Here Be Dragons

by Sharon Kay Penman

“No, Lady Maude. As it pleases my wife.”

  Joanna wanted nothing so much as to sit down in a quiet corner; she felt as if her knees had turned to butter. She drew several uneven breaths, nerving herself to look up into Llewelyn’s face. No matter how harshly he might treat her in time to come, she’d ever be grateful for what he’d just done, would never forget it. But what must he think of her, that she would make such a fool of herself? If he was furious, she could scarce blame him, and she said, very low, “Thank you, my lord. I’m so sorry, in truth I am. I did not mean to make a scene. I just wanted to…”

  “To settle an old score?” he suggested softly, and as she raised her eyes to his, she saw in them only amused understanding.

  If the Normans were indifferent and the Welsh aloof, there were wedding guests present who were absolutely elated by the marriage, the Marcher border lords with Welsh holdings. One by one they sought Joanna out, to wish her well, to express the hope that she’d soon bear Llewelyn a son, to praise her father’s wisdom and foresight in making of Llewelyn an ally. She was surrounded now by a group of these men, one of whom was, to her delight, none other than Aubrey de Mara. He had fallen into Prince Llewelyn’s hands when Llewelyn took Castle Mold some years back, he explained, and whilst waiting for his ransom to be paid, a mutual regard had developed. He did indeed think of the Prince as a friend, would never have missed his wedding to a girl he remembered with such fondness.

  Joanna had no interest, however, in reminiscing of Mirebeau. Her concern was more immediate, was in learning all she could of the man to whom she was now wed. She was most interested, therefore, in what Llewelyn’s Corbet kin had to say, listened attentively as Hugh Corbet obligingly related anecdotes of Llewelyn’s Shropshire boyhood. Hugh gave her more comfort than even he knew; the mere fact that he’d remained on such friendly terms with Llewelyn, although his wife, Llewelyn’s mother, was five years dead, was to Joanna reason for reassurance.

  But she did not like Hugh’s nephew, Thomas Corbet, not at all; she’d been greatly offended by several snide remarks he’d made, revealing a deep-seated dislike for Llewelyn. To make such remarks in her hearing was in the worst of taste, was to imply that she was ignorant of the most basic loyalties a wife owed her husband, and she soon made an excuse to escape the Corbet company.

  A man lurched toward her, so unsteady on his feet that he could not stop in time, shoved Joanna back against the wall. She’d been introduced to him earlier in the evening, remembered him only because he was surely one of the last men she’d have expected to find at her wedding, Fulk Fitz Warin, the Shropshire baron who’d led an abortive rebellion against her father. He’d eventually capitulated, sued for John’s pardon and, to the surprise of many, had gotten it. That seemed to be what was on his mind; he launched into a rather incoherent speech of gratitude, although she could not be sure whether he was praising her father for pardoning him or Llewelyn for giving him refuge.

  Joanna was more amused than affronted; the man was so obviously besotted. She was glad, nonetheless, when several of his companions, slightly more sober, came to her rescue. They, too, had earlier introduced themselves as friends of her husband, Stephen and Baldwin de Hodnet; with extravagantly elaborate apologies, they sought now to distract Fitz Warin. But he, with the peculiar obstinacy of the inebriated, was determined to continue his disjointed conversation with Joanna, assuring her solemnly that he wished only the best for her, that Prince Llewelyn was indeed a lucky man, and then, to Joanna’s horror, that it was surely time to escort her and her lord husband to the bridal chamber.

  Joanna stared at him in dismay. His voice was overly loud, carried. At any moment others might hear, pick up the chant, and she was not ready yet, needed more time. Her fear of the marriage bed was not a fear of Llewelyn himself, for he had given her no reason to think he’d be brutal or abusive. Her fear was rather of the unknown. She could not imagine what it would be like, other than that there would be pain, and she shrank from the thought of being used so intimately by a man who was, in all respects, a stranger to her.

  But if her aversion to the bedding itself was rooted in ignorance, her fear of the bedding revels was grounded in experience. She’d been to countless weddings, knew all too well what to expect. The women would take her up to the bridal chamber, where she would be undressed and made ready for her husband. The men would then follow with Llewelyn, would see that he was stripped and put into bed with her. Even under ideal circumstances, the bedding ceremony was an open invitation to unseemly and bawdy behavior, to raunchy, crude humor; at worst, it could degenerate into a drunken brawl. Joanna dreaded the bedding revels even more than she did the actual consummation of her marriage, and she pleaded now with Fitz Warin, “Do hush, please! Not so loud!”

