His alehouse companions found him a sheltered spot on deck, pointed out the steering oar that acted as a rudder, and showed him how the compass worked—a needle magnetized by a lodestone, then placed on a pivot in a shallow pan of water. One even shared a pinch of ground ginger, swearing it would settle his stomach and keep him from feeding the fish. Justin was grateful for their goodwill. It did not make the voyage any less unpleasant for him, though. He shuddered every time the ship sank into a slough, holding his breath until it battled its way back. The ship was so low in the water that he was doused with sea spray, chilled to the very marrow of his bones, but the sailors insisted that his queasiness would worsen within the crowded, rank confines of the canvas tent set up to shelter the passengers, where men were “puking their guts up” and there was not room enough to “swing a dead cat.” So Justin stayed out on the deck, bracing himself against the gunwale of the Holy Ghost and clinging to the Infinite Mercy of Almighty God.
Justin had chosen the port of Dover over Southampton because of its closer proximity to London. Claudine’s letter had been sparing with details, but her urgency had been unmistakable. Trouble was brewing, she’d written, and she entreated him to make haste to Paris if ever he’d loved her. Had her family learned about Aline? Had she confided in her cousin Petronilla, only to be betrayed? If she had indeed been disowned by her father and brothers, he did not know what he could do to heal so grievous a wound. He had to try, though. To ease her fears of childbirth and disgrace, he’d promised her that he would always be there when she and Aline had need of him. If that meant Paris and a hellish sea voyage, so be it.
The Holy Ghost took more than twelve hours to cross the Channel, entering Boulogne harbor that night with the incoming tide. Justin had seen few sights as beautiful to him as the beacon fire lit in the old Roman lighthouse on the hill overlooking the estuary. The customs fee demanded of disembarking passengers was outrageously high, but Justin paid it without complaint, so eager was he to get back upon ground that did not tremble and quake like one of Nell’s egg custards. The next morning he purchased a horse, too impatient to bargain the price down by much, and took the road south toward Paris.
Four days later, Justin saw the walls of Saint-Denis in the distance, and his spirits rose, for he’d been told the abbey was only seven miles from Paris. Regretting that he could not spare the time to visit the magnificent abbey church, he resolutely pushed on. The road wound its way through open fields and vineyards, deserted and barren under an overcast sky. He had chosen a well-traveled road, though, one paved by long-dead Roman engineers, and he did not lack for company. Heavily laden carts, messengers on lathered horses, pilgrims with sturdy ash-wood staffs, beggars, merchants, soldiers, an occasional barefoot penitent, dogs, several elderly monks on mules, peddlers, a raucous band of students, and a well-mounted lord and his retinue—all converging upon Paris, paying scant heed to the body dangling from a roadside gallows, for the end of their journey was at hand.
Several years earlier, the French king had begun replacing the wooden stockade that sheltered the Right Bank of the Seine with a wall of stone. It was soon within view, and the weary travelers surged forward, eager to reach the city before darkness descended. After paying the toll, Justin was allowed to pass through the gate of Saint-Merri. Although Claudine’s letter had been vexingly terse, she had at least provided directions to her cousin Petronilla’s town house, located there on the Right Bank.
He had no difficulty finding it for it overlooked a large, open area called the Grève, the city’s wine market. All he’d known about Petronilla was that she was wed to a much older French lord, and divided her time between their estates in Vermandois and their residence in Paris. Now he knew, too, that her husband was wealthy. Most urban dwellings were constructed at right angles to the street, for it was cheaper to build that way. This house was different. Its great hall was parallel to the street, set back in its own courtyard, flanked by stables and a kitchen and other wooden buildings. Dismounting, Justin found himself hesitating to enter, for Claudine’s lavish lodgings were yet further proof of the great gulf between her world and his.
He was admitted at once, and within moments, Claudine was hastening into the great hall to bid him welcome. “How it gladdens my eyes to see you, Justin!” Her time in Paris seemed to have suited Claudine, for she looked rested and relaxed, not at all like a woman in peril. But his questions would have to wait, for her cousin had followed her into the hall.
