Dragon's Lair

Chapter 15

August 1193

Rhuddlan Castle, Wales

The day after Thomas de Caldecott's death, it rained. The sky darkened and a stinging salt wind blew off the ocean, ripping leaves from trees in a barren, bleak foretaste of winter. Justin had spent the morning doing what little he could to console Angharad. Her grief alarmed him; it was so intense, so overwhelming. It troubled him that the object of her love had been so unworthy of it, but he thought it would not help her to know that. Nor was she likely to believe him. Without more proof, Justin doubted that anyone would.

He was dripping wet and disheartened by the time he returned to the great hall. He was drying off by the open hearth when the door opened and the Lady Emma entered. Davydd at once hastened down the steps of the dais and hurried to her, helping her with her mantle and escorting her toward the hearth with what Justin felt was exaggerated gallantry. She let Davydd settle her in a chair comfortably close to the flames, and Justin's ears pricked up. He did not expect to overhear anything of significance. Accustomed to living their lives on center stage, the Welsh prince and his consort were unlikely to be careless enough to choose a public forum for private discussion. But he was curious to watch them interact, for their marriage remained a mystery to him.

This was Emma's first appearance since she'd fainted in the chapel, and Davydd was fussing over her so ostentatiously that he put Justin in mind of a brood hen with a prize chick. She was well, Emma insisted, although she proclaimed her health in such a languid, breathy voice that Justin could not blame Davydd for harboring doubts. It was to be expected that she'd still be disquieted by the experience, Davydd declared. Women of gentle birth were not meant by the Almighty to look upon scenes of bloodshed and gore.

Justin fought back laughter. He wondered if Davydd really believed that or if he was merely affecting a chivalric pose. The women in Justin's life bore little resemblance to the docile and frail females exalted as models of ideal womanhood. Queen Eleanor had accompanied her first husband on crusade and instigated a rebellion against her second. Claudine had amused herself by spying for the queen's youngest son. Nell had been widowed before she was twenty and was raising a daughter on her own whilst managing a kinsman's alehouse. Molly had been defying the odds and convention from birth. And he suspected that the Lady Emma was steel sheathed in silk, too. He found it intriguing that Davydd appeared protective of the silk, so oblivious of the steel.

Accepting a wine cup, Emma took a small sip. "Have you made arrangements for Thomas's funeral?"

Davydd nodded. "I sent a messenger to Bishop Reiner at Llanelwy."

"Few men are fortunate enough to have their funeral Mass said in a cathedral church," Emma said. "But might not his family prefer that he be buried in England?"

Davydd shrugged. "It cannot be helped. By the time the storm passes and the roads dry out, Thomas's body would be too rank for transporting. Forgive me for being brutally blunt, my dear, but by then the stench would be too foul to endure."

Emma gave him an impatient, sidelong glance. "I know that, Davydd. Surely you have not forgotten the story of the burial of my brother Henry's great-grandfather, William, conqueror of the English?

Davydd assured her that he remembered, while the eavesdropping Justin prodded his memory. It took only a moment, for the account of William the Bastard's death and burial was too grisly to be forgotten. There'd been a delay in burying him, and when it was discovered that the stone coffin was too small for a man of William's bulk, an ill-advised attempt had been made to force the body into it, causing the decomposing corpse to break open, emitting such a noxious odor that the mourners had fled the church in horror.

This was the sort of gruesome story to lodge in the morbid imagination of young male students, and Justin was not surprised he recalled it so quickly. What did surprise him was that Emma would have chosen to mention it, for it hardly seemed like a suitable topic for a woman of such delicate sensibilities that the mere sight of a dead body would cause her to swoon. He decided that she could not resist any opportunity to brag about her family's lofty bloodlines, but as he continued to listen, he realized that Emma had something else in mind.

"Surely that sad occurrence argues for a quick burial, Emma. Llanelwy is but a few miles away and even if the rain continues, we can take the body there without great difficulty. De Caldecott's family will just have to accept the fact that we did the best we could under the circumstances."

"Well… there may be a way to satisfy his family without taking any risks. Bury his body at the cathedral of St Asaph in Llanelwy and deliver his heart to the earl at Chester so it may be buried at Caldecott."

"An excellent suggestion, my dear." Davydd sounded pleased, but Justin frowned, wondering why Thomas de Caldecott's burial should matter so much to Emma. She gave him the answer, though, with her next words.

