Prince of Darkness (38 page)

They looked toward John, and when he did not object, Morgan and Simon started for the door. Glad to escape the room’s stale atmosphere, Claudine and Emma followed. Justin and Durand would have liked to follow, too, but John had yet to move.

“Are you disappointed that there will be no trial, my lord?” Justin asked. “That would have been the most effective way to prove the letter was a forgery, but—”

“You are such an innocent, de Quincy,” Durand scoffed. “Do you truly think that letter would ever have been mentioned in court? How would that benefit the French king? As little as he’d have liked that forgery to succeed, he is not about to make any accusations against the Duchess Constance. With war looming between France and England, Brittany may prove useful down the road. As a possible heir to the English throne, young Arthur is worth his weight in gold.”

Justin had never thought of himself as an innocent, certainly not after more than a year as the queen’s man. But he’d still clung to a few illusions about royal justice, illusions he was loath to surrender. As he glanced from Durand to John, he found himself hoping that he’d never become as jaded and distrustful as they were. The price of something and its value were not always one and the same.

“Do not mock de Quincy, Durand,” John said. “This world of ours is one of sheep and wolves, and God made him a sheep, as simple as that. A man cannot fight his fate.”

Justin was rankled enough to hit back. “And what was the Lady Arzhela, my lord? A lamb to the slaughter or a she-wolf?”

John looked at him, his expression giving away nothing of his thoughts. “I do not blame you for not wanting to be a sheep, de Quincy. But you are not ready to run with the wolves. For example, I daresay it never occurred to you that this forgery scheme of the Breton’s most likely originated with Philippe. It was too well conceived for the Breton to have plucked it out of the air. My guess is that this was one of Philippe’s contingency plans, to be used if and when needed. The Breton’s great mistake was thinking that he was the puppeteer, not the puppet. My friend the French king does not like his hirelings to show so much enterprise. And then, he blundered even more badly by getting caught at it. Found-out sins are the only unforgivable kind.”

Justin was momentarily at a loss, disquieted by a cynicism so corrosive, so soul-stifling. “If you are saying that the Breton would never have faced a reckoning over the forgery, my lord, at least he has not escaped punishment for the Lady Arzhela’s murder. At least he has answered for that.”

“Yes,” John said, and then, “assuming that he is really dead.”

“Master Justin, come quick!” Yann tumbled out of the stairwell into the great hall. “Hurry,” he pleaded. “They are fighting!”

“Easy, lad.” Justin grasped the boy by the shoulders. “Who?”

“Morgan and the other one—” For a confused moment, Yann could not recall the name of the man he privately called the Cock for the way he strutted around. “Simon,” he gasped, “Simon!”

Justin plunged into the stairwell, as did Durand and Garnier. Other men would have followed, too, for a fight was always a popular form of entertainment, but Emma halted their rush. “They can deal with it,” she said, and after the others dispersed in disappointment, she indulged her own curiosity and started up the stairs, with Claudine right behind her.

They heard the sounds of conflict before they reached Morgan and Simon’s small chamber under the roof eaves. Bursting into the room, they halted in surprise. They’d taken it for granted that Simon was the instigator, but it was obvious from the first glance that he was defending himself. Blood trickling from a torn lip, he was trying to keep Morgan at bay. “Hell and furies,” he insisted, “I do not want to fight with you!”

Morgan paid him no heed and drove his fist into Simon’s stomach. He cried out in pain and fury and grabbed for the closest weapon at hand, a wine flagon, which he swung at Morgan’s head. Morgan ducked under it and tackled Simon, who went crashing into one of the overturned pallets. Rolling around in the floor rushes, they were cursing and pummeling each other as Justin and Durand intervened.

“Stop it, you fools!” Durand bellowed, laboring to separate the two men. Morgan proved harder to convince than Simon, and continued to struggle until Justin and Garnier pinned him down. Shoving Simon into a corner, Durand glowered at Morgan. “If we let you up, will you cease acting like a crazy man?”

