Here Be Dragons

by Sharon Kay Penman

  “I do not know what sort of devious scheme you have in mind. I can only tell you this: Whilst stupidity may indeed be a sin, it is also possible to be too clever. I sometimes fear, John, that you are too clever by half.”

  John shrugged. “At least,” he said, “you might wish me luck.”

  Will Longsword was seated at a table in his brother’s chamber, laboring over a letter to his girl-wife. He wielded the pen awkwardly, for his was a hand more accustomed to grasping a sword hilt, and he swore under his breath as he searched for words to put to parchment.

  Done this sixth day of July in the Year of Our Lord 1200, at the castle of Hugh de Lusignan, Count of La Marche and Lord of Lusignan and Couhé.

  To the Lady Ela, Countess of Salisbury, my dear wife, greetings.

  And that was as far as he’d gotten. Will had no idea why they were at Lusignan. Neither, he suspected, did Hugh de Lusignan. It was well known that John never forgave a wrong or forgot a grudge, and Hugh had made ready for his lord’s goodwill visit with skeptical wariness, much like a man who’d just been assured that the wolf wandering midst his flocks was in fact a domesticated dog. But whatever John’s ultimate intentions, he was presently on his best behavior. Even his enemies never denied he had a certain scapegrace charm when he cared to exert himself, and he’d been drawing upon that charm so lavishly that Hugh had begun to relax somewhat, to let down his guard. The workings of Hugh’s brain were too broadly meshed for subtlety. He knew Richard would not have rested until his head rotted on a pike over his own gatehouse, until his castles were reduced to rubble and his lands to charred embers, his womenfolk despoiled and his brother hanged. But John drank with him, diced with him, swapped bawdy jokes, and hinted at royal favors to come. Such a man was not to be feared. Once Hugh reached that fateful conclusion, he was hard put to hide his disdain; there was a bluff heartiness in his manner that was a shade too familiar, a swaggering assumption of intimacy that filled Will with foreboding.

  Now Will sighed. Even if he had been privy to John’s plans, he could not have shared them with Ela. She was just fourteen, all elbows and knees and sudden blushes, a sweet child, he thought fondly, who’d brought him an earldom and deserved in turn to be sheltered and protected until she outgrew her little-girl awkwardness. But what to tell her, then? Will gazed at the parchment as if willing words to materialize of their own accord, at last gave up and elected instead to watch the game of tables in progress between John and Aymer Taillefer, Count of Angoulême.

  Aymer was staring down at the gameboard with unblinking blue eyes. He played as he did all else, with a competitive intensity that knew no quarter, and he sucked in his breath when the dice roll gave the game to John, paused too long before saying, “What do I owe Your Grace?”

  “Shall we play again? Only this time let’s double the stakes.” John smiled as if oblivious to the other man’s ill humor, and reached for the wine cup by his elbow. “Hugh tells me you’ve set a date for the wedding.”

  “August twenty-sixth.” Aymer tossed the dice onto the table. His were eyes as hard as stones, empty of all save suspicion. “Shall we speak plainly, Your Grace? Hugh de Lusignan may be a fool, but I am not. I know full well that Hugh’s coming marriage to my daughter is not to your liking, that you would prevent it if you could. It is your right as my liege lord to speak against it, and if it is your wish, I will hear you out. But I think it only fair to tell you that I shall not change my mind, that I mean to see Isabelle as Countess of La Marche.”

  John drank, studying Aymer all the while. “It is said that your daughter is uncommonly pretty. Is that true?”

  “She is a beauty, Your Grace. Why?”

  “Your daughter is a great heiress, will one day inherit all of Angoulême. And she is of high birth, her mother a first cousin to the King of France. Now you say she is a beauty in the bargain. What escapes my understanding is why you would waste such a girl on Hugh de Lusignan. I should think you’d aim higher—much higher.”

  “Your Grace?” Aymer was no longer feigning disinterest. “Just what are you saying?”

  “I am saying that you’d be doing your daughter a grave disservice if you settled for Hugh de Lusignan.” John paused; there was faint mockery now in his smile. “Unless, of course, you have no interest in seeing her as Queen of England.”

  Aymer’s intake of breath was audible even to Will. He hastily cast his eyes down, but not in time; John caught the sudden hot light, the glimmer of bedazzled greed. “You overwhelm me, my liege, and do my daughter great honor. But you already have a Queen, have you not?”

