The Queen Man

13

LONDON

February 1193

Sleep did not come easily to Justin that night. His bedsheets were still scented with Claudine's perfume. But the cottage's other spirit was not as welcome, for Clem's meagre ghost had followed him from Moorfields, and watched reproachfully from the shadows. When he finally slept, though, he did not dream of Clem or even Claudine. He was back in the Durngate Mill, feeling Kenrick's blood splatter upon his skin, and then the mill became Gunter's smithy and he was fighting again for his life, struggling to stave off the Fleming's thrusting blade. He awoke well before dawn to a cold hearth, ice skimmed over the water in his washing laver, and sweat on his brow.

The snow had continued during the night and was still spiraling down slowly from low-hanging grey clouds, large, fat flakes that seemed almost benign, an innocuous cousin of the snow that clogged roads and collapsed roofs and made winter travel so treacherous. Justin dropped Shadow off at the alehouse to play with Lucy, saddled Copper, and rode over to St Clement's Church on Candle-wright Street where he heard Mass and prayed for the souls of all the Fleming's victims. It occurred to him that his was probably the only prayer to be offered up for Pepper Clem, and that seemed the saddest possible epitaph for a man's misspent life.

Afterward, he arranged with the priest to give Clem a Christian burial and then left word for Jonas that he would pay for the little thief's funeral. He was still in a somber, reflective mood when he finally returned to Gracechurch Street, and he decided to leave Shadow with Lucy for a while longer. Gunter had gone off on an errand and the smithy was being watched by young Ellis, the neighbor lad who helped Nell out. Giving the boy a coin to unsaddle and feed Copper, Justin crossed to the back door and went out into the pasture behind the smithy.

Gunter's cottage did not seem like a city dwelling, for it was set apart on its own, surrounded by the fenced-in field and sheltered by several bare-branched apple trees. The garden once tended by Gunter's dead wife had long since shriveled under the neglect born of a long illness, but the holly she'd planted still thrived, bright splashes of green against the softly drifted snow. It was the snow, not the holly, that caught Justin's eye now. His tracks were still visible, not yet filled in. Beside them was a new set of footprints, leading straight to the cottage door.

Justin came to an abrupt halt. Gunter's cottage did not have a lock and key, for he'd never seen the need for such expensive protection. Instead, he'd fitted his door with a simple latch, a small bar which pivoted at one end and could be lifted from the outside by a latchstring. When Justin had left that morning, he'd taken the precaution of snagging the latchstring around a nail he'd driven into the wood. Now it dangled free, further proof that someone had lifted the bar and entered the cottage.

Justin was motionless for a long moment, considering. There was but one set of footprints. And the shutters were still in place, so whoever was within could not see his approach. He slid his sword from its scabbard. In one swift motion, he jerked up the latchstring and hit the door with his shoulder, shoving inward.

He came in fast and low, sword drawn. An oil lamp had been lit, its flame shivering in the sudden draft. A man was kneeling by the hearth, striking flint to tinder. He recoiled with a startled oath as the door banged open. "Jesu! Most men are content to open a door and just walk in. Leave it to you, de Quincy, to blow in like an ill wind and bounce off the walls!"

Justin was now the one to swear. "Hellfire and damnation! What are you doing here, Luke?"

"I happened to be passing by. What do you think?"

"I think that you nearly got yourself run through, and who'd have blamed me?"

They glared at each other, but their glowering gave way then to sheepish grins. Shutting the door, Justin dropped the bar back into place and carefully drew in the latchstring. "I'll confess that I'm glad to see you, Luke. At least now the Fleming will have a choice of targets."

"It sounds like you got somewhat confused, de Quincy. You were supposed to be the hunter and Gilbert the hunted, remember?"

"Good of you to point that out to me." Moving to the hearth, Justin helped Luke to get the fire going. "How did you find out where I was? The entire street is in a conspiracy to keep my whereabouts secret — and there are none more stubborn or suspicious than Londoners!"

