Cruel As the Grave (2 page)

Claudine appeared to take his curiosity as natural. "Did Will tell you, too, that John has laid claim to the crown?" Lowering her voice, she said in a conspiratorial whisper, "Do you think he found out what was in that bloodied letter? The one claiming that King Richard drowned when his ship was wrecked in a storm? We know now that it was not true, but mayhap John thinks he can make use of it somehow?"

This was the tale Justin had spun, entrapping her in her own web of lies. The memory was still so raw that he winced, reluctant to relive one of the worst moments of his life. Claudine saw his disquiet and squeezed his arm in puzzled sympathy. "Justin ... is something wrong?"

"No," he said swiftly. "I..." Groping for a plausible response, he found it in the sight of the knight just coming into his line of vision. Tall and swaggering, he moved with surprising grace for so big a man, impeccably garbed in an eye-catching scarlet tunic with a dramatic diagonal neckline and tight-fitting cuffed sleeves. But Justin knew that his fashionable courtier's clothing hid the soul of a pirate. "I did not realize," he said flatly, "that Durand de Curzon was here."

"He came with John." Seeing his surprise, she said quickly, "You did not hear, then? Rumor has it that he was John's man all along ... as you suspected. The queen dismissed him from her service."

Justin did not have to feign his shock; it was very real. "When did this happen?"

"Within the last few days. He-"

Claudine got no further. The door to the queen's chamber had swung open, and John paused for a moment in the doorway, for he had an actor's innate sense of timing. The hall hushed, all eyes upon him. He let the suspense build, then gestured to his household knights and strode toward the stairwell, leaving a trail of conjecture and speculation in his wake.

Durand de Curzon started to follow his lord, then stopped abruptly at the sight of Justin. Swerving toward the younger man, he flashed a smile as sharply edged as any dagger. "Lady Claudine," he murmured, reaching for her hand and bringing it to his mouth with ostentatious gallantry. Claudine snatched her hand away, scowling. Her distaste for Durand seemed genuine to Justin; she might conspire with Durand on John's behalf, but she had consistently rebuffed his every overture. Durand appeared oblivious to her recoil. "For the life of me," he said, "I cannot imagine why a woman like you bothers with this callow milksop. You could surely do better for yourself."

Claudine was a distant kinswoman of the queen and it showed now in the mocking arch of her brow. "You? I'd sooner join a nunnery."

"And you'd make a right handsome nun. But I believe, darling, that nuns are expected to take a vow of chastity."

That was too much for Justin. "You need a lesson in manners," he said angrily, taking a threatening step forward. Claudine thought so, too; her hand tightening around the stem of her wine cup, she flung its contents in Durand's face. At least that was her intent. Durand not only anticipated her move, he

thwarted it, reaching out and grabbing her wrist. Wine sloshed over the rim of her cup, splattering her gown and Durand's stylish tunic. Unable to break free of the knight's grip, she turned to Justin for aid. He was already in motion, slashing down upon Durand's arm with the stiffened edge of his hand. Durand at once let go of Claudine and lunged for Justin's throat. As Claudine screamed and heads swiveled in their direction, they crashed backward into the window seat.

Before either man could inflict any real damage, others intervened. Will Longsword and William Marshal pulled the combatants apart, and Justin and Durand were forced to stand, panting and flushed, as the Archbishop of Rouen rebuked them indignantly for daring to brawl in the queen's chambers. Daubing at a cut lip with the back of his sleeve, Durand offered Claudine a laconic, highly suspect apology, shot Justin a look that should have been aimed from a bow, and stalked out. Finding himself the unwanted center of attention, Justin allowed Claudine to lead him into the queen's chamber to escape the stares and whispers. There she ignored his protests and insisted upon bathing his scraped knuckles in a laver of scented water.

"The least I can do is tend to your wounds," she chided. "After all, they were gotten on my behalf." She tilted her face up toward his, her lips parted invitingly. Her breath was warm on his throat and the familiar fragrance of her perfume evoked involuntary erotic memories of their past lovemaking. Justin was never to be sure what would have happened next, for it was then that Eleanor emerged from the chapel.

