Cruel As the Grave (23 page)

"I know, lad," he said, "I know. But it could not be helped." Greeting Agnes, he seated himself beside them, doing his best to summon up a reassuring smile. "Nell tells me that nothing has happened whilst I was gone. I was hoping, though, that you'd had a change of heart, Daniel, with time to think upon your plight. What about it? Are you willing to tell me now about that argument and the pilgrim pledge?"

Three and a half weeks in sanctuary had stripped away much of Daniel's defensive belligerence. His eyes were red-rimmed, his tunic badly wrinkled, his nails bitten down to the quick, and he'd developed a hacking cough. He ducked his head, not meeting Justin's gaze, and finally mumbled, "I would if I could..."

Justin hadn't the heart to berate him. What good would it do? Getting to his feet, he said, "I'll go now to seek Jonas out, will stop by again later if I find out anything from him."

Daniel nodded mutely and Agnes announced that she, too, must go, leaning over to kiss his cheek. Their last glimpse of him was not reassuring; he'd drawn his knees up to his chin, rocking back and forth, a forlorn figure of such abject misery that tears blurred Agnes's eyes. "I must know," she whispered. "Is there any hope for the lad?"

Justin hesitated. Which would be worse, to give her false hope or to take away all hope whatsoever? "Yes... there is still some hope, Agnes. If we could locate that Flemish mercer and learn who bought the patterned silk found under Melangell's body, that might well point suspicion away from Daniel and toward someone else."

Agnes daubed at the corner of her eye with one of her hanging sleeves. "He is innocent, Justin, may the Almighty strike me dead here and now if he is not. We cannot let him hang."

"We will not," he assured her, with far more confidence than he really felt. They both took care not to mention that Daniel's time was fast running out, with only a fortnight remaining until his right of sanctuary ended.

~~

Justin's meeting with Jonas was brief and unproductive. The serjeant had nothing to report, no other leads to pursue. The Flemish mercer was still missing, no new eyewitnesses had turned up, and Tobias had convinced the sheriff that they ought not to waste any more time on a case already solved, with the

killer sure to hang or abjure the realm. Jonas looked fatigued and sounded harassed, having been routed from his bed before dawn to break up a brawl between feuding neighbors, and he could spare Justin neither time nor encouragement. "Find me a more likely suspect than the Aston lad," he flung over his shoulder, "and I'll do my part. But I've unearthed nothing in my investigation and with all due respect, I doubt that you can do better."

So did Justin, but he had to try. He paid another visit to the Aston shop, where the atmosphere was stifling, suffused with such tension that the very air seemed oppressive. Humphrey ordered Justin from the shop, shouting that he'd done enough for the family with his meddling and his bungling. Justin didn't bother to argue. Within moments, though, Geoffrey hastened out into the street after him.

Daniel's ordeal was clearly taking its toll upon his brother. His sleek blond hair was rumpled and unkempt, his clothing was mismatched, as if he'd thrown on the first garments at hand, and that favorite-son armor appeared dented beyond repair.

"Thank God you're back," he said. "You seem to be the only one who does not think Daniel is guilty. Even my father... he has not visited Daniel, not once! He says Daniel's fate is in God's hands and we must do whatever we can to keep the scandal from tainting us, too."

"And your mother?"

Geoffrey stared down at his shoes. "My father forbade her to go to St Paul's and she is too fearful to defy him."

"But you did?" Justin said quietly, and Geoffrey nodded.

"I never had defied him before, at least not openly. But I could not abandon Daniel, I could not!" His voice cracked and he seemed to be blinking back tears. "The whole world has gone mad, for nothing makes sense anymore. At first Melangell's death did not seem real to me. I'd wake up in the morning and for a moment, I'd forget... and all was as it had been ere that accursed night..." He swallowed, then mustered up a wan smile. "I suppose that sounds crazed, for certes!"

"No," Justin said, "not crazed at all."

"But Daniel's danger is all too real. I live with it day and night. What will happen to him? Tell me the truth, Justin."

