Prince of Darkness

CHAPTER 25

March 1194

LONDON, ENGLAND

Justin awakened with a gasp, fleeing the darkness of a Fougeres dungeon. It was not the first disquieting dream he’d had of his entombment, but this one had a happy ending: a blazing surge of sunlight as the trapdoor was flung open and freedom beckoned in the guise of Morgan Bloet. He lay back upon the bed, heartened by his night escape, hoping it meant that the dreams would come less and less often and, eventually, not at all. He was drifting off to sleep again when there was a sharp knocking on the cottage door.

He’d gotten to London just as curfew was sounding, and was one of the last travelers allowed to pass through the city gates. By the time he’d reached Gracechurch Street, the alehouse was shuttered and still, and the houses were dark, oil lamps and hearth fires doused for the night. He’d stabled his mount in a stall next to his stallion, Copper, and stumbled off to his cottage behind Gunter’s black-smithy. Not even bothering to remove his boots, he’d fallen into bed, asleep before he’d taken half a dozen breaths.

The knocking continued. Swinging off the bed, he was starting toward the door when it opened and a black whirlwind burst into the cottage to fling itself upon him. He staggered backward under the assault, and was fending off a hysterical canine as Nell followed Shadow in. “Dogs,” she said briskly, “are more loyal than men and not as much trouble. The mad beast has not forgotten you, I see.”

“How did you know I was back?” Justin asked, going over to give her a hug.

“What-you think Gunter would not notice another horse in his stable? Come with me,” she insisted, steering him toward the door. “Lord only knows the last time you ate, so I made you a meal over at the alehouse.”

Justin would have liked to change his clothes, but he knew better than to argue with Nell, and followed her outside, where he was surprised to see a twilight dusk settling over the city. Nell confirmed that he’d slept for more than eighteen hours. “We let you stay abed all day like a sluggard” was how she put it as she hastened him across the street.

“Who are ‘we’?” he asked, and had his answer as he pushed open the door of the alehouse. It was crowded with his neighbors and friends: Gunter the blacksmith; Odo the barber, his wife, Agnes, and their nephew, Daniel; Ulric the chandler and his wife, Cicily; Marcus the cartwright; Avice, the tanner’s widow; Nell’s helper Ellis and Nell’s young daughter, Lucy; even Aldred and Jonas, the one-eyed serjeant who was the bane of London’s lawless and Justin’s mentor. With a shy grin, Justin stepped forward into the warmth of their welcome.

By now they knew the rules-he never talked about what he did for the queen-so no one asked about his sudden disappearance or his long absence from Gracechurch Street. Instead they caught him up on neighborhood gossip and local happenings, telling him that the cobbler’s wife had run off with a peddler, that Humphrey the mercer had disgraced himself by turning up drunk as a sailor’s whore for Candlemas Mass, that a woman over on Aldgate Street had given birth to twins, that a fire had damaged the cook-shop down by the river, and that King Richard’s entry into the city had been a spectacle to dazzle all eyes.

“All the shops closed early,” Nell explained. “Even the taverns and alehouses shut down, since they knew everyone would be out in the street, watching for the king’s coming. And they were, too. So many people lined up that there was not space for a snake to slither by. They hung out of windows and perched in trees and some fools had even clambered onto rooftops to see!”

“And the streets were clean,” Aldred reported in awe. “The rakyers had actually worked for their wages and swept away all the dung and mud and straw and rubbish. It was a sight to behold… like a great fair day, with banners strung across the streets and ribbons wrapped around ale-poles and people waving scarves from windows and doves set free in white clouds when the king reached Cheapside!

“Thank God no fires broke out,” he added, “for no one would ever have heard the fire bells over the clamor of the church bells. I’m surprised you did not hear them as far away as France, Justin! It was a fine welcome we gave the Lionheart. We did ourselves proud for certes, and the king and queen seemed right pleased that we’d turned out in such great numbers.”

