John had been more forthcoming than in their earlier meeting, telling Justin much of what he’d already learned from Durand. He freely acknowledged that Arzhela de Dinan was his source, admitted that Constance and the Breton court planned to accuse him of plotting Richard’s murder, insisted that he was innocent, and ignored Justin’s involuntary muttered “For once.” He had yet to hear from the Breton, he revealed, although Emma had kindly shared several other ways to contact the celebrated spy.
Justin had never met the Breton face-to-face-few men had-but he’d learned more about the man since discovering his role as the go-between in John and Emma’s scheme to steal Richard’s ransom. The Breton was a legend at royal courts throughout Christendom, known for his expertise at surveillance and espionage, although it was rumored he had other, darker skills for hire. The mystery swirling about him-not even his name was known for sure-was part of his mystique. Justin understood why John would seek the Breton’s aid. But he did not understand why he’d been summoned to John’s presence or why the queen’s son was suddenly being so candid. Why did he have to know all this?
“Lady Arzhela has sent me a second letter,” John continued, “in which she confides she means to find out more about this plot. I advised her against this, warning her that it might be dangerous, but she is not likely to listen to me. Lord knows, she never did,” John allowed, with a faint, nostalgic smile that made Justin wonder about the nature of his past involvement with Arzhela. Expressing concern for her safety, John actually sounded sincere.
“Lady Arzhela is a remarkable woman,” John said, still in that mellow, reminiscing tone. “She has many admirable qualities, but caution is not one of them. She makes a habit of jumping from the fry pan into the fire and never even notices the heat. She needs looking after, in other words. Fortunately,” he added, with a mocking glance at Durand, “I have someone in mind. Sir Durand is going to escort Lady Emma to Laval and then continue on into Brittany to confer with Lady Arzhela to find out what she has been able to discover and keep her out of harm’s way.”
“I wish him well,” Justin said, starting to rise. “If that is all, my lord…?” He did not really expect to make his escape so easily, and was not surprised when John waved him back onto the bench. He still did not know what was coming, only that he’d not like it.
“Do you not want to know why Lady Emma is going to Laval? My real reason for needing to talk to her?”
Justin had rarely heard a question so fraught with peril and he slowly shook his head.
John grinned. “You need not feign indifference with me, de Quincy. I know you’re afire with curiosity. Lady Arzhela gave me the names of the men involved in Constance’s scheme. One of them happens to be Emma’s son Guy. It occurred to me that the lad could use some maternal counsel, and Lady Emma is in agreement with me about that.”
Emma narrowed her eyes, murmuring something under her breath too softly for Justin to hear. Her expression did not bode well for Guy, though. Justin knew that Emma had been wed to a Norman lord, Guy de Laval, and that after she was widowed, her brother, King Henry, had compelled her to marry the Welsh prince, Davydd ab Owain. Twenty years later, that was still a festering grievance with her, and since Henry was beyond earthly retribution, she’d passed on her rancor to the next generation, to his son Richard. Justin cast her a speculative glance, wondering about the source of her discontent. Was she angry with Guy for involving himself in such high- stakes intrigue? Or for doing it without consulting her beforehand?
“So,” John said, “now you know it all. Get a good night’s sleep, de Quincy, for you’ll be leaving on the morrow.” He saw Justin’s sharp look, and said smoothly, “I forgot to mention that, did I? Lady Emma wants you to accompany her.”
Justin suffered a sudden crick in his neck, so hastily did he swing around to stare at Emma. “Good God, why? I ought to be the last man whose company you crave!”
“Very amusing, Master de Quincy,” Emma said, not sounding amused at all. “I may not like you, but you’ve proven yourself to be quick-witted, intrepid, and in your own infuriating way, honorable. I prefer to put my trust in a man I know, the queen’s man,” she concluded coolly, with a dismissive glance toward the man she did not know, her nephew’s man.
