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as England. He did not doubt that if she could, she'd have squeezed money from the Holy See.
    Eleanor glanced up as Justin entered and knelt at her feet, then gestured to her scribe, who gathered up his writing utensils. She also dismissed her other attendants, an indication that she had a highly confidential matter to discuss. That was usually the case, for all the services Justin had performed for the queen were related, directly or indirectly, to thwarting John's schemes while still protecting him from his own folly.
    Eleanor was in remarkable health for a woman of seventy-one years. The past seven months had taken their toll, though, as she'd first feared that her best-loved son was dead, only to learn that he was being held hostage in Germany by the Emperor Heinrich, an enemy who hated him as much as Philippe, the French king, did. Fatigue and dread and uncertainty had carved new furrows in her face, etched wrinkles around her eyes that none would ever call "laugh lines." This night she appeared exhausted, so pale and care worn that Justin felt a pang of alarm; he was not accustomed to seeing her look so vulnerable.
    Eleanor signaled for him to rise, and when she spoke, her voice sounded as it always did, well modulated and deliberative, resonating with the authority she'd wielded for much of her lifetime. "I have a question to put to you, Justin. You grew up in the Marches, so I assume you are more familiar than most with the region and its labyrinthine politics."
    Justin wasn't sure what labyrinthine meant, but he nodded, somewhat warily. "Yes, Madame, I know Shrewsbury well, Chester even better."
    "You understand English and read Latin, so you seem to have an ear for languages. What about Welsh?"
    "I am by no means fluent, my lady. But yes, I do have some grasp of it. I'd picked up a little as a lad, and whilst I was in Lord Fitz Alan's service, I learned more from another of his squires, who was half-Welsh."
    "Make ready," she said, "to leave for Wales on the morrow. Money meant for Richard's ransom has gone missing." She turned and rifled through a pile of parchments on the table until she found the one she wanted, "This is a letter from the Welsh prince Davydd ab Owain. The ransom he'd collected for Richard was stolen by a Welsh rebel."
    The name was vaguely familiar to Justin, and after a moment, the memory came into focus. Davydd ab Owain was a prince of North Wales, long allied with the English Crown. "What more can you tell me, Madame?"
    "Unfortunately, not much. When I referred to 'money' earlier, I was using the term loosely. The Welsh princes do not mint their own money and so the bulk of the ransom was wool from the Cistercian abbeys, although there were some coins and silver plate and jewelry, mayhap furs, too. Davydd says he'd sent it under guard to Chester, but it was ambushed by an outlaw named..." She glanced briefly at the letter. "... Llewelyn ab Iorwerth. The guards were slain and the ransom stolen. Needless to say, I want it back. It will be a god-given miracle if we can raise all the money demanded by that hellspawn Heinrich. I am not about to let Welsh brigands ruin Richard's chances of release."
    "You call this man an 'outlaw' and a 'rebel.' Which is he, Madame?"
    "According to Davydd, both. He is kin to Davydd - the Welsh are all inbred - and he has been trying to stir up rebellion, without much success. But he makes do with robbery and thieving and extortion. Here, read the letter for yourself."
    Justin moved toward the closest light, a sputtering cresset lamp. "Dayvdd is rather sparing with details. This letter tells us very little."
    "You noticed that, too," she said dryly. "His overriding concern seems to be escaping any blame for this disaster. Which is all I'd expect from the man."
    "Have you met Davydd, Madame?"
    The corner of Eleanor's mouth curved. "Met him? I'm related to him, Justin." She did smile then at his look of surprise. "Davydd ab Owain is my brother-by-marriage. He is wed to