Simon’s head jerked as his eyes cut sharply from Emma to John. “You do not know, then?”
“Know what?”
“The Breton and I—we are kinsmen.”
If he’d been hoping for a dramatic response to his revelation, Simon was to be disappointed. There was a long silence, although over his head, their eyes met in mutual amazement. “Do not stop now,” John said sardonically, “not when we are hanging upon your every word.”
“It is true,” Simon insisted. “His mother and mine were sisters, albeit born twenty years apart. This was the first time I’d had any business dealings with him, but I’ve known him all my life and his identity as the Breton was an open family secret. He chose me because of my involvement with Arzhela—ironic, is it not? He said I was already familiar with the lords of the Breton court, and he knew for certes that I’d jump at his offer like a starving trout. He’d been an impoverished younger son, too... once.”
Although none of them would give Simon the satisfaction of acknowledging it, he’d just established his bona fides beyond doubt, for the weak link in his story had been the one that forged a bond between him and the Breton. “Assuming for the moment that we believe you,” John said, “what happened at Fougères?”
“You know that already, my lord. The Breton tried to kill me. But he discovered that was not so easily done,” Simon said, with a hint of smugness in his voice. “He had the weapon and thought he had the element of surprise. I was waiting for him, though, and I was younger and faster, if not fast enough.” His hand slid, unbidden, to his side. “I knew he’d try again, so I stole a horse and rode for my life.”
Glancing toward Justin, Simon added, “Your men told me that the Breton tried to make it seem as if I’d killed him, leaving behind a bloodstained garment. He then stole a horse, too, or bought one for all I know, and came after me.”
“Why did you not tell the Duchess Constance of your suspicions?” Durand demanded, but this time Simon knew better than to shrug.
“I thought about it. But then it would have come out that the letter was a forgery and I was not sure if the duchess knew that. I was afraid, too, that the Breton would twist the truth, for I had no actual proof that he’d slain Arzhela. The duchess wanted to believe the letter was genuine. I thought they might decide to cast the both of us into one of Lord Raoul’s oubliettes, let God sort out our guilt.”
“So you were coming to me,” John said, and Simon flashed a sheepish smile that was not quite as artless as he’d hoped.
“That sounds mad, I know. But I was wagering that you’d rather thwart the Breton and avenge Arzhela’s murder than punish me for my lesser sins. Is this... is this a wager I’ll win, my lord count?”
“It is too early to tell. Where is the Breton now?”
“I would to God I knew. I am sure he is in Paris, though. I am willing to be the bait, my lord, if that will draw him out of hiding.”
“How kind of you. As it happens, he has already made a move. He paid to have me slain.”
Simon’s shock seemed genuine; his jaw dropped. “He would dare? That does not sound like him, for he’s never been one to panic. It was a family joke that if he were cut, he’d bleed ice water. I can see him trying to silence me now, but to strike at you, my lord... ?” His words trailed off dubiously.
This was the second time that the Breton’s motives had been questioned, and Justin was beginning to wonder if John and Simon were right, and there was more at stake here than they knew. He looked from Simon to John and then over at Durand, realizing that Simon’s capture was not going to be the magic elixir, after all. Dross would not turn into gold on the words of Simon de Lusignan.
Simon had begun to sweat, and his complexion was now the color of chalk. Observing his obvious distress, John said dispassionately, “How did you ever get as far as Paris?”
“It was not so bad at first. But the day ere I reached the abbey at St Germain, the wound began to bleed again...”
“See that he gets medical care,” John said to the room at large, brushing aside Simon’s gratitude with a stark, simple truth: “It is in my interest to keep you alive... for now.”
John halted at the door, glancing back over his shoulder. “What is the Breton’s real name?”
If it was a test, Simon passed, saying without hesitation, “Saer de St Brieuc.”
“So he is a Breton, after all.” John’s gaze lingered for a moment upon the master spy’s rash young cousin. “I should have known,” he said, “that the whoreson would turn out to be a de Lusignan.”
