Here Be Dragons

Joanna nodded. “Yes,” she said slowly, “I am.” She’d given it a great deal of thought in the last fortnight, had concluded that she had no choice but to confide in Isabelle. She was not blind to the risk; Isabelle was not the most reliable of confidantes. Yet there was no one else. For a time she’d considered her Aunt Ela, for Ela was a pious, earnest woman who’d go to her grave before she’d betray a trust. And like Joanna and Isabelle, Ela had been married very young, to a man much older than she. But there’d never been true intimacy between them; no matter how she tried, Joanna could not envision herself discussing so sensitive a subject with Ela. Nor did she think Ela was a likely source for the sort of advice she needed; Ela was too passive, too docile, too…good. Ela would not understand. But Isabelle would. That Joanna never doubted.

  “I do need your counsel, Isabelle. Things are not right between Llewelyn and me, not as they should be. But ere I say one blessed word, you must swear to keep secret whatever I do tell you, swear upon your very soul.”

  “That is insulting, Joanna. Think you that I cannot keep a secret?” Joanna merely looked at her in significant silence, and Isabelle yielded, said reluctantly, “Very well, I do so swear. You surprise me, though. I was so sure you’d take to Llewelyn…”

  “I did that, in truth,” Joanna said ruefully. “I love him, Isabelle. I did not want to, but I do. And now I’m frightened…because for the first time I think he’s starting to see me as a woman. I want so much to believe that, but if I’m wrong…I do not think I could bear it. I’m afraid to go back, afraid to find out. And I’m afraid, too, that when I do, I’ll say or do the wrong thing, that I’ll—”

  “Joanna, I want to help, I truly do. But I know not what you’re talking about. If you love him, what then, is the problem?”

  “That he’s not yet taken me to bed,” Joanna said, before she could lose her nerve.

  Isabelle’s brows rose. “Why not?”

  “I think…think I’m not to his liking, not the way a man wants a woman.”

  Isabelle did not make the conventional polite denial. For several moments, she said nothing, and then she shook her head. “That’s not likely, Joanna. I grant you your coloring is unfortunate. But no man thinks of such matters in bed. Now if you were rail-slat thin or partridge plump…but you’re not, have high breasts, a waist a man could span with his hands—” She broke off, began to laugh. “I sound as if I’m tallying up the finer points of a filly I hope to sell—fifteen hands high, with a gait smooth as silk!”

  Joanna laughed, too. Isabelle was unpredictable and irreverent, but she could be perversely comforting, too, and Joanna very much wanted to believe her. “Why, then, Isabelle?”

  “Well…sometimes a man can be so besotted with one woman that he has no desire to bed with any others,” Isabelle said, rather dubiously, and at once wished she had not, for Joanna looked stricken. “But such men are as rare as unicorns. And you’d know if he were so smitten with a mistress; all the court would know, as when old King Henry doted so shamelessly upon Rosamond Clifford.” She signaled for Joanna to pour them wine, added thoughtfully, “Of course, it may just be that he thinks you’re too young for bedding…or unwilling. Have you given him cause for that, Joanna?”

  “Yes…I suppose I have,” Joanna admitted, startled. “He did not seem to want me, you see, so I…”

  “So you returned the favor. Foolish…but not fatal. I daresay you can mend the damage easily enough. You need only let him know, Joanna, that you want him in your bed; what could be simpler?”

  “But how do I do that? I cannot very well tell him, can I?”

  “Why not? I assure you, no man ever took a woman’s admission of desire as an insult. But there are any number of ways to let a man know you want him. Make an excuse to seek him out in his bedchamber, invite him into yours, look upon him with loving eyes, talk softly, tease…Dearest, it is so easy, in truth!”

  “For you, yes, but not for me!”

  “You may be an innocent, Joanna, but your husband is not. He’ll take your meaning quickly enough. In the morning we’ll go through my coffers, pick out colors that become you. Now I want to show you what John gave me for my name day, a necklet of sapphires and silver…”

  Joanna lay back against the pillows, only half listening to this accounting of Isabelle’s newest acquisition; Isabelle already had, she knew, jewels enough to bedazzle any queen in Christendom. But where men were concerned, Isabelle’s instincts were sound. She must somehow dispel Llewelyn’s doubts, let him know she was now most willing to be his wife…if, in truth, she had not already done so, out in the November sunlight before half his court. And closing her eyes, she gave herself up to remembering the feel of Llewelyn’s mouth upon hers, that kiss so sweet, so hot, and so surprising.

