Prince of Darkness

CHAPTER 22

March 1194

PARIS, FRANCE

Morgan was drowning. His lungs were laboring, and he could not shake off the ghostly fingers clutching at him from the depths, dragging him down. He kept fighting, though, lunging toward the light, and at last he broke the surface, gulping in air sweeter than wine.

“You are safe now,” a female voice murmured soothingly. “It was a bad dream, no more than that.”

The chamber was lit by oil lamps, but they seemed to burn with unnatural brightness to Morgan, and he did his best to filter the glare through his lashes. The woman smiling at him was very pretty, but not familiar, not at first. She brought a cup to his lips, held it steady as he drank, and his memory unclouded, identifying her as Ivetta, Lady Emma’s borrowed maid.

“About time you decided to rejoin the living.” This was a male voice, belonging to a youth in a nearby bed. Propped up by pillows, he was smiling at Morgan affably. “I’ve been lonely with no one to talk to.”

“No one to talk to, indeed,” Ivetta said tartly. “My lady says no work is getting done because half the women in the household keep coming in to see if you are in need of drink or food or comfort, Master Simon.”

“But you’re the one I yearn to see, Mistress Ivetta,” Simon insisted, and she tossed her head, partially placated, and said she’d let the others know that Morgan was awake.

As she departed, Morgan struggled to sit upright, alarmed that he felt so weak. He still was not sure where he was, although he guessed it was the Lady Petronilla’s residence. But he had no idea who his cheerful chambermate was, nor did he know why he was bedridden. “What happened to me?” he asked, and even his voice sounded odd to his ears, hoarse and raspy.

“You do not remember? I can only tell you what I’ve heard from Ivetta and the others; Lord love them, but women do like to gossip! They say you’re the hero of the hour, that you saved John from a hired killer’s dagger. I’d think a skirmish in a cemetery would not be easy to forget!”

Morgan’s memories were still blurred and too slippery to handle. “I do remember a graveyard,” he said uncertainly. “At least I think I do.” In truth, though, the memory that was most vivid, disturbingly so, was his dream of drowning. His head was aching and he lay back against his pillow. “Do I know you?”

“Well, we’ve never been introduced, but you know of me, for certes. I am Simon de Lusignan.” Simon watched mischievously as Morgan processed that information, as his face registered first puzzlement and then realization and then horror. “Ah,” he said complacently, “I see your memory has come back.”

Morgan’s bed was surrounded by well-wishers, beaming at him with such heartfelt pleasure in his recovery that he was both touched and taken aback. “I was not going to die,” he protested, “not with money owed me from that last game of raffle.”

That evoked laughter, and Crispin blushed, mumbling that he’d settle up as soon as he got paid. A tray of hot soup had been placed on the table by the bed, and Claudine coaxed Morgan into swallowing a few spoonfuls, ignoring Simon’s plaintive plea that he was hungry, too. Morgan still did not understand why he was sharing a bedchamber with the chief suspect in the Lady Arzhela’s murder. He’d been told that Simon was on their side now, but there was so much to absorb that not all of it had sunk in yet.

Justin was teasing him about his graveyard gallantry, wanting to know why he hadn’t single-handedly broken them out of that Fougeres dungeon, when the door opened and John strode in. “I am glad,” he said, “to have the chance to thank you at long last.”

“There is no need for thanks, my lord.” Morgan returned John’s smile, but he did not seem comfortable and Justin noticed, for he usually gave the impression of being utterly at home in his own skin.

“Yes,” John said, “there is. Consider it a matter of courtesy if nothing else, but my lord father always said it was just good manners to thank a man for saving one’s life. I admit I am curious, though, about your presence in the cemetery. What made you follow me?”

That was the question they all wanted to ask and the room fell silent as they waited for Morgan’s reply. His lashes swept down, veiling those smoky grey eyes. “The truth is…” He seemed to sigh, and then said softly, “I do not know, my lord. That night is a muddle for me, my memories drifting in and out. I remember the cemetery. I do not remember the fight or being hurt and… and I do not remember why I was there. I… I suppose I feared you were walking into a trap, but why…” He shrugged helplessly.

John’s eyes narrowed. “Well, you might remember more later. Now you’d best get some rest.” He smiled, but as he moved toward the door, his eyes caught Justin’s. Leaving Morgan to be coddled by the women, Justin followed the queen’s son from the chamber. As he expected, John was awaiting him in the stairwell.

“I cannot interrogate a man on his sickbed, but I do not believe a word of that blather about his failing memory.”

Neither did Justin, but loyalty to Morgan kept him quiet. John did not even notice. “I wish I could say his motive for coming to my aid did not matter. But it does, de Quincy, as we both well know. Find out what he is hiding.”

