The queen's man : a medieval mystery (32 page)

"What in blazes are you talking about?" None of this made any sense whatsoever to Justin. "Who is Lord Harald?"

Sampson smiled scornfully, amazed at such ignorance. "All of Winchester knows Lord Harald. For certes, that poxy deputy does! Not that he is a real lord, for all that he gives himself airs like one. He salts his speech with words no one else can understand and struts about in his fine clothes like a preening peacock.

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Slick as ice, he is, though, the best cutpurse I've ever seen. He is right clever with the dice, too, and those games with walnut shells and dried peas. He's always prided himself on his gambling skills, so I guess that's why he took losing so badly. Not as I blame him, for I hear the whoreson kept crowing about it afterward, bragging how—"

"What dice game are you talking about? When did it take place?" Justin demanded, so sharply that Sampson looked at him in surprise.

"How do I know? What does it matter?"

"It matters," Justin said grimly. "The killing happened on Epiphany morn. But when was the dice game played? I need to know!"

"I am trying to remember," Sampson complained, "so ease up! Epiphany was a Wednesday, right? We met with Harald the day before, on Tuesday. He'd found out that the man was leaving Winchester on the morrow and he was in a sweat to make sure we'd be lying in wait for him. Ah ... I recall now. The game was on Sunday. Harald said he ought to have known better than to play games of chance on God's Day, that it was an ill omen. And Gib laughed at him, saying it was indeed a sin to gamble on Sunday, but lucky to do murder on a holy day like Epiphany."

"That cannot be. Gervase Fitz Randolph was still in France on Sunday. He did not get back to Winchester until that Tuesday eve."

Sampson looked puzzled. "Who is Gervase Fitz Randolph?"

"The man you and Gilbert ambushed and killed!"

Sampson shook his head slowly. "Nay . . . that does not sound right. I do not remember the name, but I doubt that it was Gervase ..."

"Blood of Christ," Justin whispered, for in that moment, he understood. "You'd never seen him, then?"

"No . . . why? There was no need, for Harald told us how to recognize him. Right prosperous, he said, with brown hair, riding a fine grey palfrey. There were so few travelers on the road that it was easy enough to pick him out. That fool Harald had

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forgotten to tell us about the servant, but— What? Why are you looking at me like that?"

"Was the man you were to kill named Fulk de Chesney?"

Sampson brightened. "That's the one! But what about the other name? I thought you said he was called Gervase?"

"That was his name," Justin said, through gritted teeth. "At least remember it. You owe him that much, damn you!"

"What are you so vexed about?"

"You murdered the wrong man!"

Sampson continued to look befuddled. "How so?"

"Fulk de Chesney was the one who cheated at dice, the one you were paid to kill. But his horse went lame and he had to turn back. The man you murdered was a Winchester goldsmith. He was riding a roan stallion, and you fools mistook it for de Ches-ney's grey. The man died for no logical reason whatsoever. God help him, he was in the wrong place at the wrong time ..."

Justin's voice trailed off. He was more stunned than enraged, overwhelmed by the utter futility of it all. Gervase had not died because his son burned to be a monk or his daughter lusted after his hired man. Nor had the queen's secret letter brought him to ruin. He'd been doomed by a pebble, wedged up into a grey stallion's shoe.

Sampson finally comprehended what Justin was saying. "So the man we ambushed was not Fulk de Chesney? That explains why he did not have the ring then." He thought about it for a moment longer, and then laughed. "The poor bastard, the joke's on him!"

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wrong man. The intended target was a knave who'd cheated Harald at dice, one Fulk de Chesney—"

"Good God Almighty! The prideful churl on the grey stallion?"

Justin nodded, and then explained, for Jonas's benefit, "De Chesney rode out of Winchester that same morn, but he had to turn back when his horse went lame."

Jonas was quick to comprehend. "So they struck down the goldsmith by mistake. Bad luck for him."

"Yes," Justin agreed, so tersely that Luke gave him a probing, speculative look.

"If I'd been asked to wager that you'd solve the goldsmith's slaying, I'd have called that a fool's gamble. But you did it, de Quincy, by God, you did. So why are you taking so little pleasure in your triumph?"

