The Queen Man

17

GAOL OF LONDON

March 1193

The lantern's light was unsparing, exposing a face that would have been unrecognizable even to those who knew the Fleming well. One eye had puffed shut and his jaw was grotesquely swollen, blackened with bruises. Those were injuries he'd suffered in the struggle out at Smithfield. But the blood gushing from his nose was fresh, for Jonas had just hit him. It took him a moment to get his breath back, and when he did, he spat out another obscenity. Jonas stepped forward again, but this time Luke pulled him away.

"Let the whoreson bleed," he said, "whilst we talk." Keeping hold of Jonas's arm, he steered him across the dungeon. Retrieving the lantern, Justin followed.

Jonas was not pleased. "Why did you stop me," he demanded.

"If you want to hit him for the fun of it, that is fine by me. But if you are still trying to get him to talk, it's a waste of time." Luke glanced down at his own skinned, scraped knuckles and grimaced. "It is painfully obvious by now that we'll get nothing from him."

"Give me an hour alone with him and we'll see about that."

It was the first time that Justin had heard Jonas resort to bravado, but as their interrogation had foundered, cracks had begun to show in the serjeant's usually dispassionate demeanor. His anger was understandable; Justin felt equally frustrated. It was as if they'd been engaged in a prolonged and bloody castle siege, scaling the outer walls and finally fighting their way into the inner bailey, only to discover that the keep was impregnable, impervious to assault.

"I do not doubt your powers of persuasion, Jonas," Luke said, smiling grimly. "I can be rather persuasive, too, so I've been told. But there are men — thankfully few of them — who cannot be broken. They'll die, but that's all they'll do for you. Do not tell me you've never encountered one of them, for I'd not believe you. We might as well face it. We can beat the Fleming bloody. We can turn his remaining days into the Hell on earth he so richly deserves. And eventually we can hang him. But what we cannot do is make him talk."

Justin had already reached that same bleak conclusion. Glancing over at Jonas, he saw that the serjeant knew it, too, even if he was not yet ready to admit it. "Ere we concede defeat," he said, "let's try one more time."

Shackled to iron rings in the wall, Gilbert was sagging so badly that the manacles were cutting into his wrists. He was still bleeding from Jonas's last blow, and his breath was coming in labored, wheezing pants. When Justin let the lantern's light play over that battered, bloated face, he could not summon up even a pinprick of pity. What pity had Gilbert shown Kenrick, cornered in the mill loft?

"You're making it needlessly hard on yourself, Gilbert. You know you're going to hang. So why ask for more pain in the brief time you've got left? Why not tell us what we want to know? Give us some answers and we'll go away and let you be."

The Fleming raised his head. When he spoke, his voice emerged as a croak, raspy and harsh, throbbing with hatred. "Rot in Hell…"

~~

Justin had dreaded telling Eleanor, but she took it better than he'd expected. Apparently she, too, had known a few men in her life who could not be broken, for she did not seem surprised by the Fleming's refusal to cooperate. And when Justin had completed his report, she said something that would later strike him as odd, reminding him of his earlier suspicions about her motives.

"Well," she said softly, "mayhap it was not meant that the truth come out…"

"Madame?"

"No matter. I was but thinking aloud, wondering if this means the Fleming's secret will die with him. Was he our last hope? What of his woman?"

"So far Nora has eluded us, my lady. When the serjeant's men arrived to arrest her, she was gone and some of her belongings were, too. They've been out scouring the city for her, with no luck so far. But even if she is caught, I doubt that she'd be of much help. I cannot see why the Fleming would tell her about a killing in Winchester. He's not the sort to be boasting in bed about his crimes, to give away any secrets that might be used against him later."

"What of the man's partner?"

"He is not likely to be as hard a nut to crack, madame." Justin was striving to sound confident, but he could not help adding a pessimistic qualifier, "… if we can find him."

