Here Be Dragons - 1

by Sharon Kay Penman

  10 in his face. It was utterly unpremeditated, surprising Llewelyn almost as much as it did Walter, and he realized at once that his Corbet kinship would avail him little against an offense of such magnitude. But for the moment the incredulous outrage on Walter's face was worth it, worth it all. Walter gasped, and then lunged. Shock slowed his reflexes, however, and Llewelyn was already on his feet. He sprinted for Sul, and the gelding raised its head, expectant, for this was a game they often played, and Llewelyn had become quite adroit at vaulting up onto the horse's back from a running jump. But as he chanced a glance back over his shoulder, he saw he was not going to make it; Walter was closing ground with every stride. Llewelyn swerved, tripped, and sprawled facedown in the high grass. There was no time for fear, it all happened too fast; Walter was on top of him, and this time the older boy was in deadly earnest, he meant to inflict pain, to maim, and his was the advantage of four years and fully forty pounds. "Walter, stop!" The other boys had reached them, were struggling to drag Walter off him. Llewelyn heard their voices as if from a great distance; there was a roaring in his ears. His right eye was swelling rapidly, and an open gash just above the eyelid was spurting so much blood that he was all but blinded. Through a spangled crimson haze, he caught movement and brought his arm up in a futile attempt to ward off the blow. But the expected explosion of pain did not come; instead the voices became louder, more strident. "Jesus God, Walter, think what you do! Did you not hear your brother? The boy's not fair game, he's kin to the Corbets!" "He's talking sense, Walter. You've got to let the boy be!" "I intend to ... as soon as he does beg my forgiveness." Walter was now straddling Llewelyn, holding the boy immobile with the weight of his own body, and he shifted his position as he spoke, driving his knee into Llewelyn's ribcage until he cried out in pain. "We're waiting on you. Tell me how sorry you are . . . and whilst you be at it, let's hear you admit the truth about your God-cursed kinfolk, that there's not a Welshman born who's not a thief and cutthroat." Pain had vanquished pride; Llewelyn was frightened enough and hurting enough to humble himself with an apology. But it was unthinkable to do what Walter was demanding. "Cer i uffern!" It was the worst oath Llewelyn knew, one that damned Walter to the fires of Hell. The words were no sooner out of his mouth than his face was pressed down into the dirt and his arm twisted up behind his back. He'd been braced for pain, but not for this, searing/ burning, unendurable. The shouting had begun again. Walter's mouth

  11 gainst his ear. "Say it," he hissed. "Say it, or by Christ I'll damned well break your arm!" Mo No, never. Did he say that aloud? Someone was gasping, no. rrv " Surely no* h's v°ice- "Welshmen are . . . thieves . . ." No, not him. "Again . . louder this time." "Enough, Walter! It was different when we did not know who he as But Philip and I want no part of this. You do what you want with him, but we're going home ... and straightaway!" The pain in his arm subsided so slowly that Llewelyn did not at once realize he was free. Time passed. He was alone in the meadows now, but he did not move, not until he felt a wet muzzle on the back of his neck. It was Sul, nuzzling his tunic, playing their favorite game, seeking out hidden apple slices. Only then did tears well in Llewelyn's eyes. He welcomed them, needing to cry, but it was not to be; this was a hurt beyond tears, and they trickled into the blood smearing his cheek, dried swiftly in the dying heat of the setting sun. Priding himself on his horsemanship, Llewelyn had never felt the lack of a saddle before. Now, with his right arm all but useless, with no saddle pommel to grip, the once-simple act of mounting was suddenly beyond his capabilities. Again and again he grasped Sul's mane, struggling to pull himself up onto the gelding's back. Again and again he slid back, defeated. But Sul's placid temperament stood him in good stead; the chestnut did no more than roll its eyes sideways, as if seeking to understand this queer new game Llewelyn was set upon playing, and at last, sobbing with frustration, Llewelyn was able to pull himself up onto Sul's withers. He was promptly sick, clinging to Sul's mane while his stomach heaved and the sky whirled dizzily overhead, a surging tide of sunset colors spinning round and round like a child's pinwheel, until the very horizon seemed atilt and all the world out of focus. He headed the gelding back toward Caus Castle; he had nowhere else to go. Village life ceased at dusk, for only the wealthy could afford the luxury of candles and rushlight, and the little hamlets were deserted, his passage heralded only by the barking of dogs. It was well past nightfall by the time he approached Westbury. He had a hazy, halftormed hope that he might somehow sneak unseen into the castle bailey, and then up into the keep, to the upper chamber where Robert orbet's three young sons slept. How he was to accomplish this mirac°us feat, he had no idea, and it was rendered irrelevant now by the sudden appearance of a small body of horsemen. Llewelyn drew rein, for he'd recognized the lead rider. Hugh CorDet his mother's new husband.

