~*~
Seated at a table in the back of the tavern, they regarded each other with amazement, pleasure, and belated wariness. "How long has it been? Five years? Six?"
"Actually, closer to seven, for I was fourteen when the bishop placed me in Lord Fitz Alan's household."
I hope you noticed that I let your 'lord' remain nameless," Bennet said and grinned. "I could not think of a quicker way to dear out this den of thieves than to announce that this blood brother of mine works for the sheriff of Shropshire!"
Justin started to correct Bennet's mistake, but the words never lilt his lips. What could he say? The truth was too fantastic for Bennet to accept. How could he expect Bennet to believe that he was now the queen's man?
"I wondered so often how you were doing, Bennet. But I did I even know where you were, and I could hardly..."
He let the words fade away, but Bennet finished the sentence for him. "Write to me. Not bloody likely. And do not remind me that you'd offered to teach me to read, if you please! We both know I was never much of a student."
Not a student at all, Justin thought, for he knew that neither Bennet nor his sister had so much as a day's schooling. They had been children forgotten by family, townsmen, the Church, even by God, it sometimes seemed. Born to a woman who'd disappeared soon after Bennet's birth and a belligerent, blustering fishmonger who'd drunk away what little he'd earned, they had grown up as wild as stable cats. But from the time he was eight until his fifteenth year, Justin had been closer to Bennet than he ever had to another living being.
"That is not true," he objected. "You were always a quick study for the things that interested you."
"Aye, when it came to trouble, I went right to the head of the class," Bennet agreed cheerfully. "We thought about you, too, Moll and me. We figured that you were doing good. You were al ways as clever as a peddler's ape. But what about me, Justy? Admit it, you likely expected to hear that I'd ended up dancing on the gallows!"
"No," Justin said with a grin, "not as slick as you were. You were ever one for ducking around corners and squeezing under I fences when it counted. I will admit, though, that I did not expect to find you as the owner of a Chester tavern. How did you manage that, Bennet?"
"What... you think this sty is mine?" Bennet shook his head, laughing. "That would be the day! I tend to it, keep these fools from breaking heads when they're soused, and make sure that they remember to pay for their drinks. But it belongs to Piers Fitz Turold."
"I... see." Justin was not happy to hear that, for Piers Fitz Turold had long been a figure of speculation and suspicion in Chester. Supposedly, he was a vintner, but the general belief was that he made much of his money in other, less legal ways, including smuggling and prostitution. "So you work for Fitz Turold, Bennet? For how long?"
"For a while now. I look after his warehouse by the docks, too. In fact, I sleep there most nights for Chester breeds bolder thieves than anywhere else in the realm. I also do other tasks for him when the need arises."
Justin knew better than to ask what those tasks might be. He was sorry to learn that Bennet had gotten ensnared in Fitz Turold's web, but not surprised. What choices did Bennet have in the world he'd been born into? As a lad, there had been times when he'd had to steal to eat, and by the time their friendship was ruptured by Justin's departure for Shropshire, he suspected that Bennet was practicing the skills of a cutpurse.
"Ben... I thought you might want another flagon." Berta leaned over the table, offering them both a close-up view of her ample cleavage. She let her gaze linger upon Justin, moistening lips with the tip of her tongue. Since she had not given him so much as a glance before, Justin assumed that his worth had gone up because of his friendship with Bennet.
As she sauntered away, they both watched her swaying walk before Justin said, "So you are Ben now? Should I cast Bennet aside?"
"No need. Moll still makes use of it. Also, to hear you call me Bennet brings back a lot of memories."
Justin had been almost afraid to ask about Bennet's sister, for if any girl seemed predestined for a bad end, for certes it was Molly. "Molly... she is well?"
"Well enough. She'll not believe you turned up like this, not unless she sees you with her own eyes. So can you stay for a white? She ought to be back by week's end."
"She lives in Chester, then? Has she taken herself a husband? Most likely she has... any children?"
"Yes, no, and no." Bennet reached for the flagon, poured for hem both;, "I might as well tell you straight out. Molly is with I Piers now."