  “No,” John corrected amiably, “I have a wife, not a Queen. Think you that I neglected to have Avisa crowned with me through sheer oversight? It has long been my intent to end the marriage; I’ve merely been awaiting the opportune time.”

  Aymer swallowed, so caught up in John’s spell that he absentmindedly helped himself to John’s wine. “You do not foresee any difficulty in casting off the Lady Avisa?”

  John laughed. “Unlike Philip, who’s likely to be yoked to the martyred Ingeborg for all eternity, I happen to be able to satisfy the most scrupulous papal conscience. Avisa and I are second cousins, you see, well within the prohibited degree of consanguinity, and we never did bother to get a papal dispensation for our marriage. Need I say more?”

  Aymer laughed, too, in that moment vulnerable as only a man could be who suddenly found reality exceeding all expectations, even the fantasy world of dreams. “It will afford me great pleasure, Your Grace, to give you my daughter. But what of de Lusignan? He makes an ugly enemy, is one to nurse a grudge to the grave. How shall we manage it?”

  “Easily enough, I think. I understand the girl is now at Hugh’s castle of Valence, no? Well, after you depart here, you need only ride to Valence, tell the de Lusignans you wish to take her back with you to Angoulême for a final visit with her mother ere the wedding. In the meantime I shall find some distant task for Hugh and his kin to undertake on my behalf. I daresay you’ve noticed that Hugh’s acting much like a cat that got into the cream. He’s sure that he’s basking in my royal favor, will see this charge as proof positive that he’s truly won my trust, my friendship.”

  “Indeed,” Aymer said approvingly. “And then?”

  “From here I go to Bordeaux, where I’ll have the Archbishop declare my marriage void ab initio. As you know, I plan to pass the summer on progress in my lady mother’s domain. What would be more natural than to accept your hospitality when I reach Angoulême, at which time I shall right gladly plight troth with your pretty daughter…on the twenty-sixth of August, mayhap? After that, we need only decide whether we want to invite de Lusignan to the wedding!”

  This time, however, Aymer did not join in John’s laughter. “A plight troth,” he echoed sharply. “Why not a wedding?”

  John hesitated. This was the only weakness he could see in his scheme. A plight troth would give him all the political benefits of a marriage—would, as well, enable him to disavow Isabelle without difficulty should a better marital prospect appear at a later date. But the advantages of a plight troth were so blatantly one-sided that he was not at all sure Aymer would ever agree.

  “Because of your daughter’s extreme youth,” he said earnestly. “She’s but twelve, is she not? I think it only fair to give her time to adjust. It will be bound to come as a shock, to arrive in Angoulême expecting to marry Hugh, a man she knows well, only to be told she’s to wed a total stranger.”

  Aymer reflected upon this in silence, then gave John an oblique smile. “Your concern for my daughter is commendable.” He rose as John did, made a perfunctory obeisance, and suddenly burst into malicious laughter. “Damn me if de Lusignan’s not going to look a right proper fool when word gets out!”

  “Yes,” John agreed complacently. “I expect he will.”

  He waited till they were alone, but no longer, at once turning to Will and demanding, “Well? What think you?”

  “It is brilliant, John,”
Will said admiringly, “in truth, it is. That marriage would have been a disaster for us, and you’ve hit upon the one way you could stop it. But…but would it not be better to let Hugh de Lusignan save face? You need not do it this way, could let Aymer end the betrothal, then wait a discreet interval ere you claimed the girl. I fear that if you steal her out from under Hugh’s nose—” John was smiling and Will stopped in mid-sentence. It had baffled him that a man as bright as his brother could be so blind to consequences; now John’s sardonic smile brought it all into focus for him. “You want to humiliate Hugh de Lusignan, do you not?” he said slowly. “Fully as much as you want the girl, if not more. John…are you sure you’ve thought this through, that the game be worth the candle?”

  “Shall I tell you, Will, why you always lose to me when we play at hazards or tables? Because you’re so cautious it damned near cripples you! Poor Will, just once in your life have you never wanted to risk all upon one throw of the dice?” John moved back to the table, gestured for Will to pour them wine.

  “Only one thing does puzzle me,” he confessed. “Aymer is right; he’s no fool. So why, then, did he agree to a plight troth? Why did he not insist upon a wedding?”

