Here Be Dragons

by Sharon Kay Penman

  “No.” His voice was suddenly sharp. “No, she does not.”

  “I see.” Joanna reached for her mantle, fumbled with the catch. He stepped in front of her, barring her way.

  “Joanna, you do not understand.”

  “You explain it to me then, Will. Explain why it is right for me to dishonor my marriage vows, and wrong for your wife.”

  “This is such an absurd argument, so utterly needless. Your pride is too tender, love; you see insults where none was intended. If you say I am your first lover, of course I believe you. And in truth, I’m very flattered.” He sought to unfasten the catch of her mantle. “Do not go, not yet.” The mantle slipped from her shoulders, fell to the floor at her feet. “Stay with me,” he said coaxingly. “Do you not want to?”

  “Yes,” Joanna confessed. “I hate to quarrel. But can you not see why I was upset? I know what we are doing is wrong, cannot pretend otherwise. And for all your talk of secret sins, you know it, too, Will. If adultery is a sin for your wife, it is no less a sin for me. And if—”

  “Will you forget about Eva? I was not saying that Eva is more virtuous than you. If her circumstances were like unto yours, she, too, might stray. That is all I meant, love, I swear.”

  Joanna was not mollified, for he had inflicted a hurt no less painful for being unintentional. “How are my circumstances so different from Eva’s?”

  Ignoring her challenging tone, he put his arms around her, drew her close. She stood irresolute for a moment, and then, as his hands slid up from her waist to her breasts, she sighed softly, rested her head against his chest.

  “Well, to begin with, your blood runs much hotter than Eva’s.” He laughed, and Joanna bit her lip to keep from laughing, too.

  “You have a wicked tongue,” she chided. “A man should not talk so of his wife.”

  “Not even to his mistress? I do but speak the truth. You are more passionate than Eva. Fairer to look upon. Far more exciting in bed. I do not doubt Eva could have been quite content in a nunnery. Could you say the same, sweetheart?” he teased, and to his delighted amusement, Joanna actually blushed. “No, my love, you could not. It’s more than a waste, it’s a crime against nature to fetter a woman like you to an aging husband.”

  Joanna wrenched free. “How dare you!” Her voice was low, but so full of rage that for a moment Will merely stared at her in surprise.

  “Joanna?” He moved toward her, but she backed away, out of reach. He’d never seen eyes as green as hers, and he found himself thinking suddenly of the tales he’d heard of her fabled grandmother, the outrageous and autocratic Eleanor of Aquitaine. But he was rapidly tiring of these displays of Angevin temper. “Now what’s wrong? Jesú, but your nerves are on the raw today! I did but speak another truth, that you are wed to a man much older than you. Nigh on twenty years older. I am being blunt, but not unkind. A man cannot be blamed for growing old. But neither can a woman for wanting what he can no longer give. So what harm if we—”

  “You fool!” Joanna all but spat the words. “You vain, boastful fool. You talk so glibly about truths. Let me give you one, then. Yes, Llewelyn is five and fifty and you’re but two and thirty. But for all that, he is twice the man you could ever hope to be, in bed or out!”

  “Is he now?” Will had gone rigid, first incredulous and then infuriated. “Then suppose you tell me this. If you’re such a satisfied wife, why have I been able to tumble you all week long on the floor of this stinking hafod?”

  Joanna had begun to tremble. “I do not know,” she admitted, sounding not so much angry now as despairing. “God help me, I do not know. But no more. May the Blessed Mary be my witness, no more!”

  Snatching up her mantle, she whirled, ran from the hafod, ran until she was sobbing for breath, ran until the meadows were misted by a light, warming rain and she saw ahead the distant timbered walls of Llewelyn’s manor.

  Joanna left Rhosyr that same afternoon, was gone by the time Will returned to the manor. Catherine showed no surprise at her unexpected arrival, welcomed her as if hers was a visit planned long in advance. She found some comfort in Catherine’s quiet company, but Catherine could not give her the advice she most needed, could not tell her what to do about Will. Joanna dared not confide in her, could not even risk confessing to her chaplain. Until she could find a way to confess in anonymity, she must live with a mortal sin upon her soul. As frightened as she was at being denied absolution, she was even more fearful of blaspheming her vow. She had sworn to the Blessed Virgin that she would not bed with Will again. And she had to keep that vow. She had betrayed Llewelyn, betrayed herself. She could not betray the Lady Mary, too. But could she trust herself? She must pray for strength, must find it in her to resist temptation. And she must somehow see to it that she and Will were never alone again.

