Here Be Dragons

by Sharon Kay Penman

  Joanna would never know how she managed to continue pouring wine, how she kept her hand steady. Very carefully she set the flagon back on the table. “What do you mean, Llewelyn?”

  “The tension in the hall was hard to miss.” His voice was dry, his eyes unwavering upon her face. She gripped the wine cup between her palms, took one quick swallow, and then walked back to the bed. Why had she not foreseen this? Who knew better than she how keen his eye could be?

  “You are right,” she said slowly. “I suppose I was not very good at hiding my feelings. I’m sorry if I was rude. But I find it very difficult to be in Will de Braose’s company. You know how I feel about his family. And with Will, it is more than I can bear, for he loved Maude well, and his hatred of John is still green, still very raw. He told me…told me that Maude died mad.”

  Her shudder was not feigned, was all too real. It did not escape Llewelyn, nor did the sudden reversion back to “John.” He slid over and she got into bed, handed him the wine cup. “I thought it was something like that,” he said. “Ah, lass, I am truly sorry.”

  Joanna forced herself to lift her head, to look into his eyes, dark eyes full of intelligence and affection…and faith. He loved her, would never suspect her of so base a betrayal. He trusted her. She’d have to bear that to the end of her days, the burden of his trust.

  Llewelyn put his arm around her shoulders, drew her down against his chest. “Would it be easier for you if I moved the court back to Aber, whilst keeping Will here at Rhosyr till his ransom is paid?”

  “Jesú, yes! Oh, yes, please.” She kissed his throat, blinking back tears. She’d thought she’d reached the nadir of shame and self-loathing on that last day in the hafod, raging at Will, at her incredible folly. But it was infinitely worse now, having to lie to Llewelyn, to look into his eyes and take such despicable advantage of his love.

  “Joanna, I do understand your feelings for the de Braose family. I know you’ve never been at ease with any of them. And I would that I could promise you need never set eyes upon Will again. But I cannot.”

  “Llewelyn…what are you saying? What are you trying to tell me?”

  She sounded suddenly so frightened that he frowned, bit his lip. “I want Buellt Castle, breila. I’ve got to have it, for it commands the upper reaches of the Gwy Valley.”

  “I…I do not understand. Davydd said Will had agreed to pay you three thousand marks. Surely he’d not yield up Buellt, too?”

  “No, of course not. But he is willing to give it as his daughter’s marriage portion. That is what I am trying to tell you, Joanna. Will and I have agreed upon an alliance, one secured by wedlock, the marriage of his eldest daughter and our son.”

  “Davydd…Davydd is to wed Will’s daughter?”

  “In time. Isabella is but a little lass yet, so I expect they’ll only plight troth for now.” Llewelyn leaned over, tenderly kissed Joanna’s upturned face. “I know this does not please you, love, and I am sorry. But it cannot be helped.”

  Joanna turned her head into his shoulder, brought her hand up to her mouth, bit down on her fist. She must not laugh. If she did, she’d not be able to stop. Like her mother. So many years ago, but Joanna could still hear her, hear peal after peal of that shrill, hysterical laughter as her mother looked at her, at her bastard child, her “mistake.” We pay and pay for our sins, she’d gasped. We pay and pay.

  10

  Deganwy, North Wales

  September 1229

  Llewelyn’s grandsons were standing on the stairs of the keep, watching as he rode through the gateway into the inner bailey. The younger boy, his namesake, was a dark, solemn child, a toddler clutching a bedraggled toy. But Owain could have been a ghost from Llewelyn’s past. His hair was redder, brighter than Gruffydd’s, and his eyes were grey, but for all that, he looked enough like his father at age ten to evoke memories better left buried.

  Whether by inheritance or empathy, Owain had adopted his father’s body language as his own; the squared shoulders, the jutting little chin were wrenchingly familiar. “Why have you come?” he demanded. “We do not want you here. Go away!”

  “Owain, hold your tongue!” Hastening down the stairs, Senena grasped her son by the shoulders. “How dare you speak to Lord Llewelyn like that? He is your Prince and your grandsire, and you owe him respect!”

