Dragon's Lair

Chapter 1

July 1193

Westminster, England

WALKING IN THE GARDENS OF THE ROYAL PALACE ON a sultry, overcast summer afternoon, Claudine de Loudun recognized for the first time that she feared the queen. This should not have been so surprising to her, for the queen in question was Eleanor, Dowager Queen of England, Duchess of Aquitaine, one-time Queen of France, Burning as brightly as a comet in her youth, Eleanor had shocked and fascinated and outraged, a beautiful, willful woman who'd wed two kings, taken the cross, given birth to ten children, and dared to lust after power as a man might. But she'd survived scandal, heartbreak, and insurrection, even sixteen years as her husband Henry's prisoner,

The older Eleanor was wiser and less reckless, a woman who'd learned to weigh both words and consequences. Her ambitions had always been dynastic, and in her twilight years she was expending all of her considerable intelligence, political guile, and tenacity in the service of her son Richard. She was respected now, even revered in some quarters, for her sound advice and pragmatic understanding of statecraft, and few appreciated the irony — that this woman who'd lived much of her life as a royal rebel should be acclaimed as a stabilizing influence upon the brash, impulsive Richard.

To outward appearances, it seemed as if the aged queen had repudiated the carefree and careless girl she'd once been, but Claudine knew better. Eleanor's tactics had changed, not her nature. She was worldly, curious, utterly charming when she chose to be, prideful, stubborn, calculating, and still hungry for all that life had to offer. She had a remarkable memory untainted by age, and although she might forgive wrongs, she never forgot them. As Claudine was belatedly acknowledging, she could be a formidable enemy.

Claudine was not a fool, even if she had done more than her share of foolish things. It was not that she'd underestimated the queen, but rather that she'd overestimated her own ability to swim in such turbulent waters. It had seemed harmless enough in the beginning. What did it matter if she shared court gossip and rumors with the queen's youngest son? She had seen it as a game, not a betrayal, just as she'd seen herself as John's confederate, not his spy. How had it all gone so wrong? She still was not sure. But there was no denying that the stakes had suddenly become life or death. Richard languished in a German prison. John was being accused of treason. The queen was sick with fear for her eldest son and vowing vengeance upon those who would deny Richard his freedom. And Claudine was in the worst plight of all, pregnant and unwed, facing both the perils of the birthing chamber and the danger of disgrace and scandal.

She'd never worried about incurring Eleanor's animosity before, confident of her own power to beguile, putting too much trust in her blood ties to the queen, distant though they might be. But in this fragrant, trellised garden, she was suddenly and acutely aware of how vulnerable she truly was. It was such a demoralizing realization that she quickly reminded herself how understanding the queen had been about her pregnancy. She'd feared that Eleanor would turn her out, letting all know of her shame. Instead, the queen had offered to help. So why, then, did she feel such unease?

She glanced sideways at the other woman, and then away. She'd often thought the queen had cat eyes, greenish-gold and inscrutable, eyes that seemed able to see into the inner recesses of her soul, to strip away her secrets, one by one. Claudine bit her lip, keeping tier own eyes downcast, for she had so many secrets.

Eleanor was aware of the young woman's edginess, and it afforded her some grim satisfaction. She bore Claudine no grudge for allowing herself to become entangled in John's web; she'd had too many betrayals in her life to be wounded by one so small. And so once she'd discovered Claudine's complicity in her son's scheming, she'd been content to keep that knowledge secret, reasoning that a known spy was a defanged snake. She'd even used the unwitting Claudine to pass on misinformation from time to time. But if she felt no desire for vengeance, neither did she have sympathy for Claudine's predicament. Every pleasure in this world came with a price, be it a dalliance in conspiracy or one in bed.