Justin opened his mouth to object, but John was already turning away.

Justin had ridden out to the Pre aux Clercs, the open field west of the city walls where Parisians gathered to play games of camp-ball and bandy-ball, to watch tourneys and impromptu horse races. On this sun-blest afternoon, it was crowded with truant students, for Paris was becoming celebrated for its schools at Notre-Dame and Sainte-Genevieve and St-Victor, and the mild weather had lured large numbers from their classes. Justin was playing truant, too. He had no intention of spying on Morgan for John, and he needed time to himself, time to decide what he should do next.

Now that King Richard and the queen were back in England, he felt he had a duty to return, too. But he was reluctant to leave until he was sure Morgan was truly on the mend. And his desire to catch the Breton still burned with a white-hot flame. He’d failed to save Arzhela. He did not want to fail her again. At the least, she deserved justice.

The noisy crowd at Pre aux Clercs put him in mind of London’s Smithfield, where he’d entrapped Gilbert the Fleming, and he could not help studying the faces of the men jostling around him, hunting for the Breton. It was an exercise in futility, of course. They’d had no luck in their search of the city, even though John had been lavish with his offers of bribes and bounties. Arzhela’s killer seemed to have disappeared from the face of the earth.

After watching a rousing game of camp-ball, Justin reluctantly remounted and headed his horse back into the city, stopping to buy a whipping top for Yann from a street vendor. When he rode into the courtyard of the Lady Petronilla’s residence, he found it crowded with men and horses. Some had dismounted and were lounging on the steps and mounting blocks; the rest were still in the saddle, passing around wineskins. Justin did not like the looks of them, and he pushed past them into the house with a sense of foreboding.

The great hall was unnaturally still. People were standing around awkwardly, most of them watching Durand, who was stalking back and forth, scattering floor rushes with every angry stride. Garnier was closest to the door, and at the sight of Justin, he edged over.

“What is amiss?”

“Lupescar. He is up in the solar with Lord John.”

Justin immediately understood why there were no women in the hall, not even scullery maids. “Did he quarrel with Durand?” he asked quietly, and the young knight nodded.

“There is bad blood between them, and I thought it was about to flow in earnest. I’m glad you’re here to help me keep the peace. We would ill repay Lady Petronilla’s hospitality by turning her hall into a battlefield.”

By now Justin was accustomed to being dragged into other people’s problems. “I’ll see if I can get Durand out of here,” he agreed, and crossed the hall. “Garnier says Lupescar is abovestairs. Was John expecting him?”

“How would I know?” Durand said curtly, and then, “No, I think not. He said nothing to me about-” He stopped abruptly, and then Justin heard it too, the jangle of spurs in the stairwell.

When Lupescar emerged, Justin moved swiftly to intercept him, hoping to deflect another confrontation with Durand. Lupescar paused, recognition flickering across his face. “Ah, the lost lamb, is it not?”

“The lamb and the wolf. That sounds like an ancient Roman fable. I am surprised to see you back in Paris. I’d have thought life would be more to your liking out in the Norman-Breton border-lands.”

“Less law, you mean?” Lupescar sounded faintly amused. “You may tell your friend Durand that he has gotten a reprieve, for we’ll not be working together, after all. Lord John has no need of me now.”

“You do not sound very disappointed by that.”

“I care not who hires me as long as his coin is good. I’ll not be lacking for work.”

“No, I do not suppose you will,” Justin admitted grudgingly. Glancing over, he saw Garnier at Durand’s side, talking with considerable animation, a restraining hand on the other knight’s arm. Justin took several steps toward the door, attempting to shepherd Lupescar in that direction, a maneuver that did not escape the Wolf’s notice.

“I am not going to mend Durand’s bad manners, tempting as that may be. I am not one for burning bridges if it can be avoided, and your lord is likely to need my services again,” Lupescar said, still sounding amused.

Justin found his amusement more chilling than another man’s enmity. He’d met few who took genuine pleasure in killing, but he did not doubt that Lupescar was one of them. By now they’d almost reached the door, and he looked over his shoulder, reassured to see Garnier still claiming Durand’s attention. “I suppose you’ll be leaving Paris, then,” he said to Lupescar. “Godspeed.”

Lupescar paused in the doorway, giving him a supercilious smile. “You truly do not see, do you? France is going to be for men like me what the Holy Land is for pilgrims. War is coming, as inevitable as spring and as full of promise.”

“What do you mean?”

“Have you not heard that the English king has been set free? The highborn are not noted for paying their debts, but Richard always pays his blood debts, always. And by his reckoning, he owes the king of the French a blood debt. It may be true that vengeance is a dish best eaten cold, but Richard has never been one for waiting. I’ll wager that he will soon descend upon France like the Wrath of God Almighty.”

