Joanna could hear the erratic hammering of his heart, could feel the tremor in his arms, and behind her closed eyelids she could still see the sun glinting on the blade of his sword. She touched her fingers to his throat; they came away bloodied, and she shuddered, raised up and kissed him again.
Llewelyn smiled at her; she’d never seen his dark eyes so soft, so tender. And then she saw his smile change, saw it twist with triumph. She turned slowly and, like Llewelyn, looked at her father.
John’s face was burning with color, but his eyes were blank, utterly without emotion. Joanna could read nothing in them, not even recognition. Although she and her father were only some ten feet apart, it suddenly seemed to Joanna that the distance was widening with each silent second that passed. And then John had turned away, was walking rapidly toward the abbey, not looking back.
Joanna watched, and there was a part of her that wanted nothing so much as to run after him, to try to make things right. But she did not move; she could not.
She looked so desolate, so achingly vulnerable, that Llewelyn put his arm around her shoulders. She had, he thought, burned more than a bed this time; she had burned a bridge.
He said nothing, but Joanna knew it, too. “He’ll never forgive me,” she said softly, “never.”
It was dusk before John summoned Llewelyn to the monks’ frater. He watched as the Welsh entered the dining hall, waited until Llewelyn and Joanna approached the dais, and then said cuttingly, “A woman has no place in the council chamber. Have your wife await you outside.”
Joanna flushed, and John discovered that hurting her did nothing to ease his own hurt. She curtsied, looked first at her father and then at her husband, and John was swept with rage when Llewelyn nodded, as if he had the right to confirm a royal command. He saw now that the younger man had not washed away the dried blood on his throat, knew that was no less deliberately done than his own refusal to see Llewelyn for more than six hours, and at that moment there was nothing he would not have given to revoke Llewelyn’s reprieve—save only the life of his brother.
The hall was crowded. John was flanked by the Earls of Chester and Pembroke, was accepting a wine cup from his cousin, William de Warenne, Earl of Surrey. Llewelyn recognized most of the Normans gathered around the dais. Eustace de Vesci looked, as ever, like a man nursing a perpetual toothache. Beside him stood his cousin Robert Fitz Walter, whose friendship with de Vesci was mystifying to those who knew them best, for Fitz Walter was a swaggering, jovial prankster and braggart, utterly unlike the aloof, sardonic de Vesci. Fitz Walter, whose estates were primarily in Essex, looked no happier than de Vesci to be embroiled in John’s vendetta against a Welsh Prince. But Llewelyn noted that even the Marcher lords, like the Earl of Hereford and Richard de Clare, did not appear to be savoring John’s triumph. To Llewelyn, that was dramatic and intriguing evidence of the growing estrangement between John and his barons, that they could take no pleasure in any victory that strengthened the crown.
With a start, Llewelyn realized what he was doing, standing midst the burning embers of a charred ruin and envisioning it resurrected from the ashes and rubble, no less ambitious in design, far more impregnable to attack. It was heartening to discover that he had not yet lost all hope, even now as he braced himself for what was to come, for the price he would have to pay for John’s truce. He knew, just as John did, that it was not a peace.
John wasted no time. “I expect to be compensated in full for the cost of this campaign. But I am not vindictive. Since I know what a poor, wretched country Wales is, how limited your resources are, I am willing to take payment in livestock. I shall want some of your best horses, hawks, and hunting dogs for my own use, will let you know how many. But you are to pay tribute to the English crown in cattle—twenty thousand head.”
“Christ!” Llewelyn was staggered. “You do not understand how dependent we are on cattle. If you reduce our herds by twenty thousand, my people will starve!”
“You’re the one who does not understand. You’re not here to argue, to negotiate. You’re here to listen whilst I tell you what I want from you. And what I want are cattle…and land. All of Gwynedd west of the River Conwy, the four cantrefs you call the Perfeddwlad.”
With one stroke he’d just cut Gwynedd in two, gained half of North Wales for the English crown. Llewelyn stared at him, saying nothing, taking what meagre consolation he could from a grim resolve, that claiming the Perfeddwlad would be easier than holding onto it.
