Masques of Gold (2 page)

Besides, there was no necessary connection. Now that her shock had passed and she was able to think again, it was clear that if Peter had cheated her father, he had probably cheated others too. And there was the matter of usury as well. Perhaps Peter had lent money at too-high interest and some poor soul trapped by his greed had become desperate enough and bitter enough to want Peter to suffer agony as well as death. Lissa did not know for certain that Peter was a usurer, but nearly all goldsmiths lent money at interest—they called it a “fee” for their services, since usury was a sin. Cynically Lissa wondered if they thought changing the name of what they did could fool God. She hated that part of the goldsmiths' trade as much as she loved the beauty they created with their skill.

She had been dreading the day when Peter would demand that she take up her share of the burden of the business. Unable to think of any other reason for Peter to have decided on her as a bride once she realized her husband did
not
have a grand passion for her, Lissa had assumed it was for her skills as a keeper of accounts in addition to the ordinary womanly accomplishments. She had not feared the work—she had loved every part of her duties as her father's assistant, although she would have preferred a few compliments instead of constant complaints. Buying and selling she found fascinating, but she could not rid herself of the idea that charging a fee for lending money to someone already unfortunate enough to be unable to pay his expenses was a dishonest way to make a profit. She had not wanted to be responsible for keeping accounts of such transactions.

Lissa's wandering mind was recalled to the fact of her husband's death when, faintly, she heard the groan of an axle and the gritty noise of wheels on stone. She ran to the back of the chamber and loosened the shutter on the window so that she could open it a crack and peer out. Young Peter was on the two-wheel cart that was used mostly to move household goods from the London house to the one in Canterbury. The horse was just passing out of the gate into the alley that ran along the walled garden to a lane connecting Bread Street and Friday Street. Edmond was waiting by the gate, and he shut it as soon as the tail of the cart passed through.

Lissa was surprised by the sense of relief she felt as Peter and Edmond disappeared before the alderman's officers arrived. She was a little ashamed of it, but she wanted a chance to tell her side of the story first. Not that there was much to tell, she thought, if she did not wish to implicate her father. She must say—and then Lissa realized that she was in no condition to say anything to anyone. She was still wearing her bed robe; she was unwashed, and her hair was undone. And that realization made her conscious of the absence of the maid. The old woman resented her for having replaced her original mistress, but she had performed her duties efficiently if grudgingly.

Could the woman be afraid to come past Peter's body? Witta had said the sons had left it just lying on the floor. Lissa tightened her muscles against a new spate of shivering. It was wrong. Her husband had not cared for her as she first believed, but he had not been cruel when he had taken her maidenhead, and he had been courteous, if cool, in the six weeks they had been married. It was wrong for her to leave him without dignity in his death, sprawled, all twisted…Her hand flew to her mouth as a memory of Peter's broken limbs sent a wave of nausea through her, but she gritted her teeth and started down the stairs.

Peter lay in the shop, on the floor, as Witta had said, but at least he had been decently covered. A shaken sigh eased out of Lissa, and she came down the rest of the stairs. She glanced quickly around the room, but the maid was not anywhere to be seen, and there was no sound from the workroom. Lissa made a wide detour around the body, almost running through the workroom and out the back door. The kitchen shed was as empty as the house, however, and Lissa stopped.

Where could the woman be, she wondered. She had not gone with Peter and Edmond. Had she run away? In blank bewilderment Lissa's eyes swept over the winter-blasted garden,
pausing suddenly at the door of the hut in which Witta and the maid slept. There was a stick lodged against the door, which opened outward, locking the maid in. Furious and shivering with cold, Lissa ran through the garden and pulled away the stick.

“Come out, Binge,” she called, pulling the door wide, and as the maid came forward, frowning, her lips tight with rage, over her toothless gums, Lissa added, “Something terrible has happened. Master Peter has been killed.”

The maid's wrinkled mouth dropped open with shock. “Killed?” she gasped. “No! His leman could not have been so jealous. She was only a common whore. She would have been glad to see him come to her again. She would not dare—”

“There
was
no woman,” Lissa cried. “I knew Peter was in trouble when he did not come home last night.” But she could not go on because her teeth were chattering. She gestured for the maid to follow her and ran back to the house. In comparison with the bitter cold of the garden, the workroom was warm, even though the fire that Witta had started from the banked embers had burned down. “Fetch me water for washing and come up and help me dress,” Lissa said when she could speak.

“Where are young Peter and Edmond?” Binge asked.

Lissa shook her head. “I do not know. They took the strongboxes away. I suppose their father left very strict orders about what must be done. They—” She swallowed. “They left him lying on the floor of the shop.”

