Masques of Gold (38 page)

“You lie!” Justin's voice grated through his tight throat. “Whore!”

That time she did not flinch. Her eyes continued to meet his and she shook her head slowly. “No, not that. I thought I could endure Edward. After all, I had endured Peter, and Edward was young and handsome. It made me sick to think of bedding him, but I was sure I would grow accustomed in time. But I never wanted him, Justin. Never.” She sighed then, and the flame of the candle she was holding wavered. “But all the same, I suppose your word was true enough. A whore sells herself for coin, and I was ready to sell myself for—well, for what would amount to a great deal of coin, but coin nonetheless.”

Justin grasped her wrist. “Is that true?”

The bones ground together almost audibly. Lissa cried out and dropped the candle, and two small forms hurtled into Justin, staggering him for the moment. He felt a fist hammer at his arm while fingers pried at his hand, and he looked down in amazement at Witta and Ninias, who were both shouting at him to let go and struggling physically to free their mistress.

“Stop that, you naughty boys!” Lissa snapped. “Sir Justin and I are good friends. He is not hurting me. I was only surprised. Ninias, pick up that candle and light it again.”

Her face was still white with pain, but she did not rub her wrist. The boys drew off, Ninias bending to pick up the candle at Lissa's feet, but despite a confusion so violent he felt physically dizzy, Justin could not help chuckling at the expressions on their faces. Although he had released Lissa when she spoke, her apprentices were plainly not convinced by her statement that she and Justin were friends. Probably the boys thought she was trying to save them from being punished. They both looked frightened now. Still, the way they had flown at him and continued to fight him to protect her, even after he looked down at them with a glare that had been known to quell more hardened souls, spoke well for Lissa. And if she had truly wanted Chigwell's business and not his son…Justin almost reached for Lissa again to draw her close more gently.

“Did you call, mistress?”

A large gray-haired woman appeared in the doorway between workroom and shop, her right hand hidden behind her in the folds of her skirt. Lissa drew a shaky breath. “No, Ebba, thank you.”

Justin frowned. “Wait. This is not the woman who used to be your maid.”

“You mean Oliva,” Lissa said. “No, Oliva is serving Mistress Adela, who lent me Ebba to take her place.”

“When was this change made? And why?” Justin asked.

“Ebba has been with us since my father came home in August,” Lissa replied. “He misused Oliva, who, you may remember, is very timid, so I asked Adela to give her shelter and lend me a maid who is not easily overawed.”

“Did you not once tell me that Oliva was a slave?” Justin asked after a moment's thought. “Is it possible that your father promised her freedom in his will?”

“It is possible that my father did anything,” Lissa said, “but I doubt he would offer a slave a promise, even a false promise. If you are thinking that Oliva could have killed him—it is impossible. I do not think any woman could have done this, or even an old or weak man. Take some candles. I left the room dark…you will see why.”

Her voice was not quite steady, and as Justin reached out for a branch of candles standing on one of the counters he realized why golden light had spilled from the open door. Almost certainly every single candle holder in the house had been filled and lit. The room was brighter than day. Only then did Justin realize that if Lissa was innocent of her father's death, she must have been frightened almost out of her wits by what had happened. He wanted to turn back and comfort her but fought down the impulse. And when he walked to the door and lifted the branch of candles, shock wiped even Lissa from his mind. Paul had talked about a shop full of blood, and Lissa had spoken of a sea of blood; Justin had dismissed the words as the sort of exaggerations to which those who had never been on a battlefield were prone. This time, however, they were closer to the truth than he liked. With an exclamation of disgust, he walked forward to examine the body.

Justin saw at once what Lissa meant when she said she did not think the crime could have been committed by a woman or even by a man who was not powerful. The stroke that had sprayed blood all over the door, wall, and floor had cleaved deeply between neck and shoulder, severing the artery, but there was a puddle of blood around the dead man's waist, and the clothing over his abdomen was soaked in blood from a deep thrust into his belly. Yes, but the blood from the belly had not made the puddle, and there was something strange about the deep gash at the neck. Justin reached down and pulled the corpse over on its face. He nodded in satisfaction as his suspicions were confirmed.

