The Queen Man

9

LONDON

February 1193

Early the next morning, Justin set out to find Roger Fitz Alan. He tried the Tower first, but the sheriff had already departed for the Guildhall. Mounting Copper again, he headed for Aldermanbury Street. Upon his arrival at the Guildhall, though, he learned that the sheriff had been there and gone. Feeling as if he were chasing down a will-o'-the-wisp, he rode west toward the city gaol.

~~

The Thames was the lifeblood of London, but it was not the city's only river. The Fleet began as a stream on Hampstead's hill, and had various names as it wound its way south. By the time it flowed into the Thames, it had widened and deepened enough to be navigated by barges and fishing boats, and was known as the River Fleet. It was here that the gaol of London was located, a massive, moated building of slate-colored stone set within a barren prison bailey, as desolate and depressing a sight as Justin had ever seen.

His visit proved to be as futile as it was unsettling. Once again he'd missed the sheriff, and this time the trail had gone cold. Roger Fitz Alan had said nothing about where he was going next. Muttering a few choice swear words to himself, Justin unhitched Copper and tried to decide what to do.

It was difficult to concentrate, though, for his senses were still being assailed by the sounds and stenches of prison life. The moat was filled with stagnant water from the river, fetid and murky. Justin would rather not know what lay hidden in its disgusting depths. The prison itself had an offensive odor, too, a rancid mingling of urine, unwashed bodies, sweat, and fear. Even out in the bailey, the air seemed tainted.

The noise had not abated, either, for the gaol had an iron grate, giving prisoners a narrow window to the world. Manacled hands thrust through the rusted apertures, and voices echoed after Justin, entreating alms, for Christ's pity. He'd already dropped a handful of small coins into outstretched palms, for Luke had told him something startling about a prisoner's lot.

According to the deputy, King Henry had provided his sheriffs with funds to feed the imprisoned. But the practice had become sporadic under King Richard, and more and more, prisoners were left to fend for themselves. Those who could not afford to pay for meals, bedding, firewood, candles, or clothing did without — unless they could prevail upon the charity of passersby like Justin.

Now, as Justin watched, a man was dragged out into the bailey and wrestled into the stocks. Two other prisoners were already being punished this way. Yet they greeted the newcomer with no sympathy, only mockery and taunts. Even after his wrists and ankles had been immobilized within the wooden frame, the man continued to struggle, to the amusement of his guards and fellow prisoners. His defiance would not last long, for his tunic was threadbare and ragged and the day blustery and raw, February at its worst. Justin had seen enough. Swinging up into the saddle, he rode out of the bailey, not looking back.

He had decided to return to the Tower, for the sheriff was sure to turn up there sooner or later. But it was past the dinner hour. He'd often seen vendors selling mutton or eel pies in the city streets. Thinking that he'd be most likely to find one midst the bustle of the wharves, he rode south, intending to follow the Fleet down to the Thames waterfront.

The sun had begun to tease the winter-weary Londoners, offering them tantalizingly brief glimpses of brightness through breaks in the cloud cover. Justin had passed the Fleet Bridge when a child's stricken wail interrupted his musings about the whereabouts of Gilbert the Fleming. A small boy, no more than five, was gesturing in panic toward the river, entreating his mother to "Save him, Mama!"

Justin reined in, scanning the river in vain for signs of a drowning victim. "What is amiss?" he asked the closest spectator, a man who had the look of a sailor, for his skin was as weathered and browned as saddle leather. "Did someone fall in the river?"

The sailor shook his head. "Two louts threw a dog off the bridge, and the little lad saw." He sounded regretful, although it was not clear whether his sympathy was for the child or the dog. When life was so hard for people, not many worried about cruelty to animals. There were those with a fondness for dogs, of course, and the sailor might be one. He confirmed that a moment later by saying indignantly, "The pup never had a chance, for they weighed him down with a sackful of rocks." Justin felt equally indignant. He still remembered how desperately he'd wanted a dog during those lonely childhood years. On the bridge, the young men were laughing and joking, while below them, a little boy was sobbing as if his heart would break. Coming as it did so soon after his disquieting visit to the gaol, the dog's drowning stirred a sharp-edged anger in Justin. Had the smirking youths up on the bridge come down, he'd have been sorely tempted to exact a rough justice of his own. But they were safely out of reach. He was nudging his stallion on when the child cried shrilly, "Look, Mama! There he is!"

