Dragon's Lair

  "Me?" Davydd protested, swinging around to stare at his wife, "How could I possibly be involved?"

  "I can only promise you, my lord Davydd, that once I learn what happened to the ransom, you will be the first one to know." Justin saw that he had satisfied neither Davydd nor Emma, and as he looked about the great hall, he was acutely aware of his isolation, an unwanted alien in a land not his, not knowing enough to solve the mystery of the missing ransom, knowing just enough to put himself in peril.

  ~*~

  Justin had been stung by Sion's accusation that no one seemed to care about getting justice for the murdered men. There was too much truth in it for comfort when he thought of those involved in what Emma had called "this wretched business." His lady queen. The Earl of Chester. His father. 'William Fitz Alan. Thomas de Caldecott. Prince Davydd. Lady Emma. Llewelyn ab Iorwerth. And if he were to be honest, himself. For them all, the greatest concern, mayhap even the only concern, was the recovery of the ransom. Who amongst them had given much thought to Selwyn, Alun, Rhun, and Madog? And of the lot of them, his failure was the worst. A queen, an earl, a bishop, a baron, a knight, a prince, the sister of a king. Llewelyn was highborn, too, the grandson of one of the greatest Welsh princes. But what was his excuse?

  Justin had brooded upon this during the ride back to Rhuddlan and eventually an idea had come to him, an ember sifted from the ashes. "Clever and capable," Sion had called Rhun, and Justin no reason to doubt him. As the only surviving witness, Rhun could confirm Davydd's claim that Llewelyn was the culprit – or refute it. A quick-witted lad would realize the danger he was in. Was that memory loss of his genuine? Or a way to stay alive?

  Justin decided it was worth trying to question Rhun again. But he did not know if his Welsh would be up to the task. Padrig had gone back to Chester with Thomas de Caldecott. He could wait till Sion returned to Rhuddlan. If he did, though, whatever he might learn would be passed on to Llewelyn, and Justin was not sure how much he trusted this newfound ally of his. There was only one person at Rhuddlan Castle whom he had no reason to doubt, and he did not know if he ought to involve Angharad in this or not. Was it fair to ask her to keep secrets from her lover? More important, could he be putting her at risk?

  Deciding he could not chance it, he slipped away while the rest of Davydd's household was dining in the great hall. But when he entered Rhun's lodging, he found that fate had taken a hand. As he'd hoped, the gardener and his wife had gone to eat. Rhun was lying listlessly upon his straw pallet, sipping mead from a cracked tip, and Angharad was sitting beside him, changing his head bandage with quick, deft fingers. Looking over her shoulder, she smiled at the sight of Justin's surprised expression.

  "What... you thought I was merely the Lady Emma's hand maiden?" she teased. "I happen to be a woman of many talents. In my free time, I serve as Rhuddlan's angel of mercy."

  io8 *

  + 109

  Justin knew that women were often skilled in the healing arts for doctors were readily available only to the highborn and the wealthy. He did not suppose that Davydd's private physician gave high priority to treating a lad like Rhun, so Angharad's kindness was a godsend to the boy. That she should be here now was clearly God's Will, and Justin no longer resisted it.

  "Rhun, I need to talk to you," he said, speaking slowly and deliberately and in Welsh. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Angharad's head swivel toward him. "I can speak better Welsh than I've led people to believe. I am trusting you to keep my secret, and I promise to keep any secrets of yours. Upon the surety of my soul, I promise that."

  Rhun's eyes were as green as any cat's, and as difficult to read. "What secrets do I have?"

  Justin knelt by the boy's pallet. "I do not believe Llewelyn ab Iorwerth was the one who stole the ransom. I think you can prove that, and that puts you in danger, for Lord Davydd wants Llewelyn to be guilty."

  "Why would I be in danger? I cannot remember what happened."

  "That is your good fortune. But I do not know how long it will last. If there are men who do not want you to talk about the ambush, they may well worry that your memory could come back."

  He saw a flicker in Rhun's eyes, no more than that, but it was enough to confirm his suspicions. Angharad had seen it, too, for she leaned forward then and placed her hand upon Rhun's.

  "Is Iestyn right, Rhun? Can you remember more than you've let on? If so, he is right, too, about your danger. Whoever ambushed you has no scruples about killing. They've proved that in a very bloody way already."

