Prince of Darkness

CHAPTER 13

February 1194

GENETS, NORMANDY

Genets had many small, shabby taverns. Justin and Durand had been making the rounds after their guide refused to escort them back across the bay, seeking another local man to take the defector’s place. Until the third tavern, they’d had no luck. Again and again the tavern patrons heard them out with interest, only to balk once they were told the crossing must be made now. Again and again Justin and Durand were warned about the treacherous tides and quicksand bogs. Again and again they were reminded that high tide that night would be soon after Compline, and Compline was not that far off. Finally, they offered a sum so large that the tavern fell silent.

One of the loudest nay-sayers, a cocky youth with snapping dark eyes and a birthmark upon his cheek, stood up abruptly. “I am Baldric,” he said, “though some of these jesters call me Cain for reasons anyone with eyes can see. For what you are going to pay me, you can call me by either name.”

The other tavern regulars had chuckled at the mention of Baldric’s ironic nickname, but by the time he finished speaking, most of them were regarding him in dismay, and one of Baldric’s companions seemed to speak for them all when he asked, “What will you use the money for, cousin, the fanciest funeral Genets has ever seen?”

Baldric grinned. “No, I mean to spend it in St-Malo on Cock’s Lane!” Snatching up his cousin’s drink, he drained it dry, then swaggered over to Durand and Justin. “I want payment now, in case you do not make it to shore.”

“Payment when we reach the shore,” Durand countered coolly. “That will give you incentive to see that we do ‘make it.’”

They settled upon half now, half when they reached Mont St Michel, and before Baldric’s friends could seriously try to dissuade him, he led his new employers out into the night.

The Mont was still sharply etched against the darkening sky and seemed to have a halo of stars. The horses were edgy, sensing the mood of their riders, and Baldric had difficulty getting his mount under control. “I usually do this on foot during the day,” he admitted. “Any advice about keeping on this nag’s good side?”

“Just do not fall off,” Durand said laconically, and the young Norman laughed mirthlessly.

“Passing strange that you should say that, for I was about to warn you that we do not stop, not for anything or anyone. If one of you blunders off course into a bog, a pity, but we’ll not be riding back to your rescue. Understood?”

Justin and Durand traded smiles like unsheathed daggers. “Understood.”

Baldric was studying the clouds scudding across the sky. “At least the wind is from the north. The tide comes in faster if it’s driven by a westerly wind. Given a choice, I’d rather be crossing at least two hours before the next high tide. But we still ought to have enough time. Just follow after me, and hope that the Archangel is in a benevolent mood tonight.”

Justin was quite willing to put his fate in St Michael’s hands. He was not as sure about Baldric. They dared not wait, though. If the murderous “monk” had crossed over after learning of Arzhela’s masquerade, her chances of living to see the dawn were not good. The killer had several hours’ head start on them, and a knife still wet with the blood of Brothers Bernard and Andrev.

The wind was cold and wet and carried the scent of seaweed and salt. The muted roar of the unseen sea echoed in Justin’s ears, as rhythmic as a heartbeat. Seagulls screeched overhead, their shrill cries eerily plaintive. His stallion had an odd gait, picking up its hooves so high that it was obviously not comfortable with the footing. One of the tavern customers had told Justin that walking on the sand was like treading upon a tightly stretched drum; he very much hoped that he’d not have the opportunity to test that observation for himself. Behind him, he could hear Durand cursing. Justin kept his eyes upon the glow of Baldric’s swaying lantern, doing his best to convince himself that, as St Michael led Christian souls into the holy light, so would this Norman youth lead them to safety upon the shore.

The sound of the surging sea was louder now. Along the horizon they could see the starlit froth of whitecaps. Despite all they’d been told about the tides of St Michel, they were amazed by the speed of those encroaching waters, and it was with vast relief that they splashed onto the sands of the Mont. Baldric did not slow his pace, though, urging them off the beach and on toward the steep rocks that sheltered the village.

They soon saw why he’d been in such haste. The water was rising at an incredibly rapid rate. By the time the tide hit the isle of Tombelaine, it had merged into a single white wave. It was soon swallowing up the beaches of the Mont, a wall of water slamming against the rocks with such force that spume was flung high into the air, and for the first time, Justin and Durand fully understood why it had been so difficult to find a guide.

Morgan and Jaspaer took the reins of the horses and led them off. Neither man seemed very sober to Justin, and he could only hope that there’d be a stable groom on hand. They could spare no more time, though, for Baldric was already some distance away and beckoning to them.

“Come on,” he called, “and I’ll show you the fastest way to get up to the abbey. If you go through the village and then up and around, you’ll not get there for days! This is much quicker.”

