Here Be Dragons

by Sharon Kay Penman

  John said nothing; she could not tell whether her words were reaching him or not. “Papa, you told me once that your mother and father had ever used you and your brothers as weapons against each other. You said you could not please the one without first damning the other. I’m asking you—no, I’m begging you. Do not do to me what they did to you.”

  “Joanna…that’s not what I ever meant to do. Surely you know that?”

  “What I know, Papa, is that I love you and I love Llewelyn, and the two of you are tearing me apart!”

  John flinched. “I never wanted that, lass,” he said softly, “I swear it.”

  Joanna moved around the trestle table, moved into his arms. He hugged her close, then stepped back and smiled at her. “I think it a good thing I had sons. Daughters are much too resourceful at getting their own way, are much harder on the heart!”

  Joanna took her cue from him, did her best to echo his wry, teasing tone. “I do not know about that, Papa. I’d wager most daughters are more docile and biddable than a man’s scapegrace sons.”

  “So would I, until this morn. In truth, Joanna, I never suspected you had such a temper!”

  “I am your daughter, Eleanor of Aquitaine’s granddaughter. Are you not the one always telling me that a pure-blood horse breeds true?”

  John laughed, and it was as if their estrangement were forgotten, as if all were as it had been. But as much as Joanna wanted to believe that, she knew it was not so, for either of them.

  As she followed John from the tent, Joanna discovered that the Welsh were waiting for her. Llewelyn was already astride his chestnut stallion. He watched as John escorted Joanna toward her mare, as they embraced and John helped her to mount. He raised his hand then, gave the signal to depart. But John still retained his hold on Joanna’s reins.

  “Be sure,” he said, “that you take care of my daughter.”

  “Your Grace need not worry about my wife. You take care of my son.”

  Joanna saw the look that burned between them; the very air seemed charged with static. She had no illusions left, knew their truce would not last. There would be a reckoning. There would be another war, and there was nothing she could do, for both men wanted it so.

  29

  Cambridge, England

  March 1212

  John rode into the riverside town known as Cantebrigge at dusk on Good Friday, settled himself and his court in the stone-and-timber castle built by William the Conqueror.

  Cantebrigge was a sprawling, unwalled town of some two thousand inhabitants, like most of the English towns Gruffydd had seen in the past seven months in that it had a marketplace, a leper hospital, a disproportionate number of stone churches, a Jewish ghetto called the Jewry, and a gallows, stocks, and pillory. But Cantebrigge was also home to a university with a large, raucous student population, in consequence of which it had more than its share of alehouses and bordellos.

  Passing through the town, Gruffydd’s companions took enthused notice of the latter, began to make plans for a night of disreputable pleasures. As ever, it struck Gruffydd as strange indeed that in some ways he should have greater freedom as a hostage of the English King than as the son of Gwynedd’s Prince. In Wales he’d been conscious at all times of his rank; as Llewelyn’s firstborn son, he was accustomed to being the focal point of stares, the target of whispers. Unable to escape his identity, he could only do his best to live up to it, and his dread of being made to look ridiculous had imposed upon him an unwilling chastity. He’d known there were women of easy virtue, women of the brake and bush who’d lay with a man for money. But each time he was tempted, he would begin to fear that he might not know what to do, that the woman would laugh at his inexperience and, far worse, then tell everyone about his inept fumbling, his greenness.

  But once in England, he discovered that for the first time in his life, he was not the center of attention, not known by sight to all. The sudden anonymity was unsettling, but liberating, too. On a night in mid-November, he’d accompanied some of his fellow hostages to a Hereford bawdy house and had lost his virginity to a plump Saxon whore named Edwina, who smelled of sweat and garlic and charged him half a penny, but called him “love” and put to rest any lingering doubts about his manhood.

  Now, when his friends Collen and Emlyn pressed him, he fell in with their plans willingly enough. He was beginning to want more than hurried couplings on fetid, scratchy straw, to want a bedmate he did not have to buy. But he did not see much likelihood of his forming an attachment of the heart at the English court, and if he could not ease his loneliness, his heartsick yearning for Wales, he could at least relieve his body’s needs.

