The Queen Man

4

TOWER OF LONDON

January 1193

The groom took Copper's reins, then glanced inquiringly over his shoulder. "You want me to unsaddle him?"

Justin shook his head. No need to bother. He did not think he would be long at the Tower. Once he'd confessed to the queen that he could not solve the goldsmith's murder, what further use would she have for him?

He was nearing the keep when he noticed the couple standing by the stairs. He recognized the woman at once: the queen's lady and his good angel. Even if she had not been so helpful to him, she was far too pretty to be forgotten. The man was unfamiliar, but Justin knew at once that this stranger was someone of significance, for he was richly dressed in a fur-lined mantle, and when he reached out to touch her cheek, an emerald ring glowed like fox fire. She did not appear to welcome the caress, but she did not rebuff it, either, showing a diffidence that Justin found surprising. She'd impressed him as a born flirt, and a sleekly self-confident one at that. She'd had no trouble spurning Durand's unwanted advances, for certes. Now, though, she seemed flustered. Justin waited to make sure she did not need a distraction, for he owed her a favor and would like nothing better than to repay it.

But their conversation was already ending. She backed away, smiling politely as the man began to climb the stairs. By the time he'd disappeared into the keep, Justin had reached her. She turned with a sudden smile, this one much more spontaneous. "Master de Quincy! I thought you'd gone off on a clandestine mission for the queen."

Justin was flattered to be remembered, but startled that she knew so much about him. "What makes you think that, demoiselle?"

"I asked Peter about you," she said forthrightly. "He said the queen had given him a letter for you, but I could not get much more out of him. Peter takes his duties entirely too seriously." She had an appealing grin, at once mischievous and coquettish. "I hope you do not mind my prying. Alas, curiosity has always been an abiding sin of mine."

"I'd forgive you far greater sins than that, demoiselle," Justin said gallantly. He at once felt rather foolish, for that sounded like something out of a minstrel's tale. It seemed to please her, though, and that was well worth a little embarrassment. She introduced herself now as Claudine de Loudun, and he seized the opportunity to kiss her hand. But when he ventured a discreet query about the one-sided flirtation he'd witnessed, he was jolted by her response.

"You were going to rescue me?" Her eyes widened. "You are either the bravest man I've ever met or the craziest, mayhap both! Unless… you do not know who he is, do you?"

"Obviously someone of importance," Justin said, somewhat defensively, for she sounded astonished, as if he'd failed to recognize the Son of God.

"Important? I'd say that is as good a way as any to describe a future king. That was the queen's son. John, the Count of Mortain." Claudine's amusement was waning. Glancing around, she lowered her voice. "I've heard that he has been asking about you."

Justin was dumbfounded. "Are you sure? How would the Count of Mortain even know I'm alive?"

"He may not know you personally, but he seems very interested in that letter you brought to the queen." She dropped her voice still further, brown eyes very serious. "And if John is interested in you, Master de Quincy, better that you know it."

~~

Eleanor gazed searchingly into eyes very like her own, a golden hazel, utterly opaque, eyes that gave away no secrets. How little she knew him — this stranger, her son. For years he'd been on the outer reaches of her life. The last of their eaglets, the child she'd never wanted, born in the twilight of a dying marriage. A hostage to the impassioned enmity of a love gone sour. He'd been just six when she'd become Henry's captive, seventeen when next she saw him, and twenty-two when she was finally set free. He was six and twenty now and still he eluded her. She and Richard needed no words between them, so easy and instinctive was the understanding that had always been theirs. But with John, all the words in Christendom did not seem enough.

Would an outright challenge be best? Or nuance and equivocation? She was not usually so irresolute. But with John, she was always following unfamiliar trails, never sure what lay around the bend.

"I've been told that alarming rumors are circulating about Richard," she said abruptly, making up her mind to try a frontal assault. "Men are claiming that he is dead, shipwrecked on his way back from the Holy Land. Such talk is not new. It began when Richard's ship did not reach Brindisi. But these rumors are rather specific and remarkably widespread, almost as if they were deliberately sown. I would hate to think you had a hand in that, John."

