"The castle is under siege," she said, very evenly.
8
LONDON
April 1193
When Justin received an early summons from the queen the next morning, he assumed he'd soon be Normandy-bound. But there had been a change of plans. Eleanor now wanted him to depart at once for St Albans and its great Benedictine abbey. Justin did not know what was in the letter he bore, nor did he ask; queens were not ones for confiding. He'd expected to be back on Friday, for St Albans was less than thirty miles from London, a day's journey as long as the weather was good. Abbot Warren was not at the abbey, though, and Justin had to track him down on one of the monastery's Hertfordshire manors. He then had to wait for the abbot's response, and so he did not return to London until Sunday evening as Compline was being rung.
He went at once to the Tower, where he delivered the abbot's letter to Eleanor and was snubbed again by Claudine. With Eleanor's admonition to be ready to depart for Normandy at a moment's notice ringing in his ears, he rode back to Gracechurch Street, retrieved his dog from Nell, and fell into bed. His dreams that night were fragmented and disjointed, filled with foreboding. Durand stalked his sleep and the French king set Rouen afire, and there was a confusing confrontation with an unknown, overbearing bishop who bore an uncanny resemblance to his father. The most troubling of the dreams came just before dawn; in it, he returned to the cottage and found Claudine in his bed - with John.
The next morning, the sky was marbled with clouds and there was an occasional distant rumble of thunder; rain was on the way. Bypassing breakfast, Justin headed out early, wanting to catch Godwin before the peddler set off on his rounds. Arriving at the Wood Street dwelling, he was welcomed cheerfully by the garrulous landlord, who told him that Godwin had sent Cati to bargain with the chandler for a few tallow candles and was himself down the street in the stables; his elderly mule was poorly.
That was bad news for Godwin; the loss of his mule might well mean the loss of his precarious livelihood. He was hovering helplessly by the suffering animal, so haggard and gaunt that he looked ill himself, acknowledging Justin's greeting with a preoccupied grunt.
"What do you think ails him?" Justin asked. "Colic?"
Godwin shrugged. "His belly is very tender," he said, and though the words were uttered without emotion, Justin sighed, for that sounded like an inflammation of the bowels. Even colic could be a death sentence for the ancient animal. Justin had learned a fair amount about horses when he'd acquired a lamed stallion for a pittance, then patiently nursed Copper back to health, and he suggested what remedies he could think of: a hot bran poultice, linseed oil. Yet he doubted if anything shy of a miracle would save the old mule, and he could tell that Godwin shared his pessimism.
"Why are you here?" Godwin straightened up so slowly that it was obvious he'd been keeping vigil all night in the stables. "I suppose it is too much to hope that my girl's killer has been found."
"No... not yet. I wanted to ask you a few more questions-"
"I've nothing to say to you."
Those were the very words Justin had gotten from Daniel Aston. It was frustrating that suspects and victims alike were so unwilling to cooperate with authorities. Justin decided to see if he could shame Godwin into being more forthcoming, and he said sharply:
"If I am willing to labor from dawn to dark to bring your daughter's killer to justice, surely you can spare a few moments of your time to talk to me!"
Anger did not come easily to Godwin, it needed a more combustible fuel than despair. He gazed blankly at Justin, as if struggling to summon up enough energy for indignation, and then said flatly, "Why should I trust the lot of you to find my girl's killer when you cannot even find her pilgrim cross?"
"Pilgrim cross? What are you talking about?"
"I'm not surprised you know nothing about it." Godwin shook his head wearily. "One of the sheriff's men probably stole it from my poor girl's body. What crime can be lower than stealing from the dead?"
"Tell me about this pilgrim cross," Justin insisted, but Godwin merely shrugged again and turned back to his mule, his suspicion of authority as strong as chain-mail armor and even harder to penetrate.
Justin had no intention of giving up, though. What he could not learn from the peddler, mayhap he could learn from Cati. With Shadow in tow, he began moving slowly along Wood Street toward the Cheapside, keeping a close watch upon people passing by. He soon caught sight of Cati, moving at a brisk trot up the street, swinging a small sack from side to side.
Recognition was mutual. She came to a sudden stop, shoulders hunched, dark eyes regarding him warily, a woodland creature sniffing out snares. Justin wondered if Melangell had beer as out of place in this city setting as Cati was. Barefoot and barelegged, tousled black hair hiding half her face, she looked like an imp out of Welsh legend, at once ageless and heartrendingly young. "I know you," she said. "You were asking questions about Melangell."
"I am Justin. Can I talk with you, Cati?"
She gave him a sidelong glance, then shrugged. "I have to get home."
"Suppose we talk and walk, then," he suggested. It would not be easy to get past her defenses; this was a rose surrounded by thorns. But as he'd hoped, she shared her sister's fondness for God's creatures and was eyeing Shadow with interest. The young dog responded to her overture with his endearingly awkward brand of galumphing enthusiasm, thumping his tail madly as he slurped at her face with a wet tongue.
Squatting in the dusty street, Cati wrapped her arms around Shadow's neck. "Is this your dog?"
