Here Be Dragons - 1

by Sharon Kay Penman

  443 tace de Vesci followed soon after, for the barons, too, understood t how critical the Pope's support would be Both sides then began to Ppareforwar ANNA leaned over her daughter's bed Elen turned her face into the jllow, mumbled, "Nos da, Mam " Joanna hesitated, but decided it was best to allow Elen her aggrieved sense of injury, Elen was seven, old enough for pride "I bid you od night, too, dearest," she said gently, and then crossed the chamber to her son Davydd was wide awake, primed with questions to forestall bedtime "Tell me why Papa has gone, Mama " His French was flawless, but Joanna knew that Welsh came more readily to his tongue, that Welsh formed his thoughts, and that realization had been a surprisingly unsettling one for her, as if a barrier had somehow been erected, leaving her on one side and her children on the other "Your father and the other Welsh Princes have gone to Rhyd y Groes to meet with the new Bishop of Chester and Coventry, who brings an offer of alliance from the English King " The English King But what else could she say7 Your grandfather7 When not a day passed that Davydd did not hear John vilified as a child-slayer, as Herod7 Davydd was so young, how could she expect a six-year-old to understand what she herself could not at twentythree7 Was it not better to wait until he was older, until he began to ask questions7 Mayhap by then she'd have some answers for him Joanna reached out, playfully rumpled Davydd's dark hair, and hoped she was being honest with herself, that she was truly thinking of Davydd and Elen's pain and not her own Llewelyn returned that same night, shortly after Compline As glad as Joanna was to see him, she was not eager to hear what he had to say, 50 sure was she that he'd spurned her father's olive branch She delayed e 'nevitable with feigned cheer, with an animated account of all that « happened in his absence, and while he ate sparingly of smoked wring and rice, she told him that his Seneschal was still ailing, that nyved's wife had given birth to a daughter, and Elen had fallen from a trpp U i c^ knocking out a tooth L|e Lucklly it was one of her baby teeth But I felt I had to punish her, bu], e ^n' 'f only to keep her from breaking her neck, and now she's sjOQ, & Joanna smiled ruefully "I can always tell when I'm not in her graces, she'll talk to me only in Welsh'" ii0nt, ewe'yn laughed, pushed his trencher aside, they were less than a lr|to Lent, and already he was heartily sick of fish, yearning for

  444 w 445 forbidden foods: butter, milk, cheese, eggs, and, above all, meat, "-n warn Elen that tree-climbing is one of the Seven Deadly Sins." Rjsjn from the table, he moved toward Joanna. "We need not talk about it breila." "How well you know me. But no, I was being childish. Tell me what happened. What did my father offer for your support against the northern barons?" "Everything but eternal life everlasting. As always, John is profligate with his promises." Llewelyn turned back to the table, picked up a dried fig. "But you'll not believe what John's new Bishop told us. It seems that John is of a sudden afire with crusading fever, and on March fourth, he took the cross!" Joanna stared at him, openmouthed. "My father?" But after a startled moment to reflect, she realized how clever a stratagem that was, and said so. "More than clever, Joanna. To give the Devil his due, it verges upon brilliance. Whatever else John lacks, it's not imagination. Nothing could be better calculated to win the Pope's goodwill; Innocent has been striving for fifteen years to prod Philip and John into another holy war against the Saracens." "I know," Joanna said, and for an unguarded moment there was in her voice the echoes of indulgent affection, of the love she'd once given to John in such free and abundant measure. "I remember the Pope's letters, but my father never found the prospect of dying for the Holy Land all that alluring!" "Well, he's now seen the light ... at a most opportune time, in truth. Since a crusader's person and possessions are inviolate, that puts his foes at a distinct disadvantagethe most Christian King and the infidel barons. De Vesci would have done better to bypass Rome, to spend these weeks fortifying his castle at Alnwick. For as long as John talks of Jerusalem, the Pope will buy whatever he has to sell." It was a cynical assessment, but Joanna could find no fault with it "What of Gruffydd? Did my father offer to release him?" "Of course . . . after I help him prevail over the rebels." "And . . . and you do not believe he would keep his word?" "Do you, Joanna?" "I do not know." Joanna averted her gaze. "Mayhap he might/ s ventured, and Llewelyn's eyes narrowed. , "I see. Do you also believe that unicorns can only be caugn , virgins? Do you believe, too, that the barnacle goose is spawned in sea like a fish and may be eaten during Lent?" ,t'S "Llewelyn, stop! You asked me what I believed, and I told y°u- ot fair to blame me because you did not like my answer. Would you rather I'd lied to you?" A moment passed, and then another, before Llewelyn was able to urnmon up a taut smile. "How do you expect us to get a satisfactory argument going if you fall back upon logic?" He stepped closer, let his hands rest upon her shoulders. "I know you want to believe that John would keep faith, set Gruffydd free. I would to God I could believe it, too, Joanna. But I know better. John promises gold and delivers dross. He'll never let Gruffydd go, never. Not unless he's forced to it." Joanna said nothing. Llewelyn's way was not hers. She'd have bargained all that Heaven held, would never have risked the war that brought about twenty-eight deaths at Nottingham Castle. But Gwynedd was not her homeland, and Gruffydd was not her son. "Joanna . . . there is something else I must tell you. William de Cornhill was John's sworn man long ere he was made Bishop of Coventry and Chester. He spoke for John, at John's bidding, offered to free Rhys Gryg, to buy our swords and let the dead bury their dead. But he warned, too, what we might expect should we make of John an enemy and not an ally. He was quite blunt, said that if I

