The noisy crowd at Pre aux Clercs put him in mind of London’s Smithfield, where he’d entrapped Gilbert the Fleming, and he could not help studying the faces of the men jostling around him, hunting for the Breton. It was an exercise in futility, of course. They’d had no luck in their search of the city, even though John had been lavish with his offers of bribes and bounties. Arzhela’s killer seemed to have disappeared from the face of the earth.
After watching a rousing game of camp-ball, Justin reluctantly remounted and headed his horse back into the city, stopping to buy a whipping top for Yann from a street vendor. When he rode into the courtyard of the Lady Petronilla’s residence, he found it crowded with men and horses. Some had dismounted and were lounging on the steps and mounting blocks; the rest were still in the saddle, passing around wineskins. Justin did not like the looks of them, and he pushed past them into the house with a sense of foreboding.
The great hall was unnaturally still. People were standing around awkwardly, most of them watching Durand, who was stalking back and forth, scattering floor rushes with every angry stride. Garnier was closest to the door, and at the sight of Justin, he edged over.
“What is amiss?”
“Lupescar. He is up in the solar with Lord John.”
Justin immediately understood why there were no women in the hall, not even scullery maids. “Did he quarrel with Durand?” he asked quietly, and the young knight nodded.
“There is bad blood between them, and I thought it was about to flow in earnest. I’m glad you’re here to help me keep the peace. We would ill repay Lady Petronilla’s hospitality by turning her hall into a battlefield.”
By now Justin was accustomed to being dragged into other people’s problems. “I’ll see if I can get Durand out of here,” he agreed, and crossed the hall. “Garnier says Lupescar is abovestairs. Was John expecting him?”
“How would I know?” Durand said curtly, and then, “No, I think not. He said nothing to me about-” He stopped abruptly, and then Justin heard it too, the jangle of spurs in the stairwell.
When Lupescar emerged, Justin moved swiftly to intercept him, hoping to deflect another confrontation with Durand. Lupescar paused, recognition flickering across his face. “Ah, the lost lamb, is it not?”
“The lamb and the wolf. That sounds like an ancient Roman fable. I am surprised to see you back in Paris. I’d have thought life would be more to your liking out in the Norman-Breton border-lands.”
“Less law, you mean?” Lupescar sounded faintly amused. “You may tell your friend Durand that he has gotten a reprieve, for we’ll not be working together, after all. Lord John has no need of me now.”
“You do not sound very disappointed by that.”
“I care not who hires me as long as his coin is good. I’ll not be lacking for work.”
“No, I do not suppose you will,” Justin admitted grudgingly. Glancing over, he saw Garnier at Durand’s side, talking with considerable animation, a restraining hand on the other knight’s arm. Justin took several steps toward the door, attempting to shepherd Lupescar in that direction, a maneuver that did not escape the Wolf’s notice.
“I am not going to mend Durand’s bad manners, tempting as that may be. I am not one for burning bridges if it can be avoided, and your lord is likely to need my services again,” Lupescar said, still sounding amused.
Justin found his amusement more chilling than another man’s enmity. He’d met few who took genuine pleasure in killing, but he did not doubt that Lupescar was one of them. By now they’d almost reached the door, and he looked over his shoulder, reassured to see Garnier still claiming Durand’s attention. “I suppose you’ll be leaving Paris, then,” he said to Lupescar. “Godspeed.”
Lupescar paused in the doorway, giving him a supercilious smile. “You truly do not see, do you? France is going to be for men like me what the Holy Land is for pilgrims. War is coming, as inevitable as spring and as full of promise.”
“What do you mean?”
“Have you not heard that the English king has been set free? The highborn are not noted for paying their debts, but Richard always pays his blood debts, always. And by his reckoning, he owes the king of the French a blood debt. It may be true that vengeance is a dish best eaten cold, but Richard has never been one for waiting. I’ll wager that he will soon descend upon France like the Wrath of God Almighty.”
