“It was his. He sought me out the first Sunday in Advent, told me he knew of a way for us to make a large sum of money. I was to go to Raoul de Fougeres and say that I’d learned that there was a canon in Toulouse with evidence that would be your ruination, and ask if he was interested in pursuing it. Naturally he was, and in time I produced ‘Canon Robert’ and his incendiary letter. The Bretons were only too happy to buy it.”
John could hide neither his surprise nor his skepticism. “You’re saying they never knew they were dealing with the Breton? I would think his credentials would have been an asset, a means of validating the so-called proof.”
“He was adamant from the first that his identity not be disclosed. I did not understand why myself,” Simon acknowledged, “but I was not about to question my good fortune. He’d not have needed me as a go-between if he’d not been so set upon staying in the shadows. He provided me with the letter and the finest set of forged seals a man could hope to see.” Forgetting, for the moment, the audience he was addressing, Simon sounded almost admiring of his partner’s artistry. “He was never one to stint on quality and I daresay many at the Breton court believed the letter was genuine.”
“Forgive me if I do not share your enthusiasm for a forgery meant to be my ‘ruination,’” John said, and the tone of his voice raised the hairs on the back of Simon’s neck.
“I know I’ve given you no reason to think kindly of me,” he said hastily, “but I was not motivated by malice. It was just for the money, no more than that.”
His listeners could only marvel at the most inept, awkward apology they’d ever heard. “That makes me feel so much better,” John said caustically, “knowing it was never personal. If I go to the gallows for treason, at least I’ll have the consolation of knowing you bear me no ill will!”
Simon swallowed again. “It was the Breton’s doing. I came along for the ride but the hand on the reins was his.”
John walked over to Simon, standing so close that the younger man shifted uneasily on the stool. “Tell me about the Breton and Arzhela.”
“I’d had too much to drink, and she got it out of me about the Breton. She was good at that. I warned her to keep quiet, which was a mistake. She had a hellcat’s temper.” Simon smiled ruefully, glancing up at John as if they were allies in the eternal male-female wars. “So we fought and I went off to brood about women and their vexing ways and, to be honest with you, to drown my troubles in a river of wine. When I sobered up, I rode back to Fougeres, but Arzhela had already gone on to Mont St Michel. So we never got to make our peace, and the next time I saw her, she was laid out on a bier in St Etienne’s crypt …”
His voice thickened and he bowed his head. Justin watched the performance with apprehension. He did not doubt Simon’s grieving for Arzhela was genuine, but neither did he doubt that the other man was quite capable of using that grief to his own advantage, just as he’d attempted to forge a sense of male camaraderie with John. He feared that Simon would try to retreat into the shadow world of loss whenever he was cornered, and he glanced over at John, hoping that he’d not allow it.
He need not have worried. “I think you are forgetting something, Simon,” John said, the coolness of his voice belied by what they saw in his eyes. “When did you tell the Breton that you’d misspoken and Arzhela knew his true identity?”
Simon expelled a long-held breath. “I did tell him,” he admitted, almost inaudibly, keeping his eyes fixed upon the floor rushes. “Arzhela could be as strong-willed as any man, as impulsive as a swallow on the wing. I thought I ought to warn him that there might be trouble brewing. But I never thought he’d harm her.” He looked up then, his eyes glistening with unshed tears. “I swear by all that’s holy that I did not!”
“So why then,” Justin asked, “did you go racing off to the abbey as you did?”
“I wanted to mend our quarrel. I did not suspect him, even after he disappeared from Fougeres. He was always going off on mysterious errands of his own…” Simon’s shoulders twitched in a half-shrug that quickly brought a spasm of pain to his face. Placing a hand to his bandaged ribs, he said earnestly, “I did not suspect he had killing in mind, I did not!”
“Of course you did not, lad,” Durand said, his voice dripping icicles and disbelief. “After all, this was the Breton, a man of known integrity and honor. Jesu forfend that he’d ever resort to murder!”