  John had returned to England in good spirits, pleased with the fruits of his summer campaign. His sense of satisfaction had done nothing to curb his innate restlessness, however, and he let neither heavy snows nor the grumbling of his courtiers slow his pace. Landing at Portsmouth on December 12, he held court in the fortnight that followed at Beer-Regis, Clarendon, Lugershall, Marlborough, Winchester, and Farnham.

  This constant, almost compulsive movement set most tempers on edge, for roads were bad, the weather was worse, and accommodations hard to come by for those dragged along in John’s wake. Joanna was one of the few to accept the chaos and inconvenience in good humor. For the first time in her life she had money to spend, and she did so with abandon, purchasing bolts of the finest Lincoln wool for Catherine, a magpie and a wicker cage for Gwladys, dolls with dyed hempen wigs for Marared and Gwenllian, wooden tops for Tegwared and Anghared, the twins she’d yet to meet, a sachet of orris root and anise for Enid. She’d even selected an ivory-handled eating-knife for Gruffydd, although she felt herself a hypocrite for doing so, knowing she had bought the knife not for the boy, but because she did not want Llewelyn to know she disliked his son. But her greatest joy was in choosing gifts for Llewelyn: a chess set of jasper and crystal, ivory dice, a pellison of soft vair to wear over his tunic. She had even, with some misgivings, purchased two pairs of chamois-skin gloves; gloves were still something of a novelty, were worn only by men of the very highest rank, and she was not altogether sure that Llewelyn would be willing to adopt this new Norman fashion.

  The Thursday after Christmas found the court settled at Guildford in Surrey, some thirty miles south of London. Joanna was delighted, for Guildford was a noted center for the cloth trade. With Richard in patient attendance, she’d lingered over the wares so eagerly spread out for her inspection, eventually selecting a ruinously expensive length of Spanish cotton, a deep russet velvet, sindon linen fine enough to see through, and, despite his token protest, a rich Coventry blue for Richard.

  Richard watched in amusement as the merchants all but fell over themselves in their zeal to please his sister. “You shall have to buy additional pack horses to get all your purchases back to Wales, you know,” he gibed, moving forward to help her mount her mare. “But are you still set upon departing on the morrow, Joanna? We thought sure you’d stay through Epiphany, and I do not doubt Llewelyn did, too.”

  “Wales is not at the back of beyond, Richard. I’ll come again.”

  “I just do not understand your haste. Nor does Papa, I’d wager.”

  “No, he does not. And I confess I am surprised, Richard. I’d have thought Papa would be pleased that I do miss the husband he chose for me. But when I told him I was leaving, he did give me the strangest look. As foolish as this is going to sound, I suddenly felt guilty, although why I do not know.”

  A light snowfall was powdering the ground by the time they reached the King’s manor. Hastening into the great hall, Joanna came to an uncertain halt. Something was amiss; she sensed it at once. So, too, did Richard. He took her arm, followed her toward the dais. Isabelle was standing at John’s side, her face turned imploringly up to his, speaking softly, placatingly. He did not seem to be listening, but as she persevered, he shook
her hand off his arm, snapped, “Be still, Isabelle. I’d not have you meddle in that which you do not understand.”

  Isabelle recoiled. “I did only mean to comfort you,” she said, sounding hurt. But John had already turned upon his heel; men hastily moved aside to let him pass.

  “Isabelle, what has happened?”

  “I’ve never seen him so angry, Joanna. When he first read the Pope’s letter, he went so red I truly feared he might be stricken with a palsy. And then he blistered the air itself with his oaths. I’d have begged him not to blaspheme, but I had not the courage. And when I did say—”

  “The Pope has given his decision, then?” Richard interrupted, with such urgency that Isabelle forgave his rudeness, nodded bleakly.

