Here Be Dragons - 1 (64 page)

her. In the weeks since, there'd been numerous sleepless nights when she'd labored over a second letter to her husband, a letter in which she sought his understanding, his forgiveness. Come dawn, she'd gather up her splotched and futile handiwork, feed it into the fire.
She was no less homesick than Elen. Her yearning for Davydd was like a physical ache, one that no herbs or ointments could ease. Her need for
Llewelyn was no less intense; her body's thwarted cravings robbed her of sleep at night, and her memories wreaked havoc upon her daylight hours. But as much as she wanted to return to Llewelyn, she was terrified of doing so, terrified of having to face him and hear him say that their marriage was over. It was easier to do nothing, to cling to her shreds of hope and tell herself that all would somehow work out if only she gave them enough time.
In her despair, she'd convinced herself that Richard would have the -"iswers she needed. But Richard had failed her, and she knew she was n
d HI * rustles and muted trills. Joanna stopped under a maple tree, e wind rained russet leaves down upon her. One leaf spread its

402
HT^
403
wings, revealed itself to be a butterfly mottled in black and gold >, butterflies at Aber were the color of the sky; from May to Septg u^ they hovered over wildflower and marsh grass, flickering blue flam be extinguished at the first frost. Joanna leaned back against the t ° gnarled trunk and closed her eyes. Did Llewelyn, too, lie awak $ dawn? How was he dealing with his grief, his guilt? Had he learned live with his ghosts? °
"Madame!" The scream was shrill, fraught with fear, utterly out place in a setting of such peace. Joanna tensed; the cry came again she turned toward the sound. She soon saw a blur of white, found woman on her knees beside a fallen log. She looked up as Joarm reached her, and Joanna recognized one of the young novice nuns He habit was torn and dirtied, her face scratched by her flight into the woods, and she had no breath for speech, not even when Joanna grasped her shoulders, shook her frantically.
"Has my daughter been hurt? For God's sake, tell me!" "Oh, Madame, thank Jesus
I found you!" The girl was on her feet now, but had to lean on Joanna for support. "They took us by surprise, rode into the priory as bold as could be.
We thought it was a raid, and Sister Avelina tried to hide your Elen in the chancel. But one of the men called to her and she ran to him, Madame, ran right to him. He de manded to see you, my lady, and then our Prioress. We were so very frightened, Madame; all know how godless the Welsh are. But... but they did not hurt us. They talked to Prioress Alditha, then rode away, and . .
. oh, Madame, they took with them your daughter. They took away your little girl!"
THE quarter hour it took Joanna to reach the priory was the most terrifying time of her life. Running through the woods, she caught her gown repeatedly upon protruding branches, tripped over exposed tree roo and rocks, fought her way free of the thickets looming up in her pat , seemingly set upon entrapping her forever in the midst of this o cursed forest. By the time she was in sight of the priory walls, snew scratched and bruised and thoroughly disheveled, her ears echoing the sobbing sounds of her own breathing, to the cry of "Elen!
tna ^ to her lips of its own volition, that went unanswered in the stra g lence that had enveloped the priory. d*
The guest house was to the north of the church, set aPart chaninuns'
dormitory and infirmary. It was there that Joanna share ^ ber with Elen.
It would, she knew, be empty. She reached for t ^f just as the door opened, and she all but fell into the room, into lyn's arms.
i_i put his hands on her waist to steady her, said, "Are you hurt?"
She shook her head, and he released her. She was suddenly dizzy, I aned back against the door. There was a sharp pain pressing t her ribs, cutting off her breath. "Elen . . . where is she?" agal"On her way back to
Gwynedd."
Joanna was too appalled for anger. "Jesus God, Llewelyn, did you have to do it like that?"
"I was thinking of her safety. I did not want her here should word get out that I'm at the priory."
The common sense of that could not be denied; some of Joanna's ic began to subside. But then Llewelyn said, "I made a mistake in
1 rting you take her, Joanna. I thought she would be safe because of her sex But the more I thought on it, the more uneasy I became. The risk was just too great. I'll not allow her to leave Wales again."
Pride had always been of paramount concern to Joanna. But not now. "I know you have the power to take Davydd and Elen from me. I can only beg you not to do that, to remember how much I do love them"
"Whatever happens between us, I'd not deny you the right to see our children.
I would still provide for you, would allow you to remain in Gwynedd to be near
Davydd and Elen if you did not want to return to England. How could you think
I'd do less than that?"

