“Even after a summer amongst the Welsh, you remain remarkably trusting, Justin.” Chester’s tone was dry, but his black eyes held a gleam of amusement. “The queen’s letter would serve you better if the provost did not think you guilty of murder. I think I’d best give you a letter of my own, explaining that you and Sir Durand were unjustly accused by those rash, reckless Bretons, and avowing your innocence upon my honor as a Norman baron.”
“That would be most welcome, my lord,” Justin said gratefully. He’d planned to ask Chester for just such a letter, for the earl was the only man he knew who exercised power on both sides of the Breton-Norman border. He was pleased now that he did not have to ask, though, for he was already so deeply in Chester’s debt that it seemed greedy to seek any more favors.
“I’ll send some of my men with you to Genêts,” Chester said. “After that, you’ll be on your own.”
They waited for Morgan in a grove of trees about half a mile from the town of Genêts. He was not gone long, and when he came into view, his smile communicated the success of his mission before he said a word. “The provost is on his way to the abbey. As soon as I told him Abbot Jourdain had need of him, he was off. By my reckoning, he’ll be gone for hours. First he has to cross the bay, then seek out the abbot, who’ll doubtless make him wait. By the time he discovers that the abbot sent no message, he’ll not want to venture out into the bay at dusk and he’ll—”
As usual, Morgan took the roundabout route; he was never one to use ten words when he could use twice as many. That was fine with Justin, who thought Morgan had earned the right to talk from now till Judgment Day if it made him happy. Durand was not as indulgent and cut him off brusquely, saying, “Let’s look for the gaol, then. Are you still set upon coming, Lady Emma?”
“Of course,” she said, no less brusquely. “They are my men, are they not?”
Justin wasn’t sure if Emma had any genuine concern for Rufus and Crispin, or if it was simply that her sense of possession was offended by their gaoling, but he welcomed her presence, for she’d prove to be a formidable distraction.
And she did. As soon as she flounced into the gaol, lifting her skirts and curling her lip, she had the provost’s deputy off balance, so flustered that Justin could almost feel sorry for him. Identifying herself as the Lady Emma Plantagenet, consort of the Prince of Gwynedd, sister of King Henry of blessed memory, aunt to King Richard Coeur de Lion, she demanded that he free her men at once, and for a moment they thought she was going to prevail by the sheer audacity of her performance. Master Benoit stammered and stumbled, visibly wilting under that haughty stare. But then his eyes moved past her to Justin and Durand, widening in horrified recognition.
“We are not escaped murderers,” Justin said hastily. “We had nothing to do with the slaying of the Lady Arzhela de Dinan. But I do not expect you to take our word for that. I have here a letter from the Earl of Chester, attesting to our innocence.”
Master Benoit reached for the letter as gingerly as if it might burst into flames at his touch. After reading it, he said hesitantly, “The earl argues most persuasively on your behalf. But I do not have the authority to release your men, Madame. The provost has been called away, but I will discuss the matter with him straightaway upon his return.”
Justin and Durand had been expecting this; their brief experience with the deputy provost had shown them that he suffered from a malady detrimental to officers of the law: a total absence of backbone. “Have it your own way,” Durand said nonchalantly. “So... the provost has forgiven you, then? I must say you’re a lucky man, for an argument could be made that your blunder brought about the Lady Arzhela’s death.”
The deputy’s Adam’s apple bobbed. “What... what do you mean?”
“Well, if you’d told him what Brother Bernard had confided in you—that the lady was disguised as a humble pilgrim—he’d have sought her out at the abbey and the killer would not have had his chance to corner her in the crypt.”
“You look very pale of a sudden.” Justin did his best to sound solicitous. “Are you ailing? Surely you told the provost about that conversation with Brother Bernard?”
Master Benoit swallowed again, inhaling air in a convulsive gulp. “Of course I did!” He looked down at the earl’s letter. “I suppose it would do no harm if I release them now. They’d be freed as soon as the provost returns, after all. It would be a pity to make a fine lady such as yourself delay your journey, Madame. You are planning to depart Genêts today?”
