"I am not here to violate sanctuary. I want to talk with you, nothing more." Daniel did not appear thrilled by that prospect. But for once, he had nowhere to retreat. Geoffrey glanced from one to the other, then cleared his throat. "I have to get back to the shop ere Papa misses me," he said. "I'll stop by again after Vespers." He fell silent then, gnawing his lower lip uneasily; this was the first time Justin had seen him as tongue-tied as his brother. "Here," he said finally, thrusting a small sack toward Daniel. "I brought you a pork pie from the cookshop, and a few wafers. I'll bring more tonight..."
"You need not worry that he'll starve, Geoffrey," Justin said. "The Church feeds all sanctuary seekers."
Geoffrey shrugged, seemed on the verge of saying more, then turned and hurried from the chancel. They listened as his footsteps receded up the nave until a slamming door told them that he'd done what Daniel could not - rejoined the world. Noticing a pile of blankets and several hemp sacks on the floor, Justin asked, "Did Geoffrey bring you those, too?"
"No ... my aunt Agnes."
Justin did not ask if Humphrey or Beatrice had been there; why salt the boy's wounds? "Here," he said, "I brought you something, too," and unhooked a wineskin from his belt. "Wine could not possibly make your thinking any more muddled than it already is."
Daniel took the wineskin and drank deeply. "My thinking is not so muddled," he protested. "I'm not in gaol, am I?"
"Not yet." Justin retrieved the wineskin and took a swallow. "Your right of sanctuary lasts only forty days, Daniel. Then you must either stand trial if you're indicted or confess your guilt and abjure the realm, never to return. I'd not find either of those choices appealing ... do you?"
Daniel twitched his shoulders, saying nothing, and Justin yearned to shake him until his teeth rattled and some sense returned. "How old are you?" he asked, and Daniel was surprised into giving a civil answer.
"I'll be seventeen two days after Michaelmas. Why?"
"That is too young to die, Daniel. Once before, I urged you to speak up whilst you still could. I do not want to have to make that same speech at the foot of the gallows."
"I did not kill her!" Daniel clenched his fists belligerently, but his chin quivered. "I could never have hurt her, never..." His voice had thickened and when Justin passed him the wineskin again, he reached for it gratefully, taking several long swigs. Justin watched him in speculative silence. The boy was hot-tempered and impulsive, for certes. He might well have killed in anger, striking out unthinkingly. Could he have killed in cold-blooded calculation? Could he have picked up that rock and brought it down upon the head of the girl lying helpless at his feet? Justin suspected that Luke would likely scoff at his sentimentality, but he did not think Daniel was capable of a crime like that.
"I want to help you, lad, if you'll let me," he said, and Daniel put down the wineskin, regarding him with suspicion and the first flickerings of hope. "Why?"
"I do not think you killed her," Justin said, and Daniel stifled a sound that might have been a sob.
"I did not, I swear it!"
"Then help me prove it. Give me some answers, honest ones. It was plain enough that you recognized Melangell's pilgrim cross. How did it get in your coffer? Did you steal it?" Daniel shook his head in vehement denial, and Justin moved closer. "Did she give it to you, then? If so, why? And what were you quarreling about on the day she died?"
Daniel looked at him mutely, his eyes brimming. "I cannot tell you," he said haltingly. "I cannot..."
His earlier denials had been defiant. This one was despairing. Justin still wanted to shake the boy. But he wanted to save him, too, if he could, for he was heeding instinct now, not logic, the inner voice whispering that Daniel was not Melangell's killer.
"The serjeant Tobias sees this crime as a very simple one. Melangell was a whore and you murdered her in a fit of jealous rage. That is what he'll argue to get a jury to indict you. And as it stands now, he'll likely get the indictment." As Justin spoke, Daniel slumped down against the wall, wrapping his arms around his drawn-up knees. His face was hidden by that mop of unruly red hair, but his body's posture bespoke defeat. He did not relent, though, and Justin feared he'd take his foolhardy silence to the grave.