“On the floor?” the maid repeated.

Lissa drew in a shaken breath. “I sent Witta to tell the alderman. He will be here or his officers will come soon. I must be dressed—”

She broke off as it occurred to her that it seemed like a very long time since she sent the boy out, and Alderman Goscelin's house was no more than a single street away. Had Witta been so frightened that he had run away instead of carrying her message? Then she took another deep breath. It was more likely that she had lost her sense of time and that it had not been as long as she thought. The alderman might not have been dressed. His servants would have made Witta wait. And then Master Goscelin would have had to send for his men. He would not come alone; he would need witnesses. Lissa repeated her order to Binge and fled, averting her head as she passed Peter's body.

In the bedchamber at the front of the house she busied herself with building up the fire and laying out a simple dark blue tunic and pale gray gown. When Binge brought up the water, she washed and then dressed, her ear cocked for any sound from the shop below, but there were only faint noises from the street, no knock on the door. Finally she opened her husband's clothes chest and began to look through the garments. But when everything was done, his best gown shaken free of wrinkles and fresh underclothing chosen, she and Binge were still alone.

“Where are they?” she whispered, not knowing whether she meant Peter's sons or the alderman and his officers.

At last, able to delay no longer, Lissa gestured to Binge and went down. She bade the maid fetch two stools from the workroom, and she herself lit two candles, carried them in, and set them on the shop counter. Somehow it seemed wrong to open the windows, so she and Binge sat down in the dim candlelight a little distance from the corpse.

Lissa's mind was an utter blank by the time the door was flung open, letting in a flood of sunlight that blinded her. Startled, she jumped to her feet, flinging up a hand to shield her dazzled eyes.

“What the devil is going on here?”

Sir Justin FitzAilwin's voice was louder and harsher than he intended, but he had not expected to be confronted with a pitch-dark room in which a pale wraith, hiding its face, seemed to leap at him out of the dark into the swath of sunlight from the doorway. His temper, which was foul to begin with from having been wakened too early after a night of unwise revels with his cousins, was not improved by feeling a fool in the next moment. When his eyes adjusted to the relative dimness, the pale wraith resolved into a slender young woman, who dropped her arm and blinked in the sudden light.

Nor did Justin feel any better when she held out her hand to him and exclaimed, “Oh, Sir Justin, I am so glad it is you.”

Clearly she knew him, and now that he could see her face it had a vague familiarity, but her name would not pierce through the pounding in his head. To give himself another moment, he stepped forward and took her hand and then had to set his teeth against a groan as he bent to kiss it. He was ready to bite her fingers instead of kissing them, particularly when, after his eyes cleared of the mist raised by the pang that pierced him from temple to temple, he saw she was smiling, albeit only faintly.

But she said, “You will not remember me. We met only once, and very briefly, right after the fire a year and a half ago. I was greatly impressed by your charity, Sir Justin.”

Her voice was soft and musical and soothed the hammer strokes on the ringing anvil in Justin's head. Her words were equally pleasing, relieving him of the need to pretend he knew her—and, he thought somewhat ruefully, pandering to his vanity by implying that he was memorable enough to be recalled for a year after one brief meeting. But then the sense of what she had said came through the dull throbbing. Remembered for his charity, was he? By a woman whose husband had been murdered? But she was quite young. Perhaps she was Flael's daughter rather than his wife.

“You
are
Mistress de Flael?” Justin asked.

She nodded, but he realized that did not answer the question. The title
mistress
would serve for wife or daughter. He wished they were speaking French, where
demoiselle
and
madame
made the difference clear, but Mistress de Flael had addressed him in English and he had, of course, answered in the same language. Here in London, where the hand of the conqueror had touched only lightly because the skill of the artisans and the wealth and trading connections of the merchants had been necessary to the new rulers, English was not only the language of the majority but of a rich and powerful majority. However, French was Justin's native tongue, and it was not necessary to be polite to those involved in murder. Besides, if witnesses had to think carefully about
how
to say something they often became careless about
what
they were saying.

So Justin asked, “Do you speak French?”

“Yes, of course,” Lissa replied with perfect fluency in the requested language, “and Danish and German also.”

“And your full name and status?”

Lissa saw Justin's lips thin with irritation and the creases deepen between his brows. She had no idea what had annoyed him, but quickly answered both questions. “I am Madame Heloise de Flael, the wife of the man who was…killed…murdered.”

