The wine was wretched, so impure that he had to spit out sediment into the floor rushes. Shoving it aside, he made a resolute attempt to banish John and Claudine from his thoughts and focus upon where he was to spend the night. It made sense to leave his horse in Petronilla’s stable; he could claim it in the morning. Curfew must be nigh, so he had no time to roam the streets in search of an inn. After some thought, he beckoned to the tavern owner, and negotiated a bed for the night. The man agreed to provide a pallet in his kitchen, but he looked as shifty as any London cutpurse, and Justin decided he’d best sleep with one eye open.
Overhearing this negotiation, one of the other customers suggested he look for lodgings at St-Gervais, by the Baudoyer Gate, and Justin was getting directions when the door was thrust open and Durand de Curzon entered. He was wearing an elegant wool mantle trimmed with fox fur, a garment that looked utterly out of place in the seedy little tavern, and he attracted a few covetous, conjectural glances. When he swaggered toward Justin, though, men moved out of his way, theirs the instinctive unease of a flock sensing a predator in their midst.
“This day keeps getting better and better,” Justin said as Durand claimed a stool and a place at his table.
“You were too easy to track down,” the knight announced, reaching over for the wine flagon. “Had I been a hired killer, you’d have been a lamb to the slaughter.” Lacking a cup, he drank directly from the flagon, gagged, and spat into the floor rushes. “Christ on the Cross, de Quincy, I’d sooner drink horse piss!”
“What do you want, Durand?”
“I want you to fetch the Lady Emma for John and bring her back to Paris.”
“And I want you to repent your multitude of mortal sins and take the Cross, pledging to walk barefoot to Jerusalem. What are the chances of that happening?”
“If you are expecting me to offer an apology for what I did in Wales, you’ll still be waiting on the Day of Judgment. As I told you then, I had to choose which mattered more to the queen, that I continued to protect her son or that you continued to breathe. The hard truth, de Quincy, is that the queen needs me more than she needs you.”
“So does the Devil,” Justin said, pushing his stool away from the table. Once he was on his feet, though, with a clear path to the door, he paused. He did not doubt that Durand’s first loyalty was to Durand, not the queen. But he also knew that the queen would have expected him to hear the other man out.
Durand correctly interpreted his hesitation. “Sit down ere you attract attention and I’ll tell you what I know and why I think you ought to do as John bids you.” As soon as Justin reclaimed his seat, the knight leaned forward, saying quietly, “John got a letter from Brittany that rattled him good and proper. He balked at showing it to me, saying only that Constance was contriving his destruction. But I knew his favorite hiding places, so I just bided my time until I got a chance to read it for myself. It was a message from a woman named Arzhela de Dinan, warning him that Constance had written proof that he and the Count of Toulouse’s son were plotting to lure Richard to Toulouse once he is ransomed and there have him slain.”
Justin caught his breath, for John was right. Such a charge could indeed be his ruin. Richard had never seemed threatened by John’s attempts to steal his crown. Even in German confinement, he’d dismissed John’s intrigues with laughter and a mocking comment that John was not the man to conquer a kingdom if there was anyone to offer the feeblest resistance. Justin had often marveled at how often John eluded the consequences of his treachery, concluding that fortune had thrice favored him. He benefited from his brother’s amiable contempt and his mother’s protection, but above all from his position as heir-apparent. Most people were willing to turn a blind eye to the misdeeds of a man who might one day be England’s king.
But what if proof existed that he had connived at Richard’s murder? To kill a crowned king, God’s anointed, was regicide. Richard would not overlook that. Nor would Eleanor forgive. Justin suspected that John would have more to fear from the mother than from the queen, for Richard claimed her heart and John could only claim her blood.
“Two questions,” he said, his eyes searching Durand’s impassive, unreadable face. “Is there any chance this is true? And what have you been able to find out about this Arzhela de Dinan? How reliable is she?”
