The Queen's Man Read online

  Since he could expect no reference from Fitz Alan, Martin's recommendation was a godsend, and Justin had taken the road south, heading for the town of Andover. But the journey ended in disappointment: Martin's kinsman was in Normandy, not expected back until the spring. At a loss, Justin had continued on to Winchester, simply because he had nowhere else to go.

  His ale cup was almost empty. Could he spare enough for a second ale? No… not unless he expected to find a miraculous windfall on his way back to his inn. The door banged open, admitting two new customers. They were better dressed than the other patrons, and in better spirits, too, boisterously demanding service from the serving maid even before they laid claim to a nearby table. They were soon haggling with the prostitute over her price, so loudly that the others in the alehouse had no choice but to listen.

  Involuntary eavesdropping was not Justin's idea of fun, and he was starting to rise when he was jolted by a braying cry of "Aubrey!" A third man had stumbled into the alehouse, weaving his way toward his beckoning companions. Justin sat back again and drained the last of his ale. The name Aubrey was a common one. Was he going to flinch every time he heard it uttered? His own name was far more unusual, and he'd often been called upon to explain that it was the name of an early Christian martyr. He wondered why his father had chosen it, if it held ironic undertones. What would his mother have named him had she lived? He knew nothing about her, not even her name. Nor would he ever know now, for the only person who could answer his questions was the last one he'd ask.

  Another name now intruded into his awareness, catching his attention no less fully than "Aubrey" had done. His raucous neighbors were joking about King Richard's disappearance. The jests were lame, and Justin had heard them before. What intrigued him was the mention of the king's brother.

  "I tell you," the man called Aubrey was insisting, "that the king's brother must be planning to do the Devil's work. One of the serjeants at the castle says he heard that John is hiring men as fast as he can find them. You two lackwits ought to give it some thought, for he's not particular. If a man has a pulse and can wield a sword, he'll be taken into John's service!"

  ~~

  Inn guests were expected to share beds, for privacy was an unknown luxury in their world. Sandwiched between two snoring strangers, Justin got little sleep. Rising at dawn, he discovered that it had snowed in the night.

  Winchester was beginning to stir. A sleepy guard waved Justin on through the East Gate, and he headed out of the city on Alresford Road. The sky was leaden. Justin had ridden less than a mile before it started to snow again. There were no other travelers, only a lone figure huddled by the side of the road. Justin wondered what dire need could send a man out to beg in the snow, and as he drew nearer, he had his answer in the latten clappers leaning against the beggar's alms bowl - used by lepers to warn people of their approach.

  Justin had great pity for lepers, forsaken by all but God. Embarrassed and regretful that he could not afford to give alms, he drew rein and said politely, "Good morrow, friend."

  The man's face was shadowed by his leper's cloak. Whether it also hid the ravages of his disease, Justin could not tell, but he did get a glimpse of the leper's mutilated hand, with stumps where fingers ought to have been. His own plight suddenly seemed less perilous, and Justin fumbled for his money pouch, leaned over, and dropped a farthing into the alms bowl, ashamed that he could spare so little. The leper had learned, though, to be thankful for the most meagre offering, even courtesy, and wished Justin "Godspeed."

  The road was half hidden by snow and icy in patches. Fortunately, Justin's big chestnut was as surefooted as a mule. But it would be slow going, for he'd not risk the stallion's safety. Copper was his pride and joy; he knew how lucky he was to own a horse, especially one of Copper's calibre. He'd been able to buy the stallion only because the animal had gone lame and he'd offered more than the butcher would. It had taken months to nurse the chestnut back to health, but well worth the time and trouble. Reaching out, he gave the horse a pat on the neck, and then blew on his hands to warm them, for his fingers were beginning to cramp with the cold.

  The innkeeper had told him that the village of Alresford was just seven miles from Winchester, and the village of Alton another eight miles or so. If this were summer, he could reasonably have expected to cover thirty miles before nightfall. Today he'd be lucky to reach Alton by dusk. From there it was another twenty miles to Guildford and a final thirty to his destination: London. That meant four or five days on the road, depending on the weather. It was a long way to go on a hunch.

