Here Be Dragons

by Sharon Kay Penman

  She was indeed lucky, Joanna reminded herself now, had no cause for complaint in the husband God and her father had given her. And she would do her best somehow to make his world her own. With that resolution, she drew rein for her first look upon Aber.

  Llewelyn’s palace was encircled by a deep, man-made ditch, fortified by wooden palisades, much like John’s favorite hunting lodges at Freemantle and Clipstone. Passing through the gatehouse into a bailey packed with people, Joanna saw wooden buildings such as she’d expect in any Norman lord’s manor: stables and barn, a kiln and kitchens, privy chambers, kennels for Llewelyn’s hunting dogs, quarters for those not bedding down in the great hall. Joanna was not sure what she’d thought to find, but she felt relief, nonetheless, that her surroundings were so familiar, were neither alien nor exotic.

  Llewelyn had no sooner dismounted than he was engulfed by well-wishers. For the moment forgotten, Joanna watched as a young boy and several small girls ran forward, flung themselves into Llewelyn’s arms. Joanna was taken aback by the exuberance of their welcome; she would never have given her father so uninhibited a public greeting. But she was not as startled as she might have been twenty-four hours earlier. In that brief span, she’d seen ample evidence to document the Norman aphorism that there was not a Welshman born who did know his proper place. For certes, she thought, none of her father’s subjects would have dared approach him as these Welsh men and women were crowding around Llewelyn.

  Llewelyn had remembered he was bringing back a bride, and moving toward Joanna, he reached up to lift her from the saddle. Acutely aware of all eyes upon her, she slid to the ground, smiled at her husband’s children. They were attractive youngsters, but solemn, unsmiling, and remembering her own nervous unease about meeting Isabelle, Joanna’s heart went out to them.

  Seated beside Llewelyn upon the dais in the great hall, Joanna received the acknowledgments of her husband’s subjects, now hers, too. While the chief officers of Llewelyn’s court spoke French of necessity, few of their wives did, and relieved of the need to make polite conversation, Joanna felt free to let her thoughts wander as they would. The gowns of the women were much like those at her father’s court. But on their hair they wore only thin veils. Would Llewelyn want her to put aside her wimples? The men looked rather like Papa’s nobles, too, though not so finely garbed. She slanted a sideways look toward Llewelyn. His tunic was shorter than the gown in which he’d been wed, the long, lavishly furred robe of a highborn Norman lord; both tunic and chausses were a subdued shade of green, his boots higher than was fashionable at her father’s court, reaching to the knee. She was glad he’d dressed so richly for their wedding, would not have wanted Chester and the other lords to scorn him for the strangeness of his Welsh ways.

  Mayhap life would not be as harsh and austere as she’d first feared. Looking about the great hall, she might well have been at Windsor or Winchester. And her bedchamber was in no way inferior to the royal apartments set aside for Isabelle’s use. The rushes were sweet-smelling, the walls whitewashed, the bed hung with curtains, and the mattress filled with down, not straw. She’d not dared to ask Llewelyn if she would have her own quarters, like her stepmother and the queens on the Continent, and her relief had been intense and overwhelming upon finding it was so. But mingled with that relief was a reluctant sense of shame. No matter how often she told herself she had no reason for self-reproach, she flushed every time she thought of what she’d done at Rhuddlan Castle.

  Llewelyn had taken Rhuddlan some ten years ago, and there they’d passed the second night of their marriage. They’d covered thirty-six miles, and Joanna was very tired. She was also utterly wretched, longing for what she’d left behind and dreading what lay ahead. Excusing herself soon after supper, she retired to their bedchamber, and when Llewelyn came to bed, she lay very still, pretended to sleep. Remembering that now, Joanna bit her lip, twisted her wedding ring until it chafed her finger. For a wife to deny her husband his marital rights was a sin of no small proportions. Not that she’d actually refused him, of course. But she could not stifle an uneasy suspicion that she’d violated the spirit, if not the letter, of her marriage vows.

