The queen's man : a medieval mystery (17 page)

"Why would that matter so to him?"

"As long as Richard's whereabouts remain a mystery, John can sow rumors with impunity and find ready believers. So far he has been relying upon his agents and spies to spread these stories of Richard's death. Soon he must start making these claims himself. But it would be very awkward—to say the least—if Queen Eleanor could then offer proof that Richard is still alive. I am sure that is why he is so curious about that letter you delivered and your subsequent missions for the queen."

"Thank you, my lord, for being so forthright."

"You had a right to know," Will said simply. Snapping his fingers at the greyhound, he turned to go. "I am afraid you are caught in the middle of two separate hunts, lad, one for a killer and the other for a throne."

T\\\ Ql BEN'S MAN

Justin stayed by the river wall, watching as the glow from Will's lantern grew fainter and fainter. There were too main players in this game—the Fleming, the queen's son, the queen herself, possibly even the King of France—and the rules kept changing. It was a sobering thought, that a mistake of his might prolong the English Lionheart's captivity.

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His visit proved to be as futile as it was unsettling. Once again he'd missed the sheriff, and this time the trail had gone cold, Roger Fitz Alan had said nothing about where he was going next. Muttering a tew choice swear words to himself, Justin unhitched Copper and tried to decide what to do.

It was difficult to concentrate, though, for his senses were still being assailed by the sounds and stenches of prison life. The moat was filled with stagnant water from the river, fetid and murky. Justin would rather not know what lay hidden in its disgusting depths. The prison itself had an offensive odor, too, a rancid mingling of urine, unwashed bodies, sweat, and fear. Even out in the bailey, the air seemed tainted.

The noise had not abated, either, for the gaol had an iron grate, giving prisoners a narrow window to the world. Manacled hands thrust through the rusted apertures, and voices echoed after Justin, entreating alms, for Christ's pity. He'd already dropped a handful of small coins into outstretched palms, for Luke had told him something startling about a prisoner's lot.

According to the deputy, King Henry had provided his sheriffs with funds to feed the imprisoned. But the practice had become sporadic under King Richard, and more and more, prisoners were left to fend for themselves. Those who could not afford to pay for meals, bedding, firewood, candles, or clothing did without—unless they could prevail upon the charity of pas-sersby like Justin.

Now, as Justin watched, a man was dragged out into the bailey and wrestled into the stocks. Two other prisoners were already being punished this way. Yet they greeted the newcomer with no sympathy, only mockery and taunts. Even after his wrists and ankles had been immobilized within the wooden frame, the man continued to struggle, to the amusement of his guards and fellow prisoners. His defiance would not last long, for his runic was threadbare and ragged and the day blustery and raw, February at its worst. Justin had seen enough. Swinging up into the saddle, he rode out of the bailey, not looking back.

He had decided to return to the Tower, for the sheriff was sure

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to turn up there sooner or later. But it was past the dinner hour. He'd often seen vendors selling mutton or eel pies in the city streets. Thinking that he'd be most likely to find one midst the bustle of the wharves, he rode south, intending to follow the Fleet down to the Thames waterfront.

The sun had begun to tease the winter-weary Londoners, offering them tantalizingly brief glimpses of brightness through breaks in the cloud cover. Justin had passed the Fleet Bridge when a child's stricken wail interrupted his musings about the whereabouts of Gilbert the Fleming. A small boy, no more than five, was gesturing in panic toward the river, entreating his mother to "Save him, Mama!"

Justin reined in, scanning the river in vain for signs of a drowning victim. "What is amiss?" he asked the closest spectator, a man who had the look of a sailor, for his skin was as weathered and browned as saddle leather. "Did someone fall in the river?"

The sailor shook his head. "Two louts threw a dog off the bridge, and the little lad saw." He sounded regretful, although it was not clear whether his sympathy was for the child or the dog. When life was so hard for people, not many worried about cruelty to animals. There were those with a fondness for dogs, of course, and the sailor might be one. He confirmed that a moment later by saying indignantly, "The pup never had a chance, for they weighed him down with a sackful of rocks."

