The queen's man : a medieval mystery (10 page)

Sharon Kay Penman

sions. She did not want his blood on her hands, not if it could be helped. "John knows that you brought me a letter. But I do not know how much—if anything—the French king has revealed to him/'

She could say no more than that. Nor did Justin expect her to; however worried she was about her son, she'd never choose him as a confidant. So he was not surprised when she said briskly, "Now . . . why do you think you have failed me? You were not able to find any suspects?"

Justin's mouth twisted. "Nay, I found too many. The man's own children had reason to wish him dead. Nor can I rule out his brother. And there will be no help from the law, for the under-sheriff may well have the strongest motive of all!"

"You are saying that the killing was personal?" Eleanor's surprise was evident. "That he was not killed because of the letter?"

"I do not know, my lady," he admitted. "I uncovered motives, but no evidence to link any of them to the crime." And he started then to tell her about his suspects, striving to be both fair and concise.

He confessed that he hoped the killer was not Thomas, simply because he did not want to believe that a man could kill for such a perverted purpose. What could be more diabolic than a piety so twisted and profane that it led to murder?

As for Jonet and Miles, he felt sure that neither one could have acted alone. His impression of Miles was that he was one to need a bit of prodding; he couldn't see a murder plot taking root in such shallow soil. The idea would have had to come from Jonet, but she could not have done it on her own. A lass could not prowl the alehouses and taverns in search of cutthroats and brigands for hire. He was about to explain his reasoning to Eleanor when she cut in, saying impatiently:

"You mentioned the under-sheriff. What reason would he have to want the goldsmith dead?"

"Her name is Aldith Talbot. She was Fitz Randolph's concubine, but I am convinced she and the deputy, Luke de Marston, were lovers ere he was slain. And she is a woman a man might well kill over. If he could have her no other way ..."

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Justin shrugged, then concluded grimly, "Who would find it easier to make a deal with outlaws than a sheriff's deputy? He'd know any number of felons, hellspawn who'd kill for a pittance. Sheriffs are not often mistaken for earthly saints, madame. Too many have been caught using their office for ill-gotten gains. If a man is already selling justice and collecting bribes, it may not be so great a leap to murder."

Eleanor did not challenge his jaundiced view of sheriffs. So prevalent were complaints of corruption and abuse of power that her husband had convened an Inquest of Sheriffs, and the investigation results had been so damning that almost all of the sheriffs had been dismissed. That was more than twenty years ago, but she had no reason to assume the current crop of sheriffs were any more ethical or honorable than their predecessors. And if Luke de Marston was corrupt, she did want to know. But she could see that the investigation had gone awry. Rising, she began to pace.

"I am sorry I failed you, madame. But I do not know how to follow the trail any farther, for it goes off in too many directions. I thought if I told you what I'd learned, the sheriff of Hampshire could take it from there. I know you said you did not want to involve him, but I see no other choice ..."

Justin was talking too much and he knew it, but her continued silence was unnerving. Once his words ebbed away, the only sound was the silken rustle of her skirts as she moved restlessly about the chamber. Justin bit his lip, waiting to be dismissed.

"You have not failed me," she said at last. "If there was any failing, it was mine, for I sent you off into unknown territory without a map. Under the circumstances, you did well, learning a great deal in a brief time. But I ought to have been more forthcoming with you."

Eleanor sat down in a window seat, saying nothing for several more suspenseful moments. "Your actions in Winchester were logical and well thought out. But this is not an ordinary murder investigation. There is more at stake than catching the gold-smith's killers, much more."

Justin was beginning to understand why she'd shown so little

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interest in his revelations about the goldsmith's kin. "So . . ." he said cautiously, "you are saying that if the guilty are found at the Fitz Randolph hearth, you'd be content to let the sheriff see that justice is done?"

"Yes," she said. "I do want to see the guilty punished. But I have a more urgent need. I must know if the killers were after the letter. You see, I fear that the murder may have been done at the behest of the French king. If that is so, I need to know and as soon as possible. If Philip is desperate enough to set assassins loose in England, it does not bode well for my son. I cannot hope to thwart him unless I have proof of his treachery."

She paused, choosing her words with care. "You must find out for me if the killers were in the pay of the French king. If you can prove that this deputy or one of the Fitz Randolphs is the culprit, well and good. It would ease my mind considerably to have my suspicions refuted. But either way, I must know and soon. Speed is of the essence, for time is not on Richard's side."

She paused again. "I know it is a dangerous mission I've given you. But you're the only one who can recognize the killers. I must rely upon you to serve me well. Do not let me down, Justin."

