Here Be Dragons

by Sharon Kay Penman

  The ground was soft, but Llewelyn landed at an awkward angle, his leg twisting under him. He lay stunned for several moments, conscious but dazed, aware at first only of pain. There was mud in his mouth; he spat it out, started to sit up. But the bailey began to spin, and he lay back, closed his eyes. When he opened them again, Joanna was kneeling beside him, cradling his head as he’d done for Rhys. He recognized other faces now, Davydd and Ednyved and Gruffydd, faces white and taut, the faces of men looking into an open coffin, and he swallowed, said, “How is the horse?”

  They stared at him and then burst into unsteady laughter. Joanna laughed, too, or perhaps she sobbed; he could not tell which, for she was leaning forward, had begun to cover his mud-streaked face with kisses. Llewelyn braced himself on his elbow, started to sit up again. Now that his head had cleared, he was concerned that he might have broken a bone, and it was with some trepidation that he ran his hand over his throbbing left leg. Once he concluded that he’d done no more than pull a muscle, he closed his eyes again, silently giving thanks to the Virgin for protecting him on this, the holiest of her days. As he turned his head, he saw that the stallion had regained its feet. It, too, seemed to have been accorded a measure of divine mercy, for it had also escaped serious injury. It was standing quietly, sides heaving, head down, looking—for the moment at least—like the most docile of palfreys.

  Llewelyn looked from the horse to his eldest son. “Somewhat skittish, Gruffydd?” He said it with deliberate wryness, as if it were a jest, and a number of people laughed. But Gruffydd did not. Nor did Davydd.

  “Before God, Papa, I did not know he was so wild. And I did try to discourage you from riding him…”

  Llewelyn heard Davydd draw a sharp, hissing breath. But he kept his eyes upon Gruffydd, saw the color mount in the younger man’s face. At last he said abruptly, “Help me up, Davydd.” It was painful to bear weight upon his left leg, but not enough for alarm. He glanced down at himself and grimaced, for his tunic was soaked with sweat and caked with mud. “See to the stallion for me, Gruffydd. Right now I need a long, hot bath. And whilst I soak, I shall try to decide who best deserves to own such a remarkable beast. Pembroke’s a possibility, but I’m more inclined to offer it to Hubert de Burgh.”

  As he expected, that got a laugh, gave him the opportunity to make an unhurried, graceful exit. But Joanna was not deceived; she knew him too well, knew he was playing to their audience, that only when they were alone would she find out the full extent of his injuries.

  Entering their bedchamber, Joanna discovered that Llewelyn had not bothered to summon his squires; he had simply flung himself down upon the bed. She moved toward him, stopping several feet away. “I have to tell you,” she said slowly. “That was one of the most foolhardy things you’ve ever done.”

  Llewelyn’s mouth twitched. “No, breila. That was the most foolhardy.”

  He held out his hand and Joanna caught it between her own. “Let me summon a doctor, Llewelyn. I’ll not rest easy until I hear him say you are well and truly unhurt.”

  “If you must. But not now, not yet.” He allowed Joanna to help him strip off his tunic and his muddy boots; then he lay back against the pillows, his eyes closing again. She stroked his hair, pressed her lips to the pulse in his throat. He was drenched in perspiration; she could hear the rapid pounding of his heart, and her own took up a quicker cadence. But he did not seem to be in great discomfort; she read exhaustion in his face more than pain.

  “You look so…remote, so far away. What are you thinking of?”

  “A day twenty years past, the day I gave Gruffydd that white palfrey.” His eyes remained closed, but he seemed to sigh. “What a twisted road we’ve traveled since then…”

  “Llewelyn…do you believe Gruffydd? That he truly did not know the stallion was so wild?”

  “He knew.” Llewelyn turned his head on the pillow, met her eyes. “He wanted to see me take a fall,” he said softly. “To see me fail.”

  Joanna’s suspicions were uglier than his. But she said nothing, for she knew now that he’d not walked away unscathed, after all. Knowing that he’d insist upon eating in the great hall, she said, “I’ll go to the kitchens, instruct the cooks to delay dinner. Try to rest, beloved; I’ll be back.”

  Ednyved was waiting for her on the outer stairway of the Great Tower. “How does he, in truth?”

  “He has no hurts you can see. Where is Gruffydd?”

  Usually, grooms had to resort to a lip twitch in order to handle the white stallion. But this time it had submitted meekly, too shaken by its fall to summon up a spirit of defiance.