"When you send men to the earl, I would like my man, Oliver, to accompany them. The last time I was in Chester, I ordered sarcenet silk, damask, and white kidskin gloves from France, and the mercer told me they ought to arrive by summer's end. Oliver is going to fetch them for me."

Justin's head came up sharply. Oliver looked to be in his sixth decade and had a limp that indicated he had a touch of the joint evil. This was not a man to send on a two-day ride for an ordinary errand.

~*~

Justin's arrival in Chester was not auspicious. The storm that had drenched Rhuddlan earlier in the week had moved east and was now buffeting the city with high winds and driving rain. Oliver balked at lodging with the others at the castle, insisting he preferred the guest hall at St Werburgh's, which meant that it would be more difficult for Justin to keep him under watch. And most troubling of all, Justin learned that the earl was gone from Chester, called away by the sudden illness of his youngest sister, Hawise. Justin had not realized how much he was counting upon Chester's aid until it was no longer available.

As soon as he could get away, he slipped out of the castle and went to make sure that Oliver had settled down for the evening at the abbey. He was convinced that Emma had sent her man to Chester to meet someone, which meant that he dared not let Oliver out of his sight for long. Since Oliver knew him and would be on the alert if he was up to no good, that was going to make surveillance no easy task.

~*~

Bennet instructed Berta to bring them cups and a flagon, then steered Justin toward a corner table, "So," he said, as soon as they were seated, "Rolf told us that your best suspect got himself killed. Where does that leave you?"

"Mired in the mud," Justin conceded, before giving his friend a quick, probing look. "I suppose I ought to thank you and Molly for Rolf… I think."

Bennet grinned. "Scary, isn't he?"

Justin heartily agreed. "Dare I ask how the man earns his livelihood?"

"I never asked, never wanted to know. He works occasionally for Piers, doing God knows what, and he disappears from Chester for weeks at a time, always comes back with plenty of money to spend on drink and whores and wagers."

"What did he tell you about de Caldecott's death?"

"That he'd been found dead in the castle chapel with a knife in his chest. Why… is there more to this tale than he let on?"

"No… apart from the fact that he was not killed in the chapel and he did not die from a dagger thrust," Justin took a swallow of wine, and then grimaced, both at the taste and his dubious prospects. "I think he was probably poisoned. I could find no other wounds on the body and I find it hard to believe that his heart just stopped beating of its own accord."

"What about the dagger? How can you be sure it did not kill him?"

"Because," Justin said, "there was no blood, no blood at all. The only way a man can be stabbed and not bleed is if he's already dead."

"This is beginning to sound very peculiar, even for Wales. Why stab a dead man?"

"For the same reason that his body was moved into the chapel: so Davydd could blame his nephew, Llewelyn, for the killing."

Bennet shook his head, marveling at the duplicity of the high born. "Moll told me about his grand scheme to steal the ransom and accuse he nephew. Has he gotten around to blaming Llewelyn for Chester's great fire and our last drought?"

"Not yet, but I'd not put it past him. As far as I can tell, Ben net, this is what happened. De Caldecott was poisoned in the great hall, a poison that did not take effect right away. He was crossing the bailey when it hit. I found the place where he collapsed. I think he became very ill very fast and died ere he could call out for help. Sometime later his body was discovered by someone, most likely a guard, who sought Davydd out straightaway."

"And Davydd saw another chance to put the blame on his favorite scapegoat," Bennet suggested dryly, and Justin nodded.

"He had the body moved into the closest building — the chapel — because the death scene would have given the lie to his claim that Thomas was stabbed, From the way the castle dogs were hovering around, I think Thomas vomited all over the ground ere he lost consciousness. Davydd's men did their best to tidy it up, but the dogs still caught the smell."

"So a dagger was found, and some poor sod was given the unholy task of stabbing a corpse. Think what an interesting confession he'll have to tell his priest! If you are right, Justin, it sounds very haphazard, like they were cobbling the pieces together they went along."

Justin nodded again. "It was hastily done and poorly done. Thomas died face down; I could tell by the color of his skin. But he was stabbed in the chest. I suppose Davydd assumed that none would dare to question his findings, and aside from me, he was right. I am sure the doctor saw the truth as soon as he examined the body. Was he likely to call his prince a liar, though? The same holds true for Davydd's men."

