Dragon's Lair (16 page)

Justin shoved his seat back, deliberately drawing the sheriff's attention and got to his feet without haste, making it clear his intentions were peaceful. "I think I can help, Master Gamberell, I can tell you exactly what happened."

The sheriff's expression was skeptical. While Justin was wearing a sword and spoke the Norman-French of the educated, he'd been sharing a drink with Bennet, and the sheriff was a firm believer that a man could be judged by the company he kept. "Who in the blazes are you?"

"I am the man who hit that misbegotten knave you found on the docks."

If possible, the tavern became even more silent. "I have witnesses who say otherwise," the sheriff said curtly.

Justin doubted that, but he said calmly, "They are wrong. Bennet and I are both tall, with dark hair. They must have mistaken him for me."

The sheriff's eyes were blue-ice. "I'd not be in such a hurry to claim credit for this if I were you. Even if you were defending yourself you can still be charged with attempted murder and mayhem. It will be up to a court to decide who is telling the truth."

"I understand that." Justin picked up his wine cup, drank the last of it slowly. He was hoping that the gesture would appear coolly confident, but he also needed the liquid, for his mouth had gone dry. "I ask only that we stop first at the castle so I might tell my lord earl what happened and why I am being detained."

Justin had discovered with William Fitz Alan that the Earl of Chester's name carried considerable weight. It had an even more telling effect upon the sheriff. "Why would the earl care?" he asked, but he sounded wary.

"You know, of course, about the ransom that was stolen in Wales." Reaching into his scrip, Justin drew out the queen's letter and handed it to Gamberell. He thought he probably could have bluffed the sheriff with the earl's name alone, but he wanted to end this before Bennet reemerged from the storeroom.

The sheriff read rapidly and when he glanced up at Justin, his face was guarded, revealing nothing of what he was thinking. Returning the letter, he reached over and emptied Bennet's cup into the floor rushes, "We are done here," he said, turning on his heel as his startled men hastened to follow.

The hush continued even after the sheriff had gone. Justin took his seat, and Berta scurried over to refill his cup. She asked no questions, nor did she meet his eyes, and he realized that to a tavern serving wench, power was dangerous, be it in the hands of the city sheriff or a mysterious stranger.

When Bennet returned to the common room, his expressions was one that Justin had seen before, chin jutting out, wide, mobile mouth set in granite, eyes heavy-lidded and opaque. So he'd looked when facing down his drunken father, bracing for the beating that was sure to come. "Osborn misunderstood what that poor lad said. It was not me who –" He halted in midsentence, looking around in astonishment. "Where the Devil is the sheriff?"

"He left."

"I can see that, Justin. But why? Is he coming back?"

"I do not think so."

Bennet's eyes narrowed on Justin's face. Sitting down again, he waved his hand to indicate the others were to resume their own conversations, and then said in a low voice, "What did you do, Justy? And do not tell me you bribed the bastard. The man is honest!"

There was such genuine indignation in his voice that Justin burst out laughing. "You remember that time we were caught stealing apples in the abbey orchard?"

"I remember. I thought sure we were in for it, but you got the gardener to let us go by making free with the bishop's name."

"Well, let's just say I did some name-dropping tonight, too."

Bennet did not look satisfied, but he said only, "I did not realize that Fitz Alan cast a shadow clear into Cheshire." Raising his cup, he clinked it against Justin's. "Here's to friends and secrets and sheriffs and better days." He drank, watching Justin over the rim of his wine cup. "It is good to know that some things never change. You always were as closemouthed as a clam."

"That is because you talked enough for the both of us. You never let me get a word in edgewise."

After that, the past seven years melted away. Bennet sent out to the cook shop for supper and they swapped memories and insults as they drained several more flagons dry, taking perverse pleasure in recalling a boyhood that had not been easy for either of them. When curfew rang, Bennet closed the tavern and they continued to drink, reminding each other of half-forgotten escapades: playing camp-ball and hunt the fox, sneaking into the abbey fish stews to swim, getting greensick on their first flagon of ale, fighting and forgiving, going to St John's Fair and the hanging of a notorious outlaw, growing up in a world that put little value upon a fishmonger's brat and a foundling born of sin. And for one night, Justin was able to forget about ransoms and captive kings and double-dealing Welsh princes and the dangers that awaited him upon his return to the dragon's lair.

