Prince of Darkness Read online

  Start Reading

  About this Book

  About the Author

  Reviews

  About this Series

  Table of Contents

  www.headofzeus.com

  For Mic Cheetham

  Prologue

  December 1193

  St-Malo, Brittany

  They came together on a damp December evening in a pirate’s den. That was how she would one day describe this night to her son, Constance decided. The men of St-Malo were legendary as sea wolves, prideful and bold, and so were the men gathered in this drafty, unheated chapter house. Torches flared from wall sconces, casting smoky shadows upon the cold stone walls, upon their intent, expectant faces. Several of them already knew what she would say; the “unholy trinity,” as she liked to call them, three of the duchy’s most powerful lords, knew. So did their host, an affable gambler with a corsair’s nerve and a bishop’s miter. As for the others, they’d embraced the aim, needed only to be apprised of the means.

  Turning toward the man hovering by the door, Constance beckoned him forward. He came slowly, as if reluctant to leave the shadows, and it occurred to her that she’d rarely seen him in the full light of day. Although a man of God, he had the polished manners of a courtier, and he bent over her hand, murmuring “My lady duchess,” as if offering a benediction.

  Constance did not like him very much, this unctuous instrument of her enemy’s doom, and she withdrew her fingers as soon as his lips grazed her skin. She felt no gratitude; he’d been very well paid, after all. In truth, she found herself scorning him for the very betrayal that would serve her son so well. Loyalty was the currency of kingship, and he’d already proven that he dealt in counterfeit.

  “This is Robert, a canon from St Étienne’s Cathedral in Toulouse.” She did not introduce the lords or Bishop Pierre. When she nodded, Robert produced a parchment sheet. All eyes were upon him as he unrolled it and carefully removed the silk seal-bags, revealing plaited cords and tags impressed with green wax, coated with varnish. Savoring the suspense, Constance held the letter out to the closest of her barons, André de Vitré.

  André was already familiar with the letter, but he made a show of reading it as if for the first time. Rising from his seat in a gesture of respect for Raoul de Fougères’s years and stature, he passed the letter to the older man. Raoul read without comment, offered it to Alain de Dinan. One by one, they read the letter, studying those dangling wax seals with the exaggerated care due a holy relic. Only after the letter had made a circuit of the chapter-house and was once more in Constance’s hands did the questions begin to flow. Did Her Grace believe the seals were genuine? Who else knew of this letter? And how had it come into the possession of Canon Robert?

  “Does it truly matter?” she challenged. “This letter is evidence of a foul crime, a mortal sin. Once its contents become known, it will give the Holy Church a potent weapon to use against the ungodly heresies that have taken root in Toulouse. And it will be of great interest to the king of the French and to the Lionheart.”

  Richard Coeur de Lion. England’s charismatic crusader-king, celebrated throughout Christendom for his courage, his bravura deeds on the bloody battlefields of the Holy Land, his mastery of the arts of war. But in Constance’s mouth, the admiring sobriquet became a sardonic epithet, for her loathing of her Angevin in-laws burned to the very bone.

  “This letter will draw as much blood as any dagger thrust,” she said, “and I will not pretend that does not give me pleasure. But there is far more at stake than past wrongs and unhealed grievances.” She paused, and for the first time that night, they saw her smile. “With this, we shall make my son England’s king.”

  I

  December 1193

  Genêts, Normandy

  A pallid winter sun had broken through the clouds shrouding the harbor, although the sea remained the color of slate. Brother Andrev’s mantle billowed behind him like a sail as he strode toward the water’s edge, but he was as indifferent to the wind’s bite as he was to the damp, invasive cold. No true Breton was daunted by foul weather; Brother Andrev liked to joke that storms were their birthright and squalls their meat and drink.

