Here Be Dragons

by Sharon Kay Penman

  The sun had taken on the dull, red-gold haze of coming dusk as Llewelyn obligingly gave Stephen a lesson in the basics of Welsh pronunciation. “Say Rhys like this: Rees. And Ed-nev-ed. Now try Gruffydd; it sounds like your Griffith. In Welsh, the double ‘d’ is pronounced as ‘th.’ So my little brother’s name is spelled A-d-d-a, but we say it as A-tha, Welsh for Adam.” He paused, his head cocked. “Do you hear that? Someone is calling your name.”

  Stephen scrambled to his feet so fast he all but tumbled down the brook embankment. “My brother! Jesú, but he’ll flay me alive!”

  “Why?”

  “I coaxed him into taking me with him to Shrewsbury this morn. We agreed to meet at St George’s bridge and I…I just forgot!”

  “Well, cannot you say you’re sorry and…”

  Stephen shook his head, staring at the boys now mounting the crest of the hill. “No, not with Walter. He…he’s not much for forgiveness…”

  The approaching boys looked to be about fourteen. The youngster in the lead had Stephen’s butter-yellow hair. He strode up to Stephen and, without a word, struck the younger boy across the face, with enough force to send Stephen sprawling.

  “We’ve been looking for you for nigh on two hours! I’ve a mind to leave you here, and damned well should!”

  As Walter reached down and jerked Stephen to his feet, Llewelyn came forward. He’d taken an instant dislike to Walter de Hodnet, but for Stephen’s sake, he sought to sound conciliatory as he said, “It was my fault, too. We were talking and…”

  Walter’s eyes flicked to his face, eyes of bright blue, iced with sudden suspicion. “What sort of lowborn riffraff have you taken up with now, Stephen?”

  Llewelyn flushed. “I am Llewelyn ab Iorwerth,” he said after a long pause; instinct was now alerting him to trouble. At the same time Stephen burst into nervous speech.

  “He is a Welsh Prince, Walter, and…and he’s been telling me all about Wales…”

  “Oh, he has?” Walter said softly, and Stephen, who knew his brother well enough to be forewarned, tried to shrink back. But Walter still had a grip on his tunic. With his other hand he grasped a fistful of Stephen’s hair and yanked, until Stephen’s head was drawn back so far that he seemed to be staring skyward, and was whimpering with pain.

  “That’s just what I could expect from you. No more common sense than the stupidest serf, not since the day you were born. So he’s been telling you about Wales? Did he tell you, too, about the crops burned in the fields, the villages plundered, the women carried off?” Releasing Stephen, he swung around suddenly on Llewelyn.

  “Suppose you tell him about it now. Tell my lack-wit brother about the border raids, tell him how brave your murdering countrymen are against defenseless peasants and how they run like rabbits when we send men-at-arms against them!”

  Sul was grazing some yards away, and for several moments Llewelyn had been measuring the distance, wanting nothing so much as to be up on the gelding’s back and off at a breakneck run. But with Walter’s taunt, he froze where he was, pride temporarily prevailing over fear. He’d never run like a rabbit, never. But there was a betraying huskiness in his voice as he said, “I have nothing to say to you.”

  Walter was flanked by his two companions; they’d moved closer to Llewelyn, too close, and he took a backward step. But he dared retreat no farther, for the brook embankment was at his back and he did not know how to swim. He stood very still, head held high, for he’d once seen a stray spaniel face down several larger dogs by showing no fear. They stepped in, tightening the circle, but made no move to touch him. He was never to know how long the impasse might have lasted, for at that moment one of the boys noticed Sul.

  “Damn me if he does not have his own mount! Where would a Welsh whelp get a horse like that?”

  “Where do you think?” Walter, too, was staring at the chestnut, with frankly covetous eyes. “You know what they say. Scratch a Welshman, find a horse thief.”

  Llewelyn felt a new and terrible fear, for he’d raised Sul from a spindle-legged foal; Sul was his pride, his heart’s passion. He forgot all else, and grabbed at Walter’s arm as the older boy turned toward Sul. “He’s mine, to me! You leave him be!”

  It was a grievous mistake, and he paid dearly for it. They were on him at once, all three of them, and he went down in a welter of thudding fists and jabbing elbows. He flailed out wildly, desperately, but he could match neither his assailants’ strength nor their size, and he was soon pinned down in the trampled grass, Walter’s knees on his chest, his mouth full of his own blood.

