mostimportant counties in Brittany, was pulling his surplice down over hishead. The clock said 7:11.
Father Bright forced his mind Heavenward and repeated silently thevesting prayers that his lips had formed meaninglessly, this timeputting his full intentions behind them. Then he added a short mentalprayer asking God to forgive him for allowing his thoughts to stray insuch a manner.
He opened his eyes and reached for his chasuble just as the sacristydoor opened and Sir Pierre, the Count's Privy Secretary, stepped in.
"I must speak to you, Father," he said in a low voice. And, glancingat the young De Saint-Brieuc, he added: "Alone."
Normally, Father Bright would have reprimanded anyone who presumed tobreak into the sacristy as he was vesting for Mass, but he knew thatSir Pierre would never interrupt without good reason. He nodded andwent outside in the corridor that led to the altar.
"What is it, Pierre?" he asked.
"My lord the Count is dead. Murdered."
After the first momentary shock, Father Bright realized that the newswas not, after all, totally unexpected. Somewhere in the back of hismind, it seemed he had always known that the Count would die byviolence long before debauchery ruined his health.
"Tell me about it," he said quietly.
Sir Pierre reported exactly what he had done and what he had seen.
"Then I locked the door and came straight here," he told the priest.
"Who else has the key to the Count's suite?" Father Bright asked.
"No one but my lord himself," Sir Pierre answered, "at least as far asI know."
"Where is his key?"
"Still in the ring at his belt. I noticed that particularly."
"Very good. We'll leave it locked. You're certain the body was cold?"
"Cold and waxy, Father."
"Then he's been dead many hours."
"Lady Alice will have to be told," Sir Pierre said.
Father Bright nodded. "Yes. The Countess D'Evreux must be informed ofher succession to the County Seat." He could tell by the suddenmomentary blank look that came over Sir Pierre's face that the PrivySecretary had not yet realized fully the implications of the Count'sdeath. "I'll tell her, Pierre. She should be in her pew by now. Juststep into the church and tell her quietly that I want to speak to her.Don't tell her anything else."
"I understand, Father," said Sir Pierre.
* * * * *
There were only twenty-five or thirty people in the pews--most of themwomen--but Alice, Countess D'Evreux was not one of them. Sir Pierrewalked quietly and unobtrusively down the side aisle and out into thenarthex. She was standing there, just inside the main door, adjustingthe black lace mantilla about her head, as though she had just come infrom outside. Suddenly, Sir Pierre was very glad he would not have tobe the one to break the news.
She looked rather sad, as always, her plain face unsmiling. Thejutting nose and square chin which had given her brother the Count alook of aggressive handsomeness only made her look very solemn andrather sexless, although she had a magnificent figure.
"My lady," Sir Pierre said, stepping towards her, "the Reverent Fatherwould like to speak to you before Mass. He's waiting at the sacristydoor."
She held her rosary clutched tightly to her breast and gasped. Thenshe said, "Oh. Sir Pierre. I'm sorry; you quite surprised me. I didn'tsee you."
"My apologies, my lady."
"It's all right. My thoughts were elsewhere. Will you take me to thegood Father?"
Father Bright heard their footsteps coming down the corridor before hesaw them. He was a little fidgety because Mass was already a minuteoverdue. It should have started promptly at 7:15.
The new Countess D'Evreux took the news calmly, as he had known shewould. After a pause, she crossed herself and said: "May his soul restin peace. I will leave everything in your hands, Father, Sir Pierre.What are we to do?"
"Pierre must get on the teleson to Rouen immediately and report thematter to His Highness. I will announce your brother's death and askfor prayers for his soul--but I think I need say nothing about themanner of his death. There is no need to arouse any more speculationand fuss than necessary."
"Very well," said the Countess. "Come, Sir Pierre; I will speak to theDuke, my cousin, myself."
"Yes, my lady."
