The queen's man : a medieval mystery (9 page)

"I would ask you the same thing," Justin shot back, "except that it is obvious who you are—the town lunatic!"

"A bad guess, whoreson! I'm the under-sheriff for Hampshire!"

Justin was stunned. "You? You are Luke de Marston?"

"Yes, I am sorry to say that he is!" Aldith was glaring at the deputy. "Had you not burst in here, raving and ranting, you'd have found out that this is Justin de Quincy, the man who came to Gervase's rescue on the Alresford Road."

Luke's eyes narrow r ed, flicking from Aldith to Justin. His face grew guarded, impossible to read. "On another mission of mercy?" he asked Justin. "You cannot stop doing good deeds, can you?"

Justin ignored him, turning toward the settle to retrieve his mantle. "I will be going now, Mistress Talbot."

"Yes," she agreed, "I think that would be best." Following Justin to the door, she gave him an mtimate, regretful smile. "I am so sorry . . ."

"Yes," Justin said coldly, "so am I." As their eyes met, she had the grace to blush a little. She started to speak, then stopped herself, but stood watching in the doorway until Luke's voice summoned her back inside.

The temperature had plunged once the sun set, but Justin was indifferent to the cold. His brain was whirling with half-formed

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thoughts. Yet one fact stood out in unsparing clarity. He had been set up. He had no doubts whatsoever that Aldith had contrived that compromising scene for Luke's benefit. He just did not understand why. Was she one of those women who enjoyed baiting men into fighting over her? Or was there a more specific intent to her mischief—a deliberate ploy to make Luke de Mar-ston jealous?

But a moment later, Justin had forgotten about his bruised pride, halting abruptly on the darkened street in a belated, troubled understanding of what he'd witnessed. Aldith's dog had not barked at Luke's entrance. Nor had he knocked. The sheriff's deputy had a key to Aldith Talbot's cottage.

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confident one at that. She'd had no trouble spurning Durand's unwanted advances, for certes. Now, though, she seemed flustered. Justin waited to make sure she did not need a distraction, for he owed her a favor and would like nothing better than to repay it.

But their conversation was already ending. She backed away, smiling politely as the man began to climb the stairs. By the time he'd disappeared into the keep, Justin had reached her. She turned with a sudden smile, this one much more spontaneous. "Master de Quincy! I thought you'd gone off on a clandestine mission for the queen."

Justin was flattered to be remembered, but startled that she knew so much about him. "What makes you think that, demoiselle?"

"I asked Peter about you," she said forthrightly. "He said the queen had given him a letter for you, but I could not get much more out of him. Peter takes his duties entirely too seriously." She had an appealing grin, at once mischievous and coquettish. "I hope you do not mind my prying. Alas, curiosity has always been an abiding sin of mine."

"I'd forgive you far greater sins than that, demoiselle," Justin said gallantly. He at once felt rather foolish, for that sounded like something out of a minstrel's tale. It seemed to please her, though, and that was well worth a little embarrassment. She introduced herself now as Claudine de Loudun, and he seized the opportunity to kiss her hand. But when he ventured a discreet query about the one-sided flirtation he'd witnessed, he was jolted by her response.

"You were going to rescue me?" Her eyes widened. "You are either the bravest man I've ever met or the craziest, mayhap both! Unless . . . you do not know who he is, do you?"

"Obviously someone of importance," Justin said, somewhat defensively, for she sounded astonished, as if he'd failed to recognize the Son of God.

"Important? I'd say that is as good a way as any to describe a future king. That was the queen's son. John, the Count of Mortain." Claudine's amusement was waning. Glancing around,

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she lowered her voice. "I've heard that he has been asking about you."

Justin was dumbfounded. "Are you sure? How would the Count of Mortain even know I'm alive?"

"He may not know you personally, but he seems very interested in that letter you brought to the queen." She dropped her voice still further, brown eyes very serious. "And if John is interested in you, Master de Quincy, better that you know it."