Chapter 10

August 1193

Chester, England

JUSTIN'S FIRST THOUGHT WAS THAT SOMEONE HAD HIT HIM ON the head. He was becoming all too familiar with that experience, for it had happened twice in the past year, first by Gilbert the Fleming and then Durand de Curzon. When he moved, he felt as if his brains were going to spill right out of his skull. Slitting his eyes, he found himself staring up at wooden rafter beams. The air was musty and damp, smelled of straw and sawdust and other odors better left unidentified. Where in holy Hell was he?

He forced himself to sit up, at once regretted it, for his stomach was in no better shape than his head. The last time he'd gotten this drunk, it had been after he'd discovered that Claudine was John's spy. Wisps of memory were beginning to etch themselves upon the night's blank slate. Being at the tavern with Bennet. The floor littered with empty flagons. Staggering through the deserted streets, ducking into an alley to evade the Watch, muffling their laughter with their mantles. A misplaced key, hunting for a spare behind a cistern. More laughter. Even snatches of a bawdy ale-house song.

Lord God have mercy. We sang? Justin shuddered at the memory and sought to extricate himself from his tangled blankets. He'd slept on top of a large wooden crate; no wonder his spine felt as if a horse had walked on his back. At least he knew now where he was, in Piers Fitz Turold's waterfront warehouse. Across the room Bennet lay sprawled upon a straw pallet. He twitched at the sound of Justin's boots hitting the ground but continued to snore softly until Justin wobbled over and shook his shoulder.

"Wha...? Go 'way..."

"I will if you tell me where I can go to piss."

One bloodshot blue eye opened. "Hey, Justin..." The rest of his words were swallowed up in a yawn, and Justin had to shake him again. "I use the privy out on the docks..."

The glare of sun off the river was blinding, and when nearby Holy Trinity Church began to toll, Justin felt as if the bells were echoing inside his head. But by the time he got back to the warehouse, he thought he was likely to live and was furious with himself for wasting so much of this day. The sun was so high in the sky that it must be nigh onto noon.

Bennet was still sleeping, and Justin roused him only by threatening to pour water on his head. Blinking owlishly, he peered out of a cocoon of blankets, sounding puzzled and peevish. "Why are you up? Is the place on fire?"

"I have things I must do today. So do you, Bennet."

"Yes, go back to sleep." Bennet tried to burrow under the blankets again, but Justin persisted and he reluctantly poked his head out. "Do what you must, then. We can meet back at the tavern tonight. I ought to be able to drag myself out of bed by then.."

Some things never changed. Even as\a lad, Bennet had been one for sleeping the day away if he could. Justin retrieved his sword, thankful that it had survived their drunken carousing with nary scratch, and braced himself before opening the door and stepping back out into that painful dazzle of pure white sunlight.

He returned to the castle before resuming his search for the missing sailors, checking upon Copper and checking in with the Earl of Chester in case there had been new developments that he needed to know. He did not run into Thomas de Caldecott and was grateful for that. The last thing his throbbing head could take would be another shouting match. After stopping at an apothecary's shop where he bought wood betony for his headache and saffron potion for his hangover, he headed for the quays.

Chester was a river port, and the larger ships were anchored downstream. Smaller boats were tied up at piers, and the tide was running high enough to lap at the western town walls. Justin's expectations were low after the previous day's failures, but he was to get a pleasant surprise. The second ship's master he spoke to, captain of a sturdy merchant hulk christened the
Gulden Vlies
, told him that he was indeed lacking three members of his crew, hitherto reliable lads who'd deserted without any warning whatsoever.

This entire voyage had been accursed, he complained bitterly. First he lost three good men, and since then it had been one misfortune after another, leaks to be caulked, a mainmast to be repaired, shrouds to be replaced; he'd be lucky if they sailed by Michaelmas, he predicted dourly. Once he saw that Justin was not a candidate for his crew, he had no further interest in prolonging the conversation, but Justin was able to extract the names of the missing men: Geertje, Karl, and Joder.

