The Queen's Man

  ~~

  Smithfield was a large open area just northwest of the city walls, a popular gathering place for Londoners. Weekly horse fairs were held there, and, weather permitting, rowdy games of camp-ball, archery, wrestling matches, and mock jousts. Luke had visited the horse fair during a previous stay in London, and it was his idea that they go out to Smithfield, question the dealers to see if one of them had been offered a pale roan stallion of high calibre in the past month. Justin was skeptical, but Luke insisted. It was a longshot, he admitted, for even if they could find a buyer who remembered Gervase Fitz Randolph's stolen palfrey, the chances were slim that it would lead them to Gilbert the Fleming. But they had to follow up every lead, he argued, and if they did not go this afternoon, they'd have to wait a full week for the next horse fair. Since Justin could not refute the logic of that, Luke prevailed.

  Upon their arrival at Smithfield, however, they discovered that Luke's memory was flawed; the horse fairs were held on Fridays, not Mondays. The fields were empty except for a few reckless youths who'd shown up to joust despite the weather and a handful of hardy spectators, for it was not a day to be outdoors by choice. The temperature had risen during the night, turning Sunday's snowfall into a muddy slush, and the wind was unrelenting, with an edge, Luke grumbled, that not even the Fleming's blade could equal.

  Luke was taking the setback with poor grace. "This was madness, de Quincy. Even if the horse fair had been held today, that blasted stallion was likely sold off weeks ago."

  Justin grabbed the other man's arm, stopped him in time from stepping into a pile of freshly deposited manure. "Need I remind you that this was your idea, Luke?"

  "So? Why did you not talk me out of it? Devil take the horse and the weather and Gilbert, too. If we do not get inside soon, I'm in danger of freezing body parts I can ill afford to lose!"

  Turning on his heel then, Luke started back to retrieve their horses. "I cannot believe I dragged us out here on such a fool's errand. But I was bone-weary of going from one tavern to the next all morning, hoping against hope that Sampson would be drinking himself sodden within. If we have to depend upon happenchance to find the man, we may be wandering about London's seedier neighborhoods for years. Yet what other choice do we have? It's not as if that friend of yours was much help!"

  "I'd not call Jonas a friend. But he did have a point. He does not know Sampson from Adam, would not recognize him if he fell over the man. You're the one who knows him on sight, not us. And Jonas might have been more cooperative had you not been so high handed with him." Justin was cold and irritable, too, and the look he gave the deputy was not friendly. "You cannot always demand, Luke. Sometimes it is wiser to ask."

  "What is that, the gospel according to Justin de Quincy?" But after a few moments of mutually annoyed silence, Luke thawed first. "Bear with me; I am out of sorts today. I've come so close to catching Gilbert in the past. Yet each time he has somehow managed to elude me. I am not willing to let that happen again, by Corpus, I am not."

  "We'll find him," Justin said, hoping he sounded more certain than he felt, for he'd begun to wonder if the Fleming's ungodly luck would ever run out.

  "We'd better... and soon, give I start to ask myself what I'm doing here, sleeping on your floor instead of snug in Aldith's bed. And speaking of beds, think you that we can borrow some extra blankets from the hellcat? That pallet was harder than a landlord's heart."

  They soon reached the hitching post where they'd tethered Copper and Luke's temperamental sorrel. "I cannot believe I got the day wrong," Luke said glumly. "Now we'll have to come back at week's end. They hold races there, too, on Fridays, and that might lure Sampson out, for he has a fondness for gambling. I hear tell he is not very good at it, but he is always keen for making a wager."

  That sounded like a promising lead to Justin. "We need not wait for the Friday races then. If we can find out from Jonas where the high-stakes dicing games are played, we could keep watch for Sampson."

  Luke at once swung up into the saddle. "I ought to have thought of this sooner. Most men have a weakness of some sort, be it for drink or whores or high living."

  Justin mounted, too. "A pity the Fleming only lusts after dead bodies and not whores. I'd much rather track him through bawdyhouses than cemeteries."

  "Christ on the Cross!" Luke reined in his stallion so hastily that the horse reared up. "How could I have forgotten about the woman?"

  Justin's hopes kindled. "Which woman?"

  By the time Luke had gotten his horse under control again, he had reined in his excitement, as well. "I do not want to make more of this than I ought," he said cautiously. "It is only a comment Kenrick made last summer, when we were hunting the Fleming for the murders of that merchant and his wife. He told me he was sure Gilbert had gone back to London, back to his 'Irish whore.' He said his cousin had been boasting about how hot she was in bed. When I wrote to the London sheriffs about Gilbert, I passed on what Kenrick had said, but he could not remember the woman's name, so they must not have thought it worth pursuing."

  "Why do you think Kenrick called her that? Because he had contempt for any woman who'd take up with the likes of Gilbert? Or could she really be a whore?"

  Luke did not answer immediately, considering. "I know of at least one whore he was bedding back in Winchester. Rumor had it that she'd send him word when she got a customer worth robbing."

  "Well, that gives us a place to start - the Southwark stews. Let's go find Jonas again."

  "A hunt for an unnamed whore who may or may not know the Fleming?" Luke was grinning. "Who could resist a mad quest like that?"

