Here Be Dragons - 1

by Sharon Kay Penman

  summer is out." Richard waited to see if Will would argue further. When Will did not, shoulders slumping in demoralized defeat, eyes averted from that which he'd fought a lifetime against acknowledging, Richard realized that Will's moment of truth was his, too. His every instinct told him to keep silent, to distance himself as he'd always done, even as he moved toward his father. "I think it could work to your advantage to spare Gruffydd, Papa," he said softly. "Llewelyn would be half crazed with fear for the boy. You could make use of that fear, hold it over his head like the sword of Damocles. To have leverage like that over an enemy ..." He saw John's eyes narrow and he dared to hope he'd hit upon the one argument that might stay his father's hand. "There is much in what you say, Richard," John conceded, "and I'd agree with youbut for one thing. Llewelyn ab lorwerth is a dead man, ar|d there is no need to seek leverage over the dead." John glanced about the hall, saw that no one else meant to speak. "I ant it done this forenoon," he said. "The sooner they die, the sooner Word of their deaths will reach Llewelyn." f lrst one to suffer from Llewelyn's rebellion had been his son. Gruf- to s status had been changed overnight from that of highborn hostage Prisoner of state. As yet, he was not being abused, and his confine-

  372 ment was in castle chambers, not the dark, airless dungeons that fille(j him with such fear. But his days and nights were passed under guard and he was finding it harder and harder to keep at bay his most persistent enemies: boredom and loneliness. Soon after their arrival at Nottingham, he had been escorted to the uppermost chamber in the Black Tower, and then left alone. The room was sparsely furnished, containing only a bed, trestle table, bench, and chamber pot. He wandered about rather aimlessly for several moments indulging in the fantasy that occupied most of his waking hours, thoughts of escape. A pity the window was not large enough to squeeze through; mayhap he could have knotted the bedsheets, lowered himself down into the bailey once dark came. He never passed a church now without thinking of sanctuary, never picked up an eating knife without evaluating it as a weapon. His meal had already been laid out for him; there was a glazed clay flagon brimming with ale, a round, flat loaf of bread marked with a cross, a chunk of goat's cheese, and a baked pigeon pie. Gruffydd would have liked to believe that his friends were eating as well as he, but he had no way of knowing. In these six weeks of his captivity, his isolation had been complete. He was reaching for the clay flagon when the door opened. At sight of the three men, Gruffydd stiffened. It may have been the way they moved toward him, hands on sword hilts, saying nothing. It may have been the rope coiled from one man's belt. Or it may have been a more subtle indicator, an inborn sense of sudden danger. Gruffydd did not pause to puzzle it out; his reaction was as instinctive as it was immediate. He got to his feet, and as the first guard approached the table, he swung the flagon in a wide, deadly arc. It shattered against the man's face; he screamed and staggered backwards. They had not been expecting resistance, and that gave Gruffydd a momentary advantage. He overturned the table onto the second man, dived for the doorway. Had the third guard been slightly slower in his reflexes, he would have made it. But the man was cat-quick; slamming the door, he flung himself at Gruffydd. He at once regretted it, for he could match neither Gruffydd s strength nor his desperation, and he found himself in a savage, noholds-barred brawl in which he was getting much the worst of it. Unable to unsheath his sword, he soon stopped trying to keep Gruffydd fr° reaching the door and concerned himself only with keeping Grufryo from killing him. After what seemed a lifetime to him, his comrade untangled him5 from the wreckage of the table, came to his aid. Even then, it took two of them to subdue Gruffydd, and the struggle ended only when

