Chester was a river port, and the larger ships were anchored downstream. Smaller boats were tied up at piers, and the tide was running high enough to lap at the western town walls. Justin's expectations were low after the previous day's failures, but he was to get a pleasant surprise. The second ship's master he spoke to, captain of a sturdy merchant hulk christened the Gulden Vlies, told him that he was indeed lacking three members of his crew, hitherto reliable lads who'd deserted without any warning whatsoever.
This entire voyage had been accursed, he complained bitterly. First he lost three good men, and since then it had been one misfortune after another, leaks to be caulked, a mainmast to be repaired, shrouds to be replaced; he'd be lucky if they sailed by Michaelmas, he predicted dourly. Once he saw that Justin was not a candidate for his crew, he had no further interest in prolonging the conversation, but Justin was able to extract the names of the missing men: Geertje, Karl, and Joder.
Failing to get anything else from the ship's master, Justin spent the rest of the day tracking down crew members from the Gulden Vlies. This was a process as frustrating as it was laborious. The ship was moored in the estuary, and the few sailors he found ashore either spoke only Flemish or claimed to know nothing about the disappearance of their shipmates. He was concluding that he'd have to find a way to get out to the hulk when a small, wizened man with skin like leather sidled up to him. He had such strong Flemish accent that his French was not easy to understand, but Justin's hopes soared when he grasped that this was the cook of the Gulden Vlies. He could not help, but he knew one who could, he said, looking pointedly at the money pouch attached to Justin's belt.
With Baltazar, the cook, scurrying to keep pace, Justin began another search, this time for the ship's helmsman, who was a kinsman of the missing Karl. They finally found him in a cramped, dingy alehouse so poorly lit that it was like going into a tunnel. Rutger looked to be between thirty and forty. He had a deeply lined face framed by lanky fair hair, close-set blue eyes, and the truculence of a man who'd been drinking for most of the day. With Baltazar acting as his translator, Justin attempted to find out what Rutger knew of his cousin's disappearance. But Rutger did not want to talk to Justin about anything at all, especially Karl, and cursed him out in slurred, thick Flemish when he persevered.
Justin at last conceded defeat, at least for now, and retreated out to the street, where he paid Baltazar the agreed-upon sum and arranged to try again when Rutger had sobered up. From the way Baltazar smirked, Justin suspected that Rutger had been drunk for most of their time in port, but he had no other leads. Unless he could persuade Rutger to tell him what he knew, he'd reached a dead end. Refusing to consider what he'd do if Rutger knew nothing useful, he headed back toward Bennet's tavern.
He'd begun feeling better as the day wore on. His head's pounding had subsided to a dull ache, and by mid-afternoon, he'd recovered enough of his appetite to buy a roasted capon leg from a street vendor. It was cold and greasy, but he expected no better fare from a peddler, and he was hungry enough to go back for a second helping, giving the bones to a skinny stray dog. His mood had improved, too, as his body recovered. It was too early to despair. He'd accomplished quite a lot this day. He'd confirmed his suspicions about the sailor-outlaws. They all had names now, had become flesh-and-blood men, no longer figments of his imagination. He would keep after Rutger until the helmsman agreed to talk. If need be, he'd buy the Fleming enough ale to swim in.
The sun had set, briefly turning the brown waters of the Dee to a muddy gold. Dusk was smothering the last of the light, and fewer people were out on the streets. As he neared the tavern, Justin became aware of a prickling at the back of his neck. Twice before that afternoon he'd experienced the same feeling, a sense that he was being watched. He had no evidence of that, had seen no one who'd looked either familiar or suspicious. But his unease lingered, for he'd learned to trust his instincts.
When he reached the tavern, he paused in the doorway to study the street but saw only passersby hurrying home through the deepening twilight, a beggar being berated by a stout man in a green felt cap, a thin, pale whore haggling with a prospective customer over her price. He was still not satisfied, and he vowed not to repeat last night's mistake. It was sobering to realize how vulnerable he would have been to attack as he and Bennet had blithely weaved their way homeward.
