Prince of Darkness (40 page)

“Good for you, de Quincy,” John said, with a sardonic smile. “You might one day make it to wolfdom, after all.”

That was incomprehensible to Morgan and Claudine, who’d not been present for John’s little lecture about wolves and sheep. Morgan hesitated, sensing that he was stepping out onto thin ice. “What of Queen Eleanor? Could you not tell her that this letter was a forgery? She could convince Richard, then, surely?”

The others tensed, knowing from painful experience that John’s tangled, tortured relationship with his mother was a bottomless swamp, from which few emerged unscathed. John surprised them, though, by not lashing out at Morgan, giving his newfound brother something he rarely gave to anyone—the benefit of the doubt.

“That tactic—truth telling—might work with you and the Lady Nesta,” he said tersely, “but not in the bosom of our loving family. My lady mother would not believe me.”

With that, Justin heard the jaws of the trap slam shut. “Mayhap she would not,” he said wearily, “but she might believe me.”

Justin awakened with a gasp, fleeing the darkness of a Fougères dungeon. It was not the first disquieting dream he’d had of his entombment, but this one had a happy ending: a blazing surge of sunlight as the trapdoor was flung open and freedom beckoned in the guise of Morgan Bloet. He lay back upon the bed, heartened by his night escape, hoping it meant that the dreams would come less and less often and, eventually, not at all. He was drifting off to sleep again when there was a sharp knocking on the cottage door.

He’d got to London just as curfew was sounding, and was one of the last travelers allowed to pass through the city gates. By the time he’d reached Gracechurch Street, the alehouse was shuttered and still, and the houses were dark, oil lamps and hearth fires doused for the night. He’d stabled his mount in a stall next to his stallion, Copper, and stumbled off to his cottage behind Gunter’s black-smithy. Not even bothering to remove his boots, he’d fallen into bed, asleep before he’d taken half a dozen breaths.

The knocking continued. Swinging off the bed, he was starting toward the door when it opened and a black whirlwind burst into the cottage to fling itself upon him. He staggered backward under the assault, and was fending off a hysterical canine as Nell followed Shadow in. “Dogs,” she said briskly, “are more loyal than men and not as much trouble. The mad beast has not forgotten you, I see.”

“How did you know I was back?” Justin asked, going over to give her a hug.

“What—you think Gunter would not notice another horse in his stable? Come with me,” she insisted, steering him toward the door. “Lord only knows the last time you ate, so I made you a meal over at the alehouse.”

Justin would have liked to change his clothes, but he knew better than to argue with Nell, and followed her outside, where he was surprised to see a twilight dusk settling over the city. Nell confirmed that he’d slept for more than eighteen hours. “We let you stay abed all day like a sluggard” was how she put it as she hastened him across the street.

“Who are ‘we’?” he asked, and had his answer as he pushed open the door of the alehouse. It was crowded with his neighbors and friends: Gunter the blacksmith; Odo the barber, his wife, Agnes, and their nephew, Daniel; Ulric the chandler and his wife, Cicily; Marcus the cartwright; Avice, the tanner’s widow; Nell’s helper Ellis and Nell’s young daughter, Lucy; even Aldred and Jonas, the one-eyed sergeant who was the bane of London’s lawless and Justin’s mentor. With a shy grin, Justin stepped forward into the warmth of their welcome.

By now they knew the rules—he never talked about what he did for the queen—so no one asked about his sudden disappearance or his long absence from Gracechurch Street. Instead they caught him up on neighborhood gossip and local happenings, telling him that the cobbler’s wife had run off with a peddler, that Humphrey the mercer had disgraced himself by turning up drunk as a sailor’s whore for Candlemas Mass, that a woman over on Aldgate Street had given birth to twins, that a fire had damaged the cook-shop down by the river, and that King Richard’s entry into the city had been a spectacle to dazzle all eyes.

“All the shops closed early,” Nell explained. “Even the taverns and alehouses shut down, since they knew everyone would be out in the street, watching for the king’s coming. And they were, too. So many people lined up that there was not space for a snake to slither by. They hung out of windows and perched in trees and some fools had even clambered onto rooftops to see!”

