Dragon's Lair (6 page)

Justin was becoming accustomed by now to paternal threats, but if they did not intimidate, they still stung. "My lord bishop," he said, with such mocking deference that his father made an angry gesture of dismissal. They glared at each other, and had they but known it, in that moment they did indeed look alike.

~*~

The queen's letter gave Justin the same swift admittance to Chester Castle as it had to the bishop's palace. Ranulf de Blundeville greeted him in the great hall, but after reading Eleanor's message, he led Justin abovestairs to his solar. He did not offer Justin wine or ale, but Justin took no offense, sure that Chester's omission was not a deliberate rudeness. Those who knew the earl knew, too, that he was single-minded to a fault, a man who focused upon the most pressing problem to the exclusion of all else. While Justin had never formally met Chester before, he was well acquainted with the gossip that inevitably swirled around a man of such prominence. Chester prided himself upon being blunt-spoken and forthright, which occasionally caused the cynical to brand him as naïve or credulous. Justin knew better, for Eleanor had warned him not to undervalue the earl's discerning eye. If the queen respected Chester's mother wit, that was more than enough for the queen's man.

Putting aside Eleanor's letter, Chester studied Justin through hooded dark eyes. It was a challenging look, even antagonistic. Justin had expected as much. The Earl of Chester was a great lord, cousin to the king, wed to an even greater heiress, Constance of Brittany, widow of Richard's brother Geoffrey, mother of Arthur, Geoffrey's young heir. As stepfather of the Duke of Brittany, Chester was sure to exercise influence in the boy's domains, for Arthur would not reach his majority for many years. And there was always the chance that Chester might find himself the stepfather of a king. Richard had sired no sons from his Spanish queen, and he was not a man likely to die peacefully in bed. If he died without an heir of his body, some would argue that his brother Geoffrey's son, Arthur, had a better claim to the English throne than the youngest brother, John.

Whatever Arthur's prospects of outwitting or outrunning John in a race for the crown, there was no denying that Ranulf of Chester wielded vast and profound powers, and so Justin had assumed that he would be jealous of his authority, even with one of Queen Eleanor's agents. But however much he might have preferred to keep control of the investigation in his own hands, he would cooperate, for he was not a fool. If the ransom were not recovered, Chester and Davydd ab Owain would both be blamed by the irate queen and frantic mother.

Chester's first question showed that Eleanor's confidence in his intellect was not misplaced. "I would like," he said, "to know exactly what Davydd ab Owain told the Queen's Grace."

"We thought you would," Justin acknowledged, holding out a second parchment. "This is a copy of the letter that he wrote to Queen Eleanor, informing her that the ransom had been stolen on its way to Chester."

Justin waited while the earl read and was amused when Chester echoed his own words almost exactly, saying brusquely that Davydd had been miserly with the details of the ambush. "Fortunately, one of my knights was in Gwynedd helping with the collection of the ransom, and he was able to give me a more thorough account of the crime."

This was the first piece of good news that Justin had gotten. "Was your man present at the ambush, my lord earl?"

"Luckily for him, no. There was but one survivor, and I'm told he was not expected to live. Thomas was at Rhuddlan Castle, though, and so he has some useful information for you. Davydd ab Owain has good reason to be closemouthed. Had I blundered as badly as he did, I'd be loath to share my shame with the world, too."

Justin was not surprised that Chester was eager to lay blame at Davydd's door. Marcher lords and their Welsh counterparts were natural rivals, for the borders were writ in sand, shifting or expanding as ambitious men jockeyed for advantage. "I would be most interested in hearing of these blunders, my lord. To judge by the prince's letter to my lady queen, all the guilt belongs to that Welsh bandit, who is apparently a kinsman of some sort."

"A kinsman of some sort?" Chester echoed, so sarcastically that Justin tensed. "You are not very well informed, are you, Master de Quincy? If you do not even know the players in this infernal game, how likely are you to come out as the winner? Llewelyn ab Iorwerth is no fourth cousin by blood or distant kin by marriage. Nor can he be dismissed as a 'Welsh bandit.' He is Davydd's nephew and in the eyes of Holy Church, he has a better claim to crown than his usurping uncle, for he was begotten in lawful marriage and Davydd was born in sin."

