Masques of Gold (42 page)

“I do not know the others,” Lissa put in, “but I would say that Halsig stayed out of loyalty to you.”

Justin smiled at her, clearly pleased, although he only shrugged and said, “Perhaps,” before he began to frown again. “I had a devil of a time this summer. There were riots that never should have happened, but the watch simply had not the strength or skill to manage a crowd. I will say that Mandeville never failed to send any men I asked for, and they obeyed me when they came, but by then it was always a matter of breaking heads.”

He fell silent for a moment, wondering whether he had waited until too late to send for help because he wanted to break heads to give an outlet to the violence that roiled in him while he and Lissa were apart. But the flicker of resentment he felt was swallowed up in the overwhelming peace that presently encompassed him. Whatever his grief had been, it was over and well worth enduring for what he now had. A brief recollection of last night's coupling blended into the warm comfort of the fire, the good food and ale filling his belly, and Lissa's quick hands tying his sleeve and neck strings. He had reason to know she never talked about what he had told her, not even to her beloved uncles, unless he said she could tell them, which was more than he could swear to about his cousins.

That was worth most of all—to be able to talk out his worries to the only person in the world who placed him above every other consideration, including her own happiness. Despite his jealousy of Chigwell, he did not really doubt that when Lissa originally refused to marry him it was because she thought she was protecting him from her father. As if he could not manage a man like William Bowles! The contemptuous thought was stained with doubt, however, as Justin recalled that someone, perhaps a man as powerful as FitzWalter, had decided the only way to manage Bowles was murder. And a prick of conscience reminded him that if FitzWalter was not guilty, Lissa might have taken a man's life to get him back. But he did not want to think of that, and he walked briskly into the solar where he found his armor conveniently laid out over boards raised on two tall trestles, which had replaced William Bowles's bed.

Lissa called down into the shop for Paul to saddle Bête Noir and Oliva to come up. Justin started to wriggle into his hauberk, and Lissa came and lifted it so it slid down easily. While he settled it comfortably, she brought his belt and sword.

“I may be late tonight,” Justin said. “A council is called at which I must report on the watch and other matters, and I have no idea how long everyone will talk.”

“I will be waiting whenever you come,” she assured him, and then smiled. “You know I never mean to interfere with your duty. I would not have gone to your house yesterday had I known—”

“Oh? Are you sorry?”

Lissa widened her eyes. “If I say yes, will you take back what you gave me?”

Justin burst out laughing. “I deserve that. I will be more careful when I fish for compliments another time.”

“Silly man,” Lissa said, flinging her arms around his neck and kissing him heartily, “if I try to tell you what I feel without jesting, I will burst into tears—and men never understand weeping with joy, so you will waste time trying to soothe me and wonder, no matter what I tell you, about what I was weeping. That is no way to send a man off to his duty.”

“No indeed,” Justin agreed, stepping aside from the doorway and gesturing to Oliva to enter. He stepped out himself then, but grinned back at Lissa adding, “Especially when that duty is with a mayor who cannot make up his mind. Add another discontent to what he will induce in me and I will strangle him.”

Lissa laughed, kissed her hand to him, and went back to her bedchamber where, with Oliva's help, she dressed. But only a few minutes later she wished she had indulged herself with tears of joy so that she would have red eyes to show to a most unwelcome visitor.

She had been thinking while dressing that if king and barons were coming to London, many would bring their wives. It was then time to look to her supply of lotions and creams, such salves as tinted the lips and cheeks, and the powders made of henna or leachings of lead by strong vinegar that brought back red and black to hair grown pale with time. The light had been fading as she dressed, and she saw that the morning sun was gone, the clouds darkening by the moment. A cloudy sky could not spoil her mood, however, and she thought it was a good day for taking stock of what she had and preparing a list of supplies she might need. She was just making ready to descend to the shop when the sound of hurried footsteps made her stop just beyond the solar door so that she was almost knocked down by Paul.

“Master Chigwell is below,” he whispered urgently. “And he saw Sir Justin leaving the house. I am so sorry, mistress. I stopped Sir Justin outside to beg his pardon for how I behaved and to promise I would answer anything he asked me. I did not see Master Chigwell because I was on the other side of the horse.”