“Those are three questions,” Durand pointed out. “But no, I do not see how it can be true. It is a charge that could eventually be disproved—assuming John was given the chance to disprove it. On the surface, though, it has enough plausibility to hearten his enemies and fire Richard’s Angevin temper, for he has long been at odds with the lords of Toulouse. It is easy to believe that Raymond would concoct a murder plot, given the oceans of bad blood there. He is already suspect because of the heresies he and his father tolerate in their lands.”
Justin knew that the Church was increasingly alarmed by the spread of a heretical doctrine that denied some of the basic tenets of the True Faith, but his knowledge went no further than that. He had more pressing concerns now than outlaw sects, and he interrupted before Durand could continue. “Tell me about the woman.”
“Arzhela de Dinan’s warning has to be taken seriously, for she is well placed to know the secrets of the Breton court. She is a first cousin to Duchess Constance, and to judge by the tone of her letter, she was once John’s bedmate. She told John that she has not yet seen the letter for herself, but she is sure it exists. She believes it to be a forgery, or at least pretends to believe that. I’d say John has good reason for concern. He has enough penance due for past sins without adding regicide to the list.”
“But what does Emma have to do with a Breton plot?”
“I do not know,” Durand admitted reluctantly. “All I’ve been able to get out of John is that he has sent an urgent message to his favorite spy, the Breton. But Emma’s part in this remains murky. With luck, I’ll have been able to find out more by the time you get back to Paris with Emma.”
Opening his mouth to protest, Justin realized that there was nothing he could say. As little as he liked the idea of being drawn into John’s web, he had no choice. He knew what his queen would want, what she always wanted—to save John from himself.
Durand had told Justin that Lady Petronilla had invited John to spend the night, for his lodgings with the Templars were outside the city gate, now shut until daybreak. Returning to the house, he felt like Daniel going into the lions’ den and wondered grimly if he’d emerge alive like Daniel or if the lions would have the mastery of him.
Claudine was not in the great hall, to his relief. But John was still there, with the Lady Petronilla fluttering about him flirtatiously. His attention was distracted, though, his thoughts obviously elsewhere, and when he noticed Justin, he jumped to his feet with betraying alacrity. Extricating himself from Petronilla’s orbit, he strode toward Justin, saying, “Follow me.”
He led Justin across the hall into the small oratory, the most private place he could find. As soon as he closed the door, he demanded, “Why did you come back?” eagerly enough to reveal how dismayed he’d been by Justin’s abrupt departure.
Justin shrugged. “After traveling all this way, I decided I wanted to hear the end of the story.”
“Then you agree to escort Emma to Paris?”
“Only if I know why you have such an urgent need to see her, my lord.”
“That is not your concern,” John said curtly, and Justin shrugged again.
“As you will, my lord,” he said, and turned toward the door.
John impatiently waved him back. “If you must know, I need to contact the Breton. I daresay you remember him from your foray into Wales. He has never been an easy man to find, and the messages I’ve left for him have gone unanswered. Emma has more of a history with him than I do and she is likely to know other ways to reach him.”
Justin suspected there was more to it than that. For now, though, it would do. “I will leave on the morrow. But if the lady is not willing to c
ome, I can hardly stuff her into my saddlebag.”
“She may not come for me,” John admitted, surprising Justin with his candor. “But she’ll come for the queen’s man. Emma is a clever woman, and she well knows how urgently she needs to regain my mother’s favor. Now, what will your cooperation cost me, de Quincy?”
“The queen pays me two shillings a day. For you, my lord, I would charge three, plus my expenses.”
“No more than that?” John tilted his head to the side, regarding Justin quizzically. “Why am I getting off so cheaply?”
“Because,” Justin said, “I am not doing this for money. After this, you will owe me a debt, my lord, a debt I may collect at my pleasure.”
“I see...” John’s eyes caught the torchlight above his head, giving off a golden glitter. After a moment, he laughed abruptly. “Since when did you become so crafty, de Quincy? I think you’ve been passing too much time with me!”
Justin was given blankets and he joined the other men bedding down for the night in the great hall. He was folding his mantle to use as a pillow when he heard a light step behind him, a step he well knew.
