Kneeling by Claudine, Justin lifted her up and carried her into the infirmary. She was pale and shaken, wrapped her arms so tightly around his neck that he had trouble disengaging her hold once they were inside. “Stay here,” he said. “You’re safe now.”
“Wait! Where are you going?”
“After him.” She called out his name but he did not heed her, plunging back out into the street. There all was chaos. People were milling about, dogs barking, someone shouting for the provost. Justin ran for the priory stables. Durand was already there, lugging a saddle toward his stallion’s stall while he tongue-lashed a cowering groom for having unsaddled their horses. “Stop berating the man,” Justin snapped, hastening toward his own mount. “This is not his fault!”
“No, it’s yours!” Durand shot back, glaring over his shoulder as he fumbled with the cinches. “If you had not been such a fool, he’d not have got away!”
“At the cost of Claudine’s life!”
“He’d not have hurt her!”
“You do not know that!”
They were shouting at each other so angrily that the stable groom shrank back into the shadows, convinced that they were both lunatics. Other men were entering the stables, drawn by the uproar, but they dispersed hastily as Durand spurred his stallion through the doorway. The other men had just regained their footing when Justin’s horse came shooting by, sending them scrambling for safety again.
Morgan was outside, shouting something unintelligible at Justin as he galloped past. Justin did not have time to explain, but as he glanced over his shoulder, he saw Morgan running toward the stables. Wheeling his mount, he raced after Durand.
XVIII
February 1194
Road to Fougères, Brittany
Justin knew from the first that their chase was likely to be futile; Simon had too much of a head start to be overtaken if he was willing to abuse his mount. But his horse could always throw a shoe or pull up lame, and so they pushed on in pursuit. A man racing by at full speed attracted attention and they had no trouble following his trail; he left numerous gaping bystanders in his wake. Once they’d left the Norman town of Avranches behind, they slowed down, pacing their horses, for the hunt was no longer a mad dash; it had become a grim endurance test.
Simon was riding south. The road ahead beckoned them on, but neither man wanted to advance too deep into Brittany. They slowed down again, eventually pulling up to rest their horses and plot their strategy. “How far do you think we are from Chester’s castle?” Justin asked. “Five miles or so?”
Durand grunted an assent, swearing when he realized that he’d left his wineskin back in Genêts. “I see some alder trees over there,” he said. “There ought to be a spring close by.” Leading his lathered mount toward a pond of murky water, he let the horse drink and then knelt and drank himself, cupping the water in his hands and splashing it onto his hot, dusty face. “What—you think to ask Chester for help?”
Justin was drinking, too, ignoring the brackish taste of the water. “I am not eager to ride on to Fougères alone,” he confessed. “I do not fancy the lodgings they offer there.”
“Nor do I. But I doubt that Chester is going to give us men enough to launch an assault upon the castle.” Durand sat down tiredly in the withered grass. “Are you so sure that is where he’s heading?”
Justin shrugged, no less wearily. “Your guess is as good as mine. But this is the road to Fougères and he’s likely to be looking for a safe burrow.”
“I suppose...” Durand stretched out in the grass. “Christ Jesus, but I hate Brittany. Nothing about this accursed country makes sense. If that poxy hellspawn de Lusignan did not kill the woman, who did?”
“We might be able to get that answer from Simon de Lusignan. But we have to catch him first.” Justin rose reluctantly to his feet, and then cocked his head, listening intently. “Riders coming,” he said, “from the south.”
Durand was on his feet, too, now. “A goodly number, by the sound of them. I do not much like this, de Quincy.”
Neither did Justin. “I think we ought to pay the Earl of Chester a visit,” he said and they both made haste to mount. The riders were within sight now, detouring off the road in their direction. Justin was about to spur his stallion into an urgent race for Chester’s castle when Durand gave a startled profanity.
“They are not Bretons!”
“Are you sure?”
“Aye.” Durand’s voice was flat and cold. “I know that whoreson in the lead. They call him Lupescar—the wolf.”
