The queen's man : a medieval mystery (19 page)

"Not this time."

She stopped in midtirade to stare at Justin. After a long pause, she nodded slowly. "No," she agreed, "not this time. I suppose I owe you."

Justin shrugged, pouring himself some cider. "I do not mean

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to meddle/' he said, "but surely there must be safer work for a woman—"

"Truly?" Nell fluttered her eyelashes in mock surprise. "And here I thought it was either this or starve!" She relented then and gave Justin a quick, forced smile. "I do not have much practice in saying thank you. I am grateful for what you did. But do you really think I need to have the dangers pointed out to me? If you live with polecats, friend, you are bound to notice the stink!"

She rose before he could respond, crossed to the window, and unlatched the shutter. "I want to make sure," she said, "that my girl is in no need of care."

He joined her at the window. "She is right taken with that pup, Nell. It seems a shame to separate them ..."

Nell turned to look at him, and then grinned. "I owe you, but not that much!" she said, and Justin grinned back, for the first time getting a glimpse of a woman he could like.

"Lucy's father ... he cannot help you?"

"Not likely. He is dead." She sounded quite matter-of-fact; if this was a wound, it was an old one. Pulling the shutter back in place, she sat down at the table and picked up her cider again. When he followed, she said, "My man and I were properly wed, had the vows said over us at the church door." She raised her chin, as if challenging him to doubt her. "I insisted upon it. I may be no saint, but I am no slut. I'd have no one ever call my child a bastard, for that is a word heavy as any stone and bitter as gall. I ought to know."

"So should I," Justin said, and saw her flicker of surprise. "What happened to your husband?"

"Will was a raker." Seeing his puzzlement, she explained, "That is what Londoners call the men who clean the city streets. It did not pay much and God knows, it was a miserable way to earn his bread. But Will had no trade and he was no thief. Good hearted, he was, but not one for planning for the morrow. He took his fun where he could find it, and more and more, he found it in alehouses. He liked to stop for an ale after work, and sometimes during work, too. The day came when he stopped once too often, and he fell off his cart. If he'd been sober, mayhap

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he could have rolled clear. Instead, the wheels ran over his chest." Setting her cider down, she said, without irony, "He was lucky. He died quick."

Justin offered no sympathy, for it was clear she neither expected nor wanted it. "You had no family to turn to, Nell?"

"Money and family—I never had much of either. Most are dead, like Will. So I took in laundry and did sewing and a few times, what I did is better left betwixt me and God. None of it was enough to pay the rent on our house. Here at least we have a bed of our own, my girl and me . . . and that is no small thing, Master de Quincy."

"Make it Justin," he said. "How did you end up here?"

"I have not 'ended up' anywhere, not yet! I admit the Lord's plan for me seems right murky at times, and trying to find my way can be like looking for a black cat at midnight. For now, the road has led me and Lucy here. A cousin on my mother's side is wed to Godfrey, who owns this pigsty. He is old and soured and crippled by gout, and he's come to depend on me more than he'd ever admit. I started by helping out, but now I do the ordering and hiring and firing and in return for all that, I get a bed above-stairs, a weekly wage, and the fun of fending off dolts like the one you tossed out on his ear. But I hope to—"

Nell flinched at the sound of a sudden, loud pounding, showing that her nerves were not as steady as she'd have Justin believe. "Shall I tell them that the alehouse is not open yet?" he offered, and when she nodded, he headed for the door.

The pounding had continued, unabated. Lifting the bolt, Justin opened the door and scowled at the intruder. "You'll have to come back later."