"I'll not deny that I think hope has faded. But you cannot blame me because other men think so, too."

"Why are you so sure that Richard is dead?"

"Why are you so sure," he countered, "that he is not? I do not mean to be cruel, Mother, but I must be blunt. Richard has been missing for more than three months. If evil has not befallen him, why have we not gotten word of his whereabouts by now? Unless… you have heard from him?"

"No… I have heard nothing from Richard. Why would you ask that?"

He shrugged. "I suppose I was remembering the gossip I heard — talk of a mysterious letter delivered by an equally mysterious messenger. Naturally I was curious, and since Richard is so often in my thoughts these days, he came at once to mind."

Behind her, Eleanor heard a smothered cry, quickly broken off, as William Longsword half rose from his seat. Ignoring Will's distress, she smiled at her son. "I'd give little credence to gossip, John. You, of all men, ought to appreciate how unreliable it is.

For the past twelvemonth, rumor has had you conspiring with the French king to usurp Richard's throne. But we both know that to be an outrageous falsehood… do we not?"

"The worst sort of defamation," he agreed gravely, but his eyes gleamed in the lamplight. One of his saving graces was his ability to laugh at himself. In Eleanor's eyes, that was no small virtue, for she had long ago concluded that if a lack of humor was not a sin, it ought to be. But this was what she too often found herself doing with John — sorting through all the weeds for that one flowering sprig.

Turning toward the table, John picked up a flagon of wine. When she shook her head, he poured for himself and Will. Eleanor had dismissed all the others from the chamber, for her son had a tendency to play to an audience. She'd often thought he'd have made a fine actor, with a particular talent for righteous indignation and bemused innocence.

Taking but a single sip of his wine, John then set it on the table. "I've matters still to tend to," he said, "so I'd best be off." Coming forward, he kissed Eleanor's hand, and as always, his gallantry bore the faintest hint of mockery. With John, even his kindnesses were slightly suspect. Or was she being unfair to him, this youngest and least known of all her children? Her every instinct urged wariness, warned that he could not be trusted. And yet he was still hers, flesh of her flesh, impossible to disavow.

"John!" He'd been reaching for the door latch, but stopped in midmotion, halted by her sudden vehemence. Coming swiftly across the chamber, Eleanor put her hand upon his arm. "Listen to me," she said, her voice low and intent. "In the days to come, watch where you tread. A misstep could bring your world tumbling down around you. I would borrow some of your 'bluntness' now. I know you love Richard not. I know, too, how much you covet his crown. But do not plot against him, John. For your own sake, do not. If it came to war, I do not think you could measure up to Richard."

His eyes took on a hard, greenish glitter. "You've already made that abundantly clear, madame," he said bitingly, "for most of my life!"

As the door closed behind John, his half-brother shot from his seat. "I did not tell John about the letter, madame. He asked, but I said nothing, I swear it is so!"

"I know that, Will." Turning, Eleanor found a smile for him, but all the while, her thoughts were following John, plunging after him into the shadows of the stairwell. Will was continuing to protest his innocence, needlessly, for his open, freckled face was like a window to his soul. He could no more lie convincingly than he could fly. Passing strange, that he was so like his father in appearance, so unlike him in temperament. He had Henry's reddish-gold hair, his high color, even his grey eyes. But he'd gotten none of Henry's fire or sardonic charm, and nothing whatsoever of his ruthless royal will.

Eleanor was genuinely fond of Will, and she sympathized with his plight. He disapproved utterly of the man John had become — a cynical opportunist willing to make any devil's deal that might gain him the English crown. But Will had fond memories of another John, the young brother in need of his guidance. Will had cast a protective eye upon that solitary little boy, and their childhood affection had endured even after they'd both grown to manhood. Eleanor could not help wondering if her family's harrowing history might have been different had Richard and John been able to forge such a brotherly bond, too. But her sons had never learned to love one another. That was a lesson she and Henry had failed to teach them.

"I would never betray your trust, madame — never!"

