Dragon's Lair

Chapter 5

August 1193

Rhuddlan Castle, Wales

The lance came hurtling from the garden, thudding into the earth at Justin's feet. He recoiled so fast that he almost lost his balance. The lance was still quivering when several alarmed faces peered over the hedge, one of them belonging to Thomas de Caldecott.

"Justin, I am sorry! It was not my intent to skewer you, I swear. Tathan was showing me how to throw a lance and I overshot. Come on in so I can properly apologize."

Thomas was so insistent that Justin walked over. He at once regretted it, for the garden was filled with people, none of whom looked pleased to see him, with the exception of Thomas and Angharad. The Lady Emma was seated on a turf bench, attended by all three of her handmaidens, an older man Justin knew only as Oliver, several servants, and William Fitz Alan, who greeted Justin with a distinct lack of enthusiasm. Ignoring the tension, Thomas introduced Justin to Tathan, his obliging Welsh tutor, and explained that the Welsh in North Wales were known for their skill with the lance. "I've used it on horseback in tournaments, of course, but I've never thrown one… not until I nearly impaled you!"

"Your aim gets better with an ale or two… or six," Justin said, thinking of the drunken knife-throwing contest Thomas had gotten into during their evening at that Chester alehouse, and the knight gave a shout of laughter, thumping Justin playfully on the back. Feeling like an uninvited, unwelcome guest, Justin crossed the mead and wished the Lady Emma good morrow.

A trestle table had been set up on the grassy mead and draped in a white linen cloth; it held wine flagons, cups, and a platter of apples and wafers drizzled with honey. Several books were neatly stacked on the table, too, evidence that they had been having a reading. Justin knew these pastimes were popular with women of rank. Usually a chaplain would read aloud for the benefit of his audience, not all of whom would be literate. Since Emma's chaplain was nowhere in sight and she had a book open on her lap, Justin assumed that she'd been doing the honors. He was not surprised to learn that she could read. Her half-brother King Henry had been given a first-rate education and had harbored a scholar's love of books until the day he died; it was to be expected that he'd have seen to it that his little sister would be well-schooled.

Thomas made a show of introducing Justin to Emma's attendants; Justin was beginning to wonder if he did anything without a fanfare. Angharad was the only Welshwoman among them; under her mistress's eye, she pretended to be meeting Justin for the first time and then gave him a quick wink. The other two handmaidens, both from Emma's native Anjou, greeted Justin politely, but without any real interest.

Glancing up at the cloud-splattered sky, Emma closed her book and got to her feet. "We'd best be in; I'd rather not race the rain back to the keep." She had a very young-sounding voice, soft and breathy like a little girl's. She'd spoken in French, as always. Justin had assumed that she'd have learned some Welsh during nigh on twenty years as Davydd's wife, but so far, he'd seen no indication of it. The servants at once began to collect the utensils, food, and tablecloth. Emma's ladies gathered up a bouquet of freshly picked flowers, hastened over to stop Emma's little lapdog from digging in a raised bed of daisies, and brought the errant pet back to its mistress. Justin found it interesting that Emma could command obedience faster with a smile than her volatile husband could do with a shout.

William Fitz Alan was hovering protectively by Emma's side, clearly intending to fend off any dangers she might face on the walk from the garden up to her chambers in the keep. But a cry from the gatehouse drew him reluctantly away from escort duty. A scout was coming in, and he and Thomas and Tathan made their apologies and hurried off. Justin was about to follow when Emma stopped him in his tracks with an unexpected request. Would he be so kind, she asked, to carry her birdcage back indoors?

Justin had not even noticed a wicker cage on a nearby turf seat. Since Emma had servants to do the heavy lifting and toting, he could not help wondering if this was a subtle insult, a reminder of lowly rank in a prince's court. He had no choice but to obey, casting a curious look over his shoulder toward the gatehouse as he picked up the birdcage. There was a cluster of men around a lone rider, gesturing and talking loudly, but still too far away to be heard.

Justin soon decided he'd misjudged the Lady Emma, for she fell in step beside him as they crossed the bailey; so whatever she had in mind, it was not humiliation. She was carrying her lapdog, which looked to Justin like a feather duster with feet, but he knew such small creatures were de rigueur for ladies of rank. They walked in silence for some moments. Justin was amusing himself by imagining Nell's reaction to the Lady Emma's pampered pet when Emma brought him up short with the one thing he'd never have expected from her — an apology.