Eleanor gave him a penetrating look. "You ought not to be so downcast, Justin. At least this Fleming will be doing no more killings. You said he is known to have slain five people, did you not? The true tally of his victims is probably twice that many. You may not have been able to get the answers we were seeking, but you undoubtedly saved some lives."

Justin nodded somberly. "But I wanted the answers, too."

Their eyes caught and held. "So did I," she said. "So keep on the trail. The hunt is not over yet."

~~

Justin's chagrin was not eased by Eleanor's praise; her generosity only made him feel even more disheartened. He'd let her down. No matter how he rationalized their failure to get the Fleming to talk, it always came back to that. She'd relied upon him and he'd disappointed her. And unless they could find the missing Sampson, no one but Gilbert would ever know if he'd been in the pay of the French king.

~~

Claudine was waiting when he emerged from the queen's great chamber. "You look wretched!"

He smiled wryly. "I know. But I spent most of the night over at the gaol, going home only to wash up."

She touched her fingers to the bruise spreading across his cheekbone. "Did the killer do this? Did you catch him?" When he nodded, she slipped her arm in his, drawing him toward the comparative privacy of a window alcove. "Then why are you not happier about it?"

"It is a long and troubling story," he said evasively. "No need to burden you with it."

Claudine shook her head reproachfully. "Now why am I thinking of clams?" Her fingers again sought his bruised cheek. "Do you know what I think you need? Me. Is there a chance you can get rid of that inconvenient friend?"

"I suppose he could always bed down in the smithy with Gunter. But what about the queen?"

"I'll get her to agree," Claudine said and then grinned. "Surely you've noticed that I am very good at getting what I want?"

Justin grinned, too, his spirits beginning to soar. "I can right gladly attest to that," he said, "and I'd like nothing better than to do more attesting, the sooner the better."

Claudine winked. "Wait here, then, whilst I talk to the queen. I'll be right back."

Justin sat down in the window seat to await Claudine's return. But no sooner had she disappeared into the queen's chamber than the door to the great hall was flung open and Durand strode in. Justin stiffened. This was the first time he'd seen Durand at court since confiding his suspicions to Eleanor. He had no idea how she had chosen to discipline her false knight, for she'd said nothing further. But it was obvious that Durand had lost the queen's favor. Nothing else could explain the look of fury that crossed his face now.

Justin got slowly to his feet as the other man stalked toward him. These past weeks had taught him that all wars were not fought on the battlefield, and one of the lessons he'd learned was to strike first and fast. "I'm surprised to see you, Sir Durand. I assumed that you had sailed for France with Lord John."

Durand's eyes were a brittle Viking blue, fathomless and frigid. "You'd do well to consider a sojourn in France yourself, de Quincy. If I were you, I'd ride for the nearest port as if my very life depended upon it."

"That sounds almost like a threat. But I am sure you meant it as a friendly warning, did you not?"

"Of course. You've given me such good reason to feel friendly toward you, after all," Durand said, with a menacing smile. "If not for you, the queen would have continued to see me as just another of her knights, one amongst many. That is all changed now, though — because of you."

"The pleasure was all mine," Justin said, and Durand's sarcastic civility splintered into shards of sheer ice.

"Some pleasures can be hazardous to a man's health," he said, "and some can even be fatal." He got the last word, for he turned on his heel then, not waiting for Justin's retort.

"Justin?" Claudine's eyes were wide, her brows arching upward toward her hairline. "What was that all about? I did not realize that you even knew Durand. What happened to cause such bad blood between you?"

"I accused him of being John's lackey — more or less — and he liked it not."

"You do enjoy courting danger, for certes! Luckily for you," she added, "I find madness to be well nigh irresistible n a man."

Justin smiled, but kept his eyes upon Durand's retreating figure. "You warned me about John, and with cause. But why should I accord the Prince of Darkness and one of his minions the same respect?"

