Here Be Dragons

by Sharon Kay Penman

“Then…then can you not forgive me?”

  “It is not a matter of forgiveness, Joanna. I would that it were.” For a moment longer, his fingers lingered on her throat, and then he stepped back. “Did you see John? Did you see your father?”

  “No! I swore to you that I would not. I did not lie to you.”

  “We have to talk about him, about John. I have to know what you feel toward him now. Joanna, I have to know.”

  She twisted her hands together, gripping her wedding ring as if it were a talisman. “I loved him, I believed in him. I married you to please him. And now…now I think of that little boy in Shrewsbury, I think of our Davydd and…and I know that I could not face him again. I cannot love the man he is, I cannot. But I remember how much I loved the man I thought he was…and it hurts more than I can bear. If he’d died, I’d still have had memories. But now even my memories are false. They do not comfort, they only torment…”

  She closed her eyes, and then felt Llewelyn’s fingers on her face, slowly wiping away her tears. She sobbed, and moved into his arms. She’d lost her veil, and he stroked her hair, smoothed the untidy ebony braids, brushed back stray wisps from her temples.

  “You must not ever think,” he said, “that I do not feel your pain.” She made a wordless murmur, pressed closer. He caught the familiar fragrance of her perfume, felt her hands sliding up his back, and damned himself for a fool, for an unwary moment in which he’d almost believed that he meant only to comfort her, to hold her as she wept.

  Joanna had raised her head from his shoulder. Her eyes no longer shone with tears; they were luminous, filled with sunlight, with such naked need that he caught his breath. Taking his hand in hers, she kissed each finger in turn, bit down gently on his thumb; her tongue circled his palm, and his free hand tightened on her hair.

  For a moment that seemed endless to Joanna, he did not move. And then he lowered his head, brought his mouth down hard upon hers, not ending the kiss until they both were breathless. He’d begun to fumble with her clothing, swearing when the lacings of her bliaut resisted his impatient fingers. She raised her arms so he could pull the gown over her head; the chemise quickly followed. He kissed her again, caressing her belly and thighs until she moaned, arched against him. Pushing her down upon the bed, he unbuckled his scabbard.

  When he lowered his body onto hers, he was not gentle, but neither was Joanna. That was not what she wanted from him now. For more than two months she’d slept as chastely as a nun, and her body had taken fire with the first touch of his fingers on her throat. She had no need of prolonged foreplay, and she entwined her arms tightly around him as he parted her thighs. “Now, love, now…oh, yes, now…” She climaxed almost at once, with his third thrust, and then again when she felt him tense, groan, and jerk convulsively, gasping “Siwan” against her ear.

  After a time, Llewelyn raised himself up, rolled over onto his back. Joanna was not yet ready to move. She knew it was a common belief that a woman’s lust was greater than a man’s, and for the first time she wondered if there might not be truth to that folk wisdom. She could only marvel now at the fevered urgency that had so utterly consumed her so short a time before. But she knew that she had given Llewelyn pleasure no less intense than he had given her. His breathing was still uneven and shallow, a pulse was beating rapidly in his throat, and his body glistened with perspiration. She leaned over, touched the tip of her tongue to a droplet of sweat trickling toward his chin. He did not respond, and a moment later he rose from the bed, reached for the clothing scattered about the floor.

  Joanna’s sense of languid well-being dissipated in the span of seconds, in the time it took Llewelyn to turn away from her. She was suddenly cold, confused, afraid. “Llewelyn…are you angry with me?”

  “No, not with you, breila.”

  The endearment gave her little comfort; it was too obviously offered as a courtesy. Nor did his denial carry conviction. “You are angry,” she said slowly, “and you were not angry ere we made love. Beloved…beloved, I do not understand. You cannot deny that you still want me, not now—”

  “Of course I still want you,” Llewelyn said sharply. “Our problems did not take root in our bed.” He was already dressed; moving to the table, he pulled the laver toward him, splashed cold water onto his face, and then gave an abrupt, mirthless laugh. A pity he’d not thought to do that sooner!

