Prince of Darkness

CHAPTER 2

December 1193

STALBANS, ENGLAND

The two men were loitering by the roadside with such suspicious intent that they at once drew Sarra’s attention. Turning in the saddle, she was relieved to see that Justin de Quincy had noticed them, too, and was already taking protective measures. Nudging his stallion toward the Lady Claudine’s mare, he carefully transferred the blanket-wrapped bundle in his arms to her embrace, and then opened his mantle to give himself quick access to the sword at his hip. As Sarra had hoped and Justin had expected, the mere sight of the weapon was enough to discourage any villainy the men had in mind. Tipping their caps with sardonic deference, they backed away from the road, prudently preferring to await easier prey.

Justin did not let down his guard, though, not until they’d reached the outskirts of St Albans. Only then did he dare to reclaim that precious cargo. The infant settled back into the crook of his arm with a soft sigh, and her contentment caught at his heart.

“We are almost there,” Sarra said quietly, giving him a sympathetic sideways glance as she tightened her hold upon her own baby.

Justin nodded, never taking his eyes from his daughter’s flower-petal little face. He said nothing, for what was there to say?

As soon as he heard the footsteps outside, Baldwin leaped to his feet. He flung the door open wide, his welcoming smile faltering at the sight of his sister. “Rohese!” Attempting to disguise his disappointment, he made a great fuss out of ushering her inside, seating her close to the hearth, and fetching her a cup of his best ale. “This is indeed a pleasant surprise,” he said heartily. “But where is Brian? Surely he did not let you make this trip on your own?”

“Of course not.” Her eyes no longer met his, though, as she explained that Brian had stopped by the local alehouse upon their arrival in town. “He had a great thirst after so many hours on the road…”

It was a weak excuse, feebly offered. But Baldwin bit back any comments, knowing from experience that an attack upon her husband would only spur her to his defense. A pity it was, but there was naught to be done about it. Baldwin liked his brother-by-marriage, in truth he did. Brian was a charmer, quick with a joke, always willing to offer a helping hand. He was never a nasty drunk, but a drunk he was, and Rohese alone refused to admit it.

“Where is Sarra?” she asked abruptly, eager to turn the conversation away from her missing husband. “And the bairns-never have I heard your house so quiet!”

“The children are with Sarra’s mother. Sarra… Sarra has been away for the past fortnight. She said she’d be back by the last week of Advent, so I hope she’ll get home today or tomorrow.”

He was not keen to explain his wife’s absence, but he knew he’d have to satisfy Rohese’s curiosity; no respectable wife and mother left her home and hearth unless her need was a strong one. And indeed, his sister blinked in surprise, at once wanting to know where Sarra had gone. He supposed he could lie and claim she was visiting an ailing aunt, but for what purpose? Sooner or later, the rest of the family would have to know.

“Sarra has agreed to be the wet nurse for a lady’s newborn.”

Rohese’s eyes widened. “Truly, Baldwin?” She knew that Sarra’s mother had been the wet nurse to King Richard in his infancy and her entire family had benefited greatly from it. Sarra’s brother Alexander not only enjoyed bragging rights as the king’s milk-brother, he had received an excellent education at St Albans and Paris. So she understood why Baldwin and Sarra might be tempted by such an opportunity. Yet there were drawbacks, too, in accepting so serious a trust.

“Are you sure you want to do this, Baldwin? I know Sarra would never agree to live in as her mother was required to do. But you’ll be taking a stranger’s child into your home, into your lives, for at least a year, mayhap two, until the babe is weaned.”

She did not mention the greatest deterrent to breast-nursing-that sexual intercourse was forbidden as long as the baby suckled. Since it was widely believed that breast-feeding prevented pregnancy and a highborn woman’s first duty was to provide her husband with heirs, women of the nobility hired wet nurses for their children. For those of lesser status or affluence, this was not possible, and their choices were unpalatable. A woman could sleep chastely in the marriage bed while she nursed her baby. Or her husband could refrain from spilling his seed within her body; “thresh within and winnow without,” as Rohese’s Brian cheerfully put it. But this practice was a mortal sin in the eyes of the Holy Church. Most couples chose the lesser sin and yielded to the temptations of the flesh. If a nursing mother then became pregnant, it was just God’s Will.

A wet nurse did not dare take such a risk, though. All knew that mother’s milk was purified blood. This made conception during nursing dangerous to the nursing baby, for a pregnant woman’s good blood would be needed to nurture the child within her womb, leaving only her impure blood to feed the child at her breast. Moreover, pregnancy would soon dry up her milk, impure or not, and she would no longer be of use to her highborn employer.

