Chapter 4 Llewellyn

Llewellyn



It had been three weeks since the great mass of King Truman's court had left the comforts of Shellhall for the road to Kingshill. Llewellyn had cherished every moment of the journey, finding ways of avoiding his uncle whenever the Lovegard girl and her cousin were near.

He had already learnt to hate her, the smiles that never left her sweet face, those too white teeth and her curved body. At first he was sure it was just spite that consumed him, the foul memories of the war against her kin. The fact that her father had killed his. But now he was sure it was something more.

His Grace had continued to suggest a marriage between Llewellyn and the Lovegard girl, yet the heir to Goldmead would not yield.

Llewellyn kicked his heels in his horse, racing past the column of servants, a few carriages carrying the women and the helmetless knights astride their steeds. Sir Rosbert, ever the faithful friend, was right behind him as they slowed to walk next to the king's horse.

"Llewellyn. Sir Bryn was about to send for you. I want you to ride ahead and find a place to rest."

"Yes, Your Grace."

Louella trotted her stallion forward, next to him. "May I accompany you, my lord? My horse is in need of a leg stretch."

The king laughed. Her face turned a shade of pink, her brow creased and Llewellyn took pleasure in her clear unrest.

"Dear child, my nephew is not known for steady riding. It will be best if you stay here with me. You will be more likely to remain on your horse."

"With all due respect, Your Grace, I doubt that Lord Llewellyn will be harder to keep up with than my kin in Breye."

The young lord set his teeth, shortening his black leather reins. The young stallion sprung into a canter, a steady pace so as to allow his two young squires a chance to keep up. A thin smile spread across his tight face.

She followed, the Lovegard girl, her pale blue dress streaming out behind her. Llewellyn saw her cousin hot on her heels.

They were inseparable. Since they had arrived in the courtyard of Shellhall three weeks ago there had been hardly a moment when they were apart. They wore the same colours when the Lovegard knight donned a jerkin and breeches instead of his heady plated armour. Their strides matched perfectly, and they finished each other's sentences. It unnerved Llewellyn, as if they were laughing at his stubborn pride.

He kicked his stallion's ribs and sped across the flat fields, only stopping when he got to the edge of the River Boyce. The horse flared his dark nostril, his mahogany eyes white from memories of the three days that the river ran red.

The younger of the two squires, a pox marked boy of twelve, reined up behind his lord.

"We'll rest here, Harrison. Send for the baggage cart to set up the campfires."

"Yes, my lord."

"Clyve?"

"Yes, my lord?"

"Take my horse. I'm going to the ruins for a while"

"Yes, my lord. I shall inform His Grace."

Llewellyn dismounted, his thick black leather boots landing heavily in the dark mud. The ground showed no sign of the destruction that had scarred the fertile landscape. The screams and clanging of swords could still be heard on the wind. His boots squelched as he walked, but he stayed upright, unlike the last time that the young lord had been on that battlefield.

The sword was still there, firmly planted in the soft ground by the water's edge. It was a plain sword, with the black leather hilt worn away over the years. It was an ancient sword, a strong sword, a sword for a hero. Llewellyn rubbed his black gloved fingers lovingly over the thin words engraved in the iron blade.

"Osbert Halmott." He knelt at the hilt, his fists clenched.

"My father was killed here. I remember them bringing the news to us in Stalton when we were young."

"I know. I was the one you removed his head. He fought well, my lady." He stood, his head high as he gazed over the fast flowing river. "I led the attack against him."

"You should have ransomed him, not killed him. He was my father."

Llewellyn spun on her, forced her against the rough bark of an ancient oak tree, a witness of the Red River Boyce.

"What right do you have to tell me you did and who did not deserve to die? I saw boys the same age as my brother die alongside old men. Men begging for mercy had their guts spilled on this same grass. So don't tell me that your father was the only man that should not have died on this field."

Harrison quickly dismounted his mare, running toward his lord. The Lovegard boy unsheathed his sword as he ran forward to protect his cousin. A scream left the youth's lips as he knocked the young squire out of his path. Llewellyn twisted out of reach of the sword, pulling his own blade from his belt in one fluid motion. They lunged and parried. The Lovegard shouted at them, tears glittering her cream cheeks.

"Stop this nonsense by order of your king!"

King Truman thundered toward them on his thick set stallion, his guard closing around him. Sir Rosbert pulled his young lord away from the furious Lovegard, prying the longsword out of Llewellyn's hand. Louella stood between her cousin and the young lord, speaking softly in his ear. His pale blue eyes glared at Llewellyn over his cousin's shoulder.

Llewellyn let out a scream and strode away down the river back, young Harrison following loyally.

That night, as the young lord sat across from the king playing chess in the royal pavilion, the topic was ignored. Instead, the king took up the same conversation as he had every night for the last week.

"Why not? She's a pretty girl and from fertile stock. It would be a good match." The queen sat sewing the red tree of her husband's banner onto a black jerkin for their son. Sir Rosbert stood with Sir Bryn, His Majesty's closest companion. The pair of old knights were silent in a dark corner of the room, away from the three eldest of the royal family.

Llewellyn moved his knight closer to his uncle's king on the chess board.

"My wife is still alive. She's carrying my child."

"She'll lose this one just like she has the last four, boy. Don't be so blind; this is a rare opportunity for our house."

"Truman, I lost three babes yet have given you three healthy children also. Give her time, Llewellyn, and more will come."

The reasoning behind how Maida had fallen in love with King Truman had always evaded people, Llewellyn most of all. She was kind and sweet, with a soft round face and a slightly plump body. The people loved her, for she would ride out give money to those in need, sew clothes for the orphaned children and speak with the widows. She was the opposite of her burly husband.

"Don't listen to her, boy. She has a soft heart. Do you want your brother to be your heir forever?"

"Do you want to see Goldmead in the hands of a Lovegard?"

"You're a stubborn boy, just like your father."

Llewellyn took the last knight with his queen.

"Check mate, Your Grace. Shall we play again?"

The old knight chuckled behind his, polishing his silver armour beside Sir Rosbert. "Your Grace, I fear that you taught your nephew this game too well; he has beaten you every night this past week."