Dragon's Lair

Chapter 22

October 1193

London, England

Most people lived in tempo with the sun, awakening at dawn and retiring soon after losing the light, for candles and lamp oil were costly and were not to be squandered. The highborn could afford to extend their days by artificial means, and none spent more lavishly than the Queen of England. Eleanor had always followed her own inner rhythms, and her chambers in the Tower were still defying the night long after the rest of London had gone dark and quiet. Knowing her habits, Justin had headed there as soon as he reached the city and, as he expected, the queen was awake, alert, and impatient to hear his report.

She had switched her residence from Westminster to the Tower in order to supervise the collection of Richard's ransom, which was flowing into London from all corners of the kingdom to be stored under guard in St Paul's Cathedral. When Justin was ushered into her presence, she instructed him to await her in the chapel, for nowhere else could she find the privacy their conversation would require.

Justin loved the chapel of St John the Evangelist, a resplendent gem chiseled from Caen limestone. When viewed in a blaze of sunlight, it was dazzling, its walls and pillars gilded in glowing colors, the impression of soaring, celestial space enhanced by the elegant overhead gallery, arched windows, and vaulted nave. Tonight the air was fragrant with the sweet, earthy aroma of frankincense and myrrh, the shadows were silvered by moonlight, and he felt very close to God. Kneeling before the altar, he prayed for Claudine and the baby soon to be born of their sin.

Eleanor entered during his prayer, but she did not interrupt, waiting until he was done. When he rose, he saw her standing behind him and offered an apology for keeping her waiting, but she said, "Even queens defer to the Almighty, Justin," and allowed him to escort her toward a wooden bench.

In her presence he was always surprised by her physical frailty, for his memories of her were molded in the heat of her will and that still burned as fiercely as ever. Her body was not as indomitable as her spirit, though, for even Eleanor of Aquitaine could defy mortality only so long. She battled the indignities of age with silk and emeralds, her face flatteringly framed by the wimple that hid wrinkles and greying hair, her fingers adorned with jeweled rings. But the bones of her hand seemed so fragile and brittle that he barely grazed the skin with his lips, fearing it might be bruised by his breath, and she sank down upon the bench with a betraying sigh of exhaustion.

The eyes meeting his, though, were the eyes of the woman who'd taken greater pride in being Duchess of Aquitaine than Queen of England or France. "Your letters were rather cryptic, and wisely so, but you gave me enough facts to put together a skeleton. Now I need you to flesh it out for me."

She already knew what lay at the heart of the conspiracy — that Davydd had staged the robbery to discredit his nephew, that he'd been outwitted by his wife, and that her partner in crime was Eleanor's son John. She listened intently as Justin told her the rest, interrupting only to ask an occasional incisive question. By the time he got to the confrontation at the abbey grange, his voice had gotten so hoarse that she noticed and told him to fetch two wine cups from her bedchamber.

Justin welcomed the respite, for he was coming to the critical point in his account. In the past he had said nothing of his feuding with Durand, not even disclosing the knight's treachery at Windsor Castle, sure that Durand would have found a way to justify his actions, and half-afraid to find out whose service the queen valued more. After the episode at Mostyn grange, though, he had resolved upon unsparing honesty.

Yet now that he was face-to-face with the queen, he found that he could not do it. Conspiring to steal a throne was a favorite pastime for the brothers of kings. Eleanor was not likely to have been shocked by her youngest son's scheming. Like his brothers Geoffrey and Richard, John had learned at his father's knee. He'd been sixteen when Henry had quarreled bitterly with Richard and, in one of his infamous Angevin rages, encouraged Geoffrey and John to lay claim to Aquitaine. Striking back, Richard had set half of Brittany afire. Brotherly strife was John's birthright.

But ambition was a mortal sin only when it failed, whereas murder was the one sure road to eternal damnation. Here in the holy chapel of the Evangelist, John's last words to Justin seemed almost blasphemous. How could he tell the queen that her son had so casually given that command to "Kill him." What better proof that the Devil had already claimed his immortal soul?

Justin had no inflated opinion of his worth to the queen. He knew his death would have stirred royal regret, not grief. But whatever his transgressions, John was still the flesh of her flesh, he was still hers, and Justin was sure that each one of his sins struck her like a stone. Omitting John's lethal order to Durand, he picked up his narrative after John's departure from the chapel. If he lingered a little too long upon Durand's humiliation at Llewelyn's hands, he thought he could be forgiven for that.

