Prince of Darkness (2 page)

“No, I do not.”

“Well, I do. Genêts is not her parish and you are not her priest.”

Brother Andrev understood the insinuation, that Lady Arzhela was parish-shopping, seeking a priest who’d be more indulgent of her sins, impose a lighter penance. He stopped abruptly and swung around to confront the older man angrily. “If you must know, Lady Arzhela has a fondness for our church. Abbot Robert consecrated it in God’s Year 1157, the year of her birth. She was baptized there, had one of her weddings there, and has always avowed that she wants to be buried in the choir, near to the high altar.”

Brother Bernard gasped. “That is outrageous,” he said indignantly. “A woman like that does not deserve to be buried inside the church! I do not care if she is the widow of a Breton lord, she is also a wanton and—”

“She is the widow of three Breton barons, but were she not, she’d still have the right to be buried here in our church of Notre Dame and Saint-Sebastien, in the abbey of Blessed St Michael, or even in Bishop Herbert’s great cathedral at Rennes. Do you not know—”

“What—that she is a count’s bastard?”

It had been years since Brother Andrev had lost his temper like this; his fists clenched at his sides as he fought back an alarming urge to take aim at the other monk’s sneer. “Yes, she is the Count of Nantes’s natural daughter,” he said tautly, “which makes her the aunt of our late lord, Duke Conan, and the cousin of our duchess, the Lady Constance. She is of the Royal House of Brittany, and not to be judged by the likes of you!”

Brother Bernard was not as impressed by Lady Arzhela’s illustrious pedigree as Brother Andrev had hoped. His was an easy face to read, and his disdain for the royal Breton bloodlines was all too evident. But if he did not respect Lady Arzhela’s heritage, he did understand the significance of her kinship to the duchess. She might well be the Whore of Babylon, but only a fool would make an enemy of a woman with such proximity to power. Swallowing his bile as best he could, he turned on his heel and marched off.

Brother Andrev watched him go, more bemused now than angry. Embarrassed by his own fervor, he could only marvel at Lady Arzhela’s ability to befuddle male minds and heat their blood. She was no longer young, was not even present, and yet she’d managed to bring two men of God almost to blows.

Women were confessed in open church, and a shriving stool had been set up for Lady Arzhela at the front of the chancel. The three parts of confession had been satisfied. Arzhela had expressed contrition, confessed her sins, and accepted the fasting penance imposed by Brother Andrev. Now it was for him to offer absolution, but he found himself hesitating. What if Brother Bernard were right? If Arzhela deliberately chose him, knowing he’d give out light penances? Was she truly contrite?

“Brother Andrev?” Arzhela was looking up at him, a quizzical smile parting her lips. She had captivating eyes, wide-set and long-lashed, a vivid shade of turquoise, like sunlight on seawater. At first glance, a man might not find her beautiful—the fairness of her skin was marred by a sprinkling of freckles and her hair was the color of fire, thought to be unlucky since the time of Judas—but then he’d look into those amazing eyes, and he’d be lost.

Brother Andrev blinked, came back to himself, and hastily said, “I absolve you from your sins in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit.”

Arzhela lowered her lashes, murmured a demure “Amen,” and then her grin broke free. “You had me worried that you were not going to give me absolution.”

“And if I did not?” Brother Andrev asked, and she wrinkled her nose and then grinned again.

“Well, if I eat a portion of cabbage and onions without complaint, I want my honey wafers and hippocras afterward!” When he did not join in her laughter, her eyebrows shot upward. “Surely that deserves a smile, even a small one? You cannot expect me to believe that my petty sins are too terrible to be forgiven. Why, I’ve done much worse and even told you so in shameful but provocative detail—”

She stopped suddenly, frowning. “Oh, no! Do not tell me that nasty little man talked to you, too, about my confessions?”

“What ‘nasty little man,’ my lady?”