"I am sorry, Master de Quincy, that my lord husband has been so short-tempered with you. His nerves are not usually so raw. But this missing ransom is causing him great distress."

"That… that is kind of you, my lady," Justin stammered, caught utterly off balance. "But you owe me no apology. I understand quite well why Lord Davydd has been so… out of sorts." Because Davydd was a flaming arsehole. For a mad moment, those words hovered on Justin's tongue. He would never have said them aloud, of course, but for a heartbeat he allowed himself the pleasure of flirting with sedition.

"I am glad that you are so wise," Emma murmured, for the first time turning upon him the full power of those glowing blue eyes, and Justin coughed to camouflage an involuntary laugh. He'd been so stunned by her apology because eight months at the royal court had taught him that the highborn did not apologize, not ever, certainly not to the likes of him. And Emma had struck him as a woman very much aware of her prerogatives, privileges, and position. So her apology must conceal an ulterior motive. And now that she was casting sidelong glances through her lashes and complimenting him upon his "wisdom," he saw what it was.

She wanted something from him, wanted something badly enough to resort to her ultimate weapon — coquetry. Justin had been watching women charm men to get their way for much of his life, and he gave Emma high marks for her effort. She was not overtly flirtatious, but she still managed to create a sense of intimacy between them; he could understand how men like Fitz Alan were won over by a smile that promised nothing but hinted at much.

Emma's dog had begun to squirm, and in attempting to calm it, she dropped the book she'd tucked under her arm. Setting down the birdcage, Justin retrieved the volume for her, resisting the urge to do so with one of Thomas's flourishes. Emma thanked him with the gratitude usually reserved for life-saving heroics. The book flipped open as he handed it to her, and seeing his gaze drop to those fluttering pages, she said:

"These are lays written by my sister, Marie, very skillfully done, and very popular at the court. She prefers that her identity not be bruited about, though, for when not ministering to her muse, she serves the Almighty as abbess of St Mary and St Edward's Abbey in Shaftsbury. You may borrow the book if you like."

"Thank you, my lady. That is most kind of you." Justin wondered how many more times he'd call her "kind" before they reached the keep. He wondered, too, why she should have shared this family secret with him, a disclosure that her sister the abbess would not have appreciated. After a moment to reflect, though, he realized why, and commended her cleverness. What better way, after all, to establish a rapport than to reveal something confidential? The Lady Emma had a deft touch, he thought admiringly, flattering him with this display of trust at the same time that she reminded him of her patrician pedigree, which of course made her cordiality all the more flattering.

"How is your investigation progressing, Master de Quincy?"

So that was it. "Slowly, my lady."

"It grieves me to see my husband so heartsick. Is there no hope, then, for a quick resolution of this unfortunate matter?"

Justin met her gaze levelly. "No, my lady, I fear not."

"Do you think the ransom might not be recovered?"

He saw no reason not to be honest with her. "I regret to say, my lady, that may well be the outcome."

"May I ask you something in confidence, Master de Quincy?" Her eyes held his, just long enough. "Will you tell me the truth? If my husband fails to retrieve the ransom, will the queen be very wroth with him?"

"Yes, my lady," he said quietly, "she will." He waited, then, for her to argue for Llewelyn ab Iorwerth's guilt, as Davydd and Fitz Alan had been doing at every opportunity. She surprised him, though.

"I see," she murmured, and then, "That is as I feared." Her lashes veiled her eyes, and they walked the rest of the way with out talking. Upon reaching the keep, she roused herself to thank him again, although with none of her earlier appreciation. Justin gave the standard reply, that it was his honor, and set the birdcage upon a table for her. The bird inside was small and drab, unfamiliar, not at all like the usual tame magpies or popinjays. Seeing his curiosity, Emma smiled.

"I brought him out for some fresh air, a glimpse of the world denied him. No bird in Christendom has a sweeter song than the nightingale. It sings at night, not during the day; is that not odd?" Still smiling, she looked from the caged bird to Justin. "There are no nightingales in Wales," she said. "Did you know that?"