A dark head had broken the surface of the water. Struggling desperately against the weight dragging him down, the dog lunged for the light, frantically gulping air before he went under again. It was a gallant effort, and a doomed one. Battling two foes — the river current and that sackful of stones — the dog would soon be too fatigued to fight on. Those watching knew that the animal was going to drown.

Only the small child and the young dog would not surrender hope. Resisting his mother's attempts to pull him away, the boy wept and pleaded, and the adults shifted awkwardly under his imploring gaze. Very few people knew how to swim, and only a madman would jump into an icy river to save a dog, no matter how good a swimmer he was. There were murmurings in the crowd, and even some anger. Why must the wretched beast prolong his agony — and their discomfort?

Casting common sense to the winds, Justin dismounted and handed his reins to the most trustworthy of the bystanders, an elderly Cluniac monk. "I'd be obliged if you'd watch my horse, Brother."

Striding out onto the wharf, he looked in vain for a small boat tied up to one of the pilings; he supposed that would have been too much to hope for. But he did find a rusty grappling hook. Feeling like a fool, he knelt at the end of the pier and urged the terrified animal to swim toward him. Only the dog's muzzle and eyes were visible now, but those eyes were going to haunt his peace; he well knew it. Try as he might, though, he could not get close enough even to attempt a rescue. "It is no use," he muttered, not sure whether he was talking to himself or the dog, "no use…"

"I'll hold you steady, lad," a voice offered behind him, and he glanced up to discover that he'd been followed by the sailor and most of the onlookers. Praying that he'd not plunge headfirst into the river, he unbuckled his sword and then let the sailor lower him over the edge of the wharf.

The dog was still beyond reach, and Justin knew they were running out of time. "Lady Mary, smile upon us," he whispered. Dipping the grapnel into the water, he coaxed, "Come on, boy, over here!" The dog swam closer, passed over the grappling hook, and circled back. And then the chain jerked in Justin's grip.

"Jesu, I snared it!" Justin had not truly expected to succeed, but the dog's head and shoulders suddenly popped out of the water, proof that he had indeed/managed to snag the rope. A cheer rose from the crowd and the sailor let out a triumphant whoop. But Justin's elation soon ebbed. What now?

"If I pass the grappling hook to you," he told the sailor, "I might be able to cut the rope with my sword. But how do we get him out of the river? He'll never make it to shore on his own; the bank is too steep for him to climb."

"Do you think you can lift the rope up high enough for me to get a grip on it?"

"I can try," Justin said dubiously, and slowly began to maneuver the grappling hook toward the surface. It was heavy and he suddenly realized that he hadn't caught the rope at all; it was the sack itself. By the Rood, what luck! The Blessed Mother Mary truly had favored them. A moment later the sack came into view, neatly speared on one of the grappling claws. "Pull me up," he directed, and then it was the sailor's turn to lean out recklessly into space. As Justin reeled in the grappling hook, the sailor snatched at it and grinned when his fist closed tightly around the rope.

"I'm going to hoist him up," he said. "Better to hurt him than to let him drown."

Justin nodded, then swung his sword and sliced through the rope, above the knot. The sack sank back into the river with a splash, and he reached over to help the sailor haul the dog up onto the wharf. A sharp tug, a yelp, and it was done. The spectators at once recoiled, not wanting to be sprayed. But the dog was too weak to shake himself and lay motionless on the wooden planks, his sides heaving. Bending down, Justin cut the rope away from his neck. For some suspenseful moments, the animal lay still, limp and sodden. Then he gagged and began to retch.

The tension eased and people started to laugh and talk. Justin and the sailor found themselves encircled by approving men and women. Even those who'd normally have been indifferent to a dog's death had been caught up in the drama of the rescue, and

all were well pleased by the outcome — save only the two youths on the bridge.

They'd been hooting and jeering, but Justin had been too preoccupied to pay them any heed. Now his anger came back in a rush, and when one of them began to curse him for "meddling with our dog," he shouted a defiant challenge. "Come down and claim him then — if you dare!"

