“Indeed?” Constance’s voice was dangerously dispassionate. “So they are King Richard’s men?”
“Far worse, Your Grace.” Simon turned toward the prisoners, his mouth curving into a twisted, triumphant smile. “They are agents of the Count of Mortain. They serve at the Devil’s pleasure; they serve John!”
After that, there was nothing more to be said. Simon de Lusignan claimed that they had murdered the Lady Arzhela at John’s behest, weaving a tale with great gaping holes in it, for he offered no reason why John should order her assassination. No one seemed troubled by this, though, for no one tugged at the loose threads that would have unraveled his story. The mere mention of John was enough to seal their fate.
As they were restrained, none too gently, by the guards, a heavy trapdoor was raised. Dragged forward, Justin found himself staring down into a black abyss. A sudden slash of a knife blade and his hands were freed. He assumed that was to enable him to descend a rope ladder, but then he was roughly shoved and went tumbling down into the dark. It was not that great a fall, about ten feet or so, but the impact drove all the air from his lungs. He lay still for several moments, stunned, until Durand came plummeting after him. There was a thud as he hit the ground, then silence. Justin rolled over, was starting to sit up when the trapdoor was slammed shut, and they were left alone in the worst of Fougères Castle’s underground dungeons.
The utter blackness disoriented; at first, Justin could not even see his hand in front of his face. That past summer, his investigation in Wales had led to an ancient Roman mine. He remembered peering down into its depths, thankful he need not descend into that bottomless shaft. That Welsh mine seemed almost benign now that he found himself buried alive in this netherworld hellhole.
He fought a desperate, silent struggle with panic, a battle that left him limp and drained. His eyes were slowly adjusting to the dark, and he was becoming aware now of the overwhelming stench of death and decay. Breathing this air was like inhaling in a cesspit. It was bitter cold and damp. When he touched one of the stone walls, he discovered that it was coated with some sort of slimy growth. Getting stiffly to his feet, he explored the dimensions of their prison; it did not take long. His boot knocked into something solid; one whiff told him he’d found the slop bucket. But as carefully as he searched, he did not find a water bucket.
He was so intent upon the search that Durand’s continuing silence did not at once register with him. When it did, he cautiously retraced his steps and squatted down beside the shadowy form. “Durand?” he said, and then, with greater urgency, “Durand!”
“Who do you think they dumped in with you?” the other man said waspishly. “The Holy Roman Emperor?”
For once, the sarcasm was not unwelcome; Justin could imagine no better proof that Durand was not badly hurt. “Thank God,” he said. “I feared I might be stuck down here with a dead man!”
“Give it time,” Durand muttered, “give it time.” Sitting up with a groan, he leaned back against the wall. “What in damnation is that noise? It sounds like we’re trapped underneath a waterfall!”
“Close enough.” Justin had never thought he’d be glad to hear the sound of Durand’s voice, but it was a great relief not to be entombed down here alone. “It must be the River Nançon we’re hearing. Just our luck to have taken lodgings with a moat of running water. One with a stagnant moat would have been much quieter.” It was a lame joke even to his own ears, and he was not surprised when Durand snorted.
“You’re probably not in the mood for more bad news,” Justin said, after a few moments of silence. “But they forgot to send down dinner. We’ve got a slop bucket and mayhap a rat or two. That is it, though.”
“Are you going to talk all night, de Quincy? The one tolerable thing about you is that you usually keep your tiresome thoughts to yourself. So now you start jabbering like a popinjay when there’s no escaping your babbling?”
“It gladdens me to be sharing a dungeon with you, too, Durand.” Justin realized that Durand was right; he was talking more than usual. But as long as he was talking, he didn’t have to think. “At least we flushed de Lusignan out into the open. He killed Arzhela and now he’s trying to put the blame on us.”
“ ‘Trying,’ de Quincy? Look around you. I’d say he’s damned well done it!”
“It was obvious in the hall who was in on the plot and who was not. Yves de la Jaille and Reynaud Boterel did not know about the forged letter. But Alain de Dinan did, for certes. So did André de Vitré, Raoul de Fougères, and the duchess, of course. Constance seemed willing to hear us out until John’s name dropped like a hot rock into the middle of the conversation. De Lusignan offered no plausible motive for why John would want Arzhela dead. He did not need to, for his co-conspirators thought they knew what it was—that accursed letter! If he can—”
“For the love of God, enough! You think you’re telling me anything I do not already know? What ails you, man? Are you scared? Is that it?”
Justin exhaled a very uneven breath. He was rubbing his arms to restore the flow of blood; they were numb after being pinned behind his back for so many hours. After another long silence, he heard his own voice saying defiantly, “What if I am?”
“Well, that is the first sensible thing you’ve said tonight. You ought to be scared half out of your wits.”
“And I suppose you’re not, Durand?”
Silence again. Durand was little more than a disembodied voice; they were both cloaked in a night darker than dark. When Justin could stand the stillness no longer, he said, “Morgan and Jaspaer were not taken. So they know what happened to us. If they get word to John...”
