Morgan was happy to provide additional details: Simon had stolen a horse in the village and when last seen, was heading into the sunrise. The duchess and Breton lords seemed relieved to have him gone, for none of them showed any enthusiasm for pursuing the fugitive. There was some concern about the missing canon, especially after the discovery of a bloodstained rochet on the outskirts of the village. Gossip had it that Simon must have escaped and slain the cleric, although no one could explain the lack of a body.
“No one could explain, either, how Simon got himself out of a room locked from the outside,” Morgan observed. “The castle servants seemed to think he’d called upon his master, Lucifer, who cast a spell that allowed him to walk through the wall. If I were wagering, I’d put my money on one of the Breton barons sneaking down in the night and setting him free.”
“But what of the missing canon?” Emma said skeptically. “I never met the man; he was taken ill upon our arrival at Vitre. So I am not the one to pass judgment upon him. But Simon did, or at least he tried to when he attempted to throttle the man. If he were so set upon murder, would he have fled upon being freed by one of Constance’s barons, as meek as a lamb? Or would he seek to finish what he’d begun?”
“That seemed more likely to me, too” Justin admitted. “I can see Simon being freed by one of Constance’s conspirators. And I can see Simon then going in search of the canon, determined to avenge Arzhela. What I cannot understand, though, is why he would hide the body afterward, nor do I know where he’d hide it. Fougeres is a vast place, but he would not have had much time ere the castle servants would be up and about.”
“In other words,” Durand said morosely, “what we have are even more questions and few answers. Jesu, how I hate Brittany!”
“What of the canon’s horse?” Claudine asked hopefully. “Was it gone, too?” She looked deflated when Morgan said it had been found in the stables. “Well, then, I am at a loss,” she confessed. “None of this makes sense.”
“Not to me, either,” Guy ventured, but no one paid him any mind and he lapsed back into a sulky silence.
“It seems to me,” Emma commented, “that Simon de Lusignan has the answers you are seeking. Do you have any idea where he’d go? Back to Poitou, to his family’s manor in Lezay?”
Justin and Durand exchanged glances, in agreement for once that Morgan deserved to be the one to tell her. Morgan thought so, too. With an actor’s fine sense of timing, he drew a deep breath as if to speak, waiting until all eyes were upon him.
“As a matter of fact, we do know where he’s heading. He was seen riding away from the village, toward the east.”
Emma nodded. “Yes, I remember your saying that. But what of it? Half of Christendom lies to the east of Fougeres, including Laval.”
“We know that, my lady,” Morgan said patiently. “But he was not heading southeast toward Laval. He was heading due east toward Mayenne, and that is a toll road. So we detoured on our way to Laval, asked the toll collectors if they remembered a man like him, looking much the worse for wear and in a great hurry. Eventually we found one who did. He remembered Simon because he had bloodstains on his clothes, and because he’d asked a question.” Morgan paused again, theatrically. “He wanted to be sure this was the road to Paris!”
They set such a fast pace, pushing themselves and their horses to the limits of exhaustion, that they covered the 188 miles to Paris in just six days, reaching the city after dark on the ninth of March. It would have been difficult to say who was happiest as that forest of church spires came into view, for Emma and Claudine were not accustomed to hardships and the men were thoroughly sick of hearing their complaints after six demanding days on the road.
The one most affected by the sight of the city walls was Yann. Justin had told him that Paris was home to more than forty thousand souls. The boy could neither count nor even imagine numbers that high. He would never have admitted it, but his first view of the French capital was thoroughly intimidating: a maze of narrow streets and crooked alleys, most unpaved and muddy, crowded with loud, brash city folk hurrying home before curfew rang; imposing, overhanging, whitewashed houses of wood and stone towering above his head, blocking out all but the puniest slivers of moonlight; and more noise than his country-bred ears could bear.
