The great hall was lit by rushlight; torches were used sparingly in Wales, pine and fir trees being less common there than in England. It was a cool night for August, and a fire blazed in the center hearth. Of all that Joanna found foreign in Wales, the altered dinner hour had been hardest for her to accept. In England, dinner, the main meal of the day, was served between ten and eleven in the forenoon, followed by a light supper at five. But the Welsh ate just one meal a day, and that in the evening.
The food and the trestle tables had been cleared away. Llewelyn was sitting by the hearth, picking out a plaintive melody on a finely tuned harp. Joanna knew no people who loved music as the Welsh did. Every house, no matter how poor, had a harp; it passed by law to the youngest son, could never be seized for debt. Remembering how her father’s lords had sneered at the Welsh passion for music, claiming that every pigsty did hold a harp, Joanna frowned. The unfairness of that gibe rankled. Whatever their faults, the Welsh were not at all as Normans saw them; that she could say with certainty after three months in their midst.
Llewelyn was the focal point of all eyes. While that was normally the case, there was an emotional intensity in the looks he was getting tonight, for he had given them all a bad scare. Five days ago, he and a few friends had gone off for a day’s hunting. Because it was not an official circuit or clych, had no purpose but pleasure, he had been accompanied by only a token escort, and when the second day passed without word from him, a sense of unease began to spread. By the third day, all pretense was gone, and people were openly voicing their concern. Joanna found her sleep haunted by visions of twisting mountain trails; she could not stop thinking of the wolves that roamed the lower slopes of the Eryri Mountains, nor of the tusked wild boars that could disembowel a horse, rip apart a man with such murderous ease. But it was not until she talked to Enid that she became aware of a more sinister undertone to their fears. Fumbling for words, Enid drew upon enough broken French to convey Llewelyn’s true danger, that he might have strayed too close to the Powys border. She needed to say no more; Joanna understood all too well. Gwenwynwyn would gladly risk war for a chance to catch Llewelyn off guard, for with Llewelyn’s death, Gwenwynwyn would stand alone as the unchallenged power in North Wales.
On the fourth day, Rhys had ridden in from his own estates on the isle of Môn, at once ordered out search parties. That night Joanna could not bear to withdraw to her own chambers, remained in the great hall, where word would first come. Ednyved’s wife, Gwenllian, was there, too, and she made Joanna feel as if she were somehow intruding where she had no right to be. But for all the resentment smoldering in Gwenllian’s eyes, Joanna was utterly unprepared to hear her remark, “I marvel that she does pretend to such concern. Who does not know, after all, that Llewelyn’s death would give her what she most craves—widowhood.” Joanna had been too shocked for anger, and thinking back upon it later, she’d sought to find excuses for the other woman, reminding herself that Gwenllian’s husband was missing, too. Yet no matter how she tried to mitigate Gwenllian’s malice, she knew the woman had meant for her to overhear; she’d spoken in French.
Soon after midnight, a courier from Llewelyn had ridden in. After that first surge of relief, Joanna blessed her husband’s good manners, for he’d addressed the message to her, and she had the satisfaction of telling Gwenllian and the others that he was safe. There’d been a mishap, as feared, but the trouble had befallen one of Llewelyn’s men; he’d taken a fall, broken a leg, had to be carried on a makeshift horse litter to the nearest shelter, the mountain priory at Beddgelert.
Remembering that now, Joanna was remembering, too, how she’d once hoped most fervently for Llewelyn’s death. Not that she’d actually prayed for it; such sinful prayers were all too likely to rebound upon the one seeking them. But she had wished for his death, would willingly have bought her freedom with his blood. Yet during the past four days, she had felt only anxiety. Not once had it even crossed her mind that with Llewelyn’s death, she would be a widow, free to return to her world, her people. Why had it not? She found herself watching Llewelyn’s fingers move nimbly over the harp strings; he did, as Isabelle noted, have beautiful hands. Was the answer truly so difficult? She had not known Llewelyn before; it was easy enough to wish for the death of a stranger. But now…now he was very real to her, a flesh-and-blood man with a passionate love for life, a man who’d shown her only kindness, a man she liked, liked very much.
