Here Be Dragons

by Sharon Kay Penman

  The few moments it took him to scan her letter encompassed an eternity for Joanna. “I tried to tell you,” she said. “And when I could not see you, I wrote that letter. But you sent it back unread…”

  Llewelyn glanced again at the letter and then dropped it onto the table. “It would not have mattered. I’d not have believed you.”

  “Do you believe me now?” she asked, but he did not answer her. Moving to the far side of the table, he reached for the flagon, splashed wine into an earthenware cup. Joanna watched, bracing herself for whatever was to come. His first question, though, was utterly unexpected.

  “Do you blame me for his death?”

  She gave a startled shake of her head. “No, of course not. You had the right.”

  His eyes had narrowed. “You did not mourn him?”

  She shook her head again, and he took a step toward her. “And what you said in your letter, it was true? You did not love him?”

  “No, never.” She drew a sharp, shuddering breath. “In all honesty, I am not sure I even liked him…”

  His mouth twisted. Striding forward, he grasped her by the wrist and jerked her toward him. “Then why did you do it? If you did not love him, why did you lay with him? What did you get in his bed that you could not get in mine?”

  She gasped and he loosened his grip. But although she’d later find bruises upon her wrist, now she did not even feel the pain. Was there no limit to the damage she’d done? That Llewelyn of all men, Llewelyn who was so confident, so secure in his sense of self, secure in his manhood, that he should have succumbed to doubts of this dark nature…Jesú, if only she had those October afternoons to live over! Her infidelity could not have been better calculated to penetrate her husband’s armor, to strike with devastating effect at his one vulnerability, that he was a man wed to a much younger wife. A wife who’d then taken a lover of thirty-two.

  “Beloved, no, it was not like that! No great passion burned between us. I swear it, Llewelyn, swear upon all the saints,” she cried, for at that moment she was willing to perjure herself even to the Almighty if only that would give Llewelyn a measure of comfort. “You must believe me. Will was never able to pleasure me as you did,” she said, and realized that she was not lying, after all; those feverish, urgent couplings with Will had never been more than flesh unto flesh, lacking utterly the deep and abiding intimacy of her lovemaking with Llewelyn.

  “You must believe me,” she repeated. “Think back upon our lovemaking in the months after your return from Ceri. Did I want you any the less? You know the answer to that, know how hot my blood ran for you. Ah, Llewelyn…we’ve shared so much, overcome so much. What man could hope to compete with memories such as mine? What man could hope to compete with you?”

  “Will de Braose.”

  “He meant nothing to me! Why do you find that so hard to believe? What of the women you’ve bedded with? I always told myself that yours were infidelities of the flesh, never of the heart. Was I wrong? What happened between Will and me did not touch upon the love I have for you. It…it was…”

  She faltered and he said sharply, “Was what? If it was not for love and not for lust, just why did you do it, then? Christ, Joanna, why would you risk so much for so little?”

  “I…I do not know if I can make you understand. I am not sure I fully understand it myself…even now. But this I can tell you—it would never have happened if he had not been Maude de Braose’s grandson.”

  She had so often rehearsed this very speech, as an act of faith. But she found herself fumbling for words, so fearful was she that he’d not hear her out. “There…there was a strange sort of bond between Will and me. No—not carnal, not like that!” She could no longer meet his eyes, for she was now getting into an area of half-truths and equivocation, denying a sexual attraction that had been magnetic, fateful…and mutual. But that was a secret she would take to her grave, and she said hastily, wretchedly, “I never meant for it to happen, Llewelyn. I was seeking only to comfort him, to—”

  “I see. And in offering your sympathy, it seemed only natural to offer yourself as well? A veritable angel of mercy. Tell me, Joanna, what of Will’s cousin? Jack de Braose suffered, too, at John’s hands, even more than Will, for he lost both father and grandmother in that Windsor dungeon. What of his grieving? What did you feel obliged to do for him?”

  Patches of hectic color stood out suddenly along Joanna’s cheekbones. “Do you truly believe that, Llewelyn, believe I had other lovers? That Will was not the first? Or did you say that just to hurt me?”

