Prince of Darkness (19 page)

His eyes widened. He summoned up his usual bravado, though, saying skeptically, “Why would they need dungeons in an abbey? How many evil-doers go to church, after all?”

“You’d be surprised, Yann,” she said dryly. “Moreover, the abbot is a lord as well, for he holds the barony of Genêts.” She regretted having to scare him into hewing to the straight and narrow, but thieving was both crime and sin. “Now, are you sleepy yet?’

“No,” he admitted, and added hopefully, “Have you some mischief in mind?”

“In a manner of speaking,” she said, and there in the dimly lit stairwell they grinned at each other in a moment of comfortable and cheerful complicity.

Genêts had many small, shabby taverns. Justin and Durand had been making the rounds after their guide refused to escort them back across the bay, seeking another local man to take the defector’s place. Until the third tavern, they’d had no luck. Again and again the tavern patrons heard them out with interest, only to balk once they were told the crossing must be made now. Again and again Justin and Durand were warned about the treacherous tides and quicksand bogs. Again and again they were reminded that high tide that night would be soon after Compline, and Compline was not that far off. Finally, they offered a sum so large that the tavern fell silent.

One of the loudest nay-sayers, a cocky youth with snapping dark eyes and a birthmark upon his cheek, stood up abruptly. “I am Baldric,” he said, “though some of these jesters call me Cain for reasons anyone with eyes can see. For what you are going to pay me, you can call me by either name.”

The other tavern regulars had chuckled at the mention of Baldric’s ironic nickname, but by the time he finished speaking, most of them were regarding him in dismay, and one of Baldric’s companions seemed to speak for them all when he asked, “What will you use the money for, cousin, the fanciest funeral Genêts has ever seen?”

Baldric grinned. “No, I mean to spend it in St-Malo on Cock’s Lane!” Snatching up his cousin’s drink, he drained it dry, then swaggered over to Durand and Justin. “I want payment now, in case you do not make it to shore.”

“Payment when we reach the shore,” Durand countered coolly. “That will give you incentive to see that we do ‘make it.’ ”

They settled upon half now, half when they reached Mont St Michel, and before Baldric’s friends could seriously try to dissuade him, he led his new employers out into the night.

The Mont was still sharply etched against the darkening sky and seemed to have a halo of stars. The horses were edgy, sensing the mood of their riders, and Baldric had difficulty getting his mount under control. “I usually do this on foot during the day,” he admitted. “Any advice about keeping on this nag’s good side?”

“Just do not fall off,” Durand said laconically, and the young Norman laughed mirthlessly.

“Passing strange that you should say that, for I was about to warn you that we do not stop, not for anything or anyone. If one of you blunders off course into a bog, a pity, but we’ll not be riding back to your rescue. Understood?”

Justin and Durand traded smiles like unsheathed daggers. “Understood.”

Baldric was studying the clouds scudding across the sky. “At least the wind is from the north. The tide comes in faster if it’s driven by a westerly wind. Given a choice, I’d rather be crossing at least two hours before the next high tide. But we still ought to have enough time. Just follow after me, and hope that the Archangel is in a benevolent mood tonight.”

Justin was quite willing to put his fate in St Michael’s hands. He was not as sure about Baldric. They dared not wait, though. If the murderous “monk” had crossed over after learning of Arzhela’s masquerade, her chances of living to see the dawn were not good. The killer had several hours’ head start on them, and a knife still wet with the blood of Brothers Bernard and Andrev.

The wind was cold and wet and carried the scent of seaweed and salt. The muted roar of the unseen sea echoed in Justin’s ears, as rhythmic as a heartbeat. Seagulls screeched overhead, their shrill cries eerily plaintive. His stallion had an odd gait, picking up its hooves so high that it was obviously not comfortable with the footing. One of the tavern customers had told Justin that walking on the sand was like treading upon a tightly stretched drum; he very much hoped that he’d not have the opportunity to test that observation for himself. Behind him, he could hear Durand cursing. Justin kept his eyes upon the glow of Baldric’s swaying lantern, doing his best to convince himself that, as St Michael led Christian souls into the holy light, so would this Norman youth lead them to safety upon the shore.

