Here Be Dragons

by Sharon Kay Penman

  “I know,” Davydd said. “And how much easier it would be for him if he did not. I would that there were some strange alchemy to change love into hate, to blot out memories, to banish yesterdays…”

  “Are you speaking for Papa? Or for yourself?”

  “For Papa, Elen.” Davydd sounded annoyed, and a silence fell between them. But then he said very softly, “I could never hate Mama.”

  “Papa looks so tired. I worry about him so much, Davydd…” Elen’s eyes searched the hall, seeking her father. “Who is that woman with him? The one in green.”

  “You mean…Hunydd?”

  “It that be her name. Who is she, Davydd? I’ve never seen her before.” She looked at Davydd expectantly, was surprised to see color mount in his face.

  “It has been over eight months, Elen.” But even then she did not understand, not until he added defensively, “What did you expect Papa to do, take holy vows?”

  Elen’s eyes narrowed, focusing upon Hunydd with sudden, probing intensity, subjecting the older woman to an exacting scrutiny, one that was far from friendly. Hunydd’s were quiet attractions—a smile of singular sweetness, a tranquil composure. There was nothing gaudy or obvious about her appearance, nothing garish in her dress. She was listening attentively to Llewelyn, but she was not clinging to him, was not giving herself proprietary airs. That mattered little to Elen; she still found herself seething with resentment, with a child’s sense of betrayal and loss.

  Davydd was watching her. “The marriage is dead, Elen,” he said quietly.

  “I know.” Elen tore her gaze from Hunydd. “But tell me the truth, Davydd. Tell me it does not bother you to see that woman in Mama’s place.”

  Davydd beckoned to a passing servant, claimed a cup of mead. He drank, glanced at his sister, and drank again. “It bothers me,” he said, and passed the cup to Elen.

  They looked at one another. All around them swirled the sounds of music, of harp and crwth. The hall was bedecked with evergreen boughs and Christmas holly, lit by blazing torches, flickering rushlights, gilded candelabras. But to Elen it seemed as festive as a wake. “Davydd…is it always like this?”

  “No,” he said, giving her a bleak smile. “Sometimes it is not nearly so cheerful.”

  At low tide, the white sands known to the Welsh as Traeth Lafan lay exposed and men could venture out upon them with little risk. Davydd stood at the water’s edge, watching as his sister was ferried across the strait, and as the boat touched bottom, he strode forward, held out his hand to help her alight upon the sand.

  “Dismiss your men,” he said, “and I’ll escort you back to Aber.” Elen linked her arm in his, and they began to walk up the beach. “Tell me,” he said, after a few moments, “how is Mama?”

  “The truth? Wretchedly unhappy.”

  “Did you give her my letter?”

  “You know I did.” Elen stopped, put her hand imploringly upon his arm. “Summon the boatmen back, Davydd. Go and see her. It would mean so much to her if you—”

  “No,” he said hastily. “No…I cannot.”

  She stepped back, stared at him. “How can you be so self-righteous, so unwilling to forgive? Jesú, Davydd, Mama would have forgiven you any sin under God’s sky!”

  “I know,” he admitted. “Do you not think I want to see her? But I cannot, Elen. I cannot do that to Papa.”

  “But Davydd, Papa knows I go to Llanfaes. I’ve made no secret of it; nor has he ever attempted to dissuade me.”

  “You’re not his son.”

  “Davydd, he would not—”

  “You just do not understand. You do not see Papa every day, as I do. All his life, Papa has been the most decisive of men. Yet now he does nothing. Men expected him to divorce Mama months ago. But he has not. He cannot bring himself to do it…not yet. The wound is still too raw. It’s not healing as it ought, Elen, and till it does, I’ll do nothing that might add to his pain.”

  “Ah, Davydd…” But she did not know what to say, and they walked the rest of the way in silence.

  “Am I intruding, Papa?”

  Llewelyn shoved his chair back, smiled at his daughter. “An opportune intrusion, lass. As you can see,” he said, gesturing toward the chessboard, “Ednyved has maneuvered me into a right perilous position.”

  Elen closed the door, came forward into the bedchamber. As she did, she could not help envisioning the desperate drama that had been played out in this chamber at Eastertide, and she thought, How can Papa bear to sleep here? “Papa, we do need to talk…about Mama.”

