The queen's man : a medieval mystery (28 page)

But at least she'd not be venturing into the netherworld alone. All was in readiness. Off to her right, she could see a carefully

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positioned cart, covered with canvas. A slovenly dressed stranger was watering his animals at the pool. Although Nell had never seen him before, she knew he was one of Jonas's men, for she'd recognized Justin's chestnut and Luke's sorrel among his string. He was haggling with two monks about the price of a white mule. Nell dared not look in their direction; it was enough that they were there, her guardian angels clad in the stark black of the Benedictines. She had not been forsaken. She had friends. Lifting her chin, she squared her shoulders and walked toward Gilbert the Fleming.

Nora made the introductions. Nell waited tensely then to see what the other woman would do. They'd gambled that she'd not want to linger. The Fleming was a wanted felon, after all, and Nora had so far showTi a very healthy concern for her own welfare. But if they'd guessed wrong about her, the next part of their plan could be imperiled. What if Nora remembered Aldred? Nell held her breath, exhaling it in an audible sigh as Nora kissed Gilbert casually on the cheek, waved nonchalantly, and sauntered away, not looking back.

Gilbert was appraising Nell quite openly, and when she began to fidget under his scrutiny, he said coolly, "You seem nervous, Bella."

"Nervous? I'm scared half to death, and who could blame me? It is not as if I've had any practice at this!"

He seemed amused by her outburst. "You mean this is the first husband you've plotted to kill?"

Nell flinched, for she'd gotten back into character by now, and Bella would have been offended by that. "Must you put it so ... so crudely? It is not the way you make it sound. Did Nora not tell you how he maltreated me and—"

"What makes you think I care? Your reasons for doing this are between you and God. Justify it to Him if you can, but not to me. I need only know if you can meet my price. You told Nora you could. Suppose you tell me how."

Nell's mouth had gone very dry. She'd never seen eyes like his. Dark and flat and glittering, they seemed dead to her, like the eyes of the snakes Justin said he used in his crimes. "I do not

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have any money of my own," she said hoarsely. "But my husband has a lot of money. He must, for he spends almost none of it. He keeps it in an iron coffer at his shop. I suppose he thinks it is safer there than at home, for he'll not trust me with the key, either. But I've seen him open it, and there are coins in there beyond counting, mayhap as much as twenty-five shillings. So ... I thought we could split the money. Half for you and half for me. That . . . that seems fair."

The corner of his mouth twitched. "Very fair."

Nell knew full well why he'd agreed so readily; he had every intention of keeping all the money for himself. But silly little Bella would have believed him, and so she smiled and nodded, as if relieved that they'd come to terms so quickly.

"The easiest way," he said, "would be to make it look as if your husband was slain during a robbery of his shop. But what of the journeyman? Does he sleep there at night?"

"No. Abel insisted upon charging him rent and he preferred to find a room of his own elsewhere. Nora . . . told you about Joel?"

His eyes gleamed knowingly, so salaciously that Nell found it easy to blush. "I know you've been creeping into his bed every chance you get, if that is what you mean. But what puzzles me is why you did not turn to him instead of to me. Why not ask him to help get rid of the inconvenient husband?"

"I could never do that!" Nell did her best to sound appalled. "Joel would never take part in a killing, no matter how much he loves me. It is just not in his nature." She saw the outlaw's smug half-smile and suppressed a smile of her own, one of victory, for this was the last nail driven into the Fleming's coffin. He'd be keen to do her killing, for now he knew she could be bled white afterward. Whenever he and Nora wanted extra money, they need only threaten to reveal the truth to Joel and she'd pay to keep them quiet.

"I want to do it soon," he said, "for I've been inactive of late and I need some fast money. Where is his shop?"

Nell was prepared for this question. "On Candle-wright Street, opposite St Clement's Church." She yearned to turn her

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head, to see it Justin and Luke were dosing in vet, but she dared not. They had agreed beforehand on the need for extreme caution, for with a man like Gilbert, they could not afford the slightest misstep.

