"This is nothing you ought to be doing, my lady. I wish you'd agreed to let me serve as your messenger."
"So do I, Oliver," Emma said ruefully. "No... as unpleasant as this is, it could not be helped. Some news can only be delivered face-to-face."
Justin forgot to breathe, so intently was he waiting to hear her next words. But his hopes of a dramatic revelation came to naught. What he heard instead was an alarmed exclamation from Oliver. Justin halted abruptly, his pulse racing until he realized that they'd not discovered his presence. Oliver had stumbled, fallen to his knees, and Emma nearly lost her own balance when she tried to assist him. After that mishap, they continued on in silence, and Justin dropped back, deciding he could risk following from a safer distance.
The path zigzagged through the woods and, from time to time, Oliver's lantern was no longer in sight. Justin kept his eyes peeled for Oliver's white signals. He thought he had an idea where they were going. The lay brothers had told him about the other abbey granges, perhaps not wanting him to think that they were all as meager as theirs at Mertyn. The most prosperous was the one at Mostyn, ideally located on the River Dee estuary, which enabled the monks to ship their wool to Chester by water. Justin thought he remembered them telling him that Mostyn was about three miles from Basingwerk, and the pathway would be a natural route to and from the abbey. But why Mostyn? Justin still had so many questions. He could only hope that he'd finally find some of the answers this night.
When he eventually emerged from the woods, he saw that his hunch had been right; the Mostyn grange was their destination. He watched as Emma and Oliver disappeared through the gate way, and then cautiously approached the low stone wall that marked the boundary lines of the abbey farm. The night shrouded most of the buildings, but he knew what he'd have seen by light of day: accommodations for the lay brothers, sheepcotes, barns, possibly even a chapel. His nose wrinkled as the wind brought a rank smell his way; it seemed there was also a pigsty. Boosting himself up onto the wall, he hesitated only a moment before dropping down onto the soft earth on the other side.
The sheepcotes were empty, for the flock had not been brought in from their summer pastures yet. Justin darted from one to the other, using them as camouflage. Between the darkness and the distance, Justin could discern only shadowy figures, the silhouettes of buildings. He'd become so accustomed to the night blackness that he was almost blinded by a sudden flare of light as a door opened. Men were coming out, holding blazing torches. The leaping flames lit up a scene as remarkable as it was alarming. These were not monks moving to meet Emma. Nor were they lay brothers. These men were booted and armed, mantles drawn back to give easy access to sheathed swords. As unlikely as it seemed to Justin, it looked as if the abbey grange at Mostyn had been taken over by an army.
~*~
Justin had approached as close as he dared, taking cover behind the wooden chapel as he tried to make sense of the situation. The lay brothers were being held in their dotter, doubtless even more bewildered than he was by this unexpected turn of events. No outlaw band would raid an abbey grange, for what could they hope to get? So who were these men? And what was Emma's part in all this?
With the arrival of more men, he had a partial answer, for they were coming from the north, and they were not on horseback. There could only be one explanation: they were from a ship anchored out in the estuary. He was still mulling this over when he found himself in danger of discovery; several of the newcomers were approaching at an angle that would bring them much too close to his hiding place. He made the only move he could and ducked through the partially open door of the chapel.
He almost tripped over a pile of candles scattered all over the floor; it was easy to imagine one of the monks spilling them when confronted by armed intruders. Leaving the door ajar, he continued to keep watch. Emma was ringed by flaming torches, Oliver hovering protectively at her side, A few more lay brothers were being rounded up, herded into the dotter with the other captives. The rain had been falling sporadically since sundown, but now the clouds split, inundating Mostyn in a deluge of icy water. Several of the men were gesturing toward the dotter, but Emma shook her head and, to Justin's horror, pointed at the chapel.
A desperate glance around the chapel interior revealed one possible means of escape: a window in the west wall. But it was shuttered and he'd never get it open in time, Retreating into the middle of the room, he experienced a moment of utter despair. Then he saw the outlines of another door. Reaching it in three strides, he dived through into blessed darkness.
