Here Be Dragons

by Sharon Kay Penman

  The precarious peace of 1232 did not long endure into 1233. As Nell and William Marshal had been childless, the earldom of Pembroke passed to William’s brother Richard. But the relationship between Henry and Richard Marshal had gone sour from the start, fraught with suspicion and mutual mistrust. After months of misunderstanding and strife, Henry yielded to Peter des Roches’s urgings, proclaimed Marshal a traitor, thus making of the man a reluctant rebel, a rallying point for dissent. A civil war erupted and Llewelyn was not long in entering the fray upon Richard Marshal’s behalf, even though Marshal was a partisan of the disgraced Hubert de Burgh. Llewelyn’s objective was always the same, to weaken the power of the English crown in Wales, and he saw in Richard Marshal’s rebellion an opportunity that would not come again.

  Once again the Marches took fire, and once again Joanna had to watch helplessly as her husband and son rode to war. But the outcome was not long in doubt. Henry was no general, and found himself facing two of the most experienced battle commanders in his realm. In November 1233, he fled in disarray as the royal encampment at Grosmont was overrun by Marshal’s Welsh and English allies. In January 1234, Llewelyn and Richard Marshal ravaged Shropshire to the very gates of Shrewsbury, and Henry found himself under increasing political pressure to come to terms. In March he agreed to a truce, and in April he capitulated to Marshal’s demands, dismissed Peter des Roches and his other Poitevin advisers, and vowed to keep faith with the Runnymede charter.

  But Richard Marshal never knew he’d won. He’d crossed over to Ireland to see to his estates there, and in early April he was wounded in a skirmish with Henry’s supporters, taken prisoner, and treated so harshly that he died within days. It was left to Llewelyn to gain reparations for the followers of his fallen ally. On June 21 the Archbishop of Canterbury met Llewelyn at the Shropshire village of Middle, and peace returned to Henry’s realm.

  The Pact of Middle was the crowning achievement of Llewelyn’s reign, the culmination of a lifetime’s struggle against the English Kings. But on this, the eve of the festivities planned to honor her husband’s triumph, Joanna was thinking not of Llewelyn’s victory celebration but of their dead. So many deaths. William and Richard Marshal. Llewelyn’s sons by marriage, Jack de Braose and William de Lacy. Chester. Maelgwn. Maelgwn’s brother, Rhys Gryg, slain at the siege of Carmarthen Castle. Morgan, dead nigh on a twelvemonth now. Llewelyn rarely talked of him; he could not. She gazed down at the parchment. So many deaths. And each time she looked into Llewelyn’s face, she could not but wonder how much time remained to them. How precious days and hours became with the realization of how few they were.

  “You look so solemn, Joanna. What are you thinking of?”

  “That Llewelyn and I have been wed twenty-eight years. That sounds so long, Nell, but in truth it passed in a blur of light, days into months into years…”

  “Your mind takes the most morbid turns,” Nell admonished. “Fretting about time’s passing will not slow it down one whit. Let’s talk instead of tomorrow’s revelries. Have all the guests arrived? I hope none of the Marshals will be coming; I did tell you, did I not, how disagreeable they’ve been since William’s death, begrudging me my dower rights?”

  “Repeatedly,” Joanna said, and smiled to soften the sting. “I ought to find Isabella; I promised I’d help her decide what to wear tomorrow.”

  “Come to my chamber first. I want to show you the gown I bought in London at Whitsuntide, a samite silk of willow green.”

  “I’d love to see it,” Joanna said, remembering in spite of herself the ceremony in which Nell placed a gold band upon her finger to symbolize her marriage to Christ, adopted a nun’s habit of homespun. She still wore the ring, but she’d long since put aside the homespun, resumed her rightful place at her brother’s court.

  As if reading her thoughts, Nell said suddenly, “I know people were quick to judge me when I began wearing bright colors again. But I’ve not abjured my oath, and that should be what matters to the Almighty, should it not? It vexed me beyond bearing to think of others gossiping behind my back, poking their noses into my life. And when I think how it must have been for you…How did you endure it, Joanna? Were you not enraged at their impudence, their effrontery?”