  Gruffydd was still shaken, too. He lingered in the stable long after the grooms had gone, slumping down on a large bale of hay. It was quiet, and the smells of horses and hay and manure were comforting in their very familiarity. He sat there for some time, alone in the semidarkness, listening to the soft nickering of the animals, trying to make sense out of emotions that were as contradictory as they were compelling. His senses were normally acute, but he’d let himself be lulled into incaution, and he did not hear the footsteps in the straw, jumped when a voice spoke suddenly out of the shadows.

  “How disappointed you must be.”

  The voice was familiar, and yet it was not. It sounded like Davydd, but it held none of Davydd’s vaunted control, the icy indifference that Davydd had learned to wield like a whip. This voice was uneven, raw with rage, throbbing with hatred. Gruffydd got slowly to his feet, and one of the shadows moved, revealing that it was indeed his younger brother. But this was a Davydd he’d never seen before, and he instinctively dropped his hand to his sword hilt.

  “I do not know what you mean.”

  “Yes, you do. You deliberately goaded Papa into riding that stallion, knowing full well that the horse was not broken!”

  “That is not true. I did not know.”

  Davydd’s lip curled back. “Liar!” he jeered. “No man buys a horse without riding it first. And you even claim you were warned it was skittish. You’d never have resisted a challenge like that, not you! You tried to ride that stallion, and if there were any justice, you’d have broken your worthless neck! Was that when you got the idea? When you found you could not master him yourself?”

  Gruffydd took a swift, threatening step forward. He towered over the younger man, but Davydd stood his ground. Gruffydd had flushed. Lying did not come easily to him, and he made no more false denials, instead fell back upon the truth, as he perceived it to be. “Even if I did know about the stallion, I had no evil intent in mind, never meant for Papa to be hurt.”

  “I’ll grant you that. You were more ambitious, were hoping for more than a broken leg. I think you’ve grown weary of waiting, think you wanted him dead!”

  Gruffydd gasped, then lashed out. Davydd saw the blow coming and recoiled, but he was not fast enough. Had he not pulled away, it might have broken his jaw. As it was, it had enough force to snap his head back, to stagger him. He stumbled and Gruffydd swung again, buried his fist in Davydd’s stomach. He doubled up, fell to the floor just as Joanna and Ednyved entered the stable.

  “Jesus God, no!” Joanna gave Gruffydd one incredulous look of horror, knelt by her son. He was bleeding profusely, and she was afraid to touch him, afraid to find a wound that might be mortal.

  Ednyved, too, had whitened at sight of Davydd’s blood. “Christ, what have you done?” he demanded, grabbing Gruffydd roughly by the arm.

  Gruffydd jerked free. “What do you think, that I stabbed him?” Outraged, he drew his sword halfway up the scabbard. “Do you see any blood on the blade? I hit him, that’s all.”

  “He’s lying, Ednyved, has to be. Jesú, look at all this blood!”

  “Mama…” Davydd coughed, struggled to sit up. “Mama, I’m not hurt.”

  Gruffydd let his sword slide down the scabbard. “Your precious nestling has a nosebleed, Madame,” he said scornfully. “No more than that…this time.”

  Joanna could see now that Gruffydd
spoke the truth, that this frightening rush of bright red blood was indeed coming from Davydd’s nose. Forcing him to lie flat, she sought to stanch the bleeding with her veil. Gruffydd stood watching for a moment longer, then turned and stalked out.

  As soon as the bleeding ceased, Davydd insisted upon sitting up. “I need some water,” he muttered. “I cannot go out there with blood all over me.” Ednyved found a drinking pail, but when Joanna tried to help, Davydd snapped, “I am not a child, Mama, do not need to be coddled!”

  “Davydd, that was not my intent!” But Gruffydd’s taunt came back to Joanna then—“your precious nestling”—and her hand slipped from Davydd’s sleeve. She would have protested, though, when he turned to go. But Ednyved caught her eye, shook his head.

  “It’s best to let him be,” he advised, once Davydd was out of hearing. “His pride is sore, and that’s not a hurt a mother can heal.”

  Joanna did not agree, but she had not the energy to argue. Reaction had set in and she was trembling again. She looked about in vain for a stable workbench, dropped down upon the bale of hay. “Till the day I die,” she said numbly, “I’ll never be able to forget that sight, Davydd crumpled on the ground, drenched in blood, with Gruffydd standing over him, hand on sword hilt. Can you blame me, Ednyved, for thinking what I did?”

