Neither did Justin. It would take a brave man to betray Gilbert the Fleming. Or a desperate one, he thought, remembering the boy's ragged mantle. Well, he'd see that Kenrick was generously rewarded. The queen would not begrudge a few shillings. She'd willingly pay that a hundredfold to resolve her suspicions about the French king.
They exited the city through the Durn Gate, tucked away in the northeast corner of the wall, and headed for the mill. They soon saw the gleam of water ahead. It was a clear, cloudless night and the River Itchen looked silvered and serene in the moonlight, but very cold. Not far from the bridge, it had been channeled into a millrace, and as the men drew nearer, they could see the waterwheel. It was motionless, for the sluice gate was down. It seemed strange to Justin not to hear the familiar creaking and splashing. The silence was eerie; all he could hear was the faint gurgling of the millrace. It was dark, too; not a flicker of light shone through the mill's shuttered windows.
"So Kenrick waited, did he?" he gibed softly.
"He'd not have gone off," Luke insisted, "no matter how late I was. He must be inside." Scowling over his shoulder at Justin, he strode toward the door. His knocking went unanswered. When he pushed the latch, though, the door swung inward.
They exchanged glances and, by common consent, loosened their swords in their scabbards before stepping inside. Justin was getting a bad feeling about this, and he could see that Luke was edgy, too. But their lantern light revealed nothing out of order. The floor was dirty: flour and chaff were everywhere and the hulls of spilled grain crunched underfoot as they moved cautiously into the room. The inner wheel took up most of the space, attached to a spindle that disappeared up into a hole in the ceiling. The overhead chamber put Justin in mind of a barn hayloft; a ladder in the corner provided access, and during working hours, Kenrick could peer over the edge to make sure the wheel was functioning properly. But now it was like gazing up into a vast, black cave. Even when Luke raised the lantern high, it could not penetrate the shadows above them.
Luke swore under his breath. "Where did he go? This makes no sense."
Justin shrugged. "Mayhap he is late, too?" He at once saw the problem with that explanation, though. Then why was the door unlatched? One of the ladder rungs seemed muddied. When he got closer, he saw that it was dry, days old. He was turning toward Luke when he felt something wet drip onto his hand. His breath caught. Backing away from the ladder, he looked up as another dribble of blood splattered onto the floor at his feet.
Luke had not yet noticed the blood, but he was alerted by Justin's body language. When he crossed the room, Justin held out his hand so that the lantern's gleam fell upon that glistening red droplet. Luke's eyes flew upward. For unmeasured moments, neither man moved, straining to hear. But no sound came from the loft. No creaking of the floorboards, no giveaway gasps of pent-up breath, nothing. Justin's thoughts were racing as fast as his pulse. Should one of them go get a torch? But that might be leaving the other one alone with a killer.
Luke had reached the same conclusion. Using hand signals, he communicated to Justin that he was going partway up the ladder so he could get a look into the interior of the loft. That did not strike Justin as the best idea he'd ever heard, but he had no better one to offer. Nodding tensely, he brushed back his mantle so he could draw his sword swiftly if need be. Luke simply unfastened his mantle, letting it drop to the floor. Justin was impressed by his coolness, until he noticed Luke's white-knuckled grip on the lantern. Luke paused and then, one slow rung at a time, began to climb toward the loft.
Luke paused again at the halfway point and held the lantern up as high as he could reach. Glancing down at Justin, he mouthed the word "Nothing." It was then that a man erupted from the darkness above, lunged forward to grab the ladder, and shoved. Luke yelled as the ladder started to tip and Justin managed to catch hold of a lower rung. For several desperate seconds, he struggled to keep the ladder upright. But it was swaying like a tree in a high wind, and before Luke could jump free, it went over backward. Justin dived out of the way in the nick of time. There was a thud, a gasp from Luke, and then darkness as the lantern light died.
The silence was broken almost at once by Luke. He did not sound as if his injuries were serious, not by the way he was cursing. Groping about blindly, Justin was trying to untangle the deputy from the ladder when new noises came from the loft. "Christ," Luke cried hoarsely, "he's going out the window! Go after him!" But Justin had also recognized the sound — shutters being flung open — and he was already lurching to his feet. Memory serving him better than eyesight, he plunged toward the door.
It was a relief to get outside, where he had stars for candles. He halted long enough to draw his sword, for he knew his enemy. It was Gilbert the Fleming whom they'd cornered in the loft; when he'd pushed the ladder, he'd been exposed to the lantern's flaring light. It was a brief glimpse, but for Justin, enough. The face of evil had never looked so familiar.
Running around the side of the mill, Justin was half expecting to find the Fleming crumpled on the ground under the window, for the snow was days old and hard packed. But when he rounded the corner, there was no broken body, no blood, only churned-up snow and footprints leading toward a copse of trees.
Justin slowed as he neared the trees, for never had he hunted such a dangerous quarry, capable of turning at bay the way a wild boar would. But nothing mattered more to him at that moment than catching this man. He moved into the shelter of a massive oak, his ears echoing with an odd, muffled drumbeat, the accelerated pounding of his own heart. Was the Fleming lying in wait behind one of these trees? Or fleeing in panic into the deeper snowdrifts? Did he ever feel panic — like other men?
The outlaw's footprints were still visible, scuffed in the moonlight, and Justin followed them. He thought he heard Luke's voice behind him, but he dared not answer, for he did not know how close the Fleming was. He stopped to listen again, and then he was running, caution forgotten.
But he was too late. Coming to a halt, he stood watching as a horseman broke free of the trees ahead. Justin was still standing there when Luke finally came panting into view.
"He got away?"
"He had a horse tethered amongst the trees."
Luke was quiet for a moment, then said savagely, "God rot him!"
Justin heartily concurred. They walked back in silence. Luke was limping, but he shrugged off Justin's query with a brusque "No bones broken."
They were almost upon the mill when they saw a light bobbing off to their left. A man was standing on the other side of the millrace, holding a lantern aloft. "What is going on?" he challenged, managing to sound both truculent and ill at ease.
"You live hereabouts?"
He nodded, bridling at Luke's peremptory tone, and gestured vaguely over his shoulder. When Luke demanded that he yield his lantern, he started to protest — until the deputy identified himself, tersely but profanely.
Trailing after them as they approached the mill, he kept asking questions neither one answered. Justin crossed the threshold with a leaden step. Luke blocked the doorway, instructing the anxious neighbor to wait outside. Glancing then at Justin, he said, "Let's get this over with."
After Justin righted the ladder, Luke crossed the room, still limping, and began to climb. Justin followed, and scrambled up into the loft to find Luke standing beside a man's body. Blood was spattered on both millstones, soaking into the floor. Gilbert's cousin lay upon his back, eyes open, mouth contorted. As Justin moved closer, he saw that Kenrick had been stabbed in the chest, a knife thrust up under his ribs — like Gervase Fitz Randolph. But when Luke shifted the lantern, they saw that his throat had also been cut.