Prince of Darkness

CHAPTER 8

January 1194

LAVAL, MAINE

As Laval came into view, Emma drew rein. Her face was impassive as she gazed upon her late husband’s lands, but Claudine noticed the shadow of a smile in the corners of her mouth. “It must feel good to be home,” she said softly. Emma gave her a look of surprise, and then nodded.

Justin observed their quiet exchange with a sense of unease, for he’d not expected this to happen. Women did not like Emma, and she did not seem to like them; again and again he’d seen evidence of that. He never imagined that this odd alliance would develop between Emma and Claudine. He was not even sure if “alliance” was the right word. But by the time they’d reached Laval, the two women had obviously reached some sort of understanding, and he was not at all comfortable with their unlikely rapport.

He was not happy, either, with what they found at Laval. Emma’s son Guy was absent, and no one seemed to know where he had gone. His steward thought he might be in Rennes, and Justin and Durand wanted to forge ahead into Brittany, arguing that they could look for Guy at the same time that they sought Arzhela. But Emma wanted to wait at Laval for her son to return. After much acrimonious bickering, she agreed to continue on to Rennes, although she flatly refused to depart on the morrow. And so the next day found them still at Laval, glumly watching Emma entertain a steady stream of neighbors as word spread of her return.

Justin was bored and restless, until a chance conversation with the abbot of Clermont set his temper ablaze. Stalking away in anger, he went to look for Durand. He found the knight in a window seat with Emma’s borrowed maid, Ivetta, murmuring in the girl’s ear and making her blush prettily and giggle behind her hand. “Meet me in the village tavern,” Justin said tersely, turning on his heel before Durand could object.

The castle at Laval had loomed over the River Mayenne for almost two hundred years, a village nesting in its shelter. Justin knew there would be at least one tavern and located it in an alley off the market square. It was crowded, for Laval was on the main road from Paris to Brittany, and locals vied with merchants, pilgrims, and rough-hewn mercenaries for the attention of the harried serving maids and a bevy of perfumed and rouged prostitutes. Justin got himself a drink and eventually laid claim to a newly vacant table, where he settled down to await Durand.

He soon spied a familiar face. Morgan smiled in recognition and meandered over to join him. “Who are you hiding from, Justin, Lady Emma or Lady Claudine?”

“Both of them,” Justin admitted with a wry smile, for when he’d not been dealing with Emma’s complaints and demands on their journey, he’d been avoiding Claudine’s overtures. Nothing explicit; Claudine was too worldly for that. A sidelong smile that liberated her dimples, a flutter of long, silky lashes, a sudden, smoky glance from dark, doe eyes. Justin had not been sleeping well at night.

“She is a beautiful woman, the Lady Claudine,” Morgan observed blandly. When Justin merely shrugged, he took the hint and began enthusing about the fine quality of the horses he’d found in Lord Guy de Laval’s stables. He was telling Justin about a jewel of a roan mare when one of the prostitutes sauntered over.

“I am called Honorine,” she announced without preamble, “and if you seek value for your money, you need look no further.”

Justin was amused, both by her bluntness and her name. Whores usually chose fancy names like Christelle or Mirabelle or the ever-popular Eve. This girl had a sense of humor, for Honorine was a form of Honoria, a derivative of the Latin word for “honor.” Instead of giving a flat refusal, therefore, he offered her a friendly smile and a diplomatic “Mayhap later.”

Morgan looked offended when Honorine drifted away without propositioning him, too. “Well, damnation, did I become invisible of a sudden? What do you have that I lack, de Quincy?”

“A sword?” Justin suggested, recognizing a golden opportunity when he saw one, a chance to tease Morgan while at the same time engaging him in a discreet interrogation. Morgan shot him a look of such exaggerated indignation that he had to laugh. “No, you dolt, not that sword; this one,” he said, slapping the scabbard at his hip. “A girl in her trade looks for evidence that a man can afford her services, and a sword is usually a good indication that he can.” He paused before adding casually, “It would not hurt to have another armed man along. Can you wield a sword, Morgan?”

