"         ALSO   BY    SHARON  KAY   PENMAN
The Sunne in Splendour
Here Be Dragons
Falls the Shadow
The Reckoning
When Christ and His Saints Slept The Queen's Man
CRUEL
AS THE
GRAVE
CRUEL
AS THE
GRAVE
A Medieval Mystery
m
SHARON KAY
PENMAN
Ballantine Books
NEW YORK
Sale of this book without a front cover may be unauthorized If this
book is coverless, it may have been reported to the publisher as
"unsold or destroyed" and neither the author nor the publisher may
have received payment for it
A Ballanhne Book Published by The Ballantme Publishing Group
Copyright © 1998 by Sharon Kay Penman
Ballantme Reader s Guide copyright © 1999 by Sharon Kay Penman and The
Ballanhne Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright
Conventions Published in the United States by The Ballantme Publishing
Group, a division of Random House, Inc, New York, and distributed in
Canada by Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto
Ballantme and the Ballantme colophon are registered trademarks and
Ballantme Reader's Circle and the Ballantme Reader's Circle
colophon are trademarks of Random House, Inc
www randomhouse com/BB/
Library of Congress Catalog Card Number 99-90618
ISBN 0-345-43422-6
This edition published by arrangement with Henry Holt and Company, Inc
Manufactured m the United States of America
Cover design and by Barbara Leff
Cover art Two scenes from the life of Richard I, taken from Effigies
regium Anglme, c 14th century British Library, London,
UK/Bndgeman Art Library, London/New York
Book design by Lucy Albanese
First Ballantme Edition October 1999
10 9876543
TO   MOLLY   FRIEDRICH
5
Jealousy is cruel as the grave.
Song of Solomon 8:6-7
1
TOWER OF LONDON ENGLAND
April 1193
li 'J^JI They were intimate enemies, bound by blood. Here in liV^lH the
torchlit splendor of the Chapel of St John the lukJJI Evangelist, they'd
fought yet another of their battles. As always, there was no winner. They'd
inflicted wounds that would be slow to heal, and that, too, was familiar.
Nothing had changed, nothing had been resolved. But never had the stakes been
so high. It shimmered in the shadows between them, the ultimate icon of power:
England's royal crown.
Few knew better than Eleanor of Aquitaine how seductive that power could be.
In her youth, she'd wed the French king, then left him for the man who would
become King of England. That passionate, turbulent marriage of love and hate
was part of her distant, eventful past; if Henry's unquiet ghost still stalked
the realm of marital memory, she alone knew it. Now in her seventy-first year,
she was England's revered Dowager Queen,
Sharon Kay Penman
rising above the ruins of her life like a castle impervious to assault. If her
fabled beauty had faded, her wit had not, and her will was as finely honed as
the sword of her most celebrated son, Richard Lionheart, the crusader king
languishing in a German prison. But she was much more than Richard's mother,
his invincible ally: She was his only hope.
The torches sputtered in their wall sconces, sending up wavering fingers of
flame. The silence grew louder by the moment, thudding in her ears like an
army's drumbeat. She watched as he paced, this youngest of her eaglets. John,
Count of Mortain and Earl of Gloucester, would-be king. He seethed with barely
suppressed fury, giving off almost as much heat as those erratic torches. His
spurs struck white sparks against the tiled floor, and the swirl of his mantle
gave her a glimpse of the sword at his hip. This might be her last chance to
reach him, to avert calamity. What could she say that he would heed? What
threat was likely to work? What promise?
"I will not allow you to steal Richard's crown," she said tautly. "Understand
that if you understand nothing else, John. As long as I have breath in my
body, I will oppose you in this. As will the justiciars."
"You think so?" he scoffed. "They held fast today, but who knows what may
happen on the morrow? They might well decide that England would be better
served by a living king than a dead one!"
"Richard is not dead."
"How can you be so sure of that, Madame? Have you secondsight? Or is this
merely a doting mother's lapse into maudlin sentimentality?"
Beneath his savage sarcasm, she caught echoes of an emotion he would never
acknowledge: a jealousy more bitter than gall. "Bring us back incontrovertible
proof of Richard's death," she said, "and we will then consider your claim to
the throne."
CRUEL AS THE GRAVE
John's eyes showed sudden glints of green. "You mean you would weigh my claim
against Arthur's, do you not?"
"Richard named his nephew as his heir. I did not," she said pointedly. "Must I
remind you that you are my son, flesh of my flesh? Why would I not want the
kingship for you?"
"That is a question I've often asked myself."
"If you'd have me say it, listen, then. I want you to be king. Not Arthuryou."
He could not hide a flicker of surprise. "You almost sound as if you mean
that."
"I do, John," she said. "I swear by all the saints that I do."
For a moment, he hesitated, and she thought she'd gotten to him.
"But not whilst Brother Richard lives?"
"No," she said, very evenly, "not whilst Richard lives."
The silence that followed seemed endless to her. She'd always found it
difficult to read his thoughts, could never see into his soul. He was a
stranger in so many ways, this son so unlike Richard. His eyes locked upon
hers, with a hawk's unblinking intensity. Whatever he'd been seeking, he did
not find, though, for his mouth twisted into a sardonic, mirthless smile.
"Alas," he said, "I've never been one for waiting."
Justin de Quincy paused in the doorway of the queen's great hall. Never had he
seen so many highborn lords at one time, barons of the realm and princes of
the Church and all of the justiciars: Walter de Coutances, Archbishop of
Rouen; William Marshal; Geoffrey Fitz Peter; William Brewer; and Hugh Bardolf.
These were men of rank and privilege, milling about now like so many lost
sheep, agitated and uneasy. What was amiss?
William Longsword was standing a few feet away and Justin headed in his
direction. He felt an instinctive sense of kinship to
Sharon Kay Penman
the other man, for they were both outsiders. Will was a king's bastard,
half-brother to Richard and John, raised at court but never quite belonging
... like Justin himself. He hadn't been as lucky as Will, had grown up
believing himself to be an orphan, the unwanted child of an unnamed wanton
who'd died giving him birth. Only several months ago had he learned the truth.
He was no foundling. The man who'd taken him in as a muchpraised act of
Christian charity was the man who'd sired him, Aubrey de Quincy, Bishop of
Chester.
That stunning revelation had turned Justin's world upside down, and he was
still struggling to come to terms with it. He had no right to the name de
Quincy, had claimed it at the whimsical suggestion of the woman who'd become
his unlikely patroness. That act of prideful defiance had given him no
satisfaction, for it was like paying a debt with counterfeit coin. He had a
new identity, a new life. He was still haunted, though, by the life he'd left
behind, by the father who'd refused to acknowledge him.
"Justin!" Will had an easy smile, an affable manner, and none of his
half-brothers' unsated hunger for lands, honours, and kingship. "When did you
get back from Winchester? Come here, lad, there is someone I want you to
meet."
William Marshal, Lord of Striguil and Pembroke, was a very wealthy man,
holding vast estates in South Wales by right of his wife, a great heiress. A
justiciar, sheriff of Gloucestershire, a baron who cherished hopes of being
invested with an earldom, Marshal was one of the most influential men in the
kingdom, and Justin greeted him somewhat shyly, for he was not yet accustomed
to breathing the rarefied air of the royal court. Just a few brief months ago,
he'd been a nobody, a bastard of unknown parentage serving as a squire with no
hopes of advancement, and now he was ...
"The queen's man," Will said heartily, clapping Justin play-
CRUEL AS THE GRAVE
fully on the shoulder. "De Quincy is the lad I told you about, William, the
one who brought Queen Eleanor the news that Richard was captured on his way
home from the crusade."
It seemed strange to Justin to hear it spoken of so openly now, for the secret
of that bloodstained letter had nearly cost him his life. He could only marvel
at the random nature of fate, at the improbable series of events that had been
set in motion by his decision to ride out of Winchester on a snowy Epiphany
morn. Because he'd stumbled onto the ambush of the queen's messenger, he'd
found himself entangled in a conspiracy of kings, matching wits with the
queen's son John and a murderous outlaw known as Gilbert the Fleming, sharing
his bed with a seductive temptress who'd broken his heart with her betrayal,
and winning a prize greater than the Holy Grailthe queen's favor.
Will was praising him so lavishly now that Justin flushed, both pleased and
discomfited to be hailed as a hero. For most of his twenty years, compliments
had been rarer than dragon's teeth; he could remember nary a one ever coming
out of his father's mouth. "My lords, may I ask what has occurred here? I've
been to wakes that were more cheerful than this assemblage." He hesitated
briefly then, but he'd earned the right to ask. "Has there been bad news about
the king?"
"Noas far as we know, nothing has changed; Richard remains the prisoner of
that whoreson emperor of the Romans. The trouble is closer to home."
Will's face had taken on so unhappy a cast that Justin realized the trouble
must involve John, for he knew the man harbored a genuine fondness for his
younger brother. It was William Marshal who confirmed his suspicions, saying
brusquely, "John summoned the justiciars to meet him this morn here at the
Tower. He then claimed that Richard is dead and demanded that we recognize him
as the rightful king."
Sharon Kay Penman
Justin was startled; he hadn't expected John to make so bold a move. "They did
not agree?"
"Of course not. We told him that we have no proof of the king's death and
until we do, the only king we will recognize is
Richard.*
Justin felt a surge of relief; he hadn't been sure the other justiciars would
be as resolute as Marshal and the Archbishop of Rouen. The bleak truth was
that they could not be utterly sure that Richard still lived. If he had
sickened and died in confinement, the crown would be John's for the taking,
for few were likely to support his rival claimant, a five-year-old boy
dwelling in Brittany. So it was only to be expected that the justiciars would
be loath to antagonize the man who might well be their next king, a man who
forgot little, forgave even less. "What happened then?"
"John flew into a rage," Will said sadly, "and made some ugly threats. The
queen then insisted that they speak in private, and they withdrew to her
chapel. If anyone in Christendom can talk some sense into John, for certes it
will be the queen." Will did not sound very sanguine, though, and Marshal, a
man known for speaking his mind plainly, gave a skeptical snort.
"Would you care to wager on that, Will? I could use some extra money." He went
on to express his opinion of John's honour in far-from-flattering terms. By
then Justin was no longer listening, for Claudine de Loudun was coming toward
them.
The men welcomed her with enthusiasmthe young widow was a favorite with both
Williams. All three engaged in some mildly flirtatious bantering, while Justin
stood conspicuously silent, dreading what was to come.
Even as she teased the other men, Claudine's dark eyes kept wandering toward
Justin, her gaze at once caressing and questioning. Finally she cast propriety
to the winds and linked her arm through his, murmuring throatily that she
needed a private
CRUEL AS THE GRAVE
word with Master de Quincy. Both Wills grinned broadly and waved them on, for
Claudine's clandestine liaison with Justin de Quincy was a poorly kept secret
in a court in which only Eleanor's secrets seemed secure.
Steering Justin toward the comparative privacy of a window seat, Claudine
began to scold him lovingly. "Why did you not let me know you were back from
Winchester? If I'd had some warning, I could have coaxed the queen into giving
me a free afternoon. But she's not likely to be in any mood to grant favors
now, for this latest exorcism of hers is bound to fail."
Others might not have understood the joking reference to exorcism. Justin did,
though, for she'd confided to him that her private name for John was the
Prince of Darkness. As he looked upon the heart-shaped face upturned to his,
the thought came to him, unbidden and ugly: What did she call John in bed? He
drew a sharp breath, not wanting to go down that road. He knew that she was
John's spy. Was she John's concubine, too? He pushed the suspicion away, to be
dealt with later. Now he must concentrate upon the danger at hand. How could
he conceal his knowledge of her treachery? Surely she must see it writ plain
upon his face.
Apparently not, for her smile did not waver. Those brown eyes were bright with
laughter and temptation. Justin was shaken to the depths of his soul as he
realized how much power she still wielded over him. How could he still want
this woman? She'd betrayed him without a qualm. Even worse, she'd betrayed her
royal mistress and kinswoman, the queen. And she'd almost seduced him into
betraying the queen, too. For more than a fortnight, he'd kept her guilty
secret, at last unburdening himself to Eleanor in a surge of self-hatred, only
to find that she already knew of Claudine's perfidy. But Claudine must not
know that she'd been exposed. If John learned that his spy was compromised,
he'd look elsewhere. Eleanor had been able
7
Sharon Kay Penman
to act as if her trust was still intact, but his role was far more precarious,
for he was Claudine's lover.
Claudine beckoned to a wine bearer, claiming two cups for them. "Did all go as
you hoped in Winchester, Justin? Was that outlaw hanged?"
He nodded. "I'll tell you about it later. What has happened at the court
whilst I was away? Will just told me that John is back from France." He tensed
then, for John's name seemed to sink like a stone in the conversational
waters, sure to stir up ripples of suspicion between them.
Claudine appeared to take his curiosity as natural. "Did Will tell you, too,
that John has laid claim to the crown?" Lowering her voice, she said in a
conspiratorial whisper, "Do you think he found out what was in that bloodied
letter? The one claiming that King Richard drowned when his ship was wrecked
in a storm? We know now that it was not true, but mayhap John thinks he can
make use of it somehow?"
This was the tale Justin had spun, entrapping her in her own web of lies. The
memory was still so raw that he winced, reluctant to relive one of the worst
moments of his life. Claudine saw his disquiet and squeezed his arm in puzzled
sympathy. "Justin ... is something wrong?"
"No," he said swiftly. "I..." Groping for a plausible response, he found it in
the sight of the knight just coming into his line of vision. Tall and
swaggering, he moved with surprising grace for so big a man, impeccably garbed
in an eye-catching scarlet tunic with a dramatic diagonal neckline and
tight-fitting cuffed sleeves. But Justin knew that his fashionable courtier's
clothing hid the soul of a pirate. "I did not realize," he said flatly, "that
Durand de Curzon was here."
"He came with John." Seeing his surprise, she said quickly, "You did not hear,
then? Rumor has it that he was John's man all
CRUEL AS THE GRAVE
along ... as you suspected. The queen dismissed him from her service."
Justin did not have to feign his shock; it was very real. "When did this
happen?"
"Within the last few days. He"
Claudine got no further. The door to the queen's chamber had swung open, and
John paused for a moment in the doorway, for he had an actor's innate sense of
timing. The hall hushed, all eyes upon him. He let the suspense build, then
gestured to his household knights and strode toward the stairwell, leaving a
trail of conjecture and speculation in his wake.
Durand de Curzon started to follow his lord, then stopped abruptly at the
sight of Justin. Swerving toward the younger man, he flashed a smile as
sharply edged as any dagger. "Lady Claudine," he murmured, reaching for her
hand and bringing it to his mouth with ostentatious gallantry. Claudine
snatched her hand away, scowling. Her distaste for Durand seemed genuine to
Justin; she might conspire with Durand on John's behalf, but she had
consistently rebuffed his every overture. Durand appeared oblivious to her
recoil. "For the life of me," he said, "I cannot imagine why a woman like you
bothers with this callow milksop. You could surely do better for yourself."
Claudine was a distant kinswoman of the queen and it showed now in the mocking
arch of her brow. "You? I'd sooner join a nunnery."
"And you'd make a right handsome nun. But I believe, darling, that nuns are
expected to take a vow of chastity."
That was too much for Justin. "You need a lesson in manners," he said angrily,
taking a threatening step forward. Claudine thought so, too; her hand
tightening around the stem of her wine cup, she flung its contents in Durand's
face. At least that was her intent. Durand not only anticipated her move, he
Sharon Kay Penman
thwarted it, reaching out and grabbing her wrist. Wine sloshed over the rim of
her cup, splattering her gown and Durand's stylish tunic. Unable to break free
of the knight's grip, she turned to Justin for aid. He was already in motion,
slashing down upon Durand's arm with the stiffened edge of his hand. Durand at
once let go of Claudine and lunged for Justin's throat. As Claudine screamed
and heads swiveled in their direction, they crashed backward into the window
seat.
Before either man could inflict any real damage, others intervened. Will
Longsword and William Marshal pulled the cornbatants apart, and Justin and
Durand were forced to stand, panting and flushed, as the Archbishop of Rouen
rebuked them indignantly for daring to brawl in the queen's chambers. Daubing
at a cut lip with the back of his sleeve, Durand offered Claudine a laconic,
highly suspect apology, shot Justin a look that should have been aimed from a
bow, and stalked out. Finding himself the unwanted center of attention, Justin
allowed Claudine to lead him into the queen's chamber to escape the stares and
whispers. There she ignored his protests and insisted upon bathing his scraped
knuckles in a laver of
scented water.
"The least I can do is tend to your wounds," she chided. "After all, they were
gotten on my behalf." She tilted her face up toward his, her lips parted
invitingly. Her breath was warm on his throat and the familiar fragrance of
her perfume evoked involuntary erotic memories of their past lovemaking.
Justin was never to be sure what would have happened next, for it was then
that Eleanor emerged from the chapel.
The queen's gaze was cool and unrevealing. "Claudine, would you find Peter for
me?"
Eleanor's chancellor was right outside, but Claudine was astute enough to
recognize a pretext for privacy when she heard
10
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one. "Of course, Madame," she said. "I'll see to it straightaway." Closing the
door quietly behind her, she left them alone.
Eleanor moved to the window, beckoning for Justin to join her. Below in the
bailey, John was waiting for his stallion to be brought. As they watched, he
and his men mounted and rode off. "John will not back down," Eleanor said at
last. "We must find out what he means to do next. Can you get word to Durand?"
Justin rubbed his sore jaw ruefully. "It has been taken care of, my lady."
"Do I need to know what you and Claudine were doing in here?"
"Yes, Madame, you do. I'd just gotten into a brawl with Durand. He baited me
into it and I wish I could say that I realized what he was up to, but I did
not. Not until we were grappling in the floor rushes and he muttered in my
ear, The alehouse on Gracechurch Street, after Compline.' "
"I see." Her face remained impassive, but he thought he could detect a glint
of faint humor in those slanting hazel eyes. "Could he not have found an
easier way to get that message to you?"
"I was wondering that myself," Justin said dryly.
"I did not get a chance to tell you that Durand would be joining John's
household knights. The closer he is to John, after all, the more useful he can
be to me." Eleanor's eyes flicked toward the bloodied basin, then back toward
him. "I have need of Durand," she said. "John trusts him ... at least a
little. But you were right about him, Justin. Bear that in mind in your
dealings with him."
"I will, Madame," he said somberly, remembering the night he'd learned the
truth about Durand de Curzon. He'd called Durand "John's tame wolf," and she'd
smiled grimly, claiming
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Durand as hers. In reminding him of that now, she was also warning him. But
there was no need. He already knew how dangerous it was to hunt with wolves.
Justin had been living on Gracechurch Street for barely two months, but he was
beginning to think of it as home. His neighbors were hardworking, good-hearted
folk for the most part, unabashedly curious about the tall dark youth dwelling
in their midst. Secrets did not fare any better on Gracechurch Street than at
the royal court, and only the very old and the very young did not know by now
that Justin de Quincy was the queen's man. But he'd been befriended by two of
their ownGunter the smith and Nell, who ran the alehouseand their friendship
was Justin's passport into their world.
Gunter was alone in the smithy, sharpening a file upon a whetstone. A lean,
weathered man in his forties, he was taciturn both by inclination and by
experience, and he greeted Justin with a nod, then went back to work. Justin
led Copper, his chestnut stallion, into one of the stalls, set about
unsaddling him. He would usually have gone on then to the cottage he rented
from Gunter, but the wind now brought to him the muffled chiming of church
bells; Compline was being rung. "Stop by the alehouse later," Justin said,
"and I'll buy you a drink." Getting one of Gunter's quick, rare smiles in
acknowledgment, he hastened out into the April night.
He crossed the street, then ducked under the sagging alepole, entering the
alehouse. It reeked of smoke and sweat and other odors best not identified,
and was deep in shadow even at midday, for Nell was sparing with her tallow
candles and oil lamps; she had to account for every half-penny to the
parsimonious, aged owner. As Justin paused to let his eyes adjust to the
gloom, a dog erupted from under a bench, barking joyously.
Grinning, Justin bent to tussle playfully with the capering
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animal. "I should have known I'd find you over here," he said, and Shadow
wriggled happily at the sound of that familiar voice. He was the first dog
Justin had ever had, a young stray he'd plucked from the River Fleet and taken
in temporarily. Although Justin still talked occasionally of finding the pup a
good home, Shadow knew he already had one.
"I ought to be charging you rent for that flea-bitten cur," Nell grumbled,
sidestepping Shadow as she carried a tray of drinks toward some corner
customers. "He swiped a chunk of cheese when my back was turned, then nearly
knocked over a flagon with his tail. And if he had, I'd have made a pelt out
of the wretched beast!"
"I ought to be the one charging you," Justin countered. "How many alehouses
have the free use of such a superior watchdog? If not for Shadow, the place
might be overrun with cutpurses, prowlers, and vagabonds."
Nell cast a dubious eye upon the dog, sprawled belly-up in the floor rushes.
"I think I'd take my chances with the prowlers." Justin had found an empty
table by the hearth and she came over, set an ale down, then took the seat
opposite him. "How did that happen?" she asked, pointing toward the fresh
bruise spreading along his cheekbone. "And do not tell me you ran into a
door!"
Justin hid his grin in the depths of his ale-cup, amused as always by the
contrast between Nell's delicate appearance and her bold, forthright demeanor.
She was barely five feet tall, with sapphire blue eyes, flaxen hair that
invariably curled about her face in wispy disarray, and freckles she
unsuccessfully tried to camouflage under a haphazard dusting of powder. With
Nell, nothing was as it seemed. She looked as fragile as a child, but was
tough-willed enough to run an alehouseand to have helped Justin catch a
killer. For all that she had a sailor's cornmand of invective, her bluntness
was armor for a surprisingly
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soft heart. A young widow with a small daughter, she was of a life that had
not been easy, but then she had not expected it to be. She had little patience
with fools, no sentimentality at all, and no education to speak of, but she
did have courage, cornmon sense, and a pragmatic realism that made her a
sister under the skin to England's aging queen. Justin could well imagine
Nell's disbelief if ever he told her that she reminded him of the elegant,
imperious Eleanor. But in truth, she did, for both women had a clear-eyed,
unsparing view of their respective worlds, and neither one wasted time or
energy on futile denials or self-delusion. Justin would that he could do
likewise. He kept looking over his shoulder, though, unable to outrun either
his memories or his regrets.
"Well?" Nell demanded when he didn't answer. "Are you going to tell me how you
got that bruise or not?"
"Not," he said, smiling, and then tensed, for Durand was coming in the door.
He had to stoop to enter, for he was taller than most men. Justin had always
been proud of his own height, but Durand topped him by several inches. He wore
a mantle of finely woven wool, fastened with an ornate gold pin. Spying was
clearly a profitable profession, Justin thought sourly. Durand looked out of
place in such shabby surroundings, but Justin doubted that he'd be a target
for cutpurses or robbers; his eyes would chill even the most obtuse of felons.
Spotting Justin, he crossed the common room, dismissing Nell with a terse
"Leave us."
He'd misjudged his woman, though. Nell stayed put, looking up at him with an
indifference that could not have been more insulting. "Justin?" she queried,
and he nodded reluctantly.
"Will you excuse us, Nell?" He did not offer to buy Durand an ale, for he was
damned if he'd drink with the man. "Sit," he
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said, as soon as Nell had risen, switching from EnglishNell's tongueto French,
the language in which he would normally converse. Since most of the alehouse
patrons were Englishspeakers like Nell, Justin could feel confident he'd foil
would-be eavesdroppers; he strongly suspected that this was a conversation
he'd not want overheard.
Durand seemed in no hurry to begin. He pulled up a bench, claimed a candle
from a nearby table; the occupant was about to protest, then thought better of
it. As the flame flared between them, Justin was pleased to see that the
corner of Durand's mouth was swollen. Rarely had he ever taken such an
instantaneous dislike to another man, but he'd distrusted Durand de Curzon
from the first moment they'd met. It was a hostility returned by Durand in
full measure, for Justin had outwitted the other man in the past. And then
there was Claudine, who'd spurned Durand and taken Justin into her bed. Add to
the mix their rivalry for the queen's favor and it was a very unstable brew,
one likely to boil over at the least provocation.
"Jesii, what a pigsty." Durand glanced around the alehouse with contempt. "I
do not know what I was thinking to pick this hovel for our meeting."
Justin knew exactly why he'd chosen the Gracechurch alehouse: to send a
messagethat he knew far more about Justin than Justin did about him. "You're
not here for the pleasure of my company. You have word for the queen?"
"Yes ... I do." Durand looked into Justin's half-filled ale-cup, grimacing.
"How can you drink that swill?"
"Do you have something of value to tell me or not? I've already played one of
your tiresome games with you this day, am in no mood for another."
Durand laughed. "Are you complaining about our little joust in the hall? I had
to get word to you, and that seemed the safest
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way to do it. All know we like each other not, after all. But if it eases your
mind, next time I'll take a gentler approach."
Justin was determined that he'd not take the bait again. "Say what you came to
tell me. I assume it involves John?"
Durand's grin faded. "Be outside the priory of St Bartholomew's by dawn. John
is sending a messenger to France on the morrow. He leaves at first light."
Justin leaned across the table. "What does this message
contain?"
"If I knew that, would I not tell you?"
"I do not know. Would you?"
Durand's smile was mocking. "All I know is that the message is meant for
John's allies in Normandy and bodes ill for the king. John does not confide
utterly in meno more than the queen
does in you."
Justin ignored the gibe. "How will I recognize this courier?"
"His name is Giles de Vitry. He is French-born, not as tall as
you, with hair the color of wheat, a scar under his right eye. And
he'll be riding a rawboned bay stallion. Is that enough detail
for you, lad? Should I come along and point him out as he
passes by?"
"I'd manage better without you," Justin said coolly. "At least
then I'd not have to be watching my back."
Durand had the bluest eyes Justin had ever seen, and the coldest- a blue-white
flame flickered now in their depths, reminding Justin that ice could burn.
Rising without haste, Durand smoothed the folds of his mantle, adjusted the
tilt of his cap; his shoulder-length auburn hair gleamed where the candle's
light caught it, brushed to a bronzed sheen. "It is now up to you, de Quincy,"
he said. "Try not to make a botch of this. The queen is depending upon us
both."
As soon as Durand pushed through the door and out into the street, Nell
returned to Justin's table. "Here," she said, bringing
16
CRUEL AS THE GRAVE
him, unbidden, another ale. "If ever I've seen a man born to drink with the
Devil, it was that one. Who is he, Justin?"
Justin smiled, wryly. "Would you believe me if I said he was an ally?"
"With an ally like that, what need have you of enemies?" Justin shrugged, but
he agreed with Nell. What, indeed?
17
LONDON
April 1193
L'Jj^JI The sky was overcast and a damp, blustery wind had iV^M swept in from
the south. The few hardy souls up and Lkjfcjl about in the predawn chill cast
a wary eye skyward, knowing that spring too often carried a sting in its tail.
Drawing his mantle closer, Justin shivered and yawned. He'd bribed a guard to
let him out of the city before the gates opened, and for the past hour, he'd
been keeping watch upon the Augustinian priory of St Bartholomew.
It was an uncomfortable vigil, made more so by the surroundings, for the
priory overlooked the meadows of Smithfield. These open fields played an
important role in the daily life of Londoners; the weekly horse fair was held
here every Friday, and it was the site, as well, for numerous games of sport:
jousting, wrestling, archery, javelin hurling. Now it lay deserted and still
in the muted light, and Justin was alone with
CRUEL AS THE GRAVE
his memories. It was here that he had confronted a soulless killer. The trap
had worked and Gilbert the Fleming had answered for his sins on a Winchester
gallows. Eleanor had feared John's complicity in the murder of her messenger,
relieved and grateful when Justin had been able to clear her son's name. Yet
Justin doubted that there'd be any exoneration for John this time. The scent
of treason was in the air.
Justin had no trouble in recognizing John's courier. A stocky, hard-faced man
in his thirties, muffled in an inconspicuous dark mantle and wide-brimmed
pilgrim's hat, Giles de Vitry was dressed to blend in with his fellow
travelers. They were astride placid mules and sway-backed geldings, though,
and he was mounted upon a spirited bay stallion who was obviously eager to
run. Justin tensed as the courier rode by his hiding place, for much depended
upon what de Vitry did next. If he headed for Newgate and entered into the
city, that would mean he meant to sail from Dover. If he took the road west,
he intended to catch a ship at Southampton. Justin had a personal preference
and he smiled as de Vitry urged his stallion on past Newgate. Easing Copper
out into the stream of travelers, Justin let his mount settle into a
comfortable canter, keeping a discreet distance behind his quarry.
The road was very familiar by now to Justin, for since January he had ridden
it no less than seven times, going back and forth between London and
Winchester in his hunt for the men who'd slain the queen's messenger. In
winter, the trip had taken four or five days, but travel in April would be
easier and quicker. If de Vitry pushed his mount, he could reach Winchester in
two or three days' time, with Southampton just twelve miles farther on. The
urgency of his message would dictate his speed.
It soon became apparent to Justin that John's message was very urgent, indeed.
Most travelers would start at dawn, stop for dinner in the hour before noon,
rest until midafternoon, and
19
Sharon Kay Penman
then resume their journey until dusk. Giles de Vitry's stops were few and far
in-between. Not for him a leisurely meal at a roadside inn. He ate sparingly
and hastily of the food he'd packed in his saddlebag, and within a quarter
hour was on his way again. Justin had expected him to stay over at Guildford,
thirty miles south of London. But the courier raced the deepening shadows
another ten miles, before finally halting for the night in the market town of
Farnham.
Justin was not overly worried about attracting the other man's attention, for
the road was well traveled and the choice of lodgings was limited. Even if de
Vitry noticed him, he was not likely to read any sinister significance into
their presence at the same inn. He was more concerned that de Vitry might rise
before dawn and gain an insurmountable lead while he slept on, unaware. In
consequence, he got very little sleep at all, dozing uneasily upon a lumpy,
straw-filled pallet surrounded by snoring strangers, awakening to the dismal
sound of rain splattering upon the roof shingles.
De Vitry, undeterred by the day's damp start, was on the road again at first
light. Justin followed soon thereafter, grudgingly conceding that John was
well served by his messenger. What was in that letter, that it would send a
man out into the rain without breakfast or a decent night's sleep?
Fortunately, the rain proved to be a spring shower, and the sky cleared as
they left Farnham behind. The day brightened and the road ahead beckoned.
Barring some mishapa thrown shoe, an encounter with outlawsJustin calculated
that they should reach Winchester by nightfall. But Justin had determined that
de Vitry would not be continuing on to Southampton on the morrow. The
reckoning would be in Winchester.
Stars were floating above his head. Clouds sailed across the moon, briefly
blotting out its light. The street was shadowed
20
CRUEL AS THE GRAVE
and silent, for curfew had rung some time ago. Justin knew the way, though,
even in the dark. Keeping his stallion to a walk, he saw before him the pale
outlines of the cottage. Thatched and whitewashed, it looked well tended and
peaceful, and he regretted having to intrude into this secluded small Eden
with yet more snakes.
He and the man he hoped to find within the cottage had a checkered history.
They'd begun as enemies. Justin had initially suspected Luke de Marston of
having a hand in the murder of the queen's messenger, and then of being John's
spy. Eventually they'd forged a truce, tentative and wary, as they united in
the search for Gilbert the Fleming. Justin could think of no better ally in
his looming confrontation with Giles de Vitry than Luke, Hampshire's
under-sheriff.
After hitching Copper to a tree, he approached the cottage. Even before he
could knock, the barking began, deep and booming, followed by an equally loud
burst of sleepy cursing. Justin grinned; Luke was home. Motivated by a sense
of mischief, he pounded mercilessly on the door until it opened a crack,
revealing a thick thatch of tousled fair hair and a glaring green eye.
"What do youHoly God!" Opening the door wider, Luke grabbed Justin by the arm
and pulled him inside. "What are you doing here, de Quincy? I thought you were
supposed to be in London, spying and lurking or whatever it is you do for the
queen."
Justin, occupied for the moment in fending off the enthusiastic welcome of a
gigantic black mastiff named Jezebel, let the gibe go unanswered. He didn't
blame Luke for being testy. What man, after all, would want to be pulled out
of Aldith Talbot's bed?
"Justin?" The voice sounded drowsy, delighted, and sultry. Aldith poked her
magnificent auburn head through the bed hangings, her face lighting up in a
smile that no man would
21
)
Sharon Kay Penman
soon forget. "Wait there," she directed, "whilst I dress," and disappeared
behind the bed curtains.
Luke was in need of clothes, too, wearing nothing but a towel hastily snatched
up and strategically draped. Fixing Justin with an accusatory gaze, he said,
"What are my chances of getting back to bed tonight?"
"Not very good," Justin admitted, and Luke swore, then retreated behind the
bed to pull on his discarded tunic and chausses, returning to prowl the
chamber in search of his boots, all the while grumbling about a sheriff's lot
and how rarely he got to pass a full night in his own bed. Justin paid his
harangue no heed, for the deputy's irascibility was more posturing than
genuine ill will. Sitting down wearily upon the settle, he closed his eyes.
"Got it," Luke said triumphantly, holding up a boot. "I do hope you have a
damned good reason, de Quincy, for making me put these back on."
Justin opened his eyes. "I followed one of John's men from London. He is
bearing a message I must see. Can you help me?"
"I assume there is more to this than satisfying your curiosity," Luke said
wryly. "Do you know where this messenger is or must we scour the city for
him?"
"I trailed him to a bawdy house in Cock's Lane, and since he told their groom
to bed down his horse in their stables, it is safe to assume he plans to spend
the night there."
Luke had to concede his reasoning. "There are several bawdy houses in Cock's
Lane. Can I trust you to find your way back to the right one?"
Justin took no offense at the sarcasm. "Well, there are worse fates than
searching one bawdy house after another," he joked, and at once regretted it,
for Aldith had emerged in time to hear. She was too well mannered to berate a
guest in her home, but the look on her expressive face left no doubt that she
was not
22
i CRUEL AS THE GRAVE
fcleased at the prospect of her lover's taking a tour of the town's B?rothels.
Justin was sorry to cause her any distress, for she was not only good-hearted,
but one of the most desirable women he'd ever met. "I know the house," he
assured her hastily, "and we'll be able to pluck de Vitry from his soft nest
and haul him off to the castle in no time at all."
Aldith's smile was stilted. "I'll wait up for you, Luke," she said pointedly.
Luke shrugged. "Lock the door after us," he instructed Aldith, grazing her
cheek with a kiss too casual to give her much reassurance. "Let's go, de
Quincy."
Justin bade Aldith farewell and followed Luke out into the night. Although
neither man would have admitted it, they were pleased to be working together
again, sharing a familiar excitement, one common to hunters everywhere. The
chase was on.
Prostitution was illegal as well as immoral, much deplored by the Church but
tacitly tolerated by city officials as a necessary evil. The fact that
brothels were often owned by respected citizens, even churchmen, made it all
the more difficult for the law to close them down. The bawdy houses of
Winchester could not compare in size or scope to the more infamous brothels of
Londonthe Southwark stews. The one chosen by Giles de Vitry was a two-storey
wooden structure, gaudy even in the moonlight, for it had been painted a
garish shade of red. Light gleamed through the chinks in the shutters and the
door was opened at once by a painfully thin maidservant with huge hollow eyes
and a fading bruise upon her cheek. As soon as they were ushered inside, a
matronly woman in her forties came bustling over, ready to bid them welcome.
Justin guessed correctly that this was the bawd. Her smile faltered as Luke
stepped within the glow cast by a smoking rushlight.
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Sharon Kay Penman
"Master de Marston, this is a surprise," she said, her voice flat and
toneless. "Surely the neighbors have not been complaining about the noise
again? I can assure you that we have taken your warnings to heart. You'll find
no drunkards or troublemakers here. We'll take no man's money unless he is
sober, civil, and old enough to know what he's about."
Luke played the game, saying blandly, "It gratifies me to hear that, Emma. My
life would be much easier if only the other bawds were so law abiding and
prudent. I was just telling Master de Quincy here that we could rely upon your
discretion and expect your full cooperation."
Emma's eyes narrowed to the merest slits, apprehensive and suspicious. "I will
do what I can," she said cautiously. "If a cornplaint has not brought you
here, what then? I swear by the Rood that all of my girls are free of the pox,
and I hire no wayward wives or runaway servants or"
Luke cut her off before she could insist that her whores were as fresh as
country lasses newly fallen from grace. As an undersheriff, he knew better
than most men the miseries of that precarious profession. "We are seeking a
man," he said, "who arrived as curfew was being rung. He is not overly tall,
with a scar on his cheek. Tell us where to find him and I'll not look for
other laws broken or bent."
Her relief was palpable that they'd come for a customer; men were expendable,
her whores harder to replace. "A man with a scar..." She pretended to ponder
it, then nodded. "The man who took Arlette for the entire night is likely the
one you want."
"Where?"
"Above-stairs. The inner chamber is Arlette's," she said, and stepped aside
hastily as they brushed past her. The common room was almost deserted. By the
hearth a drunk nodded blearily into his wine cup, and in the corner a ruddy,
stout man held a half-dressed woman on his lap. He gave a startled yelp as
24
CRUEL AS THE GRAVE
they burst in, beginning to rise and inadvertently dumping the girl into the
floor rushes. By then they were already through, plunging into the darkened
stairwell, loosening their swords in their scabbards. They were at the top of
the stairs when they heard a woman scream.
Luke was in the lead. Swearing, he flung himself at the door and shoved it
open. The chamber was small and cramped, holding only a stool, a basin, and a
bed. A couple was entangled in the sheets, gaping up at these intruders. But
the man was dark haired and unscarred. Ignoring his sputtering protest, Luke
hit the inner door with his shoulder. It gave way at once, catapulting him
inside.
This room was even shabbier than the first one, almost all of its space taken
up by a rumpled bed. A buxom redhead was kneeling in the middle of it,
oblivious or uncaring of her nudity. "He went out the window," she cried,
"without paying, curse him! And when I tried to stop him, the whoreson struck
me!"
Luke's headlong rush into the room had sent him stumbling into the bed, nearly
tumbling down on top of the indignant Arlette. Justin swerved around him and
lunged for the window. He was not so reckless as to jump, though, lowering
himself as he clung to the sill and then dropping the remaining four or five
feet to the ground.
He landed on his feet like a cat. His eyes had to adjust again to the
darkness, and at first he could see nothing. He thought he was in the
courtyard behind the brothel, but he could not yet be sure, for clouds hid the
moon. He stood very still, waiting for the shadows to reveal their secrets,
and then heard the soft, ragged inhalation of breath. As he turned toward the
sound, a gleam of starlight bounced off the blade of a thrusting dagger. If
he'd not spun around, it might have found his heart. As it was, it slashed
through the folds of his mantle with just inches to spare. The man had put the
full weight of his body behind that lethal lunge
25
Sharon Kay Penman
and before he could recover his balance, Justin sent his fist thudding into
his belly. Gasping, the attacker reeled backward, and Justin fumbled for his
sword. As it cleared its scabbard, a dark form came plummeting from the
overhead window, crashing into Justin's assailant and knocking him to his
knees.
The quarry was momentarily stunned by the impact, giving Justin the time he
needed to level his sword at that heaving chest. "You so much as blink and
you're dead." As threats went, it was simple and effective; the man lay
perfectly still as Justin kicked aside the dropped dagger. Luke had regained
his feet, was struggling now to regain control of his breathing.
Lowering his sword until it was almost touching his captive's windpipe, Justin
glanced swiftly toward the deputy. "Well done, Luke!" he said admiringly.
"However did you see to land on him like that? I was half-blinded when I first
went through the
window!"
"I was lucky," Luke panted, coming forward to peer down at
his victim. "Is this the one?"
Justin nodded. "Meet Giles de Vitry." But something about Luke's modest
response did not ring true; he'd never known the deputy to shrug off praise
before. As a sudden shimmer of moonlight brightened the courtyard, he studied
the other man's face, and then he grinned. "Admit it, you did not plunge from
that window with a hawk's unerring precison. You lost your grip and just
happened to fall on him, didn't you?"
Luke regarded him impassively. "Can you prove it?" he said at last, and they
both laughed. Giles de Vitry chose that moment to make an ill-considered
escape attempt. He squirmed sideways, only to freeze again when the point of
Justin's sword pricked the skin of his throat, drawing a thin
trickle of blood.
"You're not one for listening, are you?" he said reprovingly,
much to Luke's amusement.
26
CRUEL AS THE GRAVE
"You sound like a tutor reprimanding an unruly student, de Quincy! If we bring
him back inside, we'll have to protect him from Arlette. Let's take him into
the stables for our talk." Drawing his sword, Luke prodded their prisoner to
his feet. "You're in the mood for a talk, aren't you, de Vitry? Reasonable men
always prefer talking to the alternative."
De Vitry gave Luke as venomous a look as Justin had ever seen. He did not
protest, though, wisely allowing them to shove him across the courtyard
without resistance. A wide-eyed groom was cowering in the stables, with no
intention of investigating the mayhem occurring outside. When the combatants
invaded his refuge, he bolted out the back, leaving them alone with several
horses and a spitting calico cat. Luke found a length of rope, trussed up de
Vitry, and pushed him down upon a bale of hay. Taking the groom's lantern from
its wall hook, he said, "He is all yours, de Quincy."
De Vitry flinched as Justin unsheathed his dagger. Ignoring the other man's
recoil, Justin applied his blade to the neck of de Vitry's tunic. The material
tore easily, revealing a leather pouch suspended upon a braided cord. Its
contents were a disappointment: money, no letter. Luke had found de Vitry's
saddlebags, stored with his gear in the tack room, and Justin searched them
next, although without expectation of success; if the missing message had been
concealed in the saddlebags, de Vitry would not have left them unguarded out
in the stables. When his pessimism proved well founded, he came back to the
courier, stood gazing down at him thoughtfully.
"Now what?" Luke was appraising their prisoner, too, green eyes speculative
enough to give de Vitry a chill. "You think he memorized the message?"
Justin considered the possibility, then shook his head. "Not likely. If the
message says what I think it does, its recipient would need proof that it
indeed came from John."
27
Sharon Kay Penman
At the mention of John's name, de Vitry's head came up sharply. Recovering
some of hi# confidence, he said hoarsely, "You've got my money. What else do
you want from me?"
Luke glanced toward Justin. "I hate it when they insult my intelligence.
You're not being robbed, hellspawn. You're under arrest... as you well know."
"You're the law?" De Vitry strove to sound shocked. "God's Truth, I thought
you were bandits!"
"Do not stop now," Luke said encouragingly. "I am waiting with bated breath
for the rest of your story, eager to hear why you chose to jump out of a
window in the middle of the night, only half dressed in the bargain. Your
explanation ought to be riveting."
De Vitry ran his tongue over dry lips. "I... I was seeking to avoid paying the
whore."
Luke shook his head in disgust. "So to save yourself a halfpenny, you'd leave
a valuable sword behind and risk breaking your neck. I can see this will be a
long night. Shall we take him back to the castle, de Quincy?"
"No," Justin said, "not yet." He'd been studying the courier, his eyes taking
in the man's dishevelment as he reconstructed those frantic moments in
Arlette's chamber. De Vitry had been alerted to danger, hearing them on the
stairs. He'd hastily snatched up his tunic and mantle and gone out the window,
forced to abandon his chausses, braies, boots, and even his sword. Doubtless
he'd have come back for them later, if he'd been able to evade pursuit. "Do
you know what I find most puzzling, Luke? His choices. It makes sense to grab
for a dagger, especially for one so quick with a blade. He already had the
money around his neck. I can see, too, why he'd pull on his runic ere he
bolted. A man running mother-naked through the streets would find that hard to
explain, after all. But then he
28
CRUEL AS THE GRAVE
took his mantle. Does that seem as odd to you as it does to me?"
De Vitry had stiffened noticeably. Luke also saw where Justin was going with
this and he smiled suddenly. "Indeed it does. Our lad here has peculiar
priorities. If it were me, I'd have taken enough time to retrieve my sword,
mayhap even tossed my boots out the window, too. But he's willing to go out
into the night barefooted and bare-assed rather than give up a quite ordinary
brown mantle. Are you that susceptible to the cold, de Vitry? Did you forget
it was April, not December?"
De Vitry did not react to the deputy's mockery, his eyes focused unblinkingly
upon Justin. When the younger man reached for the mantle, he seemed about to
resist, then realized the futility of it and slumped back as Justin claimed
his prize. Carrying it over to the lantern, he began a thorough inspection,
almost at once straightened up with a triumphant smile.
"There is something stitched into the hood." Carefully splitting the seams to
reveal a tightly rolled sheet of parchment, he held it up toward the light.
His sudden intake of breath told Luke that it was even worse
than he'd expected.
"What is it, de Quincy? Do not keep me in suspense, man!"
Justin slowly lowered the parchment. "According to this letter, a French fleet
is assembling at Wissant, making ready to invade England."
That was more than Luke had bargained for, either. "May I see that?" He held
out his hand and Justin passed him the letter. "Christ Jesus, John is
conniving with the Count of Flanders and the French king, too! You've served
the queen well this night, for certes, de Quincy."
"We both have," Justin said, reclaiming the letter to read it again, half
hoping that he'd mistaken what was written in
29
Sharon Kay Penman
John's own hand, for who would trust such an incendiary message to a scribe.
"What if this man had gotten through? We had God on our side, Luke," he said
soberly, and then spun around when Giles de Vitry laughed.
"And John has the Devil," he jeered. "I was not the only messenger, you see."
He stared at them, his eyes agleam with hatred and bitter triumph. "John sent
another man by way of Dover. By now he ought to be well on his way to the
French king."
30
WINCHESTER
April 1193
IM^J^JJ Justin awakened with a start. As the furnishings of iV^tH Aldith's
cottage came into familiar focus, so did his iLLJfeJi memories of the night's
events. He and Luke had taken Giles de Vitry to the castle gaol and then
returned to the cottage for a few hours of sleep. He'd bedded down on the
settle and as soon as he stirred, he winced, for his body was stiff and sore
from two days in the saddle. His movement had attracted Jezebel's attention
and he hastily flung up his arm to keep the mastiff from joining him. It was
not the dog who had awakened him, though. As he sat up, he heard the angry
murmur of voices coming from the bed hangings.
"Justin is a man quite capable of looking after himself. Why should he need
your help with his prisoner?"
"Because it will be easier to get him safely back to London if there are two
of us. Common sense would tell you that, Aldith."
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Sharon Kay Penman
"Why does it have to be you? Why not send your serjeant?"
"This is too important a matter to entrust to Wat. He does well enough with
cutpurses and chicken thieves, but we're going up against the Devil's own."
"I still do not see why you must be the one to accompany Justin to London. Let
him deal with John. After all, he is the queen's man, not you."
"Why are you being so unreasonable about this? I spend half my time on the
roads of the shire, so why are you balking now? For the love of God, woman,
I'm off to London, not Sodom or Gomorrah!"
"Do what you want, Luke. You always do."
"Is that what this is all about? Because I said we could take our time in
making wedding plans? I did not say I was unwilling to wed you, Aldith!"
Justin had heard more than enough. Feeling too much like an eavesdropper for
his own comfort, he deliberately dropped his boots into the floor rushes, then
began to croon to Jezebel, trying to sound like a man who'd just awakened and
hadn't heard a word of that painful, intimate argument. As he'd hoped, his
stirring put a stop to the quarrel, although there was a distinct coolness
between Luke and Aldith when they finally emerged from the curtained cocoon of
their bed, a coolness that had not thawed by the time Luke and Justin were
ready to depart.
