Sharon Penman: Dragon's lair

He spoke in jest, but that was how Claudine did view her pregnancy: as penance. He was stroking her hair, smoothing it away from her face, and she blinked back tears. "Do you think we will reach Oxford by nightfall, Justin?"

Oxford was not much more than thirty miles from Windsor, a distance Justin could easily have covered in one day. But they'd ridden only twenty-three miles yesterday and that had exhausted Claudine. "I think so," he said, hoping he did not sound as doubtful as he felt, for travel accommodations could not be left to chance, not when his traveling companion was gently born and pregnant.

Her thoughts had obviously been following the same route as his, for she said, with sudden determination, "We will just have to, won't we? But where will we stay in Oxford? It was safe enough to spend the night here at Windsor, but I do not want it known that I was so close to the nunnery at Godstow, for someone could connect gossip like that with my disappearance from court. So that eliminates both the castle and the king's house. Nor can I go to St Mary's Abbey, for I've met Abbot Hugh."

It occurred to Justin that his life had been much simpler prior to his involvement with Claudine. She was gazing up at him with a worried frown and he smiled reassuringly. "I promise, love, that you'll not have to sleep in the street."

Some fourteen hours later, though, he was not so sure about that. Due to Claudine's resolve and the lingering daylight of high summer, they had reached Oxford by dusk. The Wednesday market was just breaking up, and the streets were still crowded around the Carfax, the city's ancient crossroads. Leaving Claudine with their horses, Justin went in search of the closest inn. As Oxford was a prosperous town with more than five thousand citizens and a thriving university community, he was utterly taken aback to be told there were no inns. Making his way back to Claudine, he realized how easily he'd been spoiled by living in London, honeycombed with inns, cook shops, taverns, and alehouses, and he marveled anew at the vast changes his life had undergone since that December night when he'd finally learned the truth about his paternity

Not the least of those changes was waiting for him in the churchyard of St Michael's. Claudine was attracting more than her share of attention, for she was fair to look upon, fashionably dressed, obviously a gentlewoman. She usually enjoyed creating such a stir, but now she seemed oblivious to the admiring glances being cast her way. Her face was pallid, her exhaustion evident in the drooping eyelids, down-turned mouth, and dejected slump of her shoulders. She managed a wan smile, though, as Justin drew near, even a small, irreverent joke. "Please do not tell me that there is no room at the inn."

"Worse than that, love. There is no inn at all, just lodgings for students from the university."

Claudine groaned. "Oh, no… now what? I seem to remember a nunnery here from a past visit…"

"I was told it burned in the great fire of three years ago. But I have found us a bed for the night, Claudine. A family on Carte Street has agreed to take us in — for a generous sum, of course."

Claudine opened her mouth to speak, then thought better of it. Justin could guess what she'd been about to say. The highborn did not take shelter at inns when they traveled. While monastery guest halls were always open to wayfarers and pilgrims, those of Claudine's class were accorded special status, often the honored guests of the abbot himself. If not an abbey or priory, there was usually a castle in the vicinity, and a welcome assured whether the castellan was known to them or not, for rank and blood were the keys to the kingdom. So Claudine was not troubled at the prospect of lodging under the roof of strangers — provided that they were of the gentry.

Justin came from a different world. Neither fish nor fowl, he thought sometimes, for the mother he'd never known had been a vulnerable village girl and his high-flying hawk of a father would eventually become a prince of the Church. There was a certain security in knowing one's place in the natural order of things, none in balancing precariously upon the sword's edge. But Justin's dubious birthright did give him one advantage. He was bilingual, both literally and figuratively, in the Norman-French of the Conquest and the English of the conquered.

He proved that now by the ease with which he assuaged Claudine's qualms, volunteering that Benet Kepeharm, their host, was kin to John Kepeharm, Oxford's current alderman, and that he had gone ahead to prepare his household for their arrival. Reassured that she'd be dealing with people of property, Claudine let Justin assist her back into the saddle.

The Kepeharms' residence on Carte Street looked like all of its neighbors: timber-framed, slate-roofed, fronting on the street, and abutting the houses on either side. The interior chamber was where the family ate, worked, played, and slept, with a screened-off bed for Benet and his wife at one end, pallets for their children and maid servant at the other, and trestle table, benches, and coffers squeezed in between the sleeping spaces. Justin could see the pride that the Kepeharms had in their home; it glowed in their faces as they ushered their guests inside. But he knew, too, how shabby their prized possessions must look to Claudine, a child of privilege reared in palaces, and he felt again a sense of surprise that this woman could have become his bedmate.

Because it was a Wednesday fast day, they had a supper of baked lamprey eels, cabbage soup, and stewed pears, washed down with a red wine flavored with ginger and sweetened with honey. Benet and his wife Insisted that their guests sleep in their own bed. Lacking a pillow, Claudine cradled her head in the crook of Justin's shoulder and apologized drowsily for her exhaustion, for they both knew this might be their last chance for lovemaking. Godstow's nunnery awaited them on the morrow.

This was only the fourth time that they'd passed the entire night together; their liaisons had usually been catch-as-catch-can. Listening to the soft, even sounds of Claudine's breathing, Justin recalled them, one by one. Their first night had been in a London inn. Their second night was when she'd arrived, drenched and shivering, at his cottage and blurted out that she was with child. And then these two nights on the road. Four nights and a handful of stolen afternoons, no more than that. He was almost asleep when the thought came to him, unwelcome and unbidden. Their night in that inn had been Claudine's doing. She'd admitted that she knew little of inns, so how had she known of this one? From John?

Justin did not want to go down that road again. It served for naught. He knew Claudine had been John's spy. He did not know if she'd been his concubine, too. In truth, he did not want to know. He looked down at the woman asleep beside him, letting his hand rest upon the rounded curve of her belly. God help him, he never wanted to know,

A sudden rainstorm had drenched London at midday, but the sun soon blazed through the clouds again and by dusk, the city was sweltering in humid July heat. Aldred was parched by the time he reached Gracechurch Street, his open, freckled face streaked with sweat, his cap of untidy yellow hair plastered damply against his scalp. He was already tasting one of Nell's ales, but he was a polite youth and he paused to exchange greetings with passersby. It was well known in the neighborhood that he worked for Jonas, the laconic, one-eyed serjeant who struck fear in the good and the godless alike. After joking briefly with Odo the barber, Aldred waved at the man standing across the street in the door of his smithy. "Gunter!" The blacksmith waved back, but by then Aldred had ducked into the alehouse.

He halted, blinking until his eyes had adjusted to the shadows. It was more crowded than he'd expected, for Vespers had not rung yet. Customers clustered around the rickety wooden tables, perched on stools and benches, sat on upturned empty barrels, voices pitched loudly to be heard above the din. Most were men, although there were a few local women happy to gossip and drink in a place where they could feel comfortable and safe. In the midst of this chaos was Nell, looking more harried than usual, pouring ale and scolding her helper, Ellis, for being a laggard and slapping away hands if they got too familiar as she squeezed past.