~*~

Justin was starting down the steps into the bailey when he heard his name. Angharad was hurrying to catch up. "Lady Emma thinks she left her dog's ball in the garden, so I generously offered to search for it," she said, with a grin. "I have a strong suspicion that I will find it in the herb bed, under the Saint-John's-wort."

Justin grinned back. "But you will not be able to find it right away."

"No… probably not. Is it not pitiful, Iestyn, that I must resort to such trickery to steal a few moments with Thomas?" She did not sound put-upon, though, but quite pleased with herself. "So… you got to see my lady in action this afternoon. You must be made of sterner stuff than most of your brethren. I've seen men melt like candle wax when she flutters her lashes."

Justin couldn't help laughing. "Well, I'm a little singed around the edges, no more than that. She wanted to ask me about the investigation and I confess that I could find no sinister intent in that."

"Sinister, no. Surprising, yes, for she rarely bothers with Davydd's doings. And did she try to convince you that Llewelyn ab Iorwerth is the Antichrist as Davydd claims?"

"No," Justin said, "she did not. I understand why Davydd would like to blame Llewelyn for this robbery, whether he is guilty or not. What better way to rid himself of a troublesome rival? But I did not expect him to demand that the Crown provide men-at-arms. I'd think that most Welsh princes would do all in their power to keep English soldiers out of Wales, not invite them in."

"There is no mystery to that. Davydd is losing this war with his nephew. He can send out patrols to hunt Llewelyn's men, but he'd have difficulty mustering up an army for a long campaign and that is what it would take. He ought to have quashed Llewelyn a few years back, when he was more of an irritant than a threat. Now… now it may be too late, for Llewelyn has been winning more than skirmishes. He has been winning the support of the people. Not that popular support counts for much on a battlefield. But it means that Llewelyn has eyes and ears everywhere, that he need not fear betrayal, that his men believe they will win."

Justin thought that was an astute appraisal of the military situation and assumed that she was giving voice to Thomas's opinions. But when he imagined his queen's caustic response to that, he smiled ruefully and offered up a mental apology to Eleanor and Angharad both. By then they'd reached the bailey and headed for the great hail by mutual consent.

Almost at once they ran into Thomas, who slid a proprietary arm around Angharad's waist and led Justin aside to tell him that Davydd was in a tearing rage for his men had gotten the worst of it in a skirmish with Llewelyn's men near Llanelwy. This setback was all the more disturbing to Davydd because the cathedral church of Llanelwy was only a few miles south of Rhuddlan, alarming evidence that Llewelyn was growing ever bolder.

"Where is de Caldecott?" Davydd raised his voice, and Thomas could no longer pretend he hadn't heard. With a resigned grimace, he moved toward the Welsh prince.

"I am here, my lord. How may I serve you?"

"I want you to leave for Chester straightaway, tell the earl that I need assistance in bringing this rebel hellspawn to a reckoning. I'll leave it to him to determine how many men to send, but tell him that the more he can spare, the faster we can recover the ransom for the English queen."

Thomas was silent for a moment. "I am sorry, my lord Davydd. The queen's letter to my lord earl made it clear that this is a Crown investigation. She did request the earl to provide men-at-arms if need be… if Master de Quincy asks for them. You're talking to the wrong man."

Davydd stared at him in disbelief, and then his rage erupted. "That is lunacy! You're telling me that the fate of Wales lies in the hands of a meager whelp like him?" He thrust an arm in Justin's direction as Justin struggled to maintain the pretense that he spoke no Welsh.

Thomas was not intimidated, "My lord prince, what would you have me say? I serve the Earl of Chester and the earl serves Her Grace', the queen."

Davydd's fury and frustration spilled over then in a torrent of invective, teaching Justin some new and choice Welsh curses. As Davydd stalked toward him, the other men moved aside, leaving Justin exposed to the Welsh prince's wrath. "Do you understand what happened this day?" Davydd demanded, dredging up his French as if the very words tasted foul on his tongue. "I lost some men this morn because of Llewelyn. But the next time blood is shed in my domains, it will be Llewelyn's own, that I vow upon the sanctity of my soul. Go back to Chester and tell the earl that I need as many men as he can spare."

"I am sorry for the deaths of your men, my lord." Justin paused to draw a deep breath, bracing himself for the storm about to break over his head, "But I cannot oblige you in this matter. The Queen's Grace was very clear in her intent. My one and only mission is to recover the ransom, not to assist you in suppressing a rebellion."