Durand said nothing, but even his vaunted self-control could not prevent the surge of angry color that rose in his face and throat. Justin took a moment to enjoy the other man’s discomfiture, and then did something he’d never expected to do-offer up praise for Durand de Curzon.
“I know Sir Durand does not always make a favorable first impression. I can vouch for him, though, my lady. He wields a sword with deadly skill and few men are as comfortable dealing with the lawless and the ungodly.”
John chuckled into his wine cup, and Durand glowered at Justin, but Emma merely shrugged. “I did not mean to disparage Sir Durand,” she said, with an indifference more wounding than simple contempt. “But I will feel more comfortable if Master de Quincy escorts us.”
The tone of her voice made it obvious that she considered the matter closed. Rising to her feet, she said, “I assume quarters have been prepared for us, John? I will leave you, then, and retire for the night.” Waiting until John summoned a candle-bearing servant, she swept from the chamber in a departure as queenly as any Eleanor herself could have made.
There was a long and heavy silence after Emma had gone. Well aware that Justin’s eyes were boring into his back, John turned reluctantly to face him. “I know,” he said before Justin could speak, “I know. I owe you, de Quincy.”
So, too, Justin thought unhappily, did the Queen’s Grace.
Justin awoke the next morning in a grim mood. He was not sure which he minded more, being sucked deeper into John’s quagmire or facing another fortnight of catering to the Lady Emma’s aristocratic whims. The only consolation he could take from his plight was the realization that Durand was in an equally dark frame of mind. Even the cheerful, irrepressible Morgan was downhearted, disappointed that they’d be leaving Paris so soon. But the atmosphere in the guest hall changed, although not for the better, with Emma’s entrance.
The Lady Mabella was ailing, she announced, burning with fever and as feeble as any newborn. Her handmaiden had been feeling poorly since they landed at Barfleur. Justin had gotten the impression from Morgan and the men-at-arms that Mabella was always complaining about one malady or another. That her illness was genuine now, none could doubt; Emma was not one for coddling those in her service. Their journey would have to be delayed until Mabella was well enough to travel, Emma declared, for she could not do without a handmaiden. Nor could she leave Mabella to languish in the Templars’ care, for they were knights, not nursemaids. No, she insisted, overriding John’s objections with an impatient wave of her hand, they would just have to wait.
That pleased no one except Morgan, who brightened at the prospect of getting to explore Paris, after all. Durand was in favor of setting out anyway, arguing that Mabella could recuperate at the Hotel-Dieu, which was said to be the finest hospital in Paris, and adding snidely that he had every confidence that the Lady Emma would be able to brush and braid her own hair and buckle her own shoes. Emma retorted scornfully that she would never consider leaving a gently born lady in a public hospital, nor did she care to debate the matter with one of Lord John’s hirelings. Listening morosely from a window seat, Justin fantasized about slipping away while they were squabbling and riding for the coast as if the Devil were on his tail.
It was John who put an end to the quarreling and came up with a feasible solution to their dilemma. He would send to the Lady Petronilla, he stated in a voice that brooked no further arguments, and ask her if she could spare one of her maids to attend Lady Emma, at the same time requesting her hospitality for the stricken Mabella. As he was shrewd enough to mention both Emma’s rank as a princess and her blood-ties to the English Royal House in his message, none doubted that Petronilla would be more than happy to comply. And indeed, she responded with alacrity, arriving at the Temple in less than an hour’s time, creating quite a stir with an escort that the French king would not have spurned, a richly accoutred horse litter for Mabella, a pretty, dark-eyed young girl named Ivetta for Emma, and her beautiful cousin, Claudine.
Petronilla was flirting with John. Durand was sulking. Mabella had been taken away in the horse litter to convalesce as Petronilla’s houseguest. Claudine and Emma were making polite, desultory conversation. And Justin was doing his best to keep the length of the hall between Claudine and himself. But then John joined Emma and Claudine, and beckoned both Durand and Justin to his side.
Compelled by courtesy to acknowledge Claudine’s presence, Justin greeted her with the averted eyes and
