Here Be Dragons

by Sharon Kay Penman

  “No, Madame, I think not.” William de Braose shook his head, said very evenly, “Whilst that is a kind offer, I would not rest easy as long as there was any chance my grandson might fall into the King’s hands.”

  Joanna felt as if she’d been slapped. “My father would never harm a fourteen-year-old boy!”

  De Braose did not dispute her. But neither did he believe her, and it showed. Far worse, she could read the same skepticism on her husband’s face, on the faces of the others in the hall. She looked about her, saw only disbelief, derision, and pity, and she whirled, fled the hall.

  When Llewelyn followed, he found her in their bedchamber, standing by a window opening onto the sea. “Joanna,” he said, and as she turned, he saw tears streaking her face.

  “My father is not a monster. He’s not!”

  “Ah, lass, I never said he was.”

  “But you do think he would hurt Will, do you not?”

  “I do not know, Joanna. I can only tell you that if it were my son, I’d not be willing to gamble his life on John’s sense of justice.”

  “Llewelyn, listen to me. For once, please hear what I am saying. I know my father has flaws; what man does not? You’ve your share, too. But Papa has never been anything but kind to me, and to my brothers. He treats his wife far better than most men do. And he is a good King. When he travels, he is ever willing to halt by the roadside, to let the common people petition him for redress of grievances, and no king within memory has labored so to provide all free men with access to his courts. He even sits himself when cases are tried. When poor crops caused the price of bread to rise beyond the ability of many to pay for it, he ordered that large quantities be bought, be offered to the people for a pittance, and he oft gives money for alms, for—”

  “Joanna, there is no need for this, love.” There was in Joanna’s frenzied recital of her father’s benevolences a desperation that told Llewelyn she was not as free of doubts as she would have him believe. “Joanna, what you say is true; I know that. John can indeed be very generous, can be merciful and just…but only to the poor, the powerless. To those whom he does see as a threat, he is utterly without mercy.”

  “You are wrong, Llewelyn, so very wrong.” Joanna brushed away tears with the back of her hand. “You do not know him as I do. Why will you not believe me? Why will you not at least try to allay my father’s fears? You know he is of a mistrustful nature, know how quick he is to suspect the worst. He has never truly trusted you after you defied him and seized Powys, we both know that. And now, when he learns that you gave shelter to an enemy like William de Braose—”

  “You do not understand at all, do you, Joanna? You still do not see. This is my land, the land of my father and his father before him and his father before him. I am of the House of Cunedda, who ruled in Gwynedd in the fifth century after the birth of the Lord Jesus Christ. Can your Norman kings trace their ancestry back seven hundred years? I think not, yet they dare to sneer at our customs, to mock our heritage and our language.

  “I am Welsh, Joanna, and even now you cannot comprehend what that means. Normandy, Anjou, England—it is all the same to you of Norman birth. Your people have dwelt in England for over a hundred years, yet you do not think of yourselves as English. You do not sicken when uprooted or exiled, you do not recognize the kinship of the tribe, which goes beyond the cenedl, the kinship of blood. You know nothing of hiraeth. And you will never understand what I feel when I see Norman castles guarding Welsh mountain passes, when I hear French spoken instead of Welsh in the valley of the Rhondda, knowing French might one day be heard in the valleys of Gwynedd, too.”

  Joanna had listened in stricken silence. Their most heated quarrels had not frightened her so much. Not since the first days of her marriage had she felt as she did now, as an alien in a world that would never make her welcome, that she could never understand.

  “You are right, Llewelyn,” she said softly, wretchedly. “I do not understand. I would to God I could, but I do not. I love you, though. Does that count for nothing?”

  “I know you love me, Joanna. But you believe your father is in the right and I am in the wrong, believe all would be well if only I’d act as a proper vassal, submit myself unto the King’s will.”

  She could not deny it, and that frightened her all the more. How much strain could a marriage absorb, how many quarrels before the foundation cracked, split beyond repair?