Glancing about to make sure none of her other attendants were within earshot, Eleanor asked the girl if she was still queasy. When Claudine swallowed and swore that she no longer felt poorly, Eleanor gave her a skeptical scrutiny. "Why, then, is your face the color of newly skimmed milk? There is no need to pre tend with me, child. Only men could call a pregnancy 'easy,' but some are undoubtedly more troublesome than others. For me, it was my last. There were days when even water could unsettle my stomach. I've sailed in some fierce storms, but God's Truth, I was never so greensick as when I was carrying John."

Claudine's eyelashes flickered, no more than that. But she could not keep the blood from rising in her face and throat. Watching as her pallor was submerged in a flood of color, Eleanor smiled slyly. This was new, like an involuntary twitch or a hiccup, this sudden discomfort whenever John's name was mentioned. Not for the first time, Eleanor wondered who had truly fathered Claudine's child. Was it Justin de Quincy as she claimed? Or was it John?

"I think it is time," she said, "for you to withdraw to the nunnery at Godstow."

Claudine nodded reluctantly. This was the plan, with cover stories fabricated for the court and her family back in Aquitaine. She should have gone a fortnight ago, but she'd found excuses to delay, dreading the loneliness and seclusion and boredom of the coming months, "I suppose so," she admitted, sounding so forlorn that Eleanor experienced an involuntary pang of empathy; she knew better than most the onus of confinement. It was true that this confinement was by choice and temporary, but Eleanor could not help identifying with Claudine's aversion to the religious life. There had been times in her past when she'd feared being shut up in some remote, obscure convent for the rest of her days, forgotten by all but her gaolers and God.

"I will speak with Sir Nicholas this eve," she said briskly, determined not to soften toward this foolhardy, unhappy girl. "The arrangements have all been made. It remains only for you to settle in at Godstow."

"Sir Nicholas de Mydden?" Claudine echoed in dismay. "But Justin was to escort me to the nunnery."

"Justin cannot — "

"Madame, he promised me!" Claudine was so flustered that she did not even realize she'd interrupted the queen. Lowering her voice hastily lest they attract attention, she said coaxingly, "Surely you understand why I would prefer Justin's company, Your Grace. I know I can trust him. And… and he wants to accompany me. This child is his, after all."

Eleanor looked into Claudine's flushed, distraught face, striving for patience. "Well, this is one promise Justin cannot keep. He is away from the court, and I know not when he will return. As for Nicholas, he is no gossipmonger." Unable to resist adding, "Those in my service know the value I place upon loyalty."

Claudine's lashes fluttered down again, veiling her eyes. After a moment, she said meekly, "Forgive my boldness, madame. It was hot my intent to argue with you. If you have confidence in Sir Nicholas's discretion, then so do I. But could I not wait till week's end? Mayhap Justin will be back by then."

She took Eleanor's shrug for assent and fell in step beside the queen as they cut across the grassy mead. "I did not even know Justin was gone, for he did not bid me farewell."

She sounded both plaintive and aggrieved, and Eleanor found herself thinking that Justin might be fortunate that he was not considered a suitable husband for this pampered young kinswoman of hers. It would be no easy task, keeping Claudine de Loudun content.

"Madame… it is not my intent to pry," Claudine said, with such pious prevarication that Eleanor rolled her eyes skyward. "Whatever Justin's mission for you may be, it is not for me to question it. I would ask this, though. Can you at least tell me if he is in any danger?"

Eleanor paused, considering. Her first impulse was to give the girl the reassurance she sought. But the truth was that whenever her son John was involved, there was bound to be danger.

~*~

It was a spare turnout for a hanging. Usually the citizens of Winchester thronged to the gallows out on Andover Road, eager to watch as a felon paid the ultimate price for his earthly sins. Luke de Marston, the under-sheriff of Hampshire, could remember hangings that rivaled the St Giles Fair, with venders hawking meat pies and children getting underfoot and cutpurses on the prowl for unwary victims. But the doomed soul being dragged from the cart was too small a fish to attract a large crowd, a criminal by happenstance rather than choice.