"I'll want to check it out for myself. In the meantime, you are to get me a copy of his money box key. Do not argue, woman, just do it! The man does take a bath occasionally, does he not? Whilst he bathes, you press the key into warm wax and make an impression. I know a locksmith who'll ask no awkward questions."

"I ... I will try," Nell said hesitantly. "I must—Jesu!" Gasping, she clapped her hand to her mouth. "It is my husband's cousin! And he's seen me, is coming this way! What will I say, w T hat—"

"Get hold of yourself," he snapped. Grabbing her arm, he dug his fingers into her wrist, causing her to gasp again, this time in pain. "Tell him you're looking for a horse on your husband's behalf."

Aldred was already bearing down upon them. "Bella! What are you doing here? Where is Cousin Abel?" He was overly hearty in his greetings, but he was bound to be nervous, desperate to get back into Jonas's good graces after botching his surveillance of Nora's house.

"Abel is not with me. This . . . this is going to be a surprise. I want him to buy a horse, and I thought if I got the prices and such beforehand, I might persuade him. It would make his deliveries so much easier . . ."

"It would, indeed," Aldred agreed enthusiastically. "It is lucky for you that I happened along, for I know all about horses and can help you pick out a sound one." Brushing past the Fleming, Aldred began to run his hands down the bay's forelegs. Nell looked over at Gilbert and shrugged helplessly. He was scowling, but there was nothing he could do except play the charade out. Aldred was on the other side of the horse by now, talking about the need to look out for "splints" and to make sure the horse w r as not "touched in the wind." Nell thought he sounded quite convincing. Just having him beside her was a comfort. She

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no longer felt quite so vulnerable, so exposed to the outlaw's malice and blade.

Shifting so she could survey the field, she thought all looked perfectly normal and deceptively peaceful, given what was about to happen. Having rejected the white mule, the Black Monks were pacing sedately in their direction, their cowls shadowing their faces. The disappointed vendor was trailing after them, offering to drop the mule's price. Two dogs were romping near the cart, and a fair-haired man was leading his horse toward the pond's edge. When Nell would later replay the scene in her memory, she could not recall anything that seemed amiss, out of order.

And so she was utterly unprepared for the Fleming's action. She would never know what had spooked him. He'd often shown himself to have a sixth sense, an eerie ability to scent danger in the wind, and it was clearly in play now. "I'll get back to you about this," he said abruptly and grabbed for the reins.

"Wait, we're not done talking!"

Aldred's protest was more effective than Nell's. As Gilbert swung up into the saddle, he caught the outlaw's arm and tried to pull him off. Pandemonium followed. Justin and Luke sprinted toward them. So did the mule vendor. The canvas was flung into the air as Jonas erupted from the cart. The only innocent bystander, the man watering his horse, turned to stare and the dogs began to bark. Stunned by the swiftness of it all, Nell stood frozen. Gilbert was cursing, trying to shake Aldred off as his horse skidded sideways on the muddy ground. And then there was a metallic flash in the sunlight, a choked cry from Aldred, and as blood splattered her face and upraised hands, Nell began to scream.

Aldred slumped to the ground at her feet, and she dropped to her knees beside him, tearing off her veil. His neck was covered in blood, and she tried frantically to staunch the flow. But she was acting instinctively, for none of this seemed real to her, not the moaning youth nor the struggle now going on just a few feet away. Luke had reached them, lunging for the Fleming's reins.

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But Gilbert lashed out with his toot, kicking viciously at the deputy's head. Luke swerved and the boot caught him on the shoulder, with enough force to send him reeling. Jabbing his spurs into his mount's sides, Gilbert wheeled the horse toward the distant woods.