  He merely blinked at her in bleary incomprehension, but at that moment, much to Joanna’s relief, Llewelyn sauntered over and not only managed to quiet Fitz Warin, but was able to send the man reeling off in search of the Earl of Chester.

  “Thank you,” Joanna said, as soon as the de Hodnets went weaving off after Fitz Warin, vowing to keep him out of trouble. Thanking Llewelyn was, she thought, getting to be a habit. But he did have a most convenient sense of timing, in truth.

  It occurred to her suddenly to wonder if he could possibly be keeping an eye on her, but she had no time to ponder the unlikelihood of that, forgot all else when he said, “I could not help hearing. I gather you’d as soon shun the bedding revels?”

  Joanna gave him a startled look, quickly averted her eyes. She was not accustomed to having her face read as easily as this, did not like it in the least. But she was too dispirited to lie. “Yes, I would,” she admitted, offering no further explanation. She was so tired of struggling to camouflage her reluctance, to play her part. Let him think what he would.

  Llewelyn was pleased, for she’d touched in him a protective chord from their first moments together in the window seat. He welcomed this opportunity, wanting to ease her qualms if he could, to see the fear fade from her eyes. Nor would he deny that the challenge of seeking to outwit an entire hall full of people had in itself an almost irresistible appeal.

  “In a few moments, Joanna, I want you to make your way toward the south end of the hall…without attracting attention. Once you reach the door, just wait there for me. Can you do that?”

  “Yes, but…but why?”

  “Did you not say you had no taste for the bedding revels?”

  “I do not understand,” Joanna said slowly. “We could never hope to escape the hall unseen. Nor could you forbid the revelries. Too many men are drunk, beyond reason.”

  “I can see your father never told you much of his campaigns, did he? You’re woefully ignorant of battle tactics,” Llewelyn said and grinned. “No more questions. You must take me on trust, love, or not at all!”

  The unexpected endearment so flustered Joanna that she abandoned further argument, did as he bade. By the time she’d taken up her position near the door, she’d managed to guess what he had in mind; a quick glance back over her shoulder caught him in whispered collusion with two of his men. But even though she was expecting what happened next, the realism of the brawl took her by surprise. A shove, a snarl, and suddenly they were rolling about on the floor, pummeling one another with enough verve to draw all eyes. Joanna, too, found herself straining to see, did not even notice Llewelyn’s approach until he grabbed her hand, pulled her through the doorway.

  “Make haste,” he warned, “ere we be missed,” hurrying her across the solar, toward the corner stairwell. They were only halfway up when they heard the sudden noise rising from the hall. Llewelyn swore, quickened his pace, all but dragging a breathless Joanna after him. By the time they reached the top of the stairs, they could hear a hue and cry below, but by then Llewelyn had the door open, shoved Joanna inside. He was laughing so hard that he could hardly get the bolt into place, managed it only moments before the first of their pursuers lurched against the door.

  Joanna sank dow
n, panting, upon a coffer. “My lord, that was wonderful!” she exclaimed, looking at Llewelyn with shining eyes.

  Still laughing, Llewelyn moved to the table, reached for a wine flagon. “Do you not think it time you began to make use of my given name?” he asked, and with that, Joanna’s excitement congealed into ice.

  “Do you want wine?”

  Joanna shook her head, at once regretted her refusal. Mayhap wine would have warmed, have thawed this frozen feeling that seemed centered in the pit of her stomach. Unable to meet Llewelyn’s eyes, she glanced nervously about the chamber. Isabelle and the other ladies had done their work well. There were fresh rushes for the floor, a plenitude of candles, wine, and wafers, a well-stoked fire, for May nights could be chill in Cheshire. The enormous bed was one of Chester’s best, curtained and piled high with coverlets; there were even flower petals strewn over the turned-back sheets.

  “Oh, no!” Joanna was on her feet, staring at the bed. “My lo—Llewelyn, the blessing! I did not think of it before, but in shunning the revels, we’ll forfeit, as well, the priest’s blessing of our marriage bed!”

  “Well, that can be remedied easily enough. We need only open the door.”

