Such a cynical jest shocked Justin; he could not imagine anyone but John daring to joke about so inflammatory a subject as paternity.
"What... that you are the result of Eleanor's dalliance with a dark-haired Angevin or Norman lord?" Emma asked, and then laughed. "No, John, I have no doubts about your lineage. Blood breeds true, you see. You are indeed Harry's son. But you are also the only one who could understand my plight and my desire for vengeance. You already know what it is like to have no power of your own, to be utterly dependent upon the goodwill of those you detest... do you not?"
There was a long silence, broken at last by Emma, "You'd best hope that I've satisfied your curiosity, for I'll be offering no more secrets of the heart. This is no confessional, and you are for certes no priest."
"One more question, dear aunt, and only one. Where is the wool?"
"I would," Emma said slowly, "that I knew."
Justin stiffened in disbelief. John sounded no less stunned, "You do not know? What sort of game are you playing now, Emma?"
"I assure you it is no game. Thomas de Caldecott handled the robbery, hiring the men, hiding the ransom, doing whatever must be done. I was not pleased with his killings and let him know it. So he in turn balked at telling me where he'd hidden the wool. He said I had no need to know, not yet. He never quite put the threat into words, but his meaning was clear. As long as he alone knew the hiding place, he was holding the reins and I was riding pillion behind him."
It occurred to Justin that Emma had just given herself an excellent motive for not wanting Thomas dead. He no longer doubted her. Knowing what he now did about Thomas de Caldecott, he knew, too, that the other man had been quite capable of taking such audacious measures to protect himself.
John had apparently come to the same conclusion. "He was a crafty whoreson, I'll give him that. But why did your man not tell this to the Breton in Chester? What... it somehow slipped his mind?"
"What would have been the point? The Breton could not have reached you ere you sailed for England. You'd likely have come in any event, since you've admitted you have other fish to fry here. Moreover, I have not given up. We can still recover the wool. De Caldecott was no Merlin, and it did not disappear in a puff of smoke. It is out there somewhere... waiting to be found."
"So is the Holy Grail, but I do not fancy my chances of finding it!"
"Come now, John, do not tell me that you never wager unless the odds are in your favor. I have brought a map of the area for you with the site of the ambush marked. If you put enough men to searching for the wool, they're likely to find it. Hire a Welshman who knows the lay of the land, do whatever you must."
"What if the search fails?"
"Well, you'll still be denying Richard the ransom, and is that not what you wanted? Of course you'd rather have the wool, too. But nothing matters more than keeping Richard captive in Germany, does it?"
The floor was wooden and the boards began to creak; it was easy for Justin to imagine John stalking about the chapel, pondering this setback. When he spoke again, Justin was surprised by the lack of anger in his voice; he'd not expected John to take a disappointment with such good grace.
"You are right, Aunt Emma. I'd burn every one of those woolsacks myself if that would prevent Richard's release. We'll wait a few weeks until all interest in the wool has died down, then I'll send men in to hunt for it. And I will not forget your help once I am king. On that you have my word."
"Many men would not put much faith in your word, John. But I do, for I know you, I know what matters to you and what does not. I think you will be a successful king, a better king than your vainglorious, battle-drunk brother. And now... I need an escort to Treffrynnon, for I am not about to walk back through those muddy woods and fields, not if I have to steal a horse."
"No need... I'll steal it for you," John offered. "We'll take a few of the grange horses, see you off in fine style."
"And return them to the grange afterward," she prompted, sounding so prim and proper that John laughed.
"God forbid that we steal from the good monks," he agreed cheerfully.
Justin held his breath, not exhaling until he heard the sound of the door opening and closing. Caught up in a surge of relief and triumph that was as intoxicating as any wine he'd ever drunk, he still waited several moments before risking a glimpse out into the chapel. Turning then toward the lay brothers, he said softly in Welsh, "They are gone, but we'd best stay where we are for now."
