Prince of Darkness

by Sharon Kay Penman

  “Mayhap you ought to be the one considering a life in the Church, not Morgan,” she said, with mockery but no malice. “Do you think he’ll ever take vows, Justin? I know there can be no higher calling than to serve the Almighty, but it still seems a waste of a good man.”

  She giggled, looking both pleased and shocked by her own irreverence, and Justin laughed, too. “You ought to hear Durand on that subject,” he said, remembering the knight’s diatribe about “the madness that drives a man to renounce the pleasures of the female flesh.” “And if I needed more proof that it was time for me to leave, starting to quote Durand is surely it!”

  “I think you showed great forbearance in not murdering the man and disposing of the body in some Breton bog. Care to wager how long it takes for Durand and Simon to be at each other’s throats?” When he shook his head, grinning, she glanced around the hall before saying confidentially, “I hear that Yann asked you to take him with you to England, and you mustered up enough fortitude to refuse.”

  “How did you know that? Ah, Claudine, that was so hard to do. But I had no choice. I could not look after him, not as long as I serve the queen.”

  “Well, what about that tavern maid... Belle? She could keep him when you were away. Though I suppose she is not the motherly sort.”

  Justin was surprised by that sudden flash of claws. “You mean Nell, and I could not ask her to do that. She has enough on her plate, taking care of her daughter and running the alehouse. Why do you not like her, Claudine?”

  “Are you going to claim that she speaks well of me?” she demanded, and he conceded defeat with a smile and a shrug. It was then that Yann appeared at his elbow, startling them both.

  “I promise,” he said, before Justin could say anything, “that I’d be no trouble. I do not eat much and I could take care of your dog and run errands—”

  “Yann, we’ve been over this already. I am rarely in London, and that is not a city for a Breton lad to be roaming about on the loose. You’d not have to go looking for trouble. It would come looking for you.”

  Yann ducked his head, as if blinking back tears. “The Lady Arzhela would want you to take me,” he said, so disingenuously that Justin and Claudine were both touched and amused, in equal measure.

  “Yann, you scare me sometimes,” Justin said wryly. “Lad, listen to me. A city like Paris or London is not where you belong. If only I knew someone who could find a place for you on a country manor, the way Lady Petronilla can—”

  “Justin, you do,” Claudine interrupted. Leaning over, she whispered a name in his ear. When he shook his head vehemently, she looked at him challengingly. “Why not? Who better to do a good deed than a man of God? Or are you too proud to ask him for a favor?”

  “If you want to learn how to get people to do what you want, Yann, you need only watch the Lady Claudine in action,” Justin said, more sharply than he’d intended. “This is what I can do, lad: I will ask the Bishop of Chester if he can take you into his household or find a place for you on one of his manors. It is likely he will agree, but you must remain here until I get word that he does. Then, I will come back for you. Agreed?”

  “How do I know you are not just saying this? That you will come back for me?”

  “You have my sworn word. If the bishop agrees, I will return and take you to Chester. But you must promise to stay here in Paris until you hear from me. Fair enough?”

  Yann was not happy with the bargain they’d just struck. But at least it offered a glimmer of hope, and he’d learned to settle for much less. “I promise,” he said, fingers crossed behind his back.

  Within the hour, though, John and Morgan returned, and Morgan would have none of it. “You do not want to live in England, Yann. You’d be happier in Wales, for Welsh is much easier for a Breton lad to learn than English. Stay here with me and when I go home, you can come with me. I’ve cousins about your age at Raglan and my mother’s brother Hywel is the Lord of Caerleon now, so you’ll have your pick of places. Do we have a deal?”

  “Deal,” Yann said happily, and Justin, blinking at how quickly the boy switched allegiance from him to Morgan, gave his approval, not seeing what else he could do. He trusted Morgan, after all, could hardly blame the man for being John’s brother. Sending Yann off on an errand to the kitchen, Morgan looked intently from Justin to Claudine, back to Justin again.

  “John learned something from the French king that disquieted him greatly. He would not tell me what, and I did not feel free to press; after all, our relationship has lasted barely a day. He went out into Lady Petronilla’s gardens, and is still there. I was hoping that you or Durand or mayhap you, Lady Claudine, might be able to find out what is troubling him. I suspect it concerns the Bretons and that damned letter.”

