Prince of Darkness (37 page)

Justin laughed and followed Durand back into the church. The parish priest scowled at them as they passed, outraged at their intrusion into God’s House but unable to disobey a royal command. Crossing the nave, they entered the funerary chapel, where the dead were made ready for burial. Rush-lights in wall sconces illuminated two stone slabs. Crispin was stretched out on one, clad in a monk’s habit, hands folded across his chest, snoring softly. The other “corpse” was not so content; Simon de Lusignan was squirming around on his bier, unable to get comfortable. “I do not see why I cannot have a pillow.”

The third player in the drama looked glad to see them. “About time,” Garnier grumbled. “If I have to listen to any more of his complaints, I’m going to fetch him that pillow and stuff it in his mouth.”

Garnier made a surprisingly convincing priest, although he’d sworn that without a sword he felt as naked as a plucked chicken. Justin and Durand had the advantage of him there, for they could hide their weapons under their monastic robes.

“Are you absolutely sure, Sir Garnier, that the Breton has never laid eyes upon you?”

“I swear on my mother’s soul,” Garnier said patiently. “You and Durand are the only two he knows by sight.”

“And the corpse, of course,” Durand said, glancing over at Simon. “So help me, de Lusignan, if you sneeze or cough or fart and spoil this, I’ll have your guts for dinner.”

“I prefer a good beef stew myself,” Simon said flippantly, and all three of the men glared at him. “You need not worry,” he insisted. “I know my part. I even agreed to have my face powdered and painted so I’d look more like a dead body!”

“If I’d had my way,” Durand warned, “there’d have been no need for pretense,” and after that, Simon settled down, lapsing into silence as their vigil began.

They’d not expected so many people to turn out to view Simon’s corpse. Several were seeking missing family or friends. But most were the curious, coming to gawk at the man who’d died in the palace grounds under such mysterious circumstances. This complicated matters for them and made it more difficult for Simon to be a convincing corpse. Finally, Garnier began to demand visitors make an offering to the church before looking at the body. That thinned the crowd out.

By mid-afternoon, the men’s hopes had begun to flag. They stiffened, though, at the sudden sound of Garnier’s voice in the nave, speaking loudly for their benefit, alerting them that the newcomer might be the man they were seeking. He was explaining that there were two Norman monks in the chapel, praying over the body of a comrade who’d fallen sick soon after their arrival in Paris. “So sad that he’ll not be buried with his brethren,” he said, keeping up a distracting flow of chatter as he ushered the man into the chapel.

Justin and Durand made sure their cowls hid their faces. Crispin’s lashes fluttered, and then he shut his eyes again; he was taking his role seriously. Simon seemed to be lying very still, too.

“Here is the body,” Garnier announced, adding a pious, “May God have mercy upon his soul.”

The man stepped into the shadows of the chapel. He no longer wore a cleric’s rochet, but Justin recognized him at once. Canon Robert. The Breton. Arzhela’s killer.

The Breton stopped before Simon’s bier, stood staring down at the body. His face showed none of the satisfaction and relief he must have been feeling. “Alas,” he said, feigning disappointment, “this is not my friend. But I will pay for his funeral.”

“Indeed? God will bless you for that,” Garnier assured him, and he shrugged, saying modestly that it was the duty of all Christians to see to the burial of the less fortunate. Justin glanced toward Durand, both savoring the irony of the Breton’s offer. It was a chilling glimpse of the warped way the Breton viewed the world; he could murder a cousin without qualms but balked at a pauper’s burial for him. Meeting Durand’s eyes, Justin nodded and they began to move toward the door, still maintaining a monk’s pose, a monk’s sedate pace until they were within range.

It was then that Simon struck. Quick as a snake, he came off the bier, a concealed dagger suddenly in his hand, lunging at the Breton with murderous intent. Only the Breton’s remarkable reflexes saved his life. He flung up his arm and the blade meant for his throat slashed from wrist to elbow. He reeled backward, blood spurting like a fountain. Simon’s momentum carried him onward, and he crashed into Garnier, who was coming to his aid. Justin and Durand were already in motion, but they were momentarily halted by the entangled bodies on the floor, giving the Breton a chance to dart out the door, slamming it behind him.

