"Yes," Justin said, tersely enough to discourage Luke from probing further, at least for the moment. "We need a special kind of shepherd to watch over this particular sheep, one willing to fend off royal wolves if need be."
Luke smiled. "Jonas?"
Justin nodded. "Who else?"
~~
The main entry into London from the west was through the massive stone gatehouse known as Newgate, which was also used as a city gaol. Luke's credentials as an under-sheriff of Hampshire gained them easy entry and no one questioned their claim that they were delivering a prisoner to Jonas. They needed to be no more explicit than that, for to the gaolers, the name Jonas could refer to only one man - the laconic, one-eyed serjeant who was the sheriff of London's mainstay and the bane of the lawless from Cripplegate to Southwark.
They were giving instructions in Jonas's name when the serjeant himself put in an appearance. If he was startled to see Luke and Justin paired up again, he hid it well; Justin suspected that he'd long ago lost his capacity for surprise. Not as tall as either Justin or Luke, he was still able to command attention by his physical presence alone. His face, weathered by the sun and wind, scarred by a killer's blade; his hair silvered and lank; he moved with the daunting confidence of a man who trusted both his instincts and his reflexes. Despite the rakish eye patch, there was no swagger in his walk, no bravado in his manner. He was matter-of-fact and deliberate in the performance of all his duties, whether it was scattering street urchins or tracking the ungodly through the city's sordid underbelly. Now, his lone black eye gleaming with a sardonic cast, he intercepted them as they returned to the guards' chamber after depositing Giles de Vitry in the underground dungeon known as the pit.
"I hear I have another prisoner," he said by way of greeting. "Careless of me to have forgotten about him. Would I be prying if I asked his name?"
"Giles de Vitry. He is to be kept under close watch until I come back for him." Justin stepped closer, pitching his voice for the Serjeant's ear only. "He is Lord John's man."
Jonas nodded impassively. "I did not imagine you'd be bringing me some hapless cutpurse or poacher. With you, I can forget robbery or petty thievery and plunge right into the fun of assassination, conspiracy, and treason."
Justin grinned. "What can I say? I keep bad company. Come by the alehouse later and I'll buy you a drink, give you what answers I can."
"I'll settle for being warned if this is likely to get me hanged."
~~
Eleanor showed but one moment of weakness, a brief hesitation before reaching for the parchment. When she raised her eyes from the incriminating letter, she had taken refuge in the role she'd been playing for decades. "I want you to return tonight after Vespers," she said coolly. "The Archbishop of Rouen must be made aware of this threat to the peace of the realm, as must the other justiciars. They may well have questions for you. Bring your friend de Marston, too."
"I will, Madame," Justin promised. He yearned to tell her how sorry he was to have given her such dire news. Her hands were clasped tightly in her lap and she'd lost color, looking so fragile and delicate that he was reminded forcefully of her advanced years. Now in the deep winter of her life, she deserved better than this, than to be caught between the conflicting claims of her own sons. But he dared not intrude into the private pain of this very public woman. It was not for him to comfort a queen.
"I will have ready a writ for de Vitry's arrest," she continued. "I daresay I can find a dungeon deep enough to hide him away from the world, where he can repent the sin of rebellion... or rot."
Justin, the bishop's son, murmured dutifully, "'He that diggeth a pit shall fall into it.'" He found himself wondering what Scriptures said of a mother who must pass judgment upon her own son. It was easy enough to cast de Vitry into a sunless prison. But how would she deal with John?
~~
As he emerged from the queen's chamber, Justin was waylaid by the Lady Claudine. It was as neatly done an ambush as he'd ever encountered. Just when the path seemed clear, she materialized at his side, slipping her arm through his. "When I was a girl," she said, "I had a pet cat. My father insisted cats were good only for catching mice, but I would not heed him and doted upon my kitten, naming him Midnight and feeding him cream and whatever delicacies I could coax from the cooks. But when he got older, he began to roam. I cried each time he disappeared, and one of my brothers fashioned a leather collar with a small bell for him. It did not keep him from wandering, but at least I could hear him coming back. I am beginning to wonder, Justin, if I need such a collar for you."
