Prince of Darkness (11 page)

Emma narrowed her eyes, murmuring something under her breath too softly for Justin to hear. Her expression did not bode well for Guy, though. Justin knew that Emma had been wed to a Norman lord, Guy de Laval, and that after she was widowed, her brother, King Henry, had compelled her to marry the Welsh prince, Davydd ab Owain. Twenty years later, that was still a festering grievance with her, and since Henry was beyond earthly retribution, she’d passed on her rancor to the next generation, to his son Richard. Justin cast her a speculative glance, wondering about the source of her discontent. Was she angry with Guy for involving himself in such high-stakes intrigue? Or for doing it without consulting her beforehand?

“So,” John said, “now you know it all. Get a good night’s sleep, de Quincy, for you’ll be leaving on the morrow.” He saw Justin’s sharp look, and said smoothly, “I forgot to mention that, did I? Lady Emma wants you to accompany her.”

Justin suffered a sudden crick in his neck, so hastily did he swing around to stare at Emma. “Good God, why? I ought to be the last man whose company you crave!”

“Very amusing, Master de Quincy,” Emma said, not sounding amused at all. “I may not like you, but you’ve proven yourself to be quick-witted, intrepid, and in your own infuriating way, honorable. I prefer to put my trust in a man I know, the queen’s man,” she concluded coolly, with a dismissive glance toward the man she did not know, her nephew’s man.

Durand said nothing, but even his vaunted self-control could not prevent the surge of angry color that rose in his face and throat. Justin took a moment to enjoy the other man’s discomfiture, and then did something he’d never expected to do—offer up praise for Durand de Curzon.

“I know Sir Durand does not always make a favorable first impression. I can vouch for him, though, my lady. He wields a sword with deadly skill and few men are as comfortable dealing with the lawless and the ungodly.”

John chuckled into his wine cup, and Durand glowered at Justin, but Emma merely shrugged. “I did not mean to disparage Sir Durand,” she said, with an indifference more wounding than simple contempt. “But I will feel more comfortable if Master de Quincy escorts us.”

The tone of her voice made it obvious that she considered the matter closed. Rising to her feet, she said, “I assume quarters have been prepared for us, John? I will leave you, then, and retire for the night.” Waiting until John summoned a candle-bearing servant, she swept from the chamber in a departure as queenly as any Eleanor herself could have made.

There was a long and heavy silence after Emma had gone. Well aware that Justin’s eyes were boring into his back, John turned reluctantly to face him. “I know,” he said before Justin could speak, “I know. I owe you, de Quincy.”

So, too, Justin thought unhappily, did the Queen’s Grace.

Justin awoke the next morning in a grim mood. He was not sure which he minded more, being sucked deeper into John’s quagmire or facing another fortnight of catering to the Lady Emma’s aristocratic whims. The only consolation he could take from his plight was the realization that Durand was in an equally dark frame of mind. Even the cheerful, irrepressible Morgan was downhearted, disappointed that they’d be leaving Paris so soon. But the atmosphere in the guest hall changed, although not for the better, with Emma’s entrance.

The Lady Mabella was ailing, she announced, burning with fever and as feeble as any newborn. Her handmaiden had been feeling poorly since they landed at Barfleur. Justin had got the impression from Morgan and the men-at-arms that Mabella was always complaining about one malady or another. That her illness was genuine now, none could doubt; Emma was not one for coddling those in her service. Their journey would have to be delayed until Mabella was well enough to travel, Emma declared, for she could not do without a handmaiden. Nor could she leave Mabella to languish in the Templars’ care, for they were knights, not nursemaids. No, she insisted, overriding John’s objections with an impatient wave of her hand, they would just have to wait.