"I know, Will," she said again, with a patience she rarely showed to others. "A number of people heard Justin de Quincy mention a letter that had cost one life already. Any of them could have told John, inadvertently or otherwise. Most likely it was Durand. He and John share a fondness for dicing and whoring, for all that they barely acknowledge each other in my presence."

Will was shocked, both by the suggestion that John might plant a spy in his mother's household and by Eleanor's matter-of-fact acceptance of it. "My lady… do you think John knows that King Richard is being held prisoner in Austria?"

"I am not sure, Will." Just how much did John know? Had Philip shared his secret? If they were as deeply entangled as she feared, Philip would have sent word straightaway, days before the Archbishop of Rouen was able to obtain his covert copy of the Holy Roman Emperor's gloating letter. And if John had known of Richard's capture and kept silent, that in itself would be an admission of sorts. For silence under such circumstances was suspicious at best, sinister at worst. How far was John willing to go in his quest for his brother's crown?

"Madame?" Peter de Blois was standing in the doorway. "Master de Quincy is here. Shall I admit him?"

Eleanor was taken aback; Justin had been gone barely a week. "Yes, I will see him." When he was ushered into the chamber, she was not reassured by his appearance, for he looked fatigued and uneasy.

"I did not expect you back so soon," she said, once they were alone. "What did you find out?"

"I cannot solve this crime for you, madame. It grieves me that I must fail you, but — "

The door banged open without warning, startling them both. Striding into the chamber, John smiled at his mother, quite nonchalantly, as if their recent clash had never been. "I forgot to ask you, Mother…" He paused, his gaze coming to rest upon Justin. "Do I know you? You look most familiar."

Eleanor started to speak, but Justin was quicker, introducing himself before she could intervene. Watching John closely, she understood then why Justin had not wanted her to lie — John already knew his identity. He was regarding Justin now with a quizzical smile. "Have you brought my lady mother another vital letter, Master de Quincy?"

"A vital letter, my lord?" Justin echoed, with a quizzical smile of his own. "I am here on behalf of the abbot of St Werburgh's in Chester, but it is a routine matter, of no urgency."

Saying nothing, John glanced down at Justin's muddied boots and mantle. No man would come into the queen's presence in such travel-stained dishevelment for "a routine matter, of no urgency." John let his eyes linger upon those mud-caked boots long enough to convey his message: that Justin had lied and he knew it.

Eleanor moved between them. "John? What did you come back to ask me?"

"Well… to tell you true, Mother, it has gone right out of my head. Strange, is it not?"

"Not really," she said dryly. "Memory is a will-o'-the-wisp, unpredictable and wayward."

"Are you talking about memory, weather, … or sons?" And although it was said as a jest, it held one of John's buried barbs.

As soon as John had gone, Justin said, "Downstairs, Lord John was about to depart when he heard Master Peter call out my name. He seems much too curious about me for my peace of mind, my lady. Does he… does he know about the French king's letter?"

"I've told him nothing." Which was true as far as it went. If sins of omission were still sins, did that apply as well to lies of omission? Eleanor had no qualms about lying when necessity demanded it; she'd always thought that honesty was an overrated virtue. But she owed Justin more than half-truths and evasions. She did not want his blood on her hands, not if it could be helped. "John knows that you brought me a letter. But I do not know how much — if anything — the French king has revealed to him."

She could say no more than that. Nor did Justin expect her to; however worried she was about her son, she'd never choose him as a confidant. So he was not surprised when she said briskly, "Now… why do you think you have failed me? You were not able to find any suspects?"

Justin's mouth twisted. "Nay, I found too many. The man's own children had reason to wish him dead. Nor can I rule out his brother. And there will be no help from the law, for the under-sheriff may well have the strongest motive of all!"

"You are saying that the killing was personal?" Eleanor's surprise was evident. "That he was not killed because of the letter?"

"I do not know, my lady," he admitted. "I uncovered motives, but no evidence to link any of them to the crime." And he started then to tell her about his suspects, striving to be both fair and concise.

He confessed that he hoped the killer was not Thomas, simply because he did not want to believe that a man could kill for such a perverted purpose. What could be more diabolic than a piety so twisted and profane that it led to murder?

