The queen's man : a medieval mystery (5 page)

Eleanor smiled faintly. "Oddly enough, witchcraft is the one sin my enemies have not accused me of. It was easy enough to guess. The Church preaches celibacy, but how many of her priests practice it? They no longer can take wives, but hearth-mates to tend their houses and warm their beds . . . well, what harm in that? At least not for a village priest. But for a man who aims higher, a bastard child is an embarrassing encumbrance, one to be shunted aside, hidden away to keep scandal at bay. Was that how it was for you, Justin?"

He nodded, and she said softly, "Who is your father, lad?"

THE QUEEN'S MAN

It never occurred to Justin not to answer. "The Bishop of Chester."

He was half expecting disbelief. But Eleanor showed no surprise whatsoever. "Aubrey de Quincy? I know him, although not well."

"I can say the same."

There was too much bitterness in Justin's voice for humor. Eleanor gave him a curious look. "He did assume some responsibility for you, did he not?"

"Yes," Justin said grudgingly. "I grew up believing I was a foundling. It was no secret that the bishop was my benefactor, for I was often told how lucky I was that he'd taken pity on me. When I was a babe, he placed me with a family in Shrewsbury. Later—he was an archdeacon by then—he had me brought to Chester. I saw him but rarely. I would occasionally be summoned into his presence, and he'd lecture me about my studies and the sinful state of my soul, then berate me for my misdeeds, even those I had not committed yet." Justin's mouth tightened. "It was like being interrogated by Almighty God Himself."

Eleanor was not yet convinced that he had cause for complaint. "He did see that you had food and shelter and an excellent education."

"He was quick to remind me of that, too, madame. But he owed me more than bread or even books. If nothing else, he owed me the truth about my mother!"

That hit home for Eleanor. After she'd wed Henry, the French king had done what he could to turn their two young daughters against her; she'd not seen either one for years, not until they were both grown, with husbands of their own. "How did you find out the truth?"

"When I asked him about her, he told me that she was a woman of low morals. And I'd have gone to my grave believing his lies. But by chance, Lord Fitz Alan sent me to Shrewsbury last month, and it occurred to me that there might be people who remembered my birth, remembered my mother. I started at St Alkmund's, his old parish church, and eventually I tracked

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down an elderly woman who'd been the cook at the rectory. She did indeed remember my mother, not a slut as he'd claimed, a young village girl bedazzled and seduced by a man of God."

"I assume that you then confronted your father?''

He nodded again, grimly. "He did not think he'd wronged me, insisting that he'd been more than fair. He could not understand that I might have forgiven him for denying his paternity, for letting me be raised by strangers, but not for lying about my mother. Never for that."

It was quiet then. Justin slumped back in his chair, drained by his outburst and disquieted, too. How could he have revealed his soul's deepest secret to this woman he barely knew? What would the Queen of England care about the griefs and grievances of a bishop's bastard? "I am sorry, madame," he said stiffly. "I do not know why I told you all this—"

"Because I asked," she said, holding out her wine cup for a refill. "If you return on the morrow, I'll have that letter ready for you, the one that identifies you as the queen's man. I trust you will be discreet in its use, Justin. No flaunting it in alehouses to get free drinks, no whipping it out at opportune moments to impress young women."

Justin's surprise gave way almost at once to amusement. He opened his mouth to ask if he could at least use it to gain credit with local merchants, then thought better of it, not sure if it would be seemly for him to jest, too. She'd been remarkably kind to him so far, and she was not a woman renowned for her kindness. But she was England's queen and he dared not forget that, not even for a heartbeat.

She'd not relinquished the letters, still holding them on her lap. Justin felt a sudden rush of sympathy. She was more than Christendom's most celebrated queen. She was a mother, and the captive king her favorite son. "I am sorry, madame," he said again, "sorrier than I can say that I must bring you such dire news ..."

"Ah, no, Justin. You brought me hope. For the first time in many weeks, I will go to sleep tonight knowing that my son still lives.

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"My lady . . ."

