Prince of Darkness (17 page)

“That is why we are hiring a guide,” Durand cut in. Justin was coming back to their table, and Durand raised his eyebrows in a wordless question. When Justin nodded, he jerked his thumb toward their men-at-arms, saying, “We may have a rebellion on our hands. These stouthearted cocks are loath to get their feet wet.”

That did not endear him to either Morgan or the men-at-arms, but his gibe was wasted upon Justin, who had thoughts only for the missing Arzhela. “Let them await us here, then,” he said impatiently. “I’ve found us a guide, but he does not come cheap, not for a crossing at this time of day.”

Durand shrugged; they were spending John’s money, after all. Draining the last of the cider, he started toward the door. When Justin would have followed, Morgan stepped forward. “Godspeed, Justin. I hope you find her.”

“So do I, Morgan.” As their eyes met, though, Justin could see that they both feared it was too late.

There were no pilgrims crossing to the Mont that late in the day, and those already at the abbey were spending the night there. So Justin, Durand, and their guide had the bay to themselves, encountering only a large seal napping on a flat rock. Dusk was dimming the sky and blurring the horizon as they reached the beach at Genêts.

They knew at once that something was very wrong. People were gathered in clots before the priory walls, strangely subdued and silent. The priory gate was shut, and there was no response when they banged on the door. Vespers was being rung from somewhere in the town, but oddly enough, the bells of Notre Dame and Saint-Sebastien were not pealing out the hour. An unnatural stillness overhung the priory, and they knew instinctively that it had nothing to do with the disappearance of a Breton noblewoman.

They continued to pound upon the gate until footsteps sounded on the other side and the door slowly creaked open. They glimpsed hollow eyes and blanched skin before a tremulous voice instructed them to come back later. Durand lunged forward to wedge his boot in the door, but it was already swinging shut. “Wait,” Justin cried out. “Wait! We come from the abbey—”

The door opened so fast that Durand was caught off balance and stumbled against the post. With a choked cry of
“Deo gratias,”
the gatekeeper grabbed their arms and pulled them inside. He was tonsured and clad in a monk’s habit, but they decided he was most likely a novice, for he looked barely old enough to shave, much less take final vows. “I am Brother Briag.” His French was flavored with a strong Breton accent. His eyes darted from one to the other. “But you are not brethren. Who are you? Why did you lie?”

“We did not lie. We never said we were monks. We are friends of Lady Arzhela de Dinan and we need to speak with Brother Andrev, for we were told he was the last one to see her...” Justin stopped, for the young monk’s eyes were filling with tears. “What
is it? What has happened here?”

“There has been...” Brother Briag swallowed and then continued, his voice so low that they could hardly hear him. “... murder done.”

The priory cell at Genêts was a very small one, with only four monks. Now one was dead, one lay near death, and the only two left were overwhelmed. The elderly Brother Martin was ostensibly in charge, but he was half blind and so dazed by the tragedy that all responsibility had fallen upon the novice, Brother Briag. Moving like one in a trance, Brother Briag pointed toward the infirmary. “Master Laurence is in there now, doing what he can.” Swiping the back of his hand across his cheek, he explained that Master Laurence was the town physician. He’d already revealed the identity of the victim—the man they’d come to Genêts to find, Brother Andrev.

“We summoned the provost’s deputy. But by the time he came, whoever did this evil was long gone.” Brother Briag’s steps lagged as they approached the church porch. “Are you sure you want to see?”

“You need not come in,” Justin said, and the young monk slowly shook his head.

“I’ll be seeing it in my sleep for the rest of my life,” he said softly. “One more time will not matter.”

They followed him into the nave of the church. Almost at once they were assailed by the smell of blood. “There,” Brother Briag gasped, pointing toward one of the transepts. “It happened there.”

It was easy to see where the murder had been committed, for the floor was pooled in congealed blood. They stood staring down at the splattered tiles. The lantern light had begun to sway wildly, so badly was the monk’s hand shaking. Taking the lantern from him, Justin urged quietly, “Tell us all that you can remember.”

