If Durand was afraid, he was hiding it well. "I do not see that you have a choice, de Quincy," he said with a sneer, "not if you want to recover that ransom."
"Actually," Llewelyn said, "he does have a choice." His dark eyes flicked from Durand, over to Justin. "I can see why you'd prefer Hell's dregs to this weasel, Iestyn. But you can do better. What say you that we join forces to find the wool?"
"No offense, Llewelyn, but why would I want to do that?"
"Mayhap because you are a stranger in a land not your own, and you have neither the men nor the familiarity with these woods and hills to make a successful search."
"True… but I could get the men I need, hire local guides."
"True… but how much time would that take? Need I remind you that time is not on your side? If the ransom payment is delayed, what happens to your King Richard? Nothing good, I'd wager."
He'd not told Justin anything he did not already know. Justin had just been curious to see how well Llewelyn had grasped the weaknesses of his position. Now that he had his answer — all too well — he decided he had nothing to lose by candor, and he said, "I'll not argue that with you. Let's say we do work together, and we find the wool. What then? How do I know you'll not seize it all to pay for your rebellion?"
Llewelyn was quiet for a moment, paying Justin the compliment of taking his question seriously. "In all honesty, I suppose you do not, Iestyn. I can give you my word that I will not, and I am willing to do so. But there is no surety that I'd not change my mind at first sight of all that wool. So… yes, you'd be taking a risk. Let me ask you this, though. What are your chances of recovering the ransom on your own?"
Now it was Justin's turn to consider his response. "Probably not very good. So if I am going to wager, I might as well wager that you are a man of honor. You have a deal, Llewelyn."
"Are you out of your bleeding mind?" Durand struggled to sit up, staring at Justin in outraged disbelief. "You trust this Welsh outlaw and Richard will be held in Germany till he rots!"
"Does anyone want to hear his yammering?" Ednyved queried. "I thought not." Reaching down, he stuffed the gag back into Durand's mouth. Rhys had just re-entered the chapel and observed that if they wanted to shut the Englishman up, it would be easier to cut his throat. Justin could not tell if he were joking or not, and neither could Durand, who stopped trying to spit out the gag.
"Are we ready to go?" Llewelyn asked, and Rhys nodded, not volunteering until prodded that John's men were confined and the lay brothers had been summoned down from the hayloft. He was a laconic sort, but there was a glint in those cat-green eyes that explained why Davydd had chosen to name him as de Caldecott's assassin.
"I am guessing that you have horses hidden nearby?" Justin asked Llewelyn. "Can you provide me with one… at least until I can get back to the grange to reclaim my stallion?"
"I expect we can find a mount for you," Llewelyn agreed. "Mertyn is only a few miles from here, so we can stop for your horse. That way we can begin our search on the morrow."
"Very good," Justin said, before the significance of his new ally's words hit him. How did Llewelyn know he was staying at Mertyn? "It is flattering that you think it worthwhile to keep such close watch on me."
"Do not let it go to your head," Ednyved said with a smile. "Llewelyn is not content unless he knows what is happening the length and breadth of Wales… every fallen tree, every rutted mountain trail, every acorn rooted up by a hungry pig."
"Why not? This is my country, the land of my birth, a land under siege," Llewelyn said, and though he smiled, too, Justin sensed that he was speaking from the heart. It occurred to him that one reason there was such strife between the English Crown and its Welsh vassals was this inbred passion for the woodlands and mountains and rivers of Wales.
Richard was King of the English, but he was also Duke of Aquitaine and Normandy, Count of Anjou, and England was merely one of his domains. Justin was sure that Richard did not think of himself as English. He knew that many of Norman descent did not, even after dwelling there for more than a hundred years. He'd never actually given it much thought himself, for like most people, he was more aware of class than nationality.
But it was different in Llewelyn's homeland. The Welsh seemed to have a strong sense of kinship that their neighbors across the border did not share. While it did not stop them from fighting one another as furiously as they did the English, Justin did not doubt that they saw themselves, first and foremost, as Welsh. For him, bastard-born, raised as an orphan and foundling, never truly be longing anywhere, it was difficult to imagine how it must be to have such deep roots.
"Iestyn? Is it such a hard decision to make as that?"
Justin blinked, returning to reality to find the Welshmen looking at him curiously. "I got lost in thought," he acknowledged. "You asked me…?"
"I wanted to know," Llewelyn said, "what you'd have us do with him?"
Turning, Justin regarded Durand, who met his eyes defiantly. Llewelyn moved to his side, studying the captive knight with the impersonal distaste of a man who'd just turned over a rock and did not like what he'd found. "I doubt that this one would be mourned. His death is more likely to bring joy to any number of men. But he is of some value to your queen. You need to decide if that value outweighs all the very valid reasons for sending him to Hell."
Justin could have dragged out the suspense; God knows, Durand deserved it. But he already knew what he must do. "Leave him," he said contemptuously. "That will give him time to cobble together a story to explain his failure to John." He could not resist pausing, though, in the doorway, for a final look back at the man lying, bound and helpless, on the muddied chapel floor. His last sight of Durand was one he'd long remember, always with fierce satisfaction.
Chapter 20
September 1193
North Wales
Justin took an instinctive step backward, for gazing down into the blackness of the mine shaft was like staring into the abyss. "Well," he said morosely, "so much for that idea." He was too disappointed to hide it, for his hopes had soared when Llewelyn told him of an old, abandoned mine. But one look into those bottomless depths and he knew the missing wool was not hidden here. Picking up a rock, he held it out over the void and let it go. After a long, long time, he thought he heard a faint splash, and he sighed softly.
"I know," Llewelyn agreed, dropping a rock of his own into the shaft. "Even if it were not flooded, how would they ever have gotten the wool back up? Each woolsack weighs more than any two men."
"Look how deep it is," Ednyved marveled, leaning over so recklessly to peer into the pit that both Justin and Llewelyn reached out to pull him back from the brink. "I'm as surefooted as any cat," he protested. "How do you think they dug it so deep? No mines today go down so far."
"They were clever, the Romans." Llewelyn pitched another stone into the shaft. "Think how long it's been since their armies were here — hundreds of years — and yet some of their roads can still be used."
"The old Roman walls still stand in Chester, or so I've been told," Justin said, almost absentmindedly, for he could not take his eyes from that gaping dark hole. He'd been sure that they were going to find the wool here, so sure. Now what?
~*~
Their hunt for the wool took them next to Cefn, where there were a series of deep caves. Llewelyn admitted to Justin that he doubted the thieves would have dared to venture so far with the cumbersome hay-wains, and Cefn lay on the wrong side of the River Clwyd. But it was worth a look, he said, and Justin made no objections, for their search had already ranged over the likely hiding places with no results. They might as well try the unlikely ones, too. The caves at Cefn were steeped in legend; local people whispered that one was Lucifer's own abode. Several soared so high that even a man as tall as Ednyved need not duck his head, and in others there were strange rock formations rising from the floor like stone sentinels. Justin thought that if he'd been seeking to hide a king's ransom, he could have found no safer lair than these eerie, echoing caverns where the sun never shone and the Devil was said to dwell. But the woolsacks were not there.