  As always, his gaze was drawn to the shimmering silhouette of Mont St Michel. Crowned by clouds and besieged by foam-crested waves, the abbey isle seemed to be floating above the choppy surface of the bay, more illusion than reality, Eden before the Fall. During low tide, pilgrims would trudge out onto those wet sands, intent upon saying prayers and making offerings to Blessed St Michael. The prudent ones hired local men to guide them through the quicksand bogs, men who would be able to get them safely to the rocky citadel before the tides came roaring back into the bay. When warned of the fearsome speed of those surging waters, people sometimes scoffed, refusing to believe that even a horse at full gallop could not outrun that incoming tide. The bodies that washed up on the beaches of the bay would be given decent Christian burial by the monks of Mont St Michel; for those swept out to sea and not recovered, only prayers could be said.

  In the three years since Brother Andrev had been assigned to the abbey’s cell at Genêts, not a day passed when he’d not blessed his good fortune at being able to serve both God and St Michael. This December noon was no different, and as he filled his eyes with the majesty of the motherhouse, his soul rejoiced in a deep and profound sense of peace.

  “Father Andrev!” A towheaded youngster was running toward him, skimming over the beach as nimbly as a sandpiper. Recognizing the son of Eustace the shipwright, Brother Andrev waved back. He no longer corrected them when they called him “Father” instead of “Brother,” for he understood their confusion. Brother Andrev was that rarity, both ordained priest and Benedictine monk, and thus more intimately involved with the daily lives of the villagers than his monastic brethren, saying Mass, hearing their confessions, baptizing their babies, and burying their dead.

  “Where are you off to in such a hurry, Eudo? I’ve rarely seen you move so fast... unless you were on your way to dinner, of course.”

  The boy grinned. “I was fleeing from Brother Bernard,” he said cheekily. “He caught Giles and me throwing dice in the churchyard and I bolted, not wanting to hear another of his sermons about our slothful, sinful ways.”

  Brother Andrev knew he ought to pick up the gauntlet flung down by Brother Bernard and lecture Eudo about the evils of gambling, especially on the Lord’s Day. But he liked to play hasard and raffle himself, and he did not count hypocrisy among his sins. Too often he’d wanted to flee, too, when Brother Bernard launched into one of his interminable homilies.

  Before he could respond, Eudo’s head came up sharply. “Oh, crud! I cannot believe he’s tracked me this far—” With that, he spun around and began to sprint up the beach, leaving Brother Andrev to gape after him in puzzlement—until he turned and saw the stout figure in Benedictine black bearing down upon him.

  “Was that Eudo?” Brother Bernard was panting, his normally florid complexion now beet-red with annoyance and exertion. But when Brother Andrev would have offered up a defense of the errant youngster, the other monk waved it aside impatiently; whatever had brought him onto the windswept beach, it was not Eudo’s tomfoolery. “I have been looking for you everywhere, Brother André. I should have known you’d be here,” he said, churlishly enough to give his words an accusatory edge.

  At first Brother Andrev had done his best to master his dislike of Brother Bernard. He was no saint, though, and his good intentions had frayed under constant exposure to the other monk’s surly disposition and sour outlook upon life. “Ahn-DRAY-oh,” he said coolly, “not André. It is a Breton name, not a French one. You’d like it not if I called you Bernez instead of Bernard.”

  Broth
er Bernard ignored the rebuke, for he shared the common belief of his French countrymen that Bretons were uncivilized, ignorant rustics. “I came to tell you that you are wanted back at the church. That woman has come again.”

  He invested the words “that woman” with such scorn that Brother Andrev knew at once the identity of their guest: Lady Arzhela de Dinan. His friendship with Lady Arzhela was one of the joys of his life, but he knew that in Brother Bernard’s eyes, her sins were manifold. She was Breton, proudly so. She was known to be bastard-born, yet she was also highborn. She was thrice wed, thrice widowed, and barren, for she’d never been with child. She was no stranger to controversy; her free and easy ways had often given rise to rumors and gossip. And although she was the kindest woman Brother Andrev had ever met, she was one for speaking her mind. On her last visit to Genêts, she had scolded Brother Bernard for chasing beggars away from the church and then earned his undying enmity by laughing at his attempt at offended dignity.

