Recognition was mutual. FitzAlan’s look of surprise soon gave way to one of astonishment, for Justin was not quick enough to stop Thomas introducing him, with a flourish, as ‘the queen’s man’. In other circumstances, the Marcher lord’s befuddlement might have been comical, but Justin could find no humour in his present predicament. His feelings for his father were a confused welter of aggrieved, often contradictory emotions. For all of his bravado, he did not want to alienate and embarrass the bishop with a public scandal. Now, finding himself face to face with the man he least wanted to see, who was bound to realize the significance of his claim to the de Quincy name, he did not know how he could deflect FitzAlan’s curiosity or suspicion.
He was given a brief reprieve when the prince’s steward insisted upon ushering them out of the sun and into the great hall. Justin, Thomas and their men were herded inside, where they were offered mead or wine; hospitality was the eleventh Commandment for the Welsh. Thomas was clearly at home here, exchanging jests and greetings with several of the Welshmen in the hall. Almost as if reading Justin’s mind, he said, ‘For the past year I have acted as the earl’s liaison with Lord Davydd, so I’ve been to Rhuddlan often enough to make a few friends and...’ he grinned ‘... tempt a lass or two.’
He turned then to Garwen and slid smoothly into Welsh, telling the steward that once he was back in Chester he’d arrange to have masses said for poor Rhun’s soul. Garwen smiled, shook his head, and said something too quickly for Justin to follow. Thomas looked surprised, but then he smiled, too. ‘Rhun is the lad who was left for dead. We thought that he was not long for this world, but Garwen just told me that not only is he still amongst the living, they think he is on the mend.’ He held up his hand before Justin could speak. ‘Alas, Rhun’s good fortune is not ours. Garwen says he has no memory whatsoever of the ambush.’
Justin swore silently. ‘Is his memory gone for good?’
Thomas shrugged. ‘Who knows? Apparently loss of memory is not uncommon with head injuries like Rhun’s.’
Before Justin could respond, there was a stir at the end of the hall. Garwen sprang to his feet, with Thomas behind him. Justin rose, too, watching as Davydd ab Owain strode towards them. The Earl of Chester had described him as ‘aged’. Justin was surprised, therefore, to find that the Welsh prince was not that decrepit or doddering for a man who’d lived fifty-five winters.
Davydd’s dark eyes were pouchy, his hairline was receding, and he’d long ago lost the lean, hungry look of his youth. But he was still a handsome man. His chestnut hair was only lightly salted with grey, his step had the swagger of one accustomed to wielding power, and he bore his years lightly. It was obvious, though, that the missing ransom was weighing heavily upon his mind: he looked starved of sleep and it was hard to imagine that tautly drawn mouth relaxing into a smile.
He held the queen’s letter, crumpled in his fist, came straight to Thomas and said abruptly, ‘Is this the queen’s man?’
Justin was glad it was a humid summer’s day. If it had been midwinter, the chill of Davydd’s welcome might have given him a bone chill. ‘I do not understand why the queen has sent you to me, Master de Quincy. What I need are enough armed men to track Llewelyn ab Iorwerth to his lair and recover the stolen ransom. I do not see what you can do. What do you know about Llewelyn? About Wales? Do you even speak Welsh?’
Justin caught his breath, held it until he was sure his voice would reveal nothing of his inner fury. That brief moment gave him enough time, though, to devise a new stratagem, one born of Davydd’s contempt. Rather than try to change the Welsh prince’s low opinion of him, why not use it to his own advantage?
‘I seek only to serve the queen’s grace... and you, of course, my lord prince. I am honoured by her trust in me, and I am confident I can justify it. I grant you that I speak little Welsh, but I do not see why that would hinder my investigation. I have men with me to act as translators, after all.’ He’d been striving to sound ingratiating, indignant and just a bit pompous, and to judge by the disdainful expression on Davydd’s face, he had succeeded.
‘So be it,’ Davydd said coldly. ‘We will, of course, cooperate fully with your investigation.’ He was not particularly convincing, nor did Justin think he’d meant to be. Almost at once, he turned away and beckoned impatiently to Thomas de Caldecott.