  “Misbegotten sons of Satan, the lot of you!” Walter panted. “Bloody bastards, not worth the hanging…” And if the profanity sat self-consciously on his lips, flaunted as tangible proof of passage into the mysteries of manhood, the venom in his voice was not an affectation, was rooted in a bias that was ageless, breathed in from birth.

  “Know you what we mean to do now, Welsh rabbit? Pluck you as clean as a chicken…” He reached out, tore the crucifix chain from Llewelyn’s neck. “Spoils of war, starting with that chestnut horse you stole. You can damned well walk back to Wales, mother-naked, and just thank your heathen gods that we did not hang you for a horse thief! Go on, Philip, I’ll hold him whilst you get his boots…”

  Sul. They were going to take Sul. His bruised ribs, his bloodied nose, hurt and humiliation and impotent fury—all of that was nothing now, not when balanced against the loss of Sul. Llewelyn gave a sudden frantic heave, caught Walter off guard, and rolled free. But as quick as he was, the third boy was quicker, and before he could regain his feet, an arm had crooked around his neck, jerking him backward. And then Walter’s fist buried itself in his midsection and all fight went out of him; he lay gasping for breath, as if drowning in the very air he was struggling to draw into his lungs.

  “Walter, no!” Stephen had at last found his voice. “He’s not a nobody, he’s highborn and kin by marriage to Lord Corbet of Caus! He’s stepson to Hugh Corbet, Walter, and nephew to Lord Robert!”

  Suddenly, all Llewelyn could hear was his own labored breathing. Then one of the boys muttered, “Oh, Christ!” and that broke the spell. They all began to talk at once. “How do we know he’s not lying?” “But Walter, do you not remember? Lord Fulk was talking at dinner last week about a Corbet marriage to a Welshwoman of rank, saying the Corbets hoped to safeguard their manors from Welsh raids with such a union.” “Will he go whining to Corbet, d’you think?” “Since you got us into this, Walter, you ought to be the one to put it right!”

  After a low-voiced conference, they moved apart and Walter walked back to Llewelyn. The younger boy was sitting up, wiping mud from his face with the sleeve of his tunic. He was bruised and scratched and sore, but his injuries were superficial. His rage, however, was all-consuming, blotting all else from his brain. He raised slitted, dark eyes to Walter’s face; they glittered with hatred made all the more intense by his inability to act upon it.

  “Here,” Walter said tersely, dropping the crucifix on the ground at Llewelyn’s feet. The conciliatory gesture was belied by the twist of his mouth, and when Llewelyn did not respond, he leaned over, grasped Llewelyn’s arm with a roughness that was a more honest indicator of his true feelings.

  “Come, I’ll help you up.” Walter’s voice softened, took on a honeyed malice. “You need not be afraid,” he drawled, and Llewelyn spat in his face. It was utterly unpremeditated, surprising Llewelyn almost as much as it did Walter, and he realized at once that his Corbet kinship would avail him little against an offense of such magnitude. But for the moment the incredulous outrage on Walter’s face was worth it, worth it all.

  Walter gasped, and then lunged. Shock slowed his reflexes, however, and Llewelyn was already on his feet. He sprinted for Sul, and the gelding raised its head, expectant, for this was a game they often played, and Llewelyn had become quite adroit at vaulting up onto the horse’s back from a running jump. But as he chanced a glance back over his shoulder, he saw h
e was not going to make it; Walter was closing ground with every stride. Llewelyn swerved, tripped, and sprawled facedown in the high grass. There was no time for fear, it all happened too fast; Walter was on top of him, and this time the older boy was in deadly earnest, he meant to inflict pain, to maim, and his was the advantage of four years and fully forty pounds.

  “Walter, stop!” The other boys had reached them, were struggling to drag Walter off him. Llewelyn heard their voices as if from a great distance; there was a roaring in his ears. His right eye was swelling rapidly, and an open gash just above the eyelid was spurting so much blood that he was all but blinded. Through a spangled crimson haze, he caught movement and brought his arm up in a futile attempt to ward off the blow. But the expected explosion of pain did not come; instead the voices became louder, more strident.

  “Jesus God, Walter, think what you do! Did you not hear your brother? The boy’s not fair game, he’s kin to the Corbets!”

  “He’s talking sense, Walter. You’ve got to let the boy be!”

