Dragon's Lair (33 page)

~*~

White, fleecy clouds were blowing in from the coast, and Justin had been keeping a wary eye upon the increasingly overcast sky. Reaching over to offer a swig from his wineskin, Llewelyn insisted, "There'll be no rain for another day, mayhap two, Iestyn, not with the wind coming from the north."

"You're not the one sleeping at night in a mine shaft," Justin pointed out, "so you do not have as much at stake as I do if the weather turns foul."

Llewelyn started to make a jest about Englishmen melting in the rain like sugar lumps, but instead he tilted his head to the side, listening intently. "Someone is coming," he said. His guards were already on the alert, and within a few moments a horseman had ridden into view. "One of my scouts," Llewelyn informed Justin and summoned the man for his report.

"The Earl of Chester is approaching along the coast road, my lord, He brings a large armed force and several oxcarts. He is nigh on an hour away if he stays with the carts. But if he rides ahead, he'll be here in half that time."

Glancing over at Justin, Llewelyn said, "I'll let you be the one to welcome the earl to Wales."

Edern was already bringing up Llewelyn's stallion. No one appeared to be hurrying, but within moments, the men were all mounted, awaiting Llewelyn's orders. Reining in beside Justin, Llewelyn said, "If you ever need help recovering another king's ransom in Wales, let me know."

"I will," Justin said, "indeed I will."

"Go with God, English."

Llewelyn raised his hand in farewell before swinging his stallion toward the woods. Justin watched and then took several steps forward. "Go with God, my lord prince!" He could not be sure that Llewelyn had heard. He hoped so.

~*~

The woolsacks finally been loaded into the oxcarts; with his usual thoroughness, the earl had thought to bring a pulley and tackle. As he and Justin watched, the carts were covered in canvas tarps. Chester was taking no chances and had brought an escort formidable enough to ward off any outlaw band smaller than an army. Once all had been done to his satisfaction, he called for his own mount, then glanced inquiringly at Justin.

"We are ready to go. You are riding with us, are you not?"

"No, my lord, I am not. I must return to Rhuddlan Castle." Chester blinked in surprise. "That would not be the wisest move, de Quincy." When Justin agreed wryly that it probably was not, the earl made no further attempts to dissuade him. Beckoning to one of his knights, he conferred briefly with him, and then strode over to Justin.

"This is Sir Adam Fitz Walter. He will escort you to Rhuddlan and - I hope - discourage Davydd ab Owain from expressing his displeasure in a way he might later regret."

"Thank you, my lord."

Once Chester was comfortably in the saddle, he gave the signal to move out. But he'd gone only a few feet when he turned his stallion back toward Justin. "One day, de Quincy," he said, "you must tell me what really happened here."

"I will, my lord," Justin said, "... as soon as the Queen's Grace gives me permission to speak of these matters."

Chester regarded him with a faint smile, "I almost forgot. But you never forget, do you?"

"Forget what, my lord?"

"That you are, first and foremost, the queen's man."

"No, my lord earl," Justin said with quiet pride, "I never forget that."

~*~

Justin's return to Rhuddlan Castle evoked unpleasant echoes of his first trip into Wales with Thomas de Caldecott. Sir Adam Fitz Walter had known de Caldecott well, and he, too, was a talker, chatting away about the earl, camp-ball, the serving maid at the Bridge Street tavern, his Cheshire boyhood, and - to Justin's dismay - sharing fond memories of his friend, Thomas. Word of his death had brought grief to the city and the earl's household, Adam confided, for Thomas had more friends than a drunkard with money to spend. He doubted that there was a man ever born who'd not liked Thomas, he declared, and insisted upon entertaining Justin with stories of de Caldecott's past exploits, practical jokes, and easy conquests of the fairer sex.

"We could hardly believe it when we learned he'd sickened and died in Wales. At first, gossip had it that he'd been slain, and that stirred up a furor. But when the earl returned and read your letter, he said the Welsh had been mistaken, that Thomas had suffered a seizure after a night of heavy drinking." Adam gave Justin a side long, curious glance. "You were there with him, were you not?"

Justin was not surprised that Chester had concealed the truth about de Caldecott's guilt. It was easier that way, and kinder to the dead man's family. It would have been nigh well impossible for most people to reconcile the affable, engaging knight they'd known with the killer of six men. But it still troubled him that Thomas was escaping all earthly punishment for his sins, that so many heartfelt, deluded prayers would be said for the salvation of his soul.

