Here Be Dragons

by Sharon Kay Penman

  Joanna reached over, took Elen’s hand. “If you love him, Elen, let him go.”

  “I cannot,” Elen said, “I cannot.” And after that, there was nothing left to say.

  Llewelyn raised himself up on his elbow, watching as Joanna brushed her hair. “Are you sure nothing is troubling you, breila?”

  “Very sure, Llewelyn.” What would it serve to tell him? She’d only be burdening him for naught; there was nothing he could do. To forestall further questioning, she hastily slipped off her bedrobe, climbed into bed. He put his arm around her shoulders, drew her close. She was relieved when he seemed content only to hold her; after her scene with Elen, she was not in the mood for lovemaking. She pillowed her head against his chest, felt his hand on her hair, gently stroking.

  “Joanna, we do need to talk.”

  She shifted so she could see his face. He sounded so grave; could he possibly have guessed about Elen and Robert de Quincy? “Talk about what?”

  “On the morrow I am going to Deganwy Castle.” The body he held was suddenly rigid; the muscles in her back contracted, stiffened under his hand. He kissed her on the forehead. “If Gruffydd can give me the assurances I must have, I mean to set him free.”

  “Llewelyn, no!”

  “Joanna…Joanna, you must try to understand. When I confined Gruffydd at Deganwy, Davydd was nineteen and untried. He is now twenty and five, has fought at my side in three wars. I’ve secured for him the recognition of the Pope, the English King, my Welsh allies, and when I die, he shall inherit a united realm, a legacy no other Welsh Prince has been able to leave his son. But I’ve done all I can. What I bequeath him, he—and he alone—will have to hold. I have every confidence that he can.”

  “I have faith in Davydd, too. But why risk civil war?”

  “Because,” he said slowly, “I cannot condemn Gruffydd to a lifetime shut away from the sun.”

  And that she could understand. She reached out, touched his cheek. Would there ever be a time when she was not torn between those she loved? For so many years, her father and her husband. And now…now her husband and her son. How could she blame Llewelyn for wanting to set his son free? But Davydd’s right to the succession could be guaranteed only by Gruffydd’s continuing captivity.

  “Joanna…can you accept my decision?”

  “I shall have to accept it.” She lay back beside him, closed her eyes. What else could she do? The last time she’d intervened on Davydd’s behalf, she’d come close, Jesú, so close to destroying her marriage. Llewelyn was right; it was for Davydd to safeguard his inheritance. He was a man grown, no less ambitious than Gruffydd, and twice as clever. He would prevail. But the words rang hollow. She could not stave off a sense of dread, of coming calamity. Lady Mary be merciful, it was beginning all over again.

  Llewelyn returned to Aber at dusk the following day, and Gruffydd rode by his side. Joanna had not expected Llewelyn to act so swiftly, had thought she’d have more time to prepare herself for Gruffydd’s return. As people surged out into the bailey, she followed slowly, her mind echoing to the refrain of a French chanson, one that warned against allowing the wolf into the fold.

  Had so much not been at stake, she might have been able to summon up sympathy, for Gruffydd showed the rigors of long confinement. He had a pronounced pallor, the beginnings of a double chin, and hair cut so carelessly that it was obvious he’d long since become indifferent to appearance, while the deep grooves around his mouth told Joanna more than she wanted to know of his years in Deganwy’s great keep.

  Senena, however, looked radiant; an uninformed bystander might well have identified her as the released prisoner. Their son Owain rode beside her, and the sight of him was a shock to Joanna. The younger children had often stayed at Llewelyn’s court, but Owain, never. The nine-year-old boy she remembered was a gangling youth of fifteen, awkward in his newfound manhood, a flesh-and-blood ghost from Gruffydd’s troubled past.

  Llewelyn had dismounted. His smile was dazzling, and Joanna yearned to be able to rejoice with him, to be truly and wholeheartedly happy that his son was free.

  “Madame.” Gruffydd was bending over her hand. His demeanor was scrupulously correct; captivity had taught him caution if nothing else, Joanna thought, and she, too, took refuge in courtesy, in the most formal of Welsh greetings, a hollow “May God prosper you.”

  Gruffydd’s eyes shifted to her face; in their depths she saw a raw flame flicker. “I wish no less for you, Madame.”

