Here Be Dragons

by Sharon Kay Penman

  It was a warm Sunday in late June, too warm for walking, and when Joanna came upon the debris of an ancient wreck, she sat down upon a salt-encrusted spar. The guard following at a discreet distance stretched out on the sand, began to doze. So, too, did Joanna’s spaniel.

  Joanna spent many hours like this, gazing across the strait toward Aber. She knew Llewelyn was no longer there, so even this last tenuous link had been sundered, but she found herself drawn to the beach nonetheless. It was an uncommonly clear day; the wind was still and the Eryri Mountains had shed their cloud haloes. She was able to recognize individual peaks, Llewelyn’s lessons in geography having at last taken effect, and she realized suddenly how much she would miss these familiar soaring silhouettes, miss the stark splendors of her husband’s realm. “You were right, love,” she whispered. “You always said I’d come in time to see the grandeur of your homeland…”

  Topaz had begun to bark. From the corner of her eye, Joanna glimpsed a woman crossing the sand. “Hush, girl,” she soothed. “ ’Tis only Glynis.” But the dog knew better, was already capering about in eager welcome. Joanna turned and her heart skipped a beat, then began to race. Flustered and not a little fearful, she stood very still, watching as her daughter walked toward her. This was the confrontation she’d most dreaded. Davydd might in time forgive her, but Elen? They’d been too often at odds, never quite connecting, theirs an erratic sort of intimacy, one with boundaries, self-imposed constraints, vast areas left uncharted, unexplored by mutual consent. What could she say to Elen now? How could she expect Elen to understand?

  “Well, I will say this for you, Mama. No half measures; when you decide to come down off your pedestal, you do so with a vengeance.”

  The words were tart, but surprisingly the tone was not; it was more rueful than reproachful, almost whimsical. Joanna stared at her unpredictable daughter, saying at last, “I am glad you’ve come, Elen.”

  “I would have come sooner, but John and I had gone north from Edinburgh, were doubtlessly the last to know.” Elen glanced over at the sleeping soldier before sitting down upon the sea-warped driftwood. “Your guard is out of hearing range. Sit with me, Mama, so we can talk.”

  “Did you get my letter?” Joanna asked, sighing with relief when Elen nodded.

  “Yes, it finally caught up with me, and just in time. Papa’s letter had been sparing of details, and I was well nigh going mad, trying to envision circumstances under which you’d have taken a lover into Papa’s bedchamber. I could only conclude you were sore crazed with love, and yet you’d showed no symptoms of it at Shrewsbury. When your letter came, I could only wonder why I’d not guessed the truth. That was so very like Will, after all.”

  Elen finally paused for breath. “All this did clear up one mystery for me, though. Will was notorious for his roving eye, and yet with me he was always quite circumspect, could not have been more respectful had I been a nun. At least now I know why!”

  “Elen…I will never understand you. How can you jest?”

  “I guess…guess because I’m nervous. I just did not know what to say to you.” Elen mustered a wan smile. “You will admit, Mama, that my lessons in the social graces never covered a situation quite like ours.”

  She did not wait for Joanna’s response, leaned forward and touched her mother’s hand. “I do have some good news for you. I asked Papa if the priest from St Catherine’s could say weekly Mass at the manor, and he agreed. Mama…does that not please you? Why do you look at me so strangely?”

  “I…I never expected sympathy, Elen.”

  Elen withdrew her hand. “Why not? Why should you think I’d be less understanding than Davydd?”

  “Davydd does not understand, darling. I can only hope that he will in time, as I’d hoped you might. But I would not have blamed you for being bitter. We’ve so often been at cross purposes, and I know…I know how much you love your father.”

  “Yes, I do. I love Papa dearly. But what would you have me do, Mama? Disavow you because you made a mistake? Would that change anything? Would it make Papa’s hurt any the less?”

  “A mistake,” Joanna echoed, dismayed. Had Elen so misconstrued her letter? “Elen, I thought you understood. I was unfaithful to your father.”

  “Yes, Mama, I know. You broke your marriage vows. But a few afternoons in an abandoned hafod do not make you the whore of Babylon. You sinned and then were sorry. I daresay the same can be said of Papa. Papa is a remarkable man, in truth, but he wears a crown, not a halo. Surely you know he has been unfaithful to you?”