“Brother Bertrand or Barnabus or whatever his name is. When I told him I wanted you to hear my confession, he mumbled something about that being ‘such a surprise.’ His sarcasm was thick enough to choke on, and when I challenged him, he said it was not fitting for me to do penance to a priest who was besotted with me. Well, I gave him a right sharp talking-to for that bit of impertinence, but obviously not sharp enough. I am right, am I not? He did mention this to you?”

Brother Andrev nodded reluctantly. “He did plant one of his poison seeds, and I was foolish enough to let it take root.”

“Indeed you were.” She held out her hand, let him help her to her feet. “Of course, he was not entirely wrong. We both know you are besotted with me, for what man is not?”

She had a low laugh, an infectious chuckle that had always been music to his ears... until now. He could feel the heat rising in his face and he lowered his head, hoping she’d not notice.

She did, and her attitude changed dramatically. “Oh, Andrev, I am so sorry! I ought not to have been teasing you. But you know me; I’ll be flirting with the Devil on my deathbed. You are very dear to me and there is nothing sinful or shameful about our friendship. I come to you for confession because you can see into my heart, because you know that my contrition is genuine, that I truly mean it when I vow not to sin again... even knowing that I will.”

She kept up an easy flow of conversation as they walked down the nave, and he blessed her social skills, for by the time they’d reached the cloisters, his discomfort had faded and when she called Brother Bernard a profane name that cast aspersions on his manhood, he grinned appreciatively.

Arzhela was pleased that she’d got him into a better mood. But she was not done with Brother Bernard, not yet, for she was as protective as a mother lion when it came to those she cared about. That nasty little man would not be harassing Andrev again if she had anything to say about it, and she damned well did. “Tell me,” she said, favoring him with her most innocent smile, “does Mont St Michel have any alien priories or cells in other lands... say, Ireland? Mayhap Wales?”

Brother Andrev was accustomed to Arzhela’s non sequiturs; part of her charm was her unpredictability. “No,” he said thoughtfully, “not that I know of. The abbey does have lands in England, though. Several in Devon and a grange up in Yorkshire.”

“Yorkshire,” Arzhela said happily. Perfect. Making a mental note to have a little talk with Abbot Jourdain the next time she visited the abbey, she gestured toward a bench in one of the carrels. “May we sit for a while? I have a private matter to discuss with you.”

“More private than the confessional?” Brother Andrev joked, gallantly using the corner of his mantle to wipe the bench clean for her. “What may I do for you, my lady?”

“I have a dilemma,” she confided. “I have learned something I’d rather not have known, for now I must make a choice. If I do nothing, great harm will come to one who... well, let us just say I have fond memories of him. But if I warn him, someone else I care for will be adversely affected. What would you do, Brother Andrev, if you were faced with such a predicament?”

“Well, I think I would probably just toss a coin in the air. Lady Arzhela, I cannot possibly answer your question based upon the meager information you have given me.”

Arzhela did not know whether to scowl or smile. In the end, she did both, and then sighed. “No, I do not suppose you can,” she agreed. “But I cannot tell you what you’d need to know to give me an honest answer. This friend of mine will be in grave danger if this accusation is made against him. I cannot be more specific, though.”

“Is the accusation true?”

“No, I do not think it is.”

“But you cannot be sure of that?”

She considered the question. “He is not a man overly burdened with scruples. I do not believe, though, that he is guilty of this charge.” With a wry smile, she said, “He is too clever to make a mistake of this magnitude.”

“Can you tell me anything about the other person involved, the one you said you ‘care for’?” He was not surprised when she shook her head, for he felt reasonably certain that Duchess Constance was the other player in this mysterious drama. “What, then, of the consequences, my lady? What happens if you warn your ‘friend’ of the danger? And what happens if you do not?”

