Justin agreed to remain in the entrance hall. The last time he and his father had met, it was in the bishop's own chambers above the great hall. He watched Martin disappear into the corner stair well, but he was too ill at ease to sit down. Noises from the great hall indicated that dinner would soon be served, and the entrance hall was crowded with petitioners, waiting with far more patience than Justin in the faint hope that the bishop might see them. Only Aubrey's private chapel offered solitude and silence, but it was in that same chapel that Justin had confronted his father on a frigid December eve, and he had no wish to revisit either that scene or that night.
He was still pacing restlessly when the bishop came bursting out of the stairwell. Justin turned in surprise, for he'd never seen his father move so precipitately. As far back as he could remember, Aubrey had been regardful of his dignity, striving to maintain an air of deliberation and formality whenever he appeared in public. Now he was panting, flushed, and agitated, even somewhat disheveled.
"What are you doing here?" he demanded. "I have highborn guests. You must leave straightaway!"
Justin flushed, too. "I am here on the queen's behalf," he said, in a low voice that was not as steady as he would have liked. "I need a letter delivered to London, and that is my only reason for — "
Aubrey gave no indication that he'd even heard. "You cannot stay," he insisted, "for they'll soon be coming into the hall. Be gone whilst there is still time!"
Justin's anger was fueled by hurt. He was used to being treated as an insignificant stranger by his father whenever there were other eyes to see them, but never had Aubrey rejected him so vehemently, as if the very sight of him was shameful, "This is an urgent matter and I am going nowhere until you hear me out!"
Aubrey glanced toward the great hall and then grabbed Justin by the arm, jerking him toward the chapel. Shoving Justin through the doorway, he hissed, "Stay there until I come back, and do not let yourself be seen!"
Justin stumbled, regaining his balance as Aubrey slammed the door shut. His face burning, he stared in disbelief at that closed door. His first impulse was to stalk out, to put as many miles between himself and Aubrey as he could. But common sense told him that if he bolted, he'd have endured this humiliation for nothing. Slipping his hand into his tunic, he drew out the letters, handling them as gingerly as if they were hot to the touch. One for the queen and one to the abbess at Godstow, with a sealed enclosure for Claudine,
The chapel was deep in shadows, lit by a single rushlight in a wail sconce. Sunlight filtered through a stained glass window in colors like jewels: ruby, emerald, sapphire. The walls were painted with scenes of from Scriptures and the gospels: the Annunciation, the Passion of Christ, the torments of Hell. It was too dim to distinguish them, but Justin had seen them so often that they were imprinted upon his brain. He'd passed countless hours here, kneeling on the tiled floor and praying dutifully to the Almighty and the bishop, for when he was very young, he'd confused the two. Whether clad in the ornate silk chasuble that was his "Yoke of Christ" or his vivid purple and gold cope, the bishop had seemed to Justin to be the very embodiment of God the Father, Lord of Lords, King of Kings, splendid and remote and all-powerful.
Justin put the letters back into his tunic, damning Molly for prodding him into this doomed quest, damning himself for listening to her. Despite all his misgivings, he'd not expected a scene so ugly as the one out in the entrance hall. He understood why his father was so set upon keeping his twenty-year-old sin a secret. Men of God were not saints and they sometimes fell from grace. But a bastard son was a millstone around the neck of a prelate as ambitious as Chester's bishop. Scandal had never been one of the stepping-stones to the See at Canterbury.
He had never seen Aubrey so overwrought, though, so frantic to avoid exposure, and for the first time he wondered if there might be more to the bishop's distress than a fear of public disgrace. What it could be, he did not know, could not even begin to imagine, and an inner voice mocked that he was grasping at straws, unwilling to face the truth: that he was nothing to Aubrey de Quincy but an embarrassment, a source of shame and dread.
Stopping before the high altar, he gazed down at the two tall candlesticks and the elegant silver-gilt crucifix that his father had brought back from Rome. The crucifix triggered an unwelcome memory. After Aubrey had denied his paternity, Justin had challenged him to swear it upon the crucifix. For a moment, his own bitter words seemed to echo in the air, "At least you'll not lie to God."
He stiffened, then, as the door started to open. He heard his father's voice, insisting that there was plenty of time to admire the Tree of Jesse, laughter, and another male voice saying that they could wait nary another moment to see it. Aubrey was backing slowly into the chapel, and behind him, Justin caught a glimpse of the white miter of a bishop. Doubtless one of his father's "high born guests." Justin raised his head defiantly, fists clenching at his sides, as Aubrey flung a quick glance over his shoulder, then reluctantly stepped aside to admit the others.
Justin was never to be sure why he did it. It may have been the desperate look upon his father's face. It may have been habit, for he had a lifetime's experience in deferring to the bishop's wishes. It may even have been Molly's gentle rebuke, "He tried to do right by you, lover, as much as he was able." But at the last moment, he ducked out of sight behind the high altar.
The quiet chapel was suddenly filled with people, two of them in the sumptuous silk copes worn by princes of the Church. One of them Justin recognized from his years in Lord Fitz Alan's service: William de Vere, Bishop of Hereford. The other bishop was not known to him, a man whose youth was a distant memory, with a girth that bespoke a fondness for good food and fine wine, a florid complexion, engaging smile, and shrewd calculating blue eyes. They were attended by the usual entourage of clerks and archdeacons and priests, who milled about like sheep until Aubrey hastily shepherded them toward a lancet window.
It was soon clear to Justin that his father had been bragging about his new stained-glass panels depicting the genealogy of the Lord Christ. The stained glass was indeed spectacular, but it was impossible for him to appreciate the artistry while crouched down behind the high altar. Already his body was protesting the awkward contortion of his spine, and his legs were beginning to cramp. He wanted them to depart as fervently as his father did, but they lingered, discussing the craftsmanship, praising Aubrey's estimable taste, even making favorable comparisons to the celebrated Stem of Jesse in the west window of Chartres's great cathedral. Because they were all learned churchmen, well versed in Scriptures, someone inevitably had to quote from the prophecy of Isaiah: "But a shoot shall sprout from the stump of Jesse, and from his roots a branch will bear fruit, and the spirit of the Lord shall rest upon him…" Someone else was then inspired to lapse into Latin, intoning solemnly, "O rudix Jesse," and Justin grimaced, for his muscles were constricting and he did not know how much longer he could hold his uncomfortable posture.
Eventually, though, Aubrey managed to nudge them into motion, and after a span that seemed interminable to Justin, he was alone in the chapel. Getting slowly to his feet, he sought to stretch himself back into shape, grateful that he'd been spared the mortification of discovery. What would his father have done? Mayhap accuse him of thievery, the easiest way to explain why he'd been hiding behind the altar.
He was in no friendly frame of mind when Aubrey returned. Closing the door, the bishop leaned back against it, and they regarded each other warily. Aubrey was the one to break the silence, saying in a low voice, "I thank you for not letting yourself be seen."