Here Be Dragons

by Sharon Kay Penman

  What to say now? Should she mention Arthur? Was Eleanor aware of the vile lies put about by Papa’s enemies, that Arthur was dead? It was so unfair. He’d been nothing but kind to Eleanor, saw that she had every comfort, even brought her occasionally to his court. Why, then, would he put her brother to death? Joanna shook her head, reaching for the inkhorn. Pray God Papa would soon be able to mount his campaign to win back Normandy and Poitou, to punish Philip as he deserved.

  “Joanna!”

  The voice was Richard’s. Joanna scrambled to her feet, ran to meet him. “Richard, how glad I am to see you! Has Papa come, then? Did the council with the Welsh Prince go well? Did you meet him?”

  “Yes, to all your questions. Hurry now, get your things together. Papa is asking for you, wants to see you straightaway.”

  “Indeed?” Joanna was delighted. Her father’s arrivals were inevitably chaotic; sometimes hours passed before she had the chance to see him alone. “He truly wants to see me first?”

  Richard nodded. “You know, it was rather queer. When Papa asked after you, Aunt Ela and the other ladies acted right peculiar, almost as if they were reluctant to have you found. Even Lady de Braose professed ignorance of your whereabouts, and she most generally has an opinion on everything!”

  “Lady de Braose has a viper’s tongue,” Joanna said emphatically, “and I care not a pin for her good opinion. Need I comb my hair first?”

  “No, but your face is dirty.” Richard spat on his fingers, wiped away a smudge on her cheek, and then pleased Joanna by giving her a quick, awkward hug.

  “The last time I remember you doing that,” she laughed, “I’d spilled ink on Papa’s favorite book, was about to be called to account for my sin!”

  Richard gave her a look she could not interpret, reached down for her basket. “Come, I’ll take you back to the castle.”

  Joanna fumbled with the cloth, unwrapped an exquisitely engraved ivory case. At the touch of her fingers, it flew open to reveal a thin sheet of glass over brightly polished metal.

  “Papa, what a beautiful mirror!” Setting it down beside her other present, a bolt of deep blue linen, she gave John a grateful kiss. “But you sent me a book for my birthday, do you not remember?”

  “And can I not give you more than one gift? A pity my men in the Exchequer are not as frugal as you; mayhap I’d not then be so deeply in debt!”

  They were alone in John’s bedchamber. Much to Joanna’s surprise, her father had dismissed all others upon her arrival, even Richard, who seemed strangely reluctant to leave, glancing back over his shoulder with the same enigmatic look he’d given her in the garden.

  “I think, lass, that you’re now old enough to have a lady in attendance, to assist you in dressing and the like. So I’ve told Isabelle to choose someone suitable for you.”

  “Thank you, Papa!” Joanna wondered if this was how Richard had felt when he’d learned he was to be squire to William de Braose the younger, was to take that first step over the threshold toward manhood.

  “I have one more gift for you, sweetheart—a crown.”

  Joanna giggled. “And a halo, too, Papa?”

  John laughed, shook his head. “I’m not jesting, Joanna. I’ve made a brilliant marriage for you. I’ve agreed to betroth you to Llewelyn ab Iorwerth, Prince of Gwynedd.”

  “Papa?”

  “In truth, sweetheart. I’ve offered the castle and manor of Ellesmere in Shropshire as your marriage portion, will yield it to Llewelyn next spring, although I would not have the marriage take place till after you do pass your fourteenth birthday.” John reached over, took Joanna’s hand. “You realize what this will mean, Joanna? You’ll be a Princess, lass. This goes so far beyond what I ever hoped to gain for you. It is a rarity, indeed, when needs and wants do mate in such harmony. But…but have you nothing to say to me? I would have thought you’d be besieging me with questions. Are you not curious about the man you shall marry?”

  Too stunned for coherent thought, Joanna could only stare at her father in dazed disbelief. “He…he does speak French?” she whispered at last.

  That was not what John had been expecting. “Of course, and quite well. He knows much of our ways, did live in Shropshire as a lad.”

  “Is he…is he a Christian, Papa?”

