The Queen Man

3

WINCHESTER

January 1193

The cold spell continued without letup but the skies stayed clear, and Justin made good time. At midday on the fourth afternoon since leaving London, he was within sight of Winchester's walls.

He'd used those days on the road to plot a strategy. He meant to seek out the sheriff and the Fitz Randolph family. If Eleanor was right — and he suspected she usually was — the slain goldsmith's kindred would make him welcome. But what then? Mayhap the sheriff had already captured the outlaws. He knew, though, what a frail hope that was. Even if he found the men chained up in Winchester's dungeon, how could he root out the truth about the ambush? Were they hired killers or just bandits on the prowl for prey? If they had indeed been lying in wait for Gervase, who had paid them? And why? Was it for the

queen's bloodstained letters? Or for reasons he knew nothing about? Had the goldsmith been struck down by King Richard's enemies? Or did he have enemies of his own?

The more Justin tried to sort it out, the more disheartened he became. Questions he had in plenitude, answers in scant supply. Yet as daunting as his task was, he had to try. He owed the queen his best efforts. He owed Gervase that much, too. He'd never watched a man die before, and pray God, never again. The goldsmith's death had not been an easy one; he'd drowned in his blood.

Admitted into the city through the East Gate, Justin hailed a passing Black Monk. "Brother, a moment, if you will. Can you tell me how to find the shop of Gervase Fitz Randolph, the goldsmith?"

The man frowned. "Are you a friend of Master Gervase?" When Justin shook his head, the man's face cleared. "Just as well. Master Gervase is dead. May God assoil him, but he was foully murdered ten days ago."

"Yes, I know. Have the killers been caught?"

"The sheriff is off in the western parts of the shire. I doubt if he even knows yet."

"There has been no investigation, none at all? By the time the sheriff gets back, the trail will be colder than ice!"

"The killing was reported to the under-sheriff, Luke de Marston. I assume he has been looking into it."

Somewhat mollified, Justin asked where he could find this Luke de Marston, only to be told that he was in Southampton, not expected back until the morrow. The local authorities did not seem afire with zeal to solve the goldsmith's murder. Justin could imagine their response all too well: murmured regrets, then a shrug, a few perfunctory comments about bandits and the perils of the road. He was suddenly angry; Gervase deserved more than this official indifference. "The goldsmith's shop? he reminded the monk, and got a surprising answer in return.

"Is it the shop you want, friend, or the family dwelling?"

The vast majority of craftsmen lived above their workshops. Gervase must have been very successful, indeed, to afford a separate residence. Justin hesitated. Most likely Gervase had retained at least one apprentice, and a journeyman, too. But even if the shop was still open, it was the family that he needed to see.

"Their home," he declared, and the monk gave him detailed directions: south of Cheapside, on Calpe Street, past St Thomas's Church.

The Fitz Randolph house was set back from the street, a two-story timber structure of substantial proportions, brightly painted and well maintained. Further proof of Gervase's affluence lay within the gate: his own stable, hen roost, and a well with a windlass. Justin already knew Gervase had thrived at his craft; on that bleak trek to Alresford with the goldsmith's body, the groom, Edwin, had confided that Gervase had just delivered

a silver-gilt crozier and an enameled chalice to the Archbishop of Rouen. But even for a man who'd counted an archbishop among his customers, this house was an extravagance. Gazing upon Gervase Fitz Randolph's private, hard-won Eden, Justin felt a

muted sense of sadness, pity for the man who'd had so much — family, a respected craft, this comfortable manor — only to lose it all to the thrust of an accursed outlaw's blade. Where was the fairness in that?

But he also found himself wondering if Gervase's high living might have played a part in his death. A man so lavish in his spending might well have incurred dangerous debts. He could have stirred envy, too, in the hearts of his less fortunate neighbors. Had someone resented Gervase's conspicuous prosperity — enough to kill him for it?

"Can it be?" Emerging from the stable, Edwin stood gaping at Justin. "By Corpus, it truly is you!" Striding forward eagerly, he reached up to help Justin dismount. "I never thought to see you again. But you'll be in my prayers for the rest of my born days, that you can rely upon!"

"I'll take prayers wherever I can get them," Justin said with a smile. "But you owe me nothing."

"Only my life." Edwin was not quite as tall as Justin, but more robust, as burly as Justin was lean. He had the reddest hair and beard Justin had ever seen, brighter than blood, with very fair skin that must burn easily under summer suns, but without the usual crop of freckles to be found on a redhead's face. His grin was engaging, revealing a crooked front tooth and a vast reservoir of goodwill. "If not for you, those hellspawn would have slit my throat, for certes. I have a confession of sorts, one that will make me sound a right proper fool. I daresay you told me your name, but I was so distraught that I could not remember it afterward to save my soul."

"That is easily remedied. I am Justin de Quincy." It was the first time that Justin had said the name aloud. He liked the sound of it, at once an affirmation of identity and an act of defiance.

The young groom's grin widened. "I am Edwin, son of Cuthbert the drover. Welcome to Winchester, Master de Quincy. What brings you back?"

"I had business to tend to in London, but once it was done, I found myself brooding upon the killing. I would see those brigands brought to justice. It is my hope that I can aid the sheriff in his hunt, for I got a good look at them."

"Better than me," Edwin conceded. "About all I saw was the ground rushing up to meet me! I still have not figured out how they spooked our horses so easily… But no matter. I am right pleased that you've come back, and I know Mistress Ella will be, too."

Justin assumed that was Gervase's widow. "I'd like to pay my respects to her," he said, and had confirmation of her identity when Edwin nodded.

"Indeed," he said, "but she is not at home now and will not be back till later. Whilst you are waiting, why not let me take you to the shop? Master Gervase's son will be there."

Justin gladly accepted the offer. "What about my horse? Is there room in the stable for him?"

