Here Be Dragons

by Sharon Kay Penman

  “My love, you’ll cut yourself,” she pleaded, and he opened his fist, let the shard drop back into the floor rushes.

  “He died because of me. They all did.”

  “No, Llewelyn, that’s not so!”

  “Gruffydd was sixteen,” he said, as if she’d not spoken at all. “Some of them were even younger. Twelve, thirteen. I thought…thought their youth would protect them, that John would be less likely to maltreat youngsters—” His voice thickened, broke. He pulled away from Joanna, walked rapidly from the chamber.

  “Llewelyn, wait!” But when Joanna would have followed after him, Ednyved stepped in front of her, blocking her way.

  “Let him go, Joanna. You are the last one who can help him now.”

  “I’m his wife!”

  “You are also John’s daughter.”

  Joanna took a step backward, stared at him. “I see. So you believe it, too. Well, it is not true, Ednyved. It is not true!”

  Ednyved said nothing, but she saw his disbelief, and her eyes narrowed. “There is no evidence to support this man’s story, none whatsoever. Have you not learned by now not to accept alehouse babble as gospel? You need only think upon the wild rumors that have been circulating all summer long. First we heard that the royal treasury at Gloucester had been plundered. But that turned out to be false, did it not? And then we got word that my father’s Queen had been abducted and raped, their baby son killed. But that was not true, either. It was no more than vicious gossip, tales spread by men with nothing better to do than give grief to the unwary.” She drew a bracing breath, said, “And this ugly accusation is no different, Ednyved. This is no less a lie.”

  “I know there has never been a true friendship between us, Joanna. But believe me now, that I am speaking as a friend. For your sake as well as Llewelyn’s, leave him be.”

  “Leave him be?” she echoed incredulously. “My husband thinks that his son is dead, and it’s not true. I will not stand helplessly by whilst he breaks his heart over a lie, I will not! Now please move away from the door.”

  He did. “I hope you will remember,” he said, “that I did try to stop you.”

  It was unnaturally still. The birds had muted their songs at Llewelyn’s approach, and he heard only the sound of his boots on the wet gravel of the riverbank. It had been a dry summer, and the river was shallow and slow-moving; mossy rocks jutted up toward the sun, seeming to offer a safe passage to the far shore for those willing to take the risk. How many youths had stood on this bank, gathering up their courage to put those beckoning stepping stones to the slippery test? For risk-taking was the measure of a man. Had he not taught Gruffydd that from birth?

  Llewelyn knelt, cupped his hands, and splashed river water onto his face. Yes, he’d taught Gruffydd about risk-taking and manhood and pride. But he’d not taught him how to die on an English gallows. Gruffydd would have fought them, knowing no other way, would have spat defiance until the rope choked off all breath. Llewelyn could hear his own breathing grow ragged; it was coming in harsh, uneven gasps, filling the quiet woodland clearing with strangled sound.

  For a time he knelt motionless on the riverbank, and there burned behind his closed eyelids a gallows laden with bodies, bodies left to rot in the summer sun, because he had been a risk-taker.

  His instincts for self-preservation had long since become second nature to him; when a branch snapped underfoot, his head jerked up. The sound came again. Someone was following the trail he’d taken from the castle. He rose swiftly, hand on sword hilt. A moment later a large black alaunt broke through the underbrush, bounded joyfully toward him.

  At sight of the dog, Llewelyn’s eyes filled with tears. Math was his son’s dog, had been Gruffydd’s veritable shadow, and when Gruffydd went away, the big dog’s grieving had been heartrending. When he’d begun to refuse food, Llewelyn had taken over the dog’s feeding, slowly coaxed the alaunt back to health, and in the past year, Math was never willingly far from his side.

  Llewelyn bent down, gathered the dog to him. Math began to bark, swiped at his face with a rough, wet tongue, and he pulled back. Only then did he see his wife standing at the edge of the clearing.

  Llewelyn was the first to speak. “Go back to the castle, Joanna. This is not the time to talk.”

  There was no emotion in his voice; he sounded like a stranger. Joanna hesitated, and then stepped toward him. “Llewelyn…”

  “Not now,” he said, much more sharply this time. He turned away, began to walk along the riverbank.

  “Llewelyn, wait!” Hastening after him, she found she could not match his pace, and caught his arm, forcing him to stop.

