Here Be Dragons

by Sharon Kay Penman

  “How is my godson and namesake?”

  “As much of a hellion as you were at his age…and still are.”

  “Do not be cruel, Catrin,” Llewelyn said and grinned. “It is good to have you back at court. Joanna tells me your newest babe is as beautiful as her mother; how does she?”

  “Gwenifer is fine.” Catherine paused. “I just wish I could say as much for Joanna.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Catherine did not reply at once. Having already plunged into the water, it was no time now to be worrying if she’d gotten in over her head. But she could not suppress a nervous qualm or two. As fond as Llewelyn was of her, he was not likely to thank her for pointing out all his shortcomings as a husband.

  “We’ve been friends for nigh on thirteen years. I must hope that our friendship does give me the right to speak plainly…about Joanna and you. You’ve not done right by her, Llewelyn; I know no other way to say it than that.”

  “Indeed?” Llewelyn was both surprised and annoyed. Leaning back in the seat, he gave her a distinctly cool look. “I do not know to whom you’ve been listening, Catrin, but you are wrong. I think I’ve been very good to Joanna. Even ere we were married. I spared no expense in having her chamber made ready for her. Nor have I denied her anything since we’ve been wed, have given her whatever she asks for, have made sure that none do speak disparagingly of her father in her hearing, that she’s accorded the respect due her as my wife. I’ve been patient, too, keeping in mind her youth, have not forced her against her will, and I’ve taken care that my liaison with Cristyn should not cause her hurt. Now if that is not doing right by her, what more would you have me do?”

  Catherine bit her lip. Rhys had an unfortunate and infuriating tendency to stalk out whenever he was irked with her; she felt sure that even if he refused to act upon her advice, Llewelyn would at least hear her out. But she was not getting off to the best of starts; the last thing she’d wanted was to put him on the defensive.

  “I did not mean you’ve been unkind,” she said hastily. “I was speaking rather of sins of omission. I do not deny what you’ve done for her, but Llewelyn, do you ever think of Joanna, truly think of her as a woman, as your wife? Do you know how unhappy she is? How homesick? Do you know that she has been trying for months now to befriend your children, but to no avail? Or that she did turn fifteen more than two months ago?”

  Llewelyn was listening intently, his face thoughtful now rather than irritated, and Catherine gathered up her courage, concluded bluntly, “I suspect…and please do not take this amiss; I do not mean it as a criticism, for I know how heavy your burdens be. But I suspect you forget about Joanna altogether when she’s not right there in front of you.” And then she held her breath, waiting.

  “Yes,” he said at last, “I suppose there is some truth in what you say. I am fond of the lass, Catrin, but she’s not all that often on my mind, I admit. Is she truly as unhappy as that? I thought she’d adjust in time…”

  “She tries, wants so much to do what is expected of her. But she’s very young, and very alone. She speaks no Welsh, and how many at your court do speak French? She cannot even communicate with her maid, and with you so often away, there are days when she has no one at all to talk to. She’s lonely and homesick, finds herself an alien in a land not her own. Can you not imagine how that would be?”

  Llewelyn drew an audible breath. “Yes,” he said slowly. “I can imagine quite well; I’ve been there.”

  Catherine leaned over, kissed him on the cheek. “Joanna is a lucky girl, and someday I shall tell her so,” she said, smiled at him. The puzzle lacked but one piece now, and since he’d been the first to make mention of it, she felt no compunctions in saying, “You said you were being patient with Joanna, because of her youth. Then that is why you’ve not yet bedded her?”

  Llewelyn nodded. “Why else? I knew, of course, that she was fourteen. But to tell you true, Catrin, it came as rather a shock to find out just how very young a fourteen she was.” He gave a rueful laugh, thinking back upon his wedding night. “Not having a taste for rape, I thought it best to give her time—” He broke off abruptly. “Surely you do not think I was wrong?”

