Prince of Darkness (8 page)

“I see.” Justin did not know what else to say. He’d not thought much about his father’s kindred, for what was the point? His father would never acknowledge him, never admit him into the de Quincy family circle. But those ghostly, faceless strangers had suddenly become real, made flesh and blood by the most simple of spells—the unexpected use of a given name. He had an uncle, Reynald, cousins he’d never get to know. He started to rise, then, for their business was done.

Aubrey rose, too, but he lingered for a moment longer. “God keep you safe in Wales, Justin.”

“Thank you,” Justin said, surprised. “Let’s hope that Davydd agrees with the Almighty.”

The bishop frowned. “The queen is sending you back to Davydd’s court? Is that wise?”

So his father knew of Davydd’s animosity. The Earl of Chester must have been more forthcoming than he’d thought. “I am not eager myself to see Davydd again,” Justin conceded, “but I have no choice, as I have an urgent message for the Lady Emma.”

Aubrey blinked and then his face cleared. “If it is Emma you seek, then you need not venture into Wales at all,” he said with a smile. “You can find her in Shropshire, at her Ellesmere manor.”

Justin could scarcely credit his great good luck. Being spared a trip into Davydd’s domains was like getting a reprieve on the very steps of the gallows. And Ellesmere lay less than twenty miles to the south. He’d broken his night’s fast with only a cup of ale and a piece of bread, and he decided that he could treat himself to a full meal before heading into Shropshire. He re-entered the city and had just turned onto Fleshmonger’s Lane in search of a cook-shop when he heard his name being shouted. Swinging about in the saddle, he saw two familiar figures hurrying toward him—the fishmonger’s brats who’d banded together with a bishop’s foundling to navigate the shoals of a precarious Chester childhood.

Bennet was as tall and thin and supple as a mountain ash; he had the gaunt, lean look of a man who’d often gone to bed hungry. That had indeed been true in his hardscrabble youth, for he and his older sister, Molly, had been accursed with a downtrodden drudge of a mother who’d sadly vanished from their lives, and a mean drunkard of a father who’d sadly stayed. Molly was a flower grown amongst weeds, as graceful and natural and self-willed as the grey cat she so doted upon, as quick to purr or show her claws. She’d easily captured Justin’s fourteen-year-old heart, and five months ago, their unexpected reunion had ended up in her bed. Now, as soon as Justin dismounted, she flung herself into his arms and kissed him with enough enthusiasm to earn a round of cheers from male passersby.

“We got back last night,” she explained as soon as she had breath for speech, “and found out this morning that you’d been at the tavern!”

“Well, Drogo did not remember your name,” Bennet chimed in, “but he described you as tall and dark and shifty-looking, and I said to Moll, ‘Damn me if that does not sound like Justin’s evil twin!’ ”

“Pay him no mind,” Molly directed, linking her arm in Justin’s and drawing him away from the noisome stench coming from the street’s center gutter. “Algar was at my cottage ere cockcrow, bursting to tell his news, and we’ve been scouring the city for you ever since. You gave us such a scare, Justin, for I was sure you’d be long gone!”

“You almost did miss me, Molly. I ought to have been on the road into Shropshire by now, but I decided to find a cook-shop first—”

Molly wrapped her arms around his neck and rose on tiptoe until her mouth was tantalizingly close to his own. “Are you hungry, lover?” she murmured, laughing up at him with such overdone innocence that Justin rapidly revised his travel plans. What difference could one more day make to John? Like as not, the Devil had been holding a space for him in Hell since he drew his first breath.

Justin’s first view of Ellesmere was an impressive one—a castle perched on a high ridge overlooking a placid lake. The scene was peaceful and pastoral, deceptively so, for this had been a Marcher lord’s stronghold, often caught up in the border wars with the Welsh and the skirmishes of that unhappy time known as The Anarchy, when the country had been convulsed by a power struggle so bloody that people had whispered that Christ and his saints must surely sleep. It was a Crown property by the reign of Henry II, who had given Ellesmere to Davydd ab Owain as part of Emma’s marriage portion, pleasing Davydd. Nothing would have pleased Emma, who’d been a most unwilling wife to the prince of Gwynedd.

