Dragon's Lair

Chapter 3

August 1193

Chester, England

The Bishop of Chester's Palace was located southeast of the city, just beyond the ancient Roman walls, adjacent to the cathedral church of St John. Justin drew rein at the sight of the gatehouse, not moving until his stallion began to fidget. Several months ago, he'd had to enter a lazar hospital in search of a killer. With some of the same dread that he'd felt at facing the lepers, he urged his mount forward into the precincts of his father's domain.

He was dismounting at the stables when he heard his name called out. Handing the reins to a waiting groom, he turned to greet Martin, the bishop's steward. Martin's face was creased in a delighted smile, and Justin smiled back, thinking that at least there was one soul here who was pleased to see him.

"Justin, I cannot tell you how much the sight of you gladdens my eyes. When you rode away last December, it was as if you'd vanished from the earth. I have often wondered where you were, how you were faring."

Justin felt a dart of guilt that it had not occurred to him to let Martin know he'd landed on his feet. He owed Martin better than that, for his father's steward had always treated him with great kindness, almost as if he suspected the truth about Justin's identity.

"I ought to have written to you, Martin, and I am sorry I did not. I should have known that… the bishop would not have told you that he'd encountered me in London after Whitsuntide. I hope we can find time to talk later, for I'd like nothing better than buy you an ale. But right now I need to see the bishop."

Martin's face shadowed. His obvious dismay confirmed Justin's suspicions — Martin knew he was the bishop's son. "You need not worry, Martin. I am not here to stir up trouble. The bishop will see me, for I am bearing a letter from the queen."

~*~

Aubrey de Quincy had taken Eleanor's letter to the open window, and as he read, the afternoon sun glistened upon the silvered strands at his temples. Justin hadn't realized he was going so grey, for it was usually disguised by the fairness of his hair. Justin's own coloring was dark, and try though he might, he could see nothing of himself in the man by the window. He supposed he must have gotten his black hair from his mother, though it was not likely that he'd ever know for sure. He had no memories of her, nothing but the gossip of an old woman who'd been the refectory cook in his father's parish. He'd never even been told her name.

Aubrey was taking a long time to read a brief letter, and Justin wondered if he felt the same unease, the same desire to be elsewhere, to be anywhere but the bishop's palace at Chester. The last time they'd spoken, it had ended badly, with his father angrily warning him to keep silent and him hitting back with the only weapon at hand, telling Aubrey that Queen Eleanor already knew the truth. Justin knew the queen's letter made use of the surname he had no legal right to claim, for she'd shown it to him before sealing it. He imagined the words Justin de Quincy must have leapt off the parchment at his father; had he taken it as a royal threat? A reminder that the queen knew the secret he'd sought to hide for so long?

When Aubrey at last looked up, it was with a smile that was as fleeting as it was forced. "Well, the queen must have great faith in you, Justin, to entrust a matter of such importance to you."

It had not sounded like a compliment — there was too much surprise in his father's tone for that — and Justin acknowledged it with a shrug. "It is not as if I am expected to find the missing ransom all by myself. I can rely upon the Earl of Chester for what ever help I need. And Davydd ab Owain, too. I daresay no one is more eager to retrieve the ransom than he is."

Aubrey nodded, "Yes… Davydd must be in a frenzy, and he has never been known for his serene, steadfast nature in the best of times."

This was an ideal opening and Justin was grateful for it; he much preferred to confine their conversation to the facts of the robbery, and he suspected that his father did, too. "The queen told me that you know both Davydd and his wife, the Lady Emma. What can you tell me about him?"

"Davydd's father was a remarkable man, a great prince. Davydd is neither."

It was a harsh assessment, but Justin knew that his father was not a man to make allowances for human frailty, not even his own. "What else?"