  Ednyved sat beside her on the bale. “No, for I thought it, too.”

  “Llewelyn thinks Gruffydd wanted to see him take a fall. I would that I could believe he had nothing more in mind. Tell me the truth, Ednyved. Do you think Gruffydd was hoping Llewelyn would be badly hurt, mayhap even killed?”

  He seemed in no hurry to respond. “I saw his face when Llewelyn was thrown. If he was not fearful for Llewelyn, he’s a rather remarkable actor, and acting has never been one of his talents.”

  “But he had to know the risk!”

  “Joanna, you’re asking me what only Gruffydd can answer. It may be that even he does not know for certes. If you’re asking whether Gruffydd hates Llewelyn, I think he has learned to hate him. But in a strange way, I think he still loves him, too.”

  “How can he hate and love Llewelyn at the same time?”

  Ednyved shrugged. “Probably the same way you hate and love John,” he said, and Joanna jumped to her feet, began to pace.

  “Gruffydd has no intention of honoring Llewelyn’s wishes, of accepting Davydd as his liege lord. As soon as Llewelyn is dead, he means to lay claim to the crown.”

  “I know that, and I know, too, what you fear. But you’re seeing Davydd with a mother’s eye. Do not underestimate the lad, Joanna. He is stronger than you think.”

  “I am not saying Davydd is weak! I am saying he is young, too young. He’s just nineteen, Ednyved, and Gruffydd is thirty-two, with years of battlefield experience. Can you honestly tell me you believe Davydd could hold his own against Gruffydd?”

  “Not now,” he conceded. “Not yet.” A silence fell between them. He watched Joanna pace, finally said, “I can think of only one way to solve the problem Gruffydd poses. But I doubt you could bring yourself to do it, not even for Davydd. Hire men to arrange a killing.”

  Joanna recoiled, and he said dryly, “You see? I knew you could never do it.”

  “Neither could you.” Joanna moved toward him. “But you’ve given me an idea, Ednyved. What if Gruffydd were banished from Llewelyn’s court, banished from Wales?”

  He looked thoughtful, nodded slowly. “Yes, that might well give Davydd the time he’d need. But you’d best think this through, Joanna. You’re talking about causing Llewelyn a great deal of pain.”

  “I know.” She shook out her crumpled veil, stared down at the bloodstains. “Will you help me, Ednyved? If not for Davydd, for Gwynedd?”

  “Yes,” he said. “I’ll help you. How?”

  “I do not know yet,” she admitted. “But I’ll find a way. Somehow I’ll find a way.”

  Joanna’s mission to Shrewsbury met with surprising success. She was able to patch up another peace, to stave off a confrontation between Llewelyn and the English crown. But she was not sanguine about the long-term prospects of this truce, suspected it would be of fleeting duration, for Hubert de Burgh was not content with his acquisition of Montgomery Castle, was casting covetous eyes upon the neighboring Welsh commote of Ceri.

  Gruffydd reacted with predictable fury to Llewelyn’s announcement of a truce, and after quarreling bitterly with Llewelyn, he withdrew from his father’s court for several weeks. Joanna usually welcomed his absences, but for the first time she found herself waiting impatiently for Gruffydd’s return. She had finally hit upon a plan, likely to be successful by its very simplicity. She meant to exploit Gruffydd’s own weaknesses, to let his blazing temper be the instrument of his downfall.

  A Midday sun was stalking shadows across the rush-strewn floor of Aber’s great hall. In one corner a spirited dice game was in progress. Davydd Benfras was replacing a horsehair string on his favorite harp. All around him men were working at various chores, with differing degrees of enthusiasm, rubbing saddle leather with goose grease, mending harnesses, whittling wooden combs for wives, toys for children. Women were churning butter, spinning wool, while dogs wandered about, hunting for discarded bones midst the floor rushes.

  The scene seemed to be one of perfect domestic tranquillity, but rarely had Joanna been so tense. She and Glynis had spread a length of wool upon a trestle table, were cutting out a gown for Catherine. But she could not keep her mind on the task at hand, could not keep her eyes away from Gruffydd.

