"You said the goldsmith was slain by outlaws. What makes you think this was not just a robbery gone wrong? Have you reason to believe they were after the letter?"
"Gervase thought so, madame. I cannot say, for certes, that he was right. I do believe it was no random robbery. They were lying in wait for him, that I know. I'd passed by earlier and heard them whispering. I did not understand at the time, but I do now. 'No, it's not him.' And when I came upon the attack, one of the men was searching his body and the other called out, 'Did you find it?' He was not referring to Gervase's money pouch, for the outlaws already had that. Mayhap Gervase had something else of value, but the letter might well have been what they sought. The Archbishop of Rouen had spies at the
French court, for how else could he have gotten a copy of the French king's letter? So who is to say that the French king did not have spies, too?"
"From what I know of Philip, you may be sure that he has far more spies than he has scruples." Eleanor was silent for several moments, absorbed in her own thoughts. When Justin had begun to wonder if she'd forgotten him altogether, she said, "You have done me a great service, Justin of Chester. Now I would have you do me another one. I want you to find out who murdered Gervase Fitz Randolph… and why."
Justin stared at her. Surely he could not have heard right? "Madame, I do not understand. The sheriff of Hampshire is far more capable of tracking down the killers than I am!"
"I disagree. I think you are uniquely qualified for the task at hand. You are the only one who saw the killers, the only one who can recognize them on sight."
Eleanor paused, watching him attentively. "Moreover, it would seem perfectly natural for you to return to Winchester to find out if the culprits had been caught and to offer your condolences to the Fitz Randolph family. No one would think to question that. To the contrary, the family would surely welcome you with gratitude, for you tried your best to save the man's life and you did save his servant."
"I suppose so," Justin conceded. "But why, my lady? Why would you have me do this?"
Eleanor's brows arched. "To see justice done, of course."
Justin glanced away lest she notice his perplexity. It made sense that the queen should want to see the killers punished. The king's roads must be safe for travel; that was part of the covenant between a sovereign and his subjects. And it could be said that the goldsmith had died in the queen's service. Yet there was more to Eleanor's request, much more. He could not have explained why he was so sure of that, but he had no doubts whatsoever that it was so.
"And if I am able to discover the identities of the killers? Should I turn that information over to the sheriff?"
"No," she said swiftly. "Say nothing to anyone. Report back to me, and only to me."
He had confirmation now of his suspicions, but what of it? Whatever Eleanor's private motives, there was no question of refusal. A queen was not to be denied, especially this queen." I will need a letter of authorization, madame, stating that I am acting on your behalf. If I am going to be venturing into deep waters, I'll want a lifeline."
Eleanor smiled. "Clever lad," she said approvingly. "That bodes well for your success. Now… pour us some wine and then fetch me that ivory casket on the table."
Justin did as bidden, and a few moments later, he was holding a leather pouch in the palm of his hand. He thought it would be rude to count it in her presence, but was reassured by its solid weight, proof that the sum was a generous one.
He could not ask her the real reason why she was so intent upon solving the goldsmith's murder. But he could ask, "Why me?" He had the right to know that much, for the task she'd given him held as many risks as it did rewards. "I am honoured, madame, by your faith in me. Yet I am puzzled by it, too. I am a stranger to you, after all."
"I know more about you than you realize, lad. You have rare courage. You are no man's fool, for you do not trust easily. You are resourceful and personable."
She stopped to take a swallow of her wine. "You own a horse, which is more than most men can say. You can handle a sword, not a skill easily mastered. And you could read these letters, proof indeed that you've had an uncommonly good education, Justin of Chester. All you seem to lack is a surname."
Justin stiffened, but she ignored his sudden tension, continuing to regard him pensively. "An intriguing mystery. Why should a young man with so many admirable attributes be adrift, utterly on his own? You are too well educated to be low-born. A younger son having to make his own way in the world? Possibly, but why would you disavow your surname? A black sheep, cast out by his family? I think not, for most men would take great pride in a son such as you. But what of a son born out of wedlock?"
Justin said nothing, but he could feel his face getting hot. Eleanor took another sip of wine. "Even if you were bastard-born, though, why would your father not claim you? My husband freely acknowledged his by-blows; most lords do. Adultery is more often held up as a female sin, not a male one. But the Church… now she is a far more jealous mistress than a wronged wife."
"Jesu!" Justin hastily gulped down the contents of his wine cup, much too fast. Coughing and sputtering, he blurted out, "Do you have second sight?"
Eleanor smiled faintly. "Oddly enough, witchcraft is the one sin my enemies have not accused me of. It was easy enough to guess. The Church preaches celibacy, but how many of her priests practice it? They no longer can take wives, but hearthmates to tend their houses and warm their beds… well, what harm in that? At least not for a village priest. But for a man who aims higher, a bastard child is an embarrassing encumbrance, one to be shunted aside, hidden away to keep scandal at bay. Was that how it was for you, Justin?"
He nodded, and she said softly, "Who is your father, lad?"
