Here Be Dragons

by Sharon Kay Penman

  The pages were bringing in the subtlety, a spun-sugar creation sculptured to resemble a flame-breathing dragon. On their heels came the marshal of the hall. Kneeling before John, he said nervously, “I thought it best not to wait till the meal’s end, Your Grace. A courier has just ridden in from Wales, bearing an urgent message from your daughter, the Princess Joanna. Shall I send him in?”

  John nodded, and a moment later a young Welshman stumbled into the hall. He was unshaven, his clothing stained with sweat and the dust of the road, and at first Richard thought he was drunk; his eyes were glazed, slid blankly past John without seeing. But then he saw how the man’s gaze kept coming back to the window, and he understood. Not drunk, in shock.

  When prompted by the marshal, the Welshman knelt, held out a folded parchment. “My lady entrusted me with this. She said…” He swallowed, tried to remember, to blot out for a moment what was happening in the bailey. “She said I must give it into your hands and yours alone, that none but you must read it…”

  John reached for the letter, made sure that the seal was indeed Joanna’s and had not been tampered with. Only then did he break it open, begin to read. When he glanced up, he had paled noticeably.

  “Someone give this man a shilling for his trouble. My lords of Chester and Pembroke, you stay. Will and Richard, you stay, too. The rest of you, out…now.”

  Men set down their wine cups, stared at him in astonishment, mouths full of unchewed food. But after taking one look at his face, they pushed resentfully away from the tables.

  Within moments the hall was cleared. John rose, but he was suddenly reluctant to share the contents of Joanna’s letter. He hesitated, and then said abruptly, “Joanna has written me that some of my own lords are plotting with Llewelyn and the other Welsh Princes. She says that they mean to rebel once we’re in Wales, either to kill me or to turn me over to the Welsh.”

  As he spoke, his eyes moved intently from face to face, assessing the impact of his words. He did not truly suspect Chester or Pembroke, but he was relieved, nonetheless, to see that their surprise was unfeigned. At least these two could be eliminated as suspects. But that still left so many, half his court. How could he trust anyone? How could he ever be sure, ever be safe?

  “John, what mean you to do?”

  “I do not know, Will,” John admitted. “I need time, time to think.” He began to pace. “Christ, it could be any of them. De Vesci has always been a malcontent. De Clare never wanted me to be King; he thinks I’ve forgotten that, but I have not. Derby is de Braose’s blood kin, and Huntingdon—”

  The Earls of Huntingdon and Derby were Chester’s brothers-in-law, and he interrupted hastily, “My liege, this serves for naught. We need more than suspicions. First of all, we must look to your safety. Thank Jesus for your daughter’s warning.”

  John nodded. “My God,” he said softly, “I’d have walked blindly into their trap. If not for Joanna…”

  “She saved your life, Papa,” Richard said, and again John nodded.

  “Yes, lad, I think she did.”

  “Then give her a life in return, Papa—her stepson’s life.”

  John frowned. “Joanna has reason to want Gruffydd dead,” he said impatiently. “Good reason.”

  “But she does not want him to die, Papa. I know, for she asked me to protect him if I could.”

  John turned to stare at his son; his surprise was genuine. “You truly think she’d want me to spare him?”

  “Yes, Papa, she would.”

  “I cannot for the life of me understand why! I do owe Joanna a debt, but…” He fell silent, began to reread his daughter’s letter. He was remembering Llewelyn’s surrender at Aberconwy, envisioning himself in Llewelyn’s place, delivered into Llewelyn’s hands by his own barons. It was a thought to make him flinch. Richard’s words came back to him now: “To have leverage like that over an enemy…”

  “Has Maelgwn’s son been hanged yet?” he asked unexpectedly, and Richard gave a baffled nod.

  “I think so, Papa. Why?”

  “I was just wondering how the other Welsh Princes would react, if their sons were hanged and Llewelyn’s alone was spared. I’d like to see him try to explain that to Maelgwn, in truth I would!” John said and laughed grimly. “Very well, Richard. Mayhap you’re right, mayhap there’s more to be gained by keeping the whelp alive. Tell the hangman this one fish is off the hook. For now.”