  Joanna passed three days at Tregarnedd, returned to Rhosyr with great reluctance. The sun had been elusive all morning, making weak forays through the clouds rolling in off the Irish Sea, and by the time Joanna dismounted in the manor bailey, she could no longer see her shadow.

  “Have Madlen see to the unpacking, Glynis. I’m sure she’s done not a stitch of work whilst we were gone.” Topaz was sprinting toward her, and Joanna bent down, gathered the whimpering little animal into her arms, absurdly grateful for at least one heartfelt welcome.

  “Mama!”

  “Davydd?” She straightened up, watched wordlessly as her son hastened toward her. As he’d grown into manhood, he’d become less and less given to public displays of affection. But he showed no such reticence now, embraced Joanna warmly.

  “When did you get back? Davydd, why did you not send word to Tregarnedd?”

  “We rode in last night, would have dispatched a messenger this morn.”

  “But why are you back so soon? Your father…he’s not hurt? Davydd, tell me if—”

  “He’s fine, Mama, truly. He’s in the great hall, discussing ransom terms with Will de Braose. All is well, could not be better. We won, Mama. The war is over.”

  “Llewelyn…Llewelyn is with Will?”

  Davydd nodded. “Have you no questions for me? Do you not want to hear how we triumphed over the English? We gave them no respite, harassed them day and night, finally forced them to make peace. We met with Henry and Hubert de Burgh and they agreed to dismantle Hubert’s new castle, to withdraw at once from Ceri, whilst Papa agreed to assume the costs of the expedition. That was truly clever of him, Mama, for Henry is now grateful to Papa for helping him save face, and he’s begun to blame de Burgh for the entire debacle.” Davydd grinned. “Papa can put a fox to shame at times. And the best part of the jest is this. The three thousand marks Papa is to pay Henry—that is the amount he is demanding for Will’s release!”

  “And Will agreed to this? He is to be freed?”

  “Well, there’s more to it than that, but I’ll let Papa tell you the rest. Come on, let’s tell him you’re here.” When Joanna did not move, Davydd turned back with a quizzical smile. “Mama? Are you not coming?”

  “No, I…I want to change my gown first. I was not expecting…” Joanna’s voice trailed off in confusion, but Davydd just laughed.

  “Mama, you look fine,” he insisted, as Glynis chimed in, assuring Joanna that the gown was quite becoming.

  “But…but it’s green,” Joanna said, very low, and both Davydd and Glynis looked at her in surprise.

  “Mama, green is your favorite color!”

  Joanna said nothing. Green was her favorite and most flattering hue. It was also the symbolic shade of fidelity. Abandoning further protests, she allowed Davydd to lead her into the hall.

  Davydd was still talking about their campaign, laughing as he told her de Burgh’s half-built castle was now known as “Hubert’s Folly.” But Joanna was no longer listening. Llewelyn and Will were seated together by the open hearth; they seemed surprisingly at ease with one another, were talking with animation, and as she watched, they exchanged smiles. And then they were turning, getting t
o their feet as she walked toward them.

  Joanna’s mouth was suddenly parched; she sought to shape it into a smile, said as calmly as she could, “Welcome home, Llewelyn.” Had they been alone, she would have waited for his rejoinder, taken her cue from that. But with Will’s eyes upon her, she felt she had no choice but to step forward, to kiss Llewelyn lightly on the mouth. His response told her nothing; even if he was still furious with her, he’d never have been so churlish as to rebuff her in public. His face was impassive; as well as she knew him, she could not read his expression.

  “You look pale,” he said. “Have you been ailing?”

  She shook her head, started visibly when Will chose that moment to interject himself into the conversation. “I’m glad you’re back, Madame. I confess it was rather lonely here the past few days, what with both you and the Lady Senena gone.” And then, before she could anticipate him, he caught her hand, brought it up to his mouth, with impeccable manners and laughing eyes.