"In a fortnight, he must come forth from sanctuary or be starved out. If he is indicted, as seems likely, he must then stand trial for Melangell's murder, and if found guilty, he will hang. Or... he may choose to confess and abjure the realm. If so, he will have to make his way, barefoot and in sackcloth, to a chosen port, where he must set sail on the next ship, swearing never to return to England."

"Oh, God..." Geoffrey whispered. His eyes were glassy, unseeing. Turning abruptly, he fled back into the shop. Justin waited to see if he would reemerge and then walked away slowly, feeling a great sadness for all those who were caught in the spider's web spun by Melangell's death. Daniel, Geoffrey, Agnes, Cati, her luckless father, even the pitiful, browbeaten Beatrice. No matter what happened to Daniel, their lives would never be the same again.

~~

Justin spent the rest of the day in the neighborhood where Melangell had died, talking to people he'd already interrogated, prodding sluggish memories in vain. He even lingered in the churchyard for a time, mourning both the reckless, lively spirit of a girl he'd never met and his inability to catch her killer. The afternoon had become blustery and damp, with a chill more common to March than May, and he hastened to take shelter under a towering yew tree as a sudden, soaking rainstorm broke over the city. Wet and cold and thoroughly disheartened, Justin gave up and headed for home.

Darkness was blotting away the last traces of daylight by the time he reached Gracechurch Street. He stopped by the smithy to retrieve Shadow and check on his stallion, then continued on to his cottage, where he lit a fire in the hearth and changed into a dry tunic. Like most of his neighbors, he'd gotten into the nightly habit of dropping in at the alehouse, as much for the company as for the ale, and he knew Nell would be expecting him. But the rain was still pelting the darkness beyond his door, the wind was rising, and his spirits plummeting. After feeding Shadow, he dragged out the whetstone he'd borrowed from Gunter and began to sharpen his sword.

Gnawing zestfully upon a pork bone, Shadow gave a muffled bark, chewed some more, and then barked again, clearly torn between hunger and duty. Justin set the sword down. At first he heard only the sounds of the storm, but the dog was now sniffing at the door, tail whipping about in eager welcome. Justin still did not hear anything but the rain and gusting wind. Trusting Shadow, though, he lifted the latch and a slim, hooded figure stumbled through the doorway, into his arms.

He reached out to steady her, assuming it must be Nell. As she raised her head, her hood fell back, and he froze. "Claudine!"

"Justin… oh, Justin..." Her voice faltered and tears began spilling silently down her cheeks. She was trembling so violently that he steered her at once toward the hearth. Her mantle was sodden and as soon as he removed it, he saw that her gown was, too. "I'm so cold," she whispered, clutching his hand with fingers of ice, "and so wet..."

"You're soaked through to the skin. You'd best get out of those wet clothes ere you catch your death." Hobbling his curiosity until he could get her thawed out, he found one of his shirts for her to wear and a blanket, which he draped over her shoulders as she stripped off her stockings. They fell into the floor rushes, puddles of brightly colored silk. Her little leather slippers were caked with mud. He stared at them in disbelief. "Claudine, you did not walk all the way from the Tower?"

"Yes," she said, "I did," and sneezed. "I need help with these laces," she entreated. "My fingers feel frozen."

Loosening the laces, he pulled the gown over her head and spread it out on a coffer to dry by the fire. When he turned back, her chemise had joined her stockings in the floor rushes and she was squirming into his shirt. It billowed about her like a white linen tent, reaching to her knees, and she shivered as the air hit her bare legs. Clutching the blanket closer, she sneezed again and began clumsily to free her wet hair from its pins. Justin handed her a towel, then crossed to the table and picked up his wineskin. Filling a cup to the brim, he carried it back to Claudine, resisting the urge to drink himself. He suspected that he would need a clear head for whatever was coming.

"This will warm you," he said, and watched warily as she drank in gulps. Why was she here? What new game was this? "You truly walked here from the Tower ... by yourself? Christ Jesus, Claudine, whatever possessed you to do something so dangerous?"