“Me?” Morgan sounded surprised. “Now how would a stable groom learn a skill like that?”

How, indeed, Justin thought, remembering Morgan’s instinctive movement during his confrontation with the carter in Shrewsbury’s Wyle. He liked Morgan. He also owed Morgan a huge debt. He was just not sure he could trust Morgan. But before he could continue with his indirect inquiry, the door swung open and Durand strode into the tavern.

“I want to talk to you,” he said brusquely to Justin, and then looked pointedly at Morgan, who got to his feet, although without any haste. Making a comic grimace behind Durand’s back, the groom strolled off, and Durand claimed his seat. “Do not summon me like that again, de Quincy. I do not like it.”

His anger notwithstanding, he still remembered to keep his voice pitched low. So did Justin. “And of course I live to please you. Stop your posturing, Durand, and hear me out. I had an interesting conversation this eve with the abbot of Clermont Abbey. He’d been in Paris recently and was well versed in the doings at the French court. It seems that whilst I was chasing around Shropshire like a fool, the French king and Lord John were making one last attempt to foil King Richard’s release. They dispatched messengers to the Roman Emperor’s court, offering him a variety of bribes to delay Richard’s release. If Richard were held until this coming Michaelmas, they’d pay Heinrich eighty thousand marks. Or they’d pay him a thousand pounds a month for as long as he kept Richard in captivity. Or they’d give him one hundred fifty thousand marks if he’d either hold Richard for another full year or turn Richard over to them.”

Durand showed no reaction. “What of it? You are not going to tell me that you were disappointed by this, I hope? If you are still harboring illusions about John’s conscience or his-”

“I am not,” Justin said through gritted teeth. “What I want to know is when you planned to tell me about this.”

“I’d have gotten around to it eventually. I sent word to those who matter.”

Justin started to push back from the table, but Durand moved faster, intercepting a passing serving maid and ordering a flagon and two cups. “If it will stop your complaining, I’ll buy the drinks,” he declared magnanimously, and Justin reluctantly retook his seat. For a time, they actually managed to conduct a civil conversation, discussing Guy de Laval’s likely whereabouts and how much trust they ought to place in Emma. Not much, they agreed. It occurred to Justin that the most trustworthy of his traveling companions was probably Emma’s pampered little lapdog, but he refrained from sharing this thought with Durand.

Durand reached for the flagon and poured the last of the wine into his cup; Justin’s was still half full. “I do not suppose we’ll be getting an early start on the morrow. Her ladyship will be lying abed till noon if left to her own devices. I’m beginning to have some sympathy for you, de Quincy. How did you ever survive a summer in Wales with the Lady Emma?”

Justin was taken aback, for Durand had sounded almost friendly. But when the other man smiled, he went on the alert, for he’d seen that smile in the past-just before Durand pounced.

“To prove my goodwill, de Quincy, I am going to offer some advice of the heart. I’ll not deny it has been amusing, watching Claudine stalk you like a vixen closing in on an unwary rabbit. But for Christ’s sake, man, enough is enough. If you do not bed her soon, she’s likely to start casting her pearls before swine,” he drawled, aiming a significant look across the tavern where Morgan was flirting with one of the serving maids.

Justin knew he was being goaded; Durand had used Claudine as bait before. He also knew that what he was about to do was childish; he did not care. As he got to his feet, he reached for his cup, as if to finish it, and overturned it in Durand’s lap. Durand was cat-quick, though, and twisted sideways to avoid most of the liquid. But enough of the wine splashed onto his mantle to satisfy Justin. “Sorry,” he said cheerfully. “How could I have been so clumsy?”

Durand had the pale-sky eyes of a Viking; like most Normans, he had his share of Norse blood. As Justin gazed into their glittering blue-white depths, he was reminded that ice could burn. Heads were turning in their direction; they’d attracted the attention of the burly tavern owner, who started to lumber over.

