Prince of Darkness

CHAPTER 6

January 1194

ELLESMERE, ENGLAND

Justin’s first view of Ellesmere was an impressive one-a castle perched on a high ridge overlooking a placid lake. The scene was peaceful and pastoral, deceptively so, for this had been a Marcher lord’s stronghold, often caught up in the border wars with the Welsh and the skirmishes of that unhappy time known as The Anarchy, when the country had been convulsed by a power struggle so bloody that people had whispered that Christ and his saints must surely sleep. It was a Crown property by the reign of Henry II, who had given Ellesmere to Davydd ab Owain as part of Emma’s marriage portion, pleasing Davydd. Nothing would have pleased Emma, who’d been a most unwilling wife to the prince of Gwynedd.

Justin prudently chose to scout out the lay of the land before riding into the castle bailey and putting himself in Emma’s power, and he halted in the village. Even the smallest hamlets usually had an alewife and Ellesmere’s was a stout, fair-haired widow with a booming laugh and shrewd blue eyes. Upon spying the telltale ale-stake, Justin had drawn rein in front of her cottage and purchased a tankard of well-brewed ale, a chunk of newly baked bread, and some casual gossip about the lady of the manor.

Lady Emma was indeed in residence at the castle, the alewife affirmed, not surprising Justin with the slight emphasis she placed on Emma’s title; it had been his experience that other women did not like Emma much. If he wanted to see her ladyship, though, she continued, he’d best push on toward Shrewsbury, for that was where she was to be found, enriching the town merchants at her lord husband’s expense.

Even though it meant another fifteen-mile ride, Justin was pleased to learn that Emma was in Shrewsbury. He’d spent the first eight years of his life in that river town and knew it almost as well as he did Chester. He did not really think Emma posed the same danger as her impulsive, vengeful husband-she was much more clever than Davydd-but it would not hurt to approach her on more neutral ground than her Ellesmere manor.

Reaching Shrewsbury at dusk, he entered through the north gate. This was the only access by land, for Shrewsbury was situated in a horseshoe bend of the muddy River Severn, and it was securely guarded by a more formidable castle than Ellesmere, manned by Justin’s former lord and Shropshire’s sheriff, William Fitz Alan. Justin was not surprised to learn that Emma was not staying at the castle, for its accommodations were old-fashioned and Emma was particular about her comforts. Justin guessed that she’d be accepting the hospitality of Hugh de Lacy, the abbot of the prosperous Benedictine Abbey of St Peter and St Paul located on the outskirts of the town. Before he continued on to the abbey, he used his all-purpose letter from the queen-declaring him to be in her service-to secure lodgings at Shrewsbury Castle for himself and his gelding. Since he had no objection to spending John’s money, he bought a sturdy horn lantern and then headed out onto the Altus Vicus, Shrewsbury’s high street and major thoroughfare.

By the time he’d reached the bottom of Gombestole Street, the savory aromas wafting from cook-shops reminded him that the supper hour was nigh. He resisted the temptation to stop, though, wanting to get his interview with Emma done as soon as possible. As he hastened down the steep hill of the street called The Wyle, he found his path blocked by people milling about in the road. Weaving among them, he soon saw the cause of the delay. A cart was stuck in the middle of the thoroughfare, its wheels mired in mud. The carter was in a fury, cursing and lashing at his horse, a scrawny animal not much larger than a pony. This was such a common occurrence that few of the spectators had pity to spare for the beast. But Justin had always had a fondness for horses and underdogs, and the sight of that heaving, wheezing animal, lathered and bloodied, stirred his anger. He was shoving his way toward the cart when another man darted from the crowd and grabbed the carter’s whip as he lifted it to strike again.

