Joanna had been relying upon Isabelle to ease the awkwardness of this first encounter, and now she was utterly at a loss, could not think of a single conversational gambit. All she could do was to blurt out her greatest fear.
“My lord…there is a favor I would ask of you, if I may. I do have a pet dog. I am very fond of her, and it would grieve me greatly to have to part with her. May I take her with me into Wales? I have a travel basket for her, and she’d be no trouble, in truth she—”
“Of course you may take your dog. Or whatever else you do desire.”
“Thank you, my lord!” Joanna’s relief was such that she dared look him fully in the face for the first time. What she saw took her breath. His eyes were very dark, a midnight brown, were measuring her in troubled appraisal. In that instant before their eyes met and his face changed, she read quite clearly his dismay.
Until now, she’d never given a thought to his expectations, had never thought of him at all, except as a shadowy figure outlined against an alien landscape foreboding and bleak, a stranger mysterious and somewhat sinister. But this man was no phantom threat; he was all too real, and all too disappointed. Color rose in Joanna’s face; she quickly looked away, stared down at her clasped hands, at her betrothal ring. She need not offer apology to him for what she was…or was not. She was the King of England’s daughter, and he had wanted this marriage, had been no less eager than her father to make the match. And yet…and yet why should she feel such surprise? She had a mirror, had she not? Did she truly need to be told once again that beauty was to be found in skin lily-white, in hair like flax, in eyes like Isabelle’s? Not in slanting cat eyes, ink-black hair, and the dusky skin of a Saracen…sallow skin.
“My lord? You asked me…what?”
“If you have always lived with your father the King.”
“Since I was five,” Joanna said swiftly, grateful that he seemed willing to do what she could not, to exercise some control over the conversation.
“And your lady mother?”
Normally, Joanna was very reluctant to discuss her mother; those memories were like imperfectly healed wounds, painful if probed too deeply. But now she was quite willing to talk of Clemence, so great was her dread of silence, and she answered readily. He continued to feed her questions, about her childhood, her father, and slowly she began to relax somewhat, to follow his lead.
“…and then these enormous dogs did rush in, barking fit to wake the dead. I was so fearful, but my father picked me up, all dirty and ragged as I was, held me out of harm’s way. I did not yet know, of course, who he was, but—” Joanna stopped suddenly, in some confusion. What had ever possessed her to tell this man something so very personal? Isabelle was right; he was, indeed, a good listener, too good.
“I did not mean to talk so much of myself,” she said, suddenly self-conscious again. “Will you not tell me about yourself, my lord?”
“What would you most like to know?”
Joanna considered. She knew next to nothing about him, but there was one question in particular she yearned to ask. “I would like to know about your children, my lord. Would you tell me of them?”
“With pleasure. I have six, two boys and four girls…by two mothers,” Llewelyn added, with a faint smile, and Joanna blushed, taken aback that he should have read her thoughts so easily. Her father’s seven children had all been born to different women.
“Do they all live at your court?”
“The four eldest do. Gruffydd, my firstborn, is ten. Gwladys is eight, Marared six, and Gwenllian nigh on five.” Llewelyn paused, and then again answered an unspoken question. “Their mother is dead.”
“And the other two?”
He smiled. “Tegwared and Anghared, the twins. They lack but a fortnight of their first birthday.”
Joanna raised startled eyes to his face. It was a rather common belief that for a woman to give birth to twins, she must have lain with two men. Yet Llewelyn seemed neither embarrassed nor defensive. Was it, she wondered, that he had such faith in the woman? Or in himself?
“I was most fortunate in that my lord father married a woman who showed me naught but kindness. I shall not do less for your children, my lord,” she said earnestly.
She’d sought to please him, was bewildered to see that she had not. He looked suddenly somber, pensive. For the first time, a prolonged silence fell between them.
“Tell me, have you begun to learn Welsh, as I suggested in my last letter?”
Joanna tensed again. “No, my lord,” she admitted reluctantly, watching him anxiously for signs of anger.
“Well, there will be time enough.”
Indeed, she thought bleakly. A lifetime.
