Here Be Dragons - 1 (55 page)

that the chair tilted, and Llewelyn instinc& , started to rise, too, only to freeze as John swung the sword up. Th weapon was three feet long, honed to a razor edge, tapered for hrusring. It had been custom-made for Llewelyn, and he knew better than most its killing capabilities. Now, with that naked blade leveled at his throat, his mouth went dry, he dared not even blink. He heard a woman cry out; although it did not sound like her, he knew it could only be
Joanna.
The sword's point was pressed against his windpipe, but Llewelyn's pulse was slowing, his breathing steadying, for he'd realized that John did not mean to kill him. He would never know what had stayed John's hand; Joanna's scream?
Fear for Will? He could not even be sure John had ever meant to follow through on that first thrust. He knew only that John's eyes did not mirror the passion of a man provoked beyond all reason; his was a rage more glacial than volcanic, utterly implacable but controlled, icily deliberate, the rage of a man willing to wait for his vengeance.
It was not the first time Llewelyn had seen his death foretold in another man's eyes, but never had the threat carried so much lethal conviction, all the more chilling in eyes eerily like Joanna's. He felt the pressure increase, felt a stinging sensation, knew that John, too, had drawn blood. And then the sword was withdrawn and John stepped Mck, beckoned to one of the watching men.
"Take this," he said, "and break it."
he man looked dubiously at the sword, uncomfortably aware how U£ Pressure the blade was meant to bear. But he made haste to obey, the sword and withdrew, shouting for a hammer and anvil, ^vn l eVL6 W3S
Becoming aware again of their audience. Gwenwynyears °° llke a man at Peace with himself for the first time in three Thorna3^311 who/d Just received payment for a long-overdue debt. *" Hu h°r t00' was gleefully jubilant, Chester his usual impassive nored Ll ^et na88ard/ obviously ailing, while
Eustace de Vesci igSurPrisine7e'yn alt°8ether' watched John with unblinking intensity.
8 y, Maelgwn had lost his smile; his eyes held Llewelyn's for

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several moments, but his thoughts were masked, utterly his own. Joanna, however, was not within Llewelyn's range of vision. He'd have given a great deal had she only been back at Dolwyddelan, been anywhere but here, witness to his shame.
"Your Grace!" Grinning triumphantly, a man was hastening toward John, holding out Llewelyn's sword. But it was no longer a weapon, was no more now than two twisted pieces of jagged metal.
John reached out, took the hilt in one hand, the sundered blade in the other.
"As easily as I broke this sword, so could I have broken you . . and would have, if it were not for my daughter. But do not count upon her to save you a second time. From this day forth, the Virgin Mary herself could speak for you and it would avail you naught."
He flung the sword fragments to the ground. "Now you may withdraw," he said contemptuously, "and wait until I have time to speak with you about the terms of your surrender."
Llewelyn got slowly to his feet. His pride was already in shreds; he knew that if he allowed John to dismiss him as if he were a serf, the memory would haunt him for the rest of his life. But he saw no way out of the trap. He stared down at his broken sword, and then looked up, saw his wife.
Joanna's face was ashen, wet with tears, but her eyes were a brilliant, blazing green, and her mouth was contorted with rage. Richard was beside her, was gripping her arm, but as her eyes met Llewelyn's, she jerked free of her brother's restraining hold.
Llewelyn stood very still, watched as she moved toward him. All were watching her now. John took an involuntary step forward, said her name. She seemed not to hear, never took her eyes from Llewelyn. Coming to a halt before him, she said loudly and very clearly, "My lord husband," sank down on the grass in a deep, submissive curtsy.
It was more than a clever face-saving stratagem, it was an avowal of loyalty, of love. Llewelyn raised her up, looked for a long moment into her face, and then kissed her, kissed her as if they were alone, as if nothing mattered but that moment and the woman he held in his arms. Even he could not have said which meant more, that he was kissing John's daughter or kissing his wife.
Joanna could hear the erratic hammering of his heart, could feel the tremor in his arms, and behind her closed eyelids she could still see the sun glinting on the blade of his sword. She touched her fingers to his throat; they came away bloodied, and she shuddered, raised up an kissed him again.
Llewelyn smiled at her; she'd never seen his dark eyes so soft, s tender. And then she saw his smile change, saw it twist with triump She turned slowly and, like Llewelyn, looked at her father.