Bennet understood perfectly; he had far more experience than Justin in the inequities of power. "I need to ask you something, Justin. Have you gone to see Molly yet?"

"No, I came here straightaway. Why… nothing is wrong?"

"It depends upon who you ask. Piers is back in Chester. So I'd suggest you stay away from Moll's cottage. I'll arrange for you to meet her here."

Justin thought about that for a few moments. "Molly told me," he said, "that Piers is not jealous."

"As far as we know, he is not. But I think Molly does not fully comprehend how fiercely he guards his territory."

Justin did not like the sound of that, and he took advantage of this opportunity to discuss Molly's dangerous lover with her brother. Leaning forward, he said quietly, "There must be some thing we can do, Bennet, to untangle her from that man's web."

Bennet looked at him with the sorrowful sarcasm of one counseling a well-meaning but not overly bright friend, "You're right, Justy. Mayhap we ought to sit down and make the perils known to her. Why did I not think of that myself?"

Justin acknowledged the mockery with an abashed smile. He would have persevered, though, if a boy hadn't arrived then with the food Bennet had ordered from the cook shop. The food was not very good — a chicken pie that was greasy and too long out of the oven — but Justin had not eaten for hours, and he and Bennet finished it in record time. Only then did they return to the subject of murder.

"You've told me how Thomas de Caldecott died, and we both can guess why. But we have not talked yet about the most important question of all… who?"

"I would that I knew, Bennet," Justin said with a sigh. "Davydd has the best motive by far. If he found out that Thomas was the one responsible for the robbery, he'd have feared that his duplicity might be exposed if de Caldecott was caught. Not to mention he'd have a very valid reason for wanting revenge, which the Welsh take quite seriously. But for the life of me, I can not understand why he'd go about it like this. Davydd is one of the most vexing men I've ever met. He is not a total dolt, though, and only God's greatest fool would have poisoned de Caldecott and then made such a clumsy attempt to blame Llewelyn."

"So we acquit your Welsh prince on the grounds that he is stupid but not quite stupid enough," Bennet said, sounding faintly amused. "Not exactly a ringing testimonial to his innocence, is it? But if Davydd is out, who is left?"

"His wife."

Bennet's eyes gleamed. "The lovely Lady Emma? This is getting interesting. Why do you suspect her?"

"Process of elimination," Justin said glumly. "I have three reasons to look more closely at Emma. First of all, I saw her trusted man, Oliver, quarreling with Thomas the day ere he died. Next, Emma fainted at the sight of his body, and it was no ladylike pretense.

Lastly, she sent Oliver to Chester on an errand that posed a genuine hardship to a man of Oliver's years and health."

Bennet held his peace, but Justin saw his expression and sighed again. "I know what a thin gruel I've cooked up. There could be any number of innocent explanations for my suspicions. Moreover, I have no motive for her. Assuming she did ally herself with Thomas to steal the ransom, why? For the money? Not likely. To cause Davydd pain and trouble? I can safely say she loves him not. But his downfall would be hers, too, and what of their son? Unless… unless she hopes that Davydd would be deposed and her son put in his stead, with her as regent, of course. That seems a great risk to take, though, for she could not be sure it would happen that way. If Davydd were to lose his throne, her son would still have to fend off Llewelyn ab Iorwerth, and you can take it from me, Bennet, that one will not be easy to defeat."

"Motives are elusive, no easy quarry," Bennet said thoughtfully. "If it were up to me, I'd stay on the lady's trail. Who knows where that might lead?"

He was a loyal friend, refusing to voice the fear that had been shadowing Justin since his first glimpse of Thomas de Caldecott's body. What if Thomas had been working alone? If the only partner he'd had was the unfortunate Selwyn? That was a possibility Justin was not ready to acknowledge, for it would mean that the secret of the wool's whereabouts had died with Thomas and he would not be able to recover the ransom. He would fail his queen.

~*~

Justin ducked back into an alley, swearing under breath. For three days and nights he and Bennet had been shadowing Oliver each time he ventured from the abbey precincts. By now they knew what to expect. Oliver's destination would be the docks. He'd go into wharfside alehouses and taverns, having a drink in each one before moving on to the next.