Bowles had been stabbed from behind with tremendous force. A very long, broad hunting knife or a short sword had been thrust into his back hard enough to break a few ribs. But the impact could not have broken the ribs, Justin thought, unless the body had been braced…Yes, and that was why Paul had slept through the attack. The murderer must have put his hand over Bowles's mouth and held him while he delivered the blow. But he had struck below the heart and not killed him instantly, so the second blow had followed. Then, to make all sure, or just for hate—Justin flipped the body over on its back again—the killer had turned Bowles over and stabbed him in the belly.

A sound of retching made Justin turn his head and say irritably, “No one asked you to watch.”

The words were out before he really saw the person in the doorway; Paul, not Lissa, was backing away.

“Wait,” Justin ordered. “Send in—”

He stopped abruptly, swallowed hard, and stepped out of the direct light coming from the workroom, because he knew he was darkly flushed. The woman really
had
driven him mad. He had been so eager to get to her that he had not even sent Hervi to wake a few of the watch who were quartered close by his house. Worse—far worse, he now realized—he had not
wanted
to bring any men with him. His need to be alone with Lissa had driven out of his mind all thought of extra men.

“No,” Paul breathed, putting a hand on the frame of the doorway to support himself. “This shambles is no fit place for my mistress.”

“What are you talking about?” Justin snarled. “Who the devil wants your mistress in here? Although it seems she is not of such fine sensibility as you, since she must have been back and forth several times already without harm coming to her.” He paused again and gritted his teeth. Why in God's name was he talking about Lissa? “Never mind that,” he said to Paul. “Go to the alehouse on the south Poultry—it is nearer the Mercery than the Stock Market. In the house next door you will find my man Halsig. Tell him to bring four more men and meet me here.”

Paul backed farther out of the room and said, “Yes, my lord,” with an eagerness that Justin found rather surprising, considering that the journeyman had just walked all that distance twice.

Lifting high the candles he was holding, Justin examined the room as carefully as he had examined the body. What he saw indicated that there had been only one large body near Bowles when he was stabbed. Another much smaller person might have been close to the victim on the side opposite where he was struck in the neck, but the dead man's own body could have blocked spattering from that side. Justin thought the murderer had probably worked alone and that his clothes had been drenched in blood.

Almost as that thought came, it had to be abandoned. Tossed aside near the outer door was a dark heap. Justin walked to it and prodded it with his foot, lowering the branch of candles to see better. He sighed philosophically. A bloodstained murderer might have made life too easy for him. As he had suspected at the first glance, what he had found was a cloak, parts already stiffening with dried blood. So the killer had covered himself. No doubt he would have an easy explanation for the few spots the cloak had not caught.

Following his general inspection, Justin made a closer examination of the premises and looked closely again at the body to confirm his first impression that the killer was most likely a tall man—as tall as himself, or taller—and probably broader and stronger. He mused on the idea, then shrugged again. He knew one or two men, hired swords, who would fit that description and who would kill willingly enough, but that was meaningless. London must harbor hundreds of the same kind whom he did not know, and any one of them could be guilty if Bowles had been caught on the street and forced into the house. But that was unlikely. The shop had not been looted; nothing seemed to be disturbed. It was more likely that one of the two men who had run from the watch had been Bowles and that the dead man had known—and trusted—the man who came in with him. Justin looked from the outer door to the body consideringly. He could take his conclusions one step farther. Either the two men knew each other well, because Bowles had preceded his guest into the house rather than gesturing the guest politely ahead of him, or the attacker was of an inferior class.

After another moment of studying the body, Justin decided he had discovered everything possible from looking. Now he must learn what he could about William Bowles, and that meant he could no longer avoid talking to Lissa. His reluctance to face her made him ashamed and angry, and he stalked into the workroom prepared to snarl, only to see Lissa perched on a high stool with her head down on the counter, fast asleep. To either side was a boy, also asleep, heads pillowed on arms supported by the rungs of the stool.

