Masques of Gold (15 page)

Justin sighed. “Perhaps not, but the whole thing makes me uneasy. One might believe that Flael was involved in some secret matter and was threatened for some reason—perhaps to make sure he would remain silent. Flael, being weak and timid, was more affected than whoever took him intended, and he died. In case others knew the secret, his body was mutilated as a warning. The sons took heed and fled. If that is the true case, the secret must be powerful and dangerous. Should we not know what it is? But there is another way to look at Flael's death. That he was deliberately shocked for private reasons by someone who knew of his weakness and then mutilated so that we would think the purpose of his death more complex.”

“I think your reasoning has more bends and coils than a crazy, snake,” Thomas said. “And to answer your first question—no, we should not try to discover the secret. We would be wiser and safer to know nothing at all about a secret so important that one who knew it died of fright when threatened or questioned.”

He was about to say more, but the sound of heavy steps on the stairs silenced him. In his mother's household, Thomas would have paid no attention at all to the coming and going of servants. Several of his mother's people had belonged to the family before Thomas was born, and the younger servants were their children. However, Justin's old manservant had died, and he had taken on, rather hastily, the husband of the woman who had nursed his servant through his last days. He liked the woman, who kept his house and clothing decently clean and provided such food as she could, considering his irregular hours. The man, however, he did not like or trust; Hervi mistreated his wife and was mealymouthed and whining.

Both men watched the servant lay thick trenchers of bread on the table and then place between them a wooden platter of broken meats, half a cheese, a fresh loaf of manchet bread, and a large flagon of hot spiced wine. With simultaneous sighs of pleasure, both reached for the horn cups still on the tray. Thomas seized the flagon with his other hand, and Justin waved the servant away, saying they would serve themselves. Thomas poured wine, and both men drank silently while the servant went down the stairs. Justin raised his cup in warning, then went and shut the door.

“I forgot him,” he said as he returned and sat down at the table. “He listens—and talks too, I think, but I do not yet know to whom.”

“Get rid of him then,” Thomas said, sitting down at the opposite side of the table.

“I am sorry for his woman.” Justin shrugged. “And I would like to know whether he is a hired spy or just sells what he hears for an extra penny to whoever will pay.”

“It would not be on account of the business,” Thomas said reflectively. “Alan might have that problem or Richard, but not you. If he is a spy for one man, that man must be our dearly beloved mayor, Roger FitzAdam.”

“More the fool he,” Justin remarked with a shrug. “He is wasting good money. I tell him the truth and all the truth of what I do.” He laughed as he drew his eating knife and began to pick pieces of meat from the platter. “It is safe to tell Roger everything because he does not understand half I say and forgets the other half.”

Thomas also speared meat on the platter, rather harder than was necessary, and he looked up at Justin before he moved the selection to his own trencher. “The less he understands, the less he trusts you. And he remembers what he can use against you, Justin. Why did you not refuse him when he asked you to lead the guard again?”

Justin's mouth hardened. “Because I do not like to see justice bought and sold so stupidly that the burghers would soon cry to be back in the king's hand, from which we only escaped a few years past. I am reasonable enough to take account of the man and the reason as well as the crime itself, but to blame the beggars and the players for every crime and let the lords run riot in the city—”

Thomas held up a hand. “I have heard this lesson before. There was no need for you to answer me as if the subject were new to us. I just wished to remind you that a man may be dangerous even though he is stupid.”

“Oh, I am not likely to forget that.” Justin laughed and tore a portion from the loaf of bread, which he handed to Thomas. Then he frowned. “But to tell the truth, I have made no report to Roger about Flael's death. I have spoken fully to Goscelin, and since he summoned me directly I do not see how I can be blamed, especially since the man was not murdered by blow or rope. Now I know I should have gone to Roger at once to see the look on his face when I described Flael's corpse, but by the time I knew there was something strange about Flael's death, Roger would have been warned. At first, of course, I thought it was the woman—young wife, old rich husband—but she does not profit. I have seen Flael's will.”

