Sharon Penman: Prince of Darkness

He was to be disappointed, though. All Justin could tell him was that the queen had safely arrived in Germany and that John was still in France, reported to be at the French king’s court. Peering into the wine flagon, Luke motioned to the serving maid for another. He was about to recount a story about a local vintner who’d evaded the tax imposed to pay King Richard’s ransom, but remembered in time that Justin would probably not see the humor in it. The Crown had demanded that all of Richard’s subjects contribute fully a fourth of their annual income to the Exchequer, a huge burden that had eroded some of the king’s popularity, at least in Winchester. But Justin’s loyalty to his queen was absolute and Luke thought it was unlikely he’d question the exorbitant price the English were paying for the return of their king.

“I had to make a trip to London,” he said, “the week of Michaelmas. I stopped by to see you, de Quincy, but your friends at the alehouse said you’d been gone since the summer. I assume you were off skulking and lurking on the queen’s behalf?”

“I was in Wales,” Justin said, reaching over to pour them more wine. “Some of King Richard’s ransom had gone missing, and the queen sent me to recover it.”

“Just another ordinary summer, then,” Luke said with a grin. “Did you get it back?”

“Eventually,” Justin said, and he grinned, too, then, imagining Luke’s reaction if he’d been able to give the deputy a candid account of his time in Wales.

The Welsh prince, Davydd ab Owain, was fighting a civil war with his nephew, Llewelyn ab Iorwerth. He staged a false robbery of the ransom to put the blame on Llewelyn, but he was outwitted by his not-so-loving wife, Emma, the bastard sister of the old king. Emma arranged to have the ransom really stolen, with the help of a partner in crime and a dangerous spy called “the Breton.” I followed Emma to an abbey grange and discovered that her confederate was none other than the queen’s son John, who decided that the best way to protect his aunt Emma was to shut my mouth by filling it with grave-soil. Since a prince never dirties his own hands, he left it for Durand to do.

You remember Durand, Luke? John’s henchman from Hell, who secretly serves the queen when he is not doing the Devil’s work. Durand had the grace to apologize to me first, wanting me to know there was nothing personal in his actions as he was about to spill my guts all over the chapel floor. Obviously it did not go as he expected, thanks to Llewelyn. Did I mention that Llewelyn and I had become allies of a sort? Anyway, I got the ransom back for the queen, too many men died, and John decided that Paris was healthier than Wales.

Of course Justin could never say that. Of all he owed the queen, not the least was his silence. She wanted John’s misdeeds covered up, not exposed to the light of day. Nor was he being completely honest, not even in his own mental musings. His mocking tone softened the harsh edges of memory-trapped in that torch-lit chapel, disarmed and defenseless, hearing John say dispassionately, “Kill him.”

“I was somewhat surprised to have you turn up with the Lady Claudine,” Luke admitted, “for I thought you ended it once you found out that she was spying for John in her spare time.”

“I did, but…” Justin shrugged, for he could hardly explain about Aline. It got confusing at times, remembering who knew which secrets. Claudine knew that the Bishop of Chester was his father. But she did not know that her spying had been discovered by Justin and the queen. Luke knew about Justin’s connection to Claudine, but not about his blood ties to the bishop. Molly, a childhood friend and recent bedmate, had guessed the truth about his father. She did not know, though, that he served the queen. The irony was not lost upon Justin that he, who’d never cared much for secrets, should now have so many.

Misreading his shrug, Luke laughed. “I know; when it comes to a choice between common sense and a beautiful woman, guess which one wins every time? Just be sure you sleep with one eye open, de Quincy, especially once you reach Paris. That is where John is amusing himself these days, is it not?”

“I am not accompanying Claudine to Paris. I go no farther than the docks at Southampton.”

Luke blinked. “You do remember that the queen is away? Why pass up a chance to see Paris? Take advantage of this free time, de Quincy. Trust me on this-of all the cities in Christendom, none offers a man as many opportunities to sin as Paris does!”

“I daresay you’re right. But there is a town that I find even more tempting than Paris,” Justin confided, and laughed outright at the baffled expression on Luke’s face when he said, “St Albans.”

January 1194

LONDON, ENGLAND

A brisk wind had chased most Londoners indoors. The man shambling along Gracechurch Street encountered no other passersby, only two cats snarling and spitting at each other on the roof of an apothecary’s shop. The shop was closed, for customers were scarce once the winter dark had descended. Farther down the street, though, he saw light leaking from the cracked shutters of the local alehouse, and he quickened his pace. But the door did not budge when he shoved it, and as he pounded for entry, a voice from within shouted, “We are closed, so be off with you!”

He was not easily discouraged and continued to beat upon the door for several moments, to no avail. He was finally stumbling away, cursing under his breath, when he almost collided with a younger man just turning the corner. He reeled backward, would have fallen if the other man had not caught his arm and hauled him upright, saying, “Have a care, Ned.”

The face smiling down at him looked blearily familiar, but his brain had been marinating in wine since mid-afternoon and his memory refused to summon up a name. His new friend had a grip on his elbow and was steering him back toward the alehouse. He submitted willingly to the change of direction, although he thought it only fair to warn mournfully, “They’ll not let us in.”

“I think they will,” Justin assured him, turning his head to avoid the wine fumes gusting from Ned’s mouth. “Nell closed the alehouse tonight for Cicily’s churching. You know Cicily-the chandler’s wife? Remember she had a baby last month?” Ned was looking up at him with such little comprehension that Justin abandoned any further explanations. Rapping sharply upon the alehouse door, he said, “It’s Justin,” and when it opened, he pulled Ned in with him.

Nell was a tiny little thing, barely five feet tall, but when she frowned grown men cringed, for her tempers were feared the length and breadth of Gracechurch Street. She was scowling now at Ned, who instinctively shrank back behind Justin. “Passing strange, but I do not remember inviting this swill-pot to the churching!”

“Have a heart, Nell. All they’ll find is a frozen lump in the morning if he does not get somewhere to sober up.”

Nell grumbled, as he expected. But she also waved Ned on in, as he’d expected, too. Justin snatched an ale from Odo the barber and guided Ned over to an empty seat, where he settled down happily with the ale, utterly oblivious of the celebration going on all around him. Justin shed his mantle, exchanged greetings with those closest to the door, and went to get Odo another ale. Coming back, he acknowledged his dog’s enthusiastic if belated welcome, and wandered over to eavesdrop as Odo’s wife, Agnes, tried to explain to Nell’s young daughter, Lucy, what a churching was.

“… and after giving birth, she is welcomed back into the Church, lass, where she is purified with holy water and blessed by the priest. Afterward, there is a gathering of her friends and family, and Cicily has so many of them that your mama insisted it be held at the alehouse.”