Here Be Dragons

by Sharon Kay Penman

  “Do you think Gruffydd will obey your summons?”

  “No,” Llewelyn said, “I do not.”

  “Then…” Joanna paused. “What will you do, beloved?”

  At first she thought Llewelyn did not intend to answer. He moved away from her, stood for some moments staring at her newest acquisition, a wall hanging of heavy linen embroidered in brilliant shades of worsted yarn.

  “You look at that hanging and what do you see, Joanna? Unicorns and birds of paradise, Eden. But up close the pattern becomes thousands of individual threads. Pull just a few, and the entire pattern can unravel.”

  “I do not understand what you are saying, Llewelyn.”

  “Authority is no different, unravels just as easily. Men obey me for a number of reasons, one of which is that they fear the consequences if they do not.”

  “You’re telling me that you cannot afford to let Gruffydd’s raiding go unpunished. But can you do that, Llewelyn? Can you truly make war upon your own son?”

  “I do not know,” he admitted. “And that is what frightens me so, Joanna. I just do not know.”

  Fording the River Mawddach at Cymmer Abbey, Llewelyn led his men south. They were deep in Meirionydd now, having reached the milelong lake called Llyn Myngul. It was a beautiful valley, but narrow and deep, and although Llewelyn’s scouts had been able to allay his fears of ambush, he was relieved nonetheless as they left the lake behind, moved onto more open ground.

  “Did I ever tell you about the time I climbed Cader Idris?” Ednyved gestured toward the towering summit on their right. “There’s a lake hidden away up there as dark as ink, and local folk say it has no bottom, say that a creature of terrifying mien lurks in its depths. Mind you, I never saw it myself, but…”

  Llewelyn turned in the saddle. His eyes rested for a long moment upon the other man, a plain face made more so by a disfiguring scar, a familiar face showing little of the sharp, pragmatic intelligence that made his advice so valuable, his friendship so dear. Llewelyn knew that Ednyved’s son Tudur was one of Gruffydd’s most trusted companions. He knew, too, that Ednyved had been unable to track down Tudur’s whereabouts, might well find him with Gruffydd. And yet he’d said nothing of his own anxiety, instead had been doing his utmost to keep Llewelyn from dwelling upon the coming confrontation.

  You are indeed the friend lauded in Scriptures, he who sticketh closer than a brother. But Llewelyn dared not say it aloud, lest his emotions break free. He had twenty-five years of memories he must somehow keep at bay, memories that stretched from Gruffydd’s first spoken word to his last choked “Rot in Hell.”

  “Look!” Ednyved pointed, but Llewelyn already saw; one of their scouts was coming up from the southwest, coming fast.

  “They’ve gathered near Craig Aderyn,” he gasped out as soon as he was within hearing range. “I saw your son’s banners, my lord. They’re waiting for us, waiting to do battle.”

  Craig Aderyn was a breeding ground for peregrine falcons, and they were circling overhead, airborne and uncaring witnesses to the human drama about to be enacted below them. From time to time a man would glance upward, as if wondering what the sleek birds of prey portended. Tudur suspected that to many, the falcons seemed suddenly as unlucky as ravens, feathered omens of ill fortune.

  Warfare as they knew it usually consisted of raids and sieges. Pitched battles were a rarity, and as he moved among the men, Tudur could sense their unease. But it was more, he knew, than their lack of battlefield experience. Although Gruffydd was their lord, Llewelyn was their Prince. Most of them felt very strongly that Gruffydd had been grievously wronged. Few of them were eager, however, to take up arms against a man who was already becoming something of a legend in his own lifetime.

  Moreover, this war had split families asunder. Tudur and Gruffydd were not the only ones facing blood kin across a battlefield, and Tudur was not alone in his dread of what was to come. He felt torn in two, and he was not here now in Gruffydd’s encampment by choice. It was simply that he had not known how to tell Gruffydd that he wanted no part in Gruffydd’s war.

  “Amlyn, ought we not to say a prayer ere the battle begins, ask God’s blessing upon us?”

  The other man nodded. “Tudur, I do not like this, not at all. I just tried to talk to Gruffydd, but I do not think he heard a word I said. He’s acting right strange, Tudur. Not once did he take his eyes from Llewelyn’s banner, not once.”