  Joanna’s hesitation was brief. From the noise in the stairwell, it sounded as if half of the wedding party were congregating outside the door. No longer pounding for admittance, they’d begun to serenade the bridal couple with ribald good humor, interspersing the song with rather explicit encouragements and instructions.

  “No, let’s make do without the blessing,” she said hastily, and Llewelyn bit back a smile. Setting the wine cup down, he said, “Joanna, come here.”

  She did, slanting one swift look up at him through her lashes, a look of involuntary entreaty.

  “Your veil is askew.” Tossing it onto the table, he let his hand linger upon her hair. Her lashes now shadowed her cheeks. She scarcely seemed to be breathing, so still was she, but her body was rigid under his touch; sliding his fingers along her throat, he could feel the wild throbbing of her pulse.

  When had he first realized he could not take this little girl to bed? When she’d fled the window seat, leaving behind a rose-colored veil? Or was it when she’d begged him to let her keep her dog, sounding for all the world like one of his own daughters? He leaned down, brushed his lips against her forehead. He could find in himself no desire to bed a child. Mayhap if she were naked under him in bed…but why should he force himself to a coupling that would give him little pleasure and her none at all? It had been only two days, after all, since he’d lain with Cristyn. He felt no particular need for a woman tonight, would as soon sleep; in truth, it had been no small strain, seeking to keep his men and Chester’s from each other’s throats. But how best to explain it to the lass, to keep her from seeing his restraint as rejection?

  “I would not have you fear me, Joanna. I would not ever hurt you, God’s truth, I would not.”

  “I shall do my best to be a good wife,” Joanna said, almost inaudibly, sounding so young that Llewelyn felt a sharp pang of pity.

  “Joanna, listen. You need not deny your fears, not to me. It is only natural that you should have such qualms. I think, though, that I can ease your mind. We have time enough and more, need not consummate our marriage this first night. There is no reason why we cannot wait until I am not such a stranger to you.”

  Joanna stared at him, openmouthed. She did not know what to say, almost thanked him, realizing just in time how insulting that would sound. He’d turned away, moving to extinguish the candles. She watched until he began to undress, then she retreated to the other side of the bed, fumbling with the lacings of her bliaut. Unlike Llewelyn, who stripped with casual haste, letting his clothes drop where they lay, she took her time, carefully folding each garment in turn, not approaching the bed until he was already settled under the coverlets. Sliding in on her side of the bed, she tensed as Llewelyn leaned toward her, but he merely kissed her lightly on the cheek, murmured, “Sleep well, Siwan.”

  Only then did Joanna relax, stretch out on the sheets. She lay very still for a time, listening to Llewelyn’s even breathing beside her in the dark, utterly bewildered by the perversity of her own emotions. She should be so thankful, so grateful for this reprieve…and she was. So why, then, was there this strange sense of…almost of letdown? Why was there such a flat, empty feeling? It was not at all uncommon for a man to wed a very young girl, not laying with her until she was of age. But she was not a child. She was fourteen, fully two years older than Isabelle when Papa had bedded her. No man would ever have abstained from Isabelle’s bed, that she knew for certes. How little to Llewelyn’s liking she must be.

  Without warning, tears filled her eyes. She blinked them back angrily, wiped her face on the corner of the sheet. She’d not give in to self-pity. She had no cause to feel sorry for herself. Llewelyn could have been so different, could have been arrogant, crude, even cruel. But he was none of those things. Had he not been Welsh, had he only been a Norman lord, she would have been thanking God for her good fortune. And the worst was now over, their first meeting, the wedding, the bedding revels, the—

  “Oh, Jesus God!”

  Sitting upright in the bed, she reached over, shook Llewelyn’s shoulder. “Llewelyn, Llewelyn, wake up…please!” He awakened at her touch, but looked at her so blankly that she realized he did not at once remember who she was. “The sheets! Come morning, the wedding party will enter our chamber, will examine the sheets to see if they be bloodied, to see if I came to my marriage bed a virgin. But the sheets will be clean! They’ll be clean, and I…I’ll be shamed, shamed before all…”

  Llewelyn swore under his breath; the words were Welsh, but his tone needed no translation. Joanna shrank back. For a long moment, his eyes rested upon her face; even in the firelight, her pallor showed all too clearly. And then he threw the covers back, rose from the bed. Joanna heard him bump into the table, curse again, and she pulled the sheet up under her chin, having no idea what he was searching for in the dark.

