Dragon's Lair

Chapter 13

August 1193

Rhuddlan Castle, Wales

"We would be more comfortable in the Grange's hall Aunt Emma"

"No… privacy matters more to me than comfort."

Justin was startled by how clearly audible their voices were. This was working out even better than he'd dared hope… so far.

"When I heard that you'd left England, I was not sure you'd be back, John."

"Going to Paris is not like going to Hell, Aunt Emma. Men have been known to return from France." John's footsteps neared the sacristy door. "How long has it been since we last met? It has to be a few years… I think when Richard made his pilgrimage to St Winifred's Well? But you've not aged a day that I can see. No wonder other women like you not."

"You need not waste gallantry upon kinswomen, John. There is no profit in it."

John laughed. "Just out of curiosity, do you ever let anyone else see the side of you that you show to me? I do not blame you for being vexed with my abrupt departure for the French court. It could not be helped, though, and I did keep my promise. I came back."

"I was not so much vexed as concerned lest all our planning be set at naught. I knew from the moment I learned of Davydd's mad scheme that this was an opportunity that would not come again. Thankfully we had such a reliable emissary, or all would have been lost as soon as you sailed from Southampton."

It was becoming clear to Justin that their plan had been in the works for months, long before the actual robbery. He assumed Thomas de Caldecott was the "reliable emissary," but John disabused him of that notion by saying, "Yes, the Breton was a godsend… or devil-sent, depending upon one's point of view." Justin frowned. Who was the Breton?

"It was inspired to suggest him as go-between, Aunt Emma. Neither of us would have been foolhardy enough to commit much to letters. I suppose you met the Breton whilst he was in my father's service?"

"Yes."

"You are not the most forthcoming of allies." John was sounding amused again. "There is much I still do not know about this plot of yours. Such as how you found out about Davydd's plans."

"Does it truly matter? If you must know, Davydd told me. He boasted of it, in fact, said he'd be catching two rabbits in one snare, gaining Richard's gratitude when he recovered the ransom whilst ridding himself of a troublesome rival."

John chuckled. "Is that a Welsh saying… catching two rabbits in one snare? I like it, for that is what I am doing myself with this return to England. I, too, am capturing two rabbits in one snare, and what makes it so sweet is that both rabbits belong to Brother Richard!"

"I do not understand that, nor do I want to. Whatever else you have in mind is between you and the Almighty."

"Such righteousness does not become you, Aunt Emma." John's voice had taken on a discernible edge. "It is not as if your hands are not bloodied, too. It is my understanding that three men died in that robbery. And lest we forget, that Cheshire knight who was found dead in your chapel under such odd circumstances."

"My hands are not bloodied! Those killings were de Caldecott's doing, not mine. I wanted the ransom. He was the one who turned a robbery into murder."

"And I am sure you wept a sea of salt tears for those poor, murdered men."

"You know I did not," she snapped. "But the fact that I did not grieve for them does not mean that I wanted their deaths. That sin is on Thomas de Caldecott, and he has already answered for it,"

"Yes, so I heard, Oliver was sparing with the details, though. I do not suppose that you had a hand in it?"

"Of course I did not!"

"I was not accusing, merely asking. I have never been a believer in coincidences, so naturally I marveled that the man should be killed once there was no longer a need for his services."

"I am going to assume that you are making another of your dubious jests," Emma said, with enough ice in her voice to put John at risk for frostbite. "I do not know who killed de Caldecott, only that it was not me."

"A passing stranger, then?" John suggested sarcastically. "Surely you must have some suspicions?"

"Well… Davydd was acting so oddly afterward that I did wonder if he'd ordered it done. But it turned out that he was merely trying to put the blame upon his nephew, with his usual dazzling success."

"I hope that my own wife does not speak of me in such loving tones. Surely the man has some redeeming qualities?"

"None worth mentioning," Emma said scathingly. "As I said, I do not know who killed de Caldecott. Nor do I know why you should care."

"Because I do not like surprises, Aunt Emma. No more than I like riddles. Here is one I particularly dislike: Why is a woman willing to put her own son's birthright at risk? I have no trouble believing that you loathe your husband. Most men would be astounded if they knew what their wives really think of them. But if Davydd loses power, where does that leave your son? Or you, for that matter?"

"My son's 'birthright,' you call it? Davydd seized power over the bodies of his brothers and has clung to it ever since by force, threats, and blind luck. You truly think there will be a peaceful transfer of that power from father to son? When pigs fly! I've always known that my son would never rule North Wales after Davydd. I just did not know the name of the man who would… until now."

"And that would be the troublesome nephew?"