  Slackening the reins, Justin gave Copper a brief respite. The leper hospital of St Mary Magdalen had receded into the distance some time ago. The ground had leveled off, for St Giles's Hill was now far behind him. It was like a ghost road, though; the only other soul he'd seen was the leper.

  Was this a fool's mission, riding for London? Lying awake last night in that forlorn, flea-infested inn, he'd thought long and hard about his future and his survival skills. During his years in Lord Fitz Alan's service, he'd been taught to handle a sword. And he knew how to read and write. He'd been well educated for a "harlot's bastard" At least now he understood why: not Christian charity, a sop to a guilty conscience.

  But that education might well be his salvation. He'd heard that London scribes set up booths in the nave of St Paul's Cathedral, writing letters and legal documents for a price. If he could hire out as a scribe, mayhap he could buy himself some time, a chance to decide what he should do next.

  Or he could take another fork in the road. He could offer his sword to the king's brother. If that lout in the alehouse had spoken true, John was not asking for references. Justin did not know whether he wanted to fight to make John King of England. But he suspected that hunger would banish such qualms right quick.

  The road had begun to narrow, for he was well into the woods now. Bare, skeletal branches stabbed the sky over his head. Ice-glazed ash swayed in the wind and the starkly graceful silhouettes of silver birch rose up behind him. The underbrush was thick and tangled with elder shrubs, holly, and hawthorn hedges, and the glistening, unsullied snow was occasionally smudged by deer tracks and paw prints of marten and fox. A rabbit sprinted for cover and an inquisitive red squirrel followed Justin for a time, sailing from tree to tree with acrobatic ease. There was an austere beauty about this frozen, snow-drifted landscape, but Justin would have appreciated it better had he not been half-frozen himself.

  "Now?"

  "No, it's not him."

  Startled by the sudden sound of voices, so utterly out of place in this quiet, sylvan setting, Justin swung around in the saddle, reaching for the hilt of his sword. Off to his left, several fallen trees had formed a covert, screened off by glossy, green holly boughs. To a lost traveler, this sheltered lair offered sanctuary. To an outlaw, ideal camouflage for an ambush.

  Justin spurred Copper forward and the stallion responded like a launched arrow, sending up a spray of snow as he lengthened stride. Within moments, they were in the clear. Glancing over his shoulder, Justin saw no movement, suspicious or otherwise. It was easy to doubt his own senses, to wonder if he'd imagined those disembodied woodland whispers. "Fool," he jeered aloud. "I'll be seeing forest phantoms next, Copper, with a few horned demons thrown in for good measure!"

  But there had been something very disquieting about those eerie whispers, and his unease lingered. "We ought to be at Alresford soon," he told his stallion, and the horse twitched his ears at the sound of his voice. So far the snowfall had been light and powdery and the wind seemed to be dying down. God Willing, the rest of his journey would be trouble free. What would London be like? He'd been told that more than twenty-five thousand souls dwelled within its walls, but he could not imagine a city so huge. He was no stranger to towns, having passed his childhood in Shrewsbury and Chester, and he'd been to Oxford and now Winchester. None of them could compare, though, to London in size or significance.

  The first shout w
as muffled, indistinct. Justin reined in, straining to hear. It came again, and this time there was no mistaking what it was: a desperate appeal for help. Later - much later - Justin would marvel at his reckless response. Now, though, he reacted instinctively, drawn irresistibly by the haunting echoes of that urgent, despairing cry.

  Backtracking through the snow, he turned a bend in the road and nearly collided with a runaway, riderless horse. Swerving just in time to avoid the panicked animal, he unsheathed his sword, for any doubts he'd had about what he might find had been dispelled.

