Fougeres was thirty miles from Mont St Michel, an easy one-day’s ride in summer, a more problematic undertaking in winter. Favored by the mild weather and dry roads, driven by Alain de Dinan’s implacable will, they pushed on into the gathering dusk. Several hours later, they were riding slowly along the street known as the Bourg Vieil, heading for the castle.
Night had long since fallen and the townspeople were abed. The air had cooled rapidly after losing the sun, and the wind carried to them the smoke of hearth fires and the sodden scent of the marshes and then the pungent, sickening stink of the tanner’s quarter: the fetid stench of dog dung, tallow and fish oil, urine, slaked lime, and fermenting barley. A dog barked and then another, followed by some sleepy cursing. Lanterns gleamed along the castle battlements and as they approached, they were quickly challenged and, as quickly, given admittance.
Justin and Durand were trapped in a circle of fire, surrounded by smoking torches. They’d been shoved into the great hall, which was emptying of drowsy servants and men-at-arms, who’d been rudely told to seek beds elsewhere. There was a low buzz of noise; it sounded as if the entire castle had been roused from sleep. Raoul de Fougeres soon entered the hall. He’d obviously dressed in haste, and looked thoroughly annoyed. But after a brief colloquy with Alain de Dinan, his anger dissipated and he stared at the prisoners with an odd expression, one that seemed both suspicious and speculative.
The highborn guests had begun to stumble, disheveled and yawning, into the hall. Andre de Vitre, hair rumpled, reeking of wine. Abbot Jourdain, eyes puffy and swollen with sleep. The enigmatic canon from Toulouse, immaculately garbed even at that hour. Raoul’s young grandson, who seemed as wide awake and alert as if it were midday. Others whom Justin did not recognize. Word was already spreading of Arzhela’s murder, shock and grief and rage intermingling until they were indistinguishable, one from the other. But it was some time before the Duchess Constance made her appearance.
Her long, dark hair spilled down her back, inadequately covered by a carelessly pinned veil. She wore a fur- trimmed mantle that flared open as she walked, giving her audience a glimpse of a lace-edged chemise, and soft bed slippers peeked out from under the hem. Her fingers were barren of rings, her throat bare to the night air. Stripped of the elaborate accoutrements of power, she still dominated by sheer force of will, at once becoming the center of attention, the focal point of all eyes.
“What nonsense is this?” she demanded. “Why was I awakened? Who has-” Her head swiveled, her eyes darting from one man to another. “It is not Arthur? It is not my son?”
“No, Madame, no. No evil has befallen the young lord. That I swear to you upon the surety of my soul.”
Alain de Dinan came forward from the crowd and made the formal obeisance of subject to sovereign. It might have appeared incongruous or even comical, coming from a man in such travel-stained disarray to a woman in a state of undress. But his gravity conferred a somber dignity upon his act, and as she gazed down at his bowed head, Constance sensed that there was tragedy in the making. As long as it spared her sunlight and joy, her only- begotten son, she could cope with it, whatever it may be, and she said swiftly, “Rise, my lord. What have you come to tell me?”
“Your cousin, the Lady Arzhela, is dead, Madame, cruelly slain in the holy shrine of St Michael.”
Justin’s memories of the ensuing events were never clear; blurred and random, like a half-forgotten dream or an unfinished puzzle, for bits and pieces were missing. He remembered the heat of the torches upon the skin of his face, the way the smoke spiraled upward toward the vaulted roof, as if seeking escape. The treacherous weakness of his body, which yearned only for sleep. The duchess’s dark eyes filling with unshed tears. The hall resonating with prayers for the murdered woman’s soul and, then, with the mindless cries of the mob, calling for vengeance.
Forced to his knees before the duchess, he looked up into a face as pale and unyielding as chiseled marble. This was a woman to demand every last portion of her just due, be it in coins, vassalage, deference, or blood. “Scriptures say, ‘He shall have judgment without mercy, that hath showed no mercy, ’” she said, enunciating each word as if it were carved from ice.
