The queen's man : a medieval mystery (6 page)

"Mayhap he feels guilty," Justin said, as noncommittally as he could, but the words left a sour aftertaste in his mouth. He'd not fully realized that to find a killer, he'd have to wade through other people's pain.

Deciding that he needed to put the murder aside, if only for a brief while, he cast about for a more innocuous topic. Edwin and Cuthbert, Saxon names both. Many of Saxon birth took fashionable Norman-French names, but the reverse was rarely true. And as serviceable as Edwin's French was, it was not his native tongue, not as it was for Justin.

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Growing up in the Marches, Justin had learned to speak both languages, even a little Welsh. He'd not often thought about the bilingual barriers separating Saxons and Normans, accepting them as a burdensome fact of life. French was the language of the royal court, the language of advancement and ambition and culture, English the tongue of the conquered. And yet it still endured, more than a hundred years after England had come under the mastery of the Norman duke, William the Bastard. Saxons stubbornly clung to their own speech, and the river ran both ways. Justin doubted that King Richard spoke any English. But he was sure that Gervase had been fluent in the Saxon tongue; commerce and convenience demanded as much.

"Your French is quite good," he told Edwin, "much better than my English!"

Edwin looked so pleased that Justin guessed few compliments ever came his way. "I've been working for Master Gervase for nigh on five years," he said, "since I was about fourteen. Master Thomas was the same age, and he agreed to help me with my French. Thomas likes to instruct others," he added, wryly enough to make Justin suddenly curious about the goldsmith's son.

"What sort of a master was Gervase, Edwin?"

"I had no complaints. He could be hard, but always fair. He was a gifted goldsmith, and he knew it—no false pride there. Ambitious, with a liking for his comforts, and generous to a fault. Not just for his own needs or wants, either. He denied Mistress Ella and Mistress Jonet nothing; they dressed like ladies of quality. He never passed a beggar without tossing a coin and gave alms every Sunday at church. But he was not one for listening. So sure that his way was best. Unable to compromise. I daresay you have known men like that?"

"Yes," Justin said tersely, trying not to think of his father. "Who is Jonet?"

"His daughter. They had only the two, Thomas and Jonet. Mistress Ella lost several, one in the cradle and two stillborn, so they doted on those they had left. Master Gervase had high hopes for them both. Thomas was to follow in his footsteps and

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Jonet was to wed a baron. He dared to dream, did Master Ger-vase. It does not seem right that two misbegotten churls could take it all away like that."

"No/' Justin agreed, "it does not." They were drawing near a crippled, legless beggar, wheeling himself along on a small wooden platform. Reaching into his pouch, Justin dropped several coins into the man's alms cup, getting a startled "God bless you" for his generosity. "Gervase was seeking a baron for his daughter? Surely that was not very likely? The marriage portion would have to be huge to tempt a lord into marrying out of his class."

"You have not yet seen Mistress Jonet."

Justin's smile was faintly skeptical. "Is she as fair as that?"

"Fairer than one of God's own angels," Edwin said, but without any enthusiasm, and Justin gave him a curious glance. Was it that Edwin liked Mistress Jonet not at all—or too much?

"There it is," Edwin said, pointing up Alwarne Street. As they got closer, Justin recognized the crude unicorn sketched into the wood of an overhanging sign, the universal emblem of goldsmiths. "I hope Thomas is back from dinner."

"He takes two full hours for dinner?" Thomas was beginning to sound like some of the spoiled young lordlings Justin had known in Lord Fitz Alan's service, wellborn youths more interested in dicing and whoring than in learning the duties of a squire. "So Thomas likes to visit the alehouses and bawdy-houses?"

"Thomas?" Edwin chortled. "That will be the day!"

Justin wanted to ask more questions about the mysterious Master Thomas, but thought better of it. He'd been fortunate to find such a source in Edwin, did not want to risk poisoning the well by pushing too hard. Nor was he completely comfortable with this oblique interrogation. Good intentioned or not, he felt as if he were somehow taking advantage of Edwin's trust. "How is it that you know so much about the family secrets?" he joked, instead. "Are you a soothsayer in your spare time?"

Edwin grinned. "Nay, I merely befriended the cook. Not only does she save me extra wafers and bone-marrow tarts, she serves

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up ample helpings of family gossip, too. God love them, for cooks always know where the bodies are buried!"

