Prince of Darkness (14 page)

Her scorn stung. “I do not see it as folly to oblige great lords, to be a kingmaker!” As soon as the words were out of his mouth, Guy realized how easily he’d fallen into his mother’s trap, and his fair skin mottled with hot color. His confession hung in the air like wood smoke, impossible to ignore.

“Well, I for one am impressed,” Durand drawled. “You held out for four whole heartbeats, mayhap even five.”

“At least he dared to gamble for the highest stakes,” Justin objected, picking up his cue as if the gambit had been rehearsed between them. “How many men have the courage to risk offending a king?”

Guy’s flush had darkened at Durand’s gibe, but now he swung around to stare at Justin. “John is not my king,” he said indignantly. “I am not disloyal to my liege lord!”

Justin shook his head regretfully. “The French king might well think otherwise.”

Guy frowned, an expression of defiance undercut by his darting, anxious eyes. “All know he is no true friend to John. Theirs is an alliance of expediency, one held together by cobwebs and spit. Why should he care what befalls John?”

“You do not know about their latest pact?” Justin feigned surprise, beginning to enjoy the playacting. “Lord John and King Philippe struck a devil’s bargain soon after Christmas. In return for Philippe’s continued support against Richard, John agreed to cede to Philippe all of Normandy northeast of the River Seine, save only Rouen, and to yield to the French a number of strategic border castles. It is now very much in Philippe’s interest that John become England’s next king. How do you think he’ll react once he learns that his liege man, the Lord of Laval, is conniving to put a Breton child on the English throne?”

“I... I did not know about this.” Guy was stammering again. “I was told that John and Philippe were at odds, each blaming the other for his failure to keep Richard imprisoned—”

“They were,” Emma interrupted, “but their mutual fear of Richard is far stronger than their petty vanities. You ought to have known that, Guy. And you would have, if you’d given this scheme some serious thought. Why in Heaven’s Name did you not consult with me first?”

For a moment, Justin thought Emma was making an oddly timed jest. But when he glanced toward her, he saw that she was in deadly earnest. The expression upon Durand’s face mirrored his own astonishment. Guy looked no less nonplussed.

“Madame... Mother, I do not need your permission to enter into a conspiracy,” he said, and as ludicrous as his words were, he managed to invest them with a doleful sort of dignity.

“Well, you should!” Emma snapped, confirming all Justin’s suspicions about her utter lack of humor. “I’d have made sure that this foolishness ended then and there!”

“Why was it so foolish?” Realizing how feeble his protest sounded, Guy cleared his throat and said, with more conviction, “If Constance’s little lad becomes king, she’ll not forget the men who stood by her side!”

“Neither will John! How can I make you understand how badly you’ve blundered?” Emma glared at her son. “Constance and Arthur versus Eleanor and John. Do you truly see those scales as balanced? You might as well wager that a rabbit will devour a wolf!”

Guy had never learned how to hold his own against a stronger, more forceful personality. His surrender was abrupt, total, and abject. Slumping down upon the nearest seat, a rickety wooden bench, he muttered, “Oh, God... John knows about me, doesn’t he? What can I do?”

Emma sat beside him on the bench. “You can tell us all you know about this plot.”

Guy did, haltingly, keeping his gaze locked upon the floor rushes at his feet. His the mournful demeanor of a sinner seeking absolution, he described the December meeting in the pirate citadel of St-Malo, the dramatic revelation of the letter’s existence, and the gleeful reaction of the Breton lords. They questioned him closely about Canon Robert of Toulouse, but he claimed to know little about the man. Nor did he know who was the master puppeteer in this political puppet show.

He did not think Duchess Constance was the instigator. Since he was not one of her confidants, though, that was merely an opinion, not actual evidence. So far, what he’d told them was not particularly helpful. But then he said, almost as an afterthought, “I think some of the Breton lords truly believed that the letter was genuine.”

Emma’s head came up sharply and she signaled to Justin for wine. “How were you so sure that it was not, Guy?”