Emma nodded coolly and as the deputy scurried off to fetch the prisoners, she gave Justin and Durand an approving glance and a rare compliment: “Well done.”
“Thank you,” Justin said dryly, thinking that the Lady Emma was the only woman he knew who viewed extortion as a social skill. Durand leaned against the wall, arms folded, looking bored. But Justin knew how deceptive that familiar pose was; Durand could move as swiftly as a panther if the need arose—if the deputy decided to double-cross them.
Master Benoit kept faith, though, soon emerging with Rufus and Crispin in tow. They were deliriously happy to be freed, almost embarrassingly grateful, and Justin realized that men-at-arms were too often viewed as expendable by their masters. Emma waved aside their thankfulness, wrinkling her nose at their ripe odor. “I suppose it is too much to hope there is a bathhouse in town?” she queried.
“Of course there is!” Master Benoit sounded offended, as if she’d insulted his civic pride. “It is close by the shipyard and a fine one it is, too—” Belatedly remembering that it was in his best interest to get them out of Genêts as soon as possible, he added lamely, “But it might not be open today. In fact, I am sure it is not.”
Emma paid him no heed and instructed her men-at-arms to go off and scrub themselves clean. Doling out coins sparingly, she warned them not to spend the money on wine, on anything but the baths. “Then meet us at the priory,” she said, “and if you tarry over-long, you’ll be left behind.” When Crispin reminded her that they were “right famished,” she grudgingly agreed that they could also stop at a cook-shop.
Master Benoit had snatched up the earl’s letter and was holding it close to his chest. “You’re going to the priory, too? Do you not want to leave whilst there is still light?”
He blanched when Durand said blandly that they might want to pass the night in Genêts, looking so miserable that Justin took pity on him. “We’ll not be staying. After we arrange to have Masses said for Lady Arzhela and the two slain monks, we’ll be on our way.”
Master Benoit blinked. “Two? But Brother Andrev is still alive!”
The town physician had the gruff, no-nonsense demeanor of a man overworked and underappreciated. Brother Andrev was still grievously ill, he warned, and although he was expected to recover, God Willing, he was very weak and tired easily. Only after they’d promised to keep their visit brief were Justin and Durand allowed to enter the sickroom.
The infirmary was much smaller than the one at the abbey and Brother Andrev was the sole patient. He had a sallow sickbed pallor, his eyes hollowed and sunken in, giving him an almost cadaver-like appearance. Justin had been nervous about this meeting, worried about agitating a man who’d come so close to death, and wondering how they were going to convince him that they’d played no part in Arzhela’s murder. But as soon as Justin said their names, Brother Andrev became much more animated, insisting that they come closer, and with his first words, it was obvious that he needed no persuasion to trust them.
“Justin and Durand? You are the men Arzhela was awaiting? But I thought you’d been dragged off to Fougères Castle. How did you escape?”
“It is a long, strange story. You know we are innocent, then?”
“Of course. Arzhela would not tell me the name of the man she feared. But she did tell me your names, said she’d be safe once you reached the abbey.” Brother Andrev’s spurt of energy was already ebbing away. He had no pillow, for truly devout monks scorned such comforts. He did not object, though
, when Justin rolled up a spare blanket and placed it under his head. “I tried to tell the provost once I’d regained my wits, saying I was sure you were not the ones. He did not seem to believe me...” He closed his eyes and Justin wondered if the interview was over. This man’s spirit burned like a lone spark in a cold hearth, all too easy to extinguish.
After a time, Brother Andrev opened his eyes again. “She always wanted to be buried here,” he said sadly, “at our church... But it must be reconsecrated, and... and the duchess would not wait...”
What followed was a patchwork quilt of silences and sighs and laborious, strained utterances. Brother Andrev could tell them nothing that would be of use in solving Arzhela’s murder, for all he remembered of his brief struggle with his would-be assassin was the terrifying image of an upraised, bloodied blade. But as he painstakingly recounted his last conversation with the Lady Arzhela, it seemed to Justin that there were four now in this room that had held only three. A lively ghost with laughing eyes lingered for a moment in their midst, an elusive, caressing breath of summer on a day of grey skies and frigid sorrows.
