Here Be Dragons

by Sharon Kay Penman

  “Will, no! My God, you’re mad! Someone could come in at any moment!”

  “Who’d dare enter your private chamber at such an hour? Only Glynis, love, and she’s over in the great hall, dallying with my squire. Sometimes the more unlikely a trysting place, the safer it actually is.”

  Unbelting his tunic, he pulled it over his head, and Joanna’s fear suddenly gave way to outrage. “You truly think I’d do this to Llewelyn, that I’d lay with you in my husband’s own bed? Get out, get out ere I start to scream!”

  He dropped the tunic onto the floor, stared at her in surprise. “What game are you playing now, Joanna? You know you want me. Why did you depart the hall like that if you did not expect me to follow—”

  “I expected nothing! I’ll take no blame for your mistakes, for your accursed, overweening pride. For months now I’ve told you that it was over. And even if I were utterly besotted with you, I’d never have invited you into Llewelyn’s bedchamber, never!”

  Will gave a half-angry laugh. “You make it sound as if we’re about to defile a sacred shrine!” Yet he was not as irked as he might otherwise have been; she was clutching the sheet up to her breasts, but the material was soft, clinging, adhered to the curves of hip and thigh, and her hair spilled over her breasts, onto the pillow in a midnight cloud. “Mayhap I did misread you, Joanna,” he conceded. “But I’m here now, and I cannot believe you truly want me to leave. You admitted it yourself at Shrewsbury, how much you still wanted me. You remember how it was between us…” He leaned over the bed, his mouth seeking hers, and Joanna screamed.

  Will never had more reason to bless his quick reflexes. As stunned as he was, he reacted instinctively, swiftly clasping his hand over her mouth, choking back her cry. He’d encountered resistance from women before, but it was usually playfully offered, a lover’s game. Joanna was struggling in earnest, in panic, trying to bite his hand, to scratch, to roll off the bed. He realized at once that he could not restrain her without truly hurting her, and when he loosened his grip on her mouth, she succeeded in giving another muffled scream.

  Never had Will’s desire diminished so rapidly; never had he lost an erection with such speed. He was no longer aware of the soft female body thrashing under his, was aware only of that unshuttered window, her hysterically barking dog.

  “Joanna, calm yourself. I do not want to hurt you. Joanna, listen to me! Do you know what will happen to me if anyone heard your scream? Christ Jesus, I’ll be gelded with a dull knife! I’ll not force you, I swear. If I take my hand away, let you up, do you promise not to scream?”

  She nodded, after an unnervingly long pause. He released her then, very cautiously. She was gasping for breath, but she did not cry out, and he relaxed somewhat, enough for anger. “Whatever possessed you? Good Christ, woman, you almost got me killed!”

  Joanna was too shaken for speech, half blinded by her own hair. She pulled the sheet up, panting, rubbing her wrists. But when Will took a step toward the bed, she cried, “If you dare to touch me again…”

  Her voice had risen and he hastily backed away. “What do you think, that I had rape in mind? At your own court, in your own bedchamber? What kind of a bloody fool do you think I am?”

  They glared at each other, but his protest had the ring of truth. Joanna acknowledged that by reaching for the spaniel, seeking to quiet it. Will moved to the table, poured himself a double measure of mead. “I cannot remember when I’ve felt death so damned close,” he confessed. “Between you and that wretched dog, I expected half the court to come bursting in at any moment.”

  “You’re luckier than you deserve. I want you out of here…now!”

  “You do want me to dress first? I’d look somewhat conspicuous, wandering about the bailey in my shirt and chausses.” Will set the cup down, studied Joanna with baffled, angry eyes. He still could not believe he’d not have been able to bring her around, if only he had enough privacy and time. But not here, not now, not when a single scream could bring a dozen men on the run.

  “Here,” he said, moving warily toward the bed. “Take the rest of this mead. If your nerves are half as frayed as mine, you need it.”

  Joanna did, but she shook her head. “Just put it down and get out.”

