Here Be Dragons

by Sharon Kay Penman

  The Welsh had no time for the terrified monks. Just three hundred yards away was the English bridge, guarded by only a handful of men, men who were seeking desperately to raise its drawbridge. But they were too late; the Welsh were already on the bridge. Swords flashed, blood splattered upon the red grit stones. The one surviving English soldier whirled, plunged into the river; he did not surface again.

  Llewelyn’s stallion was maddened by the smoke, the scent of blood. It reared up wildly as a man darted into the street, swinging a chained mace. Llewelyn gave the horse free rein; it plunged forward, and the man went down under those flailing hooves.

  Other men were emerging into the street, but the resistance the Welsh were encountering was sporadic, halfhearted. Women were screaming; some of the houses nearest the bridge were on fire. By the time Llewelyn reached Haystrete, he knew that Shrewsbury was his for the taking.

  The High Cross was now in sight; ahead lay the sandstone walls of John’s castle. A small group of men were clustered below the Cross. Their swords were sheathed, and they held up a makeshift flag of truce. Llewelyn recognized Hugh de Lacy, and he reined in his mount.

  The Abbot came forward cautiously; his comrades kept a more prudent distance. “My lord, I speak for the Holy Roman Church, for the provosts and common council of Shrewsbury. We will surrender the town to you, offer no resistance if you’ll give us your sworn word that no further harm will come to our people.”

  “What of the castle?”

  The Abbot was close enough now to see the blood smears on Llewelyn’s sword. He could not bring himself to look toward the east, toward the billowing black smoke that overhung his abbey. What they were offering in peace this man could take by force, and then turn their town over to his men for their sport. “The castle, too, will yield, my lord. We ask only that no more lives be lost, that you spare the innocent.”

  “I’d not see men die for a prize already won. Your offer is a fair one; so are your terms.”

  The Abbot’s shoulders sagged. His relief was such that he could not speak, could only sigh a fervent, “Thank God Almighty!”

  Richard Pride was not as easily assured; he knew from firsthand experience what could befall a conquered city. “I do not mean to give offense, my lord, but are you sure you can control your men?”

  “Yes,” Llewelyn said laconically, “I’m sure.”

  No more than that. But Richard Pride was suddenly sure, too. Reaching for his sword, he held it out, hilt first, to the Welsh Prince.

  “What now? Shall we take you to the castle?”

  “First I think we’d best see to those fires,” Llewelyn said. “I find I suddenly take a very personal interest in Shrewsbury’s survival.”

  By noon the Welsh had gathered in the inner bailey of Shrewsbury Castle, where they watched as the royal arms of England yielded to the red-and-gold lions of North Wales. As Llewelyn’s banner fluttered aloft above the keep, they cheered.

  Llewelyn could have cheered, too. He felt the same excitement, the same jubilant triumph as he gazed upward, and he did not move until Rhys came to stand at his side.

  “Shrewsbury was once the capital of the princes of Powys. You’ve retaken what was ours, Llewelyn.”

  “We cannot hope to hold it, Rhys; I know that. But I can hold it as long as it truly matters, until we’ve forced John to come to terms with us.” Llewelyn reached out, impulsively embraced his friend.

  “Passing strange,” he laughed, “that the first English town I ever saw should have been Shrewsbury. I was just a lad of ten, but I remember it well, even after thirty years. And now…now Shrewsbury shall be my bargaining counter, Rhys. I shall make use of Shrewsbury to set my son free.”

  On June 10, John rode to the meadow called Runnymede, between Windsor and Staines. There he gave grudging consent to the demands of his rebellious barons. The articles drawn up by the barons were affixed with John’s great seal, as proof that a preliminary accord had been reached. It was then agreed upon that negotiations would resume on Monday the fifteenth, using the articles as the basis for a final settlement, a charter of liberties that would also serve as a treaty of peace between the embattled King and his disaffected subjects.

  It was dark by the time John returned to Windsor Castle. He dismissed his attendants, withdrew to his private quarters in the upper bailey, and none dared intrude upon his seclusion, dared to brave the Angevin temper on this, surely one of the most desolate days of a troubled kingship.

