The queen's man : a medieval mystery (2 page)

The alehouse was drafty and dimly lit, reeking of sweat and smoke and the acrid odor of burning tallow. The company was as cheerless as the surroundings. The burly, taciturn owner inspired no tipsy confidences and tolerated no tomfoolery, serving his customers curtly and grudgingly, as if they were unbidden guests who'd overstayed their welcome. In the corner, a noisy drunkard was bullying the serving maid and bragging to all within earshot of his success in foisting off sacks of worm-eaten flour upon the lepers of St Mary Magdalen's. Across from Justin was a shabbily dressed man of middle years, grey haired and sad eyed, nursing a tankard of ale to last till closing. There were two tanners dicing by the hearth, being cheered on by a buxom harlot. And then there was Justin, brooding over the bad luck that seemed to be stalking him so relentlessly in the last fortnight.

Lord Fitz Alan had dismissed him, angered by his stubborn refusal to explain why he'd not returned from Shrewsbury straightaway as instructed. Justin was not entirely sorry to go, for Fitz Alan was part of a past he wanted only to repudiate. His one regret was that when his father learned of this, he'd think Justin had kept quiet for his sake. The truth was that the wound was still too raw. Nothing could have induced Justin to let Fitz Alan know how badly he was bleeding.

Riding away from Fitz Alan's Shropshire manor with meagre savings and uncertain prospects, he'd not despaired, though, for he was not friendless. Deliverance had come from an unlikely source: his father's steward.

Martin had been a member of the bishop's household for as

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long as Justin could remember, and had often gone out of his way to show kindness to the solitary, wary child who bore a double stigma: illegitimate and orphaned. Justin had been grateful for the attention, and at last understood why the steward had been so protective. Martin had known or suspected the truth. How else explain what he'd done after that bitter scene in the bishop's chapel? Following Justin out to the stables, he'd given him the name of a kinsman, a Hampshire knight who might offer him employment should he have need of it.

Since he could expect no reference from Fitz Alan, Martin's recommendation was a godsend, and Justin had taken the road south, heading for the town of Andover. But the journey ended in disappointment: Martin's kinsman was in Normandy, not expected back until the spring. At a loss, Justin had continued on to Winchester, simply because he had nowhere else to go.

His ale cup was almost empty. Could he spare enough for a second ale? No . . . not unless he expected to find a miraculous windfall on his way back to his inn. The door banged open, admitting two new customers. They were better dressed than the other patrons, and in better spirits, too, boisterously demanding service from the serving maid even before they laid claim to a nearby table. They were soon haggling with the prostitute over her price, so loudly that the others in the alehouse had no choice but to listen.

Involuntary eavesdropping was not Justin's idea of fun, and he was starting to rise when he was jolted by a braying cry of "Aubrey!" A third man had stumbled into the alehouse, weaving his way toward his beckoning companions. Justin sat back again and drained the last of his ale. The name Aubrey was a common one. Was he going to flinch every time he heard it uttered? His own name was far more unusual, and he'd often been called upon to explain that it was the name of an early Christian martyr. He wondered why his father had chosen it, if it held ironic undertones. What would his mother have named him had she lived? He knew nothing about her, not even her name. Nor would he ever know now, for the only person who could answer his questions was the last one he'd ask.

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Another name now intruded into his awareness, catching his attention no less fully than "Aubrey" had done. His raucous neighbors were joking about King Richard's disappearance. The jests were lame, and Justin had heard them before. What intrigued him was the mention of the king's brother.

"I tell you," the man called Aubrey was insisting, "that the king's brother must be planning to do the Devil's work. One of the Serjeants at the castle says he heard that John is hiring men as fast as he can find them. You two lackwits ought to give it some thought, for he's not particular. If a man has a pulse and can wield a sword, he'll be taken into John's service!"

Inn guests were expected to share beds, for privacy was an unknown luxury in their world. Sandwiched between two snoring strangers, Justin got little sleep. Rising at dawn, he discovered that it had snowed in the night.