  It was dark by the time a fasting-day fish supper had been served, before Gruffydd and his companions were able to find beds for themselves in the side aisles of the great hall. Madoc ap Maelgwn sauntered past, nodded coolly. Gruffydd gave an equally cool greeting in return, was glad when Madoc moved on; he was not good at dissembling, found it awkward to be in such close proximity with the son of his father’s enemy.

  He knew Collen’s father had not sent him any money for some weeks, and he was counting his own coins to make sure he could pay for them both, when a man clad in the red and white livery of the King stopped before his pallet.

  “I’ve been sent to escort you to the King’s Grace,” he said brusquely, and Gruffydd’s heart skipped a beat. He could think of very few reasons why John should be summoning him, none of them reassuring.

  The room was circular, lit by smoking wall cressets, cluttered with open coffers and clothing. Gruffydd found it almost intolerable to be in John’s presence, sometimes thought he might choke on his hatred, and it was with the greatest reluctance that he came forward, knelt.

  But in the next moment the English King was forgotten. Gruffydd got abruptly to his feet, stared openmouthed at the woman standing next to John. He would never have believed he could be so glad to see one he so detested, but now he stepped toward her, said eagerly, “Do you bring a message from my father, Madame?”

  Joanna shook her head, and he felt his throat close up with disappointment. But then he heard a familiar voice say, “Why should I give Joanna a message I can better deliver myself?” and he spun around, disbelieving.

  “Papa?” He sounded stunned, and Llewelyn laughed, came swiftly across the chamber.

  “I wanted to surprise you, lad, not send you into shock!”

  Gruffydd still could not believe his father was here, on English soil, in John’s private chamber, not even when he found himself gathered into an affectionate embrace. His sense of unreality went spinning wildly out of control when Llewelyn turned, said with the utmost nonchalance, “John, I’d like to take Gruffydd back to my own chamber now, so we can talk.”

  And when John replied composedly, “By all means; Joanna can stay and visit with me, giving you time alone,” Gruffydd decided that the world had gone mad, and all in it.

  He somehow managed to hold his peace as they crossed the bailey, entered the northwest tower, mounted the spiral stairway to the chamber allotted for Llewelyn and Joanna’s use. But as soon as the door closed behind them, he blurted out, “Papa, what in God’s name are you doing here?”

  “Just what it looks like,” Llewelyn said blandly. “I am celebrating Easter with my wife’s family.” And then he gave a sardonic laugh, added, “Of course, this reunion required a safe-conduct and an exchange of hostages!”

  “Are you sure that you’re safe here?”

  “As safe as Salisbury’s life can make me. John sent his brother again as a pledge of faith.”

  Gruffydd’s anxiety abated somewhat, although not his bewilderment. “But if he did not lure you to England to imprison or murder you, what has he in mind? Why is he being so polite to you?”

  Llewelyn laughed again. “He cannot very well do otherwise as long as I am a guest at his court. Ostensibly he summoned me so he can visit with Joanna, whilst magnanimously giving me the chance to see you. The reality, of course
, is that John wants something from me. Sit, and we’ll talk about it. Do you know what has been happening in Wales?”

  “Not much,” Gruffydd admitted. “Just what we manage to overhear. I do know that John sent Falkes de Breauté and Maelgwn into Ceredigion, that they defeated Owain and Rhys Ieunac, forced them to surrender, to come to London and make a public submission to John.” That was a distasteful memory to Gruffydd. He grimaced, said, “They were thoroughly cowed, Papa, showed no spirit at all…not like you.”

  That was, Llewelyn realized, Gruffydd’s oblique way of making amends for those earlier accusations of cowardice. He smiled at the boy, said, “But John then made a fatal blunder. Rather than turning Ceredigion back to Maelgwn, he claimed it for the crown, set Falkes de Breauté to building a castle at Aberystwyth.”

  Gruffydd gave a low whistle. “Maelgwn must have thrown an apoplectic fit!”

