HERE BE DRAGONS ,-ftjprfc I ALSO BY SHARON KAY PENMAN The Sunne in Splendour Falls the Shadow The Reckoning HERE BE SHARON KAY PENMAN Ballantine Books New York Sale of this book without a front cover may be unauthorized If this book is coverless, it may have been reported to the publisher as "unsold or destroyed" and neither the author nor the publisher may have received payment for it Copyright © 1985 by Sharon Kay Penman All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. Published in the United States by Ballantine Books, a division of Random House, Inc., New York, and distributed in Canada by Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto. This edition published by arrangement with Henry Holt and Company. Maps by Anita Karl and Jim Kemp Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 93-90026 ISBN: 0-345-38284-6 Cover design by Georgia Morrissey Cover art by Ambrogio Lorenzetti: The Effects of Good Government, fragment. Fresco, 1337-1340/The Granger Collection Manufactured in the United States of America First Ballantine Books Edition: June 1993 20 19 18 17 16 15 14 13 12 To my parents ACKNOWLEDGMENTS I 1. WOULD like to thank the following people for their support and encouragement and understanding: My parents. Julie McCaskey Wolff. My agent, Molly Friedrich of the Aaron M. Priest Literary Agency. My dear friend Cris Arnott, who helped me to track down the elusive Richard Fitz Roy. Betty Rowles and Jean and Basil Hill, who showed me so many kindnesses during my research trips to Wales. Olwen Caradoc Evans and Helen Ramage, who shared with me their knowledge and love of Welsh history. Above all, my editor at Holt, Rinehart and Winston, Marian Wood. And lastly, the staffs of the National Library of Wales, the British Library, the Caernarfon Archives, the University College of North Wales Library, the research libraries of Cardiff, Llangefni, and Shrewsbury, the Brecknock Borough Library, the County Archives Office in Mold, and in the United States, the University of Pennsylvania Library. PROLOGUE THEIRS was a land of awesome grandeur, a land of mountains and moorlands and cherished myths. They called it Cymru and believed themselves to be the descendants of Brutus and the citizens of ancient Troy. They were a passionate, generous, and turbulent people, with but one fatal flaw. They proclaimed themselves to be Cymry"fellow countrymen"but they fought one another as fiercely as they did their English neighbors, and had carved three separate kingdoms out of their native soil. To the north was the alpine citadel of Gwynedd, bordered by Powys, and to the south lay the realm of Deheubarth. To the English kings, this constant discord was a blessing and they did what they could to sow seeds of dissension and strife amongst the Welsh. During the reigns of the Norman Conqueror, William the Bastard, and his sons, the English crown continued to gain influence in Wales; Norman castles rose up on Welsh soil, and Norman towns began to take root in the valleys of South Wales. As the Normans had subdued the native-born Saxons, so, too, it began to seem that they would subdue the Welsh. HENRY Plantagenet, King of England, Lord of Ireland and Wales, Duke of Normandy, Count of Anjou, ordered a wall fresco to be painted in his chamber at Winchester Castle. It depicted a fierce, proud eagle being attacked by four eaglets; as the great bird struggled, the eaglets tore at its flesh with talons and beaks. When asked what this portended, Henry said that he was the eagle and the eaglets were his sons. And as the King's sons grew to manhood, it came to pass just as er|ry had foretold. Four sons had he. Young Henry, his namesake and Xll heir, was crowned with his sire in his sixteenth year. Richard, the second son, was invested with the duchy of Aquitaine, ruling jointly with Eleanor, his lady mother. Geoffrey became Duke of Brittany. The youngest son was John; men called him John Lackland for he was the last-born and the Angevin empire had already been divided amongst his elder brothers. But John alone held with his father. The other sons turned upon Henry, seeking to rend him as the eaglets had raked and clawed at the bleeding eagle on the wall of Winchester Castle. In the year of Christ 1183, the House of Plantagenet was at war against itself. BOOK ONE SHROPSHIRE, ENGLAND JM/H nSj ft JL J.E was ten years old and an alien in an unfriendly land, made an unwilling exile by his mother's marriage to a Marcher border lord. His new stepfather seemed a kindly man, but he was not of Llewelyn's blood, not one of the Cymry, and each dawning day in Shropshire only intensified Llewelyn's heartsick longing for his homeland. For his mother's sake, he did his best to adapt to the strangeness of English ways. He even tried to forget the atrocity stories that were so much a part of his heritage, tales of English conquest and cruelties. His was a secret sorrow he shared with no one, for he was too young to know that misery repressed is misery all the more likely to fester. IT was on a Saturday morning a fortnight after his arrival at Caus Castle that Llewelyn mounted his gelding and rode north, toward the little village of Westbury. He had not intended to go any farther, but he was bored and lonely and the road beckoned him on. Ten miles to the east lay the town of Shrewsbury, and Llewelyn had never seen a town. He hesitated, but not for long. His stepfather had told him there were five villages between Westbury and Shrewsbury, and he recited them under his breath as he rode: Whitton, Stony Stretton, Yokethul, Newnham, and Cruckton. If he kept careful count as he passed through each one, there'd be no chance of getting lost, and with luck, he'd be back before his mother even realized he was gone. Accustomed to forest trails and deer tracks, he found it strange to be traveling along a road wide enough for several horsemen to ride abreast. tranger still to him were the villages, each with its green and market °ss, its surprisingly substantial stone church surrounded by a cluster of thatched cottages and an occasional fishpond. They were in truth little more than hamlets, these Shropshire villages that so intrigued Llewelyn, small islands scattered about in a sea of plough-furrowed fields. But Llewelyn's people were pastoral, tribal, hunters and herdsmen rather than farmers, and these commonplace scenes of domestic English life were to him as exotic as they were unfamiliar. It was midday before he was within sight of the walls of Shrewsbury Castle. He drew rein, awed. Castle keep and soaring church spires, a fortified arched bridge spanning the River Severn, and the roofs of more houses than he could begin to count. He kept his distance, suddenly shy, and after a time he wheeled the gelding, without a backward glance for the town he'd come so far to see. He did not go far, detouring from the road to water his horse at Yokethul Brook, and it was there that he found the other boy. He looked to be about nine, as fair as Llewelyn was dark, with a thatch of bright hair the color of sun-dried straw, and grass-green eyes that now focused admiringly upon Llewelyn's mount. Llewelyn slid to the ground, led the gelding foward with a grin that encouraged the other boy to say, in the offhand manner that Llewelyn was coming to recognize as the English equivalent of a compliment, "Is that horse yours?" "Yes," Llewelyn said, with pardonable pride. "He was foaled on a Sunday, so I call him Dydd Sul." The other boy hesitated. "You sound . . . different," he said at last, and Llewelyn laughed. He'd been studying French for three years, but he had no illusions about his linguistic skills. "That is what Morgan, my tutor, says too," he said cheerfully. "I expect it is because French is not my native tongue." "You are not. . . English, are you?" Llewelyn was momentarily puzzled, but then he remembered. The people he thought of as English thought of themselves as NormanFrench, even though it was more than a hundred years since the Duke of Normandy had invaded and conquered England. The native-born English, the Saxons, had been totally subdued. Unlike us, Llewelyn thought proudly. But he knew the Normans had for the Saxons all the traditional scorn of the victors for the vanquished, and he hastened to say, "No, I am not Saxon. I was born in Gwynedd, Cymru . . . what you know as Wales." The green eyes widened. "I've never met a Welshman before," he said slowly, and it occurred to Llewelyn that, just as he'd been raised on accounts of English treachery and tyranny, this boy was likely to have been put to bed at night with bloody tales of Welsh border raids. "I'll show you my cloven hoof if you'll show me yours," he offered, H the other boy looked startled and then laughed. "I am Llewelyn ab lorwerth ..." He was unable to resist adding, "Ab Owain Fawr," for Llewelyn was immensely proud that he was a randson of Owain the Great, proud enough to disregard Morgan's oftfepeated admonition against such bragging. But the younger boy did not react, and Llewelyn realized with a distinct shock that the name meant nothing to him. He seemed to want to respond to Llewelyn's friendliness, but there was a certain wariness still in his eyes. "I am Stephen de Hodnet." He hesitated again. "You do not live in Shropshire, do you? I mean, if you are Welsh ..." The implication seemed clear: if he was Welsh, why was he not in Wales where he belonged? Llewelyn was more regretful than resentful, for this past fortnight had been the loneliest of his life. "I'm staying at Caus Castle," he said coolly, and reached for Sul's reins. "Caus Castle!" The sudden animation in Stephen's voice took Llewelyn by surprise. "Lord Robert Corbet's castle? You're living there?" Llewelyn nodded, bemused. "For now I am. My lady mother was wed a fortnight ago to Sir Hugh Corbet, Robert's brother. You know them?" Stephen laughed. "Who in Shropshire does not know the Corbets? They are great lords. My papa says they have more manors than a dog has fleas. In fact, he hopes to do homage to Lord Robert for the Corbet manor at Westbury." And he then proceeded, unasked, to inform Llewelyn that he was the youngest son of Sir Odo de Hodnet, that the de Hodnets were vassals of Lord Fulk Fitz Warin, holding manors of Fitz Warm at Moston and Welbatch, that he was a page in Fitz Warm's household at Alberbury Castle. Llewelyn was a little hazy about the intricacies of English landholding, but he did know that a vassal was a tenant of sorts, holding land in return for rendering his overlord forty days of military service each year, and he was thus able to make some sense of this outpouring of names, places, and foreign phrases. What he could not at first understand was Stephen's sudden thawing, until he realized that the name Corbet was his entry into Stephen's world. It was, he thought, rather like that story Morgan had once told him, a tale brought back by the crusaders from the Holy Land, of a man who'd been able to gain access to a cave full of riches merely by saying the words "Open Sesame!" This realization gave Llewelyn no pleasure; it only reinforced his conviction that English values were beyond understanding. How else explain that he should win acceptance not for what truly mattered, his r blood-ties to Owain Fawr, the greatest of all Welsh princes, but for a marriage that he felt should never have been? All at once he was caught up in a surge of homesickness, a yearning for Wales so overwhelming that he found himself blinking back tears. Stephen did not notice, had not yet paused for breath. ". . . and my papa says Caus is the strongest of all the border castles, that it could withstand a siege verily until Judgment Day. Tell meis it true that Lord Robert has a woven cloth on the floor of his bedchamber?" Llewelyn nodded. "It is called a ... a carpet, was brought back from the Holy Land." He could see that Stephen was on the verge of interrogating him at tiresome length about a subject that interested him not at all, and he said quickly, "But I know naught of castles, Stephen. Nor do I much like living in one. We do not have them in my land, you see." Stephen looked incredulous. "None at all?" "Just those that were built by the Normans. Our people live in houses of timber, but they're scattered throughout the mountains, not all clustered together like your English villages." It was obviously a novel thought to Stephen, that not all cultures and societies were modeled after his own. They were both sitting on the bank by the stream and he rolled over in the grass, propped his chin in his hands, and said, "Tell me more about the Welsh." Llewelyn no longer had any reservations about boasting of his bloodlines. Stephen was so woefully ignorant that it was truly a charitable act to enlighten him, he decided, and proceeded to acquaint Stephen with some of the more legendary exploits of his celebrated grandfather, giving his imagination free rein. "And so," he concluded, having at last run out of inspiration, "when my grandfather died, his sons fought to see who would succeed him. My father was deprived of his rightful inheritance, and Gwynedd is now ruled by my uncles, Rhodri and Davydd." Welsh names were falling fast and freeto Stephen's unfamiliar ears, much like the musical murmurings of Yokethul Brook. But one fact he'd grasped quite clearly. A prince was a prince, be he Welsh or Norman, and he looked at Llewelyn with greatly increased respect. "Wait," he begged. "Let me be sure I do follow you. Your grandfather was a Prince of ... Gwynedd, and your lady mother is the daughter of a Prince of . . . ?" "Powys. Marared, daughter of Prince Madog ap Meredydd. My fa* ther was killed when I was a babe, and ere my mother wed Hugh Corbet, we lived with her kin in Powys ..." Llewelyn had not begun talking until he was nearly two, and since then, his mother often teased, he seemed bound and determined to UP f°r a" ^at ^ost ^me- Now, with so satisfactory an audience as ma hen and a subject that was so close to his heart, he outdid himself, JI Stephen learned that among the Welsh there was no greater sin ^ to deny hospitality to a traveler, that Welshmen scorned the chain- .j arrn0r of the English knight, that Llewelyn's closest friends were s named Rhys and Ednyved, and the ancient Welsh name for Shrewsbury was Pengwern. The sun had taken on the dull, red-gold haze of coming dusk as Llewelyn obligingly gave Stephen a lesson in the basics of Welsh pronunciation. "Say Rhys like this: Rees. And Ed-nev-ed. Now try Gruffvdd; it sounds like your Griffith. In Welsh, the double 'd' is pronounced as 'th.' So my little brother's name is spelled A-d-d-a, but we say it as Atha, Welsh for Adam." He paused, his head cocked. "Do you hear that? Someone is calling your name." Stephen scrambled to his feet so fast he all but tumbled down the brook embankment. "My brother! Jesii, but he'll flay me alive!" "Why?" "I coaxed him into taking me with him to Shrewsbury this morn. We agreed to meet at St George's bridge and I... I just forgot!" "Well, cannot you say you're sorry and ..." Stephen shook his head, staring at the boys now mounting the crest of the hill. "No, not with Walter. He ... he's not much for forgiveness ..." The approaching boys looked to be about fourteen. The youngster in the lead had Stephen's butter-yellow hair. He strode up to Stephen and, without a word, struck the younger boy across the face, with enough force to send Stephen sprawling. "We've been looking for you for nigh on two hours! I've a mind to leave you here, and damned well should!" As Walter reached down and jerked Stephen to his feet, Llewelyn came forward. He'd taken an instant dislike to Walter de Hodnet, but for Stephen's sake, he sought to sound conciliatory as he said, "It was my fault, too. We were talking and ..." Walter's eyes flicked to his face, eyes of bright blue, iced with sudden suspicion. "What sort of lowborn riffraff have you taken up with now, Stephen?" Llewelyn flushed. "I am Llewelyn ab lorwerth," he said after a long pause; instinct was now alerting him to trouble. At the same time Stephen burst into nervous speech. "He is a Welsh Prince, Walter, and ... and he's been telling me all about Wales ..." ''Oh, he has?" Walter said softly, and Stephen, who knew his rother well enough to be forewarned, tried to shrink back. But Walter still had a grip on his tunic. With his other hand he grasped a fistful of Stephen's hair and yanked, until Stephen's head was drawn back so fa that he seemed to be staring skyward, and was whimpering with pajn "That's just what I could expect from you. No more common sense than the stupidest serf, not since the day you were born. So he's been telling you about Wales? Did he tell you, too, about the crops burned in the fields, the villages plundered, the women carried off?" Releasing Stephen, he swung around suddenly on Llewelyn. "Suppose you tell him about it now. Tell my lack-wit brother about the border raids, tell him how brave your murdering countrymen are against defenseless peasants and how they run like rabbits when \ve send men-at-arms against them!" Sul was grazing some yards away, and for several moments Llewelyn had been measuring the distance, wanting nothing so much as to be up on the gelding's back and off at a breakneck run. But with Walter's taunt, he froze where he was, pride temporarily prevailing over fear. He'd never run like a rabbit, never. But there was a betraying huskiness in his voice as he said, "I have nothing to say to you." Walter was flanked by his two companions; they'd moved closer to Llewelyn, too close, and he took a backward step. But he dared retreat no farther, for the brook embankment was at his back and he did not know how to swim. He stood very still, head held high, for he'd once seen a stray spaniel face down several larger dogs by showing no fear. They stepped in, tightening the circle, but made no move to touch him. He was never to know how long the impasse might have lasted, for at that moment one of the boys noticed Sul. "Damn me if he does not have his own mount! Where would a Welsh whelp get a horse like that?" "Where do you think?" Walter, too, was staring at the chestnut, with frankly covetous eyes. "You know what they say. Scratch a Welshman, find a horse thief." Llewelyn felt a new and terrible fear, for he'd raised Sul from a spindle-legged foal; Sul was his pride, his heart's passion. He forgot all else, and grabbed at Walter's arm as the older boy turned toward Sul. "He's mine, to me! You leave him be!" It was a grievous mistake, and he paid dearly for it. They were on him at once, all three of them, and he went down in a welter of thudding fists and jabbing elbows. He flailed out wildly, desperately, but he could match neither his assailants' strength nor their size, and he was soon pinned down in the trampled grass, Walter's knees on his chest/ his mouth full of his own blood. "Misbegotten sons of Satan, the lot of you!" Walter panted "Bloody bastards, not worth the hanging . . ." And if the profanity & If consciously on his lips, flaunted as tangible proof of passage into mysteries of manhood, the venom in his voice was not an affectawas rooted in a bias that was ageless, breathed in from birth. '"Know you what we mean to do now, Welsh rabbit? Pluck you as i an as a chicken ..." He reached out, tore the crucifix chain from I levvelyn's neck. "Spoils of war, starting with that chestnut horse you tole You can damned well walk back to Wales, mother-naked, and just thank your heathen gods that we did not hang you for a horse thief! Go on Philip, I'll n°ld him whilst you get his boots ..." Sul. They were going to take Sul. His bruised ribs, his bloodied nose, hurt and humiliation and impotent furyall of that was nothing now, not when balanced against the loss of Sul. Llewelyn gave a sudden frantic heave, caught Walter off guard, and rolled free. But as quick as he was, the third boy was quicker, and before he could regain his feet, an arm had crooked around his neck, jerking him backward. And then Walter's fist buried itself in his midsection and all fight went out of him; he lay gasping for breath, as if drowning in the very air he was struggling to draw into his lungs. "Walter, no!" Stephen had at last found his voice. "He's not a nobody, he's highborn and kin by marriage to Lord Corbet of Caus! He's stepson to Hugh Corbet, Walter, and nephew to Lord Robert!" Suddenly, all Llewelyn could hear was his own labored breathing. Then one of the boys muttered, "Oh, Christ!" and that broke the spell. They all began to talk at once. "How do we know he's not lying?" "But Walter, do you not remember? Lord Fulk was talking at dinner last week about a Corbet marriage to a Welshwoman of rank, saying the Corbets hoped to safeguard their manors from Welsh raids with such a union." "Will he go whining to Corbet, d'you think?" "Since you got us into this, Walter, you ought to be the one to put it right!" After a low-voiced conference, they moved apart and Walter walked back to Llewelyn. The younger boy was sitting up, wiping mud from his face with the sleeve of his tunic. He was bruised and scratched and sore, but his injuries were superficial. His rage, however, was allconsuming, blotting all else from his brain. He raised slitted, dark eyes to Walter's face; they glittered with hatred made all the more intense by his inability to act upon it. 'Here," Walter said tersely, dropping the crucifix on the ground at lewelyn's feet. The conciliatory gesture was belied by the twist of his outn, and when Llewelyn did not respond, he leaned over, grasped ewelyn's arm with a roughness that was a more honest indicator of his tfue feelings. Come, I'll help you up." Walter's voice softened, took on a hony malice. "You need not be afraid," he drawled, and Llewelyn spat 10 in his face. It was utterly unpremeditated, surprising Llewelyn almost as much as it did Walter, and he realized at once that his Corbet kinship would avail him little against an offense of such magnitude. But for the moment the incredulous outrage on Walter's face was worth it, worth it all. Walter gasped, and then lunged. Shock slowed his reflexes, however, and Llewelyn was already on his feet. He sprinted for Sul, and the gelding raised its head, expectant, for this was a game they often played, and Llewelyn had become quite adroit at vaulting up onto the horse's back from a running jump. But as he chanced a glance back over his shoulder, he saw he was not going to make it; Walter was closing ground with every stride. Llewelyn swerved, tripped, and sprawled facedown in the high grass. There was no time for fear, it all happened too fast; Walter was on top of him, and this time the older boy was in deadly earnest, he meant to inflict pain, to maim, and his was the advantage of four years and fully forty pounds. "Walter, stop!" The other boys had reached them, were struggling to drag Walter off him. Llewelyn heard their voices as if from a great distance; there was a roaring in his ears. His right eye was swelling rapidly, and an open gash just above the eyelid was spurting so much blood that he was all but blinded. Through a spangled crimson haze, he caught movement and brought his arm up in a futile attempt to ward off the blow. But the expected explosion of pain did not come; instead the voices became louder, more strident. "Jesus God, Walter, think what you do! Did you not hear your brother? The boy's not fair game, he's kin to the Corbets!" "He's talking sense, Walter. You've got to let the boy be!" "I intend to ... as soon as he does beg my forgiveness." Walter was now straddling Llewelyn, holding the boy immobile with the weight of his own body, and he shifted his position as he spoke, driving his knee into Llewelyn's ribcage until he cried out in pain. "We're waiting on you. Tell me how sorry you are . . . and whilst you be at it, let's hear you admit the truth about your God-cursed kinfolk, that there's not a Welshman born who's not a thief and cutthroat." Pain had vanquished pride; Llewelyn was frightened enough and hurting enough to humble himself with an apology. But it was unthinkable to do what Walter was demanding. "Cer i uffern!" It was the worst oath Llewelyn knew, one that damned Walter to the fires of Hell. The words were no sooner out of his mouth than his face was pressed down into the dirt and his arm twisted up behind his back. He'd been braced for pain, but not for this, searing/ burning, unendurable. The shouting had begun again. Walter's mouth 11 gainst his ear. "Say it," he hissed. "Say it, or by Christ I'll damned well break your arm!" Mo No, never. Did he say that aloud? Someone was gasping, no. rrv " Surely no* h's v°ice- "Welshmen are . . . thieves . . ." No, not him. "Again . . louder this time." "Enough, Walter! It was different when we did not know who he as But Philip and I want no part of this. You do what you want with him, but we're going home ... and straightaway!" The pain in his arm subsided so slowly that Llewelyn did not at once realize he was free. Time passed. He was alone in the meadows now, but he did not move, not until he felt a wet muzzle on the back of his neck. It was Sul, nuzzling his tunic, playing their favorite game, seeking out hidden apple slices. Only then did tears well in Llewelyn's eyes. He welcomed them, needing to cry, but it was not to be; this was a hurt beyond tears, and they trickled into the blood smearing his cheek, dried swiftly in the dying heat of the setting sun. Priding himself on his horsemanship, Llewelyn had never felt the lack of a saddle before. Now, with his right arm all but useless, with no saddle pommel to grip, the once-simple act of mounting was suddenly beyond his capabilities. Again and again he grasped Sul's mane, struggling to pull himself up onto the gelding's back. Again and again he slid back, defeated. But Sul's placid temperament stood him in good stead; the chestnut did no more than roll its eyes sideways, as if seeking to understand this queer new game Llewelyn was set upon playing, and at last, sobbing with frustration, Llewelyn was able to pull himself up onto Sul's withers. He was promptly sick, clinging to Sul's mane while his stomach heaved and the sky whirled dizzily overhead, a surging tide of sunset colors spinning round and round like a child's pinwheel, until the very horizon seemed atilt and all the world out of focus. He headed the gelding back toward Caus Castle; he had nowhere else to go. Village life ceased at dusk, for only the wealthy could afford the luxury of candles and rushlight, and the little hamlets were deserted, his passage heralded only by the barking of dogs. It was well past nightfall by the time he approached Westbury. He had a hazy, halftormed hope that he might somehow sneak unseen into the castle bailey, and then up into the keep, to the upper chamber where Robert orbet's three young sons slept. How he was to accomplish this mirac°us feat, he had no idea, and it was rendered irrelevant now by the sudden appearance of a small body of horsemen. Llewelyn drew rein, for he'd recognized the lead rider. Hugh CorDet his mother's new husband. 