Here Be Dragons

by Sharon Kay Penman

  By now it was full dark. So absorbed was Joanna in her own purgatory that she failed to hear approaching footsteps, started violently when Morgan touched her arm.

  They stood in silence for some moments, Joanna studying him through her lashes. She knew he was in his middle fifties, although he looked much younger, for he had a magnificent head of silvered hair, and sculptured cheekbones that aging only enhanced. In every sense but the biological one, he was a father to Llewelyn, and Joanna had tried repeatedly over the years to break through that cool, disciplined exterior, to bypass the priest and befriend the man, but to no avail. He kept others at a distance no less effectively than did Adda. Only with Llewelyn did he permit himself the luxury of emotional intimacy, and Joanna often wondered if he’d acknowledged even to himself how deep the bond between them was, that Llewelyn was a son in all but blood.

  “Owain ap Gruffydd brought news, Madame, that I think you should know. Lord Hywel of Meirionydd and Prince Madog have deserted Llewelyn, have gone over to your father.”

  “Jesú, no! But they are Llewelyn’s cousins, his blood kin!”

  “They are also frightened men trying to save what is theirs. They see Llewelyn as doomed, do not want to be dragged down with him.”

  Joanna stared at him in silence, trying desperately to get her fear under control, trying not to panic. Maelgwn and Rhys Gryg and Gwenwynwyn were already fighting for John. With Prince Madog’s defection, Llewelyn would be utterly isolated, surrounded, facing enemies on every side.

  “If what you’re saying be true,” she whispered, “then Llewelyn is trapped, trapped with no way out.”

  “Yes,” he said dully, “I know. And so does Llewelyn.”

  Joanna could hear angry voices while still in the stairwell. But as she followed Morgan into the chamber, a sudden silence settled over the room. All eyes turned toward her, and in many of them she read a chilling suspicion, a doubt none would dare to voice in Llewelyn’s hearing: Can we speak freely in front of her? Feeling like an intruder in her own bedchamber, Joanna settled down as inconspicuously as possible in the nearest window seat.

  Llewelyn and Owain ap Gruffydd were standing by a trestle table partially covered by a crude map of Wales and the Marches. Joanna’s unexpected entrance had thrown Owain momentarily off stride. Turning back to Llewelyn, he gestured toward the map.

  “You need look no farther than this, my lord, no farther than Eryri. What better stronghold could you find? You know these mountains as few men do; they’d never be able to take you.”

  “What would you have me do, Owain, live like a rebel on the run?”

  “There are worse fates, my lord,” Owain said evenly, and Llewelyn shook his head.

  “You look at the map, but you still do not see. How can you be so blind?” Unsheathing his dagger, Llewelyn made a slashing cut in the parchment. “John has erected a castle here.” Again the blade flashed. “And there. There, too. At Bala, Treffynnon, Mathrafal, Deganwy, Rhuddlan. Fourteen at last count, Owain, fourteen! Given time, he’ll refortify each and every one in stone and mortar, put down roots so deep we’ll never be able to dislodge him. Christ, man, do you not understand? He means the complete conquest of North Wales, means to turn all of Gwynedd into a God-cursed English shire!”

  None could deny it. Nor could they meet his eyes. Owain mumbled, “I know, my lord, I know. But you’ve got to think of saving yourself now. It is too late to save Gwynedd.”

  “No,” Llewelyn said violently, “no!” He stared down at the map, and then, with a sudden, swift thrust, he plunged the dagger downward, impaling the map and burying the blade deep in the soft pine tableboard.

  It was so quiet that Joanna could hear the slight scraping of Adda’s crutch as he dragged it through the floor rushes, limped to Llewelyn’s side. “Llewelyn, I understand how you feel; how could I not? If I thought you had any chance at all, I’d say yes, go to the English King, seek to save what you can. But we’re talking of John, Llewelyn, John who nurses a grievance till it festers. Not two months ago you made him look a right proper fool, cost him money, men, and no small loss of face. He’s gone to a great deal of trouble to get you just where you are this night, and the only terms he’s likely to offer will be a generous bounty to the man who can bring him your head.”

