The Queen Man

18

LONDON

March 1193

A bleary-eyed Ellis reluctantly let them in, arguing feebly that the alehouse was not open yet. Inside, it was as dark and silent as a tomb, and there was even a body stretched out on one of the tables. "Nell said to let him sleep it off," Ellis mumbled, wincing as Jonas reached out and tipped the table over, dumping Aldred into the floor rushes.

The crash was followed by a startled yelp from Aldred and an immediate cry of "Ellis?" coming from above-stairs. "What was that noise?"

Jonas strode over to the stairwell. "I've got some drunkards down here who need sobering up, Nell, and I could use your help."

~~

"What is that?" Luke was staring suspiciously into the depths of his cup. "It looks like swamp water."

"Just drink it down," Nell insisted. "You'd think I was asking you to swill hemlock! If you must know, it is saffron in barley water, with a few other herbs mixed in. I've had a lot of practice at this, for my husband liked his ale more than he ought."

Setting a platter in the middle of the table, she said, "Try to eat some bread. I'll be back after I see what I can brew up for Aldred's headache." Aldred moaned his thanks, then slumped down in his seat, as boneless as one of Lucy's rag dolls. Nell rolled her eyes, muttered something about men that did not sound complimentary, and disappeared into the kitchen.

Jonas poured himself a brimming cup of ale and began to smear honey on a large chunk of bread. "If you have any salted herring left," he called after Nell, "I could eat one or two." At that, Aldred moaned again and bolted for the privy, much to Jonas's amusement. "I hope you two do not have such delicate stomachs."

"Sorry to disappoint you, but no." Justin broke off a piece of bread and forced himself to take a few bites. "Tell us what you found out about Sampson."

"He seems to have squandered his money right fast, for his first robbery was committed on Shrove Tuesday. He was a busy lad, for he struck at least three times. His method was simple. He'd prowl the alehouses and taverns after dark, pick his victim — a lone drunkard — and then follow the man out, pouncing as soon as they were alone. Unfortunately for him, he was not a man to pass unnoticed: as huge and hulking as a bear, with a gap where his front tooth ought to have been and a scar over one eye."

Luke nodded. "Yes, that is Sampson. But you said back at the cottage that he is in Newgate Gaol. How was he caught?"

"He blundered, like Justin here guessed he would. The third robbery went wrong at the outset, for his intended target was not as drunk as he'd thought. When Sampson jumped him, he fought back. That misjudgment was Sampson's first mistake. His second was the he'd been too eager, for curfew had not rung yet. A Requiem Mass was ending at St Andrew's Cornhill and parishioners were soon spilling out into Aldgate to see what the commotion was about."

Jonas drank deeply, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "By then, Sampson had overpowered his quarry and was straddling him whilst he groped for the man's money pouch. But ere he could get away, he was confronted by one of the parishioners. They struggled, and when Sampson could not break free, he stabbed the Good Samaritan in the throat."

Justin swallowed with difficulty, washing the crust down with barley water. But it was not the bread which left such a bitter taste in his mouth. They killed so casually, the Sampsons and Gilberts of this world. And they left so much grieving in their wake. Hanging such men only kept them from killing again. It did nothing to ease the pain they'd brought to so many on their descent into Hell. Glancing around the table, he saw his own frustration and fury mirrored on Luke's face. Jonas, as ever, was inscrutable. He paused to drink again before picking up the bloody threads of his story.

"Sampson then fled, with the parishioners in pursuit. But his size and that bloody dagger would have kept most of them at a safe distance. I daresay he'd have gotten away if he'd not had the bad luck to turn onto Lime Street. By chance, he ran right into the Watch. It took fully four men to subdue him, and then they had to protect him from the crowd, who were all for hanging him from the nearest tree. But the priest from St Andrew's was able to shame them into backing down, and Sampson was dragged off to gaol. His reprieve will be a brief one, though. I'd wager the court will convict him ere the trial even begins!"