  “I cannot believe what he has done, Richard. He declared Reginald’s election invalid, just as he earlier repudiated Bishop de Grey’s election. But then he instructed the monks to elect a man of his choosing, Stephen Langton, cardinal priest of St Chrysogonus, a member of the papal court. They did as he bade, of course, and he now writes that John must recognize Langton as Archbishop of Canterbury, says that since the election was held in Rome, there is no need for John to give his assent!”

  Richard was stunned. “Christ Jesus help us all,” he breathed, and turned away. Joanna followed, clutched at his arm.

  “Richard, I do not understand. What does this mean?”

  “You truly do not know?” He stared at her in such surprise that Joanna blushed.

  “No,” she confessed, “I do not. I knew, of course, that the Archbishop of Canterbury had died, but to be truthful, Richard, I thought of little last year except my own troubles. I was, after all, facing a marriage I dreaded. And I’ve been in Wales since May. Will you tell me what has happened?”

  “The trouble began last year, with Archbishop Walter’s death. A faction of the Christchurch monks held a clandestine midnight meeting, elected Reginald, their subprior, as Archbishop, sent him secretly to Rome to secure the Pope’s confirmation. When Papa got word of this, he was understandably wroth. The King has ever had the right to have his own man as Archbishop; for more than a hundred years, so has it been. Papa confronted the monks at Canterbury, and they repented their folly, disavowed Reginald’s election. Last December they did choose an Archbishop more to Papa’s liking, John de Grey, Bishop of Norwich.”

  Richard frowned. “This past March the Pope declared Bishop de Grey’s election invalid, ordered the monks to send a new delegation to Rome. And now he has dared to handpick his own man as Archbishop of Canterbury! Papa can never ratify Langton’s election, never. No English king would.”

  “Oh, dear God!” Joanna sat down suddenly in the window seat, staring up at her brother in dismay. “The Pope will not back down, either, Richard. If Papa will not recognize Langton as Archbishop of Canterbury, he may well lay England under Interdict!”

  Joanna bit her lip, remembering how the innocent had suffered when the Pope laid France under Interdict six years ago. Few papal weapons were as effective, and few were as unfair, inflicting pain upon the many to punish the few, denying to the faithful all Sacraments save the Last Rites, denying them Mass, confession, burial in consecrated ground. Philip was a monarch noted for his inflexible nature, his unimaginative obstinacy. He had capitulated in seven months. But Papa will not, Joanna thought with sudden certainty. Even if the Pope does lay all England under Interdict, he’ll not yield. And then the Pope will have no choice. To compel earthly obedience, he will sacrifice Papa’s immortal soul, will lay upon him the anathema of excommunication.

  Joanna had been present when the Bishop of Lincoln excommunicated a baron who’d run afoul of Church law. She’d never forgotten it. The church had been hung with black tapestry. Moving with a slow, measured step, the Bishop and priests had entered the chancel, each holding aloft a flaming candle. And then the Bishop had cried out in a truly terrible voice, a voice that carried to Joanna the shiver of thunderbolts and the smell of sulphur, “Gilbert de Remy! Let him be cursed in the city and cursed in the field; cursed in his granary, his harvest, and his children; as Dathan and Abiram were swallowed up by the gaping earth, so may Hell swallow him; and even as today we quench the torches in our hands, so may the light of his life be quenched for all eternity, unless he do repent!” An appalled silence had fallen over those watching, and then they had flung their candles to the ground, casting the church into darkness.

  “Papa will not yield, Richard. You know he will not. And if he does not…”

  “If he does not,” Richard said bleakly, “God pity England.”

  20

  Aber, North Wales

  January 1207

  “Is Aber much farther, Madame?” Alison’s face was hooded by her mantle, but her voice was slurred with fatigue. Joanna felt a prick of remorse, for she was responsible for their punishing pace, having overruled Dylan and insisted that they push on for Aber instead of passing the night in comfort at Aberconwy Abbey. She knew she was being unfair to the others, especially to Alison. But she’d had six weeks to nurture her hopes, to hone her expectations to a fine edge.