  “He’d listen to me.” Joanna stood up, found her knees suddenly weak; her heart was beating so rapidly that she felt slightly queasy. She had a blurred glimpse of faces, most expressing shock at the very thought of entrusting all to a woman, and then she’d crossed the chamber, had laid her hand on Llewelyn’s arm.

  “Let me go to him, Llewelyn,” she pleaded. “He cares for me, and I can make him listen. I know I can.”

  His face was hard to read; she could not immediately tell what his reaction was. Nor was she given a chance to find out, for Gruffydd could keep silent no longer.

  “Papa, do not listen to her! You cannot trust her to speak for you; she’s his daughter, of his befouled blood. She’d betray you, I know it!” The boy was too agitated to guard his tongue, pleaded with no less passion than Joanna, “You cannot do this, cannot yield to him. Think how he’d humiliate you, make you grovel—”

  “That will be enough, Gruffydd!”

  “I’d die ere I’d do that, Papa! And if you go to him, shame yourself like that, you shame us all!”

  Llewelyn took a swift step toward Gruffydd. Although he’d clenched his fist, he did not hit the boy. But Joanna saw him draw a deep, unsteady breath, saw how close he’d come to it. “Be thankful, Gruffydd,” he said scathingly, “that I remember I, too, was a fool at fifteen.”

  Gruffydd flushed to the roots of his hair, and Joanna suspected he’d rather have been struck. “Papa…” he whispered, but only Joanna was close enough to hear him. Llewelyn had turned away, was already moving toward the door.

  When Rhys would have followed after him, Morgan stepped from the shadows, said, “No, let him be. He needs time to be alone, to think. Whatever price is to be paid, he must be the one to pay it. So the decision, too, must be his, his and his alone.”

  Even dulled by moonlight, the stallion’s coat shone like bronze; although white was the preferred color for horses, Llewelyn’s memories of Sul had given him an unfashionable fancy for red-gold chestnuts. No longer grazing, the stallion had begun to nuzzle his tunic, but now it jerked its head up, nickered softly. Llewelyn reached for his sword, faded back into the shadows.

  A black-clad figure emerged through the trees, and he lowered the sword, watched as Morgan swung from the saddle. Morgan was unsure of his welcome, said somewhat awkwardly, “Joanna guessed you might be here. You’ve been gone so long we grew worried. But I’ll go if you’d rather be alone.”

  “I’ve not been alone. I’ve been keeping company with Arthur of Brittany, Hugh de Lusignan, Walter de Lacy, William de Braose, all of the men in the last twenty years who made the fatal mistake of underestimating John Plantagenet.”

  Walking to the edge of the cliff, Llewelyn gazed down at the cataract. Although rain had been scarce that summer, as if even nature were favoring John’s campaign, the river still surged against its banks, plummeting over the jutting rocks and turning the pool below into a seething cauldron of froth and spume, an impersonal and awesome affirmation of infinity.

  “We’re our own worst enemies, Morgan, God’s cursed truth we are. The Gospels say every kingdom divided against itself shall be made desolate; that could well serve as the epitaph for Wales. Since the time of William the Conqueror, we’ve allowed the English kings to play the same damnable, deadly game with us, to set our princes one against the other. And we never learn. Christ knows I did not, I fell into the same time-worn trap. If I’d found a way to come to terms with Maelgwn and Rhys Gryg, they’d be fighting the English now instead of collaborating with them. If we’d banded together at the outset, all offered resistance, we could have stopped John dead at the Conwy.”

  “That is the great weakness of the Welsh, Llewelyn. We’ve never le
arned to act for the common good. I sometimes suspect that unity is not a word native to the Welsh tongue. It has ever been that way, ever will be.”

  “No, Morgan, you’re wrong. The day must come when our people will unite around one man, around one prince.” Llewelyn paused, then gave Morgan a twisted smile. “But I always thought it would be me.”

  Morgan made no facile disclaimers, offered no polite, empty assurances. But Llewelyn knew him far too well to expect any. Moving away from the cliff, he said, “You did not ride all this way without fetching me something to drink, I hope?”