The darkness hid their faces; they were little more than indistinct shadows. One of them thanked him, though, murmuring "Diolch yn fawr" so politely that Justin had to smile, amused that men hiding in a church sacristy should be so meticulous about observing the proprieties. Common sense told him that it would be foolhardy to venture outside yet, but it would be hard to curb his impatience; his brain was racing as he sought to process all that he'd learned this night. The queen must be warned straightaway. He would have to leave Wales as soon as possible, for this information was too combustible to trust to a letter. He knew Eleanor would want no written trail of her son's latest sins. Once he'd reclaimed Copper at the other abbey grange, he would...
His musings were rudely interrupted by a sound that sent a chill up his spine: an opening door and raised voices. Men were entering the church. He tensed, his hand dropping again to the hilt of his sword, and then recoiled into the blackness of the sacristy, for John had come back.
The next voice he heard was as familiar to him as John's. "How much longer do you want to wait here, my lord? Are you not ready to return to the ship?"
"Soon, Durand, soon. You'll not be stranded here, I assure you. The rain has eased up but the wind is still high, and I'd rather not be bobbing about on the estuary in a small boat. One future English king drowned when the White Ship sank. I'd as soon not be the second."
Justin was not utterly surprised that Durand should be at Mostyn, too. He was John's veritable shadow, his access to the queen's son making him invaluable as Eleanor's spy. How much had Durand known of John's conspiracy with Emma? Justin did not share the queen's faith in her agent. He suspected that the other man shed his loyalties as easily as a snake shed its skin.
"I still do not see why you had Reynard escort the lady home from the grange and not me. I've a better sense of direction; Reynard has gotten lost on his way to the privy. And I could fend off outlaws in my sleep, whereas he'd bolt if he heard an owl hoot in the night."
"He is fond of you, too, Durand."
"I am not jesting, my lord. I truly wonder if she will be safe with him. Have they far to go?"
"Far enough," John said blandly. "Trust me, you'd have no chance of adding her to your conquests."
"Why not, my lord? Is she yours?"
John laughed. "Even I am not that depraved, Durand."
"What... is she a nun?" Durand sounded puzzled, and John laughed again. But his response was lost as more men entered the church. Justin could tell from their deferential tones that these were not knights like Durand; they showed none of his cockiness, the familiarity that danced right up to the border, yet somehow never crossed over into insolence or effrontery. It did not surprise Justin that John quieted them without raising his voice; men learned to obey quickly in John's service or they did not remain in his service.
Now that the storm had broken, John said, he would be re turning to the ship. Most would be going with him, but he wanted some of his men to remain behind and guard the grange, keeping the monks in the dorter until Reynard got back. "Since you felt slighted by my earlier choice, Durand, you'll be in command."
"How can I thank you, my lord?" Durand sounded disgruntled; he knew that John was having fun at his expense. "I ask only that you do not forget to send the boat back for us."
"No promises," John said dryly, and the scuffle of feet told Justin that they were moving toward the door.
"We need help here!"
The cry was quickly drowned out by the rising tide of other voices. Daring a pee
k through the cracked door, Justin saw two men stumbling into the church, one of them bleeding profusely from a gashed forehead. Confusion ensued, for they naturally suspected they were under attack. The alarm soon subsided, though, when it was revealed that the wounded man had split his head open by tripping over a rake,
Transformed in seconds from injured victim to laughingstock, the man was subjected to ridicule rather than sympathy. But because his blood was gushing out like a fountain, someone eventually halted the fun and suggested they get the poor sod a bandage. Justin still did not realize his danger, not until a voice volunteered that there were likely to be cloths stored in the sacristy. He slid back behind the door, his only option to pray that no one would bring a lantern in search of the church vestments and linens. That hope lasted as long as it took for a flaming light to pierce the darkness like a beacon.
"Christ's Blood!" The intruder sprang backward, and the next sound Justin heard was the metallic clink of a sword being drawn from its scabbard, "There are men hiding in here!"
The lay brothers were discovered first, driven at sword-point out into the chapel. But before Justin could dare to hope that he might escape notice, his hiding place behind the door was exposed and there was a sword pressing against his chest.