Her urgency was as compelling as it was daunting. Justin had not bargained upon being entangled in a foreign conspiracy. At that moment, though, he could imagine nothing worse than breaking faith with her.

"I cannot make the same promise as before, my lady. I cannot swear that I will solve this crime for you. But I will do my best, that I vow."

Eleanor needed more than promises. But she'd learned to take what she could get. "Godspeed, Justin. And be wary, watch whom you trust. It is not easy to trap a killer, and for certes, not safe."

After learning that Justin had come straight to her upon his arrival in London, Eleanor had suggested that he seek lodgings for the night at the nearby priory of Holy Trinity, Aldgate. Justin decided to do so, for he need only show the queen's letter to

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assure himself oi a warm welcome, a more appealing prospect than trudging through the city streets in search of an inn.

Having taken his leave of Eleanor, Justin paused on the Tower steps. High above his head, an easterly wind herded flocks of ice clouds across the darkening sky. He'd be racing a storm back to Winchester. It was too cold to linger out in the bailey, and he headed toward the stable to retrieve his horse.

Within, the stable was dim, already sheltering night shadows; torches were not left burning, for fear of fire. The grooms were nowhere in sight. A cat stalked mice up on the rafters, and an aged stable dog gave a halfhearted bark before burrowing back into the straw. Justin's stallion snorted loudly at the sight of him. Entering the stall, he was about to lead Copper out when a hand grasped his shoulder. Spinning around, he found himself face-to-face with Eleanor's son.

"Master de Quincy!" John smiled, his teeth gleaming whitely in the light cast by his lantern. "This is a surprise. I was tarrying out here to see who claimed that chestnut. Had I but known you were the owner, I could have spared myself a wait in this drafty, dark barn."

"How may I serve you, my lord?" There was movement in the shadows behind John. Several men came forward, flanking their lord. They said nothing, watching Justin impassively, showing neither curiosity nor hostility. He suspected that they'd slit his throat with equal indifference should John give the word.

"You can sell me your horse." John reached out, stroking Copper's muzzle. "A right handsome beast. I've always fancied chestnuts. So . . . what say you, de Quincy?"

Justin shifted uneasily. If gossip held true, it was not healthy to possess something that the Lord John wanted, be it a horse, a woman, or a crown. "He is not for sale, my lord count."

"Are you so sure of that? You may name your price."

"I am quite sure," Justin said firmly. "But I am willing to give you the right of first refusal, should I ever change my mind."

John was still smiling. "You are a stubborn one, for certes. Think it over, though."

"I will." Justin was positive that John was lying. As much as

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he cherished Copper, the chestnut was not likely to tempt a king's son; John would have stables full of finely bred horses. No, this was merely a pretext. Whatever John wanted from him, it was not Copper.

John continued to stroke the stallion's neck. He had Justin's coloring; his lantern's glow revealed hair blacker than midnight. The dark one in a fair family, for his brothers and sisters had all been sun kissed. Richard was said to be lance-tall, towering over other men, with sky-color eyes and hair brighter than molten gold. John was of no more than average height, if even that; Justin topped him by half a foot. Yet he was not a man to pass unnoticed in any company. His intelligence was evident, as formidable a weapon as the finely honed sword at his hip. But if even half of what Justin had heard about John was true, he knew nothing of moral boundaries. Not a comfortable man to encounter in the shadows.

"Have you been in my lady mother's service long?"

"No, not long."

"I understand you delivered an urgent letter about ten days ago. I would be most interested in learning the contents of that letter, Master de Quincy."

Justin swallowed. "I regret that I cannot be of assistance, my lord. I would never dare read a letter meant for the queen's eyes. As for that particular letter, I remember nothing of urgency about it. You must have been misinformed."

"Not likely. Those who serve me know how much I value accurate information. I hope you change your mind—about the horse. I would naturally make it worth your while."

"I will think upon it," Justin said, as noncommittally as he could.

"It would help if I knew where to reach you—in case you do decide to sell."

"I have no fixed abode, my lord, so it would be difficult for you to find me."

"You'd be surprised how good I am at finding people, Master de Quincy. What of your family? Surely they'd know where you might be?"

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Hoping his voice held steady, Justin said, "Alas, I have no family, my lord. But I do know how you can contact me. You need only ask the queen."

There was a silence that seemed endless, and then John laughed. "Now why did I not think of that?" He sounded genuinely amused by Justin's audacity, but Justin's tension did not abate until he signaled to his men. "I daresay our paths will cross again."

"Farewell, my lord count." Justin's throat was still tight. He stood where he was, not moving until long after John had departed the stable. The queen had twice warned him about the perils he was likely to face in Winchester. But what if the greatest dangers were to be found in London?