  “I intend to…as soon as he does beg my forgiveness.” Walter was now straddling Llewelyn, holding the boy immobile with the weight of his own body, and he shifted his position as he spoke, driving his knee into Llewelyn’s ribcage until he cried out in pain. “We’re waiting on you. Tell me how sorry you are…and whilst you be at it, let’s hear you admit the truth about your God-cursed kinfolk, that there’s not a Welshman born who’s not a thief and cutthroat.”

  Pain had vanquished pride; Llewelyn was frightened enough and hurting enough to humble himself with an apology. But it was unthinkable to do what Walter was demanding.

  “Cer i uffern!” It was the worst oath Llewelyn knew, one that damned Walter to the fires of Hell. The words were no sooner out of his mouth than his face was pressed down into the dirt and his arm twisted up behind his back. He’d been braced for pain, but not for this, searing, burning, unendurable. The shouting had begun again. Walter’s mouth was against his ear. “Say it,” he hissed. “Say it, or by Christ I’ll damned well break your arm!”

  No. No, never. Did he say that aloud? Someone was gasping, “Sorry…” Surely not his voice. “Welshmen are…thieves…” No, not him.

  “Again…louder this time.”

  “Enough, Walter! It was different when we did not know who he was. But Philip and I want no part of this. You do what you want with him, but we’re going home…and straightaway!”

  The pain in his arm subsided so slowly that Llewelyn did not at once realize he was free. Time passed. He was alone in the meadows now, but he did not move, not until he felt a wet muzzle on the back of his neck. It was Sul, nuzzling his tunic, playing their favorite game, seeking out hidden apple slices. Only then did tears well in Llewelyn’s eyes. He welcomed them, needing to cry, but it was not to be; this was a hurt beyond tears, and they trickled into the blood smearing his cheek, dried swiftly in the dying heat of the setting sun.

  Priding himself on his horsemanship, Llewelyn had never felt the lack of a saddle before. Now, with his right arm all but useless, with no saddle pommel to grip, the once-simple act of mounting was suddenly beyond his capabilities. Again and again he grasped Sul’s mane, struggling to pull himself up onto the gelding’s back. Again and again he slid back, defeated. But Sul’s placid temperament stood him in good stead; the chestnut did no more than roll its eyes sideways, as if seeking to understand this queer new game Llewelyn was set upon playing, and at last, sobbing with frustration, Llewelyn was able to pull himself up onto Sul’s withers. He was promptly sick, clinging to Sul’s mane while his stomach heaved and the sky whirled dizzily overhead, a surging tide of sunset colors spinning round and round like a child’s pinwheel, until the very horizon seemed atilt and all the world out of focus.

  He headed the gelding back toward Caus Castle; he had nowhere else to go. Village life ceased at dusk, for only the wealthy could afford the luxury of candles and rushlight, and the little hamlets were deserted, his passage heralded only by the barking of dogs. It was well past nightfall by the time he approached Westbury. He had a hazy, half-formed hope that he might somehow sneak unseen into the castle bailey, and then up into the keep, to the upper chamber where Robert Corbet’s three young sons slept. How he was to accomplish this miraculous feat, he had no idea, and it was rendered irrelevant now by the sudden appearance of a small body of horsemen.

  Llewelyn drew rein, for he’d recognized the lead rider. Hugh Corbet, his mother’s new husband.

  “Llewelyn! Where in the name of Jesus have you been, boy? Your mother’s frantic and little wonder. We’ve been out looking for you since Vespers!”

  The search party carried lanterns, and as Hugh reined in beside Llewelyn, a glimmer of light fell across the boy’s face, only a flicker of illumination, but enough. Hugh drew in his breath sharply. “My God, lad, what happened to you?”

  There was some talk of summoning a doctor from Shrewsbury, but it was finally decided that Llewelyn’s need was not so great as that. As the lady of the manor, Emma Corbet was, of necessity, a skilled apothecary, as adroit in stitching up wounds, applying poultices, and brewing healing herbs as any physician. It was she who applied a salve of mutton fat and resin to Llewelyn’s bruised ribs, bathed his swollen eye in rosewater, and washed the blood and dirt from his face.

  No, his shoulder was not dislocated, she said soothingly. If it were, he’d be unable to move the arm at all. She did feel certain, though, that his wrist was sprained; see how it was swelling? She’d need cold compresses for the eye, hot towels for the wrist, and her cache of herbs, she directed, and her maids speedily departed the bedchamber, leaving Llewelyn alone with Emma and Marared, his mother.

