The Queen Man

5

WINCHESTER

January 1193

The alehouse was crowded and it took a while for Justin to attract the attention of the harried serving maid. Ordering two more ales, he watched disapprovingly as his companion gulped his down in several vast swallows. "Are you sure, Torold," he prodded, "that you can remember nothing more about that morning?"

Torold belched, then shrugged. While he was more than willing to drink Justin's ale, he'd been doling out answers in miserly portions. "I already told you, I only remember one man for certes. A swaggering lout with a fine furred mantle and a finer grey stallion, demanding that I open the East Gate early, just for him. He was sorely vexed, too, when I refused, cursing and ranting like he was the missing king! After him, there was a monk… I think. But none after Master Fitz Randolph rode out, for by then the snow was coming down thick as pottage."

Draining the last drops in his cup, Torold glanced over to see if Justin seemed inclined to order another round, then got to his feet. "That is all I remember, and what I told the deputy. I do not see why he saw a need to have me go over it again…"

Mumbling to himself, Torold headed off in search of the serving maid. Justin had not claimed outright that he was acting on the deputy's behalf, but neither had he corrected the guard's misunderstanding. He suspected that the free ale had done more to loosen Torold's tongue than any hints of legal authority, but he hadn't gotten much for his money. Not that he was even sure what he'd been hoping to find. His assurances to Eleanor notwithstanding, he could not help feeling as if he were fishing without bait.

The guard had confirmed Justin's suspicions, though, that the outlaws had not ridden out of the city before the goldsmith on that last morning of his life. Who knew how many bandit lairs and encampments were hidden away in those woods? No, they were already lying in wait — and for Gervase Fitz Randolph. Not only had they let Justin go by unscathed, they had also ignored that "swaggering lout with a fine furred mantle and a finer grey stallion," surely a tempting target for men with robbery in mind.

Justin reached for his ale cup, trying to decide what to do next. Even if he could track down the overweening lout or Torold's mayhap-monk, what good would it do? What were they likely to have seen? But there had to be some way of finding the bandits, for how else could he hope to prove who'd hired them? If only he did not have so many suspects! Was it the zealot? The disgruntled brother? The illicit lovers? Or that arrogant, cocksure deputy? Or was it a stranger, elusive and sinister, a spy in the pay of the French king?

"Would you fancy some company?" Without waiting for Justin's response, the woman sat down beside him, staking her claim with good-humored aplomb. It took Justin only a moment or so to decide he'd like to be claimed. It had been too long since he'd lain with a woman, and this one was appealing in an elfin sort of way, fair skin dusted with freckles, small boned and delicate. When Justin signaled for more drinks, she smiled and slid closer on the bench, much closer. "I am Eve."

He doubted it; prostitutes often took on a new name for their precarious profession and "Eve" was a popular choice. Unable to resist the obvious jest, he said with a grin, "I am Adam… and I would love some company, Eve." There was no need to fret over her price, for never had his money pouch been so healthy, well fed with the queen's coins. He was determined that she'd squander neither her money nor her hopes on him. He could not help with what mattered most to Eleanor — he could do nothing to aid her captive son. But he would find a way to solve this Winchester killing for her. And when an ironic, inner voice challenged, "How?" he no longer heard it, for by then Eve was sitting on his lap, and the morrow seemed too far away to worry about.

~~

Justin had elected to stay in the guest hall at Hyde Abbey rather than at an inn, hoping that he might be able to learn something useful about Thomas, the aspiring monk. He'd passed two nights at the abbey so far; the third, he'd spent in Eve's bed. The dawn sky was overcast, but it was not as cold, and there was a jauntiness in Justin's step as he crossed the abbey garth, heading for the stables to check on Copper. After that, his plans for the day were still vague. He'd thought about visiting the city's stables in search of Gervase's stolen stallion, but it seemed a waste of time. Surely the outlaws would not be foolish enough to try to sell the horse in the slain goldsmith's own city?

He was so caught up in his musings that he almost collided with a Benedictine brother, laden with an armful of bulky woolen blankets. When Justin sidestepped in time, the monk gave him a smile of recognition. "Good morrow, Master de Quincy. You're either up very early or you're getting to bed very late… in which case, the less you tell me, the better!"

