Prince of Darkness (13 page)

“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. “He 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.

This de Lusignan acknowledged the introductions with a terseness that bordered upon outright rudeness, and insisted upon escorting Arzhela indoors. Durand and Justin stood watching them go. “She does like them young,” Durand commented after a long silence. From sheer force of habit, Justin started to object, but he could not really fault the other man’s cynical observation. Arzhela was in her late thirties and Simon looked to be barely beyond his majority. Moreover, now that he thought about it, he realized that she was at least ten years older than John, too. John and one of the de Lusignans. Passing strange, that a woman with so much mother wit should have such bad taste in men.

“I’ve heard the gossip about the de Lusignans,” Justin said thoughtfully, “those tales told over a wine flagon that grow worse with each telling. How they feud with their neighbors and prey upon travelers and dare to defy both Church and Crown. You think it is coincidence that one of their lot has shown up at the Duchess Constance’s court?”

“That same thought crossed my mind,” Durand admitted. “God smite them, de Lusignans take to conspiracies like pigs to mud. But why would Constance and her Breton barons confide in a stripling like Simon? No, I’d say he is Arzhela’s stud, no more than that.”

Justin was inclined to agree. He still had a suspicion, though, that Arzhela was not being completely honest with them.

“Ite, missa est.”
With those words, the Mass was ended and the castle chapel began to empty. Justin was one of the last to leave.

As he stepped out into the wan sunlight, he heard his name hissed, and turned to see Arzhela beckoning imperiously to him.

“Hurry,” she insisted, pulling him in the direction of the stables. As soon as they’d passed into the gloomy shadows of the barn, she thrust a bundle at him. “Here,” she said, “put this on. I have had an inspired idea, know how to get you in to see our reclusive canon!”

Justin unwrapped a man’s tunic of coarse kersey wool, the undyed murky shade known as hodden grey, of such shabby quality that most servants would have balked at wearing it. Ignoring his questions, Arzhela was already tugging at his mantle. “Make haste,” she urged. “Better we do this whilst Father Herve is still busy in the chapel.”

She was not to be denied and Justin pulled the garment over his head, hoping it was not as flea-infested as it looked. As soon as he unbuckled his scabbard, Arzhela placed it on top of his folded mantle and instructed a wide-eyed young groom to guard it well. The youth vowed that he would and Justin did not doubt it; he was learning that Arzhela was one for getting her own way.

Returning to the castle bailey, he followed her toward the kitchens, where a platter with soup, bread, and wine was waiting for them. Trying to keep the soup from slopping out of the bowl, he hastened to keep pace with her as they headed toward a corner tower. As they walked, she finally deigned to offer an explanation for the masquerade.

“Canon Robert is still keeping to his bed, but I’ve come up with a clever way for you to get a look at him. Father Herve offered to share his own chamber as a courtesy and I am about to pay a sickbed visit to our ailing canon. Whilst I ply him with flattery and onion soup, you can study him to your heart’s content,” she concluded triumphantly. “A pity I could not think how to get Durand in with you, but he’d not have made a
convincing servant!”

“But I would?” Justin said dryly.

Arzhela’s grin showed she was not as oblivious as her words might indicate. “Dear heart, you are a spy, after all. So it is to the good that you can blend into the background when needed!”

By now they’d climbed the narrow stairs to the chaplain’s top-floor chamber. Arzhela rapped sharply on the door and then, without waiting for a response, barged in. The lone occupant whirled away from the window in surprise. He was fully dressed, wearing the white rochet common to clerics. Justin was not surprised that he was garbed in such fine linen, for unlike their monastic brethren, canons took no vows of poverty. He was tonsured and clean-shaven, with features that were attractive but not memorable. He looked exactly like what he claimed to be—a man of God who was also at home in the secular world. But he did not look like a man too ill to rise from his sickbed.

“Canon Robert,” Arzhela purred, “how wonderful to see you up and about! If I may say so, you seem in the very bloom of health. Dare I hope that you’ll honor us with your presence at dinner this day?”

“Alas, my lady, I fear not. Lord André’s physician advised me to walk for brief periods, lest I become too weak lying abed.” The canon seated himself upon the bed, relieved by his illness of the demands of courtesy, and regarded them calmly. “What may I do for you, Lady Arzhela?”

“Nay, Canon Robert,” she said sweetly, “what may I do for you?” With a flourish, she gestured toward Justin, standing inconspicuously behind her, as any well-trained servant would. “I’ve brought you some soup, very good for catarrh or a queasy stomach. And wine, good for almost any ailment!”

