“Innocence is a greatly overrated defense.” Durand sat down on the floor beside Justin and leaned back against the wall. “Actually, I was going to say you handled yourself well last night. That was quick thinking about the unbloodied weapons. It helps, too, that you can so convincingly act humble and servile. With men like the prior, a little arse-licking can never hurt.”
Justin was too weary to summon up any anger. “You bought us some time with that sister-of-yours story. That was quick thinking, too. But, then, it’s truth telling you have a problem with, not lying. You realize, though, that we are going to have to tell Abbot Jourdain the truth, or at least a good portion of it?”
He’d been half expecting Durand to argue, was surprised when he did not. “I know,” Durand admitted. “The good abbot is not likely to have forgotten his encounter with us at Antrain. And it is only a matter of time ere Arzhela’s true identity becomes known. Luckily, that monk over in Genets is on his deathbed, for he’d have recognized her in a heartbeat. I got the sense that there was something going on between them.”
“Not so lucky for him,” Justin pointed out, but Durand was oblivious to sarcasm when it served his purposes.
“I assume you have one of those royal letters you like to flaunt, identifying you as the queen’s man? Thank God they did not search us, but they are not quite sure how to treat us, are they? Not exactly guests, not yet murder suspects.”
“Yes, I have a letter from the queen,” Justin confirmed. “I can see we are in agreement about which fork in the road to take. The abbot is King Richard’s man, so the less said about John, the better. I suppose I can always explain to the abbot that you are one of my hirelings or lackeys.”
The corner of Durand’s mouth twitched in acknowledgment of that payback jab. “If the abbot proves to be a skeptical sort, we might end up in some kind of confinement until the queen returns from Germany. But as long as it is in Normandy and not Brittany, I’ll not complain.”
Justin doubted that exceedingly; he’d met few men who complained as frequently or as vociferously as Durand did. It seemed foolish, though, to continue their usual squabbling when they were caught in the same trap. He began to speak, instead, about the tale they must stitch together for the abbot, and they spent the remainder of the morning deciding how much of the truth he should be told. At least they were no longer bound by the need to shield Arzhela; it mattered naught to her now if her plotting came to light. But that was a dubious comfort to Justin. He’d had little time yet to mourn Arzhela, but mourn her he would. She was a brave, charming, reckless woman who’d deserved a far better end, and he would regret to his last breath that he had not been able to save her.
He and Durand both felt that Simon de Lusignan was the prime suspect in her murder. She’d tried to protect him, not giving up his name to them, a lover’s folly that had cost her dearly. The most likely scenario, they agreed, was that she’d learned something else from Simon, something of such significance that she’d no longer felt safe at Constance’s court. Proof that Constance knew the letter was a forgery? Or that de Lusignan was much more deeply involved in the conspiracy than she’d first realized? Guy de Laval’s testimony had put Simon in that shadowy inner circle, which was mysterious in and of itself. How had a younger son of a minor Poitevin lord gained such influence at the Breton court? And what secret was so dangerous that he’d kill to keep it quiet?
They speculated, too, about the missing youngster, the boy Arzhela had “taken under her wing.” Had he been present when she was slain? Was fear keeping him quiet? Or something more sinister? For all they knew, Durand reminded Justin, he’d wielded the dagger himself. Arzhela had trusted the boy; she’d not have been on her guard with him.
“You’d suspect a babe in its cradle,” Justin scoffed, and then jumped to his feet. So did Durand. But the footsteps they’d heard passed by the door. They assumed that the provost would cross over from Genets sooner or later, hopefully later. He’d be occupied upon his return with the brutal attacks upon Brothers Andrev and Bernard, and then, of course, he’d have to wait for low tide.
The provost could pose a problem if he wanted to interrogate them straightaway, not waiting for Abbot Jourdain to return. He’d know about their visit to Genets, know about their confrontation with his drunken deputy and, for certes, he’d want to know why they’d been so interested in the missing Lady Arzhela. They’d just have to play for time if it came to that, hint to the prior that the provost was infringing upon the abbey’s jurisdiction. A hint ought to be more than enough. Men of God were as territorial as wolves, Durand gibed, and Justin agreed with him, thinking of that superb politician, his lord bishop father. But so were lords and queens and Welsh princes and even cocky Norman guides.
