Here Be Dragons - 1 (66 page)

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not a day dawned when he did not wonder if it would be his last. What enabled him to endure was the intensity of his yearning for freedom-^ and for vengeance. But if a beneficent spirit had offered to grant hi lesser wishes, he'd have asked for a hot bath and contact of some sort with his family. It seemed almost diabolical to him that John should have pinpointed his vulnerabilities with such uncanny accuracy.
"Well?" John was regarding him with amused impatience. "What are you waiting for? The sooner you write the letter, the sooner you'll get word from home."
Home. To Gruffydd's horror, tears suddenly filled his eyes. "No " he said huskily. "No. I'll write no letter for you, now or ever."
It had never occurred to John that Gruffydd might refuse. "Why ever not?" he demanded, sounding more astonished than angry.
"Because you want it written. I admit I do not know why. But if it serves your interests, it cannot be to my father's advantage. So I'll not do it."
It was suddenly quite still. Even to Gruffydd, his words rang hollow, not so much defiance as doomed bravado. John was slowly shaking his head. "Do not be a fool, boy. Surely you know I can make you write that letter."
Gruffydd's stomach knotted. "You can try."
John pushed his chair back still farther; wood grated harshly on the flagstones. "I cannot decide whether you're an utter idiot or merely foolhardy beyond belief." He made an abrupt gesture and the guards jerked Gruffydd to his feet. "Take him back to Dover, where he can think upon his lunacy."
Reginald de Dammartin was the first to break the silence that followed
Gruffydd's departure. "Are all the Welsh as mad as that?"
"I would that they were," John said tersely. "If so, Wales would be an English shire by now." Rising, he moved away from the table and, for the first time, noticed his son. Richard had entered unobtrusively some moments before, after a futile attempt to coax Isabelle into interceding on Gruffydd's behalf; she'd parried with a cynical and unanswerable, "If John indulges me, it is because I
ask only for what I know he s willing to give."
Gruffydd's intransigence had not surprised Richard any, but father's forbearance had. He reached John just as Will said approving >- "Your patience with the boy was commendable, John, in truth itw
"That was not patience, Will. He called my bluff, pure and simp^ The joke is that I doubt whether he truly knew what he was doing e as he did it!"
"What do you mean?" ^
"Think upon it, Will. How would you have me explain

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Daughter that Gruffydd's assurances of good health were extracted under torture? Even if I resorted to more subtle means of persuasion, withheld food or sleep until he agreed to cooperate, there'd be no way to keep him from regaling Joanna with all the gory details afterward. It hould be obvious by now that the damned fool is too simpleminded to scare!"
While there was understandable exasperation in John's voice, he seemed to be taking Gruffydd's defiance with remarkable equanimity. Isabelle was right, Richard decided; something was definitely in the wind.
John was shaking his head again, in disbelief. "I daresay if I'd told him he was free to return to Wales, he'd then have insisted upon staying in England!
I ought to have reminded him of the fate of his granduncles; mayhap that would have shaken some sense into him."
"I know about as much of Wales as I do of the heathen kingdoms of Cathay,"
Dammartin drawled, "and I confess I find them of equal interest. What befell the boy's kin?"
"After my father lost the battle of Crogen to Llewelyn's grandfather, Owain
Fawr, he took vengeance upon his Welsh hostages. Two of them were Owain's sons, Llewelyn's uncles. Their eyes were put out with red-hot awls."
Dammartin was not shocked, for Philip had been known to do the same to captured English soldiers; while Norman knights and men of rank were routinely ransomed, it was not unheard of to mutilate cornmon soldiers, thus rendering them unfit for further combat. But for Will, that was a jab into an old wound.
"I've never been able to understand how our father could have done that," he muttered. "It was not like him." He hesitated. "John . . . you'd never take vengeance of that sort upon Llewelyn, by blinding Gruffydd?"
Will saw at once that he'd made a monumental blunder. John's eyes jvere suddenly opaque; a muscle jerked in his cheek. "I told you why I
anged those accursed hostages! It was necessary to set an example, to remind my barons how much was at stake. I did what had to be done, m bone-weary of being criticized for it. Christ, the utter hypocrisy
° " a'I! Who spoke up for those blinded Welsh hostages? Or those hap-
^Ss souls hanged by my sainted brother Richard at Chalus? He took his call vengeance upon men, women, and children alike, and none p "lrn 'butcher' for it. As for that double-dealing hellspawn on the like ne' his hands are as bloody as Richard's. I may treat my Jews sku h COWs' m^ them for all they're worth, but they've not been ered by rampaging mobs as they were in Richard's reign, and

