“We did not lie. We never said we were monks. We are friends of Lady Arzhela de Dinan and we need to speak with Brother Andrev, for we were told he was the last one to see her...” Justin stopped, for the young monk’s eyes were filling with tears. “What is it? What has happened here?”
“There has been...” Brother Briag swallowed and then continued, his voice so low that they could hardly hear him. “... murder done.”
The priory cell at Genêts was a very small one, with only four monks. Now one was dead, one lay near death, and the only two left were overwhelmed. The elderly Brother Martin was ostensibly in charge, but he was half blind and so dazed by the tragedy that all responsibility had fallen upon the novice, Brother Briag. Moving like one in a trance, Brother Briag pointed toward the infirmary. “Master Laurence is in there now, doing what he can.” Swiping the back of his hand across his cheek, he explained that Master Laurence was the town physician. He’d already revealed the identity of the victim—the man they’d come to Genêts to find, Brother Andrev.
“We summoned the provost’s deputy. But by the time he came, whoever did this evil was long gone.” Brother Briag’s steps lagged as they approached the church porch. “Are you sure you want to see?”
“You need not come in,” Justin said, and the young monk slowly shook his head.
“I’ll be seeing it in my sleep for the rest of my life,” he said softly. “One more time will not matter.”
They followed him into the nave of the church. Almost at once they were assailed by the smell of blood. “There,” Brother Briag gasped, pointing toward one of the transepts. “It happened there.”
It was easy to see where the murder had been committed, for the floor was pooled in congealed blood. They stood staring down at the splattered tiles. The lantern light had begun to sway wildly, so badly was the monk’s hand shaking. Taking the lantern from him, Justin urged quietly, “Tell us all that you can remember.”
“The monk came in the afternoon. We know now that he was not truly a monk, for no man of God could commit such sacrilege. To kill in God’s House...” Brother Briag shuddered. “He claimed to be here on Duchess Constance’s behalf and he asked many questions about Lady Arzhela. We knew, of course, that she’d gone missing, but we had naught to tell him. After he spoke with Brother Andrev, I thought he went away. He did not, though, for later I saw him with Brother Bernard. They talked together for a few moments and entered the church. It was then that I went to find Brother Andrev.”
“Why?”
Durand’s question was so abrupt, so pointed, that the young monk flinched. “I... I’d rather not say,” he whispered.
“Because you do not want to speak ill of the dead?” Justin’s voice was soothing, nonjudgmental, and after a moment, Brother Briag gave a ragged sigh, almost like a sob.
“How did you guess? I did not like Brother Bernard. No one did. He took pleasure in causing trouble. I knew he’d sneaked off to see the provost’s deputy once Lady Arzhela was reported missing. I knew, too, that he was no friend to her, and so I went to alert Brother Andrev that he was likely up to no good. If only I had kept my mouth shut, he’d not have been hurt!”
“Brother Andrev went into the church after them?”
The novice monk nodded miserably. “I was on the porch when I heard him cry out. I rushed inside and—” He shuddered again. “Brother Andrev was fighting with the monk, clinging to his arm. As I got closer, I saw the knife. I did not see him stab Brother Andrev, though, he was that fast. Brother Andrev staggered back and collapsed and the killer ran out. I tried to stop him, I swear I did, but he just shoved me aside.” He glanced down at the bandage swathed around his forearm. “It was only later that I even realized I’d been cut.”
“When did you find Brother Bernard’s body?” Justin asked, for Durand seemed willing to concede the interrogation to him.
“Afterward...” He swallowed convulsively. “I was yelling for help once I discovered that Brother Andrev had been stabbed. I remember kneeling beside him, trying to staunch the blood, and then I saw—I saw Brother Bernard. He was crumpled in that corner, and there was blood, so much blood. Master Laurence later told me that his throat had been cut.”
After that, there was no more to be said. No one spoke until they emerged into the fading light. Brother Briag was cradling his injured arm, in obvious discomfort. He looked from Justin to Durand, back to Justin again. “Do you know why this happened?”
