Dragon's Lair

Chapter 17

September1193

Treffynnon, Wales

A chill drizzle was leaking prom clouds the color of lead. Justin had seen few scenes as desolate as Treffynnon, the tiny village that had grown up around the holy well of St Gwenfrewi. Undaunted by the dreary weather, a few hardy pilgrims had gathered at the spring. Noticing a young boy dragging a clubfoot, Justin hoped that if the saint answered any prayers this day, it would be his.

Shifting position, he winced as his back muscles cramped in protest. He was not surprised that he'd awakened so stiff and sore, for he'd passed the night in a barn. As uncomfortable as his lodgings had been, at least he'd been spared a night camping out in the woods. He'd not dared to stay at the abbey guest house, for it was barely a mile away at the lower end of the valley, and he was sure that Oliver would be on the lookout for an Englishman upon a chestnut stallion. Fortunately, Sion had come to his rescue, suggesting that he ask for shelter at one of the abbey granges.

The granges were run by conversi, lay brothers who took holy vows as the monks did, but who lived under a less restrictive code of behavior, unlettered men recruited from the poor and the peasantry to do the manual labor that the choir monks eschewed. Following Sion's advice, Justin had packed several wineskins and guaranteed himself a cordial welcome when he'd ridden into the grange at Mertyn. It was one of the smallest and poorest of the abbey's farms, but the lay brothers had been generous hosts, sharing their plain fare and offering Justin a snug straw bed in the byre that sheltered their cows.

Leaving Copper in the cattle barn, he set out before dawn for Treffynnon. It was not an enjoyable trek, for the rain was cold, the path muddy, and a hole had worn through one of his boots. Thankful that less than three miles lay between grange and holy well, he limped into the hamlet before anyone was stirring. After finding a perch to keep watch, he peeled off a piece of bark to make a temporary plug for the boot sole. His best guess was that the Chester phantom would be arriving sooner rather than later, for he could not imagine the elegant, luxury-loving Emma spending any more time than need be in the priest's small, shabby house. She'd yet to emerge, but Justin had chosen his hiding place with care, one that afforded an unobstructed view of the sacred spring, the adjacent church, and the priest's lodging. He need only watch and wait.

The rain continued to fall, and Justin was shivering and wet and hungry by the time Emma appeared. Justin observed that she did not follow the usual pilgrim's practice of praying at the moss-covered valley stones that represented the penitential stations. In stead she headed directly for the well, where her armed escort made the pilgrims stand aside so she could approach on her own. Oliver produced a blanket, so that she could kneel without muddying her skirts, and Justin watched closely as she blessed herself with the holy water and bowed her head. Her prayer was a brief one, confirming Justin's cynical suspicions about the sincerity of her desire to honor the martyred Welsh saint. Only after she had risen and was escorted into the church did her guards permit the pilgrims to return to the spring and their interrupted prayers.

Although Justin did not yet know it, the rest of his day would go downhill from there. Emma soon exited the church and returned to the priest's lodging. Oliver remained behind and began to approach villagers. Well out of earshot, Justin watched in frustration as the same scenario was enacted time and time again. Oliver would initiate a conversation only to get shrugs and uncomprehending stares for his trouble. Justin surmised that Oliver was encountering a language barrier; he apparently spoke no Welsh and none of the villagers he accosted spoke French.

Making no progress with the local people, Oliver concentrated upon the pilgrims, but he had no luck until he addressed a tall, hulking youth in the long russet robe and wide-brimmed hat that proclaimed his pilgrim status. Judging by the animated discussion that followed, Justin concluded that Oliver had at last found someone who could answer his questions. But what was Oliver seeking so urgently to find out?

When the canonical hour of Terce drew near, Emma reemerged and accompanied the priest to the church, where they were soon joined by villagers, pilgrims, and some of the men who'd been staying in the abbey guest house. After the Morrow Mass, the church emptied and people went about their daily chores and activities. Emma was among the last to depart, returning once more to the priest's lodgings. But Justin waited in vain for Oliver.

