Masques of Gold (9 page)

They heard a soft exchange between the priest and the man at the door and then the closing of the door. As if the sound released them, both moved at once. Lissa took a thin spill of wood from a bundle propped near the hearth, lit it at the fire, and began to light the candles around the room. Justin went and closed the door to the stair.

“Was that necklet real?” he asked.

“I believe so,” Lissa replied, setting the last taper alight and turning to face him.

“Do you know what it is worth?”

She smiled at him. “Unless prices have changed greatly from last year, the worth was written on the parchment Father Denis signed. Surely it is enough to free me of all importunity over masses for Peter's soul.”

“Are you mad?” Justin's face lost its rigid calm and crumpled into exasperation.

Lissa laughed softly. “Not at all. The necklet was Peter's and surely should be used to ease his soul. And I did not want it. I would never have worn it again. I suppose I could have bought a different trinket with the money if I sold it, but…” She hesitated and half turned away, feeling ashamed somehow, although she knew it was silly. “But I would always have felt it was tainted,” she went on, now looking defiantly at Justin. “Wait,” she added, “I will show you.”

As she handed Justin the cutoff portion of the parchment, which she had fetched from the bedchamber, she said, “I do not know whether you know Lord Norville?”

Justin's eyes flicked from the seal to her face, and then he threw the strip of parchment into the fire with controlled violence. “I know him.” He paused, and then said irritably, “But it was still a stupid thing to do. Here you are without money to buy food, as far as I know, and for a—a pet of pride you have given away what could have supported you for a year.”

This time Lissa's laugh was a merry peal. “I am not as destitute as that, and to prove it, I will send Witta out to buy the most delectable meal the cookshops can provide—if you will share it with me.”

She was delighted that Justin understood her distaste at being given the leavings of a lecher's refusal to pay—and had even sympathized with it before his sense of practicality interfered—but she felt a little anxious when she did not see an echo of her laughter in his eyes. She had noticed earlier in the day that even when his mouth kept its thin, severe line, she could tell when Justin was sharing her amusement. But he did not look severe now, he looked worried.

“I should not—”

“Is there someone waiting for you at home?” Lissa interrupted quickly. She did not want him to say “waste my time” or some other irremediable words.

“Do you often take the words out of a person's mouth?” Justin asked, and Lissa had to hold back a sigh of relief because he was smiling. “I was about to say that I should not impose—and possibly should not be so friendly with a suspect.”

Lissa's smile broadened to a grin, but she was able to conceal it from Justin and avoid any direct reply, since she heard Witta at the door. To call her a suspect was a most excellent excuse, she thought, to watch her and talk to her—if Justin needed a reason for the time and energy he was giving to easing her difficulties over Peter's murder. She was not certain, however, whether she was free to make jokes about his finding excuses to be with her. If he had not realized what he was doing, it would be dangerous to point it out to him. She might destroy any chance she had of binding him to her.

Witta's long face recalled Lissa from delightful speculation to immediate practicality. “There is nothing but soup,” he said. “Binge says she has better things to do than prepare feasts for a roomful of strangers twice a day.”

“Good.” Lissa laughed at Witta's shocked expression. “I will deal with Binge's sauciness later, but I cannot say I am overfond of her cooking, so we will forget it for now. I will give you five pennies. Go to the cookshop on Milk Street by Honey Lane and bring back a roast chicken, a pork pasty—hot, not cold—and some of that milk soup they make with oysters. And fill a jack with wine from the smaller cask in the back of the workroom when you come back.” As she spoke and took the coins from the purse on her belt, she turned her head to Justin and asked, “What of the men? Will the soup be enough or should I order some food for them also?”

“Nothing for them. I was about to send them home. There is no more to do here.”

Lissa was surprised at the nervous qualm that passed through her at the idea of being alone in the house. She was ashamed to ask openly for someone to stay, but she said, “What shall I do if Peter and Edmond return? I do not believe I can pretend no one asked about them, and I cannot see how I could keep them here for you to question.”

