Prince of Darkness

CHAPTER 16

February 1194

FOUGERES CASTLE, BRITTANY

When the trapdoor opened, Justin and Durand did not move, instinctively keeping very still. Justin now knew how a rabbit felt, frozen in fear as a predator approached. The light spilling into their black hole was painfully bright, forcing them to avert their eyes. A bucket was being lowered down to them; when it hit the ground, they heard a wonderful sound, the splash of liquid. A moment later, something else came through the opening, landing with a small thump, and then the trapdoor slammed shut again.

Time was impossible to track in a void. By Justin’s best guess, they’d been in the dungeon for at least twelve hours. As thirsty as he’d ever been in his life, he dived for the bucket, and he and Durand took turns drinking their fill. Only then did he try to discover the reason for that other thud, fumbling around in the dark until he found the prize-a loaf of bread. It was stale, so hard it was difficult to break into halves, the gritty rye that was contemptuously known as “alms bread.” It was delicious.

“At least they are feeding us,” Justin ventured. “So they must want to keep us alive.”

“For now,” Durand mumbled, stuffing another chunk of bread into his mouth.

“You might want to slow down,” Justin cautioned. “We do not know when we’ll get another loaf.”

“I’m not going to hoard my bread like a starveling mouse.” After another silence without beginning or end, Durand said, “I’ve been thinking about it, and I realized I’m likely to outlive you, de Quincy. You’re younger but I’m tougher. So, the way I figure it, if worst comes to worst, I can always gain myself some time by gnawing on your dead body.”

“Mother of God!”

“Well, I’m willing to be fair about it. If perchance I do die first, you have my permission-nay, my blessing-to feast on my flesh.”

“Thank you, Durand, for that remarkable generosity. But I think I’d rather make do with one of the rats we hear scuttling around in the shadows.” Justin gave a shaken, incredulous laugh. “Jesu, listen to us! How can we jest about something like that?”

“How can we not?” Durand asked succinctly, and after that they lapsed into silence again, listening to the muffled roar of the river-moat, the occasional scraping of rodent feet, and the loudest sound of all, the pounding of their own heartbeats.

Justin tried to count the days by keeping track of the number of times the trapdoor opened and they were given food and water. But he soon realized the flaws in that system. He had no way of knowing if this was done on a daily basis. Even more troubling, he discovered that his always-reliable memory was suddenly fitful, erratic. Had they been there for six days? Or was it five?

They passed the time by discussing Arzhela’s murder and the forged letter, although their conclusions, speculations, and suspicions would remain immured with them. Justin confided what Arzhela had whispered in his ear with her dying breath, a single word-Roparzh. It might be a Breton name, he suggested, but he did not know enough of the language to be sure of that, and Durand was quick to point out that it could as easily have been a Breton prayer or even a curse. Unable to decipher the word’s meaning, they moved on to those facts that were not in dispute.

They were in agreement that Arzhela had died because she’d learned too much. They also agreed that it was unlikely her murder was part of the conspiracy. Constance might well wink at the authenticity of the letter implicating John. Neither man could see her agreeing to the killing of her own cousin. It was logical, then, to assume they were dealing with two crimes: forgery and murder. Since Simon de Lusignan was their favorite suspect in Arzhela’s slaying, it seemed plausible that he was behind the forgery, too.

“Let’s suppose, then,” Justin said pensively, “that Simon came to the duchess with the letter. Or that he offered to ‘obtain’ it for a fee. Say that Arzhela found out the letter was a forgery. Would he have killed her for that?”

“He might,” Durand mused, “if he’d convinced Constance and her barons that the letter was genuine.”

The more Justin thought about that, the more tenable it seemed. The duchess might well have been furious to find she’d been cheated, tricked by a forgery that John could prove to be false. “Arzhela let us think that she had learned of the letter from Constance. It seems more likely that she learned of it in bed, Simon de Lusignan’s bed.”

“And then she tried to have it both ways, God love her.” Durand laughed harshly. “She warned her old lover whilst trying to shield her current lover. If she’d been honest with us from the first, she’d still be alive. Fool woman.”

“She made an error in judgment,” Justin conceded. “But she does not deserve to be blamed for her own murder.”

“I forgot-you had a fondness for the lady. You might have had a chance with her, too. After all, you’re even younger than de Lusignan!”

“Let it lie, Durand,” Justin said, almost absently, for he’d resolved early on to shrug off the other man’s sarcasms; it was either that or kill him. And although he knew Durand would never admit it, he’d not been as unaffected by Arzhela’s death as he claimed.