“The monk came in the afternoon. We know now that he was not truly a monk, for no man of God could commit such sacrilege. To kill in God’s House...” Brother Briag shuddered. “He claimed to be here on Duchess Constance’s behalf and he asked many questions about Lady Arzhela. We knew, of course, that she’d gone missing, but we had naught to tell him. After he spoke with Brother Andrev, I thought he went away. He did not, though, for later I saw him with Brother Bernard. They talked together for a few moments and entered the church. It was then that I went to find Brother Andrev.”

“Why?”

Durand’s question was so abrupt, so pointed, that the young monk flinched. “I... I’d rather not say,” he whispered.

“Because you do not want to speak ill of the dead?” Justin’s voice was soothing, nonjudgmental, and after a moment, Brother Briag gave a ragged sigh, almost like a sob.

“How did you guess? I did not like Brother Bernard. No one did. He took pleasure in causing trouble. I knew he’d sneaked off to see the provost’s deputy once Lady Arzhela was reported missing. I knew, too, that he was no friend to her, and so I went to alert Brother Andrev that he was likely up to no good. If only I had kept my mouth shut, he’d not have been hurt!”

“Brother Andrev went into the church after them?”

The novice monk nodded miserably. “I was on the porch when I heard him cry out. I rushed inside and—” He shuddered again. “Brother Andrev was fighting with the monk, clinging to his arm. As I got closer, I saw the knife. I did not see him stab Brother Andrev, though, he was that fast. Brother Andrev staggered back and collapsed and the killer ran out. I tried to stop him, I swear I did, but he just shoved me aside.” He glanced down at the bandage swathed around his forearm. “It was only later that I even realized I’d been cut.”

“When did you find Brother Bernard’s body?” Justin asked, for Durand seemed willing to concede the interrogation to him.

“Afterward...” He swallowed convulsively. “I was yelling for help once I discovered that Brother Andrev had been stabbed. I remember kneeling beside him, trying to staunch the blood, and then I saw—I saw Brother Bernard. He was crumpled in that corner, and there was blood, so much blood. Master Laurence later told me that his throat had been cut.”

After that, there was no more to be said. No one spoke until they emerged into the fading light. Brother Briag was cradling his injured arm, in obvious discomfort. He looked from Justin to Durand, back to Justin again. “Do you know why this happened?”

They both answered him in the same breath, Justin admitting, “No, we do not,” and Durand saying grimly, “Not yet.”

Justin and Durand had no trouble finding the house of the provost’s deputy; Brother Briag had given them clear directions: off the marketplace, on the same street as the bakery. Genêts was a prosperous market town with several thousand inhabitants, a hospital, a salt works, and a shipyard. The fact that the town was located on a major pilgrim route made their task all the more difficult. It would have been much harder for the killer to escape notice in a small, inbred village where every stranger’s arrival was fodder for gossip.

Thanks to Brother Briag, Justin and Durand were well armed with useful information about the provost’s deputy, Master Benoit, a mild-mannered, diffident widower who had the good luck to be a cousin of the provost’s wife. The positions of provost and deputy provost were political plums, unusual in that those who held them were the abbot’s men first, and only secondly the king’s, for the abbey had been given the privilege of appointing its own candidates. The provost had ridden out in search of the Lady Arzhela, Brother Briag had confided, his absence a misfortune for all concerned, including Master Benoit, who was no more qualified to handle a murder investigation than he was to lead a crusade to the Holy Land.

Justin and Durand already harbored suspicions about Master Benoit’s capabilities, for why had he not been to investigate the murder scene yet? When their incessant knocking finally got him to open his door, one glance was enough to tell them what he’d been doing in the hours since the killing. His eyes were glazed and bloodshot, his clothing rumpled and stained, and he stank of wine, urine, and vomit.

Benoit seemed reluctant to admit them, but mustered up only a weak protest when they pushed their way inside. Stumbling after them like a guest in his own house, he asked what they wanted, his faltering, hesitant words sounding more like a plaintive lament than a forceful demand.