“Do that and by God, I’ll make you eat it!” he threatened, wrenching the whip from the carter’s grasp and flinging it aside. The carter was sputtering in outrage and the spectators elbowed closer, anticipating a fight. The newcomer was of only average height, several inches shorter than the carter, but he was broad-chested and well-muscled, and the coiled tension in his stance communicated a willingness to see this through to the bloody end. The carter hesitated, glancing around for allies. Not finding any, he began fumbling with the knife at his belt. It was obvious that he did not really want to unsheathe it, but Justin knew that pride and the jostling bystanders could prod him into it if the confrontation were allowed to ferment.

Swaggering forward, he said loudly, in his best Luke de Marston manner, “Who is the fool blocking the road? Carts are stacking up like firewood! What are you all waiting for-Easter? You, you, and you-”

Pointing at random to the closest men, he directed them to help him free the mired cart, and so convincing was his assumption of authority that no one thought to question it. The carthorse’s champion had taken hold of the animal’s reins, coaxing it on as men put their shoulders to the wheels. The cart was soon free, and he reluctantly turned the reins over to the carter. But his grey eyes blazed when the carter started to clamber up into the cart, and Justin swiftly intervened again, pointing out that the hill was a high one and the horse would do better if it did not have to lug the carter’s weight, too. The carter scowled and swore under his breath. He dared not challenge Justin’s under-sheriff imitation, though, and walked alongside the laboring horse as they started up The Wyle.

“You did what you could,” Justin said to the carthorse’s defender as they stood in the street watching the cart lumber up the hill.

“I suppose…” The other man shook his head, keeping his gaze fixed upon the slow-moving carthorse. “But you know damned well that lout will waste no time finding another switch.”

“True, but the last I heard, they still hang horse thieves,” Justin said, and got a stare in return, followed by a quick smile.

“Aye, so they do,” the man said, conceding that the carthorse’s fate was beyond his control, and then, “I am Morgan Bloet.”

“Justin de Quincy.”

Falling in step, they began walking down The Wyle. Justin judged Morgan to be in his early twenties. He interested Justin because he seemed such a mix of contradictions. His given name was Welsh, but his French was colloquial, with no hint of a Welsh accent. His hair was dark, but his skin was fair enough to sport a few freckles. His garb was plain but finely woven, not homespun. He had no sword, but when the carter had been groping for his knife, Justin had seen Morgan’s hand drop instinctively to his left hip, where a scabbard would have been worn. He looked like a man who’d be handy in a brawl, but the carthorse’s plight had moved him almost to tears. And most intriguing of all, he seemed vaguely familiar to Justin, even though he felt sure they’d never met before.

They talked amiably as they passed through the town gate and onto the bridge that linked Shrewsbury with the abbey community of St Peter and St Paul. After paying the toll, they continued on toward the abbey’s gatehouse. “If you are in need of lodgings,” Morgan cautioned once they’d been waved into the monastery precincts, “you’re out of luck. The guest hall is full to bursting, mostly with my lady’s men. Mayhap if you tell the monks that you’re queasy, they’ll let you have a bed in the infirmary. No, not a stomach ailment,” he corrected himself, with a grin, “for then you’d get naught but broth for supper. Tell them you’re feverish.”

Morgan’s jesting was wasted on Justin, for he’d stopped listening at the words “my lady’s men.” “I heard the Lady Emma was staying here. Are you in her service, Morgan?”

“Aye, I am. Not for long, just since Christmas. But she says I am the best of her grooms, and of course she is quite right!”

That explained Morgan’s empathy for the abused carthorse. “I am seeking an audience with the Lady Emma,” Justin said, and Morgan gave him another quick smile.

“Well, mayhap you’re in luck, after all. Come, I’ll try to get you in,” he offered, so obviously proud of his standing in Emma’s household that Justin was touched in spite of all he knew about the Lady Emma. He followed Morgan into the guest hall, and watched as the groom approached one of Emma’s handmaidens on his behalf. He was back so soon that Justin knew his news could not be good.