“Well, we solved John’s mystery.” Durand helped himself to another piece of bread. “We discovered the identity of the mastermind behind the plot. Of course he’ll never know that. But as we go to our graves, we’ll have the satisfaction of knowing we did not fail him. Will that give you much comfort, de Quincy?”

“About as much as it gives you.” Justin broke off a small crust, chewed it slowly. “God damn de Lusignan! How could we let him outwit us again and again? What did you call him-Arzhela’s ‘stud’?”

“Blaming me, are you? What a surprise.”

“I am not blaming you, Durand. I misjudged the man, too. He seemed to be such a hothead, not capable of cold-blooded calculation like this.”

“A truly cunning wolf would pretend to be a sheepdog, at least until it was in the midst of the flock.” Durand slumped back against the icy, wet wall. “And from the bottom of this oubliette, he’s looking like a very cunning wolf, indeed.”

As Justin’s view was from the bottom of the oubliette, too, he was not inclined to argue, and so he let Durand have the last word. They stopped talking after that, each man alone with thoughts as bleak and bitter as their underground prison.

Justin moaned, turning his head from side to side. Durand crouched over him, his fingers knotting in the cloth of the younger man’s tunic. “Wake up!” he said sharply. “De Quincy, wake up!” Justin jerked upright, staring around him with glazed, unfocused eyes, and Durand loosened his hold, settled back on his haunches. “You were having a bad dream, man, no more than that.”

“I am living a bad dream,” Justin muttered. He did not remember the details of his dream, but his pulse was racing, his temples were damp with sweat, and his chest felt constricted with the weight of his dread. His waking hours were hurtful enough without dragging demons into his sleep, too.

“You were yelling like a man about to get gutted with a dull knife,” Durand shared, telling Justin more than he cared to know about his nightmare. “By the way, who is Aline?”

Justin’s breath stopped as memory of the nightmare came flooding back: He was trapped here in the dungeon, only now he was manacled to the wall, too. The trapdoor opened slowly and he saw a faceless figure laughing down at him. This unknown enemy was holding a small bundle. When he dangled the object above the opening, Justin realized it was his daughter; it was Aline. He lunged to the end of his chains, shouting. But it was too late. The man dropped her and she came plummeting down into the abyss, into the never ending dark.

“Christ Almighty…” he whispered, closing his eyes to blot out the terrifying vision.

“Well?” Durand prodded. “Who is Aline? Some peasant girl you ploughed and cropped? A fancy whore? A Southwark slut? Or did I mishear and you were really calling out for Claudine?”

“Rot in Hell!” Justin snarled, with such fury that Durand stared at him in surprise, seeking in vain to penetrate those cloaking shadows.

“I hit a sore spot, did I? I just thought you’d like to talk about your women for a while. I’ve already unburdened my conscience, told you about Barbe, my first, and Cristina, the mercer’s wife, and Adela, the runaway nun.”

“Do not forget Jacquetta and Richenda and Rosamund Clifford and Maid Marian and the Queen of Jerusalem,” Justin said caustically.

Once the initial shock of confinement had worn off, their role reversal had ended. Justin had retreated into the sanctuary of his silences while Durand launched sardonic monologues about John’s multitude of vices, old enemies who’d met unfortunate ends, and women he’d lain with. He either had a vivid imagination or more bedmates than any man since Adam, for to hear him tell it, he could not even cross the street without being accosted by a lustful wanton. He described some of these encounters in such loving detail that Justin began to regret having refused Claudine’s overtures, and he’d had a few feverish dreams about Molly.

“You sound downright jealous, de Quincy. Is it my fault that I’ve had more women in a fortnight than you have in your entire, pitiful life?”

“And how many of them did you pay for, Durand?” Justin stood up, moving away until he reached the wall. “Tell me this,” he said. “Is there anyone who’ll mourn you? Anyone at all?”

Durand was quiet for so long that Justin began to think he’d hit a sore spot, too. “There might be one,” he said at last. “Violette.”

“Who is she?”

“It is a long story, de Quincy.”

“I am not going anywhere, am I?”

“No, I suppose you’re not.” Durand rose, groped his way to the water bucket, where he stooped and drank. “This is the tale of a younger son, a father who loathed him, and an older half brother-a brother who did his utmost to make the lad’s life Hell on earth.”

Justin’s curiosity was stirred in spite of himself. “Why did they despise him?”

“The brother hated him because their father had put his first wife aside for the lad’s mother. The father hated him because his alluring young wife died in childbirth, leaving him with an unwanted, spare son, his mother’s murderer.”

