Prince of Darkness

CHAPTER 3

January 1194

LONDON, ENGLAND

A brisk wind had chased most Londoners indoors. The man shambling along Gracechurch Street encountered no other passersby, only two cats snarling and spitting at each other on the roof of an apothecary’s shop. The shop was closed, for customers were scarce once the winter dark had descended. Farther down the street, though, he saw light leaking from the cracked shutters of the local alehouse, and he quickened his pace. But the door did not budge when he shoved it, and as he pounded for entry, a voice from within shouted, “We are closed, so be off with you!”

He was not easily discouraged and continued to beat upon the door for several moments, to no avail. He was finally stumbling away, cursing under his breath, when he almost collided with a younger man just turning the corner. He reeled backward, would have fallen if the other man had not caught his arm and hauled him upright, saying, “Have a care, Ned.”

The face smiling down at him looked blearily familiar, but his brain had been marinating in wine since mid-afternoon and his memory refused to summon up a name. His new friend had a grip on his elbow and was steering him back toward the alehouse. He submitted willingly to the change of direction, although he thought it only fair to warn mournfully, “They’ll not let us in.”

“I think they will,” Justin assured him, turning his head to avoid the wine fumes gusting from Ned’s mouth. “Nell closed the alehouse tonight for Cicily’s churching. You know Cicily-the chandler’s wife? Remember she had a baby last month?” Ned was looking up at him with such little comprehension that Justin abandoned any further explanations. Rapping sharply upon the alehouse door, he said, “It’s Justin,” and when it opened, he pulled Ned in with him.

Nell was a tiny little thing, barely five feet tall, but when she frowned grown men cringed, for her tempers were feared the length and breadth of Gracechurch Street. She was scowling now at Ned, who instinctively shrank back behind Justin. “Passing strange, but I do not remember inviting this swill-pot to the churching!”

“Have a heart, Nell. All they’ll find is a frozen lump in the morning if he does not get somewhere to sober up.”

Nell grumbled, as he expected. But she also waved Ned on in, as he’d expected, too. Justin snatched an ale from Odo the barber and guided Ned over to an empty seat, where he settled down happily with the ale, utterly oblivious of the celebration going on all around him. Justin shed his mantle, exchanged greetings with those closest to the door, and went to get Odo another ale. Coming back, he acknowledged his dog’s enthusiastic if belated welcome, and wandered over to eavesdrop as Odo’s wife, Agnes, tried to explain to Nell’s young daughter, Lucy, what a churching was.

“… and after giving birth, she is welcomed back into the Church, lass, where she is purified with holy water and blessed by the priest. Afterward, there is a gathering of her friends and family, and Cicily has so many of them that your mama insisted it be held at the alehouse.”

“Mama said she was the baby’s…” Lucy frowned, trying to remember, her expression a mirror in miniature of her mother’s. “… the baby’s godmother!”

Agnes, a wise woman, detected the unspoken admission of jealousy and did her best to reassure Lucy that her mother’s new goddaughter was not a rival for her affections. “It is not like having a child of your own blood, not like you, Lucy. Nonetheless, it is a great honor to be a godparent. You ought to be pleased that your mama was chosen.”

Lucy did not seem overly impressed with the honor, but Justin felt a sudden stab of guilt. Agnes’s words reminded him that a godmother was only one of the benefits other children enjoyed and Aline would be denied. How could he and Claudine seek out godparents for a child whose very existence must be kept secret?

At that moment, he happened to see Aldred leaning against the far wall. The young Kentishman worked for Jonas, the one-eyed serjeant who was Justin’s sometime partner and the fulltime scourge of the London underworld. Justin began to weave his way across the common room. Aldred was hoarding a pile of Nell’s savory wafers and they staged a mock struggle over possession, which ended with several wafers sliding off the platter into the floor rushes. Justin and Aldred reacted as one, hastily looking around to make sure Nell hadn’t noticed the mishap.

Justin whistled for Shadow, who eagerly volunteered for wafer cleanup, and then followed Aldred toward a vacant space on the closest bench. Watching the revelries, Justin felt a quiet contentment, a sense of belonging that he’d rarely experienced. He knew that he did not truly belong on Gracechurch Street, but thanks to his friendship with Nell and Aldred and Gunter the blacksmith, he’d been accepted as if he did, and that was an unusual occurrence in his life. Even before he’d learned the truth about his paternity, he’d always felt like an outsider, the foundling without family in a world in which family was paramount.

But on Gracechurch Street, he knew these people, knew their secrets and their hopes. He knew that the cartwright’s brother was smitten with the weaver’s daughter, knew that Avice, the tanner’s widow, fed her children by taking in laundry and an occasional male customer when her pantry ran bare, knew that Aldred was besotted with Nell and Gunter still mourned his dead wife, and that his neighbors no longer looked upon him with suspicion, that they’d learned to trust him enough to take pride in knowing that one of the queen’s men was living in their midst.

The new mother, Cicily, was basking in the attention, and she’d just dramatically declared that her next child would be a boy since the first sight to fill her eyes upon leaving the church was a little lad. At that moment, there was a sudden, loud pounding at the door. Nell hastened over and slid back the latch. It was soon apparent to the others that she was arguing with the Watch, for snatches of conversation came wafting in with each blast of cold air.