Her voice trembled over the last two words, and she gestured with her free hand into the shadows to her left where Peter's body lay. She had been unaware until she did so that Justin was still holding the hand he had kissed. He has the expression of an avenging angel and the harshest voice, she thought, but he is really the kindest person. Thankfully she gave his hand a gentle squeeze and extracted her fingers from his grip.

Justin's eyes had followed Lissa's gesture and fixed on the cloth-covered body. He was sufficiently shocked by the careless disposition of the corpse barely to note the pressure on his hand before her fingers slipped away.

“Open the shutters,” he said over his shoulder to the four men who had followed him into the shop.

Those nearest to the windows moved to obey him, the man on the right releasing Witta, whom he had been holding by the shoulder. The boy ran to Lissa. From the corner of his eye Justin noted the way the child sidled around her to remain as close as possible to her and as far as possible from the corpse. Well, that did not mean much. Everyone wished to avoid the dead; even he had no fondness for bodies, although frequent exposure to them had hardened him. Forgetting his headache in his curiosity about how Peter de Flael had died, Justin bent and pulled off the blanket.

“
Peste!
” he gasped, jerking upright.

He had taken an involuntary step back before he checked his instinctive recoil and swallowed hard. But torture was nothing new to Justin, who on occasion had ordered its application himself, and his surprise past, he moved forward and prepared to kneel down for a closer examination. A whimper drew his attention back to the wife. Her face was turned away, but he could see the glint of tear streaks on her cheek, and the boy had his face buried in her skirt. He did not know which of them had made the sound, but both were suffering and that was unnecessary.

“I beg your pardon, Madame Heloise,” he said. “You may go up to your chamber. I will come to you and ask such questions as I must when I am finished here.”

“Thank you, Sir Justin,” Lissa whispered. “May I take Witta and Binge with me?”

Witta was the boy. Binge? Now Justin noticed for the first time the hunched figure on a second stool beyond where Madame Heloise was standing. His lips thinned with anger at himself. He had been so taken up with the effects of having drunk somewhat too deep that a great deal seemed to have escaped his observation.

“Yes, yes, take them with you,” he said hurriedly as he realized he had not answered the woman, “but see that they stay with you. No sliding out the back window.”

“We have not broken our fast,” Lissa said. She was looking at Justin sidelong, her eyes fixed on his face so that what lay at his feet was indistinct. “Could Binge go to the kitchen, or—”

“I have not broken my fast either,” Justin said sourly, and was tempted to ask spitefully if seeing her husband's body had given her a sudden appetite. Then, remembering her tears, he was ashamed of his spite and added, “I will send a man up with bread and cheese and wine.”

“Ale, please,” Lissa amended. “I do not think wine would be good for Witta.”

Her voice had not changed much, but in those few words there was a lightness that made Justin stare at her back as she shepherded her two charges up the stair. Without removing his eyes from her, Justin gave a low order to one of the men to get whatever food he could find from the kitchen. But his mind was far from what he was saying. He was thinking about a young wife and an old, rich husband—an old, dead husband. Perhaps it was not spite but instinct that had made him wonder if Madame Heloise's appetite had been improved by the reminder that her husband was dead. Justin's eyes went back to the corpse, taking note of the injuries. A single thin trickle of blood marked the ragged stump of an ear. Where a bone protruded through the flesh in the middle of one arm, there was almost no blood at all.

Had the blood washed off, Justin wondered? He moved so that his body did not block any of the light and peered closer. No, the edges of the rivulet near the ear were clear and hard; there was no blurring or staining as there would be if water had been poured on the body—and why should there be? It had not rained the previous night either. Justin knew that for a fact; if it had rained, he might have gone home at a reasonable hour instead of roistering around with those idiots, Alan, Thomas, and Richard, until near dawn. The memory of his activities seemed to bring back his headache, and he rose with a grunt and ordered his men to bring from the workroom or the kitchen a table long enough to lay the body on, since the shop counter was clearly too short.

When his men lifted the corpse to the table and turned it so he could look for signs of a killing blow, Justin saw the unnatural bending of the broken limbs. He raised his brows. There had been no swelling or discoloration to warn of those broken bones. But any broken bone caused bruising and swelling, even a greenstick fracture, which involved no displacement of the bone.

The captain of the watch, who had been standing behind him, said, “My lord, that's queer, it is. How can all those bones be broken without a black-and-blue mark? One, mayhap, if he died suddenly, but all?”

“It
is
queer, Halsig,” Justin agreed, “and so is the fact that he did not bleed when the bone went through the flesh of his arm or when his ear was cut off.”

