Dragon's Lair

Chapter 4

August 1193

Rhuddlan Castle, North Wales

Recognition was mutual. Fitz Alan's look of surprise soon gave way to one of astonishment, for Justin was not quick enough to stop Thomas from introducing him with a flourish as "the queen's man." In other circumstances, the Marcher lord's befuddlement might have been comical, but Justin could find no humor in his present predicament. His feelings for his father were a confused welter of aggrieved, often contradictory, emotions. For all of his bravado, he did not truly want to alienate and embarrass his father with a public scandal. Now, finding himself face-to-face with the man he least wanted to see, one who was bound to realize the significance of his claim to the de Quincy name, he did not know how he could deflect Fitz Alan's curiosity or suspicions.

He was given a brief reprieve, then, when the prince's steward insisted upon ushering them out of the sun and into the great hall. Justin and Thomas and their men were soon herded inside, where they were offered mead or wine; hospitality was the Eleventh Commandment for the Welsh. Thomas was clearly at home here, exchanging jests and greetings with several of the Welshmen in the hall; almost as if reading Justin's mind, he said, "For the past year, I have acted as the earl's liaison with Lord Davydd, so I've been to Rhuddlan often enough to make a few friends and…" He grinned. "… tempt a lass or two."

Turning then to Garwyn, he slid smoothly into Welsh, telling the steward that once he was back in Chester, he'd arranged to have Masses said for poor Rhun's soul. Garwyn smiled, shook his head, and said something too quickly for Justin to follow. Thomas looked surprised, but then he smiled, too. "Rhun is the lad who was left for dead. We thought sure that he was not long for this world. But Garwyn just told me that not only is he still amongst the living, they think he is on the mend." He held up his hand before Justin could speak. "Alas, Rhun's good fortune is not ours. Garwyn says he has no memory whatsoever of the ambush."

Justin swore silently. "Is his memory gone for good?"

Thomas shrugged. "Who knows? Apparently loss of memory is not uncommon with head injuries like Rhun's."

Before Justin could respond, there was a stir at the end of the hall. Garwyn sprang to his feet, with Thomas right behind him. Justin rose, too, watching as Davydd ab Owain strode toward hem. The Earl of Chester had described Davydd as "aged." Justin was surprised, therefore, to find that the Welsh prince was nor that decrepit or doddering for a man who'd lived fifty-five winters.

Davydd's dark eyes were pouchy, his hairline was receding, and he'd long ago lost the lean, hungry look of his youth. But he was still a handsome man. His chestnut hair was only lightly salted with grey, his step had the swagger of one accustomed to wielding power, and he bore his years lightly. It was obvious, though, that the missing ransom was weighing heavily upon his mind; he looked starved for sleep and it was hard to imagine that tautly drawn mouth relaxing into a smile.

He held the queen's letter in one hand, crumpled in his fist. Coming straight to Thomas, he said abruptly, "Is this the queen's man?"

~*~

Justin was glad it was a humid, summer day. If it had been midwinter, the coldness of Davydd's welcome might have given him a bone-chill, "I do not understand why the queen has sent you to me, Master de Quincy. What I need are enough armed men to track Llewelyn ab Iorwerth to his lair and recover the stolen ransom. I do not see what you can do. What do you know about Llewelyn? About Wales? Do you even speak Welsh?"

Justin caught his breath, held it until he was sure his voice would reveal nothing of his inner fury. That brief moment gave him enough time, though, to devise a new stratagem, one born of Davydd's contempt. Rather than try to change the Welsh prince's low opinion of him, why not use it to his own advantage?

"I seek only to serve the Queen's Grace… and you, of course, my lord prince. I am deeply honored by her trust in me, and I am confident I can justify it. I grant you that I speak little Welsh, but I do not see why that would hinder my investigation. I have men with me to act as translators, after all." He'd been striving to sound ingratiating and indignant and just a bit pompous, and to judge by the disdainful expression on Davydd's face, he had succeeded.

"So be it," Davydd said coldly. "We will, of course, cooperate fully with your investigation." He was not particularly convincing, nor Justin think he'd meant to be. Almost at once, he turned away, beckoning impatiently to Thomas de Caldecott.

