Dragon's Lair

  Llewelyn's sarcasm had brought that memory back, and much to his own surprise, Justin found himself telling the Welshman about the queen's sardonic comment. He could not say what prompted him to do so, for he took very seriously his responsibilities as the queen's man, and not the least of them was utter discretion. But Llewelyn did not seem startled by Eleanor's acerbic opinion of the archbishop. "We have a saying in Welsh," he said with a grin, "Po agosaf i' r eglwys, pellaf o baradwys. Nearest to church, furthest from God."

  Justin sensed that here was another who did not venerate St Thomas and stifled an urge to defend the martyred archbishop. Instead, he indulged his curiosity and asked Llewelyn if it were true that he'd begun his rebellion against Davydd at the green age of fourteen.

  "That is not as remarkable as it sounds. In Wales, a youth reaches his legal majority at fourteen rather than England's twenty-one." Justin caught the glint of laughter in the Welshman's eyes even before Llewelyn added blandly, "We must mature faster than you English do."

  "I am sure the Welsh have manifold virtues," Justin said amiably. "It is very mature, for certes, to choose a rendezvous that is right under Davydd's nose."

  "I was looking out for your best interests." Llewelyn tried and almost succeeded in sounding reproachful. "It is well known that the English get lost with alarming ease, mayhap because they are so often venturing into lands not theirs." He did not wait for Justin's retort, glancing around the silent churchyard as if to acknowledge this was neither the ideal place nor the time for verbal jousting. "Why did you ask to meet me, Iestyn?"

  "Whilst I was in Chester, I was able to unearth enough evidence to connect Thomas de Caldecott to the robbery and killings. Regrettably he got himself murdered ere I could confirm the identity of his ally."

  "Very unsporting of him," Llewelyn agreed. "You never did answer my question: who you think killed him. I'd naturally suspect my uncle Davydd, but even he would not have made such a bloody botch of it. What about this ally? Who do you suspect? The Lady Emma?"

  Justin could not conceal his surprise. "What... you have second sight?"

  "So I was right?" Llewelyn sounded surprised, too, "I suppose twenty years of marriage to Davydd could drive any woman to lunacy. But what sort of proof do you have?"

  "Enough to fit into a thimble with space to spare," Justin admitted and explained why he harbored suspicions of Emma, concluding with his futile hunt in Chester for Oliver and Molly's "phantom." Llewelyn listened without interruption, his expression intent. Justin was coming to respect the Welshman's intellect, and he was gratified that Llewelyn seemed to take his conjecturing seriously.

  "I see what you mean about the thimble," Llewelyn said, after a reflective silence. "But if there is not enough to convict the lady, there is enough to justify further investigation. Why are you telling me all this, though? Mind you, I appreciate your generosity. I am just curious about what prompted it."

  "My queen's interest is in recovering the ransom. There'll come a time when she seeks to punish the offenders, but not yet. If I cannot find proof of Davydd's treachery, or if evil befalls me here in Wales, it will be up to you to disprove Davydd's accusations. I want to make sure that you have the weapons you'll need to do it. And remember.,. if I die and you let Davydd win, I'll be haunting you until you take your last breath,"

  The curve of Llewelyn's mouth hinted at a suppressed smile. "I could become right fond of you, English," he said, "at least until the ransom is found!"

  ~*~

  Justin had never seen Rhun look so cheerful. He'd lost that invalid's pallor, the spring was back in his step, and his smile was not far from the surface. He was feeling well enough to earn his keep and was working in the stables now. He'd always had a way with horses, he confided, but he'd never been given the opportunity at Rhuddlan. Justin had come to talk to the boy about returning to Davydd's service. He was beginning to suspect, though, that Rhun had other ideas.

  "If you want to come back to Rhuddlan," he said, "we think it can be done. I must stay out of it, for Davydd would deny you just to spite me. I have talked to the Lady Angharad, and she is willing to approach the Lady Emma on your behalf."

  Rhun was already shaking his head. "I thank you for your kindness, but I have no wish to serve Lord Davydd again. Master Sion's brother has said he thinks I have the makings of a good groom. And..." He paused, lowering his voice conspiratorially although none were within earshot. "I do not think Lord Davydd will rule Gwynedd much longer. God willing, Lord Llewelyn will prevail and the Welsh will rejoice."