Justin grinned. "I promise to save all the depraved details for my confessor!" He liked what he'd so far seen of Brother Paul, an urbane, affable man past his prime, but still possessed of a lively curiosity about the world he'd forsaken, with a caustic humor that sometimes startled Justin, coming as it did from a monk's mouth.

Brother Paul chuckled now, then nodded toward his burden. I could use a hand with these blankets. Look upon it as penance for those nocturnal sins of yours!"

Justin obligingly relieved the monk of half his load. "Where are we taking them?"

"Across the garth to the almonry. I'm collecting goods to deliver to the lazar house."

Justin stopped abruptly. "Lazar house?"

"The leper hospital of St Mary Magdalen. Why do you look so surprised? It is our Christian duty to do what we can for Christ's poor, the weak and infirm and afflicted… and few afflictions are more grievous than leprosy."

"Brother Paul… may I fetch the blankets to the lazar house for you?"

The monk was startled, for people rarely volunteered to visit a leper hospital. So pervasive was the fear of the disease that some would not even get downwind of a leper. "If you are truly willing, Master de Quincy, I would be beholden to you, for I have more tasks to do this day than I have time."

"Well, this is one task you'll not have to bother with," Justin said, but his mind was no longer on the monk. Jesu, how could he have forgotten about the leper?

~~

The leper hospital of St Mary Magdalen was about a mile and a half east of Winchester, on the Alresford Road. It was encircled by a wattle-and-daub fence and had a bleak, foreboding look. Reining in his mount, Justin gazed uneasily upon it, girding himself to ride through that gateway. Never before had he set foot in a lazar house; never had he expected to enter one of his own free will. There was no shortage of theories as to what caused leprosy. Some people insisted it was the result of eating rotten meat or drinking bad wine. Others claimed it could be caught by sharing the bed of a woman who'd lain with a leper. There was talk of infected air. And just about everybody believed that the greatest danger of contagion came from the lepers themselves.

"Ah, Lady Eleanor," Justin muttered, "this road is taking some crooked turns…" Nudging Copper forward, he led the abbey's packhorse through the gate and into the hospital precincts.

The first building to meet his eyes was the chapel. Beyond it was the master's hall, and then the refectory, where the lepers ate and slept. There was a barn, a kitchen, a well, and although he could not see one, Justin knew there would be a cemetery, too, for even in death, lepers were shunned. Brother Paul had told him the hospital could accommodate eighteen lepers. That seemed a meagre number to Justin. What of those lepers unable

to gain admittance to a lazar house? He already knew the answer to that, though. They'd beg their bread by the roadside or they'd starve. And sometimes they did both.

By the time he dismounted in front of the chapel, Justin had an audience. He was disquieted by the sight of those spectral figures shuffling toward him, muffled in long leper cloaks, the sort of ghostly shadows that were usually banished by the coming of day. "I am here at the behest of Brother Paul," he said loudly. "I wish to speak to the hospital's master, Father Jerome."

"He is not here." It was not the message, but the voice that swiveled Justin's head toward the speaker, for it was high pitched and youthful, utterly out of place in this abode of death.

"I am Simon." The voice had not lied. This smallest leper smiling up at Justin was a child. As the boy's hood fell back, Justin saw that he was in the early stages of the disease, a reddish rash spreading like a blush across his cheekbones. "Father Jerome went into town. Can I pet your horse?"

Justin nodded wordlessly. The other lepers were moving aside to admit a newcomer to the circle. He was tall and thin, stoop shouldered and ungainly in a black cassock that was too short in the sleeves, and worn and patched at the elbows. But he had a rich man's smile, brighter than newly minted silver coins. "Bless Brother Paul," he exclaimed, "and you, too, friend, for bringing us these supplies. Can you help me get them inside?"

"Of course," Justin said reluctantly. "Will you look after my horse, Simon?" The child nodded, eyes widening like moons, reached eagerly for the reins as soon as Justin swung down the saddle. Hesitantly at first, Simon began to stroke the stallion's neck. Justin turned away hastily, following after the priest.

They introduced themselves as they carried the blankets toward the refectory. Justin was still shaken by his encounter with the boy, but Father Gregory did not let the conversation lag, chatting away as if they were old friends unexpectedly reunited. He was quite young and seemed amazingly relaxed and genial for a man living daily with death. What would impel one to choose such a path? Justin could only marvel at what he could not understand.