As the canon thanked her profusely for her kindness, Justin set his burden upon a coffer by the bed. While he welcomed this opportunity to scrutinize Canon Robert, he was not sure how much could be learned in such a brief encounter. The man was as urbane and polished as would be expected of one who served a bishop, not the sort to blurt out indiscretions if caught off guard. It seemed most likely that he was what he appeared to be—a conduit, a messenger. He might even believe that the letter was genuine.

Arzhela’s attempts to engage the canon in conversation had been unsuccessful. His responses were polite, but so increasingly wan that she at last conceded defeat and bade him farewell. Once she and Justin were out in the stairwell, she said sarcastically, “I feared that if I stayed any longer, he was going to swoon dead away. Did you notice how halting his speech became, as if the poor soul did not even have the strength to finish a sentence!”

“How does he explain his possession of the letter?”

“He claims it was entrusted to him by the archdeacon of Toulouse, whilst hinting that the archdeacon was acting upon Bishop Fulcrand’s behalf.” Emerging again into the bailey, they headed back to the stables to retrieve Justin’s belongings, Arzhela speculating all the while about Canon Robert’s reasons for keeping out of sight. “All I can think is that he recognized you or Durand. You are the queen’s man, after all, and Durand serves Johnny.”

“Trust me, my lady. I am not so well-known that a canon from Toulouse would have heard of me!” Justin could see that Arzhela was not convinced, loath to surrender her suspicions, and he did not argue further. Instead, he told her that Lady Emma had got word that morn of her son’s return to Laval. “She insists that we leave for Laval on the morrow, for she is eager to speak to her son as soon as possible.”

Arzhela was not pleased by that, but admitted that they had no choice; she’d met the Lady Emma. “Well, you must return to Vitré straightaway once you’ve questioned her son. Whilst you are gone, I will see what else I can discover. Who knows, I might have solved the mystery by the time you get back,” she teased, but Justin did not share her amusement.

“Lady Arzhela, I urge you to keep your distance until we return. At first I saw nothing suspect about Canon Robert. But as we made ready to leave, I caught something odd. He was staring intently at me, my lady, or to be more precise, at my boots.”

Arzhela followed his eyes, gazing down at the cowhide boots protruding from the hem of his threadbare woolen garment. She was quick-witted, understanding the significance at once. “Of course! No servant would have boots of such good leather! So he knows you are not who you pretended to be.”

Justin nodded. “More than that, my lady. Canons are rarely, if ever, men of humble birth. He ought not to have even glanced at me, for men of rank do not pay heed to those who serve them. But he did pay heed to me, and I wonder why.”

“Is that not obvious? The man has something to hide!”

“Be that as it may, will you promise me that you’ll do nothing rash until we return?”

Arzhela frowned and sighed and argued. Justin persevered, though, until she reluctantly agreed to take no further action. But his relief was tempered by a few lingering misgivings, for he understood now why John had been alarmed on her behalf.

Guy de Laval’s years were twenty and four, but he looked younger than that. He was pleasing enough to the eye, with flaxen hair and the easy smile of one who’d never gone hungry or questioned the good fortune that had been his from birth. From his father, he’d inherited the barony of Laval; from his mother, the blood of the Royal House of England and a taste for intrigue. But he had none of Emma’s steely resolve, her coolness under fire, or her gambler’s nerves.

“I... I know naught of this letter,” he stammered. “Truly, I do not.” Gaining confidence when no one contradicted him, he mustered up the sunlit smile that had long been the coin of his realm, able to buy whatever favors his lordship did not.

But his genial, shallow charm was wasted upon this particular audience. Durand and Justin eyed him skeptically, with none of the deference he’d come to expect as his just due. Nor did his lady mother appear impressed by his declaration of innocence. She’d not been a physical presence in his life, for they’d been parted when he was only four and he’d seen her but rarely since her marriage to a Welsh prince. He remembered a woman of heartbreaking beauty, as ethereal as one of God’s own angels, memories of gossamer and magic nurtured by his imagination and her absence. He was both awed and intimidated by the flesh-and-blood Emma now standing before him, a handsome woman in her forties who was regarding him with very little maternal solicitude.

“We know that you’re in this muck up to your neck,” Durand said brusquely and Guy started to bridle. His pride demanded as much although, in truth, he was even more intimidated by Durand than he was by this stranger, his mother.

“I told you to let me handle this,” Emma said, aiming her rebuke at Durand but keeping her eyes upon her son all the while. “Guy, do not waste your breath and my time in false denials. Use the meager common sense that God gave you. Would I be here if your youthful folly had not been exposed?”