Dragon's Lair

Chapter 20

September 1193

North Wales

Justin took an instinctive step backward, for gazing down into the blackness of the mine shaft was like staring into the abyss. "Well," he said morosely, "so much for that idea." He was too disappointed to hide it, for his hopes had soared when Llewelyn told him of an old, abandoned mine. But one look into those bottomless depths and he knew the missing wool was not hidden here. Picking up a rock, he held it out over the void and let it go. After a long, long time, he thought he heard a faint splash, and he sighed softly.

"I know," Llewelyn agreed, dropping a rock of his own into the shaft. "Even if it were not flooded, how would they ever have gotten the wool back up? Each woolsack weighs more than any two men."

"Look how deep it is," Ednyved marveled, leaning over so recklessly to peer into the pit that both Justin and Llewelyn reached out to pull him back from the brink. "I'm as surefooted as any cat," he protested. "How do you think they dug it so deep? No mines today go down so far."

"They were clever, the Romans." Llewelyn pitched another stone into the shaft. "Think how long it's been since their armies were here — hundreds of years — and yet some of their roads can still be used."

"The old Roman walls still stand in Chester, or so I've been told," Justin said, almost absentmindedly, for he could not take his eyes from that gaping dark hole. He'd been sure that they were going to find the wool here, so sure. Now what?

~*~

Their hunt for the wool took them next to Cefn, where there were a series of deep caves. Llewelyn admitted to Justin that he doubted the thieves would have dared to venture so far with the cumbersome hay-wains, and Cefn lay on the wrong side of the River Clwyd. But it was worth a look, he said, and Justin made no objections, for their search had already ranged over the likely hiding places with no results. They might as well try the unlikely ones, too. The caves at Cefn were steeped in legend; local people whispered that one was Lucifer's own abode. Several soared so high that even a man as tall as Ednyved need not duck his head, and in others there were strange rock formations rising from the floor like stone sentinels. Justin thought that if he'd been seeking to hide a king's ransom, he could have found no safer lair than these eerie, echoing caverns where the sun never shone and the Devil was said to dwell. But the woolsacks were not there.

~*~

A brisk wind was undressing the ageless oak that towered above the farrier's shed, stripping away the leaves branch by branch. As they drifted on the current, the morning sun blessed them briefly with gold, and then they fluttered earthward like crippled butterflies, soon to be trodden underfoot. These morbid musings were Justin's. He had nothing to do while the smith replaced Copper's lost shoe, and watching the death spirals of doomed oak leaves was preferable to reliving the failures of the past few days.

Once Copper was shod, he would rejoin Llewelyn and his men. There was no need to hurry, though, for they were running out of places to look. Thomas de Caldecott had begun to haunt his dreams, a sprightly ghost mocking their futile efforts to find his cache. When Justin reminded him that there would be few occasions for such merriment in Hell, he merely laughed and faded away, only to return the next night, more faithful in death than ever he had been in life, Justin thought sourly.

The scene before him was so tranquil that it was easy to forget so much was at stake. Copper had never looked so sleek, his chestnut-red coat glowing in the mellow morning light. The farrier was going about his task with quiet competence, gentling the stallion with crooning Welsh endearments and calming pats. Each time he spoke, a rangy sheepdog sprawled in the sun would thump his tail in rhythm with his master's voice. Edern, the young Welshman who'd taken Justin to the smithy, was perched on a fence rail, bantering with the smith's son. Edern was a likable lad who'd spent his boyhood in these rolling hills. He'd boasted that he was better than any lymer hound at sniffing out hideaways, and he seemed to be taking their failure to find the woolsacks as a personal affront. Justin was losing hope that anyone was going to outwit Thomas de Caldecott, Only one person had gotten the best of him, his unknown killer.

A sudden flash of movement caught Justin's eye and he turned to see Edern hop off the fence and sprint toward him. He was not alarmed, though, for the youth was grinning from ear to ear. "I think I know where the wool is!" Edern came to a halt, panting. "I was talking with Gwion" — gesturing toward the farrier's son — "and I remembered where there is another abandoned mine."

Justin felt a sharp letdown, "What of it? Why bother searching another flooded shaft?"

