Prince of Darkness

by Sharon Kay Penman

  Wineskins were passed around. The Lord Yves and Reynaud Boterel walked a few feet away and began to talk quietly, glancing occasionally toward their prisoners. Simon de Lusignan was tightening his stallion’s saddle girth, but he, too, watched the prisoners, with an unblinking intensity that did not bode well for their future. The horses were led down to the river to drink, but Justin and Durand did without until one of the guards walked by and Justin asked for water.

  He’d chosen this particular guard with care—a cheerful, garrulous redhead called Thierry, by the others, who’d been chattering like a magpie since they departed the abbey. As he’d hoped, Thierry could not resist any audience, even if it consisted of doomed men, and the guard paused, considered, and then shrugged.

  “Why not?” Walking over to one of the tethered horses, he pulled a small metal cup from a saddlebag and filled it with river water. Leaning over, he held the cup to Justin’s mouth, letting him drink his fill. When he turned toward Durand, Justin willed the other man not to do anything stupid, and for once, Durand did not, gulping the water as fast as Thierry could pour it into his mouth.

  “Are you one of the Lord Yves’s men?” Justin asked casually as Thierry straightened up. Taking the bait, the guard confirmed that he was, adding that he was Angevin, like his lord, not one of those stiff-necked Bretons.

  “Why is your lord serving the Breton duchess?” Justin queried, trying to keep the man talking.

  Thierry stepped back and stretched, but did not move away. “My lord is betrothed to Lord André de Vitré’s daughter. He was at the duchess’s court when she got word that her cousin had gone missing, and she selected him to investigate her disappearance. Also Sir Reynaud.” With a toss of his head toward Yves’s companion. “He is a former seneschal of Rennes or mayhap it is Nantes. I cannot tell one Breton town from another, if truth be told.”

  “How did Simon de Lusignan get picked?”

  “Him?” Thierry glanced over at the glowering de Lusignan, and lowered his voice like someone about to share a ribald bit of gossip. “The duchess did not send that one. He showed up at the abbey on his own, was already there when we arrived.” Dropping his voice even further, he confided that Simon and the Lady Arzhela were “having at it, if you know what I mean. The way I heard it, they had a hot quarrel and he went storming off, whilst she headed for the abbey. That is why the duchess was not too alarmed by Abbot Jourdain’s news. Everyone seemed to think she was off making peace with the lad.”

  He contorted his face waggishly, as if implying there was no accounting for female tastes. “I’d think the Lady Arzhela could do better than de Lusignan,” Justin prompted, and Thierry grinned.

  “You’ll get no argument from me, friend. The Lady Arzhela was a good mistress,” he declared, winking in case Justin missed the double entendre, “and a sight to gladden the eye, for all that she was no longer young. As for her laddie over there, he may have a ready cock, but he also has a hot head and as many enemies as he has debts, or so I’ve been told. No, the lady could have done much better for herself.”

  Thierry seemed to remember, then, that he was speaking to the men accused of her murder, for he scowled and snatched his cup back. “Why did you kill her? She was a good soul, kindhearted for all that she was highborn, never did harm to man or beast—”

  “I did not,” Justin said quietly. “As God Almighty is my witness, I did not.”

  Thierry regarded him for a moment. “Damned if I do not almost believe you. A pity, for no one else will, friend.” Throwing a glance over his shoulder toward Simon de Lusignan, he said confidentially, “That one pitched a firking fit when he identified the body, carried on something fierce. Took us by surprise, he did; who knew she was more to him than a fine piece of tail? He’s been ranting ever since that death is too good for the likes of you, and if he’d had his way, you’d have been hanged then and there. The prior would have none of that, but my Lord Yves and Sir Reynaud might be easier to convince. Our men think so, for they are wagering that you’ll not reach Fougères alive.”

  The village of Antrain looked no less desolate and forlorn at second sight than it had when they’d first passed through. It seemed bereft of life; the villagers knew enough to hide when men-at-arms rode by. They continued on, and the cottages soon vanished in the distance. The countryside was deserted. An occasional hawk soared overhead, and once, a brown flash that may have been a weasel ran across the road, spooking the horses. After they forded the River Loisance, they did not stop again until they reached the tiny hamlet of Tremblay.