For a moment Lissa was tempted to send Paul down with the message that she was not yet up or dressed. That would confirm what Master Chigwell must think anyway, after seeing a man leaving her house at this hour of the morning. Probably that would save her from further importunities to marry his son—but he would say she was a woman of bad character when her appeal to be admitted into the guild was discussed among the masters. And then she called herself a fool for panic induced by a guilty conscience. Aside from the evidence of the shared morning meal, there was no sign of Justin's overnight presence. Justin could have come for many reasons. If she had been eating when he arrived, common courtesy would demand that she offer food and drink.

“Send him up,” she said, and went to the table to brush away the crumbs that marked where Justin had sat. She left his cup; it was more likely for a man who had come that morning to accept drink than food, but for what should she say he had come? Her visitor answered that question himself with the first words out of his mouth.

“Is there some news about your father's killer?” Master Chigwell asked as he entered the room. “I saw Sir Justin leaving the house.”

His face wore an angry scowl. Master Chigwell had unpleasant memories of his last meeting with Sir Justin. He had hung back at the corner of Budge Row, watching Paul wringing his hands as he tried to explain something to the mayor's ferret. Chigwell had not enjoyed realizing that he was a suspect because of his unguarded remarks to William Bowles about his opposition to Lissa's marriage to Edward. In fact, he had been so shaken by the cynical regard of Justin's icy eyes and the disbelieving line of his hard mouth that he had put off for a whole week coming to renew his offer to Lissa. Even now he felt somewhat uneasy, wondering if the public announcement of his son's betrothal to her would reignite the suspicions he hoped he had laid to rest. He began to doubt his purpose altogether when he realized that Lissa looked frightened half to death.

His own anxiety made him misread her expression. It was true that his question had shocked Lissa; her eyes had widened and a hand had come up to cover her parted lips, but she was struggling to control amusement, not fear. It was ridiculous, but she had forgotten that Justin was investigating her father's death and his most obvious business with her would be in connection with that.

“No,” she whispered. “No news. Sir Justin had some new questions to ask me. I am afraid he has become aware that…that I did not…that I hated my father. He is…he is very suspicious of me. I am…afraid.”

“That is ridiculous!” Chigwell exclaimed. “From what he told me it is impossible that you could have caused your father's death. It needed a man, and a strong one, to strike the blows that killed your father. I am certain it was a low companion William picked up in some alehouse.”

“I thought so too. I told Sir Justin that a stranger must have killed him,” Lissa said, looking down so that she seemed to be guiltily avoiding Chigwell's eyes. “But my father was not robbed, and that, by Sir Justin's judgment, makes his murder a personal matter.”

“Personal?” Chigwell echoed. “What do you mean by personal?”

“Sir Justin does not think the murder could have been caused by any dispute over business matters,” Lissa replied in a trembling voice, “because my father had been away for nearly eight months and had no time, in the few weeks he had been back, to become deeply involved in any business arrangements. He thinks the man who killed my father was hired to do so.”

“Hired! Hired by whom?” Master Chigwell knew he had not arranged William Bowles's death and he was absolutely certain Edward had not. Edward had made his distaste for marriage to a strong-willed wife very clear. He had been delighted by William's intervention and had grieved aloud over William's death.

Lissa turned away, seized the poker, and stirred the fire, which did not need any attention. “What does it matter?” she cried, her voice shrill with suppressed giggles. “I did not ask him. I do not want to hear his theories.” Then she dropped the poker with a clang and turned back to face her fellow pepperer. “Master Chigwell, I fear that I must ask you not to renew your offer to me. I am sorry that we will not be able to fulfill the plans you made, but to do so even after my father's murderer is found—if he is ever found—will only arouse talk and suspicion.”

The expression of relief on Master Chigwell's face almost broke Lissa's self-control. As she listened to his false regrets and grave good wishes for her future, her lips quivered and her eyes filled with tears. When he finally took his leave, she sank into her chair and gave way to laughter that was mixed with apprehension. Justin might murder her when he heard what she had said, and if she had gone too far and convinced Master Chigwell that she had been involved in her father's death, she might have stolen and strangled her own goose. Instead of opposing her entry into the guild because she had refused his son and because he could accuse her of being Justin's whore, he might oppose it because he believed her guilty of patricide.