"Because this mine must have collapsed long ago, for it is shallow, more like a cave." Edern's grin got even wider. "I know it is going to be there. My nose is itching, which always happens when I get one of my hunches!"

~*~

Edern's itchy nose notwithstanding, Justin did not have high hopes as the men headed back toward Halkyn Mountain. The name was a misnomer, for Halkyn Mountain was actually a hill, dwarfed by the peaks of Eryri, the cloud-crowned mountain range that had sheltered and sustained Llewelyn during the early years of his rebellion. "You English call it Snowdonia," he explained to Justin as they rode along, "but its true name is Eryri, the Haunt of Eagles." Justin merely nodded, for he was only half-listening to this Welsh geography lesson, already brooding about his return to the queen, envisioning the look upon her face when he had to confess he'd failed her.

At least the mercurial Welsh weather was not threatening to sabotage their hunt; the sky was blue and barren of clouds, and a brisk northerly wind brought them the scent of the sea but no hint of coming rain. Led by Edern and Gwion, the smith's son, they soon reached the site of the Roman mine, half-hidden by bracken on Halkyn's wooden slope.

~*~

Who wants to climb down and find out what is lurking at the bottom?" Ednyved squinted into the darkness below, without any obvious enthusiasm for the task at hand. "We could flip a coin, if I had one."

"I'll go," Edern offered quickly.

But Rhys was already unfastening his scabbard, reaching for their rope ladder. Anchoring the metal prongs in the earth, he dropped the ladder down into the mine and then swung his legs over the side. Llewelyn stopped him before he could begin his climb, holding out a second rope. Once he'd knotted it around his waist, Rhys tossed the free end to Ednyved. "Try not to drop it," he told his cousin, and Ednyved acknowledged the command with an amused "Aye, my lord."

"It does not look that deep, but Jesu, it is dark down there. We may need to get a lantern…" His voice was muffled now as he descended into the shaft. They could hear the clink of his spurs scraping against the rock as the ladder swayed under his weight. Staring down into the murky blackness, Justin inhaled a lungful of dank, fetid air and felt guiltily grateful that Rhys was the one descending into the pit.

"Christ Jesus!" The ladder swung wildly and then Rhys was scrambling upward, so hastily that his foot slipped from one of the rungs and his lifeline grew taut as he dangled there, fighting to re gain his balance. Llewelyn signaled and several of the men grabbed Ednyved's rope, ready to haul Rhys up if he lost his grip. He no longer seemed in danger of falling, but the ladder did not offer a fast enough ascent and he shouted, "Pull me up!"

Alarmed, they did, and as soon as his head and shoulders appeared, hands reached out for him. His face contorted, his skin almost as green as his eyes, Rhys lay prone on the ground for several moments, being pelted with questions as he fought the gorge rising in his throat.

"The stink …" he gasped, "so foul… I feared I'd choke on it…" Rolling over onto his back, he found himself looking up into a circle of concerned faces. "I can still smell it," he said with a grimace, "worse than any pigsty or privy. Rotting flesh — "

"Did you see the body?" Llewelyn interrupted. "Was it an animal? Or…" He paused and showed no surprise when Rhys nodded grimly.

"Not an animal — men. More than one."

Justin glanced toward Llewelyn, the same thought in both their minds. "I think," Llewelyn said, after another pause, "that we've found your missing sailors."

~*~

One by one, men were lowered into the mine shaft to attach ropes to the decaying corpses and then pulled out to vomit into the grass. As no one could endure more than a few moments' exposure to that putrid stench, it took several hours before the last of the cadavers was brought to the surface. Even after the bodies had been covered with bedroll blankets, the men kept their eyes averted. Their Church warned them often of the frailties of human flesh, never letting them forget that their mortal remains would become fodder for worms, dust unto dust. But this had been a view of death that was too close and too personal, reminding each one that this, too, would be his fate and, if he died unshriven as these poor sailors had, he'd burn for aye in Hell.

Justin had forced himself to make a brief examination of the bodies, needing to be sure that their hair color and height matched the descriptions he'd gotten from Rutger. When he was done, his stomach would need days to recover from the ordeal, but there was no doubt in his mind about the identity of the murdered men. Standing with Llewelyn and the others upwind of those forlorn blanket-draped forms, he bowed his head and said a brief prayer for the souls of the greedy Joder, the foolish Geertje, and Rutger's cousin Karl, who left a young widow and baby back in Ypres.