"I think not," the intruder said, and Justin braced for trouble. The man's appearance was no more reassuring than his words. He was of medium height, well muscled and well armed, his mantle swept back to reveal both a scabbard and a sheathed dagger. It was hard to estimate his age. Somewhere, Justin guessed, between thirty and death, and when death did come, it was not likely to be a peaceful one. A black eyepatch, a thin slash of a mouth, contorted at one corner into a sinister parody of a

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smile by a jagged scar that could have been inflicted only by a knife's blade—no, not a man to die in bed, full of years and honors. Not a man Justin would have wanted to meet in a dark alley. Nor was he happy to have to deal with him here and now, and he said curtly:

"We are closed. You'll have to get your ale elsewhere."

"I am not here for an ale. I'm looking for a man named de Quincy."

"Why?" Justin asked warily, and the man gave him a daunting stare, his one eye as black and fathomless as polished jet.

"Are you de Quincy? If not, why should I be answering to you?"

"Yes ... I am. Now it is your turn. Who are you?"

"Jonas." When Justin still looked uncomprehending, the man said impatiently, "Did Fitz Alan not tell you that his serjeant would be seeking you out?"

"You're the serjeant?" Justin's smile was both apologetic and relieved. "Sorry—the sheriff did not give me your name. Come on in."

It took a while before they were able to talk, for Justin had to reassure Nell that this formidable stranger was trustworthy, and then fetch candles and cider. The serjeant was still standing. When Justin gestured toward a table, he noticed that Jonas picked the seat facing out into the room. He'd wager it had been years since the serjeant had sat with his back to any door. Pushing a cider cup across the table, he said, "Do you know Gilbert the Fleming?"

The serjeant nodded. "He is the worst of a bad lot. I know of at least three robberies and two killings I want to question him about. But he is not an easy man to track down ... as you're finding out."

"He has unholy luck," Justin admitted. "If ever there was a man deserving to hang, it is this one. But he somehow slides through every noose. Can you help me change that luck of his? Can you help me find him?"

Jonas shoved his cider aside. "If it were up to me, I'd forswear

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food and sleep and even whores to hunt that hellspawn down. But the sheriff says he cannot spare me, not until we find out who set the Lime Street fire. Half a dozen houses burned, including one belonging to an alderman, and he has been harrying the sheriff every damned day since, out for blood. The fire must come first, whether I like it or not."

"I understand." And Justin did. The fear of fire stalked every city, dreaded even more than plagues, for it was far more common. But understanding did little to dilute his disappointment. "Can you at least suggest where I ought to start looking?"

"I can do better than that. I can give you a name—a sometime informant of mine. He is a craven little gutter rat, with less sense than God gave a sheep. But he has an uncanny knack for sniffing out other men's secrets. He might be able to help you, as long as you make it worth his while."

"That I can do. What is his name? And how do I find him?"

Jonas grinned. "His name is Pepper Clem, and yes, there is a story behind it. Clem does not have enough backbone to rob a man face-to-face, but he used to be a clumsy cutpurse. He was not very good at it, and more often than not, his victim caught him in the act. So he had an idea. He would bump into his target and surreptitiously spill pepper on the man's clothes, which would cause him to sneeze. And whilst he was sneezing away, Clem's partner would steal his money pouch."

He grinned again at the look of incredulity on Justin's face. "I never said our boy was all that bright, did I? Needless to say, his pepper scheme went awry. The victim was so enraged that he punched Clem in the mouth and knocked out a tooth. And the accomplice spread the story all over London, making sure that he'd be known as Pepper Clem to his dying day!"

This Pepper Clem did not sound like the ideal ally to Justin, but he was not in a position to be choosy. "How do I find him?" he repeated, and the serjeant gave him a description and then the names of several Southwark alehouses that Clem liked to frequent.

Their business done, Jonas got to his feet. "If I think of some-

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thing else, I'll be back." At the door, he paused, his gaze sweeping over Justin, coolly appraising. "Good luck, lad." That solitary black eye gleamed. "I expect youTl be needing it."