  “Blood of Christ!” Richard stood motionless in the doorway, shocked at sight of Gruffydd. The boy’s face was covered with welts and bruises; one eye was swollen shut; dried blood had encrusted a gash across his forehead, matted his hair. He shrank back as the door opened, struggled to sit upright.

  Richard had once come across a snared wildcat, crouched to earth, spitting fear and defiance as the huntsman moved in for the kill. He saw that same terrified rage now on Gruffydd’s face, knew it would be a memory to trouble his sleep in nights to come. He had ever prided himself upon his analytical turn of mind. But however neglected his imagination was in consequence, he did not need to be told what the past three hours must have been like for Gruffydd, listening as his comrades were dragged to their deaths, expecting at any moment his own summons to the gallows, and he said furiously, “Who told you whoresons to maltreat him like this? And why is he gagged?”

  “We had to, lord. It was the only way to shut him up. He got right abusive. As for his hurts “—the man pointed to his own blackened eye—“in truth, he gave as good as he got.”

  “Hand me a flask,” Richard demanded, and he knelt by Gruffydd, removed the rag they’d stuffed into his mouth. “Here,” he said, “drink.”

  Gruffydd did, swallowing in gulps as if he could never get enough. At last he took one final mouthful, raised up and spat it into Richard’s face.

  Richard recoiled, and then raised his arm, slowly and deliberately wiped his face on his sleeve. “I came to tell you,” he said, “that you will not be hanged.”

  Gruffydd did not react like one reprieved. His lips were drawn back from his teeth, and his unswollen eye blazed with such feverish hatred that Richard realized further conversation would be pointless. There was nothing he could say that Gruffydd would believe, and he sighed, reached for his dagger.

  Gruffydd gasped, tried to squirm out of range. Richard had no liking for Gruffydd, but at that moment he found himself pitying Llewelyn’s son as he’d never pitied anyone before. “I’ll not hurt you, Gruffydd. I mean only to cut your bonds.”

  Leaning over, he slashed at the ropes binding the boy’s wrists, and then hastily backed away. “I’ll see that you’re given balm for your bruises…and some wine.”

  Gruffydd made no response, and Richard beckoned to the guards, moved to the door. “I do not expect you to believe me,” he said slowly, “but you’ll not be harmed.” Knowing that he lied, that Gruffydd had already suffered harm beyond healing.

  Gruffydd did not move, did not reply, and Richard lingered a moment longer, then closed the door quietly behind him. At that, Gruffydd scrambled to his feet, grabbed for the tableboards, and tried to barricade the door. But it was a futile effort and he knew it. He slumped down on the bed, massaged the rope burns on his wrists, and listened for returning footsteps.

  It was a long time before he let himself believe that Richard had not lied, that they would not be coming back for him. It was even longer before he could nerve himself to stand up, to walk to the window.

  Below him the bailey was drenched in hot summer sun. A breeze had sprung up from the east, and the bodies swinging from the gallows were swaying gently back and forth. Gruffydd stood motionless, stared down at the slowly twisting bodies until the gallows blurred in a haze of hot tears.

  John moved over to a table, selected a morsel of meat, and tossed it to one of the castle dogs. He and his son were alone in the hall; he had not even allowed the servants in to clean up, and the tables still gave cluttered testimony to their interrupted meal. He threw the dog another tidbit, said, �
�You might as well be the first to know. I’m calling off the Welsh campaign…at least for now. I cannot risk going into Wales until I’m sure I’d not be betrayed.”

  “I think that’s most wise, Papa.” Ah, Joanna, you truly did it, lass. You won a war. But not a victory the Welsh will ever want to celebrate. Richard glanced over his shoulder, toward the bailey. Jesú, no.

  A glimmer of silver caught Richard’s eye. Bending down, he scooped up a handful of pennies, for a moment studied them in puzzlement. And then he understood. This was the money John had ordered given to Joanna’s messenger. He fingered the coins and then let them drop, one by one, back into the floor rushes.

  “Since you mean to delay the Welsh invasion, you will not have any need of me for a while, then?”

  “Mayhap not. Why?”

  “Conisbrough Castle is but a day’s hard ride from Nottingham. I should like to visit with my lady mother. Have I your permission to leave the court?”

