Dragon's Lair (26 page)

Aubrey glanced toward the great hall and then grabbed Justin by the arm, jerking him toward the chapel. Shoving Justin through the doorway, he hissed, "Stay there until I come back, and do not let yourself be seen!"

Justin stumbled, regaining his balance as Aubrey slammed the door shut. His face burning, he stared in disbelief at that closed door. His first impulse was to stalk out, to put as many miles between himself and Aubrey as he could. But common sense told him that if he bolted, he'd have endured this humiliation for nothing. Slipping his hand into his tunic, he drew out the letters, handling them as gingerly as if they were hot to the touch. One for the queen and one to the abbess at Godstow, with a sealed enclosure for Claudine,

The chapel was deep in shadows, lit by a single rushlight in a wail sconce. Sunlight filtered through a stained glass window in colors like jewels: ruby, emerald, sapphire. The walls were painted with scenes of from Scriptures and the gospels: the Annunciation, the Passion of Christ, the torments of Hell. It was too dim to distinguish them, but Justin had seen them so often that they were imprinted upon his brain. He'd passed countless hours here, kneeling on the tiled floor and praying dutifully to the Almighty and the bishop, for when he was very young, he'd confused the two. Whether clad in the ornate silk chasuble that was his "Yoke of Christ" or his vivid purple and gold cope, the bishop had seemed to Justin to be the very embodiment of God the Father, Lord of Lords, King of Kings, splendid and remote and all-powerful.

Justin put the letters back into his tunic, damning Molly for prodding him into this doomed quest, damning himself for listening to her. Despite all his misgivings, he'd not expected a scene so ugly as the one out in the entrance hall. He understood why his father was so set upon keeping his twenty-year-old sin a secret. Men of God were not saints and they sometimes fell from grace. But a bastard son was a millstone around the neck of a prelate as ambitious as Chester's bishop. Scandal had never been one of the stepping-stones to the See at Canterbury.

He had never seen Aubrey so overwrought, though, so frantic to avoid exposure, and for the first time he wondered if there might be more to the bishop's distress than a fear of public disgrace. What it could be, he did not know, could not even begin to imagine, and an inner voice mocked that he was grasping at straws, unwilling to face the truth: that he was nothing to Aubrey de Quincy but an embarrassment, a source of shame and dread.

Stopping before the high altar, he gazed down at the two tall candlesticks and the elegant silver-gilt crucifix that his father had brought back from Rome. The crucifix triggered an unwelcome memory. After Aubrey had denied his paternity, Justin had challenged him to swear it upon the crucifix. For a moment, his own bitter words seemed to echo in the air, "At least you'll not lie to God."

He stiffened, then, as the door started to open. He heard his father's voice, insisting that there was plenty of time to admire the Tree of Jesse, laughter, and another male voice saying that they could wait nary another moment to see it. Aubrey was backing slowly into the chapel, and behind him, Justin caught a glimpse of the white miter of a bishop. Doubtless one of his father's "high born guests." Justin raised his head defiantly, fists clenching at his sides, as Aubrey flung a quick glance over his shoulder, then reluctantly stepped aside to admit the others.

Justin was never to be sure why he did it. It may have been the desperate look upon his father's face. It may have been habit, for he had a lifetime's experience in deferring to the bishop's wishes. It may even have been Molly's gentle rebuke, "He tried to do right by you, lover, as much as he was able." But at the last moment, he ducked out of sight behind the high altar.

The quiet chapel was suddenly filled with people, two of them in the sumptuous silk copes worn by princes of the Church. One of them Justin recognized from his years in Lord Fitz Alan's service: William de Vere, Bishop of Hereford. The other bishop was not known to him, a man whose youth was a distant memory, with a girth that bespoke a fondness for good food and fine wine, a florid complexion, engaging smile, and shrewd calculating blue eyes. They were attended by the usual entourage of clerks and archdeacons and priests, who milled about like sheep until Aubrey hastily shepherded them toward a lancet window.