The rest of that Thursday and the day that followed were as frustrating as they were exhausting. Returning, weary and dispirited, each night to Gracechurch Street, Justin felt as if he'd walked down every street and alley and byway that London had to offer, and he'd long since lost count of the alehouses and taverns he'd visited. All to no avail. He'd concocted several different stories: that he was a cousin of Pepper Clem's, that he had a job offer for Clem, even—in desperation—that he was seeking to pay an old debt. No matter how creative he was, no matter how he embellished or elaborated, the result was always the same. Silence and shrugs, indifference and suspicion.

Did they think he was one of the sheriff's men? An informant? Tossing restlessly on his narrow, straw-filled pallet, he had no answers. But since what he'd been doing was not working, he'd have to find a new approach. What had Jonas called Pepper Clem ... a craven little gutter rat? Would a man like that have many friends—any friends? Mayhap that was the road to follow.

Southwark lay just across the river from London, and was notorious for its brothels and its brawling and its dangerous sins. Pepper Clem's favorite tavern was on the Bankside, in the disreputable neighborhood known as the stews. Justin had been there twice already, and when he walked through the doorway on Saturday morning, the tavern's hired man signaled his recognition with a raised eyebrow, a cynical smile.

"Back again, are you? Still looking for that lost cousin of yours?"

Justin ordered a flagon of red wine. On his last visit, he'd heard a customer call the man by name, and now he said casually, "Rauf, is it not? Put out another cup and I'll buy you a drink."

Rauf's brow arched even higher. But he'd have accepted a drink from the Devil. "Why not?" Pulling up a stool, he watched

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Justin pour two cups from the flagon. "I see you still have the cur."

By now Justin was getting used to having a faithful, tour-legged companion. At least the dog looked less bedraggled today, having been given—unwillingly—the first bath of his young life. Justin could not help smiling at the memory, for he and Lucy had ended up wetter than Shadow, with the kitchen flooded and Nell scolding them nonstop. "This is no cur," he joked. "He has at least a thimbleful of royal alaunt blood. Rauf ... I have a confession of sorts. I was not entirely truthful with you the other day."

"Does this look like a church? Do I look like a priest? Of course you lied to me, man. People always lie in taverns. The only ones who hear more falsehoods are whores. But your lie was particularly pitiful, I'll admit. Long-lost cousin, indeed! No one kin to that little weasel would ever admit to it, except at knifepoint."

"You're right. That was not very clever of me. The real reason I am looking for 'that little weasel' is the one you've probably guessed. He owes me a debt."

"Money ... or blood?" Rauf had a high-pitched laugh, almost like a cackle. "You need not answer that. It is enough to know you'll be giving him some grief." Peering into his cup, he then glanced pointedly at the flagon. Taking the hint, Justin filled the cup again.

"Now . . . where would you be most likely to corner Pepper Clem?" Rauf puckered his forehead in thought. "You might try the churchyard at St Paul's. He sometimes lurks there, trying to peddle vials of blood from Canterbury's holy martyr, St Thomas. Every now and then he even finds someone simple enough to believe it! Or he hovers around the Cheapside, selling cat fur as rabbit pelts. You might try the Cock, too, one of the bawdy-houses up Bankside. He runs errands for the whores and offers potions to their customers."

"What kind of potion?"

"The kind that is supposed to fire a man's blood—from gelding to stallion in just one swallow. Men buy it, too . . . at least

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once." Rauf cackled again. "Clem might be dumb as a post, but he has plenty of company, and that's God's Truth!"

Justin had gotten what he'd come for. He could only hope the hunt's end would be worth all the trouble of the chase. So far, nothing he'd heard about Pepper Clem inspired much confidence.

Justin decided to try the Cock first, since it was so close. All the bawdy-houses were whitewashed, meant to lure potential customers across the river. The symbols of their names—the Crane, the Bell, the Half Moon—were painted above their doors, and he located the Cock without difficulty. He was surprised to find the common room half full, despite the early hour. Apparently sinning was a neverending activity in Southwark. He was accosted by a plump redhead as soon as he walked through the doorway, and disentangled himself with some difficulty. He fended off the next prostitute by feigning shyness, and she went to order wine, hoping that would dispel his nervousness. Justin took advantage of her absence to head toward the far corner of the room, for he'd spotted his quarry.