  “I know that of a sudden we seem to be arguing all the time, and I hate it, I do. I will not lie to you. There have been times this summer when I have not liked you very much. But I never stop loving you, Llewelyn, no matter how angry I get. You must believe that.” She paused for breath, forced herself to ask. “You…you do still love me?”

  “Ah, Joanna, how young you still are…” He crossed the chamber, stopped before her. “When I married you, you were an appealing, courageous child. You’ve grown into a beautiful, courageous woman, and I have learned to love you, breila. But—”

  “No,” she entreated, reaching up and laying her fingers against his mouth. “You say you do love me. Let’s stop with that, let’s not talk any more…please. Love me, Llewelyn. Make me forget all but you.”

  He tilted her face up, kissed her, gently at first, and then he lifted her in his arms, carried her to the bed, where he did make her forget…for a time.

  When William de Braose, under escort, entered the solar of the King’s castle at Bristol, he felt no surprise at sight of so many highborn witnesses: the Earls of Salisbury, Derby, Surrey, and Chester, Eustace de Vesci and Geoffrey Fitz Peter, John’s Justiciar. De Braose understood all too well. There was no longer need for caution, no longer need to fear betrayal, not with de Braose’s wife, son, and grandsons under close guard in this very castle.

  De Braose was actually glad of an audience. Derby and Chester had intervened on his behalf, had persuaded John to issue a safe-conduct, and de Braose thought John would be more likely to honor it in the blaze of full noon. He knelt, said, “I have come to beg my King’s pardon, to ask what I must do to make amends, to regain your trust.”

  “Indeed? Shall I tell you how to mend a broken trust? Pluck the feathers from a goose, scatter them to the four winds. Then gather them all up, each and every one, and put them back on the goose. It is as easy as that.”

  John had won triumph after triumph during his two months in Ireland, had scattered his enemies, brought the ever-rebellious Irish barons to heel, had Maude in his hands and her husband on his knees. But he did not look like a man savoring his victories; he looked drawn and tired, almost haggard, and de Braose could take no comfort from what he read in those narrowed hazel eyes.

  “I have offended you, and for that I am well and truly sorry. But I am loyal to you, my liege, would never betray you. Let me prove myself. Set for me a task, I’ll not fail you.” De Braose sought to slow his breathing, added very softly, “Christ, John, it never had to come to this, I swear it.”

  John’s favorite falcon was perched upon his left arm, talons digging into the padded leather wrist-guard. It was unhooded, made harsh, guttural sounds low in its throat, and John stroked the sleek feathers with a gloved hand, spoke softly and soothingly until it quieted. “My lords of Chester and Derby, amongst others, have urged me to show mercy. I would not want it said that I was arbitrary, unjust. Mayhap we can yet reach an accord. If you were to pay a fine, one large enough to discharge your indebtedness to the crown, and to cover the costs I have incurred because of your rebellion, I would-be willing to overlook your past offenses, to give you and your sons full pardons.”

  De Braose was stunned. “And my wife? What of her?” he demanded, even as he sought feverishly to detect where the snare lay.

  John smiled mirthlessly. “I’ve no wish to have her on my hands for life, that I assure you. She would be released into your custody.”

  De Braose was still struggling with disbelief; he might have found it easier to believe John if he had not shared John’s summary way with
enemies. “I do accept your terms, Your Grace, am speechless, in truth,” he said, without irony. “Have you an amount in mind?”

  “I think forty thousand marks to be a fair sum,” John said, and then de Braose understood.

  “Indeed,” he said tonelessly. “When do you want payment, my lord?”

  There was no surprise whatsoever when John said, “You do have a fortnight to raise the money. Will that be acceptable?”

  “Quite acceptable.” At John’s gesture, he rose to his feet, took the wine cup John was offering, his own. Their eyes held as he drank, as he drained the cup. And then John gestured again, this time in dismissal.

  Maude kept squeezing her husband’s arm, as if to reassure herself of the reality of his presence. “When they told me you were here, I could scarce believe it!”

  “What of Will, Annora, the lads? Are they all right?”

  She nodded. “Fearful, but unhurt. I’ll confess, Will, that I’ve been none too easy myself.” And even that understated admission surprised him; hers was a haughty spirit that made no allowances for frailties, that would never acknowledge weaknesses in herself. “Well? For the love of God, Will, tell me! What did John say?”