Simon was long accustomed to hearing defamatory remarks about his more notorious kinsmen. He objected only halfheartedly, reminding John that the Breton was kin on his mother’s side of the family. But John had already gone.
Simon’s shoulders slumped with the easing of tension. Looking around at the others, he confided, “Well, that was not so bad. In truth, I expected far worse.”
Justin had been surprised, too, by John’s lack of rage. He’d seemed aloof and somewhat distracted, as if part of his mind were mulling over matters far removed from this Paris solar and Simon de Lusignan. As he rose to follow Durand and Simon from the chamber, Claudine caught his sleeve.
“That wretch was luckier than he deserves,” she said quietly. “John got news this noon that chased Simon and even the Breton from the forefront of his cares.”
Justin stopped. “What news?”
“Richard,” she said. “He learned that Richard has reached Antwerp and is making ready to sail for England.”
XXII
March 1194
Paris, France
Morgan was drowning. His lungs were laboring, and he could not shake off the ghostly fingers clutching at him from the depths, dragging him down. He kept fighting, though, lunging toward the light, and at last he broke the surface, gulping in air sweeter than wine.
“You are safe now,” a female voice murmured soothingly. “It was a bad dream, no more than that.”
The chamber was lit by oil lamps, but they seemed to burn with unnatural brightness to Morgan, and he did his best to filter the glare through his lashes. The woman smiling at him was very pretty, but not familiar, not at first. She brought a cup to his lips, held it steady as he drank, and his memory unclouded, identifying her as Ivetta, Lady Emma’s borrowed maid.
“About time you decided to rejoin the living.” This was a male voice, belonging to a youth in a nearby bed. Propped up by pillows, he was smiling at Morgan affably. “I’ve been lonely with no one to talk to.”
“No one to talk to, indeed,” Ivetta said tartly. “My lady says no work is getting done because half the women in the household keep coming in to see if you are in need of drink or food or comfort, Master Simon.”
“But you’re the one I yearn to see, Mistress Ivetta,” Simon insisted, and she tossed her head, partially placated, and said she’d let the others know that Morgan was awake.
As she departed, Morgan struggled to sit upright, alarmed that he felt so weak. He still was not sure where he was, although he guessed it was the Lady Petronilla’s residence. But he had no idea who his cheerful chambermate was, nor did he know why he was bedridden. “What happened to me?” he asked, and even his voice sounded odd to his ears, hoarse and raspy.
“You do not remember? I can only tell you what I’ve heard from Ivetta and the others; Lord love them, but women do like to gossip! They say you’re the hero of the hour, that you saved John from a hired killer’s dagger. I’d think a skirmish in a cemetery would not be easy to forget!”
Morgan’s memories were still blurred and too slippery to handle. “I do remember a graveyard,” he said uncertainly. “At least I think I do.” In truth, though, the memory that was most vivid, disturbingly so, was his dream of drowning. His head was aching and he lay back against his pillow. “Do I know you?”
“Well, we’ve never been introduced, but you know of me, for certes. I am Simon de Lusignan.” Simon watched mischievously as Morgan p
rocessed that information, as his face registered first puzzlement and then realization and then horror. “Ah,” he said complacently, “I see your memory has come back.”
Morgan’s bed was surrounded by well-wishers, beaming at him with such heartfelt pleasure in his recovery that he was both touched and taken aback. “I was not going to die,” he protested, “not with money owed me from that last game of raffle.”
That evoked laughter, and Crispin blushed, mumbling that he’d settle up as soon as he got paid. A tray of hot soup had been placed on the table by the bed, and Claudine coaxed Morgan into swallowing a few spoonfuls, ignoring Simon’s plaintive plea that he was hungry, too. Morgan still did not understand why he was sharing a bedchamber with the chief suspect in the Lady Arzhela’s murder. He’d been told that Simon was on their side now, but there was so much to absorb that not all of it had sunk in yet.