Joanna had no answer for him, for she could not explain her fear even to herself, an instinctive, elemental fear that had nothing whatsoever to do with logic or even love. She drew several shaken breaths. 'Are you saying that our marriage is over?"
"I do not know, Joanna," he said, and there was in his voice a sadness that she found far more chilling than anger.
'Is it not dangerous for you to be here, on English soil?" she asked abruptly, and he shrugged.
Probably. But I have no plans to tarry longer than necessary." He MW that she was not reassured, and added, "The borderland is quiet at Pr«ent. John has ordered his army to disperse." ^ e was close enough to touch; Joanna's fingers brushed his sleeve, *ere h° feSt UP°n h'S arm' //Richard told me that twenty-eight hostages !her>
an§ed at Nottingham, all those who were being held at my faharujt ,°Urt ' '
save only Gruffydd. But there were others, mayhap a P^mise'd^0 were beins held elsewhere, and they still live. Richard ^tiori t me ^f, Would seek out their identities, then pass on that infor-
Shsh Kin ' 6 a ^orm'8ht ago. A curious letter, Joanna, for an En-
Dr°mises^h S°nt° Wdte f° 3 Welsh Prince- He was cautious, made no at might compromise him, but he implied, nonetheless, that

404
he would speak for my son if he could." Llewelyn reached out, tra the path of a scratch that marked her throat; at the unexpected touch like a caress, Joanna began to tremble. "He told me, too, that your vva ing saved Gruffydd's life."
"And do you believe him?"
"Yes," he said, "I do."
"Then . . . then can you not forgive me?"
"It is not a matter of forgiveness, Joanna. I would that it were ' For a moment longer, his fingers lingered on her throat, and then h stepped back.
"Did you see John? Did you see your father?"
"No! I swore to you that I would not. I did not lie to you."
"We have to talk about him, about John. I have to know what you feel toward him now. Joanna, I have to know."
She twisted her hands together, gripping her wedding ring as if it were a talisman. "I loved him, I believed in him. I married you to please him. And now . . . now I think of that little boy in Shrewsbury, I think of our Davydd and . . . and I know that I could not face him again. I cannot love the man he is, I cannot. But I remember how much I loved the man I thought he was . . .
and it hurts more than I can bear. If he'd died, I'd still have had memories.
But now even my memories are false. They do not comfort, they only torment..."
She closed her eyes, and then felt Llewelyn's fingers on her face, slowly wiping away her tears. She sobbed, and moved into his arms. She'd lost her veil, and he stroked her hair, smoothed the untidy ebony braids, brushed back stray wisps from her temples.
"You must not ever think," he said, "that I do not feel your pain." She made a wordless murmur, pressed closer. He caught the familiar fragrance of her perfume, felt her hands sliding up his back, and damned himself for a fool, for an unwary moment in which he'd almost believed that he meant only to comfort her, to hold her as she wept.
Joanna had raised her head from his shoulder. Her eyes no longer shone with tears; they were luminous, filled with sunlight, with such naked need that he caught his breath. Taking his hand in hers, she kissed each finger in turn, bit down gently on his thumb; her tongue circled his palm, and his free hand tightened on her hair.
For a moment that seemed endless to Joanna, he did not move. An then he lowered his head, brought his mouth down hard upon hers, ending the kiss until they both were breathless. He'd begun to fum with her clothing, swearing when the lacings of her bliaut resiste impatient fingers. She raised her arms so he could pull the gown her head; the chemise quickly followed. He kissed her again, cares her belly and thighs until she moaned, arched against him.
Pushing down upon the bed, he unbuckled his scabbard.

405
When he lowered his body onto hers, he was not gentle, but neither
Joanna. That was not what she wanted from him now. For more
^3 two months she'd slept as chastely as a nun, and her body had i, fire with the first touch of his fingers on her throat. She had no d of prolonged foreplay, and she entwined her arms tightly around n. as j^ parted her thighs. "Now, love, now . . . oh, yes, now ..." She axed almost at once, with his third thrust, and then again when she
It him tense, groan, and jerk convulsively, gasping "Siwan" against her ear.
After a time, Llewelyn raised himself up, rolled over onto his back, loanna was not yet ready to move. She knew it was a common belief that woman's lust was greater than a man's, and for the first time she wondered if there might not be truth to that folk wisdom. She could only marvel now at the fevered urgency that had so utterly consumed her so short a time before. But she knew that she had given Llewelyn pleasure no less intense than he had given her.
His breathing was still uneven and shallow, a pulse was beating rapidly in his throat, and his body glistened with perspiration. She leaned over, touched the tip of her tongue to a droplet of sweat trickling toward his chin. He did not respond, and a moment later he rose from the bed, reached for the clothing scattered about the floor.
Joanna's sense of languid well-being dissipated in the span of seconds, in the time it took Llewelyn to turn away from her. She was suddenly cold, confused, afraid. "Llewelyn . . . are you angry with me?"
"No, not with you, breila."
The endearment gave her little comfort; it was too obviously offered as a courtesy. Nor did his denial carry conviction. "You are angry," she said slowly, "and you were not angry ere we made love. Beloved . . . beloved, I do not understand. You cannot deny that you still want me, not now"
"Of course I still want you," Llewelyn said sharply. "Our problems did not take root in our bed." He was already dressed; moving to the 'able, he pulled the laver toward him, splashed cold water onto his face, and then gave an abrupt, mirthless laugh. A pity he'd not thought to do '"at sooner!
He'd spoken the truth; he was angry with himself, not Joanna, and '^concerted by the realization of just how much he did still want her. In six weeks since her departure, he'd had few restful hours, no peace ^mmd.
Night after night he found himself lying awake in the bed he'd atM .w'"1
Joanna, thinking of his son, thinking of the youths hanged Co ° ^gham, thinking of his wifeJohn's daughter. And in time he'd lo h ° 3 c'ec'si°n, that if Joanna could not give him the answers he had e' !t would be better to end their marriage. To walk away from

