The Queen Man

7

WINCHESTER

January 1193

The sky had begun to lighten toward the east, mother-of-pearl faintly tinged with rose. Justin kept his eyes on that brightening horizon. Rarely had he been so glad to see a night end. He was exhausted, for the hours after the discovery of Kenrick's body had been filled with activity, much of it unpleasant.

Luke had raised the hue and cry in Winnal, the hamlet northeast of the city walls, to make sure none of the householders had given Gilbert shelter, willingly or otherwise. The body had to be removed, taken to St John's, the closest church. The mill had to be searched and then put under guard. And Kenrick's wife and children had to be told of his death.

That had been as painful a duty as any Justin had ever undertaken. He'd counted six children, most too young to comprehend their mother's stunned, stifled grieving. He and Luke had escorted her to the church, for she would have no hand but hers wash her husband and make him ready for burial. Having found neighboring women to tend the sleepy, bewildered children, they were now returning to the scene of the Fleming's latest killing, arriving back at the mill soon after daybreak.

As early as it was, there was a large, curious crowd gathered outside, for word of the murder had spread like wood smoke. They found Luke's serjeant Wat arguing heatedly with a portly, red-faced man who turned out to be the Durngate miller. He seemed to be taking the death of his hired man in stride, but he was furious that he'd not be able to open his mill, and began to argue with Luke as soon as they'd dismounted, complaining that he'd lose money if he had to turn away customers.

Luke pushed past the miller as if he weren't there. When he started to follow, the deputy swung around. "It would be a great pity, Abel, if you were to trip and fall into the millrace. Of course if you did, we'd fish you out — eventually." The miller looked outraged, but he showed that he was not an utter fool by backing off. Leaving his serjeant to deal with Abel, Luke entered the mill, with Justin a step behind.

In the light of day, the mill was even dirtier. Luke glanced around with distaste, then made for the ladder. Justin followed reluctantly. There was more blood than he remembered. Abel would have a hard time scrubbing those millstones clean, if indeed he bothered. "What I do not understand," he said, "is how the killing took place up here. Did Gilbert force him into the loft at knifepoint, and if so, why?"

"Kenrick was already up here," Luke said, beckoning Justin toward a far corner of the loft. "See that napkin? The bread crumbs and grease stains on it? This was Kenrick's last meal. He brought along his supper to eat whilst he waited for me. But the Fleming got here first."

"How did Gilbert get in?"

"Kenrick may have left the door unbarred for me. Or more likely, Gilbert forced it. Take a look at the latch ere we leave. It was half rusted off. Abel is not one for making repairs."

A vivid imagination could be a burden. Justin was able to envision all too well how it must have been for Kenrick, trapped the loft, looking down and seeing his cousin below. "Why did not knock the ladder down, yell for help, fight back?"

"Have you ever seen a cornered rabbit? They freeze sometimes; fear can do that. Or it may be that Gilbert was friendly at first. Since most people are good at believing what they want to be true, Kenrick may have convinced himself that Gilbert's visit was pure chance — and not because he'd learned that Kenrick had been asking too many questions. With Gilbert, a man need only let down his guard for the blink of an eye. Nothing strikes faster than a snake, de Quincy."

The shutters were still open. Crossing to the window, Luke looked out. "Come here," he said, "and look at this tree. See that broken branch? I was wondering how that whoreson got out without breaking his wretched neck. I think he leaped toward the tree; it is almost close enough to reach. He caught hold of that branch and then dropped down to the ground."

One glance at that sagging tree branch was enough to convince Justin that Luke's conjecture was very plausible. "Is that man's luck never going to run out? How often does he get — "

A sudden uproar below drowned out the rest of Justin's words. The door banged and a man burst into the mill, shaking off Wat's restraining hold. "Tell this fool I can enter, de Marston," he demanded. "I've a right to be here!" He was a stranger to Justin, a man in his sixties, grizzled and gaunt, with hollowed eyes rimmed in red, a mouth not shaped for smiling. "I want to see," he said harshly, "where my son died."

"Let him go, Wat." Luke moved to the edge of the loft. "Come on up, Ivo."

Ivo climbed the ladder with difficulty, glaring at Justin when he offered a hand. He halted before the millstones, staring down at the bloodstains. "You had to meddle," he said, "and look what you caused. You got my boy killed!"

Luke's mouth twisted. "I was not the one wielding the knife. This was your nephew's doing, not mine."

"Gib did not do it. He'd not kill one of his own."

"That must be a great comfort to Kenrick."

"Damn you!" His voice shaking, Ivo looked at the deputy with loathing. "You're lying."

"Why do you think he cut Kenrick's throat? He was sending a message to the rest of Winchester, and you know it, Ivo. What will it take to make your family face the truth about him? Killing comes easy to Gilbert. Yesterday it was Kenrick. Tomorrow it could be you if he starts to wonder how trustworthy you are."

"He said you'd try to blame him for Kenrick's death. But he swore he did not do it, and I believe him."