They both answered him in the same breath, Justin admitting, “No, we do not,” and Durand saying grimly, “Not yet.”
Justin and Durand had no trouble finding the house of the provost’s deputy; Brother Briag had given them clear directions: off the marketplace, on the same street as the bakery. Genêts was a prosperous market town with several thousand inhabitants, a hospital, a salt works, and a shipyard. The fact that the town was located on a major pilgrim route made their task all the more difficult. It would have been much harder for the killer to escape notice in a small, inbred village where every stranger’s arrival was fodder for gossip.
Thanks to Brother Briag, Justin and Durand were well armed with useful information about the provost’s deputy, Master Benoit, a mild-mannered, diffident widower who had the good luck to be a cousin of the provost’s wife. The positions of provost and deputy provost were political plums, unusual in that those who held them were the abbot’s men first, and only secondly the king’s, for the abbey had been given the privilege of appointing its own candidates. The provost had ridden out in search of the Lady Arzhela, Brother Briag had confided, his absence a misfortune for all concerned, including Master Benoit, who was no more qualified to handle a murder investigation than he was to lead a crusade to the Holy Land.
Justin and Durand already harbored suspicions about Master Benoit’s capabilities, for why had he not been to investigate the murder scene yet? When their incessant knocking finally got him to open his door, one glance was enough to tell them what he’d been doing in the hours since the killing. His eyes were glazed and bloodshot, his clothing rumpled and stained, and he stank of wine, urine, and vomit.
Benoit seemed reluctant to admit them, but mustered up only a weak protest when they pushed their way inside. Stumbling after them like a guest in his own house, he asked what they wanted, his faltering, hesitant words sounding more like a plaintive lament than a forceful demand.
“Sit down ere you fall down,” Durand ordered, shoving a chair toward him. He did, blinking up at them blearily as they circled him like large, hungry cats, shrinking the circle until he had to tilt his head to look into their faces. He sensed that they had him at a disadvantage, but when he tried to rise, Durand’s hand closed on his upper arm, fingers digging into his flesh like iron hooks, and he decided to stay put.
“Who... who are you? If you’ve come to rob me, you’ve... you’ve made a great mistake.” He licked his lips, sought to keep his voice steady as he told them he was the deputy provost of the barony of Genêts, but neither man seemed impressed.
“We know that, Master Benoit.” Justin had to resist the urge to grab the man by those quaking shoulders and shake the truth out of him, so sure was he that Benoit had the answers they needed. “That is why we are here.”
“I... I do not understand.”
“The murder,” Durand snapped, angrier than even he could have explained, for weakness and cowardice brought out the worst in his own nature; he was cruelest to those he scorned. “You do remember the murder, sousepot?”
Benoit shrank back in the chair. “Are you... are you the killers?”
Durand swore and would have dragged the man to his feet if Justin had not stopped him. “You’re scaring him out of his wits. That is not the way.”
“No? Given your vast experience, suppose you show me how it is done!”
Justin grabbed the knight by the arm and pulled him aside. “Look at him, Durand,” he insisted, low-voiced. “He is terrified. Ask yourself why. I grant you that was no prett
y scene in the church, but there has to be more to this than squeamishness. What is he drinking to forget?”
“I could use a drink myself,” Durand growled. “I know I am way too sober when you start to make sense, de Quincy.” With a mocking gesture, he indicated that Justin had the field.
“Benoit!” Justin said sharply, and the deputy sat upright, flinching as Durand snatched up a candle and brought it close to his face. “We are seeking the Lady Arzhela de Dinan and I think you can help us find her.”
Benoit’s gaze slid toward the table and the wine flagon. “How?” he mumbled, and then, “I am right thirsty...”
Justin picked up the flagon, holding it just out of reach. “You can drink yourself sodden if that is your wish. But first you must tell us what Brother Bernard told you about Lady Arzhela.”
Benoit bowed his head. “I cannot...”