Then Lissa laughed more easily. Justin would not mind her saying he suspected her if it permitted her to convince Chigwell that she could not accept his offer. Moreover, Chigwell would not accuse her of patricide; in fact, he would not say a word of any kind against her for fear of waking ideas of his own involvement in her father's demise.

As Lissa got up from her chair and finally went down to the shop, Justin dismounted in front of the stable in the yard behind his house, flung open the door just as the rain poured down in earnest, and stepped in—right into a pile of manure. In a way it was his own fault in that he had not looked where he set his foot, and it certainly was not the first time in his life that he had stepped in a horse's leavings. He did not even find the odor of manure particularly offensive, and aside from a brief pungent remark he would have let the matter pass if Hervi had come in response to his shout.

There was no reply to his call, however, which did not surprise or anger him since the door and back window of the house were closed. He peered out into the downpour and judged that it could not last long. To stand idle would chill him, so Justin unhooked his shield and helmet from the saddle, hung them on pegs by the door, and began to unsaddle the horse, working more by instinct than sight in the dim corner. His first shock came when he swung the saddle toward the trestle that should have been ready to receive it and found that it had been knocked down and not picked up. He dropped the saddle back on Noir and bent to lift the trestle, only to discover that it was lying in more manure, which had been spread into a sodden puddle by urine.

Then Justin began to look around the stable in earnest and was appalled by the filth and disorder. But worse, far worse, the animals were not being properly cared for either. When Justin went to set Noir's saddle on the trestle near the fine jennet that served as his pack animal, he saw that her legs were all clotted with mud. And when he lifted Noir's saddlecloth he found it stained with mud which, from its color, came from Essex, not London. That meant the saddlecloth had not been beaten clean since he returned from Dunmow. Justin hurriedly brought Noir to the doorway and examined his back with minute attention. There were no sores, for which he thanked God, but in two places the hair was already rubbed thin.

Because Justin was well aware that most of the fault was his own—he knew Hervi was lazy and unreliable and had not overseen him as closely as he should—and because he also knew he would kill the man if he laid eyes on him, he walked around the house and entered by the front door. Fortunately for the innocent men seeking to join the watch, the room was not as crowded as it had been the day before. Justin was able to enter without knocking anyone down, and his awareness that that infuriated him further made him realize that he was in no fit mood to interview men.

“Halsig!” he bellowed.

It was a credit to the courage of the old man-at-arms that he came forward and said, “Yes, my lord?”

Justin swallowed and took a deep breath. “Get the records from the clerk and bring them up to my chamber.” The men had all turned to look at him, those nearest cautiously backing out of reach. Justin gestured at Halsig, who walked quickly toward the clerk's table, and Justin raised his voice so all could hear. “Those of you who have already given your name to the clerk, go away and come again tomorrow. The rest can tell the clerk what he wants to know and then go.”

He went toward the stair then, the men moving aside to make a clear path. The clerk, who had caught a glimpse of Justin's face over the heads of the waiting men, wasted no time in arguing about which records were needed and which were not. He gathered together everything that had writing on it and thrust it into Halsig's hands, casting the older man a glance of commiseration. He was surprised when Halsig nodded casually, seeming unworried, and hastened after his master up the stairs.

“Set the parchments on the table,” Justin said, as he unbelted his sword, “and help me get this armor off.”

He said no more until he was dressed in a somberly gorgeous gown of black velvet with wide borders of silver leaves and flowers with pearl hearts; then he told Halsig about the condition of the stable. “Find someone among the men below who wants a day's work and set him to oversee Hervi. He is not to help. He is only to make sure that Noir is curried and polished until he shines, without being hurt, and that Jenny and the palfrey are also so treated, and that the stable is scoured and pumiced until it smells like an open window. Also, do you know of someone who would want Hervi's place? He must go when he has cleaned what he made filthy.”

“That will be hard on Mary,” Halsig said, eyeing Justin cautiously, but seeing only a look of regret, he added, “I could do Hervi's work.”

Justin shook his head. “I need you for more important things than shoveling dung, and I do not want that man around. I would like Mary to stay, and if she is willing I will do my best to protect her. But she is his wife…” He shrugged. “Women are very strange. Well, I will leave you to talk to her. I have never even raised my voice to her and yet she seems almost as afraid of me as she is of her husband, who beats her.”

