Prince of Darkness (15 page)

Wind rattled the shutters, causing Arzhela to shiver, but she did not close the window, mesmerized by the sight of those struggling pilgrims. What had driven them to make such a difficult journey, to bear so heavy a burden? She had made pilgrimages herself, of course, to Chartres and to the shrine of Our Lady at Rocamadour, proudly bringing back an oval pilgrim badge inscribed with the words
“Sigillum Beatae Mariae de Rocamadour.”
But her pilgrimages had always been made in the glory of high summer, and had entailed no danger and little discomfort. More like pleasure excursions than true testings of the soul. She had visited the Mont on numerous occasions, but always as an honored guest, never as one of Christ’s Faithful. And as she leaned from the window of the abbey’s guesthouse, a hostel for the highborn, looking down at those distant men and women wading through the icy waters of the bay, she was shamed by the contrast between their barefoot, heartfelt piety and her sinful, luxury-loving past.

Arzhela dined with Abbot Jourdain in his private chambers in late-morning, along with several other guests deemed worthy of gracing the abbot’s table: two merchants from Rouen who were bountiful patrons of St Michael, their generosity compensating for any defects of lineage; a distant cousin of Arzhela’s first husband; the archdeacon of Rennes; a boastful Norman baron and his subdued, long-suffering wife. Arzhela found neither the company nor the conversation to be especially entertaining, and was thankful when the meal was over. As she emerged from the abbot’s lodging, she encountered a flock of pilgrims being shepherded by monks up the great gallery stairs, and instead of returning to the guesthouse, she joined them.

The
pilgrims and Arzhela reverently crossed the central nave of the church, where they were given time to pray at the altar of Saint-Michel-en-la-Nef. Arzhela knelt when it was her turn, and as she offered up her prayers and her heart to Blessed St Michael, she was filled with a sudden sense of peace. How glad she was to be here! It had been an impulse, not fully thought out. When she’d realized she was in danger, realized her need to find a refuge, the abbey had been the first place to come to mind. She could wait there in safety for Justin and Durand.

She wasn’t sure what would happen after that, but she felt confident that all would be resolved to her satisfaction. If need be, she could go to Paris, go to Johnny. He would protect her. He would also take a swift and terrible vengeance. A pity she could not simply tell Justin and Durand all that she’d discovered, leave the sorting out to them. Why must life be so damnably complicated?

Usually the monks were strict taskmasters, quickly ushering the pilgrims out so the next group could be given admittance. But these February wayfarers were but a trickle in the flood of the faithful that inundated the abbey every year, and the hosteller was willing to indulge such hardy souls, allowing them to tarry in the nave, breathing in the sanctity of St Michael, basking in God’s Grace. Arzhela lingered, too, wondering whether she could charm Brother Gervaise into taking her down into the crypt of Notre Dame des Trente Cierges, where holy relics of the Virgin Mary were kept. Since the crypt was within the abbey enclosure—the area prohibited to all but the monks—she knew her chances were not promising. Still, she’d never know unless she tried. She was strolling about the nave, looking for the hosteller, when she saw
him.

She froze, not fully trusting her senses, and when she mustered up the courage to look again, he was gone. Had she truly seen him? He’d been clad in the black habit of a Benedictine. The abbey had more monks than Johnny had concubines, nigh on sixty. And then there were visiting monks from the Mont’s Norman priories, even monks on pilgrimage. How did she know her nerves were not playing her false? But her heart had begun pounding against her ribs, and she was finding it difficult to catch her breath.

Once she was back in the guest quarters, she did her best to convince herself that her imagination had conjured up a ghost. But when she asked herself the only questions that truly mattered—if he would dare to come after her and if his need to silence her was so great as that—she knew the only answers could be “yes,” and “yes” again. Once she admitted that, she realized she dared not dismiss this sighting as fanciful, not when the stakes truly were life or death.

