Here Be Dragons

by Sharon Kay Penman

  He glanced down at John’s coffin, and his mouth twisted in a bitter smile. John had been no easy foe to defeat, and as a ghost he was even more formidable, defying all attempts at exorcism. In death he was causing as much pain and turmoil as ever he had in his accursed lifetime. Joanna was not his only victim. Gruffydd, too, was one, Gruffydd who could not outrun his memories of English prisons.

  The talk in Worcester was all of the coming crusade to capture the Egyptian city of Damietta. Both in England and in France, an impressive roster of wellborn barons had taken the cross, among them Robert Fitz Walter, Saer de Quincy and his eldest son, John’s illegitimate son Oliver Fitz Roy—even Hugh de Lusignan. But the plans of one crusader in particular interested Llewelyn, and he deliberately set about encountering the Earl of Chester alone on the east walkway of the priory cloisters.

  They greeted each other with the wary regard that men reserve for adversaries worthy of respect. Llewelyn at once came to the point. “I hear you mean to join the crusade. Is that true?”

  Chester nodded. “I took the cross with King John, received a dispensation until the French were defeated. Now that the realm is at peace, I can fulfill my vow.”

  “Tell me,” Llewelyn said with a faint smile, “have you no qualms about leaving your holdings in Cheshire? With you in the Holy Land, men might see your manors and estates as fruit ripe for the picking.”

  Chester thought Llewelyn’s jest a rather dubious one, but he made a polite attempt to reply in kind, saying wryly, “It is good of you to be so concerned on my behalf. Of course, if you truly want to ease my mind, you can always offer a truce for the length of my absence.”

  As he expected, Llewelyn laughed and shook his head. But then he said, “Actually, what I had in mind was not a truce, but an alliance.”

  Chester stopped dead in the walkway. “Are you serious?”

  “Very.”

  “We’ve been enemies for most of our lives. Yet now, when you have an opportunity to raid into Cheshire with impunity, you are offering to make peace? Why?”

  “I’ll not deny that your absence would enable me to seize an advantage. But it would be short-lived. You’re right, we have been enemies, but by geography, not by choice. We each wield a great deal of power. If we joined together, how much greater that power might be, great enough to protect our common interests, to give us a formidable say in the King’s council.”

  “Yes,” Chester said slowly, “it would indeed.”

  Although he was sure he already knew the answer, Llewelyn took care to observe the formalities, asking, “Well? What do you think?”

  “I think,” Chester said, “that we ought to talk.”

  Gruffydd was utterly wretched at Worcester. The suffocating sensations of confinement had come back to haunt his sleep. He awoke in an English bed, craving Senena’s warmth, dreading the daylight hours when he must mingle with men he despised, speak their alien tongue, watch as his father humbled himself before John’s son.

  As he crossed from sun into shadow, he paused, blinking as his eyes adjusted to the loss of light. He was not sure what drew him so often to the priory church, but on three different occasions he’d found himself standing before the High Altar, before the tomb of the English King. It gave him a curious kind of comfort to touch the cold marble of John’s coffin. Once he’d even spat onto it, knowing the gesture was childish and not caring in the least.

  But as he moved now into the choir, he came to an abrupt halt, for he was not alone. Two young boys were standing by John’s coffin, a lone wall sconce spilling light onto their bowed heads, one bright as flame, the other black as jet. His brother Davydd and the boy King.

  Having offered a prayer, Henry carefully crossed himself, then reached out, ran his hand over the smooth surface of the tomb. Davydd, too, started to touch the coffin, but so tentatively that Henry said encouragingly, “Go ahead. Papa would not mind. You’re his grandson, you have the right.”

  At that, Davydd drew back. My grandfather, he thought, and it did not seem real to him, not at all. “Do you miss him?” he asked, and Henry nodded.

  “I did not see him all that often, but I always knew I would sooner or later. Now, when I think that I’ll never, never get to see him again, sometimes it…it scares me.”

  Davydd gave Henry a look of sharp pity. “You must miss your mother, too. Why did she go?” He did not mean to be rude, but he found Isabelle’s mysterious departure very disturbing; it made him wonder if his own mother might not one day go back to England, leave him as Isabelle had left Henry.

  “I do not know,” Henry admitted. “She—” His head came up. “Davydd,” he whispered, “someone is watching us. Over there, see?”