  He’d spoken the truth; he was angry with himself, not Joanna, and disconcerted by the realization of just how much he did still want her. In the six weeks since her departure, he’d had few restful hours, no peace of mind. Night after night he found himself lying awake in the bed he’d shared with Joanna, thinking of his son, thinking of the youths hanged at Nottingham, thinking of his wife—John’s daughter. And in time he’d come to a decision, that if Joanna could not give him the answers he had to have, it would be better to end their marriage. To walk away from Joanna would be the most difficult act of his life, but he knew he could do it. However much it hurt, he could do it. But he could not send her into English exile against her will; he could never deny her the right to see their children. He’d sought to reassure her of that, promised she could stay in Wales, and now the full implications of that rash promise were all too clear to him. What would it be like to have her in Gwynedd, to have her so tormentingly close at hand and yet no longer his?

  Joanna hastily drew her chemise over her head, followed him to the table. “What is it, then? Is it that you no longer trust me?”

  Surprisingly, he shook his head. “I do trust you, Joanna. You told me you’d never meant to betray me. As hurt and angry as I was, I think I believed you even then. I must have, else I’d never have permitted you to take Elen. I know you were not choosing between us when you sent John that warning. You wanted to save your father’s life, but you also wanted to stop a war, a war you thought I’d lose. And you did, breila.” His mouth softened. “I might quarrel with your methods, but I can hardly take issue with your results. The English King’s banner does not fly over Gwynedd…because of you. And my son has had a two-month reprieve…again because of you.”

  “You do not know how I’ve wanted to hear you say that, Llewelyn. But now you have, and it seems to count for naught. If you still trust me, what is it, then, that is keeping us apart? My love, I do not understand…” And then it came to her, the only possible answer, and she caught his arm, moved so she could look into his face.

  “Unless…unless you can no longer love John’s daughter? My God, Llewelyn, is that it?”

  “Yes…it is,” he admitted, and heard her indrawn breath, sharp as a blade. “Joanna. Joanna, listen and try to understand. John is going to kill my son. I’ve had to face that. It is only a matter of time; sooner or later he will give a command and Gruffydd will be dragged out to an English gallows…or worse. Gruffydd is going to die, and there is nothing I can do to stop it. Even if there were, I could not do it. I cannot buy Gruffydd’s life with Gwynedd’s sovereignty. Twenty-eight hostages died at Nottingham because I could not keep faith with John. I cannot bargain for Gruffydd over their dead bodies.”

  His voice was quite even, tautly controlled. But Joanna saw what that control cost him, saw the way the tendons suddenly stood out in his throat, saw the toll these past weeks had taken in the newly chiseled lines around his eyes, his mouth, and she was both awed and appalled by the strength of will that enabled him to forge such a resolve. There was nothing on God’s earth that she would not have sacrificed for Davydd or Elen.

  “For more than six years, Joanna, you have been torn between us, between your love for John and your love for me. You’ve never been able to give me all of your heart, never been able to pledge your loyalty to me utterly and unreservedly. No, lass, I am not blaming you for that. I understood, and I did my best to accept it. I taught myself to curb my tongue, to leave much unsaid. But no more. We can never go back to the way it was, Joanna.”

  “I know that, Llewelyn, but…” Joanna’s voice trailed off. This was the ni
ghtmare that had held her in Brewood. So often had she anticipated this moment that it was as if they’d played out this scene before, as if she’d always known the time would come when she’d be listening to him explain, kindly but implacably, why their marriage had to end.

  “For all of our marriage you’ve defended John, offered excuses for his cruelties, blinded yourself to the unholy truth about him. But I can no longer indulge your love for this man. I’d learn to resent you, and in time I might even learn to hate you, breila. Rather than have it come to that, I’d sooner end the marriage now, whilst we can still salvage friendship from it.”

  “But it does not have to be like that, Llewelyn. I would not defend John. How could I? My loyalties are no longer divided, I swear it.”

  Never before had Llewelyn heard Joanna call John by his Christian name; it was always “my father” or “the King” or, with intimates, “Papa.” Was it an unconscious, anguished attempt to distance herself from John? Or a desperate denial of a blood bond she knew he found abhorrent? He put his hands on her shoulders, said quietly, “Joanna, you do not understand how much I’d be asking of you. Do you truly think you could disavow a lifetime of love? That you could remember the frightened five-year-old who was taken to John at Rouen and then harden your heart against him?”