“Lady Mabella says Lady Emma is dining with Abbot Hugh, so you’ll have to wait till the morrow. Let’s see if we can talk the hosteller into squeezing you in with the other grooms-”

“You!” There was so much fury in that one word that Justin and Morgan both spun around in alarm. At the sight of the wrathful figure limping toward them, Justin suppressed a sigh, for Oliver was no stranger to him. The aging Norman knight was Emma’s faithful retainer, bodyguard, and co-conspirator, perhaps the one man whom she truly trusted.

“I cannot believe my own eyes! That you would dare to show your face after all the grief you caused my lady!”

I know; it was very unchivalrous of me to thwart her plans to steal the king’s ransom. The sarcastic retort hovered on Justin’s lips and he had to bite the words back, for Emma and John’s scheme had not been publicized; John’s crimes rarely were. “At the risk of being rude, I do not answer to you, Sir Oliver.”

Oliver’s mouth thinned. “Ah, yes, I know. You answer only to the queen. But you also answer to the Almighty, and that day of reckoning may be sooner than you think!”

By now they’d become the center of attention. Several monks were rapidly approaching, and Justin decided that a strategic retreat was in order. Morgan was staring at him, but he did not acknowledge their acquaintanceship in front of the furious Oliver, and Justin gave him credit for good sense. While avoiding the appearance of haste, he exited the hall before the monks could descend upon him.

Outside, he paused to consider his options, concluding that he had no choice but to return the next day. Before leaving the monastery, he slipped into the great abbey church and offered a prayer at the altar of St Winifred, or Gwenfrewi, for he’d become fond of the little Welsh saint who’d died in defense of her honor and then been reborn so long, long ago. Afterward, he decided to go back to Shrewsbury Castle, for it was now fully dark and he did not want to be shut out of the town when the gates closed.

There were still people about, all hurrying home before the curfew horn sounded, and Justin joined the flowing tide of humanity. By the time he’d retraced his steps to Gombestole Street, the crowd had thinned considerably. Making his way past a cook-shop, he remembered he hadn’t yet eaten, but it was tightly shuttered.

His steps slowed as he approached the entrance to Grope Lane, for the narrow footpath was a favorite shortcut into the Fleshambles, Chepyn Street, and the town marketplace. He was tempted to take it, for the wind was picking up, but it was more than a popular haunt for street harlots. So many cutthroats lurked there after dark that locals called it Ambush Alley. Wisely bypassing this dangerous detour, Justin continued on.

Wet snowflakes were falling and the street was empty as Justin turned onto Altus Vicus. He quickened his pace, grateful that he had a meal and bed awaiting him at the castle. He knew several of the castle garrison from his years in Lord Fitz Alan’s service, and if memory served, there were likely to be a few dice games going after supper.

A high-pitched scream suddenly ripped through the night’s quiet. Justin whirled toward the sound, for it seemed to have come from the Fleshambles. The cry came again, and then a woman’s slight figure stumbled from the darkness. She took only a few steps, though, before collapsing onto the ground.

Justin broke into a run. Even before he reached the prostrate woman, he’d flipped back his mantle to give himself swift access to his sword. Setting his lantern down on the ground, he knelt by her side. Her face was hidden by the hood of her mantle, but she moaned as he touched her shoulder.

“You’re safe now,” he assured her. “Are you hurt? Were you attacked?”

She gasped and clutched at his arm fearfully, then began to sob. Justin was never to know precisely what activated his sixth sense, his survival sense. Had he heard a muffled step, an indrawn breath? The sudden rush of air as the club swung downward? His body reacting before his brain realized his danger, he was already moving as his attacker rushed him.

He flung himself sideways and the blow aimed at his head glanced off his upraised arm. There was a sharp spurt of pain, but he kept rolling. A hulking form loomed over him; his lantern light caught a glimpse of bared teeth, an unkempt beard, and a thick wooden club. He kicked out, his boot connecting with flesh and bone, and the club missed him by inches. “Run!” he yelled to the woman, lurching to his feet and reaching for his sword. But his injured arm made him clumsy and his assailant was upon him before the blade could clear its scabbard.