He forced a smile. "I did not have time to let you know I'd be going away. It was sudden ..." What excuse could he give? "My father was taken ill."
Claudine's eyes widened. "Justin, you've never spoken of your father before! I assumed he was dead. I am sorry to hear he is ailing. He will recover, will he not?"
Justin was as astonished as Claudine by his own words. What had possessed him to mention his father? He'd been doing his very best to keep those memories fettered, out of reach. How had they broken free with no warning? "He is on the mend," he said hastily. "He ... he took a bad fall."
"I am glad it was not serious. Why did you never tell me about him, Justin? I've told you all about my family back in Aquitaine."
"We have long been estranged." At least that was no falsehood. Passing strange, that he found it so hard to lie to her. Lies seemed to rest as lightly as feathers on her own conscience. She was expressing her sympathy and as always, she sounded sincere. Mayhap she even meant it. The queen had said she was no whore, would not bed a man she did not fancy. He wanted to believe that. He needed to believe that.
Claudine smiled up at him, letting her fingers entwine in his. "I have nothing to do for the queen this afternoon."
"I do," he said, and she sighed.
"What a pity. Do you realize it has been over three weeks since we've had any time alone together?"
The memory of their last lovemaking was one he'd take to his grave, for it was then that she'd inadvertently betrayed herself. What he still did not understand was why she did John's bidding. Was it for the money? Had John seduced her into it? Eleanor believed she had been lured by the adventure of it, convinced her young kinswoman saw spying as a game, one that did no real harm. If that were so, the game had taken a lethal turn. Did Claudine realize she was involved in treason? Would she care? He wanted to believe she would. Yet there was no way to put that belief to the test. How could he tell her of John's conspiracy when he dared not trust her?
~~
Justin and Luke gave their report that evening before an audience of luminaries: the Queen of England, the Archbishop of Rouen, and all of the justiciars save Hugh Bardolf, who was John's liege man and therefore suspect. Eleanor had already disclosed the contents of John's seditious letter, and Justin's part in the council was blessedly brief. He related how he had tracked John's courier to Winchester, after being tipped off by a source he was not at liberty to reveal, and then described how he'd discovered the letter sewn into Giles de Vitry's mantle. Luke's role was even more circumscribed: to confirm Justin's account. After answering some brusque questions, they willingly retired to the outer edges of the circle, for it was somewhat intimidating to find themselves at the very center of royal power.
Acting upon the logical assumption that John's other messenger had gotten through, they wasted no time in vain regrets, concentrating upon what must be done to thwart an invasion. Justin listened in fascination as plans were rapidly made to close the ports and call up the levies in the southern shires. It still did not seem quite real to him, that he, an unwanted foundling, should be privy to the queen's secrets.
Once they had agreed upon the defensive measures to be taken, an awkward silence settled over the chamber. Justin understood why. Staving off a French fleet was child's play compared to the challenge that now confronted them: What to do about John? How did they punish a rebel who might well be king himself one day?
/> Eleanor was the one to breach the wall first. "What we need to do next is to locate John," she said dispassionately. "He is no longer in London and his whereabouts are unknown. I've heard rumors that he has been garrisoning his castles at Windsor and Wallingford, so I suggest we start the search there."
There were quick murmurings of agreement. Justin marveled at her composure. He'd been given a brief glimpse of the mother earlier that day, but now only the queen was in evidence, revealing nothing of her inner disquiet as she launched this hunt for her son. Given his own conflicted feelings toward his father and Claudine, Justin found it all too easy to empathize with Eleanor's plight. Even if it was true that Richard had ever been her favorite, how could she be indifferent to the fate of her youngest-born? If John's rebellion resulted in his death, would she grieve for him as David had mourned for his defiant son, Absalom? His gaze shifting from Eleanor's court mask to Will Longsword's taut profile, Justin felt a sense of foreboding and silently cursed John for the evil he had let loose amongst them.