  Morgan managed a smile of his own. “Indeed not,” he said, handed Llewelyn a flask. “I was watching you when Joanna offered to go to her father. You were the only man in the room who did not look surprised. Had it already occurred to you to have her intercede with John?”

  “Of course. What could be more obvious?” But Llewelyn then lowered the flask, revealed his own ambivalence. “Why?” he challenged. “You see it as sheltering behind a woman’s skirts?”

  “I see it as the only action open to you. What matters it if she’s a woman when she is also the only one in Christendom with any chance of swaying John? But can you trust John, Llewelyn? Even if Joanna can somehow persuade him to offer terms, can you be sure he’d honor them? That he’d not agree to a safe-conduct merely to get you into his hands?”

  “He might well refuse Joanna’s pleas, but I do not think he’d use her as a lure, as bait. Not even John would do that, not to his own daughter.” He added dryly, “But then, I’d have to believe that, would I not?”

  Llewelyn drank again, passed the flask back to Morgan. “I was at Norham Castle with John when the Scots King came to surrender, to buy peace on John’s terms. John demanded far more than money, left him nothing, neither pride nor manhood.”

  He looked at the priest, suddenly dropped all defenses and said with anguished, unsparing honesty, “I do not know if I can face that, Morgan. There is a part of me that feels as Gruffydd does, that I’d rather die ere I let him do to me what I saw him do to the Scots King.”

  Morgan found himself blinking back tears. “I do not know what to say to you, lad, would to God I did.”

  “Do you remember what you once told me? You assured me that accommodation to superior strength is no shame. That helped ease a boy’s hurt, taught me a truth I thought I’d taken to heart. But…but it avails me little now, Morgan. Not when I think of John, and what he will demand of me.”

  Joanna had finally fallen into a fitful doze. She awoke at once, though, when Llewelyn closed the door, sat up as he approached the bed.

  “Did Morgan find you?”

  “Yes. How did you know I’d go to Rhaeadr Eywnnol?”

  “I remembered you told me you’d gone there when Tangwystl died.”

  He made no comment. She felt the bed shift as he lay down. He was still fully clothed, had not even taken his boots off. As she’d lain awake waiting for him, Joanna had decided to take her cues from him. If he wanted her to comfort him with her body, she would. If he wanted silence, she’d keep still. If he wanted to talk, she’d listen. But now that he was here beside her, she found herself so afraid of saying or doing the wrong thing that she could do nothing at all.

  His rage seemed to have burned itself out; she could see only exhaustion in his face. Leaning over, she touched her lips to his forehead. He opened his eyes, looked at her, and then reached out, grasped a handful of her straight black hair. “You do, in truth, look Welsh,” he said, let her hair slip through his fingers.

  “Llewelyn, please. Let me go to my father.”

  He raised himself up on his elbow, and then he nodded. “Tomorrow,” he said. “Tell him that he’s won, that…You know what to tell him.”

  She was no longer so sure of that. She’d prayed that he would agree, but now that he had, she was suddenly terrified. He was putting his life in her hands. What if she failed him, if Adda was right, if her father would not listen to her?

  “I’m frightened, Llewelyn,” she said, and he put his arm around her, held her close.

  “I know, Joanna.” After a long time, he said, very softly, “So am I.”

  28

  Aberconwy, North Wales

  August 1211

  Once she had ridden into the English camp, Joanna was separated from her small Welsh escort, taken into the outer parlour of the abbey. Too tense to sit for long, she paced the confines of the small chamber as if it were a cage, until she could endure the waiting no longer, escaped out into the west walkway of the cloisters.

  The Cistercian monks had fled before John’s army; more than a dozen soldiers now lounged on the grassy inner garth. Joanna’s unexpected appearance momentarily stopped all conversation; heads jerked around. Of all the privations peculiar to campaigning in Wales, the one the soldiers found most difficult to accept was the utter lack of women. Theirs was the most uncommon of army encampments, one in which there were neither willing harlots nor unwilling captives.

  They were watching Joanna with avid interest, but warily, too, for her gown was a finely woven wool, her veil a gossamer silk. She could hear them murmuring among themselves, speculating whether she was a “Crogin,” a contemptuous slang term for the Welsh; that would, she realized, have made her fair game. At last one of the men rose, sauntered toward her. “What can I do for you?” he asked, and while the words themselves were innocent enough, both his smile and his tone were slyly suggestive.