  Voices sounded beyond the door. Llewelyn recognized one as his stepfather’s; the other belonged to Robert Corbet, Hugh’s elder brother. “Do you not think you’re making too much of this, Hugh? Boys will get into squabbles. Look at my Tom, how he—”

  “You have not seen him yet, Rob,” Hugh said grimly, and pushed the door back.

  Robert Corbet, Baron of Caus, was only twenty-eight, but he was decisive by nature and long accustomed to the exercise of authority. At sight of Llewelyn, his face hardened. Kneeling by the boy, he said, “Who did this to you, lad?”

  Marared was standing behind her son. She reached out, let her hand rest on his shoulder. Emma shook her head and said, “It is no use, Rob. He’s not said a blessed word so far. Mayhap if we left him alone with Hugh and Margaret…”

  Llewelyn’s head came up at that. Her name is Marared. Marared, not Margaret. The words hovered on his lips; he bit them back with a visible effort, and turned his face away, stayed stubbornly silent.

  Servants had carried bedding into the chamber, were spreading blankets down on the floor by the bed, and Hugh smiled at Llewelyn, said, “Margaret and I thought it would be best if you passed the night here with us. Now why do we not see about getting you out of those begrimed clothes?”

  Llewelyn rose obediently, let his stepfather strip off the bloodied, torn tunic, his shirt, chausses, linen braies, and the knee-length cowhide boots. But as Hugh pulled the blanket back and the boy slid under the covers, he said, very softly yet very distinctly, “My mother’s name is Marared.”

  Hugh stood looking down at his stepson. He did not say anything, but Llewelyn had an unsettling suspicion that he understood, understood all too well.

  Left alone at last, Llewelyn sought in vain to make himself comfortable on the pallet. He held the compresses to his injured eye, tried not to think of anything at all. When the door opened, he did not look up, believing it to be his mother. But the footsteps were heavier, a man’s tread. Llewelyn raised himself awkwardly on his elbow, and his heart began to thud against his sore ribs, for it was Morgan.

  Marared had been only fifteen when Llewelyn was born, widowed the following year while pregnant with his brother. With Adda, small and frail and maimed, she was fiercely protective, but she’d tended from the first to treat her eldest son as i
f they were playfellows rather than mother and child. Llewelyn adored the dark, beautiful girl who teased him, laughed at his misdeeds, and taught him to view their troubles with lighthearted abandon. But it was Morgan who set the standards that structured his life, it was Morgan’s approval that mattered. Instinctively he knew that his mother would forgive him any sin, no matter how great. Morgan would not, and that made his good opinion the more precious. He shrank now from revealing his shame to Morgan; that the youthful priest should look upon him with contempt was a greater punishment than any pain Walter de Hodnet had inflicted.

  Morgan was carrying a platter. Setting it down, he tossed a cushion on the floor by Llewelyn’s pallet, and spreading the skirt of his cassock as if it were a woman’s gown, he settled himself beside the boy.

  “The Lady Emma has sent up some broth, and your lady mother thought you might like a slice of seedcake.”

  Llewelyn smiled wanly at that; his mother’s invariable remedy for any childhood hurt was to offer sweets. Morgan leaned forward, spooned some broth into Llewelyn’s mouth, and then turned the boy’s head to the side, his eyes moving slowly over the bruises, contusions, and swellings.

  “You’re likely to have a scar over that eye,” he observed dispassionately and, not waiting for a response, fed Llewelyn another spoonful of soup. Putting the bowl aside, he turned toward the tray, handed Llewelyn a fresh compress.

  “Are you ready now to tell me about it?”

  Llewelyn flushed, shot Morgan a look of mute entreaty. But Morgan’s grey eyes were unwavering, expectant. Llewelyn could not lie, not to Morgan. He swallowed, began to speak.

  Shrewsbury. Stephen. The meadow. Walter de Hodnet, his fear, and “Welshmen are thieves…” He held none of it back, spared himself nothing. But he could not meet Morgan’s eyes, could not bear to see Morgan’s dawning disgust. He looked instead at Morgan’s hands, linked loosely in his lap; they were beautifully shaped, fingers long and supple, a symmetry marred only by the bitten, gnawed nails, chewed down to the very quick, an incongruous quirk in one with such a disciplined nature. Llewelyn kept his gaze riveted on those hands, saw them flex, tense, and then slowly unclench.