Here Be Dragons - 1 (6 page)

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she'd never sought to wrap the boy in soft wool. What, then? Had he gotten some village lass with child? That was likely enough. He was an attractive lad, and having discovered where his sword was meant to be sheathed, he seemed set upon getting as much practice as possible. But no, why should Margaret fret over a peasant wench ploughed and cropt? She was too sensible for that, would not blame Llewelyn for so small a sin.
Marared had turned away abruptly, sitting down suddenly on the steps of the dais. Llewelyn followed at once, hovering uncertainly at her side, his face troubled. But when he patted her shoulder awkwardly, she pushed his hand away.
Hugh quickened his step, no longer amused.
"Margaret? What is wrong?"
"Ask Llewelyn," she said tautly, and then, "He says he's not going back to
England with us. He wants to stay in Wales, to try to overthrow his uncles in
Gwynedd."
Her answer was so anticlimactic that Hugh felt laughter well up within him, dangerously close to the surface. He gave an abrupt, unconvincing cough, knowing she'd never forgive him if he laughed. But how like a woman, to let herself get so distraught over a boy's caprice, a whim of the moment that bore little relationship to reality. Doubtless, too, she'd been seeking to scare
Llewelyn with horror stories of the hardships he'd be facing, the dangers and deprivations, the hand-tomouth existence of a rebel on the run. And what could be better calculated to appeal to a foolhardy fourteen-year-old?
"Is this true, Llewelyn?"
Llewelyn nodded, but his eyes were wary and Hugh hesitated, recognizing the need to tread lightly, not wanting to trample the boy's pride into the dust.
"That is a rather ambitious undertaking, lad, too much so. In saying that, I
do not mean to belittle your courage in any way. But courage alone is not enough, not when we are talking of rebellion."
"I know." Llewelyn slanted a sudden glance toward Morgan. "Courage without common sense is the least of God's gifts."
"It's glad I am to hear you say that, Llewelyn. For should you go up against your uncles nowon your ownI fear the only ground in Gwynedd you'd claim would be enough to fill a grave."
"I know," Llewelyn said again, and when Hugh smiled, so did he. Before adding, "That is why I did appeal to my Uncle Gruffydd for advice and assistance. He thinks I'm of an age to lay claim to what is mine, has promised to help me do just that."
Hugh's jaw dropped. "He what?" Jerking around to stare at his

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wife. "Your brother has agreed to this, to aid him in this madness?" he demanded, incredulous, and she nodded grimly.
Christ, no wonder Margaret was so wroth! "Of all the damned fool. . . ! I am sorry, Llewelyn," he said curtly, "but you must put this scheme from your mind. There is no way on God's earth that I'd ever give my consent."
"I'm sorry, too," Llewelyn said softly. "I should've liked to have your approval."
He'd spoken so politely that it was a moment or so before Hugh realized he'd just been defied.
"You're not being offered a choice, Llewelyn! I'm telling you that you're to forget this lunacy, you're to return to Shropshire with your mother and me, and that will be the end of it. As for your uncle, I'd not speak ill of a man in his own house, but he had no right to encourage you in this, to go against our wishes. You are not his son, after all."
"I am not your son, either."
Hugh stiffened. The boy's matter-of-fact reminder hurt more than he'd have expected or Llewelyn had intended. It was a hurt that camouflaged itself in rage, and he clenched his fist, his face darkening with a sudden surge of blood. But while Llewelyn felt that his mother had a perfect right to hit him if she chose, he did not accord Hugh the same privilege, and he'd prudently put distance between them.
"No, you are not my flesh and blood. But when I wed your mother, your wardship passed into my hands. That means, Llewelyn, that you are answerable to me, and will be until you do come of legal age. Once you reach your majority, you may do what you damned well please, may sell your life as cheaply as you like. But for the next seven years you'll do what I say. Is that clear?"
"Very."
It was Llewelyn's composure that struck the first false note. The boy was too calm, was arguing more like an adult than a youngster with a head full of fanciful dreams, and Hugh said warningly, "If you think to run away once we're back in Shropshire, Llewelyn ..."
Llewelyn was shaking his head. "I've heard you out, Hugh. Now I'd have you do as much for me. I'd not have you think me ungrateful . . . and I do not deny your right of wardship over me until I come of legal age. As we both know, in
England that is twenty-one. But what you plainly do not know is that in Wales it is fourteen . . . and I did turn fourteen in February."
Hugh stared at his stepson. Llewelyn's dark eyes were shining with triumph; a smile he could not quite repress quirked one corner of his mouth. Hugh caught his breath, swore softly. Little wonder the lad had

