of Chateau-Gontier, and so Justin knew it was a barony in Maine. This made no sense to him. Why would an Angevin lord take them into custody? He glanced over at Durand, was not reassured to notice Durand had lost color. “I do not follow this, Prior Clement,” Justin said cautiously. “It was my understanding that we were awaiting the return of Abbot Jourdain.”
“And it was my understanding,” the prior said scathingly, “that the dead woman was Felicia de Lacy, whereas in truth, she is Lady Arzhela de Dinan, the missing cousin of Duchess Constance.”
Neither Justin nor Durand spoke, for what was there to say to that? Justin was getting a very bad feeling about this, and that was before the door was shoved open again. The man stalking into the hall was young, fair- haired, and all too familiar. Striding forward, Simon de Lusignan regarded them in silence for a very long moment. The last time a man had looked at Justin with that much hostility, he’d been fighting for his life with a godless outlaw called Gilbert the Fleming. Simon had blue eyes, almost as brilliantly blue as Arzhela’s, narrowed to smoldering slits, and his mouth was contorted, his lips peeled back from his teeth in a feral, ferocious grin.
“You thought you would get away with it,” he said, “and you might have, if not for me. But I reached the abbey in time to identify that sweet lady you murdered, in time to see justice done!”
Durand tensed, deciding he had nothing left to lose, and Justin might well have followed his lead. He was never to know for sure, though. De la Jaille’s men-at-arms had been moving closer while Simon de Lusignan claimed center stage, and, at an unseen signal from Yves de la Jaille, they sprang into action, flinging themselves upon the prisoners.
Outnumbered and unarmed, they were quickly subdued. Crispin and Rufus offered no resistance, holding up their hands like innocent bystanders in the wrong place at the wrong time. Justin struggled briefly, before his brain overrode his body’s panic, and once he no longer fought them, his attackers stopped hitting him. Durand continued to kick and curse even after he’d been immobilized, not yielding until Simon de Lusignan stepped toward him and kneed him brutally in the groin.
Durand sank to his knees, his teeth tearing into his lower lip to stifle any cry, and Simon would have kicked him again had the prior not protested. Yves de la Jaille stepped between Simon and the grey-faced Durand, saying, “Back off, Simon.” And though his words were given as a censure, his tone was casual, almost nonchalant.
Yves signaled again and his men dragged Durand to his feet, set about roping his hands behind his back. Justin was bound next. But when they started toward Crispin and Rufus, Yves stopped them.
“We’ve got the hawks, need not bother with the fledglings. Leave them for the provost to deal with.”
The provost did not look pleased by that offhand dismissal, but he nodded to his own men, who took Crispin and Rufus into custody. They submitted meekly enough, but when de la Jaille’s men-at-arms began pushing Justin and Durand toward the door, Crispin blurted out an involuntary protest. “Wait! Where are you taking them?”
To their surprise, they actually got an answer. Yves looked back over his shoulder. “To the court of the Duchess of Brittany, so they may answer for the murder of her kinswoman.”
CHAPTER 15
February 1194
ROAD TO FOUGERES, BRITTANY
The sky was a pale, silvery blue, and the few clouds drifting by were white and fleecy. The wind was erratic, almost playful, a sheathed dagger instead of a gusting February blade. Bare beech and chestnut trees stood sentinel along the road, dappled by sunlight. For winter-weary Bretons, a day like this was a gift from God. To Justin, it seemed especially cruel that he should be given a bittersweet, beguiling glimpse of the spring he was not likely to see.
He was making a sincere effort not to surrender to despair; after all, he did not have a hangman’s noose around his neck yet. Optimism did not come easily to a foundling, though. Nor was it in his nature to lie to himself, and he could envision nothing but trouble at the court of the Breton duchess.
