Masques of Gold (19 page)

“You are late,” the big man said. “I have not forgotten what you said about coming to your house, but I have no time to waste. My lord leaves tomorrow, and I with him, and I have a message from him. You must find Flael's sons before Sir Justin does, and get the seal from them.”

William gaped at Hubert, unable to find his voice for a moment. “But how can I do that?” he cried.

“I do not know, and I do not care,” Hubert answered, seeming astonished at the question. “But it must be done,” he added. “My lord is determined to have the seal. And my lord says: ‘Do not think of being too clever. Hubert goes with me, but others do not.' ” He frowned at William. “I have said his words just as he said them. Did he mean me when he said Hubert? And what does the rest of it mean?”

William stared blankly, then shook his head. “I am not certain, and I do not wish to guess about Lord Robert's words. I cannot have dinner with you—”

“I cannot either,” Hubert said. “That was why I decided to come to the house instead of waiting at the cookshop. I will be a rich man from French loot when I return. Do you not wish you were coming with us?”

“Almost,” William said faintly. “Yes, almost.”

Hubert clapped him on the shoulder so hard that William staggered forward out of control and stepped into the central gutter, spattering himself with a heap of filth that had not been carried away to the river by the last rain. He uttered a choked “Curse you—” which was drowned in Hubert's roar of laughter.

“Well, you have a taste of it then,” Hubert shouted back over his shoulder as he walked away. “That is much like a battlefield—mud and blood and shit.”

William stood staring after him. “And may the blood and shit be yours,” he muttered.

Then he stepped out of the gutter and made his way back to the house, where he entered by the rear gate and shouted for Ninias to bring him clean shoes and hose. He changed, told the boy curtly to have Oliva clean the soiled articles, and walked out again, north toward the Chepe this time, where he entered a familiar alehouse. The hearth on the back wall was flanked by two trestle tables with rough benches on each side. William stalked down the left-hand table, which was about half full. Two men, who were talking to each other, drew closer together, leaving a large space free, and William stepped over the bench and sat.

The potboy, seeing William, ran out without being told to fetch him a pasty. Since Heloise's marriage he had eaten in this place often, indifferent to his own food because of the satisfaction of depriving his household of theirs. When no meal was prepared for him, none was prepared for anyone else either. They could find scraps of past meals or beg or buy food. He and Heloise had quarreled often and bitterly on that subject. She, like her mother, ordered large meals, simple in content but generous in proportions, whether she intended to be at home to eat them or not, and neither of them had ever chided maid or cook for giving the apprentices this and that between meals. It was only a few shillings' difference in a year, Heloise claimed; the thought flashed through his mind as it always did when he entered this place, and it angered him more than usual today. Those few shillings over the years Heloise and her mother had managed his household would have added to several more pounds in his purse now when he needed them.

Too late to do anything about that, William knew; nonetheless, an added flicker of rage passed through him when he remembered Paul's joy at the news of Heloise's return. He should fix that young man so that food would be only torment to him, but he had more important problems. When the boy brought his pasty, he ate it, washing down each mouthful with a swallow of ale. He could not really concentrate on the important subject of how he could avoid FitzWalter's vengeance if he could not fulfill his unreasonable demand, however. He kept seeing himself staggering into the gutter, after which a second image recurred in his mind—that of finding Hubert and administering to him a slow-acting and very painful poison.

By the time William's fury over being pushed into the gutter dimmed, he was able to think clearly about FitzWalter's demand that he find and obtain the seal. The order had seemed utterly impossible when Hubert delivered it, and his first response had been that he would do what he had planned—sell everything and run. Calm now, he knew that if he tried to sell out quickly, he might have to take a great loss, and worse, news of his attempt to escape might reach FitzWalter through his connections in the merchant community.

Once he had recognized the folly of any immediate flight, William also saw there was no need for it. He raised a hand and snapped his fingers, and the boy filled his cup with ale again. He drank slowly, thinking that FitzWalter might be a devil, but he was not a fool. He would not expect Flael's sons to be discovered within the next few days. In fact, before FitzWalter could begin to feel dissatisfied, in less than two weeks, he would be aboard ship; and since the king was making for La Rochelle they would be at sea for another two weeks or so. A month—a month of complete safety, which, with a little plausible playacting might be stretched to many months, perhaps as long as FitzWalter was abroad.

William set down his cup and smiled into it. A little playacting of looking for Flael's sons…Perhaps he had the answer to all his problems at once. He would leave London and travel about. FitzWalter would believe that he was looking for Flael's sons—and, indeed, he would inquire for two young goldsmiths either selling metal or seeking work. He might even find them or find news of them—which would be best for him because it would not only solve his problem most directly but make him rich and give him a real hold on FitzWalter. William licked his lips, then lifted the cup and drained it. When he set it down, he had pulled himself out of his delightful dream.

