The queen's man : a medieval mystery (14 page)

Sharon Kay Penman

to hide his pilfering. His defense was that Gervase was a hopeless spendthrift and he was just putting aside money so they'd not fall deeply in debt. But somehow or other, the money got spent and all he's got left is a tattered conscience. The poor sot had convinced himself that he was going to Hell and gaol, not necessarily in that order/'

"What did you do, Luke? Did you arrest him?"

"Worse—I turned him over to his sister-in-law! I took him home to Dame Ella and made him confess to her, too. She reacted as I expected, with dismay and disbelief and then righteous indignation, watered with a few tears. But when I asked if she wanted him hauled off to gaol, she ruffled up her feathers like a hen defending her chicks. Indeed not, this was a family matter, no concern of the law, and she'd thank me not to meddle further."

"You knew she'd not want him arrested."

"Of course I did. And not just because of the scandal it would cause. With her husband dead and her son set upon taking holy vows, she needs Guy more than ever. She'll make peace with him, for she has no choice. But Guy's guilt will give her the upper hand, and for a widow, that's not a bad thing to have."

Justin took a swallow of the malmsey, found it too sweet for his taste. "What of the Fleming? You said you had a lead?"

"I might. My men spent the day rousting Gilbert's kin and lowlife friends, warning that none of them will have any peace until we get the Fleming. I think one of his cousins may be willing to give him up, for there is no love lost between them. When I saw Kenrick this morn, he claimed to know nothing about Gilbert's whereabouts. But he said he might be able to find out and would send me word if he did. He will expect to be paid, though. Since the queen's coffers are far deeper than the sheriff's, this will be your debt, de Quincy."

"Fair enough," Justin agreed. "What of Gilbert's partner? He might be easier to track down. From what you've told me about the Fleming, that one is more slippery than those snakes of his."

"I've put the word out that I'll pay for the man's name. And

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most felons and brigands would sell their own mothers for the price of an ale. It may take time, but someone will offer up Gilbert's accomplice."

Justin hoped he was right. Only the outlaws could give him the answers he needed, and Gilbert did not sound like a man who'd be cooperative even if he was caught. They might have better luck with the partner. "Spread some money around," he said. "I'll pay for the bait."

They deferred further discussion of the Fleming until the meal was done; talk of bloody killings was no fit seasoning for Al-dith's stew. She had just served wafers drizzled with honey when her mastiff began to grow T l.

The knock was soft, tentative. When Luke unbarred the door, the lantern light revealed a thin youngster of twelve or thirteen, his shoulders hunched against the cold. Aldith took one look at his patched mantle and ushered him into the cottage, toward the hearth. His teeth were chattering, and when he stretched his hands toward the fire, they were swollen with chilblains. "My papa sent me," he whispered, looking everywhere but at Luke's face. "He said heTl meet you at the mill tonight after Compline."

Luke grabbed for his mantle. "This is Kenrick's eldest," he told Justin. "Come on, lad, we'll get you home first."

The boy shrank back. "Nay . . . my papa said I'm not to be seen with you. He said it was not safe." When Aldith offered him a wafer, he crammed it into his mouth, seeming to inhale it rather than eat it, so fast did it disappear. He remembered to thank her, though, before disappearing into the night again.

They traveled on foot, in the shadow of the city's north wall. In the distance, church bells had begun to chime. Justin tilted his head, hearing their echoes on the wind. "Compline is being rung. We'll be late."

"He'll wait for us. But if I'd hitched my stallion outside the mill, he'd have bolted for certes. No one can know about this, not if Kenrick hopes to make old bones. It is not only the Fleming he must worry about. If it becomes known that he's given Gilbert up, the rest of his family will make his life utter misery.

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Their Eleventh Commandment is Thou shalt never talk to the law/ "

"Why did he pick this mill for the meeting?"

"It lies beyond the city walls and no one will be around at this late hour. And in case he is seen, he has an excuse for being there; he works for the Durngate miller. Likely as not, you'll find him as skittish as an unbroken colt. But I do not blame him for being scared, de Quincy."