Justin was teasing him about his graveyard gallantry, wanting to know why he hadn’t single-handedly broken them out of that Fougères dungeon, when the door opened and John strode in. “I am glad,” he said, “to have the chance to thank you at long last.”
“There is no need for thanks, my lord.” Morgan returned John’s smile, but he did not seem comfortable and Justin noticed, for he usually gave the impression of being utterly at home in his own skin.
“Yes,” John said, “there is. Consider it a matter of courtesy if nothing else, but my lord father always said it was just good manners to thank a man for saving one’s life. I admit I am curious, though, about your presence in the cemetery. What made you follow me?”
That was the question they all wanted to ask and the room fell silent as they waited for Morgan’s reply. His lashes swept down, veiling those smoky grey eyes. “The truth is...” He seemed to sigh, and then said softly, “I do not know, my lord. That night is a muddle for me, my memories drifting in and out. I remember the cemetery. I do not remember the fight or being hurt and... and I do not remember why I was there. I... I suppose I feared you were walking into a trap, but why...” He shrugged helplessly.
John’s eyes narrowed. “Well, you might remember more later. Now you’d best get some rest.” He smiled, but as he moved toward the door, his eyes caught Justin’s. Leaving Morgan to be coddled by the women, Justin followed the queen’s son from the chamber. As he expected, John was awaiting him in the stairwell.
“I cannot interrogate a man on his sickbed, but I do not believe a word of that blather about his failing memory.”
Neither did Justin, but loyalty to Morgan kept him quiet. John did not even notice. “I wish I could say his motive for coming to my aid did not matter. But it does, de Quincy, as we both well know. Find out what he is hiding.”
Justin opened his mouth to object, but John was already turning away.
Justin had ridden out to the Pré aux Clercs, the open field west of the city walls where Parisians gathered to play games of camp-ball and bandy-ball, to watch tourneys and impromptu horse races. On this sun-blest afternoon, it was crowded with truant students, for Paris was becoming celebrated for its schools at Notre-Dame and Sainte-Geneviève and St-Victor, and the mild weather had lured large numbers from their classes. Justin was playing truant, too. He had no intention of spying on Morgan for John, and he needed time to himself, time to decide what he should do next.
Now that King Richard and the queen were back in England, he felt he had a duty to return, too. But he was reluctant to leave until he was sure Morgan was truly on the mend. And his desire to catch the Breton still burned with a white-hot flame. He’d failed to save Arzhela. He did not want to fail her again. At the least, she deserved justice.
The noisy crowd at Pré aux Clercs put him in mind of London’s Smithfield, where he’d entrapped Gilbert the Fleming, and he could not help studying the faces of the men jostling around him, hunting for the Breton. It was an exercise in futility, of course. They’d had no luck in their search of the city, even though John had been lavish with his offers of bribes and bounties. Arzhela’s killer seemed to have disappeared from the face of the earth.
After watching a rousing game of camp-ball, Justin reluctantly remounted and headed his horse back into the city, stopping to buy a whipping top for Yann from a street vendor. When he rode into the courtyard of the Lady Petronilla’s residence, he found it crowded with men and horses. Some had dismounted and were lounging on the steps and mounting blocks; the rest were still in the saddle, passing around wineskins. Justin did not like the looks of them, and he pushed past them into the house with a sense of foreboding.
The great hall was unnaturally still. People were standing around awkwardly, most of them watching Durand, who was stalking back and forth, scattering floor rushes with every angry stride. Garnier was closest to the door, and at the sight of Justin, he edged over.
“What is amiss?”
“Lupescar. He is up in the solar with Lord John.”
Justin immediately understood why there were no women in the hall, not even scullery maids. “Did he quarrel with Durand?” he asked quietly, and the young knight nodded.
“There is bad blood between them, and I thought it was about to flow in earnest. I’m glad you’re here to help me keep the peace. We would ill repay Lady Petronilla’s hospitality by turning her hall into a battlefield.”