He knew Adam was awaiting his response and said tersely, "I can tell you that he was found in the prince's chapel, not much more than that."

That grudgingly given sentence seemed to provide Adam with solace, though, for after some moments, he said, "At least he died in God's House. Do you know where he was buried? I'd like to visit his grave ere we return to Chester." He seemed embarrassed by his sentimentality and quickly made a joke about giving a promise to one of Thomas's light-o'-loves.

"He is buried in the cemetery of St Asaph's at Llanelwy." The irony of that was not lost upon Justin. He'd solved a crime, but none would be held accountable for it. Neither Davydd nor Emma would face charges. And there would not even be rumors about John's involvement. So why not a cathedral funeral for a killer?

~*~

Davydd half-rose from his seat on the dais, looking at Justin in disbelief. "You found the woolsacks? They've all been recovered?"

Adam was detecting strong undercurrents of tension in the hall. He did not understand it, but his mission was to back Justin up and so he stepped forward, saying loudly, "It is indeed true, my lord prince. By now the woolsacks are back in England and may even be on the way to London already."

Davydd expelled an audible breath, then went limp against the cushions of his chair. "God is good," he murmured in Welsh, and for a moment he was silent, reveling in his unexpected deliverance. Seated beside him upon the dais, Emma had yet to speak or move. Her court mask was back in place; her face could have been carved from ivory or ice, so impassive and enigmatic was her expression. But her hands had clenched upon the arms of her chair, tightly enough that her knuckles were rimmed in white, and this did not escape Justin's notice.

"This is indeed good news, and in truth, I'd despaired of ever hearing it from you, de Quincy." Davydd got to his feet, started down the steps of the dais. "Now that the recovery has been made, what of retribution? What does the queen mean to do about Llewelyn ab Iorwerth?"

"I expect," Justin said, "that she intends to thank him."

Davydd's jaw dropped. "Have you gone mad? 'Thank him'? For stealing the king's ransom?"

"No, for recovering it." Justin unsheathed a smile that never reached his eyes. "It seems, my lord, that you were wrong in your suspicions. Llewelyn played no part in the theft of the woolsacks. He told me that some weeks ago, and I believed him. Now the Earl of Chester does, too, and so will the Queen's Grace. I'd go so far as to say she'll be grateful to him for his help. You see, nothing matters more to her than retrieving the ransom... nothing." His voice had hardened and that last word was thrown out both as challenge and judgment.

Davydd's face flamed. Almost as quickly, though, the color ebbed, leaving him pale and shaken. Adam had sauntered over to Justin's side, followed by several of his men, figuring it couldn't hurt to give the Welsh prince a subtle reminder that Justin was under the Earl of Chester's protection. He need not have bothered, though. Davydd's eyes were blank and unfocused. He pushed past Justin and Adam without even a glance, as if they were not there. By the time he'd reached the door, he was almost running.

The silence in the hall was smothering. Glancing around, Justin saw that while much would remain unspoken at Davydd's court, it would not remain unknown. The Welsh prince's scheming was not as secret as he thought. In the utter stillness, Justin could hear Emma's voice again, dripping icicles and contempt, telling John that Davydd was "doomed." He waited until people began to stir, to whisper to one another, and then he walked over to the dais and paid his respects to the Lady Emma.

She beckoned him closer and he gave her credit for her gambler's nerves, her willingness to bluff. "You must like spiced wine," she murmured, "for you seem to have a taste for bittersweet. With the one hand, you offer my husband hope, and with the other, you take it away."

He wondered how he'd missed it before, that gleam of sharp intelligence in those bewitching blue eyes. "The power to bestow or deny hope is not mine, my lady. I do the queen's biding."

"I think you do more than that, Master de Quincy." Leaning forward, she pitched her voice even lower. "We both know that the recovery of the ransom will not be enough to restore my husband to royal favor, and we both know why."

She could not be sure, though, how much he did know, and he waited, curious to see how she would go about finding out. By implying that they shared a secret, she suggested an intimacy between them, even a complicity, all without saying anything explicit, any thing he could refute. "It is my hope that Davydd's disgrace will not spill over onto me or my son. This was Davydd's doing, after all, not ours."

