Prince of Darkness

by Sharon Kay Penman

  Durand’s tale of a pious wife who’d wanted only to serve the Almighty found a receptive audience in this chapel filled with monks. But Justin kept his eyes upon the prior, knowing that he and he alone would be the arbiter of their fate.

  Prior Clement took his time in passing his judgment. “There is logic in what you say,” he said at last. “Mayhap things are not as they first seemed. But it is not for me to decide what ought to be done.”

  Durand cocked a brow. “Who, then? The provost in Genêts?”

  “No. A murder committed upon abbey lands falls within our jurisdiction and this matter must be heard in our lord abbot’s court.”

  “Well, then, we’ll stay here at the abbey until the abbot returns and can question us,” Justin offered cooperatively, and the prior inclined his head.

  But then he said, “Alas, we will require more than your word. A woman has been cruelly murdered and a holy place polluted with blood. This church must be purified ere a Mass can be said here again. I intend no insult when I say that you must be held until Abbot Jourdain returns.”

  “Held how?” Durand’s eyes narrowed. “And where?”

  “It is not necessary under the circumstances to confine you in the abbot’s dungeon. If you agree to surrender your weapons, you may await the lord abbot in more comfortable surroundings.”

  “We will surrender our weapons,” Durand said, “when we see these ‘comfortable surroundings’ for ourselves.”

  The prior was not accustomed to being contradicted, and did not take it well. “My lord prior,” Justin said, before he could respond, “can your monks see that Lady Felicia is treated with the honor she deserves?”

  Again that proud head inclined. “She will be taken to the chapel of St Étienne, where our own brothers are prepared for their final journey.”

  “Thank you, Prior Clement. Will your brethren pray for her, too?” Justin asked, and the emotion in his voice earned him an approving glance from Durand, for the monks murmured sympathetically and even the prior seemed to thaw somewhat. But Justin’s grieving was raw and real, and he could only hope that prayers for Lady Felicia de Lacy would count toward the salvation of Arzhela’s immortal soul.

  The prior’s “comfortable surroundings” turned out to be the porter’s lodge, a small, sparsely furnished hall underneath the abbot’s private chambers. It was still vastly preferable to the dungeons that lay below the lodge, accessible only through a trapdoor in the vaulting. That trapdoor served as an unwelcome reminder to the men of how narrowly they had avoided those subterranean accommodations... for now.

  The hall was deep in shadows and filled with the damp, bone-chilling cold of the tides laying siege to the Mont. To Justin’s astonishment, Durand rolled up in one of the blankets provided by the monks, remarked that lying awake would do them no good, and went to sleep. Justin did not have such icy control over his nerves, and he tossed and turned for hours, listening to the even rhythm of the other man’s breathing and the sound of the surf beating against the rocks. But he’d been in the saddle for hours in a day of turmoil and trauma, and finally he, too, fell into an uneasy doze.

  When he awakened, Durand was standing over him, holding out a cup. “The monks brought us a loaf of bread and a flagon of wine to break our fast,” he said. “I suppose it is a good sign that they are feeding us. But when they opened the door, I saw they are relying upon more than our honor or goodwill to keep us here. There are armed guards outside.”

  Justin took the cup, sat up, and winced, for even the body of a twenty-one-year-old was not immune to the physical abuses of the past day and night. Grimacing, he sought to wash away the foul taste in his mouth with several swallows of wine. Durand was pacing, looking as rumpled and edgy as Justin felt. When he stopped and glanced toward Justin, the younger man said sharply, “Do not say it, Durand. I do not want to hear that this is my fault for not agreeing to hack our way free. Even if we’d somehow got out of the chapel and then the abbey, where could we have gone? We’d still have been trapped on an island and we’d no longer be able to claim we were innocent of murder.”

  “Innocence is a greatly overrated defense.” Durand sat down on the floor beside Justin and leaned back against the wall. “Actually, I was going to say you handled yourself well last night. That was quick thinking about the unbloodied weapons. It helps, too, that you can so convincingly act humble and servile. With men like the prior, a little arse-licking can never hurt.”