  “Lady Arzhela? That is indeed welcome news and it was good of you to let me know straightaway,” he said blandly, and started off across the sand. To his vexation, Brother Bernard fell into step beside him. It seemed the sermon was not yet over.

  “She said that she wanted you to hear her confession.” Brother Bernard sounded out of breath, for he was laboring to keep pace with Brother Andrev’s longer strides. “Do you not think it odd that she keeps coming to you for the sacrament of penance?”

  “No, I do not.”

  “Well, I do. Genêts is not her parish and you are not her priest.”

  Brother Andrev understood the insinuation, that Lady Arzhela was parish-shopping, seeking a priest who’d be more indulgent of her sins, impose a lighter penance. He stopped abruptly and swung around to confront the older man angrily. “If you must know, Lady Arzhela has a fondness for our church. Abbot Robert consecrated it in God’s Year 1157, the year of her birth. She was baptized there, had one of her weddings there, and has always avowed that she wants to be buried in the choir, near to the high altar.”

  Brother Bernard gasped. “That is outrageous,” he said indignantly. “A woman like that does not deserve to be buried inside the church! I do not care if she is the widow of a Breton lord, she is also a wanton and—”

  “She is the widow of three Breton barons, but were she not, she’d still have the right to be buried here in our church of Notre Dame and Saint-Sebastien, in the abbey of Blessed St Michael, or even in Bishop Herbert’s great cathedral at Rennes. Do you not know—”

  “What—that she is a count’s bastard?”

  It had been years since Brother Andrev had lost his temper like this; his fists clenched at his sides as he fought back an alarming urge to take aim at the other monk’s sneer. “Yes, she is the Count of Nantes’s natural daughter,” he said tautly, “which makes her the aunt of our late lord, Duke Conan, and the cousin of our duchess, the Lady Constance. She is of the Royal House of Brittany, and not to be judged by the likes of you!”

  Brother Bernard was not as impressed by Lady Arzhela’s illustrious pedigree as Brother Andrev had hoped. His was an easy face to read, and his disdain for the royal Breton bloodlines was all too evident. But if he did not respect Lady Arzhela’s heritage, he did understand the significance of her kinship to the duchess. She might well be the Whore of Babylon, but only a fool would make an enemy of a woman with such proximity to power. Swallowing his bile as best he could, he turned on his heel and marched off.

  Brother Andrev watched him go, more bemused now than angry. Embarrassed by his own fervor, he could only marvel at Lady Arzhela’s ability to befuddle male minds and heat their blood. She was no longer young, was not even present, and yet she’d managed to bring two men of God almost to blows.

  Women were confessed in open church, and a shriving stool had been set up for Lady Arzhela at the front of the chancel. The three parts of confession had been satisfied. Arzhela had expressed contrition, confessed her sins, and accepted the fasting penance imposed by Brother Andrev. Now it was for him to offer absolution, but he found himself hesitating. What if Brother Bernard were right? If Arzhela deliberately chose him, knowing he’d give out light penances? Was she truly contrite?

  “Brother Andrev?” Arzhela was looking up at him, a quizzical smile parting her lips. She had captivating eyes, wide-set and long-lashed, a vivid shade of turquoise, like sunlight on seawater. At first glance, a man might not find her beautiful—the fairness of her skin was marred by a sprinkling of freckles and her hair was the color of fire, thought to be unlucky since the time of Judas—but then he’d look into those amazing eyes, and he’d be lost.

  Brother Andrev blinked, came back to himself, and hastily said, “I absolve you from your sins in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit.”

  Arzhela lowered her lashes, murmured a demure “Amen,” and then her grin broke free. “You had me worried that you were not going to give me absolution.”

  “And if I did not?” Brother Andrev asked, and she wrinkled her nose and then grinned again.

  “Well, if I eat a portion of cabbage and onions without complaint, I want my honey wafers and hippocras afterward!” When he did not join in her laughter, her eyebrows shot upward. “Surely that deserves a smile, even a small one? You cannot expect me to believe that my petty sins are too terrible to be forgiven. Why, I’ve done much worse and even told you so in shameful but provocative detail—”

  She stopped suddenly, frowning. “Oh, no! Do not tell me that nasty little man talked to you, too, about my confessions?”