"You dare to refuse me?" Davydd sounded incredulous. "I am seeking to recover the ransom, you fool! Since Llewelyn was the one who stole it, it makes sense that when we find him, we find the ransom." He was speaking now through gritted teeth, spacing the words out slowly and deliberately so that even a dolt like Justin could comprehend. "As long as this renegade is free to raid and plunder my lands, we have not a hope in Hell of retrieving the ransom."

"I am not convinced of that, my lord. I've yet to be shown any hard evidence that Llewelyn ab Iorwerth is to blame for the robbery. I know you are convinced that he is guilty. As are you, my lord," he said politely, glancing toward the glowering William Fitz Alan, "And I am not arguing for the man's innocence, I am saying simply that his guilt has not been proven, not yet, not to me. And until it is, I am not willing to ask the Earl of Chester for military aid."

"For the love of Christ!" Fitz Alan could hold his tongue no longer. "If Llewelyn was not the one who sprang that ambush, who did?"

"I cannot answer that, my lord, for the same reason that I cannot agree to Lord Davydd's demand. My investigation is not done, and until it is, I am not willing to pass any judgments."

Davydd's face was seared with heat. "I cannot believe that I am forced to argue what is obvious to all but the deranged, to all but you, de Quincy! You want proof? Will a dying declaration satisfy your delicate scruples? One of the men still lived when my scouts came upon the burning wagons. With his dying breath, Selwyn accused Llewelyn of ambushing them,"

Justin did not believe him, not for a moment. This "dying declaration" was much too convenient, as suspect as any confession coerced in the depths of a castle dungeon. "Why did you not tell me this before, my lord?" he said, striving not to sound as skeptical as he felt.

"I am telling you now," Davydd snapped. "Do you want to question the man who heard Selwyn's deathbed denunciation?"

Davydd flung down the challenge as if it were a gauntlet and was infuriated when Justin picked it up. "As a matter of fact, I would, my lord."

Davydd started to speak, coughed, cleared his throat, and then spat into the floor rushes, looking as if he wished he'd aimed at Justin's face, "I will see to it, then," he said, managing to make more like a threat than a promise.

By day's end, Justin had begun to feel like a leper. Word had gone out about his confrontation with the Welsh prince, and people were shunning him as if he might infect them with Davydd's ill will. Even Thomas and Angharad were keeping a discreet distance and despite his best efforts, their retreat hurt. Wherever he went, Justin found himself the cynosure of all eyes, attracting either scowls or pitying side-glances. When he'd had enough, he took himself off to the only place in the castle that offered even a modicum of privacy.

Caring for his stallion gave him some peace of mind, but all too soon there was nothing more to be done. The stables were empty, the grooms over in the great hall having their dinner. Justin had no appetite, although he wondered if he was truly not hungry or just reluctant to face a hall filled with disapproval and hostility. Sitting down in the straw, he leaned back against the wall, watching moodily as Copper munched a mouthful of hay.

His anger had burned long enough to lose its heat, but it still simmered in his bone, muscle, and marrow, smoldering in the back of his brain. He'd doomed himself to failure, for he'd turned Davyyd's distrust into outright enmity. Why had he been so rash? Yet what else could he have done? He would be damned ere he'd ask Chester to send Englishmen to fight Davydd's war for him. By now he'd not have believed Davydd if he said the sun rose in the east and sank in the west, and the Welsh prince's witness was not worth a shovelful of horse dung. But where did he go from here?

"Master de Quincy."

Justin had not heard the footsteps muffled in the straw, and he started, getting hastily to his feet. Instinctively his hand dropped to the hilt of his sword; his dealings with John and Durand had taught him to be wary even when there seemed no reason for wariness. The man standing there looked benign enough: not yet old but no longer young, with a scholar's slump to his shoulders and a hesitant smile. He looked vaguely familiar, too, and after a moment, Justin placed him: Davydd's scribe.

"May I speak with you?" When Justin nodded, the man advanced into the wavering pool of light spilling from a lone rush-light. "My name is Sion ap Brochfael. I am Lord Davydd's clerk."

"I know."

Sion came closer, his eyes probing the shadows. "We are alone?