The tavern was already crowded, a mix of sailors and regular customers from the neighborhood, and several trestle tables had been set up to accommodate them. Justin had no trouble finding seat, though. Berta at once hurried over to escort him to a corner table, shooing away the men already there. When they protested, she insisted, "Ben said he is to get whatever he wants," and that seemed to end the argument. Ben had been called away, she explained to Justin, but he'd soon be back. "He said you ought to wait for him. And I'm not to charge you for drinks."
There was something to be said, Justin decided, for having a friend who ran a tavern. Berta soon brought over a flagon and a cup and even offered to send someone out to the cook shop for food. Feeling like royalty, Justin declined and watched a rowdy dice game, taking an occasional swallow of Bennet's truly awful red wine, and pondering ways to win Rutger's trust. His fatigue soon caught up with him, and leaning forward, he rested his head on his arms and fell asleep.
He dozed off and on; he'd never been a heavy sleeper even in surroundings more conducive to sleep than a tavern's common room. He catnapped for a time, and when he opened his eyes again, he discovered that he was no longer alone. A woman had slid onto the bench next to him, so close that their bodies touched it hip and leg. Smothering a yawn, he said drowsily, "Sorry, sweetheart, I'm not looking for company," while prudently patting his money pouch to make sure it was still there. It was, and he was slipping back into sleep when the woman poked him in the ribs.
"If men are not the most fickle creatures on God's green earth! Here I thought I was the first great lust of your life, and now you do not even recognize me?"
Justin's head jerked up so fast that he almost gave himself whiplash. While Bennet had left boyhood behind and sprouted up nigh on a foot in their years apart, time had not wrought such drastic changes in his sister. Molly had been seventeen when he'd
last seen her, and this woman laughing at him was not so different from the girl he remembered.
She had vivid green eyes and Bennet's raven hair, and like his, her face was angular, with wide cheekbones that gave her a vaguely exotic appearance, a generous mouth, well-defined jawline, and skin that could not have been more unlike the pale complexion so idealized in songs and minstrel tales. Molly's skin was a warm shade that looked sun-kissed even in the dead of winter, and in summer it seemed to shine with a golden glow, no small defect in a society that so prized fairness, but one that never troubled her unduly. It had certainly not troubled the men of Chester, for she'd been bewitching them without even trying since her fourteenth year. As for Justin, he'd grown into manhood unheeding of the Church's warnings that "all wickedness was but little to the wickedness of a woman," that women were the Devil's pawns, daughters of Eve. To Justin, Eve was Bennet's wild child sister, and he'd have willingly forfeited Eden for a taste of her forbidden fruit.
"Hey, Molly," he said softly, greeting her as he always had, as if almost seven years had not gone by since their last meeting.
"Hey, Justin," she echoed, and they smiled at each other, savoring one of those rare moments of perfect happiness, in which nothing was asked or expected and it was enough. Then she said, "Well, do I not get a hug? I'll wager Bennet got one!"
They embraced like the old friends they were, like the brother and sister they were not, and for a brief time, they held each other without speaking. When they moved apart, they kept their hands clasped, and when they did speak, it was in unison, Justin saying he thought she was in Wich Malbank and Molly exclaiming that she had not believed Bennet at first, not until she made him swear upon her St James's scallop shell. They paused and then again spoke as one,
Justin expressing amazement that she still had that pilgrim badge and Molly explaining that she'd returned early from Wich Malbank, getting into the city that afternoon.
"Let's start anew," she declared, "one at a time. Of course I still have my scallop shell. My father swore he'd gotten it from a man who'd made the pilgrimage all the way to Compostela." A pause. "Of course we both know what a liar my father was. But odds are that he had to speak the truth at least once in his life, and I like to think this was that time."
Justin had learned from Bennet that their father had died five years ago. Now he hesitated, conflicted between good manners and honesty. Courtesy demanded that he offer his condolences, but he knew what a miserable excuse for a father the fishmonger had been, beating his children when he was drunk, beating them even worse when he was sober, making them his scapegoats for a life hat had been joyless and harsh. He temporized by saying, "It could not have been easy for you and Bennet when your father died."