Fool that she was, she’d been sure she would be safe here, far safer than at her cousin’s court. She paced the confines of the chamber as if it were a cage, her thoughts darting to and fro as rapidly as the gulls swooping outside the window. Could she feign illness, keep to this chamber until Durand and Justin found her? But if he’d dared to follow her onto the blessed soil of St Michael, into God’s House itself, how long would a mere wooden door keep him out? No, she must find a hiding place. Where, though? She strode to a window and thrust open the shutters. Below, a black-clad monk was staring up at the guesthouse, his face hidden by his cowled hood.

Her first instinct was to recoil, but instead she stood her ground, staring down defiantly at the spectral figure who might or might not be her executioner. Her fear was giving way to a surging anger. Like the tides of the bay, it was all-engulfing, sparing no one, not even herself. She’d handled this poorly, making misjudgments and mistakes, but no more. Loyalty to a lover might be admirable; stupidity was not. She knew her enemy now, knew how ruthless and cunning he could be. But he did not know his enemy. He did not truly know her.

She stayed at the window long after the monk had gone, gazing across the bay. Pilgrims still straggled toward shore, their russet cloaks splotches of muted color against the endless grey of the sand and sky. A cormorant flew by, heading for the distant sea. The stark islet of Tombelaine rose out of the muddy flats that stretched between the Mont and Genêts, a bleak slab of rock that housed a small, forlorn-looking priory. It was a desolate scene, but to Arzhela it was beautiful, for it gave her the answer she sought. What better way to hide than in plain sight?

Brother Andrev was staring at Arzhela in horror. “My lady, you cannot do this. It is sheer madness!”

“I know. That is why it cannot fail!” When Brother Andrev did not return her smile, Arzhela sighed, wishing he could share her excitement, her sense of triumph. She was deeply fond of this man, but why must monks be so besotted with propriety, with doing what was “right”? She had to stifle a giggle, then, at her own foolishness. That was why monks became monks, after all, to serve God and to do good. Well, not all monks. That little weasel, Bernard, cared only about making mischief. She’d forgotten her plan to ask Abbot Jourdain to banish him to one of their Yorkshire priories until she’d seen him skulking around the church, like a cutpurse on the prowl for unwary victims.

“Lady Arzhela, are you even listening to me?”

Caught out, she flashed a quick smile. “I am sorry; I did let my thoughts wander for a moment. Brother Andrev, it warms my heart that you worry so on my behalf. But my plan is... well, it is downright brilliant. At first I thought about disguising myself as a nun,” she confided, and grinned at his dumbstruck expression. “I realized that would not do, though, for nuns cannot wander freely about the countryside all by themselves, even for worthy purposes like pilgrimages. Then I thought, why not a monk?”

“Why not, indeed?” Brother Andrev echoed weakly.

“I soon saw that would not work, either. Even muffled in a monk’s habit, I doubt that I’d be a very convincing man, if I do say so myself. But as I watched those poor pilgrims plodding across the sand, it came to me. Who notices one sheep in an entire flock?”

“Surely there must be another way. I understand why you cannot turn to the Duchess Constance for help. Well, truthfully, I do not, but—”

“You must take my word for that, Brother Andrev. The less you know, the better for you. I can tell you that the duchess would not be happy to learn of my recent activities. It would be awkward, to say the least.”

“Well, then, why not appeal to the authorities in Normandy? There is a royal provost right here in Genêts—”

“I wish I could,” she admitted, with such obvious sincerity that he was at a loss for words. “But you see, dearest friend, that provost answers to the wrong man.” She could not turn for help to King Richard’s provost, not without exposing the plot against Johnny. Nor could she explain this to Brother Andrev, for ignorance was his only protection. “I will tell you this much,” she said with a smile that managed to be both arch and wistful. “I’ve learned that the worst thing about dealing with untrustworthy people is that they cannot be trusted!”

He didn’t understand, of course, which was for the best.

“I want you to go to the stables and check on my mare. After that, Alar, you can go to the tavern, for I’ll have no further need of you till the morrow. I’ve decided to pass the night at the priory. There’ll be a bed there for you.”

“Yes, my lady!” As delighted as Alar was to be given a free evening, he was positively euphoric when she gave him a coin, too. Arzhela watched as he trotted off toward the stables, pleased that she could make him so happy with so little effort. In her present mellow mood, even a servant’s pleasure was cause for contentment. She could not remember the last time she’d felt so sure of the right path, at one with the Almighty and her world.

