Here Be Dragons - 1 (16 page)

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lid so she'd not be utterly in the dark. On the morrow Simon would rch for her in vain, would have to leave without her.
"Joanna?"
She tensed, heard her name called again. Avisa had begun to himper. She shivered, kept very still. And then the coffer lid was thrown back, her hiding place exposed.
"Why did you not answer me, Joanna? What foolish game is this?" But at sight of her tearstained face, John's annoyance ebbed away. Reaching down, he lifted her out, set her beside him on the bed.
"Now, tell me what is wrong."
"I was hiding from Simon," she confessed. "So he could not take me to my father."
There was a silence. She slanted a glance through wet lashes, saw he was watching her, with a very strange look on his face. "Please," she entreated.
"Do not make me go with him."
Still he said nothing. As hope faded, tears began to streak her face again.
"I thought you understood. Joanna ... I am your father."
He saw her eyes widen, pupils dilate with shock. He started to touch her, stopped himself. "Joanna . . . what did your mother tell you of me?"
She swallowed. "That you were wicked, that your soul was accursed, that you did not want me."
The corner of John's mouth twitched. "She lied to you, lass. I do want you."
Joanna stared down into her lap. "Mama did not want me," she whispered.
"Did you love your mother, Joanna?"
She nodded, and then said, almost inaudibly, "I was afraid of Mama sometimes."
John reached out, tilted her chin up. "Do you fear me?"
She did not answer at once, and he was later to tell Adele that he'd actually been able to see it in her eyes, that moment when loyalty given to a dead woman was given to him.
"No," she said, and as the wonder of that realization registered with her, she shook her head vehemently. "No, oh, no . . ."
"You're flesh of my flesh, Joanna, of my blood. You understand what that means?"
"That I belong to you?" she ventured, and he smiled.
"Just so, Joanna. Just so." And then she was in his arms, clinging, and he was laughing, hugging her back.
That was the beginning of the good times for Joanna.

8
POITIERS, PROVINCE OF POITOU
January 1199
a.
"

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, lunges for it like a starving trout! But you, Madame, God's truth, I'd have expected better of you!"
"Philip claims to have a letter that proves your complicity in this . trjgue, a letter in your own hand."
"Oh, for the love of Christ! What better proof of my innocence ould you ask for than that? If I were involved in some scheme to betray
Richard, do you truly think I'd ever be so stupid as to incriminate myself in writing? Are you sure Philip does not have a convenient confession, too, that I somehow happened to sign and leave in his safekeeping?"
Eleanor felt the first flickers of doubt. "Your denial has the ring of truth to it," she said slowly. "But then your denials always do, John."
"If you and Richard believe this lunatic accusation, it can only be because you want to believe it, Madame. You yourself said it; five full years I've devoted to regaining Richard's goodwill. Think you that I've enjoyed being at his beck and call, being subject to his erratic tempers, his every whim? Or that I'd gamble those five years on something so worthless as Philip's word?
Jesus God, Mother! What would I gain by intriguing with Philip? We both know he has no hope of ever defeating Richard on the field."
He was as angry as Eleanor had ever seen him, too angry for either artifice or discretion. His was not a defense calculated to endear, and would have found little favor with Richard. But there was an iceblooded, unsparing honesty to it that was, to Eleanor, more persuasive than any indignant avowals of good faith. It was the very amorality of John's argument that carried so much conviction. "You're saying, then, that Philip was merely seeking to stir up trouble between you and Richard?"
"And succeeding, from the sound of it. Know you where Richard is now? Will I
find him still at Castle Gaillard?"
Eleanor no longer doubted. There could be no better indication of John's innocence than this, that he would willingly seek Richard out. When he was in the wrong, the last thing he ever wanted was to face his accusers, to confront those he'd betrayed.
Eleanor's relief was inexpressible. Her easy acceptance of John's guilt had been prompted as much by fear as by her son's dismal record of broken faith and betrayals, the fear that she had misjudged him, after a'l/ that he was not the pragmatist she'd thought him to be. Had he indeed been intriguing with
Philip, that would mean to Eleanor that his judgment was fatally and unforgivably flawed, flawed enough to taint any claim he might have had to the crown. That was a conclusion she sr|rank from, for it would signify the end of all her hopes for an Angevin

