Dragon's Lair

by Sharon Kay Penman

  "Well, I do not." Thomas got slowly to his feet, stood for a moment staring down at Justin with an odd expression, one that put him in mind of the unblinking stare of a peregrine falcon, pitiless and predatory and impersonal. When he moved away, Justin let him get several feet before firing the last arrow in his quiver.

  "Maes!" he called out, and saw Thomas stiffen, a reaction as involuntary as it was damning. The other man swung around and as their eyes met, Justin smiled, with no humor whatsoever. "This is something else I learned in Chester," he said, "An obliging wanton with a gift for languages told me that Maes is Flemish for Thomas."

  The knight said nothing, nothing verbal. He simply turned and walked away. But he stayed in the hall for the rest of the evening, and whenever Justin glanced up, he found Thomas watching him. Justin would have insisted that he was unaffected by that malevolent gaze, and he'd have been lying. The knight was sitting in another window seat, paying little heed to Angharad, who'd joined him uninvited and was talking with a forced, frantic animation that was painful for Justin to see. Thomas was drinking heavily, but showed no ill effects from the wine, and Justin remembered his jovial boast, that he could drink anyone under the table. It was barely a month since they'd had that alehouse conversation, but it already seemed a lifetime ago to Justin.

  He bedded down again in the great hall, taking care to spread his blankets in the midst of Davydd's sleeping soldiers. He did not think that Thomas would risk waking any of the other men, but sleep still eluded him for much of the night. Every noise seemed magnified, the snoring of his neighbors, the thudding of his own heart, the haunting cry of an owl on the scent of prey. He hastily blessed himself at that, for all knew the owl was a harbinger of death. Sometime before dawn, he finally slept.

  He was awakened with a jolt, jerking upright with a ragged gasp. All around him, men were stirring, cursing, yawning. Justin sat up, staring like the others, at the youth in the doorway. He was young and scared, but he looked excited, too, to be the bearer of such news.

  "They found a body in the chapel," he cried. "There has been murder done!

  Chapter 14

  August 1193

  Rhuddlan Castle, Wales

  JUSTIN'S FIRST FEAR WAS AN ILLOGICAL DREAD THAT RHUN WAS the victim. His second fear was for Angharad. He was unprepared, therefore, when he burst into the chapel and found himself looking down at the body of Thomas de Caldecott. The knight lay on his back, arms outstretched in a pose oddly suggestive of the Crucifixion. His gaze was blind, the pupils so dilated that his eyes looked black, the corneas clouded and opaque. There was no blood that Justin could see, but the cause of death appeared obvious at first glance: there was a dagger hilt protruding from his chest.

  Since entering the queen's service, Justin had learned much about dead bodies, too much for his liking. Kneeling beside Thomas, he touched the man's face with the back of his hand. The skin was cool. It was also dark, the shade of raw liver. Justin's eye brows shot upward. Mastering his distaste, he carefully lifted Thomas's head, just enough to see that the skin on the back of his neck was blanched of all color. The body was already stiffening, rigid and ungainly. Justin closed those flattened, staring eyes before making the sign of the cross over the corpse.

  He already knew the body had been moved. One glance around chapel told him that wherever Thomas had died, it was not in God's House. He was studying the dagger hilt, leather bound in cord, when Davydd noticed his presence. "You!" Striding forward, he thrust his finger in Justin's face. "This is your fault. His blood on your hands!"

  Justin was incredulous. "What… you think I killed him?"

  Davydd's eyes narrowed, and for a chilling moment, Justin bought he was seriously considering such an accusation, wondering if he could get away with it. "No," he said, with pronounced reluctance. "I am saying that Thomas would not have died if you'd heeded me from the first."

  By now Justin was on his feet. "I do not understand what you're talking about."

  "That is the trouble, you've understood nothing! I told you that Llewelyn ab Iorwerth was the one who stole the ransom. If you'd done as I wanted and asked the Earl of Chester for his help, Llewelyn would be imprisoned or dead weeks ago. For certes, he would not have been able to murder Thomas!"

  Justin could conceal neither his disbelief nor his scorn. "You expect us to believe that Llewelyn was skulking around your own stronghold in the dead of night?" Adding a prudent but unconvincing "my lord prince" as a sop to Davydd's vanity.