Simon showed his temper was not truly tamed, then, by glaring at Durand. “Of course he’s killed men,” he snapped. “But not a woman, not one so highborn, so dear to me. I tell you it never occurred to me that he could be guilty, not until that day at the Genets priory when you told me she’d whispered ‘Roparzh’ ere she died. Then I knew; too late, I knew what I’d done!”
It was Emma who gave voice to the query in all their minds. “‘So dear to me,’” she echoed incredulously. “Why should the Breton give a flying fig for your passing fancies? For that matter, why should he have entrusted you with so much? Even if he needed a go-between, as you claim, why you?” She did not need to finish the rest of that disdainful thought; the tone of her voice said it all.
Simon’s head jerked as his eyes cut sharply from Emma to John. “You do not know, then?”
“Know what?”
“The Breton and I-we are kinsmen.”
If he’d been hoping for a dramatic response to his revelation, Simon was to be disappointed. There was a long silence, although over his head, their eyes met in mutual amazement. “Do not stop now,” John said sardonically, “not when we are hanging upon your every word.”
“It is true,” Simon insisted. “His mother and mine were sisters, albeit born twenty years apart. This was the first time I’d had any business dealings with him, but I’ve known him all my life and his identity as the Breton was an open family secret. He chose me because of my involvement with Arzhela-ironic, is it not? He said I was already familiar with the lords of the Breton court, and he knew for certes that I’d jump at his offer like a starving trout. He’d been an impoverished younger son, too… once.”
Although none of them would give Simon the satisfaction of acknowledging it, he’d just established his bona fides beyond doubt, for the weak link in his story had been the one that forged a bond between him and the Breton. “Assuming for the moment that we believe you,” John said, “what happened at Fougeres?”
“You know that already, my lord. The Breton tried to kill me. But he discovered that was not so easily done,” Simon said, with a hint of smugness in his voice. “He had the weapon and thought he had the element of surprise. I was waiting for him, though, and I was younger and faster, if not fast enough.” His hand slid, unbidden, to his side. “I knew he’d try again, so I stole a horse and rode for my life.”
Glancing toward Justin, Simon added, “Your men told me that the Breton tried to make it seem as if I’d killed him, leaving behind a bloodstained garment. He then stole a horse, too, or bought one for all I know, and came after me.”
“Why did you not tell the Duchess Constance of your suspicions?” Durand demanded, but this time Simon knew better than to shrug.
“I thought about it. But then it would have come out that the letter was a forgery and I was not sure if the duchess knew that. I was afraid, too, that the Breton would twist the truth, for I had no actual proof that he’d slain Arzhela. The duchess wanted to believe the letter was genuine. I thought they might decide to cast the both of us into one of Lord Raoul’s oubliettes, let God sort out our guilt.”
“So you were coming to me,” John said, and Simon flashed a sheepish smile that was not quite as artless as he’d hoped.
“That sounds mad, I know. But I was wagering that you’d rather thwart the Breton and avenge Arzhela’s murder than punish me for my lesser sins. Is this… is this a wager I’ll win, my lord count?”
“It is too early to tell. Where is the Breton now?”
“I would to God I knew. I am sure he is in Paris, though. I am willing to be the bait, my lord, if that will draw him out of hiding.”
“How kind of you. As it happens, he has already made a move. He paid to have me slain.”
Simon’s shock seemed genuine; his jaw dropped. “He would dare? That does not sound like him, for he’s never been one to panic. It was a family joke that if he were cut, he’d bleed ice water. I can see him trying to silence me now, but to strike at you, my lord…?” His words trailed off dubiously.
This was the second time that the Breton’s motives had been questioned, and Justin was beginning to wonder if John and Simon were right, and there was more at stake here than they knew. He looked from Simon to John and then over at Durand, realizing that Simon’s capture was not going to be the magic elixir, after all. Dross would not turn into gold on the words of Simon de Lusignan.