32 "Llewelyn! Where in the name of Jesus have you been, boy? YOU mother's frantic and little wonder. We've been out looking for you sinc Vespers!" The search party carried lanterns, and as Hugh reined in beside Llewelyn, a glimmer of light fell across the boy's face, only a flicker of illumination, but enough. Hugh drew in his breath sharply. "My God lad, what happened to you?" THERE was some talk of summoning a doctor from Shrewsbury, but it was finally decided that Llewelyn's need was not so great as that. As the lady of the manor, Emma Corbet was, of necessity, a skilled apothecary, as adroit in stitching up wounds, applying poultices, and brewing healing herbs as any physician. It was she who applied a salve of mutton fat and resin to Llewelyn's bruised ribs, bathed his swollen eye in rosewater, and washed the blood and dirt from his face. No, his shoulder was not dislocated, she said soothingly. If it were, he'd be unable to move the arm at all. She did feel certain, though, that his wrist was sprained; see how it was swelling? She'd need cold cornpresses for the eye, hot towels for the wrist, and her cache of herbs, she directed, and her maids speedily departed the bedchamber, leaving Llewelyn alone with Emma and Marared, his mother. Voices sounded beyond the door. Llewelyn recognized one as his stepfather's; the other belonged to Robert Corbet, Hugh's elder brother. "Do you not think you're making too much of this, Hugh? Boys will get into squabbles. Look at my torn, how he" "You have not seen him yet, Rob," Hugh said grimly, and pushed the door back. Robert Corbet, Baron of Caus, was only twenty-eight, but he was decisive by nature and long accustomed to the exercise of authority. At sight of Llewelyn, his face hardened. Kneeling by the boy, he said, "Who did this to you, lad?" Marared was standing behind her son. She reached out, let her hand rest on his shoulder. Emma shook her head and said, "It is no use, Rob. He's not said a blessed word so far. Mayhap if we left him alone with Hugh and Margaret. . ." Llewelyn's head came up at that. Her name is Marared. Marared, not Margaret. The words hovered on his lips; he bit them back with a visible effort, and turned his face away, stayed stubbornly silent. Servants had carried bedding into the chamber, were spreading blankets down on the floor by the bed, and Hugh smiled at Llewelyn/ said, "Margaret and I thought it would be best if you passed the nigh* here 13 pth us. Now why do we not see about getting you out of those hSimed clothes?" T lewelyn rose obediently, let his stepfather strip off the bloodied, tunic, his shirt, chausses, linen braies, and the knee-length cowboots. But as Hugh pulled the blanket back and the boy slid under overs, he said, very softly yet very distinctly, "My mother's name is Marared." Hugh stood looking down at his stepson. He did not say anything, h t Llewelyn had an unsettling suspicion that he understood, understood all too well. Left alone at last, Llewelyn sought in vain to make himself comfortable on the pallet. He held the compresses to his injured eye, tried not to think of anything at all. When the door opened, he did not look up, believing it to be his mother. But the footsteps were heavier, a man's tread. Llewelyn raised himself awkwardly on his elbow, and his heart began to thud against his sore ribs, for it was Morgan. Marared had been only fifteen when Llewelyn was born, widowed the following year while pregnant with his brother. With Adda, small and frail and maimed, she was fiercely protective, but she'd tended from the first to treat her eldest son as if they were playfellows rather than mother and child. Llewelyn adored the dark, beautiful girl who teased him, laughed at his misdeeds, and taught him to view their troubles with lighthearted abandon. But it was Morgan who set the standards that structured his life, it was Morgan's approval that mattered. Instinctively he knew that his mother would forgive him any sin, no matter how great. Morgan would not, and that made his good opinion the more precious. He shrank now from revealing his shame to Morgan; that the youthful priest should look upon him with contempt was a greater punishment than any pain Walter de Hodnet had inflicted. Morgan was carrying a platter. Setting it down, he tossed a cushion on the floor by Llewelyn's pallet, and spreading the skirt of his cassock as if it were a woman's gown, he settled himself beside the boy. "The Lady Emma has sent up some broth, and your lady mother thought you might like a slice of seedcake." Llewelyn smiled wanly at that; his mother's invariable remedy for any childhood hurt was to offer sweets. Morgan leaned forward, spooned some broth into Llewelyn's mouth, and then turned the boy's a" to the side, his eyes moving slowly over the bruises, contusions, and swellings. You re likely to have a scar over that eye," he observed dispassiony and, not waiting for a response, fed Llewelyn another spoonful soup. Putting the bowl aside, he turned toward the tray, handed Uewelyn a fresh compress. 14 "Are you ready now to tell me about it?" Llewelyn flushed, shot Morgan a look of mute entreaty. But Mo gan's grey eyes were unwavering, expectant. Llewelyn could not lie, not to Morgan. He swallowed, began to speak. Shrewsbury. Stephen. The meadow. Walter de Hodnet, his fear and "Welshmen are thieves . . ." He held none of it back, spared himself nothing. But he could not meet Morgan's eyes, could not bear to see Morgan's dawning disgust. He looked instead at Morgan's hands linked loosely in his lap; they were beautifully shaped, fingers long and supple, a symmetry marred only by the bitten, gnawed nails, chewed down to the very quick, an incongruous quirk in one with such a disciplined nature. Llewelyn kept his gaze riveted on those hands, saw them flex, tense, and then slowly unclench. When Llewelyn had at last run out of words, one of the hands reached out, touched his hair in what seemed strangely like a caress. But Morgan's caresses were sparingly doled out and surely would not be given now, not after what he'd just confessed. And yet the hand had not been withdrawn; it was brushing the hair back from his forehead, lingering. "Morgan . . ." Bewildered, utterly at a loss. "I'm proud of you, lad." " roud?" Llewelyn choked. "I shamed you, shamed us all. Did you not understand? I did what he demanded, I dishonored my blood, groveled before him." "And would you rather he'd broken your arm, mayhap maimed you for life?" "No, but. . ." "Listen to me, Llewelyn. Courage is a commendable quality, and a true test of manhood. You showed that today, and may rightly take pride in it. But for a prince of our people, courage alone is not enough; it must be tempered with common sense. You showed that too, today, lad, showed you were able to make a realistic recognition of superior strength. There's no shame in that, Llewelyn, none whatsoever. Be thankful, rather, that in a world full of fools, Our Lord Saviour has blessed you with brains as well as boldness of spirit." "I was so ashamed . . ." Llewelyn whispered. "Not for the apology/ but for the other, for saying my countrymen are thieves and cutthroats. "And does saying it make it so?" Morgan shook his head. "Do you know what the English say of us, Llewelyn? They say a Welshman s word is worth spit in the wind. And they are right, lad. An oath given W an enemy is made to be broken; we understand that. We use what weap ons we have available to us, and when we fight, we fight on our term / not theirs. 35 "These are lessons you must learn, Llewelyn, and learn well The ill come when you'll return to Gwynedd, lay claim to the lands °a' uncles now rule You must be ready to win back what is yours by y°" ancj above all, to deal with the English '''We are not a numerous people For every Welshman born, the H God has seen fit to beget twenty of English blood Our princes been forced to accept the English king as their liege lord But we not been subjugated as the Saxons were, we have not become a hon of serfs and bondsmen These Norman lords who rule England, d would rule Wales if they could, hate us above all others And still we live free, with our own princes, our own ways and customs " Llewelyn nodded eagerly, intent on a lesson he'd long ago learned "This is because when the English come onto our lands," Morgan continued, "our people drive their livestock up into the hills and then they hide themselves The English burn our houses, but we are not bound to the land like the English peasants, and when they withdraw, our people rebuild Nor do we despair when we fight the English and find ourselves outnumbered When we see ourselves losing, we retreatand hit them again on the morrow When they send armies into our land, we fade away into the woods, and they cannot find us "If you understand this, Llewelyn, you must understand, too, that you've no reason to reproach yourself, no reason to feel shame " It seemed nothing less than miraculous to Llewelyn that Morgan could heal the worst of his hurts with so little effort, and he gave the pnest a grateful smile Morgan smiled back and then said briskly, "Now is it your wish that I tell the Corbets about this boy7" Llewelyn hesitated Although he was feeling more and more cornfortable about the role he'd played in that frightening encounter by Yokethul Brook, he still did not relish the prospect of confiding in his Corbet km "No," he said slowly "No matter what they did to him, he'd just take it out on Stephen afterward I'd rather we let it he, Morgan " For now, he added silently Walter de Hodnet Not a name to be forgotten Morgan watched as Llewelyn touched his fingers to the puffy, discolored skin over his eye, to the swelling bruise high on his cheekbone, Almost as if he were taking inventory of his injuries And that, the priest new' was precisely what the boy was doing, making a private acknowlgrnent of a debt due Morgan sighed Vengeance is mine, saith the rcl On that, Holy Church spoke quite clearly But his people parted pany with their Church on this issue, they did not believe in forgivlng a wrong^ forgetting an injuryever Here," he said, handing Llewelyn a brimming goblet "The Lady a nuxed some bryony root in wine, to ease your pain and help you 16 sleep. Drink it down and I'll stay with you till it does take effect. I hay something of great importance to tell you. We learned this noon of death, a death that will change the lives of us all." Llewelyn sat up. "Who, Morgan?" "Young Henry, the English King's eldest son and heir. We had word today that he died in France on the eleventh of June, of the bloody flux. He knew he was dying and pleaded with his father to come to him so they might reconcile ere he died. But Henry did not believe him fearing it was a trick. They are an accursed family, in truth, the Devil's brood." He shook his head, made the sign of the cross. "What will happen now, Morgan?" Ordinarily the priest would have insisted that Llewelyn be the one to tell him that. But it was late and the boy was bruised and sore, in no condition to be interrogated about lessons of history and statecraft. "You know, Llewelyn, that the English give all to the firstborn son. Since young Henry had no son of his own, the heir to the English throne is now his brother Richard. So this means that Richard will one day be King." "That is not good for us, is it, Morgan? If Richard is as able a soldier as men say..." "He is." Llewelyn swallowed some more wine. "I'm sorry Henry died," he said regretfully. "Since he was to be King one day, you made me learn as much as I could about him. And now all that effort goes for naught and I have to begin all over again with Richard!" That triggered one of Morgan's rare laughs. "It is even worse than you know, lad. It is very likely that one of Richard's brothers might one day be King after him, so that means you must familiarize yourself with Geoffrey and John, too." "All three? But why, Morgan? Richard will surely marry and beget a son. How, then, can Geoffrey or John ever be King?" Morgan did not respond at once, seemingly lost in thought. "Aye," he said at last. "I reckon you are old enough to know. I take it that your mother and her brothers have spoken to you of carnal matters, explaining how a woman gets with child?" "Of course! Mama and my Uncle Gruffydd told me what I needed to know ages ago." A youngster growing up around livestock could not remain sheltered for long, and Llewelyn's were an uninhibited people who viewed sex as a natural urge and a very enjoyable pleasure; nor was theirs a society in which the stigma of illegitimacy carried much sting. Morgan was not surprised, therefore, by the boy's emphatic answer. Actually, Llewelyn knew far more about carnal matters than MOP 17 «n suspected, for he knew at^°Ut Gwy- The average parish priest gie Welsh or English or Fren, '^ "? a ^-educated man; Morgan * s an exception. Most were ^J^^ ** *»"** °f S bacy -s one that not many %?^^^?- I* was not of bacy was one that not many co', Sh°Ulder with equanimity. It was not 3 uncommon for these L^*^?to f e/° ** hearths ^Z Uve-in concubines, and while e Ulurch officially decried these liai sons, they were tacitly accepts "*' * PeoPle as inevitable and even natural. Unlike so many of his ^ °W dencs' Morgan had never taken a wife or hearthmate, and the o/^! ere few when he'd found his vow of chastity too onerous fo/" Y3 flesh" He wa« always quite dis creet, and it was purely by cha^"" , Llewelyn had found out about Gwynora. He had told no one, a^ W°Uld never have dreamed of savine a word to Morgan; it gave him S W3rm glow of Pleasure to keep a secret for this man he so loved. "I know all about carnal 1/^*1' Morgan'" he said loftily "But what has that to do with one of / but he does confine youn ^ fleSh f° adultery- As ° kack to Wales, Llewelyn. You will go home." SHROPSHIRE, ENGLAND ]unc 1187 Unri J.HINK you, then, that there'll be war?" Hugh Corbet hesitated. It was no easy thing to be a younger brother in an age in which all passed by law to a man's eldest son. But Hugh had been luckier than most. His was a family of considerable wealth; the Corbets held lands not only in Shropshire, but in Normandy, Warwickshire, Worcestershire, and Wales. Robert Corbet had inherited the barony of Caus, but there were manors to spare for Hugh, too, and his relationship with his brother was blessedly free of the poisonous jealousy that bred such strife between a fortunate firstborn and his landless siblings. Much of the time they were in harmony, working in tandem for the common Corbet good. But in this they were at odds. In this they were a House divided, much like the rival royal masters they served, for Robert's loyalties lay with Richard, King Henry's eldest son and heir, and Hugh's sympathies went out to the beleaguered, aging King. Hugh was silent, considering Robert's grim query. "I would hope to God it will not come to that, Rob," he said at last. "Father against sonthat is the ugliest of all feuds; it goes against the natural order of things." nev R hbert t0°k thiS 3S a Veiled Jab at Richard'the unfilial son. "It would as IT £ave,,come to this if Henry would but formally recognize Richard defend"8^ had to concede the truth of that. Finding himself forced to the indefensible, he at once took the offensive, saying sharply, 20 "Be that as it may, Richard had no right to ally himself with the King Francenot against his own sire!" "You know damned well why he felt that need, Hugh! With the' brother Geoffrey dead in France last summer, that does leave but Richard and John in line for the succession, and Richard knows all ton well that his father loves him not. He knows, too, that Henry has eve favored John. What else can Richard think, except that his father means to raise John up to the place that is rightfully his?" "And a right fine fear that be," Hugh scoffed, "one to cover a multitude of sins. You know fully as well as I that Henry could anoint John as the very King of Heaven for all it'd avail him. The lords of this realm would never countenance so flagrant a breach of the laws of inheritance Nor can you doubt the outcome. Whatever John might be given, he'd not long holdnot against Richard. No, Rob, if that be the balm Richard uses to soothe his conscience, he is a man much in need of absolution." Robert's face was mottled, splotched with resentful red. "Richard is to be our next King, should God so will it, and I'll not have you speak ill of him in my hearing." Hugh sighed. By now he could recite the dialogue verbatim for these acrimonious exchanges. Rob was as blind as a barn owl in a noonbright sun, dazzled by Richard's celebrated skill with a sword. Mayhap it was true that he was the finest soldier in Christendom, but if he had in him the makings of a good King, Hugh had yet to see any signs of it. Like as not, he'd pawn London itself to raise the gold he needed for his foreign wars. And John . . . would John be any better? Hugh thought not. He came abruptly to his feet. Why offend Rob and unsettle himself? To what end? Let it lie. They were sequestered in the uppermost chamber of the castle keep, alone but for a bored page and a dozing mastiff, Robert's faithful shadow. The window was unshuttered; in winter it would be screened with oiled and thinly scraped hide, but this was summer and it was open to sun and sound from the tiltyard below. Hugh went to it and watched for a while. "What do you watch?" The question was polite in tone, conciliatory in intent; Robert thrived on family discord no more than Hugh. "Llewelyn and some of his friends." As Robert joined him, Hugh gestured toward a small group of youngsters gathered below. Llewelyn was mounted on a burnished chestnut gelding; as the boys watched, he lowered his lance, took aim, and sent the gelding cantering across the tiltyard. He hit the target off-center and the quintain swung about in a wide arc, the sandbag slicing through the air like an opponent's counter blow. It should have sent him tumbling from the saddle to the straw 21 soften youthful falls. But Llewelyn twisted sideways in th^ e&M leaning so far to his left that it seemed inevitable he'd be uru cl and the sandbag swept by harmlessly overhead. k^Hugh grinned. It was a showy stunt, an undeniably impressive feat emanship, one that Hugh had seen before. Robert had not, how^ ° er° and he swore in startled wonder. CV "How in Christ did he do that without breaking his neck?" Hugh laughed. "You'd not credit what I've seen that lad do or\ u rse I truly believe the Welsh do learn to ride even ere they're weaned." Below them, Stephen de Hodnet was taking his turn upon Lie- elvn's gelding. He, too, hit the quintain awry and, seconds later, went sprawling into the straw, with a bruising impact that earned him no sympathy from the two watching men; they had suffered too many such spills themselves during their own years as knightly apprentices. Reclaiming Sul, Llewelyn led it over to the fence, held out the reins to his brother. Adda shook his head, but Llewelyn persisted, maneuvering the gelding up to the fence so the younger boy could mount. Once securely in the saddle, Adda shed much of his awkwardness, and while he did not attempt the quintain, he put the gelding through several intricate maneuvers, showing himself to be a better rider than most of Llewelyn's friends. Robert frowned. No matter how often he told himself that it was unchristian to feel such abhorrence of deformity, he could not control his distaste, could not keep his eyes from Adda's twisted leg. Thank the Lord Jesus that his torn was sound of limb, that the younger boys, too, were whole. "He lacks for spirit, that one. If not for Llewelyn's coaxing, I daresay he'd never stir from the hearth." "Well, it's hard on the lad, Rob, being lame. What future has he, after all? Under Welsh law, that crooked leg bars him from any claim to his father's lands." Robert shrugged. "He's not like to starve. Their law also holds that he must be provided for." "True, but would you want to be taken care oflike a woman? At thirteen, Adda's old enough to feel the shame of it." I suppose," Robert agreed, without interest. It was not that he wished Adda ill, merely that he regretted his engrafting onto the Corbet .a y tree- It was fortunate indeed that Llewelyn was of more promis- 8 stock. "Tell me, Hugh, what plans have you made for Llewelyn's Well, it is the custom in Wales for boys to be placed with a local when they reach fourteen or so. Whilst in his service, they learn the 22 use of arms, the tactics of warfare, much like our youths do whilst serving as squires. Margaret thought to send Llewelyn back to her brothers for such training, but I think I've persuaded her that we should place him as a squire in a Norman household. I daresay the boy will balk at first, but I feel such a move would be in his best interest." "That is just what I'd hoped you'd say, Hugh. You see, when I was in London at Whitsuntide, I had the good fortune to encounter his Grace, the Earl of Chester. Naturally the conversation turned to our common interests, protecting our respective lands from Welsh raids He was most interested to learn that your stepson is the grandson of Owain Fawr, and he suggested that he find a place for the boy in his household." "Jesu!" This was so far above Hugh's expectations that he was, for the moment, speechless, and Robert grinned, well pleased with himself. "I see I need not tell you what an opportunity this will be for the boy, for us all. Chester is one of the greatest lords of the realm, and as shrewd as a fox for all his youth. He saw at once the advantage of befriending a boy who might one day rule in his grandfather's stead. Llewelyn has the blood-right, after all, and most assuredly the spirit. With luck ..." He shrugged again and said, "But a chance like this, to come to manhood in an Earl's household! Loyalties given in youth often last for life. As Chester's squire, the brilliance of Llewelyn's world cannot help but eclipse all he's learned in the woodlands of Wales. He'll find himself amongst the greatest Norman lords, at the royal court, and in time he'll come to embrace Norman values, to adopt Norman traditions as his own." Robert paused. "Do not misunderstand me, Hugh. I know how fond you are of the boy, and I find him a likable lad myself. But I cannot help feeling a certain disappointment that, after four years, he clings so tenaciously to the teachings of an undeniably primitive people. Despite all the advantages you've given him, Llewelyn remains so stubbornly" "Welsh?" Hugh suggested dryly, and Robert laughed. He'd actually been about to say "untamed" before thinking better of it, and he did not demur now at his brother's interpretation; they were, he thought, merely different ways of saying the same thing. "Well, I shall talk to Margaret this forenoon, tell her about Chester's offer" Hugh began, and then turned toward the opening door. "Ah, Margaret, we were just speaking of you. Rob hasMat" garet?" Upon seeing Marared for the first time, Hugh had blessed his luck suddenly found himself eager to consummate their political alliance ill the marriage bed. Marared was a beautiful woman, if rather exotic by 23 r h standards, and after four years of marriage, he still took consid- f.1 pleasure in the sight of her. But she had no smile for him now, ef rl the golden glow that owed so little to the sun was gone. Bleached of 3i her face was ashen and her lashes were sooty thickets, smudged C°ith the kohl bleeding into a wet trail of tears. She paid no heed to Robert, crossed to her husband. "Hugh, we st eo home. We must go back to Powys at once. It is my brother Owain. He ... he's been murdered." THERE was a word in Welsh, hiraeth, that translated as "longing," but it meant much more, spoke of the Welsh love of the land, of the yearning of the exile for family, friends, home. Whenever he was claimed by hiraeth, Llewelyn would flee to the heights of Breiddyn Craig, and there he would spend hours in sun-drenched solitude, gazing out over the vales of the rivers Hafren, Vyrnwy, and Tanat. Now he was back at last, sitting Sul before the grey stones and slate roof of Llanfair, the church of St Mary. This ancient church in the vale of Meifod was the traditional burial place for the princes of Powys; here his mother's father had been entombed and here his slain uncle would be laid to rest. He sought to summon up grief for this uncle he could little remember, but to no avail. He'd come back for a funeral, to mourn a man who was his blood kin, and yet as he looked upon the wooded hills that rose up behind the church, he felt only exhilaration, felt like a caged gerfalcon, suddenly free to soar up into the sun-bright azure sky. Here he'd passed the first ten years of his life. Seven miles to the south was Castell Coch, the ancestral seat for the princes of Powys. His mother's family had a plusa palaceless than a mile away, at Mathraval. The woods of mountain ash and oak and sycamore, the river teeming with trout and greyling, dappled by summer sun and shadowed by willow and aldereach stone was known to him, each hawthorn hedge rooted deep in memory. He was home. He glanced sideways at his companion, one of his stepfather's squires. Should he tell Alan of his family's plus, he knew what the other °y would expect, a Norman edifice of soaring stone and mortar, for W lle most castles were timbered fortresses, the word "palace" conjured up images of grandeur and luxury. Llewelyn had been to London, had ^een the Tower and the palace at Westminster, and he'd heard of the corn" °f Windsor Castle. He knew there was nothing in Wales to mpare to the magnificence of the Norman court, and he cared not at 311 *at this was so. 24 He laughed suddenly, and when Alan shot him a