  joined with the rebel barons, I would be excommunicated." Joanna gasped. "And you'd risk even that?" She knew that her father had not been greatly troubled by his own sentence of excommunication. But she knew, too, that Llewelyn's faith was not as tenuous as John's. "Llewelyn, beloved, think what you do. When you ride into battle, you'll be offering up more than your life. You'll be offering up your soul." "I do not believe that, Joanna." "But to be excommunicated is to be cast into darkness, eternal damnation" "For the sin of not supporting John? In my eyes, that is no sin, Joanna, and nothing the Bishop of Chester or the Pope says can convince me otherwise. Am I to believe that John Plantagenet is now the Jointed of the Lord, the chosen of God? Not my God." While Joanna shared Llewelyn's sense of outrage, she could not ept the comforting dichotomy he'd drawn between the stringent Cachings of their Church and the infinite mercy of the Almighty. She fo u 'n *^e f°Pe's power to damn her husband, however unjustly, i e was not like Llewelyn, not a rebel, and in despair she wondered ,, e d find the strength to endure what lay ahead. 80 it will be war," she said softly. "War yet again."

  446 r 447 ON April 26, Robert Fitz Walter and Giles de Braose, Bishop of Hereford led an armed force to Northampton. But John did not appear as agreed upon, and the next day the barons moved on to Brackley, where Saer de Quincy had a manor. At Brackley they set forth their demands in writing, calling for a return to "the old laws and customs of the realm," and warning that if John did not agree to their terms, they'd resort to force John's reaction was pithy and predictable. "Why," he snapped, "do they not just ask for my kingdom?" With John's refusal, events seemed to take on their own momenturn. The arrival of letters from the Pope did nothing to diffuse the tension, for he commanded the barons to abandon conspiracies and render their customary service to their King. On May 3, the barons formally renounced their homage and fealty to John, and chose Robert Fitz Walter as the "Marshal of the Army of God and the Holy Church." John did not respond as they expected. He stayed his hand, offered to submit their differences to the Pope and a jointly picked council for arbitration. Despite the grandiloquent title they'd bestowed upon Fitz Walter, the barons were well aware that John had already preempted the high moral ground in this coming war. Few were willing to gamble upon a papal judgment against a crusader King, and their answer to John's offer was to lay siege to Northampton Castle. John had so far trodden with great care, had shown unexpected restraint, and he now began to reap the benefits of his forbearance. The vast ma
jority of the English baronage were neither royalists nor rebels, and while many were sympathetic to the idea of a charter of liberties, these same men were not as enthusiastic about a civil war. The siege at Northampton was an embarrassing failure. On May 12, John cornmanded his sheriffs to seize the lands of all rebels. But just five days later the political landscape was changed beyond recognition. For on Sunday, May 17, as Londoners were at Mass, Robert Fitz Walter's friends opened the city gates, and London, "the capital of the crown and realm," was surrendered to the rebels. ALTHOUGH Shrewsbury was perilously close to the Welsh border, its o izens trusted to the security of the Severn, for the town was sheltered i a protective bend of the river. On three sides the Severn acted as a o midable barrier, as a deep, natural moat; on the north, the one landw approach was blocked by the stone walls of Shrewsbury Castle. BU ^ borderland was in turmoil that May, and when rumors spread Welsh attack, people panicked. tgt They had no luck in getting help from the Sheriff of Shropshire-^ Thomas Erdington was a trusted agent of the English King, an jays John's needs took precedence over all else. Nor could they rely upon neighboring lords; Fulk Fitz Warin, the de Hodnets, and the powerful Corbet clan were all allied with the rebel barons and Llewelyn. Shrewsbury's common council met in urgent session, took the only action open to them, the fortification of the bridge that spanned the west bank of the Severn. Known as St George's or the Welsh bridge, it was an imposing structure, would not be easily assaulted. A tower blocked the eastern entrance off the bridge onto the town's Mardevol Street; a gatehouse with massive loopholed battlements barred entry from the west. Trenches had been dug behind the bridge, sandbags piled up. Frankevile, the little settlement on the opposite bank of the river, was all but deserted. Frightened villagers had long since driven their livestock into the hills, abandoning all they could not carry. St George's and St John's, the two hospitals on the wrong side of the river, had been evacuated. To the men gathered now upon the bridge, all seemed in readiness, but the eerie stillness was not conducive to confidence. Each time birds broke cover along the riverbank, men flinched, tightened grips on sword hilts. Richard Pride and his brother Walter had both served as provosts and thought it only natural that they should assume control of the town's defenses. The