"We get few visitors here, so it is not surprising that your arrival caused such a stir. It does our people good, seeing that all do not shrink from them in dread."

Justin had rarely felt so uncomfortable. "The little lad… does he have kin here?"

"No. Simon's family cast him out once his malady was known." The priest sounded neither shocked nor judgmental, but Justin was both. Hissing his breath through his teeth, he shook his head. Father Gregory was not surprised by his silence; there were wrongs that words could not address.

"Do you know what happens once a leper has been detected, Master de Quincy? He is escorted into the church, forced to kneel under a black cloth as Mass is said, and the priest then proclaims him 'dead to the world, reborn to God.' In France, lepers are made to stand in an open grave. We are more merciful than that in England, but here, too, the lepers are driven from our midst, forbidden to enter churches, fairs, markets, taverns, or alehouses, condemned to wander in the wilderness with every man's hand against them… or so it must seem. So when you are willing to come amongst us and show kindness to a child of the Lord, it is no small thing and worthy of — "

"No," Justin interrupted, more sharply than he'd intended. "You give me credit I do not deserve, Father Gregory. I had my own reasons for offering to aid Brother Paul, reasons that had naught to do with Christian charity. I came here in hopes of finding a man — a leper — who may be able to help solve a murder."

Justin wasn't sure what reaction he'd been expecting, but certainly not the one he got. The young priest didn't even blink, merely nodded as if this was an everyday occurrence. "And you think this man is here?"

"I do not know," Justin admitted. "I cannot tell you his name. I cannot tell you what he looks like or even how tall he is, for he was squatting by the roadside when I saw him on Epiphany morn, his face hidden by his hood. I suppose I am asking for a miracle, expecting you to identify someone based on so little, but — "

"His name is Job," the priest said, with a triumphant grin that gave way to outright laughter at Justin's astonishment.

"Nay… no miracle, lad. The answer is simple — you are not the first to seek Job out. The under-sheriff came here, too, in search of him."

"Luke de Marston was looking for him?" Justin asked slowly, and the priest nodded again.

"He knew little more than you, only that Master Fitz Randolph's groom remembered passing a beggar on the road. As soon as he told me it was on Epiphany, I knew it must be Job, for no one else would have ventured out into the snow. No matter how foul the weather, Job begs for alms and then hides the money away ere he returns to us."

By now they'd reached the refectory. Moving up the aisled hall, the priest paused before a large coffer. "We store the blankets here." Once they were neatly folded away, he sat down on the lid and gestured for Justin to join him. "They are supposed to yield up any alms they get, for they are not permitted to own personal property. But Father Jerome turns a blind eye to minor transgressions. He understands why a man like Job needs to have money of his own. Ere a leper can be admitted to a lazar house, he must take vows of chastity, obedience, and poverty. Such vows are not always easy to obey for even the most dedicated of God's servants. Small wonder if some of these poor souls rebel…"

Justin was quiet for a moment, pondering what he'd learned. This was the second time that he'd come across the deputy's tracks, and he liked it not. He wished he could take some reassurance from Luke de Marston's endeavors, but he knew they proved naught about the man's guilt or innocence. Even were his hands as bloody as Herod's, he'd still make a show of searching for the goldsmith's killers. "Tell me," he said at last. "His name

is not really Job, is it?"

"It is what he calls himself now," the priest said quietly.

~~

Job was squatting by the side of the road, as on that Epiphany morning three weeks ago. Reining in his stallion before the man, Justin asked, "Are you Job?" although he was already sure of the leper's identity.

"Who wants to know?" The voice was hoarse, a leper's rasp. His face was hidden by his hood, but his body's rigid pose communicated both tension and suspicion.

"My name is Justin de Quincy. I need to talk with you about the slaying of Gervase Fitz Randolph. Can you spare me some moments?"

"Why not?" The leper watched as Justin dismounted and hitched Copper and the abbey packhorse, and then slowly and deliberately drew back his hood.

Justin had wondered about his motives in choosing to call himself Job, for it could have been an act of utter faith — or a gesture of embittered defiance. He now had his answer. Job was no longer young, not yet old; it was difficult to guess his age, for he'd suffered the hair loss so common to lepers. Justin found the lack of lashes and eyebrows even more disconcerting than the thickened lips and ulcerated lesions. It was like gazing upon an eerie death mask, for as the disease progressed, those afflicted lost the ability to show expression. But those lashless brown eyes were lucid, offering Justin a harrowing glimpse of the soul trapped within that disintegrating body.