  Like Antrain, it seemed abandoned, for the inhabitants had run off at the approach of armed men. The elderly priest hovered anxiously in the doorway of his ancient church as they reined in. He did not appear much relieved when they told him they were halting only to rest their horses. Gathering up a small dog that looked as old as he was, he retreated into the church and bolted the door.

  Justin was as apprehensive as the priest when they began to dismount, for Thierry’s warning had been echoing in his ears like a funeral dirge. Once they’d been dragged off their horses, he and Durand were herded toward the small cemetery and told to stay put against a crumbling stone wall. As they watched, wineskins were shared and men wandered off to find places to urinate. The Lord Yves and Reynaud Boterel stretched their legs and laughed together, laughter that stilled as they approached their prisoners. They stood for a moment, looking over at Justin and Durand with a detached animosity that was somehow more chilling than outright anger would have been.

  “I am not looking forward to telling the duchess about this killing of her cousin,” Lord Yves said soberly. “I was never sure how much fondness there was between them, for they could not have been more unlike. But they are blood-kin and the duchess takes that very seriously, indeed.”

  “At least we can deliver up her killers. That may provide some small measure of comfort.”

  “Yes, it was lucky that Simon got to the abbey when he did. If he had not been able to identify her body, she might have been buried as this one’s runaway sister.” Yves glared at Durand. “Does it seem to you, though, that Simon is somewhat evasive about their reasons for the killing? I know he told us she had trouble with them at Vitré, but he really has not explained why they’d follow her all the way to Mont St Michel.”

  “Does it matter? Sometimes, the less a man knows, the better off he is.”

  Justin had been eavesdropping intently, but he’d learned little from this conversation that could benefit them. Durand was leaning against the wall, his eyes closed, but Justin knew he’d been listening, too. On impulse, Justin raised his voice, calling out, “My lords! If you want to know more about the murder, why not ask me?”

  They exchanged skeptical glances, and Lord Yves jeered, “As if we could believe a word that came out of your mouth!” They’d moved closer, though, and Justin dared to hope that he might get his first chance to defend himself. But Simon de Lusignan was already striding toward them, coming so fast that heads were turning in his direction, men looking around to see what had alarmed him.

  “Do not waste your time talking to these craven killers, my lord Yves. These are men of the worst sort, men who murdered a defenseless woman, attacked monks, and profaned two of God’s Houses. How could you trust anything they’d say?”

  Justin and Durand stared at him in disbelief. Even Lord Yves looked startled. “What are you saying, that they are the ones who did the killings in Genêts, too? I thought the provost and the prior said the attacks took place in the afternoon, ere these two arrived at the Mont?”

  “They were fooled. Think about it, my lord. What are the chances of two different murderers striking on the same day? Nay, they silenced the monks, then came back to the abbey and made a show of crossing over to Genêts to deflect suspicion from themselves. They never expected, after all, to be caught bloody-handed over Lady Arzhela’s body!”

  “That is an arrant lie!” Justin protested, too outraged for caution. “We can
prove that we were nowhere near Genêts when—” He got no further, for Simon lunged forward, slammed him into the wall and backhanded him across the face. Justin stumbled and almost fell. His head swam and he tasted blood in his mouth. When his vision cleared, the first thing he saw was the glint of sunlight upon the blade of Simon’s sword. He tensed, fully expecting to feel that steel thrust into his belly, for the expression on the other man’s face was murderous.

  “Easy, Simon.” Yves was speaking soothingly, like one talking to a drunk or a madman. “You do not need that, lad. He’s not going anywhere.”

  “Is he not? It looks to me like he’s trying to escape.” Simon took a backward step, but as he swung, Reynaud Boterel grabbed his arm and the blade sliced through air instead of Justin’s flesh. De Lusignan spun around with a snarl, balancing on the balls of his feet like a cat about to pounce. “They deserve death! The bastards killed Arzhela!”

