"You do, my lord."
Reaching down, Will stroked his dog's silky head, and Justin thought he sighed. "It is no secret that John covets his brother's crown. And if he is as deeply ensnared in the French king's web as we fear, it is likely that he knows of Richard's capture, for that is news Philip would be sure to share. I think he does know and is trying to find out if the queen knows, too."
"Why would that matter so to him?"
"As long as Richard's whereabouts remain a mystery, John can sow rumors with impunity and find ready believers. So far he has been relying upon his agents and spies to spread these stories of Richard's death. Soon he must start making these claims himself. But it would be very awkward — to say the least — if Queen Eleanor could then offer proof that Richard is still alive. I am sure that is why he is so curious about that letter you delivered and your subsequent missions for the queen."
"Thank you, my lord, for being so forthright."
"You had a right to know," Will said simply. Snapping his fingers at the greyhound, he turned to go. "I am afraid you are caught in the middle of two separate hunts, lad, one for a killer and the other for a throne."
Justin stayed by the river wall, watching as the glow from Will's lantern grew fainter and fainter. There were too many players in this game — the Fleming, the queen's son, the queen herself, possibly even the King of France — and the rules kept changing. It was a sobering thought, that a mistake of his might prolong the English Lionheart's captivity.
9
LONDON
February 1193
Early the next morning, Justin set out to find Roger Fitz Alan. He tried the Tower first, but the sheriff had already departed for the Guildhall. Mounting Copper again, he headed for Aldermanbury Street. Upon his arrival at the Guildhall, though, he learned that the sheriff had been there and gone. Feeling as if he were chasing down a will-o'-the-wisp, he rode west toward the city gaol.
~~
The Thames was the lifeblood of London, but it was not the city's only river. The Fleet began as a stream on Hampstead's hill, and had various names as it wound its way south. By the time it flowed into the Thames, it had widened and deepened enough to be navigated by barges and fishing boats, and was known as the River Fleet. It was here that the gaol of London was located, a massive, moated building of slate-colored stone set within a barren prison bailey, as desolate and depressing a sight as Justin had ever seen.
His visit proved to be as futile as it was unsettling. Once again he'd missed the sheriff, and this time the trail had gone cold. Roger Fitz Alan had said nothing about where he was going next. Muttering a few choice swear words to himself, Justin unhitched Copper and tried to decide what to do.
It was difficult to concentrate, though, for his senses were still being assailed by the sounds and stenches of prison life. The moat was filled with stagnant water from the river, fetid and murky. Justin would rather not know what lay hidden in its disgusting depths. The prison itself had an offensive odor, too, a rancid mingling of urine, unwashed bodies, sweat, and fear. Even out in the bailey, the air seemed tainted.
The noise had not abated, either, for the gaol had an iron grate, giving prisoners a narrow window to the world. Manacled hands thrust through the rusted apertures, and voices echoed after Justin, entreating alms, for Christ's pity. He'd already dropped a handful of small coins into outstretched palms, for Luke had told him something startling about a prisoner's lot.
According to the deputy, King Henry had provided his sheriffs with funds to feed the imprisoned. But the practice had become sporadic under King Richard, and more and more, prisoners were left to fend for themselves. Those who could not afford to pay for meals, bedding, firewood, candles, or clothing did without — unless they could prevail upon the charity of passersby like Justin.
Now, as Justin watched, a man was dragged out into the bailey and wrestled into the stocks. Two other prisoners were already being punished this way. Yet they greeted the newcomer with no sympathy, only mockery and taunts. Even after his wrists and ankles had been immobilized within the wooden frame, the man continued to struggle, to the amusement of his guards and fellow prisoners. His defiance would not last long, for his tunic was threadbare and ragged and the day blustery and raw, February at its worst. Justin had seen enough. Swinging up into the saddle, he rode out of the bailey, not looking back.
He had decided to return to the Tower, for the sheriff was sure to turn up there sooner or later. But it was past the dinner hour. He'd often seen vendors selling mutton or eel pies in the city streets. Thinking that he'd be most likely to find one midst the bustle of the wharves, he rode south, intending to follow the Fleet down to the Thames waterfront.
The sun had begun to tease the winter-weary Londoners, offering them tantalizingly brief glimpses of brightness through breaks in the cloud cover. Justin had passed the Fleet Bridge when a child's stricken wail interrupted his musings about the whereabouts of Gilbert the Fleming. A small boy, no more than five, was gesturing in panic toward the river, entreating his mother to "Save him, Mama!"
Justin reined in, scanning the river in vain for signs of a drowning victim. "What is amiss?" he asked the closest spectator, a man who had the look of a sailor, for his skin was as weathered and browned as saddle leather. "Did someone fall in the river?"
The sailor shook his head. "Two louts threw a dog off the bridge, and the little lad saw." He sounded regretful, although it was not clear whether his sympathy was for the child or the dog. When life was so hard for people, not many worried about cruelty to animals. There were those with a fondness for dogs, of course, and the sailor might be one. He confirmed that a moment later by saying indignantly, "The pup never had a chance, for they weighed him down with a sackful of rocks." Justin felt equally indignant. He still remembered how desperately he'd wanted a dog during those lonely childhood years. On the bridge, the young men were laughing and joking, while below them, a little boy was sobbing as if his heart would break. Coming as it did so soon after his disquieting visit to the gaol, the dog's drowning stirred a sharp-edged anger in Justin. Had the smirking youths up on the bridge come down, he'd have been sorely tempted to exact a rough justice of his own. But they were safely out of reach. He was nudging his stallion on when the child cried shrilly, "Look, Mama! There he is!"
A dark head had broken the surface of the water. Struggling desperately against the weight dragging him down, the dog lunged for the light, frantically gulping air before he went under again. It was a gallant effort, and a doomed one. Battling two foes — the river current and that sackful of stones — the dog would soon be too fatigued to fight on. Those watching knew that the animal was going to drown.
Only the small child and the young dog would not surrender hope. Resisting his mother's attempts to pull him away, the boy wept and pleaded, and the adults shifted awkwardly under his imploring gaze. Very few people knew how to swim, and only a madman would jump into an icy river to save a dog, no matter how good a swimmer he was. There were murmurings in the crowd, and even some anger. Why must the wretched beast prolong his agony — and their discomfort?
Casting common sense to the winds, Justin dismounted and handed his reins to the most trustworthy of the bystanders, an elderly Cluniac monk. "I'd be obliged if you'd watch my horse, Brother."
Striding out onto the wharf, he looked in vain for a small boat tied up to one of the pilings; he supposed that would have been too much to hope for. But he did find a rusty grappling hook. Feeling like a fool, he knelt at the end of the pier and urged the terrified animal to swim toward him. Only the dog's muzzle and eyes were visible now, but those eyes were going to haunt his peace; he well knew it. Try as he might, though, he could not get close enough even to attempt a rescue. "It is no use," he muttered, not sure whether he was talking to himself or the dog, "no use…"