It was not difficult for John to guess the tenor of his thoughts, for he’d made no effort to dissemble, and everything about him, from his stance to the set of his mouth, spoke of silent defiance. More than ever, John regretted what he’d done for love of his daughter. But he had one great advantage over most men, a lesson learned at bitter cost during those years he’d dwelt in the shadow of a brother he hated, in the shadow of the crown. He knew how to wait.
“Whatever my other faults, naïveté is not amongst them. I know, of course, that you cannot be trusted out of my sight, that an oath of honor means no more to a Welshman than it would to an infidel Saracen. Therefore, I shall have to take measures to make sure you keep faith. I want thirty hostages as pledges for your fidelity to the crown. They are to be wellborn, the sons of your Welsh lords, scions of noble Houses.”
Llewelyn knew it was a common Norman custom to take hostages, knew John had in custody not only the daughters of the Scottish King but the sons of those of his own lords who’d fallen into disfavor. Even the powerful and respected Earl of Pembroke had been forced to yield up two of his sons to allay John’s feverish suspicions. But knowing that did nothing to ease Llewelyn’s sense of outrage. “As you will,” he said tersely, not trusting himself to say more.
“You are to select them, to take upon yourself the responsibility for their fate. But of the thirty, one must be your son Gruffydd.”
Llewelyn’s head came up sharply. “No!”
There was a sudden, tense silence. Chester glanced toward John, then took it upon himself to say, “Need I point out, my lord, that you’re in no position to refuse anything the King might demand of you?”—making it a simple statement of fact when another man might have turned it into a mocking taunt.
“He’s holding two sons of mine,” a voice close at hand said in Welsh, and Llewelyn turned, stared for a startled moment into the ice-blue eyes of an old enemy. Maelgwn seemed surprised himself, as if his words had somehow come of their own volition. He shrugged, murmured coolly, “Mae yn rhy hwyr edifaru ar ol i’r ffagl gyneu.”
It was an oft-quoted Welsh proverb, one Llewelyn knew well: It is too late to repent after the flame is kindled.
He looked from Maelgwn to Chester, realizing that these two men, the most unlikely of allies, were, nevertheless, trying to do him a good turn, to remind him of the wretched realities of defeat, the likely consequences of refusal. He realized, too, that they were right. But how in Christ’s blessed name could he ever do what was being demanded? How could he give up his son to John, to John of all men?
John was smiling faintly. “The boy is in the camp; it would be easy enough to take him. But I’ve a question to put to you first, my lord Prince of Gwynedd. You speak with such passion of your concern for your people, speak as if you truly care whether they have meat to put in their bellies. Tell me, then, how you can agree to offer up other men’s sons, whilst refusing to yield your own.”
Llewelyn sucked in his breath. He no longer looked defiant, looked shaken, and John took some satisfaction from that, but it was not enough, not nearly enough.
He rose from his chair, and Llewelyn took a step toward the dais. “Will Your Grace spare me a few moments…alone?”
John frowned, but curiosity won out, and he nodded, waved the other men away from the dais. They retreated with obvious reluctance, no less curious than he. As soon as they were out of earshot, he demanded, “Well? What have you to say to me?”
“Just this.” Llewelyn had advanced to the first s
tep of the dais. “I want you to remember,” he said, “that if Gruffydd is your hostage, Joanna is mine.”
John’s eyes widened. “What mean you by that? You’d never hurt Joanna!”
“No, I would not. I care very deeply for her. And I’m willing to concede that you care, too.”
“Of course I care!” John snapped. “What of it?”
“You know now that Joanna loves me. But she loves you, too, and however angry you are with her, I do not think you want to lose that love. Am I wrong?”
John was frowning again. “Go on,” he said curtly. “Get to the point.”
“As I said, Joanna still loves you. But there are things she does not know, that I’ve kept from her. Mayhap they’d make no difference to her if she knew. Mayhap they’d make all the difference in the world. Do you want to risk it?”
“You expect me to believe you’d do that to Joanna, use her as a weapon against me?”
Llewelyn gave a harsh, bitter laugh. “You expect me to believe you would not?”