The lay brothers were all talking at once, pouring out a torrent of Welsh that meant nothing to their audience. Justin could have translated, paraphrasing their agitated pleas for mercy, their insistence that they were simple men of God, no threat to anyone. He kept his mouth shut, for he well knew that his survival depended upon attracting no attention to himself. But there were too many torches in the chapel for anyone to mistake his dark mantle for the brown habits of the converse. A grizzled veteran cried, "This one is no monk," and jerked his hood back.
Squinting in the sudden glare, Justin experienced what it was like to be a fox brought to bay by encircling, snapping dogs.
Rough hands were stripping away his mantle, laying claim to his sword and eating knife. He stumbled, regained his footing and found himself face-to-face with the queen's son.
"I'll be damned," John said in obvious astonishment. "Oliver mentioned that there was a queen's man prowling around but gave no names. I ought to have guessed, though. I'm beginning to think that I could go to Cathay and meet you coming around a corner, de Quincy."
Justin could think of nothing to say, and his mouth was too dry for speech in any case. He managed a shrug, and then forced him self to meet Durand's eyes, finding in them exactly what he expected: amazement, hostility, and no help whatsoever. The lay brothers had been herded behind the altar, out of the way, leaving Justin alone in the center of the chapel, surrounded by men who'd kill him without a qualm if John gave the command.
Spurred into action by this unexpected turn of events, John ordered most of the men to head for the beach, taking the injured soldier with them. Others were dispatched to continue guarding their prisoners in the abbey dorter. One by one, he sent them off into the night until at last only Durand stood by his side. "Now..." he said, "what are we to do with you, de Quincy?"
"You could give me a ride back to Treffrynnon," Justin ventured, not in the least reassured when John smiled.
"You've long been a thorn in my side, a burr under my saddle, call it what you will. I will admit that there is a certain entertainment value in never knowing when or where you're likely to turn up, and you were even of some use to me at Windsor's siege. And watching you and Durand bristling like a couple of tomcats can be amusing. It is awkward, though, for the lady wants to keep her identity a secret, and we both know you'd be blabbing her name all over the kingdom in the time it took my ship to raise anchor."
Justin knew it was futile, but he made a game try anyway, saying earnestly, "How can I, my lord, when I never saw the lady's face? She could be the Queen of France for all I know."
John's smile surfaced again. "See why I like this lad, Durand?" Pulling up his hood, he strode to the door, saying over his shoulder, "Remember what I said about waiting for Reynard to get back. Once he does, you can let the monks loose and then head for the beach, where we'll have a boat waiting for you."
Durand acknowledged the order and then glanced toward Justin. "My lord... what about de Quincy?"
John paused in the doorway, regarding Justin with an enigmatic expression, one not easy to interpret. "A pity," he said, sounding almost regretful, "but he's given me no choice. Kill him."
Chapter 19
September 1193
Mostyn, North Wales
THE CHAPEL WAS ABSOLUTELY AND EERILY STILL, SO QUIET that Justin imagined the other men must be able to hear the wild pounding of his heart. The Welsh lay brothers were clustered together, uncomprehending but fearful. These hooded, faceless figures garbed in austere monks' habits seemed ghostly and unreal to Justin, not flesh-and-blood men, more like the starkly sculptured effigies on tombs of the dead.
Durand at last broke the foreboding silence, saying very dryly, "Well... John was right. This is awkward." His eyes moved dismissively over the lay brothers, coming to rest upon Justin's face. "It is no secret that I have no fondness for you, de Quincy. If truth be told, you've been a pain in the arse from our first meeting. But we are on the same side, more or less."
As he spoke, he was unfastening his mantle, letting it drop to the floor at his feet. "If I do not kill you, though, I'll be defying John's express command. Not only will he be sorely vexed with me, he is like to become highly suspicious as well. So I have to ask myself which matters more to the queen, that I continue to serve her by spying on her son or that you continue to breathe."
With a smooth, practiced motion, he drew his sword from its scabbard. "Alas for you, we both know the answer to that question."