"You're wrong," she said, with such vehemence that he looked at her in surprise. "John is indeed dangerous. Yet there are still occasional flashes of brightness in the dark depths of his soul." Her lips curved slightly then, hinting at a smile, for she could never be serious for long. "Lucifer was a fallen angel, after all. But you'll look in vain for any sparks in Durand's darkness, Justin. He is not a man you want as an enemy."

"Want him or not, I have him." Justin was touched by her concern, but he did not take Durand's threats as seriously as she did. How could the knight be a more dangerous foe than the Fleming?

~~

Shaking her hair over her shoulders, Claudine stretched so sensuously that Justin paused in the act of pouring wine. "You have more in common with cats than an overactive curiosity," he said admiringly. "You move like a cat, too."

"I hope you mean that as a compliment. Most people think cats are good only for catching mice and serving witches. But I fancy them myself, so I thank you." When he handed her a wine cup, she settled back comfortably in his arms. "I've been known to purr, too…"

"And to scratch."

She smiled into the wine cup. "I hope you're not complaining?"

"No… I think I was boasting," he said, and she laughed, then offered him the cup. "Drink up, darling," she urged. "You're going to be needing your strength tonight."

He began to laugh, too. "You are a shameless wench. I like that."

Reclaiming the cup, she deliberately dribbled wine onto his chest, and in the tussle that followed, the rest of the wine was spilt. After squabbling playfully over who ought to fetch the flagon, Justin dived, shivering, from the bed, for the hearth was not giving off much heat. "It is lucky the cup went into the floor rushes, ' he said with mock severity, "for I have but one set of sheets."

Claudine pretended to pout. "If you had not started squirming about like an eel, I'd have licked it off!" Lifting the covers, she patted the bed invitingly. "Hurry, I'm getting cold. I want you to warm — Jesu!"

"What?" He glanced around the cottage, puzzled, seeing no reason for her outcry.

She was staring at the huge mottled bruise on his left hip. "Surely I did not do that? Was it the man you captured yesterday? The killer?"

He nodded and climbed hastily back into bed, handing her the refilled cup. Sipping the wine, she explored his bruises with gentle fingers, a faint frown creasing her brow. "Forget what I said about your courting danger. You've taken her right into your bed!"

"So danger is a woman, then? I've always thought so, too."

She continued to survey his contusions, unsmiling. "I am not joking. You could have been killed, Justin. And it is not over, is it?"

"No," he admitted, "it is not." The afterglow of their lovemaking had begun to fade and reality was once more intruding. How were they going to find Sampson? And even if they did, could he be made to talk?

"That wretched letter had blood on it," Claudine said suddenly, and scowled at his look of surprise. "Of course I've figured out that the letter is at the heart of this, Justin! It is so obvious. You did not know the queen yet, for I had to help get you in to see her, remember? So whatever was in that letter had to be important, indeed, since she then took you into her service. You are not going to insult me now with a false denial, are you?"

"No," he said, "I am not."

"Good," she said, sounding mollified. "That was an easy guess. But I do not understand how the letter is linked to your hunt for this killer?"

Her voice had risen questioningly and he brought her hand up to his mouth, kissing her fingers. "I cannot tell you that, love."

"Why not? You could pretend this is a church and I am your confessor," she suggested impishly. "Anything you told me would not go beyond this bed, for I'd never betray the sanctity of the confessional!"

Justin was laughing again. "Listen, my beautiful blasphemer, I'd tell you if I could. But these are not my secrets, so I have not the right to reveal them, even to you."

"Yes, I am prying," she conceded. "And I'll not deny that I am curious, for who would not be? They are a most unlikely couple, after all: the Queen of England and a Winchester cutthroat! Of course I wonder about such an odd pairing. But it is more than curiosity."