Eleanor gazed searchingly into eyes very like her own, a golden hazel, utterly opaque, eyes that gave away no secrets. How little she knew him—this stranger, her son. For years he'd been on the outer reaches of her life. The last of their eaglets, the child she'd never wanted, born in the twilight of a dying marriage. A hostage to the impassioned enmity of a love gone sour. He'd been just six when she'd become Henry's captive, seventeen when next she saw him, and twenty-two when she was finally set free. He was six and twenty now and still he eluded her. She and Richard needed no words between them, so easy and instinctive was the understanding that had always been theirs. But with John, all the words in Christendom did not seem enough.

Would an outright challenge be best? Or nuance and equivocation? She was not usually so irresolute. But with John, she was always following unfamiliar trails, never sure what lay around the bend.

"I've been told that alarming rumors are circulating about Richard," she said abruptly, making up her mind to try a frontal assault. "Men are claiming that he is dead, shipwrecked on his way back from the Holy Land. Such talk is not new. It began when Richard's ship did not reach Brindisi. But these rumors are rather specific and remarkably widespread, almost as if they were deliberately sown. I would hate to think you had a hand in that, John."

"I'll not deny that I think hope has faded. But you cannot blame me because other men think so, too."

"Why are you so sure that Richard is dead?"

"Why are you so sure," he countered, "that he is not? I do not

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mean to be cruel, Mother, but I must be blunt. Richard has been missing for more than three months. If evil has not befallen him, why have we not gotten word of his whereabouts by now? Unless . . . you have heard from him?"

"No ... I have heard nothing from Richard. Why would you ask that?"

He shrugged. "I suppose I was remembering the gossip I heard—talk of a mysterious letter delivered by an equally mysterious messenger. Naturally I was curious, and since Richard is so often in my thoughts these days, he came at once to mind."

Behind her, Eleanor heard a smothered cry, quickly broken off, as William Longs word half rose from his seat. Ignoring Will's distress, she smiled at her son. "I'd give little credence to gossip, John. You, of all men, ought to appreciate how unreliable it is. For the past twelvemonth, rumor has had you conspiring with the French king to usurp Richard's throne. But we both know that to be an outrageous falsehood ... do we not?"

"The worst sort of defamation," he agreed gravely, but his eyes gleamed in the lamplight. One of his saving graces was his ability to laugh at himself. In Eleanor's eyes, that was no small virtue, for she had long ago concluded that if a lack of humor was not a sin, it ought to be. But this was what she too often found herself doing with John—sorting through all the weeds for that one flowering sprig.

Turning toward the table, John picked up a flagon of wine. When she shook her head, he poured for himself and Will. Eleanor had dismissed all the others from the chamber, for her son had a tendency to play to an audience. She'd often thought he'd have made a fine actor, with a particular talent for righteous indignation and bemused innocence.

Taking but a single sip of his wine, John then set it on the table. "I've matters still to tend to," he said, "so I'd best be off." Coming forward, he kissed Eleanor's hand, and as always, his gallantry bore the faintest hint of mockery. With John, even his kindnesses were slightly suspect. Or was she being unfair to him, this youngest and least known of all her children? Her every instinct urged wariness, warned that he could not be trusted.

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And yet he was still hers, flesh of her flesh, impossible to disavow.

"John!" He'd been reaching for the door latch, but stopped in midmotion, halted by her sudden vehemence. Coming swiftly across the chamber, Eleanor put her hand upon his arm. "Listen to me," she said, her voice low and intent. "In the days to come, watch where you tread. A misstep could bring your world tumbling down around you. I would borrow some of your 'blunt-ness' now. I know you love Richard not. I know, too, how much you covet his crown. But do not plot against him, John. For your own sake, do not. If it came to war, I do not think you could measure up to Richard."

His eyes took on a hard, greenish glitter. "You've already made that abundantly clear, madame," he said bitingly, "for most of my life!"

As the door closed behind John, his half-brother shot from his seat. "I did not tell John about the letter, madame. He asked, but I said nothing, I swear it is so!"

