Here Be Dragons

by Sharon Kay Penman

  “You need not fret; I’ll see to it,” John assured her, but then he smiled. “It seems the Bishop of Winchester has the same idea,” he said, and they watched as Peter des Roches adroitly herded the malcontent Marcher lords safely away from Llewelyn’s son.

  “Thank Heaven for Peter’s sharp eye,” Joanna sighed. “My father often joked that Peter might not be as innocent as the dove, but he was verily as guileful as the serpent! John, tell me. I could not help but notice how cordial Peter suddenly is toward your Uncle Chester. The Welsh have a proverb: The enemy of my enemy is my friend. I was wondering if Peter might not be taking that to heart.”

  There was surprise in the look that John gave Joanna, a startled and reluctant reappraisal. It had baffled him that Llewelyn would make use of a woman for delicate diplomatic maneuverings, that Joanna so often acted as his envoy to the English court. But her questions showed a shrewd perception of political undercurrents, and suddenly Joanna’s presence here at Ludlow did not seem so inexplicable after all. How much, he wondered, did she cull from careless male speech? How many men would think to guard their tongues, to be wary of a comely woman?

  “Peter des Roches is not the only one with a sharp eye,” he conceded. “You are quite right. Des Roches is a man quick to tend to his own pastures, and he suspects Hubert de Burgh of grazing on the wrong side of the fence. There is no love lost betwixt them these days. But de Burgh still holds the ear of the one who matters most, our young King.”

  Joanna nodded. “John…I do not mean to interfere between a man and his wife. But I’ve gotten a disturbing letter from Elen. She wrote that you forbade her to visit us—” She stopped in mid-sentence. “You did not?”

  “Indeed not,” he said indignantly. “I would never act to cut Elen off from her family. I did tell her that I did not want her to go into Wales this summer, but only because war seems imminent. I know how homesick she is, but I had to put her safety first.”

  “Yes,” Joanna agreed slowly. “Of course.” If this youngster was not speaking the truth, he was as skilled an actor as any she’d ever seen at Christmas mummeries. And Elen had ever been capricious and headstrong. But however Joanna sought to rationalize, one fact still stood out starkly—that some seven months after her marriage, Elen was not happy with the husband they’d chosen for her.

  At that moment there was a sudden stir; Henry and Llewelyn were reentering the hall. Joanna hastened toward her husband. Gruffydd and Ednyved were also converging upon Llewelyn. He met with all three of them in the center of the hall, gave them the bad news they could already read in his face.

  “Shall I tell you their terms for peace? I am to yield up the castles I took from Fitz Warin and de Hodnet. But Pembroke gives up nothing, gets to keep my castles of Cardigan and Carmarthen.”

  Gruffydd swore under his breath. “What did you tell them, Papa?”

  “What do you think I said?” Llewelyn paused, looked directly at Joanna. “You’d best go and bid your brother farewell. I told him we’d be leaving Ludlow within the hour.”

  Joanna was dismayed, but she knew better than to argue when Llewelyn sounded like that. She nodded, did as he said.

  Henry gave her no chance to speak, took her arm and led her toward the window recess. “Joanna, you must talk to your husband, must get him to see reason.”

  “Henry, there is nothing I can do.”

  “I do not want war with the Welsh, you must know I do not. But I had no choice, Joanna. Cardigan and Carmarthen have too much strategic importance to leave them in the hands of a Welsh Prince. Surely you can see that.”

  “Yes, of course I can. Why should a Welsh Prince have any right to castles on Welsh soil?”

  Henry had vivid blue eyes, a drooping left eyelid that gave him a drowsy, appealingly vulnerable look. But both eyes opened wide now, showed so much hurt that Joanna was at once remorseful.

  “I am sorry, Henry. I do love you,” she said softly. “But I love my husband, too, and I am so very tired of always having to choose…”

  Henry watched as she moved away, back to Llewelyn. When Hubert de Burgh joined him, he said, “I never meant to hurt my sister, Hubert. I was so sure I could make her understand. You said she would.”

  “It cannot be helped, my liege. It is no easy thing to be a King, to find the courage to make difficult decisions. You must be strong, lad, must—”

  “I am!” Henry cried, stung. “I’ll do what must be done. But that does not mean I have to like it.”