The crowd liked that, and a few men spoke loudly of thrashings and worse. The youths continued to rant, but prudently stayed where they were. Someone found Justin a hemp sack and he dried the shivering dog as best he could. By now the dog's first champion had squirmed through the throng of onlookers. Kneeling by the animal, the child took the wet head into his lap, looking up at Justin and the sailor with a smile of purest joy.

A peddler drawn by the crowd had begun to boast about his "hot, savory pies." They were neither hot nor savory, baked hours ago and flecked with grease, but he was soon selling them at a rapid rate. Justin bought two, and offered one to the dog, whose protruding ribs testified to a constant hunger. So, too, did the way he wolfed the pie down, and Justin ended up feeding him the second one, too. The excitement over, people were beginning to drift away. When the little boy's mother pulled him to his feet, Justin suggested that "This would make a fine pet for your lad."

The boy's face lit up, but the woman gave Justin an irate look, snapping, "Indeed not! Come along, Ned." Still glaring over her shoulder at Justin, she hustled her small son off the pier.

Justin and the sailor exchanged smiles. Their partnership had been highly satisfactory, but it was done. Retrieving his stallion from the patiently waiting monk, Justin mounted and started to ease Copper out into the road. He was followed by a ripple of laughter. Glancing back in puzzlement, he soon saw the cause of the crowd's amusement. The dog had lurched to his feet and was trailing after him.

~~

Justin had planned to follow Thames Street east to the Tower. The traffic was heavy, the street crowded with horsemen, lumbering carts, pedestrians, and stray animals. But as he neared the new bridge, the street became so congested that movement ceased altogether. Peering impatiently ahead, he sought the cause for this disruption. As soon as he saw a man riding backward, forced to face his horse's tail, hands and feet tied and drenched in wine, he understood. A baker who tampered with his scales, a vintner who watered down his wine, any merchant who cheated customers, could expect the same derisory treatment: paraded through the city so all could bear witness to his disgrace. Justin approved of the punishment, but he had no time to watch this day, and he turned off onto Bridge Street, planning to detour around the procession.

He still had not lost his canine shadow. At first he'd tried halfheartedly to discourage the dog. But he'd then decided that it might be best for the poor creature to get as far away as possible from his tormentors. Who was to say that they might not try again once the pup's protectors were gone?

Encountering another peddler, Justin remembered that he hadn't eaten yet and beckoned the man over. A hopeful whimper earned the young dog a pork pie of his own. Tossing a coin to the vendor, Justin was soon on his way again. He'd not gone far, though, before his mount's gait changed. Frowning, he swung from the saddle. A close inspection of Copper's left forefoot revealed the problem — a pebble wedged between the frog and inner rim of the shoe. But try as he might, he could not dislodge the stone. Straightening up, he stood by his lamed stallion in the busy city street and cursed his bad luck. It didn't help.

~~

Justin fidgeted, waiting anxiously for the verdict. But the farrier would not be hurried. A lean, greying man in his forties, sparing with words, he went about his tasks calmly and methodically, first winning the stallion's trust and only then examining the foot and extracting the pebble with a pair of pinchers.

"The hoof is badly bruised," he announced at last. "But I do not think the injury is a crippling one. I can make up a poultice now, if you like. You'll not be able to ride him for a few days, though, as he'll need time to heal."

When Justin readily agreed, saying he'd never put the stallion at risk, the farrier nodded approvingly, for not all of his customers were so solicitous of their mounts. They soon reached a mutually acceptable price for boarding and treating Copper, and when Justin asked about nearby lodgings, the smith suggested that he try the alehouse on Gracechurch Street.

"The owner of the alehouse no longer lives above-stairs and rents the rooms out. Ask for Nell. Tell her that Gunter the smith sent you."

The alehouse was just a stone's throw from the farrier's smithy, a two-story, overhanging timber building that had seen better days; its whitewash was grey, its shutters warped, and its ale-pole sagged out into the street at a drunken angle. Inside, it was dark and smelled strongly of spilt ale. A drunken customer was slumped over a corner table, snoring. Two other men were playing draughts and flirting with a bored serving maid. She looked toward Justin without noticeable interest. "What can I get for you, friend?"

"I would like to speak to Nell."

