Here Be Dragons - 1 (63 page)

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"Mama had a bad dream," he told Catherine. "I dream aboni wolves sometimes."
"We all do, sweeting." Catherine straightened up, said softly "Joanna, are you sure about this? I truly think you should wait till Lle' welyn comes back ..."
"I cannot, Catherine." Joanna drew Catherine aside, out of he son's hearing.
"He might not let me go, and if I do not, I think I may truly go mad. I
dreamed about her last night, about Maude . . . Catherine, I have to go."
She moved over to the table, picked up a letter. "I want you to give this to
Llewelyn, Catherine"
"Madame!" Branwen was standing in the doorway. "Madame Prince Llewelyn just rode in. When he saw your coffers being loaded onto the pack horses, I... I
had to tell him."
"I understand, Branwen." Joanna leaned back against the table, gripped the edge for support.
"Papa!" Davydd scrambled from the bed, ran to his father. "We're going away, Papa, we're going to England! Did Mama tell you?"
"No, Davydd, she did not." Llewelyn's eyes flicked down to the open coffers, up to Joanna's face. "Catrin, would you take Davydd outside?"
"I was going to leave you a letter." Joanna held it out, as if in proof; he made no move to take it.
"Where were you planning to go ... to your father, to John?"
"No!" She took a step toward him. "I'm not going to my father, Llewelyn. You must believe me. I could not do that . . . not now. I'm going to my brother
... to Richard."
"For how long?"
"I... I do not know yet. Mayhap a month. Llewelyn, I have to go. I have to find some way to live with what I've learned. Nor can we continue like this.
If we had some time apart, it... it might help."
She'd feared that he might forbid her to go. Yet suddenly she wanted him to do just that, to tell her to stay, that their problems could be worked out, that he could forgive her.
A splash of red midst the floor rushes caught Llewelyn's eye; bending down, he retrieved his son's whipping top. He turned it over in nis hand, fingering the wooden point, and when he looked back at Joanna, his eyes were bleak.
"I think you're right," he said. "It is probably for the best that you go.
I'll see that you have a safe escort."
Not trusting her voice, Joanna could only nod.
"You may go, Joanna, if that be your wish. But not my chil They stay with me."
"They are my children, too, Llewelyn!"
She sounded so panicked that he found himself relenting. "You may take Elen, then," he said reluctantly. "But not Davydd. Not my son-'
"But why? Do you want to hurt me as much as that?"
He slammed the wooden toy down upon the table. "Do you think I'd ever willingly deliver up a second son into John's hands?"
She shrank back. "But"
"But what, Joanna? Are you going to assure me again that I've no cause for concern, that John would never harm a child?"
Joanna flinched, no longer met his eyes. "No," she whispered. "No.."
Llewelyn found he could not be impervious to her pain, however much he willed it. "I do not want to quarrel with you, Joanna."
"I'm not going to my father's court, Llewelyn, I swear I'm not. Davydd would be safe with me."
His mouth hardened again. "No. You may take Elen ... for one month, no longer than that. But not Davydd."
He moved toward her, seemed about to speak, and then reached, instead, for the letter. Their fingers brushed, the meaningless, impersonal intimacy of strangers, and Joanna drew an audible breath. When she raised her eyes to
Llewelyn's, her lashes were wet, fringed with tears.

"What I did was not an act of betrayal. I would never betray you, Llewelyn."
"I want to believe you," he said at last. "But even if I can, is that enough?
Could we live with John's shadow ever between us?" And Joanna had no answer for him.

)2
GRANTHAM, ENGLAND
September 1212
IXiCHARD stood by a window in his bedchamber, staring out into the rain-drenched darkness. The storm had swept in from the north, scattering the manor livestock and soaking the oats and barley harvested and left out to ripen in the late summer sun. Lightning had seared the aged yew tree in the village churchyard, and the villagers were sheltering before their kitchen hearths, cheated of daylight hours precious to a people dependent upon rushes dipped in tallow and fires that gave off more smoke than light. "Sweetheart, are you not coming to bed?" "Soon." But he moved, instead, to the table. Eve sat up, stifling a yawn. "Are you reading again that letter from your lord father?" "Yes."
Another woman would have wanted to know if he planned to return to court. Eve was quite content to wait until Richard chose to tell her, and it was that which he valued even more than the pleasure she gave him in bed. That Eve was lacking in perceptiveness, even in simple curiosity, mattered little to
Richard; what did matter was that she made no emotional demands, that she was placid and good-natured and easily relegated to the fringes of memory during their long separations.
He glanced down at the letter, at the phrases he already knew by heart. ". . .
only twelve, so a plight troth might be advisable . krin? you a barony, lordship of Chilham ... an advantageous match . Richard silently mouthed the words; an advantageous match, indeedMarriage to Rohese de Dover would make him lord of Chilham Cast! With his lineage blemished by the bar sinister, with no lands of his ow / he was no great matrimonial prize. And yet his father was offering hiin barony.

