The queen's man : a medieval mystery (12 page)

"So you are saying that after all he'd done for her, she was loath to hurt him?"

"Yes . . . that is exactly what I am saying." Luke's eyes met Justin's, challengingly, as if daring him to scoff. But it seemed plausible to Justin and he merely nodded. Somewhat mollified, Luke signaled for more wine before continuing. "She got me to

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promise that she could tell him in her own time and her own way. Aldith has ever been one for putting off unpleasantness, so I daresay she'd have delayed as long as she could. But she'd have told him. I'd have seen to that."

Justin didn't doubt it. If Aldith had been his woman, he'd have seen to that, too. "I've another question for you," he said, implicitly acknowledging by the change of subject that he believed Luke's account, an admission not lost upon Luke. "How did you know that I was in this tavern?"

Luke's smile was complacent. "My serjeant is not as inept as you think. True, his attempt to follow you was not a rousing success. I gather he could not have been more conspicuous if he'd worn a sack over his head. But he does have a few grains of common sense. Also, he knew I'd skin him alive if he reported that he'd lost you. After that friendly little joust in the alley, Wat was in dire need of an ale, or two or three. It occurred to him that you might have the same urgent thirst, so he crept back up the alley and peered into the tavern to see if he was right. Lucky for you he was no cutthroat or hired assassin."

"Yes, lucky," Justin said tersely, more annoyed with his own carelessness than with Luke's gibe. He still had a lot to learn about self-preservation.

"Do you want to tell me why you think the ambush was not a robbery gone wrong? Or do I have to guess?"

Justin felt a flash of irritation, but Luke's sarcasm notwithstanding, he had a right to know. "I have reason to believe that it was no random robbery. The outlaws were lying in wait for Fitz Randolph." And as concisely as possible, he told Luke why he was sure that was so.

"You're right," Luke agreed, as soon as Justin had concluded. "It does sound like a hired killing. But done at whose behest? Was I your only suspect? Flattering as that might be, where does that leave us now?" He looked quizzically across the table at Justin, and then scowled. "By God, you did not think that Aldith . . . ?"

"Make yourself easy. She was never a suspect." A corner of

Justin's mouth quirked. "In truth, I could not imagine any woman wanting you badly enough to commit murder."

"Likewise." The corners of Luke's mouth were twitching, too. "So who else wanted the man dead? Any family squabbles I ought to know about? I seem to remember Aldith telling me that the son was at odds with the old man, wanting to be a priest?"

"A monk. And yes, he is a suspect—one of several. The daughter is in love with Fitz Randolph's journeyman, but he was set upon wedding her to a wellborn widower. And Fitz Randolph's brother argued with him often about money and is now as nervous as a treed cat."

" 'And a man's foes shall be they of his own household.' " Luke shook his head, then smiled ruefully. "I'm not usually one for quoting from Scriptures, but there is nothing usual about any of this, is there? How often do we find the Queen of England somehow linked to a goldsmith? Let's start with the ambush itself and track from there. Do you think you could identify the outlaws?"

"I never got a close look at the man trying to hold onto Fitz Randolph's stallion. He was uncommonly tall and big boned, but that is all I can tell you. I did see the one who did the stabbing, though. I can even give you a name; his partner called him 'Gib.' "

"Gilbert? There are more Gilberts roaming the countryside than we could hope to count. A pity he had not been christened something less popular, like Drogo or Barnabus. What did this 'Gib' look like?"

"Of middle height and build, with brown hair. I never got close enough to tell eye color for certes, but I'd say dark. As for age, I'd guess closer to thirty than forty. And he was Saxon, not Norman. They both were, for they were speaking English."

"You've a sharp eye," Luke said approvingly. "But is there anything you might have forgotten?" All business now, he leaned across the table. Justin had seen such single-minded intensity before, usually on the hunting field. "Sometimes a witness will overlook a small detail," Luke explained, "thinking it

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insignificant. Most often it is, but every now and then ... I once solved a murder because the killer dropped a key near the body. Is there anything else that youVe not told me?"

