Here Be Dragons

by Sharon Kay Penman

  “But the de Lusignans have custody of her. Will they let you see her?”

  “I think so. Hugh is a reasonable man, after all. Why would he not agree?”

  “Reasonable?” Joanna echoed incredulously. “Hugh de Lusignan?”

  Isabelle laughed. “No, I was speaking of his son, of the younger Hugh.” She’d picked up a mirror, was gazing pensively at the image it reflected, at the beauty not even polished metal could distort. “No,” she repeated softly, “I do not think Hugh will refuse me.”

  2

  Dolbadarn, North Wales

  February 1218

  Situated on a rocky knoll eighty feet above Llyn Padarn, Dolbadarn Castle commanded the route from Caer yn Arfon to the Conwy Valley. This was Joanna’s first visit to Dolbadarn since Llewelyn had constructed the two-story circular keep, and she was dazzled at sight of mountains mirrored in the deep blue depths of a snow-fed lake. She stood now at the window in the upper chamber, gazing out at the regal heights of Yr Wyddfa, a stark, snow-shrouded pinnacle framed against a cloudless winter sky.

  “I wonder if I’m falling under the spell of Wales at long last. Or does it seem so spectacular merely because I’m so happy? Shall I tell you why? Last night I had a letter from my brother Richard, telling me that his wife has given birth to a daughter. And this morning Llewelyn gave me a gift of immeasurable value. He has agreed to make peace with Henry, which means no more war—for a time, anyway—and a chance to visit my brother’s court, and most blessed mercy of all, the papal legate Guala will now restore Llewelyn to God’s grace. Oh, indeed? Well, that might not mean much to you, but it means everything to me!”

  Her audience, a small, amber-colored spaniel, yawned again, and Joanna laughed, scooped up the puppy. “I know I’m silly, but I feel like being silly this morn. What shall we do now? Go play in the snow?”

  The castle bailey seemed carpeted in crystal, so brilliant was the sunlight upon the drifts of ice and snow. Joanna’s puppy ran in circles, barking joyously, and Joanna wished suddenly that she were not twenty-six, that she were still young enough to make angels in the snow, to spin till she was dizzy, drunk on the utter purity of the icy mountain air.

  “Topaz!” The puppy was barking at a woman crossing the bailey. Joanna called again, hastened to retrieve her errant pet. The hood of the woman’s mantle shadowed her face, and Joanna did not recognize her until they were several feet apart. When she did, her exuberance vanished as if it had never been. Grabbing for the dog, she politely greeted Gruffydd’s bride.

  “Good morrow, Madame.”

  Joanna opened her mouth, shut it again. She’d twice suggested that Senena call her by her given name; what more could she do? It annoyed her that she should find conversation so difficult with this girl; she’d thought she’d long since prevailed over the anxieties and insecurities of her own girlhood.

  Seeing Senena glance down at the dog, she said, “Topaz is a gift from my husband. I’d had a dog for nigh on thirteen years, did not think I wanted another when Sugar died. But Llewelyn was right, and I find Topaz a joy.”

  “I like dogs,” Senena said. Hers was a breathless, little-girl voice that made her seem even younger than seventeen. So, too, did her size; she was barely five feet tall, looked incredibly fragile and tiny when standing next to her husband. She was not a beauty, was too pale, with unfashionable freckles and thick eyebrows she refused to pluck. Her eyes were undeniably her best feature, wide-set and compelling, a dark sea-grey, but to Joanna, they were too watchful, too unrevealing.

  Joanna had made one or two halfhearted attempts to befriend Gruffydd’s young wife, but she was not altogether sorry when Senena did not respond to her overtures. She was a quiet girl who rarely spoke in company, and Joanna had assumed she was shy. She was no longer so certain that was the case, was slowly concluding that Senena’s reticence was not so much timidity as it was wariness. More and more, she reminded Joanna of a cat put down in strange surroundings, cautiously learning the lay of the land.

  Senena was still studying Topaz. “I prefer a larger dog, myself,” she said in the colorless little voice that made it so difficult to determine whether she meant to give offense. “I think dogs should be useful, not just decorative. If you’ll excuse me now, Madame, Gruffydd awaits me in the great hall.”