The few men and women who'd bothered to show up were further disappointed by the demeanor of the culprit. They expected bravado and defiance from their villains, or at the very least, stoical self-control. But this prisoner was obviously terrified, whimpering and trembling so violently that he had to be assisted up the gallows steps. People were beginning to turn away in disgust even before the rope was tightened around his neck.

Luke's deputy shared their dissatisfaction, for he believed that a condemned man owed his audience a better show than this, "Pitiful," he said, shaking his head in disapproval. "Remember how the Fleming died, cursing God with his last breath?"

Luke remembered. Gilbert the Fleming had been one of Winchester's most notorious outlaws, as brutal as he was elusive, evading capture again and again until he'd been brought down by Luke and the queen's man, Justin de Quincy. His hanging had been a holiday.

"Luke."

The voice was familiar, but it should have been seventy-two miles away in London. Spinning around to face de Quincy, Luke scowled, for the younger man's sudden materialization was unsettling, coming as it did just as he'd been thinking of him. "Sometimes, de Quincy, I think you do it on purpose."

Justin was not put off by Luke's brusque welcome. While they'd started out as adversaries, they'd soon become allies, united in their common desire to ensnare Gilbert the Fleming. "Do what?"

"Appear like this in a puff of blue smoke and scare the daylights out of me. If I did not know better, I'd suspect you were a warlock instead of a harbinger of evil tidings."

Justin couldn't argue with that; he and Luke shared a past marked by murder, mayhem, and treason. "I'm here," he said, "to invite you to join a hunt."

Luke regarded him warily. "And just what are we hunting this time?"

"Our usual quarry," Justin admitted, "the one we track by following the scent of brimstone."

~*~

The port of Southampton lay just twelve miles to the south of Winchester, and it was still daylight when Luke and Justin reined in at the Bargate, a square stone tower that guarded the northern entrance into the city.

"Do you not think it is time," Luke declared abruptly, "that you were more forthcoming? Suppose you do find John here. What then? We cannot very well arrest him by ourselves, and I do not fancy arresting him at all, not when the man might well be king one day. This seems a long way to come merely to verify a rumor, de Quincy. I'd wager you have something else in mind, and naturally you are loath to share it with me. I've known Anchorite hermits that were more talkative than you. You need not confide every last detail of your battle plan, but I want more than you've so far given me,"

Justin knew Luke would not be mollified with less than the truth, or at least a goodly portion of it. "I've not misled you," he insisted. "The queen wants me to confirm that John is in Southampton, making ready to sail for France. But you are right, and there is more to it than that. The queen has a spy in John's service. This may be the last chance he has to convey any messages to the queen, and since I am the only one who knows of his mission, I am also the only one who can seek him out ere they sail."

Luke was not about to ask for a name. He knew Justin would not tell him. Nor did he truly want to know; he'd learned long ago that Scriptures was right and "He that increaseth knowledge increaseth sorrow," at least when the knowledge was as dangerous as the identity of the queen's spy in her son's household. Instead, he concentrated upon the logistics of Justin's mission, suggesting that they search the docks first, find out which ships were preparing for the Channel crossing. That made sense to Justin and they split up soon after they'd passed through the Bargate, Luke heading for the castle quay and Justin continuing down English Street.

Turning onto the Fleshambles, where the city butchers had their shops, Justin was dismayed to see so many people still out and about. He reminded himself, though, that John was not a man to pass unnoticed. The streets were narrow, crowded with passersby, and Justin had to keep ducking his head to avoid sagging ale-poles and the overhang of buildings extending out into the roadway. When he saw a smithy close by the fishmongers' market, he hastily dismounted and soon struck a bargain with the blacksmith: a few coins in exchange for a stall for his stallion in the farrier's stable.