  It was Richard who finally resolved to breach John’s defenses. He was no more eager than anyone else to serve as scapegoat for Fitz Walter and his Army of God and Holy Church, but he felt honor-bound to offer his father some small measure of comfort, if only a sympathetic ear.

  “I’ll go if you’d rather be alone, Papa.”

  There was in John’s face the exhaustion of a man who’d lived too long on nerves alone, and fury all the more intense for being impotent. But he beckoned Richard into the bedchamber, said, “No…I’d have you stay.”

  Several sheets of parchment lay scattered about the table. Richard picked up one headed Ista sunt Capitula que Barones petunt et dominus Rex condedit. That did, he thought, say it all: “These are the clauses which the barons seek and which the lord King concedes.”

  “The charter of Henry I that the barons set such store by, Henry never held to it, Papa. He granted it and promptly disregarded it. Might it not be possible to treat the barons’ charter in the same way?”

  “You’re not familiar with all its provisions, are you? Look upon the last page of the articles.”

  Richard had only a passing boyhood acquaintance with Latin, and it took him some moments to make a laborious translation of the clause dealing with “the form of security for the preservation of the peace and liberties between King and Kingdom.”

  The more he read, the more astonished he became. The articles provided for a committee of twenty-five barons to act as a court of appeals against breaches of the charter provisions. If they decided John was acting in defiance of the charter, they had the power to seize his castles, lands, and possessions in order to force him into compliance, to do him injury in any way they could, sparing only his person and his family. Furthermore, all men were to be required to take an oath of obedience to these twenty-five barons, an oath to take precedence over oaths of allegiance to the King.

  To Richard, this was an unheard-of constraint upon the inherent God-given powers of the crown, and a formula for disaster. He did not need to be told that Fitz Walter, de Vesci, and their supporters would constitute a majority on this committee of twenty-five. But it was the last sentence that shocked him so. It forbade John to seek the charter’s annulment from the Pope and held that the Archbishop of Canterbury, the other Bishops of England, and the papal legate Pandulf must agree to deny John’s right of appeal to the curia in a matter already before it, to compel John to forswear his own liege lord, the Pope.

  As Richard looked up, his disbelief clearly showing on his face, John said grimly, “So you see, lad, whatever options I have, ignoring the charter is not amongst them.” He joined Richard at the table, read again that last coercive clause, and then crumpled it in his fist, flung it to the floor.

  “Much of what they want in the charter I could live with. In fact, many of their demands can be found in a charter granted the city of Bristol nigh on twenty years ago, a charter that eased distraint for debts, gave citizens the right to marry without the license of their lord, limited a lord’s right of wardship. Do you know who granted that Bristol charter, Richard? I did, as Earl of Gloucester.”

  “I know you’ve ofttimes granted borough charters, Papa, and with generous privileges.”

  “Including one to London, giving them the right to elect a mayor…less than a week ere they opened the city gates to Fitz Walter!” John’s rage was mounting; so was his sense of injury. “I may not always have dealt fairly with men I could not trust; I’ll concede that much. I’d have been willing to redress indivi
dual grievances. But I’ll not submit to force. I’ll not surrender the traditional and ancient rights of sovereignty, rights that were my father’s before me and will be my son’s after me. I’ll not turn my kingdom over to the likes of de Vesci and Fitz Walter!”

  “But you put your great seal to this document, Papa. You agreed to grant them their charter of liberties.”

  “What else could I do? Fitz Walter holds London. Llewelyn razed Shawardine Castle to the ground, and then took Shrewsbury. There have been outbreaks in Northampton and Exeter. Lincoln is now in rebel hands. In South Wales, Reginald de Braose is laying siege to the castles I seized from his father. In the North of England, the Scots King dares to give open aid to the rebels. Christ, the country is in a virtual state of war! For nigh on a month, my revenues have been cut off, my government hamstrung. And each day sees more defections to the rebels. I’m no longer sure who’s with me and who’s not, and I do not know whom I can trust. Yes, I agreed to grant them their charter. At swordpoint! But the game is not over yet.”