That pleased no one except Morgan, who brightened at the prospect of getting to explore Paris, after all. Durand was in favor of setting out anyway, arguing that Mabella could recuperate at the Hôtel-Dieu, which was said to be the finest hospital in Paris, and adding snidely that he had every confidence that the Lady Emma would be able to brush and braid her own hair and buckle her own shoes. Emma retorted scornfully that she would never consider leaving a gently born lady in a public hospital, nor did she care to debate the matter with one of Lord John’s hirelings. Listening morosely from a window seat, Justin fantasized about slipping away while they were squabbling and riding for the coast as if the Devil were on his tail.

It was John who put an end to the quarreling and came up with a feasible solution to their dilemma. He would send to the Lady Petronilla, he stated in a voice that brooked no further arguments, and ask her if she could spare one of her maids to attend Lady Emma, at the same time requesting her hospitality for the stricken Mabella. As he was shrewd enough to mention both Emma’s rank as a princess and her blood-ties to the English Royal House in his message, none doubted that Petronilla would be more than happy to comply. And indeed, she responded with alacrity, arriving at the Temple in less than an hour’s time, creating quite a stir with an escort that the French king would not have spurned, a richly accoutred horse litter for Mabella, a pretty, dark-eyed young girl named Ivetta for Emma, and her beautiful cousin, Claudine.

Petronilla was flirting with John. Durand was sulking. Mabella had been taken away in the horse litter to convalesce as Petronilla’s houseguest. Claudine and Emma were making polite, desultory conversation. And Justin was doing his best to keep the length of the hall between Claudine and himself. But then John joined Emma and Claudine, and beckoned both Durand and Justin to his side.

Compelled by courtesy to acknowledge Claudine’s presence, Justin greeted her with the averted eyes and rigid demeanor of a monk finding himself in close proximity to Eve. Durand, however, played the courtier’s role with his usual panache, snatching up Claudine’s hand and kissing it with a lover’s intimacy. She murmured “Sir Durand” with what passed for a smile, but as soon as she’d freed her hand from his grasp, she wiped it against the skirt of her gown. Her insult could only have been more overt had she spat in his face, and Durand drew a breath as sharp as any sword. Justin looked away to hide a smile, remembering that Claudine’s loathing of Durand was one of her more endearing attributes.

Emma had noticed this byplay, but ignored it since neither Claudine nor Durand were of any interest to her. “I am beholden to you and your cousin, Lady Claudine. Your kindness will not be forgotten.” Her expression of gratitude was gracefully rendered, if somewhat formulaic in tone, and she inclined her head graciously, obviously expecting equally polished banalities in return.

But Claudine had grown tired of trading polite platitudes and she chose that moment to reveal her real reason for accompanying Petronilla to the Temple. “It was our pleasure, Lady Emma. I think you will be pleased with Ivetta; my cousin says she is very skillful at styling hair. I regret to say that she is not as well-born as your Lady Mabella, though, not truly suitable as a companion for a lady of your stature.”

Emma accepted the compliment with a bored smile. “Well, since I must make do with your Ivetta—”

“Did Lord John tell you that I am one of the gentlewomen in attendance upon Queen Eleanor? Since you are my lady queen’s sister by marriage, I cannot in good conscience allow you to be treated with less than your just due. I am suggesting, therefore, that I accompany you as I have so often accompanied my queen.”

There was an abrupt silence. Emma looked dubious, John amused, and Durand and Justin appalled. “No!” they both cried out in unison, in what was the first and probably the only moment in which they were in such utter and perfect accord.

Emma’s finely arched brows rose even higher. “I do believe that Sir Durand and Master de Quincy would rather you do not come with us, Lady Claudine.” Her gaze moved from Claudine to the men, back to the girl again, and then she smiled, a smile that was almost feline in its detachment, its charm, and its silky malice. “My dear, I am delighted to accept your kind offer.”

Justin and Durand were speechless, but John was no longer able to stifle his mirth. “When I draw my last breath,” he said, his voice husky with laughter, “I daresay I will have many regrets. And one of them is sure to be that I had to miss this pilgrimage to Hell and back!”

