Justin assumed that was Gervase's widow. "I'd like to pay my respects to her," he said, and had confirmation of her identity when Edwin nodded.
"Indeed," he said, "but she is not at home now and will not be back till later. Whilst you are waiting, why not let me take you to the shop? Master Gervase's son will be there."
Justin gladly accepted the offer. "What about my horse? Is there room in the stable for him?"
"I can put him in Quicksilver's stall. You remember Master Gervase's stallion, the one the bandits stole?"
Justin did. "The pale roan, right? A handsome animal."
"A rare prize." Edwin sighed. "I miss him sorely, for Master Gervase would let me exercise him on those days when he had not the time. That horse could outrace the wind, God's Truth, a sight to behold, with that silver tail streaming out like a battle banner and his hooves barely skimming the ground!"
Justin warmed to the groom's enthusiasm; he had the same pride in Copper. But when Edwin bragged that Gervase had paid ten marks for the stallion, he whistled, for that was still more evidence of Gervase's lavish living. Was it significant that the goldsmith had been a spendthrift? Could he have been borrowing from moneylenders? Making a mental note to try to find out more about the slain man's finances, Justin followed Edwin into the stable.
A short time later they were walking briskly up Calpe Street. Outgoing and exuberant, the young groom was more than willing to enlighten Justin about Gervase Fitz Randolph and his family. By the time they reached the High Street, Justin had learned that Gervase had taken his younger brother, Guy, into the business, that they employed a journeyman, Miles, who'd lacked the funds to set himself up as a craftsman once his apprenticeship was done, and that Gervase's son, Thomas, was presently laboring as an apprentice, although not by choice. "Thomas never had an interest in goldsmithing," Edwin explained, "but it was Master Gervase's wish that he learn the craft."
"Is the brother at the shop with Thomas?"
Edwin shook his head. "Master Guy is back at the house, abed. He has been poorly all week, suffering from bad headaches. If you ask me, I think he has sickened on his grieving."
"The brothers were close, then?"
"No…" Edwin's brow furrowed. "If truth be told, they squabbled like tomcats. But I do believe Master Guy is taking the death hardest of all."
"Mayhap he feels guilty," Justin said, as noncommittally as he could, but the words left a sour aftertaste in his mouth. He'd not fully realized that to find a killer, he'd have to wade through other people's pain.
Deciding that he needed to put the murder aside, if only for a brief while, he cast about for a more innocuous topic. Edwin and Cuthbert, Saxon names both. Many of Saxon birth took fashionable Norman-French names, but the reverse was rarely true. And as serviceable as Edwin's French was, it was not his native tongue, not as it was for Justin.
Growing up in the Marches, Justin had learned to speak both languages, even a little Welsh. He'd not often thought about the bilingual barriers separating Saxons and Normans, accepting them as a burdensome fact of life. French was the language of the royal court, the language of advancement and ambition and culture, English the tongue of the conquered. And yet it still endured, more than a hundred years after England had come under the mastery of the Norman duke, William the Bastard. Saxons stubbornly clung to their own speech, and the river ran both ways. Justin doubted that King Richard spoke any English. But he was sure that Gervase had been fluent in the Saxon tongue; commerce and convenience demanded as much.
"Your French is quite good," he told Edwin, "much better than my English!"
Edwin looked so pleased that Justin guessed few compliments ever came his way. "I've been working for Master Gervase for nigh on five years," he said, "since I was about fourteen. Master Thomas was the same age, and he agreed to help me with my French. Thomas likes to instruct others," he added, wryly enough to make Justin suddenly curious about the goldsmith's son.
"What sort of a master was Gervase, Edwin?"
"I had no complaints. He could be hard, but always fair. He was a gifted goldsmith, and he knew it — no false pride there. Ambitious, with a liking for his comforts, and generous to a fault. Not just for his own needs or wants, either. He denied Mistress Ella and Mistress Jonet nothing; they dressed like ladies of quality. He never passed a beggar without tossing a coin and gave alms every Sunday at church. But he was not one for listening. So sure that his way was best. Unable to compromise. I daresay you have known men like that?"
"Yes," Justin said tersely, trying not to think of his father. "Who is Jonet?"
"His daughter. They had only the two, Thomas and Jonet. Mistress Ella lost several, one in the cradle and two stillborn, so they doted on those they had left. Master Gervase had high hopes for them both. Thomas was to follow in his footsteps and Jonet was to wed a baron. He dared to dream did Master Gervase. It does not seem right that two misbegotten churls could take it all away like that."
"No," Justin agreed, "it does not." They were drawing near a crippled, legless beggar, wheeling himself along on a small wooden platform. Reaching into his pouch, Justin dropped several coins into the man's alms cup, getting a startled "God bless you" for his generosity. "Gervase was seeking a baron for his daughter? Surely that was not very likely? The marriage portion have to be huge to tempt a lord into marrying out of his class."
"You have not yet seen Mistress Jonet."
Justin's smile was faintly skeptical. "Is she as fair as that?"
"Fairer than one of God s own angels," Edwin said, but without any enthusiasm, and Justin gave him a curious glance. Was it that Edwin liked Mistress Jonet not at all — or too much?
"There it is," Edwin said, pointing up Alwarne Street. As they got closer, Justin recognized the crude unicorn sketched into the wood of an overhanging sign, the universal emblem of goldsmiths. "I hope Thomas is back from dinner."
"He takes two hours for dinner?" Thomas was beginning to sound like some of the spoiled young lordlings Justin had known in Lord Fitz Alan's service, wellborn youths more interested in dicing and whoring than in learning the duties of a squire. "So Thomas likes to visit the alehouses and bawdy houses?"
"Thomas?" Edwin chortled. "That will be the day!"
Justin wanted to ask more questions about the mysterious Master Thomas, but thought better of it. He'd been fortunate to find such a source in Edwin, did not want to risk poisoning the well by pushing too hard. Nor was he completely comfortable with this oblique interrogation. Good intentioned or not, he felt as if here were somehow taking advantage of Edwin's trust. "How is it that you know so much about the family secrets?" he joked instead. "Are you a soothsayer in your spare time?"
Edwin grinned. "Nay, I merely befriended the cook. Not only save me extra wafers and bone-marrow tarts, she serves up ample helpings of family gossip, too. God love them, for cooks always know where the bodies are buried!"
Justin's face shadowed, for he could not help thinking of another gossip-prone cook, this one in a Shrewsbury rectory, watching as a priest seduced an innocent. Pushing the memory away, he groped for something to say. But there was no need to dissemble. They'd reached the goldsmith's shop.
Horizontal shutters that opened upward and downward protected shops at night. During the day, the top half of the shutter was propped up, acting as a canopy to shelter customers, while the lower shutter extended out toward the street, serving as a display counter. Inside was a small room, lit with cresset lamps. Justin could distinguish the outlines of a workbench, an anvil, and a table covered with clay; he had watched other goldsmiths at work, knew the clay was used to sketch out designs. But there was no sign of life.