"I can put him in Quicksilver's stall. You remember Master Gervase's stallion, the one the bandits stole?"

Justin did. "The pale roan, right? A handsome animal."

"A rare prize." Edwin sighed. "I miss him sorely, for Master Gervase would let me exercise him on those days when he had not the time. That horse could outrace the wind, God's Truth, a sight to behold, with that silver tail streaming out like a battle banner and his hooves barely skimming the ground!"

Justin warmed to the groom's enthusiasm; he had the same pride in Copper. But when Edwin bragged that Gervase had paid ten marks for the stallion, he whistled, for that was still more evidence of Gervase's lavish living. Was it significant that the goldsmith had been a spendthrift? Could he have been borrowing from moneylenders? Making a mental note to try to find out more about the slain man's finances, Justin followed Edwin into the stable.

A short time later they were walking briskly up Calpe Street. Outgoing and exuberant, the young groom was more than willing to enlighten Justin about Gervase Fitz Randolph and his family. By the time they reached the High Street, Justin had learned that Gervase had taken his younger brother, Guy, into the business, that they employed a journeyman, Miles, who'd lacked the funds to set himself up as a craftsman once his apprenticeship was done, and that Gervase's son, Thomas, was presently laboring as an apprentice, although not by choice. "Thomas never had an interest in goldsmithing," Edwin explained, "but it was Master Gervase's wish that he learn the craft."

"Is the brother at the shop with Thomas?"

Edwin shook his head. "Master Guy is back at the house, abed. He has been poorly all week, suffering from bad headaches. If you ask me, I think he has sickened on his grieving."

"The brothers were close, then?"

"No…" Edwin's brow furrowed. "If truth be told, they squabbled like tomcats. But I do believe Master Guy is taking the death hardest of all."

"Mayhap he feels guilty," Justin said, as noncommittally as he could, but the words left a sour aftertaste in his mouth. He'd not fully realized that to find a killer, he'd have to wade through other people's pain.

Deciding that he needed to put the murder aside, if only for a brief while, he cast about for a more innocuous topic. Edwin and Cuthbert, Saxon names both. Many of Saxon birth took fashionable Norman-French names, but the reverse was rarely true. And as serviceable as Edwin's French was, it was not his native tongue, not as it was for Justin.

Growing up in the Marches, Justin had learned to speak both languages, even a little Welsh. He'd not often thought about the bilingual barriers separating Saxons and Normans, accepting them as a burdensome fact of life. French was the language of the royal court, the language of advancement and ambition and culture, English the tongue of the conquered. And yet it still endured, more than a hundred years after England had come under the mastery of the Norman duke, William the Bastard. Saxons stubbornly clung to their own speech, and the river ran both ways. Justin doubted that King Richard spoke any English. But he was sure that Gervase had been fluent in the Saxon tongue; commerce and convenience demanded as much.

"Your French is quite good," he told Edwin, "much better than my English!"

Edwin looked so pleased that Justin guessed few compliments ever came his way. "I've been working for Master Gervase for nigh on five years," he said, "since I was about fourteen. Master Thomas was the same age, and he agreed to help me with my French. Thomas likes to instruct others," he added, wryly enough to make Justin suddenly curious about the goldsmith's son.

"What sort of a master was Gervase, Edwin?"

"I had no complaints. He could be hard, but always fair. He was a gifted goldsmith, and he knew it — no false pride there. Ambitious, with a liking for his comforts, and generous to a fault. Not just for his own needs or wants, either. He denied Mistress Ella and Mistress Jonet nothing; they dressed like ladies of quality. He never passed a beggar without tossing a coin and gave alms every Sunday at church. But he was not one for listening. So sure that his way was best. Unable to compromise. I daresay you have known men like that?"

"Yes," Justin said tersely, trying not to think of his father. "Who is Jonet?"

"His daughter. They had only the two, Thomas and Jonet. Mistress Ella lost several, one in the cradle and two stillborn, so they doted on those they had left. Master Gervase had high hopes for them both. Thomas was to follow in his footsteps and Jonet was to wed a baron. He dared to dream did Master Gervase. It does not seem right that two misbegotten churls could take it all away like that."

"No," Justin agreed, "it does not." They were drawing near a crippled, legless beggar, wheeling himself along on a small wooden platform. Reaching into his pouch, Justin dropped several coins into the man's alms cup, getting a startled "God bless you" for his generosity. "Gervase was seeking a baron for his daughter? Surely that was not very likely? The marriage portion have to be huge to tempt a lord into marrying out of his class."

"You have not yet seen Mistress Jonet."

Justin's smile was faintly skeptical. "Is she as fair as that?"

"Fairer than one of God s own angels," Edwin said, but without any enthusiasm, and Justin gave him a curious glance. Was it that Edwin liked Mistress Jonet not at all — or too much?

"There it is," Edwin said, pointing up Alwarne Street. As they got closer, Justin recognized the crude unicorn sketched into the wood of an overhanging sign, the universal emblem of goldsmiths. "I hope Thomas is back from dinner."

"He takes two hours for dinner?" Thomas was beginning to sound like some of the spoiled young lordlings Justin had known in Lord Fitz Alan's service, wellborn youths more interested in dicing and whoring than in learning the duties of a squire. "So Thomas likes to visit the alehouses and bawdy houses?"

"Thomas?" Edwin chortled. "That will be the day!"

Justin wanted to ask more questions about the mysterious Master Thomas, but thought better of it. He'd been fortunate to find such a source in Edwin, did not want to risk poisoning the well by pushing too hard. Nor was he completely comfortable with this oblique interrogation. Good intentioned or not, he felt as if here were somehow taking advantage of Edwin's trust. "How is it that you know so much about the family secrets?" he joked instead. "Are you a soothsayer in your spare time?"