Even in England, Justin had heard of Lupescar, a notorious mercenary whose sword was always for hire to the highest bidder, a man with such a foul reputation that his name was used to scare small children into going to sleep at night. Stay abed or Lupescar will come for you. “How can you be so sure he is not in the pay of the Bretons?”
“Because,” Durand said harshly, “he’s been working of late for John.”
Lupescar had the dark hair and eyes of his native Provence, a surprisingly pleasant voice flavored with the soft accent of langue d’oc, the language of the south. He also had a raw, jagged scar across his forehead, and another around his throat that looked suspiciously like rope burns. “Well, Durand,” he said in a mellow, melodious tone that was utterly at variance with those cold, empty eyes. “Are you not gladdened to see me?”
“Beyond words. What are you doing here, Lupescar?”
“Why, coming to your rescue, of course. When John got word that you’d been clumsy enough to get yourself caught, bloody-handed, over some poor pilgrim’s body, he sent me to pull your chestnuts from the fire—assuming they were not burnt to a crisp, of course. We did a bit of spying around Fougères, learned that you’d managed to get free, and we were on our way to Mont St Michel to see if we could pick up your trail.” Those unsettling eyes drifted over toward Justin. “You must be John’s other lost lamb. De Quincy, is it?”
Justin nodded tersely. “What would you have done if we’d still been imprisoned at Fougères?”
Lupescar smiled. “We’ll never know, will we?” And then he and his men turned back toward the road, where riders had appeared in the distance. They were coming from the north, and Justin breathed a sigh of relief when he recognized Morgan.
Drawing rein, Morgan looked from one to the other, aware of the tension but not understanding it. “My lords? You were not easy to catch. We left Sir Lionel and some of my lord Chester’s men at Genêts to protect Lady Emma and Lady Claudine, but the rest of us decided to join the hunt.” His gaze kept flicking toward Lupescar. He was obviously curious about this scarred stranger, but he asked no questions, waiting to follow Justin and Durand’s lead.
Lupescar returned Morgan’s appraisal, noted he wore no sword, and decided he was not worthy of further attention. “So, Durand, what are you hunting? Any quarry that might interest me?”
Durand took his time in replying. “If you came from the south, you may have seen him. Young, fair-haired, on a grey gelding, riding as if he were trying to outrun his sins.”
“We did see a man like that,” Lupescar acknowledged. “He swerved off the road into the woods when he saw us, but we saw no reason to follow. A man with money would not have been riding a nag like that. Who is he and why are you chasing him?”
Justin could feel the hairs prickling on the back of his neck every time he glanced at Lupescar, and he was glad when Durand balked at answering, saying only that it was nothing Lupescar need concern himself with.
“I expect you’ll be going back to Paris now,” Durand continued, his voice toneless, utterly without inflection, although Justin was close enough to see that his hand had tightened upon the hilt of his sword. “If John sent you to find out what had befallen us, you did. Since we freed ourselves, we are not in need of your aid, are we?”
The two men stared at each other, the silence stretching out until it threatened to become smothering. Lupescar was the first to blink. “I do not think we want to return to
Paris just yet. We’ll let you get on with your hunt, though. I promised my men they’d have a town to sleep in tonight, with real beds, wine, and wenches—not necessarily in that order. If my memory serves, that would be Avranches. Look for us there; mayhap we can ride back to Paris together.”
Durand said nothing. No one spoke until Lupescar and his wolves were on their way, disappearing into the gathering mist, for one of those mysterious Breton fogs had rolled in without warning, cloaking the countryside in a damp, grey cloud that smelled of the sea.
“John never fails to surprise me,” Durand said at last. “Who’d have thought he’d take our plight seriously?”
“You think he did?” Justin queried, and Durand laughed, a sound like shattering glass.
“He sent Lupescar, did he not?”