“Sit down ere you fall down,” Durand ordered, shoving a chair toward him. He did, blinking up at them blearily as they circled him like large, hungry cats, shrinking the circle until he had to tilt his head to look into their faces. He sensed that they had him at a disadvantage, but when he tried to rise, Durand’s hand closed on his upper arm, fingers digging into his flesh like iron hooks, and he decided to stay put.

“Who... who are you? If you’ve come to rob me, you’ve... you’ve made a great mistake.” He licked his lips, sought to keep his voice steady as he told them he was the deputy provost of the barony of Genêts, but neither man seemed impressed.

“We know that, Master Benoit.” Justin had to resist the urge to grab the man by those quaking shoulders and shake the truth out of him, so sure was he that Benoit had the answers they needed. “That is why we are here.”

“I... I do not understand.”

“The murder,” Durand snapped, angrier than even he could have explained, for weakness and cowardice brought out the worst in his own nature; he was cruelest to those he scorned. “You do remember the murder, sousepot?”

Benoit shrank back in the chair. “Are you... are you the killers?”

Durand swore and would have dragged the man to his feet if Justin had not stopped him. “You’re scaring him out of his wits. That is not the way.”

“No? Given your vast experience, suppose you show me how it is done!”

Justin grabbed the knight by the arm and pulled him aside. “Look at him, Durand,” he insisted, low-voiced. “He is terrified. Ask yourself why. I grant you that was no pretty scene in the church, but there has to be more to this than squeamishness. What is he drinking to forget?”

“I could use a drink myself,” Durand growled. “I know I am way too sober when you start to make sense, de Quincy.” With a mocking gesture, he indicated that Justin had the field.

“Benoit!” Justin said sharply, and the deputy sat upright, flinching as Durand snatched up a candle and brought it close to his face. “We are seeking the Lady Arzhela de Dinan and I think you can help us find her.”

Benoit’s gaze slid toward the table and the wine flagon. “How?” he mumbled, and then, “I am right thirsty...”

Justin picked up the flagon, holding it just out of reach. “You can drink yourself sodden if that is your wish. But first you must tell us what Brother Bernard told you about Lady Arzhela.”

Benoit bowed his head. “I cannot...”

Justin flipped the lid on the flagon, letting Benoit see the sloshing liquid inside. His own stomach tightened at the sight, for it was dark red in the subdued light, the color of drying blood. “Yes, you can, and you must. You know that, Benoit.”

“It was not my fault—” The deputy looked up suddenly, briefly, his eyes desperately seeking Justin’s. “It was not my fault!”

“No one said it was your fault. What did he say?”

“It was a daft tale, made no sense.” Benoit’s words were slurred with wine and self-pity; he was no longer meeting Justin’s gaze. “No one would have believed it, no one!”

Justin thrust the flagon into the man’s hands, keeping his own hand clamped upon Benoit’s wrist. “Tell us!”

“He... he claimed that Lady Arzhela had sneaked into the church and then come back out dressed like a needy pilgrim. Naturally I did not credit it, for who would? She is a lady of high rank and royal blood, one who likes her comforts. Why would she put on stinking, coarse sackcloth and mingle with the lowborn and poor, with beggars and rabble? And all know Brother Bernard was... odd. I thanked him and promptly forgot about it, as any sensible man would. And then... then he was slain in the church—”

His voice thickened, but he was so thoroughly cowed that he dared not drink until these fearsome strangers said he could. He was no longer being held and he glanced up imploringly, seeking their understanding, their mercy. But he was alone. The door stood ajar and the men were gone.

While pilgrims and travelers of the upper classes would find a welcome in the abbey’s guesthouse and the abbot’s own lodgings, Christ’s poor were admitted to the almonry. It provided protection from the rain, but it lacked fireplaces, and because it was exposed to the Aquilon, the name locals gave to those merciless winter winds that swept in from the north, it was a stark, frigid refuge. To people unfamiliar with luxury or comfort, though, it was enough.