  Joanna was both disconcerted and defensive. “Yes…I know. But when I compared my lot with that of most wives, I had no cause for complaint. Llewelyn never kept a mistress at court; he even put aside Cristyn for me. Whilst we never discussed it, I knew he did bed with other women, but only when I was not available, only when we’d been long apart.”

  “As when he was waging war in Ceri?”

  “Elen, I do not see the point of this. What would you have me say? Of course I would rather Llewelyn shared no bed but mine. But I could not realistically expect him to abstain for weeks at a time.”

  “You did.”

  “Why are you being so perverse? You cannot equate Llewelyn’s occasional lapses with my adultery. Infidelity is a greater sin for a woman; so it has always been.”

  “Yes, so men keep telling us,” Elen said dryly, and Joanna found herself staring at her daughter as if at a stranger.

  “I once told my father that blood breeds true,” she said slowly. “I spoke greater truth than I knew, for none could ever doubt you are Eleanor of Aquitaine’s great-granddaughter. It frightens me to hear you talk like this, for I do not think you realize the danger in it. Elen…Elen, you’ve never…?” She let the sentence trail off, and Elen gave her a smile of gentle mockery.

  “You ought not to ask a question, Mama, unless you are sure you truly want to know the answer.”

  “Oh, Elen, no…” Joanna whispered, sounding so horrified that Elen flushed, sprang to her feet.

  “What are you going to do, Mama? Lecture me on morality? I should think that would be rather droll, coming from you!”

  Joanna, too, was on her feet now. “Elen, you must listen to me. I am not passing judgment upon you, ask only that you hear me out. Walk toward the water with me, so we may be sure we cannot be overheard. Please, darling, you do not know what you risk!”

  Elen hesitated. “Very well, Mama. But I’ll hear no sermons from you!”

  “I said I was not judging you. I want only to ask you a question. Mine could have been a far different fate. But your father has shown me remarkable leniency. Why do you think that is, Elen?”

  This was not the question Elen was expecting. “I…I suppose he did it for us, for Davydd and me. And then, he did love you. Mayhap he finds it hard to hurt you, even now…”

  Joanna flinched, but then she nodded. “You are right. But I think there is yet another reason for his restraint. I think his response might have been different had he not been Welsh.”

  Elen came to an abrupt halt. “I do not understand. Welsh law holds adultery to be a grave sin indeed. So why…”

  “Because the Welsh look upon women in a different light. A Welshman does not think of his wife as his property; she has rights of her own. But a Norman wife does not, and that makes her betrayal all the more unforgivable in her husband’s eyes. Elen, I know of what I speak, for I am Norman-French born and bred; their ways are mine. I know no Norman lord capable of treating an unfaithful wife as Llewelyn has so far treated me, not even the men of my own family. My darling, your husband is a good man, but he does not share your heritage, and you must ever bear that in mind. Promise me that, Elen, promise me you’ll not forget.”

  Elen’s resentment had ebbed away as Joanna spoke. “You’ve no cause for fear, Mama. That question you almost asked? The answer is no, I have not.”

  Joanna looked into her daughter’s beautiful brown eyes, eyes that held hers quite candidly, and re
alized she had no way of knowing whether Elen spoke the truth. Even if she had, what of tomorrow? Elen was entrapped in an unhappy marriage, a barren marriage. How long would it be ere she sought satisfaction elsewhere, ere that rebellious spirit led her astray?

  “Ah, Elen…” Her voice wavered. “How could we have meant so well and done so wrong? I truly thought you could learn to love John the Scot, but I should have known, should have seen…”

  “I no longer blame you, Mama.” Elen stooped to pick up a cockle shell. “None of us is given a warranty of happiness, not in this life. Even if I’d wed another man, who’s to say we’d have found contentment together? Sometimes even love is not enough. After all, you loved Papa, and where did it get you?”

  “To Llanfaes,” Joanna said tonelessly, and Elen dropped the shell, moved to close the space between them.

  “Mama, I’m sorry! I do not know why I said that. Why must my accursed tongue inflict wounds I never mean?”

  “It does not matter, Elen…truly.”

