Cruel As the Grave (20 page)

After an eternity or two, he tugged on the ladder and when it held, he slowly and laboriously ascended the remaining feet. Once he was close enough, he reached out, pulling himself up and over the embrasure. Panting, he leaned against the merlon, his hand gripping the hilt of his sword. But no footsteps echoed on the wall walkway, no shouts of alarm disturbed the silence blanketing the bailey. Pulling up the hemp ladder, Justin dropped it down to Luke. The deputy raised his hand in a farewell gesture, then set about retrieving the scaling ladder. Justin had tucked a wet cloth into his belt and he used it now to scrub off the mud he'd smeared on his face for camouflage. Deciding to get down into the bailey where he hoped he'd feel less conspicuous, he made his way along the battlement toward the wooden stairway that gave access to the ramparts.

He could see sentries across the bailey, others at the gatehouse. Based upon his extensive experience with past sieges, William Marshal had estimated the Windsor garrison to be about thirty or forty knights and less than a hundred men-at-arms. Those were numbers large enough to give Justin a certain degree of anonymity, for how could so many men know each and every one of their cohorts? But that confidence received a sharp jolt when he reached the bottom of the stairs and found himself accosted by a scowling man with a crossbow slung over his shoulder.

"Where do you think you're going?" he demanded. "Who told you to leave your post?"

Justin considered claiming the need to "take a piss," but decided instead to sow as much confusion as he could. He knew John had a number of Welsh mercenaries among his men, and his years in Chester had given him a smattering of Welsh. So he responded with a blank look, a shrug, and "
Dydw i ddim yn deall
."

The crossbowman didn't understand, either. Glaring at Justin, he muttered something about "accursed foreigners" and then called to a man standing in the doorway of the great hall. "Sir Thomas! Will you tell this dolt to get back-"

The rest of his words were drowned out by the commotion erupting at the gatehouse. The crossbowman whirled toward the sound, Justin forgotten. As guards up on the walls began to shout, the sleeping castle came abruptly back to life. Groggy men were stumbling out of the great hall, the stables, wherever they'd been bedding down, fumbling for their weapons. No one seemed to know what was happening, but all were alarmed. Justin stood on the stairs for a moment, savoring the turmoil, and then faded back into the shadows.

It took some time for the panic stirred up by Marshal's feint to subside. The garrison had hastened up onto the battlements, making ready to repel the invaders, crossbowmen firing blindly into the fog. By then Marshal's men were withdrawing, but the ripples continued to radiate outward, until the entire castle was in a state of confusion and chaos.

Justin was jubilant. The ease with which he'd infiltrated the castle was energizing and he decided to take advantage of the pandemonium to check out the garrison's provisions. If John would not surrender, it would be very useful for Marshal to know how much food they had left. No one challenged him and he had no difficulty in finding the larders. They would normally have been guarded against theft, but now their sentinels were up on the walls. Blankets were spread out on the floor, and a lantern still burned feebly. Picking it up, he prowled among sacks of corn and oatmeal and beans. There were huge vats filled with salted pork and mutton and herring, large cheeses, and hand mills and churns. The buttery nearby held enormous casks of wine and cider, jars of honey and vinegar. All in all, enough food and wine to hold out for weeks to come.

Keeping the lantern, Justin ventured back out into the bailey. Men were clambering up and down the stairs and ladders, leaning over the embrasures to yell defiance at the enemy camp. Others were trudging toward the great hall, too agitated to sleep. Justin mingled with them, trailed into the hall, too. So far no one had paid him any heed and emboldened, he roamed the aisles, searching for Durand. Instead, he found John. The queen's son strode into the hall, shouting a name that meant nothing to Justin. He hastily ducked behind a pillar as John passed, almost close enough to touch, and then retreated toward the nearest door.