While Justin thought Luke was crazed to risk losing Aldith, it never occurred
to him to express that opinion to the deputy. Men did not offer advice of the
heart; that was the province of women. He contented himself with a neutral
comment once they were on the road, a casual remark that Aldith had seemed to
be in an ill temper, thus opening the door a crack in case Luke wanted to
talk. When Luke responded with a grunt, Justin let the subject drop, his duty
done. How could he throw Luke a life-
32
CRUEL AS THE GRAVE
line when he was bogged down himself, trapped and sinking fast in Claudine's
quagmire.
They left Winchester in midafternoon, riding fast and hard. Three days later,
the city walls of London came into view. Halting upon Old Bourn Hill, they
kept a wary eye upon their prisoner while sharing a wineskin. "Shall we take
him to the Tower straightaway?" Luke suggested, and gave Justin a surprised
look when the younger man shook his head vehemently.
"No, not the Tower. We need a safer place to stow him, where there will be no
chance that John can discover his whereabouts."
"Safer than the Tower?" Luke asked skeptically. "Unless ... you think that
John has spies in the queen's household?"
"Yes," Justin said, tersely enough to discourage Luke from probing further, at
least for the moment. "We need a special kind of shepherd to watch over this
particular sheep, one willing to fend off royal wolves if need be."
Luke smiled. "Jonas?"
Justin nodded. "Who else?"
The main entry into London from the west was through the massive stone
gatehouse known as Newgate, which was also used as a city gaol. Luke's
credentials as an under-sheriff of Hampshire gained them easy entry and no one
questioned their claim that they were delivering a prisoner to Jonas. They
needed to be no more explicit than that, for to the gaolers, the name Jonas
could refer to only one manthe laconic, one-eyed serjeant who was the sheriff
of London's mainstay and the bane of the lawless from Cripplegate to
Southwark.
They were giving instructions in Jonas's name when the serjeant himself put in
an appearance. If he was startled to see Luke and Justin paired up again, he
hid it well; Justin suspected that he'd long ago lost his capacity for
surprise. Not as tall as either Justin or Luke, he was still able to command
attention by his
33
Sharon Kay Penman
physical presence alone. His face, weathered by the sun and wind, scarred by a
killer's blade; his hair silvered and lank; he moved with the daunting
confidence of a man who trusted both his instincts and his reflexes. Despite
the rakish eye patch, there was no'swagger in his walk, no bravado in his
manner. He was matter-of-fact and deliberate in the performance of all his
duties, whether it was scattering street urchins or tracking the ungodly
through the city's sordid underbelly. Now, his lone black eye gleaming with a
sardonic cast, he intercepted them as they returned to the guards' chamber
after depositing Giles de Vitry in the underground dungeon known as the pit.
"I hear I have another prisoner," he said by way of greeting. "Careless of me
to have forgotten about him. Would I be prying
if I asked his name?"
"Giles de Vitry. He is to be kept under close watch until I come back for
him." Justin stepped closer, pitching his voice for the Serjeant's ear only.
"He is Lord John's man."
Jonas nodded impassively. "I did not imagine you'd be bringing me some hapless
cutpurse or poacher. With you, I can forget robbery or petty thievery and
plunge right into the fun of assassination, conspiracy, and treason."
Justin grinned. "What can I say? I keep bad company. Come by the alehouse
later and I'll buy you a drink, give you what
answers I can."
"I'll settle for being warned if this is likely to get me hanged."
Eleanor showed but one moment of weakness, a brief hesitation before reaching
for the parchment. When she raised her eyes from the incriminating letter, she
had taken refuge in the role she'd been playing for decades. "I want you to
return tonight after Vespers," she said coolly. "The Archbishop of Rouen must
be made aware of this threat to the peace of the realm, as must
34
CRUEL AS THE GRAVE
the other justiciars. They may well have questions for you. Bring your friend
de Marston, too."
"I will, Madame," Justin promised. He yearned to tell her how sorry he was to
have given her such dire news. Her hands were clasped tightly in her lap and
she'd lost color, looking so fragile and delicate that he was reminded
forcefully of her advanced years. Now in the deep winter of her life, she
deserved better than this, than to be caught between the conflicting claims of
her own sons. But he dared not intrude into the private pain of this very
public woman. It was not for him to comfort a queen.
"I will have ready a writ for de Vitry's arrest," she continued. "I daresay I
can find a dungeon deep enough to hide him away from the world, where he can
repent the sin of rebellion... or rot."
Justin, the bishop's son, murmured dutifully, " 'He that diggeth a pit shall
fall into it.'" He found himself wondering what Scriptures said of a mother
who must pass judgment upon her own son. It was easy enough to cast de Vitry
into a sunless prison. But how would she deal with John?
As he emerged from the queen's chamber, Justin was waylaid by the Lady
Claudine. It was as neatly done an ambush as he'd ever encountered. Just when
the path seemed clear, she materialized at his side, slipping her arm through
his. "When I was a girl," she said, "I had a pet cat. My father insisted cats
were good only for catching mice, but I would not heed him and doted upon my
kitten, naming him Midnight and feeding him cream and whatever delicacies I
could coax from the cooks. But when he got older, he began to roam. I cried
each time he disappeared, and one of my brothers fashioned a leather collar
with a small bell for him. It did not keep him from wandering, but at least I
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could hear him coming back. I am beginning to wonder, Justin, if I need such a
collar for you."
He forced a smile. "I did not have time to let you know I'd be going away. It
was sudden ..." What excuse could he give? "My father was taken ill."
Claudine's eyes widened. "Justin, you've never spoken of your father before! I
assumed he was dead. I am sorry to hear he is ailing. He will recover, will he
not?"
Justin was as astonished as Claudine by his own words. What had possessed him
to mention his father? He'd been doing his very best to keep those memories
fettered, out of reach. How had they broken free with no warning? "He is on
the mend," he said hastily. "He ... he took a bad fall."
"I am glad it was not serious. Why did you never tell me about him, Justin?
I've told you all about my family back in Aquitaine."
"We have long been estranged." At least that was no falsehood. Passing
strange, that he found it so hard to lie to her. Lies seemed to rest as
lightly as feathers on her own conscience. She was expressing her sympathy and
as always, she sounded sincere. Mayhap she even meant it. The queen had said
she was no whore, would not bed a man she did not fancy. He wanted to believe
that. He needed to believe that.
Claudine smiled up at him, letting her fingers entwine in his. "I have nothing
to do for the queen this afternoon."
"I do," he said, and she sighed.
"What a pity. Do you realize it has been over three weeks since we've had any
time alone together?"
The memory of their last lovemaking was one he'd take to his grave, for it was
then that she'd inadvertently betrayed herself. What he still did not
understand was why she did John's bidding. Was it for the money? Had John
seduced her into it? Eleanor believed she had been lured by the adventure of
it, con-
36
CRUEL AS THE GRAVE
vinced her young kinswoman saw spying as a game, one that did no real harm. If
that were so, the game had taken a lethal turn. Did Claudine realize she was
involved in treason? Would she care? He wanted to believe she would. Yet there
was no way to put that belief to the test. How could he tell her of John's
conspiracy when he dared not trust her?
Justin and Luke gave their report that evening before an audience of
luminaries: the Queen of England, the Archbishop of Rouen, and all of the
justiciars save Hugh Bardolf, who was John's liege man and therefore suspect.
Eleanor had already disclosed the contents of John's seditious letter, and
Justin's part in the council was blessedly brief. He related how he had
tracked John's courier to Winchester, after being tipped off by a source he
was not at liberty to reveal, and then described how he'd discovered the
letter sewn into Giles de Vitry's mantle. Luke's role was even more
circumscribed: to confirm Justin's account. After answering some brusque
questions, they willingly retired to the outer edges of the circle, for it was
somewhat intimidating to find themselves at the very center of royal power.
Acting upon the logical assumption that John's other messenger had gotten
through, they wasted no time in vain regrets, concentrating upon what must be
done to thwart an invasion. Justin listened in fascination as plans were
rapidly made to close the ports and call up the levies in the southern shires.
It still did not seem quite real to him, that he, an unwanted foundling,
should be privy to the queen's secrets.
Once they had agreed upon the defensive measures to be taken, an awkward
silence settled over the chamber. Justin understood why. Staving off a French
fleet was child's play cornpared to the challenge that now confronted them:
What to do about John? How did they punish a rebel who might well be king
himself one day?
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Sharon Kay Penman
Eleanor was the one to breach the wall first. "What we need
to do next is to locate John," she said dispassionately. "He is no longer in
London and his whereabouts are unknown. I've heard rumors that he has been
garrisoning his castles at Windsor and Wallingford, so I suggest we start the
search there."
There were quick murmurings of agreement. Justin marveled at her composure.
He'd been given a brief glimpse of the mother earlier that day, but now only
the queen was in evidence, revealing nothing of her inner disquiet as she
launched this hunt for her son. Given his own conflicted feelings toward his
father and Claudine, Justin found it all too easy to empathize with Eleanor's
plight. Even if it was true that Richard had ever been her favorite, how could
she be indifferent to the fate of her youngest-born? If John's rebellion
resulted in his death, would she grieve for him as David had mourned for his
defiant son, Absalom? His gaze shifting from Eleanor's court mask to Will
Longsword's taut profile, Justin felt a sense of foreboding and silently
cursed John for the evil he had let loose amongst them.
Once the council ended, Justin and Luke stopped at the cookshop by the river
and had a hearty supper of pork-filled pie and ginger wafers, washed down with
cider, before returning to Justin's cottage on Gracechurch Street. Justin was
too exhausted by then to crave anything but sleep. After making up a pallet
for Luke, he collapsed onto his own bed and found instant oblivion. His
awakening was a rude one, his dreamworld dispersed by a loud, insistent
pounding. Lack of sleep had made him as groggy as an excess of ale did, and he
fumbled for his tunic while Luke stirred reluctantly and damned their unknown
caller to eternal perdition. Sliding the bolt back, Justin blinked as
brilliant spring sunlight flooded the cottage and then staggered as Shadow
pounced joyfully upon him, barking loudly enough to provoke another burst of
cursing from Luke.
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"Shadow, down!" The command was affectionately ignored and he turned his
attention to the dog's escort. "Nell, I meant to reclaim him this morning,
truly I did. I got in too late last night to"
Nell waved aside his apology impatiently. "That matters for naught. Justin,
you must make haste to dress, for" She broke off, then, as Luke poked a tawny
head from his blankets. "Is that you, Luke? This is indeed a stroke of good
fortune!"
Luke yawned. "I am gladdened to see you again, too, Nell. But if you really
want to win my heart, come back later. I try never to rise ere the sun does."
"The sun is well up in the sky," she insisted. "Even if it were not, your
sleeping is over. I have need of you, Justin. Get this sluggard up and join me
at the alehouse. I'll make breakfast and explain all. Do not tarry, though."
Pausing at the door, she said darkly, "There has been murder done."
39
LONDON
April 1193
li i JVJI Nell ushered Justin and Luke into the alehouse's VM kitchen. "Here,"
she said, sliding a stale loaf of bread iLkJfcJI across the table. "Cut
yourselves trenchers whilst I finish cooking the sausage."
Breakfast was the day's dubious meal, not quite respectable, for people were
supposed to be able to satisfy themselves with a hearty dinner and a lighter
supper. Hunger was a more powerful motivation than convention, though, and
only a few stalwart souls did not break their night's fast with meat or cheese
or roasted chestnuts. The aroma of frying sausage was a lure neither Luke nor
Justin could resist. Justin did wonder what price he'd be paying for this
tasty fare. Nell's ominous comment about murder was not one to be easily
forgotten. "What did you want to talk to me about, Nell?"
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CRUEL AS THE GRAVE
"Actually, it is Agnes who needs to speak with you. I told her to meet us over
here after Prime."
"Who is Agnes?" Luke asked, spearing a sausage. "Another one of your mystery
bedmates?"
Justin ignored the deputy's heavy-handed humor. "Agnes is Odo the barber's
wife." He liked Agnes, a kindly neighbor who'd helped tend to his wounds after
he'd been attacked by Gilbert the Fleming. But he could not imagine what she'd
want to discuss with him so early in the morn. "What was that you were
muttering about murder, Nell?"
"Whilst you were in Winchester, a young girl was found dead in St Mary
Magdalene's churchyard." Nell set two tankards of ale on the table, then sat
down across from them. "You may have seen the peddler who sometimes sold his
wares here on Gracechurch Street. She was his daughter."
Justin had no memory of the man or the girl. "I am sorry," he said. "How does
Agnes come into this? Was she kin to the lass?"
"No ... her nephews are suspects in the killing."
Justin sat up in surprise. Putting down his knife, he said, "Why?"
Nell shrugged. "I do not know all the particulars. Agnes was too distraught to
make much sense. She says neighborhood talk had them sharing her bed, so she
thinks that is why suspicion has fallen upon Geoffrey and Daniel."
Luke was amused. "The both of them, eh? Was she a harlot, then?"
Nell shrugged again. "She was probably no better than she ought to be. But I
doubt that she was whoring for money. She was free-spirited and a bit wild,
was Melangell, and most likely smitten with Geoffrey. That lad breaks hearts
every time he smiles, bless him."
"Melangell," Justin echoed. "She was Welsh?"
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Sharon Kay Penman
Nell nodded. "Half Welsh, I think. She grew up in the Marches, told me that
her mother died last year and her father took the family to London in January
to make a fresh start." Her brisk tones wavered and she said sadly, "Poor
little bird ..."
Justin had come to London, too, in January, fleeing his past like Melangell
and her grieving family. "I am sorry," he said again, and meant it, although
he still did not understand. "Why does Agnes want to talk to me about this,
Nell?"
Nell hesitated, then said with a trace of defiance, "I told her you'd clear
her nephews of suspicion."
"You did what?" Justin stared at her in dismay. "Nell, how could you do that?
I have no authority to meddle in a murder!" "You are the queen's man, are you
not? What greater authority could you ask for than that?"
"This killing is for the London sheriffs to solve, not me. Even if I knew how
I could help Agnes's nephews, I'd not have the time to spare. We've learned
that Lord John is plotting with the French king to seize the throne by force."
Nell was not impressed by his revelation. The highborn were always up to no
good, but what of it? No matter who sat on the throne at Westminster, she'd
still be fretting about that leak in the roof and her daughter's need for new
shoes. "Agnes found the time to nurse you after the Fleming ambushed you," she
said pointedly. "Besides, how much time can it take? As likely as not, a talk
with Jonas will clear it all up. Agnes is sure they played no part in the poor
girl's death."
Justin gave her a reproachful look that was quite wasted, and then glared at
Luke, who was chuckling at his predicament. "I'll talk to Agnes," he said
grudgingly. "I can do no more than that." Nell had never doubted that she'd
get her way. Any man who'd go to the trouble of rescuing a stray dog from an
icy river was a man with a heart too soft for his own good. "Fair enough," she
agreed, sure that Agnes's tears would do the rest.
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"Now let me tell you something of the family ere she arrives. Agnes's younger
sister, Beatrice, married above herself, snaring a husband who has become
quite prosperous. Humphrey Aston is a member of the Mercer's Guild, and to
judge by Beatrice's bragging, he has done right well for himself. I've met him
only once, for he's not keen on breaking bread with the likes of Odo and
Agnes. I thought he was full of himself, as prickly as a hedgehog, a man who'd
bite off his own tongue ere he'd admit he was in the wrong. Beatrice may have
more comfort in her life, but Agnes got the better husband in Odo, for he
loves her wholeheartedly and I doubt that Humphrey loves anyone except
himself... well, possibly Geoffrey. Agnes says he does dote on the lad."
"Geoffrey is the firstborn?"
"Yes. He is twenty, and by all accounts, a son any man would be proud of. The
younger lad, Daniel, is the black sheep, the one who makes a botch of all that
he does. But Agnes swears he is no killer" Nell paused, head cocked to the
side. "Did you hear anything?" Shadow took his attention away from the
sausages long enough to give a distracted bark, and Nell pushed back from the
table, went to let Agnes in.
Agnes was a plump, maternal woman in her early fifties, as basic and
comforting as freshly baked bread. Her gratitude was tearful and heartfelt and
embarrassing to Justin. "They are good lads," she said, stifling a sob. "I
never was able to bear children of my own; the Lord God willed otherwise.
Geoffrey and Daniel were the sons I could not have, and I've loved them as if
they were mine. Neither one would ever hurt that child. I know that, Master de
Quincy. I know it in the very depths of my soul-"
Justin did not doubt her sincerity. He was not so sure, though, of her
judgment. "Can you tell me about their involvement with the dead girl?" he
asked gently. "What was she to them?"
Agnes wiped her eyes with a napkin. "Geoffrey has had girls
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chasing after him since he was fourteen or thereabouts, and I'm sure he
sometimes let them catch him. Melangell was a shameless flirt and very pretty
in a foreign, Welsh sort of way. But Geoffrey would not have taken their
dalliance seriously. His father was about to announce his plight troth to the
niece of the master of the Mercer's Guild, a great match for Geoffrey.
Melangell may have been a passing fancy, but no more
than that."
"And what of the younger son?"
"I think it was different with Daniel," she said slowly. "I believe he was a
little in love with her. Not that he'd admit it. He is not one for confiding
in others. That has always been his curse, that stubborn silence of his. Take
that woeful business about his apprenticeship ..."
"What about it?" Justin asked, not because he thought it was material to the
girl's death, but because he could not be sure if it was not. His recent
experience in tracking down Gilbert the Fleming had taught him that clues
often seemed insignificant at first glance; it was only later that the threads
came together in a woven, discernible pattern.
"Geoffrey completed his apprenticeship this past year, with Master Serlo. And
now that he is to wed Adela, his future seems assured, for she'll bring a
goodly marriage portion. But Daniel ... nothing ever comes easily to him.
Humphrey apprenticed him to a mercer in Cheapside, a man utterly unlike Master
Serlo, and it went wrong from the first."
"Why did Humphrey not apprentice his sons in his own
shop?"
"That is only done when the boy cannot be placed elsewhere. Better that he
learns trade secrets from another master. And an apprenticeship opens doors in
the future, as it did for Geoffrey. Adela is Master Serlo's niece. But
Daniel's apprenticeship ended in disgrace, when he ran off and refused to
return.
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Humphrey was enraged, for he forfeited the bond of surety he'd put up for
Daniel. They dissolved the contract and he took Daniel into his own shop, but
he has not forgiven him. Daniel did not help matters by refusing to explain
why he'd run away. Later, he told me. The man was brutal to his apprentices,
beat them without reason or mercy. The other boys endured the abuse; Daniel
would not. It took a long time ere I could get the truth out of him, and by
then, it was too late. His father was not of a mind to listen ..."
"How do the brothers get along?"
"Better than you'd expect. Daniel has never seemed to blame Geoffrey for being
the chosen one." Her mild blue eyes filled with fresh tears. "I've always
feared that Daniel believed himself to be undeserving of love. I did what I
could, but it is hard to overcome a father's indifference, Master de Quincy."
That Justin well knew. He could not help sympathizing with this youth he'd not
yet met, caught between a golden brother and an unforgiving father. But his
sympathy did not blind him to the fact that Daniel seemed to have a motive for
murder. If he
was smitten with Melangell, he might well have rebelled when she became
another one of his brother's conquests, may have tried to claim her for
himself, with tragic consequences.
Almost as if she sensed his doubts, Agnes leaned across the table, timidly
touching his hand with her own. "Daniel is no murderer, Master de Quincy.
Neither he nor Geoffrey caused that girl's death. I beg you to do what I
cannotto prove that to the sheriff."
Justin did not see how he could prove it, either. Nell had a lot to answer
for. "Agnes ... I can make no promises. But I will talk to the sheriff, see
what I can find out about the crime."
Agnes smiled tremulously, with far greater confidence than his assurance
warranted. "I knew you would help us, Master de Quincy, I knew it!" She
departed soon thereafter, with a lighter
45
Sharon Kay Penman
step, eager to tell her husband that the queen's man would be making things
right for her nephews.
Justin finished the rest of his ale, then got to his feet. "I'll see if I can
find Jonas," he said tersely.
Nell was unfazed by his obvious anger; he'd get over it. When Luke did not
rise, too, she frowned at the deputy. "Well? Are you not going with Justin?"
"Why should I? I do not owe Agnes anything."
"No ... but you do owe me. You know full well that you'd not have caught the
Fleming without my help."
Luke scowled back at her, but her logic was unassailable. "I should have known
this was not going to be a free breakfast," he said, reaching for one final
mouthful of sausage. "Come on, de Quincy, let's go track Jonas down."
Justin snapped his fingers for his dog, but made no move to go. "Tell me this,
Nell. Have you given any thought to how this could turn out? What happens if I
discover that one of Agnes's nephews did indeed murder Melangell?"
Nell was silent for a moment. "Well," she said, "if that is true, at least the
poor girl will have justice."
It took several hours to run Jonas to earth. They finally found him in an
Eastcheap tavern, having a belated dinner of baked lampreys, a pottage of
cabbage and onions, and a loaf of hard rye bread. When he looked up and saw
Justin and Luke coming toward him, he held up a hand to ward them off.
"Ere you say a word, I'd best warn you about the day I've had so far. I was
rousted out of bed before dawn to chase some young fools who filled a wine
cask with stones and then set it rolling down to the bridge, waking up scores
of scared citizens, sure that the clamor meant the world was coming to an end.
Then I had to race over to Southwark to help catch a 'demon from Hell/ which
turned out to be a peddler's runaway monkey.
CRUEL AS THE GRAVE
I got back into London in time to fish a body from the river, so bloated only
the Almighty will ever know who it was. This is the first chance I've had to
eat a mouthful since last night, so unless you've come to tell me that
Westminster Palace is afire or Lord John's army is laying siege to the Tower,
I do not want to hear it. This is one meal I mean to savor in peace."
"Savor?" Luke picked up one of the chunks of rye. "By God's Bones, Jonas, you
could use these torts for paving stones. And why ever are you eating lampreys
when it is not a fish day?"
Justin pulled up a stool, signaling to the serving maid for wine. "Pay him no
heed, Jonas. We are bringing you no new troubles, I swear it. No royal plots,
no fresh murders, not even rumors of plots or murders. We have a few questions
to ask, nothing more sinister in mind. So you eat and we'll talk ... fair
enough? Luke might even be willing to pay for your dinner."
"Pace yourself with that wine, de Quincy; you're beginning to babble." Luke
straddled a bench, decided the serving maid was not worth flirting with, and
fed Shadow a piece of rye tort. "Is there nothing this beast will not eat? You
have to hear us out, Jonas. The lad is on a mission of mercy."
Justin did not think that was funny. "What was I supposed to do?" he
protested. "That woman would put any poacher to shame, so deftly does she set
and spring her traps. I was caught ere I even realized my danger."
Jonas continued to dig into his lamprey pie. "Now that you're here," he said
ungraciously, "you might as well unburden yourselves. Remember, though, that
I'm in no mood for high treason or conspiracies involving the fate of all
Christendom."
"How about a mundane murder in a churchyard? Go on, de Quincy, ask him about
the peddler's daughter." Luke smiled, for that was the punch line to any
number of jokes, most of them bawdy. Justin was younger and less inured to
violent death. Giving the deputy a reproving glance, he said quickly:
I 47
Sharon Kay Penman
"What can you tell us, Jonas, about the young girl found slain in St Mary
Magdalene's churchyard?"
Jonas spooned the last morsel of lamprey pie into his mouth, used his sleeve
for a napkin. "Why do you want to know?" he parried. "You're not likely to
convince me that the peddler's lass was a spy in the pay of the queen's son."
"No ... this has naught to do with the Queen's Grace." "He is acting on behalf
of your chief suspects," Luke said with a grin. "Nell prodded him into it, for
their aunt is her
neighbor."
Jonas grinned, too. "I've rarely met a female with such a Godgiven talent for
prodding," he conceded. "But I'm not the man you ought to be talking to.
Tobias is the Serjeant who was called to the churchyard, not me."
That brought Justin up short. "Well, we'll certainly seek him out," he said,
after a pause to consider this new development. "But we'd be grateful for
anything you can tell us about
the crime."
"What do you want to know?"
"How was the girl killed?"
"We think she died resisting a rape. Her body was found by a woman come to
tend her husband's grave."
"How did she die ... a stabbing? Strangulation?"
"A head wound. She either fell or was pushed against the churchyard cross.
Tobias said it was dripping blood."
"What makes you think she was raped?"
"Her bodice was ripped open and her skirts pulled up, her chemise torn. But I
did not say she was raped."
Justin was puzxled. Luke, who'd investigated a number of sexual crimes, was
not. "No bruises or scratches on her breasts
or thighs, then?"
Jonas shook his head, explaining for Justin's benefit, "That would indicate
the man broke off the attack. Most likely he pan-
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icked when he realized she was either dead or dying. Tobias said there were
imprints in the ground, as if he knelt by the body, but there was no evidence
of penetration. Nor were there any stains on her clothing to show he'd spilled
his seed too soon. My best guess would be that he did not mean to kill her.
When she balked, he sought to force himself upon her, and the next thing he
knew, he had a dead woman on his hands."
"What of her nails?" Luke asked, his earlier irreverence forgotten, caught up
now in professional curiosity.
"Not broken, and with no scrapings of skin under them. So the man will have no
scratches to mark him out. She was a little bit of a lass, like Nell. It would
have been all too easy to overpower her. And it does not seem that she had a
chance to put up much of a fight."
Justin's wine suddenly tasted sour. As little as he knew about this peddler's
daughter from the Welsh Marches, he was certain she had deserved better than
she'd gotten. Jonas had made the pain and fear of her final moments much too
real. Shoving the flagon away, he said tautly, "Can you tell me why Geoffrey
and Daniel Aston are suspected in her death?"
Jonas considered and then nodded. "Why not? We know Geoffrey Aston was bedding
her. Sometimes she'd sneak him into the room her family rented, sometimes he'd
bring her to an inn on Wood Street. In fact, the churchyard where she died was
a favorite meeting place for them. As for the younger son, he was always
sniffing about her skirts. We have witnesses willing to testify that he and
Melangell had a heated argument on the day she died. And then there was the
piece of silk found under her body, much too costly for a peddler's daughter,
but just the sort of gift she'd have gotten from a mercer's son. Not enough
evidence to start building a gallows, I'll grant you. But enough to warrant
further investigation."
Justin could not argue with that. What had Nell gotten him
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into? He felt another surge of pity for Melangell, who'd come to London to
start a new life, only to find death in a twilit churchyard. He pitied Agnes,
too, for it was beginning to seem all too likely that one of her nephews was
guilty of murder.
After their meeting with Jonas, Justin and Luke headed for the Tower. The
queen was not in the great hall, and to Justin's relief, neither was Claudine.
He did not need to seek Eleanor out, though, for Will Longsword was on hand,
and he admitted glumly that their scouts had not reported back. John's
whereabouts were still a mystery.
By the time Justin and Luke were on their way again, a soft April dusk was
settling over the city. Justin had borrowed a lantern from one of Will's men,
and they started up Tower Street. Luke was complaining that they ought to have
taken their stallions; like most horsemen, he rarely walked anywhere if he
could help it. But Justin's sojourn in London had taught him that horses were
often an inconvenience in the city. For all that it held over twenty-five
thousand people, London's walls enclosed a little more than a square mile.
Justin had discovered that he could walk from the Tower to Ludgate in half an
hour, whereas on horseback, that trip could take much longer, depending upon
the time of day and the flow of traffic.
"Anyway," he pointed out when Luke continued to grumble, "you have to find a
place to hitch the horse every time you dismount. Look at all the stops we had
to make in our hunt for Jonas. If we'd been on horseback, we'd have had to
..."
When his words ebbed away, Luke glanced curiously in his direction. "What?"
Justin was studying the street behind them. The day's crowds were thinning as
the sky darkened. An occasional bobbing light was evidence of a pedestrian's
lantern. A cart's wheel had broken, and the driver was cursing loudly as he
inspected the dam-
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CRUEL AS THE GRAVE
age. The church bells of All Hallows Barking were chiming for Vespers and a
few tardy parishioners were straggling in for the Mass. A woman who seemed
none too sober had accosted a man passing by, and they'd begun to dicker over
terms. Shadow had halted to acknowledge another dog. The street scene appeared
perfectly normal, nothing amiss. Still, Justin hesitated, heeding instinct
rather than reason.
"What is it?" Luke was picking up now on his unease. "You see something?"
"I guess not..." Justin took a final glance over his shoulder, then shrugged.
"I got a sudden prickling at the back of my neck," he confessed. "I suppose I
am overly cautious, thanks to the Fleming. For a moment, I had this sense of
danger, the way I did in the Durngate mill."
There was no need to elaborate; Luke had been with him when they'd cornered
the Fleming over the body of his latest victim. The deputy nodded, for he,
too, had learned to trust the inner voice that whispered of unseen enemies,
unknown perils. "Never apologize for caution, de Quincy. Without it, no man
can hope to make old bones. Now ... what shall we do about supper? Stop at the
cookshop or see if we can coax Nell into feeding us again?"
"The alehouse," Justin said, adding emphatically, "Nell owes me a meal. The
more I learn about this killing, the less hopeful I feel. Jonas makes a
persuasive case for his suspicions. So what do I tell Agnes?"
"Well, look at it this way: By implicating one nephew, you'll be clearing the
other."
"Somehow I doubt that will give Agnes much comfort," Justin said dryly. "And
which nephew?"
"The younger one," Luke said without hesitation. "If you own a cow, what need
have you to steal milk? Why would Geoffrey Aston try to rape the girl if she
was coupling with him
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willingly? No, if this were my case, I'd be looking long and hard at Daniel.
Even Agnes admits he was besotted with her. She rebuffs him earlier in the
day, when they were heard to quarrel. Nursing a grievance, he confronts her
later in the churchyard. She rejects his overtures again, and this time he
goes too far. Unfortunately for Agnes, this killing is likely to be right easy
to solve."
"I fear so," Justin agreed. "If onlyJesii!" For a heartbeat, he wasn't sure
what had happened. There was a blurred motion, a rush of air upon his face,
and then a thud. He hastily raised the lantern and his breath caught in his
throat at the light's flickering revelation: a dagger still quivering in a
wooden door scant inches from his head. Flattening himself against the wall,
he flung the lantern into the street to avoid offering a lighted target. Luke
had taken cover, too, and for several moments, there was no sound but their
labored breathing. By now the street was a sea of heaving shadows, deep enough
to drown an army of assassins. They forced themselves to wait, motionless,
until they were sure the danger was past. Retrieving the lantern, Luke watched
as Justin freed the dagger.
"It looks like you've been making enemies again, de Quincy. No man would throw
away a good knife in a random attack."
When he wrenched the knife loose, Justin noticed the scrap of parchment
wrapped around its blade. Holding it toward the lantern's light, he saw a
single word scrawled in a bold hand. He read the message, and then gave an
angry, incredulous laugh. "Would you believe this is a letter?"
Luke stared at him. "Delivered at knifepoint?"
"See for yourself." Justin held out the parchment fragment toward the deputy.
"The queen has a man in John's household. This is his handiwork, warning us
that John is at Windsor."
"Jesus God." Luke shook his head in disbelief. "He has an odd way of
communicating his messages!"
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I CRUEL AS THE GRAVE
* "You do not know the half of it," Justin said, searching the darkness again
for signs of the knife wielder. He knew it was useless, though. Durand was
long gone. He'd delivered his warningwith a vengeancehad no reason to linger.
Luke was looking again at the hole Durand's knife had gouged in the door. "You
know," he said, "he did not miss you by much."
"No," Justin said grimly, "he did not."
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<L
LONDON
April 1193
IL'JE^J Eleanor gazed down impassively at the scrap of parchfV^lH ment. "You
are sure this came from Durand?" ll^Jhul      Justin felt again that surge of
air on his face as the blade buried itself in the door. "Very sure, Madame."
William Marshal was standing several feet away, waiting at a discreet distance
until his queen had need of him. When Eleanor glanced in his direction, he
moved swiftly toward her.
"Madame?"
"John is at Windsor."
"I'll see to it, my lady."
To Justin's surprise, that was all. After that terse exchange, Eleanor turned
away abruptly, crumpling Durand's message and letting it fall into the floor
rushes at her feet. Justin hesitated, then fell in step beside William Marshal
as he strode toward the door.
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"What are you going to do?" he asked, surprising himself by his willingness to
interrogate one of the queen's justiciars. But he was done with fumbling
around in the dark; what he didn't know could get him killed.
Marshal seemed to take it for granted that he was entitled to ask such
questions. "I will go to Windsor, demand that John surrender the castle to the
queen and the justiciars."
"And if he refuses?"
"Then we shall lay siege to it."
Justin considered that possibility. "And once you've captured the castle, what
then, my lord? What will be done with Lord John?"
Marshal gave him a sidelong smile. "I would to God I knew, lad," he said, and
Justin nodded slowly. How did they punish a man who was likely to inherit the
very crown he was now trying to usurp?
"Are you sure you know where we're going, de Quincy?" Luke swerved to avoid a
wayward goose. "And what of Agnes? Ought she not to be coming with us?"
"She was summoned to the Astons' house early this morn to tend her sister. She
left word with Nell that she'd wait for us there." Justin shaded his eyes
against the bright glare of noonday sun and whistled for Shadow, who was
foraging in the street's center gutter. "She said their shop is on Friday
Street."
"Is the sister ailing?"
Justin shrugged. "Even the most stout-hearted soul might well be undone when
murder is suspected, and Beatrice seems frailer than most. Nell says she takes
to her bed whenever a family crisis looms."
"And they'll be looking to you as their savior. What happens when you cannot
deliver all that Nell promised?"
Justin shrugged again. "Mayhap we'll get lucky and prove
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the killer is not one of the nephews, after all," he said, although without
much conviction; it was hard to argue with Luke's jaded insistence that in
most killings, the victim's loved ones were the logical suspects.
"Well, you'll have to catch the killer without me. I thought I'd head for home
on the morrow."
Justin was sorry, but not surprised. As much as he'd have liked Luke's help,
he had never expected the deputy to remain much longer in London, not with
duty and Aldith both pulling him back to Winchester.
Luke glanced in his direction, then away. "I was thinking I'd stop over at
Windsor. If there is going to be a siege, the sheriff of Hampshire will be one
of those summoned. It makes no sense to go all the way to Winchester, only to
have to come back again straightaway."
Justin turned to stare at him. Luke's logic sounded forced to him, the
reasoning of a man whofor whatever reasonwas not that eager to go home. Was
his quarreling with Aldith as serious as that? Before he could respond, Luke
suddenly grabbed his arm.
"Do you see that woman in the green gown? She is about to pluck a pigeon ...
Ah, and there he is."
Justin saw nothing suspicious about the woman in question; she was young and
pretty and respectably dressed, her gown of good wool, her veil of fine white
linen. She was carrying several bundles, one of which slipped from her grasp
as Luke's designated "pigeon" crossed her path. When he gallantly retrieved
it, he was rewarded with an enchanting smile, and within moments, he was
insisting that he tote the rest of her parcels for her.
Watching with a knowing grin, Luke nudged Justin with his elbow. "Now the hawk
swoops down on our pigeon's money pouch," he predicted, nodding toward a burly
youth in a
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pointed Phrygian cap, who was striding purposefully across the street,
apparently oblivious of the couple in his way. The victim was mindful only of
the young woman clinging to his arm and a collision seemed imminent... until
Luke lunged forward, calling out in a loud, jovial voice sure to turn heads,
"Is that you, Ivo? By God, it is!"
The victim looked puzzled as this boisterous stranger bore down upon him. The
stalker veered off, was soon swallowed up in the crowds thronging the
Cheapside. The woman frowned, recoiling as Luke draped a friendly arm around
her shoulders. "But this is not Berta. Ivo, you sly dog!"
"I'm not Ivo! I've never laid eyes upon you ... wait, lass!" This last plea
was addressed to the woman, who'd snatched back her parcels and was already
moving hastily away. Disappointment finding expression in anger, the man
glared at Luke. "You oaf, you scared her off!"
"Be glad he did," Justin interjected, "for he thwarted her partner from
lifting your money pouch."
The man's hand went instinctively to the pouch. Reassured to find it still
swinging safely from his belt, he glanced dubiously from Justin to Luke. After
a moment to mull it over, his scowl came back. "A likely story," he scoffed.
"I know women right well and that little lass was no thief. But the pair of
you look like you were born for the gallows. You were the ones trying to steal
my money, not her!" Backing away, he flung a threat over his shoulder about
summoning the Watch and then strode off indignantly, shoving through the press
of interested spectators.
Justin and Luke stared after him in astonishment, but as soon as their eyes
met, they burst out laughing. "Well," Luke said, with a grin, "now you know
why I was so suspicious of you from the first moment we met. You've got a
cutthroat's look to you, for certes!"
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"He thought we both looked like outlaws," Justin reminded him. "How did you
know they'd planned a theft?"
"I saw the wench and her man signaling to each other once they picked out
their quarry, the same hand signals I've seen cutpurses use back in
Winchester." Luke shook his head in mock regret and gave Justin a playful
shove. "Devil take me if I foil any more crimes in this accursed city of
yours, de Quincy. You Londoners are an ungrateful lot!"
Justin pushed him back and they began to laugh again... until a voice said
coldly, "Are these the men you recommended, Agnes?"
The words themselves might be neutral, but the tone dripped disdain. Justin
and Luke swung around to stare at the man regarding them with evident
disapproval. He was of medium height and stocky build, with reddish hair
sprinkled with grey, and eyes even greener than Luke's. Agnes was half hidden
behind his broad-shouldered body; all they could see was her face, scarlet
with embarrassment.
"I am Humphrey Aston." He flung the name out as a challenge. "When you did not
arrive on time, we went to look for you." He left unsaid the rest of the
sentence, the unspoken accusation: that they'd been engaging in tomfoolery
whilst he'd been kept waiting. The message was clearly conveyed, though, in
the pursed lips, the frigid eyes.
By the time he'd stopped talking, Justin had decided that Humphrey Aston was
the last man in Christendom deserving of his help. But Agnes was mouthing a
silent "please" and so he resisted the urge to turn and walk away. "I am
Justin de Quincy," he said coolly, "and this is Luke de Marston, the
undersheriff for Hampshire."
Humphrey acknowledged the introductions with a grudging nod. "My wife's sister
thinks you can help us. What I want to know is how much that help will cost."
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It had never occurred to Justin to charge a fee. He started to say that, but
his dislike of Aston was too strong. "That depends. What is a son worth to
you?"
His attempt to rattle the older man failed; Humphrey didn't even blink. "Which
one?"
Luke swore softly. "Come on, de Quincy. Why waste our time?"
Justin shook his head, feeling a sharp thrust of pity for Humphrey's sons.
"You could not afford me," he said. "I am doing a favor ... for Agnes."
Humphrey reddened, then looked balefully at Agnes, as if Justin's insolence
was somehow her fault. "We'll talk at home," he said at last, turning on his
heel. Justin patted Agnes consolingly on the shoulder, blocked Luke's escape,
and they followed, reluctantly, but they followed.
The mercer's shop fronted onto Friday Street, with the family quarters above.
Humphrey Aston's prosperity was such that he'd been able to afford a hall, set
at a right angle to the shop, extending back along the property line. It was
here that he led the men, bypassing his shop and entering by a side gate that
opened into a crowded courtyard. His family was gathered in the hall, seated
at a wooden trestle table. They'd been talking among themselves, but fell
silent at the sight of Humphrey, appearing more apprehensive than relieved by
the patriarch's return.
Beatrice Aston was younger than her husband, somewhere in her forties. She
probably had been quite appealing in her youth, for she still retained a faded
prettiness. Coiled blond hair shone beneath a gossamer veil, and her eyes were
wide set and as blue as cornflowers. But any assurance she'd ever possessed
had been stripped away, leaving her insecurities and anxieties Painfully
abraded and exposed. Although she did her best to make Luke and Justin
welcome, she kept glancing toward
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Humphrey, as uneasy about incurring his disapproval as the timid little
maidservant who served them wine and wafers.
Justin could not help sympathizing with Humphrey's cowed wife; he would have
sympathized with anyone unlucky enough to live under the same roof with the
domineering mercer. But his interest was much greater in the Astons' two sons.
Geoffrey was by far the handsomer of the two, with his mother's fair hair and
deep blue eyes. He showed the poise expected of a firstborn son, the family
favorite. He did indeed have a heartbreaking smile, as Nell had claimed,
although it seemed to surface now from habit, never reaching his eyes. Justin
had wondered if he'd be too smug and spoiled to realize the danger he faced;
clearly that was not the case. Geoffrey was doing his very best to appear calm
and optimistic, but he could not sit still for more than a few moments and his
eyelids were faintly swollen. Had he shed tears for the peddler's daughter ...
or were they all for this calamity that threatened to engulf his family?
The younger son, Daniel, had inherited his father's height and build and
color. He had an untidy mass of curly red hair, wary green eyes, and a
square-cut face filled with freckles. Unlike his restive, edgy brother, he was
unnaturally rigid, his the intensely focused stillness of an animal caught in
a trap, awaiting discovery. Geoffrey's greeting had been effusive and
heartfelt; Daniel's terse to the point of rudeness. Geoffrey might welcome
their intercession; Daniel obviously did not.
Once the introductions were over, there was an uncomfortable silence. Justin
glanced toward Luke for guidance, but the deputy was amusing himself by
tossing bits of wafer to Shadow, much to Humphrey's smoldering annoyance.
Justin took a deep breath and plunged in. "Suppose you tell me of the day
Melangell died."
He'd been addressing Geoffrey, but it was Humphrey who
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answered. "We've already been over this with the sheriff's Serjeants. We know
nothing of this girl's death. She was most likely killed by a disgruntled
customer." Seeing Justin's lack of comprehension, he said impatiently, "She
peddled more than the cheap goods on her father's cart. She was a harlot,
plain and simple, and I do not doubt that her whoring brought about her
death."
Geoffrey's head jerked up. He seemed about to speak, but then subsided, his
shoulders slumping. Daniel glanced up, too, giving them a brief, unsettling
glimpse of a white-hot rage. But he also kept quiet. Melangell's defense came
not from either of the young men said to have been her lovers. It was Agnes
who spoke up, nervously, for she, too, was intimidated by her brother-in-law.
Yet this plump, placid barber's wife had a strong sense of fair play, strong
enough to give her the courage to lodge a timorous protest.
"I do not..." She hesitated, coughing to clear her throat. "I do not believe
that Melangell was a whore. She was flighty and reckless at times, yes, but
not wicked"
"What do you know of evil?" Humphrey snapped. "What do you know about anything
at all? This peddler's chit was a wanton, as any man with eyes to see could
tell, strutting about in her beads and her whore's scarlet, bold as can be and
shameless, exposing herself to the stares in the street and laughing at the
leers and jests"
Justin had heard enough. "Be that as it may, we've gone astray. I did not ask
you about her morals or the lack of them. I need to find out how she passed
her last day. Can you help me with that, Master Aston? If not, I'd suggest
that you let your sons speak for themselves."
Humphrey was not accustomed to being interrupted. His fttouth fell open and he
stared at Justin, ignoring his wife as she reached over and placed a placating
hand upon his arm. But
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there was fear behind his bluster, and it won out. As much as it galled him to
admit it, he needed Justin's help. "I did not see the girl that day," he said
curtly.
Justin glanced then toward Geoffrey. "Did you?"
Geoffrey seemed startled to find himself suddenly the center of attention, but
he answered readily enough. "No, I did not." He looked from Justin to Luke,
saw their skepticism, and repeated his denial. "It is true I sometimes met her
in the churchyard. It was close to our shop.. ." This time his gaze flicked
toward his father. "But not on that day. The last I saw of her was on Tuesday,
two days ere she ... she died." He kept his voice level, but he swallowed hard
and his lashes swept down, veiling his eyes.
"And you?" Justin swung around to face Daniel. "We know you met with her.
There are witnesses willing to swear you were quarreling on Cheapside earlier
in the day. Suppose you tell us what that quarrel was about."
Daniel's eyes slitted. "I do not remember."
Justin did not believe him. It was obvious that his father did not, either. "I
warned you," Humphrey said ominously, "that your memory had better improve,
did I not?"
Justin looked from the sullen boy to his belligerent father, then over at
Geoffrey, flushed and unhappy. Beatrice daubed at the corners of her eyes with
a table napkin, but she did not attempt to mediate between her husband and
son. She seemed to Justin more like a bystander than a member of the family.
He'd always mourned the loss of his own mother, who'd died giving him birth.
For the first time, he realized that death was not the only means of losing a
mother. When his gaze met Luke's, the deputy jerked his head sideways. Justin
agreed wholeheartedly; they needed to get out of there.
Rising, he said, "You've given me enough for now. I will
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see what else I can find out about this crime and get back to you." Adding, as
if in afterthought, "I would like Geoffrey and Daniel to accompany me to the
churchyard where these trysts were held."
Humphrey opened his mouth to object, but both his sons jumped to their feet so
hastily that they forestalled him. Their departure was swift, almost an
escape, and within moments, they were standing together out in the street in
front of the mercer's shop.
Geoffrey waved to a neighbor, then turned to face Justin and Luke. "We'd best
start walking," he said. "My father will soon be out to watch for us. We can
show you where the church is, but I'd rather not go into the churchyard. I do
not want to see where she died and I am sure Daniel does not, either. I
thoughthopedyour request was merely an excuse to talk with us alone."
He looked at them quizzically and Justin found himself responding to the other
youth's forthrightness. "You're correct," he admitted. "I did think that we'd
do better on our own."
Geoffrey nodded. "I did not kill her, Master de Quincy. My brother and I are
innocent."
Geoffrey sounded sincere. Justin wanted to believe him, but he suspected that
the gaols were probably filled with killers who could sound no less
convincing. Glancing toward Daniel, who'd remained silent so far, he said,
"What about you, Daniel? Has your memory gotten any better?"
Daniel hunched his shoulders, staring down at his feet. "I've nothing to say
to you."
"You'll talk to us if we take you down to Newgate Gaol," Luke said brusquely.
"Make no mistake about that, lad."
It was obvious that Luke was not impressed with the younger Aston son. Justin
wasn't much taken with Daniel, either. But he
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wanted to be fair and it was likely the boy's surly defiance was born of fear.
"We cannot help you, Daniel, unless you cooperate with us."
"Help me?" Daniel echoed, not troubling to hide his disbelief. "How stupid do
you think I am?"
"That remains to be seen," Luke drawled. "Were you stupid enough to let
yourself become besotted with a young Welsh whore? Were you stupid enough to
kill her when she rejected you?"
Luke's provocation was calculatedand effective. Geoffrey frowned, protesting,
"That is not fair."
Daniel's reaction was less controlled and more revealing. His face twitched as
if he'd taken a blow. "Damn you, she was no whore!"
"Your father says she was," Justin pointed out, feeling as if he and Luke were
dogs baiting a bear.
"My father ..." Daniel choked up, spat out an unintelligible obscenity, and
bolted, running as clumsily as a young colt, a boy who hadn't yet grown into
his own body. They watched until he ducked into an alley off the Cheapside,
none of them speaking. Geoffrey was pinioning his lower lip, showing even
white teeth, his eyes conveying mute reproach. He stood his ground, though,
awaiting his turn.
"Who is right?" Justin asked abruptly, "your father or brother? Was Melangell
a whore?"
"No," Geoffrey said, showing a prickle of resentment, "she was not. She liked
men and she took her pleasures where she found them. But she was no whore."
"Did you kill her?"
"No, I did not... and neither did Daniel."
"Did you love her?"
