Dragon's Lair

  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.

  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, Ju
stin 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 fo
r 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."