  Justin was not thrilled at the prospect; the last place he wanted to venture was into the murky terrain of John’s mind. But Claudine and Morgan were looking expectantly at him. Getting to his feet, he started across the hall to find Durand.

  John was seated on a wooden bench in the gardens, playing with one of Petronilla’s greyhounds. Seeing the men and Claudine bearing down upon him, he showed no surprise. “Passing strange how quickly people are drawn to the site of a disaster.”

  “We want to help,” Morgan said, so simply that not even John could doubt his sincerity. “Why not let us?”

  “I would that you could,” John conceded, “but there is naught to be done. One of Philippe’s spies at the Breton court has sent him word that Constance plans to make use of that accursed letter. I was hoping that they’d decide it was too risky after Simon and the Breton both disappeared under such strange circumstances. I ought to have known better. My luck has always been rotten.”

  “But you can prove the letter is false,” Claudine said, sounding puzzled. “The Breton is dead but Simon de Lusignan is not, and he can testify that it was a scheme to cheat the Bretons at your expense.”

  “And you think anyone in Christendom would give credence to a de Lusignan?” John looked at her in disbelief. “No one would believe anything he had to say. His evidence would either be dismissed out of hand because no de Lusignan has ever been on speaking terms with the truth or it would be assumed that I’d paid him to lie on my behalf.”

  “The French king knows the truth,” Morgan suggested, and winced when John laughed harshly.

  “God spare me, another innocent! Morgan, you have much to learn about our family. Brother Richard would sooner believe the Devil than the French king. Moreover, it is no longer in Philippe’s interest to clear me of suspicion, now, is it?”

  Only Durand seemed to follow John’s thinking; the others looked so baffled that John sighed, struggling to hold onto the scraps of his patience. “Things have changed dramatically in the past fortnight, or have you not noticed? Richard is free, back in England, and most likely besieging my castles even as we speak. Once he reduces them to rubble, he’ll be heading for the closest port, eager to wreak havoc and let loose the dogs of war upon Philippe. With Richard’s fiery breath on the backs of our necks, we’re going to be hard pressed to defend our own lands, much less strike into his domains. I’d say my chances of becoming England’s king are about as good right now as yours are of becoming Pope, Morgan. And you may be sure that has not escaped Philippe’s notice.”

  Morgan still did not see, but Justin did and he felt a strange pang of pity for John and Philippe and Richard, even for his queen, for all those wielding power whilst treading on shifting sands that were no less treacherous than those in the Bay of Mont St Michel. “He is saying, Morgan, that Philippe will fear he may be tempted to try to make his peace with Richard. So the more suspicion and rancor between the brothers, the better it now is for the French king.”

  “Good for you, de Quincy,” John said, with a sardonic smile. “You might one day make it to wolfdom, after all.”

  That was incomprehensible to Morgan and Claudine, who’d not been present for John’s little lecture about wolves and sheep. Morga
n hesitated, sensing that he was stepping out onto thin ice. “What of Queen Eleanor? Could you not tell her that this letter was a forgery? She could convince Richard, then, surely?”

  The others tensed, knowing from painful experience that John’s tangled, tortured relationship with his mother was a bottomless swamp, from which few emerged unscathed. John surprised them, though, by not lashing out at Morgan, giving his newfound brother something he rarely gave to anyone—the benefit of the doubt.

  “That tactic—truth telling—might work with you and the Lady Nesta,” he said tersely, “but not in the bosom of our loving family. My lady mother would not believe me.”

  With that, Justin heard the jaws of the trap slam shut. “Mayhap she would not,” he said wearily, “but she might believe me.”

  XXV

  March 1194

  London, England

  Justin awakened with a gasp, fleeing the darkness of a Fougères dungeon. It was not the first disquieting dream he’d had of his entombment, but this one had a happy ending: a blazing surge of sunlight as the trapdoor was flung open and freedom beckoned in the guise of Morgan Bloet. He lay back upon the bed, heartened by his night escape, hoping it meant that the dreams would come less and less often and, eventually, not at all. He was drifting off to sleep again when there was a sharp knocking on the cottage door.

