Justin rubbed his sore jaw ruefully. "It has been taken care of, my lady."
"Do I need to know what you and Claudine were doing in here?"
"Yes, Madame, you do. I'd just gotten into a brawl with Durand. He baited me into it and I wish I could say that I realized what he was up to, but I did not. Not until we were grappling in the floor rushes and he muttered in my ear, 'The alehouse on Gracechurch Street, after Compline.'"
"I see." Her face remained impassive, but he thought he could detect a glint of faint humor in those slanting hazel eyes. "Could he not have found an easier way to get that message to you?"
"I was wondering that myself," Justin said dryly.
"I did not get a chance to tell you that Durand would be joining John's household knights. The closer he is to John, after all, the more useful he can be to me." Eleanor's eyes flicked toward the bloodied basin, then back toward him. "I have need of Durand," she said. "John trusts him ... at least a little. But you were right about him, Justin. Bear that in mind in your dealings with him."
"I will, Madame," he said somberly, remembering the night he'd learned the truth about Durand de Curzon. He'd called Durand "John's tame wolf," and she'd smiled grimly, claiming Durand as hers. In reminding him of that now, she was also warning him. But there was no need. He already knew how dangerous it was to hunt with wolves.
~~
Justin had been living on Gracechurch Street for barely two months, but he was beginning to think of it as home. His neighbors were hardworking, good-hearted folk for the most part, unabashedly curious about the tall dark youth dwelling in their midst. Secrets did not fare any better on Gracechurch Street than at the royal court, and only the very old and the very young did not know by now that Justin de Quincy was the queen's man. But he'd been befriended by two of their own - Gunter the smith and Nell, who ran the alehouse - and their friendship was Justin's passport into their world.
Gunter was alone in the smithy, sharpening a file upon a whetstone. A lean, weathered man in his forties, he was taciturn both by inclination and by experience, and he greeted Justin with a nod, then went back to work. Justin led Copper, his chestnut stallion, into one of the stalls, set about unsaddling him. He would usually have gone on then to the cottage he rented from Gunter, but the wind now brought to him the muffled chiming of church bells; Compline was being rung. "Stop by the alehouse later," Justin said, "and I'll buy you a drink." Getting one of Gunter's quick, rare smiles in acknowledgment, he hastened out into the April night.
He crossed the street, then ducked under the sagging ale-pole, entering the alehouse. It reeked of smoke and sweat and other odors best not identified, and was deep in shadow even at midday, for Nell was sparing with her tallow candles and oil lamps; she had to account for every half-penny to the parsimonious, aged owner. As Justin paused to let his eyes adjust to the gloom, a dog erupted from under a bench, barking joyously.
Grinning, Justin bent to tussle playfully with the capering animal. "I should have known I'd find you over here," he said, and Shadow wriggled happily at the sound of that familiar voice. He was the first dog Justin had ever had, a young stray he'd plucked from the River Fleet and taken in temporarily. Although Justin still talked occasionally of finding the pup a good home, Shadow knew he already had one.
"I ought to be charging you rent for that flea-bitten cur," Nell grumbled, sidestepping Shadow as she carried a tray of drinks toward some corner customers. "He swiped a chunk of cheese when my back was turned, then nearly knocked over a flagon with his tail. And if he had, I'd have made a pelt out of the wretched beast!"
"I ought to be the one charging you," Justin countered. "How many alehouses have the free use of such a superior watchdog? If not for Shadow, the place might be overrun with cutpurses, prowlers, and vagabonds."
Nell cast a dubious eye upon the dog, sprawled belly-up in the floor rushes. "I think I'd take my chances with the prowlers." Justin had found an empty table by the hearth and she came over, set an ale down, then took the seat opposite him. "How did that happen?" she asked, pointing toward the fresh bruise spreading along his cheekbone. "And do not tell me you ran into a door!"
