Sharon Penman: Dragon's lair

She beckoned him closer and he gave her credit for her gambler's nerves, her willingness to bluff. "You must like spiced wine," she murmured, "for you seem to have a taste for bittersweet. With the one hand, you offer my husband hope, and with the other, you take it away."

He wondered how he'd missed it before, that gleam of sharp intelligence in those bewitching blue eyes. "The power to bestow or deny hope is not mine, my lady. I do the queen's biding."

"I think you do more than that, Master de Quincy." Leaning forward, she pitched her voice even lower. "We both know that the recovery of the ransom will not be enough to restore my husband to royal favor, and we both know why."

She could not be sure, though, how much he did know, and he waited, curious to see how she would go about finding out. By implying that they shared a secret, she suggested an intimacy between them, even a complicity, all without saying anything explicit, any thing he could refute. "It is my hope that Davydd's disgrace will not spill over onto me or my son. This was Davydd's doing, after all, not ours."

He offered a noncommittal response, a bland "I understand your concern, my lady," and caught the fleeting shadow that crossed her face just before she favored him with her most captivating smile.

"I hope the queen realizes how fortunate she is to have a man of your abilities in her service. What you have accomplished is truly remarkable. But how ever did you find the woolsacks?"

"I was in the right place at the right time," Justin said modestly. "I was told that you'd gone on pilgrimage whilst I was away, my lady. Was it as fulfilling as you'd hoped?"

"Yes, it was. But with regard to those missing woolsacks — "

"I visit the holy well whenever I stay at the abbey. It is very peaceful there. I hope you took the opportunity to see the countryside whilst you were in Treffynnon? One place in particular would be worth a visit… the abbey grange at Mostyn."

Emma's eyes widened. Her lips parted, but no words emerged. She stared at Justin in stunned silence, and for once in her life, she had absolutely nothing to say.

~*~

The sky was splattered with clouds. Hovering low along the horizon, they absorbed the colors of sunset, dulling red into russet and warning the weather-wise of coming rain. As long as daylight still lingered, though, Justin and Angharad continued to stroll the paths of Emma's garden, for this was their first — and likely last — opportunity to speak together without fear of eavesdroppers.

Angharad's hand rested on Justin's arm, a touch that was feather-light and as unsubstantial as cobwebs. It was the grip of a ghost, an illusion furthered by the pallor of her skin and the bruised hollows under those haunted dark eyes. Most women stirred his protective instincts, but none so strongly as this heart sick young Welshwoman. One of the reasons he'd returned to Rhuddlan Castle was to make sure that Davydd and Emma paid a price — if only in anxiety — for their double-dealing. But he'd also needed to find out how Angharad was faring.

"I have gotten permission from the Lady Emma to go home for a while. Mayhap if I could pass time with my family, in surroundings that do not remind me of Thomas every time I turn a corner…"

She let the rest of her wish fade away into forlorn silence. Justin bit his lip, acknowledging that he was out of his depth. He did not doubt that Molly would have known how to comfort Angharad. So would Nell. Claudine, too. But the right words somehow kept eluding him. Would it be kinder to let her keep her delusions? Would it be crueler to tell her the truth? If only he knew.

"What I cannot understand, Iestyn, is that no one seems concerned about finding his killer. Nothing is being done, nothing!"

"You do not believe Davydd's claim, then, that it was Llewelyn's doing?"

"No one believes that, not even Davydd. It was a shabby, shameful act, trying to smear Llewelyn with my Thomas's blood. I can barely bring myself to look upon the man's face, Iestyn, I have such contempt for him."

"It might be better, then, if you go to your family and stay there. I would worry less about you, Angharad, if you were well and clear of this rat's nest."

"I've thought about it," she admitted. And when he sought assurance that her family would not marry her off, as would likely be the case on his side of the border, she smiled, a smile that actually looked genuine. "In Wales, a woman cannot be forced into marriage. If she is a widow, that right is absolute. If she is unwed, her family can object if she marries a man of her choosing, but they cannot make her wed against her will."

"Truly? I might learn to live quite contentedly under Welsh law," Justin said, thinking of the generous provisions for those born out of wedlock in Wales.

"Our women enjoy more rights than yours. That is why I was able to assure Thomas that my family would accept our marriage; he said no English girls of good birth would have dared to make a match on their own."

"For certes, few would. You and Thomas planned to wed?"

"We talked about it often. That is why I was so bewildered when he came back from Chester and was so cold and curt with me. He loved me as much as I loved him, Iestyn, I know he did."

Justin doubted that exceedingly, no more than he believed that Thomas would ever have married Angharad. Which was worse, if she lost her lover to death or to betrayal? Would she be better off knowing he did not deserve even one of her tears? "Men… they are not always steadfast, Angharad, and love… love can change; it can even die."

"Not Thomas," she insisted, shaking her head so vehemently that her veil slipped and was carried off by a gust of wind. She never even noticed its loss. "The way he was acting… that was not the real Thomas. Mayhap he did let himself be tempted by an English harlot, for he always said women in Chester were no better than they ought to be. But even if one did bewitch him, her spell would not have lasted. I made sure of that."

"How?" Justin asked, and even in the fading light, he saw color rise in her cheeks.

"I… I fought fire with fire. I gave him a love potion."

"You did what?"

Justin looked so shocked that she regretted confiding in him; men did not understand these things. "I put mandragora in his wine. And it would have worked. There is no love philter more potent than one made with mandrake, which is why it is so costly."

Justin was speechless. He'd heard the stories about mandragora, also known as mandrake or the Devil's apples. Few plants had as many legends swirling around them. It was said to grow only in the shadow of the gallows. People claimed it shrieked when pulled out of the earth and anyone who heard it would die. Its root was shaped like a man, and it was all the more sought after for being so rare, for it did not grow in native soil. A drop or two made a highly effective sleeping draught. Its fame as a love potion was widespread. And it was one of the deadliest of poisons.

"I can see you do not approve, Iestyn. I admit it was a desperate measure, but I was not cheating. I was not ensorcelling Thomas. He loved me without need of charms or spells. The love potion was just to reawaken that love. And if only he'd lived, if only he'd not been stabbed that night, in the morning he would have come back to me. He would have loved me again."

Angharad raised her head when he kept silent, regarding him with a look that was challenging, defensive, and entreating, all at once. "Well? Are you going to scold me, tell me that the Church frowns upon such heathen practices?"

Justin shook his head slowly. "No, lass… I am not."

October 1193

Chester, England

Sitting up, Molly stretched with feline grace. Her dark hair was loose, appealingly disheveled, her green eyes so wantonly inviting that Justin was seriously tempted to rejoin her in bed. "You look," he said, "like a succubus.