Cruel As the Grave

9

LONDON

April 1193

Robbed of their prey, the mob crowded into the nave of the cathedral, jostling and muttering and cursing. 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."

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 was — the disappointment of a thwarted hunter — he 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 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 smithy — he wasn't up to facing Nell's interrogation — he 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 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 amp; 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 murmured a noncommittal "Indeed," hoping his lack of response would provoke Nicholas into revealing more.

It worked. Nicholas blinked in disappointment. "That might not be soul-stirring news to you, de Quincy, but I assure you the queen was overjoyed to get her first message from her son!"

Justin forgot about salvaging his pride. "He brought word from King Richard? How?"

Nicholas smiled complacently. "You do know that Bishop Hubert was on crusade with the king? He was 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, 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 than 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 betraying. 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 he'd done what Daniel could not — rejoined 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 hot-tempered and impulsive, for certes. He might well have killed in anger, striking out unthinkingly. Could he have killed in cold-blooded calculation? Could he have picked up that rock and 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 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 entertaining — for 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 129

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 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 itself, for he adamantly refused to discuss Daniel with his neighbors 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 paramount, a girl who was lowborn and dirt-poor and part Welsh and judged — fairly or not — to 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 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 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 two secret messages, one to my son and one to Durand."

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. 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 sould be needed. But Eleanor had not asked for his opinion. He 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.