406
Joanna would be the most difficult act of his life, but he knew he could do it. However much it hurt, he could do it. But he could not send h into English exile against her will; he could never deny her the right / see their children. He'd sought to reassure her of that, promised sh could stay in
Wales, and now the full implications of that rash promi were all too clear to him. What would it be like to have her in Gwynedd to have her so tormentingly close at hand and yet no longer his?
Joanna hastily drew her chemise over her head, followed him to th table. "What is it, then? Is it that you no longer trust me?"
Surprisingly, he shook his head. "I do trust you, Joanna. You told me you'd never meant to betray me. As hurt and angry as I was, I think I believed you even then. I must have, else I'd never have permitted you to take Elen. I know you were not choosing between us when you sent John that warning. You wanted to save your father's life, but you also wanted to stop a war, a war you thought I'd lose. And you did, breila." His mouth softened. "I might quarrel with your methods, but I can hardly take issue with your results. The English
King's banner does not fly over Gwynedd . . . because of you. And my son has had a two-month reprieve . . . again because of you."
"You do not know how I've wanted to hear you say that, Llewelyn. But now you have, and it seems to count for naught. If you still trust me, what is it, then, that is keeping us apart? My love, I do not understand ..." And then it came to her, the only possible answer, and she caught his arm, moved so she could look into his face.
"Unless . . . unless you can no longer love John's daughter? My God, Llewelyn, is that it?"
"Yes ... it is," he admitted, and heard her indrawn breath, sharp as a blade.
"Joanna. Joanna, listen and try to understand. John is going to kill my son.
I've had to face that. It is only a matter of time; sooner or later he will give a command and Gruffydd will be dragged out to an English gallows ... or worse. Gruffydd is going to die, and there is nothing I can do to stop it.
Even if there were, I could not do it. I cannot buy Gruffydd's life with
Gwynedd's sovereignty. Twenty-eight hostages died at Nottingham because I
could not keep faith with John. I cannot bargain for Gruffydd over their dead bodies."
His voice was quite even, tautly controlled. But Joanna saw what that control cost him, saw the way the tendons suddenly stood out in his throat, saw the toll these past weeks had taken in the newly chisele lines around his eyes, his mouth, and she was both awed and appaue by the strength of will that enabled him to forge such a resolve. There was nothing on God's earth that she would not have sacrifice" Davydd or Elen.
"For more than six years, Joanna, you have been torn between

407
tween your love for John and your love for me. You've never been uie to give me all of your heart, never been able to pledge your loyalty
3 me utterly and unreservedly. No, lass, I am not blaming you for that.
nderstood, and I did my best to accept it. I taught myself to curb my
OTIC, to leave much unsaid. But no more. We can never go back to the
^ay jt was, Joanna."
"I know that, Llewelyn, but..." Joanna's voice trailed off. This was the nightmare that had held her in Brewood. So often had she antici-
ted this moment that it was as if they'd played out this scene before, if she'd always known the time would come when she'd be listening to him explain, kindly but implacably, why their marriage had to end.
"For all of our marriage you've defended John, offered excuses for his cruelties, blinded yourself to the unholy truth about him. But I can no longer indulge your love for this man. I'd learn to resent you, and in time I might even learn to hate you, breila. Rather than have it come to that, I'd sooner end the marriage now, whilst we can still salvage friendship from it."
"But it does not have to be like that, Llewelyn. I would not defend John. How could I? My loyalties are no longer divided, I swear it."
Never before had Llewelyn heard Joanna call John by his Christian name; it was always "my father" or "the King" or, with intimates, "Papa." Was it an unconscious, anguished attempt to distance herself from John? Or a desperate denial of a blood bond she knew he found abhorrent? He put his hands on her shoulders, said quietly, "Joanna, you do not understand how much I'd be asking of you. Do you truly think you could disavow a lifetime of love? That you could remember the frightened five-year-old who was taken to John at Rouen and then harden your heart against him?"
"Yes," Joanna whispered, and he tilted her face up, kissed her on the forehead.
"Beloved, I think not. I'm not even sure I'd have the right to expect that of you."
"I give you the right. You are my life, you and our children. Why W'H you not believe me?"
Ah, Joanna ... I want to believe you. But I know what we'd be facing. I know what our future would be likely to hold. You do not think hat John has abandoned his plans to claim Gwynedd for the crown?
ere will never be peace between us, breila, not until one of us is dead.
or now, John fears to cross into Wales, but he's dispatched the English et to blockade our coastal waters, and he's seeking to overthrow me
1 n the aid of the sons of my uncles, Davydd and Rhodri. They've been eihng in English exile, and he hopes to make puppet Princes out of