Here Be Dragons

by Sharon Kay Penman

  Joanna’s hair was unbraided, fell loose and free to her hips. Llewelyn entwined a long strand around his fingers, made of it a soft noose for his throat, entangling them both in its coil. “Your hair always smells of lemon,” he murmured. “Did I ever tell you how much I like that?”

  Joanna said nothing. She could feel his breath on her cheek, and then his mouth was on hers. It was an unhurried, easy kiss, strongly flavored with wine. He’d released her hair, and his hands were wandering at will over her body, his mouth tracking the curve of her throat. Joanna did not move, not even when he loosened the bodice of her gown, cupped and caressed her breast with a warm, knowing hand. He kissed her again, exploring her mouth as he was exploring her body, and then stepped back, abruptly ended the embrace.

  “That kiss, Madame, could well give a man frostbite. What ails you, Joanna?”

  “This afternoon I entered the antechamber, found that Madog had left our bedchamber door ajar. I listened at that door, Llewelyn, listened as you and the other Welsh Princes made plans for war.”

  “I see. Just what did you hear?” When she did not reply, he said, “Joanna, tell me!”

  “I heard you talking of Norman barons who mean to betray my father. I heard Rhys Gryg say these men wanted my father dead, and I heard him ask if you, too, sought Papa’s death. You said you did.”

  “Not so, Joanna. I said that I would gladly see him dead, but I seek only to reclaim what is mine. I do not forget the vast and sovereign powers of the English King. Nor that you are of his blood. If he stays out of my lands, I shall be content. But if he leads an army into my realm, I will defend myself and mine as best I can, and make no apologies for it…not even to you.”

  “My father has given you cause to hate him; I find no fault with you for that. I do not want to quarrel with you, not with so much at stake. I know you so well, Llewelyn, know the secrets of your heart, your soul. You have ever been decisive, little given to self-doubts, but you are not impulsive. I must assume, then, that you have thought on this long and hard, that you are fully aware of what the consequences might be. And that is what I find so difficult to understand. You do realize what you are risking? Our son’s inheritance. Our marriage. Your son Gruffydd’s freedom. Above all, your life. You do know that?”

  “Yes,” he said, “I know.”

  She took a step toward him, held out her hands, palms up, in a gesture of despairing entreaty. “Why, Llewelyn? Sweet Jesus, why?”

  “Joanna, I would that I had an answer for you, one you could accept. I do in truth understand the risks. There are nights when I lie awake, when I cannot keep my thoughts from dwelling upon disaster, upon all I have to lose. I think of my son as a prisoner of the English crown, and I think of you, a widow at the age of one and twenty.”

  “But still you mean to do this, still you are set upon war.”

  “Yes,” he said bleakly.

  After some moments of silence, he moved to her, pulled her into his arms. This time she did not stand rigid and unresponsive in his embrace; she clung tightly. “You are rushing headlong to your own destruction,” she whispered, “and I know not how to save you.”

  30

  Nottingham, England

  August 1212

  Nottingham Castle was one of John’s favorite residences, for it was all but impregnable against attack, situated on a cliff above the River Leen, with three baileys encircled by deep, dry moats. But Richard knew they would not be long at Nottingham; in just five days John was assembling an army at Chester.

  John had gone at once into the great hall, but Richard was still loitering out in the middle bailey, watching as their baggage carts were unloaded. He was in no hurry to join his father, for John’s temper was very much on the raw during this, the fourteenth—and if Peter the Hermit was to be believed, the last—summer of his reign.

  His victories in Scotland, Ireland, and Wales had encouraged John to look Channelward. Time had not reconciled him to the loss of Normandy, and in the spring he’d begun making plans for an invasion of France. The summer of 1212, he assured Richard, was to be a season of retribution.

  And indeed it was proving to be just that, Richard thought grimly, but not precisely as his father had anticipated. John was at the Scots border when word reached him of his son-in-law’s rebellion. Llewelyn had chosen his time with care, and within a month he’d retaken all of the Perfeddwlad, save only Deganwy and Rhuddlan Castles.

