Sharon Penman: The Queen Man

"And if I am able to discover the identities of the killers? Should I turn that information over to the sheriff?"

"No," she said swiftly. "Say nothing to anyone. Report back to me, and only to me."

He had confirmation now of his suspicions, but what of it? Whatever Eleanor's private motives, there was no question of refusal. A queen was not to be denied, especially this queen." I will need a letter of authorization, madame, stating that I am acting on your behalf. If I am going to be venturing into deep waters, I'll want a lifeline."

Eleanor smiled. "Clever lad," she said approvingly. "That bodes well for your success. Now… pour us some wine and then fetch me that ivory casket on the table."

Justin did as bidden, and a few moments later, he was holding a leather pouch in the palm of his hand. He thought it would be rude to count it in her presence, but was reassured by its solid weight, proof that the sum was a generous one.

He could not ask her the real reason why she was so intent upon solving the goldsmith's murder. But he could ask, "Why me?" He had the right to know that much, for the task she'd given him held as many risks as it did rewards. "I am honoured, madame, by your faith in me. Yet I am puzzled by it, too. I am a stranger to you, after all."

"I know more about you than you realize, lad. You have rare courage. You are no man's fool, for you do not trust easily. You are resourceful and personable."

She stopped to take a swallow of her wine. "You own a horse, which is more than most men can say. You can handle a sword, not a skill easily mastered. And you could read these letters, proof indeed that you've had an uncommonly good education, Justin of Chester. All you seem to lack is a surname."

Justin stiffened, but she ignored his sudden tension, continuing to regard him pensively. "An intriguing mystery. Why should a young man with so many admirable attributes be adrift, utterly on his own? You are too well educated to be low-born. A younger son having to make his own way in the world? Possibly, but why would you disavow your surname? A black sheep, cast out by his family? I think not, for most men would take great pride in a son such as you. But what of a son born out of wedlock?"

Justin said nothing, but he could feel his face getting hot. Eleanor took another sip of wine. "Even if you were bastard-born, though, why would your father not claim you? My husband freely acknowledged his by-blows; most lords do. Adultery is more often held up as a female sin, not a male one. But the Church… now she is a far more jealous mistress than a wronged wife."

"Jesu!" Justin hastily gulped down the contents of his wine cup, much too fast. Coughing and sputtering, he blurted out, "Do you have second sight?"

Eleanor smiled faintly. "Oddly enough, witchcraft is the one sin my enemies have not accused me of. It was easy enough to guess. The Church preaches celibacy, but how many of her priests practice it? They no longer can take wives, but hearthmates to tend their houses and warm their beds… well, what harm in that? At least not for a village priest. But for a man who aims higher, a bastard child is an embarrassing encumbrance, one to be shunted aside, hidden away to keep scandal at bay. Was that how it was for you, Justin?"

He nodded, and she said softly, "Who is your father, lad?"

It never occurred to Justin not to answer. "The Bishop of Chester."

He was half expecting disbelief. But Eleanor showed no surprise whatsover. "Aubrey de Quincy? I know him, although not well."

"I can say the same."

There was too much bitterness in Justin's voice for humor. Eleanor gave him a curious look. "He did assume some responsibility for you, did he not?"

"Yes," Justin said grudgingly. "I grew up believing I was a foundling. It was no secret that the bishop was my benefactor, for I was often told how lucky I was that he'd taken pity on me. When I was a babe, he placed me with a family in Shrewsbury. Later — he was an archdeacon by then — he had me brought to Chester. I saw him but rarely. I would occasionally be summoned into his presence, and he'd lecture me about my studies and the sinful state of my soul, then berate me for my misdeeds, even those I had not committed yet." Justin's mouth tightened. "It was like being interrogated by Almighty God Himself."

Eleanor was not yet convinced that he had cause for complaint. "He did see that you had food and shelter and an excellent education."

"He was quick to remind me of that, too, madame. But he owed me more than bread or even books. If nothing else, he owed me the truth about my mother!"

That hit home for Eleanor. After she'd wed Henry, the French king had done what he could to turn their two young daughters against her; she'd not seen either one for years, not until they were both grown, with husbands of their own. "How did you find out the truth?"

"When I asked him about her, he told me that she was a woman of low morals. And I'd have gone to my grave believing his lies. But by chance, Lord Fitz Alan sent me to Shrewsbury last month, and it occurred to me that there might be people who remembered my birth, remembered my mother. I started at St Alkmund's, his old parish church, and eventually I tracked down an elderly woman who'd been the cook at the rectory. She did indeed remember my mother, not a slut as he'd claimed, a young village girl bedazzled and seduced by a man of God."

"I assume that you then confronted your father?"

He nodded again, grimly. "He did not think he'd wronged me, insisting that he'd been more than fair. He could not understand that I might have forgiven him for denying his paternity, for letting me be raised by strangers, but not for lying about my mother. Never for that."

It was quiet then. Justin slumped back in his chair, drained by his outburst and disquieted, too. How could he have revealed his soul's deepest secret to this woman he barely knew? What would the Queen of England care about the griefs and grievances of a bishop's bastard? "I am sorry, madame," he said stiffly. "I do not know why I told you all this — "

"Because I asked," she said, holding out her wine cup for a refill. "If you return on the morrow, I'll have that letter ready for you, the one that identifies you as the queen's man. I trust you will be discreet in its use, Justin. No flaunting it in alehouses to get free drinks, no whipping it out at opportune moments to impress young women."

Justin's surprise gave way almost at once to amusement. He opened his mouth to ask if he could at least use it to gain credit with local merchants, then thought better of it, not sure if it would be seemly for him to jest, too. She'd been remarkably kind to him so far, and she was not a woman renowned for her kindness. But she was England's queen and he dared not forget that, not even for a heartbeat.

She'd not relinquished the letters, still holding them on her lap. Justin felt a sudden rush of sympathy. She was more than Christendom's most celebrated queen. She was a mother, and the captive king her favorite son. "I am sorry, madame," he said again, "sorrier than I can say that I must bring you such dire news…"

"Ah, no, Justin. You brought me hope. For the first time in many weeks, I will go to sleep tonight knowing that my son still lives."

"My lady…"

She knew what he was reluctant to ask. "Will the emperor free Richard? He may, if it is made worth his while to do so. As much as he detests my son, he craves money more than vengeance. The greatest danger is that the French king may bid for Richard, too. If he ever ended up in a French dungeon, he'd not see the sun again, no matter how much was offered for his ransom. Philip and Richard were friends once, but they quarreled bitterly during the Crusade, and since Philip's return to Paris, he has done whatever he could to give Richard grief, ensnaring — "