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  “I’ve heard the gossip about the de Lusignans,” Justin said thoughtfully, “those tales told over a wine flagon that grow worse with each telling. How they feud with their neighbors and prey upon travelers and dare to defy both Church and Crown. You think it is coincidence that one of their lot has shown up at the Duchess Constance’s court?”

  “That same thought crossed my mind,” Durand admitted. “God smite them, de Lusignans take to conspiracies like pigs to mud. But why would Constance and her Breton barons confide in a stripling like Simon? No, I’d say he is Arzhela’s stud, no more than that.”

  Justin was inclined to agree. He still had a suspicion, though, that Arzhela was not being completely honest with them.

  "Ite, missa est.” With those words, the Mass was ended and the castle chapel began to empty. Justin was one of the last to leave. As he stepped out into the wan sunlight, he heard his name hissed, and turned to see Arzhela beckoning imperiously to him.

  “Hurry,” she insisted, pulling him in the direction of the stables. As soon as they’d passed into the gloomy shadows of the barn, she thrust a bundle at him. “Here,” she said, “put this on. I have had an inspired idea, know how to get you in to see our reclusive canon!”

  Justin unwrapped a man’s tunic of coarse kersey wool, the undyed murky shade known as hodden grey, of such shabby quality that most servants would have balked at wearing it. Ignoring his questions, Arzhela was already tugging at his mantle. “Make haste,” she urged. “Better we do this whilst Father Herve is still busy in the chapel.”

  She was not to be denied and Justin pulled the garment over his head, hoping it was not as flea-infested as it looked. As soon as he unbuckled his scabbard, Arzhela placed it on top of his folded mantle and instructed a wide-eyed young groom to guard it well. The youth vowed that he would and Justin did not doubt it; he was learning that Arzhela was one for getting her own way.

  Returning to the castle bailey, he followed her toward the kitchens, where a platter with soup, bread, and wine was waiting for them. Trying to keep the soup from slopping out of the bowl, he hastened to keep pace with her as they headed toward a corner tower. As they walked, she finally deigned to offer an explanation for the masquerade.

  “Canon Robert is still keeping to his bed, but I’ve come up with a clever way for you to get a look at him. Father Herve offered to share his own chamber as a courtesy and I am about to pay a sickbed visit to our ailing canon. Whilst I ply him with flattery and onion soup, you can study him to your heart’s content,” she concluded triumphantly. “A pity I could not think how to get Durand in with you, but he’d not have made a convincing servant!”

  “But I would?” Justin said dryly.

  Arzhela’s grin showed she was not as oblivious as her words might indicate. “Dear heart, you are a spy, after all. So it is to the good that you can blend into the background when needed!”

  By now they’d climbed the narrow stairs to the chaplain’s top-floor chamber. Arzhela rapped sharply on the door and then, without waiting for a response, barged in. The lone occupant whirled away from the window in surprise. He was fully dressed, wearing the white rochet common to clerics. Justin was not surprised that he was garbed in such fine linen, for unlike their monastic brethren, canons took no vows of poverty. He was tonsured and clean-shaven, with features that were attractive but not memorable. He looked exactly like what he claimed to be-a man of God who was also at home in the secular world. But he did not look like a man too ill to rise from his sickbed.

  “Canon Robert,” Arzhela purred, “how wonderful to see you up and about! If I may say so, you seem in the very bloom of health. Dare I hope that you’ll honor us with your presence at dinner this day?”

  “Alas, my lady, I fear not. Lord Andre’s physician advised me to walk for brief periods, lest I become too weak lying abed.” The canon seated himself upon the bed, relieved by his illness of the demands of courtesy, and regarded them calmly. “What may I do for you, Lady Arzhela?”

  “Nay, Canon Robert,” she said sweetly, “what may I do for you?” With a flourish, she gestured toward Justin, standing inconspicuously behind her, as any well-trained servant would. “I’ve brought you some soup, very good for catarrh or a queasy stomach. And wine, good for almost any ailment!”

