Dragon's Lair

Chapter 13

August 1193

Rhuddlan Castle, Wales

"Rhun? Wake up, lad."

The boy blinked sleepily and, upon recognizing Justin, sat up quickly. "You're back! Thank God!"

Justin put his finger to his lips, jerking his head toward the sleeping forms of the gardener and his wife. "How do you feel? Are you fit enough to travel?"

Rhun nodded, pitching his voice as low as Justin's. "I'd crawl over hot coals to get out of here. But where am I to go?"

"You know Sion, the prince's scribe? Tomorrow he is going to take you to his brother's home and you will stay there until it is safe for you to return. But you'll have to leave here on your own, Rhun. Whilst it is still dark, you must slip out the postern gate and then hide yourself until Sion comes for you. Can you do that, lad?"

Rhun hesitated. "Can you not take me? I trust you."

"Sion is not in danger of being followed. He can ride out tomorrow and no one will think it suspicious, for he has no known connection with you. You can trust him, too, Rhun. He is in Lord Davydd's service but… but he does not serve the prince."

Rhun mulled this over. "If you think it best…" he said doubtfully. "You truly believe my life is in so much danger? I've already told you what I know."

"Yes, but you are the only witness, Rhun. Your testimony could convict a man, whereas mine could not." Justin was loath to frighten the boy any more than he already had, but he could see no other way. "I have food in this sack for you tomorrow, whilst you are waiting for Sion. Tonight I will sleep here. That will make it easier for me to awaken you in time."

Rhun had already demonstrated that he had an agile brain, and Justin did not really expect the boy to believe that lame excuse for his presence. Justin heard the sharp intake of his breath. He said nothing, though, merely handed Justin one of his blankets. Justin slid his sword out of its scabbard, laid it on the ground within easy reach. They both settled down, then, for what was to be an unquiet night. Justin's sleep was shallow, its surface broken every time he heard an odd noise, an imagined footstep. He dozed and awoke and dozed again, listening all the while for a killer's tread outside the cottage door.

When there was still an hour of darkness, Justin roused Rhun and, muffled in mantles, they stealthily made their way across the bailey. Once they reached the small postern gate, they stayed close to the wall in case any of the sleeping sentries were actually awake and alert. In whispers, Justin reminded Rhun where he was to wait for Sion and the boy nodded politely, as if he'd not already been told that before. His green eyes showed some of his fear, but now that he was poised for flight, his natural youthful impatience had taken over and he was eager to go, eager to take action of some sort. Justin understood; he was still young enough himself to consider waiting to be a penance. When he lifted the latch, the postern door opened noiselessly; Sion had sneaked out during the night to oil the hinges.

Rhun smiled briefly, and then, with the suddenness of a bird leaving the nest, he was gone, and there was nothing more for Justin to do but slide the bolt back into place and entreat the Almighty to look kindly upon the Welsh youth. The wind had picked up, and he quickened his pace. As he neared the stables, he decided to check on his stallion before going on to the great hail, so he detoured in that direction. Turning the corner of the smithy, he collided with Berta's friend, Rolf.

Recoiling, Justin exclaimed, "Good God, man, you gave me a scare! Why are you lurking about at this hour?"

The other man regarded him impassively. "I went out to take a piss."

Justin had his doubts about that. If a privy was not available, most men merely staggered outside to answer nature's call; why would Rolf go so far? He was not sure, though, if his suspicions were justified, for he found himself reluctant to give Rolf the benefit of any doubt. There was something about this man that unsettled him and had from their first meeting in front of Chester Castle.

"I expect that you'll be leaving today for your family's home," he said, and Rolf shrugged in what may have passed for assent.

Justin was not reassured, and he continued to think about Rolf as he resumed his walk toward the stables. It was unusual for him to take such an immediate, instinctive dislike to someone. It had happened with Durand de Curzon. And for whatever reason, it was happening with Berta's dour friend, Rolf. Each time he glanced over his shoulder, he saw Rolf still standing by the smithy, watching him, and that only reinforced his misgivings.

~*~

The tension blanketed the great hall like wood smoke. From his lowly seat far down the table, Justin watched the drama being played out upon the dais. Davydd was as jumpy as a treed cat. He'd accosted Justin earlier in the day, demanding to know what he'd accomplished in Chester. And they'd had another confrontation when he learned that Rhun had disappeared, accusing Justin of complicity in his flight. Thomas de Caldecott had also challenged Justin about Rhun, with little of his usual amiability.

Angharad was visibly subdued, and from the sidelong glances she casting in Thomas's direction, Justin concluded that they must have quarreled. And the Lady Emma was again assuming her role of ice queen, aloof and inscrutable.