Justin was angry at the injustice of Chester's rebuke; this was why he'd come to the earl in the first place, to learn about the "players in this infernal game." But earls were not men to be reprimanded, and he contented himself by saying coolly, "I thought that the Welsh allow a bastard to inherit as long as he is recognized by his father."

Chester's heavy black brows slanted down in a frown, for Justin's tone was not as dispassionate as his words. Justin held his gaze and to his surprise, the earl was the one to look away first. "I am glad to see that you do have some knowledge of the Welsh and their ways," he said grudgingly, and Justin remembered that the earl had a reputation for more than pride and hot temper; it was said, too, that he was fair.

"I would like to meet with this knight of yours, my lord earl," Justin said, doing his best to sound like a supplicant, for his mission could be crippled if he made an enemy of Chester.

"I shall do better than that, Master de Quincy. It is my intent to send Sir Thomas de Caldecott with you into Wales."

Justin was less than thrilled by the earl's generosity, and there was a gleam in Chester's eyes that told him the earl well knew the presence of his knight would be a mixed blessing. It would be useful to have an ally who was so familiar with Wales and the Welsh. But this man would also be Chester's eyes and ears, and Justin was not yet sure if the queen's interests and the earl's interests were necessarily one and the same. Moreover, although he worked well enough with the serjeant Jonas and the under-sheriff Luke de Marston, he was more comfortable on his own. There was some truth in Luke's jest that he was a natural lone wolf, not happy hunting with the pack.

Justin now gave the only response he could, and thanked the Earl of Chester for his kind offer, "My pleasure," the other man said, with a brief smile. It was unexpectedly mischievous, and for the first time, he looked as young as he truly was, for Chester was only in his twenty-third year. "I've already sent for Thomas." Not at all uncomfortable with the prolonged silence that followed, the earl glanced again at the queen's letter and then back at Justin.

"De Quincy," he said, as if finally taking notice of Justin's surname, "Are you any kin to our bishop?"

It was the first time that Justin had been asked this question, although he'd often considered his answer. He did not want to lie, but neither did he want to admit the truth, for his candor could give rise to scandal and a public repudiation by his father. He compromised now by smiling and saying breezily, "I asked the good bishop that, too, but he says nay."

Chester nodded, asked Justin if he were kin to Saer de Quincy, who was wed to the daughter of the Earl of Leicester, and getting a denial, lost interest. Justin's words seemed to echo in his own ears, though, for there had been a bitter, bedrock honesty in his answer. The good bishop had indeed said nay.

~*~

"Two more ales, sweeting." Only then did Thomas de Caldecott interrupt his flirting with the serving maid to give Justin his attention, "Admit it, Justin. This is a better meeting place than the great hall under the eagle eye of my lord earl," he insisted with an airy wave of the hand toward their smoky, noisy, and dim surroundings. "Of course here we have to buy our own ales, but the next round is on you, so who cares?"

"I may," Justin said, "if you keep swilling down these tankards faster than the girl can get them to us. I do not fancy having to drag you back to the castle like a sack of flour after you get stewed to the gills.''

Thomas threw back his head and laughed loudly. "If you think you can drink me under the table, lad, you're in for a rude awakening. When it comes to carousing, I ought to be giving lessons. But then, you do not know me very well yet, so your ignorance can be excused."

"How kind of you." Justin lifted his own tankard in a playful salute. "To Sir Thomas de Caldecott, king of the carousers," he said, and Thomas laughed again, patting the serving maid on the rump as she sashayed by.

Justin slid his stool back so that he could lean against the wall and watched with wary amusement. Thomas was right. He did not know the other man well at all, and he was not sure what to make of the knight's easy affability. Justin had learned at an early age to keep his defenses up against a world that was indifferent at best and hostile at worst to a foundling without family, resources, or rank. He could not imagine lowering the drawbridges, opening the gates, and inviting people into the castle inner bailey as freely and confidently as Thomas was doing.