Justin felt equally indignant. He still remembered how desperately he'd wanted a dog during those lonely childhood years. On the bridge, the young men were laughing and joking, while below them, a little boy was sobbing as if his heart would break. Coming as it did so soon after his disquieting visit to the gaol, the dog's drowning stirred a sharp-edged anger in Justin. Had the smirking youths up on the bridge come down, he'd have been sorely tempted to exact a rough justice of his own. But they were safely out of reach. He was nudging his stallion on when the child cried shrilly, "Look, Mama! There he is!"

A dark head had broken the surface of the water. Struggling

THE QUEEN'S MAN

desperately against the weight dragging him down, the dog lunged for the light, frantically gulping air before he went under again. It was a gallant effort, and a doomed one. Battling two foes—the river current and that sackful of stones—the dog would soon be too fatigued to fight on. Those watching knew that the animal was going to drown.

Only the small child and the young dog would not surrender hope. Resisting his mother's attempts to pull him away, the boy wept and pleaded, and the adults shifted awkwardly under his imploring gaze. Very few people knew how to swim, and only a madman would jump into an icy river to save a dog, no matter how good a swimmer he was. There were murmurings in the crow T d, and even some anger. Why must the wretched beast prolong his agony—and their discomfort?

Casting common sense to the winds, Justin dismounted and handed his reins to the most trustworthy of the bystanders, an elderly Cluniac monk. "I'd be obliged if you'd watch my horse, Brother."

Striding out onto the wharf, he looked in vain for a small boat tied up to one of the pilings; he supposed that would have been too much to hope for. But he did find a rusty grappling hook. Feeling like a fool, he knelt at the end of the pier and urged the terrified animal to swim toward him. Only the dog's muzzle and eyes were visible now, but those eyes were going to haunt his peace; he well knew it. Try as he might, though, he could not get close enough even to attempt a rescue. "It is no use/' he muttered, not sure whether he was talking to himself or the dog, "no use . . ."

"I'll hold you steady, lad," a voice offered behind him, and he glanced up to discover that he'd been followed by the sailor and most of the onlookers. Praying that he'd not plunge headfirst into the river, he unbuckled his sword and then let the sailor lower him over the edge of the wharf.

The dog was still beyond reach, and Justin knew they were running out of time. "Lady Mary, smile upon us," he whispered. Dipping the grapnel into the water, he coaxed, "Come on, boy,

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over here!" The dog swam closer, passed over the grappling hook, and circled back. And then the chain jerked in Justin's

g ri P-

"Jesu, I snared it!" Justin had not truly expected to succeed, but the dog's head and shoulders suddenly popped out of the water, proof that he had indeed managed to snag the rope. A cheer rose from the crowd and the sailor let out a triumphant whoop. But Justin's elation soon ebbed. What now?

"If I pass the grappling hook to you," he told the sailor, "I might be able to cut the rope with my sword. But how do we get him out of the river? He'll never make it to shore on his own; the bank is too steep for him to climb."

"Do you think you can lift the rope up high enough for me to get a grip on it?"

"I can try," Justin said dubiously, and slowly began to maneuver the grappling hook toward the surface. It was heavy and he suddenly realized that he hadn't caught the rope at all; it was the sack itself. By the Rood, what luck! The Blessed Mother Mary truly had favored them. A moment later the sack came into view, neatly speared on one of the grappling claws. "Pull me up," he directed, and then it was the sailor's turn to lean out recklessly into space. As Justin reeled in the grappling hook, the sailor snatched at it and grinned when his fist closed tightly around the rope.

"I'm going to hoist him up," he said. "Better to hurt him than to let him drown."

Justin nodded, then swung his sword and sliced through the rope, above the knot. The sack sank back into the river with a splash, and he reached over to help the sailor haul the dog up onto the wharf. A sharp tug, a yelp, and it was done. The spectators at once recoiled, not wanting to be sprayed. But the dog was too weak to shake himself and lay motionless on the wooden planks, his sides heaving. Bending down, Justin cut the rope away from his neck. For some suspenseful moments, the animal lay still, limp and sodden. Then he gagged and began to retch.