  Across the hall, her stepchildren had withdrawn into one of the window recesses. Joanna had been awaiting just such an opportunity to speak to them alone, and picking up Sugar, she made her way toward them. They rose at her approach, the girls staring more at Sugar than at Joanna, for such small dogs were a rarity in Wales. Gruffydd, however, kept his eyes focused upon Joanna’s face; they were a vivid sea green, fringed with thick golden lashes. He was a handsome lad, Joanna thought, if very unlike his father. His sister Gwenllian shared his coloring, had pale skin and auburn hair, burnished curls spilling down her back in a cascade of copper, while Gwladys and Marared were as dark as Gruffydd and Gwenllian were fair. They were a striking quartet, but as wary as fawns, would need gentle handling. Joanna smiled, held out the dog toward Gwenllian, the youngest.

  “Would you like to pet her?” The child reached out, her fingers brushing Sugar’s long, silky fur, but Gwladys hissed something in Welsh, and Gwenllian jerked her hand back.

  “You need not fear; she’ll not bite,” Joanna said reassuringly. Getting no response, she tried another approach. “As I do not speak Welsh, I should like to make sure that I am saying your names correctly. Griffith, is it not? And Glad-is? Your lord father told me that is Welsh for Claudia…” Her voice trailed off, for a disconcerting thought had just come to her. “You do speak French?”

  The little girls were now looking not at Joanna, but at their brother. Gruffydd drew an audible breath. Joanna caught but one word of the outburst that followed: Saeson. As ignorant as she was of Welsh, she knew Saeson to be a contemptuous term for the English. But even had she not known its meaning, she would have needed no translation. It was there for all to read in the defiant jutting of Gruffydd’s jaw, in Gwladys’s black eyes, in Gwenllian and Marared’s shocked giggles.

  “Gruffydd!” The voice was angry, was so like Llewelyn’s that Joanna was startled to see a stranger. No, not a stranger, she amended, for this man’s kinship to her husband was emblazoned upon his face for all to see. He had Llewelyn’s coloring, the same finely chiseled bone structure, the same deepset dark eyes. But his mouth was not Llewelyn’s; thin and rigid, it spoke not of laughter, but of pain denied, of secrets never to be shared. He snapped a command in Welsh, and Gruffydd’s color faded. Not looking at Joanna, he mumbled,

  “I ask your forgiveness, Lady, for my bad manners.”

  “Of course,” Joanna said automatically. The boy’s French was flawless. She watched as he fled the hall, his sisters in flustered pursuit, and all she could think of was her own first meeting with Isabelle, of how little it had taken to win her heart.

  “You must pay my nephew no mind, Madame. Ten is a troublesome age.”

  “You must be Lord Adda, Llewelyn’s brother.” Joanna ventured a smile, and he nodded gravely, shifted his crutch so he could bow over her hand. Joanna almost implored him not to make the effort, checked herself just in time.

  “Do call me Joanna.” She hesitated, but who else was there to ask? “My lord…Adda, will you tell me the truth? There was not much sentiment amongst your people for this marriage, was there?”

  He did not reply at once, but she got the impression not that he was weighing his words, rather that he was weighing her, assessing her ability to accept honesty. “No,” he said at last. “Most of Llewelyn’s subjects would rather he’d wed a Cymraes…a woman of our blood. But a Welsh wife would bring few political gains, so they’d reconciled themselves to a foreign marriage. It was thought Llewelyn would wed the daughter of the Manx King, but then your father did offer you in her stead. Llewelyn would have had to be utterly mad, of course, to refuse. But not all are as clear-sighted as he, and some were affronted that he would take an English wife. I do not mean to offend you, but the Welsh have been given little reason to love the English.”

  Joanna had never thoug
ht of herself as English; in fact, to one of Norman-French descent, that qualified as an insult. She did not quibble at Adda’s inaccuracy, however, realizing that to the Welsh, the distinction drawn between Norman and Saxon was irrelevant. But that understanding only intensified her sense of isolation, her awareness that she was a political pledge, a hostage for England’s amity.

  “I thank you for your honesty, Adda. Be honest with me now, too. Tell me if you believe Gruffydd will come to accept me as his father’s wife.”