A movement on the other side of the workroom brought Justin around, hand on sword, but it was only the woman, Ebba, who lifted her head from her pallet and then lay down again. Justin quietly put down the candlestick he was carrying and stood looking at Lissa. Ebba's presence had at least saved him from his immediate desire to fondle Lissa into simultaneous wakefulness and passion. Only the temptation to let her sleep and escape from her remained, and he knew there was no escape for him. He would only increase his torment by putting off the confrontation.

He touched her shoulder and, when she did not stir, shook her gently. She drew a deep breath and lifted her head, twisting to look at him. Justin was surprised that she had not started or cried out, and when she saw him, she did not smile. Nonetheless, as they looked at each other he was assaulted—the strength of the feeling was such that he could think of no other word—by an aura of gladness, of welcome, of gratitude. Justin swallowed.

“Come away from your protectors,” he said softly. “I wish to ask them questions later, and I desire to hear what they saw, heard, and believed, not repetitions of what they think you said.”

Lissa nodded at once, smiling slightly now. “You will have to help me,” she whispered. “I cannot get off the stool by myself without waking them.” She shook her head as she saw him about to protest and said, “Let them sleep. They are very frightened. It is my fault. I should not have screamed, but when I saw…” Her voice faltered and she paused, breathed deeply, and reached for him. “Lift me a little, and I can get over them.”

Justin stepped carefully between the two sleeping boys and lifted her off the stool, swinging her legs well over Witta's head. The feel of her in his arms brought an avalanche of memories on him, and he was paralyzed for a minute, until fury at his weakness let him set her down. Lissa glanced at him and away. Her smile was gone and she was pale and strained, her eyes ringed by bruised-looking skin. After a moment's hesitation she gestured, and Justin followed her to the door, both taking candlesticks.

Lissa hesitated again at the door. She seemed to try to walk straight in, but if that had been her intention, her resolution failed. She slid along the edge of the shop counter, her head turned to the wall, away from the blood-clotted thing that had been her father, and fled up the stairs so fast that two of the candles in the three-candle branch guttered out despite her sheltering hand. When they reached the solar, she ran right across to the hearth, set the candlestick down, and began to lay sticks on the banked coals. As Justin came closer, he saw that she was shaking. He wanted to kneel down beside her. He wanted to take her in his arms. He wanted to take her into bed and warm her cold body. And even the least of those desires was a dereliction of duty and, far worse, the mark of a man who could be led around by his rod by any whore.

“I will see to the fire,” he said. “You are doing it more harm than good. Tell me what happened.”

“It is swiftly told because I know little or nothing. My father went out about an hour before Vespers. When he did not come back for the evening meal, I locked the door but left the bar off. I was abed but not asleep when he came back.” She glanced up at Justin and then lowered her eyes. “I have not been sleeping very well of late—”

“You mean since your father drove Edward Chigwell from your bed?”

Lissa's head came up and her eyes widened. Her mouth looked stiff, as if she had bitten something sour and dry, but she was only trying to hold steady lips that were on the verge of trembling with hope. The sneering question should have cut her to the heart; instead, it confirmed the suspicion she had that when Justin had lifted her off the stool he had held her a little closer and an instant longer than was necessary. Had his eyes not had all the color and warmth of dirty ice when he set her down, she would have been certain. But surely his violent jealousy of Edward meant he still wanted her himself.

“Edward kissed me on the mouth four times. That was more than enough for me,” she said. “He never set foot in my bedchamber, let alone in my bed, nor has any man but you.” She dropped her eyes and sighed. “Nor, I think, will any man ever. I have learned that I cannot bear to be touched by another.”

Justin thought his heart would leap out of his chest, but he raised his brows and retorted, “Until someone offers even more than Chigwell, eh?”