The sound of the surging sea was louder now. Along the horizon they could see the starlit froth of whitecaps. Despite all they’d been told about the tides of St Michel, they were amazed by the speed of those encroaching waters, and it was with vast relief that they splashed onto the sands of the Mont. Baldric did not slow his pace, though, urging them off the beach and on toward the steep rocks that sheltered the village.

They soon saw why he’d been in such haste. The water was rising at an incredibly rapid rate. By the time the tide hit the isle of Tombelaine, it had merged into a single white wave. It was soon swallowing up the beaches of the Mont, a wall of water slamming against the rocks with such force that spume was flung high into the air, and for the first time, Justin and Durand fully understood why it had been so difficult to find a guide.

Morgan and Jaspaer took the reins of the horses and led them off. Neither man seemed very sober to Justin, and he could only hope that there’d be a stable groom on hand. They could spare no more time, though, for Baldric was already some distance away and beckoning to them.

“Come on,” he called, “and I’ll show you the fastest way to get up to the abbey. If you go through the village and then up and around, you’ll not get there for days! This is much quicker.”

Baldric’s shortcut was indeed that, although it also required the agility of a mountain goat. They scrambled up the slope after him, were breathing heavily by the time they reached the narthex, a vast arched porch that stretched along the west side of the abbey. “There you go,” Baldric said, with an expectant pause that lasted until Justin added some extra coins to the pile already jangling in his money pouch. “You ought to have no trouble with old Devi. He’s been the gatekeeper for the abbey since before the Great Flood, and is well nigh as ancient as God. Nine out of ten nights he forgets to latch the door, and since he sleeps like the dead, you ought to be able to sneak right past him. We outran the tides, so you seem to be on a lucky streak.”

Durand grunted and headed for the porch. Justin paused long enough to throw a “Thank you” over his shoulder. “Our men have rented lodgings in the village. You can sleep there if you like.”

“Not needed. I know a lass here who’ll be happy to share her bed with me.” Baldric had already started down the slope toward the village. “I do not know what you’re up to, and better that I do not. Good luck, though,” he said, before disappearing into the darkness.

It worked out as Baldric had predicted. The great wooden door was unlatched and they were able to creep past the elderly servant into the abbey’s portico. Conferring in whispers, they agreed that the door to their left was most likely the entrance to the almonry. Creaking the door open, they slipped inside.

They found themselves in a vaulted stone chamber filled with slumbering pilgrims. Raising their lanterns, they began to walk among the sleepers, pausing before each muffled female form. The search proved futile. None of the faces revealed by the candle flames was Arzhela’s, and the inevitable soon happened. A woman sat up, saw them, and screamed.

The hall erupted into chaos. People struggled to free themselves from their blankets, most of them talking at once. Justin did his best to calm them down, saying loudly that nothing was wrong, that there was no cause for alarm. His words went utterly unheeded. It was Durand who silenced them, shouting “Quiet!” in a voice like thunder.

They subsided, watching Durand warily as he stalked among them, mantle flaring, hand on sword hilt, a figure to intimidate anyone leery of authority. Once he’d quelled the clamor, he began to demand answers. “We are seeking a woman pilgrim, garbed like most of you, past her first youth, tall for a female and slim, with bright blue eyes, prideful, and a talker.”

His words echoed into a void. They regarded him blankly, faces shuttered and eyes veiled. He’d bullied them into submission with no difficulty, for the poor were always vulnerable to coercion of that kind. Justin could see, though, that these people would tell them nothing. Suspicion of the powerful, self-protection, a sense of solidarity with one of their own, fear: They had any number of reasons to keep silent.