  “Indeed not! I think your forbearance was much for the best, was as clever as it was kind. But as fearful and reluctant as Joanna may have been on her wedding night, Llewelyn, that was over six months ago. How long do you mean to wait?”

  She saw amusement in his eyes, saw sudden interest, too. “Did Joanna speak to you of—”

  “No!” she interrupted, quite indignantly. “Do you truly think I’d betray her confidence if she had? I would never tell you what she’d confided to me in trust; you ought to know that. It is because she did not that I felt free to come to you like this, to tell you what I think.”

  “Which is?”

  “That Joanna is not the child you think her to be. And I’d venture to guess that if you were to stop neglecting the girl and pay her some long-overdue attention, you might be pleasantly surprised!”

  Putting down Richard’s letter, Joanna began to reread her father’s. These were the first letters she’d had since their departure for La Rochelle in late May. She’d expected such a silence, for John would have little time for letter-writing in the midst of a campaign, Isabelle was a notoriously poor correspondent, and Richard had not the funds to engage a courier of his own. It had been a long, lonely wait, but the news was good, was all she could have hoped to hear. Her father was coming home.

  Reaching for her mantle, Joanna hastened from her chambers, out into the bailey. She knew Llewelyn was conferring that morning with Iorwerth ap Madog, the lawyer he’d chosen to compile the ancient law code of Hywel the Good, and she headed for the great hall. Catching sight of her husband in the window seat, she started toward him.

  “Llewelyn, I’ve had a letter from my father! He—” Coming to an abrupt halt, staring at Catherine.

  The window was covered with oiled linen, casting the seat into sun and shadow. Llewelyn positioned a cushion behind Joanna’s back, sat down beside her. He was so close that she felt his breath upon her cheek as he leaned over to unfasten her mantle, so close that she could think of nothing else, sitting in silence until he prompted, “Are you not going to tell me what your father wrote, Joanna?”

  “He…he has won signal victories against the French, did take Montauban Castle in just fifteen days.” Joanna raised her eyes to Llewelyn’s, found she could not look away. “He writes that he has secured his hold upon Poitou, that he and Philip have agreed to a two-year truce.”

  “It does sound as if his campaign was indeed a success,” Llewelyn agreed politely, forbearing to tarnish John’s triumph by pointing out that he may have regained Poitou, but Normandy was still lost to Philip.

  Joanna nodded. “Not even Charlemagne could take Montauban, but Papa did,” she said proudly. “He took Angers, too.” She hesitated then, before saying with studied casualness, “What were you and Catherine talking about?”

  Llewelyn had, however, caught her inadvertent look of dismay at sight of them together. Having long ago learned that a half-truth was often far more effective than an outright denial in allaying suspicions, he said, with equal nonchalance, “As it happens, we were talking of you. Catrin was taking me to task for having forgotten your birthday.”

  “Oh,” Joanna said, much relieved. She was not sure what she’d feared, for even had Catherine repeated verbatim every one of their conversations this month past, would that have been so dreadful, after all? Actually, she was glad that Catherine had told him about the missed birthday; she wanted him to know.

  “I expect it’s best that you find out the truth about me early on.” Llewelyn’s smile was wry. “You see, love, I do have an appalling memory for dates, be they birthdays, name days, saints’ days, whatever. Tangwystl finally resorted to laying out tally sticks in our bedchamber, to remind me of the days remaining until her birthday. And my children do take no chances, talk of nothing els
e for fully a month beforehand.”

  “Alas, and I thought you were without flaw,” Joanna said lightly. She was suddenly very happy. They’d often sat and talked, but this conversation was somehow different; Llewelyn was somehow different. She could not have articulated the change, knew only that there was an intimacy between them that she’d never felt before.

  “I take it I’m forgiven? I should like to make amends, though, so you may ask of me what you will.”

  “Anything? Anything at all?”

  “Well, anything within reason,” Llewelyn hedged, but then laughed, realizing she was teasing.