“What good will it do? In case you haven’t noticed, John does not wield a great deal of influence on this side of the border.”
Justin could not argue with that. But neither could he yield every last scrap of hope. “The queen and Richard could get us freed.”
“Yes, they could. But there are two fatal flaws in that plan, de Quincy. First of all, you are assuming we would still be alive by the time the queen returns from Germany. Second, you are depending upon John to do the right thing, even at risk to himself, and tell the queen of our plight. You truly want your life to balance upon the head of a pin that passes for John’s conscience?”
Justin tried to muster up anger; Durand deserved it and at least it might keep him warm. But the ashes of his temper were as cold as Durand’s practiced cynicism. “So what you are saying,” he said at last, “is that we can expect nothing but a quick trial and an even quicker execution.”
“Trial?” Durand’s laughter was brittle, unsteady. “We’re not getting a trial. You know what they call these dungeons? Oubliettes. You know what that means? Oblivion, de Quincy, oblivion. They put us down here to rot.”
XVI
February 1194
Fougères Castle, Brittany
When the trapdoor opened, Justin and Durand did not move, instinctively keeping very still. Justin now knew how a rabbit felt, frozen in fear as a predator approached. The light spilling into their black hole was painfully bright, forcing them to avert their eyes. A bucket was being lowered down to them; when it hit the ground, they heard a wonderful sound, the splash of liquid. A moment later, something else came through the opening, landing with a small thump, and then the trapdoor slammed shut again.
Time was impossible to track in a void. By Justin’s best guess, they’d been in the dungeon for at least twelve hours. As thirsty as he’d ever been in his life, he dived for the bucket, and he and Durand took turns drinking their fill. Only then did he try to discover the reason for that other thud, fumbling around in the dark until he found the prize—a loaf of bread. It was stale, so hard it was difficult to break into halves, the gritty rye that was contemptuously known as “alms bread.” It was delicious.
“At least they are feeding us,” Justin ventured. “So they must want to keep us alive.”
“For now,” Durand mumbled, stuffing another chunk of
bread into his mouth.
“You might want to slow down,” Justin cautioned. “We do not know when we’ll get another loaf.”
“I’m not going to hoard my bread like a starveling mouse.” After another silence without beginning or end, Durand said, “I’ve been thinking about it, and I realized I’m likely to outlive you, de Quincy. You’re younger but I’m tougher. So, the way I figure it, if worst comes to worst, I can always gain myself some time by gnawing on your dead body.”
“Mother of God!”
“Well, I’m willing to be fair about it. If perchance I do die first, you have my permission—nay, my blessing—to feast on my flesh.”
“Thank you, Durand, for that remarkable generosity. But I think I’d rather make do with one of the rats we hear scuttling around in the shadows.” Justin gave a shaken, incredulous laugh. “Jesu, listen to us! How can we jest about something like that?”
“How can we not?” Durand asked succinctly, and after that they lapsed into silence again, listening to the muffled roar of the river-moat, the occasional scraping of rodent feet, and the loudest sound of all, the pounding of their own heartbeats.
Justin tried to count the days by keeping track of the number of times the trapdoor opened and they were given food and water. But he soon realized the flaws in that system. He had no way of knowing if this was done on a daily basis. Even more troubling, he discovered that his always-reliable memory was suddenly fitful, erratic. Had they been there for six days? Or was it five?
They passed the time by discussing Arzhela’s murder and the forged letter, although their conclusions, speculations, and suspicions would remain immured with them. Justin confided what Arzhela had whispered in his ear with her dying breath, a single word—Roparzh. It might be a Breton name, he suggested, but he did not know enough of the language to be sure of that, and Durand was quick to point out that it could as easily have been a Breton prayer or even a curse. Unable to decipher the word’s meaning, they moved on to those facts that were not in dispute.
They were in agreement that Arzhela had died because she’d learned too much. They also agreed that it was unlikely her murder was part of the conspiracy. Constance might well wink at the authenticity of the letter implicating John. Neither man could see her agreeing to the killing of her own cousin. It was logical, then, to assume they were dealing with two crimes: forgery and murder. Since Simon de Lusignan was their favorite suspect in Arzhela’s slaying, it seemed plausible that he was behind the forgery, too.
“Let’s suppose, then,” Justin said pensively, “that Simon came to the duchess with the letter. Or that he offered to ‘obtain’ it for a fee. Say that Arzhela found out the letter was a forgery. Would he have killed her for that?”
“He might,” Durand mused, “if he’d convinced Constance and her barons that the letter was genuine.”
The more Justin thought about that, the more tenable it seemed. The duchess might well have been furious to find she’d been cheated, tricked by a forgery that John could prove to be false. “Arzhela let us think that she had learned of the letter from Constance. It seems more likely that she learned of it in bed, Simon de Lusignan’s bed.”
