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?"
Chapter 6
August 1193
Aberconwy, Wales
AS JUSTIN AND SION RODE WEST, THE LAND BEGAN TO look like the Wales of legend: mountain peaks silhouetted against the sky, woods deep and dark and primeval, so impenetrable that trees had never felt the bite of an axe and only meager shafts of sun could filter through the wild, untamed tangle of undergrowth, brush, and bracken. The road hugged the coast and clouds hovered low on the horizon, as grey and foreboding as the choppy, windswept sea. Welsh weather was notoriously erratic, hostile to invaders and inhabitants alike, and by the time they reached the estuary of the River Conwy, rain was falling, a chill drizzle that threatened to become a downpour at any moment. Sion hailed the boatman and they were soon being ferried across the river. To their right, the castle of Deganwy stood sentinel over the bay, and ahead of them lay their destination, the Cistercian abbey at Aberconwy.
~*~
Justin was restless, edgy, and bored. He'd been stranded in the outer parlour for at least two hours by his reckoning. Sion had vanished within moments of their arrival, hurrying off to fetch Pedrani, the lay brother, promising to bring him back to the parlour straightaway. But as time dragged by, Justin's patience began to fray. What if Pedran did not know the whereabouts of his cousin? What if Guto could not be tracked down? And even if they did find him, what if he knew nothing about the ambush? If his loose talk had been no more than the maunderings of a man deep in his cups?
Rising again from his seat on an uncomfortable wooden bench, Justin paced the cramped confines of the parlour. He ought to have accepted the hospitaller's offer of milk and cheese. But he'd expected to be riding off in search of Guto once he'd interviewed Pedran. He was not truly troubled yet by Sion's failure to return with Guto's cousin. He knew the Cistercian lay brothers did the heavy labor at the abbey, and Pedran was not likely to be permitted to abandon his chores to chat with a stranger, however much he might like such a brief respite. He could even be off on one of the abbey granges, although if so, Justin could not understand why Sion would not have returned with that information. Had he been foolhardy to trust Sion? The reasons that had seemed so convincing behind the sheltering walls of Rhuddlan Castle were more dubious now that he found himself deep in Wales, with no resources to draw upon but his sword, his wits, and a stranger named Sion.
When he felt unable to pass another hour in his spartan seclusion, he shoved the parlour's far door open. As he'd guessed, it led out into the cloisters. He stood for some moments in the walkway, breathing in the damp salt air, listening in vain for the ordinary, familiar, comforting sounds of daily life. The abbey was shrouded in silence, for the church bells had not rung since None several hours ago. Monks glided by, their sandals making no noise on wet paving stones. Dressed in the unbleached wool habits that caused people to name them the White Monks, eyes downcast, hands tucked into their sleeves, they seemed almost like ghosts to Justin, pale shadows of mortal men no longer burdened with temporal concerns.
He attracted a few oblique glances, and tried to remember if lay people were allowed in the abbey cloisters or not. The Cistercians were the most austere of all the holy orders, and they might well frown upon too much contact with intruders from the world they'd renounced. He greeted these mute, wraithlike men of God with a polite "Good Morrow," but received only grave nods in return, for the White Monks were sworn to silence for much of their day. Justin admired them for their piety, their discipline, their willingness to give over every waking hour to God, for he knew he would have found it well nigh impossible to follow in their footsteps. But his esteem notwithstanding, he was feeling more and more like a trespasser in their midst, and headed for the one place where laymen were welcome, God's House.
Even there, the monks were segregated from their lay brothers, who heard Mass in the nave. At this time of day, between None and Vespers, the church was empty, still. Justin paused to bless himself at the holy water stoup, then slipped into a chapel in the south transept, where he knelt and offered up prayers for Claudine and their unborn child.
; Soon after, he heard the door creak open, heard footsteps pause before the holy water stoup as he had done. When they began to echo in the nave, he stepped from the chapel to see who this newcomer was. He'd been half-expecting one of the monks, but the man he was now facing was no monk. Nor was he clad in the habit of a lay brother.
"Are you Justin de Quincy?"
The words were French, and excellent French at that, but the cadence was Welsh. Justin was suddenly alert, his eyes taking in every aspect of this stranger's appearance. "I am. But do not try to tell me you are Pedran, not with that sword at your hip. And I suspect you are not Guto, either."
"No, I am not Guto. But I think you'll want to talk with me, nonetheless. I am Llewelyn ab Iorwerth."
Justin expelled his breath slowly. "Well, well," he said softly. "I was trying to flush out a rabbit, and instead, I've flushed out I fox.''
The Welshman's mouth quirked at one corner, as if he were suppressing a smile. "In light of what you've been hearing about me from my loving uncle Dayvdd, I should probably consider 'fox' a compliment. I daresay you could have come up with much worse."
"I daresay," Justin agreed. They were both standing in the center aisle of the nave by now, and a wall torch gave off enough light for them to do a mutual inspection. They were about the same height, for Llewelyn was taller than the average Welshman. Both had dark coloring, although Justin's eyes were grey and Llewelyn's were brown. Justin judged them to be about the same age, too. It was like looking into a pond and seeing a wavering reflection that was almost, but not quite, a mirror image of himself.
Llewelyn saw the resemblance, too. "Sion said you were I fair-minded - for an Englishman." Again there was the hint of a smile. "But he did not tell me that you look like kin. A pity my father is dead, for it would have been interesting to ask him if he'd broken any English hearts."
Justin stiffened. But he remembered, then, that the Welsh did not view illegitimacy like the rest of Christendom, Here man could be bastard-born and a prince, for the Welsh balked at punishing children for the sins of their fathers. "Alas, mother's heart was not one of them. I say 'alas' because I well imagine the look on Davydd's face when I returned to Rhuddlan with the happy news that I'd found my long-lost brother, Llewelyn."