"I wish I could be so certain of that," Luke said morosely, for he had learned the hard way that it was not easy to get a man sentenced to the gallows. He'd often pondered why juries were so loath to see a man hang, and had finally concluded that the notorious leniency of juries was paradoxically linked to the harshness of their laws. Whether a man killed by accident or in self-defense or with calculated and cold-blooded intent, he was charged with murder. He could argue "mischance" or "justification" but he had to prove that in court, and many men fled rather than risk submitting themselves to the king's justice. A man could be hanged, too, for theft, could pay with his life for a crime of hunger or desperation. The result was the juries often refused to indict, even when the evidence seemed to demand it.

Justin looked puzzled by Luke's skepticism, but Jonas understood all too well. "We've both seen men walk away from the gallows when we knew they were as guilty as Cain," he explained to Justin. "But not this time. That fool Sampson murdered a man in full sight of more than a dozen witnesses, including the victim's own wife and a parish priest. No, this is one knave who'll get exactly what is coming to him — a short dance at the end of a long rope."

"When can we question him?" Justin asked. A pity they could not wait until after the trial. Sampson might be more inclined to talk once he knew there was no hope. But if he was tried and found guilty, it would be too late then, for executions were almost always carried out immediately. Only pregnant women could count upon a delay. If convicted, Sampson would be taken at one to the gallows.

"We can go to the gaol this afternoon." Jonas then gave voice to Justin's own unease, saying, "But he may not be willing to talk with you. Why would he? He can always hope for a miracle — a jury so blind, deaf, and dumb that they might not indict him. Or he could balk out of sheer spite. So it may well be that you'll have no better luck with him than we did with the Fleming."

Justin felt a chill of foreboding, for this was his last chance to learn the truth about the goldsmith's murder. But Luke was shaking his head. "Leave that to me," he said, "for I know Sampson. I'll get him to talk." And when Justin asked how, he would say only, "You'll see," with an enigmatic smile.

~~

Newgate was one of London's most strategic gatehouses, guarding the approach from the west. It was an impressive stone structure, several stories high, tracing its origin back to a time when London was known as Londinium and under the rule of ancient Rome. Newgate had been rebuilt five years ago, and was no used as a city gaol. It did not have a sordid history like the prison by the River Fleet, did not hold as many ghosts or echoes of past pain. But it, too, was a bleak, sad place, at once formidable and forlorn. And the stench was the same. It hit Justin in the face as soon as they were escorted inside. Familiar odors of confinement and crowding, and that most pervasive stink of all — fear.

The more fortunate prisoners were kept in the upper chambers; the lower a man's status, the lower down he was lodged. The worst and most dangerous of the lot were held in the underground dungeon called "the pit," and when Sampson was shoved into the guards' chamber, it was obvious that he'd come from there, for he was blinking and squinting even in the subdued lamplight.

Sampson was as broad as he was tall, heavy in the torso, but not sloppy fat. He would be a nasty foe in any alehouse brawl, and an even deadlier one on a dark, deserted street. This was Justin's first close encounter with Sampson, and he found himself marveling at the reckless courage of the slain Good Samaritan. Sampson was younger than he had expected, not more than five and twenty. But the pale blue eyes were ageless. They darted around the chamber, drawn irresistibly to the shuttered and barred windows. Only after Sampson had satisfied himself that the room offered no opportunities for escape did he turn his attention to the men. His gaze moved from Justin to Jonas with indifference. But hostile recognition blazed across his face at sight of Luke.

"What are you doing here?" His voice was low pitched, so hoarse and guttural that the words emerged almost as a growl.

Luke smiled blandly. "I decided to treat myself, Sampson. I'm here to watch you hang."

