"I would like to speak to Nell."
"You already are," she said, and Justin gave her a startled reappraisal. Managing an alehouse was a demanding job for anyone, especially a woman, and he had instinctively envisioned Nell as a formidable, no-nonsense beldame, well armored in years and flesh. Instead, he found himself staring at a wood sprite. She was young, not much older than Justin himself, and tiny, barely five feet, with a summer cloudburst of curly hair pouring out of its pins, a sprinkling of freckles, and bright blue eyes fringed with golden lashes. At first glance, she seemed like a rabbit among foxes; Justin could not imagine a more alien environment for her than this squalid alehouse. But those blue eyes were neither guileless nor trustful, and when he asked to rent a room, she studied him with a skeptical smile.
"Why would you want to stay in a hovel like this?"
Justin was amused by her bluntness. "I commend your honesty — if not your hospitality. I've a lamed horse across the street at the smithy, and I need a place close at hand till he is fit to ride again. Gunter said you'd probably be able to rent me a room. Now… can you or not?"
"Gunter vouches for you? Why did you not say so?" This time her smile was real, although her eyes remained guarded. "My daughter and I share one of the rooms, so I'm particular about who I rent to. If Gunter thinks you're trustworthy, that is good enough me. If you are willing to pay a half-penny a night, the room is yours. But no dogs."
"I do not have a — oh, no." Glancing around, Justin discovered that the pup had followed him into the alehouse and was sitting placidly at his feet. "He is not mine."
Nell's skeptical smile came back. "Does he know that?"
Justin smiled ruefully. "Well… I'm doing my best to convince him. He truly is not mine, but I am trying to find a home for him. He'd be here a day or so, no more — "
"Indeed not. We get enough fleas from our regular customers. I do not need a mangy cur bringing more in, too."
"If he had any fleas, they all drowned in the Fleet."
Nell scowled, but curiosity won out. "What was he doing in the river? It's a cold day for a swim."
"A couple of misbegotten dolts threw him off the bridge. I fished him out and then made the mistake of feeding him. The poor beast has not known much kindness in his life, for certes — or much luck, either. You can change that, lass. Just give me a day to find him a home."
"I never had a man try to seduce me for a dog before," Nell said tartly. "One day and that is all!"
Picking up one of the sputtering tallow candles, she led him into the stairwell. The dog frisked along after them, determined not to let Justin out of his sight. The room was small, containing only a stool and a pallet. Justin could not help laughing when the dog immediately hopped onto the bed. Trying to sound stern, he ordered, "Shadow, off!"
Setting the candle down on the stool, Nell headed for the door. The last word was hers. "Not your dog — hah!"
~~
After buying parchment, a quill pen, and ink at the Eastcheap market, Justin wrote Luke a brief letter, informing the deputy that he could be reached at the alehouse. If Luke discovered the identity of the Fleming's partner, that would be a message too important to miss. He could only hope that he was not also informing John where he could be found. He set out then for the Tower, occasionally glancing over his shoulder to see if the dog was still following; he was. They reached the Tower in late afternoon, and this time Justin's luck had changed; the sheriff was in.
Roger Fitz Alan could not have been more unlike Luke de Marston. He was smooth and polished and bland — no sharp edges, no hidden depths, no salt. Justin would not have needed to be told that his was a political appointment. Fitz Alan admitted somewhat reluctantly that he had no personal knowledge of this Gilbert the Fleming. But he readily promised to do what he could to apprehend the man. "One of my serjeants may be able to help you. He knows all the ratholes in London, and most of the rats. I'll have him seek you out at that alehouse… on Gracechurch Street, you said?"
Justin thanked the sheriff politely, but without either enthusiasm or optimism. It sounded as if he was on his own. Masking his disappointment as best he could, he bade the sheriff farewell, and exited out into the Tower bailey. Almost at once, his mood — and his day — took a turn for the better. A throaty female voice murmured his name, and he turned to greet Claudine de Loudun.
"Who is your furry friend?"
Justin was more than willing to relate the story of the dog's rescue, for he knew that was the sort of exploit likely to win favor with most women, and this was one woman whose favor he very much wanted to win. By the time he was done, he thought he was making progress, too, for Claudine had listened with rapt attention and a smile that hinted at any number of intriguing possibilities.
"You have a good heart, Master de Quincy."
"I also have a dog, demoiselle, one I cannot keep. You could, though. Wait… hear me out. Just look at this handsome beast."
He was playing fast and loose with the truth now, for Shadow was bedraggled, gaunt, and dirty, his long black fur matted, his hip protruding at an odd angle. Justin guessed his age to be about five or six months, and if those massive, bearlike paws were an accurate indicator of size, he'd eventually be a large dog, indeed. He seemed to have some alaunt in his ancestry, for there was a wolflike slope to his spine and one ear pricked at an alert angle. But the other one flopped over, giving him a somewhat comical aspect, as did the white ring around his left eye, looking as if he'd been splattered with whitewash. All in all, Justin could not imagine a more unlikely candidate for a royal adoption, but he persevered, insisting that "If ever a dog was born to be a beautiful woman's pet, surely it is this one!"
Claudine laughed, shaking her head. "Very handsome, indeed," she agreed, keeping her eyes on Justin all the while. "But dogs are not as fickle as men, and he has already chosen his master. In good conscience, how could I come betwixt you?"
As if on cue, the pup whined and gave Justin the sort of melting, starry-eyed look he'd have loved to have gotten from Claudine. He surrendered with a smile and a shrug. "You cannot blame a man for trying, demoiselle."
"I never do, Master de Quincy," she assured him with a provocative, sidelong glance through improbably long lashes, and they fell in step together, heading toward the White Tower and the royal apartments. "I am glad we chanced to meet like this," Claudine confided, "for there is a question I've been wanting to put to you. Would you be offended if I were to ask you something very personal?"
Justin had never been shy with women, but never had he courted a woman like this one, a queen's confidante. It was like aiming an arrow at the moon. But as their eyes met and held, the moon suddenly seemed much closer than he'd have dared to hope. "Please do, demoiselle."
"Well… I was wondering if you were one of the old king's out-of-wedlock sons?"
Justin gave a sputter of startled laughter. "Good Lord, no! Whatever put a notion like that in your head?"
"The queen — indirectly. When I asked her about you — I did warn you about my curiosity — she would tell me nothing, saying only that you had a right interesting family tree, one rooted in hallowed soil. I admit I do not understand what she meant. But I thought she might be hinting that you had a highborn sire… and King Henry then sprang to mind. Do stop laughing, for it is not as ludicrous as all that. You seem to have won the queen's trust with remarkable ease — a stranger one day, a confidential emissary the next — and you do have smoke-grey eyes like King Henry, and there is a secret betwixt you and the queen, for certes. Moreover, you are without doubt the most mysterious man I've ever met!"