Cruel As the Grave

12

WINDSOR CASTLE

May 1193

Durand sauntered into John's chamber with a deliberate swagger. His gaze flashed from John to Justin, back 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 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 suppose I should consider myself lucky that you did not forge a confession for me, too."

Their argument was all the more intense for having to be conducted in hushed undertones meant to deter eavesdroppers. 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.

"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 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, seeking — with limited success — to 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 complain 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?"

"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 watered down 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 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, 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 serjeant 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

killer sure to hang or abjure the realm. Jonas looked fatigued and sounded harassed, having been routed from his bed before dawn 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!"

"No," Justin said, "not crazed at all."

"But Daniel's danger is all too real. I live with it day and night. What will happen to him? Tell me the truth, Justin."

"In a fortnight, he must come forth from sanctuary or be starved out. If he is indicted, as seems likely, he must then stand trial for Melangell's murder, and if found guilty, he will hang. Or… he may choose to confess and abjure the realm. If so, he will have to make his way, barefoot and in sackcloth, to a chosen port, where he must set sail on the next ship, swearing never to return to England."

"Oh, God…" Geoffrey whispered. His eyes were glassy, unseeing. Turning abruptly, he fled back into the shop. Justin waited to see if he would reemerge and then walked away slowly, feeling a great sadness for all those who were caught in the spider's web spun by Melangell's death. Daniel, Geoffrey, Agnes, Cati, her luckless father, even the pitiful, browbeaten Beatrice. No matter what happened to Daniel, their lives would never be the same again.

~~

Justin spent the rest of the day in the neighborhood where Melangell had died, talking to people he'd already interrogated, prodding sluggish memories in vain. He even lingered in the churchyard for a time, mourning both the reckless, lively spirit of a girl he'd never met and his inability to catch her killer. The afternoon had become blustery and damp, with a chill more common to March than May, and he hastened to take shelter under a towering yew tree as a sudden, soaking rainstorm broke 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 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."

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 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 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…?"

"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 miscarriage? 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 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 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…"

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… Jesu!"

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?"

"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.