lodgings with a moat of running water. One with a stagnant moat would have been much quieter.” It was a lame joke even to his own ears, and he was not surprised when Durand snorted.
“You’re probably not in the mood for more bad news,” Justin said, after a few moments of silence. “But they forgot to send down dinner. We’ve got a slop bucket and mayhap a rat or two. That is it, though.”
“Are you going to talk all night, de Quincy? The one tolerable thing about you is that you usually keep your tiresome thoughts to yourself. So now you start jabbering like a popinjay when there’s no escaping your babbling?”
“It gladdens me to be sharing a dungeon with you, too, Durand.” Justin realized that Durand was right; he was talking more than usual. But as long as he was talking, he didn’t have to think. “At least we flushed de Lusignan out into the open. He killed Arzhela and now he’s trying to put the blame on us.”
“‘Trying,’ de Quincy? Look around you. I’d say he’s damned well done it!”
“It was obvious in the hall who was in on the plot and who was not. Yves de la Jaille and Reynaud Boterel did not know about the forged letter. But Alain de Dinan did, for certes. So did Andre de Vitre, Raoul de Fougeres, and the duchess, of course. Constance seemed willing to hear us out until John’s name dropped like a hot rock into the middle of the conversation. De Lusignan offered no plausible motive for why John would want Arzhela dead. He did not need to, for his co-conspirators thought they knew what it was-that accursed letter! If he can-”
“For the love of God, enough! You think you’re telling me anything I do not already know? What ails you, man? Are you scared? Is that it?”
Justin exhaled a very uneven breath. He was rubbing his arms to restore the flow of blood; they were numb after being pinned behind his back for so many hours. After another long silence, he heard his own voice saying defiantly, “What if I am?”
“Well, that is the first sensible thing you’ve said tonight. You ought to be scared half out of your wits.”
“And I suppose you’re not, Durand?”
Silence again. Durand was little more than a disembodied voice; they were both cloaked in a night darker than dark. When Justin could stand the stillness no longer, he said, “Morgan and Jaspaer were not taken. So they know what happened to us. If they get word to John.. ”
“What good will it do? In case you haven’t noticed, John does not wield a great deal of influence on this side of the border.”
Justin could not argue with that. But neither could he yield every last scrap of hope. “The queen and Richard could get us freed.”
“Yes, they could. But there are two fatal flaws in that plan, de Quincy. First of all, you are assuming we would still be alive by the time the queen returns from Germany. Second, you are depending upon John to do the right thing, even at risk to himself, and tell the queen of our plight. You truly want your life to balance upon the head of a pin that passes for John’s conscience?”
Justin tried to muster up anger; Durand deserved it and at least it might keep him warm. But the ashes of his temper were as cold as Durand’s practiced cynicism. “So what you are saying,” he said at last, “is that we can expect nothing but a quick trial and an even quicker execution.”
“Trial?” Durand’s laughter was brittle, unsteady. “We’re not getting a trial. You know what they call these dungeons? Oubliettes. You know what that means? Oblivion, de Quincy, oblivion. They put us down here to rot.”
CHAPTER 16
February 1194
FOUGERES CASTLE, BRITTANY
When the trapdoor opened, Justin and Durand did not move, instinctively keeping very still. Justin now knew how a rabbit felt, frozen in fear as a predator approached. The light spilling into their black hole was painfully bright, forcing them to avert their eyes. A bucket was being lowered down to them; when it hit the ground, they heard a wonderful sound, the splash of liquid. A moment later, something else came through the opening, landing with a small thump, and then the trapdoor slammed shut again.
Time was impossible to track in a void. By Justin’s best guess, they’d been in the dungeon for at least twelve hours. As thirsty as he’d ever been in his life, he dived for the bucket, and he and Durand took turns drinking their fill. Only then did he try to discover the reason for that other thud, fumbling around in the dark until he found the prize-a loaf of bread. It was stale, so hard it was difficult to break into halves, the gritty rye that was contemptuously known as “alms bread.” It was delicious.
“At least they are feeding us,” Justin ventured. “So they must want to keep us alive.”
“For now,” Durand mumbled, stuffing another chunk of bread into his mouth.
“You might want to slow down,” Justin cautioned. “We do not know when we’ll get another loaf.”
“I’m not going to hoard my bread like a starveling mouse.” After another silence without beginning or end, Durand said, “I’ve been thinking about it, and I realized I’m likely to outlive you, de Quincy. You’re younger but I’m tougher. So, the way I figure it, if worst comes to worst, I can always gain myself some time by gnawing on your dead body.”
“Mother of God!”
“Well, I’m willing to be fair about it. If perchance I do die first, you have my permission-nay, my blessing-to feast on my flesh.”
“Thank you, Durand, for that remarkable generosity. But I think I’d rather make do with one of the rats we hear scuttling around in the shadows.” Justin gave a shaken, incredulous laugh. “Jesu, listen to us! How can we jest about something like that?”
“How can we not?” Durand asked succinctly, and after that they lapsed into silence again, listening to the muffled roar of the river-moat, the occasional scraping of rodent feet, and the loudest sound of all, the pounding of their own heartbeats.
Justin tried to count the days by keeping track of the number of times the trapdoor opened and they were given food and water. But he soon realized the flaws in that system. He had no way of knowing if this was done on a daily basis. Even more troubling, he discovered that his always-reliable memory was suddenly fitful, erratic. Had they been there for six days? Or was it five?
They passed the time by discussing Arzhela’s murder and the forged letter, although their conclusions, speculations, and suspicions would remain immured with them. Justin confided what Arzhela had whispered in his ear with her dying breath, a single word-Roparzh. It might be a Breton name, he suggested, but he did not know enough of the language to be sure of that, and Durand was quick to point out that it could as easily have been a Breton prayer or even a curse. Unable to decipher the word’s meaning, they moved on to those facts that were not in dispute.
They were in agreement that Arzhela had died because she’d learned too much. They also agreed that it was unlikely her murder was part of the conspiracy. Constance might well wink at the authenticity of the letter implicating John. Neither man could see her agreeing to the killing of her own cousin. It was logical, then, to assume they were dealing with two crimes: forgery and murder. Since Simon de Lusignan was their favorite suspect in Arzhela’s slaying, it seemed plausible that he was behind the forgery, too.
“Let’s suppose, then,” Justin said pensively, “that Simon came to the duchess with the letter. Or that he offered to ‘obtain’ it for a fee. Say that Arzhela found out the letter was a forgery. Would he have killed her for that?”
“He might,” Durand mused, “if he’d convinced Constance and her barons that the letter was genuine.”
The more Justin thought about that, the more tenable it seemed. The duchess might well have been furious to find she’d been cheated, tricked by a forgery that John could prove to be false. “Arzhela let us think that she had learned of the letter from Constance. It seems more likely that she learned of it in bed, Simon de Lusignan’s bed.”
“And then she tried to have it both ways, God love her.” Durand laughed harshly. “She warned her old lover whilst trying to shield her current lover. If she’d been honest with us from the first, she’d still be alive. Fool
