rigid demeanor of a monk finding himself in close proximity to Eve. Durand, however, played the courtier’s role with his usual panache, snatching up Claudine’s hand and kissing it with a lover’s intimacy. She murmured “Sir Durand” with what passed for a smile, but as soon as she’d freed her hand from his grasp, she wiped it against the skirt of her gown. Her insult could only have been more overt had she spat in his face, and Durand drew a breath as sharp as any sword. Justin looked away to hide a smile, remembering that Claudine’s loathing of Durand was one of her more endearing attributes.
Emma had noticed this byplay, but ignored it since neither Claudine nor Durand were of any interest to her. “I am beholden to you and your cousin, Lady Claudine. Your kindness will not be forgotten.” Her expression of gratitude was gracefully rendered, if somewhat formulaic in tone, and she inclined her head graciously, obviously expecting equally polished banalities in return.
But Claudine had grown tired of trading polite platitudes and she chose that moment to reveal her real reason for accompanying Petronilla to the Temple. “It was our pleasure, Lady Emma. I think you will be pleased with Ivetta; my cousin says she is very skillful at styling hair. I regret to say that she is not as well-born as your Lady Mabella, though, not truly suitable as a companion for a lady of your stature.”
Emma accepted the compliment with a bored smile. “Well, since I must make do with your Ivetta-”
“Did Lord John tell you that I am one of the gentlewomen in attendance upon Queen Eleanor? Since you are my lady queen’s sister by marriage, I cannot in good conscience allow you to be treated with less than your just due. I am suggesting, therefore, that I accompany you as I have so often accompanied my queen.”
There was an abrupt silence. Emma looked dubious, John amused, and Durand and Justin appalled. “No!” they both cried out in unison, in what was the first and probably the only moment in which they were in such utter and perfect accord.
Emma’s finely arched brows rose even higher. “I do believe that Sir Durand and Master de Quincy would rather you do not come with us, Lady Claudine.” Her gaze moved from Claudine to the men, back to the girl again, and then she smiled, a smile that was almost feline in its detachment, its charm, and its silky malice. “My dear, I am delighted to accept your kind offer.”
Justin and Durand were speechless, but John was no longer able to stifle his mirth. “When I draw my last breath,” he said, his voice husky with laughter, “I daresay I will have many regrets. And one of them is sure to be that I had to miss this pilgrimage to Hell and back!”
CHAPTER 8
January 1194
LAVAL, MAINE
As Laval came into view, Emma drew rein. Her face was impassive as she gazed upon her late husband’s lands, but Claudine noticed the shadow of a smile in the corners of her mouth. “It must feel good to be home,” she said softly. Emma gave her a look of surprise, and then nodded.
Justin observed their quiet exchange with a sense of unease, for he’d not expected this to happen. Women did not like Emma, and she did not seem to like them; again and again he’d seen evidence of that. He never imagined that this odd alliance would develop between Emma and Claudine. He was not even sure if “alliance” was the right word. But by the time they’d reached Laval, the two women had obviously reached some sort of understanding, and he was not at all comfortable with their unlikely rapport.
He was not happy, either, with what they found at Laval. Emma’s son Guy was absent, and no one seemed to know where he had gone. His steward thought he might be in Rennes, and Justin and Durand wanted to forge ahead into Brittany, arguing that they could look for Guy at the same time that they sought Arzhela. But Emma wanted to wait at Laval for her son to return. After much acrimonious bickering, she agreed to continue on to Rennes, although she flatly refused to depart on the morrow. And so the next day found them still at Laval, glumly watching Emma entertain a steady stream of neighbors as word spread of her return.
Justin was bored and restless, until a chance conversation with the abbot of Clermont set his temper ablaze. Stalking away in anger, he went to look for Durand. He found the knight in a window seat with Emma’s borrowed maid, Ivetta, murmuring in the girl’s ear and making her blush prettily and giggle behind her hand. “Meet me in the village tavern,” Justin said tersely, turning on his heel before Durand could object.