‘I will be relying upon you, Sir Thomas,’ he said, ‘to do what must be done. God alone knows what the queen was thinking to send me this green stripling. He is a nobody, not even a knight! I was a fool to put my hopes in a woman, ought to have known better. If I am to recover the ransom from that whoreson nephew of mine, I shall have to do it myself!’
This diatribe had been given in Welsh, and Justin sought to keep his expression bland, uncomprehending. He had not expected to reap benefits so soon from his professed ignorance of the language. He’d learned quite a lot in that angry outburst. That Davydd’s dislike was not personal. That his pride was overblown and his temper easily inflamed. That he trusted Thomas, at least to some extent. And that his desire to retrieve the ransom was raw, real and desperate.
Thomas looked apologetically towards Justin. ‘My lord Davydd, I think you are too quick to dismiss Master de Quincy’s capabilities. If Queen Eleanor has such faith in him, surely that says something about his –’
‘It tells me only that the queen is in her dotage, entrusting a matter of such importance to a callow youngling like that!’
Justin wanted to hear the rest of Davydd’s remarks, for he’d rarely have such an ideal opportunity again to eavesdrop. But it was then that Lord FitzAlan grasped his arm, pulling him aside. ‘We must talk,’ he demanded. ‘Now!’
Justin knew FitzAlan well enough not to argue and followed the older man to the bailey. Squinting in the sudden blaze of white sunlight, FitzAlan at once took the offensive. ‘What sort of ruse is this, Justin? What is this nonsense about your being the queen’s man? And why are you now calling yourself de Quincy? Does Aubrey know about this?’
Justin sighed, feeling rather ill-used by the fates. ‘It is no ruse, my lord. I am the queen’s man. It was her suggestion that I call myself de Quincy. And of course the bishop knows.’
FitzAlan continued to scowl. ‘None of this makes any sense! It is not even a year since I dismissed you from my service, and you are at the royal court?’
‘As unlikely as it sounds, my lord, that is exactly what happened. I cannot satisfy your curiosity, for the queen demands discretion from those who serve her. I do not expect you to take my word for this, though.’ Justin reached for the scrip at his belt and drew out a tightly rolled parchment sheet. ‘This is a letter from the queen attesting to my authority to act upon her behalf. I am sure you recognize her seal.’
FitzAlan’s eyes locked upon the wax emblem. He snatched the letter and began to read, occasionally throwing Justin an incredulous glance. Justin waited, thanking God for Eleanor’s foresight in realizing he might have need of such a warrant. The letter was deliberately effusive in its praises; after handing it to him, Eleanor had commented drily that she hoped it would not go to his head. He saw now that her embellishments had done the trick: FitzAlan was staring at him, mouth agape.
‘For the life of me, I cannot imagine how you accomplished this act of sorcery,’ the Marcher lord blurted out, shaking his head in disbelief. ‘But it is indeed clear that you do Queen Eleanor’s bidding. And – and your use of the de Quincy name, that is somehow meant to advance your investigation?’
Justin wasn’t surprised that FitzAlan sounded so tentative: it was a frail reed, but it had been the best he could come up with under the circumstances. He nodded, with what he hoped was an enigmatic smile. ‘The queen is relying greatly upon the bishop’s assistance in this matter,’ and he added, ‘As is the Earl of Chester.’ That name couldn’t hurt his cause.
It seemed to work, at least for now. FitzAlan was confounded by the series of surprises that had been sprung upon him that afternoon, and would need time to mull them over. Justin did not doubt that FitzAlan’s suspicions would surface again, and hoped he could warn his father before they did. FitzAlan’s demeanour had changed dramatically: Justin was no longer a former squire of dubious origins but a trusted agent of the Crown and, possibly, the Church, so the Marcher lord treated him accordingly, sounding almost friendly as they retraced their steps towards the great hall.
They were almost there when FitzAlan paused to acknowledge a woman walking in their direction. She was strikingly attractive, with the dark hair and eyes so common to the Welsh. Later, Justin would realize that her allure came more from her exuberance and vivacity than from physical charms. Now he was aware only of the impact she made upon him. FitzAlan introduced her as one of Lady Emma’s handmaidens, and Justin was quick to kiss her hand, more than willing to linger in the sun and flirt with the bewitching young Welshwoman. Her name was Angharad, her French was quite good, and when she smiled, he was bedazzled, until he saw that she was gazing over his shoulder: her beguiling, seductive smile was meant for Thomas de Caldecott.