  “My love, you must listen to me. This one time you must believe me. Your grieving is for naught. Gruffydd is not dead.”

  “Joanna, no!” But she clung to his arm with surprising strength; he could not free himself without hurting her.

  “You must hear me out, Llewelyn. Please, beloved, please listen. My father is not a good man. Mayhap not even a kind one. But he would never murder Gruffydd and the other hostages. He is not capable of a cruelty like that, Llewelyn. I know he’s not, know—”

  “No, you do not know! You’ve never known John, never!” Llewelyn jerked free, saying bitterly, “But I did. I knew how vicious he could be when cornered, how merciless, for I knew what he’d done to Maude de Braose. I knew all too well, and yet, God forgive me, I still turned my son over to him—” He broke off abruptly, turned to stare blindly out at the sun-glazed water.

  “‘What he’d done to Maude de Braose.’ What do you mean by that, Llewelyn?” Raising her hand to her forehead, Joanna found it damp with sweat. She was suddenly aware of the hot, humid air, utterly still, as all-enveloping as a shroud; the sun had begun to hurt her eyes. “What do you mean?” she repeated. “Your stepfather told me Maude de Braose died in prison. Are you saying he lied?”

  Llewelyn swung back to face her. “Maude did die in prison. What Hugh did not tell you was how she died.” He paused and then said, “All right, then, the truth. Mayhap I should have told you long ago. John had Maude de Braose and her son cast into a dungeon at Windsor Castle, and then he starved them to death.”

  He’d never seen anyone lose color so quickly. Joanna’s face was so ashen, her eyes so wide and unseeing that he took an instinctive step toward her, put his hand on her arm. But then she raised her chin, swallowed, and said, “I do not believe you.”

  His hand dropped to his side. “Christ Jesus, Joanna, do you truly think I’d lie to you about that?”

  He did not wait for her answer, turned and walked away. Like most huntsmen, he knew how to make the woods his own, left no trace of his passing. Math had vanished, too. Joanna stood alone in the clearing.

  Within his chamber, Llewelyn found Ednyved and Morgan awaiting his return. They rose as he entered; he was grateful when neither offered expressions of sympathy or commiseration.

  “I must have been gone several hours. Has there been any further word from our scouts?”

  “Nothing. More and more, it looks as if John means to delay the invasion, Llewelyn.”

  Ednyved was holding out a large goblet. Llewelyn caught the strong odor of fermented honey, and shook his head. “No mead. Not yet.” After some moments of silence, he said, “On the morrow I must begin telling the parents of the hostages that their sons are dead. It would mean much to me, Ednyved, if you were with me.”

  Ednyved drew a sudden, sharp breath. “Ah, Llewelyn…” He coughed unconvincingly, and then said brusquely, “You do not have to do that. I’ll take care of it for you.”

  Their eyes met, held. Llewelyn slowly shook his head. “No, Ednyved, I do have to do that,” he said, and the other man nodded.

  “I’ve sent for Rhys and Catrin.” He hesitated. “Did Joanna find you?”

  “Yes,” Llewelyn said, “she did.” He sank down in the closest chair, began to fondle Math’s thick sable fur. The dog had been swimming in the river, and his legs were caked with dried mud,
his tail matted with burrs. Llewelyn found himself remembering how Gruffydd would groom the alaunt by the hour, wielding his brush until Math’s coat shone like ebony. “Morgan…fetch my daughters.”

  “Would you rather I told them, Llewelyn?”

  “No. This, too, I have to do.” Llewelyn glanced up at the priest. “It was in this same chamber that I had to tell Gruffydd his mother was dead. He was just five.”

  Morgan’s throat constricted. “I know there are times, lad, when God’s ways must seem—”

  “No, not God, Morgan…John.” No more than that, but on his lips a common Christian name became an unspeakable obscenity, became a vow of vengeance rooted not in reason, but in blood.

  As Morgan opened the door, they heard footsteps on the outer stairs. Llewelyn stiffened at the sound. It was a shock to realize that the person he most loved was suddenly the person he least wanted to see.

  But it was not his wife who entered; it was his fourteen-year-old daughter. Gwladys was panting so, she could hardly speak. She stumbled into the chamber, clutched at a chair for support.