  John frowned, torn between amusement and annoyance. “What sort of foolish question is that, Joanna? Wales has been a Christian country since the days of St Patrick. To whom have you been listening?”

  To you, Papa. How often I’ve heard you say the Welsh were barbarians, that theirs was an accursed land fit only for mountain goats, that the Welsh were as bad as the Scots and worse than the Irish. Joanna said nothing, though, watched as John rose, moved to the table. Her hands were icy; she laced her fingers together, locked them around her drawn-up knees.

  “This Welsh Prince…how old is he, Papa?”

  “I’d reckon about thirty or thirty-one.”

  Joanna could not hide her dismay. “As old as that?” she gasped.

  “He happens to be at least five years younger than I, Joanna,” John said dryly. He was smiling, but Joanna remembered, just in time, that her father was fully twenty years older than Isabelle.

  “I…I did not mean it like that, Papa,” she stammered, and then a sudden thought came to her, a faint glimmer of hope. “But Papa, I am your natural daughter. What Prince would want a wife born out of wedlock?”

  “A Welsh Prince,” John said and laughed. “The stigma of illegitimacy counts for little amongst Llewelyn’s people. If a father recognizes a child as his, that child then enjoys full rights under Welsh law. Llewelyn had his son with him at Worcester, a lad about eight or so, born of a Welsh concubine, and yet looked upon by all as his heir. In fact, if a Welsh woman swears a holy oath that a certain man fathered her child, he must then deny her charge under oath, too, or the child is held to be his. Moreover, even if he does make such a denial, if she can show he gave her money for the child, her word counts against his! I have to admit, they do have some queer customs, but…”

  Joanna was no longer listening, was trying to envision herself as a stepmother to an eight-year-old boy. She could not, and with that realization, some of her panic began to ebb. She could not make this marriage. She could not. To leave Papa, Richard, Isabelle, all that was known and familiar to her, to live out her life amongst strangers, an exile in an alien land…no, she was not strong enough, had not the courage. Somehow she must make Papa see that, make him understand that he asked too much of her.

  John had poured wine into two cups, gave one to Joanna. “Ah, lass, I cannot tell you how pleased I am about this marriage. Mayhap I should not say this to you, but of all my children, you are the dearest, the closest to my heart. I can think of no greater gift to give you than this, a crown.”

  “Papa, you have been so good to me, and I would do anything for you, I swear I would. But this marriage—”

  “—is the answer to so much, Joanna.” John leaned forward, his eyes shining; it had been months since she’d seen him so animated, so enthused. “Before God, it was an inspired solution to the Welsh problem. I do gain a gold coronet for you and a secure border for England, all for the price of one castle and a wedding ring. Rarely has a war been so cheaply won, sweetheart!”

  “A war…” Joanna echoed numbly. “Is the marriage as important to you as that?”

  John’s smile faded. “Yes, it is. You want the truth, Joanna? I do not know if I shall ever be able to reclaim the lands lost to the French—Normandy, Anjou, Touraine. Now Poitou is slipping away, being swallowed up by that whoreson on the French throne. I’ll not let it go, not lose the lands that were my mother’s, that Richard held before me—by Christ, I will not. But I cannot fight a war on two fronts, cannot deal with the Welsh and the French, too.”

  He rose abruptly, began to pace. “They are a strange people, the Welsh. Man for man, the best fighters in the world, for you cannot defeat a foe who has not the sense to know when he’s bea
ten! We’d never have been able to keep them from laying claim to Shropshire and Cheshire, much less conquer so much of South Wales, had it not been for their one fatal weakness, that they are such a quarrelsome, passionate people. They kill one another as readily as they do Normans, engage in blood feuds, nurse grudges for years, and thank God, but they have ever lacked a Prince capable of uniting them against England…until now.”

  Joanna stared down at her wine cup as if at some utterly alien and exotic object. Raising it to her lips, she took a tentative swallow; the wine was warm, so heavily sugared that she all but gagged.

