Setting the candle down on the stool, Nell headed for the door. The last word was hers. "Not your dog - hah!"
~~
After buying parchment, a quill pen, and ink at the Eastcheap market, Justin wrote Luke a brief letter, informing the deputy that he could be reached at the alehouse. If Luke discovered the identity of the Fleming's partner, that would be a message too important to miss. He could only hope that he was not also informing John where he could be found. He set out then for the Tower, occasionally glancing over his shoulder to see if the dog was still following; he was. They reached the Tower in late afternoon, and this time Justin's luck had changed; the sheriff was in.
Roger Fitz Alan could not have been more unlike Luke de Marston. He was smooth and polished and bland - no sharp edges, no hidden depths, no salt. Justin would not have needed to be told that his was a political appointment. Fitz Alan admitted somewhat reluctantly that he had no personal knowledge of this Gilbert the Fleming. But he readily promised to do what he could to apprehend the man. "One of my serjeants may be able to help you. He knows all the ratholes in London, and most of the rats. I'll have him seek you out at that alehouse… on Gracechurch Street, you said?"
Justin thanked the sheriff politely, but without either enthusiasm or optimism. It sounded as if he was on his own. Masking his disappointment as best he could, he bade the sheriff farewell, and exited out into the Tower bailey. Almost at once, his mood - and his day - took a turn for the better. A throaty female voice murmured his name, and he turned to greet Claudine de Loudun.
"Who is your furry friend?"
Justin was more than willing to relate the story of the dog's rescue, for he knew that was the sort of exploit likely to win favor with most women, and this was one woman whose favor he very much wanted to win. By the time he was done, he thought he was making progress, too, for Claudine had listened with rapt attention and a smile that hinted at any number of intriguing possibilities.
"You have a good heart, Master de Quincy."
"I also have a dog, demoiselle, one I cannot keep. You could, though. Wait… hear me out. Just look at this handsome beast."
He was playing fast and loose with the truth now, for Shadow was bedraggled, gaunt, and dirty, his long black fur matted, his hip protruding at an odd angle. Justin guessed his age to be about five or six months, and if those massive, bearlike paws were an accurate indicator of size, he'd eventually be a large dog, indeed. He seemed to have some alaunt in his ancestry, for there was a wolflike slope to his spine and one ear pricked at an alert angle. But the other one flopped over, giving him a somewhat comical aspect, as did the white ring around his left eye, looking as if he'd been splattered with whitewash. All in all, Justin could not imagine a more unlikely candidate for a royal adoption, but he persevered, insisting that "If ever a dog was born to be a beautiful woman's pet, surely it is this one!"
Claudine laughed, shaking her head. "Very handsome, indeed," she agreed, keeping her eyes on Justin all the while. "But dogs are not as fickle as men, and he has already chosen his master. In good conscience, how could I come betwixt you?"
As if on cue, the pup whined and gave Justin the sort of melting, starry-eyed look he'd have loved to have gotten from Claudine. He surrendered with a smile and a shrug. "You cannot blame a man for trying, demoiselle."
"I never do, Master de Quincy," she assured him with a provocative, sidelong glance through improbably long lashes, and they fell in step together, heading toward the White Tower and the royal apartments. "I am glad we chanced to meet like this," Claudine confided, "for there is a question I've been wanting to put to you. Would you be offended if I were to ask you something very personal?"
Justin had never been shy with women, but never had he courted a woman like this one, a queen's confidante. It was like aiming an arrow at the moon. But as their eyes met and held, the moon suddenly seemed much closer than he'd have dared to hope. "Please do, demoiselle."
"Well… I was wondering if you were one of the old king's out-of-wedlock sons?"
Justin gave a sputter of startled laughter. "Good Lord, no! Whatever put a notion like that in your head?"
"The queen - indirectly. When I asked her about you - I did warn you about my curiosity - she would tell me nothing, saying only that you had a right interesting family tree, one rooted in hallowed soil. I admit I do not understand what she meant. But I thought she might be hinting that you had a highborn sire… and King Henry then sprang to mind. Do stop laughing, for it is not as ludicrous as all that. You seem to have won the queen's trust with remarkable ease - a stranger one day, a confidential emissary the next - and you do have smoke-grey eyes like King Henry, and there is a secret betwixt you and the queen, for certes. Moreover, you are without doubt the most mysterious man I've ever met!"
Still laughing, Justin caught her hand in his and brought it up to his mouth. "Get to know me better," he said, "and I'll share all my guilty secrets with you, demoiselle."
Claudine was no novice to courtly campaigns; she knew exactly when to advance, when to retreat, and when to hold her own ground. "I'll keep that in mind," she said nonchalantly, but she allowed her fingers to rest a moment longer in Justin's grip. By now they had reached the Tower keep, and their flirtation was - if not forgotten - put aside until a more opportune time. "Are you here to see the queen, Master de Quincy?"
Justin nodded. "I wanted to let Her Grace know that I will no longer be staying at Holy Trinity priory. For the foreseeable future, I'll be at the alehouse on Gracechurch Street. My stallion went lame this afternoon and I had to leave him with a farrier till he heals. I also have a letter for the under-sheriff of Hampshire." He hesitated, loath to admit that he did not know how to go about engaging a courier; he'd never had reason to send a letter before. "I hoped that the queen's clerk might know of a man who is Winchester bound."
