Cruel As the Grave (26 page)

"Who told you that... Clara? Melangell did not want Papa to know, saying he'd worry for naught. But I knew she was worried, too, else why would she have sought out a doctor? Doctors are for the rich or the dying, not the likes of us. I do not know where she got the money for it, but she said it was worth every penny and she was so relieved afterward that the doctor must have helped."

"Do you know the name of the doctor, Cati?"

"No, she never told me that." Cab let Shadow win the tug-ofwar and grinned when he then tried to entice her into a romp by dropping the stick into her lap. She and the pup were soon chasing each other about the kitchen, while Justin watched with a distracted smile. How had Melangell found a doctor? Who would she have turned to for advice? Who was she likely to have trusted? "Cati... I'd like to talk to you about your sister's pilgrim cross. I think you know something about its disappearance," he said, and saw her face shutter, her body stiffen warily.

"What would I know?" she said evasively, and then cocked her head. "I hear Algar and Clara coming in!" And she was off, with Shadow at her heels, to welcome the landlord and his wife back from Compline services.

Justin's vexation with their inconvenient arrival was fleeting, for it occurred to him that they might be the very ones he was searching for. After an exchange of greetings with the affable landlord, he offered to fetch a bucket of water from their well, and while he was pouring it into Clara's kettle for boiling, he asked if she'd known that Melangell had been ailing. Clara was utterly unlike her loquacious, expansive husband. The words that spewed out of his mouth in such torrents emerged from hers in thin trickles. She paused to look at him over the kettle, pale eyes appraising. "I suppose it cannot hurt the child now to speak out," she said at last. "Aye, I knew. I had my suspicions what was wrong, too, but I figured it was none of my concern, between the lass and the Almighty."

"Did you suggest she see a doctor?"

"Not a doctor, no. For what ailed her, I sent her to a midwife."

~~

The morning sky was mottled with clouds and a brisk wind was coming off the river. Justin found the dwelling on Watling Street without difficulty, one of a row of wooden houses painted in bright hues of blue or green or red. The midwife's house was the color of spring grass, well kept up, the lower floor rented out to a friendly shoemaker who was more than happy to gossip about Dame Gunilda. She had an ailing husband, he said, sick with a palsy, and a hard row to hoe, for they had no children of their own, dependent upon the rent and what she earned as a midwife. She was out now, he said, called to a birthing at first light, but Justin was welcome to wait for her in the shop.

Justin did, pacing restlessly as customers came and went and the bells of St Antholin's Church rang in the canonical hours. It was nigh onto noon when the shoemaker pointed toward a woman trudging wearily up Watling Street and Justin hastened out to intercept her.

Gunilda was a stout, fair-haired woman in her middle years, her apron splotched with birthing blood, her veil askew. But her disheveled appearance was belied by shrewd blue eyes and a forthright manner. After hearing Justin out, she said briskly, "Come with me. I'll see to my husband, then we'll talk."

The man in the bed was gaunt and grey, his skin and hair bleached of color, his mouth contorted in a ghastly rictus of a grin. Justin's first fear was that he was dead. Gunilda showed no alarm though. Straightening up, she said, "He sleeps. If you keep your voice low, you may ask your questions now."

"I have reason to believe you saw a young woman in early April, slender and dark, with curly black hair and brown eyes and a Welsh accent. Her name was Melangell, although she may have given another. Do you remember her?"

"Yes, quite well. Why? What is your interest in her?"

"I am trying," he said, "to bring her killer to justice."

She did not react as he expected, saying only, "I see." He did not think her callous or uncaring, though. Like Jonas, he thought, she'd looked upon too much suffering ever to be surprised by life's cruelties. "Tell me," she said, and he did. She listened without interruption, and when he was done, she sat back in her chair, shading her eyes with her hand.

"She told me her true name," she said, "for she had nothing to hide. She had no guile in her, God pity her. What do you want to know?"

"Was she with child?"

"She was."

Justin exhaled a pent-up breath. "Would you be willing to swear to that in court?"

