"Karl said he spoke Flemish right well, but he was not Flemish. He was friendly, joking with them as if they were lords like him. Karl liked him, trusted what he told them."
Rutger turned aside as if to clear his throat. He spat into the floor rushes, then kept his head down for several moments as he struggled with his emotions. He had been speaking slowly, tentatively, with long pauses. But now the words came out in a rush, spilling from his mouth as if they'd burn his tongue if he did not get them said. Barbele reached over, patted his hand, and then looked at Justin.
"Rutger says his cousin and Geertje planned to come back after they'd done this thing and gotten their money. Karl was sure he could get their ship's master to take them on again. They even damaged the mainmast so the ship could not sail without them. But that was weeks ago. What has happened to them? Why have they not come back?"
~*~
When darkness fell, Molly lit several oil lamps, but shadows still lurked in the corners of the cottage. The remains of their supper were growing cold, a far cry from the days when there had never been enough food for leftovers. Molly watched as Justin stared down at his trencher, cutting another piece of cod and then forgetting again to eat it.
"Enough," she finally said, rising and grasping his hand. "If you are going to brood, better you do it in some comfort," He offered no resistance and they were soon settled on the bed. "Turn over," she ordered, and when he rolled onto his stomach, she began to knead some of the tension from his neck and shoulders. "You might as well talk about it. You cannot get that missing ransom out of your head, can you?'
"No," he conceded. "I keep going in circles, Molly, never getting anywhere."
"You do have a favorite suspect, though."
"Yes..." he agreed slowly, "I suppose I do. The wind does seem to be blowing in Thomas de Caldecott's direction these days." Propping himself up on his elbow, he said, "This is what I know about the man who stole the ransom. First of all, he had to be in Wales at the time of the robbery. He had to know Wales, and he had to be familiar with Davydd's court, to be trusted enough to learn somehow about Davydd's plan."
"What plan?"
"I suspect that Davydd arranged the robbery in order to blame his nephew for it," he said, and Molly burst out laughing.
"I love to hear about the crimes of the wellborn. They are so much more interesting than the sort of common misdeeds we get to commit here in Chester. Go on, though. What else do you know about this unknown suspect, whom we can call Thomas for convenience's sake?"
Justin grinned and tweaked her nose. "I know he speaks fluent Welsh and Flemish, that he handles a sword all too well, and a man must be taught that skill, Molly; no one is born knowing it. I know he is bold, clever, and without mercy. I know he is either of the gentry or able to convince people he is. According to Rutger, he can be very good company. And he must have been in Chester the night of the warehouse fire."
"So how many of those shoes fit our Thomas's feet?"
"He can wear every shoe but two, and they might also fit. I do not know if he is ruthless enough to kill in cold blood, and I do not know if he speaks Flemish. But his mother grew up in Pembrokeshire."
"You know what we say in Chester, Justin: that if a creature looks like a dog and walks like a dog and barks like a dog, most likely it is a dog."
"You'd need more proof if the dog were facing the gallows. There is another twist to this puzzle, too, for I cannot be certain if 'our Thomas' has allies or not. He may have been in league with Selwyn, Davydd's man. It is possible that Selwyn was the one who told him about the intended robbery..."
He fell silent until Molly poked him, saying, "You do not sound convinced of that. Who else could have told him if not Selwyn?"
"From what I've learned about Selwyn, he was too wary to betray Davydd like that on his own; he'd have needed to be talked into it. But there is a Welsh lass at Rhuddlan who is hopelessly besotted with Thomas. It may be that she overheard something and passed it on to him. I would hope not," he admitted, for he did not want to suspect Angharad, and not just because he liked her. God help Rhun if she were not as innocent as she seemed to be.
"Do you have any other suspects besides Thomas?" she asked, and he smiled ruefully.
"I did for a time. As odd as it sounds, I did entertain the thought that William Fitz Alan might somehow be involved in all this."