“Yes—” Morgan was breathing as heavily as a foundering horse, his face darkly flushed, but his fury had yet to diminish. “I found that hellspawn going through my belongings!”

Leaning against the wall, Simon daubed at his bleeding mouth with the sleeve of his tunic, clutching his bandaged ribs with his free hand. “You would not let me explain, you idiot,” he complained. “I was not stealing!”

“The Devil you weren’t! I caught you right in the act!”

“I am no thief!”

“Two Bretons who’re missing horses might dispute that,” Durand said, very dryly.

“That was different and you know it! Any man would take a horse if his life were in danger. Even you, Durand—especially you!”

“Suppose you tell us, then,” Justin suggested, “what you were doing, if not stealing.”

Simon opened his mouth, shut it again as he considered his plight. “Ah, shit,” he muttered. “I guess I have no choice now. I was merely doing Lord John’s bidding.”

Morgan looked shocked. “Lord John told you to steal from me?”

“No, he told me to find out what you were hiding, who you really were. He said if I did, he might take me into his service.”

“Over my dead body!” Durand sputtered. Garnier was no less horrified. But Emma, standing in the doorway, burst out laughing, and so did Claudine. Justin could not help grinning, too, at the sight of the other men’s consternation. Never one to miss an opportunity, Simon moved swiftly to take advantage of this one.

“That is all I was doing, I swear,” he said earnestly. “And Lord John was right to be suspicious. I like you, Morgan, wish you no misfortune. But how do you explain those?” He pointed dramatically toward the floor rushes.

Justin stooped and picked up the items. Morgan stiffened, but he seemed to realize protest was useless, and he said nothing as Justin showed the others what he’d recovered: a handsome gold ring set with a glittering emerald, and a small leather-bound Psalter.

Emma had a good eye for the value of jewels, and her eyebrows rose as she studied the ring. “This is very costly, Morgan. How would a groom come by it?”

“I did not steal it,” Morgan said hotly. “It was a gift!”

“You need to do better than that, Morgan,” Simon said, with a smile that somehow managed to be both sympathetic and condescending. “And what about the book of prayers? How do you explain that?”

“I do not owe you any explanations!”

But Simon saw that the others were swinging over to his side. “How many grooms know how to read?”

“There are surely some,” Justin objected, but even he sounded halfhearted, and Simon moved in for the kill.

“Grooms who read Latin?” he asked incredulously, and when Justin flipped the psalter open, he saw that the prayers were indeed inscribed in Latin.

Morgan scowled, feeling the weight of their eyes upon him. “You win,” he said at last. “I’ll tell you what you want to know. But I am only telling it once, so I’ll not be saying a word until Lord John gets back.”

By the time John returned to the house, darkness was obscuring the city skyline and curiosity was at fever pitch. At first John dismayed them by insisting that Morgan’s revelations could wait until after supper, but he was joking, and soon led them abovestairs to the solar. Morgan faced a small, select audience; John permitted only Justin, Durand, Emma, and Claudine to join him, much to the disappointment of Simon and Garnier. Once a fire had been lit in the hearth and wine fetched, John regarded Morgan with narrowed, speculative eyes and then said bluntly, “Who are you?”

“I’d prefer to sit,” Morgan said, “for this will take a while.” With John’s permission, he seated himself on a wooden bench. Usually he was one for lounging or sprawling, but now he sat bolt upright, arms tightly folded across his chest, a very defensive pose. “My name is Morgan Bloet; I did not lie about that. My father is Sir Ralph Bloet, Lord of Lackham. He is liegeman to the Earl of Pembroke, and holds lands in Gloucestershire, Hampshire, and Wiltshire. His brother is the Lord of Raglan—”

“There is no need to give us your family history since Adam,” John cut in impatiently, but Morgan was not intimidated.

