Here Be Dragons

by Sharon Kay Penman

  Isabelle gave a little gasp of dismay, flushed bright red. It was one thing to tell herself that John had every right to fondle and caress her as he chose, that it was proper to allow him such intimacies. It was quite another for his brother, the Earl of Salisbury, to discover her sitting on John’s lap, her hair in telling disarray and her bodice partially undone.

  She came hastily to her feet, jerking at her gown, so flustered she might have fled had John not reached out, caught her hand. Rising unhurriedly, he said soothingly, “You’ve no cause for embarrassment, love. It is not for Will—or any other—to pass judgment upon you.”

  And with that, Isabelle suddenly and fully comprehended just what marriage to John would mean. That she would get to wear a crown and enjoy unknown luxury, that a son of hers would one day be King of England—all of that she’d already grasped, though it was not quite real to her, not yet. The awareness that came to her now was more immediate, and therefore more easily understood. All of her life she’d been taught it was her duty to obey, to please others, first and foremost the father whose expectations she could never quite satisfy. But no more. She need not ever worry again about her father’s anger. Nor about her mother’s sharp-tongued reprimands, or Hugh de Lusignan’s hot rages, or the jealousy and spite of girls less favored than she. She had only to please one man and one man alone, and as long as she was secure in his approval and affections, no one else’s disapproval mattered.

  Isabelle drew a deep breath, giddy with the realization that she who’d had so little power would now have so much. When I am Queen of the English, she thought in awe, it will be Papa who’ll have to please me—me! And she looked at John in wonderment, Will all but forgotten.

  They could hear other voices in the gardens now, women’s voices. Isabelle cocked her head, listening. “My mother…she’s calling for me.” But she did not move, looked to John for guidance. “Would you have me go to her?”

  John nodded, bringing her hand up to his mouth and kissing her palm. “It is late; you’d best be in.” Watching as she gathered up her skirts and ran lightly up the garden path, he said admiringly, “Lord God, what a beauty she’s going to be, Will! To think she almost ended up in Hugh de Lusignan’s bed; talk about casting pearls before swine!”

  He was turning to follow after Isabelle when Will grasped his arm. “John, wait. I want you to tell me I misinterpreted what I just saw. I want you to tell me that you do not mean to bed that little girl.”

  John’s eyes narrowed, took on sudden green glints. “Are you worrying that I shall dishonor her ere the wedding? How quaint. But you can put your mind at ease. I do intend to wait till the morrow…though that be no small sacrifice!”

  “Christ Jesus, John, she is but twelve years old—a child! You do not think I’d have touched Ela, do you? Nor will I, not till she’s of a proper age for bedding. As you must wait with Isabelle. Her father would expect no less; he’s entrusting her to your care, your keeping. If he even suspected you—”

  John gave an angry, incredulous laugh. “There are times when your innocence truly defies all belief! Who do you think sent us out into the gardens? You fool, I could lay with Isabelle at high noon atop a table in the great hall, and Aymer would cheer us on!”

  But John did not truly want to quarrel with Will. Those very elements of Will’s nature that made him champion Isabelle so stubbornly were also those that made him the only man John had ever been able to trust. He paused, then said impatiently, “Will, you are my brother, my companion, even my confidant. But my conscience you are not, and thank God for it. I suspect you’d put a saint to shame! Good Christ, man, what do you think I mean to do, go after her like a stag in rut? You know me better than that, Will, or you bloody well should! I admit I’ve forced a woman or two in my life, but you name me a man who has not. I’m no Will de Braose, and you know it. I prefer a willing bedmate, prefer a woman who wants what she’s getting.”

  He grinned suddenly. “I assure you, Isabelle will be in good hands. I had my first woman at fourteen, have long since lost count. You think I did not learn from all those couplings? That I’d not make Isabelle’s deflowering as easy for her as I could? She’s more woman than you know; I’d wager it’ll take no more than a fortnight ere she’s not only willing, but eager.”