"You need not tell me that, for I've already met the hellcat over at the alehouse. I might as well have been speaking Welsh, for all the good it did me. 'Justin who? Never heard of the man.' And the chill got even worse when I admitted to being an under-sheriff. They do not fancy the law much hereabouts, do they?"

Justin laughed. "I'd love to have seen that, you and Nell locking horns. So how did you win her over?"

"By sheer perseverance. I would not go away, kept insisting that we were allies. I even stretched the truth enough to claim we were friends. Finally it occurred to me to show her your letter, proof that I could be trusted. But then I had to wait whilst she sent for the priest, since he is the only man on the street who can read, and she was not about to take my word for the letter's contents. If they protect you half as well from Gilbert the Fleming as they did from me, you've nothing to worry about!"

Justin was looking around the cottage in vain for food or drink to offer Luke; they'd have to go over to the alehouse and coax Nell into cooking a meal. But that would have to wait, for he'd been doing some rapid mental math. "Today is the fourteenth, only ten days since I sent that letter. You must have ridden for London as soon as you got it. Why?"

Luke's smile was triumphant, and a trifle smug. "Whilst you were playing cat-and-mouse with the Fleming, I was having better luck. Remember Gilbert's unknown partner? Well, he is unknown no longer. We're looking for a lout named Sampson, one of Winchester's least-loved sons. I daresay the entire town heaved a great sigh of relief when he fled with Gilbert. Unfortunately, we never lack for felons, but at least Sampson is London's worry now — and ours."

"Good work, Luke. But are you sure this is the man? I doubt that I could identify him."

"From what you told me about him, he is young and strong and stupid, no? Well, Sampson has an ox's strength and an ox's brains, powerful enough to hold onto a terrified stallion and dumb enough to call out Gilbert's name. Moreover, he is known to have worked with Gilbert in the past, and he disappeared from Winchester at the same time as Gilbert did. I have no doubts that he is our man. Do you think he could also have been in on your London ambush? The hellcat told me — very grudgingly — about that attack on you in the smithy last week. I assume one was our friend the Fleming. Was Sampson the other?"

"No, I think not. The man in the smithy was nowhere near as tall and strapping as this Sampson. Also, he had a London accent, and you say Sampson is a Winchester lad. But you are right about Gilbert. He did indeed come calling, knife in hand."

"That is the third time you've encountered the Fleming in one of his killing moods and lived to tell about it. Your guardian angel must be putting in very long hours these days." Scorning the sole rickety chair, Luke seated himself cross-legged on the foot of the bed. "Do you think that means Gilbert and Sampson have parted company?"

"Well… you say Sampson is none too clever. But we know Gilbert is, for certes. He might well have decided Sampson was too risky a partner and cut him loose. Gilbert knows London, would have no need for Sampson here. He swims in these waters with ease, one more shark amongst the rest. I'd wager they went their separate ways once they reached the city."

"That makes sense," Luke agreed. "Of course Sampson could be dead, then. People around Gilbert do seem to die at an alarming rate."

"Possibly. But you say Sampson is big and mean spirited and knows Gilbert's ready way with a knife. He'd not be that easy to kill. It might have been simpler for Gilbert just to let him go off on his own."

Luke nodded thoughtfully. "What sort of help are you getting from the sheriff?"

"He agreed to let one of his serjeants assist me, a man named Jonas. Are you familiar with him?"

"I'm not sure. I met several of the sheriff's men on past visits to London. He might be one of them, I suppose."

"Believe me, Jonas is not a man to be forgotten. If you'd met, you'd remember. In his own way, he is as formidable as the Fleming. So you and he will probably take to each other like long-lost brothers," Justin added wryly. But almost at once, his smile faded. "Luke, there is another death to be charged to Gilbert's account. A wretched little thief and cutpurse named Pepper Clem. No one grieves that he is gone. But his murder ought not to be forgotten. Even the least of us deserves justice."

After experiencing Jonas's indifference, Justin half expected Luke either to shrug or scoff. But the deputy merely nodded again. "I seem to remember Scriptures saying something about birds: that not even a sparrow falls to earth without the Almighty's knowing. If that holds true for sparrows, it must hold true, too, for 'a wretched little thief and cutpurse.'"

