Justin knelt and felt for the pulse in Cain’s neck. “He is still alive. More’s the pity, for I cannot turn him over to the law, and I hate to turn him loose on the good people of Shrewsbury. The hellspawn came very close to killing me.”
“Actually, I do not think that was his intent. At least it was not his orders. I saw Cain trailing after you when you left the abbey, and knowing the nasty work he does, knowing the nasty piece of goods he is, I decided to tag along, too.”
“Thank God you did! But why do you think he did not have murder in mind?”
“First things first,” Morgan said, looking down thoughtfully at Cain. “You are right. It does not seem fair to let him off with just a bump on the head and a gashed leg.” Before Justin could anticipate what he was about to do, he brought his boot down hard upon Cain’s open hand, grinding until they heard the crunch of bones breaking. “There,” Morgan said in satisfaction. “That ought to slow him up for a while. Even Cain won’t be able to wreak his usual havoc one-handed.”
Justin was startled by the other man’s action, but on reflection, he could find no fault with it. “Let’s go,” he said, and they set off across the empty market square, leaving Cain for the Watch to find. Justin was intent upon confronting Emma as soon as possible, and he was moving so rapidly that the shorter-legged Morgan was hard- pressed to keep up. When he complained, Justin slowed his pace, but not by much. “I want to get to the abbey bridge ere they shut it for the night,” he explained. “We can talk as we go. What question did you want to ask of me?”
“Are you really one of the queen’s men?”
Justin confirmed he was, wishing he still had his lantern, for he’d like to have seen Morgan’s reaction to that. “Go on with your story,” he prompted. “You followed Cain from the abbey. What then?”
“Tiny-that is what we call the lad, for obvious reasons-Tiny ran to catch up with him, carrying a bundle under his arm. I ducked into one of the shuts in time to avoid him seeing me. Shuts are what they call byways between buildings in Shrewsbury-”
“I know,” Justin cut in, marveling at how Morgan seemed able to talk without ever pausing for breath. “Go on.”
“They were easy to follow, never once looked back. When they disappeared into Grope Lane, I waited and then went in after them. They were lurking at the mouth of the alley whilst Tiny was pulling something over his head. I dared not get close enough to see, thought he might be putting on a monk’s habit-”
“A woman’s gown.”
Morgan laughed softly. “Clever! I’ll have to remember that if I ever take to crime. Anyway, as they left the alley, I heard Cain say, ‘Remember now. We’re not to kill him, just to make him wish we had.’ Of course that does not mean they could not have gotten carried away with zeal for their work. You see, Cain enjoys pain-other people’s pain.”
Remembering Cain’s wolfish grin, Justin found that easy to believe. “What if he finds out you were the one who came to my aid?”
“He never got a good look at my face, and it was so dark out there, he probably could not have recognized his own father, assuming he knew who he was. Needless to say, I’d rather that Sir Oliver never hears about my part in tonight’s adventures.”
“He’ll not hear it from me,” Justin promised. The sound he’d been dreading now reached his ears-the blaring of the horns that signaled the coming of curfew to Shrewsbury. He came to a halt then, for it was too late. The town gates were closing; his reckoning with Emma would have to wait till the morrow. “You’d best come back with me to the castle, Morgan. I’ll see that you get a bed there for the night. But I do have one more question.” Cursing the darkness that cloaked them both so utterly, he said, “Why did you go to so much trouble for me? Mind you, I am right glad you did. But I do wonder, for not many men are so willing to risk their lives for strangers.”
“Heroes always do!” Morgan protested playfully. After they’d walked a few moments in silence he said, more seriously, “It is true I do not know much about you, but what I do know, I like. You did not just look away like the others when you saw that poor nag being beaten on The Wyle. You laughed at most of my jokes. And for certes, you are a damned better man than that whoreson Cain and his little weasel!”
