He raised himself up on his elbow, and then he nodded. "Tomorrow," he said.

"Tell him that he's won, that. . . You know what to tell him."

She was no longer so sure of that. She'd prayed that he would agree, but now that he had, she was suddenly terrified. He was putting his life in her hands.

What if she failed him, if Adda was right, if hef father would not listen to her?335 "I'm frightened, Llewelyn," she_said, and he put his arm around her, held her close.

"I know, Joanna." After a long time, he said, very softly, "So am I."

28.

ABERCONWY, NORTH WALES.

August 1211 O>.

V-/NCE she had ridden into the English camp, Joanna was separated from her small Welsh escort, taken into the outer parlour of the abbey. Too tense to sit for long, she paced the confines of the small chamber as if it were a cage, until she could endure the waiting no longer, escaped out into the west walkway of the cloisters.

The Cistercian monks had fled before John's army; more than a dozen soldiers now lounged on the grassy inner garth. Joanna's unexpected appearance momentarily stopped all conversation; heads jerked around. Of all the privations peculiar to campaigning in Wales, the one the soldiers found most difficult to accept was the utter lack of women. Theirs was the most uncommon of army encampments, one in which there were neither willing harlots nor unwilling captives.

They were watching Joanna with avid interest, but warily, too, for her gown was a finely woven wool, her veil a gossamer silk. She could hear them murmuring among themselves, speculating whether she was a "Crogin," a contemptuous slang term for the Welsh; that would, she realized, have made her fair game. At last one of the men rose, sauntered toward her. "What can I do for you?" he asked, and while the words themselves were innocent enough, both his smile and his tone Were slyly suggestive.

'TMothing whatsoever," Joanna snapped. Although he was already acking away, warned off by the jeweled rings adorning her fingers, she cled maliciously, "But I shall tell my father the King of your concern,"

" had the dubious satisfaction of seeing him blanch. The men could have retreated any faster had she revealed herself to be a witch;336 r 337.

within moments she was all alone on the walkway, filled with a rage as unfocused as it was impotent, that what should now matter most m Llewelyn's own realm was not that she was his wife, but that she was John's daughter.

A man was emerging from the monks' frater. He came to an abrupt halt at sight of Joanna, then limped toward her. She was no less surprised to see him. For several years, Hugh Corbet had been suffering from the disease known as the "joint evil," and his health was no longer up to the rigors of a military campaign.

"You've come on Llewelyn's behalf?" he asked, and she nodded.

"Yes. And you?"

"At the King's command."

Joanna felt a chill. How would she ever get her father to listen if he was as vengeful as that, enough to make Llewelyn's ailing stepfather an unwilling witness to his downfall?

"Joanna . . . when you see the King, weigh your words with care He is in a foul temper this morn. He got word, you see, that William de Braose has been stricken with a mortal sickness. It's said he's sure to die."

Joanna's eyebrows rose. "I'd have thought my father would be gladdened by news like that!"

"I expect he was. But he was not so glad to hear that Stephen Langton was at de Braose's deathbed, that he means to officiate at de Braose's funeral."

"Good God, no wonder Papa was wroth!"

"With cause," Hugh conceded. "It is Langton's way of spiting the King, of course. For all that the Pope has anointed him as Archbishop of Canterbury, he dares not set foot on English soil. But de Braose was formally outlawed, declared a traitor to the crown. It's not fitting for Langton to pay such honor to a rebel."

"It may not be proper, but it certainly is political!" Joanna shook her head, bemused. "I wonder if my father will release Maude de Braose once her husband is dead. I'd think he Hugh? Whatever ails you?"

"I thought you knew. Maude de Braose is dead." Hugh hesitated, no longer met Joanna's eyes. "She . . . died in prison."

"No, I did not know." Joanna frowned. "Strange that Llewelyn never mentioned it. Surely he must have heard." But then she forgot all about Maude de Braose and her dying husband, even forgot abou Hugh, for a familiar figure was coming down the north walkway. Gatn~ ering up her skirts, she ran to meet her brother.

"Thank God, Richard! I prayed you'd be here. Papa . . . he wl see me?"

"Did you ever doubt it?" Richard had his mother's pale blue ey see mer ften remote, not easily read; she saw in them now only pity. "He sent e to fetch you, awaits you in the small parlour next to the Chapter House."

"Richard . . . tell me the truth. Do you think he'll heed me?" "Ah, Joanna ..." But as reluctant as he was to answer, when he did, it was with uncompromising honesty. "No, I do not."