That was an awkward question, for there was a great deal Justin was concealing: that blood-stained letter, a royal captive in Austria, the shadow cast by the French king. "Well," he said finally, "there was something. It sounds foolish and most likely means nothing, but I thought I saw a snake."

Luke's hand froze on the flagon. "A snake?"

Justin nodded. "I know what you're thinking. Snakes den up during the winter months. So why would one be slithering about on the Alresford Road? But it sure as hellfire looked like a snake!"

"It was. I can tell you that for certes. I can also tell you who killed Gervase Fitz Randolph—a misbegotten whoreson known as Gilbert the Fleming."

Luke smiled grimly at the expression of amazement on Justin's face. "This is not the first time he has made use of that snake trick, so I can even tell you how he did it. He found a snake's burrow, dug it out, put it in a sack, and then flung it out into the road as the goldsmith and groom rode by. Nothing spooks horses as much as snakes do—it's an almost foolproof way to get a man thrown."

"That would explain why their horses bolted without warning. What do you know about this man?"

"That hanging is too good for him," Luke said harshly. "Gilbert is a local lad, although he long since moved on to London; better pickings there, I suppose. But he comes back to visit his kinfolk, and last summer he was implicated in a brutal double murder here. He ambushed a merchant and his wife on the Southampton Road, he and another devil's whelp. The man, they killed outright. After raping the woman, Gilbert took his blade to her, and left her to bleed to death by the side of the road. Our Gib does not believe in leaving witnesses behind; so much tidier that way. But the merchant's wife did not die, not right away. She lived long enough to tell about the snake

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and the ambush and to put a rope about Gilbert's wretched neck."

"Christ have pity/' Justin said softly.

"I spent every waking hour hunting them down. We caught his partner, tried him, and then hanged him out on Andover Road. But Gilbert had the devil's own luck and somehow got away. I heard that he'd gone back to London and I warned the sheriffs there to keep an eye out for him, but London is a big enough log to hide any number of maggots. I suppose Gilbert decided enough time had gone by for him to risk returning. God rot him, but he has never lacked for nerve."

"Why is he called Gilbert the Fleming? You said he is Winchester born and bred; did his family come over from Flanders?"

"They call him that," Luke said, "because he is so handy with a knife. Have you not heard men say that there is nothing sharper than a Fleming's blade?"

Justin nodded somberly, chilled to think what would have happened to Edwin had he not gone back in answer to that cry for help. "Do you think you can find him?"

"If I do not, it'll not be for want of trying. At first light, I'll get the word out on the street, and we'll keep his family so closely watched that they'll not be able to burp without one of my men hearing." With that, Luke pushed the bench out and stood up. "I have to get back to the castle. I was in the midst of an interrogation when Wat came bursting in. I'll let you know what I find out about Gilbert. Meanwhile, de Quincy, stay out of alleys." He grinned, then signaled to the tavern owner. "Rayner, put his drinks on my account."

Collecting Wat, the deputy swaggered out, the focal point of all eyes. Justin caught the tavern owner's glowering in his direction and transformed the man's frown to a grateful smile by deliberately dropping some coins onto the table. He knew very well that Luke never paid for the bills he ran up in taverns and alehouses; he'd see free drinks as one of the many perquisites of his office.

After Luke's departure, the tavern patrons settled back to

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their drinks and their draughts games and their gossip. Justin slouched down in his seat, trying to ignore the curious looks being aimed his way. He needed solitude to assess what the deputy had told him. Could he truly trust Luke de Marston? If so, he'd gained an invaluable ally. If not, he might not live to regret it.

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"You missed your calling, Luke. With your knack for getting men to see the error of their ways, you ought to have been a priest."

Luke fought back a smile. "What brings you here, de Quincy? Any more secrets you forgot to tell me about? Let me guess . . . in your spare time, you spy for the Pope? You're a royal prince incognito? You know the whereabouts of King Richard?"

Justin burst out laughing. If Luke only knew! "Alas, nothing so dramatic. As far as I know, I've not a drop of royal blood. But I may have a way to flush out our killer."

Luke stopped abruptly. "How so?"

"I thought," Justin said, "to put the cat amongst the pigeons."