She knew what he was reluctant to ask. "Will the emperor free Richard? He may, if it is made worth his while to do so. As much as he detests my son, he craves money more than vengeance. The greatest danger is that the French king may bid for Richard, too. If he ever ended up in a French dungeon, he'd not see the sun again, no matter how much was offered for his ransom. Philip and Richard were friends once, but they quarreled bitterly during the Crusade, and since Philip's return to Paris, he has done whatever he could to give Richard grief, ensnaring—"

She cut herself off so abruptly that Justin was able to guess what she was so loath to say: the name of her son, John, who was rumored to have been conniving with Philip for the past year, plotting to cripple Richard's kingship. It seemed all the more baffling to Justin that a queen beset with such troubles should give so much attention to the killing of a Winchester goldsmith. Wishing he had more comfort to offer, he said, "I will pray for the king's safe release, madame."

"Do so," she said, "for he will need our prayers. But do more than that. You look after yourself in Winchester, Justin de Quincy. Watch your back."

"I will . . ." His reassurance trailed off as he realized the significance of what she'd just said. "I have no right to that name, my lady. My father would be outraged if I claimed it."

"Yes," Eleanor agreed, "indeed he would," and when she smiled, it was not the smile of a venerable dowager queen, but the smile of the royal rebel she'd always been, a free spirit who'd dared to defy convention, husbands, and the Church, blazing her own path with a devil-be-damned courage and a capricious, beguiling charm.

Justin did not offer even token resistance; it was unconditional surrender. In that moment, he, too, joined the ranks of all who'd fallen under Eleanor of Aquitaine's spell. "I will not fail you, my lady," he promised recklessly. "I will find Gervase Fitz Randolph's killers for you, that I swear upon the surety of my soul."

THE QUEEN'S MAN

The more Justin tried to sort it out, the more disheartened he became. Questions he had in plenitude, answers in scant supply. Yet as daunting as his task was, he had to try. He owed the queen his best efforts. He owed Gervase that much, too. He'd never watched a man die before, and pray God, never again. The goldsmith's death had not been an easy one; he'd drowned in his own blood.

Admitted into the city through the East Gate, Justin hailed a passing Black Monk. "Brother, a moment, if you will. Can you tell me how to find the shop of Gervase Fitz Randolph, the goldsmith?"

The man frowned. "Are you a friend of Master Gervase?" When Justin shook his head, the man's face cleared. "Just as well. Master Gervase is dead. May God assoil him, but he was foully murdered ten days ago."

"Yes, I know. Have the killers been caught?"

"The sheriff is off in the western parts of the shire. I doubt if he even knows yet."

"There has been no investigation, none at all? By the time the sheriff gets back, the trail will be colder than ice!"

"The killing was reported to the under-sheriff, Luke de Mar-ston. I assume he has been looking into it."

Somewhat mollified, Justin asked where he could find this Luke de Marston, only to be told that he was in Southampton, not expected back till the morrow. The local authorities did not seem afire with zeal to solve the goldsmith's murder. Justin could imagine their response all too well: murmured regrets, then a shrug, a few perfunctory comments about bandits and the perils of the road. He was suddenly angry; Gervase deserved more than this official indifference. "The goldsmith's shop?" he reminded the monk, and got a surprising answer in return.

"Is it the shop you want, friend, or the family dwelling?"

The vast majority of craftsmen lived above their workshops. Gervase must have been very successful, indeed, to afford a separate residence. Justin hesitated. Most likely Gervase had retained at least one apprentice, and a journeyman, too. But even if the shop was still open, it was the family he needed to see.

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"Their home," he declared, and the monk gave him detailed directions: south of Cheapside, on Calpe Street, past St Thomas's Church.

The Fitz Randolph house was set back from the street, a two-story timber structure of substantial proportions, brightly painted and well maintained. Further proof of Gervase's affluence lay within the gate: his own stable, hen roost, and a well with a windlass. Justin already knew Gervase had thrived at his craft; on that bleak trek to Alresford with the goldsmith's body, the groom, Edwin, had confided that Gervase had just delivered a silver-gilt crozier and an enameled chalice to the Archbishop of Rouen. But even for a man who'd counted an archbishop among his customers, this house was an extravagance. Gazing upon Gervase Fitz Randolph's private, hard-won Eden, Justin felt a muted sense of sadness, pity for the man who'd had so much— family, a respected craft, this comfortable manor—only to lose it all to the thrust of an accursed outlaw's blade. Where was the fairness in that?

