Here Be Dragons - 1 by Sharon Penman (best inspirational books txt) 📕

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 Ithought it would be best if you passed the nigh*

here13pth 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 isMarared."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 theEnglish 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.

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