Neither did Justin. It would take a brave man to betray Gilbert the Fleming. Or a desperate one, he thought, remembering the boy's ragged mantle. Well, he'd see that Kenrick was generously rewarded. The queen would not begrudge a few shillings. She'd willingly pay that a hundredfold to resolve her suspicions about the French king.

They exited the city through the Durn Gate, tucked away in the northeast corner of the wall, and headed for the mill. They soon saw the gleam of water ahead. It was a clear, cloudless night and the River Itchen looked silvered and serene in the moonlight, but very cold. Not far from the bridge, it had been channeled into a millrace, and as the men drew nearer, they could see the waterwheel. It was motionless, for the sluice gate was down. It seemed strange to Justin not to hear the familiar creaking and splashing. The silence was eerie; all he could hear was the faint gurgling of the millrace. It was dark, too; not a flicker of light shone through the mill's shuttered windows.

"So Kenrick waited, did he?" he gibed softly.

"He'd not have gone off," Luke insisted, "no matter how late I was. He must be inside." Scowling over his shoulder at Justin, he strode toward the door. His knocking went unanswered. When he pushed the latch, though, the door swung inward.

They exchanged glances and, by common consent, loosened their swords in their scabbards before stepping inside. Justin was getting a bad feeling about this, and he could see that Luke was edgy, too. But their lantern light revealed nothing out of order. The floor was dirty: flour and chaff were everywhere and the hulls of spilled grain crunched underfoot as they moved cautiously into the room. The inner wheel took up most of the space,

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attached to a spindle that disappeared up into a hole in the ceiling. The overhead chamber put Justin in mind oi a barn hayloft; a ladder in the corner provided access, and during working hours, Kenriek could peer over the edge to make sure the wheel was functioning properly. But now it was like gazing up into a vast, black cave. Even when Luke raised the lantern high, it could not penetrate the shadows above them.

Luke swore under his breath. "Where did he go? This makes no sense."

Justin shrugged. "Mayhap he is late, too?" He at once saw the problem with that explanation, though. Then why was the door unlatched? One of the ladder rungs seemed muddied. When he got closer, he saw that it was dry, days old. He was turning toward Luke when he felt something wet drip onto his hand. His breath caught. Backing away from the ladder, he looked up as another dribble of blood splattered onto the floor at his feet.

Luke had not yet noticed the blood, but he was alerted by Justin's body language. When he crossed the room, Justin held out his hand so that the lantern's gleam fell upon that glistening red droplet. Luke's eyes flew upward. For unmeasured moments, neither man moved, straining to hear. But no sound came from the loft. No creaking of the floorboards, no giveaway gasps of pent-up breath, nothing. Justin's thoughts were racing as fast as his pulse. Should one of them go get a torch? But that might be leaving the other one alone with a killer.

Luke had reached the same conclusion. Using hand signals, he communicated to Justin that he was going partway up the ladder so he could get a look into the interior of the loft. That did not strike Justin as the best idea he'd ever heard, but he had no better one to offer. Nodding tensely, he brushed back his mantle so he could draw his sword swiftly if need be. Luke simply unfastened his mantle, letting it drop to the floor. Justin was impressed by his coolness, until he noticed Luke's white-knuckled grip on the lantern. Luke paused and then, one slow rung at a time, began to climb toward the loft.

Luke paused again at the halfway point and held the lantern

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up as high as he could reach. Glancing down at Justin, he mouthed the word "Nothing." It was then that a man erupted from the darkness above, lunged forward to grab the ladder, and shoved. Luke yelled as the ladder started to tip and Justin managed to catch hold of a lower rung. For several desperate seconds, he struggled to keep the ladder upright. But it was swaying like a tree in a high wind, and before Luke could jump free, it went over backward. Justin dived out of the way in the nick of time. There was a thud, a gasp from Luke, and then darkness as the lantern light died.

The silence was broken almost at once by Luke. He did not sound as if his injuries were serious, not by the way he was cursing. Groping about blindly, Justin was trying to untangle the deputy from the ladder when new noises came from the loft. "Christ," Luke cried hoarsely, "he's going out the window! Go after him!" But Justin had also recognized the sound—shutters being flung open—and he was already lurching to his feet. Memory serving him better than eyesight, he plunged toward the door.

