Cruel as the Grave

by Sharon Kay Penman

  Catching up with him, Justin said softly, "John can wait. The queen cannot."

  Durand came to an immediate halt, then spun around to confront Justin, who obligingly raised the lantern so that it illuminated his face. "Christ Jesus!" Durand blurted out, staring at Justin as if he doubted the evidence of his own senses. "What are you doing here?"

  It was the first time Justin had seen the other man off balance. "I wanted to return your dagger,' he snapped. "Use your head, man. Why do you think?" Durand cursed under his breath. "We cannot talk out here," he said tautly. "Come with me."

  Retracing Durand's steps, they returned to the tower. The ground-floor chamber was empty but Durand continued on into the stairwell and Justin followed him to an upper chamber that was surprisingly spacious and well lighted, with an iron candlestick on the trestle table and several rushlights burning in wall sconces. A flagon and cups were set out on the table and the first thing Durand did was to pour himself wine. He did not offer Justin any, instead said testily, "How in hellfire did you get into the castle undetected? Was that little set-to at the gatehouse your doing?"

  "Does it matter?"

  "No... I suppose not." Durand leaned back against the table, regarding Justin reflectively. "Why are you here?"

  "The queen wants you to do all in your power to convince Lord John that he ought to surrender."

  Durand's mouth twisted. "Did she have any suggestions as to how I'm to accomplish that miraculous feat? If I had my way, we'd have come to terms a fortnight ago. Why fight a war we cannot win? It makes no sense. Yet try arguing that to John!"

  "Why would he want to hold out? Does he expect help from Philip? Surely he knows by now that the French invasion was thwarted?"

  Durand shrugged. "He knows. Let me tell you about John. He is as far from a fool as a man can be. Most of the time, he is too clever for his own good. But where his brother is concerned, that intelligence does him no good whatsoever, for the mere mention of Richard's name is enough to send emotion flooding into his brain, drowning out the voice of reason."

  "Is he that jealous of Richard?"

  Durand snorted. "Did Cain love Abel? How else explain why we are holed up here at Windsor instead of conspiring against Richard from the safety of the French court?"

  "The queen knows it will not be easy. But she is relying upon you to save John from himself - and from others who might prefer that he not survive this siege. She said that if the castle is assaulted and taken, you must see to John's safety."

  That was a daunting charge, but Durand merely nodded. "Tell my lady queen that I will serve her as long as 1 have breath in my body." Taking a deep swallow of wine, he looked at Justin with a quizzical, faintly mocking smile. "That raises an interesting point. How do you expect to get word back to the queen? If you think I'm going to help you escape, you'd best think again. I'll risk my skin for no man, least of all you."

  "Now why does that not surprise me?" Justin said, with a sardonic smile of his own. "But to allay your concerns, I expect to get out through a postern gate - at John's command."

  Durand's eyes narrowed. "Now why should John do that?"

  "I bear two messages, one of which is for him."

  Durand's hand jerked and wine splashed over the rim of his cup. "You keep me out of it, by God! If there is even a hint that we are connected, John will hang us both from the battlements... if we are lucky. He trusts me now - or as much as he ever trusts any man - and I'll not have your blundering stirring up suspicions or doubts."

  "It is such a pleasure working with you, Durand. Do you suppose you can compromise yourself long enough to tell me where I am most likely to find John alone?"

  "Well, there is always his bedchamber, although you're not likely to find him alone there."

  Justin was startled. "He brought a concubine with him into the castle, knowing it could be under siege?"

  "Why not? Sieges can drag out for months. Would you truly expect him to live like a monk for so long... John, who cannot go more than a night without a woman in his bed?"

  Durand's smile was so malicious that Justin knew they were both thinking of Claudine. "Tell me where I can find John," he said, with enough quiet menace to make it a threat. "Tell me now."

  "Are your nerves always on the raw like this? That does not bode well for your chances of getting out of Windsor alive, does it? But your safety is none of my concern. As for John, you can find him here sometimes, and often after dark, on the battlements. He will spend hours up there, gazing out into the night and brooding-"

  Durand cut himself off abruptly. By then, Justin heard it, too: footsteps in the stairwell. They could not be found here together and his eyes swept the room, seeking a hiding place. The only possibility was the corner privy chamber. The footsteps were louder now, approaching the door. Durand would have to delay the intruder while he hid. He was starting to turn toward the other man when he caught movement from the corner of his eye. Instinctively he recoiled, but it was too late. The candlestick in Durand's fist thudded into his temple and he went down into the floor rushes as the door swung open.

  11

  WINDSOR CASTLE

  April 1193

  Justin awoke to total recall, pain, and utter blackness. For a shattering moment, he feared he'd been blinded by the blow. It was almost with relief that he realized he was being held in one of the castle's dungeons, as dark as the bottom of a well. His head was throbbing and when he moved, he had to fight back a wave of queasiness. This was the second time in two months that he'd suffered a head injury and by now he was all too familiar with the symptoms. He tried to find out if he was bleeding, but discovered instead that his right wrist was manacled to a ring welded into the floor. Testing its strength merely set his head to spinning. Pillowing it awkwardly upon his free arm, he lay very still, waiting for the dizziness to pass, and eventually he slept.