  32 "Llewelyn! Where in the name of Jesus have you been, boy? YOU mother's frantic and little wonder. We've been out looking for you sinc Vespers!" The search party carried lanterns, and as Hugh reined in beside Llewelyn, a glimmer of light fell across the boy's face, only a flicker of illumination, but enough. Hugh drew in his breath sharply. "My God lad, what happened to you?" THERE was some talk of summoning a doctor from Shrewsbury, but it was finally decided that Llewelyn's need was not so great as that. As the lady of the manor, Emma Corbet was, of necessity, a skilled apothecary, as adroit in stitching up wounds, applying poultices, and brewing healing herbs as any physician. It was she who applied a salve of mutton fat and resin to Llewelyn's bruised ribs, bathed his swollen eye in rosewater, and washed the blood and dirt from his face. No, his shoulder was not dislocated, she said soothingly. If it were, he'd be unable to move the arm at all. She did feel certain, though, that his wrist was sprained; see how it was swelling? She'd need cold cornpresses for the eye, hot towels for the wrist, and her cache of herbs, she directed, and her maids speedily departed the bedchamber, leaving Llewelyn alone with Emma and Marared, his mother. Voices sounded beyond the door. Llewelyn recognized one as his stepfather's; the other belonged to Robert Corbet, Hugh's elder brother. "Do you not think you're making too much of this, Hugh? Boys will get into squabbles. Look at my torn, how he" "You have not seen him yet, Rob," Hugh said grimly, and pushed the door back. Robert Corbet, Baron of Caus, was only twenty-eight, but he was decisive by nature and long accustomed to the exercise of authority. At sight of Llewelyn, his face hardened. Kneeling by the boy, he said, "Who did this to you, lad?" Marared was standing behind her son. She reached out, let her hand rest on his shoulder. Emma shook her head and said, "It is no use, Rob. He's not said a blessed word so far. Mayhap if we left him alone with Hugh and Margaret. . ." Llewelyn's head came up at that. Her name is Marared. Marared, not Margaret. The words hovered on his lips; he bit them back with a visible effort, and turned his face away, stayed stubbornly silent. Servants had carried bedding into the chamber, were spreading blankets down on the floor by the bed, and Hugh smiled at Llewelyn/ said, "Margaret and I thought it would be best if you passed the nigh*

  here 13 pth us. Now why do we not see about getting you out of those hSimed clothes?" T lewelyn rose obediently, let his stepfather strip off the bloodied, tunic, his shirt, chausses, linen braies, and the knee-length cowboots. But as Hugh pulled the blanket back and the boy slid under overs, he said, very softly yet very distinctly, "My mother's name is Marared." Hugh stood looking down at his stepson. He did not say anything, h t Llewelyn had an unsettling suspicion that he understood, understood all too well. Left alone at last, Llewelyn sought in vain to make himself comfortable on the pallet. He held the compresses to his injured eye, tried not to think of anything at all. When the door opened, he did not look up, believing it to be his mother. But the footsteps were heavier, a man's tread. Llewelyn raised himself awkwardly on his elbow, and his heart began to thud against his sore ribs, for it was Morgan. Marared had been only fifteen when Llewelyn was born, widowed the following year while pregnant with his brother. With Adda, small and frail and maimed, she was fiercely protecti
ve, but she'd tended from the first to treat her eldest son as if they were playfellows rather than mother and child. Llewelyn adored the dark, beautiful girl who teased him, laughed at his misdeeds, and taught him to view their troubles with lighthearted abandon. But it was Morgan who set the standards that structured his life, it was Morgan's approval that mattered. Instinctively he knew that his mother would forgive him any sin, no matter how great. Morgan would not, and that made his good opinion the more precious. He shrank now from revealing his shame to Morgan; that the youthful priest should look upon him with contempt was a greater punishment than any pain Walter de Hodnet had inflicted. Morgan was carrying a platter. Setting it down, he tossed a cushion on the floor by Llewelyn's pallet, and spreading the skirt of his cassock as if it were a woman's gown, he settled himself beside the boy. "The Lady Emma has sent up some broth, and your lady mother thought you might like a slice of seedcake." Llewelyn smiled wanly at that; his mother's invariable remedy for any childhood hurt was to offer sweets. Morgan leaned forward, spooned some broth into Llewelyn's mouth, and then turned the boy's a" to the side, his eyes moving slowly over the bruises, contusions, and swellings. You re likely to have a scar over that eye," he observed dispassiony and, not waiting for a response, fed Llewelyn another spoonful soup. Putting the bowl aside, he turned toward the tray, handed Uewelyn a fresh compress.