He offered a noncommittal response, a bland "I understand your concern, my lady," and caught the fleeting shadow that crossed her face just before she favored him with her most captivating smile.

"I hope the queen realizes how fortunate she is to have a man of your abilities in her service. What you have accomplished is truly remarkable. But how ever did you find the woolsacks?"

"I was in the right place at the right time," Justin said modestly. "I was told that you'd gone on pilgrimage whilst I was away, my lady. Was it as fulfilling as you'd hoped?"

"Yes, it was. But with regard to those missing woolsacks -"

"I visit the holy well whenever I stay at the abbey. It is very peaceful there. I hope you took the opportunity to see the countryside whilst you were in Treffynnon? One place in particular would be worth a visit... the abbey grange at Mostyn."

Emma's eyes widened. Her lips parted, but no words emerged. She stared at Justin in stunned silence, and for once in her life, she had absolutely nothing to say.

~*~

The sky was splattered with clouds. Hovering low along the horizon, they absorbed the colors of sunset, dulling red into russet and warning the weather-wise of coming rain. As long as daylight still lingered, though, Justin and Angharad continued to stroll the paths of Emma's garden, for this was their first - and likely last - opportunity to speak together without fear of eavesdroppers.

Angharad's hand rested on Justin's arm, a touch that was feather-light and as unsubstantial as cobwebs. It was the grip of a ghost, an illusion furthered by the pallor of her skin and the bruised hollows under those haunted dark eyes. Most women stirred his protective instincts, but none so strongly as this heart sick young Welshwoman. One of the reasons he'd returned to Rhuddlan Castle was to make sure that Davydd and Emma paid a price - if only in anxiety - for their double-dealing. But he'd also needed to find out how Angharad was faring.

"I have gotten permission from the Lady Emma to go home for a while. Mayhap if I could pass time with my family, in surroundings that do not remind me of Thomas every time I turn a corner..."

She let the rest of her wish fade away into forlorn silence. Justin bit his lip, acknowledging that he was out of his depth. He did not doubt that Molly would have known how to comfort Angharad. So would Nell. Claudine, too. But the right words somehow kept eluding him. Would it be kinder to let her keep her delusions? Would it be crueler to tell her the truth? If only he knew.

"What I cannot understand, Iestyn, is that no one seems concerned about finding his killer. Nothing is being done, nothing!"

"You do not believe Davydd's claim, then, that it was Llewelyn's doing?"

"No one believes that, not even Davydd. It was a shabby, shameful act, trying to smear Llewelyn with my Thomas's blood. I can barely bring myself to look upon the man's face, Iestyn, I have such contempt for him."

"It might be better, then, if you go to your family and stay there. I would worry less about you, Angharad, if you were well and clear of this rat's nest."

"I've thought about it," she admitted. And when he sought assurance that her family would not marry her off, as would likely be the case on his side of the border, she smiled, a smile that actually looked genuine. "In Wales, a woman cannot be forced into marriage. If she is a widow, that right is absolute. If she is unwed, her family can object if she marries a man of her choosing, but they cannot make her wed against her will."

"Truly? I might learn to live quite contentedly under Welsh law," Justin said, thinking of the generous provisions for those born out of wedlock in Wales.

"Our women enjoy more rights than yours. That is why I was able to assure Thomas that my family would accept our marriage; he said no English girls of good birth would have dared to make a match on their own."

"For certes, few would. You and Thomas planned to wed?"

"We talked about it often. That is why I was so bewildered when he came back from Chester and was so cold and curt with me. He loved me as much as I loved him, Iestyn, I know he did."

Justin doubted that exceedingly, no more than he believed that Thomas would ever have married Angharad. Which was worse, if she lost her lover to death or to betrayal? Would she be better off knowing he did not deserve even one of her tears? "Men... they are not always steadfast, Angharad, and love... love can change; it can even die."

"Not Thomas," she insisted, shaking her head so vehemently that her veil slipped and was carried off by a gust of wind. She never even noticed its loss. "The way he was acting... that was not the real Thomas. Mayhap he did let himself be tempted by an English harlot, for he always said women in Chester were no better than they ought to be. But even if one did bewitch him, her spell would not have lasted. I made sure of that."