. But come hither;
what thou hast to say thou shalt say before the queen
and Eleanor. They have ever been as mother and
sister to thee. Thou hast no secrets for me which
they may not hear?”
“Ah no; I would gladly speak
all before them,” answered Arthyn eagerly, knowing
that in the gentle Eleanor of Castile and her daughter
she would find the most sympathizing of friends.
Intensely patriotic as the girl had
ever been, loving her country above all else, and
throwing heart and soul into that country’s cause,
she had yet learned a deep love and reverence for
the family of the English king, amongst whom so many
years of her young life had been spent. She was
able to do full justice to the kindly and domestic
side of the soldier king’s nature, and, whilst
she regarded him as a foe to Wales, looked upon him
personally as a friend and protector.
Edward’s gentleness and affection
in his private life equalled his stern, unbending
policy in matters of state. It was very tenderly
and kindly that he led the girl to the private apartments
of the queen; and when once Arthyn found herself face
to face with one who had given to her more of mother
love than any other being in the world, she flung
herself into the arms opened to receive her, and out
came the whole story which had brought her on this
secret mission to Carnarvon.
“Sweet lady, O most gracious
madam, listen and plead for me with the king.
He is kind and good, and he knows what true love is.
Lady, it is as a wedded wife I come to you, craving
pardon for what I have done. But I ever hated
that wicked Raoul Latimer, my country’s foe,
and would have died rather than plight my troth to
him. And when he came to us he,
my love, my life, he whom I loved long years ago when
we met as boy and girl, and whom I have never forgotten
what could I do? How could I resist?
“And my father approved.
He gave my hand in wedlock. And now I am come
to pray your pardon for myself and for him whom I love.
Oh, do not turn a deaf ear to me! As you have
loved when you were young, pardon those who have done
likewise.”
King and queen exchanged glances,
half of amusement, half of astonishment, but there
was no anger in either face. Raoul was no favourite
in the royal circle, and his visible cowardice in the
recent campaign had brought him into open disfavour
with the lion-hearted Edward. He loved Arthyn
dearly, and this proof of her independence of spirit,
together with her artless confidence in his kindliness
of heart, pleased him not a little. He had been
forced during these past days to act a stern part
towards many of the Welsh nobles who had been brought
before him. He was glad enough, this thankless
task accomplished, to allow the softer and more kindly
side of his nature to assert itself. And perhaps
the sympathetic glances of his son Alphonso, who had
just entered the room, helped to settle his resolve
that Arthyn at least should receive full and free
forgiveness.
Eleanor had drawn her former playmate
towards her, and was eagerly questioning her as to
the name of him to whom her heart and hand were now
given, and the answer sent a thrill of surprise through
the whole company.
“It is one whom you all know,
sweet Eleanor Llewelyn, the son of Res
Vychan, Lord of Dynevor. Thou knowest, Eleanor,
how he came amongst us at Rhuddlan years agone now,
and perchance thou sawest even then how we loved one
another, albeit it was but the love of children.
But we never have forgotten, and when he came to my
father’s castle, wounded and weary and despairing
after the disaster which robbed Wales of her last
native prince, what could we do but receive and tend
him? It was thus it came about, and love did
the rest.”
“And so thou hast wed a rebel,
maiden?” quoth Edward, in tones that seemed
to be stern by effort rather than by the will of the
speaker, whilst the kindly light in the eyes belied
his assumed harshness; “and having done so thou
hast the hardihood to come and tell us of it thine
own self. Fie upon thee for a saucy wench!
What better dost thou expect for thyself and thy lord
than a lodging in the lowest dungeon of the keep?”
“I know that we ought to expect
nothing better,” answered Arthyn, with her brightest
smile, as she turned fearlessly upon the king.
“But do as you will with us, noble king, and
we will not rebel or complain, so that we may be together.
And my dear lord bid me give you this. He took
it with his own hands from the dead hand of Llewelyn,
Prince of Wales, and he charged me to place it in
your hands as a pledge and token that your enemy ceased
to live. Report has told him that men say Llewelyn
escaped that day, and that he yet lives to rise against
you again. By this signet you may know that he
lies dead and cold, and that with him has perished
the last hope of Wales ever to be ruled by a prince
of her own.”
