Cruel As the Grave (4 page)

Luke was in the lead. Swearing, he flung himself at the door and shoved it open. The chamber was small and cramped, holding only a stool, a basin, and a bed. A couple was entangled in the sheets, gaping up at these intruders. But the man was dark haired and unscarred. Ignoring his sputtering protest, Luke hit the inner door with his shoulder. It gave way at once, catapulting him inside.

This room was even shabbier than the first one, almost all of its space taken up by a rumpled bed. A buxom redhead was kneeling in the middle of it, oblivious or uncaring of her nudity. "He went out the window," she cried, "without paying, curse him! And when I tried to stop him, the whoreson struck me!"

Luke's headlong rush into the room had sent him stumbling into the bed, nearly tumbling down on top of the indignant Arlette. Justin swerved around him and lunged for the window. He was not so reckless as to jump, though, lowering himself as he clung to the sill and then dropping the remaining four or five feet to the ground.

He landed on his feet like a cat. His eyes had to adjust again to the darkness, and at first he could see nothing. He thought he was in the courtyard behind the brothel, but he could not yet be sure, for clouds hid the moon. He stood very still, waiting for the shadows to reveal their secrets, and then heard the soft, ragged inhalation of breath. As he turned toward the sound, a gleam of starlight bounced off the blade of a thrusting dagger. If he'd not spun around, it might have found his heart. As it was, it slashed through the folds of his mantle with just inches to spare. The man had put the full weight of his body behind that lethal lunge and before he could recover his balance, Justin sent his fist thudding into his belly. Gasping, the attacker reeled backward, and Justin fumbled for his sword. As it cleared its scabbard, a dark form came plummeting from the overhead window, crashing into Justin's assailant and knocking him to his knees.

The quarry was momentarily stunned by the impact, giving Justin the time he needed to level his sword at that heaving chest. "You so much as blink and you're dead." As threats went, it was simple and effective; the man lay perfectly still as Justin kicked aside the dropped dagger. Luke had regained his feet, was struggling now to regain control of his breathing.

Lowering his sword until it was almost touching his captive's windpipe, Justin glanced swiftly toward the deputy. "Well done, Luke!" he said admiringly. "However did you see to land on him like that? I was half-blinded when I first went through the window!"

"I was lucky," Luke panted, coming forward to peer down at his victim. "Is this the one?"

Justin nodded. "Meet Giles de Vitry." But something about Luke's modest response did not ring true; he'd never known the deputy to shrug off praise before. As a sudden shimmer of moonlight brightened the courtyard, he studied the other man's face, and then he grinned. "Admit it, you did not plunge from that window with a hawk's unerring precision. You lost your grip and just happened to fall on him, didn't you?"

Luke regarded him impassively. "Can you prove it?" he said at last, and they both laughed. Giles de Vitry chose that moment to make an ill-considered escape attempt. He squirmed sideways, only to freeze again when the point of Justin's sword pricked the skin of his throat, drawing a thin trickle of blood.

"You're not one for listening, are you?" he said reprovingly, much to Luke's amusement.

"You sound like a tutor reprimanding an unruly student, de Quincy! If we bring him back inside, we'll have to protect him from Arlette. Let's take him into the stables for our talk." Drawing his sword, Luke prodded their prisoner to his feet. "You're in the mood for a talk, aren't you, de Vitry? Reasonable men always prefer talking to the alternative."

De Vitry gave Luke as venomous a look as Justin had ever seen. He did not protest, though, wisely allowing them to shove him across the courtyard without resistance. A wide-eyed groom was cowering in the stables, with no intention of investigating the mayhem occurring outside. When the combatants invaded his refuge, he bolted out the back, leaving them alone with several horses and a spitting calico cat. Luke found a length of rope, trussed up de Vitry, and pushed him down upon a bale of hay. Taking the groom's lantern from its wall hook, he said, "He is all yours, de Quincy."

De Vitry flinched as Justin unsheathed his dagger. Ignoring the other man's recoil, Justin applied his blade to the neck of de Vitry's tunic. The material tore easily, revealing a leather pouch suspended upon a braided cord. Its contents were a disappointment: money, no letter. Luke had found de Vitry's saddlebags, stored with his gear in the tack room, and Justin searched them next, although without expectation of success; if the missing message had been concealed in the saddlebags, de Vitry would not have left them unguarded out in the stables. When his pessimism proved well founded, he came back to the courier, stood gazing down at him thoughtfully.