A small, windowless room, it was blacker than pitch, blacker than sin. He guessed it must be the sacristy. It would be an even more deadly snare than the chapel, but for now, it offered a chance of salvation. He left the door cracked open; if he went down, by God, he'd go down with answers. Torchlights spilled through the chapel doorway, brighter than the sun to moles and bats and Justin, who had to shut his eyes against the glare.
"I will await him here." Emma s voice indicated she was addressing her inferiors; she was very much the lady of the manor again, adding coolly, "I hope it will not be long."
So did Justin. As he'd been able to envision the panic of monks and lay brothers, so, too, could he imagine the fear felt by a cornered mouse with a cat on the prowl. He'd never been uncomfortable in small, confined spaces... until now. His back to the wall, he reached under his mantle and let his hand rest on the hilt of his sword.
The sound was a soft one, barely carrying to Justin's ears. But it set his heart to thudding against his ribs, for it had come from a far corner of the sacristy. He stood very still, every sense alert, his eyes probing the chamber until he could peel away several shadows from the obscuring darkness. His mouth went dry with the realization that he was sharing his sanctuary. Almost at once, though, he recognized these new adversaries for what they were: fearful lay brothers who'd taken refuge in the safest place they could find, God's House. He wished he would whisper a reassurance, vow that he was not their enemy. But he dared not risk it, not with Emma pacing impatiently on the other side of that thin, wooden wall.
"Go and seek out their buttery, Oliver, You look like a man desperately in need of a drink." When Oliver said that he did not think the Cistercians allowed wine or ale upon their granges, Emma retorted, "Now why does that not surprise me?" in an acerbic tone that spoke volumes about her feelings for the White Monks,
Justin could not blame her for her animosity, for it had to rankle that the White Monks would bar even their prince's consort from their guest halls. Oddly enough, he was finding this new Emma more sympathetic than the pampered princess he'd seen on display at Rhuddlan. This woman might be in collusion with the Devil for all he knew, but she was showing commendable courage, obvious affection for Oliver, and a steely resolve that put him in mind of his queen.
"The monks must have a lit fire somewhere, if only in the kitchen. Go find it, Oliver, and thaw out." Oliver protested that he did not want to leave her, confirming Justin's suspicions that he was an old family retainer when he spoke proudly of serving her lord father, that prince of blessed memory, Count Geoffrey. But Emma insisted, and Oliver dutifully departed. Almost at once, though, he was back.
"My lady, he has come!"
"About time," Emma muttered, not sounding much in awe of her clandestine partner in crime. She'd begun to pace again, her footsteps echoing as far as the sacristy door and then away. Justin blew on his hands, trying to warm them. In the corner, the lay brothers still huddled, or so he assumed, for they were all but invisible in their dark brown habits. For the first time since taking cover in the sacristy, Justin could feel the excitement throbbing through his veins. Close, so close to learning the truth about this tangled spider's web of conspiracy and intrigue!
Others were entering the chapel. After a murmur of voices, light squeezed through the cracked door of the sacristy, and Justin guessed that a wall sconce had been lit. The temptation to put his eye to that arrow-thin opening was considerable. So f
ar Justin was resisting it.
"I want no witnesses to this meeting," Emma said, and Justin wondered how many of these men knew her identity. Cloaked in a dark, hooded mantle, she thwarted recognition by even her near and dear ones.
"Your wish is my command, my lady." This voice had the distinctive intonation of the highborn, that unmistakable blend of education, expectation, and arrogance. It was also a familiar voice to Justin, one he'd heard all too often at high-risk moments in the past year. He refused to believe what his brain was telling him, though, for that voice belonged to a man who was hundreds of miles away, on the other side of the English Channel.
There was the sound of retreating footsteps, a closing door, and then that silken, sardonic voice again, calling Emma "My dearest aunt," and a stunned Justin could no longer deny that Emma's ally was Queen Eleanor's faithless son, John.