Rohese did not think she had the right to lecture, though, for Baldwin was her elder brother. She contented herself with repeating, “You are sure?”

“Yes,” he said, not sounding all that convinced. He was quiet for some moments, watching as flames licked the hearth log. “We could hardly say no, not when the queen was the one doing the asking. She sent for Sarra’s mother, told Hodierna that she needed a wet nurse she could trust, a woman who was healthy, between twenty-five and thirty-five, willing to forswear spicy and sour foods whilst nursing, and above all, discreet.”

Rohese had straightened on her stool at the first mention of the queen. It all made sense now. Understandably eager to please Eleanor, Hodierna must have mentioned that her youngest daughter was nursing her own babe. “No,” she agreed, “you could hardly turn down the Queen of England.” Her eyes shining, she leaned forward, patting Baldwin’s knee. “This is so exciting, Baldwin! For the queen to take a hand, surely the babe must be of high birth. You think… could it be her son John’s?”

Sarra would never have answered Rohese’s question, but Sarra was not there. Baldwin already had misgivings and the baby had not even arrived yet. “I wondered that, too,” he admitted. “But I met the father, or the lad claiming to be the father. He came a fortnight ago to escort Sarra to Godstow Priory. That is where the mother had her lying-in, and I gathered that Justin-the only name he gave me-has been staying nearby since the babe’s birth. The baby was not due till December, but she was born early. They had to find a local girl to nurse the child until arrangements could be made to get her to St Albans.”

Rohese had not yet abandoned her theory that the baby could be Lord John’s, and she felt a small dart of disappointment, for she imagined a father would be more involved in a son’s life than a daughter’s. “The child is a girl, then?”

Baldwin nodded. “She is called Aline. Justin said it was his mother’s name.” Anticipating her curious questions, he raised a hand in playful protest. “I can tell you very little about him, Rohese, other than the fact that he has excellent manners and wears a sword with the comfort of a man who knows how to use it.”

“What is his connection to the queen? Could he… could he be a natural son of the old king?”

Baldwin shook his head, chuckling. “He has grey eyes like the old king, but he is dark as a Saracen. Moreover, I do not think the queen would have warm, fond feelings for one of King Henry’s bastards. This Justin cannot be much more than twenty or twenty-one, and by then the queen was being held prisoner by her husband.”

“Oh,” Rohese said, deflated. At least two of King Henry’s bastards had been raised at his court, with the queen’s consent. But if Justin were born after the queen had rebelled against King Henry, he’d not have known her during his childhood and it was unlikely that she’d be bestirring herself on his behalf. “Well, then, it must be the baby’s mother who has the queen’s favor. What do you know about her?”

“Even less than I know about Justin. We’ve been told her name is Clarice, but it is most likely false-” This time Baldwin was certain of the step outside the door. With a grin, he hurried over to open it for his wife.

Baldwin was struck by the beauty of the woman introduced to him as “the Lady Clarice.” He was struck, too, by her unease. Her smile was perfunctory, her demeanor distracted, and her eyes darted around the room as if measuring the confines of a cage. Conversation was stilted, sporadic, for Justin was no more talkative than “Clarice.” Unlike her, though, he did not seem nervous, just sad. He was holding baby Aline as if she were as delicate as a snowflake and would melt if breathed upon. Baldwin remembered how he’d felt when he’d cradled his firstborn-awed and thankful and so protective of that fragile little life that it was actually painful-and he thawed toward the younger man. But his newfound empathy for Justin did nothing to ease the awkwardness, and he was relieved when Sarra reached again for her mantle, declaring that she could not wait another moment to see her children.

Once out in the street, Rohese was obviously eager to interrogate Sarra about Aline’s parents, but she won Baldwin’s gratitude by curbing her curiosity and declaring she was off to fetch Brian from the alehouse. Sarra and Baldwin stood for several moments in a wordless embrace, cuddling their young daughter between them until she started to squirm. Giving her to Baldwin, Sarra linked her arm in his and they started walking up the street toward her mother’s residence.

“Well, Ella,” he joked, “how do you feel about having a new milk-sister?” The little girl gurgled and cooed, and his anxiety began to ebb away in his joy at having his family together again. “So, what do you think, Sarra?”