"It is only fair that I pay for your time." Justin dropped coins into Job's alms cup, and then sat down on a fallen log, as close as he dared get. Logic told him that leprosy could not be as contagious as people claimed, else caretakers like Father Gregory could not dwell amongst lepers without being stricken with the malady, too. But fear was instinctive and not always amenable to reason.

Job muttered his thanks, and then startled Justin when he commented, "You were not as openhanded the last time."

"Well… my prospects have improved since then. So you remember me?"

"I remember him," Job said, gesturing toward Copper.

"What else do you remember about that morn?"

"The snow started after dawn, and it was colder than a witch's teat. But not as cold as the heart of that hellspawn on a light grey palfrey. For all that he was mantled like a highborn lord, he was as tightfisted as any moneylender. Not only did he refuse to give me so much as a farthing, he turned the air blue with his curses, claiming it was bad luck to encounter 'a stinking leper' when starting out on a journey. Had he a whip, I truly think he would have struck me with it."

"He was no less high handed with the guard at the East Gate," Justin said. "A pity strutting peacocks like that so rarely get their tail feathers plucked as they deserve."

Job's misshapen mouth did not smile, but his eyes held a gleam of mordant amusement. "This peacock did come to grief. He'd not ridden fifty feet after cursing me out when his horse pulled up lame."

Justin frowned, puzzled. "That is odd, for I did not pass him on the road."

"Oh, he did not go all the way back to town. However outraged he was to have 'a stinking leper' cross his path, he was willing enough to turn to us for help. When the snow got too heavy, I returned to the lazar house, and found that Sir High-and-mighty had taken refuge with us. He stayed denned up in the master's quarters till the storm eased, and came back on the morrow for his lamed stallion."

"And let me guess. He showed his gratitude by contributing… what? His good wishes?"

"He promised Father Jerome that he'd send us a wagonful of to get us through the winter. Of course," Job added dryly, "he did not specify which winter."

Justin unfastened his wineskin, took a pull, and then offered it Job. He accepted it with alacrity, and drank deeply before saying, "Next, I remember a Black Monk on a lop-eared mule. From him, I got God's blessings. Then you and your chestnut. At first you seemed like to pass me by, but you changed your mind just in time. I suppose that was why I recognized you again, that and the fact that you were riding a right handsome beast. He

must be… sixteen hands at least, no?"

"Yes, he is. You know your horses, for certes!"

The corner of Job's mouth curved, ever so slightly. "I ought to," he said, with echoes of an almost forgotten pride, "for I was I was a farrier, with my own smithy."

Justin did not know what to say. In his mind's eye, he could imagine the farrier in his prime, muscles bulging as he swung his hammer and heated his forge, those once-powerful hands now so maimed that he could barely grip the wineskin.

It was quiet for a moment, and then Job said abruptly, "The last men to ride by that morn were the goldsmith and his groom. May God assoil him, for he had a good heart, did Master Gervase. In all the time I knew him, he never failed to give alms and a cordial 'good morrow,' too. I do not know why you are seeking to track down his killers, but I hope you get them."

"I hope so, too." Job was holding out the wineskin and Justin swiftly shook his head. "Keep it if you like. On a cold day like this, a man needs a little wine to warm his bones."

"Indeed," Job agreed, sounding pleased. But as their eyes met, Justin saw in the leper's level gaze a cynical understanding: that Justin would never — in this life or the next — have drunk again from that wineskin.

~~

Hyde Abbey lay beyond the city walls, but still within walking distance, and when Justin decided to return to town that evening, he chose to go on foot rather than resaddle Copper.

Admitted through the North Gate, he started down Scowrtene Street.

An early winter dusk had long since settled over Winchester, but the morning's cloud cover had been dispersed by a brisk wind and the night sky was salted with stars. Raising his lantern, Justin veered around a rut in the road. He was heading for Edwin's favorite alehouse on High Street, hoping to find the groom had slipped away for a quick ale. Buying Edwin a drink would be an easy way to learn of any new developments in the Fitz Randolph household. He hoped, too, to spur the other man's memory. Mayhap Edwin had seen more than he'd realized at the ambush.