Justin's face shadowed, for he could not help thinking of another gossip-prone cook, this one in a Shrewsbury rectory, watching as a priest seduced an innocent. Pushing the memory away, he groped for something to say. But there was no need to dissemble. They'd reached the goldsmith's shop.

Horizontal shutters that opened upward and downward protected shops at night. During the day, the top half of the shutter was propped up, acting as a canopy to shelter customers, while the lower shutter extended out toward the street, serving as a display counter. Inside was a small room, lit with cresset lamps. Justin could distinguish the outlines of a workbench, an anvil, and a table covered with clay; he had watched other goldsmiths at work, knew the clay was used to sketch out designs. But there was no sign of life.

Leaning over the counter, Edwin peered into the shadows. "Now where in blazes are they? Thomas might wander off on a whim; God knows he has done it often enough. But what of Miles? Look at those amethysts and moss agates spread out on the workbench. A thief could vault over the counter, snatch up a handful, and be off in a trice! I do not like this, Master Justin," he muttered, "not at all . . ."

Neither did Justin. Goldsmiths were known to keep silver and gemstones on hand, even a small supply of gold. Had Gervase's killers struck again? "Where does yonder door lead, Edwin? Can we get in that way?"

"There is a second room beyond, where Master Gervase keeps—kept—his forge and bellows and heavier anvils. Miles sleeps there at night. There is an outer door in the alley, but it is locked and I lack the key."

With that, Edwin swung up onto the counter and over. Justin followed swiftly. A charcoal brazier was burning in a corner, still smoldering. A hammer lay in the floor rushes, as if dropped in haste. A wooden trencher had been left on the bench; it held a half-eaten chunk of goat's cheese and the remains of a small loaf of bread. Justin and Edwin exchanged uneasy glances. What had

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happened here? Their nerves were taut, and they both jumped when a muffled sound came from the inner room. Justin swept his mantle back, his hand closing around the hilt of his sword. Edwin was unarmed, but he stooped and grabbed the hammer. Communicating by gestures and nods, they moved stealthily forward and then hit the door together, Justin kicking at the latch and Edwin slamming a muscular shoulder against the aged wood.

The door was in better shape than they'd expected. Had it been latched, it would have held. But it was not, and it burst open under their joint assault. Justin's boot slipped in the floor rushes and he almost lost his balance, while Edwin's wild rush catapulted him headfirst into the room. Justin heard—simultaneously—a woman's scream, a garbled curse, and a loud crash. His sword clearing its scabbard, he plunged through the doorway, only to come to an astonished halt at the sight meeting his eyes.

Edwin was on his hands and knees, an expression of shocked dismay on his face. A man with flaxen hair was straddling a workbench, flushed and disheveled and blinking in bewilderment. On his lap was a vision. Her hair was a lustrous silver blonde, spilling out of its pins in silken disarray. Her clothes were equally askew. Her bodice was unlaced, offering Justin an inadvertent but provocative glimpse of her cleavage with every breath she drew, and her skirts were hiked up to reveal very shapely legs. With eyes bluer than cornflowers and skin whiter than Madonna lilies, she could have been conjured up from a minstrel's song, so perfectly did she embody their society's ideal of feminine beauty. But that illusion lasted only as long as it took her to scramble off her lover's knee.

"You lowborn, half-witted, wretched ..." Sputtering in her fury, she nearly choked on her own indignation. "How dare you spy on me! I'll see you fired for this, by God, I will!"

"That is not fair, Mistress Jonet! I feared something was wrong—"

"Something is wrong, indeed! Sneaking around, meddling, prying into my private life! Well, no more, for I've had enough—"

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So had Justin. Sheathing his sword, he said coolly, "If you have a grievance, demoiselle, it is with me, not Edwin. I told him to breach the door."

The girl's angry tirade was stopped in midcry. "Oh!" Her pretty mouth hung ajar, blue eyes widening as she took in the sword at Justin's hip, his demeanor, that deliberate use of "demoiselle," all unmistakable indications of rank.

Taking advantage of her momentary consternation, Edwin got to his feet. "Mistress Jonet, I'd have you meet Justin de Quincy." He paused before adding with malicious satisfaction, "He is the man who sought to save your father from those outlaws."