  As always, Joanna was amused by Nell’s uncalculating candor. It was, Joanna thought wryly, not a trait she’d inherited from either of her parents. “I think I felt not so much resentful as uncomfortable. But you speak as if the disapproval was all in the past. I would that it were.”

  “Even after three years…?”

  “Oh, it gets easier, Nell, with each passing year. But for some, three lifetimes would not be enough time for me to expiate my sins. They’ve accepted me because Llewelyn gave them no choice, but they will never truly forgive me. I’ve had to face that, to learn to live with it, even though that includes some of my husband’s own family. His daughter Gwladys, his brother Adda. My family, too. Our Aunt Ela for one. Elen’s husband for another. John will never understand how Llewelyn could take me back.”

  Joanna had been sketching aimlessly as she spoke; the letter to Eleanor was covered with interlocking circles. She looked down at her handiwork, put the pen aside. “Nor do I think I’ll fare well at the hands of Welsh historians. I ought not to mind what’s said about me once I’m safely dead, but I’m afraid I do.” Her smile was rueful. “I never hungered for fame, much less notoriety, but I seem fated to be remembered as Llewelyn’s wanton foreign wife.”

  Nell did not dispute her; she knew how swiftly gossip became enshrined as gospel. “What matters, Joanna, is that you and Llewelyn have been able to salvage your marriage. In all honesty, I was not so sure you could.”

  “In all honesty, neither was I,” Joanna confessed. “At first we were so wary with one another, so painstakingly polite we’d have put a couple of saints to shame! And God pity us, but we went on like that for weeks, so anxious not to tread amiss that we could scarce move at all. Luckily a day came when I had a right sharp headache, a day when I walked in and found Llewelyn ransacking our bedchamber for his privy seal. The room looked as if a whirlwind had struck; I regret to say neatness has never been one of Llewelyn’s virtues. And as I stood there surveying the wreckage, Llewelyn demanded to know where the seal was—as if I stored the blasted thing under my pillow. I lost my temper, snapped at him; he snapped back, and as quickly as that, we found ourselves in a flaming row, like any husband and wife on a bad day. That realization hit us both at once, in mid-shout. We stopped, looked at each other, and then, as if on cue, we burst out laughing.” And in remembering, Joanna laughed again. “It was then,” she said, “that I truly began to believe we might make it, after all.”

  Joanna was standing beside her brother, bringing him up to date on the happenings at her husband’s court. “Llewelyn’s cousin Madog is here, as is Maelgwn’s son. Gwenllian is still in Ireland, but Llewelyn’s other daughters are present, and Tegwared and his wife; they’ve given Llewelyn and Ednyved four grandchildren so far. Gwladys, too; did you know? After thirteen barren years with Reginald de Braose, she found herself with child within a twelvemonth of marrying Ralph de Mortimer, has two sons by him now. There’s Glynis; you remember her from Llanfaes? Llewelyn and I made a most advantageous marriage for her, and I stood godmother to her firstborn. That is Marared over to your right; did I tell you she’s to marry Walter Clifford?”

  Richard had been listening indulgently, having no real interest in Welsh weddings and birthings. But an alliance with a Marcher lord like Clifford was of no small significance, and he said admiringly, “So Llewelyn has entangled another Norman fish in his nuptial nets. He’s pulled in quite a catch over the years: Chester, de Braose, de Mortimer, de Lacy…and now Clifford. Had he only a few more daughters and a sister or two, he might have won over the Marches by marriage!”

  “Strange you should say that. Morgan, may God assoil him, once told Llewelyn the same thing, almost word for word.”

  “I heard he’d died.”


  She nodded. “Last year. No great surprise, for he’d been ailing, and he’d reached a venerable age. But Llewelyn took his death hard, still misses him sorely.”

  A sudden burst of laughter drew their attention. They turned to discover that Nell was displaying the same magnetic allure for males that her mother had so often demonstrated; she was surrounded by bedazzled admirers, a vision in willow green, and Richard murmured, “Jesú, how like Isabelle she is. The man on her left, the one gazing at her as if bewitched, damn me if he does not look remarkably like the Earl of Winchester.”