"I will be relying upon you, Sir Thomas," he said, "to do what must be done. God alone knows what the queen was thinking to send this green stripling. He is a nobody, not even a knight! I was a fool to put my hopes in a woman, ought to have known better. If I am to recover the ransom from that whoreson nephew of mine, I shall have to do it myself!"

This diatribe had been given in Welsh, and Justin sought to keep his expression bland, uncomprehending. He had not expected to reap benefits so soon from his professed ignorance of Welsh. He'd learned quite a lot in that angry outburst. That Davydd's dislike was not personal. That his pride was overblown and his temper easily inflamed. That he trusted Thomas, at least to some extent. And that his desire to retrieve the ransom was raw and real and desperate.

Thomas looked apologetically toward Justin. "My lord Davydd, I think you are too quick to dismiss Master de Quincy's capabilities. If Queen Eleanor has such faith in him, surely that says something about his — "

"It tells me only that the queen is in her dotage, entrusting a matter of such importance to a callow youngling like that!"

Justin wanted to hear the rest of Davydd's remarks, for he'd rarely have such an ideal opportunity to eavesdrop. But it was then that Lord Fitz Alan grasped his arm, pulling him aside. "We need it, talk," he demanded, "now!"

Justin knew Fitz Alan well enough not to argue and followed the older man out into the bailey. Squinting in the sudden blaze it white sunlight, Fitz Alan at once took the offensive. "What sort of ruse is this, Justin? What is this nonsense about your being the queen's man? And why are you now calling yourself de Quincy? Does Aubrey know about this?"

Justin sighed, feeling rather ill-used by the fates at that moment, "It is no ruse, my lord. I am the queen's man. It was her suggestion that I call myself de Quincy. And of course the bishop knows."

Fitz Alan continued to scowl, "None of this makes any sense! It is not even a year since I dismissed you from my service, and you end up at the royal court?"

"As unlikely as it sounds, my lord, that is exactly what happened. I cannot satisfy your curiosity, for the queen demands discretion from those who serve her. I do not expect you to take my word for all this, though." Reaching for the scrip at his belt, Justin drew out a tightly rolled parchment sheet. "This is a letter from the queen, attesting to my authority to act upon her behalf. I am sure you recognize her seal."

Fitz Alan's eyes locked upon that wax emblem. Snatching the letter, he began to read, occasionally throwing Justin an incredulous glance. Justin waited, thanking God for Eleanor's foresight, for realizing that he might have need of such a warrant. The letter was deliberately effusive in its praises; after handing it to him, Eleanor had commented dryly that she hoped it would not go to his head. He saw now that her embellishments had done the trick. Fitz Alan was staring at him, mouth agape.

"For the life of me, I cannot imagine how you accomplished this act of sorcery," the Marcher lord blurted out, shaking his head in disbelief, "But it is indeed clear that you do Queen Eleanor's bidding. And… and your use of the de Quincy name, that is somehow meant to advance your investigation?"

Justin wasn't surprised that Fitz Alan sounded so tentative, for that was a frail reed. But it was the best he could come up with under the circumstances. He nodded, with what he hoped was an enigmatic smile. "The queen is relying greatly upon the bishop's assistance in this matter." Adding, "As is the Earl of Chester," figuring that name-dropping couldn't hurt his cause any.

It seemed to have worked, at least for now. Fitz Alan was utterly confounded by the series of surprises that had been sprung upon him this afternoon and would need time to sort them all out. Justin did not doubt that Fitz Alan's suspicions would surface again and hoped that he could warn his father before they did. Fitz Alan's entire demeanor had changed dramatically. Justin was no longer a former squire of dubious origins. He was a trusted agent of the Crown and, possibly, the Church, and the Marcher lord treated him accordingly, sounding almost friendly as they retraced their steps toward the great hall.

They were just about there when Fitz Alan paused to acknowledge a woman walking in their direction. She was strikingly attractive, with the dark hair and eyes so common to the Welsh. Later, Justin would realize that her allure came more from her exuberance and vivacity than from physical charms. Now he was aware only of the impact she made upon his senses. Fitz Alan introduced her as one of Lady Emma's handmaidens, and Justin was quick to kiss her hand, more than willing to linger there in the sun and flirt with this bewitching young Welshwoman. Her name was Angharad, her French was quite good, and when she smiled, he was bedazzled, until he realized that she was gazing over his shoulder, that beguiling, seductive smile meant for Thomas de Caldecott.