“There is something you can do for me, for the Lady Arzhela...” Brother Andrev was obviously tiring, but his will overrode his failing body. “She took a lad under her wing at the abbey... Yann. He was with her that night. He told me she’d taken him into the chapel of Notre-Dame-sous-Terre to offer up a prayer to the Blessed Lady Mary for a dying pilgrim, promising that they’d sneak into the monks’ enclosure afterward and raid the kitchen. She took so long at her prayers, though, that he got bored and he crept away, left her alone...”
Justin nodded grimly, remembering the feel of that lamp’s still-warm wick against his fingers. She’d entered a well-lit chapel, secure in God’s Grace and her pilgrim’s armor, unaware that she was still being stalked by a killer. If only she’d stayed in the almonry. If only. “The boy—he saw nothing, then?”
“He says not, and I believe him. He says he returned to the almonry, expecting her to return soon and scold him for running off. I suspect he may have had some mischief in mind, mayhap a bit of thieving... When the fire bell sounded and word spread of her death, he was terrified and guilt-stricken, too. He will not talk of it, but I think he blames himself for leaving her...”
“How did you find this out, Brother Andrev?”
“Yann was too fearful to stay at the abbey. Arzhela had told him about me, and so he fled to Genêts, having nowhere else to go. He’d become right fond of her, I think. She had a way about her...”
His voice had thickened and he gestured toward a nearby table, toward a clay cup filled with a greenish liquid. Propping his head up, Justin held the cup to his lips. “We will want to talk to the lad. What can we do for you, Brother Andrev?”
“It is a great favor, but I hope you’ll do it for her, for Arzhela. She told me she planned to settle Yann on one of her manors, see that he learned a trade. I’ll do what I can for the lad, but he’s not one to be taking holy vows...” A faint smile twitched one corner of his mouth. “Moreover, I do not know how safe he is here. What if the killer decides to make sure he saw nothing that night? There was talk at the abbey about a boy being with her in the infirmary—”
“You cannot be asking that we take this tadpole with us?” Durand interrupted incredulously, turning to glower at Justin when the latter agreed to consider it. “Why is it, de Quincy, that I can always rely upon you to make my life even more wretched than it already is? What are we going to do with a light-fingered Breton whelp?”
Justin didn’t know, but he agreed with Brother Andrev about the boy’s possible danger. “We’ll talk to the Lady Emma,” he said. “Mayhap her son can find a place for the lad at Laval.” He tilted the cup so the monk could drink again. “Brother Andrev, there may be something you can help us with, too. Lady Arzhela whispered something to me with her dying breath. I thought it might be a name, but I cannot be sure. Neither Durand nor I speak Breton.”
Brother Andrev’s eyes focused intently upon Justin’s face. “What did she say?”
“One word—Roparzh.”
If he’d hoped for a sudden illumination, he was to be disappointed. The monk frowned, slowly shook his head. “It is indeed a name, a man’s name. Very common amongst the Bretons. But I know no one called Roparzh... I am sorry.”
So was Justin. “We’ve kept you too long. Rest now. We’ll return later, once you’ve talked to the lad. Better he hear it from you, for he has no reason to trust us.”
At the sound of the opening door, Brother Andrev raised himself feebly on his elbows. “That may be Yann now,” he said. “He went out to get me some soup from the cook-shop.”
“Blood of Christ!” That stunned bit of swearing spun both Justin and Durand toward the door. Simon de Lusignan was standing there, obviously as astonished to see them as they were to see him. “How did you escape?” he cried, with such amazement that they knew he’d not been at the Mont when Raoul de Fougères had got word of the Earl of Chester’s tour de force. He recovered quickly, though, for the next sound they heard was the metallic whisper of his sword clearing its scabbard. “You’ll not get away again,” he snarled, “not from me!”
Durand’s sword was unsheathed in the blink of an eye, or so it seemed to Justin, and there was something chilling about his smile. “We need him alive, Durand!” Justin said swiftly, even as he drew his own weapon.
