Falls the Shadow by Sharon Kay Penman Page B

Llewelyn conceded. “Well, now that we happen to be talking of birthdays, I daresay you’ve a suggestion or two to offer.”
    “Just one. I would like you to take me hunting again,” Llelo said promptly. But to his disappointment, Llewelyn shook his head.
    “I’m sorry, lad. We’ll have to wait; the season is past. But it’ll be worth it, for the best time for hunting is during the summer, when the bucks are well grazed, fleshed out.” Llewelyn smiled at the boy. “I remember instructing your father in hunting lore, too, more years ago than I care to count. The second season—for does—starts in November, lasts till…Candlemas.”
    The pause was so prolonged that Llelo looked up, saw that his grandfather’s face had shadowed. He started to speak, then remembered. The Lady Joanna had died on Candlemas. He did not know how to comfort, at last said softly, “You must miss her a lot.”
    Llewelyn’s eyes cleared, focused on the boy. “We’d have been wed thirty-one years next month. Nigh on half my life…”
    “Grandpapa, do we keep on loving the dead?”
    “Unfortunately, lad, we do.” Llewelyn lay back in the grass, stared up at the sun; it soon blurred in a haze of brightness. He’d been troubled in recent days by sudden, severe headaches, could feel one coming on. “She was so much younger than I was, Llelo. I always expected to die first, never thought…” He stopped; a silence settled over the clearing.
    Llelo wrapped his arms around his knees, coaxed one of the dogs within petting range, but he kept his eyes upon his grandfather’s face, and he seemed to hear again his brother Owain’s voice—How much longer can he live?
    “Grandpapa, is sixty and four very old?”
    Llewelyn turned his head; he looked amused. “Catch me on a bad day and I feel verily as old as Methuselah. But I’ll share a secret with you, lad. No matter how gnarled the tree, ensconced within is the soul of a green sapling. The shell ages, Llelo, not the spirit.”
    “Then…then you’re not going to die soon?”
    There was fear in the boy’s voice, and Llewelyn heard it. “No,” he said, and he reached over, brushed grass from Llelo’s hair. “Not soon. I promise.”
    Not long afterward, they rose, started back along the river bank. Llelo was—at Llewelyn’s suggestion—gathering bluebells and wood-sorrel for Elen and Gwladys. “What you said before, about sharing a secret. That was not a true secret, was a joke. But what if you had a real secret, Grandpapa? A…shameful secret? What if you knew that if you kept silent, bad things would happen? But if you spoke out, it might be worse. If you had such a secret, what would you do?”
    “That is no easy question to answer. I suppose I’d weigh the evils, try to decide which would be the greater harm. Can you tell me more, Llelo?”
    The boy looked up at him, then slowly shook his head. “No,” he said, “no…”
    Llewelyn knew better than to press. “As you will,” he said, and they walked on. It had been a very wet March, a month of heavy rains, and the river surged against its banks, covered the mossy rocks that usually jutted above the water, stepping-stones that beckoned irresistibly to adventuresome youngsters. Llelo felt cheated; he’d often tested his nerve on those rocks, and he’d hoped to impress his grandfather with his daring. He bent down, searching for a large, flat pebble.
    “Watch, Grandpapa,” he said, and sent the stone skimming across the surface of the water. “Could you skip stones like that when you were my age?”
    “I still can,” Llewelyn said. “Find me a stone and I’ll show you.” Under his grandson’s skeptical eye, he moved toward the bank. The sun was shimmering upon the water; the river had taken on a glittering, silvered sheen. It dazzled him, blinded him. The stone soared upward, much too high, splashed into the shallows, and Llelo gave a triumphant laugh.
    “That was not even close! Grandpapa,