  “But Mama…” The boy looked so bewildered that Senena felt a conscience pang; he was, after all, only parroting what he’d heard in their private chamber. She could not risk antagonizing Llewelyn, however, and she said sharply, “See to your little brother. I shall expect you to apologize to your grandfather ere he leaves.” Moving forward, then, to greet Llewelyn, she mustered a taut smile. “It was good of you to come.”

  Llewelyn dismounted, tossed the reins to the nearest man. “You sent word that Gruffydd was asking to see me. Did you think I’d refuse?” He signaled for his men to await him in the great hall, glanced toward Senena once and then again, much more searchingly. “Senena? Gruffydd did ask for me?”

  “No.” Reaching out, she clutched at his arm. “I lied. I had to lie. It was all I could think to do. Llewelyn, you must see him, talk to him. Please say you will!”

  Llewelyn slowly shook his head. “I think it better if I do not, Senena. If he does not want to see me, what would it serve?”

  “Wait, please. At least hear me out. You want the truth? I’ll tell you, tell you whatever you want to know. I’ve tried so hard to help Gruffydd, to raise his spirits, to keep him from despairing. But he, of all men, cannot abide confinement. Some days he’ll not talk to me at all, and he spends hours standing at the window, never taking his eyes off the horizon, those soaring seagulls.” Llewelyn made an involuntary movement, and her hand tightened on his arm. “If you could just see him, Llewelyn, if you could but talk together, mayhap then…”

  Llewelyn knew better, knew that talking would change nothing. But as he looked into his daughter-in-law’s face, he could not refuse her. “Your loyalty does you great credit, lass. I’ll talk to him. Just do not expect too much to come of it.”

  Senena heard only the consent, not the qualification. “Thank you,” she sighed, and he followed her up into the keep. Gruffydd’s chamber was on the uppermost floor. Pausing on the threshold, she gave Llewelyn a look of anxious entreaty. “It might be better if I spoke to him first. If you’ll wait…” He nodded and she slipped inside.

  The door was ajar. Llewelyn could see a marble-top table, the sweep of velvet bed hangings. Senena had not stinted in making Gruffydd’s captivity as comfortable as possible, as if enough luxuries might somehow compensate for the guards at the bottom of the stairwell. The table was cluttered with the evidence of Gruffydd’s struggle to fill empty hours, to vanquish the enemy that time had become: a chess set, a draughts board, a stack of books. It was the books that Llewelyn found most poignant, for Gruffydd had never been a reader. He backed away from the door. A mistake. This was a grievous mistake.

  “No! I’ll not see him!” Gruffydd’s voice carried clearly into the stairwell. Senena’s response was softer, less distinct; she seemed to be pleading with him. Her importuning was in vain; Gruffydd’s voice came again, raw with the rage of impotence. “Would you have me grovel to him? And for what? He’s not going to relent, and I’ll be damned ere I’ll give him absolution. Tell him if his conscience wants easing, he can seek it elsewhere. Let his Norman slut console him, let her whelp—” Llewelyn heard no more; he turned, moved into the shadows of the stairwell.

  The guards stepped aside respectfully, let him pass. His spurs clinked, struck sparks against the stones, and then he was emerging into the sun, into brilliant, blinding light. Owain had disappeared, but the younger boy was sitting on the outer stairs; when Llewelyn said his name, he smiled up at the man with innocent camaraderie, heartrending trust.

  “Llewelyn, wait!” Senena was flushed, breathless. She ignored her son, caught up with Llewelyn at the foot of the stairs. “Do not go, not like this. I know you hear
d Gruffydd, but…but can you blame him? I’ll not apologize for his pride and I’ll not make excuses for his bitterness. He is still your son, your firstborn. How can you turn your back on him like this? Do you hate him so much?”

  “Hate him?” Llewelyn swung about, pointed toward the little boy. “Do you think you could ever hate Llelo? Or Owain? How can I hate the man as long as I remember the child?”

  “You want to free him!” Senena cried, and it was both a challenge and a plea. “I can see that now. You truly do. Why will you not do it, then? Llewelyn, I beg you. Let him go.”

