Sharon Penman - Dragon's lair

August 1193

Rhuddlan Castle, Wales

The lance came hurtling from the garden, thudding into the earth at Justin's feet. He recoiled so fast that he almost lost his balance. The lance was still quivering when several alarmed faces peered over the hedge, one of them belonging to Thomas de Caldecott.

"Justin, I am sorry! It was not my intent to skewer you, I swear. Tathan was showing me how to throw a lance and I overshot. Come on in so I can properly apologize."

Thomas was so insistent that Justin walked over. He at once regretted it, for the garden was filled with people, none of whom looked pleased to see him, with the exception of Thomas and Angharad. The Lady Emma was seated on a turf bench, attended by all three of her handmaidens, an older man Justin knew only as Oliver, several servants, and William Fitz Alan, who greeted Justin with a distinct lack of enthusiasm. Ignoring the tension, Thomas introduced Justin to Tathan, his obliging Welsh tutor, and explained that the Welsh in North Wales were known for their skill with the lance. "I've used it on horseback in tournaments, of course, but I've never thrown one… not until I nearly impaled you!"

"Your aim gets better with an ale or two… or six," Justin said, thinking of the drunken knife-throwing contest Thomas had gotten into during their evening at that Chester alehouse, and the knight gave a shout of laughter, thumping Justin playfully on the back. Feeling like an uninvited, unwelcome guest, Justin crossed the mead and wished the Lady Emma good morrow.

A trestle table had been set up on the grassy mead and draped in a white linen cloth; it held wine flagons, cups, and a platter of apples and wafers drizzled with honey. Several books were neatly stacked on the table, too, evidence that they had been having a reading. Justin knew these pastimes were popular with women of rank. Usually a chaplain would read aloud for the benefit of his audience, not all of whom would be literate. Since Emma's chaplain was nowhere in sight and she had a book open on her lap, Justin assumed that she'd been doing the honors. He was not surprised to learn that she could read. Her half-brother King Henry had been given a first-rate education and had harbored a scholar's love of books until the day he died; it was to be expected that he'd have seen to it that his little sister would be well-schooled.

Thomas made a show of introducing Justin to Emma's attendants; Justin was beginning to wonder if he did anything without a fanfare. Angharad was the only Welshwoman among them; under her mistress's eye, she pretended to be meeting Justin for the first time and then gave him a quick wink. The other two handmaidens, both from Emma's native Anjou, greeted Justin politely, but without any real interest.

Glancing up at the cloud-splattered sky, Emma closed her book and got to her feet. "We'd best be in; I'd rather not race the rain back to the keep." She had a very young-sounding voice, soft and breathy like a little girl's. She'd spoken in French, as always. Justin had assumed that she'd have learned some Welsh during nigh on twenty years as Davydd's wife, but so far, he'd seen no indication of it. The servants at once began to collect the utensils, food, and tablecloth. Emma's ladies gathered up a bouquet of freshly picked flowers, hastened over to stop Emma's little lapdog from digging in a raised bed of daisies, and brought the errant pet back to its mistress. Justin found it interesting that Emma could command obedience faster with a smile than her volatile husband could do with a shout.

William Fitz Alan was hovering protectively by Emma's side, clearly intending to fend off any dangers she might face on the walk from the garden up to her chambers in the keep. But a cry from the gatehouse drew him reluctantly away from escort duty. A scout was coming in, and he and Thomas and Tathan made their apologies and hurried off. Justin was about to follow when Emma stopped him in his tracks with an unexpected request. Would he be so kind, she asked, to carry her birdcage back indoors?

Justin had not even noticed a wicker cage on a nearby turf seat. Since Emma had servants to do the heavy lifting and toting, he could not help wondering if this was a subtle insult, a reminder of lowly rank in a prince's court. He had no choice but to obey, casting a curious look over his shoulder toward the gatehouse as he picked up the birdcage. There was a cluster of men around a lone rider, gesturing and talking loudly, but still too far away to be heard.

Justin soon decided he'd misjudged the Lady Emma, for she fell in step beside him as they crossed the bailey; so whatever she had in mind, it was not humiliation. She was carrying her lapdog, which looked to Justin like a feather duster with feet, but he knew such small creatures were de rigueur for ladies of rank. They walked in silence for some moments. Justin was amusing himself by imagining Nell's reaction to the Lady Emma's pampered pet when Emma brought him up short with the one thing he'd never have expected from her — an apology.

"I am sorry, Master de Quincy, that my lord husband has been so short-tempered with you. His nerves are not usually so raw. But this missing ransom is causing him great distress."

"That… that is kind of you, my lady," Justin stammered, caught utterly off balance. "But you owe me no apology. I understand quite well why Lord Davydd has been so… out of sorts." Because Davydd was a flaming arsehole. For a mad moment, those words hovered on Justin's tongue. He would never have said them aloud, of course, but for a heartbeat he allowed himself the pleasure of flirting with sedition.

"I am glad that you are so wise," Emma murmured, for the first time turning upon him the full power of those glowing blue eyes, and Justin coughed to camouflage an involuntary laugh. He'd been so stunned by her apology because eight months at the royal court had taught him that the highborn did not apologize, not ever, certainly not to the likes of him. And Emma had struck him as a woman very much aware of her prerogatives, privileges, and position. So her apology must conceal an ulterior motive. And now that she was casting sidelong glances through her lashes and complimenting him upon his "wisdom," he saw what it was.

She wanted something from him, wanted something badly enough to resort to her ultimate weapon — coquetry. Justin had been watching women charm men to get their way for much of his life, and he gave Emma high marks for her effort. She was not overtly flirtatious, but she still managed to create a sense of intimacy between them; he could understand how men like Fitz Alan were won over by a smile that promised nothing but hinted at much.

Emma's dog had begun to squirm, and in attempting to calm it, she dropped the book she'd tucked under her arm. Setting down the birdcage, Justin retrieved the volume for her, resisting the urge to do so with one of Thomas's flourishes. Emma thanked him with the gratitude usually reserved for life-saving heroics. The book flipped open as he handed it to her, and seeing his gaze drop to those fluttering pages, she said:

"These are lays written by my sister, Marie, very skillfully done, and very popular at the court. She prefers that her identity not be bruited about, though, for when not ministering to her muse, she serves the Almighty as abbess of St Mary and St Edward's Abbey in Shaftsbury. You may borrow the book if you like."

"Thank you, my lady. That is most kind of you." Justin wondered how many more times he'd call her "kind" before they reached the keep. He wondered, too, why she should have shared this family secret with him, a disclosure that her sister the abbess would not have appreciated. After a moment to reflect, though, he realized why, and commended her cleverness. What better way, after all, to establish a rapport than to reveal something confidential? The Lady Emma had a deft touch, he thought admiringly, flattering him with this display of trust at the same time that she reminded him of her patrician pedigree, which of course made her cordiality all the more flattering.