Molly's green eyes flashed. "Let it be so, Lord, for that would be a such a boon for Bennet!" Seeing his surprise, she smiled, somewhat sadly. "I know it was not easy for you, being sent off to Shropshire like that, having to leave the only world you knew, the only friends you had. But it was harder for Bennet, for he was the one left behind. I think he has borne a grudge against Fitz Alan ever since. As for me, I find it unlikely that Fitz Alan is guilty. This mysterious outlaw is said to be affable and charming, no? Well, when was the last time you heard those words applied to Fitz Alan?"
"That did occur to me, too. For the life of me, I cannot imagine Fitz Alan skulking around waterfront alehouses, treating Flemish sailors as if they were his peers. Moreover, I cannot find a satisfactory motive for the man, Molly. I could see Thomas doing it for the money, but not Fitz Alan. He already has what most men can only dream of - he is highborn, a baron with multiple manors, sheriff of a prosperous shire, in favor with the Crown. I do not think he would ever jeopardize all of that for material gain."
"So what are the motives for murder and mayhem and robbery? What will men kill for?" She gave him no chance to reply, ticking her answers off on her fingers. "Greed, lust, hatred, love, fear, vengeance. What did I forget? If I had to guess which one of these shoes might fit Fitz Alan's big feet, I think I'd go with... lust."
Justin raised an eyebrow. "Have you seen the Lady Emma, then?"
Molly nodded. "Every year she graces the midsummer fair with her presence."
"Women do not fancy the lady much, do they?"
"I do not imagine that the poor worker bees have much fondness for the queen bee, either. Of course the drones adore her... until after they mate with her and die."
"Whoa!" Laughing, Justin leaned over and hugged her. "Ah, Mistress Molly, I've missed that sharp tongue of yours. And for what it is worth, I am not one of Lady Emma's drones. Now tell me why you dislike her."
"She has a cold heart, overweening pride, and no pity for the less fortunate. She saunters about the city as if she were the Queen of England, with her nose so high in the air she is in danger of drowning every time it rains. But I doubt that she'd ever take Fitz Alan as her lover, and I doubt that he'd take such a risk for her unless she did."
Justin found it very interesting that Molly and Angharad both seemed to share the same opinion of Davydd's consort. "A friend posed a riddle to me about the Lady Emma: 'When is virtue not a virtue?' I think you may have answered it for me, lass."
"Exactly," she said triumphantly. "She deserves no credit for keeping her marriage vows if she remains faithful only because she can find no lovers worthy of her! This friend of yours... is she one of Emma s handmaidens?"
"Yes... but how did you know the friend was female?"
"Because that was a woman's riddle. Unless the woman is blood-kin, men are more interested in her lack of virtue." They smiled and leaned toward each other, their lips almost touching when there was a sudden pounding at the door.
"It's me," a familiar voice announced. "And I'm giving you fair warning, as I do not want to see anything that will rob me of sleep at night!"
Justin swung off the bed, crossed the chamber to unlatch the door for Bennet. From the corner of his eye, he saw Molly straightening out the blanket, smoothing away the indentations of their bodies, no more eager than he was to flaunt their new intimacy in front of her brother. Not for the first time, he found himself hoping that he had not made a great mistake by bedding Molly. He of all men ought to have remembered the dangers of unintended consequences, and if he did not, he knew Claudine, cloistered and pregnant, would have been more than willing to remind him.
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Sliding the bolt back, he let Bennet in, saying, "We've just gotten done with supper. There is fish left if you're hungry." Molly had moved to the table and was already spooning some of the food onto a trencher for her brother. They joined him around the table while he ate, breaking off chunks of bread to soak up the garlic sauce. Only after he finished the last mouthful of cod did he relax against the cushion in Piers's high-backed chair.
"We've all heard that old saying, that dogs do not eat other dogs. Thankfully, it does not hold true for thieves and cutthroats."
Molly's head came up quickly. "You've found out who fired the warehouse?"
Bennet's smile somehow managed to be both grim and complacent. "Chester has more than its share of lawless men. But if you had to pick the greediest and the most foolhardy, Moll, who would it be?"
She gave that a moment's thought, then her mouth dropped open. "No! Not the miller brothers?"