  “There are men who be born lucky. All their lives, fortune does favor them, does play the whore for them. My brother Richard was one such. Llewelyn ab Iorwerth is another. And he is clever enough, ambitious enough, and ruthless enough one day to rule all of Wales if he is not reined in. Already he looks beyond Gwynedd, dares to send envoys to the French court, to treat with Philip as if they were brother sovereigns. Should he ever forge an alliance with the French…”

  John had wandered to the window, speaking almost as if to himself. He turned now, back toward his daughter, gave her a sudden smile of coaxing charm. “Are you not pleased, sweetheart, that you shall be Princess of Gwynedd?”

  Joanna swallowed. “Indeed, Papa,” she said tonelessly. “If it be your wish that I wed with Prince Llewelyn, I am content.”

  Leaving her father’s bedchamber, Joanna stood for a moment in the darkened stairwell, not knowing where to go. So caught up was she in her own thoughts that she did not at once notice the young page.

  “Lady…lady, will you come? The Queen does want you.”

  Joanna looked blankly at the child. “Yes,” she said with an effort. “Of course.” But the summons was not all that unwelcome. Isabelle might be the one person who could understand how she felt.

  Isabelle was awaiting her in her bedchamber, welcomed her with a perfumed embrace. “Ah, Joanna, how happy I am for you, love! Is it not wondrous? Think, you shall be a Princess!”

  “A Welsh Princess,” Joanna said, and with that, tears welled in her eyes, began to spill silently down her face.

  Isabelle blinked. “Are you as unhappy as that? Ah, Joanna…” Putting an arm around the younger girl, she led Joanna toward the bed.

  “You just need time to accustom yourself to it. Do you not think I felt the same qualms when my father sent me to live in Hugh de Lusignan’s household? Of course, that marriage was not to be, and glad I am for it. But if fate had decreed otherwise, I do not doubt I could have learned to be content as Hugh’s Countess. As you will be content with Prince Llewelyn. Once the surprise of it does fade, you’ll be quite reconciled, you’ll see.

  “Now sit on the bed, and I’ll tell you all about your husband, tell you what John should have and likely did not, men having no sense for what is truly important. He is dark, of course, like most of his people, with blackest hair, brown eyes, and a smile no woman is like to soon forget. He is taller than John, and well made, with truly beautiful hands. I always notice a man’s hands; do you? He is well spoken, and when he listens, he keeps his eyes upon your face all the while. And he has a wicked sense of humor. When I asked him about Wales, he told me that his people were Druids, that they worshipped the oak and mistletoe and made virgin sacrifices!”

  Isabelle laughed. “In truth, love, there are many women who would envy you, and not just for that circlet of gold. Oh, but there is one thing you should know; he is clean-shaven!” She began to giggle again. “The Welsh do keep their mustaches, but they shave off their beards. I confess it did look right strange to me at first. I wonder what it would be like to kiss a man without a beard. You must be sure and tell me, Joanna.”

  Joanna turned away, rolling over and burying her face in the pillow. Her tears had dried, but her breathing was still uneven, ragged, and she did not want Isabelle to hear. She supposed she should be thankful for what Isabelle was telling her, but she was numb, unable to make sense of anything. What was he to her, this Welsh Prince she’d never even seen? There was no reality to this conversation, none at all.

  “My marriage was in haste, with little ceremony. But we’ll give you a lovely wedding, Joanna, a wedding to remember.”

  Joanna roused herself at that, murmured a meaningless “Thank you.” A year, Papa had said, not until she was fourteen. A year seemed so far away, seemed in itself an eternity. Time enough for Papa to change his mind. Or for the Welsh Prince to reconsider. He might even die. All betrothals did not end in the marriage bed. She must hold on to that thought, must not despair…not yet. Much could happen in a year.

  15

  Chester, England

  May 1206

  “Which brooch shall you wear, my lady?” Blanche was holding out an open casket, and Joanna turned, took it upon her lap. Her choice was limited; she had only a few pieces of jewelry of any real value.

  “The crescent brooch, I think.” As she spoke, Joanna could not keep from fingering the other contents of the casket, the letters from the Welsh Prince she would wed on the morrow. Four in eighteen months, polished and polite and utterly unrevealing. If she were alone, she might have taken them out again, reread them for clues, so desperately did she need to know what manner of man he was. But she was surrounded by inquisitive eyes: Blanche, Isobel of Pembroke, her Aunt Ela, Maude de Braose, the Countess of Chester, and the Lady Lucy, Prioress of St Mary’s, the Benedictine nunnery where Joanna had been awaiting the arrival of her betrothed.