  “By all means.” Joanna stood watching as Senena walked away, not moving until Topaz pawed at her skirt. “Well, Topaz, I’m afraid you’ve just been dismissed as a decadent Norman trinket. Like me, no doubt.” But she felt no real surprise. Senena was Gruffydd’s cousin. She was also his choice; their marriage had come about because he wanted it so. It was only to be expected, therefore, that he and Senena shared more than a bed, that they shared a common outlook, a common enemy.

  Senena had a surprisingly lithe, athletic stride, was already passing the West Tower. As she did, a small figure darted out behind her. Senena did not notice. But Joanna did, sharply cried out her daughter’s name.

  Elen whirled. She flushed at sight of her mother, hid her hands behind her back, but not before Joanna caught a glimpse of the snowball in her daughter’s fist.

  By the time she reached Elen, Senena had disappeared into the hall, apparently oblivious of the thwarted ambush. Joanna took Elen’s arm, drew her aside.

  “Elen, what am I to do with you? If you must throw snowballs, at least pick your victims with greater care. Believe me, Senena would not have been amused.”

  Elen shrugged. “I do not like her.”

  “Why ever not?”

  “Because…because she’s Gruffydd’s wife.”

  Joanna stared at her daughter. “But you’ve always been very fond of Gruffydd, and he of you. Have you quarreled?”

  Elen looked down at the ground; her hair was loose, windblown, fell forward to hide her face. Joanna suddenly understood, drew a sharp, dismayed breath.

  “It’s Davydd,” she said, and Elen nodded.

  “Gruffydd hates him.” She no longer sounded sulky, looked up at Joanna, brown eyes full of bewilderment. “The day ere we left Aber, I was playing at the waterfall. Gruffydd and Senena were walking by the river. When they did not see me, I hid in the rocks so I could surprise them. I did not mean to eavesdrop, Mama, not really. They were saying mostly silly things, the way grown people do. Laughing and kissing, you know. But then Gruffydd began to talk about you and Davydd. He was telling Senena that you meant to deprive him of his rightful inheritance. He was saying hateful things about Davydd. Mama, he…he even said Davydd should never have been born!”

  Joanna bit her lip. It was so unfair, so unjust that Davydd—and now Elen—should be caught up in adult passions, in ambitions and antagonisms beyond their ken. They were too young, she thought, too young! But she had no comfort for her child, could not lie. “I am so sorry, Elen,” she said, after a troubled silence. “I truly wish you could love both Davydd and Gruffydd. But since you must choose, I’m very glad you chose Davydd.”

  “I had to, Mama. Gruffydd has Gwladys and Marared and Gwenllian. But Davydd has only me.”

  Never had Joanna felt so inadequate, so unequal to the task of motherhood. “The hardest part of being a mother, Elen, is that we want so much to protect our children from all evil, all hurt. And we cannot…”

  “I do not need to be protected, Mama,” Elen protested indignantly. But when Joanna put her arm around the girl’s shoulders, Elen did not pull away, and she stayed by Joanna’s side as they walked together toward the great hall.

  They had not yet entered the hall when they heard shouting and quickened their steps, for they recognized the voices as Gruffydd’s and Llewelyn’s.

  “But you turned down the English last September, rightfully refused to take part in the peace between Henry and the French Prince. Why have you changed your mind, Papa? Why should you now be willing to submit to the English?”

  “I do not consider it submission,” Llewelyn snapped. “When they offered peace last autumn, it was conditioned upon our surrender of all
the lands we’d taken from them in South Wales. Of course I refused, and then I waited. It was well worth the wait, Gruffydd. Yes, I have now agreed to do homage to Henry. But in return, Guala will absolve me of excommunication and lift the Interdict from Wales. Our past conquests will be recognized. I will be invested with custody of the royal castles they call Carmarthen and Cardigan, will hold them until Henry comes of age. The English have even agreed to acknowledge my authority in Lower Powys until Gwenwynwyn’s sons reach manhood. Moreover, they—”

  “Acknowledge? Who are they to acknowledge or legitimize your rights? You’re a Welsh Prince, are not dependent upon the whims, the indulgence of the English crown!”