Simon was gasping for breath, clutching his injured ribs, Garnier struggling to his feet. Justin reached the door first, with Durand but a step behind him. The nave of the church was empty, blood splattered on the floor and on the open door leading out to the porch. Almost at once they discovered a monk’s habit was not meant for pursuit, and they lost precious time ripping the garments off. “If he gets away,” Durand panted, “I swear I’ll skin Simon alive with a dull knife!” Justin shared the sentiment, but he was saving his breath for the chase. Bolting out into the garth, he came upon an amazing scene.

Their men had emerged from their hiding places and were running after the Breton. Bystanders were gaping, a funeral interrupted by the uproar, a woman screaming unintelligibly. The Breton had left a trail of blood in his wake, but desperation had given wings to his heels and he’d outdistanced his pursuers. He’d done the unexpected, not heading for the closest exit, the one opening out onto rue Saint-Denis, once again proving he did have Lucifer’s luck, for they’d locked that gate as a precaution. He risked a glance over his shoulder, sprinting toward the open gateway, the same one his hired killers had barred to entrap John within the cemetery.

But it was then that a band of horsemen galloped through the gates, onto the open field. To avoid being run down, the Breton dodged, first one way and then another, but he was like a fox trying to evade a pack of hounds; wherever he turned, he found his way blocked by a horse and rider. He was being herded away from the gate, back into the middle of the cemetery, and suddenly the ground gave way under his feet and he went tumbling down into one of the open grave pits meant for Christ’s poor.

An unrepentant Simon had been sent back to Petronilla’s town house, newly in need of a doctor’s care. Durand had been in favor of shoving him into the open grave with the Breton, but John overruled him, saying he’d deal with Simon later. As soon as he saw John, the Breton must have known he was doomed. He made a game try, though, claiming that he’d never sent John a message to meet him in the cemetery. He passionately denied that he’d slain Arzhela, insisting that Simon was the killer, and the one responsible for the attack upon John, too. Simon had murdered Arzhela in a lover’s quarrel, and then sought to blame him for the crime. Simon had almost killed him at Fougères Castle. Why had he tried again in the funerary chapel? Because a dead man could offer no defense, could not prove his innocence. Justin found it disquieting that the Breton sounded so convincing.

It was not long before the French king rode into the cemetery. His arrival created chaos, for by now a large crowd of spectators had gathered and they surged forward in excitement, had to be pushed back by the royal bodyguards. Sliding from the saddle, Philippe strode over to John. “Well?” he demanded. “Where is he?”

John pointed toward the open grave. Philippe looked startled, then walked over to see for himself. The Breton had wrapped his mantle around his bleeding arm, was leaning against the loose earthen bank as if he needed support. At the sight of the French king, his already ashen face went even paler. “My lord king...”

For what must have seemed like infinity to the Breton, John and Philippe stood there in silence, staring down at him. Justin had edged closer to get a look at the French king, and he was struck by the contrast between the two men. Philippe was ruddy whereas John was dark, and more plainly dressed than the Plantagenet, who did not let betrayal and rebellion interfere with his pursuit of the newest fashions. He was taller than John, and although they were only about fifteen months apart in age, the French king looked considerably older for he’d lost his hair and nails during his near-fatal illness in the Holy Land; his nails had grown back, but his hair had not. The one trait the two men had in common was that they both made bad enemies, as the Breton soon would be able to attest, assuming he lived long enough to make a dying declaration.

The Breton was attempting to persuade Philippe of his innocence, just as he’d tried with John. Those listening had to give him credit for glibness; he had a tongue that could charm birds out of the trees and virgins out of their maidenheads. But his eloquence was wasted upon the only two members of the audience who mattered. When he at last ran out of breath—or hope—the French king turned to his provost.

“Arrest this man.”

“I wanted the pleasure of killing the whoreson myself!” Simon glowered defiantly at his interrogators. Only the fact that he was in bed, mother-naked and having his wounds re-bandaged, kept Durand and Justin from laying rough hands upon him. Simon did not seem to realize how narrow his margin of safety was, for he continued to insist that he’d been in the right. “If not for these sore ribs of mine, I’d have done it, too, skewered him like a Martinmas shoat!”

“You have no notion, do you, of how lucky you were?” Justin shook his head in disgust. “Lord John and the French king wanted the man taken alive. You think they’d have thanked you for sending him to Hell?”

That gave Simon pause—briefly. “I did not think about that,” he admitted. “When I saw him, all I could think about was Arzhela, bleeding to death on that chapel floor.”