“We mean this lady no harm,” Justin said, with all the conviction he could muster. “She is very dear to me and I fear for her safety.” As he’d expected, his sincerity was no more productive than Durand’s belligerence. It occurred to him that some of the Bretons might not understand French, and he tried again, this time in his slow, careful Welsh. And because he was watching their faces so intently, he saw a young girl open her mouth, then shut it quickly when the woman beside her clamped a hand on her arm.

Crossing to her, he knelt beside the child. “Do you know this lady, lass? You can do her no greater kindness than to speak up.”

The girl hesitated. But then the woman, rake-thin and careworn, hissed, “Mikaela,
roit peoc’h
!”
Putting her arm protectively around her daughter’s shoulders, she looked defiantly up at Justin and he knew he’d get nothing from either of them.

Getting to his feet, he made one final attempt. “We will give twenty silver deniers to the person who can tell us of her whereabouts.” That was no small sum, would buy a man four chickens. But there were no takers, and when Durand swore and strode toward the door, Justin followed reluctantly.

Out in the portico, they communicated again in whispers, keeping an eye upon the sleeping gatekeeper. “We’ll have to start searching,” Justin said softly, but even as he spoke, he realized that would be an impossible undertaking. The abbey was the size of a small city, honeycombed with crypts, chapels, narrow corridors, and unlit stairwells.

Durand was gazing back at the almonry. “Wait,” he counseled, refusing to say more. Justin fidgeted at his side for what seemed like an eternity. He was about to leave Durand and begin searching on his own when the almonry door hinges squeaked. A moment later, a shadowy form emerged and headed for the circle of light cast by their lanterns.

He looked surprisingly sleek and well fed for a pilgrim, and wasted no time with preliminaries. “Three sous,” he said, “for what I know about the woman.”

That was nearly twice what Justin had offered, but he was not about to haggle. Reaching for his money pouch, he said, “Tell us.”

“And if you’re lying,” Durand warned, “I’ll come back and cut out your tongue.”

The man smiled faintly. “I’ve been threatened by a bishop, friend, so your threats scare me not. Anyway, I am not lying.” Holding out his palm for the payment, he said, “There are three people missing from the hall. The woman you seek, a poor, doomed soul, and a bothersome whelp. Your woman took the cub under her wing, God knows why, and she was hovering over the ailing man earlier in the day. My guess is that you’ll find them all up in the infirmary.”

After knocking lightly upon the infirmary door, Justin pushed it open. The scent of herbs was heavy in the air, mingling with the fetid odors of the sickroom. The infirmarian was leaning over a bed, tending to a man racked with convulsive coughing spasms. At the sound of the opening door, the monk glanced over his shoulder, barking out a brusque “What?”

“May I have a word with you, Brother?”

The infirmarian took note of Justin’s demeanor and clothing, concluded that this was not one of the poor pilgrims from the almonry, but a higher-status guest, and said, more politely, “Unless you are deathly sick, it would be best if you come back later. As you can see, this patient’s needs cannot wait.”

Justin’s eyes were roaming the infirmary, his hopes and heart plummeting when he failed to find Arzhela. “I am not ill,” he assured the monk. “I am seeking a woman who came to you earlier this eve.”

The infirmarian helped the dying man turn so that he could vomit into a small basin. “That one... she’s gone.”

“Where did she go?”

“How would I know? Make yourself useful and hand me those clean towels.”

Justin did as he was bidden. “When did she leave? Was a youth with her?”

“A while ago,” the monk muttered, so distractedly that Justin saw further interrogation was useless.

The infirmarian wiped his patient’s face, frowning at the streaks of blood in the basin. Almost as an afterthought, he said, “Why do you want this woman? Need I remind you where you are? Any man who’d sin with a wench in God’s House is courting eternal damnation.” When Justin did not answer, he glanced over his shoulder again, just in time to see the door quietly closing.