  Justin agreed with him that Davydd was living on borrowed time and probably knew it, which accounted for his fear-driven rages. His treachery Justin was inclined to attribute to Davydd's deceitful nature, remembering that Davydd had originally obtained power by ambushing his brother Hywel. The Welsh, he decided, could give Cain and Abel lessons in fraternal rivalry. But then, so could King Richard and his jealousy-ridden brother John.

  "Master de Quincy..." Some of Rhun's newfound confidence was ebbing away. "I have not returned to the ambush site. I did not want to see where the others died. A few days past, one of the grooms asked me where it had happened, and I told him as best I could, He came back later and was sorely vexed with me, saying I'd misspoke, that the ambush had taken place several miles down the road. He talked about the burned hay-wains being near a copse of alder trees, but that is not how I remember it. In my mind's eye, I see a bend in the road and them waiting for us as we made the turn. Now my memory could be faulty, I suppose…"

  "I suppose it could," Justin agreed. But he did not believe that, and neither did Rhun.

  ~*~

  Justin returned to Rhuddlan, planning to set out at first light to search for the hidden wool. He understood now why all previous searches had been in vain. Davydd's men had scoured the area where the burned wagons had been found, as had Llewelyn's men and Justin himself. But the ambush had actually occurred miles down the road, where the wool was likely concealed, and the bodies of the men were then loaded into the empty wagons and driven to the spot where they were burned. He was guessing that Rhun had told him first out of a sense of gratitude. The lad had other loyalties, though. Could he find the wool ere Rhun confided in Sion's brother and word was passed on to Llewelyn ab Iorwerth?

  His plans were disrupted, though, almost as soon as he'd ridden into the castle bailey. He was leading his stallion into the stables when Sion slipped in after him with news that changed everything. The Lady Emma was intending to visit the holy well of St Gwenfrewi at Treffynnon, Sion reported, a journey that struck him as suspicious for several reasons. Gwenfrewi, the patron saint of virgins, was much revered by the faithful and the healing power of her holy well was so renowned that King Richard himself had made a pilgrimage there before setting out on his ill-fated crusade. It was close by Basingwerk and Justin had found time on each of his abbey stays to pay his respects to the little Welsh saint who'd died in defense of her chastity so many centuries ago. He saw nothing odd, therefore, in Emma's pilgrimage to such a celebrated shrine, but Sion quickly enlightened him.

  Never had Emma visited Gwenfrewi's holy well, he said with some indignation not once in more than twenty years in Wales. Justin started to point out that Emma would not have been welcome at Basingwerk Abbey, where her sex mattered more than her status as Davydd's consort, but Sion gave him no chance.

  "Well, I find it strange that she suddenly shows such interest in a saint she has ignored for all of her married life. I find it strange that a woman who will not go to the privy chamber without an escort is taking only Oliver, one of her handmaidens, and just enough men to see to her safety. The last time she went to Chester, she traveled in a style that the English queen might well have envied. And I also find it strange that she is willing to pass the night in a humble priest's abode instead of demanding that the White Monks admit her to their guest house or returning to Rhuddlan."

  By now Sion had won Justin over. "You are right," he conceded. "None of that soun
ds like the Lady Emma that we know and love not. I will do my best to find out what she is up to, but it will not be easy, Sion. If she has even the slightest suspicion that I am close at hand, she'll never stir from that priest's house."

  "That is why you need to announce today that you are going to Chester. If you leave at daybreak tomorrow, you'll get to Basingwerk ere Emma does. If you can keep out of her sight, she ought to feel secure enough to follow through with whatever she is planning. She has said nothing in public yet about her pilgrimage, so she has no reason to suspect that you know. I think she will welcome your absence, not doubt it."

  Justin was very glad that he'd shared his suspicions about Emma with Sion. The man was proving to be a useful ally... as long as his interests continued to coincide with those of Llewelyn ab Iorwerth, "I think Oliver set up this meeting whilst he was in Chester. I'd wager that Emma never intended to take so active a role herself, not until Thomas de Caldecott got himself so inconveniently murdered," Sion nodded somberly. "This may be your last chance to find either the truth or the ransom, Iestyn."

