Thierry regarded him for a moment. “Damned if I do not almost believe you. A pity, for no one else will, friend.” Throwing a glance over his shoulder toward Simon de Lusignan, he said confidentially, “That one pitched a firking fit when he identified the body, carried on something fierce. Took us by surprise, he did; who knew she was more to him than a fine piece of tail? He’s been ranting ever since that death is too good for the likes of you, and if he’d had his way, you’d have been hanged then and there. The prior would have none of that, but my Lord Yves and Sir Reynaud might be easier to convince. Our men think so, for they are wagering that you’ll not reach Fougeres alive.”
The village of Antrain looked no less desolate and forlorn at second sight than it had when they’d first passed through. It seemed bereft of life; the villagers knew enough to hide when men-at-arms rode by. They continued on, and the cottages soon vanished in the distance. The countryside was deserted. An occasional hawk soared overhead, and once, a brown flash that may have been a weasel ran across the road, spooking the horses. After they forded the River Loisance, they did not stop again until they reached the tiny hamlet of Tremblay.
Like Antrain, it seemed abandoned, for the inhabitants had run off at the approach of armed men. The elderly priest hovered anxiously in the doorway of his ancient church as they reined in. He did not appear much relieved when they told him they were halting only to rest their horses. Gathering up a small dog that looked as old as he was, he retreated into the church and bolted the door.
Justin was as apprehensive as the priest when they began to dismount, for Thierry’s warning had been echoing in his ears like a funeral dirge. Once they’d been dragged off their horses, he and Durand were herded toward the small cemetery and told to stay put against a crumbling stone wall. As they watched, wineskins were shared and men wandered off to find places to urinate. The Lord Yves and Reynaud Boterel stretched their legs and laughed together, laughter that stilled as they approached their prisoners. They stood for a moment, looking over at Justin and Durand with a detached animosity that was somehow more chilling than outright anger would have been.
“I am not looking forward to telling the duchess about this killing of her cousin,” Lord Yves said soberly. “I was never sure how much fondness there was between them, for they could not have been more unlike. But they are blood-kin and the duchess takes that very seriously, indeed.”
“At least we can deliver up her killers. That may provide some small measure of comfort.”
“Yes, it was lucky that Simon got to the abbey when he did. If he had not been able to identify her body, she might have been buried as this one’s runaway sister.” Yves glared at Durand. “Does it seem to you, though, that Simon is somewhat evasive about their reasons for the killing? I know he told us she had trouble with them at Vitre, but he really has not explained why they’d follow her all the way to Mont St Michel.”
“Does it matter? Sometimes, the less a man knows, the better off he is.”
Justin had been eavesdropping intently, but he’d learned little from this conversation that could benefit them. Durand was leaning against the wall, his eyes closed, but Justin knew he’d been listening, too. On impulse, Justin raised his voice, calling out, “My lords! If you want to know more about the murder, why not ask me?”
They exchanged skeptical glances, and Lord Yves jeered, “As if we could believe a word that came out of your mouth!” They’d moved closer, though, and Justin dared to hope that he might get his first chance to defend himself. But Simon de Lusignan was already striding toward them, coming so fast that heads were turning in his direction, men looking around to see what had alarmed him.
“Do not waste your time talking to these craven killers, my lord Yves. These are men of the worst sort, men who murdered a defenseless woman, attacked monks, and profaned two of God’s Houses. How could you trust anything they’d say?”
Justin and Durand stared at him in disbelief. Even Lord Yves looked startled. “What are you saying, that they are the ones who did the killings in Genets, too? I thought the provost and the prior said the attacks took place in the afternoon, ere these two arrived at the Mont?”
“They were fooled. Think about it, my lord. What are the chances of two different murderers striking on the same day? Nay, they silenced the monks, then came back to the abbey and made a show of crossing over to Genets to deflect suspicion from themselves. They never expected, after all, to be caught bloody-handed over Lady Arzhela’s body!”