Sampson gave the deputy as lethal a look as Justin had ever seen. Reaching for a chair, he settled himself as comfortably as his irons would allow, tilting the chair back until he could prop his feet upon the table. The obscenity he then flung at Luke was a common one, but he invested it with enough venom to overcome his lack of imagination. Luke glanced across at Jonas, and nodded, almost imperceptibly. Jonas said nothing, and Justin was not sure if he'd caught Luke's signal. The serjeant had been leaning against the wall, arms folded. But suddenly he was in motion, lunging forward and, with one well-aimed kick, sending Sampson's chair crashing over backwards.

The outlaw went down, sprawling in the floor rushes in a tangle of chains, for he was both manacled at the wrists and shackled at the ankles. Spitting curses, he struggled to regain his feet, and for a moment, Justin thought he would launch himself at Jonas. But as their eyes met, he changed his mind, and instead righted the chair with what dignity he could muster.

"Why'd you do that?" Sampson protested, sounding more querulous than defiant.

Jonas did not bother to respond, resuming his stance against the wall. Justin had never seen a man look so relaxed and yet so redoubtable, too. This was uncharted territory for him, and he was content for the time being to watch, to let Luke and Jonas blaze the trail.

Luke claimed a chair for himself. "I was not totally honest with you, Sampson, when I said I was here to see you hang. Mind you, I plan to stay for the hanging. I'd not miss that for all the wine in France. But your arrest was an unexpected bounty. What actually brought me to London was that cutthroat friend of yours, Gilbert the Fleming."

"Who?" Sampson started to tip his chair again, glanced over at Jonas, and thought better of it. "Who?" he repeated, smiling as if pleased by his own cleverness.

Luke was smiling, too, a smile shot through with mockery. "Do not waste your time with such pitiful denials, Sampson. You have so little time left, after all. We know all about you and Gilbert. He confessed to the killing out on the Alresford Road."

"Did he now?" Sampson scoffed. "When was that, over drinks at the local alehouse?"

"No… I believe it was in the city gaol, after a long night's interrogation. You look taken aback. Did I forget to tell you that, Sampson? We caught Gilbert on Friday out at the Smithfield horse fair. Mayhap we can work it out so that both are hanged on the same day, for old times' sake."

"You're lying," Sampson said, but he did not sound at all certain of that.

"Why are you so surprised? Sooner or later, the Fleming's luck was bound to run out… just as yours did. Of course you tripped yourself up, whereas Gilbert was done in by a woman, but both roads still lead to the gallows."

"A woman?" Sampson's jaw dropped. I told him he could not trust that Irish whore, I told him!"

Luke's eyes shone in the lamplight, cat green and gleaming. "He ought to have listened to you."

Sampson was quiet for a moment, mulling over his partner's ill luck. "What a fool," he said, with a notable lack of sympathy. "I'd never have let a slut hoodwink me."

"No," Luke agreed, "you needed no woman to foul yourself up. You managed that all on your own."

Sampson glared balefully at the deputy. "You never got a word out of the Fleming about any killings. Let me tell you about Gib. If you were drowning, he'd throw you an anchor. If you were dying of thirst, he'd not even spare you a cup of warm piss. Gib would never talk to the law, never. He d save his confession for the Devil and his best curses for the likes of you."

Justin exhaled a breath held too long. His disappointment all the keener because he'd let himself hope that Luke's bluff might succeed. Glancing toward the deputy, he was startled by the other man's aplomb. Far from being flustered by Sampson's challenge, Luke was grinning.

"Well, you cannot blame a man for trying," he said, so cheerfully that Justin realized he'd never expected to dupe Sampson with this concocted confession of Gilbert's. Reassured and curious, Justin settled back in his seat to watch the rest of the performance.

Sampson was caught off balance by Luke's candor; in his experience, sheriffs were rarely so forthright. "You admit you lied?"

"I thought it was worth a try." Reaching under his mantle, Luke drew out a wineskin. "We do not need confessions, for we have enough evidence without them to hang both of you higher than Haman. Master de Quincy there was a witness to that killing out on the Alresford Road. His testimony alone will be enough to send Gilbert to the gallows. And there are so many people eager to testify against you that they'll have to hold the trial in St Paul's churchyard to accommodate them all. No, the verdicts are a foregone conclusion. I was merely seeking to tie up loose ends."

