~~
The following morning, Justin accompanied the Fitz Randolph family to All Saints Church to hear a Requiem Mass for the soul of the murdered goldsmith. In midafternoon, he went to the castle. But his visit was unproductive. The sheriff was still absent from the town, and his deputy, Luke de Marston, was not expected back from Southampton until later in the day.
And so it was late when Justin was finally able to set out to find Aldith Talbot. According to Edwin, the house was in an open area near the city walls, not far from the North Gate. As the light faded, Justin's steps quickened, for last night's memory was still too vivid for comfort. Had someone truly been stalking him? Or had his imagination played him false? Logic argued for the latter. But instinct stronger than reason warned that the danger had been real, and daylight had done nothing to dispel his certainty.
Dusk was falling by the time he saw the cottage, a thin plume of pale smoke curling above its thatched roof, light glinting through chinks in the wooden shutters. It was small but well kept, newly whitewashed. He hesitated as he neared the door, for he had not yet come up with an excuse to explain his presence here. Hoping for inspiration to strike at the final moment, he reached for the metal door knocker. There was a roar from within, such a booming bark that he flinched. What did she have in there, a wolf pack?
The opening door blocked out most of the light. The woman was in shadows, her features hidden. The dog was the one to claim Justin's attention: blacker than coal, the largest mastiff he'd ever seen. Fortunately, she appeared to have a firm grip on the beast's collar.
"Yes?" Her voice was low for a woman, with a distinctive husky tone; it made Justin want to hear it again.
"Mistress Talbot? I know it is presumptuous of me to show up at your door like this. But I was hoping you could spare me a few moments. My name is Justin de Quincy. I was with Master Fitz Randolph when he died."
"Come in."
When she opened the door wider, Justin carefully edged inside, keeping a wary eye on the mastiff. "You need not worry about Jezebel," she said, sounding amused. "She has eaten already."
Jezebel? At least the woman had a sense of humor. And the dog was further proof of Gervase's devotion, for purebreds were outrageously expensive and mastiffs practically worth their weight in gold.
As she turned to close the door, Justin glanced curiously about the cottage. There was a fireplace against the far wall, a canopied bed partially screened off, a cushioned settle, an oak trestle table, several stools and coffer chests, and a woven wall hanging, dyed in bright shades of red and yellow. It was a comfortable room, and it was easy to imagine Gervase hastening here after another squabble with his brother, a spat with his son.
He had not realized that his scrutiny was so conspicuous until Aldith murmured, "Did you miss the fur-lined coverlet on the bed?"
Justin smiled apologetically. "I suppose I was staring, but -" He got no further, for Aldith Talbot quite literally took his breath away. She could not be considered beautiful in the strictest sense of the word, for her mouth was too large, her chin too pointed, her cheekbones too wide. But the result was somehow magical. Her hair was a rich, deep auburn, lustrous and gleaming wherever the firelight caught it, and it was loose about her shoulders, which had an erotic impact in and of itself, for women kept their hair covered in public, unbound only in the privacy of their homes. She had slanting cat eyes, a vibrant shade of blue-green, and Justin was sure that one lingering look would melt most men like candle wax. No wonder Gervase had thought her well worth a mortal sin!
"Are you done, Master de Quincy?"
Justin flushed, feeling like a grass-green stripling undone by his first glimpse of a trim female ankle. "Almost," he said sheepishly. "All I need to do now is to trip over your dog and spill some wine on your skirt."
"You might want to break a cup, too," she suggested, but he could see the laughter shimmering in the depths of those turquoise eyes, like sunlight on seawater. "I shall share a secret with you," she said. "There is not a woman alive who does not appreciate a compliment now and then, and yours was the most flattering tribute of all - the involuntary kind!"
Taking his arm, she steered him toward the settle. But once they were seated, Justin became aware of a savory aroma wafting from the hearth, where a cauldron was bubbling over an iron trivet. Glancing around the cottage, he focused for the first time on the table and its contents: the white cloth, the wrought-iron candlesticks, twin wine flagons and cups, a freshly baked loaf, two trenchers carved from stale bread, spoons and knives neatly aligned. "I am intruding," he said, starting to rise. "You are expecting company…"
"Sit," she urged. "We have time to talk. I would like you to tell me about Gervase's dying. Did he suffer much?"
She was the first one to ask him that. "He was in pain, Mistress Talbot, but not for long. Death came quickly."
"Thank God Almighty for that," 'she said somberly, and under her unwavering blue-green gaze, he told her how Gervase had died, omitting any mention of the queen's letter and his own rash promise to the goldsmith. When he was done, she sighed, daubed unselfconsciously at her eyes with the flowing sleeve of her gown, and then insisted upon fetching him a cup of wine. "I am glad you sought me out so we'd have this chance to talk.
And I am very glad, indeed, to be able to thank you, Master de Quincy, for all you did for Gervase - and for Edwin, too."
He'd had this same conversation once before - with Gervase's wife. Except that she had not thought to include Edwin. He hadn't expected Aldith to be so warm… or so guileless. She ought not to open her door to strangers like this, or to take what she was told on faith. He managed to rein in this newborn protective urge, at least long enough to ask her a few casually calculated questions about Gervase, questions she answered readily.