Justin flipped the lid on the flagon, letting Benoit see the sloshing liquid inside. His own stomach tightened at the sight, for it was dark red in the subdued light, the color of drying blood. “Yes, you can, and you must. You know that, Benoit.”
“It was not my fault—” The deputy looked up suddenly, briefly, his eyes desperately seeking Justin’s. “It was not my fault!”
“No one said it was your fault. What did he say?”
“It was a daft tale, made no sense.” Benoit’s words were slurred with wine and self-pity; he was no longer meeting Justin’s gaze. “No one would have believed it, no one!”
Justin thrust the flagon into the man’s hands, keeping his own hand clamped upon Benoit’s wrist. “Tell us!”
“He... he claimed that Lady Arzhela had sneaked into the church and then come back out dressed like a needy pilgrim. Naturally I did not credit it, for who would? She is a lady of high rank and royal blood, one who likes her comforts. Why would she put on stinking, coarse sackcloth and mingle with the lowborn and poor, with beggars and rabble? And all know Brother Bernard was... odd. I thanked him and promptly forgot about it, as any sensible man would. And then... then he was slain in the church—”
His voice thickened, but he was so thoroughly cowed that he dared not drink until these fearsome strangers said he could. He was no longer being held and he glanced up imploringly, seeking their understanding, their mercy. But he was alone. The door stood ajar and the men were gone.
XII
February 1194
Mont St Michel, Normandy
While pilgrims and travelers of the upper classes would find a welcome in the abbey’s guesthouse and the abbot’s own lodgings, Christ’s poor were admitted to the almonry. It provided protection from the rain, but it lacked fireplaces, and because it was exposed to the Aquilon, the name locals gave to those merciless winter winds that swept in from the north, it was a stark, frigid refuge. To people unfamiliar with luxury or comfort, though, it was enough.
It was different for Arzhela. Her first night at the almonry had been the longest of her life. She’d been sure they’d find her body come morning, frozen so solid that they’d have to thaw her out before burying her. The blankets provided by the monks were as thin as wafers, and the icy tiled floor was a martyr’s bed of pain. She didn’t doubt that she’d have slept better, and been warmer for certes, burrowing into the straw in the abbey stables.
But her shivering and chattering teeth finally awakened her nearest neighbors. “I am Juvette,” a woman whispered, “and this is my daughter, Mikaela. Come huddle with us. Three bodies are warmer than one.”
Arzhela hesitated, but she could no longer feel her feet, and she edged closer, discovering that the woman was right. When she awakened in the morning, she was snug against Juvette’s back, and Mikaela’s head was pillowed in her lap. Stirring as soon as Arzhela did, Juvette sat up sleepily. “We are stacked like pancakes,” she laughed, and Arzhela’s stomach rumbled, reminding her how long it had been since she’d eaten.
“Do the monks feed us?” she ventured.
“Of course, and right well. There’ll be ample helpings of bread and cheese.” Juvette easily recognized the notes of hunger in Arzhela’s voice; that was a song she knew well. “We saved a bit of bread from yesterday’s meal,” she said. “Here, take some.”
Arzhela looked at the stale pieces of bread wrapped in a scrap of cloth and quickly shook her head. “I could not, for you have so little!”
“We have enough to share,” Juvette insisted, giving Arzhela no choice but to accept a small crust.
As the day advanced, Arzhela was astonished by the goodwill of these impoverished pilgrims. She’d expected that they would be pious, for a pilgrimage in winter, especially one as dangerous as this, was proof of serious intent. She’d not expected, though, that they would be so generous, so willing to share their meager belongings, their stories, and their laughter. There was a communal atmosphere in the almonry unlike anything she’d ever experienced on her own pilgrimages, and again and again she saw small examples of kindness and good humor.