"There is a church less than a league from here," Llewelyn said somberly. "I'll send a man to the priest, tell him to fetch shrouds and a cart. At least we can see that they get a Christian burial. Do you know how to reach their kindred?"

Justin shook his head. "Not unless their ship is still at Chester." He was stunned by the wanton violence of these killings. "How does a man murder with such ease? How could he hold life so cheaply?"

"Killing," Llewelyn said, "can become a habit. From what you've told me, this Thomas de Caldecott had plenty of practice at it."

"Six that we know of, and with a little luck, he'd have added two more to that count," Justin said, thinking of a drunken stroll through deserted streets, a blazing Chester warehouse.

"A man so quick to kill most likely left a trail of bodies behind him. Who knows how many he'd gotten away with. If not for you, Iestyn, none would have known of these murders, either." Llewelyn forced his gaze away from the remains of de Caldecott's last victims, sketching a quick cross on the autumn air. "So now what?"

"I would that I knew," Justin admitted, for the mine shaft had yielded only the bodies of the slain sailors; they'd found no evidence whatsoever of the missing woolsacks.

As disconsolate as if he'd deliberately led them astray, Edern scuffed his boot in the brown, trampled grass. "I do not understand," he muttered, "It has to be here, it just has to!"

The farrier's son had kept at a respectful distance, watching wide-eyed but saying little. Now he cleared his throat hesitantly. "Are you…" He swallowed, then mumbled shyly, "Are you not going to search the other shaft?"

The words had no sooner left his mouth than he found himself surrounded by men. Did Edern not remember, he asked timidly. There was a second shaft, sloping in at an angle. "We guessed that it once led to the other shaft. Of course it is all blocked up now, a tunnel leading nowhere…" He was talking too much, he knew, but he couldn't seem to rein in his runaway tongue, and he was thankful when Llewelyn cut into his nervous ramblings with a curt command to "Show us!"

The opening was overgrown with brambles and knee-high bracken, and Justin caught his breath at the sight of them, for branches were broken and the ferns flattened down in places, as if something heavy had been dragged through them. "It is here," Gwion said, sounding more confident now, and pulling aside some of the underbrush, he revealed a tunnel entrance.

It was just as the farrier's son had said. What had once been a connecting passage to the main mine shaft was little more than a cave, too low for a tall man to walk upright, the walls shrouded in moss, lichen, and cobwebs, the ground littered with the skeletal remains of prey devoured to the very bone, the air stale and musty. Where Roman slaves had once labored in the earth's bowels, foxes and weasels now made their dens. Justin's boot crunched upon the spine of a small animal, and he was grateful that at least the Flemish sailors had been spared this much; no beasts had been able to feast upon their flesh. Stooping, he moved farther into the tunnel and found his way blocked by an obstacle covered by a large canvas tarp. Llewelyn joined him and together they lifted the tarp, ex posing the most beautiful sight that had ever filled Justin's eyes, several padlocked coffers and sack after sack of the fine Cistercian wool meant to ransom a king.

The next discovery puzzled them all: three saddles, half-hidden by the tarp. Saddles were expensive and these seemed intact, in decent condition. Justin was the first to understand their significance. "We are looking at the last stitch in de Caldecott's shroud. These were the sailors' saddles, discarded after he'd let their horses go."

Llewelyn was quick to comprehend. "Of course! What other reason could there be for casting them aside like that?"

The loose cart horses had been Justin's first indication that he was dealing with more than an ordinary robbery. Once his suspicions settled upon de Caldecott, those pieces of the puzzle had come together. How could one man have handled seven animals? He'd had no choice but to set them free. Until this moment, though, that had been a theory. Now it was fact.

"What did he care about cart horses and hired nags? He had his eye upon a much grander prize." And as he gazed down at the saddles of the murdered sailors, Justin felt a hot surge of outrage that the knight had been spared so much in dying as he had, escaping exposure, disgrace, and the gallows.