Justin hid his grin in the depths of his ale-cup, amused as always by the contrast between Nell's delicate appearance and her bold, forthright demeanor. She was barely five feet tall, with sapphire blue eyes, flaxen hair that invariably curled about her face in wispy disarray, and freckles she unsuccessfully tried to camouflage under a haphazard dusting of powder. With Nell, nothing was as it seemed. She looked as fragile as a child, but was tough-willed enough to run an alehouse - and to have helped Justin catch a killer. For all that she had a sailor's command of invective, her bluntness was armor for a surprisingly soft heart. A young widow with a small daughter, she was of a life that had not been easy, but then she had not expected it to be. She had little patience with fools, no sentimentality at all, and no education to speak of, but she did have courage, cornmon sense, and a pragmatic realism that made her a sister under the skin to England's aging queen. Justin could well imagine Nell's disbelief if ever he told her that she reminded him of the elegant, imperious Eleanor. But in truth, she did, for both women had a clear-eyed, unsparing view of their respective worlds, and neither one wasted time or energy on futile denials or self-delusion. Justin would that he could do likewise. He kept looking over his shoulder, though, unable to outrun either his memories or his regrets.
"Well?" Nell demanded when he didn't answer. "Are you going to tell me how you got that bruise or not?"
"Not," he said, smiling, and then tensed, for Durand was coming in the door. He had to stoop to enter, for he was taller than most men. Justin had always been proud of his own height, but Durand topped him by several inches. He wore a mantle of finely woven wool, fastened with an ornate gold pin. Spying was clearly a profitable profession, Justin thought sourly. Durand looked out of place in such shabby surroundings, but Justin doubted that he'd be a target for cutpurses or robbers; his eyes would chill even the most obtuse of felons.
Spotting Justin, he crossed the common room, dismissing Nell with a terse "Leave us."
He'd misjudged his woman, though. Nell stayed put, looking up at him with an indifference that could not have been more insulting. "Justin?" she queried, and he nodded reluctantly.
"Will you excuse us, Nell?" He did not offer to buy Durand an ale, for he was damned if he'd drink with the man. "Sit," he said, as soon as Nell had risen, switching from English - Nell's tongue - to French, the language in which he would normally converse. Since most of the alehouse patrons were English speakers like Nell, Justin could feel confident he'd foil would-be eavesdroppers; he strongly suspected that this was a conversation he'd not want overheard.
Durand seemed in no hurry to begin. He pulled up a bench, claimed a candle from a nearby table; the occupant was about to protest, then thought better of it. As the flame flared between them, Justin was pleased to see that the corner of Durand's mouth was swollen. Rarely had he ever taken such an instantaneous dislike to another man, but he'd distrusted Durand de Curzon from the first moment they'd met. It was a hostility returned by Durand in full measure, for Justin had outwitted the other man in the past. And then there was Claudine, who'd spurned Durand and taken Justin into her bed. Add to the mix their rivalry for the queen's favor and it was a very unstable brew, one likely to boil over at the least provocation.
"Jesu, what a pigsty." Durand glanced around the alehouse with contempt. "I do not know what I was thinking to pick this hovel for our meeting."
Justin knew exactly why he'd chosen the Gracechurch alehouse: to send a message - that he knew far more about Justin than Justin did about him. "You're not here for the pleasure of my company. You have word for the queen?"
"Yes ... I do." Durand looked into Justin's half-filled ale-cup, grimacing. "How can you drink that swill?"
"Do you have something of value to tell me or not? I've already played one of your tiresome games with you this day, am in no
mood for another."
Durand laughed. "Are you complaining about our little joust in the hall? I had to get word to you, and that seemed the safest way to do it. All know we like each other not, after all. But if it eases your mind, next time I'll take a gentler approach."
Justin was determined that he'd not take the bait again. "Say what you came to tell me. I assume it involves John?"
Durand's grin faded. "Be outside the priory of St Bartholomew's by dawn. John is sending a messenger to France on the morrow. He leaves at first light."
