Here Be Dragons

by Sharon Kay Penman

  He tilted her face up to his, touched her cheek. “In all honesty, I do not know, Joanna. I can make you no promises, can only say I am willing to try. I do know this, that after living without you for nigh on ten months, I think it’s worth the risk.”

  The Llanfaes ferry had suffered storm damage, and they had to ride west, to cross at Abermenai. The sun shone with a lucent, incandescent brilliance for Joanna; never had she been so dazzled by the sapphire of the sky, the turquoise of the strait, the snow-glazed summits of Eryri. The wind was brisk, the road mired in mud, and her mantle was soon spattered, but she did not care in the least. Her only regret was that she could not ride pillion behind Llewelyn, for her sense of reality seemed dependent upon physical contact with her husband; only he could dispel her disbelief, and she kept her mount so close to his that once his spur even caught in the skirt of her gown.

  She was still in a state of dazed euphoria as they approached Bangor. Ahead, a herdsman and his dogs were seeking to corral several stray cows. The cattle were milling about, blocking the road, and their master’s impatience changed to chagrin at sight of his sovereign.

  “Good morrow to you, my lord. God blight these contrary beasts, but I’ll have them clear in a trice, will—” His jaw dropped; his words choked off into an unintelligible splutter.

  Llewelyn appeared indifferent to this peculiar behavior. Glancing over his shoulder, he beckoned to one of his men. “Seth, give this fellow a hand.”

  The herdsman did not even acknowledge his lord’s kindness, for he could not take his eyes from his lord’s wife. He was gaping at Joanna as if she were an apparition, one to be warded off with incantations and henbane. Only then did Joanna comprehend the true magnitude of what Llewelyn meant to do.

  “Llewelyn, wait!” She urged her horse forward, caught at his sleeve. “Llewelyn, this is madness. Your people scorn me as an adulteress, feel I betrayed you both as wife and consort. They’ll never understand, never accept me.”

  “They may not understand, but they will accept you,” he said, and his voice was suddenly grim.

  Joanna bit her lip, stared at him in despair. “But…but what if they will not? They hate me now, Llewelyn, and that hatred might well spill over onto you if you take me back. There will be those who’ll say I’ve bewitched you, and…and others who’ll think you’ve grown soft, weak…” There was no need to continue; she saw that. She was warning him of dangers he knew far better than she. When had he ever acted without considering the consequences? She’d been the blind one, the selfish one.

  “How can I let you do this? How can I let you risk so much on my behalf?” She saw his face—dark, haggard, but still handsome—through a haze of tears. “I know…know what I ought to do. But I am not strong enough, beloved, cannot give you up…”

  “The decision is mine, Joanna, not yours. You bear no responsibility for it.” He held up his hand, halting his men upon the pathway, and taking the reins of Joanna’s mount, he led her off the road into the woods.

  He drew rein in the shadow of a silver birch, stripped naked by winter winds. The ground was covered by decaying leaves, broken branches. Joanna inhaled the scent of spruce, the scent of the sea. “You said our reconciliation was worth the risk. But is it, Llewelyn? Is it truly worth what you might lose?”

  He did not answer at once; his eyes swept the horizon, tracked a cormorant’s shooting dive into the sea. “When I came to you last night, it was not—knowingly—with thoughts of reconciliation. I was seeking answers only you could give me, Joanna, seeking to cauterize a wound that would not heal. But as I listened to you, I found myself able to understand why it had happened. It was not my wife who lay with Will de Braose; it was John’s daughter. Once I realized that, I could balance the scales without bitterness, balance a marriage against a mistake—albeit a monumental one.” His last words were sardonic; his smile was not. “I want you by my side again, in my bed, at my table, as my lady, lover, wife.”

  “They will never understand,” she said unsteadily, and he nodded.

  “Probably not. I daresay I’ll forfeit a great measure of goodwill. There will be men who’ll think I’ve lost my wits, am in my dotage—I know that. But they’ll govern their tongues in my hearing. That,” he said coolly, “I can damned well guarantee.”

  “Llewelyn…are you sure? Am I truly worth it?”

  “Do you remember what you said last night about the de Braose marriages?” He leaned over, dried her tears with the back of his hand. “This time, Joanna, this time I do mean to put you first.”

