Sharon Penman: Prince of Darkness

Justin had chosen the port of Dover over Southampton because of its closer proximity to London. Claudine’s letter had been sparing with details, but her urgency had been unmistakable. Trouble was brewing, she’d written, and she entreated him to make haste to Paris if ever he’d loved her. Had her family learned about Aline? Had she confided in her cousin Petronilla, only to be betrayed? If she had indeed been disowned by her father and brothers, he did not know what he could do to heal so grievous a wound. He had to try, though. To ease her fears of childbirth and disgrace, he’d promised her that he would always be there when she and Aline had need of him. If that meant Paris and a hellish sea voyage, so be it.

The Holy Ghost took more than twelve hours to cross the Channel, entering Boulogne harbor that night with the incoming tide. Justin had seen few sights as beautiful to him as the beacon fire lit in the old Roman lighthouse on the hill overlooking the estuary. The customs fee demanded of disembarking passengers was outrageously high, but Justin paid it without complaint, so eager was he to get back upon ground that did not tremble and quake like one of Nell’s egg custards. The next morning he purchased a horse, too impatient to bargain the price down by much, and took the road south toward Paris.

Four days later, Justin saw the walls of Saint-Denis in the distance, and his spirits rose, for he’d been told the abbey was only seven miles from Paris. Regretting that he could not spare the time to visit the magnificent abbey church, he resolutely pushed on. The road wound its way through open fields and vineyards, deserted and barren under an overcast sky. He had chosen a well-traveled road, though, one paved by long-dead Roman engineers, and he did not lack for company. Heavily laden carts, messengers on lathered horses, pilgrims with sturdy ash-wood staffs, beggars, merchants, soldiers, an occasional barefoot penitent, dogs, several elderly monks on mules, peddlers, a raucous band of students, and a well-mounted lord and his retinue-all converging upon Paris, paying scant heed to the body dangling from a roadside gallows, for the end of their journey was at hand.

Several years earlier, the French king had begun replacing the wooden stockade that sheltered the Right Bank of the Seine with a wall of stone. It was soon within view, and the weary travelers surged forward, eager to reach the city before darkness descended. After paying the toll, Justin was allowed to pass through the gate of Saint-Merri. Although Claudine’s letter had been vexingly terse, she had at least provided directions to her cousin Petronilla’s town house, located there on the Right Bank.

He had no difficulty finding it for it overlooked a large, open area called the Greve, the city’s wine market. All he’d known about Petronilla was that she was wed to a much older French lord, and divided her time between their estates in Vermandois and their residence in Paris. Now he knew, too, that her husband was wealthy. Most urban dwellings were constructed at right angles to the street, for it was cheaper to build that way. This house was different. Its great hall was parallel to the street, set back in its own courtyard, flanked by stables and a kitchen and other wooden buildings. Dismounting, Justin found himself hesitating to enter, for Claudine’s lavish lodgings were yet further proof of the great gulf between her world and his.

He was admitted at once, and within moments, Claudine was hastening into the great hall to bid him welcome. “How it gladdens my eyes to see you, Justin!” Her time in Paris seemed to have suited Claudine, for she looked rested and relaxed, not at all like a woman in peril. But his questions would have to wait, for her cousin had followed her into the hall.

Petronilla had none of Claudine’s dark, sultry beauty, but she was elegant and graceful and vivacious, obviously an old man’s pampered darling who had the wit to recognize her good fortune. She greeted Justin with surprising warmth. He’d not expected her to approve of Claudine’s liaison with a man who was not even a knight. Claudine must have taken her cousin into her confidence, though, for she was making no attempt to hide their intimacy, linking her arm in his as she led him toward the stairwell, insisting that he must be hungry and bone-weary and in need of tender care.

He was ushered into a comfortable bedchamber abovestairs, lit by thick wax candles and heated by a charcoal-filled iron brazier. A servant was pouring warm water into a washing laver, and a platter had already been set out on a table, piled with bread and thick slices of beef. When he tried to speak, Claudine gently placed her finger to his lips.

“We’ll talk later. Rest for a while first. You’ve had a long journey.” She beckoned to the servant and slipped away before Justin could respond. As the door closed quietly behind her, he removed his mantle, slowly unbuckled his scabbard. There was a wine cup on the table. Picking it up, he took a swallow; as he expected, it was an expensive vintage. A pair of soft leather shoes lay neatly aligned by the side of the bed. They were very stylish, fastened at the ankle with a decorative brooch, and familiar to him. It was only then that he realized Claudine had taken him to her own bedchamber.

Justin hadn’t meant to sleep, but the bed was invitingly close at hand, and he’d been in the saddle since dawn. When he awoke, one glance at the marked candle told him that he’d been asleep for several hours. He swung off the bed, hastily groping for his boots. He was still groggy, but splashing his face with water from the laver helped. After cleaning away the dust and road grime of the past few days, he collected his scabbard and mantle and stepped out into the stairwell.

Claudine was awaiting him in the great hall. “I was beginning to fear you’d sleep till the week’s end,” she teased. “No matter, though. You’re awake now, so we can talk. Let’s go up to Petronilla’s solar where we can have privacy.”

Justin was more than willing, for none of this made sense so far. If she were in some sort of danger, why did she seem so nonchalant? And if she were not, why had she summoned him with such urgency? He was done with waiting, and as soon as they entered the solar, he said, with poorly concealed impatience, “Claudine, what is going on? Why did you send for me?”

His answer did not come from Claudine. As the door closed behind them, a figure stepped from the shadows, into the flickering circle of light cast by a smoking oil lamp. “Well, actually, de Quincy,” John said affably, “I was the one who sent for you.”

January 1194

PARIS, FRANCE

I hope you are not angry with me for my little deception, Justin.” Claudine was giving him her most irresistible smile, the one that set her dimples to flashing like shooting stars. “Lord John said that he had an urgent matter to discuss with you and he doubted that you would have agreed to come if he had asked you. I’ll not blame you for being irked, but he convinced me that this was the best way to do it…”

His utter silence was beginning to erode some of her self-confidence. “Justin?” She reached out to stroke his arm and gasped when he jerked away from her touch. By then John was at her side, gently cupping her elbow and turning her toward the door as he expressed his gratitude. Before she could protest, she found herself out in the stairwell, listening to the latch slide into place.

“She’ll probably hover by the door,” John predicted cheerfully. “There’s not a woman born who could resist the chance to eavesdrop. There is wine over there, and ale, too, as Claudine says you’ve a liking for it.”

He started toward the table, stopping when Justin recoiled, dropping his hand to the hilt of his sword. “What-you think I got you here to do you harm? Good God, man, use your common sense. If I wanted you dead-”