Once he realized that Oliver must have slipped out the church's side door during the Mass, Justin used some of the Welsh curses he'd picked up from Davydd. He did not think Oliver suspected that he was under surveillance; this was just more proof of the man's innate caution. It was too late to try to pick up the trail. All he could do was to hope that Oliver had not sneaked off to meet Emma's mystery partner. He had logic on his side, for why would Emma have made this uncomfortable journey to Treffynnon if her presence were not needed and Oliver could act on her behalf? Logic notwithstanding, though, Justin felt as if there was a hollow, empty pit where his stomach ought to be.

Oliver was gone for hours, not returning until the afternoon. He moved slowly and his limp was much more pronounced; even from a distance, Justin could see that his boots were heavily caked in mud. He disappeared into the priest's house, and neither he nor Emma was seen again that day. Justin had gotten bread and cheese from the monks at Mertyn, but he'd eaten it at midday, and he found himself bedeviled by hunger as well as fatigue and cold. He'd been sure that Emma had come to Treffynnon to meet someone, so sure. But his faith was waning with each wet, wearisome hour of this vexing, never-ending day.

Darkness came quickly, and the villagers soon retreated to their hearths. The priest withdrew to pass the night at a parishioner's house, and Emma's men-at-arms trudged down the valley toward the abbey guest house. Justin perked up with their departure, surprised that Emma would not have chosen to billet her men in the village. It seemed unlikely in the extreme that she would have put her men's comfort and the convenience of the villagers before her own safety… not unless she was expecting a guest and wanted no prying eyes.

The sky was mottled by lowering storm clouds, but Justin's eyes had adjusted to the darkness and he'd found a hiding place closer to the priest's lodgings, so he was reasonably confident that no one could approach the house without his noticing. Off in the distance, a dog barked and was answered with the haunting, lonely howl of a Welsh wolf. Trees rustled and whispered in harmony with the wind. Close at hand, Justin heard the squeak of a small animal that had just met a bloody death. He thought he could even hear the splashing of St Gwenfrewi's holy spring. The muted music of the abbey church bells drifted down the valley, ringing in Compline. Soon afterward, Justin caught a flash of light.

The light vanished as abruptly as it had appeared and he realized that a lantern's flame had been shielded. The door to the priest's house had creaked open and two mantled, hooded figures now crept stealthily out into the night. Once they'd crossed the churchyard and moved away from the village, the lantern glowed again. Rising soundlessly from his hiding place, Justin began to follow that faint, flickering light.

He assumed that Emma's ally would be close by and was puzzled when they left the pasture behind and entered the woods. Trailing after them at a safe distance, Justin discovered that there was a path winding its way among the trees. It was muddy, strewn with leaves and dead branches, and he had to watch his footing with every step he took. From somewhere up ahead, he heard a sudden cry, and he froze in his tracks.

"My lady, are you hurt?"

"No… I just twisted my ankle."

The voices carried back to Justin with startling clarity. None of this made sense to him. Why was Emma's partner not coming to her? Why were they not meeting near Treffynnon?

"Are you sure you can find the way, Oliver?"

"As long as we stay on the path, my lady, we'll not get lost. To make sure, I tied white strips of cloth to trees this afternoon. See… there is one now."

"How clever of you," Emma said, with more warmth than Justin had hitherto heard in her voice. "I do see it." Oliver explained that he'd return on the morrow and remove them, and Emma praised his resourcefulness again. "Oliver… what in the world are these cloths? They do not look like rags to me."

"I… er… appropriated one of Father Marcus's shirts. It was the only white cloth I could find."

"Well, we must be sure to leave money in repayment. We are not thieves, after all," Emma said, and then she laughed. This was a new Emma to Justin, one he suspected that few ever saw. She even sounded different; that little-girl breathiness was gone and her enunciation was crisp and confident, utterly devoid of coyness or coquetry.