Justin studied the other man for signs of mockery, did not find them. "You could have sent me a letter about Sampson. You did not need to come on your own. Why did you, Luke?"

"I could say I fancied a trip to London. Or that I knew you'll get yourself into trouble on your own. Or that I've always been one for being there at the end of a hunt. Why do my reasons matter?"

"They do not," Justin said, but it was a lie. Luke's reasons mattered very much, indeed, to him. There could be a less innocent explanation for the deputy's sudden appearance here. John had passed through Winchester on his way to the port of Southampton. Had he sent Luke back to London to be his eyes? As little as Justin wanted to believe that, he could not dismiss the suspicion out of hand. He dared not. He'd made some mistakes so far, but the greatest mistake of all would be to underrate John.

~~

Smithfield was a large open area just northwest of the city walls, a popular gathering place for Londoners. Weekly horse fairs were held there, and, weather permitting, rowdy games of camp-ball, archery, wrestling matches, and mock jousts. Luke had visited the horse fair during a previous stay in London, and it was his idea that they go out to Smithfield, question the dealers to see if one of them had been offered a pale roan stallion of high calibre in the past month. Justin was skeptical, but Luke insisted. It was a longshot, he admitted, for even if they could find a buyer who remembered Gervase Fitz Randolph's stolen palfrey, the chances were slim that it would lead them to Gilbert the Fleming. But they had to follow up every lead, he argued, and if they did not go this afternoon, they'd have to wait a full week for the next horse fair. Since Justin could not refute the logic of that, Luke prevailed.

Upon their arrival at Smithfield, however, they discovered that Luke's memory was flawed; the horse fairs were held on Fridays, not Mondays. The fields were empty except for a few reckless youths who'd shown up to joust despite the weather and a handful of hardy spectators, for it was not a day to be outdoors by choice. The temperature had risen during the night, turning Sunday's snowfall into a muddy slush, and the wind was unrelenting, with an edge, Luke grumbled, that not even the Fleming's blade could equal.

Luke was taking the setback with poor grace. "This was madness, de Quincy. Even if the horse fair had been held today, that blasted stallion was likely sold off weeks ago."

Justin grabbed the other man's arm, stopped him in time from stepping into a pile of freshly deposited manure. "Need I remind you that this was your idea, Luke?"

"So? Why did you not talk me out of it? Devil take the horse and the weather and Gilbert, too. If we do not get inside soon, I'm in danger of freezing body parts I can ill afford to lose!"

Turning on his heel then, Luke started back to retrieve their horses. "I cannot believe I dragged us out here on such a fool's errand. But I was bone-weary of going from one tavern to the next all morning, hoping against hope that Sampson would be drinking himself sodden within. If we have to depend upon happenchance to find the man, we may be wandering about London's seedier neighborhoods for years. Yet what other choice do we have? It's not as if that friend of yours was much help!"

"I'd not call Jonas a friend. But he did have a point. He does not know Sampson from Adam, would not recognize him if he fell over the man. You're the one who knows him on sight, not us. And Jonas might have been more cooperative had you not been so high handed with him." Justin was cold and irritable, too, and the look he gave the deputy was not friendly. "You cannot always demand, Luke. Sometimes it is wiser to ask."

"What is that, the gospel according to Justin de Quincy?" But after a few moments of mutually annoyed silence, Luke thawed first. "Bear with me; I am out of sorts today. I've come so close to catching Gilbert in the past. Yet each time he has somehow managed to elude me. I am not willing to let that happen again, by Corpus, I am not."

"We'll find him," Justin said, hoping he sounded more certain than he felt, for he'd begun to wonder if the Fleming's ungodly luck would ever run out.

"We'd better… and soon, give I start to ask myself what I'm doing here, sleeping on your floor instead of snug in Aldith's bed. And speaking of beds, think you that we can borrow some extra blankets from the hellcat? That pallet was harder than a landlord's heart."