Eleanor sipped her wine before observing, "My lord husband and I used to argue whether it was better for a man to be lucky or to be clever. I am beginning to think that Llewelyn is both."

"Yes, madame, I think so, too." Justin hesitated, but his curiosity was too strong to resist. "May I ask which view you took?"

"Harry was convinced that it was enough to be clever. He was always too clever for his own good, and unwilling to admit that luck alone could determine a man's fate. Harry believed almost until his last breath that a man could shape his own destiny. I'd believed that, too… once."

Justin cleared his dry throat, hoping he was not overstepping his bounds. "I would choose luck," he said, thinking of the unlikely chain of events that had led him to the queen. "As for Llewelyn, I think he'd agree that luck matters. But I suspect he'd still choose to be clever, confident that he could then make his own luck,"

"It sounds as if you admire the man, Justin."

Justin considered that for a moment, "I respect him, Your Grace. I think he will be a good ruler one day."

"Ah, but good for England or good for Wales? Davydd is neither admirable nor deserving of respect. My husband was right, though, to forge an alliance with him, for he better served English interests than…"

She paused and Justin suggested, "… A man who is both clever and lucky?"

"Indeed." Justin thought she was smiling, but the chapel was lit only by candles and he could not be sure. "You need not look so fretful, Justin. The English Crown will not intervene on Davydd's behalf. That would be folly, not to mention futile. Judging from what I am hearing, there seems to be a certain… inevitability about young Llewelyn ab Iorwerth's rise to power."

"I hope so, madame," he said, so forthrightly that he surprised himself, for he never forgot their respective ranks. He'd been well aware that he was not neutral in the Welsh conflict. But he had not realized until now how much the outcome mattered to him. "Davydd has done all in his power to get the English Crown to fight his war for him, my lady. Llewelyn asks only that he not be forced to fight uphill with the wind in his face."

"You make a most persuasive advocate, Justin," she said, and this time her smile was unmistakable. "You have done well in Wales. You justified my trust in you."

"Thank you, madame," Justin said, somewhat shyly, for she was sparing with her compliments, which were valued all the more for being doled out so economically.

Eleanor was silent for several moments, gazing down into her wine cup as if it were a portal to the past, and Justin wondered what memories had been inadvertently stirred up. Was she remembering the king who'd had such confidence in his own abilities, the lord husband who'd kept her confined for an infinity of sixteen years? Was it her favorite Richard who was staking his claim? Or was she thinking of John, the son who'd grown up during her long captivity, the son she'd seen so rarely from his fifth year until his twenty-first? He supposed his musings might be fanciful — for all he knew, she was deciding what to instruct her steward on the morrow — but how could a woman with her remarkable history not have ghosts in abundance?

"Well," she said at last, "we come now to the second half of the drama, the half still to be played out. Tell me again John's exact words."

"The Lady Emma had said something about catching two rabbits in one snare and that phrase took Lord John's fancy. He said, '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 Richard.'"

"What further mischief do you have in mind, now, John?" Eleanor said softly, and although she was looking directly at Justin, he knew she no longer saw him.

"Durand claimed he did not know what was planned," Justin said and almost succeeded in keeping the skepticism out of his voice. "He bragged that he would find out, though. I do not suppose you've heard anything from him, my lady?"

"No, I have not. Once he sailed with John for France, it became increasingly difficult for him to send messages."

Justin could not help himself. "I would think that would significantly diminish his worth as a spy, then." Hearing his own words, he winced and said hastily, "Forgive me for being presumptuous, Your Grace. I spoke without thinking."

"You spoke the truth and gave away no secrets. I've long known that you and Durand like each other not, I would prefer that the two of you could work together more amicably, but I cannot say I am surprised by the discord between you. For what it is worth, Justin, most men react to Durand de Curzon the way you do, with suspicion and raised hackles."

Eleanor toyed with the stem of her wine cup and then raised her lashes. It was disconcerting to see John's eyes in her face. "Durand is more than a spy. He has done what I'd hitherto thought impossible: gotten close enough to John to be privy to some of his more outrageous schemes. I have no illusions about the man, Justin. What did you once call him, my 'tame wolf'? The fact remains that John trusts him as much as John trusts anyone, and that trust keeps him at John's side. You might say that his duties are threefold. To discourage John's wilder stratagems if he can. To get word to me if he cannot. And always, always to watch John's back."