Winchester was beginning to stir. A sleepy guard waved Justin on through the East Gate, and he headed out of the city on the Alresford Road. The sky was leaden. Justin had ridden less than a mile before it started to snow again. There were no other travelers, only a lone figure huddled by the side of the road. Justin wondered what dire need could send a man out to beg in the snow, and as he drew nearer, he had his answer in the latten clappers leaning against the beggar's alms bowl—used by lepers to warn people of their approach.

Justin had great pity for lepers, forsaken by all but God. Embarrassed and regretful that he could not afford to give alms, he drew rein and said politely, "Good morrow, friend."

The man's face was shadowed by his leper's cloak. Whether it also hid the ravages of his disease, Justin could not tell, but he did get a glimpse of the leper's mutilated hand, with stumps where fingers ought to have been. His own plight suddenly seemed less perilous, and Justin fumbled for his money pouch, leaned over, and dropped a farthing into the alms bowl, ashamed that he could spare so little. The leper had learned, though, to be thankful for the most meagre offering, even courtesy, and wished Justin "Godspeed."

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The road was half hidden by snow and icy in patches. Fortunately, Justin's big chestnut was as surefooted as a mule. But it would be slow going, for he'd not risk the stallion's safety. Copper was his pride and joy; he knew how lucky he was to own a horse, especially one of Copper's calibre. He'd been able to buy the stallion only because the animal had gone lame and he'd offered more than the butcher would. It had taken months to nurse the chestnut back to health, but well worth the time and trouble. Reaching out, he gave the horse a pat on the neck, and then blew on his hands to warm them, for his fingers were beginning to cramp with the cold.

The innkeeper had told him that the village of Alresford was just seven miles from Winchester, and the village of Alton another eight miles or so. If this were summer, he could reasonably have expected to cover thirty miles before nightfall. Today he'd be lucky to reach Alton by dusk. From there it was another twenty miles to Guildford and a final thirty to his destination: London. That meant four or five days on the road, depending on the weather. It was a long way to go on a hunch.

Slackening the reins, Justin gave Copper a brief respite. The leper hospital of St Mary Magdalen had receded into the distance some time ago. The ground had leveled off, for St Giles's Hill was now far behind him. It was like a ghost road, though; the only other soul he'd seen was the leper.

Was this a fool's mission, riding for London? Lying awake last night in that forlorn, flea-infested inn, he'd thought long and hard about his future and his survival skills. During his years in Lord Fitz Alan's service, he'd been taught to handle a sword. And he knew how to read and write. He'd been well educated for a "harlot's bastard." At least now he understood why: not Christian charity, a sop to a guilty conscience.

But that education might well be his salvation. He'd heard that London scribes set up booths in the nave of St Paul's Cathedral, writing letters and legal documents for a price. If he could hire out as a scribe, mayhap he could buy himself some time, a chance to decide what he should do next.

Or he could take another fork in the road. He could offer his

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sword to the king's brother. If that lout in the alehouse had spoken true, John was not asking for references. Justin did not know whether he wanted to fight to make John King of England. But he suspected that hunger would banish such qualms right quick.

The road had begun to narrow, for he was well into the woods now. Bare, skeletal branches stabbed the sky over his head. Ice-glazed ash swayed in the wind and the starkly graceful silhouettes of silver birch rose up behind him. The underbrush was thick and tangled with elder shrubs, holly, and hawthorn hedges, and the glistening, unsullied snow was occasionally smudged by deer tracks and paw prints of marten and fox. A rabbit sprinted for cover and an inquisitive red squirrel followed Justin for a time, sailing from tree to tree with acrobatic ease. There was an austere beauty about this frozen, snow-drifted landscape, but Justin would have appreciated it better had he not been half-frozen himself.

"Now?"

"No, it's not him/'

Startled by the sudden sound of voices, so utterly out of place in this quiet, sylvan setting, Justin swung around in the saddle, reaching for the hilt of his sword. Off to his left, several fallen trees had formed a covert, screened off by glossy, green holly boughs. To a lost traveler, this sheltered lair offered sanctuary. To an outlaw, ideal camouflage for an ambush.

