Dragon's Lair

by Sharon Kay Penman

  They had just reached the alehouse when the door flew open and a ghostly apparition stumbled out. He was coated in whitewash; it dripped from his hair and squished out of his boots, splattering the ground with his every stride. Justin and Jonas, with fine teamwork, veered off to either side, letting him splash between them. As they watched, he ran across the street and dived into the horse trough in front of the smithy.

  The noise coming from the alehouse was loud and raucous. But a silence fell at the sight of the sheriff's serjeant and the queen's man. Jonas's gaze moved slowly over the crowd before settling on Aldred and Nell. Aldred flushed and tried to edge away. Nell stood her ground and shook her head when Jonas asked, "Is this some thing I need know about?"

  "No," she said, and he nodded.

  "Good," he said and entered the alehouse, carefully stepping over a puddle of whitewash in the doorway. Justin followed him in toward a table that had suddenly become free; people tended to give Jonas space. Aldred soon sidled over and sat down. After a few moments, Nell joined them with a tray of ales. Pulling up a stool for herself, she smiled brightly.

  "So... did you have any luck with your ransom hunt?"

  "I see Aldred has been babbling again," Jonas said, sounding more resigned than irked.

  Aldred squirmed and then seized his chance to deflect attention away from his latest lapse. "Look, Justin, your landlord is here."

  Justin turned to see Gunter entering the alehouse. He didn't think of the blacksmith in those terms, but he supposed Aldred was right; he did rent Gunter's cottage. Half-rising, he beckoned to attract Gunter's eye, and Nell and Aldred moved over to make room for the farrier at their table. Gunter did not sit down, though.

  "The queen sent a messenger to your cottage this afternoon, Justin. She wants to see you straightaway."

  ~*~

  Justin was ushered at once into the queen's private chamber at Westminster, for her household knew that he was one of her agents, one of those mysterious men who came and went at odd hours on covert missions better left to the imagination. Eleanor was dictating a letter to St Martial's Abbey in Limoges. Justin heard enough to recognize it as a personal appeal to the abbot, requesting one hundred marks for Richard's ransom. He knew Limoges was in her overseas domains and he was interested, but not at all surprised, to learn that she was exacting payment from Aquitaine as well as England. He did not doubt that if she could, she'd have squeezed money from the Holy See.

  Eleanor glanced up as Justin entered and knelt at her feet, then gestured to her scribe, who gathered up his writing utensils. She also dismissed her other attendants, an indication that she had a highly confidential matter to discuss. That was usually the case, for all the services Justin had performed for the queen were related, directly or indirectly, to thwarting John's schemes while still protecting him from his own folly.

  Eleanor was in remarkable health for a woman of seventy-one years. The past seven months had taken their toll, though, as she'd first feared that her best-loved son was dead, only to learn that he was being held hostage in Germany by the Emperor Heinrich, an enemy who hated him as much as Philippe, the French king, did. Fatigue and dread and uncertainty had carved new furrows in her face, etched wrinkles around her eyes that none would ever call "laugh lines." This night she appeared exhausted, so pale and care worn that Justin felt a pang of alarm; he was not accustomed to seeing her look so vulnerable.

  Eleanor signaled for him to rise, and when she spoke, her voice sounded as it always did, well modulated and deliberative, resonating with the authority she'd wielded for much of her lifetime. "I have a question to put to you, Justin. You grew up in the Marches, so I assume you are more familiar than most with the region and its labyrinthine politics."

  Justin wasn't sure what labyrinthine meant, but he nodded, somewhat warily. "Yes, Madame, I know Shrewsbury well, Chester even better."

  "You understand English and read Latin, so you seem to have an ear for languages. What about Welsh?"

  "I am by no means fluent, my lady. But yes, I do have some grasp of it. I'd picked up a little as a lad, and whilst I was in Lord Fitz Alan's service, I learned more from another of his squires, who was half-Welsh."

  "Make ready," she said, "to leave for Wales on the morrow. Money meant for Richard's ransom has gone missing." She turned and rifled through a pile of parchments on the table until she found the one she wanted, "This is a letter from the Welsh prince Davydd ab Owain. The ransom he'd collected for Richard was stolen by a Welsh rebel."

  The name was vaguely familiar to Justin, and after a moment, the memory came into focus. Davydd ab Owain was a prince of North Wales, long allied with the English Crown. "What more can you tell me, Madame?"