He sounded so pleased by that prospect that Justin’s fingers twitched with the urge to make the sign of the Cross, an instinctive impulse to ward off evil. Watching as Lupescar sauntered down the steps toward his waiting men, Justin found himself thinking that this godless man could have ridden with the Horsemen of the Apocalypse. “‘And I saw and behold, a pale horse, and his name that sat on him was Death,’” he murmured, and this time he did sketch a Cross in the mild March air.
After supper that night, Justin was playing a game of chess with Claudine. He usually sought to keep his distance, but she had asked him in front of Durand and Petronilla to play and he’d not wanted to shame her by a public refusal. So far it had not been as awkward as he’d feared. She soon had him laughing with her stories of Petronilla’s vexation over her unwanted houseguest, Simon de Lusignan. According to Petronilla, he was making a nuisance of himself from dawn to dusk, flirting with the bedazzled serving maids who were fluttering around him like bees around the hive, upsetting her cook by demanding his favorite foods and then complaining that they weren’t done to his liking, luring the men-at-arms into his chamber to throw dice, where they made enough noise to raise the dead.
Justin was sure she was exaggerating Simon’s sins, although he had seen Simon’s effect upon the female servants. He supposed Simon was easy enough on the eye, but he no more understood their partiality for Simon than he had Arzhela’s. “I grant you that Simon is a pretty polecat,” he said, “but he’s a polecat all the same. Why are women so drawn to the darkness?” As soon as the words had left his mouth, he regretted them, for his question could easily have applied to Claudine and John.
She did not seem to take it that way, though, smiling and shrugging. “I could as easily ask you why men are so taken with simpering, biddable poppets.”
“I hope you are not including me in that lot,” he protested, laughing, thinking that he’d never known a biddable poppet in his entire life. Claudine’s reply took him by surprise.
“Actually, I was thinking of the queen and her husband.”
It never occurred to Justin that Claudine might be referring to Richard and his neglected consort, Berengaria. Whenever anyone spoke of “the queen,” it was Eleanor of Aquitaine they had in mind. In the same way, he assumed that the husband in question was the late king of the English, Henry, and not Eleanor’s first husband, the French king Louis, for Henry had been a living legend, a fit mate for the most beautiful heiress in Christendom, the only woman to ever wear the crowns of both England and France.
“What are they, the exception that proves the rule?” he joked. “Clearly all men do not fancy docile, gentle females, for none would ever call the queen ‘biddable,’ now, would they?”
“Jesu forfend!” she said, just as lightly, and he realized how long it had been since they’d been able to talk without constraints. “But you see, Justin, the old king did want a woman like that. Why else would he have turned from the queen to a meek little mouse like Rosamund Clifford?”
He found that to be an interesting question, and gave it some serious thought. “I am just guessing, but mayhap Rosamund was, well, restful. At times, marriage to Queen Eleanor must have been like riding the whirlwind.”
She considered that. “I daresay she could have said the same of King Henry. What of you, Justin? Do you want a Rosamund Clifford or an Eleanor of Aquitaine?”
“Must I choose one or the other? I’ve never been drawn to extremes, am most comfortable riding in the middle of the road. What of you, Claudine? If you could spin the wheel of fortune, what would you ask for?”
“I no longer know,” she admitted. “I was once so sure that I’d not want to marry again. That surprises you, does it?”
“Yes, I suppose it does. From what you’d told me, I thought your husband had treated you well.”
“He did. He was kind and indulgent, in an almost paternal sort of way. I was young enough to have been his daughter, mayhap even his granddaughter, after all. I was contented enough as his wife. But widowhood offered me something more precious than contentment-freedom. For the first time in my life, I could do as I pleased. That was a heady draught, Justin, a brew few women get to drink.”
“Not that many men get to taste it, either, lass.” The chess game forgotten, he regarded her pensively, seeing neither John’s spy nor the tempting siren who’d wrought such havoc in his life. “But you are no longer sure, you said, that you’d not want to wed again. What changed your mind?”
She glanced around, making sure none were within earshot. “Aline,” she said softly. “I’d never conceived,