The man’s lips were drawn back in a fierce grin; he actually seemed to be enjoying himself. Justin’s weapons training came to his rescue, though, for he’d been taught to counter a cut from above with a half-sword thrust. As the club was raised to strike, he dove under it and rammed his head into his foe’s belly. They both went down, the club flying from the man’s grip. Justin managed to get to it first, kicking it into the shadows as he succeeded in freeing his sword.

But he had no time to enjoy his triumph, for he was about to get a rude shock. The woman had shed her mantle and gown, revealing herself to be a man, albeit one as thin and puny as a beardless boy. He was gripping a full-sized dagger, though, and Justin did not fancy the odds he now faced, two to one. “End this ere someone dies,” he panted, pivoting to keep both men in view. “You made a bad choice, for I have no money.”

“We’ve already been paid!” the youth jeered, and looked offended when his companion cursed his “babbling big mouth.”

By now they were deeper in the Fleshambles. Justin could see a black slit off to his right, knew it gave entry to Grope Lane. He was close enough to reach it before his adversaries, but it was so narrow that he’d have no room to use his sword. The first knave had reclaimed his club, and they were circling, wary of his blade but persisting in their attack. It was then that a man emerged from the shadows of the alley, glanced their way, and then ambled over, for all the world as if he were taking a mid-afternoon market stroll.

The felons gaped at his approach. The one with the club recovered first. “Get out of here whilst you still can, you stupid son of a whore!”

“Comments like that are uncalled for,” the new arrival objected mildly, reaching down to pick up Justin’s lantern, “especially when your own mother rutted with half the swine in Shropshire.”

The words were not yet out of his mouth before the lantern was flying through the air, pitched with utter accuracy toward his antagonist’s face. The knave threw up his arm to deflect it, losing the club as the lantern struck his shoulder, and Justin lunged forward, bringing him down with a slashing cut to the back of his leg. The boy abandoned his partner without a qualm, spinning around and taking off at a dead run. Justin’s new ally had already reached the dropped club and, as the outlaw struggled to rise, the newcomer struck him with his own weapon. The outlaw crumpled, twitched, and then lay still.

“Merciful God,” Justin said softly, and got a heartfelt “Amen” in return. The lantern’s light had been extinguished when it took flight, but they were close enough now for recognition. Stepping back, Justin regarded Morgan Bloet in openmouthed amazement. “I never thought I had a guardian angel of my own, but how else can I explain your turning up like this?”

“I do not suppose you’d believe that I was just passing by? No, I thought not. You are entitled to an explanation, and I am willing to offer one. But first we ought to decide what we want to do with Cain here,” Morgan said, nudging the body at his feet with the tip of his boot.

“Cain? You are not going to tell me that this is a friend of yours?”

“Not exactly. We do work together, if that interests you. Aye, I thought it might.”

“Are you telling me this snake slithered out of Emma’s den?”

Morgan grinned. “Well, I doubt I would have put it quite that way. But yes, you had the dubious pleasure tonight of meeting Oliver’s favorite henchman. Two of them, in fact, for Cain’s little helper works as a stable lad at Ellesmere. It must sound as if we have half the felons in the shire under our roof, but I am reasonably certain that these are the only two. Well, I do have my suspicions about one of the cooks, for the man cannot even boil water-”

Morgan sensed rather than saw Justin’s impatience, for the street was too dark for much scrutiny. “Sorry! My mama always said I’d be joking as they put the noose around my neck. As I told you, I’ll answer any questions you want, provided that you answer one of mine. But I do think we ought to get out of here ere the Watch blunders by.”

Justin knelt and felt for the pulse in Cain’s neck. “He is still alive. More’s the pity, for I cannot turn him over to the law, and I hate to turn him loose on the good people of Shrewsbury. The hellspawn came very close to killing me.”

“Actually, I do not think that was his intent. At least it was not his orders. I saw Cain trailing after you when you left the abbey, and knowing the nasty work he does, knowing the nasty piece of goods he is, I decided to tag along, too.”

