"I think it is time," she said, "for you to withdraw to the nunnery at Godstow."
Claudine nodded reluctantly. This was the plan, with cover stories fabricated for the court and her family back in Aquitaine. She should have gone a fortnight ago, but she'd found excuses to delay, dreading the loneliness and seclusion and boredom of the coming months, "I suppose so," she admitted, sounding so forlorn that Eleanor experienced an involuntary pang of empathy; she knew better than most the onus of confinement. It was true that this confinement was by choice and temporary, but Eleanor could not help identifying with Claudine's aversion to the religious life. There had been times in her past when she'd feared being shut up in some remote, obscure convent for the rest of her days, forgotten by all but her gaolers and God.
"I will speak with Sir Nicholas this eve," she said briskly, determined not to soften toward this foolhardy, unhappy girl. "The arrangements have all been made. It remains only for you to settle in at Godstow."
"Sir Nicholas de Mydden?" Claudine echoed in dismay. "But Justin was to escort me to the nunnery."
"Justin cannot — "
"Madame, he promised me!" Claudine was so flustered that she did not even realize she'd interrupted the queen. Lowering her voice hastily lest they attract attention, she said coaxingly, "Surely you understand why I would prefer Justin's company, Your Grace. I know I can trust him. And… and he wants to accompany me. This child is his, after all."
Eleanor looked into Claudine's flushed, distraught face, striving for patience. "Well, this is one promise Justin cannot keep. He is away from the court, and I know not when he will return. As for Nicholas, he is no gossipmonger." Unable to resist adding, "Those in my service know the value I place upon loyalty."
Claudine's lashes fluttered down again, veiling her eyes. After a moment, she said meekly, "Forgive my boldness, madame. It was hot my intent to argue with you. If you have confidence in Sir Nicholas's discretion, then so do I. But could I not wait till week's end? Mayhap Justin will be back by then."
She took Eleanor's shrug for assent and fell in step beside the queen as they cut across the grassy mead. "I did not even know Justin was gone, for he did not bid me farewell."
She sounded both plaintive and aggrieved, and Eleanor found herself thinking that Justin might be fortunate that he was not considered a suitable husband for this pampered young kinswoman of hers. It would be no easy task, keeping Claudine de Loudun content.
"Madame… it is not my intent to pry," Claudine said, with such pious prevarication that Eleanor rolled her eyes skyward. "Whatever Justin's mission for you may be, it is not for me to question it. I would ask this, though. Can you at least tell me if he is in any danger?"
Eleanor paused, considering. Her first impulse was to give the girl the reassurance she sought. But the truth was that whenever her son John was involved, there was bound to be danger.
~*~
It was a spare turnout for a hanging. Usually the citizens of Winchester thronged to the gallows out on Andover Road, eager to watch as a felon paid the ultimate price for his earthly sins. Luke de Marston, the under-sheriff of Hampshire, could remember hangings that rivaled the St Giles Fair, with venders hawking meat pies and children getting underfoot and cutpurses on the prowl for unwary victims. But the doomed soul being dragged from the cart was too small a fish to attract a large crowd, a criminal by happenstance rather than choice.
The few men and women who'd bothered to show up were further disappointed by the demeanor of the culprit. They expected bravado and defiance from their villains, or at the very least, stoical self-control. But this prisoner was obviously terrified, whimpering and trembling so violently that he had to be assisted up the gallows steps. People were beginning to turn away in disgust even before the rope was tightened around his neck.
Luke's deputy shared their dissatisfaction, for he believed that a condemned man owed his audience a better show than this, "Pitiful," he said, shaking his head in disapproval. "Remember how the Fleming died, cursing God with his last breath?"
Luke remembered. Gilbert the Fleming had been one of Winchester's most notorious outlaws, as brutal as he was elusive, evading capture again and again until he'd been brought down by Luke and the queen's man, Justin de Quincy. His hanging had been a holiday.
"Luke."
The voice was familiar, but it should have been seventy-two miles away in London. Spinning around to face de Quincy, Luke scowled, for the younger man's sudden materialization was unsettling, coming as it did just as he'd been thinking of him. "Sometimes, de Quincy, I think you do it on purpose."
Justin was not put off by Luke's brusque welcome. While they'd started out as adversaries, they'd soon become allies, united in their common desire to ensnare Gilbert the Fleming. "Do what?"
"Appear like this in a puff of blue smoke and scare the daylights out of me. If I did not know better, I'd suspect you were a warlock instead of a harbinger of evil tidings."
Justin couldn't argue with that; he and Luke shared a past marked by murder, mayhem, and treason. "I'm here," he said, "to invite you to join a hunt."
Luke regarded him warily. "And just what are we hunting this time?"
"Our usual quarry," Justin admitted, "the one we track by following the scent of brimstone."
~*~
The port of Southampton lay just twelve miles to the south of Winchester, and it was still daylight when Luke and Justin reined in at the Bargate, a square stone tower that guarded the northern entrance into the city.
"Do you not think it is time," Luke declared abruptly, "that you were more forthcoming? Suppose you do find John here. What then? We cannot very well arrest him by ourselves, and I do not fancy arresting him at all, not when the man might well be king one day. This seems a long way to come merely to verify a rumor, de Quincy. I'd wager you have something else in mind, and naturally you are loath to share it with me. I've known Anchorite hermits that were more talkative than you. You need not confide every last detail of your battle plan, but I want more than you've so far given me,"
Justin knew Luke would not be mollified with less than the truth, or at least a goodly portion of it. "I've not misled you," he insisted. "The queen wants me to confirm that John is in Southampton, making ready to sail for France. But you are right, and there is more to it than that. The queen has a spy in John's service. This may be the last chance he has to convey any messages to the queen, and since I am the only one who knows of his mission, I am also the only one who can seek him out ere they sail."
Luke was not about to ask for a name. He knew Justin would not tell him. Nor did he truly want to know; he'd learned long ago that Scriptures was right and "He that increaseth knowledge increaseth sorrow," at least when the knowledge was as dangerous as the identity of the queen's spy in her son's household. Instead, he concentrated upon the logistics of Justin's mission, suggesting that they search the docks first, find out which ships were preparing for the Channel crossing. That made sense to Justin and they split up soon after they'd passed through the Bargate, Luke heading for the castle quay and Justin continuing down English Street.
Turning onto the Fleshambles, where the city butchers had their shops, Justin was dismayed to see so many people still out and about. He reminded himself, though, that John was not a man to pass unnoticed. The streets were narrow, crowded with passersby, and Justin had to keep ducking his head to avoid sagging ale-poles and the overhang of buildings extending out into the roadway. When he saw a smithy close by the fishmongers' market, he hastily dismounted and soon struck a bargain with the blacksmith: a few coins in exchange for a stall for his stallion in the farrier's stable.