Out in the bailey again, he decided to take direct action and began to stop soldiers, asking the whereabouts of Sir Durand de Curzon. He got mainly shrugs and shakes of the head, but eventually someone pointed toward a tower in the south wall. Justin quickened his step, and had almost reached the tower when Durand appeared in the doorway. His visage was grim, fatigue smudged under his eyes and in the taut corners of his mouth. Preoccupied with his own thoughts, which were apparently none too pleasant, he walked by Justin without even a glance, heading across the bailey toward the great hall.

Catching up with him, Justin said softly, "John can wait. The queen cannot."

Durand came to an immediate halt, then spun around to confront Justin, who obligingly raised the lantern so that it illuminated his face. "Christ Jesus!" Durand blurted out, staring at Justin as if he doubted the evidence of his own senses. "What are you doing here?"

It was the first time Justin had seen the other man off balance. "I wanted to return your dagger,' he snapped. "Use your head, man. Why do you think?" Durand cursed under his breath. "We cannot talk out here," he said tautly. "Come with me."

Retracing Durand's steps, they returned to the tower. The ground-floor chamber was empty but Durand continued on into the stairwell and Justin followed him to an upper chamber that was surprisingly spacious and well lighted, with an iron candlestick on the trestle table and several rushlights burning in wall sconces. A flagon and cups were set out on the table and the first thing Durand did was to pour himself wine. He did not offer Justin any, instead said testily, "How in hellfire did you get into the castle undetected? Was that little set-to at the gatehouse your doing?"

"Does it matter?"

"No... I suppose not." Durand leaned back against the table, regarding Justin reflectively. "Why are you here?"

"The queen wants you to do all in your power to convince Lord John that he ought to surrender."

Durand's mouth twisted. "Did she have any suggestions as to how I'm to accomplish that miraculous feat? If I had my way, we'd have come to terms a fortnight ago. Why fight a war we cannot win? It makes no sense. Yet try arguing that to John!"

"Why would he want to hold out? Does he expect help from Philip? Surely he knows by now that the French invasion was thwarted?"

Durand shrugged. "He knows. Let me tell you about John. He is as far from a fool as a man can be. Most of the time, he is too clever for his own good. But where his brother is concerned, that intelligence does him no good whatsoever, for the mere mention of Richard's name is enough to send emotion flooding into his brain, drowning out the voice of reason."

"Is he that jealous of Richard?"

Durand snorted. "Did Cain love Abel? How else explain why we are holed up here at Windsor instead of conspiring against Richard from the safety of the French court?"

"The queen knows it will not be easy. But she is relying upon you to save John from himself - and from others who might prefer that he not survive this siege. She said that if the castle is assaulted and taken, you must see to John's safety."

That was a daunting charge, but Durand merely nodded. "Tell my lady queen that I will serve her as long as 1 have breath in my body." Taking a deep swallow of wine, he looked at Justin with a quizzical, faintly mocking smile. "That raises an interesting point. How do you expect to get word back to the queen? If you think I'm going to help you escape, you'd best think again. I'll risk my skin for no man, least of all you."

"Now why does that not surprise me?" Justin said, with a sardonic smile of his own. "But to allay your concerns, I expect to get out through a postern gate - at John's command."

Durand's eyes narrowed. "Now why should John do that?"

"I bear two messages, one of which is for him."

Durand's hand jerked and wine splashed over the rim of his cup. "You keep me out of it, by God! If there is even a hint that we are connected, John will hang us both from the battlements... if we are lucky. He trusts me now - or as much as he ever trusts any man - and I'll not have your blundering stirring up suspicions or doubts."

"It is such a pleasure working with you, Durand. Do you suppose you can compromise yourself long enough to tell me where I am most likely to find John alone?"

"Well, there is always his bedchamber, although you're not likely to find him alone there."

Justin was startled. "He brought a concubine with him into the castle, knowing it could be under siege?"

"Why not? Sieges can drag out for months. Would you truly expect him to live like a monk for so long... John, who cannot go more than a night without a woman in his bed?"

Durand's smile was so malicious that Justin knew they were both thinking of Claudine. "Tell me where I can find John," he said, with enough quiet menace to make it a threat. "Tell me now."