“Thank God you did! But why do you think he did not have murder in mind?”

“First things first,” Morgan said, looking down thoughtfully at Cain. “You are right. It does not seem fair to let him off with just a bump on the head and a gashed leg.” Before Justin could anticipate what he was about to do, he brought his boot down hard upon Cain’s open hand, grinding until they heard the crunch of bones breaking. “There,” Morgan said in satisfaction. “That ought to slow him up for a while. Even Cain won’t be able to wreak his usual havoc one-handed.”

Justin was startled by the other man’s action, but on reflection, he could find no fault with it. “Let’s go,” he said, and they set off across the empty market square, leaving Cain for the Watch to find. Justin was intent upon confronting Emma as soon as possible, and he was moving so rapidly that the shorter-legged Morgan was hard-pressed to keep up. When he complained, Justin slowed his pace, but not by much. “I want to get to the abbey bridge ere they shut it for the night,” he explained. “We can talk as we go. What question did you want to ask of me?”

“Are you really one of the queen’s men?”

Justin confirmed he was, wishing he still had his lantern, for he’d like to have seen Morgan’s reaction to that. “Go on with your story,” he prompted. “You followed Cain from the abbey. What then?”

“Tiny-that is what we call the lad, for obvious reasons-Tiny ran to catch up with him, carrying a bundle under his arm. I ducked into one of the shuts in time to avoid him seeing me. Shuts are what they call byways between buildings in Shrewsbury-”

“I know,” Justin cut in, marveling at how Morgan seemed able to talk without ever pausing for breath. “Go on.”

“They were easy to follow, never once looked back. When they disappeared into Grope Lane, I waited and then went in after them. They were lurking at the mouth of the alley whilst Tiny was pulling something over his head. I dared not get close enough to see, thought he might be putting on a monk’s habit-”

“A woman’s gown.”

Morgan laughed softly. “Clever! I’ll have to remember that if I ever take to crime. Anyway, as they left the alley, I heard Cain say, ‘Remember now. We’re not to kill him, just to make him wish we had.’ Of course that does not mean they could not have gotten carried away with zeal for their work. You see, Cain enjoys pain-other people’s pain.”

Remembering Cain’s wolfish grin, Justin found that easy to believe. “What if he finds out you were the one who came to my aid?”

“He never got a good look at my face, and it was so dark out there, he probably could not have recognized his own father, assuming he knew who he was. Needless to say, I’d rather that Sir Oliver never hears about my part in tonight’s adventures.”

“He’ll not hear it from me,” Justin promised. The sound he’d been dreading now reached his ears-the blaring of the horns that signaled the coming of curfew to Shrewsbury. He came to a halt then, for it was too late. The town gates were closing; his reckoning with Emma would have to wait till the morrow. “You’d best come back with me to the castle, Morgan. I’ll see that you get a bed there for the night. But I do have one more question.” Cursing the darkness that cloaked them both so utterly, he said, “Why did you go to so much trouble for me? Mind you, I am right glad you did. But I do wonder, for not many men are so willing to risk their lives for strangers.”

“Heroes always do!” Morgan protested playfully. After they’d walked a few moments in silence he said, more seriously, “It is true I do not know much about you, but what I do know, I like. You did not just look away like the others when you saw that poor nag being beaten on The Wyle. You laughed at most of my jokes. And for certes, you are a damned better man than that whoreson Cain and his little weasel!”

“Thank you,” Justin said, matching the other man’s light tone. But one question still lingered in the back of his mind. Had Morgan helped him because he’d heard Oliver call him the queen’s man, and if so, why?

Justin knew he should be grateful that he’d escaped the night’s attack with so few injuries. It was difficult to remember that the next morning, though, when he awakened stiff, sore, and scraped. He told himself he was lucky that his arm was only badly bruised from wrist to elbow. But his rage still smoldered. He was bone-weary of being a target for godless men and women.

