"Why not?"
"Probably for the same reason that you do not want to talk about what has gone wrong between you and Aldith," Justin said, and Luke grimaced, then grinned reluctantly.
"That sound you hear," he said, "is a trumpet signaling retreat."
They finished the wine in silence and then retired for the night, Luke on his pallet by the hearth, Justin in the bed that still bore the imprint of Claudine's body, the scent of her perfume. He did not sleep well that night.
~~
Windsor Castle rose up on a chalk ridge a hundred feet above the River Thames. Just twenty miles from London, it had been chosen for its strategic significance by John's great-greatgrandfather, William the Bastard. The motte was flanked by two large baileys, crowned by a stone shell keep known as the Great Tower. Standing on the battlements, John gazed down upon the small village nestling in the shadow of Windsor's walls.
Daylight was fast fading but he could still see the parish church, the cemetery, the open market square, the wattle and daub houses. The narrow streets were empty of villagers. New Windsor resembled a plague town, for the inhabitants had fled, some to the deep woods south and west of the castle, others trying to reach the hamlet of Bray or the nunnery at Bromhall. Ordinarily in time of danger, villagers would have sought refuge in the castle, but Windsor Castle was no sanctuary. It was a target.
A few forlorn dogs still roamed the streets, abandoned by their panicked masters, and pigs would soon be foraging in the untended gardens, until they ended up on spits over soldiers' campfires. John paid no heed to the deserted village and the stray animals, keeping his gaze upon the road that stretched toward London. The dust clouds were growing thicker, kicked up by hundreds of horses and marching men.
"My lord?" He turned to find that Durand de Curzon had joined him at the wall embrasure. Together they watched the approaching army. The banners were visible now, the royal lions of the English king, his absent brother, hopefully rotting in an Austrian dungeon. John leaned his elbows upon the merlon, hearing again his mother's cool, clipped tones as she warned that she'd do whatever she must to protect Richard's throne.
"My lord?" Durand repeated, somewhat impatiently this time.
"What?"
"They are going to demand that you surrender the castle to the queen. Will you?"
Until that moment, John hadn't been sure himself what he would do. "No," he said. "I will not."
7
LONDON
April 1193
Luke left the next morning, after coaxing Nell into making him a hearty breakfast of fried bread and sausages. Justin saw him off with an exchange of affable insults and hoped that the other man would not tarry too long at the Windsor siege. If Aldith grew tired of waiting, there would be no lack of men eager to take Luke's place in her bed. After the deputy's departure, he found himself reluctant to return to the cottage, where the scent of Claudine's perfume still lingered. Nell insisted upon serving him another helping, waiting with rare patience for him to eat his fill before she broached the subject of Melangell's murder.
"Must you seek out the queen today?"
"I might stop by the Tower later, check to see if she has need of me. This morn I thought I'd see for myself where Melangell died and then pay another visit to her family."
Nell's blue eyes brightened. "Take me with you," she urged. "I'll get Ellis to open the alehouse whilst I'm gone. I can sniff out untruths faster than a pig can unearth acorns. Did I not prove that when we fooled the Fleming's whore?"
She was anticipating an argument, but Justin did not offer any objections. Nell's verve would keep his own dark mood at bay, and if her presence vexed the irascible Humphrey Aston, so much the better. Cutting up his trencher, he fed the gravy-soaked bread to Shadow, and then rose to his feet. "What of Lucy?"
Lucy was Nell's five-year-old daughter, the one pure legacy left by Nell's late husband, an amiable dreamer who'd died in a drunken accident. "I'll ask Agnes to look after her," Nell declared, jerking off her apron before Justin could change his mind. Solving a murder was infinitely more satisfying, after all, than tending to the demands of querulous alehouse patrons.