“Joanna.” It was the first time he’d called her by name. “Now that I’ve satisfied your curiosity, I would have you do the same for me. I should like to see the color of your hair. Will it distress you if I remove your veil and wimple?”
Caught completely off balance, she could only shake her head mutely. She willed herself to sit very still, not to flinch as he leaned over, unpinned her veil. His fingers were quite sure, barely touching her cheek. Joanna continued to stare down into her lap. After a time, she felt his hand under her chin, gently forcing her face up to his. As their eyes met, he smiled. “You do look very Welsh.”
“Do I?” she whispered. He was much more sympathetic than she’d expected him to be. He’d been kind to seek to put her at ease, and he was being kinder now in trying to mask his obvious disappointment. But she could think only that in less than twenty-four hours he would have the right to strip away her clothing as he had just stripped away her veil, to bare her body as he’d bared her hair.
“My lord…would you think me unforgivably rude if I did ask your leave to withdraw? I…I have so much still to do ere the wedding…”
“I understand, Joanna,” he said slowly. He rose as she did, brought her hand up to his mouth. “Until the morrow.”
Ednyved ap Cynwrig made his way across the great hall, to where Llewelyn stood by the window seat. “What, has the bride fled so soon, and ere I could get more than a glimpse of her? Well? Is she fat, thin, plain, pretty? From the look on your face, I’d wager that she was not much to your liking.”
“And you’d lose.” Llewelyn was frowning after Joanna’s retreating figure. “She has the makings of a beauty. But Jesú, how very young she is! I’d not expected that, in truth.”
“To thirty-three, fourteen is bound to seem close to the cradle.” Ednyved gave Llewelyn a shrewdly appraising look, said, no longer flippant, “Many girls are wed at fourteen, Llewelyn, are ripe for the marriage bed even at that age.”
“Not this one. She’s a child, Ednyved, a child being forced into a marriage she greatly fears.” Llewelyn glanced down, saw that Joanna had, in her haste, forgotten her veil and wimple. He picked up the veil, fingered the fragile silk weave. “Poor little lass, trying so hard to do what her elders expect of her…”
Joanna’s bridal clothes were the loveliest she’d ever had. Everything was new, even the garters for her stockings. Her chemise was of soft white linen, the gown of finest Florentine silk, as was the embroidered bliaut. Joanna knew they were becoming. Isabelle had insisted upon choosing the colors herself, and Isabelle had an unerring eye, selecting a deep emerald for the gown, a much paler shade of green for the tightly laced bliaut, delicately threaded through with gold. Since Joanna would wear her hair loose and flowing down her back, to proclaim she came to her marriage bed a virgin, there was no wimple, but merely a thin, circular veil, as light as air, to be held in place by a gold circlet.
Joanna smoothed the skirt of her gown, remembering another outfit of green and gold, laid out at the foot of John’s bed that first morning she’d awakened in Rouen. She stood for a moment, staring into the mirror Blanche was holding up for her inspection, and then turned toward Isabelle and Ela. “I am ready.”
Custom decreed that a bride’s father or guardian be the one to lead her mount to the c
hurch. Since both John and Joanna’s Uncle Will were in Winchester, the Earl of Chester had offered to act in John’s stead, and it was he who lifted Joanna up into the saddle. The mare, a glossy, small-boned chestnut, was Llewelyn’s bride-gift to Joanna. She’d never had a horse of her own before, and such a gift would normally have transported her into a state of high excitement. Now, however, she felt nothing. The prancing mare, the crowds lining Bridge Street, the sunlight so bright upon the banners above her head, all lacked reality for her. There was a strange, dreamlike quality to the day, as if she were watching from afar as a girl very like her rode to her wedding with a Welsh Prince.
The precincts of the abbey of St Werburgh were already filled to overflowing with the people of Chester, eager for the spectacle of a royal wedding. Llewelyn was awaiting Joanna by the south door of the church, for it was there that their wedding vows would be exchanged; weddings were traditionally performed out in the open before as many witnesses as possible. He came forward to meet her, smiling. Time took an abrupt lurch forward, and with bewildering suddenness she found herself standing before Geoffrey de Muschamp, Bishop of Chester, holding hands with a stranger.