He was one of the first out of the town gate, and bypassed the abbey gatehouse, preferring to slip unobtrusively onto the monastery grounds via a wicket that opened into the monks’ cemetery. As he expected, Oliver was pacing up and down before the main entrance, obviously keeping vigil for his missing henchmen and just as obviously alarmed by their continued absence. Staying out of Oliver’s view, Justin found a vantage point that overlooked the guest hall, and settled down to wait.

Soon after the abbey church bells began to peal for Morrow Mass, Emma emerged from the guest hall. Justin intercepted her as she neared the chapter-house. She stopped abruptly, looking genuinely startled, but he knew how finely honed her acting skills were. “We need to talk,” he said, adding “my lady” with such lethal courtesy that her eyes narrowed. Dismissing her ladies-in-waiting and other attendants, she followed silently as Justin led the way onto the small bridge over the mill-race and on into the abbey gardens.

It was a blustery morning, the sky clotted with clouds, and the gardens looked bleak and forbidding. Emma tucked her hands inside her mantle to warm them. She voiced no complaints, and the profile she turned to Justin was as delicate and translucent as the finest alabaster, and as cold. She was in her forties now, well past her youth, but she was stubbornly fighting a rearguard action against the advancing years and, so far, she seemed to be holding her own. Despite the two decades between them, Justin was not blind to her beauty, though he gave her no credit for it, thinking uncharitably that any woman blessed with good bones, fair skin, and enough servants to indulge her every whim could resist the ravages of aging as successfully as Emma.

Emma was the first to speak. Halting before the ice-glazed abbey fishponds, she said coolly, “Do you know what ‘nemesis’ means, Master de Quincy?”

“As a matter of fact, I do, Lady Emma. I am also familiar with the term ‘Dies Irae.’”

Her lashes lifted, unsheathing eyes bluer than sapphires, sharper than daggers. “‘Day of Judgment’? If that is meant as a threat, it is rather heavy-handed. You seem to have lost your sense of subtlety since we last met, Master de Quincy.”

“Most likely I mislaid it in the Fleshambles when you set your dogs loose on me, my lady.”

Her fashionably plucked eyebrows rose in perfect arches. “What in Heaven’s Name are you talking about?”

“A savage mastiff named Cain and his boastful whelp, Tiny.” When Emma continued to look politely puzzled, he said impatiently, “They are your hirelings, eating your bread and taking your orders, and it would be easy enough to prove it!”

“I am not denying it!” she protested. “You may well be right. You can hardly expect me to remember the names of all my servants, after all. But even if these men are mine, what of it? What are you accusing me of now?”

Justin caught a blurred movement and turned to see Oliver hovering by the bridge. “Do not be shy, Sir Oliver,” Justin called out loudly. “Come and join us. We’re discussing how dangerous the streets of Shrewsbury are becoming, and I daresay you have some thoughts on the matter.”

The expression on Oliver’s face would have been amusing under other circumstances, for he looked as if he’d swallowed his own tongue. One glance at the horrified knight was enough for Emma. “Stay right there,” she commanded, as he began to back away. When Justin would have accompanied her, she flung up a hand in the imperious manner of one who was a sister and an aunt to kings. “I do not need your assistance, Master de Quincy.”

Justin could have made an issue of it, but he didn’t. Emma and Oliver conferred together for several moments, their heads almost touching, and even from a distance he could see the blood rushing up into Oliver’s face and throat. Emma soon strode back to him, and he was struck at once by the difference in her demeanor, for her antagonism had been replaced by wariness.

“Well,” she said briskly, “at least now I understand your lapse in manners. I did not tell Sir Oliver to set those men on you. I did not even know you were in Shrewsbury. Sir Oliver has been with me for many years, since my first marriage in Normandy, and he is very loyal, very protective. He ought not to have acted so rashly, but fortunately there was no great harm done.”

