think you guilty of murder. I think I’d best give you a letter of my own, explaining that you and Sir Durand were unjustly accused by those rash, reckless Bretons, and avowing your innocence upon my honor as a Norman baron.”
“That would be most welcome, my lord,” Justin said gratefully. He’d planned to ask Chester for just such a letter, for the earl was the only man he knew who exercised power on both sides of the Breton-Norman border. He was pleased now that he did not have to ask, though, for he was already so deeply in Chester’s debt that it seemed greedy to seek any more favors.
“I’ll send some of my men with you to Genets,” Chester said. “After that, you’ll be on your own.”
They waited for Morgan in a grove of trees about half a mile from the town of Genets. He was not gone long, and when he came into view, his smile communicated the success of his mission before he said a word. “The provost is on his way to the abbey. As soon as I told him Abbot Jourdain had need of him, he was off. By my reckoning, he’ll be gone for hours. First he has to cross the bay, then seek out the abbot, who’ll doubtless make him wait. By the time he discovers that the abbot sent no message, he’ll not want to venture out into the bay at dusk and he’ll-”
As usual, Morgan took the roundabout route; he was never one to use ten words when he could use twice as many. That was fine with Justin, who thought Morgan had earned the right to talk from now till Judgment Day if it made him happy. Durand was not as indulgent and cut him off brusquely, saying, “Let’s look for the gaol, then. Are you still set upon coming, Lady Emma?”
“Of course,” she said, no less brusquely. “They are my men, are they not?”
Justin wasn’t sure if Emma had any genuine concern for Rufus and Crispin, or if it was simply that her sense of possession was offended by their gaoling, but he welcomed her presence, for she’d prove to be a formidable distraction.
And she did. As soon as she flounced into the gaol, lifting her skirts and curling her lip, she had the provost’s deputy off balance, so flustered that Justin could almost feel sorry for him. Identifying herself as the Lady Emma Plantagenet, consort of the Prince of Gwynedd, sister of King Henry of blessed memory, aunt to King Richard Coeur de Lion, she demanded that he free her men at once, and for a moment they thought she was going to prevail by the sheer audacity of her performance. Master Benoit stammered and stumbled, visibly wilting under that haughty stare. But then his eyes moved past her to Justin and Durand, widening in horrified recognition.
“We are not escaped murderers,” Justin said hastily. “We had nothing to do with the slaying of the Lady Arzhela de Dinan. But I do not expect you to take our word for that. I have here a letter from the Earl of Chester, attesting to our innocence.”
Master Benoit reached for the letter as gingerly as if it might burst into flames at his touch. After reading it, he said hesitantly, “The earl argues most persuasively on your behalf. But I do not have the authority to release your men, Madame. The provost has been called away, but I will discuss the matter with him straightaway upon his return.”
Justin and Durand had been expecting this; their brief experience with the deputy provost had shown them that he suffered from a malady detrimental to officers of the law: a total absence of backbone. “Have it your own way,” Durand said nonchalantly. “So… the provost has forgiven you, then? I must say you’re a lucky man, for an argument could be made that your blunder brought about the Lady Arzhela’s death.”
The deputy’s Adam’s apple bobbed. “What… what do you mean?”
“Well, if you’d told him what Brother Bernard had confided in you-that the lady was disguised as a humble pilgrim-he’d have sought her out at the abbey and the killer would not have had his chance to corner her in the crypt.”
“You look very pale of a sudden.” Justin did his best to sound solicitous. “Are you ailing? Surely you told the provost about that conversation with Brother Bernard?”
Master Benoit swallowed again, inhaling air in a convulsive gulp. “Of course I did!” He looked down at the earl’s letter. “I suppose it would do no harm if I release them now. They’d be freed as soon as the provost returns, after all. It would be a pity to make a fine lady such as yourself delay your journey, Madame. You are planning to depart Genets today?”
Emma nodded coolly and as the deputy scurried off to fetch the prisoners, she gave Justin and Durand an approving glance and a rare compliment: “Well done.”