As Laval came into view, Emma drew rein. Her face was impassive as she gazed upon her late husband’s lands, but Claudine noticed the shadow of a smile in the corners of her mouth. “It must feel good to be home,” she said softly. Emma gave her a look of surprise, and then nodded.

Justin observed their quiet exchange with a sense of unease, for he’d not expected this to happen. Women did not like Emma, and she did not seem to like them; again and again he’d seen evidence of that. He never imagined that this odd alliance would develop between Emma and Claudine. He was not even sure if “alliance” was the right word. But by the time they’d reached Laval, the two women had obviously reached some sort of understanding, and he was not at all comfortable with their unlikely rapport.

He was not happy, either, with what they found at Laval. Emma’s son Guy was absent, and no one seemed to know where he had gone. His steward thought he might be in Rennes, and Justin and Durand wanted to forge ahead into Brittany, arguing that they could look for Guy at the same time that they sought Arzhela. But Emma wanted to wait at Laval for her son to return. After much acrimonious bickering, she agreed to continue on to Rennes, although she flatly refused to depart on the morrow. And so the next day found them still at Laval, glumly watching Emma entertain a steady stream of neighbors as word spread of her return.

Justin was bored and restless, until a chance conversation with the abbot of Clermont set his temper ablaze. Stalking away in anger, he went to look for Durand. He found the knight in a window seat with Emma’s borrowed maid, Ivetta, murmuring in the girl’s ear and making her blush prettily and giggle behind her hand. “Meet me in the village tavern,” Justin said tersely, turning on his heel before Durand could object.

The castle at Laval had loomed over the River Mayenne for almost two hundred years, a village nesting in its shelter. Justin knew there would be at least one tavern and located it in an alley off the market square. It was crowded, for Laval was on the main road from Paris to Brittany, and locals vied with merchants, pilgrims, and rough-hewn mercenaries for the attention of the harried serving maids and a bevy of perfumed and rouged prostitutes. Justin got himself a drink and eventually laid claim to a newly vacant table, where he settled down to await Durand.

He soon spied a familiar face. Morgan smiled in recognition and meandered over to join him. “Who are you hiding from, Justin, Lady Emma or Lady Claudine?”

“Both of them,” Justin admitted with a wry smile, for when he’d not been dealing with Emma’s complaints and demands on their journey, he’d been avoiding Claudine’s overtures. Nothing explicit; Claudine was too worldly for that. A sidelong smile that liberated her dimples, a flutter of long, silky lashes, a sudden, smoky glance from dark, doe eyes. Justin had not been sleeping well at night.

“She is a beautiful woman, the Lady Claudine,” Morgan observed blandly. When Justin merely shrugged, he took the hint and began enthusing about the fine quality of the horses he’d found in Lord Guy de Laval’s stables. He was telling Justin about a jewel of a roan mare when one of the prostitutes sauntered over.

“I am called Honorine,” she announced without preamble, “and if you seek value for your money, you need look no further.”

Justin was amused, both by her bluntness and her name. Whores usually chose fancy names like Christelle or Mirabelle or the ever-popular Eve. This girl had a sense of humor, for Honorine was a form of Honoria, a derivative of the Latin word for “honor.” Instead of giving a flat refusal, therefore, he offered her a friendly smile and a diplomatic “Mayhap later.”

Morgan looked offended when Honorine drifted away without propositioning him, too. “Well, damnation, did I become invisible of a sudden? What do you have that I lack, de Quincy?”

“A sword?” Justin suggested, recognizing a golden opportunity when he saw one, a chance to tease Morgan while at the same time engaging him in a discreet interrogation. Morgan shot him a look of such exaggerated indignation that he had to laugh. “No, you dolt, not that sword; this one,” he said, slapping the scabbard at his hip. “A girl in her trade looks for evidence that a man can afford her services, and a sword is usually a good indication that he can.” He paused before adding casually, “It would not hurt to have another armed man along. Can you wield a sword, Morgan?”

“Me?” Morgan sounded surprised. “Now how would a stable groom learn a skill like that?”