At the sight of the weapon, the lay brothers shrank back. Justin forced himself to stand his ground. Durand seemed in no hurry, though. "I'll do this much for you," he said coolly. "I'll not go for a deathblow. If you somehow survive, I can always tell John that I was sure your wound was mortal. So try not to flinch away from the blade or you could spoil my aim. You might want to kneel and close your eyes so you do not see the strike coming."
The mockery misfired, for it kindled a raw, visceral rage. Justin was far from a fool. He well knew that an unarmed man stood little chance against a swordsman as skilled as Durand. In a recessed corner of his soul, he was not even sure if he could have prevailed had he been armed. Durand was Death's henchman, whereas Justin had never killed anyone. But for now his fury was searing along his spine, surging through his veins, cauterizing his fear, and he tensed, awaiting his opportunity.
Durand kept his eyes upon Justin as he jerked his head toward the door and ordered the conversi to get out. Even without a knowledge of French, they seemed to grasp what was happening and burst into agitated Welsh that meant nothing to Durand. "Be gone from here," he snapped, "whilst you still can!"
"They are distraught that you would spill blood in God's House." Justin felt a flicker of pride that his voice sounded so even, so controlled. "They say that you would be committing a mortal sin. They do not know that your soul is already forfeit to the Antichrist!"
Durand spat out an oath, although whether it was aimed at his gibe or the balking monks, Justin could not say. One of the lay brothers then did something quite courageous. His youth was long gone, for he leaned heavily upon a cut-off shepherd's staff, his shoulders hunched under the burden of too many years, too much pain. He did not hesitate, though, shuffled slowly but resolutely toward Durand, and if his voice was reedy, quavering with age and apprehension, his words were boldly spoken - that Durand must not pollute their holy church with bloodshed and violence.
Losing patience, Durand snarled, "The blood shed can always be yours, old man!"
With a thrust of his arm, he sent the elderly monk reeling. There was an outcry from the other conversi, and Justin darted behind the altar, intending to make a grab for the torch sputtering in the wall sconce. What happened next froze him in his tra
cks. As the old man fell, he somehow entangled the crook of his staff around Durand's ankle, and the knight, already off balance from the shove, went crashing to the floor.
Justin had dared hope that the Almighty might aid him in his time of need. He'd not expected the Lord God to intervene, though, in so spectacular a fashion. But he did not waste time questioning his blessings, and when the sword shot from Durand's grasp, he dived for it. Nothing in his life had ever felt so good as the grip of that hilt in his hand. Knowing that he'd been given a reprieve, not deliverance, he rolled over and came swiftly to his feet, bracing for Durand's counterattack.
It never came. Durand was still sprawled upon the floor, with the aged monk astride him, a knee grinding into his chest, a dagger blade pressing against his throat. "You'd best lie very still, for an old man's hands are none too steady."
There was no need for Justin to translate; the warning had been given in fluent French. Durand took it seriously, not moving so much as a muscle. He felt no anger, not even fear, not yet, just utter astonishment. The monk's hood had fallen back, revealing a head of thick, dark hair that had never known a tonsure, revealing the face of a youthful, triumphant stranger, a man Durand had never laid eyes upon. "Who in Hellfire," he gasped, "are you?"
He sounded so dumbfounded that Justin burst out laughing. "It is my pleasure and my privilege," he said, deliberately drawing the words out, savoring the moment, "to introduce you, Durand, to the next Prince of North Wales, Llewelyn ab Iorwerth."
Llewelyn's companions were already shedding their habits, shaking off, too, the diffidence of submissive, unworldly monks. They wore swords with the ease of men accustomed to making use of them, knives tucked into high boots, and one of them had a coil of hempen rope looped in his belt. He was uncommonly tall, towering over Durand like a sturdy Welsh oak as he dangled the rope before the knight's eyes, looped into a hangman's noose. "Be a good lad and lie still," he said cheerfully, "and I'll fight the urge to see if this fits around your neck,"