Guy gratefully accepted the brimming cup. “Simon told me.”

Unlike Emma, Justin and Durand understood the enormous significance of those three simple words. Before Emma could reveal her ignorance, Justin said casually to Guy, “You and Simon de Lusignan are mates, are you?”

Guy nodded innocently. “We were squires together in the Viscount of Thouars’s household. Simon is a good lad, a good friend. He is one for borrowing money and not one for repaying it, but that is not his fault, what with him being a younger son. He only gets crumbs from his father’s table, so he must make do however he can. A reliable man to have beside you in a tavern brawl, though.”

Justin and Durand’s eyes caught and held briefly and in that moment, Justin knew exactly what the other man was thinking, for he was thinking it, too—that Guy had probably never been in a tavern brawl in his life.

Emma was occupied trying to place Simon in the de Lusignan hierarchy “He’s one of the sons of William, who holds the lordship of Lezay,” she said at last, in a dismissive tone that told Justin volumes about the lower social status of this branch of the de Lusignan clan.

Guy nodded again and, at his mother’s prodding, admitted that Simon de Lusignan had been the one to ensnare him in the Breton conspiracy. No, he did not know how Simon had got involved in it. He’d been surprised, though, to see how much respect Simon seemed to command amongst the Breton lords, who treated him like a man of some importance rather than a stripling of two and twenty, a fourth son with little hope of advancement.

By now, Emma had realized that Guy had just given them a valuable clue. Her eyes went questioningly to Justin and he nodded imperceptibly, conveying the message that he would enlighten her at the first opportunity. Once again, his gaze crossed that of Durand, and once again, the same thought was in both their minds: it was time to have a long talk with the Lady Arzhela.

Emma chose to remain at Laval with her son. Since Claudine’s rationale for accompanying them was to act as Emma’s companion, she could muster no convincing argument when Justin and Durand insisted that she remain at Laval, too. Emma refused to spare the young knight Lionel, although she grudgingly agreed to let them take Morgan and her men-at-arms. Guy would have liked to ride with them, for he was eager to escape his mother’s chastisement, but he was not given that option.

The day was cold, yet clear, the road in decent shape for midwinter, and they covered the twelve miles to Vitré in two hours. Upon their arrival at the castle, however, they discovered that their journey was not over. The Duchess Constance had decided to accept the hospitality of Raoul de Fougéres, and the Lady Arzhela de Dinan had accompanied her.

Fougères was less than twenty miles to the northeast of Vitré and by pushing their horses, they reached it just before dusk. At first glimpse, the castle appeared to be one of the most formidable strongholds Justin had ever seen, a rock-hewn fortress surrounded by miles of marshland and moated by the serpentine winding of the River Nançon. But as they approached, something struck him as odd about those massive defenses. Durand, with a more experienced eye, needed but one look.

“What sort of dolt would build a castle down in the valley instead of up on the heights?” he said incredulously, and Justin realized he was right; he’d never before seen a castle located on low ground. Drawing rein, they were marveling at the incongruity of it when Morgan pulled up beside them and burst out laughing.

“They must have been blind-drunk when they laid out these plans!” he chortled. “You’d think they’d have learned their lesson when King Henry, may God assoil him, took the castle in one day’s time. But no, damned if they did not rebuild it in the exact same spot!”

“You’re uncommonly knowledgeable about castles and royal military campaigns,” Durand said, before adding snidely, “for a stable groom.”

“A man need not be a baker to enjoy eating bread,” Morgan pointed out amiably. “By your logic, Sir Durand, only a nun would know about virtue and only a whore would know about sin. We have a saying back home, that if—”

“Spare me your countrymen’s homilies,” Durand said, and spurred his stallion ahead until he attracted the attention of the castle guards. Allowed to advance within shouting range, he demanded entry with an arrogance that caused Justin and Morgan to wince, both expecting the gates to be slammed in Durand’s face. But after a brief delay, they heard the creaking of a windlass and the drawbridge slowly began to lower.

