Prince of Darkness: 4 (The Queen's Man) by Penman Sharon

Author:Penman, Sharon [Penman, Sharon]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
ISBN: 9781781857090
Publisher: Head of Zeus
Published: 2014-03-31T16:00:00+00:00

XV

February 1194

Road to Fougères, Brittany

The sky was a pale, silvery blue, and the few clouds drifting by were white and fleecy. The wind was erratic, almost playful, a sheathed dagger instead of a gusting February blade. Bare beech and chestnut trees stood sentinel along the road, dappled by sunlight. For winter-weary Bretons, a day like this was a gift from God. To Justin, it seemed especially cruel that he should be given a bittersweet, beguiling glimpse of the spring he was not likely to see.

He was making a sincere effort not to surrender to despair; after all, he did not have a hangman’s noose around his neck yet. Optimism did not come easily to a foundling, though. Nor was it in his nature to lie to himself, and he could envision nothing but trouble at the court of the Breton duchess.

His mount suddenly veered to the right. With his hands bound behind his back, he could only guide the stallion with the pressure of his knees, and he was unable to keep the horse from swerving to the end of its tether. The rider leading it glanced over his shoulder and swore, first at the animal and then at Justin. Another stallion shied, too, and its unease proved contagious. For several moments, men and horses milled about in the road, as the former sought to get the latter under control. By the time order was restored, it was decided they should take a break and Lord Yves ordered them to dismount.

This was the second time they’d halted since leaving Mont St Michel. They seemed in no hurry to reach Fougères, and that was fine with Justin, who would have been content to ride on into infinity. He did not think that was true, though, for Durand. He could only imagine how painful this ride must be for a man who’d been kicked in the ballocks a few hours ago. Durand’s face was a mask of silent suffering, sweat trickling down into his beard, his jaw so tightly clenched that not even a breath could escape that taut slash of a mouth. The guards got them off their horses quite simply by pulling them from the saddle, pushing them down upon the ground, and warning them to “move only if you want to lose a body part.”

Wineskins were passed around. The Lord Yves and Reynaud Boterel walked a few feet away and began to talk quietly, glancing occasionally toward their prisoners. Simon de Lusignan was tightening his stallion’s saddle girth, but he, too, watched the prisoners, with an unblinking intensity that did not bode well for their future. The horses were led down to the river to drink, but Justin and Durand did without until one of the guards walked by and Justin asked for water.

He’d chosen this particular guard with care—a cheerful, garrulous redhead called Thierry, by the others, who’d been chattering like a magpie since they departed the abbey. As he’d hoped, Thierry could not resist any audience, even if it consisted of doomed men, and the guard paused, considered, and then shrugged.

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