Baldric’s shortcut was indeed that, although it also required the agility of a mountain goat. They scrambled up the slope after him, were breathing heavily by the time they reached the narthex, a vast arched porch that stretched along the west side of the abbey. “There you go,” Baldric said, with an expectant pause that lasted until Justin added some extra coins to the pile already jangling in his money pouch. “You ought to have no trouble with old Devi. He’s been the gatekeeper for the abbey since before the Great Flood, and is well nigh as ancient as God. Nine out of ten nights he forgets to latch the door, and since he sleeps like the dead, you ought to be able to sneak right past him. We outran the tides, so you seem to be on a lucky streak.”

Durand grunted and headed for the porch. Justin paused long enough to throw a “Thank you” over his shoulder. “Our men have rented lodgings in the village. You can sleep there if you like.”

“Not needed. I know a lass here who’ll be happy to share her bed with me.” Baldric had already started down the slope toward the village. “I do not know what you’re up to, and better that I do not. Good luck, though,” he said, before disappearing into the darkness.

It worked out as Baldric had predicted. The great wooden door was unlatched and they were able to creep past the elderly servant into the abbey’s portico. Conferring in whispers, they agreed that the door to their left was most likely the entrance to the almonry. Creaking the door open, they slipped inside.

They found themselves in a vaulted stone chamber filled with slumbering pilgrims. Raising their lanterns, they began to walk among the sleepers, pausing before each muffled female form. The search proved futile. None of the faces revealed by the candle flames was Arzhela’s, and the inevitable soon happened. A woman sat up, saw them, and screamed.

The hall erupted into chaos. People struggled to free themselves from their blankets, most of them talking at once. Justin did his best to calm them down, saying loudly that nothing was wrong, that there was no cause for alarm. His words went utterly unheeded. It was Durand who silenced them, shouting “Quiet!” in a voice like thunder.

They subsided, watching Durand warily as he stalked among them, mantle flaring, hand on sword hilt, a figure to intimidate anyone leery of authority. Once he’d quelled the clamor, he began to demand answers. “We are seeking a woman pilgrim, garbed like most of you, past her first youth, tall for a female and slim, with bright blue eyes, prideful, and a talker.”

His words echoed into a void. They regarded him blankly, faces shuttered and eyes veiled. He’d bullied them into submission with no difficulty, for the poor were always vulnerable to coercion of that kind. Justin could see, though, that these people would tell them nothing. Suspicion of the powerful, self-protection, a sense of solidarity with one of their own, fear: They had any number of reasons to keep silent.

“We mean this lady no harm,” Justin said, with all the conviction he could muster. “She is very dear to me and I fear for her safety.” As he’d expected, his sincerity was no more productive than Durand’s belligerence. It occurred to him that some of the Bretons might not understand French, and he tried again, this time in his slow, careful Welsh. And because he was watching their faces so intently, he saw a young girl open her mouth, then shut it quickly when the woman beside her clamped a hand on her arm.

Crossing to her, he knelt beside the child. “Do you know this lady, lass? You can do her no greater kindness than to speak up.”

The girl hesitated, But then the woman, rake-thin and careworn, hissed, “Mikaela, roit peoc’h!” Putting her arm protectively around her daughter’s shoulders, she looked defiantly up at Justin and he knew he’d get nothing from either of them.

Getting to his feet, he made one final attempt. “We will give twenty silver deniers to the person who can tell us of her whereabouts.” That was no small sum, would buy a man four chickens. But there were no takers, and when Durand swore and strode toward the door, Justin followed reluctantly.

Out in the portico, they communicated again in whispers, keeping an eye upon the sleeping gatekeeper. “We’ll have to start searching,” Justin said softly, but even as he spoke, he realized that would be an impossible undertaking. The abbey was the size of a small city, honeycombed with crypts, chapels, narrow corridors, and unlit stairwells.

Durand was gazing back at the almonry. “Wait,” he counseled, refusing to say more. Justin fidgeted at his side for what seemed like an eternity. He was about to leave Durand and begin searching on his own when the almonry door hinges squeaked. A moment later, a shadowy form emerged and headed for the circle of light cast by their lanterns.

He looked surprisingly sleek and well fed for a pilgrim, and wasted no time with preliminaries. “Three sous,” he said, “for what I know about the woman.”

That was nearly twice what Justin had offered, but he was not about to haggle. Reaching for his money pouch, he said, “Tell us.”

“And if you’re lying,” Durand warned, “I’ll come back and cut out your tongue.”