  "I know." His queen wanted the ransom. Davydd also wanted the ransom. He wondered which one Llewelyn wanted, if it came to a choice. If only he had the answer to that question, he'd know, then, how much he dared trust the Welsh rebel.

  Chapter 17

  September1193

  Treffynnon, Wales

  A CHILL DRIZZLE WAS LEAKING PROM CLOUDS THE COLOR of lead. Justin had seen few scenes as desolate as Treffynnon, the tiny village that had grown up around the holy well of St Gwenfrewi. Undaunted by the dreary weather, a few hardy pilgrims had gathered at the spring. Noticing a young boy dragging a clubfoot, Justin hoped that if the saint answered any prayers this day, it would be his.

  Shifting position, he winced as his back muscles cramped in protest. He was not surprised that he'd awakened so stiff and sore, for he'd passed the night in a barn. As uncomfortable as his lodgings had been, at least he'd been spared a night camping out in the woods. He'd not dared to stay at the abbey guest house, for it was barely a mile away at the lower end of the valley, and he was sure that Oliver would be on the lookout for an Englishman upon a chestnut stallion. Fortunately, Sion had come to his rescue, suggesting that he ask for shelter at one of the abbey granges.

  The granges were run by conversi, lay brothers who took holy vows as the monks did, but who lived under a less restrictive code of behavior, unlettered men recruited from the poor and the peasantry to do the manual labor that the choir monks eschewed. Following Sion's advice, Justin had packed several wineskins and guaranteed himself a cordial welcome when he'd ridden into the grange at Mertyn. It was one of the smallest and poorest of the abbey's farms, but the lay brothers had been generous hosts, sharing their plain fare and offering Justin a snug straw bed in the byre that sheltered their cows.

  Leaving Copper in the cattle barn, he set out before dawn for Treffynnon. It was not an enjoyable trek, for the rain was cold, the path muddy, and a hole had worn through one of his boots. Thankful that less than three miles lay between grange and holy well, he limped into the hamlet before anyone was stirring. After finding a perch to keep watch, he peeled off a piece of bark to make a temporary plug for the boot sole. His best guess was that the Chester phantom would be arriving sooner rather than later, for he could not imagine the elegant, luxury-loving Emma spending any more time than need be in the priest's small, shabby house. She'd yet to emerge, but Justin had chosen his hiding place with care, one that afforded an unobstructed view of the sacred spring, the adjacent church, and the priest's lodging. He need only watch and wait.

  The rain continued to fall, and Justin was shivering and wet and hungry by the time Emma appeared. Justin observed that she did not follow the usual pilgrim's practice of praying at the moss-covered valley stones that represented the penitential stations. In stead she headed directly for the well, where her armed escort made the pilgrims stand aside so she could approach on her own. Oliver produced a blanket, so that she could kneel without muddying her skirts, and Justin watched closely as she blessed herself with the holy water and bowed her head. Her prayer was a brief one, confirming Justin's cynical suspicions about the sincerity of her desire to honor the martyred Welsh saint. Only after she had risen and was escorted into the church did her guards permit the pilgrims to return to the spring and their interrupted prayers.

  Although Justin did not yet know it, the rest of his day would go downhill from there. Emma soon exited the church and returned to the priest's lodging. Oliver remained behind and began to approach villagers. Well out of earshot, Justin watched in frustration as the same scenario was enacted time and time again. Oliver would initiate a conversation only to get shrugs and uncomprehending stares for his trouble. Justin surmised that Oliver was encountering a language barrier; he apparently spoke no Welsh and none of the villagers he accosted spoke French.

  Making no progress with the local people, Oliver concentrated upon the pilgrims, but he had no luck until he addressed a tall, hulking youth in the long russet robe and wide-brimmed hat that proclaimed his pilgrim status. Judging by the animated discussion that followed, Justin concluded that Oliver had at last found someone who could answer his questions. But what was Oliver seeking so urgently to find out?

