Here Be Dragons - 1

by Sharon Kay Penman

  663 "I meant well, truly I did," Nell said, and sighed. "Henry says I'm too forthright for my own good. I suspect that's a polite way of saying I talk too much. But Elen, do you not think it strange that your father has n0t yet divorced Joanna?" "Yes," Elen admitted, and she, too, sighed. "Yes ... I do." ELEN had persuaded her husband to come back to Wales for Llewelyn's Christmas court at Aber. She understood the political considerations behind Llewelyn's choice; he could not let his subjects think him reluctant to return to his chief residence. But it was a political decision undertaken at great personal cost; never had Elen seen her father look so haggard, so bone-weary, so suddenly aged. Aber's atmosphere was proving oppressive to them all. An aura of gloom overhung the court, and the Christmas revelries were muted, lacking spontaneity or any genuine sense of joy. Elen was standing with her husband John, and with Gwladys and Ralph de Mortimer, for Gwladys, too, had felt the need to be with her father on this particular Christmas Eve. As Elen watched, Isabella bade Davydd good night and made an unheralded, unnoticed departure from the hall. "That poor little lass," she said sadly, unconsciously echoing Joanna's prophetic judgment. As difficult as it was for Papa and Davydd to be back at Aber, might it not be hardest of all upon Will's daughter? "That child flits about like a wraith, does not even seem to cast a shadow. John, what say you we have her with us for a time?" "Another bird with a broken wing, Elen?" John's smile was indulgent. "Mayhap in the spring," he temporized. But then Isabella was forgotten. A few feet away a woman in blue velvet was holding forth to a small but attentive audience; John recognized her as the Lady Gwenllian, wife to Ednyved. She had a loud, carrying voice, a distinctive laugh, and her words came clearly now to John's ear, words of venomous contempt, words that brought a rush of hot color into his wife's fece, and he said hastily, "Let it lie, Elen. You do not want to cause a scene." "No? Just watch me." Elen evaded his restraining hand, pushed her way through those encircling Gwenllian. An embarrassed silence fell at Slght of her; few had realized she was within hearing range. Even Gwenllian was slightly discomfited, but too proud to show it. She smiled archly, said, "Lady Elen?" and Elen very deliberately tilted her ^ne cup, poured the contents onto Gwenllian's velvet gown. Gwenllian screamed loudly enough to turn heads, stared at her ^ine-stained skirt as if she could not believe the evidence of her own

  664 eyes. Shock gave way almost at once to outrage, and she cried, "You'Ve ruined my gown, you spoiled, willful" Gwenllian choked off further utterance so abruptly that Elen knew there could be but one reason why, and she turned, found Llewelyn was close enough to touch. She felt no surprise that he should have materialized with a suddenness that a sorcerer might envy; she was all to0 familiar with his uncanny sense of timing. He took in the situation at a glance, said without emotion, "How careless of you, Elen." Gwenllian opened her mouth, closed it again. She saw her husband standing at the edge of the crowd, but he did not contradict Llewelyn; his face was impassive, and Gwenllian yearned to rake her nails across that dark, weathered skin, to damn Elen as she deserved, to spit and scratch and call down the wrath of the Almighty upon the lot of them. She did nothing, though, for greater than her fury was her fear of public humiliation. She bit down until her jaw muscles ached, until she could trust herself to say, "No matter. Who amongst us has never spilled a little wine?" She even managed a grimacing smile of sorts, but dared not let her eyes meet Elen's. Or Ednyved's. She'd saved face. But she would not forget, would not forgive. "Elen." Llewelyn's voice was very low. As people drifted away, began to disperse, his hand closed on Elen's wrist. "I would talk with you," he said, and Elen could gauge the full extent of his anger by the unremitting pressure of those hard, bruising fingers. She followed him to a far corner of the hall, with Ednyved but a step behind. "Well?" Llewelyn said coldly. "You do owe me an explanation." "I think I'm entitled to one, too," Ednyved interjected, no less coldly. "I could not help it, Papa. She . . . she called Mama a slut." Llewelyn's mouth thinned, twisted down. He glanced toward Ednyved. The other man nodded, said, "I'll see to it." Llewelyn looked at his daughter, and then he did something he'd not done since she was a child; he tilted her face up to his, and kissed her upon the forehead, with enough tenderness to bring tears to her eyes. But when she started to speak, he shook his head, then turned and walked away. Across the hall, Elen caught her husband's eye. John slowly shook his head. He was too well-bred to berate her before witnesses, but she knew she'd earned herself a long lecture on decorum and proprietyGwladys and Davydd were making their way toward her; they, to°' looked judgmental. "When," Davydd said, "will you learn not to act upon your emotions?"