  Joanna’s reaction was instinctive and vehement; she jerked her hand away. They were all staring at her now, Will with poorly concealed amusement, Davydd with surprise, and Llewelyn with a look that brought the blood up into her face, a look of curiosity…and conjecture. “Actually, you were right, Llewelyn,” she said unsteadily. “I do not feel well. If you’ll excuse me, I think I shall go and lie down.” Not waiting, not daring to wait, she turned and walked swiftly from the hall, feeling their eyes upon her all the while.

  Upon reaching her bedchamber, Joanna dismissed her maids. She’d decided she really would lie down, hoping in that way to avoid a discussion with Llewelyn, should he seek her out. She stripped to her chemise, began to unbraid her hair. But her fingers had become infuriatingly clumsy; she kept dropping hairpins and brush, even a small glass bottle of her favorite scent. Glass was very much a luxury, and this perfume vial was of a particularly delicate design, the handiwork of a Genoan master craftsman. With a cry of dismay, Joanna knelt, began to search the rushes for the broken shards. But once she’d salvaged the fragments, she saw the bottle was beyond repair. She stared down at the glass splinters, and suddenly her eyes were brimming over with tears. Sitting on the floor in the middle of her bedchamber, she began to cry.

  Llewelyn found himself hesitating before the door, not at all sure what sort of reception he would get. The memory came to him then of another quarrel with Joanna, another occasion when he’d stood before a bedchamber door, reluctant to go in. The memory was very vivid for being more than twenty years old; it had been their first true quarrel, but a memorable reconciliation, leading to the consummation of their marriage. He no longer hesitated, reached for the latch.

  “Joanna?” He was beside her at once, brushing back the cascading dark hair that hid her face. At his touch, she fell forward into his arms, buried her face in his shoulder. Her sobbing was spasmodic, out of control, but he was more alarmed by her violent trembling, like one with the ague. He was baffled to discover that she was clutching several broken pieces of glass; he had to pry her fingers loose before she’d drop them. In all the years of their marriage, he’d never seen her weep like this, as a maltreated child might weep, helplessly, utterly without hope.

  When he lifted her in his arms, she felt as light as a child, too, frighteningly fragile. After putting her down upon the bed, he started to rise, but she clung to him and he sat beside her, holding her as she wept.

  At last her sobs began to subside. She no longer sounded so incoherent and he leaned over, put his lips to her forehead. Although she did not feel feverish, he was not yet reassured. “Shall I summon my physician?”

  Her head moved on the pillow, tossed emphatically from side to side. He rose, crossed to the washing laver, and came back to the bed. Joanna stirred when he gently wiped her face with a wet cloth, lay looking up at him with tears silently trickling from the corners of her eyes. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I’m so sorry. I love you, I do. I never meant for it to happen, I swear it…”

  “I know that, breila.”

  “You…you know?”

  “Why should that surprise you so? You wanted to see Gruffydd banished, not imprisoned. That was no part of your plan. Did you think I doubted that?”

  “Gruffydd.” Joanna closed her eyes. “No,” she echoed faintly, “that was no part of my plan…”

  Llewelyn regarded her in silence for several moments. The signs of strain were much more apparent now than they’d been in the hall, the hollowed cheekbones, the smudges that lurked like bruises under her eyes, the way her fingers plucked aimlessly at the coverlets. “I thought I knew you so well,” he said, saw her flinch. “But I could not have misjudged your mood more. I knew you were angry with me, and upset. But I did not understand how truly troubled you were.” Their time apart had been for the best, or so he’d thought, for it had given him the opportunity to come to terms with his own anger, with resentments he alone could resolve. But Joanna’s face told him a far different story, told him their estrangement had done much more damage than he’d realized.

  Tears still seeped through Joanna’s lashes. She had been angry with Llewelyn, very angry. She’d blamed him for his stubbornness, for his unwillingness to understand, for words spoken in anger, slights to her pride, and above all, for that last taunt flung at her as he’d ridden out of the stable. But how insignificant those complaints seemed now, how trivial when weighed against the enormity of her sin, her betrayal.

  “Can you forgive me, Llewelyn? In all honesty, can you forgive me?”