“Bearing in mind,” Jonas said dryly, “that Londoners will come out by the hundreds for a hanging.”

Justin smiled fondly at Jonas, for the serjeant’s habitual skepticism seemed like starry-eyed optimism when compared to John’s lethal cynicism. “It is good to be home,” he said. “You spoke of the ‘queen,’ Aldred. So Richard had Berengaria with him? I’ve never laid eyes on her; few have. Was she fair to look upon?”

Aldred blinked in confusion. “Beren… who? I meant Lady Eleanor. What other queen is there?”

At the mention of his royal mistress, Justin lost some of his cheer; he was not looking forward to pleading John’s case with the queen. But it had to be done on the morrow, even before he rode to St Albans to see Aline. “Where is King Richard lodging?” he asked. “Are they at the Tower or at the palace at Westminster?”

“King Richard did not dally here in London. He’s long gone, off to put down Lord John’s rebellion.”

“And the queen?”

“Why, she went with him, lad,” Odo volunteered, “and all the court, too, streaming out of Westminster like a flock of peacocks. Those pampered lords will be earning their bread now, just trying to keep up with the king!”

It sounded to Justin as if he would be earning his bread, too, chasing over half of England after the Lionheart. “Where has he gone?”

By common consent, they looked toward Jonas, for he was the sheriff’s man, would be likely to know. And he did. “You’ve got a long ride ahead of you,” he told Justin, with more amusement than sympathy. “He went north to besiege Lord John’s castle at Nottingham.”

Baby Ella was awake in her cradle, utterly intent upon getting her foot into her mouth. In the other cradle, her milk-sister slept peacefully, oblivious to her audience. “You must be amazed by how big she’s gotten,” Rohese said, pointing out the obvious with a coquettish smile, and her brother Baldwin rolled his eyes. She’d been visiting when Justin de Quincy arrived and she’d been so charmed by his courtly manners that she’d been hovering close by, insisting upon playing a role in his reunion with his daughter. Now she was chattering nonstop as Justin leaned over the cradle, and Baldwin and Sarra exchanged the sort of amused, exasperated glances that Rohese so often provoked.

“Of course Ella is much larger, but then, she’s older so she would be… bigger, I mean.” Rohese said, giggling self-consciously as she realized how silly she was sounding. “But your little lass is doing right well for her age. When she’s not swaddled, she squirms about like a baby eel, doesn’t she, Sarra? If you lie her down on her belly, she can roll over onto her back now. And when she wakes up in the morning and sees Baldwin or Sarra, she greets them with the sweetest smile.”

Baldwin wished his sister would stop gushing over the poor lad, and Sarra thought it was not tactful of Rohese to remind Justin de Quincy of all the milestones he’d missed in his daughter’s life. But in truth, Justin was not even listening to Rohese. Aline was the only one in the cottage for him at that moment, the only one in the world. She had a surprisingly thick cap of dark hair and skin like flower petals; when he touched her cheek with his finger, it felt like the soft, downy feathers of a baby bird.

“Do you want to hold her?” Rohese murmured throatily and, reaching for Aline, placed the sleeping infant in his arms before Sarra could object.

Justin cradled his daughter with such exaggerated care that it was both touching and comical to those watching. “I am back, butterfly,” he said, and those silky lashes fluttered, revealing eyes the color of ground cinnamon, Claudine’s eyes. For a heartbeat, they looked at each other, and then Aline’s lower lip began to tremble. Before he could react, her mouth contorted and she started to cry. There was nothing gradual or tentative about it, either; she screamed loudly enough to set his ears ringing, color flooding her little face, tiny fists beating the air in distress.

Sarra came swiftly to his side and reclaimed the frightened child. For several moments, there was no sound but the baby’s wailing and a soothing, wordless murmur from Sarra. Back in familiar arms, Aline soon quieted, her sobs subsiding into broken hiccups, and Sarra sat down in a chair, discreetly opened her bodice and offered Aline the comfort of her breast.