curious look, he slid from Sul, handing the squire the reins. "I'd be obliged if you looked after Sul, Alan. Should my lady mother or my stepfather ask for me, concoct what excuse you will." Alan grinned. "Consider it done. But are you sure you'd not want company?" Llewelyn was tempted, but only briefly. He thought of Alan as a friend, but his were memories, emotions, sensations that no Norman could hope to understand. The Vyrnwy was free of the mud and debris that so often polluted English rivers, for there were no towns to despoil its purity with refuse and human waste. Llewelyn could see chalk-white pebbles glimmering on the shallow river bottom, see the shadows cast by fish feeding amidst the wavering stalks of water weeds. He forgot entirely that his uncle had died by this very river, his plas at Carreghova besieged by a man who was Llewelyn's own first cousin, Gwenwynwyn, Prince of southern Powys. He forgot his mother's tears, forgot his stepfather's ambitious plans for his future, forgot all but the here and now. He'd walked these woods so often in memory, hearing the rustle of woodmice and squirrels, the warning cries of overhead birds, sentinels ever on the alert for the intrusion of man into their domain. A fox come to the river to drink was slow to heed the alert and froze at sight of Llewelyn, muzzle silvered with crystal droplets of river water, black eyes bright as polished jet. Boy and fox stared at one another in rapt silence, and then Llewelyn snapped his fingers, freeing the fox to vanish into the shadows as if by sorcery; not a twig cracked, not a leaf rustled to mark its passing. Llewelyn laughed and walked on. He felt no surprise when he broke through a clearing in the wood and came upon the boys by the river; somehow he'd known that he would find them here. The Vyrnwy had always been their favorite fishing stream. Shyness was an alien emotion to Llewelyn, but he found himself suddenly ensnared by it now, reluctant to approach the youths who'd once been like his brothers. They were not talking, theirs the companionable silence born of the intimacy of blood and a bonding that had begun in the cradle. Watching them, Llewelyn felt an unexpected emotion stir, one closely akin to envy. He belonged here, too, fishing on the banks of the Vyrnwy with Ednyved and Rhys, but how to surmount the barriers built up by four years of English exile? They were lounging on the grass in positions as characteristic as they were familiar: Rhys sitting upright, utterly intent upon the trout to be hooked, Ednyved sprawled on his back in the sun, fishing po'e wedged into a pyramid of piled-up rocks. And as ever, Llewelyn found 25 himself marveling that two boys so unlike could share the same blood. First cousins they were, but none seeing them together would ever have guessed the kinship. Rhys shared with Llewelyn the pitch-black hair so common to their people, but while Llewelyn's eyes were dark, too, Rhys had the eyes of a Welsh mountain cat, purest, palest green. His unusual coloring, thick sable lashes, and features so symmetrical as to draw all eyes were, for him, a burden rather than a blessing. He loathed being fussed over, and yet his startling beauty of face doomed him to be forever fending off the eushing compliments and effusive embraces of his doting female relatives, who considered him quite the handsomest male child ever born and took great pride in showing him off to mothers and aunts of less favored youngsters, to Rhys's utter disgust and the vast amusement of his friends. It was possible to look upon his beautyfor there was no other word for itand to note his slightness of build and conclude that there was a softness, a fragility about the boy. That was, Llewelyn had long ago learned, an impression so erroneous as to be utterly ludicrous, and not a little dangerous. Rhys was as hard, as unyielding as the flint of his native land; there was no give in him, none at all. As for Ednyved, in all honesty he could only be described as homely. Lanky brown hair, deepset eyes of a nondescript color that was neither brown nor hazel but a murky shade somewhere in between, a mouth too wide and chin too thrusting, too prominent. Big-boned even as a small boy, he seemed to have sprouted up at least a foot since Llewelyn had seen him last, and Llewelyn had no doubts that when fully grown, Ednyved would tower head and shoulders above other men. As he watched, Llewelyn suddenly found himself remembering a childhood game he'd long ago liked to play with his mother, in which they sought to identify people with their animal counterparts. Llewelyn had promptly pleased his sleekly independent and unpredictable mother by categorizing her as a cat. Hugh, whom he liked, he saw as an Irish wolfhound, a dog as bright as it was even-tempered. Robert Corbet, whom he did not like, he dubbed another sort of dog altogether, the courageous but muddleheaded mastiff. Morgan, too, was easy to classify, for Morgan was a priest with the soul of a soldier, a man who'd chosen of his own free will to fetter his wilder instincts to the stringent disciplines of his Church. Morgan, Llewelyn had explained to Marared, could only be a falcon, for the falcon was the most predatory of birds, a pnnce of the skies that could nonetheless be tamed to hunt at man's command. Adda, too, was a bird, a caged sparrow hawk, tethered to earth whilst his spirit pined only to fly; when he'd told his mother that, 26 tears had filled her eyes. But when she wanted to know how he saw himself, Llewelyn grew reticent, evasive. From the day she'd taken him to the Tower of London to see the caged cats, he'd known what animal he wanted to claim as his own, the tawny-maned lion, but that was a vanity he was not willing to confess, even to his mother. He had never tried to characterize Rhys or Ednyved, but it came to him now without need for reflection, for Rhys had the unpredictable edginess of a high-strung stallion and Ednyved all the latent power, the massive strength and lazy good humor of the tame bear he'd seen at London's Smithfield Fair. Ednyved yawned and stretched, reaching for the woven sack that lay beside their bait pail. He shook several apples out onto the grass, tossed one to Rhys. "I daresay you want one, too, Llewelyn?" he asked nonchalantly and, without looking up, sent an apple sailing through the air. It was remarkably accurate for a blind pitch, landing just where Llewelyn had been standing seconds before. He was no longer there, however, having recoiled with such vehemence that he bumped bruisingly into the nearest tree. Rhys, no less startled, spun around so precipitantly that he overturned the bait pail, and, as he cursed and Llewelyn took several deep breaths, trying to get his pulse rate back to normal, Ednyved rolled over in the grass and laughed and laughed. "How in hellfire did you know I was there?" Llewelyn demanded, and Ednyved feigned surprise. "How could I not, with you making enough noise to bestir the dead? Is that the English style of woodland warfare?" He'd always been a lethal tease, and Llewelyn was not normally thin-skinned. But they'd not yet established the boundaries of their new relationship. Llewelyn opened his mouth to make a sharp retort, but Rhys was quicker. Rhys's pride was prickly and unpredictable, easily affronted, and he'd been embarrassed by his failure to take notice of Llewelyn. Glaring at his cousin, he snapped, "And Llewelyn might well ask if this is the Welsh way of welcome!" Turning back to Llewelyn, he smiled, said, "We thought you'd be home for your uncle's funeral, were watching for you." Llewelyn smiled back, and coming forward, he settled himself beside them on the grass. A silence fell between them, one that seemed likely to swallow up any words they could throw into the void. It was broken at last by Llewelyn; he heard himself making courteous queries about the health and well-being of their families, falling back upon all the obligatory conversational gambits to be shared between strangers. Nor did Rhys ease the awkwardness any by offering Llewelyn formal condolences for the death of his uncle. 27 I lewelyn would have liked to speak freely, to explain that he'd not his Uncle Owa.in all that well. But he felt constrained to respond ha conventional politeness, and thus found himself flying false colWl coming before them in the guise of a grief that was not his. ° ' Rhys offered him an apple. "Did your stepfather come with you?" asked, as if he could possibly have had any interest in Hugh's whereabouts. Llewelyn nodded - "Hugh came on behalf of the Corbet family, as a sture of respect to my mother's kin ..." He stopped, for Ednyved had teaned forward, was regarding him with exaggerated attention. "Why do you look at me like that? Has my face of a sudden turned green?" "I was trying to decide," Ednyved drawled, "whether or not you'd picked up a French accent." Llewelyn tensed, ~but then he looked more closely at the other boy, saw that Ednyved's eyes were bright with friendly laughter. "No French accent," he said, and grinned, "but I did spend some right uncomfortable days this spring, worrying that I'd picked up the French pox!" Ednyved's mouth twitched. "Llewelyn!" With a frown toward his cousin. "If you please, no bawdy talknot before the lad here!" Ducking just in time as an apple whizzed past his head. Seconds later, Rhys followed up his aerial assault with a direct frontal attack, and Ednyved, caught off balance, was knocked flat. Rhys's anger was more assumed than not, and their scuffling soon took on an almost ritualistic quality, for this was an old game, rarely played out in earnest, and likely to continue until one or the other of the combatants lost interest. In this case the mock battle lasted until they noticed that Llewelyn had appropriated the rest of the apples and stretched himself out comfortably on the turf to watch, for all the world like a front-row spectator at a bearbaiting. "Go to it, lads," he said airily, and by common consent, they both pounced on him at once. For a few hectic moments all three boys were tumbling about on the riverbank, until at last they lay panting in a tangled heap, lacking breath for anything but laughter. After that, there seemed to be too much to say and not enough time m which to say it, and they plunged into the past as if fearing it might somehow be forgotten if it was not shared immediately, interrupting each other freely, trading insults and memories, laughing for laughter's sake alone. Rhys had gone to the river to drink. Returning, he threw himself "wl" 'n ^e 8rass/ anc* broke into Ednyved's monologue to demand, When must you go back to England, Llewelyn?" 28 "I'm not going back," Llewelyn said, at once capturing their undivided attention. "You both know the history of my House, know how my uncles Davydd and Rhodri cheated my father and my other uncles of their rightful share of my grandfather's inheritance. They carved Gwynedd up between them as if it were a meat pie, forced my father, Owain Fawr's firstborn, into exile, brought about his death whilst I was shll in my cradle. His blood is on their hands and they've yet to answer for it I think it time they did." "You mean to avenge your father's death?" Rhys's green eyes were luminous, aglitter with sudden excitement, but Ednyved seemed far more dubious. "All know the English are born half mad," he said slowly, "but I wonder if the madness might not be in the water they drink or the air they breathe. How else explain that four short years amongst them could have so scattered your wits?" Llewelyn was amused. "Your faith in me is truly wondrous to behold, Ednyved. Think you that I'm such a fool as to challenge my uncles on my own, with only God on my side? I had a long talk this morn with my Uncle Gruffydd, and he has sworn to give me his full backing, men who know war well and the money to pay them; he even offered the services of no less a soldier than Gwyn ab Ednywain. It is my intent, too, to join forces with my Uncle Cynan's two grown sons. They were denied their inheritance just as I was, giving us common cause against Davydd and Rhodri." "When you do put it that way, it does not sound quite so crackbrained," Ednyved conceded. "But how in the name of the Lord Jesus did you ever get your lady mother and stepfather to give their consent?" Llewelyn hesitated. "Well, to be honest, I have not told them yet," he admitted, and flushed when they both laughed. "Can you truly blame me?" he protested. "We'll be bound to have a godawful row. I know not with whom my mother'll be more wroth, me or my Uncle Gruffydd, for aiding and abetting me in this. As for Hugh, he's like to have an apoplectic fit. You see, he'd arranged for me to enter the household of a Norman Earl." Llewelyn shook his head in mock regret. "Poor Hugh, how he has struggled to make of me a proper Norman. I once overheard his brother grumbling about turning a sow's ear into a silk purse, and I daresay Hugh has had moments when he's in heartfelt agreement!" This last was said without rancor. Llewelyn never doubted tha Hugh's fondness for him was genuine, but he'd come to understand that affection and bias could take root in the same soil. In this he had tn 29 fa ere of Rhys and Ednyved, and they looked so offended that he advanwg<- -j .11 ii jF felt compelled to come to Hugh s defense. "Yet he is a good man for all that. My mother has been quite content th him, and I"he grinned suddenly"I even did come to forgive vTm for his greatest sin, that of not being born Welsh!" But here they had no common meeting ground; neither Rhys nor Fdnvved had English friends, English kin. Both looked blank, and then Rhys dismissed what he did not understand, saying, "You'll not let them talk you out of it?" "No." Llewelyn sat up, his eyes searching their faces with sudden ober intent. "I shall have men to counsel me, men well lessoned in the ways of war. But no matter how much help I get from my Uncle Gruffydd or my cousins, I shall have to stand or fall on my own efforts. If I cannot convince people that my claim be just, if I cannot win their allegiance . . . nor can I expect my blood to count for aught should I fall into Davydd's hands. And the risks will be no less for those who follow me." He paused. "My Uncle Gruffydd has agreed to speak with your fathers, should you" "You want us to help you overthrow Davydd and Rhodri, to fight with you?" Rhys could wait no longer, and burst out eagerly, "Jesu, Llewelyn, need you even ask?" Llewelyn smiled. "What of you, Ednyved? Does Rhys speak for you, too?" "I'd as soon speak for myself," Ednyved said, sounding quite serious for once. "I want to be sure I fully understand. We'd be camping out in the mountains of Gwynedd, harassing your uncles howsoever we could, living like outlaws, sleeping in the open, eating on the run, rebels with prices on our heads. Is that a fair summing up of what we could expect?" "Very fair," Llewelyn agreed, and a slow grin began to spread over Ednyved's face. "Who could possibly turn down an offer like that?" "It is settled, then," Rhys said briskly, never having doubted what his cousin's answer would be. As he spoke, he was rolling up the sleeve of his tunic. Before Llewelyn and Ednyved realized what he meant to o, he unsheathed his dagger and, without the slightest hesitation, drew it swiftly across the bared skin of his forearm. 1 his is too important for mere words," he explained composedly, watching the flow of his own blood with indifferent eyes. "For this, we must swear in blood." was a gesture as irresistible as it was melodramatic, at least to ew yn. Ednyved looked rather less enthusiastic, and when Rhys 30 passed him the bloodied dagger, he took it with such reluctance that Llewelyn burst out laughing. "Since you share the same blood as Rhys, mayhap you could swear, too, in his," he gibed, and Ednyved grimaced, drew a few drops of blood. "Here, my lord princeling," he grunted. "Your turn." Llewelyn made a far more modest cut than Rhys had, saying, "If I'm to spill my blood, I'd as soon spill it in Gwynedd." Rising, he searched the clearing until he'd gathered a handful of rock moss. This he brought back to Rhys, and leaning over, he applied it to the other boy's arm. "Hold this upon the cut till the bleeding ceases, or you might well end up as the first casualty of my war," he said, and laughed again, realizing that he was as happy at this moment as he'd ever been in his life. HUGH Corbet was surprised to find the great hall all but deserted; as in England, the hall was the heart of Welsh home life. But then he heard the voices, angry, accusing, and he understood. At the far end of the hall his wife and her elder brother Gruffydd were standing, and even Hugh, who knew no Welsh other than a few endearments Marared had taught him in bed, could tell at once that they were quarreling, quarreling bitterly. Gruffydd's retainers and servants had wisely fled the battlefield; only Llewelyn, Adda, and Morgan ap Bleddyn, his wife's chaplain, were still in the hall. As Hugh moved up the center aisle, Gruffydd turned on his heel and stalked out the door behind the dais, slamming it resoundingly behind him. Hugh was secretly amused that his wife should be giving her brother such grief. He had discovered early in his marriage that Welshwomen were more outspoken and less submissive than their Norman sisters, and while he'd learned to accept Marared on her own terms, it pleased him to see Gruffydd reaping what he had sown. For certes, a society in which women were not taught their proper place was bound to lack harmony, a natural sense of order. But he was taken aback by what happened next. Marared swung around on her eldest son, put a question to him, and when he shook his head, she slapped him across the face. Hugh was astonished, for he'd never seen her raise her hand to Llewelyn before, not even on occasions when the boy richly deserved it. He hastened toward them, wondering what sins would loom so large in her eyes. Could Llewelyn have set his heart upon trading his gelding for an untamed stallion? No, Margaret was a doting mother, not a foolish one; 31 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 32 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 33 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." 34 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; 35 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 36 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- 37 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. 38 He stood for some moments looking down at his father, until joined by Geoffrey. "He's dying, is he not?" "Yes." Geoffrey gave John a thoughtful look. "You surprise me, John; you sound as if you care." John caught his breath. "Damn you, of course I care!" Henry groaned, fumbled with the blankets, and Geoffrey at once bent over the bed, making soothing sounds, lulling the older man back into sleep. John watched until Henry quieted again, then turned away with such haste that, to Geoffrey, it seemed not so much an exit as an escape. ENTERING his own chamber, John was reaching for a wine flagon when he caught movement from the corner of his eye, spun around to see the girl cowering in the shadows. "Who are you?" "Do not be angry, my lord," she pleaded, stumbling forward to make an exceedingly awkward curtsy. "I ... I am Lucy, and I am here because Master Randolph ... he thought..." Her painful stammer, her flaming face told John quite clearly what Master Randolph thought. His first impulse was to get rid of her, but even as the dismissal was forming on his tongue, he changed his mind. What better way to exorcise the horrors of the sickroom than with flesh that was smooth and whole and healthy? Moreover, he had ever hated to be alone. Tonight of all nights, even the company of this timid little maidservant was preferable to his own. "Remind me to thank Master Randolph," he said and smiled at her. "Be a good lass now and fetch me some wine." But the wine did not help as he'd hoped. Instead of dulling his anxieties, it acted as a stimulant, spurring his imagination into unpleasant excesses, conjuring up half-forgotten fears of boyhood and projecting them into a future that suddenly seemed fraught with menace. "He's dying, Lucy. Did you know that?" "Yes, my lord," she whispered. Hastening to refill his wine cup, she approached the bed and then skittered back out of range, putting him in mind of a squirrel caught between trees. He'd sent Lucy down to the buttery for another wine flagon when he heard a commotion in the stairwell. He sat up on the bed as Martin Algais and Lupescaire burst into the chamber. "Look what we found in the stairwell." Shoving Lucy forward into the room. "What is that saying about a bird in the hand?" John was not amused. Algais and Lupescaire were Brabanc.ons, 39 jnen who sold their swords to the highest bidder. In the past he had permitted, even encouraged, familiarity, dicing and drinking with them, treating them as intimates. But tonight he had no desire for their company* and he found himself resenting the way they were making free with what was his, Lupescaire helping himself to the wine while Martin Algais backed Lucy into a corner, laughing at her ineffectual attempts to fend off his roving hands. "I do not recall summoning you," John said irritably, as Lupescaire handed him a brimming wine cup. "The talk amongst our men is that the old King is in a bad way. You did see him, my lord; how does he, in truth?" John could not, in fairness, fault them for their concern; their future, like his own, rose and fell with each labored breath Henry drew. But they were servants, companions, handpicked hirelingsnot confidants. "Well enough," he said, had his cup halfway to his mouth when Lucy screamed. His hand jerked, and wine splashed onto the bed, splattered his tunic. John jumped to his feet with an oath. "Damn your soul, Martin, look at this!" He stared down at the wine spill in disgust, then turned to glare at Algais. "Must you ever have your hand up a woman's skirts? If you want to tumble a wench, you can damned well do it someplace else than in my chamber. Let that girl be, and get a servant up here to change these bedcovers." But Algais did not move. Holding the weeping girl with one hand, with the other he reached for the neck of her gown, jerked until the material tore, baring her breasts. "Did you not hear me?" John demanded, astonished. "I told you to let the girl alone." "Why?" Algais sounded sullen, defiant. "We've shared women before; why not now?" Lupescaire put his wine cup down, eyes suddenly aglitter, cutting from John to Algais and back again. John's mouth went dry; never had either of them dared to defy him before. "Because I say so, Martin. You take what I choose to give you, no more and no less." Algais had very pale eyes, an unblinking, feral stare. But after a few frozen breaths, he loosened his hold on Lucy. "You want me to ask? Then I'm asking. I have taken a fancy to this one; let me have her for an hour." It would be so easy to agree, a face-saving solution for them both, and John was very tempted; he'd never had a stomach for confrontation. But he knew better, knew it had to be all or nothing with a man like Martin Algais. "No," he said. 40 f 41 Algais's fingers clenched, dug into Lucy's upper arm, and she sobbed anew. But then he pushed her away. John's breathing slowed, steadied. "Go down to the great hall," he said. "Send a servant up to me. You need not come back after. I've no use for you tonight." He'd won. They did as he bade, if not docile, at least unrebelling. John moved to the table, poured the last of the wine with a shaking hand. He knew them for what they were, his pet wolves, but he'd never thought they might turn on him. He knew why, of course. For the same reason that Geoffrey had suddenly dared to voice his dislike. The scent of blood was in the air. Lucy was still sobbing, and he snapped, "Will you stop your whimpering, girl? You were not hurt, after all!" But as he turned toward her, he saw that was not true. There was an angry red welt upon her left breast; there would soon be an exceedingly ugly bruise. "Do not cry, lass," he said, more gently, and then she was on her knees before him, clinging to his legs, weeping incoherently. It was some moments before he could make sense of her sobbing, before he realized that she was feverishly, hysterically thanking him for saving her from Martin Algais. John choked back an unsteady, mirthless laugh, raised her up. "Lucy, listen to me. Dry your tears and go down to the hall. Find my squire, tell him to get up here. Then go to the kitchen, tell the cooks I said to give you mutton fat for that bruise." As he spoke, he was steering her toward the door. "After that, lass, go to bed . . . your own." Giving him an incredulous look, she fled. Within moments his squire was panting up the stairs. "My lord, what is amiss? That girl acted so strange . . ." "Get our men together. I want us ready to ride within the hour." "Ride where? My lord, it's full dark. Where would we go? At such an hour, we might well have to bed down by the roadside" "I was giving you a command, not inviting a debate. I want to be gone from here as soon as we can saddle up, and if you make me repeat that, you'll have more regrets than you can handle. Now see to it!" Hastily the man said, "I will, my lord, indeed. But. . . but what of your lord father? I've been told he sleeps; is it your wish that he be awakened ere you depart?" "No," John said. "Let him sleep." "i KNOW you Angevins have ever been short of brotherly love, but surely John is not as worthless as you think? Admittedly, I know him not well, but he never struck me as a fool." "Oh, John is clever enough. But what do brains avail a man if he does lack for backbone?" In Richard's lexicon of insults, that was the most damning accusation he could make, and to Philip, it cast a revealing light upon Richard's relationship with his younger brother. He found himself feeling a touch Of sympathy for John, who'd been weighed against Richard's exacting standards of manhood and found wanting, for he knew that he, too, had failed to measure up in Richard's eyes; their friendship had never been the same since Richard discovered that he had an irrational fear of horses, rode only the most docile of geldings. "But to be fair," Richard said grudgingly, "my father has ever played the same game with John as he did with me and, whilst they lived, Geoffrey and Henry, promising all and delivering nothing. Although the one time he did entrust John with power of his own, sent him to Ireland, it was an unmitigated disaster. So badly did John bungle his rule that he achieved the all but impossible; he got the Irish chieftains to stop squabbling with one another and unite against him!" "Surely that was Henry's blunder as much as John's. You do not send a boy of seventeen to do a man's work." "When I was seventeen, I was putting down a rebellion in Poitou," Richard said pointedly, and Philip, conceding defeat with a wry smile, signaled to a servant. "We'll see Lord John now." John had rarely been so nervous; eleventh-hour allies were not always welcomed with open arms. He was much relieved, therefore, when the French King smiled as he knelt, at once motioned him to rise. "Your Grace," he said, with an answering smile that lost all spontaneity, all sincerity, at sight of his brother. Even in the dim light of a command tent, Richard's coloring had lost none of its vibrancy, eyes blazingly blue, hair bronzed even brighter now by a summer in the saddle. Most likely, John thought sourly, he did glow in the dark. "Richard," he said, as if they'd been parted just that morning, and Richard gave him an equally indifferent greeting in return. "You did surprise me, John," he said dryly. "I'd expected you to turn up weeks ago. Cutting it rather close, were you not, Little Brother?" Fortunately for John, hatred choked all utterance. He stared at Richard, reminding himself this was but one more grievance to be credited to Richard's account, promising himself that payment would be in the coin of his choosing. Philip had been watching the Angevin brothers with covert amusement. Now he asked the question John most dreaded. "John . . . how does Henry?" 