Aubrey gestured toward a carved wooden bench and they both sat, somewhat awkwardly. "I suppose you ought to know the manner of the man you'll be dealing with. Davydd has ruled Gwynedd east of the River Conwy for the past twenty or so years. After his father's death, Davydd and his younger brother, Rhodri, banded together and ambushed their half-brother Hywel, the heir-apparent. Hywel was slain; a pity, for he was a fine poet. Davydd and Rhodri soon turned on each other and for a brief time, Davydd ruled all of Gwynedd. These days he divides his time between his castle at Rhuddlan and his manors in Shropshire."

Justin's eyebrows rose. "A Welsh prince dwelling in England?"

"I imagine his wife prefers Shropshire to Wales; how could she not? But Davydd also sets great store by his ties to the English Crown. He is King Richard's uncle, if only by marriage, and rarely misses an opportunity to boast of it."

"You do not like him much," Justin observed, and Aubrey's mouth quirked.

"Few do," he said dryly. "Davydd does not hold the hearts of his people in the palm of his hand. He is a man of mediocre abilities who has been blessed with good luck, high birth, and a very beautiful wife."

Justin was remembering what he'd been told, that Emma was he illegitimate daughter of Count Geoffrey of Anjou. Geoffrey had been dead for many years, so Emma must be well past her youth. "You mean she was once a beauty?"

"Was and is," Aubrey said, faintly amused by Justin's polite attempt to disguise his disbelief. "She is a year or two past her fourth decade, which doubtless sounds as old as Methusaleh to a lad of twenty. But trust me in this, Justin. Emma of Anjou is still a beautiful woman."

Justin was surprised, both that his father had remembered his age and that he spoke so warmly of the Lady Emma. "What can you tell me of her marriage?" he asked, suddenly very curious to see Davydd's wife for himself.

"They've been wed for nigh on twenty years, have a son and a daughter if my memory serves. I first met her some years ago in Shropshire, ere I was made an archdeacon. I found her to be a lady of grace and piety and dignity. I trust you will bear that in mind during this investigation of yours, Justin."

"I will do my best not to shame you," Justin said, saw the muscles clench along his father's jaw, and regretted his rash words. Rising, he bent dutifully over the bishop's ring. "I thank you for sharing your thoughts with me."

Aubrey rose, too. "I assume you will go now to see the Earl of Chester?" When Justin nodded, the bishop's eyes narrowed and his voice iced over. "You have been taking a great liberty in making use of the de Quincy name. That you do this with the queen's approval does not make it right. I shall expect you to conduct yourself with decorum and discretion whilst you are in Chester."

Justin was becoming accustomed by now to paternal threats, but if they did not intimidate, they still stung. "My lord bishop," he said, with such mocking deference that his father made an angry gesture of dismissal. They glared at each other, and had they but known it, in that moment they did indeed look alike.

The queen's letter gave Justin the same swift admittance to Chester Castle as it had to the bishop's palace. Ranulf de Blundeville greeted him in the great hall, but after reading Eleanor's message, he led Justin abovestairs to his solar. He did not offer Justin wine or ale, but Justin took no offense, sure that Chester's omission was not a deliberate rudeness. Those who knew the earl knew, too, that he was single-minded to a fault, a man who focused upon the most pressing problem to the exclusion of all else. While Justin had never formally met Chester before, he was well acquainted with the gossip that inevitably swirled around a man of such prominence. Chester prided himself upon being blunt-spoken and forthright, which occasionally caused the cynical to brand him as naïve or credulous. Justin knew better, for Eleanor had warned him not to undervalue the earl's discerning eye. If the queen respected Chester's mother wit, that was more than enough for the queen's man.

