Justin turned toward Bennet, expecting to share relief that this was so easily cleared up. But Bennet looked grim, and one glance at the sheriff's face told him why. Gamberell was grinning like a man who'd just discovered a forgotten hoard of coins in his money pouch. "Well now," he said happily, "I do believe my life just got easier."
The doctor realized that he'd done Bennet no favor and said quickly, "But I may have misunderstood what happened. Look in on the lad, Ben, and whilst you do, you can reassure me that some one is going to pay for my services."
Bennet rose slowly, and while he said nothing, his body language dared the sheriff to stop him. "With your permission, Master Gamberell."
"Why not?" The sheriff waved him on with a magnanimous gesture, before adding, "I happen to know the only way out of that room is through this door and the only way out of this tavern is through me."
By now it was deathly quiet. The sailor who'd intervened in the beating had stood up as the sheriff began to speak, but he'd soon sank back in his seat again. Having gotten the lay of the land, he was studiously staring down into the floor rushes. None of the other customers were meeting the sheriff's gaze, either, doing their best to appear as inconspicuous as possible. Justin had gotten the lay of the land, too, by now. The sheriff did not care why Bennet had struck that drunken lout. What mattered to him was that one of Piers Fitz Turold's underlings had made a misstep, and who knew where that might lead?
Justin shoved his seat back, deliberately drawing the sheriff's attention and got to his feet without haste, making it clear his intentions were peaceful. "I think I can help, Master Gamberell, I can tell you exactly what happened."
The sheriff's expression was skeptical. While Justin was wearing a sword and spoke the Norman-French of the educated, he'd been sharing a drink with Bennet, and the sheriff was a firm believer that a man could be judged by the company he kept. "Who in the blazes are you?"
"I am the man who hit that misbegotten knave you found on the docks."
If possible, the tavern became even more silent. "I have witnesses who say otherwise," the sheriff said curtly.
Justin doubted that, but he said calmly, "They are wrong. Bennet and I are both tall, with dark hair. They must have mistaken him for me."
The sheriff's eyes were blue-ice. "I'd not be in such a hurry to claim credit for this if I were you. Even if you were defending yourself you can still be charged with attempted murder and mayhem. It will be up to a court to decide who is telling the truth."
"I understand that." Justin picked up his wine cup, drank the last of it slowly. He was hoping that the gesture would appear coolly confident, but he also needed the liquid, for his mouth had gone dry. "I ask only that we stop first at the castle so I might tell my lord earl what happened and why I am being detained."
Justin had discovered with William Fitz Alan that the Earl of Chester's name carried considerable weight. It had an even more telling effect upon the sheriff. "Why would the earl care?" he asked, but he sounded wary.
"You know, of course, about the ransom that was stolen in Wales." Reaching into his scrip, Justin drew out the queen's letter and handed it to Gamberell. He thought he probably could have bluffed the sheriff with the earl's name alone, but he wanted to end this before Bennet reemerged from the storeroom.
The sheriff read rapidly and when he glanced up at Justin, his face was guarded, revealing nothing of what he was thinking. Returning the letter, he reached over and emptied Bennet's cup into the floor rushes, "We are done here," he said, turning on his heel as his startled men hastened to follow.
The hush continued even after the sheriff had gone. Justin took his seat, and Berta scurried over to refill his cup. She asked no questions, nor did she meet his eyes, and he realized that to a tavern serving wench, power was dangerous, be it in the hands of the city sheriff or a mysterious stranger.
When Bennet returned to the common room, his expressions was one that Justin had seen before, chin jutting out, wide, mobile mouth set in granite, eyes heavy-lidded and opaque. So he'd looked when facing down his drunken father, bracing for the beating that was sure to come. "Osborn misunderstood what that poor lad said. It was not me who — " He halted in midsentence, looking around in astonishment. "Where the Devil is the sheriff?"
"He left."
"I can see that, Justin. But why? Is he coming back?"
"I do not think so."
Bennet's eyes narrowed on Justin's face. Sitting down again, he waved his hand to indicate the others were to resume their own conversations, and then said in a low voice, "What did you do, Justy? And do not tell me you bribed the bastard. The man is honest!"
There was such genuine indignation in his voice that Justin burst out laughing. "You remember that time we were caught stealing apples in the abbey orchard?"
"I remember. I thought sure we were in for it, but you got the gardener to let us go by making free with the bishop's name."
"Well, let's just say I did some name-dropping tonight, too."
Bennet did not look satisfied, but he said only, "I did not realize that Fitz Alan cast a shadow clear into Cheshire." Raising his cup, he clinked it against Justin's. "Here's to friends and secrets and sheriffs and better days." He drank, watching Justin over the rim of his wine cup. "It is good to know that some things never change. You always were as closemouthed as a clam."
"That is because you talked enough for the both of us. You never let me get a word in edgewise."
After that, the past seven years melted away. Bennet sent out to the cook shop for supper and they swapped memories and insults as they drained several more flagons dry, taking perverse pleasure in recalling a boyhood that had not been easy for either of them. When curfew rang, Bennet closed the tavern and they continued to drink, reminding each other of half-forgotten escapades: playing camp-ball and hunt the fox, sneaking into the abbey fish stews to swim, getting greensick on their first flagon of ale, fighting and forgiving, going to St John's Fair and the hanging of a notorious outlaw, growing up in a world that put little value upon a fishmonger's brat and a foundling born of sin. And for one night, Justin was able to forget about ransoms and captive kings and double-dealing Welsh princes and the dangers that awaited him upon his return to the dragon's lair.
Chapter 10
August 1193
Chester, England
Justin's first thought was that someone had hit him on the head. He was becoming all too familiar with that experience, for it had happened twice in the past year, first by Gilbert the Fleming and then Durand de Curzon. When he moved, he felt as if his brains were going to spill right out of his skull. Slitting his eyes, he found himself staring up at wooden rafter beams. The air was musty and damp, smelled of straw and sawdust and other odors better left unidentified. Where in holy Hell was he?
He forced himself to sit up, at once regretted it, for his stomach was in no better shape than his head. The last time he'd gotten this drunk, it had been after he'd discovered that Claudine was John's spy. Wisps of memory were beginning to etch themselves upon the night's blank slate. Being at the tavern with Bennet. The floor littered with empty flagons. Staggering through the deserted streets, ducking into an alley to evade the Watch, muffling their laughter with their mantles. A misplaced key, hunting for a spare behind a cistern. More laughter. Even snatches of a bawdy ale-house song.
Lord God have mercy. We sang? Justin shuddered at the memory and sought to extricate himself from his tangled blankets. He'd slept on top of a large wooden crate; no wonder his spine felt as if a horse had walked on his back. At least he knew now where he was, in Piers Fitz Turold's waterfront warehouse. Across the room Bennet lay sprawled upon a straw pallet. He twitched at the sound of Justin's boots hitting the ground but continued to snore softly until Justin wobbled over and shook his shoulder.