Dragon's Lair

Chapter 2

July 1193

Windsor Castle, England

Justin de Quincy had not been back at Windsor since that spring's siege when he'd infiltrated the castle at the queen's behest, his mission to convince John to accept a truce. He'd ended up shackled in a dungeon hellhole, with Durand to thank for his awful accommodations, and although he'd eventually succeeded in his objective, his recollections of Windsor were not fond ones. Claudine did her best to replace them with more pleasant memories, sneaking him into her bedchamber as soon as the rest of the household was abed. But the night's daring, seductive rebel vanished with the coming of first light. Upon awakening, Claudine was beset by morning sickness, low spirits, and a heightened fear of being found out.

"I am so sorry," she whispered as Justin washed her face with a wet cloth. "A woman's lover ought not to have to hold a basin for her whilst she vomits — "

"Do not talk rubbish," he said and leaned over to kiss her on the forehead. "The pleasure was mutual, so it is only fair that the penance be mutual, too."

He spoke in jest, but that was how Claudine did view her pregnancy: as penance. He was stroking her hair, smoothing it away from her face, and she blinked back tears. "Do you think we will reach Oxford by nightfall, Justin?"

Oxford was not much more than thirty miles from Windsor, a distance Justin could easily have covered in one day. But they'd ridden only twenty-three miles yesterday and that had exhausted Claudine. "I think so," he said, hoping he did not sound as doubtful as he felt, for travel accommodations could not be left to chance, not when his traveling companion was gently born and pregnant.

Her thoughts had obviously been following the same route as his, for she said, with sudden determination, "We will just have to, won't we? But where will we stay in Oxford? It was safe enough to spend the night here at Windsor, but I do not want it known that I was so close to the nunnery at Godstow, for someone could connect gossip like that with my disappearance from court. So that eliminates both the castle and the king's house. Nor can I go to St Mary's Abbey, for I've met Abbot Hugh."

It occurred to Justin that his life had been much simpler prior to his involvement with Claudine. She was gazing up at him with a worried frown and he smiled reassuringly. "I promise, love, that you'll not have to sleep in the street."

Some fourteen hours later, though, he was not so sure about that. Due to Claudine's resolve and the lingering daylight of high summer, they had reached Oxford by dusk. The Wednesday market was just breaking up, and the streets were still crowded around the Carfax, the city's ancient crossroads. Leaving Claudine with their horses, Justin went in search of the closest inn. As Oxford was a prosperous town with more than five thousand citizens and a thriving university community, he was utterly taken aback to be told there were no inns. Making his way back to Claudine, he realized how easily he'd been spoiled by living in London, honeycombed with inns, cook shops, taverns, and alehouses, and he marveled anew at the vast changes his life had undergone since that December night when he'd finally learned the truth about his paternity

Not the least of those changes was waiting for him in the churchyard of St Michael's. Claudine was attracting more than her share of attention, for she was fair to look upon, fashionably dressed, obviously a gentlewoman. She usually enjoyed creating such a stir, but now she seemed oblivious to the admiring glances being cast her way. Her face was pallid, her exhaustion evident in the drooping eyelids, down-turned mouth, and dejected slump of her shoulders. She managed a wan smile, though, as Justin drew near, even a small, irreverent joke. "Please do not tell me that there is no room at the inn."

"Worse than that, love. There is no inn at all, just lodgings for students from the university."

Claudine groaned. "Oh, no… now what? I seem to remember a nunnery here from a past visit…"

"I was told it burned in the great fire of three years ago. But I have found us a bed for the night, Claudine. A family on Carte Street has agreed to take us in — for a generous sum, of course."

Claudine opened her mouth to speak, then thought better of it. Justin could guess what she'd been about to say. The highborn did not take shelter at inns when they traveled. While monastery guest halls were always open to wayfarers and pilgrims, those of Claudine's class were accorded special status, often the honored guests of the abbot himself. If not an abbey or priory, there was usually a castle in the vicinity, and a welcome assured whether the castellan was known to them or not, for rank and blood were the keys to the kingdom. So Claudine was not troubled at the prospect of lodging under the roof of strangers — provided that they were of the gentry.

Justin came from a different world. Neither fish nor fowl, he thought sometimes, for the mother he'd never known had been a vulnerable village girl and his high-flying hawk of a father would eventually become a prince of the Church. There was a certain security in knowing one's place in the natural order of things, none in balancing precariously upon the sword's edge. But Justin's dubious birthright did give him one advantage. He was bilingual, both literally and figuratively, in the Norman-French of the Conquest and the English of the conquered.