Justin had been quick to read sinister significance into his actions, convinced that a meeting had been set up, mayhap weeks ago, and Oliver was taking Thomas's place, waiting to be contacted. They decided that Oliver was visiting more than one alehouse in a clumsy attempt to confuse anyone who might be following him, although they were not sure if Oliver was aware of their surveillance or was just being cautious. They'd taken care to keep their distance, benefiting from the continuing wet weather as men muffled up in hooded cloaks or mantles were not readily identifiable, and sending Bennet in to spy on Oliver in close quarters. Justin refused to entertain the thought that Oliver's evening excursions could be prompted by nothing more than an innocent fondness for English ale or bad wine, and if Bennet harbored any doubts, he'd so far kept them to himself.

On this damp September evening, Oliver had followed his usual routine. He'd already visited two alehouses, where he'd sat alone at a corner table; no one had approached him, Bennet reported, and after ordering one drink, he'd moved on. He was now entering the third alehouse, pausing suddenly to look over his shoulder. Justin and Bennet hastily faded back into the shadows. After a prudent interval, Bennet made ready to follow. Pulling his hood forward to hide most of his face, he reminded Justin of a turtle withdrawing into its shell, "The last time," he grumbled, "he did not even stay long enough for me to finish my ale." As he started across the street toward the alehouse, Justin stepped back into the alley, settling in for another irksome wait.

This wait was over almost before it began, for Bennet soon reemerged and hurried back to the alley. "He has company," he said, sounding out of breath. "He is sitting at a table with two other men."

"Why did you leave, then? I need you to see what happens next, Bennet!"

"I had no choice, Justin. I recognized one of the men — none other than our city sheriff, Will Gamberell!"

"Christ Jesus," Justin whispered. Could the sheriff be Oliver's contact? Or was this just a wretched coincidence? "You say there was a second man with Oliver. Can you describe him?"

"Not well," Bennet said dubiously. "As soon as I saw Gamberell, my one concern was getting out of there ere he noticed me. The other man… he was steering the serving wench over to their table, so I did not get a good look at his face. I could not even tell what color his hair was, for he had a hood on, a fancy one, too, not attached to his mantle, with a little cape over his shoulders. I suppose that is not much help?"

"No," Justin said ungraciously, but soon repented of his rudeness; he could scarcely blame Bennet for wanting to avoid an encounter with a sheriff who loved him not. "I'll have to go in," he said reluctantly, for he could not risk losing this chance to see Oliver's mystery partner, even if it meant revealing himself to be a spy.

That did not strike Bennet as a particularly good idea, but he had no other suggestions to offer, and he waved Justin on with forced cheer, wishing him luck and asking if he could bring back an ale. That got him a quick smile, and then Justin was gone, and Bennet leaned against the wall of the closest building, marveling at the madness of this entire enterprise of theirs; what did it matter to him, after all, if King Richard never set foot again on English soil?

The interior of the alehouse was better lit than Justin had expected; each table held a large tallow candle or an oil lamp. It was more crowded, too, with more than a dozen men and several women sheltering from the rain at the end of a dreary, autumn day. Justin noticed the sheriff at once; there was a conspicuous space around the table where he was seated with several of his deputies or serjeants, a boundary line drawn between the law and the less lawful. But there was no sign of Oliver or his hooded companion, and Justin drew an alarmed breath. Where in blazes were they?

"Is there a rear door?" he demanded of the serving maid, and she looked at him incuriously, then nodded and pointed. In three strides, he crossed the chamber, barely missing a collision with a tipsy sailor who rebuked him in a foreign language that sounded vaguely Germanic. Jerking open the door, he found himself looking out into a small, dark, and very empty alley. There was no point in pursuit. His quarry was long gone.

He'd attracted the attention of the other alehouse customers, including the sheriff. "If it is not the queen's man," he said, sounding none-too-happy about it. "For someone looking for a ransom in Wales, you seem to spend an inordinate amount of time in Chester, de Quincy."

Having nothing left to lose, Justin bore down on the other man's table. "The men you were drinking with, you know where they've gone?"

Gamberell looked faintly surprised. "That old man and the coxcomb? No, why should I? I never laid eyes on either of them till tonight."

"I see. You always drink with men you do not know?"

"He does if they're buying," one of the serjeants volunteered with a cackle, which caught in his throat when the sheriff shot a withering glance his way.

"Whilst he was waiting for the old man, the younger one offered to buy me an ale," Gamberell said shortly. "What of it? How does this concern you?"

"I need to find them straightaway. What can you tell me about the younger man, the 'coxcomb'? Did he give you a name? Say anything that might enable me to seek him out? What did he look like?"