  "Unfortunately, not much. When I referred to 'money' earlier, I was using the term loosely. The Welsh princes do not mint their own money and so the bulk of the ransom was wool from the Cistercian abbeys, although there were some coins and silver plate and jewelry, mayhap furs, too. Davydd says he'd sent it under guard to Chester, but it was ambushed by an outlaw named..." She glanced briefly at the letter. "... Llewelyn ab Iorwerth. The guards were slain and the ransom stolen. Needless to say, I want it back. It will be a god-given miracle if we can raise all the money demanded by that hellspawn Heinrich. I am not about to let Welsh brigands ruin Richard's chances of release."

  "You call this man an 'outlaw' and a 'rebel.' Which is he, Madame?"

  "According to Davydd, both. He is kin to Davydd - the Welsh are all inbred - and he has been trying to stir up rebellion, without much success. But he makes do with robbery and thieving and extortion. Here, read the letter for yourself."

  Justin moved toward the closest light, a sputtering cresset lamp. "Dayvdd is rather sparing with details. This letter tells us very little."

  "You noticed that, too," she said dryly. "His overriding concern seems to be escaping any blame for this disaster. Which is all I'd expect from the man."

  "Have you met Davydd, Madame?"

  The corner of Eleanor's mouth curved. "Met him? I'm related to him, Justin." She did smile then at his look of surprise. "Davydd ab Owain is my brother-by-marriage. He is wed to my husband's sister Emma."

  Justin blinked. "I thought King Henry had two brothers. I remember nothing of a sister..."

  "Emma is Harry's half-sister, one of Geoffrey of Anjou's bastards. Davydd pressed very hard for the marriage and because Harry needed Welsh support at the time, he agreed, albeit reluctantly. But he never thought very highly of Davydd. Nor did Emma. Or so I've been told," she added, an ironic aside so oblique that it took a moment for Justin to realize this was an indirect reference to her imprisonment; at the time of Dayvdd's marriage to the Lady Emma, Eleanor was far from court, being held prisoner in a remote castle of her husband's choosing.

  Reading the letter a second time, Justin could not help thinking that this could well be the most challenging assignment that Eleanor had ever given him. "What would you have me do first, Madame?"

  "The Earl of Chester will be your most useful ally. If you need men, he'll provide them. The bishop may be of some help, too, for he knows Davydd and Emma well. Go first to Chester, see the earl and the bishop. And then you'll have to seek out Davydd in Wales. He keeps his court at Rhuddlan Castle."

  Justin in was no longer listening. She'd lost him from the moment that she mentioned the Bishop of Chester. He stared at her, incredulous. Surely she could not have forgotten that Aubrey de Quincy was his father? Unless... unless this was a stratagem, a means of bringing them together?

  "My lady queen, I.. " He paused, not knowing what to say. But as his eyes locked with hers, he saw the truth. She had not forgotten. Nor was she seeking to arrange a reconciliation. She knew how loath he was to see his father. It did not matter. Nothing mattered but Richard and the recovery of his ransom.

  Chapter 3

  August 1193

  Chester, England

  THE BISHOP OF CHESTER'S PALACE WAS LOCATED southeast of the city, just beyond th
e ancient Roman walls, adjacent to the cathedral church of St John. Justin drew rein at the sight of the gatehouse, not moving until his stallion began to fidget. Several months ago, he'd had to enter a lazar hospital in search of a killer. With some of the same dread that he'd felt at facing the lepers, he urged his mount forward into the precincts of his father's domain.

  He was dismounting at the stables when he heard his name called out. Handing the reins to a waiting groom, he turned to greet Martin, the bishop's steward. Martin's face was creased in a delighted smile, and Justin smiled back, thinking that at least there was one soul here who was pleased to see him.

  "Justin, I cannot tell you how much the sight of you gladdens my eyes. When you rode away last December, it was as if you'd vanished from the earth. I have often wondered where you were, how you were faring."

  Justin felt a dart of guilt that it had not occurred to him to let Martin know he'd landed on his feet. He owed Martin better than that, for his father's steward had always treated him with great kindness, almost as if he suspected the truth about Justin's identity.

  "I ought to have written to you, Martin, and I am sorry I did not. I should have known that... the bishop would not have told you that he'd encountered me in London after Whitsuntide. I hope we can find time to talk later, for I'd like nothing better than buy you an ale. But right now I need to see the bishop."

  Martin's face shadowed. His obvious dismay confirmed Justin's suspicions - Martin knew he was the bishop's son. "You need not worry, Martin. I am not here to stir up trouble. The bishop will see me, for I am bearing a letter from the queen."