  “Papa…there’s an Englishman in the great hall. I overheard him saying…saying that…Papa, it’s not true? Gruffydd, he’s not dead?” Her eyes searched Llewelyn’s face. “No…no, Papa, no!”

  Llewelyn reached her as she began to scream, caught her to him and held her as she wept. But he had no comfort for her, no more than on the morrow, when he would have to face the parents of the other murdered boys.

  “Madame, thank God Almighty! I’ve been so uneasy. Where were you?”

  “Where?” Joanna gestured vaguely. “I think…down there. By the river.”

  “Madame…are you all right?”

  Joanna nodded, not convincing Branwen in the least. Her shyness notwithstanding, Branwen could be very stubborn. “Are you sure, Madame? In truth, you look ill.” But Joanna seemed not to hear. She was turning away as Catherine and Rhys rode through the gateway into the bailey.

  Catherine did not wait for her husband’s assistance. Sliding from the saddle, she ran toward Joanna, disregarded protocol, and embraced her as a sister.

  “Joanna, what can I say?” Catherine’s fair skin was splotched, the blue eyes reddened and puffy. “I still cannot believe it. Where is Llewelyn?”

  Joanna was reluctant to admit she did not know, and she was grateful when Branwen said, “He is in his chamber, Lady Catrin.”

  By now Rhys had reached them. Tragedy had not made him any the less taciturn; he greeted Joanna with his usual economy, moved toward the stairs. Catherine started to follow and then stopped, looked back over her shoulder.

  “Joanna, are you not coming?” And when Joanna shook her head, she hastily retraced her steps. “Dearest, I do not understand. If ever Llewelyn needed you, it is now.”

  “He…he does not want me there, Catherine.”

  The other woman stared at her. “Joanna, what are you saying?”

  “He believes it, Catherine, truly believes my father hanged Gruffydd and the other hostages. I could not bear to see him hurting so, and I tried to tell him, to make him see it was not true. But then he told me…he told me, Catherine, that my father starved Maude de Braose to death.”

  She saw first horror on Catherine’s face, and then pity, and she said tautly, “You need not look at me like that, Catherine. It is not true.”

  “Joanna…Joanna, I know naught of politics. If you say it is not true, I want to believe you. But would Llewelyn lie?”

  Joanna shook her head wearily. “He is not lying, Catherine. He believes it to be true. I know it is not, but I cannot convince him of that.” Tears were spilling down her face. She made no attempt to wipe them away.

  Joanna awoke with a gasp, did not at once remember where she was. She sat up, feeling queasy and disoriented. Beside her, Davydd and Elen slept soundly; in the other bed, Catherine lay between Joanna’s stepdaughters, Marared and Gwenllian. Joanna rose quietly from the bed, stood looking down at Catherine. Catherine’s coming had been a godsend; she’d been remarkably successful in consoling Gruffydd’s sisters. Joanna had ached for the bewildered children, but she knew she’d been of little help to them. In the past twelve hours her sense of reality had become hopelessly distorted; she felt as if her emotions were somehow sealed off, under glass and beyond reach.

  She did not remember the dream that had so frightened her, was thankful she did not. Moving to the table, she poured herself some wine, noting with odd detachment that her hands were shaking. She wore several rings; without stopping to think what she did, she slipped one from her finger, laid it upon the table. It was topaz and silver, a long-ago gift from her father. She stared down at it, telling herself that her gesture had no significance. She did not believe Llewelyn. She could not.

  Elen stirred, whimpered in her sleep. Joanna stood by the bed until she was sure her child slept, and then she moved silently toward the nursery door. Outside, all was dark and still. The air was surprisingly cool against her skin. She crossed the bailey with quickening steps, gripped by the uneasy, irrational certainty that she was being watched, that the darkness was alive with hostile, unseen eyes.

  Upon the table a candle was burning down toward the wick. Gwladys was curled up at the foot of the bed, having at last cried herself to sleep. Llewelyn was sprawled in a nearby chair, his head pillowed awkwardly upon his arm. There was an empty mead flagon on the table, another on the floor by his chair. From a shadowed corner, Math’s eyes glowed like embers; his tail tipped slightly in acknowledgment of Joanna’s right to be in the bedchamber, even at such an hour.