  As the canon thanked her profusely for her kindness, Justin set his burden upon a coffer by the bed. While he welcomed this opportunity to scrutinize Canon Robert, he was not sure how much could be learned in such a brief encounter. The man was as urbane and polished as would be expected of one who served a bishop, not the sort to blurt out indiscretions if caught off guard. It seemed most likely that he was what he appeared to be-a conduit, a messenger. He might even believe that the letter was genuine.

  Arzhela’s attempts to engage the canon in conversation had been unsuccessful. His responses were polite, but so increasingly wan that she at last conceded defeat and bade him farewell. Once she and Justin were out in the stairwell, she said sarcastically, “I feared that if I stayed any longer, he was going to swoon dead away. Did you notice how halting his speech became, as if the poor soul did not even have the strength to finish a sentence!”

  “How does he explain his possession of the letter?”

  “He claims it was entrusted to him by the archdeacon of Toulouse, whilst hinting that the archdeacon was acting upon Bishop Fulcrand’s behalf.” Emerging again into the bailey, they headed back to the stables to retrieve Justin’s belongings, Arzhela speculating all the while about Canon Robert’s reasons for keeping out of sight. “All I can think is that he recognized you or Durand. You are the queen’s man, after all, and Durand serves Johnny.”

  “Trust me, my lady. I am not so well-known that a canon from Toulouse would have heard of me!” Justin could see that Arzhela was not convinced, loath to surrender her suspicions, and he did not argue further. Instead, he told her that Lady Emma had gotten word that morn of her son’s return to Laval. “She insists that we leave for Laval on the morrow, for she is eager to speak to her son as soon as possible.”

  Arzhela was not pleased by that, but admitted that they had no choice; she’d met the Lady Emma. “Well, you must return to Vitre straightaway once you’ve questioned her son. Whilst you are gone, I will see what else I can discover. Who knows, I might have solved the mystery by the time you get back,” she teased, but Justin did not share her amusement.

  “Lady Arzhela, I urge you to keep your distance until we return. At first I saw nothing suspect about Canon Robert. But as we made ready to leave, I caught something odd. He was staring intently at me, my lady, or to be more precise, at my boots.”

  Arzhela followed his eyes, gazing down at the cowhide boots protruding from the hem of his threadbare woolen garment. She was quick-witted, understanding the significance at once. “Of course! No servant would have boots of such good leather! So he knows you are not who you pretended to be.”

  Justin nodded. “More than that, my lady. Canons are rarely, if ever, men of humble birth. He ought not to have even glanced at me, for men of rank do not pay heed to those who serve them. But he did pay heed to me, and I wonder why.”

  “Is that not obvious? The man has something to hide!”

  “Be that as it may, will you promise me that you’ll do nothing rash until we return?”

  Arzhela frowned and sighed and argued. Justin persevered, though, until she reluctantly agreed to take no further action. But his relief was tempered by a few lingering misgivings, for he understood now why John had been alarmed on her behalf.

  CHAPTER 9

  February 1194

  LAVAL, MAINE

  Guy de Laval’s years were twenty and four, but he looked younger than that. He was pleasing enough to the eye, with flaxen hair and the easy smile of one who’d never gone hungry or questioned the good fortune that had been his from birth. From his father, he’d inherited the barony of Laval; from his mother, the blood of the Royal House of England and a taste for intrigue. But he ha
d none of Emma’s steely resolve, her coolness under fire, or her gambler’s nerves.

  “I… I know naught of this letter,” he stammered. “Truly, I do not.” Gaining confidence when no one contradicted him, he mustered up the sunlit smile that had long been the coin of his realm, able to buy whatever favors his lordship did not.