"Now what?" Luke was appraising their prisoner, too, green eyes speculative enough to give de Vitry a chill. "You think he memorized the message?"

Justin considered the possibility, then shook his head. "Not likely. If the message says what I think it does, its recipient would need proof that it indeed came from John."

At the mention of John's name, de Vitry's head came up sharply. Recovering some of his confidence, he said hoarsely, "You've got my money. What else do you want from me?

"

Luke glanced toward Justin. "I hate it when they insult my intelligence. You're not being robbed, hellspawn. You're under arrest... as you well know."

"You're the law?" De Vitry strove to sound shocked. "God's Truth, I thought you were bandits!"

"Do not stop now," Luke said encouragingly. "I am waiting with bated breath for the rest of your story, eager to hear why you chose to jump out of a window in the middle of the night, only half dressed in the bargain. Your explanation ought to be riveting."

De Vitry ran his tongue over dry lips. "I... I was seeking to avoid paying the whore."

Luke shook his head in disgust. "So to save yourself a halfpenny, you'd leave a valuable sword behind and risk breaking your neck. I can see this will be a long night. Shall we take him back to the castle, de Quincy?"

"No," Justin said, "not yet." He'd been studying the courier, his eyes taking in the man's dishevelment as he reconstructed those frantic moments in Arlette's chamber. De Vitry had been alerted to danger, hearing them on the stairs. He'd hastily snatched up his tunic and mantle and gone out the window, forced to abandon his chausses, braies, boots, and even his sword. Doubtless he'd have come back for them later, if he'd been able to evade pursuit. "Do you know what I find most puzzling, Luke? His choices. It makes sense to grab for a dagger, especially for one so quick with a blade. He already had the money around his neck. I can see, too, why he'd pull on his runic ere he bolted. A man running mother-naked through the streets would find that hard to explain, after all. But then he took his mantle. Does that seem as odd to you as it does to me?"

De Vitry had stiffened noticeably. Luke also saw where Justin was going with this and he smiled suddenly. "Indeed it does. Our lad here has peculiar priorities. If it were me, I'd have taken enough time to retrieve my sword, mayhap even tossed my boots out the window, too. But he's willing to go out into the night barefooted and bare-assed rather than give up a quite ordinary brown mantle. Are you that susceptible to the cold, de Vitry? Did you forget it was April, not December?"

De Vitry did not react to the deputy's mockery, his eyes focused unblinkingly upon Justin. When the younger man reached for the mantle, he seemed about to resist, then realized the futility of it and slumped back as Justin claimed his prize. Carrying it over to the lantern, he began a thorough inspection, almost at once straightened up with a triumphant smile.

"There is something stitched into the hood." Carefully splitting the seams to reveal a tightly rolled sheet of parchment, he held it up toward the light.

His sudden intake of breath told Luke that it was even worse than he'd expected.

"What is it, de Quincy? Do not keep me in suspense, man!"

Justin slowly lowered the parchment. "According to this letter, a French fleet is assembling at Wissant, making ready to invade England."

That was more than Luke had bargained for, either. "May I see that?" He held out his hand and Justin passed him the letter. "Christ Jesus, John is conniving with the Count of Flanders and the French king, too! You've served the queen well this night, for certes, de Quincy."

"We both have," Justin said, reclaiming the letter to read it again, half hoping that he'd mistaken what was written in John's own hand, for who would trust such an incendiary message to a scribe. "What if this man had gotten through? We had God on our side, Luke," he said soberly, and then spun around when Giles de Vitry laughed.

"And John has the Devil," he jeered. "I was not the only messenger, you see." He stared at them, his eyes agleam with hatred and bitter triumph. "John sent another man by way of Dover. By now he ought to be well on his way to the French king."

