Prince of Darkness (9 page)

Oliver’s mouth thinned. “Ah, yes, I know. You answer only to the queen. But you also answer to the Almighty, and that day of reckoning may be sooner than you think!”

By now they’d become the center of attention. Several monks were rapidly approaching, and Justin decided that a strategic retreat was in order. Morgan was staring at him, but he did not acknowledge their acquaintanceship in front of the furious Oliver, and Justin gave him credit for good sense. While avoiding the appearance of haste, he exited the hall before the monks could descend upon him.

Outside, he paused to consider his options, concluding that he had no choice but to return the next day. Before leaving the monastery, he slipped into the great abbey church and offered a prayer at the altar of St Winifred, or Gwenfrewi, for he’d become fond of the little Welsh saint who’d died in defense of her honor and then been reborn so long, long ago. Afterward, he decided to go back to Shrewsbury Castle, for it was now fully dark and he did not want to be shut out of the town when the gates closed.

There were still people about, all hurrying home before the curfew horn sounded, and Justin joined the flowing tide of humanity. By the time he’d retraced his steps to Gombestole Street, the crowd had thinned considerably. Making his way past a cook-shop, he remembered he hadn’t yet eaten, but it was tightly shuttered.

His steps slowed as he approached the entrance to Grope Lane, for the narrow footpath was a favorite shortcut into the Fleshambles, Chepyn Street, and the town marketplace. He was tempted to take it, for the wind was picking up, but it was more than a popular haunt for street harlots. So many cutthroats lurked there after dark that locals called it Ambush Alley. Wisely bypassing this dangerous detour, Justin continued on.

Wet snowflakes were falling and the street was empty as Justin turned onto Altus Vicus. He quickened his pace, grateful that he had a meal and bed awaiting him at the castle. He knew several of the castle garrison from his years in Lord Fitz Alan’s service, and if memory served, there were likely to be a few dice games going after supper.

A high-pitched scream suddenly ripped through the night’s quiet. Justin whirled toward the sound, for it seemed to have come from the Fleshambles. The cry came again, and then a woman’s slight figure stumbled from the darkness. She took only a few steps, though, before collapsing onto the ground.

Justin broke into a run. Even before he reached the prostrate woman, he’d flipped back his mantle to give himself swift access to his sword. Setting his lantern down on the ground, he knelt by her side. Her face was hidden by the hood of her mantle, but she moaned as he touched her shoulder.

“You’re safe now,” he assured her. “Are you hurt? Were you attacked?”

She gasped and clutched at his arm fearfully, then began to sob. Justin was never to know precisely what activated his sixth sense, his survival sense. Had he heard a muffled step, an indrawn breath? The sudden rush of air as the club swung downward? His body reacting before his brain realized his danger, he was already moving as his attacker rushed him.

He flung himself sideways and the blow aimed at his head glanced off his upraised arm. There was a sharp spurt of pain, but he kept rolling. A hulking form loomed over him; his lantern light caught a glimpse of bared teeth, an unkempt beard, and a thick wooden club. He kicked out, his boot connecting with flesh and bone, and the club missed him by inches. “Run!” he yelled to the woman, lurching to his feet and reaching for his sword. But his injured arm made him clumsy and his assailant was upon him before the blade could clear its scabbard.

The man’s lips were drawn back in a fierce grin; he actually seemed to be enjoying himself. Justin’s weapons training came to his rescue, though, for he’d been taught to counter a cut from above with a half-sword thrust. As the club was raised to strike, he dove under it and rammed his head into his foe’s belly. They both went down, the club flying from the man’s grip. Justin managed to get to it first, kicking it into the shadows as he succeeded in freeing his sword.

But he had no time to enjoy his triumph, for he was about to get a rude shock. The woman had shed her mantle and gown, revealing herself to be a man, albeit one as thin and puny as a beardless boy. He was gripping a full-sized dagger, though, and Justin did not fancy the odds he now faced, two to one. “End this ere someone dies,” he panted, pivoting to keep both men in view. “You made a bad choice, for I have no money.”

“We’ve already been paid!” the youth jeered, and looked offended when his companion cursed his “babbling big mouth.”