  She was still rubbing her wrist, and he said, “Are you hurt? In truth, Joanna, I did think you were expecting me, that I was welcome in your bed. I suppose every man has coerced a consent at one time or another. But I would never, in this lifetime or the next, force a woman like you. A Prince’s wife, the King of England’s sister? That mad I am not! I frightened you, I know. But you gave me a turn, too. Let’s call it check and mate, and—”

  “I do not want to talk. I just want you to go.”

  “All right. I’ll go.” It was for the best; she was too distraught to be trusted. But on the morrow he’d have to find a way to talk privately with her, to mollify her somehow. Women could be vindictive, unforgiving, and she was in a unique position to do him harm, to poison the King’s mind against him. “I’ll go,” he repeated, but instead he turned, moved swiftly toward the window.

  Joanna sat up in alarm. “Now what are you about? Get back lest you be seen!”

  “Something is amiss.” Very cautiously, he peered around the shutter edge. “People are coming out of the hall. I cannot be sure, but I think I hear your name, hear ‘Siwan.’”

  Joanna heard it too, now, a confused babble of voices, barking dogs. “What is it, Will?”

  “I do not know, mayhap a fire…” He risked another look, and then drew back hastily. “Christ, it’s Llewelyn!”

  Even then, Will kept his wits about him. Llewelyn was dismounting in front of his lodgings, but if the door was thus eliminated as a means of escape, that still left a side window. Will darted toward it, began jerking at the shutter latches. “Joanna, hide my clothing and sword!” But Joanna was incapable of moving. She sat frozen, staring at the door.

  “Joanna? Joanna, are you all right? Unbar the door!” The voice was Llewelyn’s. She heard other voices, too; someone was pounding on the door, and Llewelyn was shouting for the key. Will had the latches up by now; he jerked the shutters open, and then recoiled.

  “Jesú, there are men outside! Quick, Joanna, where can I hide?” But Joanna did not reply, and as he swung about, he saw the latch begin to move. As they watched, it was slowly, inexorably pushed upward, and then the door was thrust open.

  Llewelyn was not alone, and the chamber was cast into eerie brightness by the sudden flare of torches. But Joanna saw none of the men. No one existed for her but Llewelyn. She watched, stunned, as he strode into the room, watched as he came to an abrupt halt, watched as his face changed, watched as her world fell apart.

  Llewelyn looked from Will to Joanna, and despite the irrefutable evidence of infidelity, there was still a moment in which he half expected Joanna to offer a rational, convincing explanation for Will’s presence, half dressed, in their bedchamber. But she had yet to utter a word, and all the color had drained from her face. She looked up at him in stricken silence, silence more damning than any confession could have been, and he could read in her eyes only horror, despairing entreaty, and an admission of a betrayal beyond forgiving.

  Will stood very still. He’d talked his way out of awkward corners before, but none like this. He’d seen the disbelief on Llewelyn’s face give way to a far more frightening emotion, and he thought, Christ, he loves her! He’d always prided himself upon his glibness of tongue, but as he looked at Llewelyn, he knew suddenly that it would not avail him now, that nothing would.

  He no longer had enough saliva for swallowing, had to try twice before he could get the words out. “I know this looks bad, but—” He got no further; Llewelyn’s sword was already clearing its scabbard. He had nowhere to run, felt the wall at his back, and knew the last sight he’d ever see was the light reflecting off that gleaming steel blade.

  Joanna was petrified, averted her eyes. But she made no sound. Her throat had closed up; even if
Llewelyn turned the sword upon her next, she’d not have been able to cry out.

  “Llewelyn, wait!”

  Joanna opened her eyes, saw that Ednyved had stepped between Llewelyn and Will. “No,” he said grimly, “not like that. It’s too easy. Give him the death he deserves. Hang him.”

  Will drew an audible breath. No one else spoke. And then Llewelyn slowly lowered his sword. “Yes,” he said in a voice Joanna had never heard before. “You’re right. It is too quick this way. Take him.”

  For the first and only time in his life, Will panicked, made a sudden lunge for the window. But Llewelyn’s sword came up with eye-blurring speed, and Will froze, his stomach muscles contracting, anticipating that first thrust into the belly or groin. There’d be nothing easy or quick about such a death, not with Llewelyn wielding the blade. Better to take his chances with the hanging, for there was a hope—however slight—that enough political pressure might reprieve him.