Edward put forth his hand eagerly,
and examined the signet ring, which was one he himself
had given to Llewelyn on the occasion of his last
submission. And as he looked upon it a great weight
seemed to be rolled from off him, for it was the first
decided intimation he had had that his foe was actually
slain. Rumour had been rife with reports of his
escape, and although there had not been lacking testimony
to the effect that the prince had fallen in battle,
the fact had never been adequately established.
A few quick questions to Arthyn appeared to establish
this beyond all doubt, and in the expansion of the
moment Edward was ready not only to forgive the bearer
of such welcome tidings, but to forget that he had
ever been an offender. One of the sons of Res
Vychan had paid the price of his breach of faith with
his life; two more were prisoners at his royal pleasure.
Surely the family had suffered enough without harsher
vengeance being taken. Surely he might give to
Arthyn the liberty and possibly even the lands of
her lord in return for the welcome intelligence she
had brought.
Alphonso, ever on the side of mercy,
joined with the queen and Eleanor in persuading the
king to forgive and forget, and Arthyn was sent home
the day following laden with presents and good wishes,
bearing a full pardon to her lord from the English
king, as well as a half promise that when the country
became somewhat more settled he might make request
for his commot of Iscennen with reasonable chance
of being heard.
Wendot and Griffeth both saw their
new sister before her return, and charged her with
all sorts of friendly messages for Llewelyn. If
Wendot thought it hard that the brother who had always
been England’s bitterest foe should be pardoned
and rewarded, whilst he himself should be left to
pine in captivity, at least he made no sign, and never
let a word of bitterness pass his lips. Indeed
he was too ill greatly to trouble himself over his
own condition or the future that lay before him.
Fever and ague had supervened upon the wounds he had
received, and whilst Griffeth was rapidly recovering
such measure of health and strength as he ever could
boast, Wendot lay helpless and feeble, scarce able
to lift his head from the pillow, and only just equal
to the task of speaking to Arthyn and comprehending
the good news with which she came charged.
The brothers had now been removed
to better apartments, near to those occupied by the
prince, whose servants they nominally were. Griffeth
had begun to enter upon some of his duties towards
his royal patron, and the friendship begun in boyhood
was rapidly ripening to an intimacy which surprised
them both. Such perfect mutual understanding and
sympathy was rare and precious; and Griffeth did not
even look back with longing to the old life, so entirely
had his heart gone out to the youthful prince, whose
days on earth, like his own, were plainly numbered.
Lady Gertrude Cherleton was still
an inmate of the royal household. She was now
a ward of Edward’s, her father having died a
year or two previously. She was not considered
a minor any longer, having attained the age of eighteen
some time before, and the management of her estates
was left partially to her. But she remained by
choice the companion of Eleanor and Joanna, and would
probably continue to do so until she married.
It was a source of wonder to the court why she did
not make choice of a husband amongst the many suitors
for her hand; but she had hitherto turned a deaf ear
to the pleadings of all. Sir Godfrey Challoner
had long been sighing at her feet, but she would have
none of him, and appeared to be proof against all
the shafts of the blind god of love.
But her intense excitement when she
heard of the arrival at Carnarvon of the two brothers
from Dynevor told its own tale to the Princess Joanna,
who had ever been the girl’s confidante in this
matter, and who had known from childhood how Gertrude
had always believed herself pledged. It was a
charming secret for them to cherish between them; and
now that Wendot was once more beneath the castle roof,
the impulsive Joanna would launch out into extravagant
pictures of future happiness and prosperity.
Her ardent temperament, having no personal romance
to feed upon for though her hand had
once been plighted, her future lord had been drowned
the previous year in a boating accident, and she was
again free delighted to throw itself
into the concerns of her friend, and the sense of
power which had been so early implanted within her
made her confident of being able to overcome obstacles
and attain the object of her wishes, be the difficulties
and dangers in their path never so great.
“You shall be united, Gertrude,
an he loves thee,” cried the generous Joanna,
flinging her arms round the neck of her companion,
and kissing her again and again. “His life,
his liberty, shall be obtained, and thou and he shall
be happy together. I have said it, and I will
do it.”
