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Authors: Sharon Kay Penman
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fluent Welsh. Thomas was joking with Garwyn, the steward, and Justin was pleased to find that he could follow the gist of their conversation.
As they approached the open door of the great hail, a man came striding out. He was of middle height, with flyaway reddish hair and beard, a sturdy frame, a square, sun-weathered face, and a fine I Flemish sword at his hip. The beard identified him as a Marcher lord, for the Welsh were clean-shaven with mustaches. But Justin already knew that. He came to an abrupt halt.
Thomas was greeting the man with a smile and enough deference to indicate he was of greater rank than the knight. Justin already knew that, too. He was still standing as if rooted when Thomas turned to introduce him to Lord Fitz Alan, the sheriff of Shropshire, an influential Marcher baron... and the man who had taken Justin into his service as a squire, a personal favor for his friend, the Bishop of Chester.
Chapter 4
August 1193
Rhuddlan Castle, North Wales
RECOGNITION WAS MUTUAL. FITZ ALAN'S LOOK OF surprise soon gave way to one of astonishment, for Justin was not quick enough to stop Thomas from introducing him with a flourish as "the queen's man." In other circumstances, the Marcher lord's befuddlement might have been comical, but Justin could find no humor in his present predicament. His feelings for his father were a confused welter of aggrieved, often contradictory, emotions. For all of his bravado, he did not truly want to alienate and embarrass his father with a public scandal. Now, finding himself face-to-face with the man he least wanted to see, one who was bound to realize the significance of his claim to the de Quincy name, he did not know how he could deflect Fitz Alan's curiosity or suspicions.
He was given a brief reprieve, then, when the prince's steward insisted upon ushering them out of the sun and into the great hall. Justin and Thomas and their men were soon herded inside, where they were offered mead or wine; hospitality was the Eleventh Commandment for the Welsh. Thomas was clearly at home here, exchanging jests and greetings with several of the Welshmen in the hall; almost as if reading Justin's mind, he said, "For the past year, I have acted as the earl's liaison with Lord Davydd, so I've been to Rhuddlan often enough to make a few friends and..." He grinned. "... tempt a lass or two."
Turning then to Garwyn, he slid smoothly into Welsh, telling the steward that once he was back in Chester, he'd arranged to have Masses said for poor Rhun's soul. Garwyn smiled, shook his head, and said something too quickly for Justin to follow. Thomas looked surprised, but then he smiled, too. "Rhun is the lad who was left for dead. We thought sure that he was not long for this world. But Garwyn just told me that not only is he still amongst the living, they think he is on the mend." He held up his hand before Justin could speak. "Alas, Rhun's good fortune is not ours. Garwyn says he has no memory whatsoever of the ambush."
Justin swore silently. "Is his memory gone for good?"
Thomas shrugged. "Who knows? Apparently loss of memory is not uncommon with head injuries like Rhun's."
Before Justin could respond, there was a stir at the end of the hall. Garwyn sprang to his feet, with Thomas right behind him. Justin rose, too, watching as Davydd ab Owain strode toward hem. The Earl of Chester had described Davydd as "aged." Justin was surprised, therefore, to find that the Welsh prince was nor that decrepit or doddering for a man who'd lived fifty-five winters.
Davydd's dark eyes were pouchy, his hairline was receding, and he'd long ago lost the lean, hungry look of his youth. But he was still a handsome man. His chestnut hair was only lightly salted with grey, his step had the swagger of one accustomed to wielding power, and he bore his years lightly. It was obvious, though, that the missing ransom was weighing heavily upon his mind; he looked starved for sleep and it was hard to imagine that
As they approached the open door of the great hail, a man came striding out. He was of middle height, with flyaway reddish hair and beard, a sturdy frame, a square, sun-weathered face, and a fine I Flemish sword at his hip. The beard identified him as a Marcher lord, for the Welsh were clean-shaven with mustaches. But Justin already knew that. He came to an abrupt halt.
Thomas was greeting the man with a smile and enough deference to indicate he was of greater rank than the knight. Justin already knew that, too. He was still standing as if rooted when Thomas turned to introduce him to Lord Fitz Alan, the sheriff of Shropshire, an influential Marcher baron... and the man who had taken Justin into his service as a squire, a personal favor for his friend, the Bishop of Chester.
Chapter 4
August 1193
Rhuddlan Castle, North Wales
RECOGNITION WAS MUTUAL. FITZ ALAN'S LOOK OF surprise soon gave way to one of astonishment, for Justin was not quick enough to stop Thomas from introducing him with a flourish as "the queen's man." In other circumstances, the Marcher lord's befuddlement might have been comical, but Justin could find no humor in his present predicament. His feelings for his father were a confused welter of aggrieved, often contradictory, emotions. For all of his bravado, he did not truly want to alienate and embarrass his father with a public scandal. Now, finding himself face-to-face with the man he least wanted to see, one who was bound to realize the significance of his claim to the de Quincy name, he did not know how he could deflect Fitz Alan's curiosity or suspicions.
He was given a brief reprieve, then, when the prince's steward insisted upon ushering them out of the sun and into the great hall. Justin and Thomas and their men were soon herded inside, where they were offered mead or wine; hospitality was the Eleventh Commandment for the Welsh. Thomas was clearly at home here, exchanging jests and greetings with several of the Welshmen in the hall; almost as if reading Justin's mind, he said, "For the past year, I have acted as the earl's liaison with Lord Davydd, so I've been to Rhuddlan often enough to make a few friends and..." He grinned. "... tempt a lass or two."
Turning then to Garwyn, he slid smoothly into Welsh, telling the steward that once he was back in Chester, he'd arranged to have Masses said for poor Rhun's soul. Garwyn smiled, shook his head, and said something too quickly for Justin to follow. Thomas looked surprised, but then he smiled, too. "Rhun is the lad who was left for dead. We thought sure that he was not long for this world. But Garwyn just told me that not only is he still amongst the living, they think he is on the mend." He held up his hand before Justin could speak. "Alas, Rhun's good fortune is not ours. Garwyn says he has no memory whatsoever of the ambush."
Justin swore silently. "Is his memory gone for good?"
Thomas shrugged. "Who knows? Apparently loss of memory is not uncommon with head injuries like Rhun's."
Before Justin could respond, there was a stir at the end of the hall. Garwyn sprang to his feet, with Thomas right behind him. Justin rose, too, watching as Davydd ab Owain strode toward hem. The Earl of Chester had described Davydd as "aged." Justin was surprised, therefore, to find that the Welsh prince was nor that decrepit or doddering for a man who'd lived fifty-five winters.
Davydd's dark eyes were pouchy, his hairline was receding, and he'd long ago lost the lean, hungry look of his youth. But he was still a handsome man. His chestnut hair was only lightly salted with grey, his step had the swagger of one accustomed to wielding power, and he bore his years lightly. It was obvious, though, that the missing ransom was weighing heavily upon his mind; he looked starved for sleep and it was hard to imagine that
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