Masques of Gold (45 page)

On 10 November Lissa was on her way to Justin's house to take one last look at Halsig's almost-healed wound. She was accompanied by Oliva, who was going to shop for food in the Chepe, and Ninias, who was carrying a soothing hand cream to Goscelin's wife. As the three parted near the corner of the Mercery, Lissa turned to remind Ninias to tell Mistress Adela to use the cream each time she wet her hands, and saw, not ten steps behind her, Hubert de Bosco. Even his dull mind could not mistake her look of recognition and fear, the way her lips parted and her breath drew in to scream. He whirled on his heel and ran back, darting into an alley that went behind the Mercery and debouched into Bucklersbury Lane. Lissa caught back the scream, which would have been pointless, waved her servants on to their tasks, and ran toward Justin's house.

She uttered a low cry of relief when she saw Noir being held in front of Justin's house by the groom, and she ran in the open door, almost colliding with Justin, who was on his way out. “I saw him,” she gasped.

“Who?”

“Hubert.”

A black scowl came over Justin's face. “Why are you so frightened? Did he touch you? Speak to you?”

“No.” Lissa described how she had accidentally noticed Hubert; Justin's scowl cleared, being replaced by mild interest. “But Justin, I think he was coming here,” Lissa insisted, clutching his arm nervously. “He may be coming in the back gate right now.”

“So what?” Justin looked down at her in some amusement. “He will not attack me in the street in the middle of the day, and if he should I do not doubt I could deal with him. Probably he wants to find out what happened to Hervi—and his knife.”

However, remembering the knife also reminded Justin that Hubert might try to recover the evidence while he was away from the house, and Halsig was in no condition to contest its ownership with him. In addition, he suddenly grew concerned that the stupid clod might resent Lissa for having seen him and warned Justin. He wondered if she might have thought of it too—she looked frightened—but he did not say anything for fear of putting the idea in her head if it was not already there.

“Very well,” he said, kissing her quickly. “I cannot take the chance that he will work off his anger on Halsig. I will send for some men to guard the house. You go in.”

He did not tell her he would remain inside the house, although he hoped she would believe this, and left only a few minutes after he had sent her home with Dunstan and Dick as escorts. When he returned to the house for dinner, he found all had been perfectly quiet. Hubert had made no attempt, innocent or otherwise, to recover his knife or discover Hervi's fate. In fact, no one had seen him in or near Justin's house.

At that point it occurred to Justin that Lissa's fear had communicated itself senselessly to him. If FitzWalter had come back to London, it was natural for Hubert to be in the city. And the whole business about his running into the alley might have been in Lissa's mind. That alley came out into the street of the shield-makers. Nothing could be more natural than for Hubert to be going there on an errand for his master. Justin bit his lip and thought. Even if Hubert's current errand was innocent, he really should not delay longer in letting FitzWalter know that his man had done a stupid and dangerous thing. He was able to separate the wheat from the chaff, but others might blame the master for the action of the man, and there was enough ill said of FitzWalter without adding lies. Justin pushed aside the remains of his meal and went down, beckoning Dunstan to him.

“Take the jennet and go to Baynard's Castle. If Lord Robert is there, ask if he will grant me a few minutes of his time this afternoon, or if not today as soon as is convenient to him. When you have an answer, you will find me in my cousin FitzAilwin's house—you remember, the old mayor's house, which stands on the north side of Saint Swithin's Church over against the London Stone.”

Justin sincerely hoped that FitzWalter would be able to see him that afternoon because it would be the perfect excuse to break free of his aunt. He had received a message from her rather late the previous afternoon saying that she must talk to him and inviting him for the evening meal. The servant who brought the message had known of no crisis in the household, however, and Justin had not wanted to miss his pleasant, leisurely evening with Lissa. He could still hardly believe he had back all the happiness he thought lost forever, and continued to clutch at every hour with her as precious. So he told the servant he would come to his aunt the next day, after dinner, hoping by going early he could free himself early and be “home” with Lissa before the short day ended. A message from FitzWalter would solve the problem of why he would not stay for the evening with his aunt.