So he was bodyguard as well as spy. John's guardian angel, as it were. That thought was so ludicrous to Justin that he almost laughed. Mayhap the queen was right. Mayhap it took one of the Devil's own to protect a man like John. It was not a thought he liked, though, for it seemed to confirm Durand's bravado at Mostyn grange, his boast that he was indispensable to the queen.

"John wants above all else to thwart our efforts to buy Richard's freedom." Eleanor sounded as if she were thinking aloud, but Justin felt confident she expected him to contribute to the conversation. If not, she would have dismissed him by now.

"My Lady… when I met Durand in Southampton this summer, he told me that the French king and Lord John intended to offer the Holy Roman Emperor a vast sum to keep King Richard captive, and I passed that information on to you. Have you been able to verify the truth of that report?"

"One hundred fifty thousand silver marks worth of truth," she confirmed. "Say what you will about my offspring, they do not lack for ingenuity."

"Would the French king pay most of that?" he asked, and Eleanor laughed.

"Philippe? That one would sooner drink his own blood than part with a single denier. Moreover, the French coffers were drained dry by the Crusade. He would expect John to put up his share. They are co-conspirators, Justin, not friends,"

"I was wondering how Lord John could get his hands upon so much money. Are his estates that profitable, my lady?"

"In peacetime, mayhap. But his demesnes have been long neglected because of this strife over the crown. And when he fled to France, his lands were declared forfeit." Eleanor was quiet again for a time, "So what do we know? That John would strike a bargain with the Devil himself to keep the ransom from being paid. That he has a great need for money if he is to have any hopes of outbidding the English Crown for Richard's freedom. That he has a perverse sense of humor, a taste for irony."

Justin did not follow her at first, not seeing how John's humor was a factor in her equation. When it did come to him, he gave an audible gasp. "He said. 'The rabbits belong to Richard.' Would he dare, madame?"

"Oh, yes," she said, "he would dare."

~*~

The Bishop of London, Henry Fitz Ailwin, the city's first mayor, and William Fitz Alulf, one of the city sheriffs, were awaiting Sir Nicholas de Mydden at Paul's Cross, the outdoor pulpit in the northeast corner of the cathedral churchyard. The knight was accompanied by a large armed escort, understandable in light of his mission: to transfer a portion of the ransom from St Paul's crypt to the greater security of the Tower.

After amiable greetings were exchanged, Sir Nicholas smiled and produced the queen's writ for their inspection. "I am sure you will want to see this again," he said jovially. "The good Lord forbid that you turn over the king's ransom to any knave wandering in off the street."

They joined in his laughter and made a show of examining the queen's seal, although they had scrutinized it at great length during his initial visit the day before. "In truth, Sir Nicholas," the lord mayor confided, "I will be glad to be relieved of the responsibility. I cannot tell you how many nights I've lain awake, fearing that thieves and brigands are robbing us blind whilst our guards sleep."

"Actually," Sir Nicholas admitted, "I'll breathe easier myself once the coffers are safely stored in the cellar of the White Tower. Imagine the burden borne by those poor souls who'll be escorting the ransom to Germany!"

The knight's men had brought several sturdy wagons, and as they crossed the churchyard, Sir Nicholas explained that the queen thought it would be safer not to keep all of the ransom at one site. He offered no reasons why the queen was suddenly so disquieted about the security at St Paul's, saying only that these were lawless times, a statement they could not dispute. Entering the cathedral, the bishop led the way toward the north choir aisle, cautioning Sir Nicholas to watch his footing as the steps were steep and the lighting poor.

The air in the crypt was cold and clammy, and it was easy to understand why it was popularly known as the Shrouds. A wooden screen ran the length of the vault, dividing the eastern and western halves, and it was toward the former that the sheriff headed. "The coffers are stored on this side, by the Jesus Chapel."

Following after him, Sir Nicholas peered blindly into the dark. "We'll need torches to keep my men from stumbling around like so many drunks. Getting the coffers up the steps will be — "

The rest of his comment was lost as he was shoved suddenly from behind, with enough force to send him sprawling. The air had been knocked out of his lungs by the impact and it was a moment or so before he could find enough breath to protest. "What in Christ…" Rolling over onto his back, he found himself surrounded by men with drawn swords. His words caught in his throat as he recognized the Earl of Arundel and Hamelin, Earl of Warenne, the king's uncle, both members of the council named to oversee the collection of the king's ransom.

The sheriff was already claiming his sword, roughly searching his body for a hidden dagger. "You are under arrest, whoreson." Another man was pushing through the circle, and the sheriff gestured toward the newcomer, saying, "Let me introduce you to Sir Nicholas de Mydden, who truly does serve the Queen's Grace."

