Masques of Gold (10 page)

“We do not need any new trouble,” Justin replied. “The old is still with us. The enmity between the barons and the king is like an ill-healed wound, a pus-filled sore under a thin covering of skin applied by Archbishop Langton. But just now the skin with Langton's dressing atop
is
covering the sore, and John is too busy with his preparations for war in France to be troubled about the actions of any one man—oh, except perhaps Eustace de Vesci or Robert FitzWalter.” Justin sighed. “I wish FitzWalter had not been included in the pardon.”

“Why? Do you hate him too?”

Justin had been looking into the fire, but at the questions he turned his head sharply, suddenly alert. “Hate him
too
?” he repeated. “Did Flael hate FitzWalter?”

“Oh no,” Lissa said, startled. “I do not remember that Peter ever mentioned Lord Robert, and I do not believe I saw his name among either clients or debtors. I cannot imagine why Lord Robert should have anything to do with Peter's death. I was only wondering why you said you were sorry he had been pardoned.”

“That is nothing to do with my feelings about FitzWalter. In fact, I think in some ways FitzWalter's reputation is undeserved. He is certainly brutal but not, I believe, indiscriminately vicious, and he is certainly not a coward. However, he has a hatred for King John that is, in my opinion, not entirely sane.”

Lissa pushed the needle she had been holding through the sleeve cuff, caught a tiny stitch to hold the thread, and then began to stitch and backstitch to create a small branch bearing a few graceful leaves. She did not look up but murmured encouragingly. She could feel that Justin was looking at her; that gave her pleasure, but she showed no sign of it beyond the occasional soft words that marked her interest.

“I am a little sorry for FitzWalter,” Justin went on, “because I think he is driven to more aggressive action than he might really like by that label of cowardice that was affixed to him in 1203. And that need to prove himself more a man than any other, added to his hatred for John, may cause our city great trouble. You know, do you not, that FitzWalter is London's Standard Bearer? That means he leads the troops the city provides for the king in times of war. Right now the king is gathering troops for war in France again, and FitzWalter is going. I could hardly believe it when I heard.”

Lissa knew that the mayor's watches were in Justin's charge. They were the major armed force in the city, aside from the men-at-arms who were based in the Tower, and it seemed inevitable that many of those men would be chosen to go with the king. “And you?” she asked. “Are you going?” Her head had come up, her eyes wide and her lips parted with anxiety.

“Are you so eager to be rid of me that you wish me in France?” Justin teased.

Color stained Lissa's cheeks, but she did not drop her eyes. “You know that is not true. I do not know how I would have survived this day without your kindness.”

“Do not trust me. I am winning your confidence so that you will forget my purpose and position and confess all your crimes to me.”

But Lissa was not to be diverted. “Are you going?” she repeated.

The little lines around Justin's eyes that marked amusement disappeared. The insistent question was like a caress, stating suddenly and openly Lissa's interest in him, not as a benefactor but as a man. In that moment, a last, dangerous spice—desire—was added to the strange mix of emotions that Lissa generated in him. She stared, her color high with embarrassment, which told Justin that she knew what she had exposed but did not lessen her determination. She had to know because she cared for him. Justin stared back, losing the thread of what had been said, aware only of how fine were the delicate curves of Lissa's lip and nostril and that her deep blush and the golden light of the candles had turned her eyes all green.

A voice calling from the door startled them both. Lissa pushed away her embroidery frame and got up. Justin rose also and followed her to the door. She turned before she opened it and laid a hand on his arm.

“Please do not go.”

“I must give the men leave to go home,” he said, and added deliberately, “You made me forget all about them.”

Then he reached around her and opened the door, which swung in to admit Witta and a miasma of mouth-watering smells. The odors rose from Witta's burden, two covered earthenware pots on which was balanced a large platter. The leather jack of wine hung over his shoulder.

Justin sniffed and said, “I will be back in a moment. I am far too hungry to go home to an icy house where I will have to wait an hour for unwilling servants to contrive an inedible meal.”

Lissa chuckled at the obviously false self-pity in Justin's voice. “Poor man,” she said, “I promise you will be kept warm and well fed, but you will have to pay a price.” And then as his head turned, to reveal a genuinely shocked expression at the double meaning that could be read into her words, she laughed aloud. “I want my questions answered.”

However warmly he might feel for Lissa, Justin was resolved not to fail in any precaution that might solve Flael's murder. He did tell Halsig and the men that they were free of duty, but he bade Halsig send two fresh men, who were not fools, to watch Flael's shop and house front and back in case one or both of Flael's sons should return. Then he mounted the stairs with a clear conscience, aware of the pleasant tension in his body. He wondered if he should test Lissa by trying to seduce her this very night. If she agreed, the same day her husband had died, would that not prove her a whore?

