Here Be Dragons - 1

by Sharon Kay Penman

  89 ne rubbed them with the back of her hand, tried to focus on her surroundings. "I suppose we must take your word that there is a child hidden underneath all that grime. Has she ever, in all her life, had a bath?" The voice was scornful, belonged to the most beautiful woman Joanna had ever seen, fair-skinned and flaxen-haired, a flesh-and-blood embodiment of ideal womanhood, as extolled in Clemence's bedtime chansons. But this bewitching creature was looking at her with such distaste that Joanna flushed, pressed back against Simon, who seemed no less flustered. He stammered something about the hardships of the road, and the woman laughed. "I daresay you never even noticed how she looked. God knows, you're filthy enough yourself!" Joanna did not like this woman, not at all. "My mama gave me baths," she said, and was bewildered when those around her laughed. But then the door was opening, and two enormous dogs were rushing at her, barking furiously. They towered above Joanna; when one lunged at her, hot breath brushing her face, her nerves gave way and she began to scream, could not stop even after someone had lifted her to safety. Joanna's screams soon gave way to choked sobs. Her rescuer let her cry, having silenced the dogs with a one-word command. His tunic seemed wondrously soft to her, fragrant with orris root. She rubbed her cheek against it, felt his hand moving on her hair. "Do you not like dogs, lass?" he asked, stirring an immediate, indignant denial. "I love dogs! But they were so big ..." Peering down from his arms, she saw that the dogs were not quite so monstrous after all, were merely large, friendly wolfhounds. "I love dogs," she repeated. "But my mama would never let me have one." He laughed, and touched his finger to a smudge on her nose. "Well, you are a surprise package, if a rather bedraggled one. How would you fancy a bath?" A PALLET had been made up by the bed; they stood looking down at the sleeping child. "Do you remember the mother at all, John?" "Yes, I do; does that surprise you? Clemence d'Arcy. A very pretty girl . . and a very stupid one." Joanna's clothes lay on the floor by the bathing tub, and John touched them with the toe of his boot. "Have these rags burned, Adele.

  90 I assume there is a seamstress in the castle? See that she has enough material, from your own coffers, if need be." "But John . . . it's nigh on ten; she's abed for certes." "Not for long. I want a new gown for Joanna by morning, something soft, in green or gold." Reaching for the corner of the blanket, he rubbed gently at Joanna's wet hair. She stirred, but did not awaken. "I'm amazed, in truth, that she does not seem to fear me. I rather doubt that Clemence spoke tenderly of me. Until I can engage a suitable nurse, I'll expect you to care for her," he added, and Adele's mouth dropped open. "Me?" "Yes, darlingyou. Passing strange about the name. Joanna was Clemence's mother; I recall now. I think I shall tell her that she was named after my sister Joanna. She is my first daughter, Adele; all the others have been sons." Adele laughed. "I've never seen this side of you before, John. You remind me of nothing so much as a lad with a new toy!" John raised his head, gave her a long, level look. "I begin to think you might be as stupid as Clemence," he said, very softly, and Adele paled. "I did not mean to offend you, my lord." "Well, then, you'd best think how to make it up to me, darling," he said, still softly, and she nodded. "It shall be my pleasure." "Not entirely yours, I hope!" He laughed then, and after a pause, she laughed, too. JOANNA slept till midmorning, awakening, bewildered, in a huge curtained bed as soft as a cloud. There was a fox-fur coverlet pulled up over her, and at the foot of the bed lay the most beautiful clothes she'd ever seen: a linen chemise, an emerald wool gown, and a bliaut over-tunic of green and gold. But her own gown was nowhere in sight. Wrapping herself in the fur coverlet, she moved cautiously from the bed, began to search the chamber for her clothes. Never had she been in a room like this. The walls were covered with linen hangings, glowing with color. Thickly laid floor rushes, intermingled with sweet-smelling basil and mint, tickled the soles of her feet. There was a table covered with a clean white cloth, an enormous oaken coffer, even a large brass chamber pot. Joanna was at a loss. But she was remembering more now, remembered being bathed and put to bed, remembered a man with a reassuring smile, green-gold eyes, and the beautiful, unfriendly woman he

