Masques of Gold (5 page)

That was the source of her charm, Justin thought; her ease made him feel comfortable. It was not a comfort Justin frequently enjoyed, and it drew him strongly. Aside from his cousins and a few, very few, close friends, nearly everyone regarded him, if not with active fear, with caution. The reserve made Justin stiff and formal—he knew it but could not help his reaction—and his formality only increased the reserve people felt. It was like a snake swallowing its own tail.

Justin knew his problem was a natural result of his position as master of the mayor's guard and the way his uncle and the new mayor, Roger FitzAdam, used him to ferret out those who committed crimes among the wealthy burghers and even the nobles who lived in the city. And Lissa knew that, and was not afraid at all. Did not that ease, that lack of fear of him, prove that she had nothing to hide? Nonsense! Justin brought his thoughts sharply to order. Lissa
was
hiding something; he had seen that almost at once.

No hint of any answer to what she was hiding, or of any reason she should wish to be rid of her husband, came to Justin out of questioning Witta or Binge, who came in from the market soon after he was done with the boy. All Justin learned was that Witta hated Flael's sons and adored his mistress. He would gladly have implicated young Peter and Edmond and told any lie to clear Lissa—only he did not know what lie to tell. Binge, on the other hand, resented Lissa and would have hurt her if she could, but the maid's spite over having lost her preeminent place as manager of the household was obvious, and most of what she said only confirmed more surely, because it came from a hostile witness, what Lissa had told him earlier. Neither servant's account conflicted with her story in any way that would give him an opening for further questions.

It would have been very easy for Justin to account Lissa free of any suspicion; it would have been so easy that he trusted himself even less than he trusted her. Binge and Witta slept outside the house in the shed. Who could say what Lissa's relationship to the sons had been? She
was
an apothecary's daughter, and he believed she practiced the art herself. Perhaps Peter de Flael had slept far better after his second marriage than at any other time in his life. Perhaps he had slept well enough not to notice his wife leave his bed and enter another in the workshop. It would not be the first time a son had grown impatient with the length of his father's life or envied his father the young morsel of flesh in his bed.

Justin knew already that he would never prove or disprove that notion through the servants. Had Binge had the shadow of a hint of such a relationship or of any illness or weakness that had come over her master since his second marriage—which might indicate use of slow poison—she would have cried it aloud before he asked a question. The only way was to catch the wife and sons in some communication; then the truth could be squeezed out of them. How much would they trust each other if they had conspired together? Cynically Justin thought, Not much. So they would not allow too long a time to pass before one sent word to the other—perhaps a few days, perhaps a week, perhaps two.

By the time Halsig and his men returned, Justin had decided to keep his suspicions to himself until he had heard what the brothers of Bartholomew's Hospital had to say. Halsig's report was no help. The men had discovered nothing of value. Unfortunately no neighbor on Goldsmith's Row had noticed anything unusual during the night, when presumably Peter de Flael's body had been dropped in his own doorway. One man, who had a house along the lane that connected Bread Street to Friday Street, reported that a cart had come out of an alley from the direction of the market—an unusual direction at that time of the morning—and turned right into Friday Street. The man claimed he had only heard the cart and had no idea who was in it, that he had not looked out because he was busy dressing and breaking his fast.

“He's lying,” Halsig said. “He knew it was Flael's sons driving the cart.” He shrugged. “No use pushing him. Once the cart came onto Friday Street it would be lost for good.”

Justin nodded without complaint, knowing it was useless to berate Halsig or blame the men. He had had a slight hope that Flael's sons would have believed they could best conceal where they were going by keeping to the back lanes and alleys. In that case, they might have been traced; however, they had not been so ignorant and had moved as quickly as they could onto a well-traveled way. Justin shrugged when Halsig reported that everyone his men questioned on Friday Street had laughed. Two-wheel carts on Friday Street, at dawn, were as common as fleas on a dog.

