Cruel As the Grave

11

WINDSOR CASTLE

April 1193

Justin awoke to total recall, pain, and utter blackness. For a shattering moment, he feared he'd been blinded by the blow. It was almost with relief that he realized he was being held in one of the castle's dungeons, as dark as the bottom of a well. His head was throbbing and when he moved, he had to fight back a wave of queasiness. This was the second time in two months that he'd suffered a head injury and by now he was all too familiar with the symptoms. He tried to find out if he was bleeding, but discovered instead that his right wrist was manacled to a ring welded into the floor. Testing its strength merely set his head to spinning. Pillowing it awkwardly upon his free arm, he lay very still, waiting for the dizziness to pass, and eventually he slept.

When he awakened again, the pain had begun to recede and his thoughts were no longer clouded. That was a dubious blessing, though, for he was now able to focus upon his plight with unsparing clarity. The solitude was soon fraying his nerves and he found it particularly troubling to have no sense of time's passing. He had no way of knowing how long it had been since Durand swung that candlestick. Hours? A day? It was disorienting and somehow made his isolation all the more complete. It was as if the world had gone on without him. Would his disappearance stir up even a ripple at the royal court, on Gracechurch Street? Would there be any to mourn him, to remember?

His self-pity was fleeting, submerged in a rising tide of rage. He was not going to die alone and forgotten down here in the dark. He owed Durand a blood debt and he'd not go to his grave with it unpaid. That he swore grimly upon the surety of his soul.

His embittered musings were interrupted by a sudden scraping noise, shockingly loud in the muffled silence of the cell. He struggled to sit up as a trapdoor was opened overhead and a ladder lowered into the gloom. A man was soon clambering down, a sack dangling from his belt, a lantern swinging precariously each time he switched holds upon the rungs. Even that feeble light seemed unnaturally bright to Justin, who had to avert his eyes.

"Here," the man said brusquely, shaking out the contents of the sack onto the floor at Justin's feet: a loaf of bread and a chunk of cheese and a battered wineskin. "I was told to feed you… although it seems a shame to waste good food on a man who's soon to die."

Justin ignored the uncharitable aside. The guard's grumbling only echoed what he already knew; spies were hanged. "Tell Lord John that Justin de Quincy must talk with him. Say it's urgent and in his interest to hear me out."

"I'll do that straightaway," the man vowed, and then laughed derisively. "Why should my lord John spare time for the likes of you?" he sneered and began his clumsy ascent back up the ladder. The loss of that faltering lantern light affected Justin much more than he could have anticipated; it was as if the sun had been blotted out, plunging him back into an eternal night. His headache was almost gone; clearly Durand had done far less damage than Gilbert the Fleming. He had no appetite, but he forced himself to eat some of the bread and cheese. The liquid in the wineskin was warm and had a stale aftertaste. He thought it might be ale; all he could say for a certainty was that it was wet. His thirst was overpowering, though, and it was difficult to ration himself to just a few swallows. He did not know how long it had to last.

Surely John would not send him to his death without interrogating him first? John's scruples might be ailing, but he had a curiosity healthy enough to put any cat to shame. How could he not want answers as much as he did vengeance? But what if John did not know he was languishing in this dungeon? Would Durand have told him? If not, that guard's pitiless prediction was likely to come true… all too soon.

~~

Justin was dozing fitfully when the trapdoor opened again. A tall figure descended the ladder, less awkwardly than the guard, and even before his lantern's flame revealed his identity, Justin knew it was Durand. The knight raised the lantern high, letting its light linger upon Justin's pallor and dishevelment. Justin's fury needed no illumination; the other man could feel it throbbing between them in the dark, giving off enough heat to scorch the very air they both breathed. A smile quirked the corner of Durand's mouth. "So," he drawled, "how is your poor, addled head? I daresay it is still pounding like a drum, no?"

Justin's fist clenched on the chain, but the anchor held. Squinting up into the glare of Durand's lantern, he called the knight every vile name he'd ever heard, with so much venom that even the most commonplace of profanities became a blistering indictment. Durand heard him out, affecting an amused indifference belied by the tautness of his body's stance, the glitter in those narrowed, appraising eyes.

"You're not taking this well, are you?" he gibed. "All this righteous indignation seems a bit overdone to me, for I did warn you that I'd not put myself at risk. With John about to walk in and find us chatting together, cozy as can be, I did what I could to deflect suspicion away from myself, and offer no apologies for it, by God!"