The tension eased and people started to laugh and talk. Justin

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and the sailor found themselves encircled by approving men and women. Even those who'd normally have been indifferent to a dog's death had been caught up in the drama of the rescue, and all were well pleased by the outcome—save only the two youths on the bridge.

They'd been hooting and jeering, but Justin had been too preoccupied to pay them any heed. Now his anger came back in a rush, and when one of them began to curse him for "meddling with our dog," he shouted a defiant challenge. "Come down and claim him then—if you dare!"

The crowd liked that, and a few men spoke loudly of thrashings and worse. The youths continued to rant, but prudently stayed where they were. Someone found Justin a hemp sack and he dried the shivering dog as best he could. By now the dog's first champion had squirmed through the throng of onlookers. Kneeling by the animal, the child took the wet head into his lap, looking up at Justin and the sailor with a smile of purest joy.

A peddler drawn by the crowd had begun to boast about his "hot, savory pies." They were neither hot nor savory, baked hours ago and flecked with grease, but he was soon selling them at a rapid rate. Justin bought two, and offered one to the dog, whose protruding ribs testified to a constant hunger. So, too, did the way he wolfed the pie down, and Justin ended up feeding him the second one, too. The excitement over, people were beginning to drift away. When the little boy's mother pulled him to his feet, Justin suggested that "This would make a fine pet for your lad."

The boy's face lit up, but the woman gave Justin an irate look, snapping, "Indeed not! Come along, Ned." Still glaring over her shoulder at Justin, she hustled her small son off the pier.

Justin and the sailor exchanged smiles. Their partnership had been highly satisfactory, but it was done. Retrieving his stallion from the patiently waiting monk, Justin mounted and started to ease Copper out into the road. He was followed by a ripple of laughter. Glancing back in puzzlement, he soon saw the cause of the crowd's amusement. The dog had lurched to his feet and was trailing after him.

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Justin had planned to follow Thames Street east to the Tower. The traffic was heavy, the street crowded with horsemen, lumbering carts, pedestrians, and stray animals. But as he neared the new bridge, the street became so congested that movement ceased altogether. Peering impatiently ahead, he sought the cause for this disruption. As soon as he saw the man riding backward, forced to face his horse's tail, hands and feet tied and drenched in wine, he understood. A baker who tampered with his scales, a vintner who watered down his wine, any merchant who cheated customers, could expect the same derisory treatment: paraded through the city so all could bear witness to his disgrace. Justin approved of the punishment, but he had no time to watch this day, and he turned off onto Bridge Street, planning to detour around the procession.

He still had not lost his canine shadow. At first he'd tried halfheartedly to discourage the dog. But he'd then decided that it might be best for the poor creature to get as far away as possible from his tormentors. Who was to say that they might not try again once the pup's protectors were gone?

Encountering another peddler, Justin remembered that he hadn't eaten yet and beckoned the man over. A hopeful whimper earned the young dog a pork pie of his own. Tossing a coin to the vendor, Justin was soon on his way again. He'd not gone far, though, before his mount's gait changed. Frowning, he swung from the saddle. A close inspection of Copper's left forefoot revealed the problem—a pebble wedged between the frog and inner rim of the shoe. But try as he might, he could not dislodge the stone. Straightening up, he stood by his lamed stallion in the busy city street and cursed his bad luck. It didn't help.

Justin fidgeted, waiting anxiously for the verdict. But the farrier would not be hurried. A lean, greying man in his forties, sparing with words, he went about his tasks calmly and methodically, first winning the stallion's trust and only then examining the foot and extracting the pebble with a pair of pinchers.

THE QT BEN'S MAN

"The hoof is badly bruised/' he announced at last. "But I do not think the injury is a crippling one, 1 can make up a poultice now, it you like. You'll not be able to ride him for a few days, though, as he'll need time to heal."

When Justin readily agreed, saying he'd never put the stallion at risk, the farrier nodded approvingly, for not all of his customers were so solicitous of their mounts. They soon reached a mutually acceptable price for boarding and treating Copper, and when Justin asked about nearby lodgings, the smith suggested that he try the alehouse on Gracechurch Street.

"The owner of the alehouse no longer lives above-stairs and rents the rooms out. Ask for Nell. Tell her that Gunter the smith sent you."