Sharon Penman - Cruel As the Grave

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."

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.

"I hear I have another prisoner," he said by way of greeting. "Careless of me to have forgotten about him. Would I be prying if I asked his name?"

"Giles de Vitry. He is to be kept under close watch until I come back for him." Justin stepped closer, pitching his voice for the Serjeant's ear only. "He is Lord John's man."

Jonas nodded impassively. "I did not imagine you'd be bringing me some hapless cutpurse or poacher. With you, I can forget robbery or petty thievery and plunge right into the fun of assassination, conspiracy, and treason."