  “That’s because he is. And the man laughing is his younger brother, Robert de Quincy.” Richard did not comment, but Joanna felt a need to elaborate further, to explain why the sons of one of their father’s bitterest enemies were guests at her hearth. “Saer de Quincy,” she said. “How Papa hated him. And how long ago it all seems. Roger and Robert de Quincy came with John the Scot and Elen. They are kin to John; his aunt was once wed to their uncle.”

  “You owe me no explanations, Joanna. As you say, it was a long time ago. Seeing Nell brings it back, though, for she could be Isabelle at eighteen, in truth she could. Do you ever hear from her—from Isabelle?”

  “Not for years. What with Hugh de Lusignan’s intrigues and Isabelle’s yearly pregnancies, when would she find the time to write?”

  Richard grinned. “I’ve lost count; how many children has she borne de Lusignan? Seven? Eight? For certes, we know what they do when they’re not plotting against Henry or the French King.” Nell’s laughter came to them again, and he shook his head. “That chastity oath of hers was an act of arrant lunacy, Joanna. She’ll never hold to it. How can she? Look at her; she’s the most beautiful woman in the hall.”

  “Not so.” Neither had heard Llewelyn’s approach; they turned as he said, “Elen is the most beautiful woman at Aber…and that’s because she so resembles her mother.”

  Fair coloring was prized no less by the Welsh than by the English, was valued even more for its rarity, and that awareness made Llewelyn’s gallantry all the more endearing to Joanna. She touched her lips to the rim of her wine cup, then handed it to him. He smiled, put his mouth to the imprint of her kiss, and drank.

  Watching their byplay, Richard felt both amusement and awe. He’d not been sanguine about their chances for reconciliation; Llewelyn’s bloody rending of the de Braose lands in 1231 had given incontrovertible evidence of the sort of wound that infidelity could inflict. But there was such intimacy in the look that now passed between them that he no longer doubted, and he could only marvel at what he could not understand.

  There’d been a lull in the dancing; John the Scot was calling for silence. As conversation hushed and heads turned, he strode up onto the dais. “I hope our Welsh brethren will not take it amiss if I speak French; my father’s Gaelic enabled me to understand your tongue, but I speak it too poorly for public utterance.” Glancing toward Llewelyn, he said, “In the recent strife betwixt King Henry and your Prince, I was sorely tried. I had to hold with my King, but I am bound to Lord Llewelyn, too, both by choice and wedlock. I can say, therefore, in all certitude that few welcomed the Treaty of Middle more wholeheartedly than I.”

  He raised his wine cup high. “I drink to peace between our peoples…and to your Prince. Wales has had its share of strong-willed, able rulers, men like Hywel the Good and Owain the Great. It is my pleasure now to honor a man whose feats equal if not eclipse theirs. A man who is my ally, friend, father by marriage, a man whose memory will burn brightly for generations to come amongst the Welsh, a man who well deserves to be remembered by history as Llewelyn the Great.”

  It was a memorable tribute, one that Llewelyn had not been expecting. “Llewelyn Fawr?” he echoed, then shook his head and grinned. “I do not know, John. Although I can say for certes that no one will ever call me Llewelyn the Good!”

  Midst the ensuing laughing, his eyes met Joanna’s. She saw how deeply he’d been pleased, put her hand upon his arm, her happiness spilling over in full and intoxicating measure. But it was then that her gaze happened to fall upon her daughter. Elen was watching her father and husband, and there was on her face an expression of unutterable sadness, a look of yearning and of despair.

  “Lady Joanna? I saw you leave the hall, feared something might be wrong.”

  “Not at all, Isabella. I am but returning to my bedchamber to tighten a garter.”

  “Shall I fetch your maid? Or mayhap I could help you myself?”

  At times Isabella’s emotional dependence could be cloying, but Joanna’s fondness for the girl was genuine, and she smiled, shook her head. “No, darling, there’s no need; you go back to the hall,” she said, and she would ever after thank God fasting for that casually made decision to go unaccompanied to her bedchamber.

  The night was warm, starlit, and scented with honeysuckle, Joanna’s favorite fragrance, but she was too preoccupied to notice. Ere the evening was over, she’d have to find time alone with Elen. But would Elen confide in her?

