Prince of Darkness

CHAPTER 23

March 1194

PARIS, FRANCE

The royal gardens of the French king jutted out into the River Seine like the prow of a ship. They would be magnificent in high summer, with raised flower beds of peonies, poppies, and Madonna lilies, trellised bowers of roses and honeysuckle, and well-pruned fruit trees. Now it was only mid-March. The day was mild, though, and it had seemed like a good place to await John’s return.

Justin and Durand were seated on the stone wall overlooking the river, Emma and Claudine on a nearby turf bench. A few other people sauntered along the pebbled paths; several young women were gathered in a bower, listening to one of them read from a leather-bound book; a man in cleric’s garb was playing ball with a spaniel. None of them were familiar to Justin, who’d never been to the French court before. He was disappointed that he’d not get to see the French king, for he was developing a healthy curiosity about Philippe.

He knew Philippe’s age-twenty-eight-and his pedigree-only son of Queen Eleanor’s first husband, Louis Capet. He knew Philippe had assumed power in his teens, had already lost one wife in childbirth, and had wed a Danish princess that past summer. And he knew Philippe had clashed bitterly with Richard in the Holy Land, returning to France as an avowed enemy of the Lionheart. But the man himself remained a mystery.

After learning that Claudine and Durand had met the French king, he’d begun fishing for insights into Philippe’s character. Durand had not been overly impressed by Philippe, but Justin doubted that he’d have been impressed if the holy martyr St Thomas had risen up from his tomb at Canterbury. “Shrewd, pious, implacable, and fretful,” was his concise verdict.

Claudine’s observations were more detailed. “He does not ever curse,” she reported, with the amazement of one coming from the profane court of the Plantagenets. “He has a liking for wine. He is not fond of horses and disapproves of tournaments. He is quick to anger, not as quick to forgive. He does not have John’s perverse sense of humor, which is probably for the best! For certes, he does not possess Richard’s fearlessness, but then, few men do. I would say he likes women. I agree with Durand, though; he is not sentimental. If I had to choose one word to describe him, it would be ‘capable.’”

“I heard,” Emma put in, “that he came back from the crusade a changed man. He was very ill whilst there, nigh unto death, and it left its mark. From what I’ve been told, he is more suspicious now, and his nerves are more ragged around the edges.”

“That is true enough,” Durand confirmed. “He goes nowhere without bodyguards. Wherever he was meeting with the Breton, you may be sure it was not at night in the cemetery of the Holy Innocents! John says he became convinced on crusade that Richard was plotting against his life. When his ally Conrad of Montferrat was slain by Assassins sent by the Old Man of the Mountain, Philippe suspected that Richard was behind it. Supposedly he was warned that Richard had connived with the Old Man, who’d dispatched four Assassins to kill him, too.”

Justin was shocked to hear of such vicious infighting among the crusaders. He’d imagined that men would put aside their rivalries in their joint quest to free Jerusalem from the infidels. Durand’s story made it sound as if they’d taken all their enmities and grudges with them to the Holy Land. “Who is the Old Man of the Mountain?”

“The leader of a Shi’ite sect who believe that murder is a legitimate tactic of war.” Durand’s mouth curved in a cynical smile. “In other words, they openly preach what other rulers merely practice.”

Now it was Claudine’s turn to be shocked. “No true Christian king would resort to murder, Durand!”

“I take it that means you do not believe Richard had a hand in Conrad’s killing?” Durand asked sarcastically.

Claudine and Justin answered as one, she crying, “Of course not!” and he demanding, “Surely you are not saying he did, Durand?”

“No-Richard is not one for planning that far ahead.”

Claudine seemed genuinely offended. “Richard is a man of extraordinary courage!”

“Courage is like charity,” Emma said dryly. “It covers a multitude of sins. When the Emperor of Cyprus surrendered to Richard on condition he not be put in irons, Richard agreed and then had shackles made of silver.”

Justin did not like the tone of this conversation any more than Claudine did. Richard was a celebrated crusader, whose deeds in the Holy Land had become the stuff of legend. He’d taken it as a matter of faith that Richard was a more honorable man than John, worthy of the sacrifices the English people had made to gain his freedom. He did not want to doubt his king, and he hastily changed the subject, calling their attention to the young woman just entering the garden, fair of face and clothed in costly silks.

