Page 2 of Wolfehound
“There,” Colm said, raising his voice as much as he could. “I was there when de Wolfe betrayed Edward. Mayhap Warenton has been dead for a few years, but this secret did not die with him. It continues to live, and I fear it will come back to cause chaos.”
“What could this terrible secret be?”
“Swear to me again that you will not tell.”
“Of course I will not tell. What is it?”
Colm turned his head stiffly until his gaze fell on the priest who was pouring himself another cup of wine even as they spoke. He did not believe him when he said he would not repeat what he was about to be told, and that was how Colm would get the word out. It wouldn’t behimdivulging the news, but an idiot priest who couldn’t, or wouldn’t, keep his mouth shut.
That was how they would know.
And Colm could go to his grave in peace.
“How much do you know about the battles in Wales between Dafydd and Llywelyn against Henry and Edward?” he finally asked.
St. Zosimus shrugged. “As much as anyone, I suppose,” he said. “Edward finally defeated them and eventually proclaimed his own son the Prince of Wales.”
“He did,” Colm said, his eyes taking on a distant cast. “I was involved in those wars, you know. I was there when Dafydd was killed and when his brother, Llywelyn ap Gruffudd, was ambushed whilst running from the English. If anyone tells you that he died an honorable death, it is not true. He tried to escape and the English caught him in a forest. They hacked the man to death. There is nothing noble about that.”
St. Zosimus thought he knew what Colm meant. “And you need absolution from killing the last Prince of Wales?”
“Nay,” Colm said, remembering that time not so long ago. A mere twenty years ago. But it seemed like a lifetime. “I did not participate in the death of Llywelyn. It was what came after that concerned me.”
“What came after?”
Colm cleared his throat quietly and closed his eyes. “Llywelyn was married to Eleanor de Montfort,” he muttered. “Were you aware of that? The man was married to a woman of royal blood. Simon de Montfort was her father, and the daughter of King John, also Eleanor, was her mother.”
St. Zosimus took another long drink of wine, growing impatient waiting for this great confession to come forth. “I know the lineage,” he said. “I’ve served here on the Welsh marches for thirty years, my lord. I am well aware of those you speak of.”
Colm’s eye peeped open, seeing that he was close to losing the man’s interest because he hadn’t gotten to the point yet. But there was a reason for that. He needed to make the situation clear before he hit the man with what would undoubtedly be a shocking statement.
St. Zosimus was simply going to have to be patient.
“Llywelyn and Eleanor had a child,” he said. “I do not suppose you heard that, too.”
St. Zosimus nodded. “A girl,” he said. “She was taken to Sempringham Priory. Of course I know that. Everyone knows that. The child is the last of her line, of Welsh royal blood, but she also carries English royal blood. She is the daughter of a prince and the granddaughter of a king and now she is consigned to Sempringham. It is a Gilbertine priory, as I am a Gilbertine as well. I know all of this, my lord, so what did you wish to tell me about it?”
Colm had suffered enough of the man’s dismissive attitude. All he’d done was drink his wine, belch, and wait for him to die. Then he would return to his church and plot his next scheme to gain more money and power. With a last surge of strength, Colm suddenly sat up.
“Listen to me, you idiot,” he said, feeling breathless from his sudden movement. “I am trying to tell you something so important that it will shake England to her very foundation if it is discovered, but I tell you this for a reason, and it is not to give you a history lesson.”
St. Zosimus was sitting straight in his chair at this point, startled by de Lara’s abrupt show of strength. He was a big manand quite intimidating when he wanted to be, so St. Zosimus held up his hands to ease him.
“Be at peace, my lord,” he said. “Lie back down. You needn’t concern yourself so. I am listening, I swear it.”
Colm let the man push him back down on the bed, mostly because he was too weak to fight him. Sitting up had taken nearly everything out of him. Sweating, and red in the face, he pushed St. Zosimus’ hands away.
“The infant girl, Gwenllian, was in the guardianship of Dafydd when she was captured,” he said. “I was part of that action. Dafydd was taken away and executed, but the infant and Dafydd’s daughters were taken to Lincolnshire, to remote abbeys, so they could live out the rest of their lives as nuns, guarded by the Gilbertines. But that was not the original plan.”
St. Zosimus’ eyebrows lifted. “It wasn’t?’
Colm shook his head weakly. “Nay,” he said. “The Earl of Warenton was part of that action, too. He was in command of it. Now, understand that I was not privy to many of the reasons behind this action. I was a mere knight. I simply followed orders. But something was brewing with de Wolfe, something dark. I heard that his orders were to kill the Welsh offspring, but he could not bring himself to do it. The man has too much honor to murder small children, so he sent them to the priories instead. Edward was not entirely pleased with that action, but in the end, he agreed to it. It would look less than generous of him should a king be responsible for the deaths of small girls. De Wolfe understood that, but it took Edward time to realize that de Wolfe did him a favor. When he understood what de Wolfe had done for him, he took credit for sparing their lives. Or so I was told.”
St. Zosimus was listening closely at this point. “And that is what you wish to confess?” he said. “That Warenton is responsible for sparing the children of Llywelyn and Dafydd?”
“Nay,” Colm said, his gaze unnaturally focused on the priest. “That is not it. You do realize that if those girls had married and produced sons, the wars in Wales would never end. They would go on forever.”
“I would imagine so.”