"Your memory is as flawed as your honour! I was there, too, or did that slip your mind? You struck me down before the door opened, so how could you possibly have known it was John? Second-sight?"

"I recognized his footsteps," Durand said blandly, and in that moment, Justin understood fully what men meant when they spoke of a "murderous rage."

"What a liar you are! You saw your chance and took it and you'll never convince me otherwise, not in this life or the next!"

"I do not have to convince you of anything, de Quincy. I told you what happened and if you choose not to believe me, that is up to you. If I were in your place — and irons — I'd be more concerned about making my peace with the Almighty. You were caught spying, after all, and spies…" He paused, heaving a mock sigh. "Alas, they are hanged."

"You'd better hope that I am not."

"And why is that?"

"Because I am not about to die alone, Durand. If I hang, you'll hang with me, and that is a promise."

Durand seemed taken aback. "I do not think you'd do that," he said at last and Justin smiled coldly.

"Think again."

Durand said nothing, but his free hand had dropped to the hilt of his dagger. Justin's throat tightened. He still managed a scornful laugh, though, when the other man took a step toward him. "Go ahead," he jeered, "use your knife. That is one way to silence me. Of course you'd have to explain to John why you'd come down to the dungeons to murder a man known to be in the queen's service. But I'm sure you could think of some plausible explanation. We both know how trusting John is, how slow he is to suspect treachery… do we not?"

Now it was Durand's turn to indulge in profanity. He spat out a string of vitriolic oaths, of which "misbegotten son of a poxed whore" was the mildest. But he did not draw his dagger from its sheath.

Justin did his best to appear bored by the invective. "If you are done ranting, let's talk about what I want you to do."

"If you think I'll help you escape, you're in for a great disappointment!"

"I'd sooner take my chances with a pack of starving wolves, for they'd be easier to trust. All you need do is convince John to see me… and soon. Lest you forget, I bring him an urgent message from his lady mother. If I cannot deliver it, we'll both have failed our queen."

Durand's eyes glinted in the candlelight. He seemed about to speak, instead spun on his heel and stalked back to the ladder. He paused, a boot on the first rung when Justin said his name.

"Just remember this, Durand. Either I do my talking to John… or on the gallows. The choice is yours."

"Rot in Hell," Durand snarled, and rapidly climbed the ladder. Within moments, the trapdoor slammed and Justin was alone again in darkness. He sagged back against the wall, his breathing as uneven and shallow as his hopes of reprieve. Did Durand truly care whether he failed the queen or not? Had he convinced Durand that their fates were inextricably entwined?

If he died in this hellhole or on the gallows, would Eleanor notify his father?

~~

The trapdoor was flung open with a thud. A ladder was lowered through the opening and two men were soon climbing down. Justin sat up in alarm. Why two of them? Had Durand decided to pay men to do his killing for him? They moved toward him, fanning out to approach from each side, and the man with the lantern said gruffly, "You've caused enough trouble already. Do not make this any harder than it need be."

Justin yanked at the manacle in vain, knowing resistance was futile, planning to resist, anyway. Then he saw what was in the guard's other hand: a key. At least he'd not be dying in this accursed black pit, forgotten by all but God. Even the gallows seemed preferable to that. The key made a rasping sound in the lock, as lyrical to his ears as harp music. When he tried to rise, though, he discovered that his muscles were cramped and stiff and he stumbled after his captors, as unsteady on his legs as a newborn foal.

"Where are you taking me?"

"To the gallows, I expect," the second man said indifferently. "But Lord John wants to see you first."

~~

Justin gazed upward, marveling at the beauty of the sunsetcolored clouds meandering lazily above the castle like fleecy, celestial sheep — if sheep were ever purple and pink. He laughed suddenly and his guards eyed him warily. He couldn't explain to them how good it felt to be able to see the sky again, to draw clean, untainted air into his lungs after breathing in the fumes filling that rancid, fetid tomb. It was astonishing to see dusk was just falling, for that meant his captivity had been measured in hours, not days. It was true what he'd once heard, that time stopped with the slamming of a dungeon's door.

~~

John's bedchamber was in one of the timber buildings within the protective stone circle of the shell keep. He was seated at a trestle table set for two, about to eat as Justin was ushered in. Shoving him forward, the guard asked deferentially, "Do you want us to truss him up, my lord?