Justin's aunt Margaret was waiting for him when he arrived. After exclaiming in alarm about seeing him in mail and hearing it was only a precaution because of the influx of barons into the city, she brushed aside his polite enquiries about her health. Justin cocked his head, and Mistress Margaret seemed to lose the thread of what she had been about to say. She twittered around this subject and that, and then asked, “Are you not lonely in that house, all by yourself, Justin? You are very welcome to come back here to us.”

With some effort, Justin refrained from laughing. He was
very
fond of his aunt, but few events had given him equal relief to moving out of her house. “But I am seldom there, Aunt Margaret,” he replied solemnly. Before he could go on, she raised troubled, tear-filled eyes to him.

“Oh, Justin, it is not true, is it?” Her voice quavered. “I cannot believe it.”

“What, aunt?” He came closer and took her hand. “I cannot think of anything I have done that could so much displease you.”

She bit her lip. “I have heard it said that you—that you threatened to accuse William Bowles's daughter of his murder and so brought her to—to your bed.”

Justin's mouth opened, but nothing came out, and his aunt stood up and stared, looking more and more frightened, until at last he shook his head.

“Oh, I am so glad!” she exclaimed. “I said you would never do such a thing, but when I mentioned the gossip to Thomas—I thought he would be angry and perhaps drop a word in the stupid woman's ear that would silence her, since I could not—but Thomas looked so strange that I just had to ask you.”

Suppressing his first impulse to discover who had said so cruel a thing to his aunt and tear out her tongue, Justin gathered his wits. He could not lie to Margaret and say he had no relationship with Lissa because the lie would be exposed as soon as they married and she would be hurt, so he swallowed hard and said calmly, “No, of course I would not do such a thing. I would never take an unwilling woman to my bed. Surely you remember, aunt, that I withdrew an offer of marriage because I discovered the girl was afraid of me and unwilling.”

“She was a stupid slut!” his aunt said heatedly. “I cannot understand how you could have been so silly as to let
her
opinion affect you. She would have changed her mind had you gone ahead with the marriage.”

Justin's fury diminished enough for him to feel a flicker of amusement at the familiar confusion in his aunt's thinking. “Aunt,” he said with mock reproof, “you cannot have wanted me to marry a stupid slut, even if she did learn to care for me as a wife should. And to tell the truth, I am afraid I used the lady's fear to crawl out of an engagement I had begun to regret bitterly, so do not speak ill of her. I will have a much better wife in Lissa, who you will see does not fear me at all and laughs at me.”

Mistress Margaret was flustered by her anger at the memory of the rejection of her nephew, which she felt had hurt him despite what he said. But she had knowledge of which Justin was unaware: After his proposed marriage had come to nothing, she had approached several girls in his behalf, and every one had shuddered at his name. And truly she could not imagine any woman, even herself, laughing at Justin.

Before she thought, she burst out, “Wife? But I thought she was promised to Edward Chigwell until her father interfered.”

Then she drew breath fearfully. Justin was always gentle to her, and yet she could often feel a roiling impatience in him, rigidly controlled, and half expected that one day the control would break and he would shout at her or strike her. To her surprise, he laughed.

“You will have to ask Lissa herself to explain that,” he said. “She says she loves me and that Edward Chigwell is a pompous fool.” He shrugged, but his eyes were sad. “Why do you not go to her shop and talk to her? I will not even speak to her of your coming so you may be sure she is free to say what she wishes.”

Tears came to Margaret's eyes. Justin's face was different when he spoke of this girl. He cared for her, that was certain, but did she care for him? Did it matter? He would be good to her. She would grow accustomed to him, just as Margaret herself had grown accustomed and even learned to love her husband. She threw her arms around him, remembering the young man who had come to London, remembering that it was her husband who had laid the burdens on Justin that had drawn the hard lines on his face and changed the laughter in his eyes to ice. “Justin, Justin, I believe you. I do.”