Glaring down at the imposter, the knight cursed him in language that should never have been uttered in the presence of a prelate of the Church. The bishop did not object, though, understanding his outrage that someone would have dared to sully his family name and honor like this, putting out a restraining hand only when it looked as if the genuine Sir Nicholas's verbal castigation would become physical.

Standing apart from the others, the king's half-brother looked on quietly. Justin felt a prickle of sympathy, for Will Longsword's fondness for John was well known to all. Will alone had defended John, and he looked very unhappy now to have been proved wrong. Becoming aware of Justin's gaze, he mustered up a sad smile, "More fool I for letting myself be duped once again. That writ was the finest forgery I've ever seen. I'd never have guessed that it was not the queen's seal. So what sparked your suspicions, Justin?"

"It was the queen's doing, not mine."

The imposter had been dragged to his feet by Hamelin, a man known to have gotten his fair share of the infamous Angevin temper. "Let's get this hellspawn somewhere where we can put some questions to him."

The man raised his chin, looked defiantly at his captors. "I have nothing to say.

"You will," Hamelin promised grimly, "you will."

~*~

Eleanor listened without comment as the Earls of Arundel and Warenne vied with each other to inform her of the events earlier that day in the crypts of St Paul's. The theft had been painstakingly planned, no details overlooked, from the use of a man who bore a passing resemblance to Sir Nicholas de Mydden to the equipping of two sets of carts, the ones carrying the ransom to be driven to the wharves and the others to lumber slowly toward the Tower.

"We are still not sure, madame, if the fake coffers — filled with sand — would have been delivered to the Tower to sow confusion, or if they were meant merely as a red herring in case all did not go as planned at St Paul's. Whatever the intent, the aim was to buy them enough to time to reach the docks and load the real coffers onto a waiting ship."

When Hamelin paused for breath, Arundel seized control of the conversation, marveling at the amazing authenticity of the forged seals. "Both your signet and that of the Archbishop of Rouen were well nigh perfect, Your Grace. The mastermind behind this crime seems to have been very familiar with the royal court, knowing, for example, that both your seal and the archbishop's must be provided ere the ransom could be transported."

Standing on the outer ring of the circle, Justin and Will exchanged wry looks. The queen had shared her suspicions about John's involvement with very few, and Arundel had not been one of them. Even those not privy to the truth had been quick to suspect the queen's son, though, and there was some rolling of eyes now as Arundel blundered on with his theories about the theft. John cast a long shadow, all the more obvious for being so studiously ignored.

Eleanor was losing patience with the garrulous earl and interrupted brusquely with a question about the ship. It was Hamelin who answered, saying regretfully that by the time they'd gotten the false de Mydden to talk, it was too late. When they reached Billingsgate, they'd found that the ship had already sailed.

"So they were clever enough to keep St Paul's under watch, and to anchor on the seaward side of the bridge," Eleanor said thoughtfully. "Why does that not surprise me?"

She was not disappointed, either. At least that was Justin's reading of the inscrutable expression on the queen's face. It was a look he'd seen before, whenever one of John's misdeeds came to light. Justin had always had an instinctive sympathy for mothers, in part because he'd idealized his own, the unknown woman who'd died giving him birth. He believed that a mother's love was pure and eternal and unconditional, despite evidence to the contrary all around him. He was sure that Eve must have wept a river of tears over the fratricidal strife between Cain and Abel. As a boy, he'd felt great pity for the mother of Moses as she set him adrift in a basket of bulrushes. And he never doubted that in her heart, Eleanor still saw John as the "son of her womb."

It occurred to him that John was protected by a great conspiracy of silence. Eleanor cared only about foiling his designs on the crown, not about punishing him for them. And the lords of the realm were willfully blind, too. Luke de Marston had spoken for legions during their search of Southampton. "We cannot very well arrest him by ourselves, and I do not fancy arresting him at all, not when the man might well be king one day."

As Justin had expected, Eleanor showed no interest in speculating upon the identity of the thieves. "What matters," she declared, "is that the thieves failed and not a halfpenny was lost. We have collected enough to convince Emperor Heinrich's envoys of our good faith, and they are making plans to return to Germany with the ransom. It is my intention to do the same as soon as our fleet can be made ready."

She paused and then smiled at the men, a mother's smile as memorable in its own way as the seductive, bewitching smiles of her celebrated youth. "God willing," she said, "I will be spending Christmas with my son, the king. And then… then we'll come home."