her antagonism had been replaced by wariness.
“Well,” she said briskly, “at least now I understand your lapse in manners. I did not tell Sir Oliver to set those men on you. I did not even know you were in Shrewsbury. Sir Oliver has been with me for many years, since my first marriage in Normandy, and he is very loyal, very protective. He ought not to have acted so rashly, but fortunately there was no great harm done.”
“Fortunately,” Justin echoed, with as much sarcasm as he could muster, and Emma gestured toward a bench by the water’s edge. When she indicated that he could sit beside her, he knew that she was more disturbed than she’d have him believe. Queen Eleanor often allowed him to sit in her presence, but in her veins flowed the princely blood of Aquitaine and she felt no need to remind others of her lofty heritage. Emma, the out-of-wedlock issue of an Angevin count and one of his many light o’ loves, clung to her royal prerogatives like a barnacle to a ship’s hull. With a flicker of black humor, he wondered how she’d respond if he told her he understood her self-doubts, one bastard to another.
“I trust… I hope you do not intend to pursue this matter further with Oliver,” she said, betraying her discomfort by the rising color in her cheeks, for she’d had little practice in requesting favors from inferiors. “He made a mistake, but it was done from the best of motives.”
Taking Justin’s incredulous silence for assent, she allowed a small sigh of relief to escape her lips. “Why are you here? I would have thought your royal mistress would be too busy securing Richard’s release to have any time to spare for me. What does she want now?”
Once, Justin would have marveled that a she-wolf could see herself as the one wronged by the sheep. His dealings with John had cured him of that particular naivete. “I have a letter for you,” he said, and reached for the leather pouch clipped to his belt.
Emma’s eyes widened at the sight of the wax seal, obviously recognizing it as John’s. She read in silence, her head bent over the parchment. When she looked up at Justin, he thought he could detect curiosity and possibly even relief in her eyes. “I assume that the queen has an interest in this outcome, since you are the bearer of Lord John’s letter.”
Justin regarded her impassively. “You could assume that.”
Emma looked down at the message again. “You truly do stand high in the queen’s favor, Master de Quincy, if she trusts you with matters of this… nature,” she said, and when she glanced up at him, it was with a grudging respect, the acknowledgment that he was a more significant piece on the chessboard than she’d first thought.
“What is your answer, my lady? Will you be returning with me to Paris?”
“Yes,” she said, “I will,” and Justin did not know whether to be glad of that.
Rising in a swirl of skirts, Emma began to pace. “There is so much to do. I suppose if I send to Ellesmere straightaway, I might be able to leave on the morrow. I may be able to buy some of what I need in Shrewsbury… If I take Oliver and Lionel and several men-at-arms..”
She was obviously thinking aloud, Justin’s presence forgotten. But the mention of Oliver’s name pricked him in a place still sore from the night’s attack. “Oliver? I do not fancy going on the road with the man responsible for ambushing me!”
She turned in surprise. “Do not be silly. It is not as if Oliver wielded the club himself!” she pointed out, giving Justin an unexpected and unsettling insight into the thought processes of those with power enough to insulate themselves from the consequences of their actions.
Emma had promised she’d be ready to leave on the morrow, and taking her at her word, Justin showed up as soon as the abbey gate was unbarred. The first person he saw was Morgan, who came hurrying toward him.
“Guess what?” he said, barely containing himself until Justin had swung from the saddle. “I am to go with you and my lady to Paris! She said she’d need a man who is good with horses.”
His grin was contagious, impossible to resist, and Justin grinned back. “Ah, but are you good with ships?”
Morgan dismissed that drawback with an airy wave of his hand. “If I can drink the swill that passes for wine at the Doggepol Street tavern, I can survive a sea voyage. Speaking of queasy stomachs, Sir Oliver will not be accompanying us, after all. It seems he ate something putrid, and the poor soul has been sick as a dog all night, groaning and moaning and clutching his belly in a truly pitiful manner.”
Justin studied Morgan thoughtfully. “Did he, indeed?”
The groom met his eyes innocently, the ghost of his grin still tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Is that all you have to say? You are not going to tell me that you’ll miss old Oliver’s company, are you?”
“No… I am thinking that you’d make a bad enemy, Morgan.”
The other nodded as if he’d been given a great compliment. “Aye, that I would. But I also make a good friend.”
Justin nodded, too. “Yes, you do,” he agreed readily, wishing he could be sure which one Morgan was.
CHAPTER 7
January 1194
PARIS, FRANCE
Justin’s third Channel crossing was no less unpleasant than his first two had been. By the time their cog had entered Barfleur harbor, he’d decided that sailors were either the bravest men in Christendom or the most demented. But twelve queasy shipboard hours was only one toll on the costly, dangerous, and discomforting road to Paris. Never before had he traveled with someone who was the wife of a prince and the aunt of a king, and he earnestly hoped that he’d never have to do so again.
Emma had insisted upon an entourage: her handmaiden Mabella, her tiny, feathery lapdog, the young knight Lionel, who was substituting for the ailing Oliver, her groom Morgan, and three men-at-arms, Rufus, Jaspaer, and Crispin. She’d insisted, too, upon transporting their horses across the Channel, for she was accustomed to riding the well-bred Belle, her favorite palfrey, and was disdainful of the caliber of mounts offered for sale in French ports. Horses were even less enthusiastic about sea travel than Justin was, and had to be blindfolded before they could be coaxed onto the gangway; once on board they would have to be separated by hurdles and fitted with canvas belly slings to keep them on their feet. Consequently, not all ships’ masters were willing to accept live cargo, and it had taken additional time to find a suitable vessel.
Justin had once been told an amazing story about Hannibal, an enemy of ancient Rome who’d somehow gotten elephants over the Alps. He’d never understood what had possessed Hannibal to attempt such a mad undertaking until now. Hannibal and the Lady Emma were kindred spirits, so single-minded in the pursuit of their own interests that nothing else mattered to them. And like Hannibal’s unfortunate elephants and Emma’s hapless horses, he was being dragged along against his will, feeling as powerless as those poor beasts of burden.
Darkness had descended by the time they reached Paris, and the city gates were closed for the night. Fortunately for them, John was staying at the Temple, the sprawling compound of the Templars in the Barres, just east of the Baudoyer Gate, and they had no need to enter the city itself. Justin was glad, for he had no desire to pass the house on the Greve where Claudine was living with her cousin. It was with a vast sense of relief that he escorted Emma into the guest hall to be warmly welcomed by John. As they disappeared into the stairwell in search of privacy, Justin sprawled in the closest window seat and, too tired even to eat, promptly fell asleep.
He was awakened when John sent a servant down into the hall in search of Durand. The knight smirked at Justin as he headed for the stairs, obviously seeing the summons as some sort of victory, and as Justin slid back into sleep, he decided that Durand was as deranged as any sailor. The next thing he knew, Durand was looming over him, scowling. “Get up, de Quincy,” the knight said curtly. “He wants to see you now.”
John was perched on the edge of a table, wine cup in hand. Emma was seated in a high-backed chair, as close as she could get to a charcoal brazier. Durand was in his favorite position, leaning against a wall in a deceptively languid pose, utterly motionless except for his eyes. Justin sat stiffly upon a wooden bench, making no attempt to disguise either his wariness or his reluctance to be there.