They soon reached the hitching post where they'd tethered Copper and Luke's temperamental sorrel. "I cannot believe I got the day wrong," Luke said glumly. "Now we'll have to come back at week's end. They hold races there, too, on Fridays, and that might lure Sampson out, for he has a fondness for gambling. I hear tell he is not very good at it, but he is always keen for making a wager."

That sounded like a promising lead to Justin. "We need not wait for the Friday races then. If we can find out from Jonas where the high-stakes dicing games are played, we could keep watch for Sampson."

Luke at once swung up into the saddle. "I ought to have thought of this sooner. Most men have a weakness of some sort, be it for drink or whores or high living."

Justin mounted, too. "A pity the Fleming only lusts after dead bodies and not whores. I'd much rather track him through bawdyhouses than cemeteries."

"Christ on the Cross!" Luke reined in his stallion so hastily that the horse reared up. "How could I have forgotten about the woman?"

Justin's hopes kindled. "Which woman?"

By the time Luke had gotten his horse under control again, he had reined in his excitement, as well. "I do not want to make more of this than I ought," he said cautiously. "It is only a comment Kenrick made last summer, when we were hunting the Fleming for the murders of that merchant and his wife. He told me he was sure Gilbert had gone back to London, back to his 'Irish whore.' He said his cousin had been boasting about how hot she was in bed. When I wrote to the London sheriffs about Gilbert, I passed on what Kenrick had said, but he could not remember the woman's name, so they must not have thought it worth pursuing."

"Why do you think Kenrick called her that? Because he had contempt for any woman who'd take up with the likes of Gilbert? Or could she really be a whore?"

Luke did not answer immediately, considering. "I know of at least one whore he was bedding back in Winchester. Rumor had it that she'd send him word when she got a customer worth robbing."

"Well, that gives us a place to start — the Southwark stews. Let's go find Jonas again."

"A hunt for an unnamed whore who may or may not know the Fleming?" Luke was grinning. "Who could resist a mad quest like that?"

~~

Jonas was not very enthusiastic about their conjecture. Justin doubted, though, if the serjeant was ever enthusiastic about much of anything. But he did agree to try to find out if there was a whore in the Southwark stews who happened to be Irish. Justin and Luke spent the rest of the day checking out alehouses and taverns that were known to be frequented by gamblers, to no avail. There was no sign of Sampson.

It was evening when they got back. As soon as they entered the alehouse, Justin was hailed from several corners of the common room, and he paused to exchange greetings with Odo the barber, young Ellis, and Roland the Wainwright, who'd been the first to join in Gunter's hue and cry against the Fleming. By then, Luke had already claimed a table for them and ordered a flagon of ale. "You seem to be settling right in."

"I suppose I am," Justin agreed, realizing in surprise how comfortable he did feel here on Gracechurch Street. "They are right curious about you, of course, wanting to know if it is true that you are a sheriff of some sort. I said you were, but not to hold it against you."

Luke shoved the flagon across the table. "Help yourself, for you're paying for it. I told the hellcat to put it on your account."

Justin poured himself a drink. "When we talked earlier about the Fitz Randolphs, you said they were faring poorly, stalked by rumors and gossip. You would not have spread those rumors, by any chance?"

"Sometimes it helps to sow some suspicion about. But in this case, the rumors were already springing up. Their neighbors are looking askance at the family, and there is a lot of talk in the alehouses, much of it unkind. Have you ever noticed how eager people are to believe the worst? But because of all the gossip and speculation, the abbot of Hyde Abbey has told Thomas Fitz Randolph that it would be for the best if he did not seek admission to their order just yet. I believe he used such soothing phrases as 'in God's good time' and 'once the dust has begun to settle.' But we both know — and so does Thomas — that he really meant, 'Come back once we're sure you're not a murderer.'"

"I daresay Thomas took that with his usual grace and goodwill."

Luke grimaced. "He accosted me at high noon in the Cheapside, accusing me of ruining his life and putting his immortal soul at peril. I lost my temper, too, and threatened to shove him into a horse trough if he did not go home. If he ever does end up as a Benedictine brother, God help his brethren!"