He proved that now by the ease with which he assuaged Claudine's qualms, volunteering that Benet Kepeharm, their host, was kin to John Kepeharm, Oxford's current alderman, and that he had gone ahead to prepare his household for their arrival. Reassured that she'd be dealing with people of property, Claudine let Justin assist her back into the saddle.

The Kepeharms' residence on Carte Street looked like all of its neighbors: timber-framed, slate-roofed, fronting on the street, and abutting the houses on either side. The interior chamber was where the family ate, worked, played, and slept, with a screened-off bed for Benet and his wife at one end, pallets for their children and maid servant at the other, and trestle table, benches, and coffers squeezed in between the sleeping spaces. Justin could see the pride that the Kepeharms had in their home; it glowed in their faces as they ushered their guests inside. But he knew, too, how shabby their prized possessions must look to Claudine, a child of privilege reared in palaces, and he felt again a sense of surprise that this woman could have become his bedmate.

Because it was a Wednesday fast day, they had a supper of baked lamprey eels, cabbage soup, and stewed pears, washed down with a red wine flavored with ginger and sweetened with honey. Benet and his wife Insisted that their guests sleep in their own bed. Lacking a pillow, Claudine cradled her head in the crook of Justin's shoulder and apologized drowsily for her exhaustion, for they both knew this might be their last chance for lovemaking. Godstow's nunnery awaited them on the morrow.

This was only the fourth time that they'd passed the entire night together; their liaisons had usually been catch-as-catch-can. Listening to the soft, even sounds of Claudine's breathing, Justin recalled them, one by one. Their first night had been in a London inn. Their second night was when she'd arrived, drenched and shivering, at his cottage and blurted out that she was with child. And then these two nights on the road. Four nights and a handful of stolen afternoons, no more than that. He was almost asleep when the thought came to him, unwelcome and unbidden. Their night in that inn had been Claudine's doing. She'd admitted that she knew little of inns, so how had she known of this one? From John?

Justin did not want to go down that road again. It served for naught. He knew Claudine had been John's spy. He did not know if she'd been his concubine, too. In truth, he did not want to know. He looked down at the woman asleep beside him, letting his hand rest upon the rounded curve of her belly. God help him, he never wanted to know,

A sudden rainstorm had drenched London at midday, but the sun soon blazed through the clouds again and by dusk, the city was sweltering in humid July heat. Aldred was parched by the time he reached Gracechurch Street, his open, freckled face streaked with sweat, his cap of untidy yellow hair plastered damply against his scalp. He was already tasting one of Nell's ales, but he was a polite youth and he paused to exchange greetings with passersby. It was well known in the neighborhood that he worked for Jonas, the laconic, one-eyed serjeant who struck fear in the good and the godless alike. After joking briefly with Odo the barber, Aldred waved at the man standing across the street in the door of his smithy. "Gunter!" The blacksmith waved back, but by then Aldred had ducked into the alehouse.

He halted, blinking until his eyes had adjusted to the shadows. It was more crowded than he'd expected, for Vespers had not rung yet. Customers clustered around the rickety wooden tables, perched on stools and benches, sat on upturned empty barrels, voices pitched loudly to be heard above the din. Most were men, although there were a few local women happy to gossip and drink in a place where they could feel comfortable and safe. In the midst of this chaos was Nell, looking more harried than usual, pouring ale and scolding her helper, Ellis, for being a laggard and slapping away hands if they got too familiar as she squeezed past.

Aldred found a spot for himself and when Nell noticed him, he held up two fingers, hoping that she'd be tempted to take a break and have an ale with him. He'd always assumed that any woman managing an alehouse would have to be a hag, ugly as sin and as strapping and hulking as a Kentish quarryman. But Nell was a little bit of a lass, not even reaching his shoulder, with curly flaxen hair that was always escaping the constraints of her veil, a ripe, pouting mouth, and eyes as blue as a harvest sky. Aldred's shy courtship had not progressed very far; he suspected that Nell dismissed him as a green country lad, even though he'd lived in London for nigh on two years and proudly bore a scar on his throat from the blade of the notorious Gilbert the Fleming.

Eventually Nell made her way over, and Aldred's hopes rose at the sight of two tankards of ale. "Move your bum, Firmin," she directed and the man obediently slid down the bench, allowing her to sit next to Aldred.

"Lord have mercy, what a day…," She drank, sighed, and drank again. "I vow, Aldred, I've been on the run since daybreak, with nary a chance to catch my breath. First my Lucy was chasing about with that mad beast of Justin's and she tripped, scraping her knees and getting blood all over her skirt. Whilst I was getting her cleaned up, the sausages I was frying burnt to cinders. Then Hardwin finally showed up to whitewash the walls, after promising and putting me off for nigh on a month. So what happened next? Look for yourself," she said, pointing toward a patch of brightness, an island in a sea of smoke-smudged, murky grime.