  91 lied Adele. She remembered, too, how, when she'd awakened in the 'eht not knowing where she was, he'd taken her into bed with him nd Adele; nestled between them, she'd soon slept again, feeling safe for the first time since her mother died. The door opened; Adele entered. "Well, you're up at last. John's awaiting you in the great hall, so hurry and dress." "My clothes are gone," Joanna said reluctantly, suddenly afraid that she'd be blamed for their loss. "They're right there on the bed." Adele pointed impatiently when Joanna merely looked at her, uncomprehending. And only then did Joanna reach out, timidly touch the soft lace edging the chemise, not truly convinced such clothes could be hers until Adele snapped, much as her mother had so often done, "Are you going to tarry all day? Put them on." Following Adele down the winding stairwell, Joanna discovered it led to a great hall, much like the one at Middleham. Dogs were rooting in the floor rushes for bones; servants were carrying platters of food; men seated at long trestle tables laughed and joked as they ate, the overall atmosphere one of cheerful chaos. Joanna hesitated, daunted by the sight of so many people, but Adele pushed her forward, into the hall. "Go on in. Would you keep him waiting?" At the end of the hall a dais had been set up, and Joanna recognized the man who'd been so kind to her the night before. She was gathering up her courage to approach him when he beckoned to her. She came at once, realizing, with a jolt of astonished happiness, that he was as glad to see her as she was to see him. Within moments she found herself seated beside him, being urged to share the food ladled onto his trencher. She was dazzled both by the size of the portions and the amazing variety: roasted venison, lampreys in sauce, a rissole of beef marrow, pea soup, glazed wafers, pancake crisps, and a sweet spiced wine he called hippocras. John let her sip from his cup, named each food for hereven let her choose for herself which dishes she wanted to try, and by the end of the meal, Joanna was utterly captivated by him. He had a low, pleasant voice, never raised it, and yet was obeyed with celerity. It was obvious to Joanna that he was a man of importance. That made it all the more wondrous that he should take such an interest in her. She watched him closely, eating what he ate, and laughing when he did, so intent she did not at first notice what would normally have claimed all her attention, the small spaniel puppy being led toward the dais. "You said your mother would allow you no dog, Joanna. Well, I will," John said, depositing the squirming spaniel in her lap. He heard her catch her breath; she looked up at him with eyes so adoring that he

  92 laughed. "I think you shall be cheaper to content than the other women in my life; they yearn for pearls and silks, not puppies." "For me? Truly for me?" The puppy was a soft silver grey; it wriggled as Joanna ruffled its fur, swiped at her fingers with its tongue. "Have you a name in mind, Joanna?" When she shook her head, John smiled. "I've one for you, then. Why not call her Avisa?" Joanna thought that a very pretty name, wondered why so many of the men laughed. One, wearing a priest's cassock, said, "Despite your differences, the Lady Avisa is still your wife, my lord, in the eyes of both man and God." "And precisely because she is, Father, I can say for certes that Avisa is an uncommonly apt name for a bitch," John said dryly, and again those around the dais laughed. Joanna did not understand this byplay, but she reached out, shyly stroked John's sleeve. "I do like Avisa for the puppy," she said, seeking to please him, saw by his smile that she had. After the meal was cleared away, the men sat down at one of the tables and unrolled a large map of Normandy. Joanna hovered in the background, playing with her puppy. When her curiosity drew her toward the table, John did not chase her away; instead he sat her on his lap, spent several moments pointing out places on the map, showing her a French town called Gamaches and telling her how he had taken and burnt the town that August past for his brother the King. Joanna did not understand about battles or campaigns; what mattered to her was that he should take the time and trouble to explain. She was so happy that she went quite willi
ngly when Adele came to fetch her. Back in the bedchamber, she sat docilely upon the coffer while Adele brushed her hair, wondering why Adele, who obviously did not like her, should care if her hair was combed or not. When Adele put the brush away, she went to the window, climbed onto the seat to gaze down into the bailey. And panicked at what she saw. "Simon!" She'd actually forgotten all about him. "Who is Simon?" "He brought me here." Joanna jerked at the shutters, tugged until she'd blocked Simon from view. "When does he go?" Adele shrugged. "On the morrow, I expect." On the morrow. On the morrow Simon would take her away, to her father. As soon as Adele departed the chamber, Joanna scrambled from the window seat. Never before had she thought to rebel, but never before had so much been at stake. She quickly settled upon the coffer. Rooting in the hearth for a suitable stick of firewood, she tucked the puppy under her arm, lowered herself into the coffer, and jammed the stick under

