The queen's man : a medieval mystery (24 page)

I m QUEEN S MAN

"I do not truly think it was Thomas, either," Luke said suddenly. "I suspect the man was slain for reasons 1 can only guess at. His groom told me that he was on an urgent mission to Loudon, and that might well explain the inexplicable interest of the Queen of England in this killing. How much do you know, de Quincy? More than I do, for certes. Do you not think it is about time you shared some of that knowledge with me?"

Justin stiffened. "What do you mean?"

Luke set his cup down with a thud. "You're the queen's man, I've not forgotten. But we are on the same side in this fight. I think I've earned the right to ask some questions."

Justin thought so, too. But was Luke asking for himself? Or for John? "What do you want to know?"

"Was the goldsmith carrying a letter for the queen?"

Justin had not expected such a bold challenge. "Why would you think that?"

Luke scowTed. "The goldsmith had just delivered a chalice to the Archbishop of Rouen, who also happens to be the king's justiciar and a known ally of the queen. He arrived home on Epiphany Eve, and then set out the very next morning for London, in a snowstorm. It does not take a mastermind to wonder if there is a connection between those two facts, de Quincy."

It sounded plausible. Luke was certainly clever enough to draw such conclusions on his own. But were they his own conclusions? "I have no answers for you, Luke. I am sorry."

Luke's eyes darkened. "So am I," he said tersely.

Justin swallowed the last of his ale, silently damning the queen's son to the deepest recesses of Hell Everlasting. At that moment, there was a stir at the door. Gunter found himself greeted heartily by virtually every man in the alehouse, for his courageous rescue had turned him into a neighborhood hero, at least for a fortnight or so. Looking both bemused and shyly pleased by all the attention, he mumbled greetings in turn, and then headed across the room when Justin beckoned.

"Join us, Gunter. You've met Luke de Marston, have you not?" Both men nodded and Luke signaled for more ale.

"This flagon's on me," he insisted. "Any man who'd take on

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Gilbert the Fleming with a pitchfork is someone I'd be proud to drink with."

Gunter shrugged self-consciously. "I'm glad the lad here had such a hard head," he said, glancing sideways at Justin. "Where is the pup tonight?"

"Shadow? Under the table," Justin said, and felt the dog's tail thump against his leg. "I'm sure you've heard that Luke is Hampshire's under-sheriff. He is here to help me track down Gilbert the Fleming. I wish I could tell you more," he said, and although the words were addressed to Gunter, he looked straight at Luke. "But I cannot—"

He got no further, for the alehouse had suddenly gone quiet. Puzzled, Justin shifted in his seat, seeking the cause. He saw at once the reason for the odd hush; Jonas stood framed in the doorway. When he started toward them, a path rapidly cleared for him, men stumbling to get out of his way. Justin and Luke exchanged startled, speculative glances, for they'd not expected to see the serjeant again today.

Jonas halted in front of their table. "There is an Irish whore working at the Bull over in Southwark."

Luke and Justin were impressed that he'd been so successful so soon. But when they began to offer up praise, Jonas cut them off. "It gets better. One of my informants claims he has seen her in the past with our man. It looks," he said, with the glint of a grim smile, "as if we've found the Fleming's woman."

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himself surrounded, spelling out their names for them on one of his costly parchment skins. At first he'd enjoyed being the center of such awed attention, but the novelty soon wore off, and he was relieved when Justin's entrance put an end to the impromptu lesson.

Trailed by Shadow, Justin pulled up a stool and rid himself of his wet mantle. "I see you're keeping busy," he said, glancing at the parchment. "But I think Thomas is spelled with an h."

"Why? Next you'll be telling me I need to stick an h in Justin, too!"

Justin grinned. "I do not believe it. You do know my name, after all!"

Luke shook his head. "You're odiously cheerful for a cold, wretchedly wet day in Lent. Usually when a man is this good humored, he's just come from some woman's bed."

Justin laughed outright, for when he'd gone to the Tower to inform Eleanor about the latest developments, he'd had a brief but ardent encounter with Claudine in the stairwell and she'd promised to meet him as soon as she had a free afternoon.