“Thank you,” Justin said, matching the other man’s light tone. But one question still lingered in the back of his mind. Had Morgan helped him because he’d heard Oliver call him the queen’s man, and if so, why?
Justin knew he should be grateful that he’d escaped the night’s attack with so few injuries. It was difficult to remember that the next morning, though, when he awakened stiff, sore, and scraped. He told himself he was lucky that his arm was only badly bruised from wrist to elbow. But his rage still smoldered. He was bone-weary of being a target for godless men and women.
He was one of the first out of the town gate, and bypassed the abbey gatehouse, preferring to slip unobtrusively onto the monastery grounds via a wicket that opened into the monks’ cemetery. As he expected, Oliver was pacing up and down before the main entrance, obviously keeping vigil for his missing henchmen and just as obviously alarmed by their continued absence. Staying out of Oliver’s view, Justin found a vantage point that overlooked the guest hall, and settled down to wait.
Soon after the abbey church bells began to peal for Morrow Mass, Emma emerged from the guest hall. Justin intercepted her as she neared the chapter-house. She stopped abruptly, looking genuinely startled, but he knew how finely honed her acting skills were. “We need to talk,” he said, adding “my lady” with such lethal courtesy that her eyes narrowed. Dismissing her ladies-in-waiting and other attendants, she followed silently as Justin led the way onto the small bridge over the mill-race and on into the abbey gardens.
It was a blustery morning, the sky clotted with clouds, and the gardens looked bleak and forbidding. Emma tucked her hands inside her mantle to warm them. She voiced no complaints, and the profile she turned to Justin was as delicate and translucent as the finest alabaster, and as cold. She was in her forties now, well past her youth, but she was stubbornly fighting a rearguard action against the advancing years and, so far, she seemed to be holding her own. Despite the two decades between them, Justin was not blind to her beauty, though he gave her no credit for it, thinking uncharitably that any woman blessed with good bones, fair skin, and enough servants to indulge her every whim could resist the ravages of aging as successfully as Emma.
Emma was the first to speak. Halting before the ice-glazed abbey fishponds, she said coolly, “Do you know what ‘nemesis’ means, Master de Quincy?”
“As a matter of fact, I do, Lady Emma. I am also familiar with the term ‘Dies Irae.’”
Her lashes lifted, unsheathing eyes bluer than sapphires, sharper than daggers. “‘Day of Judgment’? If that is meant as a threat, it is rather heavy-handed. You seem to have lost your sense of subtlety since we last met, Master de Quincy.”
“Most likely I mislaid it in the Fleshambles when you set your dogs loose on me, my lady.”
Her fashionably plucked eyebrows rose in perfect arches. “What in Heaven’s Name are you talking about?”
“A savage mastiff named Cain and his boastful whelp, Tiny.” When Emma continued to look politely puzzled, he said impatiently, “They are your hirelings, eating your bread and taking your orders, and it would be easy enough to prove it!”
“I am not denying it!” she protested. “You may well be right. You can hardly expect me to remember the names of all my servants, after all. But even if these men are mine, what of it? What are you accusing me of now?”
Justin caught a blurred movement and turned to see Oliver hovering by the bridge. “Do not be shy, Sir Oliver,” Justin called out loudly. “Come and join us. We’re discussing how dangerous the streets of Shrewsbury are becoming, and I daresay you have some thoughts on the matter.”
The expression on Oliver’s face would have been amusing under other circumstances, for he looked as if he’d swallowed his own tongue. One glance at the horrified knight was enough for Emma. “Stay right there,” she commanded, as he began to back away. When Justin would have accompanied her, she flung up a hand in the imperious manner of one who was a sister and an aunt to kings. “I do not need your assistance, Master de Quincy.”
Justin could have made an issue of it, but he didn’t. Emma and Oliver conferred together for several moments, their heads almost touching, and even from a distance he could see the blood rushing up into Oliver’s face and throat. Emma soon strode back to him, and he was struck at once by the difference in her demeanor, for
