Dragon's Lair

Chapter 16

August 1193

Llanelwy, North Wales

The river Elwy was a stone's throw away, but the moon had been swallowed up by a passing cloud and Justin could no longer see it. He tilted his head to the side, listening to the soft, rhythmic rushing of the water. So hushed and tranquil was the night that he could easily have been lulled into complacency — were it not for his purpose here in the hamlet of Llanelwy: a secret meeting with a man who was neither friend nor foe, capable of becoming either one.

Turning away from the unseen river, he gazed up at the glimmering lights of St Asaph, the cathedral crowning the crest of the hill. It seemed odd to use so grand a word for so simple a structure, for this humble, wooden church bore little resemblance to the stone and stained glass cathedrals of England. It was perfect, though, for a meeting place. It was only a few miles from Rhuddlan Castle, near enough that Justin could ride out on his own without the need of Sion's escort, and convenient in that he could spend the night in St Asaph's guest house, offer the bishop's gatekeeper a few coins to slip him in and out, and then walk down the hill to await Llewelyn's arrival.

But if it was advantageous for Justin, Llanelwy was a potent death trap for Llewelyn ab Iorwerth, and he wondered why the Welshman had chosen it. It was dangerously close to Davydd's castle at Rhuddlan, deep in the heart of his domains. He supposed Llewelyn might argue that the best hiding place was sometimes in plain sight, but he could not help remembering Molly's tart warning about men who lusted after danger instead of whores. "Unpredictable and reckless," she'd called them. Not the sort of man he ought to be meeting alone at night in a deserted churchyard.

The moon had escaped the cloud's smothering confines, and silvered light illuminated the small cemetery. He'd been told by the guest house hospitaller that Thomas de Caldecott was buried here; his funeral had been held in the cathedral but its hallowed ground was reserved for its own. It was easy to find Thomas's grave; there were only two earthen mounds that indicated recent burials, and one was too small to be anything but the final resting place of a baby. Justin paused before that forlorn little grave, saying a prayer for the soul of its occupant. In England unbaptized infants could not be buried in consecrated ground. He thought the Welsh might be more generous in interpreting God's Word; at least he hoped so.

Moving toward Thomas de Caldecott's grave, he stood staring down at the bare, naked earth, the stark wooden cross. He offered no prayers for Thomas's soul. If the knight were to be forgiven, let it be by the Almighty. Neither the murdered men nor the three missing sailors could offer their forgiveness. And though she still breathed, he counted Angharad, too, amongst de Caldecott's victims.

"Is that the grave of the English slayer?"

Justin was not caught utterly by surprise; he'd taken notice at Aberconwy of Llewelyn's natural sense of drama. But the Welshman's ghostly approach was still impressive; he'd heard not so much as a twig's snap, a pebble's scrape. Turning without haste, as if he'd known of Llewelyn's presence all along, he said, "I ought to introduce you to Molly's phantom."

Llewelyn looked understandably puzzled. "English humor is one of life's great mysteries." Coming forward into the moonlight, he glanced down at the grave, then back at Justin. "A better resting place than he deserves, I daresay. Any idea who might have poisoned him?"

"Is there anyone in North Wales who does believe the man was stabbed?" Justin said wryly and caught the glimmer of a quick smile.

"Only those whose wits are addled by drink or grief," Llewelyn said, and Justin wondered if he knew about Angharad. "Sion saw the body and says there was no blood or visible wounds… other than my dagger thrust, of course."

"Are you claiming credit for another man's deed? Your uncle says Rhys ap Cadell wielded the blade."

"So I heard. Rhys was so pleased that Davydd remembers him." Llewelyn's lip curled. "My uncle is lucky indeed that Rhys was not prowling about Rhuddlan with a knife at the ready. When Rhys wants to take down a tree, he does not waste time lopping off branches, goes right for the roots."

"I suspect that you do, too."

Llewelyn did not deny it. "I suppose I am fortunate that I was not even born when the Archbishop of Canterbury was slain, or else Davydd would be blaming me for that death, too."

Thomas Becket had been murdered in December of God's Year 1170, so Justin had not been born then, either. But he was very familiar with the archbishop's story, as who in Christendom was not? Becket had died in his own cathedral, struck down by four knights who'd claimed that they'd acted on the king's behalf. Henry had passionately denied it, swearing that he'd spoken careless words in anger, no more than that, and eventually he'd convinced the Church. Even those who did not believe him to be guilty, though, did not believe him to be innocent, either. Whether he'd intended it or not, his Angevin rage had unleashed evil, and in perhaps the greatest irony of all, the man who'd been his beloved friend and then his mortal enemy became a holy martyr, canonized as a saint.