  “I see.” John subjected his son to a thoughtful, probing scrutiny. At last he said, with obvious reluctance, “If that be your wish.”

  Until that moment Richard had not admitted to himself just how much he wanted to get away. “Thank you, Papa,” he said, adding as casually as he could, “It’ll not be dark till well past nine. I think I’ll make use of the hours of daylight remaining, and leave now.”

  John merely nodded. But as Richard reached the door, he said suddenly, “Richard…you do mean to come back?”

  Richard’s hand tightened on the door latch. “Yes, Papa, of course I do.” Wondering if he had a choice. Wondering, too, if he truly wanted one.

  John moved to the window, watched Richard cross the bailey. He did not like this request of Richard’s, not at all, but something in his son’s face had warned him not to refuse. Not once had Richard met his eyes, not once.

  Mayhap he should have tried to explain, to make Richard see why it had to be done. But why was it not obvious to Richard? Of what earthly value were hostages unless men knew they’d be sacrificed if need be? Now when he demanded hostages from Huntingdon and de Clare, from all those he suspected, they’d take great care to please him, to stay loyal. They’d learn from Llewelyn’s fatal mistake.

  He glanced over at the gallows. A moment later he was at the door, shouting for a messenger. He had not long to wait; he’d never been obeyed with such haste as he was in these hours after the hangings.

  “I have a message for you to deliver, one of great urgency. You’re to leave now for Wales.”

  The courier paled, guessing what was coming. “Wales, my liege? Llewelyn ab Iorwerth?”

  John was indifferent to the man’s alarm. “Yes. I want you to tell him of the hangings. I want him to know that his hostages are dead.”

  31

  Dolwyddelan, North Wales

  August 1212

  Joanna had moved a stool close to the bed, and for more than an hour she watched Llewelyn as he slept. His was the sleep of utter exhaustion; he’d not stirred for the past three hours, not even when Joanna removed his boots. The longer he slept, the more difficult it was for her to keep still. The urge to awaken him was becoming all but overwhelming, for they’d been apart for more than a fortnight, and never had her need to talk to him been so urgent.

  But she dreaded it, too. What if she could not make him understand? In warning her father of the conspiracy against him, she’d been thinking of Llewelyn’s safety as much as John’s. Hers had not been an act of impulse. It was born of despair and fear and an anguish of spirit that only one who’d faced her choices could ever understand. If she did nothing, there was a very real possibility that her father might be walking into a lethal trap. Yet if she warned him of the danger, she might be taking from Llewelyn his only edge, the advantage that might spare his life, his realm. For she knew that if her father won this war, Llewelyn would die.

  In the end, she’d sent the most trusted of her servants to John, because she could not do otherwise, because she loved her father, because there was a chance that her warning might stop a war. But now she had to tell Llewelyn what she’d done, and she was not at all sure he would forgive her.

  Llewelyn’s lashes flickered, and she leaned over, kissed him on the mouth. He opened his eyes, smiled at her. But then he glanced down, saw how shadows were chasing sunlight across the floor rushes.

  “Why did you not awaken me ere this, Joanna?”

  As he sat up, she slid her arms around his waist. “Do not get up, not yet.”

  There was nothing either of playfulness or seduction in her voice; she sounded so plaintive that he turned, held her close for a moment.

  “I do not understand it, Joanna. I know John gave the command to gather at Chester on the nineteenth. Three full days ago. Yet my scouts report no movement on the roads, nothing.” He had his boots on by now, and as he rose to his feet, Joanna’s hand tightened convulsively on his arm. He gave her a quizzical look, and her fingers unclenched; she let him go.

  He picked up his sword and scabbard, buckled it at his hip. “Did I tell you the latest word from the south? Rhys Gryg has taken and burned Swansea.”

  “Does it matter, Llewelyn? My father is not leading his army against Rhys Gryg or Maelgwn. It is Gwynedd he means to invade. It is you he means to destroy.”

  He glanced toward her, but said nothing. She knew she should have kept silent. That was not what he wanted to hear. He truly believed this was a war he could win. He had to believe that. She would to God she could believe it, too.

