The queen's man : a medieval mystery (29 page)

Claudine pretended to pout. "If you had not started squirming about like an eel, I'd have licked it off!" Lifting the covers, she patted the bed invitingly. "Hurry, I'm getting cold. I want you to warm—Jesu!"

"What?" He glanced around the cottage, puzzled, seeing no reason for her outcry.

She was staring at the huge mottled bruise on his left hip. "Surely I did not do that? Was it the man you captured yesterday? The killer?"

He nodded and climbed hastily back into bed, handing her the refilled cup. Sipping the wine, she explored his bruises with gentle fingers, a faint frown creasing her brow. "Forget what I said about your courting danger. You've taken her right into your bed!"

"So danger is a woman, then? I've always thought so, too."

She continued to survey his contusions, unsmiling. "I am not joking. You could have been killed, Justin. And it is not over, is it?"

"No," he admitted, "it is not." The afterglow of their love-making had begun to fade and reality was once more intruding. How were they going to find Sampson? And even if they did, could he be made to talk?

"That wretched letter had blood on it," Claudine said suddenly, and scowled at his look of surprise. "Of course I've figured out that the letter is at the heart of this, Justin! It is so obvious. You did not know the queen yet, for I had to help get you in to see her, remember? So whatever was in that letter had to be important, indeed, since she then took you into her service. You are not going to insult me now with a false denial, are you?"

"No," he said, "I am not."

"Good," she said, sounding mollified. "That was an easy

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guess. But 1 do not understand how the letter is linked to your hunt tor this killer?"

Her voice had risen questioningly and he brought her hand up to his mouth, kissing her fingers. "I cannot tell you that, love."

"Why not? You could pretend this is a church and I am your confessor," she suggested impishly. "Anything you told me would not go beyond this bed, for I'd never betray the sanctity of the confessional!"

Justin was laughing again. "Listen, my beautiful blasphemer, I'd tell you if I could. But these are not my secrets, so I have not the right to :eveal them, even to you."

"Yes, I am prying," she conceded. "And I'll not deny that I am curious, for who would not be? They are a most unlikely couple, after all: the Queen of England and a Winchester cutthroat! Of course I wonder about such an odd pairing. But it is more than curiosity/ 7

Her eyes lingered for a moment on the bruise under his eye. "Justin, I am worried about you. You were ambushed once already, and the next time you might not be so lucky. I do not know what information you hoped to gain from that outlaw, but I do know you did not get it. You admitted as much when you said it was 'not over.' What are you going to do now? I need to know if your life will be at risk. Surely you can tell me that much?"

Justin's feelings for Claudine had been veering between passion and protection, between wanting to take care of her and take her to bed. His emotions were complicated now by a great surge of tenderness, a sentiment he'd had little experience with. Reaching over, he caressed her cheek, and she closed her eyes, her lips parting temptingly.

He did not kiss her, though, for in that moment the significance of her words sank in. She'd called Gilbert a ''Winchester cutthroat." He'd never told her that, had never even mentioned the Fleming's name. So how had she known?

His fingers slid from her cheek, came to rest upon her throat.

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She smiled without opening her eyes, a dimple flashing. Fumbling for the wine cup, he drank deeply, but the cold continued to seep into his body, through marrow to the very bone. Only a handful of people had known of Gilbert's Winchester roots. Eleanor. Will Longsword. Luke and Jonas. Nell. And John. John would know, for Durand would have told him all that he'd gleaned from those spying missions to Winchester.

I'll have to look elsewhere. John's words seemed to echo in the stillness. He'd harbored suspicions about Luke. Ought he to have looked closer at hand? Could Claudine be John's spy?

Until that moment, he'd not known that the worst sort of pain need not be physical, utterly unrelated to broken bones or bleeding. Had she bedded him at John's bidding? All those questions about his past, so gently insistent, questions that a woman would naturally want to know about her lover. Jesus God. Had she been playing him for a fool from the first?

"Are you retreating into that clamlike silence again?" Claudine chided. "I do not expect you to betray the queen's confidence, no more than I would. But I can see how troubled you are. Keep back what you must, but do not shut me out entirely. Let me help, Justin."