  “John, you must not—”

  “Sweet glory of God, enough! Better me than de Lusignan. Now let that be an end to it.”

  Will knew his brother well enough to read the danger signals, but he felt honor-bound to persevere. “I do not doubt that de Lusignan would have wasted no time dragging the lass into bed. But you know better, John. The very fact that you feel the need to justify yourself proves that. It would be wrong to bed a twelve-year-old girl, no matter how fair she is. It’s not…not decent. And it’s dangerous, as well. What if you get her with child? I need not tell you how many women die in childbirth…and the younger the mother, the greater the risk.”

  John caught his breath and then swore. “Will, I’m warning you for the last time! You’ve pushed to the very limits of my patience. I’m heartily sick of this, will hear no more on it.”

  But as he swung about, Will followed him onto the path, hastening to keep pace. “What of your own daughter, what of Joanna? Can you tell me you’d want to see her as a man’s bedmate at twelve, a mother at thirteen? John, I know what I’m saying! My Ela could not have—”

  “Pox take your Ela, and you, too! I see nothing noble in your forbearance; I’ve met Ela, remember? I do not wonder that you’re in no hurry to claim her maidenhead. But I doubt you’d be so saintly if it were Isabelle naked and eager in your bed!”

  Will recoiled violently, backed away. John did not wait for a response, stalked up the path. He did not look back, but Will watched, unmoving, until he was out of sight.

  As deeply offended as Will was, even greater was his sense of hurt. Never before had he felt the full lash of John’s Angevin temper. His was a uniquely privileged position; he alone dared speak his mind utterly and freely to his brother, with no fear of incurring the King’s disfavor. Will was honest enough to admit to himself that he relished the many tangible benefits he derived from John’s kingship, but even more did he relish his special status as the King’s brother and confidant. He prided himself on his candor, told himself that even if John did not always heed his advice, at least John was always willing to hear him out, liked to think he alone knew how to appeal to John’s better instincts, and in consequence, he’d been slow to feel the ground shifting under his feet.

  He stood there alone for a time in the darkness, half expecting John to return, seeking to make amends. But John did not come back, and Will was left with the envenomed echoes of that last lethal exchange, with the unhappy understanding that his influence over John was more illusory than not, that he must take John on his own terms…or not at all.

  Picking up a brush, Joanna parted her hair and then began to plait it into two thick braids. Impatience made her clumsy, and the strands kept slipping through her fingers. But she persevered; she was nine now, too old for wild, unkempt hair, especially on the day of her father’s return from Normandy.

  Never before had he been gone so long, five lonely months. Always before, he had taken her with him; in the past four years Joanna had learned to look upon a Channel crossing as nonchalantly as a Londoner viewed an outing across the Thames into Southwark. But when John had sailed for Normandy that past April, he’d left Joanna at Conisbrough, the Yorkshire castle of his uncle Hamelin de Warenne, Earl of Surrey, home, too, to Hamelin’s grandson, her half-brother Richard.

  Now it was October and Joanna was back at Westminster Palace, awaiting John’s arrival. All around her, women were sleeping; she shared a chamber with the ladies-in-waiting to the noblewomen of John’s court. Snapping her fingers to attract Avisa, she unlatched the door, moved into the stairwell, the spaniel at her heels.

  Emerging out into the sunlight of the New Palace yard, she was just in time to collide with a man comi
ng around the corner of the old hall. He stumbled, caught her as she reeled backward.

  “I’m sorry, my lord.”

  “No matter, Joanna. If I cannot sustain a bruising from a little lass like you, I’d best retire to my hearth and give my lands over to my sons,” he said and smiled at her. William de Braose, Lord of Brecknock, was an attractive man, fit and sun-browned, blond hair and beard only lightly touched by grey although she knew he was well into his fifties. He was one of her father’s closest friends, and was unfailingly pleasant to her. There was no reason why she should be so ill at ease with him, and yet she was. It was with relief now that she saw de Braose was not alone, was accompanied by her father’s half-brother Will, Earl of Salisbury.