  “For the love of Christ, Gruffydd, when will you—” Llewelyn stopped abruptly. This was not the way, and for certes not the place. “Come outside where we can talk in private,” he said curtly, and turned without waiting to see if Gruffydd was, in fact, following him. By the time he’d reached the bailey, he was once more in control of his temper and determined that this time it would be different, this time he would somehow make his son understand.

  “Gruffydd, listen to me. I know how you feel. When I was your age, I felt just as you do, wanted what you want—an utterly independent Wales, free of all foreigners, united under my control.”

  “Is that so foolish a dream?” Gruffydd challenged, and Llewelyn slowly shook his head.

  “No, lad, it is not. But it’s a dream beyond our reach. God has decreed otherwise. We’re too sparsely populated, too contentious, and we dwell in the shadow of England, a country some twenty times the size of ours. We will always have to seek some sort of accommodation with the English. The realities of power dictate that, Gruffydd.”

  When Gruffydd started to speak, he said, “I am not done; hear me out. I fought against believing it, too, Gruffydd, refused to admit that my horizons could be limited, my dreams denied. I followed my heart and not my head, let my pride lure me into disaster, into a near-fatal confrontation with the King of England. It was only by the luck of the angels that I survived it, that I did not lose all, that Gwynedd did not become an English shire.” He paused, put his hand upon Gruffydd’s arm.

  “I see so much of myself in you, Gruffydd. But in just three days I shall be forty and five, and you’re not yet twenty and two. I want you to be able to benefit from my years, my experience. I do not want you to make the same mistakes I did.”

  “Whatever mistakes you may have made in the past, Papa, they are nothing when compared to the one you’re about to make now.” But the emotion in Gruffydd’s voice was no longer anger, and as he looked at Llewelyn now, his green eyes were misty, almost pleading. “England has a boy King, Papa. This is a God-given opportunity for us, and you’re throwing it away. You’re throwing it away and I cannot understand why!”

  Llewelyn’s hand slipped from Gruffydd’s arm. “No,” he said at last, “you truly cannot, can you?”

  “Papa, you’re not a coward. I’d kill any man who called you one. But why, then, must you make the craven choice, demean yourself before men not worthy of your piss? Why will you not—”

  “This discussion is done, Gruffydd. I go to Worcester next month to meet with Henry. And this time you shall go with me.”

  “No! Never!”

  “You will have to live with the lords of Henry’s court, have to deal with Pembroke and Chester and Peter des Roches. So it is time you met them, learned what manner of men they are.”

  “No, Papa. I will not go.”

  “Yes,” Llewelyn said, “you will,” and Gruffydd’s eyes were the first to waver. He swung about, all but fled across the bailey. Llewelyn let him go, for he knew he’d won. But it was not a victory to give him joy. He stood motionless, staring down at Gruffydd’s footprints in the snow, and suddenly he was remembering a childhood mishap, remembering that long-ago encounter with Walter de Hodnet.

  “God help you, Gruffydd,” he said softly, “but you’d never have done what Walter demanded. You’d have forced him to break your arm, to leave you maimed for life.”

  Llewelyn found Joanna by the river wall in the Bishop of Worcester’s gardens. It had been a wet, chill March, and nights of killing frost had wreaked havoc among the Bishop’s early-blooming crocus plants. Joanna was bundled up in a fur-lined mantle, but as Llewelyn reached her, she exclaimed, “Listen to that. A curlew, a sure harbinger of coming spring.”

  “My teeth are chattering too much to hear it. Are you not ready to come back to the Bishop’s palace?”

  “Well…” Joanna hesitated. “What I’d truly like to do now is to go into the church, to light a candle for my father.” Although she knew she did not have to ask permission, her voice rose questioningly, nonetheless. Seventeen months after his death, John was still a sensitive subject between them.

  “That’s probably a good idea,” Llewelyn said dryly, leaving unsaid the rest of his thought, that John’s soul was in need of all the prayers he could get. “Come on,” he said, sliding his arm around Joanna’s waist. “I’ll walk over with you.”

  Joanna was very pleased. “Admit it,” she teased, “it did bother you, all those months when you could not enter a church. It had to, for how could you be sure God was on your side?”

