Dragon's Lair

by Sharon Kay Penman

  ~*~

  Who wants to climb down and find out what is lurking at the bottom?" Ednyved squinted into the darkness below, without any obvious enthusiasm for the task at hand. "We could flip a coin, if I had one."

  "I'll go," Edern offered quickly.

  But Rhys was already unfastening his scabbard, reaching for their rope ladder. Anchoring the metal prongs in the earth, he dropped the ladder down into the mine and then swung his legs over the side. Llewelyn stopped him before he could begin his climb, holding out a second rope. Once he'd knotted it around his waist, Rhys tossed the free end to Ednyved. "Try not to drop it," he told his cousin, and Ednyved acknowledged the command with an amused "Aye, my lord."

  "It does not look that deep, but Jesu, it is dark down there. We may need to get a lantern..." His voice was muffled now as he descended into the shaft. They could hear the clink of his spurs scraping against the rock as the ladder swayed under his weight. Staring down into the murky blackness, Justin inhaled a lungful of dank, fetid air and felt guiltily grateful that Rhys was the one descending into the pit.

  "Christ Jesus!" The ladder swung wildly and then Rhys was scrambling upward, so hastily that his foot slipped from one of the rungs and his lifeline grew taut as he dangled there, fighting to re gain his balance. Llewelyn signaled and several of the men grabbed Ednyved's rope, ready to haul Rhys up if he lost his grip. He no longer seemed in danger of falling, but the ladder did not offer a fast enough ascent and he shouted, "Pull me up!"

  Alarmed, they did, and as soon as his head and shoulders appeared, hands reached out for him. His face contorted, his skin almost as green as his eyes, Rhys lay prone on the ground for several moments, being pelted with questions as he fought the gorge rising in his throat.

  "The stink ..." he gasped, "so foul... I feared I'd choke on it..." Rolling over onto his back, he found himself looking up into a circle of concerned faces. "I can still smell it," he said with a grimace, "worse than any pigsty or privy. Rotting flesh -"

  "Did you see the body?" Llewelyn interrupted. "Was it an animal? Or..." He paused and showed no surprise when Rhys nodded grimly.

  "Not an animal - men. More than one."

  Justin glanced toward Llewelyn, the same thought in both their minds. "I think," Llewelyn said, after another pause, "that we've found your missing sailors."

  ~*~

  One by one, men were lowered into the mine shaft to attach ropes to the decaying corpses and then pulled out to vomit into the grass. As no one could endure more than a few moments' exposure to that putrid stench, it took several hours before the last of the cadavers was brought to the surface. Even after the bodies had been covered with bedroll blankets, the men kept their eyes averted. Their Church warned them often of the frailties of human flesh, never letting them forget that their mortal remains would become fodder for worms, dust unto dust. But this had been a view of death that was too close and too personal, reminding each one that this, too, would be his fate and, if he died unshriven as these poor sailors had, he'd burn for aye in Hell.

  Justin had forced himself to make a brief examination of the bodies, needing to be sure that their hair color and height matched the descriptions he'd gotten from Rutger. When he was done, his stomach would need days to recover from the ordeal, but there was no doubt in his mind about the identity of the murdered men. Standing with Llewelyn and the others upwind of those forlorn blanket-draped forms, he bowed his head and said a brief prayer for the souls of the greedy Joder, the foolish Geertje, and Rutger's cousin Karl, who left a young widow and baby back in Ypres.

  "There is a church less than a league from here," Llewelyn said somberly. "I'll send a man to the priest, tell him to fetch shrouds and a cart. At least we can see that they get a Christian burial. Do you know how to reach their kindred?"

  Justin shook his head. "Not unless their ship is still at Chester." He was stunned by the wanton violence of these killings. "How does a man murder with such ease? How could he hold life so cheaply?"

  "Killing," Llewelyn said, "can become a habit. From what you've told me, this Thomas de Caldecott had plenty of practice at it."

  "Six that we know of, and with a little luck, he'd have added two more to that count," Justin said, thinking of a drunken stroll through deserted streets, a blazing Chester warehouse.

