Prince of Darkness (23 page)

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 murdered 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.”

“Indeed?” Constance’s voice was dangerously dispassionate. “So they are King Richard’s men?”

“Far worse, Your Grace.” Simon turned toward the prisoners, his mouth curving into a twisted, triumphant smile. “They are agents of the Count of Mortain. They serve at the Devil’s pleasure; they serve John!”

After that, there was nothing more to be said. Simon de Lusignan claimed that they had murdered the Lady Arzhela at John’s behest, weaving a tale with great gaping holes in it, for he offered no reason why John should order her assassination. No one seemed troubled by this, though, for no one tugged at the loose threads that would have unraveled his story. The mere mention of John was enough to seal their fate.

As they were restrained, none too gently, by the guards, a heavy trapdoor was raised. Dragged forward, Justin found himself staring down into a black abyss. A sudden slash of a knife blade and his hands were freed. He assumed that was to enable him to descend a rope ladder, but then he was roughly shoved and went tumbling down into the dark. It was not that great a fall, about ten feet or so, but the impact drove all the air from his lungs. He lay still for several moments, stunned, until Durand came plummeting after him. There was a thud as he hit the ground, then silence. Justin rolled over, was starting to sit up when the trapdoor was slammed shut, and they were left alone in the worst of Fougères Castle’s underground dungeons.

The utter blackness disoriented; at first, Justin could not even see his hand in front of his face. That past summer, his investigation in Wales had led to an ancient Roman mine. He remembered peering down into its depths, thankful he need not descend into that bottomless shaft. That Welsh mine seemed almost benign now that he found himself buried alive in this netherworld hellhole.

He fought a desperate, silent struggle with panic, a battle that left him limp and drained. His eyes were slowly adjusting to the dark, and he was becoming aware now of the overwhelming stench of death and decay. Breathing this air was like inhaling in a cesspit. It was bitter cold and damp. When he touched one of the stone walls, he discovered that it was coated with some sort of slimy growth. Getting stiffly to his feet, he explored the dimensions of their prison; it did not take long. His boot knocked into something solid; one whiff told him he’d found the slop bucket. But as carefully as he searched, he did not find a water bucket.

He was so intent upon the search that Durand’s continuing silence did not at once register with him. When it did, he cautiously retraced his steps and squatted down beside the shadowy form. “Durand?” he said, and then, with greater urgency, “Durand!”

“Who do you think they dumped in with you?” the other man said waspishly. “The Holy Roman Emperor?”

For once, the sarcasm was not unwelcome; Justin could imagine no better proof that Durand was not badly hurt. “Thank God,” he said. “I feared I might be stuck down here with a dead man!”

“Give it time,” Durand muttered, “give it time.” Sitting up with a groan, he leaned back against the wall. “What in damnation is that noise? It sounds like we’re trapped underneath a waterfall!”

“Close enough.” Justin had never thought he’d be glad to hear the sound of Durand’s voice, but it was a great relief not to be entombed down here alone. “It must be the River Nançon we’re hearing. Just our luck to have taken lodgings with a moat of running water. One with a stagnant moat would have been much quieter.” It was a lame joke even to his own ears, and he was not surprised when Durand snorted.