Prince of Darkness (27 page)

After a time, Brother Andrev opened his eyes again. “She always wanted to be buried here,” he said sadly, “at our church... But it must be reconsecrated, and... and the duchess would not wait...”

What followed was a patchwork quilt of silences and sighs and laborious, strained utterances. Brother Andrev could tell them nothing that would be of use in solving Arzhela’s murder, for all he remembered of his brief struggle with his would-be assassin was the terrifying image of an upraised, bloodied blade. But as he painstakingly recounted his last conversation with the Lady Arzhela, it seemed to Justin that there were four now in this room that had held only three. A lively ghost with laughing eyes lingered for a moment in their midst, an elusive, caressing breath of summer on a day of grey skies and frigid sorrows.

“There is something you can do for me, for the Lady Arzhela...” Brother Andrev was obviously tiring, but his will overrode his failing body. “She took a lad under her wing at the abbey... Yann. He was with her that night. He told me she’d taken him into the chapel of Notre-Dame-sous-Terre to offer up a prayer to the Blessed Lady Mary for a dying pilgrim, promising that they’d sneak into the monks’ enclosure afterward and raid the kitchen. She took so long at her prayers, though, that he got bored and he crept away, left her alone...”

Justin nodded grimly, remembering the feel of that lamp’s still-warm wick against his fingers. She’d entered a well-lit chapel, secure in God’s Grace and her pilgrim’s armor, unaware that she was still being stalked by a killer. If only she’d stayed in the almonry. If only. “The boy—he saw nothing, then?”

“He says not, and I believe him. He says he returned to the almonry, expecting her to return soon and scold him for running off. I suspect he may have had some mischief in mind, mayhap a bit of thieving... When the fire bell sounded and word spread of her death, he was terrified and guilt-stricken, too. He will not talk of it, but I think he blames himself for leaving her...”

“How did you find this out, Brother Andrev?”

“Yann was too fearful to stay at the abbey. Arzhela had told him about me, and so he fled to Genêts, having nowhere else to go. He’d become right fond of her, I think. She had a way about her...”

His voice had thickened and he gestured toward a nearby table, toward a clay cup filled with a greenish liquid. Propping his head up, Justin held the cup to his lips. “We will want to talk to the lad. What can we do for you, Brother Andrev?”

“It is a great favor, but I hope you’ll do it for her, for Arzhela. She told me she planned to settle Yann on one of her manors, see that he learned a trade. I’ll do what I can for the lad, but he’s not one to be taking holy vows...” A faint smile twitched one corner of his mouth. “Moreover, I do not know how safe he is here. What if the killer decides to make sure he saw nothing that night? There was talk at the abbey about a boy being with her in the infirmary—”

“You cannot be asking that we take this tadpole with us?” Durand interrupted incredulously, turning to glower at Justin when the latter agreed to consider it. “Why is it, de Quincy, that I can always rely upon you to make my life even more wretched than it already is? What are we going to do with a light-fingered Breton whelp?”

Justin didn’t know, but he agreed with Brother Andrev about the boy’s possible danger. “We’ll talk to the Lady Emma,” he said. “Mayhap her son can find a place for the lad at Laval.” He tilted the cup so the monk could drink again. “Brother Andrev, there may be something you can help us with, too. Lady Arzhela whispered something to me with her dying breath. I thought it might be a name, but I cannot be sure. Neither Durand nor I speak Breton.”

Brother Andrev’s eyes focused intently upon Justin’s face. “What did she say?”

“One word—Roparzh.”

If he’d hoped for a sudden illumination, he was to be disappointed. The monk frowned, slowly shook his head. “It is indeed a name, a man’s name. Very common amongst the Bretons. But I know no one called Roparzh... I am sorry.”

So was Justin. “We’ve kept you too long. Rest now. We’ll return later, once you’ve talked to the lad. Better he hear it from you, for he has no reason to trust us.”

