“How very reassuring,” John said dryly. His gaze shifted from Chester, moved slowly from face to face. The other men averted their eyes, guarded their thoughts. All save Will, who leaned across the table, put his hand upon John’s sleeve, and asked what Richard so needed to know.
“John, Llewelyn is wed to your daughter. What of her? What of Joanna? I cannot believe you’d want to see her hurt.”
John exhaled a deep, drawn-out breath, stared down at his clenched fist, at the imprints his nails had left in the palm of his hand. “No, I would never want that,” he said. “Never.” He looked up then, raised troubled hazel eyes to his brother’s face. “But I fear that marriage was a mistake, Will, a great mistake.”
26
Cricieth Castle, North Wales
August 1210
William de Braose turned from the window, from the shimmering blue expanse of the bay. “It is good of you, my lord, to make my grandson and me welcome at your castle of Cricieth.”
“To the Welsh, hospitality is a binding obligation. We never turn away a man in need of shelter, offer him food and a bed, guarantee his safety as long as he remains a guest at our hearth. I understand the Normans do have different customs,” Llewelyn said, very dryly, saw the older man’s face mottle with color, saw his barb bury itself in the scar tissue of an old shame. He was not surprised when de Braose made no effort to defend himself; to de Braose, the Abergavenny massacre required neither explanation nor expiation. Nor was he surprised when de Braose forbore to take offense, for he knew how much the Norman lord needed his help.
“I hear John has been laying waste to half of Ireland. Have you no fears for your wife, your family?”
“There is no need. As soon as John moved into Ulster, my wife and sons took ship for Scotland.”
“A wise decision,” Llewelyn conceded. “John makes a bad enemy.”
“You should know.”
“Should I?”
De Braose closed the space between them, stopped before Llewelyn’s chair. “Can you not feel the noose tightening about your neck? John had to delay his Irish expedition to deal with the Scots King, and he now delays your destruction whilst he settles a grudge against me and mine. But your turn is coming, my lord. Can you, in truth, doubt it? After John did take Ellesmere Castle from you?”
Llewelyn tensed. It was months since John had abruptly reclaimed the castle he’d yielded to Llewelyn as Joanna’s marriage portion, but the mere mention of Ellesmere was enough to ignite a still-smoldering anger, anger that gave the lie to his affectation of indifference. De Braose saw, and smiled.
“I have friends still in Wales, in England, am kin by blood or marriage to Derby, de Clare, Mortimer. To a man, they hate John, and with cause. They’d heed a call to rebellion. So, too, would Maelgwn and Rhys Gryg, especially if you came in with us, my lord. With John occupied in Ireland, this is a God-given opportunity; we’d be fools not to take advantage of it. At the least, we could then treat with him from strength, pressure him into buying peace on our terms. And with luck, we might be able to do more than maim, we might even be able to bring him down. You do not fear him as most men do, so you do not realize the extent of their hatred. Let them scent blood, and they’ll react like a pack of hounds with a live hare in their midst. Think what it would mean, my lord. With John shackled, one way or the other, Wales would be yours for the taking. And of course you’d have my full support, that of my kindred.”
“Of course,” Llewelyn echoed cynically. But the thrust of de Braose’s argument could not be dismissed as easily as his self-serving promises. Llewelyn was quiet for some moments, at last shook his head. “I’ll not deny there is truth in what you say. And if I truly thought we had a chance to succeed…But the risk is too great. I’ve never been so hungry that I was willing to lick honey off thorns.”
“If rashness is a flaw, so, too, is an excess of caution. Sooner or later a day of reckoning is coming between you and John. Better that you should be the one to pick when and where. Think on what I’ve said, that is all I ask. Think on it.”
The sun was sliding into the sea by the time Joanna returned to the castle. So great was her sense of outrage that she’d been unable to remain under the same roof with William de Braose, and had gathered up her children and taken them down to the beach for a day in the sun, out of sight and sound of the man who was her father’s avowed enemy.