"How?" Sampson said with a sneer. "By having me make my peace with God?"

Luke shrugged. "Some men find it a comfort to go to their deaths with a clear conscience," he said, and appeared quite unfazed when Sampson responded with a burst of profanity. "It cannot be easy, lying down there in the pit day after day, just waiting to die. What man jack amongst us is not afraid of death, especially a death by hanging?" Tilting the flask up, he drank with apparent relish, seeming not to notice how Sampson's eyes followed the wineskin. "If it were me, I'd want a priest, for certes."

"Well, you are not me," Sampson snapped and added a "bleeding whoreson" for punctuation.

Luke was no longer smiling. "No… I am not the one who is going to be hanged by the neck until dead, and right glad I am of it. That is a wretched, slow way to die. I'd rather take a knife in the gut than face a noose."

Sampson had slouched down in his seat, but he still kept his eyes upon the wineskin. "Who's to say that I'll hang?"

"Oh, you'll hang, Sampson. You killed a man in full view of half of Aldgate and then got caught in the act. Christ, man, the blood had not even dried on your dagger! One of God's own angels could come down to speak out in court in your behalf and it would avail you naught. The day you go to trial is the day you go to the gallows."

Luke passed the wineskin to Justin, then tossed it to Jonas. "I suppose you can always hope that the rope might break. That happened to a prisoner back in my first year as under-sheriff, and the king pardoned him."

"I'll see to it that we use a sturdy new one, just for him," Jonas promised and laughed as if he'd made a joke.

Luke caught the wineskin deftly in midair, then set it down without drinking. "I know you've seen men die, Sampson. But have you ever seen a man hanged? It is not a sight to be forgotten, believe me. It is not quick, takes a long while for a man to strangle. His hands are tied behind his back, so he cannot free himself. Helpless, he just dangles there, feet kicking desperately to reach the ground, face turning blue and then black, gasping for air, willing to barter anything for one more breath. Sometimes a man even swallows his own tongue — "

"God curse you!" Sampson was on his feet, his manacled fists raised in a futile threat. "I've had enough of this, I do not want to hear any more!"

"You think I care what you want?" Luke said coldly. "Sit back down."

Justin doubted that Sampson would obey the command, but after a moment, the man slumped back in his chair. His face was blotched with heat, his eyes red rimmed and puffy, and when Luke suddenly tossed the wineskin, he snatched at it with hands that shook. He gulped the wine as if he could never get enough, uncaring when it ran into his beard and splattered on his dirty, torn tunic.

"What do you want of me?" he asked, clutching the wineskin to his chest. "Why are you here?"

"I want the truth. We have questions to put to you about other killings and we need answers. I want to be able to bury these cases with you."

"Why should I?" Sampson asked, with a trace of his earlier bravado. "What do I get out of it?"

When Luke leaned forward, Justin knew this was the question he'd been waiting for Sampson to ask. "You are going to die. I cannot change that, would not if I could. But I can make your last days more tolerable. If I were facing the noose, I'd want to make my peace with God. And then I'd want to get drunk, so drunk I'd not care when they came for me. You tell us what we want to know, Sampson, and I'll see that you get enough wine or

ale to go to the gallows as drunk as a blind minstrel's bitch."

Sampson started to speak, stopped himself. Twisting around in his seat, he looked over at Jonas, then back at Luke. "If I agree, how do I know you'll keep your part of the bargain?"

Luke reached under his mantle again, this time drawing out a money pouch. "Answer our questions and you'll earn money to buy all the ale you want from the guards. Not to mention food or blankets. For enough money, a man might even be able to buy himself some female company. Am I right, Jonas?"

"It has been known to happen," the serjeant said laconically.