"This is nothing you ought to be doing, my lady. I wish you'd agreed to let me serve as your messenger."

"So do I, Oliver," Emma said ruefully. "No… as unpleasant as this is, it could not be helped. Some news can only be delivered face-to-face."

Justin forgot to breathe, so intently was he waiting to hear her next words. But his hopes of a dramatic revelation came to naught. What he heard instead was an alarmed exclamation from Oliver. Justin halted abruptly, his pulse racing until he realized that they'd not discovered his presence. Oliver had stumbled, fallen to his knees, and Emma nearly lost her own balance when she tried to assist him. After that mishap, they continued on in silence, and Justin dropped back, deciding he could risk following from a safer distance.

The path zigzagged through the woods and, from time to time, Oliver's lantern was no longer in sight. Justin kept his eyes peeled for Oliver's white signals. He thought he had an idea where they were going. The lay brothers had told him about the other abbey granges, perhaps not wanting him to think that they were all as meager as theirs at Mertyn. The most prosperous was the one at Mostyn, ideally located on the River Dee estuary, which enabled the monks to ship their wool to Chester by water. Justin thought he remembered them telling him that Mostyn was about three miles from Basingwerk, and the pathway would be a natural route to and from the abbey. But why Mostyn? Justin still had so many questions. He could only hope that he'd finally find some of the answers this night.

When he eventually emerged from the woods, he saw that his hunch had been right; the Mostyn grange was their destination. He watched as Emma and Oliver disappeared through the gate way, and then cautiously approached the low stone wall that marked the boundary lines of the abbey farm. The night shrouded most of the buildings, but he knew what he'd have seen by light of day: accommodations for the lay brothers, sheepcotes, barns, possibly even a chapel. His nose wrinkled as the wind brought a rank smell his way; it seemed there was also a pigsty. Boosting himself up onto the wall, he hesitated only a moment before dropping down onto the soft earth on the other side.

The sheepcotes were empty, for the flock had not been brought in from their summer pastures yet. Justin darted from one to the other, using them as camouflage. Between the darkness and the distance, Justin could discern only shadowy figures, the silhouettes of buildings. He'd become so accustomed to the night blackness that he was almost blinded by a sudden flare of light as a door opened. Men were coming out, holding blazing torches. The leaping flames lit up a scene as remarkable as it was alarming. These were not monks moving to meet Emma. Nor were they lay brothers. These men were booted and armed, mantles drawn back to give easy access to sheathed swords. As unlikely as it seemed to Justin, it looked as if the abbey grange at Mostyn had been taken over by an army.

~*~

Justin had approached as close as he dared, taking cover behind the wooden chapel as he tried to make sense of the situation. The lay brothers were being held in their dotter, doubtless even more bewildered than he was by this unexpected turn of events. No outlaw band would raid an abbey grange, for what could they hope to get? So who were these men? And what was Emma's part in all this?

With the arrival of more men, he had a partial answer, for they were coming from the north, and they were not on horseback. There could only be one explanation: they were from a ship anchored out in the estuary. He was still mulling this over when he found himself in danger of discovery; several of the newcomers were approaching at an angle that would bring them much too close to his hiding place. He made the only move he could and ducked through the partially open door of the chapel.

He almost tripped over a pile of candles scattered all over the floor; it was easy to imagine one of the monks spilling them when confronted by armed intruders. Leaving the door ajar, he continued to keep watch. Emma was ringed by flaming torches, Oliver hovering protectively at her side, A few more lay brothers were being rounded up, herded into the dotter with the other captives. The rain had been falling sporadically since sundown, but now the clouds split, inundating Mostyn in a deluge of icy water. Several of the men were gesturing toward the dotter, but Emma shook her head and, to Justin's horror, pointed at the chapel.

A desperate glance around the chapel interior revealed one possible means of escape: a window in the west wall. But it was shuttered and he'd never get it open in time, Retreating into the middle of the room, he experienced a moment of utter despair. Then he saw the outlines of another door. Reaching it in three strides, he dived through into blessed darkness.