“And then she tried to have it both ways, God love her.” Durand laughed harshly. “She warned her old lover whilst trying to shield her current lover. If she’d been honest with us from the first, she’d still be alive. Fool woman.”
“She made an error in judgment,” Justin conceded. “But she does not deserve to be blamed for her own murder.”
“I forgot—you had a fondness for the lady. You might have had a chance with her, too. After all, you’re even younger than de Lusignan!”
“Let it lie, Durand,” Justin said, almost absently, for he’d resolved early on to shrug off the other man’s sarcasms; it was either that or kill him. And although he knew Durand would never admit it, he’d not been as unaffected by Arzhela’s death as he claimed.
“Well, we solved John’s mystery.” Durand helped himself to another piece of bread. “We discovered the identity of the mastermind behind the plot. Of course he’ll never know that. But as we go to our graves, we’ll have the satisfaction of knowing we did not fail him. Will that give you much comfort, de Quincy?”
“About as much as it gives you.” Justin broke off a small crust, chewed it slowly. “God damn de Lusignan! How could we let him outwit us again and again? What did you call him—Arzhela’s ‘stud’?”
“Blaming me, are you? What a surprise.”
“I am not blaming you, Durand. I misjudged the man, too. He seemed to be such a hothead, not capable of cold-blooded calculation like this.”
“A truly cunning wolf would pretend to be a sheepdog, at least until it was in the midst of the flock.” Durand slumped back against the icy, wet wall. “And from the bottom of this oubliette, he’s looking like a very cunning wolf, indeed.”
As Justin’s view was from the bottom of the oubliette, too, he was not inclined to argue, and so he let Durand have the last word. They stopped talking after that, each man alone with thoughts as bleak and bitter as their underground prison.
Justin moaned, turning his head from side to side. Durand crouched over him, his fingers knotting in the cloth of the younger man’s tunic. “Wake up!” he said sharply. “De Quincy, wake up!” Justin jerked upright, staring around him with glazed, unfocused eyes, and Durand loosened his hold, settled back on his haunches. “You were having a bad dream, man, no more than that.”
“I am living a bad dream,” Justin muttered. He did not remember the details of his dream, but his pulse was racing, his temples were damp with sweat, and his chest felt constricted with the weight of his dread. His waking hours were hurtful enough without dragging demons into his sleep, too.
“You were yelling like a man about to get gutted with a dull knife,” Durand shared, telling Justin more than he cared to know about his nightmare. “By the way, who is Aline?”
Justin’s breath stopped as memory of the nightmare came flooding back: He was trapped here in the dungeon, only now he was manacled to the wall, too. The trapdoor opened slowly and he saw a faceless figure laughing down at him. This unknown enemy was holding a small bundle. When he dangled the object above the opening, Justin realized it was his daughter; it was Aline. He lunged to the end of his chains, shouting. But it was too late. The man dropped her and she came plummeting down into the abyss, into the never ending dark.
“Christ Almighty...” he whispered, closing his eyes to blot out the terrifying vision.
“Well?” Durand prodded. “Who is Aline? Some peasant girl you ploughed and cropped? A fancy whore? A Southwark slut? Or did I mishear and you were really calling out for Claudine?”
“Rot in Hell!” Justin snarled, with such fury that Durand stared at him in surprise, seeking in vain to penetrate those cloaking shadows.
“I hit a sore spot, did I? I just thought you’d like to talk about your women for a while. I’ve already unburdened my conscience, told you about Barbe, my first, and Cristina, the mercer’s wife, and Adela, the runaway nun.”
“Do not forget Jacquetta and Richenda and Rosamund Clifford and Maid Marian and the Queen of Jerusalem,” Justin said caustically.
Once the initial shock of confinement had worn off, their role reversal had ended. Justin had retreated into the sanctuary of his silences while Durand launched sardonic monologues about John’s multitude of vices, old enemies who’d met unfortunate ends, and women he’d lain with. He either had a vivid imagination or more bedmates than any man since Adam, for to hear him tell it, he could not even cross the street without being accosted by a lustful wanton. He described some of these encounters in such loving detail that Justin began to regret having refused Claudine’s overtures, and he’d had a few feverish dreams about Molly.
“You sound downright jealous, de Quincy. Is it my fault that I’ve had more women in a fortnight than you have in your entire, pitiful life?”
“And how many of them did y
ou pay for, Durand?” Justin stood up, moving away until he reached the wall. “Tell me this,” he said. “Is there anyone who’ll mourn you? Anyone at all?”
Durand was quiet for so long that Justin began to think he’d hit a sore spot, too. “There might be one,” he said at last. “Violette.”
“Who is she?”
“It is a long story, de Quincy.”
“I am not going anywhere, am I?”
“No, I suppose you’re not.” Durand rose, groped his way to the water bucket, where he stooped and drank. “This is the tale of a younger son, a father who loathed him, and an older half brother—a brother who did his utmost to make the lad’s life Hell on earth.”
Justin’s curiosity was stirred in spite of himself. “Why did they despise him?”
“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.”