  Rhun said nothing, his eyes downcast. Justin was close enough to see the Adam's apple move in the boy's throat as he swallowed. "With your help, Rhun, we can find out who did this and see that are punished. I will not lie to you. Yes, there is risk in speaking out. But there is greater risk in keeping silent."

  Rhun gnawed his lower lip. He was too young to grow a proper mustache, and those patchy, sparse whiskers gave him the vulnerable look of a child playing at being a grown-up. "Lady Angharad, you trust this Englishman?"

  She did not hesitate. "Yes, Rhun, I do." Seeing him look to the mead cup, she reached for it, held it to his mouth while he drank.

  When he spoke, there was a tremor in his voice, the husky hint of tears. But his gaze did not waver from Justin's. "I lied," he said, "because I was scared. I do remember. And if Lady Angharad thinks I ought to tell you, I will."

  ~*~

  The sun was hot on his face, and a vagrant breeze ruffled the hair on Rhun's forehead. It was that rare summer's day in Wales, warm and dry and altogether delightful. Rhun hated to waste it like this, jouncing around in the back of a swaying hay-wain. His physical discomfort he could have borne; he was used to it. But his unease of mind was different. No matter how often he tried to convince himself that there was nothing to fear, his disquiet lingered. He was acutely aware of the fact that he was sitting on a fortune, a nesting bird prey for any passing hawks.

  When he could endure the bone-bruising jolting no longer, Rhun slipped from the wagon, preferring sore feet to a sore bum. The horses were plodding along so slowly that he had no trouble keeping pace. "Can you pitch my wineskin to me, Uncle?" Alun eased up on the reins and obligingly reached for the wineskin. Rhun jogged over to catch it, pretending it was a pig's bladder camp-ball. Alun was not really his uncle, but the other man was so much older than Rhun that he used it as a courtesy. He found it hard to imagine living as long as Alun had, more than sixty winters. From the vantage point of Rhun's sixteen years, that was as old as God.

  There was no warning. As the hay-wains came around a curve in the road, the brigands were waiting for them. Even before he saw that the men were masked, Rhun's heart began to thump wildly in his chest. Selwyn was driving the first hay-wain, and he jerked on the reins as the outlaw leader ordered them to halt. Alun did the same. He looked more resigned than fearful and shot Rhun a reassuring glance. Rhun wished he could be so calm, too, but he did not have Alun's decades of experience to draw upon.

  The outlaw chief held the reins in one hand, a drawn sword in the other. The lower half of his face was covered by a knotted cloth, and a wide-brimmed hat shadowed his eyes. "Get down off the wagons," he commanded, and then glanced over his shoulder at his men, saying something in a language that was utterly foreign to Rhun. Selwyn and Madog did as they were told, and Alun had begun to climb stiffly down to the ground when the outlaw suddenly thrust his blade into Madog's chest. Looking surprised, Madog sank to his knees, then began to cough blood.

  After that, everything seemed to happen in slow motion to Rhun. Two of the outlaws cried out in that guttural tongue, sounding alarmed. Alun shouted, "Run, lad!" to Rhun, and then he, too, was struck down by the outlaw's bloodied sword. The leader snapped a command to his men, but only one responded, kicking his horse forward as Rhun spun around and sprinted for the woods. Rhun did not get far. The outlaw caught him in a few strides, and leaned precariously from the saddle to swing a club at boy's head. Rhun tried to duck, but he still took a glancing blow
that sent him sprawling.

  Rhun rolled down an incline, thudding into a tree. For several moments, he was stunned, digging his fingers into the earth to keep from spinning off into space. Blood was streaming down his face and a red haze danced before his eyes. When he tried to move, bile rose in his throat and he vomited weakly into the grass. Alter that, he lay still, praying to Almighty God that they'd think he was dead.

  He could hear more shouting in that unknown language, and then Selwyn's voice, sounding eerily calm. There was more talking that echoed in Rhun's ears like the buzzing of a beehive, incomprehensible and oddly muffled, as if coming from a great distance. Suddenly he heard Selwyn's voice again, clear and piercing and panicky. "What are you doing? Wait - no, wait!" There was a scream then, which ended in a sickening gurgle. Rhun shut his eyes tightly, trembling so violently that his teeth had begun to chatter.