~~
Once the council ended, Justin and Luke stopped at the cookshop by the river and had a hearty supper of pork-filled pie and ginger wafers, washed down with cider, before returning to Justin's cottage on Gracechurch Street. Justin was too exhausted by then to crave anything but sleep. After making up a pallet for Luke, he collapsed onto his own bed and found instant oblivion.
His awakening was a rude one, his dreamworld dispersed by a loud, insistent pounding. Lack of sleep had made him as groggy as an excess of ale did, and he fumbled for his tunic while Luke stirred reluctantly and damned their unknown caller to eternal perdition. Sliding the bolt back, Justin blinked as brilliant spring sunlight flooded the cottage and then staggered as Shadow pounced joyfully upon him, barking loudly enough to provoke another burst of cursing from Luke.
"Shadow, down!" The command was affectionately ignored and he turned his attention to the dog's escort. "Nell, I meant to reclaim him this morning, truly I did. I got in too late last night to-"
Nell waved aside his apology impatiently. "That matters for naught. Justin, you must make haste to dress, for-" She broke off, then, as Luke poked a tawny head from his blankets. "Is that you, Luke? This is indeed a stroke of good fortune!"
Luke yawned. "I am gladdened to see you again, too, Nell. But if you really want to win my heart, come back later. I try never to rise ere the sun does."
"The sun is well up in the sky," she insisted. "Even if it were not, your sleeping is over. I have need of you, Justin. Get this sluggard up and join me at the alehouse. I'll make breakfast and explain all. Do not tarry, though." Pausing at the door, she said darkly, "There has been murder done."
4
LONDON
April 1193
Nell ushered Justin and Luke into the alehouse's kitchen. "Here," she said, sliding a stale loaf of bread across the table. "Cut yourselves trenchers whilst I finish cooking the sausage."
Breakfast was the day's dubious meal, not quite respectable, for people were supposed to be able to satisfy themselves with a hearty dinner and a lighter supper. Hunger was a more powerful motivation than convention, though, and only a few stalwart souls did not break their night's fast with meat or cheese or roasted chestnuts. The aroma of frying sausage was a lure neither Luke nor Justin could resist. Justin did wonder what price he'd be paying for this tasty fare. Nell's ominous comment about murder was not one to be easily forgotten.
"What did you want to talk to me about, Nell?"
"Actually, it is Agnes who needs to speak with you. I told her to meet us over here after Prime."
"Who is Agnes?" Luke asked, spearing a sausage. "Another one of your mystery bedmates?"
Justin ignored the deputy's heavy-handed humor. "Agnes is Odo the barber's wife." He liked Agnes, a kindly neighbor who'd helped tend to his wounds after he'd been attacked by Gilbert the Fleming. But he could not imagine what she'd want to discuss with him so early in the morn. "What was that you were muttering about murder, Nell?"
"Whilst you were in Winchester, a young girl was found dead in St Mary Magdalene's churchyard." Nell set two tankards of ale on the table, then sat down across from them. "You may have seen the peddler who sometimes sold his wares here on Gracechurch Street. She was his daughter."
Justin had no memory of the man or the girl. "I am sorry," he said. "How does Agnes come into this? Was she kin to the lass?"
"No ... her nephews are suspects in the killing."
Justin sat up in surprise. Putting down his knife, he said, "Why?"
Nell shrugged. "I do not know all the particulars. Agnes was too distraught to make much sense. She says neighborhood talk had them sharing her bed, so she thinks that is why suspicion has fallen upon Geoffrey and Daniel."
Luke was amused. "The both of them, eh? Was she a harlot, then?"
Nell shrugged again. "She was probably no better than she ought to be. But I doubt that she was whoring for money. She was free-spirited and a bit wild, was Melangell, and most likely smitten with Geoffrey. That lad breaks hearts every time he smiles, bless him."