Geoffrey started to speak, stopped. "I cared about her," he said, for the
first time sounding defensive. "I tried to be honest
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with her, told her about Adela .. . that is the girl I'm to wed. At least I
was until this happened." His smile was rueful. "When we were negotiating what
I'd be bringing to the marriage, not once was the suspicion of murder
mentioned."
Geoffrey paused then, waiting for questions that did not come. "Is there
anything else you want to ask me?" When they shook their heads, he smiled
again, this time politely. "If you're done, then I'll be off. I ought to see
if I can find Daniel."
"Go on," Justin agreed, adding as Geoffrey turned to go, "I do have one last
question. Do you know where Melangell is buried?"
Geoffrey was taken aback. "I... I do not know," he stammered. "I could not
attend her funeral. My father ... well, you heard him. He'd never have stood
for it..." His voice trailed off. He'd only gone a few feet when he stopped.
"She should have been buried in Wales," he said softly, "for she loved it so
..."
"Why," Luke asked, as they watched him go, "did you ask that?"
"I was curious," Justin said. "I wanted to know if he mourned her."
"And do you think he does?"
Justin whistled for Shadow, who was frisking happily after Geoffrey's
retreating figure. "Yes," he said, "I think so."
Luke arched a brow. "And does that eliminate him as a suspect?"
"No," Justin said, somewhat regretfully, "probably not."
Luke grinned. "By God, de Quincy, there is hope for you yet. So... now what?"
"We go," Justin said, "to find her family."
Jonas had told them that the peddler, Godwin, rented a room on Wood Street,
close by Cripplegate. As they expected, he was
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out selling his wares; even the death of a daughter did not lessen the need to
pay rent and buy food. The landlord was loquacious, though, especially after
Justin took out his money pouch, and cheerfully shared what little he knew
about the peddler and his family. Godwin had been living there since their
arrival in January, a decent sort who kept to himself and paid his rent on
time and tried, without success, to keep Melangell from running wild.
Surprisingly, the man's eyes filled with tears at the mention of the dead
girl's name. A sweet lass, he said mournfully, with bright eyes and a laugh as
rich and dark as honey. She'd flirted with every man who crossed her path,
wheedled scraps from the butcher to feed an army of stray cats and dogs,
played childish pranks, and once climbed out of the window on a knotted
blanket when her father locked her in their room. "The whole neighborhood wept
for her," he said, "God's Truth, they did. She was good-hearted, was
Melangell. You find who hurt that
little girl. Find him and make him pay." \
i
It took the rest of the afternoon to track the peddler down. They finally
found him at Billingsgate, trying to sell his goods to sailors as they came
off the ships docked in the basin. Godwin's rickety cart and aged,
cantankerous mule offered mute testimony to their owner's hardscrabble past,
as did the man himself. According to the landlord, Godwin believed he'd lived
through about forty winters, or so Melangell had claimed; she'd been as free
with their secrets as her father was sparing. By the look of him, though,
Godwin could easily have carried another decade on his stooped shoulders and
lanky, lean frame. His hair was brown and long, somewhat matted, his beard
bushy, his eyes deep set and dark, as opaque as marble and as unyielding. "I
do not understand," he said, speaking with the slow, cautious deliberation of
a man more comfortable with silences.
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"Why do you want to talk aboult my girl's death? Did that serjeant send you?"
Justin did not know how to answer him. He could not very well admit he'd been
engaged to clear the chief suspects in Melangell's murder. Yet he was
reluctant to lie to this man; if he could not share Godwin's grieving, at
least he could respect it.
Luke had no such scruples. "I am the under-sheriff," he said, conveniently
forgetting to clarify that his authority was rooted in another shire. "I
wanted to go over what you told my serjeant."
Godwin was quiet for a moment. "That serjeant of yours did not seem all that
interested in what I had to say."
He had to be talking about Tobias, the serjeant first called to the scene;
whatever Jonas's failings, he was nothing if not thorough and would give a
peddler's daughter the same diligence due the highborn. "Well," Luke said
smoothly, "another serjeant will be conducting the investigation from now on,
a man named Jonas. I think you'll find him more obliging."
Godwin smiled dourly, for a lifet tme's experience had taught him how
improbable it was that the authorities would ever be "obliging" to the likes
of him. "I told the other one that I knew who murdered my girl. You find the
man who seduced her, who bedazzled her into playing the wrupire for him, and
you'll find your killer." >
"Why do you think she had a lovfer?"
"She was always sneaking off, refuising to tell me where she'd been, even when
I took my hand to her. And after she died, I went through her belongings,
found trinkets and cloth and a brass mirror. She had no money to buy such
stuff, and she was no thief. He gave them to her, and then he killed her."
Godwin's voice was oddly without emotion, flattened out and stolid sounding.
Justin had heard these tones before, from those who'd long ago stopped expect
ing life to be easy or even
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fair. He found himself thinking; that a lack of hope was as onerous as the
lack of money. But then he thought of Melangell, escaping out a window to keep
her moonlit trysts in a deserted churchyard. A little less hope might have
kept her alive.
The rest of the interview 'with Godwin was unproductive. According to him,
Melangell had offered to pick up his shoes from the cordwainer, did not
return. When he got back from making his rounds, he'd gone looking for her,
not becoming truly fearful until darkness foil. He'd spent the night searching
for her and got home at daw in to find the serjeant, Tobias, waiting to take
him to identify his daughter's body.
But he claimed to know nothing of her churchyard rendezvous and could shed no
light on her last hours. When they pressed him, he became moire and more
taciturn, spending his words like a miser's hoarded coins. Luke had seen this
act before: the rustic peasant who was too slow-witted to be worth
interrogating. Even when it didn't work, it was a hard shell to crack, and he
did not protest when Godwin insisted he must get
back to work.
"Papa!" A child was rurvning toward them, weaving agilely
between the sailors clogging the wharf. "A ship is about to pass
through the bridge! Look ... they are taking down the mast.
Can I go onto the bridge to watch?"
"If you do not get underfoot," Godwin agreed, waving her
on. By then she'd noticed Luke and Justin. Sharp black eyes peered at them
curiously through a ripple of wind-tossed ebony hair, for she was too young to
wear a veil; Justin guessed her age to be about eleven. She had a thin little
face, an equally angular body, as yet showing no softening curves, swathed in
a well-mended gown that was too big for her; one of Melangell's
hand-me-downs? Justin had almost forgotten there was a younger sister.
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One glance was enough to tell her that these men were good prospects; a man
wearing a sword was a man sure to have some money to spend. "Papa, did you
show them those new hats, the ones with the wide brims? Or the brushes made
with boar bristles? Or the"
"They are not here to buy, Cati. They are looking into your sister's death."
Cati did not have her father's stoicism. Emotions chased across her face, like
shadows encroaching upon sunlight. There was pain, so raw the men flinched to
look upon it, followed by rage that was utterly adult in its intensity, and
then the saddest response of allsuspicion.
Justin supposed it was only to be expected that Cati would mistrust those in
authority. Peddlers were viewed as a necessary evil, tolerated and rousted by
turns, all too often convenient scapegoats for crimes in need of quick
solving. Although he did his best to reassure Cati of his goodwill, he got
nowhere fast, his smiles and gentle questions met with a blank stare. If Cati
had been privy to her sister's clandestine love affairs, she was not about to
break faith with Melangell now. She shook her head mutely, shrugged, even
lapsing into Welsh once or twice. Justin soon gave up. Luke had not even
tried, for he knew that none were more tenacious in the safeguarding of their
secrets than children, especially secrets that were forbidden.
Afterward, they walked slowly back home, tired and disheartened, as the day's
light faded and the sky's sunset afterglow gave way to a deepening twilight
haze. They'd stopped at the riverside cookshop to buy pork pies for
themselves, sausage for Shadow, and by the time they reached Gracechurch
Street, the Clty was silvered in moonlight. Justin was more discouraged than
Luke, for he was the one
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bound by Nell's rash promise, and it was pinching and chaffing more and more.
After an entire day chasing down Melangell's elusive ghost, he was still
groping for answers. He could not rule out either Geoffrey or Daniel Aston as
suspects in the girl's killing. Luke had helpfully pointed out that even her
father might well be a suspect, too, for he had no alibi for the time of the
murder. When Justin expressed skepticism, Luke reminded him that men had
killed in the defense of family honour since the dawn of time, and to that,
Justin had no comeback.
"Why could it not be a stranger?" Justin argued, almost plaintively, for he
was in a precarious situation and well aware of it. If one of the Aston boys
were guilty, he'd fail Agnes, a woman to whom he owed much. Yet if the girl's
father had slain her in a fit of misguided rage, what would become of Cati?
"It could have been, I suppose," Luke conceded, throwing him a bone. "I doubt
it, though. No one heard any screams, did they? It's been my experience that
when a woman is accosted by a stranger, she'll scream her head off. But if she
is there to meet someone she knows, she's not as likely to realize her danger
until it is too late. Even if they were quarreling and even if she was afraid,
would Melangell have feared that her father or her lover had killing in mind?"
Justin winced, for the dead girl was beginning to seem real to him. He could
envision her humming under her breath as she hastened to meet her lover,
admiring herself in that brass mirror, teasing her little sister and coaxing
the landlord into doing small favors for her. A girl who was spirited enough
to defy her father, who doted on animals and "liked men," a girl who'd died
too young and far from her Welsh homeland, probably buried in a pauper's
grave. It occurred to him now that he wanted to catch her killer as much for
Melangell as for Agnes or Cati.
"Of course," Luke theorized, "if that jackass Aston is right and she was a
harlot, then the killer could have been almost
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anyone, for half the men in London would tumble a pretty young wench if the
time and price were right."
"I do not think she was a harlot," Justin said, so firmly that Luke glanced at
him in amusement.
"Can you be so sure of that? We're not talking about the Blessed Virgin Mary,
after all, but a girl who ... how did Geoffrey so delicately put it? ... liked
men."
"That does not make her a whore," Justin insisted, and even he could not have
said if he was also defending his own unknown mother, defending Claudine.
"I pity you, de Quincy. Any man so trusting of women is like a sheep for the
shearing. As it happens, though," Luke conceded, "I tend to agree with you. It
does not sound as if the girl was out on the street, at least not full-time.
So we're back to a closed circle. The lover? The spurned lover? The father?"
"The truth, Luke, is that I have no idea who killed her."
"Neither do I," Luke acknowledged cheerfully. "But then, I'm leaving on the
morrow so itWhat? What is amiss?" he asked, for Justin had come to an abrupt
halt on the path, only a few feet from the cottage.
Justin answered by pointing toward the door. After being stalked by Gilbert
the Fleming, he'd gotten into the habit of snagging the latchstring around a
nail whenever he left the cottage. Now it dangled free, offering swaying proof
that the latch had been lifted. But was the intruder still within? Bathed in
moonlight, silent as a cemetery, the cottage gave away no secrets. All seemed
normal. All had seemed normal, too, in Gunter's stables just before the
Fleming had launched his murderous attack.
Someone else might have shrugged, assumed the string had broken free, and
barged on in. But Luke was never one to mock caution; on several occasions,
that niggling sixth sense had saved his life. He and Justin slid their swords
from their scab-
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bards in unison. They worked well as a team, but then they'd had some practice
at it. Justin hit the door first, with Luke right behind him, entering fast to
take any intruders by surprise.
The tactic worked. Claudine was certainly surprised, sitting bolt upright in
bed with a startled scream. She'd lit a cresset lamp, and it gave off enough
light to reveal that the shapely body in the bed was naked under the sheet.
Her skin looked golden and glistening in the lamplight, her hair spilling over
her bared shoulders, darker than the night itself, and Justin's breath caught
in his throat.
Claudine was still clutching the sheet, her eyes wide. But as she looked from
Justin, who was slowly sheathing his sword, to Luke, who was leaning against
the door, grinning widely, a smile flitted across her lips.
"Oh, my," she said, and began to laugh.
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April 1193
II ij^jl Reluctantly taking his eyes from the laughing KK M Claudine, Luke
glanced toward Justin, who had yet to ILmJo move or speak. "There's a sight to
strike any man dumb," the deputy joked, although he sensed there was more at
play here than sexual tension. "It looks like I'll be bedding down tonight in
Gunter's smithy. You'll not be getting rid of me without paying a price,
though, de Quincy. I'm going nowhere unless I'm introduced to this vision in
your bed."
Justin grudgingly complied and Luke sauntered over to the bed to kiss
Claudine's hand, much to her amusement. "Lady Claudine, you have given me a
memory sure to warm up the coldest winter nights. I thank you for that. Sadly
enough, it is a debt I can only repay by leaving. I shall take myself off to
the smithy and try to figure out what you can possibly see in de Quincy."
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"Passing strange, for that is the same thing I've often wondered about Aldith
and you," Justin said, with a smile as strained as his humor. As soon as the
door closed behind Luke, he shoved the latch into place. "What are you doing
here, Claudine?"
She'd begun to pet Shadow, who was wriggling happily under her caresses. Her
eyebrows arched, both at the question and the tone. "If you need to ask that,
Justin, it has definitely been too long since we've lain together!"
Justin hastily sought to recover lost ground. "I meant how did you get here.
Surely you did not come on your own? The streets are not safe for a woman
after dark, especially one who looks like you." There was no need to feign
concern over her safety; he discovered now that his anxiety was quite genuine.
She was mollified by the ring of sincerity in his voice. "I asked a friend to
bring me; you remember Nicholas de Mydden?"
"The coxcomb with straw-color hair?" He saw her eyes crinkle at the corners
and knew she thought him to be jealous. Not that he was, he assured himself.
How could he be jealous of a woman he meant to walk away from? That would make
no sense. She had propped herself up on one elbow, watching him through the
sweep of those improbably long lashes. Jesii, but she was beautiful. If
Bathsheba had been even half as lovely, no wonder King David had been smitten
at first sight of her in that rooftop bath.
His treacherous imagination immediately conjured up an image of Claudine in
her bath, soft and wet and slippery with soap, a wayward mermaid, eyes filled
with moonlight and that midnight hair flowing free, trailing over her breasts
into the water like silken seaweed. But he'd not shared a bath with Claudine,
knew that he never would. Theirs had been a love affair of stolen moments and
no talk of tomorrows; even before he'd learned that she was John's spy, he'd
known there could be
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but one ending for them. And now it was done. She was the most desirable woman
he'd ever bedded, and the most deceitful. No matter how much he wanted her, he
could not trust her. Even more troubling, he could not trust himself when he
was with her. It had to end.
"Claudine, we need to talk."
"Yes, we certainly do," she agreed. "But first can you find us something to
drink? I've been waiting for over an hour and I am parched."
Justin had a half-full wineskin on the table. When he found a cup, she stopped
him from searching further, saying, "No, do not bother. We can share it." He
did not think that was a good idea, but there was no tactful way to refuse. He
carried it to the bed and she slid over to make room for him. Against his
better judgment, he sat beside her and held out the cup. She drank deeply,
smiling at him over the rim. "Now ... you first. What did you want to talk
about?"
Justin sought to keep his gaze on her face; it was no easy feat, as her sheet
had slipped. "About us."
"Me, too." She leaned over to hand him the cup, and her movement sent the
sheet into free-fall, sliding down to her waist. She made no attempt to cover
herself. "I love it when you look at me like that," she murmured, "as if you
could never get enough of me."
Justin's breath had stopped again. His brain made a last-ditch attempt to
remind him of his resolve, but common sense could not begin to compete with
that tempting red mouth, wild black mane, and slim, smooth body. He didn't
bother to set the cup down, just tossed it into the floor rushes, and reached
for her. She laughed, wrapping her arms tightly around his neck as he jerked
away the sheet.
The lovemaking that followed was unlike anything Justin had experienced
before. There was more than lust in their eager,
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out-of-control coupling. He'd brought anger into the bed, too, a stifled rage
that found expression now in the urgency of his demands. He was not gentle,
not tender, afire with his need for release, for redemption, for oblivion.
Claudine was soon caught up in his incendiary passion, burning with the same
frenzied fever, and for a brief time, there were no secrets between them, no
betrayals, nothing but sweat and scratches and muffled cries and pleasure so
intense it was almost akin to pain.
When it was over, Justin was exhausted, drenched in perspiration, and shaken,
both by the reckless abandon of their lovemaking and that it had happened at
all. This was not what he'd wanted; at least he no longer wanted it now that
his body's desperate hunger had been slaked. He was in no mood to appreciate
the irony of his plight, too troubled by this alarming evidence of the power
Claudine still wielded over him. In her own way, she was no less dangerous
than John.
Claudine's breathing was still uneven, her lashes fanning her cheeks, the hint
of a smile hovering in the corners of her mouth. Her hair cascaded over the
pillow, over them both, not quite hiding the faint shadows on her skin ...
bruises in the making? He frowned at this physical proof of his own rash
behavior, his fingers twitching with the urge to touch those shadows, caress
them away. "I am sorry if I hurt you," he said, awkwardly. "I did not mean to
be so rough ..."
Her lashes flew upward, dark eyes glowing. "Darling, you should be bragging,
not apologizing! Mind you, the other times we made love were quite satisfying,
but this ... At the risk of puffing up your male pride beyond bearing, this
was truly remarkable. Anyway," she added, with a mischief-making grin, "I'm
the one who ought to be apologizing, not you. Take a look at your back ... I
clawed you well and proper, my poor love." "It does not matter." "You might
change your mind in the morning, especially
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when you splash cold water on that back. And I'm sure you do not have any
useful balms or salves lying around, do you? Well, I'll bring something over
the next time I come." Twirling a long strand of hair around her finger, she
used it to tickle his chest. "Even with the queen sending you all over
creation on one mysterious errand after another, are you not sorry now that
you did not steal some time for us?"
"What do you think?" he said evasively. "I know I've been away a lot lately,
but it was none of my doing."
He was wondering if that sounded as lame to her as it did to him when she
asked, "Where did you go? Were you trying to track down John for the queen?"
Justin sat up so abruptly that she glanced over at him in surprise. He avoided
her eyes, lest she see how that innocuous question had rattled him. Was it
truly innocent... mere curiosity? Or was she still spying on John's behalf?
Getting out of bed, he started to collect his clothes. They were scattered all
over the cottage, for when he'd stripped, his only concern had been speed.
Claudine sat up, watching in puzzlement as he pulled his tunic on. "Why are
you getting dressed, Justin? Do you need to fetch something ... wine or ale?"
"No ... I am going to take you home."
She smiled, settling back against the pillow. "That is sweet, love, but
unnecessary. I got the queen's permission to stay the night. Not that I told
her I'd be with you, of course. I doubt that she'd be perturbed, though, if
she knew the truth. The queen is a very worldly woman, after all, with enough
scandals in her own past to ... Justin? Why are you still dressing?"
"I think," he said, "that you will want to go back to the Tower after you hear
what I have to tell you."
Her quizzical smile faded. "And what is that?"
"I think we ought to put an end to these trysts."
Her lashes flickered, but other than that, she did not react.
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"Why?" she asked, and he realized he had no idea what she was thinking,
proofif he needed itthat he'd been bedding a stranger for these past few
months, making love to a woman he'd never truly known.
"We have no future together," he said, striving to sound matter-of-fact. "You
made that plain from the first. The longer we see each other on the sly, the
more likely one of us will be hurt... or we'll be discovered. I do not share
your certainty that the queen would not object to my bedding one of her ladies
in waiting, a kinswoman. I could lose my post in her household and you could
be sent back to Aquitaine in disgrace. The risk is just too great, Claudine."
"You would not have said that a quarter hour ago," she reminded him dryly.
"You'd not want to eat a meal without salt, would you? Then why would you want
a life without risk? Have you not learned by now, Justin, that risk is an
aphrodisiac?"
"Not when there is so much at stake," he said stubbornly, and saw her eyes
narrow slightly. Her scrutiny made him uneasy, for she was too clever by half.
What if she guessed the truth? When she finally spoke, her words took him
totally by surprise.
"Who is she?"
He blinked. "What?"
"I am not a fool, Justin, so do not treat me like one!" Her anger was sudden,
disconcerting. "Do not try to make me believe you've tired of me, not after
that wild way you made love to me tonight. And do not talk of risk and
disgrace and discovery, for you knew of all that from the outset of our
affair. Nothing has changed ... or has it? I can think of only one reason why
you're so conscience stricken. You've gotten involved with another woman,
haven't you?"
He hesitated, then grabbed the lifeline she had unwittingly thrown him. "Yes."
"I knew something was amiss," she cried, bitterly tri-
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umphant. "I could sense the change in you, should have realized ... Well, the
truth is out now, and it is time for some plain speaking. I'll not pretend I
like it any, but I know men; the body part that is usually in command is not
your brain. So you strayed. That is not a sin beyond forgiving. But I do not
share my lover, not now, not ever. I'll need your promise that you'll not see
this woman again."
"I cannot promise that, Claudine," he said softly, and saw her confidence
crack, saw the disbelief and shock etched across her face. Had she ever been
rejected before?
"Are you saying you're choosing her over me?" She sounded so incredulousand
suddenly so vulnerablethat he had to struggle with the urge to take his words
back, to take her into his arms again. But he stayed where he was, let his
silence speak for him.
Claudine stared at him, patches of hot color beginning to burn along her
cheekbones. "You bastard," sh£ said at last, a double-edged insult that
besmirched both his paternity and character. "Get out!" Then she seemed to
remember that the cottage was his, for she added, "I want to dress and I'll
not do it in front of you."
Justin was not about to point out the illogic of that demand. He headed for
the door, escaped with relief out into the cool April night. He'd done what he
must. So why did he not feel better about it? He'd not expected her to take it
so badly. Was it her heart that he'd bruisedor her pride?
When she finally emerged from the cottage, she was fully clad, hair hidden
away under a silken wimple and veil, appearing immaculate and elegantas long
as one didn't look too closely. She strode past him as if he didn't exist, and
he had to hasten to catch up with her. "I'll take you home now."
"The Devil you will!" she snapped, continuing on up the path toward the
smithy.
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"Be reasonable, Claudine. I'm not going to let you wander about the streets
all by yourself!"
"You have nothing to say about it!"
By now they'd reached the smithy. When Justin sought to open the door for
Claudine, she brushed by him and then slammed it in his face. When he jerked
it open again and followed her, he discovered they now had an audience. Gunter
and Luke looked up, startled, from a game of draughts, while the farrier's
young helper, Ellis, nearly dropped a hammer on his foot, so intent was he
upon ogling Claudine.
"For God's sake, Claudine," Justin began, uncomfortably aware of the other
men, "you cannot go off on your own merely to spite me. It is too dangerous!"
"I will do as I damned well please," Claudine insisted hotly, but then her
gaze fell upon Luke, lingered. Ignoring Justin, she walked over to the deputy
and smiled. "Luke, was it not? Well, Luke, how would you like to escort me
home to the Tower?"
Luke looked at Justin, then at Claudine. "My lady, it would be an honour," he
said, at his most courtly, and Justin wanted to hit him.
"It is settled, then." Claudine swept on out of the smithy, without so much as
a backward glance. Luke got hastily to his feet and hurried after her. At the
door, he paused. Glancing back at Justin, he shrugged, then disappeared out
into the night.
After their departure, the silence was smothering, at least to Justin. The
taciturn Gunter mercifully refrained from comment, and Ellis was too shy to
say anything, although Justin knew he'd waste no time in spreading the story
the length and breadth of Gracechurch Street. Justin considered his options,
none of which he found appealing, tossed a terse "Goodnight" in Gunter's
direction, and plunged through the doorway.
The street outside was quiet, for Gracechurch's denizens were either ensconced
before their own hearths or over at Nell's ale-
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house. Luke and Claudine were almost out of sight already, turning the corner
onto Cheapside. Justin stood, irresolute, for several moments, then found
himself drawn toward the light spilling from the alehouse's open door.
The alehouse was only half full. A game of hasard was in progress, people
drifting over to watch the dice being thrown, making desultory side bets and
cheering the players on. A prostitute was hovering nearby, hoping for some
action of her own. Nell discouraged solicitation in the alehouse, on pragmatic
rather than moral grounds; too often it led to brawling. But this was a
neighborhood woman, a hard-pressed widow with three children to feed, and so
Nell turned a blind eye to her nocturnal hunting. After serving another ale to
the priest from St Benet's Church and pausing briefly to banter with several
of her regular customers, Nell picked up a flagon and two cups, then headed
toward the corner table Justin had staked out for himself and Shadow.
"Here," she said, "have a drink on me. So... what happened?"
For a dismayed moment, Justin thought she'd already heard about his quarrel
with Claudine. But even Nell's sources were not that good and he relaxed
somewhat with her next question. "Well?" she prodded. "You met the Astons
today, did you not? What did you think of them?"
Far from resenting her interrogation, Justin welcomed it; as long as he was
talking about the Astons, he need not think about Claudine. "Geoffrey strikes
me as a lad with some practice in pleasing people. He is obviously the family
pride and joy, unlike his brother, who seems cast as the family scapegoat. An
odd thing about roles; people tend to live up to them."
Nell nodded emphatically. "Exactly," she agreed. "Geoffrey can seem a bit
glib, saying just what is expected of him. Affability is his shield, his way
of surviving in that hellish
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household. Whereas poor Daniel never learned any survival skills, either
lashing out or retreating, like a turtle into its shell." She poured for
herself and Justin from the flagon, then grinned. "And what was your opinion
of Master Humphrey Aston?"
Justin responded with a pithy, colorful phrase that would not pass muster in
polite company, and Nell laughed outright. "He is, isn't he?" she agreed. "If
you seek to understand the sons, you need look no further than the father. I
suppose the man must have a stray virtue or two, but his vices are so much
more noticeable .. . and not even grand vices, but the low, petty sort."
"Which vices are those?" Justin asked, more to keep the conversation going
than for any other reason. By his reckoning, it should take Luke and Claudine
about a quarter hour to get to the Tower. Then another quarter hour for Luke
to get back. His eyes flicked toward the candle notched to help the alehouse
patrons keep track of the time until closing. "Which vices?" he asked again,
and Nell gave him a curious look.
"Were you not listening? I said he was a bully and a miser, and pompous in the
bargain. But by far his most damning sin is the way he wields his love like a
club."
That caught Justin's attention. "What do you mean?"
"From what Agnes says, he has ever favored Geoffrey over Daniel. Unequal love
like that is a burden, both to the one loved and the one not loved. Imagine
what it was like for Daniel growing up, knowing that he could never measure up
to his brother no matter how hard he tried. Is it surprising that he soon
stopped trying?"
"No," Justin conceded, "I suppose not." And oddly enough, he suddenly found
himself thinking of John, for he, too, had grown to manhood in the smothering
shadow of a better-loved brother.
Nell was studying him pensively, for neither his preoccupation nor his bleak
mood had escaped her notice. She'd been
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intrigued from the first by his eyes, a clear grey that darkened to slate when
he was angry and was shot through with silver whenever he laughed. Now they
put her in mind of a December sky, a color without warmth or cheer or even
hope. Reaching out, she surprised him by brushing a lock of black hair off his
forehead, a gesture that was almost maternal. "Do you want to talk about
whatever is troubling you? I can keep a secret when need be, Justin, better
than most people realize."
Justin was half tempted to take her up on her offer, but somehow it seemed a
betrayal of Claudine to talk about her to another woman. Why he should care
about keeping faith with a woman who'd played him for such a fool was a
question he could not answer, one he could only ignore. "Some troubles need to
ripen like cheeses ere they can be brought out into the open," he said, as
lightly as he could, and instead, he told her about the rest of his day, about
the scene in the Aston household and then the meeting down on the quay with
the father and sister of Melangell. He'd begun to think of her by name now,
always as Melangell, not just as the murdered girl or the peddler's daughter.
Nell listened intently, asked sensible questions, and for a time, he forgot to
glance over at that notched candle, forgot to wonder why Luke had not yet
returned. Nell agreed with him that there was more to Melangell's death than
met the eye. It was not likely to have been a random killing, she declared,
unconsciously echoing Luke's verdict. He must search for a motive, find out
who had reason to want her dead. And he must also seek out the little sister
again, for if Melangell had a secret worth killing over, Cati would be the one
to know. Sisters share, she insisted, and Justin nodded somberly, seeing again
Cati's slanting black eyes, too knowing and guarded for a child of eleven. She
would not be easy to win over, this wary Welsh wood-sprite. She was not like
Melangell.
He stayed at the alehouse until the curfew bells echoed across
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the city and Nell announced she was closing, ignoring the pleas from patrons
for one more round of drinks. Collecting Shadow, he crossed the street,
circled around the smithy, and headed across the pasture toward the cottage.
Light shone through chinks in the shutters and he remembered that he'd not
extinguished the lamp in his rush to catch up with Claudine. That would have
been poor payment for Gunter's kindness, if he'd burned down the blacksmith's
cottage by his carelessness. Reaching for the latchstring, he opened the door
and then stopped abruptly, for Luke was sitting at the table with a flagon.
"I bought some wine on my way home," the deputy said. "There is enough for us
to have one last drink... if you've a mind to?"
After a moment, Justin shrugged. "Why not?" Glancing once at the rumpled bed
and tangled sheets and then away, he joined the other man at the table,
watched as Luke poured the remaining wine into two cracked cups.
"Where were you?" Luke asked, with a casualness that was almost convincing.
"Over at the alehouse?"
"Yes." Justin paused. "Did you see Claudine back safely?"
Luke nodded, and a silence fell between them, as charged as the stillness
before a breaking summer storm. "I did not make up the pallet," Luke said,
"for I was not sure if you'd want me to sleep here tonight."
"Is there a reason why I should not?" Justin asked, very evenly, and their
eyes met for the first time.
"No," Luke said, "no reason." He took a deep swallow of the wine, then set the
cup down with a thud. "Hellfire, de Quincy, that is one beautiful woman. Of
course I agreed to escort her home. But a friend once told me that he was not
one for poaching in another man's woods, and neither am I."
Those words were Justin's own, his assurance to Luke that he'd recognized
Aldith was not fair game, already spoken for.
CRUEL AS THE GRAVE
He almost asked Luke if Claudine had offered him anything more than a walk
home, then decided he didn't truly want to know. "Death to all poachers,
then," he said with a crooked smile and he and Luke clinked their cups
ceremoniously.
Luke was quiet for a moment, green eyes probing. "I do not know what you did,
but you'll have no easy time making your peace with her. She is right wroth
with you, man."
Justin drank, saying nothing, and Luke reached again for his own cup. "You can
get her back, though," he said, "for when we reached the Tower, there were
tear tracks on her cheeks."
Justin looked away, but not in time. The other man was staring. "My God,
you've got it bad," he said. "Then why did you let her leave like that... and
with me!"
"I do not want to talk about it, Luke."
"Why not?"
"Probably for the same reason that you do not want to talk about what has gone
wrong between you and Aldith," Justin said, and Luke grimaced, then grinned
reluctantly.
"That sound you hear," he said, "is a trumpet signaling retreat."
They finished the wine in silence and then retired for the night, Luke on his
pallet by the hearth, Justin in the bed that still bore the imprint of
Claudine's body, the scent of her perfume. He did not sleep well that night.
Windsor Castle rose up on a chalk ridge a hundred feet above the River Thames.
Just twenty miles from London, it had been chosen for its strategic
significance by John's great-greatgrandfather, William the Bastard. The motte
was flanked by two large baileys, crowned by a stone shell keep known as the
Great Tower. Standing on the battlements, John gazed down upon the small
village nestling in the shadow of Windsor's walls.
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Daylight was fast fading but he could still see the parish church, the
cemetery, the open market square, the wattle and daub houses. The narrow
streets were empty of villagers. New Windsor resembled a plague town, for the
inhabitants had fled, some to the deep woods south and west of the castle,
others trying to reach the hamlet of Bray or the nunnery at Bromhall.
Ordinarily in time of danger, villagers would have sought refuge in the
castle, but Windsor Castle was no sanctuary. It was a target.
A few forlorn dogs still roamed the streets, abandoned by their panicked
masters, and pigs would soon be foraging in the untended gardens, until they
ended up on spits over soldiers' campfires. John paid no heed to the deserted
village and the stray animals, keeping his gaze upon the road that stretched
toward London. The dust clouds were growing thicker, kicked up by hundreds of
horses and marching men.
"My lord?" He turned to find that Durand de Curzon had joined him at the wall
embrasure. Together they watched the approaching army. The banners were
visible now, the royal lions of the English king, his absent brother,
hopefully rotting in an Austrian dungeon. John leaned his elbows upon the
merlon, hearing again his mother's cool, clipped tones as she warned that
she'd do whatever she must to protect Richard's throne.
"My lord?" Durand repeated, somewhat impatiently this time.
"What?"
"They are going to demand that you surrender the castle to the queen. Will
you?"
Until that moment, John hadn't been sure himself what he would do. "No," he
said. "I will not."
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LONDON
April 1193
IL'^J^rJl Luke left the next morning, after coaxing Nell into VM making him a
hearty breakfast of fried bread and IL£JO sausages. Justin saw him off with an
exchange of affable insults and hoped that the other man would not tarry too
long at the Windsor siege. If Aldith grew tired of waiting, there would be no
lack of men eager to take Luke's place in her bed. After the deputy's
departure, he found himself reluctant to return to the cottage, where the
scent of Claudine's perfume still lingered. Nell insisted upon serving him
another helping, waiting with rare patience for him to eat his fill before she
broached the subject of Melangell's murder.
"Must you seek out the queen today?"
"I might stop by the Tower later, check to see if she has need of me. This
morn I thought I'd see for myself where Melangell died and then pay another
visit to her family."
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Nell's blue eyes brightened. "Take me with you," she urged. "I'll get Ellis to
open the alehouse whilst I'm gone. I can sniff out untruths faster than a pig
can unearth acorns. Did I not prove that when we fooled the Fleming's whore?"
She was anticipating an argument, but Justin did not offer any objections.
Nell's verve would keep his own dark mood at bay, and if her presence vexed
the irascible Humphrey Aston, so much the better. Cutting up his trencher, he
fed the gravysoaked bread to Shadow, and then rose to his feet. "What
of Lucy?"
Lucy was Nell's five-year-old daughter, the one pure legacy left by Nell's
late husband, an amiable dreamer who'd died in a drunken accident. "I'll ask
Agnes to look after her," Nell declared, jerking off her apron before Justin
could change his mind. Solving a murder was infinitely more satisfying, after
all, than tending to the demands of querulous alehouse patrons.
The parish church of St Mary Magdalene was just off the Cheapside, on Milk
Street, so conveniently close to the Aston family's shop that it was easy to
see why Geoffrey and Melangell had chosen it for their trysts. Churchyards
were popular places for dalliances, for any number of secular activities
frowned upon by the Church. People played camp-ball and quoits; children
darted between the wooden crosses in games of hoodman blind and hunt-the-fox;
goods were bartered; prostitutes occasionally lured men into the shadows to
sin; it was not unheard of to find goats and sheep placidly cropping the grass
over the graves. And on an April evening less than a week ago, Melangell had
gone to her death in this deceptively
tranquil setting.
The churchyard was still and deserted. The morbidly curious had already
flocked to the site to gawk at the bloodstains; the more squeamish would keep
away until the spectre of violent
CRUEL AS THE GRAVE
death had faded from memory. Not all of the graves were marked; some had
wooden crosses, a few had flat gravestones, and others lay hidden under a
blanket of new spring grass. Several earthen mounds were still visible,
evidence of recent burials. They'd be the last for some time to come, for a
churchyard polluted by bloodshed could not be used again until it was
reconsecrated, the spiritual stain purged with holy water and Holy Scriptures.
Melangell's murder would cause grief to a few, inconvenience to many.
Entering the churchyard, Justin nearly stumbled over a little mound of earth.
It resembled a grave, but why had it been dug on the very edge of the
cemetery? Nell saw him frown, and answered his unspoken question. "A babe who
dies unbaptised cannot be buried in consecrated ground. Some priests will
allow them to be laid to rest as close as possible to the cemetery's hallowed
soil. Others are less merciful, and it is not unknown to refuse burial to a
woman who died in childbirth if the babe was still within her womb."
Justin said nothing, gazing down at that small pitiful grave. Had his mother
been shriven ere she died? Was she buried in holy ground? He had no way of
knowing, for it was not likely his father would ever tell him. He did not even
know her name. With an effort, he shrugged off his own ghosts and looked about
for Melangell's.
Jonas had said she'd died by the cross, and as he drew near, he could see the
dried blood darkening the greyish-white stone. The grass was trampled and torn
by the base and it was all too easy to envision a girl's body crumpled in the
dirt. With Nell watching him intently, as if he were an alchemist working his
unholy magic, he studied the death scene in silence. She'd either fallen or
been pushed, and had struck her head against one of the cross's outstretched
arms. Panicked, the assailant had fled, leaving her dead or dying in the
twilight dusk. Had he meant to
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kill her? Had this been a rape gone awry as Jonas suspected? If so, that would
make Daniel a more likely suspect than Geoffrey.
Nell picked up on his thoughts. "Poor Agnes," she said softly.
Justin was turning away when something caught his eye. Bending down, he
retrieved a rock from a thicket of nearby bushes. It was about the size of a
man's fist, looked as if it had broken off from a grave slab. Holding it up
toward the sun, he ran his fingers over the reddish-brown stain, and Nell
blurted out:
"That looks like blood! Do you think it is Melangell's?"
Justin did. Melangell had died on Friday night, just five days ago, five days
without rain. If the blood was not Melangell's, whose was it? And if it was
hers? Suddenly her death did not seem so accidental, after all. Squeezing the
rock into his money pouch, he said, "We're done here. Let's go on to Friday
Street, see if we can find some answers there."
They found the Aston household in disarray. Beatrice was abed, not receiving
visitors; the little maidservant mumbled that her mistress was "unwell."
Daniel and Geoffrey were at work in the mercer's shop, the former helping
another apprentice to sort through piles of newly imported silks and linens,
the latter going over the accounts. But Humphrey Aston was nowhere in
evidence, and all in the shopjourneymen, apprentices, even customersseemed
easier for his absence.
"My father had to go to the Mercer's Guild. But he ought to be back soon,"
Geoffrey said, with a glint of hidden humor. "I am sure you'd not want to miss
seeing him."
"Indeed not," Justin agreed gravely. "Suppose I talk with you and your brother
whilst we await his return?"
Daniel flung down an armful of silks, with such vehemence that they slid from
the counter, fluttering into the floor rushes. "I do not have to talk to you,"
he said combatively. "You're not the sheriff or even one of his men!"
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"He is the queen's man, you foolish boy/' Nell said irritably. Daniel had
already wheeled; the door banged as he retreated into the storeroom.
"His nerves are on the raw," Geoffrey said, stating the obvious with an
apologetic half-smile. "He was fond of Melangell."
"How fond?"
The tone of Justin's voice took Geoffrey's smile away. "He ... he may have
fancied her. Is that so surprising? She was very pretty, after all."
Justin gestured for Geoffrey to join him and they moved toward the doorway,
out of eavesdropping range. "And you were not jealous?"
Geoffrey looked startled. "No, of course not."
"Why not?" Justin was deliberately abrasive. "Because you knew she loved you
and you alone? Or because you did not consider your brother to be a rival
worth worrying about?"
Geoffrey flushed slightly; he'd had little experience in deflecting hostility.
"Both, I suppose," he admitted. "Daniel is pitifully awkward with girls, so
tongue-tied that they either laugh at him or avoid him altogether."
"Which did Melangell do?"
"Neithershe befriended him. Melangell was ever one for taking in strays."
Justin changed the subject abruptly, hoping to throw Geoffrey off stride.
"What of the silk cloth found under her body? Did you give it to her?"
"No, I did not. I'd given her presents in the past, when I could. But we do
not sell that sort of silk weave, a patterned twill."
Justin did not expect Geoffrey to fall into so obvious a trap, but he still
had to ask. "I take it you've seen the silk in question, then?"
Geoffrey nodded. "The serjeant... Tobias, I think he was called ... showed it
to us."
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Justin hoped that Tobias had thought to show it to the others who worked in
the Aston shop; he wasn't very impressed so far with the Serjeant's
investigation. "Can anyone account for your whereabouts that night?" j
Geoffrey smiled faintly. "Besides me, you mean? No, I regret not. I'd gone on
an errand on my mother's behest, in search of henbane and bryony root and
black poppy, for she was in need of a sleeping potion. But when I got to the
apothecary's, he had already closed up for the night."
Justin sighed, sure that Beatrice Aston would verify Geoffrey's story, and
sure, too, that her confirmation was meaningless; what mother would not lie to
save her son? "That is all for now," he said, and then, suddenly, "Do you
think your
brother killed her?"
Geoffrey was not flustered by the unexpected question. "No,"
he said emphatically, "I do not."
Justin studied him for a long moment. They were of an age and could have been
mirror images of each other, both tall and lean, although Justin's hair was
dark and Geoffrey's was flaxen. "Would you tell me if you did suspect him?" he
asked, and was not surprised when Geoffrey immediately shook his head.
"No," he said, "I would not," and Justin felt a faint flicker of respect. He'd
grown up without a father and had felt the loss keenly. Geoffrey's father had
been there since his first day of life, ever present and omnipotent, and
Justin would not have traded places with him for half the riches in
Christendom.
"Geoffrey!" The voice was a female one, unfamiliar to Justin. He turned to see
a young woman coming up the street toward them. She was tall and willowy, and
although she was modestly veiled and wimpled, her skin was so fair and her
eyes so blue that Justin was sure her hidden hair color was blond. She was
accompanied by a male servant, heavily laden with packages
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and bundles, so deferential that Justin knew at once this must be Adela,
Geoffrey's prospective bride.
Geoffrey confirmed his guess even before the introductions were made, glancing
toward Justin in mute entreaty. Justin understood what he was asking: to say
nothing of Melangell's murder. Did Adela know suspicion had fallen upon her
betrothed? Surely her uncle did by now. No wonder Geoffrey was uneasy, for the
plight troth had not yet been finalized; Adela could still disavow him, put an
end to the marriage plans if the scandal grew any worse. And it was obvious
that Geoffrey wanted this marriage to take place, for there was an edginess
underlying the affection in his greeting. Adela was a marital prize, niece to
the master of the Mercer's Guild, and Humphrey Aston's choice of a bride for
his son. With so much at stake, Justin was not surprised that Geoffrey should
be nervous, and he obliged by identifying himself as a "friend of Geoffrey's,
eager to meet his bride-to-be."
Geoffrey shot him a grateful look before giving Adela a circumspect kiss on
the cheek. The talk was banal, mostly of Adela's shopping purchases in the
Cheapside market, offering Justin an opportunity to appraise Geoffrey's future
wife. She was undeniably elegant, but somewhat aloof, putting him in mind of a
swan, regal and unapproachable, as unlike the earthy, wanton peddler's
daughter as chalk and cheese. Would this pampered, bloodless child of
privilege stand by Geoffrey if he fell under serious suspicion? Or would she
shrink from the scandal, from a man less than perfect? If he were asked to
wager on it, Justin would have put his money on the latter likelihood. And
yet... those pale blue eyes were guarded, not vacant, and one of her
well-tended, soft hands was resting possessively on Geoffrey's arm. Mayhap he
had been too quick to judge, to assume that propriety was her ruling passion.
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"Geoffrey, I would like you to escort me home." Adela seemed to take his
compliance for granted, for she then bade Justin a polite farewell and
signaled for her servant to follow. Justin watched them move off down the
street, wondering how muchif anythingAdela knew about Melangell. And then he
stepped back into the shop, where Nell was chatting easily with the
journeymen, and went in search of Daniel.
He found the boy in the storeroom, sitting on a barrel surrounded by items of
luxury, for while mercers dealt primarily in silks and costly textiles, they
also sold toys, hats and caps, belts, and spices. Daniel's face was blotched
with color, his eyes bloodshot and puffy. He glared defiantly at Justin,
square chin jutting out, freckled fists clenching on his knees. "Are you still
here? I'm getting bone-weary of running into you every time I
turn around!"
Justin slammed the door shut behind him, then leaned back against it, arms
folded across his chest, saying nothing. It didn't take long. Daniel was soon
squirming under his cold-eyed appraisal. "What are you staring at?" he
demanded. "Why will
you not leave me be?"
"If I do, lad, you're sure to hang," Justin said brutally, and saw Daniel
quiver under the impact of his words. "I do not know if you killed the girl. I
do know you're the one likely to answer for it, and on the gallows. So if you
can clear yourself, now is the time to speak up ... ere it is too late."
Daniel's ruddy color had ebbed away. "I did nothing wrong," he said hoarsely.
"I did not kill her!"
"I need more than your denial, Daniel. I need answers. Where were you on the
night of Melangell's death?"
"I was down by the wharves."
"Alone?"
Daniel nodded. "I... I filched a flagon of my father's wine,
and went off to drink it where I'd not be seen."
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Justin didn't know whether to laugh or to swear. "Of all nights, you and your
brother would pick that one to shun the company of others."
Daniel blinked. "Geoffrey cannot prove where he was, either?"
"You did not know that? Did you not talk to him about the killing?"
"No," Daniel said, so simply that Justin believed him. On reflection, it was
not as odd as it first appeared. The Astons were not a confiding family, more
like separate, lonely islands in a sea churned up by Humphrey's bile.
"What did you and Melangell quarrel about, Daniel, on the day of her death?"
Daniel looked at him bleakly, finally mumbling, "I told you I do not
remember."
"Do not be a fool, Daniel," Justin warned, but he was too late. The door,
having opened a crack, now slammed shut again. Daniel's face was stony, green
eyes staring stubbornly off into space, looking anywhere but at Justin's face.
Justin soon saw further discussion was futile. "Never have I seen someone so
eager to get himself hanged," he said impatiently, and left Daniel to the
solitude of the storeroom and his own troubled thoughts.
As soon as Justin stepped back into the shop, he felt the change in
atmosphere. One glance pinpointed the source of tension: Humphrey Aston had
returned. He was blocking the open doorway, shutting out the light, and
judging from his stance and his scowl, he was not pleased with what had been
occurring in his absence. The apprentices were visibly wilting under the heat
he was giving off, the journeymen had suddenly found urgent tasks to perform,
and even the few customers seemed uncomfortable. Only Nell appeared unfazed by
Humphrey's ire. She was regarding him with the same detached distaste she
showed
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whenever her Lucy brought snails and toads inside for her inspection and
identification.
Humphrey was startled by the sight of Justin. "Why did no one tell me you were
here?" he asked irritably. "Well? What do you have to report? Have you found
out who killed that peddler's wench?"
"No."
Humphrey waited for Justin to continue, and drew a shallow, aggrieved breath
when he realized that terse response was all he was going to get. He may have
been a bully, but he was no fool, and he'd grudgingly concluded that Justin
was not easily intimidated. Swallowing his anger, he said dismissively, "I'd
hoped you'd have made more progress by now." As his eyes roamed the shop,
taking inventory of his realm, he noticed then two conspicuous absences.
"Where are my sons?"
When it became apparent to Justin that no one else was going to answer, he
said, "Geoffrey left to escort Adela home."
"Adela was here?" It was the first time Justin had seen Humphrey show pleasure
and it was a moment before he realized that teeth-baring grimace was indeed a
smile. "Well, that was what he should have done," the mercer said, so
indulgently that Justin understood exactly why Geoffrey was so anxious to wed
Adela. Humphrey's satisfaction was short-lived, though. Remembering that he
had another son still unaccounted for, he demanded to know where Daniel was.
Again, it was left to Justin to respond. Deciding that it was better to reveal
Daniel's whereabouts than to have Humphrey conclude he had sneaked off as soon
as his father's back was turned, he said, "He is working in the storeroom,"
and hoped that the boy would have the wit to appear busy as soon as he heard
that familiar heavy tread. Catching Nell's eye, he headed then for the door.