Then her eyes filled with tears and she dropped her head. “It was a mistake,” she whispered. “I thought I could never have you, so I grasped at wealth. With Chigwell's business and my own together, my man could have been master of the guild, perhaps mayor—” Her hand flew up to cover her mouth as she heard the words that betrayed her pride and ambition.

There was no retribution for those sins. On the contrary, she saw some of the tension lines around Justin's mouth ease. Instead of a straight, nearly invisible crease, a slight curve of lip appeared. Lissa lowered her eyes and bent her head as if ashamed of having exposed herself, but in reality she was afraid her relief would show on her face. She had known that Justin never understood, or discounted, her reasons for refusing to marry him, but until he had pushed her away and thrown the word “whore” at her, she had not realized he had assumed she had tired of him and wanted a new man. She had been in despair after that, believing he had seized her wrist and hurt her in anger and disgust. But she had just repeated her reason for considering Chigwell's offer, and he was not angry now, not at all. Lissa began to hope that Justin was glad to think she wanted place and riches rather than Edward.

Lissa's guess was very close to the truth. Justin was surprised and relieved to discover that Lissa had cravings to be the wife of a mayor or an alderman. He could supply something even better, for he was a knight and a gentleman born. It was clear to him also that she had not properly considered what came with the opportunity the elder Chigwell had offered. That sour pursing of the mouth when she spoke of having kissed Edward was more eloquent than any speech.

Choking in an effort to keep from laughing aloud, Justin said, “Your entanglement with Chigwell certainly
was
a mistake. Your greed and your father's interference in the plans Chigwell had made may have caused his death.”

He hardly knew what he was saying. The weight on his heart had flown away, and if not for a tiny core of uncertainty, one hot coal of doubt that everything Lissa had said and done from the beginning was a lie, Justin would have swept her into his arms—and into the bed waiting in the room beyond the inner door. He was more than ready to forgive Lissa for wanting to make a rich marriage. He would forgive her anything—except wanting another man. But the doubt was there, and he could not yet bury it deep enough or trust her enough to quench the heat completely, so he turned away and put the candles on the table against the wall. When he turned back, Lissa was shaking her head.

“Oh, I do not think Master Chigwell was
that
eager to get me. Certainly he could not have done the murder himself, and to hire a man—”

Calling to mind what he had said, Justin snapped, “I did not mean the old man.”

“Edward?” Lissa's face was totally incredulous, and then she began to laugh. “You cannot suspect Edward could do—do
that
to my father. He would be more likely to faint than to finish.”

Justin took a step closer. The contempt in Lissa's laughter was a balm to his soul. That kind of disregard could not live with love. Whatever she had felt in the beginning, Justin was growing convinced that she certainly did not cherish Edward Chigwell now.

“But if he was desperate enough to hire someone?”

Lissa laughed again and began, “Edward is far too proper and cautious to…” But her voice faded before she said any more and she frowned, suddenly remembering something far more important than Edward. “The killer was no hired man,” she said. “I heard their voices through the window as my father opened the door. Although I could not understand any words, I am certain they knew each other.”

Had Lissa said that to distract his attention from Edward Chigwell? Justin told himself not to let his jealousy make an ass of him. He was almost sure from what he had seen below that Bowles and his attacker were acquainted, possibly close friends. “That is possible,” he said to Lissa. “What happened next? Why did you go down?”

“To lock the door. They were laughing as they came in, and then I heard a sort of cry, but not loud. I would not have heard it if I had not feared—because of the kind of laughter—that my father was drunk. He was not a pleasant drunk. I was afraid he and his friend would hurt Witta or Ninias and that Paul and Ebba might be afraid to interfere, so I was listening. Then, a few minutes later, I heard the other man go out, still laughing, and the door close. I did not hear the lock or the bar, which my father might forget if he was drunk enough, so I waited, I cannot say how long, but long enough for him to get to bed.”

“You did not hear him come up,” Justin pointed out sharply. “Did that not surprise you?”