~~
The parish church of St Mary Magdalene was just off the Cheapside, on Milk Street, so conveniently close to the Aston family's shop that it was easy to see why Geoffrey and Melangell had chosen it for their trysts. Churchyards were popular places for dalliances, for any number of secular activities frowned upon by the Church. People played camp-ball and quoits; children darted between the wooden crosses in games of hoodman blind and hunt-the-fox; goods were bartered; prostitutes occasionally lured men into the shadows to sin; it was not unheard of to find goats and sheep placidly cropping the grass over the graves. And on an April evening less than a week ago, Melangell had gone to her death in this deceptively
tranquil setting.
The churchyard was still and deserted. The morbidly curious had already flocked to the site to gawk at the bloodstains; the more squeamish would keep away until the spectre of violent death had faded from memory. Not all of the graves were marked; some had wooden crosses, a few had flat gravestones, and others lay hidden under a blanket of new spring grass. Several earthen mounds were still visible, evidence of recent burials. They'd be the last for some time to come, for a churchyard polluted by bloodshed could not be used again until it was reconsecrated, the spiritual stain purged with holy water and Holy Scriptures. Melangell's murder would cause grief to a few, inconvenience to many.
Entering the churchyard, Justin nearly stumbled over a little mound of earth. It resembled a grave, but why had it been dug on the very edge of the cemetery? Nell saw him frown, and answered his unspoken question. "A babe who dies unbaptised cannot be buried in consecrated ground. Some priests will allow them to be laid to rest as close as possible to the cemetery's hallowed soil. Others are less merciful, and it is not unknown to refuse burial to a woman who died in childbirth if the babe was still within her womb."
Justin said nothing, gazing down at that small pitiful grave. Had his mother been shriven ere she died? Was she buried in holy ground? He had no way of knowing, for it was not likely his father would ever tell him. He did not even know her name. With an effort, he shrugged off his own ghosts and looked about for Melangell's.
Jonas had said she'd died by the cross, and as he drew near, he could see the dried blood darkening the greyish-white stone. The grass was trampled and torn by the base and it was all too easy to envision a girl's body crumpled in the dirt. With Nell watching him intently, as if he were an alchemist working his unholy magic, he studied the death scene in silence. She'd either fallen or been pushed, and had struck her head against one of the cross's outstretched arms. Panicked, the assailant had fled, leaving her dead or dying in the twilight dusk. Had he meant to kill her? Had this been a rape gone awry as Jonas suspected? If so, that would make Daniel a more likely suspect than Geoffrey.
Nell picked up on his thoughts. "Poor Agnes," she said softly.
Justin was turning away when something caught his eye. Bending down, he retrieved a rock from a thicket of nearby bushes. It was about the size of a man's fist, looked as if it had broken off from a grave slab. Holding it up toward the sun, he ran his fingers over the reddish-brown stain, and Nell blurted out:
"That looks like blood! Do you think it is Melangell's?"
Justin did. Melangell had died on Friday night, just five days ago, five days without rain. If the blood was not Melangell's, whose was it? And if it was hers? Suddenly her death did not seem so accidental, after all. Squeezing the rock into his money pouch, he said, "We're done here. Let's go on to Friday Street, see if we can find some answers there."
~~
They found the Aston household in disarray. Beatrice was abed, not receiving visitors; the little maidservant mumbled that her mistress was "unwell." Daniel and Geoffrey were at work in the mercer's shop, the former helping another apprentice to sort through piles of newly imported silks and lin
ens, the latter going over the accounts. But Humphrey Aston was nowhere in evidence, and all in the shop - journeymen, apprentices, even customers - seemed easier for his absence.
"My father had to go to the Mercer's Guild. But he ought to be back soon," Geoffrey said, with a glint of hidden humor. "I am sure you'd not want to miss seeing him."
"Indeed not," Justin agreed gravely. "Suppose I talk with you and your brother whilst we await his return?"
Daniel flung down an armful of silks, with such vehemence that they slid from the counter, fluttering into the floor rushes. "I do not have to talk to you," he said combatively. "You're not the sheriff or even one of his men!"