Petronilla had none of Claudine’s dark, sultry beauty, but she was elegant and graceful and vivacious, obviously an old man’s pampered darling who had the wit to recognize her good fortune. She greeted Justin with surprising warmth. He’d not expected her to approve of Claudine’s liaison with a man who was not even a knight. Claudine must have taken her cousin into her confidence, though, for she was making no attempt to hide their intimacy, linking her arm in his as she led him toward the stairwell, insisting that he must be hungry and bone-weary and in need of tender care.
He was ushered into a comfortable bedchamber abovestairs, lit by thick wax candles and heated by a charcoal-filled iron brazier. A servant was pouring warm water into a washing laver, and a platter had already been set out on a table, piled with bread and thick slices of beef. When he tried to speak, Claudine gently placed her finger to his lips.
“We’ll talk later. Rest for a while first. You’ve had a long journey.” She beckoned to the servant and slipped away before Justin could respond. As the door closed quietly behind her, he removed his mantle, slowly unbuckled his scabbard. There was a wine cup on the table. Picking it up, he took a swallow; as he expected, it was an expensive vintage. A pair of soft leather shoes lay neatly aligned by the side of the bed. They were very stylish, fastened at the ankle with a decorative brooch, and familiar to him. It was only then that he realized Claudine had taken him to her own bedchamber.
Justin hadn’t meant to sleep, but the bed was invitingly close at hand, and he’d been in the saddle since dawn. When he awoke, one glance at the marked candle told him that he’d been asleep for several hours. He swung off the bed, hastily groping for his boots. He was still groggy, but splashing his face with water from the laver helped. After cleaning away the dust and road grime of the past few days, he collected his scabbard and mantle and stepped out into the stairwell.
Claudine was awaiting him in the great hall. “I was beginning to fear you’d sleep till the week’s end,” she teased. “No matter, though. You’re awake now, so we can talk. Let’s go up to Petronilla’s solar where we can have privacy.”
Justin was more than willing, for none of this made sense so far. If she were in some sort of danger, why did she seem so nonchalant? And if she were not, why had she summoned him with such urgency? He was done with waiting, and as soon as they entered the solar, he said, with poorly concealed impatience, “Claudine, what is going on? Why did you send for me?”
His answer did not come from Claudine. As the door closed behind them, a figure stepped from the shadows, into the flickering circle of light cast by a smoking oil lamp. “Well, actually, de Quincy,” John said affably, “I was the one who sent for you.”
IV
January 1194
Paris, France
“I hope you are not angry with me for my little deception, Justin.” Claudine was giving him her most irresistible smile, the one that set her dimples to flashing like shooting stars. “Lord John said that he had an urgent matter to discuss with you and he doubted that you would have agreed to come if he had asked you. I’ll not blame you for being irked, but he convinced me that this was the best way to do it...”
His utter silence was beginning to erode some of her self-confidence. “Justin?” She reached out to stroke his arm and gasped when he jerked away from her touch. By then John was at her side, gently cupping her elbow and turning her toward the door as he expressed his gratitude. Before she could protest, she found herself out in the stairwell, listening to the latch slide i
nto place.
“She’ll probably hover by the door,” John predicted cheerfully. “There’s not a woman born who could resist the chance to eavesdrop. There is wine over there, and ale, too, as Claudine says you’ve a liking for it.”
He started toward the table, stopping when Justin recoiled, dropping his hand to the hilt of his sword. “What—you think I got you here to do you harm? Good God, man, use your common sense. If I wanted you dead—”
“You did want me dead!”
John paused. “Well, yes, I suppose so,” he conceded. “I’ll not deny that I did tell Durand to kill you. But that was not personal, de Quincy. I was simply trying to protect my aunt.”
“Very gallant of you, my lord,” Justin snarled, and John’s eyebrows rose.