Still, Justin wondered, why Friday Street instead of Bread Street? Friday Street was west, farther from the bridge they would have to cross to reach Canterbury, which lay to the southeast. Unless…unless young Peter and Edmond intended to take a boat, which would be very easy to come by on Friday Street. Justin uttered an obscenity that made Halsig stiffen.

“Not your fault,” he said to the guard captain. “Mine. I was not at my best this morning. Because the horse and cart were taken and because L—Madame Heloise said Flael's sons might be going to Canterbury, I never thought they might take a boat…elsewhere.”

“Then we'll know for sure where they're going,” Halsig said quickly, eager to soothe the only superior officer he knew who took the blame on himself instead of placing it on his men. “Any man who took a cart and horse on his boat will remember. And anyone else on the dock will remember too.”

“You can send two men to ask after you have eaten your dinner,” Justin said, much more calmly. It had occurred to him that if Peter and Edmond had taken a boat, they probably did not intend to return to London—and that meant they could not have conspired with Lissa. “But bear in mind,” Justin went on, almost cheerfully, “that they may have abandoned the cart and even the horse. What they will surely have kept with them are the two strongboxes, so be sure your men ask about those as well as asking about the horse and cart.”

Firmly suppressing an impulse to go upstairs, Justin left the men to eat the dinner Binge was preparing and walked to Goscelin's house, where he had left his horse. He intended to ride to the gates and see what had been netted, but as soon as he entered the shop, one of the journeymen excused himself from the client to whom he was speaking and asked Justin to go above, where Master Goscelin awaited him.

The solar was even more richly furnished than the one in Flael's house. There was a thick, intricately patterned carpet on the floor and hangings on the walls and two chairs on which the highly polished, elaborate carvings picked up gleams from the leaping fire. And the window—Justin hesitated for just a moment in his advance toward his host as he realized why everything in the room was so brightly lit—the window was made of clear pieces of glass like a few he had seen in rich churches.

A servant had been laying a table for dinner under the eye of the alderman's wife, but as soon as Goscelin saw Justin in the doorway, he spoke a low word to her and she dismissed the servant, coming forward herself to take Justin's cloak and make him a stiff curtsy.

“I beg you, Sir Justin, do not keep Goscelin until our dinner is all overdone. And what of that poor child down the street? What did you do to her? Goscelin would not let me go there and comfort her.”

Justin bowed deeply and took Madame Adela's hand to kiss. He knew Goscelin from many meetings of the mayor's council, but he had never before spoken to his wife. She was some years younger than her husband, plump, and dressed in a plain homespun gown with her brown hair in simple plaits, and Justin found her far more attractive now than the haughty woman in brilliant, bejeweled satins he had glimpsed on Goscelin's arm at state banquets. He was sorry to see how uneasy she was in his presence, for Goscelin smiled at her fondly and Justin thought she might be clever and amusing if she could accept him more easily.

“Justin will not keep me from my dinner because he is going to join us,” Goscelin said. “And as to that ‘poor child'—”

“I left her fast asleep,” Justin interrupted, “but I am sure it would do her good if you would visit her later in the day.”

Adela nodded and murmured that Justin would be a most welcome guest. He doubted he would be, but with a glance at Goscelin, she left the room. Justin began to protest the invitation to stay, mentioning his need to discover if any carts had been stopped at the gates. Goscelin waved the protest away, saying he would send a messenger to make a round of the gates, whereupon Justin confessed that he had little hope of finding young Peter and Edmond there.

“You think them still in the city?” Goscelin asked.

“That is possible,” Justin allowed, “and if they are we will find them sooner or later, but I think they might have made off by boat, in which case they could have escaped us for good, and I was too stupid to think of that.”

Goscelin shook his head. “It would have done you no good, even if the first thing you did was send a man-at-arms down to the dock. Unfortunately the boy Madame Lissa sent did not tell my servant that Flael was dead. Perhaps he was afraid or perhaps she told him to speak only to me. In any case, my servant did not tell me the boy was waiting until I had finished breaking my fast. I will admit at once, before you can think of it yourself, that by the time I sent for you, it would have been too late to catch them.”