  Adda was silent for some moments. “He’s a headstrong boy, thinks the world of Llewelyn…and for five years he has not had to share his father’s love. It is only natural that he should resent you, see you as a rival, an intruder…” But Joanna was, after all, very young herself, and Adda compromised his candor with a half-truth, adding, “Mayhap with time…”

  “Yes, with time,” Joanna echoed, lowering her lashes to hide her hurt.

  Joanna’s life as Princess of Gwynedd was not utterly devoid of compensations or satisfactions. Never before had she her own private bedchamber. Never before had she money of her own. All her life she’d been dependent upon the generosities of others. But as Llewelyn’s consort, she had her own privy purse, was entitled to one-third of his private incomes. As far as she knew, English law made no like provision for English queens. Nor had she ever before experienced the sweetness of giving commands, of having them obeyed at once. She’d been greatly pleased when her father had engaged Blanche for her. Now she had her own household: chaplain, seneschal, chief groom, handmaiden, candle bearer, doorkeeper, page, even her own cook and food taster. If she wanted to write to her Aunt Ela, she need only dictate to her chaplain, and within the hour a courier would be dispatched to Salisbury Castle. Bread, a staple of the Norman diet, was not as often found upon Welsh tables; they were herdsmen, not farmers. Joanna had casually confessed to a longing for wheaten bread, making but idle conversation with Blanche and Enid, her Welsh maid. The next day a freshly baked loaf was laid out by her trencher, and at every meal thereafter.

  For the first time in her life, Joanna understood what a potent drink power could be. And she realized, too, that she’d not known herself as well as she once thought, that she was not so lacking in ambition, after all. It seemed that she was Eleanor of Aquitaine’s granddaughter in more ways than one, a thought that gave her amusement and astonishment in equal measure.

  But these pleasures were of fleeting moment, fireflies in the dark. The summer that followed her marriage was the most miserable of her life. Unable to speak Llewelyn’s language, she felt herself an isolated island in a sea of Welsh. Since she had no duties to perform, her days were unstructured, endless. She was not blind to the beauty around her. Aber fronted on the sea, offering spectacular views of the Eryri Mountains. But at night she lay awake, longing for the sounds of the city, shivering at the distant howling of a wolf pack on the prowl. London, York, and Winchester seemed as far away as Jerusalem. Her husband’s domain held neither towns nor cities. No fairs or markets. It was, to Joanna, a wild and awesome land, and she knew that Gruffydd was not alone in thinking her an intruder.

  She was desperately homesick in those first weeks. Her yearning for her loved ones, for what was known and familiar to her, was a constant, unrelenting ache. She so wanted to go home, and knew that what she most wanted was now forever denied her.

  The worst of her loneliness was that she did not feel connected to any other living soul. Her father and Isabelle were in Gascony. So, too, were Richard and her Uncle Will. Blanche, never a comfort even in the best of times, had become all but insufferable; she hated Wales, looked askance at the Welsh, drove Joanna to distraction with her whining, her constant complaints. Enid’s French was inadequate for more than the most rudimentary conversation. Most of the women at Llewelyn’s court spoke no French at all. One of the few who did was the Lady Gwenllian, wife to Llewelyn’s friend Ednyved ap Cynwrig. But Gwenllian offered no friendship; even her courtesy seemed grudgingly given.

  Nor did Joanna have any better luck with the men. For a time she’d hoped to find an ally in her husband’s brother. But Adda did not encourage her overtures. Aloof and reserved, he went his own way; only with Llewelyn did he thaw, let his defenses down. Ednyved, Joanna avoided if possible. She realized his sarcasm was not meant to be spiteful, but all her life she’d been wary of sardonic tongues. Rhys ap Cadell, her husband’s other intimate friend, was rarely at court that summer; his wife was in the last stages of a troublesome pregnancy, and Rhys stayed upon his own estates, awaiting Catrin’s time. Men like Morgan ap Bleddyn, Llewelyn’s chaplain, and Gwyn ab Ednywain, his Seneschal, were well into their forties, had little in common with a girl of fourteen.

  As for her stepchildren, all of Joanna’s fears had come to pass. Gruffydd was not to be won over. Every smile Llewelyn bestowed upon her, Gruffydd begrudged. Each time he heard her addressed as “Madame” or “Your Grace,” his face shadowed. Gwladys, the most devoted of disciples, loyally followed her brother’s lead, and between them they effectively curbed any conciliatory inclinations that Marared or Gwenllian might have harbored. To Joanna, this was the most bitter disappointment of all.