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feet. "That is all 1 remember, and what 1 told the deputy. 1 do not see why he saw a need to have me go over it again ..."

Mumbling to himself, Torold headed off in search of the serving maid. Justin had not claimed outright that he was acting on the deputy's behalf, but neither had he corrected the guard's misunderstanding. He suspected that the free ale had done more to loosen Torold's tongue than any hints of legal authority, but he hadn't gotten much for his money. Not that he was even sure what he'd been hoping to find. His assurances to Eleanor notwithstanding, he could not help feeling as if he were fishing without bait.

The guard had confirmed Justin's suspicions, though, that the outlaws had not ridden out of the city before the goldsmith on that last morning of his life. Who knew how many bandit lairs and encampments were hidden away in those woods? No, they were already lying in wait—and for Gervase Fitz Randolph. Not only had they let Justin go by unscathed, they had also ignored that "swaggering lout with a fine furred mantle and a finer grey stallion," surely a tempting target for men with robbery in mind.

Justin reached for his ale cup, trying to decide what to do next. Even if he could track down the overweening lout or Torold's mayhap-monk, what good would it do? What were they likely to have seen? But there had to be some way of finding the bandits, for how else could he hope to prove who'd hired them? If only he did not have so many suspects! Was it the zealot? The disgruntled brother? The illicit lovers? Or that arrogant, cocksure deputy? Or was it a stranger, elusive and sinister, a spy in the pay of the French king?

"Would you fancy some company?" Without waiting for Justin's response, the woman sat down beside him, staking her claim with good-humored aplomb. It took Justin only a moment or so to decide he'd like to be claimed. It had been too long since he'd lain with a woman, and this one was appealing in an elfin sort of way, fair skin dusted with freckles, small boned and delicate. When Justin signaled for more drinks, she smiled and slid closer on the bench, much closer. "I am Eve."

He doubted it; prostitutes often took on a new name for their

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precarious profession and "Eve" was a popular choice. Unable to resist the obvious jest, he said with a grin, "I am Adam . . . and I would love some company, Eve." There was no need to fret over her price, for never had his money pouch been so healthy, well fed with the queen's coins. He was determined that she'd squander neither her money nor her hopes on him. He could not help with what mattered most to Eleanor—he could do nothing to aid her captive son. But he would find a way to solve this Winchester killing for her. And when an ironic, inner voice challenged, "How?" he no longer heard it, for by then Eve was sitting on his lap, and the morrow seemed too far away to worry about.

Justin had elected to stay in the guest hall at Hyde Abbey rather than at an inn, hoping that he might be able to learn something useful about Thomas, the aspiring monk. He'd passed two nights at the abbey so far; the third, he'd spent in Eve's bed. The dawn sky was overcast, but it was not as cold, and there was a jauntiness in Justin's step as he crossed the abbey garth, heading for the stables to check on Copper. After that, his plans for the day were still vague. He'd thought about visiting the city's stables in search of Gervase's stolen stallion, but it seemed a waste of time. Surely the outlaws would not be foolish enough to try to sell the horse in the slain goldsmith's own city?

He was so caught up in his musings that he almost collided with a Benedictine brother, laden with an armful of bulky woolen blankets. When Justin sidestepped in time, the monk gave him a smile of recognition. "Good morrow, Master de Quincy. You're either up very early or you're getting to bed very late ... in which case, the less you tell me, the better!"

Justin grinned. "I promise to save all the depraved details for my confessor!" He liked what he'd so far seen of Brother Paul, an urbane, affable man past his prime, but still possessed of a lively curiosity about the world he'd forsaken, with a caustic humor that sometimes startled Justin, coming as it did from a monk's mouth.

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Brother Paul chuckled now, then nodded toward his burden. "1 could use a hand with these blankets. Look upon it as penance for those nocturnal sins of yours!"

Justin obligingly relieved the monk of half his load. "Where are we taking them?"

"Across the garth to the almonry. I'm collecting goods to deliver to the lazar house."

Justin stopped abruptly. "Lazar house?"

"The leper hospital of St Mary Magdalen. Why do you look so surprised? It is our Christian duty to do what we can for Christ's poor, the weak and infirm and afflicted . . . and few afflictions are more grievous than leprosy."

"Brother Paul . . . may I fetch the blankets to the lazar house for you?"

The monk was startled, for people rarely volunteered to visit a leper hospital. So pervasive was the fear of the disease that some would not even get downwind of a leper. "If you are truly willing, Master de Quincy, I would be beholden to you, for I have more tasks to do this day than I have time."

