Simon had begun to sweat, and his complexion was now the color of chalk. Observing his obvious distress, John said dispassionately, “How did you ever get as far as Paris?”
“It was not so bad at first. But the day ere I reached the abbey at St Germain, the wound began to bleed again…”
“See that he gets medical care,” John said to the room at large, brushing aside Simon’s gratitude with a stark, simple truth: “It is in my interest to keep you alive… for now.”
John halted at the door, glancing back over his shoulder. “What is the Breton’s real name?”
If it was a test, Simon passed, saying without hesitation, “Saer de St Brieuc.”
“So he is a Breton, after all.” John’s gaze lingered for a moment upon the master spy’s rash young cousin. “I should have known,” he said, “that the whoreson would turn out to be a de Lusignan.”
Simon was long accustomed to hearing defamatory remarks about his more notorious kinsmen. He objected only halfheartedly, reminding John that the Breton was kin on his mother’s side of the family. But John had already gone.
Simon’s shoulders slumped with the easing of tension. Looking around at the others, he confided, “Well, that was not so bad. In truth, I expected far worse.”
Justin had been surprised, too, by John’s lack of rage. He’d seemed aloof and somewhat distracted, as if part of his mind were mulling over matters far removed from this Paris solar and Simon de Lusignan. As he rose to follow Durand and Simon from the chamber, Claudine caught his sleeve.
“That wretch was luckier than he deserves,” she said quietly. “John got news this noon that chased Simon and even the Breton from the forefront of his cares.”
Justin stopped. “What news?”
“Richard,” she said. “He learned that Richard has reached Antwerp and is making ready to sail for England.”
CHAPTER 22
March 1194
PARIS, FRANCE
Morgan was drowning. His lungs were laboring, and he could not shake off the ghostly fingers clutching at him from the depths, dragging him down. He kept fighting, though, lunging toward the light, and at last he broke the surface, gulping in air sweeter than wine.
“You are safe now,” a female voice murmured soothingly. “It was a bad dream, no more than that.”
The chamber was lit by oil lamps, but they seemed to burn with unnatural brightness to Morgan, and he did his best to filter the glare through his lashes. The woman smiling at him was very pretty, but not familiar, not at first. She brought a cup to his lips, held it steady as he drank, and his memory unclouded, identifying her as Ivetta, Lady Emma’s borrowed maid.
“About time you decided to rejoin the living.” This was a male voice, belonging to a youth in a nearby bed. Propped up by pillows, he was smiling at Morgan affably. “I’ve been lonely with no one to talk to.”
“No one to talk to, indeed,” Ivetta said tartly. “My lady says no work is getting done because half the women in the household keep coming in to see if you are in need of drink or food or comfort, Master Simon.”
“But you’re the one I yearn to see, Mistress Ivetta,” Simon insisted, and she tossed her head, partially placated, and said she’d let the others know that Morgan was awake.
As she departed, Morgan struggled to sit upright, alarmed that he felt so weak. He still was not sure where he was, although he guessed it was the Lady Petronilla’s residence. But he had no idea who his cheerful chambermate was, nor did he know why he was bedridden. “What happened to me?” he asked, and even his voice sounded odd to his ears, hoarse and raspy.
“You do not remember? I can only tell you what I’ve heard from Ivetta and the others; Lord love them, but women do like to gossip! They say you’re the hero of the hour, that you saved John from a hired killer’s dagger. I’d think a skirmish in a cemetery would not be easy to forget!”
Morgan’s memories were still blurred and too slippery to handle. “I do remember a graveyard,” he said uncertainly. “At least I think I do.” In truth, though, the memory that was most vivid, disturbingly so, was his dream of drowning. His head was aching and he lay back against his pillow. “Do I know you?”
“Well, we’ve never been introduced, but you know of me, for certes. I am Simon de Lusignan.” Simon watched mischievously as Morgan processed that information, as his face registered first puzzlement and then realization and then horror. “Ah,” he said complacently, “I see your memory has come back.”
Morgan’s bed was surrounded by well-wishers, beaming at him with such heartfelt pleasure in his recovery that he was both touched and taken aback. “I was not going to die,” he protested, “not with money owed me from that last game of raffle.”
That evoked laughter, and Crispin blushed, mumbling that he’d settle up as soon as he got paid. A tray of hot soup had been placed on the table by the bed, and Claudine coaxed Morgan into swallowing a few spoonfuls, ignoring Simon’s plaintive plea that he was hungry, too. Morgan still did not understand why he was sharing a bedchamber with the chief suspect in the Lady Arzhela’s murder. He’d been told that Simon was on their side now, but there was so much to absorb that not all of it had sunk in yet.
Justin was teasing him about his graveyard gallantry, wanting to know why he hadn’t single-handedly broken them out of that Fougeres dungeon, when the door opened and John strode in. “I am glad,” he said, “to have the chance to thank you at long last.”
“There is no need for thanks, my lord.” Morgan returned John’s smile, but he did not seem comfortable and Justin noticed, for he usually gave the impression of being utterly at home in his own skin.
“Yes,” John said, “there is. Consider it a matter of courtesy if nothing else, but my lord father always said it was just good manners to thank a man for saving one’s life. I admit I am curious, though, about your presence in the cemetery. What made you follow me?”
That was the question they all wanted to ask and the room fell silent as they waited for Morgan’s reply. His lashes swept down, veiling those smoky grey eyes. “The truth is…” He seemed to sigh, and then said softly, “I do not know, my lord. That night is a muddle for me, my memories drifting in and out. I remember the cemetery. I do not remember the fight or being hurt and… and I do not remember why I was there. I… I suppose I feared you were walking into a trap, but why…” He shrugged helplessly.
John’s eyes narrowed. “Well, you might remember more later. Now you’d best get some rest.” He smiled, but as he moved toward the door, his eyes caught Justin’s. Leaving Morgan to be coddled by the women, Justin followed the queen’s son from the chamber. As he expected, John was awaiting him in the stairwell.
“I cannot interrogate a man on his sickbed, but I do not believe a word of that blather about his failing memory.”
Neither did Justin, but loyalty to Morgan kept him quiet. John did not even notice. “I wish I could say his motive for coming to my aid did not matter. But it does, de Quincy, as we both well know. Find out what he is hiding.”
Justin opened his mouth to object, but John was already turning away.
Justin had ridden out to the Pre aux Clercs, the open field west of the city walls where Parisians gathered to play games of camp-ball and bandy-ball, to watch tourneys and impromptu horse races. On this sun-blest afternoon, it was crowded with truant students, for Paris was becoming celebrated for its schools at Notre-Dame and Sainte- Genevieve and St-Victor, and the mild weather had lured large numbers from their classes. Justin was playing truant, too. He had no intention of spying on Morgan for John, and he needed time to himself, time to decide what he should do next.
Now that King Richard and the queen were back in England, he felt he had a duty to return, too. But he was reluctant to leave until he was sure Morgan was truly on the mend. And his desire to catch the Breton still burned with a white-hot flame. He’d failed to save Arzhela. He did not want to fail her again. At the least, she deserved justice.
