Here Be Dragons

by Sharon Kay Penman

  “Mama, I know you mean well. But that is no comfort. Better I should face the truth, that my marriage is barren.” Elen laughed suddenly, mirthlessly. “Barren in every sense of the word!” Choking back a sob, she spun about, fled the garden.

  Joanna reached out, caught the edge of the fountain for support. This was her fault, all her fault. When she’d wept upon being told she must wed a Welsh Prince, Isabelle had sought to comfort her, assuring her she’d learn in time to be content with Llewelyn. Isabelle had been right; most women did adjust, did find a measure of contentment in all but the most wretched marriages. But not Elen. And she should have realized that, should have known the marriage was doomed. When had Elen ever learned to compromise? Did it even matter that she brought so much of her unhappiness upon herself? How could she blame Elen for the nature God had given her? It was like blaming her for having brown eyes. But if anyone should have foreseen this, it was she. For who knew better than she how stubborn Elen could be, how passionate and, for all her bravado, how easily hurt?

  And what was she to do now for her daughter? What could she do? Leaning over the fountain, Joanna splashed water upon her face, and a memory surfaced. St Winifred’s Well—Gwenfrewi in Welsh—was a holy shrine in North Wales, close by Basingwerk Abbey. It was celebrated for its cures, and the ailing and infirm made painful pilgrimages to avail themselves of its restorative waters.

  Joanna felt the faintest stirring of hope. There was something she could do. She and Elen would make a pilgrimage to St Winifred’s Well, implore the saint to heed their prayers, to give Elen a child.

  8

  Cricieth, North Wales

  August 1228

  Of all the diseases that ravaged the countries of Christendom, none was so feared as leprosy. The Church sought to ease the suffering of those afflicted by proclaiming it a sacred malady, an admittedly agonizing means of achieving salvation. But Scriptures said otherwise. According to Leviticus, the leper was unclean and defiled, to be shunned by his fellow men, and people were only too willing to obey that harsh dictum, to banish the leper from their midst, stifling the voice of conscience with the comforting belief that the leper’s fate was deserved, God’s punishment for sins of the flesh, for lust and lechery and unholy pride.

  In England, lepers fared better than in other countries; the English were generally more tolerant, more sympathetic toward the leper’s dreadful plight. An English leper was not taken to the cemetery and forced to stand in an open grave while a priest declared, “Be thou dead to the world, but alive again unto God,” as was often done in France. But the English leper was still subject to banishment, was escorted to the church as if he were a dead man, where he knelt under a black cloth as the congregation chanted, “Libera me, Domine.”

  For the leper, there would be no release but death. No longer could he enter churches, markets, inns. He must wear his distinctive leper garb, a dark hooded cloak, and carry clappers or bell in order to warn others of his approach. He must shun the company of all but his fellow lepers, and when he died, he would be buried as he’d lived, alone.

  What befell him once he’d been stigmatized depended upon his own resources and the loyalty of family and friends. If he was wealthy and well loved, he could sequester himself in his own home. Or he could seek to enter a leper hospital, a lazar house. Life in a lazar house was not easy; the leper was compelled to bequeath his possessions to the hospital, to forswear such worldly amusements as chess and dicing, to take an oath of chastity, poverty, and obedience. But few balked, for the alternative was to be cast out upon one’s own, to survive by begging, to face the hostility of people who shrank from the disfigurement and the ulcerated sores, and, as the disease took its gruesome toll, eventually to starve.

  There was deep mourning, therefore, at Llewelyn’s court when Iorwerth, one of Ednyved’s sons, was diagnosed as having the disease of Lazarus. For Iorwerth, of course, there would be no hut by the roadside, with alms-dish nailed to a pole. He had a manor at Abermarlais, had a father wealthy enough to provide for his needs, influential enough to soften the strictures of his exile. He would not want for food or comfort or medical care. Ednyved could provide him with ointments, juniper oil, viper potions, even so exotic a remedy as the blood of a turtle from the faraway Cape Verde Islands. He could aid Iorwerth in making pilgrimages to the shrine of St Davydd’s and the holy well at Harbledown, near Canterbury. He could even coerce Iorwerth’s reluctant wife into keeping faith with her marriage vows, for while the Church did not recognize leprosy as grounds for divorce, Welsh law did. But what Ednyved could not do was to command a miracle, and nothing less would save his son. Knowing that, he could only grieve for his doomed child. And his friends could only grieve with him.