Justin had passed most of the day thwarting their interrogations. He had a plan in mind, one that he hoped would flush out another fox, a Cheshire knight rather than a Welsh prince. But for now, he was content to wait, to let the storm clouds gather, and to watch his back.

~*~

He adhered to his plan the next day, too. He made several trips out to the stables, as if he were intending to ride out, for he was sure Thomas would attempt to follow him if he did, and he this was an easy way to keep the knight off balance. He spent a lot of time hanging around the great hall, occasionally making cryptic remarks that implied much but actually said little. He did his best to be as conspicuous as possible whenever Davydd or Thomas were in the vicinity. And to his surprise, he discovered that he was actually enjoying this prolonged game of cat and mouse. Men who murdered ought to suffer for their sins, ought to fear exposure and capture, ought to experience a small measure of the dread their victims had endured in their last moments. It was a strange sensation for Justin, this realization that he, who'd had so little power in his life, now had enough to alarm a prince, to threaten a killer.

Coming back from one of his excursions to the stables, he entered the great hall and stopped abruptly, for Rolf was slouched in a window seat. Justin strode over, intent upon getting rid of man he did not trust. As he drew closer, he saw that Rolf was sharpening a blade on a small whetstone. Most men carried a saex or eating knife, which could be used for protection, too, in a pinch. But the weapon Rolf was honing was a dagger and a lethal-looking one at that: double-bladed, with a wooden hilt covered with leather and bound in thin cord for a better grip. Rolf's appearance and clothing were nondescript, and his horse was equally unremarkable, a rangy bay gelding. His dagger, however, was one that a lord would not have scorned: expensive, finely crafted, and deadly.

"That is a handsome dagger," Justin said, noting, too, that Rolf was sharpening it on a personal whetstone, one threaded onto a thong that could be looped at his belt or worn around his neck. Most men were not that meticulous about keeping their blades keen. Rolf acknowledged the compliment with a grunt, and Justin came closer to get a better look at the weapon. "May I ask where you got it, Rolf?"

Rolf glanced up, then back to his task, "It was a family heirloom," he said laconically, and once again Justin felt a prickle of unease.

"I thought you were leaving yesterday for your kin's house. Why are you still here?"

At last he had Rolf's full attention, although he could not tell what the other man was thinking. "I've been getting along right well with one of the kitchen wenches. She's been balking at firking so far, but I figure I need only another day or so to get her on her back. I thought it would do no harm to tarry here for a while longer." Those oddly colored eyes met Justin's evenly, almost challengingly. "I did not think you'd begrudge me a meal or two I at Lord Davydd's expense."

~*~

After his unsatisfactory exchange with Rolf, Justin had loitered in the hall for a while, but he was fast growing bored with so much free time. Finally he returned to the bailey and climbed up onto the castle battlements. It offered a sweeping view of the River Clwyd, the salt marshes, distant mountains, and a slate-grey sea. Clouds had been obscuring the horizon since a muted, hazy dawn, but it was easy for Justin to imagine that on a clear day, he could have seen to the back of beyond. He watched a hawk soaring on the wind, a fox darting across an open patch of ground, an oxen cart slowly lurching along the road to the castle. Below in the bailey, a horse was being led toward the smithy, a woman was carrying eggs from the hen roost, several children were playing hoodman-blind, and, in the shadows cast by the stables, Thomas de Caldecott and another man were arguing.

Justin moved swiftly along the walkway, getting as close as he dared. He could not hear what they were saying, for even in their anger, they remembered to keep their voices low, but there was no mistaking their agitation. It was interesting to see Thomas off guard, dropping his public persona to reveal a tightly controlled temper. But Justin was far more interested in the identity of Thomas's adversary. It took him a moment to recognize Oliver. He was a member of the Lady Emma's household, a soft-spoken Norman well past his youth. Misled by his quiet demeanor and grey hairs, Justin had not paid him much mind… until now. Clearly Oliver deserved more scrutiny than he'd so far gotten.

Justin waited until Thomas and Oliver ended their mysterious quarrel and then descended to the bailey. He was passing the gardens when he glanced over the wall and saw Angharad sitting on one of the turf benches. Swerving at once in her direction, he wasted no time in joining her on the bench.

"You are the very one I needed to find, Angharad. What can you tell me about Oliver?"

"Oliver? He has been with Emma since the snakes were chased out of Ireland. I think he was with her even before her first marriage to that Norman lord, most certainly since she married Davydd. He is not well liked, for he has some of his lady's haughtiness, and like her, too, he has no sense of humor whatsoever. Why do ou want to know?"

"Just curious. I saw him squabbling with Thomas earlier, and was wondering what that was about. Is there bad blood between them?"

"No… I doubt that they've even spoken a dozen words. Thomas enjoys lively company and Oliver is about as lively as a corpse." Angharad mustered up a ghostly smile. "Iestyn… I was looking for you, too."