Putting aside Eleanor's letter, Chester studied Justin through hooded dark eyes. It was a challenging look, even antagonistic. Justin had expected as much. The Earl of Chester was a great lord, cousin to the king, wed to an even greater heiress, Constance of Brittany, widow of Richard's brother Geoffrey, mother of Arthur, Geoffrey's young heir. As stepfather of the Duke of Brittany, Chester was sure to exercise influence in the boy's domains, for Arthur would not reach his majority for many years. And there was always the chance that Chester might find himself the stepfather of a king. Richard had sired no sons from his Spanish queen, and he was not a man likely to die peacefully in bed. If he died without an heir of his body, some would argue that his brother Geoffrey's son, Arthur, had a better claim to the English throne than the youngest brother, John.

Whatever Arthur's prospects of outwitting or outrunning John in a race for the crown, there was no denying that Ranulf of Chester wielded vast and profound powers, and so Justin had assumed that he would be jealous of his authority, even with one of Queen Eleanor's agents. But however much he might have preferred to keep control of the investigation in his own hands, he would cooperate, for he was not a fool. If the ransom were not recovered, Chester and Davydd ab Owain would both be blamed by the irate queen and frantic mother.

Chester's first question showed that Eleanor's confidence in his intellect was not misplaced. "I would like," he said, "to know exactly what Davydd ab Owain told the Queen's Grace."

"We thought you would," Justin acknowledged, holding out a second parchment. "This is a copy of the letter that he wrote to Queen Eleanor, informing her that the ransom had been stolen on its way to Chester."

Justin waited while the earl read and was amused when Chester echoed his own words almost exactly, saying brusquely that Davydd had been miserly with the details of the ambush. "Fortunately, one of my knights was in Gwynedd helping with the collection of the ransom, and he was able to give me a more thorough account of the crime."

This was the first piece of good news that Justin had gotten. "Was your man present at the ambush, my lord earl?"

"Luckily for him, no. There was but one survivor, and I'm told he was not expected to live. Thomas was at Rhuddlan Castle, though, and so he has some useful information for you. Davydd ab Owain has good reason to be closemouthed. Had I blundered as badly as he did, I'd be loath to share my shame with the world, too."

Justin was not surprised that Chester was eager to lay blame at Davydd's door. Marcher lords and their Welsh counterparts were natural rivals, for the borders were writ in sand, shifting or expanding as ambitious men jockeyed for advantage. "I would be most interested in hearing of these blunders, my lord. To judge by the prince's letter to my lady queen, all the guilt belongs to that Welsh bandit, who is apparently a kinsman of some sort."

"A kinsman of some sort?" Chester echoed, so sarcastically that Justin tensed. "You are not very well informed, are you, Master de Quincy? If you do not even know the players in this infernal game, how likely are you to come out as the winner? Llewelyn ab Iorwerth is no fourth cousin by blood or distant kin by marriage. Nor can he be dismissed as a 'Welsh bandit.' He is Davydd's nephew and in the eyes of Holy Church, he has a better claim to crown than his usurping uncle, for he was begotten in lawful marriage and Davydd was born in sin."

Justin was angry at the injustice of Chester's rebuke; this was why he'd come to the earl in the first place, to learn about the "players in this infernal game." But earls were not men to be reprimanded, and he contented himself by saying coolly, "I thought that the Welsh allow a bastard to inherit as long as he is recognized by his father."

Chester's heavy black brows slanted down in a frown, for Justin's tone was not as dispassionate as his words. Justin held his gaze and to his surprise, the earl was the one to look away first. "I am glad to see that you do have some knowledge of the Welsh and their ways," he said grudgingly, and Justin remembered that the earl had a reputation for more than pride and hot temper; it was said, too, that he was fair.

"I would like to meet with this knight of yours, my lord earl," Justin said, doing his best to sound like a supplicant, for his mission could be crippled if he made an enemy of Chester.

"I shall do better than that, Master de Quincy. It is my intent to send Sir Thomas de Caldecott with you into Wales."

