Sharon Penman - Cruel As the Grave

"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."

Justin was determined that he'd not take the bait again. "Say what you came to tell me. I assume it involves John?"

Durand's grin faded. "Be outside the priory of St Bartholomew's by dawn. John is sending a messenger to France on the morrow. He leaves at first light."

Justin leaned across the table. "What does this message contain?"

"If I knew that, would I not tell you?"

"I do not know. Would you?"

Durand's smile was mocking. "All I know is that the message is meant for John's allies in Normandy and bodes ill for the king. John does not confide utterly in me — no more than the queen does in you."

Justin ignored the gibe. "How will I recognize this courier?"

"His name is Giles de Vitry. He is French-born, not as tall as you, with hair the color of wheat, a scar under his right eye. And he'll be riding a rawboned bay stallion. Is that enough detail for you, lad? Should I come along and point him out as he passes by?"

"I'd manage better without you," Justin said coolly. "At least then I'd not have to be watching my back."

Durand had the bluest eyes Justin had ever seen, and the coldest; a blue-white flame flickered now in their depths, reminding Justin that ice could burn. Rising without haste, Durand smoothed the folds of his mantle, adjusted the tilt of his cap; his shoulder-length auburn hair gleamed where the candle's light caught it, brushed to a bronzed sheen. "It is now up to you, de Quincy," he said. "Try not to make a botch of this. The queen is depending upon us both."

As soon as Durand pushed through the door and out into the street, Nell returned to Justin's table. "Here," she said, bringing him, unbidden, another ale. "If ever I've seen a man born to drink with the Devil, it was that one. Who is he, Justin?"

Justin smiled, wryly. "Would you believe me if I said he was an ally?"

"With an ally like that, what need have you of enemies?" Justin shrugged, but he agreed with Nell. What, indeed?

LONDON

April 1193

The sky was overcast and a damp, blustery wind had swept in from the south. The few hardy souls up and about in the predawn chill cast a wary eye skyward, knowing that spring too often carried a sting in its tail. Drawing his mantle closer, Justin shivered and yawned. He'd bribed a guard to let him out of the city before the gates opened, and for the past hour, he'd been keeping watch upon the Augustinian priory of St Bartholomew.

It was an uncomfortable vigil, made more so by the surroundings, for the priory overlooked the meadows of Smithfield. These open fields played an important role in the daily life of Londoners; the weekly horse fair was held here every Friday, and it was the site, as well, for numerous games of sport: jousting, wrestling, archery, javelin hurling. Now it lay deserted and still in the muted light, and Justin was alone with his memories. It was here that he had confronted a soulless killer. The trap had worked and Gilbert the Fleming had answered for his sins on a Winchester gallows. Eleanor had feared John's complicity in the murder of her messenger, relieved and grateful when Justin had been able to clear her son's name. Yet Justin doubted that there'd be any exoneration for John this time. The scent of treason was in the air.

Justin had no trouble in recognizing John's courier. A stocky, hard-faced man in his thirties, muffled in an inconspicuous dark mantle and wide-brimmed pilgrim's hat, Giles de Vitry was dressed to blend in with his fellow travelers. They were astride placid mules and sway-backed geldings, though, and he was mounted upon a spirited bay stallion who was obviously eager to run. Justin tensed as the courier rode by his hiding place, for much depended upon what de Vitry did next. If he headed for Newgate and entered into the city, that would mean he meant to sail from Dover. If he took the road west, he intended to catch a ship at Southampton. Justin had a personal preference and he smiled as de Vitry urged his stallion on past Newgate. Easing Copper out into the stream of travelers, Justin let his mount settle into a comfortable canter, keeping a discreet distance behind his quarry.

The road was very familiar by now to Justin, for since January he had ridden it no less than seven times, going back and forth between London and Winchester in his hunt for the men who'd slain the queen's messenger. In winter, the trip had taken four or five days, but travel in April would be easier and quicker. If de Vitry pushed his mount, he could reach Winchester in two or three days' time, with Southampton just twelve miles farther on. The urgency of his message would dictate his speed.

It soon became apparent to Justin that John's message was very urgent, indeed. Most travelers would start at dawn, stop for dinner in the hour before noon, rest until midafternoon, and then resume their journey until dusk. Giles de Vitry's stops were few and far in-between. Not for him a leisurely meal at a roadside inn. He ate sparingly and hastily of the food he'd packed in his saddlebag, and within a quarter hour was on his way again. Justin had expected him to stay over at Guildford, thirty miles south of London. But the courier raced the deepening shadows another ten miles, before finally halting for the night in the market town of Farnham.