"I know that, Will." Turning, Eleanor found a smile for him, but all the while, her thoughts were following John, plunging after him into the shadows of the stairwell. Will was continuing to protest his innocence, needlessly, for his open, freckled face was like a window to his soul. He could no more lie convincingly than he could fly. Passing strange, that he was so like his father in appearance, so unlike him in temperament. He had Henry's reddish-gold hair, his high color, even his grey eyes. But he'd gotten none of Henry's fire or sardonic charm, and nothing whatsoever of his ruthless royal will.

Eleanor was genuinely fond of Will, and she sympathized with his plight. He disapproved utterly of the man John had become—a cynical opportunist willing to make any devil's deal that might gain him the English crown. But Will had fond memories of another John, the young brother in need of his guidance. Will had cast a protective eye upon that solitary little boy, and their childhood affection had endured even after they'd both grown to manhood. Eleanor could not help wondering if her family's harrowing history might have been different had Rich-

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ard and John been able to forge such a brotherly bond, too. But her sons had never learned to love one another. That was a lesson she and Henry had failed to teach them.

"I would never betray your trust, madame—never!"

"I know, Will," she said again, with a patience she rarely showed to others. "A number of people heard Justin de Quincy mention a letter that had cost one life already. Any of them could have told John, inadvertently or otherwise. Most likely it was Durand. He and John share a fondness for dicing and whoring, for all that they barely acknowledge each other in my presence."

Will was shocked, both by the suggestion that John might plant a spy in his mother's household and by Eleanor's matter-of-fact acceptance of it. "My lady ... do you think John knows that King Richard is being held prisoner in Austria?"

"I am not sure, Will." Just how much did John know? Had Philip shared his secret? If they were as deeply entangled as she feared, Philip would have sent word straightaway, days before the Archbishop of Rouen was able to obtain his covert copy of the Holy Roman Emperor's gloating letter. And if John had known of Richard's capture and kept silent, that in itself would be an admission of sorts. For silence under such circumstances was suspicious at best, sinister at worst. How far was John willing to go in his quest for his brother's crown?

"Madame?" Peter de Blois was standing in the doorway. "Master de Quincy is here. Shall I admit him?"

Eleanor was taken aback; Justin had been gone barely a week. "Yes, I will see him." When he was ushered into the chamber, she was not reassured by his appearance, for he looked fatigued and uneasy.

"I did not expect you back so soon," she said, once they were alone. "What did you find out?"

"I cannot solve this crime for you, madame. It grieves me that I must fail you, but—"

The door banged open without warning, startling them both. Striding into the chamber, John smiled at his mother, quite nonchalantly, as if their recent clash had never been. "I forgot to ask

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you, Mother . . ." He paused, his gaze coming to rest upon Justin. "Do I know you? You look most familiar."

Eleanor started to speak, but Justin was quicker, introducing himself before she could intervene. Watching John closely, she understood then why Justin had not wanted her to lie—John already knew his identity. He was regarding Justin now with a quizzical smile. "Have you brought my lady mother another vital letter, Master de Quincy?"

"A vital letter, my lord?" Justin echoed, with a quizzical smile of his own. "I am here on behalf of the abbot of St Werburgh's in Chester, but it is a routine matter, of no urgency."

Saying nothing, John glanced down at Justin's muddied boots and mantle. No man would come into the queen's presence in such travel-stained dishevelment for "a routine matter, of no urgency." John let his eyes linger upon those mud-caked boots long enough to convey his message: that Justin had lied and he knew it.

Eleanor moved between them. "John? What did you come back to ask me?"

"Well ... to tell you true, Mother, it has gone right out of my head. Strange, is it not?"

"Not really," she said dryly. "Memory is a will-o'-the-wisp, unpredictable and wayward."

"Are you talking about memory, weather, ... or sons?" And although it was said as a jest, it held one of John's buried barbs.

As soon as John had gone, Justin said, "Downstairs, Lord John was about to depart when he heard Master Peter call out my name. He seems much too curious about me for my peace of mind, my lady. Does he . . . does he know about the French king's letter?"

"I've told him nothing." Which was true as far as it went. If sins of omission were still sins, did that apply as well to lies of omission? Eleanor had no qualms about lying when necessity demanded it; she'd always thought that honesty was an overrated virtue. But she owed Justin more than half-truths and eva-