“Justin.” Claudine was standing only a few feet away. Acutely aware of the men within earshot, she said, very low, “I have too much on my mind to sleep, and will be awake very late tonight.”
“I expect to be asleep very soon myself. Good night, Lady Claudine.” Stretching out under the blankets, he turned his back on her, lying very still until he finally heard the soft rustle in the floor rushes as she withdrew. Her perfume lingered after she’d gone, a fragrant, ghostly reminder of all he’d rather forget. His body was treacherously tempted to accept her invitation, but he would not yield to the weakness of the flesh, not tonight. The bedchamber was her battlefield; he had no intention of giving her such a tactical advantage. He believed her avowal that she’d never meant him harm. But she was too susceptible to John’s inducements. Nor had she asked the question that would have been foremost in his mind if their positions had been reversed and she had been the one coming from England to join him in Paris. Not once had she asked him about Aline.
V
January 1194
St Albans, England
Justin was sprawled in Baldwin and Sarra’s best chair, long legs stretched toward the hearth, his the boneless, easy abandon of youth, and Baldwin felt a twinge of envy, remembering when he, too, had been able to spend hours in the saddle without suffering cramps and blisters and spasms of the spine. The baby cradled in the crook of Justin’s arm was sleeping peacefully, and Justin’s own lashes were flickering drowsily. With an indulgent smile, Baldwin watched him fight his sleepiness. When he’d first realized how often Justin would be visiting Aline, Baldwin had been dubious, not eager to have a stranger so often under his roof, but Justin did his best to make his calls as unobtrusive as possible, and it could always have been worse. It could have been “the Lady Clarice” hovering underfoot.
“What happened to that handsome chestnut stallion of yours? Did you sell him?”
“Jesu forfend,” Justin said with a smile. “I’d sooner give up a body part than I would Copper. The horse I’m riding is one I bought in Dover. I’ll sell him in Southampton ere I take ship for France.”
“You do get about,” Baldwin marveled. “Just back from Paris and now off to Wales and then France again. I feel bone-weary merely listening to your plans, lad.”
“Me, too,” Justin admitted. He was dreading this trip into Wales, so much so that he found himself tempted to confide his fears to Baldwin. He didn’t, of course, for reticence was a lifetime’s habit, bred into his bones even before he’d become the queen’s man and the bearer of too many secrets. “I almost forgot,” he said. “I bought a rattle for Aline in Boulogne. It is over there in my saddlebag...”
“Sit still,” Baldwin instructed, “lest you awake the little lass. I’ll fetch it.” Rising with a creaking of what he ruefully called his “old bones,” he soon found the rattle. Straightening up, he smiled at the sight that met his eyes, for Justin had dozed off, joining his infant daughter in sleep. Sarra had also noticed, and gently freed the baby from Justin’s grasp, returning Aline to her cradle. Picking up a blanket, Baldwin tucked it around the young man’s shoulders, and smiled again, this time at his wife. “I think,” he said, “this might work out.”
Dusk was blurring the last light of day as Justin rode across the Dee Bridge and into the city of Chester. He stopped first at the castle, for he was hoping that the earl would provide him with an armed escort for his foray into Wales. He’d given Prince Davydd good reason to wish him ill, and Davydd was not a man to listen to his better instincts—assuming he had any. The earl’s steward remembered Justin from past visits and he was made welcome. But when Justin asked to see the earl, the steward had disquieting, disappointing news for him. The Earl of Chester was gone from the city, gone from the country, having crossed over to his estates in Normandy and Brittany more than a month ago.
Thinking this was not an auspicious beginning to his mission, Justin sought solace at Molly’s cottage. The shutters were drawn, no smoke smudged the sky over the roof, and his knocking went unanswered. Hoping that Molly was not off with Piers Fitz Turold, the wealthy vintner who was her protector and the suspected source for much of Chester’s criminal activity, Justin headed for the dockside tavern owned by Fitz Turold and run by Molly’s brother, Bennet.
