Cruel As the Grave

Cruel As the Grave

A Medieval Mystery

Sharon Kay Penman

Jealousy is cruel as the grave.

-- Song of Solomon 8:6-7

1

TOWER OF LONDON

ENGLAND

April 1193

They were intimate enemies, bound by blood. Here in the torchlit splendor of the Chapel of St John the Evangelist, they'd fought yet another of their battles. As always, there was no winner. They'd inflicted wounds that would be slow to heal, and that, too, was familiar. Nothing had changed, nothing had been resolved. But never had the stakes been so high. It shimmered in the shadows between them, the ultimate icon of power: England's royal crown.

Few knew better than Eleanor of Aquitaine how seductive that power could be. In her youth, she'd wed the French king, then left him for the man who would become King of England. That passionate, turbulent marriage of love and hate was part of her distant, eventful past; if Henry's unquiet ghost still stalked the realm of marital memory, she alone knew it. Now in her seventy-first year, she was England's revered Dowager Queen, rising above the ruins of her life like a castle impervious to assault. If her fabled beauty had faded, her wit had not, and her will was as finely honed as the sword of her most celebrated son, Richard Lionheart, the crusader king languishing in a German prison. But she was much more than Richard's mother, his invincible ally: She was his only hope.

The torches sputtered in their wall sconces, sending up wavering fingers of flame. The silence grew louder by the moment, thudding in her ears like an army's drumbeat. She watched as he paced, this youngest of her eaglets. John, Count of Mortain and Earl of Gloucester, would-be king. He seethed with barely suppressed fury, giving off almost as much heat as those erratic torches. His spurs struck white sparks against the tiled floor, and the swirl of his mantle gave her a glimpse of the sword at his hip. This might be her last chance to reach him, to avert calamity. What could she say that he would heed? What threat was likely to work? What promise?

"I will not allow you to steal Richard's crown," she said tautly. "Understand that if you understand nothing else, John. As long as I have breath in my body, I will oppose you in this. As will the justiciars."

"You think so?" he scoffed. "They held fast today, but who knows what may happen on the morrow? They might well decide that England would be better served by a living king than a dead one!"

"Richard is not dead."

"How can you be so sure of that, Madame? Have you secondsight? Or is this merely a doting mother's lapse into maudlin sentimentality?"

Beneath his savage sarcasm, she caught echoes of an emotion he would never acknowledge: a jealousy more bitter than gall. "Bring us back incontrovertible proof of Richard's death," she said, "and we will then consider your claim to the throne."

John's eyes showed sudden glints of green. "You mean you would weigh my claim against Arthur's, do you not?"

"Richard named his nephew as his heir. I did not," she said pointedly. "Must I remind you that you are my son, flesh of my flesh? Why would I not want the kingship for you?"

"That is a question I've often asked myself."

"If you'd have me say it, listen, then. I want you to be king. Not Arthur - you."

He could not hide a flicker of surprise. "You almost sound as if you mean that."

"I do, John," she said. "I swear by all the saints that I do."

For a moment, he hesitated, and she thought she'd gotten to him.

"But not whilst Brother Richard lives?"

"No," she said, very evenly, "not whilst Richard lives."

The silence that followed seemed endless to her. She'd always found it difficult to read his thoughts, could never see into his soul. He was a stranger in so many ways, this son so unlike Richard. His eyes locked upon hers, with a hawk's unblinking intensity. Whatever he'd been seeking, he did not find, though, for his mouth twisted into a sardonic, mirthless smile. "Alas," he said, "I've never been one for waiting."

~~

Justin de Quincy paused in the doorway of the queen's great hall. Never had he seen so many highborn lords at one time, barons of the realm and princes of the Church and all of the justiciars: Walter de Coutances, Archbishop of Rouen; William Marshal; Geoffrey Fitz Peter; William Brewer; and Hugh Bardolf. These were men of rank and privilege, milling about now like so many lost sheep, agitated and uneasy. What was amiss?

William Longsword was standing a few feet away and Justin headed in his direction. He felt an instinctive sense of kinship to the other man, for they were both outsiders. Will was a king's bastard, half-brother to Richard and John, raised at court but never quite belonging ... like Justin himself. He hadn't been as lucky as Will, had grown up believing himself to be an orphan, the unwanted child of an unnamed wanton who'd died giving him birth. Only several months ago had he learned the truth. He was no foundling. The man who'd taken him in as a much-praised act of Christian charity was the man who'd sired him, Aubrey de Quincy, Bishop of Chester.

That stunning revelation had turned Justin's world upside down, and he was still struggling to come to terms with it. He had no right to the name de Quincy, had claimed it at the whimsical suggestion of the woman who'd become his unlikely patroness. That act of prideful defiance had given him no satisfaction, for it was like paying a debt with counterfeit coin. He had a new identity, a new life. He was still haunted, though, by the life he'd left behind, by the father who'd refused to acknowledge him.

"Justin!" Will had an easy smile, an affable manner, and none of his half-brothers' unsated hunger for lands, honours, and kingship. "When did you get back from Winchester? Come here, lad, there is someone I want you to meet."

William Marshal, Lord of Striguil and Pembroke, was a very wealthy man, holding vast estates in South Wales by right of his wife, a great heiress. A justiciar, sheriff of Gloucestershire, a baron who cherished hopes of being invested with an earldom, Marshal was one of the most influential men in the kingdom, and Justin greeted him somewhat shyly, for he was not yet accustomed to breathing the rarefied air of the royal court. Just a few brief months ago, he'd been a nobody, a bastard of unknown parentage serving as a squire with no hopes of advancement, and now he was ...