  Justin was too weary to summon up any anger. “You bought us some time with that sister-of-yours story. That was quick thinking, too. But, then, it’s truth telling you have a problem with, not lying. You realize, though, that we are going to have to tell Abbot Jourdain the truth, or at least a good portion of it?”

  He’d been half expecting Durand to argue, was surprised when he did not. “I know,” Durand admitted. “The good abbot is not likely to have forgotten his encounter with us at Antrain. And it is only a matter of time ere Arzhela’s true identity becomes known. Luckily, that monk over in Genêts is on his deathbed, for he’d have recognized her in a heartbeat. I got the sense that there was something going on between them.”

  “Not so lucky for him,” Justin pointed out, but Durand was oblivious to sarcasm when it served his purposes.

  “I assume you have one of those royal letters you like to flaunt, identifying you as the queen’s man? Thank God they did not search us, but they are not quite sure how to treat us, are they? Not exactly guests, not yet murder suspects.”

  “Yes, I have a letter from the queen,” Justin confirmed. “I can see we are in agreement about which fork in the road to take. The abbot is King Richard’s man, so the less said about John, the better. I suppose I can always explain to the abbot that you are one of my hirelings or lackeys.”

  The corner of Durand’s mouth twitched in acknowledgment of that payback jab. “If the abbot proves to be a skeptical sort, we might end up in some kind of confinement until the queen returns from Germany. But as long as it is in Normandy and not Brittany, I’ll not complain.”

  Justin doubted that exceedingly; he’d met few men who complained as frequently or as vociferously as Durand did. It seemed foolish, though, to continue their usual squabbling when they were caught in the same trap. He began to speak, instead, about the tale they must stitch together for the abbot, and they spent the remainder of the morning deciding how much of the truth he should be told. At least they were no longer bound by the need to shield Arzhela; it mattered naught to her now if her plotting came to light. But that was a dubious comfort to Justin. He’d had little time yet to mourn Arzhela, but mourn her he would. She was a brave, charming, reckless woman who’d deserved a far better end, and he would regret to his last breath that he had not been able to save her.

  He and Durand both felt that Simon de Lusignan was the prime suspect in her murder. She’d tried to protect him, not giving up his name to them, a lover’s folly that had cost her dearly. The most likely scenario, they agreed, was that she’d learned something else from Simon, something of such significance that she’d no longer felt safe at Constance’s court. Proof that Constance knew the letter was a forgery? Or that de Lusignan was much more deeply involved in the conspiracy than she’d first realized? Guy de Laval’s testimony had put Simon in that shadowy inner circle, which was mysterious in and of itself. How had a younger son of a minor Poitevin lord gained such influence at the Breton court? And what secret was so dangerous that he’d kill to keep it quiet?

  They speculated, too, about the missing youngster, the boy Arzhela had “taken under her wing.” Had he been present when she was slain? Was fear keeping him quiet? Or something more sinister? For all they knew, Durand reminded Justin, he’d wielded the dagger himself. Arzhela had trusted the boy; she’d not have been on her guard with him.

  “You’d suspect a babe in its cradle,” Justin scoffed, and then jumped to his feet. So did Durand. But the footsteps they’d heard passed by the door. They assumed that the pro
vost would cross over from Genêts sooner or later, hopefully later. He’d be occupied upon his return with the brutal attacks upon Brothers Andrev and Bernard, and then, of course, he’d have to wait for low tide.

  The provost could pose a problem if he wanted to interrogate them straightaway, not waiting for Abbot Jourdain to return. He’d know about their visit to Genêts, know about their confrontation with his drunken deputy and, for certes, he’d want to know why they’d been so interested in the missing Lady Arzhela, They’d just have to play for time if it came to that, hint to the prior that the provost was infringing upon the abbey’s jurisdiction. A hint ought to be more than enough. Men of God were as territorial as wolves, Durand gibed, and Justin agreed with him, thinking of that superb politician, his lord bishop father. But so were lords and queens and Welsh princes and even cocky Norman guides.

  When their isolation was finally ended, it did not happen in the way they’d expected. The door opened and two men were ushered into the lodge, then the door closed again. Justin and Durand were on their feet, staring in surprise at Crispin and Rufus. They had been relieved of their weapons, but they seemed to be in good shape, showed no bruises or scratches. As soon as they saw Justin and Durand, they both began to talk at once and it took a few moments to settle them down.