This marvelous feeling lasted as long as it took to reach the church of Notre Dame and Saint-Sebastien, where she was intercepted by Brother Bernard. “My lady,” he said, eyeing her coldly, “what may I do for you?”

“You may go away,” she said rudely, eager to get rid of him, for he could thwart her plan if he were to follow her into the church.

“As you wish.” He bit the words off, flinging them at her like weapons, but she had dealt with far more imposing men than this disgruntled Benedictine monk. Brushing past him as if he did not exist, she entered the church. He continued to stand there, staring after her, but she never looked back.

The church was empty at this time of day, for it was between the canonical hours of None and Vespers. Arzhela crossed the nave, heading for the tower. She’d stored her disguise in the sacristy before seeking out Brother Andrev, for she could think of no safer hiding place. She was relieved, nonetheless, to find it lying undisturbed in the coffer of vestments. Closing the sacristy door, she undressed with some difficulty, for she was accustomed to having help from her maids. She decided to retain her own linen shift after feeling the scratchy coarse cloth against her soft skin. Stripping off her gown, silk stockings, pelisson, and riding boots, she hid them at the bottom of the vestment coffer, hastily pulling on a russet robe of such poor quality that she’d not have used it for a dog’s bed. Her hair hidden under a veil and broad-brimmed hat, she thrust her feet into shabby sandals, wishing that there were a mirror in the sacristy so she could admire her astonishing transformation.

She was not concerned about the authenticity of her costume, for she’d purchased it right off the back of a departing pilgrim. The man had been eager to accept her odd offer. The coins she’d given him in exchange for his tattered garb had assuaged any qualms, and while he seemed convinced she was demented, he was willing to profit from her lunacy. She’d even thought to take clothes for him from the abbey’s almonry so he need not attract attention in Genêts by buying new garments. In the morning, he’d be gone long before she’d be missed. It was foolproof.

Cracking open the church door, she peered cautiously around the churchyard. Seeing no one in the immediate vicinity, she stepped outside, self-conscious in her new identity as a poor but godly pilgrim. No one even glanced at her, though, and she soon regained confidence, making her way hastily down to the shore. A small cluster of pilgrims were milling about, the last group to go that day. An ice-edged wind had chased all others from the beach, and Arzhela found it easy to escape notice. She’d rolled her mantle up and tucked it under her arm. Unfolding it now, she looked around cautiously, and then dropped the mantle at her feet, kicking until it was half buried in the sand. A pity; it was one of her favorites. Johnny would owe her a new Parisian cloak for this. But it had to be done. No pilgrim would be wearing a mantle lined with fox fur. And if it was found and identified as hers, that would be one more red herring dragged across her trail, leading the hounds astray.

The last pilgrims were getting ready to cross. Two balked abruptly, deciding that they’d wait until the morrow. Their unease proved contagious and several of their companions began to reconsider, too. Seeing his fees slipping away, the guide hastily assured them that the crossing was safe, that it was nigh on five hours until the next high tide and they’d be able to reach the Mont ere dark descended on the bay. Insisting that the monks believed Blessed St Michael looked with especial favor upon those who made a dusk crossing, he collected his flock before any others could stray, and passed out candles.

Clutching a candle in one hand and her sandals in the other, Arzhela joined the others. The mud was cold against the bare soles of her feet, the water even colder, but as she raised her eyes to the distant Mont, she forgot about her physical discomfort. The church spires seemed to be scraping the clouds and the last rays of the dying sun bathed the abbey in a golden glow. It was like gazing upon the glory of God, and Arzhela stared up at it in wonder, as if seeing it for the first time. The sense of peace that she’d experienced at St Michael’s shrine came flooding back. Some of the other pilgrims had begun to weep and Arzhela wept, too, for sheer joy. Why had she been so slow to understand what the Almighty wanted of her?

Upon the beach at Genêts, a lone figure stood at the water’s edge. The wind whipped Brother Bernard’s cowl back, blew sand into his face, and chilled his body and soul. He did not move, though, never taking his eyes from the pilgrims wading toward the Mont.