“Good try, lad,” Durand jeered. “But if it was not planned, why did you have that dagger?”

Simon considered the question. “For protection, of course. Better than you, I knew how dangerous the Breton was.”

Morgan, an interested observer, could not help laughing. “Give it up, mates,” he advised Justin and Durand. “The lad is always going to have an answer for you, no matter what you ask him.”

“It is John he has to answer to,” Durand said, sounding grimly gratified by the prospect. “I only hope he lets me watch!”

On the following day, Parisians awakened to a chilly downpour. The skies were a drab wintry grey, a damp wind was gusting off the river, and spring seemed to have absconded under cover of darkness. John did not let the foul weather interrupt his plans, riding off to Philippe’s palace to discuss the Breton’s fate. But most of those in Petronilla’s household chose to stay indoors, preferring boredom to getting soaked.

John did not return in time for dinner, and Justin noticed that the noonday meal was less lavish than in the past. For the first time, it occurred to him that entertaining a prince must be costing Petronilla a goodly sum of money. He hoped that she’d remember this lesson the next time she was tempted to flirt with a high-living lord like John. Fortunately for Petronilla, her cousin had provided her with a plausible reason for putting an end to her expensive hospitality. Claudine still wanted to travel into Poitou to visit her father and brothers, and Petronilla had jumped at the chance to accompany her. Emma, too, had accepted Claudine’s invitation, although in her case, Justin suspected she was trying to keep as many miles as possible between herself and Queen Eleanor. Justin had agreed to speak on her behalf, feeling that he owed her after her intercession at Fougères Castle, but he did not know if the queen would heed him, and neither did Emma.

It was still raining several hours later, and the infamous black mud of Paris was turning the city into a quagmire; only those city streets that were paved were passable. When John entered the great hall, his boots were caked, his mantle so splattered that its original color was not easily determined. He shrugged out of it, let it puddle to the floor at his feet, and crossed to the hearth to warm himself. Only then did he beckon to Justin and Durand. “Come with me,” he said, and headed toward the stairwell.

They obeyed, followed a few moments later by Emma and Claudine, expecting to be led to the solar. To their surprise, John continued to lead them on up the stairs until they’d reached the room up under the eaves of the roof where Morgan and Simon were lodged. They were both up and dressed, seated cross-legged on one of the beds as they played a game of draughts. Startled by the intrusion, they jumped to their feet, Morgan looking interested, Simon nervous, for he’d not yet had a reckoning with John.

It was obvious to them all that John had something of significance to report, and they fidgeted as they waited until he chose to share what he’d learned. The chamber was cramped, dimly lit, and had a musty, sickbed odor. John sat on Simon’s bed, and then lounged back, his muddy boots doing some damage to the blanket. Justin was beginning to resent this strange game of cat and mouse John was playing with them, but he had decided he’d not be the one to blink first. Durand seemed to have made the same resolution, for he was leaning against the door, feigning indifference. But Emma had no patience for the games of men, and she said sharply, “Well, John? What did you find out? When will the Breton be brought to trial and, more important, what will he be charged with?”

“There will be no trial, Aunt Emma.” John’s face was in shadows and his voice was toneless, difficult to read. “Philippe told me that the Breton is dead. He’d been taken under guard to the dungeons at the Grand Châtelet, and was found this morning, hanged by his bedsheet.”

There was a startled silence, but it didn’t last long. They all began to talk at once, raising their voices to make themselves heard, and it was soon apparent that they were of one mind. No one believed the Breton had killed himself. Who ever heard of a prisoner being given bed linens? How convenient it was, that the Breton had taken so many men’s secrets to his grave! Had he, by chance, left a confession behind, admitting his guilt in other crimes the provost and bailiffs had been unable to solve?

Simon finally cut through the sarcasm and skepticism by pointing out a salient fact: whether the Breton had died by his own hand or he’d had help, he was dead and on his way to Hell. Justice had been done. “I feared that he’d weasel out of the charges at a trial. Could we truly have proved he murdered the Lady Arzhela? As much as I’d like to have seen that misbegotten hellspawn publicly shamed and pelted with mud and rotten eggs as he was dragged to the gallows, at least he has paid for his crimes with his life. I, for one, am going to celebrate. Who wants to join me in the great hall to drink to the Lady Arzhela’s memory and the Breton’s eternal damnation?”