  Neither Welsh culture nor Welsh topography had been conducive to the development of English-style towns and villages. Small settlements had sprung up, however, around Llewelyn’s manors at Aber, Llanfaes, and Trefriw, and monasteries often served, too, as beacons for community life. So it was for the cathedral church of St Deiniol at Bangor Fawr yn Arfon, episcopal see for the diocese of Bangor.

  Although official fairs and markets were unknown in Llewelyn’s domains, informal markets thrived wherever people tended to congregate, and this was such a market day in Bangor. Stalls had been set up in the churchyard, and the marketplace and street were crowded with those who’d come to barter, to browse, and to gossip with their neighbors. Vendors sold hot pies and rolled out kegs of ale for the thirsty; itinerant pedlars loudly hawked their wares; animals offered for trade added to the clamor. It was the sort of chaotic market scene Joanna had often seen in England, but with a distinctly Welsh flavor, boisterous bedlam that ceased within moments of her arrival in their midst.

  Llewelyn was known on sight to all in Bangor; to many, he was the only Prince they’d ever known. He’d first gained political power at twenty-one, and now, in his fifty-eighth year, he was well enshrined in local legend, eclipsing even his famous grandfather in the folklore of his people, the uncrowned Prince of Wales. As word circulated that he’d just ridden into the town, men and women deserted the market stalls and the wrestling and archery bouts; some even abandoned a bloody cockfight, those with no money on the outcome.

  But the cheering stopped abruptly as the people recognized Joanna. She heard shocked murmurings spreading through the crowd, heard the name Siwan repeated in growing wonder. As men doffed their caps, Llewelyn held his stallion to a stately canter, and then slowed to a walk. Joanna paced her mount with his, but her mouth was dry, her heart pounding. She knew that men ofttimes drew false courage from crowd companionship, knew, too, that the Welsh were more outspoken, less awed by rank than the English, and she waited now for the jeers, the shouts of derision.

  None came. Llewelyn reined in before one of the vendors. “My throat is right parched. What have you for such a thirst?”

  “Wine, my lord. But it is poor stuff, not fit for Your Grace,” the man protested, while fumbling for a clean, uncracked cup.

  “It will do,” Llewelyn said, and smiled at the man. He drank slowly, keeping his eyes upon the crowd; he found none willing to meet his gaze. “Here, love, drink,” he said, in Welsh, not French, and held the cup out to Joanna.

  She could not swallow, but she obediently put the cup to her mouth. Llewelyn never carried money himself, but he gestured now and one of his men tossed a coin to the vendor. It was eerily still. Llewelyn urged his mount forward; Joanna followed. The crowd fell back, watching in stunned silence.

  The road to Aber wound its way along the seacoast, offering a superb view of the strait, but Joanna had eyes only for her husband. She was still astonished at their reprieve, so sure had she been that men would rail at her, call her slut and harlot. She glanced again at Llewelyn’s profile. Not in my hearing, he’d said, and it was not bravado. What had happened in Bangor was as much a testament to his personality as to his power. But then, she thought the two were one and the same.

  “I only hope you can cast such a spell upon the folk at Aber,” she said, mustering a strained smile; Aber was now less than five miles distant. She slowed her mount, earning herself a quizzical look from Llewelyn. But then h
e, too, eased his chestnut. Joanna stared at the road ahead; did Llewelyn ever think of that desperate midnight ride in answer to Senena’s false summons? Davydd’s words seemed to echo on the wind: We half killed our horses…Only to arrive at Aber and discover—

  “Joanna, that serves for naught.”

  She gasped, then gave a weak laugh. “Jesú, what are you, a warlock?”

  “I know you,” he said simply.

  She hesitated, then realized the folly in that; silence could cripple no less effectively than suspicion. They had to be able to talk about it. “It was not Glynis, Llewelyn. It was Senena who sent you that message.”

  “I know. She later admitted it.”

  “I can well imagine her satisfaction,” Joanna said bitterly. Senena had guessed, gambled, and gotten lucky beyond belief, and all it had cost was a man’s life.”

  “At first, mayhap. But her satisfaction soon turned sour. She’d somehow convinced herself that I would then free Gruffydd. As if I’d been holding him just for your pleasure…” Llewelyn shook his head. “I ought to warn you, though, breila. Senena is at Aber.” He heard her sharp intake of breath, said dryly, “It should be a memorable homecoming.”

