Here Be Dragons

by Sharon Kay Penman

  Quarrels had been kindled by much less. But Llewelyn’s mood had been euphoric for days now, ever since they’d gotten word of the settlement upon the meadows of Runnymede. He could not begrudge Joanna such meagre solace, and he nodded agreeably. Reassured, Joanna returned to the charter.

  “I know men think it unfair that a woman has the right to engage a champion whilst an accused man must fight for himself. But I find this provision no less unfair, Llewelyn, for it could conceivably be interpreted to deny a woman the right to bring a rape charge. How glad I am that we have our own laws, that we are not subject to trial by ordeal or combat and a Welshwoman’s oath is conclusive as to whether she was raped or not.”

  “When you said ‘we,’ did you speak from the heart? Have you come to think of yourself as Welsh, breila?”

  Joanna hesitated. “No,” she admitted. “I think of Wales as home, but that is because of you, our children. In all honesty, I have not your love of the land; people are all that matter to me. I do not have any attachment to England, either, have never felt the…hiraeth that you do away from Wales.”

  Llewelyn would have preferred another answer, but had not truly expected one. “I’d wager that most of Norman-French blood feel as you do. But I think that will change in time. The loss of Normandy casts a long shadow.”

  Joanna was intrigued. “You’re saying that having lost their Normandy estates, men will come to give greater worth to their English lands?”

  “Already you can see signs of it, Joanna. You Normans may not yet think of yourselves as English, but you’ve begun to draw distinctions of birth. One of the complaints against John’s Justiciar, Peter des Roches, was that he was born in Poitou, not England. It was the loss of his Angevin Empire that brought John to Runnymede. But that same loss will one day forge a sense of unity amongst the English, Norman and Saxon alike. I only hope it will not be at the expense of the Welsh.”

  He sounded suddenly grim, and Joanna reached up, laid her hand on his arm. “Have you forgotten the story you told me, Llewelyn, of the Welsh sage and King Henry? Henry wanted to know if the royal army would prevail, and he said…”

  “He said, ‘Lord King, I do not think that on the Day of Direst Judgment any race other than the Welsh, or any other language, will give answer to the Supreme Judge of all for this small corner of the earth.’”

  “I do not think the Welsh need fear the future, beloved, not as long as the House of Cunedda rules in Gwynedd. But why do you link Normandy and Runnymede?”

  “Because, Joanna, this charter is aimed as much at John’s father as it is at John. John’s government is not that different from Henry’s. Granted, his word is worthless, but Henry was not slow to dissemble, either, when it served his purposes. Henry’s barons chafed under his rule, too, fully as much as do John’s. No lord wants an overly strong King, a government that truly governs. John is hated because men feel—rightfully—that they cannot trust him. But he might have been hated less had he been less effective a King…or had he not lost Normandy. Henry and Richard both ruled with a heavy hand, but they were gone from the kingdom for years at a time, occupied by events in Normandy, Anjou, Poitou. Those absences gave their English barons a needed respite, some breathing space. But for nigh on ten years, John has been anchored in England, riding the length and breadth of the realm, bringing his courts and his constables, collecting taxes, levying scutage, making enemies. To his hard-pressed barons, he must have begun to seem as ever-present as God, as inevitable as death…and about as welcome!”

  Joining her on the settle, he stretched out, pillowed his head in her lap, and she leaned over, gave him a playful upside-down kiss. “This charter could only have been drawn up by lawyers, with their passion for complexity. The wardship of minors, debts to the Jews, bridge-building, intestate deaths, uniform measures of wine and corn; is there any subject they did not seek to address? So much of it seems unnecessary to me. Here it states that a widow shall not be compelled to marry again, provided she offers security that she’ll not marry without the King’s consent. I agree with the principle, Llewelyn, but it already is the practice. Widows often petitioned my father for the right not to remarry, and he almost always allowed them to purchase that privilege.”

  “Yes, he did. But that privilege depended upon the King’s whim, his convenience. Now it will depend upon the charter. As a widow, which would you rather rely upon, Joanna?”

