Here Be Dragons

by Sharon Kay Penman

  “My lord, one of our scouts has just ridden in, says it is urgent that he speak with you.”

  The man was unshaven, begrimed, had obviously passed a full day in the saddle. He knelt before Llewelyn, but wasted no further time on protocol. “My lord, I bear evil tidings. The English King and the Justiciar marched out of Hereford at dawn this morn, heading toward the Gwy Valley—toward Buellt.”

  “How large an army?”

  “Too large, my lord. Mayhap twice the size of ours.”

  Llewelyn turned aside. He heard Gruffydd cursing softly, damning the English to a particularly vile quarter of Hell; rarely had his son’s sentiments so perfectly mirrored his own. It was at that moment that Will de Braose did something as provocative as it was impolitic. He laughed.

  He at once regretted it, found himself the focus of icily measuring eyes. His hand dropped instinctively to his sword hilt, but he put greater faith in his privileged status, a guest at Llewelyn’s hearth. “Need I remind you that you swore to my safety?”

  “No, you need not. Just be thankful a Welshman’s word is not as worthless as you Normans claim.” Llewelyn turned to the closest man, said curtly, “Escort de Braose back to the castle.”

  Will did not press his luck, held his tongue. But no one objected. Not even Gruffydd had seriously considered harming him, for it was understood that there were promises that could be broken and promises that must be kept; John might not have been so hated had he not blithely broken both kinds.

  Once Will had gone, they could give vent to their disappointment, their rage that their prize was to be so rudely snatched from their grasp. But they could not long afford to indulge their anger, not with an English army less than a day’s march from Buellt. “Give the order to break camp,” Llewelyn said grimly. “We are done here. De Braose has won…this time.”

  After raising the siege of Buellt, Henry and Hubert de Burgh continued north, feeding their troops with Welsh cattle, burning and pillaging. By September 30, they had reached the border castle of Montgomery. Soon thereafter, they made use of their ultimate weapon—the Church of Rome. Llewelyn was excommunicated again, and warned that if he did not capitulate, his subjects would be absolved of all oaths of allegiance.

  But Llewelyn was not a man to repeat his mistakes; he’d learned when to fish and when to cut bait. He sent word to Henry that he and the other Welsh Princes would come to Montgomery on the eighth of October, submit themselves to the English crown.

  October 8 was a Sunday, God’s day. An autumn sun shone upon the surrounding hills with a mellow warmth, burning away the mists that had shrouded the valleys for days and revealing blazing oaks, maples dappled in russet and saffron. But the day’s beauty only deepened Davydd’s forebodings. His unease intensified with each mile that brought them closer to Montgomery. He could think of nothing but the tales he’d heard of his father’s surrender at Aberconwy. How could he watch as Papa humbled himself to Henry? What would the English demand of Papa? Would men blame him, too, remembering he was Henry’s kin, half Norman?

  When the sun-silvered waters of the Severn came into view, Davydd could endure no more. Urging his mount forward, he reined in beside Llewelyn. “Papa, do you have to do this? Is there no other way? Why can we not withdraw up into Gwynedd?”

  Llewelyn signaled for his companions to drop back. “Whilst it is true that my own domains are not endangered, that cannot be said of my allies. If we do not come to terms with the English, Maelgwn and Rhys Gryg and Owain risk losing all. And although Gwynedd is not yet threatened, my influence in Powys and Deheubarth is. By making peace now, we can still salvage something from this debacle. Henry has agreed to restore to the other Princes the lands they’d lost to Pembroke, and to—”

  “But what of you? You’ll have to yield up those Shropshire castles, and Carmarthen and Cardigan, too! It’s not fair, Papa, you know it’s not!”

  “I cannot pretend that I like losing those castles, Davydd. But I do not see that I have a choice…just the dubious consolation that we Welsh take as a tenet of faith, the understanding that no matter how grievous our troubles are, they can always get worse.”

  “Jesú, Papa, how can you jest? You’ve told me how John sought to shame you, to—”

  “Is that what you fear, another Aberconwy? Ah, no, lad. This is no life-or-death struggle; we’re talking about a couple of castles, a loss of face, no more than that. Most importantly, Henry is not John.”

