Start Reading About this Book About the Author Reviews About this Series Table of Contents www.headofzeus.com To my father Prologue July 1193 Nottingham Castle, England The English king was dying Despite the bone-biting chill of the dungeon, he was drenched in sweat, and so gaunt and wasted that his brother barely recognized him His skin was ashen, his eyes sunken, and his chest heaved with each rasping, shallow breath Even the vivid reddish-gold hair was dulled, so matted and dirty that vermin were burrowing into the scalp once graced by a crown Would their lady mother still be so eager to cradle that lice-ridden head to her breast? As if sensing he was no longer alone, Richard struggled to rise on an elbow, rheumy, bloodshot eyes blinking into the shadows The voice that once could shout down the wind, that had been heard from one corner of Christendom to the other even when he whispered, now emerged as a feeble croak ‘John ?’ ‘Yes.’ Stepping into the meagre light of the lone candle, John savoured the moment to come Had fortune’s wheel ever spun as dizzily as this? The irony was exquisite, that the brother so scorned and belittled should be Richard’s only chance of salvation ‘What would you, brother? You wish for a doctor? A priest? A king’s ransom?’ The corner of John’s mouth curved, ever so slightly ‘You need only ask, Richard But ask you must.’ Richard stretched out a stranger’s hand, one that trembled as if he had the palsy, palm upward in the universal gesture of supplication John reached for it reluctantly, for it would be like clasping hands with a corpse Their fingers touched, then entwined As John instinctively recoiled, Richard tightened his hold There was surprising strength in this deathbed grip: to his alarm, John found he could not break free Richard’s fingers were digging into his flesh, leaving talon-like imprints upon his skin So close were they that John could smell on his brother’s breath the fetid stench of the grave, and his eyes were as grey as their sire’s, burning with fever and an inexplicable gleam of triumph ‘Rot in Hell, little brother,’ Richard said, slowly and distinctly ‘Rot in Hell!’ John jerked upright, so violently that his bedmate was jarred abruptly from sleep Ursula felt a surge of drowsy annoyance, for this was not the first time that John had awakened her with one of his troubled dreams She was not so naïve as to complain, though, indulging herself only with a soft, put-upon sigh and a pout safely hidden in the dark As the German dungeon receded before the reality of his bedchamber, John began to swear, angrily and profanely Why had that accursed dream come back? It made no sense, for Richard was not being held in irons: the last report had him being well treated now that negotiations had begun for his release Nor would he ever be Richard’s deliverance, not in this life or the next Each time he remembered Richard’s taunt, his blood grew hot and his nerves hummed with hate Upon being warned that his brother was scheming to claim his crown, Richard had merely laughed ‘My brother John,’ he’d said, ‘is not the man to conquer a country if there is anyone to offer even feeble resistance.’ John cursed again, feeling such rage that he could almost have choked upon it Richard’s mockery trailed him like a ravenous wolf It was always there, hungry yellow eyes aglow in the dark, awaiting its chance When he finally fell asleep again, his dreams were still unsettled and he tossed and turned so restlessly that Ursula heaved another martyred sigh and put as much space between them as the bed would allow John rolled over on to his back and stopped squirming, but then he began to snore and Ursula conceded defeat She slid out of bed, padded across the chamber and drained the last of the wine from John’s night flagon A young squire slept soundly nearby, and she was tempted to fling the flagon into the floor rushes by his pallet, begrudging him the sleep that was denied her She reconsidered, though, unwilling to risk waking John She stubbed her toe getting back into bed and added yet another grievance to her ever-expanding hoard of wrongs Most men looked peaceful in their sleep and younger, too, unfettered by earthly cares But not John Studying him dispassionately, she decided he looked haunted, and older than his twenty-and-six years She supposed most women would consider him handsome, even if he was the dark one in a fair family, for he had his mother’s finely chiselled cheekbones and expressive mouth His eyes were deep-set under black brows, fringed with surprisingly long lashes, and his hair was thick, as glossy as a raven’s wing If she’d been inclined to entwine a strand round her fingers – which she wasn’t – she knew it would be clean and soft to the touch: one of his quirks was an enjoyment of bathing She had been taken aback at first, thinking it wasn’t quite manly, but she’d soon come to appreciate the benefits: he did not stink like the other men who’d shared her bed and her favours John had once told her that he liked to watch people unaware Regarding him now, as he slept, Ursula understood the appeal: there was a vulnerability about someone who did not know he was under observation He’d stopped snoring, and she settled down beside him, closed her eyes and crossed her fingers It was then that the pounding started, as loud as summer thunder, chasing away the mice scurrying about in the floor rushes and any hope of sleep John sat up in alarm ‘Holy Mother, what now?’ Ursula groaned and put her pillow over her head The squire was sleepily stumbling towards the door They could hear the murmur of voices, then the door was shoved back and Durand de Curzon pushed aside the squire and strode into the chamber John’s protest died in his throat, for Durand’s presence validated the intrusion The tall, swaggering knight was one of the few men he trusted with some of his secrets Durand was carrying a lantern and his face was partially illuminated by its swaying pale light He looked as he always did: selfpossessed, capable and faintly sardonic But John knew his demeanour would have been no different if he’d come to deliver word of Armageddon ‘Are you going to tell me why you’re in my chamber in the middle of the night, Durand, or must I guess?’ Durand shrugged off the sarcasm ‘A messenger has ridden in, my lord, bearing a letter for you from the king of the French.’ John often received communications from the French king They were allies of expediency, united in their shared loathing of his brother the Lionheart It was from Philippe that John had first learned of Richard’s plight: captured by his enemies on his way home from the Crusade and turned over to the dubious mercies of the Holy Roman Emperor But he’d never received a message so urgent it could not wait till daylight ‘I’ll see him,’ he said tersely The man was already being ushered into the chamber His travel-stained clothes told a tale of their own, as did his bleary eyes and the involuntary grunt he gave as he sank to his knees before the bed He held out a parchment threaded through with cord and sealed with wax, but John’s gaze went first to his ring It was a silver band gilded in gold leaf, set with a large amethyst cut into octagonal facets, corroboration that the courier indeed came from Philippe for royal signets could be forged, but only John knew to look for the ring that had once encircled the French king’s own finger ‘Give me your lantern, Durand,’ John said, reaching for the letter As impatient as he was to read Philippe’s message, he still took the time to examine the seal, making sure that it had not been tampered with Durand observed this with a flicker of grim humour; he had been sure that John would exactly that He studied John as a church scholar studied Holy Scriptures, for a misstep might mean his doom As John frowned over the letter, Durand sauntered to the table, found flint and tinder and struck sparks until he was able to ignite the wick of a large wax candle When John raised his head to demand more light, Durand was already there, holding out the candlestick He took the opportunity to appraise John’s bedmate at close range, his gaze moving appreciatively over the voluptuous curves so inadequately draped in the thin linen sheet Ursula was aware of his intimate scrutiny but made no attempt to cover herself, regarding him with an indifference that pricked his pride Durand could not make up his mind about her Was it that she was too jaded to care about anything but her own comfort, disenchanted and distrustful? Or was it merely that she was dull-witted, a woman blessed with such a lush, desirable body that the Almighty had decided she had no need of brains, too? Durand had flirted with her occasionally, if only to alleviate the boredom when they were trapped at the siege of Windsor Castle, but to no avail, and he’d soon decided that she was a selfish bitch and likely dumb as a post He would not have lain with her if she’d been panting for it He’d concluded long ago that John’s sense of possession was even stronger than his sense of entitlement Still, the risk had its own appeal, separate and apart from Ursula’s carnal charms He’d learned at an early age that danger could be as seductive as any whore Irked by Ursula’s blank, impassive gaze, he stripped her with his eyes, slowly and deliberately By God, she was ripe Would it truly matter if her head was filled with sawdust? All cats were grey in the dark Belatedly becoming aware of John’s silence, he glanced towards the younger man and all lustful thoughts were banished at the sight of John’s ashen face Durand held no high opinion of Queen Eleanor’s youngest son He thought John was too clever by half and as contrary and unpredictable as the winds in Wales But he did not doubt John’s courage: treason was not for the faint of heart So he was startled now to see John so obviously shaken What dire news was in the French king’s letter? ‘My lord? You look like a man who’s just heard there was hemlock in his wine What is amiss?’ John continued to stare down at the letter A muscle was twitching faintly in his cheek and the hand resting on his knee had clenched into a fist Just when Durand decided that he was not going to respond, he glanced up, eyes glittering and opaque ‘Read it for yourself.’ Many men would not have been able to meet that challenge, but Durand was literate in both French and Latin As he approached the bed, John thrust the letter at him like a knife He did not flinch He took the parchment in one hand, the lantern in the other, then stepped back so he could read it The French king’s seal had been broken when John had unthreaded the cord and unfolded the letter There was no salutation, no signature, just eight words scrawled across the middle of the page, written in such haste that the ink had bled before it dried, blotted so carelessly that a smudged fingerprint could be seen ‘Look to yourself for the Devil is loosed.’ I the Romans, and the horizontal adjoining shaft is called an adit The most horrifying fact that I unearthed in my mining research was that Roman slaves were sometimes kept underground until they died, never allowed to go up to see the sun or breathe pure, untainted air And while chapels were not built on every Cistercian grange in medieval Wales, they were known to have existed on some, so I felt comfortable adding a chapel to the grange at Mostyn The theory that the brilliant poet Marie de France was the Abbess of Shaftesbury, Emma’s half-sister, is widely believed but not conclusively proven I hope it is so, for there is something very appealing about the image of this gifted woman penning her worldly verses in the quiet of the cloister Lastly, Llewelyn ab Iorwerth is not a figment of my imagination He was indeed challenging Davydd for supremacy in Gwynedd in 1193 He would become the most successful of all the Welsh princes and history has accorded him the deserving accolade of Llewelyn the Great He would also become King John’s son-in-law For those readers who will want to know more about this remarkable man, he is the central character in my novel Here Be Dragons S.K.P., April 2003 www.sharonkaypenman.com Acknowledgements To quote my favourite line from Casablanca, ‘Round up the usual suspects.’ My family, my friends, my editors at Putnam and Penguin, and my agents on both sides of the Atlantic, Molly Friedrich and Mic Cheetham I would like to make special mention of the following: Marian Wood, editor extraordinaire Earl Kotila, whose offhand comment about Justin’s love life inspired the creation of Molly John Schilke, MD, for confirming what I’d learned about decomposing bodies Lowell LaMont, my computer exorcist Jill Davies for helping me keep the faith Marilynn Summers for giving me the benefit of her nursing experience And, above all, Valerie Ptak LaMont, midwife for all my books About this Book AD 1193 England lies uneasy, a land without a king Richard the Lionheart has not returned from Crusade, his brother John conspires to usurp the crown On the throne, in the Lionheart’s stead, sits Eleanor of Aquitaine She is determined to prevent the outbreak of civil war, but there are few she can trust Justin de Quincy – a man without title or land – is one of the few July: The Lionheart languishes in an Austrian dungeon, held for ransom by the Holy Roman Emperor While his younger brother John plots with with England’s bitterest foe, King Philippe of France to ensure that he rots and dies in chains, Eleanor ransacks England for gold to buy his freedom When one of the ransom payments vanishes in the fastnesses of Wales, Eleanor sends Justin de Quincy into a maelstrom a intrigue if not outright rebellion, De Quincy’s devotion to the queen will be supremely tested as he crosses the border to be met with false smiles and deadly conspiracies The queen’s treasure is ellusive, but danger is everywhere Reviews The Queen’s Man “Penman is a superb storyteller.” —The Miami-Herald “Once you enter Penman’s world, you’re hooked.” —Seattle PostIntelligencer “Energetic and adroitly plotted Justin is so beguiling, and the action so lively and unpredictable, that readers will cheer Justin’s return in further adventures.” —Publisher’s Weekly “Well researched, credibly plotted, realistically detailed, and undeniably entertaining.” —Library Journal “A glowing, living tapestry This is storytelling at its finest” —The Philadelphia Inquirer “Full of swordplay, bawdy byplay, and derring-do, The Queen’s Man is a full-bodied historical romp, steeped in period detail.” —The Houston Chronicle Cruel as the Grave “Masterfully told… Penman’s authentic period details, larger-than-life characters and fast-paced plot add up to great reading for both mystery fans and history buffs.” —Booklist “Penman writes about the medieval world and its people with vigor, compassion, and clarity.” —San Francisco Chronicle “Penman’s lively, articulate prose brings to life history as it could have happened–high praise for a historical mystery.” —Houston Chronicle “Sharon Kay Penman tells her stories with passion and a strong sense of time and place.” —Margaret Frazer, author of the Sister Frevisse novels Dragon’s Lair “A pleasure to read.” —Publishers Weekly “A polished and absorbing historical mystery.” —Kirkus Prince of Darkness “Penman deftly weaves actual historical events into the narrative with nary a false note.” —Publishers Weekly “The historical detail is scrupulously accurate without being presented as a history lesson.” —Library Journal About this Series THE QUEEN’S MAN SERIES AD 1193 England lies uneasy, a land without a king Richard the Lionheart is feared drowned on his return from Crusade, his brother John conspires to usurp the crown On the throne, in the Lionheart’s stead, sits Eleanor of Aquitaine At seventy, Eleanor is the most powerful woman in Christendom, mother of both Richard and John and no