  Gruffydd was astride his favorite destrier, a black stallion so temperamental that none but he could ride it. The horse bared its teeth now at Tudur’s approach, and Tudur’s mount shied away. “Gruffydd? Gruffydd, we have to talk whilst there’s time. Do you still want Amlyn to lead the vanguard?”

  He waited, and then repeated, more urgently, “Gruffydd, do you not hear me? Gruffydd, answer me!”

  Even then, Gruffydd did not respond, not until Tudur reached out, grabbed his arm. Gruffydd’s stallion reared, and he reined it in a semicircle until he’d gotten it back under control. His face was drained of all color; Tudur had never seen him look so shaken.

  “Gruffydd, what is it?”

  “I cannot do this, Tudur.” Gruffydd’s mouth twisted. “God help me, but I cannot!” And with that, he suddenly spurred his horse forward, ignoring Tudur’s shocked protest, the baffled cries of his men. As if racing his own regrets, he set the stallion at a dead run toward his father’s camp.

  “Llewelyn!”

  Llewelyn was conferring with two of his captains, spun around at Ednyved’s shout. All around him men were pointing, staring at the lone rider galloping toward them. Ednyved was now at Llewelyn’s side; he, too, had recognized Gruffydd, and he said hastily, “Do not do anything rash, Llewelyn. Make sure it is not a trick of some kind.”

  But Llewelyn was not listening. He’d already turned, was swinging up into the saddle. “Hold our men here,” he said, then gave his stallion its head, rode out to meet his son.

  When Gruffydd was fifty yards away, Llewelyn reined in his mount, waited for his son to come to him. Gruffydd had some trouble in stopping his horse. He’d always had a heavy hand, in his agitation jerked too hard upon the reins and the stallion reared up again, sending sand and clods of grass flying.

  “I assume you want to talk.” Llewelyn was startled at the sound of his own voice; it sounded so cold and unyielding, revealed nothing of his inner turmoil.

  Gruffydd had acted on impulse, had not thought out what he wanted to say. He could only blurt out the truth. “I thought I could fight you, Papa. I truly did.”

  “And now you cannot?”

  “No.” Gruffydd shook his head helplessly. “I saw your banners and I knew…” Unsure what to do next, he slid from the saddle, waited as Llewelyn dismounted, too. Although they were now close enough to touch, still the words would not come. Gruffydd was well aware of the magnitude of his offense, but he was not able to humble himself, not even now, with so much at stake. He slowly unsheathed his sword, held it out toward Llewelyn. “I submit myself unto your will, Papa,” he said, in unconscious echo of Llewelyn’s own submission to John at Aberconwy, adding tautly, “What mean you to do?”

  Llewelyn took the sword, and then handed it back. “I mean,” he said, “to forgive you,” and Gruffydd’s pride dissolved in a surge of anguished emotion.

  “Christ, Papa, I’m sorry. I never wanted it to come to this, I swear it.”

  “Neither did I, Gruffydd.” And stepping forward, Llewelyn embraced his son, while hearing the distant shouts of both armies, the reprieved cheering of brothers and cousins spared a war none of them had truly wanted.

  Llewelyn’s encampment at Llyn Myngul was a scene of reunions and rejoicing. Campfires flared like beacons in the dark, and the summer wind carried the sounds of singing for miles as the two armies mingled, celebrated far into the night.

  Ednyved had been looking for Llewelyn for some time, at last found him walking alone by the lakeside. It was a night of rare beauty; the sky was filled with stars, and the plac
id waters of the lake reflected an infinity of shimmering pinpoint lights, the luminous sheen of a crescent moon. But Llewelyn appeared oblivious to his surroundings. He seemed deep in thought, started visibly as Ednyved came up beside him.

  “Will Gruffydd come back with us to your court?”

  Llewelyn nodded. “Yes. We talked about it and he’s agreed to return. I do not plan to leave Meirionydd yet, though. I want to do some further scouting in the Dysynni Valley, look for a suitable site for a castle.”

  Ednyved was quick to comprehend. “I see. You mean, then, to reclaim Meirionydd and Ardudwy.”