“Ah, I thought you might have had some suspicions of her,” Thomas mumbled around a mouthful of meat and bread. “But I felt neither guilt nor fear in her today or on the day Flael was buried. And I will tell you right now that Madame Heloise is not driven by greed. There is a look one cannot miss in those who love money. She was not indifferent to the debts, but it was as if she were witnessing a business arrangement of which she was not partaking. And as to murdering Flael for passion—”

Justin went on chewing when Thomas stopped, grateful to have a reason to grind his teeth together, but he knew his cousin was not deliberately teasing him and managed to keep quiet.

Thomas had cleared his mouth, but he paused to take a deep drink and then to laugh. “It is ridiculous. Madame Heloise is clever, I grant you—she barely glanced at your notes, but when I later asked a question or two, she had the answers already in mind—but passion? She has none, or at least none that relates to her husband in any way. I think she has a good nature; she is gentle and thoughtful, but she is as flat of disposition and as passionless as a cold oat cake.”

Is Thomas mad or am I, Justin wondered, remembering the intense liveliness of Lissa's glance and repartee, the quick snapping answers when he annoyed her, and most of all, with a physical reaction that was driving him to the edge of despair, the warmth of her response to him. He picked up his cup, which would partially shield his face, and said, “Passionless? You mean she did not flirt with you?”

Thomas paused to chew another mouthful. He had not expected that question. He would not have been surprised if his cousin had waved away the whole topic of Madame Heloise's involvement in her husband's death, satisfied once Thomas's opinion confirmed his own. He would have been equally unsurprised if Justin had questioned him minutely on every word and gesture of the suspect. Sometimes Justin could obtain hints and information Thomas did not know he held. But the question regarding the quality of Madame Heloise's nature had not been asked within the context of Flael's death. And the tone of Justin's voice—the mixture of smugness and uncertainty when he asked if Madame Heloise had flirted—would in any case have put a new light on Justin's interest in Flael's widow.

Having spent as long as he reasonably could on chewing and swallowing, Thomas looked up and shook his head. “Not fair,” he said. “I was judging the woman as heart-free because I trusted you when you told me that she did not pretend any particular attachment to her husband. If I had known that she was sealed to someone, I would not, I think, have judged her as passionless. No wonder she grew white with pain when I said you would not come to Flael's burial, and again today when I handed her the list.”

“You did not tell me that,” Justin said, putting down his cup without drinking.

“I did not tell you that she stirred my spiced wine three times with a silver spoon either,” Thomas retorted. “I was taking account only of what might pertain to the crime. I marked her disappointment when you did not come to the burial as a sign of her innocence, of which there were many other marks. By Mary's bright eyes, Justin, I thought you suspected the woman of a hand in her husband's death—”

“She could have been involved with one of the sons,” Justin said defensively. “She was more the younger Peter's age than the elder's.”

“Such things happen,” Thomas agreed, “but I would say not with Madame Heloise—”

“Call her Lissa. Her father calls her Heloise and she does not like the name.” The words were out before Justin thought, and he could feel his ears grow hot when he realized how he had betrayed himself. Although he had spoken of far more intimate matters to his cousin without embarrassment, he found he could not mention Lissa without awkwardness.

Thomas's reply was delayed by no more than an eyeblink, yet that brief silence was painfully apparent before he went on smoothly, “But I would say that Mistress Lissa is far too experienced and far too clever a woman to be much interested in a boy younger than she, even if not by much.”

“Unless she thought such a one would be easily ruled,” Justin said, staring straight ahead but not meeting Thomas's eyes.

Thomas frowned, and his voice sharpened. “What the devil ails you, Justin? You do not believe the woman to be guilty of her husband's death, I know that. Then why do you seek this reason and that—and one more unlikely than the next—to involve her?”

“Because I find myself too much drawn to her,” Justin replied savagely, “and because, guilty or not, she is hiding something from me. And I could not pry it out because I sank deeper into pleasure with each exchange between us. She made me desire to be with her—not only to lie with her but to
be
with her—as I have not desired a woman's company since I was a green boy. But she
is
hiding something, and I will not be easy about her part in this until I discover what it is, no matter how small.”