Once they were out in the street, Nell said indignantly, "You
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CRUEL AS THE GRAVE
should have heard the way he was browbeating those poor souls! What a pity he
was not the one murdered instead of little Melangell."
"Murder is probably not the best way to cull the wheat from the chaff," Justin
said, with mordant humor. "Did your conversation with the apprentices and
journeymen yield anything of interest?"
"They all loathe Humphrey, of course. But the sons do not seem to be following
in the father's footsteps, for Humphrey's hirelings bear them no ill will. I
get the sense that they find Geoffrey more likable, but Daniel has earned
their respecton a few rash occasions, he actually dared to stand up to his
father. You can well imagine what his courage cost him in bruises and welts.
Humphrey will not abide the slightest opposition to his will, and has a temper
that kindles faster than sun-dried straw. But they say he fawns over Adela as
if she were the Blessed Virgin Mary, so eager is he for an alliance with
Master Serlo, the girl's uncle."
"I saw that, too," Justin agreed. "I'd even wager he hungers for the prestige
of such a union as much as the marriage portion she'd bring to his son. What
of Melangell? Did the other apprentices know about her dalliance with
Geoffrey?"
"Indeed, they did. It had to be one of the worst-kept secrets in all of
London. The other lads were quite envious of Geoffrey's 'good fortune,' for
they thought Melangell looked like a 'right ripe piece,' a judgment they
delivered with much smirking and rolling of eyes." Nell did some eye-rolling
now of her own, for she had little patience with youthful male braggadocio.
"What of you? Did you have any luck with the sons?"
"Well, I got Geoffrey to admit the dalliance was more serious than he'd have
us think, at least on Melangell's part. When I I asked if she loved him, he
conceded as much. And Daniel
l^t unbent long enough to insist he was innocent."
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Sharon Kay Penman
"Do you believe him?"
"I'd like to," Justin hedged. "Nothing would make me happier than to be able
to clear Agnes's nephews. Like Geoffrey's protestations, Daniel's denial
sounded sincere. Alas, the world is filled with people who can lie as easily
as they draw breath," he said, thinking of his father, thinking of Claudine.
"Nor is it helpful that neither brother can prove where he was whilst
Melangell was being attacked."
"So," Nell prompted, "what does your gut tell you?" "That I'm hungry again,"
Justin joked, and grinned when Nell shoved him. "You wanted a serious answer,
did you? Well, I think Daniel Aston has something to hide," he said, his
fingers straying toward his money pouch, feeling for the outlines of that
bloodstained rock.
Despite Nell's protests, Justin escorted her back to the alehouse, left her
scolding Ellis for broken crockery while Lucy played in the kitchen with
Shadow, and set out in search of Tobias. He found the serjeant at the London
gaol, where he had just delivered a prisoner. Jonas was on the scene, too, and
gave Justin an ironic smile when he ever so casually invited the two of them
to share a meal, well aware that Justin hoped for his help in extracting
information from Tobias. Both men accepted the offer, though, and led Justin
to a tavern on Fleet Street, not far from the river where he'd rescued Shadow
from drowning.
Justin waited until they'd been served heaping helpings of mutton stew before
he broached the subject of Tobias's investigation. He was treading with some
care, lest Tobias take offense, not yet knowing if the other man would view
his involvement as meddling, his suggestions as interference. He soon saw,
however, that he had no reason to worry, for Tobias was a far different breed
of peacekeeper than Jonas.
He was younger than Justin had expected, only about thirty/
CRUEL AS THE GRAVE
and better dressed, too, his tunic spotlessly clean, his hair combed onto his
forehead in the newly fashionable fringe. He was also extremely friendly; far
from resenting Justin's interest in his case, he seemed to welcome it. Puzzled
at first, Justin did not understand until Tobias leaned across the table to
confide how pleased he was to be able to work with the queen's man.
So that was it! Tobias was ambitious, hoping to curry favor with one who might
mention his cooperation to the sheriff or even the queen herself. Tobias had
begun to talk about the capture of Gilbert the Fleming, so effusive in his
praise that Justin was at a loss for words and Jonas faked a cough to
camouflage a gleeful cackle. When the serjeant finally paused for breath,
Justin seized his chance, politely asking if he could discuss with Tobias some
of the more murky aspects of Melangell's murder.
The other man beamed. "By all means! My guess is that the mercer's youngest
son will turn out to be the culprit. Although it could have been one of the
girl's other lovers. From what I hear, she was a wanton, as willing to bed a
man as look at him. Such killings are hard to solve, for women like that
naturally know more than their share of knaves and felons."
"You said you suspect the younger Aston son. Not the elder son, then?"
"Well, Daniel's motive makes more sense. Also, Master Serlo of the Mercer's
Guild gave the older lad a right favorable recommendation, says he is of good
character and a responsible worker. Whereas the younger boy has a history of
stirring up trouble, running away from his apprenticeship the way he did..."
Tobias paused to swallow a mouthful of stew. "He seems the obvious suspect and
it has been my experience, Master de Quincy, that the man who looks most
guilty usually is."
Especially when he had no one of importance to speak up for him, like Master
Serlo. Justin dared not look at Jonas, whose face Was impassive, but whose one
black eye was agleam. "What
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about the silk found under Melangell's body? Have you been able to find out
who sells it?"
"Well... no, I saw no need. If she was killed by Daniel Aston, what does it
matter who sold it?"
It was quiet for a time after that, as the Serjeants devoted their attention
to their meal and Justin sipped his wine, trying to figure out how best to
bring Jonas on board this leaking boat. He finally decided upon blatant and
shameless flattery and smiled across the table at Tobias.
"I want you to know how much I appreciate your cooperation. I'll be sure to
tell Roger Fitz Alan that the next time I see him."
At the mention of the sheriff, Tobias set down his spoon, his food forgotten.
"I'm happy to help," he said expansively. "If there is anything else I can do,
anything at all"
"As it happens, there is." Justin reached for the flagon and topped off
Tobias's wine cup. "I know you have more than your share of felons to chase
down. It must be hard to find time for a killing like this. But I would like
to solve this crime quickly, if we can. In all honesty, Tobias, my duties for
the Queen's Grace do not allow me much time away from the court. It occurred
to me that mayhap Jonas might assist you in your investigation, do what he can
to expedite matters so we can bring this sad case to
a speedy resolution."
Tobias looked over at Jonas, back at Justin. "It is fine with me,
if Jonas here is willing ... ?"
"I'd be overjoyed," Jonas said, wincing slightly when Justin then kicked his
ankle under the table. The rest of the dinner passed without incident, and by
the time Tobias was ready to depart, he was reveling in his newfound
friendship with Justin, slapping him on the back in familiar farewell. The
other two men watched him go and Jonas, finding that his wine cup was empty,
reached over to claim Justin's. "You owe me," he said. "What else could I do,
Jonas? You heard the man. He does not
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care who killed Melangella peddler's daughter and part Welsh in the bargain?
We'll never get to the truth with Tobias hot on the trail, and you well know
it. Melangell deserves better than that, and so does Daniel Aston. If he is
going to hang, I need to know he is truly guilty, not just a convenient
solution to an inconvenient crime."
"I have to admit that Tobias could not find water if he fell into the river,"
Jonas conceded. "All right, I'll see what I can learn about this scrap of
silk. That seems to be the only clue we have."
"Not necessarily." Justin took out his money pouch, laid it on the table. "I
know you were never called to the scene of the killing, but you must have seen
her body afterward. How else could you have been so specific with Luke,
telling him that there was no blood under her nails or bruises on her thighs?"
"Yes, I saw the body. What do you want to know?"
"Tobias concluded that she struck her head on the cross, and there is indeed
blood on it. But I need to know what her injury looked like. Could she have
hit her head on the cross, fallen, and then been struck again as she lay
helpless on the ground? Was the wound deep enough for there to have been a
second blow?"
"I'd say so." Jonas frowned as he sought to call that particular grim memory
to mind. "It was a nasty wound, a lot of blood and bone fragments. She could
easily have been hit again. What put you onto that?"
Justin opened the money pouch, shook out a few coins to pay for the meal, then
extracted the rock. Jonas reached over, weighed its heft in the palm of his
hand. Even in the dim light of the tavern, the dried blood smears were easily
visible. Jonas's inspection was thorough and unhurried, his face giving away
nothing of his thoughts. Justin waited as long as he could, finally blurted
out impatiently, "Well? What do you think?"
"I think," Jonas said, "that if you're right, this changes everything."
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The Tower of London's great keep rose up against the hazy dusk sky, over
ninety feet high, a formidable citadel as well as royal palace. Justin had
passed through the Land Gate countless times before, but never had he felt
such a sense of unease, as if he were venturing into enemy territory. And a
right dangerous enemy it was, too, a slip of a lass who would not weigh much
over one hundred pounds soaking wet, armed with those deadly female weapons,
dimples and come-hither dark eyes. Mocking himself didn't help, though. He was
still loath to face
Claudine.
But she was not present in the hall, and he began to hope he could avoid an
encounter that would be awkward at best, painful at worst. As was his custom,
he sought out Peter of Blois, Eleanor's secretary-chancellor, who would then
inform the queen of his arrival. If she had need of him, he would be admitted
to her presence; if not, he was free to return to Gracechurch Street and his
other world. He was expecting a dismissal, but to his surprise, Peter beckoned
him forward to enter the great chamber.
There he received another surprise, for Eleanor was alone. His private
audiences with her were rare occurrences, usually the result of some new
mischief-making by her son. As he came forward to kneel before her, Justin
remembered his earlier assumption, that all mothers would lie to save their
sons. He dared make no such facile assumptions about Eleanor and John. He
could as easily understand the inscrutable feline mind of a female lion on the
sun-baked plains of distant Africa. How often did a lioness swat a troublesome
half-grown cub when he misbehaved? When did she finally turn upon him in a
fanged fury, drive him from the pride?
Even after reaching her biblical three-score years and ten,
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Eleanor was still a compelling woman, the high, hollowed cheekbones and
enigmatic hazel eyes attesting to the great beauty she'd once been, to the
younger self who'd left a trail of broken hearts and broken rules from
Aquitaine to England and triumphed over her enemies by outliving them all. On
this Wednesday in mid-April, though, she looked very tired to Justin, showing
more of the physical frailties of age; the hand extended for his kiss held the
faintest of tremors and was hot to the touch.
"Madame ... are you well?" That was as far as he dared go. At times there was
an odd intimacy between them, but he never forgot, not for a moment, that she
was England's queen and he was a bishop's by-blow, plucked from obscurity by
the vagaries of fate and her royal whim.
She caught the echoes of concern in his voice, and smiled. "There is nothing
wrong that a good night's sleep would not cure, lad. You'd think I would have
learned by now how to banish worries and cares from the bedchamber."
"Not even Merlin could do that, Madame," Justin said, with feeling, for his
memories of last night's broken sleep were still vivid. "May I get you wine?"
She nodded. "Pour for yourself, too." Taking a gilded cup from him, she sipped
some of the spiced red wine with pleasure, for it came from the vineyards of
her native Aquitaine, the homeland she'd loved more deeply than any man. "The
news is not good, Justin," she said after some moments of silence. "The French
king has invaded Normandy. He has seized Gisors and Neaufles and I learned
today that he is now laying siege to Rouen itself."
Justin set his own wine cup down, untouched. If John's ally succeeded in
taking Normandy, that would go far toward bolstering John's claim to the
English throne. "I am indeed sorry to hear that, Madame."
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She seemed lost in her own thoughts, gazing down into her wine cup pensively.
"Stay close to London," she said at last. "I may need to send you to
Normandy."
"Of course, Madame," Justin said, startled, for he'd never been out of
England. He wondered what she had in mind, most likely a message she'd not
want to risk falling into unfriendly hands. He was enormously touched that she
had such faith in his abilities, and could only pray he'd not let her down. He
was watching Eleanor attentively, waiting for an indication that he'd been
dismissed, when the door opened and Claudine
entered the chamber.
"I have the oil of roses for your headache, Madame," she said, holding up a
small glass bottle. She halted as her gaze fell upon Justin, and although she
managed an expression of supreme indifference, she betrayed herself by the
sudden surge of color
into her cheeks.
Justin got hastily to his feet, saying as politely as he could, "Lady
Claudine." She acknowledged the greeting with a curt nod of her head, the sort
of grudging recognition accorded those of inferior rank and importance.
"Would you like me to rub it into your temples now, Madame?" she asked,
approaching the queen with a solicitous
smile.
Eleanor gave her a bland smile in return, "No, dearest, not
until after Master de Quincy and I are done."
"Oh... of course," Claudine said, as if she'd forgotten Justin's presence
altogether. "I will await your summons." For Eleanor, there was another smile
and a graceful curtsy. For Justin, enough ice to freeze him through to the
very bone.
Once the door closed behind Claudine, Eleanor sat back in her chair, regarding
Justin intently. "Well?"
Justin found himself shifting uncomfortably under those unsettling
amber-colored eyes. "Madame?"
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I He was stalling and they both knew it. Eleanor's brows came I together in an
imperious frown. "Do not play games with me, Justin. I am much better at them
than you. What has happened between you and Claudine?"
"We ... we quarreled," he said reluctantly and she shook her head impatiently.
"That is obvious to anyone not blind and deaf! It is also obvious that she
considers herself to have been wronged. Why?"
"I led her to think I was seeing another woman." Justin bit his lip, searching
for a way to make her understand. "I lied to her about the other woman so
she'd not suspect the truth, that we know she has been acting as John's spy. I
had to take the risk, Madame. I could not keep bedding a woman I dared not
trust."
"Ah, Justin... I'd forgotten how young you still are," she said, with gentle
mockery. "It is true I did not want Claudine to realize she'd been found out.
But I did not mean you must continue with a liaison you find painful.
Fortunately, lovers can be shed much more easily than husbands or wives."
"Fortunate, indeed," Justin agreed wryly, although he'd found nothing remotely
easy about casting off Claudine. Eleanor was holding out her hand and he took
that as his signal to depart. Bending over to kiss those jeweled fingers, he
bade her farewell. But there was one question he still needed to ask. "Madame
... what is happening at Windsor?"
"The castle is under siege," she said, very evenly.
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8
LONDON
April 1193
ii» i»ii When Justin received an early summons from the tb^M queen the next
morning, he assumed he'd soon be |LLMy] Normandy-bound. But there had been a
change of plans. Eleanor now wanted him to depart at once for St Albans and
its great Benedictine abbey. Justin did not know what was in the letter he
bore, nor did he ask; queens were not ones for confiding. He'd expected to be
back on Friday, for St Albans was less than thirty miles from London, a day's
journey as long as the weather was good. Abbot Warren was not at the abbey,
though, and Justin had to track him down on one of the monastery's
Hertfordshire manors. He then had to wait for the abbot's response, and so he
did not return to London until Sunday evening as Compline was being rung.
He went at once to the Tower, where he delivered the abbot's letter to Eleanor
and was snubbed again by Claudine. With
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Eleanor's admonition to be ready to depart for Normandy at a moment's notice
ringing in his ears, he rode back to Gracechurch Street, retrieved his dog
from Nell, and fell into bed. His dreams that night were fragmented and
disjointed, filled with foreboding. Durand stalked his sleep and the French
king set Rouen afire, and there was a confusing confrontation with an unknown,
overbearing bishop who bore an uncanny resemblance to his father. The most
troubling of the dreams came just before dawn; in it, he returned to the
cottage and found Claudine in his bedwith John.
The next morning, the sky was marbled with clouds and there was an occasional
distant rumble of thunder; rain was on the way. Bypassing breakfast, Justin
headed out early, wanting to catch Godwin before the peddler set off on his
rounds. Arriving at the Wood Street dwelling, he was welcomed cheerfully by
the garrulous landlord, who told him that Godwin had sent Cati to bargain with
the chandler for a few tallow candles and was himself down the street in the
stables; his elderly mule was poorly.
That was bad news for Godwin; the loss of his mule might well mean the loss of
his precarious livelihood. He was hovering helplessly by the suffering animal,
so haggard and gaunt that he looked ill himself, acknowledging Justin's
greeting with a preoccupied grunt.
"What do you think ails him?" Justin asked. "Colic?"
Godwin shrugged. "His belly is very tender," he said, and though the words
were uttered without emotion, Justin sighed, for that sounded like an
inflammation of the bowels. Even colic could be a death sentence for the
ancient animal. Justin had learned a fair amount about horses when he'd
acquired a lamed stallion for a pittance, then patiently nursed Copper back to
health, and he suggested what remedies he could think of: a hot bran poultice,
linseed oil. Yet he doubted if anything shy of a
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miracle would save the old mule, and he could tell that Godwin shared his
pessimism.
"Why are you here?" Godwin straightened up so slowly that it was obvious he'd
been keeping vigil all night in the stables. "I suppose it is too much to hope
that my girl's killer has
been found."
"No ... not yet. I wanted to ask you a few more questions-"
"I've nothing to say to you."
Those were the very words Justin had gotten from Daniel Aston. It was
frustrating that suspects and victims alike were so unwilling to cooperate
with authorities. Justin decided to see if he could shame Godwin into being
more forthcoming, and he
said sharply:
"If I am willing to labor from dawn to dark to bring your daughter's killer to
justice, surely you can spare a few moments of your time to talk to me!"
Anger did not come easily to Godwin, it needed a more cornbustible fuel than
despair. He gazed blankly at Justin, as if struggling to summon up enough
energy for indignation, and then said flatly, "Why should I trust the lot of
you to find my girl's killer when you cannot even find her pilgrim cross?"
"Pilgrim cross? What are you talking about?" "I'm not surprised you know
nothing about it." Godwin shook his head wearily. "One of the sheriff's men
probably stole it from my poor girl's body. What crime can be lower than
stealing from the dead?"
"Tell me about this pilgrim cross," Justin insisted, but Godwin merely
shrugged again and turned back to his mule, his suspicion of authority as
strong as chain-mail armor and even harder to penetrate.
Justin had no intention of giving up.though. What he could not learn from the
peddler, mayhap le could learn from Catt With Shadow in tow, he began moving
slowly along Woo
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Street toward the Cheapside, keeping a close watch upon people passing by. He
soon caught sight of Cati, moving at a brisk trot up the street, swinging a
small sack from side to side.
Recognition was mutual. She came to a sudden stop, shoulders hunched, dark
eyes regarding him warily, a woodland creature sniffing out snares. Justin
wondered if Melangell had beer\ as out of place in this city setting as Cati
was. Barefoot and barelegged, tousled black hair hiding half her face, she
looked like an imp out of Welsh legend, at once ageless and heartrendingly
young. "I know you," she said. "You were asking questions about Melangell."
"I am Justin. Can I talk with you, Cati?"
She gave him a sidelong glance, then shrugged. "I have to get home."
"Suppose we talk and walk, then," he suggested. It would not be easy to get
past her defenses; this was a rose surrounded by thorns. But as he'd hoped,
she shared her sister's fondness for God's creatures and was eyeing Shadow
with interest. The young dog responded to her overture with his endearingly
awkward brand of galumphing enthusiasm, thumping his tail madly as he slurped
at her face with a wet tongue.
Squatting in the dusty street, Cati wrapped her arms around Shadow's neck. "Is
this your dog?"
"He is now," Justin said and told her how he had rescued the dog after two
young louts had thrown him into the River Fleet. By the time he was through,
Cati was looking at him with far greater friendliness.
"That was a very good deed," she said approvingly, "and just what Melangell
would have done, too."
When she artlessly introduced her sister's name into the conversation, Justin
felt a prickle of guilt; this was almost too easy. Reminding himself that he
was manipulating this child ir\ a good cause, he asked casually, "So Melangell
liked dogs?"
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miracle would save the old mule, and he could tell that Godwin shared his
pessimism.
"Why are you here?" Godwin straightened up so slowly that it was obvious he'd
been keeping vigil all night in the stables. "I suppose it is too much to hope
that my girl's killer has been found."
"No ... not yet. I wanted to ask you a few more questions"
"I've nothing to say to you."
Those were the very words Justin had gotten from Daniel Aston. It was
frustrating that suspects and victims alike were so unwilling to cooperate
with authorities. Justin decided to see if he could shame Godwin into being
more forthcoming, and he said sharply:
"If I am willing to labor from dawn to dark to bring your daughter's killer to
justice, surely you can spare a few moments of your time to talk to me!"
Anger did not come easily to Godwin; it needed a more cornbustible fuel than
despair. He gazed blankly at Justin, as if struggling to summon up enough
energy for indignation, and then said flatly, "Why should I trust the lot of
you to find my girl's killer when you cannot even find her pilgrim cross?"
"Pilgrim cross? What are you talking about?"
"I'm not surprised you know nothing about it." Godwin shook his head wearily.
"One of the sheriff's men probably stole it from my poor girl's body. What
crime can be lower than stealing from the dead?"
"Tell me about this pilgrim cross," Justin insisted, but Godwin merely
shrugged again and turned back to his mule, his suspicion of authority as
strong as chain-mail armor and even harder to penetrate.
Justin had no intention of giving up, though. What he could not learn from the
peddler, mayhap he could learn from Cati. With Shadow in tow, he began moving
slowly along Wood
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Street toward the Cheapside, keeping a close watch upon people passing by. He
soon caught sight of Cati, moving at a brisk trot up the street, swinging a
small sack from side to side.
Recognition was mutual. She came to a sudden stop, shoulders hunched, dark
eyes regarding him warily, a woodland creature sniffing out snares. Justin
wondered if Melangell had been as out of place in this city setting as Cati
was. Barefoot and barelegged, tousled black hair hiding half her face, she
looked like an imp out of Welsh legend, at once ageless and heartrendingly
young. "I know you," she said. "You were asking questions about Melangell."
"I am Justin. Can I talk with you, Cati?"
She gave him a sidelong glance, then shrugged. "I have to get home."
"Suppose we talk and walk, then," he suggested. It would not be easy to get
past her defenses; this was a rose surrounded by thorns. But as he'd hoped,
she shared her sister's fondness for God's creatures and was eyeing Shadow
with interest. The young dog responded to her overture with his endearingly
awkward brand of galumphing enthusiasm, thumping his tail madly as he slurped
at her face with a wet tongue.
Squatting in the dusty street, Cati wrapped her arms around Shadow's neck. "Is
this your dog?"
"He is now," Justin said and told her how he had rescued the dog after two
young louts had thrown him into the River Fleet. By the time he was through,
Cati was looking at him with far greater friendliness.
"That was a very good deed," she said approvingly, "and just what Melangell
would have done, too."
When she artlessly introduced her sister's name into the conversation, Justin
felt a prickle of guilt; this was almost too easy. Reminding himself that he
was manipulating this child in a good cause, he asked casually, "So Melangell
liked dogs?"
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Sharon Kay Penman
And that opened the floodgates. Cati informed him that Melangell had lavished
love on an odd assortment of pets over the years: cats and dogs and a baby
hedgehog, but never birds, for she could not abide to see one caged, robbed of
its freedom to fly. She'd even made a pet of Job, their crotchety old mule,
and yes, that name was Melangell's doing. "She always said that names matter,
and had to be picked with care. Our mama's name was Olwen, which comes from an
ancient Welsh legend, about a giant's daughter who was wooed and won by a
brave youth, Culhwch, with some help from King Arthur and his knights. It was
said clovers grew wherever Olwen walked." She grinned suddenly. "The Olwen in
the tale, not my mama. Though Melangell always claimed Mama smelled sweeter
than clover, and she did, too."
"When did your mother die, Cati?"
"Last Martinmas. She cut her hand on a rusty nail and the cut festered. After
we buried her, Papa took it into his head for us to leave the Marches and go
to London. We'd make a new start, he said, free of memories and ghosts." The
child looked at Justin solemnly. "We'd have been better off with the ghosts."
"Yes, lass, probably so ..." Justin felt a sudden, sharp ache for this lost
little girl and her beleaguered father. With an effort, he remembered the task
at hand. "After your mother died, did Melangell look after you, Cati?"
"I am nigh on eleven, do not need looking after! I can tend to myself," Cati
insisted, with a toss of her head. Then a faint smile curved her lips.
"Melangell was always after me to braid my hair," she admitted. "She'd brush
it out for me ..."
Those black eyes seemed suspiciously bright and Justin hastily plunged into
the conversational waters, giving her time to banish any brimming tears, sure
that Cati would not want to cry in front of him. "I think I would have liked
your sister," he said, getting a jerky nod of the head and a sniff in
response. "It is
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plain that she had a good heart and a sense of humor, too ... Job was an
inspired name for a mule. What else can you tell me about her? Did she have a
temper?"
"Not like me. I get angry too quick for my own good. But Melangell was always
laughing, and could never stay serious for long, even when Papa punished her
for running off to meet Geoffrey." Cati swooped down suddenly and buried her
face in Shadow's soft ruff. Justin watched in silence; so she knew the name of
her sister's lover. How much more did she know?
"Did she love Geoffrey, Cati?" he asked quietly, and she raised her head, then
nodded, almost imperceptibly.
"She was so pretty, was Melangell. She had her heart set on a red gown, the
shade of strawberries. Papa did not approve, saying that was too bright and
garish a color, not respectable, but she kept coaxing him until he agreed. He
bought it for her two days ere she ... she died. We buried her in it."
Justin did not know what to say. What possible comfort could he offer this
grieving child? "Cati, I very much want to catch your sister's killer. Will
you help me do that?"
"How?"
"Tell me about this pilgrim cross of hers."
"It was a St Davydd's cross, had belonged to Mama. When she was a little lass,
she'd fallen ill and her father made a pilgrimage to St Davydd's shrine,
prayed for her recovery. St Davydd heeded his prayers and Mama wore his cross
on a chain around her neck until she died. Papa gave it to Melangell on her
fifteenth birthday last month and What? Why do you look at me so oddly?"
"Your sister was only fifteen?"
She nodded, puzzled. "She was born in God's Year 1178, during the coldest
spring anyone could remember. Why?"
"I did not realize she was so young." ,     "Fifteen is not so young," she
objected. "In Wales, a lad is a
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man at fourteen and a lass old enough to wed. But you asked about the St
Davydd's cross. Shall I show you what it looked like?" When he nodded, she
borrowed his dagger and drew in the dirt, sketching a distinctive figure that
resembled a cross with feet. "It was lead," she said, "and well-worn, blessed
with my mama's prayers. How will knowing this help?"
"I am not sure yet, Cati. Why does your father think it was stolen by the
sheriff's men? Could it not have been taken by the man who killed her?"
"I suppose..." she mumbled, no longer meeting his eyes, and he sensed that
there was more to the story of this pilgrim cross than she was willing to tell
him. He did not push her, though; that was not the way to gain Cati's
confidence.
"I thank you for your help," he said. "I promise you I will do all in my power
to see that someone pays for Melangell's death."
She studied him intently and then handed him back his dagger, hilt first.
"Odid addewid a ddel," she said. "That is a saying of my mama's people: Rare
is the promise that is kept. Keep this one, Englishman. Find who killed my
sister ..." The rest of her sentence was lost. She gulped, shuddered, and
flung her arms around Shadow one last time. Then she whirled and fled up the
street, bare legs flashing and black hair streaming out behind her, racing her
grief and her crumbling control. Justin watched until she was out of sight,
but she never looked back.
Justin then set out to find Jonas. The trail led from Newgate Gaol to the
Fishmonger's Guild Hall, where the mayor and aldermen had passed judgment upon
a man accused of selling putrid mackerel and herrings. The guilty fishmonger
had been sentenced to the pillory and so Justin headed for Cornhill Street.
There he finally found the elusive serjeant, overseeing the fishmonger's
punishment. The man's head and wrists had been forced through holes in the
wooden pillory frame, and a crowd
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was already gathering to savor his public humiliation. Justin caught Jonas's
eye, waiting until the serjeant could come over to join him.
"They are about to burn the rotting fish around him," Jonas warned, "so we
might want to get upwind. Since I'm done here, I'll let you buy me a drink."
Telling his men to keep the bystanders at bay and disperse them if they began
flinging anything more lethal than insults and jeers, Jonas followed Justin
across the road to a nearby alehouse.
Over a flagon of ale, Jonas related what he'd found out since he and Justin
had last spoken. "I traced the silk," he said, holding up his hand to dampen
Justin's enthusiasm. "Wait till you hear me out ere you start to celebrate. It
took some doing, but I was able to determine that it was part of a shipment of
cloth brought over by a Flemish mercer, who'd arrived in London from Ypres the
same day as the killing."
"Well done, Jonas! Could he tell you who bought that piece of silk?"
"He might... if ever I can ask him. It seems he left London on Monday last,
supposedly on his way to see customers in Stamford and Cambridge. At least
that is what he told the master of the ship he'd sailed on. He will eventually
come back to London, but as to when, your guess is as good as mine."
Crestfallen, Justin slumped back in his seat. "Damnation! Why does it always
have to be so hard?"
"It is the nature of the beast. Murders are either solved straightaway, due to
the stupidity of the culprits, or it takes a lot of labor and luck. But do not
abandon hope yet, lad. You and I know the Flemish mercer has disappeared in a
cloud of dust. The Astons do not."
Justin liked the sound of that. "Have you been devious again, Jonas?"
"Well... I did pay an unscheduled visit to the Astons when
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they got back from Mass yesterday, and in the course of the conversation, I
may have led them to believe that the Flemish mercer has been tracked down and
within a few days I ought to have the answers I need to solve the killing."
"That is more than devious, it is downright dishonest," Justin said and
grinned. "How did they react when you threw the bait out?"
"The old man was blustering and ranting from the moment I came in the door; is
he always such a jackass? The older son was nervous but eager to please, the
younger lad sullen, the mother fluttering about like a trapped moth. None of
them swooned or screamed when I told them about the Fleming, but murder
suspects rarely do, I'm sorry to say. If one of them is guilty, though, there
is always a chance that he'll panic, do something foolish. We'll just have to
wait and see."
"Mayhap not," Justin said, and told Jonas about the missing St Davydd's cross.
"So ..." Jonas said thoughtfully, "we may have two arrows in our quiver.
Suppose we pay another visit to the Astons tonight and see if we can find this
pilgrim pledge. Would you know it if you saw it?"
Justin nodded. "The cross has an uncommon shape. The Welsh are nothing if not
imaginative. Do you truly expect to find it there?"
Jonas shrugged. "Who knows? We might get very lucky. Even if we find nothing,
our search is sure to unnerve the Astons even further, so what do we have to
lose?"
"Why wait until tonight? Why not go over there now?"
"Because I heard Mistress Aston say that Master Serlo and his niece were
expected to dine with them tonight."
That seemed needlessly cruel to Justin. But he raised no objections, for Jonas
was not a man to be second-guessed. And it was
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difficult to argue for mercy when he thought of that bloodied rock. What mercy
had Melangell been shown?
The threatened rainstorm had arrived in midafternoon, drenching the city and
dropping the temperature. The sky was still smothered in clouds as Justin and
Jonas started out for the Astons' that evening, the streets muddy enough to
mire several carts along Cheapside. They detoured onto Milk Street to pay a
brief visit to St Mary Magdalene's. The churchyard was deep in shadow and the
rain had washed away Melangell's blood. Justin showed Jonas where he'd found
the rock, and they agreed the killer had been unlucky, for April was usually a
wet month; a soaking rain the day after the murder would have obliterated
those telltale reddish stains.
Jonas was surprised, too, to learn Melangell's age. "Mind you," he said, "I've
run into my share of fifteen-year-old harlots. But it does make it less likely
that she was London's own Whore of Babylon, as Humphrey Aston would have us
believe."
"My thinking, too," Justin agreed, and they left the churchyard behind,
continued on toward their looming confrontation with the Astons.
A servant peered at them nervously, mumbling that Master Aston would not be
available until the meal was done. Jonas pushed past him into the hall, with
Justin a few steps behind. The Astons and their guests looked up from their
interrupted meal in varying degrees of dismay, shock, and indignation.
Humphrey was so enraged that he seemed at risk for an apoplectic seizure; his
face was beet-red and sweat beaded his brow and upper lip as he excoriated
them for their intrusion. Beatrice looked mortified by the uproar, Geoffrey
and Daniel alarmed, the servants flustered. Master Serlo, a no-nonsense,
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take-charge type in his late thirties, frowned at the interlopers over his
roast capon, but significantly did not add his voice to Humphrey's tirade;
clearly this was a man who knew when to fish and when to cut bait. Adela,
richly dressed in sapphirecolored silk, showed herself to be more committed to
the Astons than her uncle as she groped for Geoffrey's hand.
"How dare you interrupt our meal?" Humphrey flung his napkin to the floor as
if it were a gauntlet, and pushed away from the table. "We've already told you
all we know about that wretched girl's death. I'll be damned ere I let you
inconvenience or embarrass my family and friends in my own home. My sons will
answer no questions tonight. You'll have to come back on
the morrow."
Justin was not surprised that Jonas seemed utterly unperturbed by this
diatribe; the serjeant had faced down men far more formidable than Humphrey
Aston. "We are not here to ask questions," he said composedly. "So there is no
reason why your supper need be ruined. Whilst you eat, we'll conduct
our search."
Humphrey made a strangled sound, much like a squawk, and Beatrice began to
sob. Geoffrey was on his feet now, too. "What are you looking for?" he asked,
sounding bewildered, and Jonas smiled at him, so indulgently that Justin had a
sudden vision of a wolf wagging its tail.
"I cannot very well tell you, now can I, lad?" Beckoning to his men, who'd
been hovering in the doorway, he declared, "We'll take the hall. You start
with the kitchen and buttery."
"Can they do this?" Daniel turned, not to his father, but to Master Serlo for
enlightenment. "Do they have the right?"
Thus appealed to, Master Serlo nodded tersely. "I think it best if Adela and I
depart," he said, and it was his defection that seemed to take the heart out
of Humphrey Aston. Standing helplessly midst the wreckage of his perfect
evening, he could only
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watch in disbelief as his guests prepared to flee and Jonas's men to dismantle
his home. Adela was obviously a reluctant fugitive, but her murmured protests
went unheeded as her uncle ushered her toward the door. Geoffrey trailed after
them uncertainly, Beatrice was being fanned by a wide-eyed serving maid, and
Daniel sank down upon the closest coffer, for once appearing more confused
than defiant. Even the family dog was intimidated, retreating under the table
to give an occasional tentative bark. Jonas was already turning toward the
cupboard. Feeling like one of the Vandals who'd sacked Rome, Justin joined
him.
What followed was an uncomfortable experience for all but Jonas. Humphrey
fumed in silence, Beatrice moaned at the sight of strangers rooting through
her belongings, the servants gaped, and the Aston sons fidgeted uneasily as
Justin and Jonas searched the cupboard and then the coffers. When they finally
closed the last coffer lid, an unspoken sigh of relief seemed to ripple across
the hall. The reprieve was short-lived, for Jonas then announced, "We'll
search the bedchambers now."
"No!" Humphrey sounded as if he were choking on his own tongue. Jonas paid him
no mind, telling the sons to lead the way. Humphrey hesitated, then hastened
after them as they headed back toward his shop.
The shop was closed for the night and dark, but there was an extinguished
cresset lamp on a table, and after several fumbling tries, Geoffrey managed to
light the wick with a candle taken from the hall. A narrow spiral stairwell in
the corner led up to the family quarters: a bedchamber for Humphrey and his
wife, a much smaller one shared by their sons, and up under the eaves of the
roof, a tiny garret for the apprentices. The boys crept down the stairs in
baffled response to Humphrey's summons, and when he ordered them to occupy
themselves elsewhere for an hour, they hurriedly unlatched the door and
escaped out into the street.
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Humphrey swore at the sight meeting his eyes: neighbors and passersby
clustered outside his shop, drawn by the commotion. For a man whose fear of
scandal and disgrace was primal, this was a waking nightmare, and in his
frustration, he lashed out at any available targets, first warning the curious
away from his shop, then cursing at Daniel when the youth stumbled against the
table and almost tipped over the lamp, and finally turning upon the absent
Agnes, berating her bitterly for having brought Justin into their lives.
Daniel flushed scarlet, but Justin and Jonas ignored the harangue, heading for
the stairwell. They started in Humphrey's bedchamber, a spacious room
dominated by a large curtained bed, soon concluded a cursory search, and moved
into the chamber shared by the Aston sons. This room was much tidier than
Justin would have expected; apparently Humphrey's exacting standards carried
over into every corner of his offspring's lives. There were two pallets, both
carefully made up, several coffers, chamber pots and washing lavers, but
nothing to reveal the personalities of the occupants. As Jonas set about
searching the bedding, Justin opened the first coffer chest. It smelled
pleasantly like newmown hay, for the contents had been sprinkled with sweet
woodruff to disguise the more pungent odor of the herbs used to deter moths.
The clothes were winter woolens, neatly folded, and the St Davydd's cross was
hidden under the second garment, a moss green mantle.
Justin sat back on his heels, staring down at that small lead cross. He hadn't
really expected to find it in the Aston household. After a startled moment to
reflect what this meant, he said, "Jonas, over here," and their hunt moved
into its next phase.
The Aston men were waiting below in the shop. "It took you long enough,"
Humphrey grumbled. "Now can we stop this tomfoolery and What do you have
there?"
Justin held up the green cloak. "Whose is this?"
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I
f     "Mine." Daniel started to reach instinctively for the garment.
"That is my winter mantle. Why?"
"He has not worn it since March." Geoffrey moved swiftly to his brother's
side. "So if a witness saw someone at the churchyard in a green mantle, it
could not have been Daniel. You need not take our word for it. Look at the
wool, how heavy it is"
"The mantle does not matter. It is what we found under it," Justin said and
extended his hand toward the light, palm up.
Daniel's gasp was clearly audible to them all. He stared at Melangell's
missing cross as if stupefied, the blood draining from his face. "I... I do
not know how that got there ... I swear I do not!"
"We're going to have to talk about that at the city gaol, lad," Jonas said,
and Daniel started to shake. His eyes were darting about the shop and when he
took a backward step, Jonas tensed, for he knew the danger signs well. But it
was not Daniel who acted, it was his brother.
"Run, Daniel!" Geoffrey spun toward the ta"ble, knocking the cresset lamp onto
the floor and plunging the shop into blackness. "Run!"
Chaos resulted. Jonas dived for Daniel, but he was no longer there. Justin
grabbed for the boy, too, collided with Geoffrey instead. Daniel had the
advantage, for he knew the layout of the shop even in the dark, and he reached
the door first. As he flung it open, a glimmer of twilight illuminated the
room and Jonas lunged toward the light. Again, Geoffrey got in the way,
collapsing in a heap by the door with Jonas on top of him, swearing hotly. By
the time he untangled himself, Daniel was gone.
Shouting for his men, Jonas barreled through the door and out into the street.
"Where?" he demanded. "Where did he go?" A few of the spectators shuffled
their feet and averted their eyes, not wanting to deliver up a neighbor's son
to the law. Most had no such qualms and a dozen fingers pointed up Friday
Street.
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Jonas took off, with Justin at his heels and the Serjeant's men strung out
behind them.
Daniel was already nearing Cheapside, but when he slipped in the mud and
almost fell, his pursuers gained ground. The cloud-choked sky had brought on
an early dusk, but there was still enough light to make out their quarry. By
now the Hue and Cry had been raised, and as men heard the English Out and the
French Haro, they hurried from homes and alehouses to join in the chase. With
so many eyes upon him, Daniel dared not duck into an alley, unable to seek a
hiding place until he could put more distance between himself and the mob.
He'd been running full-out and his chest was heaving, his eyes burning with
unshed tears. By the time he reached the site of the fish market, he was at
the end of his tether, his pumping legs leaden, his lungs starved for air, and
his staggering pace made capture seem not only inevitable but imminent. Then
he suddenly swerved to the left, into the churchyard of St Paul's Cathedral,
and Jonas began to curse, long and loud.
Daniel's lead had now shrunk to a few precarious yards. Sprinting past Paul's
Cross, he hit the Si Quis door with his shoulder, catapulted into the nave of
the church. Vespers had already ended, but there were still parishioners
present, and they gaped in amazement at this sudden invasion of God's House by
shouting, swearing men. Stumbling through the doorway in the pulpitum screen,
Daniel sank to his knees before the High Altar, sobbing for breath.
"Get a priest," he begged one of the startled women. By now Jonas had reached
him. Shrinking back against the Altar, he stared up at the Serjeant in
desperate defiance. "You cannot take me," he panted. "I claim the right of
sanctuary!"
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LONDON
April 1193
VL'J^J[ Robbed of their prey, the mob crowded into the nave liV^IlM of the
cathedral, jostling and muttering and cursing. ILkJm Daniel scrambled to his
feet and darted behind the High Altar, but his fears were needless. Jonas
would never have allowed him to be dragged out by force, for men who violated
sanctuary were sure to incur the wrath of Holy Church. The sacristan was
already on the scene, indignantly swatting at the intruders whenever one came
within range. When the dean also arrived, demanding that these impious
malcontents be gone straightaway or risk eternal damnation, Jonas yielded to
the inevitable and ordered his men to disperse the crowd.
"There will be no violence done here," he assured the priests brusquely. "We
are withdrawing." Turning, he skewered Daniel with a cold stare. "I'll have
men posted outside, so if you try to bolt, you'll not get far."
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Daniel raised his chin. "I am staying right here," he said, with feeble
bravado that few found convincing, Jonas least of all.
"Not for long, boy," the serjeant shot back, "not for long."
Justin gave Daniel one last, probing look, then hastened to catch up with
Jonas. Recognizing the other man's frustration for what it wasthe
disappointment of a thwarted hunterhe gave Jonas time to recover his emotional
equilibrium, and then ventured a bit of wry humor. "Well... at least we'll
know where to find him now."
The corner of Jonas's mouth twitched. "I suppose it could have been worse," he
conceded. "If he'd gotten to St Martin le Grand, he could have lived out the
rest of his days in sanctuary. At St Paul's, he gets forty days and then he's
mine."
"Are you so sure now that he's guilty?"
"I do not get paid to cook the fish, too, just to catch them." Jonas spent the
next few minutes giving instructions to his men, for it would be no easy task
to keep watch over St Paul's; the cathedral precincts covered more than twelve
acres. Striding back to Justin, he said, "Come on."
Justin obligingly fell in step beside him. "Where now?"
"To put the fear of God into Geoffrey Aston."
They did not have to go far. They soon saw Geoffrey and Humphrey hastening up
Cheapside, following the path of the mob. They were both flushed and appeared
to have been quarreling. Geoffrey quickened his stride at the sight of Jonas.
"Where is Daniel? Did he get away?"
"No."
"You arrested him?"
"No."
Geoffrey looked bewildered and then horrified. "He ... he is not dead?"
"No ... he is in sanctuary at St Paul's."
That was an option neither Aston had anticipated and there
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was a moment of shocked silence, until Geoffrey blurted out, "Thank God, he is
safe, then!"
Justin thought that was highly debatable, and Jonas said curtly, "You'd do
better to worry about your own skin."
"Me? What did I do?" Geoffrey protested, sounding scared.
Jonas glared at him. "Your brother would not have escaped if you had not
knocked over that lamp!"
"That was an accident!" Humphrey shoved in front of his son, telling Geoffrey
to say nothing more. "The lad stumbled and fell against the table. It was a
mishap, not deliberately done, and you cannot prove otherwise!"
Jonas had never intended to arrest Geoffrey, but he was not about to tell the
Astons that. "You may be surprised by what I can prove," he said ominously and
pushed past them.
Justin followed, and they moved on. Neither man was pleased with this
unexpected outcome. To Jonas's way of thinking, sanctuary was not a
satisfactory solution to murder. And to Justin, the case seemed even murkier
now than ever. All he knew for certain was that he would be returning to
Gracechurch Street that night with news sure to break a good woman's heart.
It rained again after midnight, and light, intermittent showers were still
falling the next morning. The sky was grey, the air clammy and cool, and
Justin's mood dampened by the memory of Agnes's tears. Dropping off Shadow at
Gunter's smithyhe wasn't up to facing Nell's interrogationhe saddled Copper
and headed for the Tower.
There he found the queen's household in turmoil. The Great Hall was
overflowing into the stairwell, servants were buzzing about like bees at an
overturned hive, the noise level was high enough to hurt sensitive ears, and
Eleanor was nowhere in sight. Edging into the maelstrom, Justin began
searching for a familiar face. Will Longsword and William Marshal were both at
the
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Windsor siege, and he had no luck in tracking down Peter of Blois, the queen's
chancellor. There was a sudden stir as Walter de Coutances swept through the
crowd, but Justin was not about to intercept the Archbishop of Rouen and
watched in frustration as the cleric was ushered into Eleanor's great chamber.
The opening door gave him a glimpse of the queen, deep in discussion with a
tall stately man clad in a bishop's vestments. Then the door closed, cutting
off his view.
Eventually he found someone he could interrogate: Nicholas de Mydden, one of
the queen's household knights. Nicholas had never been a favorite of his. The
other man was too self-satisfied, too cocksureand too familiar with Claudine.
But Nicholas always knew what was going on. Justin did not even need to ask.
"Have you heard?" Nicholas said as soon as he approached. "Hubert Walter is
here!"
The name was vaguely familiar, and after & moment Justin was able to prod his
memory into recalling that Hubert Walter was the Bishop of Salisbury, thus
sparing himself the embarrassment of having to confess his ignorance to
Nicholas, who was a master at the art of courteous condescension. He still
didn't understand why Hubert Walter's arrival should have caused such a
commotion, though, and he rrmrmured a noncommittal "Indeed," hoping his lack
of response would provoke Nicholas into revealing more.
It worked. Nicholas blinked in disappointrnent. "That might not be
soul-stirring news to you, de Quincy, bt*t I assure you the queen was
overjoyed to get her first message frrom her son!"
Justin forgot about salvaging his pride. "Me brought word from King Richard?
How?"
Nicholas smiled complacently. "You do know that Bishop Hubert was on crusade
with the king? He w as in Sicily when he learned that King Richard had been
captured on his way home from the Holy Land. He at once set out for Austria,
T
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where he somehow persuaded the emperor to allow him to see Richard."
"That is wonderful news! The king is well... he has not sickened in
captivity?" Justin asked anxiously, for he knew that must be Eleanor's
greatest fear. The Duke of Austria and the Holy Roman Emperor had dared to
seize a crusader-king, to defy the Church's stricture against harming those
who'd gone on crusade. Would such men have qualms about maltreating their
royal captive? Was Richard worth more to them alive... or dead?
"The bishop assured the queen that King Richard is in good health. He is being
held at Trifels in Bavaria now, and is hopeful of buying his freedom. God
Willing, he may soon be back on English soil!"
"God Willing," Justin echoed, no less fervently, for he would have moved
heaven and earth to restore to the queen her lost son. He began to bombard
Nicholas with eager questions, but it soon became apparent that the knight had
no other information to impart. Whatever else Bishop Hubert had brought back
from Bavaria was being shared with the queen, behind closed doors.
It was obvious that Eleanor would have no need of him today. As soon as he
could politely disengage himself, he threaded his way across the hall and
moved into the stairwell, where he promptly collided with Claudine.
He reached out to steady her as she stumbled. They were so close he could see
the light from the overhead wall sconce reflected in her eyes and his every
breath was scented with her perfume. They'd shared their first kiss in this
stairwell, and in the shadowed stillness lurked memories that were better
forgotten.
"Justin," she said softly, and her voice was like a caress in the dark. She
tilted her face up toward his, lips parting. "You are in my way."
He almost welcomed the flash of claws, for that was safer
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ttian the purr. "Claudine, why must it be all or nothing? If not lovers,
enemies? I do not want to be your enemy." "Well," she said, "I do not want to
be your friend." She'd meant to sound mocking, sounded bitter, instead. Justin
could think of nothing to say that would not be false or betrayijig. He
stepped aside and she gave him a look he couldn't interpret, then brushed past
him and continued on up the stairs.