"Do you know what I see when I look at Davydd? I see a doomed man, one with a mortal ailment that is slowly killing him. It is only a matter of time. And in that time I mean to do all I can to give my son — and my daughter — a secure future,"

"By gaining a friend at court?"

"Why be so modest, John? What we are talking about is king making. Your chances of seeing yourself crowned at Westminster increase dramatically if Richard does not come home. And then I will have more than a friend at court. I will have the king's favor."

"Yes," John said, "you will. Ingratitude has never been one my vices." Judging from the sound of footsteps, Justin guessed that John had moved to Emma's side. "So you are taking such great risk for your children? I hope they appreciate how fortunate they are. My own parents would do anything for the flesh of their flesh, absolutely anything… provided it did not involve the actual surrender of an acre of land or the loss of a single vassal."

"I see that you know your father better than I thought you did."

The bitterness in Emma's voice was so palpable that a verse from Scriptures popped into Justin's head, the one that spoke of "wormwood and gall." With John's retort, it was obvious that he, too, had caught the bile behind her words.

"My lord father always had a knack for making enemies. What did he do to incur your wrath, Emma?"

"You need to ask?" Emma sounded startled and then angry. "He forced me to wed a man I despised, separated me from my son, and exiled me to this godforsaken wilderness!"

"Well, yes, he did…" John did not sound as if he shared her outrage. "But that is the way it is done, Aunt Emma. Your son was the heir to your first husband's lands, so he could hardly follow you to Wales."

"He was four years old!"

"I was even younger when my parents deposited me at Fontevrault Abbey to start my career in the Church."

"And how did you like that, John? Did you cry for your nurse, for all that was known and familiar to you? My son cried for me."

When John spoke again, the edge was back in his voice, which made Justin think she'd cut too close to the bone. "For the highborn, marriages are made over the bargaining table, not in Heaven. Jesu, Richard even offered our sister Joanna to a Saracen prince! Of course she all but scorched his ears off when she heard, but — "

"I did not have Joanna's right of refusal! Nor am I innocent in the ways of the world. I was married off to Guy de Laval at a very young age, or have you forgotten that? When he died, I learned what most women will not admit, that a widow's lot is better than a wife's more often than not. But then my loving brother Harry decided that pleasing a Welsh ally mattered more than his sister's happiness."

"I doubt that he acted on a whim. Most likely he thought the marriage would help keep the peace in Wales."

"Yes, that is just what he told me when I begged him… begged him on my knees! He thought my marriage was a cheap price to pay for peace, and why not? I was the one to pay it, after all!"

"True enough… but in my father's defense, I feel obliged to point out that he did not wed you to a crofter or a shepherd, Aunt Emma. He wed you to a prince."

"A Welsh prince!" She all but spat the words. "So it does not surprise me that Richard was willing to marry his sister to an infidel. He was merely following in his father's footsteps, was he not?"

"I am beginning to understand. There is more at play here than a mother's concerns for her son's future. You see that 'price' you paid as a debt, one owed by my father. And since the dead are notoriously unreliable about paying debts, you mean to collect from Richard."

She did not deny it, saying challengingly, "What if I do?"

"In case it has escaped your notice, my father had more than one son. So why does Brother Richard get the lion's share of blood-guilt? Not even my greatest enemies have ever suggested that I am not the spawn of Harry's loins. Do you know something the rest of Christendom does not, Aunt Emma?"

Such a cynical jest shocked Justin; he could not imagine anyone but John daring to joke about so inflammatory a subject as paternity.

"What… that you are the result of Eleanor's dalliance with a dark-haired Angevin or Norman lord?" Emma asked, and then laughed. "No, John, I have no doubts about your lineage. Blood breeds true, you see. You are indeed Harry's son. But you are also the only one who could understand my plight and my desire for vengeance. You already know what it is like to have no power of your own, to be utterly dependent upon the goodwill of those you detest… do you not?"

There was a long silence, broken at last by Emma, "You'd best hope that I've satisfied your curiosity, for I'll be offering no more secrets of the heart. This is no confessional, and you are for certes no priest."

"One more question, dear aunt, and only one. Where is the wool?"

"I would," Emma said slowly, "that I knew."

Justin stiffened in disbelief. John sounded no less stunned, "You do not know? What sort of game are you playing now, Emma?"

"I assure you it is no game. Thomas de Caldecott handled the robbery, hiring the men, hiding the ransom, doing whatever must be done. I was not pleased with his killings and let him know it. So he in turn balked at telling me where he'd hidden the wool. He said I had no need to know, not yet. He never quite put the threat into words, but his meaning was clear. As long as he alone knew the hiding place, he was holding the reins and I was riding pillion behind him."