Justin had been so intent upon learning more about Oliver that he'd not given Angharad more than cursory attention. Only now did he notice her pallor, her swollen eyes, the forlorn slump of her shoulders. "Well, you've found me, lass," he said, reaching over to her hand. "What do you want to talk about?"

"Thomas." Her brown eyes met his in mute entreaty, glistening with unshed tears. "You have become friends. Has he told you what is wrong? He has been so strange since he got back from Chester, so unlike himself. He loves me, Iestyn, I know he does. But now he looks at me as if I were no longer there. Something is on his mind, something dark and brooding. I've tried to talk to about it, to no avail."

Her words tumbled out in a great gush, giving Justin no chance to respond. "You two are friends," she repeated plaintively. "Can you tell me anything that will enable me to help Thomas? Anything at all? Did something happen in Chester? Did he… did he meet another woman?"

Justin was at a loss for words. Feeling as guilty as if he were it somehow Thomas's accomplice, he said, "No, lass, no. I did not see Thomas all that much whilst we were in Chester. But I am sure there is no other woman."

"I did not think so, either… not truly. It is just vexing to see him so troubled and not know how to help…"

Justin understood exactly how she felt. He'd been hoping fervently that Angharad was not involved in Thomas's villainy. He'd not given much thought to the consequences if she were innocent, not until now, sitting with her in the castle garden and listening to the echoes of her broken heart.

~*~

Justin rose early the next morning and put the next part of his plan into motion. Heading for the stables, he chose a time when the grooms were over in the hall breaking their night fast. After saddling Copper, he moved down the row. A grey stallion stuck its muzzle over the stall door, nickering loudly. Justin paused to admire Thomas de Caldecott's palfrey, for it was a handsome animal. Thomas's saddle was suspended on a hook by the stall. Drawing his knife, Justin cut partially through one of the saddle girths, and belatedly realized the significance of Thomas's lack a squire.

Few knights were not attended by men — usually but not always young — who took care of their horses, equipment, and weapons. Prior to discovering the truth about his paternity, Justin had served as a squire to one of Lord Fitz Alan's household knights. He'd thought it odd that Thomas traveled without a squire, but now it made sense. A squire always underfoot would have been hindrance to a man who needed utter freedom to come and go as he pleased, no questions asked. With a final pat for Thomas's stallion, he led Copper out of his stall, and was soon riding across the castle drawbridge.

After reaching the ambush site, he took cover and waited to make sure he'd not been followed. While he was reasonably sure that his sabotage had given him enough time to outdistance his pursuers, he could take nothing for granted, not when the stakes were so high. Once he was convinced that he had no unwelcome shadow, he spent the next few hours in search of a possible hiding place for the missing wool. He found two caves and each time his hopes soared, to no avail. He had not really expected to find the wool so easily, but was still disappointed when he did not. When there was an hour or so of daylight remaining, he turned Copper back toward Rhuddlan.

Dinner that evening was an ordeal to be endured. Davydd was in an even fouler mood than usual, although Justin actually found himself feeling a twinge of pity for the Welsh prince. Like the miller brothers, Davydd would soon be hung out to dry in a cold wind, and the royal wrath would be fearsome to behold.

Emma was no happier than her husband; preoccupied and tense, she looked as if she yearned to be anywhere but the great hall of Rhuddlan Castle. Thomas ate in morose silence, his gaze anchored upon Justin's end of the table. And Angharad did not eat at all, watching Thomas with such naked misery that Justin had to glance away.

~*~

The meal was done and servants were clearing away the dishes, starting to dismantle the trestle tables. Justin was leaning against a wall, waiting for Thomas to approach him. It did not take long. Striding toward him, the knight said brusquely, "We need to talk." He pointed toward the comparative privacy of a window seat, and Justin followed him obligingly. Once they were seated, Thomas wasted no time. Glancing about, he signaled toward a passing servant, laying claim to two wine cups on the youth's tray. Thrusting one of them at Justin, he said accusingly, "You lied to me."

"When?"

"When you told me in Chester that you were not a man to bear grudges."

Justin raised the cup, but only wet his lips, remembering that drunken walk from the tavern to the warehouse, possibly the luckiest night of his life. Before he could respond, the hall erupted into pandemonium, into sudden screams and what sounded like snarls, the thud of overturned chairs, curses, and total chaos. Justin and Thomas shot from the window seat like arrows from a crossbow. They made little progress, though, for they were struggling against an incoming tide, as people surged away from the source of the turmoil.

