Dragon's Lair (15 page)

So intent was he upon his prey that he paid no heed to the entrance of another man. This one was taller than most, but lanky and rail-thin, with such long arms and legs that he looked a little like a scarecrow. There was nothing at all intimidating about his appearance, nor did he seem unduly alarmed by the bloody scene meeting his eyes. But when the drunkard drew back his foot to kick the body on the floor again, the newcomer moved with the speed of a snake, catching hold of that foot and jerking with enough force to send him sprawling. Even that fall did not seem to have slowed the man down much. His eyes, small and close-set, gleamed with the bloodshot fury of a cornered boar, and with a rumbling, wordless roar, he launched himself at this new enemy.

He barely got off the floor, though, before he was down again. The other man whipped out a lethal-looking cudgel and brought it down upon his skull with an audible thud. Two more blows followed in close order, delivered with the impersonal practiced skill of a master carpenter. The second blow had tendered the man unconscious.

Poking him with the tip of his boot, the victor said, "God's Cock, Berta, what the hell happened? I leave the place for an hour and come back to a butcher's paradise. We'll never get rid of all this blood, not unless we paint the walls red." Prodding the downed man again with his toe, he said, "Anyone know who this offal is?"

Berta edged around a pool of blood, her nose wrinkling in disgust when she saw that some of it had splattered her skirt. "I think he may be off that French cog out in the harbor. It is a good thing that Algar found you, Ben, else we'd have had a killing here for certes."

"That whoreson sheriff is looking for any excuse to close us down, too," Ben agreed. Glancing around at the tavern customers, he picked out two, told them to drag "this lump of lard" down to the docks and leave him there. His gaze raked the room, taking in the sailor still on his knees and Justin, who was untangling himself from an overturned table.

"Holy Mother Mary, it looks like we have two heroes amongst us, lads. Berta, free drinks for the Good Samaritans." Striding over to examine the youth on the floor, he winced at the sight of the damage done by the sailor's heavy clogs. Drafting another volunteer, he ordered the man to fetch Osborn the Leech and leaned over, saying, "Someone give me a hand. We'll put this one in the back room till Osborn gets here."

By now Justin was back on his feet and had determined that he'd suffered no injury except a few bruises and a spilled drink. "I'll help," he said, starting toward Ben.

The other man was bending over the inert body of the dice game winner. "You take his legs," he directed Justin, "and I'll get his shoulders -" But as he looked Justin full in the face, he stopped, almost dropping the injured man back into the floor rushes. "Christ n the Cross! Justin?"

Justin studied him in surprise. He looked to be about Justin's own age, with jet-black hair, a pirate's scruffy beard, and the bluest eyes to be found this side of Sweden. It took a moment for Justin to realize that this thin, angular face was one from his past. "Bennet?"

Chapter 9

August 1193

Chester, England

"BY CORPUS IT IS YOU JUSTIN!"

As soon as Bennet grinned, Justin was sure, too, for Bennet had always had a smile that lit up an ordinary face and made it unforgettable. This man beaming at him was indeed the friend of his boyhood, the only person he'd ever truly trusted, his brother in all but blood.

They'd always had an uncanny ability to read each other's thoughts, and Bennet proved now that he'd not lost the knack, turning around and saying to the tavern at large, "Justin and I were thicker than thieves growing up. God's Truth, we were like brothers. At least until he was sent off to serve a high-and-mighty lord down in Shropshire!"

~*~

Seated at a table in the back of the tavern, they regarded each other with amazement, pleasure, and belated wariness. "How long has it been? Five years? Six?"

"Actually, closer to seven, for I was fourteen when the bishop placed me in Lord Fitz Alan's household."

I hope you noticed that I let your 'lord' remain nameless," Bennet said and grinned. "I could not think of a quicker way to dear out this den of thieves than to announce that this blood brother of mine works for the sheriff of Shropshire!"

Justin started to correct Bennet's mistake, but the words never lilt his lips. What could he say? The truth was too fantastic for Bennet to accept. How could he expect Bennet to believe that he was now the queen's man?

"I wondered so often how you were doing, Bennet. But I did I even know where you were, and I could hardly..."