  Joanna did not need to consider. “The charter,” she conceded. “I see your point. You’re saying that the true significance of this charter is that it changes privileges into rights?”

  “And that it goes beyond the rights of individual petitioners. It’s rather like a borough charter, one granting certain privileges to the citizens of a particular town. Except that this charter encompasses the entire realm. That is a novel concept. A pity it shall be as short-lived as the peace it warrants.”

  “Are you so sure that the peace cannot last?”

  “Read the last clause of the charter, Joanna. Then read the list of names affixed to the charter, the barons elected to the committee of twenty-five. And then tell me if you think John will ever accept their governance.”

  Joanna did as he bade. “God’s wrath, look at these names! Eustace de Vesci, Robert Fitz Walter, Saer de Quincy, the Earls of Hereford and Clare—I count fully fourteen to be my father’s sworn enemies, only two to be men he can trust. Llewelyn, they want war; it’s as simple as that.”

  “Nothing is ever that simple, love. I grant you that they mean to press their advantage to the utmost. They are not likely to keep faith with the charter. But I find it hard to fault them for that, for they know that John will not, either. He’s bound to appeal to the Pope, and when he does, he will prevail. It cannot be otherwise, for his legal position is unassailable. Canon law holds that an oath given under duress is not binding. The Pope must annul the charter. John knows it, I know it, and I expect most of the barons know it, too.”

  Llewelyn sat up, reached for the charter. “You asked what I see as the true significance of the Runnymede charter. For me, it lies in two brief provisions, breila. One compels John to make restitution of Welsh lands, liberties, and rights seized unjustly by the crown, recognizes the supremacy of Welsh law in Wales. And the other…” He did not bother to glance at the parchment, for he had long since committed the words to memory.

  “‘We will restore at once the son of Llewelyn,’” he quoted, “‘and all the hostages from Wales and the charters delivered to us as security for peace.’ That is the heart of John’s great charter, Joanna. My son is coming home.”

  It was early morning; the July sun had not had time to assert dominion, and the air still held some of the dampness of night. Joanna’s ladies were helping her to dress, and Llewelyn was about to submit himself to his barber’s razor. It was then that the shouting began in the bailey, the sounds of celebration.

  The scene that greeted Llewelyn was one of pandemonium. The bailey was thronged with men and women, barking dogs, excited children. In the midst of all the uproar, Gruffydd was struggling to control his stallion. He’d obviously not expected so joyful a welcome, and he smiled shyly at his well-wishers, acknowledging the greetings of friends shoving to reach his side. He was wearing a finely woven new tunic, but it was streaked with dust and sweat, offering Llewelyn poignant testimony to the urgency of his son’s journey.

  The crowd now took up Gruffydd’s name, chanted it in triumphant unison. Gruffydd flushed under the acclaim, and then glanced up, saw Llewelyn standing on the stairs. As he slid from the saddle, the crowd hushed, parted before him. He moved toward the keep, stood looking up at his father.

  “Gruffydd.” Llewelyn’s voice was suddenly husky. He came down the stairs, stopped when the space between them could be breached by an outstretched hand.

  “It’s really me, Papa.” Gruffydd tugged self-consciously at his beard. “I must look like a right proper Norman. But they would not trust me with a razor, and once I was free, I was n
ot willing to wait a moment longer than need be.”

  “I do not think,” Llewelyn said slowly, “that a single day has passed in these four years when I did not envision this moment, imagine what it would be like, what I’d say to you. I meant to tell you how much I’ve missed you, and how very proud I am of you. And now you’re here, and that’s not enough. Christ, it does not even begin to be enough.”

  “It is enough for me, Papa.”

  Joanna had followed Llewelyn out onto the stairs. She stood very still, watching as her husband and his son embraced. She’d long had an unease of conscience where Gruffydd was concerned, for she remembered with uncomfortable clarity how she’d welcomed Gruffydd’s banishment to the English court. It was a memory that often came back to haunt her in the months after Gruffydd’s harrowing ordeal at Nottingham Castle, and she’d resolved that if the boy was ever given his freedom, she’d try to make peace with him. Not just for Llewelyn’s sake. She owed it to Gruffydd. This was yet another of John’s debts that she was somehow honor-bound to repay.