They passed the night at Chester’s castle of St James, for it was too far to return to Genêts. The next afternoon, they were fed in the great hall, amidst men-at-arms, several well-to-do merchants, household servants, and a few pilgrims bound for the Mont. Chester himself was not present. He’d made them welcome, but his hospitality seemed perfunctory this time. Chester had not been pleased to learn that Lupescar and his mercenaries were on the prowl so close to his own lands. It was evident that the earl was tiring of being dragged into their never-ending troubles, and Justin felt like a dinner guest who’d overstayed his visit.
“So we are in agreement, then?” Durand had propped his elbows on the trestle table, staring down glumly at a trencher of Lenten fare: salted herring seasoned with mustard. “We head back to Genêts, collect the women, and return to Paris.”
Justin nodded, toying listlessly with his own fish. Only Morgan seemed to have an appetite; popping a Lenten fritter into his mouth, he looked at them in surprise. “We are not going to follow de Lusignan to Fougères?”
“For what purpose?” Durand shoved his trencher away with a grimace. “What would you have us do, Morgan—ride up to the gatehouse and ask if Simon can come out to play?”
“No, I’d suggest you send me.” Morgan reached over, helping himself to Durand’s discarded fish. “Let me go in on a scouting expedition, make sure that de Lusignan is indeed there.”
“Are you eager to put your neck in a noose?” Justin scowled. “You were there with Chester barely four days ago. You truly want to wager that none of the garrison would remember you?”
“I’ve thought of that,” Morgan said, with a blithe wave of his hand. “The solution is simple. I need only take a page from the Lady Arzhela’s book.” Spearing another chunk of fish on his knife, he gestured with it toward a table of russet-clad pilgrims. “A man becomes well nigh invisible once he dons a monk’s habit or a pilgrim’s robe. I’d be in, fed, and out ere anyone even looked twice at me.”
“You know,” Durand said slowly, “he might be right. What do you say, de Quincy? Shall we go over and barter for one of those cloaks marked with a red cross?”
Justin nodded again and started to push back from the table. “This is the plan, then, Morgan. We’ll await you with the horses in the woods east of the castle. You put on the pilgrim’s garb, and go try your luck. Just be sure you truly want to risk this.”
“Why not? It sounds like good sport.” Morgan rose, claiming one last fritter. But as Justin started after him, Durand grabbed his arm.
“How about asking me if I want to risk that? Why cannot we wait for Morgan here?”
That had not even occurred to Justin. “It is only fair that we share the risk, Durand.”
Durand looked at him balefully. “Whenever I hear words like ‘fair’ and ‘honorable’ coming out of your mouth, de Quincy, I start saying the paternoster.”
“I’m glad to hear you’re keeping up with your prayers. But if you are truly loath to take the risk, wait for us here.”
Durand responded with an obscenity so profane that even John would have been impressed. Justin turned away, biting back a smile. As he expected, Durand followed.
The woods were thickly grown with beech trees, spruce, and pine. With but one day to go, February seemed intent upon inflicting its full measure of misery and the weather was wretched, the cold so damp and penetrating that Justin and Durand were huddled in their mantles like turtles in their shells, clutching their hoods with frozen fingers as the wind gusted, sending dead leaves swirling into the sky like skeletal butterflies. They dared not build a fire and their smoldering tempers provided the only source of heat. Both men’s nerves were raw, all the more so because they were not willing to admit it, and they tensed every time they heard the slightest sound. When it began to rain sometime after noon, Durand started calling Justin every foul name he could think of, and Justin was too miserable to argue with him. As the afternoon dragged on, the great hall back at Chester’s castle was looking better and better.
It didn’t help that they’d camped in such an eerie, otherworldly setting. Ancient stones rose up around them, arranged in strange patterns that could only have been done by man... or demons. Their spectral shapes reminded Justin of gravestones, and he made the sign of the Cross every time he glanced over at those mossy, ageless rocks, wondering what bloody pagan rites had taken place under those craggy silhouettes. He very much wanted to move, but he was not about to admit his unease to Durand. Durand shared his edginess, but as he also shared Justin’s stubborn pride, they remained where they were, listening intently for approaching footsteps and watching for ghostly apparitions from the corners of their eyes.
