The lay brothers were all talking at once, pouring out a torrent of Welsh that meant nothing to their audience. Justin could have translated, paraphrasing their agitated pleas for mercy, their insistence that they were simple men of God, no threat to anyone. He kept his mouth shut, for he well knew that his survival depended upon attracting no attention to himself. But there were too many torches in the chapel for anyone to mistake his dark mantle for the brown habits of the converse. A grizzled veteran cried, "This one is no monk," and jerked his hood back.
Squinting in the sudden glare, Justin experienced what it was like to be a fox brought to bay by encircling, snapping dogs.
Rough hands were stripping away his mantle, laying claim to his sword and eating knife. He stumbled, regained his footing and found himself face-to-face with the queen's son.
"I'll be damned," John said in obvious astonishment. "Oliver mentioned that there was a queen's man prowling around but gave no names. I ought to have guessed, though. I'm beginning to think that I could go to Cathay and meet you coming around a corner, de Quincy."
Justin could think of nothing to say, and his mouth was too dry for speech in any case. He managed a shrug, and then forced him self to meet Durand's eyes, finding in them exactly what he expected: amazement, hostility, and no help whatsoever. The lay brothers had been herded behind the altar, out of the way, leaving Justin alone in the center of the chapel, surrounded by men who'd kill him without a qualm if John gave the command.
Spurred into action by this unexpected turn of events, John ordered most of the men to head for the beach, taking the injured soldier with them. Others were dispatched to continue guarding their prisoners in the abbey dorter. One by one, he sent them off into the night until at last only Durand stood by his side. "Now…" he said, "what are we to do with you, de Quincy?"
"You could give me a ride back to Treffrynnon," Justin ventured, not in the least reassured when John smiled.
"You've long been a thorn in my side, a burr under my saddle, call it what you will. I will admit that there is a certain entertainment value in never knowing when or where you're likely to turn up, and you were even of some use to me at Windsor's siege. And watching you and Durand bristling like a couple of tomcats can be amusing. It is awkward, though, for the lady wants to keep her identity a secret, and we both know you'd be blabbing her name all over the kingdom in the time it took my ship to raise anchor."
Justin knew it was futile, but he made a game try anyway, saying earnestly, "How can I, my lord, when I never saw the lady's face? She could be the Queen of France for all I know."
John's smile surfaced again. "See why I like this lad, Durand?" Pulling up his hood, he strode to the door, saying over his shoulder, "Remember what I said about waiting for Reynard to get back. Once he does, you can let the monks loose and then head for the beach, where we'll have a boat waiting for you."
Durand acknowledged the order and then glanced toward Justin. "My lord… what about de Quincy?"
John paused in the doorway, regarding Justin with an enigmatic expression, one not easy to interpret. "A pity," he said, sounding almost regretful, "but he's given me no choice. Kill him."
Chapter 19
September 1193
Mostyn, North Wales
The chapel was absolutely and eerily still, so quiet that Justin imagined the other men must be able to hear the wild pounding of his heart. The Welsh lay brothers were clustered together, uncomprehending but fearful. These hooded, faceless figures garbed in austere monks' habits seemed ghostly and unreal to Justin, not flesh-and-blood men, more like the starkly sculptured effigies on tombs of the dead.
Durand at last broke the foreboding silence, saying very dryly, "Well… John was right. This is awkward." His eyes moved dismissively over the lay brothers, coming to rest upon Justin's face. "It is no secret that I have no fondness for you, de Quincy. If truth be told, you've been a pain in the arse from our first meeting. But we are on the same side, more or less."
As he spoke, he was unfastening his mantle, letting it drop to the floor at his feet. "If I do not kill you, though, I'll be defying John's express command. Not only will he be sorely vexed with me, he is like to become highly suspicious as well. So I have to ask myself which matters more to the queen, that I continue to serve her by spying on her son or that you continue to breathe."
With a smooth, practiced motion, he drew his sword from its scabbard. "Alas for you, we both know the answer to that question."
At the sight of the weapon, the lay brothers shrank back. Justin forced himself to stand his ground. Durand seemed in no hurry, though. "I'll do this much for you," he said coolly. "I'll not go for a deathblow. If you somehow survive, I can always tell John that I was sure your wound was mortal. So try not to flinch away from the blade or you could spoil my aim. You might want to kneel and close your eyes so you do not see the strike coming."
The mockery misfired, for it kindled a raw, visceral rage. Justin was far from a fool. He well knew that an unarmed man stood little chance against a swordsman as skilled as Durand. In a recessed corner of his soul, he was not even sure if he could have prevailed had he been armed. Durand was Death's henchman, whereas Justin had never killed anyone. But for now his fury was searing along his spine, surging through his veins, cauterizing his fear, and he tensed, awaiting his opportunity.
Durand kept his eyes upon Justin as he jerked his head toward the door and ordered the conversi to get out. Even without a knowledge of French, they seemed to grasp what was happening and burst into agitated Welsh that meant nothing to Durand. "Be gone from here," he snapped, "whilst you still can!"
"They are distraught that you would spill blood in God's House." Justin felt a flicker of pride that his voice sounded so even, so controlled. "They say that you would be committing a mortal sin. They do not know that your soul is already forfeit to the Antichrist!"
Durand spat out an oath, although whether it was aimed at his gibe or the balking monks, Justin could not say. One of the lay brothers then did something quite courageous. His youth was long gone, for he leaned heavily upon a cut-off shepherd's staff, his shoulders hunched under the burden of too many years, too much pain. He did not hesitate, though, shuffled slowly but resolutely toward Durand, and if his voice was reedy, quavering with age and apprehension, his words were boldly spoken — that Durand must not pollute their holy church with bloodshed and violence.
Losing patience, Durand snarled, "The blood shed can always be yours, old man!"
With a thrust of his arm, he sent the elderly monk reeling. There was an outcry from the other conversi, and Justin darted behind the altar, intending to make a grab for the torch sputtering in the wall sconce. What happened next froze him in his tracks. As the old man fell, he somehow entangled the crook of his staff around Durand's ankle, and the knight, already off balance from the shove, went crashing to the floor.
Justin had dared hope that the Almighty might aid him in his time of need. He'd not expected the Lord God to intervene, though, in so spectacular a fashion. But he did not waste time questioning his blessings, and when the sword shot from Durand's grasp, he dived for it. Nothing in his life had ever felt so good as the grip of that hilt in his hand. Knowing that he'd been given a reprieve, not deliverance, he rolled over and came swiftly to his feet, bracing for Durand's counterattack.
It never came. Durand was still sprawled upon the floor, with the aged monk astride him, a knee grinding into his chest, a dagger blade pressing against his throat. "You'd best lie very still, for an old man's hands are none too steady."