Whatever was known to Joanna was known
to Alphonso, who shared all her feelings, and was
most tenderly beloved by her. He was as ardent
in the cause as his sister could be; but he saw more
of the difficulties that beset their path, and knew
better his father’s iron temperament, and how
deeply Wendot had offended. Doubtless much was
due to the misrepresentations of Sir Res ap Meredith,
who had now secured for himself the coveted lands
of Dynevor; but whatever the cause, the eldest son
of the house of Dynevor was the object of the king’s
severe displeasure, and it was not likely he would
relax his vigilance or depart from his word, not even
for the prayers of his children or the tears of his
favourite Gertrude. He had pardoned Llewelyn at
the instance of Arthyn; if the same game were to be
played over again by another of his daughters’
companions, he would not unnaturally believe that
he was being cajoled and trifled with.
“If it were only Griffeth it
would be easy,” said Alphonso thoughtfully.
“But Wendot ”
And there he stopped and shook his head.
It was some days before the king saw
the new attendant of his sons; but coming into Alphonso’s
private apartment one day suddenly, he found several
of the royal children gathered there, and with them
a fair-haired youth, who was reading to the prince
out of an illuminated missal. Alphonso was lying
on a couch, and his look of fragile weakness struck
cold to the father’s heart. Of late the
lad’s strength had been failing rapidly, but
Edward had tried to blind his eyes to the truth.
Now he took a hasty step towards the couch, and Griffeth
rose quickly from his seat and bent the knee before
the king.
“Ha, Wendot,” said Edward,
with a grave but not unkindly glance, “I have
not seen you at these new duties before. So you
are a student as well as a soldier? Well, the
arts of peace will better become you for the future.
I remember your face well, young man. I would
it had not been my duty to place you under restraint;
but you have broken faith with me, and that grievously.
How then can it be possible to trust you in the future?
You, as the head of the house, should have set your
brothers an example of honour and fealty. As
it is, it has been far otherwise, and now you will
have to bear the burden of that breach of trust and
honour.”
Twice Griffeth had opened his lips
as if to speak, but Alphonso laid his hand upon his
arm with a warning touch, which said as plainly as
words could do, “Be silent.”
So the youth held his peace, and only
bent his head in submission; and Edward, after a moment’s
pause, added more kindly:
“And how fares it with your
brother, Wendot? I hear that his state is something
precarious. I hope he has the best tendance the
castle can afford, for I would not that any member
of my son’s household should suffer from lack
of care.”
“He has all that he needs, I
thank you, sire,” answered Griffeth. “He
lies sorely sick at this present time, but I trust
he will amend ere long.”
And then the king turned to his son,
and spoke with him on some message of the state, and
departed without heeding the excited glances of Joanna
or the restless way in which she kept looking first
at Alphonso and then at Gertrude.
But scarcely had the door closed behind
the retiring form of the king before the excitable
girl had bounded to her brother’s side.
“O Alphonso,” she cried,
“did you do it on purpose? Tell me what
you have in your head.”
Alphonso sat up and pushed the hair
out of his eyes. Griffeth was simply looking
on in surprise and bewilderment. The prince laid
a hand upon his arm and spoke very earnestly.
“Griffeth,” he said, “it
seems to me that through this error of my father’s
we may yet find means to compass the deliverance of
Wendot. There are none of those save ourselves
who know which of you twain is the first-born and
which the youngest. In your faces there is little
to mark you one from the other. Griffeth, if
thou wilt be willing to be called Wendot
if Wendot will consent to be Griffeth
then we may perchance make his way plain to depart
and live in liberty once more; for it is Wendot, and
not Griffeth, who has so roused my father’s anger.
Griffeth he might easily consent to pardon; but Wendot
he will keep as a hostage in his own hands possibly
for life itself.”
Griffeth listened, and a strange look
crept into his face. His cheek flushed, and his
breath came thick and fast. He knew Alphonso’s
motive in suggesting this change of identity.
The lads, so closely drawn together in bonds of more
than brotherly love, had not opened to each other
their innermost souls for nought. Alphonso knew
that no freedom, no liberty, would give to the true
Griffeth any extension of his brief span of life.
His days were as assuredly numbered as those of the
royal lad himself, and life had ceased to have attractions
for the pair, whose spirits were almost on the wing,
who had set their hopes and aspirations higher than
anything which earth could give, and whose chiefest
wish now was to remain together until death should
call them home.
Griffeth’s only trouble had
been the thought of leaving his brother, and it was
when he had realized from Alphonso’s words that
the king was deeply offended with Wendot, and that
it was almost hopeless to think of his obtaining his
liberty again, that the heart of the lad sank in despondency
and sorrow.