Despite their vigilance, they still did not hear Morgan’s quiet footfalls on the sodden ground, were alerted only when their stallions began to nicker in welcome. Emerging through the trees, he looked odiously cheerful for a man dripping wet and muddied. “Wait till you hear what I have to tell you!” he exclaimed. “Every man, woman, and child in the castle was talking about it, about what happened yesterday—”
Afraid that Morgan was about to go off on one of his digressions, Durand cut in hastily. “First things first, man. What of de Lusignan? Was he there?”
“He was, but no longer. He arrived yesterday on a horse half dead, with him looking little better. When he was admitted to the castle, he rode that horse right into the great hall ere anyone could stop him. It was the dinner hour and the hall was filled with highborn guests. Simon’s entrance caused quite an uproar.”
Morgan paused for dramatic effect. “But that was nothing compared to what he did next. He flung himself from the saddle, leaped over one of the trestle tables, and tried to throttle a man of God!”
XIX
March 1194
Laval, Maine
By the time Laval’s great stronghold came into view, the men were tired, hungry, and still angry with the women they hoped to find behind those castle walls. Their anger could be measured in miles, more than ninety of them. After retrieving their men at the Earl of Chester’s castle of St James, Justin and Durand had ridden north to Genêts, only to learn that the Ladies Emma and Claudine were no longer there.
Brother Andrev could tell them only that he thought they were heading for Laval. The Earl of Chester’s men had been instructed to escort them to Genêts, no farther, and so they were traveling with a meager escort, especially in light of Lupescar’s presence at Avranches. Nor had the Lady Emma taken Yann with them. Brother Andrev recounted sorrowfully that she’d dismissed the suggestion out of hand and he’d had no luck in changing her mind. He did have better luck with Justin, for when they rode out of Genêts, Yann was perched upon the back of Morgan’s horse, clinging tightly to the man’s belt, looking both fearful and excited.
Three days later they’d reached Laval, having failed to overtake the women on the road. They were admitted at once into the castle bailey, and Durand was soon stalking into the great hall with Justin on his heels. There they found the objects of their wrath seated at the high table enjoying a Lenten supper made tolerable by the free-flowing wine. Guy de Laval welcomed them nervously, looking like a man in need of allies, and Claudine’s smile
was dazzling, but Justin and Durand had eyes for no one but the Lady Emma, who greeted them with a nonchalance they found infuriating.
“Into the solar,” Durand rasped. “Now!” When Emma stiffened in outrage at that peremptory tone, he leaned across the table and jerked her to her feet, looking over then at Guy, as if daring him to object. Guy did not. Emma was made of sterner stuff than her son, and her hand closed upon the eating knife she’d been using to fillet her pike. But Justin now echoed Durand’s command with no less heat and she decided that submitting to their high-handedness was a lesser evil than making a scene in front of the servants. Flinging down her napkin as if it were a gauntlet, she marched across the hall toward the stairwell. Claudine followed her, and after a very conspicuous hesitation, so did Guy.
As soon as they reached the privacy of the solar, Emma turned on the men in fury. “How dare you put hands on me like that! I am not one of your kitchen wenches to be ordered about at your pleasure, Durand de Curzon! You’re fortunate I did not have my men flail you till your back was bloody.”
“First of all, Your Queenship, they are your son’s men, not yours, and I’d have liked to see them try! But if you think Sir Stoutheart there has the ballocks to give a command like that, you must believe in unicorns and barnacle geese and winged griffins!”
“I—I resent that,” Guy said, sounding more unhappy than indignant, and his flush deepened when Durand did not even deign to respond to his feeble protest.
Emma’s breath hissed through her teeth. Before she could lash out, Claudine stepped between them, speaking with an authority that reminded Justin of what he’d too often forgotten—that she was Queen Eleanor’s kinswoman. “Stop this! It serves for naught to be hurling insults at each other like brawling alewives. Why are you so wroth? No, not you, Durand. Let Justin speak; he has a far cooler head than yours.”