Justin's father had not been wrong. Emma of Anjou, then in her forty-second year, was still a lovely woman. Justin could only guess at the color of her hair, for it was covered by a white silk wimple and veil, but her skin was so fair that he'd wager it was flaxen, a shade of summer sunlight. Her eyes were blue sapphires, her cheekbones high and delicately drawn, her chin pointed, her mouth accented by two deep dimples. Hers was an ethereal, gossamer beauty, hers the elegance of queens, the purity of the Holy Madonna. Most men did not look upon her with lust. They gazed into the depths of those bottomless blue eyes and discovered chivalric impulses they did not even know they had, protective instincts that they thought had died in childhood.

Justin had been given a seat far down the table, as befitted his lowly status, whereas Davydd had seated Thomas de Caldecott upon the dais with Lord Fitz Alan. Justin did not mind the slight, for his seat afforded him an unobstructed view of the high table, enabling him to study the Welsh prince and his consort without attracting attention. He'd been told that Davydd and Emma had two children, but neither one was present at Rhuddlan, having been sent to live in noble households, as was customary for the offspring of the highborn. He conceded that Davydd and Emma made a handsome couple, although he saw little evidence of intimacy between them. They seemed very much the lord and lady of the manor, courteous to all, accessible to none. Justin had joined much of Christendom in taking an immediate and intense dislike to Davydd, yet he'd so far formed no impressions of Emma. She'd greeted him far more politely than her husband, but her formality was an effective shield, keeping her thoughts private and the world at arm's length.

The meal was more elaborate than the evening suppers Justin was accustomed to, for the Welsh served dinner at day's end rather than at noon, as they did across the border. He had his first swallow of mead, the honey and malt drink so favored by the Welsh, but he decided it must be an acquired taste. Once dinner was done, Davydd's bard was called upon to sing for the guests. Justin decided that he would not be missed, and slipped away with Padrig, the young Welshman on loan from the Earl of Chester.

The bailey of Rhuddlan Castle was crowded with wooden buildings: the great hall, kitchen and kiln, stables and barn, privy chambers, kennels, a chapel, and quarters for those not bedding down in the great hall. Justin had stopped a groom and was instructing Padrig to find out where the lad Rhun was lodged when he heard his name echoing on the evening air. Following the sound, he saw Thomas waving from the steps that led up the mound to the keep. Justin waved back and waited for Thomas to finish his descent into the bailey, noticing then that he was not alone. A woman stood on the steps behind him.

With Angharad on his arm, Thomas reached the ground and sauntered toward Justin. "We saw you make your escape and were not going to be left behind. Why should we be trapped listening to dirges and laments for the glory days of Wales whilst you fly away, free as a bird?"

"You're more than welcome to come along. I had it in mind to pay a visit to Rhun's sickbed."

They both seemed quite agreeable to that and fell in step beside Justin and Padrig. Directed by Angharad, they headed for a small building near the gatehouse. As they walked, Thomas entertained them with an accurate if unkind mimicry of Shropshire's roving sheriff. He had Fitz Alan's mannerisms down pat and soon had Justin and Angharad laughing as he parodied the Marcher lords monopoly of much of the dinner conversation. He bragged that he could do a passable impression of the Welsh prince, too, but when he launched into it, Angharad feigned horror and slapped his wrist playfully, diverting the conversation onto safer ground.

Justin was amused by how deftly she managed it, not shaming Thomas while keeping him from uttering any mockery that might be carried back to Dayvdd's ears. It showed him that this young Welshwoman was as clever as she was comely, and that she'd obviously had some practice in reining in her lover's antics before they got out of hand. That they were lovers, Justin did not doubt; the intimacy he had not seen between Davydd and Emma shone in every glance passing between Thomas and Angharad, every lingering touch, every shared smile. Deciding he ought to help Angharad out, he distracted Thomas's attention from the Welsh prince by asking why Fitz Alan was at Rhuddlan, showing such interest in the robbery of the ransom.

