Prince of Darkness (25 page)

“The brother hated him because their father had put his first wife aside for the lad’s mother. The father hated him because his alluring young wife died in childbirth, leaving him with an unwanted, spare son, his mother’s murderer.”

“So what happened to him?”

“What do you think happened? The lad grew up nursing his bruises and blackened eyes and grudges of his own. You might say he bided his time. And then Elder Brother took a bride.”

“Violette?”

“Yes, Violette. Seventeen years old, sweet as a ripe strawberry, with skin like milk and three fat manors as her marriage portion.”

Justin waited, and then prompted, “Well?”

“Well what? Ah, you want to know about the lad and little Violette. He seduced her. Rather easily, too, or so I’ve been told.”

“So what are you saying, Durand? That you were the younger brother?”

“Not necessarily. How do you know I was not the elder brother? Or an interested neighbor, watching from afar. Or Violette’s kinsman. Nothing is as it seems, de Quincy, nothing.”

“That will make a fine epitaph for our gravestones,” Justin said darkly, vexed with himself for walking right into one of Durand’s webs, and this time the last word was to be his.

In the days that followed, Durand offered up other versions of his past. In one, he was estranged from his family because he’d balked at taking holy vows like a dutiful younger son. In another, he boasted of having lived as an outlaw. Once he even claimed to be a bastard son of the old king, Henry, and thus a half brother to John and Richard. But he never spoke of how he had entered the service of the queen.

Justin had given up trying to keep track of their days in confinement; what was the point? He had no way of even knowing when it was day and when it was night, and for some reason, that bothered him greatly. Sleep was becoming the enemy now, too. When it came at all, it brought troubled dreams. He’d lie awake for hours, listening to Durand’s cough, wondering how long they could survive under these conditions, wondering how long ere they went mad.

“Have you heard of St-Malo, de Quincy?”

It still startled him, the sudden sound of a human voice echoing from the surrounding dark. “Yes, it is a Breton port and an infamous pirate’s den. Why?”

“Did I ever tell you about a kinsman of mine, a notorious sea wolf?”

“So now you are a pirate’s whelp? You must think that the damp down here is rotting my brain, Durand. You do not speak a word of Breton.”

“Do you ever look before you leap? I did not say the pirate was my sire, nor did I say we lived in St-Malo. As it happens, he was my uncle and it was another well-known pirate’s nest—Granville in Normandy.”

Sometimes Justin welcomed Durand’s flights of fancy. They were usually more entertaining than the other pastimes available to them: fending off the bolder of the dungeon’s rats, cursing John and Simon de Lusignan and the Bretons, trying not to freeze to death. But on this day—or night—Justin’s head was throbbing, his stomach so hollow that it hurt, and his gorge threatened to rise with every breath of this foul, tainted air.

“Spare me another one of your fables, Durand,” he said morosely, and the other man laughed mockingly, an effect spoiled somewhat when it ended in a coughing fit.

“Fair enough, de Quincy. Let’s hear from you, then. You are so closemouthed about your past that naturally I suspect the worst. But since we’re both going to die, why take your secrets and your sins with you to the grave? Think of this as the confessional with me as your priest.”

“I’d rather not.”

“Aha!” Durand exclaimed, managing to sound both triumphant and accusing. “Do you know why you’re clinging to your wretched little secrets? Because you have not abandoned all hope! Admit it, de Quincy, you still believe that the Almighty is going to work a miracle on your behalf and free you with a celestial thunderbolt. You poor fool!”

Justin actually felt a twinge of shame, as if hope was one of the Seven Deadly Sins. Mayhap for prisoners, it was. But he knew that he could never surrender unconditionally, not until he drew his last mortal breath. He owed that much to Aline, even if she’d never know it.

Durand heard it first, the creaking of wood. That was the most important sound in their world, for it meant the trapdoor was opening. But they’d already got their water and bread a few hours ago, and it was only yesterday that a guard had descended into the dungeon to empty the slop bucket. This break with routine was ominous, alarming, and they watched tensely as a sliver of light spread across the ceiling, spilling into the dark.

The trapdoor opening was a blaze of brightness. Above them, a man knelt, peering over the edge. “Justin? Durand? Are you down there?”

Justin’s first fear was that his wits were wandering. But Durand’s audible gasp indicated that he’d heard it, too. “Yes, we’re here!”

