Dragon's Lair by Sharon Kay Penman Page A

its heat, but it still simmered in his bone, muscle, and marrow, smoldering in the back of his brain. He'd doomed himself to failure, for he'd turned Davyyd's distrust into outright enmity. Why had he been so rash? Yet what else could he have done? He would be damned ere he'd ask Chester to send Englishmen to fight Davydd's war for him. By now he'd not have believed Davydd if he said the sun rose in the east and sank in the west, and the Welsh prince's witness was not worth a shovelful of horse dung. But where did he go from here?
    "Master de Quincy."
    Justin had not heard the footsteps muffled in the straw, and he started, getting hastily to his feet. Instinctively his hand dropped to the hilt of his sword; his dealings with John and Durand had taught him to be wary even when there seemed no reason for wariness. The man standing there looked benign enough: not yet old but no longer young, with a scholar's slump to his shoulders and a hesitant smile. He looked vaguely familiar, too, and after a moment, Justin placed him: Davydd's scribe.
    "May I speak with you?" When Justin nodded, the man advanced into the wavering pool of light spilling from a lone rush-light. "My name is Sion ap Brochfael. I am Lord Davydd's clerk."
    "I know."
    Sion came closer, his eyes probing the shadows. "We are alone?
    "Just you and me and the horses." Justin smiled, without much humor. "So you do not want to be seen with me, either?"
    "No, I would rather not." Sion's nervousness was obvious; he kept shifting from foot to foot, clenching and unclenching his fists. "I might as well just say this straight out. I was in the hall this afternoon when you and Lord Davydd had your disagreement. Is what you said there true, that you are not yet convinced of Llewelyn ab Iorwerth's guilt?"
    Justin was tempted to respond with sarcasm, to say that No, he'd made a mortal enemy of the Welsh prince just for the fun of it. But he said only, "Yes, it was true. Why?"
    "I do not think Llewelyn did it, either. And I know a man who might be able to help you prove who did."
    "Go on," Justin said. "Tell me more."
    "It may amount to nothing. But Davydd dismissed one of his men soon after the robbery. The man - Guto - was sorely vexed and got roaring drunk. I happened upon him, pounding on the door of the buttery, vowing that he would have some of Davydd's best wine. Since I knew Davydd would punish him harshly for such a theft, I coaxed him away with the offer of more mead. As I said, he was in his cups and rambling, as besotted men are prone to do. Much of what he said was nonsense. He cursed Davydd roundly and swore he'd be sorry, and eventually became mawkish and maudlin, overcome with pity for himself: But one of his threats stayed with me. He said that Davydd would regret letting him go, that he knew Davydd's secret, he knew the truth about what really happened in that ambush. When I asked him what he meant, he became sly and furtive, and he'd say only that I ought to 'ask Selwyn.' Since Selwyn had been slain during the robbery, I did not know what to make of that. But later I remembered that Guto and Selwyn had been friendly, and I... well, I wondered."
    So did Justin. Selwyn's name was being bandied about very freely this day. First Davydd and his tale of Selwyn's dying accusation. And now Sion with his story of vengeful drunks and Secrets. Sion might be right, and it might well come to naught. But what other leads did he have to follow?
    "Can you tell me where to find this Guto?"
    "I regret not. But I can take you to someone who is likely to know. Guto's cousin Pedran is a lay brother at Aberconwy, the Cistercian abbey to the west of here. It is not that far; we could easily make it in half a day."
    Justin's eyes narrowed. Was he being set up? Sion seemed al most too helpful. But try as he might, he could not see what Sion hoped to gain by luring him into a trap. He was no tempting target for robbery. All he owned of value was Copper, and there were easier ways to