When their isolation was finally ended, it did not happen in the way they’d expected. The door opened and two men were ushered into the lodge, then the door closed again. Justin and Durand were on their feet, staring in surprise at Crispin and Rufus. They had been relieved of their weapons, but they seemed to be in good shape, showed no bruises or scratches. As soon as they saw Justin and Durand, they both began to talk at once and it took a few moments to settle them down.
“We told the monks we’d done nothing wrong,” Crispin said plaintively, “but they said we’d be set free once you’d proved your innocence of a murder. My lords, you will be able to do that soon, I hope?”
“From your mouth to God’s Ear,” Durand said sourly. “How did Morgan and Jaspaer escape the net? And how did they net you in the first place? Who told them that you were our men?”
They exchanged sheepish looks before Crispin confessed, “We told them. The village was overrun with rumors and gossip. Something had happened up at the abbey in the night, but no one seemed to know what, so Rufus and I… we decided to go look for you.” When Durand called him a blundering lack-wit, he flushed but protested with some spirit, “That is not fair, Sir Durand! We did not know you were murder suspects, not until it was too late!”
Justin had an unpleasant thought. “You did not tell them the woman was not Durand’s sister, did you?”
Crispin shook his head emphatically. “When they began to ask us questions, Rufus whispered that we should ‘be dumb’ and we were. We kept saying we knew nothing about your business, that you’d not told us why we were going to the abbey-”
“And we spoke mostly English,” the usually taciturn Rufus interrupted, “which seemed to vex them enormously.”
“I assume Morgan and Jaspaer had the common sense to keep their distance, then?” Durand said caustically, and looked thoroughly disgusted when Crispin admitted that they’d tried to talk them out of going up to the abbey and wished mournfully that he’d listened.
The rest of the day passed without incident. The porter’s lodge was lit with small, narrow windows little bigger than arrow slits, and as daylight faded away, they were left in darkness, lacking lamps or even candles. At Vespers, an abbey servant was sent in to empty the chamber pot, but he said nothing about the bloodshed over in Genets and claimed none knew when Abbot Jourdain might return. He was willing to be bribed, though, agreeing to bring them an extra flagon of wine with their meal and more blankets. The bells of Compline were still echoing on the wind when the men settled down for another endless, uncomfortable night.
They’d been sleeping for several hours when the door was thrust open. Crispin slept on, but the other three jerked upright, blinking up blindly into a ring of blazing torches. It was like looking straight into the sun and as they squinted, trying to make out the dark, faceless forms behind the torches, a voice said, “Well?” and a second voice answered, “Yes, they are the ones.” By now they were stumbling to their feet, but the light was already retreating. The door slammed shut and they were left alone.
Pallid, grey light was seeping into the hall when they were roused again. Men bearing torches advanced into the chamber, followed by others. The former were obviously abbey servants, the latter just as obviously were not; they were armed and on the alert, putting Justin in mind of well-trained sheepdogs, confident of their ability to control the flock. The prior entered next, accompanied by two men in their middle years.
“This is Jocelin de Curcy, the provost of Genets,” he said. “And this is Sir Reynaud Boterel.” A third man had entered, younger than the others, wearing an expensive mantle fastened with a large gold brooch, and the prior introduced him as the Lord of Chateau-Gontier, Yves de la Jaille. Before either Justin or Durand could respond, the prior raised his hand in an imperious demand for silence.
“There is nothing you could say that I want to hear,” he said coolly. “The time for talking is past. I am here to tell you that you are to be handed over to the Lord of Chateau-Gontier. You are no longer the responsibility of our abbey and we waive any and all rights to prosecute you in our jurisdiction.”
Justin stared at the prior, baffled. During their stay at Laval, Emma had made casual mention of the lordship
