Sharon Penman: Prince of Darkness

By mid-afternoon, the men’s hopes had begun to flag. They stiffened, though, at the sudden sound of Garnier’s voice in the nave, speaking loudly for their benefit, alerting them that the newcomer might be the man they were seeking. He was explaining that there were two Norman monks in the chapel, praying over the body of a comrade who’d fallen sick soon after their arrival in Paris. “So sad that he’ll not be buried with his brethren,” he said, keeping up a distracting flow of chatter as he ushered the man into the chapel.

Justin and Durand made sure their cowls hid their faces. Crispin’s lashes fluttered, and then he shut his eyes again; he was taking his role seriously. Simon seemed to be lying very still, too.

“Here is the body,” Garnier announced, adding a pious, “May God have mercy upon his soul.”

The man stepped into the shadows of the chapel. He no longer wore a cleric’s rochet, but Justin recognized him at once. Canon Robert. The Breton. Arzhela’s killer.

The Breton stopped before Simon’s bier, stood staring down at the body. His face showed none of the satisfaction and relief he must have been feeling. “Alas,” he said, feigning disappointment, “this is not my friend. But I will pay for his funeral.”

“Indeed? God will bless you for that,” Garnier assured him, and he shrugged, saying modestly that it was the duty of all Christians to see to the burial of the less fortunate. Justin glanced toward Durand, both savoring the irony of the Breton’s offer. It was a chilling glimpse of the warped way the Breton viewed the world; he could murder a cousin without qualms but balked at a pauper’s burial for him. Meeting Durand’s eyes, Justin nodded and they began to move toward the door, still maintaining a monk’s pose, a monk’s sedate pace until they were within range.

It was then that Simon struck. Quick as a snake, he came off the bier, a concealed dagger suddenly in his hand, lunging at the Breton with murderous intent. Only the Breton’s remarkable reflexes saved his life. He flung up his arm and the blade meant for his throat slashed from wrist to elbow. He reeled backward, blood spurting like a fountain. Simon’s momentum carried him onward, and he crashed into Garnier, who was coming to his aid. Justin and Durand were already in motion, but they were momentarily halted by the entangled bodies on the floor, giving the Breton a chance to dart out the door, slamming it behind him.

Simon was gasping for breath, clutching his injured ribs, Garnier struggling to his feet. Justin reached the door first, with Durand but a step behind him. The nave of the church was empty, blood splattered on the floor and on the open door leading out to the porch. Almost at once they discovered a monk’s habit was not meant for pursuit, and they lost precious time ripping the garments off. “If he gets away,” Durand panted, “I swear I’ll skin Simon alive with a dull knife!” Justin shared the sentiment, but he was saving his breath for the chase. Bolting out into the garth, he came upon an amazing scene.

Their men had emerged from their hiding places and were running after the Breton. Bystanders were gaping, a funeral interrupted by the uproar, a woman screaming unintelligibly. The Breton had left a trail of blood in his wake, but desperation had given wings to his heels and he’d outdistanced his pursuers. He’d done the unexpected, not heading for the closest exit, the one opening out onto rue Saint-Denis, once again proving he did have Lucifer’s luck, for they’d locked that gate as a precaution. He risked a glance over his shoulder, sprinting toward the open gateway, the same one his hired killers had barred to entrap John within the cemetery.

But it was then that a band of horsemen galloped through the gates, onto the open field. To avoid being run down, the Breton dodged, first one way and then another, but he was like a fox trying to evade a pack of hounds; wherever he turned, he found his way blocked by a horse and rider. He was being herded away from the gate, back into the middle of the cemetery, and suddenly the ground gave way under his feet and he went tumbling down into one of the open grave pits meant for Christ’s poor.

An unrepentant Simon had been sent back to Petronilla’s town house, newly in need of a doctor’s care. Durand had been in favor of shoving him into the open grave with the Breton, but John overruled him, saying he’d deal with Simon later. As soon as he saw John, the Breton must have known he was doomed. He made a game try, though, claiming that he’d never sent John a message to meet him in the cemetery. He passionately denied that he’d slain Arzhela, insisting that Simon was the killer, and the one responsible for the attack upon John, too. Simon had murdered Arzhela in a lover’s quarrel, and then sought to blame him for the crime. Simon had almost killed him at Fougeres Castle. Why had he tried again in the funerary chapel? Because a dead man could offer no defense, could not prove his innocence. Justin found it disquieting that the Breton sounded so convincing.

It was not long before the French king rode into the cemetery. His arrival created chaos, for by now a large crowd of spectators had gathered and they surged forward in excitement, had to be pushed back by the royal bodyguards. Sliding from the saddle, Philippe strode over to John. “Well?” he demanded. “Where is he?”

John pointed toward the open grave. Philippe looked startled, then walked over to see for himself. The Breton had wrapped his mantle around his bleeding arm, was leaning against the loose earthen bank as if he needed support. At the sight of the French king, his already ashen face went even paler. “My lord king…”

For what must have seemed like infinity to the Breton, John and Philippe stood there in silence, staring down at him. Justin had edged closer to get a look at the French king, and he was struck by the contrast between the two men. Philippe was ruddy whereas John was dark, and more plainly dressed than the Plantagenet, who did not let betrayal and rebellion interfere with his pursuit of the newest fashions. He was taller than John, and although they were only about fifteen months apart in age, the French king looked considerably older for he’d lost his hair and nails during his near-fatal illness in the Holy Land; his nails had grown back, but his hair had not. The one trait the two men had in common was that they both made bad enemies, as the Breton soon would be able to attest, assuming he lived long enough to make a dying declaration.

The Breton was attempting to persuade Philippe of his innocence, just as he’d tried with John. Those listening had to give him credit for glibness; he had a tongue that could charm birds out of the trees and virgins out of their maidenheads. But his eloquence was wasted upon the only two members of the audience who mattered. When he at last ran out of breath-or hope-the French king turned to his provost.

“Arrest this man.”

I wanted the pleasure of killing the whoreson myself!” Simon glowered defiantly at his interrogators. Only the fact that he was in bed, mother-naked and having his wounds re-bandaged, kept Durand and Justin from laying rough hands upon him. Simon did not seem to realize how narrow his margin of safety was, for he continued to insist that he’d been in the right. “If not for these sore ribs of mine, I’d have done it, too, skewered him like a Martinmas shoat!”

“You have no notion, do you, of how lucky you were?” Justin shook his head in disgust. “Lord John and the French king wanted the man taken alive. You think they’d have thanked you for sending him to Hell?”

That gave Simon pause-briefly. “I did not think about that,” he admitted. “When I saw him, all I could think about was Arzhela, bleeding to death on that chapel floor.”