  "He did not do the deed himself," Davydd said impatiently. "One of his henchmen did... and I know which one. A sullen cutthroat named Rhys ap Cadell." Pointing toward Thomas's body. "That is his dagger. Look how distinctive it is. I'd know it anywhere."

  Justin did not bother to argue further; what would be the point? He waited until the priest approached Davydd, in great distress because the church had been contaminated by bloodshed and must be reconsecrated before Mass could be said there again. As soon as Davydd was occupied with his chaplain, Justin slipped out and went to look for the place where Thomas had really died.

  The last time he'd seen Thomas, he'd been standing in the doorway of the great hall. Based upon what he'd observed about the body, the knight had been dead for nigh on eight hours. So he must have died soon after leaving the hall. Where would he have gone?

  Glancing around the bailey, Justin saw several dogs hovering by the side of the smithy. He walked over, following a hunch more than logic. The dogs were nosing about the ground, licking the grass. As intently as Justin searched, he could find no traces of blood. He did notice an indentation in the earth, too oddly shaped to be a footprint. After a moment to reflect, he dropped to one knee, leaving an imprint similar to the first one. Whatever had happened to Thomas last night, it had happened here.

  A small crowd had gathered by the chapel. In the brief time that Justin had been out in the bailey, another half dozen people joined their ranks. Their circle broke to admit a newcomer. At the sight of Angharad, Justin lunged to his feet. "Angharad, wait!"

  He was too late. She was already in motion, running toward the chapel. She darted through the doorway, and then Justin heard her scream.

  ~*~

  Angharad was huddled on the floor next to Thomas's body, sobbing so uncontrollably that she finally attracted Davydd's attention. Swinging around, he snapped, "Someone see to that woman!"

  When one of his men moved toward her, Justin stepped in front of him. "Let her be," he said. "She needs to grieve."

  The man backed away, raising his hands to show he was merely following his prince's bidding. Davydd scowled at Justin, welcoming an excuse to lose his temper. "Who are you to interfere with my orders?"

  "Let me tend to her, then," Justin said tautly. Reaching down, he was attempting to get Angharad onto her feet when the door was pushed open and the Lady Emma entered the chapel.

  "Davydd? What in the world has happened? The servants are babbling about a murder, but I..." Her words trailed off at the sight of the body. Justin was close enough to hear her gasp. The color drained from her face so suddenly that he instinctively took a quick step toward her. But her eyes were already rolling back in her head, and before he could reach her, she crumpled to the floor next to the corpse of Thomas de Caldecott.

  ~*~

  Emma was the center of attention, being cosseted and attended to by her husband, his physician, his chaplain, and all of her handmaidens. It was left to Justin to do what he could for the anguished Angharad. Eventually he managed to get her away from her lover's body and back to Emma's chamber in the castle keep, where he pried the doctor from Emma's side long enough to give Angharad a mild sleeping draught. Then he went in search of Rolf.

  He found the other man in the stables, making ready to saddle his horse. Rolf was positioning a sweat cloth on the gelding's back and continued with his task even as Justin approached. "I ought to be able to get to Basingwerk Abbey by dusk," he said, reaching for the saddle at his feet. "What... no cheering? I
thought you'd be gladdened to see the last of me."

  "You're right. I do want to see the last of you. But there is something else I want to see first - that dagger of yours."

  Rolf paused, briefly, before adjusting the saddle girths. "And if I do not want to show it to you?"

  "Then we have a problem."

  Roll paused again, giving Justin an inscrutable glance over his shoulder. "Well, if it means that much to you..." Opening his mantle, he turned so that Justin could see the leather sheath and dagger hilt, "I usually do not draw it unless I plan to use it," he said, "but I suppose I can make an exception for you."

  Sliding the dagger from its sheath, he offered it, hilt first, to Justin, and then fastened the crupper to the saddle cantle. "Did you truly think I'd be stupid enough to knife a man and then leave it in his body? Especially a costly dagger like this one?"

  Justin handed the dagger back without comment and watched as Rolf tied his saddlebag to the crupper. "So Thomas de Caldecott dies and you ride off."

