Here Be Dragons

by Sharon Kay Penman

  Book Two

  1

  Windsor, England

  September 1217

  At the time of John’s death, Louis exercised authority over half of John’s realm. London was his, and his ally, the notorious pirate and freebooter Eustace the Monk, claimed dominion of the seas, operating at will from his base in the Channel Islands. But an anti-French antagonism was taking root in the country, and John’s death gave many disgruntled rebels the excuse they needed to abandon Louis. Among those who acknowledged the boy King as their sovereign was John’s brother Will, Earl of Salisbury.

  John’s alliance with the Church now stood his young son in good stead. Wales had been under Interdict since November. Louis and the rebel barons had been declared excommunicate, and the papal legate Guala did his best to elevate the conflict into a holy war, encouraging Henry’s supporters to wear the white crosses of crusaders. Coming under such intense pressure from the Holy See, Philip was fast losing all enthusiasm for his son’s English adventure. But Louis was not, and the war dragged on through the winter and early spring.

  It began to seem as if neither side could score a decisive victory. Then, in mid-May, the Earl of Pembroke learned that Robert Fitz Walter, Saer de Quincy, and a French force were besieging Lincoln Castle. Pembroke saw his opportunity to engage them while Louis was occupied in another siege of Dover Castle, and by dawn on May 20, a royalist army was in sight of Lincoln’s city walls.

  Although the castle’s hereditary castellan, Nicholaa de la Haye, had been waging a gallant defense, the town was securely in rebel hands. But Nicholaa sent her lieutenant constable out to the royalists with the welcome word that she could give them entry into the castle through a small postern door. Once in the castle, Peter des Roches made a daring reconnaissance into the city itself and discovered a gate along the western wall, blocked but unguarded. Returning to his companions, he shared this discovery with Chester, Pembroke, and Will, the leaders of the expedition.

  While the royalist vanguard sought to batter down the north gate, another force gained entry through Peter’s hidden gateway, and soon the steep, narrow streets of Lincoln had become a battlefield. By 3:00 P.M. it was over. The French commander was dead, Fitz Walter and Saer de Quincy were taken prisoner, along with three hundred French knights, and the rest of the French were in flight.

  Amazingly enough, only five men were slain in the actual fighting. More died, however, on the chaotic retreat back toward London. And when the triumphant royalists sacked the city, many women and children drowned while trying to flee in small boats that capsized in the River Witham.

  Their victory was so complete that the jubilant English dubbed it “the Fair of Lincoln,” as if it had been a tournament. But it did not end the war. Louis still believed the English crown was within his grasp, was not willing to concede defeat.

  Joanna reined in, shocked, at first sight of Windsor Castle. She remembered apple orchards, groves of hazelnut and filbert, lush vineyards nurtured since the days of her grandfather’s reign. But she saw only scorched, mangled tree stumps, barren and pitted earth where rocks launched from mangonels had gone astray. As she passed into the lower bailey, there, too, she found scars of the castle’s three-month siege. There were gaping holes in the ground, the outer timber palisades were blackened, and the stone walls of the middle and inner baileys were gouged and battered.

  Even the great hall had not been spared; a section of the roof had suffered a direct hit. Joanna stopped her mare. It had been more than eleven years, but she even remembered the day of the week: Tuesday, May 2, in God’s year 1206. She’d stood with her father here in the bailey, struggling to bid him farewell without tears, still unable to believe that in just nine days she would be the wife of a Welsh Prince. She’d thought she had managed to hide her fear from John, but when they embraced, he hugged her tightly, saying, “You’ll have no regrets, sweetheart, I promise.”

  “No regrets,” Joanna echoed now, a lifetime later, and then she laughed, a laugh so strained, so lacking in mirth that her men gave her looks of curiosity, even of sympathy. After a time, her mare began to fidget. Only then did she bestir herself, shake off her father’s spell, and cross the drawbridge into the middle bailey.

  The timber buildings constructed by Henry II for his Queen’s comfort were ranged along the north wall of the upper bailey, and they alone seemed unscathed. Joanna was escorted across a grassy courtyard and into the chamber where Isabelle awaited her.