Luke listened intently, not interrupting until Justin was done. "Well," he said thoughtfully, "it is worth trying. Of course it might make you a target." He paused then, very deliberately. "But I suppose I could live with that."

Justin grinned. "I'll take that," he said, "as your odd way of wishing me good luck!"

From the castle, Justin headed for Gervase Fitz Randolph's goldsmith shop. It was open for business, the unicorn sign swaying precariously in the wind, the shutters thrown back, a sound of hammering coming from within. Miles was working at the anvil, pounding gold into gold leaf. He looked up with a startled smile when Justin said his name.

"You're back, are you? Come on in." Setting the hammer down, he unlatched the little gate in the corner so Justin could enter. Thinking it had been more fun to vault over the counter, Justin stepped inside and came over to watch as Miles smoothed the parchment protecting the gold foil.

"Are you on your own today, Miles?"

"No . . . Guy is in the rear, heating up the forge. Tom was supposed to be in, too, but he has not shown up yet. I guess men of God need not keep regular hours like the rest of us."

Justin found it interesting that Miles seemed far less indulgent of Thomas's erratic work habits than he had at their last meeting. "Thomas is still set, then, upon taking holy vows?"

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"More than ever. He is making life so wretched for the household that his mother and uncle will have no choice but to give in." Miles was taking a decidedly protective attitude toward Jonet's family, sounding more like a prospective son-in-law and less like an employee. Before Justin could pursue this further, the door to the rear room swung open.

Guy looked healthier; his color was better. His surprise at seeing Justin was evident. After a conspicuous pause, he mustered up a remote smile. "What brings you back to Winchester, Master de Quincy?"

"Your brother's murder."

"I do not understand," Guy said slowly. "What is there left to do for Gervase but mourn him?"

"How about catching his killers?"

"Naturally I hope the sheriff captures the outlaws. I also hope for an early spring, a good harvest, and that my dolt of a nephew comes to his senses. But I would not wager money on any of those hopes. Outlaws rarely answer for their crimes, at least in this life."

"That may well be, but I was not talking about the outlaws. I meant the ones who paid them."

Guy gasped loudly. "What sort of daft talk is that? My brother was slain by bandits!"

"I know. I was there. But it was no chance robbery. We have reason to believe that the outlaws were hired to ambush your brother."

"I think you've lost your wits! Where would you get such an absurd suspicion?"

"I overheard something in those woods. But it was only later—after I talked to the under-sheriff—that we realized what it meant."

"Luke de Marston believes this lunacy, too?"

"He does, Master Fitz Randolph."

Miles had been listening, openmouthed. "This makes no sense. Who would want Master Gervase dead?"

"That is what we mean to find out . . . and why I am here. I wanted to assure you that we will not stop until we learn the

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truth, even if we have to poke into every corner of Gervase's life and unearth all his secrets/'

Guy had gone very white. "I have never heard anything so preposterous. My brother had no enemies. Why do you suspect a plot? What in Christ's Name did you hear in the woods?"

"I am sorry," Justin said, politely but firmly. "I cannot tell you that/'

Guy's pallor was suddenly blotched with hot, hectic color. "You cannot possibly suspect one of us!"

"Did I say that?" Justin asked blandly. "We have no suspects . . . yet. I came here merely to tell you how the investigation is progressing, and to promise you that we will not rest until Gervase Fitz Randolph gets justice."

"I think we ought to talk to the sheriff about this, Master Guy." Miles was frowning, running a hand nervously through his sleek blond hair, for once indifferent to his appearance. "I am not sure that we can trust Luke de Marston. Or this man de Quincy either, if it comes to that. What do we know about him, after all?"

Guy looked at the journeyman blankly, saying nothing. Justin decided it was time to go. He'd planted the seeds; now they needed a chance to sprout.

They watched in silence as he left the shop. But he could feel their eyes boring into his back all the while. Acting on instinct, he turned into the first doorway he came to. He had not long to wait. Within moments, Guy emerged from the shop. Still wearing his leathersmitiYs apron, he crossed the street without even a glance toward oncoming traffic and stumbled through a narrow doorway.