The Queen's Man

  Gervase had secreted it in a leather pouch around his neck, a pouch so soaked with his blood that Justin had discarded it at the murder site. The parchment was folded, threaded through with a thin, braided cord, the ends sealed with wax. The signet was still intact, although it meant nothing to Justin. No matter how many times he examined it, the letter offered no clues. As evidence of a man's violent death, it was compelling. But was it truly meant for England's queen?

  A dozen times he'd been about to break the seal; a dozen times he'd checked the impulse. Was it the dried blood mottling the parchment that gave him such a sense of foreboding? What in God's Name had he gotten himself into? How was he supposed to deliver a dead man's letter to Eleanor of Aquitaine?

  He knew of Eleanor's remarkable history, of course, as who in Christendom did not? In her youth, she'd been a great beauty, an even greater heiress, Duchess of Aquitaine in her own right. At age fifteen, she'd become Queen of France. But the marriage had not prospered, for wine and milk were not meant to mix. The pious, painfully earnest Louis was as baffled as he was bewitched by his high-spirited young wife, while his advisers whispered that she was too clever by half, more strong-willed and outspoken than any woman ought to be. There had been rumors and hints of scandal as the years went by, a disastrous crusade to the Holy Land, a public estrangement and reconciliation, at the Pope's urging. Few were surprised when the French king and his controversial queen were eventually divorced, for however much Louis still loved her - and he did - she'd failed to give him a son, and that was the one sin no queen could be forgiven.

  Eleanor had then returned to her own domains in Aquitaine, and it was expected that after a decorous interval, Louis and his council would choose another husband for her, a man deemed acceptable to the French Crown. What Eleanor might want, no one even considered. And so the shock was all the greater when word got out of her sudden, secret wedding two months after the divorce to Henry Fitz Empress, Duke of Normandy.

  If Eleanor and Louis had been grievously mismatched, she and Henry were almost too well matched, two high-flying hawks soaring toward the sun. Eleanor was nigh on thirty,

  Henry just nineteen, but they were soulmates in all the ways that mattered, lusting after empires and each other, indifferent to scandalized public opinion and the wounded outrage of the French king. Henry soon showed the rest of Christendom what

  Eleanor had seen in him. When Louis was goaded into a punitive expedition against the newlyweds, Henry sent the French army reeling back across the border in six short weeks. He then turned his attention to England. His mother had fought a long and bloody civil war with her cousin over the English throne. Henry avenged her loss, claiming the crown she'd been denied. Barely two years after their marriage, Eleanor was once more a queen, this time Queen of England.

  Her marriage to Henry had proved to be a passionate and tumultuous and, ultimately, doomed union. The "barren queen" bore him eight children, five sons and three daughters. They loved and quarreled and reconciled and ruled over a vast realm that stretched from Scotland to the Pyrenees. But then Henry committed an unforgivable sin of his own, giving his heart to a younger woman. In their world, a wife was expected to overlook

  a husband's infidelities, no matter how flagrant. Eleanor was not like other women, though, and Henry was to pay a high price for his roving eye: a rebellion instigated by his queen, joined by his own sons.

  But Eleanor paid a high price, too. Captured by Henry's soldiers, she was held prisoner for sixteen years, freed only by Henry's death. Such a lengthy confinement would have broken most people. It had not broken Eleanor. The passionate young queen and the embittered, betrayed wife were ghosts long since laid to rest. Now in her seventy-first year, she was acclaimed and admired for her sagacity and shrewd counsel, reigning over England in her son's absence, fiercely protective of his interests, proud matriarch of a great dynasty. A living legend. And this was the woman expecting a letter from a murdered goldsmith? Justin thought it highly unlikely.

  Sounds in the stairwell roused Justin from his uneasy reverie, reminding him that his privacy was fleeting; the Breton sailors might return at any moment. It was time. Jerking the cords, he broke the seal and unfolded the parchment. There were two letters. Justin picked one up, catching his breath when he saw the salutation: Walter de Coutances, Archbishop of Rouen, to Her Grace, Eleanor, Queen of England, Duchess of Aquitaine, and Countess of Poitou, greetings. So the goldsmith had spoken true! Scanning the page, he read enough to make him reach hastily for the second letter.