"I'm not sure. It seems so pointless, Luke. A man ought not to die by ... by mischance."

Luke considered, then shrugged. "Would you like it better if he'd been murdered at his son's behest? Either way, he is just as dead. At least now Dame Ella need not be told that her little monk plotted a killing for Christ."

"You're right," Justin conceded, and the deputy grinned.

"I usually am. Now let's go inside and finish interrogating Sampson. I've been waiting for a long time to catch Harald with his hand in the honey pot. I want to put it all down in writing and get Sampson to make his mark ere he sobers up." As he started toward the gaol, so did Jonas. But Justin stayed where he was. "What about you, de Quincy? You're not coming with us?"

"No," Justin said. His part in the goldsmith's murder was done. It was over. Or almost over.

Justin had expected to be jubilant in the event that he was fortunate enough to solve Gervase Fitz Randolph's murder. But now he could not summon up even a drop of gladness; the well was bone dry. He was troubled in part by the randomness of the goldsmith's slaying. He was still young enough to think life

ought to have coherence and purpose. He'd not vet learned the lesson set forth in Scriptures, that the Judgments of God are unsearchable and His Ways inscrutable to mortal men.

But it was not just the senseless nature of the goldsmith's death. For nigh on ten weeks, he'd been involved in Fitz Randolph's murder, and for fully nine weeks, he'd focused upon nothing else. He'd cared only about keeping faith with the queen, not letting her down. He'd not given any thought as to what he'd do afterward. But once he told Eleanor what he'd learned, she'd have no further need of him. He'd be cast adrift again, with no moorings and no shore in sight. He'd not fully realized how much being the queen's man had meant to him, not until it was about to end.

Upon his arrival at the Tower, Justin was heading for the keep when he heard his name being called. The voice was an alluring one, redolent of the lush, sun-drenched lands of the South, the seductive accent of Aquitaine. Until yesterday, it had put him in mind of melted honey. Now he could think only of a myth he'd once been told: how fabled Sirens lured sailors to their doom by the sweetness of their songs. He turned around very slowly, waiting as Claudine crossed the bailey toward him.

"You're coming as I'm going," she said, waving a hand toward her saddled mare and waiting companions. "We need to work on our timing, for certes." She smiled up at him, her eyes sparkling in the sunlight, flirtatious and fond and carefree, the most innocent of spies.

Holding out her hand for his kiss, she asked, "Are headaches contagious? You look as if you caught mine!"

"I had too much ale last night."

"You mean you went off to drown your sorrows after taking me back here? That is very flattering, love."

"You think so?"

"Of course. What woman would not want to believe she could drive a man to drink?"

"Well, you need not worry. That, Claudine, you definitely can do."

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She laughed, then said regretfully, "I have to go. But I owe you for last night, and I'll not be forgetting." "Nor will I," he said softly. "Nor will I . . ."

Eleanor looked intently into Justin's face and then rose abruptly. "Follow me," she said, and led the way across the hall toward the privacy of her great chamber. But even that did not satisfy her, and with Justin in tow, she swept through the doorway of St John's Chapel. "Leave us," she commanded the startled priest, and as soon as the door closed behind him, she beckoned Justin forward.

"You found out something."

"How did you know?"

"Yours is an easy face to read, at least to me. Tell me what you've learned, Justin. Hold nothing back."

"I found out," he said, "why Gervase Fitz Randolph died."

"Was it the letter?"

"No, my lady, it was not. He was slain by mischance, mistaken for another man. He died believing that they were after your letter, but it was not so."

Eleanor's eyes searched his face. "Are you sure of that?"

When he said yes, she moved away from him. Crossing to the altar, she leaned forward, resting her hands, palms out, on the embroidered altar cloth. Justin was taken aback; this was the first time that he'd seen her emotions surging so close to the surface. Did the French king pose so great a danger as that?

But then Eleanor turned around. Her face was so radiant with relief that Justin caught his breath sharply, in belated understanding. It was not the French king's involvement she'd feared, it was John's! It had been John all along. She'd been afraid that he'd been forewarned by Philip and hired assassins to make sure the letter never reached her.