  Joanna laughed, too. “I shall have to give it some thought. An opportunity such as this is not to be wasted, must be…” And then her eyes fell upon the letter in her lap. Very much in earnest now, she put a hand imploringly upon his arm. “Did you truly mean it, Llewelyn? For there is something I do want, more than you could ever know. My father wrote that he expects to land at Portsmouth within the fortnight. I’ve not seen him for nigh on seven months, and…and it would mean so much to me to be there on the docks, waiting for him. May 1, Llewelyn? May I go home for a visit?”

  She did not, Llewelyn saw, even catch her slip of the tongue, the use of “home.” Catrin had been right; he’d not done all he could for the lass. “Of course you may go to Portsmouth, Joanna, if that be your wish.”

  “Thank you, oh, thank you!” For a moment he thought she was about to fling her arms around him; she made an indecisive movement, and then jumped to her feet. “May I go now? Today? It’ll take a week to reach London, after all, and I know not when he’s sailing. I could stay with my Aunt Ela, and we could travel together to Portsmouth. And…and if you’d not mind, I could remain for Papa’s Christmas court?”

  “I’d not mind in the least. What could be more natural than that you’d miss your father, your family? Now, if you truly want to depart this noon, you’d best set your maids to packing. Meanwhile, I’ll see about getting you a proper escort.”

  Joanna had begun to thank him again, and he rose, put his arm around her waist. “Why do you not,” he suggested, “ask Catrin to help you pack? You did look rather…taken aback at sight of her earlier, and I’m sure you’d not want her to think she’d somehow displeased you. She’s a good friend, Joanna; they do come no better. You need never fear that she’d betray a confidence, share your secrets.”

  “Was I so obvious as that?” Joanna asked softly, and Llewelyn nodded, gave her waist a gentle squeeze.

  “So you admit, then, that you have secrets from me?” he murmured, and Joanna’s eyes widened. On the surface, it could have passed for his usual banter, but the undercurrent carried an altogether different message. He was, she thought in utterly amazed delight, flirting with her.

  “That,” she said impishly, “is for me to know and you to find out.”

  Llewelyn burst out laughing, more than a little intrigued. It was a child’s answer, the sort of flippancy that any of his daughters might have uttered, but there was nothing at all childlike in the look she gave him, a look impossible to misread, for he’d had it from too many women in the past not to recognize it on sight for what it was—an invitation to further intimacies.

  Blanche was even more excited than Joanna at the prospect of returning to England, and she completed the packing in record if disordered haste. Within the hour, Joanna found herself out in the bailey, watching as her coffers were loaded onto pack horses. Enid came forward, made a quick curtsy, and retreated as if she feared Joanna might change her mind, make her accompany them to the English King’s court, after all. But Joanna merely smiled, and then startled Enid by giving her an utterly inappropriate hug. Embracing Catherine next, she waited until Sugar was safely settled into her traveling basket, and then moved toward Llewelyn.

  He was standing with her seneschal, turned at her approach. “Dylan and I have just been determining your route. You’ll be ferried across the strait at Abermenai; Dylan will swim the horses across. Ordinarily, I’d have you pass the night with the monks at Aberconwy, but you’re getting a late start, and I’d as soon you crossed Penmaenmawr in full light. So you’d best halt at Aber tonight.”

  He drew her away from the others then, put something into her hand. “Here, this is a gift for your father. I had it looped upon a chain so you could wear it around your neck, for safety’s sake.”

  It was, Joanna saw, a square-cut ruby ring, set in heavy gold. “I shall present it to Papa with your compliments,” she promised, and Llewelyn shook his head.

  “No, Joanna. I’ve arranged for a falcon from Ramsey Island as my New Year’s gift. This will be from you, and you alone.” He smiled, for the ring had been taken in one of his grandfather’s wars with the English, and it amused him to think of the English King wearing booty from a border raid.

  Joanna was staring down at the ring. Her father had a passion for jewels, but she had never before been able to indulge that passion, to give him a gift so sure to please. “How generous you are, how good to me,” she said, and reached up, kissed him quickly upon the cheek.