The question hung in his mind as he entered the room and found everything ready and extraordinarily inviting. He took a step toward the table, only to be asked whether he was preparing for a sojourn in an armed camp by sitting down to eat without washing his hands. And there was something in Lissa's voice, in the warmth of the smile she turned on him, even in the asperity with which she pointed to the bowl of water on a stand near the door, that made the question irrelevant. Her trust and admiration precluded traps on a personal level. She cared for him; it seemed very strange—and then he remembered what she had said earlier in the day and wondered if it was possible that she had cherished a regard for him ever since the fire.

He washed his hands obediently, moved the large chair to the table at Lissa's request, and sat down, noticing with wry amusement that the boy was crouched in a corner eating from a wooden bowl, with a good-sized wedge of the pork pasty awaiting his attention. Justin wondered whether Lissa had been stirred by the same strong urge as he and had kept Witta there to provide herself with a hedge against seduction. But from her first words, as she ladled soup from one earthenware pot into a fine pewter bowl, he was forced to realize that seduction had never even interrupted her train of thought.

“You will not go to France with the king, will you?” she asked, serving herself and sitting down.

“Not unless I am ordered to go,” Justin replied, and after swallowing several spoonfuls of the soup, he added, “I am sorry for it. The king has the right in this quarrel. Whatever John's real reasons and despite the barons grumbling about a foreign war, curbing King Philip will be good for London and good for trade. I would gladly go if FitzWalter were not the leader.”

“Then I thank God he is,” Lissa said sharply, and then more thoughtfully, “Why do men always seem to look eagerly for war? When my uncles come back from their voyages, they seem happier about the pirates they fought than about a quiet voyage.”

“I am not so eager for war,” Justin protested indignantly. “Did I not just say that we must protect Gascony against Philip's desire to swallow it? What I am willing to fight for is my source of wine from Bordeaux. Do you know what would happen to trade if the French overran that province?”

“Yes, I do know.” Lissa sighed. “I know how the prices of pepper and other herbs and other spices vary in accordance with the struggles in the East. And I buy wine for my infusions too. Is there really a danger of Louis taking Gascony?”

“I do not know. I do not think so, unless there is great treachery…”

Lissa paused with a spoon halfway to her mouth as Justin's voice died away uncertainly. “You do not think FitzWalter will try to turn London's troops against the king in battle!”

“FitzWalter?” Justin frowned. “I was not thinking of him. There are those in Gascony who hate King John as much as FitzWalter does, and they have more power there.”

“I do not care about that,” Lissa said. “I will be sorry if the price of wine should rise, but if FitzWalter's act makes it seem that London has turned against the king, we will all suffer. Whatever happens in France, sooner or later King John will return to England, and I have heard that he does not forget an injury, no matter how long a time has passed.”

Justin shook his head. “There is no danger to the king, or to London either, from FitzWalter. I would not be sitting here calmly stuffing my mouth if I thought there was. I would be ahorse on my way to Windsor to warn John. If I
must
choose between FitzWalter and the king, I will choose John. I know FitzWalter. He has no object other than his own gratification. Sometimes the causes he espouses in that purpose happen to be good, but that is by accident. On the other hand, although John has his faults, his main object is the good of the realm.” Justin raised his brows and added, “Of course, his view of the good of the realm does not always coincide with that of others, but I would rather deal with John's reasoned greed for power than with FitzWalter's blind hate. However, I would infinitely prefer to avoid being caught between them. It seems to me that in this case I can best serve my city by remaining here.”

“That is most certainly true,” Lissa agreed heartily, but she was not completely satisfied, and after they had eaten in silence for a while she asked, “Why should you be caught between FitzWalter and the king?”

Justin pushed aside his empty bowl and made a gesture of helplessness. “Simply because FitzWalter likes me—God knows why—and has already asked me to be his chief captain. But I do not know how far FitzWalter's madness of hate will drive him, and I want no connection at all with any threat against the king. FitzWalter swore to me that he goes to France to regain John's favor. I hope that is the truth because I wish FitzWalter no ill, although I cannot say I return his regard. And he will come to ill, he will fail—and die—if he tries treachery. John has been forewarned by what happened in 1212. FitzWalter will be watched and separated from the London troops if necessary. John will not permit him to make any move that is not overseen by his own friends.”

“But why does FitzWalter hate the king so?” Lissa asked, laying most of the chicken and a slice of the pasty on the platter she had set ready. Justin looked at it with surprise, wondering at the substitution of a silver platter for the round of stale bread that usually served as a plate, but before he could ask the reason for the excessive elegance, she said, “I heard from one of the great ladies who buy their lotions and powders from me that Vesci, the other man who was pardoned with FitzWalter, hated the king for tampering with his wife. Of course, that might be only a wild rumor, but none of the ladies ever mentioned FitzWalter.”

“Perhaps because his is not a quarrel that is interesting to ladies.”

Lissa raised her eyes. “Perhaps not to
ladies
, but I am a merchant's daughter and the well-doing of my city is dear to my heart, so FitzWalter's quarrel with the king is very interesting to
me
.”