3

WINCHESTER

April 1193

Justin awakened with a start. As the furnishings of Aldith's cottage came into familiar focus, so did his memories of the night's events. He and Luke had taken Giles de Vitry to the castle gaol and then returned to the cottage for a few hours of sleep. He'd bedded down on the settle and as soon as he stirred, he winced, for his body was stiff and sore from two days in the saddle. His movement had attracted Jezebel's attention and he hastily flung up his arm to keep the mastiff from joining him. It was not the dog who had awakened him, though. As he sat up, he heard the angry murmur of voices coming from the bed hangings.

"Justin is a man quite capable of looking after himself. Why should he need your help with his prisoner?"

"Because it will be easier to get him safely back to London if there are two of us. Common sense would tell you that, Aldith."

"Why does it have to be you? Why not send your serjeant?"

"This is too important a matter to entrust to Wat. He does well enough with cutpurses and chicken thieves, but we're going up against the Devil's own."

"I still do not see why you must be the one to accompany Justin to London. Let him deal with John. After all, he is the queen's man, not you."

"Why are you being so unreasonable about this? I spend half my time on the roads of the shire, so why are you balking now? For the love of God, woman, I'm off to London, not Sodom or Gomorrah!"

"Do what you want, Luke. You always do."

"Is that what this is all about? Because I said we could take our time in making wedding plans? I did not say I was unwilling to wed you, Aldith!"

Justin had heard more than enough. Feeling too much like an eavesdropper for his own comfort, he deliberately dropped his boots into the floor rushes, then began to croon to Jezebel, trying to sound like a man who'd just awakened and hadn't heard a word of that painful, intimate argument. As he'd hoped, his stirring put a stop to the quarrel, although there was a distinct coolness between Luke and Aldith when they finally emerged from the curtained cocoon of their bed, a coolness that had not thawed by the time Luke and Justin were ready to depart.

While Justin thought Luke was crazed to risk losing Aldith, it never occurred to him to express that opinion to the deputy. Men did not offer advice of the heart; that was the province of women. He contented himself with a neutral comment once they were on the road, a casual remark that Aldith had seemed to be in an ill temper, thus opening the door a crack in case Luke wanted to talk. When Luke responded with a grunt, Justin let the subject drop, his duty done. How could he throw Luke a lifeline when he was bogged down himself, trapped and sinking fast in Claudine's quagmire.

They left Winchester in midafternoon, riding fast and hard. Three days later, the city walls of London came into view. Halting upon Old Bourn Hill, they kept a wary eye upon their prisoner while sharing a wineskin. "Shall we take him to the Tower straightaway?" Luke suggested, and gave Justin a surprised look when the younger man shook his head vehemently.

"No, not the Tower. We need a safer place to stow him, where there will be no chance that John can discover his whereabouts."

"Safer than the Tower?" Luke asked skeptically. "Unless ... you think that John has spies in the queen's household?"

"Yes," Justin said, tersely enough to discourage Luke from probing further, at least for the moment. "We need a special kind of shepherd to watch over this particular sheep, one willing to fend off royal wolves if need be."

Luke smiled. "Jonas?"

Justin nodded. "Who else?"

~~

The main entry into London from the west was through the massive stone gatehouse known as Newgate, which was also used as a city gaol. Luke's credentials as an under-sheriff of Hampshire gained them easy entry and no one questioned their claim that they were delivering a prisoner to Jonas. They needed to be no more explicit than that, for to the gaolers, the name Jonas could refer to only one man - the laconic, one-eyed serjeant who was the sheriff of London's mainstay and the bane of the lawless from Cripplegate to Southwark.

They were giving instructions in Jonas's name when the serjeant himself put in an appearance. If he was startled to see Luke and Justin paired up again, he hid it well; Justin suspected that he'd long ago lost his capacity for surprise. Not as tall as either Justin or Luke, he was still able to command attention by his physical presence alone. His face, weathered by the sun and wind, scarred by a killer's blade; his hair silvered and lank; he moved with the daunting confidence of a man who trusted both his instincts and his reflexes. Despite the rakish eye patch, there was no swagger in his walk, no bravado in his manner. He was matter-of-fact and deliberate in the performance of all his duties, whether it was scattering street urchins or tracking the ungodly through the city's sordid underbelly. Now, his lone black eye gleaming with a sardonic cast, he intercepted them as they returned to the guards' chamber after depositing Giles de Vitry in the underground dungeon known as the pit.