Justin had always been intrigued by the enigmatic figure of the archbishop, in part because his father was a great admirer of Thomas Becket. He'd often spoken of his brief meeting with the archbishop, scant weeks before Becket's murder, and Justin had been awed that someone he knew had actually spoken with a saint.

When he entered the queen's service, he'd yearned to ask her about Becket, but he never dared, and only once had she made mention of the tragic feud that brought such grief to both her husband and his archbishop, remarking cryptically that she'd have given a great deal to witness the first meeting between Henry and Becket in the afterlife. Justin had been shocked enough to blurt out, "In Heaven?" for he'd taken it for granted that King Henry would have to endure centuries in Purgatory to repent his earthly sins. Eleanor had looked at him and laughed, reading his thoughts with her usual ease. "Actually," she'd murmured, "I was envisioning them both in Hell," and then laughed again at the stunned expression on his face.

Llewelyn's sarcasm had brought that memory back, and much to his own surprise, Justin found himself telling the Welshman about the queen's sardonic comment. He could not say what prompted him to do so, for he took very seriously his responsibilities as the queen's man, and not the least of them was utter discretion. But Llewelyn did not seem startled by Eleanor's acerbic opinion of the archbishop. "We have a saying in Welsh," he said with a grin, "Po agosaf i' r eglwys, pellaf o baradwys. Nearest to church, furthest from God."

Justin sensed that here was another who did not venerate St Thomas and stifled an urge to defend the martyred archbishop. Instead, he indulged his curiosity and asked Llewelyn if it were true that he'd begun his rebellion against Davydd at the green age of fourteen.

"That is not as remarkable as it sounds. In Wales, a youth reaches his legal majority at fourteen rather than England's twenty-one." Justin caught the glint of laughter in the Welshman's eyes even before Llewelyn added blandly, "We must mature faster than you English do."

"I am sure the Welsh have manifold virtues," Justin said amiably. "It is very mature, for certes, to choose a rendezvous that is right under Davydd's nose."

"I was looking out for your best interests." Llewelyn tried and almost succeeded in sounding reproachful. "It is well known that the English get lost with alarming ease, mayhap because they are so often venturing into lands not theirs." He did not wait for Justin's retort, glancing around the silent churchyard as if to acknowledge this was neither the ideal place nor the time for verbal jousting. "Why did you ask to meet me, Iestyn?"

"Whilst I was in Chester, I was able to unearth enough evidence to connect Thomas de Caldecott to the robbery and killings. Regrettably he got himself murdered ere I could confirm the identity of his ally."

"Very unsporting of him," Llewelyn agreed. "You never did answer my question: who you think killed him. I'd naturally suspect my uncle Davydd, but even he would not have made such a bloody botch of it. What about this ally? Who do you suspect? The Lady Emma?"

Justin could not conceal his surprise. "What… you have second sight?"

"So I was right?" Llewelyn sounded surprised, too, "I suppose twenty years of marriage to Davydd could drive any woman to lunacy. But what sort of proof do you have?"

"Enough to fit into a thimble with space to spare," Justin admitted and explained why he harbored suspicions of Emma, concluding with his futile hunt in Chester for Oliver and Molly's "phantom." Llewelyn listened without interruption, his expression intent. Justin was coming to respect the Welshman's intellect, and he was gratified that Llewelyn seemed to take his conjecturing seriously.

"I see what you mean about the thimble," Llewelyn said, after a reflective silence. "But if there is not enough to convict the lady, there is enough to justify further investigation. Why are you telling me all this, though? Mind you, I appreciate your generosity. I am just curious about what prompted it."

"My queen's interest is in recovering the ransom. There'll come a time when she seeks to punish the offenders, but not yet. If I cannot find proof of Davydd's treachery, or if evil befalls me here in Wales, it will be up to you to disprove Davydd's accusations. I want to make sure that you have the weapons you'll need to do it. And remember… if I die and you let Davydd win, I'll be haunting you until you take your last breath,"

The curve of Llewelyn's mouth hinted at a suppressed smile. "I could become right fond of you, English," he said, "at least until the ransom is found!"

~*~

Justin had never seen Rhun look so cheerful. He'd lost that invalid's pallor, the spring was back in his step, and his smile was not far from the surface. He was feeling well enough to earn his keep and was working in the stables now. He'd always had a way with horses, he confided, but he'd never been given the opportunity at Rhuddlan. Justin had come to talk to the boy about returning to Davydd's service. He was beginning to suspect, though, that Rhun had other ideas.

"If you want to come back to Rhuddlan," he said, "we think it can be done. I must stay out of it, for Davydd would deny you just to spite me. I have talked to the Lady Angharad, and she is willing to approach the Lady Emma on your behalf."