After an awkward silence, Rohese said, in some embarrassment, “She is usually such a calm, good-natured baby, skittish only with-” She caught herself, but not in time, and Justin finished the sentence for her.

“Only with strangers,” he said softly.

William the Bastard had chosen Nottingham’s site for its strategic significance, on a red sandstone ridge high above the River Trent. A new settlement had quickly sprung up in its protective shadow, nestled between the castle and the old town, and more than a hundred years later, the partition persisted. Nottingham was separated into the Norman-French Borough and the Saxon Borough, each with its own sheriff and bailiff. Justin was both intrigued and unsettled by the dichotomy-two towns, two ethnic identities-for he rarely thought about the social consequences of the Conquest. While French was his mother tongue, he also spoke English, and felt equally at home with the Saxon Aldred or the Norman Luke de Marston. The two halves of Nottingham reminded him that England, too, was a country divided, with a king who spoke not a word of English.

While the castle still held out, the city had opened its gates to Richard at once. The streets were filled with men-at-arms, vendors, peddlers, beggars, the inevitable prostitutes drawn by an army’s presence, and local curiosity-seekers, eager to watch as Christendom’s most celebrated soldier lay siege to his brother John’s stronghold. The atmosphere was almost festive-until Justin reached the castle.

Justin had been told that the fortress had been under siege for weeks, but it was obvious that there had been a recent assault. The timber palisades enclosing the outer bailey were still smoldering, and the acrid smell of smoke hung low over the site. The torn-up bloody ground testified to the cost of the onslaught, as did the newly dug grave pits. The king’s men were now in control of the outer bailey, and were in the process of making ready for an attack upon the upper and middle baileys. Even with his limited siege experience, Justin could see this would be a much greater challenge, for Richard’s soldiers would be charging uphill against men entrenched behind thick stone walls.

He was searching for Will Longsword, John’s half brother. They’d established a good rapport and he could rely upon Will for an accurate account of the events that had occurred since Richard’s return to English soil. He was sure, too, that Will would know where the queen was lodging. But finding Will in this turbulent, roiling sea of soldiers would not be easy.

He never did find Will but, much to his surprise, he soon saw a familiar figure, a small man astride a big bay stallion, well armored in chain mail and the authority of command. “My lord earl!” he cried, loudly enough to attract the Earl of Chester’s attention. At the sight of Justin, he looked equally surprised, and urged his mount in the younger man’s direction.

“What are you doing here?” Justin exclaimed, and then grimaced, for it was obvious what the earl was doing-laying siege to Nottingham Castle. He amended his query to “When did you get here, my lord?”

“A few weeks ago. Last month the Council authorized the seizure of Lord John’s castles at Nottingham, Tickhill, Marlborough, Lancaster, and St Michael’s Mount in Cornwall. The earls of Hunting-don and Derby and I were chosen to reduce Nottingham to a pile of rubble, so I made haste to return from Brittany. Marlborough and Lancaster were quickly taken, and the commander at St Michael’s Mount died of fright upon hearing that King Richard was free.” Chester’s smile was mordant. “A pity all of the king’s foes could not be so obliging.”

“So that leaves only Tickhill and Nottingham?”

“Only Nottingham. We got word this morn that Tickhill has yielded to the Bishop of Durham. Unfortunately the stubborn sods behind these walls”-with a wave of his hand toward the castle keep-“have balked at surrendering. They are convinced that King Richard is dead and this is a clever trick to deceive them into giving up. The king did not take kindly to being dismissed as an impostor, as you can well imagine.”

Justin looked over at the charred palisade walls. “So he ordered an assault upon the castle.”

“He led it himself, de Quincy, and a bloody one it was, with fierce fighting and many deaths. But he did in one day what we’d failed to do in nigh on a month. He took the outer bailey, set fire to the barbican guarding the second gate, and only withdrew when night fell. Today he ordered his carpenters to build mangonels, and whilst we wait for them to be done, he has provided some entertainment for our men, and for those huddling within the castle.”