  The sounds of strife had gotten louder. Responding gamely to Justin's urging, his stallion skimmed over the snow, reaching a dangerous level of speed for such treacherous terrain. Up ahead, a horse neighed shrilly. There was another choked cry for help, a burst of cursing. By then Justin was within sight of the covert. A figure lay prone in the middle of the road, groaning. Nearby, two men were struggling fiercely, while a third man sought to hold on to the reins of a plunging roan stallion. But although Justin was now close enough to see what was occurring, he was not yet close enough to prevent what happened next. One of the men suddenly staggered, then slumped to the ground at his assailant's feet. The outlaw never hesitated. Bending over his victim, blood still dripping from his dagger, he stripped rings from the man's fingers, then began a hasty search of the body.

  "Did you find it?" Getting a grunt in reply, the second outlaw tried to lead the horse over, swearing when the animal balked. "Mayhap he hid it in his tunic. He - Christ's Blood! Gib, beware!"

  Gib spun around, saw Justin racing toward them, sword drawn, and lunged to his feet. In three strides, he reached the roan stallion, vaulting up into the saddle. "What are you waiting for, you dolt!" he snarled at his partner, who'd yet to move, continuing to gape at Justin's approach. Coming to his senses, the laggard grabbed for the outstretched hand and scrambled up behind his companion. By the time Justin reached the ambush scene, the outlaws were in flight.

  Justin had no intention of pursuit. They would have horses hidden close by, and they knew these woods far better than he. As he reined in his mount, he almost came to grief, for Copper shied without warning, nearly unseating him. From the corner of his eye, he caught a slithering, sideways movement, and somewhere in the back of his brain, he noted it, a puzzle to be resolved later, for snakes usually denned up in burrows during the winter months. At the moment, though, his only concern was in calming his horse. Once he had, he dismounted swiftly, anchored Copper to a nearby bush, and turned his attention toward the men.

  The closer of the two was a strapping youth about Justin's own age. His face was as colorless as the snow, his hair matted with blood, and he looked dazed and disoriented. But he'd managed to sit up, and Justin bypassed him in favor of the second man, who lay ominously still, a crimson stain spreading beyond him into the snow. Kneeling by his side, Justin caught his breath, for he knew at once that he was looking death in the face.

  The man was well past his youth, fifty or so to judge by the grey generously salted throughout the walnut-brown hair and neatly trimmed beard. His mantle was of good quality wool, his boots of soft cowhide, and from what Justin had seen of his stolen roan stallion, he'd been riding an exceptionally fine animal. A man very prosperous, for certes, wealthy enough to be traveling with a servant, dying now in trampled, bloodied snow, unshriven and alone, with only a stranger to hold his hand.

  Never had Justin felt so helpless. He attempted to staunch the bleeding with that costly wool mantle, but soon saw it was futile. Cradling the man's head in the crook of his arm, he unhooked the wineskin from his belt, murmuring words of comfort and hope that he knew to be lies. A life was ebbing away before his eyes, and he could do nothing.

  The man's lashes quivered. His pupils were dilated, glassy, and unseeing. When Justin tilted the wineskin to his lips, the liquid dribbled down his chin. By now the other man had stumbled over, sinking down in the snow beside them. From him, Justin learned that the dying man was an affluent Winchester goldsmith, Gervase Fitz Randolph, on his way to London on a secret matter that he'd confided to no one, when they'd been set upon by bandits who'd somehow spooked their horses. "I was thrown," the youth said, stifling a sob. "I am sorry, Master Gervase, so sorry…"

  The sound of his name seemed to rouse Gervase from his stupor. His gaze wandered at first, then slowly focused upon Justin. His chest heaved as he sought to draw air into his laboring lungs, but he had a need no less pressing than his pain, and he ignored Justin's plea to lie still.

  "They… did not… not get it…" His words were slurred, soft as a sigh, yet oddly triumphant, too.

  Justin was puzzled, for he'd seen the outlaw steal Gervase's money pouch. "What did they not get?"