Rhun was already shaking his head. "I thank you for your kindness, but I have no wish to serve Lord Davydd again. Master Sion's brother has said he thinks I have the makings of a good groom. And…" He paused, lowering his voice conspiratorially although none were within earshot. "I do not think Lord Davydd will rule Gwynedd much longer. God willing, Lord Llewelyn will prevail and the Welsh will rejoice."

Justin agreed with him that Davydd was living on borrowed time and probably knew it, which accounted for his fear-driven rages. His treachery Justin was inclined to attribute to Davydd's deceitful nature, remembering that Davydd had originally obtained power by ambushing his brother Hywel. The Welsh, he decided, could give Cain and Abel lessons in fraternal rivalry. But then, so could King Richard and his jealousy-ridden brother John.

"Master de Quincy…" Some of Rhun's newfound confidence was ebbing away. "I have not returned to the ambush site. I did not want to see where the others died. A few days past, one of the grooms asked me where it had happened, and I told him as best I could, He came back later and was sorely vexed with me, saying I'd misspoke, that the ambush had taken place several miles down the road. He talked about the burned hay-wains being near a copse of alder trees, but that is not how I remember it. In my mind's eye, I see a bend in the road and them waiting for us as we made the turn. Now my memory could be faulty, I suppose…"

"I suppose it could," Justin agreed. But he did not believe that, and neither did Rhun.

~*~

Justin returned to Rhuddlan, planning to set out at first light to search for the hidden wool. He understood now why all previous searches had been in vain. Davydd's men had scoured the area where the burned wagons had been found, as had Llewelyn's men and Justin himself. But the ambush had actually occurred miles down the road, where the wool was likely concealed, and the bodies of the men were then loaded into the empty wagons and driven to the spot where they were burned. He was guessing that Rhun had told him first out of a sense of gratitude. The lad had other loyalties, though. Could he find the wool ere Rhun confided in Sion's brother and word was passed on to Llewelyn ab Iorwerth?

His plans were disrupted, though, almost as soon as he'd ridden into the castle bailey. He was leading his stallion into the stables when Sion slipped in after him with news that changed everything. The Lady Emma was intending to visit the holy well of St Gwenfrewi at Treffynnon, Sion reported, a journey that struck him as suspicious for several reasons. Gwenfrewi, the patron saint of virgins, was much revered by the faithful and the healing power of her holy well was so renowned that King Richard himself had made a pilgrimage there before setting out on his ill-fated crusade. It was close by Basingwerk and Justin had found time on each of his abbey stays to pay his respects to the little Welsh saint who'd died in defense of her chastity so many centuries ago. He saw nothing odd, therefore, in Emma's pilgrimage to such a celebrated shrine, but Sion quickly enlightened him.

Never had Emma visited Gwenfrewi's holy well, he said with some indignation not once in more than twenty years in Wales. Justin started to point out that Emma would not have been welcome at Basingwerk Abbey, where her sex mattered more than her status as Davydd's consort, but Sion gave him no chance.

"Well, I find it strange that she suddenly shows such interest in a saint she has ignored for all of her married life. I find it strange that a woman who will not go to the privy chamber without an escort is taking only Oliver, one of her handmaidens, and just enough men to see to her safety. The last time she went to Chester, she traveled in a style that the English queen might well have envied. And I also find it strange that she is willing to pass the night in a humble priest's abode instead of demanding that the White Monks admit her to their guest house or returning to Rhuddlan."

By now Sion had won Justin over. "You are right," he conceded. "None of that sounds like the Lady Emma that we know and love not. I will do my best to find out what she is up to, but it will not be easy, Sion. If she has even the slightest suspicion that I am close at hand, she'll never stir from that priest's house."

"That is why you need to announce today that you are going to Chester. If you leave at daybreak tomorrow, you'll get to Basingwerk ere Emma does. If you can keep out of her sight, she ought to feel secure enough to follow through with whatever she is planning. She has said nothing in public yet about her pilgrimage, so she has no reason to suspect that you know. I think she will welcome your absence, not doubt it."

Justin was very glad that he'd shared his suspicions about Emma with Sion. The man was proving to be a useful ally… as long as his interests continued to coincide with those of Llewelyn ab Iorwerth, "I think Oliver set up this meeting whilst he was in Chester. I'd wager that Emma never intended to take so active a role herself, not until Thomas de Caldecott got himself so inconveniently murdered," Sion nodded somberly. "This may be your last chance to find either the truth or the ransom, Iestyn."

"I know." His queen wanted the ransom. Davydd also wanted the ransom. He wondered which one Llewelyn wanted, if it came to a choice. If only he had the answer to that question, he'd know, then, how much he dared trust the Welsh rebel.