It was soon clear to Justin that his father had been bragging about his new stained-glass panels depicting the genealogy of the Lord Christ. The stained glass was indeed spectacular, but it was impossible for him to appreciate the artistry while crouched down behind the high altar. Already his body was protesting the awkward contortion of his spine, and his legs were beginning to cramp. He wanted them to depart as fervently as his father did, but they lingered, discussing the craftsmanship, praising Aubrey's estimable taste, even making favorable comparisons to the celebrated Stem of Jesse in the west window of Chartres's great cathedral. Because they were all learned churchmen, well versed in Scriptures, someone inevitably had to quote from the prophecy of Isaiah: "But a shoot shall sprout from the stump of Jesse, and from his roots a branch will bear fruit, and the spirit of the Lord shall rest upon him..." Someone else was then inspired to lapse into Latin, intoning solemnly, "
O rudix Jesse
," and Justin grimaced, for his muscles were constricting and he did not know how much longer he could hold his uncomfortable posture.

Eventually, though, Aubrey managed to nudge them into motion, and after a span that seemed interminable to Justin, he was alone in the chapel. Getting slowly to his feet, he sought to stretch himself back into shape, grateful that he'd been spared the mortification of discovery. What would his father have done? Mayhap accuse him of thievery, the easiest way to explain why he'd been hiding behind the altar.

He was in no friendly frame of mind when Aubrey returned. Closing the door, the bishop leaned back against it, and they regarded each other warily. Aubrey was the one to break the silence, saying in a low voice, "I thank you for not letting yourself be seen."

Justin's shoulders twitched in a half-shrug.

"Why are you here?" Aubrey asked, after another uncomfortable silence.

Justin withdrew the letters from his tunic, "I need you to send these to the queen. I am not sure where she is now, but I thought your messenger could go first to London and learn her whereabouts. There is a second letter for the abbess of Godstow priory." He paused, daring Aubrey to ask questions. "The letter to the queen is urgent. Can your man be ready to ride out today?"

"Yes, of course." Aubrey stepped forward and took the letters from Justin. "I will see to it myself, choosing one of my most reliable men.

Justin nodded, not knowing what else to say. He'd expected Aubrey to leave as soon as he had the letters, but the bishop remained where he was, watching him with an inscrutable expression. "One of my guests," he said abruptly, "was Hugh de Nonant, Bishop of Coventry and Lichfield. I am sure you've heard tales about him, none of them good."

Justin nodded again, for the Bishop of Coventry was rumored to be hand in glove with the queen's treacherous son, John. Aubrey hesitated, subjecting him to another intent scrutiny. "Last December... the night you forced your way into my great hall, Hugh de Nonant was here. He was curious about you and the scene you were causing, asked too many questions. He has an unholy ability to sniff out other men's secrets and then use them to his benefit. If he'd seen you again and learned that you serve the queen now, who's to say what he might have made of it?"

Justin did not want to see through Aubrey's eyes. He could not dismiss these fears out of hand, though. Any ally of John's was deserving of suspicion. "You should have told me about de Nonant. Had I known, I would have kept out of his sight."

"Yes... I should have," Aubrey agreed, to Justin's surprise. Tucking the letters away, he said briskly, "I will see to this straightaway. I think it best that you remain here a while longer. I will send Martin in to you as soon as it is safe for you to depart."

Justin said nothing, for what was there to say? His father turned, strode over to the door. He paused, then, his hand on the latch. His back was to Justin, his face not visible. "Aline," he said softly. "Your mother's name was Aline."

Chapter 16

August 1193

Llanelwy, North Wales

THE RIVER ELWY WAS A STONE'S THROW AWAY, BUT THE moon had been swallowed up by a passing cloud and Justin could no longer see it. He tilted his head to the side, listening to the soft, rhythmic rushing of the water. So hushed and tranquil was the night that he could easily have been lulled into complacency - were it not for his purpose here in the hamlet of Llanelwy: a secret meeting with a man who was neither friend nor foe, capable of becoming either one.

Turning away from the unseen river, he gazed up at the glimmering lights of St Asaph, the cathedral crowning the crest of the hill. It seemed odd to use so grand a word for so simple a structure, for this humble, wooden church bore little resemblance to the stone and stained glass cathedrals of England. It was perfect, though, for a meeting place. It was only a few miles from Rhuddlan Castle, near enough that Justin could ride out on his own without the need of Sion's escort, and convenient in that he could spend the night in St Asaph's guest house, offer the bishop's gatekeeper a few coins to slip him in and out, and then walk down the hill to await Llewelyn's arrival.