But he also found himself wondering if Gervase's high living might have played a part in his death. A man so lavish in his spending might well have incurred dangerous debts. He could have stirred envy, too, in the hearts of his less fortunate neighbors. Had someone resented Gervase's conspicuous prosperity— enough to kill him for it?

"Can it be?" Emerging from the stable, Edwin stood gaping at Justin. "By Corpus, it truly is you!" Striding forward eagerly, he reached up to help Justin dismount. "I never thought to see you again. But you'll be in my prayers for the rest of my born days, that you can rely upon!"

"I'll take prayers wherever I can get them," Justin said with a smile. "But you owe me nothing."

"Only my life." Edwin was not quite as tall as Justin, but more robust, as burly as Justin was lean. He had the reddest hair and beard Justin had ever seen, brighter than blood, with very fair skin that must burn easily under summer suns, but without the usual crop of freckles to be found on a redhead's face. His grin was engaging, revealing a crooked front tooth and a vast

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reservoir ot goodwill. "If not for you, those hellspawn would have slit my throat, for certes. I have a confession of sorts, one that will make me sound a right proper fool. I daresay you told me your name, but I was so distraught that I could not remember it afterward to save my soul."

"That is easily remedied. I am Justin de Quincy." It was the first time that Justin had said the name aloud. He liked the sound of it, at once an affirmation of identity and an act of defiance.

The young groom's grin widened. "I am Edwin, son of Cuthbert the drover. Welcome to Winchester, Master de Quincy. What brings you back?"

"I had business to tend to in London, but once it was done, I found myself brooding upon the killing. I would see those brigands brought to justice. It is my hope that I can aid the sheriff in his hunt, for I got a good look at them."

"Better than me," Edwin conceded. "About all I saw was the ground rushing up to meet me! I still have not figured out how they spooked our horses so easily . . . But no matter. I am right pleased that you've come back, and I know Mistress Ella will be, too."

Justin assumed that was Gervase's widow. "I'd like to pay my respects to her," he said, and had confirmation of her identity when Edwin nodded.

"Indeed," he said, "but she is not at home now and will not be back till later. Whilst you are waiting, why not let me take you to the shop? Master Gervase's son will be there."

Justin gladly accepted the offer. "What about my horse? Is there room in the stable for him?"

"I can put him in Quicksilver's stall. You remember Master Gervase's stallion, the one the bandits stole?"

Justin did. "The pale roan, right? A handsome animal."

"A rare prize." Edwin sighed. "I miss him sorely, for Master Gervase would let me exercise him on those days when he had not the time. That horse could outrace the wind, God's Truth, a sight to behold, with that silver tail streaming out like a battle banner and his hooves barely skimming the ground!"

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Justin warmed to the groom's enthusiasm; he had the same pride in Copper. But when Edwin bragged that Gervase had paid ten marks for the stallion, he whistled, for that was still more evidence of Gervase's lavish living. Was it significant that the goldsmith had been a spendthrift? Could he have been borrowing from moneylenders? Making a mental note to try to find out more about the slain man's finances, Justin followed Edwin into the stable.

A short time later they were walking briskly up Calpe Street. Outgoing and exuberant, the young groom was more than willing to enlighten Justin about Gervase Fitz Randolph and his family. By the time they reached the High Street, Justin had learned that Gervase had taken his younger brother, Guy, into the business, that they employed a journeyman, Miles, who'd lacked the funds to set himself up as a craftsman once his apprenticeship was done, and that Gervase's son, Thomas, was presently laboring as an apprentice, although not by choice. "Thomas never had an interest in goldsmithing," Edwin explained, "but it was Master Gervase's wish that he learn the craft."

"Is the brother at the shop with Thomas?"

Edwin shook his head. "Master Guy is back at the house, abed. He has been poorly all week, suffering from bad headaches. If you ask me, I think he has sickened on his grieving."

"The brothers were close, then?"

"No . . ." Edwin's brow furrowed. "If truth be told, they squabbled like tomcats. But I do believe Master Guy is taking the death hardest of all."