42 John had given this a great deal of thought in the hours since his midnight flight from Chinon. He had no way of knowing if Philip and Richard were aware of the gravity of Henry's illness, could only hope they were not; an infidel who converted at knife-point had, of necessity, to count for less than one who willingly renounced his heresy. "I do not know, Your Grace. I've not seen my father since we fled Le Mans." Richard and Philip exchanged glances, and then Richard said, "Rumor has it he is bedridden, but I expect it's yet another of his damnable tricks; he could teach a fox about slyness." John said nothing, concentrated his attention upon a nearby fruit bowl. Picking out two apples, he tossed one to Richard, a sudden, swift pitch that disconcerted Richard not in the least. He caught it with the utmost ease, his the lithe coordination, the lazy, loose grace of the born athlete. John doubted that Richard had made a careless misstep, a clumsy move in all of his thirty-one years. Richard crunched into the apple. "Let's talk about you, Little Brother. What is the going price for" He caught himself, but not in time. "Betrayal? What game are we playing now, Richard? If we are tallying up sins, I rather doubt you're in any position to cast the first stone." There was a silence, and then Richard gave a short laugh. "Fair enough. I deserved that. Let me put it another way. What do you want for your support?" "Only what be my just due," John said cautiously, "what I've been promised since boyhood. The county of Mortain, the earldom of Gloucester, the incomes from the lordship of Ireland, Nottingham Castle." Richard did not hesitate. "Done," he said, so readily that John regretted not asking for more. He murmured a perfunctory expression of appreciation, and then said, "You might want to do something for our brother Geoffrey, too. If I were you, Richard, I'd keep Geoffrey in mind when it comes time to fill the next vacant bishopric." Richard frowned, but after a moment he began to laugh. "An excellent thought, Little Brother. I shall do just that." Philip looked from one to the other in bemusement. "I seem to have missed something. Correct me if I be wrong, but I never thought either one of you to be overly fond of Geoffrey. Why, then, do you want to make him a bishop?" "Geoffrey has no more calling for the priesthood than I have," Richard said with a grin. "Some years ago, our father sought for him a career in the Church, tried to make him Bishop of Lincoln, but he balked, refused to be ordained. So we'd be doing him no favor." 43 "Brother Geoffrey has ambitions ill befitting his base blood," John added softly. "Too often have I heard him remind people that William the Conqueror was himself bastard born." Philip saw the light. "And as a priest, he would, of course, be barred from ever laying claim to the crown. Clever, John, very clever. But risky. What's to keep Richard from concluding that Holy Orders might do your soul great good, too?" Richard laughed until he choked, sputtering something unintelligible about "Father John." John laughed, too, but his eyes narrowed on Philip with sudden speculation. Philip, he decided, was one for muddying the waters. That would indeed bear remembering. "You did arrive just in time, John. We are about to lay siege to Tours, for its fall is sure to force the old fox from his lair. This campaign has dragged on far too long. It's nigh on two years since I did take the cross; I'd hoped to be before the walls of Jerusalem months ago." Richard paused, then said with sudden seriousness, "Philip will be leading a French army, and we expect men to flock to our standards. You ought to give some thought to taking the cross yourself, John. What better quest can a man have than pledging his life to the delivery of the Holy City from the infidels?" John was appalled, forced a strained laugh. "The truth now, Richard," he said with what he hoped would be disarming candor. "Can you truly see me as a pious pilgrim on the road to Damascus?" Philip laughed; so did Richard. "No," he admitted, "I confess I cannot, Little Brother. You'd disappear into some Saracen harem, never to be heard from again!" John smiled thinly, marveling that Richard should dare to sneer at another man's sexual habits, given Richard's own vulnerabilities in that particular area. There were, he thought scornfully, worse vices than liking women overly well. But all at once he found himself thinking of that ugly scene at Chinon, remembering the fear he'd felt when facing down Martin Algais. That would, he knew, never have happened to Richard. Men did not defy his brother. The foolhardy few who'd dared were dead. He had a sudden wild impulse to tell Richard that their father was dying, wondering what Richard would say or feel. Nothing, he suspected. Everything was always so damnably easy for Richard. JOHN was the youngest of the eight children born to Henry Plantagenet and Eleanor of Aquitaine. His sisters had been bartered as child brides to foreign Princes, were little more to him now than time-dimmed memories. His brothers had been, by turns, indifferent and antagonistic to this last-born of the Angevin eagletswith one exception. William 44 Longsword was, like Geoffrey, a bastard half-brother. But Will had somehow missed his share of the Angevin temperament; his was a placid, unimaginative nature, sentimental and straightforward, an unlikely drab grey dove in that family of flamboyant hawks. Will had been amiably interested in the little brother born within days of his own tenth birthday, had taken it upon himself to wipe John's nose, to pick him up when he fell, to be for John a good-natured guide through the pitfalls and passages of childhood. He'd become quite fond of the dark little boy so eager to please, had watched rather sadly as John was utterly ignored by his mother, overly indulged by his father, as the twig was bent, twisted awry, seeing the distortion but not knowing how to set it right Yet the bonds of boyhood had proven to be enduring ones, and Will and John did to this day enjoy a relationship remarkably free of strain in a family notorious for its internecine rivalries. It was nightfall by the time Will reached Rouen and was escorted up to John's chamber. John greeted him with a grin, with genuine pleasure, at once sent to the castle buttery for wine, even dismissed an uncommonly pretty bedmate so they could talk alone. Richard had that day departed Rouen for Gisors, where Philip awaited him, and John and Will joked now about the exorbitant price Philip was likely to claim for his support in securing Richard the crown. Will could not help thinking that John, too, had profited handsomely. Richard had wasted no time in investing his younger brother as Count of Mortain; John's marriage to Avisa of Gloucester was to take place on August 29, and Will had heard that Richard meant to bestow upon John the incomes from the English counties of Cornwall, Devon, Dorset, Somerset, Nottingham, and Derby. Will thought Richard had been surprisingly generous, and said as much to John. "That," John said cheerfully, "is because I amby the vagaries of fateBrother Richard's heir. And Richard's more peculiar proclivities do make it at least likely that I'll be the only heir." Will sighed, feeling much like a parent with a loved but wayward child. "Bear in mind, lad, what Scriptures say about coveting," he said mildly, and John laughed. "What we need to do now, Will, is to get Richard to find an heiress for you ere he goes galloping off to find martyrdom in Messinaor was it sainthood in Syria? Can you believe the man, Will? He's not even set the date for his coronation yet, and all he can talk about is how he cannot wait to risk his life in some infidel hellhole. I truly think he must be mad," John said, with such sincerity that Will had to laugh. "If you can coax Richard into giving me a landed wife, I'll be much in your debt. But now we do need to talk. I rode in from Fontevrault 45 ith Geoffrey He's right bitter, John, like to say that which would be better left unsaid I thought I'd best get to you first, tell" "My lord7 My lord, your brother" Geoffrey did not wait to be announced, but shoved the servant side, and strode into the chamber "I do want to talk to you, John " "How lucky for me," John said coolly, signaled to the servant to pour them wine "What shall we drink to, Geoffrey7 Your good fortune7 Did he tell you, Will, that Richard has ordered the canons of York to elect Brother Geoffrey as their Archbishop7 Of course, there is still a minor matter of taking vows, but that is a small price to pay to become a prince of the Church, is it not7" "I rather thought I had you to thank for that," Geoffrey said "But that is not why I'm here, and you damned well know it, John I'm going to tell you how our father died, and you're going to listen " "Am I indeed7" John's eyes had gone very green "I think not If you want to lay blame about, lay it where it belongson Richard's head Not mine If you have anything to say, say it then to Richard1" "I did at Fontevrault He at least was man enough to hear me out Are you7" John had half risen from his chair With that, he sank back "Say what you have to say and then get out " "Gladly " Geoffrey reached over and, without asking, helped himself to one of the wine cups "I would to God I knew what Papa saw in you He kept faith to the end, you know Even your cowardly flight from Chmon did not open his eyes Almost to the last, he kept expecting you to come back, even worned about you, if you can credit that'" "Geoffrey," Will said uneasily, "this does serve for naught " "Keep out of this, Will On July third, Tours fell, and Philip and Richard summoned Papa to Colombieres He was sick unto death, made it only as far as the Knights Templars at Ballan But when he sent word to Philip, Richard insisted he was malingering, playing for time By then he could barely stay in the saddle, but he refused a horse litter, somehow got himself to Colombieres Even Philip was moved to pity at sight of him, even Philip, offered to spread a cloak on the ground for him But he would not agree He was too proud, you see " Geoffrey's voice had thickened, he drank, keeping his eyes all the while upon John "They told him he was there not to discuss terms, but to yield to their demands They dared to speak so to him, and he could do nothing about it Then they told him what they wanted He must do homage to Philip for nis lands in Normandy and Anjou, accept Philip as his overlord He must pay Philip twenty thousand marks, must have all his barons swear fealty to Richard, must promise not to take vengeance 46 upon those who'd betrayed him. All this they demandedand more. By then the noonday sky was black as ink, sweat ran off him like rain, and how he ever kept to his saddle, the Lord Christ Jesus alone does know. But they were not through yet. He must publicly give Richard the kiss of peace, they said. Even that he did, even that. . . and then hissed in Richard's ear, 'God grant I do not die ere I have revenged myself upon you.' Of course, you may already know that, John. I understand Richard told one and all at the French court, as if it were some droll joke! "We brought him back to Chinon by horse litter, and I watched through the night as his fever burned ever higher. The next day Roger Malchet rode in from Tours with a list of rebels, those men who'd gone over to Philip and Richard. Need I tell you, John, that your name did head the list?" Geoffrey paused, but John said nothing. "He did not believe it at first, cursed Roger, me, all within hearing, accused us of lying, of trying to poison his mind against you, his 'dearest born.' And when he could deny it no longer, he turned his face to the wall, said no more. Within hours he was dead. His last words to me were, 'You are my true son. The othersthey are the bastards.' "There were only a few of us with him at the last; most had already taken themselves off to Richard's encampment. Whilst I was in the chapel, his servants stripped his body, stole rings, clothing, whatever they could find. We'd have had to bury him mother-naked had not one of his squires let us wrap the body in his cloak, and as it was, we had not even money for alms. "So died the greatest Prince in Christendom, our lord father. You think on that, John, think on how he died, and then tell me again that you bear no blame. Well? Have you nothing to say? Passing strange, neither did Richard." Geoffrey drained the wine cup very deliberately, turned and walked to the door. "Richard forced him from a sickbed, broke his power, his pride. But you, John, you broke his heart. I truly wonder which be the greater sin." Will shifted uncomfortably as the door slammed, slanted a surreptitious look toward John. It may have been the dim lighting, but John seemed to have lost color. He'd turned his head away; his face was in profile, utterly still, masklike. Will fidgeted, opened his mouth, and then sat back, defeated. What, after all, was there to say? SOUTHAMPTON, ENGLAND February 1192 WL V YILL was frowning as he followed a servant up the stairwell to his brother's chamber, dreading the scene that was sure to follow. He was almost tempted to stand aside, to let John rush headlong to his own destruction. Almost. His mouth softened somewhat at sight of the man and boy together on the settle. John was surprisingly good with children, could not be faulted when it came to the care of his own, and whenever Will found himself despairing of his brother's flexible measurements of morality, he took comfort in remembering how conscientious John was in acknowledging and providing for the children born of his bedsport. That was no small virtue to Will, himself born of Henry's passing lust for a greeneyed milkmaid with well-turned ankles. He was as yet unnoticed. John was holding out his hands, fists clenched. "Now tell me, Richard. Which hand holds the fig?" The little boy pointed. "Sorry! This hand, then? No, wrong again. Where did it go? Ah, there it is ..." Reaching out, he seemed to find the fig behind the child's ear, to Will's amusement and Richard's utter delight. "One more time, Papa!" he pleaded, as John turned at sound of Will's chuckle. For an unguarded moment, his face showed sudden unease, and then he smiled, beckoned Will into the room. "'One more time,'" he mimicked. '"One more time.' Mayhap we ought to call you that rather than Richard!" He then plucked the fig from Richard's sleeve, while Will watched and wondered, not for the first time, what perverse impulse had prompted John to name his son after Ae brother he so hated. As with much of what John did, the answer eluded him. Will had long ago recognized that his imagination was rooted in barren soil; no matter how he strained, it brought forth only a 48 meagre crop, never the sort of creative conjecture he'd have needed to track the twisting byways of his brother's brain. Richard was munching on the elusive fig; now he offered the un. eaten half first to John and then to Will, with a gravely deliberate courtesy that was both unexpected and poignant in one so very young. He was, Will knew, just shy of his third birthday, a date well etched in Will's memory because of the scandal attached to that birth. For Richard's mother was quite unlike John's other bedmates, was no impoverished knight's daughter, no Saxon maidservant. Alina was the daughter of Hamelin de Warenne, Earl of Surrey, half-brother to King Henry, albeit baseborn. That was the first and only time Will could remember Henry showing concern for one of his sons' sexual escapades. He had even taken it upon himself to rebuke John for seducing a first cousin, a girl of high birth. Unfortunately, his own moral armor was particularly vulnerable to that very charge, and he succeeded only in arousing in John an indignation that was, Will conceded, not altogether unjustified. John's involvement with Alina was of minor moment, after all, when compared to Henry's seduction of the Princess Alais. Will did not like to think of Alais; he was by nature protective of women, and he could not deny that Alais had been ill used, first by his father and now by Richard. Sister to Philip, the French King, she had been betrothed to Richard in childhood and, at age seven, was sent to England to be reared at Henry's court in accordance with custom. It was hardly customary, though, Will thought grimly, for a man to bed his son's betrothed, and yet his father had done just that, had taken Alais to his bed when she was sixteen. It was scarcely surprising, Will acknowledged, that upon Henry's death Richard refused to honor the plight troth, telling Philip bluntly that he'd not wed his father's whore. Will saw no justification, however, for keeping Alais in close confinement, and yet for almost three years now, Richard had held Alais prisoner in Rouen. But Will had troubles enough of his own without taking on those of a captive French Princess, and he shifted impatiently in his seat, waiting for John to send Richard off to bed so they could talk. "You did that trick with the fig very adroitly. Where did you learn it?" "From a juggler at the French court. He told me that I have a rare gift for sleight of hand!" John looked at him, eyes alight with laughter, and Will felt a dull ache, a wrenching realization that he was too late, years too late. Yet he had to try, and as soon as Richard's nurse came to collect the boy, he said very quietly, "John ... do not do this." 49 "Do what, Will?" "I know why you are here in Southampton. You mean to sail for F ance, to meet in Paris with the French King." "Is that why you came racing from London? Poor Will. . . you did bruise your bones for naught, in truth." John's smile was wry, faintly reproachful. "I am about to sail as soon as the weather does clear, but for Normandy, not France." He was more than plausible, he was thoroughly convincing, and he was lying. Will leaned over, grasped his wrist. "John, do not play me for a fool. You owe me better than that. If I cared enough to make an eighty-mile ride in weather as foul as this, then you can damned well hear me out!" "All right, Will," John said slowly, taken aback by this uncharacteristic outburst. "What makes you think I mean to ally myself with Philip?" "Because Philip and Richard buried what was left of their friendship in the Holy Land. Because Richard is still in Acre and Philip is now back in Paris, nursing a mortal grudge. Because you'd barter your very soul for a chance to do Richard ill. Because Philip has of a sudden invited you to Paris. Need I go on?" "If disliking Richard be grounds for accusing a man of conspiracy, I daresay you could implicate half of Christendom in this so-called plot," John scoffed. "Richard endears himself easiest to those who've yet to meet him." Rising, he moved to the table, gained time to think by pouring himself a cupful of cider. He poured, too, for Will, stood for a moment looking down at the older man. So, he thought suddenly, must their father have looked at thirty-four, for Will had Henry's reddish gold hair, his ruddy coloring, even the same scattering of freckles across the bridge of the nose. "Just suppose, Will, that you are right, that I do mean to throw my lot in with Philip. If you had proof of that, what would you do? Go to my lady mother? Betray me to Richard?" Will's shoulders slumped. "No," he mumbled, full of self-loathing. "You know I could not." "Do not begrudge me your loyalty, Will. I deserve it more than Richard, for he loves you not and I love you well." John thrust a dripping cider cup into Will's hand, took the closest seat. "I even love you enough to trust you with the truth. Did you by chance see a monk in the great hall when you arrived? That is Brother Bernard de Coudray, Phiup's man. You were right, of course; Philip has indeed made me an offer. 'All the lands of England and Normandy on the French side of the Channel.' I need only swear homage to him as overlord, and once we get his sister Alais out of Richard's power, take her to wife." 50 Will choked on his cider, began to sputter. "Christ Jesus, John! You cannot mean that? You'd truly agree to wed Alais?" "Why not?" Will drew a strangled breath. "For one thing," he snapped, "you already do have a wife! Or did that somehow slip your mind?" John drank to conceal a grin; his brother's ponderous attempts at sarcasm never failed to amuse him, but he did not want to offend Will by laughing outright. "Have you forgotten that Avisa is my second cousin? Or that we neglected to get a papal dispensation for our marriage? Nor need your heart bleed for Avisa, the abandoned wife. We may not agree on much, but we do share a deep and very mutual dislike." "But Alais! She bedded with Papa for years and all know it, even bore him a stillborn son!" John shrugged. "Being Papa's concubine does not make her any less Philip's sister, and if she's the price for Philip's support... at least we'd be keeping her in the family!" "That's not amusing, John! How can you jest about betrayal and treason, a marriage all but incestuous?" John set his cup down with a thud. "What would you have me do? It's been sixteen months since Richard named our dead brother Geoffrey's son as his heir, nine months since my lady mother coerced him into taking a Spanish wife. Nine months, Will. For all I know, she could already be with child. What if she is, if she manages a miracle, keeps Richard in her bed long enough to give him a son?" "Ah, John . . . you'd still be Count of Mortain, Earl of Gloucester, with an income of four thousand pounds a year. Can you not content yourself with that?" John stared at him, and then gave a short, incredulous laugh. "God help you, Will, I truly think you're serious!" Until that moment, Will had been slow to see the magnitude of his mistake. Had he really thought he could talk sense into John? All he'd done was to take on a share of the guilt, to compromise himself in the complicity of silence. "Do not leave on the morrow, Will. Stay till week's end. How is your manor at Kirton? This was a bad year for crops; if you're in need of money ..." Will had no false pride, saw no reason to refuse aid from John, not when he had only the manors of Kirton and Appleby, and John had the revenues from six shires. He made a point, though, of not abusing John's generosity, never asking unless there was a specific need. "Thank you, lad, no. I do not" "My lord!" A flustered servant stumbled into the chamber. "My lord, the Queen has just ridden into the bailey!" 