Justin swallowed with difficulty, for his throat was clogged with the dust of the road. But a bishop’s son could quote from Scriptures, too, and he said, as evenly as he could, “Holy Writ also says that vengeance belongeth to God.”
Raoul de Fougeres’s hand closed on his shoulder, fingers digging painfully into his flesh. “Watch your tongue when you speak to the duchess.”
Constance did not need his intercession. “I spoke of judgment, not vengeance.”
Justin raised his head and looked her full in the face. “There can be no justice, my lady, if we are not heard. And we’ve been given no chance to speak, to deny our guilt.”
Constance showed no emotion. But after a moment, she said, “Speak, then.”
The words were no sooner out of her mouth than the Abbot Jourdain gave a sudden, sharp cry. “I know these men! I met them in the village of Antrain two days past, Your Grace. They were seeking the Lady Arzhela, and with great urgency-now I know why!”
“So do I.” Simon de Lusignan shoved his way forward, saying loudly, “I know these men, too, Madame. They came to you at Vitre, escorting the Lady Emma, aunt to the English king.”
“Indeed?” Constance’s voice was dangerously dispassionate. “So they are King Richard’s men?”
“Far worse, Your Grace.” Simon turned toward the prisoners, his mouth curving into a twisted, triumphant smile. “They are agents of the Count of Mortain. They serve at the Devil’s pleasure; they serve John!”
After that, there was nothing more to be said. Simon de Lusignan claimed that they had murdered the Lady Arzhela at John’s behest, weaving a tale with great gaping holes in it, for he offered no reason why John should order her assassination. No one seemed troubled by this, though, for no one tugged at the loose threads that would have unraveled his story. The mere mention of John was enough to seal their fate.
As they were restrained, none too gently, by the guards, a heavy trapdoor was raised. Dragged forward, Justin found himself staring down into a black abyss. A sudden slash of a knife blade and his hands were freed. He assumed that was to enable him to descend a rope ladder, but then he was roughly shoved and went tumbling down into the dark. It was not that great a fall, about ten feet or so, but the impact drove all the air from his lungs. He lay still for several moments, stunned, until Durand came plummeting after him. There was a thud as he hit the ground, then silence. Justin rolled over, was starting to sit up when the trapdoor was slammed shut, and they were left alone in the worst of Fougeres Castle’s underground dungeons.
The utter blackness disoriented; at first, Justin could not even see his hand in front of his face. That past summer, his investigation in Wales had led to an ancient Roman mine. He remembered peering down into its depths, thankful he need not descend into that bottomless shaft. That Welsh mine seemed almost benign now that he found himself buried alive in this netherworld hellhole.
He fought a desperate, silent struggle with panic, a battle that left him limp and drained. His eyes were slowly adjusting to the dark, and he was becoming aware now of the overwhelming stench of death and decay. Breathing this air was like inhaling in a cesspit. It was bitter cold and damp. When he touched one of the stone walls, he discovered that it was coated with some sort of slimy growth. Getting stiffly to his feet, he explored the dimensions of their prison; it did not take long. His boot knocked into something solid; one whiff told him he’d found the slop bucket. But as carefully as he searched, he did not find a water bucket.
He was so intent upon the search that Durand’s continuing silence did not at once register with him. When it did, he cautiously retraced his steps and squatted down beside the shadowy form. “Durand?” he said, and then, with greater urgency, “Durand!”
“Who do you think they dumped in with you?” the other man said waspishly. “The Holy Roman Emperor?”
For once, the sarcasm was not unwelcome; Justin could imagine no better proof that Durand was not badly hurt. “Thank God,” he said. “I feared I might be stuck down here with a dead man!”
“Give it time,” Durand muttered, “give it time.” Sitting up with a groan, he leaned back against the wall. “What in damnation is that noise? It sounds like we’re trapped underneath a waterfall!”
“Close enough.” Justin had never thought he’d be glad to hear the sound of Durand’s voice, but it was a great relief not to be entombed down here alone. “It must be the River Nancon we’re hearing. Just our luck to have taken