  When he awakened again, the pain had begun to recede and his thoughts were no longer clouded. That was a dubious blessing, though, for he was now able to focus upon his plight with unsparing clarity. The solitude was soon fraying his nerves and he found it particularly troubling to have no sense of time's passing. He had no way of knowing how long it had been since Durand swung that candlestick. Hours? A day? It was disorienting and somehow made his isolation all the more complete. It was as if the world had gone on without him. Would his disappearance stir up even a ripple at the royal court, on Gracechurch Street? Would there be any to mourn him, to remember?

  His self-pity was fleeting, submerged in a rising tide of rage. He was not going to die alone and forgotten down here in the dark. He owed Durand a blood debt and he'd not go to his grave with it unpaid. That he swore grimly upon the surety of his soul.

  His embittered musings were interrupted by a sudden scraping noise, shockingly loud in the muffled silence of the cell. He struggled to sit up as a trapdoor was opened overhead and a ladder lowered into the gloom. A man was soon clambering down, a sack dangling from his belt, a lantern swinging precariously each time he switched holds upon the rungs. Even that feeble light seemed unnaturally bright to Justin, who had to avert his eyes.

  "Here," the man said brusquely, shaking out the contents of the sack onto the floor at Justin's feet: a loaf of bread and a chunk of cheese and a battered wineskin. "I was told to feed you... although it seems a shame to waste good food on a man who's soon to die."

  Justin ignored the uncharitable aside. The guard's grumbling only echoed what he already knew; spies were hanged. "Tell Lord John that Justin de Quincy must talk with him. Say it's urgent and in his interest to hear me out."

  "I'll do that straightaway," the man vowed, and then laughed derisively. "Why should my lord John spare time for the likes of you?" he sneered and began his clumsy ascent back up the ladder. The loss of that faltering lantern light affected Justin much more than he could have anticipated; it was as if the sun had been blotted out, plunging him back into an eternal night. His headache was almost gone; clearly Durand had done
far less damage than Gilbert the Fleming. He had no appetite, but he forced himself to eat some of the bread and cheese. The liquid in the wineskin was warm and had a stale aftertaste. He thought it might be ale; all he could say for a certainty was that it was wet. His thirst was overpowering, though, and it was difficult to ration himself to just a few swallows. He did not know how long it had to last.

  Surely John would not send him to his death without interrogating him first? John's scruples might be ailing, but he had a curiosity healthy enough to put any cat to shame. How could he not want answers as much as he did vengeance? But what if John did not know he was languishing in this dungeon? Would Durand have told him? If not, that guard's pitiless prediction was likely to come true... all too soon.

  ~~

  Justin was dozing fitfully when the trapdoor opened again. A tall figure descended the ladder, less awkwardly than the guard, and even before his lantern's flame revealed his identity, Justin knew it was Durand. The knight raised the lantern high, letting its light linger upon Justin's pallor and dishevelment. Justin's fury needed no illumination; the other man could feel it throbbing between them in the dark, giving off enough heat to scorch the very air they both breathed. A smile quirked the corner of Durand's mouth. "So," he drawled, "how is your poor, addled head? I daresay it is still pounding like a drum, no?"

  Justin's fist clenched on the chain, but the anchor held. Squinting up into the glare of Durand's lantern, he called the knight every vile name he'd ever heard, with so much venom that even the most commonplace of profanities became a blistering indictment. Durand heard him out, affecting an amused indifference belied by the tautness of his body's stance, the glitter in those narrowed, appraising eyes.

  "You're not taking this well, are you?" he gibed. "All this righteous indignation seems a bit overdone to me, for I did warn you that I'd not put myself at risk. With John about to walk in and find us chatting together, cozy as can be, I did what I could to deflect suspicion away from myself, and offer no apologies for it, by God!"

  "Your memory is as flawed as your honour! I was there, too, or did that slip your mind? You struck me down before the door opened, so how could you possibly have known it was John? Second-sight?"

  "I recognized his footsteps," Durand said blandly, and in that moment, Justin understood fully what men meant when they spoke of a "murderous rage."

  "What a liar you are! You saw your chance and took it and you'll never convince me otherwise, not in this life or the next!"

  "I do not have to convince you of anything, de Quincy. I told you what happened and if you choose not to believe me, that is up to you. If I were in your place - and irons - I'd be more concerned about making my peace with the Almighty. You were caught spying, after all, and spies..." He paused, heaving a mock sigh. "Alas, they are hanged."

  "You'd better hope that I am not."

  "And why is that?"

  "Because I am not about to die alone, Durand. If I hang, you'll hang with me, and that is a promise."

  Durand seemed taken aback. "I do not think you'd do that," he said at last and Justin smiled coldly.

  "Think again."