Whatever happened, he would be safe, at ease, free of his cursed business. He could do what he wanted when he wanted, like a nobleman. And FitzWalter would not be able to touch him if he did not discover the seal, because there would no longer be a William Bowles in London or anywhere else. From the time his father- and brothers-by-marriage had almost killed him for beating his wife, William had known that sooner or later he would need to escape from himself.

A year after the beating, William had gone north to buy herbs. He had returned, some ten days later than he should, with a fair supply and a tale of having fallen ill in Lincoln. His wife did not care that he was late and would have preferred if he had not come back at all; Heloise was too young to remember. In those ten days, a young gentleman called Amias FitzStephen had introduced himself to the minor gentry in the area around Bristol asking about small manors for sale. There was not much for him to look at and he did not like what little he saw, but over the years he had returned now and again and had by now a circle of acquaintances who would swear to the identity and good character of Amias FitzStephen.

Just in case he did not find Flael's sons, William would also enquire for a buyer for his business among the merchants in the places where he traveled. If he saw his search was hopeless or became afraid that FitzWalter was growing impatient, in swift strokes he could sell out, ride away, and disappear as neatly as—William uttered a bark of laughter—as Flael's sons. Then, recalling how much diminished his hoard was by Heloise's dowry, William resolved truly to search for the boys. He could buy a small place and exist—if the crops were good—on what he had, but if he could find the seal and hand it over, he could make FitzWalter himself turn courteous. Not that he cared for that, but he could make himself rich, rich enough for Amias to buy a fine manor and live as he pleased.

William rose to his feet and turned toward the door, the alewife coming to meet him. He dropped two farthings into her hand and pushed past her. Her lower lip made a gesture at him, but she said nothing and turned to speak to another customer. William did not even notice her. He was thinking that he must hold off selling as long as he could; perhaps he could yet take his full revenge on Heloise. Meanwhile, he would have to wait until he got her back in the house before he left. No harm in that; he had a list of Flael's clients and debtors from the parchments he had seen when he emptied the contents of the chest in Flael's chamber. He could ask those in London about Flael's connections in other cities and ask there about the sons.

At least the journey would cost him nothing, because he would take with him some stock—luxuries like saffron and cumin and fennel—and sell or barter for food and lodging. More important, he would take every penny of coin and tell his goldsmith to give Heloise nothing. Let her draw on her dowry to buy. William snarled at Paul as he pushed past the pepper barrels and went on into his house. That would not hurt the bitch; she would restore what she spent and make a profit on her money in no time. Then William paused with his foot on the stair. No doubt Heloise would credit the profit to the business, so that much would come into his pocket in the end. Fool of a girl!

“Fool of a girl!” Justin exclaimed. “She should be abed. What does she think she is doing?”

“Nothing of which you would disapprove.” Mistress Adela laid a hand gently on Justin's arm.

“I said she was the most stubborn young woman I had ever come across,” Goscelin remarked with a chuckle.

“She was too troubled to rest,” Adela said, casting a disapproving glance at her husband. “She was so worried about whether Peter's accounts had been destroyed—and she was not ill. She had no fever.”

“She was half dead when I left her, too sick to lift her head.”

“Mistress Lissa has more will when half dead than most people fully alive.” Goscelin laughed outright that time. “She did me the courtesy to wait until I woke before dragging me over to Flael's house—”

“She did not go alone?”

“No, and she did not
drag
Goscelin either.” Adela was the one who replied, studying Justin's face as she spoke. “Lissa woke earlier than we and sent one of our servants to her father—”

“Her father,” Justin repeated thoughtfully. “Well, I suppose that is natural.”

“She needed supplies with which to treat herself,” Adela said with a touch of asperity. “The servant told us that she would not see Bowles when he came. Poor Dick was quite shocked at what Lissa said.”

Justin blinked and Goscelin put in, “I would not place any special weight on her sharpness. She must have been buried under leeches and poultices. I think she would have refused to see anyone.”

“I cannot imagine how Bowles could be connected with this—”

“Assault,” Goscelin interrupted, all amusement gone from his face. “It may be strange to speak of assault on a burgher's house, but that is what it was, an assault—a deliberate effort to break and destroy. I swear the only reason the rooftree was not torn down was that there were not the means to do it.”

“You think the destruction utterly wanton?” Justin asked.

“Utterly?” Goscelin considered, then continued with a shrug. “I do not know. To speak the truth, I did not stay long, only long enough to be sure that Lissa had a place to sit and to make her promise not to overtire herself. The feeling of hatred in that house made me sick. And no, she will not destroy or conceal important evidence—though how you can suspect that girl of hiding anything now is beyond me—because Halsig is right beside her and I instructed him, in her hearing, that she was not to take away anything until you came.”

“I do not suspect Lissa of anything,” Justin protested. “I lo—like her.”