  Llewelyn stepped back, gave her a long, measuring look. “No,” he said softly. “No, I do not believe there were others.” And then he slowly unbuckled his scabbard, sat down at the table.

  For Joanna, that simple act was fraught with significance. She took a seat across from him, knowing now that he would listen to her—truly listen—and she’d never asked for more than that.

  “Richard thinks it was an…an act of atonement. I told him that was lunacy, of course, but now I am not so sure. I’ve never pitied anyone in my life as I pitied Will that day. He told me, you see, told me just how his grandmother and uncle died. Maude went mad at the last. Will told me she…oh, God, Llewelyn, they found her teethmarks in her son’s face! And Will was not spared that. He was but fourteen, and still they told him…”

  Llewelyn had not known the gruesome details of Maude’s death. But it stirred in him no pity for Will, only outrage that he should have shared so grisly a secret with Joanna, the one woman least able to bear such a burden. He reached for the wine cup but did not drink, pushed it, instead, across the table toward Joanna. He was beginning to understand. A clever man, de Braose. God rot him, too clever by half. Starvation and seduction…and John again. Always John.

  Joanna drank deeply, gratefully. She was perilously close to tears. “I sometimes dream of Maude, that Windsor dungeon. Once or twice I’ve even awakened screaming. And I keep wondering if John knew, or if he would have cared.”

  “You cannot blame yourself for John’s cruelties, Joanna.”

  “I know. And I do not. But I can blame myself for loving him. For I did love him, Llewelyn. There’s a part of me that still does…even now. I think that’s what I find hardest to admit or to understand, that I could still love him…”

  Llewelyn found himself responding to the pain in her voice. Reclaiming the cup, he, too, drank deeply. Joanna reached out; her fingers stopped just short of his. But then she drew back, said quietly, “I am not making excuses, Llewelyn, truly I am not. But I wanted you to understand that mine was not a betrayal of the heart. In some ways it was almost adultery by mischance, for it would never have happened had even one of the circumstances been different. If Will had not been sent to Rhosyr. If we had not quarreled so bitterly over Gruffydd. If I had not known Will as a lad, had not been able to identify so readily with his pain. If you had not—”

  Llewelyn set the cup down with a thud. “What?” When she hesitated, he said, “Tell me, Joanna. We agreed this would be a night for truths. Tell me.”

  “I am afraid to tell you, afraid you’ll think I am blaming you.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “About the de Braose marriages.” She saw him stiffen and she leaned across the table toward him. “You can so easily misconstrue what I’m about to say. I shall risk it, though, ask only that you hear me out. Llewelyn, I understand why you sought those alliances, I truly do. You did not act lightly, had compelling reasons for wanting the marriages. But that did not make it any easier for me. Four times I had to stand by as you married your children into the de Braose clan, four times I—”

  “You said you understood why, understood I was acting for Gwynedd’s good.”

  She nodded. “And I did understand. But…but I think I needed—just once—for you to put me first. When you did not, I was hurt…and aggrieved. More than I knew. I truly thought my anger was over, quenched. But there were embers still smoldering, and I can see now
that they fueled our quarrels. Unacknowledged anger acts like flint to tinder, can spark fires where we least expect them.”

  Llewelyn shoved his chair back. “What are you saying? That your anger led you into adultery?”

  Joanna rose as he did, hastened around the table toward him. “No, that is not what I am saying. I did not take a lover to spite you. Does that sound like me?”

  Her eyes were riveted upon his face, eyes full of entreaty. As he looked into those eyes, his mouth softened. “No,” he admitted. “No…it does not.”

  “I did not knowingly act upon that anger, Llewelyn. That I swear to you upon the surety of my soul. Nor did I ever seek to justify my infidelity by tallying up grievances of my own. I knew from the beginning that there was no justification for what I was doing. But I am trying to be honest with you, honest with myself…and I’ll never be sure I did not unwittingly let that resentment taint my judgment, my—”

  She stopped abruptly, for he was shaking his head. “Since that is not a question you can ever answer, Joanna, what point is there in dwelling upon it? Can you not see the folly in holding yourself accountable for thoughts you are not even sure you had?”