“If they are not ready to be questioned and do not intend to stay, they will not come back at all,” Justin told her. “In any case, you are not responsible for them beyond sending word to me of their coming, if they should come. I must admit, I am very puzzled about why they ran away. Master Goscelin does not believe they could have had a hand in their father's death.”

“Nor do I believe it,” Lissa assured him, letting go of Witta and gesturing to the boy to be off. She closed the door and walked slowly toward Justin, frowning. “They did not like me, but I think that was partly jealousy for their mother's memory. There was real affection between Peter and his sons. They would not have hurt him for any reason.”

“Then why did they run?”

Lissa shook her head. “It must have been fear because Peter was tortured, but the more I think about it, the more confused I become. I believed at first, as I told you, that they had decided to take the strongboxes away to put them into safekeeping. But I have been going over Peter's records all afternoon, and truly there could be no purpose to taking the money and jewels and raw metals away. What debts he had were very small. Of course, if what was in the strongboxes did not match the record—but I cannot believe that. Peter was a fine craftsman, even a great one. I did not yet know him very well, but he seemed to have a good reputation. There was only one thing…He—he did lend money at interest.”

To Justin's surprise, Lissa looked down and blushed over those last words. Before he thought, he had taken a long step forward and put his arm around her. “They all do,” he said. “You need not be ashamed. It was not
your
fault.”

Even as he embraced Lissa, Justin was appalled. From the first look of gratitude she had flashed him when he stopped Father Denis's diatribe, he had felt totally welcome, more welcome than he was to his own servants in his own home. There had been a kind of amused conspiracy between him and Lissa over the priest's greed. Even the quarrel, if it could be called that, over Lissa's too-great generosity had added to the feeling of intimacy, of comfort, of belonging. All had conspired to make him forget who he was and who Lissa was and how short a time he had known her.

Lissa looked up at him and saw that there was more than natural color in his face. He was embarrassed by what he had done, she thought, and did not know how to escape from the situation.

“Thank you,” she murmured, squeezing his hand as she gently disengaged herself. She continued to hold the hand she had slipped from her shoulder for a little time and even when she slid her fingers slowly away, she remained close, her sleeve brushing Justin's. Then she said thoughtfully, “But if young Peter and Edmond suspected one of the debtors, surely they would have waited to tell you and ask for your protection. And to torture Peter…Why would a debtor do that? Still, I am sure that his sons ran from fear, not from guilt. To speak the truth, I am a little frightened myself.” She bit her lip. “It was such a horrible way to die.” Tears came into her eyes and her voice faltered over that last sentence.

Justin had just been thanking God that he had escaped his foolishness with so little damage to his pride when he found, to his horror, that he had not learned anything. His immediate response to Lissa's tears and shaking voice was a desperate desire to take her in his arms again. He had barely enough will to resist that impulse, but he could not bear her distress. He burst out, “Peter de Flael did not die horribly. At least, he was dead before any injuries were inflicted on him.”

Lissa stood staring at him, one hand pressed to her lips. “But—but that—that is mad,” she whispered. “Of what did he die then? Who would do such a thing?”

“The brothers are not sure of what he died,” Justin replied. “They think he was afraid, and his heart was weak so it just stopped. There was no wound that could have killed him. As to who could have done such a thing, or why—”

“His sons knew,” Lissa breathed. Then her voice grew louder and the horror began to be replaced with indignation. “That was why Peter and Edmond ran. They knew the mutilation of their father was a warning. How disgusting! What foul mind would so use a helpless corpse?”

“A warning,” Justin repeated, rather amused by Lissa's indignation and then interested. He and Goscelin had assumed the mutilations were a kind of senseless vengeance, like a man kicking a chair over which he has tripped. But Lissa's idea fit the facts better, especially the fact that the body had been brought home, which he had not previously considered. “Yes.” He nodded. “I had not thought of that, but it makes good sense.”