Justin was less than thrilled by the earl's generosity, and there was a gleam in Chester's eyes that told him the earl well knew the presence of his knight would be a mixed blessing. It would be useful to have an ally who was so familiar with Wales and the Welsh. But this man would also be Chester's eyes and ears, and Justin was not yet sure if the queen's interests and the earl's interests were necessarily one and the same. Moreover, although he worked well enough with the serjeant Jonas and the under-sheriff Luke de Marston, he was more comfortable on his own. There was some truth in Luke's jest that he was a natural lone wolf, not happy hunting with the pack.

Justin now gave the only response he could, and thanked the Earl of Chester for his kind offer, "My pleasure," the other man said, with a brief smile. It was unexpectedly mischievous, and for the first time, he looked as young as he truly was, for Chester was only in his twenty-third year. "I've already sent for Thomas." Not at all uncomfortable with the prolonged silence that followed, the earl glanced again at the queen's letter and then back at Justin.

"De Quincy," he said, as if finally taking notice of Justin's surname, "Are you any kin to our bishop?"

It was the first time that Justin had been asked this question, although he'd often considered his answer. He did not want to lie, but neither did he want to admit the truth, for his candor could give rise to scandal and a public repudiation by his father. He compromised now by smiling and saying breezily, "I asked the good bishop that, too, but he says nay."

Chester nodded, asked Justin if he were kin to Saer de Quincy, who was wed to the daughter of the Earl of Leicester, and getting a denial, lost interest. Justin's words seemed to echo in his own ears, though, for there had been a bitter, bedrock honesty in his answer. The good bishop had indeed said nay.

"Two more ales, sweeting." Only then did Thomas de Caldecott interrupt his flirting with the serving maid to give Justin his attention, "Admit it, Justin. This is a better meeting place than the great hall under the eagle eye of my lord earl," he insisted with an airy wave of the hand toward their smoky, noisy, and dim surroundings. "Of course here we have to buy our own ales, but the next round is on you, so who cares?"

"I may," Justin said, "if you keep swilling down these tankards faster than the girl can get them to us. I do not fancy having to drag you back to the castle like a sack of flour after you get stewed to the gills.''

Thomas threw back his head and laughed loudly. "If you think you can drink me under the table, lad, you're in for a rude awakening. When it comes to carousing, I ought to be giving lessons. But then, you do not know me very well yet, so your ignorance can be excused."

"How kind of you." Justin lifted his own tankard in a playful salute. "To Sir Thomas de Caldecott, king of the carousers," he said, and Thomas laughed again, patting the serving maid on the rump as she sashayed by.

Justin slid his stool back so that he could lean against the wall and watched with wary amusement. Thomas was right. He did not know the other man well at all, and he was not sure what to make of the knight's easy affability. Justin had learned at an early age to keep his defenses up against a world that was indifferent at best and hostile at worst to a foundling without family, resources, or rank. He could not imagine lowering the drawbridges, opening the gates, and inviting people into the castle inner bailey as freely and confidently as Thomas was doing.

It had been a relief to find that the knight was not haughty and overweening as so many of his peers were. Unlike his lord, the Earl of Chester, Thomas seemed comfortable taking a secondary role in the ransom investigation. Justin had quickly realized that he'd found a valuable partner in Thomas. But he was bemused to be treated as an instant friend, for he was much slower to give his own trust. He was concluding that Thomas was that rarity, a man utterly at home in his own skin, with nothing to prove and nothing at risk, for failure would injure the earl, not his vassals and retainers.

The serving maids that Justin had known were far too jaded to blush, but Thomas managed it, whispering something that sent color flooding into the girl's face. As she withdrew in a gale of giggles, Thomas finally focused upon the matter at hand. "I suppose we ought to at least mention the robbery since we'll soon be on the road into Wales. The earl, God love him, will boot us out of bed at cockcrow. How good is your Welsh? Mine is more than good, if I may brag a bit. But the earl has a Welsh lad, Padrig, in his service, and I thought we'd take him along with us in case we run into anyone who cannot understand my elegant French accent. We'll need a goodly escort, too."

"Is North Wales that dangerous?" Justin asked, and Thomas grinned.