“Tell him to yield, then!” With a shiver of steel, the two blades came together, setting off sparks. Simon parried Durand’s next blow with such ease that the knight’s smile faded, eyes narrowing as he realized he was facing a superior swordsman. Justin was surprised, too, by de Lusignan’s skill, for like many people, he had a naïve tendency to equate evil with inadequacy. But there was nothing inept about the way Simon handled a sword; he looked to be more than a match for Justin and possibly even as good as Durand.
Simon’s next maneuver was a classic move; he feinted high and then struck low. Durand anticipated him and stepped in, parrying the cut with the flat of his sword. Since neither man had chain mail or a shield, they circled each other warily, so intent upon their lethal duel that Justin was, for the moment, forgotten. Seeking to take advantage of that, he darted around the monk’s bed, but Simon caught the blur of Justin’s movement and swung about in time to deflect the blow.
“Did she beg?” Simon panted. “Did she entreat you whoresons to spare her life?”
“Spare us!” Durand spat. “This is not the great hall at Fougères Castle, and you’ve got no audience! We know what happened!”
“So do I!” Simon lunged forward with a downward thrust that would have eviscerated Durand had he not blocked it. “You killed her!”
Realization hit Justin like a blow. “You believe that,” he gasped. “You truly believe we killed her!”
Simon backed up a step, his chest heaving as he sought to catch his breath. “You did kill her, you bastards!”
“No, we did not!” Justin overturned the table with a sweep of his arm, forcing Simon to take another backward step. “We thought you did!”
“You’ve got to do better than that,” Simon jeered, swinging his sword in a tight circle to keep them both at bay. “I would never harm Arzhela!”
“I am beginning to believe you,” Justin admitted. “You were so set upon accusing us that we could not see past that. But Arzhela whispered a name to me ere she died, and I think mayhap it was her killer’s name.”
“How simple do you think I am? Only a half-wit would believe a fable like that!”
“Hear me out! It was a Breton name, a man’s name, and she said it twice! You think she’d waste her dying breath on a lie? She said ‘Roparzh,’ and if he is not her killer, who is he, then?”
“Roparzh?” Simon echoed the name blankly at first, as if it meant nothing to him. But then his sword wavered slightly. “She said ‘Roparzh’ as she died?”
“It is true.” This confirmation came from an unexpected source, from the bed wher
e Brother Andrev had been watching helplessly as they fought. “He confided in me, not sure what it meant. I was the one who told him it was a Christian name, a Breton name.”
Simon expelled his breath in an audible hiss, his pupils shrinking to pinpoints like the eyes of a man suddenly exposed to a blinding flash of light. It was at that moment that the door opened and a youngster entered, a dark imp of a lad who could only be Yann. He froze at the sight of the drawn swords, and then whirled to flee. But Claudine was close behind him and she barred his escape, the partially opened door blocking her view of the room.
“Easy, lad,” she said in a good-natured rebuke. “You’ll spill the soup for certes leaping around like a grasshopper!” She screamed then, for as she advanced into the room, Simon de Lusignan pounced, pulling her roughly against him and crooking his free arm around her throat.
“No,” he warned as Justin and Durand tensed. “I can snap her neck like a twig ere either of you can reach us. You, boy, over there with them! Do as I say and I’ll not hurt her. Drop your swords on the ground and kick them into the corner. Do it!”
When Justin hesitated, Simon must have tightened his hold, for Claudine gave a soft, involuntary cry, almost like the squeak of a rabbit in a snare. Justin dropped the sword with a clatter, and Simon looked over at Durand. “You, too,” he ordered. “If you do not, I’ll kill her.”
Durand didn’t blink. “I can live with that,” he said, but before he could act upon his words, Justin tackled him, sending them both sprawling. By the time they’d untangled themselves, Simon had backed out the door, dragging Claudine with him. Passersby stopped, staring at the sudden drama spilling into the street.
By now Justin and Durand had recovered their swords, trading curses as they tried to shoulder their way through the doorway. They reached the street as Simon snatched the reins from a rider who’d just dismounted from a big-boned grey gelding. The man cried out in astonished protest, but when he tried to get the reins back, Simon shoved Claudine into him, with enough force to knock them both to the ground. Vaulting up into the saddle, he spurred off down the street, kicking up clouds of dirt as people scattered to get out of his way.