Justin had stopped at the lazar house again on his way back to Winchester, and Father Gregory had confirmed Job's story. He'd even been able to give Justin the name of the grey stallion's ill-tempered owner: Fulk de Chesney. Justin was not sure what use that might be, for the man could have no knowledge of the ambush. Still, he was grateful for any scrap of information he could muster. He'd seen women sew a quilt out of scraps of material. Who was to say that he could not take these random fragments of fact and make of them a discernable pattern? Not a quilt, but a map, one that might lead to a killer.

There were few people out and about, for activity dwindled drastically once the sun set. But one man had been trailing after Justin ever since he'd left the abbey, matching his pace to Justin's, staying a constant twenty feet behind. When Justin began to walk faster, so did he. When Justin stopped to scrape mud from his boot, the man halted abruptly. It did not take long for Justin to become aware of him. Could this be the same man who'd followed him from the alehouse to the Fitz Randolph manor? But that was like being stalked by a shadow. This one was far more clumsy. Justin was tempted to swing around and confront him, but he wanted to be sure. Better to put his suspicions to the test.

High Street was still a block away, but when he reached the first intersecting street, Justin made a sudden left turn. Soon after, so did his pursuer. Justin deliberately kept his steps unhurried, although his heart had begun to race. There was a tavern up ahead, an alley to his right. He chose the alley. It was narrow and black as pitch. Blowing out his lantern's flame, he flattened himself against a closed door and slid his dagger from its sheath.

He had not long to wait. Footsteps approached the alley, slowed. By now Justin's eyes had adjusted to the darkness and he tensed as a figure filled the entrance. After a moment's hesitation, the shadow entered the alley. As soon as he passed, Justin lunged. The man gave a grunt of alarm, but did not struggle for Justin's knife was at his throat.

"What… what do you want?"

"Answers, but I'll settle for blood if need be. Why were you following me?"

"You're daft! I was not following anybody!"

"Wrong answer. Too bad."

The man yelped. "Christ, you cut me!"

"No, I nicked you. But the next lie will draw blood and a lot of it. So let's start again. What do you want from me?"

"Nothing, I swear it! I was just passing by!"

Justin swore under his breath. But his bluff had been called. He eased his hold and then shoved. The man lurched forward, stumbled, and went down. Swearing and sputtering, he scrambled awkwardly to regain his feet. But Justin had already drawn his sword. Continuing to curse, the man began to back away then whirled and fled down the alley.

Justin watched the man disappear into the darkness, then turned and hastened back to the street. Up ahead a sudden flare of light spilled out into the night as the tavern door was flung open. Within moments, he was inside. Ordering wine, he found himself a corner table with a view of the door.

He'd been more unnerved by that alley confrontation than he cared to admit. It was the uncertainty that he found most troubling. Had he thwarted a robbery? Or foiled an assassination? A month ago it would never even have occurred to him that he might be a target for murder. Now he found it all too easy to believe.

~~

The candle on Justin's table had burned down to a stub. His wine was almost gone, but he thought it best not to order another one. He'd need his wits about him on that long, lonely walk back to the abbey. How was he going to hunt for a killer if he had to keep looking over his shoulder?

Getting reluctantly to his feet, he was dropping a coin onto the table to pay for his drink when a commotion erupted across the chamber. A tipsy customer had paused in the doorway to bid a friend farewell, blocking someone seeking to enter. There was an angry exchange between the two, and then the dawdler was shoved aside and Luke de Marston stalked into the tavern. Striding toward Justin, he snapped, "You are under arrest!"

Justin stiffened. "What for?"

"I daresay I can think of any number of charges. But we'll start with your attack upon my serjeant!"

"Your serjeant!" Only then did Justin notice the man from the alley, glaring at him from behind Luke's shoulder. "Why was he following me?"

"To find out what you're up to — why do you think? Your conduct could not have been more suspicious!"

"Me?" Justin was incredulous. "What did I do that was suspicious?"

"What did you do that was not suspicious? You return to Winchester after witnessing a murder and you seek out the slain man's family. But not the sheriff — no, you vanish ere I can question you. Then you're back all of a sudden, prowling around, asking about the killing, even lurking out at the lazar house! It surprises you that I know about you and the lepers? This is my town, and you are indeed a fool if you thought your meddling would not get back to me!"