Nell could only watch helplessly. Jonas was still some distance away, but Justin was almost upon them. When he saw the Fleming send Luke sprawling, he whirled and whistled shrilly. Copper's head came up and then he loped over, reins dangling free. Nell might have marveled at that—a horse better trained than most dogs—but now she had thoughts only for Aldred, terrified that he might be bleeding to death in her lap.

To her amazement, though, he was soon trying to sit up. For all the bleeding, the wound was not life threatening; the Fleming's knife had mercifully missed any veins or arteries. Luke had gotten the wind knocked out of him. Lurching to his feet, he swore hotly and then spun around to get his own horse as Justin shot past them, Copper's flying hooves churning up a shower of mud.

"Dear God, no!" Nell cried out in horror as the realization struck her: the Fleming was going to escape. Justin was in pursuit, but Gilbert's horse had a daylight lead. As for the others, they were out of the game: Luke about to mount his stallion, Jonas on foot and fuming. The closest horse belonged to the gaping bystander. Running toward him, Jonas shoved the astonished man aside and snatched up the reins. But Nell knew it was too late. Once again Gilbert the Fleming would elude capture, free to keep on killing, even to track her down and take his vengeance for her trickery.

"He's getting away!" she screamed, her words breaking on a sob.

Holding her bloodied veil to his slashed neck, Aldred staggered to his feet. "No," he panted, "he is not. Justin told me to cut the knots on his saddle girth."

Xell stared at him, and then swung back toward the chase. Nothing seemed to have changed. Justin had cut into Gilbert's

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lead somewhat, but not enough. And then it happened. The bay seemed to shorten stride, and suddenly Gilbert was grabbing for the mane, desperately trying to retain his balance as the saddle started to slip. Within moments, he'd been overtaken by the big chestnut. Kicking his feet free of the stirrups, Justin flung himself onto the other man and they crashed heavily to the ground. Al-dred shouted and then began to run unsteadily toward them. Lifting up her skirts, so did Nell.

She could tell that Justin was in trouble, for he was hampered by his long monk's habit, unable to get to his weapons. They were rolling about in the mud, in what looked to be a no-holds-barred battle for survival, far more savage than any alehouse brawl she'd ever seen. Breaking free, the Fleming actually smiled, the threatening, feral grin of a man with nothing left to lose. Seeing the dagger glinting in his fist, Nell would have screamed again, but her breath was gone. Justin evaded the first thrust. The second slashed through his sleeve, and the Fleming closed in.

But by then, Luke was there. Jumping from his horse before the animal had come to a full stop, he began to circle the outlaw, driving him back toward Justin. All three men were soon on the ground. But Gilbert continued to resist fiercely, with such frenzied rage and fear that they were having difficulty subduing him, for they were seeking to keep him alive and he sought only to kill. The fight did not end until Jonas galloped up on his commandeered horse. Unlike Justin and Luke, he dismounted without haste, then strode over to the struggling men and kicked the Fleming in the face. He went limp, and at long last, it was over.

Aldred seemed remarkably cheerful to Nell for a man who'd almost had his throat cut. But as she watched him tag along after Jonas like a puppy eager to please, she understood why. Not only had he redeemed himself for his earlier blunder, he'd have a scar well worth boasting about, grisly proof of his heroic confrontation with the murderous Fleming. As far as she was con-

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cerned, his money would be no good back at her alehouse. She figured he'd earned himself at least a month's worth of free drinks.

Luke and Justin were still sprawled on the ground, chests heaving, gulping air as greedily as they did the ale they were sharing from Luke's leather flask. Sinking down beside them, heedless of the mud, Nell gestured wordlessly and Justin passed her the flask. She knew neither would ever admit it, but both men had been shaken by that brutal, lethal melee. They'd soon be joking about it, she never doubted. But not yet.