"Well, this is one task youTl not have to bother with," Justin said, but his mind was no longer on the monk. Jesu, how could he have forgotten about the leper?

The leper hospital of St Mary Magdalen was about a mile and a half east of Winchester, on the Alresford Road. It was encircled by a wattle-and-daub fence and had a bleak, foreboding look. Reining in his mount, Justin gazed uneasily upon it, girding himself to ride through that gateway. Never before had he set foot in a lazar house; never had he expected to enter one of his own free will. There was no shortage of theories as to what caused leprosy. Some people insisted it was the result of eating rotten meat or drinking bad wine. Others claimed it could be caught by sharing the bed of a woman who'd lain with a leper. There was talk of infected air. And just about everybody believed that the greatest danger of contagion came from the lepers themselves.

"Ah, Lady Eleanor," Justin muttered, "this road is taking

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some crooked turns . . ." Nudging Copper forward, he led the abbey's packhorse through the gate and into the hospital precincts.

The first building to meet his eyes was the chapel. Beyond it was the master's hall, and then the refectory, where the lepers ate and slept. There was a barn, a kitchen, a well, and although he could not see one, Justin knew there would be a cemetery, too, for even in death, lepers were shunned. Brother Paul had told him the hospital could accommodate eighteen lepers. That seemed a meagre number to Justin. What of those lepers unable to gain admittance to a lazar house? He already knew the answer to that, though. They'd beg their bread by the roadside or they'd starve. And sometimes they did both.

By the time he dismounted in front of the chapel, Justin had an audience. He was disquieted by the sight of those spectral figures shuffling toward him, muffled in long leper cloaks, the sort of ghostly shadows that were usually banished by the coming of day. "I am here at the behest of Brother Paul," he said loudly. "I wish to speak to the hospital's master, Father Jerome."

"He is not here." It was not the message, but the voice that swiveled Justin's head toward the speaker, for it was high pitched and youthful, utterly out of place in this abode of death.

"I am Simon." The voice had not lied. This smallest leper smiling up at Justin was a child. As the boy's hood fell back, Justin saw that he was in the early stages of the disease, a reddish rash spreading like a blush across his cheekbones. "Father Jerome went into town. Can I pet your horse?"

Justin nodded wordlessly. The other lepers were moving aside to admit a newcomer to the circle. He was tall and thin, stoop shouldered and ungainly in a black cassock that was too short in the sleeves, and worn and patched at the elbows. But he had a rich man's smile, brighter than newly minted silver coins. "Bless Brother Paul," he exclaimed, "and you, too, friend, for bringing us these supplies. Can you help me get them inside?"

"Of course," Justin said reluctantly. "Will you look after my horse, Simon?" The child nodded, eyes widening like moons,

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and reached eagerly for the reins as soon as Justin swung down from the saddle. Hesitantly at first, Simon began to stroke the stallion's neck. Justin turned away hastily, following after the priest.

They introduced themselves as they carried the blankets toward the refectory. Justin was still shaken by his encounter with the boy, but Father Gregory did not let the conversation lag, chatting away as if they were old friends unexpectedly reunited. He was quite young and seemed amazingly relaxed and genial for a man living daily with death. What would impel one to choose such a path? Justin could only marvel at what he could not understand.

"We get few visitors here, so it is not surprising that your arrival caused such a stir. It does our people good, seeing that all do not shrink from them in dread/'

Justin had rarely felt so uncomfortable. "The little lad . . . does he have kin here?"

"No. Simon's family cast him out once his malady was known." The priest sounded neither shocked nor judgmental, but Justin was both. Hissing his breath through his teeth, he shook his head. Father Gregory was not surprised by his silence; there were wrongs that words could not address.

"Do you know what happens once a leper has been detected, Master de Quincy? He is escorted into the church, forced to kneel under a black cloth as Mass is said, and the priest then proclaims him 'dead to the world, reborn to God.' In France, lepers are made to stand in an open grave. We are more merciful than that in England, but here, too, the lepers are driven from our midst, forbidden to enter churches, fairs, markets, taverns, or alehouses, condemned to wander in the wilderness with every man's hand against them ... or so it must seem. So when you are willing to come amongst us and show kindness to a child of the Lord, it is no small thing and worthy of—"

"No," Justin interrupted, more sharply than he'd intended. "You give me credit I do not deserve, Father Gregory. I had my own reasons for offering to aid Brother Paul, reasons that had

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naught to do with Christian charity. I came here in hopes of finding a man—a leper—who may be able to help solve a murder."