~*~

Llewelyn's men were still celebrating the successful conclusion of their hunt, eager to shake off the pall cast by the discovery of the dead bodies. When Llewelyn glanced around, though, he no longer saw Justin. After several moments of searching, he found the young Englishman in the tunnel, kneeling down beside a flickering lantern. "Come see this," he said, glancing over his shoulder, "What does this look like to you?"

Llewelyn examined the object in Justin's hand, a rock splattered with a dark stain. "Blood?"

"I think so, too. There is more of it over there, and if you look closely, you can see dried smears on several of the woolsacks. I think this is where the killings began. My guess is that after the woolsacks were moved into the tunnel de Caldecott stabbed one of the men in here, then called out for the others. As the second one entered, he was slain at once. I think the third sailor tried to run and was chased down and caught. The bodies were too rotted to tell me much about wounds, but the back of one man's tunic was soaked with blood."

"May God assoil them," Llewelyn said softly, for he could not help pitying the dead sailors, who'd gotten so much more than they'd bargained for. "Let's talk outside," he said and backed to ward the entrance. Justin followed, and they stood in silence for several moments as they stretched their cramped muscles.

"So," Llewelyn said at last, "I suppose this is when you start wondering if it was wise to wager upon my honor,"

"I never wagered upon your honor, Llewelyn. I wagered upon your common sense."

The Welshman cocked a quizzical brow. "Would you care to elaborate upon that?"

"Simply put, it is in your best interests to cooperate with the English Crown. I'm not saying you'd not be tempted by those coffers and woolsacks. What man would not, myself included. But you are no outlaw. You are a prince, my lord Llewelyn, a prince in exile at the moment but a prince all the same. And when the day comes that you rule Gwynedd, you will need cordial relations with your liege lord, the English king. At the very least, you do not want to give the English any reason to intervene upon Davydd's behalf. And if they blamed you for the loss of King Richard's ransom, that would be one very persuasive reason." Justin paused, a smile hovering at the corners of his mouth. "Need I continue?"

"Well, you did leave out the most interesting part of the story… where you inform the English queen of Davydd's treachery and my invaluable help."

"Jesu forfend that I should forget that," Justin agreed, and Llewelyn began to laugh.

"I know you claim your parents were English born and bred, but you are too clever not to have some Welsh blood," he said lightly, but Justin got the sense that Llewelyn had been testing him again and that once again he had passed the test,

~*~

Just sent an urgent message to the Earl of Chester with one of Llewelyn's men, with a second message to his father in case the earl had not yet returned to Chester. He then set up camp by the old Roman mine, for he had no intention of letting the woolsacks out of his sight. It was not as uncomfortable as he'd feared, for autumn was still fighting a rear-guard action against winter at the lower elevations. Llewelyn provided men to safeguard the ransom, and stopped by himself on the second day to see how Justin was faring.

~*~

White, fleecy clouds were blowing in from the coast, and Justin had been keeping a wary eye upon the increasingly overcast sky. Reaching over to offer a swig from his wineskin, Llewelyn insisted, "There'll be no rain for another day, mayhap two, Iestyn, not with the wind coming from the north."

"You're not the one sleeping at night in a mine shaft," Justin pointed out, "so you do not have as much at stake as I do if the weather turns foul."

Llewelyn started to make a jest about Englishmen melting in the rain like sugar lumps, but instead he tilted his head to the side, listening intently. "Someone is coming," he said. His guards were already on the alert, and within a few moments a horseman had ridden into view. "One of my scouts," Llewelyn informed Justin and summoned the man for his report.

"The Earl of Chester is approaching along the coast road, my lord, He brings a large armed force and several oxcarts. He is nigh on an hour away if he stays with the carts. But if he rides ahead, he'll be here in half that time."

Glancing over at Justin, Llewelyn said, "I'll let you be the one to welcome the earl to Wales."

Edern was already bringing up Llewelyn's stallion. No one appeared to be hurrying, but within moments, the men were all mounted, awaiting Llewelyn's orders. Reining in beside Justin, Llewelyn said, "If you ever need help recovering another king's ransom in Wales, let me know."

"I will," Justin said, "indeed I will."

"Go with God, English."

Llewelyn raised his hand in farewell before swinging his stallion toward the woods. Justin watched and then took several steps forward. "Go with God, my lord prince!" He could not be sure that Llewelyn had heard. He hoped so.