  The corner of his mouth quirked; it was only a phantom, fleeting shadow of the smile that could invariably catch at her heart, but it was still a smile, and she responded to it. It seemed almost miraculous to her that they could be talking together like this, without rancor or recriminations, and she hesitated to say or do anything to jeopardize this fragile, astonishing accord. But she had to know.

  “Llewelyn…why have you not yet divorced me?”

  He looked at her, saying nothing. She reached out; her hand brushed his sleeve. “Will you tell me this, then? Will you tell me what you mean to do?”

  “Until tonight,” he said, “I did not know.”

  “And now?”

  But even as she spoke, the storm broke. A sudden gust of wind blew the shutter back, quenching candles and scattering her letters about the floor. Rain was slanting in through the window, and they both flinched as thunder cracked directly overhead.

  They exchanged startled looks, and then sheepish smiles. “Christ, but that one was close,” Llewelyn said, and moved hastily to relatch the shutter while Joanna gathered up her letters, sought to comfort her cowering spaniel.

  “Llewelyn, stay here tonight. Please do not attempt a crossing of the strait in weather this vile.”

  “All right.”

  “You mean it? You’ll stay?”

  He shrugged, gestured toward the window. “What choice do I have?”

  Joanna nodded slowly. “Yes,” she echoed, “what choice?” More fool she, to read so much into his ready assent; what else could he do, in truth? “Llewelyn, there is something I must say to you. I’d not blame you if you did not believe me, but I must say it all the same. I love you. I’ve loved you since the summer of my fifteenth year, and divorce will not change that. Nothing will.”

  He stood very still, for one of the few times in his life at a loss for words, troubled in no small measure to realize how much he wanted to believe her.

  Joanna awoke sometime before dawn. The chamber was dark, but the hearth log still burned. Taking care not to disturb Llewelyn, she rose from the bed. He did not stir, not even when she settled down beside him again, having placed a candle in one of the headboard niches. His breathing was even, deep. He seemed to have shed years in his sleep, and looked so peaceful that she found herself blinking back tears.

  If not for the fact that they were still clothed, this could have been one of a thousand nights she and Llewelyn had passed in this bedchamber, in this bed. But it would be the last. Come morning he would awaken, arise, and walk out of the bedchamber, out of her life. She had two, mayhap three hours at most.

  Leaning over, she drew the coverlets up around his shoulders. How had he been able to fall asleep so easily? She’d lain awake for hours. That was not an uncommon experience for her; there’d been many a night in these past months when her body’s cravings had banished sleep, when memories of their lovemaking would set her to trembling. The needs of the flesh were not always easy to subordinate to enforced, involuntary chastity, and she was finding it increasingly difficult to be so tantalizingly close to Llewelyn now, to be sharing his bed but not his embrace.

  His lashes flickered; opening his eyes, he looked up at her. As always, she marveled at his ability to shift so smoothly from sleep to wakeful alertness; his dark eyes showed no disorientation, no surprise at sight of her. “Is it dawn?” he asked, and she shook her head.

  “No, not yet. Go back to sleep.”

  He raised up on his elbow, glanced upward. “Why the candle?”

  Color crept into her cheeks, but she gave him an honest answer. “I wanted to watch you.”

  His mouth curved. “It is not sporting to watch a man whilst he sleeps.” Pushing the pillow back against the headboard, he regarded her in silence for several moments. “It ought to feel strange, waking up beside you after so many months. But it does not feel strange at all, feels very natural.”

  “I’m glad,” she said rather breathlessly, “so glad you came.” He had yet to take his eyes from her face, and her color was deepening. “Do you know now what you will do…about me?”

  “I’ve always known what I ought to do.” He reached for a strand of her hair, entwined it about his fingers. “But now…now I know what I want to do.”

