Authors: Sharon Kay Penman
"So we acquit your Welsh prince on the grounds that he is stupid but not quite stupid enough," Bennet said, sounding faintly amused. "Not exactly a ringing testimonial to his innocence, is it? But if Davydd is out, who is left?"
"His wife."
Bennet's eyes gleamed. "The lovely Lady Emma? This is getting interesting. Why do you suspect her?"
"Process of elimination," Justin said glumly. "I have three reasons to look more closely at Emma. First of all, I saw her trusted man, Oliver, quarreling with Thomas the day ere he died. Next, Emma fainted at the sight of his body, and it was no ladylike pretense.
III
i *
Lastly, she sent Oliver to Chester on an errand that posed a genuine hardship to a man of Oliver's years and health."
Bennet held his peace, but Justin saw his expression and sighed again. "I know what a thin gruel I've cooked up. There could be any number of innocent explanations for my suspicions. Moreover, I have no motive for her. Assuming she did ally herself with Thomas to steal the ransom, why? For the money? Not likely. To cause Davydd pain and trouble? I can safely say she loves him not. But his downfall would be hers, too, and what of their son? Unless... unless she hopes that Davydd would be deposed and her son put in his stead, with her as regent, of course. That seems a great risk to take, though, for she could not be sure it would happen that way. If Davydd were to lose his throne, her son would still have to fend off Llewelyn ab Iorwerth, and you can take it from me, Bennet, that one will not be easy to defeat."
"Motives are elusive, no easy quarry," Bennet said thoughtfully. "If it were up to me, I'd stay on the lady's trail. Who knows where that might lead?"
He was a loyal friend, refusing to voice the fear that had been shadowing Justin since his first glimpse of Thomas de Caldecott's body. What if Thomas had been working alone? If the only partner he'd had was the unfortunate Selwyn? That was a possibility Justin was not ready to acknowledge, for it would mean that the secret of the wool's whereabouts had died with Thomas and he would not be able to recover the ransom. He would fail his queen.
~*~
Justin ducked back into an alley, swearing under breath. For three days and nights he and Bennet had been shadowing Oliver each time he ventured from the abbey precincts. By now they knew what to expect. Oliver's destination would be the docks. He'd go into wharfside alehouses and taverns, having a drink in each one before moving on to the next.
Justin had been quick to read sinister significance into his actions, convinced that a meeting had been set up, mayhap weeks ago, and Oliver was taking Thomas's place, waiting to be contacted. They decided that Oliver was visiting more than one alehouse in a clumsy attempt to confuse anyone who might be following him, although they were not sure if Oliver was aware of their surveillance or was just being cautious. They'd taken care to keep their distance, benefiting from the continuing wet weather as men muffled up in hooded cloaks or mantles were not readily identifiable, and sending Bennet in to spy on Oliver in close quarters. Justin refused to entertain the thought that Oliver's evening excursions could be prompted by nothing more than an innocent fondness for English ale or bad wine, and if Bennet harbored any doubts, he'd so far kept them to himself.
On this damp September evening, Oliver had followed his usual routine. He'd already visited two alehouses, where he'd sat alone at a corner table; no one had approached him, Bennet reported, and after ordering one drink, he'd moved on. He was now entering the third alehouse, pausing suddenly to look over his shoulder. Justin and Bennet hastily faded back into the shadows. After a prudent interval, Bennet made ready to follow. Pulling his hood forward to hide most of his face, he reminded Justin of a turtle withdrawing into its shell, "The last time," he grumbled, "he did not even stay long enough for me to finish my ale." As he started across the street toward the alehouse, Justin stepped back into the alley, settling in for another irksome wait.
This wait was over almost before it began, for Bennet soon reemerged and hurried back to the alley. "He has company," he said, sounding out of breath. "He is sitting at a table with two other men."
"Why did you leave, then? I need you to see what happens next, Bennet!"
"I had no choice, Justin. I recognized one of the men - none other than our city sheriff, Will Gamberell!"
"Christ Jesus," Justin whispered. Could the sheriff be Oliver's contact? Or was this just a wretched coincidence? "You say there was a second man with Oliver. Can you describe him?"