“Is that the French queen?”

To his surprise, they all laughed. “What?” he asked, perplexed. “I do not see the humor in my question.”

“You truly do not know?” Claudine marveled. “So great was the scandal that half of Christendom was talking of nothing else-ah, but you were in Wales last summer! That explains why you did not hear.”

“Hear what?”

“The day after their wedding, Philippe disavowed Ingeborg and sent her off to a monastery, where she has been held ever since. Less than three months later, Philippe convened a council at Compiegne, where French bishops and lords dutifully declared the marriage was invalid because Ingeborg was related to Philippe’s first wife within the prohibited fourth degree.”

Justin was astonished. “If the marriage was dissolved, why is Ingeborg still being kept at the monastery? Why has she not been allowed to go back to Denmark?”

“Philippe would like nothing better than to rid himself of her,” Durand said, grinning. “But she claims their marriage is valid in the eyes of God and man, and is appealing to the Pope. What I find truly odd about the whole matter is that men say she is a beauty: eighteen years of age, tall and golden-haired. Now if she’d been a hag, I could better understand his skittishness!”

“It is very sad for her,” Claudine insisted, frowning at Durand. “She is a captive in a foreign country, surrounded by people who speak no Danish whilst she speaks no French. She has been badly treated, indeed. But for the life of me, I do not understand why she is being so stubborn about clinging to this hollow shell of a marriage.”

“Because,” Emma said coolly, “this ‘hollow shell of a marriage’ has made her Queen of France.”

Justin was too well-mannered to remind her that she did not value her own crown very highly, and Claudine shared Emma’s view that life in a remote, alien land like Wales was a form of penance, but Durand relished rushing in where angels feared to tread. Before he could pounce, however, Garnier came into view, obviously searching for them. Justin signaled to catch his eye and he veered in their direction. “Lord John is ready to depart,” he announced.

They were leaving the gardens when they encountered John himself, standing on the steps. At the sight of them, he waved his attendants aside and moved to meet them.

“Where the Devil have you been?” Not waiting for explanations, he continued on past them into the gardens. They looked at one another, shrugged, and followed after him. He’d stopped by the stone wall, was gazing out upon the river, silvered by sunlight. He did not turn as they approached, dropping pebbles down into the water.

“Well?” Durand blurted out, when they could stand the suspense no longer. “Did he admit the Breton is in his service?”

“No, but he did not deny it, either, and for Philippe, that qualifies as a confession. He acknowledged he has used the Breton in the past, and expressed dismay when I told him of the man’s crimes.”

“Is he willing to help us?” Justin asked, puzzled by John’s demeanor; it was obvious something was troubling him.

John nodded, flinging a pebble out into the swirling current. “We’ve come up with a plan to lure him out into the open. It seems the Breton has made a practice of finding informers all over Paris. Philippe says he has sources at the provost’s, at the hospitals, the gaols, even the Templars. It must have vexed him sorely when I moved out of the Temple into Petronilla’s dwelling.”

There was a faint splash as another stone broke the surface. “The provost is going to put the word out that an unknown man sought to enter the palace grounds. When he was stopped by the guards, he insisted he had to see ‘the king or the Count of Mortain,’ babbling wildly about plots and murder in an abbey. He was badly wounded, though, and died ere he could be questioned. It ought not to take long for word to reach the Breton. He is going to assume-to hope-it was Simon, but he’ll need to be sure. I’m wagering that he will come out of hiding to identify the body. And when he does, we’ll be waiting.”

They exchanged glances, encouraged, for the plan sounded promising. Eager to set it into motion, they waited impatiently as John continued to watch the ripples stirred up by his pebbles. It was Claudine who ended the impasse, saying softly and with more sympathy than Justin liked, “My lord John? What is amiss? Are you not pleased that this will soon be resolved?”

“Delighted beyond measure.” John threw away the last of the stones, just missing a low-flying bird. “Philippe told me,” he said, “that Richard was welcomed into London by huge, enthusiastic crowds, who were rejoicing as if it were the Second Coming of the Lord Christ.”