  “Just between you and me, breila, I’ve always suspected that the Almighty was Welsh,” Llewelyn said, and they both laughed. They were still laughing as they entered the north door of the church, moved into the nave. But their laughter stopped abruptly a moment later, for they were face to face with Joanna’s Uncle Will and his wife.

  Joanna had known such a meeting was inevitable, but she’d been dreading it all the same. Her feelings for Will were hopelessly entangled. She could not reproach him for deserting her father, not when she felt herself to be guilty of the same sin. But she could not help remembering what Isabelle had told her, how devastated John had been by Will’s betrayal, and that memory drained all warmth, all vivacity from her voice.

  Her greeting was so lame, so unlike her that Will flushed. “I see,” he said flatly. “So you, too, judge me.”

  “No,” Joanna said, without much conviction.

  “Isabelle and Richard blame me. But I expected you to be fairer than they, Joanna. After all, you made a choice, too, did you not? You disavowed John to please your husband, and if you ever cared about the grief that gave John, he never knew it!”

  The words were no sooner out of his mouth than Will would have given anything to recall them. Joanna looked so stricken that he was swept with remorse. No matter how raw his nerves had gotten, there was no excuse for taking out his pain upon the lass, and he started to tell her so, to offer his apologies.

  But Llewelyn forestalled him, saying scathingly, “Joanna was estranged from John over a matter of conscience. She could not stomach the murder of children. You, however, seem to have had no such qualms. For three full years after the Nottingham hangings, you continued to keep faith with John, to benefit from his favor. You did not abandon him until he seemed sure to be beaten, until you thought Louis likely to—”

  “No!” Will had flushed even darker. “That’s not so,” he said in a choked voice. “It was not self-interest. It was because of what John did to my wife, to Ela. It was only then that she told me…told me that whilst I was a prisoner in France, John sought to seduce her.”

  It was suddenly very quiet in the church. Llewelyn and Joanna both appeared dumbfounded. Will swallowed. “I’m sorry, Joanna,” he said miserably. “I did not mean to tell you that…”

  Joanna was staring, not at him, but at Ela. For a long moment their eyes held, and then she said, “It’s all right, Uncle Will. I know you did what you thought you had to do.”

  There was an awkward pause, and then Ela stepped forward, kissed Joanna on the cheek. Will wanted to do likewise, but felt too discomfited. He patted his niece on the shoulder, then made haste to lead his wife from the nave.

  Joanna moved on into the choir, toward her father’s tomb. Llewelyn followed more slow
ly. The irony did not escape him that he of all men should find himself cast as John’s defender, but he did not have to strive for conviction; for once, he thought John truly deserved the benefit of the doubt. “Breila, I do not believe Will. I’m sure your Aunt Ela is a good, pious woman, but I cannot see her as a siren. John was no fool, would not risk so much for so little. From what you’ve told me, his women were invariably young and fair to look upon, and Will’s Ela is no Eve.”

  “You need not seek to persuade me, Llewelyn. I know it’s not true. I saw it on Ela’s face.” Joanna’s smile was sad, tremulous, but still a smile of sorts. “You’re right; Ela is no Eve. But she is the mother of eight children. If she could salvage her family’s future with a lie, I daresay she thought that a small price to pay. And how can I blame her? For loving her children? If my father had not earned himself such a vile reputation, men would not have been so quick to suspect the worst of him, and Will could never have convinced himself that Ela spoke true. What you said about Will was right; he is a weak man. But he’s a decent man, too, and he deserves some peace of mind.”

  She reached up, kissed him softly on the mouth. “Thank you for speaking up for me, beloved. Now I want to light a candle for my father. If you do not mind, I’d rather do it alone.”

  Llewelyn watched as she turned away. If you can forgive Will, breila, why can you not forgive yourself? But the question was a silent one. They could not talk about John; that was a terrain too fraught with pitfalls and remembered pain. It troubled him, though, that Joanna seemed unable to talk about her father with anyone at all, even Catrin or Richard. At first he’d thought she only needed time to be able to come to terms with John’s death. But he was beginning to realize that her grieving was interwoven with guilt—guilt she would not even acknowledge—that the normal healing process was ineffectual. Her grief was still raw, and he did not know how to help her.