"Since when is it a crime to visit a lazar house? As for your serjeant, he followed me all the way from the abbey into town, even into a dark alley. I thought he meant to rob me. What reasonable man would not?"

Luke did not appear impressed with Justin's explanation. "We can discuss what is reasonable and what is not," he said ominously, "back at the castle."

Dropping his hand to the hilt of his sword, the deputy gestured for Justin to surrender his own weapons. He was not about do so, however. Who was to say what might befall him once he disappeared behind the castle walls with Luke de Marston? The tavern was utterly still, all eyes riveted upon the deputy, his serjeant, and the man they meant to arrest. Justin knew he could expect no help from any of the bystanders. He'd have to take on Luke and the serjeant both, not odds he fancied. The serjeant had a grievance to settle and Luke had the look of a born swordsman.

"Ere you do something you'll regret," he said tautly, "you'd best take a look at this."

"What?" Luke watched suspiciously as Justin drew a letter from his tunic and ordered his serjeant to be on the alert before he reached for it. Justin had a sudden, disturbing thought: what if the deputy could not read? He soon saw that this fear was unfounded. Luke gave him a hard, hostile stare, then picked up a candle from a nearby table and began to scan the parchment.

When he was done, Luke regarded Justin with open astonishment. "Well, well," he drawled, "you are full of surprises!"

Turning, he told his serjeant to "Get yourself some wine," ignoring the man's dumbfounded bewilderment. Directing the wide-eyed serving maid to "Fetch us a flagon, sweetheart," he shoved a bench toward Justin's table and settled himself comfortably. Once Justin had done the same, Luke glanced around the tavern, warning the patrons that "The entertainment is over, so cease your gaping and go back to drinking yourselves sodden." Most did, or at least pretended to; Justin noticed that the looks they got after that were surreptitious.

Sliding the queen's letter across the table toward Justin, Luke waited until the serving maid brought them a flagon and two cups and withdrew out of earshot with obvious reluctance. "I suppose there is no point in asking why the Queen of England should be taking such an interest in the murder of a Winchester goldsmith. You're not about to tell me that, are you? But why investigate on your own? Why did you not come to me straightaway?"

Justin said nothing, trying to decide if Luke was in earnest. Now that he was no longer fuming, his appearance had altered almost as dramatically as his demeanor. He was younger than Justin had initially thought, in his mid- to late twenties, with penetrating grass green eyes, thick, tawny hair, and sharply defined features that gave him the look of a hungry, golden hawk, handsome and predatory. Those unsettling hunter's eyes were fastened intently on Justin's face, questioning at first and then comprehending. "I see," he said evenly. "You think I had a hand in the goldsmith's death?"

"You must admit," Justin said, no less coolly, "that you have a most tempting motive for murder."

Luke regarded Justin impassively, then grinned unexpectedly. "Aldith is that, in truth. You've seen her, so I'll not dispute it. Nor will I claim that I shed any tears for Gervase Fitz Randolph. I did not mourn the man. But I did not murder him, either."

"I will pass your assurances on to the queen," Justin said, with lethal courtesy. He knew full well that this mention of Eleanor was a low blow, but he had the advantage for the moment and meant to make the most of it.

An angry shadow chased across Luke's face, but he showed now that he could rein in his temper when need be. "If not for that letter," he said bluntly, "I'd tell you to stuff your suspicions up your arse. But you are the queen's man and we both know that changes everything. So I'll tell you about Aldith and me. I love the woman. I've been besotted with her since the first day we met. Did I want to share her with Fitz Randolph? Of course I did not. Was I jealous? You know damned well that I was. Did I kill him? No, I did not. Even if I'd been sorely crazed enough to consider murder — and I was not — there was no need. Aldith chose me, not the goldsmith."

Justin did not trouble to hide his skepticism. "It is easy enough to say that now."

Luke smiled thinly. "Because Fitz Randolph is dead and Aldith a suspect witness in your eyes? It is true, nonetheless. You see, I was willing to offer her what the goldsmith could not — marriage."

Justin was taken aback. "You would have married her?"

