Sharon Penman - Cruel As the Grave

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.