  Almost at once Gruffydd was surrounded by family, friends, and well-wishers, embraced by his sisters, his uncle. He was greeted far more coolly by Elen and Tegwared, but enough people were clustering about him to give his return the aura of a hero’s homecoming. Joanna turned, walked away.

  Elen soon joined her. “Nothing has changed,” Joanna said tonelessly. “Nothing.”

  Elen shook her head. “You think not? Watch,” she said, and Joanna followed her daughter’s gaze, saw that her son had just ridden into the bailey.

  If Davydd was surprised by Gruffydd’s early arrival, it did not show in his face. He reined his stallion in, waited for Gruffydd to come to him. After a conspicuously long pause, Gruffydd did. They exchanged but a few terse words before Gruffydd swung about, stalked back to his wife and sisters. Llewelyn moved swiftly toward his youngest son. Davydd slid from the saddle. They spoke softly together for several moments and then Davydd smiled, nodded. But he kept his eyes upon Gruffydd all the while.

  As Joanna watched, a memory stirred, elusive, perplexing. She frowned, seeking to bring it into focus. There was something so tantalizingly familiar about this scene, about Davydd’s cool composure, his detachment, the way his hazel eyes narrowed as they took the light, took Gruffydd’s measure…and then the memory broke through, with such vivid clarity that time blurred, the years fell away, and she exclaimed, “Mirebeau!” in startled revelation.

  “Mama?”

  “Do you see how Davydd is watching Gruffydd? So distant and yet so deliberate. I knew I’d seen that look before, and now I remember. I once saw my father watch Arthur in that very same way.”

  The little church of St Rychwyn was cool and still. Not even the parish priest was there to disturb Joanna. Kneeling before the altar, she was alone with God, alone with her dead. She prayed first for her father, for his need was greatest. And then she prayed for the others: Clemence, Eleanor of Aquitaine, Will of Salisbury, Catherine, Rhys, Morgan, Chester, Arthur, Maude de Braose, Will. She concluded with prayers for those who’d died in Llewelyn’s compulsive war against a ghost, the war that had brought such devastation to the de Braose lands.

  The sun was beginning its slow descent toward the west by the time Joanna emerged from the church and started back to Llewelyn’s hillside manor at Trefriw. She’d stopped to gather bell heather when she heard Elen’s voice; a moment later her daughter came around a bend in the path.

  “They told me you’d gone up to Llanrychwyn, Mama, so I thought I’d walk up and meet you. But why did you not go to St Mary’s? Papa had it built for you, after all, to spare you this walk.”

  “I do attend St Mary’s for morning Mass. But now and then I need the solitude of Llanrychwyn, need that time alone to pray for loved ones…and to remember.”

  They walked in silence for a time; it was too hot for haste. Pine woods rose up on both sides of the path, dark and shadowy and primeval. “Look,” Elen said, stooping to pick a daisy. “Did you ever play that game, Mama, plucking the petals to see if love will last?” Her eyes shifted from the flower, up to Joanna’s face. “Were you praying for your father?”

  Joanna nodded. “Elen…we can talk about him if you like. You have the right, darling; he was your blood kin, too.”

  “Can you talk about him, Mama…truly? You pray for him. Does that mean you’ve forgiven him?”

  Joanna was quiet. “No,” she said at last. “That is for the Almighty to do. But I have forgiven myself for loving him, am no longer ashamed of that love, and mayhap that’s
as much as I can hope for.”

  They’d almost reached Trefriw. Joanna stopped, touched Elen on the arm. “Elen, I am so glad you agreed to stay for a time with us. But I want you to promise me that you’ll turn to us if ever you need help, if ever—”

  “Mama, I will. But you need not fear.” Elen smiled impishly, held out the daisy. “See,” she said. “I just pulled the last petal, and it promises that love will prevail!”

  Dismounting in a clearing within sight and sound of Rhaeadr Ewynol, Llewelyn walked to the edge of the cliff, stood gazing down at the cataract, a surging spillover of foam and flying spray. Joanna had remained a prudent distance from the precipice, and at last he heeded her entreaties, joined her on the grass under an ancient oak.

  Joanna and Elen had returned to Trefriw just as Llewelyn and Davydd rode in after a day’s hawking, and when Llewelyn suggested they ride over to Rhaeadr Eywnnol to see the results of recent heavy rains, Joanna had accepted with alacrity; except in bed at night, they’d had little time alone this summer. Now she leaned back against the tree and Llewelyn stretched out beside her, pillowing his head in her lap.