  665 as sas "Never, I hope," Elen said, and saw that her brother was not jjsapproving as he'd have her think. ^»t as "Elen, do not mistake what I am about to say." Gwladys paus^ S jntent upon choosing just the right words, for Joanna was a sensit^^d, H subject between them. "I am not defending Gwenllian, not at all. J ^tive there's more to her bad manners than sheer make. Gwenllian and J &ut ^ nyved's youngest son made up a bawdy, satiric song about Joanna a^ Ed- u yVill de Braose, and then he was foolhardy enough to boast of theT^^d u thorship. As you'd expect, Papa was enraged; so, too, was Ednyv* «uGvvenllian thought it prudent to pack her son off'o Ireland fora stay Ve^j give Papa's anger time to cool. But the incident put some noticea?'- to cracks in her marriage, and she finds it easier to blame Joanna than ^ble blame her son." t0 ~ Ednyved had nine sons in all. Most of them were comparari, strangers to Elen, and when she asked Gwladys for the rash poev^ve name, it meant nothing to her. But it would from now on. Gruffudd^t's Ednyved. She would remember him. She would make a point of it. afc Gwladys soon wandered away. Elen and Dayydd stood alone fo^ time, watching the dancers circle back and forth Elen loved to daru * ^ but she could find in herself now not the slightest desire to join r^e, carole. "I would have expected Papa to be wrotli with Gwenllian; K.W pride would demand as much. But I saw more tlian anger in his facx^is Davydd, he still loves her." ^e. "I know," Davydd said. "And how much easier it would be for hi > if he did not. I would that there were some stranje alchemy to chanx*11 love into hate, to blot out memories, to banish yesterdays ..." ^e "Are you speaking for Papa? Or for yourself?' "For Papa, Elen." Davydd sounded annoyed, and a silence fell b tween them. But then he said very softly, "I could never hate Mama ^~ "Papa looks so tired. I worry about him so much, Davydd ^" Elen's eyes searched the hall, seeking her father. "Who is that woma^'' with him? The one in green." ^h "You mean . . . Hunydd?" "If that be her name. Who is she, Davydd? IVe never seen her b^, fore." She looked at Davydd expectantly, was surprised to see colcx^ mount in his face. ^f "It has been over eight months, Elen." But eren then she did ncx understand, not until he added defensively, "Wha did you expect Papy * to do, take holy vows?" ^ Elen's eyes narrowed, focusing upon Hunydc with sudden, proH ^8 intensity, subjecting the older woman to an exacting scrutiny, on x that was far from friendly. Hunydd's were quiet attractionsa smile c

  666 singular sweetness, a tranquil composure. There was nothing gaudy Or obvious about her appearance, nothing garish in her dress. She vas listening attentively to Llewelyn, but she was not clinging to him, was not giving herself proprietary airs. That mattered little to Elen; she still found herself seething with resentment, with a child's sense of betrayal and loss. Davydd was watching her. "The marriage is dead, Elen," he said quietly. "I know." Elen tore her gaze from Hunydd. "But tell me the truth, Davydd. Tell me it does not bother you to see that woman in Mama's place." Davydd beckoned to a passing servant, claimed a cup of mead. He drank, glanced at his sister, and drank again. "It bothers me," he said, and passed the cup to Elen. They looked at one another. All around them swirled the sounds of music, of harp and crwth. The hall was bedecked with evergreen boughs and Christmas holly, lit by blazing torches, flickering rushlights, gilded candelabras. But to Elen it seemed as festive as a wake. "Davydd ... is it always like this?" "No," he said, giving her a bleak smile. "Sometimes it is not nearly so cheerful." AT low tide, the white sands known to the Welsh as Traeth Laf
an lay exposed and men could venture out upon them with little risk. Davydd stood at the water's edge, watching as his sister was ferried across the strait, and as the boat touched bottom, he strode forward, held out his hand to help her alight upon the sand. "Dismiss your men," he said, "and I'll escort you back to Ab^r-" Elen linked her arm in his, and they began to walk up the beach. "Tell me," he said, after a few moments, "how is Mama?" "The truth? Wretchedly unhappy." "Did you give her my letter?" "You know I did." Elen stopped, put her hand imploringly upon his arm. "Summon the boatmen back, Davydd. Go and see her. It would mean so much to her if you" "No," he said hastily. "No ... I cannot." She stepped back, stared at him. "How can you be so sel^ righteous, so unwilling to forgive? Jesii, Davydd, Mama would have forgiven you any sin under God's sky!" j "I know," he admitted. "Do you not think I want to see her? DU cannot, Elen. I cannot do that to Papa."