  "What other reason do I have to stay? The pleasure of your company?" Rolf smiled coldly. "Of course you might well have another mortal enemy lurking in the shadows, mayhap two or three. Somehow, I doubt you lack for enemies. But now that de Caldecott is on his way to Hell, you're on your own."

  "If you were here to watch my back, why did you not tell me?"

  "I'm sure you'd have been overjoyed to have me as an ally," Roll jeered. "Anyway, I was not watching you. I was here to watch de Caldecott, and he made it insultingly easy. Lords like him always do."

  Justin could not muster up even a whit of gratitude. Furious with himself for not guessing the truth sooner, he shook his head in disgust. "I ought to have known that this was Bennet or Molly's doing." Leaving unsaid the one reason why he hadn't reached that conclusion: because Rolf was too unsavory to connect to his friends. "How much did your help cost them?" he demanded, determined that they'd not deplete their meager savings on his behalf.

  "Nothing." Justin looked so skeptical that Rolf added grudgingly, "I owed Molly a debt. Now I do not."

  It was obvious to Justin that Rolf was not going to give him any answers, and he was not sure they were answers he would want. "There is no reason, then, to delay your departure, is there?"

  "You're welcome," Roll said sardonically. Picking up the reins, he began leading his horse toward the stable door. He'd been saving his best shot for last and delivered it now. "One more thing. It might interest you to know that de Caldecott tried to kill you last night."

  "How?"

  "Poison."

  "No," Justin said. "He had no opportunity to poison me. We shared a drink, but we took them from a lad toting a platter of wine and mead cups -" He stopped, for Rolf was smiling, a thin, knowing smile that was full of mockery.

  "Yes, de Caldecott had a friendly chat with that very lad earlier in the evening. From what I could overhear, he spun a story about his English friend - that would be you - not liking mead. After getting a coin, the boy was happy to saunter over once the two of you were sitting in the window seat, enabling de Caldecott to pick out two cups, apparently at random. Do I need to tell you that those two cups were ones he provided, supposedly filled with your favorite wine?"

  He looked so smug that Justin fought back an urge to hit him. "I did not drink his wine," he said. "I poured most of it into floor rushes."

  Roll smirked. "By then it was as pure as mother's milk."

  Justin stared at him, "You got the dogs to fighting."

  Roll nodded complacently. "Whilst the beasts were fighting over that bone, I replaced your cup with one of my own. Simple, fast, effective. A pity I could not just have switched the cups; that would have been a joke worthy of the Devil himself. But de Caldecott had taken care to make sure there'd be no confusion. You may not remember, but your cup was wooden, his made of horn."

  Justin did remember. "I find it hard to believe he'd be that desperate," he said, trying to convince himself more than Rolf. "If I died of a sudden, there would have been questions and suspicions for certes."

  Roll smirked again. "And that Welsh prince would have moved heaven and earth to bring your killer to justice... right? I'd wager you'd have been buried and forgotten in the time it took to dig your grave. I expect that de Caldecott was shrewd enough to pick the right poison, too. The man did seem to have a knack for killing. He'd not have wanted you to collapse at his feet, foaming at the mouth. Even Davydd would have been hard-pressed to ignore that. So that lets out some of the more popular poisons like hemlock, monkshood, henbane, or mandragora. De Caldecott would want something that would act fast, but not too fast."

  "You are remarkably well informed about poisons," Justin said slowly. "I cannot help wondering how you came by all this knowledge."

  "Are you not curious about de Caldecott's poison of choice? I figured he could have used saffron or cock's spur. I'd wager he went with nightshade, though. Not only would it take several hours to sicken you, you'd not have a prayer in Hell of recovery. With nightshade death is certain... and none too pleasant."

  He looked as if he expected Justin to ask for the gruesome details of a nightshade poisoning. Justin did not want to know. What if Roll had not intervened? Would a sip or two of de Caldecott's poisoned wine have been enough to kill? He would not have drunk any more than that, but would even a mouthful have been too much? Rolf could probably tell him, but that, too, he preferred not to know.