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been so cocky; he'd known from the first that he was playing with loaded dice.
Hugh was swallowing bile, spat into the floor rushes. Rob was right; there was no reasoning with the Welsh, they were all mad, beyond redemption or understanding. What were they to tell Chester? The opportunity of a lifetime lost to them, all because a headstrong boy wanted to play the rebel!
"And what of your brother? Would you leave him without a qualm, knowing he has such need of you, knowing you go where he cannot follow"
"Adda hears just fine! Do not speak of him as if he were not even here!"
There was a strained silence. Adda had gone very pale, but he said, quite evenly, "I want Llewelyn to go, want him to claim what is his. So would I, had
God not willed otherwise."
Hugh felt a touch of shame; it was Llewelyn he'd wanted to wound, not the innocent Adda. Llewelyn was staring at him, accusing, defiant. Whatever chance he might have had of prevailing was utterly gone now. Llewelyn might, he knew, forgive a slight on his own behalf, but on Adda's, never. He'd not yield in this, knowing he had the full backing of his Welsh kinsmen. All their plans set at naught, their hopes of an alliance with Chester now gall and wormwood, ashes in his mouth.
"Go to Gwynedd and be damned, then!" he said bitterly, and turned away.
They watched in silence as Hugh strode from the hall. But when Marared rose to follow him, Llewelyn stepped in front of her. "Mama ..."
"No, Llewelyn. Do not expect my blessings. Do not expect my forgiveness, either."
He'd won. But he could take no pleasure in it, not now. Llewelyn sank down on the dais steps, passed some moments disconsolately sliding his dagger up and down its sheath. The excitement he'd experienced in sharing his plans with
Ednyved and Rhys had gone suddenly sour, tarnished by his mother's tears.
"Adda?" Marared let her hand linger on her younger son's shoulder. "Are you coming, lad?"
"Yes, Mama."
As Adda rose, Llewelyn looked up, said, "Hugh did not mean that, Adda. He was angry, just did not think ..."
"People never do, do they?" Adda smiled thinly. "Yet we'd be apart, too, once you were sent off to serve as Chester's squire. Better you should follow your heart."

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Their eyes caught, pulled away. Marared was waiting. Adda reached for his crutch and angled it under his armpit. Watching his brother limp toward the door, Llewelyn felt a protective pang. What Adda had just said was true. It was also true that he was being left behind.
"Morgan . . . Morgan, am I doing the right thing?"
"If I said no, would you heed me?"
Llewelyn considered, and then gave the priest a rueful smile. "No," he conceded. "Gwynedd is my birthright. But it's like to take years to claim it.
Years I can ill afford to squander in Shropshire. I have to do this, Morgan. I
have to."
Morgan nodded slowly; he'd expected no less. He, more than anyone else, had nurtured in Llewelyn a love for his heritage, his homeland, had molded youthful clay into adult ambition. He was proud of what he had accomplished, proud of Llewelyn's resolve, his daring. But he could not help feeling fear, too, for Llewelyn was the son he'd never have.
"I cannot say I approve, lad." And then, very softly, "But I do understand."
3
CHINON CASTLE, PROVINCE OF TOURAINE
}um uSg
"w
V YHAT is your name, girl?"
"Lucy ..." She added "my lord" for safety's sake; a fortnight at Chinon had not been long enough for her to absorb the intricacies of the castle hierarchy. She knew only that this man was a bailiff, a being as far above her as stars in the firmament, and she was trembling with dread that she'd somehow displeased, that she might be dismissed in disgrace.
"Turn around," he directed, and as she complied in bewilderment, he gave a satisfied nod. "Yes, you'll do once you're cleaned up some;

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he's right particular about such niceties. Agnes, see that she has a bath first. I expect it is too much to hope that you would still be a virgin?"
Lucy gasped so audibly that several men laughed, and the bailiff looked at her with the first flicker of genuine interest. "Well, well. That is a stroke of luck for you, girl. How many wenches get to lose their maidenheads in a royal bed?" He laughed, moved on to other matters, and Lucy was forgotten.
She stood there, rooted, until Agnes stepped forward and slipped a supportive arm around her waist. "Shall we get you that bath?" she said, and giving Lucy no chance to balk, she guided the girl toward the door. "Do not look so stricken, lass. It'll not be as bad as you think; you might even enjoy it."
"But . . . but he's so old and sickly!" Lucy shuddered. She'd seen the old
King infrequently since his arrival at Chinon. There was in his face the haggard, grey gauntness of coming death; it would, she thought with horror, be like embracing a corpse.
"Old?" Agnes echoed and then laughed. "You need not fear, Lucy, you're not for poor King Henry. God pity him, he's beyond feeling the itch that only a woman can scratch. No, his son rode in within the hour, and it is a rare night when that one does not want a wench to warm his bed."
"Lord John?"
"Well, for certes not Richard!" Agnes giggled, but thought better of pursuing that particular brand of high-risk humor; instead, she took it upon herself to allay Lucy's fears. "He's handsome, is Lord John. Not as tall as Richard, of stocky build like his father, although dark as a Barbary pirate. And young, one and twenty against his sire's six and fifty, a far better age for bedding!"
But Lucy did not seem to appreciate her good fortune; she looked dazed. Agnes thought she knew why, and glanced about to make sure no others were within earshot.
"You must not believe all you hear, child. It is true John does have men about him who'd make even Hell the fouler for their presence. He might not rein them in as he ought, but he does not seem to be one for sharing their nastier sport. In the five years I've been at Chinon, I've never heard it said that he takes pleasure in a woman's pain, and whilst I cannot speak firsthand, mind you, I've been told he has no quirks a woman would not enjoy, too. And he's ever been generous in the past, will be sure to give you something after."
She hesitated. "But in all honesty, his temper's like to be on the raw. God knows, he has reason and more, with his father ailing, with Richard and the
French King encamped outside Tours, just a day's

