"He seems to be breathing," Luke observed. "We could always drop him in the pond to bring him around."
But the outlaw's lashes were flickering. Opening his eyes, he gave an involuntary groan of pain, and then focused hazily upon a familiar face floating above him. With recognition came a surge of hot, helpless rage, hatred so scalding it all but burned his throat as he spat out the words of defiance, a diatribe that ended only when Jonas forced him to his feet, none too gently.
Luke had listened impassively to the Fleming's raving, envenomed tirade. But when he at last fell silent, his invective exhausted, the deputy smiled. "We'll have a long ride back to
Winchester, Gib. It would be a pity if I forgot to feed you on the way."
Gilbert's lip curled. He was about to retort when he noticed Nell, who'd come up to stand beside the men. Snarling like a wolf, he turned on her in a fury. "You treacherous bitch! You'll pay for this, and you'll beg for death ere I'm done with you, I swear — "
Nell had gone very pale, and Justin backhanded the Fleming across the mouth, hard enough to draw blood. "You so much as look at her," he warned, "and you'll be the one begging for death!" He would not have believed he could get so much satisfaction from striking a man unable to hit back. Putting his arm around Nell's shoulders, he said, "Come on, lass. Pay his rantings no mind. A doomed man can do you no harm."
But before they could move away, the outlaw cried out, "Wait!" When Justin turned back, he said, "It is you again, the man on the Alresford Road. I know why that accursed deputy followed me to London. But why you? I've a right to know. Who are you?"
Justin looked at him, thinking back to their chance meeting on that snowy Epiphany morn. It seemed so random, and yet it had changed both of their lives dramatically, setting them upon a road that would lead to the queen's court and the gallows" "I am a friend," he said, "of Gervase Fitz Randolph."
"You say that as if it is supposed to mean something to me."
Justin was outraged. "You murder a man and then forget about it?"
The Fleming's mouth was bruised and bleeding, but his smile was chilling. "Why would I bother," he said, to remember their names?"
17
GAOL OF LONDON
March 1193
The lantern's light was unsparing, exposing a face that would have been unrecognizable even to those who knew the Fleming well. One eye had puffed shut and his jaw was grotesquely swollen, blackened with bruises. Those were injuries he'd suffered in the struggle out at Smithfield. But the blood gushing from his nose was fresh, for Jonas had just hit him. It took him a moment to get his breath back, and when he did, he spat out another obscenity. Jonas stepped forward again, but this time Luke pulled him away.
"Let the whoreson bleed," he said, "whilst we talk." Keeping hold of Jonas's arm, he steered him across the dungeon. Retrieving the lantern, Justin followed.
Jonas was not pleased. "Why did you stop me," he demanded.
"If you want to hit him for the fun of it, that is fine by me. But if you are still trying to get him to talk, it's a waste of time." Luke glanced down at his own skinned, scraped knuckles and grimaced. "It is painfully obvious by now that we'll get nothing from him."
"Give me an hour alone with him and we'll see about that."
It was the first time that Justin had heard Jonas resort to bravado, but as their interrogation had foundered, cracks had begun to show in the serjeant's usually dispassionate demeanor. His anger was understandable; Justin felt equally frustrated. It was as if they'd been engaged in a prolonged and bloody castle siege, scaling the outer walls and finally fighting their way into the inner bailey, only to discover that the keep was impregnable, impervious to assault.
"I do not doubt your powers of persuasion, Jonas," Luke said, smiling grimly. "I can be rather persuasive, too, so I've been told. But there are men — thankfully few of them — who cannot be broken. They'll die, but that's all they'll do for you. Do not tell me you've never encountered one of them, for I'd not believe you. We might as well face it. We can beat the Fleming bloody. We can turn his remaining days into the Hell on earth he so richly deserves. And eventually we can hang him. But what we cannot do is make him talk."
Justin had already reached that same bleak conclusion. Glancing over at Jonas, he saw that the serjeant knew it, too, even if he was not yet ready to admit it. "Ere we concede defeat," he said, "let's try one more time."
Shackled to iron rings in the wall, Gilbert was sagging so badly that the manacles were cutting into his wrists. He was still bleeding from Jonas's last blow, and his breath was coming in labored, wheezing pants. When Justin let the lantern's light play over that battered, bloated face, he could not summon up even a pinprick of pity. What pity had Gilbert shown Kenrick, cornered in the mill loft?
"You're making it needlessly hard on yourself, Gilbert. You know you're going to hang. So why ask for more pain in the brief time you've got left? Why not tell us what we want to know? Give us some answers and we'll go away and let you be."
The Fleming raised his head. When he spoke, his voice emerged as a croak, raspy and harsh, throbbing with hatred. "Rot in Hell…"
~~
Justin had dreaded telling Eleanor, but she took it better than he'd expected. Apparently she, too, had known a few men in her life who could not be broken, for she did not seem surprised by the Fleming's refusal to cooperate. And when Justin had completed his report, she said something that would later strike him as odd, reminding him of his earlier suspicions about her motives.
"Well," she said softly, "mayhap it was not meant that the truth come out…"
"Madame?"
"No matter. I was but thinking aloud, wondering if this means the Fleming's secret will die with him. Was he our last hope? What of his woman?"
"So far Nora has eluded us, my lady. When the serjeant's men arrived to arrest her, she was gone and some of her belongings were, too. They've been out scouring the city for her, with no luck so far. But even if she is caught, I doubt that she'd be of much help. I cannot see why the Fleming would tell her about a killing in Winchester. He's not the sort to be boasting in bed about his crimes, to give away any secrets that might be used against him later."
"What of the man's partner?"
"He is not likely to be as hard a nut to crack, madame." Justin was striving to sound confident, but he could not help adding a pessimistic qualifier, "… if we can find him."
Eleanor gave him a penetrating look. "You ought not to be so downcast, Justin. At least this Fleming will be doing no more killings. You said he is known to have slain five people, did you not? The true tally of his victims is probably twice that many. You may not have been able to get the answers we were seeking, but you undoubtedly saved some lives."
Justin nodded somberly. "But I wanted the answers, too."
Their eyes caught and held. "So did I," she said. "So keep on the trail. The hunt is not over yet."
~~
Justin's chagrin was not eased by Eleanor's praise; her generosity only made him feel even more disheartened. He'd let her down. No matter how he rationalized their failure to get the Fleming to talk, it always came back to that. She'd relied upon him and he'd disappointed her. And unless they could find the missing Sampson, no one but Gilbert would ever know if he'd been in the pay of the French king.
~~
Claudine was waiting when he emerged from the queen's great chamber. "You look wretched!"
He smiled wryly. "I know. But I spent most of the night over at the gaol, going home only to wash up."
She touched her fingers to the bruise spreading across his cheekbone. "Did the killer do this? Did you catch him?" When he nodded, she slipped her arm in his, drawing him toward the comparative privacy of a window alcove. "Then why are you not happier about it?"