  373 anaged to draw his sword, put the blade against Gruffydd's throat, d snarl, "Give me an excuse, go on, just blink1" They forced Gruffydd to kneel, jerked his arms behind his back, began to bind his wrists tightly together, cuffing him about the head and shoulders when he resisted The third man had taken no part in the fight, was slumped, moanine, against the wall But now he stumbled to his feet, and his companions swore in startled sympathy His face was already swelling rapidly, bloated and bloodied, his mouth so distorted and puffy that it resembled nothing so much as the grotesque gnmace of a scarecrow He bent over, spat into his hand, stared incredulously at a bloody tooth With that, he lurched toward Gruffydd For a moment he stood over the boy, looking down at him And then he grabbed Gruffydd's tunic collar, struck him across the face You hear that hammering in the bailey7 They're building a gallows for you and the other hostages The King wants the lot of you to hang ere he dines And you, you misbegotten Welsh bastard, you shall be the very first to die, I'll see to that1" "No, my lord Salisbury said we're to wait with this one, that he's to be last" The man swore, discovered another loose tooth, and hit Gruffydd again, this time in the stomach "Mayhap that is even better This way he 11 have time to think on it, to imagine how that rope'll feel about his neck, how it'll feel to be choking for air, and not getting any1" Gruffydd could not breathe, each breath was more constricted, more labored than the last It was partly the blow he'd just taken, but mainly it was panic Not only was hanging a dishonorable, shameful way to die, but it was, he knew, also a particularly painful death Only if a man was hanged from horseback did the fall break his neck, otherwise he slowly strangled Never had Gruffydd known fear like this, terror made all the more intense by his utter helplessness He strained against his bonds, tried frantically to free himself, while the men watched and laughed at his futile efforts Out in the bailey, the hammering continued '°HM stood at the window of the great hall, watching as the Welsh hos- ages were hanged Some tried to fight, had to be dragged cursing and eking up onto the gallows Others, especially the younger ones, were ° stunned to offer resistance A few wept, a few pleaded Richard 3 seen executions before, and had not thought he was particularly Beamish But this had been too much for him, he'd turned away, un- able to watch

  374 PP 375 The hangings were still going on when dinner was served. The cooks had prepared one of John's favorite dishes, stewed lamprey eels in saffron sauce. It was a favorite of Richard's, too, but he found he could not swallow more than a mouthful. Some of the hostages being hanged were no older than the young pages serving the lamprey and roast peacock. He laid his knife down, did not pick it up again. The pages were bringing in the subtlety, a spun-sugar creation sculptured to resemble a flame-breathing dragon. On their heels came the marshal of the hall. Kneeling before John, he said nervously, " thought it best not to wait till the meal's end, Your Grace. A courier has just ridden in from Wales, bearing an urgent message from your daughter, the Princess Joanna. Shall I send him in?" John nodded, and a moment later a young Welshman stumbled into the hall. He was unshaven, his clothing stained with sweat and the dust of the road, and at first Richard thought he was drunk; his eyes were glazed, slid blankly past John without seeing. But then he saw how the man's gaze kept coming back to the window, and he understood. Not drunk, in shock. When prompted by the marshal, the Welshman knelt, held out a folded parchment. "My lady entrusted me with this. She said . . ." He swallowed, tried to remember, to blot out for a moment what was happening in the bailey. "She said I must give it into your hands and yours alone, that none but you must read it. . ." John reached for the letter, made sure that the seal was indeed Joanna's and had not been tampered with. Only then did he break it open, begin to read. When he glanced up, he had paled noticeably. "Someone give this man a shilling for his trouble. My lords of Chester and Pembroke, you stay. Will and Richard, you stay, too. The rest of you, out. . . now." Men set down their wine cups, stared at him in astonishment, mouths full of unchewed food. But after taking one look at his face, they pushed resentfully away from the tables. Within moments the hall was cleared. John rose, but he was suddenly reluctant to share the contents of Joanna's letter. He hesitated, and then said abruptly, "Joanna has written me that some of my own lords are plotting with Llewelyn and the other Welsh Princes. She says that they mean to rebel once we're in Wales, either to kill me or
to turn me over to the Welsh." As he spoke, his eyes moved intently from face to face, assessing the impact of his words. He did not truly suspect Chester or Pembroke. but he was relieved, nonetheless, to see that their surprise was un feigned. At least these two could be eliminated as suspects. But that s left so many, half his court. How could he trust anyone? How could he ever be sure, ever be safe? "John, what mean you to do?" "I do not know, Will," John admitted. "I need time, time to think." He began to pace. "Christ, it could be any of them. De Vesci has always been a malcontent. De Clare never wanted me to be King; he thinks I've forgotten that, but I have not. Derby is de Braose's blood kin, and Huntingdon" The Earls of Huntingdon and Derby were Chester's brothers-inlaw, and he interrupted hastily, "My liege, this serves for naught. We need more than suspicions. First of all, we must look to your safety. Thank Jesus for your daughter's warning." John nodded. "My God," he said softly, "I'd have walked blindly into their trap. If not for Joanna ..." "She saved your life, Papa," Richard said, and again John nodded. "Yes, lad, I think she did."