A woman with flaxen hair was quicker, though. Moving to Justin’s side, she said, with the aplomb of one accustomed to diverting tavern brawlers, “You said ‘later,’ sweet. Well, later is now. If you come abovestairs with me, I’ll make it worth your while.”

Before Justin could respond, Durand’s hand shot out, catching Honorine’s wrist. “Make it worth my while, love.”

She gave Durand a practiced appraisal, liked what she saw, and let him pull her down onto his lap, giving Justin a “You missed your chance” smile. Durand, too, was smiling now, his a victor’s smile.

But Justin did not begrudge him the prize. Leaning over, he murmured in Honorine’s ear, “He is rich, lass. Make him pay dear for it.”

They headed west on the morrow, expecting to find Arzhela with the Lady Constance at Rennes. Their first stop was the castle of Vitre, where Emma insisted upon accepting the hospitality of its lord, Andre de Vitre, much to the annoyance of both Justin and Durand, for they’d covered only twelve miles. But they were in for a pleasant surprise. They were not Lord Andre’s only guests. He was proudly playing host to his duchess, too.

Lord Andre escorted Emma and Claudine across the great hall to present them to Duchess Constance. Justin and Durand were trailing behind, not being of sufficient importance to warrant an introduction. Justin was curious to see the duchess, for if anyone could block John’s march to the throne, it would be Constance. He’d cast her in the same mold as Queen Eleanor, a woman about whom legends were spun, and his first glimpse was disappointing. Unlike the English queen, Constance was no great beauty. She was a small-boned, almost painfully slender woman in her thirties, petite and surprisingly fragile in appearance. Her hair was covered by a veil and wimple, but it was not likely that her coloring was fashionably fair, for her eyes were dark. If she were not so richly dressed in brocaded silk and an ermine-lined pelisse, Justin thought strangers might have guessed Emma or even Claudine to be the Breton duchess.

As he got closer, though, Justin changed his opinion. Constance radiated energy and authority. There was an intensity about her that put him in mind of a high-strung and highborn mare, but he frowned when Durand murmured that she was a filly to give a man a wild ride, for he did not like finding out that his thoughts and Durand’s could overlap like that.

Lord Andre had ushered Emma and Claudine toward the duchess and they were making graceful curtsies. But no one was expecting what happened next. Constance gave the women a cold, scornful stare and turned away without saying a word. Claudine looked stunned, Emma outraged, and Lord Andre flustered. The snub had not gone unnoticed and a buzz swept the hall.

“Did you see?” Durand jabbed Justin with his elbow. “I’ve seen street beggars get warmer receptions than that!”

Justin was equally baffled. Emma had been living in Wales for nigh on twenty years. So how likely was it that she’d offended a thirteen-year-old Constance so grievously that she was nursing a grudge two decades later? “It makes no sense. I know that Claudine has never met Constance and I doubt that Emma has, either.”

“Use your eyes, man,” Durand said impatiently. “If you were born a duck, would you have any liking for swans?”

That seemed too simple a solution to Justin. Before he could express his doubts, however, a low, throaty chuckle sounded behind them. “I’ve never understood how men can know so much about war and statecraft and the natural laws of Almighty God, but be so damnably stupid about women!”

They spun around to confront a stranger. Tall enough to laugh up at them without having to tilt her head, stylishly flat-chested, lithe and limber, glowing with good health and good humor. She had a determined chin, pale skin gilded with golden freckles, a wide, mobile mouth shaped for smiles, and eyes the sultry, caressing color of a summer sea.

“The duchess is too clever to be so petty, too ambitious to be so vain. You think there was a man ever born who’d trade power for white teeth and muscles? The lot of you would gladly look like misbegotten dwarves if only you could be crowned dwarves. Whatever makes you think that women do not have the same hungers?”