Justin found Daniel in the parish church of St Gregory, adjoining the
cathedral. Daniel was seated cross-legged on a prayer cushion, Geoffrey
kneeling by his side. Their faces were intent, their voices low; Justin would
have loved to eavesdrop on that confidential conversation. As he moved around
the rood screen, both youths sprang to their feet. "This is still sanctuary,"
Daniel cried. "The priests said I can even go out into the churchyard and you
cannot touch me!"
"I am not here to violate sanctuary. I want to talk with you, nothing more."
Daniel did not appear thrilled by that prospect. But for once, he had nowhere
to retreat. Geoffrey glanced from one to the other, then cleared his throat.
"I have to get back to the shop ere Papa misses me," he said. "I'll stop by
again after Vespers." He fell silent then, gnawing his lower lip uneasily;
this was the first time Justin had seen him as tongue-tied as his brother.
"Here," he said finally, thrusting a small sack toward Daniel. "I brought you
a pork pie from the cookshop, and a few wafers. I'll bring more tonight..."
"You need not worry that he'll starve, Geoffrey," Justin said. "The Church
feeds all sanctuary seekers."
Geoffrey shrugged, seemed on the verge of saying more, then turned and hurried
from the chancel. They listened as his footsteps receded up the nave until a
slamming door told them that
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he'd done what Daniel could notrejoined the world. Noticing a pile of blankets
and several hemp sacks on the floor, Justin asked, "Did Geoffrey bring you
those, too?"
"No ... my aunt Agnes."
Justin did not ask if Humphrey or Beatrice had been there; why salt the boy's
wounds? "Here," he said, "I brought you something, too," and unhooked a
wineskin from his belt. "Wine could not possibly make your thinking any more
muddled than it already is."
Daniel took the wineskin and drank deeply. "My thinking is not so muddled," he
protested. "I'm not in gaol, am I?"
"Not yet." Justin retrieved the wineskin and took a swallow. "Your right of
sanctuary lasts only forty days, Daniel. Then you must either stand trial if
you're indicted or confess your guilt and abjure the realm, never to return.
I'd not find either of those choices appealing ... do you?"
Daniel twitched his shoulders, saying nothing, and Justin yearned to shake him
until his teeth rattled and some sense returned. "How old are you?" he asked,
and Daniel was surprised into giving a civil answer.
"I'll be seventeen two days after Michaelmas. Why?"
"That is too young to die, Daniel. Once before, I urged you to speak up whilst
you still could. I do not want to have to make that same speech at the foot of
the gallows."
"I did not kill her!" Daniel clenched his fists belligerently, but his chin
quivered. "I could never have hurt her, never..." His voice had thickened and
when Justin passed him the wineskin again, he reached for it gratefully,
taking several long swigs. Justin watched him in speculative silence. The boy
was hottempered and impulsive, for certes. He might well have killed in anger,
striking out unthinkingly. Could he have killed in coldblooded calculation?
Could he have picked up that rock and
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brought it down upon the head of the girl lying helpless at his feet? Justin
suspected that Luke would likely scoff at his sentimentality, but he did not
think Daniel was capable of a crime like that.
"I want to help you, lad, if you'll let me," he said, and Daniel put down the
wineskin, regarding him with suspicion and the first flickerings of hope.
"Why?"
"I do not think you killed her," Justin said, and Daniel stifled a sound that
might have been a sob.
"I did not, I swear it!"
"Then help me prove it. Give me some answers, honest ones. It was plain enough
that you recognized Melangell's pilgrim cross. How did it get in your coffer?
Did you steal it?" Daniel shook his head in vehement denial, and Justin moved
closer. "Did she give it to you, then? If so, why? And what were you
quarreling about on the day she died?"
Daniel looked at him mutely, his eyes brimming. "I cannot tell you," he said
haltingly. "I cannot..."
His earlier denials had been defiant. This one was despairing. Justin still
wanted to shake the boy. But he wanted to save him, too, if he could, for he
was heeding instinct now, not logic, the inner voice whispering that Daniel
was not Melangell's killer.
"The serjeant Tobias sees this crime as a very simple one. Melangell was a
whore and you murdered her in a fit of jealous rage. That is what he'll argue
to get a jury to indict you. And as it stands now, he'll likely get the
indictment." As Justin spoke, Daniel slumped down against the wall, wrapping
his arms around his drawn-up knees. His face was hidden by that mop of unruly
red hair, but his body's posture bespoke defeat. He did not relent, though,
and Justin feared he'd take his foolhardy silence to the grave.
"But nothing is as simple as it seems," he said. "Melangell was
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no whore and I do not think you're a killer. Keep your secrets, Daniel. With
or without your help, I shall find out the truth."
No sooner were the words out of his mouth than Justin winced, for that promise
sounded bombastic and overly dramatic in his own ears. Thank the Lord God Luke
was not here to hear him spouting such nonsense, or Jesu forfend, Jonas.
Leaving the wineskin to give Daniel some fleeting, dubious comfort, he turned
to go. He was already at the rood screen when he heard Daniel speak. The words
were slurred and the boy's voice was so low he could not be sure he'd heard
correctly. But it sounded as if Daniel Aston was thanking him.
Justin waited until early evening, when Godwin would be back from his rounds.
He'd waited too long, though, for his arrival interrupted the supper being
served by the landlord's wife to her family and lodgers. Algar, the landlord,
welcomed Justin with enthusiasm, and the other tenants showed more interest in
gawking at Justin than in eating the thick pottage of onions and cabbage being
ladled out into their bowls, proof that murder could be highly entertainingfor
those not related to the victim. Godwin was clearly uncomfortable with his new
notoriety; the lessons of a lifetime had taught him the value of protective
coloring, the danger inherent in calling undue attention to himself. Deciding
that it was better to take Godwin away from his supper than to blurt out his
news in front of this eager audience, Justin asked if they could talk in
private. Algar looked dismayed at being cheated of such choice gossip, but he
grudgingly agreed that they could meet in the kitchen.
Godwin got slowly to his feet. He seemed to be favoring his left leg, but he
brushed off Justin's query and limped toward the kitchen. Justin followed, and
within moments, so did Cati, who'd tarried long enough to stuff a chunk of rye
bread into her sleeve; she'd had too much experience with hunger ever to leave
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a meal uneaten. Godwin leaned back against a barrel in which river eels swam,
studying Justin with hollowed dark eyes. "Why are you here?"
Justin was not surprised that neither Jonas nor Tobias had sought out Godwin;
keeping the peddler informed would be a low priority. "Your daughter's pilgrim
cross has been found hidden away in a coffer belonging to Daniel Aston."
Daniel's name clearly meant nothing to Godwin. Just as clearly it did to Cati,
whose mouth dropped open. The peddler frowned. "Did this man kill my girl?"
"He says not, and I am inclined to believe him. But I'll not lie to you. He is
the prime suspect at present and did not help his cause any when he fled into
sanctuary at St Paul's."
Godwin seemed overwhelmed by the news. "Who is he? My daughter's lover?" He
looked even more baffled when Justin shook his head. "What was he to
Melangell, then? Why do you think him innocent?"
"They were friends," Cati said in a small voice. "She liked Daniel well..."
"He is young and scared," Justin said, "and unfortunately for him, he has all
the makings of a right fine scapegoat. I cannot swear to you that he is
innocent, but I am not yet convinced that he is guilty."
"I do not think he'd hurt Melangell," Cati interjected, but she sounded more
shaken than certain. She'd not expected the killer to be someone she knew,
someone she'd trusted. It seemed doubly cruel to Justin that the churchyard
killing should take from her both her sister and the last of her innocence.
Godwin shifted against the barrel, trying to take some of the weight off his
leg. "Then the only evidence they have against this boy is the St Davydd's
cross? That is a weak scaffolding to build a gallows on."
"I agree," Justin said, surprised that the other man seemed
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CRUEL AS THE GRAVE
willing to give Daniel the benefit of the doubt. After a moment to reflect,
though, he decided it wasn't so surprising, after all. The peddler's
suspicions of authority would make it easy to believe in conspiracies and
miscarriages of justice, especially when the poor and downtrodden were the
fish swept up into the legal nets. But his speculation about Godwin had not
blinded him to Cati's discomfort whenever the St Davydd's cross was mentioned.
More and more he was convinced she knew something of significance about that
pilgrim pledge. There was no point in asking her in front of her father; he'd
have to find a way to speak to her alone. Yet even if he could break through
her defenses and get her to reveal her secret, would it be enough to clear
Daniel?
"I will continue to investigate," he promised them. Neither Godwin nor Cati
appeared to take much comfort from a stranger's assurance. Godwin grunted,
then asked when he could recover the St Davydd's cross, and looked skeptical
when Justin explained that it was evidence and must be held until Daniel
either stood trial or abjured the realm. "I'll not keep you from your supper,"
Justin said, turning to go, and then remembering. "Godwin, how is your mule
faring?"
"Dead," Godwin said tersely, and it seemed to Justin that he'd managed to
compress an entire lifetime's misfortunes into that one laconic answer.
Justin kept his word, and in the days that followed he continued to probe the
circumstances of Melangell's death. He talked again to Daniel, and while the
boy was no longer sullen or even suspicious, he still refused to give Justin
the answers he needed. Another visit to the Aston household was equally
unproductive. Beatrice had taken to her bed and Humphrey seemed to think that
if he ignored his son's plight, it would somehow resolve ^self, for he
adamantly refused to discuss Daniel with his neigh-
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bors and customers and even his family. This last bit of information had come
from Geoffrey, whose composure was shredding like cabbage in the wake of
Daniel's flight into sanctuary. Justin had grown up with the foundling's
forlorn yearning for family, and he envied the Aston brothers, bonded both by
blood and choice. Geoffrey was insistent in his protestations of Daniel's
innocence, but unfortunately he could offer Justin nothing beside his
testament of trust.
Ranging further afield, Justin questioned the shopkeepers and residents of
Milk Street, all who lived or worked in the vicinity of St Mary Magdalene's.
The wheelwright and his son confirmed what they'd told Tobias, that they'd
seen Daniel and Melangell arguing hotly on the day of her death. Geoffrey's
churchyard trysts with Melangell were known throughout the neighborhood, but
related with a wink and a nudge, for few objected to the sowing of wild oats
in the spring. The elderly widow who cooked for the parish priest thought
she'd heard raised voices coming from the churchyard, but she was so
suggestible and eager to please that Justin could not be sure if this was a
true memory or one culled from her imagination. But no one claimed to have
heard any screams and no one reported seeing anything out of the ordinary that
night. If there were witnesses able to shed any light upon Melangell's death,
Justin could not find them.
He had no better luck unearthing alternative theories of the killing. The
scant evidence argued against a stranger's guilt, suggested someone Melangell
had known. If not Daniel, who? Why was he refusing to reveal why he'd been
quarreling with Melangell? If he was not guilty, then who was he trying to
protect? Geoffrey seemed the logical candidate. But Geoffrey had no motive for
murdering Melangell. A dalliance with a peddler's daughter was too common an
occurrence to jeopardize his marital prospects. In a world in which blood and
class were
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paramount, a girl who was lowborn and dirt-poor and part Welsh and
judgedfairly or notto be a wanton could not hope to compete with a rival like
Adela. The only way the marriage could have been put at risk would have been
if he'd fallen madly in love with Melangell, so besotted and bedazzled that he
was willing to defy his father and jettison his bright future for a precarious
life on the road. And since there was no evidence whatsoever that Geoffrey had
lost either his heart or his senses, that eliminated Humphrey, too, as a
suspect. As much as Justin disliked him, he could not see the mercer murdering
for the sport of it. As long as Melangell was no threat to the marital
alliance with Master Serlo's niece, Humphrey would not care that his son was
bedding her.
So who killed Melangell? Despite Luke's cynical suggestion, Justin could not
cast Godwin in the role of avenger. The man was too beaten down by his losses,
by life itself. Harshly put, the honour of a peddler's daughter was not worth
killing over, not in their world. Justin could as easily envision Adela
skulking into the churchyard and bloodying those pampered hands in an utterly
unnecessary murder. No, he could come up with no other satisfactory suspects.
If it was true that all roads led to Rome, all suspicions seemed to lead back
to Daniel Aston. So why did it feel so wrong?
Eleanor was a creature of the night, an anomaly in an age in which people rose
at first light and usually bedded down at dark. But she could afford to follow
her inclinations; queens were indifferent to the cost of candles and lamp oil.
She was not tyrannical by nature, though, and rarely insisted that her
attendants remain awake to keep her company. To a woman whose seventy years
had been lived out on center stage, these quiet nocturnal hours offered her
the most precious of all luxuries: solitude. Now she paced the confines of her
great chamber, oblivious
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of the sleeping forms on pallets near her bed, occasionally depositing an
absentminded pat upon the silken head of her favorite greyhound. At last she
heard the sound she'd been awaiting, a light, discreet knock. Opening the
door, she said softly, "Thank you, Gerard, for fetching him. Have him enter."
Justin looked as if he'd been roused from his bed; his black hair was tousled
and his eyes were sleep-shadowed. Even half awake, his manners had not
deserted him, and he hastily knelt, kissing her hand. He asked no questions,
nor did he show any resentment at being summoned in the middle of the night;
those who served the queen were never off-duty.
"Take care," she cautioned, "lest you awaken my ladies. Get that lamp and
follow me into the chapel."
Justin did as bade, although when he passed Claudine's pallet, his step
slowed. Her dark hair was loosely braided in a night plait, trailing over the
edge of the bed; a bared shoulder showed above the sheets, a hand clenched
into a small fist, as if her dreams were troubled. Eleanor was watching from
the door, her expression both indulgent and ironic. Flushing slightly, Justin
hastened to join her.
Lights still burned on the High Altar and the air was scented with incense.
There were no seats, of course, for worshippers were expected to kneel upon
prayer cushions, but there was a small wooden bench under one of the windows
and Eleanor headed toward it, beckoning Justin to follow. He hesitated, for it
seemed presumptuous to sit side by side with his queen, but Eleanor gestured
impatiently and he quickly complied.
Neither spoke for several moments. Justin was trying not to stare at the
queen, for this was the first time he'd seen her without a veil or wimple. Her
hair was coiled at the nape of her neck, shone silver in the moonlight. He
found himself wondering what color it had been in her youth. He wondered, too,
why
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she'd sent for him at such an hour, but he was in no hurry to find out; a
midnight summons was by its very nature ominous.
"I suppose you know by now of Hubert Walter's return to England."
Justin nodded. "I do, Madame. I was greatly gladdened to hear that the king
may soon be able to ransom himself."
Eleanor exhaled a breath, soft as a sigh. "I know that is the talk at court. I
fear such optimism may be premature at best, ill founded at worst. Richard's
subjects must believe that he will soon be free, back amongst us. We have no
guarantees, though, that it will come to pass. The emperor, weasel that he is,
is still equivocating, still refusing to commit himself, one way or another.
He has indicated he'd be willing to release my sonfor a high enough ransom.
But he has yet to grant Richard an audience, and I have been warned that he
continues to heed the agents of the French king. I need not tell you, Justin,
that Philip would barter his very soul for a chance to do Richard harm."
As would John, Justin thought grimly. "I am honoured, Madame, by your
confidences. I will never betray them."
Her smile was warmer than usual, almost fond. "I know that, Justin. I do not
give my trust lightly or easily, but you have earned it. You did me a great
service when you brought me that letter revealing my son's plight, and then
again when you cleared my other son of complicity in the killing. And we might
not have been able to thwart a French invasion if you'd not intercepted John's
man at Winchester, giving us the time we needed to safeguard our ports. You
have risked your life for me more than once. I need you now to put it at risk
again."
Justin instinctively squared his shoulders. "What would you have me do,
Madame?"
"You must find a way to get into Windsor Castle and deliver frvo secret
messages, one to my son and one to Durand."
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Sharon Kay Penman
Justin said nothing, but his face revealed the extent of his dismay. Eleanor
leaned over, rested a hand on his arm. "You have proven yourself to be
courageous and resourceful in the past. I know it will not be easy, nor will
it be safe. I know, too, that you will not fail me."
Justin thought that would make a fine epitaph. Never had he balked at doing
the queen's bidding, but he'd sooner leap into a pit full of snakes than take
his chances with John and Durand. What could he say, though? He could not tell
the queen that John put no value on other men's lives. Even if she knew it, it
could never be said. Nor could he confide that Durand bore him such a lethal
grudge. Loyalty made that first admission impossible, pride the second. He
found his mouth had gone dry, and he yearned suddenly for a swig from the
wineskin he'd left with Daniel. "Are these messages to be written, Madame, or
verbal?"
"I cannot put them in writing, lest they fall into the wrong hands. But first
I would tell you why this is so important. Under the circumstances, you are
entitled to know. Hubert Walter told me that if we hope to buy my son's
freedom, we must raise the sum of one hundred thousand marks."
Justin gasped, for that was a vast amount, indeed. It was well known that King
Richard had emptied the Exchequer to pay for his crusade; how could the queen
hope to come up with so much money? And yet he did not doubt that she would;
to save her favorite son, she would pawn the realm to the Devil himself if
need be.
"I see you appreciate the magnitude of our task," Eleanor said dryly. "We have
estimated that it will take a quarter year's income from every man of
property. To raise such levies, we must have peace throughout the kingdom.
Therefore, we must come to terms with my son John, and as soon as possible. As
long as he holds out at Windsor, the country remains in turmoil-
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W
CRUEL AS THE GRAVE
But if we take Windsor by force, we must deal with him as a rebel and few of
the justiciars have the stomach for that."
Justin marveled that she could sound so matter-of-fact and dispassionate; this
rebel was still of her flesh, born of her womb. "So you hope to persuade Lord
John to surrender of his own will?"
"Yes," she said. "We have offered a truce, contingent upon the surrender of
his castles into my keeping, to be returned to him if Richard is not freed. He
spurned the offer even though his position at Windsor grows more precarious by
the day. I fear he has the bit between his teeth and means to make this as
difficult as possible for all of us. I want you to sweeten the brew, Justin,
to give him my secret assurances that he need not yield up his castles at
Nottingham and Tickhill, that we will be content with the surrender of
Windsor, Wallingford, and the Peak."
"Why 'secret assurances,' Madame? Why not just deliver the new terms under a
flag of truce?"
She smiled faintly, without any humor whatsoever. "My son is of a suspicious
nature, Justin. He thrives upon conspiracies and intrigues as naturally as
other men breathe. If he believes that I am acting without the knowledge of
the justiciars, he will see opportunity there for sowing dissension. John has
never been able to resist fishing in troubled waters."
Justin thought that was an accurate appraisal of John's character, if
remarkably unsentimental coming from the man's mother. And John might well
take the bait. "What am I to tell Durand, my lady?"
"Tell him that he is to do all in his power to persuade John to accept my
offer. He must convince John that it is in his best interest to agree to a
truce, to end this outright rebellion."
Justin was not sanguine about Durand's prospects; to talk John into doing
something he was not inclined to do, Merlin Would be needed. But Eleanor had
not asked for his opinion. He
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Sharon Kay Penman
started to speak, then saw that she was not done. "Madame?" he prompted
gently. "Is there more?"
"Yes ... there is more. If John will not surrender and the castle falls, tell
Durand that he is to keep close to my son at all times. He will understand."
Justin was not sure that he did. "But surely none would harm Lord John,
Madame? Rebel or not, he is still a king's son, your son."
"Have you ever been in a siege, Justin?"
"No, my lady, I have not."
"When a castle falls, there is utter confusion and chaos. Midst the smoke and
fighting and looting, who is to say if a man dies by mischance or murder?"
"But King Richard has no son of his own. Many see Lord John as his heir. It
would be like ... like killing a future king, my lady!"
"Exactly," she said, and Justin was quiet for a moment, embarrassed by the
innocence of his protest. If there were men who'd kill for a pittance or a
whore's smile, why would there not be men to kill for a crown? Men who wanted
to see Richard's nephew Arthur succeed him, others who wanted anyone but the
king's brother. John must have more enemies than Rome had priests, Justin
thought bleakly. As for himself, he had only two and they'd be awaiting him at
Windsor Castle.
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10
WINDSOR CASTLE
April 1193
II 'JJU-JI Windsor Castle looked at first glance as if it could iVM hold out
until Judgment Day. It was as vast as it was ILkJo formidable: a stone shell
keep, two large baileys, more than a dozen rectangular towers, and walls faced
with heath stone encompassing more than thirteen acres. A closer inspection
revealed the vulnerabilities of the riverside fortress: chunks gouged out of
the walls by the powerful mangonels of the besieging army, ploughed-up earth
and pits in the baileys where the heavy stones had come crashing down,
burned-out shells of wooden buildings ignited by flaming arrows. Plumes of
smoke billowed up into the sky and the air was laden with so much dust that
the castle seemed to shimmer in a haze of heat and soot. Cinders swirled on
the wind, glowing embers drifting down like a hellish rain, imperiling
defenders and attackers alike. Justin reined in, mesmerized by this corn-
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pelling, horrific scene. All that was lacking was the acrid odor
of brimstone.
The closest villagesWindlesora and New Windsorwere deserted, their unlucky
inhabitants long since fled. But the army encampment was like a town of sorts,
for it was crowded with soldiers, peddlers, and the inevitable prostitutes. A
siege could be as tedious as it was dangerous, for it could drag on for weeks,
even months; sometimes only the threat of starvation would induce a trapped
garrison to surrender. Windsor's siege had not lasted long enough to
dishearten the attackers and there was a mood of expectancy in the camp.
It was soon evident that an assault was in the works, for well out of arrow
range, carpenters were busy erecting a belfry. Justin stopped to watch, never
having seen one before. The tower would be huge when completed, several
storeys high, tall enough to top the castle walls. Loitering soldiers were
more than happy to show off their battle lore, answering Justin's curious
questions readily. The belfry was wheeled, they told him, moved along by men
inside using iron bars or else by oxen, whose traces were run through pulleys
attached to stakes, so that as they pulled away from the castle, the belfry
moved toward it. Once the wall was reached, a drawbridge was lowered onto it
from the top storey of the belfry and the assault was on. When Justin asked
how they kept the defenders from setting fire to the belfry, they explained
that hides soaked in vinegar or urine would be nailed to the outsides of the
structure, but when he asked if that worked, they laughed and said the poor
souls inside hoped so, by God. Justin thought it would have been very
interesting to see a belfry in action. Not here, though, not now,
not if he could help it.
The large siege engines known as mangonels were in operation, catapulting
heavy rocks against the castle walls. There was a loud thud as a load hit its
target, sending dust and rubble fly
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ing. The soldiers manning the mangonel cheered and immediately set about
winching the beam down to reload. Within moments, a mangonel from within the
castle returned fire, and rocks rained into the army encampment. Men
scattered, and Justin had some difficulty in calming his stallion.
Dismounting, he led Copper deeper into the camp and began his search for
William Marshal and Will Longsword.
He eventually found them supervising the construction of a battering ram. It
looked to Justin's eye to be a tree trunk, one of the largest he'd ever seen,
being fitted with an iron cap. Nearby a wheeled, wooden, shedlike structure
was almost completed; when done, the battering ram would be suspended inside
it on chains, swung back and forth until it gained enough momentum to smash
into the castle gatehouse door. If John did not surrender soon, that choice
would be taken away from him.
"What are you doing here, lad?" Will's smile was quizzical, but welcoming,
too, confirming Justin's hunch that he had a friend at court in John's
half-brother. "I assume you're not here to fight since you're not wearing your
hauberk?"
"No ... not to fight," Justin agreed, not wanting to admit that he did not own
a hauberk; chain-mail armor was a luxury he'd never been able to afford. "If I
may speak with you in private, my lords ... ?"
William Marshal had given Justin a greeting that was civil but preoccupied. At
that, though, he turned to study the younger man and then nodded, for both he
and Will knew that if the voice was Justin's, the words were those of their
queen. Moving away from the battering ram, he gestured for Justin to follow.
"Well?" he said, sounding somewhat wary. "What are the queen's wishes?"
"I face a daunting task, my lords, one that I cannot hope to accomplish
without your aid." Justin was choosing his words ^th care. He'd been given
permission to confide in these men,
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Sharon Kay Penman
but only partially. "The queen has a spy amongst Lord John's men." Neither man
showed any surprise, a commentary both upon the royal court and the woman who
reigned in her son's stead. "I must get a message to him from the Queen's
Grace. Can you help me do that?"
Marshal smiled thinly. "Why not ask me to do something easy, lad ... like
teaching you how to walk on water?"
"Well... since the castle ditches are dry, that would not be of much use,"
Justin said wryly. "I know what I ask, but this matters greatly to the queen.
She wants to end this siege quickly ... and peacefully, my lords."
"So do we all," Will asserted. "I'm sure we can find a way to get you inside
once we put our minds to it."
Marshal did not look nearly as confident of that. "It is your neck," he said
succinctly. "Come by my tent tonight and
we'll talk."
Justin thanked them both and was turning away when Will called him back. "You
might want to stop by the surgeon's tent," he suggested. "Your friend is there
... the under-sheriff from Hampshire."
Will had decided he ought to show Justin how to find the surgeon's tent, and
as they walked through the camp, he explained how Luke had injured himself. ".
.. Cut whilst trying to keep two fools from killing each other over a whore's
favors. I do not think he was bad hurt, for he was more interested in
throttling the culprit than in getting the wound tended to!"
Will laughed, but as they approached the tent, his step slowed. "I offered to
take you for a reason of my own," he admitted. "I need to know more about the
queen's message to this spy of hers. Does this mean what I think ... that she
is trying to convince John to surrender?"
Justin's hesitation was brief. Deciding that Will was entitled
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l>
to knowhe was one of the few who genuinely cared about John's safetyhe nodded,
and had his decision validated by the look of relief that crossed the other
man's face. Will smiled, clapped him on the shoulder, pointed, and left him to
continue on his own.
He heard Luke's voice even before he ducked under the tent flap, sounding more
irate than aggrieved. Justin assumed the unseen object of his wrath was the
surgeon, and as he entered, he found that was indeed the case. Luke was
objecting so vociferously that he was drowning out the surgeon's side of the
argument, and Justin's entrance went unnoticed. He watched, amused, for
several moments, and when Luke finally paused for breath, he said to the
surgeon, "It sounds as if he needs a gag as well as a bandage."
Luke swung around with a startled oath. "Christ on the Cross!"
The surgeon took advantage of the interruption to explain that honey and salt
were very effective in cleansing a wound, and Luke grudgingly agreed to submit
to the treatment, albeit with poor grace. As soon as his arm was wrapped in
linen, he made a hasty escape, muttering to Justin as they exited the tent,
"Jesu, but I loathe leeches! Once they get hold of a man, he might as well
send for the priest and pick out his plot. So ... why are you here? Was life
getting too tame for you back in London?"
"I began to worry that you'd get yourself into trouble if I were not around to
watch over you ... and of course you did."
Luke looked down ruefully at his bandaged arm. "If I had it to do over, I'd
have let those louts slice each other up like sausage. Seriously, de Quincy,
what has brought you to Windsor? Surely the queen does not need you to spy on
John ... rt is not as if he is going anywhere!"
"The queen has bidden me to get two secret messages into the Castle ... one to
John, one to a knight in his household."
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Sharon Kay Penman
"Is that all? You do not have to set off on your own for Austria to free the
king?" Luke laughed, but stopped abruptly when he looked more closely at
Justin's profile. "You are not serious?"
"Yes," Justin said, "I am."
"The queen's spy ... would that be the same friendly fellow who communicates
with you by throwing daggers at your
head?"
"The very one."
Luke whistled softly. After a brief silence, he said, "Ere you left London,
did you see a lawyer about making a will?"
Justin was in no mood to appreciate Luke's gallows humor. He made an effort to
respond in kind, though, was starting to quip that he'd even picked out a
tombstone, when he glanced over, saw that the deputy was not joking. Luke had
been in deadly earnest.
William Marshal's tent was sparsely furnished. He was a soldier first, a
courtier second, and had only scorn for those who went off to war with all the
comforts of home. The meal he offered up to Will, Justin, and Luke was plain
fare, too, salted herring and round loaves of bread marked with God's Cross
and spiced wafers. The wine was excellent, though, and was poured freely as
the evening advanced and the men sought in vain to resolve
Justin's dilemma.
"At the start of the siege, they made a few sallies out of a postern door to
harry our men, but they've not ventured out in more than a week. Even if they
try another foray, there'd be no way to sneak in through the postern. It is
too well guarded." Will paused to drink, then looked over at Justin with a
regretful shrug. "That road leads nowhere, lad."
So had all of the other proposals bandied around that night. Justin had been
shy about offering suggestions of his own, for he
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had no battle experience to draw upon. But reticence was a luxury he could no
longer afford. "My lords ... I do not know if this would work, but if there
was an exchange of wounded and dead, mayhap I could be one of them ... ?" He
read their silence as rejection and said, "I suppose that was a daft idea ..."
"No, lad, actually it was a good one." Marshal smiled approvingly at Justin.
"But for it to work, we'd have to take one of the baileys first. Right now we
have no bodies to barterall their dead and wounded are still within the
castle. I know, though, of a siege where a similar ruse was played, with great
success ..."
Memories were soon flowing as generously as the wine. William Marshal had
passed most of his life in the saddle, sword in hand. He'd saved Queen Eleanor
from an ambush by rebellious barons when not much older than Justin, had
gained renown both in the brutal melees of the tourney and in the skirmishing
and sieges of the Great Rebellion, the internecine civil war between Henry II
and his sons. He'd gone on crusade to honour a promise to Eleanor's dying son,
where his exploits almost rivaled the tales told of Eleanor's most celebrated
son, the Lionheart. He'd known war in all its guises, and as the oil lamp
sputtered and the hours ebbed away, he exercised a soldier's bittersweet
prerogative, talking of bygone battles and slain comrades, sharing those
stories that had been swapped around army campfires since time immemorial.
He told them of his sojourn in the Holy Land and the constant turmoil in the
Marches, and then he and Will began to trade legendary tales of sieges gone
wrong. They told Luke and Justin of entire garrisons put to the sword when
they refused to surrender, of treacherous guards bribed to let the enemy into
their besieged cities, and accounts of suffering so great they had passed into
myth. The Siege of Antioch, where the starving defenders were reduced to
eating mice, thistles, dead horses,
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and, finally, corpses. The Siege of Xerigordon, where thirst became so extreme
that the desperate men drank the blood of
horses and their own urine.
There was an undeniably macabre fascination in such grisly stories. Justin
found his attention wandering, though, for it was difficult to concentrate
upon past sieges when the present one was looming so large in his thoughts.
How in God's Name was he going to keep faith with the queen? Clearly he was on
his own, and that was not a comforting realization. He was taken by surprise,
then, when William Marshal suddenly said briskly, "Well, back to the matter at
hand. How do we get young de Quincy into the castle, preferably alive?"
"I guess that rules out sending him over the walls with one of the mangonels,"
Luke said with a grin. "I'll own up that 1 know more about chasing down
outlaws and felons than battlefield strategems. But it has been my experience
that even the most diligent guards can be distracted. I remember an incident a
few years ago in Winchester, when two whores got into a cat-fight at the St
Giles Fair, shrieking and pulling hair and ripping clothes off and drawing
quite a crowd, as you'd expect. And whilst they put on that highly
entertaining performance, their accomplices were filching money pouches and
robbing untended booths and stalls. Now 1 suppose it would take more than a
couple of brawling harlots, but surely we can come up with something equally
dramatic?"
"That would be the easy part," Marshal pointed out. "Getting
him over the wall is the trick."
Justin had been sprawled out on the floor of the tent, nursing the last of his
wine. At that, he sat up. "Can it be done, my lord?" Marshal regarded him
pensively. "Yes," he said at last. "But you'd be taking a great risk."
Justin already knew that. "How do we do it?"
"We wait till dark, preferably on an overcast night. We decide
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what section of the wall seems most vulnerable. The upper bailey has far too
many towers, but there are stretches of the lower bailey where a man might
approach undetected. A scaling ladder could get you over the wall, provided
that no sharp-eyed guard happened by at the wrong time. We could improve the
odds for you by feigning an attack upon the gatehouse. Night assaults are rare
and would be sure to cause considerable confusion. Midst all that chaos, you
might possibly get away with it, but you'd need a lot of luck."
Will cleared his throat. "One of our scouts reported to me that the guards do
not regularly patrol the north side of the lower bailey. Whether they are
short-handed or think the approach is too steep or are just lazy, I cannot
say, but my man claims it is not as well guarded as other sections of the
wall." He glanced toward William Marshal, then away. "I did not mention it
until now," he said, sounding both defensive and defiant, "because I hoped it
would not come to an outright assault."
An awkward silence followed. Will was clearly embarrassed and the other men
were sympathetic to his predicament. Civil wars were cruel by their very
nature, rending families and setting brother against brother, father against
son. Justin finished the last of his wine, remembering something Will had once
said, that John had grown to manhood with his three elder brothers in
rebellion against their father. In rebelling against his brother now, was he
merely following in their footsteps? Was Richard reaping what he had sown?
Thinking suddenly of his own father, thinking, too, of Humphrey Aston and his
sons, he found himself wondering why some families were like poorly defended
castles, offering meagre protection against a hostile world. The queen's army
might be able to take Windsor Castle by force if it came to that, but her own
family was far more vulnerable to attack.
Setting down his wine cup, Justin thanked Will for that belated revelation. He
did not fault the other man for wanting to
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Sharon Kay Penman
^^^^JXZZSZZZZ
loyal to the Crown and loyal, too, Justin was
Where did Ms V***. m«, J^ ^ the ambiguous issue of Durand s       . ^ ^^
justified? Could a wolf everbemly^ne^^^^ to those questions, not yet. i ney wu
walls of Windsor Castle.
^e next few nigh,s were disappo^S,«« *^-^t
less, spangled ^ -^^C - -« assault preparations go forwa    . ram was
^±s^bs-"^------1-
*day0'Mkfn\Wa;h7sferge continued, the mangonels Until then,    though, th«^
sieg fol flesh.
pounding away at the castle wa Is, bow fom
and-blood targets, the castle defendsr shou , g a
ft, battlements. One man was part.la1 *o ^ ^ mangonel had launched^a load ^^
dusl o« ,he would lean over the embrasure an wre
wall. The bowmen spent much of the,r tune try    8 J his bravado, but to no
avail. Both sides reso «ed to ^
winding tow saturated with P«* ^       ^ CTOSsbowcastle soldiers made effective
use 0 a batete a.1   g          ^ ^ ,to weapon fta, fired bcU. as well -££'£*
strike one of the codes in the stornach£ died        gj^ fcy ,t was an
incongruous ° ^led lhat there sudden spurts of vWence, and )»^ "          m^
deroandnot more brawling m the camp^But w, ^ ^
ed that his commanders keep their men on     tigh         ^ far there had been
only one Whng. A solder ^^
when he found a man rifling tnroug
148
CRUEL AS THE GRAVE
promptly hanged the culprit from one of the mangonels and that seemed to have
a salutary effect upon others tempted toward thievery or feuding.
On the third night, the moon was haloed, and the men knew that was a reliable
sign of coming rain. It arrived the following afternoon, a drenching storm.
Looking up at the cloud canopy over their heads, Marshal nodded in
satisfaction. "Tonight," he told Justin, "you'll go in."
It was agreed that Justin would attempt to scale the wall in the third hour
past midnight. Once Marshal thought he'd had enough time to get onto the
battlements, he'd launch his diversion, a loud, noisy raid upon the gatehouse.
The timing had to be almost perfect. Too soon and Justin would find the walls
swarming with alarmed, sleepy men; too late and he risked attracting the
attention of the sentries. Following a somber supper with Will and William
Marshal, Justin retired to Luke's tent to get some sleep.
After tossing and turning and dozing uneasily for hours, Justin gave up and
quietly exited the tent. The air was chilly, the sky swathed in clouds, and
light, patchy fog had drifted in, giving the sleeping camp an eerie, ghostly
appearance. The weather could not have been better for his purposes, but he
was too tired and too edgy to take pleasure in it. Moving between blanketed
bodies, he sat down beside a smoldering campfire and stirred the dying flames
back to life.
The camp was still but not silent. Sounds carried on the damp tight air:
snoring, the crackling of the flames, the jangling of harness and bit as a
scout rode in, the low-voiced queries of senWes, somewhere in the distance a
barking dog. Gazing into the fife, Justin started when a hand touched his
shoulder, then tftoved over to make room for Luke.
"I could not sleep either," the deputy confided. "The waiting
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Sharon Kay Penman
is always the worst. What do you think Purgatory is like... flames and
serpents and suffering? I see it as a place where people just sit... and
wait."
Luke's commentary had drawn groggy curses from men sleeping around the fire,
and they rose, began to walk. "God must truly love you, de Quincy," Luke
observed. "Not only did you get your clouds, but fog, too! With luck like
that, remind me never to shoot dice with you."
"A pity we do not have a trumpet," Justin said, smiling at Luke's puzzlement
over that apparent non sequitur. "I was remembering that Joshua took down the
walls of Jericho with a few blasts from his trumpets. That surely sounds
better than fooling around in the dark with scaling ladders!"
"I do not know about that. I've had a lot of fun over the years fooling around
in the dark," Luke said with a grin, "although never on a ladder! We'd best
head back toward the tent, for Marshal ought to be sending a man to fetch us
soon. If you need to write a letter, de Quincy, I can get parchment and pen
and ink from one of the priests."
"You're bound and determined to make sure I do not die without a will, aren't
you?" Justin laughed softly. "I've already taken care of it, and in truth,
Luke, it was a humbling experience to realize how little I had to bestow! I
told Nell that I wanted Gunter to have my stallion. He saved my life, after
all."
"What about me? Hellfire, de Quincy, you did not leave me that mangy dog of
yours?"
Justin grinned. "No, he goes to Lucy ... and Nell had a few choice words about
that bequest!"
"I daresay she did, and none of them bear repeating," Luke joked. "When I
suggested the parchment, I was not thinking about a will. I thought you might
want to leave a letter for Claudine."
Justin's smile splintered. "No."
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I CRUEL AS THE GRAVE
"Are you sure? Whether you'll admit it or not, you're besotted with the woman"
"Let it be, Luke!"
"Why? Think about Claudine. If you die in this lunatic quest, it might comfort
her to have a letter"
"She'll have John to comfort her!"
Luke stared at him, but the only light came from a campfire some yards away.
"Are you saying what I think you are? Claudine is John's woman?"
Justin's revelation had been involuntary. But it was out in the open now and
there was no going back. "She is John's spy," he said tiredly. "That I know
for a certainty. The other is conjecture."
"Jesus God ..." Luke was rarely at a loss for words, but this was definitely
one of those times. "I do not know what to say," he confessed. "Aldith would
say it serves me right for meddling. I am sorry, de Quincy, truly I am."
Justin shrugged. "Now that you mention Aldith, I might as well say what is on
my mind, too. Why are you here at Windsor, Luke, when you ought to be back in
Winchester with Aldith?"
"That is none of your concern!"
"But Claudine was your concern?"
Luke swore. "I did not go home because I knew we'd quarrel again. Aldith does
not understand why I am loath to set the date for our wedding."
"Neither do I. You told me you wanted to marry her as soon as the banns could
be posted."
"I do want to marry her!"
There was a raw sincerity beneath the anger in Luke's voice. Justin believed
him. "So why then ..." he began and then drew a sharp breath, suddenly
comprehending. "Is it the sheriff?"
Luke nodded. "He does not think Aldith is a fit wife for his under-sheriff. He
has enlisted the Bishop of Winchester to show
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me the folly of such a union. They cared not that I was bedding her, but they
were horrified to learn I meant to marry her and they have made it very clear
that this marriage could cost
me dearly."
Justin wondered why he hadn't seen it sooner. Aldith was not gentry like Luke,
but a poor potter's daughter with a dubious past, for she'd lived openly as
another man's mistress before taking up with Luke. In their world, people were
supposed to know their place; it was only to be expected that the sheriff's
wife would shrink from having to socialize with Aldith. "What
are you going to do, Luke?"
"Damned if I know. I suppose I can hope that the sheriff falls out of favor
with the queen and gets replaced. Or I might get lucky and catch him in some
wrongdoing," Luke said, only half joking. "The whoreson is as greedy as he is
sanctimonious and one of these days I might find him with his hand in
the honey pot."
"I think you ought to tell Aldith what is really going on." "Are you daft? How
do I tell her that she is unworthy to be
my wife?"
"Is it better for her to think you love her not?"
Luke cursed again, helplessly, and then they both swung
around as footsteps sounded behind them. Justin's pulse
speeded up as he recognized one of William Marshal's men.
"My lord Marshal says it is time."
With Will's "Godspeed" echoing in their ears, Luke and Justin began a
cautious, circuitous approach toward the north side of the castle's lower
bailey. It was slow going, for they dared not use a lantern. It had occurred
to them both that they might become disoriented in the darkness and they were
relieved to see a wooden palisade up ahead. The western wall of the lower
bailey was the only section that had not been replaced by stone,
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and it served as a useful landmark, assuring them that they had not gone
astray.
The fog was thickening, for they were closer to the river, and the ground was
rising. Despite the damp chill, they were soon soaked in sweat, biting back
oaths as they struggled to find secure footing on the muddied slope. They now
discovered that they had a new peril to cope with. Luke was startled when
Justin suddenly grabbed his arm, pointing downward. The deputy flinched, for
he'd been about to step upon a caltrop. This was a particularly nasty device
for disabling horses, a ball with iron spikes, set so that one was always
protruding upward. The slope was strewn with these insidious snares and they
began to feel as if they were treading water, so slowly were they advancing.
How much time did they have left until Marshal launched his attack?
At last, though, the stone wall of the bailey loomed up out of the fog. They
paused to catch their breath and to share a moment of labored triumph. They
could detect no movement on the walls. With a brief, heartfelt prayer that
Will's scout had been right, Justin gestured and they crept forward. Luke had
been carrying the scaling ladder. It was made of wood, hinged to fold in two,
with spikes at the end to pierce the earth and hold it steady. It would not
reach all the way, and Justin had a hemp ladder to get him to the top of the
wall, fitted with hooks to grip the embrasure. It had all seemed possible,
even plausible, in the security of Marshal's tent. Out here in this
fog-shrouded landscape, his nerves as tautly drawn as that hemp rope, Justin
found himself agreeing with Luke's assessmenta lunatic quest.
"Are you ready?" Luke whispered. When Justin nodded, he seemed to want to say
more, finally settling for "Do not fall off the ladder."
"If I do, I'm likely to land on you." The fog was swirling around the castle
battlements; gazing upward, Justin thought it
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looked as if Windsor were crowned in clouds. He loosened the sword in his
scabbard, slung the hemp ladder over his shoulder, and began to climb. When he
was about to run out of rungs, he braced himself with his left arm, aiming for
the embrasure above his head. The hooks caught on his third try, but the sound
of iron scraping stone seemed loud enough to reverberate throughout the entire
castle. Justin waited, scarcely breathing as he watched for faces to appear at
the embrasure. After an eternity or two, he tugged on the ladder and when it
held, he slowly and laboriously ascended the remaining feet. Once he was close
enough, he reached out, pulling himself up and over the embrasure.
Panting, he leaned against the merlon, his hand gripping the hilt of his
sword. But no footsteps echoed on the wall walkway, no shouts of alarm
disturbed the silence blanketing the bailey. Pulling up the hemp ladder,
Justin dropped it down to Luke. The deputy raised his hand in a farewell
gesture, then set about retrieving the scaling ladder. Justin had tucked a wet
cloth into his belt and he used it now to scrub off the mud he'd smeared on
his face for camouflage. Deciding to get down into the bailey where he hoped
he'd feel less conspicuous, he made his way along the battlement toward the
wooden stairway that gave access to the ramparts.
He could see sentries across the bailey, others at the gatehouse. Based upon
his extensive experience with past sieges, William Marshal had estimated the
Windsor garrison to be about thirty or forty knights and less than a hundred
men-atarms. Those were numbers large enough to give Justin a certain degree of
anonymity, for how could so many men know each and every one of their cohorts?
But that confidence received a sharp jolt when he reached the bottom of the
stairs and found himself accosted by a scowling man with a crossbow slung over
his shoulder.
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CRUEL AS THE GRAVE
"Where do you think you're going?" he demanded. "Who told you to leave your
post?"
Justin considered claiming the need to "take a piss," but decided instead to
sow as much confusion as he could. He knew John had a number of Welsh
mercenaries among his men, and his years in Chester had given him a smattering
of Welsh. So he responded with a blank look, a shrug, and "Dydw i ddim yn
deall."
The crossbowman didn't understand, either. Glaring at Justin, he muttered
something about "accursed foreigners" and then called to a man standing in the
doorway of the great hall. "Sir Thomas! Will you tell this dolt to get back"
The rest of his words were drowned out by the commotion erupting at the
gatehouse. The crossbowman whirled toward the sound, Justin forgotten. As
guards up on the walls began to shout, the sleeping castle came abruptly back
to life. Groggy men were stumbling out of the great hall, the stables,
wherever they'd been bedding down, fumbling for their weapons. No one seemed
to know what was happening, but all were alarmed. Justin stood on the stairs
for a moment, savoring the turmoil, and then faded back into the shadows.
It took some time for the panic stirred up by Marshal's feint to subside. The
garrison had hastened up onto the battlements, making ready to repel the
invaders, crossbowmen firing blindly into the fog. By then Marshal's men were
withdrawing, but the ripples continued to radiate outward, until the entire
castle was in a state of confusion and chaos.
Justin was jubilant. The ease with which he'd infiltrated the castle was
energizing and he decided to take advantage of the pandemonium to check out
the garrison's provisions. If John would not surrender, it would be very
useful for Marshal to know how much food they had left. No one challenged him
and he had no difficulty in finding the larders. They would normally have been
guarded against theft, but now their sentinels were
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up on the walls. Blankets were spread out on the floor, and a lantern still
burned feebly. Picking it up, he prowled among sacks of corn and oatmeal and
beans. There were huge vats filled with salted pork and mutton and herring,
large cheeses, and hand mills and churns. The buttery nearby held enormous
casks of wine and cider, jars of honey and vinegar. All in all, enough food
and wine to hold out for weeks to come.
Keeping the lantern, Justin ventured back out into the bailey. Men were
clambering up and down the stairs and ladders, leaning over the embrasures to
yell defiance at the enemy camp. Others were trudging toward the great hall,
too agitated to sleep. Justin mingled with them, trailed into the hall, too.
So far no one had paid him any heed and emboldened, he roamed the aisles,
searching for Durand. Instead, he found John. The queen's son strode into the
hall, shouting a name that meant nothing to Justin. He hastily ducked behind a
pillar as John passed, almost close enough to touch, and then retreated toward
the nearest door.
Out in the bailey again, he decided to take direct action and began to stop
soldiers, asking the whereabouts of Sir Durand de Curzon. He got mainly shrugs
and shakes of the head, but eventually someone pointed toward a tower in the
south wall. Justin quickened his step, and had almost reached the tower when
Durand appeared in the doorway. His visage was grim, fatigue smudged under his
eyes and in the taut corners of his mouth. Preoccupied with his own thoughts,
which were apparently none too pleasant, he walked by Justin without even a
glance, heading across the bailey toward the great hall.
Catching up with him, Justin said softly, "John can wait. The queen cannot."
Durand came to an immediate halt, then spun around to confront Justin, who
obligingly raised the lantern so that it illuminated his face. "Christ Jesus!"