"You already are," she said, and Justin gave her a startled reappraisal. Managing an alehouse was a demanding job for anyone, especially a woman, and he had instinctively envisioned Nell as a formidable, no-nonsense beldame, well armored in years and flesh. Instead, he found himself staring at a wood sprite. She was young, not much older than Justin himself, and tiny, barely five feet, with a summer cloudburst of curly hair pouring out of its pins, a sprinkling of freckles, and bright blue eyes fringed with golden lashes. At first glance, she seemed like a rabbit among foxes; Justin could not imagine a more alien environment for her than this squalid alehouse. But those blue eyes were neither guileless nor trustful, and when he asked to rent a room, she studied him with a skeptical smile.

"Why would you want to stay in a hovel like this?"

Justin was amused by her bluntness. "I commend your honesty — if not your hospitality. I've a lamed horse across the street at the smithy, and I need a place close at hand till he is fit to ride again. Gunter said you'd probably be able to rent me a room. Now… can you or not?"

"Gunter vouches for you? Why did you not say so?" This time her smile was real, although her eyes remained guarded. "My daughter and I share one of the rooms, so I'm particular about who I rent to. If Gunter thinks you're trustworthy, that is good enough me. If you are willing to pay a half-penny a night, the room is yours. But no dogs."

"I do not have a — oh, no." Glancing around, Justin discovered that the pup had followed him into the alehouse and was sitting placidly at his feet. "He is not mine."

Nell's skeptical smile came back. "Does he know that?"

Justin smiled ruefully. "Well… I'm doing my best to convince him. He truly is not mine, but I am trying to find a home for him. He'd be here a day or so, no more — "

"Indeed not. We get enough fleas from our regular customers. I do not need a mangy cur bringing more in, too."

"If he had any fleas, they all drowned in the Fleet."

Nell scowled, but curiosity won out. "What was he doing in the river? It's a cold day for a swim."

"A couple of misbegotten dolts threw him off the bridge. I fished him out and then made the mistake of feeding him. The poor beast has not known much kindness in his life, for certes — or much luck, either. You can change that, lass. Just give me a day to find him a home."

"I never had a man try to seduce me for a dog before," Nell said tartly. "One day and that is all!"

Picking up one of the sputtering tallow candles, she led him into the stairwell. The dog frisked along after them, determined not to let Justin out of his sight. The room was small, containing only a stool and a pallet. Justin could not help laughing when the dog immediately hopped onto the bed. Trying to sound stern, he ordered, "Shadow, off!"

Setting the candle down on the stool, Nell headed for the door. The last word was hers. "Not your dog — hah!"

~~

After buying parchment, a quill pen, and ink at the Eastcheap market, Justin wrote Luke a brief letter, informing the deputy that he could be reached at the alehouse. If Luke discovered the identity of the Fleming's partner, that would be a message too important to miss. He could only hope that he was not also informing John where he could be found. He set out then for the Tower, occasionally glancing over his shoulder to see if the dog was still following; he was. They reached the Tower in late afternoon, and this time Justin's luck had changed; the sheriff was in.

Roger Fitz Alan could not have been more unlike Luke de Marston. He was smooth and polished and bland — no sharp edges, no hidden depths, no salt. Justin would not have needed to be told that his was a political appointment. Fitz Alan admitted somewhat reluctantly that he had no personal knowledge of this Gilbert the Fleming. But he readily promised to do what he could to apprehend the man. "One of my serjeants may be able to help you. He knows all the ratholes in London, and most of the rats. I'll have him seek you out at that alehouse… on Gracechurch Street, you said?"

Justin thanked the sheriff politely, but without either enthusiasm or optimism. It sounded as if he was on his own. Masking his disappointment as best he could, he bade the sheriff farewell, and exited out into the Tower bailey. Almost at once, his mood — and his day — took a turn for the better. A throaty female voice murmured his name, and he turned to greet Claudine de Loudun.

"Who is your furry friend?"

Justin was more than willing to relate the story of the dog's rescue, for he knew that was the sort of exploit likely to win favor with most women, and this was one woman whose favor he very much wanted to win. By the time he was done, he thought he was making progress, too, for Claudine had listened with rapt attention and a smile that hinted at any number of intriguing possibilities.

"You have a good heart, Master de Quincy."

"I also have a dog, demoiselle, one I cannot keep. You could, though. Wait… hear me out. Just look at this handsome beast."