  But her good intentions faltered now at sight of Gruffydd. Her pity had blurred Gruffydd’s memory, and she’d had almost three years to recast her recollections in a more sympathetic mold, to convince herself that she could befriend Gruffydd if given a second chance. It was a shock, therefore, to confront reality, the flesh-and-blood man standing on the stairs. With his bright beard, broad shoulders, and flowing hair, he did not look like a proper Norman to her, more like a Norse pirate chieftain. She’d forgotten the aura of danger that clung to Gruffydd. Even as a boy he’d had it, and he was no boy now, was very much a man.

  Neither Llewelyn nor Gruffydd seemed to want to end their embrace. When they finally moved apart, both had tears in their eyes and both were laughing. Only then did Joanna start down the stairs.

  “Welcome home, Gruffydd,” she said, and smiled at him.

  Gruffydd did not return her smile. She was his father’s wife, he could not forget that. But he could not forget, either, that he’d forfeited four years of his life because of her, because she would see her son as Llewelyn’s heir. “Yes, Madame,” he said softly. “Gwynedd is indeed my home.”

  Gruffydd entered the stables, set his lantern upon a stall gate, and knelt, holding out a savory beef bone. Math’s tail twitched; he snatched the bone from Gruffydd’s hand, retreated with it into the shadows. Gruffydd rose, but made no move to go. The raucous celebration of his return had not died down with the day’s end, and after three years of solitary confinement, Gruffydd was overwhelmed by all the noise, the press of people. He’d once seen a young deer on the loose in Shrewsbury; he could better understand now the panic a woodland creature might feel in such alien surroundings, and he was not eager to return to the hall, to take center stage again. Gruffydd did not feel like a hero, not at all, just very tired, confused, and curiously let down.

  The stable door creaked and he glanced up, saw a small boy peering in at him. But he did not mind sharing his solitude with a child, and he gave the boy an encouraging smile.

  “See that alaunt in the corner? Math was my dog once; I was sure he was the best dog in all of Christendom! I truly hated to leave him, and whenever I’d get too homesick, it would help to think of Math, to think how he’d welcome me home.” Gruffydd settled back upon a bale of hay. “But I was gone four years. He does not even remember me.”

  The child came closer. He was a thin youngster, with a thatch of untidy black hair, a shy smile, and a smudge of dirt on his nose. “Here,” he said, thrusting something into Gruffydd’s hand. “This is for you.”

  Gruffydd held it up toward the lantern light. “A penny?”

  “It’s my lucky penny.”

  “Then I cannot keep it, lad.”

  “But I want you to,” the boy protested, and squatted down beside Gruffydd. “I do not remember you, not at all,” he confessed, after some moments of companionable silence. “I was too little when you left. But I’m six and a half now.” He paused, waited expectantly. “Do you not know who I am? I’m Davydd—your brother.”

  Gruffydd’s hand jerked; the coin fell into the straw. Davydd at once scrambled to retrieve it. “Here, you dropped your penny.”

  Gruffydd ignored Davydd’s outstretched hand. Getting hastily to his feet, he stared at the boy. His brother. Joanna’s son.

  “I do not want it,” he said roughly, saw Davydd’s mouth quiver, saw only a small child, bewildered and hurt. But then Davydd stepped forward, and the lantern light fell full upon his face, upon the slanting hazel eyes. Accursed cat eyes. John’s eyes.

  Gruffydd drew an uneven breath. “Jesus wept, you even look like him! You may speak Welsh better than she does, but you’ve still got his eyes, his blood. God grant that I never forget it.”

  Gruffydd was badly shaken, and he took refuge now in rage, rage that would enable him to blot out memory of that moment, however fleeting, when he’d identified with Davydd’s pain. If he ever gave in to weakness like that, he was lost, and so was Gwynedd. This was Joanna’s son, John’s grandson. “Go away,” he said. “You had no right to do this, to seek me out. I do not want you here.”