  “I had another talk with Ednyved,” he said. “He’s still set upon making that pilgrimage to the Holy Land, says he can begin laying plans now that Gwynedd is at peace.”

  That would be a strenuous, dangerous undertaking for a man of any age, and Ednyved was past sixty. Joanna frowned, stopped stroking Llewelyn’s hair. “Do you not think you can dissuade him?”

  “No,” he said regretfully, “I do not.” A comfortable silence settled over the glen. When Llewelyn spoke again, he sounded lazily content. “John the Scot gave me a remarkable book Chester picked up in France, written by a man who’d gone on pilgrimage to the Holy Land. It’s an account of his adventures, interspersed with suggestions for his fellow pilgrims. I think Ednyved might find it right useful, for he tells the reader how to deal with Venetian money-changers, which ports are best for engaging passage to Palestine, that syrup of ginger helps to ease seasickness. He even includes a vocabulary of foreign words and sentences, those phrases a man would be most likely to need, like ‘Where is the inn?’ ‘How much?’ And one so utterly essential I thought it best to commit it to memory: ‘Marrat nyco.’”

  When Joanna gave him a quizzical, curious look, he laughed. “That is Arabic for ‘Maiden, wilst thou sleep with me?’”

  Joanna laughed, too. “You’ve just convinced me how fortunate I am that you’re not going on pilgrimage with him!” But a pilgrimage was more than a propitious opportunity for spiritual salvation; it offered, too, a rare chance for great adventure. “Llewelyn…you would not want to accompany Ednyved?”

  “No, breila. I’ve thought of pilgrimage; what Christian has not? But I do not think I’d transplant well, need to keep my roots in Welsh soil.” His eyes began to gleam; he added, “Furthermore, as much as I would like to see the Holy City wrested away from the Saracens, even more would I like to see Wales free of you English.”

  Joanna tugged at his hair. “If you must be insulting, at least be accurate. Norman-French, if you please.”

  “I stand corrected. Although I think English will win out, if not in Davydd’s lifetime, mayhap in his children’s. Now that you’ve lost Normandy, the day might well come when English, not French, will be the language even of the court.”

  “Be serious,” Joanna said, and tossed an acorn to a small red squirrel. “I only wish the crusaders had been as successful in their quest as you’ve been in yours; there’d not be a mosque left intact in all of Jerusalem.”

  “You make it sound as if I’ve won my war, Joanna.”

  “Beloved, you have! You’ve outwitted or outfought two English Kings, unified your people, secured the succession for Davydd, and engendered a sense of shared identity amongst the Welsh, an awareness of their common destiny. Llewelyn, those are remarkable achievements.”

  “Yes,” he said, “but will it last?”

  Joanna had been able to find a curious sort of comfort in that courtyard scene at Aber, in that sudden glimpse of Davydd in a new and unnerving guise, as a man utterly intent upon claiming a crown. She opened her mouth now, ready to reassure Llewelyn that Davydd would triumph, and then realized he was not speaking of Davydd’s succession, but rather of Wales. Her smile was both wry and resigned; whilst she worried about people, his concern would ever be for empires.

  She very much wished she could foretell for him the future of Gwynedd, assure him the Welsh would continue to thrive in the shadow of a stronger neighbor. Since she could not, she leaned over, kissed him tenderly, then made him laugh by calling him Llewelyn Fawr, for they’d turned John the Scot’s lavish praise into a private bedtime joke.

  The sun was very low in the sky, the river reflecting the red-gold of a summer sunset. Joanna sat up reluctantly. “We ought to be getting back,” she said, but Llewelyn shook his head.

  “No,” he said, “not yet. We have time.” And so they lingered awhile longer in the clearing, watched together the passing of day.

  Epilogue

  Joanna died in 1237 and was buried, at her own request, at Llanfaes, where Llewelyn established a Franciscan monastery to honor her memory. He died three years later and was succeeded by their son Davydd. But Llewelyn’s triumph was ephemeral, for it was personal, and his dream of a united, independent Wales was not destined to be.