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march from here. Richard has much to answer for, in truth. To war upon his own father . . ." She shook her head. "At least John is loyal."
HENRY moaned, turned his face into the pillow. His shirt was soaked with sweat; so, too, were the sheets, damp and darkly splotched. A servant had removed his shoes and chausses, and his legs looked absurdly white and frail, utterly incongruous supports for that barrel chest, those massive shoulders.
But even that once-mighty chest seemed somehow shrunken, diminished. It was impossible for John to recognize in this bedridden invalid the father who'd cast so colossal a shadow, larger than life, omnipotent: King of England, Lord of Ireland and Wales, Duke of Normandy and Gascony, Count of Anjou, Touraine, and Maine, liege lord of Brittany, Auvergne, and Toulouse.
Henry was breathing through his mouth, gulping air as if each breath might be his last. Saliva had begun to dribble down his chin, but John could not bring himself to wipe it away, shrank from touching that wasted flesh. He was profoundly shocked that in a mere fortnight his father's illness should have made such lethal inroads; until this moment he'd not acknowledged that the illness might be mortal.
"John? Thank God you've come. He's done little but fret over you. Could you not have sent word that you'd gotten away safe from Le Mans?"
Two weeks ago the town of Le Mans had fallen to the forces of John's brother
Richard and Philip, the young French King. Henry and his followers had escaped the burning city just as the French army moved in, and in the confusion John had gotten separated from the others, had passed some harrowing days himself, in consequence. But he was not about to explain that now to the speaker, his illegitimate halfbrother Geoffrey. Like all of his brothers, Geoffrey was much older than John, well into his thirties, a tall, powerfully built man with sandy hair, Henry's flint-grey eyes, and an acerbic tongue. John did not feel for Geoffrey the consuming, corrosive jealousy that he did for Richard, but he had no more liking for this Geoffrey than he'd had for the dead brother who'd borne the same name. Ignoring the accusatory, querulous tone of the other's question, he said, "Christ, but he looks bad. Is he in much pain?"
Geoffrey nodded. "All the time," he said bleakly, and then turned toward the bed as Henry stirred.
The grey eyes opened, focused on John. "At last," he said huskily, held out his hand. "You did give me some bad moments this past week, lad."
John was much relieved at the hot, dry feel of the hand in his, hav-

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ing steeled himself for a touch cold and clammy. "You need not have vvorried, Papa. Are you not the one who always said I had more lives than a cat? Or was that the morals of a cat?" he added, coaxing from his father a grimacing smile, a cough masquerading as a chuckle.
"Johnny ... I had William de Mandeville and William Fitz Ralph swear to me . .
. swear that should any evil befall me, they'll surrender my castles to you, and to you alone. Not to Richard, God rot him, not to Richard ..."
To John, that sounded more like a concession of defeat than a declaration of trust. "Surely you do not expect it to come to that, Papa?"
There was a wine flagon on the bedside table, and Henry gestured, waited till
John poured out a cupful. "Of course not, lad. You'll never see the day dawn when I let them get the better of me," he said, with a bravado that might have been more convincing had John not needed to help him up in order to drink. "Le
Mans was not the first town I've lost in my life, will not be the last. . ."
He drank deeply, signaled for John to lower him back against the pillows.
"Johnny . . . listen, lad. I have not forgotten my promise to you. I do mean to give you the earldom of Mortain, give you the revenues from Cornwall ..."
John's mouth twisted. For how many years had he been hearing this? Promises he had in plenty, but little else. His brother Henry had been the heir apparent, Geoffrey had been Duke of Brittany, and Richard was Duke of Aquitaine, Count of Poitou. But him? John Lackland. He'd been betrothed since age nine to his cousin Avisa, a bride to bring him the rich earldom of Gloucester, but that, too, was proving to be an empty expectation; the very least that could be said of a twelve-year-old betrothal was that his father was in no tearing hurry to have him tie so lucrative a nuptial knot. It was John's private suspicion that his father denied him incomes of his own for the same reason he'd refused to name Richard as his heir, to keep them close, puppet Princes who'd dance to his tune only.
"I think you should rest now, Papa," he said, and Henry nodded; sweat was breaking out again on his forehead, trickling into his beard.
"The fever is worse at night," he mumbled. "Stay with me till I sleep."
The chamber was heavy with the fetid odors of illness, with stifling summer heat. John soon began to sweat, too, began to yearn for a lungful of the cooling night air so fatal to the sickroom. At last Henry found relief in sleep; his hold slackened, fingers no longer clutched. John gently disengaged his hand, wiped his palm against the sheet, and came to his feet.