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"My lord " A servant stood in the doorway "There's a woman seeking admittance out at the gate "
"I'd not turn anyone away in such foul weather, least of all a Woman Give her shelter for the night "
"My lord, you do not understand This woman says she is your sister1"
JOANNA had stripped off her wet clothes Wrapped in one of Eve's bedrobes, she stood as close to the hearth as she could get, and when Richard handed her a goblet of hot mulled wine, she drank in deep, thirsty gulps He watched uneasily, saying nothing They were alone, Elen and Joanna's maids had been bedded down in an upper chamber, and Eve had uncomplainingly withdrawn so
Richard might speak privately with his sister
"How did you know I was at Grantham, Joanna7"
"I went to Comsbrough Castle Your mother told me " Joanna set the goblet down, began to towel-dry her hair There was an exaggerated and painstaking deliberation about her movements that Richard had occasionally seen in those who'd had too much drink or too little sleep He moved closer, close enough to see that Joanna's face was free of all cosmetics, that the skin was discolored and smudged under her eyes, stretched so tightly across her cheekbones that it put him in mind of silk strained to the breaking point It was an unsettling thought Her tension was contagious, Richard could feel it constricting his muscles, eroding his composure How much did she know7
"It worked, that warning you sent Papa He has called off the invasion of Wales
He was truly shaken by your revelation, Joanna He demanded hostages from all those he suspected Most complied, how reluctantly you can well imagine But
Eustace de Vesci and his cousin Robert Fitz Walter fled the court, de Vesci to
Scotland and Fitz Walter to France To Papa, that is all the proof needed of their guilt But he susperts that others, too, were involved in the plot, and as long as he does, 1 think it unlikely that he'll risk going into Wales "
A fortnight ago that would have been the answer to Joanna's every Prayer, now it was salvation come too late She could not rejoice, felt Only a numbed sense of relief
Joanna did you hear what I just said7"
, Yes, I heard " She turned from the hearth "You were at Nottingam'
Richard You saw the hangings "
» was not a question, but he nodded, said reluctantly, "Yes, I saw did not believe it, Richard I tried to comfort Llewelyn by assur-

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ing him that it could not be true. I kept faith with my father, and all ft cost me was my marriage."
"Joanna . . ."
"Papa had Prince Maelgwn's younger son hanged in Shrewsbury Did you know that, Richard?"
"Yes ... I heard."
"He was not yet seven. Did you know that, too?"
Her voice was low and so brittle that Richard sensed any answer would be the wrong one. "Papa did give the command to hang Prince Maelgwn's son; I cannot deny that. But he may have forgotten how young the boy was. He may not even have known"
"Richard, no!" Joanna had begun to tremble again. Richard pulled a blanket off the bed, draped it about her shoulders. As their eyes met, she said softly, "Why did you not tell me about Maude de Braose?"
Richard expelled his breath in a sound much like a sigh. "I hoped you would never have to know."
"You should have told me, Richard. I had the right to know."
"I did not tell you, Joanna, for the same reason that Llewelyn did not. We wanted to spare you if we could."
"I know what Llewelyn told me is true. I have to accept it, to learn to live with it. But I do not know if I can ever understand it. How do I reconcile my memories with what Papa did at Nottingham ... at Windsor? How, Richard?"
"I do not know," he admitted, and she reached out, grasped his arm.
"But you must. You've done it... somehow. Tell me, Richard. Tell me how you've done it." When he was silent, she cried, "For God's sake, help me! Papa never raised his hand to me, not once. He was oft moved to pity at sight of a crippled beggar, and he never refused alms to the needy. He liked to play with his dogs, and I once saw him rein in to berate a drover who was whipping his cart horse. Yet now I must believe that same man sent children to the gallows, gave the command to starve two people to death. How could he do it, Richard?
Did he never awaken in the night, thinking of them? Did Maude's shadow never once fall across his table?"
"Joanna, do not do this to yourself."
"How can I stop? There are reasons beyond counting why wen murder, but there can be only one reason for a death such as Maude sPapa had to want her to suffer. He had to want to prolong her agony as long as possible."
"No," he said, "no."
"No more lies, Richard. Do you not think it time I faced the truth.
"I'm not lying, Joanna. I've had months and months to think