  Davydd was still dubious, but upon their arrival at Montgomery he discovered that his father was right, an astute judge of men. While Henry would later reveal his fair share of human failings, vindictiveness was never among them. He was genuinely glad to accept Llewelyn’s submission, had no intention of turning the occasion into an ugly object lesson for the Welsh. Llewelyn was his sister’s husband and therefore entitled to err. Henry pardoned the Welsh with artless generosity, with an ingenuous simplicity that was both his strength and his weakness, that he would never entirely outgrow.

  Nor did Llewelyn’s foes gloat openly over their victory, Pembroke because his antagonism toward Llewelyn was impersonal and thus without rancor, and Hubert de Burgh because he was dangerously dependent upon Henry’s goodwill.

  The Archbishop of Canterbury had already restored Llewelyn to God’s grace, lifted the Interdict from Wales. All that remained to be done was to acknowledge the supremacy of the English crown, and this Llewelyn did, kneeling and pledging oaths of homage and fealty to the sixteen-year-old King. It was nowhere near as painful as Davydd had expected, and he watched with great relief, grateful that Henry had not his father’s vengeful nature, that Llewelyn’s English allies—Chester, John the Scot, Jack de Braose—were there to lend moral support.

  As Maelgwn and Rhys Gryg came forward to swear fealty to Henry, Llewelyn crossed the hall, moved toward his son. “You see?” he said. “No lasting scars.”

  Davydd nodded. “I’m learning, Papa,” he said, and Llewelyn grinned.

  “I’m counting upon that, Davydd.” But as he glanced about the great hall, his smile faded. “Where’s Gruffydd?”

  “He walked out, Papa.”

  Llewelyn said nothing, for what was there to say? How long, he wondered, would he keep expecting more than Gruffydd could deliver? How long ere it stopped hurting?

  Henry and Hubert de Burgh were planning to erect another castle at Montgomery, and construction had already begun at the new site, a mile to the south of the existing motte and bailey. As he wandered aimlessly about the bailey, Gruffydd heard the boisterous sounds of returning workers, miners and carpenters coming back from their daylong labors. Already trees and underbrush had been burned away, scarring the land; the hill was being cleared, made ready to receive a new Norman fortress.

  Gruffydd had walked out of the hall because he did not trust himself, did not think he’d be able to keep silent, to watch passively as his father shamed himself before their enemies. That was a harsh judgment to pass upon Llewelyn, upon a man he still loved, and it gave him no small measure of pain. But he could interpret Llewelyn’s behavior in no other way. They could have withdrawn into the mountain fastness of Eryri, fought the English on their own land, their own terms. Papa need not have yielded, need not have come to Montgomery. To Gruffydd, this was a dishonorable and indefensible surrender, one he could neither understand nor forgive.

  He knew he could not remain indefinitely out here in the bailey, and braced himself to go back into the hall. But his good intentions were forgotten as he approached the steps, saw his brother standing in the sun.

  Gruffydd stopped abruptly, staring up at Davydd. “Why are you not inside with your English kindred? You cannot tell me that you needed to get away as I did. Not you, Henry’s nephew, John’s grandson. Why should you care if Welsh pride is trampled into the dust?”

  “I care.”

  To Gruffydd’s exasperation, that was all he got. No matter how he prodded Davydd, he could never break through the boy’s defenses. When Davydd felt threate
ned, he simply withdrew into himself, and that only strengthened Gruffydd’s contempt, his conviction that Davydd was utterly unfit to rule in Llewelyn’s stead.

  He moved closer and Davydd backed up a step. But the knowledge that Davydd feared him did not give him any satisfaction. Christ pity Gwynedd, he thought, and suddenly he could keep silent no longer, the truth was bursting forth of its own accord, in a scalding surge of bitterness.

  “Prince Davydd. The heir apparent. The favorite. The usurper! Tell me, are you enough of a fool to believe that will ever come to pass?”

  He saw Davydd’s jaw muscles tighten. But the boy’s voice was colorless, devoid of emotion. “Papa will not change his mind.”