“What do you mean, my lord?” Justin asked in perplexity and Chester smiled grimly.

“Come with me,” he said, “and I’ll show you.”

The siege engines were being constructed on the hill north of the castle, within sight of the garrison but out of range of their crossbows. And here, too, a gallows had been erected. Several bodies dangled slowly in the wind. As Justin and Chester reined in to watch, another prisoner was dragged up onto the gallows, hands tied behind his back. A noose was placed around his neck and then he was dispatched to God. Justin made the sign of the Cross over the strangling man, relieved when his legs finally stopped kicking.

“Some of John’s men,” Chester said, “taken in yesterday’s assault. The king wanted these rebels to see what awaits those who defy him.” Glancing toward approaching horsemen, he said, “Here he comes now.”

Justin did not need to be told that. Richard Lionheart wore the light armor he’d become accustomed to in the heat of the Holy Land, a chain-mail hauberk and a helmet with nose guard. He was as fair as John was dark; the hair curling out of the back of his helmet was a burnished red-gold and the eyes narrowed upon the castle walls were a blazing blue. He was astride the most spectacular stallion Justin had ever seen, the shade of polished pearl, with a gait that was poetry in motion and a streaming silver tail that trailed almost to the ground. Gilded by sunlight, man and horse looked otherworldly, as if they’d ridden right out of a minstrel’s tale of bygone glory, and as he looked upon the English king, Justin found himself thinking unexpectedly: Poor John.

The Queen had chosen to await the resolution of the siege of Nottingham at a nearby royal manor. The next morning, Justin set out for Clipstone, deep in the heart of Sherwood Forest. He’d been told it was a hunting lodge built by Eleanor’s husband, the late King Henry, and he half expected it to be a rustic, simple structure, for Henry had never been overly concerned about comfort, especially when he was pursuing his passion for the hunt. He discovered, though, that Clipstone was a residence of substance, with a large stone hall, a king’s chamber, chapel, stables, fishpond, even a deer park, and Queen Eleanor was holding court as if she were back at Westminster.

Admitted into the great hall, Justin was startled to see so many princes of the Church. At first glance, it looked as if every bishop in England had come to do honor to the English king. He recognized the Archbishop of Canterbury and the Archbishop of York, who was-like Morgan Bloet and Will Longsword-a bastard son of King Henry. He recognized, too, the bishops of Hereford and Worcester, and did not know whether to be relieved or disappointed when he did not find his father’s tall, stately figure among the others.

The queen was the center of attention, as she’d been for almost all of her seventy years on God’s earth. Her face framed by a fine linen barbette, her hair covered by a delicate, gauzy veil held in place by a gold circlet, she was elegant and regal in damask silk the color of claret, and from a distance, she appeared to be defying time as boldly as she’d defied two royal husbands and the conventions that defined and circumscribed female behavior in their world. Up close, though, she looked far more fragile, a woman who’d lost as many battles as she’d won, relying upon an indomitable will to spur on an aging body.

Surrounded by prelates, she was relating a story of her son’s experiences in the Holy Land, and, as always, Justin was startled to see John’s greenish-gold eyes in her face. “It was my son’s greatest sorrow that he was unable to recapture Jerusalem from Saladin. On one of his scouting expeditions, he rode to the top of the hill the crusaders called Montjoie, which offered a view of Jerusalem from its heights. But Richard refused to join the others, instead putting up his shield to block out the sight, saying that if he was not able to deliver the Holy City from the infidels, he was not worthy to behold it.”

That was a story sure to win approbation from an audience of churchmen, and there were murmurings of admiration and approval. Eleanor’s smile was one Justin would long remember, for he’d never seen her show such unguarded joy. He settled himself on the fringes of the crowd, content to wait until she took notice of him.