As for Jonet and Miles, he felt sure that neither one could have acted alone. His impression of Miles was that he was one to need a bit of prodding; he couldn't see a murder plot taking root in such shallow soil. The idea would have had to come from Jonet, but she could not have done it on her own. A lass could not prowl the alehouses and taverns in search of cutthroats and brigands for hire. He was about to explain his reasoning to Eleanor when she cut in, saying impatiently:

"You mentioned the under-sheriff. What reason would he have to want the goldsmith dead?"

"Her name is Aldith Talbot. She was Fitz Randolph's concubine, but I am convinced she and the deputy, Luke de Marston, were lovers ere he was slain. And she is a woman a man might well kill over. If he could have her no other way…"

Justin shrugged, then concluded grimly, "Who would find it easier to make a deal with outlaws than a sheriff's deputy? He'd know any number of felons, hellspawn who'd kill for a pittance. Sheriffs are not often mistaken for earthly saints, madame. Too many have been caught using their office for ill-gotten gains. If a man is already selling justice and collecting bribes, it may not be so great a leap to murder."

Eleanor did not challenge his jaundiced view of sheriffs. So prevalent were complaints of corruption and abuse of power that her husband had convened an Inquest of Sheriffs, and the investigation results had been so damning that almost all of the sheriffs had been dismissed. That was more than twenty years ago, but she had no reason to assume the current crop of sheriffs were any more ethical or honorable than their predecessors. And

if Luke de Marston was corrupt, she did want to know. But she could see that the investigation had gone awry. Rising, she began to pace.

"I am sorry I failed you, madame. But I do not know how to follow the trail any farther, for it goes off in too many directions. I thought if I told you what I'd learned, the sheriff of Hampshire could take it from, there. I know you said you did not want to involve him, but I see no other choice…"

Justin was talking too much and he knew it, but her continued silence was unnerving. Once his words ebbed away, the only sound was the silken rustle of her skirts as she moved restlessly about the chamber. Justin bit his lip, waiting to be dismissed.

"You have not failed me," she said at last. "If there was any failing, it was mine, for I sent you off into unknown territory without a map. Under the circumstances, you did well, learning a great deal in a brief time. But I ought to have been more forthcoming with you."

Eleanor sat down in a window seat, saying nothing for several more suspenseful moments. "Your actions in Winchester were logical and well thought out. But this is not an ordinary murder investigation. There is more at stake than catching the goldsmith's killers, much more."

Justin was beginning to understand why she'd shown so little interest in his revelations about the goldsmith's kin. "So…" he said cautiously, "you are saying that if the guilty are found at the Fitz Randolph hearth, you'd be content to let the sheriff see that justice is done?"

"Yes," she said. "I do want to see the guilty punished. But I have a more urgent need. I must know if the killers were after the letter. You see, I fear that the murder may have been done at the behest of the French king. If that is so, I need to know and as soon as possible. If Philip is desperate enough to set assassins loose in England, it does not bode well for my son. I cannot hope to thwart him unless I have proof of his treachery."

She paused, choosing her words with care. "You must find out for me if the killers were in the pay of the French king. If you can prove that this deputy or one of the Fitz Randolphs is the culprit, well and good. It would ease my mind considerably to have my suspicions refuted. But either way, I must know and soon. Speed is of the essence, for time is not on Richard's side."

She paused again. "I know it is a dangerous mission I've given you. But you're the only one who can recognize the killers. I must rely upon you to serve me well. Do not let me down, Justin."

Her urgency was as compelling as it was daunting. Justin had not bargained upon being entangled in a foreign conspiracy. At that moment, though, he could imagine nothing worse than breaking faith with her.

"I cannot make the same promise as before, my lady. I cannot swear that I will solve this crime for you. But I will do my best, that I vow."

Eleanor needed more than promises. But she'd learned to take what she could get. "Godspeed, Justin. And be wary, watch whom you trust. It is not easy to trap a killer, and for certes, not safe."