By now they were deeper in the Fleshambles. Justin could see a black slit off to his right, knew it gave entry to Grope Lane. He was close enough to reach it before his adversaries, but it was so narrow that he’d have no room to use his sword. The first knave had reclaimed his club, and they were circling, wary of his blade but persisting in their attack. It was then that a man emerged from the shadows of the alley, glanced their way, and then ambled over, for all the world as if he were taking a mid-afternoon market stroll.

The felons gaped at his approach. The one with the club recovered first. “Get out of here whilst you still can, you stupid son of a whore!”

“Comments like that are uncalled for,” the new arrival objected mildly, reaching down to pick up Justin’s lantern, “especially when your own mother rutted with half the swine in Shropshire.”

The words were not yet out of his mouth before the lantern was flying through the air, pitched with utter accuracy toward his antagonist’s face. The knave threw up his arm to deflect it, losing the club as the lantern struck his shoulder, and Justin lunged forward, bringing him down with a slashing cut to the back of his leg. The boy abandoned his partner without a qualm, spinning around and taking off at a dead run. Justin’s new ally had already reached the dropped club and, as the outlaw struggled to rise, the newcomer struck him with his own weapon. The outlaw crumpled, twitched, and then lay still.

“Merciful God,” Justin said softly, and got a heartfelt “Amen” in return. The lantern’s light had been extinguished when it took flight, but they were close enough now for recognition. Stepping back, Justin regarded Morgan Bloet in openmouthed amazement. “I never thought I had a guardian angel of my own, but how else can I explain your turning up like this?”

“I do not suppose you’d believe that I was just passing by? No, I thought not. You are entitled to an explanation, and I am willing to offer one. But first we ought to decide what we want to do with Cain here,” Morgan said, nudging the body at his feet with the tip of his boot.

“Cain? You are not going to tell me that this is a friend of yours?”

“Not exactly. We do work together, if that interests you. Aye, I thought it might.”

“Are you telling me this snake slithered out of Emma’s den?”

Morgan grinned. “Well, I doubt I would have put it quite that way. But yes, you had the dubious pleasure tonight of meeting Oliver’s favorite henchman. Two of them, in fact, for Cain’s little helper works as a stable lad at Ellesmere. It must sound as if we have half the felons in the shire under our roof, but I am reasonably certain that these are the only two. Well, I do have my suspicions about one of the cooks, for the man cannot even boil water—”

Morgan sensed rather than saw Justin’s impatience, for the street was too dark for much scrutiny. “Sorry! My mama always said I’d be joking as they put the noose around my neck. As I told you, I’ll answer any questions you want, provided that you answer one of mine. But I do think we ought to get out of here ere the Watch blunders by.”

Justin knelt and felt for the pulse in Cain’s neck. “He is still alive. More’s the pity, for I cannot turn him over to the law, and I hate to turn him loose on the good people of Shrewsbury. The hellspawn came very close to killing me.”

“Actually, I do not think that was his intent. At least it was not his orders. I saw Cain trailing after you when you left the abbey, and knowing the nasty work he does, knowing the nasty piece of goods he is, I decided to tag along, too.”

“Thank God you did! But why do you think he did not have murder in mind?”

“First things first,” Morgan said, looking down thoughtfully at Cain. “You are right. It does not seem fair to let him off with just a bump on the head and a gashed leg.” Before Justin could anticipate what he was about to do, he brought his boot down hard upon Cain’s open hand, grinding until they heard the crunch of bones breaking. “There,” Morgan said in satisfaction. “That ought to slow him up for a while. Even Cain won’t be able to wreak his usual havoc one-handed.”

Justin was startled by the other man’s action, but on reflection, he could find no fault with it. “Let’s go,” he said, and they set off across the empty market square, leaving Cain for the Watch to find. Justin was intent upon confronting Emma as soon as possible, and he was moving so rapidly that the shorter-legged Morgan was hard-pressed to keep up. When he complained, Justin slowed his pace, but not by much. “I want to get to the abbey bridge ere they shut it for the night,” he explained. “We can talk as we go. What question did you want to ask of me?”

“Are you really one of the queen’s men?”

Justin confirmed he was, wishing he still had his lantern, for he’d like to have seen Morgan’s reaction to that. “Go on with your story,” he prompted. “You followed Cain from the abbey. What then?”