  “Yes,” Joanna whispered, and he tilted her face up, kissed her on the forehead.

  “Beloved, I think not. I’m not even sure I’d have the right to expect that of you.”

  “I give you the right. You are my life, you and our children. Why will you not believe me?”

  “Ah, Joanna…I want to believe you. But I know what we’d be facing. I know what our future would be likely to hold. You do not think that John has abandoned his plans to claim Gwynedd for the crown? There will never be peace between us, breila, not until one of us is dead. For now, John fears to cross into Wales, but he’s dispatched the English fleet to blockade our coastal waters, and he’s seeking to overthrow me with the aid of the sons of my uncles, Davydd and Rhodri. They’ve been dwelling in English exile, and he hopes to make puppet Princes out of them, promising them most of Gwynedd if they lead a rebellion against me.”

  “He offered them most of Gwynedd?” Joanna echoed, sounding so shocked that he felt the need to reassure her.

  “You need not fear. There is a world of difference between being invested with possession in London and then taking possession in Gwynedd. John’s grant is more symbolic than substantial, but it does show how utterly intent he is upon vengeance, upon seeing my head impaled on London’s new bridge—”

  Llewelyn broke off, for Joanna was no longer listening. She was staring past him with glazed amber eyes, and when he touched her shoulder, he found that her body had gone rigid with rage.

  “Liar!” she spat. “That double-dealing liar! He promised me, he swore on his oath of honor that he’d safeguard Davydd’s inheritance, that I need never fear for Davydd’s future. And fool that I was, I believed him!”

  “Does it truly surprise you so, Joanna? Davydd is my son.”

  “He is my son, too…and John’s grandson.”

  To Joanna, it was the final betrayal. She turned away, moved to the window. Several of the nuns had gathered at a discreet distance. They were casting uneasy yet curious glances toward the Welshmen who were now loitering near the guest house, keeping an anxious vigil for Llewelyn. So turbulent had this past hour been that she’d all but forgotten the danger Llewelyn could be in, the risk he’d taken in coming into England. But the sight of his waiting men brought her fear back in a rush.

  “Llewelyn, you must go!”

  “I know.” But he made no move to depart. Instead he stepped toward her, pulled her away from the window. “I do not mind you bedazzling my men, but I’d hate for you to disconcert those poor nuns!”

  It was not the realization that she was clad only in her chemise that brought the blood up into Joanna’s cheeks, it was the unexpected amusement in Llewelyn’s voice. She started to ask him how he could be joking now, of all times, when she saw what he had in his hand, her discarded gown.

  “You’d best make haste to dress, breila. We’ve a long ride ahead of us.”

  She raised her eyes to his face, and then closed the space remaining between them. He drew her into his arms, for a brief moment held her close.

  “My love, you will not be sorry. You will not ever be sorry.”

  Llewelyn could not share her certainty. “We’ll try, Joanna,” he said softly. “At least we’ll try.”

  33

  Dover Castle, England

  May 1213

  Somewhere a dog was howling, a forlorn, haunting plaint that echoed eerily upon the sea-misted air, rending the fabric of Gruffydd’s troubled dreams and jarring him into abrupt, uneasy wakefulness. He dreaded nights like this, dreaded the solitude and the silence, the hours alone with his ghosts.

  He could think of few sounds as mournful as a dog’s howling…or as disquieting. All knew it to be an ill omen, a harbinger of coming woe, and he instinctively fumbled for his talisman, the agate stone that gave the wearer strength, valor, the fortitude to prevail against his enemies. His guards had long since stolen his rings; he’d managed, though, to conceal the agate in his clothing, and in the months since Nottingham, it had been a secret source of comfort, a tangible link with Gwynedd. But his fingers plucked in vain at the torn wool tunic, the begrimed shirt. Fully awake now, he remembered. The agate was gone, lost on the road to Dover.