  Gwenwynwyn’s two young sons had been living in England as wards of the crown. On the same day that Llewelyn rode away from Ludlow, Henry ordered the boys to be brought to his court at Gloucester in hopes of winning away from Llewelyn the allegiance of the men of Powys. He then sent the Earls of Pembroke and Salisbury into Wales.

  While Llewelyn sought to cut off their supply lines, Gruffydd sprang a lethal ambush in a hilly pass of Carnwyllion. But Pembroke and Will were able to fight their way free, began to lay waste to the countryside of Dyfed. Once more, Wales was at war.

  Llewelyn’s siege of Buellt Castle was in its second week. The Welsh had at last been able to cross the deep wet moat, to breach the outer curtain walls. But they’d been repulsed when they sought to assault the inner defenses, had been driven back in disarray.

  Llewelyn and his captains were conferring behind the shelter of the outer curtain wall, mapping out a new plan of attack. “Do you want to try the battering ram again, Llewelyn?”

  “Yes. But first I think I’ll go up on the wall, see if I cannot find a weak spot in their defenses, a section that seems undermanned.”

  “May I go with you, Papa?”

  “No, Davydd, you may not.” The boy’s disappointment was all too obvious, and Llewelyn knew he was not being fair. But he had no intention of relenting. Although he’d gone cheerfully off to start a rebellion at fourteen, with nary a thought for his own mortality, he’d discovered that his views on fourteen-year-olds and warfare had moderated considerably over the years, at least when the fourteen-year-old in question was his son.

  The fighting for the outer bailey had been fierce, and the dank, scum-covered moat had taken on a sinister reddish cast. Always fetid and foul-smelling, the water now hid decomposing bodies in its murky depths, even the partially submerged carcass of a horse, bloated and black with flies. The stench was overpowering, followed Llewelyn even after he’d crossed their makeshift bridge, climbed a thong ladder to the top of the wall. Here, too, bodies lay exposed to the sun, crumpled along the parapet, sprawled in the bailey.

  Below Llewelyn, the bailey was a scene of disorder and commotion. His soldiers had put up sheds to shelter themselves from the English crossbows, and they scurried back and forth, readying the battering ram for another run at the barbicon, while panicked animals—goats, sheep, cattle—milled about in their midst. But as chaotic as it was in the outer bailey, Llewelyn knew it must be infinitely worse within the cramped inner ward, for Reginald de Braose had to shelter not only his own people, but the villagers who’d fled to the castle at the outset of the attack.

  Gruffydd and Ednyved had followed him up, were in a huddled colloquy with several Welsh bowmen. Llewelyn continued along the walkway, stepping over the body of an English soldier, a broken sword scant inches from his outstretched hand. The more Llewelyn studied the inner defenses, the more dubious he became. Reginald de Braose had refortified Buellt in 1219, to impressive effect. Llewelyn knew he could eventually starve the garrison into submission, but he was not sure he’d have the time. Pembroke and Salisbury were already in Wales, and Henry was said to be gathering an army at Gloucester.

  He happened to glance down, saw Davydd standing by the moat, staring up at him. Davydd looked so forlorn that Llewelyn felt a conscience qualm. It was one thing to make sure Davydd was kept well away from the fighting, quite another to try to shield him from any and all risks. Leaning over the embrasure, Llewelyn signaled to his son, beckoned for Davydd to join him on the wall. Davydd grinned, b
egan to run.

  Llewelyn would never know what prompted him to turn away from the embrasure at that precise moment. It may have been a sixth-sense awareness of danger; it may have been sheer luck, of the sort he’d had all his life. He caught a blur of motion as the Englishman lunged at him, and he stumbled backward under the impact. But the broken blade struck only a glancing blow, instead of burying itself in his back.

  Llewelyn had no time to draw his own sword, grabbed for the man’s arm as he raised the blade again, thrusting downward as if it were a dagger. They grappled desperately for control of the weapon. It was only inches from Llewelyn’s throat when he managed to wrench the man’s wrist down against the stone battlement. The man grunted in pain, but did not—would not—drop the sword. His face was very close to Llewelyn’s, a young face, freckled and dirt-smeared, a face not to be forgotten. Dried blood had caked in his hair. His lashes were very fair, almost white, his lips peeled back from his teeth in a grimace of pain and hate. Llewelyn could smell his sweat, hear his rasping breath, a sound so loud as to blot out all else.