Justin glanced from one to the other. "Millers who are thieves, too? I know people take that as gospel. But most millers have so many opportunities to cheat their customers that they have no need to resort to outright law-breaking."
Bennet was grinning. "Nay, they are not truly millers. Hubert and Kenelm are petty thieves who've always yearned to be infamous evildoers. They are big and strong enough to be hired when someone needs brawn or brute force, but no one would use them for anything that requires brains. They'd steal mother's milk from a newborn babe, though, and that is God's Truth. One day a while back, I'd caught them trying to rob a cupshotten friend of mine and threw them out of the tavern. Soon after, a couple of customers started complaining about getting cheated at the Dee Mill, and one of them asked the tavern and the world at large if there was any thief worse than a miller. I was still thinking about those two louts and blurted out their names. We all laughed, but it stuck and ever since, they've been known as the miller brothers."
"And you are sure the miller brothers are the ones who set the fire? Do you know who hired them?"
"No names," Bennet admitted, "but they were hired by another 'lord,' and I think we can safely assume he is the same one who was lurking around waterfront alehouses with those missing Flemish sailors. So it looks like you win the wager, Justin. The miller brothers were working for your enemy, not mine."
"How did you find out about them, Bennet?"
"The usual way a crime is solved around here - they were sold out by their own. Their cousin Edred came running to me as soon as he heard about the reward being offered. According to him, they were paid to burn the warehouse down and told to do it in the middle of the night, which proves the intent was murder. They got some of the money then, the rest to come afterward. But when Hubert went to the agreed-upon meeting place, the 'lord' never came. I suppose he was only willing to pay if there'd been a pile of charred bones."
Molly flinched. "Bennet, stop it," she said, and he gave her an apologetic smile before turning back to Justin.
"Anyway, the miller brothers were hung out to dry in a very cold wind. It seems they were not the total idiots we thought they were. Even they realized that it was not a good idea to make an enemy of Piers Fitz Turold, and they were planning to depart Chester as soon as they were paid. So... they panicked when they did not get paid and tried to borrow money from Cousin Edred. The rest you know."
"What happens to the miller brothers now?"
"I expect that we've seen the last of them, even if they have to beg their bread by the side of the road. They know they have far more to fear from Piers than from the law."
Justin was toying with one of the table knives, running his thumb along the dulled edge. It was not as blunt as he thought, though, and a thin, crimson thread became visible on his skin. This was not the first time that someone had sought to kill him. Gilbert the Fleming had come very close in Gunter's stable, Durand de Curzon had dumped him in a Windsor dungeon, in danger of being hanged as a spy, and to this day, he was not sure how he'd managed to win John over. But nothing had ever filled him with so much fury - or so much regret - as the attempt to murder him in the fire at Piers Fitz Turold's warehouse.
Becoming aware of the silence, he glanced up, found that friends were watching him intently. Before he could speak, though, Molly reached across the table and covered his hand with hers. "Lord help us, Bennet, he has that remorseful penitent's look on his face."
Bennet cocked his head to the side, "By God, lass, you're right. Have some mercy, Justin. This was not your fault. We know that and you know that, so talking about it again will be even more tiresome than your confessions usually are."
Justin did his best to match their banter, insisting that his parish priest always called his confessions "thought-provoking and compelling," but his words rang false even in his own ears. What if he'd been followed to Molly's cottage?
He looked so troubled that Molly did her best to distract him as soon as Bennet had risen and was no longer looking at them, bringing his hand up to her mouth and licking the scratch on his thumb as delicately as a cat. He smiled at her, but his eyes remained somber, and she sighed, let his hand slide out of hers.
"I thought that I was being followed," he said. "I never saw anyone, but there were a few times when I could feel the hair rise on the back of my neck."
"Well, you were being followed," Bennet commented. "We know that for certes now. How else could this murderous lord of yours find out that you were sleeping at the warehouse?"
They looked at each other and the same thought hit them at the same time. There was only one night when Justin could have been followed to the warehouse, the night they'd gotten so drunk together.