“I would not hear that. I have always kept my door barred against my father. I might hear if he shouted in the solar or if the boys screamed, but not sounds like footsteps or even if he stumbled into the furniture. What I heard came from the window,” she reminded him.

Justin nodded acceptance of that. He remembered being surprised by the bar on her door when he had first seen it, and being equally horrified that Lissa's mother had needed that protection against her husband and that she would have dared to defy him by using it. He wondered whether Lissa's use of the bar was habit or defense, and whether that had any bearing on Bowles's death.

“So you went down to lock the door,” he said. “When did you see him?”

Lissa did not answer at once. She bit her lip and blindly held out her trembling hands to the dying flickers of the fire that Justin had forgotten to mend. “I st-st-stepped on him.” Her voice was a thin, breathy thread and she began to shake. “I was half asleep, so tired, so angry because he had—I thought—got into bed without even taking off his shoes. I know the shop so well. I d-d-did not look. I stepped on his arm and fell—”

“Hush, dear heart,” Justin said and pulled her into his arms. “You will forget it.”

She was racked with dry sobs and was shivering convulsively. “I hated him,” she whispered. “I am glad he is dead. I am sure he brought it on himself and deserved even so horrible a death. I was sorry about Peter. I am not sorry about him, but—oh, Mary help me—I cannot stop seeing it.”

Justin had taken both her hands into one of his. They were very cold. He knew there was no warmth to be had from his body while he was in armor, but he could not bear to let her go and continued to hold her. Her shivering began to abate, and that told him that fear and horror might have chilled her as much as the night-cool room. He was glad to think he could relieve her of most of that with a few judicious lies.

“I hope you are not very vindictive,” he said, allowing a hint of humor to come into his voice. “Because I am afraid I must disappoint you about your father's death. I doubt it was really horrible at all. I should think from the wounds and the expression on his face that all he felt was a hard blow and surprise at that before he could feel nothing at all.”

Lissa began to weep aloud then, and Justin stroked her hair. After a few minutes she sniffed and wiped her face on her sleeve, then looked up at him. “If that is not like my father,” she said, the words breaking between sobs and wry laughter. “Just think, he managed to make his death more horrible for everyone else than for himself.”

“No doubt that will be some satisfaction for him in whatever afterlife he finds, but I hope you are not so glad to be rid of him that you wish to protect his murderer.”

“God be my witness, no!” Lissa exclaimed. “I hope and pray it is not someone he cheated and drove to desperation, but rage is no excuse for hacking a man to bits.” She shivered again over those words and drew a trembling breath.

“It looked worse to you than it was, my dear.” Justin lied as smoothly as he had about William's expression. She would not see the body again, and he could see no reason for her to be tormented by horrors. “I expect you were shocked by all the blood and did not look closely, but a large vessel in his neck was severed, and the loss of blood is what killed him with little, if any, pain.”

“I find I am glad of that after all,” Lissa said in a small voice. “So many times when my mother was alive and he hurt her I thought of dreadful things I would like to do to him, but now I am glad he died without pain and without knowing. He was such a dreadful coward.” She sighed and then asked, “Could I sit down? My knees are not willing to support me much longer.”

Justin tried to place her in the chair, but she preferred to sit on the stool he had chosen for himself. And then, somehow, Justin was in the chair and they were arranged in the old, familiar positions.

Lissa raised her head from where she had been resting it on his knee. She examined the frozen mask of his face, and her lips quivered. “Your legs are too long for a stool,” she said. “How can you ask questions and glare at me properly when your knees are touching your chin?”

Subduing a mixed impulse to laugh and choke her, Justin asked quietly, “Do you not deserve to be glared at?”

“No, I do not!” Lissa exclaimed. Then she touched his hand tentatively and spoke more softly. “I hurt you, and I am sorry. I did it to save you worse pain. You do not believe me, but it is true nonetheless.”

“Let us not begin that old argument again,” Justin snapped. “Finish now the tale you began. After you found your father's body, what happened?”

“I screamed.” Lissa licked her lips. “I am not a screaming person, and I have seen blood before, but—”