Read Online Prince of Darkness by Sharon Penman - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Sharon Penman
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That would explain not only why you’d dared to lay claim to the name, but also why I’d gone to the trouble of placing you in his service. I thought it best that you know this since it is likely you’ll be encountering him at court.”
“I see.” Justin did not know what else to say. He’d not thought much about his father’s kindred, for what was the point? His father would never acknowledge him, never admit him into the de Quincy family circle. But those ghostly, faceless strangers had suddenly become real, made flesh and blood by the most simple of spells—the unexpected use of a given name. He had an uncle, Reynald, cousins he’d never get to know. He started to rise, then, for their business was done.
Aubrey rose, too, but he lingered for a moment longer. “God keep you safe in Wales, Justin.”
“Thank you,” Justin said, surprised. “Let’s hope that Davydd agrees with the Almighty.”
The bishop frowned. “The queen is sending you back to Davydd’s court? Is that wise?”
So his father knew of Davydd’s animosity. The Earl of Chester must have been more forthcoming than he’d thought. “I am not eager myself to see Davydd again,” Justin conceded, “but I have no choice, as I have an urgent message for the Lady Emma.”
Aubrey blinked and then his face cleared. “If it is Emma you seek, then you need not venture into Wales at all,” he said with a smile. “You can find her in Shropshire, at her Ellesmere manor.”
Justin could scarcely credit his great good luck. Being spared a trip into Davydd’s domains was like getting a reprieve on the very steps of the gallows. And Ellesmere lay less than twenty miles to the south. He’d broken his night’s fast with only a cup of ale and a piece of bread, and he decided that he could treat himself to a full meal before heading into Shropshire. He re-entered the city and had just turned onto Fleshmonger’s Lane in search of a cook-shop when he heard his name being shouted. Swinging about in the saddle, he saw two familiar figures hurrying toward him—the fishmonger’s brats who’d banded together with a bishop’s foundling to navigate the shoals of a precarious Chester childhood.
Bennet was as tall and thin and supple as a mountain ash; he had the gaunt, lean look of a man who’d often gone to bed hungry. That had indeed been true in his hardscrabble youth, for he and his older sister, Molly, had been accursed with a downtrodden drudge of a mother who’d sadly vanished from their lives, and a mean drunkard of a father who’d sadly stayed. Molly was a flower grown amongst weeds, as graceful and natural and self-willed as the grey cat she so doted upon, as quick to purr or show her claws. She’d easily captured Justin’s fourteen-year-old heart, and five months ago, their unexpected reunion had ended up in her bed. Now, as soon as Justin dismounted, she flung herself into his arms and kissed him with enough enthusiasm to earn a round of cheers from male passersby.
“We got back last night,” she explained as soon as she had breath for speech, “and found out this morning that you’d been at the tavern!”
“Well, Drogo did not remember your name,” Bennet chimed in, “but he described you as tall and dark and shifty-looking, and I said to Moll, ‘Damn me if that does not sound like Justin’s evil twin!’ ”
“Pay him no mind,” Molly directed, linking her arm in Justin’s and drawing him away from the noisome stench coming from the street’s center gutter. “Algar was at my cottage ere cockcrow, bursting to tell his news, and we’ve been scouring the city for you ever since. You gave us such a scare, Justin, for I was sure you’d be long gone!”
“You almost did miss me, Molly. I ought to have been on the road into Shropshire by now, but I decided to find a cook-shop first—”
Molly wrapped her arms around his neck and rose on tiptoe until her mouth was tantalizingly close to his own. “Are you hungry,
“I see.” Justin did not know what else to say. He’d not thought much about his father’s kindred, for what was the point? His father would never acknowledge him, never admit him into the de Quincy family circle. But those ghostly, faceless strangers had suddenly become real, made flesh and blood by the most simple of spells—the unexpected use of a given name. He had an uncle, Reynald, cousins he’d never get to know. He started to rise, then, for their business was done.
Aubrey rose, too, but he lingered for a moment longer. “God keep you safe in Wales, Justin.”
“Thank you,” Justin said, surprised. “Let’s hope that Davydd agrees with the Almighty.”
The bishop frowned. “The queen is sending you back to Davydd’s court? Is that wise?”
So his father knew of Davydd’s animosity. The Earl of Chester must have been more forthcoming than he’d thought. “I am not eager myself to see Davydd again,” Justin conceded, “but I have no choice, as I have an urgent message for the Lady Emma.”
Aubrey blinked and then his face cleared. “If it is Emma you seek, then you need not venture into Wales at all,” he said with a smile. “You can find her in Shropshire, at her Ellesmere manor.”
Justin could scarcely credit his great good luck. Being spared a trip into Davydd’s domains was like getting a reprieve on the very steps of the gallows. And Ellesmere lay less than twenty miles to the south. He’d broken his night’s fast with only a cup of ale and a piece of bread, and he decided that he could treat himself to a full meal before heading into Shropshire. He re-entered the city and had just turned onto Fleshmonger’s Lane in search of a cook-shop when he heard his name being shouted. Swinging about in the saddle, he saw two familiar figures hurrying toward him—the fishmonger’s brats who’d banded together with a bishop’s foundling to navigate the shoals of a precarious Chester childhood.
Bennet was as tall and thin and supple as a mountain ash; he had the gaunt, lean look of a man who’d often gone to bed hungry. That had indeed been true in his hardscrabble youth, for he and his older sister, Molly, had been accursed with a downtrodden drudge of a mother who’d sadly vanished from their lives, and a mean drunkard of a father who’d sadly stayed. Molly was a flower grown amongst weeds, as graceful and natural and self-willed as the grey cat she so doted upon, as quick to purr or show her claws. She’d easily captured Justin’s fourteen-year-old heart, and five months ago, their unexpected reunion had ended up in her bed. Now, as soon as Justin dismounted, she flung herself into his arms and kissed him with enough enthusiasm to earn a round of cheers from male passersby.
“We got back last night,” she explained as soon as she had breath for speech, “and found out this morning that you’d been at the tavern!”
“Well, Drogo did not remember your name,” Bennet chimed in, “but he described you as tall and dark and shifty-looking, and I said to Moll, ‘Damn me if that does not sound like Justin’s evil twin!’ ”
“Pay him no mind,” Molly directed, linking her arm in Justin’s and drawing him away from the noisome stench coming from the street’s center gutter. “Algar was at my cottage ere cockcrow, bursting to tell his news, and we’ve been scouring the city for you ever since. You gave us such a scare, Justin, for I was sure you’d be long gone!”
“You almost did miss me, Molly. I ought to have been on the road into Shropshire by now, but I decided to find a cook-shop first—”
Molly wrapped her arms around his neck and rose on tiptoe until her mouth was tantalizingly close to his own. “Are you hungry,
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