Jonas had sent someone for a rope and he was roughly binding the hands and feet of the captured bandit. Gilbert had yet to stir, and Nell wondered if he could be dead. With a savagery that surprised her, she found herself fervently hoping so. Men had been known to escape the gallows. But not even one of the Devil's brood could cheat Death. Passing the flask back to Justin, she was surprised to discover that they had drawn a large, curious audience. Off to the right, she caught a glimpse of color, the same shade of bright blue as Nora's mantle. But when she looked again, she saw nothing.

Ablaze with righteous indignation, the bystander was jogging toward them. "That was my horse!"

Jonas ignored him until he'd completed his task. Giving the Fleming's ropes a final tug, he stared up at the man. "Then you'd best go catch him."

The man flushed deeply; even the tips of his ears darkened. He sputtered, but the words seemed to catch in his throat. Turning aside, he trudged off in pursuit of his horse, now galloping aimlessly at the far end of the field.

Luke and Justin looked at each other and then burst into laughter. Luke was the first to sober up. "Look at this," he demanded, holding up a bloodied palm. "That weasel bit me!"

Justin got stiffly to his feet, moving like a man much older than twenty. Reaching down, he helped Nell to rise. His face was bloody, but so muddy, too, that she couldn't tell if it was his blood or the bandit's. He then grasped Luke's hand and pulled

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him up, too. Ridding themselves of their camouflage cowls and habits, they walked over and together stood staring down at Gilbert the Fleming.

"He seems to be breathing/ , Luke observed. "We could always drop him in the pond to bring him around/'

But the outlaw's lashes were flickering. Opening his eyes, he gave an involuntary groan of pain, and then focused hazily upon a familiar face floating above him. With recognition came a surge of hot, helpless rage, hatred so scalding it all but burned his throat as he spat out the words of defiance, a diatribe that ended only when Jonas forced him to his feet, none too gently.

Luke had listened impassively to the Fleming's raving, envenomed tirade. But when he at last fell silent, his invective exhausted, the deputy smiled. "We'll have a long ride back to Winchester, Gib. It would be a pity if I forgot to feed you on the way."

Gilbert's lip curled. He was about to retort when he noticed Nell, who'd come up to stand beside the men. Snarling like a wolf, he turned on her in a fury. "You treacherous bitch! You'll pay for this, and you'll beg for death ere I'm done with you, I swear—"

Nell had gone very pale, and Justin backhanded the Fleming across the mouth, hard enough to draw blood. "You so much as look at her," he warned, "and you'll be the one begging for death!" He would not have believed he could get so much satisfaction from striking a man unable to hit back. Putting his arm around Nell's shoulders, he said, "Come on, lass. Pay his rant-ings no mind. A doomed man can do you no harm."

But before they could move away, the outlaw cried out, "Wait!" When Justin turned back, he said, "It is you again, the man on the Alresford Road. I know why that accursed deputy followed me to London. But why you? I've a right to know. Who are you?"

Justin looked at him, thinking back to their chance meeting on that snowy Epiphany morn. It seemed so random, and yet it had changed both of their lives dramatically, setting them upon a

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road that would lead to the queen's court and the gallows. "1 am

a friend," he said, "of Gervase Fitz Randolph."

"You say that as if it is supposed to mean something to me." Justin was outraged. "You murder a man and then forget

about it?"

The Fleming's mouth was bruised and bleeding, but his smile

was chilling. "Why would I bother," he said, "to remember all

their names?"

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grimaced. "It is painfully obvious by now that we'll got nothing from him."

"Give mo an hour alone with him and wo'll soo about that."

It was the first time that Justin had heard Jonas resort to bravado, but as their interrogation had foundered, cracks had begun to show in the Serjeant's usually dispassionate demeanor. His anger was understandable; Justin felt equally frustrated. It was as if they'd been engaged in a prolonged and bloody castle siege, scaling the outer walls and finally fighting their way into the inner bailey, only to discover that the keep was impregnable, impervious to assault.