  The outlaws were yelling again. Rhun could make out one word - Joder - repeated several times. Slitting his eyes, he risked a glance toward the hay-wains, and his heart seemed to stop when lie saw the outlaw chieftain looking in his direction. He said some thing to one of the men, pointing at the boy. Rhun's throat constricted, for he knew he was watching his death trudge toward him. The outlaw's mask had slipped down, revealing a reddish- blond beard, a face fair-skinned and youthful. He held a cudgel at his side, almost as if he were trying to hide it. Coming to a halt, he loomed over Rhun, and the boy looked up helplessly, pleading with his eyes. The other outlaw shouted, sounding angry, and he hesitated, then raised the club.

  Rhun gasped, flinching away from the weapon. He heard a whistling sound as it cut through the air, and then a thud, loud enough to rock his world. It took him a moment or so to realize that there had been no pain, that the club had struck the ground by his head. The outlaw dipped the club in the blood that had pooled at the base of the tree, then turned back to face the others, holding it aloft for them to see. The chieftain strode toward them, and Rhun held his breath, staring up blindly at the summer sky. But the man seemed satisfied, for he came no closer. Rhun bit his lip until he tasted blood in his mouth, not daring to move, barely daring to breathe. Soon after, he mercifully lost consciousness.

  ~*~

  It was quiet after Rhun was done. Angharad took Rhun's hand again, squeezed gently. Justin exhaled his breath, very slowly, having gotten more than he'd bargained for, "Do you think you'll soon be able to travel, Rhun?"" he asked at last.

  The boy hesitated. "I suppose so. Why?"

  "If I can find you work, would you be willing to leave Rhuddlan Castle?"

  Rhun's eyes widened. "Am I in as much danger as that?"

  "I do not know," Justin said honestly, "but I think we'll both sleep better if you're sleeping elsewhere," and after a moment, Rhun nodded.

  "Woe unto the mouse that has only one hole. I'd be much beholden to you, Master de Quincy, if you could find me another hole."

  "I will," Justin said. "I promise you that I will, Rhun… this language they spoke, you could understand none of it, not even an occasional word?

  "No, just that word I told you: Joder. I think it may have been a name."

  "What about their leader? He spoke Welsh, but was he Welsh?"

  Rhun thought about it. "No... his Welsh was very good. Much better than yours," he added, with a small smile. "But he was not Welsh. I am sure of that."

  "Is there anything else you can tell me about these men? Anything at all?"

  "No..." But Rhun did not sound certain, and after a pause, he said slowly, "It seemed to me that... that the foreigners were not that comfortable on horseback, not like the man in command. The one who ran me down... he ought to have splattered my brains out, but he swung his club too short. Does this help?"

  "Yes," Justin said, after a long pause. "I think it might."

  ~*~

  Dusk had fallen by the time Justin and Angharad began to walk across the bailey toward the keep. "So," she said, "are you keeping any more secrets from me, Iestyn?"

  "One or two," he allowed. "I want to thank you for your help, Angharad. Not just for translating when I had need of it, but for persuading Rhun to talk to me."

  "Do not make me regret it," she said softly. "Are you not going to ask for my silence?"

  "Do I need to?"

  "No. The only way I can protect Rhun is by keeping quiet. But you need to do more for him. Can you, Iestyn? Can you keep Rhun safe?"

  "Yes," he said, "I think so." Who could better protect Rhun than the man who had the most to gain from Rhun's story?

  "And can you stop Davydd from blaming Llewelyn ab Iorwerth for this crime?"

  "That I do not know," he admitted. "There are answers I still need. But because of Rhun, at least I know now where to search for them."

  "And where is that?"

  "Chester," he said, with more confidence than he actually felt. "I think I'll find my answers in Chester."

  Chapter 8

  August 1193

  Chester, England

  ON THE FOLLOWING MORNING, JUSTIN RODE AWAY FROM Rhuddlan Castle, and two days later, he was within sight of the walls of Chester. It had been an uneventful trip and a safe one, for William Fitz Alan had decided to depart with him, and he had a sizable escort. While Justin was glad that he need not worry about outlaws, he was soon weary of fending off the Shropshire sheriff's heavy-handed queries, and his spirits rose as the estuary's blue waters darkened with the mud, silt, and mire of the River Dee.