Justin prudently chose to scout out the lay of the land before riding into the castle bailey and putting himself in Emma’s power, and he halted in the village. Even the smallest hamlets usually had an alewife and Ellesmere’s was a stout, fair-haired widow with a booming laugh and shrewd blue eyes. Upon spying the telltale ale-stake, Justin had drawn rein in front of her cottage and purchased a tankard of well-brewed ale, a chunk of newly baked bread, and some casual gossip about the lady of the manor.

Lady Emma was indeed in residence at the castle, the alewife affirmed, not surprising Justin with the slight emphasis she placed on Emma’s title; it had been his experience that other women did not like Emma much. If he wanted to see her ladyship, though, she continued, he’d best push on toward Shrewsbury, for that was where she was to be found, enriching the town merchants at her lord husband’s expense.

Even though it meant another fifteen-mile ride, Justin was pleased to learn that Emma was in Shrewsbury. He’d spent the first eight years of his life in that river town and knew it almost as well as he did Chester. He did not really think Emma posed the same danger as her impulsive, vengeful husband—she was much more clever than Davydd—but it would not hurt to approach her on more neutral ground than her Ellesmere manor.

Reaching Shrewsbury at dusk, he entered through the north gate. This was the only access by land, for Shrewsbury was situated in a horseshoe bend of the muddy River Severn, and it was securely guarded by a more formidable castle than Ellesmere, manned by Justin’s former lord and Shropshire’s sheriff, William Fitz Alan. Justin was not surprised to learn that Emma was not staying at the castle, for its accommodations were old-fashioned and Emma was particular about her comforts. Justin guessed that she’d be accepting the hospitality of Hugh de Lacy, the abbot of the prosperous Benedictine Abbey of St Peter and St Paul located on the outskirts of the town. Before he continued on to the abbey, he used his all-purpose letter from the queen—declaring him to be in her service—to secure lodgings at Shrewsbury Castle for himself and his gelding. Since he had no objection to spending John’s money, he bought a sturdy horn lantern and then headed out onto the Alms Vicus, Shrewsbury’s high street and major thoroughfare.

By the time he’d reached the bottom of Gombestole Street, the savory aromas wafting from cook-shops reminded him that the supper hour was nigh. He resisted the temptation to stop, though, wanting to get his interview with Emma done as soon as possible. As he hastened down the steep hill of the street called The Wyle, he found his path blocked by people milling about in the road. Weaving among them, he soon saw the cause of the delay. A cart was stuck in the middle of the thoroughfare, its wheels mired in mud. The carter was in a fury, cursing and lashing at his horse, a scrawny animal not much larger than a pony. This was such a common occurrence that few of the spectators had pity to spare for the beast. But Justin had always had a fondness for horses and underdogs, and the sight of that heaving, wheezing animal, lathered and bloodied, stirred his anger. He was shoving his way toward the cart when another man darted from the crowd and grabbed the carter’s whip as he lifted it to strike again.

“Do that and by God, I’ll make you eat it!” he threatened, wrenching the whip from the carter’s grasp and flinging it aside. The carter was sputtering in outrage and the spectators elbowed closer, anticipating a fight. The newcomer was of only average height, several inches shorter than the carter, but he was broad-chested and well-muscled, and the coiled tension in his stance communicated a willingness to see this through to the bloody end. The carter hesitated, glancing around for allies. Not finding any, he began fumbling with the knife at his belt. It was obvious that he did not really want to unsheathe it, but Justin knew that pride and the jostling bystanders could prod him into it if the confrontation were allowed to ferment.