"Melangell," Justin echoed. "She was Welsh?"
Nell nodded. "Half Welsh, I think. She grew up in the Marches, told me that her mother died last year and her father took the family to London in January to make a fresh start." Her brisk tones wavered and she said sadly, "Poor little bird ..."
Justin had come to London, too, in January, fleeing his past like Melangell and her grieving family. "I am sorry," he said again, and meant it, although he still did not understand. "Why does Agnes want to talk to me about this, Nell?"
Nell hesitated, then said with a trace of defiance, "I told her you'd clear her nephews of suspicion."
"You did what?" Justin stared at her in dismay. "Nell, how could you do that? I have no authority to meddle in a murder!"
"You are the queen's man, are you not? What greater authority could you ask for than that?"
"This killing is for the London sheriffs to solve, not me. Even if I knew how I could help Agnes's nephews, I'd not have the time to spare. We've learned that Lord John is plotting with the French king to seize the throne by force."
Nell was not impressed by his revelation. The highborn were always up to no good, but what of it? No matter who sat on the throne at Westminster, she'd still be fretting about that leak in the roof and her daughter's need for new shoes. "Agnes found the time to nurse you after the Fleming ambushed you," she said pointedly. "Besides, how much time can it take? As likely as not, a talk with Jonas will clear it all up. Agnes is sure they played no part in the poor girl's death."
Justin gave her a reproachful look that was quite wasted, and then glared at Luke, who was chuckling at his predicament. "I'll talk to Agnes," he said grudgingly. "I can do no more than that."
Nell had never doubted that she'd get her way. Any man who'd go to the trouble of rescuing a stray dog from an icy river was a man with a heart too soft for his own good. "Fair enough," she agreed, sure that Agnes's tears would do the rest.
"Now let me tell you something of the family ere she arrives. Agnes's younger sister, Beatrice, married above herself, snaring a husband who has become quite prosperous. Humphrey Aston is a member of the Mercer's Guild, and to judge by Beatrice's bragging, he has done right well for himself. I've met him only once, for he's not keen on breaking bread with the likes of Odo and Agnes. I thought he was full of himself, as prickly as a hedgehog, a man who'd bite off his own tongue ere he'd admit he was in the wrong. Beatrice may have more comfort in her life, but Agnes got the better husband in Odo, for he loves her wholeheartedly and I doubt that Humphrey loves anyone except himself... well, possibly Geoffrey. Agnes says he does dote on the lad."
"Geoffrey is the firstborn?"
"Yes. He is twenty, and by all accounts, a son any man would be proud of. The younger lad, Daniel, is the black sheep, the one who makes a botch of all that he does. But Agnes swears he is no killer" Nell paused, head cocked to the side. "Did you hear an
ything?" Shadow took his attention away from the sausages long enough to give a distracted bark, and Nell pushed back from the table, went to let Agnes in.
Agnes was a plump, maternal woman in her early fifties, as basic and comforting as freshly baked bread. Her gratitude was tearful and heartfelt and embarrassing to Justin. "They are good lads," she said, stifling a sob. "I never was able to bear children of my own; the Lord God willed otherwise. Geoffrey and Daniel were the sons I could not have, and I've loved them as if they were mine. Neither one would ever hurt that child. I know that, Master de Quincy. I know it in the very depths of my soul."
Justin did not doubt her sincerity. He was not so sure, though, of her judgment. "Can you tell me about their involvement with the dead girl?" he asked gently. "What was she to them?"
Agnes wiped her eyes with a napkin. "Geoffrey has had girlschasing after him since he was fourteen or thereabouts, and I'm sure he sometimes let them catch him. Melangell was a shameless flirt and very pretty in a foreign, Welsh sort of way. But Geoffrey would not have taken their dalliance seriously. His father was about to announce his plight troth to the niece of the master of the Mercer's Guild, a great match for Geoffrey. Melangell may have been a passing fancy, but no more than that."
Cruel as the Grave Page 4
