Cruel As the Grave (16 page)

"No."

"You arrested him?"

"No."

Geoffrey looked bewildered and then horrified. "He ... he is not dead?"

"No ... he is in sanctuary at St Paul's."

That was an option neither Aston had anticipated and there was a moment of shocked silence, until Geoffrey blurted out, "Thank God, he is safe, then!"

Justin thought that was highly debatable, and Jonas said curtly, "You'd do better to worry about your own skin."

"Me? What did I do?" Geoffrey protested, sounding scared.

Jonas glared at him. "Your brother would not have escaped if you had not knocked over that lamp!"

"That was an accident!" Humphrey shoved in front of his son, telling Geoffrey to say nothing more. "The lad stumbled and fell against the table. It was a mishap, not deliberately done, and you cannot prove otherwise!"

Jonas had never intended to arrest Geoffrey, but he was not about to tell the Astons that. "You may be surprised by what I can prove," he said ominously and pushed past them.

Justin followed, and they moved on. Neither man was pleased with this unexpected outcome. To Jonas's way of thinking, sanctuary was not a satisfactory solution to murder. And to Justin, the case seemed even murkier now than ever. All he knew for certain was that he would be returning to Gracechurch Street that night with news sure to break a good woman's heart.

~~

It rained again after midnight, and light, intermittent showers were still falling the next morning. The sky was grey, the air clammy and cool, and Justin's mood dampened by the memory of Agnes's tears. Dropping off Shadow at Gunter's smithy - he wasn't up to facing Nell's interrogation - he saddled Copper and headed for the Tower.

There he found the queen's household in turmoil. The Great Hall was overflowing into the stairwell, servants were buzzing about like bees at an overturned hive, the noise level was high enough to hurt sensitive ears, and Eleanor was nowhere in sight. Edging into the maelstrom, Justin began searching for a familiar face. Will Longsword and William Marshal were both at the Windsor siege, and he had no luck in tracking down Peter of Blois, the queen's chancellor. There was a sudden stir as Walter de Coutances swept through the crowd, but Justin was not about to intercept the Archbishop of Rouen and watched in frustration as the cleric was ushered into Eleanor's great chamber. The opening door gave him a glimpse of the queen, deep in discussion with a tall stately man clad in a bishop's vestments. Then the door closed, cutting off his view.

Eventually he found someone he could interrogate: Nicholas de Mydden, one of the queen's household knights. Nicholas had never been a favorite of his. The other man was too self-satisfied, too cocksureand too familiar with Claudine. But Nicholas always knew what was going on. Justin did not even need to ask. "Have you heard?" Nicholas said as soon as he approached. "Hubert Walter is here!"

The name was vaguely familiar, and after & moment Justin was able to prod his memory into recalling that Hubert Walter was the Bishop of Salisbury, thus sparing himself the embarrassment of having to confess his ignorance to Nicholas, who was a master at the art of courteous condescension. He still didn't understand why Hubert Walter's arrival should have caused such a commotion, though, and he murmured a noncommittal "Indeed," hoping his lack of response would provoke Nicholas into revealing more.

It worked. Nicholas blinked in disappointment. "That might not be soul-stirring news to you, de Quincy, but I assure you the queen was overjoyed to get her first message from her son!"

Justin forgot about salvaging his pride. "He brought word from King Richard? How?"

Nicholas smiled complacently. "You do know that Bishop Hubert was on crusade with the king? He was in Sicily when he learned that King Richard had been captured on his way home from the Holy Land. He at once set out for Austria, where he somehow persuaded the emperor to allow him to see Richard."

"That is wonderful news! The king is well... he has not sickened in captivity?" Justin asked anxiously, for he knew that must be Eleanor's greatest fear. The Duke of Austria and the Holy Roman Emperor had dared to seize a crusader-king, to defy the Church's stricture against harming those who'd gone on crusade. Would such men have qualms about maltreating their royal captive? Was Richard worth more to them alive... or dead?

"The bishop assured the queen that King Richard is in good health. He is being held at Trifels in Bavaria now, and is hopeful of buying his freedom. God Willing, he may soon be back on English soil!"