~*~

The woolsacks finally been loaded into the oxcarts; with his usual thoroughness, the earl had thought to bring a pulley and tackle. As he and Justin watched, the carts were covered in canvas tarps. Chester was taking no chances and had brought an escort formidable enough to ward off any outlaw band smaller than an army. Once all had been done to his satisfaction, he called for his own mount, then glanced inquiringly at Justin.

"We are ready to go. You are riding with us, are you not?"

"No, my lord, I am not. I must return to Rhuddlan Castle." Chester blinked in surprise. "That would not be the wisest move, de Quincy." When Justin agreed wryly that it probably was not, the earl made no further attempts to dissuade him. Beckoning to one of his knights, he conferred briefly with him, and then strode over to Justin.

"This is Sir Adam Fitz Walter. He will escort you to Rhuddlan and — I hope — discourage Davydd ab Owain from expressing his displeasure in a way he might later regret."

"Thank you, my lord."

Once Chester was comfortably in the saddle, he gave the signal to move out. But he'd gone only a few feet when he turned his stallion back toward Justin. "One day, de Quincy," he said, "you must tell me what really happened here."

"I will, my lord," Justin said, "… as soon as the Queen's Grace gives me permission to speak of these matters."

Chester regarded him with a faint smile, "I almost forgot. But you never forget, do you?"

"Forget what, my lord?"

"That you are, first and foremost, the queen's man."

"No, my lord earl," Justin said with quiet pride, "I never forget that."

~*~

Justin's return to Rhuddlan Castle evoked unpleasant echoes of his first trip into Wales with Thomas de Caldecott. Sir Adam Fitz Walter had known de Caldecott well, and he, too, was a talker, chatting away about the earl, camp-ball, the serving maid at the Bridge Street tavern, his Cheshire boyhood, and — to Justin's dismay — sharing fond memories of his friend, Thomas. Word of his death had brought grief to the city and the earl's household, Adam confided, for Thomas had more friends than a drunkard with money to spend. He doubted that there was a man ever born who'd not liked Thomas, he declared, and insisted upon entertaining Justin with stories of de Caldecott's past exploits, practical jokes, and easy conquests of the fairer sex.

"We could hardly believe it when we learned he'd sickened and died in Wales. At first, gossip had it that he'd been slain, and that stirred up a furor. But when the earl returned and read your letter, he said the Welsh had been mistaken, that Thomas had suffered a seizure after a night of heavy drinking." Adam gave Justin a side long, curious glance. "You were there with him, were you not?"

Justin was not surprised that Chester had concealed the truth about de Caldecott's guilt. It was easier that way, and kinder to the dead man's family. It would have been nigh well impossible for most people to reconcile the affable, engaging knight they'd known with the killer of six men. But it still troubled him that Thomas was escaping all earthly punishment for his sins, that so many heartfelt, deluded prayers would be said for the salvation of his soul.

He knew Adam was awaiting his response and said tersely, "I can tell you that he was found in the prince's chapel, not much more than that."

That grudgingly given sentence seemed to provide Adam with solace, though, for after some moments, he said, "At least he died in God's House. Do you know where he was buried? I'd like to visit his grave ere we return to Chester." He seemed embarrassed by his sentimentality and quickly made a joke about giving a promise to one of Thomas's light-o'-loves.

"He is buried in the cemetery of St Asaph's at Llanelwy." The irony of that was not lost upon Justin. He'd solved a crime, but none would be held accountable for it. Neither Davydd nor Emma would face charges. And there would not even be rumors about John's involvement. So why not a cathedral funeral for a killer?

~*~

Davydd half-rose from his seat on the dais, looking at Justin in disbelief. "You found the woolsacks? They've all been recovered?"

Adam was detecting strong undercurrents of tension in the hall. He did not understand it, but his mission was to back Justin up and so he stepped forward, saying loudly, "It is indeed true, my lord prince. By now the woolsacks are back in England and may even be on the way to London already."

Davydd expelled an audible breath, then went limp against the cushions of his chair. "God is good," he murmured in Welsh, and for a moment he was silent, reveling in his unexpected deliverance. Seated beside him upon the dais, Emma had yet to speak or move. Her court mask was back in place; her face could have been carved from ivory or ice, so impassive and enigmatic was her expression. But her hands had clenched upon the arms of her chair, tightly enough that her knuckles were rimmed in white, and this did not escape Justin's notice.