  ~*~

  Aubrey de Quincy had taken Eleanor's letter to the open window, and as he read, the afternoon sun glistened upon the silvered strands at his temples. Justin hadn't realized he was going so grey, for it was usually disguised by the fairness of his hair. Justin's own coloring was dark, and try though he might, he could see nothing of himself in the man by the window. He supposed he must have gotten his black hair from his mother, though it was not likely that he'd ever know for sure. He had no memories of her, nothing but the gossip of an old woman who'd been the refectory cook in his father's parish. He'd never even been told her name.

  Aubrey was taking a long time to read a brief letter, and Justin wondered if he felt the same unease, the same desire to be elsewhere, to be anywhere but the bishop's palace at Chester. The last time they'd spoken, it had ended badly, with his father angrily warning him to keep silent and him hitting back with the only weapon at hand, telling Aubrey that Queen Eleanor already knew the truth. Justin knew the queen's letter made use of the surname he had no legal right to claim, for she'd shown it to him before sealing it. He imagined the words Justin de Quincy must have leapt off the parchment at his father; had he taken it as a royal threat? A reminder that the queen knew the secret he'd sought to hide for so long?

  When Aubrey at last looked up, it was with a smile that was as fleeting as it was forced. "Well, the queen must have great faith in you, Justin, to entrust a matter of such importance to you."

  It had not sounded like a compliment - there was too much surprise in his father's tone for that - and Justin acknowledged it with a shrug. "It is not as if I am expected to find the missing ransom all by myself. I can rely upon the Earl of Chester for what ever help I need. And Davydd ab Owain, too. I daresay no one is more eager to retrieve the ransom than he is."

  Aubrey nodded, "Yes... Davydd must be in a frenzy, and he has never been known for his serene, steadfast nature in the best of times."

  This was an ideal opening and Justin was grateful for it; he much preferred to confine their conversation to the facts of the robbery, and he suspected that his father did, too. "The queen told me that you know both Davydd and his wife, the Lady Emma. What can you tell me about him?"

  "Davydd's father was a remarkable man, a great prince. Davydd is neither."

  It was a harsh assessment, but Justin knew that his father was not a man to make allowances for human frailty, not even his own. "What else?"

  Aubrey gestured toward a carved wooden bench and they both sat, somewhat awkwardly. "I suppose you ought to know the manner of the man you'll be dealing with. Davydd has ruled Gwynedd east of the River Conwy for the past twenty or so years. After his father's death, Davydd and his younger brother, Rhodri, banded together and ambushed their half-brother Hywel, the heir-apparent. Hywel was slain; a pity, for he was a fine poet. Davydd and Rhodri soon turned on each other and for a brief time, Davydd ruled all of Gwynedd. These days he divides his time between his castle at Rhuddlan and his manors in Shropshire."

  Justin's eyebrows rose. "A Welsh prince dwelling in England?"

  "I imagine his wife prefers Shropshire to Wales; how could she not? But Davydd also sets great store by his ties to the English Crown. He is King Richard's uncle, if only by marriage, and rarely misses an opportunity to boast of it."

  "You do not like him much," Justin observed, and Aubrey's mouth quirked.

  "Few do," he said dryly. "Davydd does not hold the hearts of his people in the palm of his hand. He is a man of mediocre abilities who has been blessed with good luck, high birth, and a very beautiful wife."

  Justin was remembering what he'd been told, that Emma was he illegitimate daughter of Count Geoffrey of Anjou. Geoffrey had been dead for many years, so Emma must be well past her youth. "You mean she was once a beauty?"

  "Was and is," Aubrey said, faintly amused by Justin's polite attempt to disguise his disbelief. "She is a year or two past her fourth decade, which doubtless sounds as old as Methusaleh to a lad of twenty. But trust me in this, Justin. Emma of Anjou is still a beautiful woman."

  Justin was surprised, both that his father had remembered his age and that he spoke so warmly of the Lady Emma. "What can you tell me of her marriage?" he asked, suddenly very curious to see Davydd's wife for himself.

  "They've been wed for nigh on twenty years, have a son and a daughter if my memory serves. I first met her some years ago in Shropshire, ere I was made an archdeacon. I found her to be a lady of grace and piety and dignity. I trust you will bear that in mind during this investigation of yours, Justin."

  "I will do my best not to shame you," Justin said, saw the muscles clench along his father's jaw, and regretted his rash words. Rising, he bent dutifully over the bishop's ring. "I thank you for sharing your thoughts with me."

  Aubrey rose, too. "I assume you will go now to see the Earl of Chester?" When Justin nodded, the bishop's eyes narrowed and his voice iced over. "You have been taking a great liberty in making use of the de Quincy name. That you do this with the queen's approval does not make it right. I shall expect you to conduct yourself with decorum and discretion whilst you are in Chester."

  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."