It had been a relief to find that the knight was not haughty and overweening as so many of his peers were. Unlike his lord, the Earl of Chester, Thomas seemed comfortable taking a secondary role in the ransom investigation. Justin had quickly realized that he'd found a valuable partner in Thomas. But he was bemused to be treated as an instant friend, for he was much slower to give his own trust. He was concluding that Thomas was that rarity, a man utterly at home in his own skin, with nothing to prove and nothing at risk, for failure would injure the earl, not his vassals and retainers.

The serving maids that Justin had known were far too jaded to blush, but Thomas managed it, whispering something that sent color flooding into the girl's face. As she withdrew in a gale of giggles, Thomas finally focused upon the matter at hand. "I suppose we ought to at least mention the robbery since we'll soon be on the road into Wales. The earl, God love him, will boot us out of bed at cockcrow. How good is your Welsh? Mine is more than good, if I may brag a bit. But the earl has a Welsh lad, Padrig, in his service, and I thought we'd take him along with us in case we run into anyone who cannot understand my elegant French accent. We'll need a goodly escort, too."

"Is North Wales that dangerous?" Justin asked, and Thomas grinned.

"I've heard that even the Welsh outlaws have their own bodyguards. But if we keep to the coast road, we ought to reach Rhuddlan without spilling any blood. I imagine Llewelyn is too busy counting his ill-gotten gains to be harassing innocent English travelers."

"Are you so sure that Llewelyn is the culprit?" Justin asked, intrigued by the other man's matter-of-fact manner. Thomas's indictment was more convincing than the Earl of Chester's fiery denunciation because of its very lack of passion or choler.

"If you're asking if Llewelyn is the one who stole the ransom, there is no doubt of that. But there is blame enough to go around and I'd not want to cheat Davydd of his fair share."

"The earl also talked of Davydd's 'blunders.' What were they?"

"Ah... where to begin? I suppose you want me to confine myself to those specific blunders relating to the ransom. A pity, for I have heard tales about Davydd's misspent youth that would have you rolling on the floor with laugher. Ah, well…"

Thomas heaved a comic sigh. "The trouble began with Davydd's bright idea to lure outlaws and bandits and Llewelyn away with a second convoy. He insisted upon sending a large escort with heavily loaded wagons by an inland road, whilst the real ransom was taken along the coast. But that was only part of his grand scheme. He loaded the ransom onto two ancient wains, piled hay on top, and to make it look even more convincing, he only dispatched four men with the hay-wains."

"That was lunacy," Justin blurted out. "How could he be sure they would not steal the ransom? The fewer the men, the greater the risk that they could reach an understanding amongst themselves.''

"You'll get no argument from me, lad, But Davydd said he deliberately picked men without the ballocks or the brains to do more than follow orders. He chose a tough nut named Selwyn to give those orders. He'd been a member of the royal household for years, and Davydd swore he could be trusted. The others were downright pitiful: the lame, the halt, and the blind. A green lad of sixteen; he's the one left to die in the road. An aged grandfather, and a good-natured fool. Davydd thought that way no one would ever suspect these rickety hay-wains could be carrying anything but hay."

Justin shook his head slowly. "And did it never occur to Davydd that if his 'grand scheme' went wrong, these guards would have trouble fending off a dozen drunken monks?"

"Monks? You're too kind, Justin, my boy. That crew could have been overrun by nuns! But no, Davydd is not one for contingency planning. The Welsh rarely are."

"Llewelyn ab Iorwerth might disagree with you."

Thomas considered that and then conceded cheerfully, "I daresay he might. For certes, his plan went down as smoothly as the best-brewed ale. He pounced upon the hay-wains like a hawk upon a rabbit, took what he wanted, and left naught but bodies and the charred remains of the burned wains."

"He burned the wains? Why?"

Thomas gave Justin an approving smile, "A good question. He burned the hay-wains because he also burned the woolsacks."

Justin sat upright, nearly spilling his ale. "Christ Jesus, he burned the wool? Davydd said nary a word about that to the queen!"

"Naturally not, for he'd have to admit then that the bulk of the ransom was beyond recovery. Those hay-wains also held silver plate and jewelry and some fine pelts, but it was the Cistercian wool that was the real treasure. But woolsacks are heavier than lead, and Llewelyn apparently realized that he'd not be able to get the wool safely away in those decrepit carts without risking capture. So he took what he could carry off and burned the wool to deny it to Davydd and the English Crown."