  “Nothing whatsoever,” Joanna snapped. Although he was already backing away, warned off by the jeweled rings adorning her fingers, she added maliciously, “But I shall tell my father the King of your concern,” and had the dubious satisfaction of seeing him blanch. The men could not have retreated any faster had she revealed herself to be a witch; within moments she was all alone on the walkway, filled with a rage as unfocused as it was impotent, that what should now matter most in Llewelyn’s own realm was not that she was his wife, but that she was John’s daughter.

  A man was emerging from the monks’ frater. He came to an abrupt halt at sight of Joanna, then limped toward her. She was no less surprised to see him. For several years, Hugh Corbet had been suffering from the disease known as the “joint evil,” and his health was no longer up to the rigors of a military campaign.

  “You’ve come on Llewelyn’s behalf?” he asked, and she nodded.

  “Yes. And you?”

  “At the King’s command.”

  Joanna felt a chill. How would she ever get her father to listen if he was as vengeful as that, enough to make Llewelyn’s ailing stepfather an unwilling witness to his downfall?

  “Joanna…when you see the King, weigh your words with care. He is in a foul temper this morn. He got word, you see, that William de Braose has been stricken with a mortal sickness. It’s said he’s sure to die.”

  Joanna’s eyebrows rose. “I’d have thought my father would be gladdened by news like that!”

  “I expect he was. But he was not so glad to hear that Stephen Langton was at de Braose’s deathbed, that he means to officiate at de Braose’s funeral.”

  “Good God, no wonder Papa was wroth!”

  “With cause,” Hugh conceded. “It is Langton’s way of spiting the King, of course. For all that the Pope has anointed him as Archbishop of Canterbury, he dares not set foot on English soil. But de Braose was formally outlawed, declared a traitor to the crown. It’s not fitting for Langton to pay such honor to a rebel.”

  “It may not be proper, but it certainly is political!” Joanna shook her head, bemused. “I wonder if my father will release Maude de Braose once her husband is dead. I’d think he—Hugh? Whatever ails you?”

  “I thought you knew. Maude de Braose is dead.” Hugh hesitated, no longer met Joanna’s eyes. “She…died in prison.”

  “No, I did not know.” Joanna frowned. “Strange that Llewelyn never mentioned it. Surely he must have heard.” But then she forgot all about Maude de Braose and her dying husband, even forgot
about Hugh, for a familiar figure was coming down the north walkway. Gathering up her skirts, she ran to meet her brother.

  “Thank God, Richard! I prayed you’d be here. Papa…he will see me?”

  “Did you ever doubt it?” Richard had his mother’s pale blue eyes, often remote, not easily read; she saw in them now only pity. “He sent me to fetch you, awaits you in the small parlour next to the Chapter House.”

  “Richard…tell me the truth. Do you think he’ll heed me?”

  “Ah, Joanna…” But as reluctant as he was to answer, when he did, it was with uncompromising honesty. “No, I do not.”

  John did not say anything, merely held out his arms, and for a few brief moments Joanna tried to take refuge in memories, sought to find again in her father’s embrace the protected peace of childhood.

  “I’ve been so frightened, Papa,” she confessed, finding it as easy as that to revert back to the role decreed for her so long ago at Rouen. John, too, seemed reluctant to let go of the past, speaking softly and soothingly as if hers were still childhood hurts, of no greater moment than scraped knees or a lost doll, hurts to be healed with smiles and the promises of sweets.

  “I know, lass. But all will yet be well for you. I’ll make it so, I swear. Come now, seat yourself at the table. I’ve food set out for you; you can eat as we talk.”

  Joanna did as he bade, watched as he acted as cupbearer for them both, but not for Richard or Will. She had no appetite, though, merely toyed with the bread and cheese put before her. John took a seat facing her, said, “You’ve been much on my mind, Joanna. I’d not have you suffer for sins not yours, think I have found a way to make certain you do not. Tell me of your son, of David. It’s lucky, in truth, that he’s too young to understand what’s been happening.”