  Entering the city from the south, they continued up Bridge Street until they reached the cross, where their paths diverged, to Justin's relief. Fitz Alan and his men headed on toward the abbey precincts of St Werburgh, and Justin turned off to find a cook shop. After eating, he rode back out of the city, because the Bishop of Chester's palace was located just beyond the town walls. He'd originally intended to seek out the Earl of Chester first, but with Fitz Alan on the loose in the city, he owed his father some advance warning.

  ~*~

  Justin had been half-hoping that his father would be away; much of a bishop's time was taken up with official visitations to the monasteries within his diocese. Not only would that have avoided a meeting with Fitz Alan, it would have postponed his own reckoning with the bishop. Luck was not with him, however. As soon as he was announced, Aubrey came hastening into the great hall to greet him.

  "Justin, you are well?"

  Justin blinked in surprise. "Yes, I am fine. Why would I not be?" Aubrey's brows drew together in a familiar frown. "Why, indeed? Mayhap because the Earl of Chester told me that you'd vanished without a trace. He said the knight he'd sent with you returned yesterday, claiming that you'd gone missing like the ransom."

  "I was trying to find out what really happened to the ransom. What did you think, that I was off carousing or drinking myself sodden in some Welsh alehouse? They do not have alehouses in Wales," Justin said sharply and Aubrey's scowl deepened.

  "No, you young fool, I thought you might be lying dead in a ditch with a Welsh lance in your chest!"

  Justin opened his mouth to retort, then stopped, not knowing what to say, and the bishop remembered that their quarrel was taking place in a public setting, his own great hall. "Come with me," he said and strode off without waiting to see if Justin was following or not.

  He led Justin upstairs to the greater privacy of his solar, neither one speaking until they could close the door upon the rest of In world. Gesturing for Justin to sit, Aubrey began to pace. Justin sat down on a bench, taking longer than necessary to readjust his scabbard. He still did not know what to say, and as the silence lengthened, he wondered if Aubrey did not, either.

  "You said you were trying to find out what really happened to the ransom." The bishop halted his pacing and turned abruptly toward Justin, as if finally realizing the import of those words. "The earl led me to believe that you already know what happened, that it was stolen by Davydd's nephew, Llewelyn ab Iorwerth."

  "So everyone wants to believe. The only problem is that it i
s not true."

  "No?" Aubrey sounded surprised, but not skeptical, and Justin realized that his father had no cock in this fight, no preconceived notions about Llewelyn's guilt or innocence. "You seem very sure of that, Justin. What do you know that the earl does not?"

  "Quite a lot, actually," Justin admitted, making up his mind then and there to confide in his father, at least as much as he was able.. If his idea was a daft one, Aubrey would tell him so. That he did not doubt. "I must ask you to keep whatever I say in confidence. Is that acceptable to you?"

  Aubrey was beginning to look curious, even intrigued. "Of course." Settling himself in his high-backed chair, he said, "What makes you think that Llewelyn is not guilty?"

  "Because I've learned who the robbers were and they were not Welsh. Nor were they English or Norman-French. I was told that they spoke a foreign tongue. I know it was not Irish or Breton, for they are somewhat akin to Welsh. One of the men may have I been named 'Joder,' and that sounds to me like it might be German or Flemish.

  Aubrey nodded thoughtfully. "I agree. I suppose you'd rather I not ask how you came into this bit of interesting information. Are you sure that you can trust your source?"

  "Yes."

  Aubrey smiled faintly. "If words were coins, you'd be the despair of beggars everywhere. Assuming, then, that your source is correct, what next? How would you even begin to hunt for these men?"

  "Well, I have a little more to go on. I was told that these outlaws did not seem to be experienced horsemen," Justin said and saw by his father's expression that Aubrey was not following his line of reasoning. Hoping he was not about to make an utter fool of himself, he continued cautiously, "I thought about that, and it occurred to me that men who are not used to riding horses and who speak a foreign tongue might well be sailors."

  "'Sailors,'" Aubrey echoed, sounding startled. After a moment, he smiled. "That is very clever of you, Justin. I doubt that I would have thought of it. So... that is why you are here. Chester is the closest port to the Welsh border."