Bennet was not there, nor was Berta, the sullen, buxom serving maid. The man pouring drinks was a stranger to Justin, a burly, scarred redhead with unfriendly eyes and a mouth like a padlock. Justin’s questions about Bennet’s whereabouts were met with shrugs, suspicion, and silence. Justin was not surprised by the lack of cooperation; Fitz Turold was not known for hiring Good Samaritans. He was brooding over a flagon of wine, keeping an eye peeled for Bennet when a voice bellowed in his ear, “By God, it’s Ben’s friend!”
The youth beaming at him was vaguely familiar, but it was the salutation Justin remembered more than the face. Algar was one of the tavern regulars, a good-natured lad with a crush on Berta and an annoying habit of addressing Justin as “Ben’s friend.” For once, though, Justin was glad to see him and he gestured for Algar to pull up a stool. “You always know what is going on around here, Algar. Where is Bennet? And for that matter, where is Berta?”
“Berta is home, drunker than a peddler’s bitch,” Algar said, grinning. “She has been ailing for days with a bad tooth. We finally coaxed her into letting the barber pull it, but she refused to do it sober and damned near drained one of Ben’s kegs dry all by herself!”
“And Bennet? Is that where he is, with Berta?”
“No, Ben has been away all week. Molly went off to Dunham-on-the-Hill to tend to a friend whose time was nigh, and Ben went along to keep her safe.”
“Do you know when they’ll be back?”
“I suppose,” Algar said, “it depends upon how fast her friend has the baby!”
Justin took advantage of his connection to the earl to get a bed for the night at the castle. Sleep wouldn’t come, though. He’d faced danger before, greater danger than he was likely to encounter at Davydd’s court. But if he died in Wales, what would happen to Aline? She would continue to be cared for; the queen and Claudine would see to that. But who would tell her about her blood-kin, her true identity? He’d lived twenty years before finding out that the Bishop of Chester was his father. All he knew about his mother was her name, and he’d only learned that a few months ago. He did not want Aline to travel down that same lonely road.
The next morning, he asked the castle steward for parchment, pen, and ink. He did not have much to bequeath. He’d drawn up a will that spring, leaving his stallion to Gunter, the blacksmith who’d once saved his life, and his dog to Nell’s Lucy. His legacy to Aline must be the truth. She had the right to know her own history, her own heritage, and for several hours, he labored over a testament, trying to anticipate any questions she might have about the father she’d never known
. He then wrote a brief letter to the queen, and carefully sealed both documents with borrowed wax, for the first time within memory sorry that he did not have a seal of his own. No seal, no land, not even a name that truly belonged to him. It had not mattered that much until he had a baby daughter and nothing to leave her but regrets.
After departing the castle, Justin rode straight for the Bishop of Chester’s palace on the outskirts of the city. He was nervous, for encounters with his father were invariably tense. Waiting for the bishop in the entrance hall, he could not help stealing sidelong glances at the chapel, for it was there that he’d confronted Aubrey de Quincy, and there that his father had denied his paternity until challenged to swear upon his own crucifix.
He turned at the sound of footsteps, saw his father emerging from the stairwell. “Well, Justin, this is a surprise.” The bishop’s smile was tentative, wary. “Come with me. I’ve given orders to have wine fetched.”
As he followed his father into the great hall, it occurred to Justin that this was the first time that the bishop had not whisked him out of sight and hearing of any witnesses. He must be feeling confident that there’d be no scenes. Justin supposed that, in an ironic sort of way, this was Aubrey’s declaration of faith, as close as he was ever likely to come to acceptance.
After taking seats near the central hearth, they drank their wine in an awkward silence that was broken at last by Aubrey. “The Earl of Chester told me that you’d recovered the ransom. I imagine the queen was very pleased with your performance. Are you... are you here on her behalf?”
“Yes,” Justin said, watching closely enough to catch the subtle signs of Aubrey’s relief that this was an official visit. “I have to go back into Wales.” Drawing the sealed letters from his mantle, he held them out to his father. “If you would make sure that these are dispatched to the Queen’s Grace, I would be very grateful. I need you to wait, though, until you hear that she has returned to England. I am sorry I cannot explain why—”
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