  He no longer resisted, therefore, when Llewelyn’s men laid hands upon him, but they treated him roughly all the same, jerking his arms behind his back and shoving him toward the door. He did not struggle, realizing that Llewelyn had only to say the word and they’d gladly hang him then and there, over the bed. He stumbled, nearly fell, and for a moment his eyes found Joanna.

  “I ought to be gallant and say you were worth it, darling,” he said huskily, “but no woman is worth hanging for.”

  His words meant nothing to Joanna; she never even heard them. “Llewelyn…” She had yet to take her eyes from her husband’s face. “Llewelyn, I’m sorry…”

  Llewelyn moved toward the bed. When he brought the sword up, he heard gasps. Joanna’s lips parted; her breath quickened. Tears had begun to streak her face. He knew suddenly that this was the way he would always remember her, clutching a sheet to hide her nakedness, dark hair falling about her face in wanton disarray, kneeling in the middle of the bed, the bed in which she’d betrayed him. Her deathbed. One downward stroke of his sword and the sheets would be soaked with blood. His hand tightened on the hilt, and then he thrust the sword back into its scabbard, turned to face the others.

  “I want de Braose’s men taken prisoner, too. See to it.”

  Men hastened to obey. Llewelyn became aware now of their audience, of the people crowding into the antechamber. “Get them out of here,” he snarled, and the antechamber cleared as if by magic, while through the open window he could see Will de Braose being dragged across the bailey.

  “Llewelyn…Llewelyn, I did not ask him to come to me. It was over between us. Beloved, I swear it, I swear I never would have brought him here, into your bed…”

  If her words had registered with him, Joanna could see no indication of it in his face. He turned away from her, and as he moved through the doorway, Joanna sobbed, begged him to wait, to listen, but he did neither.

  “Llewelyn…” Joanna sobbed again, collapsed upon the bed. He was gone and he would not be back. She’d lost him, lost all, all…She did not think it was possible to feel pain greater than this. But then she heard her son’s voice, heard Davydd say, “Why, Mama, why?”

  “Davydd?” Her voice broke. “Davydd…you saw? My God, oh, my God, no…”

  He moved from the shadows of the antechamber, stood there staring at her as if he no longer recognized her. “Glynis sent word that you’d been taken ill, that the doctors feared a rupture…” He sounded dazed, his words labored, coming as uncertainly as if he were speaking a language not his own. “She said…said you might be dying. Papa, he…” He shook his head, as if to clear it. “We half killed our horses, and when we rode into the bailey, no one knew, no one…” The words trailed off raggedly, his mouth contorting.

  “What have you done, Mama? Jesus God, what have you done?”

  Davydd had gone. Joanna was alone. She would never know how long she lay there in the darkness. Upon the table a solitary candle still sputtered, burning down toward the wick. When at last it flickered out, Joanna rose from the bed, groped her way across the chamber. She did not bother with stockings or chemise; finding a gown in one of her coffers, she pulled it over her head, began to search for her shoes. She did not braid her hair, merely brushed it back over her shoulders. She had to see Llewelyn. She had to tell him that she’d not lain with Will in his bed. Nothing else mattered. He could never forgive her, she knew that. But let his grieving be for those October afternoons in the hafod. Not for this, not for a betrayal in his own bedchamber. She could at least do that for him. She could give him the truth about tonight and hope it might in time help to heal some of his pain.

  Once she was dressed, though, she found herself standing motionless by the door. How could she find Llewelyn? The thought of entering the great hall in search of him was terrifying. She wanted only to stay here in the dark, never to have to face others again. But she must somehow find the courage to do this, for Llewelyn’s sake if not her own. She braced herself and then opened the door, only to find her way barred by armed guards.

  12

  Aber, North Wales

  April 1230

  The men came for Joanna the following morning. She had no warning; they entered without knocking, announced brusquely that she was to accompany them. “Where are you taking me?” she asked, the composure of her question utterly belied by the tremor in her voice, and one of the men laughed.

  “Did you not hear the hammering? Carpenters have been laboring since dawn to erect a gallows…for two.”