"I've heard that even the Welsh outlaws have their own bodyguards. But if we keep to the coast road, we ought to reach Rhuddlan without spilling any blood. I imagine Llewelyn is too busy counting his ill-gotten gains to be harassing innocent English travelers."

"Are you so sure that Llewelyn is the culprit?" Justin asked, intrigued by the other man's matter-of-fact manner. Thomas's indictment was more convincing than the Earl of Chester's fiery denunciation because of its very lack of passion or choler.

"If you're asking if Llewelyn is the one who stole the ransom, there is no doubt of that. But there is blame enough to go around and I'd not want to cheat Davydd of his fair share."

"The earl also talked of Davydd's 'blunders.' What were they?"

"Ah… where to begin? I suppose you want me to confine myself to those specific blunders relating to the ransom. A pity, for I have heard tales about Davydd's misspent youth that would have you rolling on the floor with laugher. Ah, well…"

Thomas heaved a comic sigh. "The trouble began with Davydd's bright idea to lure outlaws and bandits and Llewelyn away with a second convoy. He insisted upon sending a large escort with heavily loaded wagons by an inland road, whilst the real ransom was taken along the coast. But that was only part of his grand scheme. He loaded the ransom onto two ancient wains, piled hay on top, and to make it look even more convincing, he only dispatched four men with the hay-wains."

"That was lunacy," Justin blurted out. "How could he be sure they would not steal the ransom? The fewer the men, the greater the risk that they could reach an understanding amongst themselves.''

"You'll get no argument from me, lad, But Davydd said he deliberately picked men without the ballocks or the brains to do more than follow orders. He chose a tough nut named Selwyn to give those orders. He'd been a member of the royal household for years, and Davydd swore he could be trusted. The others were downright pitiful: the lame, the halt, and the blind. A green lad of sixteen; he's the one left to die in the road. An aged grandfather, and a good-natured fool. Davydd thought that way no one would ever suspect these rickety hay-wains could be carrying anything but hay."

Justin shook his head slowly. "And did it never occur to Davydd that if his 'grand scheme' went wrong, these guards would have trouble fending off a dozen drunken monks?"

"Monks? You're too kind, Justin, my boy. That crew could have been overrun by nuns! But no, Davydd is not one for contingency planning. The Welsh rarely are."

"Llewelyn ab Iorwerth might disagree with you."

Thomas considered that and then conceded cheerfully, "I daresay he might. For certes, his plan went down as smoothly as the best-brewed ale. He pounced upon the hay-wains like a hawk upon a rabbit, took what he wanted, and left naught but bodies and the charred remains of the burned wains."

"He burned the wains? Why?"

Thomas gave Justin an approving smile, "A good question. He burned the hay-wains because he also burned the woolsacks."

Justin sat upright, nearly spilling his ale. "Christ Jesus, he burned the wool? Davydd said nary a word about that to the queen!"

"Naturally not, for he'd have to admit then that the bulk of the ransom was beyond recovery. Those hay-wains also held silver plate and jewelry and some fine pelts, but it was the Cistercian wool that was the real treasure. But woolsacks are heavier than lead, and Llewelyn apparently realized that he'd not be able to get the wool safely away in those decrepit carts without risking capture. So he took what he could carry off and burned the wool to deny it to Davydd and the English Crown."

Justin was still coming to terms with the realization that his mission had been doomed from the moment that those woolsacks went up in flames. "If he was clever enough to find out that the ransom was hidden in those hay-wains, I'd think he'd be clever enough to have some sturdy wagons on hand to haul the wool away."

"Ah, but it would have been no easy task to unload the sacks and reload them in the new wagons. The woolsacks are deliberately made so heavy for that very reason, to thwart theft. And even if he could have gotten them away, what then? They'd have to be smuggled into England and then sold to traders on the alert for that very stolen wool. No, Llewelyn made a pragmatic decision to settle for what he could safely steal and took his vengeance upon Davydd with flint and tinder."

