habit, bred into his bones even before he’d become the queen’s man and the bearer of too many secrets. “I almost forgot,” he said. “I bought a rattle for Aline in Boulogne. It is over there in my saddlebag...”
“Sit still,” Baldwin instructed, “lest you awake the little lass. I’ll fetch it.” Rising with a creaking of what he ruefully called his “old bones,” he soon found the rattle. Straightening up, he smiled at the sight that met his eyes, for Justin had dozed off, joining his infant daughter in sleep. Sarra had also noticed, and gently freed the baby from Justin’s grasp, returning Aline to her cradle. Picking up a blanket, Baldwin tucked it around the young man’s shoulders, and smiled again, this time at his wife. “I think,” he said, “this might work out.”
Dusk was blurring the last light of day as Justin rode across the Dee Bridge and into the city of Chester. He stopped first at the castle, for he was hoping that the earl would provide him with an armed escort for his foray into Wales. He’d given Prince Davydd good reason to wish him ill, and Davydd was not a man to listen to his better instincts—assuming he had any. The earl’s steward remembered Justin from past visits and he was made welcome. But when Justin asked to see the earl, the steward had disquieting, disappointing news for him. The Earl of Chester was gone from the city, gone from the country, having crossed over to his estates in Normandy and Brittany more than a month ago.
Thinking this was not an auspicious beginning to his mission, Justin sought solace at Molly’s cottage. The shutters were drawn, no smoke smudged the sky over the roof, and his knocking went unanswered. Hoping that Molly was not off with Piers Fitz Turold, the wealthy vintner who was her protector and the suspected source for much of Chester’s criminal activity, Justin headed for the dockside tavern owned by Fitz Turold and run by Molly’s brother, Bennet.
Bennet was not there, nor was Berta, the sullen, buxom serving maid. The man pouring drinks was a stranger to Justin, a burly, scarred redhead with unfriendly eyes and a mouth like a padlock. Justin’s questions about Bennet’s whereabouts were met with shrugs, suspicion, and silence. Justin was not surprised by the lack of cooperation; Fitz Turold was not known for hiring Good Samaritans. He was brooding over a flagon of wine, keeping an eye peeled for Bennet when a voice bellowed in his ear, “By God, it’s Ben’s friend!”
The youth beaming at him was vaguely familiar, but it was the salutation Justin remembered more than the face. Algar was one of the tavern regulars, a good-natured lad with a crush on Berta and an annoying habit of addressing Justin as “Ben’s friend.” For once, though, Justin was glad to see him and he gestured for Algar to pull up a stool. “You always know what is going on around here, Algar. Where is Bennet? And for that matter, where is Berta?”
“Berta is home, drunker than a peddler’s bitch,” Algar said, grinning. “She has been ailing for days with a bad tooth. We finally coaxed her into letting the barber pull it, but she refused to do it sober and damned near drained one of Ben’s kegs dry all by herself!”
“And Bennet? Is that where he is, with Berta?”
“No, Ben has been away all week. Molly went off to Dunham-on-the-Hill to tend to a friend whose time was nigh, and Ben went along to keep her safe.”
“Do you know when they’ll be back?”
“I suppose,” Algar said, “it depends upon how fast her friend has the baby!”
Justin took advantage of his connection to the earl to get a bed for the night at the castle. Sleep wouldn’t come, though. He’d faced danger before, greater danger than he was likely to encounter at Davydd’s court. But if he died in Wales, what would happen to Aline? She would continue to be cared for; the queen and Claudine would see to that. But who would tell her about her blood-kin, her true
“Sit still,” Baldwin instructed, “lest you awake the little lass. I’ll fetch it.” Rising with a creaking of what he ruefully called his “old bones,” he soon found the rattle. Straightening up, he smiled at the sight that met his eyes, for Justin had dozed off, joining his infant daughter in sleep. Sarra had also noticed, and gently freed the baby from Justin’s grasp, returning Aline to her cradle. Picking up a blanket, Baldwin tucked it around the young man’s shoulders, and smiled again, this time at his wife. “I think,” he said, “this might work out.”
Dusk was blurring the last light of day as Justin rode across the Dee Bridge and into the city of Chester. He stopped first at the castle, for he was hoping that the earl would provide him with an armed escort for his foray into Wales. He’d given Prince Davydd good reason to wish him ill, and Davydd was not a man to listen to his better instincts—assuming he had any. The earl’s steward remembered Justin from past visits and he was made welcome. But when Justin asked to see the earl, the steward had disquieting, disappointing news for him. The Earl of Chester was gone from the city, gone from the country, having crossed over to his estates in Normandy and Brittany more than a month ago.
Thinking this was not an auspicious beginning to his mission, Justin sought solace at Molly’s cottage. The shutters were drawn, no smoke smudged the sky over the roof, and his knocking went unanswered. Hoping that Molly was not off with Piers Fitz Turold, the wealthy vintner who was her protector and the suspected source for much of Chester’s criminal activity, Justin headed for the dockside tavern owned by Fitz Turold and run by Molly’s brother, Bennet.
Bennet was not there, nor was Berta, the sullen, buxom serving maid. The man pouring drinks was a stranger to Justin, a burly, scarred redhead with unfriendly eyes and a mouth like a padlock. Justin’s questions about Bennet’s whereabouts were met with shrugs, suspicion, and silence. Justin was not surprised by the lack of cooperation; Fitz Turold was not known for hiring Good Samaritans. He was brooding over a flagon of wine, keeping an eye peeled for Bennet when a voice bellowed in his ear, “By God, it’s Ben’s friend!”
The youth beaming at him was vaguely familiar, but it was the salutation Justin remembered more than the face. Algar was one of the tavern regulars, a good-natured lad with a crush on Berta and an annoying habit of addressing Justin as “Ben’s friend.” For once, though, Justin was glad to see him and he gestured for Algar to pull up a stool. “You always know what is going on around here, Algar. Where is Bennet? And for that matter, where is Berta?”
“Berta is home, drunker than a peddler’s bitch,” Algar said, grinning. “She has been ailing for days with a bad tooth. We finally coaxed her into letting the barber pull it, but she refused to do it sober and damned near drained one of Ben’s kegs dry all by herself!”
“And Bennet? Is that where he is, with Berta?”
“No, Ben has been away all week. Molly went off to Dunham-on-the-Hill to tend to a friend whose time was nigh, and Ben went along to keep her safe.”
“Do you know when they’ll be back?”
“I suppose,” Algar said, “it depends upon how fast her friend has the baby!”
Justin took advantage of his connection to the earl to get a bed for the night at the castle. Sleep wouldn’t come, though. He’d faced danger before, greater danger than he was likely to encounter at Davydd’s court. But if he died in Wales, what would happen to Aline? She would continue to be cared for; the queen and Claudine would see to that. But who would tell her about her blood-kin, her true
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