"It surprised me to see him playing so active a part in the hunt for Llewelyn. He is a long way from Shropshire, after all."

"Aye, and when Will Gamberell and the Cheshire sheriff hear of it, they will be none too pleased," Thomas said, grinning. "Will's the city sheriff. As for the sheriff of the shire, he'll be sorely enraged, too, for not even a hungry dog with a bone is as loath to share as a sheriff."

"So why, then, did Fitz Alan ride all this way? What for?"

"What are you, man, blind? Did you not see the Lady Emma?"

"Thomas!" Angharad frowned, hastily looking around to make sure they'd not been overheard. "He is jesting," she assured Justin, "as always."

"I was not claiming that he is bedding her," Thomas protested. "The lady has better taste than that. No, I meant that he is a member of the brotherhood."

"I am probably going to regret asking," Justin said, "but which brotherhood?"

"I call them the Guild of Emma's Admirers. They esteem Lady Emma with the fervor men usually bestow on the Blessed Virgin Mary. Be warned, Justin, for it might happen to you, too. One day you're fine; the next you're sighing at the sound of her name and writing verses of bad poetry in her honor."

"Thanks, Thomas. I'll keep my guard up," Justin said lightly, wondering if his father had been a member of that brotherhood and wondering, too, if Thomas had always been so immune to the Emma's charms.

Rhun was convalescing in the one-room cottage of Davydd's gardener and his wife, the castle laundress. He lay on a straw-filled pallet, a slight, pitiful figure under a worn woolen blanket. Justin knew the boy was sixteen, but he looked even younger, his face chalky in the meager illumination of a smoking rushlight. His head was bandaged in a wide strip of linen, smeared with ointment and soiled from handling. Lank brown hair stuck up around the bandage in spiked tufts, a splinted arm protruded from the blanket, and his chest rose and fell in the rapid rhythm of a troubled sleeper. Justin found himself thinking that the doctor who'd pronounced Rhun "on the mend" must have been besotted on mead at the time, for Rhun did not look to him like one on the road to recovery. In fact, he bore an eerie resemblance to a corpse, laid out before being sewn into a burial shroud.

His caretakers hovered on either side of the pallet, ill at ease and watchful, almost as if they feared being blamed for their patient's poorly condition. Padrig stood by, unneeded, as Thomas and Angharad took turns interrogating the couple, and Justin listened to the ebb and flow of Welsh, reassured that the translations being offered for his benefit jibed so well with his own understanding of what was being said. In this alien land of so many strangers, so many suspects, it was good to know that he could place some trust in Thomas and his Welsh mistress. As much as he wanted to question Rhun, he was hesitant to awaken the youth, for sleep was Rhun's only refuge. He was still deciding when the young Welshman's lashes began to flicker.

Rhun's eyes were dilated and dazed, and Justin realized he'd been given a potion for his pain. He seemed surprised to find so many people clustered around his bed. "You came back…" he murmured drowsily, smiling at Thomas, who seemed embarrassed at being caught out in a good deed and mumbled that he'd looked in on the lad earlier, wanting to see for himself how he was faring. When Thomas asked him again if he could remember any thing about the ambush, his denial was clear, unambiguous, and convincing. No, he said softly, almost apologetically, he remembered nothing. And Justin saw that his one witness to the robbery was going to be of no help whatsoever.

The next morning, Justin and Thomas rode out to the scene of the ambush. Thomas had been there before, and so they did not need to put Davydd's grudging offer of help to the test by asking for a guide. The charred remains of the hay-wains had been dragged to the side of the road so travelers could pass by. Justin walked about in the ashes, finding a scrap from one of the wool- sacks, kicking at a scorched wheel axle. He looked in vain for ruts in the road, but was not surprised by his failure to find any, given the amount of time that had gone by since the robbery; rain and tramping feet had obliterated whatever clues there might have been. The site told him little about the crime, nothing at all about the whereabouts of the ransom.

"It is an odd place for an ambush," he said to Thomas. "I assume they must have been waiting in that copse of alder trees over there. But we passed several spots that would have offered better cover. I suppose they felt they had nothing to fear, that those poor wretches would be able to offer little resistance. That is another I do not understand. Why be so brutal, kill them all?"