Durand blurted out, staring at
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Justin as if he doubted the evidence of his own senses. "What are you doing
here?"
It was the first time Justin had seen the other man off balance. "I wanted to
return your dagger/' he snapped. "Use your head, man. Why do you think?"
Durand cursed under his breath. "We cannot talk out here," he said tautly.
"Come with me."
Retracing Durand's steps, they returned to the tower. The ground-floor chamber
was empty but Durand continued on into the stairwell and Justin followed him
to an upper chamber that was surprisingly spacious and well lighted, with an
iron candlestick on the trestle table and several rushlights burning in wall
sconces. A flagon and cups were set out on the table and the first thing
Durand did was to pour himself wine. He did not offer Justin any, instead said
testily, "How in hellfire did you get into the castle undetected? Was that
little set-to at the gatehouse your doing?"
"Does it matter?"
"No ... I suppose not." Durand leaned back against the table, regarding Justin
reflectively. "Why are you here?"
"The queen wants you to do all in your power to convince Lord John that he
ought to surrender."
Durand's mouth twisted. "Did she have any suggestions as to how I'm to
accomplish that miraculous feat? If I had my way, we'd have come to terms a
fortnight ago. Why fight a war we cannot win? It makes no sense. Yet try
arguing that to John!"
"Why would he want to hold out? Does he expect help from Philip? Surely he
knows by now that the French invasion was thwarted?"
Durand shrugged. "He knows. Let me tell you about John. He is as far from a
fool as a man can be. Most of the time, he is too clever for his own good. But
where his brother is concerned, that intelligence does him no good whatsoever,
for the mere mention
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of Richard's name is enough to send emotion flooding into his brain, drowning
out the voice of reason."
"Is he that jealous of Richard?"
Durand snorted. "Did Cain love Abel? How else explain why we are holed up here
at Windsor instead of conspiring against Richard from the safety of the French
court?"
"The queen knows it will not be easy. But she is relying upon you to save John
from himselfand from others who might prefer that he not survive this siege.
She said that if the castle is assaulted and taken, you must see to John's
safety."
That was a daunting charge, but Durand merely nodded. "Tell my lady queen that
I will serve her as long as 1 have breath in my body." Taking a deep swallow
of wine, he looked at Justin with a quizzical, faintly mocking smile. "That
raises an interesting point. How do you expect to get word back to the queen?
If you think I'm going to help you escape, you'd best think again. I'll risk
my skin for no man, least of all you."
"Now why does that not surprise me?" Justin said, with a sardonic smile of his
own. "But to allay your concerns, I expect to get out through a postern gateat
John's command."
Durand's eyes narrowed. "Now why should John do that?"
"I bear two messages, one of which is for him."
Durand's hand jerked and wine splashed over the rim of his cup. "You keep me
out of it, by God! If there is even a hint that we are connected, John will
hang us both from the battlements ... if we are lucky. He trusts me nowor as
much as he ever trusts any manand I'll not have your blundering stirring up
suspicions or doubts."
"It is such a pleasure working with you, Durand. Do you suppose you can
compromise yourself long enough to tell me where I am most likely to find John
alone?"
"Well, there is always his bedchamber, although you're not likely to find him
alone there."
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Justin was startled. "He brought a concubine with him into the castle, knowing
it could be under siege?"
"Why not? Sieges can drag out for months. Would you truly expect him to live
like a monk for so long ... John, who cannot go more than a night without a
woman in his bed?"
Durand's smile was so malicious that Justin knew they were both thinking of
Claudine. "Tell me where I can find John," he said, with enough quiet menace
to make it a threat. "Tell me now."
"Are your nerves always on the raw like this? That does not bode well for your
chances of getting out of Windsor alive, does it? But your safety is none of
my concern. As for John, you can find him here sometimes, and often after
dark, on the battlements. He will spend hours up there, gazing out into the
night and brooding"
Durand cut himself off abruptly. By then, Justin heard it, too: footsteps in
the stairwell. They could not be found here together and his eyes swept the
room, seeking a hiding place. The only possibility was the corner privy
chamber. The footsteps were louder now, approaching the door. Durand would
have to delay the intruder while he hid. He was starting to turn toward the
other man when he caught movement from the corner of his eye. Instinctively he
recoiled, but it was too late. The candlestick in Durand's fist thudded into
his temple and he went down into the floor rushes as the door swung open.
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11
WINDSOR CASTLE
April 1193
IL'JPJrJl Justin awoke to total recall, pain, and utter blackness. V^M For a
shattering moment, he feared he'd been blinded im»3l by the blow. It was
almost with relief that he realized he was being held in one of the castle's
dungeons, as dark as the bottom of a well. His head was throbbing and when he
moved, he had to fight back a wave of queasiness. This was the second time in
two months that he'd suffered a head injury and by now he was all too familiar
with the symptoms. He tried to find out if he was bleeding, but discovered
instead that his right wrist was manacled to a ring welded into the floor.
Testing its strength merely set his head to spinning. Pillowing it awkwardly
upon his free arm, he lay very still, waiting for the dizziness to pass,
and eventually he slept.
When he awakened again, the pain had begun to recede and his thoughts were no
longer clouded. That was a dubious bless-
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ing, though, for he was now able to focus upon his plight with unsparing
clarity. The solitude was soon fraying his nerves and he found it particularly
troubling to have no sense of time's passing. He had no way of knowing how
long it had been since Durand swung that candlestick. Hours? A day? It was
disorienting and somehow made his isolation all the more complete. It was as
if the world had gone on without him. Would his disappearance stir up even a
ripple at the royal court, on Gracechurch Street? Would there be any to mourn
him, to remember?
His self-pity was fleeting, submerged in a rising tide of rage. He was not
going to die alone and forgotten down here in the dark. He owed Durand a blood
debt and he'd not go to his grave with it unpaid. That he swore grimly upon
the surety of his soul.
His embittered musings were interrupted by a sudden scraping noise, shockingly
loud in the muffled silence of the cell. He struggled to sit up as a trapdoor
was opened overhead and a ladder lowered into the gloom. A man was soon
clambering down, a sack dangling from his belt, a lantern swinging
precariously each time he switched holds upon the rungs. Even that feeble
light seemed unnaturally bright to Justin, who had to avert his eyes.
"Here," the man said brusquely, shaking out the contents of the sack onto the
floor at Justin's feet: a loaf of bread and a chunk of cheese and a battered
wineskin. "I was told to feed you ... although it seems a shame to waste good
food on a man who's soon to die."
Justin ignored the uncharitable aside. The guard's grumbling only echoed what
he already knew; spies were hanged. "Tell Lord John that Justin de Quincy must
talk with him. Say it's urgent and in his interest to hear me out."
"I'll do that straightaway," the man vowed, and then laughed derisively. "Why
should my lord John spare time for
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the likes of you?" he sneered and began his clumsy ascent back up the ladder.
The loss of that faltering lantern light affected Justin much more than he
could have anticipated; it was as if the sun had been blotted out, plunging
him back into an eternal night. His headache was almost gone; clearly Durand
had done far less damage than Gilbert the Fleming. He had no appetite, but he
forced himself to eat some of the bread and cheese. The liquid in the wineskin
was warm and had a stale aftertaste. He thought it might be ale; all he could
say for a certainty was that it was wet. His thirst was overpowering, though,
and it was difficult to ration himself to just a few swallows. He did not know
how long it had to last.
Surely John would not send him to his death without interrogating him first?
John's scruples might be ailing, but he had a curiosity healthy enough to put
any cat to shame. How could he not want answers as much as he did vengeance?
But what if John did not know he was languishing in this dungeon? Would Durand
have told him? If not, that guard's pitiless prediction was likely to come
true ... all too soon.
Justin was dozing fitfully when the trapdoor opened again. A tall figure
descended the ladder, less awkwardly than the guard, and even before his
lantern's flame revealed his identity, Justin knew it was Durand. The knight
raised the lantern high, letting its light linger upon Justin's pallor and
dishevelment. Justin's fury needed no illumination; the other man could feel
it throbbing between them in the dark, giving off enough heat to scorch the
very air they both breathed. A smile quirked the corner of Durand's mouth.
"So," he drawled, "how is your poor, addled head? I daresay it is still
pounding like a drum, no?"
Justin's fist clenched on the chain, but the anchor held. Squinting up into
the glare of Durand's lantern, he called the
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knight every vile name he'd ever heard, with so much venom that even the most
commonplace of profanities became a blistering indictment. Durand heard him
out, affecting an amused indifference belied by the tautness of his body's
stance, the glitter in those narrowed, appraising eyes.
"You're not taking this well, are you?" he gibed. "All this righteous
indignation seems a bit overdone to me, for I did warn you that I'd not put
myself at risk. With John about to walk in and find us chatting together, cozy
as can be, I did what I could to deflect suspicion away from myself, and offer
no apologies for it, by God!"
"Your memory is as flawed as your honour! I was there, too, or did that slip
your mind? You struck me down before the door opened, so how could you
possibly have known it was John? Second-sight?"
"I recognized his footsteps," Durand said blandly, and in that moment, Justin
understood fully what men meant when they spoke of a "murderous rage."
"What a liar you are! You saw your chance and took it and you'll never
convince me otherwise, not in this life or the next!"
"I do not have to convince you of anything, de Quincy. I told you what
happened and if you choose not to believe me, that is up to you. If I were in
your placeand ironsI'd be more concerned about making my peace with the
Almighty. You were caught spying, after all, and spies ..." He paused, heaving
a mock sigh. "Alas, they are hanged."
"You'd better hope that I am not."
"And why is that?"
"Because I am not about to die alone, Durand. If I hang, you'll hang with me,
and that is a promise."
Durand seemed taken aback. "I do not think you'd do that," he said at last and
Justin smiled coldly.
"Think again."
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Durand said nothing, but his free hand had dropped to the hilt of his dagger.
Justin's throat tightened. He still managed a scornful laugh, though, when the
other man took a step toward him. "Go ahead," he jeered, "use your knife. That
is one way to silence me. Of course you'd have to explain to John why you'd
come down to the dungeons to murder a man known to be in the queen's service.
But I'm sure you could think of some plausible explanation. We both know how
trusting John is, how slow he is to suspect treachery ... do we not?"
Now it was Durand's turn to indulge in profanity. He spat out a string of
vitriolic oaths, of which "misbegotten son of a poxed whore" was the mildest.
But he did not draw his dagger from its sheath.
Justin did his best to appear bored by the invective. "If you are done
ranting, let's talk about what I want you to do."
"If you think I'll help you escape, you're in for a great disappointment!"
"I'd sooner take my chances with a pack of starving wolves, for they'd be
easier to trust. All you need do is convince John to see me ... and soon. Lest
you forget, I bring him an urgent message from his lady mother. If I cannot
deliver it, we'll both have failed our queen."
Durand's eyes glinted in the candlelight. He seemed about to speak, instead
spun on his heel and stalked back to the ladder. He paused, a boot on the
first rung when Justin said his name.
"Just remember this, Durand. Either I do my talking to John ... or on the
gallows. The choice is yours."
"Rot in Hell," Durand snarled, and rapidly climbed the ladder. Within moments,
the trapdoor slammed and Justin was alone again in darkness. He sagged back
against the wall, his breathing as uneven and shallow as his hopes of
reprieve. Did Durand truly care whether he failed the queen or not? Had he
convinced Durand that their fates were inextricably entwined?
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I
llf he died in this hellhole or on the gallows, would Eleanor no-
itify his father?
I
The trapdoor was flung open with a thud. A ladder was lowered
through the opening and two men were soon climbing down. Justin sat up in
alarm. Why two of them? Had Durand decided to pay men to do his killing for
him? They moved toward him, fanning out to approach from each side, and the
man with the lantern said gruffly, "You've caused enough trouble already. Do
not make this any harder than it need be."
Justin yanked at the manacle in vain, knowing resistance was futile, planning
to resist, anyway. Then he saw what was in the guard's other hand: a key. At
least he'd not be dying in this accursed black pit, forgotten by all but God.
Even the gallows seemed preferable to that. The key made a rasping sound in
the lock, as lyrical to his ears as harp music. When he tried to rise, though,
he discovered that his muscles were cramped and stiff and he stumbled after
his captors, as unsteady on his legs as a newborn foal.
"Where are you taking me?"
"To the gallows, I expect," the second man said indifferently. "But Lord John
wants to see you first."
Justin gazed upward, marveling at the beauty of the sunsetcolored clouds
meandering lazily above the castle like fleecy, celestial sheepif sheep were
ever purple and pink. He laughed suddenly and his guards eyed him warily. He
couldn't explain to them how good it felt to be able to see the sky again, to
draw clean, untainted air into his lungs after breathing in the fumes filling
that rancid, fetid tomb. It was astonishing to see dusk was just falling, for
that meant his captivity had been measured in hours, not days. It was true
what he'd once heard, that time stopped with the slamming of a dungeon's door.
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John's bedchamber was in one of the timber buildings within the protective
stone circle of the shell keep. He was seated at a trestle table set for two,
about to eat as Justin was ushered in. Shoving him forward, the guard asked
deferentially, "Do you want us to truss him up, my lord?"
John put down his wine cup. "No," he said. "That will not be necessary... will
it, Master de Quincy? I am assuming my lady mother sent you as a spy, not an
assassin?"
Even accustomed as he was to John's slash-and-parry brand of sarcasm, this
took Justin's breath away, for that was an exceedingly bitter joke for a man
to make about his mother. John was watching him dispassionately. They were
only five years apart in age, but worlds apart in the lives they'd led. John
was the dark one in a fair family, lacking his celebrated elder brother's
height and flash and golden coloring. But he did not lack for ambition or
intelligence, and Justin's past encounters had convinced him that the queen's
youngest son was a formidable foe, indeed, far more dangerous than a Durand de
Curzon or a Gilbert the Fleming. John had his mother's compelling hazel eyes,
green-flecked and slanting and utterly inscrutable. A cat at a mousehole,
Justin thought, wanting to play with its prey before making the kill. "I am
neither, my lord," he said swiftly, "not spy nor assassin. That was not my
mission."
"No?" John arched a brow. "And what was this mysterious mission, then?" He
gestured for a waiting youth to ladle food onto his trencher, and the
succulent aroma of roasted chicken awakened in Justin a sudden and ravenous
hunger, for he'd eaten only a bit of cheese and bread in more than a day and
night. He looked away hastily, but not in time; John saw. "Hungry, are you?"
"No, my lord," Justin said stoutly, and John grinned.
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"You lied much more convincingly when you swore to me that you knew nothing
about that bloodstained letter."
There was no longer any need for secrecy and Justin made no denials. "If I had
not lied, my lord, I would have betrayed your mother, the queen. Surely you
would want those in your service to be loyal to you first and foremost?"
"Indeed," John agreed, so readily that Justin tensed, anticipating the pounce.
Instead John turned again to his servant. "Set a place for Master de Quincy.
He looks like a man in need of a meal."
Justin was astounded. One of John's most intriguingand unsettlingattributes
was his unpredictability. It made him interesting company .. . provided he was
not also one's gaoler. Whatever John's motivations, though, Justin was not
going to stand on false pride. "Thank you, my lord," he said, taking the seat
indicated and watching appreciatively as a roasted chicken leg was placed upon
his trencher.
"Not at all," John said amiably. "The least I can do is to offer a condemned
man one last meal."
Justin thought that was a dubious joke ... if indeed it was one. Talking with
John was like taking a stroll through a quagmire; the slightest misstep could
lead to disaster. Before he could respond, though, the door opened and a woman
entered the bedchamber. She gave Justin an incurious glance, then leaned over
to kiss John, taking a seat beside him. Justin's wine cup halted, halfway to
his mouth. He had seen women more beautiful. He'd rarely seen a woman whose
appeal was so blatantly carnal, though. What man could look upon those smoky
grey eyes, pouting red mouth, bright flaxen hair, and lush, voluptuous body
and not think of mortal sins? He didn't realize he was staring so obviously
until John commented, "I do not mind sharing my meal with you, de Quincy, but
my generosity has its limits."
Justin acknowledged his guilt with a quick smile and an apol-
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ogy to John's concubine for his bad manners. Her own manners were in need of
mending, for she ignored him utterly, devoting all of her attention to her
chicken. When Justin glanced back at John, he saw amusement in the other man's
eyes. Unlike Durand, John was not hostile. He seemed curious, almost friendly,
as if welcoming a distraction midst the monotony of the siege. The Prince of
Darkness. Justin wondered suddenly if John knew about Claudine's private jest.
He suspected that John would have been flattered, not offended. He must not
let down his guard with this man. John could as easily doom him with a smile
as with a curse.
John was gnawing on a chicken leg, watching Justin all the while. "Are you
ready now," he said, "to tell me why my mother sent you to spy on me? What
guilty secrets did she hope that you'd unearth at Windsor?"
"I was not sent here to spy upon you, my lord."
"Durand says he found you ransacking my tower chamber. What were you doing,
then, if not spying?"
"That never happened. I was not searching your chamber."
"You are saying that Durand lied?"
Justin's mouth was dry and he paused to take a swallow of wine and draw a
bracing breath now that the moment was at hand. "Do you speak English, my
lord?"
John shook his head in bafflement. "No, I do not... why?"
"As English is unknown to you, so is the truth an alien tongue to Durand."
John laughed. "I'll not quarrel with that. But Durand does nothing without a
reason. So why would he lie to me about your spying?"
"So you'd hang me."
John considered that for a moment and then grinned again. "Ah, I am
remembering now .. . the two of you got into a brawl over the Lady Claudine a
few weeks back. I'd already left the
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hall, was sorry I missed it. So he still bears you a grudge, does he? Well, I
suppose it would be ungallant to suggest Claudine's charms are not worth dying
for, so let's say you're speaking the truth. If you are not here to spy, why,
then?"
"The queen hoped that I could convince you to surrender the castle."
"Did she, now?" John's affability had vanished; his face was a mask,
impossible to read. "And how were you to do that?"
"She wanted me to tell you that she is willing to offer you more generous
terms. If you agree to yield up Windsor, Wallingford, and the Peak, she will
see to it that you keep control of your castles at Nottingham and Tickhill."
"Why did you not come in under a flag of truce, then?"
"The other justiciars do not know of this offer, my lord," Justin said, and
then held his breath, waiting to see if John would take the bait. Something
flickered in those tawny gold eyes, too quickly to catch. Justin ate some of
his chicken; even under such stressful circumstances, it tasted delicious. If
this was indeed his last meal, at least it would be a good one.
"That is a generous offer," John conceded, but he did not sound happy about
it. "Why is she suddenly so eager to settle this siege without bloodshed?"
Justin had decided to tell John the truth, or as much of it as he dared. "She
has two reasons, my lord. It would be more difficult to collect King Richard's
ransom in a realm beset with strife."
John showed no surprise, confirming Justin's suspicions; he'd wager John had
known about the ransom long before Eleanor did, courtesy of his conniving
ally, the French king. "God forbid," John said dryly, "that there should be
difficulties in collecting the ransom. What was her other reason?"
"She fears for your safety if the castle is taken by force."
"Does she, indeed?"
The words themselves were innocuous, but John invested
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them with such an ironic edge that Justin stared at him. At first glance, a
comparison between John and Daniel Aston seemed ludicrous. What did the
worldly, sardonic, and unscrupulous queen's son possibly have in common with
the callow, wretched youth huddling in sanctuary at St Paul's? And yet they
were both second-best, less-loved sons who had been overlooked and outshone by
bedazzling elder brothers. Jealousy might not be as lethal as hemlock or
henbane, but it could poison, too. Justin leaned forward, saying with a husky,
earnest intensity that John could not ignore:
"The queen's fears for you are very real. When I expressed doubts that you'd
be at risk if the castle fell, she was quite vexed with me and dwelt at length
upon the dangers you'd be facing. If you need proof of that, my lord, I can
offer no better proof than my own presence within this castle."
John frowned. "What do you mean?"
"The queen has been generous with her praise since I entered her service. She
has told me that I've earned her trust and I do believe she is even fond of
me, in her way. I am sure that she would not want to see harm befall me. I am
sure, too, that she knew full well the risks I'd be taking. Yet she did not
hesitate. You see, my lord, my life is expendable to her. Yours is not."
John said nothing. His lashes had swept down, veiling his eyes. Beside him,
his sultry bedmate continued to eat with gusto, oblivious to the currents
swirling around her. Justin could not imagine Claudine playing so passive a
role. He reminded himself that he had no proof that Claudine had ever bedded
John, and finished his chicken leg. He had said all he could; the rest was up
to John.
"You claim the justiciars know nothing of my mother's offer?"
"No, my lord, they do not."
"Who helped you, then, to get into the castle? Who staged that raid upon the
gatehouse?"
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"I did confide in one man, my lord, telling him that I hoped to convince you
to yield up the castle peaceably. He was more than willing to offer his aid
once he heard that."
John's smile was skeptical. "And the name of this Good Samaritan?"
"Your brother, Will Longsword," Justin said, and sensed that he'd gotten
through John's defenses, however fleetingly. He wished he could think of a way
to learn if John had been the one entering the tower chamber as Durand struck
him down. He was unwilling, though, to ask outright, for John's imagination
was already tangled with suspicions and doubts; Jesu forfend that he plant any
seeds of his own. John had fallen silent again. When he could endure the
suspense no longer, Justin said cautiously:
"Will you at least consider the queen's offer, my lord?"
John studied him impassively and then nodded. "I shall think upon it."
Justin knew the adage about letting sleeping dogs lie, but he could not help
himself. He had to ask. "And what of me, my lord?"
John's expression did not change, but his eyes caught the candlelight,
reflecting a gleam that might have been malice or mischief, or both. "I shall
think upon that, too," he said.
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WINDSOR CASTLE
May 1193
i "J^Jl Durand sauntered into John's chamber with a deliberhfa5f|B ate
swagger. His gaze flashed from John to Justin, back LkJb-JI to John. "You
wanted me, my lord?"
"Yes ... come in, Durand." John's smile was nonchalant, his eyes opaque.
"Master de Quincy is going to be my guest for a while. See if you cannot find
someplace for him to stay ... more comfortable than his last lodgings."
Durand did a marvelous impression of a man unhappy with his task but much too
loyal to object. "I'll see to it straightaway," he said, glancing at Justin
with feigned distaste that was, in actuality, quite real. Justin watched the
performance, fascinated in spite of himself by the role-playing. When Durand
looked in a mirror, did he recognize the man looking back at him?
John gestured for his servant to pour more wine, then picked up another piece
of chicken. Taking that as dismissal, Justin rose
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to his feet. John let them go, waiting until they'd reached the door. "De
Quincy and I have been having a right interesting conversation about the art
of lying. Any thoughts on that, Durand?"
Durand shrugged. "Whatever gets a man through the day."
John smiled. "Well, that is one viewpoint. A bit more tolerant, mayhap, than
the Church's position. I believe it holds lying to be a sin, no?"
Justin was close enough to see the muscles tighten along Durand's jawline.
When the other man spoke, though, he sounded quite composed, even amused. "Are
you fretting about the state of my immortal soul, my lord?"
"No, I've never been one for lost causes. Sin all you want, with my blessings.
But lying to me would be worse than a sin, Durand. It would be a blunder."
Durand's face was blank, utterly without expression. "I'll bear that in mind,
my lord."
John smiled again. "That would be wise," he said, and to Justin's surprise, he
found himself feeling a flicker of involuntary, unwelcome sympathy for Durand,
who diced with death on a daily basis, knowing that his first misstep would
likely be his last.
Neither Justin nor Durand spoke until they had emerged out into the keep's
inner bailey. By now the sunset was at its zenith and the sky above their
heads was the color of blood. "We can put you in a chamber in the south wall
tower," Durand said at last. "If it were up to me, you'd be sleeping in the
pigsty. Just what did you tell John, damn your soul?"
"That I was no spy. Of course you'd been very helpful in that regard, telling
him you caught me searching his chamber. I supP°se I should consider myself
lucky that you did not forge a c°nfession for me, too."
Their argument was all the more intense for having to be conducted in hushed
undertones meant to deter eavesdroppers.
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They fell silent until a group of soldiers passed by and then Durand launched
another sotto voce offensive. "What did you tell John about me?"
"That you used the truth the way other men use whores, or words to that
effect. I may have hinted that you'd seen a chance to settle a grudge. That
fit for certes with what he knows of your high moral character, and the public
brawl we had at the Tower helped, too. He thinks we are feuding over Claudine.
Try to remember that in case he asks."
Durand called Justin a highly uncomplimentary name, but after a moment, he
conceded, "Well, I suppose it could have been worse."
"Yes," Justin agreed, "we could have been hanged together."
"I still do not think you'd have betrayed me."
"Gambling on my goodwill, Durand, would be a fool's wager."
"Not your goodwill, de Quincy, your loyalty. As you put it in one of your more
coherent moments down in that dungeon, we both serve the queen. How would it
have availed her to lose her best man?"
Justin laughed incredulously. "So this was all my fault?"
"Well, it was not mine. If I'd wanted you dead, I'd have reached for my
dagger, not a candlestick."
"The candlestick was faster," Justin said laconically, "what with John about
to burst in the door," and got from Durand his first spontaneous smile.
"Jesu, but you're a cynical one, de Quincy. You're also a better talker than I
expected. Whatever you said to John, it saved your skin. Were you able to
perform a second miracle tonight and talk him into yielding up the castle?"
"I think so," Justin said slowly, and Durand gave him a look of genuine
surprise.
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"I see that I've been underrating you, de Quincy. The next time I shall have
to keep that in mind."
'The next time," Justin echoed softly. There was no need to say more. They
both understood perfectly.
The next day John demanded to see his brother Will, who immediately rode into
the castle under a flag of truce. It still took nearly a fortnight before the
negotiations were finally resolved, for John was not about to accept a verbal
assurance, even if it came from his mother. Promises had to be committed to
writing, compromises made, and the justiciars and barons reconciled to the
generosity of the terms being offered by the queen. The Bishop of Durham in
particular was incensed and had to be placated for the loss of John's castle
at Tickhill, which he'd been on the verge of capturing. Eventually, though, a
truce was struck until All Saints' Day, and John ordered the gates of Windsor
Castle opened to the army of William Marshal.
Justin stood on the steps of the great hall, watching as Marshal's men swarmed
into the bailey. John had ridden out shortly before noon, and with him had
gone Justin's nemesis, departing in a cloud of dust for parts unknown. Justin
harbored no illusions, though, that the queen's son was done with his
rebellion. It would now take another form, but it would go on. He never
doubted that Eleanor knew it, too.
Hearing his name called, he smiled at the sight meeting his eyes: Luke riding
into the bailey, leading Copper behind him. Drawing rein, the deputy slowly
shook his head in mock wonderment. "Well, once again you walked into the
lion's den and somehow avoided being eaten. How many of your nine lives did
you squander this time?"
"Too many," Justin conceded, hearing again the sound that
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still echoed in his sleep: the slamming of the dungeon's trapdoor. Over a
flagon of wine in the great hall, he gave Luke an edited account of his
misadventures, seekingwith limited successto put a humorous spin upon Durand's
double cross. Luke responded with gratifying indignation and predictable
carping, taking Justin to task for turning his back upon a viper. "Did you
learn nothing from your dealings with the Fleming, de Quincy? So what happens
now? I do not suppose you can cornplain to the queen ... ?"
"No... her man has covered his tracks. He would merely swear that he was
protecting himself, and I cannot offer proof to the contrary. Even if I could,
I do not know that I'd want to burden the queen with it. She has enough
troubles of her own without taking on mine, too."
Luke didn't argue; in Justin's place, he wouldn't have gone to the queen,
either. "Let's drink then to the surrender of Windsor Castle," he suggested,
clinking his cup against Justin's, "and to an untimely death for the queen's
back-stabbing spy. I suppose I will have to go back to Winchester now and face
Aldith's wrath. What about you?"
"I leave for London at first light," Justin said, "to make my report to the
queen." And to do what he could for a frightened youth cowering in the shadows
of St Paul's sanctuary.
"Well, done, Justin!"
"Thank you, Madame." Basking in the warmth of the queen's approval, Justin
found it easy to forget how close he'd come to dying on her behalf. He had
survived and she was pleased, and for the moment, nothing else mattered.
"Do you know where John has gone?"
"He took the road north, Madame. My lord Marshal thinks he was heading for his
castle at Nottingham."
"I assume Durand went with him?"
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"Yes, my lady, he did."
"Good," she said, but her tone was preoccupied. Justin was learning to read
her unspoken signals, and it seemed obvious to him that her thoughts were not
of Durand. He was not surprised when she did not ask about his collaboration
with Durand. Eleanor did not ever ask a question unless she was sure she
wanted to know the answer. Justin understood that and waited for the question
she did want to ask.
"I have good news of my own," Eleanor said. "The French king was forced to
abandon the siege of Rouen and retreat. For the moment at least, Normandy
holds fast for my son."
"I am gladdened to hear that, Madame."
"Now we must concentrate all our efforts upon raising the ransom." Eleanor
paused to sip from a silver goblet of watereddown wine. "My son... he was
well?" When he nodded, she drank again, her eyes on Justin's face. "What did
you say to John?"
"I told him what you'd bidden me, my lady, that he need not yield up all of
his castles if he surrendered."
"I know that," she said, with a trace of impatience. "What else?"
"Just that... that you were concerned for his safety."
"I see ..." Eleanor continued to study him, so intently that he shifted
uncomfortably in his seat. He'd been sent to Windsor to speak for the queen,
instead had found himself speaking for the mother, and he could only hope now
that she'd not see his initiative as presumption.
"For one who grew to manhood believing himself to be an orphan," Eleanor said,
"you are surprisingly familiar with the weeds found in family gardens."
Justin tensed, for her words were salted with sarcasm. Then she smiled
ruefully and he realized that barbed remark was not aimed at him. So even
queens harbored regrets. He thought it a
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pity that John had not been the one to hear that oblique admission. But
whatever had gone wrong between Eleanor and her youngest son, the rift was now
so deep and so wide that it might be beyond mending. He was not sure how to
respond, finally resorting to a lame joke.
"All I know of family gardens, my lady, I learned by looking over fences."
Eleanor smiled again, with more amusement than his weak jest deserved, and
told him to take a few days for himself, a well-earned reward, she said, for
serving her son so faithfully. Justin dutifully bade her farewell, hoping he
could put those days to good use on Daniel Aston's behalf, and managed to
depart the Tower without encountering Claudine. It was only later that he
wondered which of her sons the queen had meant.
Justin found Daniel sitting on the cathedral's pulpitum steps, eating bread
smeared with honey as his aunt hovered beside him, trying to stitch up a tear
in the sleeve of his tunic. When he saw Justin, Daniel jumped to his feet.
"Where have you been?"
"I told you, Daniel, that the queen was sending me to the siege of Windsor
Castle."
"You were gone so long," Daniel cried, so plaintively that Justin realized how
much the boy had come to trust his promise of aid. It was not a comforting
thought.
"I know, lad," he said, "I know. But it could not be helped." Greeting Agnes,
he seated himself beside them, doing his best to summon up a reassuring smile.
"Nell tells me that nothing has happened whilst I was gone. I was hoping,
though, that you'd had a change of heart, Daniel, with time to think upon your
plight. What about it? Are you willing to tell me now about that argument and
the pilgrim pledge?"
Three and a half weeks in sanctuary had stripped away much of Daniel's
defensive belligerence. His eyes were red-rimmed,
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his tunic badly wrinkled, his nails bitten down to the quick, and he'd
developed a hacking cough. He ducked his head, not meeting Justin's gaze, and
finally mumbled, "I would if I could ..."
Justin hadn't the heart to berate him. What good would it do? Getting to his
feet, he said, "I'll go now to seek Jonas out, will stop by again later if I
find out anything from him."
Daniel nodded mutely and Agnes announced that she, too, must go, leaning over
to kiss his cheek. Their last glimpse of him was not reassuring; he'd drawn
his knees up to his chin, rocking back and forth, a forlorn figure of such
abject misery that tears blurred Agnes's eyes. "I must know," she whispered.
"Is there any hope for the lad?"
Justin hesitated. Which would be worse, to give her false hope or to take away
all hope whatsoever? "Yes... there is still some hope, Agnes. If we could
locate that Flemish mercer and learn who bought the patterned silk found under
Melangell's body, that might well point suspicion away from Daniel and toward
someone else."
Agnes daubed at the corner of her eye with one of her hanging sleeves. "He is
innocent, Justin, may the Almighty strike me dead here and now if he is not.
We cannot let him hang."
"We will not," he assured her, with far more confidence than he really felt.
They both took care not to mention that Daniel's time was fast running out,
with only a fortnight remaining until his right of sanctuary ended.
Justin's meeting with Jonas was brief and unproductive. The ser-
jeant had nothing to report, no other leads to pursue. The
Flemish mercer was still missing, no new eyewitnesses had
turned up, and Tobias had convinced the sheriff that they ought
not to waste any more time on a case already solved, with the
j killer sure to hang or abjure the realm. Jonas looked fatigued and
I sounded harassed, having been routed from his bed before dawn
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to break up a brawl between feuding neighbors, and he could spare Justin
neither time nor encouragement. "Find me a more likely suspect than the Aston
lad," he flung over his shoulder, "and I'll do my part. But I've unearthed
nothing in my investigation and with all due respect, I doubt that you can do
better."
So did Justin, but he had to try. He paid another visit to the Aston shop,
where the atmosphere was stifling, suffused with such tension that the very
air seemed oppressive. Humphrey ordered Justin from the shop, shouting that
he'd done enough for the family with his meddling and his bungling. Justin
didn't bother to argue. Within moments, though, Geoffrey hastened out into the
street after him.
Daniel's ordeal was clearly taking its toll upon his brother. His sleek blond
hair was rumpled and unkempt, his clothing was mismatched, as if he'd thrown
on the first garments at hand, and that favorite-son armor appeared dented
beyond repair.
"Thank God you're back," he said. "You seem to be the only one who does not
think Daniel is guilty. Even my father ... he has not visited Daniel, not
once! He says Daniel's fate is in God's hands and we must do whatever we can
to keep the scandal from tainting us, too."
"And your mother?"
Geoffrey stared down at his shoes. "My father forbade her to go to St Paul's
and she is too fearful to defy him."
"But you did?" Justin said quietly, and Geoffrey nodded.
"I never had defied him before, at least not openly. But I could not abandon
Daniel, I could not!" His voice cracked and he seemed to be blinking back
tears. "The whole world has gone mad, for nothing makes sense anymore. At
first Melangell's death did not seem real to me. I'd wake up in the morning
and for a moment, I'd forget... and all was as it had been ere that accursed
night..." He swallowed, then mustered up a wan smile. "I suppose that sounds
crazed, for certes!"
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I      "No," Justin said, "not crazed at all."
I "But Daniel's danger is all too real. I live with it day and
1 night. What will happen to him? Tell me the truth, Justin." I "In a
fortnight, he must come forth from sanctuary or be I starved out. If he is
indicted, as seems likely, he must then stand I trial for Melangell's murder,
and if found guilty, he will hang. Or E ... he may choose to confess and
abjure the realm. If so, he will I have to make his way, barefoot and in
sackcloth, to a chosen I port, where he must set sail on the next ship,
swearing never to I return to England."
I "Oh, God..." Geoffrey whispered. His eyes were glassy, I unseeing. Turning
abruptly, he fled back into the shop. Justin I waited to see if he would
reemerge and then walked away I slowly, feeling a great sadness for all those
who were caught in I the spider's web spun by Melangell's death. Daniel,
Geoffrey, I Agnes, Cati, her luckless father, even the pitiful, browbeaten I
Beatrice. No matter what happened to Daniel, their lives would I never be the
same again.
I
I Justin spent the rest of the day in the neighborhood where
1 Melangell had died, talking to people he'd already interrogated, I prodding
sluggish memories in vain. He even lingered in the I churchyard for a time,
mourning both the reckless, lively spirit
»/
1 of a girl he'd never met and his inability to catch her killer. The I
afternoon had become blustery and damp, with a chill more I common to March
than May, and he hastened to take shelter I under a towering yew tree as a
sudden, soaking rainstorm broke I over the city. Wet and cold and thoroughly
disheartened, Justin " gave up and headed for home.
Darkness was blotting away the last traces of daylight by the time he reached
Gracechurch Street. He stopped by the smithy to retrieve Shadow and check on
his stallion, then continued on to his cottage, where he lit a fire in the
hearth and changed into
I
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a dry tunic. Like most of his neighbors, he'd gotten into the nightly habit of
dropping in at the alehouse, as much for the company as for the ale, and he
knew Nell would be expecting him. But the rain was still pelting the darkness
beyond his door, the wind was rising, and his spirits plummeting. After
feeding Shadow, he dragged out the whetstone he'd borrowed from Gunter and
began to sharpen his sword.
Gnawing zestfully upon a pork bone, Shadow gave a muffled bark, chewed some
more, and then barked again, clearly torn between hunger and duty. Justin set
the sword down. At first he heard only the sounds of the storm, but the dog
was now sniffing at the door, tail whipping about in eager welcome. Justin
still did not hear anything but the rain and gusting wind. Trusting Shadow,
though, he lifted the latch and a slim, hooded figure stumbled through the
doorway, into his arms.
He reached out to steady her, assuming it must be Nell. As she raised her
head, her hood fell back, and he froze. "Claudine!"
"Justin . . . oh, Justin . .." Her voice faltered and tears began spilling
silently down her cheeks. She was trembling so violently that he steered her
at once toward the hearth. Her mantle was sodden and as soon as he removed it,
he saw that her gown was, too. "I'm so cold," she whispered, clutching his
hand with fingers of ice, "and so wet..."
"You're soaked through to the skin. You'd best get out of those wet clothes
ere you catch your death." Hobbling his curiosity until he could get her
thawed out, he found one of his shirts for her to wear and a blanket, which he
draped over her shoulders as she stripped off her stockings. They fell into
the floor rushes, puddles of brightly colored silk. Her little leather
slippers were caked with mud. He stared at them in disbelief. "Claudine, you
did not walk all the way from the Tower?"
"Yes," she said, "I did," and sneezed. "I need help with these laces," she
entreated. "My fingers feel frozen."
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Loosening the laces, he pulled the gown over her head and spread it out on a
coffer to dry by the fire. When he turned back, her chemise had joined her
stockings in the floor rushes and she was squirming into his shirt. It
billowed about her like a white linen tent, reaching to her knees, and she
shivered as the air hit her bare legs. Clutching the blanket closer, she
sneezed again and began clumsily to free her wet hair from its pins. Justin
handed her a towel, then crossed to the table and picked up his wineskin.
Filling a cup to the brim, he carried it back to Claudine, resisting the urge
to drink himself. He suspected that he would need a clear head for whatever
was coming.
"This will warm you," he said, and watched warily as she drank in gulps. Why
was she here? What new game was this? "You truly walked here from the Tower
... by yourself? Christ Jesus, Claudine, whatever possessed you to do
something so dangerous?"
"My mare went lame last week and if I'd asked to borrow another horse, there
would have been questions. It seemed easier just to walk. It was not raining
when I started out," she said, somewhat defensively. "And by the time the
storm broke, it was too late to turn back."
"But to go out after dark and alone ..." He shook his head incredulously. "Why
would you take such a risk?"
She was toweling her hair vigorously, her face hidden by a dripping black
curtain. "I did not find out till Vespers that you'd returned to London last
night. I could not wait till the morrow, had to see you straightaway." Shaking
her hair back, she glanced toward him, and then away. "Justin, I am in such
trouble ..."
"What is wrong? Tell me," he urged, and she regarded him with enormous dark
eyes, almost black against the waxen whiteness of her face.
"I am pregnant."
Later, he would wonder why he'd not seen this coming. But
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he'd trained himself to see her as John's spy first, and only then as his
sometime lover. He was expecting another ruse, possibly even a
conscience-stricken confession, although he thought the former was far more
likely than the latter. It took him a moment to absorb the full impact of her
words, and when he did, he sat down abruptly on the edge of the bed. This was
no trick. Not even Claudine could fake the fear he saw in her eyes. She was
telling the truth. She was with child. But was it his?
"Justin ... for God's sake, say something!"
"Are you sure?"
"Sure enough to be out of my wits with worry," she said tartly. "You cannot
imagine what these past weeks have been like, once I began to suspect. You
were gone, and I did not know where, or when you'd be coming back. I did not
draw an easy breath until the queen finally told me that you'd been at Windsor
Castle and that you were safe."
Justin tasted blood in his mouth and realized that he'd bitten his lip. "The
last time we lay together was mid-April, I think ..." A Tuesday, the
thirteenth day, soon after Compline. 'That is... what? Four weeks? Is that
time enough to tell if you're with child?"
She shook her head impatiently. "I was already pregnant then, although I did
not realize it yet. I'd missed my April flux, but every woman misses one now
and then. And since I'd failed to get with child during the years of my
marriage, I'd thought I might be barren, so I did not worry over-much about
pregnancy. But then I began to get queasy of a sudden, and when I missed May,
too, I knew ... Mayhap it was the night we were together at that riverside
inn, or that afternoon in your cottage, ere I was stricken with one of my
headaches, remember?"
"Yes," he said, "I remember." If that were indeed the time, the Devil must be
laughing fit to burst, for it was then that he'd discovered that she'd played
him for a fool from the first, bait for
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John's trap. Yet if she had become pregnant in March, the baby could not be
John's, for by then, he was at the French court. If she could be believed. She
was curled up in the chair like a kitten in search of warmth, bare feet rucked
up under her, damp hair curling about her face, lip rouge gone, kohl smeared
under her eyes. She looked more like a lost, bedraggled child than the
seductive spy he knew her to be, and when he rose from the bed and reached out
to her, she grasped his hand as if grabbing for a lifeline.
"Justin, I am so scared."
"It will be all right," he lied. "We'll figure something out." But what?
Marriage was out of the question, for she would consider marrying beneath her
to be as shaming as bearing a child out of wedlock.
As if reading his thoughts, she gave him a tremulous smile. "I know you are
thinking of marriage, for you are an honourable man. And if our circumstances
were different..."
"But they are not." Was there relief in that understanding, or regret... or
both? Better not to know. He could sort out his own feelings later. Right now
they must decide what would be best for Claudine and the babe. "I'll not let
you face this alone," he said, and saw her eyes fill with tears.
"You cannot ever know," she said, "how much I needed to hear you say that. I
do not think I'd have the strength to cope on my own."
"You need only tell me," he said, "what you would have me do," and her fingers
tightened in his, clung fast.
"I cannot disgrace my family, Justin. If I were to bear a bastard child, it
might well kill my father. And my brothers... I cannot shame them like that, I
cannot..." She shivered and then said in a low voice, no longer meeting his
eyes, "I've learned of a woman who knows how to bring on a miscarriage with
herbs like pennyroyal. But I am fearful of going to her alone. If you could
come with me ... ?"
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"Claudine, no!" Justin had been kneeling beside her, but at that, he sprang to
his feet. "You cannot do that!"
"What choice do I have? Justin, I cannot have this child ... I cannot!"
"Claudine, listen to me. Not only would you be committing a mortal sin, you'd
be putting your own life at grave risk. I knew a woman who died that way, the
sister of a groom on the Fitz Alan manor. She bled to death and suffered
greatly ere she died"
"You said you would help me, Justin, you promised!"
"I will help, but not to kill our child!"
Claudine flinched. "You think I want to do that? You think I'd risk my life
and my soul lightly, on a whim? What if God cannot forgive me? If I cannot
forgive myself? What if this is my only chance, my only child? But I do not
know what else to do. How can I have this baby without destroying my family's
honour?" She stared up at him despairingly, then buried her face in her hands
and began to sob.
Justin knelt by her side again, gently gathered her into his arms, and held
her as she wept. "We'll find a way," he promised. "Somehow, we'll find a way."
She was still shivering and he carried her over to the bed, settled her under
the covers, and sat with her until her tears finally ceased. Eventually she
fell into an exhausted sleep, and only then did he retrieve the wineskin,
pouring himself a generous dose, and then another. When the wineskin was empty
and the fire had burned down to glowing embers, he quenched the candles,
stripped, and slid into bed, taking care not to jostle Claudine.
He lay very still, willing sleep to come. Beneath the surface, undercurrents
and eddies continued to ebb and flow, memories mingling with suspicions and
misgivings and regrets. He found himself thinking, with a bittersweet ache, of
his mother. Had she been as panicked as Claudine, terrified and abandoned and
alone? Had she, too, thought of pennyroyal, prayed for a mis-
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carriage? Or had her sense of joy been greater than her shame? Her secrets and
soul-searching had died with her, and he knew only that she'd given up her
life for his.
It was far easier to imagine his father's fear and rage. A priest whose
ambitions burned as brightly as his faith, he was not going to let a village
girl and their bastard son hinder his upward climb. Nor had he. The girl had
conveniently died, the son hidden away as a charity case, unacknowledged until
that December-eve confrontation in an icy, shadowed chapel at Chester. The
irony of their respective positions struck Justin like a dagger's thrust. His
father had not wanted him, but never doubted that he was the sire. He would
that he could say the same.
Could the child be John's? He had no evidence, no proof, only conjecture and
conclusions drawn upon what he knew of the queen's son and the woman lying
asleep beside him. It had always seemed likely to him that Claudine and John
had shared a bed, however briefly. If she was telling the truth about her
March flux, the child must be his. But what if she were not? Why would she lie
to him? What else could she do if she suspected the child were John's? She'd
have no way to get word to him; not even his mother knew for certes where he
was at present. And what if she did not know herself which of them was the
father? He'd lain with her in February; what if John had, too? Could a woman
tell whose seed had taken root in her womb?
He had no answers, only hurtful questions. It served for naught to rake over
such barren, unyielding ground, for he had more pressing worries at hand. He'd
promised Claudine he'd find a solution for them. How was he to keep that rash
promise? Yet he dared not fail, not with two lives at stake.
He'd finally slept, awakening to the drumbeat of rain on the roof. Claudine
was sleeping beside him, her hair tickling his chest, their legs entwined.
When he moved, she opened her
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eyes and smiled drowsily up at him. He touched her cheek, a caress as soft as
a breath, and her arms came up around his neck, drawing his mouth down to
hers. Their lovemaking was wordless, unhurried, as much an act of healing as
lust. Afterward, they lay quietly in each other's arms, listening to the rain
until the cottage was filled with the greying light of a damp, spring dawn.
As soon as they left the refuge of their bed, though, the day took a downward
turn. Claudine's mood was edgy and brittle, and when Justin brought back fried
bread and roasted chestnuts from Nell's alehouse kitchen, she took one look at
their breakfast and was promptly sick. Nor did his attempts at reassurance go
much better. Their conversation was stilted, their intimacy forced. Not
lovers, Justin thought grimly, two people caught in the same trap. Once the
rain stopped, he saddled Copper and took her home.
They stood awkwardly in the Tower's inner bailey, holding hands but at a loss
for words. Reaching out, Justin tucked away a lock of hair that had slipped
from her wimple. "Promise me," he said, "that you will not do anything until
we've had a chance to consider all of the choices open to us."
"What choices are there?" she asked, almost inaudibly, and heedless of people
passing by, he leaned over and kissed her cheek.
"Claudine, there is a path out of this morass and I swear to you that we will
find it. If you could go away to have the babe without anyone knowing, there'd
be no scandal, no talk to get back to your family."
"Justin, do you not think I've thought of that? How could I go off without the
queen's consent? And how could I afford to live in seclusion until the child
was born? Neither of us have enough money for that."
Claudine didn't sound argumentative, merely infinitely
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weary, and that alarmed Justin more than anger. "Promise me," he insisted,
"that you'll do nothing without talking to me first."