Justin and Durand exchanged quizzical glances. “Suppose you tell us, then,” Durand challenged, “why the duchess was so rude to the Lady Emma if it has naught to do with mirrors and vainglory.”

“It had nothing to do with Lady Emma’s pretty face and everything to do with the blood that flows in her veins. The duchess would sooner embrace the Devil’s daughter than a kinswoman of Eleanor, Richard, and John.”

“The last I heard,” Durand objected, “Duchess Constance is their kinswoman, too.”

“By marriage, not by choice. She has good reason to resent the Angevins. King Henry dethroned her father and married her off to his son Geoffrey. Then, after Geoffrey’s death, Richard forced her to wed the Earl of Chester, who was all of fifteen at the time, and thus more than ten years her junior. And I doubt that the happy couple have exchanged a civil word since.”

Justin was startled into laughter, taken aback by such brash candor. “Are you always so fiercely outspoken, Lady Arzhela?”

She grinned. “Alas, I have been cursed since childhood with a runaway tongue… Master de Quincy.” Her gaze flicked from Justin to Durand, but the knight’s face was inscrutable; she could not tell if he’d guessed her identity as Justin had. “I had the advantage of you,” she acknowledged, “for I needed only to pick you out amongst the Lady Emma’s men, whereas you could not even be certain that I was in attendance upon the duchess. It helped, too, that our mutual friend sent me such a good description of you both. You, Sir Durand, he said looked like a ‘pirate in search of a wench to ravish,’ and you, Master de Quincy, like a ‘young man accursed with a conscience.’ ”

She grinned again, as gleefully as a little girl, and Justin could not help responding to her warmth, her utter lack of pretense; she was not at all as he had imagined her to be. When he glanced around the hall to make sure they were attracting no attention, she smiled reassuringly. “None will think it strange that we are together. I’m known to have an eye for a well-formed male, and people will assume we’re flirting. Clearly we cannot talk seriously here. I’d wanted to point out my likeliest suspect, but he has suddenly disappeared.”

Justin and Durand traded looks again. “And who would this suspect be?”

“Meet me in the gardens on the morrow,” she said, “and I might tell you.” She winked, and glided away before they could stop her.

Durand was scowling. “The fool woman thinks this is a game,” he said. Justin said nothing. He was troubled, too, by Arzhela’s insouciance, but he saw no reason to admit that to Durand. If they were choosing sides, he was on Arzhela’s.

They found Arzhela in the gardens the next day, holding out her fists to an urchin. The boy was very young, with a round face streaked with dirt, an untidy cap of curly hair, and much-mended clothes, which identified him as a servant’s child. He hesitated and then chose a hand. Arzhela opened it to reveal an empty palm. He swiftly pointed to her other hand and his eyes opened wide when it, too, was empty. He burst into giggles, though, when Arzhela found the missing coin behind his ear. She flipped the coin to the boy and he caught it deftly, running off as Justin and Durand approached.

“With fingers that nimble, you’d have made a fine cutpurse, Lady Arzhela,” Justin observed as they drew near and she glanced over her shoulder, smiling.

“A conjurer’s trick, but it never fails to amaze the little ones. Johnny taught me; he always did have a gift for sleight of hand.”

It was a moment before the men realized that her Johnny and their Lord John were one and the same. They digested this startling fact in silence, following as she beckoned them farther into the gardens. In summer it would be a small Eden, but now it was barren and desolate, the ground frozen, trees naked to the wind. Arzhela led the way to an arbor that would be lushly canopied in honeysuckle vines in another six months; till then, though, the latticework was skeletal, open to the pale winter sky. Feeling equally exposed, the men joined her upon a narrow wooden bench.

Noticing their unease, she gave an exaggerated sigh. “The two of you are as jumpy as treed cats. As I told you last night, no one will think twice about seeing me with a couple of handsome men!”

“You seem to think this is one great joke, Lady Arzhela,” Durand said sternly. “You need to remember how much is at stake.”