Edwin grinned. "Nay, I merely befriended the cook. Not only save me extra wafers and bone-marrow tarts, she serves up ample helpings of family gossip, too. God love them, for cooks always know where the bodies are buried!"

Justin's face shadowed, for he could not help thinking of another gossip-prone cook, this one in a Shrewsbury rectory, watching as a priest seduced an innocent. Pushing the memory away, he groped for something to say. But there was no need to dissemble. They'd reached the goldsmith's shop.

Horizontal shutters that opened upward and downward protected shops at night. During the day, the top half of the shutter was propped up, acting as a canopy to shelter customers, while the lower shutter extended out toward the street, serving as a display counter. Inside was a small room, lit with cresset lamps. Justin could distinguish the outlines of a workbench, an anvil, and a table covered with clay; he had watched other goldsmiths at work, knew the clay was used to sketch out designs. But there was no sign of life.

Leaning over the counter, Edwin peered into the shadows. "Now where in blazes are they? Thomas might wander off on a whim; God knows he has done it often enough. But what of Miles? Look at those amethysts and moss agates spread out on the workbench. A thief could vault over the counter, snatch up a handful, and be off in a trice! I do not like this, Master Justin," he muttered, "not at all…"

Neither did Justin. Goldsmiths were known to keep silver and gemstones on hand, even a small supply of gold. Had Gervase's killers struck again? "Where does yonder door lead, Edwin? Can we get in that way?"

"There is a second room beyond, where Master Gervase keeps — kept — his forge and bellows and heavier anvils. Miles sleeps there at night. There is an outer door in the alley, but it is locked and I lack the key."

With that, Edwin swung up onto the counter and over. Justin followed swiftly. A charcoal brazier was burning in a corner, still smoldering. A hammer lay in the floor rushes, as if dropped in haste. A wooden trencher had been left on the bench; it held a half-eaten chunk of goat's cheese and the remains of a small loaf of bread. Justin and Edwin exchanged uneasy glances. What had happened here? Their nerves were taut, and they both jumped when a muffled sound came from the inner room. Justin swept his mantle back, his hand closing around the hilt of his sword. Edwin was unarmed, but he stooped and grabbed the hammer. Communicating by gestures and nods, they moved stealthily forward and then hit the door together, Justin kicking at the latch and Edwin slamming a muscular shoulder against the aged wood.

The door was in better shape than they'd expected. Had it been latched, it would have held. But it was not, and it burst open under their joint assault. Justin's boot slipped in the floor rushes and he almost lost his balance, while Edwin's wild rush catapulted him headfirst into the room. Justin heard — simultaneously — a woman's scream, a garbled curse, and a loud crash. His sword clearing its scabbard, he plunged through the doorway, only to come to an astonished halt at the sight meeting his eyes.

Edwin was on his hands and knees, an expression of shocked dismay on his face. A man with flaxen hair was straddling a workbench, flushed and disheveled and blinking in bewilderment. On his lap was a vision. Her hair was a lustrous silver blonde, spilling out of its pins in silken disarray. Her clothes were equally askew. Her bodice was unlaced, offering Justin an inadvertent but provocative glimpse of her cleavage with every

breath she drew, and her skirts were hiked up to reveal very shapely legs. With eyes bluer than cornflowers and skin whiter than Madonna lilies, she could have been conjured up from a minstrel's song, so perfectly did she embody their society's ideal of feminine beauty. But that illusion lasted only as long as it took her to scramble off her lover's knee.

"You lowborn, half-witted, wretched…" Sputtering in her fury, she nearly choked on her own indignation. "How dare you spy on me! I'll see you fired for this, by God, I will!"

"That is not fair, Mistress Jonet! I feared something was wrong — "

"Something is wrong, indeed! Sneaking around, meddling, prying into my private life! Well, no more, for I've had enough — "

So had Justin. Sheathing his sword, he said coolly, "If you have a grievance, demoiselle, it is with me, not Edwin. I told him to breach the door."

The girl's angry tirade was stopped in midcry. "Oh! Her pretty mouth hung ajar, blue eyes widening as she took in the sword at Justin's hip, his demeanor, that deliberate use of "demoiselle," all unmistakable indications of rank.

Taking advantage of her momentary consternation, Edwin got to his feet. "Mistress Jonet, I'd have you meet Justin de Quincy. He paused before adding with malicious satisfaction, "He is the man who sought to save your father from those outlaws."

"Oh," she said again, this time in a soft, quavering tone of chagrin. Blushing for Justin as she had not for Edwin, she hastily began to relace her gaping bodice. Justin did what he could to intensify her embarrassment by stepping forward and kissing her hand in his most courtly manner. He suspected that she was rarely so tongue-tied; any girl who looked like this one did would have learned at an early age how to make the most of her assets. Enjoying her discomfiture as much as Edwin, he said, "We feared that something was amiss, what with the shop open and unattended… If we jumped to the wrong conclusion, I am indeed sorry."

Jonet's blush deepened. Bending over, she hastily retrieved her veil from the floor rushes. "I stopped by to see Thomas. You do not know my brother, but he can be very irresponsible. He just took off, leaving Miles with orders to complete and repairs to make and customers to tend to."

Justin had a diabolic urge to point out that Jonet had certainly done her best to make it up to Miles, but he managed to resist the temptation. He could not help glancing toward the journeyman, though. Justin guessed him to be in his early or mid-twenties, undeniably good looking in a bland sort of way, and apparently blessed with an abundance of self-confidence, for he seemed unperturbed by this sudden exposure of his love affair with his employer's daughter. Brushing aside a. bright forelock, he said amiably, "Tom has always been a bit flighty, but he's a good lad. I do not mind pitching in to do his share."