  “And they’ll answer for it to the duchess,” Yves pointed out, still using that patient, patronizing tone, and Simon shook his head vehemently.

  “I want them to answer to me!” he spat. “I want the pleasure of killing them myself!” He seemed about to renew his attack when a sudden shout echoed from the road.

  “My lords! Riders approach!”

  Simon hesitated, but the moment was past and he knew it. Sheathing his sword, he turned away with a curse that would have caused a sailor to blink. Lord Yves and Reynaud Boterel were moving toward the newcomers, waving to attract their attention.

  Justin sagged back against the wall. He could hear Durand’s heavy breathing and he wondered if his own breath sounded that ragged. “Jesu,” he whispered, and spat blood onto the ground.

  “I did warn you.” The voice was Thierry’s. Sidling closer, he murmured out of the side of his mouth, “I do not know whether you got a reprieve or not. That lord riding up is Alain de Dinan. He is Seneschal of Brittany, which is in your favor. But he is also the Lady Arzhela’s nephew.”

  Alain de Dinan was a pale, balding man approaching his fourth decade. He was not particularly prepossessing in appearance, looking more like a mild-mannered Church clerk than one of Brittany’s greatest barons. But within moments of his arrival, he took complete charge of the situation and the prisoners. He was on his way to Mont St Michel, having learned of Arzhela’s disappearance, and it was obvious that he was not expecting such a tragic end to his mission. When told of Arzhela’s murder, he seemed staggered by the news, waving the others away and turning his back until he’d got his emotions under control. Those few moments of grace gave Justin and Durand time to brace themselves, for he was soon stalking toward them, flanked by Simon and the other lords.

  “The Lady Arzhela was my uncle Roland’s widow,” he said in a voice like a rasp, “the wife of his winter years. She was not my blood-kin, but she made my uncle happy during their marriage and she became very dear to me. She will be avenged, I promise you that. You will die for what you have done.”

  “We are not guilty,” Justin said wearily, “if that matters at all. From what I’ve seen so far of Breton justice, it does not.”

  “You have not yet begun to taste Breton justice.” Alain de Dinan folded his arms across his chest, regarding them disdainfully. “But if you have something to say, say it, then. I warn you, though, that if you seek to besmirch a great lady’s name—”

  “My lord!” Simon de Lusignan interrupted hastily. “This was not a lover’s crime. It was far more foul.”

  Alain de Dinan frowned, and it occurred to Justin that he might be the only man in Brittany who did not know of Arzhela’s liaison with Simon de Lusignan. “What do you mean?” he demanded, stiffening indignantly when Simon sought to draw him aside. His distaste for Simon was so evident that Justin dared to indulge himself in a moment of hope. Durand, older and wiser, knew better. Reluctantly allowing Simon to lead him away from the others, Alain conferred privately with the younger man for a few moments, and when he turned back to the prisoners, his demeanor had changed. Gone was the grieving kinsman seeking justice for his aunt. His face was utterly impassive, his eyes shuttered, his guard up.

  “Get these men onto their horses,” he said curtly. “We have a long ride to Fougères.”

  Fougères was thirty miles from Mont St Michel, an easy one-day’s ride in summer, a more problematic undertaking in winter. Favored by the mild weather and dry roads, driven by Alain de Dinan’s implacable will, they pushed on into the gathering dusk. Several hours later, they were riding slowly along the street known as the Bourg Vieil, heading for the castle.

  Night had long since fallen and the townspeople were abed. The air had cooled rapidly after losing the sun, and the wind carried to them the smoke of hearth fires and the sodden scent of the marshes and then the pungent, sickening stink of the tanner’s quarter: the fetid stench of dog dung, tallow and fish oil, urine, slaked lime, and fermenting barley. A dog barked and then another, followed by some sleepy cursing. Lanterns gleamed along the castle battlements and as they approached, they were quickly challenged and, as quickly, given admittance.