Her eyes lingered for a moment on the bruise under his eye. "Justin, I am worried about you. You were ambushed once already, and the next time you might not be so lucky. I do not know what information you hoped to gain from that outlaw, but I do know you did not get it. You admitted as much when you said it was 'not over.' What are you going to do now? I need to know if your life will be at risk. Surely you can tell me that much?"

Justin's feelings for Claudine had been veering between passion and protection, between wanting to take care of her and take her to bed. His emotions were complicated now by a great surge of tenderness, a sentiment he'd had little experience with. Reaching over, he caressed her cheek, and she closed her eyes, her lips parting temptingly.

He did not kiss her, though, for in that moment the significance of her words sank in. She'd called Gilbert a "Winchester cutthroat." He'd never told her that, had never even mentioned the Fleming's name. So how had she known?

His fingers slid from her cheek, came to rest upon her throat. She smiled without opening her eyes, a dimple flashing. Fumbling for the wine cup, he drank deeply, but the cold continued to seep into his body, through marrow to the very bone. Only a handful of people had known of Gilbert's Winchester roots. Eleanor. Will Longsword. Luke and Jonas. Nell. And John. John would know, for Durand would have told him all that he'd gleaned from those spying missions to Winchester.

I'll have to look elsewhere. John's words seemed to echo in the stillness. He'd harbored suspicions about Luke. Ought he to have looked closer at hand? Could Claudine be John's spy?

Until that moment, he'd not known that the worst sort of pain need not be physical, utterly unrelated to broken bones or bleeding. Had she bedded him at John's bidding? All those questions about his past, so gently insistent, questions that a woman would naturally want to know about her lover. Jesus God. Had she been playing him for a fool from the first?

"Are you retreating into that clamlike silence again?" Claudine chided. "I do not expect you to betray the queen's confidence, no more than I would. But I can see how troubled you are. Keep back what you must, but do not shut me out entirely. Let me help, Justin."

She sounded very sincere. Those lovely dark eyes did not waver, her gaze as trusting and innocent as a fawn's. Could he be sure that he'd not let something slip about the Fleming? Was he doing her a terrible wrong? But it explained so much, too much. He had to know the truth. He had to know.

"You are right, Claudine," he said, and wondered if his voice sounded as strained to her ears as it did to his own. "Mayhap it might help to talk about it, and… and whom can I trust if not you? But I must have your word that you'll keep secret whatever I tell you. There is more at stake than I think you realize."

"I promise," she said readily. "Of course I do."

"I'll tell you, then, about the contents of that letter. It concerned the queen's son. It is very likely, Claudine, that King Richard is dead."

Her gasp was audible. "Oh, no! What happened to him?"

"He was shipwrecked on the way home from the Holy Land. The letter was from one of his shipmates. He claims there were but few survivors and the king was not amongst them."

"Dear God!" She seemed genuinely shaken. "Nothing could give the queen greater grief. Richard has always been the dearest of all her children. How could she keep pain like that bottled up within? She's acted as if nothing was wrong…"

"She is not willing to believe it, not yet. That is one reason why she is keeping it quiet. She is waiting for confirmation, whilst hoping that it will be disproved. But I read that letter and I have no doubts that the man was telling the truth."

He drained the cup, the wine tasting like vinegar. "Do you see now why I was so loath to speak of this, Claudine, and why I had to swear you to secrecy?"

"By the Rood, yes! Justin, this will… will change everything!"

"Yes… it will." He knew his story would not bear close scrutiny, but it was so sensational that no one would think to question it, at least not on first hearing. Setting the cup down in the floor rushes, he lay back wearily against the pillow. Claudine curled up beside him, continuing to express her astonishment, to sympathize with Eleanor, to speculate how Richard's death would affect the succession. Finally becoming aware of his silence, she poked him in the ribs. "You're not falling asleep, are you?"