  Davydd stood rooted. “Why are you so angry with me? What have I done? I’ve never hurt you—”

  “You’ve never hurt me? I spent four years in an English prison because of you, you and your mother! Why do you think John wanted me as a hostage? Because he means to make you Prince of Gwynedd, a puppet English Prince to dance to London’s tune!”

  Davydd was struggling not to cry. “I did not want you to be a hostage! I was glad you were coming home, gave you my penny. And my mama was glad, too, when the English let you go; she told me so. You say such strange things, and they make no sense. Papa is Prince of Gwynedd. So why would the English King want me to be Prince? And I’m Welsh; how could I ever be an English Prince?”

  “No, you are not Welsh,” Gruffydd said bitterly. “They may give you a crown, but they cannot give you that. Welsh you’ll never be.”

  Davydd gasped. “I am so Welsh! You take that back!”

  “Ask your mother, your Norman-French mother. She was born in England, the daughter of the English King. If I mate Math to a spaniel, the pups will be neither alaunt nor spaniel, but mix-breeds, curs. Neither one nor the other. That’s you, too, neither English nor Welsh, and you’d best learn to live with it.”

  Davydd was alone in the stables. Gruffydd had gone, taking his lantern, and the dark was not friendly. Davydd still clutched his penny; now he flung it away, into the blackness beyond him, and moved closer to Math. The dog growled low in its throat. “I do not want your bone, Math,” Davydd said, but the dog growled again. He’d find Mama, that’s what he’d do. Mama could tell him if there was truth in what Gruffydd said.

  The great hall was overflowing with people. Davydd had to squirm his way between them, trying not to tread upon the long, trailing skirts, trying to avoid jostling elbows, spilling wine cups. His neck began to ache as he craned upward, searching for familiar faces. He could not find his mother, and he began to feel a suffocating sense of panic. He wanted to get away from the smoke and loud laughter, the bodies walling him in on all sides. He wanted his mother.

  But it was not Joanna that he found; it was Llewelyn. It had never occurred to him to seek out his father for comfort. He loved Llewelyn very much, but he was very much in awe of him, too. His need was now so great, though, that he could wait no longer. He had to know, and he edged his way forward until he could pull at the sleeve of his father’s tunic.

  Llewelyn glanced down. “Should you not be abed, lad?” He was turning back to the adults encircling him, when his son tugged again at his arm.

  “Papa? Papa, am I Welsh?” he said, and saw with relief that he’d succeeded in catching his father’s full attention, for that was not always easy to do.

  “Come with me,” Llewelyn said, and led Davydd up the steps onto the dais, sat the boy down in his own seat. “Now,” he said, “what would make you ask a question
like that? Of course you are Welsh.”

  “Is Mama Welsh?” Davydd asked, very low.

  “No, lad. Your mother is of Norman-French descent.”

  “Then…then I’m not Welsh,” Davydd concluded despairingly, and Llewelyn swiftly shook his head.

  “You are Welsh, Davydd. You are my son, and under our law, that makes you Welsh, as Welsh as anyone in this hall, me included.”

  Llewelyn smiled at the boy, but Davydd ducked his head. He’d begun to pull at the embroidery decorating the seat cushion. “If Mama is Norman, I must be half Norman.”

  “That’s right, you are. Welsh by law, and half Welsh and half Norman by blood.”

  “But the Normans are your enemies, Papa.”

  “Yes, some of them are. But not all. I have many English friends, Davydd, men I’d trust far more than I would a Welshman like Gwenwynwyn. To have Norman blood is no shame, lad. After all, you are not ashamed of your mother. Surely you do not think less of her for being Norman?”

  “No! I love Mama more than anything. But…but what of me, Papa? Mama is Norman; what am I? If I’m not fully Welsh and fully Norman, then I’m nothing!”

  “Ah, Davydd, no. You could not be more wrong. Most people have only one heritage. But you have two, your mother’s and mine. That gives you more than my other sons, makes you doubly blessed.”

  Davydd was silent for a time, plucking absently at the cushion threads. “I had not thought of it that way,” he admitted. “But what of Math, Papa? If you mate him to a spaniel, the puppies will be curs.”