  Llewelyn nodded. “I cannot say John is his own worst enemy; the competition for that honor is too fierce! But he does have a decided tendency toward self-sabotage. He has always to push his advantage to the breaking point and then beyond. As a result, his victories, no matter how brilliant, are always ephemeral, of fleeting moment. Maelgwn and Rhys Gryg are no fools, soon realized that John means to claim as much of Wales as he can, their lands as well as mine. Whatever their other failings, they are not men to become puppets of the English crown. They besieged John’s new castle at Aberystwyth, burned it to the ground. At the same time, John gave Robert de Vieuxpont a free hand in Lower Powys, so Gwenwynwyn, too, is growing restive. For months now, all of South Wales has been in turmoil, and I suspect John is worried lest I throw in with Maelgwn and Rhys Gryg. My guess is that he’s sent for me to try to ferret out my intentions and, if need be, to use threats, even promises, to fetter me to the crown.”

  “And will he, Papa? Will he fetter you to the crown?”

  “What do you mean, Gruffydd?”

  “You say Maelgwn and Rhys Gryg are in rebellion, that South Wales is ablaze. But not Gwynedd. It has been more than seven months since John took from you the Perfeddwlad. Passive acceptance is not like you, Papa. You have stayed your hand because of me, have you not?”

  “Yes.”

  “You cannot do that, Papa. The longer you allow John to hold the Perfeddwlad, the harder it will become to dislodge him. You cannot give him the time he needs to entrench himself—not without losing our lands forever.”

  “That is what I want to talk with you about, Gruffydd.” Llewelyn rose, began to pace. “What we feared is coming to pass. John is refortifying in stone those timbered castles he erected last summer. His men patrol the roads, the passes, cross the Conwy into my domains at will, as if seeking to provoke a confrontation. And he is planning to bring in English merchants and their families, to charter towns as the Normans did in South Wales.” He swung around to face Gruffydd, said with sudden passion, “The Normans would never have been able to steal so much of Deheubarth if not for towns like Swansea, Pembroke, Fishguard, Tenby. They are towns on Welsh soil, but no Welshman may become a citizen, or bear arms whilst in the town, or sit on a jury in any lawsuit between a Norman and one of Welsh blood. The Welsh in much of South Wales are intruders in their own land. But I’ll not let that happen in Gwynedd. Christ forgive me, Gruffydd, I cannot!”

  Gruffydd swallowed with some difficulty. In arguing that Llewelyn must try to reclaim the Perfeddwlad, he’d spoken from the heart; he truly believed every word he’d uttered. But it was no less true that he had not expected his father to agree with him. Now he found himself approving what Llewelyn meant to do, while at the same time feeling a shocked sense of betrayal that his father would put anything, even Gwynedd’s sovereignty, above his own safety. He’d have been put on the rack, though, before he would have admitted it, and he made an enormous effort, said as calmly as he could, “I suppose, then, that we should think upon what I might expect from John. I know he has not harmed Maelgwn’s elder son; Madoc is still at court. What of the younger son? Was he made to suffer in any way for Maelgwn’s rebellion?”

  “No, the lad is quite safe in Shrewsbury.”

  “Well, that is reassuring.” Gruffydd managed a smile, but he had to ask. “Papa…has John ever harmed a hostage?”

  “No, Gruffydd, he has not. Not even when Hugh de Lusignan offered up hostages for his freedom after Mirebeau, only to betray John within days of his release.” Llewelyn moved back to the settle, sat down beside the boy. “John is utterly without mercy to those who have offended him, but he has never avenged himself upon the innocent. His quarrel is with me, and it is with me that he’ll settle it, not you, lad.”

  Gruffydd was showing more courage, more maturity than Llewelyn had dared hope for; he was making it almost too easy. Llewelyn had never been so proud of his son, or so aware of his own failings as a father.

  “Gruffydd, I want only the best for you. But I’d not blame you if you did not believe me, lad.” He hesitated, then said, “I’ve done a great deal of thinking these months past, found out things about myself that I’d rather not have known. I wish I could say that nothing mattered to me but those I love. I cannot.”

  Gruffydd was not sure what response was expected of him; he could not recall ever talking with his father about intangibles or imponderables, about emotions and doubts, secrets of the heart. “I know you love me, Papa,” he mumbled, and flushed.

