Sharon Penman - The Queen Man

It was Luke who'd come unexpectedly to his rescue, diverting the conversation away from bedmates to murder and mayhem. Justin's last clear memories were of the deputy holding court to the entire alehouse, all listening avidly to his riveting and gory recounting of the Fleming's bloody career. After that, Justin had set about drinking himself into oblivion, with some success.

Sitting up in bed, Justin discovered that he was still fully dressed, even to his boots. A groan from the pallet on the floor told him that Luke was stirring, and a hoarse "Christ Jesus!" that the deputy was too weak to fend off Shadow. Getting stiffly to his feet, Justin stumbled toward the table, only to find that his water pitcher had frozen solid in the night, for he and Luke had been too drunk to light a fire.

"My mouth," he said, "feels like five miles of bad road. And we have got nothing to drink in the entire cottage. We'll have to go across the street…"

"You go," Luke muttered, keeping his arm firmly crooked over his eyes to ward off daylight. "I'll just open a vein…"

Justin was searching for his mantle, finally finding it crumpled up on the floor, Shadow's bed for the night. "When I come back from the privy," he said, "I'll go get us some more ale. That is supposed to help…" But the bed was beckoning again and since it was much closer than the latrine or the alehouse, it won out.

When he awoke again, his head seemed to be pounding like a drum. It took him a befuddled moment to realize it was the door. Groping his way across the room, he shoved the bolt back and let in such a blaze of bright sunlight that he was half blinded.

"Still abed?" Sauntering past Justin, Jonas looked down at Luke's prostrate body and shook his head. "Mayhap you lads ought to stick to milk from now on."

"Most people do not come calling until past dawn, Jonas." Justin leaned against the wall, wondering how the serjeant could have drunk so much ale himself and show so few aftereffects. It hardly seemed fair.

"Dawn? It is nigh on noon." Jonas nudged Luke with the tip of his boot. "You have any water to throw on him?"

"Do that and you're a dead man," Luke warned, although his threat might have carried more weight if he were not so entangled in the blankets, looking as if he were cocooned in his own burial shroud. "Go away, Jonas…"

"So… you do not want to hear about Sampson, then?"

Jonas got the reaction he was aiming for. Luke sat up so abruptly that he cracked his head on a table leg and Justin lunged forward, grabbing for the serjeant's arm as if it were a lifeline. "What did you find out?"

Jonas smiled triumphantly. "Your hunt is done. Sampson is being held in Newgate Gaol, waiting to hang."

LONDON

March 1193

A bleary-eyed Ellis reluctantly let them in, arguing feebly that the alehouse was not open yet. Inside, it was as dark and silent as a tomb, and there was even a body stretched out on one of the tables. "Nell said to let him sleep it off," Ellis mumbled, wincing as Jonas reached out and tipped the table over, dumping Aldred into the floor rushes.

The crash was followed by a startled yelp from Aldred and an immediate cry of "Ellis?" coming from above-stairs. "What was that noise?"

Jonas strode over to the stairwell. "I've got some drunkards down here who need sobering up, Nell, and I could use your help."

~~

"What is that?" Luke was staring suspiciously into the depths of his cup. "It looks like swamp water."

"Just drink it down," Nell insisted. "You'd think I was asking you to swill hemlock! If you must know, it is saffron in barley water, with a few other herbs mixed in. I've had a lot of practice at this, for my husband liked his ale more than he ought."

Setting a platter in the middle of the table, she said, "Try to eat some bread. I'll be back after I see what I can brew up for Aldred's headache." Aldred moaned his thanks, then slumped down in his seat, as boneless as one of Lucy's rag dolls. Nell rolled her eyes, muttered something about men that did not sound complimentary, and disappeared into the kitchen.

Jonas poured himself a brimming cup of ale and began to smear honey on a large chunk of bread. "If you have any salted herring left," he called after Nell, "I could eat one or two." At that, Aldred moaned again and bolted for the privy, much to Jonas's amusement. "I hope you two do not have such delicate stomachs."

"Sorry to disappoint you, but no." Justin broke off a piece of bread and forced himself to take a few bites. "Tell us what you found out about Sampson."

"He seems to have squandered his money right fast, for his first robbery was committed on Shrove Tuesday. He was a busy lad, for he struck at least three times. His method was simple. He'd prowl the alehouses and taverns after dark, pick his victim — a lone drunkard — and then follow the man out, pouncing as soon as they were alone. Unfortunately for him, he was not a man to pass unnoticed: as huge and hulking as a bear, with a gap where his front tooth ought to have been and a scar over one eye."

Luke nodded. "Yes, that is Sampson. But you said back at the cottage that he is in Newgate Gaol. How was he caught?"

"He blundered, like Justin here guessed he would. The third robbery went wrong at the outset, for his intended target was not as drunk as he'd thought. When Sampson jumped him, he fought back. That misjudgment was Sampson's first mistake. His second was the he'd been too eager, for curfew had not rung yet. A Requiem Mass was ending at St Andrew's Cornhill and parishioners were soon spilling out into Aldgate to see what the commotion was about."

Jonas drank deeply, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "By then, Sampson had overpowered his quarry and was straddling him whilst he groped for the man's money pouch. But ere he could get away, he was confronted by one of the parishioners. They struggled, and when Sampson could not break free, he stabbed the Good Samaritan in the throat."

Justin swallowed with difficulty, washing the crust down with barley water. But it was not the bread which left such a bitter taste in his mouth. They killed so casually, the Sampsons and Gilberts of this world. And they left so much grieving in their wake. Hanging such men only kept them from killing again. It did nothing to ease the pain they'd brought to so many on their descent into Hell. Glancing around the table, he saw his own frustration and fury mirrored on Luke's face. Jonas, as ever, was inscrutable. He paused to drink again before picking up the bloody threads of his story.

"Sampson then fled, with the parishioners in pursuit. But his size and that bloody dagger would have kept most of them at a safe distance. I daresay he'd have gotten away if he'd not had the bad luck to turn onto Lime Street. By chance, he ran right into the Watch. It took fully four men to subdue him, and then they had to protect him from the crowd, who were all for hanging him from the nearest tree. But the priest from St Andrew's was able to shame them into backing down, and Sampson was dragged off to gaol. His reprieve will be a brief one, though. I'd wager the court will convict him ere the trial even begins!"

"I wish I could be so certain of that," Luke said morosely, for he had learned the hard way that it was not easy to get a man sentenced to the gallows. He'd often pondered why juries were so loath to see a man hang, and had finally concluded that the notorious leniency of juries was paradoxically linked to the harshness of their laws. Whether a man killed by accident or in self-defense or with calculated and cold-blooded intent, he was charged with murder. He could argue "mischance" or "justification" but he had to prove that in court, and many men fled rather than risk submitting themselves to the king's justice. A man could be hanged, too, for theft, could pay with his life for a crime of hunger or desperation. The result was the juries often refused to indict, even when the evidence seemed to demand it.