Justin’s father had not been wrong. Emma of Anjou, in her forty-second year, was still a lovely woman. Justin could only guess at the colour of her hair, for it was covered by a white silk wimple and veil, but her skin was so fair that he’d have wagered it was flaxen, a shade of summer sunlight. Her eyes were blue sapphires, her cheekbones high and delicately drawn, her chin pointed, her mouth accented by two deep dimples. Hers was an ethereal, gossamer beauty, hers the elegance of queens, the purity of the Holy Madonna. Most men did not look upon her with lust. They gazed into the depths of those bottomless blue eyes and discovered chivalric impulses they had not even known they had, protective instincts that they’d believed dead since childhood.
Justin had been given a seat far down the table, as befitted his lowly status, but Davydd had seated Thomas de Caldecott upon the dais with Lord FitzAlan. Justin did not mind the slight, for his seat afforded him an unobstructed view of the high table, enabling him to study the Welsh prince and his consort without attracting attention. He’d been told that Davydd and Emma had two children, but neither was present at Rhuddlan: they had been sent to live in noble households, as was customary for the offspring of the high-born. He conceded that Davydd and Emma made a handsome couple, although he saw little evidence of intimacy between them. They seemed very much the lord and lady of the manor, courteous to all, accessible to none. Justin had joined much of Christendom in taking an immediate and intense dislike to Davydd, yet he’d so far formed no impression of Emma. She’d greeted him far more politely than her husband, but her formality was an effective shield, keeping her thoughts private and the world at arm’s length.
The meal was more elaborate than the evening suppers Justin was accustomed to, for the Welsh served dinner at day’s end rather than at noon as they did across the border. He had his first swallow of mead, the honey and malt drink so favoured by the Welsh, and decided it must be an acquired taste. Once dinner was over, Davydd’s bard was called upon to sing for the guests. Justin decided that he would not be missed, and slipped away with Padrig, the young Welshman on loan from the Earl of Chester.
The bailey of Rhuddlan Castle was crowded with wooden buildings: the great hall, kitchen and kiln, stables and barn, privy chambers, kennels, a chapel, and quarters for those not bedding down in the great hall. Justin had stopped a groom and was instructing Padrig to find out where the lad Rhun was lodged when he heard his name echoing on the evening air. Following the sound, he saw Thomas waving from beside the steps that led up the mound to the keep. Justin waved back and waited for Thomas to join him, noticing then that he was not alone. A woman stood behind him.
With Angharad on his arm, Thomas sauntered towards him. ‘We saw you make your escape and were not to be left behind. Why should we be trapped listening to dirges and laments for the glory of Wales whilst you fly away, free as a bird?’
‘You’re welcome to come too. I had it in mind to pay a visit to Rhun’s sickbed.’
They both seemed agreeable to that and fell in step beside Justin and Padrig. Directed by Angharad, they headed for a small building near the gatehouse. As they walked, Thomas entertained them with an accurate if unkind mimicry of Shropshire’s roving sheriff. He had FitzAlan’s mannerisms down pat and soon had Justin and Angharad laughing as he parodied the Marcher lord’s monopoly of much of the dinner conversation. He bragged that he could do a passable impression of the Welsh prince, too, but when he launched into it, Angharad feigned horror and slapped his wrist playfully, diverting the conversation to safer ground.
Justin was amused by how deftly she managed it, not shaming Thomas while keeping him from uttering any mockery that might be carried back to Davydd’s ears. It showed him that this young Welshwoman was as clever as she was comely, and that she’d obviously had some practice at reining in her lover’s antics before they got out of hand. That they were lovers, Justin did not doubt: the intimacy he had not seen between Davydd and Emma shone in every glance that passed between Thomas and Angharad, every lingering touch, every shared smile. He decided he should help Angharad, and distracted Thomas’s attention from the Welsh prince by asking why FitzAlan was at Rhuddlan, showing such interest in the robbery of the ransom. ‘It surprised me to see him playing so active a part in the hunt for Llewelyn. He is a long way from Shropshire, after all.’