"Sorry," he mumbled. "But I was up all night…"

"I'd forgotten about that." Leaning over, she kissed him on the cheek. "Get some sleep, then, love. Mayhap I will, too…"

Turning his head on the pillow, Justin found himself breathing in the rain-sweet scent of her hair. He was exhausted, but sleep would not come. What if he was wrong about Claudine? How could he ever expect her forgiveness? But if he was not wrong? What, then?

He was never to know how long he lay there. He was lost in time, trapped behind enemy lines in a foreign country, with no familiar landmarks in sight. "Justin?" Claudine was shaking his arm. "Love, wake up."

"What is wrong?"

"I am feeling poorly," she said, mustering up a wan smile. "Sometimes I get these severe headaches. They come upon me without warning, like a storm out of a cloudless sky…"

Justin sat up. "There is an apothecary shop across the street. I'll see if it is still open."

She shook her head, then winced. "It is sweet of you to offer. But that will not help." Rubbing her temples, she winced again, and gave him another apologetic smile. "The only remedy that does is a tisane made up for me in Aquitaine. I'm not even sure what is in it, feverfew and betony and other herbs I could not name. When one of these bad headaches hits, all I can do is take the tisane and keep to bed until the storm passes. Would you mind taking me back to the Tower?"

"No, I'd not mind."

"No wonder I am so smitten with you," she said, groping for his hand. "I am truly sorry, love, to spoil our night together."

Justin stared down at the delicate fingers entwined in his. "It is all right, Claudine," he said softly. "I understand."

~~

They parted on the steps leading up into the Tower's great keep, for Claudine insisted that he need not accompany her any farther. She did not kiss him, for it was too public a place for that. Instead she squeezed his hand, her fingers stroking his palm in a clandestine caress. "I am so sorry, Justin."

"I'll take your mare over to the stables," he said. But he did not move away at once, stood watching until she'd disappeared into the forebuilding of the keep.

"That is a fine horse." A youth had come whistling by, pausing long enough to cast a covetous glance toward Copper. He looked vaguely familiar to Justin, was most likely a squire to one of Eleanor's household knights.

"Wait," Justin said. "I'd like a word with you, lad. Do you know the Lady Claudine?"

"I do. Why."

"I just escorted her back to the Tower. She was taken ill this afternoon and I am worried about her. It will ease my mind if I know she's gone right up to the queen's chambers and to bed. It would be worth a half-penny to me if you could find out for sure?"

"A half-penny just for that? Consider it done!" By the time the words were out of his mouth, the boy was heading for the stairs. "I'll meet you at the stables," he called over his shoulder, "in two shakes of a cat's tail!"

~~

Justin had told the groom he'd unsaddle Claudine's mount himself, and set about it with meticulous care, trying to keep his thoughts only upon the task at hand. He was removing the mare's sweat pad when the squire came loping in, a blur of elbows and knees and adolescent enthusiasm.

"Well," he announced, "I did it. Can I have my money?"

When Justin tossed him a coin, he caught it deftly. "I thought I'd best get it first," he said with a cheeky grin, "for you're not going to like what I have to tell you."

He was only about fourteen or so, but already with a worldly understanding of court intrigues and the perversities of adult love affairs. "If Lady Claudine was ailing, she recovered right fast. I found her downstairs with the chaplain. She was asking if he knew the whereabouts of one of the queen's knights. It was urgent, she said, that she find him straightaway."

"Did you hear the man's name?" Justin asked tonelessly, already knowing what the youth would say.

The squire nodded. "Sir Durand de Curzon."

~~

It was dusk by the time Justin got back to Gracechurch Street. Gunter and Ellis were inside the smithy, shoeing a horse. Shadow was sprawled in an empty stall and greeted Justin with a burst of riotous barking as he led Copper into the stable.

Ellis gaped at sight of Justin. "I sure did not expect to see you here," he blurted. "Luke said you'd kicked him out so you could have a tryst with some mystery woman!"

"That is none of our concern, Ellis." Gunter was using a rasp to file down a front hoof and looked up from his work to deliver a mild rebuke. "If you're looking for Luke," he told Justin, "he's across the street at the alehouse."