John bit back a hot retort. “What do you want?” he said at last.
“I want you to remember that your quarrel is with me, not with my son.”
“He is a hostage, not a scapegoat. You have nothing to fear for him as long as you keep faith.” John paused. “In a very real sense, his fate is in your hands, not mine.”
The Chapter House was lit by a single, smoking rushlight, cluttered with overturned benches and the debris of soldiers who’d been using it as a barracks. It was a somber setting for what Llewelyn had to say, but it did offer privacy. When he’d exited the frater hall, he’d found Joanna and Gruffydd waiting in the cloisters. They’d followed him obediently into the Chapter House, showed themselves to be sensitive to his mood by asking no questions. They watched as he wandered about the chamber, kicking aside empty wine flasks, until Gruffydd could stand the suspense no longer.
“Are you not going to tell us what happened, Papa? What does he want?”
“All of Gwynedd west of the Conwy, twenty thousand cattle, and thirty hostages.” Llewelyn had half hoped his son might guess the truth, but Gruffydd’s face showed only outrage. Whirling about, he glared accusingly at Joanna.
“I tried to tell you, Papa, that she was not to be trusted!”
“Do not talk foolishness, Gruffydd. If not for Joanna, there’d have been no terms at all.” Llewelyn glanced over at his wife. “I owe her a great deal. We all do.”
He knew no easy way to tell the boy, and the longer he delayed, the harder it would get. “John demands that you be one of the hostages, Gruffydd.”
Gruffydd gasped, stared at him, eyes dark with disbelief. “And…and you agreed?”
“I had no choice, lad.”
“No…” Gruffydd backed away. “She got you to do this! So her son will be your only heir, so he’ll—”
“That’s not true! I did not know my father would—”
“Liar! He did it for you, for you and your God-cursed son!”
“Gruffydd, that is enough!” In the silence that settled over the chamber, Llewelyn faced a very ugly truth, one he’d sought for five years to deny. He’d long known that Joanna and Gruffydd did not get along, but he’d succeeded in convincing himself that it was no more than the natural strain between a stepmother and a child not hers, that their relationship would mend as Gruffydd matured. Now he looked at Joanna and Gruffydd, and was forced to acknowledge that the son he loved and the woman he loved would never be reconciled, would never be other than implacable enemies, each one begrudging the other a place in his heart, in his life.
Standing there in the dimly lit Chapter House, he could, for the first time, comprehend how it must be for Joanna, caught between the conflicting claims of a father and a husband. But for the moment, nothing mattered more than Gruffydd’s need. “Ednyved and Rhys are outside in the cloisters. They’ll escort you back to our camp, Joanna.”
She gave him an anxious look that made him conscious of just how exhausted he truly was, but she did not argue, slipped quietly from the chamber. Llewelyn crossed to his son, put his hand on the boy’s arm. Gruffydd jerked free with such violence that he lurched against one of the benches.
“How could you do it, Papa? How could you ever agree to turn me over to John?”
“Agree? Good Christ, Gruffydd! Does a man dragged to the gallows agree to the hanging? If you’d not insisted upon coming with me, if you’d stayed at Dolwyddelan as I wanted—” Llewelyn broke off in mid-sentence. After a long pause, he said, very quietly, “Gruffydd, listen to me, lad. I’d give anything on God’s earth to spare you this. But I cannot. You must somehow try to understand that. You keep telling me you’ve reached manhood, you’re no longer a boy. You have to prove that now, Gruffydd, by accepting what has to be.”
Llewelyn had always known his son had uncommon courage, an unrelenting pride. Gruffydd had lost much of his color. A few freckles not usually noticeable stood out in sudden, sharp relief across his cheekbones, the bridge of his nose; he’d rarely looked so much like his mother as he did at that moment. He swallowed with an obvious effort, but when he spoke, he’d gotten his voice under control.
“Where will he send me? To London, to the Tower?”
Llewelyn winced. Jesú, no wonder the boy seemed so fearful! “Ah, no, lad! You’re to be a hostage, not a prisoner. You will not be caged, will not be shut away from the sun. John will treat you kindly, will keep you at his court.” He could see Gruffydd’s doubt, said, “He always does with hostages of high birth, has even allowed the younger ones to act as pages in his Queen’s household.”