His mount suddenly veered to the right. With his hands bound behind his back, he could only guide the stallion with the pressure of his knees, and he was unable to keep the horse from swerving to the end of its tether. The rider leading it glanced over his shoulder and swore, first at the animal and then at Justin. Another stallion shied, too, and its unease proved contagious. For several moments, men and horses milled about in the road, as the former sought to get the latter under control. By the time order was restored, it was decided they should take a break and Lord Yves ordered them to dismount.
This was the second time they’d halted since leaving Mont St Michel. They seemed in no hurry to reach Fougeres, and that was fine with Justin, who would have been content to ride on into infinity. He did not think that was true, though, for Durand. He could only imagine how painful this ride must be for a man who’d been kicked in the ballocks a few hours ago. Durand’s face was a mask of silent suffering, sweat trickling down into his beard, his jaw so tightly clenched that not even a breath could escape that taut slash of a mouth. The guards got them off their horses quite simply by pulling them from the saddle, pushing them down upon the ground, and warning them to “move only if you want to lose a body part.”
Wineskins were passed around. The Lord Yves and Reynaud Boterel walked a few feet away and began to talk quietly, glancing occasionally toward their prisoners. Simon de Lusignan was tightening his stallion’s saddle girth, but he, too, watched the prisoners, with an unblinking intensity that did not bode well for their future. The horses were led down to the river to drink, but Justin and Durand did without until one of the guards walked by and Justin asked for water.
He’d chosen this particular guard with care-a cheerful, garrulous redhead called Thierry, by the others, who’d been chattering like a magpie since they departed the abbey. As he’d hoped, Thierry could not resist any audience, even if it consisted of doomed men, and the guard paused, considered, and then shrugged.
“Why not?” Walking over to one of the tethered horses, he pulled a small metal cup from a saddlebag and filled it with river water. Leaning over, he held the cup to Justin’s mouth, letting him drink his fill. When he turned toward Durand, Justin willed the other man not to do anything stupid, and for once, Durand did not, gulping the water as fast as Thierry could pour it into his mouth.
“Are you one of the Lord Yves’s men?” Justin asked casually as Thierry straightened up. Taking the bait, the guard confirmed that he was, adding that he was Angevin, like his lord, not one of those stiff-necked Bretons.
“Why is your lord serving the Breton duchess?” Justin queried, trying to keep the man talking.
Thierry stepped back and stretched, but did not move away. “My lord is betrothed to Lord Andre de Vitre’s daughter. He was at the duchess’s court when she got word that her cousin had gone missing, and she selected him to investigate her disappearance. Also Sir Reynaud.” With a toss of his head toward Yves’s companion. “He is a former seneschal of Rennes or mayhap it is Nantes. I cannot tell one Breton town from another, if truth be told.”
“How did Simon de Lusignan get picked?”
“Him?” Thierry glanced over at the glowering de Lusignan, and lowered his voice like someone about to share a ribald bit of gossip. “The duchess did not send that one. He showed up at the abbey on his own, was already there when we arrived.” Dropping his voice even further, he confided that Simon and the Lady Arzhela were “having at it, if you know what I mean. The way I heard it, they had a hot quarrel and he went storming off, whilst she headed for the abbey. That is why the duchess was not too alarmed by Abbot Jourdain’s news. Everyone seemed to think she was off making peace with the lad.”
He contorted his face waggishly, as if implying there was no accounting for female tastes. “I’d think the Lady Arzhela could do better than de Lusignan,” Justin prompted, and Thierry grinned.
“You’ll get no argument from me, friend. The Lady Arzhela was a good mistress,” he declared, winking in case Justin missed the double entendre, “and a sight to gladden the eye, for all that she was no longer young. As for her laddie over there, he may have a ready cock, but he also has a hot head and as many enemies as he has debts, or so I’ve been told. No, the lady could have done much better for herself.”
Thierry seemed to remember, then, that he was speaking to the men accused of her murder, for he scowled and snatched his cup back. “Why did you kill her? She was a good soul, kindhearted for all that she was highborn, never did harm to man or beast-”
“I did not,” Justin said quietly. “As God Almighty is my witness, I did not.”