It occurred to Justin that Emma had just given herself an excellent motive for not wanting Thomas dead. He no longer doubted her. Knowing what he now did about Thomas de Caldecott, he knew, too, that the other man had been quite capable of taking such audacious measures to protect himself.

John had apparently come to the same conclusion. "He was a crafty whoreson, I'll give him that. But why did your man not tell this to the Breton in Chester? What… it somehow slipped his mind?"

"What would have been the point? The Breton could not have reached you ere you sailed for England. You'd likely have come in any event, since you've admitted you have other fish to fry here. Moreover, I have not given up. We can still recover the wool. De Caldecott was no Merlin, and it did not disappear in a puff of smoke. It is out there somewhere… waiting to be found."

"So is the Holy Grail, but I do not fancy my chances of finding it!"

"Come now, John, do not tell me that you never wager unless the odds are in your favor. I have brought a map of the area for you with the site of the ambush marked. If you put enough men to searching for the wool, they're likely to find it. Hire a Welshman who knows the lay of the land, do whatever you must."

"What if the search fails?"

"Well, you'll still be denying Richard the ransom, and is that not what you wanted? Of course you'd rather have the wool, too. But nothing matters more than keeping Richard captive in Germany, does it?"

The floor was wooden and the boards began to creak; it was easy for Justin to imagine John stalking about the chapel, pondering this setback. When he spoke again, Justin was surprised by the lack of anger in his voice; he'd not expected John to take a disappointment with such good grace.

"You are right, Aunt Emma. I'd burn every one of those woolsacks myself if that would prevent Richard's release. We'll wait a few weeks until all interest in the wool has died down, then I'll send men in to hunt for it. And I will not forget your help once I am king. On that you have my word."

"Many men would not put much faith in your word, John. But I do, for I know you, I know what matters to you and what does not. I think you will be a successful king, a better king than your vainglorious, battle-drunk brother. And now… I need an escort to Treffrynnon, for I am not about to walk back through those muddy woods and fields, not if I have to steal a horse."

"No need… I'll steal it for you," John offered. "We'll take a few of the grange horses, see you off in fine style."

"And return them to the grange afterward," she prompted, sounding so prim and proper that John laughed.

"God forbid that we steal from the good monks," he agreed cheerfully.

Justin held his breath, not exhaling until he heard the sound of the door opening and closing. Caught up in a surge of relief and triumph that was as intoxicating as any wine he'd ever drunk, he still waited several moments before risking a glimpse out into the chapel. Turning then toward the lay brothers, he said softly in Welsh, "They are gone, but we'd best stay where we are for now."

The darkness hid their faces; they were little more than indistinct shadows. One of them thanked him, though, murmuring "Diolch yn fawr" so politely that Justin had to smile, amused that men hiding in a church sacristy should be so meticulous about observing the proprieties. Common sense told him that it would be foolhardy to venture outside yet, but it would be hard to curb his impatience; his brain was racing as he sought to process all that he'd learned this night. The queen must be warned straightaway. He would have to leave Wales as soon as possible, for this information was too combustible to trust to a letter. He knew Eleanor would want no written trail of her son's latest sins. Once he'd reclaimed Copper at the other abbey grange, he would…

His musings were rudely interrupted by a sound that sent a chill up his spine: an opening door and raised voices. Men were entering the church. He tensed, his hand dropping again to the hilt of his sword, and then recoiled into the blackness of the sacristy, for John had come back.

The next voice he heard was as familiar to him as John's. "How much longer do you want to wait here, my lord? Are you not ready to return to the ship?"

"Soon, Durand, soon. You'll not be stranded here, I assure you. The rain has eased up but the wind is still high, and I'd rather not be bobbing about on the estuary in a small boat. One future English king drowned when the White Ship sank. I'd as soon not be the second."

Justin was not utterly surprised that Durand should be at Mostyn, too. He was John's veritable shadow, his access to the queen's son making him invaluable as Eleanor's spy. How much had Durand known of John's conspiracy with Emma? Justin did not share the queen's faith in her agent. He suspected that the other man shed his loyalties as easily as a snake shed its skin.

"I still do not see why you had Reynard escort the lady home from the grange and not me. I've a better sense of direction; Reynard has gotten lost on his way to the privy. And I could fend off outlaws in my sleep, whereas he'd bolt if he heard an owl hoot in the night."

"He is fond of you, too, Durand."

"I am not jesting, my lord. I truly wonder if she will be safe with him. Have they far to go?"

"Far enough," John said blandly. "Trust me, you'd have no chance of adding her to your conquests."

"Why not, my lord? Is she yours?"

John laughed. "Even I am not that depraved, Durand."