  But his genial, shallow charm was wasted upon this particular audience. Durand and Justin eyed him skeptically, with none of the deference he’d come to expect as his just due. Nor did his lady mother appear impressed by his declaration of innocence. She’d not been a physical presence in his life, for they’d been parted when he was only four and he’d seen her but rarely since her marriage to a Welsh prince. He remembered a woman of heartbreaking beauty, as ethereal as one of God’s own angels, memories of gossamer and magic nurtured by his imagination and her absence. He was both awed and intimidated by the flesh-and-blood Emma now standing before him, a handsome woman in her forties who was regarding him with very little maternal solicitude.

  “We know that you’re in this muck up to your neck,” Durand said brusquely and Guy started to bridle. His pride demanded as much although, in truth, he was even more intimidated by Durand than he was by this stranger, his mother.

  “I told you to let me handle this,” Emma said, aiming her rebuke at Durand but keeping her eyes upon her son all the while. “Guy, do not waste your breath and my time in false denials. Use the meager common sense that God gave you. Would I be here if your youthful folly had not been exposed?”

  Her scorn stung. “I do not see it as folly to oblige great lords, to be a kingmaker!” As soon as the words were out of his mouth, Guy realized how easily he’d fallen into his mother’s trap, and his fair skin mottled with hot color. His confession hung in the air like wood smoke, impossible to ignore.

  “Well, I for one am impressed,” Durand drawled. “You held out for four whole heartbeats, mayhap even five.”

  “At least he dared to gamble for the highest stakes,” Justin objected, picking up his cue as if the gambit had been rehearsed between them. “How many men have the courage to risk offending a king?”

  Guy’s flush had darkened at Durand’s gibe, but now he swung around to stare at Justin. “John is not my king,” he said indignantly. “I am not disloyal to my liege lord!”

  Justin shook his head regretfully. “The French king might well think otherwise.”

  Guy frowned, an expression of defiance undercut by his darting, anxious eyes. “All know he is no true friend to John. Theirs is an alliance of expediency, one held together by cobwebs and spit. Why should he care what befalls John?”

  “You do not know about their latest pact?” Justin feigned surprise, beginning to enjoy the playacting. “Lord John and King Philippe struck a devil’s bargain soon after Christmas. In return for Philippe’s continued support against Richard, John agreed to cede to Philippe all of Normandy northeast of the River Seine, save only Rouen, and to yield to the French a number of strategic border castles. It is now very much in Philippe’s interest that John become England’s next king. How do you think he’ll react once he learns that his liege man, the Lord of Laval, is conniving to put a Breton child on the English throne?”

  “I… I did not know about this.” Guy was stammering again. “I was told that John and Philippe were at odds, each blaming the other for his failure to keep Richard imprisoned-”

  “They were,” Emma interrupted, “but their mutual fear of Richard is far stronger than their petty vanities. You ought to have known that, Guy. And you would have, if you’d given this scheme some serious thought. Why in Heaven’s Name did you not consult with me first?”

  For a moment, Justin thought Emma was making an oddly timed jest. But when he glanced toward her, he saw that she was in deadly earnest. The expression upon Durand’s face mirrored his own astonishment. Guy looked no less nonplussed.

  “Madame… Mother, I do not need your permission to enter into a conspiracy,” he said, and as ludicrous as his words were, he managed to invest them with a doleful sort of dignity.

  “Well, you should!” Emma snapped, confirming all Justin’s suspicions about her utter lack of humor. “I’d have made sure that this foolishness ended then and there!”

  “Why was it so foolish?” Realizing how feeble his protest sounded, Guy cleared his throat and said, with more conviction, “If Constance’s little lad becomes king, she’ll not forget the men who stood by her side!”

  “Neither will John! How can I make you understand how badly you’ve blundered?” Emma glared at her son. “Constance and Arthur versus Eleanor and John. Do you truly see those scales as balanced? You might as well wager that a rabbit will devour a wolf!”

  Guy had never learned how to hold his own against a stronger, more forceful personality. His surrender was abrupt, total, and abject. Slumping down upon the nearest seat, a rickety wooden bench, he muttered, “Oh, God… John knows about me, doesn’t he? What can I do?”