Luke was still regarding him curiously. "Was I right about the woman? Or is that another one of your secrets?"

Justin shrugged. "I've good reason for cheer. The queen is pleased with our progress and this Irish whore may be the lure we need to draw the Fleming out of hiding. That is more luck than I've had in a long time, Luke."

"If you were truly lucky, you'd have found some poor fool willing to take in that mangy beast. Or have you decided to keep him? I notice you have stopped trying to foist him off onto innocent passersby."

Justin was embarrassed to admit he'd become so fond of Shadow. "No," he insisted, "I'm still looking to find him a home. I thought, though, that I'd have a better chance if I taught him some manners first."

Luke's smile was skeptical. "So . . . you have the fun of teaching him not to piss in the house or chew on table legs or eat a candle and then spit it up on the bed like he did yesterday, and once the dog is tolerable, you give him away? Makes perfect

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sense to me. But I'm not one for meddling betwixt a man and his dog. Hero ... 1 want you to do me a favor. [Tie nexl time one of the queen's couriers is passing through Winchester; will you see that he takes my letter? ltd be too costly to hire a messenger on my own."

My luck must be starting to rub off onto you, for there's a man riding west on the morrow. Hand it over and I'll see that it goes with him. Whom is it for—Aldith?"

"Eventually. First it goes to the sheriff, explaining that I've been detained in London. I imply that it's at the queen's request, so I trust I can rely upon you for corroboration if need be. I asked him to send the letter on to Aldith once he's read it. I've penned a message for her, too, down below."

When Luke pointed, Justin saw that there were indeed a few lines scrawled at the bottom of the page. After scanning them, he glanced up at Luke in amused disbelief. "You tell her you expect to be back in a fortnight or so and that you hope she is well and that is it? You're a romantic devil, in truth!"

"I told her what was important, when I'd be back," Luke protested. "What else am I supposed to say?"

"It would not have hurt to say you missed her. You might even have told her that she holds your heart. What do I have to do, write your love letters for you?"

"Jesu forfend! I might say that in bed, but not in the light of day, and for certes, I'm not about to put it down in writing. I'd feel like the world's greatest fool. Not to mention how the priest would feel when Aldith brought him the letter to read!"

Justin couldn't help laughing. "I suggest, then, that you teach Aldith to read. Now . . . what of Gilbert's whore? Were you able to find out anything more about her?"

"Jonas is seeing to that. He said he'd meet us here this afternoon with whatever he'd learned. But I'll be astonished if that road leads anywhere."

"Are all sheriffs so miserly about doling out hope?" Justin gibed, although hope had always been a scarce commodity in his own life, too—until now.

"Hope and whores rarely go together," Luke countered, and

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with that, Justin could not argue. Instead, he borrowed a pair of dice from another alehouse customer and ordered a flagon from Nell. If they had to wait for Jonas, they might as well enjoy themselves.

They had not long to wait, for Jonas arrived within the hour. He was accompanied by a tall, gangling youth, towheaded and freckle faced, who looked as if he belonged behind a plough in the Kent countryside, not braving the urban perils of London. Signaling to Nell for drinks, Jonas pulled up a bench.

Almost at once, Nell materialized by the table. Ostensibly, she was there with two more cups and a brimming flagon. She made no move to withdraw after serving them, though, hovering nearby with unabashed curiosity. But the men were so focused upon Jonas and his news that they did not even notice her eavesdropping.

"This is Aldred. We have to speak English, for he knows no French. Aldred is the one I sent to the Bull. All my men wanted to go," Jonas said with a sly smile. "It was the first time I can remember them actually volunteering for a duty. But Aldred did right well. Being in a bawdy-house seems to've sharpened his wits, for he was able to follow Nora home afterward without getting caught. I've a man watching now in case the Fleming comes calling on her."

Justin was surprised. "She does not live at the bawdy-house? I thought that was the usual practice?"

Jonas shook his head. "The Southwark stews are different from whorehouses in other cities, for the old king set forth laws to govern them, laws meant to confine sinning to one specific area and keep public disorder to a minimum."