“Tiny—that is what we call the lad, for obvious reasons—Tiny ran to catch up with him, carrying a bundle under his arm. I ducked into one of the shuts in time to avoid him seeing me. Shuts are what they call byways between buildings in Shrewsbury—”

“I know,” Justin cut in, marveling at how Morgan seemed able to talk without ever pausing for breath. “Go on.”

“They were easy to follow, never once looked back. When they disappeared into Grope Lane, I waited and then went in after them. They were lurking at the mouth of the alley whilst Tiny was pulling something over his head. I dared not get close enough to see, thought he might be putting on a monk’s habit—”

“A woman’s gown.”

Morgan laughed softly. “Clever! I’ll have to remember that if I ever take to crime. Anyway, as they left the alley, I heard Cain say, ‘Remember now. We’re not to kill him, just to make him wish we had.’ Of course that does not mean they could not have got carried away with zeal for their work. You see, Cain enjoys pain—other people’s pain.”

Remembering Cain’s wolfish grin, Justin found that easy to believe. “What if he finds out you were the one who came to my aid?”

“He never got a good look at my face, and it was so dark out there, he probably could not have recognized his own father, assuming he knew who he was. Needless to say, I’d rather that Sir Oliver never hears about my part in tonight’s adventures.”

“He’ll not hear it from me,” Justin promised. The sound he’d been dreading now reached his ears—the blaring of the horns that signaled the coming of curfew to Shrewsbury. He came to a halt then, for it was too late. The town gates were closing; his reckoning with Emma would have to wait till the morrow. “You’d best come back with me to the castle, Morgan. I’ll see that you get a bed there for the night. But I do have one more question.” Cursing the darkness that cloaked them both so utterly, he said, “Why did you go to so much trouble for me? Mind you, I am right glad you did. But I do wonder, for not many men are so willing to risk their lives for strangers.”

“Heroes always do!” Morgan protested playfully. After they’d walked a few moments in silence he said, more seriously, “It is true I do not know much about you, but what I do know, I like. You did not just look away like the others when you saw that poor nag being beaten on The Wyle. You laughed at most of my jokes. And for certes, you are a damned better man than that whoreson Cain and his little weasel!”

“Thank you,” Justin said, matching the other man’s light tone. But one question still lingered in the back of his mind. Had Morgan helped him because he’d heard Oliver call him the queen’s man, and if so, why?

Justin knew he should be grateful that he’d escaped the night’s attack with so few injuries. It was difficult to remember that the next morning, though, when he awakened stiff, sore, and scraped. He told himself he was lucky that his arm was only badly bruised from wrist to elbow. But his rage still smoldered. He was bone-weary of being a target for godless men and women.

He was one of the first out of the town gate, and bypassed the abbey gatehouse, preferring to slip unobtrusively onto the monastery grounds via a wicket that opened into the monks’ cemetery. As he expected, Oliver was pacing up and down before the main entrance, obviously keeping vigil for his missing henchmen and just as obviously alarmed by their continued absence. Staying out of Oliver’s view, Justin found a vantage point that overlooked the guest hall, and settled down to wait.

Soon after the abbey church bells began to peal for Morrow Mass, Emma emerged from the guest hall. Justin intercepted her as she neared the chapter-house. She stopped abruptly, looking genuinely startled, but he knew how finely honed her acting skills were. “We need to talk,” he said, adding “my lady” with such lethal courtesy that her eyes narrowed. Dismissing her ladies-in-waiting and other attendants, she followed silently as Justin led the way onto the small bridge over the mill-race and on into the abbey gardens.

It was a blustery morning, the sky clotted with clouds, and the gardens looked bleak and forbidding. Emma tucked her hands inside her mantle to warm them. She voiced no complaints, and the profile she turned to Justin was as delicate and translucent as the finest alabaster, and as cold. She was in her forties now, well past her youth, but she was stubbornly fighting a rearguard action against the advancing years and, so far, she seemed to be holding her own. Despite the two decades between them, Justin was not blind to her beauty, though he gave her no credit for it, thinking uncharitably that any woman blessed with good bones, fair skin, and enough servants to indulge her every whim could resist the ravages of aging as successfully as Emma.