“Perhaps so,” Justin said wryly, “but perhaps not. It is not so easy to get a horse and cart through those streets, and no boat would take them aboard before the catch of fish was unloaded. If I had arrived at the house with all my wits working—”

“In any case, I am sure the sons are not guilty,” Goscelin insisted. “Young Peter and Edmond would not have harmed their father. In the name of God, why should you suspect them?”

“I suppose because they ran,” Justin said, moving to the chair at which Goscelin gestured, and when the alderman had seated himself too, he began to tell Goscelin about Peter de Flael's death.

“He was tortured
after
he was dead!” Goscelin exclaimed. “And none of the wounds could have killed him?”

Justin shrugged and nodded. “So I believe. I hope the brothers from Bartholomew's Hospital will find some answer to how he died when they prepare the body for burial.”

“Flael was an old man and not a brave one,” the alderman remarked thoughtfully. “Could it be that he was not murdered at all, but died of fright?”

“That is murder to me,” Justin stated, and after a moment, Goscelin sighed and nodded, and Justin gave him a summary of what Lissa had said and the servants' evidence.

“Do not let yourself be led astray by the boy Witta's feelings,” Goscelin said. “Flael was a good father, and his sons truly loved him. He was not ungenerous to them. I do not know why they ran away, but I would guess—”

“You do not think they fled with the strongboxes because they feared the new wife had supplanted them in their father's affections and seduced the old man into making a will that excluded them?”

“No,” Goscelin said, his shrewd eyes hard. “I did some business with Flael just before his marriage and spoke to him after he and his wife returned from Canterbury. I do not know why he married Heloise Bowles, but it was not for love. I am certain it was some business arrangement.”

“A business arrangement with William Bowles?” Justin asked with raised brows.

“No,” Goscelin replied, frowning, “although Bowles is rich, richer than he allows to show, and I think he has FitzWalter's ear. Still, Flael was, I am sure, too clever to want any permanent connection with Bowles himself. But the girl has uncles in the Hanse—”

Before Goscelin could finish the remark, the door opened and Madame Adela poked her head in. “Can the servant finish now?” she asked.

“In a moment,” her husband said, and she withdrew her head. He said to Justin, “That is all I know anyway. I am sure Peter and Edmond did not harm their father, nor did they know who did it. If they had known, they would have stayed to demand revenge. Unless—”

“Then they ran from fear?” Justin interrupted. “Fear
of whom?”

Goscelin shrugged. “I have no idea, but Flael did considerable business with the king. He made John's privy seal, and two years ago, just before the king had word of the conspiracy against him, Flael delivered a matching cup and plate of gold…beautiful pieces.” The voice of the alderman, who was also a master goldsmith, changed on the last words, softening with admiration. Then he went on slowly, “Flael was lucky. He was given leave to go home only two days before the king had the news about the plot.”

The men stared at each other in silence for a moment while similar thoughts passed through both their minds. If the king was involved in Flael's death—and death by terror as well as the seemingly spiteful and purposeless damage inflicted on the corpse were not at all unlikely results of King John's enmity—then the panicked flight of the sons was reasonable. All thought of revenge was hopeless, and it was typical of King John to hold a grudge and punish the sons for the sins of the father.

Justin looked down at his hands. “Is there a chance that Flael
was
involved in the plot against the king?”

“No,” the alderman said, smiling suddenly. “I know that for a fact, and in the oddest way. Last year the September meeting of the goldsmiths' fellowship was more than usually merry for reasons with which I will not trouble you, and Flael was among the merriest of us all. We came to talking of the king's peril, for some among us think that Joan's coming with a message of warning to her father was more to benefit her husband Llewellyn, to whom we have heard she is in thrall, than to save John. Well, that is past, but Flael said a strange thing when one of the men—Finke, I think it was—said the plot had never had a chance to succeed. Flael said it would have had a much better chance if he had been a part of it. He was very drunk.”