The man smiled faintly. “I’ve been threatened by a bishop, friend, so your threats scare me not. Anyway, I am not lying.” Holding out his palm for the payment, he said, “There are three people missing from the hall. The woman you seek, a poor, doomed soul, and a bothersome whelp. Your woman took the cub under her wing, God knows why, and she was hovering over the ailing man earlier in the day. My guess is that you’ll find them all up in the infirmary.”

After knocking lightly upon the infirmary door, Justin pushed it open. The scent of herbs was heavy in the air, mingling with the fetid odors of the sickroom. The infirmarian was leaning over a bed, tending to a man racked with convulsive coughing spasms. At the sound of the opening door, the monk glanced over his shoulder, barking out a brusque “What?”

“May I have a word with you, Brother?”

The infirmarian took note of Justin’s demeanor and clothing, concluded that this was not one of the poor pilgrims from the almonry, but a higher-status guest, and said, more politely, “Unless you are deathly sick, it would be best if you come back later. As you can see, this patient’s needs cannot wait.”

Justin’s eyes were roaming the infirmary, his hopes and heart plummeting when he failed to find Arzhela. “I am not ill,” he assured the monk. “I am seeking a woman who came to you earlier this eve.”

The infirmarian helped the dying man turn so that he could vomit into a small basin. “That one… she’s gone.”

“Where did she go?”

“How would I know? Make yourself useful and hand me those clean towels.”

Justin did as he was bidden. “When did she leave? Was a youth with her?”

“A while ago,” the monk muttered, so distractedly that Justin saw further interrogation was useless.

The infirmarian wiped his patient’s face, frowning at the streaks of blood in the basin. Almost as an afterthought, he said, “Why do you want this woman? Need I remind you where you are? Any man who’d sin with a wench in God’s House is courting eternal damnation.” When Justin did not answer, he glanced over his shoulder again, just in time to see the door quietly closing.

Where would she have gone, if not back to the almonry? Surely she’d not wander about with a killer on the loose!”

Durand snorted. “If you’re offering a wager, I’ll take it. I’d not put anything past that fool woman.” Fairness forced him to add grudgingly, “She did not know Brother Bernard had betrayed her, so she may have thought the danger was past.”

“And she is not alone, after all.” Justin was doing his best to sound positive and optimistic. “It seems likely the lad is still with-” He checked himself, catching a glimpse of Durand’s expression. “What? Why do you look so sour?”

“It just seems very convenient for this stripling to turn up with Arzhela at the almonry. We know nothing about him, do we? How do we know the killer does not have a partner?”

Justin stared at him. “Thank you for that comforting thought,” he said at last. “We’re accomplishing nothing standing here, arguing. Since she did not go back down to the almonry, she must have gone that way.”

With Durand on his heels, he opened the door. His lantern’s flame illuminated a small chamber, stark and simple, with an exposed timber beam ceiling and sparse furnishings: an altar, a long trestle table, several coffers, and, under an archway, a large stone bath.

“Bloody Hell,” Durand muttered. “This is where they prepare their dead for burial.”

Justin agreed with him, and since Arzhela was clearly not there, he continued on into the adjoining building, a central nave flanked by smaller bays on each side. Bitterly cold and austere, it looked sepulchral in the blanched moonlight filtering through the high windows of the nave. The men knew at once what it was-the abbey cemetery and charnel house. Here the monks would be buried until the cemetery was too full for any more graves, and then their bones would be dug up and stored in the charnel house. Some ossuaries were constructed to display skulls and skeletons as a reminder to all of man’s mortality. The charnel house at Mont St Michel was partially walled up, much to their relief. They were not squeamish about death, but the sight of bleached human bones would have been ominous under the circumstances. Justin spoke for them both when he said, “Let’s get out of here.”

The corridor led them past the huge stone cistern, on into another chapel. By now they’d figured out where they were, agreeing that this must be the crypt of St Martin. Their guess was confirmed when they discovered they could go no farther, for St Martin’s chapel was not within the monks’ enclosure. Here, wealthy benefactors of the abbey would have the honor of being buried under the protection and sanctity of the holy relics preserved above them in the south transept of the church. This beautiful stone sanctuary did not have the same oppressive atmosphere as the funeral chapel and the charnel house, but Durand and Justin did not linger, hastily retracing their steps.

When they’d gotten back to the funeral chapel, they paused to plan their next move. “Damned if I know where she’s gone,” Durand confessed. “I do not see how she could have gotten entry into the abbey enclosure. Laypeople are not welcome in the cloistered areas, and the mere sight of a woman in their sanctum would have sent the monks into a frenzy of horror. I suppose this is neither the time nor the place to discuss the madness that drives a man to renounce the pleasures of the female flesh…”

His shrug said it all, as did the bemused shake of his head. “I admit I am confounded, de Quincy. All I can think to do is go back to the almonry, see if we can scare some of those good folk into being more forthright.”

