But their conversation was already ending. She backed away, smiling politely as the man began to climb the stairs. By the time he'd disappeared into the keep, Justin had reached her. She turned with a sudden smile, this one much more spontaneous. "Master de Quincy! I thought you'd gone off on a clandestine mission for the queen."
Justin was flattered to be remembered, but startled that she knew so much about him. "What makes you think that, demoiselle?"
"I asked Peter about you," she said forthrightly. "He said the queen had given him a letter for you, but I could not get much more out of him. Peter takes his duties entirely too seriously." She had an appealing grin, at once mischievous and coquettish. "I hope you do not mind my prying. Alas, curiosity has always been an abiding sin of mine."
"I'd forgive you far greater sins than that, demoiselle," Justin said gallantly. He at once felt rather foolish, for that sounded like something out of a minstrel's tale. It seemed to please her, though, and that was well worth a little embarrassment. She introduced herself now as Claudine de Loudun, and he seized the opportunity to kiss her hand. But when he ventured a discreet query about the one-sided flirtation he'd witnessed, he was jolted by her response.
"You were going to rescue me?" Her eyes widened. "You are either the bravest man I've ever met or the craziest, mayhap both! Unless… you do not know who he is, do you?"
"Obviously someone of importance," Justin said, somewhat defensively, for she sounded astonished, as if he'd failed to recognize the Son of God.
"Important? I'd say that is as good a way as any to describe a future king. That was the queen's son. John, the Count of Mortain." Claudine's amusement was waning. Glancing around, she lowered her voice. "I've heard that he has been asking about you."
Justin was dumbfounded. "Are you sure? How would the Count of Mortain even know I'm alive?"
"He may not know you personally, but he seems very interested in that letter you brought to the queen." She dropped her voice still further, brown eyes very serious. "And if John is interested in you, Master de Quincy, better that you know it."
~~
Eleanor gazed searchingly into eyes very like her own, a golden hazel, utterly opaque, eyes that gave away no secrets. How little she knew him — this stranger, her son. For years he'd been on the outer reaches of her life. The last of their eaglets, the child she'd never wanted, born in the twilight of a dying marriage. A hostage to the impassioned enmity of a love gone sour. He'd been just six when she'd become Henry's captive, seventeen when next she saw him, and twenty-two when she was finally set free. He was six and twenty now and still he eluded her. She and Richard needed no words between them, so easy and instinctive was the understanding that had always been theirs. But with John, all the words in Christendom did not seem enough.
Would an outright challenge be best? Or nuance and equivocation? She was not usually so irresolute. But with John, she was always following unfamiliar trails, never sure what lay around the bend.
"I've been told that alarming rumors are circulating about Richard," she said abruptly, making up her mind to try a frontal assault. "Men are claiming that he is dead, shipwrecked on his way back from the Holy Land. Such talk is not new. It began when Richard's ship did not reach Brindisi. But these rumors are rather specific and remarkably widespread, almost as if they were deliberately sown. I would hate to think you had a hand in that, John."
"I'll not deny that I think hope has faded. But you cannot blame me because other men think so, too."
"Why are you so sure that Richard is dead?"
"Why are you so sure," he countered, "that he is not? I do not mean to be cruel, Mother, but I must be blunt. Richard has been missing for more than three months. If evil has not befallen him, why have we not gotten word of his whereabouts by now? Unless… you have heard from him?"
"No… I have heard nothing from Richard. Why would you ask that?"
He shrugged. "I suppose I was remembering the gossip I heard — talk of a mysterious letter delivered by an equally mysterious messenger. Naturally I was curious, and since Richard is so often in my thoughts these days, he came at once to mind."
Behind her, Eleanor heard a smothered cry, quickly broken off, as William Longsword half rose from his seat. Ignoring Will's distress, she smiled at her son. "I'd give little credence to gossip, John. You, of all men, ought to appreciate how unreliable it is.
For the past twelvemonth, rumor has had you conspiring with the French king to usurp Richard's throne. But we both know that to be an outrageous falsehood… do we not?"
"The worst sort of defamation," he agreed gravely, but his eyes gleamed in the lamplight. One of his saving graces was his ability to laugh at himself. In Eleanor's eyes, that was no small virtue, for she had long ago concluded that if a lack of humor was not a sin, it ought to be. But this was what she too often found herself doing with John — sorting through all the weeds for that one flowering sprig.
Turning toward the table, John picked up a flagon of wine. When she shook her head, he poured for himself and Will. Eleanor had dismissed all the others from the chamber, for her son had a tendency to play to an audience. She'd often thought he'd have made a fine actor, with a particular talent for righteous indignation and bemused innocence.
Taking but a single sip of his wine, John then set it on the table. "I've matters still to tend to," he said, "so I'd best be off." Coming forward, he kissed Eleanor's hand, and as always, his gallantry bore the faintest hint of mockery. With John, even his kindnesses were slightly suspect. Or was she being unfair to him, this youngest and least known of all her children? Her every instinct urged wariness, warned that he could not be trusted. And yet he was still hers, flesh of her flesh, impossible to disavow.
"John!" He'd been reaching for the door latch, but stopped in midmotion, halted by her sudden vehemence. Coming swiftly across the chamber, Eleanor put her hand upon his arm. "Listen to me," she said, her voice low and intent. "In the days to come, watch where you tread. A misstep could bring your world tumbling down around you. I would borrow some of your 'bluntness' now. I know you love Richard not. I know, too, how much you covet his crown. But do not plot against him, John. For your own sake, do not. If it came to war, I do not think you could measure up to Richard."
His eyes took on a hard, greenish glitter. "You've already made that abundantly clear, madame," he said bitingly, "for most of my life!"
As the door closed behind John, his half-brother shot from his seat. "I did not tell John about the letter, madame. He asked, but I said nothing, I swear it is so!"
"I know that, Will." Turning, Eleanor found a smile for him, but all the while, her thoughts were following John, plunging after him into the shadows of the stairwell. Will was continuing to protest his innocence, needlessly, for his open, freckled face was like a window to his soul. He could no more lie convincingly than he could fly. Passing strange, that he was so like his father in appearance, so unlike him in temperament. He had Henry's reddish-gold hair, his high color, even his grey eyes. But he'd gotten none of Henry's fire or sardonic charm, and nothing whatsoever of his ruthless royal will.
Eleanor was genuinely fond of Will, and she sympathized with his plight. He disapproved utterly of the man John had become — a cynical opportunist willing to make any devil's deal that might gain him the English crown. But Will had fond memories of another John, the young brother in need of his guidance. Will had cast a protective eye upon that solitary little boy, and their childhood affection had endured even after they'd both grown to manhood. Eleanor could not help wondering if her family's harrowing history might have been different had Richard and John been able to forge such a brotherly bond, too. But her sons had never learned to love one another. That was a lesson she and Henry had failed to teach them.