"God Willing," Justin echoed, no less fervently, for he would have moved heaven and earth to restore to the queen her lost son. He began to bombard Nicholas with eager questions, but it soon became apparent that the knight had no other information to impart. Whatever else Bishop Hubert had brought back from Bavaria was being shared with the queen, behind closed doors. It was obvious that Eleanor would have no need of him today. As soon as he could politely disengage himself, he threaded his way across the hall and moved into the stairwell, where he promptly collided with Claudine.

He reached out to steady her as she stumbled. They were so close he could see the light from the overhead wall sconce reflected in her eyes and his every breath was scented with her perfume. They'd shared their first kiss in this stairwell, and in the shadowed stillness lurked memories that were better forgotten.

"Justin," she said softly, and her voice was like a caress in the dark. She tilted her face up toward his, lips parting. "You are in my way." He almost welcomed the flash of claws, for that was safer than the purr. "Claudine, why must it be all or nothing? If not lovers, enemies? I do not want to be your enemy."

"Well," she said, "I do not want to be your friend." She'd meant to sound mocking, sounded bitter, instead. Justin could think of nothing to say that would not be false or betraying. He stepped aside and she gave him a look he couldn't interpret, then brushed past him and continued on up the stairs.

~~

Justin found Daniel in the parish church of St Gregory, adjoining the cathedral. Daniel was seated cross-legged on a prayer cushion, Geoffrey kneeling by his side. Their faces were intent, their voices low; Justin would have loved to eavesdrop on that confidential conversation. As he moved around the rood screen, both youths sprang to their feet. "This is still sanctuary," Daniel cried. "The priests said I can even go out into the churchyard and you cannot touch me!"

"I am not here to violate sanctuary. I want to talk with you, nothing more." Daniel did not appear thrilled by that prospect. But for once, he had nowhere to retreat. Geoffrey glanced from one to the other, then cleared his throat. "I have to get back to the shop ere Papa misses me," he said. "I'll stop by again after Vespers." He fell silent then, gnawing his lower lip uneasily; this was the first time Justin had seen him as tongue-tied as his brother. "Here," he said finally, thrusting a small sack toward Daniel. "I brought you a pork pie from the cookshop, and a few wafers. I'll bring more tonight..."

"You need not worry that he'll starve, Geoffrey," Justin said. "The Church feeds all sanctuary seekers."

Geoffrey shrugged, seemed on the verge of saying more, then turned and hurried from the chancel. They listened as his footsteps receded up the nave until a slamming door told them that he'd done what Daniel could not - rejoined the world. Noticing a pile of blankets and several hemp sacks on the floor, Justin asked, "Did Geoffrey bring you those, too?"

"No ... my aunt Agnes."

Justin did not ask if Humphrey or Beatrice had been there; why salt the boy's wounds? "Here," he said, "I brought you something, too," and unhooked a wineskin from his belt. "Wine could not possibly make your thinking any more muddled than it already is."

Daniel took the wineskin and drank deeply. "My thinking is not so muddled," he protested. "I'm not in gaol, am I?"

"Not yet." Justin retrieved the wineskin and took a swallow. "Your right of sanctuary lasts only forty days, Daniel. Then you must either stand trial if you're indicted or confess your guilt and abjure the realm, never to return. I'd not find either of those choices appealing ... do you?"

Daniel twitched his shoulders, saying nothing, and Justin yearned to shake him until his teeth rattled and some sense returned. "How old are you?" he asked, and Daniel was surprised into giving a civil answer.

"I'll be seventeen two days after Michaelmas. Why?"

"That is too young to die, Daniel. Once before, I urged you to speak up whilst you still could. I do not want to have to make that same speech at the foot of the gallows."

"I did not kill her!" Daniel clenched his fists belligerently, but his chin quivered. "I could never have hurt her, never..." His voice had thickened and when Justin passed him the wineskin again, he reached for it gratefully, taking several long swigs. Justin watched him in speculative silence. The boy was hot-tempered and impulsive, for certes. He might well have killed in anger, striking out unthinkingly. Could he have killed in cold-blooded calculation? Could he have picked up that rock and brought it down upon the head of the girl lying helpless at his feet? Justin suspected that Luke would likely scoff at his sentimentality, but he did not think Daniel was capable of a crime like that.