  ~~

  Jonas was not very enthusiastic about their conjecture. Justin doubted, though, if the serjeant was ever enthusiastic about much of anything. But he did agree to try to find out if there was a whore in the Southwark stews who happened to be Irish. Justin and Luke spent the rest of the day checking out alehouses and taverns that were known to be frequented by gamblers, to no avail. There was no sign of Sampson.

  It was evening when they got back. As soon as they entered the alehouse, Justin was hailed from several corners of the common room, and he paused to exchange greetings with Odo the barber, young Ellis, and Roland the Wainwright, who'd been the first to join in Gunter's hue and cry against the Fleming. By then, Luke had already claimed a table for them and ordered a flagon of ale. "You seem to be settling right in."

  "I suppose I am," Justin agreed, realizing in surprise how comfortable he did feel here on Gracechurch Street. "They are right curious about you, of course, wanting to know if it is true that you are a sheriff of some sort. I said you were, but not to hold it against you."

  Luke shoved the flagon across the table. "Help yourself, for you're paying for it. I told the hellcat to put it on your account."

  Justin poured himself a drink. "When we talked earlier about the Fitz Randolphs, you said they were faring poorly, stalked by rumors and gossip. You would not have spread those rumors, by any chance?"

  "Sometimes it helps to sow some suspicion about. But in this case, the rumors were already springing up. Their neighbors are looking askance at the family, and there is a lot of talk in the alehouses, much of it unkind. Have you ever noticed how eager people are to believe the worst? But because of all the gossip and speculation, the abbot of Hyde Abbey has told Thomas Fitz Randolph that it would be for the best if he did not seek admission to their order just yet. I believe he used such soothing phrases as 'in God's good time' and 'once the dust has begun to settle.' But we both know - and so does Thomas - that he really meant, 'Come back once we're sure you're not a murderer.'"

  "I daresay Thomas took that with his usual grace and goodwill."

  Luke grimaced. "He accosted me at high noon in the Cheapside, accusing me of ruining his life and putting his immortal soul at peril. I lost my temper, too, and threatened to shove him into a horse trough if he did not go home. If he ever does end up as a Benedictine brother, God help his brethren!"

&n
bsp; "What of the others? No wedding plans announced yet for Jonet and Miles?"

  "I think they are still seeking to win the mother over. They'd have to wait anyway, for the same reason that Aldith and I do, since no marriages can be performed during Lent. But when I stopped by the Fitz Randolph house ere I left for London, Miles was there, breaking bread with the rest of the family, so I expect that he and Jonet will have their way in the end. Assuming, of course, that they are not implicated in her father's murder. I doubt that they are guilty, though. I'd put my money on our lovable little monk if I had to choose between them."

  "At least we were able to eliminate Guy as a suspect. But it sounds as if the goldsmithy will be in for some rough times. Gervase was the wind behind those sails. And if we cannot solve the murder, it might well go under." Until now, Justin had thought only of providing answers for Eleanor. But Ella needed them, too, mayhap even more than the queen did. Suspicions could blot out the sun for all the Fitz Randolphs, the guilty and

  innocent alike.

  "I do not truly think it was Thomas, either," Luke said suddenly. "I suspect the man was slain for reasons I can only guess at. His groom told me that he was on an urgent mission to London, and that might well explain the inexplicable interest of the Queen of England in this killing. How much do you know, de Quincy? More than I do, for certes. Do you not think it is about time you shared some of that knowledge with me?"

  Justin stiffened. "What do you mean?"

  Luke set his cup down with a thud. "You're the queen's man, I've not forgotten. But we are on the same side in this fight. I think I've earned the right to ask some questions."

  Justin thought so, too. But was Luke asking for himself? Or for John? "What do you want to know?"

  "Was the goldsmith carrying a letter for the queen?"

  Justin had not expected such a bold challenge. "Why would you think that?"

  Luke scowled. "The goldsmith had just delivered a chalice to the Archbishop of Rouen, who also happens to be the king's justiciar and a known ally of the queen. He arrived home on Epiphany Eve, and then set out the very next morning for London, in a snowstorm. It does not take a mastermind to wonder if there is a connection between those two facts, de Quincy."

  It sounded plausible. Luke was certainly clever enough to draw such conclusions on his own. But were they his own conclusions? "I have no answers for you, Luke. I am sorry."

  Luke's eyes darkened. "So am I," he said tersely.

  Justin swallowed the last of his ale, silently damning the queen's son to the deepest recesses of Hell Everlasting. At that moment, there was a stir at the door. Gunter found himself greeted heartily by virtually every man in the alehouse, for his courageous rescue had turned him into a neighborhood hero, at least for a fortnight or so. Looking both bemused and shyly pleased by all the attention, he mumbled greetings in turn, and then headed across the room when Justin beckoned.

  "Join us, Gunter. You've met Luke de Marston, have you not?" Both men nodded and Luke signaled for more ale.

  "This flagon's on me," he insisted. "Any man who'd take on Gilbert the Fleming with a pitchfork is someone I'd be proud to drink with."