"He is the queen's man, you foolish boy," Nell said irritably. Daniel had already wheeled; the door banged as he retreated into the storeroom.
"His nerves are on the raw," Geoffrey said, stating the obvious with an apologetic half-smile. "He was fond of Melangell."
"How fond?"
The tone of Justin's voice took Geoffrey's smile away. "He ... he may have fancied her. Is that so surprising? She was very pretty, after all."
Justin gestured for Geoffrey to join him and they moved toward the doorway, out of eavesdropping range. "And you were not jealous?"
Geoffrey looked startled. "No, of course not."
"Why not?" Justin was deliberately abrasive. "Because you knew she loved you and you alone? Or because you did not consider your brother to be a rival worth worrying about?"
Geoffrey flushed slightly; he'd had little experience in deflecting hostility. "Both, I suppose," he admitted. "Daniel is pitifully awkward with girls, so tongue-tied that they either laugh at him or avoid him altogether."
"Which did Melangell do?"
"Neither - she befriended him. Melangell was ever one for taking in strays."
Justin changed the subject abruptly, hoping to throw Geoffrey off stride. "What of the silk cloth found under her body? Did you give it to her?"
"No, I did not. I'd given her presents in the past, when I could. But we do not sell that sort of silk weave, a patterned twill."
Justin did not expect Geoffrey to fall into so obvious a trap, but he still had to ask. "I take it you've seen the silk in question, then?"
Geoffrey nodded. "The serjeant... Tobias, I think he was called ... showed it to us."
Justin hoped that Tobias had thought to show it to the others who worked in the Aston shop; he wasn't very impressed so far with the serjeant's investigation. "Can anyone account for your whereabouts that night?"
Geoffrey smiled faintly. "Besides me, you mean? No, I regret not. I'd gone on an errand on my mother's behest, in search of henbane and bryony root and black poppy, for she was in need of a sleeping potion. But when I got to the apothecary's, he had already closed up for the night."
Justin sighed, sure that Beatrice Aston would verify Geoffrey's story, and sure, too, that her confirmation was meaningless; what mother would not lie to save her son? "That is all for now," he said, and then, suddenly, "Do you think your brother killed her?"
Geoffrey was not flustered by the unexpected question. "No," he said emphatically, "I do not."
Justin studied him for a long moment. They were of an age and could have been mirror images of each other, both tall and lean, although Justin's hair was dark and Geoffrey's was flaxen. "Would you tell me if you did suspect him?" he asked, and was not surprised when Geoffrey immediately shook his head.
"No," he said, "I would not," and Justin felt a faint flicker of respect. He'd grown up without a father and had felt the loss keenly. Geoffrey's father had been there since his first day of life, ever present and omnipotent, and Justin would not have traded places with him for half the riches in Christendom.
"Geoffrey!" The voice was a female one, unfamiliar to Justin. He turned to see a young woman coming up the street toward them. She was tall and willowy, and although she was modestly veiled and wimpled, her skin was so fair and her eyes so blue that Justin was sure her hidden hair color was blond. She was accompanied by a male servant, heavily laden with packages and bundles, so deferential that Justin knew at once this must be Adela, Geoffrey's prospective bride.
Geoffrey confirmed his guess even before the introductions were made, glancing toward Justin in mute entreaty. Justin understood what he was asking: to say nothing of Melangell's murder. Did Adela know suspicion had fallen upon her betrothed? Surely her uncle did by now. No wonder Geoffrey was uneasy, for the plight troth had not yet been finalized; Adela could still disavow him, put an end to the marriage plans if the scandal grew any worse. And it was obvious that Geoffrey wanted this marriage to take place, for there was an edginess underlying the affection in his greeting. Adela was a marital prize, niece to the master of the Mercer's Guild, and Humphrey Aston's choice of a bride for his son. With so much at stake, Justin was not surprised that Geoffrey should be nervous, and he obliged by identifying himself as a "friend of Geoffrey's, eager to meet his bride-to-be."