The sheriff glared at Justin, irritation giving way to outright antagonism. "I know nothing about the man. Nor would I tell you if I did. In Chester, we judge a man by the company he keeps, and the company you've been keeping reeks to high heavens!"

~*~

On the next day, the waterlogged residents of Chester got a rain reprieve, their first glimpse of the sun in more than week. When Molly opened the door of the alehouse, she let in a blaze of light that did little to dispel the gloom that held the common room in thrall. Bennet and Justin acknowledged her entrance with such a lack of enthusiasm that she knew their news had to be bad. Hurrying over to their table, she pulled up a stool.

"Well? What happened last night? Did Oliver's phantom friend fail to turn up again?"

"He put in an appearance," Bennet said glumly, "but disappeared in a puff of smoke ere we could get a good look at him."

Molly was surprised, for she knew how good her brother was tracking without leaving telltale footprints. "He was lucky to lose you," she said. "But surely there will be other opportunities?"

Justin shook his head. "Oliver stopped by the castle this morn and asked when I'd be returning to Rhuddlan. He was done in Chester, he said, and hoped we could travel together for safety's sake. So smug he was, I wanted to hit him."

He told Molly, then, of the sheriff's unexpected involvement, and she fell silent for some moments, pondering this new development. "If we assume Gamberell was telling the truth," she said thoughtfully, "then we are left with an interesting question. Why did our phantom buy the sheriff a drink?"

"We've been thinking about that, too," Justin said. "We came up with three possibilities. One: Oliver somehow got a message to him that he was being followed and they made use of the sheriff as a distraction. Two: pure coincidence. Or three: that he was amusing himself by seeing how close he could come to the flame without getting burned."

"Three," Molly said promptly. "That seems the most likely and the most troubling. Some men lust after danger the way others do after whores. If the phantom is one of them, Justin, you'd best beware, for men like that are unpredictable and reckless."

Justin shrugged, irked by her continued use of the term "phantom," for that only stressed how easily Oliver's confederate had outwitted them last night. Bennet was not eager to dwell upon their failure, either, and diverted Molly's attention by revealing Justin's more immediate problem, that the Earl of Chester was still gone from the city.

"Justin needs to send a letter to London, and he fears that if he waits until Chester gets back, weeks could go by. He is not likely to return until his sister recovers or, Jesu forfend, dies. Since this letter is overflowing with scandalous accusations against the Welsh prince and his consort, he needs to make sure it does not fall into the wrong hands. I offered to take it for him, but he says he cannot trust me not to sell it to the highest bidder."

Justin was not surprised when Molly rolled her eyes, for she held no high opinion of male humor. What she did not know, of course, was that he'd joked to keep from telling Bennet that his London letter was meant for the English queen. He remembered a common folk wisdom — that it took only one drop too many to cause a bucket to overflow — and he did not doubt that his revelation about Queen Eleanor would be that drop.

He was lost in thought, regretting the need to lie to his friends, and did not hear Molly's comment. It was not until Bennet gave him a playful poke that he focused again upon the alehouse and their conversation. "What…?"

"Molly has solved your problem, Justin. It is so obvious, too, that we ought to have thought of it ourselves. You do not need to wait for the earl to return. You need only ask the bishop to send a courier with your letter."

Justin's eyes cut accusingly toward Molly. She met his gaze blandly. "Is there any reason why you'd not want to ask the bishop, Justin?"

"Yes," he said tersely. "We had a… a misunderstanding the last time we spoke."

Molly riposted with a wicked smile. "Well, this will give you a chance to make peace."

~*~

Justin was on the defensive even before he'd set foot in the precincts of the bishop's palace, already anticipating his father's rebuff, and that gave his voice a conspicuous edge as he requested an audience with the bishop. When he was told that the bishop was entertaining guests, he was too tense to wait and insisted that he'd need but a few moments of the bishop's time. He was still arguing when the bishop's steward happened by. One glance at Justin's face and Martin took over, smoothing ruffled feathers on the bishop's staff and offering to let Aubrey know of Justin's arrival.