Father Bright returned to the sacristy, opened the missal, and changedthe placement of the ribbons. Today was an ordinary Feria; a VotiveMass would not be forbidden by the rubics. The clock said 7:17. Heturned to young De Saint-Brieuc, who was waiting respectfully."Quickly, my son--go and get the unbleached beeswax candles and putthem on the altar. Be sure you light them before you put out the whiteones. Hurry, now; I will be ready by the time you come back. Ohyes--and change the altar frontal. Put on the black."
"Yes, Father." And the lad was gone.
Father Bright folded the green chasuble and returned it to the drawer,then took out the black one. He would say a Requiem for the Souls ofAll the Faithful Departed--and hope that the Count was among them.
* * * * *
His Royal Highness, the Duke of Normandy, looked over the officialletter his secretary had just typed for him. It was addressed to_Serenissimus Dominus Nostrus Iohannes Quartus, Dei Gratia, Angliae,Franciae, Scotiae, Hiberniae, et Novae Angliae, Rex, Imperator, FideiDefensor_, ... "Our Most Serene Lord, John IV, by the Grace of GodKing and Emperor of England, France, Scotland, Ireland, and NewEngland, Defender of the Faith, ..."
It was a routine matter; simple notification to his brother, the King,that His Majesty's most faithful servant, Edouard, Count of Evreux haddeparted this life, and asking His Majesty's confirmation of theCount's heir-at-law, Alice, Countess of Evreux as his lawfulsuccessor.
His Highness finished reading, nodded, and scrawled his signature atthe bottom: _Richard Dux Normaniae_.
Then, on a separate piece of paper, he wrote: "Dear John, May Isuggest you hold up on this for a while? Edouard was a lecher and aslob, and I have no doubt he got everything he deserved, but we haveno notion who killed him. For any evidence I have to the contrary, itmight have been Alice who pulled the trigger. I will send you fullparticulars as soon as I have them. With much love, Your brother andservant, Richard."
He put both papers into a prepared envelope and sealed it. He wishedhe could have called the king on the teleson, but no one had yetfigured out how to get the wires across the channel.
He looked absently at the sealed envelope, his handsome blond featuresthoughtful. The House of Plantagenet had endured for eight centuries,and the blood of Henry of Anjou ran thin in its veins, but the Normanstrain was as strong as ever, having been replenished over thecenturies by fresh infusions from Norwegian and Danish princesses.Richard's mother, Queen Helga, wife to His late Majesty, Henry X,spoke very few words of Anglo-French, and those with a heavy Norseaccent.
Nevertheless, there was nothing Scandinavian in the language, manner,or bearing of Richard, Duke of Normandy. Not only was he a member ofthe oldest and most powerful ruling family of Europe, but he bore aChristian name that was distinguished even in that family. Seven Kingsof the Empire had borne the name, and most of them had been goodKings--if not always "good" men in the nicey-nicey sense of the word.Even old Richard I, who'd been pretty wild during the first forty-oddyears of his life, had settled down to do a magnificent job of kingingfor the next twenty years. The long and painful recovery from thewound he'd received at the Siege of Chaluz had made a change in himfor the better.
There was a chance that Duke Richard might be called upon to upholdthe honor of that name as King. By law, Parliament must elect aPlantagenet as King in the event of the death of the presentSovereign, and while the election of one of the King's two sons, thePrince of Wales and the Duke of Lancaster, was more likely than theelection of Richard, he was certainly not eliminated from thesuccession.
Meantime, he would uphold the honor of his name as Duke of Normandy.
Murder had been done; therefore justic
e must be done. The CountD'Evreux had been known for his stern but fair justice almost as wellas he had been known for his profligacy. And, just as his pleasureshad been without temperance, so his justice had been untempered bymercy. Whoever had killed him would find both justice and mercy--in sofar as Richard had it within his power to give it.
Although he did not formulate it in so many words, even mentally,Richard was of the opinion that some debauched woman or cuckolded manhad fired the fatal shot. Thus he found himself inclining toward mercybefore he knew anything substantial about the case at all.
Richard dropped the letter he was holding into the special mail pouchthat would be placed aboard the evening trans-Channel packet, and thenturned in his chair to look at
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