  deputy constable of Shrewsbury Castle thought otherwise, and there'd been several heated exchanges. When the constable demanded that more men be deployed in defense of the castle, Richard Pride accused him of wanting to sacrifice the town for the castle, and they nearly came to blows. It took the intervention of Hugh de Lacy, Abbott of the influential Benedictine abbey of St Peter and St Paul, to restore order. "Need I remind you whom the enemy is? It's madness to squabble amongst ourselves when Llewelyn ab lorwerth and his cutthroat Welsh could come into sight at any moment." The Abbot's acerbic rebuke sobered them all. John de Hibernia said uneasily, "Ought we not to send our women into the castle for safety's sake?" No one answered him, for at that moment they heard the shouting. came from behind them, from the town. The streets had been empty "°urs; shops were boarded up, families barricaded within their uses. But as they turned, they saw a man running up Mardevol eet running toward them. ^ That's Lucas de Coleham," the constable said, needlessly, for ha t Was known on sight to all. The Pride brothers were already p^enin8 to intercept him, with John de Hibernia and Hugh de Cham- 7.! "Sht at their heels. The Welsh ..." Coleham was sobbing for breath; he reeled to a

  448 stop, grabbed at Richard Pride for support. "Llewelyn . . . he's at the bridge!" "Lucas, are you drunk? We hold the bridge, hold" "The stone bridge . . . the English bridge! He's swung around to the east, is attacking from the other direction, from England!" He saw horrified comprehension upon their faces. Someone sworeJohn de Hibernia muttered, "Holy Virgin Mother," and made an instinctive sign of the cross. The Abbot had reached them by now clutched at Coleham's arm. "My abbey," he panted. "What of my abbey?" Coleham's throat was raw, his mouth parched. "It's afire, Abbot Hugh. It's burning." "SPARE the church!" Llewelyn's stallion shied as the wind sent sparks and cinders flying. He wheeled the horse in a semicircle, gestured to his right. "Burn the other buildings!" Fire arrows had already embedded themselves in the thatched roofs of the laundry, the servants' dorters, the stables. Horses bolted in panic, several even floundering into the abbey fishpond. The Abbot's lodging had begun to burn; the guest house was already in flames. Dogs were barking frantically, and freed livestock milled about, but no monks were to be found, no resistance was offered. Most had fled as the Welsh rode into the abbey precincts; some had taken refuge in the nave of the church. The Welsh had no time for the terrified monks. Just three hundred yards away was the English bridge, guarded by only a handful of men, men who were seeking desperately to raise its drawbridge. But they were too late; the Welsh were already on the bridge. Swords flashed, blood splattered upon the red grit stones. The one surviving English soldier whirled, plunged into the river; he did not surface again. Llewelyn's stallion was maddened by the smoke, the scent of blood. It reared up wildly as a man darted into the street, swinging a chained mace. Llewelyn gave the horse free rein; it plunged forward, and the man went down under those flailing hooves. Other men were emerging into the street, but the resistance tne Welsh were encountering was sporadic, halfhearted. Women wer screaming; some of the houses nearest the bridge were on fire. By time Llewelyn reached Haystrete, he knew that Shrewsbury was his the taking. t The High Cross was now in sight; ahead lay the sandstone walls ° John's castle. A small group of men were clustered below the <-