Davydd and Elen had been thrilled with this break in their daily routine, splashed in the shallows and dug in the sand. But Joanna was utterly miserable. How could Llewelyn do it, how could he make welcome a man outlawed, a traitor to the crown? Did he not realize—or care—what her father would make of that? Alys, Davydd’s wet nurse, had packed a basket full of food, but Joanna could swallow no more than a mouthful of cheese. In the months since Woodstock, she’d watched helplessly as her life careened out of control, as her father and husband moved closer and closer to an irrevocable break. She’d been deeply hurt by her father’s seizure of Ellesmere, saw the revoking of her marriage portion as a denial of her marriage, felt that her father had somehow betrayed her. That Llewelyn would receive William de Braose was, in a different way, no less a betrayal.
Once they were within sight of the castle, Joanna felt free to dismiss Alys and the three men she’d taken along as an escort, knowing Llewelyn would have been furious with her if she’d gone off without them. She was in no hurry to climb the slope up to the castle, not when William de Braose might still be within, and she loitered for a time by the water’s edge, watching gulls squabble over the last of her bread. When Elen came running up, brandishing a dead crab, Joanna made the obligatory response, delighted her daughter by shrinking back in mock horror, not confiscating the crab until Elen tried to stuff it down the front of Davydd’s tunic.
Elen burst into thwarted tears, sobbing pitifully and resisting with all the strength in her small body as Joanna pulled her away from the water, in the direction of the castle. Just when Joanna’s frayed patience was about to give way, Elen wriggled loose, sprinted forward with a glad cry of “Gruffydd!”
A short distance away, three boys were sitting upon a log, throwing knives at a small piece of driftwood. Joanna was now close enough to make a grudging recognition of her stepson and Ednyved’s son Tudur. The third youngster had sun-streaked blond hair and a deep tan; she only belatedly recognized him as William de Braose’s grandson and namesake.
He rose politely, if briefly, to his feet at sight of her; so did Tudur. But Gruffydd did not move, managed to make of his slouching pose a deliberate provocation. In the five months since he’d attained his fourteenth birthday and his legal majority, Gruffydd’s relationship with Joanna had deteriorated rapidly. No longer sullenly mute, he was becoming openly antagonistic, almost as if defying Joanna to fall back upon her weapon of last resort, to complain of his rudeness to Llewelyn. Joanna did not know whether he was testing his newfound manhood or testing her, knew only that they were racing headlong toward a confrontation, and she watched grimly as Elen flung herself onto her brother’s lap, wrapped her arms around his neck, and entreated, “Make me fly, Gruffydd!”
Coming to his feet, Gruffydd obligingly swung the little girl up into the air, high over his head, making her shriek with laughter, as Davydd watched wistfully. But while envying his sister’s swooping flight, he stayed where he was, for he was somewhat afraid of Gruffydd. His every overture had been rebuffed so brutally that he now avoided Gruffydd whenever possible; although his awareness was still only on an unconscious level, he’d begun to sense that when his brother Gruffydd looked at him, it was with loathing.
Setting Elen down upon the sand, Gruffydd sprawled back upon the log. “I hope you have an explanation for your disappearance. My father is less than pleased with you for running off as you did.”
“That is hardly your concern.”
As always, their conversation sounded discordant, somehow off-key, for Gruffydd refused to address Joanna in Welsh, and she just as stubbornly r
enounced French. Will was beginning to look amused, and it was to him that Gruffydd said, “A Welsh-born wife would rise even from a sickbed to make welcome a guest in her husband’s house. There was a time, in fact, when women did not come and go just as they pleased. In the reign of Hywel the Good, a prince’s wife shunned the great hall in his absence, kept to the women’s quarters until her lord returned. But then you Normans invaded England, brought queer and outlandish customs with you like some noxious foreign pox.”
“I find it passing strange that you would choose to boast of the more backward aspects of your heritage,” Joanna snapped, and Will laughed aloud.
“Check and mate,” he pronounced, with a mocking grin that endeared him neither to Joanna nor to Gruffydd.
“Sugar!” Joanna whistled for her dog. With Davydd holding onto her skirt and Elen dawdling behind, she started toward the castle. She’d taken only a few steps, was still within earshot when Will laughed again.
“So that is your father’s wife.”