"Oh," she said again, this time in a soft, quavering tone of chagrin. Blushing for Justin as she had not for Edwin, she hastily began to relace her gaping bodice. Justin did what he could to intensify her embarrassment by stepping forward and kissing her hand in his most courtly manner. He suspected that she was rarely so tongue-tied; any girl who looked like this one did would have learned at an early age how to make the most of her assets. Enjoying her discomfiture as much as Edwin, he said, "We feared that something was amiss, what with the shop open and unattended ... If we jumped to the wrong conclusion, I am indeed sorry."

Jonet's blush deepened. Bending over, she hastily retrieved her veil from the floor rushes. "I stopped by to see Thomas. You do not know my brother, but he can be very irresponsible. He just took off, leaving Miles with orders to complete and repairs to make and customers to tend to."

Justin had a diabolic urge to point out that Jonet had certainly done her best to make it up to Miles, but he managed to resist the temptation. He could not help glancing toward the journeyman, though. Justin guessed him to be in his early or mid-twenties, undeniably good looking in a bland sort of way, and apparently blessed with an abundance of self-confidence, for he seemed unperturbed by this sudden exposure of his love affair with his employer's daughter. Brushing aside a bright forelock, he said amiably, "Tom has always been a bit flighty, but he's a good lad. I do not mind pitching in to do his share."

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Justin was sure that no one called the missing apprentice "Tom" except Miles. Nor did he doubt that if he became friendly with the journeyman, he'd soon be "Jus." "I believe this is yours," Justin said, reaching down and plucking a rabbit's foot from the rushes. He knew it was used by goldsmiths to polish silver and gold, but from the way Jonet blushed anew, he'd wager they'd been putting it to more creative use. "Well, I've been enough of a disruption," he began, but Jonet contradicted him quickly.

"No one could be more welcome than you, Master de Quincy," she insisted, turning upon him the full power of her most coquettish smile. "I know my mother will want you to take supper with us. Our servant will get you back to our house. I trust you can do that, Edwin, without going astray?"

Edwin dared not ignore her, but he could not bring himself to acquiesce in his own humiliation, and he grunted something that might have been either assent or denial. Justin bent over Jonet's hand again, this time making the gesture perfunctory, not gallant. Jonet realized that she'd done something to earn his disapproval, but she did not know how she'd offended. "Wait," she cried as Justin turned to go. "I do not want you to misunderstand, Master de Quincy. Miles and I . . . we are plight trothed."

That was obviously news to Edwin, for he gave Jonet a startled glance that, under other circumstances, might have been comical. There was an awkward silence, finally broken by Justin. "I wish you both well," he said politely. It was a tepid response, but it seemed to satisfy Jonet and Miles. They followed him out to the street, smiling.

Justin and Edwin walked without speaking for a time, detour-ing around a hissing goose and a pig foraging in a pile of rotting garbage. "Well," Justin said at last, "she may have the face of one of God's angels, but she has the Devil's own temper."

Edwin laughed, without much humor. "You do not know the half of it! There is no pleasing that one. You could give her Queen Eleanor's royal crown and she'd just bemoan the fit!"

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"Am I sate in assuming thai Master Gervase knew nothing of

this plight-troth?"

Edwin snickered. "His precious daughter and his hired man? When pigs sprout wings!"

"Are you sure he did not know, Edwin?"

"Miles is still employed, is he not? What more proof do you need than that? As I told you, Master Gervase had his heart set upon snaring a highborn husband for his lass—Sir Hamon de Harcourt. He is fifty if he is a day, paunchy and bald as an egg, but he has a fine manor outside Salisbury and another one at Wilton, as well as rental property here in Winchester—or so Berta the cook claims! Sir Hamon has grown sons who were objecting to his marrying a craftsman's daughter, even one who'd bring a goodly marriage portion. But I think the marriage would have come about in time. Hell and furies, he could not look at Jonet without drooling! You think Master Gervase would pass up a baron for a hireling who sleeps in his shop?"

Justin had the answer he needed, if not the one he wanted. He'd never truly expected to find clues to Gervase's killing in the man's own home. And yet he could not deny that Jonet and Miles had a convincing motive for murder.