Sharon Penman: Prince of Darkness

“Good try, lad,” Durand jeered. “But if it was not planned, why did you have that dagger?”

Simon considered the question. “For protection, of course. Better than you, I knew how dangerous the Breton was.”

Morgan, an interested observer, could not help laughing. “Give it up, mates,” he advised Justin and Durand. “The lad is always going to have an answer for you, no matter what you ask him.”

“It is John he has to answer to,” Durand said, sounding grimly gratified by the prospect. “I only hope he lets me watch!”

On the following day, Parisians awakened to a chilly downpour. The skies were a drab wintry grey, a damp wind was gusting off the river, and spring seemed to have absconded under cover of darkness. John did not let the foul weather interrupt his plans, riding off to Philippe’s palace to discuss the Breton’s fate. But most of those in Petronilla’s household chose to stay indoors, preferring boredom to getting soaked.

John did not return in time for dinner, and Justin noticed that the noonday meal was less lavish than in the past. For the first time, it occurred to him that entertaining a prince must be costing Petronilla a goodly sum of money. He hoped that she’d remember this lesson the next time she was tempted to flirt with a high-living lord like John. Fortunately for Petronilla, her cousin had provided her with a plausible reason for putting an end to her expensive hospitality. Claudine still wanted to travel into Poitou to visit her father and brothers, and Petronilla had jumped at the chance to accompany her. Emma, too, had accepted Claudine’s invitation, although in her case, Justin suspected she was trying to keep as many miles as possible between herself and Queen Eleanor. Justin had agreed to speak on her behalf, feeling that he owed her after her intercession at Fougeres Castle, but he did not know if the queen would heed him, and neither did Emma.

It was still raining several hours later, and the infamous black mud of Paris was turning the city into a quagmire; only those city streets that were paved were passable. When John entered the great hall, his boots were caked, his mantle so splattered that its original color was not easily determined. He shrugged out of it, let it puddle to the floor at his feet, and crossed to the hearth to warm himself. Only then did he beckon to Justin and Durand. “Come with me,” he said, and headed toward the stairwell.

They obeyed, followed a few moments later by Emma and Claudine, expecting to be led to the solar. To their surprise, John continued to lead them on up the stairs until they’d reached the room up under the eaves of the roof where Morgan and Simon were lodged. They were both up and dressed, seated cross-legged on one of the beds as they played a game of draughts. Startled by the intrusion, they jumped to their feet, Morgan looking interested, Simon nervous, for he’d not yet had a reckoning with John.

It was obvious to them all that John had something of significance to report, and they fidgeted as they waited until he chose to share what he’d learned. The chamber was cramped, dimly lit, and had a musty, sickbed odor. John sat on Simon’s bed, and then lounged back, his muddy boots doing some damage to the blanket. Justin was beginning to resent this strange game of cat and mouse John was playing with them, but he had decided he’d not be the one to blink first. Durand seemed to have made the same resolution, for he was leaning against the door, feigning indifference. But Emma had no patience for the games of men, and she said sharply, “Well, John? What did you find out? When will the Breton be brought to trial and, more important, what will he be charged with?”

“There will be no trial, Aunt Emma.” John’s face was in shadows and his voice was toneless, difficult to read. “Philippe told me that the Breton is dead. He’d been taken under guard to the dungeons at the Grand Chatelet, and was found this morning, hanged by his bedsheet.”

There was a startled silence, but it didn’t last long. They all began to talk at once, raising their voices to make themselves heard, and it was soon apparent that they were of one mind. No one believed the Breton had killed himself. Who ever heard of a prisoner being given bed linens? How convenient it was, that the Breton had taken so many men’s secrets to his grave! Had he, by chance, left a confession behind, admitting his guilt in other crimes the provost and bailiffs had been unable to solve?

Simon finally cut through the sarcasm and skepticism by pointing out a salient fact: whether the Breton had died by his own hand or he’d had help, he was dead and on his way to Hell. Justice had been done. “I feared that he’d weasel out of the charges at a trial. Could we truly have proved he murdered the Lady Arzhela? As much as I’d like to have seen that misbegotten hellspawn publicly shamed and pelted with mud and rotten eggs as he was dragged to the gallows, at least he has paid for his crimes with his life. I, for one, am going to celebrate. Who wants to join me in the great hall to drink to the Lady Arzhela’s memory and the Breton’s eternal damnation?”

They looked toward John, and when he did not object, Morgan and Simon started for the door. Glad to escape the room’s stale atmosphere, Claudine and Emma followed. Justin and Durand would have liked to follow, too, but John had yet to move.

“Are you disappointed that there will be no trial, my lord?” Justin asked. “That would have been the most effective way to prove the letter was a forgery, but-”

“You are such an innocent, de Quincy,” Durand scoffed. “Do you truly think that letter would ever have been mentioned in court? How would that benefit the French king? As little as he’d have liked that forgery to succeed, he is not about to make any accusations against the Duchess Constance. With war looming between France and England, Brittany may prove useful down the road. As a possible heir to the English throne, young Arthur is worth his weight in gold.”

Justin had never thought of himself as an innocent, certainly not after more than a year as the queen’s man. But he’d still clung to a few illusions about royal justice, illusions he was loath to surrender. As he glanced from Durand to John, he found himself hoping that he’d never become as jaded and distrustful as they were. The price of something and its value were not always one and the same.

“Do not mock de Quincy, Durand,” John said. “This world of ours is one of sheep and wolves, and God made him a sheep, as simple as that. A man cannot fight his fate.”

Justin was rankled enough to hit back. “And what was the Lady Arzhela, my lord? A lamb to the slaughter or a she-wolf?”

John looked at him, his expression giving away nothing of his thoughts. “I do not blame you for not wanting to be a sheep, de Quincy. But you are not ready to run with the wolves. For example, I daresay it never occurred to you that this forgery scheme of the Breton’s most likely originated with Philippe. It was too well conceived for the Breton to have plucked it out of the air. My guess is that this was one of Philippe’s contingency plans, to be used if and when needed. The Breton’s great mistake was thinking that he was the puppeteer, not the puppet. My friend the French king does not like his hirelings to show so much enterprise. And then, he blundered even more badly by getting caught at it. Found-out sins are the only unforgivable kind.”

Justin was momentarily at a loss, disquieted by a cynicism so corrosive, so soul-stifling. “If you are saying that the Breton would never have faced a reckoning over the forgery, my lord, at least he has not escaped punishment for the Lady Arzhela’s murder. At least he has answered for that.”

“Yes,” John said, and then, “assuming that he is really dead.”