  "A man so quick to kill most likely left a trail of bodies behind him. Who knows how many he'd gotten away with. If not for you, Iestyn, none would have known of these murders, either." Llewelyn forced his gaze away from the remains of de Caldecott's last victims, sketching a quick cross on the autumn air. "So now what?"

  "I would that I knew," Justin admitted, for the mine shaft had yielded only the bodies of the slain sailors; they'd found no evidence whatsoever of the missing woolsacks.

  As disconsolate as if he'd deliberately led them astray, Edern scuffed his boot in the brown, trampled grass. "I do not understand," he muttered, "It has to be here, it just has to!"

  The farrier's son had kept at a respectful distance, watching wide-eyed but saying little. Now he cleared his throat hesitantly. "Are you..." He swallowed, then mumbled shyly, "Are you not going to search the other shaft?"

  The words had no sooner left his mouth than he found himself surrounded by men. Did Edern not remember, he asked timidly. There was a second shaft, sloping in at an angle. "We guessed that it once led to the other shaft. Of course it is all blocked up now, a tunnel leading nowhere..." He was talking too much, he knew, but he couldn't seem to rein in his runaway tongue, and he was thankful when Llewelyn cut into his nervous ramblings with a curt command to "Show us!"

  The opening was overgrown with brambles and knee-high bracken, and Justin caught his breath at the sight of them, for branches were broken and the ferns flattened down in places, as if something heavy had been dragged through them. "It is here," Gwion said, sounding more confident now, and pulling aside some of the underbrush, he revealed a tunnel entrance.

  It was just as the farrier's son had said. What had once been a connecting passage to the main mine shaft was little more than a cave, too low for a tall man to walk upright, the walls shrouded in moss, lichen, and cobwebs, the ground littered with the skeletal remains of prey devoured to the very bone, the air stale and musty. Where Roman slaves had once labored in the earth's bowels, foxes and weasels now made their dens. Justin's boot crunched upon the spine of a small animal, and he was grateful that at least the Flemish sailors had been spared this much; no beasts had been able to feast upon their flesh. Stooping, he moved farther into the tunnel and found his way blocked by an obstacle covered by a large canvas tarp. Llewelyn joined him and together they lifted the tarp, ex posing the most beautiful sight that had ever filled Justin's eyes, several padlocked coffers and sack after sack of the fine Cistercian wool meant to ransom a king.

  The next discovery puzzled them all: three saddles, half-hidden by the tarp. Saddles were expensive and these seemed intact, in decent condition. Justin was the first to understand their significance. "We are looking at the last stitch in de Caldecott's shroud. These were the sailors' saddles, discarded after he'd let their horses go."

  Llewelyn was quick to comprehend. "Of course! What other reason could there be for casting them aside like that?"

  The loose cart horses had been Justin's first indication that he was dealing with more than an ordinary robbery. Once his suspicions settled upon de Caldecott, those pieces of the puzzle had come together. How could one man have handled seven animals? He'd had no choice but to set them free. Until this moment, though, that had been a theory. Now it was fact.

  "What did he care about cart horses and hired nags? He had his eye upon a much grander prize." And as he gazed down at the saddles of the murdered sailors, Justin felt a hot surge of outrage that the knight had been spared so much in dying as he had, escaping exposure, disgrace, and the gallows.

  ~*~

  Llewelyn's men were still celebrating the successful conclusion of their hunt, eager to shake off
the pall cast by the discovery of the dead bodies. When Llewelyn glanced around, though, he no longer saw Justin. After several moments of searching, he found the young Englishman in the tunnel, kneeling down beside a flickering lantern. "Come see this," he said, glancing over his shoulder, "What does this look like to you?"

  Llewelyn examined the object in Justin's hand, a rock splattered with a dark stain. "Blood?"

  "I think so, too. There is more of it over there, and if you look closely, you can see dried smears on several of the woolsacks. I think this is where the killings began. My guess is that after the woolsacks were moved into the tunnel de Caldecott stabbed one of the men in here, then called out for the others. As the second one entered, he was slain at once. I think the third sailor tried to run and was chased down and caught. The bodies were too rotted to tell me much about wounds, but the back of one man's tunic was soaked with blood."

