Prince of Darkness (5 page)

Knowing Nell was not to be denied, Justin got to his feet and crossed to the door. With a reproachful glance toward Nell that was utterly wasted, he stepped outside to talk to the Watch. Returning soon thereafter, he muttered that the Watch was satisfied and grabbed Nell in time to stop her from opening the door and shouting a triumphant “I told you so!”

Conversation resumed and once it had reached a festive level again, Aldred elbowed Justin in the ribs and murmured, “So how did you ‘satisfy’ the Watch?” for he knew Justin well enough to feel confident that he’d not clubbed them over the heads with the queen’s name.

“How do you think? I bribed them,” Justin confessed quietly, and they exchanged grins, for they’d both learned by now that the less authority men had, the more likely they were to defend it jealously. But it was then that the banging began again, even louder this time.

“I’ll get it,” Aldred offered quickly, for Nell’s outraged expression did not bode well for a peaceful resolution. Before she could object, he darted to the door. “It is not the Watch come back,” he announced with palpable relief, and opened the door wide. “Someone is asking after you, Justin.”

The man was a stranger. He was clad in a costly wool mantle that told Justin he was no ordinary courier; so did his self-assurance, which bordered on arrogance. “I’d been told that if you were not to be found at the cottage by the smithy, I should seek you at the alehouse,” he said, drawing out a tightly rolled parchment. “This was to be delivered into your hands and yours alone.”

Justin had received urgent communications in the past. But the queen would not be sending him messages from Germany. For a brief moment, he wondered if it could be from his father. Almost at once, he dismissed that idea; the bishop had never bothered to learn how to reach him in London. A wax seal dangled from the scroll, its imprint unfamiliar to him. Claiming the letter, he headed into the kitchen in search of light and privacy.

He broke the seal and unrolled the letter as soon as he reached the hearth. The handwriting was not known to him, and his eyes flicked to the last line, seeking the identity of the sender. He caught his breath at the sight of Claudine’s name, elegantly inscribed across the bottom of the page. He read rapidly by the flickering light of the kitchen fireplace, then went back and read it a second time.

“Justin?”

His head coming up sharply, he saw Nell standing in the doorway. “I do not mean to pry,” she said. Not even Nell could carry that off with a straight face, and her lips were twitching. “All right, I do. But it is my experience that mysterious messages arriving in the middle of the night rarely bear good news. Does this one?”

“No, most likely not, Nell. I shall have to leave at first light. I’d be grateful if you could care for Shadow whilst I am gone.”

Nell grimaced and sighed and looked put-upon, but eventually agreed, as they both knew she’d do. “At least tell me where you’ll be going.”

Justin glanced down at the letter again. “Dover,” he said, “where I’ll be taking ship for France.”

In his twenty-one years, Justin had never set foot on shipboard, and he’d have been content to go to his grave without ever having that experience. He’d done his best to make the trip tolerable, seeking out a priest to be shriven even before booking passage, and then searching for the dockside alehouse frequented by the crew of his ship, the
Holy Ghost.
It was easy enough to befriend the sailors, taking no more than an offer to buy them an ale, and by the time he was ferried out to their ship, he had earned an exemption from the casual contempt that sailors worldwide bestowed upon their land-loving passengers.

His alehouse companions found him a sheltered spot on deck, pointed out the steering oar that acted as a rudder, and showed him how the compass worked—a needle magnetized by a lodestone, then placed on a pivot in a shallow pan of water. One even shared a pinch of ground ginger, swearing it would settle his stomach and keep him from feeding the fish. Justin was grateful for their goodwill. It did not make the voyage any less unpleasant for him, though. He shuddered every time the ship sank into a slough, holding his breath until it battled its way back. The ship was so low in the water that he was doused with sea spray, chilled to the very marrow of his bones, but the sailors insisted that his queasiness would worsen within the crowded, rank confines of the canvas tent set up to shelter the passengers, where men were “puking their guts up” and there was not room enough to “swing a dead cat.” So Justin stayed out on the deck, bracing himself against the gunwale of the
Holy Ghost
and clinging to the Infinite Mercy of Almighty God.