Justin agreed to remain in the entrance hall. The last time he and his father had met, it was in the bishop's own chambers above the great hall. He watched Martin disappear into the corner stair well, but he was too ill at ease to sit down. Noises from the great hall indicated that dinner would soon be served, and the entrance hall was crowded with petitioners, waiting with far more patience than Justin in the faint hope that the bishop might see them. Only Aubrey's private chapel offered solitude and silence, but it was in that same chapel that Justin had confronted his father on a frigid December eve, and he had no wish to revisit either that scene or that night.

He was still pacing restlessly when the bishop came bursting out of the stairwell. Justin turned in surprise, for he'd never seen his father move so precipitately. As far back as he could remember, Aubrey had been regardful of his dignity, striving to maintain an air of deliberation and formality whenever he appeared in public. Now he was panting, flushed, and agitated, even somewhat disheveled.

"What are you doing here?" he demanded. "I have highborn guests. You must leave straightaway!"

Justin flushed, too. "I am here on the queen's behalf," he said, in a low voice that was not as steady as he would have liked. "I need a letter delivered to London, and that is my only reason for — "

Aubrey gave no indication that he'd even heard. "You cannot stay," he insisted, "for they'll soon be coming into the hall. Be gone whilst there is still time!"

Justin's anger was fueled by hurt. He was used to being treated as an insignificant stranger by his father whenever there were other eyes to see them, but never had Aubrey rejected him so vehemently, as if the very sight of him was shameful, "This is an urgent matter and I am going nowhere until you hear me out!"

Aubrey glanced toward the great hall and then grabbed Justin by the arm, jerking him toward the chapel. Shoving Justin through the doorway, he hissed, "Stay there until I come back, and do not let yourself be seen!"

Justin stumbled, regaining his balance as Aubrey slammed the door shut. His face burning, he stared in disbelief at that closed door. His first impulse was to stalk out, to put as many miles between himself and Aubrey as he could. But common sense told him that if he bolted, he'd have endured this humiliation for nothing. Slipping his hand into his tunic, he drew out the letters, handling them as gingerly as if they were hot to the touch. One for the queen and one to the abbess at Godstow, with a sealed enclosure for Claudine,

The chapel was deep in shadows, lit by a single rushlight in a wail sconce. Sunlight filtered through a stained glass window in colors like jewels: ruby, emerald, sapphire. The walls were painted with scenes of from Scriptures and the gospels: the Annunciation, the Passion of Christ, the torments of Hell. It was too dim to distinguish them, but Justin had seen them so often that they were imprinted upon his brain. He'd passed countless hours here, kneeling on the tiled floor and praying dutifully to the Almighty and the bishop, for when he was very young, he'd confused the two. Whether clad in the ornate silk chasuble that was his "Yoke of Christ" or his vivid purple and gold cope, the bishop had seemed to Justin to be the very embodiment of God the Father, Lord of Lords, King of Kings, splendid and remote and all-powerful.

Justin put the letters back into his tunic, damning Molly for prodding him into this doomed quest, damning himself for listening to her. Despite all his misgivings, he'd not expected a scene so ugly as the one out in the entrance hall. He understood why his father was so set upon keeping his twenty-year-old sin a secret. Men of God were not saints and they sometimes fell from grace. But a bastard son was a millstone around the neck of a prelate as ambitious as Chester's bishop. Scandal had never been one of the stepping-stones to the See at Canterbury.

He had never seen Aubrey so overwrought, though, so frantic to avoid exposure, and for the first time he wondered if there might be more to the bishop's distress than a fear of public disgrace. What it could be, he did not know, could not even begin to imagine, and an inner voice mocked that he was grasping at straws, unwilling to face the truth: that he was nothing to Aubrey de Quincy but an embarrassment, a source of shame and dread.

Stopping before the high altar, he gazed down at the two tall candlesticks and the elegant silver-gilt crucifix that his father had brought back from Rome. The crucifix triggered an unwelcome memory. After Aubrey had denied his paternity, Justin had challenged him to swear it upon the crucifix. For a moment, his own bitter words seemed to echo in the air, "At least you'll not lie to God."

He stiffened, then, as the door started to open. He heard his father's voice, insisting that there was plenty of time to admire the Tree of Jesse, laughter, and another male voice saying that they could wait nary another moment to see it. Aubrey was backing slowly into the chapel, and behind him, Justin caught a glimpse of the white miter of a bishop. Doubtless one of his father's "high born guests." Justin raised his head defiantly, fists clenching at his sides, as Aubrey flung a quick glance over his shoulder, then reluctantly stepped aside to admit the others.