  “I’ve not read these articles, Papa. You say you can live with most of the provisions. Mayhap you could live with the charter, too, if you tried…”

  “Never. This so-called peace treaty is utterly one-sided. There’s no equity in it. They give up nothing, whilst I am compelled to free all hostages, to banish my foreign mercenaries and Poitevin bailiffs, to dismiss Peter des Roches as Justiciar. And then…then to submit to the judgment of five and twenty over-Kings, men who’d barter with the Devil to see me dead. But I am King by God’s will, not Eustace de Vesci’s. As King, I am responsible for my subjects, not responsible to them. I’d rather lose my kingdom fighting for it than see it whittled away piecemeal by men like de Vesci, Fitz Walter, and Llewelyn ab Iorwerth.”

  “What will you do, Papa?”

  “Whatever I have to do. I’ll give them what they want, their Runnymede charter, and then we’ll see; then they’ll fly their true colors. Why do you think I’ve shown such forbearance, Richard? When have you ever known me to be so tender with traitors? But I’ve had to play to a larger audience than de Vesci and Fitz Walter. There are one hundred ninety-seven baronies in the realm. As far as I know, thirty-nine are in rebel hands. A like number hold fast for the crown. That still leaves well over a hundred that are unaligned, that have not committed themselves to either side. I daresay most favor a charter in some form or other, but how many of them would be willing to fight for it, to fight both crown and Church? Especially when they see how Fitz Walter and his five and twenty use their charter, as a means of feathering their own nests and settling old grudges…not all of them with me.”

  “You mean, then, to ask the Pope to annul the charter?”

  “If I have to, yes.”

  “But what of this provision in the articles, the one expressly forbidding you to appeal to the Pope?”

  “The Church will never accept such a stricture. It was naïve of Fitz Walter to think otherwise. However sympathetic Langton is to the concept of a charter, he cannot in conscience agree to foreclose a papal appeal. To do so would be to put the charter above the Church. I’ve talked to Langton and to Pandulf. The price the barons will have to pay for this great charter of theirs is to omit any mention of the Pope.”

  John sat down suddenly in the nearest chair. “Shall I foretell the future for you, Richard? It does not take a Peter of Wakefield to predict what is to come. I shall give them their accursed charter, for I have no choice. But they will not keep faith, with it or with me. The Pope will intervene on my behalf, invalidate the charter as an act of naked extortion.”

  John paused, glanced over at his son, and Richard saw that for once he was being utterly honest. “And then,” he concluded bleakly, “we will have what none of us truly wanted—war. War to the death, no quarter given, and God pity England.”

  37

  Dolwyddelan, North Wales

  June 1215

  When Llewelyn rose to fetch Gwladys, Joanna experienced a moment of near panic. Ever since his arrival at Dolwyddelan, she’d been dreading the time when she would find herself alone with Reginald de Braose. Taking a bracing swallow of wine, she cast about frantically for a neutral topic of conversation, for a way to keep Maude’s ghost at bay.

  “I know your son Will. He once stayed at my husband’s court. How does he? Will he be attending your wedding?”

  “Not likely, Madame. As far as I know, he’s still in France. Will’s ever had a mind of his own, and now that he’s nineteen…”

  “His mother’s death must have been hard on him,” Joanna sympathized, trying all the while not to think of the deaths that must have truly devastated Will. Had Reginald been the one to tell him? How could you tell a fourteen-year-old boy that his grandmother and uncle had been starved to death?

  “In truth, Madame, they were not that close.” Reginald signaled for a servant to refill his cup; he did not seem to share Joanna’s unease. “My daughter Matilda is a good lass, does what she’s told. But Will and I…well, we always seem to be at odds. Part of the trouble, I think, is that he was my mother’s favorite, and she—Jesú! Madame, are you all right?”

  Joanna stared down at her broken cup, at the wine soaking the rushes. When she raised her eyes to Reginald’s, they were blinded by tears. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, “so sorry…”

  Reginald was suddenly as flustered as she. “How stupid of me,” he said at last. “I was thinking of you as Lord Llewelyn’s wife, had all but forgotten you are John’s daughter.”

  “I do not know what to say to you. I pray for Maude’s soul, and for your brother’s, but—”

  “Madame, do not distress yourself so. I do not blame you. We are none of us answerable for the sins of our fathers.”