The sky was a misty pearl color, the sun cloaked in morning haze. Justin was standing on the porch of the parish church of the Holy Innocents, gazing out across the cemetery. It was early, but the gravediggers had already been busy; a body had been fished from the river the day before, and it was being buried in the common grave reserved for the poor and the unknown. Justin had seen few sights as sorrowful as this hasty, impromptu burial. The body had been sewn into a shroud and lowered into the grave, and the gravediggers were shoveling dirt over the remains, while trying to keep upwind, for the corpse was waterlogged and badly decomposed. Head bowed, a priest was uttering a prayer for the soul of this nameless, luckless stranger, unmourned but by God.

At the sound of a step behind him, Justin turned to see a Benedictine monk. Stifling a grin, he shook his head. “I never thought to see you in monk’s garb, Durand, no more than I’d look for a whore in a nunnery.”

“You do not exactly look like a lamb of God yourself, de Quincy. Let’s face it, neither of us make good monks. But it will be dark enough to fool the Breton, assuming all goes as planned.”

“You think it will not?”

“The Breton has the Devil’s own luck. And it is not heartening to have to rely upon that lunatic de Lusignan. That scatter-brain of his seems able to entertain only two thoughts at a time-getting laid and getting vengeance.”

Justin laughed and followed Durand back into the church. The parish priest scowled at them as they passed, outraged at their intrusion into God’s House but unable to disobey a royal command. Crossing the nave, they entered the funerary chapel, where the dead were made ready for burial. Rush-lights in wall sconces illuminated two stone slabs. Crispin was stretched out on one, clad in a monk’s habit, hands folded across his chest, snoring softly. The other “corpse” was not so content; Simon de Lusignan was squirming around on his bier, unable to get comfortable. “I do not see why I cannot have a pillow.”

The third player in the drama looked glad to see them. “About time,” Garnier grumbled. “If I have to listen to any more of his complaints, I’m going to fetch him that pillow and stuff it in his mouth.”

Garnier made a surprisingly convincing priest, although he’d sworn that without a sword he felt as naked as a plucked chicken. Justin and Durand had the advantage of him there, for they could hide their weapons under their monastic robes.

“Are you absolutely sure, Sir Garnier, that the Breton has never laid eyes upon you?”

“I swear on my mother’s soul,” Garnier said patiently. “You and Durand are the only two he knows by sight.”

“And the corpse, of course,” Durand said, glancing over at Simon. “So help me, de Lusignan, if you sneeze or cough or fart and spoil this, I’ll have your guts for dinner.”

“I prefer a good beef stew myself,” Simon said flippantly, and all three of the men glared at him. “You need not worry,” he insisted. “I know my part. I even agreed to have my face powdered and painted so I’d look more like a dead body!”

“If I’d had my way,” Durand warned, “there’d have been no need for pretense,” and after that, Simon settled down, lapsing into silence as their vigil began.

They’d not expected so many people to turn out to view Simon’s corpse. Several were seeking missing family or friends. But most were the curious, coming to gawk at the man who’d died in the palace grounds under such mysterious circumstances. This complicated matters for them and made it more difficult for Simon to be a convincing corpse. Finally, Garnier began to demand visitors make an offering to the church before looking at the body. That thinned the crowd out.

By mid-afternoon, the men’s hopes had begun to flag. They stiffened, though, at the sudden sound of Garnier’s voice in the nave, speaking loudly for their benefit, alerting them that the newcomer might be the man they were seeking. He was explaining that there were two Norman monks in the chapel, praying over the body of a comrade who’d fallen sick soon after their arrival in Paris. “So sad that he’ll not be buried with his brethren,” he said, keeping up a distracting flow of chatter as he ushered the man into the chapel.

Justin and Durand made sure their cowls hid their faces. Crispin’s lashes fluttered, and then he shut his eyes again; he was taking his role seriously. Simon seemed to be lying very still, too.

“Here is the body,” Garnier announced, adding a pious, “May God have mercy upon his soul.”

The man stepped into the shadows of the chapel. He no longer wore a cleric’s rochet, but Justin recognized him at once. Canon Robert. The Breton. Arzhela’s killer.