  “We told the monks we’d done nothing wrong,” Crispin said plaintively, “but they said we’d be set free once you’d proved your innocence of a murder. My lords, you will be able to do that soon, I hope?”

  “From your mouth to God’s Ear,” Durand said sourly. “How did Morgan and Jaspaer escape the net? And how did they net you in the first place? Who told them that you were our men?”

  They exchanged sheepish looks before Crispin confessed, “We told them. The village was overrun with rumors and gossip. Something had happened up at the abbey in the night, but no one seemed to know what, so Rufus and I... we decided to go look for you.” When Durand called him a blundering lack-wit, he flushed but protested with some spirit, “That is not fair, Sir Durand! We did not know you were murder suspects, not until it was too late!”

  Justin had an unpleasant thought. “You did not tell them the woman was not Durand’s sister, did you?”

  Crispin shook his head emphatically. “When they began to ask us questions, Rufus whispered that we should ‘be dumb’ and we were. We kept saying we knew nothing about your business, that you’d not told us why we were going to the abbey—”

  “And we spoke mostly English,” the usually taciturn Rufus interrupted, “which seemed to vex them enormously.”

  “I assume Morgan and Jaspaer had the common sense to keep their distance, then?” Durand said caustically, and looked thoroughly disgusted when Crispin admitted that they’d tried to talk them out of going up to the abbey and wished mournfully that he’d listened.

  The rest of the day passed without incident. The porter’s lodge was lit with small, narrow windows little bigger than arrow slits, and as daylight faded away, they were left in darkness, lacking lamps or even candles. At Vespers, an abbey servant was sent in to empty the chamber pot, but he said nothing about the bloodshed over in Genêts and claimed none knew when Abbot Jourdain might return. He was willing to be bribed, though, agreeing to bring them an extra flagon of wine with their meal and more blankets. The bells of Compline were still echoing on the wind when the men settled down for another endless, uncomfortable night.

  They’d been sleeping for several hours when the door was thrust open. Crispin slept on, but the other three jerked upright, blinking up blindly into a ring of blazing torches. It was like looking straight into the sun and as they squinted, trying to make out the dark, faceless forms behind the torches, a voice said, “Well?” and a second voice answered, “Yes, they are the ones.” By now they were stumbling to their feet, but the light was already retreating. The door slammed shut and they were left alone.

  Pallid, grey light was seeping into the hall when they were roused again. Men bearing torches advanced into the chamber, followed by others. The former were obviously abbey servants, the latter just as obviously were not; they were armed and on the alert, putting Justin in mind of well-trained sheepdogs, confident of their ability to control the flock. The prior entered next, accompanied by two men in their middle years.

  “This is Jocelin de Curcy, the provost of Genêts,” he said. “And this is Sir Reynaud Boterel.” A third man had entered, younger than the others, wearing an expensive mantle fastened with a large gold brooch, and the prior introduced him as the Lord of Château-Gontier, Yves de la Jaille. Before either Justin or Durand could respond, the prior raised his hand in an imperious demand for silence.

  “There is nothing you could say that I want to hear,” he said coolly. “The time for talking is past. I am here to tell you that you are to be handed over to the Lord of Château-Gontier. You are no longer the responsibility of our abbey and we waive any and all rights to prosecute you in our jurisdiction.”

  Justin stared at the prior, baffled. During their stay at Laval, Emma had made casual mention of the lordship of Château-Gontier, and so Justin knew it was a barony in Maine. This made no sense to him. Why would an Angevin lord take them into custody? He glanced over at Durand, was not reassured to notice Durand had lost color. “I do not follow this, Prior Clement,” Justin said cautiously. “It was my understanding that we were awaiting the return of Abbot Jourdain.”

  “And it was my understanding,” the prior said scathingly, “that the dead woman was Felicia de Lacy, whereas in truth, she is Lady Arzhela de Dinan, the missing cousin of Duchess Constance.”