  Davydd peered into the shadows. “It’s my brother,” he said, but the sudden tautness in his voice and stance communicated to Henry an inexplicable sense of unease.

  “Let’s go,” he urged, tugging at Davydd’s sleeve.

  Davydd wanted to go, too, but he did not want Gruffydd to think he was running away. He circled around to the far side of the coffin. “Do you like your brothers, Henry?”

  Henry smiled at the silliness of the question. “Of course I do. I like Richard and Oliver best, and I love my little brother Dickon; he’s nine, like you.”

  “We Welsh have a saying about brothers,” Davydd said, so loudly that Henry flinched. “Gwell ceiniog na brawd.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Better a penny than a brother.”

  “I do not understand.”

  “Gruffydd does.”

  “Not so loud,” Henry cautioned, “lest he hear you. I do not like being watched. Think you that we can slip out without him seeing us?”

  “No,” Davydd said, but then he sighed. “It’s all right. He’s gone.”

  One of the monks was moving sedately up the cloister walkway, toward the south door of the church. He stumbled backward as Gruffydd burst through the doorway, his box of candles spilling onto the cloister tiles. Gruffydd did not offer assistance; he’d not even noticed the man. He continued rapidly up the walkway, not pausing until he neared the Chapter House. At this time of day it would be empty, would be a good place to be alone. He was reaching for the latch as the door swung open and his father and the Earl of Chester emerged onto the walkway.

  Llewelyn had often deplored his eldest son’s sense of timing, but never more than now. “Were you looking for me, Gruffydd?”

  Gruffydd shook his head. They’d been laughing together; he even thought he’d heard his father call Chester by his Christian name, call him Ranulf as if he were a friend, a comrade-in-arms.

  “You know my son, of course, Ranulf,” Llewelyn said, and Gruffydd stiffened. Ranulf. So he’d not imagined it. Ranulf.

  “Indeed. I was present at Dover Castle the day he defied King John. I’ve never forgotten it, for that was one of the most courageous acts I’ve ever seen.” In Chester’s considered opinion, it was also one of the most foolhardy, and he might have said that to Llewelyn. But not to Gruffydd—he knew instinctively that this was one young man who’d never learned to laugh at himself.

  “You might as well be the first to know,” he said, and smiled. “Your lord father and I have pledged to forget past differences, to act as allies from this day forth.” He heard Llewelyn’s indrawn breath, and knew at once that he’d blundered, even before he saw the shock on Gruffydd’s face.

  “Papa…Papa, tell me he’s lying. Tell me you’d not do this, you’d not befriend this…this Norman butcher!”

  “Hold your tongue! The man speaks our language!”

  “And slaughters our people! How often has his sword been smeared with Welsh blood? What else does he want from you? Are you to stand guard over his lands whilst he’s in the Holy Land, act as his lackey, his—”

  Llewelyn grabbed Gruffydd’s wrist, shoved him back against the door, into the Chapter House. “Do not ever shame me like that before a stranger! You understand, Gruffydd? Not ever!”

 
Gruffydd had never seen Llewelyn so angry. Unnerved in spite of himself, he took a backward step. That there was some justification for his father’s rage, he could not deny. “I ought not to have spoken out in Chester’s hearing. In that, I was in the wrong. But…but my God, Papa, think what you do! Ever since you took that Norman witch into your bed, you’ve—”

  Llewelyn was incredulous. “Have you lost your wits? Joanna is no witch!”

  That was a very serious accusation to make, and Gruffydd realized he’d gone too far; he had no proof whatsoever that Joanna had ever used the Black Arts to ensorcell his father. “Mayhap she’s not,” he conceded, “but she is still to blame. She’s gotten you to betray your birthright, to—”

  “I’ve heard enough from you, more than enough. Go back to the guest hall, gather your belongings. I want you gone from here within the hour, want you back in Wales ere you bring further disgrace upon me.”

  “Gladly!” Gruffydd spun around, strode toward the door. There he paused for the briefest of seconds. But whatever he’d meant to say, he thought better of it. He shoved the door back, let it slam defiantly behind him.