“It will be well,” she said, and he was comforted by her certainty, for she’d never been one for sweetening the truth. “Our greatest fear was that they’d be haughty and demanding. We need not worry about that. The girl is highborn, as we suspected, but I saw no malice in her, no spite, and I did not see her at her best, for she is still recovering from the birthing. She had a hard time of it, Baldwin, bled enough to scare the midwife half to death.”

Ella let out a sudden squeal, and Aline and her mysterious parents were forgotten. Sarra wanted reassurance that their other children had behaved themselves during her absence, and Baldwin was happy to spin some tall tales about their mischief-making. It was not until they’d almost reached her mother’s house that he thought to thank her for bringing that awkward cottage encounter to a merciful end.

“Actually,” she said, “I wanted to give them some time alone with their little one.”

“Ah… so it will be a painful parting?”

“I think so,” she said, and then amended that to “Certainly for him.”

Claudine had followed Justin to the door and was watching as he untied the cradle from their packhorse. But after a moment, she realized that the chill was not good for the baby, and she hurriedly retreated toward the hearth. Aline hiccupped, and she patted the infant gingerly on the back as she’d seen Sarra do. To her surprise, it worked and Aline burped.

Justin came in, then, with the cradle. Once it was set up, Claudine relinquished the baby and went to pour a cup of ale. Justin was leaning over the cradle, murmuring to Aline. Returning with the ale, Claudine smiled when she was close enough to catch his words. “What did you call her? Butterfly?”

“The swaddling looks like a cocoon to me.” When Claudine studied the linen bands binding the baby’s body, she saw what he meant; only Aline’s head and hands were visible. “Sarra assured me that it is necessary to keep her warm and make sure her limbs develop properly. She says an infant’s body is so soft and pliable that it needs special support, and I daresay she is right, but it does not look comfortable, does it?”

“This is the way it is always done, Justin.” Reaching over to straighten the pannus, the cloth covering Aline’s loins, Claudine wrinkled her nose. “Not again!”

“She does leak a lot,” Justin agreed, grinning, and went rooting for a dry cloth in Aline’s coffer. Neither one had fully mastered the skill of diapering a baby yet, but between the two of them, they managed to get Aline into a clean one. Claudine retrieved her ale cup while he continued to play with their daughter. She watched him for a few moments before saying,

“Justin… I have a favor to ask of you.”

He glanced up, and although he smiled, she thought he looked faintly wary, too. “It may be months before the queen and King Richard return from Germany. Since I need not be in attendance upon the queen, I have decided to pay a visit to my family, first to my cousin Petronillla in Paris and then home to Poitou. Will you escort me to Southampton?”

“Of course I will,” Justin said, doing his best to conceal his relief that she had not asked him to accompany her to France. If she had, he’d have felt honor-bound to accept. His own mother had died giving him birth, and the midwife had told him that Claudine had come fearfully close to trading her life for Aline’s. Had he ever loved Claudine? He remembered how much it had hurt to discover that she was John’s spy, and how troubling it had been to discover, too, that he could still desire a woman he could not trust. When she’d told him that she was pregnant, a very ugly suspicion had surfaced; had she been John’s concubine as well as his spy?

Claudine was a distant kinswoman of Queen Eleanor, and ostensibly this was why the queen had been so willing to help with Claudine’s pregnancy. Or was it that she’d wondered if Claudine could be carrying her grandchild? Justin had never discussed this with the queen. He’d had difficulty even admitting the suspicion to himself. He had no proof, after all, that Claudine had ever lain with John, much less that she’d been sharing his bed when Aline was conceived. The doubts had remained, though-until the first time he’d held Aline in his arms. But if he’d given his heart utterly and willingly to his baby daughter, it was far more complicated with Claudine.

“Justin…?” She was watching him intently. “What is it? Your words do not match your face. Surely it is not too much to ask?”

“Not at all! I’ll gladly take you to Southampton, Claudine.”

“I’d ask you to come with me to France, but I dare not-you understand.”

He did. She could hardly invite him to meet her family. How would she introduce him? As her lower-class lover? She was the daughter of one highborn baron, widow of another, and he was the bastard son of a bishop. Her father was not likely to be impressed that he was also the queen’s man. They were the queen’s kindred.

Claudine had wandered to the door. Opening it a crack, she turned to face Justin with a radiant, relieved smile. “Sarra and her husband are coming back, with a flock of children trailing after them. We ought to leave whilst there is still daylight, Justin.”