The arrival of Dunstan with the message Justin had hoped for from FitzWalter very soon after his aunt's emotional outburst was providential. Mistress Margaret had learned many years before from her husband that business came before everything else, so she was not surprised and did not protest when Justin said he must go at once. She kissed him fondly and told him that he must come more often to see her and that he should bring Mistress Lissa. Justin agreed with a smile, glad of the invitation. He had not been sure Lissa would be welcome before they were publicly betrothed, since it was apparent his aunt knew she was his mistress. The Church frowned on bedding before wedding, but most people were more lenient to a betrothed couple, and apparently his aunt felt his word that he intended to marry Lissa was as good as a formal betrothal.

Lissa would settle any remaining doubts his aunt might have far better than he could, Justin knew, but he could think of no way to kill the ugly rumor entirely. On his way to FitzWalter's house he considered various expedients. An immediate marriage? But that might only prove he had forced marriage on Lissa. Perhaps a formal betrothal followed by a round of invitations to the merchant community and attendance at public events where Lissa could show herself to be happy? But that was the same thing, and if he was her squire to public events and celebrations, who would believe her if she claimed she was willing and happy?

Justin came to the conclusion that it was useless even to think of the subject until he could discuss it with Lissa. He saw now that her desire for secrecy, which had so infuriated him in the past, was more for his good than hers. She had told him so over and over, of course, but he had refused to accept her reasoning. That was a bitter potion to swallow; Justin hoped he had learned his lesson and would know better in the future than to argue with a woman about what damage gossip could do.

It was a pleasant relief, in comparison, to have to face FitzWalter with a complaint. It was so much of a relief to talk to someone who knew little and cared less about personal gossip in the merchant community that Justin began his story in a light voice with a half-smile on his lips. He managed to hold voice and expression steady even after tension came into Lord Robert's face when he first said Hervi's name, but he wondered briefly if FitzWalter
had
sent Hubert to kill him. By the time he mentioned Hubert's knife, however, FitzWalter's tension was all gone, and Justin realized it was Hervi alive and talking that made FitzWalter uneasy.

The smile Justin was wearing became quite genuine again. He was now fairly certain it was FitzWalter, through Hubert, who had been paying Hervi for information about him. Rather than being angry, as FitzWalter had clearly expected, Justin felt amused. He had had no idea he was important enough for a man like FitzWalter to spy on. When he finished the tale with the statement that he believed Hubert had incited Hervi to try to kill him, offering FitzWalter's protection as an inducement, Lord Robert shook his head and sighed.

“Hubert is enough of a dunce to have done it,” he said. “I am sure you will be able to find someone to identify his knife. Can you imagine being stupid enough to give so recognizable a weapon to your man?” Then he frowned. “I hope you do not think this proves him guilty of Bowles's murder. He is stupid enough to panic or simply to resent your questioning him. What do you want me to do?”

Justin laughed, although he was surprised by FitzWalter's insistence that Hubert was innocent of killing Bowles. Justin had been careful not to bring up the subject directly. It was not typical of FitzWalter to be so loyal to a servant who had done wrong without his master's knowledge.

“Only tell him to stop trying to put an end to me,” Justin replied easily, avoiding any remark about Hubert's guilt for Bowles's death. “I do not want to have to kill him or have him exiled. After all, he might have given Hervi that knife to cut himself free. The stabbing attempt might have been Hervi's idea. But Hubert will not be able to get into my house again, and he is the kind to hire men to help him if he decides to attack me on the street. To speak the truth, my lord, I have enough brawls to settle without needing to be the cause of one myself.”

Justin did not add that having and protecting a servant like Hubert was a stain on the master. Lord Robert knew that well enough; or, if he did not, then his honor had so rotted away that being told would not help. That FitzWalter needed and used such servants was one reason, among others, that Justin could never warm into friendship for the man. He was accustomed to hiding his thoughts behind a rigid face, however, and FitzWalter read none of his disgust.