He was playing fast and loose with the truth now, for Shadow was bedraggled, gaunt, and dirty, his long black fur matted, his hip protruding at an odd angle. Justin guessed his age to be about five or six months, and if those massive, bearlike paws were an accurate indicator of size, he'd eventually be a large dog, indeed. He seemed to have some alaunt in his ancestry, for there was a wolflike slope to his spine and one ear pricked at an alert angle. But the other one flopped over, giving him a somewhat comical aspect, as did the white ring around his left eye, looking as if he'd been splattered with whitewash. All in all, Justin could not imagine a more unlikely candidate for a royal adoption, but he persevered, insisting that "If ever a dog was born to be a beautiful woman's pet, surely it is this one!"

Claudine laughed, shaking her head. "Very handsome, indeed," she agreed, keeping her eyes on Justin all the while. "But dogs are not as fickle as men, and he has already chosen his master. In good conscience, how could I come betwixt you?"

As if on cue, the pup whined and gave Justin the sort of melting, starry-eyed look he'd have loved to have gotten from Claudine. He surrendered with a smile and a shrug. "You cannot blame a man for trying, demoiselle."

"I never do, Master de Quincy," she assured him with a provocative, sidelong glance through improbably long lashes, and they fell in step together, heading toward the White Tower and the royal apartments. "I am glad we chanced to meet like this," Claudine confided, "for there is a question I've been wanting to put to you. Would you be offended if I were to ask you something very personal?"

Justin had never been shy with women, but never had he courted a woman like this one, a queen's confidante. It was like aiming an arrow at the moon. But as their eyes met and held, the moon suddenly seemed much closer than he'd have dared to hope. "Please do, demoiselle."

"Well… I was wondering if you were one of the old king's out-of-wedlock sons?"

Justin gave a sputter of startled laughter. "Good Lord, no! Whatever put a notion like that in your head?"

"The queen — indirectly. When I asked her about you — I did warn you about my curiosity — she would tell me nothing, saying only that you had a right interesting family tree, one rooted in hallowed soil. I admit I do not understand what she meant. But I thought she might be hinting that you had a highborn sire… and King Henry then sprang to mind. Do stop laughing, for it is not as ludicrous as all that. You seem to have won the queen's trust with remarkable ease — a stranger one day, a confidential emissary the next — and you do have smoke-grey eyes like King Henry, and there is a secret betwixt you and the queen, for certes. Moreover, you are without doubt the most mysterious man I've ever met!"

Still laughing, Justin caught her hand in his and brought it up to his mouth. "Get to know me better," he said, "and I'll share all my guilty secrets with you, demoiselle."

Claudine was no novice to courtly campaigns; she knew exactly when to advance, when to retreat, and when to hold her own ground. "I'll keep that in mind," she said nonchalantly, but she allowed her fingers to rest a moment longer in Justin's grip. By now they had reached the Tower keep, and their flirtation was — if not forgotten — put aside until a more opportune time. "Are you here to see the queen, Master de Quincy?"

Justin nodded. "I wanted to let Her Grace know that I will no longer be staying at Holy Trinity priory. For the foreseeable future, I'll be at the alehouse on Gracechurch Street. My stallion went lame this afternoon and I had to leave him with a farrier till he heals. I also have a letter for the under-sheriff of Hampshire." He hesitated, loath to admit that he did not know how to go about engaging a courier; he'd never had reason to send a letter before. "I hoped that the queen's clerk might know of a man who is Winchester bound."

"There is no need to wait for a traveler heading that way. The queen will dispatch a royal courier with your letter. And I will tell her that you are now lodging on Gracechurch Street, if you wish. Unless you need to see her yourself…?"

Justin shook his head. "I have no such need." The very fact that Eleanor would admit him without question was reason enough not to abuse so rare a privilege.

"She will see you if you ask. But I suspect she craves no company this day but her own," Claudine said. "You see, we had troubling news this noon… about her son."

"Richard? Or John?"

"Not the king." The corners of Claudine's mouth curved, ever so slightly. "The Prince of Darkness. John has left London without a word to the queen and apparently in great haste."

Justin blinked. "Where did he go?"

"As yet, no one knows. I can only tell you what the queen fears — the worst. It is always dangerous when John is close at hand. But it is even more dangerous when he is not."