The castle at Laval had loomed over the River Mayenne for almost two hundred years, a village nesting in its shelter. Justin knew there would be at least one tavern and located it in an alley off the market square. It was crowded, for Laval was on the main road from Paris to Brittany, and locals vied with merchants, pilgrims, and rough-hewn mercenaries for the attention of the harried serving maids and a bevy of perfumed and rouged prostitutes. Justin got himself a drink and eventually laid claim to a newly vacant table, where he settled down to await Durand.
He soon spied a familiar face. Morgan smiled in recognition and meandered over to join him. “Who are you hiding from, Justin, Lady Emma or Lady Claudine?”
“Both of them,” Justin admitted with a wry smile, for when he’d not been dealing with Emma’s complaints and demands on their journey, he’d been avoiding Claudine’s overtures. Nothing explicit; Claudine was too worldly for that. A sidelong smile that liberated her dimples, a flutter of long, silky lashes, a sudden, smoky glance from dark, doe eyes. Justin had not been sleeping well at night.
“She is a beautiful woman, the Lady Claudine,” Morgan observed blandly. When Justin merely shrugged, he took the hint and began enthusing about the fine quality of the horses he’d found in Lord Guy de Laval’s stables. He was telling Justin about a jewel of a roan mare when one of the prostitutes sauntered over.
“I am called Honorine,” she announced without preamble, “and if you seek value for your money, you need look no further.”
Justin was amused, both by her bluntness and her name. Whores usually chose fancy names like Christelle or Mirabelle or the ever-popular Eve. This girl had a sense of humor, for Honorine was a form of Honoria, a derivative of the Latin word for “honor.” Instead of giving a flat refusal, therefore, he offered her a friendly smile and a diplomatic “Mayhap later.”
Morgan looked offended when Honorine drifted away without propositioning him, too. “Well, damnation, did I become invisible of a sudden? What do you have that I lack, de Quincy?”
“A sword?” Justin suggested, recognizing a golden opportunity when he saw one, a chance to tease Morgan while at the same time engaging him in a discreet interrogation. Morgan shot him a look of such exaggerated indignation that he had to laugh. “No, you dolt, not that sword; this one,” he said, slapping the scabbard at his hip. “A girl in her trade looks for evidence that a man can afford her services, and a sword is usually a good indication that he can.” He paused before adding casually, “It would not hurt to have another armed man along. Can you wield a sword, Morgan?”
“Me?” Morgan sounded surprised. “Now how would a stable groom learn a skill like that?”
How, indeed, Justin thought, remembering Morgan’s instinctive movement during his confrontation with the carter in Shrewsbury’s Wyle. He liked Morgan. He also owed Morgan a huge debt. He was just not sure he could trust Morgan. But before he could continue with his indirect inquiry, the door swung open and Durand strode into the tavern.
“I want to talk to you,” he said brusquely to Justin, and then looked pointedly at Morgan, who got to his feet, although without any haste. Making a comic grimace behind Durand’s back, the groom strolled off, and Durand claimed his seat. “Do not summon me like that again, de Quincy. I do not like it.”
His anger notwithstanding, he still remembered to keep his voice pitched low. So did Justin. “And of course I live to please you. Stop your posturing, Durand, and hear me out. I had an interesting conversation this eve with the abbot of Clermont Abbey. He’d been in Paris recently and was well versed in the doings at the French court. It seems that whilst I was chasing around Shropshire like a fool, the French king and Lord John were making one last attempt to foil King Richard’s release. They dispatched messengers to the Roman Emperor’s court, offering him a variety of bribes to delay Richard’s release. If Richard were held until this coming Michaelmas, they’d pay Heinrich eighty thousand marks. Or they’d pay him a thousand pounds a month for as long as he kept Richard in captivity. Or they’d give him one hundred fifty thousand marks if he’d either hold Richard for another full year or turn Richard