By now Justin was accustomed to being dragged into other people’s problems. “I’ll see if I can get Durand out of here,” he agreed, and crossed the hall. “Garnier says Lupescar is abovestairs. Was John expecting him?”
“How would I know?” Durand said curtly, and then, “No, I think not. He said nothing to me about—” He stopped abruptly, and then Justin heard it too, the jangle of spurs in the stairwell.
When Lupescar emerged, Justin moved swiftly to intercept him, hoping to deflect another confrontation with Durand. Lupescar paused, recognition flickering across his face. “Ah, the lost lamb, is it not?”
“The lamb and the wolf. That sounds like an ancient Roman fable. I am surprised to see you back in Paris. I’d have thought life would be more to your liking out in the Norman-Breton borderlands.”
“Less law, you mean?” Lupescar sounded faintly amused. “You may tell your friend Durand that he has got a reprieve, for we’ll not be working together, after all. Lord John has no need of me now.”
“You do not sound very disappointed by that.”
“I care not who hires me as long as his coin is good. I’ll not be lacking for work.”
“No, I do not suppose you will,” Justin admitted grudgingly. Glancing over, he saw Garnier at Durand’s side, talking with considerable animation, a restraining hand on the other knight’s arm. Justin took several steps toward the door, attempting to shepherd Lupescar in that direction, a maneuver that did not escape the Wolf’s notice.
“I am not going to mend Durand’s bad manners, tempting as that may be. I am not one for burning bridges if it can be avoided, and your lord is likely to need my services again,” Lupescar said, still sounding amused.
Justin found his amusement more chilling than another man’s enmity. He’d met few who took genuine pleasure in killing, but he did not doubt that Lupescar was one of them. By now they’d almost reached the door, and he looked over his shoulder, reassured to see Garnier still claiming Durand’s attention. “I suppose you’ll be leaving Paris, then,” he said to Lupescar. “Godspeed.”
Lupescar paused in the doorway, giving him a supercilious smile. “You truly do not see, do you? France is going to be for men like me what the Holy Land is for pilgrims. War is coming, as inevitable as spring and as full of promise.”
“What do you mean?”
“Have you not heard that the English king has been set free? The highborn are not noted for paying their debts, but Richard always pays his blood debts, always. And by his reckoning, he owes the king of the French a blood debt. It may be true that vengeance is a dish best eaten cold, but Richard has never been one for waiting. I’ll wager that he will soon descend upon F
rance like the Wrath of God Almighty.”
He sounded so pleased by that prospect that Justin’s fingers twitched with the urge to make the sign of the Cross, an instinctive impulse to ward off evil. Watching as Lupescar sauntered down the steps toward his waiting men, Justin found himself thinking that this godless man could have ridden with the Horsemen of the Apocalypse. “ ‘And I saw and behold, a pale horse, and his name that sat on him was Death,’ ” he murmured, and this time he did sketch a Cross in the mild March air.
After supper that night, Justin was playing a game of chess with Claudine. He usually sought to keep his distance, but she had asked him in front of Durand and Petronilla to play and he’d not wanted to shame her by a public refusal. So far it had not been as awkward as he’d feared. She soon had him laughing with her stories of Petronilla’s vexation over her unwanted houseguest, Simon de Lusignan. According to Petronilla, he was making a nuisance of himself from dawn to dusk, flirting with the bedazzled serving maids who were fluttering around him like bees around the hive, upsetting her cook by demanding his favorite foods and then complaining that they weren’t done to his liking, luring the men-at-arms into his chamber to throw dice, where they made enough noise to raise the dead.
Justin was sure she was exaggerating Simon’s sins, although he had seen Simon’s effect upon the female servants. He supposed Simon was easy enough on the eye, but he no more understood their partiality for Simon than he had Arzhela’s. “I grant you that Simon is a pretty polecat,” he said, “but he’s a polecat all the same. Why are women so drawn to the darkness?” As soon as the words had left his mouth, he regretted them, for his question could easily have applied to Claudine and John.