The queen's man : a medieval mystery (18 page)

The alehouse was just a stone's throw from the farrier's smithy, a two-story, overhanging timber building that had seen better days; its whitewash was grey, its shutters warped, and its ale-pole sagged out into the street at a drunken angle. Inside, it was dark and smelled strongly of spilt ale. A drunken customer was slumped over a corner table, snoring. Two other men were playing draughts and flirting with a bored serving maid. She looked toward Justin without noticeable interest. "What can I get for you, friend?"

"I would like to speak to Nell."

"You already are," she said, and Justin gave her a startled reappraisal. Managing an alehouse was a demanding job for anyone, especially a woman, and he had instinctively envisioned Nell as a formidable, no-nonsense beldame, well armored in years and flesh. Instead, he found himself staring at a wood sprite. She was young, not much older than Justin himself, and tiny, barely five feet, with a summer cloudburst of curly hair pouring out of its pins, a sprinkling of freckles, and bright blue eyes fringed with golden lashes. At first glance, she seemed like a rabbit among foxes; Justin could not imagine a more alien environment for her than this squalid alehouse. But those blue eyes were neither guileless nor trustful, and when he asked to rent a room, she studied him with a skeptical smile.

"Why would you want to stay in a hovel like this?"

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Justin was amused by her bluntness. "I commend your honesty—if not your hospitality. IVe a lamed horse across the street at the smithy, and I need a place close at hand till he is fit to ride again. Gunter said you'd probably be able to rent me a room. Now . . . can you or not?"

"Gunter vouches for you? Why did you not say so?" This time her smile was real, although her eyes remained guarded. "My daughter and I share one of the rooms, so I'm particular about who I rent to. If Gunter thinks you're trustworthy, that is good enough for me. If you are willing to pay a half-penny a night, the room is yours. But no dogs."

"I do not have a—oh, no." Glancing around, Justin discovered that the pup had followed him into the alehouse and was sitting placidly at his feet. "He is not mine."

Nell's skeptical smile came back. "Does he know that?"

Justin smiled ruefully. "Well . . . I'm doing my best to convince him. He truly is not mine, but I am trying to find a home for him. He'd be here a day or so, no more—"

"Indeed not. We get enough fleas from our regular customers. I do not need a mangy cur bringing more in, too."

"If he had any fleas, they all drowned in the Fleet."

Nell scowled, but curiosity won out. "What was he doing in the river? It's a cold day for a swim."

"A couple of misbegotten dolts threw him off the bridge. I fished him out and then made the mistake of feeding him. The poor beast has not known much kindness in his life, for certes— or much luck, either. You can change that, lass. Just give me a day to find him a home."

"I never had a man try to seduce me for a dog before," Nell said tartly. "One day and that is all!"

Picking up one of the sputtering tallow candles, she led him into the stairwell. The dog frisked along after them, determined not to let Justin out of his sight. The room was small, containing only a stool and a pallet. Justin could not help laughing when the dog immediately hopped onto the bed. Trying to sound stern, he ordered, "Shadow, off!"

THE QU BEN S MAN

Sotting the candle down on the stool, Noll headed for the

door. The last word was hers. "Not \ our 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

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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

THE QUEEN'S MAN

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."

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'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/ 7 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."

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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 chest, 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 resis-

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tance. 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!"