"He mixed the lime and salt with water, painted that small section of the wall, and then told Ellis he was off to the cook shop for his supper. That was hours ago! I'll wager he's not coming back tonight, and all I've got to show for his day's work is one half-done wall, a lot of clutter, and that trough over there slopping over with whitewash! Ellis already put his foot in one of the buckets, damned near broke his leg. When I catch Hardwin, I'll make him rue the day he was ever born!"

Aldred did not doubt it; Nell's temper was legendary on Gracechurch Street. "You know how painters and carpenters and their ilk are," he said sympathetically. "If you are fool enough to give them their money ere the job is done, they're off in a puff of smoke — " Suddenly realizing that he'd just inadvertently insulted Nell, he said hastily, "Is Jonas here yet? He told me to meet him at Vespers. He and Justin have been chasing their tails all over London, trying to track down those rumors about some of the sheriff's men keeping a portion of the ransom for themselves."

In his eagerness to distract Nell from his gaffe, he was being indiscreet. Normally Nell would have seized upon this intriguing bit of gossip, but she was only half-listening to Aldred, eyes narrowing upon a corner table. "I cannot believe it," she muttered. "Now that knave is harrying poor Leofric!"

Following her gaze, Aldred did not see why she was so vexed. The object of her anger seemed to be a stranger of about thirty or so, well-dressed in a stalked cap and bright blue tunic, long legs stretched out in front of him, revealing leather ankle boots that Aldred would have loved to own. Several men were seated at the table and he glanced back at Nell. "Which one is Leofric?"

"The lad in the short tunic with the ripped sleeve," she said, gesturing toward a lanky redhead. "That lout has been hanging around all day, goading others into dicing or arm wrestling with him, for a wager, of course. When men balk, he shames them into it… and always wins. I am sure he is cheating somehow. I knew he was a wrong one the first I laid eyes on him. I warned him to let Leofric be, too!"

Aldred found himself begrudging Leofric the warmth in Nell's vice, "Is he mute that he cannot speak up for himself?" he asked, unable to keep an edge from his tone.

Fortunately for him, Nell didn't notice. "Leofric is a good lad, but he is slow-witted. When he first started coming in, some of the others made sport of him till I put a stop to it. He never causes trouble, just drinks his ale and smiles when spoken to. He helps out at the butcher's and has a few pence to spend, so I suppose that makes him fair game to that two-legged snake."

Embarrassed by his jealousy, Aldred sought to redeem himself in Nell's eyes by offering to arm wrestle the "snake" himself. "I do not like to boast, but I've won more than my share of bouts. I'll be right glad to teach him a lesson for you, Mistress Nell."

His effort was wasted, though, for Nell had turned aside to confer with Ellis. Setting down her ale, she rose reluctantly to her feet. "I'll be back," she said. "Ellis says one of the barrels has sprung a leak."

When she returned, there was a crowd around Leofric's table. Aldred was standing nearby, looking indignant, and immediately pushed his way toward her, "He prodded the lad into wrestling. But then he said they ought to make it 'interesting,' and he put a candle on the table so the loser would get burnt!"

Nell shoved and squirmed her way through the circle of spectators. Beads of sweat had broken out on Leofric's forehead, and his knuckles were bone-white in the other man's grip. But try as he might, his arm was slowly being forced toward that flickering candle, Wincing as the yellow flame licked at his skin, he looked up at Nell with such bewilderment that she felt a surge of outrage. Reaching for a tankard on the table, she knocked it over onto the candle, soaking the sleeves of both men with ale.

"How clumsy of me," she said, as evenly as her anger would allow. She looked toward Ellis, signaling for a refill as the best way of easing the tension. But the gambler gave her no chance.

"You stupid cow! This is Flemish wool!" Glaring at Nell, he brandished the wet blotch on his sleeve as if it were a wound, "If the fuller cannot get the stain out, you'll owe me for a new tunic." As she started to speak, he cut her off with an imperious gesture. "I want no apologies, woman, not from the likes of you. Just get me another drink and get it now."

Color flooded Nell's face. "You want an ale, do you?" She spun around and snatched a tankard from the closest table. "Here you are," she said, swiftly upending it over his head.