Failing to get anything else from the ship's master, Justin spent the rest of the day tracking down crew members from the
Gulden Vlies
. This was a process as frustrating as it was laborious. The ship was moored in the estuary, and the few sailors he found ashore either spoke only Flemish or claimed to know nothing about the disappearance of their shipmates. He was concluding that he'd have to find a way to get out to the hulk when a small, wizened man with skin like leather sidled up to him. He had such strong Flemish accent that his French was not easy to understand, but Justin's hopes soared when he grasped that this was the cook of the
Gulden Vlies
. He could not help, but he knew one who could, he said, looking pointedly at the money pouch attached to Justin's belt.

With Baltazar, the cook, scurrying to keep pace, Justin began another search, this time for the ship's helmsman, who was a kinsman of the missing Karl. They finally found him in a cramped, dingy alehouse so poorly lit that it was like going into a tunnel. Rutger looked to be between thirty and forty. He had a deeply lined face framed by lanky fair hair, close-set blue eyes, and the truculence of a man who'd been drinking for most of the day. With Baltazar acting as his translator, Justin attempted to find out what Rutger knew of his cousin's disappearance. But Rutger did not want to talk to Justin about anything at all, especially Karl, and cursed him out in slurred, thick Flemish when he persevered.

Justin at last conceded defeat, at least for now, and retreated out to the street, where he paid Baltazar the agreed-upon sum and arranged to try again when Rutger had sobered up. From the way Baltazar smirked, Justin suspected that Rutger had been drunk for most of their time in port, but he had no other leads. Unless he could persuade Rutger to tell him what he knew, he'd reached a dead end. Refusing to consider what he'd do if Rutger knew nothing useful, he headed back toward Bennet's tavern.

He'd begun feeling better as the day wore on. His head's pounding had subsided to a dull ache, and by mid-afternoon, he'd recovered enough of his appetite to buy a roasted capon leg from a street vendor. It was cold and greasy, but he expected no better fare from a peddler, and he was hungry enough to go back for a second helping, giving the bones to a skinny stray dog. His mood had improved, too, as his body recovered. It was too early to despair. He'd accomplished quite a lot this day. He'd confirmed his suspicions about the sailor-outlaws. They all had names now, had become flesh-and-blood men, no longer figments of his imagination. He would keep after Rutger until the helmsman agreed to talk. If need be, he'd buy the Fleming enough ale to swim in.

The sun had set, briefly turning the brown waters of the Dee to a muddy gold. Dusk was smothering the last of the light, and fewer people were out on the streets. As he neared the tavern, Justin became aware of a prickling at the back of his neck. Twice before that afternoon he'd experienced the same feeling, a sense that he was being watched. He had no evidence of that, had seen no one who'd looked either familiar or suspicious. But his unease lingered, for he'd learned to trust his instincts.

When he reached the tavern, he paused in the doorway to study the street but saw only passersby hurrying home through the deepening twilight, a beggar being berated by a stout man in a green felt cap, a thin, pale whore haggling with a prospective customer over her price. He was still not satisfied, and he vowed not to repeat last night's mistake. It was sobering to realize how vulnerable he would have been to attack as he and Bennet had blithely weaved their way homeward.

The tavern was already crowded, a mix of sailors and regular customers from the neighborhood, and several trestle tables had been set up to accommodate them. Justin had no trouble finding seat, though. Berta at once hurried over to escort him to a corner table, shooing away the men already there. When they protested, she insisted, "Ben said he is to get whatever he wants," and that seemed to end the argument. Ben had been called away, she explained to Justin, but he'd soon be back. "He said you ought to wait for him. And I'm not to charge you for drinks."

There was something to be said, Justin decided, for having a friend who ran a tavern. Berta soon brought over a flagon and a cup and even offered to send someone out to the cook shop for food. Feeling like royalty, Justin declined and watched a rowdy dice game, taking an occasional swallow of Bennet's truly awful red wine, and pondering ways to win Rutger's trust. His fatigue soon caught up with him, and leaning forward, he rested his head on his arms and fell asleep.