"I cannot do that, my lord, not yet. As I told you before, I can share my findings with no one until I've completed my investigation."
"Surely you can confide privately in my lord husband?" Emma's contribution to the conversation came as a surprise to Justin and Davydd both. She'd approached them soundlessly and was now regarding Justin so coolly that she seemed a totally different woman from the one who'd sought him out in the castle gardens, "These are Lord Davydd's domains, after all," she continued. "So he of all men ought to be kept informed of whatever you discover."
Looking startled but gratified by this wifely support, Davydd glared at Justin. "Indeed! I'll tell you straight out, de Quincy, that I find your secrecy offensive."
"As well you should, my lord husband." Emma was addressing Davydd, but those beautiful blue eyes were taking Justin's measure and finding him wanting. "What you do not seem to realize, Master de Quincy, is that by balking at sharing information with Lord Davydd, you raise suspicions in other men's minds. People might well think that you do not trust him or even that you suspect him of complicity in this wretched business."
"Me?" Davydd protested, swinging around to stare at his wife, "How could I possibly be involved?"
"I can only promise you, my lord Davydd, that once I learn what happened to the ransom, you will be the first one to know." Justin saw that he had satisfied neither Davydd nor Emma, and as he looked about the great hall, he was acutely aware of his isolation, an unwanted alien in a land not his, not knowing enough to solve the mystery of the missing ransom, knowing just enough to put himself in peril.
Justin had been stung by Sion's accusation that no one seemed to care about getting justice for the murdered men. There was too much truth in it for comfort when he thought of those involved in what Emma had called "this wretched business." His lady queen. The Earl of Chester. His father. 'William Fitz Alan. Thomas de Caldecott. Prince Davydd. Lady Emma. Llewelyn ab Iorwerth. And if he were to be honest, himself. For them all, the greatest concern, mayhap even the only concern, was the recovery of the ransom. Who amongst them had given much thought to Selwyn, Alun, Rhun, and Madog? And of the lot of them, his failure was the worst. A queen, an earl, a bishop, a baron, a knight, a prince, the sister of a king. Llewelyn was highborn, too, the grandson of one of the greatest Welsh princes. But what was his excuse?
Justin had brooded upon this during the ride back to Rhuddlan and eventually an idea had come to him, an ember sifted from the ashes. "Clever and capable," Sion had called Rhun, and Justin no reason to doubt him. As the only surviving witness, Rhun could confirm Davydd's claim that Llewelyn was the culprit — or refute it. A quick-witted lad would realize the danger he was in. Was that memory loss of his genuine? Or a way to stay alive?
Justin decided it was worth trying to question Rhun again. But he did not know if his Welsh would be up to the task. Padrig had gone back to Chester with Thomas de Caldecott. He could wait till Sion returned to Rhuddlan. If he did, though, whatever he might learn would be passed on to Llewelyn, and Justin was not sure how much he trusted this newfound ally of his. There was only one person at Rhuddlan Castle whom he had no reason to doubt, and he did not know if he ought to involve Angharad in this or not. Was it fair to ask her to keep secrets from her lover? More important, could he be putting her at risk?
Deciding he could not chance it, he slipped away while the rest of Davydd's household was dining in the great hall. But when he entered Rhun's lodging, he found that fate had taken a hand. As he'd hoped, the gardener and his wife had gone to eat. Rhun was lying listlessly upon his straw pallet, sipping mead from a cracked tip, and Angharad was sitting beside him, changing his head bandage with quick, deft fingers. Looking over her shoulder, she smiled at the sight of Justin's surprised expression.
"What… you thought I was merely the Lady Emma's hand maiden?" she teased. "I happen to be a woman of many talents. In my free time, I serve as Rhuddlan's angel of mercy."
Justin knew that women were often skilled in the healing arts for doctors were readily available only to the highborn and the wealthy. He did not suppose that Davydd's private physician gave high priority to treating a lad like Rhun, so Angharad's kindness was a godsend to the boy. That she should be here now was clearly God's Will, and Justin no longer resisted it.
"Rhun, I need to talk to you," he said, speaking slowly and deliberately and in Welsh. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Angharad's head swivel toward him. "I can speak better Welsh than I've led people to believe. I am trusting you to keep my secret, and I promise to keep any secrets of yours. Upon the surety of my soul, I promise that."
Rhun's eyes were as green as any cat's, and as difficult to read. "What secrets do I have?"
Justin knelt by the boy's pallet. "I do not believe Llewelyn ab Iorwerth was the one who stole the ransom. I think you can prove that, and that puts you in danger, for Lord Davydd wants Llewelyn to be guilty."
"Why would I be in danger? I cannot remember what happened."
"That is your good fortune. But I do not know how long it will last. If there are men who do not want you to talk about the ambush, they may well worry that your memory could come back."
He saw a flicker in Rhun's eyes, no more than that, but it was enough to confirm his suspicions. Angharad had seen it, too, for she leaned forward then and placed her hand upon Rhun's.
"Is Iestyn right, Rhun? Can you remember more than you've let on? If so, he is right, too, about your danger. Whoever ambushed you has no scruples about killing. They've proved that in a very bloody way already."
Rhun said nothing, his eyes downcast. Justin was close enough to see the Adam's apple move in the boy's throat as he swallowed. "With your help, Rhun, we can find out who did this and see that are punished. I will not lie to you. Yes, there is risk in speaking out. But there is greater risk in keeping silent."
Rhun gnawed his lower lip. He was too young to grow a proper mustache, and those patchy, sparse whiskers gave him the vulnerable look of a child playing at being a grown-up. "Lady Angharad, you trust this Englishman?"
She did not hesitate. "Yes, Rhun, I do." Seeing him look to the mead cup, she reached for it, held it to his mouth while he drank.
When he spoke, there was a tremor in his voice, the husky hint of tears. But his gaze did not waver from Justin's. "I lied," he said, "because I was scared. I do remember. And if Lady Angharad thinks I ought to tell you, I will."
The sun was hot on his face, and a vagrant breeze ruffled the hair on Rhun's forehead. It was that rare summer's day in Wales, warm and dry and altogether delightful. Rhun hated to waste it like this, jouncing around in the back of a swaying hay-wain. His physical discomfort he could have borne; he was used to it. But his unease of mind was different. No matter how often he tried to convince himself that there was nothing to fear, his disquiet lingered. He was acutely aware of the fact that he was sitting on a fortune, a nesting bird prey for any passing hawks.
When he could endure the bone-bruising jolting no longer, Rhun slipped from the wagon, preferring sore feet to a sore bum. The horses were plodding along so slowly that he had no trouble keeping pace. "Can you pitch my wineskin to me, Uncle?" Alun eased up on the reins and obligingly reached for the wineskin. Rhun jogged over to catch it, pretending it was a pig's bladder camp-ball. Alun was not really his uncle, but the other man was so much older than Rhun that he used it as a courtesy. He found it hard to imagine living as long as Alun had, more than sixty winters. From the vantage point of Rhun's sixteen years, that was as old as God.