He sprang to his feet, sputtering oaths, and lunged for her. But she'd already darted out of reach, putting the table between them. "Lowborn bitch!" He started for her again, only to be brought up short when Aldred and Ellis blocked his way. His curses spilling onto them, he raged for another moment or so before becoming aware of the utter silence. Glancing over his shoulder, he discovered that he was ringed in by a half dozen men.

"This is none of your concern!"

"Ah, but it is," one of his new adversaries explained. "We look after our own here."

His eyes slid from one face to another and then he began to back slowly away. The men followed.

It had been a long day, and both Jonas's and Justin's steps were flagging as they turned onto Gracechurch Street, trailed by Shadow, Justin's panting black dog. They'd covered at least ten miles since that morning, all of it on foot, for seasoned Londoners knew better than to brave the crowded city streets on horseback when they had many stops to make.

"I never thought I'd miss chasing after thieves and cutthroats," Jonas said tiredly. "But they're easier prey for certes. Hunt them down, catch them, hang them, and forget them."

"Well, at least we disproved the rumor." Justin smothered a yawn with his fist. "I can now assure the queen that the coffer from the nunnery at Clerkenwell arrived intact and the seal was not tampered with."

"This time," Jonas amended. "I daresay the money being collected in London is making it safely to the crypt at St Paul's. There are too many eyes watching for it here. But there are a lot of lonely roads and moors and deep woods in the realm."

Justin nodded somberly. "Outlaws will be swarming like honeybees."

Jonas almost smiled. "So will sheriffs and bailiffs and aldermen and their sainted grandmothers, de Quincy."

Justin hoped Jonas was wrong. It was disheartening to believe that corruption was so contagious. And it would make his task all the more difficult, for he knew the queen would want every last half-penny accounted for. The ransom being demanded for King Richard was staggering, one hundred thousand silver marks, and no one was exempt. Churches, monasteries, towns, guilds, and subjects of the king were all expected to contribute a fourth of their year's income. Was Richard worth such a vast sum? That was a question Justin had never thought to ask. For him, it was enough that his queen thought so.

They had just reached the alehouse when the door flew open and a ghostly apparition stumbled out. He was coated in whitewash; it dripped from his hair and squished out of his boots, splattering the ground with his every stride. Justin and Jonas, with fine teamwork, veered off to either side, letting him splash between them. As they watched, he ran across the street and dived into the horse trough in front of the smithy.

The noise coming from the alehouse was loud and raucous. But a silence fell at the sight of the sheriff's serjeant and the queen's man. Jonas's gaze moved slowly over the crowd before settling on Aldred and Nell. Aldred flushed and tried to edge away. Nell stood her ground and shook her head when Jonas asked, "Is this some thing I need know about?"

"No," she said, and he nodded.

"Good," he said and entered the alehouse, carefully stepping over a puddle of whitewash in the doorway. Justin followed him in toward a table that had suddenly become free; people tended to give Jonas space. Aldred soon sidled over and sat down. After a few moments, Nell joined them with a tray of ales. Pulling up a stool for herself, she smiled brightly.

"So… did you have any luck with your ransom hunt?"

"I see Aldred has been babbling again," Jonas said, sounding more resigned than irked.

Aldred squirmed and then seized his chance to deflect attention away from his latest lapse. "Look, Justin, your landlord is here."

Justin turned to see Gunter entering the alehouse. He didn't think of the blacksmith in those terms, but he supposed Aldred was right; he did rent Gunter's cottage. Half-rising, he beckoned to attract Gunter's eye, and Nell and Aldred moved over to make room for the farrier at their table. Gunter did not sit down, though.

"The queen sent a messenger to your cottage this afternoon, Justin. She wants to see you straightaway."

Justin was ushered at once into the queen's private chamber at Westminster, for her household knew that he was one of her agents, one of those mysterious men who came and went at odd hours on covert missions better left to the imagination. Eleanor was dictating a letter to St Martial's Abbey in Limoges. Justin heard enough to recognize it as a personal appeal to the abbot, requesting one hundred marks for Richard's ransom. He knew Limoges was in her overseas domains and he was interested, but not at all surprised, to learn that she was exacting payment from Aquitaine as well as England. He did not doubt that if she could, she'd have squeezed money from the Holy See.

Eleanor glanced up as Justin entered and knelt at her feet, then gestured to her scribe, who gathered up his writing utensils. She also dismissed her other attendants, an indication that she had a highly confidential matter to discuss. That was usually the case, for all the services Justin had performed for the queen were related, directly or indirectly, to thwarting John's schemes while still protecting him from his own folly.