“That is an arrant lie!” Justin protested, too outraged for caution. “We can prove that we were nowhere near Genets when-” He got no further, for Simon lunged forward, slammed him into the wall and backhanded him across the face. Justin stumbled and almost fell. His head swam and he tasted blood in his mouth. When his vision cleared, the first thing he saw was the glint of sunlight upon the blade of Simon’s sword. He tensed, fully expecting to feel that steel thrust into his belly, for the expression on the other man’s face was murderous.
“Easy, Simon.” Yves was speaking soothingly, like one talking to a drunk or a madman. “You do not need that, lad. He’s not going anywhere.”
“Is he not? It looks to me like he’s trying to escape.” Simon took a backward step, but as he swung, Reynaud Boterel grabbed his arm and the blade sliced through air instead of Justin’s flesh. De Lusignan spun around with a snarl, balancing on the balls of his feet like a cat about to pounce. “They deserve death! The bastards killed Arzhela!”
“And they’ll answer for it to the duchess,” Yves pointed out, still using that patient, patronizing tone, and Simon shook his head vehemently.
“I want them to answer to me!” he spat. “I want the pleasure of killing them myself!” He seemed about to renew his attack when a sudden shout echoed from the road.
“My lords! Riders approach!”
Simon hesitated, but the moment was past and he knew it. Sheathing his sword, he turned away with a curse that would have caused a sailor to blink. Lord Yves and Reynaud Boterel were moving toward the newcomers, waving to attract their attention.
Justin sagged back against the wall. He could hear Durand’s heavy breathing and he wondered if his own breath sounded that ragged. “Jesu,” he whispered, and spat blood onto the ground.
“I did warn you.” The voice was Thierry’s. Sidling closer, he murmured out of the side of his mouth, “I do not know whether you got a reprieve or not. That lord riding up is Alain de Dinan. He is Seneschal of Brittany, which is in your favor. But he is also the Lady Arzhela’s nephew.”
Alain de Dinan was a pale, balding man approaching his fourth decade. He was not particularly prepossessing in appearance, looking more like a mild-mannered Church clerk than one of Brittany’s greatest barons. But within moments of his arrival, he took complete charge of the situation and the prisoners. He was on his way to Mont St Michel, having learned of Arzhela’s disappearance, and it was obvious that he was not expecting such a tragic end to his mission. When told of Arzhela’s murder, he seemed staggered by the news, waving the others away and turning his back until he’d gotten his emotions under control. Those few moments of grace gave Justin and Durand time to brace themselves, for he was soon stalking toward them, flanked by Simon and the other lords.
“The Lady Arzhela was my uncle Roland’s widow,” he said in a voice like a rasp, “the wife of his winter years. She was not my blood-kin, but she made my uncle happy during their marriage and she became very dear to me. She will be avenged, I promise you that. You will die for what you have done.”
“We are not guilty,” Justin said wearily, “if that matters at all. From what I’ve seen so far of Breton justice, it does not.”
“You have not yet begun to taste Breton justice.” Alain de Dinan folded his arms across his chest, regarding them disdainfully. “But if you have something to say, say it, then. I warn you, though, that if you seek to besmirch a great lady’s name-”
“My lord!” Simon de Lusignan interrupted hastily. “This was not a lover’s crime. It was far more foul.”
Alain de Dinan frowned, and it occurred to Justin that he might be the only man in Brittany who did not know of Arzhela’s liaison with Simon de Lusignan. “What do you mean?” he demanded, stiffening indignantly when Simon sought to draw him aside. His distaste for Simon was so evident that Justin dared to indulge himself in a moment of hope. Durand, older and wiser, knew better. Reluctantly allowing Simon to lead him away from the others, Alain conferred privately with the younger man for a few moments, and when he turned back to the prisoners, his demeanor had changed. Gone was the grieving kinsman seeking justice for his aunt. His face was utterly impassive, his eyes shuttered, his guard up.
“Get these men onto their horses,” he said curtly. “We have a long ride to Fougeres.”