  That was not the creed of his House; few Marcher families had so bloody a history as the de Braose clan. But Reginald sounded sincere, and even if he was speaking only out of his need to gain Llewelyn as ally, Joanna was grateful for his assurance, was willing to take absolution upon any terms she could get.

  She was spared the need to respond, for Llewelyn had just reentered the hall, was escorting his daughter toward them. Gwladys showed no embarrassment at being the object of all eyes. At seventeen, she had poise a much older woman might envy, a sure sense of her own worth as a Prince’s daughter. We must get her a wedding gown of purest emerald silk, Joanna thought, a color vivid enough to set off those dark gypsy looks. Gwladys would make a very handsome bride and, thank God, a willing one. Joanna knew the girl would have preferred to wed a Cymro, one of her own people. But even the independent Gwladys would never have claimed the right to choose her own husband, and she seemed content enough with Llewelyn’s choice.

  Joanna, however, had yet to be reconciled to the match. She could see the shrewd political logic in such an alliance. She could even see why the union was advantageous for Gwladys. Reginald de Braose was an attractive man, not yet forty, with polished manners and a reputation for being more moderate and reasonable than most of his tumultuous kindred. And the bulk of the de Braose lands were situated in Wales or the Marches, so Gwladys would be spared the fate that had so daunted Joanna, the prospect of a life in exile. But to Joanna, all else was overshadowed by a bond of blood.

  Llewelyn had sympathized with her reluctance to see her stepdaughter wed to Maude de Braose’s son. But he had not been deterred from making the alliance. Joanna knew he had balanced her discomfort against the good of Gwynedd, and she’d come up short.

  “What are you thinking of, breila?” Llewelyn was smiling at her. She linked her arm in his, let him lead her aside.

  “I was thinking,” she said, “how thankful I am that we have years yet ere we must give our Elen away in marriage.”

  “What is this?” Joanna looked up as Llewelyn dropped a parchment scroll into her lap.

  “I thought you might be curious about the Runnymede charter.”

  “Indeed I am, but I do not read Latin…” Unrolling the parchment sheets, Joanna
stared in wonder at what she held, a French translation of her father’s charter. “Llewelyn, you did this for me?”

  “Well, one of my scribes did.” Llewelyn pretended to stagger backward as Joanna jumped to her feet, flung her arms around his neck. “Had I only known I could gladden you so cheaply with a few pages of parchment, I might have saved a small fortune over the years, need not have given you all those moonstones and garnets and gold necklets.”

  “Laugh if you will, but the world is full of men who’d as soon share this charter with their serfs as with their wives, men who think a literate woman to be the Devil’s handiwork.”

  “And with good reason, breila. Teach a woman to read and write, and ere long her head will be overflowing with unseemly and unwomanly ideas. She might even think to enter an enemy encampment, to negotiate peace terms on her husband’s behalf.”

  “Have I ever told you,” Joanna murmured, “that you have very taking ways?”

  Llewelyn laughed. “I daresay the citizens of Shrewsbury would agree with you.”

  Joanna laughed, too, and sitting down upon the settle, she began to thumb through the document, reading at random. “I doubt my father was much troubled to agree that fish-weirs be banned from the River Thames! Nor by this provision that no free man shall be imprisoned or outlawed except by the judgment of his peers or by the law of the land; he offered that himself in his compromise proposal of May tenth. In fact, Llewelyn, much of this charter seems to state existing law. Take this clause: ‘No one shall be taken or imprisoned upon the appeal of a woman for the death of anyone except her husband.’ I thought that was already the law of the land, that a woman could testify only to the murder of her husband or to her own rape.”

  “It was, but apparently John has been somewhat lax about enforcing it, and his courts have been more responsive to women’s pleas than the barons liked.”

  “That’s true. I remember one case in which he even allowed a woman to testify against her own husband! She claimed he was in collusion with the plaintiff to defraud her of her land, and John found in her favor.” Joanna very much needed to recall acts of compassion, equities she could balance against the horror of Nottingham Castle, the merciless vengeance taken upon Maelgwn and Maude de Braose. But Llewelyn was not the ideal audience for a testimonial to John’s better nature, and she glanced nervously in his direction, seeking to gauge the extent of his forbearance.