Justin was sure that no one called the missing apprentice "Tom" except Miles. Nor did he doubt that if he became friendly with the journeyman, he'd soon be "Jus." "I believe this is yours," Justin said, reaching down and plucking a rabbit's foot from the rushes. He knew it was used by goldsmiths to polish silver and gold, but from the way Jonet blushed anew, he'd wager they'd been putting it to more creative use. "Well, I've been enough of a disruption," he began, but Jonet contradicted him quickly.

"No one could be more welcome than you, Master de Quincy," she insisted, turning upon him the full power of her most coquettish smile. "I know my mother will want you to take supper with us. Our servant will get you back to our house. I trust you can do that, Edwin, without going astray?"

Edwin dared not ignore her, but he could not bring himself to acquiesce in his own humiliation, and he grunted something that might have been either assent or denial. Justin bent over Jonet's hand again, this time making the gesture perfunctory, not gallant. Jonet realized that she'd done something to earn his disapproval, but she did not know how she'd offended. "Wait," she cried as Justin turned to go. "I do not want you to misunderstand, Master de Quincy. Miles and I … we are plight-trothed."

That was obviously news to Edwin, for he gave Jonet a startled glance that, under other circumstances, might have been comical. There was an awkward silence, finally broken by Justin. "I wish you both well," he said politely. It was a tepid response, but it seemed to satisfy Jonet and Miles. They followed him out to the street, smiling.

Justin and Edwin walked without speaking for a time, detouring around a hissing goose and a pig foraging in a pile of rotting garbage. "Well," Justin said at last, "she may have the face of one of God's angels, but she has the Devil's own temper."

Edwin laughed, without much humor. "You do not know the half of it! There is no pleasing that one. You could give her Queen Eleanor's royal crown and she'd just bemoan the fit!"

"Am I safe in assuming that Master Gervase knew nothing of this plight-troth?"

Edwin snickered. "His precious daughter and his hired man? When pigs sprout wings!"

"Are you sure he did not know, Edwin?"

"Miles is still employed, is he not? What more proof do you need than that? As I told you, Master Gervase had his heart set upon snaring a highborn husband for his lass — Sir Hamon de Harcourt. He is fifty if he is a day, paunchy and bald as an egg, but he has a fine manor outside Salisbury and another one at Wilton, as well as rental property here in Winchester — or so Berta the cook claims! Sir Hamon has grown sons who were objecting to his marrying a craftsman's daughter, even one who'd bring a goodly marriage portion. But I think the marriage would have come about in time. Hell and furies, he could not look at Jonet without drooling! You think Master Gervase would pass up a baron for a hireling who sleeps in his shop?"

Justin had the answer he needed, if not the one he wanted. He'd never truly expected to find clues to Gervase's killing in the man's own home. And yet he could not deny that Jonet and Miles had a convincing motive for murder.

They had turned onto Calpe Street when Edwin gave a sudden exclamation. "Up ahead, that is Mistress Ella and Edith!" He lengthened his stride and Justin had to hasten to keep pace. Hearing the hurrying footsteps behind her, Ella Fitz Randolph looked over her shoulder. At the sight of her groom, she halted, waiting for them to catch up.

Justin had cast Gervase's widow in a matronly mold, assuming that a longtime wife and mother would naturally be plump and pleasant in appearance, comforting in manner. Had he given it much thought, he'd have seen the error of his assumptions, for Queen Eleanor was a wife and mother, too, and she was about as maternal and nurturing as Cleopatra. He did not realize how his limited experience with motherhood had led him astray until he found himself face-to-face with Ella Fitz Randolph.

By his calculations, she had to be past forty, for Edwin had told him she and Gervase had been wed more than twenty years, but if she was losing the war with age, she was not yet ready to concede defeat. In her youth, she had probably been as striking as her daughter. She was still slender, almost gaunt, for now it was the result of willpower, not nature. She had Jonet's blue eyes and the same fair skin, stretched too tightly across her cheekbones. Her mouth was carefully rouged, but the corners were kissed by shadows, while her cares were etched like cobwebs across the high, white brow. She was a handsome woman, but hers was a fading, brittle beauty, as fragile as finely spun glass, to be admired safely only from a distance. She aroused Justin's protective instincts at the same time that she made him feel vaguely uncomfortable, for she seemed both vulnerable and aloof, and he did not know which signal to heed.

"Why are you not at the stable, Edwin?"

Ella was questioning, not accusing. Even after encountering her groom roaming about the town, she would not judge him until she'd heard his explanation, and Justin liked her for that. He remembered Edwin saying that Master Gervase had been fair. So, it seemed, was his widow, which was more, Justin thought, than could be said for his daughter.

"We've come from the shop, Mistress Ella. This is the man I told you about, the one who tried to save Master Gervase on the Alresford Road!"

Ella swung around to stare at Justin, then reached out and took his hands in hers. "I am glad you've come back, glad I have this opportunity to express my gratitude for what you did for my husband."

"If only I could have gotten there in time," Justin said, with such heartfelt regret that she gave him a sad smile.

"The Almighty chose to call him home, and even if we do not understand, we must accept. Now… I hope you will stay with us whilst you are in Winchester."

"Mistress Fitz Randolph, that is most kind, but — "

"I insist," she said firmly, and it was as easy as that for Justin to gain access to the Fitz Randolph home. But his triumph was short-lived. The serving maid, Edith, now joined her mistress, the sight of the bolts of black cloth in her basket robbed him any satisfaction in his success, reminding him that he'd be a household in mourning.

~~

Supper that evening was not an enjoyable meal. The Friday fish menu would have tempted only the starving, and the tension in the hall was oppressive. Justin detested salted herring and he pushed the fish around on his trencher to be polite, then filled up on a thick pottage of onions and cabbage. While both Thomas and Jonet were eating heartily, neither Gervase's widow nor his brother seemed to have an appetite. She was gazing off into space, while Guy confined himself to an occasional swallow from the wine cup at his elbow.

