The queen's man : a medieval mystery (4 page)

"If his need is so urgent, why has Peter not admitted him?"

"I daresay because he balked at telling Peter why he seeks an audience with you." Claudine did not point out that there was no quicker way to vex Peter than to deny him pertinent information. She did not need to, for Eleanor had a comprehensive understanding of all in her service; she made sure of that.

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"How lucky for this young man that you are willing to speak up for him," Eleanor said dryly. "He is young, is he not? And pleasing to the eye?"

Claudine grinned, quite unabashed at being caught out. "Indeed he is, my lady. Tall and well made, with hair darker than sin, smoke-color eyes, and a smile like the sunrise. He was no more forthcoming with me than he was with Peter, but his manners were good and he has a fine sword at his hip." This last bit of information was meant to assure Eleanor that the stranger was one of their own, not baseborn.

Eleanor's eyes held an amused glint. "Well, we can hardly turn away a man with such a fine sword, can we?"

"My sentiments exactly," Claudine said cheerfully, and headed for the door. Widowhood had proved to be unexpectedly liberating, expanding horizons far beyond the boundaries of her native Aquitaine. Among her many newfound liberties, she enjoyed the freedom to flirt and even to indulge in an occasional discreet dalliance. She supposed that eventually she'd wed again, but she was in no hurry. What husband could match what the Queen of England had to offer?

Justin was as taut as a drawn bow. He dreaded the thought of another night as custodian of the queen's letter. Logic told him that none could know he had it, but there was nothing remotely logical about his predicament. His hopes had briefly flared up after his conversation with a young woman who claimed to be one of the queen's attendants. She was very pretty, with wide-set dark eyes and deep dimples, and she'd promised to see if she could get him admitted. She'd not returned, though, and now the queen's secretary had begun to usher people out.

Seeking a royal audience was not for the fainthearted, and most of the dismissed petitioners tried to argue or plead. Peter brushed aside their objections, and the knight assisting him was even more brusque. He was a big man, so fashionably dressed he might have been taken for a court fop, the sleeves of his tunic billowing out at the wrists, his leather shoes fastened at the ankles with gleaming bronze buckles, his dark-auburn hair

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brushed to his shoulders in burnished waves. But it would have been a great mistake to dismiss him as a mere coxcomb. He had the insolent bearing of a highborn lord and the swagger of a soldier, with blue-ice eyes and a wide, mobile mouth that seemed set in a sneer. Justin needed no second glance to recognize that this was a dangerous man, one he instinctively disliked and mistrusted.

He tensed as Peter now looked his way. He had no intention of going quietly, but neither did he expect to prevail; orphans are rarely optimists. The knight had just shoved a protesting merchant toward the door, ignoring the man's indignant claim of kinship to the city's mayor. Justin's turn would be next. But it was then that the queen's lady-in-waiting emerged from the stairwell.

The knight lost interest in evicting petitioners. Moving swiftly, he backed her against the wall, barring her way with an outstretched arm. Leaning down, he murmured intimately in her ear, his fingers sliding suggestively up her arm. She shook his hand off, slipping under his arm with an impatient "By the Rood, Durand, do you never give up?"

Durand did not take the rebuff with good grace, scowling at Claudine with simmering anger. She shrugged off his ill will as easily as she had his hand and crossed the hall to Justin.

Her smile was dazzling. "The queen," she said, "will see you now."

Eleanor of Aquitaine had been blessed with the bone structure that age only enhances, and it was easy to see in the high cheekbones and firm jawline evidence of the youthful beauty that had won her the hearts of two kings. She was elegantly clad in a gown of sea-green silk, her face framed in a delicate, white wimple. As he knelt, Justin caught the faintest hint of summer, a fragrance as intriguing as it was subtle, one sure to linger in a man's memory. Her throat was hidden by the softly draped wimple, and only her hands testified to her seven decades, veined by age, but also adorned with the most magnificent gem-stones he'd ever seen, rings of emerald and pearl and beaten

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gold. But what drew and held his gaze were her extraordinary eyes, gold flecked with green, candle lit and luminous and quite inscrutable.