  Even before she saw the startled looks on the other faces, Joanna was sure the man lied. If Llewelyn meant for her to die, she’d have died last night in her own bed. He would never hang her; she knew that with such certainty that she found the assurance now to challenge their authority. “I want to know where I am to be taken.”

  “Do you indeed? Well, I’d not give a fig for what you want,” he jeered, and Joanna stiffened, for that expression had long since taken on obscene connotations. “You’ve no right to ask questions. You forfeited all rights the day you chose to play the whore for a Norman lord.”

  No one had ever dared speak to her with such contempt, and Joanna felt as if she’d been torn, naked and defenseless, from a cocoon of privilege and power, with no skills for survival in this harsh new world. But indignation was an indulgence no longer available to her. All she could do was to salvage what dignity she could. “Very well. I will come with you as soon as I braid my hair.”

  Her tormentor stepped toward her, took the brush out of her hand. “No, you will come now,” he said, and she had no choice but to obey. When Topaz sought to follow, he thrust the dog aside impatiently, and Joanna had no choice but to accept that, too.

  Just as they reached the door, a terrifying thought came to her. What if he was not lying about the gallows? What if she was being brought out to watch as Will was hanged? Merciful Jesus, let it not be so, she was praying wordlessly, desperately, as they opened the antechamber door.

  As early as it was, the bailey was thronged with men and women. They watched in unnerving silence as Joanna emerged into the sunlight, but as she was led forward, they began to murmur among themselves. Several spat deliberately upon the ground; one bolder than the rest called out loudly, “Norman slut!” Joanna flushed, suddenly seeing herself through other eyes, hostile eyes. How she regretted dressing last night in such haste; without stockings or chemise she felt half naked, slatternly, and with her hair loose, tumbling down her back, blowing untidily about her face, she must look as if she’d just been roused from a man’s bed, a lover’s embrace.

  There was a sudden stir; Glynis broke through the crowd, ran toward Joanna. “I did not do it, Madame,” she cried. “I sent no message, I swear by Our Lady I did not!”

  “I know, Glynis, I know.” Joanna’s eyes swept the crowd. “Where is Senena?”

  “Gone, my lady. She left nigh on an hour ago for Deganwy Castle.”

  That came as no surprise to Joanna. Senena would want to tell Gruffydd with no delay. Glynis was gazing at h
er in sudden comprehension. “Madame, you think it was she…?”

  “Who else? But you must go back now, Glynis, lest the others think you too sympathetic, lest they suspect you of aiding and abetting me in a liaison with Will.”

  Glynis looked frightened, but she stayed resolutely by Joanna’s side for several strides. “Go with God, my lady.”

  The crowd’s anger was growing, and as Joanna feared, some of it was now directed at Glynis. But most of the abuse was reserved for Joanna, and as she heard herself called “whore” and “harlot,” she began to comprehend at last the political implications of her adultery. Their outrage was in fact rooted in fear, the fear that she’d made Llewelyn ridiculous in the eyes of his English enemies. Nor was the fear ill-founded. The aging husband with a wanton young wife was a stock figure of fun, found in innumerable comic tales and guild mummeries, and for a Prince, nothing could be more injurious to authority than laughter, the mockery of other men. As Joanna came to this appalled understanding, she realized, too, that her sin was twofold in the eyes of Llewelyn’s countrymen, for not only had she betrayed her husband, she had betrayed him with a Norman, with one of her own.

  She faltered, and the heckling increased. She knew she must not weep, must not show fear. For Davydd’s sake, she must be strong enough to endure their scorn. As a child in London, she’d once seen a harlot doing public penance through the city streets; the hapless woman had been followed by a jeering crowd, pelted with mud and rotten apples, and that memory came treacherously back to haunt Joanna now. The insults were getting uglier. Would they dare subject her to the same harsh treatment?

  Another memory came to her then, this one more merciful, for it enabled her to find the courage she so needed, the memory of a woman more than twenty years dead, the memory of a woman who’d also been an unfaithful wife, a woman who would have faced down such a hostile crowd with haughty indifference, her father’s mother, her grandmother, Eleanor of Aquitaine.