‘Aye, and when Will Gamberell and the Cheshire sheriff hear of it, they will be none too pleased,’ Thomas said, grinning. ‘Will’s the city sheriff. As for the sheriff of the shire, he’ll be sorely enraged, too, for not even a hungry dog with a bone is as loath to share as a sheriff.’
‘So why, then, did FitzAlan ride all this way? What for?’
‘What? Are you blind, man? Did you not see the Lady Emma?’
‘Thomas!’ Angharad frowned, looking around hastily to make sure they’d not been overheard. ‘He is jesting,’ she assured Justin, ‘as always.’
‘I was not claiming that he is bedding her,’ Thomas protested. ‘The lady has better taste than that. No, I meant that he is a member of the brotherhood.’
‘I am probably going to regret asking,’ Justin said, ‘but which brotherhood?’
‘I call them the Guild of Emma’s Admirers. They esteem her with the fervour men usually bestow on the Blessed Virgin Mary. Be warned, Justin, for it might happen to you, too. One day you’re fine, the next you’re sighing at the sound of her name and writing bad verse in her honour.’
‘Thanks, Thomas. I’ll keep my guard up,’ Justin said lightly, wondering if his father had been a member of that brotherhood, and wondering, too, if Thomas had always been so immune to the Lady Emma’s charms.
Rhun was convalescing in the one-room cottage of Davydd’s gardener and his wife, the castle laundress. He lay on a straw-filled pallet, a slight, pitiful figure under a worn woollen blanket. Justin knew he was sixteen, but he looked even younger, his face chalky in the meagre illumination of a smoking rush-light. His head was wrapped in a wide strip of linen, smeared with ointment and soiled from handling. Lank brown hair stuck up round the bandage in spiked tufts, a splinted arm protruded from the blanket, and his chest rose and fell in the rapid rhythm of a troubled sleeper. Justin found himself thinking that the doctor who’d pronounced Rhun ‘on the mend’ must have been besotten with mead at the time, for Rhun did not look so to him. In fact, he bore an eerie resemblance to a corpse laid out before being sewn into a shroud.
His caretakers hovered on either side of the pallet, ill at ease and watchful, almost as if they feared being blamed for their patient’s poor condition. Padrig stood by, unneeded, as Thomas and Angharad took turns to interrogate the couple, and Justin listened to the ebb and flow of Welsh, reassured that the translations being offered for his benefit matched his own understanding of what was being said. In this alien land of so many strangers, so many suspects, it was good to know that he could place some trust in Thomas and his Welsh mistress. As much as he wanted to question Rhun, he was hesitant to wake the youth, for sleep was Rhun’s only refuge. He was still deciding when the Welshman’s lashes flickered.
Rhun’s eyes were dilated and dazed, and Justin realized he’d been given a potion for his pain. He seemed surprised to find so many people clustered round his bed. ‘You came back...’ he murmured drowsily, smiling at Thomas, who seemed embarrassed at being caught out in a good deed and mumbled that he’d looked in on the lad earlier, wanting to see for himself how he was faring. When Thomas asked him if he could remember anything about the ambush, his denial was clear, unambiguous and convincing. No, he said softly, almost apologetically, he remembered nothing. And Justin saw that his one witness to the robbery was going to be of no help whatsoever.
The next morning, Justin and Thomas rode out to the scene of the ambush. Thomas had been there before so they did not need to put Davydd’s grudging offer of help to the test by asking for a guide. The charred remains of the haywains had been dragged to the side of the road so travellers could pass. Justin walked about in the ashes, finding a scrap from one of the woolsacks, kicking at a scorched axle. He looked in vain for ruts in the road, but was not surprised by his failure to find any, given the amount of time that had passed since the robbery: rain and trampling feet had obliterated whatever clues there might have been. The site told him little of the crime, nothing at all of the whereabouts of the ransom.
‘It is an odd place for an ambush,’ he said to Thomas. ‘They must have waited in that copse of alder trees over there, but we passed several spots that would have offered better cover. I suppose they felt they had nothing to fear, that those poor wretches would be able to offer little resistance. That is another thing I do not understand. Why be so brutal? Why kill them all?’
‘I dare say to keep us from finding out who was behind it.’