  On impulse, Llewelyn stepped closer, took her in his arms. Curious as to what her response would be, he bent his head, touched his lips to hers. He was half expecting her to recoil, as she had at Rhaeadr Eywnnol, but he was, just as Catherine had predicted, very agreeably surprised. Far from shrinking back, Joanna at once put her arms around his neck. He tightened his hold; there was a fluid feel to her body, as if she’d flowed into his embrace, so yielding was she, so softly supple and pliant, so utterly unlike the girl who’d once gone rigid at his lightest touch. Her breath was sweet, her mouth opening under his like a flower. When he probed it with his tongue, she clung all the closer, showed herself to be a quick study responding with timid tongue-flickerings of her own. It was, for a kiss born of curiosity, one that offered infinite and unexpected promise for the future, and it was with genuine regret that Llewelyn released her, ended their embrace.

  He’d noted before that Joanna had unusually beautiful eyes; they changed with the light, her mood, reflected color like crystal, hazel brown to gold-flecked emerald within the span of seconds. They were very green now, a misty, glowing green, wide with wonderment. She was quite flushed, was running the tip of her tongue over her lips, as if she were still savoring his kiss, and Llewelyn suddenly laughed. Was this how Eve had looked upon first tasting the forbidden fruit?

  “Do not,” he said, “be gone too long.”

  19

  Portsmouth, England

  December 1206

  “How long must we wait, my lady? I’m so cold, am like to catch my death if we…”

  But Joanna was not listening to Blanche, for she’d caught sight of her father. He had emerged from the sheltering tent, was watching as sailors secured their moorings. Beside him, Joanna recognized Peter des Roches, Bishop of Winchester, one of the few churchmen her father seemed inclined to trust. Isabelle was now out on deck, too, looking improbably beautiful in a hooded mantle of silvery fox fur, cuddling a small dog that might have been Sugar’s twin. Joanna could wait no longer, pushed her way to the forefront of the small crowd assembled upon the dock.

  John was halfway down the gangplank when he saw Joanna. He paused, then smiled, kept his eyes upon her all the while the city fathers bade him welcome. As the wind was biting enough to curb even the most effusive of tongues, the official greetings were mercifully brief, and within moments Joanna was curtsying before her father. He raised her up, then drew her to him in a warm, enveloping hug.

  “I could ask for no more agreeable surprise than this. But how did you manage it, lass? You are not a runaway wife, are you?”

  His banter did not ring altogether true; for all that it was playfully posed, the question articulated a genuine concern. What did Papa fear—that she was unhappy as Llewelyn’s wife? Or that her unhappiness might jeopardize his alliance with Llewelyn? Probably both, Joanna acknowledged, but without resentment. Papa would be counting up political gains an
d losses even upon his deathbed. So, she suspected, would Llewelyn.

  “You need not worry, Papa,” she said, and smiled at him. “I have a very indulgent husband.”

  “Will you be coming to me tonight, John?”

  Isabelle’s ladies were preparing her for bed, and she was clad only in her chemise, her hair loose and flowing down her back. A lovely child, she was maturing into a breathtaking woman; John never tired of looking at her, had yet to tire of sleeping with her. Crossing the chamber, he drew her to him, into a possessive embrace. “Does that answer your question? But it’ll not be till late, so you need not wait up for me. I’ll wake you.” He kissed her again, then turned toward Joanna.

  “How about a kiss from you, too, sweetheart?” he said, and Joanna smiled, came quickly into his arms. Stepping back, he looked for a long moment into her face, and she thought he meant to ask for assurance. But he did not, and she wondered why; was it that since he could not change what was writ, he’d rather not know if the price had been too high?

  Isabelle was dismissing her ladies. “That will be all. The Lady Joanna can see to my needs.” As soon as they were alone, she beckoned Joanna toward the bed. “Well? Are you not going to tell me about Llewelyn?”