  It was of no matter, he told himself resolutely. Dogs barked and men died, but the one happening need not presage the other. He lay back upon the pallet, began to whisper rapidly, “Sweet Lord Jesus defend me, grant me remission of all my sins and keep me from all peril. Lord, save me waking, save me sleeping, that I may sleep in peace and awake in Thee in the glory of Paradise.” He felt better at that; soon after, he slept.

  When he awakened again, sun was seeking entry through the arrow loops high above his head, and two men were standing over his pallet with drawn swords.

  In answer to John’s urgent summons to arms, the men of England began to gather in early May at Barham Downs in Kent. The response was heartening; the impending French invasion had vitalized public opinion in John’s favor, and those unmoved by patriotism were motivated by the knowledge that to refuse to bear arms was to risk “perpetual servitude.”

  For the past week John had been staying with the Knights Templar in Ewell, and it was to Ewell that Richard was returning on this Tuesday morning in mid-May. Chilham Castle was less than twenty miles from Ewell, and Richard had taken advantage of his proximity to pay a courtesy call upon his young betrothed.

  He invariably enjoyed his visits to Chilham. It was gratifying to spend a day riding about the manor demesne, to see the green fields and well-fed livestock and know it would all eventually be his. That Rohese de Dover was a gentle, biddable girl, shyly eager to please, only made his marital prospects all the more alluring.

  But he’d had an ulterior motive for this particular visit to Chilham: to escape, if only for a few days, the oppressive atmosphere of his father’s court. What John had most feared was at last coming to pass; the circle was closing.

  Sparing Gruffydd had not sundered Llewelyn’s alliance with the other Welsh Princes. The hangings of the hostages had unified the Welsh as nothing else could have done. Rhys Gryg had fallen into John’s hands, was being held captive at the royal castle of Carmarthen. But Maelgwn and Gwenwynwyn were ravaging Norman settlements in South Wales, and Llewelyn had retaken the only two castles still in Norman control; he had now regained all of the Perfeddwlad, regained all he’d been forced to yield up to John at Aberconwy. The Welsh were a God-cursed, stiff-necked, and utterly vexatious people, John said bitterly, but they did have an inexplicable ability to rise phoenixlike from the ashes of defeat, to soar upward on wings too scorched for flight.

  As troublesome an enemy as Llewelyn was proving to be, he did not pose a serious threat to John’s sovere
ignty. But as winter thawed into a verdant spring, John found himself facing a more dangerous foe, one who had the power to do what Llewelyn could not, to bring his reign and his life to an abrupt and bloody end.

  At Christmas the Pope had at last invoked his ultimate weapon, dispatched Stephen Langton to the French court with letters formally deposing John as King of England and freeing his subjects from their oaths of allegiance. Philip was more than eager to show himself a good son of the Church, and he immediately announced plans to invade England and claim John’s crown for a more worthy aspirant, his own son Louis.

  With a French fleet being rigged at Boulogne, John was forced to acknowledge that time had finally run out, and he hastened to send envoys to Rome. This eleventh-hour capitulation gained him an extension of the Pope’s deadline; the papal legate Pandulf was now in England to accept his submission to papal authority.

  By coming to terms with the Pope, John had thus been able to deny Philip the opportunity to cloak himself in the mantle of the Church, to sanctify his invasion as a holy war of retribution against a renegade King. But if Philip’s pretensions had been sabotaged, his ambitions remained intact; the French fleet would sail with or without the Pope’s blessings. Which meant, Richard thought bleakly, that his father would soon be fighting a war on two fronts, trying to repulse a French landing in the south whilst Philip’s Welsh allies turned the Marches into a wasteland of smoldering manors and charred fields. And if it came to that, how long would John’s disaffected barons hold fast? How long ere men like Derby and Huntingdon and de Clare elected to throw in their lot with Philip?

  Upon his arrival at Ewell, Richard was surprised to find Isabelle walking in the garden with her two youngest children. He had not seen much of Isabelle in recent months, still less of his little half-brothers and sister, for John had become obsessed with fears for their safety. After learning of de Vesci and Fitz Walter’s intriguing, he’d required armed bodyguards, not only for himself but for his family, too; he’d even gone so far as to give orders that no one be admitted to the presence of his eldest son and heir without written permission.