Durand weighed his chances, decided he did not like the odds, and did not resist as they jerked his arms behind his back. He was soon trussed up like a Michaelmas goose, bound hand and foot and gagged with a strip from his own mantle. He was not cowed, though, glaring up at them and taking comfort from hard-earned wisdom, that as long as a man had a heartbeat, he had hope, too.
For the moment, Justin was being ignored. He was examining Durand's sword, weighing the heft of it appreciatively before sliding it into the empty scabbard at his hip. "I think I got the best of this exchange," he said, and then, "We've no time to celebrate, though. John left men behind -"
Seeing the look of amusement that passed among them, he smiled sheepishly. "I forgot... you already know that. What do you want to do about them?"
"They pose no threat. You see, the men in the dorter are not monks. They are mine,"
Justin's mouth dropped open, and then he laughed. "I do not know why that surprises me. You've been two jumps ahead of us from the first. Obviously Sion alerted you that Emma was going to the holy well at Treffynnon. So... you then put some of your men in the village, posing as pilgrims. My guess is that they overheard Oliver seeking directions to Mostyn. Am I right so far?"
"In fact," Llewelyn said, "we had no need to eavesdrop. Oliver was obliging enough to ask Ednyved." Tossing his head toward the amiable giant, he introduced him as Ednyved ap Cynwrig, and the third man, a dark, slender youth with glittering green eyes, as Ednyved's cousin, Rhys ap Cadell. "Yes, the same Rhys ap Cadell who crept into Rhuddlan Castle to commit unholy murder in Davydd's own chapel."
When Rhys did not take the bait, Llewelyn playfully elbowed him in the ribs before turning back to Justin. "Once we knew Mostyn grange was the site, it was easy enough to get here first and then to convince the lay brothers that we ought to be the ones to welcome the English invaders."
Justin knew that the monks of Basingwerk were not like the monks of Aberconwy; they were English in origin and loyalties, and he could not help wondering how Llewelyn had "convinced" the lay brothers to vacate the grange. His suspicions must have shown on his face, for Llewelyn grinned.
"To answer your unspoken question, Iestyn, the lay brothers are not buried out in the woods. They are burrowing for warmth under the hay up in the barn's loft, and right willingly. You see, the monks at Basingwerk may be dutiful subjects of the English Crown, but their lay brothers are Welsh to the bone."
"Well, however you did it, I am grateful," Justin said. "Of course it might have been easier on my nerves had I known I was not facing down Durand alone. I am not surprised that you fooled him so readily, for I never suspected that you were other than simple lay brothers. A pity you were born to the blood royal, Llewelyn. You'd have made a fine player. The shepherd's staff... that was an inspired touch."
"Christ Jesus, do not tell him that!" Ednyved was staring at Justin as if horrified. "He needs no encouragement to strut about the stage. We're just lucky we were shy of time, else he'd have taken it into his head to give us all tonsures to make us more convincing monks!"
They'd been conversing in French as a courtesy to Justin, but now Llewelyn said something in Welsh, too fast for Justin to catch, and the others laughed. Justin was amazed that they seemed so free and easy with Llewelyn, for he could not imagine an Englishman bantering so familiarly with his prince. After conferring with Rhys, Llewelyn sent him out into the rain, but Justin asked no questions, guessing that the young Welshman had gone to alert the rest of their men that the trap had been sprung. He was highly impressed by the efficiency of the entire operation, and now that his initial exhilaration was subsiding, he was remembering what a formidable foe Llewelyn ab Iorwerth could be.
Llewelyn was gazing down at Durand. "So this one spies for the queen against her own son? Is he good at what he does?"
"Yes, God smite him," Justin admitted, "very good." As he looked at Durand, his anger came flooding back, and he strode over, jerked out the knight's gag. "So when were you going to warn the queen that John was stealing the ransom? After he'd gotten it safely away to Paris?"
"I did not learn of his plans until we reached Chester, you fool! You truly think John shares his every secret with me?"
"I think that you could teach Judas Iscariot about betrayal! You just proved what I've long suspected, that you serve only yourself."
"Jesus wept! How will I ever live with your bad opinion of me, de Quincy?"