"What of the others? No wedding plans announced yet for Jonet and Miles?"

"I think they are still seeking to win the mother over. They'd have to wait anyway, for the same reason that Aldith and I do, since no marriages can be performed during Lent. But when I stopped by the Fitz Randolph house ere I left for London, Miles was there, breaking bread with the rest of the family, so I expect that he and Jonet will have their way in the end. Assuming, of course, that they are not implicated in her father's murder. I doubt that they are guilty, though. I'd put my money on our lovable little monk if I had to choose between them."

"At least we were able to eliminate Guy as a suspect. But it sounds as if the goldsmithy will be in for some rough times. Gervase was the wind behind those sails. And if we cannot solve the murder, it might well go under." Until now, Justin had thought only of providing answers for Eleanor. But Ella needed them, too, mayhap even more than the queen did. Suspicions could blot out the sun for all the Fitz Randolphs, the guilty and

innocent alike.

"I do not truly think it was Thomas, either," Luke said suddenly. "I suspect the man was slain for reasons I can only guess at. His groom told me that he was on an urgent mission to London, and that might well explain the inexplicable interest of the Queen of England in this killing. How much do you know, de Quincy? More than I do, for certes. Do you not think it is about time you shared some of that knowledge with me?"

Justin stiffened. "What do you mean?"

Luke set his cup down with a thud. "You're the queen's man, I've not forgotten. But we are on the same side in this fight. I think I've earned the right to ask some questions."

Justin thought so, too. But was Luke asking for himself? Or for John? "What do you want to know?"

"Was the goldsmith carrying a letter for the queen?"

Justin had not expected such a bold challenge. "Why would you think that?"

Luke scowled. "The goldsmith had just delivered a chalice to the Archbishop of Rouen, who also happens to be the king's justiciar and a known ally of the queen. He arrived home on Epiphany Eve, and then set out the very next morning for London, in a snowstorm. It does not take a mastermind to wonder if there is a connection between those two facts, de Quincy."

It sounded plausible. Luke was certainly clever enough to draw such conclusions on his own. But were they his own conclusions? "I have no answers for you, Luke. I am sorry."

Luke's eyes darkened. "So am I," he said tersely.

Justin swallowed the last of his ale, silently damning the queen's son to the deepest recesses of Hell Everlasting. At that moment, there was a stir at the door. Gunter found himself greeted heartily by virtually every man in the alehouse, for his courageous rescue had turned him into a neighborhood hero, at least for a fortnight or so. Looking both bemused and shyly pleased by all the attention, he mumbled greetings in turn, and then headed across the room when Justin beckoned.

"Join us, Gunter. You've met Luke de Marston, have you not?" Both men nodded and Luke signaled for more ale.

"This flagon's on me," he insisted. "Any man who'd take on Gilbert the Fleming with a pitchfork is someone I'd be proud to drink with."

Gunter shrugged self-consciously. "I'm glad the lad here had such a hard head," he said, glancing sideways at Justin. "Where is the pup tonight?"

"Shadow? Under the table," Justin said, and felt the dog's tail thump against his leg. "I'm sure you've heard that Luke is Hampshire's under-sheriff. He is here to help me track down Gilbert the Fleming. I wish I could tell you more," he said, and although the words were addressed to Gunter, he looked straight at Luke. "But I cannot — "

He got no further, for the alehouse had suddenly gone quiet. Puzzled, Justin shifted in his seat, seeking the cause. He saw at once the reason for the odd hush; Jonas stood framed in the doorway. When he started toward them, a path rapidly cleared for him, men stumbling to get out of his way. Justin and Luke exchanged startled, speculative glances, for they'd not expected to see the serjeant again today.

Jonas halted in front of their table. "There is an Irish whore working at the Bull over in Southwark."

Luke and Justin were impressed that he'd been so successful so soon. But when they began to offer up praise, Jonas cut them off. "It gets better. One of my informants claims he has seen her in the past with our man. It looks," he said, with the glint of a grim smile, "as if we've found the Fleming's woman."