  "May God assoil them," Llewelyn said softly, for he could not help pitying the dead sailors, who'd gotten so much more than they'd bargained for. "Let's talk outside," he said and backed to ward the entrance. Justin followed, and they stood in silence for several moments as they stretched their cramped muscles.

  "So," Llewelyn said at last, "I suppose this is when you start wondering if it was wise to wager upon my honor,"

  "I never wagered upon your honor, Llewelyn. I wagered upon your common sense."

  The Welshman cocked a quizzical brow. "Would you care to elaborate upon that?"

  "Simply put, it is in your best interests to cooperate with the English Crown. I'm not saying you'd not be tempted by those coffers and woolsacks. What man would not, myself included. But you are no outlaw. You are a prince, my lord Llewelyn, a prince in exile at the moment but a prince all the same. And when the day comes that you rule Gwynedd, you will need cordial relations with your liege lord, the English king. At the very least, you do not want to give the English any reason to intervene upon Davydd's behalf. And if they blamed you for the loss of King Richard's ransom, that would be one very persuasive reason." Justin paused, a smile hovering at the corners of his mouth. "Need I continue?"

  "Well, you did leave out the most interesting part of the story... where you inform the English queen of Davydd's treachery and my invaluable help."

  "Jesu forfend that I should forget that," Justin agreed, and Llewelyn began to laugh.

  "I know you claim your parents were English born and bred, but you are too clever not to have some Welsh blood," he said lightly, but Justin got the sense that Llewelyn had been testing him again and that once again he had passed the test,

  ~*~

  Just sent an urgent message to the Earl of Chester with one of Llewelyn's men, with a second message to his father in case the earl had not yet returned to Chester. He then set up camp by the old Roman mine, for he had no intention of letting the woolsacks out of his sight. It was not as uncomfortable as he'd feared, for autumn was still fighting a rear-guard action against winter at the lower elevations. Llewelyn provided men to safeguard the ransom, and stopped by himself on the second day to see how Justin was faring.

  ~*~

  White, fleecy clouds were blowing in from the coast, and Justin had been keeping a wary eye upon the increasingly overcast sky. Reaching over to offer a swig from his wineskin, Llewelyn insisted, "There'll be no rain for another day, mayhap two, Iestyn, not with the wind coming from the north."

  "You're not the one sleeping at night in a mine shaft," Justin pointed out, "so you do not have as much at stake as I do if the weather turns foul."

  Llewelyn started to make a jest about Englishmen melting in the rain like sugar lumps, but instead he tilted his head to the side, listening intently. "Someone is coming," he said. His guards were already on the alert, and within a few moments a horseman had ridden into view. "One of my scouts," Llewelyn informed Justin and summoned the man for his report.

  "The Earl of Chester is approaching along the coast road, my lord, He brings a large armed force and several oxcarts. He is nigh on an hour away if he stays with the carts. But if he rides ahead, he'll be here in half that time."

  Glancing over at Justin, Llewelyn said, "I'll let you be the one to welcome the earl to Wales."

  Edern was already bringing up Llewelyn's stallion. No one appeared to be hurrying, but within moments, the men were all mounted, awaiting Llewelyn's orders. Reining in beside Justin, Llewelyn said, "If you ever need help recovering another king's ransom in Wales, let me know."

  "I will," Justin said, "indeed I will."

  "Go with God, English."

  Llewelyn raised his hand in farewell before swinging his stallion toward the woods. Justin watched and then took several steps forward. "Go with God, my lord prince!" He could not be sure that Llewelyn had heard. He hoped so.

  ~*~

  The woolsacks finally been loaded into the oxcarts; with his usual thoroughness, the earl had thought to bring a pulley and tackle. As he and Justin watched, the carts were covered in canvas tarps. Chester was taking no chances and had brought an escort formidable enough to ward off any outlaw band smaller than an army. Once all had been done to his satisfaction, he called for his own mount, then glanced inquiringly at Justin.

  "We are ready to go. You are riding with us, are you not?"