  “That we can buy absolution…for forty thousand marks.”

  “Forty thousand! You must be joking! We could never raise that, no one could. Did you not tell him so?”

  “He already knows.”

  She stared at him, then sat down suddenly on the nearest coffer. “We…we could raise four, mayhap even five thousand. You could borrow from Derby and de Clare. Pembroke might even—”

  “Maude, it would not matter. Even if, by some miracle, we begged and borrowed the entire amount, it would not matter. Can you not see that? He deliberately demanded a sum he knows we can never pay. He is not going to give any pardons, and he is not going to let you go, not for forty thousand marks, not for twice that amount.”

  Her face did not at once show full comprehension; it came only in degrees, as if she were clinging as long as she could to the illusory security of denial. “Christ have mercy,” she whispered. “He’ll keep me caged till I rot.” She rose, began to pace. “God in Heaven, how I hate that man! May his misbegotten, cankered soul rot for aye in Hell everlasting!”

  She raved on like that for some moments, abusing John in language even her husband could not have improved upon, at last turned back to face him, said tautly, “What mean you to do now, Will?”

  De Braose looked away, stared into space over her head. “There is a ship sailing at dawn for Barfleur. For the right sum, the captain will smuggle me on board.”

  “You mean to flee to France? To abandon me and your children to John? Jesus wept, Will!” There was so much shock in her voice that he flushed, lashed out savagely.

  “I did what I could for you, more than you deserve, for none of this would have happened if not for you! What would it serve to share the same dungeon? I cannot help you, Maude, can only save myself now. And I’m damned if I’ll feel guilty about it!”

  Her mouth twisted. “Do you want to tell our grandsons that, or shall I?” she jeered, and he almost hit her. Unclenching his fist, he swung away from her, toward the door.

  “I suppose I should wish you luck! It will not be easy, you know; I daresay John has you under close surveillance. It’ll be a miracle if you even make it to the wharves.”

  He paused, hand on the door latch. “You still do not see, do you, Maude? It was not me John wanted. It was you. It has been you from the beginning, from the day you opened your damned fool mouth and doomed us all.”

  27

  Aber, North Wales

  May 1211

  Catherine was being escorted across the bailey toward Joanna’s chamber when she heard the screams, screams of such total terror that she gathered up her skirts, began to run. In the antechamber Branwen was retching into a water bucket, with Alison hovering helplessly nearby. The screams were abruptly choked off as Catherine reached for the door latch. Within the chamber, Llewelyn was braced against a high-backed chair, while Joanna knelt beside him, trying frantically to comfort the screaming child he held upon his lap. As Catherine watched, sickened, Llewelyn’s barber straightened up, holding a pair of pincers and a small bloody tooth.

  Elen writhed against Llewelyn’s restraining hold, let out a high, keening wail of pain, fright, and outrage. Almost from the time she could walk, she’d shown a decided preference for her father, but now it was for Mama that she sobbed, and Joanna gathered her into a close embrace.

  Elen’s face was beet-red, her eyes swollen, her bodice stained with saliva and blood and vomit, but her parents looked no less stricken. As Joanna crooned to the weeping child, oblivious to the blood smearing her own clothing, Llewelyn rose, poured himself a full cup of mead with a hand that shook.

  “Christ, Catrin,” he said softly, “I do not think I could go through that again for the very surety of my soul.”

  Catherine understood exactly how he felt; a child of hers had once been subjected to the same ordeal. “You tried cloves, bettony?” she asked, and he nodded wearily.

  “Every remedy we could think of, and then Joanna lit candles to St Apollonia, but to no avail.” Elen’s screams had yet to abate; he reached out, stroked the heaving little shoulder, and then retreated, leaving Joanna to minister to their daughter’s pain.