  Within moments of their arrival at Aber, the bailey was packed with people. Joanna was gripping the saddle pommel so tightly that it was digging painfully into her palm. Never had she seen a crowd assemble so fast. Many of the faces were familiar to her; all shared a common expression, one of utter disbelief.

  Llewelyn had dismounted, was reaching up to help her from the saddle. Setting her down, he tilted her face up to his. The kiss was lingering, very deliberate. And then he turned to face his countrymen.

  No one spoke. The silence was even more absolute than in Bangor. Llewelyn had known there would be no overt defiance, not at his own court. The sheer audacity of his act would paralyze dissent. There was a sudden stir. People were stepping aside. Ednyved had his wife’s arm in an inexorable grip; Gwenllian’s body was stiff, resistant, but she followed him as he moved toward Llewelyn and Joanna.

  Reaching for Joanna’s hand, Ednyved brought it to his mouth. “Welcome home, Madame.”

  Gwenllian’s face was a study in frustrated fury. “Yes,” she said tonelessly, while her eyes bored like gimlets into Joanna’s.

  There was nothing for the others to do then but to follow the example of Llewelyn’s Seneschal. One by one they came forward, mumbled grudging words of welcome, made awkward obeisances. Joanna had retreated into her public persona; her answers were automatic, and to many, she appeared aloof, unrepentant. She saw Senena standing some distance apart, but it was the hostility of the others that she felt most keenly. Adda’s greeting had been edged in ice. How can I bear it? she thought. How can I live surrounded by so much hatred? But then Llewelyn touched her arm and she turned, saw her son.

  Joanna forgot all else. She started toward Davydd; he quickened his step and they met in the middle of the bailey. “Your father has forgiven me,” she said softly. “Do you think you can forgive me, too, Davydd?”

  “Yes,” he said, “oh, yes.”

  Ednyved had remained at Llewelyn’s side, and he seized this opportunity now to say, very low, “Well, you’ve just set tongues wagging from Cricieth to Colchester. They’ll be gossiping about naught else for the next six months, on both sides of the border. Are you sure, Llewelyn…truly sure?”

  Llewelyn’s eyes were fastened upon his wife and son. As he watched, they embraced. He glanced back at Ednyved. “Yes,” he said. “I am sure.”

  “Are you certain she’ll be at the waterfall, Davydd?”

  “Not really. But she does play there sometimes, and I know not where else to look.” Davydd gave Joanna an oblique, inquiring glance. “Are you positive you want to do this now, Mama?”

  “I do not want to do it at all,” Joanna admitted. “In truth, I dread facing the child. Does she blame me, Davydd, for her father’s death?”

  “I could not say. Isabella is a timid little lass, keeps very much to herself. I confess I know naught of what goes on in her head. I think she fears Papa. I suspect she fears me, too.”

  “Does she look…?”

  “Like Will? No, she favors her mother.”

  They were within sight of the cataract; it had been known to freeze during exceptionally bitter winters, but now it shimmered in the January sun, patterned the mossy rocks below with lacy foam and spray. Davydd pointed. “There she is. Isabella!”

  The girl whirled, and even at that distance Joanna could see how she flushed, as if caught in some flagrant misdeed. Davydd moved toward the rocks, beckoned to her. “Isabella, come here. I want you to meet my mother.”

  “The Lady Joanna?” Isabella lifted her skirts, scrambled up the rocks. “You’ve come back!” The change in her was startling; her face was eager, expectant. “I prayed you would, I prayed so hard, and the Almighty heeded me, He brought you back!”

  Joanna reached out, took Isabella’s hands between her own. Her heart went out to this lonely little girl, but the last thing she’d expected was to be hailed as Isabella’s saviour. She smiled at the child, and then Isabella gave her the poignant answer to the puzzle.

  “You’re so pretty,” she breathed, and raised up to whisper shyly, “No wonder Papa loved you so.”

  Over the girl’s head, Joanna’s eyes met her son’s in mutual dismay, if for different reasons. Davydd was thinking that Isabella’s attachment to his mother might prove politically embarrassing, only fueling gossip all the more. Joanna was thinking that to keep faith with Isabella, she’d be obliged to live a lie. It seemed the ultimate irony to her that she should be given the responsibility of rearing Will’s child, but it was both a penance and a privilege. Putting her arm around Isabella’s shoulders, she said gently, “Let’s go home, darling.”