  "No, my lord, I am not. I must return to Rhuddlan Castle." Chester blinked in surprise. "That would not be the wisest move, de Quincy." When Justin agreed wryly that it probably was not, the earl made no further attempts to dissuade him. Beckoning to one of his knights, he conferred briefly with him, and then strode over to Justin.

  "This is Sir Adam Fitz Walter. He will escort you to Rhuddlan and - I hope - discourage Davydd ab Owain from expressing his displeasure in a way he might later regret."

  "Thank you, my lord."

  Once Chester was comfortably in the saddle, he gave the signal to move out. But he'd gone only a few feet when he turned his stallion back toward Justin. "One day, de Quincy," he said, "you must tell me what really happened here."

  "I will, my lord," Justin said, "... as soon as the Queen's Grace gives me permission to speak of these matters."

  Chester regarded him with a faint smile, "I almost forgot. But you never forget, do you?"

  "Forget what, my lord?"

  "That you are, first and foremost, the queen's man."

  "No, my lord earl," Justin said with quiet pride, "I never forget that."

  ~*~

  Justin's return to Rhuddlan Castle evoked unpleasant echoes of his first trip into Wales with Thomas de Caldecott. Sir Adam Fitz Walter had known de Caldecott well, and he, too, was a talker, chatting away about the earl, camp-ball, the serving maid at the Bridge Street tavern, his Cheshire boyhood, and - to Justin's dismay - sharing fond memories of his friend, Thomas. Word of his death had brought grief to the city and the earl's household, Adam confided, for Thomas had more friends than a drunkard with money to spend. He doubted that there was a man ever born who'd not liked Thomas, he declared, and insisted upon entertaining Justin with stories of de Caldecott's past exploits, practical jokes, and easy conquests of the fairer sex.

  "We could hardly believe it when we learned he'd sickened and died in Wales. At first, gossip had it that he'd been slain, and that stirred up a furor. But when the earl returned and read your letter, he said the Welsh had been mistaken, that Thomas had suffered a seizure after a night of heavy drinking." Adam gave Justin a side long, curious glance. "You were there with him, were you not?"

  Justin was not surprised that Chester had concealed the truth about de Caldecott's guilt. It was easier that way, and kinder to the dead man's family. It would have been nigh well impossible for most people to reconcile the affable, engaging knight they'd known with the killer of six men. But it still troubled him that Thomas was escaping all earthly punishment for his sins, that so many heartfelt, deluded prayers would be said for the salvation of his soul.

  He knew Adam was awaiting his response and said tersely, "I can tell you that he was fo
und in the prince's chapel, not much more than that."

  That grudgingly given sentence seemed to provide Adam with solace, though, for after some moments, he said, "At least he died in God's House. Do you know where he was buried? I'd like to visit his grave ere we return to Chester." He seemed embarrassed by his sentimentality and quickly made a joke about giving a promise to one of Thomas's light-o'-loves.

  "He is buried in the cemetery of St Asaph's at Llanelwy." The irony of that was not lost upon Justin. He'd solved a crime, but none would be held accountable for it. Neither Davydd nor Emma would face charges. And there would not even be rumors about John's involvement. So why not a cathedral funeral for a killer?

  ~*~

  Davydd half-rose from his seat on the dais, looking at Justin in disbelief. "You found the woolsacks? They've all been recovered?"

  Adam was detecting strong undercurrents of tension in the hall. He did not understand it, but his mission was to back Justin up and so he stepped forward, saying loudly, "It is indeed true, my lord prince. By now the woolsacks are back in England and may even be on the way to London already."

  Davydd expelled an audible breath, then went limp against the cushions of his chair. "God is good," he murmured in Welsh, and for a moment he was silent, reveling in his unexpected deliverance. Seated beside him upon the dais, Emma had yet to speak or move. Her court mask was back in place; her face could have been carved from ivory or ice, so impassive and enigmatic was her expression. But her hands had clenched upon the arms of her chair, tightly enough that her knuckles were rimmed in white, and this did not escape Justin's notice.

  "This is indeed good news, and in truth, I'd despaired of ever hearing it from you, de Quincy." Davydd got to his feet, started down the steps of the dais. "Now that the recovery has been made, what of retribution? What does the queen mean to do about Llewelyn ab Iorwerth?"