He let the words fade away, but Bennet finished the sentence for him. "Write to me. Not bloody likely. And do not remind me that you'd offered to teach me to read, if you please! We both know I was never much of a student."

Not a student at all, Justin thought, for he knew that neither Bennet nor his sister had so much as a day's schooling. They had been children forgotten by family, townsmen, the Church, even by God, it sometimes seemed. Born to a woman who'd disappeared soon after Bennet's birth and a belligerent, blustering fishmonger who'd drunk away what little he'd earned, they had grown up as wild as stable cats. But from the time he was eight until his fifteenth year, Justin had been closer to Bennet than he ever had to another living being.

"That is not true," he objected. "You were always a quick study for the things that interested you."

"Aye, when it came to trouble, I went right to the head of the class," Bennet agreed cheerfully. "We thought about you, too, Moll and me. We figured that you were doing good. You were al ways as clever as a peddler's ape. But what about me, Justy? Admit it, you likely expected to hear that I'd ended up dancing on the gallows!"

"No," Justin said with a grin, "not as slick as you were. You were ever one for ducking around corners and squeezing under I fences when it counted. I will admit, though, that I did not expect to find you as the owner of a Chester tavern. How did you manage that, Bennet?"

"What... you think this sty is mine?" Bennet shook his head, laughing. "That would be the day! I tend to it, keep these fools from breaking heads when they're soused, and make sure that they remember to pay for their drinks. But it belongs to Piers Fitz Turold."

"I... see." Justin was not happy to hear that, for Piers Fitz Turold had long been a figure of speculation and suspicion in Chester. Supposedly, he was a vintner, but the general belief was that he made much of his money in other, less legal ways, including smuggling and prostitution. "So you work for Fitz Turold, Bennet? For how long?"

"For a while now. I look after his warehouse by the docks, too. In fact, I sleep there most nights for Chester breeds bolder thieves than anywhere else in the realm. I also do other tasks for him when the need arises."

Justin knew better than to ask what those tasks might be. He was sorry to learn that Bennet had gotten ensnared in Fitz Turold's web, but not surprised. What choices did Bennet have in the world he'd been born into? As a lad, there had been times when he'd had to steal to eat, and by the time their friendship was ruptured by Justin's departure for Shropshire, he suspected that Bennet was practicing the skills of a cutpurse.

"Ben... I thought you might want another flagon." Berta leaned over the table, offering them both a close-up view of her ample cleavage. She let her gaze linger upon Justin, moistening lips with the tip of her tongue. Since she had not given him so much as a glance before, Justin assumed that his worth had gone up because of his friendship with Bennet.

As she sauntered away, they both watched her swaying walk before Justin said, "So you are Ben now? Should I cast Bennet aside?"

"No need. Moll still makes use of it. Also, to hear you call me Bennet brings back a lot of memories."

Justin had been almost afraid to ask about Bennet's sister, for if any girl seemed predestined for a bad end, for certes it was Molly. "Molly... she is well?"

"Well enough. She'll not believe you turned up like this, not unless she sees you with her own eyes. So can you stay for a white? She ought to be back by week's end."

"She lives in Chester, then? Has she taken herself a husband? Most likely she has... any children?"

"Yes, no, and no." Bennet reached for the flagon, poured for hem both;, "I might as well tell you straight out. Molly is with I Piers now."

Justin sat his cup down so abruptly that wine splattered upon the table, set the candle flame to sizzling. "Jesu! And you let her, Bennet?"

"And when's a mere man ever been able to keep Moll from doing what she pleased?" Bennet looked more closely into Justin's face and realization dawned. "I did not mean that, Justin! Molly is not one of Piers's whores. They have an understanding, an arrangement. Piers lets her live rent-free in one of his cottages and goes to see her when it strikes his fancy. It seems to suit them both," he said, with a half-shrug that was very familiar to Justin, the gesture he'd always make when happenings were beyond his control.

"Molly could have done so much better." But even as he said the words, Justin knew they weren't true. Molly's choices ha been even more limited than her brother's. "She deserves better," he amended. "There is no future for her with Piers, not unless his wife has gone to God since I left Chester."