Fougères may have been poorly situated, but it boasted a highly sophisticated water defense system. When Raoul de Fougères rebuilt the castle after the English king Henry burned it to the ground nigh on thirty years ago, he’d replaced the wooden structures with stone, and constructed an ingenious tower that was equipped with a mechanism for flooding the entrance area in the event of attack. Even Durand was impressed.

A removable footbridge spanned the water-filled inner ditch, and the men led their mounts across it into the bailey, glancing up at the iron-barred double portcullis looming over their heads as they passed through. By the time they’d penetrated the heart of the castle, they’d all revised their initial view that Fougères could be easily taken, and were thankful that none of them would be asked to lay siege to this Breton border stronghold.

Justin made sure that he, not Durand, was the one to request a night’s lodging from the castellan, for the village huddled outside the castle battlements had not looked promising. Once permission was granted, they sent their horses off to the stable and followed the castellan’s servant into the great hall nestled along the south wall. There, the Duchess Constance, Lord Raoul, and other Breton lords were seated at the high table, enjoying a pre-Lenten feast of beef stew, marrow tarts, and stuffed capon. Places were found for Durand and Justin at one of the lower tables; Morgan and the men-at-arms would be fed, too, but they’d have to wait until their betters were served. In their haste to reach Fougères before dark, they had eaten nothing on the road, and the enticing aromas of freshly baked bread and roasted meat reminded them of how empty their stomachs were. They pitched into their food with enthusiasm, and only afterward did they roam the smoky, dimly lit hall in search of Lady Arzhela... and failed to find her.

The person most likely to know of her whereabouts was the Duchess Constance, but they knew better than to approach her unbidden. She was holding court upon the dais, surrounded by her barons and household knights and the abbot of Trinity Abbey. Justin and Durand lurked inconspicuously at the outer edges of the royal circle, watching in growing frustration as Constance demonstrated how much she liked center stage, accepting the attention, deference, and flattery as naturally as she did the air she breathed. Justin was not as sure as Emma that this woman would be no match for John, and neither was Durand, who murmured a rude jest in Justin’s ear, declaring it must be devilishly difficult to lay with a woman who had her own set of ballocks.

As more time passed, Justin’s anxieties about Arzhela multiplied, and he seized the first opportunity to intercept Raoul de Fougères as he descended the dais steps. “My lord, may I have a word with you?” he asked, politely enough to please the highborn lord, who paused and allowed that he could spare a moment or two. Raoul was stocky and well fed, with a surprisingly thick thatch of hair for a man his age, which Justin guessed to be mid-sixties. He had been doting noticeably upon a youngster of fourteen or so, his grandson and heir, but beneath the affable, avuncular air was a will of iron, a shrewd intelligence, and the chilling confidence of one who never doubted his own judgments or his right to enforce them.

“My lord, I was asked by Lord Guy de Laval to deliver a letter to Lady Arzhela de Dinan, but I have been unable to locate her and those I’ve asked disavow any knowledge of her whereabouts. I was hoping that you might be better informed...”

Raoul’s brow puckered as he jogged his memory. “What did I hear about Lady Arzhela? Ah, yes, now I remember. The duchess told me that Lady Arzhela asked her for permission to make a pilgrimage to Mont St Michel.”

He turned away, then, as someone else sought his attention, leaving Justin standing there, trying to make sense of what he’d just been told. A moment later, Durand was at his side. “Well?” he demanded, in a low voice. “Did you find out where that fool woman has gone? From the look on your face, I don’t think I am going to like the answer much.”

“No,” Justin said slowly, “you are not going to like it at all.”

Despite the raw winter weather, pilgrims continued to come to Mont St Michel. From her vantage point at a window in the abbey guesthouse, Arzhela watched as they trudged across the wet sands from Genêts, following single file in the footsteps of a local guide, for even at low tide, there was still the danger of quicksand bogs. From the abbey heights, they seemed as small and insignificant as carved toy figures, playthings to be scattered at a child’s whim or at God’s Will.