51 John spilled his cider. "That cannot be! My mother is in Normandy." "No, my lord, she's in the great hall." "You both are wrong," a cool voice said from the doorway. "I'm out in the stairwell." VVill jumped to his feet. He was very much in awe of John's mother, for Eleanor of Aquitaine was more than the widow of one King, mother to another. She was a creature rarer even than the unicorn, a woman who, all her life, had been a law unto herself, as Duchess of Aquitaine, then as Queen of France, and finally as Queen of England. She had in her past two failed royal marriages, a crusade, scandal and lovers, even a rebellion, for when Henry betrayed her, she'd incited their sons to civil War, had spent sixteen years in confinement as a result. But she'd won in the end, had outlived the husband who'd shut her away from the world, from her beloved Aquitaine. Moreover, she had somehow survived those bitter years with her soul unscarred, her spirit unbroken. Upon regaining her freedom, she had, at age sixty-nine, journeyed to Navarre to fetch a bride for her favorite son, brought the girl across the Alps to Richard in Sicily. She was now in her seventy-first year, and in the high, elegantly hollowed cheekbones, the posture that conceded nothing to age, and the slanting green-gold eyes, Will could still see traces of the great beauty she'd once been. He was both fascinated and repelled by this woman who'd dared to outrage every tenet of the code governing proper female behavior, but he was glad, nonetheless, to see her now, for she was the one person John might not dare to defy. Will watched as John greeted her with guarded formality, did not mind in the least when she made it pleasantly yet perfectly plain that his presence was not required. In a contest of wills between John and his mother, he did not think John would prevail, indeed hoped he would not. But he did not care to be a witness to their confrontation; he suspected Eleanor's methods would be neither maternal nor merciful. ELEANOR snapped her fingers and the last of the servants disappeared. As John handed her a goblet of mulled wine, she sipped in silence for some moments, then confirmed his worst fears. "I do hope you have not entangled poor Will in your intriguing, John. That would be rather unsporting, like spearing fish in a barrel." "Should I know what that means, Madame?" She leaned back against the settle cushions, eyed him reflectively. Do you have any memories of Gwendolen, John? No, I see not. She was a young Welsh girl, nurse first to your sister Joanna and then to y°u. I liked her, found the Welsh to be much like my own Poitevins, a people passionate yet practical. There was one Welsh proverb in par- 52 ticular that Gwendolen was fond of quoting- 'Better a friend at court than gold on the finger.'" She smiled faintly, glanced down at her hands, at the jeweled fingers entwined loosely in her lap. "As you can see, I have gold rings in profusion. But I also have friends at court, John ... at the French court." She waited, but John continued to look at her blankly, with the suggestion of a quizzical smile. "Why is it," he asked, "that I suddenly feel as if I've stumbled into the wrong conversation?" "You do that very well, John. Honest bewilderment, with just the right touch of humor. I do not doubt your indignation will be equally impressive. And if you insist, we can play the game out to the end. I'll tell you exactly what my informants at the French court revealed, and you can deny any and all knowledge of Philip's intrigues. I'll confront you with the fact that I know you've coerced the constables of Wallingford, Berkshire, and Windsor to turn over the royal castles to you, and you can then concoct some perfectly innocent explanation for that "But eventually, John, we'll get to the truth. It may well take all night, but we will, that I promise you. So why do you not make it easy on both of us? It has been a very long day. I'm tired, John, am asking you to keep this charade mercifully brief . . . for my sake if not your own." John could not say with which precise word she hit a nerve; it may have been the tone as much as the content. But by the time she stopped speaking, he was rigid with rage. "For your sake? There was a time when I'd have done anything on God's earth for you, just to get you to acknowledge I was even alive! But now? You're too late, Mother, years too late!" There was a sudden silence. John rose, retreated into the sheltering shadows beyond the hearth, but he could not escape her eyes, could feel them following him all the while. What had ever possessed him? Fool1 In lashing out like that, he'd only shown her where his defenses were weakest, most vulnerable to attack. "What would you have me say, John?" she said at last. "That you are my flesh and blood, my last-born, that I care, care more than you know? It would be easy enough to say, and I admit I might be tempted ... if I thought you'd believe me." "I would not," he said hastily, and she gave him an unexpected smile, a look of sardonic and surprising approval. "Why should you? You were not yet six when Henry confined me in Salisbury Tower, sixteen when next I saw you, twenty-one when Richard ordered my release. How could I love you? I do not even know you. You were ever Henry's, never mine." I 53 "That's a he," John said bitterly "You never cared for me, never1 Mot from the day I was born You think I do not remember how it was7" "You exaggerate," she said, but there was that in her voice which he'd never heard before, a faintly defensive note "Mayhap I did not have you with me as often as I should in those early years, I'll concede that I'll concede, too, that I could take no joy in a pregnancy at fortyfjve Why should I7 I had just found out about Henry and that Clifford slut He'd even dared to install her at WoodstockWoodstock, my favorite manor1" She stopped abruptly, and John saw that she, too, had been goaded into saying that which she'd not meant to share "It is a pretty fiction that mothers must love each child in equal measure a fiction, no more than that There is always a favorite With me, it was Richard With Henry, it was you " "No," John said, too quickly "I was not his favorite It was rather that I was the only son he had left Have ypu forgotten7 My brothers sided with you " Again, John had the disquieting sense that he'd have done better to hold his tongue Eleanor's eyes were too probing, too knowing Cat's eyes, ever on the alert for movement in the grass, he thought uneasily, not reassured when she shrugged, said, "If that's how you'd rather remember it But I did not mean that as a reproach I do not, in truth, think less of you for having the common sense to abandon a ship once waves began to break over the bow Nor, after sixteen years shut away from the sun, am I likely to find tears to spare for Henry Plantagenet " Without warning, she came abruptly to her feet, crossed swiftly to John "But Richardthat is another matter altogether, John Did you truly think I'd stand idly by whilst you plotted with Philip to usurp Richard's throne7" When he sought to move away, she caught his arm "Of my children, I have ever loved Richard best, have never made a secret of it My first loyalties are to him, will always be to him But what you do not seem to realize is that they are then given to you You want to be Richard's heir Well, I, too, want that for you, am willing to do what I can to make it so " She sounded sincere, but John knew how little that meant, neither of his parents had ever held veracity to be a virtue "Why7" he said wanly "The soul of sentiment you're not Mother " She laughed "To your credit, neither are you I've always thought sentimentality to be one of the cardinal sins, second only to stupidity " That afforded John a certain ironic amusement, for it was his private conviction that his brother Richard was decidedly stupid, in all but kill- 54 ing, at which he excelled. But he said nothing, let Eleanor lead him back to the settle. "Richard's marriage is not working out. Unfortunately, the girl is as insipid as she is innocent, and so absurdly sweet-tempered that I suspect if you cut her, she'd bleed pure sugar. She and Richard . . . well, it's been like pairing a butterfly with a gerfalcon. I do not think it likely she'll give him a son." "And if she does not, that leaves only me ... or Geoffrey's son. Richard prefers the boy; why do you not, Madame?" "Arthur is not yet five; you're twenty and four. That in itself would be reason enough to favor you. And you are my son; that's another. Lastly, I think you have it in you to be a better King than your past record would indicate. At least you're no fool, and most men are." "Even if you do favor me over Arthur, what of it? Richard has already made his choice." "No choice this side of the grave is irrevocable. Richard named Arthur as a means of keeping you in check whilst he was on crusade. Once he does return from the Holy Land, he may well reconsider, especially if I urge him to do so. I'm sure you'll agree that if there be one voice he heeds, it is mine. If I speak for you, he's like to listen. But it does cut both ways, John. If I speak against you, he's apt to listen then, too. So it is up to you." "What do you want me to do?" "It is rather what I want you to refrain from doing. No intrigues with Philip. No pleasure jaunts to Paris. No conniving with the Welsh or the Scots." She paused, hazel eyes holding his own. Satisfied with what she saw in them, she rose, stifling a yawn. "I expect a bedchamber has been made ready for me by now, so I'll bid you good night. I'm glad we did reach an understanding. But I rather thought we would, Johnny." "Do not call me that!" John said sharply, startling himself even more than Eleanor. She stared at him, eyebrows arching, and he flushed. "I'd almost forgotten," she said softly. "That was what Henry always called you, was it not?" John said nothing, and she moved toward the door, where she paused, turned to face him. "If you should happen to suffer a change of heart in the night, John, decide that Philip's offer is a better gamble than mine ... I think it only fair to tell you that, on the same day you sailed for France, I would personally give the command to seize all your lands, castles, and manors in England, confiscate them on behalf of the crown." And closing the door quietly behind her, she left him alone. 5 GWYNEDD, WALES ]anwry upj J.HEY left Ha warden Castle in the early hours of a cloud-darkened dawn. A week of unrelenting rains had reduced the road to a mere memory, and as they headed west into Wales, they found themselves trudging through mud as thick and clinging as molasses. It spattered their legs and tunics, squished into their boots, made them fight for every footprint of ground gained. Exhaustion soon claimed Edwin; so, too, did disillusionment. Stumbling after his companions, blinded by gusts of wind-driven rain, chilled and utterly wretched, he could only wonder where the glory had gone. All of his eighteen years had been passed in the Cheshire village of Aldford. He had never even seen Chester, a mere five miles to the north. But three months ago his cousin Godfrey had come back to Aidford. Godfrey was a legend in their family, the youth who'd willingly abandoned home and hearth for the alien world waiting without. Godfrey was a solidarius, a man who fought for pay, and he told his awestruck kin that he was now being paid by no less a lord than Ralph de Montalt, Lord of Hawarden and Mold, Seneschal of Chester. And then he told them why he'd come back: for Edwin. There was no question of refusal; any village lad would have pledged his soul for such a chance. Much envied, Edwin had accompanied Godfrey back to Hawarden, eager to learn about war and women and the world beckoning beyond Aldford. But at Hawarden he'd found only long hours, loneliness, scant pleasure. Garrison guard duty was monotonous and dreary. But this was far worse, this was unmitigated misery, and as he tripped and sprawled into the mud, blistered and sore and soaked to the skin, Edwin wished fervently that he'd never even heard of Godfrey, that he'd never laid eyes upon Hawarden Castle. Of their mission, he knew only that the young knight they were 56 escorting had an urgent message for Davydd ab Owain, a Welsh Prince who had allied himself with the Normans. Godfrey had told him the Welsh Prince was encamped at Rhuddlan Castle, some twenty-five miles from Hawarden, and he wondered how long the journey would take. He wondered, too, why they were no longer following the coast, why they'd swung inland at Basingwerk Abbey. "Godfrey?" He quickened his pace, caught his cousin's arm. "Godfrey, why did we change our route? Are we not more vulnerable to attack in the hills?" "You'd bloody well better believe it!" Godfrey tripped, cursed as the mud sucked at one of his boots. "But our guide told de Hodnet that this is a quicker way, a road made long past by the Romans. And that Norman whoreson is set upon getting us to Rhuddlan as fast he can, no matter the risk." Edwin had been about to ask who were these Romans, but with his cousin's last words, he forgot all else, stared at Godfrey in amazement. De Hodnet was a Norman, a knight; to Edwin, that made him a being beyond criticism. He glanced ahead at the knight, his eyes lingering admiringly upon the man's roan stallion, the silvery chain-mail armor. He felt no resentment that de Hodnet should ride while they walked. That was just the way of it, and now he ventured a timid protest. "But Godfrey, surely he knows what he's doing. After all, he's a knight." "So? Does that make him the Lord Jesus Christ come down to earth again?" Godfrey sneezed. "Think you that no man Norman-born can be a fool? As for his Norman knighthood, that'll count for naught against a Welsh longbow." "Should you speak so?" Edwin asked uneasily, provoking a snort of derisive laughter from his cousin. "You think he'll hear? Nay, he knows just enough English to order us about." Godfrey reached out, grasped Edwin's arm. "If a man is like to lead you over a cliff, Little Cousin, you'd best see him for what he is. De Hodnet wears a long sword and sits a horse well, but he's no more fit to wage war against the Welsh than our Aunt Edith. He's as green as grass, lad, and as arrogant as Lucifer, and there are no more dangerous traits known to man or God." Edwin stared at him, dismayed. "But . . . but he's been taught the ways of war. All knights ..." "Aye, and I daresay he'd fare well enough on a battlefield in France or Flanders. But what does he know of the Welsh? He was in service with Lord Fitz Warin for a time, did garrison duty at Fitz Warin's manor of Lambourne in Berkshire. After that, he found a place with a Wiltshire lord. Then his lord took the cross like King Richard, and de Hodnet I 57 had no urge to see the Holy Land." Godfrey sneezed again, spat into the road. "Shropshire, Berkshire, Wiltshire. But not Wales, Edwin, not Wales." He shook his head, said bitterly, "Giles tried to tell him, warned him that the risk be too great, what with Llewelyn known to be in the area. But what Norman ever heeded Saxon advice? He does not know his arse from his elbow when it comes to fighting the Welsh, but he gives the orders, we obey, and if we reach Rhuddlan Castle, it'll be only by the grace of the Almighty." Edwin glanced over his shoulder at the shadowed, wet woods that rose up around them, dark spruce and pine blotting out the sky, giving shelter behind every bush to a Welsh bowman. The Welsh scorned the crossbow, preferred a weapon called a longbow, and they used it with deadly skill. According to Godfrey, a Welsh bowman could fire twelve arrows in the time it took to aim and fire one crossbow; he swore he once saw a Welsh bowman send an arrow through an oaken door fully four inches thick. Remembering that, Edwin hunched his shoulders forward, suddenly sure that even at that moment a Welsh arrow was being launched at his back. "Who is Llewelyn?" he asked at last, and at once regretted it, for Godfrey gave him an incredulous look. "God keep me if you are not as ignorant as de Hodnet!" But Edwin's discomfort was so painfully obvious that he relented somewhat. "You do know that Davydd ab Owain claims to rule most of North Wales? Well, Llewelyn ab lorweth is his nephew and sworn enemy. They've been warring for nigh on six years, and were I to wager on the outcome, I'd want my money on Llewelyn. He's not much older than you, I hear, yet he's been able to get the people on his side, has forced Davydd on the defensive. Davydd still holds a few strongholds like Rhuddlan Castle, but Llewelyn now controls the countryside, owns the night." Edwin decided he did not want to hear any more, lapsed into a subdued silence. The rain had ceased, but the small patches of sky visible through the trees were an ominous leaden grey. Although it was unusually mild for January, Edwin shivered each time the wind caught his gambeson. Stuffed with rags, quilted like eiderdown, it suddenly seemed a poor substitute for de Hodnet's chain-mail hauberk. He ran his hand over the padding, trying to convince himself that it could deflect a lance. As the men moved deeper into the woods, so, too, deepened their sense of unease. They were bunching up, all but treading upon each other's heels, moving at an unusually brisk pace for men who'd been on the march all day. Edwin paused to fish a pebble from his boot, sprinted 58 to catch up. Panting, he slowed, came to a bewildered halt. The men had stopped, were gathered around Giles. Edwin squeezed into the circle, straining to hear. Edwin was very much in awe of Giles. A dark, saturnine man in his forties, laconic and phlegmatic, he was renowned for his icy composure, and Edwin was stunned now to hear the raw emotion that crackled and surged in his voice. "We've taken too great a risk as it is, should have followed the coast road. But if we take this path, we are begging to be ambushed!" "I do not agree. We're losing the light, are wasting time even now that we can ill afford to squander. I have an urgent dispatch for Davydd ab Owain, a message that comes from His Grace, the Earl of Chester. I swore to my lord Montalt that I'd get it to Rhuddlan without delay, and that is what I mean to do." Giles stepped forward, stopped before the roan stallion. "Sir Walter, I urge you to heed what I say. You do not know the Welsh, you do not know how they fight. This is not war as you learned it. It is bloody, brutal work, with no quarter given. Let me tell you about the battle of Crogen. The old King, Henry of blessed memory, led an army into Wales, went up against Owain Fawr. The Welsh won the day, and King Henry was forced to retreat back into England. But ere he did, he had a number of Welsh hostages brought before him, wellborn men all, including two of Owain's own sons. He ordered them blinded, Sir Walter." The other's face did not change. "That battle was fought nigh on thirty years ago. Why tell me this now?" "Because you may be sure the Welsh do remember. Because that's how war is waged in Waleson both sides. I've fought in Normandy, in Scotland, even in Ireland, and I tell you true when I say the Welsh do make the worst enemies. They do not play by your rules, they win when they are not supposed to, and they do not know when they're beaten. They're wild and cunning and treacherous, not to be underestimated. It's been only a week since we captured one of Llewelyn's men not a mile from Ha warden. When we put the knife to him, he admitted that Llewelyn was encamped in these woods. Knowing that, we'd be mad to take yon path, no matter how much time we'd save." "Our guide assures me that this rebel you seem to fear so much is not in the area, that he's known to be in Arfon. He also assures me that this is the quickest way to Rhuddlan." Walter de Hodnet paused, his eyes moving from Giles to the encircling men. Although most of them spoke only rudimentary French, it was evident that they'd followed the argument; their faces were flushed, hostile. He stared them down and, turning back to Giles, said curtly, "Give the order to move out." 59 Giles had black eyes, flat and shallow-lidded. They flickered now, mering with impotent fury. And then he nodded, signaled the men fo fall into line. There was hesitation, but only briefly. From the die, they were taught obedience to rank; rebellion was utterly beyond their ken. But although they obeyed, they did not like it. Walter could hear them muttering among themselves in the guttural English he found so harsh upon the ear. Saxon swine. As a boy, he'd thought it was one word, Saxonswine. Stupid and sly, the lot of them. It was always his accursed ill luck to have such oafs under his command. Little wonder he'd yet to win the recognition he craved, to find his niche. But this time would be different. By getting Chester's message to Rhuddlan by nightfall, he'd stand high in Montalt's favor. It was not inconceivable that Montalt might even make mention of him to Chester. A smile softened his mouth at that, and for a happy moment he indulged in a gratifying daydream, imagining himself summoned by the mighty Earl, friend to King Richard, one of the most powerful lords of the realm. A knight in Chester's service would be a made man. He'd have no reason then to envy his elder brother Baldwin; Baldwin might even envy him. His smile faded; thoughts of Baldwin were always sure to sour his mood. There was less than a year between them, but Baldwin was the eldest born, Baldwin was his father's heir, would inherit all when Sir Odo died. For Walter, for his brothers Will and Stephen, there would be nothing, only what they could win with their wits or their swords. And a younger son's options were limited. If he was fortunate, he might find a place for himself in some lord's household. Or he might try his luck in the tournament lists, but that was a risky way to earn a living. For those who'd failed to find service with a lord, or lost in the lists, there was little left but banditry. Of course, one could become a clerk, like his brother Will. But a clerk had no social status; he was a nonentity, of no account. Walter's mouth tightened. Was he any better off, in truth? What had he except his horse, his armor, and a shilling a day in wages? But if he could do this for Montalt and Chester ... he glanced back over his shoulder, at Giles's dark, sullen face. He'd managed to infect them all with his damned fool fears; they were shying at every sound, as jumpy as cats. As little as he liked to admit it, it was even getting to him. He tilted his head back, studied the sky with narrowed eyes. Dusk was 'ailing fast. But if their guide was right, they were less than seven miles from Rhuddlan. Walter slid his fingers under the noseguard of his helmet, rubbed the chafed skin across the bridge of his nose. What was the guide's 60 name? Martin? A quiet sort, half-Welsh, half-Saxon, an outcast in both worlds. But he knew these hills as few men did, and he "Sir Walter!" Giles had come up alongside his stallion. Keeping his voice pitched for Walter's ear alone, he said tensely, "You hear itthe silence? Suddenly there is not a sound, no birds, nothing." Walter stiffened, listened. Giles was right. "Oh, Christ," he whispered. He swung about in the saddle, peering into the surrounding shadows, saw nothing. "Martin!" he called sharply. A few yards ahead, the guide turned, his face questioning. But as he did, a low humming noise cut through the eerie stillness. Walter gasped, flinched as a rush of hot air fanned past his face. His stallion leapt sideways, and he jerked on the reins, turned the animal in a circle. Only then did he see Giles. The other man had dropped to his knees in the road. As Walter watched, he tugged at the arrow shaft protruding from his chest, and then fell forward, slowly slid into the mud churned up by Walter's stallion. For a moment frozen in time, nothing happened. And then one of Walter's men, the one called Godfrey, dropped to the ground, rolled toward a fallen log, shouting, "Take shelter!" An arrow slammed into the log, scant inches from where he crouched, followed by an earsplitting, wordless yell, and Walter's men panicked, whirling about, slipping in the mud, crashing into one another in their haste to escape the trap. Walter jerked his sword from its scabbard. Godfrey's action had been instinctive, but Walter knew it was also futile. The Welsh were firing from both sides of the road, with savage-sounding battle cries that only panicked his men all the more. The woods offered no refuge, only shafted death, and he shouted, "Make haste for the castle!" An arrow burned past his thigh, grazed his stallion's mane, and he spurred the animal forward. The horse stumbled over Giles's body, righted itself, and lengthened stride. In the fading light, Walter never saw the rope stretched across the road. It caught him in the chest; he reeled backward, hit the ground with jarring impact. When he came to, dazed and disoriented, he did not at first remember where he was. He groaned, started to move, and a knife blade was at once laid against his throat. Behind the knife were the coldest green eyes he'd ever seen. The man was young, twenty at most. He said something in Welsh, and Walter said, "I do not understand." The youth spoke again, harshly, and Walter shook his head, tried to sit up. His coif was jerked off, and the knife nicked into his throat; a thin red line appeared upon his neck. He froze, scarcely breathing, and the pressure eased slightly. From the corner of his eye he could see several figures huddled on the ground: a freckle-faced, frightened youngster, Godfrey, and a third 61 an smeared with his own blood Beyond them a body lay sprawled in the mud, and nearby was a young Welshman, seeking to soothe Walter's roan stallion Another man was now bending over him, a huge youth with a scarred cheek and deepset brown eyes He reached for the neck of Walter's hauberk, and as Walter recoiled, he grinned "Easy, English," he said, m accented but understandable French "The Lord loveth a cheerful giver'" He drew out the rolled parchment, eyes widening at sight of the Earl of Chester's seal "Chester," he murmured, passing the scroll to his companion "Well, well You fly high, English " Walter drew a deep breath, thanking God for this French-speaking, amiable giant Surely he could reason with this one But the other he glanced at the glinting blade, swallowed, and said in a rush, "My name is Sir Walter de Hodnet, son of Sir Odo de Hodnet of Welbatch in Shropshire My father is a man of means, and will pay dear for my safe return " "Indeed7" The Welshman smiled at him "Horses7 Gold7" "Yes, both," he said, knowing his father would not part with so much as a shilling on his behalf "You hear, Rhys7 We've a man of wealth in our midst Tell me, English, what of your men there7 Who ransoms them7" Walter stared up at him, perplexed Who'd pay money for men-atarms7 "I do not see" "No, I know you do not But I'd wager your men do " He was no longer smiling, and Walter's mouth went dry Giles's voice was suddenly thudding in his ears He blinded them Blinded them Blinded them HE was barely twenty, his face contorted with pam, sweat beading his upper lip, his temples A dark stain was spreading rapidly across his tunic Llewelyn knew few injuries were as dangerous as an upper-thigh wound, all too often the man died before the bleeding could be checked Drawing his dagger, he split the tunic, set about fashioning a rude tourniquet It was with considerable relief that he saw it begin to take effect "You're a lucky lad, Dylan," he said, and grinned "Half a hand higher and you'd have lost the family jewels " Dylan was chalk-white, but he managed a weak smile at that, whispered, "Jesu forfend " Two men were bnngmg up a blanket stretched across two poles, and Llewelyn rose, watched as Dylan was lowered onto it A flash of movement caught his eye He turned, saw the guide, Martin, standing 62 several feet away. Llewelyn unfastened a pouch at his belt, sent it spinning through the air. Martin caught it deftly, tucked it away in his tunic For a moment their eyes held; then he silently saluted Llewelyn and vanished into the wooded darkness beyond the road. Ednyved was now at his side. He said, "Well?" "Three dead, including one gutshot so badly that I thought he'd count death a mercy. Four captured. The rest fled. One horse taken. And this." Handing Llewelyn the parchment roll. Llewelyn, too, was startled