With a loud thud, a wooden ladder was dropped into the dungeon. Moments later, a man was scrambling down, nimbly using one hand for the rungs, the other holding a swaying lantern. Landing with a solid thump, he turned toward them with a grin as dazzling as an Easter sunrise, and that square, freckled face was one of the most beautiful sights Justin had ever seen.

“Morgan!”

“Aye, it’s me!” Beaming, he raised the lantern, whistling softly at what its light revealed. “No offense, lads, but your own mothers would shrink from the likes of you! Can you climb the ladder without help? We can haul you up if need be—”

He got no further, for Durand was already halfway up the ladder, with Justin close behind. Morgan glanced around at the encroaching fetid blackness and hastily headed for the ladder, too.

Justin had no idea what to expect when he clambered up into the storeroom under the great hall. He knew only that it could not be worse than where he’d been. A man was holding out his hand and Justin grabbed for it. As he regained his footing, he was assailed by a fragrance that seemed intoxicatingly sweet after the stench of the oubliette, and then a soft female body was in his arms, her breath warm against his throat.

Almost at once, Claudine recoiled, clasping her hand to her mouth. “Justin, thank God!” she cried, though she made no further attempts to embrace him, edging away as unobtrusively as possible. “I’d despaired of ever seeing you again,” she confided. “But oh, my love, you do need a bath!”

“What are you doing here, Claudine?” Durand sounded as baffled as Justin felt. “What is happening, Morgan? No, tell us later. Let’s just get out of here!”

“There is no hurry,” Morgan said cheerfully. “Our men hold the castle.”

Blinking like barn owls even in the subdued light of the storeroom, Justin and Durand exchanged glances, the only two rational souls in a world of lunatics. “What men?” Justin demanded. “
Whose
men?”

“I’ll let him tell you that.” Morgan raised his lantern, pointing toward the corner stairwell. “He is awaiting you abovestairs in the great hall.”

As impatient as they were to get answers, Justin and Durand mounted the stairs at a measured pace, uneasy about what they might find. They could think of only one man who might have ridden to their rescue, and neither of them could imagine circumstances under which John had got control of Fougères Castle. Even if he’d been willing or able to raise an army on their behalf, Paris was almost two hundred miles away. None of this made any sense.

The last time they’d been in the great hall, it had been a scene of torch-lit tragedy. Now it looked peaceful and welcoming. Men-at-arms were seated at trestle tables, drinking and eating. A fire burned in the hearth, giving off bursts of blessed heat, hot enough to banish even the harsh, piercing cold of a subterranean dungeon. Two high-backed chairs had been positioned close to those dancing flames, where a man and woman were making conversation between sips of wine.

“Master de Quincy. Sir Durand.” The Lady Emma’s smile was coolly complacent; she was almost purring. But the men barely glanced at her, their gaze riveted upon the man beside her. He was quite young, not much older than Justin, dark complexioned and of small stature, well dressed but somewhat untidy in appearance, wearing his clothes as he did his command, with the nonchalance of one who wielded so much power he could afford to take it for granted. “There is no need for introductions,” Emma said archly, “for you know His Grace, the Earl of Chester... and husband to the Duchess Constance, the Duke of Brittany.”

Both men sank to their knees, looking so stunned that Emma, Claudine, and Morgan burst out laughing, and even Chester smiled faintly. “I am sure you have questions,” he said amiably. “But they can wait. The Lady Emma, a woman of great practicality, has ordered baths for you in the kitchen, so you can eat whilst you soak off some of that grime. Afterward, we’ll talk.”

They did as he bade, as he expected they would. Following Morgan from the hall, Justin halted in the doorway, glancing back over his shoulder at his unlikely saviour. “My lord earl... How long were we imprisoned?”

Chester conferred briefly with Emma. “I’m told,” he said, “that it was twelve days.”

Two wooden tubs had been dragged close to the huge kitchen hearth and filled with hot water. They were soon so dirty that they had to be refilled. Justin had never enjoyed a bath so much and when he glanced over at Durand, he saw the same blissful expression on his face. It was hard to believe that less than an hour ago, they had been entombed alive, even harder to believe that their lifetime of imprisonment had numbered only twelve days on the Church calendar.

