There was no need for Justin to translate; the warning had been given in fluent French. Durand took it seriously, not moving so much as a muscle. He felt no anger, not even fear, not yet, just utter astonishment. The monk's hood had fallen back, revealing a head of thick, dark hair that had never known a tonsure, revealing the face of a youthful, triumphant stranger, a man Durand had never laid eyes upon. "Who in Hellfire," he gasped, "are you?"
He sounded so dumbfounded that Justin burst out laughing. "It is my pleasure and my privilege," he said, deliberately drawing the words out, savoring the moment, "to introduce you, Durand, to the next Prince of North Wales, Llewelyn ab Iorwerth."
Llewelyn's companions were already shedding their habits, shaking off, too, the diffidence of submissive, unworldly monks. They wore swords with the ease of men accustomed to making use of them, knives tucked into high boots, and one of them had a coil of hempen rope looped in his belt. He was uncommonly tall, towering over Durand like a sturdy Welsh oak as he dangled the rope before the knight's eyes, looped into a hangman's noose. "Be a good lad and lie still," he said cheerfully, "and I'll fight the urge to see if this fits around your neck,"
Durand weighed his chances, decided he did not like the odds, and did not resist as they jerked his arms behind his back. He was soon trussed up like a Michaelmas goose, bound hand and foot and gagged with a strip from his own mantle. He was not cowed, though, glaring up at them and taking comfort from hard-earned wisdom, that as long as a man had a heartbeat, he had hope, too.
For the moment, Justin was being ignored. He was examining Durand's sword, weighing the heft of it appreciatively before sliding it into the empty scabbard at his hip. "I think I got the best of this exchange," he said, and then, "We've no time to celebrate, though. John left men behind — "
Seeing the look of amusement that passed among them, he smiled sheepishly. "I forgot… you already know that. What do you want to do about them?"
"They pose no threat. You see, the men in the dorter are not monks. They are mine,"
Justin's mouth dropped open, and then he laughed. "I do not know why that surprises me. You've been two jumps ahead of us from the first. Obviously Sion alerted you that Emma was going to the holy well at Treffynnon. So… you then put some of your men in the village, posing as pilgrims. My guess is that they overheard Oliver seeking directions to Mostyn. Am I right so far?"
"In fact," Llewelyn said, "we had no need to eavesdrop. Oliver was obliging enough to ask Ednyved." Tossing his head toward the amiable giant, he introduced him as Ednyved ap Cynwrig, and the third man, a dark, slender youth with glittering green eyes, as Ednyved's cousin, Rhys ap Cadell. "Yes, the same Rhys ap Cadell who crept into Rhuddlan Castle to commit unholy murder in Davydd's own chapel."
When Rhys did not take the bait, Llewelyn playfully elbowed him in the ribs before turning back to Justin. "Once we knew Mostyn grange was the site, it was easy enough to get here first and then to convince the lay brothers that we ought to be the ones to welcome the English invaders."
Justin knew that the monks of Basingwerk were not like the monks of Aberconwy; they were English in origin and loyalties, and he could not help wondering how Llewelyn had "convinced" the lay brothers to vacate the grange. His suspicions must have shown on his face, for Llewelyn grinned.
"To answer your unspoken question, Iestyn, the lay brothers are not buried out in the woods. They are burrowing for warmth under the hay up in the barn's loft, and right willingly. You see, the monks at Basingwerk may be dutiful subjects of the English Crown, but their lay brothers are Welsh to the bone."
"Well, however you did it, I am grateful," Justin said. "Of course it might have been easier on my nerves had I known I was not facing down Durand alone. I am not surprised that you fooled him so readily, for I never suspected that you were other than simple lay brothers. A pity you were born to the blood royal, Llewelyn. You'd have made a fine player. The shepherd's staff… that was an inspired touch."
"Christ Jesus, do not tell him that!" Ednyved was staring at Justin as if horrified. "He needs no encouragement to strut about the stage. We're just lucky we were shy of time, else he'd have taken it into his head to give us all tonsures to make us more convincing monks!"
They'd been conversing in French as a courtesy to Justin, but now Llewelyn said something in Welsh, too fast for Justin to catch, and the others laughed. Justin was amazed that they seemed so free and easy with Llewelyn, for he could not imagine an Englishman bantering so familiarly with his prince. After conferring with Rhys, Llewelyn sent him out into the rain, but Justin asked no questions, guessing that the young Welshman had gone to alert the rest of their men that the trap had been sprung. He was highly impressed by the efficiency of the entire operation, and now that his initial exhilaration was subsiding, he was remembering what a formidable foe Llewelyn ab Iorwerth could be.
Llewelyn was gazing down at Durand. "So this one spies for the queen against her own son? Is he good at what he does?"
"Yes, God smite him," Justin admitted, "very good." As he looked at Durand, his anger came flooding back, and he strode over, jerked out the knight's gag. "So when were you going to warn the queen that John was stealing the ransom? After he'd gotten it safely away to Paris?"
"I did not learn of his plans until we reached Chester, you fool! You truly think John shares his every secret with me?"
"I think that you could teach Judas Iscariot about betrayal! You just proved what I've long suspected, that you serve only yourself."
"Jesus wept! How will I ever live with your bad opinion of me, de Quincy?"
"Assuming that you do," Llewelyn interjected silkily. "Live, that is."
Durand's eyes cut toward him, then back to Justin. "Does the queen share her every plan with you? No more than John does with me. He is too shrewd to trust all his chickens to one hen roost. I knew nothing of this scheme until we sailed, and even then, he only told me bits and pieces of the plot."
"And what of his other reason for returning to England?" Justin jeered. "Dare you claim to be ignorant of that, too?"
"So far, yes, but I'll soon find out what I need to know. I always do, de Quincy. That is why the queen values my services so highly, and why I could not risk losing John's trust by sparing you."
Justin shook his head incredulously, and Llewelyn laughed outright. "How long, Iestyn, ere he is demanding that you owe him an apology for not letting him kill you? This one has a tongue nimble enough to lick honey off thorns."
"No," Justin said, "he has a forked tongue, like any snake." Leaning over, he knotted the neck of Durand's tunic in his fist, forcing the other man to meet his eyes. "So you'd have us believe that you played no part in this ransom robbery. What about John's dealings with the Breton? I suppose you are going to insist you know nothing of him, either."
"The Breton?" Durand's eyes widened in surprise, but Justin could not tell if it was real or feigned. "I've heard of him. Who has not? He is said to be a master spy, one who is as elusive as early morning mist. I've never laid eyes on him, doubt that many have. Even his name is not known for certes. People call him the Breton, but none know if he truly does come from Brittany. What makes you think that he is involved in this?"
Justin could only marvel at the man's gall. "You dare to interrogate me after doing your best to kill me? When did we become a team again, Durand?"
"If you are going to stop John from carrying off the ransom, you'll need my help. Unless you'd rather take vengeance upon me and fail the queen?"
Llewelyn and Ednyved were both laughing, and after a moment, Justin laughed, too, for what else could he do? "I'd sooner take one of Hell's own demons as a partner than you, Durand."