  “And then what? Can you honestly tell me he’d willingly go into exile? That he’d accept Davydd as my heir? You know he would not. Within hours of my death, Gwynedd would be at war. He’d never yield to Davydd, would die first. And if he won…if he won, Davydd would be the one to die. He’d put Davydd to death, disavow all allegiance to England, antagonize the other Welsh Princes, goad the Marcher lords and the crown into an invasion, and as for Joanna…how do you think she would fare at his hands, Senena?”

  “What are you saying, then? That you can never let him go?”

  “No…I am not saying that. When I feel confident that Davydd can stave off any challenge to his authority, that he can safeguard what I’ve won, I’ll give Gruffydd his freedom.”

  “And you think that should give me comfort? That day will never come! Davydd will never be able to hold his own against Gruffydd!”

  Llewelyn was not vulnerable from that quarter. “You are wrong, Senena,” he said quietly, with such calm certitude that Senena’s rage spilled over.

  “This is Joanna’s doing, all of it! She’s set you against your own, scrupled at nothing to get what she wanted—the crown for her son! How could you be so taken in? My God, if you only knew—”

  “If I only knew what, Senena?”

  The coldness of the query brought her up short. What could she tell him? She had nothing but suspicions, needed more than afternoon disappearances, Joanna’s obvious unease, and her own instincts. Not only would Llewelyn not believe her, he’d never forgive her.

  “I do not mean to offend you, my lord. But I love your son, and who will speak for him if I do not? If you do not free Gruffydd in your lifetime, he will never be freed. If he is still confined at your death, he will remain caged for the rest of his days. Davydd will never let him go. Can you do that to him? Can you condemn him to a life in shadow, away from the sun and the changing seasons? Can you—”

  Llewelyn had no answer for her. He turned away in silence.

  At Michaelmas, Davydd and his sister Gwladys departed for London, where Davydd was to do homage to Henry. Joanna had decided not to accompany her son, in part because she did not want to take any attention away from Davydd’s first diplomatic mission and in part because she did not want to leave Llewelyn for very long. He’d been sleeping badly since his return from Deganwy; all too frequently of late, she would awaken to find him staring into the dark, and she could offer only the most evanescent and ephemeral of comforts, winding her arms around him and holding him close, able to sympathize with his pain but not to share it.

  She did agree to meet Davydd in Shrewsbury upon his return, and she arrived at the Benedictine abbey on a mild afternoon in October. Later that day a plainly dressed woman entered a Shrewsbury church, asked the priest to hear her confession. That she was a stranger did not surprise him, for there was a lamentable reluctance even among the truly devout to confess their more serious sins to their own parish priests. She followed him toward the chancel, seated herself on the shriving stool, where she could be seen by all yet not heard, and in a very low voice confessed to the sin of adultery. Afterward, Joanna walked back to the abbey with a lighter step, for the first time in a year feeling at peace with herself.

  Davydd and Gwladys rode into the abbey precincts the following morning, laden with gifts and London news. Joanna was delighted to discover they were accompanied by Elen and John the Scot. But her smile froze at sight of the man riding at Elen’s side, at sight of Will de Braose.

  In accordance with Norman custom, dinner was served in the forenoon. The meal was less stressful, however, than Joanna had expected, for Will was on his best behavior; even Gwladys thawed toward him, enough to laugh heartily at his maliciously accurate imitation of Hubert de Burgh at his most pompous. Not surprisingly, the London visit was the focal point of conversation and the talk was easy, often amusing, the dinner passing without incident.

  Afterward, Davydd took Joanna to the stables, where he proudly displayed his London purchase, a superb red-gold stallion. “I remembered those stories Papa would tell me of Sul, his first horse, so I named this one Sulwyn. You think Papa will like him?”

  Joanna was not deceived by Davydd’s offhand manner, knew he’d gone to great pains to find this particular look-alike for Sul, to give his father this substitute solace. “Nothing could please him more, darling,” she said, and Davydd smiled. Linking her arm in his, he led her toward a beckoning sheen of blue, toward the placid waters of the abbey fishpond.