“Right you are, my lord,” Halsig said with startled approval. “You cut off an ear, the blood runs real free, just like when you cut your head.” Then Halsig came closer and stared at the body. “What killed him, my lord?” he asked, his voice suddenly uncertain. “I see nothing that could kill a man.”

“I see nothing that could kill either,” Justin agreed rather grimly, but the slight tremor in Halsig's voice warned him, and he did not mention what had leapt first into his mind…witchcraft. And then, because a young wife was involved, he thought of poison, but he did not mention that either, because Peter de Flael did not have the look of a man who had died of poison. What he said was, “Men do die of fright, and to look at him—”

He was interrupted by the man who had gone to the kitchen, and Justin sent him up to the solar and bade him wait outside the door, where he could not be seen, and listen to what was said.

It was a real pleasure to work with Sir Justin again, Halsig thought. That fool the new mayor had appointed last year knew nothing and cared less about how a crime was committed. He never tried to find out who really did evil. All he ever did was round up the beggars and torture a confession out of one of them. That had annoyed Halsig for two reasons: The first was that the beggars no longer passed him a farthing now and then to leave them in peace; the second was that the real thieves—and what was worse, the noblemen's men-at-arms—had gotten completely out of hand.

It was the men-at-arms roaring around the town, pulling the merchants' beards, overturning their counters, and insulting their wives that brought Sir Justin back. That mewling lackwit, Roger FitzAdam, had not wanted to keep Henry FitzAilwin's nephew in a position of such power after the old mayor died, but eight months of the sloth and stupidity of the highborn jackass he had appointed had been enough. The aldermen, even those opposed to the FitzAilwin party, had come together and forced FitzAdam to reappoint Sir Justin.

Halsig smiled behind his hand as he saw Justin glance toward the stair and the rooms above. There might be trouble over this murder. The burghers were well pleased when one of the laborers or a man-at-arms was caught and punished, but they weren't going to like it if one of their own was dragged before a justice. Then the smile disappeared. It wouldn't be the woman. Plenty of wives would be overjoyed to see their husbands laid out, and this was a toothsome young one for the dried old stick lying there, but broken bones—not a woman. A woman—

“So it was all done after he was dead, whatever he died of.” Justin's voice held the incredulity he felt. He had realized that the injuries could not have been inflicted while Peter de Flael was alive as soon as he saw that single thread of dried blood from the severed ear, but he had ignored the idea because it was so ridiculous. “Why?” he asked, turning from the body to look at Halsig. “Why would anyone torture a corpse?”

“Mad?” Halsig suggested. “Or enough hate.” He shrugged.

“My lord,” one of the men who had fetched the table offered, “there are no strongboxes in the workroom. Maybe they were kept above in the master's chamber, but there were almost no tools on the table either.”

“By God's balls,” Justin roared suddenly, “didn't Flael have two sons?”

“If he had,” Halsig said calmly, “they didn't make trouble and I don't know them, but—” He grimaced and made an impotent fist, his calm disturbed. “Oh, curse me! There
are
sons.” He turned to the man who had spoken about the strongboxes and said, “Dunstan, go search the garden.” He shrugged as he looked back at Justin. “Waste of time. They're long gone by now or they would have been the ones banging on Master Goscelin's door, not the boy. I'm sorry I didn't think of them sooner, my lord, but I never saw them that I remember.”

Justin made a brushing gesture. “The fault is mine. I believe I met them at some guild function once. In any case, I should have thought at once how unlikely it was for Mistress Heloise to be alone here with a child and an old woman. Surely Flael had some menservants. He was a rich man.”

Halsig frowned. “Don't know about menservants, but he once had a journeyman. That's how I know about the sons. Flael mentioned them when the journeyman was killed last year in an accident. I guess the man was drunk and fell down in the street on the way home. Anyway, he was run over by a cart. Wheel went right over his head and—ugh! Flael was half crazy when he found out. Seems the journeyman was in the middle of an important piece of work. Flael was screaming at the carter and at me—now I remember—that his sons weren't good enough to finish the piece.”

“What happened to the carter?” Justin asked. He had no memory of the incident and assumed that it had taken place during the months he was out of office. If the carter had been imprisoned for what Halsig implied was not his fault, Justin intended to get him released.

“Nothing, for a wonder,” Halsig said. “I thought Flael would want him hanged. You understand the carter was a little to the left of sober. Swore he never saw the man at all and that the man wasn't in the street when he went into an alehouse to get a sup. But Flael calmed down and admitted that the journeyman was a drinker and it wasn't the first time he lay down in the street to sleep. Said he could have even lain down under the cart, and the old ox could have done the job by backing up while the carter was in the alehouse.”