The queen's man : a medieval mystery (20 page)

Justin wanted to ask where "here" was, but he was too groggy to keep the conversation going. He was not accustomed to using a pillow, and its seductive softness lulled him back into sleep within moments of closing his eyes. When he awoke again, he could see glimmerings of light through the chinks in the shutters and the woman tending to him was Nell.

As soon as he stirred, she hastened toward the bed. "How are you feeling? It was a right nasty crack on the head you took, which could've killed you as easily as that whoreson's dagger. When you swooned away like that, it scared us enough to fetch a doctor, and then he scared us even more. He said a contusion of the skull ought to heal, but a contusion of the brain was almost always fatal, and all we could do was wait, that either you'd remain senseless till you died or you'd come around on your own."

Nell at last paused for breath. "But when I told him that you'd be the one paying him for his services, that seemed to give him a greater interest in your recovery! He cleaned your wound with honey and then made up a yarrow poultice to stop the bleeding, and promised to come back today."

Justin managed a flicker of a smile. Nell was tilting a cup to his lips and he swallowed without questioning or tasting, sure only that it was wet. His eyes were roaming the chamber as he drank. It still looked totally unfamiliar, although it did remind him of Aldith's cottage. The walls were whitewashed, a fire burned in the hearth, and his bed was piled with clean, neatly mended coverlets. But there was an oddly empty feel to the place, a layering of dust, and the musty scent of vacancy. "Where am I, Nell?"

"Did Agnes not tell you? This is Gunter's cottage."

None of this made sense to Justin. Nell saw his confusion and reached over to retrieve the cup. "The doctor said you ought not to be left alone, so we took turns sitting up with you, me and Agnes and Ursula, the apothecary's widow. We brought you here because we thought you'd be safer. Gunter said those men

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looked like they were set upon murder, not robbery, and we worried that they might know you'd been staying at the alehouse." She paused again, giving Justin a speculative, challenging look. "Was Gunter right? Were they out to kill you?"

"Yes," Justin admitted, "they were." He was relieved when she asked no further questions, although he knew his reprieve would be brief. She would not interrogate him while he was so weak, but she'd soon be demanding answers, and she'd have a right to them. Nell had moved over to the hearth, announcing that she'd cooked up a pottage for him and hoped he liked onions and cabbage. He had never been less hungry, but he dutifully ate a few spoonfuls of the thick soup before saying:

"I cannot go back to the alehouse, for I'd never put you and Lucy at risk. But I cannot stay here. I'd not turn Gunter out of his own bed."

Nell handed him a chunk of barley bread, thickly smeared with butter. "You need not fret about that. Gunter beds down at his smithy, has not slept here for months, not since his wife died."

Shadow was nudging Justin's arm, eyes locked hungrily upon the bread tempting inches from his nose. Breaking off a piece, Justin dipped it in the soup and tossed it to the dog. "Passing strange," he said softly. "Gunter saved my life, and yet I know next to nothing about him. When did his wife die?"

"Nigh on a year ago. I do not remember the exact date, but I know it was during Lent. Maude had always been frail, and she'd been sickly for years. But Gunter doted on her. You'd have thought she was the Queen of England, the way he looked after her."

A ghost of a smile flitted across Nell's lips. Sounding faintly wistful, she said, "I never knew a man could be so gentle, not till I saw him cradling her in his arms, pleading with her to eat. She just wasted away, poor woman. And after he buried her, Gunter moved out of the house. We all thought he'd move back once his grieving was done. And when he did not, some people were indignant, calling it a scandalous waste to let a house sit empty.

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No one dared say it to Gunter's face, though, for he is a quiet one, rarely riled, and yet . . . yet people give him space, if you know what I mean."

"Yes, I do know what you mean," Justin agreed, for he'd not soon forget the image of Gunter whirling around to confront the killers, pitchfork in hand.

"The neighbors did what they could to comfort him. We try to look out for our own here on Gracechurch Street. Of course some of the women had more in mind than comfort, for Gunter would be a good catch: a God-fearing Christian with a kind heart and a thriving trade. But all the pies and newly baked bread they brought to the smithy availed them naught. Gunter had always been ready to offer a hand to anyone in need, but he'd always kept to himself, too. And since Maude's death, he's become even more of a . . . what is the word for those holy men, the ones who shun the company of others and live as hermits?"