"I thank you for seeing me, madame." Justin drew a bracing breath, then said in a rush, before he could lose his nerve, "Forgive me if this sounds presumptuous, but would it be possible for us to talk in greater privacy?" Dropping his voice, he said urgently, "I have a letter for you. I believe it has already cost one man his life, and I'd not have it claim any more victims."

She studied him impassively, but Claudine gave him a reproachful look, letting him know that thwarting her curiosity was poor repayment for her kindness. Whatever Eleanor saw in Justin's face was convincing, though, and she signaled to Peter, who was hovering a few feet away, bristling at such an audacious request. Within moments, the chamber had been cleared of all but Eleanor, Justin, Will Longsword, and her chaplain.

"This," Eleanor said coolly, "is as private as it gets. Now . . . what would you say to me?"

"Your son is alive, madame. But King Richard is in peril, for he has been taken by his enemies."

Her control was impressive; only the twitch of suddenly clenched fingers gave her away. The men were not as disciplined, their shocked questions and challenges cut off when Eleanor raised a hand for silence. "Go on," she said, and Justin did.

"The king was shipwrecked, madame, not far from Venice. He was not hurt, but soon thereafter, he was captured by a vassal of the Duke of Austria and turned over to the Holy Roman Emperor."

There were smothered exclamations at that from Will and the chaplain. Richard had made many enemies in his thirty-five turbulent years, but only the French king Philip hated him more than the emperor and Austria's duke. Again Eleanor stilled the clamor. "How do I know this is true? Have you any proof?"

Justin drew the letters from his tunic. "Three days after Christmas, the emperor wrote to the French king, informing him

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of King Richard's capture. The Archbishop of Rouen learned of this letter and somehow had it copied. He entrusted it to a Winchester goldsmith named Gervase Fitz Randolph, fearing to send it by agents known to the French Crown." Holding out the letters, Justin said quietly, "This is Fitz Randolph's blood, madame. I cannot swear that the letter is genuine. I can attest, though, that Fitz Randolph died believing it to be so."

There was not a sound in the chamber as Eleanor read. The others scarcely seemed to be breathing, so still was it. When she at last looked up, she was very pale, but in command of her emotions. Seeing Will's stricken expression, she said, "No, Will, no grieving. Richard is alive and that is what matters. No one has ever come back from the bottom of the Adriatic Sea, but men do get out of Austrian dungeons." Justin was still kneeling and she gestured for him to rise. "How did you come by this letter?"

Justin told her, as succinctly as possible. She listened intently, her eyes never leaving his face. When he was done, she said, "What we have learned here must not go beyond this chamber, not until I've been able to consult with the archbishop and the other justiciars. Now I would speak with this young man alone."

They were reluctant, but they obeyed. Once they were gone, Eleanor motioned for Justin to take a seat. She was fingering the broken seal. He'd planned to claim it had happened when Gervase was struggling with the outlaws, but as his eyes met Eleanor's, he found that he could not lie to her. "If I was to get killed because of that letter, I did not want to go to my grave with my curiosity unsatisfied." He held his breath then, hoping that his candor had not offended.

"If you'd brought this letter to me unread, I'd have been impressed by your honour, but I'd have wondered about your common sense."

Justin looked up, startled, in time to catch the glimmer of a smile. When he smiled back, he shed anxiety and years, and she realized for the first time how young he really was. "What is your name, lad?"

"Justin, my lady." She was waiting expectantly. But he had no

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family name, no family at all—only a father who had refused to acknowledge him. "Justin of Chester," he said at last, for he'd passed much of his childhood in that unruly border town.

"You said the goldsmith was slain by outlaws. What makes you think this was not just a robbery gone wrong? Have you reason to believe they were after the letter?"

"Gervase thought so, madame. I cannot say, for certes, that he was right. I do believe it was no random robbery. They were lying in wait for him, that I know. I'd passed by earlier and heard them whispering. I did not understand at the time, but I do now. 'No, it's not him.' And when I came upon the attack, one of the men was searching his body and the other called out, 'Did you find it?' He was not referring to Gervase's money pouch, for the outlaws already had that. Mayhap Gervase had something else of value, but the letter might well have been what they sought. The Archbishop of Rouen had spies at the French court, for how else could he have gotten a copy of the French king's letter? So who is to say that the French king did not have spies, too?"