The Breton stopped before Simon’s bier, stood staring down at the body. His face showed none of the satisfaction and relief he must have been feeling. “Alas,” he said, feigning disappointment, “this is not my friend. But I will pay for his funeral.”

“Indeed? God will bless you for that,” Garnier assured him, and he shrugged, saying modestly that it was the duty of all Christians to see to the burial of the less fortunate. Justin glanced toward Durand, both savoring the irony of the Breton’s offer. It was a chilling glimpse of the warped way the Breton viewed the world; he could murder a cousin without qualms but balked at a pauper’s burial for him. Meeting Durand’s eyes, Justin nodded and they began to move toward the door, still maintaining a monk’s pose, a monk’s sedate pace until they were within range.

It was then that Simon struck. Quick as a snake, he came off the bier, a concealed dagger suddenly in his hand, lunging at the Breton with murderous intent. Only the Breton’s remarkable reflexes saved his life. He flung up his arm and the blade meant for his throat slashed from wrist to elbow. He reeled backward, blood spurting like a fountain. Simon’s momentum carried him onward, and he crashed into Garnier, who was coming to his aid. Justin and Durand were already in motion, but they were momentarily halted by the entangled bodies on the floor, giving the Breton a chance to dart out the door, slamming it behind him.

Simon was gasping for breath, clutching his injured ribs, Garnier struggling to his feet. Justin reached the door first, with Durand but a step behind him. The nave of the church was empty, blood splattered on the floor and on the open door leading out to the porch. Almost at once they discovered a monk’s habit was not meant for pursuit, and they lost precious time ripping the garments off. “If he gets away,” Durand panted, “I swear I’ll skin Simon alive with a dull knife!” Justin shared the sentiment, but he was saving his breath for the chase. Bolting out into the garth, he came upon an amazing scene.

Their men had emerged from their hiding places and were running after the Breton. Bystanders were gaping, a funeral interrupted by the uproar, a woman screaming unintelligibly. The Breton had left a trail of blood in his wake, but desperation had given wings to his heels and he’d outdistanced his pursuers. He’d done the unexpected, not heading for the closest exit, the one opening out onto rue Saint-Denis, once again proving he did have Lucifer’s luck, for they’d locked that gate as a precaution. He risked a glance over his shoulder, sprinting toward the open gateway, the same one his hired killers had barred to entrap John within the cemetery.

But it was then that a band of horsemen galloped through the gates, onto the open field. To avoid being run down, the Breton dodged, first one way and then another, but he was like a fox trying to evade a pack of hounds; wherever he turned, he found his way blocked by a horse and rider. He was being herded away from the gate, back into the middle of the cemetery, and suddenly the ground gave way under his feet and he went tumbling down into one of the open grave pits meant for Christ’s poor.

An unrepentant Simon had been sent back to Petronilla’s town house, newly in need of a doctor’s care. Durand had been in favor of shoving him into the open grave with the Breton, but John overruled him, saying he’d deal with Simon later. As soon as he saw John, the Breton must have known he was doomed. He made a game try, though, claiming that he’d never sent John a message to meet him in the cemetery. He passionately denied that he’d slain Arzhela, insisting that Simon was the killer, and the one responsible for the attack upon John, too. Simon had murdered Arzhela in a lover’s quarrel, and then sought to blame him for the crime. Simon had almost killed him at Fougeres Castle. Why had he tried again in the funerary chapel? Because a dead man could offer no defense, could not prove his innocence. Justin found it disquieting that the Breton sounded so convincing.

It was not long before the French king rode into the cemetery. His arrival created chaos, for by now a large crowd of spectators had gathered and they surged forward in excitement, had to be pushed back by the royal bodyguards. Sliding from the saddle, Philippe strode over to John. “Well?” he demanded. “Where is he?”