Justin sat his cup down so abruptly that wine splattered upon the table, set the candle flame to sizzling. "Jesu! And you let her, Bennet?"
"And when's a mere man ever been able to keep Moll from doing what she pleased?" Bennet looked more closely into Justin's face and realization dawned. "I did not mean that, Justin! Molly is not one of Piers's whores. They have an understanding, an arrangement. Piers lets her live rent-free in one of his cottages and goes to see her when it strikes his fancy. It seems to suit them both," he said, with a half-shrug that was very familiar to Justin, the gesture he'd always make when happenings were beyond his control.
"Molly could have done so much better." But even as he said the words, Justin knew they weren't true. Molly's choices ha been even more limited than her brother's. "She deserves better," he amended. "There is no future for her with Piers, not unless his wife has gone to God since I left Chester."
"Nay, she is alive and thriving, the last I heard. But I doubt that Moll would have Piers even if she could. Have you forgotten how often she made mock of marriage and wedded wives?"
"I remember," Justin admitted. "She'd say that a woman without a man was like a cat without a collar." Their eyes met and they both laughed, theirs the laughter of nostalgia, remembrance with a bittersweet tang. "I might as well confess," Justin said. "I was besotted with your sister."
"You and half the men in Chester, my lad."
"Are you mocking my broken heart? It was the great regret of my life that Molly saw me only as her little brother's friend, this green stripling of fourteen. Of course I was a green stripling of fourteen, but even so..." Enough years had passed so that Justin could smile at the memory of his first infatuation. "You said she's gone from Chester?"
"Piers had to visit his salt house in Wich Malbank. He has a finger in every pie, does that one. He took Molly along be cause,.. well, what else is a man to do in a salt wich?" Picking up his wine cup, Bennet held it aloft in a playful salute, "To days gone by and - holy shit!"
"I'll drink to that if you insist," Justin grinned, "but surely we can do better?" Bennet was no longer paying him any mind, though, staring over his shoulder toward the door. Turning in his seat, Justin saw an officer of the law blocking the doorway. There was nothing in the man's appearance that proclaimed his rank. It was the air of authority that he exuded. Justin had seen Jonas swagger into a London alehouse and have it fall silent just as this Chester tavern had stilled.
"Watch yourself," Bennet muttered. "That is Will Gamberell, the city sheriff. He'd like nothing better than to blame Piers for an affray in one of his taverns." Raising his voice, he said, "What brings you here, Master Gamberell? Berta, fetch wine for the sheriff and his men."
"As if I'd drink the swill you sell here," the sheriff said with a sneer. "I hear you had yourself some sport tonight. We found a man half-dead down on the docks, and he says you beat him to a bloody pulp. Dare you deny it?"
"Good of you not to pass judgment till you heard my side of it," Bennet said, but he sounded more sullen than sarcastic and there was a note in his voice that Justin had heard before - the embittered understanding of a man who knew the law was never going to protect the likes of him. "You'd do better to ask your 'bloody pulp' what he'd done to warrant a beating. I am not saying I gave him one, mind you. But he damned near killed a man, would have for certes if he'd not been stopped."
"So you were just doing your duty as a law-abiding citizen o
f Chester?" the sheriff drawled, and his men laughed.
"You need not take my word for it. His victim is in the back room, being patched up by Osborn the Leech. Ask him yourself what happened."
"You may be sure I will. But right now I am asking you."
"Ben?" Almost as if it had been staged, the doctor chose that moment to appear in the doorway of the storeroom. "The poor sod is asking for you. He lost some teeth so he sounds like he's got a mouth full of mush, but I think he wants to thank you. I told him that if not for you, we'd have been measuring him for a burial shroud."
Justin turned toward Bennet, expecting to share relief that this was so easily cleared up. But Bennet looked grim, and one glance at the sheriff's face told him why. Gamberell was grinning like a man who'd just discovered a forgotten hoard of coins in his money pouch. "Well now," he said happily, "I do believe my life just got easier."
The doctor realized that he'd done Bennet no favor and said quickly, "But I may have misunderstood what happened. Look in on the lad, Ben, and whilst you do, you can reassure me that some one is going to pay for my services."