“… curfew rung at St Mary-Le-Bow!”

“But we are closed to the public!” Nell protested. “My friends and I are celebrating Cicily’s churching.”

“… heard that one before… hauled into the wardmoot… huge fine…”

“Oh, Splendor of God!” Nell threw up her hands in frustration. “Justin, will you please come tell these fools that we are not open for business?” Ignoring his obvious reluctance, she swung back toward the Watch, arms akimbo, eyes snapping. “Hear it from the queen’s man if you doubt my word!”

Knowing Nell was not to be denied, Justin got to his feet and crossed to the door. With a reproachful glance toward Nell that was utterly wasted, he stepped outside to talk to the Watch. Returning soon thereafter, he muttered that the Watch was satisfied and grabbed Nell in time to stop her from opening the door and shouting a triumphant “I told you so!”

Conversation resumed and once it had reached a festive level again, Aldred elbowed Justin in the ribs and murmured, “So how did you ‘satisfy’ the Watch?” for he knew Justin well enough to feel confident that he’d not clubbed them over the heads with the queen’s name.

“How do you think? I bribed them,” Justin confessed quietly, and they exchanged grins, for they’d both learned by now that the less authority men had, the more likely they were to defend it jealously. But it was then that the banging began again, even louder this time.

“I’ll get it,” Aldred offered quickly, for Nell’s outraged expression did not bode well for a peaceful resolution. Before she could object, he darted to the door. “It is not the Watch come back,” he announced with palpable relief, and opened the door wide. “Someone is asking after you, Justin.”

The man was a stranger. He was clad in a costly wool mantle that told Justin he was no ordinary courier; so did his self-assurance, which bordered on arrogance. “I’d been told that if you were not to be found at the cottage by the smithy, I should seek you at the alehouse,” he said, drawing out a tightly rolled parchment. “This was to be delivered into your hands and yours alone.”

Justin had received urgent communications in the past. But the queen would not be sending him messages from Germany. For a brief moment, he wondered if it could be from his father. Almost at once, he dismissed that idea; the bishop had never bothered to learn how to reach him in London. A wax seal dangled from the scroll, its imprint unfamiliar to him. Claiming the letter, he headed into the kitchen in search of light and privacy.

He broke the seal and unrolled the letter as soon as he reached the hearth. The handwriting was not known to him, and his eyes flicked to the last line, seeking the identity of the sender. He caught his breath at the sight of Claudine’s name, elegantly inscribed across the bottom of the page. He read rapidly by the flickering light of the kitchen fireplace, then went back and read it a second time.

“Justin?”

His head coming up sharply, he saw Nell standing in the doorway. “I do not mean to pry,” she said. Not even Nell could carry that off with a straight face, and her lips were twitching. “All right, I do. But it is my experience that mysterious messages arriving in the middle of the night rarely bear good news. Does this one?”

“No, most likely not, Nell. I shall have to leave at first light. I’d be grateful if you could care for Shadow whilst I am gone.”

Nell grimaced and sighed and looked put-upon, but eventually agreed, as they both knew she’d do. “At least tell me where you’ll be going.”

Justin glanced down at the letter again. “Dover,” he said, “where I’ll be taking ship for France.”

In his twenty-one years, Justin had never set foot on shipboard, and he’d have been content to go to his grave without ever having that experience. He’d done his best to make the trip tolerable, seeking out a priest to be shriven even before booking passage, and then searching for the dockside alehouse frequented by the crew of his ship, the Holy Ghost. It was easy enough to befriend the sailors, taking no more than an offer to buy them an ale, and by the time he was ferried out to their ship, he had earned an exemption from the casual contempt that sailors worldwide bestowed upon their land-loving passengers.

His alehouse companions found him a sheltered spot on deck, pointed out the steering oar that acted as a rudder, and showed him how the compass worked-a needle magnetized by a lodestone, then placed on a pivot in a shallow pan of water. One even shared a pinch of ground ginger, swearing it would settle his stomach and keep him from feeding the fish. Justin was grateful for their goodwill. It did not make the voyage any less unpleasant for him, though. He shuddered every time the ship sank into a slough, holding his breath until it battled its way back. The ship was so low in the water that he was doused with sea spray, chilled to the very marrow of his bones, but the sailors insisted that his queasiness would worsen within the crowded, rank confines of the canvas tent set up to shelter the passengers, where men were “puking their guts up” and there was not room enough to “swing a dead cat.” So Justin stayed out on the deck, bracing himself against the gunwale of the Holy Ghost and clinging to the Infinite Mercy of Almighty God.

Justin had chosen the port of Dover over Southampton because of its closer proximity to London. Claudine’s letter had been sparing with details, but her urgency had been unmistakable. Trouble was brewing, she’d written, and she entreated him to make haste to Paris if ever he’d loved her. Had her family learned about Aline? Had she confided in her cousin Petronilla, only to be betrayed? If she had indeed been disowned by her father and brothers, he did not know what he could do to heal so grievous a wound. He had to try, though. To ease her fears of childbirth and disgrace, he’d promised her that he would always be there when she and Aline had need of him. If that meant Paris and a hellish sea voyage, so be it.