  They were alone; Isabelle had dismissed her own attendants and Joanna’s maid. There was genuine affection in their greetings, animation in their first moments of sharing, but there was a slight wariness, too, as if their intimacy needed to be rediscovered, to be tested anew after a five-year separation.

  “Henry had an earache, so I had to put him to bed with a vervain poultice. He is so excited by your coming, so eager to see you,” Isabelle said and smiled. “Being an only child myself, I confess I cannot comprehend his passion for siblings. But nary a day goes by when he does not make wistful mention of Dickon, even of Nell and Isabella, and they’re just babes.”

  “They’re still at Corfe?” Joanna’s disappointment was sharp, for she’d yet to meet her little sisters.

  “Yes, for safety’s sake. In fact, dearest, I was not at all sure Llewelyn would allow you to come halfway across England, safe-conduct or not.”

  “Llewelyn does not know. He’s waging war in South Wales, was besieging Haverford the last I heard from him.”

  “Well, whatever enabled you to—Joanna, you do not yet know, do you? How could you, being on the road all week? There was a great sea battle fought on St Bartholomew’s Day. The war is done, for Louis’ hopes sank with his ships. And one of the heroes of the day was your brother!”

  “Richard? Or Oliver?”

  “Richard. Ah, Joanna, it was a glorious triumph. Robert de Courtenay was bringing reinforcements to Louis; they had a fleet of ten galleys and seventy smaller craft, under the command of Eustace the Monk. They meant to sail up the Thames to London, but our ships caught up with them at the mouth of the estuary. Richard brought his ship alongside Eustace’s, and a cog commanded by John Marshal came up on the other side. The Monk had an enormous galley, but it was carrying horses and a heavy trebuchet, and was riding so low in the water that the deck was almost awash. Our cog was to windward, and the sailors threw down pots of powdered quicklime onto the French, temporarily blinding them. Richard and his men at once boarded the galley, and in the fighting that followed, all of the French knights—thirty-six—were taken captive. Eustace the Monk was found hiding in the hold. He offered a thousand marks for his life, but Richard had him beheaded on his own deck.

  “After that, it was a total rout. Although we were greatly outnumbered, the French panicked once the Monk’s ship was taken. Some of the galleys made it back to Calais, but all of the smaller ships were sunk or captured. Only the highborn knights were spared, all others being thrown into the sea. Much booty was taken and shared amongst our sailors afterward, with some set aside by the Earl of Pembroke to found a hospital in honor of St Bartholomew. The day’s glory belonged to Hubert de Burgh, who commanded our fleet—and to Richard.” Isabelle at last paused for breath. “John would have been very proud of him.”

  “Yes,” Joanna agreed softly, “he would.”

  “Pembroke sent Robert de Courtenay to Louis.” Seeing Joanna belatedly react to the name Courtenay, Isabelle nodded, said dryly, “Yes, he’s my uncle, my mother’s brother. He brought back word from London that Louis is now willing to make peace, to depart the kingdom. He meets on Tuesday with Pembroke and Hubert de Burgh to discuss terms.”

  “I’m glad.”

  “Are you truly, Joanna? After all, Llewelyn is allied with Louis…”

  “But Henry is my brother. Of course I want him to win.”

  “What is troubling you, then? Is it that you think Llewelyn may not be willing to make peace with Henry?”

  “No, it’s not that.
Llewelyn will eventually come to terms with the English…once they make it worth his while.”

  Isabelle had rarely heard Joanna sound so cynical, but she was amused nonetheless. “Your husband can charm, but he can also calculate finely enough to split hairs. In that, he’s always reminded me of John,” she said, and laughed. But Joanna did not. “Joanna…what is it? Is it Llewelyn?”

  Joanna hesitated. “Yes.” Rising, she moved restlessly to the window. “It began this summer, when Reginald de Braose submitted to Henry. To the Welsh, that was a betrayal. Llewelyn was furious, made up his mind to teach Reginald a sharp lesson. But I…I could not see it in the same light. I could think only of Gwladys—torn between husband and father. We quarreled, and he departed with angry words between us. As it turned out, he brought Reginald to heel in short order. He swept into Brecknock, and as soon as he crossed the border into Gower, Reginald hastened to meet him at Llangiwg, humbled his pride and yielded up the castle of Swansea to Llewelyn. It was a quick and bloodless triumph for the Prince. But an utter failure for the father.”