No, she did not want Llewelyn to die, most assuredly not. She was not even sure she wanted to end their marriage. This alliance was no less important to Papa now than it had been nigh on two years ago. Nor was it likely that she’d be so fortunate in her father’s selection of a second husband. Moreover, in the eyes of Holy Church, she was Llewelyn’s wife, for better or worse. Mayhap if she were not wife in name only…mayhap then she would not be so unhappy, would not feel so utterly alone. It was not the first time this thought had occurred to her. And why not? She was old enough to be a wife, in just a month would be fifteen. Nor had she any reason to shun Llewelyn’s bed. Isabelle said a woman’s pleasure depended upon the man. Watching her husband, Joanna felt color creeping into her cheeks. Llewelyn was not a man to abuse a woman, in bed or not. She had nothing to fear from him, was sure he’d be gentle, tender even.
But what did it matter that she was now willing to be a true wife to Llewelyn, when he showed no desire to take her to his bed? She could scarcely go to him, after all. She could only wait, until his need for an heir would bring him to her bed. For now she did remain in limbo, a wife and yet not a wife. Just as at her father’s court. The King’s bastard daughter, not truly belonging there, either.
Llewelyn put aside the harp, studied his friends with exasperated amusement. “Jesú, to hear you all talk, I’m in need of a keeper! What did you think, that I’d go blundering into Powys like some green stripling? You should only see the day dawn, Rhys, when I do get lost in Gwynedd!”
“Not lost,” Morgan interjected dryly. “It did cross our minds that you might have deliberately sought to lure Gwenwynwyn into breaking the truce.”
“Well, what better bait? That is a thought well worth exploring. But you should have known I’d not have been such a fool as to try it with only ten men.”
“How many have you in mind?” Adda asked laconically, and Llewelyn laughed.
“It’ll not take as many as I once thought…thanks to my father-in-law, the English King. If Gwenwynwyn expects John to pull his chestnuts from the fire, they’ll be well roasted, in truth.”
Rhys’s eyes kindled with sudden interest. He knew that Llewelyn’s dislike of the Powys Prince was as much personal as political; Gwenwynwyn was responsible for the murder of Llewelyn’s uncle Owain at Carreghova, and a blood debt demanded blood payment. “Are you sure that John will not interfere?”
“As sure as any man can be when dealing with a snake. John and I came to an understanding at Worcester; it was that which he used to sweeten his offer of marriage. He gets what he wants, me as ally…expecting, I daresay, that a son-in-law will be easier to keep on a short leash. I get what I want—Powys. And Gwenwynwyn gets…trouble.”
They all laughed at that, but Ednyved could not help cautioning, “Assuming, of course, that John can be trusted.”
Llewelyn grinned. “I know what you’re thinking, that it’s risky indeed to sup with the Devil. But rest assured, I do plan to use a very long spoon!”
Glancing across the hall, Llewelyn’s gaze was drawn to his girl-wife. Such an innocent-looking lass, a sweet bird in the hand, so unlikely an instrument of Gwenwynwyn’s downfall. But there was a sadness about her that he’d never before noticed; how forlorn she seemed, a flower put down in alien soil. Rising, he crossed to her, leaned over to murmur, “It occurs to me, lass, that you’ve yet to see much of my homeland. What say you we remedy that? On the morrow, should you like me to take you into the Eryri Mountains, to show you those sights closest to my heart?” He’d spoken on impulse, and it was an offer th
at would cause him no small inconvenience, would result in the utter disruption of his plans for the week, but he thought himself more than repaid now by the delighted smile that lit up Joanna’s face.
It was to be one of the happiest days Joanna had known in months. Although both Ednyved and Rhys opted to accompany them, Llewelyn rode at her side, devoted his attentions to her alone, speaking with animation and at length of that which men rarely discussed with women.