  They could not even offer the meagre comfort of forced cheer, could not seek to console Ednyved with false optimism, fabricated tales of wondrous cures, for he would not speak of his son. Even with Gwenllian he refused to share his grief, for Iorwerth was not hers, but was a son of Tangwystl, the mother who’d died giving him birth. And so the bleak Lenten season dragged on under the heavy burden of Ednyved’s frozen silence, and when it was spring, fate dealt another blow, no less cruel.

  It was Easter, and Davydd Benfras, son of Llewelyn’s court bard, Llywarch, was entertaining the court at Aber. He was reciting a lively account of a long-ago battle, when Rhys suddenly stumbled to his feet. Rhys looked quizzical, surprised rather than alarmed, but then he reeled backward, his clutching hands seeking support and finding only the edge of the tablecloth. He dragged it down with him, sent platters and dishes and tureens of soup clattering to the floor. Llewelyn was the first to reach him, cradled his head as Rhys fought for breath. But he was dead by the time Llewelyn’s physician could be summoned.

  Catherine was so bereft that they feared for her very sanity. Nothing could comfort her, not her children or her Church or her friends. At Joanna’s insistence, she stayed for several weeks at Llewelyn’s court, but then she went back to the manor house she’d shared for so many years with Rhys. In the months that followed, she withdrew into the past, into her memories and her regrets, until even to those who loved her, she seemed no more than a pale wraith, a wan, frail shadow trapped in a time no longer hers.

  Llewelyn and Ednyved were stunned by Rhys’s sudden death, for they’d lost more than a cherished friend, companion of boyhood and manhood. Standing in the shadowed choir of Aberconwy Abbey before Rhys’s coffin, the same thought was in each man’s mind, that it could have been him.

  That thought, too, had been Joanna’s. Common sense told her that she was likely to outlive Llewelyn, but she’d never allowed herself to dwell upon that likelihood, upon that eighteen-year difference in their ages. She knew their life together was bound to change as he aged, but not yet. Merciful Lady Mary, not yet.

  Llewelyn’s hair had begun to silver. His sight was no longer as sharp as it had been, and he tired more easily, complained of slowing reflexes. But he could still put in a day’s hard riding. His health was excellent. Like all the Welsh, he’d taken good care of his teeth, and he still had a handsome smile, a young man’s smile. Although he and Joanna no longer made love as frequently as in the early years of their marriage, Joanna had no complaints about their love life. She found it hard to believe that twenty-two years could have passed since the day of their wedding, and time seemed to be treating Llewelyn so kindly that it was surprisingly easy to pretend it was also standing still.

  But then Rhys had died in seizure upon the floor of Aber’s great hall, Rhys who was four and fifty, a year younger than Llewelyn. And a few weeks later, word reached Aber that Reginald de Braose had died at Abergavenny Castle. Like Rhys, Reginald had been in apparent good health, and he, too, was younger than Llewelyn. Joanna began to look upon her husband with new eyes, eyes haunted and full of fear.

  Her anxiety was all the greater because the news from England was not good. After five years of peace, the Marches were once more in turmoil, and Joanna passed this,
her thirty-sixth summer, in growing dread, for it was beginning to seem more and more likely that Llewelyn would be riding again to war.

  Stephen Langton had died early in July, and with his death an irreplaceable voice for peace and conciliation was stilled, the last check upon Hubert de Burgh’s growing ascendancy, for Peter des Roches had departed England the preceding year to fulfill a crusading vow, Chester had been stymied, Will was dead, and Pembroke was in uneasy alliance with de Burgh. Flourishing a new title, Earl of Kent, de Burgh now turned his eyes and ambitions westward—toward Wales. In April, Henry agreed to give him the castle and lordship of Montgomery.