"He is now," Justin said and told her how he had rescued the dog after two young louts had thrown him into the River Fleet. By the time he was through, Cati was looking at him with far greater friendliness.
"That was a very good deed," she said approvingly, "and just what Melangell would have done, too."
When she artlessly introduced her sister's name into the conversation, Justin felt a prickle of guilt; this was almost too easy. Reminding himself that he was manipulating this child ir a good cause, he asked casually, "So Melangell liked dogs?"
And that opened the floodgates. Cati informed him that Melangell had lavished love on an odd assortment of pets over the years: cats and dogs and a baby hedgehog, but never birds, for she could not abide to see one caged, robbed of its freedom to fly. She'd even made a pet of Job, their crotchety old mule, and yes, that name was Melangell's doing. "She always said that names matter, and had to be picked with care. Our mama's name was Olwen, which comes from an ancient Welsh legend, about a giant's daughter who was wooed and won by a brave youth, Culhwch, with some help from King Arthur and his knights. It was said clovers grew wherever Olwen walked." She grinned suddenly. "The Olwen in the tale, not my mama. Though Melangell always claimed Mama smelled sweeter than clover, and she did, too."
"When did your mother die, Cati?"
"Last Martinmas. She cut her hand on a rusty nail and the cut festered. After we buried her, Papa took it into his head for us to leave the Marches and go to London. We'd make a new start, he said, free of memories and ghosts." The child looked at Justin solemnly. "We'd have been better off with the ghosts."
"Yes, lass, probably so ..." Justin felt a sudden, sharp ache for this lost little girl and her beleaguered father. With an effort, he remembered the task at hand. "After your mother died, did Melangell look after you, Cati?"
"I am nigh on eleven, do not need looking after! I can tend to myself," Cati insisted, with a toss of her head. Then a faint smile curved her lips. "Melangell was always after me to braid my hair," she admitted. "She'd brush it out for me..."
Those black eyes seemed suspiciously bright and Justin hastily plunged into the conversational waters, giving her time to banish any brimming tears, sure that Cati would not want to cry in front of him. "I think I would have liked your sister," he said, getting a jerky nod of the head and a sniff in response. "It is
plain that she had a good heart and a sense of humor, too ... Job
was an inspired name for a mule. What else can you tell me about her? Did she have a temper?"
"Not like me. I get angry too quick for my own good. But Melangell was always laughing, and could never stay serious for long, even when Papa punished her for running off to meet Geoffrey." Cati swooped down suddenly and buried her face in Shadow's soft ruff. Justin watched in silence; so she knew the name of her sister's lover. How much more did she know?
"Did she love Geoffrey, Cati?" he asked quietly, and she raised her head, then nodded, almost imperceptibly.
"She was so pretty, was Melangell. She had her heart set on a red gown, the shade of strawberries. Papa did not approve, saying that was too bright and garish a color, not respectable, but she kept coaxing him until he agreed. He bought it for her two days ere she ... she died. We buried her in it."
Justin did not know what to say. What possible comfort could he offer this grieving child? "Cati, I very much want to catch your sister's killer. Will you help me do that?"
"How?"
"Tell me about this pilgrim cross of hers."
"It was a St Davydd's cross, had belonged to Mama. When she was a little lass, she'd fallen ill and her father made a pilgrimage to St Davydd's shrine, prayed for her recovery. St Davydd heeded his prayers and Mama wore his cross on a chain around her neck until she died. Papa gave it to Melangell on her
fifteenth birthday last month and - What? Why do you look at me so oddly?"
"Your sister was only fifteen?"
She nodded, puzzled. "She was born in God's Year 1178, during the coldest spring anyone could remember. Why?"
"I did not realize she was so young."
"Fifteen is not so young," she objected. "In Wales, a lad is a man at fourteen and a lass old enough to wed. But you asked about the St Davydd's cross. Shall I show you what it looked like?" When he nodded, she borrowed his dagger and drew in the dirt, sketching a distinctive figure that resembled a cross with feet. "It was lead," she said, "and well-worn, blessed with my mama's prayers. How will knowing this help?"
"I am not sure yet, Cati. Why does your father think it was stolen by the sheriff's men? Could it not have been taken by the man who killed her?"
"I suppose..." she mumbled, no longer meeting his eyes, and he sensed that there was more to the story of this pilgrim cross than she was willing to tell him. He did not push her, though; that was not the way to gain Cati's confidence.
"I thank you for your help," he said. "I promise you I will do all in my power to see that someone pays for Melangell's death."
She studied him intently and then handed him back his dagger, hilt first. "Odid addewid a ddel," she said. "That is a saying of my mama's people: Rare is the promise that is kept. Keep this one, Englishman. Find who killed my sister ..." The rest of her sentence was lost. She gulped, shuddered, and flung her arms around Shadow one last time. Then she whirled and fled up the street, bare legs flashing and black hair streaming out behind her, racing her grief and her crumbling control. Justin watched until she was out of sight, but she never looked back.
~~
Justin then set out to find Jonas. The trail led from Newgate Gaol to the Fishmonger's Guild Hall, where the mayor and aldermen had passed judgment upon a man accused of selling putrid mackerel and herrings. The guilty fishmonger had been sentenced to the pillory and so Justin headed for Cornhill Street.