He explained why he thought the bishopric of St David’s should be independent of Canterbury, why he wanted a Welsh-born bishop for the See of Bangor. He was in the process now, he confided, of codifying Welsh law, that which had been passed down from the tenth-century Prince of blessed memory, Hywel the Good. Not that he thought Hywel’s code to be sacrosanct, come down from Mount Sinai carved in stone. Laws needed to be flexible, to reflect the changing needs of changing times. For example, under the old laws, an act of violence was a crime against only the victim. If the offender made proper restitution to the victim’s kin, he was absolved of further liabilities. That was no longer enough; Llewelyn would have the man held accountable to his Prince, too. In that way, society could be better served, made safer for those dwelling under the law. But he was encountering some resistance. There were those who clung mindlessly to the old ways. As it was once done, so must it always be done, till the memory of man runneth not to the contrary, he said, and laughed ruefully.
Joanna listened intently, awed by the realization that Llewelyn was even more ambitious than she had first thought. But his ambition went well beyond what most men sought, power and land, entailed no less than a transformation of Welsh society. She’d never before met anyone who dared to dream so big, and she found herself hoping that he’d not be disappointed, that his dreams would indeed come to pass.
She was no less interested in personal than in political revelations, listened with fascination as he talked of his mother, with such obvious affection that she felt a rush of empathy, thinking that his abiding love for Marared was very like her own love for her father. He spoke but briefly of Marared’s death, saying only that he thanked God she’d lived to see him in sovereign control of all of Gwynedd, and then he gave Joanna a deliberately lighthearted account of the rebellion begun at fourteen—“just your age, lass.” It seemed perfectly natural to Joanna to tell him, in turn, of her own life, to tell him what she’d never before told anyone but John, of her mother’s despairing last days, even of that brutal rejection in the solar at Middleham Castle. Llewelyn reined in abruptly at that, with an exclamation of incredulous outrage.
“Christ of the Cross! He turned his back upon a child, his own sister’s flesh and blood, not knowing or caring what evil might befall you?” He shook his head. “These d’Arcys, where are their lands? Are they near the Welsh border?”
“No, in Derbyshire, I think.”
“A pity,” he said, flashed her a sudden smile. “If ever there were people who do deserve a little trouble in their lives…”
“Almost, you sound as if you do mean that!” Actually, it mattered little to Joanna whether he meant it or not. It was enough for her that he’d said it, that his first impulse had been to avenge her wrong, to inflict punishment for her pain. It was, she thought, as great a gift as anyone had ever offered her.
“Know you what Eryri does mean? ‘The Haunt of Eagles.’ Apt, is it not? Tell me, Joanna, what think you so far of Wales?”
Joanna hesitated. It was indeed a beautiful country, but awesome, foreboding, not a land to submit tamely to man’s control. Stark grandeur it had, but Joanna yearned for a softer harmony. “Everywhere I look, I see a sight to take my breath, see mountains that might in truth serve as stepping stones to Heaven. But…but it makes me feel very small, Llewelyn, as if I do count for naught.”
Llewelyn nodded. “Yes,” he said approvingly. “But in time you’ll come to see the splendor of it, too.” Glancing back over his shoulder, he gave the signal to halt. “Rhys, hold the men here. I want to show Joanna Rhaeadr Eywnnol.”
The sudden coolness of the air took Joanna by surprise. The woods were shaded with summer green, suddenly hushed and still as Llewelyn led her forward. She could hear the river now, glimpsed the fall of white water through the trees. But she hung back, no longer following as Llewelyn moved toward the edge of the cliff.
“I…I have an unease of heights,” she said apologetically.
“So I’ve noticed,” Llewelyn said and smiled at her. “But I’ll not let you fall, do assure you that not one princess of Gwynedd has ever drowned in Rhaeadr Eywnnol. That’s it…lean back against me. See how much better the view is from here? This has ever been my favorite place. And Dolwyddelan is but nine miles to the south; we’ll pass the night there and return to Aber on the morrow.”
Joanna was no longer listening. She felt no fear, for she was oblivious to the surging cataract, the wind-driven spray. Llewelyn was holding her back against his body; she could feel his encircling arms pressing against the undersides of her breasts, feel his breath upon her cheek, the soft tickle of his mustache against her temple, his hand warm on her wrist.
“You can let me go, Llewelyn. I am all right now,” she said, but her voice was so muffled that he at once drew her back from the cliff.