Reaching for a chunk of bread, Justin studied Guy covertly. He was much younger than Gervase, for he appeared to be no more than thirty-five. He had his brother's brown hair and beard; the resemblance was pronounced. Whether he also had Gervase's dark eyes, Justin could not tell, for Guy had yet to meet his gaze. Justin would not have needed to be told that he was ailing. His skin had a greyish cast, and a vein was throbbing in his temple. Nor were his hands all that steady. He had a solicitous young wife, a baby daughter in her cradle, and a far greater voice now in the running of the family business. But to Justin, he looked haunted.

Guy was not the only one on edge. As the meal progressed, Thomas was growing increasingly restless, fidgeting in his seat, glancing surreptitiously at his mother whenever she wasn't looking. But Justin thought he seemed more expectant than anxious, like a child eager to share a secret. Absently crumbling his bread, Justin regarded Thomas critically. His curly fair hair and delicate bone structure made him seem younger than his nineteen years, but his appearance was deceptive. He may have looked almost angelic, but throughout supper, he'd been displaying a prickly disposition and a waspish tongue, snapping at the serving maid, sparring with his sister, interrogating Justin with a brusqueness that bordered on rudeness. Was he always so belligerent? Justin had been prepared to sympathize fully with Gervase Fitz Randolph's bereaved children. It was disconcerting to find himself disliking them instead.

The conversation was flagging again. Becoming aware of the silence, Ella roused herself from her lassitude. "I saw Sir Hamon's steward in town today, Jonet. He said that Sir Hamon will be in Winchester next week. I think we ought to invite him to dinner whilst he is here."

Jonet did not reply, but she did not need to; she had an expressive face. In their world, women were given no voice in deciding their own destinies, and few would have sympathized with Jonet's plight. Justin did, though, for he had a foundling's instinctive sympathy for the powerless and downtrodden. He might not like Jonet, but he did not think it fair that she would have been compelled to wed the man of her father's choosing, despite the fact that she'd given her heart — and probably her maidenhead — to Miles. Watching Jonet squirming at the mere mention of Sir Hamon's name, Justin could not help identifying with her rebellious spirit. If only her clandestine love affair did not give her such an excellent motive for murder!

Oblivious to her daughter's discomfort, Ella was continuing to speak glowingly of Jonet's wellborn suitor: his piety, his honesty, his standing in the community. By now, Justin was squirming, too, burdened by his knowledge of Jonet's guilty secret. He was almost as grateful as Jonet when Guy finally intervened.

"I know you want to see Jonet wed to Sir Hamon, Ella. But I think we'd best face facts. Gervase's death changes everything."

Jonet gave her uncle a look of wholehearted devotion, Ella gave him one of reproach. "No," she insisted, "we must still find the money for her marriage portion, for that was what Gervase would have wanted."

Guy and Jonet exchanged glances, and he shook his head, almost imperceptibly. Justin observed their byplay with extreme interest; so they were allies as well as kin? This household was awash in undercurrents. Who knew what else was going on beneath the surface?

Thomas speared a piece of herring. "Do not give up hope yet, Mama. Mayhap Sir Hamon would be willing to accept a smaller marriage portion."

That did seem to cheer Ella, but Jonet looked as if she yearned to impale her brother on his own eating knife. She did not strike back at once, though. Helping herself to more bread, she nibbled daintily around the crust before saying sweetly, "I stopped by the shop to see you this afternoon, Thomas, and was so surprised to find you gone. I waited and waited, but you never did come back. Where did you go?"

"Oh, Thomas!" Ella was staring at her son in dismay. How could you shirk your responsibilities like that, with your poor father only ten days dead? I must depend upon you more than ever now. Miles cannot manage on his own, so — "

"Why not?" Jonet rushed loyally — if rashly — to her lover's defense. "Miles is very skilled at his craft. Even Papa was pleased with his work, and you know how demanding he could be!"

"I was not finding fault with Miles, Jonet. I do think he is a good worker. But he is not family, dearest. That is what meant."

"Since when do you speak so kindly of the hired help, Jonet?" Thomas asked snidely. "I never heard you lavishing praise on Berta's custard or telling Edwin what a good hand he was with the horses."

Jonet betrayed herself with a deep blush, but fortunately for her, Ella was too accustomed to their bickering to pay it any heed. Glancing from face to face, Justin decided that Guy knew about Miles and Jonet. He doubted, though, that Thomas knew, for he was too self-absorbed to ferret out other people's secrets; his gibe had been a random shot that just happened to hit its target. Jonet had reached that same conclusion; her blush was fading. For a few moments, it seemed as if the remainder of the meal would be passed in a semblance of peace.

Guy was rubbing his aching temples, all the while regarding his nephew with unconcealed disapproval. "Well, Thomas? Just where were you this afternoon?"

Thomas set his wine cup down, looking first at his mother and then his uncle. "I was going to wait, but I think it best to tell you here and now. I went to Hyde Abbey to meet with Abbot John."

Justin thought that, as excuses went, this was a good one, a much more respectable reason for playing truant than stopping off at the closest alehouse. He did not understand, therefore, why Ella and Guy looked so upset, Jonet so pleased.

"Thomas!" Ella sounded stricken. "It was agreed that we'd talk no more of this — "

"You and Papa agreed, I did not! I have had a candid talk with Father Abbot and he has agreed to accept me as a novice in the Benedictine order, with the intent of taking holy vows once I have proved myself worthy."

"It was your father's dearest wish that you become a goldsmith!"

"What is Papa's wish when compared with God's Will?"

"You had no right to do this!"

"I am doing Almighty God's bidding, Uncle Guy! And I'll not let Mama and you thwart me as Papa did, that I swear by the Blessed Cross!"

