shake the truth out of him, so sure was he that Benoit had the answers they needed. “That is why we are here.”
“I… I do not understand.”
“The murder,” Durand snapped, angrier than even he could have explained, for weakness and cowardice brought out the worst in his own nature; he was cruelest to those he scorned. “You do remember the murder, sousepot?”
Benoit shrank back in the chair. “Are you… are you the killers?”
Durand swore and would have dragged the man to his feet if Justin had not stopped him. “You’re scaring him out of his wits. That is not the way.”
“No? Given your vast experience, suppose you show me how it is done!”
Justin grabbed the knight by the arm and pulled him aside. “Look at him, Durand,” he insisted, low-voiced. “He is terrified. Ask yourself why. I grant you that was no pretty scene in the church, but there has to be more to this than squeamishness. What is he drinking to forget?”
“I could use a drink myself,” Durand growled. “I know I am way too sober when you start to make sense, de Quincy.” With a mocking gesture, he indicated that Justin had the field.
“Benoit!” Justin said sharply, and the deputy sat upright, flinching as Durand snatched up a candle and brought it close to his face. “We are seeking the Lady Arzhela de Dinan and I think you can help us find her.”
Benoit’s gaze slid toward the table and the wine flagon. “How?” he mumbled, and then, “I am right thirsty…”
Justin picked up the flagon, holding it just out of reach. “You can drink yourself sodden if that is your wish. But first you must tell us what Brother Bernard told you about Lady Arzhela.”
Benoit bowed his head. “I cannot…”
Justin flipped the lid on the flagon, letting Benoit see the sloshing liquid inside. His own stomach tightened at the sight, for it was dark red in the subdued light, the color of drying blood. “Yes, you can, and you must. You know that, Benoit.”
“It was not my fault-” The deputy looked up suddenly, briefly, his eyes desperately seeking Justin’s. “It was not my fault!”
“No one said it was your fault. What did he say?”
“It was a daft tale, made no sense.” Benoit’s words were slurred with wine and self-pity; he was no longer meeting Justin’s gaze. “No one would have believed it, no one!”
Justin thrust the flagon into the man’s hands, keeping his own hand clamped upon Benoit’s wrist. “Tell us!”
“He… he claimed that Lady Arzhela had sneaked into the church and then come back out dressed like a needy pilgrim. Naturally I did not credit it, for who would? She is a lady of high rank and royal blood, one who likes her comforts. Why would she put on stinking, coarse sackcloth and mingle with the lowborn and poor, with beggars and rabble? And all know Brother Bernard was… odd. I thanked him and promptly forgot about it, as any sensible man would. And then.. then he was slain in the church-”
His voice thickened, but he was so thoroughly cowed that he dared not drink until these fearsome strangers said he could. He was no longer being held and he glanced up imploringly, seeking their understanding, their mercy. But he was alone. The door stood ajar and the men were gone.
CHAPTER 12
February 1194
MONT ST MICHEL, NORMANDY
While pilgrims and travelers of the upper classes would find a welcome in the abbey’s guesthouse and the abbot’s own lodgings, Christ’s poor were admitted to the almonry. It provided protection from the rain, but it lacked fireplaces, and because it was exposed to the Aquilon, the name locals gave to those merciless winter winds that swept in from the north, it was a stark, frigid refuge. To people unfamiliar with luxury or comfort, though, it was enough.
It was different for Arzhela. Her first night at the almonry had been the longest of her life. She’d been sure they’d find her body come morning, frozen so solid that they’d have to thaw her out before burying her. The blankets provided by the monks were as thin as wafers, and the icy tiled floor was a martyr’s bed of pain. She didn’t doubt that she’d have slept better, and been warmer for certes, burrowing into the straw in the abbey stables.
But her shivering and chattering teeth finally awakened her nearest neighbors. “I am Juvette,” a woman whispered, “and this is my daughter, Mikaela. Come huddle with us. Three bodies are warmer than one.”
Arzhela hesitated, but she could no longer feel her feet, and she edged closer, discovering that the woman was right. When she awakened in the morning, she was snug against Juvette’s back, and Mikaela’s head was pillowed in her lap. Stirring as soon as Arzhela did, Juvette sat up sleepily. “We are stacked like pancakes,” she laughed, and Arzhela’s stomach rumbled, reminding her how long it had been since she’d eaten.
“Do the monks feed us?’ she ventured.
“Of course, and right well. There’ll be ample helpings of bread and cheese.” Juvette easily recognized the notes of hunger in Arzhela’s voice; that was a song she knew well. “We saved a bit of bread from yesterday’s meal,” she said. “Here, take some.”
Arzhela looked at the stale pieces of bread wrapped in a scrap of cloth and quickly shook her head. “I could not, for you have so little!”
“We have enough to share,” Juvette insisted, giving Arzhela no choice but to accept a small crust.
As the day advanced, Arzhela was astonished by the goodwill of these impoverished pilgrims. She’d expected that they would be pious, for a pilgrimage in winter, especially one as dangerous as this, was proof of serious intent. She’d not expected, though, that they would be so generous, so willing to share their meager belongings, their stories, and their laughter. There was a communal atmosphere in the almonry unlike anything she’d ever experienced on her own pilgrimages, and again and again she saw small examples of kindness and good humor.
Most were Breton or French, although there was one dour Englishman. While pilgrimages were lauded as acts of spiritual renewal, most pilgrims had more pragmatic, mundane reasons for making them. People sought out saints to beg for healing, to pray for forgiveness, and sometimes to die in a state of grace. Other pilgrimages were penitential in nature, for the Church often ordered caught-out or repentant sinners to atone for their transgressions at distant holy shrines. One of their company had already confessed cheerfully that he was there for habitual fornication, although he did not put it as delicately as that. Another admitted that his offense had been poaching on his bishop’s lands. If any were expiating the sin of adultery, they prudently kept that to themselves.
Most of these February pilgrims were at Mont St Michel for obvious reasons. There was a man who coughed blood into stained rags. Mikaela had been born at Michaelmas, named in honor of the Archangel, and now that she was ailing, her mother had brought her to the Mont to plead for his intercession. One woman was there to pray that her hearing be restored. A man crippled by the joint evil was tended lovingly by his wife, but Arzhela could not imagine how-even with her help-he’d managed to climb the hill and the steep steps to the almonry. A young couple seemed in the bloom of health, but they’d wept together in the night.
Miquelots they were called, those who dared to brave the tides for the sake of blessed St Michael. With a dart of pride, Arzhela realized that she was one of them; she was a miquelot, too. She was amazed by the feelings that her fellow pilgrims had stirred in her. They were strangers, after all, lowborn, most of them, the sort of people she’d seen but never truly noticed before. But after just one night and one day, they’d begun to matter to her. When they’d been allowed to visit the shrine in the nave, she’d spent almost as much time praying for them as for herself. She winced every time she heard that strangled death rattle of a cough. She’d gotten two of the able-bodied men to assist the cripple and his wife up the great staircase into the church. She’d surreptitiously hidden a pouchful of coins in Juvette’s bundle, confident that when she eventually discovered it, Juvette would joyfully conclude that this was the Archangel’s bounty. And she’d taken charge of Yann.
She still wasn’t sure what she was going to do with him. She guessed his age to be between eleven and thirteen; he claimed to remember eleven winters, but truth telling was not one of his virtues, and she thought him
