“A man need not be a baker to enjoy eating bread,” Morgan pointed out amiably. “By your logic, Sir Durand, only a nun would know about virtue and only a whore would know about sin. We have a saying back home, that if-”
“Spare me your countrymen’s homilies,” Durand said, and spurred his stallion ahead until he attracted the attention of the castle guards. Allowed to advance within shouting range, he demanded entry with an arrogance that caused Justin and Morgan to wince, both expecting the gates to be slammed in Durand’s face. But after a brief delay, they heard the creaking of a windlass and the drawbridge slowly began to lower.
Fougeres may have been poorly situated, but it boasted a highly sophisticated water defense system. When Raoul de Fougeres rebuilt the castle after the English king Henry burned it to the ground nigh on thirty years ago, he’d replaced the wooden structures with stone, and constructed an ingenious tower that was equipped with a mechanism for flooding the entrance area in the event of attack. Even Durand was impressed.
A removable footbridge spanned the water-filled inner ditch, and the men led their mounts across it into the bailey, glancing up at the iron-barred double portcullis looming over their heads as they passed through. By the time they’d penetrated the heart of the castle, they’d all revised their initial view that Fougeres could be easily taken, and were thankful that none of them would be asked to lay siege to this Breton border stronghold.
Justin made sure that he, not Durand, was the one to request a night’s lodging from the castellan, for the village huddled outside the castle battlements had not looked promising. Once permission was granted, they sent their horses off to the stable and followed the castellan’s servant into the great hall nestled along the south wall. There, the Duchess Constance, Lord Raoul, and other Breton lords were seated at the high table, enjoying a pre- Lenten feast of beef stew, marrow tarts, and stuffed capon. Places were found for Durand and Justin at one of the lower tables; Morgan and the men-at-arms would be fed, too, but they’d have to wait until their betters were served. In their haste to reach Fougeres before dark, they had eaten nothing on the road, and the enticing aromas of freshly baked bread and roasted meat reminded them of how empty their stomachs were. They pitched into their food with enthusiasm, and only afterward did they roam the smoky, dimly lit hall in search of Lady Arzhela… and failed to find her.
The person most likely to know of her whereabouts was the Duchess Constance, but they knew better than to approach her unbidden. She was holding court upon the dais, surrounded by her barons and household knights and the abbot of Trinity Abbey. Justin and Durand lurked inconspicuously at the outer edges of the royal circle, watching in growing frustration as Constance demonstrated how much she liked center stage, accepting the attention, deference, and flattery as naturally as she did the air she breathed. Justin was not as sure as Emma that this woman would be no match for John, and neither was Durand, who murmured a rude jest in Justin’s ear, declaring it must be devilishly difficult to lay with a woman who had her own set of ballocks.
As more time passed, Justin’s anxieties about Arzhela multiplied, and he seized the first opportunity to intercept Raoul de Fougeres as he descended the dais steps. “My lord, may I have a word with you?” he asked, politely enough to please the highborn lord, who paused and allowed that he could spare a moment or two. Raoul was stocky and well fed, with a surprisingly thick thatch of hair for a man his age, which Justin guessed to be mid- sixties. He had been doting noticeably upon a youngster of fourteen or so, his grandson and heir, but beneath the affable, avuncular air was a will of iron, a shrewd intelligence, and the chilling confidence of one who never doubted his own judgments or his right to enforce them.
“My lord, I was asked by Lord Guy de Laval to deliver a letter to Lady Arzhela de Dinan, but I have been unable to locate her and those I’ve asked disavow any knowledge of her whereabouts. I was hoping that you might be better informed…”
Raoul’s brow puckered as he jogged his memory. “What did I hear about Lady Arzhela? Ah, yes, now I remember. The duchess told me that Lady Arzhela asked her for permission to make a pilgrimage to Mont St Michel.”
He turned away, then, as someone else sought his attention, leaving Justin standing there, trying to make sense of what he’d just been told. A moment later, Durand was at his side. “Well?” he demanded, in a low voice. “Did you find out where that fool woman has gone? From the look on your face, I don’t think I am going to like the answer much.”
“No,” Justin said slowly, “you are not going to like it at all.”
CHAPTER 10
February 1194
MONT ST MICHEL, NORMANDY
Despite the raw winter weather, pilgrims continued to come to Mont St Michel. From her vantage point at a window in the abbey guesthouse, Arzhela watched as they trudged across the wet sands from Genets, following single file in the footsteps of a local guide, for even at low tide, there was still the danger of quicksand bogs. From the abbey heights, they seemed as small and insignificant as carved toy figures, playthings to be scattered at a child’s whim or at God’s Will.
Wind rattled the shutters, causing Arzhela to shiver, but she did not close the window, mesmerized by the sight of those struggling pilgrims. What had driven them to make such a difficult journey, to bear so heavy a burden? She had made pilgrimages herself, of course, to Chartres and to the shrine of Our Lady at Rocamadour, proudly bringing back an oval pilgrim badge inscribed with the words “Sigillum Beatae Mariae de Rocamadour.” But her pilgrimages had always been made in the glory of high summer, and had entailed no danger and little discomfort. More like pleasure excursions than true testings of the soul. She had visited the Mont on numerous occasions, but always as an honored guest, never as one of Christ’s Faithful. And as she leaned from the window of the abbey’s guesthouse, a hostel for the highborn, looking down at those distant men and women wading through the icy waters of the bay, she was shamed by the contrast between their barefoot, heartfelt piety and her sinful, luxury-loving past.
Arzhela dined with Abbot Jourdain in his private chambers in late-morning, along with several other guests deemed worthy of gracing the abbot’s table: two merchants from Rouen who were bountiful patrons of St Michael, their generosity compensating for any defects of lineage; a distant cousin of Arzhela’s first husband; the archdeacon of Rennes; a boastful Norman baron and his subdued, long-suffering wife. Arzhela found neither the company nor the conversation to be especially entertaining, and was thankful when the meal was over. As she emerged from the abbot’s lodging, she encountered a flock of pilgrims being shepherded by monks up the great gallery stairs, and instead of returning to the guesthouse, she joined them.
The pilgrims and Arzhela reverently crossed the central nave of the church, where they were given time to pray at the altar of Saint-Michel-en-la-Nef. Arzhela knelt when it was her turn, and as she offered up her prayers and her heart to Blessed St Michael, she was filled with a sudden sense of peace. How glad she was to be here! It had been an impulse, not fully thought out. When she’d realized she was in danger, realized her need to find a refuge, the abbey had been the first place to come to mind. She could wait there in safety for Justin and Durand.
She wasn’t sure what would happen after that, but she felt confident that all would be resolved to her satisfaction. If need be, she could go to Paris, go to Johnny. He would protect her. He would also take a swift and terrible vengeance. A pity she could not simply tell Justin and Durand all that she’d discovered, leave the sorting out to them. Why must life be so damnably complicated?
Usually the monks were strict taskmasters, quickly ushering the pilgrims out so the next group could be given admittance. But these February wayfarers were but a trickle in the flood of the faithful that inundated the abbey every year, and the hosteller was willing to indulge such hardy souls, allowing them to tarry in the nave, breathing in the sanctity of St Michael, basking in God’s Grace. Arzhela lingered, too, wondering whether she could charm Brother Gervaise into taking her down into the crypt of Notre Dame des Trente Cierges, where holy relics of the Virgin Mary were kept. Since the crypt was within the abbey enclosure-the area prohibited to all but the monks-she knew her chances were not promising. Still, she’d never know unless she tried. She was strolling about the nave,