Justin shoved his bench out. As rude as it would be to leave in the middle of the meal, it would be worse to remain, an unwilling eavesdropper to this family breach. "My horse picked up a pebble on the road… I need to make sure the hoof is not bruised…" Mumbling whatever came to mind, he backed away from the table.

His departure went unnoticed. By the time he reached the door, the hall was in utter turmoil: Guy and Thomas were trading heated accusations, Ella wiping away tears with a napkin, Guy's anxious wife wavering between her white-faced husband and the baby now wailing in her cradle, Berta and Edith drawn by the uproar. Only Jonet remained calm, elbows propped on the table, chin resting on her laced fingers, watching with alert interest and the faintest inkling of a smile.

~~

The night sky was adrift in stars, but a gusting wind sent Justin hastening toward the shelter of the stable. Within, a wick floated in the oil of a cresset lamp, sputtering fitfully. Copper and two rounceys stretched their necks over their stall doors, nickering. Edwin was sprawled on a blanket, an empty trencher beside him in the straw. "What brings you out here?" he asked in surprise.

"I'm in need of a safe haven. How would you like to show me your favorite alehouse?"

Edwin was already on his feet. "It is right up the road. And wait until you see Avis, the serving maid! But what are you fleeing from?"

"A family bloodletting. Thomas announced that he means to become a monk and they did not take it well."

"I was wondering when he'd spring that on them. I half expected him to do it at graveside as they were burying his father!"

"You knew, then, about this?"

"Me and half of Winchester!"

Out on the street, it was too cold to talk. The wind blew back the hoods of their mantles, soon set their teeth to chattering. Fortunately, Edwin had not exaggerated the alehouse's proximity, and they raced each other for that beckoning doorway. Inside, it was crowded and noisy and hazy with hearth smoke, and looked far more welcoming to Justin than the Fitz Randolphs' spacious great hall.

Much to Edwin's disappointment, Avis had gone home with a toothache. He cheered up, though, when Justin paid for their ale, and was quite willing to tell all he knew about the goldsmith's son and his zeal to become a Black Monk.

"Thomas never made a secret of his belief that God had called him to serve. He has been set upon the religious life since he was sixteen, but his father balked and would not give his consent. A baron's family can afford to spare a younger son for the Church, not a craftsman with but one son and heir. Master Gervase hoped that it was a youthful whim, one Thomas would outgrow in time. He never understood that Thomas truly believes he is one of The Chosen and it would be a mortal sin not to obey God's Holy Word."

When Edwin paused to drink, Justin did, too, needing something to dispel a chill that had nothing to do with the cold. Could love of God have led to murder? It was such an unholy thought that he wanted to reject it out of hand. It was not that easy, though. Thomas's strident voice was echoing in his ears. What is Papa's wish when compared with God's Will?

Making an effort, he banished his suspicions back into the shadows, to be scrutinized in the reassuring light of day. "You said that Gervase and Guy were often at odds. What did they fight about, Edwin — money?"

"Yes." Edwin's smile was curious. "How did you guess?"

"Guy objected to putting up a large marriage portion for Jonet. So it only makes sense that he'd have objected, too, to Gervase's openhanded spending."

"That he did, loudly and often. It availed him naught, of course. In Gervase's eyes, he was still the little brother. Where Master Gervase saw opportunity, Master Guy saw risks, and so they could not help but clash. Especially since the more successful Master Gervase became, the bigger his dreams got. Master Guy even accused him once of aping his betters and trying to live like a lord!"

"That sounds like more than a mere squabble. Did they often quarrel that hotly?"

"No… not often. Just whenever Master Gervase would do something truly extravagant — like when he bought Quicksilver and gave the cottage to Aldith and sought to buy Jonet a high-born husband. Now, those quarrels were hotter than a baker's oven!"

"Who is Aldith and why was he giving her a cottage?"

Edwin winked. "Now, why do you think?"

Justin sat up straight on the bench. "He kept a whore?"

"It depends on who you ask. I'd call her a concubine, a paramour, mayhap even a leman, for Master Gervase was right fond of her. Thomas did call her a whore, and his father backhanded him across the face for it. I saw it all, there in the stable. Blood spurting from Thomas's nose and Master Gervase sorry afterward, almost apologizing, but Thomas having none of it, just one more grievance to hold fast."

"Did Gervase's wife know?"

"You think Thomas did not make sure of that? She knew. She'd have had to be blind, deaf, and dumb not to know, for it lasted nigh on ten years. Master Gervase did not flaunt Aldith, but neither did he make a secret of her. It was not unusual for him to dispatch me on an errand for her, and whenever she was taken ill, he'd have Berta cook a special soup that Aldith fancied. She was part of his life, you see. The priest could rail against adultery in his Sunday sermons, but I'd wager Master Gervase still saw it as a venial sin, one hardly worth bothering the Almighty with!"

"It could not have been easy, though, for Mistress Ella." This had been a day of surprises, for certes. "What is she like, Gervase's concubine?"

"Remember what Scriptures say about Eve tempting Adam with that fruit? Well, if Adam had been in Eden with Aldith instead of Eve, he would not have minded being cast out of

Paradise, not as long as she went with him!"

Justin grinned. "Edwin, you sound downright smitten."

Edwin grinned back. "You'd be just as besotted if you ever laid eyes on her!"

"Can you tell me how to find her cottage?"

"Yes … but why?"

Justin could not think of a plausible reason why he should be seeking out Gervase's mistress. The best he could offer was a half-truth. "Let's say that Aldith has aroused my curiosity."

Edwin burst out laughing. "Mistress Aldith is right good at that, at arousing a man's… curiosity, was it? I'll give you directions. Do not say, though, that you were not warned!"

Justin signaled for more ale; not only was Edwin a good source, he was good company, too. They passed an agreeable half hour in easy conversation, but then the groom pushed reluctantly away from the table, saying that he ought to get back ere he was missed. Justin lingered to finish his drink, and to think upon what he'd discovered this day.