Luke's head came up sharply. "I will marry her," he said, "as soon as we can post the banns." He sounded not so much defensive as defiant, and it was that which convinced Justin he was speaking the truth — at least about wanting to wed Aldith. Luke was gentry. Without knowing anything else about him, Justin did know that much, for only the wellborn were candidates for positions of authority. Aldith was no fit wife for a man with ambitions. Marrying her would not advance Luke's prospects; on the contrary. And for the first time, Justin's distrust of the deputy was tempered by a more positive emotion: a flicker of respect. Still, though, he had to ask. "If you were to wed, why was she still with Gervase?"

"For you to understand, you have to know about Aldith. Her life has not been easy. Her father was a potter at Michelmersh. That is a poor trade at best, and he was poorer than most, with few customers and too many mouths to feed. When Aldith was fifteen, her family married her off to a Winchester baker. The man was nigh on forty years older than she, tightfisted and sour tempered and poorly after their first year, when he was stricken by apoplexy. She was left a widow at twenty, with barely enough to bury him. It was then that she took up with Fitz Randolph."

Luke paused to drain his wine cup. "He was good to her, de Quincy. I do not like saying it, but it happens to be true. He was generous by nature, willing to help out her family. As for Aldith herself… well, he saw that she wanted for nothing. And she was grateful. She told me once that the one memory which stays green over the years is of going to bed hungry."

"So you are saying that after all he'd done for her, she was loath to hurt him?"

"Yes… that is exactly what I am saying." Luke's eyes met Justin's, challengingly, as if daring him to scoff. But it seemed plausible to Justin and he merely nodded. Somewhat mollified, Luke signaled for more wine before continuing. "She got me to promise that she could tell him in her own time and her own way. Aldith has ever been one for putting off unpleasantness, so I daresay she'd have delayed as long as she could. But she'd have told him. I'd have seen to that."

Justin didn't doubt it. If Aldith had been his woman, he'd have seen to that, too. "I've another question for you," he said, implicitly acknowledging by the change of subject that he believed Luke's account, an admission not lost upon Luke. "How did you know that I was in this tavern?"

Luke's smile was complacent. "My serjeant is not as inept as you think. True, his attempt to follow you was not a rousing success. I gather he could not have been more conspicuous if he'd worn a sack over his head. But he does have a few grains of common sense. Also, he knew I'd skin him alive if he reported that he'd lost you. After that friendly little joust in the alley, Wat was in dire need of an ale, or two or three. It occurred to him that you might have the same urgent thirst, so he crept back up the alley and peered into the tavern to see if he was right. Lucky for you he was no cutthroat or hired assassin."

"Yes, lucky," Justin said tersely, more annoyed with his own carelessness than with Luke's gibe. He still had a lot to learn about self-preservation.

"Do you want to tell me why you think the ambush was not a robbery gone wrong? Or do I have to guess?"

Justin felt a flash of irritation, but Luke's sarcasm notwithstanding, he had a right to know. "I have reason to believe that it was no random robbery. The outlaws were lying in wait for Fitz Randolph." And as concisely as possible, he told Luke why he was sure that was so.

"You're right," Luke agreed, as soon as Justin had concluded. "It does sound like a hired killing. But done at whose behest? Was I your only suspect? Flattering as that might be, where does that leave us now?" He looked quizzically across the table at Justin, and then scowled. "By God, you did not think that Aldith…?"

"Make yourself easy. She was never a suspect." A corner of Justin's mouth quirked. "In truth, I could not imagine any woman wanting you badly enough to commit murder."

"Likewise." The corners of Luke's mouth were twitching, too. "So who else wanted the man dead? Any family squabbles I ought to know about? I seem to remember Aldith telling me that the son was at odds with the old man, wanting to be a priest?"

"A monk. And yes, he is a suspect — one of several. The daughter is in love with Fitz Randolph's journeyman, but he was set upon wedding her to a wellborn widower. And Fitz Randolph's brother argued with him often about money and is now as nervous as a treed cat."

"'And a man's foes shall be they of his own household.'" Luke shook his head, then smiled ruefully. "I'm not usually one for quoting from Scriptures, but there is nothing usual about any of this, is there? How often do we find the Queen of England somehow linked to a goldsmith? Let's start with the ambush itself and track from there. Do you think you could identify the outlaws?"

"I never got a close look at the man trying to hold onto Fitz Randolph's stallion. He was uncommonly tall and big boned, but that is all I can tell you. I did see the one who did the stabbing, though. I can even give you a name; his partner called him 'Gib.'"