Justin was never to be sure why he did it. It may have been the desperate look upon his father's face. It may have been habit, for he had a lifetime's experience in deferring to the bishop's wishes. It may even have been Molly's gentle rebuke, "He tried to do right by you, lover, as much as he was able." But at the last moment, he ducked out of sight behind the high altar.

The quiet chapel was suddenly filled with people, two of them in the sumptuous silk copes worn by princes of the Church. One of them Justin recognized from his years in Lord Fitz Alan's service: William de Vere, Bishop of Hereford. The other bishop was not known to him, a man whose youth was a distant memory, with a girth that bespoke a fondness for good food and fine wine, a florid complexion, engaging smile, and shrewd calculating blue eyes. They were attended by the usual entourage of clerks and archdeacons and priests, who milled about like sheep until Aubrey hastily shepherded them toward a lancet window.

It was soon clear to Justin that his father had been bragging about his new stained-glass panels depicting the genealogy of the Lord Christ. The stained glass was indeed spectacular, but it was impossible for him to appreciate the artistry while crouched down behind the high altar. Already his body was protesting the awkward contortion of his spine, and his legs were beginning to cramp. He wanted them to depart as fervently as his father did, but they lingered, discussing the craftsmanship, praising Aubrey's estimable taste, even making favorable comparisons to the celebrated Stem of Jesse in the west window of Chartres's great cathedral. Because they were all learned churchmen, well versed in Scriptures, someone inevitably had to quote from the prophecy of Isaiah: "But a shoot shall sprout from the stump of Jesse, and from his roots a branch will bear fruit, and the spirit of the Lord shall rest upon him…" Someone else was then inspired to lapse into Latin, intoning solemnly, "O rudix Jesse," and Justin grimaced, for his muscles were constricting and he did not know how much longer he could hold his uncomfortable posture.

Eventually, though, Aubrey managed to nudge them into motion, and after a span that seemed interminable to Justin, he was alone in the chapel. Getting slowly to his feet, he sought to stretch himself back into shape, grateful that he'd been spared the mortification of discovery. What would his father have done? Mayhap accuse him of thievery, the easiest way to explain why he'd been hiding behind the altar.

He was in no friendly frame of mind when Aubrey returned. Closing the door, the bishop leaned back against it, and they regarded each other warily. Aubrey was the one to break the silence, saying in a low voice, "I thank you for not letting yourself be seen."

Justin's shoulders twitched in a half-shrug.

"Why are you here?" Aubrey asked, after another uncomfortable silence.

Justin withdrew the letters from his tunic, "I need you to send these to the queen. I am not sure where she is now, but I thought your messenger could go first to London and learn her whereabouts. There is a second letter for the abbess of Godstow priory." He paused, daring Aubrey to ask questions. "The letter to the queen is urgent. Can your man be ready to ride out today?"

"Yes, of course." Aubrey stepped forward and took the letters from Justin. "I will see to it myself, choosing one of my most reliable men.

Justin nodded, not knowing what else to say. He'd expected Aubrey to leave as soon as he had the letters, but the bishop remained where he was, watching him with an inscrutable expression. "One of my guests," he said abruptly, "was Hugh de Nonant, Bishop of Coventry and Lichfield. I am sure you've heard tales about him, none of them good."

Justin nodded again, for the Bishop of Coventry was rumored to be hand in glove with the queen's treacherous son, John. Aubrey hesitated, subjecting him to another intent scrutiny. "Last December… the night you forced your way into my great hall, Hugh de Nonant was here. He was curious about you and the scene you were causing, asked too many questions. He has an unholy ability to sniff out other men's secrets and then use them to his benefit. If he'd seen you again and learned that you serve the queen now, who's to say what he might have made of it?"

Justin did not want to see through Aubrey's eyes. He could not dismiss these fears out of hand, though. Any ally of John's was deserving of suspicion. "You should have told me about de Nonant. Had I known, I would have kept out of his sight."

"Yes… I should have," Aubrey agreed, to Justin's surprise. Tucking the letters away, he said briskly, "I will see to this straightaway. I think it best that you remain here a while longer. I will send Martin in to you as soon as it is safe for you to depart."

Justin said nothing, for what was there to say? His father turned, strode over to the door. He paused, then, his hand on the latch. His back was to Justin, his face not visible. "Aline," he said softly. "Your mother's name was Aline."