It was a relief to get outside, where he had stars for candles. He halted long enough to draw his sword, for he knew his enemy. It was Gilbert the Fleming whom they'd cornered in the loft; when he'd pushed the ladder, he'd been exposed to the lantern's flaring light. It was a brief glimpse, but for Justin, enough. The face of evil had never looked so familiar.

Running around the side of the mill, Justin was half expecting to find the Fleming crumpled on the ground under the window, for the snow was days old and hard packed. But when he rounded the corner, there was no broken body, no blood, only churned-up snow and footprints leading toward a copse of trees.

Justin slowed as he neared the trees, for never had he hunted such a dangerous quarry, capable of turning at bay the way a wild boar would. But nothing mattered more to him at that moment than catching this man. He moved into the shelter of a massive oak, his ears echoing with an odd, muffled drum-

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beat, the accelerated pounding of his own heart. Was the Fleming lying in wait behind one of these trees? Or fleeing in panic into the deeper snowdrifts? Did he ever feel panic—like other men?

The outlaw's footprints were still visible, scuffed in the moonlight, and Justin followed them. He thought he heard Luke's voice behind him, but he dared not answer, for he did not know how close the Fleming was. He stopped to listen again, and then he was running, caution forgotten.

But he was too late. Coming to a halt, he stood watching as a horseman broke free of the trees ahead. Justin was still standing there when Luke finally came panting into view.

"He got away?"

"He had a horse tethered amongst the trees."

Luke was quiet for a moment, then said savagely, "God rot him!"

Justin heartily concurred. They walked back in silence. Luke was limping, but he shrugged off Justin's query with a brusque "No bones broken."

They were almost upon the mill when they saw a light bobbing off to their left. A man was standing on the other side of the millrace, holding a lantern aloft. "What is going on?" he challenged, managing to sound both truculent and ill at ease.

"You live hereabouts?"

He nodded, bridling at Luke's peremptory tone, and gestured vaguely over his shoulder. When Luke demanded that he yield his lantern, he started to protest—until the deputy identified himself, tersely but profanely.

Trailing after them as they approached the mill, he kept asking questions neither one answered. Justin crossed the threshold with a leaden step. Luke blocked the doorway, instructing the anxious neighbor to wait outside. Glancing then at Justin, he said, "Let's get this over with."

After Justin righted the ladder, Luke crossed the room, still limping, and began to climb. Justin followed, and scrambled up into the loft to find Luke standing beside a man's body. Blood

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was spattered on both millstones, soaking into the floor. Gilbert's cousin lay upon his back, eyes open, mouth contorted. As Justin moved closer, he saw that Kenrick had been stabbed in the chest, a knife thrust up under his ribs—like Gervase Fitz Randolph. But when Luke shifted the lantern, they saw that his throat had also been cut.

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neighboring women to tend the sleepy, bewildered children, they were now returning to the scene of the Fleming's latest killing, arriving back at the mill soon after daybreak.

As early as it was, there was a large, curious crowd gathered outside, for word of the murder had spread like wood smoke. They found Luke's serjeant Wat arguing heatedly with a portly, red-faced man who turned out to be the Durngate miller. He seemed to be taking the death of his hired man in stride, but he was furious that he'd not be able to open his mill, and began to argue with Luke as soon as they'd dismounted, complaining that he'd lose money if he had to turn away customers.

Luke pushed past the miller as if he weren't there. When he started to follow, the deputy swung around. "It would be a great pity, Abel, if you were to trip and fall into the millrace. Of course if you did, we'd fish you out—eventually." The miller looked outraged, but he showed that he was not an utter fool by backing off. Leaving his serjeant to deal with Abel, Luke entered the mill, with Justin a step behind.

In the light of day, the mill was even dirtier. Luke glanced around with distaste, then made for the ladder. Justin followed reluctantly. There was more blood than he remembered. Abel would have a hard time scrubbing those millstones clean, if indeed he bothered. "What I do not understand," he said, "is how the killing took place up here. Did Gilbert force him into the loft at knifepoint, and if so, why?"