  Richard had never seen his father in such a violent rage, a rage that fed upon itself, gained ground with each passing day until John began to seem obsessed, so intent was he upon exacting vengeance. Philip was reprieved, the French invasion abandoned. There would be war, but the battlefield would be Wales. John gave orders for his vassals to gather at Chester, gave orders to recruit more than two thousand carpenters and six thousand laborers, men to follow in his army’s wake and erect castles across the conquered land. None doubted that this was to be much more than a punitive campaign of retaliation. It was to be war with no quarter given, a war that would end only with Llewelyn’s death and the conquest of his country.

  Turning back toward the great hall, Richard saw his Uncle Will standing on the outer stairs; Will, too, had begun to avoid John whenever possible. They stood in silence for some moments, their thoughts tracking the same bleak trail.

  “When your Uncle Richard was at war with Philip, they took to blinding each other’s soldiers.” Will grimaced. “I fear, lad, that this war shall be just as bitter, just as bloody. Know you that John is now offering a bounty for Welsh heads? He paid one man six shillings for six heads last week.”

  “Yes,” Richard said, “I know,” very much wishing that he did not.

  “For a time I’d hoped that the London fire would turn John’s mind from this war. Much of Southwark is but ashes and rubble, and I heard it said that more than a thousand people died. The homeless have to be sheltered, the injured tended, and John generally takes a personal interest in making sure that fire or flood victims are cared for. But not now. Now he can think of nothing except making his daughter a widow.”

  Just then, Richard’s other uncle, William de Warenne, Earl of Surrey, appeared in the doorway behind them. “John wants you both,” he said. “He’s just learned that Llewelyn ab Iorwerth and the French King have entered into a treaty of alliance.”

  Richard and Will exchanged looks of dismay, for they both knew that had always been John’s greatest fear, that his enemies should unite against him, that he should find himself fighting a war on two fronts.

  John was striding up and down before the open hearth, clutching a crumpled parchment. He thrust it at Will, saying, “Read for yourself, see what that Welsh whoreson has dared to do!”

  Richard, reading over Will’s shoulder, saw that it was a letter from Llewelyn to Philip, one that spoke of a treaty “between the kingdom of the French and the principality of North Wales,” that promised Llewelyn would be a friend to Philip’s friends and an enemy to his enemies.

  “How did you get this, John?” Will asked, and John gestured impatiently.

  “How do you think? I’ve paid informants at the French court.” Snatching the letter back, he scanned it rapidly. “Listen to this. ‘…by God’s grace, I and all the Princes of Wales unanimously leagued together have manfully resisted our—and your—enemies, and with God’s help we have by force of arms recovered from the yoke of their tyranny a large part of the land and the strongly defended castles which they by fraud and deceit had occupied, and having recovered them, we hold them strongly in the might of the Lord.’”

  The more John read, the angrier he became. “God rot his wretched soul for this,” he spat. “But if he thinks Philip is going to save his skin, he’s in for a bitter shock. What was it they said of the Romans, Will, that they made a desert and called it peace? That will be Wales, too, by Christ it will, and Llewelyn ab Iorwerth will go to his grave knowing that he brought destruction upon his people, he and he alone. Let him look out over the bu
rning crops and smoldering woodlands, let him count the bodies and then say it was worth the price!”

  He swung about, beckoned to the nearest man. “I want a gallows built in the bailey, and then I want to see Llewelyn’s Welsh hostages hanging from it, each and every one. Maelgwn’s, too. See to it…now.”

  His fury had dulled his perception, and it was several moments before he became aware of the utter silence. He turned, found they were all staring at him.

  “My liege.” The Earl of Chester stepped forward, said quietly, “My liege, I would advise against that. I do not deny Llewelyn has given you cause. But if you kill the hostages, your war will become a blood feud. You’ll find yourself fighting the Welsh for the next twenty years.” He lowered his voice still further, said, “Even more to the point, how are your own lords likely to react? If you hang these Welsh hostages, what do you think will happen the next time you ask a man to yield up his son? He might well prefer rebellion.”

  “Or do exactly what he’s told, knowing now what will be at stake.”