  Will was family; with him, she need not stand on formality. “Papa’s come?”

  Will nodded. “We rode in from Freemantle late last night, so I expect he’s still abed.”

  “I’d wager the surety of my soul on that!” de Braose said and laughed.

  Will frowned and Joanna edged closer. “Uncle Will…Papa’s new wife, is she comely?”

  “Very comely, Joanna.” Will looked intently into her face, and then put his arm around her shoulders, drew her aside. “Does it bother you, lass, that John has wed again?”

  Joanna shook her head swiftly. “No, but…but I did not think he would wed again so soon.” She fidgeted and then blurted out, “Uncle Will, I heard some men talking last month after we had word of Papa’s marriage. They…they said Papa’s new wife was plight-trothed to another lord, that Papa stole her away from this lord. That is not true, is it?”

  Will did not answer at once. Joanna was, he knew, normally well insulated from rumors and gossip; no rational man would dare criticize the King in the hearing of his daughter. But this marriage had been virtually guaranteed to stir up controversy. It was said that Hugh de Lusignan had gone berserk with rage, raving and ranting and swearing to avenge himself upon John, even if it took a lifetime. And Hugh found some sympathizers among the Poitevin nobility, men who disapproved of the clandestine, underhanded nature of the marriage, others who’d willingly seize upon any pretext for rebellion. The result was that a marriage which should have solidified John’s hold upon Poitou was in itself proving to be a source of dissension, while John had alienated the more pious of his subjects by his lustful infatuation with a girl of Isabelle’s tender years.

  Will shook his head slowly, wondering just how to answer Joanna. “Yes, it is true, lass. Isabelle was betrothed to as untrustworthy a man as you could find in all of Christendom, and her marriage would one day have put into his hands all of Angoulême. Your father could not let that happen.”

  Joanna was quiet. “Is she truly only twelve?” she asked at last, and Will nodded.

  “I think I do know what frets you. But she is a lively, good-natured lass, and I’m sure you shall like her.”

  That was not what was fretting Joanna at all. She was quite prepared to like Isabelle, although she did think it distinctly odd to have a stepmother only three years older than she. Her fear was that Isabelle would not like her. She had long since accustomed herself to her father’s women. Most were kind to her, sometimes cloyingly so; Adele alone had not been friendly, and Adele’s reign had been brief. One day she was gone and Joanna had learned a valuable lesson: Whilst Papa’s ladies came and went, her own place in his heart was constant. But a wife…a wife was not like a mistress.

  Brooding on this as she crossed the bailey, she was pleased to see Richard coming toward her. She’d gained more than a father at Rouen, she’d gained six brothers, too. Most were well into their teens by now, and she saw them but seldom. With Richard it was different. He was only two years older than she, and from their first meeting he had appointed himself her protector, her guide and mentor. She could ask Richard what she could not ask Will, and as he fell in step beside her, she said, “Richard…what if she does not like us?”

  Richard was eating manchet bread glazed with honey. He took a large bite, handed what remained to Joanna. “Papa will not love us any the less if she does not, Joanna. My mama says not to worry, that Papa is no man to be swayed by a woman’s cajoling.”

  It occurred to Joanna that Richard was not as confident as he sounded, else he’d not have felt the need to consult his mother. But she took comfort, nonetheless, from his assurance. His mother was more than a onetime mistress. Alina was John’s first cousin, and had remained on friendly terms with him to this day, was often at court. Hers was a voice to be heeded.

  “Richard…when your mama’s family found out she was with child, were they shamed?”

  “Angry, yes, but shamed…no. After all, Papa was a Prince. And then, too, my grandpapa Hamelin is baseborn himself; he was a bastard brother to King Henry. Mama told me that Grandpapa and my uncle did berate her some at first, but they know women are weak vessels. They could hardly blame her for being true to her nature.”

  “My mama was not so lucky,” Joanna said softly. “Her family shunned her for her sin.” She hesitated. “I told you that my mama died. But I never told you that I did think it was my fault.”