Arzhela refrained from rolling her eyes, but made her attitude quite clear by batting her lashes and simpering, “Yes, Sir Durand,” with mock docility. Although he did not look happy, he showed he knew when to push and when to back off by saying nothing. Once she was sure she’d made her point, Arzhela leaned over and picked up a stick. Smoothing the ground in front of the bench with her foot, she drew a circle in the dirt.

“Think of this circle as the conspiracy against Johnny. I made it so large because we have to fit quite a few people into it. My cousin Constance. Andre de Vitre. The Bishops of St-Malo and Rennes. Raoul de Fougeres. Alain and Pierre de Dinan. Geoffroi de Chateau-briant. Canon Robert, of St Etienne’s at Toulouse. Guy de Laval and Hugh de Gournay and most likely others whose names I have not yet learned.”

Arzhela paused, looking pleased with herself. “You were right, Master de Quincy… Justin. I could have been a good cutpurse. But I’d have made an even better spy.” Gesturing toward her scrawled circle, she continued. “I’d not call it a conspiracy, though, in the strictest sense of the word, for some of the men I named seem to believe that the letter is genuine, that Johnny was truly plotting to murder his brother.”

“And your cousin Constance?” Justin asked carefully. “Does she believe that?”

Arzhela hesitated. “I am not sure,” she admitted. “I think Constance and most of the men were more than willing to ignore any doubts. They wanted to believe in the validity of the letter, you see.” Her smile was rueful. “And Johnny’s history made that so easy for them.”

“But we know the letter was forged.” Durand was regarding Arzhela reflectively. “So if Constance did not forge it, who did? Where did she get it?”

“From the aforementioned canon of Toulouse. He is too clever by half, that one. He gives the impression of being forthcoming and affable, yet when you try to pin him down, he slithers away, as slick as you please. I have always read men as easily as a monk reads his Psalter,” Arzhela boasted, with what she felt was pardonable pride, “and my reading of Canon Robert tells me that he has the answers we seek.”

Justin felt a twinge of disappointment. He agreed that Canon Robert was a natural suspect, but he’d hoped that Arzhela would have more to offer than intuition. Durand seemed to share his disappointment, for he asked if that was all she had.

“Well, I did coax a confession from him, did I forget to mention that?” Arzhela’s sarcasm was good-natured. “When Canon Robert is revealed to be as guilty as Cain, I shall expect apologies from the pair of you.”

“Is he the one who vanished from the great hall last night, my lady?”

She nodded. “He fled the hall like a man pursued by demons, slipping out a servant’s entrance, and if that is not cause for suspicion, what is? When I looked for him today, he was nowhere to be found. I eventually learned that he’d taken to his bed, claiming to be ailing!”

Neither Justin nor Durand thought that sounded particularly damning, but Justin was tactful enough to keep his doubts to himself. Durand was not. Before he could further irritate Arzhela by expressing his skepticism, though, they were interrupted by the arrival of a newcomer to the garden.

He was tall and blond and stylishly dressed in the newest fashion-an unbelted sleeveless tabard, visible because he’d draped his mantle casually around his shoulders in defiance of the winter weather. Durand stared at the tabard like a man mentally making notes for his tailor, but Justin took more notice of the milky-opaque toadstone that the stranger wore prominently on his mantle, for toadstones were used as a protection against poisons. There was something about his demeanor-the jut of his chin, the swagger in his step-that made it easy for Justin to believe this man did not lack for enemies.

“There you are, Lady Arzhela.” He sounded aggrieved, as if she’d deliberately disappeared, and when he bent over her hand, he put Justin more in mind of a man marking a brand than bestowing a kiss.