  Gruffydd was putting a keener edge upon his sword, set the sharpening stone aside at Senena’s approach. She brought him a brimming wine cup, then lingered to talk, and Joanna’s nerves grew more taut by the moment. First she’d had to wait for Gruffydd’s son Owain to leave the hall, not wanting a child to witness the ugly scene to come. And now Senena was unwittingly acting as saboteur.

  Gruffydd was laughing, reached out and tweaked one of Senena’s long brown braids. Although many Welshwomen still cut their hair fairly short, more and more of them were following the Norman fashion, following the example set by their Prince’s wife, and Joanna was grimly amused that Senena, too, had adopted the style of a people she so despised.

  As she watched them bantering together, Joanna found herself thinking that they were a mismatched pair. They put her in mind of a brilliantly colored linnet and its dowdy, drab brown mate. Senena was not so much plain as overshadowed, an ordinary woman with an uncommonly handsome husband. Joanna felt sure that Gruffydd strayed from time to time, just as she knew Llewelyn had occasionally strayed. But if Gruffydd was like Llewelyn in that he could have his pick of very willing women, he was like Llewelyn, too, in that he seemed to have no need of numerous, ever-changing bedmates. He was content with one woman, with the wife who obviously adored him, who was as fiercely protective of him as any lioness could be.

  That was a better analogy, Joanna decided, Gruffydd as the tawnymaned male lion, awesome to behold but actually dependent upon his less flamboyant mate, the rangy lioness who did the hunting. Senena of the watchful cat-eyes, Senena who was more calculating than her tempestuous husband, and thus more dangerous. But no, she was being unfair now, letting her dislike of Senena lead her astray. How could she blame the woman for being loyal to her husband, her children? They had three now: nine-year-old Owain, six-year-old Gwladys, and a second son born just that spring, named after Llewelyn.

  Joanna frowned, brought her mental ramblings to an abrupt halt. Why was she going on like this? Yes, Gruffydd was a caring husband, a loving father. What of it? Why was she culling out his virtues from amongst his failings, searching for those few traits she might justifiably honor?

  After some moments of conjecture, she thought she knew. It was as if she were seeking to reassure herself, to show that she was not acting out of malice, that her hatred of Gruffydd played no part in what she was about to do. Well, mayhap her motives were not as pure as she’d have liked, but she’d not be lying when sh
e answered to the Almighty for this, when she avowed that she could see no other way, no other choice.

  At last Senena was moving away. Joanna laid her scissors down, stood up. Her eyes searched out Ednyved. He nodded almost imperceptibly, started toward the door. Joanna braced herself, then crossed the hall, sat down beside Gruffydd in the window seat.

  Gruffydd could not hide his surprise. “Yes, Madame?” he said coldly, warily.

  “I thought you might want to congratulate me. I did avert a war, did I not?”

  This was so unlike Joanna that Gruffydd’s suspicions kindled like sun-dried straw, and he responded with uncommon caution. “No, you did not. You did but delay it. You did my father no service by your meddling, for Hubert de Burgh will take our restraint as weakness. He’ll be all the more likely now to move into Ceri, because we failed to halt him at Tre Faldwyn…or as you Normans call it, Montgomery.”

  “I’m sorry you take that view. But I cannot say I’m surprised. After all, you have such a limited understanding of political matters. How fortunate for Gwynedd that Davydd and not you shall rule in Llewelyn’s stead.”

  Gruffydd caught his breath. “Just what do you want from me?”

  This was not going as she’d hoped it would. Gruffydd was furious, but so far he was keeping his voice as low as hers; they’d yet to attract attention. Moreover, she was finding it harder than she’d expected to provoke a quarrel in cold blood, to insult without the excuse of anger.

  “There is no mystery, Gruffydd. You remember that day last month at Cricieth Castle, that day you deliberately baited Llewelyn into riding that crazed stallion? I knew that was not mischance, knew what you had in mind, letting a poor dumb brute do your killing for you. I just could not prove it…until now.”

  Gruffydd was on his feet before she could finish speaking. “That’s a lie, an accursed Norman lie!”

  Joanna rose, too. Heads were turning now, swiveling in response to Gruffydd’s shout. From the corner of her eye, she saw Llewelyn and Ednyved entering the hall. But she saw, too, that Senena was hastening toward them. She reached out, put a hand upon Gruffydd’s arm, as if seeking to placate him, and said softly, “As I said, I have proof. One of the grooms came to me, confessed he found a spiked burr under the stallion’s saddle—”