It never occurred to Justin not to answer. "The Bishop of Chester."
He was half expecting disbelief. But Eleanor showed no surprise whatsover. "Aubrey de Quincy? I know him, although not well."
"I can say the same."
There was too much bitterness in Justin's voice for humor. Eleanor gave him a curious look. "He did assume some responsibility for you, did he not?"
"Yes," Justin said grudgingly. "I grew up believing I was a foundling. It was no secret that the bishop was my benefactor, for I was often told how lucky I was that he'd taken pity on me. When I was a babe, he placed me with a family in Shrewsbury. Later - he was an archdeacon by then - he had me brought to Chester. I saw him but rarely. I would occasionally be summoned into his presence, and he'd lecture me about my studies and the sinful state of my soul, then berate me for my misdeeds, even those I had not committed yet." Justin's mouth tightened. "It was like being interrogated by Almighty God Himself."
Eleanor was not yet convinced that he had cause for complaint. "He did see that you had food and shelter and an excellent education."
"He was quick to remind me of that, too, madame. But he owed me more than bread or even books. If nothing else, he owed me the truth about my mother!"
That hit home for Eleanor. After she'd wed Henry, the French king had done what he could to turn their two young daughters against her; she'd not seen either one for years, not until they were both grown, with husbands of their own. "How did you find out the truth?"
"When I asked him about her, he told me that she was a woman of low morals. And I'd have gone to my grave believing his lies. But by chance, Lord Fitz Alan sent me to Shrewsbury last month, and it occurred to me that there might be people who remembered my birth, remembered my mother. I started at St Alkmund's, his old parish church, and eventually I tracked down an elderly woman who'd been the cook at the rectory. She did indeed remember my mother, not a slut as he'd claimed, a young village girl bedazzled and seduced by a man of God."
"I assume that you then confronted your father?"
He nodded again, grimly. "He did not think he'd wronged me, insisting that he'd been more than fair. He could not understand that I might have forgiven him for denying his paternity, for letting me be raised by
strangers, but not for lying about my mother. Never for that."
It was quiet then. Justin slumped back in his chair, drained by his outburst and disquieted, too. How could he have revealed his soul's deepest secret to this woman he barely knew? What would the Queen of England care about the griefs and grievances of a bishop's bastard? "I am sorry, madame," he said stiffly. "I do not know why I told you all this -"
"Because I asked," she said, holding out her wine cup for a refill. "If you return on the morrow, I'll have that letter ready for you, the one that identifies you as the queen's man. I trust you will be discreet in its use, Justin. No flaunting it in alehouses to get free drinks, no whipping it out at opportune moments to impress young women."
Justin's surprise gave way almost at once to amusement. He opened his mouth to ask if he could at least use it to gain credit with local merchants, then thought better of it, not sure if it would be seemly for him to jest, too. She'd been remarkably kind to him so far, and she was not a woman renowned for her kindness. But she was England's queen and he dared not forget that, not even for a heartbeat.
She'd not relinquished the letters, still holding them on her lap. Justin felt a sudden rush of sympathy. She was more than Christendom's most celebrated queen. She was a mother, and the captive king her favorite son. "I am sorry, madame," he said again, "sorrier than I can say that I must bring you such dire news…"
"Ah, no, Justin. You brought me hope. For the first time in many weeks, I will go to sleep tonight knowing that my son still lives."
"My lady…"
She knew what he was reluctant to ask. "Will the emperor free Richard? He may, if it is made worth his while to do so. As much as he detests my son, he craves money more than vengeance. The greatest danger is that the French king may bid for Richard, too. If he ever ended up in a French dungeon, he'd not see the sun again, no matter how much was offered for his ransom. Philip and Richard were friends once, but they quarreled bitterly during the Crusade, and since Philip's return to Paris, he has done whatever he could to give Richard grief, ensnaring -"
She cut herself off so abruptly that Justin was able to guess what she was so loath to say: the name of her son, John, who was rumored to have been conniving with Philip for the past year, plotting to cripple Richard's kingship. It seemed all the more baffling to Justin that a queen beset with such troubles should give so much attention to the killing of a Winchester goldsmith. Wishing he had more comfort to offer, he said, "I will pray for the king's safe release, madame."
"Do so," she said, "for he will need our prayers. But do more than that. You look after yourself in Winchester, Justin de Quincy. Watch your back."
"I will ..." His reassurance trailed off as he realized the significance of what she'd just said. "I have no right to that name, my lady. My father would be outraged if I claimed it."
"Yes," Eleanor agreed, "indeed he would," and when she smiled, it was not the smile of a venerable dowager queen, but the smile of the royal rebel she'd always been, a free spirit who'd dared to defy convention, husbands, and the Church, blazing her own path with a devil-be-damned courage and a capricious, beguiling charm.
Justin did not offer even token resistance; it was unconditional surrender. In that moment, he, too, joined the ranks of all who'd fallen under Eleanor of Aquitaine's spell. "I will not fail you, my lady," he promised recklessly. "I will find Gervase Fitz Randolph's killers for you, that I swear upon the surety of my soul."