Justin spurred Copper forward and the stallion responded like a launched arrow, sending up a spray of snow as he lengthened stride. Within moments, they were in the clear. Glancing over his shoulder, Justin saw no movement, suspicious or otherwise. It was easy to doubt his own senses, to wonder if he'd imagined those disembodied woodland whispers. "Fool," he jeered aloud. "I'll be seeing forest phantoms next, Copper, with a few horned demons thrown in for good measure!"

But there had been something very disquieting about those eerie whispers, and his unease lingered. "We ought to be at Al-resford soon," he told his stallion, and the horse twitched his ears at the sound of his voice. So far the snowfall had been light and powdery and the wind seemed to be dying down. God Will-

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ing, the rest of his journey would be trouble free. What would London be like? He'd been told that more than twenty-five thousand souls dwelled within its walls, but he could not imagine a city so huge. He was no stranger to towns, having passed his childhood in Shrewsbury and Chester, and he'd been to Oxford and now Winchester. None of them could compare, though, to London in size or significance.

The first shout was muffled, indistinct. Justin reined in, straining to hear. It came again, and this time there was no mistaking what it was: a desperate appeal for help. Later—much later— Justin would marvel at his reckless response. Now, though, he reacted instinctively, drawn irresistibly by the haunting echoes of that urgent, despairing cry.

Backtracking through the snow, he turned a bend in the road and nearly collided with a runaway, riderless horse. Swerving just in time to avoid the panicked animal, he unsheathed his sword, for any doubts he'd had about what he might find had been dispelled.

The sounds of strife had gotten louder. Responding gamely to Justin's urging, his stallion skimmed over the snow, reaching a dangerous level of speed for such treacherous terrain. Up ahead, a horse neighed shrilly. There was another choked cry for help, a burst of cursing. By then Justin was within sight of the covert. A figure lay prone in the middle of the road, groaning. Nearby, two men were struggling fiercely, while a third man sought to hold on to the reins of a plunging roan stallion. But although Justin was now close enough to see what was occurring, he was not yet close enough to prevent what happened next. One of the men suddenly staggered, then slumped to the ground at his assailant's feet. The outlaw never hesitated. Bending over his victim, blood still dripping from his dagger, he stripped rings from the man's fingers, then began a hasty search of the body.

"Did you find it?" Getting a grunt in reply, the second outlaw tried to lead the horse over, swearing when the animal balked. "Mayhap he hid it in his tunic. He—Christ's Blood! Gib, be-

ware

Gib spun around, saw Justin racing toward them, sword

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drawn, and lunged to his feet. In three strides, he reached the roan stallion, vaulting up into the saddle. "What are you waiting for, you dolt!" he snarled at his partner, who'd yet to move, continuing to gape at Justin's approach. Coming to his senses, the laggard grabbed for the outstretched hand and scrambled up behind his companion. By the time Justin reached the ambush scene, the outlaws were in flight.

Justin had no intention of pursuit. They would have horses hidden close by, and they knew these woods far better than he. As he reined in his mount, he almost came to grief, for Copper shied without warning, nearly unseating him. From the corner of his eye, he caught a slithering, sideways movement, and somewhere in the back of his brain, he noted it, a puzzle to be resolved later, for snakes usually denned up in burrows during the winter months. At the moment, though, his only concern was in calming his horse. Once he had, he dismounted swiftly, anchored Copper to a nearby bush, and turned his attention toward the men.

The closer of the two was a strapping youth about Justin's own age. His face was as colorless as the snow, his hair matted with blood, and he looked dazed and disoriented. But he'd managed to sit up, and Justin bypassed him in favor of the second man, who lay ominously still, a crimson stain spreading beyond him into the snow. Kneeling by his side, Justin caught his breath, for he knew at once that he was looking death in the face.

The man was well past his youth, fifty or so to judge by the grey generously salted throughout the walnut-brown hair and neatly trimmed beard. His mantle was of good quality wool, his boots of soft cowhide, and from what Justin had seen of his stolen roan stallion, he'd been riding an exceptionally fine animal. A man very prosperous, for certes, wealthy enough to be traveling with a servant, dying now in trampled, bloodied snow, unshriven and alone, with only a stranger to hold his hand.