  “What ‘nasty little man,’ my lady?”

  “Brother Bertrand or Barnabus or whatever his name is. When I told him I wanted you to hear my confession, he mumbled something about that being ‘such a surprise.’ His sarcasm was thick enough to choke on, and when I challenged him, he said it was not fitting for me to do penance to a priest who was besotted with me. Well, I gave him a right sharp talking-to for that bit of impertinence, but obviously not sharp enough. I am right, am I not? He did mention this to you?”

  Brother Andrev nodded reluctantly. “He did plant one of his poison seeds, and I was foolish enough to let it take root.”

  “Indeed you were.” She held out her hand, let him help her to her feet. “Of course, he was not entirely wrong. We both know you are besotted with me, for what man is not?”

  She had a low laugh, an infectious chuckle that had always been music to his ears... until now. He could feel the heat rising in his face and he lowered his head, hoping she’d not notice.

  She did, and her attitude changed dramatically. “Oh, Andrev, I am so sorry! I ought not to have been teasing you. But you know me; I’ll be flirting with the Devil on my deathbed. You are very dear to me and there is nothing sinful or shameful about our friendship. I come to you for confession because you can see into my heart, because you know that my contrition is genuine, that I truly mean it when I vow not to sin again... even knowing that I will.”

  She kept up an easy flow of conversation as they walked down the nave, and he blessed her social skills, for by the time they’d reached the cloisters, his discomfort had faded and when she called Brother Bernard a profane name that cast aspersions on his manhood, he grinned appreciatively.

  Arzhela was pleased that she’d got him into a better mood. But she was not done with Brother Bernard, not yet, for she was as protective as a mother lion when it came to those she cared about. That nasty little man would not be harassing Andrev again if she had anything to say about it, and she damned well did. “Tell me,” she said, favoring him with her most innocent smile, “does Mont St Michel have any alien priories or cells in other lands... say, Ireland? Mayhap Wales?”

  Brother Andrev was accustomed to Arzhela’s non sequiturs; part of her charm was her unpredictability. “No,” he said thoughtfully, “not that I know of. The abbey does have lands in England, though. Several in Devon and a grange up in Yorkshire.”

  “Yorkshire,” Arzhela
said happily. Perfect. Making a mental note to have a little talk with Abbot Jourdain the next time she visited the abbey, she gestured toward a bench in one of the carrels. “May we sit for a while? I have a private matter to discuss with you.”

  “More private than the confessional?” Brother Andrev joked, gallantly using the corner of his mantle to wipe the bench clean for her. “What may I do for you, my lady?”

  “I have a dilemma,” she confided. “I have learned something I’d rather not have known, for now I must make a choice. If I do nothing, great harm will come to one who... well, let us just say I have fond memories of him. But if I warn him, someone else I care for will be adversely affected. What would you do, Brother Andrev, if you were faced with such a predicament?”

  “Well, I think I would probably just toss a coin in the air. Lady Arzhela, I cannot possibly answer your question based upon the meager information you have given me.”

  Arzhela did not know whether to scowl or smile. In the end, she did both, and then sighed. “No, I do not suppose you can,” she agreed. “But I cannot tell you what you’d need to know to give me an honest answer. This friend of mine will be in grave danger if this accusation is made against him. I cannot be more specific, though.”

  “Is the accusation true?”

  “No, I do not think it is.”

  “But you cannot be sure of that?”

  She considered the question. “He is not a man overly burdened with scruples. I do not believe, though, that he is guilty of this charge.” With a wry smile, she said, “He is too clever to make a mistake of this magnitude.”

  “Can you tell me anything about the other person involved, the one you said you ‘care for’?” He was not surprised when she shook her head, for he felt reasonably certain that Duchess Constance was the other player in this mysterious drama. “What, then, of the consequences, my lady? What happens if you warn your ‘friend’ of the danger? And what happens if you do not?”