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I've never burned Jews at the stake the way Philip has eighty
Comte-Robert, when a Christian was found slain." r'e~
John paused, breathless, realizing too late just how much h ' vealed. "Leave me," he said, in a tone that brooked no aren '* Richard alone braved his displeasure by remaining. ent-
"Why did you want Gruffydd to write to Llewelyn, Papa? VVK would you gain by that?" at
John was standing by the window, watching as Gruffydd and h guards rode through the gateway, on their way back to confinement * Dover Castle.
"Llewelyn did warn me, Richard. He told me plainly th Joanna was his hostage as Gruffydd was mine. But I did not believe hi not then."
Richard was suddenly sorry he'd stayed. "And now?"
"Twice in the past six months I've summoned Joanna to my court and twice he has refused to let her come. The last time I even offered to provide hostages if it would ease his qualms. Hostages ... for my own daughter! And all I got in return was a stilted letter from Joanna, sayine it was not possible for her to leave Wales, a letter she obviously wrote at Llewelyn's direction."
Richard had learned to pick his way through conversations about his sister as if each one were a quagmire. But never had he so dreaded making a misstep.
Knowing that John was too adept at reading faces, he busied himself at the table, pouring wine for them both. "So you thought Llewelyn might relent if you made it worth his while?" he ventured cautiously, and John nodded.
"But I did not reckon with his son's lunatic yearnings for martyrdom! It might be foresighted to look after that lad, Richard; what could better serve
England than to have Gruffydd one day reigning as Prince of Gwynedd? Can you envision him ever humbling his pride to an English King as Llewelyn did at
Aberconwy? When pigs fly and monks no longer like their wine!"
Richard was relieved that they seemed to be edging away from the precipice. To banish Joanna into the peripheral reaches of memory where she could do John no harm, he said hastily, "How long are you going to keep me in suspense, Papa?
Isabelle says you've a scheme outwit Philip and foil his invasion plans. What do you have in mind a miracle?" fr
John laughed. "I am merely taking a page from Philip and ^ lyn's own book.
Philip has had great sport these months past, Posinj?n£ a pious champion of the Church; to convince the Pope that he vva _ in good faith, he even went so far as to release the long-suffering ^ borg from Etampes Castle! And Llewelyn, too, has had his tu ^ expense, turning treason into a crusade for Christendom, a'

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ssings You ask what I mean to do, lad7 I mean to show them Pop6 s jay that game, too, and with far greater skill "
as currently holding court in the sleepy village of Gravehnes, PH'L'h restive barons were forced to seek livelier sport in the seacoast an , Calais, just twelve miles to the west Hugh de Lusignan, Count tOV\ Marche, and his younger brother Ralph, Count of Eu, rode into
° mst before dusk, headed for their favonte wharfside alehouse
"Three days till Ascensiontide " Hugh shoved a drunk aside, med the table closest to the door "Think you that John is keeping count7"
"I am, for certes I've a wager with our cousin Geoffrey, am hazarding one hundred marks that the old hermit is nght "
"Wishful thinking, Ralph I'd have to be able to spit into John's ooen coffin ere I'd believe he was well and truly dead He may have the scruples of a
Scotsman and the morals of a rutting swine, but he has Satan's own luck "
"Anyone using the words 'swine' and 'Satan' in one sentence can only be talking about John Plantagenet John Lackland John of the Devil's brood John, the Pope's sworn man "
The room was hazy with smoke from hearth and reeking tallow candles, and
Hugh's eyes were stinging He blinked up at the man weaving toward their table, said trenchantly, "In your cups already, Fitz Walter7"
Robert Fitz Walter straddled the bench, sat down without waiting to be asked
"I'm nowhere near as drunk as I hope to get Since you're both still sober, I
take it you have not heard yet7 The papal legate Pandulf landed at Wissant on
Saturday, wasted no time joining Philip at Gravejines He earned a right interesting message for Philip, told him the rope demands that he abandon the invasion of England He said that if a'P does n°t heed the warning, the Pope will lay France under Interagain and, if need be, will excommunicate each and every man who sets foot on English soil "
am U§h 3nd hlS brotner exchanged startled glances "If that's an exP e of your English humor, it's not much to my hkmg "
huip did not find it very amusing, either "
are i Set hls 8oblet down, sloshed red wine onto the table "You
6 "Resting, are you7"
mme j11!"!*' li does sound like a diabolical jest of sorts, but it is not
Pope'ls° " s the one who is laughing Do you not want to know why the a sudden backing John, taking such a protective interest in