"But nothing is as simple as it seems," he said. "Melangell was no whore and I do not think you're a killer. Keep your secrets, Daniel. With or without your help, I shall find out the truth."
No sooner were the words out of his mouth than Justin winced, for that promise sounded bombastic and overly dramatic in his own ears. Thank the Lord God Luke was not here to hear him spouting such nonsense, or Jesu forfend, Jonas. Leaving the wineskin to give Daniel some fleeting, dubious comfort, he turned to go. He was already at the rood screen when he heard Daniel speak. The words were slurred and the boy's voice was so low he could not be sure he'd heard correctly. But it sounded as if Daniel Aston was thanking him.
~~
Justin waited until early evening, when Godwin would be back from his rounds. He'd waited too long, though, for his arrival interrupted the supper being served by the landlord's wife to her family and lodgers. Algar, the landlord, welcomed Justin with enthusiasm, and the other tenants showed more interest in gawking at Justin than in eating the thick pottage of onions and cabbage being ladled out into their bowls, proof that murder could be highly entertaining - for those not related to the victim. Godwin was clearly uncomfortable with his new notoriety; the lessons of a lifetime had taught him the value of protective coloring, the danger inherent in calling undue attention to himself. Deciding that it was better to take Godwin away from his supper than to blurt out his news in front of this eager audience, Justin asked if they could talk in private. Algar looked dismayed at being cheated of such choice gossip, but he grudgingly agreed that they could meet in the kitchen.
Godwin got slowly to his feet. He seemed to be favoring his left leg, but he brushed off Justin's query and limped toward the kitchen. Justin followed, and within moments, so did Cati, who'd tarried long enough to stuff a chunk of rye bread into her sleeve; she'd had too much experience with hunger ever to leave 129
a meal uneaten. Godwin leaned back against a barrel in which river eels swam, studying Justin with hollowed dark eyes. "Why are you here?"
Justin was not surprised that neither Jonas nor Tobias had sought out Godwin; keeping the peddler informed would be a low priority. "Your daughter's pilgrim cross has been found hidden away in a coffer belonging to Daniel Aston."
Daniel's name clearly meant nothing to Godwin. Just as clearly it did to Cati, whose mouth dropped open. The peddler frowned. "Did this man kill my girl?"
"He says not, and I am inclined to believe him. But I'll not lie to you. He is the prime suspect at present and did not help his cause any when he fled into sanctuary at St Paul's."
Godwin seemed overwhelmed by the news. "Who is he? My daughter's lover?" He looked even more baffled when Justin shook his head. "What was he to Melangell, then? Why do you think him innocent?"
"They were friends," Cati said in a small voice. "She liked Daniel well..."
"He is young and scared," Justin said, "and unfortunately for him, he has all the makings of a right fine scapegoat. I cannot swear to you that he is innocent, but I am not yet convinced that he is guilty."
"I do not think he'd hurt Melangell," Cati interjected, but she sounded more shaken than certain. She'd not expected the killer to be someone she knew, someone she'd trusted. It seemed doubly cruel to Justin that the churchyard killing should take from her both her sister and the last of her innocence.
Godwin shifted against the barrel, trying to take some of the weight off his leg. "Then the only evidence they have against this boy is the St Davydd's cross? That is a weak scaffolding to build a gallows on."
"I agree," Justin said, surprised that the other man seemed willing to give Daniel the benefit of the doubt. After a moment to reflect, though, he decided it wasn't so surprising, after all. The peddler's suspicions of authority would make it easy t
o believe in conspiracies and miscarriages of justice, especially when the poor and downtrodden were the fish swept up into the legal nets. But his speculation about Godwin had not blinded him to Cati's discomfort whenever the St Davydd's cross was mentioned. More and more he was convinced she knew something of significance about that pilgrim pledge. There was no point in asking her in front of her father; he'd have to find a way to speak to her alone. Yet even if he could break through her defenses and get her to reveal her secret, would it be enough to clear Daniel?
