~*~
A brisk wind was undressing the ageless oak that towered above the farrier's shed, stripping away the leaves branch by branch. As they drifted on the current, the morning sun blessed them briefly with gold, and then they fluttered earthward like crippled butterflies, soon to be trodden underfoot. These morbid musings were Justin's. He had nothing to do while the smith replaced Copper's lost shoe, and watching the death spirals of doomed oak leaves was preferable to reliving the failures of the past few days.
Once Copper was shod, he would rejoin Llewelyn and his men. There was no need to hurry, though, for they were running out of places to look. Thomas de Caldecott had begun to haunt his dreams, a sprightly ghost mocking their futile efforts to find his cache. When Justin reminded him that there would be few occasions for such merriment in Hell, he merely laughed and faded away, only to return the next night, more faithful in death than ever he had been in life, Justin thought sourly.
The scene before him was so tranquil that it was easy to forget so much was at stake. Copper had never looked so sleek, his chestnut-red coat glowing in the mellow morning light. The farrier was going about his task with quiet competence, gentling the stallion with crooning Welsh endearments and calming pats. Each time he spoke, a rangy sheepdog sprawled in the sun would thump his tail in rhythm with his master's voice. Edern, the young Welshman who'd taken Justin to the smithy, was perched on a fence rail, bantering with the smith's son. Edern was a likable lad who'd spent his boyhood in these rolling hills. He'd boasted that he was better than any lymer hound at sniffing out hideaways, and he seemed to be taking their failure to find the woolsacks as a personal affront. Justin was losing hope that anyone was going to outwit Thomas de Caldecott, Only one person had gotten the best of him, his unknown killer.
A sudden flash of movement caught Justin's eye and he turned to see Edern hop off the fence and sprint toward him. He was not alarmed, though, for the youth was grinning from ear to ear. "I think I know where the wool is!" Edern came to a halt, panting. "I was talking with Gwion" — gesturing toward the farrier's son — "and I remembered where there is another abandoned mine."
Justin felt a sharp letdown, "What of it? Why bother searching another flooded shaft?"
"Because this mine must have collapsed long ago, for it is shallow, more like a cave." Edern's grin got even wider. "I know it is going to be there. My nose is itching, which always happens when I get one of my hunches!"
~*~
Edern's itchy nose notwithstanding, Justin did not have high hopes as the men headed back toward Halkyn Mountain. The name was a misnomer, for Halkyn Mountain was actually a hill, dwarfed by the peaks of Eryri, the cloud-crowned mountain range that had sheltered and sustained Llewelyn during the early years of his rebellion. "You English call it Snowdonia," he explained to Justin as they rode along, "but its true name is Eryri, the Haunt of Eagles." Justin merely nodded, for he was only half-listening to this Welsh geography lesson, already brooding about his return to the queen, envisioning the look upon her face when he had to confess he'd failed her.
At least the mercurial Welsh weather was not threatening to sabotage their hunt; the sky was blue and barren of clouds, and a brisk northerly wind brought them the scent of the sea but no hint of coming rain. Led by Edern and Gwion, the smith's son, they soon reached the site of the Roman mine, half-hidden by bracken on Halkyn's wooden slope.
~*~
Who wants to climb down and find out what is lurking at the bottom?" Ednyved squinted into the darkness below, without any obvious enthusiasm for the task at hand. "We could flip a coin, if I had one."
"I'll go," Edern offered quickly.
But Rhys was already unfastening his scabbard, reaching for their rope ladder. Anchoring the metal prongs in the earth, he dropped the ladder down into the mine and then swung his legs over the side. Llewelyn stopped him before he could begin his climb, holding out a second rope. Once he'd knotted it around his waist, Rhys tossed the free end to Ednyved. "Try not to drop it," he told his cousin, and Ednyved acknowledged the command with an amused "Aye, my lord."
"It does not look that deep, but Jesu, it is dark down there. We may need to get a lantern…" His voice was muffled now as he descended into the shaft. They could hear the clink of his spurs scraping against the rock as the ladder swayed under his weight. Staring down into the murky blackness, Justin inhaled a lungful of dank, fetid air and felt guiltily grateful that Rhys was the one descending into the pit.
"Christ Jesus!" The ladder swung wildly and then Rhys was scrambling upward, so hastily that his foot slipped from one of the rungs and his lifeline grew taut as he dangled there, fighting to re gain his balance. Llewelyn signaled and several of the men grabbed Ednyved's rope, ready to haul Rhys up if he lost his grip. He no longer seemed in danger of falling, but the ladder did not offer a fast enough ascent and he shouted, "Pull me up!"
Alarmed, they did, and as soon as his head and shoulders appeared, hands reached out for him. His face contorted, his skin almost as green as his eyes, Rhys lay prone on the ground for several moments, being pelted with questions as he fought the gorge rising in his throat.
"The stink …" he gasped, "so foul… I feared I'd choke on it…" Rolling over onto his back, he found himself looking up into a circle of concerned faces. "I can still smell it," he said with a grimace, "worse than any pigsty or privy. Rotting flesh — "
"Did you see the body?" Llewelyn interrupted. "Was it an animal? Or…" He paused and showed no surprise when Rhys nodded grimly.
"Not an animal — men. More than one."
Justin glanced toward Llewelyn, the same thought in both their minds. "I think," Llewelyn said, after another pause, "that we've found your missing sailors."
~*~
One by one, men were lowered into the mine shaft to attach ropes to the decaying corpses and then pulled out to vomit into the grass. As no one could endure more than a few moments' exposure to that putrid stench, it took several hours before the last of the cadavers was brought to the surface. Even after the bodies had been covered with bedroll blankets, the men kept their eyes averted. Their Church warned them often of the frailties of human flesh, never letting them forget that their mortal remains would become fodder for worms, dust unto dust. But this had been a view of death that was too close and too personal, reminding each one that this, too, would be his fate and, if he died unshriven as these poor sailors had, he'd burn for aye in Hell.
Justin had forced himself to make a brief examination of the bodies, needing to be sure that their hair color and height matched the descriptions he'd gotten from Rutger. When he was done, his stomach would need days to recover from the ordeal, but there was no doubt in his mind about the identity of the murdered men. Standing with Llewelyn and the others upwind of those forlorn blanket-draped forms, he bowed his head and said a brief prayer for the souls of the greedy Joder, the foolish Geertje, and Rutger's cousin Karl, who left a young widow and baby back in Ypres.
"There is a church less than a league from here," Llewelyn said somberly. "I'll send a man to the priest, tell him to fetch shrouds and a cart. At least we can see that they get a Christian burial. Do you know how to reach their kindred?"