  Llewelyn had reached the door. But something in Joanna’s face made him pause, come back to her. “I know how you’re hurting,” he said, and Joanna put her arms around his neck, clung tightly. She’d rarely seen him look so tired; his dark eyes were bloodshot, swollen from lack of sleep, and his skin was rough and scratchy against her throat. She did not mind, but Llewelyn rubbed his chin, said ruefully, “I expect you’ll want me to shave ere we go to bed tonight?”

  “That depends upon what you do have in mind,” she said, and he grinned.

  “After a fortnight apart, need you even ask?”

  Joanna managed an answering smile, but it was as strained as her banter. Mayhap she should wait, not tell him until after they made love. But the longer she delayed, the harder it would get. And if he ever found out from someone else…That thought was frightening enough to give her courage, and she said abruptly, “Llewelyn, we must talk.”

  “It will have to wait till night, breila. I’ve lost too many hours of daylight as it is.”

  Joanna did not argue; a delay not of her own making was a reprieve she could accept in good conscience. “Tonight, then,” she agreed. “You still have not told me how long you’ll be at Dolwyddelan.”

  “That will depend upon John,” he said, and opened the door just as Ednyved came through the porch entranceway.

  “Llewelyn, an Englishman has ridden in with a flag of truce and a right strange story. He says he has a message of urgency for you, that it comes from John.”

  “A royal courier?”

  “No, that is what be so strange about it. He is not a courier at all, is a blacksmith from Shrewsbury. He claims he met John’s courier in a Shrewsbury alehouse, that the man paid him to deliver John’s message. Moreover, he insists upon telling his tale to you and only you. Do you want me to send him away?”

  “No. Either he is telling the truth or he is willing to risk his life for a preposterous lie. Whichever it is, I want to know.”

  Ednyved nodded. “I rather thought you would. He is waiting below.”

  The man looked to be Llewelyn’s age, in his late thirties, with the callused hands and heavily muscled forearms that were the inevitable badges of his trade. What was most distinctive about him was his extreme nervousness. He knelt, and when Llewelyn gestured for him to rise, he shifted awkwardly from foot to foot, darting sidelong glances from under lashes matted with dust and sweat, and then blurted out, “I thank you for seeing me, my lord. Men call me Ralph the Smith,
for I’ve a smithy in Shrewsbury, not far from the church of St Alkmund.”

  The information appeared gratuitous, but was not; Llewelyn understood that the man was seeking to establish his credibility, showing that he was, as a man of property, one deserving of belief. “I understand you have a message for me?”

  “My lord, I must ask you to bear with me, let me tell it my way. I fear you’ll not believe me unless I explain how I happened to come by what I know. This past Saturday I’d stopped in a riverside tavern for a few tankards of ale. There was a stranger there…half drunk, a talker. He said he was King John’s courier, and indeed he was wearing the King’s livery. He was telling anyone who’d listen that the King had entrusted him with a message for you, a message he was loath to deliver. He was offering two pence to the man who’d take it for him, half now, half afterward. That was a day’s wages, and I was not the only one who took an interest. But…but when he told us what the message was…” He paused, for the first time looked Llewelyn full in the face.

  “It was not just the money, my lord. Not after I heard the message. You see, my first wife…she was of your blood. I am telling you this because…because I want you to understand. It seemed to me that you had a right to know. I kept thinking of my own boy…” His eyes were small and close-set, all but obscured by thick, shaggy brows, eyes brimming over with so much pity that Llewelyn’s breath stopped.

  “For Christ’s sake, man, what do you have to tell me? Just say it!”

  “Your son, my lord—he’s dead. All the hostages are dead. King John hanged them last Tuesday at Nottingham Castle.”

  For a merciful moment, the words had no meaning for Llewelyn. But then his numbed brain absorbed the full impact of what he’d just been told. Gruffydd was dead. They were all dead. He’d given them up to John, and John had murdered them.

  He turned away, without purpose or direction, stumbled against the table. The trestle boards tilted, spilled over onto the floor. He stared down at the wreckage, at the shattered flagon, and then picked up one of the broken clay shards. It was sharp-edged, sticky with wine, beyond mending. He tightened his fingers around it, squeezing until Joanna’s hand closed over his own.