“You sound as if you were considering a wife.” Thomas's voice was somewhat higher than normal, and he laid his eating knife down by the side of his trencher.

“Why not?” Justin asked, laughing suddenly. “I desire her and she, you say, desires me, which is a better beginning than many marriages that start in antipathy. Moreover, there are even the usual enticements to taking a wife. She is well dowered; she will be heiress to a very good business when her father dies—”

“Yes, but until he does die you will have William Bowles as a father-by-marriage,” Thomas remarked and picked up his eating knife again.

He had been startled, even alarmed by Justin's earlier intensity, but his cousin's voice had lightened and he was smiling as he spoke of marriage. This, Thomas judged, was a jest, even if a painful one; clearly Justin
did
have a strong desire for this Lissa. But the reminder about her father might deaden the desire somewhat.

“He can do me little harm if I do not keep my position as the mayor's watchdog,” Justin replied thoughtfully. “And I fear I will not keep my position long in any case. I am being careful, but sooner more likely than later I will step on our mayor's toes, and enough of his friends will support him to enable him to dismiss me again. I will not repine. Remember what I told you of FitzWalter's offer to me? I will instead extend my trading into spices and silks. Lissa may have William Bowles for a father, but she also has two uncles in the Hanse.”

“What?” Thomas dropped his eating knife again and stared. “That might make even a father-by-marriage like Bowles worthwhile.”

But Justin burst into a harsh roar of laughter. “Oh Thomas, my Thomas, I did not think I could draw you like that any longer.”

Although Thomas was not certain Justin was perfectly sure himself whether he was jesting or not, he took the words as a warning off dangerous ground. “Well, let me tell you what I suffered from the Hanse today, and you may yet reconsider,” he said, and launched into a description of his business at the Steelyard.

Justin was deeply interested in the Hanse for many reasons, and the discussion lasted through the meal. When Justin got up to call Hervi to clear, Thomas rose also and asked his cousin to bid the servant get his horse first. Justin protested that he expected Thomas to stay and would never have suggested he come for the evening meal if he had suspected he would ride home after it. Thomas laughed, protesting that he was not likely to get lost on the way to Candlewick Street, no matter how dark the night.

After seeing his cousin out, Justin hurried back up the stairs and shoved his chair closer to the fire, telling Hervi over his shoulder to fill his cup with wine. With the drink in hand, he thought back over his conversation with Thomas, and slowly began to relax.

So Lissa had been disappointed when he did not come—bitterly disappointed, her face grown white with pain, Thomas had said. It made an enormous difference; there was no question of her amusing herself with other men while he was tormented by some spell or potion and could not even think of another woman. But Thomas had also judged her passionless—no, he had said that judgment was unfair, made while he believed Lissa loved no one, was heart-whole. Later he had said her heart was sealed to someone, as if the heart, having been wounded, was now covered with a plaster to protect it from other attempts on it.

The notion made Justin smile, but a moment later his lips twisted and the creases between his brows deepened into a frown. There had been times in the past few days when his chest ached enough to need a plaster, if one could reach inside to place one. How cruel of him to inflict such pain on Lissa! He almost stood up to go to her that minute, but controlled the ridiculous impulse. She would be abed and asleep by now, the house locked and barred. What excuse could he give for hammering at the door? What excuse would he need? If she loved him, would she not receive him with open arms at any time? Perhaps and perhaps not, for the maid, who hated her, would surely carry the news…and his own guards would ruin
his
reputation too. Justin laughed aloud. Tomorrow would be soon enough.

He drained the cup, rose to set it on the table, which now stood against the wall, and went about the room pinching out the flames on the candles. As always on such a bitterly cold night, he looked with disfavor on the furnishings of his bedchamber. The hearth, though it vented to the street and did not fill the room with smoke, was too small to warm the room thoroughly. Worse, he was still sleeping on the cot he had brought when he moved in, mostly because he could not make up his mind what sort of bed he wanted.