“I would that were so, Papa. But Davydd now wakes in the night whimpering, has begun to talk about creatures lurking out in the dark, hiding under the bed. And Elen, too, senses something is amiss. She has—”
“When will he be three…November? And the age of majority amongst the Welsh is fourteen, no? Of course, he’d need guidance and counsel long after that, would need—”
“Papa, what are you saying?”
“I am saying, sweetheart, that you need not worry, that I mean to protect your son’s inheritance. I shall have to take much of Gwynedd under the control of the crown, but I’ll leave David a fair share, that I promise.” He leaned across the table, with a smile of familiar, fond charm, the smile that invariably heralded the giving of a memorable gift. “And I see no reason, Joanna, why you yourself should not act as regent until David comes of age.”
Joanna sat very still. She was aware of perspiration trickling clammily down her throat, between her breasts, along her ribs, rivulets of cold sweat that seared her skin like ice, set her to trembling. Richard had moved behind John’s chair, and when she opened her mouth, he gave a swift, warning shake of his head. She let her protest ebb away on an uneven, labored breath, grabbed for a wine cup, and drank without tasting.
John had been watching her intently. “I see,” he said at last, quite coolly.
“No, Papa, I do not think you do.” Joanna set the wine cup down, reached at random for something she could not spill, clutched at a thick slice of bread. “It would not work, you see. The Welsh would never accept a woman as regent. It is true that in most ways their women enjoy greater freedom than ours, but those freedoms are personal, not political.”
“Then we need only select a regent amenable to our wishes, eager to cooperate with the crown. You’d still act as regent, in all but name. Does that frighten you? It need not, for you’d not be alone, lass. I’d see that you had advisers you could trust, men who—”
“Your advisers, Papa? Men of Norman blood? How do you think the Welsh would react to that? No, you still do not understand. It’s not just that the Welsh would never accept me. They’d not accept Davydd, either. He is a babe, half Norman—and your grandson. Those would be liabilities to cost him the crown. Should aught befall Llewelyn, his people would not look to Davydd, they’d look to Llewelyn’s other son, his Welsh son.”
“Gruffydd?” he said, showing her he was all too familiar with Llewelyn’s court. “And if he were not available?”
“It…it would not matter. Llewelyn has another son, Tegwared. He’s still a child, but the Welsh would prefer him to Davydd. They’d even prefer Llewelyn’s cousin Hywel. Davydd must earn the acceptance of his father’s people, must prove to them that his heart and soul are no less Welsh than Gruffydd’s. I’ve given this much thought, Papa, from the very day of his birth. I do think he can eventually win their allegiance. But he’ll need time, time to grow to manhood. Until then, only his father can safeguard his inheritance, only Llewelyn.” Joanna had unwittingly been tearing at the bread as she spoke; the tablecloth was littered with crumbs. She put the crust aside, said, “That is why I have come, Papa. To beg you to spare Llewelyn…for the sake of my son.”
“You are saying, then, that all your concern is for David, none of it for Llewelyn?”
John sounded so skeptical that Joanna blushed, remembering the bedchamber scene he’d witnessed at Woodstock. “No, Papa,” she said, as steadily as she could, “I am not saying that. I do care for Llewelyn. How could I not? He treats me quite well. I’ve been his wife for five years, have borne him two children, would not want to see him harmed.”
She reached across the table, caught at John’s sleeve. “If I owe Llewelyn a wife’s loyalty and Davydd a mother’s love, I owe you much, too. I told you at the time I agreed to wed Llewelyn that there was nothing I would not do for you. I meant it, Papa, proved it by making a marriage I dreaded. Did you know that, know how much I feared it? But I did it for you…and then found in that marriage an unexpected and abiding contentment.”
John shifted in his seat, drew back out of reach. “Does it matter so much to you, Joanna, being Llewelyn’s wife?”
“Not his wife, Papa…his consort.”
That was an answer he was not expecting. He leaned back in his chair, subjected her to a troubled appraisal. “In truth, Joanna? At the time of your marriage, I seem to remember you counting a crown of little worth.”