  "Her letter…" Gervase gulped for air, and then said with surprising clarity, "I cannot fail her. You must promise me, promise…"

  "Promise you what?" Justin asked warily, for a deathbed promise was a spiritual spider's web, sure to ensnare.

  Blood had begun to trickle from the corner of Gervase's mouth. When he spoke again, Justin had to bend down to hear, so close that he could feel Gervase's faltering breath on his face. Unable to believe what he'd just heard, he stared incredulously at the mortally wounded goldsmith. "What did you say?"

  "Promise me," Gervase repeated, and if his voice was weak, his eyes burned into Justin's with mesmerizing fervor. "You must deliver this letter to her… to the queen."

  2

  LONDON

  January 1193

  Reining in on Old Bourn Hill, Justin gazed down at the city below. Never had he seen so many rooftops, so many church steeples, such a tangled maze of streets and alleys. The partially completed tower and spire of St Paul's Cathedral seemed to soar halfway to Heaven, and in the distance the whitewashed keep of the Tower gleamed through the dusk. The River Thames had taken on a dull-gold sheen, spangled with flickering lights as lantern-lit boats bobbed on the current. Justin sat his horse as the daylight began to fade, awed by his first glimpse of London.

  Up close, the city was even more daunting, exciting and crowded and chaotic. The streets were narrow, unpaved, and shadowed by overhanging timbered houses painted in vivid shades of red and blue and black. The sky was smudged with the smoke from hundreds of hearth fires, and flocks of sea gulls wheeled overhead, adding their raucous cries to the clamor of river traffic. Ferrymen shouted "Westward ho!" as they steered toward Southwark, "Eastward ho!" for those wanting to cross over to the London bankside. Some peddlers hawked "Hot pies!" along the Cheapside, others sought to entice customers with bellowing boasts about the fine quality of their needles and pins, their miraculous salves and healing balms, their ribbons and wooden combs and wrought-iron candlesticks. Justin did not doubt that if he asked one of them for the Holy Grail, the man would promise to produce it straightaway.

  Weaving his way along the Cheapside, Justin had to check his stallion frequently, for the street was thronged with pedestrians, darting between lumbering carts and swearing horsemen with the aplomb of the true city dweller. They seemed equally indifferent to the dogs and geese and stray pigs wandering about, and were not fazed even when a woman opened an upper-story window and flung the contents of a chamber pot down into the street's central gutter. The Londoners scattered in the nick of time, a few pausing to curse upward, most continuing on their way without losing a stride. Marveling at this urban insouciance, Justin rode on.

  Theirs was a world constantly echoing with the chiming of church bells, for they were rung for festivals, for funerals, for marriages, for royal coronations and city elections, for processions and births and to elicit prayers for dying parishioners, to call Christ's faithful to Mass and to mark the canonical hour. Like most people, Justin had learned to be selectively deaf, so that the incessant pealing faded into the background noises of daily life. But never before had he been in a city with more than a hundred churches, and he found himself engulfed in waves of shimmering sound. The sun had slid below the horizon, and he hast
ily stopped a passerby, asking about lodgings. Directed to a small, shabby inn off the Cheapside, he engaged a bed for himself and a stall for Copper in the stables. The inn offered no meals; Justin was told brusquely that if he was hungry, there was a cookshop down by the river.

  Justin was indeed hungry, but even more exhausted. He'd gotten little sleep since the Epiphany ambush on the Alresford Road. He and Gervase Fitz Randolph's groom, Edwin, had taken the goldsmith's body to Alresford, where the village priest had promised to alert the sheriff of Hampshire and to break the sad news to the Fitz Randolph family. Justin had then continued on toward London, but he was trailed by memories of the killing, and the letter he'd hidden within his tunic was heavier than any millstone.

  According to the innkeeper, Justin would be sharing a chamber with two Breton sailors, but they were out. The room was scantily furnished, containing only three pallets covered with moth-eaten woolen blankets and a few stools, not even a chamber pot. Sitting down on the closest bed, Justin set his candle upon one of the stools and then drew out the letter.