  "I owe you," he said tersely, aware of how ungracious that sounded. It was the best, though, that he could do. "How did you get rid of the wine? Are you sure that there was no way de Caldecott could have taken it by mistake?"

  It was the first time that he'd seen Rolf look amused. "Did I poison him? If I did, I'd hardly admit it to you, would I? I took the wine out to the bailey with the idea of testing it on one of the dogs. Mead would have been sweet enough to tempt them. But they just sniffed at the wine, so I have no proof that it was poisoned. Nor does it matter now. De Caldecott is beyond the reach of earthly justice."

  Justin had a fondness for dogs and he was looking at Rolf with such antipathy that the other man noticed. "What... " Getting no answer, he swung up into the saddle. "You do know that de Caldecott was not stabbed to death?"

  "Yes," Justin said grimly. "I know."

  Chapter 15

  August 1193

  Rhuddlan Castle, Wales

  THE DAY AFTER THOMAS DE CALDECOTT'S DEATH, IT rained. The sky darkened and a stinging salt wind blew off the ocean, ripping leaves from trees in a barren, bleak foretaste of winter. Justin had spent the morning doing what little he could to console Angharad. Her grief alarmed him; it was so intense, so overwhelming. It troubled him that the object of her love had been so unworthy of it, but he thought it would not help her to know that. Nor was she likely to believe him. Without more proof, Justin doubted that anyone would.

  He was dripping wet and disheartened by the time he returned to the great hall. He was drying off by the open hearth when the door opened and the Lady Emma entered. Davydd at once hastened down the steps of the dais and hurried to her, helping her with her mantle and escorting her toward the hearth with what Justin felt was exaggerated gallantry. She let Davydd settle her in a chair comfortably close to the flames, and Justin's ears pricked up. He did not expect to overhear anything of significance. Accustomed to living their lives on center stage, the Welsh prince and his consort were unlikely to be careless enough to choose a public forum for private discussion. But he was curious to watch them interact, for their marriage remained a mystery to him.

  This was Emma's first appearance since she'd fainted in the chapel, and Davydd was fussing over her so ostentatiously that he put Justin in mind of a brood hen with a prize chick. She was well, Emma insisted, although she proclaimed her health in such a languid, breathy voice that Justin could not blame Davydd for harboring doubts. It was to be expected that she'd still be disquieted by the experience, Davydd declared. Women of gentle birth were not meant by the A
lmighty to look upon scenes of bloodshed and gore.

  Justin fought back laughter. He wondered if Davydd really believed that or if he was merely affecting a chivalric pose. The women in Justin's life bore little resemblance to the docile and frail females exalted as models of ideal womanhood. Queen Eleanor had accompanied her first husband on crusade and instigated a rebellion against her second. Claudine had amused herself by spying for the queen's youngest son. Nell had been widowed before she was twenty and was raising a daughter on her own whilst managing a kinsman's alehouse. Molly had been defying the odds and convention from birth. And he suspected that the Lady Emma was steel sheathed in silk, too. He found it intriguing that Davydd appeared protective of the silk, so oblivious of the steel.

  Accepting a wine cup, Emma took a small sip. "Have you made arrangements for Thomas's funeral?"

  Davydd nodded. "I sent a messenger to Bishop Reiner at Llanelwy."

  "Few men are fortunate enough to have their funeral Mass said in a cathedral church," Emma said. "But might not his family prefer that he be buried in England?"

  Davydd shrugged. "It cannot be helped. By the time the storm passes and the roads dry out, Thomas's body would be too rank for transporting. Forgive me for being brutally blunt, my dear, but by then the stench would be too foul to endure."

  Emma gave him an impatient, sidelong glance. "I know that, Davydd. Surely you have not forgotten the story of the burial of my brother Henry's great-grandfather, William, conqueror of the English?

  Davydd assured her that he remembered, while the eavesdropping Justin prodded his memory. It took only a moment, for the account of William the Bastard's death and burial was too grisly to be forgotten. There'd been a delay in burying him, and when it was discovered that the stone coffin was too small for a man of William's bulk, an ill-advised attempt had been made to force the body into it, causing the decomposing corpse to break open, emitting such a noxious odor that the mourners had fled the church in horror.