Sharon Penman: The Queen Man

She cut herself off so abruptly that Justin was able to guess what she was so loath to say: the name of her son, John, who was rumored to have been conniving with Philip for the past year, plotting to cripple Richard's kingship. It seemed all the more baffling to Justin that a queen beset with such troubles should give so much attention to the killing of a Winchester goldsmith. Wishing he had more comfort to offer, he said, "I will pray for the king's safe release, madame."

"Do so," she said, "for he will need our prayers. But do more than that. You look after yourself in Winchester, Justin de Quincy. Watch your back."

"I will …" His reassurance trailed off as he realized the significance of what she'd just said. "I have no right to that name, my lady. My father would be outraged if I claimed it."

"Yes," Eleanor agreed, "indeed he would," and when she smiled, it was not the smile of a venerable dowager queen, but the smile of the royal rebel she'd always been, a free spirit who'd dared to defy convention, husbands, and the Church, blazing her own path with a devil-be-damned courage and a capricious, beguiling charm.

Justin did not offer even token resistance; it was unconditional surrender. In that moment, he, too, joined the ranks of all who'd fallen under Eleanor of Aquitaine's spell. "I will not fail you, my lady," he promised recklessly. "I will find Gervase Fitz Randolph's killers for you, that I swear upon the surety of my soul."

WINCHESTER

January 1193

The cold spell continued without letup but the skies stayed clear, and Justin made good time. At midday on the fourth afternoon since leaving London, he was within sight of Winchester's walls.

He'd used those days on the road to plot a strategy. He meant to seek out the sheriff and the Fitz Randolph family. If Eleanor was right — and he suspected she usually was — the slain goldsmith's kindred would make him welcome. But what then? Mayhap the sheriff had already captured the outlaws. He knew, though, what a frail hope that was. Even if he found the men chained up in Winchester's dungeon, how could he root out the truth about the ambush? Were they hired killers or just bandits on the prowl for prey? If they had indeed been lying in wait for Gervase, who had paid them? And why? Was it for the

queen's bloodstained letters? Or for reasons he knew nothing about? Had the goldsmith been struck down by King Richard's enemies? Or did he have enemies of his own?

The more Justin tried to sort it out, the more disheartened he became. Questions he had in plenitude, answers in scant supply. Yet as daunting as his task was, he had to try. He owed the queen his best efforts. He owed Gervase that much, too. He'd never watched a man die before, and pray God, never again. The goldsmith's death had not been an easy one; he'd drowned in his blood.

Admitted into the city through the East Gate, Justin hailed a passing Black Monk. "Brother, a moment, if you will. Can you tell me how to find the shop of Gervase Fitz Randolph, the goldsmith?"

The man frowned. "Are you a friend of Master Gervase?" When Justin shook his head, the man's face cleared. "Just as well. Master Gervase is dead. May God assoil him, but he was foully murdered ten days ago."

"Yes, I know. Have the killers been caught?"

"The sheriff is off in the western parts of the shire. I doubt if he even knows yet."

"There has been no investigation, none at all? By the time the sheriff gets back, the trail will be colder than ice!"

"The killing was reported to the under-sheriff, Luke de Marston. I assume he has been looking into it."

Somewhat mollified, Justin asked where he could find this Luke de Marston, only to be told that he was in Southampton, not expected back until the morrow. The local authorities did not seem afire with zeal to solve the goldsmith's murder. Justin could imagine their response all too well: murmured regrets, then a shrug, a few perfunctory comments about bandits and the perils of the road. He was suddenly angry; Gervase deserved more than this official indifference. "The goldsmith's shop? he reminded the monk, and got a surprising answer in return.

"Is it the shop you want, friend, or the family dwelling?"

The vast majority of craftsmen lived above their workshops. Gervase must have been very successful, indeed, to afford a separate residence. Justin hesitated. Most likely Gervase had retained at least one apprentice, and a journeyman, too. But even if the shop was still open, it was the family that he needed to see.

"Their home," he declared, and the monk gave him detailed directions: south of Cheapside, on Calpe Street, past St Thomas's Church.

The Fitz Randolph house was set back from the street, a two-story timber structure of substantial proportions, brightly painted and well maintained. Further proof of Gervase's affluence lay within the gate: his own stable, hen roost, and a well with a windlass. Justin already knew Gervase had thrived at his craft; on that bleak trek to Alresford with the goldsmith's body, the groom, Edwin, had confided that Gervase had just delivered

a silver-gilt crozier and an enameled chalice to the Archbishop of Rouen. But even for a man who'd counted an archbishop among his customers, this house was an extravagance. Gazing upon Gervase Fitz Randolph's private, hard-won Eden, Justin felt a

muted sense of sadness, pity for the man who'd had so much — family, a respected craft, this comfortable manor — only to lose it all to the thrust of an accursed outlaw's blade. Where was the fairness in that?

But he also found himself wondering if Gervase's high living might have played a part in his death. A man so lavish in his spending might well have incurred dangerous debts. He could have stirred envy, too, in the hearts of his less fortunate neighbors. Had someone resented Gervase's conspicuous prosperity — enough to kill him for it?

"Can it be?" Emerging from the stable, Edwin stood gaping at Justin. "By Corpus, it truly is you!" Striding forward eagerly, he reached up to help Justin dismount. "I never thought to see you again. But you'll be in my prayers for the rest of my born days, that you can rely upon!"

"I'll take prayers wherever I can get them," Justin said with a smile. "But you owe me nothing."

"Only my life." Edwin was not quite as tall as Justin, but more robust, as burly as Justin was lean. He had the reddest hair and beard Justin had ever seen, brighter than blood, with very fair skin that must burn easily under summer suns, but without the usual crop of freckles to be found on a redhead's face. His grin was engaging, revealing a crooked front tooth and a vast reservoir of goodwill. "If not for you, those hellspawn would have slit my throat, for certes. I have a confession of sorts, one that will make me sound a right proper fool. I daresay you told me your name, but I was so distraught that I could not remember it afterward to save my soul."

"That is easily remedied. I am Justin de Quincy." It was the first time that Justin had said the name aloud. He liked the sound of it, at once an affirmation of identity and an act of defiance.

The young groom's grin widened. "I am Edwin, son of Cuthbert the drover. Welcome to Winchester, Master de Quincy. What brings you back?"

"I had business to tend to in London, but once it was done, I found myself brooding upon the killing. I would see those brigands brought to justice. It is my hope that I can aid the sheriff in his hunt, for I got a good look at them."

"Better than me," Edwin conceded. "About all I saw was the ground rushing up to meet me! I still have not figured out how they spooked our horses so easily… But no matter. I am right pleased that you've come back, and I know Mistress Ella will be, too."