  When the canonical hour of Terce drew near, Emma reemerged and accompanied the priest to the church, where they were soon joined by villagers, pilgrims, and some of the men who'd been staying in the abbey guest house. After the Morrow Mass, the church emptied and people went about their daily chores and activities. Emma was among the last to depart, returning once more to the priest's lodgings. But Justin waited in vain for Oliver.

  Once he realized that Oliver must have slipped out the church's side door during the Mass, Justin used some of the Welsh curses he'd picked up from Davydd. He did not think Oliver suspected that he was under surveillance; this was just more proof of the man's innate caution. It was too late to try to pick up the trail. All he could do was to hope that Oliver had not sneaked off to meet Emma's mystery partner. He had logic on his side, for why would Emma have made this uncomfortable journey to Treffynnon if her presence were not needed and Oliver could act on her behalf? Logic notwithstanding, though, Justin felt as if there was a hollow, empty pit where his stomach ought to be.

  Oliver was gone for hours, not returning until the afternoon. He moved slowly and his limp was much more pronounced; even from a distance, Justin could see that his boots were heavily caked in mud. He disappeared into the priest's house, and neither he nor Emma was seen again that day. Justin had gotten bread and cheese from the monks at Mertyn, but he'd eaten it at midday, and he found himself bedeviled by hunger as well as fatigue and cold. He'd been sure that Emma had come to Treffynnon to meet someone, so sure. But his faith was waning with each wet, wearisome hour of this vexing, never-ending day.

  Darkness came quickly, and the villagers soon retreated to their hearths. The priest withdrew to pass the night at a parishioner's house, and Emma's men-at-arms trudged down the valley toward the abbey guest house. Justin perked up with their departure, surprised that Emma would not have chosen to billet her men in the village. It seemed unlikely in the extreme that she would have put her men's comfort and the convenience of the villagers before her own safety... not unless she was expecting a guest and wanted no prying eyes.

  The sky was mottled by lowering storm clouds, but Justin's eyes had adjusted to the darkness and he'd found a hiding place closer to the priest's lodgings, so he was reasonably confident that no one could approach the house without his noticing. Off in the distance, a dog barked and was answered with the haunting, lonely howl of a Welsh wolf. Trees rustled and whispered in harmony with the wind. Close at hand, Justin heard the squeak of a small animal that had just met a bloody death. He thought he could even hear the splashing of St Gwenfrewi's holy spring. The muted music of the abbey church bells drifted down the valley, ringing in Compline. Soon afterward, Justin caught a flash of light.

&n
bsp; The light vanished as abruptly as it had appeared and he realized that a lantern's flame had been shielded. The door to the priest's house had creaked open and two mantled, hooded figures now crept stealthily out into the night. Once they'd crossed the churchyard and moved away from the village, the lantern glowed again. Rising soundlessly from his hiding place, Justin began to follow that faint, flickering light.

  He assumed that Emma's ally would be close by and was puzzled when they left the pasture behind and entered the woods. Trailing after them at a safe distance, Justin discovered that there was a path winding its way among the trees. It was muddy, strewn with leaves and dead branches, and he had to watch his footing with every step he took. From somewhere up ahead, he heard a sudden cry, and he froze in his tracks.

  "My lady, are you hurt?"

  "No... I just twisted my ankle."

  The voices carried back to Justin with startling clarity. None of this made sense to him. Why was Emma's partner not coming to her? Why were they not meeting near Treffynnon?

  "Are you sure you can find the way, Oliver?"

  "As long as we stay on the path, my lady, we'll not get lost. To make sure, I tied white strips of cloth to trees this afternoon. See... there is one now."

  "How clever of you," Emma said, with more warmth than Justin had hitherto heard in her voice. "I do see it." Oliver explained that he'd return on the morrow and remove them, and Emma praised his resourcefulness again. "Oliver... what in the world are these cloths? They do not look like rags to me."

  "I... er... appropriated one of Father Marcus's shirts. It was the only white cloth I could find."

  "Well, we must be sure to leave money in repayment. We are not thieves, after all," Emma said, and then she laughed. This was a new Emma to Justin, one he suspected that few ever saw. She even sounded different; that little-girl breathiness was gone and her enunciation was crisp and confident, utterly devoid of coyness or coquetry.