Sharon Penman: Prince of Darkness

Claudine nodded. “You never met King Henry, did you? Well, as soon as Morgan’s secret was out, I could see the father in the son. The same grey eyes, the same powerful build, the freckles, even the bowed legs. And if I can see it, you may be sure that John does, too. Who would not welcome the ghost of a lost loved one?”

“Emma,” Justin countered. “Moreover, I thought John hated his father.”

“No, Richard did. Everything was always so much easier for Richard. But John was his father’s favorite.”

“But he betrayed Henry, abandoned him on his deathbed and went over to Richard and the French king.”

“Yes,” she said sadly, “he did.”

On the following day, Justin began making preparations to depart. He’d hoped to leave at cockcrow, but John had gone to see the French king, taking Morgan along to introduce him to Philippe, and Justin did not want to go without bidding farewell to the newest Plantagenet. He’d tried to coax Morgan into returning to London with him, offering to introduce him to the brother with whom he had the most in common, Will Longsword, but Morgan had declined, saying that John had asked him to stay so they could get to know each other. Justin was not happy about that, convinced that John was a corrupting influence upon everyone he encountered, but there was nothing to be done about it. It was some small consolation that Emma was so disgruntled by the turn of events.

“Are you still set upon leaving this afternoon?” Claudine gave him a sidelong, flirtatious glance, half serious, half in jest. “Are you not tempted to spend the night?”

“Good Lord, yes,” he said, with enough emotion to take any sting out of his refusal. “But I vowed to forswear any and all temptations during Lent.” Now that he and Claudine were back on friendly terms, he thought it wise to put some distance between them, for nothing had changed; he’d still be lusting after a woman he could not trust.

“Mayhap you ought to be the one considering a life in the Church, not Morgan,” she said, with mockery but no malice. “Do you think he’ll ever take vows, Justin? I know there can be no higher calling than to serve the Almighty, but it still seems a waste of a good man.”

She giggled, looking both pleased and shocked by her own irreverence, and Justin laughed, too. “You ought to hear Durand on that subject,” he said, remembering the knight’s diatribe about “the madness that drives a man to renounce the pleasures of the female flesh.” “And if I needed more proof that it was time for me to leave, starting to quote Durand is surely it!”

“I think you showed great forbearance in not murdering the man and disposing of the body in some Breton bog. Care to wager how long it takes for Durand and Simon to be at each other’s throats?” When he shook his head, grinning, she glanced around the hall before saying confidentially, “I hear that Yann asked you to take him with you to England, and you mustered up enough fortitude to refuse.”

“How did you know that? Ah, Claudine, that was so hard to do. But I had no choice. I could not look after him, not as long as I serve the queen.”

“Well, what about that tavern maid… Belle? She could keep him when you were away. Though I suppose she is not the motherly sort.”

Justin was surprised by that sudden flash of claws. “You mean Nell, and I could not ask her to do that. She has enough on her plate, taking care of her daughter and running the alehouse. Why do you not like her, Claudine?”

“Are you going to claim that she speaks well of me?” she demanded, and he conceded defeat with a smile and a shrug. It was then that Yann appeared at his elbow, startling them both.

“I promise,” he said, before Justin could say anything, “that I’d be no trouble. I do not eat much and I could take care of your dog and run errands-”

“Yann, we’ve been over this already. I am rarely in London, and that is not a city for a Breton lad to be roaming about on the loose. You’d not have to go looking for trouble. It would come looking for you.”

Yann ducked his head, as if blinking back tears. “The Lady Arzhela would want you to take me,” he said, so disingenuously that Justin and Claudine were both touched and amused, in equal measure.

“Yann, you scare me sometimes,” Justin said wryly. “Lad, listen to me. A city like Paris or London is not where you belong. If only I knew someone who could find a place for you on a country manor, the way Lady Petronilla can-”

“Justin, you do,” Claudine interrupted. Leaning over, she whispered a name in his ear. When he shook his head vehemently, she looked at him challengingly. “Why not? Who better to do a good deed than a man of God? Or are you too proud to ask him for a favor?”

“If you want to learn how to get people to do what you want, Yann, you need only watch the Lady Claudine in action,” Justin said, more sharply than he’d intended. “This is what I can do, lad: I will ask the Bishop of Chester if he can take you into his household or find a place for you on one of his manors. It is likely he will agree, but you must remain here until I get word that he does. Then, I will come back for you. Agreed?”

“How do I know you are not just saying this? That you will come back for me?”

“You have my sworn word. If the bishop agrees, I will return and take you to Chester. But you must promise to stay here in Paris until you hear from me. Fair enough?”

Yann was not happy with the bargain they’d just struck. But at least it offered a glimmer of hope, and he’d learned to settle for much less. “I promise,” he said, fingers crossed behind his back.

Within the hour, though, John and Morgan returned, and Morgan would have none of it. “You do not want to live in England, Yann. You’d be happier in Wales, for Welsh is much easier for a Breton lad to learn than English. Stay here with me and when I go home, you can come with me. I’ve cousins about your age at Raglan and my mother’s brother Hywel is the Lord of Caerleon now, so you’ll have your pick of places. Do we have a deal?”

“Deal,” Yann said happily, and Justin, blinking at how quickly the boy switched allegiance from him to Morgan, gave his approval, not seeing what else he could do. He trusted Morgan, after all, could hardly blame the man for being John’s brother. Sending Yann off on an errand to the kitchen, Morgan looked intently from Justin to Claudine, back to Justin again.

“John learned something from the French king that disquieted him greatly. He would not tell me what, and I did not feel free to press; after all, our relationship has lasted barely a day. He went out into Lady Petronilla’s gardens, and is still there. I was hoping that you or Durand or mayhap you, Lady Claudine, might be able to find out what is troubling him. I suspect it concerns the Bretons and that damned letter.”

Justin was not thrilled at the prospect; the last place he wanted to venture was into the murky terrain of John’s mind. But Claudine and Morgan were looking expectantly at him. Getting to his feet, he started across the hall to find Durand.

John was seated on a wooden bench in the gardens, playing with one of Petronilla’s greyhounds. Seeing the men and Claudine bearing down upon him, he showed no surprise. “Passing strange how quickly people are drawn to the site of a disaster.”

“We want to help,” Morgan said, so simply that not even John could doubt his sincerity. “Why not let us?”

“I would that you could,” John conceded, “but there is naught to be done. One of Philippe’s spies at the Breton court has sent him word that Constance plans to make use of that accursed letter. I was hoping that they’d decide it was too risky after Simon and the Breton both disappeared under such strange circumstances. I ought to have known better. My luck has always been rotten.”