But he could not explain to Thomas that he was being so closemouthed out of fear for Rhun's safety, for that very revelation night put the boy at risk, even if Thomas was utterly without ulterior motives. This entire puzzle was beginning to resemble a game his dog Shadow liked to play, spinning around in circles trying to catch his own tail.
He was somewhat disquieted, too, by the Earl of Chester's jaundiced view of his employment skills. All that had been lacking in the earl's description was the scent of sulfur. It was flattering to think that the queen had indeed chosen him because she'd sensed that there was more to this robbery than met the eye. But he did not want to see himself as a creature of the shadows, a being never quite belonging anywhere. That was Durand de Curzon.
A bellowed curse drew his attention toward the dice game. The loser had sprung to his feet and was loudly accusing the winner of using weighted dice. The accused was blinking up at him in befuddlement. As young as he was, he might have been a student if he hadn't been so proper in appearance, for there was nothing about him of the hell-raiser or mischief-maker. Insisting that he'd not been cheating, he held out the dice, offering to let anyone examine them for himself. He seemed confused and scared, and when Justin studied his accuser, it was easy to see why. Not only was the burly loser taller and heavier than the winner, he bore the battle scars of a man who'd had more than his share of tavern and back-alley brawls, a man who'd fight for the fun of it, aroused by the smell of fear.
Justin took a better grip upon his drink. The other tavern customers were doing the same, bracing themselves in case stools and cups and bodies began flying through the air. But even those who were anticipating some entertainment were taken aback by the brutality of the attack. Lunging forward, the instigator grabbed his opponent by the front of his tunic and smashed his head down upon the table. Before his victim could recover, the bigger man had flung him to the floor and kicked him in the ribs. Too dazed to defend himself, the youth scrabbled instinctively to get away. But before he could crawl under the table, his assailant seized him by his hair and dragged him out into the middle of the floor.
By now the tavern was in an uproar. Drunken fistfights could offer good sport, but no one wanted to watch a helpless man being beaten to death. The serving maid spun around, yelling to the youth who'd been flirting with her, "Fetch Ben!" Other voices were being raised now, too, protests coming from most of the witnesses. But only two offered more than verbal objections, Justin and a sailor with hair and beard as long and bright as a Viking's.
The sailor was closer than Justin and got there first, seeking to wrap his arms around the attacker and immobilize him in a bear hug. He was a big man and clearly he'd had success in the past with this maneuver. But his opponent broke the hold with alarming ease and kneed him in the groin. The sailor gasped and dropped like a felled oak. By then Justin was there, burying his fist in the aggressor's stomach. He'd put the full weight of his body behind that punch, but the other man only grunted. In the moment that Justin was slightly off balance, his foe shoved him backward, with enough force to send him reeling into a table. The man turned back to his victim then, kicking him in the head.
So intent was he upon his prey that he paid no heed to the entrance of another man. This one was taller than most, but lanky and rail-thin, with such long arms and legs that he looked a little like a scarecrow. There was nothing at all intimidating about his appearance, nor did he seem unduly alarmed by the bloody scene meeting his eyes. But when the drunkard drew back his foot to kick the body on the floor again, the newcomer moved with the speed of a snake, catching hold of that foot and jerking with enough force to send him sprawling. Even that fall did not seem to have slowed the man down much. His eyes, small and close-set, gleamed with the bloodshot fury of a cornered boar, and with a rumbling, wordless roar, he launched himself at this new enemy.
He barely got off the floor, though, before he was down again. The other man whipped out a lethal-looking cudgel and brought it down upon his skull with an audible thud. Two more blows followed in close order, delivered with the impersonal practiced skill of a master carpenter. The second blow had tendered the man unconscious.
Poking him with the tip of his boot, the victor said, "God's Cock, Berta, what the hell happened? I leave the place for an hour and come back to a butcher's paradise. We'll never get rid of all this blood, not unless we paint the walls red." Prodding the downed man again with his toe, he said, "Anyone know who this offal is?"
Berta edged around a pool of blood, her nose wrinkling in disgust when she saw that some of it had splattered her skirt. "I think he may be off that French cog out in the harbor. It is a good thing that Algar found you, Ben, else we'd have had a killing here for certes."
"That whoreson sheriff is looking for any excuse to close us down, too," Ben agreed. Glancing around at the tavern customers, he picked out two, told them to drag "this lump of lard" down to the docks and leave him there. His gaze raked the room, taking in the sailor still on his knees and Justin, who was untangling himself from an overturned table.
"Holy Mother Mary, it looks like we have two heroes amongst us, lads. Berta, free drinks for the Good Samaritans." Striding over to examine the youth on the floor, he winced at the sight of the damage done by the sailor's heavy clogs. Drafting another volunteer, he ordered the man to fetch Osborn the Leech and leaned over, saying, "Someone give me a hand. We'll put this one in the back room till Osborn gets here."
By now Justin was back on his feet and had determined that he'd suffered no injury except a few bruises and a spilled drink. "I'll help," he said, starting toward Ben.
The other man was bending over the inert body of the dice game winner. "You take his legs," he directed Justin, "and I'll get his shoulders — " But as he looked Justin full in the face, he stopped, almost dropping the injured man back into the floor rushes. "Christ n the Cross! Justin?"
Justin studied him in surprise. He looked to be about Justin's own age, with jet-black hair, a pirate's scruffy beard, and the bluest eyes to be found this side of Sweden. It took a moment for Justin to realize that this thin, angular face was one from his past. "Bennet?"
Chapter 9
August 1193
Chester, England
"By Corpus it is you Justin!"
As soon as Bennet grinned, Justin was sure, too, for Bennet had always had a smile that lit up an ordinary face and made it unforgettable. This man beaming at him was indeed the friend of his boyhood, the only person he'd ever truly trusted, his brother in all but blood.
They'd always had an uncanny ability to read each other's thoughts, and Bennet proved now that he'd not lost the knack, turning around and saying to the tavern at large, "Justin and I were thicker than thieves growing up. God's Truth, we were like brothers. At least until he was sent off to serve a high-and-mighty lord down in Shropshire!"
~*~
Seated at a table in the back of the tavern, they regarded each other with amazement, pleasure, and belated wariness. "How long has it been? Five years? Six?"
"Actually, closer to seven, for I was fourteen when the bishop placed me in Lord Fitz Alan's household."
I hope you noticed that I let your 'lord' remain nameless," Bennet said and grinned. "I could not think of a quicker way to dear out this den of thieves than to announce that this blood brother of mine works for the sheriff of Shropshire!"
Justin started to correct Bennet's mistake, but the words never lilt his lips. What could he say? The truth was too fantastic for Bennet to accept. How could he expect Bennet to believe that he was now the queen's man?