  667 "But Davydd, Papa knows I go to Llanfaes. I've made no secret of it; nor has he ever attempted to dissuade me." "You're not his son." "Davydd, he would not" "You just do not understand. You do not see Papa every day, as I do. All his life, Papa has been the most decisive of men. Yet now he does nothing. Men expected him to divorce Mama months ago. But he has not. He cannot bring himself to do it... not yet. The wound is still too raw. It's not healing as it ought, Elen, and till it does, I'll do nothing that might add to his pain." "Ah, Davydd . . ." But she did not know what to say, and they walked the rest of the way in silence. "AM I intruding, Papa?" Llewelyn shoved his chair back, smiled at his daughter. "An opportune intrusion, lass. As you can see/' he said, gesturing toward the chessboard, "Ednyved has maneuvered me into a right perilous position." Elen closed the door, came forward into the bedchamber. As she did, she could not help envisioning the desperate drama that had been played out in this chamber at Eastertide, and she thought, How can Papa bear to sleep here? "Papa, we do need to talk . . . about Mama." Llewelyn's smile froze, and when Ednyved started to rise, he said, "There is no need to go. Elen, I've told you this before. There is nothing to say." "But there is, Papa, and I beg you to hear me out. Not only for your sake, for Davydd's." Llewelyn pushed his chair back still farther, got to his feet. "Davydd?" "Papa, he is being torn in two. He thinks he cannot be loyal to you unless he disavows Mama." Llewelyn frowned. "I never wanted that, would never have asked it of him." "I know, Papa. But until you act, Davydd is not free to act, either. He cannot reconcile with Mama, will not even go to Llanfaes. Papa, do you not see? To go on like this, month after month, with nothing resolved ... it only causes greater pain. It is not fair to you, to Davydd, to me ... or to Mama." "Fair to Joanna?" Llewelyn's voice had taken on a cutting edge, and "en's resolve began to waver; she'd never found it easy to gainsay her father. "Please, Papa, hear me out. I'm not defending what Mama has