Almost before she knew it, Llewelyn was pledging her his troth. She drew a deep breath, said in a clear, carrying voice, “I, Joanna, do take thee, Llewelyn, in holy Church, as my wedded husband, forsaking all others, in sickness and health, in riches and poverty, in well and in woe, till death us do part, and thereto I plight thee my troth.”
The Bishop having blessed the ring, Llewelyn took Joanna’s left hand, slipped the ring in turn upon each of her fingers, saying, “In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Ghost…” Sliding it then upon her third finger, he gave her hand a gentle squeeze. “With this ring, I thee wed.”
The crowd was cheering, surged forward as Llewelyn and Joanna dipped into the alms dish, scattered coins in their midst. Joanna was then embraced in turn by Isabelle, Ela, and the Countess of Chester. But it was Llewelyn now, not Chester, who led her into the church, for with her marriage she had passed from her father’s control to that of her husband.
As little as she remembered of the wedding ceremony, Joanna remembered even less of the Mass of Trinity that followed. It was cool and dark within, pleasantly scented with incense. At one point she heard the Bishop intone, “Let this woman be amiable as Rachel, wise as Rebecca, faithful as Sarah,” and she realized, with bemusement, that he was speaking of her. She was shamefully ignorant of the Scriptures, could not for the life of her remember what Rachel, Rebecca, and Sarah had done. She could think only of Ruth—Ruth, who’d gone forth into an alien land, who’d said, “Whither thou goest, I will go, thy people shall be my people, and thy God my God.”
Llewelyn was approaching the altar now, to receive from the Bishop the kiss of peace. And then he was back at her side, lifting her veil. She raised her face obediently for him to transmit the kiss to her, felt his lips upon hers, a light, warm touch, almost impersonal.
Chester had always suffered a reputation as one of the most violence-prone cities of the realm; Cheshiremen were notorious for their thin skins, their ready swords. The Welsh were no less renowned for the touchiness of their tempers, for the ease with which they took affront. It was a volatile mixture, and Llewelyn and the Earl of Chester had done what they could to minimize the dangers. It was for this reason that Ascension Day had been chosen for the wedding; men who’d care little about breaking the King’s Peace might think twice before breaking God’s Peace, as well. For the same reason, the wedding feast was served immediately upon their return from the church, in hopes that men well wined and dined would be lulled into goodwill, be less likely to yield to age-old antagonisms.
Joanna had never before eaten from the dais, except on that long-ago day in Rouen, sitting on John’s lap. Now she sat between Llewelyn and the Earl of Chester, did her best to feign interest in the food being offered her, venison and roast partridge, fresh herring, each course crowned with an elaborate sugared subtlety. She was grateful that the conversational demands being made upon her were minimal. Llewelyn was being monopolized by Isabelle, seated at his left, and Chester, a dour, taciturn man, already balding although only in his thirties, was not much given to small talk. Joanna knew he’d only recently been restored to her father’s favor; John had suspected him of conspiring with the Welsh Prince, Gwenwynwyn of Powys. If it was true, he could not be deriving much pleasure from playing host to Llewelyn, Gwenwynwyn’s chief rival. But mayhap it was not true; Papa’s suspicions were not always grounded in fact. Pray God his campaign would go well. Joanna laid down a tart, untasted. How would she even know? Whilst he was fighting a war in Normandy, she would be deep in Wales, utterly isolated from those she most loved.
Across the great hall, voices rose suddenly. Joanna saw both Llewelyn and Chester stiffen. Sharing a trencher and wine cup with Llewelyn, she was not long in becoming aware that her husband was not drinking. Joanna was puzzled; such abstinence was highly unusual at a wedding feast, where male guests seemed to feel a social obligation to drink themselves into oblivion. Her unease grew as she realized that Chester, too, was cold sober.