  Neither Justin nor Durand spoke, for what was there to say to that? Justin was getting a very bad feeling about this, and that was before the door was shoved open again. The man stalking into the hall was young, fair-haired, and all too familiar. Striding forward, Simon de Lusignan regarded them in silence for a very long moment. The last time a man had looked at Justin with that much hostility, he’d been fighting for his life with a godless outlaw called Gilbert the Fleming. Simon had blue eyes, almost as brilliantly blue as Arzhela’s, narrowed to smoldering slits, and his mouth was contorted, his lips peeled back from his teeth in a feral, ferocious grin.

  “You thought you would get away with it,” he said, “and you might have, if not for me. But I reached the abbey in time to identify that sweet lady you murdered, in time to see justice done!”

  Durand tensed, deciding he had nothing left to lose, and Justin might well have followed his lead. He was never to know for sure, though. De la Jaille’s men-at-arms had been moving closer while Simon de Lusignan claimed center stage, and, at an unseen signal from Yves de la Jaille, they sprang into action, flinging themselves upon the prisoners.

  Outnumbered and unarmed, they were quickly subdued. Crispin and Rufus offered no resistance, holding up their hands like innocent bystanders in the wrong place at the wrong time. Justin struggled briefly, before his brain overrode his body’s panic, and once he no longer fought them, his attackers stopped hitting him. Durand continued to kick and curse even after he’d been immobilized, not yielding until Simon de Lusignan stepped toward him and kneed him brutally in the groin.

  Durand sank to his knees, his teeth tearing into his lower lip to stifle any cry, and Simon would have kicked him again had the prior not protested. Yves de la Jaille stepped between Simon and the grey-faced Durand, saying, “Back off, Simon.” And though his words were given as a censure, his tone was casual, almost nonchalant.

  Yves signaled again and his men dragged Durand to his feet, set about roping his hands behind his back. Justin was bound next. But when they started toward Crispin and Rufus, Yves stopped them.

  “We’ve got the hawks, need not bother with the fledglings. Leave them for the provost to deal with.”

  The provost did not look pleased by that offhand dismissal, but he nodded to his own men, who took Crispin and Rufus into custody. They submitted meekly enough, but when de la Jaille’s men-at-arms began push
ing Justin and Durand toward the door, Crispin blurted out an involuntary protest. “Wait! Where are you taking them?”

  To their surprise, they actually got an answer. Yves looked back over his shoulder. “To the court of the Duchess of Brittany, so they may answer for the murder of her kinswoman.”

  XV

  February 1194

  Road to Fougères, Brittany

  The sky was a pale, silvery blue, and the few clouds drifting by were white and fleecy. The wind was erratic, almost playful, a sheathed dagger instead of a gusting February blade. Bare beech and chestnut trees stood sentinel along the road, dappled by sunlight. For winter-weary Bretons, a day like this was a gift from God. To Justin, it seemed especially cruel that he should be given a bittersweet, beguiling glimpse of the spring he was not likely to see.

  He was making a sincere effort not to surrender to despair; after all, he did not have a hangman’s noose around his neck yet. Optimism did not come easily to a foundling, though. Nor was it in his nature to lie to himself, and he could envision nothing but trouble at the court of the Breton duchess.

  His mount suddenly veered to the right. With his hands bound behind his back, he could only guide the stallion with the pressure of his knees, and he was unable to keep the horse from swerving to the end of its tether. The rider leading it glanced over his shoulder and swore, first at the animal and then at Justin. Another stallion shied, too, and its unease proved contagious. For several moments, men and horses milled about in the road, as the former sought to get the latter under control. By the time order was restored, it was decided they should take a break and Lord Yves ordered them to dismount.

  This was the second time they’d halted since leaving Mont St Michel. They seemed in no hurry to reach Fougères, and that was fine with Justin, who would have been content to ride on into infinity. He did not think that was true, though, for Durand. He could only imagine how painful this ride must be for a man who’d been kicked in the ballocks a few hours ago. Durand’s face was a mask of silent suffering, sweat trickling down into his beard, his jaw so tightly clenched that not even a breath could escape that taut slash of a mouth. The guards got them off their horses quite simply by pulling them from the saddle, pushing them down upon the ground, and warning them to “move only if you want to lose a body part.”