John pointed toward the open grave. Philippe looked startled, then walked over to see for himself. The Breton had wrapped his mantle around his bleeding arm, was leaning against the loose earthen bank as if he needed support. At the sight of the French king, his already ashen face went even paler. “My lord king…”

For what must have seemed like infinity to the Breton, John and Philippe stood there in silence, staring down at him. Justin had edged closer to get a look at the French king, and he was struck by the contrast between the two men. Philippe was ruddy whereas John was dark, and more plainly dressed than the Plantagenet, who did not let betrayal and rebellion interfere with his pursuit of the newest fashions. He was taller than John, and although they were only about fifteen months apart in age, the French king looked considerably older for he’d lost his hair and nails during his near-fatal illness in the Holy Land; his nails had grown back, but his hair had not. The one trait the two men had in common was that they both made bad enemies, as the Breton soon would be able to attest, assuming he lived long enough to make a dying declaration.

The Breton was attempting to persuade Philippe of his innocence, just as he’d tried with John. Those listening had to give him credit for glibness; he had a tongue that could charm birds out of the trees and virgins out of their maidenheads. But his eloquence was wasted upon the only two members of the audience who mattered. When he at last ran out of breath-or hope-the French king turned to his provost.

“Arrest this man.”

I wanted the pleasure of killing the whoreson myself!” Simon glowered defiantly at his interrogators. Only the fact that he was in bed, mother-naked and having his wounds re-bandaged, kept Durand and Justin from laying rough hands upon him. Simon did not seem to realize how narrow his margin of safety was, for he continued to insist that he’d been in the right. “If not for these sore ribs of mine, I’d have done it, too, skewered him like a Martinmas shoat!”

“You have no notion, do you, of how lucky you were?” Justin shook his head in disgust. “Lord John and the French king wanted the man taken alive. You think they’d have thanked you for sending him to Hell?”

That gave Simon pause-briefly. “I did not think about that,” he admitted. “When I saw him, all I could think about was Arzhela, bleeding to death on that chapel floor.”

“Good try, lad,” Durand jeered. “But if it was not planned, why did you have that dagger?”

Simon considered the question. “For protection, of course. Better than you, I knew how dangerous the Breton was.”

Morgan, an interested observer, could not help laughing. “Give it up, mates,” he advised Justin and Durand. “The lad is always going to have an answer for you, no matter what you ask him.”

“It is John he has to answer to,” Durand said, sounding grimly gratified by the prospect. “I only hope he lets me watch!”

On the following day, Parisians awakened to a chilly downpour. The skies were a drab wintry grey, a damp wind was gusting off the river, and spring seemed to have absconded under cover of darkness. John did not let the foul weather interrupt his plans, riding off to Philippe’s palace to discuss the Breton’s fate. But most of those in Petronilla’s household chose to stay indoors, preferring boredom to getting soaked.

John did not return in time for dinner, and Justin noticed that the noonday meal was less lavish than in the past. For the first time, it occurred to him that entertaining a prince must be costing Petronilla a goodly sum of money. He hoped that she’d remember this lesson the next time she was tempted to flirt with a high-living lord like John. Fortunately for Petronilla, her cousin had provided her with a plausible reason for putting an end to her expensive hospitality. Claudine still wanted to travel into Poitou to visit her father and brothers, and Petronilla had jumped at the chance to accompany her. Emma, too, had accepted Claudine’s invitation, although in her case, Justin suspected she was trying to keep as many miles as possible between herself and Queen Eleanor. Justin had agreed to speak on her behalf, feeling that he owed her after her intercession at Fougeres Castle, but he did not know if the queen would heed him, and neither did Emma.

It was still raining several hours later, and the infamous black mud of Paris was turning the city into a quagmire; only those city streets that were paved were passable. When John entered the great hall, his boots were caked, his mantle so splattered that its original color was not easily determined. He shrugged out of it, let it puddle to the floor at his feet, and crossed to the hearth to warm himself. Only then did he beckon to Justin and Durand. “Come with me,” he said, and headed toward the stairwell.

They obeyed, followed a few moments later by Emma and Claudine, expecting to be led to the solar. To their surprise, John continued to lead them on up the stairs until they’d reached the room up under the eaves of the roof where Morgan and Simon were lodged. They were both up and dressed, seated cross-legged on one of the beds as they played a game of draughts. Startled by the intrusion, they jumped to their feet, Morgan looking interested, Simon nervous, for he’d not yet had a reckoning with John.