“So what happened to him?”

“What do you think happened? The lad grew up nursing his bruises and blackened eyes and grudges of his own. You might say he bided his time. And then Elder Brother took a bride.”

“Violette?”

“Yes, Violette. Seventeen years old, sweet as a ripe strawberry, with skin like milk and three fat manors as her marriage portion.”

Justin waited, and then prompted, “Well?”

“Well what? Ah, you want to know about the lad and little Violette. He seduced her. Rather easily, too, or so I’ve been told.”

“So what are you saying, Durand? That you were the younger brother?”

“Not necessarily. How do you know I was not the elder brother? Or an interested neighbor, watching from afar. Or Violette’s kinsman. Nothing is as it seems, de Quincy, nothing.”

“That will make a fine epitaph for our gravestones,” Justin said darkly, vexed with himself for walking right into one of Durand’s webs, and this time the last word was to be his.

In the days that followed, Durand offered up other versions of his past. In one, he was estranged from his family because he’d balked at taking holy vows like a dutiful younger son. In another, he boasted of having lived as an outlaw. Once he even claimed to be a bastard son of the old king, Henry, and thus a half brother to John and Richard. But he never spoke of how he had entered the service of the queen.

Justin had given up trying to keep track of their days in confinement; what was the point? He had no way of even knowing when it was day and when it was night, and for some reason, that bothered him greatly. Sleep was becoming the enemy now, too. When it came at all, it brought troubled dreams. He’d lie awake for hours, listening to Durand’s cough, wondering how long they could survive under these conditions, wondering how long ere they went mad.

“Have you heard of St-Malo, de Quincy?”

It still startled him, the sudden sound of a human voice echoing from the surrounding dark. “Yes, it is a Breton port and an infamous pirate’s den. Why?”

“Did I ever tell you about a kinsman of mine, a notorious sea wolf?”

“So now you are a pirate’s whelp? You must think that the damp down here is rotting my brain, Durand. You do not speak a word of Breton.”

“Do you ever look before you leap? I did not say the pirate was my sire, nor did I say we lived in St-Malo. As it happens, he was my uncle and it was another well-known pirate’s nest-Granville in Normandy.”

Sometimes Justin welcomed Durand’s flights of fancy. They were usually more entertaining than the other pastimes available to them: fending off the bolder of the dungeon’s rats, cursing John and Simon de Lusignan and the Bretons, trying not to freeze to death. But on this day-or night-Justin’s head was throbbing, his stomach so hollow that it hurt, and his gorge threatened to rise with every breath of this foul, tainted air.

“Spare me another one of your fables, Durand,” he said morosely, and the other man laughed mockingly, an effect spoiled somewhat when it ended in a coughing fit.

“Fair enough, de Quincy. Let’s hear from you, then. You are so closemouthed about your past that naturally I suspect the worst. But since we’re both going to die, why take your secrets and your sins with you to the grave? Think of this as the confessional with me as your priest.”

“I’d rather not.”

“Aha!” Durand exclaimed, managing to sound both triumphant and accusing. “Do you know why you’re clinging to your wretched little secrets? Because you have not abandoned all hope! Admit it, de Quincy, you still believe that the Almighty is going to work a miracle on your behalf and free you with a celestial thunderbolt. You poor fool!”

Justin actually felt a twinge of shame, as if hope was one of the Seven Deadly Sins. Mayhap for prisoners, it was. But he knew that he could never surrender unconditionally, not until he drew his last mortal breath. He owed that much to Aline, even if she’d never know it.

Durand heard it first, the creaking of wood. That was the most important sound in their world, for it meant the trapdoor was opening. But they’d already gotten their water and bread a few hours ago, and it was only yesterday that a guard had descended into the dungeon to empty the slop bucket. This break with routine was ominous, alarming, and they watched tensely as a sliver of light spread across the ceiling, spilling into the dark.

The trapdoor opening was a blaze of brightness. Above them, a man knelt, peering over the edge. “Justin? Durand? Are you down there?”

Justin’s first fear was that his wits were wandering. But Durand’s audible gasp indicated that he’d heard it, too. “Yes, we’re here!”

With a loud thud, a wooden ladder was dropped into the dungeon. Moments later, a man was scrambling down, nimbly using one hand for the rungs, the other holding a swaying lantern. Landing with a solid thump, he turned toward them with a grin as dazzling as an Easter sunrise, and that square, freckled face was one of the most beautiful sights Justin had ever seen.

“Morgan!”