“You’re trembling, Joanna; were you as fearful as that? Your face is flushed, too…” He put his hand to her cheek, and Joanna gasped, wrenched free of his embrace, stumbling in her haste to put space between them.
Backing away, she leaned against the nearest tree. “I…I’m sorry, but I…I was afraid…”
“Yes, so I see,” he said, and the coldness in his voice brought her eyes up to his face in utter dismay. As flustered as she’d been by his touch, that was as nothing to the way she felt now, with the wretched realization that he’d read fear into her confused recoil. She opened her mouth, but the words would not come. It was not that she’d liked his embrace too little; it was that she’d liked it too much. But how could she ever tell him that?
Ednyved crossed the great hall, sloshed a dripping cup into Llewelyn’s hand. “Here. Whenever I am wroth with Gwenllian, I find mead to be a great restorative.”
“Why should you think I’m wroth with Joanna?”
“Why, indeed? The lass spoke not three words at dinner, fled ere the tables could be cleared away, and now you keep to the hall like a man in search of sanctuary. But you have not quarreled—not you.”
“I did not say that. I said I was not angry with Joanna. Well…I admit I did lose my temper this afternoon. I should not have, but I do keep forgetting how very young she is. It is for that reason that I’ve kept to the hall, my way of making amends. You see, Joanna did not realize there is no lady chamber here at Dolwyddelan. She took one look at our bed, and her face took on all the colors of sunset. So…I thought to give her time to get to sleep first…my good deed for the day!”
“She’s nigh on fifteen, is she not?” Ednyved asked, his voice noncommittal.
“But she still has the emotions of a child, Ednyved, is not yet ready to be a wife.”
“You know her better than I. But there are women who shrink from the marriage bed, from a man’s touch. Are you sure that your Joanna is not one such?”
“As to that, I cannot be sure till I bed her. But I think not, think she merely needs time.”
Ednyved looked at the other man, startled by a sudden surge of envy. It was obvious it had not even occurred to Llewelyn that Joanna simply might not find him to her liking. Just as it had not occurred to Rhys to worry whether Catrin would want him, would share his sudden passion. Ednyved reclaimed the cup of mead, wondering what it would be like to be so free of self-doubt. With only one woman had he felt it, with his first wife. Tangwystl, daughter of Lord Llywarch of Bran; he and Llewelyn had often joked about it, the confusion that resulted from their women sharing a Christian name. In the early years of their marriage, she’d come quite eagerly to his bed. But then the pregnancies began. Six sons she’d given him i
n less than nine years, had died giving birth to their last-born. Four years ago he’d married Gwenllian, heiress of Dyffryn Clwyd, daughter of Lord Rhys, Prince of South Wales. It was a brilliant match, but a loveless marriage. Most of the time he did not feel the lack. But there were nights, like this one, when he remembered the gentle, dark-eyed Tangwystl, felt the dull throb of an old grief.
“So what mean you to do, Llewelyn…wait for Joanna to grow up?”
“Why not? If a wife is not worth taking some trouble with, who is? Besides, I like the lass, would rather she be content than not.” Llewelyn half rose, beckoned to a cupbearer. “Nor is my forbearance all that unselfish. What man would choose an indifferent bedmate over an ardent one? If Joanna needs time to reach womanhood, I’m willing to give her that time. It’s not as if I need her now to warm my bed, after all.” Llewelyn smiled at that, thinking of Cristyn.
“Indeed, I’d say not,” Ednyved agreed, so emphatically that Llewelyn knew he, too, was thinking of Cristyn.
Dawn light was spilling through the open shutters. For a confused moment, Joanna did not remember where she was—not until she saw Llewelyn lying next to her in the bed. At that, she remembered all too well. She’d lain awake for hours, waiting for Llewelyn, desperately trying to decide what she could say to him. But when he’d finally come to bed, her courage had failed her again, and as on that night at Rhuddlan Castle, she’d taken refuge in feigned sleep.
Llewelyn was sprawled on his back; even in sleep, he sought space. He was only partially covered with the sheet, and Joanna saw now what he’d meant when he’d spoken of his “share of hurts.” A knotted, faded scar seared the skin across his ribcage; another, more recent, zigzagged from armpit to collarbone.