"A recluse?"

"Yes, a recluse!" Nell nodded vigorously. "I watch Gunter sometimes, drinking his ale. So sad he looks, like he's forgotten how to smile. But a man chooses his own path, does he not?"

"Gunter and Maude . . . they had no children?"

"Several babes stillborn. Only one survived, a son they christened Thomas, after the saint. People say they thought the sun rose and set in that lad's eyes."

"What happened to him?" Justin asked, already sure there was no happy ending to the farrier's story.

"He drowned when he was thirteen. He'd been playing with friends down by the river and fell in. This was long ere I moved to the street, of course. Tom would have been about your age, I reckon, had he lived."

Nell had related the farrier's sorrows as matter-of-factly as she'd recounted her own. She accepted grief as she accepted January's cold or July's parched heat. "Let me get you some more soup," she offered, and ignoring his refusal, she bustled over to the hearth, began to ladle out another bowl.

"I almost forgot!" She spun around so hastily that she nearly

spilled the soup. "That serjeani came by. I cannot remember his

name, the one who looks like he escaped from Hell when the Devil's back was turned. We all told him what we could, and he said he'd return on the morrow—on the off chance that you were still alive! 1 have to tell you, Justin, that I do not care much for the company you keep!"

"Neither do I, Nell." Justin's head had begun to throb. He lay back against the pillow, closing his eyes, and fell asleep almost at once. But within moments, he was jarred into wakefulness by Gunter's entrance.

"You look a lot better than you did the last time I saw you," the farrier said, with a slight smile, and Justin felt a surge of gratitude so intense that his throat tightened.

"If not for you, I'd look a lot worse, for I'd be a corpse. I owe you my life, Gunter. I do not know how a man repays a debt like that. If there is ever anything I can do for you—accompany you on pilgrimage to the Holy Land, hunt down any of your enemies, help you muck out your stalls—I am your man."

"I might take you up on the stall-mucking offer." Although he was striving for a light tone, Gunter's dark eyes were somber. "Did Nell tell you those knaves got away? That is why I felt such unease this afternoon when a man came into the alehouse asking for you. He said his name is Nicholas de Mydden. Do you know him?"

Justin frowned. "No, the name means nothing to me."

"Did Ellis remember what I told him to say if anyone came asking for Justin?" Turning toward Justin, Nell explained, "Ellis is a local lad who helps out at the alehouse when I have need of him. He did not let me down, Gunter?"

"No, he insisted he'd never heard of a Justin de Quincy. But the man then sought me out at the smithy. He knew all about your lamed stallion, Justin, so I could hardly play the fool like Ellis. I told him to try the other alehouse on Gracechurch Street."

"I did not know there was a second alehouse on this street," Justin said in surprise, and Gunter looked at him with a glint of unexpected humor.

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'There is not. But de Mydden will eventually learn that for himself and he'll be back. So we'd best decide now what we want to do about him."

Justin was baffled. Neither Gilbert the Fleming nor Pepper Clem could have known about Copper's lameness. "This de Mydden . . . what does he look like, Gunter?"

"Sleek, like a cat he is. God forbid he should ever get mud splattered on his fine mantle or muck on his shoes. Not so tall as you, with hair and beard the color of sun-dried straw, and the kind of courtesy that can be hard to tell from an insult. Wellborn, I daresay, but also a born liar, for he claimed you were to meet him at the Tower this forenoon—"

"Jesu!" Justin sat up too abruptly, wincing at the sudden pain. When he'd met with the queen at Westminster on Candlemas, he'd promised to report back to her on the following Monday— today. "The Tower—I forgot!"

Gunter studied him closely. "So . . . you'll be wanting to see him, after all?"

"Yes." Justin hesitated, torn between the silence he owed to Eleanor and the honesty he owed to Gunter and Nell. "I do not know the man," he said at last, "but I do need to see him. He is one of the queen's household knights. I would tell you more if I could. Later, I hope I can. Till then, I must ask you to trust me— and to fetch him here."

Gunter's face was unrevealing. "Then I'd best go find him," he said evenly, and turned toward the door.