“At the time of my marriage, I was only fourteen. The truth is, Papa, that I’m pleading not just for Davydd, but for myself, too. Even now it often seems no less than a miracle to me, that I could be bastard-born and yet wear a crown. I do not think I could bear to give it up. You, of all men, should be able to understand that.”
“Yes,” he admitted, “I can. I only wish I’d known…” He rose abruptly, moved to the window. “I am sorry, lass, I swear I am. But you ask too much of me.”
“Not if you love me.” Joanna had risen, too, stumbled over her skirts in her haste to follow John to the window. “Papa…you do still love me?”
He swung around, stared at her. “Jesú, do you doubt it?”
“I…I do not know. God knows I do not want to! But you led an army into my husband’s lands, my lands, too. Your men even burned Aber, and that was my home, Papa, mine no less than Llewelyn’s. What if my children or I had still been there, if we’d not—”
“Ah, Joanna, do not! This is between Llewelyn and me, has nothing to do with you. I’d not hurt you for the world. You have ever been my dearest child, do you not know that?”
“Help me, then, Papa. You’re the only one who can. For Davydd and for me, I beg you…please!” Joanna’s voice broke; she started to kneel, and John stopped her, pulled her almost roughly to her feet.
“Do not, lass. There’s no need.”
Joanna caught her breath. “Does that mean you’ll do it, Papa? You’ll pardon Llewelyn?”
There was a long pause, and then he nodded. “It seems I have no choice.”
Joanna had often heard Llewelyn quote a caustic Welsh proverb, one that spoke of a borrowed smile. She could feel just such a smile twisting her mouth, a counterfeit coin to pay a debt of dishonor. She could take no pride in what she had accomplished. Gratitude, too, was an alien emotion to her at that moment. Even her sense of relief was curiously muted. She was aware only of her utter exhaustion, and when John led her toward a bench, she sank down upon the hard wood as if it were a cushioned settle.
She’d once seen a swimmer collapse upon the beach after battling the sea back to shore; he’d lain panting in the shallows, digging his hands deep into the sand as if to anchor himself to the earth, too weak to do more than marvel at his reprieve. She felt much the same way now, wanted only to sit and be left in peace, if only for a little while.
But John had seated himself beside her on the bench, and he was saying grimly, “If Llewelyn comes to me here at Aberconwy, I will accept his surrender—for you, Joanna. But more than that I cannot do. He has much to answer for, and if he wants peace, it must be on my terms. You do understand that?”
She nodded, and John relaxed somewhat, sought then to swallow a noxious draught with grudging grace. “I expect you’ll want to send word at once? How many hostages will he want as pledges for his safety? Five? Ten?”
“No, Papa. He wants but one…your brother Will.”
John stiffened. “Christ Jesus!”
“John, I do not mind, in truth I do not,” Will interjected mildly, as Joanna had known he would; it was one of God’s minor miracles that Will had somehow survived more than fifty years without compromising his faith, without forfeiting his innocence. “It is only a formality, after all. I’m glad to do it for you, and for the lass here.”
Joanna could endure no more. Jumping to her feet, she kissed first her father and then her uncle. “I shall never forget what you’re doing for me,” she said huskily. “Never.”
But once she emerged out into the cloisters, she faltered. The sun seemed hot enough to bli
nd, to burn all it touched; even when she closed her eyes, she could not squeeze out the light. She leaned for a moment against one of the stone columns, and then felt Richard’s supportive hand on her elbow.
“Come,” he said, “there’s a bench in the garth.”
They were alone in the sunlight. Richard had a soldier’s flask at his belt. He drank, then passed it to Joanna. “He was so set upon vengeance,” he said wonderingly. “You need never again doubt that he loves you, Joanna.”
“I know.” Joanna drank from Richard’s flask, found it filled with a pungent, spiced wine. She gasped, sputtered, and then blurted out, “I do not know how I can ever look Uncle Will in the face again.”
“You were just acting as your husband’s messenger. Uncle Will understands that.”
“No…I was not. Llewelyn told me to insist upon hostages of high rank, men that Papa would be loath to lose. But he did not demand Uncle Will as one of the hostages. He would never have done that, for he knows how dear Uncle Will is to me.” The blood rose in Joanna’s cheeks so swiftly that her skin seemed on fire. “I do love Uncle Will, Richard. That’s what is so unforgivable. For I never hesitated.” Joanna’s voice trailed off. After a long silence, she confessed, “But I suddenly knew that I was not willing to risk Llewelyn’s life on my father’s word alone.”