"I will continue to investigate," he promised them. Neither Godwin nor Cati appeared to take much comfort from a stranger's assurance. Godwin grunted, then asked when he could recover the St Davydd's cross, and looked skeptical when Justin explained that it was evidence and must be held until Daniel either stood trial or abjured the realm. "I'll not keep you from your supper," Justin said, turning to go, and then remembering. "Godwin, how is your mule faring?"
"Dead," Godwin said tersely, and it seemed to Justin that he'd managed to compress an entire lifetime's misfortunes into that one laconic answer.
~~
Justin kept his word, and in the days that followed he continued to probe the circumstances of Melangell's death. He talked again to Daniel, and while the boy was no longer sullen or even suspicious, he still refused to give Justin the answers he needed. Another visit to the Aston household was equally unproductive. Beatrice had taken to her bed and Humphrey seemed to think that if he ignored his son's plight, it would somehow resolve itself, for he adamantly refused to discuss Daniel with his neighbors and customers and even his family. This last bit of information had come from Geoffrey, whose composure was shredding like cabbage in the wake of Daniel's flight into sanctuary. Justin had grown up with the foundling's forlorn yearning for family, and he envied the Aston brothers, bonded both by blood and choice. Geoffrey was insistent in his protestations of Daniel's innocence, but unfortunately he could offer Justin nothing beside his testament of trust.
Ranging further afield, Justin questioned the shopkeepers and residents of Milk Street, all who lived or worked in the vicinity of St Mary Magdalene's. The wheelwright and his son confirmed what they'd told Tobias, that they'd seen Daniel and Melangell arguing hotly on the day of her death. Geoffrey's churchyard trysts with Melangell were known throughout the neighborhood, but related with a wink and a nudge, for few objected to the sowing of wild oats in the spring. The elderly widow who cooked for the parish priest thought she'd heard raised voices coming from the churchyard, but she was so suggestible and eager to please that Justin could not be sure if this was a true memory or one culled from her imagination. But no one claimed to have heard any screams and no one reported seeing anything out of the ordinary that night. If there were witnesses able to shed any light upon Melangell's death, Justin could not find them.
He had no better luck unearthing alternative theories of the killing. The scant evidence argued against a stranger's guilt, suggested someone Melangell had known. If not Daniel, who? Why was he refusing to reveal why he'd been quarreling with Melangell? If he was not guilty, then who was he trying to protect? Geoffrey seemed the logical candidate. But Geoffrey had no motive for murdering Melangell. A dalliance with a peddler's daughter was too common an occurrence to jeopardize his marital prospects. In a world in which blood and class were paramount, a girl who was lowborn and dirt-poor and part Welsh and judged - fairly or not - to be a wanton could not hope to compete with a rival like Adela. The only way the marriage could have been put at risk would have been if he'd fallen madly in love with Melangell, so besotted and bedazzled that he was willing to defy his father and jettison his bright future for a precarious life on the road. And since there was no evidence whatsoever that Geoffrey had lost either his heart or his senses, that eliminated Humphrey, too, as a suspect. As much as Justin disliked him, he could not see the mercer murdering for the sport of it. As long as Melangell was no threat to the marital alliance with Master Serlo's niece, Humphrey would not care that his son was bedding her.
So who killed Melangell? Despite Luke's cynical suggestion, Justin could not cast Godwin in the role of avenger. The man was too beaten down by his losses, by life itself. Harshly put, the honour of a peddler's daughter was not worth killing over, not in their world. Justin could as easily envision Adela skulking into the churchyard and bloodying those pampered hands in an utterly unnecessary murder. No, he could come up with no other satisfactory suspects. If it was true that all roads led to Rome, all suspicions seemed to lead back to Daniel Aston. So why did it feel so wrong?
~~
Eleanor was a creature of the night, an anomaly in an age in which people rose at first light and usually bedded down at dark. But she could afford to follow her inclinations; queens were indifferent to the cost of candles and lamp oil. She was not tyrannical by nature, though, and rarely insisted that her
attendants remain awake to keep her company. To a woman whose seventy years had been lived out on center stage, these quiet nocturnal hours offered her the most precious of all luxuries: solitude. Now she paced the confines of her great chamber, oblivious of the sleeping forms on pallets near her bed, occasionally depositing an absentminded pat upon the silken head of her favorite greyhound. At last she heard the sound she'd been awaiting, a light, discreet knock. Opening the door, she said softly, "Thank you, Gerard, for fetching him. Have him enter."