Chapter 13
August 1193
Rhuddlan Castle, Wales
"WE WOULD BE MORE COMFORTABLE IN THE GRANGE'S hall Aunt Emma"
"No… privacy matters more to me than comfort."
Justin was startled by how clearly audible their voices were. This was working out even better than he'd dared hope... so far.
"When I heard that you'd left England, I was not sure you'd be back, John."
"Going to Paris is not like going to Hell, Aunt Emma. Men have been known to return from France." John's footsteps neared the sacristy door. "How long has it been since we last met? It has to be a few years... I think when Richard made his pilgrimage to St Winifred's Well? But you've not aged a day that I can see. No wonder other women like you not."
"You need not waste gallantry upon kinswomen, John. There is no profit in it."
John laughed. "Just out of curiosity, do you ever let anyone else see the side of you that you show to me? I do not blame you for being vexed with my abrupt departure for the French court. It could not be helped, though, and I did keep my promise. I came back."
"I was not so much vexed as concerned lest all our planning be set at naught. I knew from the moment I learned of Davydd's mad scheme that this was an opportunity that would not come again. Thankfully we had such a reliable emissary, or all would have been lost as soon as you sailed from Southampton."
It was becoming clear to Justin that their plan had been in the works for months, long before the actual robbery. He assumed Thomas de Caldecott was the "reliable emissary," but John disabused him of that notion by saying, "Yes, the Breton was a godsend... or devil-sent, depending upon one's point of view." Justin frowned. Who was the Breton?
"It was inspired to suggest him as go-between, Aunt Emma. Neither of us would have been foolhardy enough to commit much to letters. I suppose you met the Breton whilst he was in my father's service?"
"Yes."
"You are not the most forthcoming of allies." John was sounding amused again. "There is much I still do not know about this plot of yours. Such as how you found out about Davydd's plans."
"Does it truly matter? If you must know, Davydd told me. He boasted of it, in fact, said he'd be catching two rabbits in one snare, gaining Richard's gratitude when he recovered the ransom whilst ridding himself of a troublesome rival."
John chuckled. "Is that a Welsh saying... catching two rabbits in one snare? I like it, for that is what I am doing myself with this return to England. I, too, am capturing two rabbits in one snare, and what makes it so sweet is that both rabbits belong to Brother Richard!"
"I do not understand that, nor do I want to. Whatever else you have in mind is between you and the Almighty."
"Such righteousness does not become you, Aunt Emma." John's voice had taken on a discernible edge. "It is not as if your hands are not bloodied, too. It is my understanding that three men died in that robbery. And lest we forget, that Cheshire knight who was found dead in your chapel under such odd circumstances."
"My hands are not bloodied! Those killings were de Caldecott's doing, not mine. I wanted the ransom. He was the one who turned a robbery into murder."
"And I am sure you wept a sea of salt tears for those poor, murdered men."
"You know I did not," she snapped. "But the fact that I did not grieve for them does not mean that I wanted their deaths. That sin is on Thomas de Caldecott, and he has already answered for it,"
"Yes, so I heard, Oliver was sparing with the details, though. I do not suppose that you had a hand in it?"
"Of course I did not!"
"I was not accusing, merely asking. I have never been a believer in coincidences, so naturally I marveled that the man should be killed once there was no longer a need for his services."
"I am going to assume that you are making another of your dubious jests," Emma said, with enough ice in her voice to put John at risk for frostbite. "I do not know who killed de Caldecott, only that it was not me."
"A passing stranger, then?" John suggested sarcastically. "Surely you must have some suspicions?"
"Well... Davydd was acting so oddly afterward that I did wonder if he'd ordered it done. But it turned out that he was merely trying to put the blame upon his nephew, with his usual dazzling success."
"I hope that my own wife does not speak of me in such loving tones. Surely the man has some redeeming qualities?"
"None worth mentioning," Emma said scathingly. "As I said, I do not know who killed de Caldecott. Nor do I know why you should care."
