then left together. That is the last time Clem was seen alive. And when you turned up at the alehouse the next day as agreed upon, Gilbert was waiting."
Involuntarily, Justin's fingers cradled his slashed arm. It was still sore and somewhat stiff, but how much worse it could have been. That deadly blade could have lodged in his gut or stabbed through to his heart. "Clem told him what he wanted to know, how to find me. So why, then, did Gilbert kill him?"
"I'll tell you something about killing. Until a man has done it,he shrinks from it, makes of it more than it is. The first killing comes hard for most men. After that, it gets easier, a lot easier. For some, it gets to be a habit, or worse."
Jonas broke off to give orders concerning the disposition of Clem's corpse. There was a lot to be done and it was a while before he turned his attention again to Justin.
"You asked why the Fleming murdered that worthless little thief? Because it pleasured him. And that's also why there were men willing to talk to me about it. Not because they cared a rat's arse about Pepper Clem. Even a mother'd not mourn his loss. But it scares other men when they find one who takes too much joy in killing." That lone black eye held Justin's gaze, unwavering and unblinking. "As well it should
13
LONDON
February 1193
Sleep did not come easily to Justin that night. His bedsheets were still scented with Claudine's perfume. But the cottage's other spirit was not as welcome, for Clem's meagre ghost had followed him from Moorfields, and watched reproachfully from the shadows. When he finally slept, though, he did not dream of Clem or even Claudine. He was back in the Durngate Mill, feeling Kenrick's blood splatter upon his skin, and then the mill became Gunter's smithy and he was fighting again for his life, struggling to stave off the Fleming's thrusting blade. He awoke well before dawn to a cold hearth, ice skimmed over the water in his washing laver, and sweat on his brow.
The snow had continued during the night and was still spiraling down slowly from low-hanging grey clouds, large, fat flakes that seemed almost benign, an innocuous cousin of the snow that clogged roads and collapsed roofs and made winter travel so treacherous. Justin dropped Shadow off at the alehouse to play with Lucy, saddled Copper, and rode over to St Clement's Church on Candle-wright Street where he heard Mass and prayed for the souls of all the Fleming's victims. It occurred to him that his was probably the only prayer to be offered up for Pepper Clem, and that seemed the saddest possible epitaph for a man's misspent life.
Afterward, he arranged with the priest to give Clem a Christian burial and then left word for Jonas that he would pay for the little thief's funeral. He was still in a somber, reflective mood when he finally returned to Gracechurch Street, and he decided to leave Shadow with Lucy for a while longer. Gunter had gone off on an errand and the smithy was being watched by young Ellis, the neighbor lad who helped Nell out. Giving the boy a coin to unsaddle and feed Copper, Justin crossed to the back door and went out into the pasture behind the smithy.
Gunter's cottage did not seem like a city dwelling, for it was set apart on its own, surrounded by the fenced-in field and sheltered by several bare-branched apple trees. The garden once tended by Gunter's dead wife had long since shriveled under the neglect born of a long illness, but the holly she'd planted still thrived, bright splashes of green against the softly drifted snow. It was the snow, not the holly, that caught Justin's eye now. His tracks were still visible, not yet filled in. Beside them was a new set of footprints, leading straight to the cottage door.
Justin came to an abrupt halt. Gunter's cottage did not have a lock and key, for he'd never seen the need for such expensive protection. Instead, he'd fitted his door with a simple latch, a small bar which pivoted at one end and could be lifted from the outside by a latchstring. When Justin had left that morning, he'd taken the precaution of snagging the latchstring around a nail he'd driven into the wood. Now it dangled free, further proof that someone had lifted the bar and entered the cottage.
Justin was motionless for a long moment, considering. There was but one set of footprints. And the shutters were still in place, so whoever was within could not see his approach. He slid his sword from its scabbard. In one swift motion, he jerked up the latchstring and hit the door with his shoulder, shoving inward.
He came in fast and low, sword drawn. An oil lamp had been lit, its flame shivering in the sudden draft. A man was kneeling by the hearth, striking flint to tinder. He recoiled with a startled oath as the door banged open. "Jesu! Most men are content to open a door and just walk in. Leave it to you, de Quincy, to blow in like an ill wind and bounce off the walls!"
Justin was now the one to swear. "Hellfire and damnation! What are you doing here, Luke?"
"I happened to be passing by. What do you think?"
"I think that you nearly got yourself run through, and who'd have blamed me?"
They glared at each other, but their glowering gave way then to sheepish grins. Shutting the door, Justin dropped the bar back into place and carefully drew in the latchstring. "I'll confess that I'm glad to see you, Luke. At least now the Fleming will have a choice of targets."
"It sounds like you got somewhat confused, de Quincy. You were supposed to be the hunter and Gilbert the hunted, remember?"
"Good of you to point that out to me." Moving to the hearth, Justin helped Luke to get the fire going. "How did you find out where I was? The entire street is in a conspiracy to keep my whereabouts secret — and there are none more stubborn or suspicious than Londoners!"
"You need not tell me that, for I've already met the hellcat over at the alehouse. I might as well have been speaking Welsh, for all the good it did me. 'Justin who? Never heard of the man.' And the chill got even worse when I admitted to being an under-sheriff. They do not fancy the law much hereabouts, do they?"
Justin laughed. "I'd love to have seen that, you and Nell locking horns. So how did you win her over?"
"By sheer perseverance. I would not go away, kept insisting that we were allies. I even stretched the truth enough to claim we were friends. Finally it occurred to me to show her your letter, proof that I could be trusted. But then I had to wait whilst she sent for the priest, since he is the only man on the street who can read, and she was not about to take my word for the letter's contents. If they protect you half as well from Gilbert the Fleming as they did from me, you've nothing to worry about!"
Justin was looking around the cottage in vain for food or drink to offer Luke; they'd have to go over to the alehouse and coax Nell into cooking a meal. But that would have to wait, for he'd been doing some rapid mental math. "Today is the fourteenth, only ten days since I sent that letter. You must have ridden for London as soon as you got it. Why?"
Luke's smile was triumphant, and a trifle smug. "Whilst you were playing cat-and-mouse with the Fleming, I was having better luck. Remember Gilbert's unknown partner? Well, he is unknown no longer. We're looking for a lout named Sampson, one of Winchester's least-loved sons. I daresay the entire town heaved a great sigh of relief when he fled with Gilbert. Unfortunately, we never lack for felons, but at least Sampson is London's worry now — and ours."
"Good work, Luke. But are you sure this is the man? I doubt that I could identify him."