Mumbling to himself, Torold headed off in search of the serving maid. Justin had not claimed outright that he was acting on the deputy's behalf, but neither had he corrected the guard's misunderstanding. He suspected that the free ale had done more to loosen Torold's tongue than any hints of legal authority, but he hadn't gotten much for his money. Not that he was even sure what he'd been hoping to find. His assurances to Eleanor notwithstanding, he could not help feeling as if he were fishing without bait.
The guard had confirmed Justin's suspicions, though, that the outlaws had not ridden out of the city before the goldsmith on that last morning of his life. Who knew how many bandit lairs and encampments were hidden away in those woods? No, they were already lying in wait — and for Gervase Fitz Randolph. Not only had they let Justin go by unscathed, they had also ignored that "swaggering lout with a fine furred mantle and a finer grey stallion," surely a tempting target for men with robbery in mind.
Justin reached for his ale cup, trying to decide what to do next. Even if he could track down the overweening lout or Torold's mayhap-monk, what good would it do? What were they likely to have seen? But there had to be some way of finding the bandits, for how else could he hope to prove who'd hired them? If only he did not have so many suspects! Was it the zealot? The disgruntled brother? The illicit lovers? Or that arrogant, cocksure deputy? Or was it a stranger, elusive and sinister, a spy in the pay of the French king?
"Would you fancy some company?" Without waiting for Justin's response, the woman sat down beside him, staking her claim with good-humored aplomb. It took Justin only a moment or so to decide he'd like to be claimed. It had been too long since he'd lain with a woman, and this one was appealing in an elfin sort of way, fair skin dusted with freckles, small boned and delicate. When Justin signaled for more drinks, she smiled and slid closer on the bench, much closer. "I am Eve."
He doubted it; prostitutes often took on a new name for their precarious profession and "Eve" was a popular choice. Unable to resist the obvious jest, he said with a grin, "I am Adam… and I would love some company, Eve." There was no need to fret over her price, for never had his money pouch been so healthy, well fed with the queen's coins. He was determined that she'd squander neither her money nor her hopes on him. He could not help with what mattered most to Eleanor — he could do nothing to aid her captive son. But he would find a way to solve this Winchester killing for her. And when an ironic, inner voice challenged, "How?" he no longer heard it, for by then Eve was sitting on his lap, and the morrow seemed too far away to worry about.
~~
Justin had elected to stay in the guest hall at Hyde Abbey rather than at an inn, hoping that he might be able to learn something useful about Thomas, the aspiring monk. He'd passed two nights at the abbey so far; the third, he'd spent in Eve's bed. The dawn sky was overcast, but it was not as cold, and there was a jauntiness in Justin's step as he crossed the abbey garth, heading for the stables to check on Copper. After that, his plans for the day were still vague. He'd thought about visiting the city's stables in search of Gervase's stolen stallion, but it seemed a waste of time. Surely the outlaws would not be foolish enough to try to sell the horse in the slain goldsmith's own city?
He was so caught up in his musings that he almost collided with a Benedictine brother, laden with an armful of bulky woolen blankets. When Justin sidestepped in time, the monk gave him a smile of recognition. "Good morrow, Master de Quincy. You're either up very early or you're getting to bed very late… in which case, the less you tell me, the better!"
Justin grinned. "I promise to save all the depraved details for my confessor!" He liked what he'd so far seen of Brother Paul, an urbane, affable man past his prime, but still possessed of a lively curiosity about the world he'd forsaken, with a caustic humor that sometimes startled Justin, coming as it did from a monk's mouth.
Brother Paul chuckled now, then nodded toward his burden. I could use a hand with these blankets. Look upon it as penance for those nocturnal sins of yours!"
Justin obligingly relieved the monk of half his load. "Where are we taking them?"
"Across the garth to the almonry. I'm collecting goods to deliver to the lazar house."
Justin stopped abruptly. "Lazar house?"
"The leper hospital of St Mary Magdalen. Why do you look so surprised? It is our Christian duty to do what we can for Christ's poor, the weak and infirm and afflicted… and few afflictions are more grievous than leprosy."
"Brother Paul… may I fetch the blankets to the lazar house for you?"
The monk was startled, for people rarely volunteered to visit a leper hospital. So pervasive was the fear of the disease that some would not even get downwind of a leper. "If you are truly willing, Master de Quincy, I would be beholden to you, for I have more tasks to do this day than I have time."
"Well, this is one task you'll not have to bother with," Justin said, but his mind was no longer on the monk. Jesu, how could he have forgotten about the leper?
~~
The leper hospital of St Mary Magdalen was about a mile and a half east of Winchester, on the Alresford Road. It was encircled by a wattle-and-daub fence and had a bleak, foreboding look. Reining in his mount, Justin gazed uneasily upon it, girding himself to ride through that gateway. Never before had he set foot in a lazar house; never had he expected to enter one of his own free will. There was no shortage of theories as to what caused leprosy. Some people insisted it was the result of eating rotten meat or drinking bad wine. Others claimed it could be caught by sharing the bed of a woman who'd lain with a leper. There was talk of infected air. And just about everybody believed that the greatest danger of contagion came from the lepers themselves.
"Ah, Lady Eleanor," Justin muttered, "this road is taking some crooked turns…" Nudging Copper forward, he led the abbey's packhorse through the gate and into the hospital precincts.
The first building to meet his eyes was the chapel. Beyond it was the master's hall, and then the refectory, where the lepers ate and slept. There was a barn, a kitchen, a well, and although he could not see one, Justin knew there would be a cemetery, too, for even in death, lepers were shunned. Brother Paul had told him the hospital could accommodate eighteen lepers. That seemed a meagre number to Justin. What of those lepers unable
to gain admittance to a lazar house? He already knew the answer to that, though. They'd beg their bread by the roadside or they'd starve. And sometimes they did both.
By the time he dismounted in front of the chapel, Justin had an audience. He was disquieted by the sight of those spectral figures shuffling toward him, muffled in long leper cloaks, the sort of ghostly shadows that were usually banished by the coming of day. "I am here at the behest of Brother Paul," he said loudly. "I wish to speak to the hospital's master, Father Jerome."
"He is not here." It was not the message, but the voice that swiveled Justin's head toward the speaker, for it was high pitched and youthful, utterly out of place in this abode of death.
"I am Simon." The voice had not lied. This smallest leper smiling up at Justin was a child. As the boy's hood fell back, Justin saw that he was in the early stages of the disease, a reddish rash spreading like a blush across his cheekbones. "Father Jerome went into town. Can I pet your horse?"
Justin nodded wordlessly. The other lepers were moving aside to admit a newcomer to the circle. He was tall and thin, stoop shouldered and ungainly in a black cassock that was too short in the sleeves, and worn and patched at the elbows. But he had a rich man's smile, brighter than newly minted silver coins. "Bless Brother Paul," he exclaimed, "and you, too, friend, for bringing us these supplies. Can you help me get them inside?"