Justin was not convinced by Thomas’s logic. Why should Llewelyn ab Iorwerth care if Davydd knew of his theft? He was doing his damnedest to overthrow Davydd, after all. But Llewelyn might care if the Crown knew he was the culprit. Why bring down upon himself the vengeful fury of the English queen if it were not necessary? The problem was that he knew almost nothing of this shadowy adversary. Was Llewelyn more than a mere outlaw? His ambitions were grand enough, for certes, but what of his abilities? Was he shrewd enough to look that far ahead, to consider his future relations with the English king? Most of the brigands Justin had encountered were rash, reckless men who acted on impulse, not considering the consequences until the morrow. That Llewelyn had burned the woolsacks argued for a cool, calculating brain, one capable of sacrificing short-term profit for long-term gain. And yet there was something about this robbery that did not ring true, something shocking about this wanton destruction of property and men. Justin could not pinpoint his unease, knew only that, as he looked around this desolate, barren crime scene, he was not satisfied with the story Davydd would have him believe.
‘Such a waste,’ he said sombrely, raking the tip of his boot through the ashes, cinders and soot that had once been wool worth its weight in gold. Wasted lives, wasted riches, wasted opportunities. How could he tell the queen that the bulk of the ransom was beyond recovery? Even if he somehow managed to retake a portion of the stolen goods, would that be enough for Eleanor?
Thomas had come over to stand beside him in the road. ‘What now?’ he asked, and Justin shrugged. He would that he knew.
Upon their return to Rhuddlan Castle, Justin paid another visit to young Rhun, but it was more a courtesy call than an interrogation. Even if the lad’s memory did come back, did it truly matter except to Rhun? What could he know, after all?
Justin continued to use either Padrig or Thomas as his interpreter and, by day’s end, he’d questioned all of the men who’d been sent out to search once word had reached Rhuddlan of the ambush. He learned that Davydd was not held in the highest regard by those who served him. He learned that the Welsh reputation for recalcitrance and blunt-spokenness was well earned. They viewed him with suspicion and scorn, doubly damned him as both a foreigner and an Englishman. He did not learn anything that even remotely resembled a clue, anything that might help him solve this frustrating crime or dispel his misgivings.
Dinner that evening was not a pleasant experience. Once again he was banished to the far end of the table, and watched in brooding silence as Davydd and Lord FitzAlan dominated the conversation and Lady Emma kept her eyes downcast and her opinions to herself. The talk was mainly of Llewelyn, and the prince and the sheriff took turns to damn him to the hotter reaches of Hell. Justin was surprised to discover that Llewelyn had been raised in Shropshire: his widowed mother had wed a Marcher lord when he was ten. What he learned next was even more surprising, that Llewelyn had begun his rebellion against Davydd at the tender age of fourteen. It was becoming quite clear to Justin that, in his letter to the queen, Davydd had greatly underplayed the threat posed by Llewelyn. The truth was that the Welsh prince was scared half out of his wits by his nephew’s rebellion.
Before he retired for the night, Justin went to the stables to check on his stallion, for Copper was his most prized possession, his heart’s pride. Seeing no reason to hurry back to the hall, he found a brush and was currying the chestnut’s burnished reddish-gold coat when Angharad appeared. She was looking for Thomas, she said; not finding him, she stayed to chat, overturning a bucket for a seat and arranging her skirts as gracefully as if she were sitting on a throne.
‘You seemed downcast at dinner, Iestyn,’ she said forthrightly, flavouring her French with an appealing Welsh lilt and using the Welsh form of Justin’s name. ‘Will the queen punish you if you fail in your mission?’ When he shook his head, she smiled brightly. ‘I am glad you will not be blamed, for I do not think this will come to a good end.’
‘Nor do I, Angharad.’
‘Mind you, I cannot complain for myself. This robbery brought Thomas back much more quickly than I dared hope.’ This time her smile was impish. ‘So you might want to consider me a suspect, for I was one of the few to benefit from the ransom’s loss.’
Justin smiled, too. ‘Few, indeed... you and whoever took it.’
‘You do not think it was Llewelyn?’
‘I do not know,’ he admitted. ‘Most likely it was, but I’ve never been able to accept the easiest, most obvious answer. I want it all to make sense, to fit the puzzle pieces together. And in this case several are missing.’