  Henry, by the grace of God, Emperor of the Romans and ever august, to his beloved and special friend, Philip, the illustrious King of the French, health and sincere love and affection. Justin brought the parchment closer to his candle's shivering light, his eyes riveted upon the page. When he was done, he sat very still, stunned and chilled by what he'd just learned. God help him, what secret could be more dangerous than the one he now possessed? For he had the answer to the question being asked throughout Christendom. He knew what had befallen the missing English king.

  ~~

  Queen Eleanor had held her Christmas court at Westminster, but she was currently in residence at the Tower, occupying the spacious second-floor quarters of its great keep. The first-floor chambers had been crowded all day with petitioners, vying with one another to persuade Peter of Blois, the queen's secretary-chancellor, that they deserved a brief audience. Peter was not easily impressed by tales of woe, and most petitioners would be turned away. One who steadfastly refused to go eventually attracted the attention of Claudine de Loudun, a young widow who was a distant kinswoman and attendant of the queen. She was curious enough to investigate and by the time she went back above-stairs, she had determined to thwart the imperious Peter's will.

  The men in Eleanor's great hall were gathered in a circle near the hearth. Claudine was not surprised to find Sir Durand de Curzon holding court again, for he seemed to crave an audience as much as he did wine and women and good living. His current joke involved a highwayman, a nun, and a befuddled innkeeper, and reaped a harvest of hearty laughter. Lingering just long enough to hear the predictable punch line, Claudine crossed the hall and entered the queen's great chamber.

  It was quieter than the hall, but even there the queen was rarely alone. Another of Eleanor's ladies was sorting through a coffer overflowing with bolts of silk and linen, a servant was tending to the hearth, and the queen's pampered greyhound was gnawing contentedly on a purloined cushion. Claudine didn't have the heart to deprive the dog of his booty and pretended not to see, hers the complicity that one rebel owed another.

  Nearby, the queen's chaplain was discussing falconry with William Longsword, a bastard-born son of Eleanor's late husband. Claudine would usually have joined the conversation, for she loved hawking and both men were favorites of hers. She enjoyed teasing the courtly, debonair chaplain that he was far too handsome to be a priest, and Will, an affable, stocky redhead in his mid-thirties, was that rarity: a man of influence without enemies, so good hearted that even the most cynical could not doubt his sincerity. She flashed them a playful smile as she passed, but did not pause, for she was intent upon finding the queen.

  The door at the south end of the chamber led to the Chapel of St John the Evangelist, but Claudine had no qualms about entering, for she knew Eleanor well enough to be sure that the queen was seeking solitude, not spiritual comfort. Pale January sun spilled into the chapel from so many windows that the stone walls and soaring pillars seemed to have been sculpted from ivory. To Claudine, the stark simplicity of this small Norman chapel was more beautiful than the grandest of God's cathedrals. Claudine's piety had strong aesthetic underpinnings; in that, she was very like her royal mistress.

  As she expected, she did not find Eleanor in prayer. The queen was standing by one of the stained glass windows, gazing up at the cloud-dappled sky. Few people ever reached their biblical threescore years and ten, but Eleanor carried hers lightly. She was still willow-slim, he
r step sure and quick, her will as indomitable as ever. She was aging as she'd lived, in defiance of all the rules. The one foe she could not defeat, though, was death. She was no stranger to a mother's grieving; she'd buried four of her children so far. But none were so loved as Richard.

  Eleanor turned from the window as the door opened. The white winter light robbed her face of color, deepening the sleepless shadows that lurked like bruises under her eyes. But she smiled at the sight of Claudine, a smile that belied her age and defied her cares. "I was wondering where you'd gotten to, Claudine. You have that cat-in-the-cream look again. What mischief have you in mind this time?"

  "No mischief, madame, a good deed." Claudine added a "'truly" in mock earnest. "I have a favor to ask of you, my lady. Peter told me he means to tell the remaining petitioners that they must come back on the morrow. Ere he does, can you spare a few moments for one of them? He has been here since first light, and I do believe he is willing to wait till Judgment Day if he must."

  "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.

  "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 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 gemstones he'd ever seen, rings of emerald and pearl and beaten 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 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

  if she gestured fo
r 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 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.