Justin had chosen the port of Dover over Southampton because of its closer proximity to London. Claudine’s letter had been sparing with details, but her urgency had been unmistakable. Trouble was brewing, she’d written, and she entreated him to make haste to Paris if ever he’d loved her. Had her family learned about Aline? Had she confided in her cousin Petronilla, only to be betrayed? If she had indeed been disowned by her father and brothers, he did not know what he could do to heal so grievous a wound. He had to try, though. To ease her fears of childbirth and disgrace, he’d promised her that he would always be there when she and Aline had need of him. If that meant Paris and a hellish sea voyage, so be it.

The
Holy Ghost
took more than twelve hours to cross the Channel, entering Boulogne harbor that night with the incoming tide. Justin had seen few sights as beautiful to him as the beacon fire lit in the old Roman lighthouse on the hill overlooking the estuary. The customs fee demanded of disembarking passengers was outrageously high, but Justin paid it without complaint, so eager was he to get back upon ground that did not tremble and quake like one of Nell’s egg custards. The next morning he purchased a horse, too impatient to bargain the price down by much, and took the road south toward Paris.

Four days later, Justin saw the walls of Saint-Denis in the distance, and his spirits rose, for he’d been told the abbey was only seven miles from Paris. Regretting that he could not spare the time to visit the magnificent abbey church, he resolutely pushed on. The road wound its way through open fields and vineyards, deserted and barren under an overcast sky. He had chosen a well-traveled road, though, one paved by long-dead Roman engineers, and he did not lack for company. Heavily laden carts, messengers on lathered horses, pilgrims with sturdy ash-wood staffs, beggars, merchants, soldiers, an occasional barefoot penitent, dogs, several elderly monks on mules, peddlers, a raucous band of students, and a well-mounted lord and his retinue—all converging upon Paris, paying scant heed to the body dangling from a roadside gallows, for the end of their journey was at hand.

Several years earlier, the French king had begun replacing the wooden stockade that sheltered the Right Bank of the Seine with a wall of stone. It was soon within view, and the weary travelers surged forward, eager to reach the city before darkness descended. After paying the toll, Justin was allowed to pass through the gate of Saint-Merri. Although Claudine’s letter had been vexingly terse, she had at least provided directions to her cousin Petronilla’s town house, located there on the Right Bank.

He had no difficulty finding it for it overlooked a large, open area called the Grève, the city’s wine market. All he’d known about Petronilla was that she was wed to a much older French lord, and divided her time between their estates in Vermandois and their residence in Paris. Now he knew, too, that her husband was wealthy. Most urban dwellings were constructed at right angles to the street, for it was cheaper to build that way. This house was different. Its great hall was parallel to the street, set back in its own courtyard, flanked by stables and a kitchen and other wooden buildings. Dismounting, Justin found himself hesitating to enter, for Claudine’s lavish lodgings were yet further proof of the great gulf between her world and his.

He was admitted at once, and within moments, Claudine was hastening into the great hall to bid him welcome. “How it gladdens my eyes to see you, Justin!” Her time in Paris seemed to have suited Claudine, for she looked rested and relaxed, not at all like a woman in peril. But his questions would have to wait, for her cousin had followed her into the hall.

Petronilla had none of Claudine’s dark, sultry beauty, but she was elegant and graceful and vivacious, obviously an old man’s pampered darling who had the wit to recognize her good fortune. She greeted Justin with surprising warmth. He’d not expected her to approve of Claudine’s liaison with a man who was not even a knight. Claudine must have taken her cousin into her confidence, though, for she was making no attempt to hide their intimacy, linking her arm in his as she led him toward the stairwell, insisting that he must be hungry and bone-weary and in need of tender care.

He was ushered into a comfortable bedchamber abovestairs, lit by thick wax candles and heated by a charcoal-filled iron brazier. A servant was pouring warm water into a washing laver, and a platter had already been set out on a table, piled with bread and thick slices of beef. When he tried to speak, Claudine gently placed her finger to his lips.