Bennet rose slowly, and while he said nothing, his body language dared the sheriff to stop him. "With your permission, Master Gamberell."
"Why not?" The sheriff waved him on with a magnanimous gesture, before adding, "I happen to know the only way out of that room is through this door and the only way out of this tavern is through me."
By now it was deathly quiet. The sailor who'd intervened in the beating had stood up as the sheriff began to speak, but he'd soon sank back in his seat again. Having gotten the lay of the land, he was studiously staring down into the floor rushes. None of the other customers were meeting the sheriff's gaze, either, doing their best to appear as inconspicuous as possible. Justin had gotten the lay of the land, too, by now. The sheriff did not care why Bennet had struck that drunken lout. What mattered to him was that one of Piers Fitz Turold's underlings had made a misstep, and who knew where that might lead?
Justin shoved his seat back, deliberately drawing the sheriff's attention and got to his feet without haste, making it clear his intentions were peaceful. "I think I can help, Master Gamberell, I can tell you exactly what happened."
The sheriff's expression was skeptical. While Justin was wearing a sword and spoke the Norman-French of the educated, he'd been sharing a drink with Bennet, and the sheriff was a firm believer that a man could be judged by the company he kept. "Who in the blazes are you?"
"I am the man who hit that misbegotten knave you found on the docks."
If possible, the tavern became even more silent. "I have witnesses who say otherwise," the sheriff said curtly.
Justin doubted that, but he said calmly, "They are wrong. Bennet and I are both tall, with dark hair. They must have mistaken him for me."
The sheriff's eyes were blue-ice. "I'd not be in such a hurry to claim credit for this if I were you. Even if you were defending yourself you can still be charged with attempted murder and mayhem. It will be up to a court to decide who is telling the truth."
"I understand that." Justin picked up his wine cup, drank the last of it slowly. He was hoping that the gesture would appear coolly confident, but he also needed the liquid, for his mouth had gone dry. "I ask only that we stop first at the castle so I might tell my lord earl what happened and why I am being detained."
Justin had discovered with William Fitz Alan that the Earl of Chester's name carried considerable weight. It had an even more telling effect upon the sheriff. "Why would the earl care?" he asked, but he sounded wary.
"You know, of course, about the ransom that was stolen in Wales." Reaching into his scrip, Justin drew out the queen's letter and handed it to Gamberell. He thought he probably could have bluffed the sheriff with the earl's name alone, but he wanted to end this before Bennet reemerged from the storeroom.
The sheriff read rapidly and when he glanced up at Justin, his face was guarded, revealing nothing of what he was thinking. Returning the letter, he reached over and emptied Bennet's cup into the floor rushes, "We are done here," he said, turning on his heel as his startled men hastened to follow.
The hush continued even after the sheriff had gone. Justin took his seat, and Berta scurried over to refill his cup. She asked no questions, nor did she meet his eyes, and he realized that to a tavern serving wench, power was dangerous, be it in the hands of the city sheriff or a mysterious stranger.
When Bennet returned to the common room, his expressions was one that Justin had seen before, chin jutting out, wide, mobile mouth set in granite, eyes heavy-lidded and opaque. So he'd looked when facing down his drunken father, bracing for the beating that was sure to come. "Osborn misunderstood what that poor lad said. It was not me who –" He halted in midsentence, looking around in astonishment. "Where the Devil is the sheriff?"
"He left."
"I can see that, Justin. But why? Is he coming back?"
"I do not think so."
Bennet's eyes narrowed on Justin's face. Sitting down again, he waved his hand to indicate the others were to resume their own conversations, and then said in a low voice, "What did you do, Justy? And do not tell me you bribed the bastard. The man is honest!"
There was such genuine indignation in his voice that Justin burst out laughing. "You remember that time we were caught stealing apples in the abbey orchard?"
"I remember. I thought sure we were in for it, but you got the gardener to let us go by making free with the bishop's name."
"Well, let's just say I did some name-dropping tonight, too."