  They struggled silently on the narrow walkway, each man seeking to kill, to survive. Llewelyn slammed the other man’s hand onto the battlements again. This time he cried out and the blade slipped from fingers gone suddenly numb. Llewelyn reeled backward, fumbling for his sword. But the English soldier was staring past him, making no move to defend himself. His mouth contorted and he caught at the embrasure for support. His eyes were already glazing over by the time his knees buckled. As he fell forward, almost at Llewelyn’s feet, Llewelyn saw the arrow protruding from his back.

  During the timeless span of their struggle, it had seemed to Llewelyn that they were alone on the walkway, alone in the world. But now he saw men running toward them, swords drawn. Llewelyn slid his own sword back into its scabbard, leaned against the battlement. It hurt to breathe, and he winced as he ran his hand over his ribs. But the chain links of his hauberk had deflected the blow; although he’d be badly bruised, he was not bleeding.

  Gruffydd and Ednyved came panting up. No one spoke; they stared down at the body, at that quivering arrow shaft. Hastening across the parapet from the opposite direction was a bowman as young as the man he’d shot. He was grinning, flushed with pride and excitement, utterly unprepared for what was to come. As soon as he reached them, Gruffydd grabbed his arm, shoved him roughly against the battlement.

  “You stupid, foolhardy dolt! Of all the lunatic stunts I’ve ever seen…” Gruffydd was all but incoherent in his rage and the youngster shrank back, too flustered even to offer a defense.

  Llewelyn tended to agree with Gruffydd. The young bowman had taken an enormous risk; it was not unheard of for an arrow to pin a rider to his horse. But he knew, too, that Gruffydd’s anger was spurious, was actually fear masquerading as fury, and he said, still laboring for breath, “Let it lie, Gruffydd.”

  “Christ, Papa, he could have killed you! What if he’d missed, if he’d hit you instead?”

  Llewelyn preferred not to dwell upon that. “What’s your name, lad?”

  The bowman swallowed. “Trefor, my lord,” he mumbled. “Trefor ab Alun.”

  “You’re a good shot, Trefor. I’ll remember.”

  Trefor beamed, but dared not linger. Gruffydd’s anger counted for more at that moment than Llewelyn’s approval, and he hurried to rejoin his comrades.

  Ednyved picked up the broken sword, flung it out into the moat. “It seems to me, Llewelyn, that you’re the one who needs the nursemaid, not your Davydd!”

  Llewelyn’s smile was wry, faintly discomfited. “I should have known better,” he admitted. “But it did prove one thing, that I was right about these Norman hauberks. Without it, I’d have been skewered like a stuck pig.”

  “Papa…” Davydd was standing several feet away. He’d lost all color, was so shaken that Llewelyn knew at once he’d witnessed the fight.

  As Llewelyn climbed down the scaling ladder, he began to appreciate the extent of his injuries; his muscles were already exceedingly sore and tender. But he knew how very lucky he had been, and as soon as he and Davydd were standing on firm ground, he said, “I’m glad you saw that, lad. I hope to God you remember, for it might save your life one day. I did something very foolish up there. I saw a man lying on the wall, just took it for granted that he’d been killed in the morning’s assault. But on the battlefield you can take nothing for granted, Davydd, nothing. Careless men do not make old bones, lad.”

  “I was so scared for you, Papa. Were…were you scared, too?”

  Llewelyn turned, looked into the hazel eyes upturned to his, Joanna’s eyes. “Not whilst we were fighting, Davydd. You do not have time to be afraid during a battle, are too busy trying to stay alive. But afterward, when you think about it, about all the loathsome ways there are to die, I suspect most men feel fear. I have, for certes.”

  Davydd no longer met his eyes. “I’ve heard men say that Gruffydd knows no fear.”

  “Do not measure yourself against Gruffydd, lad. I chose you as my heir because I saw in you qualities of leadership.” Llewelyn hesitated, for it was not easy to say. “I did not find those qualities in Gruffydd. I trust you not to repeat that to anyone else. But I trust you, too, to remember it.”

  “Llewelyn!” Ednyved was leaning over the wall embrasure. “De Braose wants to talk, says he’ll send his son out if you’ll warrant his safety.”