He sounded so pleased by that prospect that Justin’s fingers twitched with the urge to make the sign of the Cross, an instinctive impulse to ward off evil. Watching as Lupescar sauntered down the steps toward his waiting men, Justin found himself thinking that this godless man could have ridden with the Horsemen of the Apocalypse. “‘And I saw and behold, a pale horse, and his name that sat on him was Death,’” he murmured, and this time he did sketch a Cross in the mild March air.

After supper that night, Justin was playing a game of chess with Claudine. He usually sought to keep his distance, but she had asked him in front of Durand and Petronilla to play and he’d not wanted to shame her by a public refusal. So far it had not been as awkward as he’d feared. She soon had him laughing with her stories of Petronilla’s vexation over her unwanted houseguest, Simon de Lusignan. According to Petronilla, he was making a nuisance of himself from dawn to dusk, flirting with the bedazzled serving maids who were fluttering around him like bees around the hive, upsetting her cook by demanding his favorite foods and then complaining that they weren’t done to his liking, luring the men-at-arms into his chamber to throw dice, where they made enough noise to raise the dead.

Justin was sure she was exaggerating Simon’s sins, although he had seen Simon’s effect upon the female servants. He supposed Simon was easy enough on the eye, but he no more understood their partiality for Simon than he had Arzhela’s. “I grant you that Simon is a pretty polecat,” he said, “but he’s a polecat all the same. Why are women so drawn to the darkness?” As soon as the words had left his mouth, he regretted them, for his question could easily have applied to Claudine and John.

She did not seem to take it that way, though, smiling and shrugging. “I could as easily ask you why men are so taken with simpering, biddable poppets.”

“I hope you are not including me in that lot,” he protested, laughing, thinking that he’d never known a biddable poppet in his entire life. Claudine’s reply took him by surprise.

“Actually, I was thinking of the queen and her husband.”

It never occurred to Justin that Claudine might be referring to Richard and his neglected consort, Berengaria. Whenever anyone spoke of “the queen,” it was Eleanor of Aquitaine they had in mind. In the same way, he assumed that the husband in question was the late king of the English, Henry, and not Eleanor’s first husband, the French king Louis, for Henry had been a living legend, a fit mate for the most beautiful heiress in Christendom, the only woman to ever wear the crowns of both England and France.

“What are they, the exception that proves the rule?” he joked. “Clearly all men do not fancy docile, gentle females, for none would ever call the queen ‘biddable,’ now, would they?”

“Jesu forfend!” she said, just as lightly, and he realized how long it had been since they’d been able to talk without constraints. “But you see, Justin, the old king did want a woman like that. Why else would he have turned from the queen to a meek little mouse like Rosamund Clifford?”

He found that to be an interesting question, and gave it some serious thought. “I am just guessing, but mayhap Rosamund was, well, restful. At times, marriage to Queen Eleanor must have been like riding the whirlwind.”

She considered that. “I daresay she could have said the same of King Henry. What of you, Justin? Do you want a Rosamund Clifford or an Eleanor of Aquitaine?”

“Must I choose one or the other? I’ve never been drawn to extremes, am most comfortable riding in the middle of the road. What of you, Claudine? If you could spin the wheel of fortune, what would you ask for?”

“I no longer know,” she admitted. “I was once so sure that I’d not want to marry again. That surprises you, does it?”

“Yes, I suppose it does. From what you’d told me, I thought your husband had treated you well.”

“He did. He was kind and indulgent, in an almost paternal sort of way. I was young enough to have been his daughter, mayhap even his granddaughter, after all. I was contented enough as his wife. But widowhood offered me something more precious than contentment-freedom. For the first time in my life, I could do as I pleased. That was a heady draught, Justin, a brew few women get to drink.”

“Not that many men get to taste it, either, lass.” The chess game forgotten, he regarded her pensively, seeing neither John’s spy nor the tempting siren who’d wrought such havoc in his life. “But you are no longer sure, you said, that you’d not want to wed again. What changed your mind?”

She glanced around, making sure none were within earshot. “Aline,” she said softly. “I’d never conceived, believed I was barren. Now I know better. So it may be that one day I’ll want more children. Not yet, though!” She smiled ruefully. “Not until my memories of the birthing chamber have gotten much dimmer.”

Justin’s memories of Aline’s birth were traumatic, too, even from the other side of the birthing chamber door. “We’ve never talked like this, have we? You think we can be friends, Claudine, after being lovers?”

“Why not?” Her dimples flashed as she added impishly, “In the best of all worlds, we could be both. I had plenty of time during my pregnancy to learn which herbal potions are most effective in preventing conception!”

