Prince of Darkness

  “They must have been blind-drunk when they laid out these plans!” he chortled. “You’d think they’d have learned their lesson when King Henry, may God assoil him, took the castle in one day’s time. But no, damned if they did not rebuild it in the exact same spot!”

  “You’re uncommonly knowledgeable about castles and royal military campaigns,” Durand said, before adding snidely, “for a stable groom.”

  “A man need not be a baker to enjoy eating bread,” Morgan pointed out amiably. “By your logic, Sir Durand, only a nun would know about virtue and only a whore would know about sin. We have a saying back home, that if—”

  “Spare me your countrymen’s homilies,” Durand said, and spurred his stallion ahead until he attracted the attention of the castle guards. Allowed to advance within shouting range, he demanded entry with an arrogance that caused Justin and Morgan to wince, both expecting the gates to be slammed in Durand’s face. But after a brief delay, they heard the creaking of a windlass and the drawbridge slowly began to lower.

  Fougères may have been poorly situated, but it boasted a highly sophisticated water defense system. When Raoul de Fougères rebuilt the castle after the English king Henry burned it to the ground nigh on thirty years ago, he’d replaced the wooden structures with stone, and constructed an ingenious tower that was equipped with a mechanism for flooding the entrance area in the event of attack. Even Durand was impressed.

  A removable footbridge spanned the water-filled inner ditch, and the men led their mounts across it into the bailey, glancing up at the iron-barred double portcullis looming over their heads as they passed through. By the time they’d penetrated the heart of the castle, they’d all revised their initial view that Fougères could be easily taken, and were thankful that none of them would be asked to lay siege to this Breton border stronghold.

  Justin made sure that he, not Durand, was the one to request a night’s lodging from the castellan, for the village huddled outside the castle battlements had not looked promising. Once permission was granted, they sent their horses off to the stable and followed the castellan’s servant into the great hall nestled along the south wall. There, the Duchess Constance, Lord Raoul, and other Breton lords were seated at the high table, enjoying a pre-Lenten feast of beef stew, marrow tarts, and stuffed capon. Places were found for Durand and Justin at one of the lower tables; Morgan and the men-at-arms would be fed, too, but they’d have to wait until their betters were served. In their haste to reach Fougères before dark, they had eaten nothing on the road, and the enticing aromas of freshly baked bread and roasted meat reminded them of how empty their stomachs were. They pitched into their food with enthusiasm, and only afterward did they roam the smoky, dimly lit hall in search of Lady Arzhela... and failed to find her.

  The person most likely to know of her whereabouts was the Duchess Constance, but they knew better than to approach her unbidden. She was holding court upon the dais, surrounded by her barons and household knights and the abbot of Trinity Abbey. Justin and Durand lurked inconspicuously at the outer edges of the royal circle, watching in growing frustration as Constance demonstrated how much she liked center stage, accepting the attention, deference, and flattery as naturally as she did the air she breathed. Justin was not as sure as Emma that this woman would be no match for John, and neither was Durand, who murmured a rude jest in Justin’s ear, declaring it must be devilishly difficult to lay with a woman who had her own set of ballocks.

  As more time passed, Justin’s anxieties about Arzhela multiplied, and he seized the first opportunity to intercept Raoul de Fougères as he descended the dais steps. “My lord, may I have a word with you?” he asked, politely enough to please the highborn lord, who paused and allowed that he could spare a moment or two. Raoul was stocky and well fed, with a surprisingly thick thatch of hair for a man his age, which Justin guessed to be mid-sixties. He had been doting noticeably upon a youngster of fourteen or so, his grandson and heir, but beneath the affable, avuncular air was a will of iron, a shrewd intelligence, and the chilling confidence of one who never doubted his own judgments or his right to enforce them.

  “My lord, I was asked by Lord Guy de Laval to deliver a letter to Lady Arzhela de Dinan, but I have been unable to locate her and those I’ve asked disavow any knowledge of her whereabouts. I was hoping that you might be better informed...”

  Raoul’s brow puckered as he jogged his memory. “What did I hear about Lady Arzhela? Ah, yes, now I remember. The duchess told me that Lady Arzhela asked her for permission to make a pilgrimage to Mont St Michel.”

  He turned away, then, as someone else sought his attention, leaving Justin standing there, trying to make sense of what he’d just been told. A moment later, Durand was at his side. “Well?” he demanded, in a low voice. “Did you find out where that fool woman has gone? From the look on your face, I don’t think I am going to like the answer much.”

  “No,” Justin said slowly, “you are not going to like it at all.”

  X

  February 1194

  Mont St Michel, Normandy

  Despite the raw winter weather, pilgrims continued to come to Mont St Michel. From her vantage point at a window in the abbey guesthouse, Arzhela watched as they trudged across the wet sands from Genêts, following single file in the footsteps of a local guide, for even at low tide, there was still the danger of quicksand bogs. From the abbey heights, they seemed as small and insignificant as carved toy figures, playthings to be scattered at a child’s whim or at God’s Will.

  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.