  From Bordeaux, John moved south into Gascony, and then began a slow circuit back into Poitou. On Wednesday, August 24, he crossed the River Charente, and the next morning was welcomed into the walled capital city of Angoulême.

  The great hall of Aymer’s ancient castle had been swept clean, strewn with fresh rushes and sweet-smelling herbs, hung with embroidered wall hangings of red, green, and gold. Aymer’s Countess, a striking, statuesque woman who bore no resemblance to her cousin the French King, insisted upon personally acting as John’s guide, proudly pointing out her favorites among the hangings: the Five Joys of the Blessed Mary, and the Story of Paris and Helen. John made the proper admiring responses, but he was impatient to see the girl he’d one day be taking to wife and, sensing that, the Lady Alice excused herself, went to fetch Isabelle.

  “You have told her, I assume?” John asked, and Aymer nodded.

  “But of course. She was both awed and honored that Your Grace should think her worthy of a crown, and she vowed that you should never repent your choice.”

  John gave Aymer a skeptical smile, and winked at Will. He had enough experience with children to know that no twelve-year-old was likely to harbor such lofty sentiments, much less express them aloud. He only hoped the girl was truly reconciled to the plight troth; England must seem as distant as Cathay to a girl who’d never been anywhere but Angoulême and Valence. Will’s littla Ela had been a twelve-year-old bride, too, and remembering how fearful she had been, approaching the altar like a lamb led to the slaughter, John hoped Isabelle would be of sturdier stock. But the memory of Ela’s unease gave him an idea, and he beckoned to Will. “What say you we send the lass to Ela at Salisbury?”

  Will beamed. “An excellent thought. I daresay she’d be less homesick with Ela and me than at your court. She’d be good company for Ela, too…”

  He stopped, for John was no longer listening. He’d taken an involuntary step forward; Will heard him murmur, “Good God.” Turning to see what had so transfixed his brother, Will found himself staring, too, at the girl coming toward them. His mouth dropped open; the shock was all the greater because he’d instinctively cast Isabelle in Ela’s image. Expecting an endearing, coltish clumsiness, bitten nails, and shy, sidelong glances, he saw, instead, a slender vision in turquoise and silver silk, a delicate oval face framed in a cascade of shimmering light. Will had occasionally seen young girls who’d matured too early, overly ripe and knowing beyond their years. Isabelle d’Angoulême was not one of these, had not forfeited the touching and poignant appeal of innocence. And yet she held the eye of every man in the hall. It was the first time in his life that Will had ever seen a woman who could truly be called “unforgettable,” and it was with a vague sense of shame that he acknowledged the sheer physical impact of the girl, reminding himself hastily that she was not a woman—was, for all her startling beauty, still a child of twelve.

  What amazed him even more than her appearance was her poise. She approached John without a trace of nervousness, sank down before him in an eye-pleasing curtsy. But after a moment to reflect, Will realized why; no girl who looked as this one did could long remain ignorant of her advantages. For the first time he glanced toward his brother. John was staring at Isabelle so avidly that Will decided John, too, needed to be reminded of Isabelle’s extreme youth.

  “Your Grace,” she said, her French attractively enhanced by the soft accents of Provençal, the langue d’oc spoken throughout Eleanor’s domains.

  “No, darling, the grace is yours,” John said huskily. “I’d have you call me John.”

  Aymer had been standing to one side, watching with an odd little smile, one Will had seen once before, that July night at Lusignan Castle. Stepping forward now, he said, “I explained to Isabelle that you thought it would be a kindness to delay the marriage. She assured me, however, that will not be necessary, told me she would like to be wed at once. Is that not so, Isabelle?”

  “Yes, Papa.” Isabelle gave John a dazzling smile. “That is indeed my wish.” But only Will noticed as she then surreptitiously wiped the palms of her hands against her elegant silk skirt. Poor little lass, he thought; so she was not so different from his Ela, after all. And his heart went out to her in a surge of protective, paternal tenderness.

  “Is that agreeable to Your Grace, then? Have I your permission to make plans for the wedding? As the Archbishop of Bordeaux is in your entourage, he could officiate. On the morrow, shall we say?”

  John had yet to take his eyes from Isabelle. “By all means, Aymer,” he said, and smiled at Aymer’s daughter. “The sooner the better.”

  “Oh, how beautiful! Is it truly for me?”