She sounded very sincere. Those lovely dark eyes did not waver, her gaze as trusting and innocent as a fawn's. Could he be sure that he'd not let something slip about the Fleming? Was he doing her a terrible wrong? But it explained so much, too much. He had to know the truth. He had to know.

"You are right, Claudine," he said, and wondered if his voice sounded as strained to her ears as it did to his own. "Mayhap it might help to talk about it, and . . . and whom can I trust if not you? But I must have your word that you'll keep secret whatever I tell you. There is more at stake than I think you realize."

"I promise," she said readily. "Of course I do."

"I'll tell you, then, about the contents of that letter. It concerned the queen's son. It is very likely, Claudine, that King Richard is dead."

Her gasp was audible. "Oh, no! What happened to him?"

"He was shipwrecked on the way home from the Holy Land.

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The letter was from one of his shipmates. He claims there were but few survivors and the king was not amongst them."

"Dear God!" She seemed genuinely shaken. "Nothing could give the queen greater grief. Richard has always been the dearest of all her children. How could she keep pain like that bottled up within^ She's acted as if nothing was wrong . . ."

"She is not willing to believe it, not yet. That is one reason why she is keeping it quiet. She is waiting for confirmation, whilst hoping that it will be disproved. But I read that letter and I have no doubts that the man was telling the truth."

He drained the cup, the wine tasting like vinegar. "Do you see now why I was so loath to speak of this, Claudine, and why I had to swear you to secrecy?"

"Bv the Rood, yes! Justin, this will . . . will change everything!"

"Yes ... it will." He knew his story would not bear close scrutiny, but it was so sensational that no one would think to question it, at least not on first hearing. Setting the cup down in the floor rushes, he lay back wearily against the pillow. Claudine curled up beside him, continuing to express her astonishment, to sympathize with Eleanor, to speculate how Richard's death would affect the succession. Finally becoming aware of his silence, she poked him in the ribs. "You're not falling asleep, are you?"

"Sorry," he mumbled. "But I was up all night . . ."

"I'd forgotten about that." Leaning over, she kissed him on the cheek. "Get some sleep, then, love. Mayhap I will, too . . ."

Turning his head on the pillow, Justin found himself breathing in the rain-sweet scent of her hair. He was exhausted, but sleep would not come. What if he was wrong about Claudine? How could he ever expect her forgiveness? But if he was not wrong? What, then?

He was never to know how long he lay there. He was lost in time, trapped behind enemy lines in a foreign country, with no familiar landmarks in sight. "Justin?" Claudine was shaking his arm. "Love, wake up."

"What is wrong?"

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"I am feeling poorly/ 7 she said, mustering up a wan smile. "Sometimes I get these severe headaches. They come upon me without warning, like a storm out of a cloudless sky . . ."

Justin sat up. "There is an apothecary shop across the street. I'll see if it is still open."

She shook her head, then winced. "It is sweet of you to offer. But that will not help." Rubbing her temples, she winced again, and gave him another apologetic smile. "The only remedy that does is a tisane made up for me in Aquitaine. I'm not even sure what is in it, feverfew and betony and other herbs I could not name. When one of these bad headaches hits, all I can do is take the tisane and keep to bed until the storm passes. Would you mind taking me back to the Tower?"

"No, I'd not mind."

"No wonder I am so smitten with you," she said, groping for his hand. "I am truly sorry, love, to spoil our night together."

Justin stared down at the delicate fingers entwined in his. "It is all right, Claudine," he said softly. "I understand."

They parted on the steps leading up into the Tower's great keep, for Claudine insisted that he need not accompany her any farther. She did not kiss him, for it was too public a place for that. Instead she squeezed his hand, her fingers stroking his palm in a clandestine caress. "I am so sorry, Justin."

"I'll take your mare over to the stables," he said. But he did not move away at once, stood watching until she'd disappeared into the forebuilding of the keep.

"That is a fine horse." A youth had come whistling by, pausing long enough to cast a covetous glance toward Copper. He looked vaguely familiar to Justin, was most likely a squire to one of Eleanor's household knights.