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English affairs? England is now a papal fief, part of the patrimony of St
Peter."
They were staring at him, dumbfounded. Hugh found his tongue first. "You're daft or drunk, or both!"
"Pandulf told Philip that on Wednesday last John did freely surrender to God and the Holy Mother Church of Rome the kingdoms of England and Ireland, to hold them henceforth as the Pope's vassal."
Fitz Walter helped himself to Hugh's wine, drank too deeply, and gave a harsh, spluttering laugh. "All know those tales told of men who sold their souls to the Devil. But John must be the first to turn a profit by selling his to God!"
"Wrath of God, man, how can you laugh about it?"
"What would you have me do? Rant and rave and sicken on my own bile like
Philip? When I left him, he was venting his fury upon God, John, Innocent, his servants, his dogs, all within reach. But it'll change nothing. He's already learned what a confrontation with the Church can cost, is not likely to go that route again. I'll wager that he calls off the invasion as the Pope demands, and turns his rage instead upon a safer target, John's ally, the
Count of Flanders. Whilst in England, John will continue to rule as arbitrarily as ever, except that the Pope will now have a vested interest in
John's survival."
"You're taking this rather well for a man who can now expect to live out his remaining days in French exile," Hugh said suspiciously, and Fitz Walter grinned.
"Did I forget to tell you? My cousin de Vesci and I are included in the Pope's peace. I will be returning to England as soon as my safeconduct does arrive."
Hugh snorted. "And of course John will welcome you back with true Christian forgiveness in his heart! Just how long do you expect this papal 'peace' to last?"
Fitz Walter rose unhurriedly to his feet. "Long enough to serve my purposes."
His eyes fell upon a large calico cat, curled up contentedly upon an empty footstool. He kicked the stool, dumped the startled animal into the fetid, sodden floor rushes.
"You see," he said. "Not even a cat lands on its feet every time."
POPE Innocent In to John, King of England:
"Who but the Divine Spirit . . . directed and guided you, at once so pru~
dently and so piously, to consult your own interests and provide for the
ChufC"- Lo! You now hold your kingdom by a more exalted and surer title than W
lore ..."

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ON Ascension Eve, a large pavilion was set up on the Kentish downs, and there
John celebrated Ascension Day with impressive pomp and grandeur. Trestle tables were lavishly laden with food; jugglers and minstrels entertained the crowds that flocked to the meadow, and the day rapidly took on the festive atmosphere of a fair or market day. At sunset the pavilion was taken down and
John returned in triumph to the Knights Templar at Ewell. It was, for many, a day of bitter disappointment.
It remained for Peter of Wakefield to serve as an object lesson for false prophets, would-be rebels. Five days later the aged hermit was escorted to
Wareham in Dorset, where he was dragged to the gallows behind the sheriff's horse, and there hanged.
54
PORCHESTER, ENGLAND
January 1214
As
-ZTxs she rode through the Land Gate into the outer bailey of Porchester
Castle, Eleanor heard the murmurs of the watching soldiers, heard herself identified as "the Breton wench," as 'the King's captive niece." None accorded her the titles that were hers by right, Duchess of Brittany and Countess of
Richmond, the titles that had passed to her on the death of her brother
Arthur.
Upon her entrance into the keep, she was greeted warmly by her uncle's wife, and although she sensed that Isabelle's affection was a counterfeit coin, no more than good manners, she was grateful, nonetheless, for such a welcome.
John saw to it that she had soft linen sheets, 8°wns of velvet and silk, dinner tables laden with fine wines, richly
Piced venison, and fresh fish, but she was starved for friendship, for love.
Following Isabelle up the stairwell into the solar, she knelt submis-
, ¥ before John, steeled herself for his kiss. August would mark the elfth year of her comfortable confinement at Bristol Castle, and in all