“And the streets were clean,” Aldred reported in awe. “The rakyers had actually worked for their wages and swept away all the dung and mud and straw and rubbish. It was a sight to behold... like a great fair day, with banners strung across the streets and ribbons wrapped around ale-poles and people waving scarves from windows and doves set free in white clouds when the king reached Cheapside!

“Thank God no fires broke out,” he added, “for no one would ever have heard the fire bells over the clamor of the church bells. I’m surprised you did not hear them as far away as France, Justin! It was a fine welcome we gave the Lionheart. We did ourselves proud for certes, and the king and queen seemed right pleased that we’d turned out in such great numbers.”

“Bearing in mind,” Jonas said dryly, “that Londoners will come out by the hundreds for a hanging.”

Justin smiled fondly at Jonas, for the sergeant’s habitual skepticism seemed like starry-eyed optimism when compared to John’s lethal cynicism. “It is good to be home,” he said. “You spoke of the ‘queen,’ Aldred. So Richard had Berengaria with him? I’ve never laid eyes on her; few have. Was she fair to look upon?”

Aldred blinked in confusion. “Beren... who? I meant Lady Eleanor. What other queen is there?”

At the mention of his royal mistress, Justin lost some of his cheer; he was not looking forward to pleading John’s case with the queen. But it had to be done on the morrow, even before he rode to St Albans to see Aline. “Where is King Richard lodging?” he asked. “Are they at the Tower or at the palace at Westminster?”

“King Richard did not dally here in London. He’s long gone, off to put down Lord John’s rebellion.”

“And the queen?”

“Why, she went with him, lad,” Odo volunteered, “and all the court, too, streaming out of Westminster like a flock of peacocks. Those pampered lords will be earning their bread now, just trying to keep up with the king!”

It sounded to Justin as if he would be earning his bread, too, chasing over half of England after the Lionheart. “Where has he gone?”

By common consent, they looked toward Jonas, for he was the sheriff’s man, would be likely to know. And he did. “You’ve got a long ride ahead of you,” he told Justin, with more amusement than sympathy. “He went north to besiege Lord John’s castle at Nottingham.”

Baby Ella was awake in her cradle, utterly intent upon getting her foot into her mouth. In the other cradle, her milk-sister slept peacefully, oblivious to her audience. “You must be amazed by how big she’s got,” Rohese said, pointing out the obvious with a coquettish smile, and her brother Baldwin rolled his eyes. She’d been visiting when Justin de Quincy arrived and she’d been so charmed by his courtly manners that she’d been hovering close by, insisting upon playing a role in his reunion with his daughter. Now she was chattering nonstop as Justin leaned over the cradle, and Baldwin and Sarra exchanged the sort of amused, exasperated glances that Rohese so often provoked.

“Of course Ella is much larger, but then, she’s older so she would be... bigger, I mean.” Rohese said, giggling self-consciously as she realized how silly she was sounding. “But your little lass is doing right well for her age. When she’s not swaddled, she squirms about like a baby eel, doesn’t she, Sarra? If you lie her down on her belly, she can roll over onto her back now. And when she wakes up in the morning and sees Baldwin or Sarra, she greets them with the sweetest smile.”

Baldwin wished his sister would stop gushing over the poor lad, and Sarra thought it was not tactful of Rohese to remind Justin de Quincy of all the milestones he’d missed in his daughter’s life. But in truth, Justin was not even listening to Rohese. Aline was the only one in the cottage for him at that moment, the only one in the world. She had a surprisingly thick cap of dark hair and skin like flower petals; when he touched her cheek with his finger, it felt like the soft, downy feathers of a baby bird.

“Do you want to hold her?” Rohese murmured throatily and, reaching for Aline, placed the sleeping infant in his arms before Sarra could object.

Justin cradled his daughter with such exaggerated care that it was both touching and comical to those watching. “I am back, butterfly,” he said, and those silky lashes fluttered, revealing eyes the color of ground cinnamon, Claudine’s eyes. For a heartbeat, they looked at each other, and then Aline’s lower lip began to tremble. Before he could react, her mouth contorted and she started to cry. There was nothing gradual or tentative about it, either; she screamed loudly enough to set his ears ringing, color flooding her little face, tiny fists beating the air in distress.