Yes, she confirmed, Gervase had been off on a business trip to Rouen. After his ship had docked at Southampton on Epiphany Eve, he had continued on to Winchester. Later that evening, he'd stopped by to let her know he was back and to explain that he must depart again on the morrow for London. He'd stayed only an hour or so, for he was weary and wanted to sleep in his own bed. That was the last time she'd seen him, alive or dead, for she had not been invited to the funeral. And no, he'd told her very little about his business in London.
"He hinted that he'd be able to tell me all about it on his return. It was the opportunity of a lifetime, he said, a chance to gain a king's favor. I did not understand, but when I asked what he meant, he just laughed and promised to bring me back a trinket from London."
She sighed again, and Justin resolutely kept his eyes on her face, not letting his gaze follow the rise and fall of her bosom. He ought not to be having lustful yearnings for a woman so recently bereaved. But she was sitting so close that he was having trouble keeping his thoughts from wandering into forbidden territory. Her perfume was scenting his every breath, her mouth as soft and ripe as summer strawberries. She was too trusting, not even realizing she was being interrogated.
"Poor Gervase…" A tear trembled on her lashes, and Justin watched in unwilling fascination as it trickled down her cheek, onto the soft skin of her throat. "I did not love him," she said with unexpected candor, "but I was very fond of him, I truly was. He was always right good to me. He deserved a far better death than the one he got. How much worse it might have been, though, if not for you, Master de Quincy… Justin. You cradled him as he lay dying, you sought to comfort him, you prayed over him, and for that, you will have my eternal gratitude." And leaning over, she kissed him on the cheek, a kiss feather-light and honey-sweet.
Drawing back then, she began to laugh. "Ah, look what I've done to you - smeared lip rouge all over your face! Here, let me repair the damage…" Licking her forefinger, she touched the smudge and began to rub gently. Justin reminded himself that she was a woman of dubious morals, a woman at least ten years older than he, a woman in mourning. But it was not his brain he was heeding at the moment, and when she smiled at him, the urge to kiss
her was well-nigh irresistible.
But Justin was never to know if he would have yielded to the temptation. There was no warning whatsoever. He heard nothing until the shout, a hoarse "Christ on the Cross!" that seemed to fill the room like thunder. He spun around on the settle so fast that he spilled some of his wine, staring at the man framed in the doorway.
He had only a fleeting glimpse of the intruder - tall, tawny haired, and enraged - before the man lunged forward, crossed the cottage in three giant strides, and knotted a fist in the neck of Justin's tunic. Reacting with fury, not thought, Justin flung the contents of his wine cup into his assailant's face. The man gasped, his grip slackening enough for Justin to break free. Sputtering and swearing, he seemed ready to renew his attack. But by then Justin was on his feet, and Aldith had planted herself firmly between them.
"Have you gone stark mad? You're lucky I did not set Jezebel on you!" she scolded the interloper, although the threat would have been more impressive had the mastiff not been leaning her huge head against the man's leg, her tail beating an eager tattoo in the floor rushes.
The man paid no more heed to Aldith than he did to her dog. Never taking his eyes from Justin, he snarled, "I suppose I ought to get your name so I'll know what to tell the coroner! Who in hellfire are you?"
"I would ask you the same thing," Justin shot back, "except that it is obvious who you are - the town lunatic!"
"A bad guess, whoreson! I'm the under-sheriff for Hampshire."
Justin was stunned. "You? You are Luke de Marston?"
"Yes, I am sorry to say that he is!" Aldith was glaring at the deputy. "Had you not burst in here, raving and ranting, you'd have found out that this is Justin de Quincy, the man who came to Gervase's rescue on the Alresford Road."
Luke's eyes narrowed, flicking from Aldith to Justin. His face grew guarded, impossible to read. "On another mission of mercy?" he asked Justin. "You cannot stop doing good deeds, can you?"
Justin ignored him, turning toward the settle to retrieve his mantle. "I will be going now, Mistress Talbot."
"Yes," she agreed, "I think that would be best." Following Justin to the door, she gave him an intimate, regretful smile. "I am so sorry…"
"Yes," Justin said coldly, "so am I." As their eyes met, she had the grace to blush a little. She started to speak, then stopped herself, but stood watching in the doorway until Luke s voice summoned her back inside.
The temperature had plunged once the sun set, but Justin was indifferent to the cold. His brain was whirling with half-formed thoughts. Yet one fact stood out in unsparing clarity. He had been set up. He had no doubts whatsoever that Aldith had contrived that compromising scene for Luke's benefit. He just did not understand why. Was she one of those women who enjoyed baiting men into fighting over her? Or was there a more specific intent to her mischief - a deliberate ploy to make Luke de Marston jealous?
But a moment later, Justin had forgotten about his bruised pride, halting abruptly on the darkened street in a belated, troubled understanding of what he'd witnessed. Aldith's dog had not barked at Luke's entrance. Nor had he knocked. The sheriff's deputy had a key to Aldith Talbot's cottage.