"I daresay to keep us from finding out who was behind it."

Justin was not completely convinced by Thomas's logic. Why should Llewelyn ab Iorwerth care if Davydd knew of his theft? He was doing his damnedest to overthrow Davydd, after all. But Llewelyn might care if the Crown knew he was the culprit. Why bring down upon himself the vengeful fury of the English queen if it were not necessary? The problem was that he knew almost nothing of this shadowy adversary. Was Llewelyn more than a mere outlaw? His ambitions were grand enough, for certes, but what of his abilities? Was he shrewd enough to look that far ahead, to consider his future relations with the English king? Most of the brigands Justin had encountered were rash, reckless men who acted on impulse, not considering the consequences until the morrow. The fact that Llewelyn had burned the woolsacks argued for a cool, calculating brain, one capable of sacrificing short-term profit for long-term gain. And yet there was something about this robbery that did not ring true to him, something shocking about his wanton destruction of property and men. He could not pinpoint his unease, knew only that as he looked around at this desolate, barren crime scene, he was not satisfied with the story Davydd would have him believe.

"Such a waste," he said somberly, raking the tip of his boot through the ashes, cinders, and soot that had once been wool worth its weight in gold. Wasted lives, wasted riches, wasted opportunities. How could he tell the queen that the bulk of the ransom was beyond recovery? Even if he somehow managed to retake a portion of the stolen goods, would that be enough for Eleanor?

Thomas had come over to stand beside him in the road. "What now?" he asked, and Justin shrugged. He would that he knew.

Upon their return to Rhuddlan Castle, Justin paid another visit to young Rhun, but it was more a courtesy call than an interrogation. Even if the lad's memory did come back, did it truly matter except to Rhun? What could he know, after all?

Justin continued to use either Padrig or Thomas as his interpreter, and by day's end he'd questioned all of the men who'd been sent out to search once word reached Rhuddlan of the ambush. He learned that Dayvdd was not held in the highest regard by those who served him. He learned that the Welsh reputation for being recalcitrant and blunt-spoken was well earned. They viewed him with suspicion and scorn, doubly damned as both a foreigner and an Englishman. He did not learn anything that even remotely resembled a clue, any information that might help him to solve this frustrating crime or dispel his misgivings.

Dinner that evening was not a pleasant experience. Once again Justin was banished to the far end of the table, and once again he watched in brooding silence as Davydd and Lord Fitz Alan dominated the conversation and Lady Emma kept her eyes downcast and her opinions to herself. The talk was mainly of Llewelyn, and the prince and sheriff took turns damning him to the hotter reaches of Hell. Justin was surprised to discover that Llewelyn had been raised in Shropshire; his widowed mother had wed a Marcher lord when he was ten. What he learned next was even more surprising, that Llewelyn had begun his rebellion against Davydd at the tender age of fourteen. It was becoming quite clear to Justin that in his letter to the queen, Davydd had greatly underplayed the threat posed by Llewelyn. The truth was that the Welsh prince was scared half out of his wits by his nephew's rebellion.

Before retiring for the night, Justin went to the stables to check on stallion, for Copper was his most prized possession, his heart's pride. Seeing no reason to hurry back to the hall, he found a brush and was currying the chestnut's burnished reddish-gold coat when Angharad appeared. She was looking for Thomas, she said; not finding him, she stayed to chat, overturning a bucket for a seat and arranging her skirts as gracefully as if she were sitting on a throne.

"You seemed downcast at dinner, Iestyn," she said forthrightly, flavoring her French with an appealing Welsh lilt and making use of the Welsh form of Justin's name. "Will the queen punish you if you fail in your mission?" When he shook his head, she smiled brightly. "I am glad you will not be blamed, for I do not think this will come to a good end."

"Nor do I, Angharad."

"Mind you, I cannot complain for myself. This robbery brought Thomas back much more quickly than I dared hope." This time her smile was impish. "So you might want to consider me a suspect, for I was one of the few to benefit from the ransom's loss."

Justin smiled, too. "Few, indeed… you and whoever took it."