Pepper Clem was easy to recognize. Jonas had described him as a "chinless wonder," and he did indeed have a receding jaw-line, poorly camouflaged by a skimpy ginger beard. Everything about the man was meagre: a narrow chest, a small, pursed mouth, sparse, lank hair. His pallor was unhealthy, even for February; he put Justin in mind of a mushroom, grown in a damp cellar far from the sun's warmth. He squinted up uneasily as Justin approached, wavering between alarm and interest at the sound of his own name.

Without waiting to be asked, Justin took a seat opposite the thief. "I've been looking all over Southwark for you, Clem."

"I know you?"

"No, but you know someone I need to find."

"I've never been one for doing favors for strangers."

"Who said anything about favors? You get me the information I want and I'll pay. Play false with me, though, and you'll pay."

Clem digested this. "Who are you looking for?"

A man named Gilbert the Fleming." Justin saw at once that his arrow had hit its target dead center. Clem shifted in his seat, pulling back like a turtle retreating into its shell.

"What . . . what makes you think I know him?" Jonas says so." Clem's reaction to the Serjeant's name was unmistakable. Justin watched the emotions battle across Clem's face, his fear of Gilbert the Fleming warring with his fear of Jonas. "I said I'd pay you," he reminded the thief. "Find out the man's whereabouts for me and you'll be the richer by a half-shilling." That was a generous sum and Clem lunged for the bait like a starving trout, heedless of the hook.

"One shilling," he insisted, and looked as if he could not believe his luck when Justin nodded, for he had no way of knowing that was the sum Justin had always intended to pay. "Half now," he bargained, emboldened by his success, but this time Justin shook his head.

"Do not insult me, Clem," he said coldly.

Clem accepted defeat with a shrug; he'd had a lot of practice at it. "I'll see what I can find out," he promised. "Do you know the tavern on the Bankside, the one next to the public bathhouse? Suppose I meet you there on the morrow, the third hour past noon?"

The deal being struck, Justin pushed away from the table. "Wait," Clem protested. "I do not know your name."

"No, you do not," Justin agreed. "The only name that matters is Gilbert the Fleming's."

"You cannot stay away, can you?" Grinning, Rauf filled a flagon from one of the massive wine casks behind him and set it down, unasked, in front of Justin. He looked disappointed when Justin did not offer to share, but Justin did not want to be distracted by the other's cheerful chatter. Now that the hunt might be nearing an end, he was becoming edgy and tense. Once he found Gilbert the Fleming, what then? Surely the sheriff would agree to make the arrest? Lime Street fire or not, the man was a murderer. Mayhap it would be best to contact Jonas first. Assuming that the sheriff cooperated fully and the Fleming was seized, could he

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be made to talk? Justin did not doubt that Jonas knew any number of ways to loosen a man's tongue. But the queen would not be wanting Gilbert to unburden himself to anyone but Justin. It was a twisted coil, for certes.

Justin did not expect Clem to be a stickler for punctuality, and he was not concerned at first by his lateness. But as the afternoon dragged by and the shadows started to lengthen, he grew increasingly restless. Where was that wretched little cutpurse? Even if he'd had nothing useful to report yet, he ought to be here, vowing by all the saints to make good his promise. With a shilling at stake, he'd want to keep Justin's trust. Had he gotten drunk and overslept?

Justin waited two hours before giving up. If Clem was coming, he'd have been here by now. He'd have to try again on the morrow. Paying Rauf for his flagon, he whistled for Shadow. Out in the street, he ducked into the doorway of the bathhouse to see if anyone sought to follow him. No one else left the tavern, though. Justin had not truly suspected any of the other customers, but he was determined to take no chances, not with a man like the Fleming. His memories of that bloodstained mill were still too fresh.