Justin saw the logic in Thomas's argument. He just did not want to admit that much of the ransom had gone up in a cloud of smoke, knowing what a blow that would be to his queen. The total ransom demanded was so huge that those sacks of fine Cistercian wool were needed, each and every one. He understood now why Chester was so critical of Davydd's part in this calamity. Thomas de Caldecott was right; there was more than enough blame to go around.

They headed into Wales on the morrow, keeping close to the Dee estuary. Although Wales was known as a mountain citadel, the coastal lands were flat. But the going was still not easy, for they had to contend with salt marches and quicksand bogs while skirting the deep, tangled woodlands that lay just to the south. They stopped for the night at Basingwerk Abbey where Thomas was well known to the hospitaller, testifying to how frequently he'd made the journey between Chester and Rhuddlan Castle. He'd soon proved himself to be an agreeable traveling companion, one who took setbacks in stride and kept complaining to a minimum and knew what lay around every bend in the road. He was a talker, so he was good company, too, keeping up a steady stream of lively conversation as the miles plodded by.

By the time they'd reached Basingwerk Abbey, Justin had learned that his new ally was thirty and three, that his elder brother held a manor of the Earl of Chester at Caldecott in Cheshire, that he'd picked up some of his Welsh from his mother, who'd been raised in Pembrokeshire, and was taught the rest by a Welsh mistress. And by the time they were within sight of Rhuddlan Castle, Justin knew that Thomas took great pleasure in hawking, gambling, hunting, gossip, Gascon wines, and women, but he took little pleasure in sea voyages, tedious church sermons, sharing beds with strangers in flea-infested inns, salted herring during Lent, roan horses, cats, and his elder brother. He had Justin laughing more often than not, and since Justin was quiet by nature, they complemented each other quite well, the one offering entertainment, the other an audience.

Rhuddlan Castle was strategically situated at the lowest crossing point of the River Clwyd, the locale of several strongholds down through the years. The present fortress had long dominated the crossing, a bulwark of English power until captured by Davydd's formidable father a quarter-century ago. It looked impressive at first glance, with a rectangular keep situated upon a sixty-foot-high mound and a large bailey defended by steep palisades and a deep, wide ditch. But as they got closer, Justin saw that all of the castle's structures were wooden, not fortified in stone, as were the principal castles of the English Crown and baronage. Compared to the great citadels of Windsor and Chester, Rhuddlan no longer looked so invincible to Justin.

They were admitted without difficulty; Thomas was well known here, too. Dismounting in the bailey, they were welcomed by the Welsh prince's steward, and a man was sent to inform Davydd of their arrival. Justin watched him scramble up the perpendicular steps cut into the mound as he asked the steward about accommodating their escort; it was an unfamiliar experience, having men at his command, but he was learning to like it.

"Let's go into the hall," Thomas suggested, tugging at Justin's arm. "Princes like to make an entrance, so this could take a while."

He switched from French to Welsh then, as he turned back to the steward, and Justin decided his boasting was justified; Thomas did indeed speak fluent Welsh. Thomas was joking with Garwyn, the steward, and Justin was pleased to find that he could follow the gist of their conversation.

As they approached the open door of the great hail, a man came striding out. He was of middle height, with flyaway reddish hair and beard, a sturdy frame, a square, sun-weathered face, and a fine I Flemish sword at his hip. The beard identified him as a Marcher lord, for the Welsh were clean-shaven with mustaches. But Justin already knew that. He came to an abrupt halt.

Thomas was greeting the man with a smile and enough deference to indicate he was of greater rank than the knight. Justin already knew that, too. He was still standing as if rooted when Thomas turned to introduce him to Lord Fitz Alan, the sheriff of Shropshire, an influential Marcher baron… and the man who had taken Justin into his service as a squire, a personal favor for his friend, the Bishop of Chester.