So they planned for the child to come.
One day Llewellyn’s brother Davydd called on them. Davydd had in truth come more satisfactorily out of the agreement with England than Llewellyn had. Because Davydd had gone over to Edward, the King had regarded him as an ally. Llewellyn had been the enemy.
Edward did not know Davydd. Davydd was a man who would fight on whichever side was the stronger.
There had been peace on the borders now for some time and Davydd was restless. He wanted to talk to his brother about the possibilities of regaining what had been lost.
The Demoiselle was uneasy when she greeted Davydd. She was sure his coming meant trouble. She did not want even the thought of war to be brought into their happy home.
Davydd sat long, talking with his brother.
‘Are you content then,’ he demanded, ‘to be the vassal of the English King? Where is your pride, Llewellyn?’
‘I have not been so happy before in the whole of my life.’
Davydd was sceptical. ‘A new husband. A new father-to-be. By the holy saints, Llewellyn, what will your son think of a father who was content to pass over his heritage to the English?’
Llewellyn was silent. When he was not with the Demoiselle he did sometimes think with shame of the peace he had made. What would his old grandfather have said? What of his father?
‘I was not strong enough against the English,’ he said. He frowned at Davydd. ‘I was surrounded by traitors.’
Davydd shrugged that aside. ‘If I had not gone to the English there would be nothing of Wales left to us.’
‘If you had stood beside me …’
‘It was not in me to be any man’s vassal … even my brother’s.’
‘Except of course the King of England’s.’
‘Not for long,’ said Davydd.
‘What mean you?’
‘I mean this: we should gather a force together and reclaim that which has been taken from us.’
Llewellyn thinking of the Demoiselle shook his head.
‘Have you forgotten the prophecy?’
‘It was clearly not meant for me.’
‘Certainly it was not for one who thrusts aside his opportunity of greatness. Llewellyn, you were meant to rule Wales … and, it may well be, England. Merlin may have meant that England was yours if you were bold enough to take it.’
There was a deep silence. That thought had more than once occurred to Llewellyn.
He said slowly: ‘I have never known such happiness as I have of late.’
Davydd was scornful. ‘You are newly married. You waited overlong. Your bride was snatched from you. Oh, it was so romantic. Dreams, dreams … and you are still in a dream. Think, Llewellyn. When you are an old man your children will say to you, “And what of Wales? What of your heritage? You threw it away for your romantic dreams.”’
‘It will be for them to go their ways, to learn life’s lessons for themselves, to ask what they would have – happiness such as I now enjoy, peace … joy … oh, I cannot explain to you. Davydd … that or war, bloodshed, misery, heartbreak.’
‘And the glory of Wales? Wales for the Welsh!’
‘You waste your time with me, Davydd.’
And at last Davydd saw that this was true.
He was thoughtful after Davydd had ridden away. The Demoiselle comforted him.
‘He thinks me a fool,’ he told her.
‘A wise fool,’ she answered. Then they talked of the baby to come and the beauty of the Welsh mountains.
Our mountains, she called them, and they with his happy marriage and his child to come were enough for him.
So they lived in their peaceful haven and the time grew near when the Demoiselle should be brought to her bed. The women came and shut her in away from him.
He sat outside her bedchamber and waited.
They had not reached the peak of their happiness yet. It would be different when the child came. She longed for the child, so did he.
A little boy. Llewellyn. That Llewellyn who was going to make Merlin’s prophecy come true. No, she would not want that. It would mean going out against Edward’s might. Perhaps Edward would be dead by the time this child grew up. Perhaps it would be Edward’s son whom the child would have to face.
Llewellyn smiled. That must be the answer. No man could stand against great Edward. It was something people knew instinctively. Even Merlin’s prophecy wilted and faded away in face of Edward.
The labour was long. The day faded. No sign yet. Is she suffering? That was more than he could bear. I should be with her. Oh no, my lord, they said. Better not. It would not be long now.
Oh, my Demoiselle, daughter of a great man and royal princess, what joy you have brought me. This cannot last. There must be no more children. You will say it is natural for a woman to bear children but I cannot endure this … torment.
He laughed at himself. His was the mental torment, hers the physical. The women were bustling back and forth. Grave faces and the perpetual cry: It will not be long now.
Then he heard the cry of a child.
He was at the door. ‘A girl, my lord. A lovely healthy little girl.’
He did not look at the child. He could only go to where the Demoiselle lay on her bed weak and exhausted.
He knelt by the bed and the tears flowed from his eyes. He could not stop them. He did not care that the women saw.
‘How he loves her!’ said the old midwife and she shook her head. There was infinite sorrow in her eyes.
‘A little girl,’ whispered the Demoiselle.
‘A beautiful child, my love,’ he answered.
‘You do not mind …’
‘I want only my Demoiselle. I care for nothing else …’
‘You must care for the child.’
They told him she must sleep now.
‘She is worn out with bearing your child,’ said the midwife.
So he went away and left her and he went to his room and prayed. He had forgotten to look at the child.
They were rapping on his door.
‘My lord, come quickly. My lady wishes to see you.’
He ran. He was at her bedside. She was looking at him with glazed eyes.
‘Llewellyn,’ she whispered his name. He knelt by the bed.
‘My Demoiselle, I am here.’
She said: ‘Take care … of the child …’
Then she closed her eyes.
One of the women came and stood beside him.
‘She has gone, my lord,’ she said.
‘Gone!’ he cried. ‘How dare you! Gone. She is here … She is here …’
He lifted her in his arms. He stood holding her lifeless body daring God to take her from him.
He was mad with grief. He had no wish to live.
‘There is the child,’ they told him.
He cared nothing for the child. He hated the child. Her coming had taken away the Demoiselle … a poor exchange. A tragic exchange. I should never have had a child. Oh God, how I wish I had never had a child. What do I want with a child … without her?
He was in a dream … a dream of despair. He cared for nothing. He shut himself in his chamber. He would not eat. He would see no one. He had lost everything he cared for.
They begged him to think of the child.
‘My lady said that she liked the name of Gwenllian. She said if the child is a girl I will call her that. My lord, shall she be given that name?’
They could give her any name they cared to. It was of no moment to him.
So the little girl who had cost her mother her life was named Gwenllian; and she was content with the wet nurse they had found for her, oblivious of what her coming had cost.
Llewellyn wandered in the mountains – as dark and dour as they could be when the sun was not there. And the sun had gone out of his life for ever. He cared not what became of him.