"Assuming that you do," Llewelyn interjected silkily. "Live, that is."
Durand's eyes cut toward him, then back to Justin. "Does the queen share her every plan with you? No more than John does with me. He is too shrewd to trust all his chickens to one hen roost. I knew nothing of this scheme until we sailed, and even then, he only told me bits and pieces of the plot."
"And what of his other reason for returning to England?" Justin jeered. "Dare you claim to be ignorant of that, too?"
"So far, yes, but I'll soon find out what I need to know. I always do, de Quincy. That is why the queen values my services so highly, and why I could not risk losing John's trust by sparing you."
Justin shook his head incredulously, and Llewelyn laughed outright. "How long, Iestyn, ere he is demanding that you owe him an apology for not letting him kill you? This one has a tongue nimble enough to lick honey off thorns."
"No," Justin said, "he has a forked tongue, like any snake." Leaning over, he knotted the neck of Durand's tunic in his fist, forcing the other man to meet his eyes. "So you'd have us believe that you played no part in this ransom robbery. What about John's dealings with the Breton? I suppose you are going to insist you know nothing of him, either."
"The Breton?" Durand's eyes widened in surprise, but Justin could not tell if it was real or feigned. "I've heard of him. Who has not? He is said to be a master spy, one who is as elusive as early morning mist. I've never laid eyes on him, doubt that many have. Even his name is not known for certes. People call him the Breton, but none know if he truly does come from Brittany. What makes you think that he is involved in this?"
Justin could only marvel at the man's gall. "You dare to interrogate me after doing your best to kill me? When did we become a team again, Durand?"
"If you are going to stop John from carrying off the ransom, you'll need my help. Unless you'd rather take vengeance upon me and fail the queen?"
Llewelyn and Ednyved were both laughing, and after a moment, Justin laughed, too, for what else could he do? "I'd sooner take one of Hell's own demons as a partner than you, Durand."
If Durand was afraid, he was hiding it well. "I do not see that you have a choice, de Quincy," he said with a sneer, "not if you want to recover that ransom."
"Actually," Llewelyn said, "he does have a choice." His dark eyes flicked from Durand, over to Justin. "I can see why you'd prefer Hell's dregs to this weasel, Iestyn. But you can do better. What say you that we join forces to find the wool?"
"No offense, Llewelyn, but why would I want to do that?"
"Mayhap because you are a stranger in a land not your own, and you have neither the men nor the familiarity with these woods and hills to make a successful search."
"True... but I could get the men I need, hire local guides."
"True... but how much time would that take? Need I remind you that time is not on your side? If the ransom payment is delayed, what happens to your King Richard? Nothing good, I'd wager."
He'd not told Justin anything he did not already know. Justin had just been curious to see how well Llewelyn had grasped the weaknesses of his position. Now that he had his answer - all too well - he decided he had nothing to lose by candor, and he said, "I'll not argue that with you. Let's say we do work together, and we find the wool. What then? How do I know you'll not seize it all to pay for your rebellion?"
Llewelyn was quiet for a moment, paying Justin the compliment of taking his question seriously. "In all honesty, I suppose you do not, Iestyn. I can give you my word that I will not, and I am willing to do so. B
ut there is no surety that I'd not change my mind at first sight of all that wool. So... yes, you'd be taking a risk. Let me ask you this, though. What are your chances of recovering the ransom on your own?"
Now it was Justin's turn to consider his response. "Probably not very good. So if I am going to wager, I might as well wager that you are a man of honor. You have a deal, Llewelyn."
"Are you out of your bleeding mind?" Durand struggled to sit up, staring at Justin in outraged disbelief. "You trust this Welsh outlaw and Richard will be held in Germany till he rots!"
"Does anyone want to hear his yammering?" Ednyved queried. "I thought not." Reaching down, he stuffed the gag back into Durand's mouth. Rhys had just re-entered the chapel and observed that if they wanted to shut the Englishman up, it would be easier to cut his throat. Justin could not tell if he were joking or not, and neither could Durand, who stopped trying to spit out the gag.