  Emma sat beside him on the bench. “You can tell us all you know about this plot.”

  Guy did, haltingly, keeping his gaze locked upon the floor rushes at his feet. His the mournful demeanor of a sinner seeking absolution, he described the December meeting in the pirate citadel of St-Malo, the dramatic revelation of the letter’s existence, and the gleeful reaction of the Breton lords. They questioned him closely about Canon Robert of Toulouse, but he claimed to know little about the man. Nor did he know who was the master puppeteer in this political puppet show.

  He did not think Duchess Constance was the instigator. Since he was not one of her confidants, though, that was merely an opinion, not actual evidence. So far, what he’d told them was not particularly helpful. But then he said, almost as an afterthought, “I think some of the Breton lords truly believed that the letter was genuine.”

  Emma’s head came up sharply and she signaled to Justin for wine. “How were you so sure that it was not, Guy?”

  Guy gratefully accepted the brimming cup. “Simon told me.”

  Unlike Emma, Justin and Durand understood the enormous significance of those three simple words. Before Emma could reveal her ignorance, Justin said casually to Guy, “You and Simon de Lusignan are mates, are you?”

  Guy nodded innocently. “We were squires together in the Viscount of Thouars’s household. Simon is a good lad, a good friend. He is one for borrowing money and not one for repaying it, but that is not his fault, what with him being a younger son. He only gets crumbs from his father’s table, so he must make do however he can. A reliable man to have beside you in a tavern brawl, though.”

  Justin and Durand’s eyes caught and held briefly and in that moment, Justin knew exactly what the other man was thinking, for he was thinking it, too-that Guy had probably never been in a tavern brawl in his life.

  Emma was occupied trying to place Simon in the de Lusignan hierarchy. “He’s one of the sons of William, who holds the lordship of Lezay,” she said at last, in a dismissive tone that told Justin volumes about the lower social status of this branch of the de Lusignan clan.

  Guy nodded again and, at his mother’s prodding, admitted that Simon de Lusignan had been the one to ensnare him in the Breton conspiracy. No, he did not know how Simon had gotten involved in it. He’d been surprised, though, to see how much respect Simon seemed to command amongst the Breton lords, who treated him like a man of some importance rather than a stripling of two and twenty, a fourth son with little hope of advancement.

  By now, Emma had realized that Guy had just given them a valuable clue. Her eyes went questioningly to Justin and he nodded imperceptibly, conveying the message that he would enlighten her at the first opportunity. Once again, his gaze crossed that of Durand, and once again, the same thought was in both their minds: it was time to have a long talk with the Lady Arzhela.

  Emma chose to remain at Laval with her son. Since Claudine’s rationale for accompanying them was to act as Emma’s companion, she could muster no convincing argumen
t when Justin and Durand insisted that she remain at Laval, too. Emma refused to spare the young knight Lionel, although she grudgingly agreed to let them take Morgan and her men-at-arms. Guy would have liked to ride with them, for he was eager to escape his mother’s chastisement, but he was not given that option.

  The day was cold, yet clear, the road in decent shape for midwinter, and they covered the twelve miles to Vitre in two hours. Upon their arrival at the castle, however, they discovered that their journey was not over. The Duchess Constance had decided to accept the hospitality of Raoul de Fougeres, and the Lady Arzhela de Dinan had accompanied her.

  Fougeres was less than twenty miles to the northeast of Vitre and by pushing their horses, they reached it just before dusk. At first glimpse, the castle appeared to be one of the most formidable strongholds Justin had ever seen, a rock-hewn fortress surrounded by miles of marshland and moated by the serpentine winding of the River Nancon. But as they approached, something struck him as odd about those massive defenses. Durand, with a more experienced eye, needed but one look.

  “What sort of dolt would build a castle down in the valley instead of up on the heights?” he said incredulously, and Justin realized he was right; he’d never before seen a castle located on low ground. Drawing rein, they were marveling at the incongruity of it when Morgan pulled up beside them and burst out laughing.