“That,” Gruffydd said, quite clearly and distinctly, “is my father’s whore.”
Joanna froze, disbelieving, and then spun around.
“I want an apology from you, and I want it now. If not, I shall go to Llewelyn, tell him the way you dare to speak about his wife.”
Gruffydd’s eyes narrowed. “Go ahead. I’d deny it.”
“Do you truly think he’d believe you over me?” Joanna said, and he rose, took a sudden step toward her. He was taller than she, as tall already as Llewelyn, and for the first time she was aware of a physical menace, aware that a boy’s raw, raging passion was now contained within a man’s body.
Will moved to Joanna’s side. “‘My father’s whore,’” he drawled. “Did you forget, Gruffydd, that I heard you, too?”
Gruffydd was taken aback, but not for long. “You keep out of this!”
Will smiled. “Make me,” he said.
“Stop it,” Joanna said sharply. Will had shifted his weight, bracing himself; a hand had dropped to the dagger at his belt. Gruffydd, too, wore a dagger, and he was, Joanna, knew, utterly fearless. They were, the both of them, too old for boyhood squabbles that left only scratches and bruises, but not old enough to judge what was worth fighting or dying for, and Joanna was suddenly frightened. “Stop this foolishness,” she repeated, knowing even as she spoke that they were not likely to heed her.
It was Elen who stopped it, Elen who was tired of being ignored and sought to call attention back to herself by quoting parrotlike, “‘Father’s whore.’ Is that you, Mama?”
Gruffydd drew a quick breath, looked down at the little girl, and Joanna saw in his eyes a sudden shame. His hand unclenched from his dagger hilt; he flexed his fingers, rubbed his palm against his tunic. He obviously did not know what to say to Elen, at last mumbled, “You must forget that, lass, must not say it for others to hear—”
Joanna interrupted hastily, knowing nothing would be more likely to brand the word into Elen’s brain. “It is just another word for…for Norman, Elen.”
As Elen wandered away, satisfied, Gruffydd looked at Joanna. “I was wrong to say that,” he said, very low. “I never meant for my sister to hear. It will not happen again.” The apology cost him dearly, but in making it, he unexpectedly achieved a certain bleak dignity, which not even Joanna could deny.
Gruffydd’s eyes flicked briefly to Will, back to Joanna. “I owe my lord father better than that,” he said, turned and walked away.
Joanna paused on the wooden stairs leading up to her chamber in the Great Tower, looked thoughtfully down at Will. “Thank you for escorting us back to the castle. But tell me, why did you take my side against Gruffydd?”
“I’m naturally gallant,” he said, and laughed, then shrugged. “Mayhap because you’re Norman, a woman. Or mayhap because I was not much taken with your stepson.”
“I was surprised, in truth, to see the two of you together. I’d have thought Gruffydd would sooner befriend a caeth, a bond servant, than one of Norman blood.”
“Well, I expect it helped that I speak so much better Welsh than you! And we did discover a common bond, a shared loathing for the King of England.”
“I see,” Joanna said slowly. She knew his candor was a deliberate challenge, but how could the boy not blame her father for the downfall of his House? “You know, of course, that I am King John’s daughter. I take it you do not believe, then, in blood guilt?”
“Now you are mocking me,” he said composedly. “But yes, I do believe in blood guilt…for men, for sons. Not for a woman, though, at least not a woman who looks like you do!” There was in his grin both impudence and a certain cocky charm, and Joanna had to laugh.
“For your sake, Will de Braose, I hope you do learn to curb your tongue; you cannot trade upon being fourteen forever!” She turned to go, paused again. “You remind me of someone, and I’ve just realized who. I think my husband must have been much like you at fourteen.”
Will looked pleased. “If I can win as much with my sword as Llewelyn ab Iorwerth has won with his, I’d be well content.” He backed away from the stairs, stood looking up at Joanna. “I shall remember you, my lady. And to prove I am generous as well as gallant, I do have some free advice for you. Talk to your lord husband about his son.”
Joanna knew Will was right, but she knew, too, that now was not the time. Her relationship with Llewelyn was strained enough this summer, needed no more pressures brought to bear upon it.