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dynasty, and that was the dream which had somehow sustained her even when she'd had nothing else to hold on to.
She sat down abruptly in a cushioned chair. "Thank God," she said simply, with enough feeling to soothe John's sense of injury.
"But of course I do accept your apologies, Mother," he said, very dryly.
Righteous indignation was not an emotion indigenous to his temperamental terrain; he had too much irony in his makeup to be able to cultivate moral outrage, and now that he no longer feared being called to account for a sin that truly was not his, he was beginning to see the perverse humor in his predicament. " 'Be not righteous overmuch,'" he quoted, and grinned. "But how can I help it? After all, how often have I been able to expose my conscience to your exacting eye . . . and lived to tell the tale?"
Eleanor could not help herself, had to smile, too. "By what strange alchemy do you manage to make your vices sound so much like virtues?" She shook her head, gestured toward the table. "Fetch me pen and parchment. Better that I be the one to assure Richard of your innocence."
THE ancient river port of Rennes was the capital of Brittany. It was, as well, the favorite residence of Arthur, the young Duke who bore the name of a fabled
Celtic King and never doubted that one day he, too, would be a King.
The April wind had suddenly shifted and servants were hastening to shutter the windows on the leeward side of the great hall. A juggler was making a manful attempt to entertain, but only Arthur was finding his antics amusing; the adults were far more interested in speculating upon the provocative presence of the man seated at Arthur's right. John had arrived in Rennes at dusk the preceding day, bearing lavish gifts for his "dear nephew" and "sweet sister-by-marriage." While all agreed that he must have an ulterior motive in mind, none could agree upon what it was, and after twenty-four hours of unbridled conjecture, rumors were rampant, the Breton court was in turmoil, and John was enjoying himself immensely.
Growing bored now with the amateurish efforts of Arthur's juggler, John appropriated a ruby ring from the prettiest of the women. Showing off the sleight of hand that never failed to delight his daughter, Joanna, he soon had an appreciative audience, and when he at last pretended to find the ring in the girl's bodice, she blushed midst all the laughter, but then slanted him a long-lashed look of unmistakable invitation.
"I want to learn how to do that trick, would have you teach me."

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ft r a nudge from his mother, Arthur grudgingly added, "If you will, "jt would give me great pleasure to lesson you, lad," John said
1 asantly- "On the morrow, shall we say?" Knowing that Arthur was a t pical twelve-year-old in that what he wanted, he wanted at once.
Arthur was not that much older than John's son Richard, but the two cousins had nothing whatsoever in common beyond a blood bond, gichard was an unusually introspective youngster, conscientious and cautious, but quietly stubborn, too; John was fond of his youngest son, but he never knew what Richard was thinking. Arthur was Richard's opposite in all particulars. Boisterous, cocky, imperious as only a cherished only son can be, Arthur was not accustomed to sharing the limelight, and he'd taken John's unexpected arrival with exceedingly poor grace. He could not comprehend why he must welcome his only rival for the Angevin crown, and at first he'd not even made a pretense of civility. But the ruder he was, the more courteous John became, indulgently affectionate, playful, answering insult with an exaggerated solicitude that stopped just short of parody. Arthur was spoiled, but by no means stupid, and he was not long in realizing that John was getting much the best of these exchanges. He was too young, however, to understand that he was, in effect, making a fool of himself. Now he opened his mouth to protest, thought better of it, and lapsed into a sulky silence.
But John had lost all interest in baiting the boy. A woman was approaching the dais. Making a graceful curtsy before Arthur, she then curtsied to John. She had utterly compelling eyes the shade of purest sapphire; she looked briefly into his face, and turned away. John waited a discreet interval, announced he was retiring for the night, and made an ostentatious departure for his own chambers.
The gardens were deserted. Although early April, it was as if spring were being held in abeyance that year; the trees were barren, the grass still browned and sere. John hesitated, stepped off the path.
She was waiting for him in the arbor, came quickly into his arms. He slid his hands under her mantle, kissed her mouth, her throat, and she sighed, pressed close against him.
"I heard you'd come, but did not believe it. What devious game are you playing now, John? Why are you here?"
"To see you again, why else?" John said, in part because he thought Jt was expected of him, and in part because he was curious to see if she was naive enough to believe him.
She laughed softly. "How gallant! But have you forgotten how well know you, my love? Have you some specific troublemaking in mind, or are you merely seeking to muddy the waters?"