Halsig chuckled at the aggrieved tone and said soothingly, “Not really, my lord. She does not fear you will hurt her apurpose. She is just in awe of you, as if you were a man and she an ant and you might step on her by accident.”

“That is ridiculous—” Justin began, then sighed because it was even more ridiculous for him to argue with Halsig about Mary's feelings. Then he suddenly remembered the way Mary had smiled when Lissa spoke to her. Lissa could deal with the woman, Justin thought, with a feeling of warmth and relief, but he had no time to go back to Lissa's house now. “Let Hervi stay this one night more,” he said to Halsig. “I will ask Mistress Lissa to come tomorrow and find out what Mary truly wants to do.”

Halsig nodded. “She said she wished there was so gentle a mistress here.”

Justin smiled. “That, thank God, is a wish she will get if she stays.” He went to the table and picked up the sheets of parchment Halsig had put there. “Now I will do what I can about settling the men we have decided to take on within each ward, but most of that will have to wait until tomorrow. I must dine with my cousins, and from there go on to the mayor's house. I do not think I will bother to come home after the council. I will go directly to Mistress Lissa's and stay the night.”

“Yes, my lord.” Halsig hesitated and then said, “My lord, may I bring my pallet and blankets and—”

“No need,” Justin interrupted. “Sleep in my bed. You will be more comfortable and what I have of value is in my bedchamber. I would prefer that the room not be empty until Hervi is out of the house.”

“Yes, my lord.”

Halsig had no intention of arguing with his master or of disobeying him—it was not every day that he got an invitation to lie soft and warm on furs and feather beds—but he also thought it would be wise for him to take some time in the afternoon and get himself scrubbed clean at a bathhouse. Sir Justin would not thank him for leaving lice and smells behind in the bedclothes. He ran down while Justin began to put in order the sheets the clerk had handed over and fortunately spied a man in the now nearly empty room whom he knew had been on the watch before the war. He explained what was wanted to Dick Miller's son, got a grateful agreement—even one day's wages were worthwhile to a soldier who had gone through his pay—and, followed by Dick, went back into the kitchen where he was rendered momentarily speechless by seeing Hervi still fast asleep.

A kick brought nothing but a groan, so Halsig bent and grabbed Hervi's tunic and hauled him off the pallet and half upright. He almost let him go because of the stench of vomit and urine and feces that came with him, but he turned his head and spat and then slapped Hervi stingingly on both cheeks.

“Sir Justin's been in the stable,” he said, when Hervi's eyes opened. “He was in a real temper when he got into the house. He's going out to dinner, and you'd better have that big black of his shining like jet before he goes and the saddlecloth so clean a lady would wipe her eyes on it. I'll tell you the rest later. I've got no time to talk to you now, but if you hurt that horse while you're doing him, Dick here will beat you purple, and Sir Justin will kill you when he gets back. Nor don't try to run neither, because Sir Justin's not done with you.” He turned to Dick behind him. “You see he's here when wanted, or Sir Justin will have
your
guts for cross garters.”

Sometime later, as Halsig sat on the wooden bench in the bathhouse, gasping in the steam created by dumping water on hot stones, he felt warm with contentment as well as from the surroundings. Now, if he could lie abed with a woman like Mary instead of needing to buy whores at his age, he thought, he would have nothing left to desire. He had begun to chuckle at the thought of a perfect life, and the sound checked suddenly. Perhaps, he thought, he should just slip his knife between Hervi's ribs and dump him in the river or in the yard of some stew. There would be no question then that Mary would stay, which was what Sir Justin wanted. Everyone would be saved a lot of trouble once Hervi was dead. Halsig had no delusion that the man would be easy to get rid of any other way. He would hang about, trying to beg or steal, possibly catching Mary in the market and beating or terrorizing her so that she would give him food or let him in the house. It would be better for everyone if Hervi was dead.

Yes, but not by his hand. Halsig shuddered, and the attendant raised another cloud of steam, but Halsig had not been cold. If Sir Justin ever discovered what he had done, he would be hanged as high as any other felon; that was the way Sir Justin was. And there was another thing: He did not think he would be able to work for Sir Justin or lie abed with Mary in peace while hiding the knowledge that he had murdered Hervi. Halsig signaled the attendant that he was ready to be scrubbed and began to think of more practical ways to deal with their encumbrance. Perhaps if he just beat Hervi nearly to death the first time he came back to the house…Sir Justin wouldn't mind that; he had done it once himself.