stranger to the vicissitudes of royal family politics She is determined to prevent the outbreak of civil war, but at court treachery is endemic and there are few men she can trust Justin de Quincy is bastard-born son of the Aubrey de Quincy, Bishop of Chester The Bishop never acknowledged Justin, bestowing on the boy – in lieu of name or fortune – only an education As it happens, it is a gift that will make de Quincy a ‘Queen’s Man’ taking him to the very centre of power – and into the heart of danger Moving from the royal chambers in the Tower of London to the alehouses and stews of Southwark, from the horrors of Newgate Gaol to the bustling streets of Winchester, from to the mountains of Wales to the wild coasts of Brittany, de Quincy will prove his mettle – or find an early grave – as he uncovers the dark intrigues of Eleanor’s court I The Queen’s Man January 1193 De Quincy is charged by a dying man to deliver a bloodstained letter to the Queen and finds himself caught between two hunts: one for a killer, the other for the throne The Queen’s Man is available here II Cruel as the Grave April 1193 The murder of a young girl interferes with de Quincy’s mission to deliver a message to Count John, currently besieged in Windsor Castle Cruel as the Grave is available here III Dragon’s Lair July 1193 As the king languishes in an Austrian dungeon, a ransom payment goes missing in Wales, itself wracked by rebellion and intrigue Into this maelstrom, Eleanor sends her trusted man, Justin de Quincy Dragon’s Lair is available here IV Prince of Darkness December 1193 De Quincy must aid his former foe, the King’s brother John, and unravel a conspiracy that threatens to change the course of history Prince of Darkness is available here About the Author SHARON PENMAN is the author of eight critically acclaimed historical novels: The Sunne in Splendour, Here be Dragons, Falls the Shadow, The Reckoning, When Christ and his Saints Slept, Time and Chance, Devil’s Brood and Lionheart She has also written four medieval mysteries Her first, The Queen’s Man, was a finalist for an Edgar Award for Best First Mystery from the Mystery Writers of America Her other mysteries are Cruel as the Grave, Dragon’s Lair, and Prince of Darkness She lives in New Jersey A Letter from the Publisher We hope you enjoyed this book We are an independent publisher dedicated to discovering brilliant books, new authors and great storytelling Please join us at www.headofzeus.com and become part of our community of booklovers We will keep you up to date with our latest books, author blogs, special previews, tempting offers, chances to win signed editions and much more If you have any questions, feedback or just want to say hi, please drop us a line on hello@headofzeus.com @HoZ_Books HeadofZeusBooks Dedicated to great storytelling First published in 2004 by Michael Joseph an imprint of the Penguin Group First published in eBook in the UK by Head of Zeus Ltd in 2013 Copyright © Sharon Penman, 2004 The moral right of Sharon Penman to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988 All rights reserved No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book This is a work of fiction All characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously 975312468 A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library ISBN (E) 9781781857069 Head of Zeus Ltd Clerkenwell House 45-47 Clerkenwell Green London EC1R 0HT www.headofzeus.com Contents Cover Welcome Page Dedication Prologue: July 1193: Nottingham Castle, England Chapter I: July 1193: Westminster, England Chapter II: July 1193: Windsor Castle, England Chapter III: August 1193: Chester, England Chapter IV: August 1193: Rhuddlan Castle, North Wales Chapter V: August 1193: Rhuddlan Castle, Wales Chapter VI: August 1193: Aberconwy, Wales Chapter VII: August 1193: Rhuddlan Castle, Wales Chapter VIII: August 1193: Chester, England Chapter IX: August 1193: Chester, England Chapter X: August 1193: Chester, England Chapter XI: August 1193: Chester, England Chapter XII: August 1193: Chester, England Chapter XIII: August 1193: Rhuddlan Castle, Wales Chapter XIV: August 1193: Rhuddlan Castle, Wales Chapter XV: August 1193: Rhuddlan Castle, Wales Chapter XVI: September 1193: Llanelwy, North Wales Chapter XVII: September 1193: Treffynnon, Wales Chapter XVIII: September 1193: Mostyn Grange, North Wales Chapter XIX: September 1193: Mostyn Grange, North Wales Chapter XX: September 1193: North Wales Chapter XXI: October 1193: Chester, England Chapter XXII: October 1193: London, England Preview Author’s Note Acknowledgements About this Book Reviews About this Series About the Author An Invitation from the Publisher Copyright ... youngest son? She had seen it as a game, not a betrayal, just as she’d seen herself as John s confederate, not his spy How had it all gone so wrong? She still was not sure But there was no denying... the logistics of Justin s mission, suggesting that they search the docks first and find out which ships were preparing for the Channel crossing That made sense to Justin and they split up soon after... brows, fringed with surprisingly long lashes, and his hair was thick, as glossy as a raven s wing If she’d been inclined to entwine a strand round her fingers – which she wasn’t – she knew it would