  93 lid so she'd not be utterly in the dark. On the morrow Simon would rch for her in vain, would have to leave without her. "Joanna?" She tensed, heard her name called again. Avisa had begun to himper. She shivered, kept very still. And then the coffer lid was thrown back, her hiding place exposed. "Why did you not answer me, Joanna? What foolish game is this?" But at sight of her tearstained face, John's annoyance ebbed away. Reaching down, he lifted her out, set her beside him on the bed. "Now, tell me what is wrong." "I was hiding from Simon," she confessed. "So he could not take me to my father." There was a silence. She slanted a glance through wet lashes, saw he was watching her, with a very strange look on his face. "Please," she entreated. "Do not make me go with him." Still he said nothing. As hope faded, tears began to streak her face again. "I thought you understood. Joanna ... I am your father." He saw her eyes widen, pupils dilate with shock. He started to touch her, stopped himself. "Joanna . . . what did your mother tell you of me?" She swallowed. "That you were wicked, that your soul was accursed, that you did not want me." The corner of John's mouth twitched. "She lied to you, lass. I do want you." Joanna stared down into her lap. "Mama did not want me," she whispered. "Did you love your mother, Joanna?" She nodded, and then said, almost inaudibly, "I was afraid of Mama sometimes." John reached out, tilted her chin up. "Do you fear me?" She did not answer at once, and he was later to tell Adele that he'd actually been able to see it in her eyes, that moment when loyalty given to a dead woman was given to him. "No," she said, and as the wonder of that realization registered with her, she shook her head vehemently. "No, oh, no . . ." "You're flesh of my flesh, Joanna, of my blood. You understand what that means?" "That I belong to you?" she ventured, and he smiled. "Just so, Joanna. Just so." And then she was in his arms, clinging, and he was laughing, hugging her back. That was the beginning of the good times for Joanna.

  8 POITIERS, PROVINCE OF POITOU January 1199 a. "

  95 , lunges for it like a starving trout! But you, Madame, God's truth, I'd have expected better of you!" "Philip claims to have a letter that proves your complicity in this . trjgue, a letter in your own hand." "Oh, for the love of Christ! What better proof of my innocence ould you ask for than that? If I were involved in some scheme to betray Richard, do you truly think I'd ever be so stupid as to incriminate myself in writing? Are you sure Philip does not have a convenient confession, too, that I somehow happened to sign and leave in his safekeeping?" Eleanor felt the first flickers of doubt. "Your denial has the ring of truth to it," she said slowly. "But then your denials always do, John." "If you and Richard believe this lunatic accusation, it can only be because you want to believe it, Madame. You yourself said it; five full years I've devoted to regaining Richard's goodwill. Think you that I've enjoyed being at his beck and call, being subject to his erratic tempers, his every whim? Or that I'd gamble those five years on something so worthless as Philip's word? Jesus God, Mother! What would I gain by intriguing with Philip? We both know he has no hope of ever defeating Richard on the field." He was as angry as Eleanor had ever seen him, too angry for either artifice or discretion. His was not a defense calculated to endear, and would have found little favor with Richard. But there was an iceblooded, unsparing honesty to it that was, to Eleanor, more persuasive than any indignant avowals of good faith. It was the very amorality of John's argument that carried so much conviction. "You're saying, then, that Philip was merely seeking to stir up trouble between you and Richard?" "And succeeding, from the sound of it. Know you where Richard is now? Will I find him still at Castle Gaillard?" Eleanor no longer doubted. There could be no better indication of John's innocence than this, that he would willingly seek Richard out. When he was in the wrong, the last thing he ever wanted was to face his accusers, to confront those he'd betrayed. Eleanor's relief was inexpressible. Her easy acceptance of John's guilt had been prompted as much by fear as by her son's dismal record of broken faith and betrayals, the fear that she had misjudged him, after a'l/ that he was not the pragmatist she'd thought him to be. Had he indeed been intriguing with Philip, that would mean to Eleanor that his judgment was fatally and unforgivably flawed, flawed enough to taint any claim he might have had to the crown. That was a conclusion she sr|rank from, for it would signify the end of all her hopes for an Angevin