When Halsig finally got back to Justin's house, the front door was locked and he breathed a sigh of relief. As it was, they would have to turn away quite a few of the men who wanted work, so the fewer who came, the fewer who would have to be disappointed. He went around to the back, stopping at the stable to see how Hervi was progressing with his cleaning, and Dick jumped to his feet and asked if Halsig would watch the man while he went to the privy.

“I went once before, but soon's I dropped my braies, he tried to go off. I had to chase him with my ass bare. That's why his eye's closed and he's walking a little funny. I wouldn't want you to think I hit him for fun.”

“I wouldn't think that of you, Dick,” Halsig said, laughing. “It's no fun to hit his kind. He's more like something you want to step on—if you can wipe your shoe without touching it afterward. Go ahead. In fact”—he had been looking around the stable as he spoke—“you can go home afterward. I'll see that he finishes. And if I have to go, I'll just hang him up on one of the hooks until Sir Justin gets home.”

Halsig had no intention of doing any such thing, and Dick, who knew him well, laughed heartily at the idea. It did not occur to either of them that Hervi, who enjoyed inflicting pain, would believe Halsig seriously contemplated such an act or that Dick's laughter would strike terror into his soul. He had really worked like a madman after his abortive attempt to escape. The palfrey and jennet were clean, and all the harness had been polished. The hayrack was spotless, and the floor had been cleaned. Sir Justin had so often overlooked his “mistakes” in the past that Hervi had really expected no more to be said about the dirty stable and ill-cared-for horses after they were cleaned up. Terrified, he began to plead with Halsig not to hurt him and to tell Sir Justin how hard he had worked so he would not torture him.

Halsig roared with laughter at the idea of Sir Justin torturing Hervi for punishment or amusement. Not that Sir Justin did not apply rack and thumbscrews when necessary to obtain information, like any sensible man, but…He saw suddenly that his laughter was misunderstood, and that gave a new direction to his thoughts: If he frightened the man enough about what Sir Justin would do to him, would he not run? And knowing Sir Justin's power within London, would he not be likely to leave the city? So he told Hervi a few more tales and kicked him a few times while he finished making the stable clean and sweet.

The last streaks of daylight were fading and Hervi was scrubbing the trestles—it was the last thing Halsig could find for him to do—when the gate to the alley creaked open. Halsig, who was watching Hervi and had his back to the gate, had not seen the long arm that came over and lifted the latch. He stood up, thinking that Justin might have decided to come home, but the big man who entered was on foot.

He stopped when he saw Halsig and said, “The front door was locked. I—I want to speak to Sir Justin.”

“Not here. Come back tomorrow,” Halsig said, watching the small eyes shift from him to Hervi and back. He had been alerted by the way the man had walked in without hesitation, the surprise at seeing him there as well as Hervi, and the uncertainty with which he asked for Sir Justin. Halsig noticed the man's eyes had gone back to Hervi and, looking at the thick, sullen face, a notion took him. If it worked, Hervi would not be able to take Mary with him.

“Will you do me a favor?” Halsig asked, as if he had not noticed the exchange of glances between the visitor and Hervi and was too stupid to realize the man was lingering when he should have turned to go. “Keep an eye on this man for a few minutes, and don't let him run off. I want to get something to eat while I watch him. Sir Justin's going to have the hide off him tomorrow, and I'll be in deep trouble if he gets away.”

Halsig then went into the house and closed the door behind him. He not only asked Mary for bread and meat, but told her to heat the meat over the fire so the fat would crackle and be tastier. He wanted to give Hervi plenty of time to persuade his big, stupid friend to let him run off, and he was very disappointed when he returned to the stable to discover both men just where he had left them. It did not surprise him that the big man got up and went to the gate immediately when he came out the door or that Hervi kept his back turned and his head bent. Halsig wished for one minute that Sir Justin's reputation as a seeker out of wrongdoers was less potent. Clearly the friend had been too afraid to yield to Hervi's pleas to let him escape.