  Llewelyn sat down upon the closest wooden bench. Leaning back against the wall, he closed his eyes, rubbed his fingers over his throbbing temples; his anger had turned inward, and he felt suddenly sick. He’d lost track of time when the creaking of the door jolted him upright; he’d hoped Chester would have the common sense to leave him alone. The door opened wider. Not Chester. Morgan.

  Llewelyn’s mouth twitched, in what was almost a smile. “You always know when I have need of you. What have you—second sight?”

  Morgan shook his head. “Gruffydd has gone.”

  Llewelyn closed his eyes again, then felt the priest’s hand on his shoulder. “What can I do, Morgan? He’s my son. Christ Jesus, but what can I do?”

  3

  Dolwyddelan, North Wales

  April 1220

  Joanna was accustomed to having her bedchamber appropriated whenever her husband required a particularly private meeting place. She was not accustomed, however, to being present at such times, and was attracting more than her share of curious, covert looks. When Ednyved sauntered over to her window seat, she murmured, “If I tell them I’m here at Llewelyn’s bidding, will they stop staring at me as if I’m a Norman spy in their midst?”

  “Even after fourteen years in Wales, do you still know so little of our ways? They’ve never thought of you as a Norman spy—but rather as an English one.”

  Joanna bit her lip, but once more he’d won; she was unable to suppress a smile. She gestured for him to join her in the window seat, marveling—not for the first time—how unlikely and yet how dear a friend this man had become. Not that he’d changed any; he still had a sharp tongue, a sardonic eye, and spared none the cutting edge of his humor. But now she caught the glint of amusement behind the heavy lids, caught the echoes of affection. Now she knew that Ednyved was her ally, that he alone of her husband’s friends did not want to see Gruffydd as Prince of North Wales.

  “Did Llewelyn tell you why he wants us all here like this?”

  “You know Llewelyn better than that, Ednyved. When he’s truly troubled, he keeps his own counsel.” And Llewelyn was troubled, that Joanna knew. So did Ednyved. They shared that awareness with no need of words, then glanced expectantly toward the door.

  But it was not Llewelyn. At sight of her son, Joanna half rose. “Davydd, you’d best come back later, after your father’s council is done.”

  “But Papa told me to come, Mama. He said I ought to be here.” Davydd glanced uncertainly about the chamber. He knew all in the room very well, but he was somewhat self-conscious nonetheless, and was grateful when his mother slid over, made room for him beside her in the window seat. As flattered as he was to be here, he was nervous, too, as nervous as the first time Llewelyn had taken him hunting. Gruffydd had spoiled that memory for him; Davydd still flushed sometimes, remembering Gruffydd’s scorn when he missed his target, shot his arrow a full foot over the roebuck’s withers. But Gruffydd was not here now to mar his pleasure in this, his first inclusion into the world of politics and statecraft, into the world of men.

  “What does Papa want to tell us?” he whispered, and Joanna shook her head.

  “I would that I knew!”

  Llewelyn entered as she was speaking. He stood for an unusually lengthy time in the doorway, as if reluctant to enter, and once he was in the room, he seemed in no hurry to begin. He crossed to the table and picked up a wine cup, only to set it down untasted. The people in this chamber were those closest to him, those who’d celebrated his triumphs and endured his defeats, those who had the right to know what he meant to do. His eyes moved slowly from face to face. His brother Adda. Rhys. Morgan. Ednyved. Joanna. He could only hope they’d try to understand…and try to forgive.

  His gaze lingered the longest upon his son. Davydd was now in his twelfth year, poised for entry into the uncharted terrain that lay between boyhood and manhood. A child and yet not a child, this youngest son of his. When he finally spoke, it was to Davydd.

  “What can you tell me, Davydd, about the English laws of inheritance?”

  Flustered to find himself suddenly the cynosure of all eyes, Davydd blurted out, “The eldest son gets all,” only then to be seized with doubts, with the sinking sensation that he’d misfired another arrow. But his father nodded, as if satisfied.

  “You’re right, lad. That is the crux of it, the heart of the matter.” Llewelyn’s eyes left the boy, shifted toward the others. “I think we’d all agree that ours is a more just way. We do not leave younger sons to gain their bread as best they can; we divide a man’s holdings equally amongst all his sons. But Scriptures say a kingdom divided against itself shall be made desolate. Is that not so, Morgan?”