Pushing open the door of her chamber, she came to an abrupt halt at sight of William de Braose. That Llewelyn should have brought de Braose here, to their private chamber, was more than she could forgive, and when de Braose moved toward her, kissed her hand, she was hard put not to snatch it from his grasp. She managed a grudging nod, but no more.
As soon as they were alone, Llewelyn said curtly, “When I make a man welcome at my hearth, I expect my wife to treat him with courtesy. Is that clear, Joanna?”
“Yes.” But the mutinous set of her mouth belied the dutiful submission. Crossing to her clothes coffer, she jerked the lid up, let it drop with a slam. “How can you allow that man at your table? You know what he is, a traitor, a fugitive from the King’s justice. Why must you do this? Why must you antagonize my father to no purpose?”
“Joanna, I cannot shape my life around what will or will not please your father. Even if I were willing to do that, to turn myself into his puppet, it would avail me naught. For some months now, John has been looking for excuses to find fault, to curtail my authority in Gwynedd.”
“That is not fair! Nor is it true!” Branwen had hung a gown on the wooden wall pole; Joanna pulled it down, began to fumble with the lacings of her bliaut. The knots defied her fingers, and she was finally forced to ask Llewelyn’s help. He had no more luck with the ties than she, jerked impatiently until one of the laces broke off in his hand.
“Thank you so much, that I could have done myself!” Joanna managed to get the bliaut over her head, flung it to the floor. She started to remove the gown, but then she paused, glared at him, and retreated around the curtained bed to strip off the dress.
“Joanna, just what secrets do you think you could have from me after nigh on four years of sharing my bed?” Llewelyn sounded both amused and exasperated. But when she reemerged, he said, quite seriously, “I am bone-weary of these constant quarrels, bone-weary of having to defend to you every decision I make. You are my wife as well as John’s daughter, but there are times when you seem to forget that.”
“That is so unjust, Llewelyn! You know I do love you. But I love my father, too. What would you have me do, choose between you?”
He did not give her the reassurance she expected. “I would hope it will never come to that, Joanna,” he said quietly, and she stared at him in dismay, at a loss for words.
There was a sharp rapping on the door and Ednyved entered. “Llewelyn, a messenger has just ridden in from the south. John landed at Fishguard, in South Wales, three days ago. And he b
rought with him Maude de Braose.”
Will swallowed. “My parents?” he said. “My little sister? Were they taken, too?”
William de Braose seemed not to hear. It was Llewelyn who reassured the boy, said, “No, lad, they were not.”
“How…how was my grandmother taken? I thought they’d gotten safely into Scotland.”
“They did, but at Galloway a Scots lord took them prisoner, held them for John. Your parents escaped; so did your Aunt Margaret and her husband, de Lacy. But Maude was taken, and so was her daughter Annora, her son Will, and his four young sons. They were sent under guard back to Ireland, to John at Carreckfergus.” Llewelyn looked from the boy to the still silent de Braose. “What will you do?” he asked, and de Braose bestirred himself with an obvious effort, shrugged.
“What can I do? You said John is heading for Bristol. I shall have to go to Bristol, too, try to come to terms with him.”
The Welsh murmured among themselves at that, looked at the Norman lord with the first glimmerings of respect. Even Llewelyn was somewhat impressed. “I wish you well,” he said, and meant it, thankful that he would never be facing de Braose’s dilemma, that his own wife had nothing whatsoever to fear from John.
De Braose seemed to have aged years in a matter of hours. He ran a hand roughly through greying blond hair, said heavily, “My lord Llewelyn, I do have a favor to ask of you. I know we are not far from the port of Pwllheli. Can you provide a guide for my grandson, get the lad safely there?” And when Llewelyn nodded, he turned to Will, said, “At Pwllheli, you can take ship for one of the southern ports, Tenby or Swansea, and from there, sail with the tide for France.”
Will had lost most of his youthful bravado; he looked shaken and, although he tried to hide it, fearful. Joanna had so far listened in silence, but with that, she came forward, said, “That would be a dangerous voyage for a boy of Will’s years to undertake alone. Would it not be safer to leave him here, at my husband’s court?”