"Just you and me and the horses." Justin smiled, without much humor. "So you do not want to be seen with me, either?"

"No, I would rather not." Sion's nervousness was obvious; he kept shifting from foot to foot, clenching and unclenching his fists. "I might as well just say this straight out. I was in the hall this afternoon when you and Lord Davydd had your disagreement. Is what you said there true, that you are not yet convinced of Llewelyn ab Iorwerth's guilt?"

Justin was tempted to respond with sarcasm, to say that No, he'd made a mortal enemy of the Welsh prince just for the fun of it. But he said only, "Yes, it was true. Why?"

"I do not think Llewelyn did it, either. And I know a man who might be able to help you prove who did."

"Go on," Justin said. "Tell me more."

"It may amount to nothing. But Davydd dismissed one of his men soon after the robbery. The man — Guto — was sorely vexed and got roaring drunk. I happened upon him, pounding on the door of the buttery, vowing that he would have some of Davydd's best wine. Since I knew Davydd would punish him harshly for such a theft, I coaxed him away with the offer of more mead. As I said, he was in his cups and rambling, as besotted men are prone to do. Much of what he said was nonsense. He cursed Davydd roundly and swore he'd be sorry, and eventually became mawkish and maudlin, overcome with pity for himself: But one of his threats stayed with me. He said that Davydd would regret letting him go, that he knew Davydd's secret, he knew the truth about what really happened in that ambush. When I asked him what he meant, he became sly and furtive, and he'd say only that I ought to 'ask Selwyn.' Since Selwyn had been slain during the robbery, I did not know what to make of that. But later I remembered that Guto and Selwyn had been friendly, and I… well, I wondered."

So did Justin. Selwyn's name was being bandied about very freely this day. First Davydd and his tale of Selwyn's dying accusation. And now Sion with his story of vengeful drunks and Secrets. Sion might be right, and it might well come to naught. But what other leads did he have to follow?

"Can you tell me where to find this Guto?"

"I regret not. But I can take you to someone who is likely to know. Guto's cousin Pedran is a lay brother at Aberconwy, the Cistercian abbey to the west of here. It is not that far; we could easily make it in half a day."

Justin's eyes narrowed. Was he being set up? Sion seemed al most too helpful. But try as he might, he could not see what Sion hoped to gain by luring him into a trap. He was no tempting target for robbery. All he owned of value was Copper, and there were easier ways to steal a horse. Nor was it easy to envision Sion — this earnest, greying, mild-mannered clerk — allied with an outlaw band. For certes, the man himself posed no threat; he wielded a pen, not a sword.

"You would accompany me, then?"

Sion nodded, oblivious to the sudden edge that suspicion had given to Justin's voice. "We would have to slip away separately, let none see us together. There is a ford just south of the castle; we could meet on the other side of the river."

"And why would you want to do that?"

The other man looked surprised. "How else could we do it? I must come with you, for you do not know the way to Aberconwy, and you'll need me to translate for you once we're there. Neither Guto nor Pedran speak your foreign tongue."

"No… I meant why would you be willing to take such a risk? We both know what Davydd would likely do to you if he found out. Why endanger yourself… for what?"

Sion smiled thinly. "You've had a chance to observe my lord Davydd. Think you that he is a joy to serve? Nothing would give me greater pleasure than to be free of his demands and petty cruelties. This ransom matters greatly to your queen. So it seems to me that she would amply reward anyone who helped you recover it… would she not?"

"Yes," Justin conceded, "I daresay she would."

"So what say you, Master de Quincy? Shall we ride out on the morrow to find Guto?" When Justin did not respond at once, Sion looked searchingly into his face. "You still have misgivings? This will not work without mutual trust. You must trust me to take you safely to the abbey and I in turn must trust you to keep your word and make sure that I am rewarded for my help. Think about it if you wish, and let me know once you've made up your mind. I must insist upon one thing, though — that we go alone. I am willing to trust you. That does not hold true for Thomas de Caldecott."

That presented no problems for Justin, for he had no intention of involving Thomas, not wanting to put the other man at risk. Nor did he think Thomas would be keen to join this wild-goose chase. The knight seemed quite sure that Llewelyn ab Iorwerth was the culprit they sought.

"Very well," he said. "What do I have to lose?"