"Well… I'll have to get the queen's consent first. But the idea does have merit. I could use some help, for I'm not that familiar with London."
"You'll not get as much help as you ought, for the sheriffs are likely to have few men to spare in a hunt for a Winchester killer. Without a royal command to nudge them along, they'll give priority to their own slayings, and I cannot fault them for it; I'd do the same. So if the man is to be found, you'll have to do it. But if you're lucky enough to locate him, do not try to capture him on your own. Let the sheriff send men to arrest him. Gilbert the
Fleming is a worthless devil's whelp, but he is also extremely dangerous, as coldhearted a knave as I've ever come across."
"Have a care, Luke," Justin said, grinning, "for you're beginning to sound as if you're worried about me!"
Luke snorted. "When cows fly!" But after a moment, he said, with unwonted gravity, "Just remember why he is called Gilbert the Fleming. Even a queen's letter is no shield against so sharp a blade."
~~
Luke had the letter waiting for Justin when he stopped by the castle early the next morning. Justin tucked it away with the queen's letter, hoping that Eleanor would be receptive to its use. He'd decided that there was a lot to be said for having a sheriff as ally.
He then made a quick side trip to the Fitz Randolph stable, wanting to tell Edwin that he was departing for London. After extracting another promise from Edwin to be circumspect about his suspicions, he rode away with the groom's "Good hunting!" echoing in his ears.
He'd planned to leave the city straightaway, but as the priory of St Swithun came into sight, he reined in, and on impulse, turned into the cemetery. Row after row of weathered, flat tombstones met his eye, like an army lining up in battle array, making ready to fight a war already lost. He'd never passed a cemetery without thinking of his mother, wondering where she was buried, if there was anyone to tend her grave, if there had been anyone to mourn her.
Hitching Copper, he got directions from one of the monks. Making his way among the tombstones, he had almost reached the Fitz Randolph plot when he saw the woman kneeling by the grave. Her back was to him, but he recognized Ella Fitz Randolph at once, looking frail and forlorn in her drab widow's garb.
Justin stopped abruptly, unwilling to intrude. Even at a distance, he could hear the sounds of her sobbing, stirring a sharp pang of pity. And yet he found an odd sort of comfort in her tears, too. At least there was one to weep for the slain goldsmith.
Retrieving Copper, he was heading for the East Gate when he remembered that he'd forgotten to tell Luke that he planned to stay at the Holy Trinity priory once he got to London. It was vexing, but there was no help for it; he'd have to go back. Luke had promised to let him know if he found out anything about Gilbert's partner, and he was beginning to put a great deal of stock in Luke's word.
Returning to the castle, he was told that Luke had gone off to get breakfast across the street. The tavern was the same one where they'd eaten their sausage the day before. Justin pushed the door open, peering inside. He soon saw Luke, seated with another man at a corner table. But then he froze in disbelief. Very slowly he backed out, taking care not to be noticed. Swinging up into the saddle, he urged his stallion into a brisk canter, and he was soon on the road to London. But his thoughts were still in the tavern with Luke and his companion — Durand, John's spy.
8
WESTMINSTER
February 1193
Justin reached London in late afternoon four days later, after a journey plagued by mishaps — a broken rein, a lost horseshoe — and unease. He'd been more shaken by the sight of Luke and Durand together than he cared to admit. Their confrontation with the Fleming had dispelled any last doubts about the deputy's good faith. He was still sure that Luke was not involved in the goldsmith's death. But was he in the pay of the queen's son? John would see an under-sheriff as a useful ally. Was Luke de Marston John's man?
Justin did not want to believe that, and it was not at all difficult to find innocent explanations for Luke's breakfast colloquy with Durand. But each time he'd convinced himself that his suspicions were groundless, he'd hear again the unsettling echoes of
Eleanor's warning: Be wary, watch whom you trust.
He went straight to the Tower, only to be told that Eleanor was at Westminster for the day. Reclaiming Copper from the stable, he wearily headed west again. There was less than an hour of daylight remaining by the time he rode into the New Palace Yard. After hitching his stallion, he started for the great hall. But the bailey was thronged with people, and he was soon caught up in the crowd, being swept along in spite of himself. "What is happening?" he asked the nearest onlooker. "Where is everyone going?"
"To see the prisoners submit to the ordeal. The sheriff's men will be bringing them out any moment. You'd best hurry if you want to get close enough to watch."
Justin had seen a trial by ordeal once before, years ago in Shrewsbury. A man accused of arson had been taken to the abbey's mill pond, bound hand and foot, and thrown into the water to see if he sank, proof of innocence, or floated, proof of guilt. The man had gone under and was therefore adjudged innocent, although he was half-drowned by the time he'd been pulled out. But the nearest body of water here at Westminster was the river.
"What sort of ordeal?"
"See for yourself." The other man pointed up ahead, where a large iron cauldron had been brought to a boil over an open fire. Justin was not sure that was something he wanted to watch, but the crowd's momentum carried him forward. People were jockeying for position near the cauldron. Justin's neighbor explained that the men had been charged with the murder of an elderly widow, but others claimed the crime was robbery and one stubborn soul kept insisting it was heresy. Midst all this misinformation, Justin did learn that Londoners could not be forced to undergo the ordeal, having been granted a royal exemption. So either the prisoners were not citizens of London or they'd chosen to submit to the ordeal, preferring that judgment be rendered by Almighty God and not a jury of their peers. Staring at that churning cauldron, Justin winced and made a quick sign of the cross.
The sheriff's serjeants were escorting the prisoners out now and the crowd pressed forward, eager to see. Both men looked young and very frightened. One was shivering noticeably as holy water was sprinkled on his bared forearm and when he was urged to drink he needed help to hold the holy water cup steady. A priest had stepped forward and, signaling for quiet, began to intone a prayer.
"If these men be innocent, do Thou, O God, save them as Thou did save Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego from the fiery furnace. But if they be guilty and dare plunge their hands into the boiling water because the Devil has hardened their hearts, let
thy Holy Justice be done. Amen."
The noise had been considerable, but suddenly it was utterly still. The crowd seemed to be holding its collective breath as the priest dropped a smooth white stone into the depths of the cauldron and then ordered the first prisoner to come forward. By now he was shaking so badly that he seemed on the verge of collapse. Shutting his eyes tightly, he leaned over the cauldron, but recoiled as soon as he breathed in the cloud of steam rising from the water. Twice he tried to grope for the stone, but each time his courage failed and he pulled back. After the third failed attempt, he began to sob and the serjeants stepped in, dragging him away from the cauldron.