Eleanor was in remarkable health for a woman of seventy-one years. The past seven months had taken their toll, though, as she'd first feared that her best-loved son was dead, only to learn that he was being held hostage in Germany by the Emperor Heinrich, an enemy who hated him as much as Philippe, the French king, did. Fatigue and dread and uncertainty had carved new furrows in her face, etched wrinkles around her eyes that none would ever call "laugh lines." This night she appeared exhausted, so pale and care worn that Justin felt a pang of alarm; he was not accustomed to seeing her look so vulnerable.

Eleanor signaled for him to rise, and when she spoke, her voice sounded as it always did, well modulated and deliberative, resonating with the authority she'd wielded for much of her lifetime. "I have a question to put to you, Justin. You grew up in the Marches, so I assume you are more familiar than most with the region and its labyrinthine politics."

Justin wasn't sure what labyrinthine meant, but he nodded, somewhat warily. "Yes, Madame, I know Shrewsbury well, Chester even better."

"You understand English and read Latin, so you seem to have an ear for languages. What about Welsh?"

"I am by no means fluent, my lady. But yes, I do have some grasp of it. I'd picked up a little as a lad, and whilst I was in Lord Fitz Alan's service, I learned more from another of his squires, who was half-Welsh."

"Make ready," she said, "to leave for Wales on the morrow. Money meant for Richard's ransom has gone missing." She turned and rifled through a pile of parchments on the table until she found the one she wanted, "This is a letter from the Welsh prince Davydd ab Owain. The ransom he'd collected for Richard was stolen by a Welsh rebel."

The name was vaguely familiar to Justin, and after a moment, the memory came into focus. Davydd ab Owain was a prince of North Wales, long allied with the English Crown. "What more can you tell me, Madame?"

"Unfortunately, not much. When I referred to 'money' earlier, I was using the term loosely. The Welsh princes do not mint their own money and so the bulk of the ransom was wool from the Cistercian abbeys, although there were some coins and silver plate and jewelry, mayhap furs, too. Davydd says he'd sent it under guard to Chester, but it was ambushed by an outlaw named…" She glanced briefly at the letter. "… Llewelyn ab Iorwerth. The guards were slain and the ransom stolen. Needless to say, I want it back. It will be a god-given miracle if we can raise all the money demanded by that hellspawn Heinrich. I am not about to let Welsh brigands ruin Richard's chances of release."

"You call this man an 'outlaw' and a 'rebel.' Which is he, Madame?"

"According to Davydd, both. He is kin to Davydd — the Welsh are all inbred — and he has been trying to stir up rebellion, without much success. But he makes do with robbery and thieving and extortion. Here, read the letter for yourself."

Justin moved toward the closest light, a sputtering cresset lamp. "Dayvdd is rather sparing with details. This letter tells us very little."

"You noticed that, too," she said dryly. "His overriding concern seems to be escaping any blame for this disaster. Which is all I'd expect from the man."

"Have you met Davydd, Madame?"

The corner of Eleanor's mouth curved. "Met him? I'm related to him, Justin." She did smile then at his look of surprise. "Davydd ab Owain is my brother-by-marriage. He is wed to my husband's sister Emma."

Justin blinked. "I thought King Henry had two brothers. I remember nothing of a sister…"

"Emma is Harry's half-sister, one of Geoffrey of Anjou's bastards. Davydd pressed very hard for the marriage and because Harry needed Welsh support at the time, he agreed, albeit reluctantly. But he never thought very highly of Davydd. Nor did Emma. Or so I've been told," she added, an ironic aside so oblique that it took a moment for Justin to realize this was an indirect reference to her imprisonment; at the time of Dayvdd's marriage to the Lady Emma, Eleanor was far from court, being held prisoner in a remote castle of her husband's choosing.

Reading the letter a second time, Justin could not help thinking that this could well be the most challenging assignment that Eleanor had ever given him. "What would you have me do first, Madame?"

"The Earl of Chester will be your most useful ally. If you need men, he'll provide them. The bishop may be of some help, too, for he knows Davydd and Emma well. Go first to Chester, see the earl and the bishop. And then you'll have to seek out Davydd in Wales. He keeps his court at Rhuddlan Castle."

Justin in was no longer listening. She'd lost him from the moment that she mentioned the Bishop of Chester. He stared at her, incredulous. Surely she could not have forgotten that Aubrey de Quincy was his father? Unless… unless this was a stratagem, a means of bringing them together?

"My lady queen, I.. " He paused, not knowing what to say. But as his eyes locked with hers, he saw the truth. She had not forgotten. Nor was she seeking to arrange a reconciliation. She knew how loath he was to see his father. It did not matter. Nothing mattered but Richard and the recovery of his ransom.