Church bells chimed. Chains rattled as the bailiffs made ready to close the west end of the River Seine. Boatmen offered cheap passage. Street vendors shouted out their wares and often exchanged taunts as they fought over the day’s last customers. Dogs barked and geese honked and beggars cried out for alms, and from darkened doorways rouged and powdered women boldly accosted male passersby. Even the air filling his lungs seemed foreign to him. He felt as if he were inhaling smoke. Sickening stenches rose from the streets, the cesspits, the river, overwhelming the occasional appealing odor of baking bread or eel pie. Clinging to the back of Morgan’s belt, his thighs and buttocks blistered from endless hours on horseback, Yann blinked fiercely, keeping tears at bay.
He’d learned long ago that tears served for naught. But in just a month, his life had been turned topsy-turvy. The Lady Arzhela had been as close as he’d ever expected to get to a miracle. She’d teased him with winks and hints, whispering that all was not as it seemed and offering the promise of better tomorrows. He’d not understood half of what she’d said, nor had he fully believed it. It had been enough for him that this odd, fey woman had given him what he’d never gotten before: attention and even affection. And then she was dead and his dreams were drenched in blood, his peace slashed to shreds at night by a killer’s knife. Desperate to get away from Genets, for he did not believe that a sickly, kindly monk could protect him against such evil, he’d agreed to accompany these strangers back to their world, clutching his only thread of faith-that the monk had said they were the Lady’s friends.
At Laval, he’d learned that none of them truly wanted him, not like the Lady did. The woman the others called Lady Emma and he privately called the She-wolf had made it quite clear that she would not be burdened with a Breton cub, and the Weakling, her son, had only agreed because the Lady’s friends bullied him into it. Yann knew that as soon as they’d gone, he’d be cast out to beg his bread again, and so he’d stolen food from the kitchen, making sure that he was caught in the act. The Weakling had been indignant and balked at taking him in, backed by the She-wolf.
It was then that the other woman intervened, the Lady Claudine. To Yann, she was the Plum, for he still remembered his one taste of that sweet fruit. The Plum had taken the one called Justin aside, and Yann had crept closer to eavesdrop. The lad could go with them to Paris, Plum said, where her cousin would find a place for him on her estates. Justin had seemed surprised and grateful, and Plum had laughed and said they could not leave the lad to starve, after all. Yann could see no humor in that, for his whole life had been a battle against starvation.
And so he’d heeded his fear and his hunger, thinking that he might be striking a deal with the Devil, but at least the Devil was feeding him well. He’d tried to keep away from the She-wolf and the Knight, for that was how he’d christened Durand, staying close to the ones he instinctively recognized as his protectors-Justin and Morgan, the Groom. Gradually the terror knotting his stomach had begun to ease and the death dreams no longer came each night without fail. He’d even relaxed enough to admit that he knew more of their French tongue than they’d first thought, and because of the Plum’s careless kindness, he dared to hope that she really would keep to her word. But now that they were in Paris, a hive from Hell aswarm with alien bees, he was afraid that he’d made a great mistake.
They escorted the women to the town house of Claudine’s cousin Petronilla, planning to spend the night there themselves, for curfew had rung. Justin had been hoping to delay his meeting with John for one more night, but it was not to be. Petronilla had invited John to be her guest, ostensibly because his lodgings with the Templars lay beyond the city walls and a residence within the city would be more convenient, as well as more comfortable. Petronilla did not seem pleased with her coup, though, and Claudine felt a flicker of relief, for she’d warned her cousin that a dalliance with the Devil was a walk on the wild side. This prince was best left to his own dark domains. Seeing Petronilla’s discontent, Claudine was thankful that nothing had come of her cousin’s high-risk flirtation, although she was very curious why that was so. She was wondering how to find out what had gone wrong when she saw her answer framed in the doorway of the stairwell.
Claudine recognized the other woman at once, for John’s continuing involvement with Ursula had been a source of much court gossip. Ursula had lasted far longer than most of his bedmates, and Claudine did not understand why. She was a spectacularly beautiful, lush creature, but Claudine thought she was also a selfish, slow-witted bitch and John could do better. She was very glad, though, that it wouldn’t be with her cousin. Amused in spite of herself by John’s sheer audacity in bringing his mistress along when he accepted Petronilla’s misguided