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that time not once had John ever raised his voice to her. He did not have to;
he could chill Eleanor to the depths of her being with his smile. She sometimes wondered if he knew how much she feared him, but she found it impossible to read those enigmatic hazel eyes.
She recognized most of the men attending her uncle: her baseborn cousins
Richard and Oliver Fitz Roy, the Earl of Pembroke, the swarthy Earl of
Chester, who had for a brief time been her stepfather, for the old King Henry had compelled her mother to wed Chester after her father's tournament death.
But they had never lived as man and wife, and Eleanor had no childhood memories of Chester, knew he was indifferent to her fate. She had no champions at her uncle's court, had none anywhere. Her brother and mother were dead, her friends silenced. She had a younger half-sister, Alice, child of her mother's third marriage to a Poitevin nobleman, but Alice had wed a cousin of the
French King, and they now ruled Brittany at Philip's pleasure, had a vested interest in Eleanor's continuing captivity. There was no one to speak for her, and well she knew it.
"I've heard men call you 'the pearl of Brittany/ and now I know why."
The speaker was unknown to Eleanor, a dark, raffish-looking man with bold, appraising eyes that tracked the curves of her body with obvious intent.
Eleanor felt her face grow hot; she was as flustered as a shy seventeen-year-old, for time had frozen for her on an August afternoon at
Mirebeau, and at an age when other women had long since been wedded and bedded, she still knew no more of men and the world than would a young novice nun.
The man seemed amused by her embarrassment. Before she could pull back, he caught her hand and brought it to his mouth. "Since your uncle the King swears
I'm not to be trusted with any woman who has not taken holy vows, I doubt that he'll introduce us. So I'd best do it myself. I am Reginald de Dammartin, Count of Boulogne. Welcome, my lady, to Porchester."
"And now that you've met her, you may bid her farewell," Jorm said dryly, thus sparing Eleanor the need to reply. Rising, he linked his arm in Eleanor's, led her toward the window seat. "Come, Nell, sit here beside me so we may talk."
The familiar family name stung. So, too, did his protectiveness. He never teased her, never turned upon her the sarcasm, the mordant blac humor that she'd so often seen him turn upon others. And Eleano found his kindness harder to bear than cruelty.
"Have you heard that I sail next week for La Rochelle?"
Eleanor nodded. "Your daughter Joanna writes to me from tun rime. She to'd me tnat you mean to regain Normandy and Poitou from the French
King."
"You've heard from Joanna? Is she well?"
Eleanor was surprised by the urgency of the query, but again she nodded.
"Quite well, and thankful for the truce that exists between her husband and
Your Grace."
John's mouth thinned, for the truce with the Welsh Princes had not been of his choosing, had been brought about at the insistence of Stephen Langton, Archbishop of Canterbury. But he'd had just one terse letter from Joanna in the past twelvemonth, and he interrogated Eleanor now at some length, seeking reassurance that his daughter was truly well, that her prolonged silence was indicative only of Llewelyn's rancor.
Eleanor caught the undertones of unease, but she did not comprehend the cause.
She wondered why he had sent for her. She wondered, too, if she would ever find the courage to confront him about her brother's death, to demand that he tell her how Arthur had died.
Satisfied at last that she had no more to tell him about Joanna, John said, "My brother Will has already sailed for Flanders, where he'll be joined by
Dammartin and my sister's son Otto, the Holy Roman Emperor. For my part, I