He decided to search the docks next and turned into the first alley that led toward the river. It was not much wider than that length of his sword, and he had to squeeze past a couple who' ducked into the alley for a quick sexual encounter. The man was too preoccupied to notice Justin, grunting and thrusting with such force that the woman's body was being slammed against the wall; she made no protest, gazing over her partner's shoulder at Justin with indifferent, empty eyes. She was so young, though — barely old enough to have started her flux — that Justin felt a flicker pity as he detoured around them. Luke would have called him a softhearted dolt — and often did — but Justin had a foundling's instinctive sympathy for the downtrodden, God's poor, the lost, the doomed, and the abandoned. He saw no harm in offering up a brief prayer for the soul of this child-woman selling her body in Southampton alley.

As he emerged from the alley, Justin came upon a lively waterfront scene. There were a few ships moored at the quays, but the larger vessels were anchored out in the harbor. Several small lighters were shuttling back and forth between these ships and the docks, where sailors and passengers mingled with vendors and merchants come to supervise the unloading of their cargo. Although Vespers had sounded more than an hour ago, the crew of a French cog was still hard at work, using a block and tackle to transfer wine tuns into a waiting lighter. The casks were heavy and unwieldy and one was balanced so precariously that Justin would normally have lingered to watch. But now he gave it only a glance, for his attention had been drawn to a cluster of well-dressed men gathered on the West Quay.

Stepping back into the mouth of the alley so he could observe without being seen, Justin had no difficulty in picking out the queen's son. The highborn were always magnets for every eye, even in these dubious circumstances, and John was surrounded by the curious, the hopeful, and the hungry. Peddlers cried out their wares, ships' masters jockeyed for position as they offered the hire of their vessels, and beggars huddled in the outermost ring of the circle, being kept at a distance by hard-faced men in chain mail. Justin found himself wondering what it would be like to live his life on center stage, like an actor in one of the Christmas plays. John would never be a supporting player; for him, it must be the lead role or nothing.

John started toward the alley and Justin withdrew farther into it. The first part of his mission had been easy enough to accomplish. But Durand de Curzon was as slippery as a conger eel and not even a forked stick would be enough to pin him down. Justin still remembered his shock upon his discovery that Durand was not John's "tame wolf," bur Eleanor's. He had never loathed any one as much as he did Durand, and it vexed him no end to have to give the other man even a sliver of respect. He could not deny Durand's courage, though, for if John ever discovered his betrayal, death would come as a mercy.

Justin was so intent upon his surveillance that he was slow to heed the muffled sounds behind him. He did not swing around until he heard a choked-off scream. At the end of the alley, the young prostitute was struggling to get away from her customer. She kicked him in the shin and almost broke free, but he caught the skirt of her gown, and when she stumbled, he shoved her back against the wall. Justin took one step toward them before halting. His first instinct was to come to the girl's aid, but if he did, he risked alerting John to his presence. This was none of his concern, after all. Whores were used to being slapped around.

But then the man backhanded her across the face and grabbed her throat. Justin spared a second for a regretful glance over his before lunging forward. He had no interest in fighting fair, only in fighting fast, and made use of a maneuver he'd learned from a battle-scarred serjeant named Jonas, seizing a handful of the man's long, scraggly hair and bringing his fist down hard on the back of his neck. It proved as effective in Southampton alleys as it had in London's mean streets; the man staggered, then sank to his knees, mouth ajar, eyes dazed and unfocused. Snatching up a broken piece of wood, the girl swung it wildly at her assailant. When it missed, she threw it aside and began to scream curses and abuse at him, revealing an impressive command of profanity for one so young.

"Gutter rat! Misbegotten devil's spawn! Shit-eating sousepot, you tried to kill me!"

He gaped up at her, then lurched unsteadily to his feet. "Lying bitch!" Blinking blearily at Justin, he showed no resentment, instead appealed to him, man to man. "The little slut was going to rob me!

"You're the liar, not me!" She, too, now addressed her complaints to Justin. "This besotted, poxy bastard did not want to pay me!"

"Filthy whore!"

"Rutting swine!"

