The queen's man : a medieval mystery by Penman Sharon Kay

Author:Penman, Sharon Kay
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Eleanor, of Aquitaine, Queen, consort of Henry II, King of England, 1122?-1204
Publisher: New York, NY : Ballantine Books
Published: 1998-09-14T16:00:00+00:00

THE QUEEN'S MAN

he could have rolled clear. Instead, the wheels ran over his chest." Setting her cider down, she said, without irony, "He was lucky. He died quick."

Justin offered no sympathy, for it was clear she neither expected nor wanted it. "You had no family to turn to, Nell?"

"Money and family—I never had much of either. Most are dead, like Will. So I took in laundry and did sewing and a few times, what I did is better left betwixt me and God. None of it was enough to pay the rent on our house. Here at least we have a bed of our own, my girl and me . . . and that is no small thing, Master de Quincy."

"Make it Justin," he said. "How did you end up here?"

"I have not 'ended up' anywhere, not yet! I admit the Lord's plan for me seems right murky at times, and trying to find my way can be like looking for a black cat at midnight. For now, the road has led me and Lucy here. A cousin on my mother's side is wed to Godfrey, who owns this pigsty. He is old and soured and crippled by gout, and he's come to depend on me more than he'd ever admit. I started by helping out, but now I do the ordering and hiring and firing and in return for all that, I get a bed above-stairs, a weekly wage, and the fun of fending off dolts like the one you tossed out on his ear. But I hope to—"

Nell flinched at the sound of a sudden, loud pounding, showing that her nerves were not as steady as she'd have Justin believe. "Shall I tell them that the alehouse is not open yet?" he offered, and when she nodded, he headed for the door.

The pounding had continued, unabated. Lifting the bolt, Justin opened the door and scowled at the intruder. "You'll have to come back later."

"I think not," the intruder said, and Justin braced for trouble. The man's appearance was no more reassuring than his words. He was of medium height, well muscled and well armed, his mantle swept back to reveal both a scabbard and a sheathed dagger. It was hard to estimate his age. Somewhere, Justin guessed, between thirty and death, and when death did come, it was not likely to be a peaceful one. A black eyepatch, a thin slash of a mouth, contorted at one corner into a sinister parody of a

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