“I like to think so.” Moving toward the table, he observed, “I am not about to lunge at you, am merely pouring myself a drink. I’d offer you one, too, but I fear you might fling it in my face.” Taking a swallow of wine, he regarded Justin thoughtfully over the rim of his cup. “Time for some blunt speaking, I see. Yes, I did give Durand that command. You know it, I know it, and by now, I expect my lady mother knows it, too.”
She didn’t, but Justin was not about to tell him that. He was still badly shaken, not only by John’s ambush and Claudine’s betrayal, but by the surge of hot, raw rage that had flooded his brain and submerged his self-control. He’d learned at an early age to keep his emotions under a tight rein, for a runaway temper was an indulgence few orphans could afford. Life could be cruel to the weak and the innocent. Nor was it kind to the unwary or the careless. In the world he’d grown up in, men paid dearly for their mistakes—unless they were fortunate enough to have the royal blood of England coursing through their veins.
“Put yourself in my place, de Quincy. What was I to do—let you go free to tell my mother that my aunt Emma had been plotting with me against her beloved Richard? If you’d been a more reasonable sort, I could have bought your silence. An argument might even be made that you brought some of your troubles upon yourself by being so incorruptible, so damnably honest.”
It was one of John’s saving graces that he found humor in the un-likeliest places, pools of water in the driest deserts, and Justin had long suspected that this was one reason he’d so often been able to beguile his way back into Eleanor’s favor. Even Claudine’s playful nickname for him, “the Prince of Darkness,” hinted at the seductive nature of his sins. But his sardonic charm was wasted upon Justin. “Out of morbid curiosity,” he said coldly, “how did Durand explain his failure to murder me?”
“As Durand told it, he was overpowered by a score of Welshmen masquerading as monks. Why? Is there more to the tale than that?”
“No,” Justin said grudgingly. Leave it to Durand to tell just enough of the truth to save his worthless skin. Justin’s loathing for Queen Eleanor’s spy made his distrust of John seem positively benign in comparison, yet he could deny neither the other man’s ice-blooded courage nor his unholy quickness of wit. Strangely enough, he did believe John’s claim that he’d been seeking to shield Emma from exposure. But he could find no excuses at all for Durand’s willingness to obey that lethal order.
John made another casual offer of wine, shrugging at Justin’s terse refusal. “So... where was I? Ah, yes, complaining about your unwillingness to take bribes. It is not as if I bore you some bitter, vengeful grudge, de Quincy. Since the risk of death is a natural hazard of your precarious profession, I do not see why you are taking this so much to heart. Hellfire, man, you won, did you not? You thwarted Durand, outwitted Davydd and Emma, recovered the ransom, and probably even earned a few words of my lady mother’s sparing praise. Now that I think about it, I am more the injured party than you are!”
Justin was not amused. “Why did you lure me here, my lord John?”
“Must you make it sound so underhanded and sly?” John protested, the corner of his mouth twitching. “I need your help, de Quincy. It is urgent that I speak with Emma as soon as possible. I want you to deliver a letter from me, convince her if she has qualms, and escort her safely to Paris.”
Justin shook his head in disbelief. “You cannot be serious. I am the last man in Christendom whom the Lady Emma would heed.”
“I agree that she has no fondness for you. But you are the also the queen’s man, as she well knows. She’ll not dare refuse you.”
In spite of himself, Justin felt a flicker of interest stirring. So John wanted the cover of the Crown. What was he up to and what part did Emma play in his scheme? “Why would I ever agree?”
“I can make it well worth your while.” John did not elaborate, nor did he need to. They both knew he was offering more than a pouch full of coins. He was offering, too, the favor of a future king. Richard had no heirs of his body. If he died before he sired a son, a distinct possibility for a man who flirted with Death on a daily basis, there were two claimants for his crown—his brother John and his nephew Arthur, the six-year-old son of his dead brother Geoffrey and Geoffrey’s highborn widow, Constance, Duchess of Brittany. The smart money was on John.
“I serve the Queen’s Grace, and I somehow doubt that her interests and yours are likely to coincide.”
“Actually,” John said, “in this case, they do.”