“Fortunately,” Justin echoed, with as much sarcasm as he could muster, and Emma gestured toward a bench by the water’s edge. When she indicated that he could sit beside her, he knew that she was more disturbed than she’d have him believe. Queen Eleanor often allowed him to sit in her presence, but in her veins flowed the princely blood of Aquitaine and she felt no need to remind others of her lofty heritage. Emma, the out-of-wedlock issue of an Angevin count and one of his many light o’ loves, clung to her royal prerogatives like a barnacle to a ship’s hull. With a flicker of black humor, he wondered how she’d respond if he told her he understood her self-doubts, one bastard to another.

“I trust… I hope you do not intend to pursue this matter further with Oliver,” she said, betraying her discomfort by the rising color in her cheeks, for she’d had little practice in requesting favors from inferiors. “He made a mistake, but it was done from the best of motives.”

Taking Justin’s incredulous silence for assent, she allowed a small sigh of relief to escape her lips. “Why are you here? I would have thought your royal mistress would be too busy securing Richard’s release to have any time to spare for me. What does she want now?”

Once, Justin would have marveled that a she-wolf could see herself as the one wronged by the sheep. His dealings with John had cured him of that particular naivete. “I have a letter for you,” he said, and reached for the leather pouch clipped to his belt.

Emma’s eyes widened at the sight of the wax seal, obviously recognizing it as John’s. She read in silence, her head bent over the parchment. When she looked up at Justin, he thought he could detect curiosity and possibly even relief in her eyes. “I assume that the queen has an interest in this outcome, since you are the bearer of Lord John’s letter.”

Justin regarded her impassively. “You could assume that.”

Emma looked down at the message again. “You truly do stand high in the queen’s favor, Master de Quincy, if she trusts you with matters of this… nature,” she said, and when she glanced up at him, it was with a grudging respect, the acknowledgment that he was a more significant piece on the chessboard than she’d first thought.

“What is your answer, my lady? Will you be returning with me to Paris?”

“Yes,” she said, “I will,” and Justin did not know whether to be glad of that.

Rising in a swirl of skirts, Emma began to pace. “There is so much to do. I suppose if I send to Ellesmere straightaway, I might be able to leave on the morrow. I may be able to buy some of what I need in Shrewsbury… If I take Oliver and Lionel and several men-at-arms..”

She was obviously thinking aloud, Justin’s presence forgotten. But the mention of Oliver’s name pricked him in a place still sore from the night’s attack. “Oliver? I do not fancy going on the road with the man responsible for ambushing me!”

She turned in surprise. “Do not be silly. It is not as if Oliver wielded the club himself!” she pointed out, giving Justin an unexpected and unsettling insight into the thought processes of those with power enough to insulate themselves from the consequences of their actions.

Emma had promised she’d be ready to leave on the morrow, and taking her at her word, Justin showed up as soon as the abbey gate was unbarred. The first person he saw was Morgan, who came hurrying toward him.

“Guess what?” he said, barely containing himself until Justin had swung from the saddle. “I am to go with you and my lady to Paris! She said she’d need a man who is good with horses.”

His grin was contagious, impossible to resist, and Justin grinned back. “Ah, but are you good with ships?”

Morgan dismissed that drawback with an airy wave of his hand. “If I can drink the swill that passes for wine at the Doggepol Street tavern, I can survive a sea voyage. Speaking of queasy stomachs, Sir Oliver will not be accompanying us, after all. It seems he ate something putrid, and the poor soul has been sick as a dog all night, groaning and moaning and clutching his belly in a truly pitiful manner.”

Justin studied Morgan thoughtfully. “Did he, indeed?”

The groom met his eyes innocently, the ghost of his grin still tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Is that all you have to say? You are not going to tell me that you’ll miss old Oliver’s company, are you?”

“No… I am thinking that you’d make a bad enemy, Morgan.”

The other nodded as if he’d been given a great compliment. “Aye, that I would. But I also make a good friend.”

Justin nodded, too. “Yes, you do,” he agreed readily, wishing he could be sure which one Morgan was.