“Well said, merchant's daughter, well said.” Justin smiled at her and took a bite of the chicken, waving a leg while his mouth was full to show that he had more to say. “The trouble goes back a long way, back to the time Normandy was lost to King Philip of France in 1203. FitzWalter and another man, Saer de Quincy, were then among King John's favorites and were given charge of Vaudreuil Castle. When Philip attacked Normandy, those who held the border keeps sent to the king for help, but he would not, or could not, come to their assistance. Many resisted as long as they could, but all were overwhelmed one after another, in some cases with great loss of life. Some say the king rushed up and down the land but by ill fortune or bad judgment accomplished nothing. Others say he sat still and would not be moved, though his advisers pleaded with him to act. What is said about FitzWalter and Quincy is that they decided King John had violated his pledge to support them and they were thus freed from their oath of fealty. So when Philip's army arrived they yielded without even a token resistance.”

While Justin was speaking, Lissa had finished the small portion of chicken she had served herself and started to pick at her slice of the pasty. Then she laid down her eating knife and looked at Justin. “That sounds sensible to me.”

Justin laughed aloud. “A truly feminine judgment, but if that kind of sense was allowed to rule men's behavior, the world would fall into chaos. When fealty is given, it may not be abandoned simply because it seems, or even is, more sensible to do so. It is our swearing to our lords and holding by our oaths that keeps order in the land.”

“Even if your lord tells you to jump off a cliff?” Lissa asked as she lifted the jack of wine and refilled their goblets.

“There might be a necessary purpose that he saw and I did not.”

Lissa turned her head to look at Justin, and her expression made him chuckle.

“Oh very well,” he continued, grinning, “we will take it as said that my lord has fallen off his horse on his head and is not as sensible as he might be—a condition I sometimes face with our present mayor. In that case, one might take council with one's fellow vassals and bring a complaint to the king, who could mediate between us and our overlord. Or I could decide to cry defiance, which is an open and public breaking of one's homage. That, however, usually entails the loss of any lands one holds of that lord, unless one can keep them by force.” Then the amusement passed from his voice. “Since in this case the king was the overlord, FitzWalter and Quincy had no one to whom to complain, and they did not send a defiance to John before they offered Vaudreuil Castle to Philip. I heard it said they thought the king so far gone in sloth and lustful satisfaction with his new wife that he would not distinguish, among all the other losses, between yielding from necessity and yielding from choice.”

“I cannot believe the king would give up a duchy to futter his own wife,” Lissa remarked dryly. “And she was not so new a wife by 1203. If I remember aright what I was told, Isabella and John were married the year after the king came to the throne—that would be 1200—so they had been married three years. I have served Isabella, and she is very, very beautiful, but it is not as if she were going to disappear.”

“I must agree,” Justin said. “But
something
was wrong with the king, and rumor blamed Isabella. Those who wish to find excuses for FitzWalter and Quincy say it was that rumor that enraged them enough to yield a fully stocked and manned keep, and one that was very important to the defense of all of Normandy, without a blow being struck.”

“You do not believe that, yet you also said FitzWalter is not a coward.”

“There is a strange puzzle concerning that yielding. I have told you what I have heard of it, but there is much that rings false to me. Why did FitzWalter and Quincy yield that keep without asking terms for themselves? King Philip might have looked down his nose at them, but he would surely have given them their freedom and perhaps even more in exchange for so great a prize. Instead, they simply laid down their arms and opened the gates. Not only were they branded cowards, which would have happened in any case, but they were branded without recompense, because Philip threw them into prison. They were chained like dogs in Compiègne instead of being treated like honorable enemies and set free on their parole until their ransom of five thousand marks was paid.”

“That is very strange indeed,” Lissa said, pushing aside the remains of her food and clasping her hands idly on the table.

“Still stranger is that John sent out letters patent saying that he had ordered the yielding of Vaudreuil—yet he refused to help pay their ransoms, and both went deep into debt to get free.”

“I am only a merchant's daughter, but that smells of long-dead fish to me. Surely there was treachery, but I cannot tell who betrayed whom.”

“Nor I,” Justin said, leaning back with his goblet of wine in hand. “Nor any other man. All I know is that the only one who profited on all sides was King Philip, and it is well known that he hates the Angevins root, stock, and branch—but I cannot see how he could have done it.”

Lissa laughed. “If King Philip could have been blamed, you may be sure John or one of his clever friends would have cried that blame aloud, and it was ten years ago.”

“You are right.” Justin drank off the last of his wine and put the goblet back on the table. “No one will ever discover the truth now, but I wish there were a cure for FitzWalter's hatred for the king and John's for him.”

They were companionably silent for a few minutes, during which Lissa gestured at the remaining food and Justin signed that he was finished but nodded to another filling of his goblet. He sipped thoughtfully as Lissa called the boy to help her clear, and when he saw that he was in their way, he moved the chair to its original place by the fireside. When Witta had gone to store the remains of the meal, Lissa sat down and pulled her embroidery frame close.

“Now,” Justin said, looking as severe as he could, “will you explain to me how you seduced me into talking about FitzWalter and the king—a matter that surely can have little pertinence to you—when we should have been talking of more practical matters?”