“Aye, it’s me!” Beaming, he raised the lantern, whistling softly at what its light revealed. “No offense, lads, but your own mothers would shrink from the likes of you! Can you climb the ladder without help? We can haul you up if need be-”

He got no further, for Durand was already halfway up the ladder, with Justin close behind. Morgan glanced around at the encroaching fetid blackness and hastily headed for the ladder, too.

Justin had no idea what to expect when he clambered up into the storeroom under the great hall. He knew only that it could not be worse than where he’d been. A man was holding out his hand and Justin grabbed for it. As he regained his footing, he was assailed by a fragrance that seemed intoxicatingly sweet after the stench of the oubliette, and then a soft female body was in his arms, her breath warm against his throat.

Almost at once, Claudine recoiled, clasping her hand to her mouth. “Justin, thank God!” she cried, though she made no further attempts to embrace him, edging away as unobtrusively as possible. “I’d despaired of ever seeing you again,” she confided. “But oh, my love, you do need a bath!”

“What are you doing here, Claudine?” Durand sounded as baffled as Justin felt. “What is happening, Morgan? No, tell us later. Let’s just get out of here!”

“There is no hurry,” Morgan said cheerfully. “Our men hold the castle.”

Blinking like barn owls even in the subdued light of the storeroom, Justin and Durand exchanged glances, the only two rational souls in a world of lunatics. “What men?” Justin demanded. “Whose men?”

“I’ll let him tell you that.” Morgan raised his lantern, pointing toward the corner stairwell. “He is awaiting you abovestairs in the great hall.”

As impatient as they were to get answers, Justin and Durand mounted the stairs at a measured pace, uneasy about what they might find. They could think of only one man who might have ridden to their rescue, and neither of them could imagine circumstances under which John had gotten control of Fougeres Castle. Even if he’d been willing or able to raise an army on their behalf, Paris was almost two hundred miles away. None of this made any sense.

The last time they’d been in the great hall, it had been a scene of torch-lit tragedy. Now it looked peaceful and welcoming. Men-at-arms were seated at trestle tables, drinking and eating. A fire burned in the hearth, giving off bursts of blessed heat, hot enough to banish even the harsh, piercing cold of a subterranean dungeon. Two high-backed chairs had been positioned close to those dancing flames, where a man and woman were making conversation between sips of wine.

“Master de Quincy. Sir Durand.” The Lady Emma’s smile was coolly complacent; she was almost purring. But the men barely glanced at her, their gaze riveted upon the man beside her. He was quite young, not much older than Justin, dark complexioned and of small stature, well dressed but somewhat untidy in appearance, wearing his clothes as he did his command, with the nonchalance of one who wielded so much power he could afford to take it for granted. “There is no need for introductions,” Emma said archly, “for you know His Grace, the Earl of Chester… and husband to the Duchess Constance, the Duke of Brittany.”

Both men sank to their knees, looking so stunned that Emma, Claudine, and Morgan burst out laughing, and even Chester smiled faintly. “I am sure you have questions,” he said amiably. “But they can wait. The Lady Emma, a woman of great practicality, has ordered baths for you in the kitchen, so you can eat whilst you soak off some of that grime. Afterward, we’ll talk.”

They did as he bade, as he expected they would. Following Morgan from the hall, Justin halted in the doorway, glancing back over his shoulder at his unlikely saviour. “My lord earl… How long were we imprisoned?”

Chester conferred briefly with Emma. “I’m told,” he said, “that it was twelve days.”

Two wooden tubs had been dragged close to the huge kitchen hearth and filled with hot water. They were soon so dirty that they had to be refilled. Justin had never enjoyed a bath so much and when he glanced over at Durand, he saw the same blissful expression on his face. It was hard to believe that less than an hour ago, they had been entombed alive, even harder to believe that their lifetime of imprisonment had numbered only twelve days on the Church calendar.

“You want more?” Morgan was leaning over the bathing tub with a platter of roasted chicken. He grinned as Justin snatched another drumstick. “You’ve probably lost track of time, so you do not realize how lucky you are. If you’d been freed one day later, you’d have had to make do with fish. The morrow is the start of Lent.”

Now that he was warm and clean and fed, Justin could concentrate upon his next urgent need: his desire for answers. Unable to wait for the Earl of Chester’s explanation, he sat up with a splash and smiled at Morgan. “Take pity on us, man, and tell us how this came about!”