"Yes," she said, "I would." She rose then, abruptly, as her husband moaned in his sleep. Leaning over the bed, she tucked the sheets around his emaciated, twisted body, and then turned back to face Justin.

"Do you know why I remembered her so well? I see many girls who've gotten themselves in trouble, after all, and their stories are all alike, their fears the same."

Justin said nothing, thinking of Claudine. Had Melangell wanted pennyroyal, too? He did not ask, for if Gunilda did indeed help desperate girls to end unwanted pregnancies, she would never admit it.

"But this girl was different from the others. She was an innocent, Master de Quincy. No, not a virgin maid, but an innocent, nonetheless. She did not even know what the cessation of her monthly fluxes meant. She'd feared that she'd been stricken with some mysterious malady, an ailment she thought 'city folk' might catch. Poor, ignorant little lass..."

"And when you told her she was with child? Was she distraught, fearful?"

The midwife smiled sadly. "She rejoiced, Master de Quincy. She laughed and wept and said that she could not believe she'd been so blessed."

~~

Justin had no luck in reaching Jonas, who'd been called out to hunt for a missing child. Leaving a message for the Serjeant, he decided to stop by and check on Claudine. He found the Tower in an uproar. Eleanor was meeting in private with Hubert Walter, the Archbishop of Rouen, and several justiciars and bishops, and the Great Hall was packed with highborn guests and their entourages. Justin was able to snatch only a few moments with Claudine, who looked pale and seemed tense and preoccupied. The encounter was neither reassuring nor satisfying, and only exacerbated his overall sense of foreboding.

Sunset was still an hour off, and a rowdy game of camp-ball was in progress in the Tower bailey. Justin would normally have lingered to watch. Now he never even glanced toward the game; he was trailed by too many ghosts.

"Justin!"

The voice stopped Justin in his tracks, for it was one he'd not heard for nigh on five months, only occasionally echoing from the depths of unsettled dreams. He spun around, disbelieving, to find himself face-to-face with his father.

Aubrey de Quincy seemed even more stunned than Justin. For a frozen moment, they simply stared at each other. Justin recovered first. "What are you doing here?"

Aubrey was so rattled that he actually started to answer. "All the bishops have been summoned to London for the election of the Archbishop of Canterbury. We convene on Friday to" He broke off then, remembering that he was the one who ought to be asking the questions. "Where have you been all these months? First you ride off from Chester without a word to me, and then I get a letter from Lord Fitz Alan, saying he dismissed you for contumacy and willful disobedience. What exactly did he mean by that?"

Justin started to explain but his father gave him no chance. "I would hope you did nothing to disgrace yourself. Since I recommended you for a position in Lord Fitz Alan's household, your behavior reflects upon me, too."

"You need not fear. I did not tell him about you." Justin looked away but not in time. The relief in Aubrey's eyes was unmistakable.

"Why did you not let me know what happened? It was most irresponsible for you to disappear like that. It never occurred to you to write a letter, telling me your whereabouts?"

Justin looked at him incredulously. "You expect me to believe you cared where I'd gone?"

Aubrey's jaw tightened. "I made discreet inquiries."

"Of whom... God?"

An angry flush rose in Aubrey's cheeks. His coloring was fair; his hair, greying now, had once been sunlit. Justin assumed that his mother had been dark, as he was. He could not bring himself to ask, though; the one time he'd questioned his father about her, he'd been told she was a wanton, better forgotten - words that would come back to haunt them both when he learned the truth about his paternity.

The silence between them was suffocating. Justin's breathing had quickened. He wanted to turn and walk away, but he could not. It occurred to him suddenly that Aubrey might well be a grandfather by year's end - if Claudine carried the babe safely to term, if she'd not lied. What of it, though? Confessing to his father would not even get him absolution. To the Bishop of Chester, he would ever be a shameful secret, never a son.

"This serves for naught," Aubrey said abruptly. "You made your feelings quite clear in our last meeting. So be it, then." He took only a few steps, though, before he stopped. He seemed to hesitate and then half turned, back toward Justin. "You are faring well on your own?"