For one of the young eagles of Dynevor
thus to be caged to be left to pine away
in hopeless captivity, his brother gone from him as
well as the prince who would stand his friend; possibly
incarcerated at last in some dreary fortress, there
to linger out his days in hopeless misery and inaction
the thought had been so terrible to Griffeth
that there had been moments when he had almost longed
to hear that the leeches gave up hope of saving his
brother’s life.
But Wendot was mending now; there
was no doubt of ultimate recovery. He would rise
from his sickbed to find what? Griffeth
had not dared to ask himself this question before;
but now a great hope possessed him suddenly.
He looked into Alphonso’s eyes, and the two instantly
understood one another; as did also Gertrude and Joanna,
who stood by flushed and quivering.
“Let it be so,” said Griffeth,
in a voice which trembled a little, although the words
were firm and emphatic. “I take the name
the king has given me. I am Wendot, whom he believes
the traitor and the foe. Griffeth lies yonder,
sick and helpless, a victim to the influence of the
first-born son of Res Vychan. It may be, when
the king hears more of him, he will in his clemency
release and pardon him.
“Ah, if I could but be the means
of saving my brother the brother dearer
to me than life from the fate which others
have brought upon him, that I could lay down my life
without a wish ungratified! It has been the only
thought of bitterness in my cup that I must leave him
alone and a prisoner.”
Gertrude’s face had flushed
a deep red; she put out her hand and clasped that
of Griffeth hard; there was a little sob in her voice
as she said:
“Oh, if you will but save him
if you will but save him!”
Griffeth looked into her sweet face,
with its sensitive features and soft eyes shining
through a mist of tears, and he understood something
which had hitherto been a puzzle to him.
There had been days when the intermittent
fever from which Wendot suffered left him entirely
for hours together, sometimes for a whole day; and
Griffeth had been sure that on some of these days,
in the hours of his own attendance on the prince,
his brother had received visits from others in the
castle: for flowers had appeared to brighten the
sick room, and there had been a wonderful new look
of happiness in the patient’s eyes, although
he had said nothing to his brother as to what had
befallen him.
And in truth Wendot was half disposed
to believe himself the victim of some sweet hallucination,
and was almost afraid to speak of the fancies that
floated from time to time before his eyes, lest he
should be told that his mind was wandering, and that
he was the victim of delusion.
Not once alone, but many times, during
the hours of his tardy convalescence, when he had
been lying alone, crushed by the sense of weariness
and oppression which illness brings to one so little
accustomed to it, he had been roused by the sound of
light footfalls in his room; he had seen a graceful
form flitting about, bringing lightness and beauty
in her wake, and leaving it behind when she left.
The vision of a sweet, small face, and the lustrous
dark eyes which had haunted him at intervals through
the long years of his young manhood, appeared again
before him, and sometimes his name was spoken in the
gentle tones which had never been forgotten, although
the memory was growing dim.
Weak and dazed and feeble, both in
body and mind, from the exhausting and wasting illness
that had followed the severe winter’s campaign,
Wendot knew not if this vision was but the figment
of his own brain, or whether the passionate love he
felt rising up in his heart was lavished upon a mere
phantom. But so long as she flitted about him
he was content to lie and watch her, with the light
of a great happiness in his eyes; and once when he
had called her name the never forgotten
name of Gertrude he had thought that
she had come and taken his hand and had bent over
him with a wonderful light in her eyes, but the very
effort he made to rise up and grasp her hands, and
learn if indeed it were a creature of flesh and blood,
had resulted in a lapse back into unconsciousness,
and he was silent as to the vision even to Griffeth,
lest perchance he should have to learn that it was
but a fevered dream, and that there was no Gertrude
within the castle walls at all.
But Gertrude knew all; it was no dream
to her. She saw the love light in the eyes dearest
to her in the world. She had heard her name called;
she had seen that the love she had cherished for the
hero of her childhood had not been cherished in vain.
Perhaps Wendot had betrayed more in his sickness and
weakness than he would have allowed himself to do in
his strength, knowing himself a helpless, landless
prisoner in the hands of the stern monarch who occupied
England’s throne. But be that as it may,
Gertrude had read his secret and was happy, though
with such a chastened happiness as alone was possible
to one who knew the peril in which her lover lay,
and how hopeless even Alphonso thought it to obtain
for him the king’s pardon.