  He did not wait for confirmation. “I’ve ofttimes spoken to you of my grandfather, Joanna. But I’ve not said much of his brother. There was naught but envy and dissension between them, a sharp rivalry that lasted the whole of their lives. And when my grandfather died, his sons fought for Gwynedd, not against the English, but against each other. My father was slain by his own kindred.”

  He turned away from the table, moved toward the center of the room. “Ours is a bloody past, but no bloodier than that of Powys and Deheubarth. There, too, a prince’s death inevitably brought about the same slaughter, brother against brother. Verily, a man reading our history might well conclude that Cain and Abel, too, were Welsh. That is the ugliest of our legacies, that the sons of our princes must seize power over the bodies of their brothers. It is not a legacy I want to leave my sons.”

  “What you say is true, Llewelyn. It is not in man’s nature to share a kingdom. And because it is not, Welsh princes love their brothers not. Indeed, had I been born whole of body, the affections of our boyhood might not have survived the ambitions of our manhood. A disquieting thought, that, but who is to say? Yet there is nothing to be done about it. Our ways are not always easy, but they are ancient and revered, and above all, they are ours.”

  “You’re wrong, Adda. There is something I can do. Amongst God’s Commandments, which one says that the laws of Hywel the Good cannot be changed?”

  A shocked silence greeted so blasphemous a suggestion. Why were men so set upon clinging to the past at all costs? Why did the phrase “as it’s always been done” give them such false comfort? Llewelyn’s was an old and familiar impatience, made all the sharper now by his anxiety, and he said abruptly, almost defiantly, “I do not expect you to agree with me. But so be it. I summoned you here to tell you that I have decided to bequeath my realm to one son, as the English kings do.”

  Davydd heard his mother whisper, “Oh, dear God,” and there was so much fear in her voice that he was suddenly afraid, too, both of what his father would say next and of shaming himself before an audience of adults. He sat very still, scarcely breathing, thinking not of crowns and kingdoms but of Gruffydd, the firstborn son, the Welsh-born son, t
he best-loved.

  “Our people love you well, Llewelyn. But in this you ask too much. I do not think they’ll willingly forsake a custom so deeply rooted in our past, accept in its stead the practice of our enemies. To men reared on the concept of equality amongst sons, such a change would be both alien and offensive.”

  Even before Morgan had finished speaking, both Rhys and Adda were nodding in vigorous agreement. Ednyved, too, looked exceedingly dubious. “There’s truth in that, Llewelyn. It will not be easy.”

  “I know,” Llewelyn conceded. “That is why it must be done in my lifetime. People will need time to come to terms with it, as with any new idea. But I think they can be made to see that it is for Gwynedd’s good. Surely none amongst you can argue that it benefits a kingdom to have it split asunder by civil war.”

  “The common sense of what you say cannot be denied,” Adda said, and then smiled thinly. “But men heed other voices than reason. I see, however, that your mind is set upon this, upon naming Gruffydd as your sole heir, and so—”

  “No,” Llewelyn said. “Not Gruffydd. Davydd.”

  “Me?” Davydd gasped, sat suddenly upright, then flushed as he realized they were all staring at him. Joanna reached over, squeezed his arm, but her eyes never left Llewelyn’s; he had seen such a look upon her face once before, the very first time he’d kissed her. Ednyved was smiling, but Rhys and Adda looked appalled, and Morgan, who understood, looked neither surprised nor judgmental, just unutterably sad.

  “Do not speak of this yet, not even to your wives,” Llewelyn said before either Adda or Rhys could recover, could burst out with impassioned arguments upon Gruffydd’s behalf. As he’d hoped, they were constrained by Davydd’s presence. Ednyved now cued the others by rising; they reluctantly followed suit.

  “Papa…” Davydd was still dazed. “Papa, I’ll make you proud, I will.”

  “You’d better,” Llewelyn said, and the boy gave him a radiant smile. He looked slight, almost frail, when compared to Gruffydd at the same age. Although Davydd was still quite young, Llewelyn did not think it likely he’d ever approach Gruffydd’s uncommon height, and he could never hope to match Gruffydd’s strength. But he’d once punctured his hand upon a nail, and when his playmates panicked, he calmly walked a half-mile for help, with the nail protruding from his palm. And Llewelyn had known for several years now that of his eight children, Davydd had by far the best brain.