  “Was Gwladys very distraught?”

  “No,” Joanna said reluctantly, and then managed a rueful smile. “In truth, she was not. Llewelyn can do no wrong in her eyes, and she thinks he was perfectly justified. To Gwladys, there is but one side to any quarrel—the Welsh.”

  “I see. Well, then, do you not think you may have…overreacted somewhat?”

  “You need not be so tactful. Say what you mean, that I was really reacting to past pain of my own. Of course I was. But that does not change the fact that Llewelyn put political aims above his daughter’s welfare.”

  “Darling, men do that all the time. At least, ambitious men do…and is there any other kind?” Isabelle rose, too, followed Joanna to the window. “I am sorry, though, Joanna. I’ve known a few women who were well and truly in love. But you were the only one in love with her own husband! I admit I never thought it would last, yet I hoped for your sake that it might.”

  Joanna had been listening in surprise. “I once told Llewelyn that I did not always like him, and this summer was for certes one of those times. But I still do love him, Isabelle…and fear for him. Over the past eleven years, I’ve learned to live with his wars, with the knowledge that a well-aimed spear or arrow could make me a widow at any moment. But now…now he is under sentence of excommunication, and that pushes my fear beyond endurance. I’ll not deny I find it hard, knowing he is always going to put Gwynedd first. But he found it hard, too, being wed to John’s daughter. And no matter how angry he makes me, I could not envision my life without him…even now, when our marriage is admittedly at low tide!”

  “I am glad, Joanna,” Isabelle said, and meant it, although she remained convinced that a love so intense was no gift of God. “Now tell me,” she said, because she knew it would please Joanna, “about Elen and your Davydd. From your letters, I suspect that he is your favorite, no?”

  “No!” Joanna protested swiftly, if not altogether convincingly. “I love Elen dearly. But…I just cannot understand her as I would like. No matter how I try, there remains a barrier between us, one I’ve not been able to breach. With Davydd it’s different, mayhap because I see so much of myself in him. I know what he is thinking and feeling and dreaming; even without words, I know.”

  “And what of the snake in your Eden? What of Gruffydd?”

  Joanna’s reaction was a revealing one. Her mouth tightened noticeably, and her eyes darkened; at that moment she looked very like John. “Davydd will be nine in November. Gruffydd is one and twenty…and has a large following amongst Llewelyn’s people.”

  “Not surprising. He’s a handsome youth, and there’s something utterly compelling about his sort of recklessness. It’s rather like watching an avalanche; you do not want to get caught up in it, but for certes you cannot ignore it, either. You’re saying, then, that the Welsh regard him as Llewelyn’s rightful heir?”

  Joanna nodded. “If it were left to the Welsh, it would be no contest, would be Gruffydd by acclamation. And Llewelyn loves him very much, puts up with outrageous behavior he’d not tolerate from another living soul because of that love. As for Gruffydd, I sometimes think his hatred of England borders upon madness, for it is so impassioned, so…so utterly implacable. He despises me, of course, and is wildly jealous of Davydd. You want the truth, Isabelle? I think I was not so much angry with Llewelyn over Gwladys as over Gruffydd. You see, when Llewelyn led his army into Reginald’s lands and then against the Flemings in Rhos, he was not just risking his own life. He was risking Davydd’s, too.”

  “I do not know what to tell you, Joanna,” Isabelle said and sighed. “I know what John would have said, though. He’d have said this was one of God’s more macabre jests. Your son’s danger will not cease till the day Gruffydd draws his last breath. Yet Gruffydd lives because of you. John spared him for you, because he thought you wanted that. He’d have sent Gruffydd to the gallows in a trice if you’d only asked…” Isabelle sighed again. “I so wish you’d come to him at Oxford, Joanna. It hurt him grievously that you did not.”

  “I could not!” Joanna’s face was flaming. “I had no choice, had to put my husband and children first, and I’ll not feel guilty about it!”

  “Then why,” Isabelle said coldly, “are you so angry?”