  He’d got to London just as curfew was sounding, and was one of the last travelers allowed to pass through the city gates. By the time he’d reached Gracechurch Street, the alehouse was shuttered and still, and the houses were dark, oil lamps and hearth fires doused for the night. He’d stabled his mount in a stall next to his stallion, Copper, and stumbled off to his cottage behind Gunter’s black-smithy. Not even bothering to remove his boots, he’d fallen into bed, asleep before he’d taken half a dozen breaths.

  The knocking continued. Swinging off the bed, he was starting toward the door when it opened and a black whirlwind burst into the cottage to fling itself upon him. He staggered backward under the assault, and was fending off a hysterical canine as Nell followed Shadow in. “Dogs,” she said briskly, “are more loyal than men and not as much trouble. The mad beast has not forgotten you, I see.”

  “How did you know I was back?” Justin asked, going over to give her a hug.

  “What—you think Gunter would not notice another horse in his stable? Come with me,” she insisted, steering him toward the door. “Lord only knows the last time you ate, so I made you a meal over at the alehouse.”

  Justin would have liked to change his clothes, but he knew better than to argue with Nell, and followed her outside, where he was surprised to see a twilight dusk settling over the city. Nell confirmed that he’d slept for more than eighteen hours. “We let you stay abed all day like a sluggard” was how she put it as she hastened him across the street.

  “Who are ‘we’?” he asked, and had his answer as he pushed open the door of the alehouse. It was crowded with his neighbors and friends: Gunter the blacksmith; Odo the barber, his wife, Agnes, and their nephew, Daniel; Ulric the chandler and his wife, Cicily; Marcus the cartwright; Avice, the tanner’s widow; Nell’s helper Ellis and Nell’s young daughter, Lucy; even Aldred and Jonas, the one-eyed sergeant who was the bane of London’s lawless and Justin’s mentor. With a shy grin, Justin stepped forward into the warmth of their welcome.

  By now they knew the rules—he never talked about what he did for the queen—so no one asked about his sudden disappearance or his long absence from Gracechurch Street. Instead they caught him up on neighborhood gossip and local happenings, telling him that the cobbler’s wife had run off with a peddler, that Humphrey the mercer had disgraced himself by turning up drunk as a sailor’s whore for Candlemas Mass, that a woman over on Aldgate Street had given birth to twins, that a fire had damaged the cook-shop down by the river, and that King Richard’s entry into the city had been a spectacle to dazzle all eyes.

  “All the shops closed early,” Nell explained. “Even the taverns and alehouses shut down, since they knew everyone would be out in the street, watching for the king’s coming. And they were, too. So many people lined up that there was not space for a snake to slither by. They hung out of windows and perched in trees and some fools had even clambered onto rooftops to see!”

  “And the streets were clean,” Aldred reported in awe. “The rakyers had actually worked for their wages and swept away all the dung and mud and straw and rubbish. It was a sight to behold... like a great fair day, with banners strung across the streets and ribbons wrapped around ale-poles and people waving scarves from windows and doves set free in white clouds when the king reached Cheapside!

  “Thank God no fires broke out,” he added, “for no one would ever have heard the fire bells over the clamor of the church bells. I’m surprised you did not hear them as far away as France, Justin! It was a fine welcome we gave the Lionheart. We did ourselves proud for certes, and the king and queen seemed right pleased that we’d turned out in such great numbers.”

  “Bearing in mind,” Jonas said dryly, “that Londoners will come out by the hundreds for a hanging.”

  Justin smiled fondly at Jonas, for the sergeant’s habitual skepticism seemed like starry-eyed optimism when compared to John’s lethal cynicism. “It is good to be home,” he said. “You spoke of the ‘queen,’ Aldred. So Richard had Berengaria with him? I’ve never laid eyes on her; few have. Was she fair to look upon?”

  Aldred blinked in confusion. “Beren... who? I meant Lady Eleanor. What other queen is there?”

  At the mention of his royal mistress, Justin lost some of his cheer; he was not looking forward to pleading John’s case with the queen. But it had to be done on the morrow, even before he rode to St Albans to see Aline. “Where is King Richard lodging?” he asked. “Are they at the Tower or at the palace at Westminster?”