Sarra came swiftly to his side and reclaimed the frightened child. For several moments, there was no sound but the baby’s wailing and a soothing, wordless murmur from Sarra. Back in familiar arms, Aline soon quieted, her sobs subsiding into broken hiccups, and Sarra sat down in a chair, discreetly opened her bodice and offered Aline the comfort of her breast.

After an awkward silence, Rohese said, in some embarrassment, “She is usually such a calm, good-natured baby, skittish only with—” She caught herself, but not in time, and Justin finished the sentence for her.

“Only with strangers,” he said softly.

William the bastard had chosen Nottingham’s site for its strategic significance, on a red sandstone ridge high above the River Trent. A new settlement had quickly sprung up in its protective shadow, nestled between the castle and the old town, and more than a hundred years later, the partition persisted. Nottingham was separated into the Norman-French Borough and the Saxon Borough, each with its own sheriff and bailiff. Justin was both intrigued and unsettled by the dichotomy—two towns, two ethnic identities—for he rarely thought about the social consequences of the Conquest. While French was his mother tongue, he also spoke English, and felt equally at home with the Saxon Aldred or the Norman Luke de Marston. The two halves of Nottingham reminded him that England, too, was a country divided, with a king who spoke not a word of English.

While the castle still held out, the city had opened its gates to Richard at once. The streets were filled with men-at-arms, vendors, peddlers, beggars, the inevitable prostitutes drawn by an army’s presence, and local curiosity-seekers, eager to watch as Christendom’s most celebrated soldier lay siege to his brother John’s stronghold. The atmosphere was almost festive—until Justin reached the castle.

Justin had been told that the fortress had been under siege for weeks, but it was obvious that there had been a recent assault. The timber palisades enclosing the outer bailey were still smoldering, and the acrid smell of smoke hung low over the site. The torn-up bloody ground testified to the cost of the onslaught, as did the newly dug grave pits. The king’s men were now in control of the outer bailey, and were in the process of making ready for an attack upon the upper and middle baileys. Even with his limited siege experience, Justin could see this would be a much greater challenge, for Richard’s soldiers would be charging uphill against men entrenched behind thick stone walls.

He was searching for Will Longsword, John’s half brother. They’d established a good rapport and he could rely upon Will for an accurate account of the events that had occurred since Richard’s return to English soil. He was sure, too, that Will would know where the queen was lodging. But finding Will in this turbulent, roiling sea of soldiers would not be easy.

He never did find Will but, much to his surprise, he soon saw a familiar figure, a small man astride a big bay stallion, well armored in chain mail and the authority of command. “My lord earl!” he cried, loudly enough to attract the Earl of Chester’s attention. At the sight of Justin, he looked equally surprised, and urged his mount in the younger man’s direction.

“What are you doing here?” Justin exclaimed, and then grimaced, for it was obvious what the earl was doing—laying siege to Nottingham Castle. He amended his query to “When did you get here, my lord?”

“A few weeks ago. Last month the Council authorized the seizure of Lord John’s castles at Nottingham, Tickhill, Marlborough, Lancaster, and St Michael’s Mount in Cornwall. The earls of Huntingdon and Derby and I were chosen to reduce Nottingham to a pile of rubble, so I made haste to return from Brittany. Marlborough and Lancaster were quickly taken, and the commander at St Michael’s Mount died of fright upon hearing that King Richard was free.” Chester’s smile was mordant. “A pity all of the king’s foes could not be so obliging.”

“So that leaves only Tickhill and Nottingham?”

“Only Nottingham. We got word this morn that Tickhill has yielded to the Bishop of Durham. Unfortunately the stubborn sods behind these walls”—with a wave of his hand toward the castle keep—”have balked at surrendering. They are convinced that King Richard is dead and this is a clever trick to deceive them into giving up. The king did not take kindly to being dismissed as an impostor, as you can well imagine.”