Dusk was obscuring Southwark by the time Justin reached the bridge. Torches had begun to bob on the river. He lingered to watch a boat pass underneath, steering between the huge wooden pilings in a dangerous maneuver known as "shooting the bridge." He usually paused on the bridge to watch the ongoing construction of the new stone bridge nearby, begun by King Henry more than fifteen years earlier. The pile drivers were silent, though, the masons and carpenters being ferried back to shore, and he continued on into London.

He was angry and disappointed and troubled, too, by Pepper Clem's failure to show up at the tavern, but he was also hungry, and headed for the cookshop down by the river. It was crowded with customers, and he had a lengthy wait before he could be served. Nor was the fare particularly appetizing; they'd run out of mutton and pork and he had to settle for an eel pie. That did not improve his mood any, for he had no great liking for fish,

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and in a tow days 1 ent would be upon thorn, six long weeks of

tasting and salted herring.

Shadow was much more enthusiastic about the meal; he bolted his own pie with comical gusto and begged for more, making Justin laugh in spite of himself. "I'll have to find you a rich master, lad," he said, "for who else could afford to feed you?" In better spirits, he started back toward Gracechurch Street. Clem would surface sooner or later, for he'd never forfeit a chance to earn a shilling.

Vespers was being rung in the city's churches. Justin's step had begun to slow. Like most horsemen, he was not accustomed to walking great distances, and he was glad to spot a familiar cockeyed ale-pole, jutting out into the street like a flag at half-mast. Shadow was already ranging ahead of him, and Justin felt a twinge of pity for the dog. It had taken only four days for the alehouse to become home, doubtless his first ever.

He was opposite Gunter's smithy by now, and Justin decided to stop there first, for he wanted to check on Copper. "Gunter?" Getting no response, he tried the door. It wasn't locked and swung inward when he pushed it. Within, all was quiet. The furnace had been doused for the night, or until the smith returned. But an oil lamp still burned, so he would not be long away. The smithy was well kept; Gunter was obviously a man who believed neatness to be one of God's virtues. A heavy iron anvil dominated the chamber, mounted on a large oak stump, and assorted hammers and mallets and chisels were aligned on a wooden bench. A pair of tongs still sizzled in the water trough, proof that Gunter had just stopped working, for he was too meticulous not to have put the tongs away once they'd cooled. Most likely he was across the street at the alehouse, Justin decided, remembering that Nell had said the farrier liked to come by for an ale in the evenings.

The rear of the smithy opened onto the stable. It held only four stalls, two of them occupied. Copper had thrust his head over the stall door. When Justin stroked his neck, he nuzzled his master's mantle, searching in vain for a hidden treat. The other horse was a new T comer, and even in the gloom of the stable, he

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caught Justin's eye, for white was an uncommon, highly prized color for mounts. But when Justin came closer, he saw that the horse was not white, after all. A pale roan, he was well past his prime, swaybacked and spavined. Justin continued to stare at him, though. A white horse which turned out to be a roan. Why was that significant? What was his memory trying to tell him?

He heard nothing, the step muffled in the straw. If not for his stallion, he'd have died within moments, almost before he knew what was happening. But when the horse snorted, he started to turn, and the noose did not slip cleanly around his neck, snagging part of his mantle hood, too.

Before Justin could react, the thong tightened, cutting off his air. Instinctively, he clutched at the cord, and the snared material gave him the seconds he so desperately needed—time to get his fingers under the noose. The leather was biting into his throat, but he'd managed to slow the strangulation. Knowing that if he did not break the man's hold now, he never would, he stopped clawing at the noose and flung himself backward. He heard his assailant grunt in pain as they crashed into the stable wall, and he twisted sideways, pulling free.

