Sharon Penman: Dragon's lair

Turning onto the Fleshambles, where the city butchers had their shops, Justin was dismayed to see so many people still out and about. He reminded himself, though, that John was not a man to pass unnoticed. The streets were narrow, crowded with passersby, and Justin had to keep ducking his head to avoid sagging ale-poles and the overhang of buildings extending out into the roadway. When he saw a smithy close by the fishmongers' market, he hastily dismounted and soon struck a bargain with the blacksmith: a few coins in exchange for a stall for his stallion in the farrier's stable.

He decided to search the docks next and turned into the first alley that led toward the river. It was not much wider than that length of his sword, and he had to squeeze past a couple who' ducked into the alley for a quick sexual encounter. The man was too preoccupied to notice Justin, grunting and thrusting with such force that the woman's body was being slammed against the wall; she made no protest, gazing over her partner's shoulder at Justin with indifferent, empty eyes. She was so young, though — barely old enough to have started her flux — that Justin felt a flicker pity as he detoured around them. Luke would have called him a softhearted dolt — and often did — but Justin had a foundling's instinctive sympathy for the downtrodden, God's poor, the lost, the doomed, and the abandoned. He saw no harm in offering up a brief prayer for the soul of this child-woman selling her body in Southampton alley.

As he emerged from the alley, Justin came upon a lively waterfront scene. There were a few ships moored at the quays, but the larger vessels were anchored out in the harbor. Several small lighters were shuttling back and forth between these ships and the docks, where sailors and passengers mingled with vendors and merchants come to supervise the unloading of their cargo. Although Vespers had sounded more than an hour ago, the crew of a French cog was still hard at work, using a block and tackle to transfer wine tuns into a waiting lighter. The casks were heavy and unwieldy and one was balanced so precariously that Justin would normally have lingered to watch. But now he gave it only a glance, for his attention had been drawn to a cluster of well-dressed men gathered on the West Quay.

Stepping back into the mouth of the alley so he could observe without being seen, Justin had no difficulty in picking out the queen's son. The highborn were always magnets for every eye, even in these dubious circumstances, and John was surrounded by the curious, the hopeful, and the hungry. Peddlers cried out their wares, ships' masters jockeyed for position as they offered the hire of their vessels, and beggars huddled in the outermost ring of the circle, being kept at a distance by hard-faced men in chain mail. Justin found himself wondering what it would be like to live his life on center stage, like an actor in one of the Christmas plays. John would never be a supporting player; for him, it must be the lead role or nothing.

John started toward the alley and Justin withdrew farther into it. The first part of his mission had been easy enough to accomplish. But Durand de Curzon was as slippery as a conger eel and not even a forked stick would be enough to pin him down. Justin still remembered his shock upon his discovery that Durand was not John's "tame wolf," bur Eleanor's. He had never loathed any one as much as he did Durand, and it vexed him no end to have to give the other man even a sliver of respect. He could not deny Durand's courage, though, for if John ever discovered his betrayal, death would come as a mercy.

Justin was so intent upon his surveillance that he was slow to heed the muffled sounds behind him. He did not swing around until he heard a choked-off scream. At the end of the alley, the young prostitute was struggling to get away from her customer. She kicked him in the shin and almost broke free, but he caught the skirt of her gown, and when she stumbled, he shoved her back against the wall. Justin took one step toward them before halting. His first instinct was to come to the girl's aid, but if he did, he risked alerting John to his presence. This was none of his concern, after all. Whores were used to being slapped around.

But then the man backhanded her across the face and grabbed her throat. Justin spared a second for a regretful glance over his before lunging forward. He had no interest in fighting fair, only in fighting fast, and made use of a maneuver he'd learned from a battle-scarred serjeant named Jonas, seizing a handful of the man's long, scraggly hair and bringing his fist down hard on the back of his neck. It proved as effective in Southampton alleys as it had in London's mean streets; the man staggered, then sank to his knees, mouth ajar, eyes dazed and unfocused. Snatching up a broken piece of wood, the girl swung it wildly at her assailant. When it missed, she threw it aside and began to scream curses and abuse at him, revealing an impressive command of profanity for one so young.

"Gutter rat! Misbegotten devil's spawn! Shit-eating sousepot, you tried to kill me!"

He gaped up at her, then lurched unsteadily to his feet. "Lying bitch!" Blinking blearily at Justin, he showed no resentment, instead appealed to him, man to man. "The little slut was going to rob me!

"You're the liar, not me!" She, too, now addressed her complaints to Justin. "This besotted, poxy bastard did not want to pay me!"

"Filthy whore!"

"Rutting swine!"

By now they both were shouting loudly enough to awaken all but the dead, and a large, curious crowd had gathered at the entrance of the alley. Justin glared at the two of them. "Shall I send for a bailiff?" he asked coldly, and as he expected, that cooled their rancor considerably. The girl flung one last curse over her shoulder, then disappeared into the throng of spectators, while her accuser tried to recover some dignity by adjusting his disheveled garments before he, too, made a hasty retreat. Seeing that the show was over, their audience began to disperse, leaving Justin alone in the alley.

Justin was thoroughly disgusted with himself. When would he learn to heed his head, not his heart? He had no rational hope that John would not have been drawn by the uproar, and he turned slowly and reluctantly, already sure what he would see. As he feared, John and his men were blocking the alley.

John was the most unpredictable man that Justin had ever known, and he proved it now by reacting with amusement, not hostility. He looked utterly at ease, leaning against the wall, arms folded, eyes filled with laughter.

"God love you, de Quincy, but you are a source of constant wonderment," John said with a grin that told Justin he knew exactly what had transpired in this alley. "I can always rely upon you to be the veritable soul of chivalry. Is it just knighthood you aspire to, or have you a craving for sainthood, too?"

While Justin usually had no trouble laughing at himself, his sense of humor seemed to shut down whenever John was around. "I'm gratified that I was able to entertain you, my lord," he said dryly. "That makes my journey to Southampton worthwhile, then."

John's grin flashed again. "Come on," he said, "and I'll buy you a drink ere I sail. You can even wave farewell from the quay if you choose."

Justin submitted to this raillery with what grace he could muster, following John back toward the docks and into a riverside alehouse, It was poorly lit with reeking oil lamps, its floor deep in marsh rushes that looked as if they'd not been changed since the reign of the current king's father, its wooden benches splattered with dried mud and candle wax, not the sort of place where a man as highborn as John would usually be found. But Justin suspected that John often turned up in unlikely surroundings.

John was feeling generous and ordered ale for his men, too, even for several delighted customers. Claiming a corner table, he beckoned to Justin. "Sit," he commanded, "and drown your chagrin in ale. Once you've tasted their brew, you'll be willing to gulp down goat piss without flinching. So… you intend to tell my lady mother about this chat of ours? That her loyal spy let himself be undone by a Southampton street whore?"