"And whose life is ever easy, my lad? Even Piers, who has money enough to buy all the indulgences he'd need to get through Heaven's Gate... even he finds much to mutter about these days, sure the fates are conspiring against him."
That answer told Justin much more than the words themselves. Molly did not want to talk about the hard times after her father's death. Neither had Bennet. But he also thought she'd deliberately thrust Piers's name into the conversation, a test to see how he'd handle her liaison with the notorious vintner. "Did Piers come back to Chester with you?" he asked, in what he hoped was a neutral tone of voice.
"No, he had to stay on at Wich Malbank for another week. But I could abide the place no longer and insisted that Piers send me home." Molly made a face. "Have you ever visited a salt house, Justin? It offers excitement beyond bearing. Fancy, all day you get to watch as the brine is boiled away and the salt collected!"
Justin's response was lost in the uproar that followed, for Bennet had just returned, laden with so much food that he'd gotten a street urchin to help him tote it from the cook shop to the tavern. He had wheat bread fresh from the baker's oven, he announced proudly, for that was the fare of the well-off and the wellborn, and Justin knew there had been many times when Bennet and Molly had not even had the money to buy rye torts, which were hard enough to hammer nails. He had an entire roasted chicken, Bennet continued, and little pies stuffed with beef marrow, and a dozen wafers flavored with honey and ginger. He must have spent a considerable sum on this meal, and Justin's first impulse was to offer to share the expense. But he caught himself in time, realizing that this lavish expenditure was something Bennet needed to do for his boyhood friend who served a lord, even if he could not afford it.
Bennet's first words confirmed his conjecture. "Guess who I saw out and about this afternoon? Lord High and Mighty himself, swaggering down Northgate with more lackeys than a dog has fleas. He thinks highly of himself, does that one. Not even the earl puts on such a show." Neither Justin nor Molly said anything, but Bennet must have realized that his comments could be misconstrued, for he said hastily, "Not that I meant you were one of his lackeys, Justy! It is obvious that you stand high in Fitz Alan's favor, and glad I am for it."
Justin was discomfited, well aware of how different their pasts and their prospects were, Taking refuge in humor, he said wryly, "I stand high in his favor? Hellfire, Bennet, for my first two years with him, he called me Jordan."
As he'd hoped, that got a laugh and they tucked into their meal with no further awkwardness. Molly ate as heartily as the men, but there was so much food that even three hungry young people in good health could not finish it all. Calling Berta over, Bennet instructed her to distribute the remains of their meal to God's Poor, sounding for all the world like the Earl of Chester dispensing alms to the needy. Again, Justin almost reminded him that there were enough leftovers for several suppers; again, he refrained.
The rest of the evening was spent in reminiscing, laughing over experiences that had not always seemed so amusing at the time. They remembered how Justin had taken it upon himself to defend Molly's honor when a stripling had called her a slut; since he was only twelve and his opponent seventeen, that had not ended well. Justin took their teasing in stride, and grinned when Molly confessed she'd tried to avenge them by casting a spell that turned the lout into a frog. "It did not work, alas," she confided. "But he did break out in right ugly warts!"
They recalled the time a young farrier had dared Molly to ride his gelding. She'd never even sat upon a horse's back, but she'd still scrambled up into the saddle and when she kicked it in the ribs, it bolted. "You scared us out of our wits," Bennet said, scowling at his sister as if her misdeed were still fresh and not ten years stale. "We thought sure you were going to kill yourself on that nag!"
"I remember poor Wat running down the street after you," Justin chimed in, "yelling for help in catching the horse, and someone shouting for the sheriff, thinking you were stealing it!" He also remembered that when Molly finally fell off, she'd lain there in the dust, laughing like a lunatic, saying it had been as close as she'd ever get to flying.