The truth was that he was rather disheartened by his sojourn in the Fitz Randolph household. The slain goldsmith had been a decent, God-fearing soul, mayhap stubborn and stiff necked, yet a good man, withal. A husband, father, brother: his death ought to have left a great, gaping hole in his family. But it barely seemed to have made a dent. This was not how Justin had envisioned family life. To an orphan, that was the Grail of legend and myth: a castle high on a hill, a safe refuge against a hostile world. It was disillusioning to learn that Gervase's castle had held so much dissension and so little harmony.

His cup was empty. Justin got to his feet, fumbling for a coin and then heading for the door. The cold took his breath away. Lacking a lantern, he had only starlight to guide him. The street was deserted, icy in patches, and deeply rutted. When a ghostly pale streak darted across his path, he recoiled in haste. But then he smiled. No imp of Satan, merely a stray cat. He half turned to watch the creature's skittering flight and caught a blurred movement behind him, quickly stilled.

Justin's pulse speeded up again, this time in earnest. Frowning, he surveyed the dark, silent street. Nothing seemed amiss — now. The hooded figure was gone. Had he conjured up a phantom spirit, seen someone who was never there? He'd have liked to believe that, but he knew better. As brief as his glimpse had been, it was enough. A man had been trailing after him, swiftly fading back into the shadows when he'd turned. Justin slowly loosened his sword in its scabbard, searching the blackness. But the night gave up no secrets.

~~

The following morning, Justin accompanied the Fitz Randolph family to All Saints Church to hear a Requiem Mass for the soul of the murdered goldsmith. In midafternoon, he went to the castle. But his visit was unproductive. The sheriff was still absent from the town, and his deputy, Luke de Marston, was not expected back from Southampton until later in the day.

And so it was late when Justin was finally able to set out to find Aldith Talbot. According to Edwin, the house was in an open area near the city walls, not far from the North Gate. As the light faded, Justin's steps quickened, for last night's memory was still too vivid for comfort. Had someone truly been stalking him? Or had his imagination played him false? Logic argued for the latter. But instinct stronger than reason warned that the danger had been real, and daylight had done nothing to dispel his certainty.

Dusk was falling by the time he saw the cottage, a thin plume of pale smoke curling above its thatched roof, light glinting through chinks in the wooden shutters. It was small but well kept, newly whitewashed. He hesitated as he neared the door, for he had not yet come up with an excuse to explain his presence here. Hoping for inspiration to strike at the final moment, he reached for the metal door knocker. There was a roar from within, such a booming bark that he flinched. What did she have in there, a wolf pack?

The opening door blocked out most of the light. The woman was in shadows, her features hidden. The dog was the one to claim Justin's attention: blacker than coal, the largest mastiff he'd ever seen. Fortunately, she appeared to have a firm grip on the beast's collar.

"Yes?" Her voice was low for a woman, with a distinctive husky tone; it made Justin want to hear it again.

"Mistress Talbot? I know it is presumptuous of me to show up at your door like this. But I was hoping you could spare me a few moments. My name is Justin de Quincy. I was with Master Fitz Randolph when he died."

"Come in."

When she opened the door wider, Justin carefully edged inside, keeping a wary eye on the mastiff. "You need not worry about Jezebel," she said, sounding amused. "She has eaten already."

Jezebel? At least the woman had a sense of humor. And the dog was further proof of Gervase's devotion, for purebreds were outrageously expensive and mastiffs practically worth their weight in gold.

As she turned to close the door, Justin glanced curiously about the cottage. There was a fireplace against the far wall, a canopied bed partially screened off, a cushioned settle, an oak trestle table, several stools and coffer chests, and a woven wall hanging, dyed in bright shades of red and yellow. It was a comfortable room, and it was easy to imagine Gervase hastening here after another squabble with his brother, a spat with his son.

He had not realized that his scrutiny was so conspicuous until Aldith murmured, "Did you miss the fur-lined coverlet on the bed?"

Justin smiled apologetically. "I suppose I was staring, but — " He got no further, for Aldith Talbot quite literally took his breath away. She could not be considered beautiful in the strictest sense of the word, for her mouth was too large, her chin too pointed, her cheekbones too wide. But the result was somehow magical. Her hair was a rich, deep auburn, lustrous and gleaming wherever the firelight caught it, and it was loose about her shoulders, which had an erotic impact in and of itself, for women kept their hair covered in public, unbound only in the privacy of their homes. She had slanting cat eyes, a vibrant shade of blue-green, and Justin was sure that one lingering look would melt most men like candle wax. No wonder Gervase had thought her well worth a mortal sin!

"Are you done, Master de Quincy?"

Justin flushed, feeling like a grass-green stripling undone by his first glimpse of a trim female ankle. "Almost," he said sheepishly. "All I need to do now is to trip over your dog and spill some wine on your skirt."

"You might want to break a cup, too," she suggested, but he could see the laughter shimmering in the depths of those turquoise eyes, like sunlight on seawater. "I shall share a secret with you," she said. "There is not a woman alive who does not appreciate a compliment now and then, and yours was the most flattering tribute of all — the involuntary kind!"

Taking his arm, she steered him toward the settle. But once they were seated, Justin became aware of a savory aroma wafting from the hearth, where a cauldron was bubbling over an iron trivet. Glancing around the cottage, he focused for the first time on the table and its contents: the white cloth, the wrought-iron candlesticks, twin wine flagons and cups, a freshly baked loaf, two trenchers carved from stale bread, spoons and knives neatly aligned. "I am intruding," he said, starting to rise. "You are expecting company…"

"Sit," she urged. "We have time to talk. I would like you to tell me about Gervase's dying. Did he suffer much?"

She was the first one to ask him that. "He was in pain, Mistress Talbot, but not for long. Death came quickly."