"Are your nerves always on the raw like this? That does not bode well for your chances of getting out of Windsor alive, does it? But your safety is none of my concern. As for John, you can find him here sometimes, and often after dark, on the battlements. He will spend hours up there, gazing out into the night and brooding-"

Durand cut himself off abruptly. By then, Justin heard it, too: footsteps in the stairwell. They could not be found here together and his eyes swept the room, seeking a hiding place. The only possibility was the corner privy chamber. The footsteps were louder now, approaching the door. Durand would have to delay the intruder while he hid. He was starting to turn toward the other man when he caught movement from the corner of his eye. Instinctively he recoiled, but it was too late. The candlestick in Durand's fist thudded into his temple and he went down into the floor rushes as the door swung open.

11

WINDSOR CASTLE

April 1193

Justin awoke to total recall, pain, and utter blackness. For a shattering moment, he feared he'd been blinded by the blow. It was almost with relief that he realized he was being held in one of the castle's dungeons, as dark as the bottom of a well. His head was throbbing and when he moved, he had to fight back a wave of queasiness. This was the second time in two months that he'd suffered a head injury and by now he was all too familiar with the symptoms. He tried to find out if he was bleeding, but discovered instead that his right wrist was manacled to a ring welded into the floor. Testing its strength merely set his head to spinning. Pillowing it awkwardly upon his free arm, he lay very still, waiting for the dizziness to pass, and eventually he slept.

When he awakened again, the pain had begun to recede and his thoughts were no longer clouded. That was a dubious blessing, though, for he was now able to focus upon his plight with unsparing clarity. The solitude was soon fraying his nerves and he found it particularly troubling to have no sense of time's passing. He had no way of knowing how long it had been since Durand swung that candlestick. Hours? A day? It was disorienting and somehow made his isolation all the more complete. It was as if the world had gone on without him. Would his disappearance stir up even a ripple at the royal court, on Gracechurch Street? Would there be any to mourn him, to remember?

His self-pity was fleeting, submerged in a rising tide of rage. He was not going to die alone and forgotten down here in the dark. He owed Durand a blood debt and he'd not go to his grave with it unpaid. That he swore grimly upon the surety of his soul.

His embittered musings were interrupted by a sudden scraping noise, shockingly loud in the muffled silence of the cell. He struggled to sit up as a trapdoor was opened overhead and a ladder lowered into the gloom. A man was soon clambering down, a sack dangling from his belt, a lantern swinging precariously each time he switched holds upon the rungs. Even that feeble light seemed unnaturally bright to Justin, who had to avert his eyes.

"Here," the man said brusquely, shaking out the contents of the sack onto the floor at Justin's feet: a loaf of bread and a chunk of cheese and a battered wineskin. "I was told to feed you... although it seems a shame to waste good food on a man who's soon to die."

Justin ignored the uncharitable aside. The guard's grumbling only echoed what he already knew; spies were hanged. "Tell Lord John that Justin de Quincy must talk with him. Say it's urgent and in his interest to hear me out."

"I'll do that straightaway," the man vowed, and then laughed derisively. "Why should my lord John spare time for the likes of you?" he sneered and began his clumsy ascent back up the ladder. The loss of that faltering lantern light affected Justin much more than he could have anticipated; it was as if the sun had been blotted out, plunging him back into an eternal night. His headache was almost gone; clearly Durand had done far less damage than Gilbert the Fleming. He had no appetite, but he forced himself to eat some of the bread and cheese. The liquid in the wineskin was warm and had a stale aftertaste. He thought it might be ale; all he could say for a certainty was that it was wet. His thirst was overpowering, though, and it was difficult to ration himself to just a few swallows. He did not know how long it had to last.

Surely John would not send him to his death without interrogating him first? John's scruples might be ailing, but he had a curiosity healthy enough to put any cat to shame. How could he not want answers as much as he did vengeance? But what if John did not know he was languishing in this dungeon? Would Durand have told him? If not, that guard's pitiless prediction was likely to come true... all too soon.