have to go, Butterfly,” he said softly. “But I’ll be back.”
Winchester was on the Southampton road, and Justin suggested that they stop there for the night in order to visit with his friend, Luke de Marston, the shire’s under-sheriff. Claudine had met Luke during one of his London trips and they’d gotten along very well, so she was amenable to the idea. Reaching the city at dusk, they were made welcome by Luke and the woman he loved, Aldith. But within an hour of their arrival, Claudine sensed that they were sharing their cottage with trouble. It lurked in the corners, flitted about in the shadows, hovered in the air, and she was worldly enough to recognize that this was the age-old war that men and women had been fighting since God breathed life into Adam’s rib.
Justin was not oblivious to the tension, either. He caught the oblique glances that Aldith cast in Luke’s direction when he wasn’t looking. He felt the heaviness of the silences between them. He noticed how often Luke reached for the wine flagon. He noticed, too, how uncomfortable Aldith seemed in Claudine’s presence; Aldith usually made other women feel uncomfortable. But she knew Claudine was a lady-in-waiting to the Queen of England while she was a poor potter’s daughter of dubious reputation. Her unease told Justin that she’d learned Luke was under pressure to end their liaison, and he was sorry, for Aldith was his friend, the most seductive, shapely of friends, but a friend, nonetheless.
The only one who was enjoying the stay in Winchester was Justin’s dog, Shadow, for he was utterly and enthusiastically smitten with Jezebel, Aldith’s mastiff. Rescued by Justin from drowning in the River Fleet, Shadow had finally grown into his long, rangy frame, but he was still dwarfed by the enormous mastiff, who was not receptive to his wooing. He continued his high-risk courtship, though, until a snarl and yelp told them that Jezebel’s latest rebuff had drawn blood.
“Poor sap,” Luke said unsympathetically. “I have to make one last sweep of the town tonight. Come with me, de Quincy, and we’d best bring your besotted hound with us ere Jezebel bites him where it will hurt the most.”
Claudine and Aldith shared a common expression for a moment, one of dismay at the prospect of being left alone together. Justin snatched up his mantle, hoping he did not appear too eager to escape the stifling atmosphere of the cottage, and he and Shadow followed the under-sheriff out into the night.
They ended up in a tavern on Calpe Street. As usual, Luke insisted upon being the one to order a flagon of heavily spiced red wine. An under-sheriff could run up charges indefinitely, for no alehouse or tavern owner would be foolish enough to push for payment. Justin coaxed Shadow under the table where he’d be in no danger of being stepped on and then apologized for showing up at Luke’s door with no warning.
“What you really mean,” Luke said, “is that you’re sorry you did not want to pay for a night’s stay at a Winchester inn. The worst of our flea-ridden hovels is looking better and better when compared to the harmony and joy at Castle de Marston.”
“You know me, anything to save a few pence. So… Aldith knows?”
Luke nodded morosely and they drank in silence for several moments. They’d met when Justin had been investigating the death of a Winchester goldsmith the previous year. Aldith had been the man’s longtime mistress, but Luke had been willing to offer her what the goldsmith could not-marriage. When word of his intentions got out, though, he’d encountered opposition from the sheriff and the Bishop of Winchester. Marriage would elevate Aldith into the gentry, and Winchester society had far more stringent standards for an under-sheriff’s wife than for his bedmate. Unwilling to lose his office, and equally unwilling to lose Aldith, Luke had been concocting excuses for delaying the wedding while he tried to find a way out of the trap. Justin had advised him to tell Aldith the truth. Apparently that had not worked too well.
“She blames you for not defying them?” he asked in surprise, for that did not mesh with what he knew of Aldith.
“No, she says not. She said she understood and she chided me for not telling her sooner. But nothing has been right between us since then. We fight more and we watch what we say and…” Luke doused the rest of his words in his wine cup. When he set it down again, he signaled that he was done discussing his family woes by saying hastily, “Well, enough of that. What is the latest news about the queen and King Richard?”