Morgan was happy to oblige. “We were watching as they rode off with you, and it was easy enough to learn you were being taken to Fougeres Castle. When we heard that Rufus and Crispin were under arrest, too, Jaspaer decided that there was a ‘time to fish and a time to cut bait,’ as he put it. He said he’d have no trouble finding a lord wanting to hire his sword, and we parted company at Pontorson, with him heading into Normandy and me riding for Laval. I pushed my horse and got there by dusk on Friday, so you owe me for a fine crop of saddle blisters and sores!”

“I owe you for a lot more than that, my friend,” Justin declared, overcome with gratitude as he realized what a narrow escape they’d had. If Morgan had not proved more loyal than Jaspaer, they’d never have been freed. No one would even have known of their plight.

“When I told the Ladies Claudine and Emma what had happened, Lady Claudine was sorely distressed and insisted upon seeking aid from Lord John. The Lady Emma agreed to let her son send a man to Paris, but she said it would do no good. After thinking about it for another day, she announced that there was only one man who might be able to help, and she ordered me to ride for the Earl of Chester’s castle at St James de Beuvron. She said all knew he and the Duchess Constance had no fondness for each other, but he was still her lawful husband, still Duke of Brittany and that had to count for something. The fact that he was on this side of the Channel and not back in Cheshire, well, that most likely played a part in her thinking, too. St James de Beuvron is a lot closer than Paris!”

“Emma’s been accused of many things,” Durand observed, “but no one has ever called her a fool. There’ll be no living with her after this, de Quincy. Not only was it a clever idea, but she actually coaxed Chester into agreeing to it!”

That amazed Justin, too. He did not know the Earl of Chester that well. They’d worked together that past summer to recover the portion of King Richard’s ransom that had gone missing in Wales, and he’d been favorably impressed by the man. But he’d never have expected Chester to be the one to throw him a lifeline. He was about to ask Morgan to tell them more when the kitchen doors swung open and the earl himself strolled in.

“The Lady Emma insisted that every stitch you were wearing be burned, but she is sending in some garments for you to wear, courtesy of the lord of the manor. Raoul is providing you with swords, too, even if he does not know it yet. But he can well afford it.”

Justin was unable to restrain his curiosity any longer. “Where is Lord Raoul, my lord earl?”

“Fortunately for you, Constance wanted to give her cousin a noble funeral. She and Raoul and the rest of her court are at Mont St Michel, burying the Lady Arzhela. That gave me the opportunity I needed. I knew the garrison would not dare deny me entry in my wife’s absence. If any of them harbored suspicions, the presence of the Lady Emma and the Lady Claudine assuaged them, and we were made welcome. Once my men were admitted, it was easy enough to overcome the garrison and take control. We’ll free them when we leave, and if Raoul de Fougeres or my lady wife have any complaints, they can take them up with me.”

Justin was regarding Chester with something approaching awe. “You make it sound so simple, my lord earl. I shall never forget what you have done here this day. I doubt that I can ever repay you, but it will be an honor to try.”

Chester nodded graciously, then glanced over at Durand, so pointedly that Durand hastily expressed his own thanks. “De Quincy is too polite to ask,” he continued audaciously, “but I am not. Why did you agree to help us, my lord?”

The earl could easily have taken offense. But Durand’s luck held, for Chester prided himself on his own forthrightness and was confident enough to appreciate it in others. “Just as the ingredients in a rissole vary according to the tastes of the cook, so did our little alliance contain its share of differing motives. The lovely Lady Claudine seems to fancy Justin. The Lady Emma appears to be trying to curry favor with the queen. As for your man Morgan, you’ll have to let him speak for himself; I have no idea what is motivating him. But for myself, I’ve come to respect Justin de Quincy. He proved his worth in Wales last summer, is too good a man to rot in a Breton gaol.”

“Thank you, my lord,” Justin said, startled. Durand’s smile was more skeptical.

“It could not hurt, either,” he said cynically, “to do a good deed for the man who might be England’s next king.”

“Durand, can you never control that loose tongue of yours?” Justin growled, but the Earl of Chester looked wryly amused.

“He is right, de Quincy. Unless King Richard sires a son, it is inevitable that men will look to John as his heir. I know you to be the queen’s man, body and soul. You’d never act against her interests. So if you are involved in this, it can only be because the queen wants it so-reason enough for me to offer my assistance.”

Chester helped himself to a portion of roast chicken. “Are you two up to riding? It would probably be wiser to return to my castle at St James rather than tarry the night here. I doubt that Lord Raoul will be pleased by my abuse of his hospitality. Nor will my lady wife,” he added, with a sudden, malicious grin that revealed he had another motive for interceding. He could not resist this God-given chance to make mischief for Constance.