The sun was slanting toward the west as Justin walked beside the fishpond with his queen. Others were trailing after them-her ladies-in-waiting, chaplain, an earl, and several bishops-but they kept at a discreet distance, allowing Eleanor to converse in private with her agent. The fishpond was located in a southeast corner of the estate, some distance from the manor, and Justin was surprised by the queen’s stamina; she’d set a brisk pace that had yet to falter. Approaching the water’s edge, she halted, listening to the silence, breathing in the cool spring air, and then said, “Tell me more about this forged letter.”

He did, to the best of his ability. It was a long story and he worried that she’d tire, but she brushed aside his concerns, and listened intently, without interruptions. Once he was done, she gazed for a time at the mirrored surface of the pond, her eyes following the drift of the reflected clouds. “Richard’s release almost did not come to pass,” she said. “The emperor had gotten letters from John and Philippe, pledging to pay him even more money for every month that he’d keep Richard captive. Heinrich was sorely tempted to accept their offer, and he even dared to show Richard the letters.”

Her lip curled. “The man has no shame. Fortunately that was not true of his lords, who were horrified that he’d consider this eleventh-hour betrayal. Richard defended himself with the eloquence of outrage and when Heinrich realized that his barons were utterly on Richard’s side, he agreed to honor our pact. But for two days, my son’s fate hung in the balance, thanks to Heinrich’s greed and their treachery. John is right to be fearful.”

Justin wisely kept silent, for he admittedly did not understand the moral ambiguities that clouded the crimes of the highborn. In his judgment, John’s treachery was reason enough to cast him out into darkness. But he knew that was not true for the queen. Apparently there were sins that could be forgiven and sins that could not, and those who wielded power seemed to know instinctively which were which. He had done his duty, giving his queen an honest account of her youngest son’s troubles, and he felt he owed John no more than that.

“It would appear,” Eleanor said, with a hint of dry humor, “that you got more than you bargained for in France, Justin. I do not imagine you enjoyed pulling in harness with Durand.”

“No, Madame, not much.”

“You have acquitted yourselves well. I am very pleased with you both.”

“Thank you, my lady,” he said, wishing he did not have to share her praise with Durand, and as if reading his mind, she smiled at him.

“Durand is comfortable exploring the netherworld; he would have to be in order to keep pace with John. But it was harder for you, I know. I will not forget the service you have done me.” She’d resumed walking and he fell in step as she continued to skirt the edge of the pond. “I daresay you never expected to be pleading Emma’s case with me.”

Or John’s, either, he thought. “Lord John called it my ‘pilgrimage to Hell and back,’” he said ruefully.

“Yes, that sounds like John,” she said, and he thought he heard her sigh. “Did you hear?” she asked, after another silence. “The garrison at Nottingham has agreed to surrender. The men in command-Ralph Murdac and William de Wenneval-sent out two knights under a flag of truce to ascertain for themselves if Richard had truly returned. Once they were satisfied that was indeed so, they lost all stomach for further resistance.”

Thinking of those gallows set up north of the castle, Justin was not surprised. “So it is over, then.”

“At least on this side of the Channel. My son has summoned a great council to meet at Nottingham in a few days. Amongst the matters to be dealt with will be John’s treason. He will be given forty days to appear before the council to answer these charges. If he does not, he will be judged to have forfeited any and all rights to the English Crown, his lands already having been confiscated.”

Again, Justin kept silent and they walked on. After a time, Eleanor said, “Richard means to have a reckoning with Philippe as soon as possible. I expect that we’ll be in France ere the spring is done. But I will need you, Justin, to return sooner than that.”

“What would you have me do, Madame?”

She smiled faintly, for his matter-of-fact tone did not completely disguise his dismay. “You need not leave right away, lad. Take some time to visit with your daughter. And then I would have you go back to France, where you must do your best to convince John that his only chance of survival is to throw himself on Richard’s mercy. It will be no easy task, and not one you’d choose of your own free will.”

Eleanor paused, her eyes searching Justin’s face. “May I rely upon you, Justin, to do my bidding?”

Justin’s hesitation was barely noticeable. “I serve at the queen’s pleasure,” he said.