  Chester was first and foremost a realist. He’d done what he could to dissuade John from committing an act that he saw as neither morally justifiable nor politically expedient. Having failed, his concern now was to disassociate himself from the killing to come, and he was quite willing to defer to the Earl of Pembroke.

  If Chester’s objections had been coolly rational, dispassionate, Pembroke’s plea was unashamedly emotional. “My lord, listen to me. When I was a little lad, my lord father rose up in rebellion against King Stephen. My father had given me as a hostage, and the King warned him that I’d be hanged if he failed to keep faith. My father sent back word that he had the hammer and anvil with which to forge other sons, and I was taken out to be hanged. I was but six and I did not understand. I thought it was all a game, and I laughed even as they put the noose about my neck. King Stephen watched, and was moved to mercy. He stopped the hanging, with his own hands removed the rope.”

  He paused, but John said nothing. If he was moved, like Stephen, by pity, it did not show in his face. Pembroke walked toward him, said, “Some of those Welsh hostages are just lads, have not yet reached manhood. My lord, I ask you not to do this. Do not take your vengeance upon the innocent.”

  “You’d do better to tell that to Llewelyn ab Iorwerth,” John said coldly. “He’s the one who chose to gamble with the innocent, not I. If his son’s life means so little to him, why should it mean more to me? No, my lord Pembroke, he set the stakes for this wager. I’m merely collecting what’s due me.”

  Will had been listening in appalled silence. He’d known this war would be a brutal one, but the cold-blooded killing of helpless hostages, many of them youngsters, far exceeded his worst expectations.

  “John, I beg you…”

  “Do not, Will. Do not.”

  Their eyes locked, held until Will could bear it no longer, had to look away. “At least,” he mumbled, knowing how ineffectual his protest was and despising himself for it, “at least spare Llewelyn’s son…for Joanna’s sake. If you murder the boy, Llewelyn will be bound to blame her. Do not do that to her, John.”

  “It matters little whether Llewelyn blames her or not. He’ll be dead ere the summer is out.”

  Richard waited to see if Will would argue further. When Will did not, shoulders slumping in demoralized defeat, eyes averted from that which he’d fought a lifetime against acknowledging, Richard realized that Will’s moment of truth was his, too. His every instinct told him to keep silent, to distance himself as he’d always done, even as he moved toward his father.

  “I think it could work to your advantage to spare Gruffydd, Papa,” he said softly. “Llewelyn would be half crazed with fear for the boy. You could make use of that fear, hold it over his head like the sword of Damocles. To have leverage like that over an enemy…”

  He saw John’s eyes narrow and he dared to hope he’d hit upon the one argument that might stay his father’s hand.

  “There is much in what you say, Richard,” John conceded, “and I’d agree with you—but for one thing. Llewelyn ab Iorwerth is a dead man, and there is no need to seek leverage over the dead.”

  John glanced about the hall, saw that no one else meant to speak. “I want it done this forenoon,” he said. “The sooner they die, the sooner word of their deaths will reach Llewelyn.”

  The first one to suffer from Llewelyn’s rebellion had been his son. Gruffydd’s status had been changed overnight from that of highborn hostage to prisoner of state. As yet, he was not being abused, and his confinement was in castle chambers, not the dark, airless dungeons that filled him with such fear. But his days and nights were passed under guard, and he was finding it harder and harder to keep at bay his most persistent enemies: boredom and loneliness.

  Soon after their arrival at Nottingham, he had been escorted to the uppermost chamber in the Black Tower, and then left alone. The room was sparsely furnished, containing only a bed, trestle table, bench, and chamber pot. He wandered about rather aimlessly for several moments, indulging in the fantasy that occupied most of his waking hours, thoughts of escape. A pity the window was not large enough to squeeze through; mayhap he could have knotted the bedsheets, lowered himself down into the bailey once dark came. He never passed a church now without thinking of sanctuary, never picked up an eating knife without evaluating it as a weapon.