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his All his life our uncle Richard did as he damned well pleased, with xplanations or apologies to no one But Papa is not like that, he needs to stify his actions, even to himself He wanted Maude dead, but he had o right to execute her, and he knew it, all knew it If he'd had her beheaded, there could be no doubt that it was done at his command But prisoners are often neglected, often sicken and die I truly think that is why he chose starvation and not the axe Not to see Maude suffer To enable him to deny responsibility for her death, to be able to claim it was not of his doing "
"Maude's guards misunderstood their orders7 Forgot to feed her7 Chnst Jesus, Richard, who could ever believe such a fable7"
"Uncle Will believes it He's managed to convince himself that Maude and her son died through neglect He has to believe that How could he continue serving
Papa if he did not7"
"How, then" Joanna stopped herself in mid-sentence, but he finished it for her
"can I continue to serve him7 I do not often ask that question And when I do, I tell myself it's because he is still my father Because he is still the King
Because the only difference between Papa and other men is that he has the power to do what they cannot "
"You cannot truly believe that, Richard," she said, and he shrugged "What of
Isabelle7" she asked, after a long silence "Think you that she knows7"
"About the hostages, yes About Maude, not likely, who'd dare to tell her7 You need not fret about Isabelle She has very selective senses, sees and hears only what she wants to know "
"Was I " Joanna swallowed "Was I like that, too7"
"You loved him, Joanna I doubt that anyone loved him the way you did " Richard hesitated "When Papa decided to delay the invasion of Wales, he moved up into
Yorkshire But he expects to be back at Nothngham within the fortnight, wrote and requested that I join him there ' mean to do that, Joanna Would you be willing to go with me7 Mayhap lf you talked to Papa
He felt no surprise, only a sad sense of futility when she said in a ^retched whisper, "I cannot, Richard I cannot
I know," he conceded "This is a de Warenne manor You're welcome here as long as you like "
111 stay until you return to court After that I shall go to stay at the te Ladies priory in Brewood Forest "
ine White Ladies priory was a small Augustiman nunnery in ar ,roPshlre which had occasionally benefited from John's largesse Rich-
new Joanna had twice visited it with John, at age eight and then a few months before her marriage to Llewelyn He thought her

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choice of santuary a very telling one, and he ached for her, thinking ;t ironic that he, who had always valued competence as the highest virtue should now feel so utterly ineffectual, able to offer such meagre comfort
"Joanna . . . you have not left Llewelyn?"
She slowly shook her head. "No. I could never leave Llewelyn. But I'm not at all sure, Richard, that he wants me back."
"MAMA, look!" Elen balanced precariously on the tree stump, and when she was sure she had Joanna's eye, she dived like an otter into the October leaves heaped about the stump. Joanna hastened to the rescue, anticipating scraped knees and sobbing, but Elen was already sitting up She had dirt on her dress, leaves in her hair, and a satisfied smile on her face.
"Did you see me jump, Mama, did Ohhh! What is that?" Joanna followed the grubby little finger, saw two twitching ears protruding from a nearby thicket.
"That is a rabbit or coney, Elen," she said softly. "Be still so you do not frighten it away."
"It's smaller than a hare," Elen observed, with the knowing eyes of a country child. "Do we have them back home? Can I pet it, Mama? Can
I keep it?"
"I do not know if there are coneys in Gwynedd, Elen," Joanna admitted. "It is not native to England, was brought over some years back by the Normans for their sport."
Elen's other queries now became academic; the rabbit fled as soon as she moved. "Oh, Mama, it's gone!"
"I'm sorry, sweetheart." Joanna was, sorry for so much. These weeks at Brewood had not been happy ones for her daughter. Not a day passed that Elen did not ask when they were going home. Sometimes she sounded fretful, petulant, at other times unbearably plaintive, and at no time did Joanna have a satisfactory answer for her. "Soon" meant little to a homesick five-year-old who missed her father. It was coming to mean less and less to Joanna, too.
Several nuns were passing, lugging heavy oaken buckets of wei water. They paused to beam upon Elen; she was a great favorite with them all, and when
Sister Avelina offered to take her into the kitchen for bread and honey, she accepted readily. But she'd taken only a few step when she stopped, whirled, and came running back to Joanna.
"Kiss me, Mama," she directed, and Joanna knelt, for a morne hugged her tight.
Elen grinned, and then she was sprinting after . nuns, while Joanna stood very still, fighting her fear. If Llewelyn c° not forgive her, she'd lose more than his love; she'd lose her ch»d ^ too. When a marriage broke apart, the husband kept the children, a chose to deny his wife the right to see them, she had no legal reurse. Her own plight was even more perilous than that of most re. ted wives, for her husband was a Prince, a Prince with the power to h nish her from his domains, from their children's lives.
Joanna did not move until Elen's small figure was no longer in 'eht And then she turned, began to walk away from the priory, under the leafy- rustling clouds of autumn oak and dappled elm. When her grandmother had divorced the
French King, their two little daughters had remained with Louis. They were six and two then, and Eleanor did not see them again until they were women grown, in their twenties. Eleanor had apparently accepted the loss of her children as the price she must pay for Henry and the crown of England. But Joanna knew her own grieving would be beyond hope, beyond healing. The loss of her father she could, in time, accept. She could even learn to accept the loss of her husband. But not her children. Not Davydd. Not Elen. Not ever.
More than four weeks had passed since she'd come to the priory, six weeks since she'd ridden away from Dolwyddelan. Soon after her arrival at Brewood, she'd dispatched a man with a stilted and terse letter for Llewelyn, asking his permission to keep Elen in England beyond the month's grace he'd given