By now they both were shouting loudly enough to awaken all but the dead, and a large, curious crowd had gathered at the entrance of the alley. Justin glared at the two of them. "Shall I send for a bailiff?" he asked coldly, and as he expected, that cooled their rancor considerably. The girl flung one last curse over her shoulder, then disappeared into the throng of spectators, while her accuser tried to recover some dignity by adjusting his disheveled garments before he, too, made a hasty retreat. Seeing that the show was over, their audience began to disperse, leaving Justin alone in the alley.

Justin was thoroughly disgusted with himself. When would he learn to heed his head, not his heart? He had no rational hope that John would not have been drawn by the uproar, and he turned slowly and reluctantly, already sure what he would see. As he feared, John and his men were blocking the alley.

John was the most unpredictable man that Justin had ever known, and he proved it now by reacting with amusement, not hostility. He looked utterly at ease, leaning against the wall, arms folded, eyes filled with laughter.

"God love you, de Quincy, but you are a source of constant wonderment," John said with a grin that told Justin he knew exactly what had transpired in this alley. "I can always rely upon you to be the veritable soul of chivalry. Is it just knighthood you aspire to, or have you a craving for sainthood, too?"

While Justin usually had no trouble laughing at himself, his sense of humor seemed to shut down whenever John was around. "I'm gratified that I was able to entertain you, my lord," he said dryly. "That makes my journey to Southampton worthwhile, then."

John's grin flashed again. "Come on," he said, "and I'll buy you a drink ere I sail. You can even wave farewell from the quay if you choose."

Justin submitted to this raillery with what grace he could muster, following John back toward the docks and into a riverside alehouse, It was poorly lit with reeking oil lamps, its floor deep in marsh rushes that looked as if they'd not been changed since the reign of the current king's father, its wooden benches splattered with dried mud and candle wax, not the sort of place where a man as highborn as John would usually be found. But Justin suspected that John often turned up in unlikely surroundings.

John was feeling generous and ordered ale for his men, too, even for several delighted customers. Claiming a corner table, he beckoned to Justin. "Sit," he commanded, "and drown your chagrin in ale. Once you've tasted their brew, you'll be willing to gulp down goat piss without flinching. So… you intend to tell my lady mother about this chat of ours? That her loyal spy let himself be undone by a Southampton street whore?"

"Yes," Justin said, so tersely that John had to hide his laughter in his ale cup.

"What was I thinking? Of course you will tell her. I daresay you'd go to daily confession if you could find a priest who'd stay awake during them."

Amused in spite of himself, Justin held up his hands in mock surrender. "I yield, my lord. God has indeed cursed me with a conscience."

John's mouth twitched. "I know you have questions, de Quincy. So ask away. I might even answer one or two."

"I have no questions, my lord. I am in Southampton to be able to reassure the queen that you got off safely for France. It was her hope that you'd convey her good wishes to the French king."

This was the way their conversations usually went, verbal jousting that reminded Justin of those boyhood winters when he'd strapped on bone skates and ventured out onto the newly frozen ice of Cheshire ponds. Thrust and parry. He waited now for John's counterstroke, but the other man was gazing over his shoulder to ward the door.

"It is about time you got here," John said.

Justin caught a whiff of sandalwood perfume as a woman approached the table. She looked even more out of place in this seedy alehouse than John did, clad in a floor-length green mantle, her face framed in a white linen wimple, her fingers adorned with rings that testified to John's generosity. Justin recognized her at once as John's concubine from the siege of Windsor, and he started to rise.

Her manners had not improved any since then; Justin could have been invisible for all the notice she took of him. Gazing around her, she wrinkled her nose in disgust. "Must we wait for the tide in this hovel?" She added a perfunctory "my lord" in acknowledgment of the public setting, but it sounded neither deferential nor convincing. She had not impressed Justin as a particularly likable woman, but she was undeniably a desirable one, and he was wondering what she called John in the privacy of their bedchamber when a familiar voice sounded behind him.