  668 T 669 done, but I do not think she's forfeited all claims to fairness. She was your wife for nigh on twenty-four years. All the love and loyalty she gave you cannot be blotted out as if it had never been, not for one wretched mistake." "Mistake?" he echoed incredulously. "That is rather a quaint way to describe adultery, Elen." Elen was too deeply committed now to recant. "A mistake, Papa She let herself be seduced at a vulnerable time in her life, at a time when you and she were estranged. She erred. But she repented of it, she" "Indeed?" he said scathingly. "Was that what she was doing with Will de Braose in my bedpenance?" "Nothing happened that night, Papanothing. They were together, yes. But it was Will's doing, not Mama's. She did not lay with him." Llewelyn's face was very still, suddenly unreadable. Elen took a step closer, and then he said, "Do you expect me to believe that?" "I believe it, Papa." They'd all but forgotten Ednyved. He spoke up unexpectedly, laconically. "For what it's worth, Llewelyn, so do I." Llewelyn glanced toward Ednyved, and then away. Could there be any truth to Elen's claim? Could it be that Joanna had not brought de Braose into this chamber, into her marriage bed? But why did he care? Why did he want so to believe it? He swung back toward his daughter, said roughly, "That changes nothing. She has never denied laying with de Braose. Does it matter when ... or where? She was unfaithful. She betrayed me. Do you think I could forget that? Or forgive?" "No," Elen admitted. "No, I do not. Nor does Mama. Even though she always forgave you." "Just what do you mean by that?" Elen had never meant to go so far. But she could no longer control her tongue, heard herself say, "I mean, Papa, that you were not always faithful to Mama. She knew that, too ... and yet loved you no less." Llewelyn's anger was tempered by disbelief. "What are you saying, Elen? Are you truly likening my occasional lapses to Joanna's adultery with de Braose?" Elen smiled wanly, sadly. "Those were Mama's very words'occasional lapses.' She agrees with you, Papa, sees her sin as unforgivable. But I ... I find myself wondering why marriage vows are only i°r women. Why is it so one-sided, Papa? Why is it so damnably unfair. "Because," Llewelyn said bluntly, "if it were not, how would a man ever know if a child was his?" He saw at once, though, that his daughter had given his words a meaning he'd never intended. Elen paled, then held out her hand in instinctive entreaty. "You do not doubt that, do you, Papa? You do believe that Davydd arld I are yours?" Llewelyn drew a sharp breath. "Ah, Elen . . ." He swiftly closed the space between them, took her in his arms. "I know you are, lass. I've never doubted that, not even for a moment." "Papa, I want only for you to be happy again. I think I understand yvhy you've not yet divorced Mama. It's . . . it's like repudiating your past, like an amputation of the soul. But sometimes amputation is the only way. You've seen enough battlefield injuries to know that." Elen had rehearsed her plea often enough so that it came readily to her lips now, but she could not altogether stifle a sense of guilt at what she was doing, urging her father to forsake Joanna. Yet what else could she do? If Papa could not forgive Mama, he had somehow to forget her. But however much she told herself that, she still felt that hers was at once an act of healing and betrayal. Raising up, she kissed Llewelyn on the cheek, then all but ran from the chamber.

  Ednyved rose without apparent haste. "Let's leave the rest of the game till the morrow." He had almost reached the door when Llewelyn said, "What would you or Rhys ..." He regretted the impulse in mid-sentence, let the words trail off into oblivion. Ednyved stopped, gave him a pensive, searching look. "I've thought on that," he conceded. "I daresay there's not a man at your court who has not. I suspect Rhys would have slain them both, Catrin and her lover. I'd have hanged the man, divorced Gwenllian." He paused. "But then Rhys loved Catrin too much, and I love Gwenllian too little." Llewelyn said nothing. Ednyved reached for the door latch, glanced back over his shoulder. "I'd not presume to advise you, Llewelyn. But whatever you decide, my friend, do it soon. One way or another, lay your ghosts to rest." Llewelyn stood motionless in the center of the room, staring at the bed, the bed in which Joanna had lain with Will de Braose. Or had she? He swore under his breath. The silence was illusory; so, too, was ^s solitude. He swore again. "Lay my ghosts to rest. Christ, if only I could ..."

  i6 LLANFAES, NORTH WALES January 1251 I OANNA drew the shutter back, gazed up at a sky opaque and dark. Clouds had begun to drift over the island shortly after dusk. It was unseasonably mild for late January, and the air was damp and drizzly. She caught muffled echoes of thunder, a sound as ominous as it was uncommon; winter thunderstorms were ill-starred occurrences, often portents of coming grief, untimely death. Joanna crossed herself, pulled the shutters into place, closing out the sounds of night and sea, but not those forebodings born of superstition . . . and solitude Loneliness was an unrelenting foe, one that Joanna had come to know well in the past nine months and thirteen days. It could never be conclusively defeated; at best, she could hope for a stalemate, but in the last week it had gained hard-fought ground, for Glynis had departed for a fortnight's visit with her family. If loneliness was the enemy, time was its ally. Never had the hours in a day seemed so interminable to Joanna. For more than twenty years, hers had been a life of constant activity and unremitting responsibilitiesIn learning Welsh, she'd taken up the obligations of a woman of ran
k, and from dawn till dusk she'd been occupied in the management of her husband's vast household, acting as consort, wife, mother. Hers vver supervisory skills; she was not expected to turn her own hand to d°m tic chores. But it was for her to see that those chores were perform >