"I promise. Now I must go in, concoct some excuse for my absence." She
squeezed his hand, then turned away, walking briskly toward the White Tower.
Justin stayed where he was, watching until she'd disappeared into the doorway
of the keep. Only then did he mount Copper, heading in the direction of the
Land Gate.
He reined in, though, after just a few yards. Claudine's promise had been
given too readily. She was a risk-taker by nature, and now she was desperate,
a dangerous combination. For several moments, he sat motionless astride
Copper, and then he turned the stallion toward the stables. Soon thereafter,
he entered the great hall and pulled Eleanor's chancellor aside.
Peter of Blois greeted him with distracted civility. "I'd heard you were back,
de Quincy. Good work in Windsor. Now I must be on my way, for I"
"I need to see the queen. It is urgent."
After one glance at Justin's face, Eleanor led the way to the chapel. Seating
herself upon the window bench, she gestured for him to join her. He did as
bidden, but almost at once got to his feet again, unable to sit still. "It was
good of you to agree to see me straightaway, Madame."
"You're not one to bandy about words like 'urgent,' Justin. What is it?"
"I am betraying a confidence, Madame. But I fear the consequences if I do not.
Claudine is with child."
Eleanor's eyes widened, but she showed no other reaction; she'd had a
lifetime's practice at keeping wayward emotions under a royal rein. "Is it
yours?"
"She says it is."
"I see ..."
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He'd known she would; she always did. She was quiet for a time, gazing down at
the ringed hands clasped in her lap as she considered the far-reaching
implications of Claudine's pregnancy. "I assume you have something in mind,
Justin. What would you have me do?"
"Claudine is terrified of shaming her family. Surely there must be a way to
keep the birth secret, Madame? She did not see how we could do that, and she
might well be right. But you could."
"Yes," she agreed, "I could. And after the baby is born, what then?"
"Madame ... surely a good family could be found to care for the child?"
"Especially with the resources of the Crown to call upon," she said dryly.
"And if I agree to help, what of your involvement? Do you want to be a part of
this child's life, Justin?"
"Yes, Madame, I do."
She nodded slowly. Their eyes met and held. There was so much that was unsaid
between them, so much better left unsaid. "Well," she said pensively, "this
might be the best solution... for all concerned."
"Thank you, Madame," Justin said huskily, and she gave him a long, level look.
"You were taking quite a gamble," she said, "were you not?"
"Yes, Madame, I suppose I was." Probably the greatest gamble of his life.
Risking all upon faith and a desperate hope and a shared secret.
Eleanor rose abruptly, crossed to the door, and signaled to someone beyond
Justin's line of vision. "Fetch the Lady Claudine."
Within moments, Claudine hurried into the chapel, smiling nervously. "You sent
for me, my lady? If it is about last night, I can... Jesii!"
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As the color ebbed from her face, Justin moved swiftly toward her. She backed
away, staring at him in horror. "You told her! How could you betray me like
this? I trusted you, Justin!"
"Be glad he did tell me, you foolish girl," Eleanor said impatiently, "for I
am going to help you."
"Madame?" Claudine sounded stunned. "You . . . you mean it?"
"Come," Eleanor said, "sit down ere you fall down, child; you're whiter than
newly skimmed milk. Yes, I mean it. I shall find a quiet, secluded nunnery for
you until the babe is born, far from court gossip and rumors. Once you've
given birth, you may return to my service and none need be the wiser."
"And ... and the babe?"
"I shall find a family to care for the child."
Claudine was overwhelmed. Dropping to her knees, she kissed the queen's hand.
"Madame, how can I ever repay you for your kindness and generosity?"
"Doubtless, I'll think of something." Eleanor smiled, patted the girl lightly
on the shoulder, and then rose purposefully from the bench. "I'll leave you
alone now to collect yourself. Justin, make yourself useful and fetch Claudine
some wine; she is still much too pale for my liking." Without waiting for
their response, she swept out of the chapel and they heard her telling the
chaplain not to enter just yet, that they needed privacy for prayer.
Justin slipped out into the queen's great chamber, snatched up a flagon and
cup, then hastened back into the chapel. Claudine was standing by the altar,
her back to him, and did not turn as he crossed to her. "Drink some of this,"
he urged, holding out the cup. "You still look shaken."
"Do I, indeed?" She spun around, dark eyes smoldering, and struck the cup from
his hand, spilling wine all over the altar. "How could you go to the queen
behind my back? What if you'd guessed wrong?"
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"I had good reason to believe the queen would help us. You are her kinswoman,
after all, and I'd just done both of her sons a valuable service. And whilst
most people judge women more harshly than men over sins of the flesh, that
would never be true of the queen, for gossip and rumor have trailed after her
for much of her life." Leaving out the most compelling reason of all, that
Claudine's baby might be Eleanor's grandchild.
"Even if you were utterly and completely certain that she would agree, you had
no right to go to her without asking me. It was my future you were putting at
risk, not yours!"
Justin stepped forward and caught her by the arms, holding her tightly when
she attempted to pull away. "You are right and I ought to have consulted you
first. But I was trying," he said fiercely, "to save your life and the life of
our child!"
Claudine stopped struggling. "Does the baby's life mean that much to you?"
"Yes, it does. I was born out of wedlock, raised as a foundling. I will not
let this baby grow up as I did, not if I can help it."
Her eyes searched his face. "You've mentioned your father to me. You know who
he is?"
"Yes, I know. But he'll never acknowledge me." Reaching out, he tilted her
chin so that he could look into her eyes. "I cannot give the baby my name. But
we can make sure that this child is wanted and cared for, and I mean to do
that, Claudine." Whosoever the father is.
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T
13
LONDON
May 1193
|i i^j^ji The alehouse was as dimly lit and cool as a cave, the IfV^lH only
other patron an elderly man snoring at a corner ILkJ^I table, his head
pillowed on his arms. No sooner had Justin claimed a table than Nell hastened
out of the kitchen, flour streaking her face and the bodice of her gown, even
coating the tips of her braids. At Justin's silent query, she said, "Lucy
insisted upon helping me roll out the wafers. You want an ale?" When he nodded
she shook her head disapprovingly. "You look dreadful. But I suppose you did
not get much sleep last night."
Still shaking her head, she bustled off to fetch his ale, leaving Justin to
frown after her vanishing figure. Her obvious dislike of Claudine puzzled him,
for as far as he knew, the two women had met only once. She'd been just as
prickly that morning when he'd come over to fetch Claudine's ill-fated
breakfast,
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serving up a snide commentary along with the bread and chestnuts. The memory
of Claudine's morning sickness reminded Justin that he'd not eaten any of that
unfortunate repast either. He'd better stop off at the cookshop on his way to
St Paul's. He doubted that he'd have any stomach for eating afterward.
"Here." Nell slopped a brimming ale down on the table, then disappeared back
into the kitchen. Justin unfastened a small sack, drinking absently as he
gazed down at its contents. He was so caught up in his own thoughts that he
did not at once realize Nell had returned, not until she shoved a pewter dish
toward him. "I just took those wafers out of the pan," she said, "so mind you
do not burn your mouth."
Justin accepted the peace offering with an ungracious nod, broke off a bit of
crust, and fed it to Shadow. Nell wiped her hands on her apron, pulled up a
stool, and helped herself to one of her wafers. Justin waited, hoping she
would not ask any questions about Claudine. But she was staring at the open
sack.
"What do you have there?" She leaned forward to see. "Is that the rock you
found in the churchyard?" When Justin nodded, she reached out, her fingers
hovering over the dried bloodstains. "Poor little lass," she said softly.
"What are you going to do with it, Justin?"
"I am going to use it as her killer did," he said, "as a weapon."
"Why must you keep asking questions I cannot answer?" Daniel had retreated to
the High Altar. "And why are you so angry? You said you believed me!"
"I believe you did not kill her. But I think you know who did"
"I do not, I swear it!"
"Upon what, Daniel... Melangell's pilgrim cross?"
Sweat had broken out on Daniel's forehead. "I knew it was her cross," he
admitted. "I'd seen it around her neck. I... I
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CRUEL AS THE GRAVE
noticed what she wore, how she looked .. ." Candlelight caught the flush
spreading across his cheeks and throat. "When you showed it to me, I
recognized it straightaway. But I do not know how it got in our coffer ... I
do not!"
Justin moved closer, too close for comfort. Daniel was backed against the
altar and had nowhere else to go. "Would you swear that upon her cross,
Daniel?" When the boy nodded mutely, Justin reached out and thrust the rock
into his hand. "And upon this?"
"What is it?" Daniel gazed down at the stone in bewilderment. "Why would I
swear upon a rock? Is it a relic of some sort?"
"No ... a murder weapon."
Daniel stared at him and then turned toward the light. When he realized the
significance of those dark splotches, he shuddered and dropped the rock onto
the altar, wiping his hands hastily upon his tunic. "I do not understand.
Melangell died when she hit her head on the churchyard cross. That serjeant,
Tobias ... he told us so. Was he lying?"
"No, that was the truth ... as far as he knew. Melangell did strike her head
on the cross, as he said. But her killer then picked up that rock, stood over
her as she lay helpless at his feet, and split her skull open."
Daniel gasped, tried to shrink back, and Justin grabbed for his arm, held
fast. "I do not know if she was already dying. I suppose we'll never know
that. All I can say for certes is that the man who wielded that rock showed
her no mercy, no pity. He wanted her dead... and this is the man you are
protecting by your silence, Daniel. So pick up that rock again. You'll not get
her blood on your hands, for it is dry by now. If you bring it close to the
candle, you can see a black hair or two ... her hair. You look upon that and
tell me again how much you cared for her!"
"I did not know!" Daniel wrenched away from Justin's restraining hold. For a
long moment, he stared down at the
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bloodied rock, his lips moving, and then he made the sign of the cross. "Why
did you not tell me this sooner, Justin? Christ Jesus, this changes
everything!"
"How, Daniel? Suppose you tell me how," Justin said, unrelenting. He was taken
aback by Daniel's response, for when the boy looked up, he was smiling through
tears.
"I've been such a fool. I thought she'd died by mishap, in a terrible
accident, that even if she'd been pushed in the heat of anger, it was not
meant..."
"And now that you know it was murder?"
"I know it was not Geoffrey," Daniel said, so simply that he took Justin's
breath away. "I was so afraid, you see, for I told Melangell about Adela,
about Geoffrey's coming marriage. When she was found dead in the churchyard,
the place where they always met, I feared that they'd fought over Adela, that
mayhap she'd stumbled and fallen back against the cross... That is why I could
not tell you about our argument, for it... it gave Geoffrey a motive."
Daniel swiped at his wet cheek with the back of his sleeve, then smiled again,
a smile lit by genuine joy. "But my fears were for naught. Geoffrey would
never have struck her with that rock, never. So whoever killed her, it was not
my brother. And now I know I am not to blame, either. I thought it was my
fault, that if only I'd kept silent about Adela ..." He choked up then, and
Justin unhooked his wineskin from his belt, silently passed it to the boy,
waiting while Daniel drank.
"Why did you tell Melangell about Adela?"
Daniel blushed, averting his eyes in embarrassment. "It does me no credit, I
know. Yet Geoffrey did not love her, not as I did. I knew he meant to marry
Adela, and I told myself that Melangell had the right to know. I suppose I was
hoping that she'd not forgive Geoffrey, that she'd turn to me for comfort..."
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CRUEL AS THE GRAVE
"But she did not," Justin said, and Daniel shook his head slowly.
"She became furious, would not believe me. She even put her hands over her
ears so she'd not have to hear, insisting that Geoffrey loved her. 'He'll
marry me now/ she said. When I persisted, she slapped me and ran off." Daniel
raised his hand to his cheek, in remorseful recognition of that slap. "I
convinced myself that by telling Melangell the truth, I'd be doing her a good
turn. But in trying to keep her from getting hurt, I hurt her, too, and it
grieves me greatly, that our last words were angry ones ..."
Tears welled again in Daniel's eyes. Blinking them back, he gave Justin a shy
smile, one that was both sad and hopeful. "It is a relief to have the truth
out in the open at last. You'll say nothing of this to Geoffrey, though...
will you? It would shame me beyond bearing if he knew of my suspicions. And I
did not really believe it, not in my heart. Melangell must have been killed by
a stranger, mayhap someone who saw her enter the churchyard and seized his
chance. She was too trusting of men, would have been easy to take by surprise.
It seems so cruel that she should have met with such evil in God's Own Acre
..."
Justin nodded somberly; that, at least, he could agree with. Turning toward
the altar, he retrieved the rock. It seemed to have gotten heavier in the time
it had taken for Daniel to unburden himself at long last.
Justin had chosen a table where he could watch the alehouse door. An ale sat
untouched in front of him, and Shadow lay at his feet, nudging him
occasionally in a vain attempt to get attention. Nell had been no more
successful than the dog, and had finally withdrawn in a sulk. When Jonas
opened the door, letting in a crack of late-afternoon sun, she picked up a
flagon and hastened toward him.
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"He's been in a foul mood ever since he came back from St Paul's. I've not
been able to coax two civil words out of him, so I assume he had no luck in
prying answers from the Aston lad."
"Then why," the serjeant asked, "did he send for me?"
Nell swung around to give Justin a probing look, then hurried after Jonas. She
reached the table just as he took a seat and sat down herself, her chin
raised, shoulders squared, her body's very posture daring either man to object
to her presence.
Neither one did. Jonas reached for her flagon, signaling to Ellis for two more
cups. "Well?" he said. "I doubt that you summoned me for the pleasure of my
company, as charming as it is. What did you find out?"
Justin took a deep swallow of ale, then told them, succinctly and without
commentary of his own, letting the facts speak for themselves. Nell was the
first to break the silence that followed his revelation. "The boy's loyalty to
his brother is admirable. But how sad that no one in that family knows how to
share what is in their hearts. If only he'd asked Geoffrey outright, how much
misery he might have spared himself."
"You are assuming that Geoffrey is innocent," Jonas pointed out, and Nell set
her drink down with a thud.
"You think he is not?"
Jonas gave a noncommittal shrug. "He is what he always wasa suspect. I will
question him again, but unless we can dig up new evidence, nothing will come
of it. We still cannot prove he met with Melangell in the churchyard that
evening, and his motive remains a weak one. So the Welsh girl knew about the
betrothal... so what? Even if she'd threatened to go to Adela, what of it? It
would have been awkward, even unpleasant, but not likely to put the marriage
plans at risk. Why would Master Serlo care that Geoffrey had been bedding a
peddler's lass? A wink and a nudge for the uncle, a promise to the bride-to-be
that
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CRUEL AS THE GRAVE
the liaison was over, mayhap a few coins for the peddler, and that would be
that."
It was a jaded view, but one they could not argue with. London was full of
Geoffreys and Melangells and Adelas. For young men on the prowl for
clandestine pleasures, there were always girls willing to accommodate them,
and long-suffering wives to turn a blind eye to such straying, provided it was
not too blatant.
"Then Daniel's admission has changed nothing," Nell concluded. "It may have
eased his mind, but he is still the one in the shadow of the gallows. Little
wonder you're so disheartened, Justin. What now?"
Justin was staring into the depths of his drink. At first he didn't seem to
have heard her question, but then he said, very low, "I keep coming back to
Melangell's own words. 'He'll marry me now,' she said. Why now? What made her
think she had the upper hand over Adela?"
"That is easy enough to answer." Nell's mouth turned down. "She believed it
because she wanted to believe it, because it was too painful to admit the
truth. Girls like Melangell always learn the hard way."
"That makes sense," Jonas allowed. "But I think you have something else in
mind, Justin. Am I right?"
Justin nodded. "Suppose she was pregnant?"
"Well, that would be another kettle of fish," Jonas said cautiously. "If the
girl was carrying Geoffrey's child, that might well put the cat amongst the
pigeons. At best, Geoffrey would have to satisfy the girl and her father,
reassure Master Serlo and his own father, placate his betrothed, and make some
provisions for the babe. At worst, his hopes of marrying Adela might have gone
up in a puff of blue smoke. It would depend upon how determined Melangell was
to stir up a scandal, how prideful or
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Sharon Kay Penman
unking * rrc^rr:y;r.
complicate life for ^'f^         ven encourage-young
r»~^^j^£ :^n^::s^;--a
convincing motive '°<^^a, when .Key glanced Nell had been ch"a<*"*?Jd -j do
not think so," she toward her now, she shook he head    I ^ ^ rf
Said, refusing ,o meet the* eye. She seem ^ ^ ^
^^
^^re^Cr^o^veshere.A, Jonas smiled thinly. Lets no g ^ ^ smoke
.his point, all we've got -s a ^~       , Getting a shrug in What put this idea
in your heai^ ^ ^^
rep,y, he studied the youngs man »,     ^J ^ ^ We much too kno^ - £«£
haye we got? TMS hunch ^      do^eanyevidencetobackitup. -No," Justin said.
"Not yet."
^^-rcra6^^^-
back from his rounds. Can was «t     g^ ^ ^ a ^^
fn;«e'* .^Tut^ at the sound of her name,
'alowled^ jusnr^^J^ eyes sMning when -Where's your dog?    she asKe , The f
Justin stepped aside to reveal »*«     ?^
U.""-"^"^^'^. time, ju-n heard S^nXo^Shadow's canine kisses, she giggled
200
CRUEL AS THE GRAVE
and politely made room for Justin on the wood pile. "I am carving a
slingshot," she explained, holding up a forked stick for Justin's inspection.
"My old one broke."
Justin admired her handiwork and didn't doubt her when she boasted that she'd
once knocked an apple off a tree branch with la well-aimed stone. Watching as
she played tug-of-war with IShadow over a stick of firewood, he asked after
her father and Iwas startled when she said he was already asleep above-stairs.
I "So early? Is he ailing, Cati?"
I    She shook her head, so vigorously that long hair whipped across her face.
"No... he is just bone-weary. Ever since our [mule died, Papa has been pulling
the cart himself." I    "That cannot be easy for him."
"Papa is strong," she insisted. But he saw the doubt in those Iwide brown
eyes. "I try to help," she said softly. "I got some [goose grease salve from
Clara and I rubbed it into the blisters on [his hands."
I "I'm sure that did help, lass," Justin said, feeling as if he was [offering
a meagre crust of bread to a starving child. He hated to [make use of Cati
this way, hated what he might have to do to [clear Daniel, hated where his
suspicions were leading him, one reluctant step at a time. "I daresay all your
father needs is a good [night's sleep," he said, as heartily as his queasy
conscience [would allow. "He is not one to sicken easily. Not like Melangell."
[ "Why do you say that?" she asked, sounding surprised but [not suspicious.
[ "I'd heard that she was ailing in the weeks ere she died, that [her stomach
was unsettled a lot," he said nonchalantly, and then [held his breath, waiting
for her response.
[ "Who told you that... Clara? Melangell did not want Papa to [know, saying
he'd worry for naught. But I knew she was worfried, too, else why would she
have sought out a doctor? Doctors Pre for the rich or the dying, not the likes
of us. I do not know
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Sharon Kay Penman
where she got the money for it, but she said it was worth every penny and she
was so relieved afterward that the doctor must have helped."
"Do you know the name of the doctor, Cati?"
"No, she never told me that." Cab let Shadow win the tug-ofwar and grinned
when he then tried to entice her into a romp by dropping the stick into her
lap. She and the pup were soon chasing each other about the kitchen, while
Justin watched with a distracted smile. How had Melangell found a doctor? Who
would she have turned to for advice? Who was she likely to have trusted?
"Cati... I'd like to talk to you about your sister's pilgrim cross. I think
you know something about its disappearance," he said, and saw her face
shutter, her body stiffen warily.
"What would I know?" she said evasively, and then cocked her head. "I hear
Algar and Clara coming in!" And she was off, with Shadow at her heels, to
welcome the landlord and his wife back from Compline services.
Justin's vexation with their inconvenient arrival was fleeting, for it
occurred to him that they might be the very ones he was searching for. After
an exchange of greetings with the affable landlord, he offered to fetch a
bucket of water from their well, and while he was pouring it into Clara's
kettle for boiling, he asked if she'd known that Melangell had been ailing.
Clara was utterly unlike her loquacious, expansive husband. The words that
spewed out of his mouth in such torrents emerged from hers in thin trickles.
She paused to look at him over the kettle, pale eyes appraising. "I suppose it
cannot hurt the child now to speak out," she said at last. "Aye, I knew. I had
my suspicions what was wrong, too, but I figured it was none of my concern,
between the lass and the Almighty."
"Did you suggest she see a doctor?"
"Not a doctor, no. For what ailed her, I sent her to a midwife."
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The morning sky was mottled with clouds and a brisk wind was coming off the
river. Justin found the dwelling on Watling Street without difficulty, one of
a row of wooden houses painted in bright hues of blue or green or red. The
midwife's house was the color of spring grass, well kept up, the lower floor
rented out to a friendly shoemaker who was more than happy to gossip about
Dame Gunilda. She had an ailing husband, he said, sick with a palsy, and a
hard row to hoe, for they had no children of their own, dependent upon the
rent and what she earned as a midwife. She was out now, he said, called to a
birthing at first light, but Justin was welcome to wait for her in the shop.
Justin did, pacing restlessly as customers came and went and the bells of St
Antholin's Church rang in the canonical hours. It was nigh onto noon when the
shoemaker pointed toward a woman trudging wearily up Watling Street and Justin
hastened out to intercept her.
Gunilda was a stout, fair-haired woman in her middle years, her apron
splotched with birthing blood, her veil askew. But her disheveled appearance
was belied by shrewd blue eyes and a forthright manner. After hearing Justin
out, she said briskly, "Come with me. I'll see to my husband, then we'll
talk."
The man in the bed was gaunt and grey, his skin and hair bleached of color,
his mouth contorted in a ghastly rictus of a grin. Justin's first fear was
that he was dead. Gunilda showed no alarm though. Straightening up, she said,
"He sleeps. If you keep your voice low, you may ask your questions now."
"I have reason to believe you saw a young woman in early April, slender and
dark, with curly black hair and brown eyes and a Welsh accent. Her name was
Melangell, although she may have given another. Do you remember her?"
"Yes, quite well. Why? What is your interest in her?"
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"I am trying," he said, "to bring her killer to justice."
She did not react as he expected, saying only, "I see." He did not think her
callous or uncaring, though. Like Jonas, he thought, she'd looked upon too
much suffering ever to be surprised by life's cruelties. "Tell me," she said,
and he did. She listened without interruption, and when he was done, she sat
back in her chair, shading her eyes with her hand.
"She told me her true name," she said, "for she had nothing to hide. She had
no guile in her, God pity her. What do you want to know?"
"Was she with child?"
"She was."
Justin exhaled a pent-up breath. "Would you be willing to swear to that in
court?"
"Yes," she said, "I would." She rose then, abruptly, as her husband moaned in
his sleep. Leaning over the bed, she tucked the sheets around his emaciated,
twisted body, and then turned back to face Justin.
"Do you know why I remembered her so well? I see many girls who've gotten
themselves in trouble, after all, and their stories are all alike, their fears
the same."
Justin said nothing, thinking of Claudine. Had Melangell wanted pennyroyal,
too? He did not ask, for if Gunilda did indeed help desperate girls to end
unwanted pregnancies, she would never admit it.
"But this girl was different from the others. She was an innocent, Master de
Quincy. No, not a virgin maid, but an innocent, nonetheless. She did not even
know what the cessation of her monthly fluxes meant. She'd feared that she'd
been stricken with some mysterious malady, an ailment she thought 'city folk'
might catch. Poor, ignorant little lass ..."
"And when you told her she was with child? Was she distraught, fearful?"
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The midwife smiled sadly. "She rejoiced, Master de Quincy. She laughed and
wept and said that she could not believe she'd been so blessed."
Justin had no luck in reaching Jonas, who'd been called out to hunt for a
missing child. Leaving a message for the Serjeant, he decided to stop by and
check on Claudine. He found the Tower in an uproar. Eleanor was meeting in
private with Hubert Walter, the Archbishop of Rouen, and several justiciars
and bishops, and the Great Hall was packed with highborn guests and their
entourages. Justin was able to snatch only a few moments with Claudine, who
looked pale and seemed tense and preoccupied. The encounter was neither
reassuring nor satisfying, and only exacerbated his overall sense of
foreboding.
Sunset was still an hour off, and a rowdy game of camp-ball was in progress in
the Tower bailey. Justin would normally have lingered to watch. Now he never
even glanced toward the game; he was trailed by too many ghosts.
"Justin!"
The voice stopped Justin in his tracks, for it was one he'd not heard for nigh
on five months, only occasionally echoing from the depths of unsettled dreams.
He spun around, disbelieving, to find himself face-to-face with his father.
Aubrey de Quincy seemed even more stunned than Justin. For a frozen moment,
they simply stared at each other. Justin recovered first. "What are you doing
here?"
Aubrey was so rattled that he actually started to answer. "All the bishops
have been summoned to London for the election of the Archbishop of Canterbury.
We convene on Friday to" He broke off then, remembering that he was the one
who ought to be asking the questions. "Where have you been all these months?
First you ride off from Chester without a word to me, and then I get a letter
from Lord Fitz Alan, saying he dismissed
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you for contumacy and willful disobedience. What exactly did he mean by that?"
Justin started to explain but his father gave him no chance. "I would hope you
did nothing to disgrace yourself. Since I recommended you for a position in
Lord Fitz Alan's household, your behavior reflects upon me, too."
"You need not fear. I did not tell him about you." Justin looked away but not
in time. The relief in Aubrey's eyes was unmistakable.
"Why did you not let me know what happened? It was most irresponsible for you
to disappear like that. It never occurred to you to write a letter, telling me
your whereabouts?"
Justin looked at him incredulously. "You expect me to believe you cared where
I'd gone?"
Aubrey's jaw tightened. "I made discreet inquiries."
"Of whom ... God?"
An angry flush rose in Aubrey's cheeks. His coloring was fair; his hair,
greying now, had once been sunlit. Justin assumed that his mother had been
dark, as he was. He could not bring himself to ask, though; the one time he'd
questioned his father about her, he'd been told she was a wanton, better
forgottenwords that would come back to haunt them both when he learned the
truth about his paternity.
The silence between them was suffocating. Justin's breathing had quickened. He
wanted to turn and walk away, but he could not. It occurred to him suddenly
that Aubrey might well be a grandfather by year's endif Claudine carried the
babe safely to term, if she'd not lied. What of it, though? Confessing to his
father would not even get him absolution. To the Bishop of Chester, he would
ever be a shameful secret, never a son.
"This serves for naught," Aubrey said abruptly. "You made your feelings quite
clear in our last meeting. So be it, then." He
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took only a few steps, though, before he stopped. He seemed to hesitate and
then half turned, back toward Justin. "You are faring well on your own?"
"Yes," Justin said, "I am."
Before he could say more, a ball thudded onto the ground between them, rolling
forward until it hit Justin's boot. Several of the camp-ball players started
toward them, only to halt uncertainly once they realized they'd almost struck
a bishop. One of the youths, though, was known to Justin, a squire to Nicholas
de Mydden. Recognition was mutual and the boy advanced, grinning. "Sorry, Your
Grace," he said cheekily. "Master de Quincy, could we have our ball back?"
Justin reached down and picked it up. A pig's bladder, filled with dried
beans, it was surprisingly heavy. He threw it into the squire's outstretched
hands, and then turned to face his father.
Aubrey was staring at him in appalled disbelief. "You have no right to that
name!"
Justin raised his head. "I have a blood right," he said defiantly, "if not a
legal one."
Aubrey's mouth thinned, the blue in his eyes turning to ice. Reaching out, he
grasped Justin's arm. "This is no game, boy. Heed me and heed me well. If you
do anything rash, we'll both be the losers for it. Now tell me the truth. Have
you told anyone about me?" When Justin did not reply, Aubrey's fingers
tightened and his voice sharpened. "Answer me! Have you?"
"No!" Justin jerked free, so violently that they both stumbled.
Aubrey remembered, too late, that they were in a public place. Lowering his
voice, he said tautly, "You are sure?"
Justin's eyes glittered. "I've confided in only one person... the queen."
Aubrey's vaunted control shattered and for a moment, his emotions showed
nakedly on his face: horror warring with hope
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that this was a cruel joke. Rallying, he said scornfully, "You expect me to
believe that you've become the Queen of England's
confidant?"
"Ask her," Justin said, "if you dare." When he saw Aubrey's color drain away,
leaving him white and shaken, he knew that his father realized he was speaking
the truth, however unlikely. But rarely had a victory left such a bitter
taste.
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14
LONDON
May 1193
|i 'JVJI Nell was staring down at the candle wax drippings V^M that spattered
the surface of the alehouse table. Her iLmJ^I shoulders had slumped, her chin
tucked into her chest so that her face was only partially visible to Justin.
"This is so sad," she said, in a muffled, melancholy voice that sounded as if
she were swallowing tears. "I am beginning to think I've done you a wrong,
Justin. If not for my prodding, you'd never have become involved in
Melangell's killing. I ought to have known better. For nothing in this life is
ever easy or pain free, nothing."
"You're right about that," Justin agreed wearily. "This is bound to end badly,
Nell. The only question is how badly."
"That poor little baby," she said softly, "with no one to pray for its soul...
Do you mean to tell Godwin and Cati?"
"No ... why give them another loss to grieve?"
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"Will Jonas now look upon Godwin as a suspect? There are men who'd have blamed
the girl for shaming their family. If Godwin found out about her pregnancy and
confronted Melangell in a rage .. . ?"
"I do not believe it happened that way, Nell. The Welsh do not judge the child
to be guilty of the sins of the parents. To be bastard-born in Wales is not
the burden it is throughout the rest of Christendom. Whilst Godwin has no
Welsh blood, he wed a Welshwoman, lived for years in the Marches. Clearly he
shares some of the views of his wife's people."
Nell would normally have wanted to know more about these heretical beliefs of
the Welsh, but she hadn't the heart for it now. "So what will you do?" she
asked, and Justin pushed away from the table, got reluctantly to his feet.
"There is but one solid piece of evidence linking Daniel to Melangell's
killing ... her pilgrim cross. St Davydd did not protect Melangell in her time
of need. We can only hope that he does better for Daniel."
Thames Street was crowded with Danish sailors eager to sample London's more
sinful pleasures. Godwin's hoarse boasts about the fine quality of his goods
earned him blank looks or jests in a language he did not understand. Jostled
and ignored by the rowdy seamen flowing like a foreign river around his cart,
he succeeded only in attracting the hostile attention of a tailor, who strode
from his shop to demand that he sell his "rags" elsewhere. Godwin did not
argue. He'd rigged up a rope harness between the shafts and by throwing his
weight against it, he succeeded in getting the cart moving again.
Watching from across the street, Justin let the peddler pass by and then
caught the eye of the leggy little girl trailing after the cart. Cati's long
black hair was tangled, in need of her dead sister's brush, and her skirt was
clumsily mended, with uneven
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stitches and the wrong color thread. It occurred to Justin that Godwin
urgently needed a wife for himself, a mother for his daughter. But how could
he hope to feed three on the meagre income he was now eking out?
Falling into step beside Cati, Justin said, "I need your help, lass."
"You want to buy something?" she asked, with a disingenuousness that might
have been amusing under other circumstances.
"Daniel did not kill your sister, Cati. If I am to save him from the gallows,
I need to know how that St Davydd's cross got into his coffer. I think you can
tell me."
ft <j
fr          She gave him a sideways glance, a half shrug. She'd slowed
Ij
||      her pace, so that the cart was now some yards ahead of them. "I
11     do not want my papa to know," she said at last. "You promise?"
^ When Justin nodded, she shook her head. "Swear it," she
insisted, "and then spit!" Only after he'd complied with her rit-
ual did some of the tension ease in those narrow little shoulders.
"Melangell and I were taking our bath in Clara's kitchen," she said, speaking
so softly that Justin had to strain to catch her words. "I noticed that she no
longer had the cross around her neck. I thought she'd lost it and berated her
for being so careless, for I knew Papa would be sorely distraught. She was
vexed at first. But she finally told me the truth, after making me promise
that I'd not tell Papa."
"She gave it to her lover," Justin said, and Cati nodded. "Yes," she
whispered. "She gave it to Geoffrey."
I Justin spent the remainder of the afternoon trying to find Jonas.
|^B The gaol by the River Fleet, Newgate Gaol, the Guildhall, the
^H" Jewry, and finally the Tower. Each time he was too late; Jonas
^H had been there and gone. PHf        The upper storey of the Tower keep was
overflowing with the
\   m 211
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highborn. The Bishop of Salisbury, Hubert Walter, was the center of attention,
and to judge by the deference being shown him, his election to the
archbishopric of Canterbury was seen as a foregone conclusion. For Justin,
there was greater danger in this conclave of bishops than in the meanest
Southwark streets, but he had no choice. Hoping that he'd not run straightaway
into his father, he edged into the crowded hall.
Claudine intercepted him almost at once. She was becomingly flushed, in a high
temper, and launched into an indignant account of a quarrel she'd just had
with another of the queen's ladle's. Justin listened with half an ear, his
eyes sweeping the hall for that one bishop among so many. It was like looking
for a single carp in a pool teeming with the fish, difficult to distinguish
one from another.
"I am glad you're here, Justin, for I have need of you." She lowered her
voice. "I've heard that there is a midwife in Aldgate who offers herbs that
ease this accursed morning queasiness. I cannot very well send anyone else on
such an errand, can well imagine the rumors that would stir up. Afterward,
let's stop by the Eastcheap market. Spending money invariably raises my
spirits!"
Justin missed that indirect admission of despondency, heard only the jest
about shopping. "I cannot take you to the market today," he said brusquely,
"for I've an urgent matter to attend to."
Claudine's eyes sparked. "Jesu forfend that I trouble you with my trifling
concerns," she snapped, turning to flounce away, but not so quickly that he
could not catch her. Her surprise was considerable, therefore, when he did not
even try. Expecting at any moment to feel his restraining hand upon her arm,
she was taken aback to find he'd stalked out.
Justin's anger carried him as far as the bailey. There his step
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slowed. Instead of heading for the stables to retrieve Copper, he turned and
reentered the Tower keep. He found Claudine sitting in one of the window
alcoves, looking so dispirited that he felt a conscience pang. Moving toward
her, he saw her head come up defiantly and gave her no chance to rekindle
their quarrel, saying swiftly, "I got some bad news today. Yet that is no
excuse for taking out my foul mood on you, Claudine."
"No, it is not," she said coolly, before curiosity won out over pique. "What
bad news?"
"I learned," he said, "that someone I like is a murderer."
She stared at him and then gave an abrupt laugh. "I'll say this for you,
Justin, that your troubles are never ordinary! But do not dare stop now. Tell
me more about this murderer."
He did, using no names. She listened attentively, reminding him again how
different she was from John's sultry, shallow Windsor bedmate, and when he was
done, she went right to the heart of the matter. "So you think the lover
killed the girl to keep her from thwarting his chances with the heiress. Sad,
but not so surprising. But did he then deliberately divert suspicion onto his
own brother?"
"I do not know," Justin admitted. "For his brother's sake, I would hope not.
But I am not finding it easy to give him the benefit of any doubt."
She nodded somberly. "The killing was most likely an act of panic, not
calculated. But if he could cold-bloodedly connive to blame his brother, that
would be unforgivable. I wish you luck, Justin, for I fear you will need it."
Justin did, too. "I'll take you wherever you want to go once this is settled,"
he promised, and she smiled. Her next question caught him off balance.
"Justin ... do you know the Bishop of Chester?"
He stiffened. "Why?"
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She didn't miss the evasiveness of his answer. "Well, he has been asking
questions about you, discreetly done but too persistent for casual curiosity.
And at the moment, he is staring at you with an odd intensity, the way a cat
might watch a mousehole."
Justin couldn't help himself. He spun around, saw his father standing by the
open hearth. They looked at each other in what was the loudest silence of
Justin's life, and the longest. And then he heard Claudine's indrawn breath.
Even before their eyes met, Justin knew she'd guessed the truth. She'd always
been too clever by half, would need no other clues than their shared surname
and her knowledge of his past.
"Justin ... is he your father?" she asked softly, not at all discouraged when
he didn't reply. "I'm right, aren't I? That explains so much!"
Justin saw no point in making denials she'd not believe. "I would be grateful
if you kept this to yourself, Claudine," he said, and when she promised that
she'd say nary a word to another living soul, he wondered if he could believe
her.
Jonas blew on the dice and then flung them onto the table. Two of the dice
turned up a seven, but the third one showed a four. Jonas swore and the other
man chortled, then reached for the dice, threw, and gave a triumphant shout
when he rolled three sixes. "I warned you I was unbeatable at raffle," he
boasted as Jonas dropped a few coins into his outstretched palm. "What say you
we try hasard now?"
"Let me get another drink first," Jonas said, looking around for the serving
maid. He swore again, profanely, at the sight of a too-familiar face, and
warned Justin off with a growl. "I'm not on duty now, de Quincy, so tend to
your own troubles till the morrow. All I want to do tonight is enjoy a good
ale and play a few games of hasard."
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"I'll buy the ale," Justin said. "But your dicing will have to wait. Right now
we need to plan a hunt."
Jonas glowered at him, but allowed himself to be steered toward a corner
table, despite the protests of his dicing partner. "What sort of a hunt?" he
demanded. "What quarry?"
"The kind you care most about catching," Justin said grimly. "A killer."
The morning had begun with a promise of premature summer warmth, but by noon
the sun was getting skittish, darting behind every passing cloud, and by day's
end, the sky was a leaden shade of grey. Justin and Jonas had spent several
hours keeping the mercer's shop under surveillance and by now they were both
chilled and tired. So far their vigil had been uneventful. Humphrey Aston had
quarreled loudly with a customer, cuffed the ears of one of his hapless
apprentices, and fawned over Adela when she paid a brief visit in
midafternoon. Geoffrey left the shop only once, trailed inconspicuously by
Jonas to the riverside cookshop and back. Eventually the last customer
departed and the journeymen pulled down and locked the shutters. As Justin and
Jonas watched, Humphrey, his son, and the apprentices disappeared through the
gateway leading to the Astons' great hall.
Jonas stood and stretched. "What now?"
"Soon," Justin predicted. "Since he plans to take supper with Adela this eve,
he'll go to St Paul's ere Vespers begins."
"And if he does not?"
"He will," Justin said, with a certainty that was justified by Geoffrey
Aston's reappearance shortly thereafter. Geoffrey had changed into a dark
green tunicgreen, the color for lovers, Justin thought bitterlyand brushed his
blond hair. Under his arm, he carried the sack from the cookshop and he'd
raided his mother's garden for a small bouquet of columbine and prim-
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roses, presumably for Adela. But his dapper appearance was belied by his
demeanor; there was no spring in his step and he kept his head down as he
trudged toward the Cheapside, making it easy for them to follow him,
unobserved.
"I cannot believe I let myself be talked into this," Jonas grumbled. "We could
have confronted him at first light and be done with it."
"How... by beating a confession out of him? It has to be done in his brother's
presence, Jonas, for it to work."
"I do not share your faith that an appeal to his conscience will succeed. It
has been my experience that killers rarely have consciences."
"Well, I think this one does," Justin insisted and hoped he was right. Ahead
of them, Geoffrey was entering St Paul's churchyard and they quickened their
pace. Vespers had not yet begun and there were only a few parishioners
chatting on the steps of the church. One of Jonas's men was loitering beside
the cross, flirting with two girls passing by, although he straightened up and
tried to look alert and vigilant as soon as he spotted his serjeant. "Come
with me," Jonas said curtly, and he hurried to catch up with them as they
entered the church.
They found Daniel and Geoffrey in the nave. The younger boy was rooting in the
cookshop sack. "Geoffrey brought me some marrow tarts. You can share one, if
you like." Then he saw Jonas standing behind Justin, and his smile faded. "Why
is he here? He cannot take me yet!"
"I'm not here for you, lad." Jonas advanced up the nave, keeping his eye all
the while upon Geoffrey. "Remember that Flemish mercer? Well, we found him in
Stamford. He is on his way back to London with one of my men even as we speak,
ready to reveal who bought that fragment of silk, Melangell's last gift."
Even in the subdued lighting of the nave, Justin could see that Geoffrey had
lost color. But Daniel was smiling again, tenta-
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tively, like one afraid to let himself hope. "Then ... then Melangell's true
killer may soon be exposed?"
"What do you say, Geoffrey?" Jonas's teeth flashed in what was technically a
smile. "Think you that the true killer is about to be unmasked?"
Geoffrey went even paler. "I... I hope so," he mumbled. "Daniel, I have to
go."
"Nonsense," Jonas said heartily. "Adela will wait for you." He cocked his head
to the side, with another one of those terrible smiles. "Or will she? Who
knows with women, eh, lad? Unpredictable creatures, the lot of them. Take
Melangell now, with her tears and threats. She ought to have known better. A
man is not likely to look fondly upon a woman who is set upon his ruination,
is he? It could even be argued that she brought it upon herself"
"What are you on about?" Daniel glanced uneasily from the Serjeant to his
brother. "What threats?"
Geoffrey sucked in his breath. "I do not know. All this talk of threats and
ruination... it makes no sense. Melangell knew about Adela from the first."
Daniel opened his mouth, but no words emerged. Justin had taken advantage of
Geoffrey's preoccupation with Jonas to move closer, much closer. "So you told
me," he said, "that first day, out in the street. I was favorably impressed by
your candor, as you hoped I'd be. Most people are not good liars. They are
either too emphatic or too sly. Not you, though. Credit where due, Geoffrey,
you lie well."
"I am not lying! Melangell did know about Adela!"
"No, she did not.. . not until Daniel told her, the day she died."
"Daniel told her," Geoffrey echoed numbly. Daniel said nothing, but he didn't
need to; his stricken look spoke volumes. Geoffrey's eyes darted from one to
the other; Justin could see
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sweat now glistening at his temples. "Daniel... Daniel was wrong. Melangell
did know about Adela. Mayhap not about the plight troth, but..." He let the
words fall away. "I do not understand why this matters. There were no threats,
no tears. I do not know what nonsense Daniel may have told Melangell, for I
did not see her on that day."
"Of course you did, lad," Jonas said calmly, almost gently. "You gave her the
silk you bought that morning from the Flemish mercer."
"No . .." Geoffrey's voice had thickened. "No, I did not!"
"Then why," Jonas asked, "did the mercer say you did? What reason would he
have to lie?" His own lie, delivered with convincing aplomb and a shrewd sense
of timing, dealt a severe blow to Geoffrey's embattled defenses. He bit his
lip and took a faltering backward step as Jonas continued, reasonably and
remorselessly, "No, lad, you might as well face it; he'll be believed. We
already have the motive and his testimony will prove you had the opportunity,
too. Men have been hanged on less evidence than that."
Geoffrey tried to laugh in disbelief, but what emerged was a strangled sound
of despair. "This is madness, all of it. Why would I kill Melangell? Even if
she had threatened to go to Adela, what of it? Master Serlo would not care
that I'd been tumbling a peddler's wench. So common a sin would not jeopardize
the marriage ... and what other reason would I have for killing her?"
Jonas smiled again, a hunter's smile. "So you admit that jeopardizing your
marriage would be a motive for murder."
"I did not say that!"
"It sounded like that to me. How about you, lad?" Jonas swung around suddenly
upon Daniel. "Didn't it sound like that to you?"
I
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"I... I do not know! Why are you badgering him like this?"
Jonas was no longer smiling. "Because there is blood on his hands, the blood
of two innocents. In killing Melangell, he killed a child, too, his own
child."
Daniel choked back a cry. "Melangell was pregnant? Geoffrey, is that true?"
Stunned, Geoffrey could only shake his head mutely, the flowers for Adela
falling unheeded to the floor at his feet.
"I spoke to the midwife myself," Justin said, with enough ice in his voice to
turn that simple sentence into the most damning of indictments. "She remembers
Melangell well, for she was so joyful upon learning she was with child,
Geoffrey's child."
Daniel stared at his brother. "Christ Jesus ... Geoffrey!"
"No!" Geoffrey finally found his voice. "No, it is a lie, all of it!"
"Are we all lying, then? The midwife, the Flemish mercer, your brother? If
that is going to be your defense, God pity you, lad." Jonas sounded almost
fatherly now, no longer accusing. "You'd do better to admit the truth, seek
forgiveness from God and the girl's family. It cannot have been easy, living
with a burden like this"
"How can you have sympathy for him?" Justin asked sharply. "He killed that
girl!"
"Yes, he did," Jonas conceded. "But I doubt that he meant to do it. There are
different sorts of killings, and it is easier to understand one committed in a
red-hot rage, one that was not planned and was most likely regretted
afterward, once it was too late. That was the way it happened, Geoffrey?"
The Serjeant's question was so natural, so disarming, that Justin half
expected Geoffrey to confess without even realizing that he was doing so. But
Geoffrey stayed stubbornly silent.
"Listen to the Serjeant, lad." By now they'd attracted a shocked audience: the
priest preparing to say Vespers, several
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parishioners arriving early for the service. "Repent your sin whilst you still
can," the priest entreated. "The Almighty will forgive you, but only if you
confess and do penance."
"I... I have nothing to confess," Geoffrey insisted, but it was a hollow
protest, convincing no one. Realizing that, he repeated loudly, "I've done
nothing wrong!"
That was Justin's cue. Clamping down on Geoffrey's arm, he said scathingly,
"Look at your brother when you say thatif you dare! Mayhap Jonas is right and
you did not mean to kill the girl. But even if the murder was unplanned, you
knew exactly what you were doing when you set out to blame Daniel for the
killing."
Geoffrey gasped. "No! I would never do that!"
"That almost sounded convincing," Justin jeered. "But we're past the time for
denials. All your secrets have come home to roost, Geoffrey ... the Flemish
mercer, Melangell's pregnancy, that bloodied rock, her jealousy of Adela. We
know, too, about her St Davydd's cross. She gave it to you, a pledge of her
love, and after you killed her, you hid the cross in your brother's coffer so
suspicion would fall upon him"
"No! It was not like that!" Geoffrey tore loose from Justin's hold, spun
around toward his brother. "Tell them, Daniel, tell them you do not believe
this!"
Daniel stood, frozen, staring not at Geoffrey, but at Justin. "Melangell gave
him the cross? You are sure?"
"She told Cati," Justin said, and Daniel shuddered, a soft moan, involuntary
and anguished, escaping his lips.
"Daniel, no, that's not the way it happened!" Geoffrey's words were slurring
in his haste to get them out. "I never meant to blame you, I swear it!"
"You put the cross in with his clothes," Justin pointed out relentlessly. "And
then when it was discovered, you urged him to flee, knowing that flight would
be taken as an admission of
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guilt. Did you hope that he'd be killed resisting arrest? HoW disappointed you
must have been when he managed to reach sanctuary!"
"No ... no, it was not like that! I never wanted Daniel to be hurt!" Geoffrey
reached out to his brother, but Daniel shied away from his touch. His face was
ashen in the candlelight, his eyes glistening with unshed tears. Geoffrey's
mouth contorted"Daniel, for the love of God"
His voice broke and Jonas was suddenly at his side, a hand clasped on one of
those quaking shoulders. "Then why did you hide the cross in Daniel's mantle?"
"I didn't..." Geoffrey gulped back a sob. "I did not know what to do with
it... after. I could not keep it, but neither could I throw it away, for it
had meant too much to Melangell... So I shoved it into our coffer of winter
clothes till I could think more clearly. I never thought about the mantle
being Daniel's, I s\vear I did not..."