“That is very generous,” FitzWalter said. “I sent Hubert back to Dunmow just today, so I cannot call him into your presence while I tell him what I think of his behavior but I will see that he does not even look at you again, not to mention make attempts on your life. And let me thank you for coming to me about the matter instead of raising a hue and cry. Do you have time for a cup of wine? Speaking of Bowles has brought a most curious incident to my mind.”

Justin nodded, and FitzWalter waved him to a bench near his chair, then called to a servant for wine.

“I received a strange letter from a ship master based in Haarlem,” FitzWalter continued. “He told me that he had questioned Peter and Edmond de Flael, as William Bowles, my agent, had asked him to do—and I swear to you that Bowles was never my agent in any matter of business—and that the brothers Flael did not have the design for plate that I had commissioned from Peter de Flael.”

“Design for plate?” Justin repeated, completely bewildered. He did not believe FitzWalter's interest in the subject of the ship master's letter was as slight and casual as he pretended. Lord Robert was watching him through half-lowered eyelids, but Justin was not fooled; he was being watched most intently, too intently. Nonetheless, whatever Bowles's involvement with Flael had been, this tale about a design for plate for FitzWalter was incredible.

“You can be no more surprised than I,” FitzWalter said. “Quite aside from the fact that my troubles with the king have left me no money to throw away on plate, you must know that I would not have gone to Peter de Flael for any work I wanted. He did too much for King John for me to give him my custom.”

That statement was plain truth, and Justin knew it. The wine came, and both men drank in silence while the servant withdrew. “That is a strange tale indeed,” Justin agreed. “Did the shipmaster say where Flael's sons were?”

“No, and I do not remember the man's name. The letter is in Dunmow. Do you want me to send for it?”

There was no harm in Sir Justin having the letter, Lord Robert thought, smiling faintly. There was no trail leading from the Haarlem man to Flael's sons that could be traced back to him. The ship master had been rewarded for his trouble, fulsomely thanked, and told that FitzWalter had no interest in any design for plate done by Peter de Flael and no interest in Flael's sons. Moreover, the ship master had been assured that Bowles had taken Lord Robert's name in vain; Bowles had never been Lord Robert's agent. But days before that, Peter and Edmond de Flael had told all they knew about the copy of the king's seal to men who had falsely identified themselves as having come from the French court—and they would talk to no one else, ever.

Justin considered, seeming to look idly at nothing but taking in his host's manner. Although Justin was not certain that FitzWalter had truly forgotten the name of the ship master, he was almost certain the offer to send for his letter was genuine. Equally important: FitzWalter was no longer watching him with particular interest. Lord Robert had either discovered what he wanted to know from Justin's reaction—or lack of reaction—or he had been mistaken in his first assumption and Lord Robert really was relating a puzzling event. Under the circumstances, there was no point in his looking at the letter. He could do that any time if he later felt it was necessary.

“No,” he said, “I cannot see any purpose to pursuing the sons, particularly if they have left England. They were not guilty of their father's death, and the case has been closed—although I must admit I am still most curious about why Flael was threatened so forcefully that he died of fear.”

“Perhaps it is better not to know, considering for whom Flael did some very expensive pieces. Some thought the work was a method of payment for other services, which was why I had no work done by Peter de Flael.” FitzWalter grimaced. “I melted down my plate to pay my debts, but our lord king simply demands more from those he has already robbed. I heard that his letter to Vesci was read in the mayor's council.”

Although the subject was dangerous, Justin simply nodded. He was deeply interested in what FitzWalter would say. Despite the self-pitying tales of melted plate, Lord Robert was one of the richest men in the kingdom, and he had great influence among the barons. That influence had been increased by the recent blows to King John's power—the desertion of the king by the Poitevins and King Louis's destruction of King John's allies. If FitzWalter was about to call for war against the king without suggesting some compromise path, Justin wanted to know. Perhaps other forces could be brought to bear that could alter FitzWalter's intention or weaken his influence among the barons. Justin would hate to see it, but even wakening the old false specter of FitzWalter's cowardice and treachery in yielding Vaudreuil would be better than open war between the barons and the king.