,0nN did not say anything, merely held out his arms, and for a few brief nioments Joanna tried to take refuge in memories, sought to find again m her father's embrace the protected peace of childhood.

"I've been so frightened, Papa," she confessed, finding it as easy as that to revert back to the role decreed for her so long ago at Rouen. John, too, seemed reluctant to let go of the past, speaking softly and soothingly as if hers were still childhood hurts, of no greater moment than scraped knees or a lost doll, hurts to be healed with smiles and the promises of sweets.

"I know, lass. But all will yet be well for you. I'll make it so, I swear.

Come now, seat yourself at the table. I've food set out for you; you can eat as we talk."

Joanna did as he bade, watched as he acted as cupbearer for them both, but notfor Richard or Will. She had no appetite, though, merely toyed with the bread and cheese put before her. John took a seat facing her, said, "You've been much on my mind, Joanna. I'd not have you suffer for sins not yours, think I have found a way to make certain you do not. Tell me of your son, of David.

It's lucky, in truth, that he's too voung to understand what's been happening."

"I would that were so, Papa. But Davydd now wakes in the night whimpering, has begun to talk about creatures lurking out in the dark, hiding under the bed.

And Elen, too, senses something is amiss. She has"

"When will he be three . . . November? And the age of majority amngst the Welsh is fourteen, no? Of course, he'd need guidance and cunsel long after that, would need"

'Papa, what are you saying?"

'I am saying, sweetheart, that you need not worry, that I mean to fotect your son's inheritance. I shall have to take much of Gwynedd ner the control of the crown, but I'll leave David a fair share, that I mise." He leaned across the table, with a smile of familiar, fond nri, the smile that invariably heralded the giving of a memorable gift.

see no reason' Joanna, why you yourself should not act as regent David comes of age."

'anna sat very still. She was aware of perspiration trickling clam-338 mily down her throat, between her breasts, along her ribs, rivulets cold sweat that seared her skin like ice, set her to trembling. Richard had moved behind John's chair, and when she opened her mouth, he gave swift, warning shake of his head. She let her protest ebb away on a uneven, labored breath, grabbed for a wine cup, and drank witnout tasting.

John had been watching her intently. "I see," he said at last, qu^, coolly.

"No, Papa, I do not think you do." Joanna set the wine cup down reached at random for something she could not spill, clutched at a thick slice of bread.

"It would not work, you see. The Welsh would never accept a woman as regent.

It is true that in most ways their women enjoy greater freedom than ours, but those freedoms are personal, not political."

"Then we need only select a regent amenable to our wishes, eager to cooperate with the crown. You'd still act as regent, in all but name Does that frighten you? It need not, for you'd not be alone, lass. I'd see that you had advisers you could trust, men who"

"Your advisers, Papa? Men of Norman blood? How do you think the Welsh would react to that? No, you still do not understand. It's not just that the Welsh would never accept me. They'd not accept Davydd, either. He is a babe, half Normanand your grandson. Those would be liabilities to cost him the crown.

Should aught befall Llewelyn, his people would not look to Davydd, they'd look to Llewelyn's other son, his Welsh son."

"Gruffydd?" he said, showing her he was all too familiar with Lie welyn's court. "And if he were not available?"

"It ... it would not matter. Llewelyn has another son, Tegwared. He's still a child, but the Welsh would prefer him to Davydd. They'd even prefer Llewelyn's cousin Hywel. Davydd must earn the acceptance of his father's people, must prove to them that his heart and soul are no less Welsh than Gruffydd's. I've given this much thought, Papa, from the very day of his birth. I do think he can eventually win their allegiance. But he'll need time, time to grow to manhood. Until then, only his father can safeguard his inheritance, only Llewelyn." Joanna ha unwittingly been tearing at the bread as she spoke; the tablecloth va littered with crumbs. She put the crust aside, said, "That is why I hav come, Papa. To beg you to spare Llewelyn ... for the sake of my sn "You are saying, then, that all your concern is for David, none o for Llewelyn?" , { John sounded so skeptical that Joanna blushed, remembering bedchamber scene he'd witnessed at Woodstock. "No, Papa," s"e as steadily as she could, "I am not saying that. I do care for L339 j-jow could I not? He treats me quite well. I've been his wife for I e years, have borne him two children, would not want to see him harmed."

She reached across the table, caught at John's sleeve. "If I owe Lle- elvn a wife's loyalty and Davydd a mother's love, I owe you much, o I to^ you at tne **me * agreed to wecl Llewelyn that there was othing I would not do for you. I meant it, Papa, proved it by making a marriage I dreaded. Did you know that, know how much I feared it? But I did it for you . . . and then found in that marriage an unexpected and abiding contentment."