Why had he not seen the truth ere this? It was all too plausible. If the Archbishop of Rouen had spies at the French court, why would Philip not have spies of his own? What had Eleanor

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said about the French king? Ah, yes, that he had more spies than scruples.

This explained so much. Mayhap it was not meant that the truth conic out. Even that cryptic comment of hers made sense now—if she could not prove that John was innocent, she'd have to settle for keeping his guilt secret. Remembering his own unsettling encounters with John, Justin felt sure that Eleanor's youngest son was quite capable of murder if it served his own interests. The queen's fear had been well founded. Realizing how much had been at stake, he was suddenly very glad that he'd remained in ignorance of that. Had he known how much this mattered to Eleanor, would he have been tempted to tell her what she needed to hear?

"You've brought me welcome news, Justin. Now tell me the rest of it, why the goldsmith died and how you learned the truth."

Justin did, leaving nothing out. The interrogation in Newgate Gaol. The crooked dice game. The embittered gambler out for vengeance. Two horses, one grey and one roan. The outlaws lying in wait, so careless in their killing. "Fulk de Chesney's good luck was lethal for Fitz Randolph," he concluded somberly. "I was outraged at first, that it was so arbitrary, so meaningless a death. But I think his family will care only that they've been cleared of suspicion. At least his widow will be spared any more grieving."

"It is remarkable," Eleanor said, "that you were able to solve this murder with so little to go upon. You've more than justified my faith in you. Now ... I imagine you incurred expenses in the course of your investigation, no? I'll instruct Peter to reimburse you for whatever you spent on my behalf."

"Thank you, madame." Justin waited expectantly, sure that she would offer extra compensation, a reward for services rendered so successfully.

"I suppose we ought to decide upon an amount," Eleanor said with a smile. "I had two shillings in mind. I think that seems fair."

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'Two shillings . . ." Justin had hoped for more, much more than that. Now that he was on his own again, money mattered. But he bit back any words of disappointment or dissatisfaction. Complaints were not made to queens.

His chagrin was so obvious, though, that Eleanor's smile chilled. "Surely you were not expecting more than that? Good Lord, Justin, I pay the knights of my household two shillings a day!"

"A day? Madame . . . you meant wages?"

"Of course," she said impatiently. "What did you think I meant?"

"You want me to remain in your service?"

"Yes, I do. Does that surprise you so much? You've proved yourself to be resourceful and daring and trustworthy." Her smile came back. "I'd be a fool to let you go!"

"What . . . what would I do for you, madame?"

"Whatever I wanted done." Her earlier irritation had fled and her eyes were shimmering with suppressed laughter. "But nothing illegal, lad, at least not blatantly so!"

"Madame, I was not implying that!" Justin said hastily.

"Of course you were." Eleanor was laughing openly now. "But I took no offense. I've always admired the way cats look ere they leap. So . . . what say you? Is my offer agreeable to you?"

He nodded mutely, still at a loss for words.

"You need not look so bedazzled, Justin, for there will be plenty of hard work involved. I can promise you long hours in the saddle and sleepless nights in my service more often than not."

Eleanor's moods had always been mercurial. As Justin watched, her laughter stilled and those hazel eyes met his with compelling candor. "I can admit now that I feared John might be involved in the goldsmith's murder. You guessed that, I suspect."

Startled, he could only nod again. Her gaze was mesmerizing; he had the eerie sense that she could see right into his soul.

"John was blameless . . . this time. But I know where he has gone and I know what he intends to do. I'd wager the surety of

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salvation that he is at the French court even as we speak, plotting with Philip to make certain that Richard never sees the light of day again. Troubled times lie ahead for England, for us all. I am going to need men I can trust, utterly and wholeheartedly. Men like you, Justin de Quincy."

"I will not fail you, my lady." But the words rang hollow in his ears, for he was failing her by his silence. He'd meant to tell her of his suspicions, to warn her that Claudine was her son's spv. She needed to know that her kinswoman could not be trusted. And if she dismissed Claudine in disgrace—or worse—it was no more than Claudine deserved. But now that the moment had come, the words caught in his throat.