  “I’ll not lie to you, Joanna. You were wrong. You should have come to me, and I’ll never fully understand why you did not.” But he spoke without anger, for he’d concluded that he had no choice but to forgive her. If he did not, the grievance was likely to fester, an untreated wound dripping daily poison until, in time, the marriage itself would be infected.

  “Yes,” he said, “I do forgive you,” and it was easier than he’d thought it would be; her contrition was balm in and of itself.

  Joanna struggled to sit up. “Hold me,” she implored. “Hold me so tightly that I can believe you’ll never let me go.”

  He obliged with a smile, held her close, listening to the shuddering sounds of her breath, smoothing her long, tangled hair. “No more tears,” he murmured, “lest we both become waterlogged.”

  “I never wanted you to be hurt, Llewelyn, never. You must believe that, beloved.”

  Llewelyn did not want to talk about Gruffydd, did not want to think about Deganwy Castle. “Hush, breila, hush.” He pressed his mouth to her swollen eyelids, continued to stroke her hair. Her perfume was beguilingly familiar; he’d missed her scent, her softness, missed waking up beside her in the morning, reaching for her in the night.

  “Are you feeling better now?” When she nodded, he ran his fingers caressingly along her throat. “Then how would you like to give me a proper welcome home? I did win a war, after all.”

  He laughed, leaned over to kiss her, and was utterly taken aback when she recoiled, gasping, “No!”

  “We’ve played some intriguing games in bed, but I cannot say this one appeals to me, Joanna, would as soon we save it for another time.” He frowned. “Unless you truly are ailing?”

  “No, beloved, I am fine.” Joanna’s reaction had been both involuntary and irrational. But for one panicked moment, she’d actually found herself thinking that Llewelyn had only to kiss her to know she’d been unfaithful. “I did not mean to cry out like that. I am not ailing and it is not the time of my flux. Of course I want to make love with you; when do I not? It’s just that…that I was expecting Glynis to come in at any moment. If you would but bar the door, my love, I’m sure we can find a game more to your liking.”

  She lay back against the pillows. But by the time he returned to the bed, she was beset by a new fear. She felt frozen, numbed, emotionally drained. What if she could not respond to him?

  At first she did find it difficult to relax, to blot out all but the feel of his hand
s and mouth on her body. Llewelyn was in no hurry, though. He’d long ago learned that pleasures could be all the sweeter for being prolonged, but as his body’s slowing reflexes compelled him, of necessity, to pace himself more prudently, he’d discovered that delay could act upon a woman as an aphrodisiac; the more drawn out and deliberate their lovemaking, the more excited his wife became, and he no longer regretted having lost the immediate and urgent arousals of early youth.

  He took his time, and slowly, skillfully, he kindled a fire between them, one that burned hot and bright and eventually became all-consuming. Joanna drifted back to reality with reluctance. Their lovemaking had been more than a physical bonding, a source of intensely intimate and perfect pleasure. For her, it had been a catharsis. For the first time she dared hope that she need not lose her husband. She would never forgive herself, but mayhap it was not too late. If she was well and truly contrite, mayhap the Almighty would show mercy, would let hers remain one of Will’s secret sins. If so, she would devote the rest of her life to making Llewelyn happy. She would gratify his every whim, be the wife he deserved, bedmate, companion, confidante, whatever he wished.

  “What are you thinking of, breila? You look very far away.”

  “No farther than this,” she said, taking his hand and holding it against her heart. “I’d tell you it beats just for you if I were not fearful you’d think me maudlin, hopelessly lovesick. See? You’re laughing at me already.”

  “Just a little.” Llewelyn settled himself more comfortably, propped pillows against his back as Joanna rose from the bed, padded barefoot across the chamber to fetch wine. He’d been utterly thankful that she’d been spared the travails of yearly pregnancies, having come so close to losing her in the birthing chamber at Dolwyddelan. But as he looked at her now, he was thinking that there were other benefits, as well, to her subsequent barrenness, for her body had retained the supple muscle tone, the lissome and willowy grace of her youth. His eyes followed the fall of her hair, from breast to hip, and up again to her face. Feeling his gaze upon her, she glanced over her shoulder, smiled radiantly, and he said, “Joanna, what is there between you and Will de Braose?”