“My father would have betrothed
us as children,” said Gertrude, her face glowing,
but her voice steady and soft, for why should she be
ashamed of the faithful love of a lifetime?
“When we saw each other again
he would have plighted us, but for the fear of what
Llewelyn and Howel would do. But think you I love
him less for his love to his country? Think you
that I have aught to reproach him with, when I know
how he was forced into rebellion by others? I
care not what he has done. I love him, and I
know that he loves me. Sooner would I share a
prison with him than a palace with any man beside;
yet I fear that in prison walls he will pine and die,
even as a caged eagle, and it is that fear which breaks
my heart.
“O Griffeth, Griffeth, if you
can save him, how we will bless you from, our hearts!
Give him to me, and I will guard and cherish him.
I have wealth and lands for us both. Only his
liberty is lacking ”
“And that we will strive to
compass yet,” said Alphonso gently. “Fear
not, sweet Gertrude, and betray not thyself. Only
remember from this time forward that Wendot is my
friend and companion here, and that thy lover Griffeth
lieth in yon chamber, sick and stricken.”
“I will remember,” she
answered resolutely; and so the change of identity
was accomplished, with the result that the old chroniclers
aver that Wendot, eldest son of Res Vychan, died in
the king’s prison in England, whilst all that
is known of the fate of Griffeth is that he was with
his brother in captivity in England in the year 1283,
after which his name completely disappears, and no
more is known of him, good or bad.
That night there were commotion and
distress in Carnarvon Castle, for the young Alphonso
broke a blood vessel in a violent fit of coughing,
and for some hours his life was in the utmost danger.
The skill of the leeches, however,
combined with the tender care of his mother and sisters,
averted for a time fatal consequences, and in a few
days the prince was reported to be out of immediate
danger. But the doctors all agreed that it would
not be wise for him to remain longer in the colder
air of north Wales, and advised an immediate removal
to Windsor, where more comforts could be obtained,
and where the climate was milder and more genial.
Edward’s work in Wales was done.
The country was quiet, and he had no longer any fear
of serious rebellion. The first thought in his
mind was the precarious condition of his son, and
immediate steps were taken to convey the invalid southward
by slow and gentle stages.
A horse litter was prepared for him,
and by his own special request this easy conveyance
was shared by him with the two Welsh youths, to whom,
as his father and mother thought, he had taken one
of those strange sick fancies not uncommon to those
in his state of health.
Wendot, as he called the younger brother,
had been his most devoted nurse during the days of
peril, and his quick understanding of the unspoken
wishes of the prince had evoked a real and true gratitude
from the royal parents.
The real Wendot was by this time so
far recovered as to be able to bear the journey, and
illness had so wasted him that he looked no older than
Griffeth; and though still perplexed at being called
Griffeth, and by no means understanding his brother’s
earnest request that he would continue to answer to
the name, he was too weak to trouble his head much
about the matter; and the two Welsh brothers were
regarded by the English attendants as too insignificant
to be worthy of much notice. The prince’s
freak to have them as travelling-companions was humoured
by his parents’ wish; but they little knew how
much he was wrapped up in the brothers, nor how completely
his heart was set upon seeing the accomplishment of
his plan before he died.
Alphonso had all his senses about
him, and the wistful look on Griffeth’s face,
as the mountains of his beloved Wales grew dim in the
distance, was not lost upon him. Wendot was sleeping
restlessly in the litter, and Alphonso stretched out
his hand, and laid it gently upon Griffeth’s.
“Art regretting that thou leavest
all for me?” he asked gently; and the answer
was such a look of love as went to his very heart.
“Nay; I would leave far more
than that for thee, sweet prince, but it is my last
look at home. I shall see these grand, wild hills
no more.”
“No, nor yet I,” answered
the prince, his own eyes growing somewhat dim; “and
I, too, have loved them well, though not as thou lovest,
my friend. But be content; there are fairer things,
sweeter scenes than even these, in store for us somewhere.
Shall we repine at leaving the beauties of earth,
when the pearly gates of Paradise are opening before
our very eyes?
“O Griffeth, it is a wondrous
thought how soon we may be soaring above the very
stars! And methinks it may well be given to thee
to wing thy way to thine own home for one last look
ere thou departest for the holy land whence we can
never wish to return.”
Griffeth gave him a bright, eager look.
“I will think that myself
I will believe it. This is not my last farewell.”