through the doorway. They reached the street as Simon snatched the reins from a rider who’d just dismounted from a big-boned grey gelding. The man cried out in astonished protest, but when he tried to get the reins back, Simon shoved Claudine into him, with enough force to knock them both to the ground. Vaulting up into the saddle, he spurred off down the street, kicking up clouds of dirt as people scattered to get out of his way.
Kneeling by Claudine, Justin lifted her up and carried her into the infirmary. She was pale and shaken, wrapped her arms so tightly around his neck that he had trouble disengaging her hold once they were inside. “Stay here,” he said. “You’re safe now.”
“Wait! Where are you going?”
“After him.” She called out his name but he did not heed her, plunging back out into the street. There all was chaos. People were milling about, dogs barking, someone shouting for the provost. Justin ran for the priory stables. Durand was already there, lugging a saddle toward his stallion’s stall while he tongue-lashed a cowering groom for having unsaddled their horses. “Stop berating the man,” Justin snapped, hastening toward his own mount. “This is not his fault!”
“No, it’s yours!” Durand shot back, glaring over his shoulder as he fumbled with the cinches. “If you had not been such a fool, he’d not have gotten away!”
“At the cost of Claudine’s life!”
“He’d not have hurt her!”
“You do not know that!”
They were shouting at each other so angrily that the stable groom shrank back into the shadows, convinced that they were both lunatics. Other men were entering the stables, drawn by the uproar, but they dispersed hastily as Durand spurred his stallion through the doorway. The other men had just regained their footing when Justin’s horse came shooting by, sending them scrambling for safety again.
Morgan was outside, shouting something unintelligible at Justin as he galloped past. Justin did not have time to explain, but as he glanced over his shoulder, he saw Morgan running toward the stables. Wheeling his mount, he raced after Durand.
CHAPTER 18
February 1194
ROAD TO FOUGERES, BRITTANY
Justin knew from the first that their chase was likely to be futile; Simon had too much of a head start to be overtaken if he was willing to abuse his mount. But his horse could always throw a shoe or pull up lame, and so they pushed on in pursuit. A man racing by at full speed attracted attention and they had no trouble following his trail; he left numerous gaping bystanders in his wake. Once they’d left the Norman town of Avranches behind, they slowed down, pacing their horses, for the hunt was no longer a mad dash; it had become a grim endurance test.
Simon was riding south. The road ahead beckoned them on, but neither man wanted to advance too deep into Brittany. They slowed down again, eventually pulling up to rest their horses and plot their strategy. “How far do you think we are from Chester’s castle?” Justin asked. “Five miles or so?”
Durand grunted an assent, swearing when he realized that he’d left his wineskin back in Genets. “I see some alder trees over there,” he said. “There ought to be a spring close by.” Leading his lathered mount toward a pond of murky water, he let the horse drink and then knelt and drank himself, cupping the water in his hands and splashing it onto his hot, dusty face. “What-you think to ask Chester for help?”
Justin was drinking, too, ignoring the brackish taste of the water. “I am not eager to ride on to Fougeres alone,” he confessed. “I do not fancy the lodgings they offer there.”
“Nor do I. But I doubt that Chester is going to give us men enough to launch an assault upon the castle.” Durand sat down tiredly in the withered grass. “Are you so sure that is where he’s heading?”
Justin shrugged, no less wearily. “Your guess is as good as mine. But this is the road to Fougeres and he’s likely to be looking for a safe burrow.”
“I suppose…” Durand stretched out in the grass. “Christ Jesus, but I hate Brittany. Nothing about this accursed country makes sense. If that poxy hellspawn de Lusignan did not kill the woman, who did?”
“We might be able to get that answer from Simon de Lusignan. But we have to catch him first.” Justin rose reluctantly to his feet, and then cocked his head, listening intently. “Riders coming,” he said, “from the south.”
Durand was on his feet, too, now. “A goodly number, by the sound of them. I do not much like this, de Quincy.”
Neither did Justin. “I think we ought to pay the Earl of Chester a visit,” he said and they both made haste to mount. The riders were within sight now, detouring off the road in their direction. Justin was about to spur his stallion into an urgent race for Chester’s castle when Durand gave a startled profanity.
“They are not Bretons!”
“Are you sure?”
“Aye.” Durand’s voice was flat and cold. “I know that whoreson in the lead. They call him Lupescar-the wolf.”
Even in England, Justin had heard of Lupescar, a notorious mercenary whose sword was always for hire to the highest bidder, a man with such a foul reputation that his name was used to scare small children into going to sleep at night. Stay abed or Lupescar will come for you. “How can you be so sure he is not in the pay of the Bretons?”
“Because,” Durand said harshly, “he’s been working of late for John.”
Lupescar had the dark hair and eyes of his native Provence, a surprisingly pleasant voice flavored with the soft accent of langue d’oc, the language of the south. He also had a raw, jagged scar across his forehead, and another around his throat that looked suspiciously like rope burns. “Well, Durand,” he said in a mellow, melodious tone that was utterly at variance with those cold, empty eyes. “Are you not gladdened to see me?”
“Beyond words. What are you doing here, Lupescar?”
“Why, coming to your rescue, of course. When John got word that you’d been clumsy enough to get yourself caught, bloody-handed, over some poor pilgrim’s body, he sent me to pull your chestnuts from the fire-assuming they were not burnt to a crisp, of course. We did a bit of spying around Fougeres, learned that you’d managed to get free, and we were on our way to Mont St Michel to see if we could pick up your trail.” Those unsettling eyes drifted over toward Justin. “You must be John’s other lost lamb. De Quincy, is it?”
Justin nodded tersely. “What would you have done if we’d still been imprisoned at Fougeres?”
Lupescar smiled. “We’ll never know, will we?” And then he and his men turned back toward the road, where riders had appeared in the distance. They were coming from the north, and Justin breathed a sigh of relief when he recognized Morgan.
Drawing rein, Morgan looked from one to the other, aware of the tension but not understanding it. “My lords? You were not easy to catch. We left Sir Lionel and some of my lord Chester’s men at Genets to protect Lady Emma and Lady Claudine, but the rest of us decided to join the hunt.” His gaze kept flicking toward Lupescar. He was obviously curious about this scarred stranger, but he asked no questions, waiting to follow Justin and Durand’s lead.
Lupescar returned Morgan’s appraisal, noted he wore no sword, and decided he was not worthy of further attention. “So, Durand, what are you hunting? Any quarry that might interest me?”
Durand took his time in replying. “If you came from the south, you may have seen him. Young, fair-haired, on a grey gelding, riding as if he were trying to outrun his sins.”
“We did see a man like that,” Lupescar acknowledged. “He swerved off the road into the woods when he saw us, but we saw no reason to follow. A man with money would not have been riding a nag like that. Who is he and why are you chasing him?”
Justin could feel the hairs prickling on the back of his neck every time he glanced at Lupescar, and he was glad when Durand balked at answering, saying only that it was nothing Lupescar need concern himself with.
“I expect you’ll be going back to Paris now,” Durand continued, his voice toneless, utterly without inflection,