  449 Their swords were sheathed, and they held up a makeshift flag of truce, rjewelyn recognized Hugh de Lacy, and he reined in his mount. The Abbot came forward cautiously; his comrades kept a more prujent distance. "My lord, I speak for the Holy Roman Church, for the provosts and common council of Shrewsbury. We will surrender the town to you, offer no resistance if you'll give us your sworn word that no further harm will come to our people." "What of the castle?" The Abbot was close enough now to see the blood smears on Llewelyn's sword. He could not bring himself to look toward the east, toward the billowing black smoke that overhung his abbey. What they were offering in peace this man could take by force, and then turn their town over to his men for their sport. "The castle, too, will yield, my lord. We ask only that no more lives be lost, that you spare the innocent." "I'd not see men die for a prize already won. Your offer is a fair one; so are your terms." The Abbot's shoulders sagged. His relief was such that he could not speak, could only sigh a fervent, "Thank God Almighty!" Richard Pride was not as easily assured; he knew from firsthand experience what could befall a conquered city. "I do not mean to give offense, my lord, but are you sure you can control your men?" "Yes," Llewelyn said laconically, "I'm sure." No more than that. But Richard Pride was suddenly sure, too. Reaching for his sword, he held it out, hilt first, to the Welsh Prince. "What now? Shall we take you to the castle?" "First I think we'd best see to those fires," Llewelyn said. "I find I suddenly take a very personal interest in Shrewsbury's survival." By noon the Welsh had gathered in the inner bailey of Shrewsbury Castle, where they watched as the royal arms of England yielded to the fed-and-gold lions of North Wales. As Llewelyn's banner fluttered aloft above the keep, they cheered. Llewelyn could have cheered, too. He felt the same excitement, the same jubilant triumph as he gazed upward, and he did not move until Rhys came to stand at his side. 'Shrewsbury was once the capital of the princes of Powys. You've re'aken what was ours, Llewelyn." "We cannot hope to hold it, Rhys; I know that. But I can hold it as n§ as it truly matters, until we've forced John to come to terms with Llewelyn reached out, impulsively embraced his friend. Passing strange," he laughed, "that the first English town I ever ^ sr>ould have been Shrewsbury. I was just a lad of ten, but I rememWell, even after thirty years. And now . . . now Shrewsbury shall

  450 be my bargaining counter, Rhys. I shall make use of Shrewsbury to set my son free." ON June 10, John rode to the meadow called Runnymede, between Windsor and Staines. There he gave grudging consent to the dema
nds of his rebellious barons. The articles drawn up by the barons were affixed with John's great seal, as proof that a preliminary accord had been reached. It was then agreed upon that negotiations would resume on Monday the fifteenth, using the articles as the basis for a final settlement, a charter of liberties that would also serve as a treaty of peace between the embattled King and his disaffected subjects. It was dark by the time John returned to Windsor Castle. He dismissed his attendants, withdrew to his private quarters in the upper bailey, and none dared intrude upon his seclusion, dared to brave the Angevin temper on this, surely one of the most desolate days of a troubled kingship. It was Richard who finally resolved to breach John's defenses. He was no more eager than anyone else to serve as scapegoat for Fitz Walter and his Army of God and Holy Church, but he felt honor-bound to offer his father some small measure of comfort, if only a sympathetic ear. "I'll go if you'd rather be alone, Papa." There was in John's face the exhaustion of a man who'd lived too long on nerves alone, and fury all the more intense for being impotent. But he beckoned Richard into the bedchamber, said, "No ... I'd have you stay." Several sheets of parchment lay scattered about the table. Richard picked up one headed Ista sunt Capitula que Barones petunt et dominus to condedit. That did, he thought, say it all: "These are the clauses which the barons seek and which the lord King concedes." "The charter of Henry I that the barons set such store by, Henry never held to it, Papa. He granted it and promptly disregarded it. Might it not be possible to treat the barons' charter in the same way?" "You're not familiar with all its provisions, are you? Look upon the last page of the articles." Richard had only a passing boyhood acquaintance with Latin, and i took him some moments to make a laborious translation of the claus dealing with "the form of security for the preservation of the peace a liberties between King and Kingdom." The more he read, the more astonished he became. The articles p vided for a committee of twenty-five barons to act as a court of aP" against breaches of the charter provisions. If they decided John was ing in defiance of the charter, they had the power to seize his ca