"There is no need to wait for a traveler heading that way. The queen will dispatch a royal courier with your letter. And I will tell her that you are now lodging on Gracechurch Street, if you wish. Unless you need to see her yourself…?"
Justin shook his head. "I have no such need." The very fact that Eleanor would admit him without question was reason enough not to abuse so rare a privilege.
"She will see you if you ask. But I suspect she craves no company this day but her own," Claudine said. "You see, we had troubling news this noon… about her son."
"Richard? Or John?"
"Not the king." The corners of Claudine's mouth curved, ever so slightly. "The Prince of Darkness. John has left London without a word to the queen and apparently in great haste."
Justin blinked. "Where did he go?"
"As yet, no one knows. I can only tell you what the queen fears - the worst. It is always dangerous when John is close at hand. But it is even more dangerous when he is not."
10
LONDON
February 1193
London was too noisy for late sleepers, and Justin awoke early the next morning. Dressing hastily, for the room was frigid, he then opened the shutters to see what sort of day awaited him. The sky was the color of pewter and clogged with clouds. But there was some brightness to be found below in the yard, where a small child was playing with Shadow. Justin assumed this was Lucy, Nell's little girl, and he watched their antics with a smile. Mayhap he was closer to finding a home for Shadow than he'd first thought.
He was in the stairwell when he heard an odd sound, a sharp cry, cut off too soon. The common room was empty, still claimed by night shadows. But the kitchen door was ajar and as he approached it, there was a thud and another muffled cry. Quickening his step, Justin pushed the door open.
A stack of firewood had been dumped onto the floor, a chair overturned. Across the kitchen, a man had Nell pinned against the wall, one hand clamped over her mouth, the other tearing at her gown. Nell was all but hidden by his bulk, for he was strapping and beefy, not overly tall but as broad as a barrel. Overpowered and half smothered against his massive ch
est, she continued to struggle, squirming and kicking as he sought to pull up her skirt. His back was to the door, and he was so intent upon subduing Nell that he'd not yet realized they were no longer alone.
Justin was reaching for his sword hilt when his gaze fell upon a sack of flour, half full, on a nearby table. Snatching it up, he was upon the man before he could sense his danger, yanking the sack down over his head and shoulders. Blinded and choking, the man released Nell and reeled backward. Before he was able to free himself of the sack, Justin kneed him in the groin and he went down as if he'd been poleaxed, writhing in the floor rushes at Justin's feet.
Nell had sagged against the wall, gasping for breath. Her veil was gone, her hair in wild disarray, her face and gown streaked with flour. But she recovered with remarkable speed. Grabbing a heavy frying pan from its trivet, she was about to bring it down upon her assailant's skull when Justin caught her arm, blocking the blow.
"He is not worth hanging for, lass!"
She was not easily convinced and he had to take the pan away from her. When he did, she kicked the prostrate man in the ribs, called him a slimy toad, and kicked him again. Drawing his sword, Justin leveled it at the man's heaving chest, then reached down and jerked off the sack. Nell's attacker moaned in pain and pawed at his eyes, blinking and sneezing and then cowering at sight of that menacing steel blade. "If you fetch a rope," Justin said, "I'll tie him up and go for the sheriff."
Nell glared at the cringing man. "No," she said. "Just get him out of here."
Justin was not surprised, for an accusation of rape was not easy to prove. "Are you sure? I'd testify to what I saw." But when she shook her head, he did not argue, prodding the man to his feet with the point of his sword. He encountered no resistance, and within moments, shoved the man through the alehouse door and out into the street.
People turned to stare at this apparition and began to laugh, for not only did he look as if he'd fallen, headfirst, into a vat of whitewash, he was bent over at an odd angle, scuttling sideways like a crab. Already an object of ridicule, he was then made one of scorn, too, when Nell yelled after him, "If I ever see you again on Gracechurch Street, whoreson, I'll geld you with a dull spoon!"
Midst hoots and jeers, the man fled. Nell continued to rage, cursing her assailant with imaginative invective, fuming over the ripped sleeve of her gown. But she'd begun to tremble, and did not protest when Justin urged her to come back inside. Settling her before the hearth, he prowled about the kitchen in search of a restorative.
"It is too early for ale and there is no wine. So cider will have to do," he said, pouring her a full cup.
Nell gulped it gratefully, entwining her fingers around the stem to steady them. But then the cup jerked in her hand, splattering cider onto her torn sleeve. "Lucy!"
"She saw nothing," Justin assured her. "She is outside, playing with the dog."
"Thank God," she said softly. But after a moment, her anger came back, this time directed against herself. "How could I have been so careless? I'd bought firewood from that swine twice before, and each time he was sniffing about my skirts like a dog in rut. But I just took him for the usual prattling fool, paid him no mind. I ought to have known better…" She shook her head so vehemently that the last of her hair pins escaped into the floor rushes. "Most men are ones for taking what they want, and God rot them, but they get away with it, too!"