"This is indeed good news, and in truth, I'd despaired of ever hearing it from you, de Quincy." Davydd got to his feet, started down the steps of the dais. "Now that the recovery has been made, what of retribution? What does the queen mean to do about Llewelyn ab Iorwerth?"

"I expect," Justin said, "that she intends to thank him."

Davydd's jaw dropped. "Have you gone mad? 'Thank him'? For stealing the king's ransom?"

"No, for recovering it." Justin unsheathed a smile that never reached his eyes. "It seems, my lord, that you were wrong in your suspicions. Llewelyn played no part in the theft of the woolsacks. He told me that some weeks ago, and I believed him. Now the Earl of Chester does, too, and so will the Queen's Grace. I'd go so far as to say she'll be grateful to him for his help. You see, nothing matters more to her than retrieving the ransom… nothing." His voice had hardened and that last word was thrown out both as challenge and judgment.

Davydd's face flamed. Almost as quickly, though, the color ebbed, leaving him pale and shaken. Adam had sauntered over to Justin's side, followed by several of his men, figuring it couldn't hurt to give the Welsh prince a subtle reminder that Justin was under the Earl of Chester's protection. He need not have bothered, though. Davydd's eyes were blank and unfocused. He pushed past Justin and Adam without even a glance, as if they were not there. By the time he'd reached the door, he was almost running.

The silence in the hall was smothering. Glancing around, Justin saw that while much would remain unspoken at Davydd's court, it would not remain unknown. The Welsh prince's scheming was not as secret as he thought. In the utter stillness, Justin could hear Emma's voice again, dripping icicles and contempt, telling John that Davydd was "doomed." He waited until people began to stir, to whisper to one another, and then he walked over to the dais and paid his respects to the Lady Emma.

She beckoned him closer and he gave her credit for her gambler's nerves, her willingness to bluff. "You must like spiced wine," she murmured, "for you seem to have a taste for bittersweet. With the one hand, you offer my husband hope, and with the other, you take it away."

He wondered how he'd missed it before, that gleam of sharp intelligence in those bewitching blue eyes. "The power to bestow or deny hope is not mine, my lady. I do the queen's biding."

"I think you do more than that, Master de Quincy." Leaning forward, she pitched her voice even lower. "We both know that the recovery of the ransom will not be enough to restore my husband to royal favor, and we both know why."

She could not be sure, though, how much he did know, and he waited, curious to see how she would go about finding out. By implying that they shared a secret, she suggested an intimacy between them, even a complicity, all without saying anything explicit, any thing he could refute. "It is my hope that Davydd's disgrace will not spill over onto me or my son. This was Davydd's doing, after all, not ours."

He offered a noncommittal response, a bland "I understand your concern, my lady," and caught the fleeting shadow that crossed her face just before she favored him with her most captivating smile.

"I hope the queen realizes how fortunate she is to have a man of your abilities in her service. What you have accomplished is truly remarkable. But how ever did you find the woolsacks?"

"I was in the right place at the right time," Justin said modestly. "I was told that you'd gone on pilgrimage whilst I was away, my lady. Was it as fulfilling as you'd hoped?"

"Yes, it was. But with regard to those missing woolsacks — "

"I visit the holy well whenever I stay at the abbey. It is very peaceful there. I hope you took the opportunity to see the countryside whilst you were in Treffynnon? One place in particular would be worth a visit… the abbey grange at Mostyn."

Emma's eyes widened. Her lips parted, but no words emerged. She stared at Justin in stunned silence, and for once in her life, she had absolutely nothing to say.

~*~

The sky was splattered with clouds. Hovering low along the horizon, they absorbed the colors of sunset, dulling red into russet and warning the weather-wise of coming rain. As long as daylight still lingered, though, Justin and Angharad continued to stroll the paths of Emma's garden, for this was their first — and likely last — opportunity to speak together without fear of eavesdroppers.