"The whole neighborhood is over there, celebrating the capture of that killer." Ellis gazed reproachfully at the farrier. "Except for us."

"You know we have to finish the shoeing ere it gets full dark," Gunter said patiently. "Smiths are not allowed to work within the city walls unless they forbear from heavy hammering and pounding at night."

Ellis's shoulders sagged and he turned to tend the forge with an air of martyred resignation. He cheered up considerably, though, when Justin gave him a coin to take care of the chestnut. Bidding them a terse farewell, Justin whistled to the dog and stepped out into the soft lavender twilight.

The day had been chilly; the night promised to be downright cold. Justin's steps slowed as he neared the cottage door. He reached for the latchstring, but his fingers clenched, instead, into a tight fist. He could not cross that threshold. He could not face the ghosts that waited within, not yet, not tonight.

~~

Justin had never seen the alehouse so crowded; in claiming that the entire street had turned out, Ellis had not exaggerated by much. His entrance passed unnoticed at first, for most of the customers were watching an arm-wrestling contest between Luke and Aldred. Nell was attracting a fair amount of attention herself, perched on the edge of a table and gesturing so expansively that her ale cup was sloshing about like a storm at sea. "And so I told him, 'Abel has twenty-five shillings hoarded away, which we can split after you do the murder,'" she declared, with such tipsy verve that she drew admiring murmurs from her audience.

In the midst of all this boisterous, chaotic commotion, Jonas seemed like an island of calm, watching the festivities from a corner table with a full flagon of ale and a sardonic half-smile. Justin was not surprised that he was alone. The alehouse regulars had come to accept Luke, for his powers were vested more than seventy miles away. But Jonas was the local law and thus posed a more immediate threat. Even those with an unsullied conscience grew uneasy whenever the serjeant intruded into their world.

Weaving his way between customers, Justin picked up an empty cup from a nearby table and headed in Jonas's direction. If Ellis knew about Claudine, that meant all of Gracechurch Street did, too. But Justin was sure that Jonas cared little about gossip, no matter how lurid. Jonas proved him right by showing no surprise when he materialized at the serjeant's table.

"I need to talk to you, Jonas." Justin caught the flagon as the serjeant slid it over and poured himself a generous portion. "We cannot wait for Sampson to surface on his own. We have to flush him out of hiding ourselves, and we have to do it as soon as possible. Any ideas?"

Jonas shrugged. "The sheriff does not pay me enough to have ideas."

"Do not do that!" Justin leaned angrily across the table. "Do not act as if you do not care, for I know better. You do not want Sampson prowling the London streets any more than I do. So how are we going to find him?"

Jonas leaned back in his seat, regarding Justin with a gleam of amused approval. "Whoever put a burr under your saddle, I ought to thank. It's always useful to have such single-minded allies. We can start by putting out the word that we'll pay for information about Sampson. Next we can — "

"What are you doing here, de Quincy?" Lurching into the table, Luke dropped, laughing, into the closest seat. "Why are you not back at the cottage, stoking your fire?"

Justin gave the deputy a look of such hostility that Luke blinked and then pretended to flinch. "Oh, ho, so that's the way the wind blows, is it? Well, I've got the cure right here for what ails you. Drink up, lad. You may not be able to drown your troubles, but you can damned well get them drunk!"

"I do not remember asking you for advice, Luke," Justin said, so curtly that the deputy's smile vanished. Before he could decide whether he ought to take offense, Jonas made that decision for him.

"If I wanted to watch a couple of young roosters go at it, I'll find a cockfight. We were talking about ways to track down Sampson, Luke. You have any suggestions?"

"Not offhand, no. You two are gluttons for punishment, so dedicated to duty it is truly disgusting. Would it kill you to spare one night for celebrating? Now the Fleming was a real challenge. But Sampson? He could not outwit that moon-mad dog of yours, de Quincy. Trust me, it is only a matter of time until he trips himself up. Have some patience. As for me, I'd rather have some ale."