“Thank you,” Justin said dryly, thinking that the Lady Emma was the only woman he knew who viewed extortion as a social skill. Durand leaned against the wall, arms folded, looking bored. But Justin knew how deceptive that familiar pose was; Durand could move as swiftly as a panther if the need arose-if the deputy decided to double-cross them.
Master Benoit kept faith, though, soon emerging with Rufus and Crispin in tow. They were deliriously happy to be freed, almost embarrassingly grateful, and Justin realized that men-at-arms were too often viewed as expendable by their masters. Emma waved aside their thankfulness, wrinkling her nose at their ripe odor. “I suppose it is too much to hope there is a bathhouse in town?” she queried.
“Of course there is!” Master Benoit sounded offended, as if she’d insulted his civic pride. “It is close by the shipyard and a fine one it is, too-” Belatedly remembering that it was in his best interest to get them out of Genets as soon as possible, he added lamely, “But it might not be open today. In fact, I am sure it is not.”
Emma paid him no heed and instructed her men-at-arms to go off and scrub themselves clean. Doling out coins sparingly, she warned them not to spend the money on wine, on anything but the baths. “Then meet us at the priory,” she said, “and if you tarry over-long, you’ll be left behind.” When Crispin reminded her that they were “right famished,” she grudgingly agreed that they could also stop at a cook-shop.
Master Benoit had snatched up the earl’s letter and was holding it close to his chest. “You’re going to the priory, too? Do you not want to leave whilst there is still light?”
He blanched when Durand said blandly that they might want to pass the night in Genets, looking so miserable that Justin took pity on him. “We’ll not be staying. After we arrange to have Masses said for Lady Arzhela and the two slain monks, we’ll be on our way.”
Master Benoit blinked. “Two? But Brother Andrev is still alive!”
The town physician had the gruff, no-nonsense demeanor of a man overworked and underappreciated. Brother Andrev was still grievously ill, he warned, and although he was expected to recover, God Willing, he was very weak and tired easily. Only after they’d promised to keep their visit brief were Justin and Durand allowed to enter the sickroom.
The infirmary was much smaller than the one at the abbey and Brother Andrev was the sole patient. He had a sallow sickbed pallor, his eyes hollowed and sunken in, giving him an almost cadaver-like appearance. Justin had been nervous about this meeting, worried about agitating a man who’d come so close to death, and wondering how they were going to convince him that they’d played no part in Arzhela’s murder. But as soon as Justin said their names, Brother Andrev became much more animated, insisting that they come closer, and with his first words, it was obvious that he needed no persuasion to trust them.
“Justin and Durand? You are the men Arzhela was awaiting? But I thought you’d been dragged off to Fougeres Castle. How did you escape?”
“It is a long, strange story. You know we are innocent, then?”
“Of course. Arzhela would not tell me the name of the man she feared. But she did tell me your names, said she’d be safe once you reached the abbey.” Brother Andrev’s spurt of energy was already ebbing away. He had no pillow, for truly devout monks scorned such comforts. He did not object, though, when Justin rolled up a spare blanket and placed it under his head. “I tried to tell the provost once I’d regained my wits, saying I was sure you were not the ones. He did not seem to believe me…” He closed his eyes and Justin wondered if the interview was over. This man’s spirit burned like a lone spark in a cold hearth, all too easy to extinguish.
After a time, Brother Andrev opened his eyes again. “She always wanted to be buried here,” he said sadly, “at our church… But it must be reconsecrated, and… and the duchess would not wait…”
What followed was a patchwork quilt of silences and sighs and laborious, strained utterances. Brother Andrev could tell them nothing that would be of use in solving Arzhela’s murder, for all he remembered of his brief struggle with his would-be assassin was the terrifying image of an upraised, bloodied blade. But as he painstakingly recounted his last conversation with the Lady Arzhela, it seemed to Justin that there were four now in this room