  “But it does! I swore to myself that this time I would not do it, that I’d say nothing hurtful or harsh.” Elen turned her back, stood staring out over the water. When she spoke again, her voice was indistinct, pitched very low. “But I’ve sworn that before, only to hear myself provoking yet another quarrel with you, stirring up strife betwixt us…”

  “Why?” Joanna reached out, touched her daughter’s arm. “Why, Elen?”

  “I would that I knew! Frustration, resentment, mayhap sheer perversity. You do not bring out the best in me, Mama. But then I hardly need tell you that, do I? I’ve always been a disappointment to you, as far back as I can remember—”

  “Darling, that’s not so! Elen, I love you, I do!”

  Elen kept her eyes stubbornly set upon the distant mountains, but her lashes were wet, tangled. “That may be so, Mama, but you do not approve of me. I used to wonder how Davydd did it, how he knew so unerringly just how to please you, for I…I never did, you see. I did try, though. You may not believe that, but I did.

  “I was about seven the first time I realized you were not like the mothers of my friends. Your father had freed some of Papa’s hostages, merely because you asked it of him. People were so joyful, so grateful, and I was so proud of you. I wanted to be a great lady, too…just like you. And as I grew older, I watched as you acted for Papa at the English court, I saw how much Papa loved you, and I tried to be what you wanted, to be like you. But you were so controlled, so serene, so sure of yourself, and I…I was none of those things, Mama. In truth, I was not in the least like you, at best could only hope to become an imperfect copy of a perfect original, and that seemed rather pointless to me, even at fourteen. And so I stopped trying to gain your approval. Only I…I could not stop wanting it.”

  Elen had not intended to reveal so much and she forced an abrupt, self-conscious laugh. “I did not mean to babble on like this. I guess I’ve been like a bottle corked too long. One inadvertent touch, and the contents spew out in a great gush. Let that be a lesson to you, Mama. There are few questions so full of risk as a seemingly simple ‘why.’”

  Joanna had been listening to her daughter’s outpouring in astonishment. “Is that how you truly saw me, Elen? As controlled, serene, sure of myself? God in Heaven!” She caught Elen’s arm, turned the younger woman to face her. “Elen, look at me. Truly look at me. I was a King’s bastard. Under our law, I had no claims to anything, least of all to my father’s name. My father loved me, but he could not legitimize my position at his court; I was there on sufferance and all knew it. And then at fourteen, I became a foreign wife, the English bride, the outsider once more.”

  Elen’s eyes had widened. “I never knew you felt that way, Mama. You always seemed at home in Wales.”

  “That is what I am trying to tell you, Elen. I learned at a very early age to hide my fears, to appear what I was not. Pride, no less than charity, covers a multitude of sins. I was very fortunate, found with your father what had been denied me in John’s world, and in time I did gain greater assurance; the poise was not entirely pretense. But scrape away the surface gloss, dig through the glaze to the raw clay, and you’ll find a little girl forbidden to play with the other village children, a little girl who’d lie for hours in the heather above Middleham Castle, wanting only to belong.

  “And that is what I wanted to give you, a sense of belonging. You were so impulsive, Elen, so…so rash. I did try to curb your spirits, to teach you to adapt to the world you’d one day have to live in, as the wife of a Norman lord. I did want you to conform; I cannot deny it. And I was disappointed when you would not. But only because I loved you so much, because I feared for you. My darling, you seemed so heartrendingly vulnerable, so open to hurt. I wanted to spare you that if I could, to show you how to construct a woman’s defenses, how to make castle walls out of courtesy, to distance yourself whilst still preserving the inner keep, the secret self that is Elen.”

  Elen was blinking back tears. “I daresay you’re right, Mama.” She gestured toward a tiny bird skittering along the water’s edge. “Life probably would be easier for me if I had protective coloring, if I could blend into my background like that little sandling.” She smiled tremulously. “But I’m not a sandling, Mama, am more akin to the magpie, I fear, curious and conspicuous and too venturesome for my own good!”

  Joanna stepped forward, touched her hand to Elen’s cheek. “As it happens,” she said, “magpies have ever been one of my favorite birds,” and Elen came into her arms, clung tightly.