  Also by Sharon Kay Penman

  The Sunne in Splendor

  Falls the Shadow

  The Reckoning

  Author’s Note

  In seeking to resurrect a time more than seven centuries distant from ours, I often found that research would take me only so far. It was necessary to rely upon imagination to a greater extent than in my earlier novel of fifteenth-century England, for Llewelyn’s world was not as well chronicled as that of the Yorkist Kings. But the structure of Here Be Dragons is grounded in fact; even the more unlikely occurrences are validated by medieval chroniclers. Joanna’s secret warning to John did reach him at Nottingham as Llewelyn’s hostages were being hanged. Llewelyn and Gruffydd did reconcile on the battlefield. And Llewelyn did indeed return unexpectedly to Aber on an April night in 1230, to discover Joanna and Will de Braose alone in his bedchamber. I took but one factual liberty: Llewelyn captured Mold Castle in January of 1199, but I placed the siege in April, the better to integrate the Welsh and Norman story lines.

  All of my major characters in Dragons actually lived, with the exceptions of Morgan, Rhys, and Rhys’s wife, Catherine; whenever possible, I also cast my secondary characters from real-life molds. Although history has preserved for us the identity of Tangwystl, the mother of Llewelyn’s son Gruffydd, other female figures remain in shadow. Llewelyn’s concubine lived, but Cristyn is a name of my choosing. Little is known of Joanna’s mother, other than her Christian name; I gave her a surname and a family background to reflect the skeletal known facts and the most common circumstances of illegitimacy.

  Llewelyn’s third son, Tegwared, has been utterly eclipsed by the embittered rivalry between his brothers Gruffydd and Davydd; most historians make no mention of him whatsoever. I discovered him in the remarkable Welsh Genealogies, a life’s work by Peter C. Bartrum. From Welsh Genealogies, I was able, too, to determine the name of Llewelyn’s brother, Adda. Like Tegwared, Adda has been relegated to the outer reaches of historical obscurity. I knew Llewelyn had a sibling, as a letter of his refers to his nephews, but until I consulted Mr. Bartrum’s work, I had no luck in tracking down this elusive sibling. As I sought to dramatize in Dragons, the Welsh system of inheritance all too often fostered fratricide. Adda, therefore, is an anomaly, neither Llewelyn’s rival nor his active ally. So unusual was his absence from the political arena that I could only explain it in terms of a disability of some sort.

  Little is known of Llewelyn’s early years. It is believed he passed his childhood in Powys and England; by his fifteenth year, he was challenging his uncles for control of Gwynedd. Historians have long been cognizant
of his kinship to the Corbet family; he often stayed his hand, spared Corbet lands, and a letter of his addresses William Corbet as “uncle.” In the nineteenth century, historians speculated that Llewelyn’s mother might be a hitherto unknown Corbet daughter, but Marared ferch Meredydd’s identity has since been established beyond any doubt. Marared must therefore have made a second marriage after Iorwerth’s death in 1174. In researching the Corbet family, I was able to eliminate Robert Corbet without difficulty. His brother William was the “uncle” of Llewelyn’s letter. Walter Corbet was a monk. By the process of elimination, Hugh Corbet had to be Marared’s second husband, Llewelyn’s stepfather.

  I made use of Welsh spellings and place names wherever possible, except when referring to the Norman towns and castles in South Wales. While “Llywelyn” is the purest Welsh form of the name, I chose a slightly Anglicized version, knowing that most readers would be unfamiliar with Welsh. The same reasoning governed my spelling of Davydd; although the modern Welsh alphabet contains no letter v, it was in use in the Middle Ages, and I thought a phonetic spelling might aid in pronunciation. For consistency, I called Llewelyn’s Seneschal and friend Ednyved by his family name—ap Cynwrig—but he is more commonly known as Ednyfed Fychan; readers of The Sunne in Splendour might be interested to know he is the ancestor of Henry Tudor.

  Lastly, I made use of “Norman” as an inclusive term for all people of French descent, e.g., Normans, Angevins, Poitevins, etcetera. To have referred to them as “French” would have created endless confusion, and it seemed the lesser sin to opt for clarity. In the same way, I referred to those of Anglo-Saxon descent as Saxons, not as English, the term they would have used, thus enabling me to stress the divisions still so prevalent in King John’s England.

  John was much maligned in the lurid tales told of him after his death, and a compelling, colorful legend gradually took root—John, Nature’s Enemy, John of the Devil’s Brood. Only in the twentieth century have the myths been stripped away, permitting historians to judge John’s reign without passion or prejudice, to judge John himself—as a king, as a man—a judgment I sought to convey in Dragons. History’s judgment upon Llewelyn echoes that of his contemporaries, to whom he was Llewelyn Fawr—Llewelyn the Great.