"What… is she a nun?" Durand sounded puzzled, and John laughed again. But his response was lost as more men entered the church. Justin could tell from their deferential tones that these were not knights like Durand; they showed none of his cockiness, the familiarity that danced right up to the border, yet somehow never crossed over into insolence or effrontery. It did not surprise Justin that John quieted them without raising his voice; men learned to obey quickly in John's service or they did not remain in his service.

Now that the storm had broken, John said, he would be re turning to the ship. Most would be going with him, but he wanted some of his men to remain behind and guard the grange, keeping the monks in the dorter until Reynard got back. "Since you felt slighted by my earlier choice, Durand, you'll be in command."

"How can I thank you, my lord?" Durand sounded disgruntled; he knew that John was having fun at his expense. "I ask only that you do not forget to send the boat back for us."

"No promises," John said dryly, and the scuffle of feet told Justin that they were moving toward the door.

"We need help here!"

The cry was quickly drowned out by the rising tide of other voices. Daring a peek through the cracked door, Justin saw two men stumbling into the church, one of them bleeding profusely from a gashed forehead. Confusion ensued, for they naturally suspected they were under attack. The alarm soon subsided, though, when it was revealed that the wounded man had split his head open by tripping over a rake,

Transformed in seconds from injured victim to laughingstock, the man was subjected to ridicule rather than sympathy. But because his blood was gushing out like a fountain, someone eventually halted the fun and suggested they get the poor sod a bandage. Justin still did not realize his danger, not until a voice volunteered that there were likely to be cloths stored in the sacristy. He slid back behind the door, his only option to pray that no one would bring a lantern in search of the church vestments and linens. That hope lasted as long as it took for a flaming light to pierce the darkness like a beacon.

"Christ's Blood!" The intruder sprang backward, and the next sound Justin heard was the metallic clink of a sword being drawn from its scabbard, "There are men hiding in here!"

The lay brothers were discovered first, driven at sword-point out into the chapel. But before Justin could dare to hope that he might escape notice, his hiding place behind the door was exposed and there was a sword pressing against his chest.

The lay brothers were all talking at once, pouring out a torrent of Welsh that meant nothing to their audience. Justin could have translated, paraphrasing their agitated pleas for mercy, their insistence that they were simple men of God, no threat to anyone. He kept his mouth shut, for he well knew that his survival depended upon attracting no attention to himself. But there were too many torches in the chapel for anyone to mistake his dark mantle for the brown habits of the converse. A grizzled veteran cried, "This one is no monk," and jerked his hood back.

Squinting in the sudden glare, Justin experienced what it was like to be a fox brought to bay by encircling, snapping dogs.

Rough hands were stripping away his mantle, laying claim to his sword and eating knife. He stumbled, regained his footing and found himself face-to-face with the queen's son.

"I'll be damned," John said in obvious astonishment. "Oliver mentioned that there was a queen's man prowling around but gave no names. I ought to have guessed, though. I'm beginning to think that I could go to Cathay and meet you coming around a corner, de Quincy."

Justin could think of nothing to say, and his mouth was too dry for speech in any case. He managed a shrug, and then forced him self to meet Durand's eyes, finding in them exactly what he expected: amazement, hostility, and no help whatsoever. The lay brothers had been herded behind the altar, out of the way, leaving Justin alone in the center of the chapel, surrounded by men who'd kill him without a qualm if John gave the command.

Spurred into action by this unexpected turn of events, John ordered most of the men to head for the beach, taking the injured soldier with them. Others were dispatched to continue guarding their prisoners in the abbey dorter. One by one, he sent them off into the night until at last only Durand stood by his side. "Now…" he said, "what are we to do with you, de Quincy?"

"You could give me a ride back to Treffrynnon," Justin ventured, not in the least reassured when John smiled.

"You've long been a thorn in my side, a burr under my saddle, call it what you will. I will admit that there is a certain entertainment value in never knowing when or where you're likely to turn up, and you were even of some use to me at Windsor's siege. And watching you and Durand bristling like a couple of tomcats can be amusing. It is awkward, though, for the lady wants to keep her identity a secret, and we both know you'd be blabbing her name all over the kingdom in the time it took my ship to raise anchor."

Justin knew it was futile, but he made a game try anyway, saying earnestly, "How can I, my lord, when I never saw the lady's face? She could be the Queen of France for all I know."

John's smile surfaced again. "See why I like this lad, Durand?" Pulling up his hood, he strode to the door, saying over his shoulder, "Remember what I said about waiting for Reynard to get back. Once he does, you can let the monks loose and then head for the beach, where we'll have a boat waiting for you."

Durand acknowledged the order and then glanced toward Justin. "My lord… what about de Quincy?"

John paused in the doorway, regarding Justin with an enigmatic expression, one not easy to interpret. "A pity," he said, sounding almost regretful, "but he's given me no choice. Kill him."