  Joanna was standing in the antechamber, staring at her bedroom door. Hours after her arrival at Aber, she had yet to cross that threshold. During her months at Llanfaes, Will’s ghost had mercifully kept his distance. But if she were to encounter him at all, surely it would be here, and she reached reluctantly for the door latch, dreading that first onslaught of memory.

  Within this bedchamber she’d passed much of her married life. It looked as she remembered it, and yet it did not, familiar but somehow foreign, too. It took a moment for her to realize why; all traces of her had been erased. Gone were her favorite silver candlesticks, her carefully tended violets and gillyflowers, even the wall hangings embroidered with unicorns.

  Joanna’s eyes filled with tears. It was not Will who’d haunt her peace; it was the memory of her husband’s face as he walked into this chamber, found her with Will. How could she ever forget that moment of horror? How could she forgive herself?

  “Joanna.”

  She spun around, saw Llewelyn standing in the doorway. “I’m afraid, beloved,” she whispered. “Suddenly I am so afraid. Not just of the hostility I know I must face, not even of my memories. I’m afraid, too, of tomorrow. No matter how expertly a thing is mended, Llewelyn, the break is ever visible thereafter…”

  “Yes,” he said, “I know. A scar signifies past pain, a wound that did not heal as it ought. But it testifies, too, to survival, breila.”

  Joanna looked at him, and then she held out her arms. He closed the door, moved toward her.

  17

  Aber, North Wales

  July 1234

  Joanna stared down at the parchment, daunted by its blankness. Letters to her cousin Eleanor were never easy; she kept up the contact partly from habit and partly from pity. But this letter was particularly difficult to compose, for so much time had elapsed since she’d last written. The days when Eleanor had been welcomed at John’s Christmas court were long gone; for some years now, her horizons had extended no farther than the outer bailey walls of Bristol Castle. Joanna could not be sure what, if anything, Eleanor knew of the momentous events of the past three years.

  Had Eleanor heard of Hubert de Burgh’s fall from powe
r? Did she know that Llewelyn had fought two bloody and successful wars against the English? Did she know of the Peace of Middle, concluded just three weeks ago? Did she know of all the deaths?

  Joanna glanced toward the window seat where her sister Nell was plucking a harp; she played badly but with characteristic concentration. Her husband’s sudden death in April 1231 had devastated Nell; so impassioned had her grieving been that she’d even taken a holy oath of chastity, an emotional extravagance against which Joanna had argued in vain. And just as she had feared, Nell’s mourning ran its course in time, but the oath endured, locking Nell into a lifelong widowhood.

  The political consequences of Pembroke’s death were no less far-reaching, for he’d held the wardship of Will de Braose’s daughters, and with the wardship went control of the de Braose estates. When Henry imprudently bestowed the wardship and lands upon Hubert de Burgh, Llewelyn reacted with alarm, for de Burgh already held the lordships of Cardigan, Carmarthen, Gower, and Glamorgan. The igniting spark flared at Montgomery Castle, where de Burgh’s garrison beheaded Welsh prisoners, and in June Llewelyn swept southward, leveled Montgomery to the ground. He then pressed on into the de Braose lands, burning and pillaging on such a scale that the English bishops excoriated him as a “despoiler of churches.”

  This was the third time that Llewelyn had been excommunicated for what he saw as political sins, and he would later joke about installing a turnstile for his private chapel. But Joanna had never seen any humor in it, and her relief was inexpressible when Llewelyn was restored to God’s grace in December, after a botched campaign by Henry and de Burgh.

  The following year was one of uneasy truce along the Marches. Peter des Roches, Bishop of Winchester, was back from his Holy Land pilgrimage, and he was so successful in blaming Hubert de Burgh for the Welsh fiasco that in July Henry stripped de Burgh of his high office, demanded an accounting; by November, he was being held at the Tower. But 1232 was also the year in which death claimed the man who’d shown himself to be Llewelyn’s most steadfast ally; in October, Ranulf, Earl of Chester, died at his manor of Wallingford in his sixty-third year.