  Gunter shrugged self-consciously. "I'm glad the lad here had such a hard head," he said, glancing sideways at Justin. "Where is the pup tonight?"

  "Shadow? Under the table," Justin said, and felt the dog's tail thump against his leg. "I'm sure you've heard that Luke is Hampshire's under-sheriff. He is here to help me track down Gilbert the Fleming. I wish I could tell you more," he said, and although the words were addressed to Gunter, he looked straight at Luke. "But I cannot -"

  He got no further, for the alehouse had suddenly gone quiet. Puzzled, Justin shifted in his seat, seeking the cause. He saw at once the reason for the odd hush; Jonas stood framed in the doorway. When he started toward them, a path rapidly cleared for him, men stumbling to get out of his way. Justin and Luke exchanged startled, speculative glances, for they'd not expected to see the serjeant again today.

  Jonas halted in front of their table. "There is an Irish whore working at the Bull over in Southwark."

  Luke and Justin were impressed that he'd been so successful so soon. But when they began to offer up praise, Jonas cut them off. "It gets better. One of my informants claims he has seen her in the past with our man. It looks," he said, with the glint of a grim smile, "as if we've found the Fleming's woman."

  14

  LONDON

  February 1193

  Rain had begun to fall at dawn, mixing with sleet by midday. Hastening into the alehouse, Luke shoved a table as close to the hearth as he could get without being singed and shed his sodden mantle. From a hemp sack, he withdrew his purchases: several parchment sheets, an inkhorn, and a goose-feather quill pen. Coaxing a tallow candle from Nell, he was soon laboring over his task, gnawing his lower lip in concentration, occasionally swearing when the ink ran and he had to scrape the skin clean with the edge of his knife. He lacked a goat's tooth to smooth the surface afterward, but he was still satisfied with the final result, a letter that was both concise and reasonably legible. Only then did he look up and discover he'd attracted a curious audience, for writing was a mysterious and arcane skill to the residents of Gracechurch Street, most of whom knew no more about books than they did about the black arts.

  A few of the bolder ones began asking questions about writing. Almost before he knew what had happened, Luke found himself surrounded, spelling out their names for them on one of his costly parchment skins. At first he'd enjoyed being the center of such awed attention, but the novelty soon wore off, and he was relieved when Justin's entrance put an end to the impromptu lesson.

  Trailed by Shadow, Justin pulled up a stool and rid himself of his wet mantle. "I see you're keeping busy," he said, glancing at the parchment. "But I think Thomas is spelled with an h."

  "Why? Next you'll be telling me I need to stick an h in Justin, too!"

  Justin grinned. "I do not believe it. You do know my name, after all!"

  Luke shook his head. "You're odiously cheerful for a cold, wretchedly wet day in Lent. Usually when a man is this good humored, he's just come from some woman's bed."

  Justin laughed outright, for when he'd gone to the Tower to inform Eleanor about the latest developments, he'd had a brief but ardent encounter with Claudine in the stairwell and she'd promised to meet him as soon as she had a free afternoon. Luke was still regarding him curiously. "Was I right about the woman? Or is that another one of your secrets?"

  Justin shrugged. "I've good reason for cheer. The queen is pleased with our progress and this Irish whore may be the lure we need to draw the Fleming out of hiding. That is more luck than I've had in a long time, Luke."

  "If you were truly lucky, you'd have found some poor fool willing to take in that mangy beast. Or have you decided to keep him? I notice you have stopped trying to foist him off onto innocent passersby."

  Justin was embarrassed to admit he'd become so fond of Shadow. "No," he insisted, "I'm still looking to find him a home. I thought, though, that I'd have a better chance if I taught him some manners first."

  Luke's smile was skeptical. "So... you have the fun of teaching him not to piss in the house or chew on table legs or eat a candle and then spit it up on the bed like he did yesterday, and once the dog is tolerable, you give him away? Makes perfect sense to me. But I'm not one for meddling betwixt a man and his dog. Here... I want you to do me a favor. The next time one of the queen's couriers is passing through Winchester, will you see that he takes my letter? It'd be too costly to hire a messenger on my own."

  "My luck must be starting to rub off onto you, for there's a man riding west on the morrow. Hand it over and I'll see that it goes with him. Whom is it for - Aldith?"

  "Eventually. First it goes to the sheriff, explaining that I've been detained in London. I imply that it's at the queen's request, so I trust I can rely upon you for corroboration if need be. I asked him to send the letter on to Aldith once he's read it. I
've penned a message for her, too, down below."

  When Luke pointed, Justin saw that there were indeed a few lines scrawled at the bottom of the page. After scanning them, he glanced up at Luke in amused disbelief. "You tell her you expect to be back in a fortnight or so and that you hope she is well and that is it? You're a romantic devil, in truth!"

  "I told her what was important, when I'd be back," Luke protested. "What else am I supposed to say?"

  "It would not have hurt to say you missed her. You might even have told her that she holds your heart. What do I have to do, write your love letters for you?"

  "Jesu forfend! I might say that in bed, but not in the light of day, and for certes, I'm not about to put it down in writing. I'd feel like the world's greatest fool. Not to mention how the priest would feel when Aldith brought him the letter to read!"