The voices were growing louder. A bench was tipped over; a woman screamed. Joanna gasped as a man pushed away from the table, fumbled for the hilt of his sword. Llewelyn was already on his feet, shouting in Welsh. The man turned, reluctantly let his sword slide back down its scabbard. By then, Llewelyn had reached them, with Chester right on his heels. A brief angry exchange followed, with Llewelyn tongue-lashing the Welshman and Chester berating the Norman. The offenders lapsed into a sullen silence, but tension gripped the hall, spread by murmurs of discontent, voiced in two tongues. Joanna bit her lip, watched as Llewelyn took Chester aside, spoke in an urgent undertone. Chester nodded, stepped back, and sent a servant hastening from the hall.
Joanna gave Llewelyn a questioning look as he resumed his seat, but he said only, “I thought it time for a diversion.”
Joanna was not long in finding out what he had in mind. Servants were entering the hall, carrying several huge baked pies. As all watched, they cut carefully into the crusts, freeing more than a dozen small birds. The birds soared upward, circling and swooping over the tables as the men and women below laughed and cheered, eagerly awaiting the finale, the release of three sleek sparrow hawks. What resulted was utter chaos, with dogs barking in berserk frenzy, and men clambering up on benches to better view the kills, laying tipsy wagers upon the outcome, animosities forgotten in the excitement of the hunt.
“That was indeed clever, my lord,” Joanna said approvingly, and Llewelyn laughed.
“It was my man’s fault. There is a hamlet across the Dee called Hanbridge, but it’s been taken so often by the Welsh that we call it Treboeth, ‘the burned town.’ It is one thing to do so amongst ourselves, quite another to do so midst a hall full of Normans…as Rosser should have known.”
“I see.” Joanna watched as a feather wafted slowly downward, came to rest in a tureen of sorrel soup. If the Welsh had such a hatred for Normans, how would they ever accept her as Llewelyn’s wife?
Once the trestle tables were cleared away, there was dancing, but after there’d been two spills, caused by overexuberant dancers whose coordination was rather the worse for wine, Chester signaled for less risky entertainment: jugglers, a man with trained marmosets, several minstrels eager to sing for their supper. The song requests were becoming increasingly bawdy, and Joanna was once more growing tense. It was not that she found the suggestive lyrics objectionable in themselves, but that they reminded her of what still lay ahead, the bedding-down revelries and the consummation of her marriage.
Turning away from a group clustered around the wittiest of the minstrels, she collided with Maude de Braose, spilling some of her drink upon the sleeve of Maude’s gown.
“I am sorry, Madame. I did not see you.” It was a listless apology, indifferently offered, but the best she could do under the circumstances.
“Obviou
sly.” Maude’s voice was tart, her eyes unfriendly. “You’ve been wandering about the hall like a ghost. Can you not at least make a pretense that this marriage be to your liking?”
The unfairness of that took Joanna’s breath away; she’d been trying so hard to hide her true feelings. “I assure you this marriage is very much to my liking, Madame.” Even had she believed Llewelyn ab Iorwerth to be the veritable Antichrist, nothing on earth could have induced her to admit that to Maude. But she was never to know what imp then took possession of her tongue, was even more startled than Maude to hear herself add, “Your advice I can well do without, Madame. I do, however, need a fresh cup of wine.”
Maude’s eyebrows shot upward. “You want me to fetch it for you?” she demanded, openly incredulous.
“Yes.” But Joanna had never in her life given an order to a man or woman of rank, and there’d been a brief hesitation, a hesitation that did not escape Maude.
“I think not,” she said coolly, and turned away.
“Lady de Braose!” Joanna’s voice had carried; others were looking her way. Still not sure how she’d gotten herself into such a predicament, she stared helplessly at the older woman, knowing neither how to enforce her command nor how to extricate herself without loss of face. Maude was looking at her mockingly, and she crimsoned, going hot with humiliation and impotent anger. She opened her mouth, having no idea what she was going to say, and then saw Maude’s face change, saw her smile splinter into frozen fragments. Joanna spun around, to find Llewelyn standing just behind her.
“What are you drinking, Joanna? Hippocras?”
She nodded, watched wide-eyed as he held the wine cup out to Maude. “Lady Maude, if you will,” he said, smiling. Maude was of a sudden as deeply flushed as Joanna, but she managed a stiff smile of her own.
“As it pleases Your Grace, it would be my pleasure.”
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