  Llewelyn’s smile froze, and when Ednyved started to rise, he said, “There is no need to go. Elen, I’ve told you this before. There is nothing to say.”

  “But there is, Papa, and I beg you to hear me out. Not only for your sake, for Davydd’s.”

  Llewelyn pushed his chair back still farther, got to his feet. “Davydd?”

  “Papa, he is being torn in two. He thinks he cannot be loyal to you unless he disavows Mama.”

  Llewelyn frowned. “I never wanted that, would never have asked it of him.”

  “I know, Papa. But until you act, Davydd is not free to act, either. He cannot reconcile with Mama, will not even go to Llanfaes. Papa, do you not see? To go on like this, month after month, with nothing resolved…it only causes greater pain. It is not fair to you, to Davydd, to me…or to Mama.”

  “Fair to Joanna?” Llewelyn’s voice had taken on a cutting edge, and Elen’s resolve began to waver; she’d never found it easy to gainsay her father.

  “Please, Papa, hear me out. I’m not defending what Mama has done, but I do not think she’s forfeited all claims to fairness. She was your wife for nigh on twenty-four years. All the love and loyalty she gave you cannot be blotted out as if it had never been, not for one wretched mistake.”

  “Mistake?” he echoed incredulously. “That is rather a quaint way to describe adultery, Elen.”

  Elen was too deeply committed now to recant. “A mistake, Papa. She let herself be seduced at a vulnerable time in her life, at a time when you and she were estranged. She erred. But she repented of it, she—”

  “Indeed?” he said scathingly. “Was that what she was doing with Will de Braose in my bed—penance?”

  “Nothing happened that night, Papa—nothing. They were together, yes. But it was Will’s doing, not Mama’s. She did not lay with him.”

  Llewelyn’s face was very still, suddenly unreadable. Elen took a step closer, and then he said, “Do you expect me to believe that?”

  “I believe it, Papa.”

  They’d all but forgotten Ednyved. He spoke up unexpectedly, laconically. “For what it’s worth, Llewelyn, so do I.”

  Llewelyn glanced toward Ednyved, and then away. Could there be any truth to Elen’s claim? Could it be that Joanna had not brought de Braose into this chamber, into her marriage bed? But why did he care? Why did he want so to believe it?

  He swung back toward his daughter, said roughly, “That changes nothing. She has never denied laying with de Braose. Does it matter when…or where? She was unfaithful. She betrayed me. Do you think I could forget that? Or forgive?”

  “No,” Elen admitted. “No, I do not. Nor does Mama. Even though she always forgave you.”

  “Just what do you mean by that?”

  Elen had never meant to go so far. But she could no longer control her tongue, heard herself say, “I mean, Papa, that you were not always faithful to Mama. She knew that too…and yet loved you no less.”

  Llewelyn’s anger was tempered by disbelief. “What are you saying, Elen? Are you truly likening my occasional lapses to Joanna’s adultery with de Braose?”

  Elen smiled wanly, sadly. “Those were Mama’s very words—‘occasional lapses.’ She agrees with you, Papa, sees her sin as unforgivable. But I…I find myself wondering why marriage vows are only for women. Why is it so one-sided, Papa? Why is it so damnably unfair?”

  “Because,” Llewelyn said bluntly, “if it were not, how would a ma
n ever know if a child was his?” He saw at once, though, that his daughter had given his words a meaning he’d never intended. Elen paled, then held out her hand in instinctive entreaty.

  “You do not doubt that, do you, Papa? You do believe that Davydd and I are yours?”

  Llewelyn drew a sharp breath. “Ah, Elen…” He swiftly closed the space between them, took her in his arms. “I know you are, lass. I’ve never doubted that, not even for a moment.”

  “Papa, I want only for you to be happy again. I think I understand why you’ve not yet divorced Mama. It’s…it’s like repudiating your past, like an amputation of the soul. But sometimes amputation is the only way. You’ve seen enough battlefield injuries to know that.”