  His meal had already been laid out for him; there was a glazed clay flagon brimming with ale, a round, flat loaf of bread marked with a cross, a chunk of goat’s cheese, and a baked pigeon pie. Gruffydd would have liked to believe that his friends were eating as well as he, but he had no way of knowing. In these six weeks of his captivity, his isolation had been complete.

  He was reaching for the clay flagon when the door opened. At sight of the three men, Gruffydd stiffened. It may have been the way they moved toward him, hands on sword hilts, saying nothing. It may have been the rope coiled from one man’s belt. Or it may have been a more subtle indicator, an inborn sense of sudden danger. Gruffydd did not pause to puzzle it out; his reaction was as instinctive as it was immediate. He got to his feet, and as the first guard approached the table, he swung the flagon in a wide, deadly arc. It shattered against the man’s face; he screamed and staggered backwards.

  They had not been expecting resistance, and that gave Gruffydd a momentary advantage. He overturned the table onto the second man, dived for the doorway. Had the third guard been slightly slower in his reflexes, he would have made it. But the man was cat-quick; slamming the door, he flung himself at Gruffydd.

  He at once regretted it, for he could match neither Gruffydd’s strength nor his desperation, and he found himself in a savage, no-holds-barred brawl in which he was getting much the worst of it. Unable to unsheath his sword, he soon stopped trying to keep Gruffydd from reaching the door and concerned himself only with keeping Gruffydd from killing him.

  After what seemed a lifetime to him, his comrade untangled himself from the wreckage of the table, came to his aid. Even then, it took the two of them to subdue Gruffydd, and the struggle ended only when one managed to draw his sword, put the blade against Gruffydd’s throat, and snarl, “Give me an excuse, go on, just blink!”

  They forced Gruffydd to kneel, jerked his arms behind his back, began to bind his wrists tightly together, cuffing him about the head and shoulders when he resisted.

  The third man had taken no part in the fight, was slumped, moaning, against the wall. But now he stumbled to his feet, and his companions swore in startled sympathy. His face was already swelling rapidly, bloated and bloodied, his mouth so distorted and puffy that it resembled nothing so much as the grotesque grimace of a scarecrow. He bent over, spat into his hand, stared incredulously at a bloody tooth. With that, he lurched toward Gruffydd.

  For a moment he stood over the boy, looking down at him. And then he grabbed Gruffydd’s tunic collar, struck him across the face. “You hear that hammering in the bailey? They’re building a gallows
for you and the other hostages. The King wants the lot of you to hang ere he dines. And you, you misbegotten Welsh bastard, you shall be the very first to die, I’ll see to that!”

  “No, my lord Salisbury said we’re to wait with this one, that he’s to be last.”

  The man swore, discovered another loose tooth, and hit Gruffydd again, this time in the stomach. “Mayhap that is even better. This way he’ll have time to think on it, to imagine how that rope’ll feel about his neck, how it’ll feel to be choking for air, and not getting any!”

  Gruffydd could not breathe; each breath was more constricted, more labored than the last. It was partly the blow he’d just taken, but mainly it was panic. Not only was hanging a dishonorable, shameful way to die, but it was, he knew, also a particularly painful death. Only if a man was hanged from horseback did the fall break his neck; otherwise he slowly strangled.

  Never had Gruffydd known fear like this, terror made all the more intense by his utter helplessness. He strained against his bonds, tried frantically to free himself, while the men watched and laughed at his futile efforts. Out in the bailey, the hammering continued.

  John stood at the window of the great hall, watching as the Welsh hostages were hanged. Some tried to fight, had to be dragged cursing and kicking up onto the gallows. Others, especially the younger ones, were too stunned to offer resistance. A few wept, a few pleaded. Richard had seen executions before, and had not thought he was particularly squeamish. But this had been too much for him; he’d turned away, unable to watch.

  The hangings were still going on when dinner was served. The cooks had prepared one of John’s favorite dishes, stewed lamprey eels in saffron sauce. It was a favorite of Richard’s, too, but he found he could not swallow more than a mouthful. Some of the hostages being hanged were no older than the young pages serving the lamprey and roast peacock. He laid his knife down, did not pick it up again.