"Very well," he said. "What do I have to lose?"
Chapter 6
August 1193
Aberconwy, Wales
As Justin and Sion rode west, the land began to look like the Wales of legend: mountain peaks silhouetted against the sky, woods deep and dark and primeval, so impenetrable that trees had never felt the bite of an axe and only meager shafts of sun could filter through the wild, untamed tangle of undergrowth, brush, and bracken. The road hugged the coast and clouds hovered low on the horizon, as grey and foreboding as the choppy, windswept sea. Welsh weather was notoriously erratic, hostile to invaders and inhabitants alike, and by the time they reached the estuary of the River Conwy, rain was falling, a chill drizzle that threatened to become a downpour at any moment. Sion hailed the boatman and they were soon being ferried across the river. To their right, the castle of Deganwy stood sentinel over the bay, and ahead of them lay their destination, the Cistercian abbey at Aberconwy.
Justin was restless, edgy, and bored. He'd been stranded in the outer parlour for at least two hours by his reckoning. Sion had vanished within moments of their arrival, hurrying off to fetch Pedrani, the lay brother, promising to bring him back to the parlour straightaway. But as time dragged by, Justin's patience began to fray. What if Pedran did not know the whereabouts of his cousin? What if Guto could not be tracked down? And even if they did find him, what if he knew nothing about the ambush? If his loose talk had been no more than the maunderings of a man deep in his cups?
Rising again from his seat on an uncomfortable wooden bench, Justin paced the cramped confines of the parlour. He ought to have accepted the hospitaller's offer of milk and cheese. But he'd expected to be riding off in search of Guto once he'd interviewed Pedran. He was not truly troubled yet by Sion's failure to return with Guto's cousin. He knew the Cistercian lay brothers did the heavy labor at the abbey, and Pedran was not likely to be permitted to abandon his chores to chat with a stranger, however much he might like such a brief respite. He could even be off on one of the abbey granges, although if so, Justin could not understand why Sion would not have returned with that information. Had he been foolhardy to trust Sion? The reasons that had seemed so convincing behind the sheltering walls of Rhuddlan Castle were more dubious now that he found himself deep in Wales, with no resources to draw upon but his sword, his wits, and a stranger named Sion.
When he felt unable to pass another hour in his spartan seclusion, he shoved the parlour's far door open. As he'd guessed, it led out into the cloisters. He stood for some moments in the walkway, breathing in the damp salt air, listening in vain for the ordinary, familiar, comforting sounds of daily life. The abbey was shrouded in silence, for the church bells had not rung since None several hours ago. Monks glided by, their sandals making no noise on wet paving stones. Dressed in the unbleached wool habits that caused people to name them the White Monks, eyes downcast, hands tucked into their sleeves, they seemed almost like ghosts to Justin, pale shadows of mortal men no longer burdened with temporal concerns.
He attracted a few oblique glances, and tried to remember if lay people were allowed in the abbey cloisters or not. The Cistercians were the most austere of all the holy orders, and they might well frown upon too much contact with intruders from the world they'd renounced. He greeted these mute, wraithlike men of God with a polite "Good Morrow," but received only grave nods in return, for the White Monks were sworn to silence for much of their day. Justin admired them for their piety, their discipline, their willingness to give over every waking hour to God, for he knew he would have found it well nigh impossible to follow in their footsteps. But his esteem notwithstanding, he was feeling more and more like a trespasser in their midst, and headed for the one place where laymen were welcome, God's House.
Even there, the monks were segregated from their lay brothers, who heard Mass in the nave. At this time of day, between None and Vespers, the church was empty, still. Justin paused to bless himself at the holy water stoup, then slipped into a chapel in the south transept, where he knelt and offered up prayers for Claudine and their unborn child.
Soon after, he heard the door creak open, heard footsteps pause before the holy water stoup as he had done. When they began to echo in the nave, he stepped from the chapel to see who this newcomer was. He'd been half-expecting one of the monks, but the man he was now facing was no monk. Nor was he clad in the habit of a lay brother.
"Are you Justin de Quincy?"
The words were French, and excellent French at that, but the cadence was Welsh. Justin was suddenly alert, his eyes taking in every aspect of this stranger's appearance. "I am. But do not try to tell me you are Pedran, not with that sword at your hip. And I suspect you are not Guto, either."
"No, I am not Guto. But I think you'll want to talk with me, nonetheless. I am Llewelyn ab Iorwerth."
Justin expelled his breath slowly. "Well, well," he said softly. "I was trying to flush out a rabbit, and instead, I've flushed out I fox.''
The Welshman's mouth quirked at one corner, as if he were suppressing a smile. "In light of what you've been hearing about me from my loving uncle Dayvdd, I should probably consider 'fox' a compliment. I daresay you could have come up with much worse."
"I daresay," Justin agreed. They were both standing in the center aisle of the nave by now, and a wall torch gave off enough light for them to do a mutual inspection. They were about the same height, for Llewelyn was taller than the average Welshman. Both had dark coloring, although Justin's eyes were grey and Llewelyn's were brown. Justin judged them to be about the same age, too. It was like looking into a pond and seeing a wavering reflection that was almost, but not quite, a mirror image of himself.
Llewelyn saw the resemblance, too. "Sion said you were I fair-minded — for an Englishman." Again there was the hint of a smile. "But he did not tell me that you look like kin. A pity my father is dead, for it would have been interesting to ask him if he'd broken any English hearts."
Justin stiffened. But he remembered, then, that the Welsh did not view illegitimacy like the rest of Christendom, Here man could be bastard-born and a prince, for the Welsh balked at punishing children for the sins of their fathers. "Alas, mother's heart was not one of them. I say 'alas' because I well imagine the look on Davydd's face when I returned to Rhuddlan with the happy news that I'd found my long-lost brother, Llewelyn."
This time there was no mistaking Llewelyn's amusement. "Ah, but that would make Davydd your uncle, too," he pointed out and laughed outright at Justin's expression of mock horror.
Justin found himself wondering if the Welshman had been testing him with that dubious jest about broken English hearts, wanting to see how quick he was to take offense. "Be sure to tell Sion that he lies very convincingly. That was an inspired move on your part, whether you deliberately placed him in Davydd's household or won him over. I cannot imagine a more useful spy than Davydd's scribe."
"What of Davydd's confessor?"
"Jesu!" Justin was genuinely shocked before he realized that Llewelyn was joking. It was a shame that he could not introduce this Welsh rebel to his lady queen; he suspected they'd get along famously. "Just out of curiosity, how can you and Sion be so sure that I will not reveal his true identity to Davydd?"
"Because you've had a week to enjoy the pleasure of Davydd's company," Llewelyn said, very dryly. "Sion felt the risk was worth raking. He believes that you truly want to find out what happened. Is he right, English?"