‘And they are... ?’ she prompted.
He hesitated, but only for a moment. It often helped to muse aloud about the more baffling aspects of a case, and he saw no harm in testing speculations and suppositions upon an audience, especially an audience as attractive as Angharad. ‘Well... I am bothered by the burning of the wool. Something does not feel right about that. It seems to be such an extreme measure to take.’
‘I know,’ she said. ‘I thought so, too. As for Lord Davydd... when he was told about the wool, I thought he was like to have an apoplectic fit, he was so distraught. I think it was only then that he realized the queen would blame him as much as Llewelyn for the loss.’
‘As well she should,’ Justin said ungenerously. ‘If he had not sent the ransom off in two haywains with no guards to speak of, the robbery would not have been possible. I could not imagine a man making a decision so foolish until...’
He let the sentence trail off, deciding it would be indiscreet, but Angharad shared his opinion of the Welsh prince. ‘...until you met Davydd,’ she said, and they grinned at each other. ‘Actually,’ she confided, ‘he surprised me by how well he took the news at first. He has always been one for raving and ranting, cursing his lot and bewailing his ill fortune whenever he suffers a setback. But to give him his due, when they brought word of the robbery he was calm and composed. It was only after he learned of Selwyn’s death and the loss of the wool that he unravelled like a ball of yarn.’
‘I suppose it has been hard for the Lady Emma, putting up with his foul temper.’
‘The Lady Emma,’ she said, ‘knows what a wife’s duties are.’
Justin was not sure what to make of that cryptic remark. He decided to continue fishing, and said innocently, ‘Then Davydd is indeed a fortunate man, having a wife who is as biddable as she is beautiful. I should be so lucky.’
Angharad took the bait. The look she gave him was cool. ‘It never ceases to amaze me,’ she said, ‘how easily you men are beguiled by a pretty face. There’s not one of you who wouldn’t embrace mortal sin as long as it took a shapely female form.’
Justin concealed a smile. ‘Especially if it took a shapely female form.’
Angharad pretended to scowl. ‘I do believe you have been having fun at my expense, Master de Quincy.’
‘Yes, Mistress Angharad, I believe so, too,’ Justin agreed gravely. But when their eyes met, they both began to laugh.
‘There is no need to be underhanded,’ she chided. ‘If you have questions about the Lady Emma, ask me. How else can I know if I am willing to answer them or not?’
His first question was not one she was expecting. ‘You do not like her much, do you?’
‘I do not like her at all.’
‘Why not, Angharad?’
‘Well... I could tell you. But I do not think I will.’ Her dark eyes were teasing. ‘I think it best that you find out for yourself why I love that lady not.’ She rose, and smoothed her skirts without haste.
Justin waited until she’d almost reached the door. ‘Tell me this, then. I have been watching FitzAlan and I think your Thomas is right. He is smitten with her. Do you think she has been encouraging his attentions?’
‘My Thomas. I like that,’ she murmured. ‘As you knew I would. Tall, dark, handsome and devious... a dangerous mix. I think I shall have to keep a close watch on you, Iestyn.’ She sauntered away, then glanced back over her shoulder. ‘Of course Emma encourages his attentions. She needs male admiration the way I need air to breathe. But to answer the question you were really asking... No, she is not an unfaithful wife.’
‘Are you so sure of that?’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I am.’
‘Why is it,’ Justin asked, ‘that I do not think you’re praising her virtue?’
Angharad tilted her head, regarding him with a delphic smile. ‘I have a riddle for you,’ she said. ‘When is virtue not a virtue? If you can answer that, you’ll know why I do not like the Lady Emma.’
Even after she’d gone Justin could catch her scent; like her presence, it lingered. He stood there for a time, not moving until Copper nudged his shoulder. ‘Sorry, boy, I have no apples.’ He stroked the stallion’s velvety muzzle. ‘Are you wondering what I was doing? Was I flirting, gossiping or investigating?’ Copper snorted softly, nudging him again, and Justin laughed. ‘Damned if I know!’ And yet he sensed, for reasons he could not have articulated, that the Lady Emma was one of those missing puzzle pieces.