Prince of Darkness (34 page)

Simon swallowed again. “It was the Breton’s doing. I came along for the ride but the hand on the reins was his.”

John walked over to Simon, standing so close that the younger man shifted uneasily on the stool. “Tell me about the Breton and Arzhela.”

“I’d had too much to drink, and she got it out of me about the Breton. She was good at that. I warned her to keep quiet, which was a mistake. She had a hellcat’s temper.” Simon smiled ruefully, glancing up at John as if they were allies in the eternal male-female wars. “So we fought and I went off to brood about women and their vexing ways and, to be honest with you, to drown my troubles in a river of wine. When I sobered up, I rode back to Fougères, but Arzhela had already gone on to Mont St Michel. So we never got to make our peace, and the next time I saw her, she was laid out on a bier in St Étienne’s crypt...”

His voice thickened and he bowed his head. Justin watched the performance with apprehension. He did not doubt Simon’s grieving for Arzhela was genuine, but neither did he doubt that the other man was quite capable of using that grief to his own advantage, just as he’d attempted to forge a sense of male camaraderie with John. He feared that Simon would try to retreat into the shadow world of loss whenever he was cornered, and he glanced over at John, hoping that he’d not allow it.

He need not have worried. “I think you are forgetting something, Simon,” John said, the coolness of his voice belied by what they saw in his eyes. “When did you tell the Breton that you’d misspoken and Arzhela knew his true identity?”

Simon expelled a long-held breath. “I did tell him,” he admitted, almost inaudibly, keeping his eyes fixed upon the floor rushes. “Arzhela could be as strong-willed as any man, as impulsive as a swallow on the wing. I thought I ought to warn him that there might be trouble brewing. But I never thought he’d harm her.” He looked up then, his eyes glistening with unshed tears. “I swear by all that’s holy that I did not!”

“So why then,” Justin asked, “did you go racing off to the abbey as you did?”

“I wanted to mend our quarrel. I did not suspect him, even after he disappeared from Fougères. He was always going off on mysterious errands of his own...” Simon’s shoulders twitched in a half-shrug that quickly brought a spasm of pain to his face. Placing a hand to his bandaged ribs, he said earnestly, “I did not suspect he had killing in mind, I did not!”

“Of course you did not, lad,” Durand said, his voice dripping icicles and disbelief. “After all, this was the Breton, a man of known integrity and honor. Jesu forfend that he’d ever resort to murder!”

Simon showed his temper was not truly tamed, then, by glaring at Durand. “Of course he’s killed men,” he snapped. “But not a woman, not one so highborn, so dear to me. I tell you it never occurred to me that he could be guilty, not until that day at the Genêts priory when you told me she’d whispered ‘Roparzh’ ere she died. Then I knew; too late, I knew what I’d done!”

It was Emma who gave voice to the query in all their minds. “ ‘So dear to me,’ ” she echoed incredulously. “Why should the Breton give a flying fig for your passing fancies? For that matter, why should he have entrusted you with so much? Even if he needed a go-between, as you claim, why you?” She did not need to finish the rest of that disdainful thought; the tone of her voice said it all.

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.”

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 processed 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.