A small, windowless room, it was blacker than pitch, blacker than sin. He guessed it must be the sacristy. It would be an even more deadly snare than the chapel, but for now, it offered a chance of salvation. He left the door cracked open; if he went down, by God, he'd go down with answers. Torchlights spilled through the chapel doorway, brighter than the sun to moles and bats and Justin, who had to shut his eyes against the glare.

"I will await him here." Emma s voice indicated she was addressing her inferiors; she was very much the lady of the manor again, adding coolly, "I hope it will not be long."

So did Justin. As he'd been able to envision the panic of monks and lay brothers, so, too, could he imagine the fear felt by a cornered mouse with a cat on the prowl. He'd never been uncomfortable in small, confined spaces… until now. His back to the wall, he reached under his mantle and let his hand rest on the hilt of his sword.

The sound was a soft one, barely carrying to Justin's ears. But it set his heart to thudding against his ribs, for it had come from a far corner of the sacristy. He stood very still, every sense alert, his eyes probing the chamber until he could peel away several shadows from the obscuring darkness. His mouth went dry with the realization that he was sharing his sanctuary. Almost at once, though, he recognized these new adversaries for what they were: fearful lay brothers who'd taken refuge in the safest place they could find, God's House. He wished he would whisper a reassurance, vow that he was not their enemy. But he dared not risk it, not with Emma pacing impatiently on the other side of that thin, wooden wall.

"Go and seek out their buttery, Oliver, You look like a man desperately in need of a drink." When Oliver said that he did not think the Cistercians allowed wine or ale upon their granges, Emma retorted, "Now why does that not surprise me?" in an acerbic tone that spoke volumes about her feelings for the White Monks,

Justin could not blame her for her animosity, for it had to rankle that the White Monks would bar even their prince's consort from their guest halls. Oddly enough, he was finding this new Emma more sympathetic than the pampered princess he'd seen on display at Rhuddlan. This woman might be in collusion with the Devil for all he knew, but she was showing commendable courage, obvious affection for Oliver, and a steely resolve that put him in mind of his queen.

"The monks must have a lit fire somewhere, if only in the kitchen. Go find it, Oliver, and thaw out." Oliver protested that he did not want to leave her, confirming Justin's suspicions that he was an old family retainer when he spoke proudly of serving her lord father, that prince of blessed memory, Count Geoffrey. But Emma insisted, and Oliver dutifully departed. Almost at once, though, he was back.

"My lady, he has come!"

"About time," Emma muttered, not sounding much in awe of her clandestine partner in crime. She'd begun to pace again, her footsteps echoing as far as the sacristy door and then away. Justin blew on his hands, trying to warm them. In the corner, the lay brothers still huddled, or so he assumed, for they were all but invisible in their dark brown habits. For the first time since taking cover in the sacristy, Justin could feel the excitement throbbing through his veins. Close, so close to learning the truth about this tangled spider's web of conspiracy and intrigue!

Others were entering the chapel. After a murmur of voices, light squeezed through the cracked door of the sacristy, and Justin guessed that a wall sconce had been lit. The temptation to put his eye to that arrow-thin opening was considerable. So far Justin was resisting it.

"I want no witnesses to this meeting," Emma said, and Justin wondered how many of these men knew her identity. Cloaked in a dark, hooded mantle, she thwarted recognition by even her near and dear ones.

"Your wish is my command, my lady." This voice had the distinctive intonation of the highborn, that unmistakable blend of education, expectation, and arrogance. It was also a familiar voice to Justin, one he'd heard all too often at high-risk moments in the past year. He refused to believe what his brain was telling him, though, for that voice belonged to a man who was hundreds of miles away, on the other side of the English Channel.

There was the sound of retreating footsteps, a closing door, and then that silken, sardonic voice again, calling Emma "My dearest aunt," and a stunned Justin could no longer deny that Emma's ally was Queen Eleanor's faithless son, John.