"He's been in a foul mood ever since he came back from St Paul's. I've not been able to coax two civil words out of him, so I assume he had no luck in prying answers from the Aston lad."
"Then why," the serjeant asked, "did he send for me?"
Nell swung around to give Justin a probing look, then hurried after Jonas. She reached the table just as he took a seat and sat down herself, her chin raised, shoulders squared, her body's very posture daring either man to object to her presence.
Neither one did. Jonas reached for her flagon, signaling to Ellis for two more cups. "Well?" he said. "I doubt that you summoned me for the pleasure of my company, as charming as it is. What did you find out?"
Justin took a deep swallow of ale, then told them, succinctly and without commentary of his own, letting the facts speak for themselves. Nell was the first to break the silence that followed his revelation. "The boy's loyalty to his brother is admirable. But how sad that no one in that family knows how to share what is in their hearts. If only he'd asked Geoffrey outright, how much misery he might have spared himself."
"You are assuming that Geoffrey is innocent," Jonas pointed out, and Nell set her drink down with a thud.
"You think he is not?"
Jonas gave a noncommittal shrug. "He is what he always was - a suspect. I will question him again, but unless we can dig up new evidence, nothing will come of it. We still cannot prove he met with Melangell in the churchyard that evening, and his motive remains a weak one. So the Welsh girl knew about the betrothal... so what? Even if she'd threatened to go to Adela, what of it? It would have been awkward, even unpleasant, but not likely to put the marriage plans at risk. Why would Master Serlo care that Geoffrey had been bedding a peddler's lass? A wink and a nudge for the uncle, a promise to the bride-to-be that the liaison was over, mayhap a few coins for the peddler, and that would be that."
It was a jaded view, but one they could not argue with. London was full of Geoffreys and Melangells and Adelas. For young men on the prowl for clandestine pleasures, there were always girls willing to accommodate them, and long-suffering wives to turn a blind eye to such straying, provided it was not too blatant.
"Then Daniel's admission has changed nothing," Nell concluded. "It may have eased his mind, but he is still the one in the shadow of the gallows. Little wonder you're so disheartened, Justin. What now?"
Justin was staring into the depths of his drink. At first he didn't seem to have heard her question, but then he said, very low, "I keep coming back to Melangell's own words. 'He'll marry me now,' she said. Why now? What made her think she had the upper hand over Adela?"
"That is easy enough to answer." Nell's mouth turned down. "She believed it because she wanted to believe it, because it was too painful to admit the truth. Girls like Melangell always learn the hard way."
"That makes sense," Jonas allowed. "But I think you have something else in mind, Justin. Am I right?"
Justin nodded. "Suppose she was pregnant?"
"Well, that would be another kettle of fish," Jonas said cautiously. "If the girl was carrying Geoffrey's child, that might well put the cat amongst the pigeons. At best, Geoffrey would have to satisfy the girl and her father, reassure Master Serlo and his own father, placate his betrothed, and make some provisions for the babe. At worst, his hopes of marrying Adela might have gone up in a puff of blue smoke. It would depend upon how determined Melangell was to stir up a scandal, how prideful or unforgiving his betrothed was. So a pregnancy would indeed complicate life for Geoffrey far more than a few moonlight trysts. Passing strange, for we expect – even encourage – young men to plough any unfenced field, then act surprised when there's a crop to be tended. What you're really asking, though, is whether I think Melangell's pregnancy would give Geoffrey a convincing motive for murder. I'd say so."
Nell had been uncharacteristically silent. When they glanced toward her now, she shook her head. "I do not think so," she said, refusing to meet their eyes. She seemed to hear the lack of conviction in her voice, for she bit her lip and then burst out with the truth. "It is just that… that I do not want it to be Geoffrey!'
Justin looked at her bleakly. "You think I do?"
Jonas smiled thinly. "Let's not get ahead of ourselves here. At this point, all we've got is a handful of cobwebs and smoke. What put this idea in your head, Justin? Getting a shrug in reply, he studied the younger man with an eye that seemed much too knowing for Justin's comfort. "Well, no matter. We might as well pursue it, for what else have we got? This hunch of yours… do you have any evidence to back it up?"
"No," Justin said. "Not yet."
~~
Justin waited until after dark, for by then the peddler would be back from his rounds. Cati was sitting cross-legged on a stack of firewood in the communal kitchen, black head bent over a flashing knife. She looked up, startled, at the sound of her name, acknowledging Justin with a hesitant smile.
"Where's your dog?" she asked, her dark eyes shining when Justin stepped aside to reveal Shadow's presence. The young dog proved to be an admirable ally, frisking forward to greet the girl like a long-lost friend, and for the first time, Justin heard Cati laugh. Fending off Shadow's canine kisses, she giggled and politely made room for Justin on the wood pile. "I am carving a slingshot," she explained, holding up a forked stick for Justin's inspection. "My old one broke."
Justin admired her handiwork and didn't doubt her when she boasted that she'd once knocked an apple off a tree branch with la well-aimed stone. Watching as she played tug-of-war with Shadow over a stick of firewood, he asked after her father and was startled when she said he was already asleep above-stairs. I "So early? Is he ailing, Cati?"
She shook her head, so vigorously that long hair whipped across her face.
"No... he is just bone-weary. Ever since our mule died, Papa has been pulling the cart himself."
"That cannot be easy for him."
"Papa is strong," she insisted. But he saw the doubt in those wide brown eyes. "I try to help," she said softly. "I got some goose grease salve from Clara and I rubbed it into the blisters on his hands."
"I'm sure that did help, lass," Justin said, feeling as if he was offering a meagre crust of bread to a starving child. He hated to make use of Cati this way, hated what he might have to do to clear Daniel, hated where his suspicions were leading him, one reluctant step at a time. "I daresay all your father needs is a good night's sleep," he said, as heartily as his queasy conscience would allow. "He is not one to sicken easily. Not like Melangell."
"Why do you say that?" she asked, sounding surprised but not suspicious.
"I'd heard that she was ailing in the weeks ere she died, that her stomach was unsettled a lot," he said nonchalantly, and then held his breath, waiting for her response.
"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 o
ccurred 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
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