Never had Emma visited Gwenfrewi's holy well, he said with some indignation not once in more than twenty years in Wales. Justin started to point out that Emma would not have been welcome at Basingwerk Abbey, where her sex mattered more than her status as Davydd's consort, but Sion gave him no chance.
"Well, I find it strange that she suddenly shows such interest in a saint she has ignored for all of her married life. I find it strange that a woman who will not go to the privy chamber without an escort is taking only Oliver, one of her handmaidens, and just enough men to see to her safety. The last time she went to Chester, she traveled in a style that the English queen might well have envied. And I also find it strange that she is willing to pass the night in a humble priest's abode instead of demanding that the White Monks admit her to their guest house or returning to Rhuddlan."
By now Sion had won Justin over. "You are right," he conceded. "None of that sounds like the Lady Emma that we know and love not. I will do my best to find out what she is up to, but it will not be easy, Sion. If she has even the slightest suspicion that I am close at hand, she'll never stir from that priest's house."
"That is why you need to announce today that you are going to Chester. If you leave at daybreak tomorrow, you'll get to Basingwerk ere Emma does. If you can keep out of her sight, she ought to feel secure enough to follow through with whatever she is planning. She has said nothing in public yet about her pilgrimage, so she has no reason to suspect that you know. I think she will welcome your absence, not doubt it."
Justin was very glad that he'd shared his suspicions about Emma with Sion. The man was proving to be a useful ally… as long as his interests continued to coincide with those of Llewelyn ab Iorwerth, "I think Oliver set up this meeting whilst he was in Chester. I'd wager that Emma never intended to take so active a role herself, not until Thomas de Caldecott got himself so inconveniently murdered," Sion nodded somberly. "This may be your last chance to find either the truth or the ransom, Iestyn."
"I know." His queen wanted the ransom. Davydd also wanted the ransom. He wondered which one Llewelyn wanted, if it came to a choice. If only he had the answer to that question, he'd know, then, how much he dared trust the Welsh rebel.
Chapter 17
September1193
Treffynnon, Wales
A chill drizzle was leaking prom clouds the color of lead. Justin had seen few scenes as desolate as Treffynnon, the tiny village that had grown up around the holy well of St Gwenfrewi. Undaunted by the dreary weather, a few hardy pilgrims had gathered at the spring. Noticing a young boy dragging a clubfoot, Justin hoped that if the saint answered any prayers this day, it would be his.
Shifting position, he winced as his back muscles cramped in protest. He was not surprised that he'd awakened so stiff and sore, for he'd passed the night in a barn. As uncomfortable as his lodgings had been, at least he'd been spared a night camping out in the woods. He'd not dared to stay at the abbey guest house, for it was barely a mile away at the lower end of the valley, and he was sure that Oliver would be on the lookout for an Englishman upon a chestnut stallion. Fortunately, Sion had come to his rescue, suggesting that he ask for shelter at one of the abbey granges.
The granges were run by conversi, lay brothers who took holy vows as the monks did, but who lived under a less restrictive code of behavior, unlettered men recruited from the poor and the peasantry to do the manual labor that the choir monks eschewed. Following Sion's advice, Justin had packed several wineskins and guaranteed himself a cordial welcome when he'd ridden into the grange at Mertyn. It was one of the smallest and poorest of the abbey's farms, but the lay brothers had been generous hosts, sharing their plain fare and offering Justin a snug straw bed in the byre that sheltered their cows.
Leaving Copper in the cattle barn, he set out before dawn for Treffynnon. It was not an enjoyable trek, for the rain was cold, the path muddy, and a hole had worn through one of his boots. Thankful that less than three miles lay between grange and holy well, he limped into the hamlet before anyone was stirring. After finding a perch to keep watch, he peeled off a piece of bark to make a temporary plug for the boot sole. His best guess was that the Chester phantom would be arriving sooner rather than later, for he could not imagine the elegant, luxury-loving Emma spending any more time than need be in the priest's small, shabby house. She'd yet to emerge, but Justin had chosen his hiding place with care, one that afforded an unobstructed view of the sacred spring, the adjacent church, and the priest's lodging. He need only watch and wait.
The rain continued to fall, and Justin was shivering and wet and hungry by the time Emma appeared. Justin observed that she did not follow the usual pilgrim's practice of praying at the moss-covered valley stones that represented the penitential stations. In stead she headed directly for the well, where her armed escort made the pilgrims stand aside so she could approach on her own. Oliver produced a blanket, so that she could kneel without muddying her skirts, and Justin watched closely as she blessed herself with the holy water and bowed her head. Her prayer was a brief one, confirming Justin's cynical suspicions about the sincerity of her desire to honor the martyred Welsh saint. Only after she had risen and was escorted into the church did her guards permit the pilgrims to return to the spring and their interrupted prayers.
Although Justin did not yet know it, the rest of his day would go downhill from there. Emma soon exited the church and returned to the priest's lodging. Oliver remained behind and began to approach villagers. Well out of earshot, Justin watched in frustration as the same scenario was enacted time and time again. Oliver would initiate a conversation only to get shrugs and uncomprehending stares for his trouble. Justin surmised that Oliver was encountering a language barrier; he apparently spoke no Welsh and none of the villagers he accosted spoke French.
Making no progress with the local people, Oliver concentrated upon the pilgrims, but he had no luck until he addressed a tall, hulking youth in the long russet robe and wide-brimmed hat that proclaimed his pilgrim status. Judging by the animated discussion that followed, Justin concluded that Oliver had at last found someone who could answer his questions. But what was Oliver seeking so urgently to find out?
When the canonical hour of Terce drew near, Emma reemerged and accompanied the priest to the church, where they were soon joined by villagers, pilgrims, and some of the men who'd been staying in the abbey guest house. After the Morrow Mass, the church emptied and people went about their daily chores and activities. Emma was among the last to depart, returning once more to the priest's lodgings. But Justin waited in vain for Oliver.
Once he realized that Oliver must have slipped out the church's side door during the Mass, Justin used some of the Welsh curses he'd picked up from Davydd. He did not think Oliver suspected that he was under surveillance; this was just more proof of the man's innate caution. It was too late to try to pick up the trail. All he could do was to hope that Oliver had not sneaked off to meet Emma's mystery partner. He had logic on his side, for why would Emma have made this uncomfortable journey to Treffynnon if her presence were not needed and Oliver could act on her behalf? Logic notwithstanding, though, Justin felt as if there was a hollow, empty pit where his stomach ought to be.
Oliver was gone for hours, not returning until the afternoon. He moved slowly and his limp was much more pronounced; even from a distance, Justin could see that his boots were heavily caked in mud. He disappeared into the priest's house, and neither he nor Emma was seen again that day. Justin had gotten bread and cheese from the monks at Mertyn, but he'd eaten it at midday, and he found himself bedeviled by hunger as well as fatigue and cold. He'd been sure that Emma had come to Treffynnon to meet someone, so sure. But his faith was waning with each wet, wearisome hour of this vexing, never-ending day.