Arzhela had already shown them that she did not suffer fools gladly. But she was regarding the youth with an indulgent smile, introducing him fondly as Simon de Lusignan, a name that resonated harshly with both Justin and Durand. The de Lusignans were a powerful clan ensconced in the hills of Queen Eleanor’s Poitou, blessed with high birth and cursed with hungers beyond satisfying. Their family tree had produced more than its share of adventurers, rebels, and brigands. If several had managed to lay claims to distant crowns, far more had cheated the hangman, and it was a common belief that if there was trouble to be found, a de Lusignan was likely to be in the very midst of it.

This de Lusignan acknowledged the introductions with a terseness that bordered upon outright rudeness, and insisted upon escorting Arzhela indoors. Durand and Justin stood watching them go. “She does like them young,” Durand commented after a long silence. From sheer force of habit, Justin started to object, but he could not really fault the other man’s cynical observation. Arzhela was in her late thirties and Simon looked to be barely beyond his majority. Moreover, now that he thought about it, he realized that she was at least ten years older than John, too. John and one of the de Lusignans. Passing strange, that a woman with so much mother wit should have such bad taste in men.

“I’ve heard the gossip about the de Lusignans,” Justin said thoughtfully, “those tales told over a wine flagon that grow worse with each telling. How they feud with their neighbors and prey upon travelers and dare to defy both Church and Crown. You think it is coincidence that one of their lot has shown up at the Duchess Constance’s court?”

“That same thought crossed my mind,” Durand admitted. “God smite them, de Lusignans take to conspiracies like pigs to mud. But why would Constance and her Breton barons confide in a stripling like Simon? No, I’d say he is Arzhela’s stud, no more than that.”

Justin was inclined to agree. He still had a suspicion, though, that Arzhela was not being completely honest with them.

"Ite, missa est.” With those words, the Mass was ended and the castle chapel began to empty. Justin was one of the last to leave. As he stepped out into the wan sunlight, he heard his name hissed, and turned to see Arzhela beckoning imperiously to him.

“Hurry,” she insisted, pulling him in the direction of the stables. As soon as they’d passed into the gloomy shadows of the barn, she thrust a bundle at him. “Here,” she said, “put this on. I have had an inspired idea, know how to get you in to see our reclusive canon!”

Justin unwrapped a man’s tunic of coarse kersey wool, the undyed murky shade known as hodden grey, of such shabby quality that most servants would have balked at wearing it. Ignoring his questions, Arzhela was already tugging at his mantle. “Make haste,” she urged. “Better we do this whilst Father Herve is still busy in the chapel.”

She was not to be denied and Justin pulled the garment over his head, hoping it was not as flea-infested as it looked. As soon as he unbuckled his scabbard, Arzhela placed it on top of his folded mantle and instructed a wide-eyed young groom to guard it well. The youth vowed that he would and Justin did not doubt it; he was learning that Arzhela was one for getting her own way.

Returning to the castle bailey, he followed her toward the kitchens, where a platter with soup, bread, and wine was waiting for them. Trying to keep the soup from slopping out of the bowl, he hastened to keep pace with her as they headed toward a corner tower. As they walked, she finally deigned to offer an explanation for the masquerade.

“Canon Robert is still keeping to his bed, but I’ve come up with a clever way for you to get a look at him. Father Herve offered to share his own chamber as a courtesy and I am about to pay a sickbed visit to our ailing canon. Whilst I ply him with flattery and onion soup, you can study him to your heart’s content,” she concluded triumphantly. “A pity I could not think how to get Durand in with you, but he’d not have made a convincing servant!”

“But I would?” Justin said dryly.

Arzhela’s grin showed she was not as oblivious as her words might indicate. “Dear heart, you are a spy, after all. So it is to the good that you can blend into the background when needed!”

By now they’d climbed the narrow stairs to the chaplain’s top-floor chamber. Arzhela rapped sharply on the door and then, without waiting for a response, barged in. The lone occupant whirled away from the window in surprise. He was fully dressed, wearing the white rochet common to clerics. Justin was not surprised that he was garbed in such fine linen, for unlike their monastic brethren, canons took no vows of poverty. He was tonsured and clean-shaven, with features that were attractive but not memorable. He looked exactly like what he claimed to be-a man of God who was also at home in the secular world. But he did not look like a man too ill to rise from his sickbed.