"They have all kinds of rules," Aldred chimed in eagerly. He had a rustic's way of speaking, lacking the distinctive East Saxon accent of the native Londoner. But the blue eyes meeting Justin's gaze were bright and clear. He might be green; he was not dull. "Women married or with child cannot work in the stews," he continued. "Nor can nuns."

Luke interjected a wry "I would hope to God not!"

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But Aldred was intent upon sharing his newfound knowledge and plunged in. "Nora—that be her name—told me all about the laws. They're right interesting and I think fair, too. No woman can be held there against her will. The whores are to live elsewhere and pay rent for their rooms to the stew-master. He is not supposed to lend them money, not over sixpence, lest they get so deeply in debt that they end up working for nothing. They must be seen by a doctor every three months, so men can be sure they are free of the pox. They are not allowed to have lovers, are punished if they do. They're not to whore during holy days, and the last man with a whore must stay with her all night long/'

"Why?" The other regulations seemed self-explanatory to Justin, but that one puzzled him; he very much doubted that the CrowTi was concerned with making sure a man got his money's worth.

"That is easy," Luke explained. "It is to thwart river crossings. Once curfew is rung, the city gates are closed. But if men could hire a ferryman on the Southwark side of the river, they could then roam the streets as they pleased, up to no good."

Aldred started to speak, stopped abruptly as Nell approached with another flagon. As soon as she withdrew, he seized control of the conversation again. "I suppose that is why they are forbidden to sell ale or wine in the stews—to keep drunken brawls from breaking out. But some of the bawdy-houses still offer it on the sly," he confided. "Nora had wine sent up to her room. She said they are not supposed to sell food either, and I see no reason for that rule. Do you, my lords?"

Luke was about to venture a guess that it was to keep the customers from tarrying once they'd gotten what they paid for above-stairs. But Jonas forestalled him. "I daresay we could pass the rest of the day talking about whores. We ought to be talking, though, about one whore in particular. Tell us about the Fleming's Irish wench, Aldred."

"Well . . . she is young and pretty. Her hair is a pale yellow color, like new-churned butter. She has a little waist and ..." Aldred hesitated, for Nell was still nearby, and he did not know how to describe Nora's physical charms in polite terms. "She'd

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make a good wet nurse," he finally blurted out, gesturing with his hands to indicate the ampleness of Nora's breasts, and flushing then when Luke and Justin laughed.

Jonas did not. "I already know she's good in bed, lad/' he said impatiently, "for you came back grinning from ear to ear. That's not what we need to know. Is she clever? Featherbrained? A bitch? A talker? You must have formed some opinion of the woman, Aldred!"

Aldred squirmed on the bench; up until now, Jonas had called upon him to provide brawn, not brains. "She . . . she talks easy enough, but she says little, in truth. She's not one for chattering, like most women. She was sweet as honey at first." His flush deepened; he could hear again that soft Irish lilt, calling him "darlin' lad" and "lover." "But she was different afterward, once she had the money. Then she became right practical. I think she is a woman with secrets, not easy to read." This last phrase was said self-consciously, for Aldred had never so much as opened a book. "Looking into her eyes was like looking into the eyes of our barn cat back home. Does that make any sense?" To his relief, they were nodding, so it must.

"Very good, lad," Luke said, and Aldred grinned widely. Picking up his ale cup, he drank, eyeing Nell all the while. She was cleaning spilt ale from a nearby table, but Aldred had enough experience in eavesdropping to recognize another practitioner of that useful skill. When Nell glanced his way, he winked, and was delighted when she gave him an impish half-smile before turning aside. She did not go far, though, staying within earshot. Aldred did not give her away, and as the men talked, planning their strategy, she listened intently, and she, too, made plans.

Six nights later, Justin, Luke, and Jonas were back, seated at the same table. Nell was giving them such good service that the other customers noticed and marveled. But her efforts were in vain. They were not talking much, and when they did, it was in French. Nell was growing increasingly frustrated. Her spirits lifted, though, when the door banged and Gunter strolled in. A

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man who valued order and took comfort in routine, ho was expecting only his usual evening ale. But he'd taken just a few steps before he was accosted by Nell, pulled aside for an urgent conference.

''Am I glad to see you! Go over and talk to Justin straightaway!"