  14 "Are you ready now to tell me about it?" Llewelyn flushed, shot Morgan a look of mute entreaty. But Mo gan's grey eyes were unwavering, expectant. Llewelyn could not lie, not to Morgan. He swallowed, began to speak. Shrewsbury. Stephen. The meadow. Walter de Hodnet, his fear and "Welshmen are thieves . . ." He held none of it back, spared himself nothing. But he could not meet Morgan's eyes, could not bear to see Morgan's dawning disgust. He looked instead at Morgan's hands linked loosely in his lap; they were beautifully shaped, fingers long and supple, a symmetry marred only by the bitten, gnawed nails, chewed down to the very quick, an incongruous quirk in one with such a disciplined nature. Llewelyn kept his gaze riveted on those hands, saw them flex, tense, and then slowly unclench. When Llewelyn had at last run out of words, one of the hands reached out, touched his hair in what seemed strangely like a caress. But Morgan's caresses were sparingly doled out and surely would not be given now, not after what he'd just confessed. And yet the hand had not been withdrawn; it was brushing the hair back from his forehead, lingering. "Morgan . . ." Bewildered, utterly at a loss. "I'm proud of you, lad." " roud?" Llewelyn choked. "I shamed you, shamed us all. Did you not understand? I did what he demanded, I dishonored my blood, groveled before him." "And would you rather he'd broken your arm, mayhap maimed you for life?" "No, but. . ." "Listen to me, Llewelyn. Courage is a commendable quality, and a true test of manhood. You showed that today, and may rightly take pride in it. But for a prince of our people, courage alone is not enough; it must be tempered with common sense. You showed that too, today, lad, showed you were able to make a realistic recognition of superior strength. There's no shame in that, Llewelyn, none whatsoever. Be thankful, rather, that in a world full of fools, Our Lord Saviour has blessed you with brains as well as boldness of spirit." "I was so ashamed . . ." Llewelyn whispered. "Not for the apology/ but for the other, for saying my countrymen are thieves and cutthroats. "And does saying it make it so?" Morgan shook his head. "Do you know what the English say of us, Llewelyn? They say a Welshman s word is worth spit in the wind. And they are right, lad. An oath given W an enemy is made to be broken; we understand that. We use what weap ons we have available to us, and when we fight, we fight on our term / not theirs.

  35 "These are lessons you must learn, Llewelyn, and learn well The ill come when you'll return to Gwynedd, lay claim to the lands °a' uncles now rule You must be ready to win back what is yours by y°" ancj above all, to deal with the English '''We are not a numerous people For every Welshman born, the H God has seen fit to beget twenty of English blood Our princes been forced to accept the English king as their liege lord But we not been subjugated as the Saxons were, we have not become a hon of serfs and bondsmen These Norman lords who rule England, d would rule Wales if they could, hate us above all others And still we live free, with our own princes, our own ways and customs " Llewelyn nodded eagerly, intent on a lesson he'd long ago learned "This is because when the English come onto our lands," Morgan continued, "our people drive their livestock up into the hills and then they hide themselves The English burn our houses, but we are not bound to the land like the English peasants, and when they withdraw, our people rebuild Nor do we despair when we fight the English and find ourselves outnumbered When we see ourselves losing, we retreatand hit them again on the morrow When they send armies into our land, we fade away into the woods, and they cannot find us "If you understand this, Llewelyn, you must understand, too, that you've no reason to reproach yourself, no reason to feel shame " It seemed nothing less than miraculous to Llewelyn that Morgan could heal the worst of his hurts with so little effort, and he gave the pnest a grateful smile Morgan smiled back and then said briskly, "Now is it your wish that I tell the Corbets about this boy7" Llewelyn hesitated Although he was feeling more and more cornfortable about the role he'd played in that frightening encounter by Yokethul Brook, he still did not relish the prospect of confiding in his Corbet km "No," he said slowly "No matter what they did to him, he'd just take it out on Stephen afterward I'd rather we let it he, Morgan " For now, he added silently Walter de Hodnet Not a name to be forgotten Morgan watched as Llewelyn touched his fingers to the puffy, discolored skin over his eye, to the swelling bruise high on his cheekbone, Almost as if he were taking inventory of his injuries And that, the priest new' was precisely what the boy was doing, making a private acknowlgrnent of a debt due Morgan sighed Vengeance is mine, saith the rcl On that, Holy Church spoke quite clearly But his people parted pany with their Church on this issue, they did not believe in forgivlng a wrong^ forgetting an injuryever Here," he said, handing Llewelyn a brimming goblet "The Lady a nuxed some bryony root in wine, to ease your pain and help you