There he finally found the elusive serjeant, overseeing the fishmonger's punishment. The man's head and wrists had been forced through holes in the wooden pillory frame, and a crowd was already gathering to savor his public humiliation. Justin caught Jonas's eye, waiting until the serjeant could come over to join him.
"They are about to burn the rotting fish around him," Jonas warned, "so we might want to get upwind. Since I'm done here, I'll let you buy me a drink." Telling his men to keep the bystanders at bay and disperse them if they began flinging anything more lethal than insults and jeers, Jonas followed Justin across the road to a nearby alehouse.
Over a flagon of ale, Jonas related what he'd found out since he and Justin had last spoken. "I traced the silk," he said, holding up his hand to dampen Justin's enthusiasm. "Wait till you hear me out ere you start to celebrate. It took some doing, but I was able to determine that it was part of a shipment of cloth brought over by a Flemish mercer, who'd arrived in London from Ypres the same day as the killing."
"Well done, Jonas! Could he tell you who bought that piece of silk?"
"He might... if ever I can ask him. It seems he left London on Monday last, supposedly on his way to see customers in Stamford and Cambridge. At least that is what he told the master of the ship he'd sailed on. He will eventually come back to London, but as to when, your guess is as good as mine."
Crestfallen, Justin slumped back in his seat. "Damnation! Why does it always have to be so hard?"
"It is the nature of the beast. Murders are either solved straightaway, due to the stupidity of the culprits, or it takes a lot of labor and luck. But do not abandon hope yet, lad. You and I know the Flemish mercer has disappeared in a cloud of dust. The Astons do not."
Justin liked the sound of that. "Have you been devious again, Jonas?"
"Well... I did pay an unscheduled visit to the Astons when they got back from Mass yesterday, and in the course of the conversation, I may have led them to believe that the Flemish mercer has been tracked down and within a few days I ought to have the answers I need to solve the killing."
"That is more than devious, it is downright dishonest," Justin said and grinned. "How did they react when you threw the bait out?"
"The old man was blustering and ranting from the moment I came in the door; is he always such a jackass? The older son was nervous but eager to please, the younger lad sullen, the mother fluttering about like a trapped moth. None of them swooned or screamed when I told them about the Fleming, but murder suspects rarely do, I'm sorry to say. If one of them is guilty, though, there is always a chance that he'll panic, do something foolish. We'll just have to wait and see."
"Mayhap not," Justin said, and told Jonas about the missing St Davydd's cross.
"So ..." Jonas said thoughtfully, "we may have two arrows in our quiver. Suppose we pay another visit to the Astons tonight and see if we can find this pilgrim pledge. Would you know it if you saw it?"
Justin nodded. "The cross has an uncommon shape. The Welsh are nothing if not imaginative. Do you truly expect to find it there?"
Jonas shrugged. "Who knows? We might get very lucky. Even if we find nothing, our search is sure to unnerve the Astons even further, so what do we have to lose?"
"Why wait until tonight? Why not go over there now?"
"Because I heard Mistress Aston say that Master Serlo and his niece were expected to dine with them tonight."
That seemed needlessly cruel to Justin. But he raised no objections, for Jonas was not a man to be second-guessed. And it was difficult to argue for mercy when he thought of that bloodied rock. What mercy had Melangell been shown?
~~
The threatened rainstorm had arrived in midafternoon, drenching the city and dropping the temperature. The sky was still smothered in clouds as Justin and Jonas started out for the Astons' that evening, the streets muddy enough to mire several carts along Cheapside. They detoured onto Milk Street to pay a brief visit to St Mary Magdalene's. The churchyard was deep in shadow and the rain had washed away Melangell's blood. Justin showed Jonas where he'd found the rock, and they agreed the killer had been unlucky, for April was usually a wet month; a soaking rain the day after the murder would have obliterated those telltale reddish stains.
Jonas was surprised, too, to learn Melangell's age. "Mind you," he said, "I've run into my share of fifteen-year-old harlots. But it does make it less likely that she was London's own Whore of Babylon, as Humphrey Aston would have us believe."
"My thinking, too," Justin agreed, and they left the churchyard behind, continued on toward their looming confrontation with the Astons.
&
nbsp; ~~
A servant peered at them nervously, mumbling that Master Aston would not be available until the meal was done. Jonas pushed past him into the hall, with Justin a few steps behind. The Astons and their guests looked up from their interrupted meal in varying degrees of dismay, shock, and indignation. Humphrey was so enraged that he seemed at risk for an apoplectic seizure; his face was beet-red and sweat beaded his brow and upper lip as he excoriated them for their intrusion. Beatrice looked mortified by the uproar, Geoffrey and Daniel alarmed, the servants flustered. Master Serlo, a no-nonsense, take-charge type in his late thirties, frowned at the interlopers over his roast capon, but significantly did not add his voice to Humphrey's tirade; clearly this was a man who knew when to fish and when to cut bait. Adela, richly dressed in sapphire-colored silk, showed herself to be more committed to the Astons than her uncle as she groped for Geoffrey's hand.