  Elen had rehearsed her plea often enough so that it came readily to her lips now, but she could not altogether stifle a sense of guilt at what she was doing, urging her father to forsake Joanna. Yet what else could she do? If Papa could not forgive Mama, he had somehow to forget her. But however much she told herself that, she still felt that hers was at once an act of healing and betrayal. Raising up, she kissed Llewelyn on the cheek, then all but ran from the chamber.

  Ednyved rose without apparent haste. “Let’s leave the rest of the game till the morrow.”

  He had almost reached the door when Llewelyn said, “What would you or Rhys…”

  He regretted the impulse in mid-sentence, let the words trail off into oblivion. Ednyved stopped, gave him a pensive, searching look. “I’ve thought on that,” he conceded. “I daresay there’s not a man at your court who has not. I suspect Rhys would have slain them both, Catrin and her lover. I’d have hanged the man, divorced Gwenllian.” He paused. “But then Rhys loved Catrin too much, and I love Gwenllian too little.”

  Llewelyn said nothing. Ednyved reached for the door latch, glanced back over his shoulder. “I’d not presume to advise you, Llewelyn. But whatever you decide, my friend, do it soon. One way or another, lay your ghosts to rest.”

  Llewelyn stood motionless in the center of the room, staring at the bed, the bed in which Joanna had lain with Will de Braose. Or had she? He swore under his breath. The silence was illusory; so, too, was his solitude. He swore again. “Lay my ghosts to rest. Christ, if only I could…”

  16

  Llanfaes, North Wales

  January 1231

  Joanna drew the shutter back, gazed up at a sky opaque and dark. Clouds had begun to drift over the island shortly after dusk. It was unseasonably mild for late January, and the air was damp and drizzly. She caught muffled echoes of thunder, a sound as ominous as it was uncommon; winter thunderstorms were ill-starred occurrences, often portents of coming grief, untimely death. Joanna crossed herself, pulled the shutters into place, closing out the sounds of night and sea, but not those forebodings born of superstition…and solitude.

  Loneliness was an unrelenting foe, one that Joanna had come to know well in the past nine months and thirteen days. It could never be conclusively defeated; at best, she could hope for a stalemate, but in the last week it had gained hard-fought ground, for Glynis had departed for a fortnight’s visit with her family.

  If loneliness was the enemy, time was its ally. Never had the hours in a day seemed so interminable to Joanna. For more than twenty years, hers had been a life of constant activity and unremitting responsibilities. In learning Welsh, she’d taken up the obligations of a woman of rank, and from dawn till dusk she’d been occupied in the management of her husband’s vast household, acting as consort, wife, mother. Hers were supervisory skills; she was not expected to turn her own hand to domestic chores. But it was for her to see that those chores were performed, that soap was made and candles were dipped and bread baked, that salt was hauled in from Cheshire brine springs and Spanish cottons from the great fairs at Winchester and Smithfield, that meat was salted for winter and linen woven from flax, that no man was turned away hungry from Llewelyn’s hearth, be he highborn lord or lowborn beggar. Any free time was given over to the universal female pastime, sewing, for not even queens were exempt from the demands of needlework.

  There was an embroidery frame in one corner of the bedchamber, but it collected only cobwebs; Joanna had no one to sew for. Now she filled her days with vain regrets, played listless games of chess, merels, and tables with Glynis, read and reread her meagre library, and yearned for her freedom. For Richard had been right; jeweled fetters were no less onerous for being gilded, and she was no longer indifferent as to what her future might hold. But she had decided not to accept her brother’s offer, did not want to dwell at Chilham Castle upon his charity. Llewelyn could banish her from Wales, but not from the Marches. She had a Shropshire manor at Condover and a hunting lodge near Ellesmere, and she meant to put down roots in the shadow of her husband’s realm, as close as she could get to her son.

  There was a Welsh proverb by which Joanna put great store these days: For every wound, the ointment of time. She fervently hoped it would prove true for Davydd, that eventually the breach between them could be mended. But until she was free, she could do nothing to effect a reconciliation, and it was this aspect of her confinement she found most crippling. How much longer did Llewelyn mean to hold her here? Why had he not divorced her ere how? She was baffled by his failure to act, for by rights he ought to have repudiated her months ago. He had ever been a man to cut his losses, to jettison useless cargo, and for a Prince, what greater encumbrance could there be than an unfaithful wife?