  It was a long time before Elen quieted, even longer before she slept. Joanna slumped down upon a coffer, already dreading the moment when Elen would awake, when her suffering would begin again. “I do not know when I’ve ever been so tired, Catherine…”

  She did look utterly exhausted, and Catherine felt a throb of pity, for she knew how bad a year it had been for Joanna. A bad year for them all, but above all for Joanna, who loved both John and Llewelyn, who was caught between anguished, irreconcilable loyalties.

  Soon after William de Braose’s flight to France, the Earl of Chester and the Bishop of Winchester had led an army into Gwynedd, advancing as far as the east bank of the River Conwy, where Chester rebuilt Deganwy Castle, which Llewelyn had razed in a futile attempt to keep it out of Norman control. At about the same time, John released Gwenwynwyn from his two-year confinement, giving him money and men-at-arms to mount a challenge to Llewelyn’s hold upon his domains. Llewelyn thus found himself fighting a war on two fronts, and by December he’d been forced to withdraw from most of southern Powys. But he struck back hard at Chester, making raids of reprisal into Cheshire, burning the Earl’s manors and running off his livestock. Christmas that year had seen smoke-filled skies on both sides of the border, and Joanna, then in the second month of a stressful pregnancy, had miscarried on Epiphany Eve.

  With Easter, a fragile, false peace settled over the Marches. All knew it would not last. Chester’s men were still entrenched in Deganwy, and Llewelyn would never accept an alien presence on Welsh soil. Gwenwynwyn was now back in power in Powys, with a blood score to settle. And John had spent the spring forging alliances of expediency with Maelgwn and Rhys Gryg. What should have been a season of rebirth and renewal was now no more than a time of uneasy waiting, was to be but a brief prelude to a summer of war.

  “Joanna…how is it between Llewelyn and you these days? Are you getting on better?”

  “Yes, we are,” Joanna said, then gave Catherine a sad smile. “But that is because he has been so often gone from Aber this spring.”

  “You argue about John, about your father?” Catherine asked tentatively, and Joanna nodded.

  In the past year her life with Llewelyn had fallen into a disquieting pattern: sudden, sharp quarrels during the daylight hours, later reconciled in bed. “I love him, Catherine, and I believe he still loves me. But…but we find little to laugh about these days, and I remember how we used to laugh together all the time…”

  She rose, reassured herself that Elen still slept, and then turned back to Catherine. “When all began to go sour between my father and Llewelyn, I blamed Llewelyn for much of it, Catherine. I kept
thinking if only he’d try harder to earn Papa’s trust, if only he were not so set upon having his own way, so prideful…But then my father sent the Earl of Chester into Gwynedd, gave Gwenwynwyn the means of making war upon Llewelyn. Oh, God, Catherine, how could he? However angry he was with Llewelyn, did he never think of me? For my sake, could he not have found another way?”

  Joanna was alone in their bedchamber, waiting for Llewelyn. Branwen had unbraided her hair, and she reached for the silver-backed brush Llewelyn had given her just four days ago, on their fifth wedding anniversary. As she did, her eyes fell upon a small crystalline stone, mottled with bronze streaks. Picking up the jasper pebble, she fingered it pensively. The stone was no talisman, was a goad to memories she’d rather not recall, memories of her January miscarriage.

  But brake-root was not any more effective than jasper as a contraceptive. Isabelle had become pregnant within days of their confidential conversation at Woodstock, had given birth to a daughter while John was pursuing Maude de Braose in Ireland. That, too, was a memory Joanna preferred not to dwell upon, for she’d had an utterly unexpected reaction to the birth of her half-sister. She’d never realized how much it mattered to her—being John’s only daughter amongst eight sons—not until it was no longer true, until Isabelle had given John a fair-haired baby girl and he’d given her Joanna’s own name.

  It was a common if confusing Norman custom to have legitimate and baseborn children share the same name; John had twice christened sons Henry and Richard. But Joanna could not keep from reading a superstitious significance into John’s choice of names, could not keep from being hurt by that choice.

  She’d had ten months to accustom herself to the loss of her privileged status, no longer felt jealous of the baby sister she’d yet to see. But she had not heard from her father for months, not since that past autumn, and on this warm night in mid-May, she felt forlorn and forgotten and very much afraid of what the future might hold.