"Thank God Almighty for that," 'she said somberly, and under her unwavering blue-green gaze, he told her how Gervase had died, omitting any mention of the queen's letter and his own rash promise to the goldsmith. When he was done, she sighed, daubed unselfconsciously at her eyes with the flowing sleeve of her gown, and then insisted upon fetching him a cup of wine. "I am glad you sought me out so we'd have this chance to talk.

And I am very glad, indeed, to be able to thank you, Master de Quincy, for all you did for Gervase — and for Edwin, too."

He'd had this same conversation once before — with Gervase's wife. Except that she had not thought to include Edwin. He hadn't expected Aldith to be so warm… or so guileless. She ought not to open her door to strangers like this, or to take what she was told on faith. He managed to rein in this newborn protective urge, at least long enough to ask her a few casually calculated questions about Gervase, questions she answered readily.

Yes, she confirmed, Gervase had been off on a business trip to Rouen. After his ship had docked at Southampton on Epiphany Eve, he had continued on to Winchester. Later that evening, he'd stopped by to let her know he was back and to explain that he must depart again on the morrow for London. He'd stayed only an hour or so, for he was weary and wanted to sleep in his own bed. That was the last time she'd seen him, alive or dead, for she had not been invited to the funeral. And no, he'd told her very little about his business in London.

"He hinted that he'd be able to tell me all about it on his return. It was the opportunity of a lifetime, he said, a chance to gain a king's favor. I did not understand, but when I asked what he meant, he just laughed and promised to bring me back a trinket from London."

She sighed again, and Justin resolutely kept his eyes on her face, not letting his gaze follow the rise and fall of her bosom. He ought not to be having lustful yearnings for a woman so recently bereaved. But she was sitting so close that he was having trouble keeping his thoughts from wandering into forbidden territory. Her perfume was scenting his every breath, her mouth as soft and ripe as summer strawberries. She was too trusting, not even realizing she was being interrogated.

"Poor Gervase…" A tear trembled on her lashes, and Justin watched in unwilling fascination as it trickled down her cheek, onto the soft skin of her throat. "I did not love him," she said with unexpected candor, "but I was very fond of him, I truly was. He was always right good to me. He deserved a far better death than the one he got. How much worse it might have been, though, if not for you, Master de Quincy… Justin. You cradled him as he lay dying, you sought to comfort him, you prayed over him, and for that, you will have my eternal gratitude." And leaning over, she kissed him on the cheek, a kiss feather-light and honey-sweet.

Drawing back then, she began to laugh. "Ah, look what I've done to you — smeared lip rouge all over your face! Here, let me repair the damage…" Licking her forefinger, she touched the smudge and began to rub gently. Justin reminded himself that she was a woman of dubious morals, a woman at least ten years older than he, a woman in mourning. But it was not his brain he was heeding at the moment, and when she smiled at him, the urge to kiss her was well-nigh irresistible.

But Justin was never to know if he would have yielded to the temptation. There was no warning whatsoever. He heard nothing until the shout, a hoarse "Christ on the Cross!" that seemed to fill the room like thunder. He spun around on the settle so fast that he spilled some of his wine, staring at the man framed in the doorway.

He had only a fleeting glimpse of the intruder — tall, tawny haired, and enraged — before the man lunged forward, crossed the cottage in three giant strides, and knotted a fist in the neck of Justin's tunic. Reacting with fury, not thought, Justin flung the contents of his wine cup into his assailant's face. The man gasped, his grip slackening enough for Justin to break free. Sputtering and swearing, he seemed ready to renew his attack. But by then Justin was on his feet, and Aldith had planted herself firmly between them.

"Have you gone stark mad? You're lucky I did not set Jezebel on you!" she scolded the interloper, although the threat would have been more impressive had the mastiff not been leaning her huge head against the man's leg, her tail beating an eager tattoo in the floor rushes.

The man paid no more heed to Aldith than he did to her dog. Never taking his eyes from Justin, he snarled, "I suppose I ought to get your name so I'll know what to tell the coroner! Who in hellfire are you?"

"I would ask you the same thing," Justin shot back, "except that it is obvious who you are — the town lunatic!"

"A bad guess, whoreson! I'm the under-sheriff for Hampshire."

Justin was stunned. "You? You are Luke de Marston?"

"Yes, I am sorry to say that he is!" Aldith was glaring at the deputy. "Had you not burst in here, raving and ranting, you'd have found out that this is Justin de Quincy, the man who came to Gervase's rescue on the Alresford Road."

Luke's eyes narrowed, flicking from Aldith to Justin. His face grew guarded, impossible to read. "On another mission of mercy?" he asked Justin. "You cannot stop doing good deeds, can you?"

Justin ignored him, turning toward the settle to retrieve his mantle. "I will be going now, Mistress Talbot."

"Yes," she agreed, "I think that would be best." Following Justin to the door, she gave him an intimate, regretful smile. "I am so sorry…"

"Yes," Justin said coldly, "so am I." As their eyes met, she had the grace to blush a little. She started to speak, then stopped herself, but stood watching in the doorway until Luke s voice summoned her back inside.

The temperature had plunged once the sun set, but Justin was indifferent to the cold. His brain was whirling with half-formed thoughts. Yet one fact stood out in unsparing clarity. He had been set up. He had no doubts whatsoever that Aldith had contrived that compromising scene for Luke's benefit. He just did not understand why. Was she one of those women who enjoyed baiting men into fighting over her? Or was there a more specific intent to her mischief — a deliberate ploy to make Luke de Marston jealous?

But a moment later, Justin had forgotten about his bruised pride, halting abruptly on the darkened street in a belated, troubled understanding of what he'd witnessed. Aldith's dog had not barked at Luke's entrance. Nor had he knocked. The sheriff's deputy had a key to Aldith Talbot's cottage.