He shared her laughter, but he was wary of succumbing to her charms, for there was no potion for the restoration of trust. “I do not think I am ready to get my heart broken again, thank you,” he said, mingling honesty with humor.

She pretended to pout. “Coward. Who knew the queen’s man was so easily affrighted?” An odd expression crossed her face then, as she heard her own words. “‘The queen’s man,’” she repeated slowly. “Jesu, could it be?”

“What is it, Claudine?” he asked, both puzzled and curious, and she leaned toward him, her dark eyes sparkling with excitement.

“Justin, I had the most outlandish idea! It makes perfect sense, though. I think I know why the Breton killed Arzhela.”

John had retired early to bed, though not to sleep. He was dozing in the afterglow of his lovemaking with Ursula when there was a commotion in his bedchamber. Recognizing the voices of Justin, Durand, and his squire, he jerked the bed hangings aside.

“I am sorry, my lord,” the squire cried. “I told them you were abed, but they paid me no heed!”

John’s gaze flicked from Durand to Justin. He was irked by the intrusion, but he remembered that the last time Durand had burst into his bedchamber uninvited he’d been bearing an urgent warning from the French king. “What is it? What could not wait till the morrow?”

“We think we know why the Breton murdered the Lady Arzhela and tried to have you slain.”

John was wide awake now and, knowing that he’d not be able to get back to sleep, decided he might as well be up and about. “Meet me in the solar,” he directed the men, and then instructed his squire to fetch his clothes. Ursula was sleeping peacefully, and he felt a dart of envy, for his nights were never as restful as hers. Even as a boy, sleep had not come easily, a fickle bitch that teased and tantalized and hovered just out of reach.

By the time John entered the solar, a fire had been lit in the hearth and wine flagons set out. Dropping down into a high-backed chair, he regarded them with open skepticism. “Well? Enlighten me.”

“You’ve been telling us all along that the Breton would not have silenced Arzhela out of fear of your retribution. I think you were right, my lord. The Breton was acting out of fear, but not of you. The man he feared was his master, the French king.”

John blinked. He opened his mouth to dismiss Justin’s claim as ludicrous, only to realize it wasn’t. “Go on,” he said tensely. “Tell me more.”

“It was Claudine’s idea. She called me ‘the queen’s man’ and a spark flared in the back of her brain. What if the Breton was ‘the king’s man’? It would explain everything!”

John was already beginning to see flaws in that theory. “I grant you that the Breton could well be working for Philippe. But you are forgetting the pact Philippe and I made in January. In return for French support, I agreed to cede much of Normandy. That accord gave him a vested interest in my kingship. Philippe wants to see me on the English throne as much as I do. He’d not have forged that letter.”

“I agree, my lord. The forgery was not Philippe’s doing. It was the Breton’s, and set in motion before your deal with the French king. Simon de Lusignan said as much, that the Breton came to him with the scheme months ago. When the Breton cast out the bait for Duchess Constance, you and Philippe were at odds, blaming each other for King Richard’s impending release. Then you mended your rift and made that pact. But it was too late for the Breton to stop what he’d started. They already had the letter.”

John’s eyes cut from Justin to Durand. “You agree with this?”

“I do, my lord. The Breton could only hope that his part would never come to light. But then Cousin Simon blabbed to his bedmate, and the Breton found out about it. He seems to have panicked, which is interesting in and of itself, showing us how much he thought was at stake. He killed Arzhela to keep her quiet, fearing that she’d confide in you. And that you, in your rage, would confide in your ally, the French king.”

“But it started to go wrong for him,” Justin said, “for mayhap the first time ever. Suddenly he had a lunatic on his hands, intent upon avenging the Lady Arzhela. When he failed to kill Simon, he was driven to truly desperate straits. If he could not find Simon to silence him, he could seek to make sure that you never heard Simon’s confession.”

John was quiet, staring into the leaping hearth flames, which had taken on the shade of molten gold. “That would explain something else,” he said at last. “If he is no longer offering his services to the highest bidder, has pledged himself as the French king’s man, then his insistence upon concealing his identity from the Bretons makes sense.”

They hadn’t thought of that. “Would he agree to such an exclusive arrangement, my lord?” Justin asked, and John smiled mirthlessly.

“Philippe would have demanded no less. I do not find it easy to give my trust, but compared to Philippe, I am as simple and naive as any country virgin. He would have expected the Breton to serve his interests and his alone.”

“So, you agree with us, then?”

John nodded. “There has always been a piece missing from this puzzle. I never expected, though, that Claudine would be the one to find it!”

Rising, John began to pace the solar, moving from darkness to light and back to darkness again. They watched him in silence for a time, and then Justin asked quietly, “What would you have us do, my lord?”

John turned to face them. “It is time,” he said, “to pay a visit to my dear friend, the French king.”