“You want more?” Morgan was leaning over the bathing tub with a platter of roasted chicken. He grinned as Justin snatched another drumstick. “You’ve probably lost track of time, so you do not realize how lucky you are. If you’d been freed one day later, you’d have had to make do with fish. The morrow is the start of Lent.”

Now that he was warm and clean and fed, Justin could concentrate upon his next urgent need: his desire for answers. Unable to wait for the Earl of Chester’s explanation, he sat up with a splash and smiled at Morgan. “Take pity on us, man, and tell us how this came about!”

Morgan was happy to oblige. “We were watching as they rode off with you, and it was easy enough to learn you were being taken to Fougères Castle. When we heard that Rufus and Crispin were under arrest, too, Jaspaer decided that there was a ‘time to fish and a time to cut bait,’ as he put it. He said he’d have no trouble finding a lord wanting to hire his sword, and we parted company at Pontorson, with him heading into Normandy and me riding for Laval. I pushed my horse and got there by dusk on Friday, so you owe me for a fine crop of saddle blisters and sores!”

“I owe you for a lot more than that, my friend,” Justin declared, overcome with gratitude as he realized what a narrow escape they’d had. If Morgan had not proved more loyal than Jaspaer, they’d never have been freed. No one would even have known of their plight.

“When I told the Ladies Claudine and Emma what had happened, Lady Claudine was sorely distressed and insisted upon seeking aid from Lord John. The Lady Emma agreed to let her son send a man to Paris, but she said it would do no good. After thinking about it for another day, she announced that there was only one man who might be able to help, and she ordered me to ride for the Earl of Chester’s castle at St James de Beuvron. She said all knew he and the Duchess Constance had no fondness for each other, but he was still her lawful husband, still Duke of Brittany and that had to count for something. The fact that he was on this side of the Channel and not back in Cheshire, well, that most likely played a part in her thinking, too. St James de Beuvron is a lot closer than Paris!”

“Emma’s been accused of many things,” Durand observed, “but no one has ever called her a fool. There’ll be no living with her after this, de Quincy. Not only was it a clever idea, but she actually coaxed Chester into agreeing to it!”

That amazed Justin, too. He did not know the Earl of Chester that well. They’d worked together that past summer to recover the portion of King Richard’s ransom that had gone missing in Wales, and he’d been favorably impressed by the man. But he’d never have expected Chester to be the one to throw him a lifeline. He was about to ask Morgan to tell them more when the kitchen doors swung open and the earl himself strolled in.

“The Lady Emma insisted that every stitch you were wearing be burned, but she is sending in some garments for you to wear, courtesy of the lord of the manor. Raoul is providing you with swords, too, even if he does not know it yet. But he can well afford it.”

Justin was unable to restrain his curiosity any longer. “Where is Lord Raoul, my lord earl?”

“Fortunately for you, Constance wanted to give her cousin a noble funeral. She and Raoul and the rest of her court are at Mont St Michel, burying the Lady Arzhela. That gave me the opportunity I needed. I knew the garrison would not dare deny me entry in my wife’s absence. If any of them harbored suspicions, the presence of the Lady Emma and the Lady Claudine assuaged them, and we were made welcome. Once my men were admitted, it was easy enough to overcome the garrison and take control. We’ll free them when we leave, and if Raoul de Fougères or my lady wife have any complaints, they can take them up with me.”

Justin was regarding Chester with something approaching awe. “You make it sound so simple, my lord earl. I shall never forget what you have done here this day. I doubt that I can ever repay you, but it will be an honor to try.”

Chester nodded graciously, then glanced over at Durand, so pointedly that Durand hastily expressed his own thanks. “De Quincy is too polite to ask,” he continued audaciously, “but I am not. Why did you agree to help us, my lord?”

The earl could easily have taken offense. But Durand’s luck held, for Chester prided himself on his own forthrightness and was confident enough to appreciate it in others. “Just as the ingredients in a rissole vary according to the tastes of the cook, so did our little alliance contain its share of differing motives. The lovely Lady Claudine seems to fancy Justin. The Lady Emma appears to be trying to curry favor with the queen. As for your man Morgan, you’ll have to let him speak for himself; I have no idea what is motivating him. But for myself, I’ve come to respect Justin de Quincy. He proved his worth in Wales last summer, is too good a man to rot in a Breton gaol.”