Unlike the farrier, Nell made no attempt to conceal her curiosity. She was staring openly at Justin. " 'The queen's household,' " she echoed incredulously. "Who are you, Justin de Quincy?"

Nicholas de Mydden reminded Justin of a cat, too, well groomed and aloof and self-contained. If his fur had been ruffled by the wild goose chase he'd been sent upon, it did not show either in his demeanor or his countenance. He'd followed Gunter back to the cottage with no recriminations, and once there, he'd waited composedly for Justin to offer an explanation.

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He proved to be a good listener, hearing lustin out with no interruptions. Only then did he say, "When you did not appear at the Tower this forenoon as agreed upon, the queen feared that something was amiss. Queens are not left waiting, after all, because a man overslept or stopped off at a tavern on his way. I know nothing of your mission for the queen," he continued judiciously, "only what I needed to know to find you. But I assume this attack on you was no random robbery?"

"You can safely assume that," Justin said grimly. "It was good of Her Grace to send you out in my behalf. Tell her that for me, if you will, and that I'll report as soon as I'm on my feet again, in a day or tw T o."

Nicholas nodded. "Anything else?"

"Yes." Justin looked up at the other man. "Tell her that I was careless. But tell her, too, that it will not happen again."

The doctor arrived as Nicholas de Mydden departed, pronounced Justin to be on the mend, and asked for his fee. Nell flirted in and out all afternoon, whenever she could take time away from her duties at the alehouse. Gunter paid another brief visit, as did Dame Agnes and the Widow Ursula, Justin's neighborly nurses, and a few of the alehouse's regular customers who'd taken part in the hue and cry after his attackers. By the end of the day, he was exhausted, and finally fell asleep with a roomful of people milling about.

His dreams were still troubled, filled with foreboding. Turning and tossing, he awoke with a start, sweat trickling into his eyes and his heart thudding against his ribs. "Be easy," a low female voice soothed. "It was but a bad dream."

"Nell . . ."he murmured hazily, and would have drifted off to sleep again had she not spoken up quickly.

"No ... it is Claudine."

Justin's eyes snapped open. "Claudine!"

She was amused by his obvious astonishment. "I coaxed Nicholas into bringing me here; he is waiting over at the alehouse to take me back. I wanted to see for myself that you were not on your deathbed." Reaching out, she touched her fingers to

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his beard and then the red welts on his throat. "Are you thirsty?"

When he nodded, she returned with a cup of watered-down wine and watched as he drank, then reclaimed the cup. "This Nell ... is she your woman?"

"No," he said, and she smiled.

"Good." Leaning over, she kissed him on the forehead. "Rest now," she urged. "I'll stay until you sleep."

The next morning, Justin remembered her remarkable bedside vigil very vividly, although he could not be sure if he was recalling reality or another feverish dream. But not even Claudine could exorcise Gilbert the Fleming's hold, and the day that followed was a dismal one for him. His head ached, his injured arm throbbed, and his nerves were stretched tauter than any bowstring. He saw enemies in the shadows and shadows everywhere.

The doctor had told Justin to stay abed, but neither his temperament nor his circumstances allowed for a lengthy convalescence. He forced himself to get up by midmorning, ignoring the silent protesting of his sore and stiffening muscles, and dressed clumsily in one of Nell's brief absences.

Much to his frustration, just moving around the cottage exhausted him. How could he defend himself when he felt as limp and weak as a melted candle? He soon had to contend with Nell, too, for she was highly indignant to find him out of bed. Out of sheer stubbornness, he balked at heeding her scolding and stayed on his feet until she returned to the alehouse. As soon as she was gone, he cast pride aside and collapsed onto the bed. But he'd barely gotten to sleep when he was roused by an insistent demand for admittance. Stumbling blearily across the chamber, he opened the door to Jonas.

After one glance at Justin's ashen face, the serjeant unhooked a wineskin from his belt. "You look like a man who badly needs a drink." Tossing the wineskin casually in Justin's direction, he straddled the cottage's only chair. "I hear you found Gilbert the Fleming."

"I suppose that is one way of putting it." Justin sat down on the bed and took a swig from the Serjeant's wineskin; he suspected he was going to need it.