Sharon Penman - Dragon's lair

"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.

"So be it," Davydd said coldly. "We will, of course, cooperate fully with your investigation." He was not particularly convincing, nor Justin think he'd meant to be. Almost at once, he turned away, beckoning impatiently to Thomas de Caldecott.

"I will be relying upon you, Sir Thomas," he said, "to do what must be done. God alone knows what the queen was thinking to send this green stripling. He is a nobody, not even a knight! I was a fool to put my hopes in a woman, ought to have known better. If I am to recover the ransom from that whoreson nephew of mine, I shall have to do it myself!"

This diatribe had been given in Welsh, and Justin sought to keep his expression bland, uncomprehending. He had not expected to reap benefits so soon from his professed ignorance of Welsh. He'd learned quite a lot in that angry outburst. That Davydd's dislike was not personal. That his pride was overblown and his temper easily inflamed. That he trusted Thomas, at least to some extent. And that his desire to retrieve the ransom was raw and real and desperate.

Thomas looked apologetically toward Justin. "My lord Davydd, I think you are too quick to dismiss Master de Quincy's capabilities. If Queen Eleanor has such faith in him, surely that says something about his — "

"It tells me only that the queen is in her dotage, entrusting a matter of such importance to a callow youngling like that!"

Justin wanted to hear the rest of Davydd's remarks, for he'd rarely have such an ideal opportunity to eavesdrop. But it was then that Lord Fitz Alan grasped his arm, pulling him aside. "We need it, talk," he demanded, "now!"

Justin knew Fitz Alan well enough not to argue and followed the older man out into the bailey. Squinting in the sudden blaze it white sunlight, Fitz Alan at once took the offensive. "What sort of ruse is this, Justin? What is this nonsense about your being the queen's man? And why are you now calling yourself de Quincy? Does Aubrey know about this?"

Justin sighed, feeling rather ill-used by the fates at that moment, "It is no ruse, my lord. I am the queen's man. It was her suggestion that I call myself de Quincy. And of course the bishop knows."

Fitz Alan continued to scowl, "None of this makes any sense! It is not even a year since I dismissed you from my service, and you end up at the royal court?"

"As unlikely as it sounds, my lord, that is exactly what happened. I cannot satisfy your curiosity, for the queen demands discretion from those who serve her. I do not expect you to take my word for all this, though." Reaching for the scrip at his belt, Justin drew out a tightly rolled parchment sheet. "This is a letter from the queen, attesting to my authority to act upon her behalf. I am sure you recognize her seal."

Fitz Alan's eyes locked upon that wax emblem. Snatching the letter, he began to read, occasionally throwing Justin an incredulous glance. Justin waited, thanking God for Eleanor's foresight, for realizing that he might have need of such a warrant. The letter was deliberately effusive in its praises; after handing it to him, Eleanor had commented dryly that she hoped it would not go to his head. He saw now that her embellishments had done the trick. Fitz Alan was staring at him, mouth agape.

"For the life of me, I cannot imagine how you accomplished this act of sorcery," the Marcher lord blurted out, shaking his head in disbelief, "But it is indeed clear that you do Queen Eleanor's bidding. And… and your use of the de Quincy name, that is somehow meant to advance your investigation?"

Justin wasn't surprised that Fitz Alan sounded so tentative, for that was a frail reed. But it was the best he could come up with under the circumstances. He nodded, with what he hoped was an enigmatic smile. "The queen is relying greatly upon the bishop's assistance in this matter." Adding, "As is the Earl of Chester," figuring that name-dropping couldn't hurt his cause any.

It seemed to have worked, at least for now. Fitz Alan was utterly confounded by the series of surprises that had been sprung upon him this afternoon and would need time to sort them all out. Justin did not doubt that Fitz Alan's suspicions would surface again and hoped that he could warn his father before they did. Fitz Alan's entire demeanor had changed dramatically. Justin was no longer a former squire of dubious origins. He was a trusted agent of the Crown and, possibly, the Church, and the Marcher lord treated him accordingly, sounding almost friendly as they retraced their steps toward the great hall.

They were just about there when Fitz Alan paused to acknowledge a woman walking in their direction. She was strikingly attractive, with the dark hair and eyes so common to the Welsh. Later, Justin would realize that her allure came more from her exuberance and vivacity than from physical charms. Now he was aware only of the impact she made upon his senses. Fitz Alan introduced her as one of Lady Emma's handmaidens, and Justin was quick to kiss her hand, more than willing to linger there in the sun and flirt with this bewitching young Welshwoman. Her name was Angharad, her French was quite good, and when she smiled, he was bedazzled, until he realized that she was gazing over his shoulder, that beguiling, seductive smile meant for Thomas de Caldecott.

Justin's father had not been wrong. Emma of Anjou, then in her forty-second year, was still a lovely woman. Justin could only guess at the color of her hair, for it was covered by a white silk wimple and veil, but her skin was so fair that he'd wager it was flaxen, a shade of summer sunlight. Her eyes were blue sapphires, her cheekbones high and delicately drawn, her chin pointed, her mouth accented by two deep dimples. Hers was an ethereal, gossamer beauty, hers the elegance of queens, the purity of the Holy Madonna. Most men did not look upon her with lust. They gazed into the depths of those bottomless blue eyes and discovered chivalric impulses they did not even know they had, protective instincts that they thought had died in childhood.

Justin had been given a seat far down the table, as befitted his lowly status, whereas Davydd had seated Thomas de Caldecott upon the dais with Lord Fitz Alan. Justin did not mind the slight, for his seat afforded him an unobstructed view of the high table, enabling him to study the Welsh prince and his consort without attracting attention. He'd been told that Davydd and Emma had two children, but neither one was present at Rhuddlan, having been sent to live in noble households, as was customary for the offspring of the highborn. He conceded that Davydd and Emma made a handsome couple, although he saw little evidence of intimacy between them. They seemed very much the lord and lady of the manor, courteous to all, accessible to none. Justin had joined much of Christendom in taking an immediate and intense dislike to Davydd, yet he'd so far formed no impressions of Emma. She'd greeted him far more politely than her husband, but her formality was an effective shield, keeping her thoughts private and the world at arm's length.

The meal was more elaborate than the evening suppers Justin was accustomed to, for the Welsh served dinner at day's end rather than at noon, as they did across the border. He had his first swallow of mead, the honey and malt drink so favored by the Welsh, but he decided it must be an acquired taste. Once dinner was done, Davydd's bard was called upon to sing for the guests. Justin decided that he would not be missed, and slipped away with Padrig, the young Welshman on loan from the Earl of Chester.