  “Agreed.” Llewelyn looked at Davydd and then grinned. “Tell him I’ll even invite him to dinner!”

  The tents of English kings were opulent, even sumptuous, spacious enough for privacy as well as comfort. Llewelyn’s tent was of a more modest scale, for even if he’d had the resources to indulge himself, no Welshman could have respected a commander who went to war with feather mattresses and silver plate. Llewelyn contented himself with a pallet, and when dinner was served, he and his guests sat in a circle on the ground, just as his men did around their campfires.

  If Will de Braose thought Llewelyn’s accommodations spartan, it did not show in his face. The Marcher lords tended to be a hardy lot, as robust and tough-minded as the Welsh they fought and befriended, and Will ate with gusto, even knowing that he was being served one of his own beef cows. As much as it irked Gruffydd to hear Normans pervert his tongue, it offended him even more to hear one speak such fluent Welsh, and he was hard-pressed to manage even a semblance of politeness. He would never understand how his father could bring himself to eat and drink with their enemies, never.

  “It scarcely seems fair to repay your hospitality with what I have to tell you now.” Will reached for another piece of bread. “But my father and I thought you had a right to know. Your daughter Gwladys is within the castle.”

  There was a moment’s silence. Then Llewelyn laughed derisively and Gruffydd spat, “Liar!”

  “My son speaks bluntly, but true…which is more than you do. Do you think I’d besiege Buellt without first making sure of my daughter’s whereabouts, her safety? Gwladys is many miles to the north, at my court on the isle of Môn.”

  Will did not seem at all abashed. He shrugged, said with an unrepentant grin, “Well, you cannot blame a man for trying, can you?”

  Llewelyn shifted his position with unwonted care; neither mutton fat nor a lanolin ointment had done much to ease his discomfort. “You’d not be here lest you had an offer to make. What is it?”

  “Seven hundred head of cattle if you ride away on the morrow.”

  That was a fair offer. But there was more to consider than profit, more at stake than cattle. “I’ll think about it,” Llewelyn said noncommittally. He’d noticed that Will kept glancing over at Davydd, had noticed, too, that it was making the boy uncomfortable. “You do know my son Davydd?” he said pointedly, but Will did not take up the challenge.

  “I suppose I was staring,” he conceded calmly. “It’s just that he looks so much like his mother. It’s not often a blood kinship shows so plainly as that.”

  Gruffydd set down his wi
neskin. “I always thought Davydd looked verily like John, God rot him.”

  Will’s eyes cut toward Gruffydd. “I’ll drink to that, to John, King of England…and of Hell.”

  Even in the subdued lantern light, Llewelyn could see the color rising in Davydd’s face. It did not surprise him; if Joanna at thirty-two could not resolve her relationship with John, how could Davydd at fourteen? For his son’s sake, he acted to end the conversation. “I’ll give you my answer on the morrow.”

  But Will did not move. “You must have hated John even as much as I did. Christ knows, he gave you reason enough!”

  Llewelyn looked over at Davydd, then nodded slowly. “Yes, I hated John.”

  Will leaned forward. “Then…then how could you live in contentment with John’s daughter?”

  Llewelyn was astonished. But as he studied Will’s face, he saw that the younger man had not meant to offend. His grey eyes held Llewelyn’s own; he seemed truly to want to know. Llewelyn had no intention, however, of answering a question so intensely personal. “I fail to see,” he said coolly, “how my marriage is of concern to you.”

  Will’s eyes flickered; he was the first to look away. “You’re right, of course. It is not my concern. If my curiosity has led me astray, I apologize.” His smile was self-mocking. “If there is one thing we de Braoses pride ourselves upon, it is that we never offer an unintentional insult!”

  Llewelyn was not taken in by Will’s nonchalant disclaimer. He did not know Reginald’s son well at all, but one thing he did not doubt, that the mere mention of John had touched a very raw nerve indeed. It was Davydd who told Will what he wanted to know. Davydd could not bear to have his mother associated in any way with the cruelties of the English King, and he said abruptly, “My lady mother and King John were estranged for the last four years of his life.”

  Gruffydd opened his mouth, but for once discretion prevailed. Llewelyn had risen, and this time Will took the cue and rose, too. They were exchanging ironic courtesies when one of Llewelyn’s men ducked under the tent flap.