  "Then give her a life in return, Papaher stepson's life." John frowned. "Joanna has reason to want Gruffydd dead," he said impatiently. "Good reason." "But she does not want him to die, Papa. I know, for she asked me to protect him if I could." John turned to stare at his son; his surprise was genuine. "You truly think she'd want me to spare him?" "Yes, Papa, she would." "I cannot for the life of me understand why! I do owe Joanna a debt, but ..." He fell silent, began to reread his daughter's letter. He was remembering Llewelyn's surrender at Aberconwy, envisioning himself in Llewelyn's place, delivered into Llewelyn's hands by his own barons. It was a thought to make him flinch. Richard's words came back to him now: "To have leverage like that over an enemy . . ." "Has Maelgwn's son been hanged yet?" he asked unexpectedly, and Richard gave a baffled nod. "I think so, Papa. Why?" "I was just wondering how the other Welsh Princes would react, if 'heir sons were hanged and Llewelyn's alone was spared. I'd like to see him try to explain that to Maelgwn, in truth I would!" John said and 'aughed grimly. "Very well, Richard. Mayhap you're right, mayhap 'here's more to be gained by keeping the whelp alive. Tell the hangman tlus one fish is off the hook. For now." LOOD of Christ!" Richard stood motionless in the doorway, shocked at oW of Gruffydd. The boy's face was covered with welts and bruises;

  376 one eye was swollen shut; dried blood had encrusted a gash across hi forehead, matted his hair. He shrank back as the door opened, strue gled to sit upright. Richard had once come across a snared wildcat, crouched to earth spitting fear and defiance as the huntsman moved in for the kill. He savy that same terrified rage now on Gruffydd's face, knew it would be a memory to trouble his sleep in nights to come. He had ever prided himself upon his analytical turn of mind. But however neglected his imagination was in consequence, he did not need to be told what the past three hours must have been like for Gruffydd, listening as his comrades were dragged to their deaths, expecting at any moment his own summons to the gallows, and he said furiously, "Who told you whoresons to maltreat him like this? And why is he gagged?" "We had to, lord. It was the only way to shut him up. He got right abusive. As for his hurts "the man pointed to his own blackened eye "in truth, he gave as good as he got." "Hand me a flask," Richard demanded, and he knelt by Gruffydd, removed the rag they'd stuffed into his mouth. "Here," he said, "drink." Gruffydd did, swallowing in gulps as if he could never get enough. At last he took one final mouthful, raised up and spat it into Richard's face. Richard recoiled, and then raised his arm, slowly and deliberately wiped his face on his sleeve. "I came to tell you," he said, "that you will not be hanged." Gruffydd did not react like one reprieved. His lips were drawn back from his teeth, and his unswollen eye blazed with such feverish hatred that Richard realized further conversation would be pointless. There was nothing he could say that Gruffydd would believe, and he sighed, reached for his dagger. Gruffydd gasped, tried to squirm out of range. Richard had no liking for Gruffydd, but at that moment he found himself pitying Llewelyn's son as he'd never pitied anyone before. "I'll not hurt you, Gruffydd. I mean only to cut your bonds." Leaning over, he slashed at the ropes binding the boy's wrists, and then hastily backed away. "I'll see that you're given balm for your bruises . . . and some wine." Gruffydd made no response, and Richard beckoned to the guards, moved to the door. "I do not expect you to believe me," he said slowly' "but you'll not be harmed." Knowing that he lied, that Gruffydd had already suffered harm beyond healing. Gruffydd did not move, did not reply, and Richard lingered a n'O ment longer, then closed the door quietly behind him. At that, Grufty