"Yes," Justin said, "I am."

Before he could say more, a ball thudded onto the ground between them, rolling forward until it hit Justin's boot. Several of the camp-ball players started toward them, only to halt uncertainly once they realized they'd almost struck a bishop. One of the youths, though, was known to Justin, a squire to Nicholas de Mydden. Recognition was mutual and the boy advanced, grinning. "Sorry, Your Grace," he said cheekily. "Master de Quincy, could we have our ball back?"

Justin reached down and picked it up. A pig's bladder, filled with dried beans, it was surprisingly heavy. He threw it into the squire's outstretched hands, and then turned to face his father.

Aubrey was staring at him in appalled disbelief. "You have no right to that name!"

Justin raised his head. "I have a blood right," he said defiantly, "if not a legal one."

Aubrey's mouth thinned, the blue in his eyes turning to ice. Reaching out, he grasped Justin's arm. "This is no game, boy. Heed me and heed me well. If you do anything rash, we'll both be the losers for it. Now tell me the truth. Have you told anyone about me?" When Justin did not reply, Aubrey's fingers

tightened and his voice sharpened. "Answer me! Have you?"

"No!" Justin jerked free, so violently that they both stumbled.

Aubrey remembered, too late, that they were in a public place. Lowering his voice, he said tautly, "You are sure?"

Justin's eyes glittered. "I've confided in only one person... the queen."

Aubrey's vaunted control shattered and for a moment, his emotions showed nakedly on his face: horror warring with hope that this was a cruel joke. Rallying, he said scornfully, "You expect me to believe that you've become the Queen of England's confidant?"

"Ask her," Justin said, "if you dare." When he saw Aubrey's color drain away, leaving him white and shaken, he knew that his father realized he was speaking the truth, however unlikely. But rarely had a victory left such a bitter taste.

14

LONDON

May 1193

Nell was staring down at the candle wax drippings that spattered the surface of the alehouse table. Her shoulders had slumped, her chin tucked into her chest so that her face was only partially visible to Justin. "This is so sad," she said, in a muffled, melancholy voice that sounded as if she were swallowing tears. "I am beginning to think I've done you a wrong, Justin. If not for my prodding, you'd never have become involved in Melangell's killing. I ought to have known better. For nothing in this life is ever easy or pain free, nothing."

"You're right about that," Justin agreed wearily. "This is bound to end badly, Nell. The only question is how badly."

"That poor little baby," she said softly, "with no one to pray for its soul... Do you mean to tell Godwin and Cati?"

"No... why give them another loss to grieve?"

"Will Jonas now look upon Godwin as a suspect? There are men who'd have blamed the girl for shaming their family. If Godwin found out about her pregnancy and confronted Melangell in a rage...?"

"I do not believe it happened that way, Nell. The Welsh do not judge the child to be guilty of the sins of the parents. To be bastard-born in Wales is not the burden it is throughout the rest of Christendom. Whilst Godwin has no Welsh blood, he wed a Welshwoman, lived for years in the Marches. Clearly he shares some of the views of his wife's people."

Nell would normally have wanted to know more about these heretical beliefs of the Welsh, but she hadn't the heart for it now. "So what will you do?" she asked, and Justin pushed away from the table, got reluctantly to his feet.

"There is but one solid piece of evidence linking Daniel to Melangell's killing... her pilgrim cross. St Davydd did not protect Melangell in her time of need. We can only hope that he does better for Daniel."

~~

Thames Street was crowded with Danish sailors eager to sample London's more sinful pleasures. Godwin's hoarse boasts about the fine quality of his goods earned him blank looks or jests in a language he did not understand. Jostled and ignored by the rowdy seamen flowing like a foreign river around his cart, he succeeded only in attracting the hostile attention of a tailor, who strode from his shop to demand that he sell his "rags" elsewhere. Godwin did not argue. He'd rigged up a rope harness between the shafts and by throwing his weight against it, he succeeded in getting the cart moving again.