“I suppose.” As he reached over to make sure Aline’s blankets were securely tucked around her, she opened her eyes. They’d been blue at birth, but they’d been darkening daily, and Sarra had told him that they might eventually become as brown as Claudine’s. When he touched her hand, her tiny fingers clamped on to his thumb. “I have to go, Butterfly,” he said softly. “But I’ll be back.”

Winchester was on the Southampton road, and Justin suggested that they stop there for the night in order to visit with his friend, Luke de Marston, the shire’s under-sheriff. Claudine had met Luke during one of his London trips and they’d gotten along very well, so she was amenable to the idea. Reaching the city at dusk, they were made welcome by Luke and the woman he loved, Aldith. But within an hour of their arrival, Claudine sensed that they were sharing their cottage with trouble. It lurked in the corners, flitted about in the shadows, hovered in the air, and she was worldly enough to recognize that this was the age-old war that men and women had been fighting since God breathed life into Adam’s rib.

Justin was not oblivious to the tension, either. He caught the oblique glances that Aldith cast in Luke’s direction when he wasn’t looking. He felt the heaviness of the silences between them. He noticed how often Luke reached for the wine flagon. He noticed, too, how uncomfortable Aldith seemed in Claudine’s presence; Aldith usually made other women feel uncomfortable. But she knew Claudine was a lady-in-waiting to the Queen of England while she was a poor potter’s daughter of dubious reputation. Her unease told Justin that she’d learned Luke was under pressure to end their liaison, and he was sorry, for Aldith was his friend, the most seductive, shapely of friends, but a friend, nonetheless.

The only one who was enjoying the stay in Winchester was Justin’s dog, Shadow, for he was utterly and enthusiastically smitten with Jezebel, Aldith’s mastiff. Rescued by Justin from drowning in the River Fleet, Shadow had finally grown into his long, rangy frame, but he was still dwarfed by the enormous mastiff, who was not receptive to his wooing. He continued his high-risk courtship, though, until a snarl and yelp told them that Jezebel’s latest rebuff had drawn blood.

“Poor sap,” Luke said unsympathetically. “I have to make one last sweep of the town tonight. Come with me, de Quincy, and we’d best bring your besotted hound with us ere Jezebel bites him where it will hurt the most.”

Claudine and Aldith shared a common expression for a moment, one of dismay at the prospect of being left alone together. Justin snatched up his mantle, hoping he did not appear too eager to escape the stifling atmosphere of the cottage, and he and Shadow followed the under-sheriff out into the night.

They ended up in a tavern on Calpe Street. As usual, Luke insisted upon being the one to order a flagon of heavily spiced red wine. An under-sheriff could run up charges indefinitely, for no alehouse or tavern owner would be foolish enough to push for payment. Justin coaxed Shadow under the table where he’d be in no danger of being stepped on and then apologized for showing up at Luke’s door with no warning.

“What you really mean,” Luke said, “is that you’re sorry you did not want to pay for a night’s stay at a Winchester inn. The worst of our flea-ridden hovels is looking better and better when compared to the harmony and joy at Castle de Marston.”

“You know me, anything to save a few pence. So… Aldith knows?”

Luke nodded morosely and they drank in silence for several moments. They’d met when Justin had been investigating the death of a Winchester goldsmith the previous year. Aldith had been the man’s longtime mistress, but Luke had been willing to offer her what the goldsmith could not-marriage. When word of his intentions got out, though, he’d encountered opposition from the sheriff and the Bishop of Winchester. Marriage would elevate Aldith into the gentry, and Winchester society had far more stringent standards for an under-sheriff’s wife than for his bedmate. Unwilling to lose his office, and equally unwilling to lose Aldith, Luke had been concocting excuses for delaying the wedding while he tried to find a way out of the trap. Justin had advised him to tell Aldith the truth. Apparently that had not worked too well.

“She blames you for not defying them?” he asked in surprise, for that did not mesh with what he knew of Aldith.

“No, she says not. She said she understood and she chided me for not telling her sooner. But nothing has been right between us since then. We fight more and we watch what we say and…” Luke doused the rest of his words in his wine cup. When he set it down again, he signaled that he was done discussing his family woes by saying hastily, “Well, enough of that. What is the latest news about the queen and King Richard?”