"The queen's man," Will said heartily, clapping Justin playfully on the shoulder. "De Quincy is the lad I told you about, William, the one who brought Queen Eleanor the news that Richard was captured on his way home from the crusade."

It seemed strange to Justin to hear it spoken of so openly now, for the secret of that bloodstained letter had nearly cost him his life. He could only marvel at the random nature of fate, at the improbable series of events that had been set in motion by his decision to ride out of Winchester on a snowy Epiphany

morn. Because he'd stumbled onto the ambush of the queen's messenger, he'd found himself entangled in a conspiracy of kings, matching wits with the queen's son John and a murderous outlaw known as Gilbert the Fleming, sharing his bed with a seductive temptress who'd broken his heart with her betrayal, and winning a prize greater than the Holy Grail the queen's favor.

Will was praising him so lavishly now that Justin flushed, both pleased and discomfited to be hailed as a hero. For most of his twenty years, compliments had been rarer than dragon's teeth; he could remember nary a one ever coming out of his father's mouth. "My lords, may I ask what has occurred here? I've been to wakes that were more cheerful than this assemblage." He hesitated briefly then, but he'd earned the right to ask. "Has there been bad news about the king?"

"No - as far as we know, nothing has changed; Richard remains the prisoner of that whoreson emperor of the Romans. The trouble is closer to home."

Will's face had taken on so unhappy a cast that Justin realized the trouble must involve John, for he knew the man harbored a genuine fondness for his younger brother. It was William Marshal who confirmed his suspicions, saying brusquely, "John summoned the justiciars to meet him this morn here at the Tower. He then claimed that Richard is dead and demanded that we recognize him as the rightful king."

Justin was startled; he hadn't expected John to make so bold a move. "They did not agree?"

"Of course not. We told him that we have no proof of the king's death and until we do, the only king we will recognize is Richard."

Justin felt a surge of relief; he hadn't been sure the other justiciars would be as resolute as Marshal and the Archbishop of Rouen. The bleak truth was that they could not be utterly sure that Richard still lived. If he had sickened and died in confinement, the crown would be John's for the taking, for few were likely to support his rival claimant, a five-year-old boy dwelling in Brittany. So it was only to be expected that the justiciars would be loath to antagonize the man who might well be their next king, a man who forgot little, forgave even less.

"What happened then?"

"John flew into a rage," Will said sadly, "and made some ugly threats. The queen then insisted that they speak in private, and they withdrew to her chapel. If anyone in Christendom can talk some sense into John, for certes it will be the queen." Will did not sound very sanguine, though, and Marshal, a man known for speaking his mind plainly, gave a skeptical snort.

"Would you care to wager on that, Will? I could use some extra money." He went on to express his opinion of John's honour in far-from-flattering terms. By then Justin was no longer listening, for Claudine de Loudun was coming toward them.

The men welcomed her with enthusiasm - the young widow was a favorite with both Williams. All three engaged in some mildly flirtatious bantering, while Justin stood conspicuously silent, dreading what was to come.

Even as she teased the other men, Claudine's dark eyes kept wandering toward Justin, her gaze at once caressing and questioning. Finally she cast propriety to the winds and linked her arm through his, murmuring throatily that she needed a private word with Master de Quincy. Both Wills grinned broadly and waved them on, for Claudine's clandestine liaison with Justin de Quincy was a poorly kept secret in a court in which only Eleanor's secrets seemed secure.

Steering Justin toward the comparative privacy of a window seat, Claudine began to scold him lovingly. "Why did you not let me know you were back from Winchester? If I'd had some warning, I could have coaxed the queen into giving me a free afternoon. But she's not likely to be in any mood to grant favors now, for this latest exorcism of hers is bound to fail."

Others might not have understood the joking reference to exorcism. Justin did, though, for she'd confided to him that her private name for John was the Prince of Darkness. As he looked upon the heart-shaped face upturned to his, the thought came to him, unbidden and ugly: What did she call John in bed? He drew a sharp breath, not wanting to go down that road. He knew that she was John's spy. Was she John's concubine, too? He pushed the suspicion away, to be dealt with later. Now he must concentrate upon the danger at hand. How could he conceal his knowledge of her treachery? Surely she must see it writ plain upon his face.

Apparently not, for her smile did not waver. Those brown eyes were bright with laughter and temptation. Justin was shaken to the depths of his soul as he realized how much power she still wielded over him. How could he still want this woman? She'd betrayed him without a qualm. Even worse, she'd betrayed her royal mistress and kinswoman, the queen. And she'd almost seduced him into betraying the queen, too. For more than a fortnight, he'd kept her guilty secret, at last unburdening himself to Eleanor in a surge of self-hatred, only to find that she already knew of Claudine's perfidy. But Claudine must not know that she'd been exposed. If John learned that his spy was compromised, he'd look elsewhere. Eleanor had been able to act as if her trust was still intact, but his role was far more precarious, for he was Claudine's lover.

Claudine beckoned to a wine bearer, claiming two cups for them. "Did all go as you hoped in Winchester, Justin? Was that outlaw hanged?"

He nodded. "I'll tell you about it later. What has happened at the court whilst I was away? Will just told me that John is back from France." He tensed then, for John's name seemed to sink like a stone in the conversational waters, sure to stir up ripples of suspicion between them.