But if it was advantageous for Justin, Llanelwy was a potent death trap for Llewelyn ab Iorwerth, and he wondered why the Welshman had chosen it. It was dangerously close to Davydd's castle at Rhuddlan, deep in the heart of his domains. He supposed Llewelyn might argue that the best hiding place was sometimes in plain sight, but he could not help remembering Molly's tart warning about men who lusted after danger instead of whores. "Unpredictable and reckless," she'd called them. Not the sort of man he ought to be meeting alone at night in a deserted churchyard.

The moon had escaped the cloud's smothering confines, and silvered light illuminated the small cemetery. He'd been told by the guest house hospitaller that Thomas de Caldecott was buried here; his funeral had been held in the cathedral but its hallowed ground was reserved for its own. It was easy to find Thomas's grave; there were only two earthen mounds that indicated recent burials, and one was too small to be anything but the final resting place of a baby. Justin paused before that forlorn little grave, saying a prayer for the soul of its occupant. In England unbaptized infants could not be buried in consecrated ground. He thought the Welsh might be more generous in interpreting God's Word; at least he hoped so.

Moving toward Thomas de Caldecott's grave, he stood staring down at the bare, naked earth, the stark wooden cross. He offered no prayers for Thomas's soul. If the knight were to be forgiven, let it be by the Almighty. Neither the murdered men nor the three missing sailors could offer their forgiveness. And though she still breathed, he counted Angharad, too, amongst de Caldecott's victims.

"Is that the grave of the English slayer?"

Justin was not caught utterly by surprise; he'd taken notice at Aberconwy of Llewelyn's natural sense of drama. But the Welshman's ghostly approach was still impressive; he'd heard not so much as a twig's snap, a pebble's scrape. Turning without haste, as if he'd known of Llewelyn's presence all along, he said, "I ought to introduce you to Molly's phantom."

Llewelyn looked understandably puzzled. "English humor is one of life's great mysteries." Coming forward into the moonlight, he glanced down at the grave, then back at Justin. "A better resting place than he deserves, I daresay. Any idea who might have poisoned him?"

"Is there anyone in North Wales who
does
believe the man was stabbed?" Justin said wryly and caught the glimmer of a quick smile.

"Only those whose wits are addled by drink or grief," Llewelyn said, and Justin wondered if he knew about Angharad. "Sion saw the body and says there was no blood or visible wounds... other than
my
dagger thrust, of course."

"Are you claiming credit for another man's deed? Your uncle says Rhys ap Cadell wielded the blade."

"So I heard. Rhys was so pleased that Davydd remembers him." Llewelyn's lip curled. "My uncle is lucky indeed that Rhys was not prowling about Rhuddlan with a knife at the ready. When Rhys wants to take down a tree, he does not waste time lopping off branches, goes right for the roots."

"I suspect that you do, too."

Llewelyn did not deny it. "I suppose I am fortunate that I was not even born when the Archbishop of Canterbury was slain, or else Davydd would be blaming me for that death, too."

Thomas Becket had been murdered in December of God's Year 1170, so Justin had not been born then, either. But he was very familiar with the archbishop's story, as who in Christendom was not? Becket had died in his own cathedral, struck down by four knights who'd claimed that they'd acted on the king's behalf. Henry had passionately denied it, swearing that he'd spoken careless words in anger, no more than that, and eventually he'd convinced the Church. Even those who did not believe him to be guilty, though, did not believe him to be innocent, either. Whether he'd intended it or not, his Angevin rage had unleashed evil, and in perhaps the greatest irony of all, the man who'd been his beloved friend and then his mortal enemy became a holy martyr, canonized as a saint.

Justin had always been intrigued by the enigmatic figure of the archbishop, in part because his father was a great admirer of Thomas Becket. He'd often spoken of his brief meeting with the archbishop, scant weeks before Becket's murder, and Justin had been awed that someone he knew had actually spoken with a saint.

When he entered the queen's service, he'd yearned to ask her about Becket, but he never dared, and only once had she made mention of the tragic feud that brought such grief to both her husband and his archbishop, remarking cryptically that she'd have given a great deal to witness the first meeting between Henry and Becket in the afterlife. Justin had been shocked enough to blurt out, "In Heaven?" for he'd taken it for granted that King Henry would have to endure centuries in Purgatory to repent his earthly sins. Eleanor had looked at him and laughed, reading his thoughts with her usual ease. "Actually," she'd murmured, "I was envisioning them both in Hell," and then laughed again at the stunned expression on his face.