Dragon's Lair (11 page)

~*~

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."

This time there was no mistaking Llewelyn's amusement. "Ah, but that would make Davydd your uncle, too," he pointed out and laughed outright at Justin's expression of mock horror.

Justin found himself wondering if the Welshman had been testing him with that dubious jest about broken English hearts, wanting to see how quick he was to take offense. "Be sure to tell Sion that he lies very convincingly. That was an inspired move on your part, whether you deliberately placed him in Davydd's household or won him over. I cannot imagine a more useful spy than Davydd's scribe."

"What of Davydd's confessor?"

"Jesu!" Justin was genuinely shocked before he realized that Llewelyn was joking. It was a shame that he could not introduce this Welsh rebel to his lady queen; he suspected they'd get along famously. "Just out of curiosity, how can you and Sion be so sure that I will not reveal his true identity to Davydd?"

"Because you've had a week to enjoy the pleasure of Davydd's company," Llewelyn said, very dryly. "Sion felt the risk was worth raking. He believes that you truly want to find out what happened. Is he right, English?"

Justin nodded. "I want the truth, yes. I also want the ransom. And if I must choose between the two, I'll take the ransom. I was sent by the queen on a mission of recovery, not retribution."

"So… you're saying that if I were to know the whereabouts of said ransom, you'd be willing to settle for its return, no questions asked?''

"Yes."

"That is an interesting offer. But it is not one I can accept. You see, Davydd's claims to the contrary, I do not have it."

"I do not think you do, either," Justin admitted. "But it was an offer I had to make, just in case I was wrong. I spoke true when I said that the queen's only concern is getting back what was stolen… or what is left of it."

"What is left of it'?" Llewelyn echoed, sounding surprised. "Are you saying you believe that the wool was really burned?"

Justin felt a sudden surge of hope. "You do not think it was?"

"By the rood, no! Even if Davydd were the world's greatest fool, and he well may be, he still would not have burned the wool. Have you ever seen any man throw money into a fire?"

There were two intriguing suppositions in Llewelyn's retort, but Justin chose to focus first on the one that would matter the most to his queen. "How can you be so sure of that? I visited the scene, saw for myself that wool was burned."

"So did I," Llewelyn said laconically, and Justin blinked in astonishment.

"You dared visit the ambush site? I'm surprised you did not stop by the castle afterward for an ale!"

"I prefer mead." Llewelyn moved closer, and when Justin tensed, he said, "Look, we've been circling each other like wary cats. We can keep on dancing about if you wish, but I'd rather not." As he was speaking he was removing his rain-dampened mantle. Slowly and deliberately, he then unbuckled his scabbard, placed it the floor at his feet. Justin had left his own mantle in the outer parlor, but after the hesitation of a heartbeat, no more than that, he took off his sword, too, laying it down next to Llewelyn's weapon.

Llewelyn looked pleased. "Good," he said, "Now we can talk." There were no seats but he found two prayer cushions, sat down cross-legged on one and invited Justin to do the same. "Have you found out about the hay-wain horses yet?"

"What... the horses stolen in the robbery? What is there to find out?"

"One of them turned up a few days after the ambush, still wearing a halter. And a second one was seen in the hills, running loose."

Justin frowned. "I was told none of this. How do you know about it? How can you be sure these were the same horses?"

"I have friends in surprising places. Sion talked privately to the grooms at Rhuddlan, and their descriptions of the horses matched perfectly."

"That makes no sense. No one would steal horses and then turn them loose like that…"

"No," Llewelyn agreed, "they would not. Any thief worth his salt would want the horses, too, if only to sell them. You can al ways find a buyer who'll ask no questions if the price is cheap enough."

Llewelyn did not bother to state the obvious, that his men would never have let the horses go, either. Justin tucked this new information away for further reflection and leaned forward. "So what evidence do you have that the wool was not burned?"

"The wagon tracks were still visible when I inspected the scene. We'd actually had several dry days in a row, which qualifies as a drought in Wales. The wheel ruts were shallow, nowhere near as deep as they ought to have been if they'd been loaded with woolsacks."

"So you think they removed the wool ere they fired the hay-wains? Mayhap burned part of a woolsack or even some wool to convince us that it had all gone up in smoke? I want to believe it, I really do. But if so, what happened to the wool? What did they do with it?"

"I have not worked that part out yet," Llewelyn conceded. "We could find no other wagon tracks in the vicinity. I have no doubts, though, that the wool is still intact, hidden away somewhere till it is safe to transport it."

He saw that Justin was not yet convinced, and leaned forward intently. "My people have a saying,
'Gorau amheuthun, chwant bwyd
.' 'Hunger is the best sauce.' We know that particular sauce well in Wales, for mine is a poor country. I will not believe that any Welshman would have set fire to a year's worth of wool, not unless one of God's own angels whispers it is so in my ear, and even then, I'd have doubts. No, this was a clever trick, no more than that. It is still out there, waiting to be found,"

Justin decided it was time to tackle the second of Llewelyn's suppositions. "And you think the mastermind behind this scheme is…"

"A 'mastermind,' no, I'd not call him that. But he is guilty. I'd wager you know whose name I am going to say, too... my uncle Davydd."

Justin did not trouble to conceal his skepticism. "Is this some sort of a family game? Davydd is one for playing it, too. We both know he has reasons to blame you that have naught to do with the missing ransom. But it seems to me that your charges are equally suspect. Why keep on fighting this war if you can get the English Crown to fight it for you?"

"First of all," Llewelyn said, "I am winning this war. And even if I were not, I'd not be mad enough to seek English aid. I'm not going to invite a man to dinner unless I am sure he'll go home afterward. No offense, but you English are too hungry for lands that are not yours."

"It has been my experience that it is the highborn who .u hungry for lands not theirs... no offense, of course."

Llewelyn's dark eyes narrowed slightly, and then he began laugh again. "I'd wager you are giving my uncle fits!"

Justin grinned. "Well, I do my best. I've been honest with you about my doubts. But I've an open mind. If you can make a persuasive case against him, let's hear it."

Llewelyn was quick to take the challenge. "To begin with, that scheme of his was too absurd for even my uncle to concoct. Lure me away with a false patrol and then send the ransom off in two unguarded hay-wains? Talk about begging to be robbed! Even his use of hay was suspect, for no one sells his hay at market; the need for it is too great. As soon as I heard about it, I knew Davydd was up to no good. I think he arranged to 'steal' the ransom, doubtless leaving it in Selwyn's capable hands to make the necessary plans. Selwyn was with Davydd long enough to know where all the bodies were buried, and my uncle has never been a man for details."

"Yes, but Selwyn was slain."

"Davydd's plans never end well." Llewelyn's smile came and went, almost too quick to catch. "Obviously, something went wrong. I cannot believe that my uncle would have wanted Selwyn dead; he was too useful."

Justin considered for a moment and then shook his head, "No, it still does not make sense to me. I grant you that your theory explains some of the holes in Davydd's story. But there is just one problem with it. I have been watching Davydd closely for the past week and I am sure that he does not know where the ransom is."

When Llewelyn would have argued, Justin held up his hand. "Wait, I heard you out. You're going to have to trust me on this. Unless your uncle's true vocation was to be a player, he could not be so convincing. He is well and truly fearful. Unless..." A memory had just surfaced. "A reliable witness told me that Davydd was calm when told of the robbery. She says he did not panic until he found out that the wool had been burned and Selwyn slain. Suppose... suppose he did set up the robbery as you claim. What if Selwyn's hirelings decided they'd rather have the whole than a share?"