At the sound of the opening door, Brother Andrev raised himself feebly on his elbows. “That may be Yann now,” he said. “He went out to get me some soup from the cook-shop.”

“Blood of Christ!” That stunned bit of swearing spun both Justin and Durand toward the door. Simon de Lusignan was standing there, obviously as astonished to see them as they were to see him. “How did you escape?” he cried, with such amazement that they knew he’d not been at the Mont when Raoul de Fougères had got word of the Earl of Chester’s tour de force. He recovered quickly, though, for the next sound they heard was the metallic whisper of his sword clearing its scabbard. “You’ll not get away again,” he snarled, “not from me!”

Durand’s sword was unsheathed in the blink of an eye, or so it seemed to Justin, and there was something chilling about his smile. “We need him alive, Durand!” Justin said swiftly, even as he drew his own weapon.

“Tell him to yield, then!” With a shiver of steel, the two blades came together, setting off sparks. Simon parried Durand’s next blow with such ease that the knight’s smile faded, eyes narrowing as he realized he was facing a superior swordsman. Justin was surprised, too, by de Lusignan’s skill, for like many people, he had a naïve tendency to equate evil with inadequacy. But there was nothing inept about the way Simon handled a sword; he looked to be more than a match for Justin and possibly even as good as Durand.

Simon’s next maneuver was a classic move; he feinted high and then struck low. Durand anticipated him and stepped in, parrying the cut with the flat of his sword. Since neither man had chain mail or a shield, they circled each other warily, so intent upon their lethal duel that Justin was, for the moment, forgotten. Seeking to take advantage of that, he darted around the monk’s bed, but Simon caught the blur of Justin’s movement and swung about in time to deflect the blow.

“Did she beg?” Simon panted. “Did she entreat you whoresons to spare her life?”

“Spare
us
!” Durand spat. “This is not the great hall at Fougères Castle, and you’ve got no audience! We know what happened!”

“So do I!” Simon lunged forward with a downward thrust that would have eviscerated Durand had he not blocked it. “You killed her!”

Realization hit Justin like a blow. “You believe that,” he gasped. “You truly believe we killed her!”

Simon backed up a step, his chest heaving as he sought to catch his breath. “You did kill her, you bastards!”

“No, we did not!” Justin overturned the table with a sweep of his arm, forcing Simon to take another backward step. “We thought you did!”

“You’ve got to do better than that,” Simon jeered, swinging his sword in a tight circle to keep them both at bay. “I would never harm Arzhela!”

“I am beginning to believe you,” Justin admitted. “You were so set upon accusing us that we could not see past that. But Arzhela whispered a name to me ere she died, and I think mayhap it was her killer’s name.”

“How simple do you think I am? Only a half-wit would believe a fable like that!”

“Hear me out! It was a Breton name, a man’s name, and she said it twice! You think she’d waste her dying breath on a lie? She said ‘Roparzh,’ and if he is not her killer, who is he, then?”

“Roparzh?” Simon echoed the name blankly at first, as if it meant nothing to him. But then his sword wavered slightly. “She said ‘Roparzh’ as she died?”

“It is true.” This confirmation came from an unexpected source, from the bed where Brother Andrev had been watching helplessly as they fought. “He confided in me, not sure what it meant. I was the one who told him it was a Christian name, a Breton name.”

Simon expelled his breath in an audible hiss, his pupils shrinking to pinpoints like the eyes of a man suddenly exposed to a blinding flash of light. It was at that moment that the door opened and a youngster entered, a dark imp of a lad who could only be Yann. He froze at the sight of the drawn swords, and then whirled to flee. But Claudine was close behind him and she barred his escape, the partially opened door blocking her view of the room.

“Easy, lad,” she said in a good-natured rebuke. “You’ll spill the soup for certes leaping around like a grasshopper!” She screamed then, for as she advanced into the room, Simon de Lusignan pounced, pulling her roughly against him and crooking his free arm around her throat.