  The local Welsh reacted with alarm, laying siege to the castle and pressing their attack with such vigor that Henry and de Burgh were compelled to lead a royal army to the rescue. So far Llewelyn had not taken up arms himself, but he was deeply mistrustful of de Burgh’s motives, and Joanna feared he would eventually be drawn into the fray. She was to meet Henry later in the month at Shrewsbury in hopes of preserving their fragmenting peace, but she was not optimistic of success, for the interests of her husband and brother were at heart irreconcilable.

  August found Llewelyn’s court at his seaside castle of Cricieth. On Tuesday, the Assumption of the Blessed Mary, Joanna spent the afternoon dictating letters to Elen, Catherine, and her young sister Nell. A brief letter was also dispatched to Gwladys, who’d returned to South Wales to settle a dispute over her late husband’s lands; Reginald’s son Will was contesting her dower rights. Joanna was just completing the last and most important of the lot, informing Henry that she had received his safe-conduct and would be meeting him in a fortnight’s time at Shrewsbury.

  Branwen and Alison had long since departed Joanna’s service, had been found husbands and were raising families of their own. Glynis, Joanna’s latest maid, had grown bored and wandered to the window, where she stood gazing out to sea. “The sun has just broken through, Madame. After nigh on a week of rains, I’d all but forgotten what it looked—” A loud blaring noise intruded over the sound of rolling surf, the raucous gulls. It blasted again and Glynis exclaimed, “Did you hear that, my lady? A hunting horn. Your lord is back from the hunt!”

  By the time Joanna reached the bottom of the stairs, Llewelyn was already dismounting. The bailey was thronged with laughing men, lathered horses, and barking dogs; even before Joanna saw the deer carcasses strapped to the sumpter horses, she knew their hunt had been a rousing success.

  Giving his reins to a groom, Llewelyn reached for Joanna as she came within range, bending her backward in a playful embrace. He was begrimed and sweaty, and when he kissed her, she tasted mead on his breath; they’d apparently begun celebrating on the way back to the castle. That meant, she knew, dinner would likely be a rowdy, boisterous affair. But she did not mind in the least, for this was the first time since Rhys’s death that she’d seen Llewelyn in such high spirits.

  “What were you doing?” she chided, “chasing deer through a mud wallow?”

  “Is that the thanks I get for putting venison on your table?” He gave her a sudden squeeze, laughing when she squealed. “Come, I’ll show you the prize kill of the day, a fine ten-point buck brought down by Davydd. Unfortunately, two of the brachet hounds were hurt—”

  Llewelyn had stopped, was gazing across the bailey. Joanna turned, saw at once what had caught his eye. Several horsemen had just been ushered through the gateway. But it was the horse being led that was drawing such admiring glances. The destrier was always larger than the palfreys used for daily riding, but this particular stallion was one of the largest Joanna had ever seen, standing almost seventeen hands high. It was a magnificent animal: broad chest, lengthy flanks, a powerfully muscled body and small head, a sweeping silvery tail and a coat as white as the foaming breakers crashing down upon the beach. Joanna smiled at her husband, said indulgently, “Go ahead, go take a closer look.”

  Llewelyn was not the only one to be captivated by the creamcolored stallion. It had attracted a crowd of admirers, men who looked on enviously now as one of the riders handed over the reins to Gruffydd.

  “I bought him in Powys last month,” Gruffydd said proudly, as Llewelyn came up beside him. “What do you think, Papa?”

  “He’s a beauty, in truth.” Llewelyn circled around to get a better look, taking care not to get too close. One reason the destrier was rarely ridden except to war was that its natural gait was a rather jarring trot. But the other reason was that it was notorious for its fiery nature, and the other men, too, were giving the horse respectful room.

  “I had to pay nigh on forty pounds for him,” Gruffydd volunteered, and several men whistled. “As soon as I saw him, though, I knew I had to have him. You know what he put me in mind of, Papa? That white stallion you gave me for my twelfth birthday, remember?”

  “I remember. That was a well-bred palfrey, but I doubt it could hold a patch to this one. I’d say he’s cheap at twice the price.”

  Gruffydd smiled. “I’m glad you’re so taken with him, Papa. You see, I bought him for you.”

  “You’re serious?” Llewelyn turned to stare at his son. “What can I say, Gruffydd? I think you’re too generous for your own good; a horse like this does not come along that often.”