  Richard had been reaching to reclaim the honeyed bread. He stopped, gave her a look of sudden interest. “You did? Why?”

  The memories of her mother’s death were so fraught with pain even now that Joanna had never been able to share them with anyone but John, and she said evasively, “Oh, because she was so unhappy. But Papa explained it all to me, told me that the blame did lie with my mama’s family, not with me.”

  Richard’s interest waned. “Well, you’re—Joanna, look. There’s Uncle Will.”

  Will raised an arm, beckoned. “Joanna, Richard, make haste. Your lord father is ready to see you now.”

  St Edward’s chamber had been for well over a hundred years the traditional bedchamber of the King, was still used even though it was part of the old palace of the Confessor. John was sitting on a coffer as his barber carefully trimmed his beard, but he waved the man away at sight of his children.

  Joanna ran to him, into his arms. “Papa, I missed you so!”

  “I missed you, too, sweetheart. But keep your voices down. Isabelle is still asleep.”

  Joanna and Richard quieted at once, cast subdued glances toward the curtained bed. John smiled at them, gave Richard a playful poke. “You need not act as if you’re in church! Come over here and see what I brought back for you.”

  Lifting the coffer lid, he fished around, at last unearthed their presents: spurs for Richard, a carved ivory comb for Joanna. “I do have a second gift for Joanna, lad, but that is because I did miss her birthday. Here, sweetheart.”

  Joanna gave a delighted gasp, slipped the ring onto her finger. It was a perfect topaz, set in silver, but too big, was sliding over her knuckle until she made a quick fist.

  “John…John, where did you go?” The voice was young, sleepily content. Richard and Joanna turned as a tousled head poked through the bed hangings. Joanna felt a sharp pang of envy; as she’d suspected, Isabelle’s hair was a lustrous swirl of sunlight. She yawned like a lazy kitten, blinked at them with long-lashed, lavender-blue eyes. Joanna could not, of course, begin to comprehend the complicated sexual cravings that made this beautiful child-woman so desirable to a man with jaded sensibilities, a man in need of novelty. But she could see how undeniably lovely Isabelle was, and her fear came rushing back. How could Papa not be influenced by Isabelle?

  “You must be Joanna and Richard.” Isabelle jerked the bed hangings aside and, wrapping herself in the sheet, accepted a servant’s offering, a cup of watered-down wine. “I guess I’m now your mother!” She laughed suddenly. “But do not dare call me Mama!”

  “What shall we call you, Madame?” Joanna asked, at a loss, and Isabelle gave a comical grimace.

  “How serious she is, John! I am Isabelle, of course. Come, sit beside me on the bed and I shall tell you of my first meeting with your father. I can tell her, can I not, John? It is six weeks to the day; we were wed
without even posting the banns! John said he knew as soon as he saw me, knew he would have me for his Queen and no other.”

  Joanna and Richard exchanged bemused glances. Both quiet by nature, they were overwhelmed by Isabelle, who seemed able to talk without even pausing for breath. But her friendliness set their fears at rest, and Joanna gladly did as Isabelle bade, settled herself upon the foot of the bed. She should have had more faith in Papa, she thought, should have known he would not have chosen a wife who’d scorn his children.

  11

  Gwynedd, Wales

  August 1201

  After passing the night at Basingwerk Abbey, Baldwin de Hodnet and his brother moved cautiously westward, keeping to the narrow coastal road. The sea was frothed with whitecaps, the sky flaming to the east in a sunburst dawn that promised a day of surpassing beauty. But Baldwin had no eye for God’s wonders; he was too much taken up with man-made troubles.

  “How do you know where he is, Stephen?”

  “I do not. The Welsh court moves about no less frequently than John’s. Llewelyn has palaces at Aber, at Aberffraw on the isle of Môn, at Caer yn Arfon, has palaces and hunting lodges scattered throughout the Eryri Mountains.”

  “Well, then, how shall we find him?”