The queen's gaze was cool and unrevealing. "Claudine, would you find Peter for me?"

Eleanor's chancellor was right outside, but Claudine was astute enough to recognize a pretext for privacy when she heard one. "Of course, Madame," she said. "I'll see to it straightaway." Closing the door quietly behind her, she left them alone.

Eleanor moved to the window, beckoning for Justin to join her. Below in the bailey, John was waiting for his stallion to be brought. As they watched, he and his men mounted and rode off. "John will not back down," Eleanor said at last. "We must find out what he means to do next. Can you get word to Durand?"

Justin rubbed his sore jaw ruefully. "It has been taken care of, my lady."

"Do I need to know what you and Claudine were doing in here?"

"Yes, Madame, you do. I'd just gotten into a brawl with Durand. He baited me into it and I wish I could say that I realized what he was up to, but I did not. Not until we were grappling in the floor rushes and he muttered in my ear, 'The alehouse on Gracechurch Street, after Compline.'"

"I see." Her face remained impassive, but he thought he could detect a glint of faint humor in those slanting hazel eyes. "Could he not have found an easier way to get that message to you?"

"I was wondering that myself," Justin said dryly.

"I did not get a chance to tell you that Durand would be joining John's household knights. The closer he is to John, after all, the more useful he can be to me." Eleanor's eyes flicked toward the bloodied basin, then back toward him. "I have need of Durand," she said. "John trusts him ... at least a little. But you were right about him, Justin. Bear that in mind in your dealings with him."

"I will, Madame," he said somberly, remembering the night he'd learned the truth about Durand de Curzon. He'd called Durand "John's tame wolf," and she'd smiled grimly, claiming Durand as hers. In reminding him of that now, she was also warning him. But there was no need. He already knew how dangerous it was to hunt with wolves.

~~

Justin had been living on Gracechurch Street for barely two months, but he was beginning to think of it as home. His neighbors were hardworking, good-hearted folk for the most part, unabashedly curious about the tall dark youth dwelling in their midst. Secrets did not fare any better on Gracechurch Street than at the royal court, and only the very old and the very young did not know by now that Justin de Quincy was the queen's man. But he'd been befriended by two of their own - Gunter the smith and Nell, who ran the alehouse - and their friendship was Justin's passport into their world.

Gunter was alone in the smithy, sharpening a file upon a whetstone. A lean, weathered man in his forties, he was taciturn both by inclination and by experience, and he greeted Justin with a nod, then went back to work. Justin led Copper, his chestnut stallion, into one of the stalls, set about unsaddling him. He would usually have gone on then to the cottage he rented from Gunter, but the wind now brought to him the muffled chiming of church bells; Compline was being rung. "Stop by the alehouse later," Justin said, "and I'll buy you a drink." Getting one of Gunter's quick, rare smiles in acknowledgment, he hastened out into the April night.

He crossed the street, then ducked under the sagging ale-pole, entering the alehouse. It reeked of smoke and sweat and other odors best not identified, and was deep in shadow even at midday, for Nell was sparing with her tallow candles and oil lamps; she had to account for every half-penny to the parsimonious, aged owner. As Justin paused to let his eyes adjust to the gloom, a dog erupted from under a bench, barking joyously.

Grinning, Justin bent to tussle playfully with the capering animal. "I should have known I'd find you over here," he said, and Shadow wriggled happily at the sound of that familiar voice. He was the first dog Justin had ever had, a young stray he'd plucked from the River Fleet and taken in temporarily. Although Justin still talked occasionally of finding the pup a good home, Shadow knew he already had one.

"I ought to be charging you rent for that flea-bitten cur," Nell grumbled, sidestepping Shadow as she carried a tray of drinks toward some corner customers. "He swiped a chunk of cheese when my back was turned, then nearly knocked over a flagon with his tail. And if he had, I'd have made a pelt out of the wretched beast!"

"I ought to be the one charging you," Justin countered. "How many alehouses have the free use of such a superior watchdog? If not for Shadow, the place might be overrun with cutpurses, prowlers, and vagabonds."