  Joanna said nothing; her throat was suddenly too tight for speech. She turned abruptly away, back toward the window. She was still in profile; Isabelle could see how long it took for the color to fade from her face, and her own anger ebbed away. She reached out, touched Joanna’s shoulder. Joanna spun around and they embraced, clung together in one of the most intense yet ephemeral of bonds, the solidarity of a shared loss.

  “I’m sorry, Joanna. I never meant to hurt you.” Isabelle’s cheek was wet with Joanna’s tears; she wiped them away, gave the younger woman an apologetic hug. “But I need to talk about John, and you’re the only—”

  “I cannot.” Joanna’s voice was muffled, all but inaudible. “Isabelle, I cannot…”

  “I know you’re grieving. But Joanna, so am I. These last months have been the most wretched of my life!”

  Joanna had rarely heard Isabelle speak with such emotion, with such stark sincerity, and she felt shame for having assumed Isabelle’s grief would be so easily assuaged.

  Isabelle had begun to pace. “John was a…a law unto himself, was not an easy man to understand…or to live with. Especially these last few years. But I think I made him happy, and I…I loved being his Queen, Joanna. As far back as I can remember, I could turn heads, attract attention, but that was only because men found me fair to look upon. When I was Queen, it was different; I truly mattered. People sought to please me, to court my goodwill—because they knew John loved me. And now…now I might as well be a deaf-mute for all the heed they pay me. Without John, I count for naught.”

  “Surely you exaggerate,” Joanna said slowly, and Isabelle gave a vehement shake of her head.

  “I know I’m no Eleanor of Aquitaine. It never occurred to me—or to anyone else, obviously—that I should act as regent. But I ought to have some say in my son’s upbringing, and I have none at all. Nor will I, as long as Chester and Pembroke have the government. They like me not, Joanna, think I’m frivolous and vain and foreign, a bad influence upon Henry. Yes, that is what I said—foreign. For suddenly my birthplace has become a liability. People now look at me askance because my mother is a first cousin to the French King, as if that somehow makes me suspect!”

  “Isabelle…might you not be oversensitive, seeing slights when none was meant?”

  “Then why did the Pope feel the need to issue a stern warning last February, forbidding people to harass me or molest my property and goods?”

  Joanna’s emotions were too ambivalent to allow for dispassionate analysis. The realization that Isabelle grieved more for the privileges and prerogatives of queenship than for the man who’d made them possible had done much to sour her sympathy for the other woman. And
yet she could not help but identify with Isabelle’s isolation, her sense of alienation, for she, too, had suffered for the sin of foreign birth.

  Isabelle had stopped before a small table. It was littered with jars, with belladonna and kohl and marigold balm, casting-bottles of jasmine and violet perfumes, vials of rosewater; Joanna had never seen such an assortment. Isabelle was picking up jars at random; she seemed suddenly—and uncharacteristically—uncertain. Jerking off her wimple and veil, she loosened her hair, shook it free about her shoulders. Although it was not as pure a shade as in her early youth, and owed something now to rinses with lemon water, her hair was still soft and shimmering, evoking in Joanna an unexpected and nostalgic memory of her mother Clemence, so many years dead, Clemence with her swirling cloud of bright blonde hair.

  “I might as well say this straight out, know no other way to tell you.” Isabelle leaned back against the table, as if bracing herself. “I asked you to come to Windsor because I think of you as a sister, Joanna…and I wanted to bid you farewell.”

  “Farewell? I do not understand.”

  “I am more than the widow of a dead King, Joanna. I am Countess of Angoulême in my own right, and I have decided to go home, to go back to my own lands, my own people.”

  Joanna was stunned, at a loss for words. It did not surprise her that Isabelle should, even after seventeen years, have so little loyalty to England, for she did not feel truly bound to her own husband’s homeland. But Isabelle would never be allowed to take her children. In abandoning England, she was abandoning Henry, Dickon, Nell, and Isabella, and Joanna could conceive of no circumstances, however wretched, under which she would willingly forsake Davydd and Elen.

  Although she said nothing, Joanna’s shock showed plainly in her face, and Isabelle frowned, said defensively, “It is for the best, Joanna. It’s not as if they’ll want for anything. Moreover, I have another daughter. Joanna—your namesake—is seven now, and I’ve not seen her since she was four.”