Cruel As the Grave

6

LONDON

April 1193

Reluctantly taking his eyes from the laughing Claudine, Luke glanced toward Justin, who had yet to 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."

"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 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, 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 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. "Why?" she asked, and he realized he had no idea what she was thinking, proof — if he needed it — that 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 triumphant. "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 incredulous — and suddenly so vulnerable — that 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," she 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 bruised — or 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 elegant — as 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.

"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-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 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 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 themurdered 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 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. 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.

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."