"Are we ready to go?" Llewelyn asked, and Rhys nodded, not volunteering until prodded that John's men were confined and the lay brothers had been summoned down from the hayloft. He was a laconic sort, but there was a glint in those cat-green eyes that explained why Davydd had chosen to name him as de Caldecott's assassin.
"I am guessing that you have horses hidden nearby?" Justin asked Llewelyn. "Can you provide me with one... at least until I can get back to the grange to reclaim my stallion?"
"I expect we can find a mount for you," Llewelyn agreed. "Mertyn is only a few miles from here, so we can stop for your horse. That way we can begin our search on the morrow."
"Very good," Justin said, before the significance of his new ally's words hit him. How did Llewelyn know he was staying at Mertyn? "It is flattering that you think it worthwhile to keep such close watch on me."
"Do not let it go to your head," Ednyved said with a smile. "Llewelyn is not content unless he knows what is happening the length and breadth of Wales... every fallen tree, every rutted mountain trail, every acorn rooted up by a hungry pig."
"Why not? This is my country, the land of my birth, a land under siege," Llewelyn said, and though he smiled, too, Justin sensed that he was speaking from the heart. It occurred to him that one reason there was such strife between the English Crown and its Welsh vassals was this inbred passion for the woodlands and mountains and rivers of Wales.
Richard was King of the English, but he was also Duke of Aquitaine and Normandy, Count of Anjou, and England was merely one of his domains. Justin was sure that Richard did not think of himself as English. He knew that many of Norman descent did not, even after dwelling there for more than a hundred years. He'd never actually given it much thought himself, for like most people, he was more aware of class than nationality.
But it was different in Llewelyn's homeland. The Welsh seemed to have a strong sense of kinship that their neighbors across the border did not share. While it did not stop them from fighting one another as furiously as they did the English, Justin did not doubt that they saw themselves, first and foremost, as Welsh. For him, bastard-born, raised as an orphan and foundling, never truly be longing anywhere, it was difficult to imagine how it must be to have such deep roots.
"Iestyn? Is it such a hard decision to make as that?"
Justin blinked, returning to reality to find the Welshmen looking at him curiously. "I got lost in thought," he acknowledged. "You asked me...?"
"I wanted to know," Llewelyn said, "what you'd have us do with him?"
Turning, Justin regarded Durand, who met his eyes defiantly. Llewelyn moved to his side, studying the captive knight with the impersonal distaste of a man who'd just turned over a rock and did not like what he'd found. "I doubt that this one would be mourned. His death is more likely to bring joy to any number of men. But he is of some value to your queen. You need to decide if that value outweighs all the very valid reasons for sending him to Hell."
Justin could have dragged out the suspense; God knows, Durand deserved it. But he already knew what he must do. "Leave him," he said contemptuously. "That will give him time to cobble together a story to explain his failure to John." He could not resist pausing, though, in the doorway, for a final look back at the man lying, bound and helpless, on the muddied chapel floor. His last sight of Durand was one he'd long remember, always with fierce satisfaction.
Chapter 20
September 1193
North Wales
JUSTIN TOOK AN INSTINCTIVE STEP BACKWARD, FOR GAZING DOWN into the blackness of the mine shaft was like staring into the abyss. "Well," he said morosely, "so much for that idea." He was too disappointed to hide it, for his hopes had soared when Llewelyn told him of an old, abandoned mine. But one look into those bottomless depths and he knew the missing wool was not hidden here. Picking up a rock, he held it out over the void and let it go. After a long, long time, he thought he heard a faint splash, and he sighed softly.
"I know," Llewelyn agreed, dropping a rock of his own into the shaft. "Even if it were not flooded, how would they ever have gotten the wool back up? Each woolsack weighs more than any two men."
"Look how deep it is," Ednyved marveled, leaning over so recklessly to peer into the pit that both Justin and Llewelyn reached out to pull him back from the brink. "I'm as surefooted as any cat," he protested. "How do you think they dug it so deep? No mines today go down so far."
"They were clever, the Romans." Llewelyn pitched another stone into the shaft. "Think how long it's been since their armies were here - hundreds of years - and yet some of their roads can still be used."