at sight of the seal. "Chester, no less!" He turned, beckoned to the closest man. "Rosser, fetch a torch." "One of those taken is the lack-wit who led them right to us. A fool of the first order, but you might want to talk with him nonetheless, Llewelyn. He says his name is de Hodnet. Is that not what an English friend of yours be called, too?" Surprised, Llewelyn nodded. "Yes, Stephen de Hodnet. Yet the last I heard, Stephen was attached to Fulk Fitz Warin's household, not Montalt's. Of course, Stephen does have several brothers" He broke off and, after a moment, laughed and shook his head. "But no, I could not be that lucky!" GODFREY was cursing under his breath. Edwin sat stunned and silent beside him. They both stiffened at Llewelyn's approach, watching warily as he stopped before them and then moved toward Walter de Hodnet. Walter waited no less warily. The man standing before him was quite young, nineteen or twenty, dressed in the same homespun as his comrades, and Walter was startled when he said, in fluent French, "I'm Llewelyn ab lorwerth. Welcome to Wales." Walter flushed; even as frightened as he was, he did not miss the mockery in the other's voice. But he could not afford pride, not now, and he said hurriedly, "It's glad I am that you speak French, my lord. If I may say so, you're young to have made such a name for yourself." He summoned up a smile, was encouraged when Llewelyn smiled back. "My lord Llewelyn, may I speak plainly? I can pay for my release; you need only name your price. My father" "You do not remember me, do you?" Bewildered, Walter shook his head. "We've met? My lord, I think not. I would" Llewelyn was still smiling. "A pity your memory is so poor, Walter de Hodnet. For I do remember you, all too well." This was no pretense, Llewelyn saw; Walter was genuinely baffled. He stood looking down at the Norman knight, and then, abruptly tiring 63 f this cat-and-mouse game, he said, "I think you'll remember if you put ur mjnd to it. Think back some years, to a summer noon and a rneadow beyond Shrewsbury, to a chestnut gelding and a fearful tenyear-old boy." "I still do not" Walter began, and then sucked in his breath. Llewelyn saw his face twitch, saw his eyes glaze over with horror, and he said, "You see? You have not forgotten me, after all." Rhys and Ednyved had been following this exchange with increasing curiosity. Now Rhys demanded, "What is this English to you, Llewelyn?" "A man who has long owed me a debt." Speaking rapidly in Welsh, Llewelyn gave them a terse summary of that long-ago encounter by Yokethul Brook, concluding in French, "So what say you? What shall I do with him?" Rhys's eyes flicked to Walter. "Need you ask? Kill him," he said, without hesitation. He'd answered in Welsh, for he used French only under duress, but it was obvious that Walter understood; he was ashen. "Ednyved?" Ednyved shrugged. "This English is such a dolt, it would be almost a shame to lose him; never have I seen a man so eager to be ambushed. And he is the brother of your friend. Would his death grieve Stephen?" "I very much doubt it," Llewelyn said dryly, saw Walter flinch, and thought that Stephen had just unknowingly gained vengeance for a childhood of beatings and intimidation. "Well, I can think of no other reasons to spare him, Llewelyn. There are too many English as it is; one less would be no loss. This grievance you hold against him, how deep does it fester?" Llewelyn smiled at that. "Is there ever a time when you do not go right to the heart of the matter? The answer is, of course, that it does not . . not anymore." He gazed down at Walter, his eyes thoughtful. And then he turned, for Rosser was approaching with a burning pine torch. "Ah, at last." Breaking the seal, he held the parchment up to the light. "Let's see what message is worth the lives of three men." Beginning to read, he laughed aloud, beckoned to those within hearing range. "It seems King Richard had more to fear from his fellow Christian crusaders than he did from the infidels. On his way back from the Holy Land, he fell into the hands of his erstwhile ally, the Duke of Austria, and is being held for ransom by the German Emperor!" His men had gathered around to listen. They burst out laughing, too, began to exchange markedly unsympathetic quips about the English King's plight. Llewelyn was rapidly scanning the rest of the letter. "Wait, you've 64 yet to hear the best of it. When word reached England, Richard's brother John did himself proud in the finest tradition of Cain and Abel, at once set about gaining the crown for himself. He's sailed for France, where he means to ally himself with the French King Philip. It seems they plan to offer the Emperor an even larger ransom not to let Richard go!" Llewelyn was elated, for nothing better served Welsh interests than English discord. God had indeed been good to Wales, he thought, in giving Richard a brother as untrustworthy as John. With Richard languishing in some Austrian castle and John scheming to steal the throne, the English would be too taken up with their own troubles to have time to spare for Welsh conquest. That meant he'd have a free hand to move against Davydd, to force a battle that would break his uncle's power once and for all. "One good turn deserves another, so I wish John well," he said, and laughed again. "For although he does not know it yet, he's going to give me Gwynedd." "I do not doubt it, my Prince," Ednyved said with mock servility, "but at the moment you're a rebel on the run, and we'd best be gone ere any of those English soldiers reach Rhuddlan. Now," jerking his head toward their captives, "what mean you to do about them?" "To tell you true, Ednyved, I have not made up my mind." Llewelyn walked over, looked down at his prisoners. Godfrey tensed, and then blurted out in broken French, "My lord, spare my cousin. He's but a lad of eighteen; do not put him to the knife, I beg you." "Why should I put any of you to the knife? There are but two legitimate times for torture, when a man has information you must have or when he has committed a sin so great that justice demands he suffer for it." But Godfrey did not fully believe him, Llewelyn saw. And what of Walter de Hodnet? A rare jest of God, in truth, that de Hodnet should fall into his hands now, years too late. Walter was mute; but his eyes pleaded with anguished eloquence. "You fear more than death, do you not?" Llewelyn said slowly. "You think I mean to extract every ounce of mortal suffering for a boyhood wrong. A pity, Walter, you know so little of the Welsh. You see, we have a saying amongst my people: O hir ddyled ni ddyhr dim. 'From an old debt, nothing is due.'" Walter stared up at him in utter disbelief. Rhys looked no less startled, but Ednyved laughed, as if at some private joke. "I thought it was your ambition to be Prince of Gwynedd, Llewelyn. Are you seeking sainthood, too?" "I know you're woefully ignorant of the Scriptures, Ednyved, but 65 en V°u must have heard: 'Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord.'" Llewe- 1 n paused, and then added in Welsh, "Of course, we do have another verb i rather fancy: The best revenge, contempt.'" Ednyved nodded, eyes alight in amused understanding. "Now that ounds more like you," he said, as Walter found his voice. "You truly mean to let me go?" Walter sounded more suspicious than relieved, for magnanimity to an enemy was an alien concept to him. "Yes, I do, but I rather doubt you'll thank me for it. For I mean to release your men, too. I should think they'll have a most interesting tale to tell Montalt. You've hardly endeared yourself to them, have you?" Walter opened his mouth, shut it abruptly, but he was unable to keep his eyes from shifting toward Godfrey. Llewelyn saw, smiled. "Of course you will have time to think up an explanation for your appalling ineptitude ... on your walk to Rhuddlan. For although you are free to go, we'll be keeping your horse and armor. Spoils of war . . . remember?" Five minutes ago, Walter would have bartered anything on God's earth for his life and not counted the cost. But his were now the changed priorities of reprieve, and he gave a gasp of dismay. "If I do reach Rhuddlan like thatnaked, alone, on footChrist, I'll be a laughingstock!" "Yes," Llewelyn agreed. "I know." And signaling to two of his men, he said, "Strip him of his armor." Walter scrambled to his feet, began to back away. In that instant his fear of humiliation was greater than his fear of death, and his eyes darted to the dagger in Llewelyn's belt. For a mad moment he saw himself lunging for it, plunging the blade into Llewelyn's chest, and racing for the woods. But his was an easy face to read. Llewelyn felt a sudden surge of excitement. "It is your choice, Walter," he said softly, almost encouragingly. Walter's throat muscles contracted; he had not enough saliva to swallow. The realization that Llewelyn wanted him to go for the knife was a lifeline back to sanity. Appalled by what he'd almost done, he sagged against the nearest tree. "I swear by all the saints that you'll regret this day," he said, choking on his hatred, and Rhys lost all patience. In three strides he'd crossed the clearing, had his dagger poised at Walter's throat. "Are you so eager to die, English?" he demanded. "Think you that we need an excuse to claim your life?" "He does not speak Welsh, Rhys," Llewelyn said, amused, and Rhys smiled grimly. "Mayhap not, but he understands me well enough." 66 Walter had lost all color; a vein showed at his temple, throbbing wildly against skin damp with sweat. "Yes," Llewelyn conceded. "I daresay he does!" Glancing up at the darkening sky, he realized that they'd already tarried here too long, and he moved toward Walter's men. "You understand what was said?" Godfrey had been staring at Walter de Hodnet, eyes glittering. Now he looked up at Llewelyn, nodded, and then grinned. "Mem," he said, and then gestured toward Walter, adding something in English which Llewelyn did not understand; he caught only a name, Giles. But time was on his uncle's side; some of the fleeing soldiers might have reached Rhuddlan by now. He still held Chester's dispatch. Unsheathing his dagger, he slashed at the parchment until it hung in tattered ribbons. Handing it to the wide-eyed Edwin, he said in slow, deliberate French, "Here, lad. Give this to Montalt. And tell him that Llewelyn ab lorwerth has a message for Chester: Stay out of Wales." Edwin could not envision himself ever giving a message like that to a Norman lord, and he was much relieved when his cousin said, "I'd like nothing better, my lord!" Edwin released his breath, clutched the shredded parchment to his chest. Godfrey would keep faith with the young Welsh lord, and he was glad, for they owed this man their lives. He doubted that the Earl of Chester would heed the warning, would stay out of Wales. But he would, he thought, with sudden resolve. He was going home. Home to Aldford. LISIEUX, NORMANDY Majj 1194 L J.N January 1194, Queen Eleanor reached Germany with the one hundred thousand silver marks demanded as ransom for her son's freedom. Richard was finally released on February 67 one year and six weeks after he'd been taken captive in Austria. By ' ^j, he was once more upon English soil, where he set about exri guishing the embers of his brother John's rebellion. John's castles of TickhiH and Nottingham fell to him within a fortnight, and on March 31 . sUJnrnoned John to appear before his great council. John was given forty days to answer the charges of treason. He defied the summons, did not appear, and on May 10 he was outlawed, declared to have forfeited any claims to the Angevin crown, and then stripped of the earldoms of Gloucester and Mortain, of his castles, estates, and manors in England and Normandy. Two days later, Richard and Eleanor sailed from Portsmouth. Landing at Barfleur, they headed south into Normandy. After lingering a few days at Caen, they moved on to Lisieux, where they were greeted with excessive affability by Archdeacon John de Alengon, Richard's vicechancellor, and there joined by Joanna Plantagenet, sister to Richard, daughter to Eleanor, young widow of William the Good, King of Sicily. ". . . AND after I set up a gallows before the walls of Nottingham Castle, hanged a score of John's men, and left them for the ravens, the others lost their taste for treason, moved out even faster than the ravens moved in!" "What of Johnny, Richard? Have you any word as to his whereabouts?" "Oh, I know exactly where John is, Joannaskulking about the French court. He fled to Paris months ago, after Philip sent him warning that my release was imminent. 'Look to yourself; the Devil is loose,'" Richard quoted with relish, and then laughed. Joanna laughed, too. "This has not been one of Philip's better years, what with your return and his troubles with the Pope." "What is the straight of that, Jo? The garbled account I heard did not seem likely to me, that Philip sought to repudiate his Queen the day after their marriage." "Likely or not, it's true enough. They were wed at Amiens last August, and the very next day Philip disavowed the marriage, refused to recognize Ingeborg as his Queen. When she balked at being shipped back to Denmark like defective goods, Philip convened a council of French bishops at Compiegne, got them to declare the marriage null and void, then confined Ingeborg to a nunnery. But the Danish King did not take kindly to this, and he appealed to the Pope on his sister's behalf. I expect His Holiness will order Philip to take Ingeborg back, but Philip is nothing if not stubborn, and I'm not sure he'll yield even if the Pope does lay France under Interdict." 68 "Jesii, the idiot, the utter idiot!" Richard shook his head in amused amazement. "Mayhap I ought to ask him if he wants to send Ingeborg t0 me at Rouen. We could pen her up with Alais, split the cost of their upkeep!" He laughed again. In the shadows behind him, Archdeacon Alenc.on could not hide his disapproval. After a moment, his eyes shifted from Richard to the woman at his side. Eleanor was watching her son, a faint smile curving her mouth. It was not a smile to give Alenc.on cornfort, reminding him what an implacable enemy this woman made. Upon gaining her own freedom, one of her first acts had been to declare an amnesty for those imprisoned in English jails, declaring that she knew from personal experience "how irksome it was to be a prisoner." And yet she'd shown no pity at all for the woman confined for five years now at her son's command, the unfortunate Alais, who'd been raised at her court, had come to womanhood in her husband's bed. But it was too late to worry about Eleanor's enmity. He'd chosen to gamble, could only hope he'd not made a fool's wager. Moving closer, he murmured, "Madame, might I have a few moments alone with you? I've a matter most urgent to discuss." Eleanor felt no surprise. She had a sharp eye for the unease of others, and Alenc.on's overly hearty welcome put her in mind of a man whistling his way past a graveyard. She asked no questions, came unobtrusively to her feet and followed Alen$on from the hall. The Archdeacon's manor was a substantial structure of stone and timber, rising up two stories on the bank of the River Touques. It was to an upper chamber that Alenc.on led Eleanor, stepping aside so she could enter first. As she did, he closed the door quietly behind her. Eleanor stood very still, staring at the man by the unshuttered window, silhouetted against a twilight sky of soft, shadowed lavender. "Mother," he said at last, so low she could not be sure he'd spoken at all. There was an oil lamp sputtering on a trestle table. She reached for it, took several strides forward into the room, held it up so that the smoky light fell across his face. John blinked, flinched away from the sudden illuminating glare. His mother's face was impassive, but her eyes pinned him to the wall, amber ice in which he could read the reflection of his every sin, could read accusation and indictment, but no hint of absolution. He forgot entirely his carefully rehearsed plea of explanation and atonement. When the silence had become more than he could endure, he blurted out, "You know why I'm here. I need you to speak for me. You're the one person Richard would be likely to heed." "I daresay you're right. But whatever makes you think I would?" 69 Eleanor set the lamp on the table, turned back to her silent son "At I st you've shown you're not the utter coward Richard thinks you to , he was sure you'd not dare leave the sanctuary of the French court Although how you'd have the nerve to face him after all you've done Hying yourself with your brother's sworn enemy against your own House, promising to wed your father's harlot and to cede the Vexm back to Philipin return for his support, hiring Welsh mercenanes and seeking to stir up a rising in England, doing your damnedest to sabotage the collection of Richard's ransom And when all else failed, joining with Philip m offering to better Richard's ransom if the German Emperor would but hold Richard for another year Have I left anything out7" "No," he said shortly, unwillingly "Well, then, suppose you tell me why I should want to help you escape the punishment you so deserve, why I should raise even a finger on your behalf And do spare me any maudlin pleas about you being flesh of my flesh, you'll have to do better than that, John much better " John drew an uneven breath "Nothing has changed since that night we talked in Southampton Your hopes for an Angevin dynasty are not going to take root with Richard's seed He's not laid eyes upon his wife in nigh on two years, did not even bother to summon her to England upon his return Unless you are counting upon another Virgin Birth, Madame, I suggest that leads us right back to Arthur or me, a child of seven or a man grown of twenty-six " "Yes," she said icily "But the child is as yet unformed clay, who knows what manner of man he may become7 Whereas we already know the man you are, John " John was not as impervious to insult as he'd have her think, he betrayed himself with rising color "Yes, you doa man who knows what he wants and will fight to keep what is his Can you say as much for Arthur7 I might make use of Philip's help if it serves my need, but we'll see the Second Coming ere I'd trust him out of my sight But Arthur7 His advisers wax fat on French gold, look to Pans for guidance the way infidels do look to Mecca He'd be Philip's puppet and you well know it, Madame Just as you know I would not " "What I want to know," she said, "is how you can be shrewd enough to see all that and yet stupid enough to fall in with Philip's schemes, to so disregard my promise and my warning " Her tone was barbed, each word earned a separate sting And yet John sensed he'd gamed some ground "For what it's worth, I fully meant to hold to our understanding " "Why did you not, then7" "The truth7 Because Richard's capture unbalanced the equation I 70 truly did not think he'd ever come back, not with the enemies he's made. I saw the crown up for the taking, and so . . ." He shrugged. "I put in my bid. What more can I tell you?" Eleanor's mouth twitched. "Credit where due, you can surprise. I was curious as to what your last line of defense would be. But I admit I did not expect you to fall back upon honesty!" With that, John no longer hesitated. "Well?" he said. "Will you help me, Mother? Will you intercede with Richard on my behalf?" She gave him a look he could not interpret. "I already have." John's relief was intense but ephemeral. So this whole scene had been yet another of her damnable games, he thought resentfully, a stupid charade as meaningless as it was malicious. "Richard can be unpredictable, so there are no guarantees. But he did agree that if you came to him, he'd hear you out. It might help," she added dryly, "if you sought to appear somewhat contrite." She started toward the door, stopped when he made no move to follow. "What are you waiting for? Richard's below in the great hall; now would be as good a time as any." "The great hall?" John echoed in dismay. He thought it penance enough to have to humble his pride before Richard, was not about to put on a performance for a hall full of witnesses. But as he opened his mouth to protest, he caught the contempt in his mother's eyes. She was like Richard, he knew, in that she, too, was one for setting tests and traps for people, measuring their worth by standards that made no allowance for frailties or failure. Richard judged a man by his willingness to bleed, to risk his life upon the thrust of a sword. With his mother, the test was more subtle and yet more demanding. She might forgive deceit and betrayal, but never weakness, would expect above all else that a man be willing to answer for the consequences of his actions. "I suppose you're right." He moved away from the window, gave her a crooked smile. "What was it the Christian martyrs always said before they were thrown to the lions? Morituri te salutamus?" "Your command of Latin is not bad, but your grasp of history is rather weak. 'We who are about to die salute you' was the battle cry of the Roman gladiators, not the Christian martyrs. We can safely say you have no yearning whatsoever for martyrdom, but it will be interesting, nonetheless, to see how you handle yourself in the lion's den." Eleanor's laugh was not in the least maternal, but John knew he'd pulled back from the brink in time, had scrambled to safety even as the ground seemed sure to crumble under his feet. MEN stared at sight of John, fell suddenly silent. Eleanor stepped aside so that he stood alone. Richard was sitting on the dais at the far end of 71 the hall. John hesitated, then began the longest walk of his life. So quiet . as that he could hear the scuffling sound his boots made as they trod pon the floor rushes, hear the clinking of his sword in its scabbard even hear, or so he imagined, the thudding of his own heart. Richard had not moved, was watching him approach, eyes narrowed and utterly opaque. John stopped before the dais, slowly unbuckled his scabbard, and laid it upon the steps. Then he knelt. "My liege." In the brief time allotted to him for calculation, he'd decided that candor was his best hope. It had served him well with his mother, and might, if he was lucky, appease Richard, too. In truth, what other choice did he have? For what could he possibly say that Richard would believe? "I can offer you no excuses, Richard. I can only ask for your forgiveness. I know I've given you no reason to" He stopped in midsentence, for he'd just recognized the woman seated at Richard's left, a slim woman with green eyes and reddish gold hair gleaming under a silvery gossamer veil, a woman he'd not seen for eighteen years. His sister Joanna. "I'm surprised to see you here, John. Frankly, I did not think you'd have the nerve. I was not surprised, however, by your treachery, by your willingness to snap at Philip's bait. You're as easily led astray as any child, have never learned to say no. It's lucky you were not born a woman, Little Brother. You'd have been perpetually pregnant!" Richard laughed, and so did most of the others in the hall. The color drained from John's face; he bit down on his lower lip until it bled, sought to focus upon the pain to the exclusion of all else. Rising, Richard bent down, picked up John's sword. "But you're here; that counts for something. And our lady mother would have me forgive you; that counts for much. I suppose I should just be thankful that since you are so much given to treachery, you're so reassuringly inept at it!" He stepped forward, held out John's sword. "Your betrayals are forgiven, Little Brother ... if not forgotten. But though your blood buys you a pardon, the price is higher for an earldom, higher than you can pay. I've no intention of restoring your titles and lands, not until I'm damned well sure that you're deserving of them ... if ever." John came to his feet, reached for his sword. Richard was some inches the taller of the two, and now, standing on the dais stairs, he towered over the younger man. As their eyes met, John said, quite tonelessly, "I shall remember your generosity, Brother. You may count upon that." SUPPER was generally an afterthought, but that evening's meal was an unusually bountiful one; in his relief that his risky role as peacemaker 72 had met with such success. Archdeacon Alengon emptied his larders set before Richard a succession of meat and fish dishes, highly seasoned venison and salmon swimming in wine gravy. The salmon Richard dispatched to John's end of the table, with a good-humored but heavy, handed jest about the Prodigal Son and the Fatted Calf. To John, the taste was bitter as gall, and as soon after the meal as he could, he escaped the hall, out into the dark of the gardens. He was alone but a few moments, however. Joanna had followed, came forward to sit beside him on a rough-hewn oaken bench. "Here," she said, thrusting a wine cup into his hand. "I think you're in need of this." They'd gotten on well as children; she was only two years older than he, and he'd been sorry when their father had sent her off to Sicily as an eleven-year-old bride for William the Good. When he thought now upon his humiliation in the great hall, it was Joanna's presence there that he minded the most, and he said sharply, "If you've come to offer pity, I do not want any!" "You need not worry; I do not think you're deserving of any. You were not led astray,' knew exactly what you were doing . . . and got what you deserved." But then she gave him a direct, searching glance. "Does that offend you, Johnny?" "No," John said, surprised to discover that he actually preferred her matter-of-fact rebuke to Richard's contemptuous pardon, and when she smiled at him, he smiled back. "I'm glad," she said simply. "I can tell you, then, that I think Richard erred. A pardon should be generously given or not at all. For all that Richard has a fine grasp of tactics, he's always been woefully lacking in tact!" And what was he expected to say to that, John wondered, agree and incriminate himself? But after a moment to reflect, he dismissed the suspicion as unwarranted. For all the love that lay between them, he could not truly see Joanna as Richard's spy. Nor, were he to be fair, was that Richard's way, either. Richard would not take the trouble. "I'd rather