"No," Luke said, "you do not," and the older man flinched, his shoulders sagging. "If the lot of you had not kept lying for him and protecting him, Kenrick would still be alive. So would the goldsmith and that poor woman he murdered out on the Southampton Road. I know you do not grieve for them, but I will give you the benefit of the doubt and assume you do grieve for your son. Tell me the truth, Ivo. You owe Kenrick that much."

Ivo started to turn away, but Luke caught his arm. "I did not see Gib," he said hoarsely. "He talked to my brother. He said… said you were falsely blaming him for Kenrick's killing and it would be too dangerous for him to stay around Winchester."

Luke's grip tightened. "Where was he going?"

"London. He told my brother he was going back to London."

~~

After buying sausages and bread from a street vendor, Luke and Justin withdrew to eat them in a tavern across the road from the castle. "Do you believe Ivo?" Justin asked between bites of sausage. "You think Gilbert is heading for London?"

"It makes sense. He did not expect to be caught in the act, after all. A weasel always goes back to its burrow, and this particular weasel has any number of London lairs to hide away in."

"You think the partner has taken flight, too?"

"Do I look like a soothsayer?" Luke finished one sausage, reached for another. "Sorry, lack of sleep is making me testy."

"No more than usual." Justin was quite willing to indulge Luke's short temper, impressed by the deputy's ability to reconstruct the crime scene and by the reckless courage that had sent him up the ladder, not knowing if a killer lay in wait. A pity he would have to go without Luke's help in London. "Have tales ever gotten back to Winchester about Gilbert's London crimes? Anything at all that might prove useful in tracking him down?"

"I've been thinking about that, too. For reasons you're not likely to reveal, the queen seems to want this killing investigated on the quiet. Even so, the London sheriffs need not be kept out of it.

"Wait — hear me out, de Quincy. I know one of the sheriffs from a past visit to London, a man named Roger Fitz Alan. He seems to be a good sort, and he knows how to stay afloat in political currents, for he is the mayor's nephew. Let me write to him, reminding him that Gilbert is wanted in Winchester for those two killings last summer and now for two more. I'll make it sound like a local matter, tell him we're very keen on hanging Gilbert and ask his help in your hunt for the man. There is nothing odd about a request like that, and I can assure you he'll not take it amiss."

"Well… I'll have to get the queen's consent first. But the idea does have merit. I could use some help, for I'm not that familiar with London."

"You'll not get as much help as you ought, for the sheriffs are likely to have few men to spare in a hunt for a Winchester killer. Without a royal command to nudge them along, they'll give priority to their own slayings, and I cannot fault them for it; I'd do the same. So if the man is to be found, you'll have to do it. But if you're lucky enough to locate him, do not try to capture him on your own. Let the sheriff send men to arrest him. Gilbert the

Fleming is a worthless devil's whelp, but he is also extremely dangerous, as coldhearted a knave as I've ever come across."

"Have a care, Luke," Justin said, grinning, "for you're beginning to sound as if you're worried about me!"

Luke snorted. "When cows fly!" But after a moment, he said, with unwonted gravity, "Just remember why he is called Gilbert the Fleming. Even a queen's letter is no shield against so sharp a blade."

~~

Luke had the letter waiting for Justin when he stopped by the castle early the next morning. Justin tucked it away with the queen's letter, hoping that Eleanor would be receptive to its use. He'd decided that there was a lot to be said for having a sheriff as ally.

He then made a quick side trip to the Fitz Randolph stable, wanting to tell Edwin that he was departing for London. After extracting another promise from Edwin to be circumspect about his suspicions, he rode away with the groom's "Good hunting!" echoing in his ears.

He'd planned to leave the city straightaway, but as the priory of St Swithun came into sight, he reined in, and on impulse, turned into the cemetery. Row after row of weathered, flat tombstones met his eye, like an army lining up in battle array, making ready to fight a war already lost. He'd never passed a cemetery without thinking of his mother, wondering where she was buried, if there was anyone to tend her grave, if there had been anyone to mourn her.

Hitching Copper, he got directions from one of the monks. Making his way among the tombstones, he had almost reached the Fitz Randolph plot when he saw the woman kneeling by the grave. Her back was to him, but he recognized Ella Fitz Randolph at once, looking frail and forlorn in her drab widow's garb.

Justin stopped abruptly, unwilling to intrude. Even at a distance, he could hear the sounds of her sobbing, stirring a sharp pang of pity. And yet he found an odd sort of comfort in her tears, too. At least there was one to weep for the slain goldsmith.

Retrieving Copper, he was heading for the East Gate when he remembered that he'd forgotten to tell Luke that he planned to stay at the Holy Trinity priory once he got to London. It was vexing, but there was no help for it; he'd have to go back. Luke had promised to let him know if he found out anything about Gilbert's partner, and he was beginning to put a great deal of stock in Luke's word.

Returning to the castle, he was told that Luke had gone off to get breakfast across the street. The tavern was the same one where they'd eaten their sausage the day before. Justin pushed the door open, peering inside. He soon saw Luke, seated with another man at a corner table. But then he froze in disbelief. Very slowly he backed out, taking care not to be noticed. Swinging up into the saddle, he urged his stallion into a brisk canter, and he was soon on the road to London. But his thoughts were still in the tavern with Luke and his companion — Durand, John's spy.