  Perversely enough, that which she had most reason to be thankful for—Llewelyn’s solicitude—was yet another source of anxiety. Because he was so very good to her, she despised herself all the more for her discontent. Each time she thought of the French Queen Ingeborg, thought of the wives who’d have bartered their very souls for a husband like hers, she felt an utter ingrate. When compared to women who were beaten for trifles, treated as chattels, used only as brood mares, what had she to complain of, in truth? Isabelle had been right; many women would indeed envy her.

  Not that Llewelyn was without flaws. In fact, the qualities she most admired in him, his easy self-assurance and his intelligence, were virtues with the potential to become vices. His self-assurance was occasionally flavored with arrogance, and like many quick-witted people, he was often impatient when others were slow to follow the swiftness of his thoughts. He had a tendency to lose sight of the immediate in pursuit of the long-range goal. And his ambition was frightening to Joanna. For if her father aimed to prevent a Welsh-French alliance, Llewelyn had aims of his own. He saw their marriage as a way to keep John out of Wales, enabling him to deal with his old enemy, Gwenwynwyn of Powys. But Joanna did not think her father would give Llewelyn the free hand in Wales that he seemed to expect. She remembered all too well her father’s remark upon the day of her betrothal, that Llewelyn needed to be “reined in.” She could imagine nothing worse than conflict between the two, to find herself torn between her husband, to whom she owed her loyalty, and her father, to whom she owed her love.

  But Llewelyn’s faults seemed of little consequence when she thought back to Chester’s aloof moodiness or William de Braose’s suave brutality. And in the three months of her marriage, Joanna had found much in him to admire. For all that he expected—and got—prompt obedience, he was not arbitrary, and he was rarely unfair. Once, when he’d flared up at his clerk, Hwfa ap Pilthe, in an unjustified public rebuke, he’d later sought Hwfa out and offered apology; Joanna could not remember her father ever apologizing to anyone for anything. But Llewelyn was much more easygoing than her father. He was quick to laugh, even at himself, had been amused, not affronted, when Joanna could not resist teasing that she wished she could be as sure of one thing as he was of all things. And he was unfailingly kind to her.

  It was true that he did not treat her like a wife. His was more the casual, affectionate playfulness of an older brother for a much younger sister. But he never failed to smile at sight of her, saw that she was accorded all due respect as his Princess, just as he’d done on their wedding day, when he’d backed her up before Maude de Braose; she was convinced now that there was nothing coincidental in his providential appearances that night. And since their marriage, he had always been there when she most needed him, as on that dreadful day when her dog chased a squirrel onto t
he wooded slopes of Maes y Gaer, and she’d come running to him in a panic, for Sugar was all she had of home. He had soothed her, sent men out to search for the dog, had even forborne to tease, at least until after the animal was found.

  Above all, Joanna appreciated Llewelyn’s kindness in not flaunting his concubines at court. Even had she been sharing his bed, she would not have expected him to be faithful; fidelity was a marriage vow for women. She did not doubt that Llewelyn had a mistress. But he did not do as so many Norman lords did, parade his conquests before one and all, heedless of his wife’s discomfort. Not all men did swagger over their sins, of course. Her father had amazed many with his unexpected discretion after taking Isabelle as his bride. He was not faithful to Isabelle, but for a man notorious for his wenching, he showed a surprising sensitivity to Isabelle’s pride. Joanna alone had not been surprised, for she knew that, in his way, her father loved Isabelle. But Llewelyn did not love Joanna, and that made his consideration all the more remarkable to her, made her all the more grateful for it.

  Llewelyn was her one comfort in a world that frightened her, and she regretted deeply that he was so often gone from Aber. He was a man ever in search of additional hours in the day, juggling innumerable interests like so many colored balls, presiding over the Uchel Lys, his High Court, fortifying his various mountain strongholds, consulting with vassal lords, with his rhaglaws and rhingylls—bailiffs and court officials. Like John, he traveled extensively about his realm. But John always took Isabelle with him, and Llewelyn never offered to take her.