  Justin and Durand were trapped in a circle of fire, surrounded by smoking torches. They’d been shoved into the great hall, which was emptying of drowsy servants and men-at-arms, who’d been rudely told to seek beds elsewhere. There was a low buzz of noise; it sounded as if the entire castle had been roused from sleep. Raoul de Fougères soon entered the hall. He’d obviously dressed in haste, and looked thoroughly annoyed. But after a brief colloquy with Alain de Dinan, his anger dissipated and he stared at the prisoners with an odd expression, one that seemed both suspicious and speculative.

  The highborn guests had begun to stumble, disheveled and yawning, into the hall. André de Vitré, hair rumpled, reeking of wine. Abbot Jourdain, eyes puffy and swollen with sleep. The enigmatic canon from Toulouse, immaculately garbed even at that hour. Raoul’s young grandson, who seemed as wide awake and alert as if it were midday. Others whom Justin did not recognize. Word was already spreading of Arzhela’s murder, shock and grief and rage intermingling until they were indistinguishable, one from the other. But it was some time before the Duchess Constance made her appearance.

  Her long, dark hair spilled down her back, inadequately covered by a carelessly pinned veil. She wore a fur-trimmed mantle that flared open as she walked, giving her audience a glimpse of a lace-edged chemise, and soft bed slippers peeked out from under the hem. Her fingers were barren of rings, her throat bare to the night air. Stripped of the elaborate accoutrements of power, she still dominated by sheer force of will, at once becoming the center of attention, the focal point of all eyes.

  “What nonsense is this?” she demanded. “Why was I awakened? Who has—” Her head swiveled, her eyes darting from one man to another. “It is not Arthur? It is not my son?”

  “No, Madame, no. No evil has befallen the young lord. That I swear to you upon the surety of my soul.”

  Alain de Dinan came forward from the crowd and made the formal obeisance of subject to sovereign. It might have appeared incongruous or even comical, coming from a man in such travel-stained disarray to a woman in a state of undress. But his gravity conferred a somber dignity upon his act, and as she gazed down at his bowed head, Constance sensed that there was tragedy in the making. As long as it spared her sunlight and joy, her only-begotten son, she could cope with it, whatever it may be, and she said swiftly, “Rise, my lord. What have you come to tell me?”

  “Your cousin, the Lady Arzhela, is dead, Madame, cruelly slain in the holy shrine of St Michael.”

  Justin’s memories of the ensuing events were never clear; blurred and random, like a half-forgotten dream or an unfinished puzzle, for bits and pieces were missing. He remembered the heat of the torches upon the skin of his face, the way the smoke spiraled upward toward the vaulted roof, as if seeking escape. The treacherous weakness of his body, which yearned only for sleep. The duchess’s dark eyes filling with unshed tears. The hall resonating with prayers for the mu
rdered woman’s soul and, then, with the mindless cries of the mob, calling for vengeance.

  Forced to his knees before the duchess, he looked up into a face as pale and unyielding as chiseled marble. This was a woman to demand every last portion of her just due, be it in coins, vassalage, deference, or blood. “Scriptures say, ‘He shall have judgment without mercy, that hath showed no mercy,’ ” she said, enunciating each word as if it were carved from ice.

  Justin swallowed with difficulty, for his throat was clogged with the dust of the road. But a bishop’s son could quote from Scriptures, too, and he said, as evenly as he could, “Holy Writ also says that vengeance belongeth to God.”

  Raoul de Fougères’s hand closed on his shoulder, fingers digging painfully into his flesh. “Watch your tongue when you speak to the duchess.”

  Constance did not need his intercession. “I spoke of judgment, not vengeance.”

  Justin raised his head and looked her full in the face. “There can be no justice, my lady, if we are not heard. And we’ve been given no chance to speak, to deny our guilt.”

  Constance showed no emotion. But after a moment, she said, “Speak, then.”

  The words were no sooner out of her mouth than the Abbot Jourdain gave a sudden, sharp cry. “I know these men! I met them in the village of Antrain two days past, Your Grace. They were seeking the Lady Arzhela, and with great urgency—now I know why!”

  “So do I.” Simon de Lusignan shoved his way forward, saying loudly, “I know these men, too, Madame. They came to you at Vitré, escorting the Lady Emma, aunt to the English king.”