Luke balanced the pouch in the palm of his hand. "So… what say you, Sampson? Do we have a deal?"

"Let me count it first." Sampson fumbled the catch, made clumsy by his manacles. Scooping the pouch up from the floor, he fingered the coins before saying gruffly, "What do you want to know?"

Luke permitted himself a quick glint of triumph in Justin's direction. "Let's start with London. I know Jonas is right curious about all you've been up to in his city."

"You already know about that lackwit in Aldgate."

"Overcome with remorse, are you?" Luke said sardonically, and Sampson looked at him blankly.

"Why should I feel sorry for him? He brought it upon himself, meddling like he did. He gave me no choice. I do not know what else to tell you."

"How many robberies?" Jonas asked impatiently. "I know about the man you robbed in Southwark, near the bridge. And the drunkard you dragged into an alley off Cheapside. Any more?"

Sampson screwed up his face, trying to concentrate. "Well… I took a money pouch away from a stripling over in the stews. Green as grass he was, boasting that he was there to

'buy some tail,' and waving his money about like he was begging to be robbed. Then I got into a brawl in an alehouse near Cripplegate, took the man's rings and dagger for my trouble. That is all, I think. Oh, I also broke a woman's jaw, but she was just a whore, trying to cheat me. And Gib and me robbed a man on the Watling Street Road. Since we'd not reached London yet, does that count?"

"Gilbert was getting careless, letting a witness live. Or was he feeling charitable that day?"

Luke's sarcasm was wasted upon Sampson. "Gib meant to kill him, but he ran off into the woods and we decided it was not worth chasing after him." Shaking the wineskin, he discovered that there was enough for one more swig and gulped it down. "What else do you want to know?"

They'd been conversing in English, but Luke now switched to French, effectively shutting Sampson out. "I suppose you want to take over from here, de Quincy? He's in no hurry to go back to the pit, ought to tell you whatever you need to know about the goldsmith's murder. I hope you will share it with me afterward, for I want to solve Fitz Randolph's murder as much as you do. But I expect you'll have to get the queen's consent first?"

"Yes, I will," Justin admitted. "But I'll tell the queen that if not for you, we'd not have gotten Sampson to talk."

Luke grinned. "If you want to praise me to the queen, I'd not object. But you'll still owe me for the money I gave that swine!" Standing up abruptly, he aimed a hard, quelling stare at Sampson. "The serjeant and I have an errand to take care of. Master de Quincy will ask the questions whilst we're gone. Answer them well and I might bring back a wineskin for you. Lie to him and you'll pass the night out in the stocks, stripped down to your braies."

With that, he started for the door. Jonas followed, leaving Justin alone with the prisoner. The other man was regarding him incuriously. He showed no antagonism, but neither did he display any of the grudging wariness he'd accorded Luke and Jonas. Justin was not troubled, though, for Luke had taught him how Sampson could be tamed.

"Here," he said, and pitched his own wineskin toward the burly outlaw, waiting while Sampson drank greedily. He'd felt an involuntary twinge of pity, watching Luke break the man's spirit with such brutal expertise. But it had dissipated as soon as Sampson had begun his nonchalant confession. Listening to that unemotional litany, he'd soon concluded that the dim-witted Sampson was no less loathsome than the more murderous Fleming.

Sampson took another long swig from the wineskin. "So you're the one who spoiled our ambush on the Alresford Road. I thought you looked familiar. What do you want?"

"I want to hear about that killing. How it came about and why."

"Why do you think? We were paid to lie in wait for him. Why else would we be freezing our tails off out in the woods? No man with any sense goes robbing in the midst of a snowstorm, not unless he knows it'll be well worth his while."

Justin felt sudden excitement, realizing that he was but one question away from solving the mystery of the goldsmith's murder. "Who paid you?"

"A friend of Gib's."

Justin went cold. Christ Jesus! What if Sampson did not know who had hired them? What if Gilbert had been the one to make the deal? Taking another tack, he said, "Why was he to be killed? What had he done?"