  Durand said nothing, but his free hand had dropped to the hilt of his dagger. Justin's throat tightened. He still managed a scornful laugh, though, when the other man took a step toward him. "Go ahead," he jeered, "use your knife. That is one way to silence me. Of course you'd have to explain to John why you'd come down to the dungeons to murder a man known to be in the queen's service. But I'm sure you could think of some plausible explanation. We both know how trusting John is, how slow he is to suspect treachery... do we not?"

  Now it was Durand's turn to indulge in profanity. He spat out a string of vitriolic oaths, of which "misbegotten son of a poxed whore" was the mildest. But he did not draw his dagger from its sheath.

  Justin did his best to appear bored by the invective. "If you are done ranting, let's talk about what I want you to do."

  "If you think I'll help you escape, you're in for a great disappointment!"

  "I'd sooner take my chances with a pack of starving wolves, for they'd be easier to trust. All you need do is convince John to see me... and soon. Lest you forget, I bring him an urgent message from his lady mother. If I cannot deliver it, we'll both have failed our queen."

  Durand's eyes glinted in the candlelight. He seemed about to speak, instead spun on his heel and stalked back to the ladder. He paused, a boot on the first rung when Justin said his name.

  "Just remember this, Durand. Either I do my talking to John... or on the gallows. The choice is yours."

  "Rot in Hell," Durand snarled, and rapidly climbed the ladder. Within moments, the trapdoor slammed and Justin was alone again in darkness. He sagged back against the wall, his breathing as uneven and shallow as his hopes of reprieve. Did Durand truly care whether he failed the queen or not? Had he convinced Durand that their fates were inextricably entwined?

  If he died in this hellhole or on the gallows, would Eleanor notify his father?

  ~~

  The trapdoor was flung open with a thud. A ladder was lowered through the opening and two men were soon climbing down. Justin sat up in alarm. Why two of them? Had Durand decided to pay men to do his killing for him? They moved toward him, fanning out to approach from each side, and the man with the lantern said gruffly, "You've caused enough trouble already. Do not make this any harder than it need be."

  Justin yanked at the manacle in vain, knowing resistance was futile, planning to resist, anyway. Then he saw what was in the guard's other hand: a key. At least he'd not be dying in this accursed black pit, forgotten by all but God. Even the gallows seemed preferable to that. The key made a rasping sound in the lock, as lyrical to his ears as harp music. When he tried to rise, though, he discovered that his muscles were cramped and stiff and he stumbled after his captors, as unsteady on his legs as a newborn foal.

  "Where are you taking me?"

  "To the gallows, I expect," the second man said indifferently. "But Lord John wants to see you first."

  ~~

  Justin gazed upward, marveling at the beauty of the sunsetcolored clouds meandering lazily above the castle like fleecy, celestial sheep - if sheep were ever purple and pink. He laughed suddenly and his guards eyed him warily. He couldn't explain to them how good it felt to be able to see the sky again, to draw clean, untainted air into his lungs after breathing in the fumes filling that rancid, fetid tomb. It was astonishing to see dusk was just falling, for that meant his captivity had been measured in hours, not days. It was true what he'd once heard, that time stopped with the slamming of a dungeon's door.

  ~~

  John's bedchamber was in one of the timber buildings within the protective stone circle of the shell keep. He was seated at a trestle table set for two, about to eat as Justin was ushered in. Shoving him forward, the guard asked deferentially, "Do you want us to truss him up, my lord?

  "

  John put down his wine cup. "No," he said. "That will not be necessary... will it, Master de Quincy? I am assuming my lady mother sent you as a spy, not an assassin?"

  Even accustomed as he was to John's slash-and-parry brand of sarcasm, this took Justin's breath away, for that was an exceedingly bitter joke for a man to make about his mother. John was watching him dispassionately. They were only five years apart in age, but worlds apart in the lives they'd led. John was the dark one in a fair family, lacking his celebrated elder brother's height and flash and golden coloring. But he did not lack for ambition or intelligence, and Justin's past encounters had convinced him that the queen's youngest son was a formidable foe, indeed, far more dangerous than a Durand de Curzon or a Gilbert the Fleming. John had his mother's compelling hazel eyes, green-flecked and slanting and utterly inscrutable. A cat at a mousehole, Justin thought, wanting to play with its prey before making the kill. "I am neither, my lord," he said swiftly, "not spy nor assassin. That was not my mission."

  "No?" John arched a brow. "And what was thi
s mysterious mission, then?" He gestured for a waiting youth to ladle food onto his trencher, and the succulent aroma of roasted chicken awakened in Justin a sudden and ravenous hunger, for he'd eaten only a bit of cheese and bread in more than a day and night. He looked away hastily, but not in time; John saw. "Hungry, are you?"

  "No, my lord," Justin said stoutly, and John grinned.

  "You lied much more convincingly when you swore to me that you knew nothing about that bloodstained letter."

  There was no longer any need for secrecy and Justin made no denials. "If I had not lied, my lord, I would have betrayed your mother, the queen. Surely you would want those in your service to be loyal to you first and foremost?"