4
TOWER OF LONDON
January 1193
The groom took Copper's reins, then glanced inquiringly over his shoulder. "You want me to unsaddle him?"
Justin shook his head. No need to bother. He did not think he would be long at the Tower. Once he'd confessed to the queen that he could not solve the goldsmith's murder, what further use would she have for him?
He was nearing the keep when he noticed the couple standing by the stairs. He recognized the woman at once: the queen's lady and his good angel. Even if she had not been so helpful to him, she was far too pretty to be forgotten. The man was unfamiliar, but Justin knew at once that this stranger was someone of significance, for he was richly dressed in a fur-lined mantle, and when he reached out to touch her cheek, an emerald ring glowed like fox fire. She did not appear to welcome the caress, but she did not rebuff it, either, showing a diffidence that Justin found surprising. She'd impressed him as a born flirt, and a sleekly self-confident one at that. She'd had no trouble spurning Durand's unwanted advances, for certes. Now, though, she seemed flustered. Justin waited to make sure she did not need a distraction, for he owed her a favor and would like nothing better than to repay it.
But their conversation was already ending. She backed away, smiling politely as the man began to climb the stairs. By the time he'd disappeared into the keep, Justin had reached her. She turned with a sudden smile, this one much more spontaneous. "Master de Quincy! I thought you'd gone off on a clandestine mission for the queen."
Justin was flattered to be remembered, but startled that she knew so much about him. "What makes you think that, demoiselle?"
"I asked Peter about you," she said forthrightly. "He said the queen had given him a letter for you, but I could not get much more out of him. Peter takes his duties entirely too seriously." She had an appealing grin, at once mischievous and coquettish. "I hope you do not mind my prying. Alas, curiosity has always been an abiding sin of mine."
"I'd forgive you far greater sins than that, demoiselle," Justin said gallantly. He at once felt rather foolish, for that sounded like something out of a minstrel's tale. It seemed to please her, though, and that was well worth a little embarrassment. She introduced herself now as Claudine de Loudun, and he seized the opportunity to kiss her hand. But when he ventured a discreet query about the one-sided flirtation he'd witnessed, he was jolted by her response.
"You were going to rescue me?" Her eyes widened. "You are either the bravest man I've ever met or the craziest, mayhap both! Unless… you do not know who he is, do you?"
"Obviously someone of importance," Justin said, somewhat defensively, for she sounded astonished, as if he'd failed to recognize the Son of God.
"Important? I'd say that is as good a way as any to describe a future king. That was the queen's son. John, the Count of Mortain." Claudine's amusement was waning. Glancing around, she lowered her voice. "I've heard that he has been asking about you."
Justin was dumbfounded. "Are you sure? How would the Count of Mortain even know I'm alive?"
"He may not know you personally, but he seems very interested in that letter you brought to the queen." She dropped her voice still further, brown eyes very serious. "And if John is interested in you, Master de Quincy, better that you know it."
~~
Eleanor gazed searchingly into eyes very like her own, a golden hazel, utterly opaque, eyes that gave away no secrets. How little she knew him - this stranger, her son. For years he'd been on the outer reaches of her life. The last of their eaglets, the child she'd never wanted, born in the twilight of a dying marriage. A hostage to the impassioned enmity of a love gone sour. He'd been just six when she'd become Henry's captive, seventeen when next she saw him, and twenty-two when she was finally set free. He was six and twenty now and still he eluded her. She and Richard needed no words between them, so easy and instinctive was the understanding that had always been theirs. But with John, all the words in Christendom did not seem enough.
Would an outright challenge be best? Or nuance and equivocation? She was not usually so irresolute. But with John, she was always following unfamiliar trails, never sure what lay around the bend.
"I've been told that alarming rumors are circulating about Richard," she said abruptly, making up her mind to try a frontal assault. "Men are claiming that he is dead, shipwrecked on his way back from the Holy Land. Such talk is not new. It began when Richard's ship did not reach Brindisi. But these rumors are rather specific and remarkably widespread, almost as if they were deliberately sown. I would hate to think you had a hand in that, John."
"I'll not deny that I think hope has faded. But you cannot blame me because other men think so, too."
"Why are you so sure that Richard is dead?"
"Why are you so sure," he countered, "that he is not? I d
o not mean to be cruel, Mother, but I must be blunt. Richard has been missing for more than three months. If evil has not befallen him, why have we not gotten word of his whereabouts by now? Unless… you have heard from him?"
"No… I have heard nothing from Richard. Why would you ask that?"
He shrugged. "I suppose I was remembering the gossip I heard - talk of a mysterious letter delivered by an equally mysterious messenger. Naturally I was curious, and since Richard is so often in my thoughts these days, he came at once to mind."
Behind her, Eleanor heard a smothered cry, quickly broken off, as William Longsword half rose from his seat. Ignoring Will's distress, she smiled at her son. "I'd give little credence to gossip, John. You, of all men, ought to appreciate how unreliable it is.
For the past twelvemonth, rumor has had you conspiring with the French king to usurp Richard's throne. But we both know that to be an outrageous falsehood… do we not?"