"

John put down his wine cup. "No," he said. "That will not be necessary… will it, Master de Quincy? I am assuming my lady mother sent you as a spy, not an assassin?"

Even accustomed as he was to John's slash-and-parry brand of sarcasm, this took Justin's breath away, for that was an exceedingly bitter joke for a man to make about his mother. John was watching him dispassionately. They were only five years apart in age, but worlds apart in the lives they'd led. John was the dark one in a fair family, lacking his celebrated elder brother's height and flash and golden coloring. But he did not lack for ambition or intelligence, and Justin's past encounters had convinced him that the queen's youngest son was a formidable foe, indeed, far more dangerous than a Durand de Curzon or a Gilbert the Fleming. John had his mother's compelling hazel eyes, green-flecked and slanting and utterly inscrutable. A cat at a mousehole, Justin thought, wanting to play with its prey before making the kill. "I am neither, my lord," he said swiftly, "not spy nor assassin. That was not my mission."

"No?" John arched a brow. "And what was this mysterious mission, then?" He gestured for a waiting youth to ladle food onto his trencher, and the succulent aroma of roasted chicken awakened in Justin a sudden and ravenous hunger, for he'd eaten only a bit of cheese and bread in more than a day and night. He looked away hastily, but not in time; John saw. "Hungry, are you?"

"No, my lord," Justin said stoutly, and John grinned.

"You lied much more convincingly when you swore to me that you knew nothing about that bloodstained letter."

There was no longer any need for secrecy and Justin made no denials. "If I had not lied, my lord, I would have betrayed your mother, the queen. Surely you would want those in your service to be loyal to you first and foremost?"

"Indeed," John agreed, so readily that Justin tensed, anticipating the pounce. Instead John turned again to his servant. "Set a place for Master de Quincy. He looks like a man in need of a meal."

Justin was astounded. One of John's most intriguing — and unsettling — attributes was his unpredictability. It made him interesting company… provided he was not also one's gaoler. Whatever John's motivations, though, Justin was not going to stand on false pride. "Thank you, my lord," he said, taking the seat indicated and watching appreciatively as a roasted chicken leg was placed upon his trencher.

"Not at all," John said amiably. "The least I can do is to offer a condemned man one last meal."

Justin thought that was a dubious joke… if indeed it was one. Talking with John was like taking a stroll through a quagmire; the slightest misstep could lead to disaster. Before he could respond, though, the door opened and a woman entered the bedchamber. She gave Justin an incurious glance, then leaned over to kiss John, taking a seat beside him. Justin's wine cup halted, halfway to his mouth. He had seen women more beautiful. He'd rarely seen a woman whose appeal was so blatantly carnal, though. What man could look upon those smoky grey eyes, pouting red mouth, bright flaxen hair, and lush, voluptuous body and not think of mortal sins? He didn't realize he was staring so obviously until John commented, "I do not mind sharing my meal with you, de Quincy, but my generosity has its limits."

Justin acknowledged his guilt with a quick smile and an apology to John's concubine for his bad manners. Her own manners were in need of mending, for she ignored him utterly, devoting all of her attention to her chicken. When Justin glanced back at John, he saw amusement in the other man's eyes. Unlike Durand, John was not hostile. He seemed curious, almost friendly, as if welcoming a distraction midst the monotony of the siege. The Prince of Darkness. Justin wondered suddenly if John knew about Claudine's private jest. He suspected that John would have been flattered, not offended. He must not let down his guard with this man. John could as easily doom him with a smile as with a curse.

John was gnawing on a chicken leg, watching Justin all the while. "Are you ready now," he said, "to tell me why my mother sent you to spy on me? What guilty secrets did she hope that you'd unearth at Windsor?"

"I was not sent here to spy upon you, my lord."

"Durand says he found you ransacking my tower chamber. What were you doing, then, if not spying?"

"That never happened. I was not searching your chamber."

"You are saying that Durand lied?"

Justin's mouth was dry and he paused to take a swallow of wine and draw a bracing breath now that the moment was at hand. "Do you speak English, my lord?"

John shook his head in bafflement. "No, I do not… why?"

"As English is unknown to you, so is the truth an alien tongue to Durand."

John laughed. "I'll not quarrel with that. But Durand does nothing without a reason. So why would he lie to me about your spying?"