It was obvious to them all that John had something of significance to report, and they fidgeted as they waited until he chose to share what he’d learned. The chamber was cramped, dimly lit, and had a musty, sickbed odor. John sat on Simon’s bed, and then lounged back, his muddy boots doing some damage to the blanket. Justin was beginning to resent this strange game of cat and mouse John was playing with them, but he had decided he’d not be the one to blink first. Durand seemed to have made the same resolution, for he was leaning against the door, feigning indifference. But Emma had no patience for the games of men, and she said sharply, “Well, John? What did you find out? When will the Breton be brought to trial and, more important, what will he be charged with?”

“There will be no trial, Aunt Emma.” John’s face was in shadows and his voice was toneless, difficult to read. “Philippe told me that the Breton is dead. He’d been taken under guard to the dungeons at the Grand Chatelet, and was found this morning, hanged by his bedsheet.”

There was a startled silence, but it didn’t last long. They all began to talk at once, raising their voices to make themselves heard, and it was soon apparent that they were of one mind. No one believed the Breton had killed himself. Who ever heard of a prisoner being given bed linens? How convenient it was, that the Breton had taken so many men’s secrets to his grave! Had he, by chance, left a confession behind, admitting his guilt in other crimes the provost and bailiffs had been unable to solve?

Simon finally cut through the sarcasm and skepticism by pointing out a salient fact: whether the Breton had died by his own hand or he’d had help, he was dead and on his way to Hell. Justice had been done. “I feared that he’d weasel out of the charges at a trial. Could we truly have proved he murdered the Lady Arzhela? As much as I’d like to have seen that misbegotten hellspawn publicly shamed and pelted with mud and rotten eggs as he was dragged to the gallows, at least he has paid for his crimes with his life. I, for one, am going to celebrate. Who wants to join me in the great hall to drink to the Lady Arzhela’s memory and the Breton’s eternal damnation?”

They looked toward John, and when he did not object, Morgan and Simon started for the door. Glad to escape the room’s stale atmosphere, Claudine and Emma followed. Justin and Durand would have liked to follow, too, but John had yet to move.

“Are you disappointed that there will be no trial, my lord?” Justin asked. “That would have been the most effective way to prove the letter was a forgery, but-”

“You are such an innocent, de Quincy,” Durand scoffed. “Do you truly think that letter would ever have been mentioned in court? How would that benefit the French king? As little as he’d have liked that forgery to succeed, he is not about to make any accusations against the Duchess Constance. With war looming between France and England, Brittany may prove useful down the road. As a possible heir to the English throne, young Arthur is worth his weight in gold.”

Justin had never thought of himself as an innocent, certainly not after more than a year as the queen’s man. But he’d still clung to a few illusions about royal justice, illusions he was loath to surrender. As he glanced from Durand to John, he found himself hoping that he’d never become as jaded and distrustful as they were. The price of something and its value were not always one and the same.

“Do not mock de Quincy, Durand,” John said. “This world of ours is one of sheep and wolves, and God made him a sheep, as simple as that. A man cannot fight his fate.”

Justin was rankled enough to hit back. “And what was the Lady Arzhela, my lord? A lamb to the slaughter or a she-wolf?”

John looked at him, his expression giving away nothing of his thoughts. “I do not blame you for not wanting to be a sheep, de Quincy. But you are not ready to run with the wolves. For example, I daresay it never occurred to you that this forgery scheme of the Breton’s most likely originated with Philippe. It was too well conceived for the Breton to have plucked it out of the air. My guess is that this was one of Philippe’s contingency plans, to be used if and when needed. The Breton’s great mistake was thinking that he was the puppeteer, not the puppet. My friend the French king does not like his hirelings to show so much enterprise. And then, he blundered even more badly by getting caught at it. Found-out sins are the only unforgivable kind.”

Justin was momentarily at a loss, disquieted by a cynicism so corrosive, so soul-stifling. “If you are saying that the Breton would never have faced a reckoning over the forgery, my lord, at least he has not escaped punishment for the Lady Arzhela’s murder. At least he has answered for that.”

“Yes,” John said, and then, “assuming that he is really dead.”

Sharon Kay Penman

Prince of Darkness