Geoffrey shot him a grateful look before giving Adela a circumspect kiss on the cheek. The talk was banal, mostly of Adela's shopping purchases in the Cheapside market, offering Justin an opportunity to appraise Geoffrey's future wife. She was undeniably elegant, but somewhat aloof, putting him in mind of a swan, regal and unapproachable, as unlike the earthy, wanton peddler's daughter as chalk and cheese. Would this pampered, bloodless child of privilege stand by Geoffrey if he fell under serious suspicion? Or would she shrink from the scandal, from a man less than perfect? If he were asked to wager on it, Justin would have put his money on the latter likelihood. And yet... those pale blue eyes were guarded, not vacant, and one of her well-tended, soft hands was resting possessively on Geoffrey's arm. Mayhap he had been too quick to judge, to assume that propriety was her ruling passion.
"Geoffrey, I would like you to escort me home." Adela seemed to take his compliance for granted, for she then bade Justin a polite farewell and signaled for her servant to follow. Justin watched them move off down the street, wondering how much - if anything - Adela knew about Melangell. And then he stepped back into the shop, where Nell was chatting easily with the journeymen, and went in search of Daniel.
He found the boy in the storeroom, sitting on a barrel surrounded by items of luxury, for while mercers dealt primarily in silks and costly textiles, they also sold toys, hats and caps, belts, and spices. Daniel's face was blotched with color, his eyes bloodshot and puffy. He glared defiantly at Justin, square chin jutting out, freckled fists clenching on his knees. "Are you still here? I'm getting bone-weary of running into you every time I turn around!"
Justin slammed the door shut behind him, then leaned back against it, arms folded across his chest, saying nothing. It didn't take long. Daniel was soon squirming under his cold-eyed appraisal. "What are you staring at?" he demanded. "Why will you not leave me be?"
"If I do, lad, you're sure to hang," Justin said brutally, and saw Daniel quiver under the impact of his words. "I do not know if you killed the girl. I do know you're the one likely to answer for it, and on the gallows. So if you can clear yourself, now is the time to speak up ... ere it is too late."
Daniel's ruddy color had ebbed away. "I did nothing wrong," he said hoarsely. "I did not kill her!"
"I need more than your denial, Daniel. I need answers. Where were you on the night of Melangell's death?"
"I was down by the wharves."
"Alone?"
Daniel nodded. "I... I filched a flagon of my father's wine, and went off to drink it where I'd not be seen."
Justin didn't know whether to laugh or to swear. "Of all nights, you and your brother would pick that one to shun the company of others."
Daniel blinked. "Geoffrey cannot prove where he was, either?"
"You did not know that? Did you not talk to him about the killing?"
"No," Daniel said, so simply that Justin believed him. On reflection, it was not as odd as it first appeared. The Astons were not a confiding family, more like separate, lonely islands in a
sea churned up by Humphrey's bile.
"What did you and Melangell quarrel about, Daniel, on the day of her death?"
Daniel looked at him bleakly, finally mumbling, "I told you I do not remember."
"Do not be a fool, Daniel," Justin warned, but he was too late. The door, having opened a crack, now slammed shut again. Daniel's face was stony, green eyes staring stubbornly off into space, looking anywhere but at Justin's face.
Justin soon saw further discussion was futile. "Never have I seen someone so eager to get himself hanged," he said impatiently, and left Daniel to the solitude of the storeroom and his own troubled thoughts.
As soon as Justin stepped back into the shop, he felt the change in atmosphere. One glance pinpointed the source of tension: Humphrey Aston had returned. He was blocking the open doorway, shutting out the light, and judging from his stance and his scowl, he was not pleased with what had been occurring in his absence. The apprentices were visibly wilting under the heat he was giving off, the journeymen had suddenly found urgent tasks to perform, and even the few customers seemed uncomfortable. Only Nell appeared unfazed by Humphrey's ire. She was regarding him with the same detached distaste she showed whenever her Lucy brought snails and toads inside for her inspection and identification.