“You ask strange questions about her for one without suspicion,” Goscelin retorted.

Justin shrugged. “I cannot allow my likes and dislikes to color the facts surrounding a crime. If I did, a third of the city, at the least, would be decorating gibbets. Like it or not, Master Goscelin, I must take into account that wives are the most frequent purveyors of their husbands' deaths. I admit Lissa does not fit the usual pattern in all respects, even in the most important—that is, she inherits nothing at all in his will. However, she does gain in many other ways, and I cannot ignore her.”

“But what has the robbery to do with Peter's death?” Mistress Adela cried.

The two men looked at each other. “Is it possible that Flael's death and the destruction of his house are separate matters?” Justin asked.

“You saw the house,” Goscelin replied. “Does that look like an ordinary robbery?”

“No. But I have seen houses damaged out of spite when a troop was sent to search out an enemy, and this goes beyond that too. One does not splinter a workbench when looking for a man.”

“And what of Lissa?” Adela put in. “Do you think she arranged to have herself beaten black and blue?”

“And for what?” Goscelin asked, his voice rising. “What purpose could she have? She herself gave me the plate and other valuables to keep, so she would not have hired a thief to raid Flael's house. What purpose could anyone have had? As you said about searching for a man, one does not splinter furniture when one comes to steal plate. The effort needed goes beyond anything that would satisfy spite.”

Justin was relieved to be able to avoid Adela's question. He had not meant to wake this passionate defense of Lissa by his excuse for his fury when he heard she had already gone to Flael's house. He shrugged.

“There is always a reason that makes sense to the doer,” he said. “You mentioned hatred.”

As he said the words, Justin looked curiously at the portly goldsmith, remembering also that Goscelin had said the intensity of hate made him sick. But it was not surprising really that Goscelin should be so sensitive, Justin thought, recalling the beauty of Goscelin's own work and the deep appreciation he had for beauty in the work of others.

Goscelin nodded and Justin went on, “Then that brings us back to some connection between the murder and the damaged house, with Flael's body being mutilated out of hate. Yet you say he was not the sort of man who inspired hatred, and his wife agrees. They were not married long, but six weeks is long enough for a man to make a bitter enemy of a wife, and I must say that Mistress Lissa spoke of her husband always with…”

“An indifferent respect?” Adela suggested as Justin hesitated.

“Despite what was done to the house, I have not changed my opinion,” Goscelin said, ignoring his wife's intrusion into the conversation. “I have given the matter some thought, as you can imagine.” He threw up his hands in a gesture of despair. “I have even considered whether witchcraft or possession…or true madness might be at work here. But no one could hide that kind of madness or possession, and the use of witchcraft brings us back to hate. I cannot think of anyone in whom Peter could have aroused such hatred…unless…Was there anything in his accounts, anyone close to ruin?”

“A few who borrowed from him might be hard pressed to pay, but there is no way to tell about real desperation. A man would hide that from all. And even if such a person killed Flael, why pull the house to pieces? The parchments were not stolen. I saw them.”

Goscelin shook his head, looking troubled. “I do not know. I can see that there is little sense to it, but I know that desolation was made by hate.”

Justin put his hand on the goldsmith's shoulder. “Sense or no sense, I agree with you. There was hate in the destruction, I think, but I do not think it was wanton. I must go back and look again before I decide, but I felt there was a kind of pattern to what was broken.”

A quarter of an hour later, Justin rushed up the ladder that had replaced the stairs in Flael's house and advanced on Lissa. He had been distracted from his anger by the conversation with Goscelin, but the closer he came to her, although he could not explain or justify his rage, the more furious he became. She looked at him, one eye wider than the other, unsmiling. From her cheekbone to her temple, the left side of her face was terribly discolored, but most of the swelling was gone.

“You should be abed,” Justin said, his voice grating on the words. “What are you doing here?”

Lissa's eyes moved to Halsig and back, questioningly, to Justin. “I look worse than I feel,” she said with a faint smile, and then, sober again, “I had to look for Peter's accounts. I was afraid whoever did this would have carried them off.”

“You should have waited for me,” Justin snapped and turned away sharply, as though to examine the room.

He hoped he had moved quickly enough so that neither Lissa nor Halsig had seen his color rise. The remark rang with the petulance of an excluded child, and he suddenly realized his rage was not caused by any fear for Lissa's physical well-being but because she did not need him.

“I am so sorry,” she said, “but I swear I touched nothing except my receipt book and the parchments, and I did no more than lift them from the floor.”

“That is true, my lord,” Halsig agreed. “Mistress Lissa has only been here for a little while and has touched nothing but what she said.”