  There was a sudden flare of light; Llewelyn had at last found flint and tinder. He lingered by the table long enough to drink what remained in his wine cup. Now that he was fully awake, his sense of humor was beginning to reassert itself, and he was laughing quietly to himself by the time he returned to the bed; this was, after all, hardly the way he’d expected to pass his wedding night.

  “Hold this,” he said, thrusting a candle toward Joanna. Her eyes widened at sight of the slender dagger blade, and he could not help laughing again. What in God’s name did she think he meant to do with it? “I hope you do not mind, love, if you lose your maidenhead with only modest bleeding? I’ve been fighting for nigh on twenty years, and have had my share of hurts, but I can say for certes that never will I get a stranger scar!”

  Joanna said nothing, watched as he drew the blade against the underside of his forearm, stanched the bleeding with the sheets. She was very close at that moment to hating him; what was to him such a source of obvious amusement was to her an acute humiliation. How could he laugh at her like this, be so cruel? Did he not realize how it shamed her, that she must fake the loss of her virginity, when other wives, no matter how plain, were wanted, bedded, even cherished?

  Llewelyn was leaning over, concealing the knife under the bed, and she breathed upon the candle. When he would have kissed her cheek, she averted her face, and he gave her a sudden thoughtful look, but he said only, “You’d best sleep now, Siwan. We do depart for Wales on the morrow.”

  “You did call me that before…She-one. What does it mean?”

  “Siwan?” Llewelyn yawned. “It is Welsh for Joan or Joanna.”

  “I am Joanna! Not Siwan, Joanna! I’ll not lose my name, too!” No sooner were the words out of her mouth than Joanna froze, appalled by what she’d done. A wife had no right to speak so to her husband. Women were beaten for much less. Llewelyn had raised himself up on his elbow, was staring at her, his face unreadable in the shadowy light. She swal
lowed, whispered, “I am sorry, my lord, so sorry—”

  “No, Joanna, you owe me no apology,” he interrupted, and then added something utterly incomprehensible to her. “You see,” he said softly, “my mother’s name was Marared…not Margaret.” There was a pause, and then he rolled over, reached for his pillow. “Joanna it shall be. But I ought to warn you; I do not know what my people will make of it. Most of them speak no French…and there is no letter J in the Welsh alphabet.”

  The chamber was quiet. Feeling somehow as if she’d won the battle but lost the war, Joanna slid over, until the width of the bed was between them. It was only then that the full impact of his words registered with her. On the morrow, he’d said, they would depart for Wales. She’d been wrong, so very wrong. The worst was not over.

  16

  Aber, North Wales

  May 1206

  Wales, Llewelyn explained to Joanna, was divided into cantrefs and commotes, similar in nature to the English shires. His favorite palace was at Aber, the royal seat of the commote of Arllechwedd Uchaf, fifty-three miles west of Chester. It was a journey of two days; they rode into Aber at dusk on Saturday.

  “We’re home, Joanna.” Reining in beside her, Llewelyn smiled. “Aber Gwyngregyn—Mouth of the White Shell River.”

  “A beautiful name,” Joanna said faintly. Only now were her breathing and heartbeat getting back to normal. She’d never been so frightened as in the past few hours, clinging dizzily to her mare’s saddle pommel as the horse picked its way along an alpine trail of truly treacherous dimensions. So narrow that two horses could not ride abreast, so close to the cliff that Joanna could hear the pounding of surf against the rocks below. The pass of Penmaenmawr, Llewelyn called it, Welsh for “End of the Large Stone.” By then, alerted by Joanna’s chalk-white pallor, he’d taken the mare’s reins himself, and as the trail wound ever upward, Joanna had at last simply closed her eyes, sought to concentrate only upon the reassuring murmur of Llewelyn’s voice. She was embarrassed at showing her fear so nakedly, although at least she’d retained more dignity than Blanche, who, when not whimpering, was sobbing prayers to every saint on the Church calendar. Joanna belatedly understood why Llewelyn had declined the Earl of Chester’s offer of a baggage cart. She could only marvel at the nonchalance of the Welsh, who braved these heights with the ease of eagles, and she was grateful when Llewelyn, after assuring her that Aber was not perched upon a mountain peak, confessed that he had no liking himself for the sea, never set foot on shipboard without feeling his stomach lurch, sink like a stone.