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John's face was burning with color, but his eyes were blank, utterly without emotion. Joanna could read nothing in them, not even recognition- Although she and her father were only some ten feet apart, it sudjgnly seemed to Joanna that the distance was widening with each silent second that passed. And then
John had turned away, was walking rapidly toward the abbey, not looking back.
Joanna watched, and there was a part of her that wanted nothing so much as to run after him, to try to make things right. But she did not uiove; she could not.
She looked so desolate, so achingly vulnerable, that Llewelyn put his arm around her shoulders. She had, he thought, burned more than a bed this time;
she had burned a bridge.
He said nothing, but Joanna knew it, too. "He'll never forgive me," she said softly, "never."
IT was dusk before John summoned Llewelyn to the monks' frater. He watched as the Welsh entered the dining hall, waited until Llewelyn and Joanna approached the dais, and then said cuttingly, "A woman has no place in the council chamber. Have your wife await you outside."
Joanna flushed, and John discovered that hurting her did nothing to ease his own hurt. She curtsied, looked first at her father and then at her husband, and John was swept with rage when Llewelyn nodded, as if he had the right to confirm a royal command. He saw now that the younger man had not washed away the dried blood on his throat, knew that was no less deliberately done than his own refusal to see Llewelyn for more than six hours, and at that moment there was nothing he would not have given to revoke Llewelyn's reprievesave only the life of his brother.
The hall was crowded. John was flanked by the Earls of Chester and Pembroke, was accepting a wine cup from his cousin, William de Warenr>e/ Earl of Surrey.
Llewelyn recognized most of the Normans gathered around the dais. Eustace de
Vesci looked, as ever, like a man nursing a Perpetual toothache. Beside him stood his cousin Robert Fitz Walter, nose friendship with de Vesci was mystifying to those who knew them est' for Fitz Walter was a swaggering, jovial prankster and braggart, er'y unlike the aloof, sardonic de Vesci. Fitz
Walter, whose estates , re primarily in Essex, looked no happier than de Vesci to be emoiled in John's vendetta against a Welsh Prince. But Llewelyn noted
Cjat even the Marcher lords, like the Earl of Hereford and Richard de ^ e' did not appear to be savoring John's triumph. To Llewelyn, that
^arnatic and intriguing evidence of the growing estrangement be-

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tween John and his barons, that they could take no pleasure in any vic. tory that strengthened the crown.
With a start, Llewelyn realized what he was doing, standing midst the burning embers of a charred ruin and envisioning it resurrected from the ashes and rubble, no less ambitious in design, far more impregnable to attack. It was heartening to discover that he had not yet lost all hope, even now as he braced himself for what was to come, for the price he would have to pay for
John's truce. He knew, just as John did, that it was not a peace.
John wasted no time. "I expect to be compensated in full for the cost of this campaign. But I am not vindictive. Since I know what a poor, wretched country
Wales is, how limited your resources are, I am willing to take payment in livestock. I shall want some of your best horses, hawks, and hunting dogs for my own use, will let you know how many. But you are to pay tribute to the
English crown in cattletwenty thousand head."
"Christ!" Llewelyn was staggered. "You do not understand how dependent we are on cattle. If you reduce our herds by twenty thousand, my people will starve!"
"You're the one who does not understand. You're not here to argue, to negotiate. You're here to listen whilst I tell you what I want from you. And what I want are cattle . . . and land. All of Gwynedd west of the River Conwy, the four cantrefs you call the Perfeddwlad."
With one stroke he'd just cut Gwynedd in two, gained half of North Wales for the English crown. Llewelyn stared at him, saying nothing, taking what meagre consolation he could from a grim resolve, that claiming the Perfeddwlad would be easier than holding onto it.
It was not difficult for John to guess the tenor of his thoughts, for he'd made no effort to dissemble, and everything about him, from his stance to the set of his mouth, spoke of silent defiance. More than ever, John regretted what he'd done for love of his daughter. But he had one great advantage over most men, a lesson learned at bitter cost during those years he'd dwelt in the shadow of a brother he hated, in the shadow of the crown. He knew how to wait.
"Whatever my other faults, naivete is not amongst them. I know, of course, that you cannot be trusted out of my sight, that an oath of honor means no more to a Welshman than it would to an infidel Saracen. Therefore, I shall have to take measures to make sure you keep faithwant thirty hostages as pledges for your fidelity to the crown. They a^ to be wellborn, the sons of your Welsh lords, scions of noble Houses.
Llewelyn knew it was a common Norman custom to take hostage5' knew John had in custody not only the daughters of the Scottish Kin& but the sons of those of his own lords who'd fallen into disfavor. Eve