  “Does Will plan to return with us to Aber?” Joanna asked as nonchalantly as she could, felt a dizzying rush of relief when Davydd shook his head. “Davydd…I’d like to talk to you about Will and the plight troth. How do you feel—truly—about taking his daughter to wife? Darling, if you’d rather not, it’s still not too late. Your father and I made a mistake with Elen, would not—”

  “Mama, I appreciate your concern, but there’s no need. I’ve no objections to this match. Why should I? How many brides bring their husbands a prize like Buellt Castle?”

  “You are sure, Davydd? The girl’s youth does not matter?”

  Davydd picked up a pebble, sent it skipping across the surface of the pool. “I know it’ll be years ere Isabella can be a true wife to me, but in all honesty, Mama, I see that as no disadvantage.” He gave her a sideways glance, a self-conscious smile. “There is a girl, you see…”

  Joanna did see. “Do you love this girl, Davydd?”

  “I think so,” he admitted. “But you need not fret. I’ve always known mine must be a marriage of state. Mari knows it, too, never expected more of me than I could give. But I’d not see her hurt if I could help it. A marriage like this would be easier for her, would give her no cause for jealousy.”

  It came as something of a shock to Joanna to realize Davydd could be so pragmatic, so dispassionate even about passion. How unlike her children were! She yearned to know more about this mysterious Mari, but knew she’d never ask; this was not a part of a man’s life that he’d share with his mother. She wondered suddenly if it had been like this for Llewelyn, too, if he’d felt the same uneasy blend of pride and loss upon seeing his son for the first time as a man grown.

  “But what of Isabella’s lineage? You have no objections to wedding a girl of Norman blood?”

  “I think of myself as Welsh, Mama. For certes, my loyalties are to Wales, to Papa’s people. But I am no less your son than Papa’s, and to disavow my Norman blood would be to disavow you. When I was but a lad, Papa told me I was luckier than most, having two heritages to draw upon. I came to see that he was right, that a man who can claim descent from both Owain Fawr and Eleanor of Aquitaine is indeed blessed with a remarkable family tree!”

  Joanna was deeply touched, but too wise in the ways of motherhood to embarrass her son by letting him know. She contented herself with a smile, a kiss upon his cheek, and a necessary lie. “Now that I know it is truly your wish to wed Isabella de Braose, my mind is greatly eased.”

  “Mama, I must talk to you about Henry. I wanted to be the one to tell you, made the others agree to that, for I know how fond you are of him. He has been forced to delay his expedition against the French, for when he arrived at Portsmouth, he found less than half the expected ships in the harbor. I had remained in London, but Elen’s husband was at Portsmouth, and his account can be trusted, however unlikely it first sounds to you; John could not embellish a tale in the telling to sav
e his very soul. He says Henry flew into a wild rage, blamed Hubert de Burgh for failing to assemble enough ships. He lost all control, cursed de Burgh as a traitor, as a pawn of the French, even went so far as to draw his sword.”

  “He did what?”

  Davydd nodded. “John says it was a right ugly scene, says his Uncle Chester had to step between them, intercede for de Burgh—Chester, of all men! When they were at last able to calm Henry, the rupture was somehow patched over. De Burgh is to continue as Justiciar, but I doubt that he’ll forget. Nor will the men who witnessed it. It showed Henry in no favorable light, Mama, made him look unsteady of purpose, unreliable of temper…and not a little ridiculous.”

  “This sounds so unlike him. His is a gentle spirit, Davydd, not given to violence…”

  “It seems he has more of the Angevin temper than men thought.”

  Joanna frowned. “You mean his father’s temper. But you’re wrong in that, Davydd. John would never have thrown such a tantrum. He once put a sword to Llewelyn’s throat, but that was very deliberately done. He’d not have drawn a sword upon one of his own councilors, not unless he fully meant to use it. Whatever men may say of John, he was never inept.”

  Davydd had developed a morbid fascination with the Angevin King, the grandfather he’d never known. Even now, in his twenty-first year, he found it impossible to identify with John in any sense, to acknowledge a blood bond with a mortal enemy of the Welsh. He found it equally hard to associate his mother with such a man, and he loved Joanna too much to indulge his curiosity at her expense. He wanted to take advantage of this sudden breach in her defenses, to ask those questions only she could answer. But he did not want to hurt her, and he hesitated.