"From what I know of Philip, you may be sure that he has far more spies than he has scruples." Eleanor was silent for several moments, absorbed in her own thoughts. When Justin had begun to wonder if she'd forgotten him altogether, she said, "You have done me a great service, Justin of Chester. Now I would have you do me another one. I want you to find out who murdered Gervase Fitz Randolph . . . and why."

Justin stared at her. Surely he could not have heard right? "Madame, I do not understand. The sheriff of Hampshire is far more capable of tracking down the killers than I am!"

"I disagree. I think you are uniquely qualified for the task at hand. You are the only one who saw the killers, the only one who can recognize them on sight."

Eleanor paused, watching him attentively. "Moreover, it would seem perfectly natural for you to return to Winchester to find out if the culprits had been caught and to offer your condolences to the Fitz Randolph family. No one would think to question that. To the contrary, the family would surely welcome you

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with gratitude, for you tried your best to save the man's life and you did save his servant."

"I suppose so," Justin conceded. "But why, my lady? Why would you have me do this?"

Eleanor's brows arched. "To see justice done, of course."

Justin glanced away lest she notice his perplexity. It made sense that the queen should want to see the killers punished. The king's roads must be safe for travel; that was part of the covenant between a sovereign and his subjects. And it could be said that the goldsmith had died in the queen's service. Yet there was more to Eleanor's request, much more. He could not have explained why he was so sure of that, but he had no doubts whatsoever that it was so.

"And if I am able to discover the identities of the killers? Should I turn that information over to the sheriff?"

"No," she said swiftly. "Say nothing to anyone. Report back to me, and only to me."

He had confirmation now of his suspicions, but what of it? Whatever Eleanor's private motives, there was no question of refusal. A queen was not to be denied, especially this queen. "I will need a letter of authorization, madame, stating that I am acting on your behalf. If I am going to be venturing into deep waters, I'll want a lifeline."

Eleanor smiled. "Clever lad," she said approvingly. "That bodes well for your success. Now . . . pour us some wine and then fetch me that ivory casket on the table."

Justin did as bidden, and a few moments later, he was holding a leather pouch in the palm of his hand. He thought it would be rude to count it in her presence, but was reassured by its solid weight, proof that the sum was a generous one.

He could not ask her the real reason why she was so intent upon solving the goldsmith's murder. But he could ask, "Why me?" He had the right to know that much, for the task she'd given him held as many risks as it did rewards. "I am honoured, madame, by your faith in me. Yet I am puzzled by it, too. I am a stranger to you, after all."

"I know more about you than you realize, lad. You have rare

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courage. You are no man's fool, for you do not trust easily. You are resourceful and personable/'

She stopped to take a swallow of her wine. "You own a horse, which is more than most men can say. You can handle a sword, not a skill easily mastered. And you could read these letters, proof indeed that you've had an uncommonly good education, Justin of Chester. All you seem to lack is a surname/'

Justin stiffened, but she ignored his sudden tension, continuing to regard him pensively. "An intriguing mystery. Why should a young man with so many admirable attributes be adrift, utterly on his own? You are too well educated to be lowborn. A younger son having to make his own way in the world? Possibly, but why would you disavow your surname? A black sheep, cast out by his family? I think not, for most men would take great pride in a son such as you. But what of a son born out of wedlock?"

Justin said nothing, but he could feel his face getting hot. Eleanor took another sip of wine. "Even if you were bastard-born, though, why would your father not claim you? My husband freely acknowledged his by-blows; most lords do. Adultery is more often held up as a female sin, not a male one. But the Church . . . now she is a far more jealous mistress than a wronged wife."

"Jesu!" Justin hastily gulped down the contents of his wine cup, much too fast. Coughing and sputtering, he blurted out, "Do you have second sight?"