  377 --rambled (0 his feet, grabbed for the tableboards, and tried to barricade Sfre door. But it was a futile effort and he knew it. He slumped down on he bed, massaged the rope burns on his wrists, and listened for returnjpg footsteps. It was a long time before he let himself believe that Richard had not re(j that they would not be coming back for him. It was even longer before he could nerve himself to stand up, to walk to the window. Below him the bailey was drenched in hot summer sun. A breeze had sprung up from the east, and the bodies swinging from the gallows were swaying gently back and forth. Gruffydd stood motionless, stared down at the slowly twisting bodies until the gallows blurred in a haze of hot tears. JOHN moved over to a table, selected a morsel of meat, and tossed it to one of the castle dogs. He and his son were alone in the hall; he had not even allowed the servants in to clean up, and the tables still gave cluttered testimony to their interrupted meal. He threw the dog another tidbit, said, "You might as well be the first to know. I'm calling off the Welsh campaign ... at least for now. I cannot risk going into Wales until I'm sure I'd not be betrayed." "I think that's most wise, Papa." Ah, Joanna, you truly did it, lass. You won a war. But not a victory the Welsh will ever want to celebrate. Richard glanced over his shoulder, toward the bailey. Jesu, no. A glimmer of silver caught Richard's eye. Bending down, he scooped up a handful of pennies, for a moment studied them in puzzlement. And then he understood. This was the money John had ordered given to Joanna's messenger. He fingered the coins and then let them drop, one by one, back into the floor rushes. "Since you mean to delay the Welsh invasion, you will not have any need of me for a while, then?" "Mayhap not. Why?" "Conisbrough Castle is but a day's hard ride from Nottingham. I should like to visit with my lady mother. Have I your permission to leave the court?" "I see." John subjected his son to a thoughtful, probing scrutiny. At asthe said, with obvious reluctance, "If that be your wish." Until that moment Richard had not admitted to himself just how uch he wanted to get away. "Thank you, Papa," he said, adding as Usually as he could, "It'll not be dark till well past nine. I think I'll make e °f the hours of daylight remaining, and leave now." John merely nodded. But as Richard reached the door, he said sudn'y/ "Richard . . . you do mean to come back?"

  378 Richard's hand tightened on the door latch. "Yes, Papa, of course I do." Wondering if he had a choice. Wondering, too, if he truly wanted one. John moved to the window, watched Richard cross the bailey. He did not like this request of Richard's, not at all, but something in his son's face had warned him not to refuse. Not once had Richard met his eyes, not once. Mayhap he should have tried to explain, to make Richard see why it had to be done. But why was it not obvious to Richard? Of what earthly value were hostages unless men knew they'd be sacrificed if need be? Now when he demanded hostages from Huntingdon and de Clare, from all those he suspected, they'd take great care to please him, to stay loyal. They'd learn from Llewelyn's fatal mistake. He glanced over at the gallows. A moment later he was at the door, shouting for a messenger. He had not long to wait; he'd never been obeyed with such haste as he was in these hours after the hangings. "I have a message for you to deliver, one of great urgency. You're to leave now for Wales." The courier paled, guessing what was coming. "Wales, my liege? Llewelyn ab lorwerth?" John was indifferent to the man's alarm. "Yes. I want you to tell him of the hangings. I want him to know that his hostages are dead." jl DOLWYDDELAN, NORTH WALES August 1212 I OANNA had move
d a stool close to the bed, an for more than an hour she watched Llewelyn as he slept. His was sleep of utter exhaustion; he'd not stirred for the past three hours, even when Joanna removed his boots. The longer he slept, the m difficult it was for her to keep still. The urge to awaken him was bee