Justin did not reply; his incredulous expression spoke for him. John frowned, for he’d hoped to avoid trusting Justin with the specifics of his plight. “I have learned that I am about to be accused of a crime I did not commit, compliments of that Breton bitch, my sister-in-law Constance.”
“A crime you did not commit?” Justin echoed, with enough skepticism to deepen John’s scowl.
“Is that so hard to believe? Constance would accuse me of murdering babies and drinking their blood if she thought she could discredit me in Richard’s eyes.”
“Or she could let you do that all by yourself.”
“Damnation, de Quincy, will you listen to me? I am in trouble, and for once, none of it is my doing!”
“And that would grieve me because... ?”
“Because it would grieve my mother, you fool!”
“Would it?” Justin did not know if that was true or not, and at the moment, he did not care. He’d had enough. “That is not for me to say,” he said, and started toward the door.
John moved swiftly to intercept him. “We are not done yet! At the least, you can hear me out!”
Justin discovered now that their difference in height gave him the advantage, for the queen’s son had to look up to him. “No, my lord, we are done,” he said, and pushed past John to the door.
As John had predicted, Claudine was waiting out in the stairwell. “Justin, we have to talk!”
“No, we do not,” he said, and continued on down the stairs.
She followed hastily behind him. “Justin, wait! I know you are wroth with me, but you do not understand. If you’d let me explain—”
“There is nothing you can say!” As Justin shoved the door open, she caught at his arm, crying out his name. Emerging from the stairwell, they came to an abrupt halt, for all in the hall were staring at them.
“Justin, please,” Claudine entreated softly. She was still clutching his arm, and when she would not release her grip, he pried her fingers loose, one by one, until he was free. He turned, then, and stalked away, ignoring her plea that he wait, that he listen. He’d almost reached the door when his gaze fell on Durand de Curzon, lounging against the wall, arms folded across his chest. As their eyes met, Durand raised his hand in a sarcastic salute.
Temperatures had dropped sharply with the setting sun, and Justin shivered as he strode across the courtyard toward the stables. Within moments, he heard the door slam and quick footsteps sounded behind him. He spun around to see Claudine hurrying toward him.
“Go back to the hall!”
“Not until we talk!”
He continued on into the stables, with Claudine almost running in order to keep pace. “Go back inside,” he snapped. Noticing
for the first time that she’d neglected to take her mantle, he added impatiently, “You’ll freeze out here.”
“I do not care if I do!” Her defiance might have sounded more convincing if her teeth hadn’t been chattering. She half expected him to offer her his own mantle, was taken aback when he did not. “Justin, why are you being so stubborn? Why will you not listen to me?”
Justin ignored her and went to look for his saddle. She trailed after him, wrapping her arms around herself in a futile attempt at warmth. “You are going to hear me out if I have to follow you across half of Paris. I met Lord John at the French court, and he asked for my help. I could hardly refuse him, Justin. You may have forgotten that he is the queen’s son, but I do not have that luxury. Moreover, I saw no harm in doing what he asked. He said he needed to talk to you. Why is that so dreadful? Why are you acting as if I’d lured you into a viper’s den?”
Justin whirled, angry words of accusation hovering on his lips, only to be silenced by the look of honest bewilderment on her face. Remembering just in time that she did not know what had happened in Wales. She did not know that John had passed a sentence of death upon him. Nor was she aware that her spying for John had been discovered. And the queen did not want her to know.
“Justin, talk to me, please. Tell me what I’ve done that is so unforgivable,” she pleaded, and he stared at her mutely, overwhelmed by the burden of so many secrets. Not knowing what else to do, not trusting himself to hold his tongue, he turned away from her and fled out into the night.
The Grève was deserted and still, swallowed up in shadows. The only signs of life came from the river, where several boats were moored. Justin headed in that direction, tightening his hold upon his mantle as he faced into the wind. As he’d hoped, he soon caught a glimmer of light, and followed it to a small dockside tavern. It was half empty, the only customers a sleeping sailor and several men lingering over their drinks to delay going out into the cold. Justin found a table out of range of the door’s drafts and ordered a flagon.
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