“No,” he warned as Justin and Durand tensed. “I can snap her neck like a twig ere either of you can reach us. You, boy, over there with them! Do as I say and I’ll not hurt her. Drop your swords on the ground and kick them into the corner. Do it!”

When Justin hesitated, Simon must have tightened his hold, for Claudine gave a soft, involuntary cry, almost like the squeak of a rabbit in a snare. Justin dropped the sword with a clatter, and Simon looked over at Durand. “You, too,” he ordered. “If you do not, I’ll kill her.”

Durand didn’t blink. “I can live with that,” he said, but before he could act upon his words, Justin tackled him, sending them both sprawling. By the time they’d untangled themselves, Simon had backed out the door, dragging Claudine with him. Passersby stopped, staring at the sudden drama spilling into the street.

By now Justin and Durand had recovered their swords, trading curses as they tried to shoulder their way through the doorway. They reached the street as Simon snatched the reins from a rider who’d just dismounted from a big-boned grey gelding. The man cried out in astonished protest, but when he tried to get the reins back, Simon shoved Claudine into him, with enough force to knock them both to the ground. Vaulting up into the saddle, he spurred off down the street, kicking up clouds of dirt as people scattered to get out of his way.

Kneeling by Claudine, Justin lifted her up and carried her into the infirmary. She was pale and shaken, wrapped her arms so tightly around his neck that he had trouble disengaging her hold once they were inside. “Stay here,” he said. “You’re safe now.”

“Wait! Where are you going?”

“After him.” She called out his name but he did not heed her, plunging back out into the street. There all was chaos. People were milling about, dogs barking, someone shouting for the provost. Justin ran for the priory stables. Durand was already there, lugging a saddle toward his stallion’s stall while he tongue-lashed a cowering groom for having unsaddled their horses. “Stop berating the man,” Justin snapped, hastening toward his own mount. “This is not his fault!”

“No, it’s yours!” Durand shot back, glaring over his shoulder as he fumbled with the cinches. “If you had not been such a fool, he’d not have got away!”

“At the cost of Claudine’s life!”

“He’d not have hurt her!”

“You do not know that!”

They were shouting at each other so angrily that the stable groom shrank back into the shadows, convinced that they were both lunatics. Other men were entering the stables, drawn by the uproar, but they dispersed hastily as Durand spurred his stallion through the doorway. The other men had just regained their footing when Justin’s horse came shooting by, sending them scrambling for safety again.

Morgan was outside, shouting something unintelligible at Justin as he galloped past. Justin did not have time to explain, but as he glanced over his shoulder, he saw Morgan running toward the stables. Wheeling his mount, he raced after Durand.

Justin knew from the first that their chase was likely to be futile; Simon had too much of a head start to be overtaken if he was willing to abuse his mount. But his horse could always throw a shoe or pull up lame, and so they pushed on in pursuit. A man racing by at full speed attracted attention and they had no trouble following his trail; he left numerous gaping bystanders in his wake. Once they’d left the Norman town of Avranches behind, they slowed down, pacing their horses, for the hunt was no longer a mad dash; it had become a grim endurance test.

Simon was riding south. The road ahead beckoned them on, but neither man wanted to advance too deep into Brittany. They slowed down again, eventually pulling up to rest their horses and plot their strategy. “How far do you think we are from Chester’s castle?” Justin asked. “Five miles or so?”

Durand grunted an assent, swearing when he realized that he’d left his wineskin back in Genêts. “I see some alder trees over there,” he said. “There ought to be a spring close by.” Leading his lathered mount toward a pond of murky water, he let the horse drink and then knelt and drank himself, cupping the water in his hands and splashing it onto his hot, dusty face. “What—you think to ask Chester for help?”

Justin was drinking, too, ignoring the brackish taste of the water. “I am not eager to ride on to Fougères alone,” he confessed. “I do not fancy the lodgings they offer there.”

“Nor do I. But I doubt that Chester is going to give us men enough to launch an assault upon the castle.” Durand sat down tiredly in the withered grass. “Are you so sure that is where he’s heading?”