  Joanna was reluctant to end their embrace, kept her arm around Elen’s waist. “Passing strange, that you should have drawn that analogy to the sandling, for your father once made a surprisingly similar comparison. He, too, talked of protective coloring, told me I cloaked myself in the muted earth tones of a wellborn Norman lady. But he knew it was camouflage, knew me so well…”

  He’d never been taken in by her act. Right from the first he’d seen through it, had seen the frightened little girl behind the bridal silk, the brittle smile. Joanna’s eyes filled with tears. “Elen…Elen, I’ve made such a bloody botch of things. Tell me the truth. How badly have I hurt Llewelyn? I do not mean the man; that I know. But what of the Prince? How much damage have I done?”

  “Not as much damage as you fear, Mama. I’ll not deny the potential was there for disaster, that you threw a burning brand into a sun-dried field. But Papa acted to contain the fire, seems to have quenched it in time. Not so surprising, at least not to anyone who knows Papa. He holds all Wales in the palm of his hand, has for nigh on fifteen years now. It would take a brave man to challenge him, an even braver one to mock him. Mayhap if he’d showed weakness…but he hanged Will de Braose at high noon before eight hundred witnesses. Men will remember that, Mama.”

  “And Davydd?”

  Elen did not pretend to misunderstand. “Again, the answer is not as much damage as you think…or as there could have been. Papa has made a point of keeping Davydd close by his side—conspicuously so. When he met the English Chancellor in Shrewsbury last week, Davydd was with him, and will be with him again when he meets with Maelgwn next month. It is an effective strategy, Mama, will do much to discourage speculation, to still all but the most vicious tongues.”

  “I would to God I could believe that…”

  “I’m not offering false comfort, Mama. Papa is a man well able to take care of himself, to look to his own interests. He was never a defensive battle commander, preferred to take the war into enemy territory. And that is what he has done. He is no longer calling himself Prince of Gwynedd, has begun to make use of a new title—Prince of Aberffraw and Lord of Eryri.”

  After more than twenty years in Wales, Joanna at once grasped the significance of the change. Aberffraw was the ancient capital of Gwynedd, and in Welsh lore, the Prince of Aberffraw held a position of dominance. Although he was shrewd enough to do it by indirection, with a subtlety to allay the suspicions of his English neighbors and the jealousies of his W
elsh allies, Llewelyn was, in effect, claiming for himself the title of Prince of Wales.

  Joanna bit her lip. “How very like him that is,” she said, and there was in her voice such a poignant blend of pride and pain that Elen felt as if their roles had suddenly been reversed; she found herself yearning to comfort Joanna as a mother might comfort a hurt and helpless child.

  “Let’s go back to the manor, Mama. You look so careworn; you’ve not been sleeping, have you?”

  “Not much,” Joanna admitted. She whistled for Topaz and they began to walk along the shore. “We’d best wake Ifan up ere we go; I think he might be discomfited if we just went off and left him. Tell me about Gwladys and Ralph de Mortimer. Were they wed as planned?”

  “No, the wedding was delayed. But it has been rescheduled for next month.” Elen’s eyes rested pensively upon her mother’s face. She’d not exaggerated; the strain was telling upon Joanna. She sighed, knowing what she had now to say would only lacerate an overburdened conscience even more.

  “I know no other way than to say this straight out, Mama. Papa and the de Braose family have decided to honor the plight troth.”

  Joanna stared at her daughter in disbelief. “Davydd…Davydd is still going to wed Will’s daughter?”

  Elen nodded. “Papa wrote to Eva de Braose and her brother Pembroke, told them that whilst he’d had no choice but to put Will to death, he was still willing to consider a marital alliance. Will’s widow and Pembroke showed themselves to be no less pragmatic than Papa. Not only did they want the marriage to take place, they wanted it to be celebrated as soon as possible, despite Isabella’s tender years. The wedding is to be held at Cricieth in Michaelmas week.”

  Joanna closed her eyes, but the sun still burned against her lids, dried the tears on her cheeks. How could Llewelyn bear to do this? How could he look at Isabella de Braose and not think of Will? “And Davydd…he’s willing?”

  “Yes, Mama, it seems he is. In part, I think, because he wants so much to please Papa. If Papa were to suggest he wed with a mermaid, I daresay Davydd would start scouring the beaches for one. But there’s more to it than that. People ofttimes misjudge Davydd. He’s more like Papa than men realize; theirs are differences more of style than substance. Davydd knows his own mind, Mama, knows what he wants—and obviously that is Buellt Castle.”