“We’ll talk later. Rest for a while first. You’ve had a long journey.” She beckoned to the servant and slipped away before Justin could respond. As the door closed quietly behind her, he removed his mantle, slowly unbuckled his scabbard. There was a wine cup on the table. Picking it up, he took a swallow; as he expected, it was an expensive vintage. A pair of soft leather shoes lay neatly aligned by the side of the bed. They were very stylish, fastened at the ankle with a decorative brooch, and familiar to him. It was only then that he realized Claudine had taken him to her own bedchamber.

Justin hadn’t meant to sleep, but the bed was invitingly close at hand, and he’d been in the saddle since dawn. When he awoke, one glance at the marked candle told him that he’d been asleep for several hours. He swung off the bed, hastily groping for his boots. He was still groggy, but splashing his face with water from the laver helped. After cleaning away the dust and road grime of the past few days, he collected his scabbard and mantle and stepped out into the stairwell.

Claudine was awaiting him in the great hall. “I was beginning to fear you’d sleep till the week’s end,” she teased. “No matter, though. You’re awake now, so we can talk. Let’s go up to Petronilla’s solar where we can have privacy.”

Justin was more than willing, for none of this made sense so far. If she were in some sort of danger, why did she seem so nonchalant? And if she were not, why had she summoned him with such urgency? He was done with waiting, and as soon as they entered the solar, he said, with poorly concealed impatience, “Claudine, what is going on? Why did you send for me?”

His answer did not come from Claudine. As the door closed behind them, a figure stepped from the shadows, into the flickering circle of light cast by a smoking oil lamp. “Well, actually, de Quincy,” John said affably, “I was the one who sent for you.”

“I hope you are not angry with me for my little deception, Justin.” Claudine was giving him her most irresistible smile, the one that set her dimples to flashing like shooting stars. “Lord John said that he had an urgent matter to discuss with you and he doubted that you would have agreed to come if he had asked you. I’ll not blame you for being irked, but he convinced me that this was the best way to do it...”

His utter silence was beginning to erode some of her self-confidence. “Justin?” She reached out to stroke his arm and gasped when he jerked away from her touch. By then John was at her side, gently cupping her elbow and turning her toward the door as he expressed his gratitude. Before she could protest, she found herself out in the stairwell, listening to the latch slide into place.

“She’ll probably hover by the door,” John predicted cheerfully. “There’s not a woman born who could resist the chance to eavesdrop. There is wine over there, and ale, too, as Claudine says you’ve a liking for it.”

He started toward the table, stopping when Justin recoiled, dropping his hand to the hilt of his sword. “What—you think I got you here to do you harm? Good God, man, use your common sense. If I wanted you dead—”

“You did want me dead!”

John paused. “Well, yes, I suppose so,” he conceded. “I’ll not deny that I did tell Durand to kill you. But that was not personal, de Quincy. I was simply trying to protect my aunt.”

“Very gallant of you, my lord,” Justin snarled, and John’s eyebrows rose.

“I like to think so.” Moving toward the table, he observed, “I am not about to lunge at you, am merely pouring myself a drink. I’d offer you one, too, but I fear you might fling it in my face.” Taking a swallow of wine, he regarded Justin thoughtfully over the rim of his cup. “Time for some blunt speaking, I see. Yes, I did give Durand that command. You know it, I know it, and by now, I expect my lady mother knows it, too.”

She didn’t, but Justin was not about to tell him that. He was still badly shaken, not only by John’s ambush and Claudine’s betrayal, but by the surge of hot, raw rage that had flooded his brain and submerged his self-control. He’d learned at an early age to keep his emotions under a tight rein, for a runaway temper was an indulgence few orphans could afford. Life could be cruel to the weak and the innocent. Nor was it kind to the unwary or the careless. In the world he’d grown up in, men paid dearly for their mistakes—unless they were fortunate enough to have the royal blood of England coursing through their veins.