Sharon Penman - Prince of Darkness

“You did want me dead!”

John paused. “Well, yes, I suppose so,” he conceded. “I’ll not deny that I did tell Durand to kill you. But that was not personal, de Quincy. I was simply trying to protect my aunt.”

“Very gallant of you, my lord,” Justin snarled, and John’s eyebrows rose.

“I like to think so.” Moving toward the table, he observed, “I am not about to lunge at you, am merely pouring myself a drink. I’d offer you one, too, but I fear you might fling it in my face.” Taking a swallow of wine, he regarded Justin thoughtfully over the rim of his cup. “Time for some blunt speaking, I see. Yes, I did give Durand that command. You know it, I know it, and by now, I expect my lady mother knows it, too.”

She didn’t, but Justin was not about to tell him that. He was still badly shaken, not only by John’s ambush and Claudine’s betrayal, but by the surge of hot, raw rage that had flooded his brain and submerged his self-control. He’d learned at an early age to keep his emotions under a tight rein, for a runaway temper was an indulgence few orphans could afford. Life could be cruel to the weak and the innocent. Nor was it kind to the unwary or the careless. In the world he’d grown up in, men paid dearly for their mistakes-unless they were fortunate enough to have the royal blood of England coursing through their veins.

“Put yourself in my place, de Quincy. What was I to do-let you go free to tell my mother that my aunt Emma had been plotting with me against her beloved Richard? If you’d been a more reasonable sort, I could have bought your silence. An argument might even be made that you brought some of your troubles upon yourself by being so incorruptible, so damnably honest.”

It was one of John’s saving graces that he found humor in the un-likeliest places, pools of water in the driest deserts, and Justin had long suspected that this was one reason he’d so often been able to beguile his way back into Eleanor’s favor. Even Claudine’s playful nickname for him, “the Prince of Darkness,” hinted at the seductive nature of his sins. But his sardonic charm was wasted upon Justin. “Out of morbid curiosity,” he said coldly, “how did Durand explain his failure to murder me?”

“As Durand told it, he was overpowered by a score of Welshmen masquerading as monks. Why? Is there more to the tale than that?”

“No,” Justin said grudgingly. Leave it to Durand to tell just enough of the truth to save his worthless skin. Justin’s loathing for Queen Eleanor’s spy made his distrust of John seem positively benign in comparison, yet he could deny neither the other man’s ice-blooded courage nor his unholy quickness of wit. Strangely enough, he did believe John’s claim that he’d been seeking to shield Emma from exposure. But he could find no excuses at all for Durand’s willingness to obey that lethal order.

John made another casual offer of wine, shrugging at Justin’s terse refusal. “So… where was I? Ah, yes, complaining about your unwillingness to take bribes. It is not as if I bore you some bitter, vengeful grudge, de Quincy. Since the risk of death is a natural hazard of your precarious profession, I do not see why you are taking this so much to heart. Hellfire, man, you won, did you not? You thwarted Durand, outwitted Davydd and Emma, recovered the ransom, and probably even earned a few words of my lady mother’s sparing praise. Now that I think about it, I am more the injured party than you are!”

Justin was not amused. “Why did you lure me here, my lord John?”

“Must you make it sound so underhanded and sly?” John protested, the corner of his mouth twitching. “I need your help, de Quincy. It is urgent that I speak with Emma as soon as possible. I want you to deliver a letter from me, convince her if she has qualms, and escort her safely to Paris.”

Justin shook his head in disbelief. “You cannot be serious. I am the last man in Christendom whom the Lady Emma would heed.”

“I agree that she has no fondness for you. But you are the also the queen’s man, as she well knows. She’ll not dare refuse you.”

In spite of himself, Justin felt a flicker of interest stirring. So John wanted the cover of the Crown. What was he up to and what part did Emma play in his scheme? “Why would I ever agree?”

“I can make it well worth your while.” John did not elaborate, nor did he need to. They both knew he was offering more than a pouch full of coins. He was offering, too, the favor of a future king. Richard had no heirs of his body. If he died before he sired a son, a distinct possibility for a man who flirted with Death on a daily basis, there were two claimants for his crown-his brother John and his nephew Arthur, the six-year-old son of his dead brother Geoffrey and Geoffrey’s highborn widow, Constance, Duchess of Brittany. The smart money was on John.

“I serve the Queen’s Grace, and I somehow doubt that her interests and yours are likely to coincide.”

“Actually,” John said, “in this case, they do.”

Justin did not reply; his incredulous expression spoke for him. John frowned, for he’d hoped to avoid trusting Justin with the specifics of his plight. “I have learned that I am about to be accused of a crime I did not commit, compliments of that Breton bitch, my sister-in-law Constance.”

“A crime you did not commit?” Justin echoed, with enough skepticism to deepen John’s scowl.

“Is that so hard to believe? Constance would accuse me of murdering babies and drinking their blood if she thought she could discredit me in Richard’s eyes.”

“Or she could let you do that all by yourself.”

“Damnation, de Quincy, will you listen to me? I am in trouble, and for once, none of it is my doing!”

“And that would grieve me because…?”

“Because it would grieve my mother, you fool!”

“Would it?” Justin did not know if that was true or not, and at the moment, he did not care. He’d had enough. “That is not for me to say,” he said, and started toward the door.

John moved swiftly to intercept him. “We are not done yet! At the least, you can hear me out!”

Justin discovered now that their difference in height gave him the advantage, for the queen’s son had to look up to him. “No, my lord, we are done,” he said, and pushed past John to the door.

As John had predicted, Claudine was waiting out in the stairwell. “Justin, we have to talk!”

“No, we do not,” he said, and continued on down the stairs.

She followed hastily behind him. “Justin, wait! I know you are wroth with me, but you do not understand. If you’d let me explain-”

“There is nothing you can say!” As Justin shoved the door open, she caught at his arm, crying out his name. Emerging from the stairwell, they came to an abrupt halt, for all in the hall were staring at them.

“Justin, please,” Claudine entreated softly. She was still clutching his arm, and when she would not release her grip, he pried her fingers loose, one by one, until he was free. He turned, then, and stalked away, ignoring her plea that he wait, that he listen. He’d almost reached the door when his gaze fell on Durand de Curzon, lounging against the wall, arms folded across his chest. As their eyes met, Durand raised his hand in a sarcastic salute.

Temperatures had dropped sharply with the setting sun, and Justin shivered as he strode across the courtyard toward the stables. Within moments, he heard the door slam and quick footsteps sounded behind him. He spun around to see Claudine hurrying toward him.

“Go back to the hall!”

“Not until we talk!”

He continued on into the stables, with Claudine almost running in order to keep pace. “Go back inside,” he snapped. Noticing for the first time that she’d neglected to take her mantle, he added impatiently, “You’ll freeze out here.”