They shared with Molly the stories they'd been swapping the night before, and she in turn reminded them of ones they'd forgotten: the time they'd been chased up onto the Rood Cross by the miller's savage dog; the time they'd sneaked into the cemetery on All Hallow's Eve; the time they'd seen a wolf in the marshes; the time they'd won a goose at the Midsummer Fair races. But they did not talk about the times they'd gone to bed hungry or the times Justin had gotten thrashed for taking food for them from the bishop's kitchen and not once did they speak of their late, unlamented father.
Occasionally their remembrances were interrupted by a minor disturbance in the tavern, but Bennet was able to restore order without difficulty. He was drinking as much as he had been on the preceding night, and since he'd shown none of Justin's morning-after malaise, Justin thought he must regularly swill more wine than an abbey of Benedictine monks. Mindful of his disquiet earlier that day, Justin confined himself to several cups of wine, and Molly had taken her usual quota, one cup, for she'd always insisted that she could get giddy on a thimbleful and a drunken woman was like a plucked chicken, just waiting to be tossed in the pot.
When curfew rang, Bennet began to herd his customers out, a prolonged process since most of them pleaded for one more drink to tide them over till the morrow. Justin offered to see Molly safely home. When he told Bennet that he was not up to another night of serious carousing, Bennet derided him for being a "pitiful milksop" and then hurried over to the door to remind Justin that he knew where the spare key was if he decided to go back to the warehouse instead of the tavern.
Chester's streets were quiet, for most people were home and abed by then. Molly was tall for a woman and had a brisk, confident stride, easily keeping pace with Justin as they strode down the center of the street, avoiding any dark alleys that could give cover to men intent upon robbery or worse. They did not have far to go, for Molly's cottage was within shouting distance of St Mary's nunnery, and they could already see the convent walls.
"I live on Nun's Lane," Molly informed Justin gleefully, "although I daresay the nuns think I ought to be dwelling on Wanton Way! Ah, the looks I get from the good sisters when one of them ventures beyond the gate. Can you imagine, Justin, choosing to shut yourself away from the world like that? Even if that the only way to save my eternal soul, I think I'd still balk."
"I know one who would agree wholeheartedly with that, lass," Justin said, thinking of Claudine, thinking, too, of the queen.
Molly's cottage had a thatched roof, for Chester did not have London's strict fire hazard prohibitions. Once they were inside, Molly told Justin where there was flint and tinder, and he kindled a fire in the hearth. By then she'd lit an oil lamp, and he looked about with unabashed curiosity. There was a bed in the corner, covered with a woven blanket, one high-backed wooden chair that was doubtlessly for Piers, two coffers, a wall pole for clothes, a trestle table and several sto
ols. The room was immaculate, without a trace of dust anywhere, and the floor rushes were fresh, mingled with sweet-smelling herbs. But there was something oddly impersonal about this cottage. No one could walk in and know at once that this was Molly's home, for there was nothing of her in it, no small touches of comfort or decoration. It was almost as if she was not really living here, merely tarrying for a brief time. It was, he realized, very like the neat, sparsely furnished cottage that he rented from Gunter the smith in London.
Molly had left the door ajar, and a cat now strolled in. It was a large, grey male, sleek and well fed but bearing the scars of past combats, cocky as only a feline king of the streets could be. Most people did not view cats as pets, keeping them only to catch mice and rats, but this cat was obviously more than a mouser. It was purring and rubbing against Molly's legs with utter confidence that its overtures would be welcome, and when she stooped and picked it up, the cat draped itself across her shoulder like a pelt. "A slow night, Alexander?" she asked. "Usually you do not wander home till cockcrow."
"Alexander?" Justin said and grinned. "Whoever names a cat Alexander?"
"I do." Molly had crossed to the table and was pouring from a wineskin into a tin cup. Holding it out, she said, "You do not mind sharing with me?"
"I would be honored, my lady," he said, with his best court manners, and she smiled.
"You've grown into an interesting man, Justin, and, I suspect, far more interesting than I even know. You have not told us much about your new life, after all. Who knows what dark secrets you may be keeping from us?"