  “Yes.” Llewelyn stopped, turned to face the other man. “I have no choice, Ednyved,” he said bleakly. “I love my son. But I can no longer trust him.”

  5

  Llanfaes, North Wales

  October 1222

  “No! No, I’ll not do it. I’ll not marry him.”

  “Elen, what are you saying?” Joanna rose, moved quickly toward her daughter. “We thought you would be elated. The Earl of Chester has no children; his sister’s son John is his sole heir. Do you not realize what that means? Upon his father’s death, John became Earl of Huntingdon, and he’ll one day inherit the earldom of Chester, too. You’ll be marrying into one of England’s greatest families. Moreover, John is a first cousin of the Scots King. Your father and I could not hope to make a better match for you.”

  “But I do not want him!”

  “Elen, I am trying to understand, I truly am. But I do not see why you would balk at the marriage. John is not a stranger to you; you met him at Shrewsbury two years past. He’s a personable youth, well mannered and agreeable. You’re nigh on fifteen and he’s almost seventeen, so your ages are quite suitable. And this marriage will make you Countess of Huntingdon, and eventually Countess of Chester. So why, then, are you so reluctant?”

  Elen said nothing, but her mouth was still set in mutinous lines, and Joanna reached out, turned the girl to face her. “Elen, listen to me. I’ll not deny that this marriage is very important to your father. But we want you to be happy, darling. If you have a valid reason for opposing the marriage, now is the time to tell me. Why do you not want to marry John the Scot?”

  “I do not like him, Mama.”

  Exasperation and bafflement—familiar emotions to Joanna where her daughter was concerned. “But you do not know him well enough to make a judgment like that,” she pointed out, striving for patience.

  Elen tossed her head. “His eyes are too close together. And he has a weak chin.”

  “Elen, for the love of God! What does that have to do with marriage?”

  Elen knew her mother was right; marriages were based upon pragmatic considerations of property and political advantage. Unable to defend her position, she could only fall back upon accusation, upon raw emotion. “I should have known you’d not understand! You never do!”

  “As it happens, Elen, I understand more than you realize. It is only natural that you might feel qualms. When I married your father, I—”

  “Oh, Mama, that was different! You love Papa!”

  “I learned to love him, Elen. The truth is that I did not want to marry your father, to live in Wales, and I was utterly wretched when we were first wed.”

  But Elen’s image of Joanna was still circumscribed by childhood boundaries, and she found it impossible to identify her mother with a fearful fourteen-year-old bride. “You’re happy with Papa. But I’d not be happy with your John the Scot, and he can just look for a wife elsewhere.”

  “Elen, it is not that simple. I do not think you understand how much this alliance means to your father. What are you going to tell him, that you do not like John the Scot’s eyes?”

  Elen flushed. “Do not laugh at me!”

  “Believe me, child,” Joanna said wearily, “I find nothing remotely amusing about this.”

  “I am not a child. In three weeks I’ll be—”

  “Fifteen. I know; I was present at your birth, remember?” Joanna could hear her own sarcasm, but could not help herself. Her anger was rising, fueled by insidious misgivings that defied all logic, all common sense. She knew this marriage was for her daughter’s good; why, then, was she suddenly plagued by doubts?

  “I had good reason for reluctance—marriage to a man I’d never even seen, a man more than eighteen years older than I, from an utterly alien world, my father’s enemy. None of that is true for you, Elen. I just cannot comprehend your attitude. Why must you always be so willful? Your sisters were quite content to let your father choose their husbands, did not—”

  “They would! Gwenllian and Marared have as much spirit as…as sheep,” Elen said scornfully, while prudently making no mention of Gwladys. “But I’ll not be wed against my will to a Scots-Norman coxcomb. And you cannot make me, Mama. Welsh law states that ‘every woman is to go the way she willeth, freely.’ A Welshwoman has the right to pick her own husband, unlike the women of your blood, who pass with the land like serfs!”

  “That is not precisely true, Elen,” Joanna snapped. Her daughter’s taunt had stung, more than she wanted to admit. “A Welsh widow may indeed marry again—or not—as she freely chooses. But a young girl, a maiden, is still in her family’s care.”