Justin leaned across the table. "What does this message contain?"
"If I knew that, would I not tell you?"
"I do not know. Would you?"
Durand's smile was mocking. "All I know is that the message is meant for John's allies in Normandy and bodes ill for the king. John does not confide utterly in me - no more than the queen does in you."
Justin ignored the gibe. "How will I recognize this courier?"
"His name is Giles de Vitry. He is French-born, not as tall as you, with hair the color of wheat, a scar under his right eye. And he'll be riding a rawboned bay stallion. Is that enough detail for you, lad? Should I come along and point him out as he passes by?"
"I'd manage better without you," Justin said coolly. "At least then I'd not have to be watching my back."
Durand had the bluest eyes Justin had ever seen, and the coldest; a blue-white flame flickered now in their depths, reminding Justin that ice could burn. Rising without haste, Durand smoothed the folds of his mantle, adjusted the tilt of his cap; his shoulder-length auburn hair gleamed where the candle's light caught it, brushed to a bronzed sheen. "It is now up to you, de Quincy," he said. "Try not to make a botch of this. The queen is depending upon us both."
As soon as Durand pushed through the door and out into the street, Nell returned to Justin's table. "Here," she said, bringing him, unbidden, another ale. "If ever I've seen a man born to drink with the Devil, it was that one. Who is he, Justin?"
Justin smiled, wryly. "Would you believe me if I said he was an ally?"
"With an ally like that, what need have you of enemies?" Justin shrugged, but he agreed with Nell. What, indeed?
2
LONDON
April 1193
The sky was overcast and a damp, blustery wind had swept in from the south. The few hardy souls up and about in the predawn chill cast a wary eye skyward, knowing that spring too often carried a sting in its tail. Drawing his mantle closer, Justin shivered and yawned. He'd bribed a guard to let him out of the city before the gates opened, and for the past hour, he'd been keeping watch upon the Augustinian priory of St Bartholomew.
It was an uncomfortable vigil, made more so by the surroundings, for the priory overlooked the meadows of Smithfield. These open fields played an important role in the daily life of Londoners; the weekly horse fair was held here every Friday, and it was the site, as well, for numerous games of sport: jousting, wrestling, archery, javelin hurling. Now it lay deserted and still in the muted light, and Justin was alone with his memories. It was here that he had confronted a soulless killer. The trap had worked and Gilbert the Fleming had answered for his sins on a Winchester gallows. Eleanor had feared John's complicity in the murder of her messenger, relieved and grateful when Justin had been able to clear her son's name. Yet Justin doubted that there'd be any exoneration for John this time. The scent of treason was in the air.
Justin had no trouble in recognizing John's courier. A stocky, hard-faced man in his thirties, muffled in an inconspicuous dark mantle and wide-brimmed pilgrim's hat, Giles de Vitry was dressed to blend in with his fellow travelers. They were astride placid mules and sway-backed geldings, though, and he was mounted upon a spirited bay stallion who was obviously eager to run. Justin tensed as the courier rode by his hiding place, for much depended upon what de Vitry did next. If he headed for Newgate and entered into the city, that would mean he meant to sail from Dover. If he took the road west, he intended to catch a ship at Southampton. Justin had a personal preference and he smiled as de Vitry urged his stallion on past Newgate. Easing Copper out into the stream of travelers, Justin let his mount settle into a comfortable canter, keeping a discreet distance behind his quarry.
The road was very familiar by now to Justin, for since January he had ridden it no less than seven times, going back and forth between London and Winchester in his hunt for the men who'd slain the queen's messenger. In winter, the trip had taken four or five days, but travel in April would be easier and quicker. If de Vitry pushed his mount, he could reach Winchester in two or three days' time, with Southampton just twelve miles farther on. The urgency of his message would dictate his speed.