"I do not doubt your powers of persuasion, Jonas," Luke said, smiling grimly. "I can be rather persuasive, too, so I've been told. But there are men—thankfully few of them—who cannot be broken. They'll die, but that's all they'll do for you. Do not tell me you've never encountered one of them, for I'd not believe you. We might as well face it. We can beat the Fleming bloody. We can turn his remaining days into the Hell on earth he so richly deserves. And eventually we can hang him. But what we cannot do is make him talk."

Justin had already reached that same bleak conclusion. Glancing over at Jonas, he saw that the serjeant knew it, too, even if he was not yet ready to admit it. "Ere we concede defeat," he said, "let's try one more time."

Shackled to iron rings in the wall, Gilbert was sagging so badly that the manacles were cutting into his wrists. He was still bleeding from Jonas's last blow, and his breath was coming in labored, wheezing pants. When Justin let the lantern's light play over that battered, bloated face, he could not summon up even a pinprick of pity. What pity had Gilbert shown Kenrick, cornered in the mill loft?

"You're making it needlessly hard on yourself, Gilbert. You know you're going to hang. So why ask for more pain in the brief time you've got left? Why not tell us what we want to know? Give us some answers and we'll go away and let you be."

The Fleming raised his head. When he spoke, his voice

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emerged as a croak, raspy and harsh, throbbing with hatred. "Rot in Hell . . ."

Justin had dreaded telling Eleanor, but she took it better than he'd expected. Apparently she, too, had known a few men in her life who could not be broken, for she did not seem surprised by the Fleming's refusal to cooperate. And when Justin had completed his report, she said something that would later strike him as odd, reminding him of his earlier suspicions about her motives.

"Well/' she said softly, "mayhap it was not meant that the truth come out . . ."

"Madame?"

"No matter. I was but thinking aloud, wondering if this means the Fleming's secret will die with him. Was he our last hope? What of his woman?"

"So far Nora has eluded us, my lady. When the Serjeant's men arrived to arrest her, she was gone and some of her belongings were, too. They've been out scouring the city for her, with no luck so far. But even if she is caught, I doubt that she'd be of much help. I cannot see why the Fleming would tell her about a killing in Winchester. He's not the sort to be boasting in bed about his crimes, to give away any secrets that might be used against him later."

"What of the man's partner?"

"He is not likely to be as hard a nut to crack, madame." Justin was striving to sound confident, but he could not help adding a pessimistic qualifier, ". . . if we can find him."

Eleanor gave him a penetrating look. "You ought not to be so downcast, Justin. At least this Fleming will be doing no more killings. You said he is known to have slain five people, did you not? The true tally of his victims is probably twice that many. You may not have been able to get the answers we were seeking, but you undoubtedly saved some lives."

Justin nodded somberly. "But I wanted the answers, too."

Their eyes caught and held. "So did I," she said. "So keep on the trail. The hunt is not over yet."

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Justin's chagrin was not eased by Eleanor's praise; her generosity only made him feel even more disheartened. He'd Let her down. No matter how he rationalized their failure to get the Fleming to talk, it always came back to that. She'd relied upon him and he'd disappointed her. And unless they could find the missing Sampson, no one but Gilbert would ever know if he'd been in the pay of the French king.

Claudine was waiting when he emerged from the queen's great chamber. "You look wretched!"

He smiled wryly. "I know. But I spent most of the night over at the gaol, going home only to wash up."

She touched her fingers to the bruise spreading across his cheekbone. "Did the killer do this? Did you catch him?" When he nodded, she slipped her arm in his, drawing him toward the comparative privacy of a window alcove. "Then why are you not happier about it?"

"It is a long and troubling story," he said evasively. "No need to burden you with it."

Claudine shook her head reproachfully. "Now why am I thinking of clams?" Her fingers again sought his bruised cheek. "Do you know what I think you need? Me. Is there a chance you can get rid of that inconvenient friend?"

"I suppose he could always bed down in the smithy with Gunter. But what about the queen?"

"I'll get her to agree," Claudine said and then grinned. "Surely you've noticed that I am very good at getting what I want?"