Justin had no intention of letting Durand terrorize the pilgrims, but he was at a loss, too. “Mayhap we ought to start looking for-” He stopped, seized with a superstitious belief that to say it would make it so.

Durand read his thoughts easily enough, for they were his, too. Where was the best place to dispose of a body? The cistern? What of the charnel house? There would be a diabolic brilliance in that, hiding a murder victim under a mound of bones.

They descended into the stairwell in silence, their spurs striking sparks on the steps. How many thousands of pilgrims must have passed this way, their feet gradually wearing deep grooves in the stones. Arzhela herself had climbed these stairs; Justin was sure of it. So where had she gone? He stopped so abruptly that Durand bumped into him.

“I think I know where she is,” he said, cutting off Durand’s complaint in mid-sentence. “We went down a great flight of stairs, then up another to reach the infirmary.”

“I was there, de Quincy. I remember. What of it?”

“We were sure we’d find her abovestairs in the infirmary, so we passed it by. The chapel of Notre-Dame-sous-Terre-the holiest part of the abbey. It makes sense, does it not?”

It made enough sense to Durand that he was annoyed he had not thought of it himself. Women were partial to the Blessed Mary, all knew that. Besides, where else could she have gone? They reached the bottom of the stairs at the same time, elbowing each other for space in the narrow corridor. But they halted at the foot of the great gallery steps, their eyes drawn to the door on their right, standing slightly ajar. Now that the moment of truth was upon them, they hesitated.

The ancient chapel of Notre-Dame-sous-Terre was the very heart of the abbey. Although it had long since been replaced by the church above it, one of its two naves had been preserved. Their lantern light fell upon brick arches that had been old when Norse raiders were still plundering the Breton coast. Its original windows had been blocked up and shadows held sway, filling every corner, every cranny with the opaque darkness that knew neither sun nor stars.

Justin’s disappointment was bitter beyond wormwood and gall. Too disheartened to speak, he stopped in the doorway, leaving it to Durand to voice the obvious. “She’d not venture into a cave like this. Not even Arzhela is that crazed.”

He turned away and Justin slowly started to follow. But he’d taken only a step or two before a memory flickered. He stood very still, scarcely breathing until the image crystallized. When they’d passed the chapel on their way to the infirmary, there had been a glimmer of light coming from that open door. Raising his lantern, he scanned the wall until he located an alcove. It held an oil lamp. The wick was unlit, but when he reached out, it was warm to the touch.

“Lady Arzhela?” His words went unanswered, echoes on the wind. Moving deeper into the chapel, he felt an impending sense of dread with every step he took. “Lady Arzhela?”

He found her in a small sanctuary in the eastern end of the chapel, crumpled behind the stone altar. A thick tallow candle lay on the ground near her feet; he almost tripped over it. She was lying on her side, one arm outstretched. Her pilgrim hat had been knocked off and her veil was askew, revealing several reddish-blonde strands. Until then he’d not known the color of her hair. He was close enough now to see the darkening stain across her breast, almost black against the russet of her robe.

“Christ on the Cross.” The voice was Durand’s. Justin himself said nothing, for his throat had closed up too tight for speech. He knew it made no sense to grieve so for a woman he’d known this briefly. But his sorrow was like a physical pain, as sharp-edged as the knife that had stabbed her. He’d not realized until now, looking down at her body, just how much he’d liked Arzhela de Dinan.

Kneeling beside her, he said huskily, “By this holy water and by His most tender Mercy, may the Lord forgive thee whatever thou hast sinned.” That was all he knew of the sacrament of Extreme Unction. It was a meaningless gesture, anyway, for only a priest could absolve her of her sins. And then he caught his breath, for her lashes flickered and her eyes opened.

The blue of the sea was gone, drowned in blackness, for her pupils were dilated with the shadow of approaching death. She seemed to recognize him, though, for her lips parted and she gasped out one word. Her voice was as weak as a dying candle, and he leaned forward to be sure he’d heard her correctly. For a heartbeat, he felt her breath against his ear as her lips moved again. But when he looked into her face, the light was already fading from her eyes.

“Does she live?”

He swallowed, then shook his head. “No.” The other man said nothing, but after a moment, he made the sign of the Cross. Justin continued to hold Arzhela in his arms, reluctant to let her down onto the cold stone floor. It was then that he saw it-a wet smear upon the tiles. He stared at the limp hand, the fingers stained with red. Had she tried to write her murderer’s name in her own blood as her life bled away?

“Holy Mother of God!”

They whirled toward the sound. The infirmarian, flanked by two younger monks, was standing in the doorway of the chapel, staring at them in horror.