The English king had been seized by his enemies on his way home from the Crusade, and after much negotiation and scheming, he was to be freed upon payment of a vast ransom to his royal captor, Heinrich, the Holy Roman Emperor. Queen Eleanor had sailed for Germany that past November to deliver the ransom. But Richard’s release was not a foregone conclusion. The French king, Philippe, and Richard’s younger brother, John, Count of Mortain, had been doing all in their power to prolong Richard’s confinement, and they were not known for being gracious losers. Rumor had it that they’d offered Heinrich an even larger sum to keep Richard prisoner, and Luke hoped that Justin, one of the queen’s men, might be a better source than local alehouse gossip.
He was to be disappointed, though. All Justin could tell him was that the queen had safely arrived in Germany and that John was still in France, reported to be at the French king’s court. Peering into the wine flagon, Luke motioned to the serving maid for another. He was about to recount a story about a local vintner who’d evaded the tax imposed to pay King Richard’s ransom, but remembered in time that Justin would probably not see the humor in it. The Crown had demanded that all of Richard’s subjects contribute fully a fourth of their annual income to the Exchequer, a huge burden that had eroded some of the king’s popularity, at least in Winchester. But Justin’s loyalty to his queen was absolute and Luke thought it was unlikely he’d question the exorbitant price the English were paying for the return of their king.
“I had to make a trip to London,” he said, “the week of Michaelmas. I stopped by to see you, de Quincy, but your friends at the alehouse said you’d been gone since the summer. I assume you were off skulking and lurking on the queen’s behalf?”
“I was in Wales,” Justin said, reaching over to pour them more wine. “Some of King Richard’s ransom had gone missing, and the queen sent me to recover it.”
“Just another ordinary summer, then,” Luke said with a grin. “Did you get it back?”
“Eventually,” Justin said, and he grinned, too, then, imagining Luke’s reaction if he’d been able to give the deputy a candid account of his time in Wales.
The Welsh prince, Davydd ab Owain, was fighting a civil war with his nephew, Llewelyn ab Iorwerth. He staged a false robbery of the ransom to put the blame on Llewelyn, but he was outwitted by his not-so-loving wife, Emma, the bastard sister of the old king. Emma arranged to have the ransom really stolen, with the help of a partner in crime and a dangerous spy called “the Breton.” I followed Emma to an abbey grange and discovered that her confederate was none other than the queen’s son John, who decided that the best way to protect his aunt Emma was to shut my mouth by filling it with grave-soil. Since a prince never dirties his own hands, he left it for Durand to do.
You remember Durand, Luke? John’s henchman from Hell, who secretly serves the queen when he is not doing the Devil’s work. Durand had the grace to apologize to me first, wanting me to know there was nothing personal in his actions as he was about to spill my guts all over the chapel floor. Obviously it did not go as he expected, thanks to Llewelyn. Did I mention that Llewelyn and I had become allies of a sort? Anyway, I got the ransom back for the queen, too many men died, and John decided that Paris was healthier than Wales.
Of course Justin could never say that. Of all he owed the queen, not the least was his silence. She wanted John’s misdeeds covered up, not exposed to the light of day. Nor was he being completely honest, not even in his own mental musings. His mocking tone softened the harsh edges of memory-trapped in that torch-lit chapel, disarmed and defenseless, hearing John say dispassionately, “Kill him.”
“I was somewhat surprised to have you turn up with the Lady Claudine,” Luke admitted, “for I thought you ended it once you found out that she was spying for John in her spare time.”
“I did, but…” Justin shrugged, for he could hardly explain about Aline. It got confusing at times, remembering who knew which secrets. Claudine knew that the Bishop of Chester was his father. But she did not know that her spying had been discovered by Justin and the queen. Luke knew about Justin’s connection to Claudine, but not about his blood ties to the bishop. Molly, a childhood friend and recent bedmate, had guessed the truth about his father. She did not know, though, that he served the queen. The irony was not lost upon Justin that he, who’d never cared much for secrets, should now have so many.
Misreading his shrug, Luke laughed. “I know; when it comes to a choice between common sense and a beautiful woman, guess which one wins every time? Just be sure you sleep with one eye open, de Quincy, especially once you reach Paris. That is where John is amusing himself these days, is it not?”
