Prince of Darkness

CHAPTER 5

January 1194

STALBANS, ENGLAND

Justin was sprawled in Baldwin and Sarra’s best chair, long legs stretched toward the hearth, his the boneless, easy abandon of youth, and Baldwin felt a twinge of envy, remembering when he, too, had been able to spend hours in the saddle without suffering cramps and blisters and spasms of the spine. The baby cradled in the crook of Justin’s arm was sleeping peacefully, and Justin’s own lashes were flickering drowsily. With an indulgent smile, Baldwin watched him fight his sleepiness. When he’d first realized how often Justin would be visiting Aline, Baldwin had been dubious, not eager to have a stranger so often under his roof, but Justin did his best to make his calls as unobtrusive as possible, and it could always have been worse. It could have been “the Lady Clarice” hovering underfoot.

“What happened to that handsome chestnut stallion of yours? Did you sell him?”

“Jesu forfend,” Justin said with a smile. “I’d sooner give up a body part than I would Copper. The horse I’m riding is one I bought in Dover. I’ll sell him in Southampton ere I take ship for France.”

“You do get about,” Baldwin marveled. “Just back from Paris and now off to Wales and then France again. I feel bone-weary merely listening to your plans, lad.”

“Me, too,” Justin admitted. He was dreading this trip into Wales, so much so that he found himself tempted to confide his fears to Baldwin. He didn’t, of course, for reticence was a lifetime’s habit, bred into his bones even before he’d become the queen’s man and the bearer of too many secrets. “I almost forgot,” he said. “I bought a rattle for Aline in Boulogne. It is over there in my saddlebag…”

“Sit still,” Baldwin instructed, “lest you awake the little lass. I’ll fetch it.” Rising with a creaking of what he ruefully called his “old bones,” he soon found the rattle. Straightening up, he smiled at the sight that met his eyes, for Justin had dozed off, joining his infant daughter in sleep. Sarra had also noticed, and gently freed the baby from Justin’s grasp, returning Aline to her cradle. Picking up a blanket, Baldwin tucked it around the young man’s shoulders, and smiled again, this time at his wife. “I think,” he said, “this might work out.”

Dusk was blurring the last light of day as Justin rode across the Dee Bridge and into the city of Chester. He stopped first at the castle, for he was hoping that the earl would provide him with an armed escort for his foray into Wales. He’d given Prince Davydd good reason to wish him ill, and Davydd was not a man to listen to his better instincts-assuming he had any. The earl’s steward remembered Justin from past visits and he was made welcome. But when Justin asked to see the earl, the steward had disquieting, disappointing news for him. The Earl of Chester was gone from the city, gone from the country, having crossed over to his estates in Normandy and Brittany more than a month ago.

Thinking this was not an auspicious beginning to his mission, Justin sought solace at Molly’s cottage. The shutters were drawn, no smoke smudged the sky over the roof, and his knocking went unanswered. Hoping that Molly was not off with Piers Fitz Turold, the wealthy vintner who was her protector and the suspected source for much of Chester’s criminal activity, Justin headed for the dockside tavern owned by Fitz Turold and run by Molly’s brother, Bennet.

Bennet was not there, nor was Berta, the sullen, buxom serving maid. The man pouring drinks was a stranger to Justin, a burly, scarred redhead with unfriendly eyes and a mouth like a padlock. Justin’s questions about Bennet’s whereabouts were met with shrugs, suspicion, and silence. Justin was not surprised by the lack of cooperation; Fitz Turold was not known for hiring Good Samaritans. He was brooding over a flagon of wine, keeping an eye peeled for Bennet when a voice bellowed in his ear, “By God, it’s Ben’s friend!”

The youth beaming at him was vaguely familiar, but it was the salutation Justin remembered more than the face. Algar was one of the tavern regulars, a good-natured lad with a crush on Berta and an annoying habit of addressing Justin as “Ben’s friend.” For once, though, Justin was glad to see him and he gestured for Algar to pull up a stool. “You always know what is going on around here, Algar. Where is Bennet? And for that matter, where is Berta?”