  “I know,” Gruffydd admitted, and that was the hurt beyond healing. “But Papa will not live forever,” he said roughly. “And then we shall see. I could not fight Papa. But I shall take great pleasure in fighting you, in claiming what is rightfully mine!”

  Davydd swung around, started back into the hall. He was cautious by nature, as deliberate of action as he was quick of thought. He’d learned to turn silence into a shield, understood Gruffydd far better than Gruffydd understood him. Gruffydd’s were volatile and impassioned rages, outbursts of heat and elemental energy, summer lightning in a cloudless sky. Davydd’s rages were rare, seldom seen, and long-smoldering; as slow as he was to anger, he was even slower to forgive. Now, as he reached the door, he stopped, turned to face Gruffydd.

  “You are right,” he said. “Papa will not live forever. But neither will I be fourteen forever. And then, just as you said, we shall see.”

  7

  Shrewsbury, England

  August 1226

  In January Henry fell gravely ill, and it was feared he might die. He did recover, but his Uncle Will of Salisbury was not as fortunate. Sailing from Gascony back to England, Will was shipwrecked, for a time was presumed lost. Although he survived several harrowing weeks at sea, his health declined. He died on March 7, much mourned, and was buried with great honors in the partially constructed cathedral church at Salisbury.

  Henry watched complacently as Joanna scanned the letter he’d just handed her. “You see? Nell is quite content now with Pembroke. Did I not tell you that wedding was for the best?”

  “And it seems you were right,” Joanna conceded. This buoyant, sprightly missive was a far cry from the tear-splotched, forlorn letter she’d gotten from Nell two years ago, pleading with Joanna to intercede for her, to persuade Henry not to make her marry the Earl of Pembroke. But Pembroke had been very kind to his child bride, indulging her every whim, and the little girl seemed to have found in her husband the father she could not remember.

  “I’ve something else for you, too, an early birthday present. I’m giving you the manor of Condover in Shropshire.”

  Joanna was delighted. Until Henry had given her an English manor the preceding year, she’d not realized what a secure feeling there was in being a property owner, in having land of her own. “You spoil me as much as Pembroke spoils our Nell,” she said, and Henry laughed.

  “I try. I just like to make people happy, to surprise them. And this ought to do both.” Henry was holding out a parchment scroll. But as Joanna reached for it, he snatched it back. “How could I forget? You do not read Latin, do you? Ah, well, mayhap I could be coaxed into reading it to you.”

  “Please do,” Joanna said, utterly intrigued by now. Llewelyn and Davydd were no less curious. Only Elen did not join the circle, but stayed where she was in the window seat.

  Henry was thoroughly enjoying the suspense, took his time in unrolling the scroll. “You’ll observe the papal seal, no doubt. I had it in my hands two months ago, but I wanted to wait, wanted to see your face, Joanna. Are you ready? ‘Dispensation to Joanna, wife of Llewelyn, Prince of North Wales, daughter of King John, declaring her legitimate, but without prejudice to the King and realm of England.’”

  Their response was entirely satisfactory; they were staring at him in obvious astonishment. “Henry, I…I do not understand,” Joanna said at last. “How can this be?”

  “Does it matter? Is it not enough that I asked and His Holiness the Pope obliged?”

  “But there had to be more to it than that, Henry!”

  “Ah, Joanna, it is not such a mystery. Papa’s marriage to the Lady Avisa was dissolved, declared to have been void from its inception. That meant he was free to enter into another marriage or plight troth up to the time he wed my mother. Suppose he had pledged his troth with your mother. If that were so, you’d have a claim to legitimacy, would be entitled to recognition.”

  “But, Henry, he did not plight troth with my mother!”

  “Since she’s dead and Papa’s dead, who is to say?” Henry grinned, held out his arms. “Are you pleased, Joanna? Did I surprise you?”

  “That you did, for certes!” Joanna moved into his embrace, while Llewelyn studied the papal dispensation.

  “‘Without prejudice to the King and realm of England,’” he quoted. “I take it that means Joanna’s legitimacy is qualified, bars her from any claim to the English crown?”

  “I knew you’d catch that straight off!” Henry laughed. “It seemed for the best. No offense, Llewelyn, but you’ve shown yourself to be too adroit at taking a weak claim and making of it an irresistible one!”