Bennet sucked in his breath. "Hell's bells, Justin, we were in no shape to fend off a one-legged beggar that night. Why did he not take advantage of an opportunity like that?"
Justin was quiet for a few moments, dredging up hazy, wine-drenched memories. "Mayhap he meant to, Bennet. Mayhap we're still alive only because he was scared off..."
Rennet's expression was perplexed. "Scared off? By what... ?" And then he understood Justin's meaning and his eyes widened. "Jesu, the Watch!"
"What are you talking about?" Molly demanded. "Tell me!"
Neither one wanted to answer her. It was Justin who said at last, "We almost ran into the Watch that night, ducked into alley just in time. I cannot help wondering what might have happened if they'd not been patrolling."
Molly stared at them and then shivered, instinctively blessing herself. "I think we know what would have happened," she said, sounding both angry and frightened. "You both would likely have died... at the hands of the same man who'll be riding at your side, Justin, as you go back into Wales."
~*~
The sky had taken on the pale, milky pearl color of an August dawn when Justin arrived at Molly's cottage. She opened the door at once, already dressed, looking tired and wan.
"We will be departing within the hour," Justin said. "So I came to bid you farewell."
She nodded briefly, then handed him a small sack. "I packed some food for you, just bread and cheese..."
"Thank you," he said politely, and a silence fell, not broken until he took her in his arms. "I am not going to die in Wales, Molly. I mean to sleep with one eye open, I promise you."
"From your lips to God's Ear," she said, sounding more resigned than reassured. "I will walk with you back to the castle, for Bennet is going to meet us there."
"Bennet is actually going to be awake at this ungodly hour? The only time he's seen a sunrise is when he was up all night."
"Well, he said he'd be there." As Justin helped her with her mantle, Molly glanced around at the cottage to make sure all was in order. "He has a favor to ask of you. A friend of Berta's would like to ride with you. He has some Welsh blood and has kin living not far from Rhuddlan. Bennet thought it would be safer for him to travel in your company."
Justin wondered just how safe his company was going to be, but he agreed to take Berta's friend along, and they stepped out int
o cool, morning air that reminded one and all that summer was on the wane. They walked in silence for the most part as the city slowly came to life. By the time they reached the castle walls, Chester was bracing for another day.
Bennet was indeed there, yawning and blinking like a bat unused to bright light. "If you do get yourself killed in Wales," he complained, "at least have the decency to spare us a daybreak funeral. Did Molly tell you about Rolf? He is around here some place or he was..." Giving another huge yawn, he glanced about the street and then beckoned to a man leaning against a tree in St Mary's churchyard.
The man introduced to Justin as Rolf was not one to warrant a second glance. He was dressed in a dun tunic and mantle, a drab shade that matched his unkempt, long hair and shaggy beard. The only notable thing about his appearance was the oddity of his eye color; one was blue and one was brown. A taciturn sort, he thanked Justin in as few words as possible, although he did rouse himself to bid Molly a good morrow. When Justin invited them to come into the bailey, his friends refused, Bennet joking that he never liked to get too close to castle dungeons. And so Justin's last glimpse of them was out in the city street, standing side by side, ghosts from his past gazing after him with the same expression on both their faces, one of unease and foreboding.
Chapter 13
August 1193
Rhuddlan Castle, Wales
"RHUN? WAKE UP, LAD."
The boy blinked sleepily and, upon recognizing Justin, sat up quickly. "You're back! Thank God!"
Justin put his finger to his lips, jerking his head toward the sleeping forms of the gardener and his wife. "How do you feel? Are you fit enough to travel?"
Rhun nodded, pitching his voice as low as Justin's. "I'd crawl over hot coals to get out of here. But where am I to go?"
"You know Sion, the prince's scribe? Tomorrow he is going to take you to his brother's home and you will stay there until it is safe for you to return. But you'll have to leave here on your own, Rhun. Whilst it is still dark, you must slip out the postern gate and then hide yourself until Sion comes for you. Can you do that, lad?"