The Holy Ghost took more than twelve hours to cross the Channel, entering Boulogne harbor that night with the incoming tide. Justin had seen few sights as beautiful to him as the beacon fire lit in the old Roman lighthouse on the hill overlooking the estuary. The customs fee demanded of disembarking passengers was outrageously high, but Justin paid it without complaint, so eager was he to get back upon ground that did not tremble and quake like one of Nell’s egg custards. The next morning he purchased a horse, too impatient to bargain the price down by much, and took the road south toward Paris.

Four days later, Justin saw the walls of Saint-Denis in the distance, and his spirits rose, for he’d been told the abbey was only seven miles from Paris. Regretting that he could not spare the time to visit the magnificent abbey church, he resolutely pushed on. The road wound its way through open fields and vineyards, deserted and barren under an overcast sky. He had chosen a well-traveled road, though, one paved by long-dead Roman engineers, and he did not lack for company. Heavily laden carts, messengers on lathered horses, pilgrims with sturdy ash-wood staffs, beggars, merchants, soldiers, an occasional barefoot penitent, dogs, several elderly monks on mules, peddlers, a raucous band of students, and a well-mounted lord and his retinue-all converging upon Paris, paying scant heed to the body dangling from a roadside gallows, for the end of their journey was at hand.

Several years earlier, the French king had begun replacing the wooden stockade that sheltered the Right Bank of the Seine with a wall of stone. It was soon within view, and the weary travelers surged forward, eager to reach the city before darkness descended. After paying the toll, Justin was allowed to pass through the gate of Saint-Merri. Although Claudine’s letter had been vexingly terse, she had at least provided directions to her cousin Petronilla’s town house, located there on the Right Bank.

He had no difficulty finding it for it overlooked a large, open area called the Greve, the city’s wine market. All he’d known about Petronilla was that she was wed to a much older French lord, and divided her time between their estates in Vermandois and their residence in Paris. Now he knew, too, that her husband was wealthy. Most urban dwellings were constructed at right angles to the street, for it was cheaper to build that way. This house was different. Its great hall was parallel to the street, set back in its own courtyard, flanked by stables and a kitchen and other wooden buildings. Dismounting, Justin found himself hesitating to enter, for Claudine’s lavish lodgings were yet further proof of the great gulf between her world and his.

He was admitted at once, and within moments, Claudine was hastening into the great hall to bid him welcome. “How it gladdens my eyes to see you, Justin!” Her time in Paris seemed to have suited Claudine, for she looked rested and relaxed, not at all like a woman in peril. But his questions would have to wait, for her cousin had followed her into the hall.

Petronilla had none of Claudine’s dark, sultry beauty, but she was elegant and graceful and vivacious, obviously an old man’s pampered darling who had the wit to recognize her good fortune. She greeted Justin with surprising warmth. He’d not expected her to approve of Claudine’s liaison with a man who was not even a knight. Claudine must have taken her cousin into her confidence, though, for she was making no attempt to hide their intimacy, linking her arm in his as she led him toward the stairwell, insisting that he must be hungry and bone-weary and in need of tender care.

He was ushered into a comfortable bedchamber abovestairs, lit by thick wax candles and heated by a charcoal-filled iron brazier. A servant was pouring warm water into a washing laver, and a platter had already been set out on a table, piled with bread and thick slices of beef. When he tried to speak, Claudine gently placed her finger to his lips.

“We’ll talk later. Rest for a while first. You’ve had a long journey.” She beckoned to the servant and slipped away before Justin could respond. As the door closed quietly behind her, he removed his mantle, slowly unbuckled his scabbard. There was a wine cup on the table. Picking it up, he took a swallow; as he expected, it was an expensive vintage. A pair of soft leather shoes lay neatly aligned by the side of the bed. They were very stylish, fastened at the ankle with a decorative brooch, and familiar to him. It was only then that he realized Claudine had taken him to her own bedchamber.

Justin hadn’t meant to sleep, but the bed was invitingly close at hand, and he’d been in the saddle since dawn. When he awoke, one glance at the marked candle told him that he’d been asleep for several hours. He swung off the bed, hastily groping for his boots. He was still groggy, but splashing his face with water from the laver helped. After cleaning away the dust and road grime of the past few days, he collected his scabbard and mantle and stepped out into the stairwell.

Claudine was awaiting him in the great hall. “I was beginning to fear you’d sleep till the week’s end,” she teased. “No matter, though. You’re awake now, so we can talk. Let’s go up to Petronilla’s solar where we can have privacy.”

Justin was more than willing, for none of this made sense so far. If she were in some sort of danger, why did she seem so nonchalant? And if she were not, why had she summoned him with such urgency? He was done with waiting, and as soon as they entered the solar, he said, with poorly concealed impatience, “Claudine, what is going on? Why did you send for me?”

His answer did not come from Claudine. As the door closed behind them, a figure stepped from the shadows, into the flickering circle of light cast by a smoking oil lamp. “Well, actually, de Quincy,” John said affably, “I was the one who sent for you.”