Then he sighed. In a way it did make sense, but it brought him no closer to whoever had done it.

“You are tired,” Lissa said. “Come, sit here and warm yourself.”

She led him to the chair, shaking her head when he began to protest that she should sit there, and pulled the footstool forward to accommodate his long legs. “I have been sitting all day,” she said, “and unless I am sleepy I am more accustomed to a stool.”

She went to fetch her stool and brought her embroidery frame too, which she set where he could see her without turning his head. Lissa had discovered that men found a woman engaged in embroidery very soothing. They could stare without offense, believing the woman did not realize she was being watched. And embroidery gave her a wonderful excuse to look down, concealing any expression except those she wished to expose by deliberately raising her head.

“No,” Lissa said when she had settled herself, voicing the end of an argument that had been going on in her head while she mechanically performed the physical tasks. “I cannot believe that any of Peter's debtors would have felt such a thing to be necessary. I did not study the records carefully, but none of the amounts seemed large enough to cause such a desperate measure. And Peter was not an unreasonable man.”

“I did not know him well,” Justin remarked, “but Goscelin could not think of any enemy who hated him enough to murder him, much less commit such an outrage on his body after his death.”

Lissa leaned forward to draw the basket of embroidery thread closer to her stool and pulled out a thin hank of silver thread. With her eyes on the length she was unwinding, she said, “There is one more thing I must tell you. Among Peter's records I found drawings and a description of a goblet and plate Peter made for the king. Those were delivered two years ago in July, but there are no tally sticks and no notation that the work was paid for.”

She cut the thread with a small, sharp knife from the basket and took the needle from the cloth on which she was working, turning toward the fire to see the eye of the needle better.

“I had heard of that from Goscelin,” Justin said. His voice was low, almost drowsy as he watched Lissa align thread and needle. He had a sudden vision of his father sitting by the fire talking idly with his mother of estate matters while she sewed. What was he thinking of! “Your husband,” he went on, using those words deliberately to remind himself that Lissa was a widow of one day. “Your husband actually presented the goblet and plate at the court where the plot against King John was exposed, but Flael left before that happened, and it seems certain that he was not involved in any way.”

“Good God!” Lissa exclaimed, dropping the needle and thread into her lap and turning back to Justin with wide eyes. She was far too shocked by the implications of what Justin had said to notice his reminder that she was a very recent widow. “I never thought of that for a moment. I was only afraid that Peter had asked payment for his labor—the gold was the king's—and had been…taught his place with an added warning to his heirs not to presume.”

Justin's lips twisted wryly. “There would hardly be a merchant alive if the king killed every one who demanded payment.” He frowned thoughtfully. “I would guess your husband
was
paid, especially since the sum was not large. Because so many of his barons hate him, John needs his burghers more than most kings and treats us better. Besides, Goscelin said Flael did considerable work for him. He made the king's privy seal when John first came to the throne. I cannot believe he would set a foot so badly amiss with the king after dealing with him well all these years.”

“But from what I have heard,” Lissa remarked, “knowing King John well can be a double-edged sword. I hope Master Goscelin was right when he said Peter was not in that plot.” She looked into her lap to find the needle and thread and lifted them again. “The king…I have heard the king can be…very cruel.”

“He can be,” Justin agreed, but there was a brisk matter-of-factness in his voice that took any horror from the words. “And I admit that John was like a madman just after the plot was revealed. He suspected everyone. If your husband had been killed and mutilated right after the summer court of 1212, or even in July or August last year—after John was forced to pardon FitzWalter and Vesci and the others—I would have considered seriously whether the king might be behind what was done. At that time, a deadly warning might have had some point, but now there could be no sense to it.”

“There cannot be any new trouble brewing, can there?” Lissa asked. She thrust the thread through the needle quickly and drew it down, ready to take a stitch, but looked up at Justin instead of at her work.