"Not this time."
She stopped in midtirade to stare at Justin. After a long pause, she nodded slowly. "No," she agreed, "not this time. I suppose I owe you."
Justin shrugged, pouring himself some cider. "I do not mean to meddle," he said, "but surely there must be safer work for a woman -"
"Truly?" Nell fluttered her eyelashes in mock surprise. "And here I thought it was either this or starve!" She relented then and gave Justin a quick, forced smile. "I do not have much practice in saying thank you. I am grateful for what you did. But do you really think I need to have the dangers pointed out to me? If you live with polecats, friend, you are bound to notice the stink!"
She rose before he could respond, crossed to the window, and unlatched the shutter. "I want to make sure," she said, "that my girl is in no need of care."
He joined her at the window. "She is right taken with that pup, Nell. It seems a shame to separate them…"
Nell turned to look at him, and then grinned. "I owe you, but not that much!" she said, and Justin grinned back, for the first time getting a glimpse of a woman he could like.
"Lucy's father… he cannot help you?"
"Not likely. He is dead." She sounded quite matter-of-fact; if this was a wound, it was an old one. Pulling the shutter back in place, she sat down at the table and picked up her cider again. When he followed, she said, "My man and I were properly wed, had the vows said over us at the church door." She raised her chin, as if challenging him to doubt her. "I insisted upon it. I may be no saint, but I am no slut. I'd have no one ever call my child a bastard, for that is a word heavy as any stone and bitter as gall. I ought to know."
"So should I," Justin said, and saw her flicker of surprise. "What happened to your husband?"
"Will was a raker." Seeing his puzzlement, she explained, "That is what Londoners call the men who clean the city streets. It did not pay much and God knows, it was a miserable way to earn his bread. But Will had no trade and he was no thief. Good hearted, he was, but not one for planning for the morrow. He took his fun where he could find it, and more and more, he found it in alehouses. He liked to stop for an ale after work, and sometimes during work, too. The day came when he stopped once too often, and he fell off his cart. If he'd been sober, mayhap he could have rolled clear. Instead, the wheels ran over his chest." Setting her cider down, she said, without irony, "He was lucky. He died quick."
Justin offered no sympathy, for it was clear she neither expected nor wanted it. "You had no family to turn to, Nell?"
"Money and family - I never had much of either. Most are dead, like Will. So I took in laundry and did sewing and a few times, what I did is better left betwixt me and God. None of it was enough to pay the rent on our house. Here at least we have a bed of our own, my girl and me… and that is no small thing, Master de Quincy."
"Make it Justin," he said. "How did you end up here?"
"I have not 'ended up' anywhere, not yet! I admit the Lord's plan for me seems right murky at times, and trying to find my way can be like looking for a black cat at midnight. For now, the road has led me and Lucy here. A cousin on my mother's side is wed to Godfrey, who owns this pigsty. He is old and soured and crippled by gout, and he's come to depend on me more than he'd ever admit. I started by helping out, but now I do the ordering and hiring and firing and in return for all that, I get a bed above-stairs, a weekly wage, and the fun of fending off dolts like the one you tossed out on his ear. But I hope to -"
Nell flinched at the sound of a sudden, loud pounding, showing that her nerves were not as steady as she'd have Justin believe. "Shall I tell them that the alehouse is not open yet?" he offered, and when she nodded, he headed for the door.
The pounding had continued, unabated. Lifting the bolt, Justin opened the door and scowled at the intruder. "You'll have to come back later."
"I think not," the intruder said, and Justin braced for trouble. The man's appearance was no more reassuring than his words. He was of medium height, well muscled and well armed, his mantle swept back to reveal both a scabbard and a sheathed dagger. It was hard to estimate his age. Somewhere, Justin guessed, between thirty and death, and when death did come, it was not likely to be a peaceful one. A black eyepatch, a thin slash
of a mouth, contorted at one corner into a sinister parody of a smile by a jagged scar that could have been inflicted only by knife's blade - no, not a man to die in bed, full of years and honors. Not a man Justin would have wanted to meet in a dark alley. Nor was he happy to have to deal with him here and now, and he said curtly:
"We are closed. You'll have to get your ale
elsewhere."
"I am not here for an ale. I'm looking for a man named de Quincy."
"Why?" Justin asked warily, and the man gave him a daunting stare, his one eye as black and fathomless as polished jet.
"Are you de Quincy? If not, why should I be answering to you?"
"Yes… I am. Now it is your turn. Who are you?"
"Jonas." When Justin still looked uncomprehending, the man said impatiently, "Did Fitz Alan not tell you that his serjeant would be seeking you out?"
"You're the serjeant?" Justin's smile was both apologetic and relieved. "Sorry - the sheriff did not give me your name. Come on in."
It took a while before they were able to talk, for Justin had to reassure Nell that this formidable stranger was trustworthy, and then fetch candles and cider. The serjeant was still standing. When Justin gestured toward a table, he noticed that Jonas picked the seat facing out into the room. He'd wager it had been years since the serjeant had sat with his back to any door. Pushing a cider cup across the table, he said, "Do you know Gilbert the Fleming?"