“Canon Robert,” Arzhela purred, “how wonderful to see you up and about! If I may say so, you seem in the very bloom of health. Dare I hope that you’ll honor us with your presence at dinner this day?”

“Alas, my lady, I fear not. Lord Andre’s physician advised me to walk for brief periods, lest I become too weak lying abed.” The canon seated himself upon the bed, relieved by his illness of the demands of courtesy, and regarded them calmly. “What may I do for you, Lady Arzhela?”

“Nay, Canon Robert,” she said sweetly, “what may I do for you?” With a flourish, she gestured toward Justin, standing inconspicuously behind her, as any well-trained servant would. “I’ve brought you some soup, very good for catarrh or a queasy stomach. And wine, good for almost any ailment!”

As the canon thanked her profusely for her kindness, Justin set his burden upon a coffer by the bed. While he welcomed this opportunity to scrutinize Canon Robert, he was not sure how much could be learned in such a brief encounter. The man was as urbane and polished as would be expected of one who served a bishop, not the sort to blurt out indiscretions if caught off guard. It seemed most likely that he was what he appeared to be-a conduit, a messenger. He might even believe that the letter was genuine.

Arzhela’s attempts to engage the canon in conversation had been unsuccessful. His responses were polite, but so increasingly wan that she at last conceded defeat and bade him farewell. Once she and Justin were out in the stairwell, she said sarcastically, “I feared that if I stayed any longer, he was going to swoon dead away. Did you notice how halting his speech became, as if the poor soul did not even have the strength to finish a sentence!”

“How does he explain his possession of the letter?”

“He claims it was entrusted to him by the archdeacon of Toulouse, whilst hinting that the archdeacon was acting upon Bishop Fulcrand’s behalf.” Emerging again into the bailey, they headed back to the stables to retrieve Justin’s belongings, Arzhela speculating all the while about Canon Robert’s reasons for keeping out of sight. “All I can think is that he recognized you or Durand. You are the queen’s man, after all, and Durand serves Johnny.”

“Trust me, my lady. I am not so well-known that a canon from Toulouse would have heard of me!” Justin could see that Arzhela was not convinced, loath to surrender her suspicions, and he did not argue further. Instead, he told her that Lady Emma had gotten word that morn of her son’s return to Laval. “She insists that we leave for Laval on the morrow, for she is eager to speak to her son as soon as possible.”

Arzhela was not pleased by that, but admitted that they had no choice; she’d met the Lady Emma. “Well, you must return to Vitre straightaway once you’ve questioned her son. Whilst you are gone, I will see what else I can discover. Who knows, I might have solved the mystery by the time you get back,” she teased, but Justin did not share her amusement.

“Lady Arzhela, I urge you to keep your distance until we return. At first I saw nothing suspect about Canon Robert. But as we made ready to leave, I caught something odd. He was staring intently at me, my lady, or to be more precise, at my boots.”

Arzhela followed his eyes, gazing down at the cowhide boots protruding from the hem of his threadbare woolen garment. She was quick-witted, understanding the significance at once. “Of course! No servant would have boots of such good leather! So he knows you are not who you pretended to be.”

Justin nodded. “More than that, my lady. Canons are rarely, if ever, men of humble birth. He ought not to have even glanced at me, for men of rank do not pay heed to those who serve them. But he did pay heed to me, and I wonder why.”

“Is that not obvious? The man has something to hide!”

“Be that as it may, will you promise me that you’ll do nothing rash until we return?”

Arzhela frowned and sighed and argued. Justin persevered, though, until she reluctantly agreed to take no further action. But his relief was tempered by a few lingering misgivings, for he understood now why John had been alarmed on her behalf.