  “Yes, I do. I loved your mother, too, lad. I loved her very much. But I could not allow myself to marry her, for there’d be no political advantage to the marriage; Gwynedd would have gained nothing from such a match. I was willing to wed Joanna, though, to take her sight unseen, to yoke myself for life to a woman I might find both undesirable and unlikable, because she was the King of England’s daughter, brought me what Tangwystl could not, a border castle and a political alliance with the English crown.”

  Gruffydd was silent for some moments. “You’re saying, Papa, that you’ve always put Gwynedd first. I understand that, in truth I do. You see, that is the way I feel, too. There is nothing I would not do, nothing I would not give up if only you’d name me as your heir.”

  Gruffydd’s words had come without calculation. His was an uncomplicated, elemental nature, one not attuned to subtleties, still less to subterfuge. But the expression on his father’s face was a revelation to him. He suddenly realized that Llewelyn’s decision to break faith with John could work to his advantage and Davydd’s disadvantage, that he would have a powerful claim indeed upon his father’s conscience, that his would be a wrong much in need of redress.

  “No man could have a son with greater courage, Gruffydd,” Llewelyn said softly.

  “It means much to me that you think so, Papa. But what I need to know now means even more. Did you forget my birthday again?”

  Llewelyn grinned. “Brace yourself, lad. This time I remembered!”

  They both laughed. Neither mentioned what Llewelyn’s decision could mean—years of confinement for Gruffydd—the boy because he did not fully comprehend the risks, and the man because he’d managed to rationalize those risks, to convince himself that John’s past generosity toward the innocent and the unoffending was an adequate guarantee for his son’s safety.

  Joanna crossed the crowded hall, slipped her arm through Llewelyn’s. “Papa wants to talk to you, love.” She hesitated, then murmured, “He does seem to be trying, Llewelyn. It’s not so impossible to believe, is it, that he might truly want peace?”

  “John’s peace is rather like the peace of God—in that it passeth all understanding.” But there had been so little conviction in Joanna’s voice, so much wistfulness, that Llewelyn added, “I will admit he’s made this visit far more tolerable than I expected.”

  John beckoned them up onto the dais, gestured for a page to serve them wine. For several moments they made desultory conversation, bland in form and banal in substance. But then John directed his attention solely to Llewelyn.

  “A strange rumor has reached my ears, that a
papal nuncio has been traveling in Wales, that he was, in fact, received at your court. I should like you to tell me if this be true and, if so, the purpose of that visit.”

  So that was why he was in Cantebrigge this Easter Sunday! Llewelyn smiled, said with complete sincerity, “I should be right pleased to do so, Your Grace. I fear His Holiness the Pope is losing patience. You did spurn his last offer to compromise your differences, did you not? If I’m not mistaken, you even went so far as to promise to hang Stephen Langton should he set foot on English soil…or words to that effect.”

  “Those very words exactly,” John said coldly. “But we were not talking of the Pope and myself. We were talking of you and the papal nuncio. What did he want from you?”

  By now the hall was quieting; people were drifting toward the dais. Llewelyn pitched his voice for their growing audience, said, “The Pope has lifted the Interdict from Wales. He has also absolved all the Welsh Princes from their oaths of allegiance to you, my liege, and urges us to join together in a holy crusade to depose you, claiming you to be a man beyond God’s grace, no longer deserving to wear the crown of a Christian King.”

  John’s war of wills with the Pope had been dragging on for four years, but the Pope had just dramatically and dangerously raised the stakes. John caught his breath. He would not give Llewelyn or the others the satisfaction of seeing that he was shaken, though, and he summoned up a taut, derisive smile.

  “Tell me,” he challenged, “do you, as a good son of the Church, mean to follow the Pope’s directive?”

  Llewelyn was enjoying himself. “If I were truly such a good son of the Church, I would not be here at Cantebrigge, at your court. Your Grace is excommunicate, after all, and a man excommunicated is to be shunned by all Christians, to be treated as an Ishmael, as one facing eternal damnation.”

  There was a strained silence. Joanna gave Llewelyn a look that was half resentful, half reproachful, and leaned over John’s chair, whispering something meant for his ears alone. Llewelyn glanced around the hall, saw on other faces confirmation of his own belief, that he’d taken the honors in that exchange.