  Moreover, there was an element of calculation in her insistence; she wanted to arrive at Aber after dark. It was well and good for Isabelle blithely to advise her to lure Llewelyn to her bedchamber, for Isabelle’s shyness had not survived her first glance into a mirror. But Joanna did not think she had either the experience or the self-assurance to carry off an amorous ambush, to play the coquette with such obvious intent. If she were to reach Aber at night, however, what would be more natural than that she’d go to Llewelyn’s chambers to let him know of her arrival? If he responded as she hoped, her journey would end in his bed; if not, she could at least protect her pride, would be able to make a dignified departure for her own chambers. The more Joanna thought on it, the more foolproof it seemed—and the more appealing, a private reunion in soft firelight, with a bed so invitingly available for more intimate conversation.

  Winter travel was always a dubious proposition; men who might easily cover thirty miles of a summer’s day in June would find themselves lucky to make half that distance come January. But Joanna had allowed for that, felt sure they would still reach Aber soon after dark. What she had not allowed for was the snowstorm. It slowed them to a walk, for a time halted them altogether, and when at last they rode into Aber, it was well past midnight.

  Joanna’s disappointment was not as acute as it might otherwise have been; by then she was so tired and so cold that she yearned only for sleep, and as soon as a fire was lit in her chamber, she and Alison fell, shivering, into bed. She awoke just before dawn, to find Alison already up and dressed; when she offered apologies for the harshness of Alison’s introduction to Wales, the other girl said with a grin, “If those mountains are as fearsome as you said, Madame, I think it was probably a mercy that I was spared the sight of them!”

  Joanna grinned, too, remembering her first glimpse of Penmaenmawr Pass. “I daresay you’re right!” Alison was a genuine jewel, she thought fondly, blessing her luck in having thought to mention Blanche’s sulks to Isabelle. In one brief afternoon Isabelle had resolved the problem, finding Blanche a position with the Countess of Surrey and finding Alison for Joanna. A Yorkshire knight’s younger daughter, Alison was ambitious enough to jump at the chance to serve in a royal household, and plucky enough to look upon a sojourn in Wales as an adventure. She was, Joanna now saw, holding out the most becoming of Joanna’s new gowns. Joanna had been dubious of the color, a dark wine red, but Isabelle had brushed aside her qualms, and as always, her fashion sense was flawless; when worn with a rose-colored bliaut, the effect was pleasing even to Joanna’s hypercritical eye.

  “You seemed so eager to be back with your lord husband, my lady, that I thought you would wish to go to him upon waking.”

  Suddenly Joanna was wide awake. She stared at the gown; it glowed with soft, seductive color, and her pulse began to quicken. “Yes,” she said, “I do.”

  Dressing w
ith nervous haste, she fidgeted as Alison combed out her long, dark hair; she’d made the daring decision to leave it unbound, flowing free down her back. And then Alison was holding out her mantle, saying with a smile, “How pleased Lord Llewelyn shall be to see you, Madame.”

  The snow had ended in the night, but the bailey was blanketed in drifts and a chill, damp wind was sweeping off the sea. Clutching the most elegant pair of Llewelyn’s new gloves, Joanna cautiously made her way toward her husband’s quarters; never had the Welsh partiality for separate buildings seemed so ill advised. The sky was just beginning to lighten, but the mountain peaks were crowned with clouds, warning that the sun’s sovereignty was likely to be brief.

  She knew Llewelyn was an even earlier riser than most, but this morning he seemed to be lingering abed, for his squires were still asleep, bundled under blankets in the outer chamber. The guard, too, was dozing, but he jerked upright as Joanna closed the door, blinking at her as if she were an apparition. “Holy Jesus, Madame, where did you come from?” he blurted out, with such a guileless disregard for protocol that Joanna had to laugh.

  “You’re dreaming; I’m still in London,” she said teasingly, and moved past him into her husband’s bedchamber. The room was in semidarkness, shutters drawn and candles as yet unlit, and she paused in the doorway, hesitant until she heard Llewelyn’s voice. There was a smoky sound to it, a lazy languor that warmed her like a physical touch. She’d never before realized how musical a language Welsh was; it had a lilt and cadence all its own. The bed curtains were partially pulled back; she took a step forward, saw the woman first. She was propped up on an elbow, her face in shadows, but as Joanna watched, she leaned over, spilling dark-honey hair onto Llewelyn as their mouths met. He said something that made her laugh, kissed her again, and started to sit up. As he did, he turned his head, saw Joanna standing frozen in the doorway.