The answer he got was completely unexpected. "You need not waste your pity, for he had it coming to him. Lord Harald swore the dice had been tampered with, and I believe him. I'd never seen him in such a tearing rage. He said he'd split the money with us, but he had to know we'd keep most of it. I suppose it was enough for him to get his revenge… and the ring back. He set quite a store by it. I was sorry the coxcomb did not have it on him, for I'd always fancied it myself. Silver, it was, with a reddish stone, mayhap a garnet or — "

"What in blazes are you talking about?" None of this made any sense whatsoever to Justin. "Who is Lord Harald?"

Sampson smiled scornfully, amazed at such ignorance. "All of Winchester knows Lord Harald. For certes, that poxy deputy does! Not that he is a real lord, for all that he gives himself airs like one. He salts his speech with words no one else can understand and struts about in his fine clothes like a preening peacock. Slick as ice, he is, though, the best cutpurse I've ever seen. He is right clever with the dice, too, and those games with walnut shells and dried peas. He's always prided himself on his gambling skills, so I guess that's why he took losing so badly. Not as I blame him, for I hear the whoreson kept crowing about it afterward, bragging how — "

"What dice game are you talking about? When did it take place?" Justin demanded, so sharply that Sampson looked at him in surprise.

"How do I know? What does it matter?"

"It matters," Justin said grimly. "The killing happened on Epiphany morn. But when was the dice game played? I need to know!"

"I am trying to remember," Sampson complained, "so ease up! Epiphany was a Wednesday, right? We met with Harald the day before, on Tuesday. He'd found out that the man was leaving Winchester on the morrow and he was in a sweat to make sure we'd be lying in wait for him. Ah… I recall now. The game was on Sunday. Harald said he ought to have known better than to play games of chance on God's Day, that it was an ill omen. And Gib laughed at him, saying it was indeed a sin to gamble on Sunday, but lucky to do murder on a holy day like Epiphany."

"That cannot be. Gervase Fitz Randolph was still in France on Sunday. He did not get back to Winchester until that Tuesday eve."

Sampson looked puzzled. "Who is Gervase Fitz Randolph?"

"The man you and Gilbert ambushed and killed!"

Sampson shook his head slowly. "Nay… that does not sound right. I do not remember the name, but I doubt that it was Gervase…"

"Blood of Christ," Justin whispered, for in that moment, he understood. "You'd never seen him, then?"

"No… why? There was no need, for Harald told us how to recognize him. Right prosperous, he said, with brown hair, riding a fine grey palfrey. There were so few travelers on the road that it was easy enough to pick him out. That fool Harald had forgotten to tell us about the servant, but — What? Why are you looking at me like that?"

"Was the man you were to kill named Fulk de Chesney?"

Sampson brightened. "That's the one! But what about the other name? I thought you said he was called Gervase?"

"That was his name," Justin said, through gritted teeth. "At least remember it. You owe him that much, damn you!"

"What are you so vexed about?"

"You murdered the wrong man!"

Sampson continued to look befuddled. "How so?"

"Fulk de Chesney was the one who cheated at dice, the one you were paid to kill. But his horse went lame and he had to turn back. The man you murdered was a Winchester goldsmith. He was riding a roan stallion, and you fools mistook it for de Chesney's grey. The man died for no logical reason whatsoever. God help him, he was in the wrong place at the wrong time…"

Justin's voice trailed off. He was more stunned than enraged, overwhelmed by the utter futility of it all. Gervase had not died because his son burned to be a monk or his daughter lusted after his hired man. Nor had the queen's secret letter brought him to ruin. He'd been doomed by a pebble, wedged up into a grey stallion's shoe.

Sampson finally comprehended what Justin was saying. "So the man we ambushed was not Fulk de Chesney? That explains why he did not have the ring then." He thought about it for a moment longer, and then laughed. "The poor bastard, the joke's on him!"