Justin nodded somberly. "Outlaws will be swarming like honeybees."
Jonas almost smiled. "So will sheriffs and bailiffs and aldermen and their sainted grandmothers, de Quincy."
Justin hoped Jonas was wrong. It was disheartening to believe that corruption was so contagious. And it would make his task all the more difficult, for he knew the queen would want every last half-penny accounted for. The ransom being demanded for King Richard was staggering, one hundred thousand silver marks, and no one was exempt. Churches, monasteries, towns, guilds, and subjects of the king were all expected to contribute a fourth of their year's income. Was Richard worth such a vast sum? That was a question Justin had never thought to ask. For him, it was enough that his queen thought so.
They had just reached the alehouse when the door flew open and a ghostly apparition stumbled out. He was coated in whitewash; it dripped from his hair and squished out of his boots, splattering the ground with his every stride. Justin and Jonas, with fine teamwork, veered off to either side, letting him splash between them. As they watched, he ran across the street and dived into the horse trough in front of the smithy.
The noise coming from the alehouse was loud and raucous. But a silence fell at the sight of the sheriff's serjeant and the queen's man. Jonas's gaze moved slowly over the crowd before settling on Aldred and Nell. Aldred flushed and tried to edge away. Nell stood her ground and shook her head when Jonas asked, "Is this some thing I need know about?"
"No," she said, and he nodded.
"Good," he said and entered the alehouse, carefully stepping over a puddle of whitewash in the doorway. Justin followed him in toward a table that had suddenly become free; people tended to give Jonas space. Aldred soon sidled over and sat down. After a few moments, Nell joined them with a tray of ales. Pulling up a stool for herself, she smiled brightly.
"So… did you have any luck with your ransom hunt?"
"I see Aldred has been babbling again," Jonas said, sounding more resigned than irked.
Aldred squirmed and then seized his chance to deflect attention away from his latest lapse. "Look, Justin, your landlord is here."
Justin turned to see Gunter entering the alehouse. He didn't think of the blacksmith in those terms, but he supposed Aldred was right; he did rent Gunter's cottage. Half-rising, he beckoned to attract Gunter's eye, and Nell and Aldred moved over to make room for the farrier at their table. Gunter did not sit down, though.
"The queen sent a messenger to your cottage this afternoon, Justin. She wants to see you straightaway."
Justin was ushered at once into the queen's private chamber at Westminster, for her household knew that he was one of her agents, one of those mysterious men who came and went at odd hours on covert missions better left to the imagination. Eleanor was dictating a letter to St Martial's Abbey in Limoges. Justin heard enough to recognize it as a personal appeal to the abbot, requesting one hundred marks for Richard's ransom. He knew Limoges was in her overseas domains and he was interested, but not at all surprised, to learn that she was exacting payment from Aquitaine as well as England. He did not doubt that if she could, she'd have squeezed money from the Holy See.
Eleanor glanced up as Justin entered and knelt at her feet, then gestured to her scribe, who gathered up his writing utensils. She also dismissed her other attendants, an indication that she had a highly confidential matter to discuss. That was usually the case, for all the services Justin had performed for the queen were related, directly or indirectly, to thwarting John's schemes while still protecting him from his own folly.
Eleanor was in remarkable health for a woman of seventy-one years. The past seven months had taken their toll, though, as she'd first feared that her best-loved son was dead, only to learn that he was being held hostage in Germany by the Emperor Heinrich, an enemy who hated him as much as Philippe, the French king, did. Fatigue and dread and uncertainty had carved new furrows in her face, etched wrinkles around her eyes that none would ever call "laugh lines." This night she appeared exhausted, so pale and care worn that Justin felt a pang of alarm; he was not accustomed to seeing her look so vulnerable.
Eleanor signaled for him to rise, and when she spoke, her voice sounded as it always did, well modulated and deliberative, resonating with the authority she'd wielded for much of her lifetime. "I have a question to put to you, Justin. You grew up in the Marches, so I assume you are more familiar than most with the region and its labyrinthine politics."
Justin wasn't sure what labyrinthine meant, but he nodded, somewhat warily. "Yes, Madame, I know Shrewsbury well, Chester even better."
"You understand English and read Latin, so you seem to have an ear for languages. What about Welsh?"
"I am by no means fluent, my lady. But yes, I do have some grasp of it. I'd picked up a little as a lad, and whilst I was in Lord Fitz Alan's service, I learned more from another of his squires, who was half-Welsh."
"Make ready," she said, "to leave for Wales on the morrow. Money meant for Richard's ransom has gone missing." She turned and rifled through a pile of parchments on the table until she found the one she wanted, "This is a letter from the Welsh prince Davydd ab Owain. The ransom he'd collected for Richard was stolen by a Welsh rebel."
The name was vaguely familiar to Justin, and after a moment, the memory came into focus. Davydd ab Owain was a prince of North Wales, long allied with the English Crown. "What more can you tell me, Madame?"
"Unfortunately, not much. When I referred to 'money' earlier, I was using the term loosely. The Welsh princes do not mint their own money and so the bulk of the ransom was wool from the Cistercian abbeys, although there were some coins and silver plate and jewelry, mayhap furs, too. Davydd says he'd sent it under guard to Chester, but it was ambushed by an outlaw named…" She glanced briefly at the letter. "… Llewelyn ab Iorwerth. The guards were slain and the ransom stolen. Needless to say, I want it back. It will be a god-given miracle if we can raise all the money demanded by that hellspawn Heinrich. I am not about to let Welsh brigands ruin Richard's chances of release."
"You call this man an 'outlaw' and a 'rebel.' Which is he, Madame?"
"According to Davydd, both. He is kin to Davydd — the Welsh are all inbred — and he has been trying to stir up rebellion, without much success. But he makes do with robbery and thieving and extortion. Here, read the letter for yourself."
Justin moved toward the closest light, a sputtering cresset lamp. "Dayvdd is rather sparing with details. This letter tells us very little."
"You noticed that, too," she said dryly. "His overriding concern seems to be escaping any blame for this disaster. Which is all I'd expect from the man."
"Have you met Davydd, Madame?"
The corner of Eleanor's mouth curved. "Met him? I'm related to him, Justin." She did smile then at his look of surprise. "Davydd ab Owain is my brother-by-marriage. He is wed to my husband's sister Emma."
Justin blinked. "I thought King Henry had two brothers. I remember nothing of a sister…"
"Emma is Harry's half-sister, one of Geoffrey of Anjou's bastards. Davydd pressed very hard for the marriage and because Harry needed Welsh support at the time, he agreed, albeit reluctantly. But he never thought very highly of Davydd. Nor did Emma. Or so I've been told," she added, an ironic aside so oblique that it took a moment for Justin to realize this was an indirect reference to her imprisonment; at the time of Dayvdd's marriage to the Lady Emma, Eleanor was far from court, being held prisoner in a remote castle of her husband's choosing.
Reading the letter a second time, Justin could not help thinking that this could well be the most challenging assignment that Eleanor had ever given him. "What would you have me do first, Madame?"