"Gilbert? There are more Gilberts roaming the countryside than we could hope to count. A pity he had not been christened something less popular, like Drogo or Barnabus. What did this 'Gib' look like?"

"Of middle height and build, with brown hair. I never got close enough to tell eye color for certes, but I'd say dark. As for age, I'd guess closer to thirty than forty. And he was Saxon, not Norman. They both were, for they were speaking English."

"You've a sharp eye," Luke said approvingly. "But is there anything you might have forgotten?" All business now, he leaned across the table. Justin had seen such single-minded intensity before, usually on the hunting field. "Sometimes a witness will overlook a small detail," Luke explained, "thinking it insignificant. Most often it is, but every now and then… I once solved a murder because the killer dropped a key near the body. Is there anything else that you've not told me?"

That was an awkward question, for there was a great deal Justin was concealing: that blood-stained letter, a royal captive in Austria, the shadow cast by the French king. "Well," he said finally, "there was something. It sounds foolish and most likely means nothing, but I thought I saw a snake."

Luke's hand froze on the flagon. "A snake?"

Justin nodded. "I know what you're thinking. Snakes den up during the winter months. So why would one be slithering about on the Alresford Road? But it sure as hellfire looked like a snake!"

"It was. I can tell you that for certes. I can also tell you who killed Gervase Fitz Randolph — a misbegotten whoreson known as Gilbert the Fleming."

Luke smiled grimly at the expression of amazement on Justin's face. "This is not the first time he has made use of that snake trick, so I can even tell you how he did it. He found a snake's burrow, dug it out, put it in a sack, and then flung it out into the road as the goldsmith and groom rode by. Nothing spooks horses as much as snakes do — it's an almost foolproof way to get a man thrown."

"That would explain why their horses bolted without warning. What do you know about this man?"

"That hanging is too good for him," Luke said harshly. "Gilbert is a local lad, although he long since moved on to London; better pickings there, I suppose. But he comes back to visit his kinfolk, and last summer he was implicated in a brutal double murder here. He ambushed a merchant and his wife on the Southampton Road, he and another devil's whelp. The man, they killed outright. After raping the woman, Gilbert took his blade to her, and left her to bleed to death by the side of the road. Our Gib does not believe in leaving witnesses behind; so much tidier that way. But the merchant's wife did not die, not right away. She lived long enough to tell about the snake and the ambush and to put a rope about Gilbert's wretched neck."

"Christ have pity," Justin said softly.

"I spent every waking hour hunting them down. We caught his partner, tried him, and then hanged him out on Andover Road. But Gilbert had the devil's own luck and somehow got away. I heard that he'd gone back to London and I warned the sheriffs there to keep an eye out for him, but London is a big enough log to hide any number of maggots. I suppose Gilbert decided enough time had gone by for him to risk returning. God rot him, but he has never lacked for nerve."

"Why is he called Gilbert the Fleming? You said he is Winchester born and bred; did his family come over from Flanders?"

"They call him that," Luke said, "because he is so handy with a knife. Have you not heard men say that there is nothing sharper than a Fleming's blade?"

Justin nodded somberly, chilled to think what would have happened to Edwin had he not gone back in answer to that cry for help. "Do you think you can find him?"

"If I do not, it'll not be for want of trying. At first light, I'll get the word out on the street, and we'll keep his family so closely watched that they'll not be able to burp without one of my men hearing." With that, Luke pushed the bench out and stood up. "I have to get back to the castle. I was in the midst of an interrogation when Wat came bursting in. I'll let you know what I find out about Gilbert. Meanwhile, de Quincy, stay out of alleys." He grinned, then signaled to the tavern owner. "Rayner, put his drinks on my account."

Collecting Wat, the deputy swaggered out, the focal point of all eyes. Justin caught the tavern owner's glowering in his direction and transformed the man's frown to a grateful smile by deliberately dropping some coins onto the table. He knew very well that Luke never paid for the bills he ran up in taverns and alehouses; he'd see free drinks as one of the many perquisites of his office.

After Luke's departure, the tavern patrons settled back to their drinks and their draughts games and their gossip. Justin slouched down in his seat, trying to ignore the curious looks being aimed his way. He needed solitude to assess what the deputy had told him. Could he truly trust Luke de Marston? If so, he'd gained an invaluable ally. If not, he might not live to regret it.