  John smiled. “Truly. Here, turn around and I’ll fasten the clasp for you.”

  Isabelle did as he bade, sitting beside him on the garden bench. Because of her youth, she wore no wimple or veil, but let her hair fall free down her back. John brushed it aside, fastened the necklet about her throat; even in the moonlight, the stones glowed, opals the shade of twilight and amethysts of deepest purple. “Emeralds would suit you better, I think. Do you like emeralds, Isabelle?”

  “They are green, no? I’ve never owned much jewelry. I do have a betrothal ring from Hugh. But I suppose I must give it back now, must I not?” she said impishly, and John laughed.

  “Indeed not; consider it a keepsake. You have no regrets, then? About not marrying Hugh?”

  “Oh, no! I would have tried to be a dutiful wife, truly I would. But…but I did not want to marry him.” Isabelle hesitated, not sure whether such candor was permissible. “He was so much older than me, older even than my papa. He had salt-grey hair, not black and glossy like yours, and his eyes were always bloodshot and he…he made me uncomfortable sometimes, the way he looked at me…”

  “As if he were starving and you were on the menu?” John suggested, and she gave a startled giggle.

  “But I look at you that way, too; have you not noticed?”

  “I do not mind it with you,” she said softly, lowering her lashes to cast silky shadowed crescents upon skin so perfect it looked like porcelain. John reached over, stroked her cheek. When she did not pull away, he leaned closer still, touched her mouth with his. Her breathing quickened; he could see the rise and fall of her small breasts, budding against the bright silk of her bodice. He kissed her again, this time as a man would kiss a woman, and found that the entrancing flirt who’d invited such intimacies was but an illusion born of the moonlight and his own desire, found himself holding a fearful little girl. She submitted docilely to his embrace, let him explore her mouth with his tongue, but her body had lost all pliancy, was rigidly unresponsive under his hands. John released her, frowning, and tears filled her eyes.

  “I did not please you?” she faltered. “Papa said I must, said I—”


  “Isabelle, hush. There is nothing about you that does not please me. I do not expect you to know how to pleasure a man, will teach you all you need to know.” He began to caress her hair, let his fingers trail across her throat. “And they’ll be lessons much to your liking, that I can promise you.”

  There was no anger in his voice, and Isabelle was emboldened to confide, “Papa told me I must not let Hugh touch me till we were wed, but…but he said I should let you do what you will. And I was so afraid…because if we bedded together and then you did not want me as a wife, Papa would have blamed me for that, would have been so wroth…”

  “Isabelle, listen to me. Forget what your father told you; it does not matter. You do not belong to him any longer. You belong to me, and I do want you. I want you as my Queen, I want you in my bed, and right now I want you on my lap.” John smiled, but she reacted as if to a command, at once settled herself upon his knee, and put her arms shyly about his neck.

  Her obedience delighted him, and he realized suddenly that he wanted her as much for her youth as in spite of it; she was still unformed, as malleable as she was beautiful, soft clay to be molded and shaped as he desired. “You are so fair to look upon,” he murmured, then began to laugh. “And I’ve done Hugh de Lusignan an even more grievous hurt than I dared hope for!”

  The great hall was in utter chaos, as the entire household of the Count of Angoulême labored to make ready for the wedding on the morrow. When Will could abide the confusion no longer, he escaped out into the gardens. It was becoming increasingly apparent to him that this wedding had been planned weeks in advance, so sure was Aymer of his daughter’s power to enchant. He wondered briefly if he should mention this to John, decided it was pointless; John was not being shoved to the altar at swordpoint, after all.

  He was approaching an intricate arbor of white thorn and willow, walled by trellises and fragrant with summer honeysuckle. As he came nearer, he heard a man’s voice, low and coaxing. “You have to trust me, love. You do, do you not?” The girl’s voice came even more clearly to Will’s ears, an innocent accomplice in her own seduction. “Oh, but I do, truly I do.” Will was genuinely shocked; he’d recognized the male voice at once as his brother’s, but he found it almost impossible to believe that John could be so reckless, so unforgivably ill-mannered as to debauch one of Aymer’s womenfolk on the very eve of his marriage to Aymer’s daughter. What if it had been Aymer who’d come upon them? he thought, and strode forward, a warning hot on his lips, only to stop, dumbfounded, at sight of Isabelle.