"A touching tale," Justin said, with a sneer he patterned after Durand's, "but
it is one not even your mother would believe. You had your chance to speak up
and clear your brother the night we found the cross. Instead, you sent him out
into the streets to run for his life, hoping that he'd be cornered and killed"
"No ... Jesu, no!" Geoffrey shook his head vehemently, frantically. "I wanted
him to get safe away! I know I should have owned up to the truth that night,
and I would to God I had ... Daniel, I swear I do. I never meant for any of
this to happen. None of it was planned. Melangell and I were quarreling, she
was threatening to go to Adela, I tried to stop her, and she pulled free,
tripped, and hit her head on the cross ..."
"So you panicked," Jonas suggested. "You ripped her clothes to make it look as
if she'd been raped and fled, forgetting about the silk until it was too late.
Was that how it happened, lad?"
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"I never meant to kill her. None of it seemed real. Afterward, I could not
believe it had truly happened. It would have been a bad dream, if not for the
blood ..." Geoffrey was visibly trembling by now. As they watched, he slowly
sank to his knees by the altar and wept.
Jonas waited until the tear storm had begun to subside, and then got the
sagging youth to his feet. "At least you've cleared your brother now," he
said, and Geoffrey sobbed again. He seemed to be in a daze, all fight gone out
of him. He looked back only once, imploringly, at his brother.
"I would never have let you hang," he said huskily. "I swear that upon
Christ's own rood."
Daniel had retreated into the shadows behind the altar. He did not reply and
the serjeant prodded Geoffrey toward the closest door. Before they could reach
it, Daniel cried out suddenly, urgently, "Jonas!"
The other man turned, still keeping a firm grip on his prisoner. "What is it,
lad?"
"You cannot take him." Daniel's face was still wet with tears, but his voice
was steady. "You cannot arrest him here. This is a sanctuary."
"You knew this would happen, de Quincy. Admit it!"
Justin met Jonas's accusatory glare composedly. "I thought it might."
Jonas shook his head in disgust. "You've been keeping too much company with
Lord John," he said sourly, "for you're picking up his conniving habits."
Turning on his heel, he strode from the churchyard, out into a street now dark
and deserted. Justin followed, unrepentant, but prudently giving the
Serjeant's anger time to cool. They continued along Cheapside, and finally
Jonas said grudgingly:
"I suppose we could have had a worse ending to this bloody
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business. But I would like to know why you'd want to protect Geoffrey Aston
from the hangman. For all those remorseful tears, he did bash the girl's head
in with a rock."
"I was not trying to spare Geoffrey," Justin said hastily, for he, too, was
haunted by that bloodied rock. "But I did want to spare Agnes and Daniel...
and as strange as it sounds, I was thinking of Melangell, too. As much as she
loved Geoffrey, would she have wanted to see him hanged?"
Jonas grunted. "I have enough trouble communicating with the living, am not
about to start asking after the wants of the dead," he said, and they walked
on in silence.
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I
15
LONDON
June 1193
IL'JPJ^JI The sunlight was white-gold, shimmering with sumVM mer heat.
Butterflies floated like feathers on the still iLkJh^j air, the Tower gardens
in fragrant, vibrant bloom. But the tranquillity was deceptive, a false Eden.
In the grassy mead, a stable cat stalked unseen prey and a hawk circled
overhead. Claudine watched as the songbirds scattered, alarmed by that lazily
drifting shadow, death on the wing. She'd had a bad morning, forced to fast by
the queasiness that still unsettled her days. The rose Justin had picked for
her now lay shredded in her lap, stripped of all its petals by her restless
fingers.
"Well," she said morosely, "if there was any doubt, it has bled away. I missed
my third flux."
Justin glanced at her swiftly. "Did you have doubts that you were with child?"
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"I tried to," she said, with a rueful smile. Justin wasn't sure what to say,
so he plucked another rose and handed it to her. She flashed a more convincing
smile, but petals were soon drifting down into the grass at her feet. "I asked
the queen if the pregnancy would get easier in time. She said usually so, but
that some are vexing to the very end. She said of all her pregnancies, she was
the most uncomfortable whilst carrying John. So he was causing trouble even
ere he was born!"
The best Justin could manage was a laconic "Not surprising." He doubted that
there'd ever come a time when he'd feel cornfortable jesting with Claudine
about John.
"The queen says she has two nunneries in mind," Claudine confided, "either
Godstow outside Oxford or Wherwell, which is near Winchester. You'll take me
once we decide, Justin?"
He assured her that he would, but then he rose from the bench. Claudine
frowned. "You are leaving already?"
"I must. This afternoon Geoffrey Aston is abjuring the realm."
"So soon? His forty days have not gone by, surely?"
"He chose not to wait. Daniel was hoping for a miracle to clear him, so of
course he'd have clung to sanctuary until the last possible moment. Geoffrey
has admitted his guilt, so he has nothing to gain by delay."
"Justin ... take me with you." Claudine put a hand on his arm, looking up at
him with a flirtatious smile. "I've never seen a man abjure the realm."
"Jesu forfend you miss an experience like that," Justin said dryly.
Claudine wrinkled her nose playfully at the sarcasm. "Wait here," she
directed, "whilst I go tell the queen!" Justin sat down again on the bench,
watching as she hastened back into the keep, moving with so light and lively a
step that none would have suspected she was with child.
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By the time Justin and Claudine rode into St Paul's precincts, Geoffrey Aston
had already emerged from the cathedral, blinking uncertainly in the harsh
noonday light after several weeks of shadowed seclusion. He wore only a
single, simple garment of coarse sackcloth, head and feet bare, clutching his
wooden cross in an awkward, white-knuckled grip. Flanked by an impassive Jonas
and a preening Tobias, he was kneeling before one of the sheriffs of London,
Roger Fitz Alan, and the mutterings of the spectators made it clear that he
had just confessed to killing Melangell in the churchyard of St Mary
Magdalene's.
Claudine pressed forward to see better, and Justin followed, leading their
horses. A large crowd had turned out for the spectacle, and most gave way
grudgingly. Searching for familiar faces, Justin soon spotted Agnes, her eyes
swollen with weeping, leaning heavily upon her husband's supporting arm.
Master Serlo was standing by St Paul's Cross, somberly dressed in black,
although there was no sign of Adela. Justin wondered if she'd chosen to stay
away, wanting to spare herself this last glimpse of the youth who was to have
been her husband, or if she'd been bidden to do so by her uncle. Nell and
Gunter were present, as were several of their Gracechurch Street neighbors.
But he could not find Humphrey Aston or his wife, nor did he see Daniel, or
Godwin and Cati.
The sheriff was proclaiming the rules of the abjuration, warning Geoffrey that
he must remain on the King's road, that he must proceed straightaway for the
chosen port of Dover, that he could not tarry for more than one night anywhere
along the route, that he must take the first ship sailing for France and swear
by the Holy Cross that he would not return again to England. Geoffrey's head
was bowed, his voice almost inaudi-
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ble as he promised to obey these strictures. The sheriff then reminded the
spectators that Geoffrey was now under the protection of the Church.
Justin was startled to hear murmurings of sympathy rustling through the crowd;
pity was usually in short supply when felons were forced to do public penance
for their crimes. When he said as much to Claudine, she shrugged, saying that
the handsome always fare better in this world. It was a cynical observation,
but Justin could not find fault with it; how else explain why people were
calling Geoffrey a "poor lad," as if the true tragedy was the ruination of his
life, not the loss of Melangell's? Justin stared coolly at Geoffrey's gleaming
blond head. He was not sorry that Geoffrey would not hang, but he'd forfeited
any right to forgiveness the moment he'd reached for that rock.
As Geoffrey rose to his feet, struggling to pick up his cross, some of the
spectators began to drift away, for the high drama of the event was now over.
Turning to soothe his restive stallion, Justin happened to catch sight of the
figure hovering on the edge of the crowd. Muffled in a hood that was
conspicuously out of place on a summer's day, Humphrey Aston looked like a man
bleeding from an internal wound, his face grey and drawn, his skin blotched,
his grieving so raw that Justin felt an unwelcome twinge of pity. He waited,
but Humphrey did not move toward Geoffrey, and when he glanced again toward
the mercer, he was gone.
Geoffrey started his halting walk across the churchyard, his feet already
stinging from the gravel, for his were not the callused soles of youths
accustomed to going barefoot. He'd taken only a few steps, though, before
Daniel pushed through the crowd to his side. They stared at each other for a
painfragmented moment, and then Daniel stepped forward, enfold-
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ing his tearful brother in a wordless, healing embrace. Again, the bystanders
nodded and murmured approvingly, and Justin wondered if they'd have been as
magnanimous if Daniel had been the one going off into foreign exile.
Echoing his thoughts with eerie accuracy, Jonas appeared at his elbow,
muttering in a mordant undertone, "Half the fools here think that outer
packaging is proof positive of the state of one's soul. I suppose we ought to
be thankful that Gilbert the Reming did not have flaxen hair and a winning
smile like the Aston lad, else they'd have been weeping over him, too."
They were soon joined by Nell and Gunter, and Justin's worlds collided as
Claudine acknowledged his Gracechurch Street friends. It could have been an
awkward moment, but Claudine had polished her social skills in the demanding
arena of the royal court, and she was up to the challenge, unperturbed by
Nell's obvious hostility, Gunter's discomfort, and Jonas's sardonic, silent
amusement. Within moments, she'd adroitly drawn them into a lively discussion
of Geoffrey's punishment, even coaxing the taciturn Gunter into confiding that
he'd not have wanted to see Agnes's nephew go to the gallows.
"You can thank St Justin for that," Jonas gibed, and Claudine turned her
long-lashed gaze upon the serjeant, full power.
"What will happen to Geoffrey now?" she asked, in appealingly accented
English, for unlike many at the royal court, she'd taken the trouble to learn
the native language of this island realm. "What usually befalls men who abjure
the realm? Do they seek to do penance for their sins in monasteries? Or, she
added slyly, "do they use those sins as stepping stones to greater crimes?"
Jonas grinned. "More of the latter than the former, my ladyI've heard that the
French thank us not for exporting our outlaws to their shores. They have no
like custom over there, they cannot even return the favor by sending us their
felons.
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for young Aston, I suspect he'll do better than most. I doubt that Frenchwomen
are any wiser than ours when it comes to a goodlooking lad with an easy way
about him. And I'd wager that he has money hidden away under that sackcloth,
in addition to what the Church provided for his expenses on the road."
Nell nodded emphatically at that. "I know that Agnes and Odo scraped together
what they could, and Agnes told me that Humphrey wasfor once in his lifebeing
open-handed, giving her a goodly sum to take to Geoffrey last night. Rumor has
it that even Master Serlo contributed some."
"A pity they couldn't have been as generous with Melangell's family," Justin
said caustically, and Nell scowled at him.
"You cannot blame them, Justin, for grieving over Geoffrey's plight. He is
paying a heavy price for a moment of madness."
Justin couldn't resist making the obvious riposte. "Not as heavy a price as
Melangell paid."
It was Jonas who played the unlikely role of peacemaker. "If we are going to
fight about this, I suggest we do it over wine. Let's find a tavern. We'll let
you pay, de Quincy; from the way your money pouch is bulging, you can well
afford it."
"Sorry to disappoint you, Jonas, but this is not worth anything, not even
blood money," Justin said, opening the pouch to show them the rock.
Nell grimaced. "Why are you carrying that... that thing around with you?"
Justin shrugged. "I had it in mind to get rid of it after the abjuration,
mayhap put it back in the churchyard where she died. °ut of curiosity, how did
Geoffrey explain away the rock whilst he was making his tearful confession?"
"He did not," Jonas said, and Justin turned to stare at the Serjeant.
"What are you saying? Doesn't a man have to confess fully ere he can abjure
the realm?"
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"Supposedly so, but he made no mention of it in his confession. He admitted
quarreling with Melangell after she threatened to go to Adela and he admitted
panicking and trying to make it look as if she'd been raped. But he claimed
that she died when she fell back against the cross. Nary a word about picking
up a rock and dashing her brains out with it. I guess the lad is getting
forgetful under the strain."
"Why did the sheriff not challenge him on it?" Justin demanded, and Jonas gave
a weary shake of his head.
"Ask him, de Quincy, not me. Mayhap Tobias neglected to tell him about that
particular detail, or mayhap he decided it did not matter."
Justin was outraged. "It does matter," he insisted. "He owes Melangell the
truth!" Tossing the reins of their mounts to Gunter, he swung around and began
to shove his way through the crowd. He had no difficulty in overtaking
Geoffrey, who was already leaving bloody footprints in the dust. Lugging the
cross, he was staring straight ahead, resolutely ignoring the occasional jeer
or catcall as he plodded along the Cheapside, trailed by several of Jonas's
men to make sure he got safely out of London. When Justin caught up with him,
he flinched at the sound of pursuing footsteps, his shoulders slumping with
relief as he recognized Justin.
"I was half expecting her father to be here to confront me," he confessed,
"and no blame to him if he did. How could he not hate me for what I did?"
"And what did you do, Geoffrey? I understand your memory needs prodding, for
you omitted the most important part of your confession."
Geoffrey came to a halt in the roadway. "What do you mean? I held nothing
back. Why would I?"
His feigned bewilderment only stoked Justin's anger all the higher. "You told
only half the truth, the half that works in your
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favor. The other half you ignored, hoping it would be forgotten ... like
Melangell herself."
Geoffrey shook his head slowly. "I do not know what you are talking about.
Melangell will never be forgotten, not by me."
"Well said, Geoffrey; you'd have made a fine actor. I would almost believe you
... if not for this!" Pulling the rock from his pouch, Justin slammed it into
the palm of Geoffrey's hand.
Geoffrey looked down at the rock, then back up at Justin, uncomprehending.
"What is this?" he asked. "I do not understand."
Justin stared at him in disbelief. "You truly do not... do you?"
Jonas's men were growing impatient at the delay and one of them ordered
Geoffrey to move along. Reluctantly, he did, first politely handing Justin
back the rock. As the men hustled him away, he looked over his shoulder,
making one final plaintive protest. "I would not have let Daniel take the
blame, Justin, I swear I would not!"
Justin would later wish that he had responded, given Geoffrey the assurance he
sought. Now, though, he was too stunned, unable to do anything but stare down
at the rock in his hand. "Jesus God," he said softly, as much to himself as
the Almighty, "how can this be?"
"How can what be?" Jonas had muscled his way onto the Cheapside. His gaze
flicked from the rock to Justin's face, that lone eye narrowing at what he
found. "What ails you? What happened?"
Justin swallowed. "I showed him the rock, Jonas, and it meant nothing to him
... nothing at all."
"Jesu! Are you sure about this?"
Justin nodded and they turned as one to stare after Geoffrey's slow progress
along Cheapside, not moving until long after he had vanished from sight.
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"Justin, this serves for naught." Nell set a fresh flagon down on the table,
then took a seat across from him. "You're not even drinking," she scolded,
glancing toward his brimming cup, "just brooding. For the love of the Lord,
let it go!"
"I cannot," he admitted, "God help me, I cannot. How could I have been so
wrong, Nell? I was so sure this rock was the murder weapon, so sure!"
Nell regarded the troublesome rock with distaste. "Must you have it out on the
table like this? It does have blood on it, after all, even if it is not
Melangell's."
"Whose is it, then, if not hers? It makes no sense, Nell. What of the black
hairs on it? I keep going around in a circle, always ending up back where I
started."
"You're in a rut, not a circle, and getting nowhere fast. Put the rock away,
Justin. Not all of God's mysteries are meant to be solved. Curfew will be
ringing soon and I do not want to send you out sober into the night... so
drink up, and let's talk of other matters besides that wretched rock. How is
Luke faring these days? Have you heard from him since he returned to
Winchester?"
"One letter, saying he'd gotten home safely and complaining at length about
that 'four-legged fiend,' Aldith's dog, who ate his best boots whilst he was
away ... or so Aldith claims." Justin mustered up a smile at the domestic
discord of his friends, but almost at once lapsed back into a distracted
silence.
Nell gave an exaggerated, theatrical sigh. "Like a dog with a bone, you are."
Seeing that Justin was not going to drink his ale, she reached over and helped
herself to it, taking a deep swallow and then another. "This batch tastes a
bit off; I'll be having a word with the brewer. You know what surprised me,
Justin? That Melangell's father was not there today to see Geoffrey's
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public penance. I thought the Welsh put a great store by vengeance."
"Vengeance is a luxury, one Godwin cannot afford, not since his mule died."
"Misfortune does seem to be dogging that poor man's footsteps. I saw him and
the little lass the other day in the Cheapside, and my heart went out to them,
Justin. Worn down to skin and bones and blisters, he is, and Cati like a wild
creature, as bedraggled and unkempt as any beggar's child. What will befall
her if her father drops dead in the mule's traces one day? Has she no other
kin at all?"
"Her mother has family back in Wales." Justin reached for the drink Nell had
appropriated. Thinking about Cati's bleak future was as troubling as thoughts
of that blasted, bloodied rock. "She is tougher than she looks," he said,
seeking to convince himself as much as Nell. "Her grieving for Melangell is an
open wound, one that will be a long time healing. But she is not one for
sharing her grief. Only once do I remember her being on the brink of tears,
when she was telling me about her sister's funeral and the red dress she'd set
her heart upon ..."
The image of Cati's stifled sorrow was too vivid for comfort, needed to be
washed away with ale, and he brought the cup up with such haste that it
slopped over the rim. It never reached his mouth. Setting the cup down with a
thud, he gave Nell such a blind, unfocused look that she felt a superstitious
chill and plucked uneasily at his sleeve.
"Justin, what is it? You look like you've seen one of God's own ghosts!"
He blinked, like a man coming out of a spell. "Not exactly. But it may be that
Melangell just whispered a word in my ear, for I remembered something ..."
Before Nell could question him further, he was on his feet. "I have to go,
Nell. There is someone I must see."
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that led to the mercer's great hall when he saw one of the Aston journeymen on
the other side of the street. Crossing over, he hailed the man. "Are you about
to open the shop?"
The man shook his head, grinning broadly. "We got the day off! I can still
scarce believe it, but the old man said he had work to do on his own and did
not want the lot of us underfoot."
"Where is he now?"
"In the shop. If you want my guess, he tried to drink himself into a stupor
last night and is dog-sick this morn. I never thought to hear myself saying
this, but I can almost feel sorry for him ... almost. There was room for but
one person in that shriveled walnut of a heart of his, and that was Geoffrey."
After the journeyman went off to enjoy his day of liberty, Justin returned to
the mercer's shop and began to pound loudly for admittance. The response was a
curse-laden warning to go away. Justin continued to hammer on the door until
it was wrenched open.
"I am closed, you witless, misbegotten lout!" Humphrey bellowed, but Justin
shoved the door back, forcing his way into the shop. It was like falling into
a damp, dark hole, for the room was lit only by a sputtering candle and the
air reeked of tallow grease, sweat, and wine. Getting his first good look at
this intruder, Humphrey growled low in his throat. "You!" Snatching up an
empty clay flagon, he swung it clumsily at Justin's head.
His aim was off, though, and Justin had no trouble evading the blow. Before
Humphrey could try again, Justin clamped his hand on the other man's wrist,
forcing him to drop the flagon. It shattered and the impact seemed to bring
Humphrey back to his senses. Rubbing his wrist, he glared defiantly at Justin.
"Who could blame me if I'd split your head open? Because of your meddling, I
lost my son!"
He did not seem drunk, although not for want of trying; the floor was littered
with discarded flagons and his eyes were
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bloodshot and puffy, his tunic so wrinkled and disheveled that he must have
slept in it. Justin looked upon this evidence of a man's disintegration and
felt not a flicker of pity. "Where is your wife? Is she above-stairs?"
"No, at her sister's. What is it to you?"
"Nothing to me, but this is a conversation you'll not be wanting her to
overhear."
"This conversation is over. Get out!"
"Why not try to throw me out? I think I'd enjoy that."
Humphrey tensed to launch himself at the younger man, then thought better of
it. "What are you doing here? Have you not done enough harm to my family?"
"Let's talk about that, Humphrey, about family. Growing up, I never knew my
father and I felt that loss keenly. Looking at you now, I see that I was the
lucky one. Your sons would have fared better as orphans."
It had been many years since anyone had dared to talk to Humphrey like this
and his face flooded with color. "I want you out of my shopnow!"
"You still do not see it, do you? I know the truth. I know how Melangell died
and the part you played in it."
Humphrey scarcely seemed to be breathing, so still was he of a sudden. Only
his eyes moved, shifting from Justin's face to the sword at his hip. "What
sort of nonsense is this?" he said, sounding more wary now than indignant. "I
had naught to do with that Welsh whore's death."
"That is what I once thought, too. Even this did not put me on the right
track/' Justin said, taking out his money pouch and slowly extracting that
broken piece of tombstone.
Humphrey's body sagged and he sank down on a workbench piled with bolts of
cloth. Justin held the rock toward the candle's light. "You can see her blood
better now. She bled a lot. Was she conscious when you hit her? Had she
started to revive, mayhap
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moaning? Or were you just making sure, finishing what Geoffrey had begun?"
Humphrey said nothing. He'd yet to take his eyes from the rock, transfixed by
those brownish stains. Justin leaned back against the door, one hand sliding
down to loosen his sword in its scabbard. "You do not want to talk about it? I
suppose it is up to me, then. Where shall I start? How about with Melangell's
red dress? You were the first one to make mention of it, ranting about her
'whore's scarlet.' I remembered because your outburst was so poisonous, but it
took a while to understand its true significance. You see, Humphrey, Melangell
had but one red dress, worn for the first time on the day she died. So you
lied when you said you'd not seen her that Friday."
Humphrey's face was suffused with heat, with hatred so intense it was almost
palpable. "She was a slut," he said harshly, "chasing shamelessly after
Geoffrey day and night. I'd warned him away from her, but he kept sneaking
around, futtering her on the sly ... young fool!"
"So you followed him to the churchyard that night, meaning to catch them in
the act. Instead you overheard her telling him she was with child. You knew
that could wreck Geoffrey's chances of wedding Adela and you were not about to
let that happen. My guess is that you hid to hear more. We both know what
happened next. Geoffrey pushed her, she fell, and he panicked, thinking he'd
killed her. As soon as he fled, you emerged from the shadows. Geoffrey may
have lost his head, but not you. No, you saw your chance and took it. Was she
already dying when you reached for that rock? I suppose you're the only one
who'll ever know that, and you're not likely to say, are you?"
"You've got that right!" Humphrey's lip curled scornfully. "You spin a good
tale, de Quincy, but all you've got is a bloody rock and lots of suspicions.
You cannot prove a word of this!"
"You are right," Justin admitted. "I cannot prove it. If I could,
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I'd have gone to the sheriff. I spent the night trying to figure out how to
bring you to justice and realized I cannot. Geoffrey has confessed and the
sheriff was never all that interested in the
killing of a peddler's daughter, so he's not about to reopen this case without
proof. And as you pointed out, I lack proof, at least the sort of proof that
would convince a court. What I do have, though, is a remarkably compelling
story of greed and guilt and mortal sin. I'm willing to wager that your
family, your neighbors, and fellow mercers will be hanging on to my every
word."
Humphrey shot to his feet, fists balled. "You cannot do that!"
"I can," Justin said coldly, "and I will. I thought I'd go first to Master
Serlo. I think he'll believe me. I think anyone who knows you will believe me"
"You treacherous bastard!" Humphrey took a threatening step forward, only to
halt when Justin let his hand drop to the hilt of his sword. "I'll sue you for
slander," he said, and Justin laughed.
"Have you forgotten? I'm the queen's man. Which one of us do you think a court
would heed?"
The mercer responded with a curse so profane that Justin was impressed in
spite of himself. But he was right about Humphrey Aston; this was not a man to
lose his head. There was a long silence and then Humphrey said in a flat,
dispassionate voice, "I am not admitting any of this, mind you. I'll deny it
with my last breath. I'd rather not have to do that, though, for lies are like
mud. They tend to stick. So what will it take to keep you quiet about these
ludicrous suspicions of yours?"
"Money."
Humphrey's mouth twisted in an expression of rage, relief, and contempt. "I
should have known," he said. "Money is always the answer, even for
self-righteous whoresons like you." Crossing to a coffer chest, he removed a
key from his belt, and after a moment of fumbling, flung the lid open. "Do not
think
239
Sharon Kay Penman
that you can dip into my well anytime you get thirsty. This one time, you can
drink, but no more. Now ... how much?"
"Enough," Justin said, "to buy a mule."
When the money had been counted out, Humphrey carefully relocked the coffer,
then watched as Justin transferred the coins to his pouch. "I'll not expect to
see you here again," he warned. "And you can leave the rock."
"I think not," Justin said, glancing down at the dried blood stains and
wishing they were the mercer's, not Melangell's. "And we're not done yet.
There is one more thing you must do. You're to go to Master Serlo, persuade
him to take Daniel on as one of his apprentices."
"What? What sort of daft demand is that?"
"One you're going to meet, if you expect me to keep silent."
"How am I supposed to convince him? Why would he want Daniel in his shop? God
knows I do not!"
"Appeal to his better nature. He seems a decent sort, doubtless feels guilty
that he was so quick to suspect the worst of Daniel. Offer a very generous
bond of surety and a favorable contract. How you do it is up to you. But get
it done or we have no deal."
When Humphrey continued to protest, Justin cut him off curtly. "There is
nothing more to be said. I'll be back at week's end, so you'd best seek out
Master Serlo as soon as you sober up."
Humphrey spat out another oath. "This is extortion, plain and simple!"
Justin halted in the doorway. "No ... it is retribution." It was a relief to
escape the stifling, murky atmosphere of the mercer's shop, and he paused out
on the street to savor the sunlight, the clean air. Mayhap Jonas was right and
he was taking too many of John's habits to heart. It was easy to abuse power,
all too easy. For certes, he'd taken shameless advantage of his position as
the queen's man. But after more than five months in the royal ser-
240
CRUEL AS THE GRAVE
vice, he felt sure that his queen would have approved of what he'd done. As he
walked briskly up Friday Street, he seemed to hear Eleanor's voice echoing on
the light summer wind, reminding him again that There are any number of
reasons, Justin, why people are tempted to dance with the Devil.
The mule was young and sturdy, a pale grey, his mane braided with one of
Cati's red hair ribbons. Godwin could not resist run-
ning his hands along the animal's sleek hide each time he passed by, but
eventually the cart was loaded and the good-byes were said. Godwin clambered
up onto the seat and Justin gave Cati a hand up, too. Clara and her husband
smiled and waved, and Nell produced a small sack of wafers for their noontime
meal on the road. With cries of "Godspeed" and "Safe journey," Godwin and his
daughter bade London farewell and began the long journey back to Wales. They'd
gone only a short distance, though, before Godwin reined in the mule.
"Justin!" Cati cried, leaning precariously out of the cart. When he saw what
she wanted to show him, he nodded and grinned, and the cart lumbered on,
accompanied by Shadow until Justin whistled to him.
Nell joined Justin in the street. "What did the little lass want you to see?"
"That she was wearing Melangell's St Davydd's cross."
"Well, St Davydd seems to be smiling upon them these days. How else explain
Godwin's new mule?" Nell queried blandly, blue eyes agleam. Justin merely
smiled and shrugged, as he always did when the subject of Godwin's mule was
raised. Nell called out a final farewell as the cart turned onto the
Cheapside, and then glanced over at Justin.
"I hope you have nothing in mind for the afternoon. The Templars' mill offers
the best flour and the best price, but I've need of a strong arm to fetch it
home."
241
Sharon Kay Penman
"I cannot think of anything I'd rather do than lug flour sacks back from
Southwark," Justin said, and Nell grinned, linking her arm in his.
The rest of the day was a pleasant one. After picking up Nell's flour at the
Templars' mill, they bought pork pies from a street vendor and ate by the
river, watching as ships lowered their masts to navigate under the bridge. On
their way home, they stopped in the Eastcheap market so Nell could buy some
honey. While she haggled with the peddler over the price, Justin wandered over
to look at the caged larks and magpies.
"Promise me you're not thinking of buying one," Nell entreated when she
rejoined him. "Not a piethey never stop shrieking."
"If I tell you, you'll laugh," Justin said, but he told her, anyway. "Cati
said that Melangell hated to see birds caged up, and for a mad moment or two,
I was actually thinking of buying one and setting it free ... for Melangell."
He smiled sheepishly. "I realized then that I'd merely be buying dinner for
that ginger torn," he said, pointing toward a large cat who was prowling under
the cages, hungry green eyes aglow.
"I think," Nell said, "that you've already done what you could for Melangell,"
and he let her draw him away from those wicker cages with their brightly
colored captives, glad that she hadn't caught him browsing at the booth
selling baby rattles and cradles.
With Shadow leading the way, they reached Gracechurch Street in late
afternoon. Pretending to stagger under the weight of Nell's packages, Justin
was about to enter the alehouse when he heard his name being called. Gunter
was standing in the doorway of the smithy, beckoning to him.
"A messenger has been looking for you, Justin," he said. "The queen wants
you."
242
AUTHOR'S NOTE
John's conniving is a matter of historical record, as is the siege of Windsor.
Justin's participation was, of course, a case of dramatic license. Unlike my
historical "sagas," my medieval mysteries have a mixed cast, those who
actually lived and those who live only in my imagination. There is no need to
document Eleanor of Aquitaine's subsequent history, or that of her sons, but
readers might be interested in the fate of one of the secondary characters:
Master Serlo of the Mercer's Guild eventually became Mayor of London.
As I explained in my first mystery, The Queen's Man, there was no Bishop of
Chester. Chester lay in the diocese of Coventry and Lichfield, and although
the title Bishop of Chester was used during the Middle Ages, it was an
unofficial usage. And as I invariably mention in my historical novels, I use
the medieval Welsh
spelling for St Davydd, as this is more phonetic. Modern Welsh would spell it
Dafydd.
In researching The Queen's Man, I discovered that medieval detectives labored
under certain handicaps, among them, no DNA testing, no fingerprints, no
forensics. But in Cruel as the Grave, Justin and Jonas did not have to worry
about warrants or the admissibility of evidence, so perhaps it all evens out.
As long as I get to write about Eleanor of Aquitaine and her fascinatingly
dysfunctional family, I have no complaints.
S.K.P.
February 1998
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I'd like to thank the following people in particular for their support and
encouragement: My parents, the most loving critics any writer could ask for.
Valerie Ptak LaMont, who did so much to keep Justin and me on course. Kyle
LaMont, who provided insight on Justin's estrangement with his father. Earle
Kotila and Jill and John Davies, who help me to keep the faith. The editor who
has been my mainstay from my first book tohopefully my last, Marian Wood. My
longtime English editor and friend, Susan Watt. And my agents extraordinaire,
Molly Friedrich and Mic Cheetham. Lastly, I'd like to thank the readers who
welcomed my first venture into the mystery realm, and were generous enough to
write and tell me so. Feedback from readers is truly worth its weight in gold.
Cruel as the Grave
SHARON KAY PENMAN
A Reader's Quide
^^^^^^^^^^»
I
A Conversation with Sharon Kay Penman
Q: As a critically acclaimed author of historical fiction, what inspired you
to create this medieval mystery series?
SKP: This was an example of something positive coming out of a negative
experience. By the time I'd finished researching and writing When Christ and
His Saints Skpt, I was in danger of burning out. For the first time in nearly
two decades, my boundless enthusiasm for the Middle Ages had begun to flag. So
I decided I needed a change of pace, and since I am a long-time mystery fan,
it occurred to me that a medieval mystery might be fun to write. Once that
idea took root, it was probably inevitable that I'd choose to write about
Eleanor of Aquitaine, surely one of history's most memorable women.
Q: What aspects of the research and writing of this novel presented the
greatest challenges to you?
SKP: In my historical novels, I was constantly trying to keep faith with known
historical facts; if I occasionally had to take creative liberties, I made a
point of alerting my readers in my author's notes. So the mysteries represent
a break with a twenty-year-old tradition. While I strive to stay true to the
historical shadows of Eleanor or her son John, I can let my imagination soar
with purely fictional characters such as Justin de Quincy or his duplicitous
lady love, Claudine. This unexpected freedom is both daunting and
exhilarating!
Q: What initially drew you to work in genre of historical fiction and what
keeps you coming back?
SKP: I stumbled onto the story of Richard In, probably England's most
controversial king, and from that initial fascination with one of history's
great puzzles came my first novel, The Sunne in Splendour. By the time Sunne
was completed, I was hopelessly hooked on the Middle Ages. Not that I'd have
wanted to live back then; I am much too fond of creature comforts like indoor
plumbing and central air conditioning. But the medieval era offers unbounded
riches for a novelist.
Q: How do you balance the demands of crafting a good story with the demands of
the historical record?
Cruel as the Grave
SKP: I think I rely upon instinct to a certain degree. I can immediately
recognize it when I'm in danger of straying too far afield. For example, I
would not feel comfortable creating a character who was utterly at variance
with his historical personage, i.e., turning a warrior king like Edward I into
a military misfit or depicting the strong-willed Marguerite d'Anjou as a
shrinking violet. An exception, of course, is a historical figure whose
motives and nature are still being hotly debated, as is the case with Richard
In. If I did choose to give my readers a characterization that defies
tradition, I would feel obligated to give my readers an explanation, too, for
my decision to blaze a new trail.
Q: Are there lines (in terms of historical accuracy) that should not be
crossed in the pursuit of a good story?
SKP: Most definitely. I might feel free to switch scenes from one castle to
another, or to make a minor change in the time line. But I would not stake out
a position utterly unsupported by historical evidence or academic
interpretation. I could not create a medieval country that was radical in
impulse, democratic in thought, tolerant of dissent. Pacifism, feminism,
nationalismthese are all concepts that would have totally different shadings
and subtleties in another century. I'd never want to write a book that could
be tagged as "the Plantagenets in Pasadena."
Q: While Justin de Quincy is a fictional character of your own creation, is he
based on any real-life figure(s) you have encountered in your research?
SKP: No, he has no historical counterpart. I wanted to create a character who
has an outsider's viewpoint, one with the skills necessary to survive at the
royal court and upon the mean streets of London. From this need came Justin de
Quincy, illegitimate son of a bishop, educated above his station in life, not
truly belonging in either of his worlds.
Q: Justin has been likened to James Bond. How do you feel about this
comparison?
SKP: Bond...Justin Bond. No, I don't think it has the same ring to it. Better
that we keep both men in their own times.
A Reader's Guide
Q: All of your readers and reviewers comment upon the richness and vividness
of the historical detail in your books. How do you go about researching your
books?
SKP: After researching and writing seven novels set in the Middle Ages,
I feel very much at home there. When I read a novel of another age, I am
curious about the details of daily life, wanting to know what the people ate
and wore as well as what they believed and feared. So I try to provide that
mixture of the mundane and the exotic in my own books.
Q: Is it difficult to render legendary figures, such as Eleanor of Aquitaine,
human and accessible? How do you do it?
SKP: I think it is definitely more challenging to depict a well-known
historical figure, for then readers bring preconceived notions to the book.
Someone familiar with the Robin Hood legend, for example, might be surprised
to learn that King John was neither an incompetent king nor a moral monster.
And mention Eleanor of Aquitaine to anyone who has ever seen The Lion in
Winter, and Katharine Hepburn inevitably comes to mind! But the process of
creating a character remains the same, whether that character comes from the
pages of history or my own imagination. When writing a scene, I attempt to get
inside the character's head and see things from his or her point of view.
Rationalization and self-justification are universal human traits; even
outright villains will often see themselves as the ones wronged. Once I take
up residence in a character's soul, it is usually fairly easy to identify with
his needs or her yearnings. In fact, it was a bit unsettling to discover how
readily I could relate to neurotic malcontents like George, Duke of Clarenc,e
or ice-blooded adventurers like the Flemish mercenary William de Ypres!
Q:      Why do you think the stories of Eleanor of Aquitaine and Henry
II and their Plantagenet dynasty in Britain remain such a cornpelling subject
for so many writers and artists such as yourself?
SKP: When I do readings, I often joke that I consider Henry II and Eleanor of
Aquitaine and their children to be the ultimate
Cruel as the Grave
dysfunctional family, and there is probably as much truth as humor in that
observation. Henry was one of England's greatest kings and Eleanor probably
rivals Cleopatra in her hold upon the public imagination. Yet as parents, they
lurched from one blunder to another and have the dubious distinction of
producing four of the most self-centered, shallow, or warped sons in the
history of the Plantagenet dynasty. We might not be able today to identify
with those larger-than-life medieval monarchs, but who couldn't empathize with
a father's pain, a mother's regrets? 1
Q: What would you most like your readers to understand about the I status of
women and the human condition in general during the 1 Middle Ages?
SKP: That the men and women of the Middle Ages are not so alien to ]
ourselves. Obviously their beliefs and superstitions and biases were I shaped
by factors foreign to us. But I don't believe that human I nature has changed
drastically or dramatically down through the centuries. Their expectations
might have been very different from ours, but their emotions flowed from the
same river that runs through our lives today. Also that medieval people were
no less complex or contradictory than they are now. Personalities must always
be factored into the equation. The most definitive study of j the legal status
of women in medieval France does not explain a Joan of Arc or an Eleanor of
Aquitame.
Q: The issue of language during this period is a fascinating one J which you
use to great effect both in this book and its prequel, j The Queen's Man. Why
is French the official language of the | English court at this point in time?
When does this change? I
SKP: French became the official language of the English court as a result 1 of
the Battle of Hastings in 1066, in which William the Conqueror, 1 Duke   of
Normandy,   defeated   the   English   king,   Harold Godwineson. In the
period of my mysteries, English was the language of the conquered, French the
tongue of the aristocracy. It would not have been surprising if English had
eventually died out under such adverse circumstances. But it showed an
astonishing vitality, an unexpected resilience, and over a period of several
cen-
*~- <|p.
Q:
A Reader's Guide
turies slowly gained back the ground it had lost. The NormanFrench aristocracy
engaged English-speaking wet-nurses and caretakers for their children, and by
the mid-thirteenth century, many people were bilingual. Edward I is believed
to be the first Englishspeaking king since the Conquest. By the fifteenth
century, the setting for my novel Sunne, English had fully regained its
supremacy. To complete the linguistic mosaic, Latin was the language of the
educated, the voice of the Church, and Welsh remained the mother tongue of
Wales, even after the loss of Welsh independence. So I have to be careful in
my writingsif Justin de Quincy eavesdrops upon a key conversation, it must be
in a language he can comprehend!
Melangell's Welsh heritage figures prominently in this story. Could you
discuss the nature of the conflict and tensions between the English and the
Welsh?
SKP: Medieval Wales was divided into three principalities, each ruled by its
own house. From the time of Henry II, the Welsh accepted the English king as
their liege lord, although never willingly, and border skirmishing between the
English and Welsh continued to erupt during the twelfth and thirteenth
centuries. It was not until the reign of Llywelyn ap Gruffydd that a Welsh
prince succeeded in uniting his people against the English. Llywelyn was the
first Prince of Wales. After his death in 1282, Edward I appropriated the
title for his eldest son and heir apparent, a tradition that continues to this
day.
Q: The concept of sanctuary is a fascinating one. Could you talk about the
origins of this practice and how widely it was used?
SKP: The concept of sanctuary is an ancient one, existing as far back as the
times of the Greeks and Romans. It has equally venerable roots in the
Christian religion. The first laws conferring sanctuary upon a church date
from 392 A.D., so the tradition was well established by the Middle Ages. The
custom gradually lost favor with civil authorities and was officially
abolished by King James I in the seventeenth century. Sanctuary's intriguing
corollary, Abjuration of I the Realm, was of Anglo-Norman origin and peculiar
to England. 1
Cruel as the Grave
Q: For the geographically and historically challenged, could you tell us what
region today constitutes Eleanor's beloved Aquitaine?
SKP: Eleanor's Aquitaine consisted of Poitou and Gascony, a vast, rich region
in southwestern France, more than one-quarter the size of modern France.
Eleanor's domains were therefore more extensive than the lands under the
control of her first husband, the French king Louis VII.
Q:      What are your future plans for Justin de Quincy?
SKP: I am sending Justin de Quincy into Wales in my next mystery, Dragon's
Lair, where he'll find himself matching wits and crossing swords not only with
John and his personal nemesis, Durand de Curzon, but with the young Llywelyn
ab lorwerth, who figured so prominently in my novel Here Be Dragons. And of
course the Lady Claudine will continue to complicate Justin's life, as will
the father who refuses to acknowledge him.
Q:      Will romance bloom between Justin and Nell?
SKP: I am not being evasive, but I honestly do not know. I once read a
marvelous quote from another writerI am reasonably certain that it was E. M.
Forsterin which he said that his characters were galley slaves, obedient to
his will. Mine are less biddable and much more inclined to go off on tangents
of their own. A perfect example is Davydd ap Gruffydd, brother of Llywelyn, in
Falls the Shadow and The Reckoning. Davydd was originally intended to be a
secondary character, but he would have none of that and was soon stealing
scenes with all the panache of a natural-born actor. So even if I reveal my
plans for Justin and Nell, they've yet to be heard from.
Q:      What will your next project be?
SKP: I am currently working on Time and Chance, the next book in my Saints
trilogy about Henry II and Eleanor of Aquitaine. If Henry and Eleanor continue
to cooperate, always a precarious proposition with that pair, I hope to have
it completed in late autumn, with publication scheduled for the year 2000.
Then I will do Dragon's
A Reader's Guide
Lair, Justin's foray into Wales, and after that The Devil's Brood, which will
deal with Henry's civil war with his own sons.
Q:      How does the writing process work for you?
SKP: I do a chapter at a time and don't sit down at the computer until I have
it playing out in my head. I don't do numerous rewrites; I stay with a chapter
until I am satisfied with it. I also read the chapter aloud to see how it
strikes the ear.
Q', What was the best piece of advice you have ever received regarding your
craft?
SKP: I think the best writing advice came from my father. He said I should
heed my own inner voice and trust my instincts.
Q:      What writers have most influenced you?
SKP: I am not sure if my writing style has been influenced, per se, but there
are a number of writers whose work I admire. Anya Seton's Katherine and The
Winthrop Woman were great favorites of mine. A more recent historical novel
that I enjoyed enormously was Larry McMurtry's brilliant Lonesome Dove. And
anyone who appreciates historical fiction ought to be reading Margaret George.
Q:      What works would you recommend to a reading group?
SKP: I have eclectic taste in mystery writers: I read James Lee Burke, Sue
Grafton, Anne Perry, Robert Crais, Carl Hiaasen, Elizabeth George, Sharyn
McCrumb, Joan Hess, Elizabeth Peters, Elmore Leonard, Daniel Woodrell, Sharan
Newman, Margaret Frazer, Ellis Peters, Linda Barnes, and Edward Marston, among
others. I highly recommend Janet Evanovich's zany mysteries about the
starcrossed Stephanie Plum and the Elizabethan mysteries that Patricia Finney
writes as P. F. Chisholm. And the top of my list would have to be crowned with
Dana Stabenow, whose Kate Shugak mysteries offer such a haunting portrayal, in
dark and bright, of Alaskan life and the human soul.
Reading Group Questions and Topics for Discussion
1. What do you predict will be Justin's next adventure? What would you like to
see happen to him and the other characters?
2. Which characters did you find to be the most compelling and whv? Did you
find that you have a preference for either the fictional or real-life
characters?
3. What characters would you like to hear from again?
4. Did you solve this mystery or did the ending surprise you?
5. What do you think are the necessary ingredients in crafting a good mystery?
6. If you were to create your own mystery series, what kind of characters
would you build it around? Where would it be set?
7- Did the line between the fictional and historically accurate components of
this novel seem clear to you? What do you think are the merits as well as the
potential problems of the genre of historical fiction?
8. What aspects of medieval English history did this novel inspire you to
learn more about? What did you learn that most surprised or interested you
about life in these times?
9. This story raises important questions about human nature and the nature of
human society. How has the world changed since the Middle Ages? What do you
think has changed (or not), for better and for worse?
10. Discuss the barriers of class, ethnicity, and so forth that thwart many of
the relationships in this novel. Do these hierarchies still exist? How did
they operate in the Middle Ages and how do they operate today?
11. Discuss the many complicated familial relationships in this novel. Why is
the parent-child relationship fraught with so many problems? Do you think
human beings have made any progress over the intervening centuries in working
out this bond?
Cruel as the Grave
12. Eleanor of Aquitaine is a remarkable female figure in history who juggled
a whole host of roles as queen, general, prisoner, mother, wif,e and so forth.
What challenges did she face in trying to balance her duties as a queen with
her duties as a mother? In which role(s) would you judge her most successful?
13. Did you find the nature of Justin's parentage to be shocking? Do you think
the identity of his father might be more shocking and scandalous today than it
was in medieval England?
14- How do you understand Geoffrey's and his father Humphrey Aston's decisions
to remain silent? What are their motives?
15. According to his aunt Agnes, "Daniel has never seemed to blame Geoffrey
for being the chosen one." Do you think this is an accurate assessment? Why or
why not?
16. What do you think will happen with Claudine and Justin? Discuss the irony
of the situation that Justin now finds himself in.
17. Do you find the bond between Eleanor of Aquitaine and Justin de Quincy to
be convincing? Why might this queen choose to bond with such a young man?
18. Discuss the impact of a sexual double standard on the characters in this
novel. Who benefits and who is punished for their sexual adventures and why?
19. Given the role that unplanned pregnancies play in this novel, what impact
do you think the twentieth-century development of safe and effective birth
control has had on society?
20. Discuss why Justin came to care so deeply about bringing Melangell's
murderer to justice. Why were others, such as Tobias, not so invested in
finding the killer? Was justice served in this case? Do you think English and
other Western justice systems work more effectively today?
21. Why did your group choose to read this particular work? How does this
novel compare with other works your group has read? What are you planning to
read next?
igs^prf!-
I
I
Excerpts from reviews of Sharon Kay Penman's Cruel as the Qrave
"A must-read, must-have mystery."
Booklist
"The second de Quincy Medieval mystery, Cruel as the Grave, is a fantastic
historical who-done-it. . . only a skilled author could manage to take readers
on an amazing trip back to the twelfth century as happens with this book."
"The historical detail is luscious."
Feminist Mystery Reviews
Library Journal
"Penman has a good feel for the period . . . [and] delivers atmosphere,
plotting and nicely modulated characters."
Publishers Weekly
"Attractive to the ladies. Loyal to his queen. Brave in a fight. And committed
to fighting injustice. He could be James Bond. Or he could be the very likable
Justin de Quincy. . . . Penman's lively, articulate prose brings to life
history as it could have happenedhigh praise for a historical mystery."
Houston Chronicle
"Penman has done it again. . . . The medieval backdrop is fascinating, and
lends itself perfectly to a novel of mystery and suspense."
suspensebooks.miningco.com
"Penman transports the reader into the sights, sounds, and smells of the
1100s. The queen's man is a perceptive young man who puts justice before all
else."
The Glynco Observer
A Reader's Guide
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
The story behind SHARON KAY PENMAN'S first novel has become almost the stuff
of legend. Working on it in precious moments carved out of her life as a
student and then as a lawyer, she had completed five hundred pages; then the
only copy was stolen from her car. Fortunately for her legions of fans, she
began again. That novel, The Sunne in Spkndourretelling the story of Richard
IIIwas welcomed by readers on both sides of the Atlantic, and Ms. Penman has
never looked back.
Penman has lived in England and Wales and currently resides in New Jersey.
Cruel as the Grave is her seventh novel and the second mystery in the Justin
de Quincy series. Her previous works include The Queen's Man, the first Justin
de Quincy adventure and a finalist for an Edgar Award for Best First Mystery
from the Mystery Writers of America, as well as The Sunne in Splendour, Here
Be Dragons, Falls the Shadow, The Reckoning, and When Christ and His Saints
Slept.
/*