“I do not care about what she has touched,” Justin said with a sigh, gratefully aware that both Lissa and Halsig believed he feared she might have altered or hidden some clue. He shook his head at Halsig, but his voice was lighter, almost teasing. “Bruised as she is, all purple and green, how could you let her climb a ladder and crawl about on the floor lifting wood and dragging out books and parchments?”

Lissa began to laugh. “How could he stop me, Sir Justin, when Master Goscelin said I could?”

Justin laughed too. “I am sure he could not if Master Goscelin could not. You are cleared of guilt, Halsig, and also relieved of duty. Just be sure that the guards who usually watch the house are now within to help me if I need them, and you and the other men can go home. I do not think I will need you again today, but stay by your lodging or leave word where a messenger can find you. If I do not send for you, you can begin normal watch duty again on the morrow.”

“Yes, my lord.”

The voice was expressionless and the face a mask, but Lissa watched Halsig disappear down the ladder with a most uncomfortable feeling. She was sure that Halsig was deeply disappointed at being sent away, and that she should have said something or done something to change Justin's almost curt dismissal. Halsig had been very helpful to her; he could have refused to allow her into the solar and bedchamber, but had not been the least obstructive. She owed him a favor, but she felt no need to repay it now, and it was not so great a favor as to deprive her of this chance to be alone with Justin, a pleasure that she had planned for and achieved.

When Halsig's head disappeared, Justin came and knelt beside her to kiss the hands she had folded over the parchments. “You are a fool,” he said very softly. “You will make yourself ill.”

Lissa bent her head over his and kissed his hair. “I could think of no other way to have a little time alone with you,” she murmured as he lifted his head. “And I was not sure how much you wanted Goscelin and Adela to know.”

“Goscelin and Adela—so soon? I am not surprised. Adela defended you as if you were a daughter.”

“They are wonderful people, so good and so kind, but I suspect they would be troubled if they knew we had come to terms so soon.”

“Have we come to terms?” Justin asked. “What terms?”

“Any you name,” Lissa whispered, grinning at him. “I am utterly shameless.”

Her remark took Justin completely by surprise, for he had been a little hurt by what she had said about coming to terms, and he wrapped his arms around her and kissed her. She responded, his grip tightened, and she whimpered with pain. Justin released her instantly, growling, “Oh, curse it, I am sorry. You see, I would not have hurt you if you were abed where you should be.”

That made Lissa giggle. “You have not hurt me, just squeezed a bruise. No, and I have not hurt myself either. The only thing that was under a pile of wood was my receipt book, and Halsig was kind enough to take it out for me. I hope that was not wrong. I could see it because the wall between the solar and the bedchamber was almost torn away.” She gestured, and Justin glanced behind and nodded.

“The accounts were not buried?”

“Oh, heaven.” Lissa's hand stole up to touch her lips. “Have I indeed interfered with your work? Goscelin told me you came here last night, so I thought you had seen everything. I am so sorry. I will try to put everything back—”

“No, that is not necessary.” Justin got to his feet and began to look around the room, pausing here and there. Then he nodded. “Yes, now that I think back, I can see the parchments scattered about all untied but, as you said, not under anything except…dark wood, and some panels that were carved…”

“Pieces of the chest they were kept in, I think.”

“Two men, then, at least two,” Justin said.

“I saw only one.”

“The other could have been still in the workroom or even outside. There must have been one who came up here and broke the bed apart with an ax or a pick, broke the walls, tore the bedclothes but did not touch the accounts or the chest. Later the other came and went through the accounts…but why was the chest broken? For that matter why hack up a bed?”

“To look for something,” Lissa said, “something perhaps a quarter- or half-inch thick and I would guess not more than three inches across, or something that could be rolled or folded to that size.”

“What?” Justin roared, turning on her. “How do you know?”

“I do not
know
,” Lissa replied, not flinching a bit and looking back at him steadily. “I am guessing from what was broken to pieces and what was not.” She pointed to the beautiful casket that had held the necklet Flael had given her. The box was lying open on its side, but it was intact. “The cloth lining was torn out,” she said, “but I suppose whoever it was felt the panels were not thick enough to hide what they sought. And look at the chair. The seat was broken, but the back and legs were left—I think because there is no part of the back or legs an inch thick and three inches wide.”

“Are you sure the men were looking for something, not just taking vengeance?”

“Vengeance on whom?” Lissa asked. “Peter is dead and cannot be hurt; his sons are gone and cannot be hurt; and the vengeance is certainly not meant to hurt me. It is true that a few of my silver trinkets were stolen from Peter's box, but the box itself, which I swear is more valuable, was not broken. And look there,” she gestured, “my gowns are all neatly laid out—”

She paused, staring at him, and Justin realized that he had picked up the box and closed it, gently brushing away the bits of wood and dust that clung to it. It was very strange indeed to care so much for a woman that even the inanimate things that belonged to her became precious to him. He almost flung the box away, but he could not and he held it out to her.