  “Nonetheless, I want you to have him.” Gruffydd watched as Llewelyn reached out and lightly stroked the stallion’s arched neck; it snorted, flung its head up. “However, I’m afraid you cannot ride him just yet. The man I bought him from said he was somewhat skittish, no easy horse to ride. What I’d like to do is to school him myself, until I’m sure he’s a safe mount for you.”

  “A safe mount for me?” Llewelyn echoed incredulously. But his astonishment yielded almost at once to irritation. It was not just that he prided himself upon his horsemanship; it was also that he knew himself to be a much better rider than Gruffydd, who tight-reined his horses, seemed to take a perverse pride in high-strung, half-broken mounts. “I hardly think that necessary, Gruffydd. I expect I’ve been riding long enough to know how to handle a skittish horse.”

  Gruffydd was still smiling. “I know you have in the past, Papa. But you were much younger then; the danger was less. I do not mean to offend you, but aging bones are brittle, break more easily. What you were once able to do might now be beyond you, might—”

  “Lead the stallion over to the horse block,” Llewelyn cut in sharply. Men at once moved back, cleared space, and took up positions to watch. Gruffydd shrugged, stepped aside. And Davydd felt a sudden chill.

  Llewelyn did not mount right away; instead he stood quietly, letting the horse become accustomed to his scent, the sound of his voice. As he studied the stallion, his anger ebbed and his eyes grew wary. He was close enough now to see the knotted ridges on the horse’s withers, the marks of abuse. When he ran his hand over the stallion’s shoulder, it flinched. Somewhat skittish, Gruffydd had said. More than that, he suspected, much more. The stallion’s head and neck were held well down; the position of its tail told him that so was its croup, while its back was arching like that of a cat. Even more than the laid-back ears, these were the signs of a restive animal, a likely bolter.

  “Papa.” Davydd had decided to trust his instincts. Following Llewelyn to the horse block, he said quietly, “Papa, I wish you’d reconsider. I have a bad feeling about this horse.”

  “So have I.”

  “Then why risk it? You always told me that horses can best be tamed with patience, that in any contest of brute force, the horse is bound to win.”

  “I know, lad. But if I back down now, I take an even greater risk, that men think me afraid to ride him.”

  “Jesú, Papa, who could doubt your courage?”

  Llewelyn gave the boy a twisted smile. “Do not deceive yourself, Davydd. When a man reaches a point where he has nothing left to prove, he’s either dead or dying.” Davydd looked so troubled that he added reassuringly, “There’s no great trick to handling a bolting horse. I need only get him turning in circles, let him tire
himself out.”

  Unbuckling his scabbard, Llewelyn handed Davydd his sword. Taking the reins, he waved Davydd and the groom back, then gripped the pommel and swung up into the saddle. He was expecting some sort of resistance, but what he got was bottled lightning. The stallion shot forward, but instead of bolting, it began to buck wildly, kicking out in a frenzy, coming down with such force that Llewelyn felt as if his spine would snap in two.

  Men had scattered in all directions, were shouting encouragements. But Llewelyn knew there could be but one outcome, knew he could absorb only so much of this punishment. He was half blinded by his own sweat, tasted blood where his teeth had torn his inner lip, and his legs were cramping in painful spasms; he was finding it harder and harder to throw his weight into his heels, to maintain his grip on the saddle. But the stallion had yet to show any signs of tiring, was twisting and plunging as if crazed, so desperate to free itself that at times all four feet were off the ground.

  The castle dogs were going berserk, making excited dashes at the panicked horse, and they only frightened it all the more. When a large alaunt cut directly in front of it, the stallion reared up suddenly, and Llewelyn felt his first jolt of real fear. It was not that he expected the horse to throw itself backward. For all the folklore he’d heard of outlaw stallions that deliberately sought to crush their riders, he’d never encountered such a rogue killer, did not know a man who had. What he feared now was not so much the stallion’s intentions as the muddy bailey; the ground had not had time to dry, was still slippery and rainsoaked. He slackened the reins, leaned forward, but the stallion was already scrambling, starting to slide. For several terrifying seconds the animal struggled to keep its balance, and then it was going over backward and Llewelyn kicked his feet free of the stirrups, flung himself sideways as the stallion fell.