"Not well," Bennet said dubiously. "As soon as I saw Gamberell, my one concern was getting out of there ere he noticed me. The other man... he was steering the serving wench over to their table, so I did not get a good look at his face. I could not even tell what color his hair was, for he had a hood on, a fancy one, too, not attached to his mantle, with a little cape over his shoulders. I suppose that is not much help?"
"No," Justin said ungraciously, but soon repented of his rudeness; he could scarcely blame Bennet for wanting to avoid an encounter with a sheriff who loved him not. "I'll have to go in," he said reluctantly, for he could not risk losing this chance to see Oliver's mystery partner, even if it meant revealing himself to be a spy.
That did not strike Bennet as a particularly good idea, but he had no other suggestions to offer, and he waved Justin on with forced cheer, wishing him luck and asking if he could bring back an ale. That got him a quick smile, and then Justin was gone, and Bennet leaned against the wall of the closest building, marveling at the madness of this entire enterprise of theirs; what did it matter to him, after all, if King Richard never set foot again on English soil?
The interior of the alehouse was better lit than Justin had expected; each table held a large tallow candle or an oil lamp. It was more crowded, too, with more than a dozen men and several women sheltering from the rain at the end of a dreary, autumn day. Justin noticed the sheriff at once; there was a conspicuous space around the table where he was seated with several of his deputies or serjeants, a boundary line drawn between the law and the less lawful. But there was no sign of Oliver or his hooded companion, and Justin drew an alarmed breath. Where in blazes were they?
"Is there a rear door?" he demanded of the serving maid, and she looked at him incuriously, then nodded and pointed. In three strides, he crossed the chamber, barely missing a collision with a tipsy sailor who rebuked him in a foreign language that sounded vaguely Germanic. Jerking open the door, he found himself looking out into a small, dark, and very empty alley. There was no point in pursuit. His quarry was long gone.
He'd attracted the attention of the other alehouse customers, including the sheriff. "If it is not the queen's man," he said, sounding none-too-happy about it. "For someone looking for a ransom in Wales, you seem to spend an inordinate amount of time in Chester, de Quincy."
Having nothing left to lose, Justin bore down on the other man's table. "The men you were drinking with, you know where they've gone?"
Gamberell looked faintly surprised. "That old man and the coxcomb? No, why should I? I never laid eyes on either of them till tonight."
"I see. You always drink with men you do not know?"
"He does if they're buying," one of the serjeants volunteered with a cackle, which caught in his throat when the sheriff shot a withering glance his way.
"Whilst he was waiting for the old man, the younger one offered to buy me an ale," Gamberell said shortly. "What of it? How does this concern you?"
"I need to find them straightaway. What can you tell me about the younger man, the 'coxcomb'? Did he give you a name? Say anything that might enable me to seek him out? What did he look like?"
The sheriff glared at Justin, irritation giving way to outright antagonism. "I know nothing about the man. Nor would I tell you if I did. In Chester, we judge a man by the company he keeps, and the company you've been keeping reeks to high heavens!"
~*~
On the next day, the waterlogged residents of Chester got a rain reprieve, their first glimpse of the sun in more than week. When Molly opened the door of the alehouse, she let in a blaze of light that did little to dispel the gloom that held the common room in thrall. Bennet and Justin acknowledged her entrance with such a lack of enthusiasm that she knew their news had to be bad. Hurrying over to their table, she pulled up a stool.
"Well? What happened last night? Did Oliver's phantom friend fail to turn up again?"
"He put in an appearance," Bennet said glumly, "but disappeared in a puff of smoke ere we could get a good look at him."
Molly was surprised, for she knew how good her brother was tracking without leaving telltale footprints. "He was lucky to lose you," she said. "But surely there will be other opportunities?"
Justin shook his head. "Oliver stopped by the castle this morn and asked when I'd be returning to Rhuddlan. He was done in Chester, he said, and hoped we could travel together for safety's sake. So smug he was, I wanted to hit him."
He told Molly, then, of the sheriff's unexpected involvement, and she fell silent for some moments, pondering this new development. "If we assume Gamberell was telling the truth," she said thoughtfully, "then we are left with an interesting question. Why did our phantom buy the sheriff a drink?"