  They all laughed at that, and Joanna kissed Henry again. Henry was so delighted at the success of his stratagem that it was some time before Joanna was able to disengage herself, to join Elen in the window seat.

  “Darling, are you all right? Why are you sitting over here by yourself?”

  “I’m fine, Mama, truly.” Elen summoned up a smile. “So…tell me. How does it feel to be legitimate after all these years?”

  “I’m not sure. My father would likely have found this hilarious, but I doubt that my mother would have seen the joke. How could she?”

  “Speaking of jokes, what did Papa say to make you laugh so?”

  Joanna grinned. “Oh, that. He asked me if conditional legitimacy was like being somewhat pregnant. He—Elen, what is it?” For Elen had not been able to turn away in time; Joanna had seen the sudden tears well in her daughter’s eyes.

  “Elen…” Rising, Joanna caught Elen’s hand, drew her reluctant daughter to her feet. “Let’s go out into the gardens, where we can talk.”

  “I have nothing to say, Mama.”

  “Well, I do,” Joanna said, propelling Elen toward the door.

  The garden at Shrewsbury was enclosed by whitethorn hedges; within the flowery mead were several wooden benches and a small fountain. Joanna and Elen halted before the fountain, while Joanna searched for the right words.

  “Elen…sometimes men act kindly toward their wives in public, seem to be loving husbands. But these same men then treat their wives very differently in private. Most women have no choice but to suffer in silence. But that is not true for you, darling. I know you are unhappy. If that is why, if John is abusive or cruel to you, for God’s sake, tell me. We can help, Elen. But we can do nothing as long as you keep silent.”

  Elen had plucked a briar rose, was dropping the petals, one by one, into the fountain. “Oh, Mama, do you not know me better than that? Do you truly think I’d stay with a man who beat me?”

  “Well, then, what is it? Is he openly unfaithful? Has he brought a mistress into the castle keep?”

  “Are those your standards for sympathy, Mama? If he beats me or flaunts his sluts, I’m deserving of pity. If not, I bear my lot as best I can.”

  “Elen, I did not say that!”

  Elen picked up a daisy this time; it soon joined the shredded rose in the fountain. “No,” she admitted after a long pause, “you did not, did you? To answer your question, I cannot say with certainty that John is faithful, but he is discreet. You and Papa were right about him. He is indeed a good man—pious, courageous, steadfast, and honest.” She turned away from the fountain, began to pace. “What woman could ask for more in a man? What woman would have
the right to ask for more?”

  Joanna followed her across the grassy mead. “Yet you are not content.”

  Elen shook her head. “No. I feel…feel trapped. I expect that sounds right foolish, but it’s true all the same. Do you remember that caged magpie I had as a child, how fond I was of it? I will not permit my maids to keep pet birds on any of our manors, cannot abide them now…”

  Joanna caught her breath. “Ah, child, why did you not confide in me ere this?”

  Elen shrugged. “I did once, Mama. I told you I did not want to marry John, and what did that avail me?” As always when she was distraught, she could not keep still, but moved restlessly back and forth, heedlessly trampling flowers underfoot. “John and I never quarrel. Would you believe me if I told you that in nigh on four years I’ve never seen him well and truly wroth? He believes in control, you see. He does not argue, he analyzes. He even explains my own emotions to me, patiently shows me not only how I erred, but why. So you need not fear, Mama. He hardly sounds like an abusive husband, does he?”

  “No,” Joanna said slowly. “Just an unloved one,” and Elen turned her head away, surreptitiously brushed the back of her hand against her cheek.

  “At first I was glad when I did not get with child; that may be sinful, but I was. After a time, though, I could not help wondering why I did not become pregnant. And…and then I began to want a baby, my baby. For the first time in my life, I took an interest when other women talked of birthing and children and the marriage bed, of the ways a barren wife might conceive. So I put mistletoe over our bed. I drink feverfew and anise in wine. I pray to St Margaret. And each month I count the days, dread that first spotting of blood…”

  “Darling, you must not give up hope. Isabelle was barren for six full years ere she finally conceived. But she then was able to give my father five healthy children, and four so far to Hugh de Lusignan. Nor is she the only—”