  “What?” she whispered, not daring to move, to risk breaking the spell.

  “This,” he said, and leaned toward her. The kiss was very gentle, almost tentative. But then her arms went up around his neck, and he felt her tears on his face. When he kissed her again, her mouth clung to his, and it was as if they’d never been apart. Theirs was suddenly a world bounded by bed hangings of Tripoli silk, a world without yesterdays or tomorrows, just the here and now and two halves made whole—all too briefly.

  Joanna’s breathing had yet to slow; it still came in loud, uneven gasps. She heard Llewelyn panting, knew his climax had been no less intense, no less overwhelming than her own. When he started to withdraw, she tightened her arms around him. “No,” she entreated, “no, not yet.” He shifted so that his weight no longer bore down upon her, and then he laughed, a sound Joanna had never thought to hear again.

  “I was just thinking,” he said, “that there’s more to be said for laying one’s ghosts to rest than most people realize.”

  She kissed the corner of his mouth. “Llewelyn…”

  Their eyes met, held. “No, breila,” he said. “Not now.”

  She nodded, disappointed but not surprised. She was afraid to attach too much significance to their lovemaking. It was too easy to explain it away as a one-time occurrence, a natural male response to intimacy and opportunity. Common sense warned that there was no place in a Prince’s life for a discredited, sullied wife. But lying now in Llewelyn’s arms, his breath upon her cheek, his hand upon her hip, she could not help but hope, and she settled back against him, closing her eyes. After a time, the change in his breathing told her he slept. She watched the hearth log burn down, listened to the lulling rhythm of rain upon the slate roof. Shortly before dawn, she fell asleep, too.

  When she awoke, the rain had stopped, the room showed the shadowy half-light of early morning, and she was alone. She sat up, pushing her hair out of her eyes, her brain clouded with sleep. “Llewelyn?” Reaching over, she jerked the bed hangings all the way back; the chamber was empty. If not for the sight of her discarded clothing scattered about the floor, she might almost have believed she’d dreamed it all. The fire had gone out and the air was chill; she shivered, fumbled for her bedrobe, and began numbly to follow her routine upon rising, as she’d done every morning for the past nine months.

  Five minutes later she halted her brushing in mid-stroke, sat down in the closest seat. She’d known that what happened between a man and woman in bed was not a reliable indication of intent. But however acute his morning-after regrets, how
could he have left her like this, without even a word of farewell?

  A knock sounded at the door and a young man entered, carrying a tray. “Where shall I put this, my lady?”

  Joanna had never seen him before. “Who are you?”

  He was staring past her at the bed, at its telltale dishevelment, his eyes wide and wondering. When he turned back to Joanna, his expression made it clear he thought her a practitioner of sexual sorcery, a Norman-French Circe. “I am Phylip, Madame,” he mumbled. “I came over last night with my lord; he ordered me to fetch this from the kitchen.” And only then, as he set the tray upon the table, did Joanna see that it held food for two.

  Although she caught the enticing aroma of hot baked bread, Joanna did not stir. She was still sitting there, the tray untouched before her, when Llewelyn returned. One glance at her face and he crossed swiftly to her side. “Joanna?”

  “I thought…thought you’d gone,” she said, and he drew her to her feet, his hands tightening on her shoulders.

  “Gone? What did you think that was for?” With a jerk of his head toward the canopied bed, the rumpled sheets. “Old time’s sake? Hiraeth?”

  “I did not know what to think,” she confessed. “I was afraid to expect too much.”

  “I told you once that you held yourself too cheaply, breila. It seems you still do,” he said, and slipped his arm around her waist. “Let’s eat first, and then you can finish dressing. Do not bother about packing; we’ll send for your belongings later.”

  “You…you want me back, Llewelyn?”

  She sounded so dumbfounded that he smiled and shrugged. “After twenty-four years, you’re a hard habit to break, Joanna.”

  She did not return his smile. Her eyes searched his face intently, incredulously. “Can you do that, Llewelyn? Can you truly forgive me? Could you live with the shadow Will would cast?”