  96 dynasty, and that was the dream which had somehow sustained her even when she'd had nothing else to hold on to. She sat down abruptly in a cushioned chair. "Thank God," she said simply, with enough feeling to soothe John's sense of injury. "But of course I do accept your apologies, Mother," he said, very dryly. Righteous indignation was not an emotion indigenous to his temperamental terrain; he had too much irony in his makeup to be able to cultivate moral outrage, and now that he no longer feared being called to account for a sin that truly was not his, he was beginning to see the perverse humor in his predicament. " 'Be not righteous overmuch,'" he quoted, and grinned. "But how can I help it? After all, how often have I been able to expose my conscience to your exacting eye . . . and lived to tell the tale?" Eleanor could not help herself, had to smile, too. "By what strange alchemy do you manage to make your vices sound so much like virtues?" She shook her head, gestured toward the table. "Fetch me pen and parchment. Better that I be the one to assure Richard of your innocence." THE ancient river port of Rennes was the capital of Brittany. It was, as well, the favorite residence of Arthur, the young Duke who bore the name of a fabled Celtic King and never doubted that one day he, too, would be a King. The April wind had suddenly shifted and servants were hastening to shutter the windows on the leeward side of the great hall. A juggler was making a manful attempt to entertain, but only Arthur was finding his antics amusing; the adults were far more interested in speculating upon the provocative presence of the man seated at Arthur's right. John had arrived in Rennes at dusk the preceding day, bearing lavish gifts for his "dear nephew" and "sweet sister-by-marriage." While all agreed that he must have an ulterior motive in mind, none could agree upon what it was, and after twenty-four hours of unbridled conjecture, rumors were rampant, the Breton court was in turmoil, and John was enjoying himself immensely. Growing bored now with the amateurish efforts of Arthur's juggler, John appropriated a ruby ring from the prettiest of the women. Showing off the sleight of hand that never failed to delight his daughter, Joanna, he soon had an appreciative audience, and when he at last pretended to find the ring in the girl's bodice, she blushed midst all the laughter, but then slanted him a long-lashed look of unmistakable invitation. "I want to learn how to do that trick, would have you teach me."

  97 ft r a nudge from his mother, Arthur grudgingly added, "If you will, "jt would give me great pleasure to lesson you, lad," John said 1 asantly- "On the morrow, shall we say?" Knowing that Arthur was a t pical twelve-year-old in that what he wanted, he wanted at once. Arthur was not that much older than John's son Richard, but the two cousins had nothing whatsoever in common beyond a blood bond, gichard was an unusually introspective youngster, conscientious and cautious, but quietly stubborn, too; John was fond of his youngest son, but he never knew what Richard was thinking. Arthur was Richard's op
posite in all particulars. Boisterous, cocky, imperious as only a cherished only son can be, Arthur was not accustomed to sharing the limelight, and he'd taken John's unexpected arrival with exceedingly poor grace. He could not comprehend why he must welcome his only rival for the Angevin crown, and at first he'd not even made a pretense of civility. But the ruder he was, the more courteous John became, indulgently affectionate, playful, answering insult with an exaggerated solicitude that stopped just short of parody. Arthur was spoiled, but by no means stupid, and he was not long in realizing that John was getting much the best of these exchanges. He was too young, however, to understand that he was, in effect, making a fool of himself. Now he opened his mouth to protest, thought better of it, and lapsed into a sulky silence. But John had lost all interest in baiting the boy. A woman was approaching the dais. Making a graceful curtsy before Arthur, she then curtsied to John. She had utterly compelling eyes the shade of purest sapphire; she looked briefly into his face, and turned away. John waited a discreet interval, announced he was retiring for the night, and made an ostentatious departure for his own chambers. The gardens were deserted. Although early April, it was as if spring were being held in abeyance that year; the trees were barren, the grass still browned and sere. John hesitated, stepped off the path. She was waiting for him in the arbor, came quickly into his arms. He slid his hands under her mantle, kissed her mouth, her throat, and she sighed, pressed close against him. "I heard you'd come, but did not believe it. What devious game are you playing now, John? Why are you here?" "To see you again, why else?" John said, in part because he thought Jt was expected of him, and in part because he was curious to see if she was naive enough to believe him. She laughed softly. "How gallant! But have you forgotten how well know you, my love? Have you some specific troublemaking in mind, or are you merely seeking to muddy the waters?"