Sharon Penman - The Queen Man

"Here," he said, and pitched his own wineskin toward the burly outlaw, waiting while Sampson drank greedily. He'd felt an involuntary twinge of pity, watching Luke break the man's spirit with such brutal expertise. But it had dissipated as soon as Sampson had begun his nonchalant confession. Listening to that unemotional litany, he'd soon concluded that the dim-witted Sampson was no less loathsome than the more murderous Fleming.

Sampson took another long swig from the wineskin. "So you're the one who spoiled our ambush on the Alresford Road. I thought you looked familiar. What do you want?"

"I want to hear about that killing. How it came about and why."

"Why do you think? We were paid to lie in wait for him. Why else would we be freezing our tails off out in the woods? No man with any sense goes robbing in the midst of a snowstorm, not unless he knows it'll be well worth his while."

Justin felt sudden excitement, realizing that he was but one question away from solving the mystery of the goldsmith's murder. "Who paid you?"

"A friend of Gib's."

Justin went cold. Christ Jesus! What if Sampson did not know who had hired them? What if Gilbert had been the one to make the deal? Taking another tack, he said, "Why was he to be killed? What had he done?"

The answer he got was completely unexpected. "You need not waste your pity, for he had it coming to him. Lord Harald swore the dice had been tampered with, and I believe him. I'd never seen him in such a tearing rage. He said he'd split the money with us, but he had to know we'd keep most of it. I suppose it was enough for him to get his revenge… and the ring back. He set quite a store by it. I was sorry the coxcomb did not have it on him, for I'd always fancied it myself. Silver, it was, with a reddish stone, mayhap a garnet or — "

"What in blazes are you talking about?" None of this made any sense whatsoever to Justin. "Who is Lord Harald?"

Sampson smiled scornfully, amazed at such ignorance. "All of Winchester knows Lord Harald. For certes, that poxy deputy does! Not that he is a real lord, for all that he gives himself airs like one. He salts his speech with words no one else can understand and struts about in his fine clothes like a preening peacock. Slick as ice, he is, though, the best cutpurse I've ever seen. He is right clever with the dice, too, and those games with walnut shells and dried peas. He's always prided himself on his gambling skills, so I guess that's why he took losing so badly. Not as I blame him, for I hear the whoreson kept crowing about it afterward, bragging how — "

"What dice game are you talking about? When did it take place?" Justin demanded, so sharply that Sampson looked at him in surprise.

"How do I know? What does it matter?"

"It matters," Justin said grimly. "The killing happened on Epiphany morn. But when was the dice game played? I need to know!"

"I am trying to remember," Sampson complained, "so ease up! Epiphany was a Wednesday, right? We met with Harald the day before, on Tuesday. He'd found out that the man was leaving Winchester on the morrow and he was in a sweat to make sure we'd be lying in wait for him. Ah… I recall now. The game was on Sunday. Harald said he ought to have known better than to play games of chance on God's Day, that it was an ill omen. And Gib laughed at him, saying it was indeed a sin to gamble on Sunday, but lucky to do murder on a holy day like Epiphany."

"That cannot be. Gervase Fitz Randolph was still in France on Sunday. He did not get back to Winchester until that Tuesday eve."

Sampson looked puzzled. "Who is Gervase Fitz Randolph?"

"The man you and Gilbert ambushed and killed!"

Sampson shook his head slowly. "Nay… that does not sound right. I do not remember the name, but I doubt that it was Gervase…"

"Blood of Christ," Justin whispered, for in that moment, he understood. "You'd never seen him, then?"

"No… why? There was no need, for Harald told us how to recognize him. Right prosperous, he said, with brown hair, riding a fine grey palfrey. There were so few travelers on the road that it was easy enough to pick him out. That fool Harald had forgotten to tell us about the servant, but — What? Why are you looking at me like that?"

"Was the man you were to kill named Fulk de Chesney?"

Sampson brightened. "That's the one! But what about the other name? I thought you said he was called Gervase?"

"That was his name," Justin said, through gritted teeth. "At least remember it. You owe him that much, damn you!"

"What are you so vexed about?"

"You murdered the wrong man!"

Sampson continued to look befuddled. "How so?"

"Fulk de Chesney was the one who cheated at dice, the one you were paid to kill. But his horse went lame and he had to turn back. The man you murdered was a Winchester goldsmith. He was riding a roan stallion, and you fools mistook it for de Chesney's grey. The man died for no logical reason whatsoever. God help him, he was in the wrong place at the wrong time…"

Justin's voice trailed off. He was more stunned than enraged, overwhelmed by the utter futility of it all. Gervase had not died because his son burned to be a monk or his daughter lusted after his hired man. Nor had the queen's secret letter brought him to ruin. He'd been doomed by a pebble, wedged up into a grey stallion's shoe.

Sampson finally comprehended what Justin was saying. "So the man we ambushed was not Fulk de Chesney? That explains why he did not have the ring then." He thought about it for a moment longer, and then laughed. "The poor bastard, the joke's on him!"

LONDON

March 1193

Striding along the Shambles toward Newgate Gaol, Luke and Jonas were surprised to see Justin waiting for them out in the street. One glance at his face and Luke quickened his stride. "What went wrong? Did that whoreson balk at telling you about the goldsmith's killing?"

"No… he told me all I needed to know."

"Then why are you not happier about it? I've seen men look more cheerful on their way to the gallows."

"Are you familiar with a Winchester gambler known as Lord Harald?"

"Indeed I am. As smooth as cream, that one, but the milk is soured. What does he have to do with Fitz Randolph's murder?"

"He's the one who paid Gilbert and Sampson to set that ambush."

Luke whistled soundlessly. "But why? What grudge did he bear the goldsmith."

"None whatsoever," Justin said bitterly. "They killed the wrong man. The intended target was a knave who'd cheated Harald at dice, one Fulk de Chesney — "

"Good God Almighty! The prideful churl on the grey stallion?"

Justin nodded, and then explained, for Jonas's benefit, "De Chesney rode out of Winchester that same morn, but he had to turn back when his horse went lame."

Jonas was quick to comprehend. "So they struck down the goldsmith by mistake. Bad luck for him."

"Yes, Justin agreed, so tersely that Luke gave him a probing, speculative look.

"If I'd been asked to wager that you'd solve the goldsmith's slaying, I d have called that a fool's gamble. But you did it, de Quincy, by God, you did. So why are you taking so little pleasure in your triumph?"

"I'm not sure. It seems so pointless, Luke. A man ought not to die by… by mischance."

Luke considered, then shrugged. "Would you like it better if he'd been murdered at his son's behest? Either way, he is just as dead. At least now Dame Ella need not be told that her little monk plotted a killing for Christ."

"You're right," Justin conceded, and the deputy grinned.

"I usually am. Now let's go inside and finish interrogating Sampson. I've been waiting for a long time to catch Harald with his hand in the honey pot. I want to put it all down in writing and get Sampson to make his mark ere he sobers up." As he started toward the gaol, so did Jonas. But Justin stayed where he was. "What about you, de Quincy? You're not coming with us?"