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 got 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 Vitré, where Emma insisted upon accepting the hospitality of its lord, André de Vitré, 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 André’s only guests. He was proudly playing host to his duchess, too.
Lord André 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 André 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 André 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. André de Vitré. The Bishops of St-Malo and Rennes. Raoul de Fougères. Alain and Pierre de Dinan. Geoffroi de Chateaubriant. Canon Robert, of St Étienne’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. “H
e 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.
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