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"The latter," John admitted; he, too, was laughing now. "Philip could find conspiracy in a convent of Cistercian nuns, and his favored pastime is jumping to conclusions. Need I tell you what dire plots he'll read into my visit to
Arthur's court? And whilst Philip is convincing himself that Arthur and I must be up to no good, Arthur's advisers are unable to sleep for worrying over what
I've got in mind. It's not often I've been able to sow so much discord with so little effort!"
"I cannot blame you for wanting to give Philip some grief. My husband told me about the good turn he tried to do you. There were more than a few here in
Rennes who were right disappointed that Philip's ploy came to naught."
"That I do not doubt, sweetheart. It's lucky, in truth, that Richard and I
have such pure and perfect trust between us ... is it not?" John began to kiss her again. "I hear your husband is in Nantes; how long will he be gone?"
"A fortnight, at least. How long can you stay?"
"Till the week's end. Richard's been besieging some godforsaken castle near
Limoges; one of his vassals found a Roman treasure on his lands and was then idiotic enough to refuse when Richard claimed it all as his liege lord.
Richard expects to need just a week to wreak utter havoc upon the poor fool's lands, told me to meet him and our lady mother at Fontevrault Abbey for
Easter. But ere I do, I want to pass some time in Rouen; I've a lass there most eager for the sight of me."
"Indeed?" Feigning anger, she dug her nails into the back of his hand. "If you think I came out into the cold to listen to you boast about your other bedmates . . ."
"She's my daughter, darling. I do not have her with me as often as I ought, but I do try. With my sons, it is different. Save for Richard, they're old enough to fend for themselves. And, bastard or no, many would envy Richard.
He's highborn, after all; his mother is a Warenne But Joanna is just seven, has no one but me. And now that I've satisfied you, when can you do the same for me? Can you come to me tonight?"
"John, it's so risky ..." But after he devoted some moments to increasingly intimate persuasion, she sighed again, murmured, "Yes ... yes, I will. But we dare not tarry here any longer; we might be seen." She pulled away, set about rearranging her clothing, and then turned back, gave him one last kiss, biting his lip and taking his breath.
John waited, giving her time to depart unseen. But as he emerged onto the garden path, a shrouded figure detached itself from the shadows, barred his way. The man was garbed all in black, his face hidden by a deep cowled hood.
He was no apparition to encounter on a moonless nighta stark, spectral embodiment of the most irrational and elemental of mortal fearsand John recoiled violently.

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"My l°rd'l must talk with you//
John took a second look, recognized the habit and mantle of a Bene-
rine monk, and swore, fluently and with considerable feeling.
The monk listened in stolid silence, and when John had exhausted ry abusive possibility in an uncommonly extensive vocabulary, he
6 neated stubbornly, "We must talk, my lord."
But as the monk moved closer, John happened to glance down, saw the dusty boots protruding from the hem of the monk's habit. For a moment he froze, and then jerked his sword free of its scabbard.
"Indeed, we'll talk. We'll begin by you telling me who you are, in whose pay, and just why you went to so much trouble to find me alone like this. And
Christ save you if I do not like your answers."
The man burst out laughing. "And I thought I made a truly admirable monk! What gave me away?" He reached up, pulled back his hood, and John swore again.
"De Braose!" Slowly he lowered his sword. Suspicions were coming too fast for him to take them all in. "I thought you were at Chalus with my brother
Richard."
"I was." De Braose was fumbling at his belt. "Your mother the Queen bade me give you this, so you'd not doubt I came at her behest."
John stared down at the ring de Braose had pressed into his hand; it was indeed his mother's. Sheathing his sword, he followed de Braose off the path.
"My lord, you do not know how very lucky you are. Word has not gotten out yet.
If it had, you'd not live to see the morrow."
John caught his breath. "Do you mean what I think you do?"
William de Braose nodded. "I do ... my liege."
"Richard . . . he's dead?"
De Braose nodded again. "He was near death when your lady mother commanded me to get to you, to warn you away from Rennes ere Arthur learns the crown is up for the taking. Too many of his men know my face, hence this monk's cowl. I've men and horses waiting; they are at your disposal, my lord."
"I still cannot believe it. That it would happen like this, so sudden . . ."
"You're not alone in your disbelief, my lord. Your brother was so sure of victory that he had not even bothered to arm himself. He'd ridden out to inspect the siege's progress with only a shield, took an arrow m his left shoulder. It was full dusk, and his men did not see him hit. He made no sound, turned and rode back to his tent, had his surgeon cut it out. He took the castle, ordered every living soul in it hangedservants, women, children, allsparing only the man who shot him, for ^od knows what fate. But the wound festered. When he realized it was