  Blanche was positioning the brooch. “There, my lady. You do look right elegant. How proud your lord father would be; how sad that he must miss the pleasure of seeing you wed.”

  “It could not be helped, Blanche. In less than a month’s time, my father will lead an army into Normandy. He must, of course, remain in the South, to make sure that the fleet will be ready to sail as scheduled.” Joanna had told herself this so often that the words came quite naturally to her tongue, sounded perfectly plausible even to her ears. But the hurt remained. She’d been counting so on her father’s presence. In fact, her disappointment was such that she had put aside her pride and begged John to reconsider. Could not the wedding be held, instead, in Winchester? She would, she pleaded, write herself to Prince Llewelyn, entreat him to agree for her sake. Remembering that now, Joanna’s face shadowed, for she had received a truly chilling reply. John had been both sympathetic and regretful. “Even if you somehow did get him to consent, and I think that unlikely, Joanna, it is too late. The safe-conduct I gave him is for Chester; there’d not be time to issue a new one for Winchester.” It had never occurred to Joanna that Llewelyn would need a safe-conduct to enter into England. That brought home to her, as nothing else could have done, that she was marrying a man her father could not trust, that she would be living out the rest of her life in a country hostile to England.

  Blanche fastened Joanna’s wimple under her chin, reached for a rose-colored veil. “As soon as I do attach this, my lady, you shall be ready to meet the Prince.”

  “Have you not another veil? With such sallow skin, rose is a color she should ever avoid if possible.”

  Joanna jerked her head around in surprise. There was more than feline spite in that remark, there was venom. She had not realized that Maude de Braose bore her such a grudge. She flushed in spite of herself, had to fight the urge to ask Blanche for another veil. “Rose suits me well, Madame,” she said, as steadily as she could, and came to her feet. How unfair life was. Was it not enough that she must wed a stranger, a Welshman? But no, their first meeting must take place before an avid audience, for all the world, she thought bitterly, like the crowds who’d throng to a bearbaiting, hoping for blood.

  St Mary’s had been founded by the present Earl’s grandfather; the Prioress Lucy was reputed, in fact, to be his natural daughter. The convent was situated just to the northwest of the castle, and all too soon for Joanna, she found herself passing into the inner bailey, mounting the stairs up into the great hall. So great was her t
ension that she had begun to suffer a slight queasiness, and she felt a surge of gratitude at sight of her brother, waiting at the door to escort her into the hall.

  “I’m late, am I not?”

  “You are worth waiting for,” Richard said loyally. “But no matter. The Earl and Isabelle have given him a right proper welcome, Isabelle in particular. Indeed, to see them together, you’d swear they’d been friends all their lives long.” There was a faint edge to Richard’s voice; Joanna was becoming aware that he no longer looked upon their stepmother as he once had, with uncritical, adoring eyes. But she felt only a throb of envy, at that moment would have bartered her soul for Isabelle’s bright, breezy chatter, her insouciant ease of manner.

  “Dearest, at last!” Isabelle was, as ever, encircled by laughing men. She held out her hand to Joanna, turning toward the man standing at her left. Joanna had a fleeting impression of a sun-browned face, alert dark eyes, as she sank down in a hasty curtsy. He raised her up at once; she was thankful when he released her hands as soon as she was on her feet, made no attempt to touch her.

  “Is she not sweet? I told Your Grace you were a fortunate man, did I not?” Isabelle smiled fondly at Joanna, who wanted to go right through the floor. Nor was her embarrassment lessened any when Llewelyn murmured a conventional gallantry in reply. Jesú, what else could the man say? She gave Isabelle a reproachful look, but worse was to come. They would, of course, wish to be alone, Isabelle said gaily, and made a great show of shepherding them into the comparative privacy of the nearest window seat, withdrawing so ostentatiously that she virtually guaranteed they’d be the center of all eyes.