"So you'd hang me."

John considered that for a moment and then grinned again. "Ah, I am remembering now… the two of you got into a brawl over the Lady Claudine a few weeks back. I'd already left the hall, was sorry I missed it. So he still bears you a grudge, does he? Well, I suppose it would be ungallant to suggest Claudine's charms are not worth dying for, so let's say you're speaking the truth. If you are not here to spy, why, then?"

"The queen hoped that I could convince you to surrender the castle."

"Did she, now?" John's affability had vanished; his face was a mask, impossible to read. "And how were you to do that?"

"She wanted me to tell you that she is willing to offer you more generous terms. If you agree to yield up Windsor, Wallingford, and the Peak, she will see to it that you keep control of your castles at Nottingham and Tickhill."

"Why did you not come in under a flag of truce, then?"

"The other justiciars do not know of this offer, my lord," Justin said, and then held his breath, waiting to see if John would take the bait. Something flickered in those tawny gold eyes, too quickly to catch. Justin ate some of his chicken; even under such stressful circumstances, it tasted delicious. If this was indeed his last meal, at least it would be a good one.

"That is a generous offer," John conceded, but he did not sound happy about it. "Why is she suddenly so eager to settle this siege without bloodshed?"

Justin had decided to tell John the truth, or as much of it as he dared. "She has two reasons, my lord. It would be more difficult to collect King Richard's ransom in a realm beset with strife."

John showed no surprise, confirming Justin's suspicions; he'd wager John had known about the ransom long before Eleanor did, courtesy of his conniving ally, the French king. "God forbid," John said dryly, "that there should be difficulties in collecting the ransom. What was her other reason?"

"She fears for your safety if the castle is taken by force."

"Does she, indeed?"

The words themselves were innocuous, but John invested them with such an ironic edge that Justin stared at him. At first glance, a comparison between John and Daniel Aston seemed ludicrous. What did the worldly, sardonic, and unscrupulous queen's son possibly have in common with the callow, wretched youth huddling in sanctuary at St Paul's? And yet they were both second-best, less-loved sons who had been overlooked and outshone by bedazzling elder brothers. Jealousy might not be as lethal as hemlock or henbane, but it could poison, too. Justin leaned forward, saying with a husky, earnest intensity that John could not ignore:

"The queen's fears for you are very real. When I expressed doubts that you'd be at risk if the castle fell, she was quite vexed with me and dwelt at length upon the dangers you'd be facing. If you need proof of that, my lord, I can offer no better proof than my own presence within this castle."

John frowned. "What do you mean?"

"The queen has been generous with her praise since I entered her service. She has told me that I've earned her trust and I do believe she is even fond of me, in her way. I am sure that she would not want to see harm befall me. I am sure, too, that she knew full well the risks I'd be taking. Yet she did not hesitate. You see, my lord, my life is expendable to her. Yours is not."

John said nothing. His lashes had swept down, veiling his eyes. Beside him, his sultry bedmate continued to eat with gusto, oblivious to the currents swirling around her. Justin could not imagine Claudine playing so passive a role. He reminded himself that he had no proof that Claudine had ever bedded John, and finished his chicken leg. He had said all he could; the rest was up to John.

"You claim the justiciars know nothing of my mother's offer?"

"No, my lord, they do not."

"Who helped you, then, to get into the castle? Who staged that raid upon the gatehouse?"

"I did confide in one man, my lord, telling him that I hoped to convince you to yield up the castle peaceably. He was more than willing to offer his aid once he heard that."

John's smile was skeptical. "And the name of this Good Samaritan?"

"Your brother, Will Longsword," Justin said, and sensed that he'd gotten through John's defenses, however fleetingly. He wished he could think of a way to learn if John had been the one entering the tower chamber as Durand struck him down. He was unwilling, though, to ask outright, for John's imagination was already tangled with suspicions and doubts; Jesu forfend that he plant any seeds of his own. John had fallen silent again. When he could endure the suspense no longer, Justin said cautiously:

"Will you at least consider the queen's offer, my lord?"

John studied him impassively and then nodded. "I shall think upon it."

Justin knew the adage about letting sleeping dogs lie, but he could not help himself. He had to ask. "And what of me, my lord?"

John's expression did not change, but his eyes caught the candlelight, reflecting a gleam that might have been malice or mischief, or both. "I shall think upon that, too," he said.