Bennet did not look satisfied, but he said only, "I did not realize that Fitz Alan cast a shadow clear into Cheshire." Raising his cup, he clinked it against Justin's. "Here's to friends and secrets and sheriffs and better days." He drank, watching Justin over the rim of his wine cup. "It is good to know that some things never change. You always were as closemouthed as a clam."
"That is because you talked enough for the both of us. You never let me get a word in edgewise."
After that, the past seven years melted away. Bennet sent out to the cook shop for supper and they swapped memories and insults as they drained several more flagons dry, taking perverse pleasure in recalling a boyhood that had not been easy for either of them. When curfew rang, Bennet closed the tavern and they continued to drink, reminding each other of half-forgotten escapades: playing camp-ball and hunt the fox, sneaking into the abbey fish stews to swim, getting greensick on their first flagon of ale, fighting and forgiving, going to St John's Fair and the hanging of a notorious outlaw, growing up in a world that put little value upon a fishmonger's brat and a foundling born of sin. And for one night, Justin was able to forget about ransoms and captive kings and double-dealing Welsh princes and the dangers that awaited him upon his return to the dragon's lair.
Chapter 10
August 1193
Chester, England
JUSTIN'S FIRST THOUGHT WAS THAT SOMEONE HAD HIT HIM ON the head. He was becoming all too familiar with that experience, for it had happened twice in the past year, first by Gilbert the Fleming and then Durand de Curzon. When he moved, he felt as if his brains were going to spill right out of his skull. Slitting his eyes, he found himself staring up at wooden rafter beams. The air was musty and damp, smelled of straw and sawdust and other odors better left unidentified. Where in holy Hell was he?
He forced himself to sit up, at once regretted it, for his stomach was in no better shape than his head. The last time he'd gotten this drunk, it had been after he'd discovered that Claudine was John's spy. Wisps of memory were beginning to etch themselves upon the night's blank slate. Being at the tavern with Bennet. The floor littered with empty flagons. Staggering through the deserted streets, ducking into an alley to evade the Watch, muffling their laughter with their mantles. A misplaced key, hunting for a spare behind a cistern. More laughter. Even snatches of a bawdy ale-house song.
Lord God have mercy. We sang? Justin shuddered at the memory and s
ought to extricate himself from his tangled blankets. He'd slept on top of a large wooden crate; no wonder his spine felt as if a horse had walked on his back. At least he knew now where he was, in Piers Fitz Turold's waterfront warehouse. Across the room Bennet lay sprawled upon a straw pallet. He twitched at the sound of Justin's boots hitting the ground but continued to snore softly until Justin wobbled over and shook his shoulder.
"Wha...? Go 'way..."
"I will if you tell me where I can go to piss."
One bloodshot blue eye opened. "Hey, Justin..." The rest of his words were swallowed up in a yawn, and Justin had to shake him again. "I use the privy out on the docks..."
The glare of sun off the river was blinding, and when nearby Holy Trinity Church began to toll, Justin felt as if the bells were echoing inside his head. But by the time he got back to the warehouse, he thought he was likely to live and was furious with himself for wasting so much of this day. The sun was so high in the sky that it must be nigh onto noon.
Bennet was still sleeping, and Justin roused him only by threatening to pour water on his head. Blinking owlishly, he peered out of a cocoon of blankets, sounding puzzled and peevish. "Why are you up? Is the place on fire?"
"I have things I must do today. So do you, Bennet."
"Yes, go back to sleep." Bennet tried to burrow under the blankets again, but Justin persisted and he reluctantly poked his head out. "Do what you must, then. We can meet back at the tavern tonight. I ought to be able to drag myself out of bed by then.."
Some things never changed. Even asa lad, Bennet had been one for sleeping the day away if he could. Justin retrieved his sword, thankful that it had survived their drunken carousing with nary scratch, and braced himself before opening the door and stepping back out into that painful dazzle of pure white sunlight.
He returned to the castle before resuming his search for the missing sailors, checking upon Copper and checking in with the Earl of Chester in case there had been new developments that he needed to know. He did not run into Thomas de Caldecott and was grateful for that. The last thing his throbbing head could take would be another shouting match. After stopping at an apothecary's shop where he bought wood betony for his headache and saffron potion for his hangover, he headed for the quays.