Most were Breton or French, although there was one dour Englishman. While pilgrimages were lauded as acts of spiritual renewal, most pilgrims had more pragmatic, mundane reasons for making them. People sought out saints to beg for healing, to pray for forgiveness, and sometimes to die in a state of grace. Other pilgrimages were penitential in nature, for the Church often ordered caught-out or repentant sinners to atone for their transgressions at distant holy shrines. One of their company had already confessed cheerfully that he was there for habitual fornication, although he did not put it as delicately as that. Another admitted that his offense had been poaching on his bishop’s lands. If any were expiating the sin of adultery, they prudently kept that to themselves.
Most of these February pilgrims were at Mont St Michel for obvious reasons. There was a man who coughed blood into stained rags. Mikaela had been born at Michaelmas, named in honor of the Archangel, and now that she was ailing, her mother had brought her to the Mont to plead for his intercession. One woman was there to pray that her hearing be restored. A man crippled by the joint evil was tended lovingly by his wife, but Arzhela could not imagine how—even with her help—he’d managed to climb the hill and the steep steps to the almonry. A young couple seemed in the bloom of health, but they’d wept together in the night.
Miquelots they were called, those who dared to brave the tides for the sake of blessed St Michael. With a dart of pride, Arzhela realized that she was one of them; she was a miquelot, too. She was amazed by the feelings that her fellow pilgrims had stirred in her. They were strangers, after all, lowborn, most of them, the sort of people she’d seen but never truly noticed before. But after just one night and one day, they’d begun to matter to her. When they’d been allowed to visit the shrine in the nave, she’d spent almost as much time praying for them as for herself. She winced every time she heard that strangled death rattle of a cough. She’d got two of the able-bodied men to assist the cripple and his wife up the great staircase into the church. She’d surreptitiously hidden a pouchful of coins in Juvette’s bundle, confident that when she eventually discovered it, Juvette would joyfully conclude that this was the Archangel’s bounty. And she’d taken charge of Yann.
She still wasn’t sure what she was going to do with him. She guessed his age to be between eleven and thirteen; he claimed to remember eleven winters, but truth telling was not one of his virtues, and she thought him quite capable of making himself younger than he truly was to appear more sympathetic. He said he was an orphan and she had no reason to doubt him. He was cunning in the way of children and young animals left to fend for themselves at an early age. He was also cheeky and quick to take advantage of an opportunity, qualities that she should deplore but found amusing instead.
While she’d lain wakeful and miserable late into the night, she’d seen him creeping cat-like among the sleeping pilgrims, deftly removing some of the coins from the self-confessed poacher’s scrip. Clever lad, she’d thought, not to take it all, for the theft was less likely to be discovered that
way. And the next morning she cornered him out in the north-south stairwell.
“You need a new trade, my boy, for you are a pitiful cutpurse,” she announced, and waited until he’d run through his litany of impassioned denials. It was then that she pried his name out of him, as well as a grudging confession that he’d followed the pilgrims like a seagull followed fishing sloops. She made him promise that he’d do no more thieving whilst he was at the abbey, but she knew hunger would always win out over promises, especially those given under duress, and she insisted upon keeping him close for the remainder of the day. He protested at length, but she did not think he truly minded once he was sure she’d not turn him in, for attention was as rare as hen’s teeth in an orphan’s world.
He was as sharp as a Fleming’s blade, though, the only one to notice that she did not talk like the others. As he put it, she sounded “like you’ve just eaten a marrow tart.” She explained away the telltale echoes of education and privilege in her voice by telling him she’d been taught by nuns, and he seemed to accept that. She found it sad, though, that food was his tally stick, his only means of measurement.
Arzhela was thoroughly enjoying her incursion into this alien world, so much so that she wondered idly if she ought to consider giving over her life to God. A pity nuns had to live such cloistered lives. If only she could do good on a wider stage than a secluded convent. Though if she were to be honest, vows of poverty and obedience might begin to chafe after a while. And then there was that irksome vow of chastity. By now Arzhela was laughing at herself, realizing how ludicrous it was for her to even contemplate a religious vocation. She liked her comfort too much, liked feather beds and good food and Saint Pourçain wine from the Auvergne. She liked getting her own way and for certes, she liked men.