  “Mayhap if you spoke better Welsh, Mama, you’d have learned more of our ways. You’re right; the family of a virgin maid can prevent her from marrying a man not of their choice. But they can do nothing whatsoever about it if she is no longer a virgin. So I need only lose my maidenhead and I will be utterly free to wed or not as I wish.”

  Joanna’s reaction was all Elen could have hoped for; she’d rarely managed to render her mother speechless. But her moment of satisfaction was fleeting—and costly. She spun around as the door slammed, gasped at sight of her father.

  Llewelyn had always shunted the onus of discipline off onto Joanna, at least where his daughters were concerned; Elen had long ago learned which of her parents was more likely to laugh away a minor misdeed. But there was nothing of the familiar indulgent father about Llewelyn now. He looked no less incredulous than Joanna, and a good deal angrier.

  “I cannot believe what I just heard you say,” he said, and Elen blushed.

  “I did not mean it, Papa, truly!”

  “I would hope to God not. If I ever thought a daughter of mine would so shame herself—”

  Joanna interrupted hastily. “I’m afraid, Llewelyn, that Elen does not want to marry John the Scot.”

  “I gathered as much. But what I do not understand is why. Suppose you tell me that, Elen. Tell me why you’d scorn an earldom.”

  “I…I do not like him, Papa. He seemed so staid and proper; I thought him a bit of a prig. And he has no sense of humor, none!” Elen’s eyes suddenly brimmed over. While her distress was real enough, her tears might not have flowed so readily had she not so many memories of times when she’d won her way by tears. Her father was frowning; she put a hand upon his arm, looked up entreatingly into his face. “Please, Papa. Do not make me wed John the Scot. I’d be so unhappy, Papa, I just know I would.”

  For a long moment Llewelyn studied his daughter. Joanna watched, holding her breath. And then, to her utter astonishment, he said, “I’ll not force you, Elen.”

  Elen flung her arms around his neck, bestowing grateful, haphazard kisses. “Thank you, Papa, thank you!”

  “Llewelyn?” Joanna was staring at her husband in disbelief. He gave her an oblique glance, one she could not interpret at all, then turned back to Elen.

  “I want what is best for you, Elen. Your mother and I would not see you hurt, not for all the political gains under God’s sky. John the Scot is Chester’s nephew and heir. But he is also a decent young man, would never use you ill. You could be content with him, Elen, I have no doubts of that.”

  “But…but Papa, you said you’d not force me!”

  “Nor will I. I am not ordering you to this, lass. I am asking it of you, asking you to trust my judgment. It is that important, Elen. I need not te
ll you, a Welshwoman, what is the most binding of all bonds, that of blood.”

  Elen sensed that she was being outflanked. “I know that, Papa. But there is no need for this marriage. You and Chester are already allies.”

  “Yes, lass, we are. But I am forty and nine, and Chester even older. What happens when my power passes to Davydd, and Chester’s earldom to John the Scot? The alliance is too valuable to leave its survival to chance. If I no longer have to fight the Earl of Chester—whoever he may be—I am then free to act in South Wales. The Welsh princes will always have to defer to the English crown. But we can prevent further Norman encroachments into our lands. We can make sure that there are no more Flemish settlers moving in to displace the Welsh, that men like Pembroke build no more Norman towns on Welsh soil. We can still safeguard the future, and this marriage will help to do that.”

  Elen’s breathing had quickened. “You’re not being fair, Papa,” she said, almost inaudibly. “I do not want to marry him.”

  “I know, lass.” Llewelyn’s voice had softened, too. “And I understand. How could I not? For much of my life I’ve had to do things that I did not want to do. But they had to be done nonetheless, because so much was at stake.”

  Elen was silent. But the sudden droop of her shoulders was more expressive than any words she could have uttered. Llewelyn brushed the tears from her face. “I trusted you to make the right decision, Elen. I knew I could. Can you not trust me as much? You’ll have no regrets, lass, I promise you.”

  John had once made the same promise to Joanna, under identical circumstances, and he’d been right. Joanna closed her eyes, said a silent, fervent prayer to the holiest and most merciful of mothers that Llewelyn, too, might be right.