Justin grinned, too, his spirits beginning to soar. "I can right gladly attest to that," he said, "and I'd like nothing better than to do more attesting, the sooner the better."

Claudine winked. "Wait here, then, whilst I talk to the queen. I'll be right back."

Justin sat down in the window seat to await Claudine's return. But no sooner had she disappeared into the queen's cham-

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ber than the door to the great hall was flung open and Durand strode in. Justin stiffened. This was the first time he'd seen Durand at court since confiding his suspicions to Eleanor. He had no idea how she had chosen to discipline her false knight, for she'd said nothing further. But it was obvious that Durand had lost the queen's favor. Nothing else could explain the look of fury that crossed his face now.

Justin got slowly to his feet as the other man stalked toward him. These past weeks had taught him that all wars were not fought on the battlefield, and one of the lessons he'd learned was to strike first and fast. "I'm surprised to see you, Sir Durand. I assumed that you had sailed for France with Lord John."

Durand's eyes were a brittle Viking blue, fathomless and frigid. "You'd do well to consider a sojourn in France yourself, de Quincy. If I were you, I'd ride for the nearest port as if my very life depended upon it."

"That sounds almost like a threat. But I am sure you meant it as a friendly warning, did you not?"

"Of course. You've given me such good reason to feel friendly toward you, after all," Durand said, with a menacing smile. "If not for you, the queen would have continued to see me as just another of her knights, one amongst many. That is all changed now, though—because of you."

"The pleasure was all mine," Justin said, and Durand's sarcastic civility splintered into shards of sheer ice.

"Some pleasures can be hazardous to a man's health," he said, "and some can even be fatal." He got the last word, for he turned on his heel then, not waiting for Justin's retort.

"Justin?" Claudine's eyes were wide, her brows arching upward toward her hairline. "What was that all about? I did not realize that you even knew Durand. What happened to cause such bad blood between you?"

"I accused him of being John's lackey—more or less—and he liked it not."

"You do enjoy courting danger, for certes! Luckily for you," she added, "I find madness to be well nigh irresistible in a man."

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Justin smiled, but kept his eyes upon Durand's retreating figure. "You warned me about John, and with cause. But why should I accord the Prince of Darkness and one of his minions the same respect?"

"You're wrong," she said, with such vehemence that he looked at her in surprise. "John is indeed dangerous. Yet there are still occasional flashes of brightness in the dark depths of his soul." Her lips curved slightly then, hinting at a smile, for she could never be serious for long. "Lucifer was a fallen angel, after all. But you'll look in vain for any sparks in Durand's daikness, Justin. He is not a man you want as an enemy."

"Want him or not, I have him." Justin was touched by her concern, but he did not take Durand's threats as seriously as she did. How could the knight be a more dangerous foe than the Fleming?

Shaking her hair over her shoulders, Claudine stretched so sensuously that Justin paused in the act of pouring wine. "You have more in common with cats than an overactive curiosity," he said admiringly. "You move like a cat, too."

"I hope you mean that as a compliment. Most people think cats are good only for catching mice and serving witches. But I fancy them myself, so I thank you." When he handed her a wine cup, she settled back comfortably in his arms. "I've been known to purr, too . . ."

"And to scratch."

She smiled into the wine cup. "I hope you're not complaining?"

"No ... I think I was boasting," he said, and she laughed, then offered him the cup.

"Drink up, darling," she urged. "You're going to be needing your strength tonight."

He began to laugh, too. "You are a shameless wench. I like that."

Reclaiming the cup, she deliberately dribbled wine onto his chest, and in the tussle that followed, the rest of the wine was

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spilt. After squabbling playfully over who ought to fetch the flagon, Justin dived, shivering, from the bed, for the hearth was not giving off much heat. "It is lucky the cup went into the floor rushes/ 7 he said with mock severity, "for I have but one set of sheets."