"Take mine," Justin said, shoving the cup toward the deputy. "You might be onto something, Luke. Let's consider what we know about the man. He is on his own in a strange city, his money running out. He is not one to go looking for work, now is

he?"

Luke hooted. "That lout has never done a day's honest labor in his life. All he knows how to do is steal."

"Exactly. But is a slow-thinking stranger going to thrive in a city like London? Or is he more likely to blunder and run afoul of the law? Mayhap we've been looking for him in the wrong places. Instead of searching the streets, what about the gaols?"

Luke stared at him, a slow grin spreading across his face. "Now why did I not think of that myself? Let's give the Devil his due, Jonas, for de Quincy's idea is downright brilliant!"

"I'd not go that far," the serjeant said, laconic as always. "But it does sound promising." And coming from Jonas, Justin knew that was high praise, indeed.

~~

His ale-drenched sleep had given Justin a brief respite. But he awoke in the morning to a hangover and an onslaught of memories, mercilessly vivid, of Claudine's treachery.

His other memories of the night were much hazier, though. He did remember becoming the unwelcome center of attention. Once his presence had become known, everyone had wanted to congratulate him. But they'd wanted to joke, too, about the woman he had hidden away at Gunter's cottage, and their good-natured raillery had lacerated a wound still raw and bleeding.

It was Luke who'd come unexpectedly to his rescue, diverting the conversation away from bedmates to murder and mayhem. Justin's last clear memories were of the deputy holding court to the entire alehouse, all listening avidly to his riveting and gory recounting of the Fleming's bloody career. After that, Justin had set about drinking himself into oblivion, with some success.

Sitting up in bed, Justin discovered that he was still fully dressed, even to his boots. A groan from the pallet on the floor told him that Luke was stirring, and a hoarse "Christ Jesus!" that the deputy was too weak to fend off Shadow. Getting stiffly to his feet, Justin stumbled toward the table, only to find that his water pitcher had frozen solid in the night, for he and Luke had been too drunk to light a fire.

"My mouth," he said, "feels like five miles of bad road. And we have got nothing to drink in the entire cottage. We'll have to go across the street…"

"You go," Luke muttered, keeping his arm firmly crooked over his eyes to ward off daylight. "I'll just open a vein…"

Justin was searching for his mantle, finally finding it crumpled up on the floor, Shadow's bed for the night. "When I come back from the privy," he said, "I'll go get us some more ale. That is supposed to help…" But the bed was beckoning again and since it was much closer than the latrine or the alehouse, it won out.

When he awoke again, his head seemed to be pounding like a drum. It took him a befuddled moment to realize it was the door. Groping his way across the room, he shoved the bolt back and let in such a blaze of bright sunlight that he was half blinded.

"Still abed?" Sauntering past Justin, Jonas looked down at Luke's prostrate body and shook his head. "Mayhap you lads ought to stick to milk from now on."

"Most people do not come calling until past dawn, Jonas." Justin leaned against the wall, wondering how the serjeant could have drunk so much ale himself and show so few aftereffects. It hardly seemed fair.

"Dawn? It is nigh on noon." Jonas nudged Luke with the tip of his boot. "You have any water to throw on him?"

"Do that and you're a dead man," Luke warned, although his threat might have carried more weight if he were not so entangled in the blankets, looking as if he were cocooned in his own burial shroud. "Go away, Jonas…"

"So… you do not want to hear about Sampson, then?"

Jonas got the reaction he was aiming for. Luke sat up so abruptly that he cracked his head on a table leg and Justin lunged forward, grabbing for the serjeant's arm as if it were a lifeline. "What did you find out?"

Jonas smiled triumphantly. "Your hunt is done. Sampson is being held in Newgate Gaol, waiting to hang."