Arzhela was quiet for several moments. “You are right,” she said at last. “That does clarify matters for me, for the scales do not balance. On the one hand, disappointment, and on the other, destruction.” Rising, she leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. “Thank you, dear friend. You’ve helped more than you know. Now I’ve taken up enough of your time. The provost has invited me to dine with him this evening. I hope to see you there, too. But for the love of God Everlasting, please do not let him include your favorite monk and mine!”

She did not wait for his response, blew him a playful kiss, and started up the walkway. She’d only taken a few steps before Brother Andrev jumped to his feet. “My lady, wait! There is something I must ask you, something I should have asked at the first. If you involve yourself in this, would you be putting yourself at risk?”

She looked at him for a moment, her expression grave, but amusement was shimmering in the depths of those beautiful blue-green eyes, and it was not long in spilling over into laughter. “I do hope so,” she said, “for life without risk would be like meat without salt!”

The two men were loitering by the roadside with such suspicious intent that they at once drew Sarra’s attention. Turning in the saddle, she was relieved to see that Justin de Quincy had noticed them, too, and was already taking protective measures. Nudging his stallion toward the Lady Claudine’s mare, he carefully transferred the blanket-wrapped bundle in his arms to her embrace, and then opened his mantle to give himself quick access to the sword at his hip. As Sarra had hoped and Justin had expected, the mere sight of the weapon was enough to discourage any villainy the men had in mind. Tipping their caps with sardonic deference, they backed away from the road, prudently preferring to await easier prey.

Justin did not let down his guard, though, not until they’d reached the outskirts of St Albans. Only then did he dare to reclaim that precious cargo. The infant settled back into the crook of his arm with a soft sigh, and her contentment caught at his heart.

“We are almost there,” Sarra said quietly, giving him a sympathetic sideways glance as she tightened her hold upon her own baby.

Justin nodded, never taking his eyes from his daughter’s flower-petal little face. He said nothing, for what was there to say?

As soon as he heard the footsteps outside, Baldwin leaped to his feet. He flung the door open wide, his welcoming smile faltering at the sight of his sister. “Rohese!” Attempting to disguise his disappointment, he made a great fuss out of ushering her inside, seating her close to the hearth, and fetching her a cup of his best ale. “This is indeed a pleasant surprise,” he said heartily. “But where is Brian? Surely he did not let you make this trip on your own?”

“Of course not.” Her eyes no longer met his, though, as she explained that Brian had stopped by the local alehouse upon their arrival in town. “He had a great thirst after so many hours on the road...”

It was a weak excuse, feebly offered. But Baldwin bit back any comments, knowing from experience that an attack upon her husband would only spur her to his defense. A pity it was, but there was naught to be done about it. Baldwin liked his brother-by-marriage, in truth he did. Brian was a charmer, quick with a joke, always willing to offer a helping hand. He was never a nasty drunk, but a drunk he was, and Rohese alone refused to admit it.

“Where is Sarra?” she asked abruptly, eager to turn the conversation away from her missing husband. “And the bairns—never have I heard your house so quiet!”

“The children are with Sarra’s mother. Sarra... Sarra has been away for the past fortnight. She said she’d be back by the last week of Advent, so I hope she’ll get home today or tomorrow.”

He was not keen to explain his wife’s absence, but he knew he’d have to satisfy Rohese’s curiosity; no respectable wife and mother left her home and hearth unless her need was a strong one. And indeed, his sister blinked in surprise, at once wanting to know where Sarra had gone. He supposed he could lie and claim she was visiting an ailing aunt, but for what purpose? Sooner or later, the rest of the family would have to know.

“Sarra has agreed to be the wet nurse for a lady’s newborn.”

Rohese’s eyes widened. “Truly, Baldwin?” She knew that Sarra’s mother had been the wet nurse to King Richard in his infancy and her entire family had benefited greatly from it. Sarra’s brother Alexander not only enjoyed bragging rights as the king’s milk-brother, he had received an excellent education at St Albans and Paris. So she understood why Baldwin and Sarra might be tempted by such an opportunity. Yet there were drawbacks, too, in accepting so serious a trust.