John shifted in his seat, drew back out of reach. "Does it matter so much to you, Joanna, being Llewelyn's wife?"

"Not his wife, Papa . . . his consort."

That was an answer he was not expecting. He leaned back in his chair, subjected her to a troubled appraisal. "In truth, Joanna? At the time of your marriage, I seem to remember you counting a crown of little worth."

"At the time of my marriage, I was only fourteen. The truth is, Papa, that I'm pleading not just for Davydd, but for myself, too. Even now it often seems no less than a miracle to me, that I could be bastardborn and yet wear a crown. I do not think I could bear to give it up. You, of all men, should be able to understand that."

"Yes," he admitted, "I can. I only wish I'd known . . ." He rose abruptly, moved to the window. "I am sorry, lass, I swear I am. But you ask too much of me."

"Not if you love me." Joanna had risen, too, stumbled over her skirts in her haste to follow John to the window. "Papa . . . you do still love me?"

He swung around, stared at her."Jesu, do you doubt it?"

"I . I do not know. God knows I do not want to! But you led an army into my husband's lands, my lands, too. Your men even burned Aber, and that was my home, Papa, mine no less than Llewelyn's. What lf my children or I had still been there, if we'd not"

Ah, Joanna, do not! This is between Llewelyn and me, has nothing 0 with you. I'd not hurt you for the world. You have ever been my dearest child, do you not know that?"

Help me, then, Papa. You're the only one who can. For Davydd r me, I beg you . . . please!" Joanna's voice broke; she started to e - and John stopped her, pulled her almost roughly to her feet.

o not, lass. There's no need."

oardi na Cau8ht her breath. "Does that mean you'll do it, Papa? You'll Qn Llewelyn?"340 There was a long pause, and then he nodded. "It seems I have ^ choice."

Joanna had often heard Llewelyn quote a caustic Welsh prove^ one that spoke of a borrowed smile. She could feel just such a snulf twisting her mouth, a counterfeit coin to pay a debt of dishonor Shf could take no pride in what she had accomplished. Gratitude, too, ^ an alien emotion to her at that moment.

Even her sense of relief va, curiously muted. She was aware only of her utter exhaustion, and wher John led her toward a bench, she sank down upon the hard wood as if, were a cushioned settle.

She'd once seen a swimmer collapse upon the beach after battlim the sea back to shore; he'd lain panting in the shallows, digging his hands deep into the sand as if to anchor himself to the earth, too weak to do more than marvel at his reprieve. She felt much the same way ncm wanted only to sit and be left in peace, if only for a little while.

But John had seated himself beside her on the bench, and he v,as saying grimly, "If Llewelyn comes to me here at Aberconwy, I will accept his surrenderfor you, Joanna. But more than that I cannot do He has much to answer for, and if he wants peace, it must be on my terms You do understand that?"

She nodded, and John relaxed somewhat, sought then to swallow a noxious draught with grudging grace. "I expect you'll want to send word at once? How many hostages will he want as pledges for hi safety? Five? Ten?"

"No, Papa. He wants but one . . . your brother Will."

John stiffened. "Christ Jesus!"

"John, I do not mind, in truth I do not," Will interjected mildly, a< Joanna had known he would; it was one of God's minor miracles that Will had somehow survived more than fifty years without compromi^ ing his faith, without forfeiting his innocence. "It is only a formate after all. I'm glad to do it for you, and for the lass here."

Joanna could endure no more. Jumping to her feet, she kissed fir'1 her father and then her uncle. "I shall never forget what you're doing fc1' me," she said huskily. "Never."

But once she emerged out into the cloisters, she faltered. The sui seemed hot enough to blind, to burn all it touched; even when sfr closed her eyes, she could not squeeze out the light. She leaned ir' moment against one of the stone columns, and then felt Richard's suportive hand on her elbow.

"Come," he said, "there's a bench in the garth."

They were alone in the sunlight. Richard had a soldier's flask af belt. He drank, then passed it to Joanna. "He was so set upon v342 ance," he said wondermgly "You need never again doubt that he f0ves you, Joanna "

"I know " Joanna drank from Richard's flask, found it filled with a ungent, spiced wine She gasped, sputtered, and then blurted out, "I A not know how I can ever look Uncle Will in the face again "

"You were just acting as your husband's messenger Uncle Will understands that ".