not talk of that, Jo." The childhood name came without thought, was curiously comforting, evoking echoes of an almost forgotten familiarity. "You're beautiful, you know, you truly are. Not at all the skin-and-bones sister I remember! Joanna Plantagenet, Queen of Sicily, Duchess of Apulia, Princess of Capua. Were you happy, Jo, in Sicily?" "Not at first. I was too young, too homesick. But William meant well by me, gave me no cause for complaint. He was some thirteen years older, treated me like a daughter until I was ready to be a wife. Yes, I was happy enough. But at thirty-six he died, leaving no heirs, and as you know, his bastard cousin Tancred seized the throne. Tancred not 73 only denied me my dower nghts, he put me into close confinement at Palermo I sometimes wonder what would have become of me, Johnny, f not for Richard He landed at Messina on his way to the Holy Land, and when Tancred balked at releasing me, restoring my dower, Richard laid siege to the town, forced Tancred into submission Yes, John thought, and then he took you with him to the Holy Land, where he offered you to the brother of the infidel Prince Saladm But he said nothing "Richard's arrival at Messina was a godsend, in truth, and 1 will be ever grateful to him Yet I do not doubt you'd have done as much for me, too, Johnny So would our brother Henry Even Geoffrey, provided it did not inconvenience him unduly Any one of you would have come to my aid, I know that And yet none of you would e\er have come to the aid of each other I've often thought on that" "When I was sixteen, Jo, Papa sought to persuade Richard to cede the Aquitame to me Our brother Henry was a year dead, and Papa promised to name Richard as his heir, but he thought it only fair that Richard should then yield up Aquitame in return Richard did not see it that way, flared into a rage and swore he'd be damned ere he'd agree Papa flew into an equal rage, told me that Aquitame \\as mine if I could take it from Richard A sixteen-year-old boy has no money for troops But the Duke of Brittany does, and Geoffrey offered to provide the men and money, told me this was the chance of a lifetime So Geoffrey and I led an army into Poitou, and Richard burned damned near half of Brittany in retaliation until Papa made haste to summon us all to London, told us he had not meant to be taken senously " They were both silent for a time after that John leaned over, plucked a primrose from the closest bush, and presented it to Joanna with self-mocking gallantry "Tell me, Jo, why did you follow me out to the gardens? What did you want to say to me'' "Do you remember what I would call you whenever we'd have a falling-out? Johnny-cat, because you were always poking about where you had no nght to be " "I remember I never liked it much " "I could not help thinking of that as I watched you and Richard in *e great hall You offered up your eighth life in there, Johnny-cat You do know that7" "Christ, Joanna, of course I do Do you think anything less than that could have brought me to Lisieux?" "Thank God you see that," she said somberly "\ was so afraid you ^ould not Because I know Richard, he'd not forgive you again, Johnny J116 next time you fall from grace will be the last time For your sake, I do »ope you never forget that " nip! 7 YORKSHIRE, ENGLAND September 1196 JLoo excited to sleep, Joanna awakened just before dawn on the morning of her fifth birthday. Taking care not to disturb her mother, she slid from their bed, pulled her gown over her head, and ran a wooden comb through her tangled dark hair. She knew she should wash her face, clean her teeth with a hazel twig, but she could not wait; the day, her very own, was beckoning. In the outer room, Maud still slept, rolled up in blankets by the hearth. Joanna tiptoed around her, searching for food to break the night's fast. The only furniture the room contained was a trestle table, a coffer chest, and several stools, but it was cluttered with household utensils: her mother's distaff and spindle, a pile of reeds that Maud meant to plait into baskets, the hand mill that Maud used to grind their corn, several letten pots and pans. In the corner an armful of peeled rushes was being steeped in tallow fat; Joanna's nose wrinkled at the pungent smell. Reassured by Maud's steady snoring, she broke off a chunk of thick, black rye bread, smeared it with cheese, and headed for the door. Outside, she detoured by the hen roost, soothed her conscience by scattering a handful of seeds in among the chickens. Joanna very much wanted her mother to think her responsible, did not mean to shirk her household duties. But the morning sky was clear and cloudless, the brilliant blue of her mother's eyes, and the wind rippled through the moorland grass, stirring up a billowing green sea that swept all before it as it raced for the distant silver of the River Ure. Joanna let the wind take her, too; breaking into a run, she skimmed the grass, arms outstretched and hair streaming behind her like an ebony sail, and for a moment or two she actually was a small boat, bound for exotic, alien shores. She slowed as she approached the cottage, home to Cedric, the 75 Saxon farmer who did for them those chores that required a n'S hand. Cedric's cottage looked, at first glance, much like their . thatched roof and timber framework, covered with clay, chopped w, anc[ cow dung. But it was much smaller, contained a single room , cedric, his wife, Eda, and their three children. Joanna had once neaked a look inside, knew they all slept on pallets around the hearth, lacking the straw mattress and wooden bedframe she shared with her mother. Nor did they have the feather pillows, the embroidered coverlets, or the hand mirror of polished metal, all of which Joanna's mother had brought with her from her home to the south, the home Joanna had never seen. As early as it was, Cedric's family was already up and about. He was disappearing into the distance, on his way to the fields he worked with the other villagers. Eda was toting a bucket of milk toward the cottage, and the children were chasing the chickens out of the garden. They were making a noisy game of it, herding the hens in a circle, and Joanna felt a pang of envy, yearning to join in. She'd watched Cedric's children for months, knew the boy was called Derwin and his sisters Rowena and Elfrida, names strange and foreign-sounding to Joanna. She knew, too, that they were not proper playmates for her; Maud had warned her often enough of that. Saxon peasants, she'd said scornfully, bound to the land, who could be bought and sold and were born to serve. That had confused Joanna somewhat, for she knew that Maud, too, was a servant. Maud had nursed her mother, called her "lamb" and "sweeting," and yet she was still a servant; Joanna had heard her mother remind Maud of that more than once. So why, then, did she look upon Cedric and his family with such contempt? No, Joanna did not understand. It mattered little to her that Cedric's children were serfs, that they spoke an alien tongue. She would even have dared her mother's wrath, so lonely was she, so eager for friends. But Rowena and Elfrida had shied away from all her overtures, stared at her with suspicious, wary eyes, and at last she'd stopped trying. Yet she still wondered why they would not play with her. Was it because she was Norman? Because Cedric addressed her mother as "my lady"? Or because she was "different"? As young as she was, Joanna was aware of the irregular aspects of her homelife. She had no family but her mother. They had no friends, no visitors, and the past was a forbidden terrain, a land of dark secrets, secrets Joanna instinctively feared. There was so much she did not un- i* uerstand, but she sensed that what was wrong in their lives was somehow her fault. Now the other children had noticed her, were whispering among themselves, laughing. Joanna turned, walked away. 76 But her spirits lifted, as always, at sight of the castle. She spent hours here some days, watching the people passing in and out of the bailey. Four times a year Maud would mount the steps into the keep, would pay the rent for their cottage to Guy, the bailiff for Robert Fit? Ranulf, Lord of Middleham. Joanna had begged in vain to accompany Maud on these quarter-day visits, and the world hidden away behind those timbered outer walls remained a mystery to her. Stretching out in the grass, she picked up a stick and cleared a space. Her mother was different from the villagers in yet another way; she could read and write. Very few women had such a skill, she'd told Joanna one night when wine had loosened her tongue, but her fatherJoanna's grandfatherhad permitted her to be taught with her brothers. "He was so proud of me, Joanna . . . once," she whispered, and when she began to cry, Joanna cried, too; she dreaded her mother's tears even more than her slaps. Now she patted the earth till it was smooth, took the stick and laboriously scrawled her mother's name in the dirt: CLEMENCE. Then she traced JOANNA below it. But that was the extent of her knowledge; Clemence had neither the patience nor the aptitude to instruct, and her sporadic attempts to teach Joanna the alphabet had come to naught. A solitary child is more given to daydreaming, and Joanna was no exception. She lost track of time; the morning drifted away on an easterly breeze. Yawning, she sat up in the grass, and then saw how high the sun was in the sky. It was nigh on ten o'clock; she was perilously close to being late for dinner. Joanna scrambled to her feet, began to run. Sprinting through the village, with several barking dogs at her heels, she raced for home. Maud kept a water bucket outside the door and, proud that she'd remembered, she conscientiously washed the dirt from her face and hands. But she'd splashed water about too freely, and looked with dismay now at the splotches darkening the skirt of her gown. She was always displeasing her mother and Maud, and yet she tried so hard to be good, she truly did. She hoped the mud stains would pass unnoticed, but at sight of her, Maud set down her bowl with a thud. "And where have you been, rooting about in the pigsty? For the love of the Lord, look at the child!" Clemence, thus appealed to, turned from the hearth. "Oh, Joanna!" Ruefully. "What a slovenly little beggar you are." There was no anger in her voice, though, and Joanna's tension dissipated in a rush of relief. But the bewilderment remained. The same misdeed that would, on one day, earn her a slap in the face might, at another time, be shrugged off with indulgent laughter. Her mother's erratic tempers were baffling to the little girl, but they were disquieting/ 77 too There was a perverse security in the constancy of Maud's dour dis- roval, none whatsoever in her mother's quicksilver moods a" ^ special birthday dinner had been cooked for Joanna a rabbit w flavored with onions, saffron, and wine, a thick bean pottage, wed apples There was cider for Joanna, red wine for Clemence, ale for Maud, and plum tarts for the final course Sitting m the place of "honor," Joanna was flushed with happiness Their dinner usually conisted of soup or fish, bread and cheese, and she took this rich fare as proof that she was loved, in favor She even dared to hope that her mother might have heeded her pleading, have gotten her the dog she so wanted She held her breath in excitement now as Maud cleared away the stale bread trenchers that served as plates, as her mother rose, moved toward the bedchamber "Joanna, these are for you " Her mother was smiling, holding out her presents several scarlet hair ribbons and a wooden top Joanna bit her lip, blinked back tears "Thank you, Mama," she mumbled, and Clemence frowned "I told you we'd be having no dogs in this house I thought you understood that " Joanna swallowed If only Mama knew how much she wanted a puppy1 She'd tried so hard to make Mama understand "Joanna1 Joanna, I like it not when you sulk, you know that " "I'm not sulking, Mama, I'm not," Joanna said hastily, and after a long moment, Clemence nodded "See that you do not Now come here and get your birthday kiss " Joanna did JOANNA sat on a stool, watching in awe as her mother loosened her thick blonde braids, shook her head m a swirl of brightness Joanna was fascinated, when unbound, her mother's hair cascaded down her back in a silky tumble of light, reaching well below her hips She smiled over her shoulder at Joanna, held out the brush, and Joanna reached eagerly for >t/ she loved brushing her mother's hair, took pride in making it gleam like gold "Mama when is your birthday7" "In less than a fortnight " Clemence seemed to sigh "My twentyfirst I expect that sounds very old to you7" "Yes," Joanna admitted, and they both laughed "Then I was almost born on your birthday, was I not, Mama7 Mama was I not7" She felt her mother stiffen "Yes," Clemence said at last, a grudging one-word answer that thudded between them like a stone, and Joanna 78 suddenly wanted to cry. Once again she'd managed to say the wrong thing. "You have pretty hair, Mama," she said imploringly. "So pretty, ^ is like looking at the sun." "That's sweet, Joanna." Clemence reached over, patted Joanna's hand, and then picked up the mirror. As she shifted, Joanna saw her own eyes staring back at her. Not blue like her mother's, but a strange color neither brown nor green, what her mother called hazel, slanting queerly at the corners. Joanna hated her eyes, just as she hated the straight, coarse hair that even now was defying her birthday ribbons. "Mama . . . why do I not look like you? Why do I have hair black like a crow?" "Because you take after him." Clemence turned on the stool, gazing upon her daughter, the blind inward look that Joanna most feared, for she knew it meant her mother was remembering, not seeing her at all. "That was all I asked of God, that I need not see him each time I looked into your face. Little enough to ask, I should think." She laughed suddenly, unsteadily. "But we do pay and pay for our sins, it seems, and you grow more like him with each day that passes." Joanna shrank back. She knew who "he" was, the father who had not wanted her, who had made Mama so unhappy. "Mama . . ." "Oh, God, how like him you are!" Clemence's eyes were not blind now; they were riveted on Joanna's face with an emotional intensity that terrified the child; she thought she could read revulsion in them, and she sobbed, "No, Mama, I'm not1 Please, Mama, I'm not!" This was not the first time her mother had accused her of this bloodsin, but for once her tearful denial proved stronger than the pull of the past. Clemence blinked, sagged back on the stool. "Do not weep, Joanna," she said, with an effort. "Hush now. It matters not if you've his coloring, as long as you've not his accursed, evil soul." Joanna's tears dried; once more her mother had forgiven her for a sin beyond her understanding. But when she came back from the garden privy, she found the bedchamber door barred to her. Maud was already asleep, and she scratched softly on the door. "Mama? Mama, it's me." There was no response. After a few moments she gave up, found a blanket, and dragged it over to the hearth next to Maud. This had happened before; there were times, Maud explained, "when your lady mother needs to be alone." But as she edged closer to Maud's bulky shelter, Joanna wished her mother had not felt such a need on this, her birthday. The next morning, Clemence was moving about the kitchen by the 79 [oanna awakened She was pale, hollow-eyed, and as she bent over kiss Joanna, there was a sour-wine smell on her breath But she med to have laid her ghosts to rest, at least for a time, and Joanna 5 ked for no more than that Nor did Maud, who set about cooking breakfast with unusual cheer It was midmornmg Joanna was weeding midst their cabbages and mons, chanting under her breath, "Plant a seed, pull a weed," when he looked up and saw the cart moving slowly down the road The coming of the cart was an occasion in their lives, much like Christmas or Easter week, and she dashed to meet it Three or four tunes a year, a tight-lipped driver she knew only as Luke pulled up at their door When Joanna had been younger, she'd confused him with St Nicholas, for, like the celebrated saint, Luke brought riches, food, and blankets, and sometimes a pouchful of small silver coins Dancing with excitement, Joanna sought now to see what the cart held Two crated eeese Sacks of salt and flour A barrel of salted pork Bundles of flax stems, Maud would soak them to separate the fibers, and her mother would then spin them into linen for sheets and clothing Jars of honey and flagons of wine "Mama1 Luke's come, and with so much food' Can we have a goose for Michaelmas, can we, Mama7" Clemence did not answer, she was staring at the object Luke was holding out toward her, a sealed parchment Joanna slid down from the cart wheel Mama had never gotten a letter before She shivered suddenly, watched her mother break the seal with clumsy fingers "No1 Oh, God, no " The letter fluttered to the ground, and Joanna grabbed for it But her mother had whirled, was fleeing back into the house "Luke7 Why did the letter make my mama cry7" He rarely acknowledged her, generally acted as if she were invisible to adult eyes But he looked down at her now, said, "Her father is dead " The bedchamber door was ajar Joanna gave it a push and it swung open Her mother and Maud were on the bed, Maud cradling the younger woman as if she were no older than Joanna "I always thought thought someday he'd forgive me I had to believe that, had to but he did not, died believing me to be a whore and I'm not, I'm not1" I know, lovedy, I know " Tears were streaming down Maud's face '% little girl, do not I beg you 'And George he'll inherit all, will not pay the rent on the cota8e you know he will not1 And what will we do, Maud7 Mother of G°d, what will we do7" so Joanna could bear no more. "Mama . . . Mama, do not cry!" But her mother was beyond any consolation she or Maud could offer. She con. tinued to weep as the day dragged on, sometimes silently, hopelessly sometimes with deep, shuddering sobs that convulsed her in gasping spasms, until at last her body rebelled and she retched miserably into the floor rushes around the bed. At dark, Maud made pallets for Joanna and herself by the hearth. But the bedchamber door could not completely shut out the sounds of sobbing. At last Joanna cried herself to sleep. She was awakened well past midnight by a dull thud. Sitting up, she saw her mother standing by the table, two of Luke's wine flagons clutched to her chest. She put her fingers to her lips, backed stealthily toward the door. Her face was waxen in the moonlight, her eyes swollen to slits, blonde hair spilling down her breasts and shoulders in a colorless, tangled snarl. Joanna's breathing quickened; this glassy-eyed, swaying stranger was not her mother. By the time she wriggled free of the blankets, Clemence had retreated back into the bedchamber. As Joanna reached the door, she heard the bolt slide into place. When Maud awoke at dawn, she found the little girl asleep on the floor, huddled against the bedchamber door. THE day seemed endless. Joanna wandered about the cottage like a ghost; not even Middleham Castle could lure her away from that closed bedchamber door. Maud made periodic attempts to coax Clemence out. Sometimes her entreaties provoked curses and slurred abuse; at other times her pleas echoed into an eerie silence. At dusk, Maud set a plate of cheese and bread before Joanna, stood over the child until she choked down a few mouthfuls, and then put her to bed by the hearth. Exhausted, Joanna slept. But the next morning the bedchamber door was still bolted. Maud sent Joanna for Cedric, and as they hastened back up the path toward the cottage, they could hear Maud's fists thudding against the oaken door. "My lady, I beg you, open the door. You've not eaten for two full days." Maud's hands were raw, knuckles bleeding, but she continued to beat futilely on the door until shouldered aside by Cedric. He tested the latch several times, and then said, "Where is your axe?" Maud gave a low moan and gestured, but a shudder passed through her body each time the axe connected with the wood. As the door gave way, Cedric put his shoulder to it, shoved inward, and stum- 81 hied into the room. Joanna heard him gasp, and then he had spun ound, was seeking to block Maud's entry with an outstretched arm. She lunged past him, and then began to scream. There was a strong stench in the room, of wine and vomit and urine. Joanna could see part of the bed, see the overturned flagon on the floor. Wine dripped from the rim, had gathered in a sodden pool midst the rushes. Her mother's blonde hair swept the floor; the ends were trailing in the wine, matted and dark. The wine looked like blood to Joanna. She tried to take a step closer, but her knees gave way. "A doctor, name of God, fetch a doctor!" A white arm dangled over the side of the bed, fingers tightly clenched. Cedric reached out, reluctantly grasped the wrist and quickly let it drop. "Nay, we do need a priest," he said huskily, and Maud fell to her knees by the bed, began a high keening wail. Cedric crossed himself, backed toward the door. Joanna found herself sitting on the floor by the hearth. She slid along the ground until she reached the table, crawled under. There she crouched, putting her hands up to her ears to shut out Maud's screams. MAUD had yet to move away from Clemence's body. She looked up as Cedric reentered the bedchamber, and her face contorted in fear, for he'd not summoned the village priest; the white-garbed monk at his side was John Brompton, Abbot of Jervaulx Abbey. He looked at the woman on the bed, shook his head slowly, and Maud sobbed, grabbed his arm. "A mischance, Reverend Father, that is all ... I swear it! She wanted only to sleep ..." He disengaged her clutching fingers, gazed down at the empty wine flagons. "She did take a sleeping draught?" Maud sobbed again. "Her nights were so bad, Abbot John. Last spring I went to the castle leech; he gave me henbane and white poppy. But she meant no harm to herself. You must believe that, must let her be buried in consecrated ground, I beg you ..." Her voice rose shrilly, and the Abbot said hastily, "Calm yourself, woman. You do disturb yourself for naught, I assure you. It is plain enough what happened. She was distraught, did misjudge the potion." Maud nodded dumbly, then snatched up his hand and, before he could withdraw, pressed it to her lips. He patted her shoulder, said, Do you wish Cedric to see the wainright about building a coffin?" She'd buried her face in her apron, only wept the harder, and he sighed, unfastened the crucifix that dangled from his belt, and aPproached the bed. As he did, he happened to glance toward the 82 outer room, and for the first time he noticed Joanna, cowering under the table. "God in Heaven, did you never think of the child?" Joanna watched as he knelt beside her, held out his hand. "Come to me, little one. That's a good lass . . ." He smelled of sweat and horses and garlic, but his voice was soft coaxing. Joanna wrapped her arms around his neck. She was trembling so violently that her teeth were chattering, and she bit down on her thumb, tasting blood in her mouth. "Mama . . ." "She's in God's keeping now, lass. She's dead." CLINGING to the Abbot's hand, Joanna entered into the bailey of Middleham Castle. Ahead of her rose the limestone ashlar keep. She stared up at it, openmouthed, for it seemed to reach straight toward Heaven. A wooden stairway extended out into the bailey, led up into the keep, and she hesitated, dizzy at the thought of scaling those heights, but the Abbot gently propelled her forward, and she grasped the railing, began a slow, cautious climb. The great hall could easily have accommodated their entire cottage, so vast it was, with windows soaring toward the roof and an open hearth in the center of the floor. A woman was moving toward them, dressed in the softest blue wool Joanna had ever seen. "I've been expecting you, Reverend Father. Is this the child?" "Aye. Joanna, this is the Lady Helweisa, wife to Lord Robert. Make your curtsy and then await me in the window seat." He watched as the child moved away, said, "She has not cried, not even yesterday when we buried her mother." Turning, he gratefully took the wine cup a servant was offering, followed Helweisa to the hearth. "Tell me, Madame, what do you know of the girl's mother?" "Nothing, if truth be told. Guy, our bailiff, rented them the cottage, and all their dealings were with him. Neither my husband nor I concern ourselves with such minor matters. I did assume that the woman was a young widow or, more likely, a foolish girl who'd listened to the wrong man's blandishments." He nodded. "An all-too-common tale, I fear. The girl was very young, and the man was married. When her family discovered she was with child, they cast her out in disgrace." "How, then, did she pay the upkeep on the cottage?" "From what the old woman, Maud, told me, the girl's father paid the rent, saw that her needs were met. Not so much out of charity, ' fear, as to keep her from bringing further shame upon the family name 83 lyiew enough to realize that a girl turned out to starve will buy her d with all she has left to barter, her body. But although they put d on her table, they denied her their forgiveness. The father said she dead in his eyes, and held to that, even upon his deathbed. The iHer son was no less rigid. The younger son was more sympathetic, but could not gainsay his father and brother, although he did take it upon ,. se]f to write her of their father's death. The rest you know." "As you say, Reverend Father, a common tale, and likely to remain o as long as there be born men with glib tongues and silly chits willing to pay tnem heed. What mean you to do about the child? A pity she is not a boy; it might be easier to find a family willing to take in a lad." "That is why I've come to you, Madame. You see, the girl was wellborn, of Norman stock. I got the family name from Maud: d'Arcy. The father held his manor from no less a lord than William de Ferrers, Earl of Derby." "Ah, that does put a different light upon it," Helweisa conceded. "If the child's mother be of gentle birth, then a villein's hut is no fitting place for her, bastard or no. What would