"The old Roman walls still stand in Chester, or so I've been told," Justin said, almost absentmindedly, for he could not take his eyes from that gaping dark hole. He'd been sure that they were going to find the wool here, so sure. Now what?
~*~
Their hunt for the wool took them next to Cefn, where there were a series of deep caves. Llewelyn admitted to Justin that he doubted the thieves would have dared to venture so far with the cumbersome hay-wains, and Cefn lay on the wrong side of the River Clwyd. But it was worth a look, he said, and Justin made no objections, for their search had already ranged over the likely hiding places with no results. They might as well try the unlikely ones, too. The caves at Cefn were steeped in legend; local people whispered that one was Lucifer's own abode. Several soared so high that even a man as tall as Ednyved need not duck his head, and in others there were strange rock formations rising from the floor like stone sentinels. Justin thought that if he'd been seeking to hide a king's ransom, he could have found no safer lair than these eerie, echoing caverns where the sun never shone and the Devil was said to dwell. But the woolsacks were not there.
~*~
A brisk wind was undressing the ageless oak that towered above the farrier's shed, stripping away the leaves branch by branch. As they drifted on the current, the morning sun blessed them briefly with gold, and then they fluttered earthward like crippled butterflies, soon to be trodden underfoot. These morbid musings were Justin's. He had nothing to do while the smith replaced Copper's lost shoe, and watching the death spirals of doomed oak leaves was preferable to reliving the failures of the past few days.
Once Copper was shod, he would rejoin Llewelyn and his men. There was no need to hurry, though, for they were running out of places to look. Thomas de Caldecott had begun to haunt his dreams, a sprightly ghost mocking their futile efforts to find his cache. When Justin reminded him that there would be few occasions for such merriment in Hell, he merely laughed and faded away, only to return the next night, more faithful in death than ever he had been in life, Justin thought sourly.
The scene before him was so tranquil that it was easy to forget so much was at stake. Copper had never looked so sleek, his chestnut-red coat glowing in the mellow morning light. The farrier was going about his task with quiet competence, gentling the stallion with crooning Welsh endearments and calming pats. Each time he spoke, a rangy sheepdog sprawled in the sun would thump his tail in rhythm with his master's voice. Edern, the young Welshman w
ho'd taken Justin to the smithy, was perched on a fence rail, bantering with the smith's son. Edern was a likable lad who'd spent his boyhood in these rolling hills. He'd boasted that he was better than any lymer hound at sniffing out hideaways, and he seemed to be taking their failure to find the woolsacks as a personal affront. Justin was losing hope that anyone was going to outwit Thomas de Caldecott, Only one person had gotten the best of him, his unknown killer.
A sudden flash of movement caught Justin's eye and he turned to see Edern hop off the fence and sprint toward him. He was not alarmed, though, for the youth was grinning from ear to ear. "I think I know where the wool is!" Edern came to a halt, panting. "I was talking with Gwion" - gesturing toward the farrier's son - "and I remembered where there is another abandoned mine."
Justin felt a sharp letdown, "What of it? Why bother searching another flooded shaft?"
"Because this mine must have collapsed long ago, for it is shallow, more like a cave." Edern's grin got even wider. "I know it is going to be there. My nose is itching, which always happens when I get one of my hunches!"
~*~
Edern's itchy nose notwithstanding, Justin did not have high hopes as the men headed back toward Halkyn Mountain. The name was a misnomer, for Halkyn Mountain was actually a hill, dwarfed by the peaks of Eryri, the cloud-crowned mountain range that had sheltered and sustained Llewelyn during the early years of his rebellion. "You English call it Snowdonia," he explained to Justin as they rode along, "but its true name is Eryri, the Haunt of Eagles." Justin merely nodded, for he was only half-listening to this Welsh geography lesson, already brooding about his return to the queen, envisioning the look upon her face when he had to confess he'd failed her.
At least the mercurial Welsh weather was not threatening to sabotage their hunt; the sky was blue and barren of clouds, and a brisk northerly wind brought them the scent of the sea but no hint of coming rain. Led by Edern and Gwion, the smith's son, they soon reached the site of the Roman mine, half-hidden by bracken on Halkyn's wooden slope.
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