  16 sleep. Drink it down and I'll stay with you till it does take effect. I hay something of great importance to tell you. We learned this noon of death, a death that will change the lives of us all." Llewelyn sat up. "Who, Morgan?" "Young Henry, the English King's eldest son and heir. We had word today that he died in France on the eleventh of June, of the bloody flux. He knew he was dying and pleaded with his father to come to him so they might reconcile ere he died. But Henry did not believe him fearing it was a trick. They are an accursed family, in truth, the Devil's brood." He shook his head, made the sign of the cross. "What will happen now, Morgan?" Ordinarily the priest would have insisted that Llewelyn be the one to tell him that. But it was late and the boy was bruised and sore, in no condition to be interrogated about lessons of history and statecraft. "You know, Llewelyn, that the English give all to the firstborn son. Since young Henry had no son of his own, the heir to the English throne is now his brother Richard. So this means that Richard will one day be King." "That is not good for us, is it, Morgan? If Richard is as able a soldier as men say..." "He is." Llewelyn swallowed some more wine. "I'm sorry Henry died," he said regretfully. "Since he was to be King one day, you made me learn as much as I could about him. And now all that effort goes for naught and I have to begin all over again with Richard!" That triggered one of Morgan's rare laughs. "It is even worse than you know, lad. It is very likely that one of Richard's brothers might one day be King after him, so that means you must familiarize yourself with Geoffrey and John, too." "All three? But why, Morgan? Richard will surely marry and beget a son. How, then, can Geoffrey or John ever be King?" Morgan did not respond at once, seemingly lost in thought. "Aye," he said at last. "I reckon you are old enough to know. I take it that your mother and her brothers have spoken to you of carnal matters, explaining how a woman gets with child?" "Of course! Mama and my Uncle Gruffydd told me what I needed to know ages ago." A youngster growing up around livestock could not remain sheltered for long,
and Llewelyn's were an uninhibited people who viewed sex as a natural urge and a very enjoyable pleasure; nor was theirs a society in which the stigma of illegitimacy carried much sting. Morgan was not surprised, therefore, by the boy's emphatic answer. Actually, Llewelyn knew far more about carnal matters than MOP 17 «n suspected, for he knew at^°Ut Gwy- The average parish priest gie Welsh or English or Fren, '^ "? a ^-educated man; Morgan * s an exception. Most were ^J^^ ** *»"** °f S bacy -s one that not many %?^^^?- I* was not of bacy was one that not many co', Sh°Ulder with equanimity. It was not 3 uncommon for these L^*^?to f e/° ** hearths ^Z Uve-in concubines, and while e Ulurch officially decried these liai sons, they were tacitly accepts "*' * PeoPle as inevitable and even natural. Unlike so many of his ^ °W dencs' Morgan had never taken a wife or hearthmate, and the o/^! ere few when he'd found his vow of chastity too onerous fo/" Y3 flesh" He wa« always quite dis creet, and it was purely by cha^"" , Llewelyn had found out about Gwynora. He had told no one, a^ W°Uld never have dreamed of savine a word to Morgan; it gave him S W3rm glow of Pleasure to keep a secret for this man he so loved. "I know all about carnal 1/^*1' Morgan'" he said loftily "But what has that to do with one of /