Llewelyn drew rein on the crest of the hill, stared down at the English encampment. Seventeen years ago he’d won a decisive battle on this very site, had defeated his uncle and made himself ruler of half of Gwynedd at age twenty-one. All of Gwynedd had been his before he was thirty. But the banner now flying over the abbey was emblazoned with the royal arms of England.
The sun was hot, the hill infested with horseflies and mosquitoes, but none of the men complained. They waited in sympathetic silence for Llewelyn to nerve himself for the ride down the hill, for his surrender to the English King. When he finally moved, it was sudden, swift, took them by surprise. He gave the chestnut its head, and it plunged down the slope, mane and tail taking the wind like flame, blazing into the English camp as if it had somehow seen into its rider’s heart, shared his fettered rage, his fear, and his defiant despair.
His men spurred their horses to overtake the chestnut, some of them shouting as if on the trail of wild boar, and the resulting entrance of the Welsh into the camp was a tumultuous one. But as they gazed about them, realized what John had in mind, they fell silent, lost much of their bravado. A few swore under their breaths, most tightened grips on sword hilts, and all looked toward Llewelyn.
The chestnut was fractious, fighting the bit, but Llewelyn scarcely noticed. For days now he’d been morbidly reliving the scene in the great hall at Norham Castle, putting himself in the place of the discomfited Scots King. But once again he’d underestimated John’s capacity for imaginative reprisal. For his was to be a very public humiliation, to be no less a spectacle than a bearbaiting or the hanging of a notorious highwayman. His surrender was not to be made in the abbey hall, nor in one of the English command tents, but out in the open in the glare of high noon, witnessed by all of John’s troops and those of his Welsh allies.
One of the Abbot’s high-backed chairs had been brought out for John; to his right were gathered the lords of his court, to his left the Welsh Princes. Llewelyn could count his enemies like rosary beads: Gwenwynwyn, Maelgwn, Rhys Gryg, Thomas Corbet. Men who’d long hungered for this day, men who watched him with mocking eyes and smiles like unsheathed daggers. Even worse were the faces of his friends, his stepfather, Stephen and Baldwin de Hodnet, his conscience-stricken cousins Madog and Hywel. They averted their eyes, like men too polite to look upon another’s nakedness, offering him the lacerating balm of their pity, and Llewelyn’s resolve faltered. For several harrowing seconds he found himself overwhelmed by emotions he’d never before experienced—a physical fear of entrapment and a shattering sense of his own helplessness.
Dismounting was an act of utter faith, the most difficult one of his life. With an intense effort of will, he blotted out the audience, focused his thoughts solely upon the man in the Abbot’s oaken chair. And then he walked forward, knelt, and handed John his sword.
“I submit myself unto the King’s will,” he said, and John smiled.
“Surely you can do better than that. Not even the Lord God will forgive a man unless he first confesses his sins and then repents of them.”
Llewelyn had known John might demand this of him—had known, too, that he could never bring himself to do it. His mind raced, but he could think of no way to satisfy John while still salvaging his pride, and at last he said, with the candor born of desperation, “What would be the point? No matter how convincingly contrite I was, you’d not believe me, would know I did not speak from the heart. Would it not make more sense to speak of hard, irrefutable facts, of power? You’ve won. I admit your victory, acknowledge your authority as my King and liege lord. That I am here proves it beyond question, as does my willingness to do homage, to swear oath of allegiance as your vassal lord and liegeman.”
John laughed. “To put it in your own words, what would be the point? Twice in the past seven years you’ve done homage to me, have you not? So all you’ve proven beyond question is that a Welshman’s sworn oath is worthless.”
Llewelyn was unnerved by the intensity of his rage, by the realization of how close he was to losing control of his temper, his tongue. He stared at John, his ears filled with the derisive laughter of John’s soldiers, his heart filled with such hatred that he knew it must show on his face for all to see.
“Should I gather from your silence that you’re loath to ask for absolution? Surely your pride is not as tender as all that. It did allow you, after all, to send a woman to plead for you!”