By now the snarls and growls were loud enough to be heard above the yelling, and it was becoming obvious to all what the trouble was: several of Davydd's enormous wolfhounds were embroiled in a noisy, savage fight over a large beef bone. Davydd was demanding that the dogs be separated, but after one youth was badly bitten when he rashly waded into that maelstrom of flesh, fur, and flashing teeth, no one else was eager to volunteer, and that included Justin and Thomas. By common consent, they retreated back to the window seat, where they watched as Davydd fumed and threatened and the big dogs were finally dragged apart.

"I once won the huge sum of five marks on a Chester dog fight," Thomas observed, sounding almost friendly. "That is one of my fondest boyhood memories, as I used the money for my first bawdy house visit… at the ripe young age of thirteen." Reaching for wine cup, he clinked it against Justin's. "What were we talking about? Ah, yes, the grudge you bear me. Do not bother denying it, de Quincy, although I truly do not understand why you seem to mistrust me. I told you at the outset that I wanted us to work as allies, and that still holds true. But you guard your secrets as if I am the enemy. Take today, for instance. You rode off at dawn with nary a word, and I felt like a right proper fool when Davydd wanted to know where you'd gone and I had to admit I did not know."

Justin was impressed by how well Thomas had struck all the right notes: bafflement, righteous indignation, a willingness to let bygones be bygones, overlaid with a dose of hearty, man-to-man candor and charm. It was chilling to realize that evil could be so attractive, "You want to know where I went today, Thomas? I am quite willing to tell you. I was out looking for the missing wool."

"But the wool was burned," Thomas reminded him, with such convincing perplexity that Justin resisted an urge to applaud. To give the Devil his due, Thomas could lie better than any man he'd ever met, and that included such gifted liars as the queen's youngest son and his henchman from Hell, Durand de Curzon.

"No," he said, "it was not. It was a trick, like those you see performed at fairs with walnut shells and peas. Sleight of hand, Thomas, no more than that."

"I hope you are right," Thomas said, after a long pause. "If you are, at least we have a chance to recover it, then." But this tine his delivery was no longer pitch perfect and Justin raised his wine cup to his mouth to hide a smile. "Have you proof of this, Justin? Or is this merely a good guess?"

"You'd be surprised how much proof I've managed to unearth, Thomas."

Thomas had already drained his cup and beckoned to the nearest wine bearer. Justin took advantage of that chance and poured most of his wine into the floor rushes. When Thomas turned back to him, he was gratified to see that the knight's smile had begun to fray around the edges.

'"What sort of proof?"

"Let me tell you a story, Thomas, a right interesting one, if I say so myself. It begins in a Chester alehouse with three Flemish sailors named Joder, Geertje, and Karl," Justin said and Thomas inhaled wine, began to cough. When he got his breath back, he shot Justin a look that was stripped of all pretense, his eyes cold and flat and deadly.

"I think you've had too much wine," he said, "for you're beginning to babble, de Quincy. You are making no sense."

"That is passing strange, for you are the one man who ought to understand exactly what I am talking about."

"Well, I do not." Thomas got slowly to his feet, stood for a moment staring down at Justin with an odd expression, one that put him in mind of the unblinking stare of a peregrine falcon, pitiless and predatory and impersonal. When he moved away, Justin let him get several feet before firing the last arrow in his quiver.

"Maes!" he called out, and saw Thomas stiffen, a reaction as involuntary as it was damning. The other man swung around and as their eyes met, Justin smiled, with no humor whatsoever. "This is something else I learned in Chester," he said, "An obliging wanton with a gift for languages told me that Maes is Flemish for Thomas."

The knight said nothing, nothing verbal. He simply turned and walked away. But he stayed in the hall for the rest of the evening, and whenever Justin glanced up, he found Thomas watching him. Justin would have insisted that he was unaffected by that malevolent gaze, and he'd have been lying. The knight was sitting in another window seat, paying little heed to Angharad, who'd joined him uninvited and was talking with a forced, frantic animation that was painful for Justin to see. Thomas was drinking heavily, but showed no ill effects from the wine, and Justin remembered his jovial boast, that he could drink anyone under the table. It was barely a month since they'd had that alehouse conversation, but it already seemed a lifetime ago to Justin.

He bedded down again in the great hall, taking care to spread his blankets in the midst of Davydd's sleeping soldiers. He did not think that Thomas would risk waking any of the other men, but sleep still eluded him for much of the night. Every noise seemed magnified, the snoring of his neighbors, the thudding of his own heart, the haunting cry of an owl on the scent of prey. He hastily blessed himself at that, for all knew the owl was a harbinger of death. Sometime before dawn, he finally slept.

He was awakened with a jolt, jerking upright with a ragged gasp. All around him, men were stirring, cursing, yawning. Justin sat up, staring like the others, at the youth in the doorway. He was young and scared, but he looked excited, too, to be the bearer of such news.

"They found a body in the chapel," he cried. "There has been murder done!