"Kill him!" his attacker cried, and it was only then that Justin realized there were two of them. A second man emerged from the shadows, the lamp's meagre light glinting upon a drawn dagger. Justin recognized him at once, this man who had become his nemesis, who intended to be his executioner. With no time to unsheathe his sword, he threw up his arm to ward off the blade. Gasping as pain seared from his wrist to elbow, he pivoted to evade the second thrust and grabbed for the killer's knife hand. The Fleming's lips were peeled back from his teeth in a grimace oddly like a smile, and Justin found himself looking into eyes that reflected all the horrors of Hell, so devoid were they of pity or conscience or even humanity.

"Kill him quick," Gilbert's partner urged, "ere someone hears!" He had his dagger drawn, too, and was circling around to stab Justin from behind. By now their struggle had carried them into the smithy. As they grappled together, they lurched against the forge and then reeled into Gunter's work bench. It hit

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the Fleming at the back of the knees, and already off balance, he could not catch himself, tumbling over the bench into the floor rushes, dragging Justin down with him.

Justin hit the ground hard, and when he tried to get up, the room seemed to tilt. By the time his vision cleared, the killers were both on their feet, closing in. But before they could strike, the door banged and they whirled to face the farrier.

Gunter's eyes cut from Justin, dazed and bleeding, to the two men, daggers drawn. They expected him to flee. Instead, he continued to advance boldly until he was well into the room. Their surprise was evident, but they were quick to meet this new threat, and Gilbert shifted to block Gunter's retreat.

"You ought to have stayed out of this, old man," he jeered, "for now you're dead, too—" He got no further, for Gunter had darted forward, snatching up something from the stable shadows. They recoiled at sight of his weapon, a lethal-looking pitchfork. By then Justin had stumbled to his feet and was struggling to get his sword out of its scabbard.

"Ware!" Gunter shouted suddenly, "ware! Robbers!" At the same time, he moved menacingly toward them. Shutters and doors banged, and they could hear other voices, rising on the evening air. The outlaws hesitated no longer, turned, and plunged for the door.

Justin's memories of what happened next would remain blurred. As the men fled, Gunter chased after them, raising the hue and cry so effectively that fully a dozen citizens were soon in pursuit, with more and more joining in the hunt. Within moments, the smithy was overflowing with people, bombarding Justin with questions. He was grateful when Nell took charge, for he was still shaken.

"Mother Mary, look at the blood!" she exclaimed, and propelled him toward the newly righted bench. "Sit down ere you fall down. And hold your arm up; that'll slow the bleeding. What happened to your head?"

Justin didn't know. "Nothing," he mumbled, but when he brought his hand up to his hair, it came away sticky with blood. "I guess I hit it . . ."

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Nell stooped abruptly, running her fingers over a corner of the bench. "I'd wager you banged your head right here/' she announced triumphantly. "See this blood?"

Justin leaned over to look and pulled back in alarm, for his head had begun to swim again. Nell saw him lose color and reached over, feeling his forehead. "You're as cold and clammy as the grave! I think we ought to get you back to the alehouse straightaway, so I can put a proper bandage on that arm. Did anyone send for the Watch yet? Blessed Lady, must I do everything around here? You go, Osborn, away with you! Ellis, help me get the man on his feet. And for pity's sake, will someone let that dog in?"

Justin was feeling worse by the moment, fighting waves of queasiness. When Shadow catapulted into the smithy and launched himself at Justin, he staggered and nearly went down. "Shadow, no!"

"Do not yell at that poor beast," Nell chided. "It was his barking that brought Gunter back. Running up and down the street he was, like a mad creature, barking to wake the dead. Gunter thought it strange, and went out to see if anything was amiss . . ."

But Justin heard no more. With his first step, he sagged against the arm holding him upright. Colors were flaming suddenly before his eyes, hot and hazy. After that, there was only darkness.

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"I am Agnes, wife to Odo the barber. Lie still, lad, for you are safe here/'