Nell stooped abruptly, running her fingers over a corner of the bench. "I'd wager you banged your head right here," she announced triumphantly. "See this blood?"
Justin leaned over to look and pulled back in alarm, for his head had begun to swim again. Nell saw him lose color and reached over, feeling his forehead. "You're as cold and clammy as the grave! I think we ought to get you back to the alehouse straightaway, so I can put a proper bandage on that arm. Did anyone send for the Watch yet? Blessed Lady, must I do everything around here? You go, Osborn, away with you! Ellis, help me get the man on his feet. And for pity's sake, will someone let that dog in?"
Justin was feeling worse by the moment, fighting waves of queasiness. When Shadow catapulted into the smithy and launched himself at Justin, he staggered and nearly went down. "Shadow, no!"
"Do not yell at that poor beast," Nell chided. "It was his barking that brought Gunter back. Running up and down the street he was, like a mad creature, barking to wake the dead.
Gunter thought it strange, and went out to see if anything was amiss…"
But Justin heard no more. With his first step, he sagged against the arm holding him upright. Colors were flaming suddenly before his eyes, hot and hazy. After that, there was only darkness.
11
LONDON
February 1193
The dagger slashed the air, grazing Justin's cheek. The next thrust would not miss — he was backed into a corner, with no weapon and nowhere to run. "No!" With a hoarse cry, he jerked upright in the bed. His dream's horror quickly faded, to be replaced by bewilderment. This was not his room at the alehouse. Where was he?
"Glory to God Eternal!" The voice was as unfamiliar as his surroundings. Someone was approaching the bed. The wavering flame of an oil lamp did nothing to resolve his puzzlement, for the face it revealed was a stranger's. The woman was plump and matronly, her eyes crinkling at the corners, a grey braid swinging across her shoulder as she leaned over. "The doctor said you'd likely recover if you soon came to your senses, and bless you, lad, you have!"
No woman had ever smiled at Justin like this, as a mother might. "Who…?" His mouth was dry and his tongue had trouble forming the words, but she seemed to understand.
"I am Agnes, wife to Odo the barber. Lie still, lad, for you are safe here."
Justin wanted to ask where "here" was, but he was too groggy to keep the conversation going. He was not accustomed to using a pillow, and its seductive softness lulled him back into sleep within moments of closing his eyes. When he awoke again, he could see glimmerings of light through the chinks in the shutters and the woman tending to him was Nell.
As soon as he stirred, she hastened toward the bed. "How are you feeling? It was a right nasty crack on the head you took, which could've killed you as easily as that whoreson's dagger. When you swooned away like that, it scared us enough to fetch a doctor, and then he scared us even more. He said a contusion of the skull ought to heal, but a contusion of the brain was almost always fatal, and all we could do was wait, that either you'd remain senseless till you died or you'd come around on your own."
Nell at last paused for breath. "But when I told him that you'd be the one paying him for his services, that seemed to give him a greater interest in your recovery! He cleaned your wound with honey and then made up a yarrow poultice to stop the bleeding, and promised to come back today."
Justin managed a flicker of a smile. Nell was tilting a cup to his lips and he swallowed without questioning or tasting, sure only that it was wet. His eyes were roaming the chamber as he drank. It still looked totally unfamiliar, although it did remind him of Aldith's cottage. The walls were whitewashed, a fire burned in the hearth, and his bed was piled with clean, neatly mended coverlets. But there was an oddly empty feel to the place, a layering of dust, and the musty scent of vacancy. "Where am I, Nell?"
"Did Agnes not tell you? This is Gunter's cottage."
None of this made sense to Justin. Nell saw his confusion and reached over to retrieve the cup. "The doctor said you ought not to be left alone, so we took turns sitting up with you, me and Agnes and Ursula, the apothecary's widow. We brought you here because we thought you'd be safer. Gunter said those men looked like they were set upon murder, not robbery, and we worried that they might know you'd been staying at the alehouse." She paused again, giving Justin a speculative, challenging look. "Was Gunter right? Were they out to kill you?"
"Yes," Justin admitted, "they were." He was relieved when she asked no further questions, although he knew his reprieve would be brief. She would not interrogate him while he was so weak, but she'd soon be demanding answers, and she'd have a right to them. Nell had moved over to the hearth, announcing that she'd cooked up a pottage for him and hoped he liked onions and cabbage. He had never been less hungry, but he dutifully ate a few spoonfuls of the thick soup before saying:
"I cannot go back to the alehouse, for I'd never put you and Lucy at risk. But I cannot stay here. I'd not turn Gunter out of his own bed."
Nell handed him a chunk of barley bread, thickly smeared with butter. "You need not fret about that. Gunter beds down at his smithy, has not slept here for months, not since his wife died."
Shadow was nudging Justin's arm, eyes locked hungrily upon the bread tempting inches from his nose. Breaking off a piece, Justin dipped it in the soup and tossed it to the dog. "Passing strange," he said softly. "Gunter saved my life, and yet I know next to nothing about him. When did his wife die?"
"Nigh on a year ago. I do not remember the exact date, but I know it was during Lent. Maude had always been frail, and she'd been sickly for years. But Gunter doted on her. You'd have thought she was the Queen of England, the way he looked after her."
A ghost of a smile flitted across Nell's lips. Sounding faintly wistful, she said, "I never knew a man could be so gentle, not till I saw him cradling her in his arms, pleading with her to eat. She just wasted away, poor woman. And after he buried her, Gunter moved out of the house. We all thought he'd move back once his grieving was done. And when he did not, some people were indignant, calling it a scandalous waste to let a house sit empty. No one dared say it to Gunter's face, though, for he is a quiet one, rarely riled, and yet… yet people give him space, if you know what I mean."
"Yes, I do know what you mean," Justin agreed, for he'd not soon forget the image of Gunter whirling around to confront the killers, pitchfork in hand.
"The neighbors did what they could to comfort him. We try to look out for our own here on Gracechurch Street. Of course some of the women had more in mind than comfort, for Gunter would be a good catch: a God-fearing Christian with a kind heart and a thriving trade. But all the pies and newly baked bread they brought to the smithy availed them naught. Gunter had always been ready to offer a hand to anyone in need, but he'd always kept to himself, too. And since Maude's death, he's become even more of a…. what is the word for those holy men, the ones who shun the company of others and live as hermits?"
"A recluse?"
"Yes, a recluse!" Nell nodded vigorously. "I watch Gunter sometimes, drinking his ale. So sad he looks, like he's forgotten how to smile. But a man chooses his own path, does he not?"
"Gunter and Maude… they had no children?"
"Several babes stillborn. Only one survived, a son they christened Thomas, after the saint. People say they thought the sun rose and set in that lad's eyes."
"What happened to him?" Justin asked, already sure there was no happy ending to the farrier's story.
"He drowned when he was thirteen. He'd been playing with friends down by the river and fell in. This was long ere I moved to the street, of course. Torn would have been about your age, I reckon, had he lived."