"I did not think we'd ever get here, my lord. Mistress Ursula insisted upon stopping to view a street peddler's wares…" Durand's complaint trailed off in surprise as his eyes came to rest upon Justin. "Damn me if you're not the spitting image of a man I know back in London. Of course if you knew him, too, you'd take that as a mortal insult, for de Quincy is the most self-righteous, irksome — "

"It gladdens my heart to see you, too, Durand."

"What did I tell you lads about this unseemly squabbling?" John said, in a dead-on imitation of a father chastising his young sons. Pushing the bench back, he got to his feet and draped his arm around Ursula's shoulders, "You might as well finish my ale, Durand, if you can stomach drinking with de Quincy." His gaze flicked from Durand to Justin, his eyes guarded, utterly at variance with his affectation of good-humored nonchalance. "Tell my mother," he said, "that I'll be sure to pass on her regards to King Philippe."

Reaching for his money pouch, John spilled coins onto the table with the casual largesse that was expected of the nobility, even one in John's precarious straits. He sauntered out, then, with Ursula in tow. He did not look back.

Durand swung a leg over the bench, picking up John's ale cup as if he meant to drink it. As soon as John had exited the alehouse, he sat it down with a grimace. "I was wondering how you'd manage to find me," he said, with a studied drawl that grated upon Justin's nerves. "It never occurred to me that you'd simply ask as John. Now why did I not think of that?"

"It worked, did it not?" Justin pointed out laconically. He'd be damned before he'd offer any explanations to Durand, and he met the other man's gaze evenly, refusing to take the bait.

Durand knew from past encounters that Justin's temper was easily kindled, and he was sorely tempted to keep on until he struck some sparks. But they dared not linger in the alehouse without arousing John's suspicions. Leaning forward, he said softly, "The French king warned John that Richard has come to terms with the Holy Roman Emperor and his release is nigh. The news alarmed John enough to send him racing for the coast and the first ship for France."

He laughed soundlessly. "Richard casts a long shadow, indeed if the mere prospect of his return can scare men half out of their wits. It took John an outlandishly long time to remember that even if Brother Richard were released on the morrow, it would take him weeks to make his way back to England."

Justin understood why Richard could inspire such fear. There was no greater battle commander in Christendom, and all knew he was a soldier first and foremost, only secondly a king. "I grant you John is not acting like a man in the throes of panic. So if he knows the danger is not imminent, why is he still in Southampton, making ready to sail?"

"Once common sense took over, he realized that deals are made to be broken. There is only one offer on the table… so far. What if the emperor were promised even more money to keep Richard caged up in some godforsaken German castle?"

"He'd probably pounce upon that offer like a hungry weasel," Justin said slowly, and Durand grinned.

"Exactly. John well knows that the emperor has the scruples of a pirate and the honor of … Well, let's just say that the noble Heinrich makes John and Philippe look like Heaven's own angels. He'd sell Richard in a heartbeat if the price were right."

Justin nodded grimly, thinking that this would be a bitter message to bring to his queen. At least she would be forewarned that this storm was brewing on the horizon. Shoving his ale cup aside, he rose to his feet and was faintly amused when Durand immediately did the same; he'd never known another man so keen on securing each and every advantage, no matter how small or trivial. "Is that all?"

"Is it not enough?" Durand adjusted his scabbard, making sure that the weight of his sword was well balanced, then reached for his hat. It had a broad brim, turned up in the back, a style that Justin had not seen before, and was doubtlessly the newest fashion. It always surprised Justin that a man as ruthless and predatory as Durand de Curzon could also care about the petty concerns of royal courtiers. Someday he would have to resolve the mystery of this baneful, blood-hungry wolf, surely better suited to serving the Devil than their queen.

Almost as if reading his thoughts, Durand said, with a cold smile, "Well, as one queen's man to another, are you not going to wish me luck, de Quincy?"

He deserved it, Justin knew, and likely would need it, too. "Go with God," he said, with equal coldness. "And if we are both truly lucky, this will be the last time that we need lay eyes upon each other."

Duran's smile faded. "Ah," he said, "but John will be back. You can wager the kingdom on that."