"I want to help you, lad, if you'll let me," he said, and Daniel put down the wineskin, regarding him with suspicion and the first flickerings of hope. "Why?"

"I do not think you killed her," Justin said, and Daniel stifled a sound that might have been a sob.

"I did not, I swear it!"

"Then help me prove it. Give me some answers, honest ones. It was plain enough that you recognized Melangell's pilgrim cross. How did it get in your coffer? Did you steal it?" Daniel shook his head in vehement denial, and Justin moved closer. "Did she give it to you, then? If so, why? And what were you quarreling about on the day she died?"

Daniel looked at him mutely, his eyes brimming. "I cannot tell you," he said haltingly. "I cannot..."

His earlier denials had been defiant. This one was despairing. Justin still wanted to shake the boy. But he wanted to save him, too, if he could, for he was heeding instinct now, not logic, the inner voice whispering that Daniel was not Melangell's killer.

"The serjeant Tobias sees this crime as a very simple one. Melangell was a whore and you murdered her in a fit of jealous rage. That is what he'll argue to get a jury to indict you. And as it stands now, he'll likely get the indictment." As Justin spoke, Daniel slumped down against the wall, wrapping his arms around his drawn-up knees. His face was hidden by that mop of unruly red hair, but his body's posture bespoke defeat. He did not relent, though, and Justin feared he'd take his foolhardy silence to the grave.

"But nothing is as simple as it seems," he said. "Melangell was no whore and I do not think you're a killer. Keep your secrets, Daniel. With or without your help, I shall find out the truth."

No sooner were the words out of his mouth than Justin winced, for that promise sounded bombastic and overly dramatic in his own ears. Thank the Lord God Luke was not here to hear him spouting such nonsense, or Jesu forfend, Jonas. Leaving the wineskin to give Daniel some fleeting, dubious comfort, he turned to go. He was already at the rood screen when he heard Daniel speak. The words were slurred and the boy's voice was so low he could not be sure he'd heard correctly. But it sounded as if Daniel Aston was thanking him.

~~

Justin waited until early evening, when Godwin would be back from his rounds. He'd waited too long, though, for his arrival interrupted the supper being served by the landlord's wife to her family and lodgers. Algar, the landlord, welcomed Justin with enthusiasm, and the other tenants showed more interest in gawking at Justin than in eating the thick pottage of onions and cabbage being ladled out into their bowls, proof that murder could be highly entertaining - for those not related to the victim. Godwin was clearly uncomfortable with his new notoriety; the lessons of a lifetime had taught him the value of protective coloring, the danger inherent in calling undue attention to himself. Deciding that it was better to take Godwin away from his supper than to blurt out his news in front of this eager audience, Justin asked if they could talk in private. Algar looked dismayed at being cheated of such choice gossip, but he grudgingly agreed that they could meet in the kitchen.

Godwin got slowly to his feet. He seemed to be favoring his left leg, but he brushed off Justin's query and limped toward the kitchen. Justin followed, and within moments, so did Cati, who'd tarried long enough to stuff a chunk of rye bread into her sleeve; she'd had too much experience with hunger ever to leave 129

a meal uneaten. Godwin leaned back against a barrel in which river eels swam, studying Justin with hollowed dark eyes. "Why are you here?"

Justin was not surprised that neither Jonas nor Tobias had sought out Godwin; keeping the peddler informed would be a low priority. "Your daughter's pilgrim cross has been found hidden away in a coffer belonging to Daniel Aston."

Daniel's name clearly meant nothing to Godwin. Just as clearly it did to Cati, whose mouth dropped open. The peddler frowned. "Did this man kill my girl?"

"He says not, and I am inclined to believe him. But I'll not lie to you. He is the prime suspect at present and did not help his cause any when he fled into sanctuary at St Paul's."