"You do not think it was Llewelyn?"

"I do not know," he admitted. "Most likely it was. My trouble is that I've never been able to accept the easiest, most obvious answer. I want it all to make sense, to fit the puzzle pieces together. And in this case, there are several pieces missing."

"And they are…?" she prompted.

He hesitated, but only for a moment. It often helped to muse aloud about the more baffling aspects of a case, and he saw no harm in testing speculations and suppositions upon an audience, especially an audience as attractive as Angharad. "Well… I am bothered by the burning of the wool. Something does not feel right about that. It seems to be such an extreme measure to take."

"I know," she said. "I thought so, too, As for Lord Davydd… when he was told about the wool, I thought he was like to have an apoplectic fit, he was so distraught. I think it was only then that he realized the queen will blame him as much as Llewelyn for the loss."

"As well she should," Justin said ungenerously. "If he had not sent the ransom off in two hay-wains with no guards to speak of, the robbery would not have been possible. I could not imagine a man making a decision so foolish until…"

He let the sentence trail off, deciding it would be indiscreet, but Angharad shared his opinion of the Welsh prince."..until you met Davydd," she said, and they grinned at each other.

"Actually," she confided, "he surprised me by how well he took the news at first. He has always been one for raving and ranting, cursing his lot and bewailing his ill fortune whenever he suffers a setback. But to give him his due, when they brought word of the robbery, he was quite calm and composed. It was only after he learned of Selwyn's death and the loss of the wool that he unraveled like a ball of yarn."

"I suppose it has been hard on the Lady Emma, putting up with his foul tempers."

"The Lady Emma," she said, "knows what a wife's duties are." Justin was not sure what to make of that cryptic remark. Deciding to keep on fishing, he said innocently, "Then Davydd is indeed a fortunate man, having a wife who is as biddable as she is beautiful. I should be so lucky."

Angharad took the bait. The look she gave him was a cool one. "It never ceases to amaze me," she said, "how easily you men are beguiled by a pretty face. There's not a one of you who wouldn't embrace mortal sin as long as it took a shapely female form."

Justin concealed a smile. "Especially if it took a shapely female form."

Angharad pretended to scowl. "I do believe you have been having fun at my expense, Master de Quincy."

"Yes, Mistress Angharad, I do believe so, too," Justin agreed. But when their eyes met, they both began to laugh.

"There is no need to be underhanded," she chided. "If you have questions about the Lady Emma, ask mc. How else can I know if I am willing to answer them or not?"

His first question was not one she was expecting. "You do not like her much, do you?"

"I do not like her at all."

"Why not, Angharad?"

"Well… I could tell you. But I do not think I will." Her dark were teasing. "I think it best that you find out for yourself why I love that lady not." Rising, she smoothed her skirts without haste. Justin waited until she'd almost reached the door.

"Tell me this, then. I have been watching Fitz Alan, and I think your Thomas is right; he is smitten with Emma. Do you think she has been encouraging his attentions?"

"My Thomas. I like that," she murmured. "As you knew I would. Tall, dark, handsome, and devious… a dangerous mix. I think I shall have to keep a close watch on you, Iestyn." She started to saunter off, then glanced back over her shoulder. "Of course Emma encourages his attentions. She needs male admiration the way I need air to breathe. But to answer the question you were really asking… No, she is not an unfaithful wife."

"Are you so sure of that?"

"Yes," she said, "I am."

"Why is it," Justin asked, "that I do not think that you're praising her virtue?"

Angharad tilted her head, regarding him with a delphic smile. "I have a riddle for you," she said. "When is virtue not a virtue? If you can answer that, you'll know why I do not like the Lady Emma."

Justin could catch the scent of her perfume even after she'd gone; like her presence, it lingered. He stood there for a time, not moving until Copper nudged his shoulder. "Sorry, boy, I have no apples." Turning, he stroked the stallion's velvety muzzle. "Are you wondering what I was doing? Was I flirting, gossiping, or investigating?" Copper snorted softly, nudging him again, and Justin laughed. "Damned if I know!" And yet he sensed, for reasons he could not have articulated, that the Lady Emma was one of those missing puzzle pieces.