Justin looked as if he'd been roused from his bed; his black hair was tousled and his eyes were sleep-shadowed. Even half awake, his manners had not deserted him, and he hastily knelt, kissing her hand. He asked no questions, nor did he show any resentment at being summoned in the middle of the night; those who served the queen were never off-duty.
"Take care," she cautioned, "lest you awaken my ladies. Get that lamp and follow me into the chapel."
Justin did as bade, although when he passed Claudine's pallet, his step slowed. Her dark hair was loosely braided in a night plait, trailing over the edge of the bed; a bared shoulder showed above the sheets, a hand clenched into a small fist, as if her dreams were troubled. Eleanor was watching from the door, her expression both indulgent and ironic. Flushing slightly, Justin hastened to join her.
Lights still burned on the High Altar and the air was scented with incense. There were no seats, of course, for worshippers were expected to kneel upon prayer cushions, but there was a small wooden bench under one of the windows and Eleanor headed toward it, beckoning Justin to follow. He hesitated, for it seemed presumptuous to sit side by side with his queen, but Eleanor gestured impatiently and he quickly complied.
Neither spoke for several moments. Justin was trying not to stare at the queen, for this was the first time he'd seen her without a veil or wimple. Her hair was coiled at the nape of her neck, shone silver in the moonlight. He found himself wondering what color it had been in her youth. He wondered, too, why she'd sent for him at such an hour, but he was in no hurry to find out; a midnight summons was by its very nature ominous.
"I suppose you know by now of Hubert Walter's return to England."
Justin nodded. "I do, Madame. I was greatly gladdened to hear that the king may soon be able to ransom himself."
Eleanor exhaled a breath, soft as a sigh. "I know that is the talk at court. I fear such optimism may be premature at best, ill founded at worst. Richard's subjects must believe that he will soon be free, back amongst us. We have no guarantees, though, that it will come to pass. The emperor, weasel that he is, is still equivocating, still refusing to commit himself, one way or another. He has indicated he'd be willing to release my sonfor a high enough ransom. But he has yet to grant Richard an audience, and I have been warned that he continues to heed the agents of the French king. I need not tell you, Justin, that Philip would barter his very soul for a chance to do Richard harm."
As would John, Justin thought grimly. "I am honoured, Madame, by your confidences. I will never betray them."
Her smile was warmer than usual, almost fond. "I know
that, Justin. I do not give my trust lightly or easily, but you have earned it. You did me a great service when you brought me that letter revealing my son's plight, and then again when you cleared my other son of complicity in the killing. And we might not have been able to thwart a French invasion if you'd not intercepted John's man at Winchester, giving us the time we needed to safeguard our ports. You have risked your life for me more than once. I need you now to put it at risk again."
Justin instinctively squared his shoulders. "What would you have me do, Madame?"
"You must find a way to get into Windsor Castle and deliver two secret messages, one to my son and one to Durand."
Justin said nothing, but his face revealed the extent of his dismay. Eleanor leaned over, rested a hand on his arm. "You have proven yourself to be courageous and resourceful in the past. I know it will not be easy, nor will it be safe. I know, too, that you will not fail me."
Justin thought that would make a fine epitaph. Never had he balked at doing the queen's bidding, but he'd sooner leap into a pit full of snakes than take his chances with John and Durand. What could he say, though? He could not tell the queen that John put no value on other men's lives. Even if she knew it, it could never be said. Nor could he confide that Durand bore him such a lethal grudge. Loyalty made that first admission impossible, pride the second. He found his mouth had gone dry, and he yearned suddenly for a swig from the wineskin he'd left with Daniel. "Are these messages to be written, Madame, or verbal?"
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