By the time they'd reached Basingwerk Abbey, Justin had learned that his new ally was thirty and three, that his elder brother held a manor of the Earl of Chester at Caldecott in Cheshire, that he'd picked up some of his Welsh from his mother, who'd been raised in Pembrokeshire, and was taught the rest by a Welsh mistress. And by the time they were within sight of Rhuddlan Castle, Justin knew that Thomas took great pleasure in hawking, gambling, hunting, gossip, Gascon wines, and women, but he took little pleasure in sea voyages, tedious church sermons, sharing beds with strangers in flea-infested inns, salted herring during Lent, roan horses, cats, and his elder brother. He had Justin laughing more often than not, and since Justin was quiet by nature, they complemented each other quite well, the one offering entertainment, the other an audience.
Rhuddlan Castle was strategically situated at the lowest crossing point of the River Clwyd, the locale of several strongholds down through the years. The present fortress had long dominated the crossing, a bulwark of English power until captured by Davydd's formidable father a quarter-century ago. It looked impressive at first glance, with a rectangular keep situated upon a sixty-foot-high mound and a large bailey defended by steep palisades and a deep, wide ditch. But as they got closer, Justin saw that all of the castle's structures were wooden, not fortified in stone, as were the principal castles of the English Crown and baronage. Compared to the great citadels of Windsor and Chester, Rhuddlan no longer looked so invincible to Justin.
They were admitted without difficulty; Thomas was well known here, too. Dismounting in the bailey, they were welcomed by the Welsh prince's steward, and a man was sent to inform Davydd of their arrival. Justin watched him scramble up the perpendicular steps cut into the mound as he asked the steward about accommodating their escort; it was an unfamiliar experience, having men at his command, but he was learning to like it.
"Let's go into the hall," Thomas suggested, tugging at Justin's arm. "Princes like to make an entrance, so this could take a while."
He switched from French to Welsh then, as he turned back to the steward, and Justin decided his boasting was justified; Thomas did indeed speak fluent Welsh. Thomas was joking with Garwyn, the steward, and Justin was pleased to find that he could follow the gist of their conversation.
As they approached the open door of the great hail, a man came striding out. He was of middle height, with flyaway reddish hair and beard, a sturdy frame, a square, sun-weathered face, and a fine I Flemish sword at his hip. The beard identified him as a Marcher lord, for the Welsh were clean-shaven with mustaches. But Justin already knew that. He came to an abrupt halt.
Thomas was greeting the man with a smile and enough deference to indicate he was of greater rank than the knight. Justin already knew that, too. He was still standing as if rooted when Thomas turned to introduce him to Lord Fitz Alan, the sheriff of Shropshire, an influential Marcher baron… and the man who had taken Justin into his service as a squire, a personal favor for his friend, the Bishop of Chester.
Chapter 4
August 1193
Rhuddlan Castle, North Wales
Recognition was mutual. Fitz Alan's look of surprise soon gave way to one of astonishment, for Justin was not quick enough to stop Thomas from introducing him with a flourish as "the queen's man." In other circumstances, the Marcher lord's befuddlement might have been comical, but Justin could find no humor in his present predicament. His feelings for his father were a confused welter of aggrieved, often contradictory, emotions. For all of his bravado, he did not truly want to alienate and embarrass his father with a public scandal. Now, finding himself face-to-face with the man he least wanted to see, one who was bound to realize the significance of his claim to the de Quincy name, he did not know how he could deflect Fitz Alan's curiosity or suspicions.
He was given a brief reprieve, then, when the prince's steward insisted upon ushering them out of the sun and into the great hall. Justin and Thomas and their men were soon herded inside, where they were offered mead or wine; hospitality was the Eleventh Commandment for the Welsh. Thomas was clearly at home here, exchanging jests and greetings with several of the Welshmen in the hall; almost as if reading Justin's mind, he said, "For the past year, I have acted as the earl's liaison with Lord Davydd, so I've been to Rhuddlan often enough to make a few friends and…" He grinned. "… tempt a lass or two."
Turning then to Garwyn, he slid smoothly into Welsh, telling the steward that once he was back in Chester, he'd arranged to have Masses said for poor Rhun's soul. Garwyn smiled, shook his head, and said something too quickly for Justin to follow. Thomas looked surprised, but then he smiled, too. "Rhun is the lad who was left for dead. We thought sure that he was not long for this world. But Garwyn just told me that not only is he still amongst the living, they think he is on the mend." He held up his hand before Justin could speak. "Alas, Rhun's good fortune is not ours. Garwyn says he has no memory whatsoever of the ambush."
Justin swore silently. "Is his memory gone for good?"
Thomas shrugged. "Who knows? Apparently loss of memory is not uncommon with head injuries like Rhun's."
Before Justin could respond, there was a stir at the end of the hall. Garwyn sprang to his feet, with Thomas right behind him. Justin rose, too, watching as Davydd ab Owain strode toward hem. The Earl of Chester had described Davydd as "aged." Justin was surprised, therefore, to find that the Welsh prince was nor that decrepit or doddering for a man who'd lived fifty-five winters.
Davydd's dark eyes were pouchy, his hairline was receding, and he'd long ago lost the lean, hungry look of his youth. But he was still a handsome man. His chestnut hair was only lightly salted with grey, his step had the swagger of one accustomed to wielding power, and he bore his years lightly. It was obvious, though, that the missing ransom was weighing heavily upon his mind; he looked starved for sleep and it was hard to imagine that tautly drawn mouth relaxing into a smile.
He held the queen's letter in one hand, crumpled in his fist. Coming straight to Thomas, he said abruptly, "Is this the queen's man?"
~*~
Justin was glad it was a humid, summer day. If it had been midwinter, the coldness of Davydd's welcome might have given him a bone-chill, "I do not understand why the queen has sent you to me, Master de Quincy. What I need are enough armed men to track Llewelyn ab Iorwerth to his lair and recover the stolen ransom. I do not see what you can do. What do you know about Llewelyn? About Wales? Do you even speak Welsh?"
Justin caught his breath, held it until he was sure his voice would reveal nothing of his inner fury. That brief moment gave him enough time, though, to devise a new stratagem, one born of Davydd's contempt. Rather than try to change the Welsh prince's low opinion of him, why not use it to his own advantage?
"I seek only to serve the Queen's Grace… and you, of course, my lord prince. I am deeply honored by her trust in me, and I am confident I can justify it. I grant you that I speak little Welsh, but I do not see why that would hinder my investigation. I have men with me to act as translators, after all." He'd been striving to sound ingratiating and indignant and just a bit pompous, and to judge by the disdainful expression on Davydd's face, he had succeeded.