3
WINCHESTER
January 1193
The cold spell continued without letup but the skies stayed clear, and Justin made good time. At midday on the fourth afternoon since leaving London, he was within sight of Winchester's walls.
He'd used those days on the road to plot a strategy. He meant to seek out the sheriff and the Fitz Randolph family. If Eleanor was right - and he suspected she usually was - the slain goldsmith's kindred would make him welcome. But what then? Mayhap the sheriff had already captured the outlaws. He knew, though, what a frail hope that was. Even if he found the men chained up in Winchester's dungeon, how could he root out the truth about the ambush? Were they hired killers or just bandits on the prowl for prey? If they had indeed been lying in wait for Gervase, who had paid them? And why? Was it for the
queen's bloodstained letters? Or for reasons he knew nothing about? Had the goldsmith been struck down by King Richard's enemies? Or did he have enemies of his own?
The more Justin tried to sort it out, the more disheartened he became. Questions he had in plenitude, answers in scant supply. Yet as daunting as his task was, he had to try. He owed the queen his best efforts. He owed Gervase that much, too. He'd never watched a man die before, and pray God, never again. The goldsmith's death had not been an easy one; he'd drowned in his blood.
Admitted into the city through the East Gate, Justin hailed a passing Black Monk. "Brother, a moment, if you will. Can you tell me how to find the shop of Gervase Fitz Randolph, the goldsmith?"
The man frowned. "Are you a friend of Master Gervase?" When Justin shook his head, the man's face cleared. "Just as well. Master Gervase is dead. May God assoil him, but he was foully murdered ten days ago."
"Yes, I know. Have the killers been caught?"
"The sheriff is off in the western parts of the shire. I doubt if he even knows yet."
"There has been no investigation, none at all? By the time the sheriff gets back, the trail will be colder than ice!"
"The killing was reported to the under-sheriff, Luke de Marston. I assume he has been looking into it."
Somewhat mollified, Justin asked where he could find this Luke de Marston, only to be told that he was in Southampton, not expected back until the morrow. The local authorities did not seem afire with zeal to solve the goldsmith's murder. Justin could imagine their response all too well: murmured regrets, then a shrug, a few perfunctory comments about bandits and the perils of the road. He was suddenly angry; Gervase deserved more than this official indifference. "The goldsmith's shop? he reminded the monk, and got a surprising answer in return.
"Is it the shop you want, friend, or the family dwelling?"
The vast majority of craftsmen lived above their workshops. Gervase must have been very successful, indeed, to afford a separate residence. Justin hesitated. Most likely Gervase had retained at least one apprentice, and a journeyman, too. But even if the shop was still open, it was the family that he needed to see.
"Their home," he declared, and the monk gave him detailed directions: south of Cheapside, on Calpe Street, past St Thomas's Church.
The Fitz Randolph house was set back from the street, a two-story timber structure of substantial proportions, brightly painted and well maintained. Further proof of Gervase's affluence lay within the gate: his own stable, hen roost, and a well with a windlass. Justin already knew Gervase had thrived at his craft; on that bleak trek to Alresford with the goldsmith's body, the groom, Edwin, had confided that Gervase had just delivered
a silver-gilt crozier and an enameled chalice to the Archbishop of Rouen. But even for a man who'd counted an archbishop among his customers, this house was an extravagance. Gazing upon Gervase Fitz Randolph's private, hard-won Eden, Justin felt a
muted sense of sadness, pity for the man who'd had so much - family, a respected craft, this comfortable manor - only to lose it all to the thrust of an accursed outlaw's blade. Where was the fairness in that?
But he also found himself wondering if Gervase's high living might have played a part in his death. A man so lavish in his spending might well have incurred dangerous debts. He could have stirred envy, too, in the hearts of his less fortunate neighbors. Had someone resented Gervase's conspicuous prosperity - enough to kill him for it?
"Can it be?" Emerging from the stable, Edwin stood gaping at Justin. "By Corpus, it truly is you!" Striding forward eagerly, he reached up to help Justin dismount. "I never thought to see you again. But you'll be in my prayers for the rest of my born days, that you can rely
upon!"
"I'll take prayers wherever I can get them," Justin said with a smile. "But you owe me nothing."
"Only my life." Edwin was not quite as tall as Justin, but more robust, as burly as Justin was lean. He had the reddest hair and beard Justin had ever seen, brighter than blood, with very fair skin that must burn easily under summer suns, but without the usual crop of freckles to be found on a redhead's face. His grin was engaging, revealing a crooked front tooth and a vast reservoir of goodwill. "If not for you, those hellspawn would have slit my throat, for certes. I have a confession of sorts, one that will make me sound a right proper fool. I daresay you told me your name, but I was so distraught that I could not remember it afterward to save my soul."
"That is easily remedied. I am Justin de Quincy." It was the first time that Justin had said the name aloud. He liked the sound of it, at once an affirmation of identity and an act of defiance.
The Queen's Man Page 4