Llewelyn was livid. “And would your brother Richard have pardoned you at Lisieux if not for the intervention of your lady mother?”
This time the laughter came from behind Llewelyn, came from his own men. He saw John’s face twitch, saw he’d drawn blood. John had gotten to his feet so abruptly that the chair tilted, and Llewelyn instinctively started to rise, too, only to freeze as John swung the sword up. The weapon was three feet long, honed to a razor edge, tapered for thrusting. It had been custom-made for Llewelyn, and he knew better than most its killing capabilities. Now, with that naked blade leveled at his throat, his mouth went dry, he dared not even blink. He heard a woman cry out; although it did not sound like her, he knew it could only be Joanna.
The sword’s point was pressed against his windpipe, but Llewelyn’s pulse was slowing, his breathing steadying, for he’d realized that John did not mean to kill him. He would never know what had stayed John’s hand; Joanna’s scream? Fear for Will? He could not even be sure John had ever meant to follow through on that first thrust. He knew only that John’s eyes did not mirror the passion of a man provoked beyond all reason; his was a rage more glacial than volcanic, utterly implacable but controlled, icily deliberate, the rage of a man willing to wait for his vengeance.
It was not the first time Llewelyn had seen his death foretold in another man’s eyes, but never had the threat carried so much lethal conviction, all the more chilling in eyes eerily like Joanna’s. He felt the pressure increase, felt a stinging sensation, knew that John, too, had drawn blood. And then the sword was withdrawn and John stepped back, beckoned to one of the watching men.
“Take this,” he said, “and break it.”
The man looked dubiously at the sword, uncomfortably aware how much pressure the blade was meant to bear. But he made haste to obey, grabbed the sword and withdrew, shouting for a hammer and anvil.
Llewelyn was becoming aware again of their audience. Gwenwynwyn looked like a man at peace with himself for the first time in three years, a man who’d just received payment for a long-overdue debt. Thomas Corbet, too, was gleefully jubilant, Chester his usual impassive self, Hugh Corbet haggard, obviously ailing, while Eustace de Vesci ignored Llewelyn altogether, watched John with unblinking intensity. Surpri
singly, Maelgwn had lost his smile; his eyes held Llewelyn’s for several moments, but his thoughts were masked, utterly his own. Joanna, however, was not within Llewelyn’s range of vision. He’d have given a great deal had she only been back at Dolwyddelan, been anywhere but here, witness to his shame.
“Your Grace!” Grinning triumphantly, a man was hastening toward John, holding out Llewelyn’s sword. But it was no longer a weapon, was no more now than two twisted pieces of jagged metal.
John reached out, took the hilt in one hand, the sundered blade in the other. “As easily as I broke this sword, so could I have broken you…and would have, if it were not for my daughter. But do not count upon her to save you a second time. From this day forth, the Virgin Mary herself could speak for you and it would avail you naught.”
He flung the sword fragments to the ground. “Now you may withdraw,” he said contemptuously, “and wait until I have time to speak with you about the terms of your surrender.”
Llewelyn got slowly to his feet. His pride was already in shreds; he knew that if he allowed John to dismiss him as if he were a serf, the memory would haunt him for the rest of his life. But he saw no way out of the trap. He stared down at his broken sword, and then looked up, saw his wife.
Joanna’s face was ashen, wet with tears, but her eyes were a brilliant, blazing green, and her mouth was contorted with rage. Richard was beside her, was gripping her arm, but as her eyes met Llewelyn’s, she jerked free of her brother’s restraining hold.
Llewelyn stood very still, watched as she moved toward him. All were watching her now. John took an involuntary step forward, said her name. She seemed not to hear, never took her eyes from Llewelyn. Coming to a halt before him, she said loudly and very clearly, “My lord husband,” sank down on the grass in a deep, submissive curtsy.
It was more than a clever face-saving stratagem, it was an avowal of loyalty, of love. Llewelyn raised her up, looked for a long moment into her face, and then kissed her, kissed her as if they were alone, as if nothing mattered but that moment and the woman he held in his arms. Even he could not have said which meant more, that he was kissing John’s daughter or kissing his wife.
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