"We've been thinking about that, too," Justin said. "We came up with three possibilities. One: Oliver somehow got a message to him that he was being followed and they made use of the sheriff as a distraction. Two: pure coincidence. Or three: that he was amusing himself by seeing how close he could come to the flame without getting burned."
"Three," Molly said promptly. "That seems the most likely and the most troubling. Some men lust after danger the way others do after whores. If the phantom is one of them, Justin, you'd best beware, for men like that are unpredictable and reckless."
Justin shrugged, irked by her continued use of the term "phantom," for that only stressed how easily Oliver's confederate had outwitted them last night. Bennet was not eager to dwell upon their failure, either, and diverted Molly's attention by revealing Justin's more immediate problem, that the Earl of Chester was still gone from the city.
"Justin needs to send a letter to London, and he fears that if he waits until Chester gets back, weeks could go by. He is not likely to return until his sister recovers or, Jesu forfend, dies. Since this letter is overflowing with scandalous accusations against the Welsh prince and his consort, he needs to make sure it does not fall into the wrong hands. I offered to take it for him, but he says he cannot trust me not to sell it to the highest bidder."
Justin was not surprised when Molly rolled her eyes, for she held no high opinion of male humor. What she did not know, of course, was that he'd joked to keep from telling Bennet that his London letter was meant for the English queen. He remembered a common folk wisdom - that it took only one drop too many to cause a bucket to overflow - and he did not doubt that his revelation about Queen Eleanor would be that drop.
He was lost in thought, regretting the need to lie to his friends, and did not hear Molly's comment. It was not until Bennet gave him a playful poke that he focused again upon the alehouse and their conversation. "What...?"
"Molly has solved your problem, Justin. It is so obvious, too, that we ought to have thought of it ourselves. You do not need to wait for the earl to return. You need only ask the bishop to send a courier with your letter."
Justin's eyes cut accusingly toward Molly. She met his gaze blandly. "Is there any reason why you'd not want to ask the bishop, Justin?"
"Yes," he said tersely. "We had a... a misunderstanding the last time we spoke."
Molly riposted with a wicked smile. "Well, this will give you a chance to make peace."
~*~
Justin was on the defensive even before he'd set foot in the precincts of the bishop's palace, already anticipating his father's rebuff, and that gave his voice a conspicuous edge as he requested an audience with the bishop. When he was told that the bishop was entertaining guests, he was too tense to wait and insisted that he'd need but a few moments of the bishop's time. He was still arguing when the bishop's steward happened by. One glance at Justin's face and Martin took over, smoothing ruffled feathers on the bishop's staff and offering to let Aubrey know of Justin's arrival.
Justin agreed to remain in the entrance hall. The last time he and his father had met, it was in the bishop's own chambers above the great hall. He watched Martin disappear into the corner stair well, but he was too ill at ease to sit down. Noises from the great hall indicated that dinner would soon be served, and the entrance hall was crowded with petitioners, waiting with far more patience than Justin in the faint hope that the bishop might see them. Only Aubrey's private chapel offered solitude and silence, but it was in that same chapel that Justin had confronted his father on a frigid December eve, and he had no wish to revisit either that scene or that night.
He was still pacing restlessly when the bishop came bursting out of the stairwell. Justin turned in surprise, for he'd never seen his father move so precipitately. As far back as he could remember, Aubrey had been regardful of his dignity, striving to maintain an air of deliberation and formality whenever he appeared in public. Now he was panting, flushed, and agitated, even somewhat disheveled.
"What are you doing here?" he demanded. "I have highborn guests. You must leave straightaway!"
Justin flushed, too. "I am here on the queen's behalf," he said, in a low voice that was not as steady as he would have liked. "I need a letter delivered to London, and that is my only reason for -"
Aubrey gave no indication that he'd even heard. "You cannot stay," he insisted, "for they'll soon be coming into the hall. Be gone whilst there is still time!"
Justin's anger was fueled by hurt. He was used to being treated as an insignificant stranger by his father whenever there were other eyes to see them, but never had Aubrey rejected him so vehemently, as if the very sight of him was shameful, "This is an urgent matter and I am going nowhere until you hear me out!"