"Nay, she is alive and thriving, the last I heard. But I doubt that Moll would have Piers even if she could. Have you forgotten how often she made mock of marriage and wedded wives?"

"I remember," Justin admitted. "She'd say that a woman without a man was like a cat without a collar." Their eyes met and they both laughed, theirs the laughter of nostalgia, remembrance with a bittersweet tang. "I might as well confess," Justin said. "I was besotted with your sister."

"You and half the men in Chester, my lad."

"Are you mocking my broken heart? It was the great regret of my life that Molly saw me only as her little brother's friend, this green stripling of fourteen. Of course I
was
a green stripling of fourteen, but even so..." Enough years had passed so that Justin could smile at the memory of his first infatuation. "You said she's gone from Chester?"

"Piers had to visit his salt house in Wich Malbank. He has a finger in every pie, does that one. He took Molly along be cause,.. well, what else is a man to do in a salt wich?" Picking up his wine cup, Bennet held it aloft in a playful salute, "To days gone by and - holy shit!"

"I'll drink to that if you insist," Justin grinned, "but surely we can do better?" Bennet was no longer paying him any mind, though, staring over his shoulder toward the door. Turning in his seat, Justin saw an officer of the law blocking the doorway. There was nothing in the man's appearance that proclaimed his rank. It was the air of authority that he exuded. Justin had seen Jonas swagger into a London alehouse and have it fall silent just as this Chester tavern had stilled.

"Watch yourself," Bennet muttered. "That is Will Gamberell, the city sheriff. He'd like nothing better than to blame Piers for an affray in one of his taverns." Raising his voice, he said, "What brings you here, Master Gamberell? Berta, fetch wine for the sheriff and his men."

"As if I'd drink the swill you sell here," the sheriff said with a sneer. "I hear you had yourself some sport tonight. We found a man half-dead down on the docks, and he says you beat him to a bloody pulp. Dare you deny it?"

"Good of you not to pass judgment till you heard my side of it," Bennet said, but he sounded more sullen than sarcastic and there was a note in his voice that Justin had heard before - the embittered understanding of a man who knew the law was never going to protect the likes of him. "You'd do better to ask your 'bloody pulp' what he'd done to warrant a beating. I am not saying I gave him one, mind you. But he damned near killed a man, would have for certes if he'd not been stopped."

"So you were just doing your duty as a law-abiding citizen of Chester?" the sheriff drawled, and his men laughed.

"You need not take my word for it. His victim is in the back room, being patched up by Osborn the Leech. Ask him yourself what happened."

"You may be sure I will. But right now I am asking you."

"Ben?" Almost as if it had been staged, the doctor chose that moment to appear in the doorway of the storeroom. "The poor sod is asking for you. He lost some teeth so he sounds like he's got a mouth full of mush, but I think he wants to thank you. I told him that if not for you, we'd have been measuring him for a burial shroud."

Justin turned toward Bennet, expecting to share relief that this was so easily cleared up. But Bennet looked grim, and one glance at the sheriff's face told him why. Gamberell was grinning like a man who'd just discovered a forgotten hoard of coins in his money pouch. "Well now," he said happily, "I do believe my life just got easier."

The doctor realized that he'd done Bennet no favor and said quickly, "But I may have misunderstood what happened. Look in on the lad, Ben, and whilst you do, you can reassure me that some one is going to pay for my services."

Bennet rose slowly, and while he said nothing, his body language dared the sheriff to stop him. "With your permission, Master Gamberell."

"Why not?" The sheriff waved him on with a magnanimous gesture, before adding, "I happen to know the only way out of that room is through this door and the only way out of this tavern is through me."

By now it was deathly quiet. The sailor who'd intervened in the beating had stood up as the sheriff began to speak, but he'd soon sank back in his seat again. Having gotten the lay of the land, he was studiously staring down into the floor rushes. None of the other customers were meeting the sheriff's gaze, either, doing their best to appear as inconspicuous as possible. Justin had gotten the lay of the land, too, by now. The sheriff did not care why Bennet had struck that drunken lout. What mattered to him was that one of Piers Fitz Turold's underlings had made a misstep, and who knew where that might lead?