“Berta is home, drunker than a peddler’s bitch,” Algar said, grinning. “She has been ailing for days with a bad tooth. We finally coaxed her into letting the barber pull it, but she refused to do it sober and damned near drained one of Ben’s kegs dry all by herself!”

“And Bennet? Is that where he is, with Berta?”

“No, Ben has been away all week. Molly went off to Dunham-on-the-Hill to tend to a friend whose time was nigh, and Ben went along to keep her safe.”

“Do you know when they’ll be back?”

“I suppose,” Algar said, “it depends upon how fast her friend has the baby!”

Justin took advantage of his connection to the earl to get a bed for the night at the castle. Sleep wouldn’t come, though. He’d faced danger before, greater danger than he was likely to encounter at Davydd’s court. But if he died in Wales, what would happen to Aline? She would continue to be cared for; the queen and Claudine would see to that. But who would tell her about her blood-kin, her true identity? He’d lived twenty years before finding out that the Bishop of Chester was his father. All he knew about his mother was her name, and he’d only learned that a few months ago. He did not want Aline to travel down that same lonely road.

The next morning, he asked the castle steward for parchment, pen, and ink. He did not have much to bequeath. He’d drawn up a will that spring, leaving his stallion to Gunter, the blacksmith who’d once saved his life, and his dog to Nell’s Lucy. His legacy to Aline must be the truth. She had the right to know her own history, her own heritage, and for several hours, he labored over a testament, trying to anticipate any questions she might have about the father she’d never known. He then wrote a brief letter to the queen, and carefully sealed both documents with borrowed wax, for the first time within memory sorry that he did not have a seal of his own. No seal, no land, not even a name that truly belonged to him. It had not mattered that much until he had a baby daughter and nothing to leave her but regrets.

After departing the castle, Justin rode straight for the Bishop of Chester’s palace on the outskirts of the city. He was nervous, for encounters with his father were invariably tense. Waiting for the bishop in the entrance hall, he could not help stealing sidelong glances at the chapel, for it was there that he’d confronted Aubrey de Quincy, and there that his father had denied his paternity until challenged to swear upon his own crucifix.

He turned at the sound of footsteps, saw his father emerging from the stairwell. “Well, Justin, this is a surprise.” The bishop’s smile was tentative, wary. “Come with me. I’ve given orders to have wine fetched.”

As he followed his father into the great hall, it occurred to Justin that this was the first time that the bishop had not whisked him out of sight and hearing of any witnesses. He must be feeling confident that there’d be no scenes. Justin supposed that, in an ironic sort of way, this was Aubrey’s declaration of faith, as close as he was ever likely to come to acceptance.

After taking seats near the central hearth, they drank their wine in an awkward silence that was broken at last by Aubrey. “The Earl of Chester told me that you’d recovered the ransom. I imagine the queen was very pleased with your performance. Are you… are you here on her behalf?”

“Yes,” Justin said, watching closely enough to catch the subtle signs of Aubrey’s relief that this was an official visit. “I have to go back into Wales.” Drawing the sealed letters from his mantle, he held them out to his father. “If you would make sure that these are dispatched to the Queen’s Grace, I would be very grateful. I need you to wait, though, until you hear that she has returned to England. I am sorry I cannot explain why-”

Aubrey waved aside his apologies as he accepted the letters. “There is no need. You have information meant for the queen’s eyes alone. I understand the confidential nature of your work,” he said, and there was an approving tone to his voice that Justin had rarely heard before. Apparently the queen’s favor carried weight even with a bishop.

“Thank you, my lord.” Justin hesitated, taken aback by a sudden, mad urge to tell his father the truth, to tell him about Aline, the granddaughter he’d likely never see. He raised his cup hastily, drowning the impulse in a swallow of Aubrey’s spiced hippocras.