Justin wasn't sure what reaction he'd been expecting, but certainly not the one he got. The young priest didn't even blink, merely nodded as if this was an everyday occurrence. "And you think this man is here?"

"I do not know," Justin admitted. "I cannot tell you his name. I cannot tell you what he looks like or even how tall he is, for he was squatting by the roadside when I saw him on Epiphany morn, his face hidden by his hood. I suppose I am asking for a miracle, expecting you to identify someone based on so little, but—"

"His name is Job," the priest said, with a triumphant grin that gave way to outright laughter at Justin's astonishment. "Nay ... no miracle, lad. The answer is simple—you are not the first to seek Job out. The under-sheriff came here, too, in search of him."

"Luke de Marston was looking for him?" Justin asked slowly, and the priest nodded again.

"He knew little more than you, only that Master Fitz Randolph's groom remembered passing a beggar on the road. As soon as he told me it was on Epiphany, I knew it must be Job, for no one else would have ventured out into the snow. No matter how foul the weather, Job begs for alms and then hides the money away ere he returns to us."

By now they'd reached the refectory. Moving up the aisled hall, the priest paused before a large coffer. "We store the blankets here." Once they were neatly folded away, he sat down on the lid and gestured for Justin to join him. "They are supposed to yield up any alms they get, for they are not permitted to own personal property. But Father Jerome turns a blind eye to minor transgressions. He understands why a man like Job needs to have money of his own. Ere a leper can be admitted to a lazar house, he must take vows of chastity, obedience, and poverty. Such vows are not always easy to obey for even the most dedi-

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cated of God's servants. Small wonder it some of those poor souls rebel ..."

Justin was quiet for a moment, pondering what he'd learned. This was the second time that he'd come across the deputy's tracks, and he liked it not. He wished he could take some reassurance from Luke de Marston's endeavors, but he knew they proved naught about the man's guilt or innocence. Even were his hands as bloody as Herod's, he'd still make a show of searching for the goldsmith's killers. "Tell me," he said at last. "His name is not really Job, is it?"

"It is what he calls himself now," the priest said quietly.

Job was squatting by the side of the road, as on that Epiphany morning three weeks ago. Reining in his stallion before the man, Justin asked, "Are you Job?" although he was already sure of the leper's identity.

"Who wants to know?" The voice was hoarse, a leper's rasp. His face was hidden by his hood, but his body's rigid pose communicated both tension and suspicion.

"My name is Justin de Quincy. I need to talk with you about the slaying of Gervase Fitz Randolph. Can you spare me some moments?"

"Why not?" The leper watched as Justin dismounted and hitched Copper and the abbey packhorse, and then slowly and deliberately drew back his hood.

Justin had wondered about his motives in choosing to call himself Job, for it could have been an act of utter faith—or a gesture of embittered defiance. He now had his answer. Job was no longer young, not yet old; it was difficult to guess his age, for he'd suffered the hair loss so common to lepers. Justin found the lack of lashes and eyebrows even more disconcerting than the thickened lips and ulcerated lesions. It was like gazing upon an eerie death mask, for as the disease progressed, those afflicted lost the ability to show expression. But those lashless brown eyes were lucid, offering Justin a harrowing glimpse of the soul trapped within that disintegrating body.

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"It is only fair that I pay for your time." Justin dropped coins into Job's alms cup, and then sat down on a fallen log, as close as he dared get. Logic told him that leprosy could not be as contagious as people claimed, else caretakers like Father Gregory could not dwell amongst lepers without being stricken with the malady, too. But fear was instinctive and not always amenable to reason.

Job muttered his thanks, and then startled Justin when he commented, "You were not as openhanded the last time."

"Well . . . my prospects have improved since then. So you remember me?"

"I remember him," Job said, gesturing toward Copper.

"What else do you remember about that morn?"

"The snow started after dawn, and it was colder than a witch's teat. But not as cold as the heart of that hellspawn on a light grey palfrey. For all that he was mantled like a highborn lord, he was as tightfisted as any moneylender. Not only did he refuse to give me so much as a farthing, he turned the air blue with his curses, claiming it was bad luck to encounter 'a stinking leper' when starting out on a journey. Had he a whip, I truly think he would have struck me with it."

"He was no less high handed with the guard at the East Gate," Justin said. "A pity strutting peacocks like that so rarely get their tail feathers plucked as they deserve."

Job's misshapen mouth did not smile, but his eyes held a gleam of mordant amusement. "This peacock did come to grief. He'd not ridden fifty feet after cursing me out when his horse pulled up lame."

Justin frowned, puzzled. "That is odd, for I did not pass him on the road."