Angharad's hand rested on Justin's arm, a touch that was feather-light and as unsubstantial as cobwebs. It was the grip of a ghost, an illusion furthered by the pallor of her skin and the bruised hollows under those haunted dark eyes. Most women stirred his protective instincts, but none so strongly as this heart sick young Welshwoman. One of the reasons he'd returned to Rhuddlan Castle was to make sure that Davydd and Emma paid a price — if only in anxiety — for their double-dealing. But he'd also needed to find out how Angharad was faring.

"I have gotten permission from the Lady Emma to go home for a while. Mayhap if I could pass time with my family, in surroundings that do not remind me of Thomas every time I turn a corner…"

She let the rest of her wish fade away into forlorn silence. Justin bit his lip, acknowledging that he was out of his depth. He did not doubt that Molly would have known how to comfort Angharad. So would Nell. Claudine, too. But the right words somehow kept eluding him. Would it be kinder to let her keep her delusions? Would it be crueler to tell her the truth? If only he knew.

"What I cannot understand, Iestyn, is that no one seems concerned about finding his killer. Nothing is being done, nothing!"

"You do not believe Davydd's claim, then, that it was Llewelyn's doing?"

"No one believes that, not even Davydd. It was a shabby, shameful act, trying to smear Llewelyn with my Thomas's blood. I can barely bring myself to look upon the man's face, Iestyn, I have such contempt for him."

"It might be better, then, if you go to your family and stay there. I would worry less about you, Angharad, if you were well and clear of this rat's nest."

"I've thought about it," she admitted. And when he sought assurance that her family would not marry her off, as would likely be the case on his side of the border, she smiled, a smile that actually looked genuine. "In Wales, a woman cannot be forced into marriage. If she is a widow, that right is absolute. If she is unwed, her family can object if she marries a man of her choosing, but they cannot make her wed against her will."

"Truly? I might learn to live quite contentedly under Welsh law," Justin said, thinking of the generous provisions for those born out of wedlock in Wales.

"Our women enjoy more rights than yours. That is why I was able to assure Thomas that my family would accept our marriage; he said no English girls of good birth would have dared to make a match on their own."

"For certes, few would. You and Thomas planned to wed?"

"We talked about it often. That is why I was so bewildered when he came back from Chester and was so cold and curt with me. He loved me as much as I loved him, Iestyn, I know he did."

Justin doubted that exceedingly, no more than he believed that Thomas would ever have married Angharad. Which was worse, if she lost her lover to death or to betrayal? Would she be better off knowing he did not deserve even one of her tears? "Men… they are not always steadfast, Angharad, and love… love can change; it can even die."

"Not Thomas," she insisted, shaking her head so vehemently that her veil slipped and was carried off by a gust of wind. She never even noticed its loss. "The way he was acting… that was not the real Thomas. Mayhap he did let himself be tempted by an English harlot, for he always said women in Chester were no better than they ought to be. But even if one did bewitch him, her spell would not have lasted. I made sure of that."

"How?" Justin asked, and even in the fading light, he saw color rise in her cheeks.

"I… I fought fire with fire. I gave him a love potion."

"You did what?"

Justin looked so shocked that she regretted confiding in him; men did not understand these things. "I put mandragora in his wine. And it would have worked. There is no love philter more potent than one made with mandrake, which is why it is so costly."

Justin was speechless. He'd heard the stories about mandragora, also known as mandrake or the Devil's apples. Few plants had as many legends swirling around them. It was said to grow only in the shadow of the gallows. People claimed it shrieked when pulled out of the earth and anyone who heard it would die. Its root was shaped like a man, and it was all the more sought after for being so rare, for it did not grow in native soil. A drop or two made a highly effective sleeping draught. Its fame as a love potion was widespread. And it was one of the deadliest of poisons.

"I can see you do not approve, Iestyn. I admit it was a desperate measure, but I was not cheating. I was not ensorcelling Thomas. He loved me without need of charms or spells. The love potion was just to reawaken that love. And if only he'd lived, if only he'd not been stabbed that night, in the morning he would have come back to me. He would have loved me again."

Angharad raised her head when he kept silent, regarding him with a look that was challenging, defensive, and entreating, all at once. "Well? Are you going to scold me, tell me that the Church frowns upon such heathen practices?"

Justin shook his head slowly. "No, lass… I am not."