you have me do, write to the family?" The Abbot nodded. "Aye, to the younger brother, Sir Roger d'Arcy. He should be told of his sister's death . . . and of her child's need." "I shall be glad to oblige you, of course, Abbot John." Helweisa's eyes strayed across the hall to where Joanna sat, very still, in the window seat. "Poor little lass, I wonder what shall become of her." "She is in God's hands, Madame. As are we all." THERE was no reality in Joanna's time at Middleham; it left little imprint upon her memory. She did as she was bade, spoke when spoken to, and when left to her own devices, she sat for hours staring out at the dales, now burnished with bracken. To the other children of the castle, pages and playmates of Lord and Lady Fitz Ranulf's young son Ralph, she was a curiosity and, provoked by her eerie indifference, they baited her with words learned from their elders: "bastard" and "sideslip." They were the first to put a name to it, to the sin of birth that somehow made her different from other children. A fortnight ago, she'd have been devastated by their mockery. But now their taunts had no power to hurt. What mattered if they called her "bastard"? She had so much more grievous wrongs to answer for. Mama was dead because of her. In her grieving, Mama had sobbed out the truth at last, had cried, "If only sr>e'd never been born!" Mama had not wanted her, and now Mama was dead, and it was er doing, would not have happened if not for her. She did not wonder 84 that Maud did not come to the castle to see her. How could there be forgiveness for a sin so great? On her ninth day at Middleham, she was awakened by a young maidservant, and to her astonishment and apprehension, was told to attend Lord and Lady Fitz Ranulf in the solar. She'd seen Lord Fitz Ranulf only in passing, was much in awe of him, a heavyset man in his fifties, with the brusque, no-nonsense manner of one who does not suffer fools gladly, and prides himself inordinately upon that impatience. Lady Helweisa was more familiar to Joanna. A plump, complacent woman much her husband's junior, she would stop and talk to Joanna whenever they happened to meet in the bailey or great hall, but Joanna did not think Lady Helweisa truly heard her answers. Her nervousness eased somewhat, though, at sight of Abbot John, for he had been kind to her. The fourth man in the chamber was young, dressed in starkest black, with a long sword at his left hip. But it was his hair that held Joanna's eyes; it was blond, the same sunlit shade as her mother's. "Come here, Joanna." Lady Helweisa beckoned her into the solar. "There's one here to meet you, your uncle, Sir Roger d'Arcy." Joanna gasped, stared up at this man who was her kin, her family. As her gaze reached his face, she saw he had her mother's sapphire-blue eyes. "Jesu!" His breath hissed through his teeth; the blue eyes widened. "Christ, if she's not his very image!" For the briefest moment, hope had flickered in the dark of Joanna's world. Her uncle had come for her. But with his words, that faint hope guttered, died. There was on his face the same expression that had been on her mother's the night she'd cried, "Oh, God, how like him you are!" Seeing they all were staring at him, Roger d'Arcy drew a deep breath, said, "I'd never seen her, you see ..." There was a wine cup on the table, and he reached for it, drank until he began to cough. "I expect you think my father was a hard man. Mayhap he was. He put family honor above all else, taught us to do likewise. He taught us, too, that a woman of rank must be chaste, must go to her marriage bed a virgin. When my sister confessed she was with child, he felt betrayed. Shamed." "And you?" Abbot John asked quietly. "It was my duty to obey my father's wishes." Roger drank again, not meeting their eyes. "But. . . she was so pretty, my sister. So quick to laugh. And so young. Just fifteen when she came to court. Fifteen . . ." He turned back to face them, said tautly, "I always did blame him, not her. She was such an innocent, such easy prey. I'd have killed him if I 85 ., /' His voice sounded suddenly muffled, as if he were swallowing C "But I could not. I could only watch my sister suffer for his accursed lust." Helweisa and her husband exchanged glances. Roger d'Arcy had t unwittingly confirmed a growing suspicion of hers. Why had not , d'Arcys taken vengeance upon the man? As bitter as they were, one th'nK alone could have stayed their hand; the man had to be highborn. Very highborn. "What of the child's father, Sir Roger? Would he do nothing for your sister?" He shook his head. "She'd have died ere she asked him for so much as a shilling. My sister was a d'Arcy, Madame; she, too, was proud." Helweisa hesitated, and then decided that the best tactic might be a direct frontal assault. "Sir Roger, who is the child's father?" He looked at her, then down at Joanna, and she said, "Your sister is beyond slander. If you keep silent now, you do but protect the man." "You're right," he said abruptly. "By God, you're right. The man who seduced my sister, the man I blame for her deathhe is the Count of Mortain." There was a shocked silence; even Helweisa had gotten more than she'd bargained for. Her husband whistled softly, as Abbot John echoed, incredulous, "The Count of Mortain? John, the King's brother?" Roger nodded. "Mayhap you understand now why we could not..." His voice trailed off. "Joanna," Abbot John said hastily, "go and sit in the window seat," and held up his hand for silence till she was out of earshot. "That does explain much. But there is one thing I do not understand. For all his vices, Lord John has never failed to acknowledge his bastards. He may spill his seed without care, but he's then willing to claim the crop as his; he has at least five baseborn children, and they lack for little. Why would he not do as much for Joanna?" "My sister hated him, Abbot John, blamed him for her plight. She took her vengeance the only way she could, by denying him his daughter. We gave it out that the child was stillborn." Roger saw the Abbot's disapproval, added defensively, "My sister feared, too, that John might take Joanna from her if he knew. Christ curse him, he had the power." He drained the wine cup, set it down. "I am in your debt for what you did for my sister, Abbot John. I shall be taking Maud back with me. she nursed us all; we'd not have her starve. I shall send Luke for the furnishings of the cottage." As he spoke, he was taking a pouch from jus belt, spilling several silver pennies onto the table. "Take these, Abbot John, and have Masses said for my sister on her month-mind." 86 The Abbot nodded, but then realized that Roger d'Arcy meant to depart. "Sir Roger, wait! What of the child?" Roger seemed no less taken aback. "Surely you do not expect us to take her in? John's spawn? My brother would sooner shelter a leper, and in this I do agree with him. There are always villagers in want of children; place her with one of them." "Sir Roger, these be hard times; few of our serfs have food to spare for their own. And what of your sister? Joanna is her child, too." Roger was shaking his head. "We cannot take her. My brother would never consent, and I Do you not see? Every time I did look upon her, I'd remember the Hell that was my sister's life these five years past. Christ, you cannot ask that of us. She'd be a living, festering sore in our midst, and we will not take her. We cannot!" But he did not move, and after a moment, he shook additional coins out onto the table "There; use that for her corrody, place her with the nuns at St Clements. I can do no more than that." Not waiting for their response, he moved swiftly toward the door, did not look back. Abbot John approached the table, looked down at the silver pennies. "Well, mayhap it is for the best. May the lass stay with you, my lord, until I can make arrangements with the sisters in York?" Robert Fitz Ranulf nodded, then turned in surprise as his wife said, "No, Reverend Father. We can put that money to better use. Why not send the child to her father, to John?" "Madame, you would undertake that? Lord John is in Normandy, and to be truthful, I think such a journey would cost more than d'Arcy's grudging offering." "No matter, we will pay the difference," Helweisa said placidly, and her husband stared at her in outraged astonishment. "That is indeed a kindness, Madame, and you shall not go unrewarded for it. God sees . . . and approves." "I do not doubt it, Abbot John." Helweisa smiled, shepherded the Abbot toward the door. "Have you lost your senses, woman? Whatever possessed you to make an offer like that? You do not even know that John would accept her as his!" "Ah, Rob, that is a false fear. Whatever other evils may be credited to his account, John does tend to his own, and that child is his. Once he sees her, he'd be the last to deny that." "Even so, you do not expect him to reimburse us for our trouble, do you? What prince ever paid back a debt?" "That is true enough," she conceded readily. "But it will be a cheap price to pay for the favor of a King." "And what makes you so sure that John will ever be King?" 87 "My dearest, can you doubt it? It's been five years now since Richard's mother badgered him into taking a Spanish wife, and she's yet ven to set foot in England! Richard will give England no son of his loins; n°r is ne a man *° ^*e peacefully in bed. He has but two possible heirs, his brother John or his nephew Arthur. Arthur is a child of nine. John is twenty-eight, and has Lucifer's own luck. Did we not all think he'd ruined himself with his scheming when Richard was taken by his enemies in Austria? Remember what happened when Richard's ransom was finally paid? John was banished from England, had the earldoms of Mortain and Gloucester taken from him. And then? He did meet with Richard in Normandy, somehow got Richard to forgive him and, within a year, even to restore his titles. Any man who could work a miracle like that is no man to wager against, Rob." Her husband nodded slowly. "Mayhap I was overhasty in objecting. Very well, you do have my permission." Helweisa, who'd never doubted that for a moment, nonetheless gave him a grateful smile, a dutiful kiss. "I think I know just the one to escort the child, Rob. Simon, our bailiff's eldest. He's a likely lad, and can be trusted to keep his wits about him." Across the solar, Joanna sat, forgotten, in the window seat. She understood now why her mother had not wanted her, why her uncle and Maud did not want her. There was something shameful in her birth, so much so that her uncle had looked upon her with loathing. "Joanna?" Lady Helweisa was standing by the window seat, smiling at her. "I do have wondrous news, child. You are to go to Normandy, to go to your lord father." Joanna's breath stopped. She could only stare up at the woman, too stricken for speech, for more than a whispered, "Please, no . . ." that none heard, or would have heeded. JOANNA'S fear of her father was soon eclipsed by the utter misery of her journey. Perched precariously behind Simon's saddle, she slowly overcame her panicked conviction that each dip in the road would jar loose her hold on Simon's belt, send her sprawling into the dirt, to be trampled by the horses of Simon's escort. But the jouncing soon raised blisters and welts upon her thighs and buttocks. As Simon was under orders to make haste, some days they covered thirty miles, and Joanna's muscles would be so cramped and sore that she could barely crawl into bed at night. Bed was generally no more than a scratchy woolen blanket, and on those nights when they could find no monastery or inn to take them in, they bedded down in the fields, Joanna huddling against Si- mon in a futile search for warmth, for it was October now and the nights were chill. The days blurred, one into the next. They would be on the road at dawn, moving south through ghostly hamlets and silent villages, for plague and famine were abroad in the land. Simon's men kept swords loose in their scabbards, for all knew that in troubled times the roads abounded with highwaymen and brigands. Joanna's anxieties were more immediate; too shy to ask Simon to stop when she needed to relieve herself, she suffered agonies of discomfort, and once, the ultimate humiliation, as urine trickled down her legs, stained her skirt. Her world was taking on more and more the aspects of a terrifying dream, one that offered no escape. They reached London on the tenth day. Joanna had not thought there could be so many people in all of Christendom. The streets were never still. Heavy carts rumbled by; men led overladen pack animals; women rode sidesaddle and in horse litters; the activity never seemed to cease. Nor did the noise. She was glad when, after a night passed in a seedy Cheapside inn, Simon led her toward the wharves. The docks were crowded with vessels, large galleys manned by oarsmen, smaller esneques rigged with canvas sails. It was one of these that was to convey them across the Channel, and Joanna found herself squeezed into a dark, foul-smelling canvas tent already overflowing with pilgrims, merchants, and mercenaries. Joanna had never even seen the sea, and she became seasick almost at once. Most of the passengers were experiencing the same distress, and the fetid, airless tent soon became unbearable for all entombed within. It took several days to navigate the River Thames and turn south into the Channel. They reached the Seine estuary on the third day, began the slow passage upriver toward Rouen, not dropping anchor in the harbor until dusk on the following day. It was dark by the time they disembarked. Joanna had long since passed the limits of her endurance. She stumbled after Simon in a daze, clutching his hand as if it were her only lifeline. When he dragged her into a riverside alehouse, she simply sat down on the floor at his feet. Snatches of his conversation drifted to her. ". . . in Rouen for the wedding of his sister Joanna, the Queen of Sicily, to the Count of Toulouse . . . bringing his baseborn daughter ..." Joanna at once was surrounded by strangers, suddenly the center of attention. She heard someone say, "He is at Le Vieille, at the castle." That was the last thing she remembered. There on the dirt floor of the tavern, she fell into an exhausted sleep. When she awakened, she found herself in a large, torchlit chamber, again encircled by strangers. The smoke from the hearth stung her eyes, 89 ne rubbed them with the back of her hand, tried to focus on her surroundings. "I suppose we must take your word that there is a child hidden underneath all that grime. Has she ever, in all her life, had a bath?" The voice was scornful, belonged to the most beautiful woman Joanna had ever seen, fair-skinned and flaxen-haired, a flesh-and-blood embodiment of ideal womanhood, as extolled in Clemence's bedtime chansons. But this bewitching creature was looking at her with such distaste that Joanna flushed, pressed back against Simon, who seemed no less flustered. He stammered something about the hardships of the road, and the woman laughed. "I daresay you never even noticed how she looked. God knows, you're filthy enough yourself!" Joanna did not like this woman, not at all. "My mama gave me baths," she said, and was bewildered when those around her laughed. But then the door was opening, and two enormous dogs were rushing at her, barking furiously. They towered above Joanna; when one lunged at her, hot breath brushing her face, her nerves gave way and she began to scream, could not stop even after someone had lifted her to safety. Joanna's screams soon gave way to choked sobs. Her rescuer let her cry, having silenced the dogs with a one-word command. His tunic seemed wondrously soft to her, fragrant with orris root. She rubbed her cheek against it, felt his hand moving on her hair. "Do you not like dogs, lass?" he asked, stirring an immediate, indignant denial. "I love dogs! But they were so big ..." Peering down from his arms, she saw that the dogs were not quite so monstrous after all, were merely large, friendly wolfhounds. "I love dogs," she repeated. "But my mama would never let me have one." He laughed, and touched his finger to a smudge on her nose. "Well, you are a surprise package, if a rather bedraggled one. How would you fancy a bath?" A PALLET had been made up by the bed; they stood looking down at the sleeping child. "Do you remember the mother at all, John?" "Yes, I do; does that surprise you? Clemence d'Arcy. A very pretty girl . . and a very stupid one." Joanna's clothes lay on the floor by the bathing tub, and John touched them with the toe of his boot. "Have these rags burned, Adele. 90 I assume there is a seamstress in the castle? See that she has enough material, from your own coffers, if need be." "But John . . . it's nigh on ten; she's abed for certes." "Not for long. I want a new gown for Joanna by morning, something soft, in green or gold." Reaching for the corner of the blanket, he rubbed gently at Joanna's wet hair. She stirred, but did not awaken. "I'm amazed, in truth, that she does not seem to fear me. I rather doubt that Clemence spoke tenderly of me. Until I can engage a suitable nurse, I'll expect you to care for her," he added, and Adele's mouth dropped open. "Me?" "Yes, darlingyou. Passing strange about the name. Joanna was Clemence's mother; I recall now. I think I shall tell her that she was named after my sister Joanna. She is my first daughter, Adele; all the others have been sons." Adele laughed. "I've never seen this side of you before, John. You remind me of nothing so much as a lad with a new toy!" John raised his head, gave her a long, level look. "I begin to think you might be as stupid as Clemence," he said, very softly, and Adele paled. "I did not mean to offend you, my lord." "Well, then, you'd best think how to make it up to me, darling," he said, still softly, and she nodded. "It shall be my pleasure." "Not entirely yours, I hope!" He laughed then, and after a pause, she laughed, too. JOANNA slept till midmorning, awakening, bewildered, in a huge curtained bed as soft as a cloud. There was a fox-fur coverlet pulled up over her, and at the foot of the bed lay the most beautiful clothes she'd ever seen: a linen chemise, an emerald wool gown, and a bliaut over-tunic of green and gold. But her own gown was nowhere in sight. Wrapping herself in the fur coverlet, she moved cautiously from the bed, began to search the chamber for her clothes. Never had she been in a room like this. The walls were covered with linen hangings, glowing with color. Thickly laid floor rushes, intermingled with sweet-smelling basil and mint, tickled the soles of her feet. There was a table covered with a clean white cloth, an enormous oaken coffer, even a large brass chamber pot. Joanna was at a loss. But she was remembering more now, remembered being bathed and put to bed, remembered a man with a reassuring smile, green-gold eyes, and the beautiful, unfriendly woman he 91 lied Adele. She remembered, too, how, when she'd awakened in the 'eht not knowing where she was, he'd taken her into bed with him nd Adele; nestled between them, she'd soon slept again, feeling safe for the first time since her mother died. The door opened; Adele entered. "Well, you're up at last. John's awaiting you in the great hall, so hurry and dress." "My clothes are gone," Joanna said reluctantly, suddenly afraid that she'd be blamed for their loss. "They're right there on the bed." Adele pointed impatiently when Joanna merely looked at her, uncomprehending. And only then did Joanna reach out, timidly touch the soft lace edging the chemise, not truly convinced such clothes could be hers until Adele snapped, much as her mother had so often done, "Are you going to tarry all day? Put them on." Following Adele down the winding stairwell, Joanna discovered it led to a great hall, much like the one at Middleham. Dogs were rooting in the floor rushes for bones; servants were carrying platters of food; men seated at long trestle tables laughed and joked as they ate, the overall atmosphere one of cheerful chaos. Joanna hesitated, daunted by the sight of so many people, but Adele pushed her forward, into the hall. "Go on in. Would you keep him waiting?" At the end of the hall a dais had been set up, and Joanna recognized the man who'd been so kind to her the night before. She was gathering up her courage to approach him when he beckoned to her. She came at once, realizing, with a jolt of astonished happiness, that he was as glad to see her as she was to see him. Within moments she found herself seated beside him, being urged to share the food ladled onto his trencher. She was dazzled both by the size of the portions and the amazing variety: roasted venison, lampreys in sauce, a rissole of beef marrow, pea soup, glazed wafers, pancake crisps, and a sweet spiced wine he called hippocras. John let her sip from his cup, named each food for hereven let her choose for herself which dishes she wanted to try, and by the end of the meal, Joanna was utterly captivated by him. He had a low, pleasant voice, never raised it, and yet was obeyed with celerity. It was obvious to Joanna that he was a man of importance. That made it all the more wondrous that he should take such an interest in her. She watched him closely, eating what he ate, and laughing when he did, so intent she did not at first notice what would normally have claimed all her attention, the small spaniel puppy being led toward the dais. "You said your mother would allow you no dog, Joanna. Well, I will," John said, depositing the squirming spaniel in her lap. He heard her catch her breath; she looked up at him with eyes so adoring that he 92 laughed. "I think you shall be cheaper to content than the other women in my life; they yearn for pearls and silks, not puppies." "For me? Truly for me?" The puppy was a soft silver grey; it wriggled as Joanna ruffled its fur, swiped at her fingers with its tongue. "Have you a name in mind, Joanna?" When she shook her head, John smiled. "I've one for you, then. Why not call her Avisa?" Joanna thought that a very pretty name, wondered why so many of the men laughed. One, wearing a priest's cassock, said, "Despite your differences, the Lady Avisa is still your wife, my lord, in the eyes of both man and God." "And precisely because she is, Father, I can say for certes that Avisa is an uncommonly apt name for a bitch," John said dryly, and again those around the dais laughed. Joanna did not understand this byplay, but she reached out, shyly stroked John's sleeve. "I do like Avisa for the puppy," she said, seeking to please him, saw by his smile that she had. After the meal was cleared away, the men sat down at one of the tables and unrolled a large map of Normandy. Joanna hovered in the background, playing with her puppy. When her curiosity drew her toward the table, John did not chase her away; instead he sat her on his lap, spent several moments pointing out places on the map, showing her a French town called Gamaches and telling her how he had taken and burnt the town that August past for his brother the King. Joanna did not understand about battles or campaigns; what mattered to her was that he should take the time and trouble to explain. She was so happy that she went quite willingly when Adele came to fetch her. Back in the bedchamber, she sat docilely upon the coffer while Adele brushed her hair, wondering why Adele, who obviously did not like her, should care if her hair was combed or not. When Adele put the brush away, she went to the window, climbed onto the seat to gaze down into the bailey. And panicked at what she saw. "Simon!" She'd actually forgotten all about him. "Who is Simon?" "He brought me here." Joanna jerked at the shutters, tugged until she'd blocked Simon from view. "When does he go?" Adele shrugged. "On the morrow, I expect." On the morrow. On the morrow Simon would take her away, to her father. As soon as Adele departed the chamber, Joanna scrambled from the window seat. Never before had she thought to rebel, but never before had so much been at stake. She quickly settled upon the coffer. Rooting in the hearth for a suitable stick of firewood, she tucked the puppy under her arm, lowered herself into the coffer, and jammed the stick under 93 lid so she'd not be utterly in the dark. On the morrow Simon would rch for her in vain, would have to leave without her. "Joanna?" She tensed, heard her name called again. Avisa had begun to himper. She shivered, kept very still. And then the coffer lid was thrown back, her hiding place exposed. "Why did you not answer me, Joanna? What foolish game is this?" But at sight of her tearstained face, John's annoyance ebbed away. Reaching down, he lifted her out, set her beside him on the bed. "Now, tell me what is wrong." "I was hiding from Simon," she confessed. "So he could not take me to my father." There was a silence. She slanted a glance through wet lashes, saw he was watching her, with a very strange look on his face. "Please," she entreated. "Do not make me go with him." Still he said nothing. As hope faded, tears began to streak her face again. "I thought you understood. Joanna ... I am your father." He saw her eyes widen, pupils dilate with shock. He started to touch her, stopped himself. "Joanna . . . what did your mother tell you of me?" She swallowed. "That you were wicked, that your soul was accursed, that you did not want me." The corner of John's mouth twitched. "She lied to you, lass. I do want you." Joanna stared down into her lap. "Mama did not want me," she whispered. "Did you love your mother, Joanna?" She nodded, and then said, almost inaudibly, "I was afraid of Mama sometimes." John reached out, tilted her chin up. "Do you fear me?" She did not answer at once, and he was later to tell Adele that he'd actually been able to see it in her eyes, that moment when loyalty given to a dead woman was given to him. "No," she said, and as the wonder of that realization registered with her, she shook her head vehemently. "No, oh, no . . ." "You're flesh of my flesh, Joanna, of my blood. You understand what that means?" "That I belong to you?" she ventured, and he smiled. "Just so, Joanna. Just so." And then she was in his arms, clinging, and he was laughing, hugging her back. That was the beginning of the good times for Joanna. 8 POITIERS, PROVINCE OF POITOU January 1199 a. "