Sharon Penman - Prince of Darkness

“But you can prove the letter is false,” Claudine said, sounding puzzled. “The Breton is dead but Simon de Lusignan is not, and he can testify that it was a scheme to cheat the Bretons at your expense.”

“And you think anyone in Christendom would give credence to a de Lusignan?” John looked at her in disbelief. “No one would believe anything he had to say. His evidence would either be dismissed out of hand because no de Lusignan has ever been on speaking terms with the truth or it would be assumed that I’d paid him to lie on my behalf.”

“The French king knows the truth,” Morgan suggested, and winced when John laughed harshly.

“God spare me, another innocent! Morgan, you have much to learn about our family. Brother Richard would sooner believe the Devil than the French king. Moreover, it is no longer in Philippe’s interest to clear me of suspicion, now, is it?”

Only Durand seemed to follow John’s thinking; the others looked so baffled that John sighed, struggling to hold onto the scraps of his patience. “Things have changed dramatically in the past fortnight, or have you not noticed? Richard is free, back in England, and most likely besieging my castles even as we speak. Once he reduces them to rubble, he’ll be heading for the closest port, eager to wreak havoc and let loose the dogs of war upon Philippe. With Richard’s fiery breath on the backs of our necks, we’re going to be hard pressed to defend our own lands, much less strike into his domains. I’d say my chances of becoming England’s king are about as good right now as yours are of becoming Pope, Morgan. And you may be sure that has not escaped Philippe’s notice.”

Morgan still did not see, but Justin did and he felt a strange pang of pity for John and Philippe and Richard, even for his queen, for all those wielding power whilst treading on shifting sands that were no less treacherous than those in the Bay of Mont St Michel. “He is saying, Morgan, that Philippe will fear he may be tempted to try to make his peace with Richard. So the more suspicion and rancor between the brothers, the better it now is for the French king.”

“Good for you, de Quincy,” John said, with a sardonic smile. “You might one day make it to wolfdom, after all.”

That was incomprehensible to Morgan and Claudine, who’d not been present for John’s little lecture about wolves and sheep. Morgan hesitated, sensing that he was stepping out onto thin ice. “What of Queen Eleanor? Could you not tell her that this letter was a forgery? She could convince Richard, then, surely?”

The others tensed, knowing from painful experience that John’s tangled, tortured relationship with his mother was a bottomless swamp, from which few emerged unscathed. John surprised them, though, by not lashing out at Morgan, giving his newfound brother something he rarely gave to anyone-the benefit of the doubt.

“That tactic-truth telling-might work with you and the Lady Nesta,” he said tersely, “but not in the bosom of our loving family. My lady mother would not believe me.”

With that, Justin heard the jaws of the trap slam shut. “Mayhap she would not,” he said wearily, “but she might believe me.”

March 1194

LONDON, ENGLAND

Justin awakened with a gasp, fleeing the darkness of a Fougeres dungeon. It was not the first disquieting dream he’d had of his entombment, but this one had a happy ending: a blazing surge of sunlight as the trapdoor was flung open and freedom beckoned in the guise of Morgan Bloet. He lay back upon the bed, heartened by his night escape, hoping it meant that the dreams would come less and less often and, eventually, not at all. He was drifting off to sleep again when there was a sharp knocking on the cottage door.

He’d gotten to London just as curfew was sounding, and was one of the last travelers allowed to pass through the city gates. By the time he’d reached Gracechurch Street, the alehouse was shuttered and still, and the houses were dark, oil lamps and hearth fires doused for the night. He’d stabled his mount in a stall next to his stallion, Copper, and stumbled off to his cottage behind Gunter’s black-smithy. Not even bothering to remove his boots, he’d fallen into bed, asleep before he’d taken half a dozen breaths.

The knocking continued. Swinging off the bed, he was starting toward the door when it opened and a black whirlwind burst into the cottage to fling itself upon him. He staggered backward under the assault, and was fending off a hysterical canine as Nell followed Shadow in. “Dogs,” she said briskly, “are more loyal than men and not as much trouble. The mad beast has not forgotten you, I see.”

“How did you know I was back?” Justin asked, going over to give her a hug.

“What-you think Gunter would not notice another horse in his stable? Come with me,” she insisted, steering him toward the door. “Lord only knows the last time you ate, so I made you a meal over at the alehouse.”

Justin would have liked to change his clothes, but he knew better than to argue with Nell, and followed her outside, where he was surprised to see a twilight dusk settling over the city. Nell confirmed that he’d slept for more than eighteen hours. “We let you stay abed all day like a sluggard” was how she put it as she hastened him across the street.

“Who are ‘we’?” he asked, and had his answer as he pushed open the door of the alehouse. It was crowded with his neighbors and friends: Gunter the blacksmith; Odo the barber, his wife, Agnes, and their nephew, Daniel; Ulric the chandler and his wife, Cicily; Marcus the cartwright; Avice, the tanner’s widow; Nell’s helper Ellis and Nell’s young daughter, Lucy; even Aldred and Jonas, the one-eyed serjeant who was the bane of London’s lawless and Justin’s mentor. With a shy grin, Justin stepped forward into the warmth of their welcome.

By now they knew the rules-he never talked about what he did for the queen-so no one asked about his sudden disappearance or his long absence from Gracechurch Street. Instead they caught him up on neighborhood gossip and local happenings, telling him that the cobbler’s wife had run off with a peddler, that Humphrey the mercer had disgraced himself by turning up drunk as a sailor’s whore for Candlemas Mass, that a woman over on Aldgate Street had given birth to twins, that a fire had damaged the cook-shop down by the river, and that King Richard’s entry into the city had been a spectacle to dazzle all eyes.

“All the shops closed early,” Nell explained. “Even the taverns and alehouses shut down, since they knew everyone would be out in the street, watching for the king’s coming. And they were, too. So many people lined up that there was not space for a snake to slither by. They hung out of windows and perched in trees and some fools had even clambered onto rooftops to see!”

“And the streets were clean,” Aldred reported in awe. “The rakyers had actually worked for their wages and swept away all the dung and mud and straw and rubbish. It was a sight to behold… like a great fair day, with banners strung across the streets and ribbons wrapped around ale-poles and people waving scarves from windows and doves set free in white clouds when the king reached Cheapside!

“Thank God no fires broke out,” he added, “for no one would ever have heard the fire bells over the clamor of the church bells. I’m surprised you did not hear them as far away as France, Justin! It was a fine welcome we gave the Lionheart. We did ourselves proud for certes, and the king and queen seemed right pleased that we’d turned out in such great numbers.”

“Bearing in mind,” Jonas said dryly, “that Londoners will come out by the hundreds for a hanging.”