"No I was not Llewelyn told me to insist upon hostages of high ank, rnen that Papa would be loath to lose But he did not demand Uncle Will as one of the hostages He would never have done that, for he knows how dear Uncle Will is to me " The blood rose in Joanna's cheeks so swiftly that her skin seemed on fire "I do love Uncle Will, Richard That's what is so unforgivable For I never hesitated " Joanna's voice trailed off After a long silence, she confessed, "But I suddenly knew that I was not willing to nsk Llewelyn's life on my father's word alone "

LLEWELYN drew rein on the crest of the hill, stared down at the English encampment Seventeen years ago he'd won a decisive battle on this very site, had defeated his uncle and made himself ruler of half of Gwynedd at age twenty-one All of Gwynedd had been his before he was thirty But the banner now flying over the abbey was emblazoned with the royal arms of England The sun was hot, the hill infested with horseflies and mosquitoes, but none of the men complained They waited in sympathetic silence for Llewelyn to nerve himself for the ride down the hill, for his surrender to the English King When he finally moved, it was sudden, swift, took them by surprise He gave the chestnut its head, and it plunged down the slope, mane and tail taking the wind like flame, blazing into the English camp as if it had somehow seen into its rider's heart, shared his fettered rage, his fear, and his defiant despair His men spurred their horses to overtake the chestnut, some of them shouting as if on the trail of wild boar, and the resulting entrance f the Welsh into the camp was a tumultuous one But as they gazed abut them, realized what John had in mind, they fell silent, lost much 'heir bravado A few swore under their breaths, most tightened grips n sword hilts, and all looked toward Llewelyn The chestnut was fractious, fighting the bit, but Llewelyn scarcely heed For days now he'd been morbidly reliving the scene in the great at Norham Castle, putting himself in the place of the discomfited ts King But once again he'd underestimated John's capacity for342 imaginative reprisal. For his was to be a very public humiliation, to be n less a spectacle than a bearbaiting or the hanging of a notorious high wayman.

His surrender was not to be made in the abbey hall, nor in on of the English command tents, but out in the open in the glare of high noon, witnessed by all of John's troops and those of his Welsh allies One of the Abbot's high-backed chairs had been brought out for John; to his right were gathered the lords of his court, to his left the Welsh Princes.

Llewelyn could count his enemies like rosary beadsGwenwynwyn, Maelgwn, Rhys Gryg, Thomas Corbet. Men who'd long hungered for this day, men who watched him with mocking eyes and smiles like unsheathed daggers. Even worse were the faces of his friends, his stepfather, Stephen and Baldwin de Hodnet, his consciencestricken cousins Madog and Hywel. They averted their eyes, like men too polite to look upon another's nakedness, offering him the lacerating balm of their pity, and Llewelyn's resolve faltered. For several harrowing seconds he found himself overwhelmed by emotions he'd never before experienceda physical fear of entrapment and a shattering sense of his own helplessness.

Dismounting was an act of utter faith, the most difficult one of his life.

With an intense effort of will, he blotted out the audience, focused his thoughts solely upon the man in the Abbot's oaken chair. And then he walked forward, knelt, and handed John his sword.

"I submit myself unto the King's will," he said, and John smiled.

"Surely you can do better than that. Not even the Lord God will forgive a man unless he first confesses his sins and then repents of them."

Llewelyn had known John might demand this of himhad known, too, that he could never bring himself to do it. His mind raced, but he could think of no way to satisfy John while still salvaging his pride, and at last he said, with the candor born of desperation, "What would be the point? No matter how convincingly contrite I was, you'd not believe me, would know I did not speak from the heart. Would it not make more sense to speak of hard, irrefutable facts, of power? You've won. I admit your victory, acknowledge your authority as my King and liege lord. That I am here proves it beyond question, as does my willingness to do homage, to swear oath of allegiance as your vassal lord and liegeman.

John laughed. "To put it in your own words, what would be the point? Twice in the past seven years you've done homage to me, hav you not? So all you've proven beyond question is that a Welshman sworn oath is worthless."

Llewelyn was unnerved by the intensity of his rage, by the re'a tion of how close he was to losing control of his temper, his tongue- ' stared at John, his ears filled with the derisive laughter of John s343 j-ers his heart filled with such hatred that he knew it must show on mkt^ u face for all to see.

"Should I gather from your silence that you're loath to ask for jitfe Q , I tion? Surely your pride is not as tender as all that. It did allowin 111%^ fter all, to send a woman to plead for you!"

Llewelyn was livid. "And would your brother Richard haven f'^j.j i Honed you at Lisieux if not for the intervention of your lady moth*' *i^gv n This time the laughter came from behind Llewelyn, came front* itm^- own men. He saw John's face twitch, saw he'd drawn blood. JoruM W