  Entering the antechamber, she was reaching for the door latch when she heard it, a sound so unexpected, so chilling that her fingers froze on the ring—the sound of a man’s laughter. She stared at the door, disbelieving, caught up in a surge of superstitious fear, for what man would dare intrude into Llewelyn’s private chamber? There was but one answer to that question, an answer that raised gooseflesh on her arms, sweat on her forehead. No mortal man.

  “Will?” she whispered as the laughter came again. All knew ghosts walked at night, evil spirits come to tempt the unwary, incubi to lay with women whilst they slept. But as she stood there, she suddenly remembered a night when she’d awakened Llewelyn with kisses, and he’d pretended to believe she was a succubus, intent upon stealing his seed. It was an incongruous, bawdy memory, but it stiffened her spine, gave her the courage to do what she knew Llewelyn would have done, confront the unknown. She groped for her crucifix, gripped the latch, and thrust the door open.

  They sprang apart, turned startled faces toward her, faces that mirrored her own fear. Her daughter and Robert de Quincy. “Mama!” Elen’s voice was uneven, breathless. “What are you doing here?”

  Joanna moved forward into the room. “I might well ask you the same question, Elen.”

  Robert de Quincy stepped into the light cast by Joanna’s lantern; she had not paid him much mind in the hall, had noted only that he had a ready laugh. She saw now a thatch of dark hair, high hollowed cheekbones, a full mouth, and intensely blue eyes, eyes full of anxiety. “Do not blame Elen, Madame. I lured her here, told her—”

  “That’s not so. This was my doing, Mama, not Rob’s.” Elen put her hand upon his arm. “Go back to the hall, Rob, ere you be missed. I’ll talk to my mother.”

  “You’re sure?” he asked, and the intimacy of that brief exchange was enough to confirm Joanna’s worst fears. She looked from her daughter to de Quincy, with a sinking certainty that they were lovers.

  “Yes,” Elen said, “I’m sure.” But before he reached the door she cried, “Rob!” He stopped and she flung her arms around his neck, kissed him full on the mouth. And then she turned defiantly back to face her mother.

  The door closed; Joanna put her lantern down. “Well?” Elen said. “Go ahead, Mama. Say what you will. But ere you do, you might remember what Scriptures say about sins and casting the first stone.”

  “What can I say?” Joanna sat down upon the bed. Never had a headache come upon her so suddenly; her temples were throbbing, her vision blurring. “You must love him. I cannot believe you’d take such a risk if you did not. But to bring him here…Jesus wept, Elen, what were you thinking of?”

  Color rose in Elen’s face. “It was folly, I know,” she admitted. “But I had to be alone with him, if only for a few moments, and I dared not bring him to my own chamber…” She moved toward the bed. “I do love him, Mama,” she said softly, “and he loves me.”

  Elen had not dared to light candles, and the only illumination
came from Joanna’s lantern; she stared at it, a weak, flickering flame in a sea of shadows. “What mean you to do, Elen?”

  Elen shrugged. “What can I do? Even if John would agree to a divorce, we have no grounds the Church would recognize. Till death us do part; was that not what the vows said, Mama?”

  She was back at the table, like Joanna, drawn by the light. “You remember how often you berated me for my impulsiveness, my lack of caution? Well, Rob is like me, too quick to act, heeding his heart, not his head. He’d run away with me tomorrow if I agreed.”

  Joanna caught her breath. “Elen…you would not?”

  “How could I?” Elen had begun to pace. “That would make John a laughingstock. I could not do that to him, not when I remember how Papa—” She broke off abruptly; a silence fell.

  “I would not hurt John if I could help it.” Defiance had crept back into Elen’s voice, as if she expected disbelief. “Nor would I ever willingly hurt Papa. If I ran away with Rob, Papa’s alliance with John would come apart like cobwebs. And you’d be hurt, too, Mama. Men would say ‘Like mother, like daughter,’ would rake up all the old gossip about you and Will de Braose. We’d all be spattered with the mud, Mama, not just Rob and John and me, but you, too, and Papa, even Davydd.”

  She came back to the bed, sat down beside Joanna. “I might be willing to risk all that, might be selfish enough to put my happiness first; I’ll never know. But I could never risk Rob’s life. John is not a vindictive man, but he is a prideful one. If I ran away with his cousin, he’d not rest until he’d avenged himself upon Rob, avenged his honor.”