  Joanna moved closer to Llewelyn, stood beside him for several moments. His face was in shadow. Only his mouth was touched by the candle light; it was tautly drawn even in sleep, communicated so much pain that Joanna began to cry again, silently, in utter despair. At last she dried her tears upon her sleeve, backed quietly toward the door.

  When Joanna returned to her bedchamber, the sun was rising above the hooded silhouette of Moel Siabod, dispelling the dawn mists that overhung the valley like fallen clouds; already the day gave fair warning of what was to come, vagrant winds and sweltering heat. Gwladys was sitting on the bed, listlessly pulling a brush through her tangled dark hair. She looked up as Joanna entered, said tonelessly, “My father is not here. He has gone to see the families of the murdered hostages, to tell them that John hanged their sons.”

  Joanna was appalled, tried not to let Gwladys see it. Gwladys was the most passionate of Joanna’s stepdaughters, the most like Gruffydd. It had been a slow and tentative endeavor, making a friend of this prideful, spirited girl, but Joanna had eventually coaxed from Gwladys what she’d never gotten from Gruffydd, acceptance. Her heart twisted with pity now at sight of the girl’s grieving, and she said helplessly, “Gwladys, if only there was something I could do…”

  “But there is.” Gwladys flung back her hair; her eyes were as black as jet, and just as cold. “You can write to your father, Madame. You can ask him to return the bodies of those he murdered. Ask him to return my brother’s body for decent burial.”

  Never had Joanna so wanted a day to end; never had one seemed so sure to drag on into infinity. She passed the hours as best she could, with her children, rising every ten minutes or so to stare out into the bailey. But by dusk, Llewelyn still had not returned.

  “Joanna…do you want me to talk to Gwladys?”

  Joanna gave Catherine a grateful look. She’d been badly shaken by her stepdaughter’s hostility; that it was understandable did not make it less hurtful. “Thank you, Catherine, no. She is still too distraught. I can only wait till we get word from Nottingham, till it is proven that Gruffydd and the other hostages are safe and well. But Catherine, if it is not soon…Jesus wept, the suffering this evil rumor has caused!”

  She rose, moved restlessly to the window. “Gwladys is not the only one blaming me, Catherine. I see it on other faces, too.”

  “I know,” Catherine conceded. “But not all do feel that
way, Joanna. Llewelyn’s people know that John would never have agreed to a truce if not for your intercession. And what you did that day at Aberconwy, defying your father on Llewelyn’s behalf, that won you more favor than you realize. There are many who do not blame you, Joanna, who are sorry for your pain.”

  “But I do not want that, either. I do not want them pitying me because they think my father is the…the Antichrist!”

  Catherine did not know what to say to that. She watched in silent sympathy as Joanna turned from the window, began to pace.

  “I find myself haunted by what Llewelyn said. I know it is not true, but I cannot stop thinking of it. It is such a vile accusation, Catherine; how can Llewelyn believe it? We are alone, and I can speak the truth with you. I think it very likely that my father did have Arthur put to death, as his enemies charge. Men do things in anger, give commands they might later regret. I think it happened that way with Arthur.”

  She stopped before Catherine. “But it would take hours to drag thirty hostages to the gallows, Catherine. There’d be time to relent. Even if my father had given such a command in a moment of rage, he’d not have carried it out. As for the other, what Llewelyn said about Maude de Braose, that could never be. Such a dreadful death as that would take days, even weeks…” She shuddered, for she had the imagination to envision the full horrors of a death by starvation, Maude’s slow realization that food would never be forthcoming, that none would heed her screams, that her dungeon was to be her tomb.

  A silence fell. Joanna moved back to the window. Almost at once she tensed. “Llewelyn,” she breathed, and suddenly she was very frightened.

  Llewelyn had dismounted by the time Joanna reached the bottom of the keep stairs. She started toward him, then stopped at sight of Cristyn. Cristyn had ridden in that afternoon with Tegwared and Anghared, her seven-year-old twins, and her presence was just one more goad to Joanna’s unraveling nerves. Even though she believed Llewelyn’s physical intimacy with Cristyn was over, their continuing friendship occasionally gave her some uneasy moments; she would always be jealous of Cristyn, if only because the other woman had the power to make her remember what it was like to be fifteen, awkward and innocent and so desperate to please.