  There was an hourglass on the table, but the sands seemed to have frozen. No matter how often Joanna glanced at it, she could detect not the faintest trickle of time. After unbraiding and brushing out her hair, she wandered aimlessly about the chamber, at last settling down with her harp. The one benefit she’d gained from these months of enforced leisure was that her harp playing had improved dramatically since her first halting efforts under Llewelyn’s tutelage. Striking a chord, she began to sing softly.

  “In orchard where the leaves of hawthorn hide, the lady holds a lover to her side. Until the watcher in the dawning cried, ‘Ah, God, ah, God, the dawn! It comes how soon.’” The song had five additional verses, but she did not continue; the melody was too plaintive, the lyrics too easy to identify with.

  Next to the hourglass was her most cherished possession, a small ivory casket of letters, her only link with the world beyond Llanfaes. Lifting the casket lid, she took inventory of these much-handled keepsakes: four letters from Elen, two from Richard, one from Nell, and one—heartbreakingly brief and stilted—from Davydd. Sliding the candelabra toward her, she picked a letter at random, one of Elen’s, began to read aloud passages long since memorized.

  Her head jerked up at the sound of Bran’s footsteps in the antechamber; she knew he would not come to her at such an hour unless he had news of grave import. Her breathing quickened, for these months in isolation had honed her nerves to the breaking point. All too often she tormented herself with morbid visions of Llewelyn lying ill and feverish, refusing to send for her, damning her with his dying breath, never knowing that she loved him still. She’d become obsessed with this fear, that death would end their estrangement, that as it had happened with John, so, too, would it happen with Llewelyn, and she rose hastily to her feet as the door opened.

  Bran’s somber face did nothing to reassure her. “Madame,” he said, “my lord is here to see you.”

  Joanna stared at him, doubt giving way to dawning joy, for Bran was Davydd’s man and it did not occur to her that he could mean anyone but her son. When Bran stepped back, she was stunned at sight of her husband.

  Llewelyn closed the door with deliberation, but he did not slide the bolt into place. There was a part of Joanna’s mind that noted this, for she seemed suddenly able to focus only upon irrelevancies, and she found herself noting, too, that the wool of his mantle was dry. The storm must still be nigh, she thought, and then: How tired he looks, and thinner; he’s not eating as he ought.

  “Well?” Llewelyn said, and the challeng
ing, hostile tone of his voice brought her abruptly back to the realities of their respective positions. “Have you nothing to say to me?”

  Joanna swallowed. “These months past,” she said huskily, “I’ve begged the Almighty for but one favor, that I might see you once more, have the chance to explain. Now…now you are here and suddenly I do not know where to begin.”

  “I want the truth from you. Not what you think I’d rather hear, or what you’d have me believe. Can I trust you for that much, for the truth?”

  He’d turned words into weapons, each one inflicting a wound of its own. Joanna nodded. “Yes,” she whispered. “I will tell you the truth.” But what was it? If only she could think coherently, calmly. Why had he not forewarned her of his coming, given her time to prepare? She knew why, though. His was first and foremost a military mind, trained to take advantage of surprise. He’d removed his mantle, flung it carelessly across a coffer, but she read tension in his stance, in every line of his body, and she changed her mind as she watched him. There’d been nothing premeditated about this visit; his was the taut wariness of a man acting on impulse, acting against his better instincts.

  He had yet to unbuckle his scabbard, had yet to move away from the door. Over the years she’d seen his moods range across the emotional spectrum, had seen him enraged, jubilant, disheartened, sardonic, playful, calculating, and occasionally frightened. But never had she seen him so obviously ill at ease.

  “Elen told me that you did not bring de Braose to our bedchamber that night. Is that true?”

  “Yes,” Joanna said. “I swear it.” But how could she make him believe that? Her eyes strayed from his face to the open casket, and then she was rummaging through the letters, scattering them about the table in her heedless haste. “This letter explains it better than I could. Will you read it, Llewelyn? Please?” She held out the sealed parchment to him; their fingers brushed as he took it, and she was jolted by even so brief and casual a contact as that. Did he feel it, too? She could not tell, for he was turning away, shifting so that she could not watch his face as he read.