"My mare went lame last week and if I'd asked to borrow another horse, there would have been questions. It seemed easier just to walk. It was not raining when I started out," she said, somewhat defensively. "And by the time the storm broke, it was too late to turn back."

"But to go out after dark and alone ..." He shook his head incredulously. "Why would you take such a risk?"

She was toweling her hair vigorously, her face hidden by a dripping black curtain. "I did not find out till Vespers that you'd returned to London last night. I could not wait till the morrow, had to see you straightaway." Shaking her hair back, she glanced toward him, and then away. "Justin, I am in such trouble..."

"What is wrong? Tell me," he urged, and she regarded him with enormous dark eyes, almost black against the waxen whiteness of her face.

"I am pregnant."

Later, he would wonder why he'd not seen this coming. But he'd trained himself to see her as John's spy first, and only then as his sometime lover. He was expecting another ruse, possibly even a conscience-stricken confession, although he thought the former was far more likely than the latter. It took him a moment to absorb the full impact of her words, and when he did, he sat down abruptly on the edge of the bed. This was no trick. Not even Claudine could fake the fear he saw in her eyes. She was telling the truth. She was with child. But was it his?

"Justin ... for God's sake, say something!"

"Are you sure?"

"Sure enough to be out of my wits with worry," she said tartly. "You cannot imagine what these past weeks have been like, once I began to suspect. You were gone, and I did not know where, or when you'd be coming back. I did not draw an easy breath until the queen finally told me that you'd been at Windsor Castle and that you were safe."

Justin tasted blood in his mouth and realized that he'd bitten his lip. "The last time we lay together was mid-April, I think..." A Tuesday, the thirteenth day, soon after Compline. "That is... what? Four weeks? Is that time enough to tell if you're with child?"

She shook her head impatiently. "I was already pregnant then, although I did not realize it yet. I'd missed my April flux, but every woman misses one now and then. And since I'd failed to get with child during the years of my marriage, I'd thought I might be barren, so I did not worry over-much about pregnancy. But then I began to get queasy of a sudden, and when I missed May, too, I knew... Mayhap it was the night we were together at that riverside inn, or that afternoon in your cottage, ere I was stricken with one of my headaches, remember?"

"Yes," he said, "I remember." If that were indeed the time, the Devil must be laughing fit to burst, for it was then that he'd discovered that she'd played him for a fool from the first, bait for John's trap. Yet if she had become pregnant in March, the baby could not be John's, for by then, he was at the French court. If she could be believed. She was curled up in the chair like a kitten in search of warmth, bare feet rucked up under her, damp hair curling about her face, lip rouge gone, kohl smeared under her eyes. She looked more like a lost, bedraggled child than the seductive spy he knew her to be, and when he rose from the bed and reached out to her, she grasped his hand as if grabbing for a lifeline.

"Justin, I am so scared."

"It will be all right," he lied. "We'll figure something out." But what? Marriage was out of the question, for she would consider marrying beneath her to be as shaming as bearing a child out of wedlock.

As if reading his thoughts, she gave him a tremulous smile. "I know you are thinking of marriage, for you are an honourable man. And if our circumstances were different..."

"But they are not." Was there relief in that understanding, or regret... or both? Better not to know. He could sort out his own feelings later. Right now they must decide what would be best for Claudine and the babe. "I'll not let you face this alone," he said, and saw her eyes fill with tears.

"You cannot ever know," she said, "how much I needed to hear you say that. I do not think I'd have the strength to cope on my own."

"You need only tell me," he said, "what you would have me do," and her fingers tightened in his, clung fast.

"I cannot disgrace my family, Justin. If I were to bear a bastard child, it might well kill my father. And my brothers... I cannot shame them like that, I cannot..." She shivered and then said in a low voice, no longer meeting his eyes, "I've learned of a woman who knows how to bring on a miscarriage with herbs like pennyroyal. But I am fearful of going to her alone. If you could come with me...?"

"Claudine, no!" Justin had been kneeling beside her, but at that, he sprang to his feet. "You cannot do that!"