"Because I do not like surprises, Aunt Emma. No more than I like riddles. Here is one I particularly dislike: Why is a woman willing to put her own son's birthright at risk? I have no trouble believing that you loathe your husband. Most men would be astounded if they knew what their wives really think of them. But if Davydd loses power, where does that leave your son? Or you, for that matter?"
"My son's 'birthright,' you call it? Davydd seized power over the bodies of his brothers and has clung to it ever since by force, threats, and blind luck. You truly think there will be a peaceful transfer of that power from father to son? When pigs fly! I've always known that my son would never rule North Wales after Davydd. I just did not know the name of the man who would… until now."
"And that would be the troublesome nephew?"
"Do you know what I see when I look at Davydd? I see a doomed man, one with a mortal ailment that is slowly killing him. It is only a matter of time. And in that time I mean to do all I can to give my son - and my daughter - a secure future,"
"By gaining a friend at court?"
"Why be so modest, John? What we are talking about is king making. Your chances of seeing yourself crowned at Westminster increase dramatically if Richard does not come home. And then I will have more than a friend at court. I will have the king's favor."
"Yes," John said, "you will. Ingratitude has never been one my vices." Judging from the sound of footsteps, Justin guessed that John had moved to Emma's side. "So you are taking such great risk for your children? I hope they appreciate how fortunate they are. My own parents would do anything for the flesh of their flesh, absolutely anything... provided it did not involve the actual surrender of an acre of land or the loss of a single vassal."
"I see that you know your father better than I thought you did."
The bitterness in Emma's voice was so palpable that a verse from Scriptures popped into Justin's head, the one that spoke of "wormwood and gall." With John's retort, it was obvious that he, too, had caught the bile behind her words.
"My lord father always had a knack for making enemies. What did he do to incur your wrath, Emma?"
"You need to ask?" Emma sounded startled and then angry. "He forced me to wed a man I despised, separated me from my son, and exiled me to this godforsaken wilderness!"
"Well, yes, he did..." John did not sound as if he shared her outrage. "But that is the way it is done, Aunt Emma. Your son was the heir to your first husband's lands, so he could hardly follow you to Wales."
"He was four years old!"
"I was even younger when my parents deposited me at Font
evrault Abbey to start my career in the Church."
"And how did you like that, John? Did you cry for your nurse, for all that was known and familiar to you? My son cried for me."
When John spoke again, the edge was back in his voice, which made Justin think she'd cut too close to the bone. "For the highborn, marriages are made over the bargaining table, not in Heaven. Jesu, Richard even offered our sister Joanna to a Saracen prince! Of course she all but scorched his ears off when she heard, but -"
"I did not have Joanna's right of refusal! Nor am I innocent in the ways of the world. I was married off to Guy de Laval at a very young age, or have you forgotten that? When he died, I learned what most women will not admit, that a widow's lot is better than a wife's more often than not. But then my loving brother Harry decided that pleasing a Welsh ally mattered more than his sister's happiness."
"I doubt that he acted on a whim. Most likely he thought the marriage would help keep the peace in Wales."
"Yes, that is just what he told me when I begged him... begged him on my knees! He thought my marriage was a cheap price to pay for peace, and why not? I was the one to pay it, after all!"
"True enough... but in my father's defense, I feel obliged to point out that he did not wed you to a crofter or a shepherd, Aunt Emma. He wed you to a prince."
"A Welsh prince!" She all but spat the words. "So it does not surprise me that Richard was willing to marry his sister to an infidel. He was merely following in his father's footsteps, was he not?"
"I am beginning to understand. There is more at play here than a mother's concerns for her son's future. You see that 'price' you paid as a debt, one owed by my father. And since the dead are notoriously unreliable about paying debts, you mean to collect from Richard."
She did not deny it, saying challengingly, "What if I do?"
"In case it has escaped your notice, my father had more than one son. So why does Brother Richard get the lion's share of blood-guilt? Not even my greatest enemies have ever suggested that I am not the spawn of Harry's loins. Do you know something the rest of Christendom does not, Aunt Emma?"
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