Justin's shoulders twitched in a half-shrug.
"Why are you here?" Aubrey asked, after another uncomfortable silence.
Justin withdrew the letters from his tunic, "I need you to send these to the queen. I am not sure where she is now, but I thought your messenger could go first to London and learn her whereabouts. There is a second letter for the abbess of Godstow priory." He paused, daring Aubrey to ask questions. "The letter to the queen is urgent. Can your man be ready to ride out today?"
"Yes, of course." Aubrey stepped forward and took the letters from Justin. "I will see to it myself, choosing one of my most reliable men.
Justin nodded, not knowing what else to say. He'd expected Aubrey to leave as soon as he had the letters, but the bishop remained where he was, watching him with an inscrutable expression. "One of my guests," he said abruptly, "was Hugh de Nonant, Bishop of Coventry and Lichfield. I am sure you've heard tales about him, none of them good."
Justin nodded again, for the Bishop of Coventry was rumored to be hand in glove with the queen's treacherous son, John. Aubrey hesitated, subjecting him to another intent scrutiny. "Last December… the night you forced your way into my great hall, Hugh de Nonant was here. He was curious about you and the scene you were causing, asked too many questions. He has an unholy ability to sniff out other men's secrets and then use them to his benefit. If he'd seen you again and learned that you serve the queen now, who's to say what he might have made of it?"
Justin did not want to see through Aubrey's eyes. He could not dismiss these fears out of hand, though. Any ally of John's was deserving of suspicion. "You should have told me about de Nonant. Had I known, I would have kept out of his sight."
"Yes… I should have," Aubrey agreed, to Justin's surprise. Tucking the letters away, he said briskly, "I will see to this straightaway. I think it best that you remain here a while longer. I will send Martin in to you as soon as it is safe for you to depart."
Justin said nothing, for what was there to say? His father turned, strode over to the door. He paused, then, his hand on the latch. His back was to Justin, his face not visible. "Aline," he said softly. "Your mother's name was Aline."
Chapter 16
August 1193
Llanelwy, North Wales
The river Elwy was a stone's throw away, but the moon had been swallowed up by a passing cloud and Justin could no longer see it. He tilted his head to the side, listening to the soft, rhythmic rushing of the water. So hushed and tranquil was the night that he could easily have been lulled into complacency — were it not for his purpose here in the hamlet of Llanelwy: a secret meeting with a man who was neither friend nor foe, capable of becoming either one.
Turning away from the unseen river, he gazed up at the glimmering lights of St Asaph, the cathedral crowning the crest of the hill. It seemed odd to use so grand a word for so simple a structure, for this humble, wooden church bore little resemblance to the stone and stained glass cathedrals of England. It was perfect, though, for a meeting place. It was only a few miles from Rhuddlan Castle, near enough that Justin could ride out on his own without the need of Sion's escort, and convenient in that he could spend the night in St Asaph's guest house, offer the bishop's gatekeeper a few coins to slip him in and out, and then walk down the hill to await Llewelyn's arrival.
But if it was advantageous for Justin, Llanelwy was a potent death trap for Llewelyn ab Iorwerth, and he wondered why the Welshman had chosen it. It was dangerously close to Davydd's castle at Rhuddlan, deep in the heart of his domains. He supposed Llewelyn might argue that the best hiding place was sometimes in plain sight, but he could not help remembering Molly's tart warning about men who lusted after danger instead of whores. "Unpredictable and reckless," she'd called them. Not the sort of man he ought to be meeting alone at night in a deserted churchyard.
The moon had escaped the cloud's smothering confines, and silvered light illuminated the small cemetery. He'd been told by the guest house hospitaller that Thomas de Caldecott was buried here; his funeral had been held in the cathedral but its hallowed ground was reserved for its own. It was easy to find Thomas's grave; there were only two earthen mounds that indicated recent burials, and one was too small to be anything but the final resting place of a baby. Justin paused before that forlorn little grave, saying a prayer for the soul of its occupant. In England unbaptized infants could not be buried in consecrated ground. He thought the Welsh might be more generous in interpreting God's Word; at least he hoped so.
Moving toward Thomas de Caldecott's grave, he stood staring down at the bare, naked earth, the stark wooden cross. He offered no prayers for Thomas's soul. If the knight were to be forgiven, let it be by the Almighty. Neither the murdered men nor the three missing sailors could offer their forgiveness. And though she still breathed, he counted Angharad, too, amongst de Caldecott's victims.
"Is that the grave of the English slayer?"
Justin was not caught utterly by surprise; he'd taken notice at Aberconwy of Llewelyn's natural sense of drama. But the Welshman's ghostly approach was still impressive; he'd heard not so much as a twig's snap, a pebble's scrape. Turning without haste, as if he'd known of Llewelyn's presence all along, he said, "I ought to introduce you to Molly's phantom."
Llewelyn looked understandably puzzled. "English humor is one of life's great mysteries." Coming forward into the moonlight, he glanced down at the grave, then back at Justin. "A better resting place than he deserves, I daresay. Any idea who might have poisoned him?"
"Is there anyone in North Wales who does believe the man was stabbed?" Justin said wryly and caught the glimmer of a quick smile.
"Only those whose wits are addled by drink or grief," Llewelyn said, and Justin wondered if he knew about Angharad. "Sion saw the body and says there was no blood or visible wounds… other than my dagger thrust, of course."
"Are you claiming credit for another man's deed? Your uncle says Rhys ap Cadell wielded the blade."
"So I heard. Rhys was so pleased that Davydd remembers him." Llewelyn's lip curled. "My uncle is lucky indeed that Rhys was not prowling about Rhuddlan with a knife at the ready. When Rhys wants to take down a tree, he does not waste time lopping off branches, goes right for the roots."
"I suspect that you do, too."
Llewelyn did not deny it. "I suppose I am fortunate that I was not even born when the Archbishop of Canterbury was slain, or else Davydd would be blaming me for that death, too."
Thomas Becket had been murdered in December of God's Year 1170, so Justin had not been born then, either. But he was very familiar with the archbishop's story, as who in Christendom was not? Becket had died in his own cathedral, struck down by four knights who'd claimed that they'd acted on the king's behalf. Henry had passionately denied it, swearing that he'd spoken careless words in anger, no more than that, and eventually he'd convinced the Church. Even those who did not believe him to be guilty, though, did not believe him to be innocent, either. Whether he'd intended it or not, his Angevin rage had unleashed evil, and in perhaps the greatest irony of all, the man who'd been his beloved friend and then his mortal enemy became a holy martyr, canonized as a saint.
Justin had always been intrigued by the enigmatic figure of the archbishop, in part because his father was a great admirer of Thomas Becket. He'd often spoken of his brief meeting with the archbishop, scant weeks before Becket's murder, and Justin had been awed that someone he knew had actually spoken with a saint.