It soon became apparent to Justin that John's message was very urgent, indeed. Most travelers would start at dawn, stop for dinner in the hour before noon, rest until midafternoon, and then resume their journey until dusk. Giles de Vitry's stops were few and far in-between. Not for him a leisurely meal at a roadside inn. He ate sparingly and hastily of the food he'd packed in his saddlebag, and within a quarter hour was on his way again. Justin had expected him to stay over at Guildford, thirty miles south of London. But the courier raced the deepening shadows another ten miles, before finally halting for the night in the market town of Farnham.
Justin was not overly worried about attracting the other man's attention, for the road was well traveled and the choice of lodgings was limited. Even if de Vitry noticed him, he was not likely to read any sinister significance into their presence at the same inn. He was more concerned that de Vitry might rise before dawn and gain an insurmountable lead while he slept on, unaware. In consequence, he got very little sleep at all, dozing uneasily upon a lumpy, straw-filled pallet surrounded by snoring strangers, awakening to the dismal sound of rain splattering upon the roof shingles.
De Vitry, undeterred by the day's damp start, was on the road again at first light. Justin followed soon thereafter, grudgingly conceding that John was well served by his messenger. What was in that letter, that it would send a man out into the rain without breakfast or a decent night's sleep?
Fortunately, the rain proved to be a spring shower, and the sky cleared as they left Farnham behind. The day brightened and the road ahead beckoned. Barring some mishap - a thrown shoe, an encounter with outlaws - Justin calculated that they should reach Winchester by nightfall. But Justin had determined that de Vitry would not be continuing on to Southampton on the morrow. The reckoning would be in Winchester.
~~
Stars were floating above his head. Clouds sailed across the moon, briefly blotting out its light. The street was shadowed and silent, for curfew had rung some time ago. Justin knew the way, though, even in the dark. Keeping his stallion to a walk, he saw before him the pale outlines of the cottage. Thatched and whitewashed, it looked well tended and peaceful, and he regretted having to intrude into this secluded small Eden with yet more snakes.
He and the man he hoped to find within the cottage had a checkered history. They'd begun as enemies. Justin had initially suspected Luke de Marston of having a hand in the murder of the queen's messenger, and then of being John's spy. Eventually they'd forged a truce, tentative and wary, as they united in the search for Gilbert the Fleming. Justin could think of no better ally in his looming confrontation with Giles de Vitry than Luke, Hampshire's under-sheriff.
After hitching Copper to a tree, he approached the cottage. Even before he could knock, the barking began, deep and booming, followed by an equally loud burst of sleepy cursing. Justin grinned; Luke was home. Motivated by a sense of mischief, he pounded mercilessly on the door until it opened a crack, revealing a thick thatch of tousled fair hair and a glaring green eye.
"What do you - Holy God!" Opening the door wider, Luke grabbed Justin by the arm and pulled him inside. "What are you doing here, de Quincy? I thought you were supposed to be in London, spying and lurking or whatever it is you do for the queen."
Justin, occupied for the moment
in fending off the enthusiastic welcome of a gigantic black mastiff named Jezebel, let the gibe go unanswered. He didn't blame Luke for being testy. What man, after all, would want to be pulled out of Aldith Talbot's bed?
"Justin?" The voice sounded drowsy, delighted, and sultry. Aldith poked her magnificent auburn head through the bed hangings, her face lighting up in a smile that no man would soon forget. "Wait there," she directed, "whilst I dress," and disappeared behind the bed curtains.
Luke was in need of clothes, too, wearing nothing but a towel hastily snatched up and strategically draped. Fixing Justin with an accusatory gaze, he said, "What are my chances of getting back to bed tonight?"
"Not very good," Justin admitted, and Luke swore, then retreated behind the bed to pull on his discarded tunic and chausses, returning to prowl the chamber in search of his boots, all the while grumbling about a sheriff's lot and how rarely he got to pass a full night in his own bed. Justin paid his harangue no heed, for the deputy's irascibility was more posturing than genuine ill will. Sitting down wearily upon the settle, he closed his eyes.
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