"Wait," Justin said. "I'd like a word with you, lad. Do you know the Lady Claudine?"

"I do. Why?"

"I just escorted her back to the Tower. She was taken ill this afternoon and I am worried about her. It will ease my mind if I know she's gone right up to the queen's chambers and to bed. It

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would be worth a half-penny to me if you could find out for sure?"

A half-penny just for that? Consider it done!" By the time the words were out of his mouth, the boy was heading for the stairs. Til meet you at the stables," he called over his shoulder, "in two shakes of a cat's tail!"

Justin had told the groom he'd unsaddle Claudine's mount himself, and set about it with meticulous care, trying to keep his thoughts only upon the task at hand. He was removing the mare's sweat pad when the squire came loping in, a blur of elbows and knees and adolescent enthusiasm.

"Well," he announced, "I did it. Can I have my money?" When Justin tossed him a coin, he caught it deftly. "I thought I'd best get it first," he said with a cheeky grin, "for you're not going to like what I have to tell you."

He was only about fourteen or so, but already with a worldly understanding of court intrigues and the perversities of adult love affairs. "If Lady Claudine was ailing, she recovered right fast. I found her downstairs with the chaplain. She was asking if he knew the whereabouts of one of the queen's knights. It was urgent, she said, that she find him straightaway."

"Did you hear the man's name?" Justin asked tonelessly, already knowing what the youth would say.

The squire nodded. "Sir Durand de Curzon."

It was dusk by the time Justin got back to Gracechurch Street. Gunter and Ellis were inside the smithy, shoeing a horse. Shadow was sprawled in an empty stall and greeted Justin with a burst of riotous barking as he led Copper into the stable.

Ellis gaped at sight of Justin. "I sure did not expect to see you here," he blurted. "Luke said you'd kicked him out so you could have a tryst with some mystery woman!"

"That is none of our concern, Ellis." Gunter was using a rasp to file down a front hoof and looked up from his work to deliver a mild rebuke. "If you're looking for Luke," he told Justin, "he's across the street at the alehouse."

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'The whole neighborhood is over there, celebrating the capture of that killer/' Ellis gazed reproachfully at the farrier. "Except for us."

"You know we have to finish the shoeing ere it gets full dark," Gunter said patiently. "Smiths are not allowed to work within the city walls unless they forbear from heavy hammering and pounding at night."

Ellis's shoulders sagged and he turned to tend the forge with an air of martyred resignation. He cheered up considerably, though, when Justin gave him a coin to take care of the chestnut. Bidding them a terse farewell, Justin whistled to the dog and stepped out into the soft lavender twilight.

The day had been chilly; the night promised to be downright cold. Justin's steps slowed as he neared the cottage door. He reached for the latchstring, but his fingers clenched, instead, into a tight fist. He could not cross that threshold. He could not face the ghosts that waited within, not yet, not tonight.

Justin had never seen the alehouse so crowded; in claiming that the entire street had turned out, Ellis had not exaggerated by much. His entrance passed unnoticed at first, for most of the customers were watching an arm-wrestling contest between Luke and Aldred. Nell was attracting a fair amount of attention herself, perched on the edge of a table and gesturing so expansively that her ale cup was sloshing about like a storm at sea. "And so I told him, 'Abel has twenty-five shillings hoarded away, which we can split after you do the murder,' " she declared, with such tipsy verve that she drew admiring murmurs from her audience.

In the midst of all this boisterous, chaotic commotion, Jonas seemed like an island of calm, watching the festivities from a corner table with a full flagon of ale and a sardonic half-smile. Justin was not surprised that he was alone. The alehouse regulars had come to accept Luke, for his powers were vested more than seventy miles away. But Jonas was the local law and thus posed a more immediate threat. Even those with an unsullied

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conscience grew uneasy whenever the serjeant intruded into their world.

Weaving his way between customers, Justin picked up an empty cup from a nearby table and headed in Jonas's direction. If Ellis knew about Claudine, that meant all of Gracechurch Street did, too. But Justin was sure that Jonas cared little about gossip, no matter how lurid. Jonas proved him right by showing no surprise when he materialized at the Serjeant's table.