~~

After learning that Justin had come straight to her upon his arrival in London, Eleanor had suggested that he seek lodgings for the night at the nearby priory of Holy Trinity, Aldgate. Justin decided to do so, for he need only show the queen's letter to assure himself of a warm welcome, a more appealing prospect than trudging through the city streets in search of an inn.

Having taken his leave of Eleanor, Justin paused on the Tower steps. High above his head, an easterly wind herded flocks of ice clouds across the darkening sky. He'd be racing a storm back to Winchester. It was too cold to linger out in the bailey, and he headed toward the stable to retrieve his horse.

Within, the stable was dim, already sheltering night shadows; torches were not left burning, for fear of fire. The grooms were nowhere in sight. A cat stalked mice up on the rafters, and an aged stable dog gave a halfhearted bark before burrowing back into the straw. Justin's stallion snorted loudly at the sight of him. Entering the stall, he was about to lead Copper out when a hand grasped his shoulder. Spinning around, he found himself face-to-face with Eleanor's son.

"Master de Quincy!" John smiled, his teeth gleaming whitely in the light cast by his lantern. "This is a surprise. I was tarrying out here to see who claimed that chestnut. Had I but known you were the owner, I could have spared myself a wait in this drafty, dark barn."

"How may I serve you, my lord?" There was movement in the shadows behind John. Several men came forward, flanking their lord. They said nothing, watching Justin impassively, showing neither curiosity nor hostility. He suspected that they'd slit his throat with equal indifference should John give the word.

"You can sell me your horse." John reached out, stroking Copper's muzzle. "A right handsome beast. I've always fancied chestnuts. So… what say you, de Quincy?"

Justin shifted uneasily. If gossip held true, it was not healthy to possess something that the Lord John wanted, be it a horse, a woman, or a crown. "He is not for sale, my lord count."

"Are you so sure of that? You may name your price."

"I am quite sure," Justin said firmly. "But I am willing to give you the right of first refusal, should I ever change my mind."

John was still smiling. "You are a stubborn one, for certes. Think it over, though."

"I will." Justin was positive that John was lying. As much as he cherished Copper, the chestnut was not likely to tempt a king's son; John would have stables full of finely bred horses. No, this was merely a pretext. Whatever John wanted from him, it was not Copper.

John continued to stroke the stallion's neck. He had Justin's coloring; his lantern's glow revealed hair blacker than midnight. The dark one in a fair family, for his brothers and sisters had all been sun kissed. Richard was said to be lance-tall, towering over other men, with sky-color eyes and hair brighter than molten gold. John was of no more than average height, if even that; Justin topped him by half a foot. Yet he was not a man to pass unnoticed in any company. His intelligence was evident, as formidable a weapon as the finely honed sword at his hip. But if even half of what Justin had heard about John was true, he knew nothing of moral boundaries. Not a comfortable man to encounter in the shadows.

"Have you been in my lady mother's service long?"

"No, not long."

"I understand you delivered an urgent letter about ten days ago. I would be most interested in learning the contents of that letter, Master de Quincy."

Justin swallowed. "I regret that I cannot be of assistance, my lord. I would never dare read a letter meant for the queen's eyes. As for that particular letter, I remember nothing of urgency about it. You must have been misinformed."

"Not likely. Those who serve me know how much I value accurate information. I hope you change your mind — about the horse. I would naturally make it worth your while."

"I will think upon it," Justin said, as noncommittally as he could.

"It would help if I knew where to reach you — in case you do decide to sell."

"I have no fixed abode, my lord, so it would be difficult for you to find me."

"You'd be surprised how good I am at finding people, Master de Quincy. What of your family? Surely they'd know where you might be?"

Hoping his voice held steady, Justin said, "Alas, I have no family, my lord. But I do know how you can contact me. You need only ask the queen."

There was a silence that seemed endless, and then John "Now why did I not think of that?" He sounded genuinely amused by Justin's audacity, but Justin's tension did not abate until he signaled to his men. "I daresay our paths will cross again."

"Farewell, my lord count." Justin's throat was still tight. He stood where he was, not moving until long after John had departed the stable. The queen had twice warned him about the perils he was likely to face in Winchester. But what if the greatest dangers were to be found in London?