Nell cast a dubious eye upon the dog, sprawled belly-up in the floor rushes. "I think I'd take my chances with the prowlers." Justin had found an empty table by the hearth and she came over, set an ale down, then took the seat opposite him. "How did that happen?" she asked, pointing toward the fresh bruise spreading along his cheekbone. "And do not tell me you ran into a door!"

Justin hid his grin in the depths of his ale-cup, amused as always by the contrast between Nell's delicate appearance and her bold, forthright demeanor. She was barely five feet tall, with sapphire blue eyes, flaxen hair that invariably curled about her face in wispy disarray, and freckles she unsuccessfully tried to camouflage under a haphazard dusting of powder. With Nell, nothing was as it seemed. She looked as fragile as a child, but was tough-willed enough to run an alehouse - and to have helped Justin catch a killer. For all that she had a sailor's command of invective, her bluntness was armor for a surprisingly soft heart. A young widow with a small daughter, she was of a life that had not been easy, but then she had not expected it to be. She had little patience with fools, no sentimentality at all, and no education to speak of, but she did have courage, cornmon sense, and a pragmatic realism that made her a sister under the skin to England's aging queen. Justin could well imagine Nell's disbelief if ever he told her that she reminded him of the elegant, imperious Eleanor. But in truth, she did, for both women had a clear-eyed, unsparing view of their respective worlds, and neither one wasted time or energy on futile denials or self-delusion. Justin would that he could do likewise. He kept looking over his shoulder, though, unable to outrun either his memories or his regrets.

"Well?" Nell demanded when he didn't answer. "Are you going to tell me how you got that bruise or not?"

"Not," he said, smiling, and then tensed, for Durand was coming in the door. He had to stoop to enter, for he was taller than most men. Justin had always been proud of his own height, but Durand topped him by several inches. He wore a mantle of finely woven wool, fastened with an ornate gold pin. Spying was clearly a profitable profession, Justin thought sourly. Durand looked out of place in such shabby surroundings, but Justin doubted that he'd be a target for cutpurses or robbers; his eyes would chill even the most obtuse of felons.

Spotting Justin, he crossed the common room, dismissing Nell with a terse "Leave us."

He'd misjudged his woman, though. Nell stayed put, looking up at him with an indifference that could not have been more insulting. "Justin?" she queried, and he nodded reluctantly.

"Will you excuse us, Nell?" He did not offer to buy Durand an ale, for he was damned if he'd drink with the man. "Sit," he said, as soon as Nell had risen, switching from English - Nell's tongue - to French, the language in which he would normally converse. Since most of the alehouse patrons were English speakers like Nell, Justin could feel confident he'd foil would-be eavesdroppers; he strongly suspected that this was a conversation he'd not want overheard.

Durand seemed in no hurry to begin. He pulled up a bench, claimed a candle from a nearby table; the occupant was about to protest, then thought better of it. As the flame flared between them, Justin was pleased to see that the corner of Durand's mouth was swollen. Rarely had he ever taken such an instantaneous dislike to another man, but he'd distrusted Durand de Curzon from the first moment they'd met. It was a hostility returned by Durand in full measure, for Justin had outwitted the other man in the past. And then there was Claudine, who'd spurned Durand and taken Justin into her bed. Add to the mix their rivalry for the queen's favor and it was a very unstable brew, one likely to boil over at the least provocation.

"Jesu, what a pigsty." Durand glanced around the alehouse with contempt. "I do not know what I was thinking to pick this hovel for our meeting."

Justin knew exactly why he'd chosen the Gracechurch alehouse: to send a message - that he knew far more about Justin than Justin did about him. "You're not here for the pleasure of my company. You have word for the queen?"

"Yes ... I do." Durand looked into Justin's half-filled ale-cup, grimacing. "How can you drink that swill?"

"Do you have something of value to tell me or not? I've already played one of your tiresome games with you this day, am in no mood for another."

Durand laughed. "Are you complaining about our little joust in the hall? I had to get word to you, and that seemed the safest way to do it. All know we like each other not, after all. But if it eases your mind, next time I'll take a gentler approach."