The bishop had reached for his own wine cup, but he was not drinking. “There is something you need to know,” he said, speaking so softly that Justin had to lean forward to hear his words. “I was sorely troubled when you told me Lord Fitz Alan had learned that you were now using the de Quincy name.”

“Yes,” Justin said quietly, “I remember.”

Aubrey was staring down into his wine cup, fair brows furrowed. “I told him that you were a bastard son of my younger brother, Reynald. That would explain not only why you’d dared to lay claim to the name, but also why I’d gone to the trouble of placing you in his service. I thought it best that you know this since it is likely you’ll be encountering him at court.”

“I see.” Justin did not know what else to say. He’d not thought much about his father’s kindred, for what was the point? His father would never acknowledge him, never admit him into the de Quincy family circle. But those ghostly, faceless strangers had suddenly become real, made flesh and blood by the most simple of spells-the unexpected use of a given name. He had an uncle, Reynald, cousins he’d never get to know. He started to rise, then, for their business was done.

Aubrey rose, too, but he lingered for a moment longer. “God keep you safe in Wales, Justin.”

“Thank you,” Justin said, surprised. “Let’s hope that Davydd agrees with the Almighty.”

The bishop frowned. “The queen is sending you back to Davydd’s court? Is that wise?”

So his father knew of Davydd’s animosity. The Earl of Chester must have been more forthcoming than he’d thought. “I am not eager myself to see Davydd again,” Justin conceded, “but I have no choice, as I have an urgent message for the Lady Emma.”

Aubrey blinked and then his face cleared. “If it is Emma you seek, then you need not venture into Wales at all,” he said with a smile. “You can find her in Shropshire, at her Ellesmere manor.”

Justin could scarcely credit his great good luck. Being spared a trip into Davydd’s domains was like getting a reprieve on the very steps of the gallows. And Ellesmere lay less than twenty miles to the south. He’d broken his night’s fast with only a cup of ale and a piece of bread, and he decided that he could treat himself to a full meal before heading into Shropshire. He re-entered the city and had just turned onto Fleshmonger’s Lane in search of a cook-shop when he heard his name being shouted. Swinging about in the saddle, he saw two familiar figures hurrying toward him-the fishmonger’s brats who’d banded together with a bishop’s foundling to navigate the shoals of a precarious Chester childhood.

Bennet was as tall and thin and supple as a mountain ash; he had the gaunt, lean look of a man who’d often gone to bed hungry. That had indeed been true in his hardscrabble youth, for he and his older sister, Molly, had been accursed with a downtrodden drudge of a mother who’d sadly vanished from their lives, and a mean drunkard of a father who’d sadly stayed. Molly was a flower grown amongst weeds, as graceful and natural and self-willed as the grey cat she so doted upon, as quick to purr or show her claws. She’d easily captured Justin’s fourteen-year-old heart, and five months ago, their unexpected reunion had ended up in her bed. Now, as soon as Justin dismounted, she flung herself into his arms and kissed him with enough enthusiasm to earn a round of cheers from male passersby.

“We got back last night,” she explained as soon as she had breath for speech, “and found out this morning that you’d been at the tavern!”

“Well, Drogo did not remember your name,” Bennet chimed in, “but he described you as tall and dark and shifty-looking, and I said to Moll, ‘Damn me if that does not sound like Justin’s evil twin!’ ”

“Pay him no mind,” Molly directed, linking her arm in Justin’s and drawing him away from the noisome stench coming from the street’s center gutter. “Algar was at my cottage ere cockcrow, bursting to tell his news, and we’ve been scouring the city for you ever since. You gave us such a scare, Justin, for I was sure you’d be long gone!”

“You almost did miss me, Molly. I ought to have been on the road into Shropshire by now, but I decided to find a cook-shop first-”

Molly wrapped her arms around his neck and rose on tiptoe until her mouth was tantalizingly close to his own. “Are you hungry, lover?” she murmured, laughing up at him with such overdone innocence that Justin rapidly revised his travel plans. What difference could one more day make to John? Like as not, the Devil had been holding a space for him in Hell since he drew his first breath.