“You did not feel that the demand was outrageous?” FitzWalter insisted.

“I felt the king was mistaken to take so harsh a tone, and three marks seems high to me,” Justin temporized. “But it is customary to pay scutage in lieu of service.”

“Scutage in lieu of service was reasonable when the king and many barons had great lands in France.” FitzWalter's voice was harsh. “Now the barons of England have little reason to fight there. The king must be brought to see this.”

“I cannot deny that I have often wished King John was more aware that the head suffers when by its violence the body is abused,” Justin said. “But, my lord, I cannot wish for a body without a head either.”

“No!”

FitzWalter's exclamation was prompt and emphatic. Justin wished that a gleam had not lit in Lord Robert's eye nor his lip quirked quite the way it did when he spoke. He had a strong suspicion that he was about to hear platitudes that would soon lead to something worse, but to his surprise what FitzWalter did next was to burst into praise of Stephen Langton, the archbishop of Canterbury.

Justin concealed a sigh of relief and remarked, “You will get no argument from me. I know his lordship moderately well. You remember—Oh, no, you had not yet come back to England. I served as chief of Archbishop Langton's guard in the first weeks he was here. I think he feared treachery—not that he is a coward; only he did not wish to die before he had accomplished his purposes. He very soon realized, however, that King John might pray in private for his early, natural death, but would do nothing to help it along. John wanted no second holy martyr. His father's creation of Saint Thomas à Becket was enough.”

“Then you were present when the archbishop told us of the charter that the first King Henry gave to his barons on the event of his coronation,” FitzWalter said eagerly.

“Yes.” Justin did not say there was nothing in that charter about serving the king in foreign wars. “And I am certain,” he added blandly, “that Archbishop Langton will do all he can to convince the king to behave with moderation.”

That was true, but Justin was also sure Archbishop Langton would have no part in inciting the barons into a war against the king, which he greatly feared was FitzWalter's final purpose; he made no comment on that, however. If Lord Robert was blinded enough by his hatred of the king to believe Archbishop Langton felt the same, Justin did not wish to relieve that blindness. On the contrary, anything he could say to encourage FitzWalter to consult with the prelate, he would say gladly.

Lord Robert smiled, but he did not answer Justin's remark directly. Instead he said, “Many causes of trouble would be removed if such a charter were renewed, saying clearly what duties are owed by the barons, what rights are theirs, and what belongs to the king. You might be interested to attend the religious services on the feast of Saint Edmund at his church in Bury St. Edmunds.”

“Two days' ride from London,” Justin said.

Although his brief statement might have seemed as much unrelated to the topic of the quarrel between King John and his baronage as FitzWalter's remark about the religious services at Bury St. Edmunds, neither man had strayed from the subject. Justin understood that the barons would meet, ostensibly to discuss obtaining a new version of Henry I's charter, under cover of attending the religious services. The charter, Justin thought, was an excellent idea, but he was not certain what else might be discussed in secret meetings among the leaders, which might then seem to involve all who attended.

FitzWalter stared at Justin without expression for a moment, then shrugged contemptuously and nodded. “Of course,” he said, “you would need to get leave, and you do not even bend the truth, do you, Sir Justin?”

“I would not say that, my lord,” Justin replied with a wry twist of the lips. “I have told many women they were the most beautiful in the world and that I loved them and would love them forever.” His eyes were steady on FitzWalter's face, but Lord Robert did not meet them. Justin recognized the pain of irretrievable loss under the assumed contempt in the sneer directed at him, and his voice was more gentle than usual as he added, regretfully, “But in the matter of leaving my post for a week at this time, I would need to speak the truth or lie outright. A small bend in the truth would not do.”

“Then by all means speak the truth,” FitzWalter snapped, clearly displeased. “There is no secret about our attendance at Saint Edmund's.”