Justin waited two hours before giving up. If Clem was coming, he'd have been here by now. He'd have to try again on the morrow. Paying Rauf for his flagon, he whistled for Shadow. Out in the street, he ducked into the doorway of the bathhouse to see if anyone sought to follow him. No one else left the tavern, though. Justin had not truly suspected any of the other customers, but he was determined to take no chances, not with a man like the Fleming. His memories of that bloodstained mill were still too fresh.
Dusk was obscuring Southwark by the time Justin reached the bridge. Torches had begun to bob on the river. He lingered to watch a boat pass underneath, steering between the huge wooden pilings in a dangerous maneuver known as "shooting the bridge." He usually paused on the bridge to watch the ongoing construction of the new stone bridge nearby, begun by King Henry more than fifteen years earlier. The pile drivers were silent, though, the masons and carpenters being ferried back to shore, and he continued on into London.
He was angry and disappointed and troubled, too, by Pepper Clem's failure to show up at the tavern, but he was also hungry, and headed for the cookshop down by the river. It was crowded with customers, and had a lengthy wait before he could be served. Nor was the fare particularly appetizing; they'd run out of mutton and pork and he had to settle for an eel pie. That did not improve his mood any, for he had no great liking for fish, and in a few days Lent would be upon them, six long weeks of fasting and salted herring.
Shadow was much more enthusiastic about the meal; he bolted his own pie with comical gusto and begged for more, making Justin laugh in spite of himself. "I'll have to find you a rich master, lad," he said, "for who else could afford to feed you?" In better spirits, he started back toward Gracechurch Street. Clem would surface sooner or later, for he'd never forfeit a chance to earn a shilling.
Vespers was being rung in the city's churches. Justin's step had begun to slow. Like most horsemen, he was not accustomed to walking great distances, and he was glad to spot a familiar cockeyed ale-pole, jutting out into the street like a flag at half-mast. Shadow was already ranging ahead of him, and Justin felt a twinge of pity for the dog. It had taken only four days for the alehouse to become home, doubtless his first ever.
He was opposite Gunter's smithy by now, and Justin decided to stop there first, for he wanted to check on Copper. "Gunter?" Getting no response, he tried the door. It wasn't locked and swung inward when he pushed it. Within, all was quiet. The furnace had been doused for the night, or until the smith returned. But an oil lamp still burned, so he would not be long away. The smithy was well kept; Gunter was obviously a man who believed neatness to be one of God's virtues. A heavy iron anvil dominated the chamber, mounted on a large oak stump, and assorted hammers and mallets and chisels were aligned on a wooden bench. A pair of tongs still sizzled in the water trough, proof that Gunter had just stopped working, for he was too meticulous not to have put the tongs away once they'd cooled. Most likely he was across the street at the alehouse, Justin decided, remembering that Nell had said the farrier liked to come by for an ale in the evenings.
The rear of the smithy opened onto the stable. It held only four stalls, two of them occupied. Copper had thrust his head over the stall door. When Justin stroked his neck, he nuzzled his master's mantle, searching in vain for a hidden treat. The other horse was a newcomer, and even in the gloom of the stable, he caught Justin's eye, for white was an uncommon, highly prized color for mounts. But when Justin came closer, he saw that the horse was not white, after all. A pale roan, he was well past his prime, swaybacked and spavined. Justin continued to stare at him, though. A white horse which turned out to be a roan. Why was that significant? What was his memory trying to tell him?
He heard nothing, the step muffled in the straw. If not for his stallion, he'd have died within moments, almost before he knew what was happening. But when the horse snorted, he started to turn, and the noose did not slip cleanly around his neck, snagging part of his mantle hood, too.
Before Justin could react, the thong tightened, cutting off his air. Instinctively, he clutched at the cord, and the snared material gave him the seconds he so desperately needed — time to get his fingers under the noose. The leather was biting into his throat, but he'd managed to slow the strangulation. Knowing that if he did not break the man's hold now, he never would, he stopped clawing at the noose and flung himself backward. He heard his assailant grunt in pain as they crashed into the stable wall, and he twisted sideways, pulling free.
"Kill him!" his attacker cried, and it was only then that Justin realized there were two of them. A second man emerged from the shadows, the lamp's meagre light glinting upon a drawn dagger. Justin recognized him at once, this man who had become his nemesis, who intended to be his executioner. With no time to unsheathe his sword, he threw up his arm to ward off the blade. Gasping as pain seared from his wrist to elbow, he pivoted to evade the second thrust and grabbed for the killer's knife hand. The Fleming's lips were peeled back from his teeth in a grimace oddly like a smile, and Justin found himself looking into eyes that reflected all the horrors of Hell, so devoid were they of pity or conscience or even humanity.
"Kill him quick," Gilbert's partner urged, "ere someone hears!" He had his dagger drawn, too, and was circling around to stab Justin from behind. By now their struggle had carried them into the smithy. As they grappled together, they lurched against the forge and then reeled into Gunter's work bench. It hit the Fleming at the back of the knees, and already off balance, he could not catch himself, tumbling over the bench into the floor rushes, dragging Justin down with him.
Justin hit the ground hard, and when he tried to get up, the room seemed to tilt. By the time his vision cleared, the killers were both on their feet, closing in. But before they could strike, the door banged and they whirled to face the farrier.
Gunter's eyes cut from Justin, dazed and bleeding, to the two men, daggers drawn. They expected him to flee. Instead, he continued to advance boldly until he was well into the room. Their surprise was evident, but they were quick to meet this new threat, and Gilbert shifted to block Gunter's retreat.
"You ought to have stayed out of this, old man," he jeered, "for now you're dead, too — " He got no further, for Gunter had darted forward, snatching up something from the stable shadows. They recoiled at sight of his weapon, a lethal-looking pitchfork. By then Justin had stumbled to his feet and was struggling to get his sword out of its scabbard.
"Ware!" Gunter shouted suddenly, "ware! Robbers!" At the same time, he moved menacingly toward them. Shutters and doors banged, and they could hear other voices, rising on the evening air. The outlaws hesitated no longer, turned, and plunged for the door.
Justin's memories of what happened next would remain blurred. As the men fled, Gunter chased after them, raising the hue and cry so effectively that fully a dozen citizens were soon in pursuit, with more and more joining in the hunt. Within moments, the smithy was overflowing with people, bombarding Justin with questions. He was grateful when Nell took charge, for he was still shaken.
"Mother Mary, look at the blood!" she exclaimed, and propelled him toward the newly righted bench. "Sit down ere you fall down. And hold your arm up; that'll slow the bleeding. What happened to your head?"
Justin didn't know. "Nothing," he mumbled, but when he brought his hand up to his hair, it came away sticky with blood. "I guess I hit it…"