This time when he reached out, Gruffydd did not pull away. He put his arm around the boy’s shoulders, and for a moment or two, no more than that, Gruffydd clung, held tight. But then he drew back. “How long,” he asked tautly, “shall I be held hostage?”
“I do not know,” Llewelyn admitted, and Gruffydd retreated even farther into the shadows.
“I want to be alone now, Papa.” Gruffydd did not wait for Llewelyn’s response, but at the door he suddenly stopped, swung around to face his father again.
“Tell me, Papa. Would you have given Davydd up as a hostage, too, had John demanded it?”
“Yes,” Llewelyn said, “I would.”
Gruffydd’s face was utterly in shadow. “I wish I could believe that.”
“Gruffydd, wait!” Llewelyn reached the door in four strides, but still was not in time. The cloisters lay dark and deserted, and Gruffydd was nowhere in sight.
The sky was overcast, the sea dulled to an ashen shade of grey, the air so heavy and humid that Joanna felt as if she were filling her lungs with pure vapor. It must be like this to be caught in a cloud, she thought, and let herself indulge in a moment of fanciful whimsy, gazing up at the sky and wondering what it would be like, drifting within a world soft and wet and utterly opaque, a floating womb.
“Whatever are you thinking of, Joanna? You’ve the oddest look on your face!”
“When I was little, Richard, and out of favor with my mother, I would go out on the moors and play what I called my ‘pretend’ game. Sometimes I’d become a bird, sometimes a boat bound for Cathay, sometimes just a leaf in the wind. I’d almost forgotten about those games.”
She glanced across the encampment, toward her husband and his son. Llewelyn was talking, Gruffydd saying very little. He was close enough for Llewelyn to touch, but even from where she stood, Joanna could see he was beyond reach. She turned back to her brother, said abruptly, “Richard, promise me something. Do what you can for Gruffydd.”
He nodded, as ever, too discreet to pry. And because he did not, she felt obligated to explain. “For Llewelyn, not for Gruffydd. I will not lie, not to you. When I learned what Papa meant to do, I was glad, Richard, I was truly glad. I only hope Papa keeps him in England for a thousand years. But if anything should happen to him whilst he is in Papa’s hands, it will be the end of my marriage. Llewelyn might think he’d not blame me, but every time he�
�d look at me, he’d remember. How could he not? So try to…to keep an eye on Gruffydd, see that he does not do anything foolish, or provoke Papa into doing anything…rash.”
“Joanna, I’ll do my best, but I’ll not lie to you, either. I cannot be the boy’s guardian angel, cannot be Papa’s conscience.”
“No, I suppose not,” she conceded. “Do you know if Papa is still within the Earl of Chester’s command tent?”
“I think so. You mean to talk to him again? You’ve tried twice, Joanna; it might be best to give him time…”
“Time?” she echoed bleakly. “Now who’s lying, Richard? You know as well as I that time is running out even as we talk.”
Joanna curtsied, but did not wait to be summoned. Moving forward, she said, “My husband is making ready to depart. May I speak with Your Grace ere we go?”
“I think it best if we do not. I do not see what we have to say.”
Joanna had no more warning than John. Never had her temper taken fire so suddenly, flaring from embers to inferno in the span of seconds. “Well, I do have something to say to you, and say it I shall!”
John was staring at her as if at a stranger, for it was the first time he’d ever seen Joanna truly angry. He hesitated, then made a gesture of dismissal. The other men in the tent withdrew, leaving him alone with his daughter.
“I did not betray you, Papa. Yes, I love my husband, but I am not going to feel guilty about that, not anymore.” Joanna drew several unsteady breaths; regaining some of her composure, she said more calmly, “Ah, Papa, do you not see? The human heart is not like a loaf of bread; if I give a large portion to Llewelyn, it does not follow that I must then give you a smaller slice. I love you both, in different ways. If I stood with Llewelyn on Sunday, it’s not that my love for him was greater, but rather that his need was greater.”
Here Be Dragons Page 48