The English king had been seized by his enemies on his way home from the Crusade, and after much negotiation and scheming, he was to be freed upon payment of a vast ransom to his royal captor, Heinrich, the Holy Roman Emperor. Queen Eleanor had sailed for Germany that past November to deliver the ransom. But Richard’s release was not a foregone conclusion. The French king, Philippe, and Richard’s younger brother, John, Count of Mortain, had been doing all in their power to prolong Richard’s confinement, and they were not known for being gracious losers. Rumor had it that they’d offered Heinrich an even larger sum to keep Richard prisoner, and Luke hoped that Justin, one of the queen’s men, might be a better source than local alehouse gossip.

He was to be disappointed, though. All Justin could tell him was that the queen had safely arrived in Germany and that John was still in France, reported to be at the French king’s court. Peering into the wine flagon, Luke motioned to the serving maid for another. He was about to recount a story about a local vintner who’d evaded the tax imposed to pay King Richard’s ransom, but remembered in time that Justin would probably not see the humor in it. The Crown had demanded that all of Richard’s subjects contribute fully a fourth of their annual income to the Exchequer, a huge burden that had eroded some of the king’s popularity, at least in Winchester. But Justin’s loyalty to his queen was absolute and Luke thought it was unlikely he’d question the exorbitant price the English were paying for the return of their king.

“I had to make a trip to London,” he said, “the week of Michaelmas. I stopped by to see you, de Quincy, but your friends at the alehouse said you’d been gone since the summer. I assume you were off skulking and lurking on the queen’s behalf?”

“I was in Wales,” Justin said, reaching over to pour them more wine. “Some of King Richard’s ransom had gone missing, and the queen sent me to recover it.”

“Just another ordinary summer, then,” Luke said with a grin. “Did you get it back?”

“Eventually,” Justin said, and he grinned, too, then, imagining Luke’s reaction if he’d been able to give the deputy a candid account of his time in Wales.

The Welsh prince, Davydd ab Owain, was fighting a civil war with his nephew, Llewelyn ab Iorwerth. He staged a false robbery of the ransom to put the blame on Llewelyn, but he was outwitted by his not-so-loving wife, Emma, the bastard sister of the old king. Emma arranged to have the ransom really stolen, with the help of a partner in crime and a dangerous spy called “the Breton.” I followed Emma to an abbey grange and discovered that her confederate was none other than the queen’s son John, who decided that the best way to protect his aunt Emma was to shut my mouth by filling it with grave-soil. Since a prince never dirties his own hands, he left it for Durand to do.

You remember Durand, Luke? John’s henchman from Hell, who secretly serves the queen when he is not doing the Devil’s work. Durand had the grace to apologize to me first, wanting me to know there was nothing personal in his actions as he was about to spill my guts all over the chapel floor. Obviously it did not go as he expected, thanks to Llewelyn. Did I mention that Llewelyn and I had become allies of a sort? Anyway, I got the ransom back for the queen, too many men died, and John decided that Paris was healthier than Wales.

Of course Justin could never say that. Of all he owed the queen, not the least was his silence. She wanted John’s misdeeds covered up, not exposed to the light of day. Nor was he being completely honest, not even in his own mental musings. His mocking tone softened the harsh edges of memory-trapped in that torch-lit chapel, disarmed and defenseless, hearing John say dispassionately, “Kill him.”

“I was somewhat surprised to have you turn up with the Lady Claudine,” Luke admitted, “for I thought you ended it once you found out that she was spying for John in her spare time.”

“I did, but…” Justin shrugged, for he could hardly explain about Aline. It got confusing at times, remembering who knew which secrets. Claudine knew that the Bishop of Chester was his father. But she did not know that her spying had been discovered by Justin and the queen. Luke knew about Justin’s connection to Claudine, but not about his blood ties to the bishop. Molly, a childhood friend and recent bedmate, had guessed the truth about his father. She did not know, though, that he served the queen. The irony was not lost upon Justin that he, who’d never cared much for secrets, should now have so many.

Misreading his shrug, Luke laughed. “I know; when it comes to a choice between common sense and a beautiful woman, guess which one wins every time? Just be sure you sleep with one eye open, de Quincy, especially once you reach Paris. That is where John is amusing himself these days, is it not?”

“I am not accompanying Claudine to Paris. I go no farther than the docks at Southampton.”

Luke blinked. “You do remember that the queen is away? Why pass up a chance to see Paris? Take advantage of this free time, de Quincy. Trust me on this-of all the cities in Christendom, none offers a man as many opportunities to sin as Paris does!”

“I daresay you’re right. But there is a town that I find even more tempting than Paris,” Justin confided, and laughed outright at the baffled expression on Luke’s face when he said, “St Albans.”