"What was I thinking? Of course you will tell her. I daresay you'd go to daily confession if you could find a priest who'd stay awake during them."
Amused in spite of himself, Justin held up his hands in mock surrender. "I yield, my lord. God has indeed cursed me with a conscience."
John's mouth twitched. "I know you have questions, de Quincy. So ask away. I might even answer one or two."
"I have no questions, my lord. I am in Southampton to be able to reassure the queen that you got off safely for France. It was her hope that you'd convey her good wishes to the French king."
This was the way their conversations usually went, verbal jousting that reminded Justin of those boyhood winters when he'd strapped on bone skates and ventured out onto the newly frozen ice of Cheshire ponds. Thrust and parry. He waited now for John's counterstroke, but the other man was gazing over his shoulder to ward the door.
"It is about time you got here," John said.
Justin caught a whiff of sandalwood perfume as a woman approached the table. She looked even more out of place in this seedy alehouse than John did, clad in a floor-length green mantle, her face framed in a white linen wimple, her fingers adorned with rings that testified to John's generosity. Justin recognized her at once as John's concubine from the siege of Windsor, and he started to rise.
Her manners had not improved any since then; Justin could have been invisible for all the notice she took of him. Gazing around her, she wrinkled her nose in disgust. "Must we wait for the tide in this hovel?" She added a perfunctory "my lord" in acknowledgment of the public setting, but it sounded neither deferential nor convincing. She had not impressed Justin as a particularly likable woman, but she was undeniably a desirable one, and he was wondering what she called John in the privacy of their bedchamber when a familiar voice sounded behind him.
"I did not think we'd ever get here, my lord. Mistress Ursula insisted upon stopping to view a street peddler's wares…" Durand's complaint trailed off in surprise as his eyes came to rest upon Justin. "Damn me if you're not the spitting image of a man I know back in London. Of course if you knew him, too, you'd take that as a mortal insult, for de Quincy is the most self-righteous, irksome — "
"It gladdens my heart to see you, too, Durand."
"What did I tell you lads about this unseemly squabbling?" John said, in a dead-on imitation of a father chastising his young sons. Pushing the bench back, he got to his feet and draped his arm around Ursula's shoulders, "You might as well finish my ale, Durand, if you can stomach drinking with de Quincy." His gaze flicked from Durand to Justin, his eyes guarded, utterly at variance with his affectation of good-humored nonchalance. "Tell my mother," he said, "that I'll be sure to pass on her regards to King Philippe."
Reaching for his money pouch, John spilled coins onto the table with the casual largesse that was expected of the nobility, even one in John's precarious straits. He sauntered out, then, with Ursula in tow. He did not look back.
Durand swung a leg over the bench, picking up John's ale cup as if he meant to drink it. As soon as John had exited the alehouse, he sat it down with a grimace. "I was wondering how you'd manage to find me," he said, with a studied drawl that grated upon Justin's nerves. "It never occurred to me that you'd simply ask as John. Now why did I not think of that?"
"It worked, did it not?" Justin pointed out laconically. He'd be damned before he'd offer any explanations to Durand, and he met the other man's gaze evenly, refusing to take the bait.
Durand knew from past encounters that Justin's temper was easily kindled, and he was sorely tempted to keep on until he struck some sparks. But they dared not linger in the alehouse without arousing John's suspicions. Leaning forward, he said softly, "The French king warned John that Richard has come to terms with the Holy Roman Emperor and his release is nigh. The news alarmed John enough to send him racing for the coast and the first ship for France."
He laughed soundlessly. "Richard casts a long shadow, indeed if the mere prospect of his return can scare men half out of their wits. It took John an outlandishly long time to remember that even if Brother Richard were released on the morrow, it would take him weeks to make his way back to England."
Justin understood why Richard could inspire such fear. There was no greater battle commander in Christendom, and all knew he was a soldier first and foremost, only secondly a king. "I grant you John is not acting like a man in the throes of panic. So if he knows the danger is not imminent, why is he still in Southampton, making ready to sail?"
"Once common sense took over, he realized that deals are made to be broken. There is only one offer on the table… so far. What if the emperor were promised even more money to keep Richard caged up in some godforsaken German castle?"
"He'd probably pounce upon that offer like a hungry weasel," Justin said slowly, and Durand grinned.
"Exactly. John well knows that the emperor has the scruples of a pirate and the honor of … Well, let's just say that the noble Heinrich makes John and Philippe look like Heaven's own angels. He'd sell Richard in a heartbeat if the price were right."
Justin nodded grimly, thinking that this would be a bitter message to bring to his queen. At least she would be forewarned that this storm was brewing on the horizon. Shoving his ale cup aside, he rose to his feet and was faintly amused when Durand immediately did the same; he'd never known another man so keen on securing each and every advantage, no matter how small or trivial. "Is that all?"
"Is it not enough?" Durand adjusted his scabbard, making sure that the weight of his sword was well balanced, then reached for his hat. It had a broad brim, turned up in the back, a style that Justin had not seen before, and was doubtlessly the newest fashion. It always surprised Justin that a man as ruthless and predatory as Durand de Curzon could also care about the petty concerns of royal courtiers. Someday he would have to resolve the mystery of this baneful, blood-hungry wolf, surely better suited to serving the Devil than their queen.
Almost as if reading his thoughts, Durand said, with a cold smile, "Well, as one queen's man to another, are you not going to wish me luck, de Quincy?"
He deserved it, Justin knew, and likely would need it, too. "Go with God," he said, with equal coldness. "And if we are both truly lucky, this will be the last time that we need lay eyes upon each other."
Duran's smile faded. "Ah," he said, "but John will be back. You can wager the kingdom on that."
Chapter 2
July 1193
Windsor Castle, England
Justin de Quincy had not been back at Windsor since that spring's siege when he'd infiltrated the castle at the queen's behest, his mission to convince John to accept a truce. He'd ended up shackled in a dungeon hellhole, with Durand to thank for his awful accommodations, and although he'd eventually succeeded in his objective, his recollections of Windsor were not fond ones. Claudine did her best to replace them with more pleasant memories, sneaking him into her bedchamber as soon as the rest of the household was abed. But the night's daring, seductive rebel vanished with the coming of first light. Upon awakening, Claudine was beset by morning sickness, low spirits, and a heightened fear of being found out.
"I am so sorry," she whispered as Justin washed her face with a wet cloth. "A woman's lover ought not to have to hold a basin for her whilst she vomits — "
"Do not talk rubbish," he said and leaned over to kiss her on the forehead. "The pleasure was mutual, so it is only fair that the penance be mutual, too."
He spoke in jest, but that was how Claudine did view her pregnancy: as penance. He was stroking her hair, smoothing it away from her face, and she blinked back tears. "Do you think we will reach Oxford by nightfall, Justin?"