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the powerful and respected Earl of Pembroke had been forced to yie tvvo of his sons to allay John's feverish suspicions. But knowing th did nothing to ease
Llewelyn's sense of outrage. "As you will," he sa tersely/ not trusting himself to say more.
"You are to select them, to take upon yourself the responsibility fi their fate. But of the thirty, one must be your son Gruffydd."
Llewelyn's head came up sharply. "No1."
There was a sudden, tense silence. Chester glanced toward Johi then took it upon himself to say, "Need I point out, my lord, that you' m no position to refuse anything the King might demand of you?"- making it a simple statement of fact when another man might ha^ turned it into a mocking taunt.
"He's holding two sons of mine," a voice close at hand said i Welsh, and
Llewelyn turned, stared for a startled moment into the ic blue eyes of an old enemy. Maelgwn seemed surprised himself, as if h words had somehow come of their own volition. He shrugged, mu mured coolly, "Mae yn rhy hwyr edifaru ar ol i'r ffagl gyneu."
It was an oft-quoted Welsh proverb, one Llewelyn knew well: It too late to repent after the flame is kindled.
He looked from Maelgwn to Chester, realizing that these two mei the most unlikely of allies, were, nevertheless, trying to do him a goc turn, to remind him of the wretched realities of defeat, the likely cons> quences of refusal.
He realized, too, that they were right. But how i Christ's blessed name could he ever do what was being demandec How could he give up his son to John, to
John of all men?
John was smiling faintly. "The boy is in the camp; it would be eas enough to take him. But I've a question to put to you first, my loi Prince of Gwynedd.
You speak with such passion of your concern f< your people, speak as if you truly care whether they have meat to put i their bellies. Tell me, then, how you can agree to offer up other men sons, whilst refusing to yield your own."
Llewelyn sucked in his breath. He no longer looked defiant, looke shaken, and
John took some satisfaction from that, but it was m enough, not nearly enough.
He rose from his chair, and Llewelyn took a step toward the dai will Your
Grace spare me a few moments . . . alone?"
John frowned, but curiosity won out, and he nodded, waved tf
0 her men away from the dais. They retreated with obvious reluctano
0 less curious than he. As soon as they were out of earshot, he d< "landed, "Well? What have you to say to me?" ^ Just this." Llewelyn had advanced to the first step of the dais. ' . ant y°u to remember," he said, "that if Gruffydd is your hostag< Joanr>a is mine."

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John's eyes widened. "What mean you by that? You'd never hu^ Joanna!"
"No, I would not. I care very deeply for her. And I'm willing t0 concede that you care, too."
"Of course I care!" John snapped. "What of it?"
"You know now that Joanna loves me. But she loves you, too, and however angry you are with her, I do not think you want to lose that love. Am I wrong?"
John was frowning again. "Go on," he said curtly. "Get to the point."
"As I said, Joanna still loves you. But there are things she does not know, that I've kept from her. Mayhap they'd make no difference to her if she knew.
Mayhap they'd make all the difference in the world. Do you want to risk it?"
"You expect me to believe you'd do that to Joanna, use her as a weapon against me?"
Llewelyn gave a harsh, bitter laugh. "You expect me to believe you would not?"
John bit back a hot retort. "What do you want?" he said at last.
"I want you to remember that your quarrel is with me, not with my son."
"He is a hostage, not a scapegoat. You have nothing to fear for him as long as you keep faith." John paused. "In a very real sense, his fate is in your hands, not mine."
THE Chapter House was lit by a single, smoking rushlight, cluttered with overturned benches and the debris of soldiers who'd been using it as a barracks. It was a somber setting for what Llewelyn had to say, but it did offer privacy. When he'd exited the frater hall, he'd found Joanna and
Gruffydd waiting in the cloisters. They'd followed him obediently into the
Chapter House, showed themselves to be sensitive to his mood by asking no questions. They watched as he wandered about the chamber, kicking aside empty wine flasks, until Gruffydd could stand the suspense no longer.
"Are you not going to tell us what happened, Papa? What does he want?"
"All of Gwynedd west of the Conwy, twenty thousand cattle, and thirty hostages." Llewelyn had half hoped his son might guess t e truth, but
Gruffydd's face showed only outrage. Whirling about, glared accusingly at
Joanna.
"I tried to tell you, Papa, that she was not to be trusted!"
"Do not talk foolishness, Gruffydd. If not for Joanna, there'd hav been no terms at all." Llewelyn glanced over at his wife. "I owe her a ^eat deal. We all do."
He knew no easy way to tell the boy, and the longer he delayed, the harder it would get. "John demands that you be one of the hostages, Gruffydd/>
Gruffydd gasped, stared at him, eyes dark with disbelief. "And . . . and you agreed?"
"I had no choice, lad."
"No ..." Gruffydd backed away. "She got you to do this! So her son will be your only heir, so he'll"
"That's not true! I did not know my father would"
"Liar! He did it for you, for you and your God-cursed son!"
"Gruffydd, that is enough!" In the silence that settled over the chamber, Llewelyn faced a very ugly truth, one he'd sought for five years to deny. He'd long known that Joanna and Gruffydd did not get along, but he'd succeeded in convincing himself that it was no more than the natural strain between a stepmother and a child not hers, that their relationship would mend as
Gruffydd matured. Now he looked at Joanna and Gruffydd, and was forced to acknowledge that the son he loved and the woman he loved would never be reconciled, would never be other than implacable enemies, each one begrudging the other a place in his heart, in his life.
Standing there in the dimly lit Chapter House, he could, for the first time, comprehend how it must be for Joanna, caught between the conflicting claims of