“I must do this my way, my lord,” he said stubbornly, “or I’ll not do it at all.” After a pause to make sure he’d won this clash of wills, he continued. “My mother is the Lady Nesta, daughter of Iorwerth ab Owain, the Lord of Caerleon in Gwent. I am their firstborn son, but I was told as far back as I can remember that I was meant for the Church.” His eyes flicked toward the others, coming to rest upon Emma. “So yes, my lady, I can read.” Adding,
“Fronti nulla fides,”
warning her, in excellent Latin, that a book should not be judged by its cover, a gibe that was wasted upon Emma, whose Latin did not go beyond the responses to the Mass.

John had leaned back in his seat, his expression enigmatic. “I think I see where this road is going,” he said softly. If so, he had the advantage over the others, who were listening in varying degrees of perplexity and amazement.

Emma was gazing at Morgan coldly, for an insult that was too cerebral to be understood was especially offensive. “So why is the son of the Earl of Pembroke’s vassal disguised as my groom?”

Morgan returned the look; he’d shed his humble servant’s demeanor when he’d walked through the solar doorway. “If you listen, my lady, you’ll know. Last year I overheard something I was not meant to hear. My father and uncle were quarreling and my uncle said... He called me a...” It was the first time any of them had seen the loquacious Morgan fumbling for words. “He said I was not of my father’s blood.” Taking refuge again in Latin, he said, his voice barely audible,
“Nullius filius.”

Justin drew in his breath, for that cut too close to the bone.
Nullius filius
meant “no man’s son,” and that was how he’d felt for his entire life. “Did you believe that, Morgan?”

“Oddly enough, I did. I had no reason to, for I’d never lacked for love. But somehow I knew that my uncle had spoken true. So, I went off and got drunk, and when I sobered up, I sought out my mother and asked for the truth. She did not deny it, saying that she’d wed my father whilst pregnant with another man’s child.” This was turning out to be more painful than Morgan had anticipated. Reaching blindly for his wine cup, he drank deeply. “She did not deceive Sir Ralph. He knew from the first, offering marriage to spare her shame.”

Justin glanced involuntarily toward Claudine; she’d gone pale and one hand was clasping her throat. Durand and John were inscrutable, but Emma looked skeptical. “The Welsh have queer ideas of morality,” she said. “To bear a child out of wedlock is not the shame it would be in a more Christian country.”

“My mother had been a handmaiden to the Lady Gwenllian, the wife of the prince of South Wales, the Lord Rhys. She could not turn to her family, for the man was her father’s sworn enemy. She loved her father, could not bear to hurt him so.”

“That explains her reason for wanting the marriage,” Durand said, and now he sounded no less skeptical than Emma. “But what of Sir Ralph... Bloet, was it? Why would he take on another man’s whelp?”

Morgan bristled at the tone, but he held his temper. Looking toward John, he said succinctly, “My mother was highborn, and very beautiful.”

“I do not doubt it.” John sipped his wine, gestured for Morgan to continue. “Did your mother tell you the name of the man who’d sired you?”

“Yes, my lord, she did. The same man who sired you. Henry Fitz Empress, the English king.”

Emma choked on her wine, seemed in danger of strangling for several moments. Claudine gasped and Justin’s mouth dropped open. Even Durand looked startled. Only John seemed to take this amazing revelation with equanimity. “Indeed? When did they have this... tryst?”

“September of God’s Year 1171. Lord Rhys came to the English king at Pembroke, where he was planning to sail for Ireland. He brought his court, and my mother was amongst them. She was young, and Henry was the king,” Morgan said, with a slight shrug, as if that explained it all and, to his audience, it did. “She was flattered, bedazzled, easily seduced. But when she learned she was with child, she was panic-stricken. The king had taken Caerleon from her father that summer, and he’d declared war upon the English Crown. She feared her father would never have forgiven her had he known she’d lain with Henry. She knew Sir Ralph, and when he found her in tears, she confided in him. You know the rest of the story.”

“Yes,” John agreed, “we do. It is not that uncommon a tale, is it?”

“I suppose not. But this one ended better than most, I daresay. My mother and Sir Ralph have been very content in this marriage, and he always treated me as if I were his own.”