Swaggering forward, he said loudly, in his best Luke de Marston manner, “Who is the fool blocking the road? Carts are stacking up like firewood! What are you all waiting for—Easter? You, you, and you—”

Pointing at random to the closest men, he directed them to help him free the mired cart, and so convincing was his assumption of authority that no one thought to question it. The carthorse’s champion had taken hold of the animal’s reins, coaxing it on as men put their shoulders to the wheels. The cart was soon free, and he reluctantly turned the reins over to the carter. But his grey eyes blazed when the carter started to clamber up into the cart, and Justin swiftly intervened again, pointing out that the hill was a high one and the horse would do better if it did not have to lug the carter’s weight, too. The carter scowled and swore under his breath. He dared not challenge Justin’s under-sheriff imitation, though, and walked alongside the laboring horse as they started up The Wyle.

“You did what you could,” Justin said to the carthorse’s defender as they stood in the street watching the cart lumber up the hill.

“I suppose...” The other man shook his head, keeping his gaze fixed upon the slow-moving carthorse. “But you know damned well that lout will waste no time finding another switch.”

“True, but the last I heard, they still hang horse thieves,” Justin said, and got a stare in return, followed by a quick smile.

“Aye, so they do,” the man said, conceding that the carthorse’s fate was beyond his control, and then, “I am Morgan Bloet.”

“Justin de Quincy.”

Falling in step, they began walking down The Wyle. Justin judged Morgan to be in his early twenties. He interested Justin because he seemed such a mix of contradictions. His given name was Welsh, but his French was colloquial, with no hint of a Welsh accent. His hair was dark, but his skin was fair enough to sport a few freckles. His garb was plain but finely woven, not homespun. He had no sword, but when the carter had been groping for his knife, Justin had seen Morgan’s hand drop instinctively to his left hip, where a scabbard would have been worn. He looked like a man who’d be handy in a brawl, but the carthorse’s plight had moved him almost to tears. And most intriguing of all, he seemed vaguely familiar to Justin, even though he felt sure they’d never met before.

They talked amiably as they passed through the town gate and onto the bridge that linked Shrewsbury with the abbey community of St Peter and St Paul. After paying the toll, they continued on toward the abbey’s gatehouse. “If you are in need of lodgings,” Morgan cautioned once they’d been waved into the monastery precincts, “you’re out of luck. The guest hall is full to bursting, mostly with my lady’s men. Mayhap if you tell the monks that you’re queasy, they’ll let you have a bed in the infirmary. No, not a stomach ailment,” he corrected himself, with a grin, “for then you’d get naught but broth for supper. Tell them you’re feverish.”

Morgan’s jesting was wasted on Justin, for he’d stopped listening at the words “my lady’s men.” “I heard the Lady Emma was staying here. Are you in her service, Morgan?”

“Aye, I am. Not for long, just since Christmas. But she says I am the best of her grooms, and of course she is quite right!”

That explained Morgan’s empathy for the abused carthorse. “I am seeking an audience with the Lady Emma,” Justin said, and Morgan gave him another quick smile.

“Well, mayhap you’re in luck, after all. Come, I’ll try to get you in,” he offered, so obviously proud of his standing in Emma’s household that Justin was touched in spite of all he knew about the Lady Emma. He followed Morgan into the guest hall, and watched as the groom approached one of Emma’s handmaidens on his behalf. He was back so soon that Justin knew his news could not be good.

“Lady Mabella says Lady Emma is dining with Abbot Hugh, so you’ll have to wait till the morrow. Let’s see if we can talk the hosteller into squeezing you in with the other grooms—”

“You!” There was so much fury in that one word that Justin and Morgan both spun around in alarm. At the sight of the wrathful figure limping toward them, Justin suppressed a sigh, for Oliver was no stranger to him. The aging Norman knight was Emma’s faithful retainer, bodyguard, and co-conspirator, perhaps the one man whom she truly trusted.

“I cannot believe my own eyes! That you would dare to show your face after all the grief you caused my lady!”

I know; it was very unchivalrous of me to thwart her plans to steal the king’s ransom.
The sarcastic retort hovered on Justin’s lips and he had to bite the words back, for Emma and John’s scheme had not been publicized; John’s crimes rarely were. “At the risk of being rude, I do not answer to you, Sir Oliver.”