  “King Richard did not dally here in London. He’s long gone, off to put down Lord John’s rebellion.”

  “And the queen?”

  “Why, she went with him, lad,” Odo volunteered, “and all the court, too, streaming out of Westminster like a flock of peacocks. Those pampered lords will be earning their bread now, just trying to keep up with the king!”

  It sounded to Justin as if he would be earning his bread, too, chasing over half of England after the Lionheart. “Where has he gone?”

  By common consent, they looked toward Jonas, for he was the sheriff’s man, would be likely to know. And he did. “You’ve got a long ride ahead of you,” he told Justin, with more amusement than sympathy. “He went north to besiege Lord John’s castle at Nottingham.”

  Baby Ella was awake in her cradle, utterly intent upon getting her foot into her mouth. In the other cradle, her milk-sister slept peacefully, oblivious to her audience. “You must be amazed by how big she’s got,” Rohese said, pointing out the obvious with a coquettish smile, and her brother Baldwin rolled his eyes. She’d been visiting when Justin de Quincy arrived and she’d been so charmed by his courtly manners that she’d been hovering close by, insisting upon playing a role in his reunion with his daughter. Now she was chattering nonstop as Justin leaned over the cradle, and Baldwin and Sarra exchanged the sort of amused, exasperated glances that Rohese so often provoked.

  “Of course Ella is much larger, but then, she’s older so she would be... bigger, I mean.” Rohese said, giggling self-consciously as she realized how silly she was sounding. “But your little lass is doing right well for her age. When she’s not swaddled, she squirms about like a baby eel, doesn’t she, Sarra? If you lie her down on her belly, she can roll over onto her back now. And when she wakes up in the morning and sees Baldwin or Sarra, she greets them with the sweetest smile.”

  Baldwin wished his sister would stop gushing over the poor lad, and Sarra thought it was not tactful of Rohese to remind Justin de Quincy of all the milestones he’d missed in his daughter’s life. But in truth, Justin was not even listening to Rohese. Aline was the only one in the cottage for him at that
moment, the only one in the world. She had a surprisingly thick cap of dark hair and skin like flower petals; when he touched her cheek with his finger, it felt like the soft, downy feathers of a baby bird.

  “Do you want to hold her?” Rohese murmured throatily and, reaching for Aline, placed the sleeping infant in his arms before Sarra could object.

  Justin cradled his daughter with such exaggerated care that it was both touching and comical to those watching. “I am back, butterfly,” he said, and those silky lashes fluttered, revealing eyes the color of ground cinnamon, Claudine’s eyes. For a heartbeat, they looked at each other, and then Aline’s lower lip began to tremble. Before he could react, her mouth contorted and she started to cry. There was nothing gradual or tentative about it, either; she screamed loudly enough to set his ears ringing, color flooding her little face, tiny fists beating the air in distress.

  Sarra came swiftly to his side and reclaimed the frightened child. For several moments, there was no sound but the baby’s wailing and a soothing, wordless murmur from Sarra. Back in familiar arms, Aline soon quieted, her sobs subsiding into broken hiccups, and Sarra sat down in a chair, discreetly opened her bodice and offered Aline the comfort of her breast.

  After an awkward silence, Rohese said, in some embarrassment, “She is usually such a calm, good-natured baby, skittish only with—” She caught herself, but not in time, and Justin finished the sentence for her.

  “Only with strangers,” he said softly.

  William the bastard had chosen Nottingham’s site for its strategic significance, on a red sandstone ridge high above the River Trent. A new settlement had quickly sprung up in its protective shadow, nestled between the castle and the old town, and more than a hundred years later, the partition persisted. Nottingham was separated into the Norman-French Borough and the Saxon Borough, each with its own sheriff and bailiff. Justin was both intrigued and unsettled by the dichotomy—two towns, two ethnic identities—for he rarely thought about the social consequences of the Conquest. While French was his mother tongue, he also spoke English, and felt equally at home with the Saxon Aldred or the Norman Luke de Marston. The two halves of Nottingham reminded him that England, too, was a country divided, with a king who spoke not a word of English.