Free Prince of Darkness by Sharon Penman Page A

animal not much larger than a pony. This was such a common occurrence that few of the spectators had pity to spare for the beast. But Justin had always had a fondness for horses and underdogs, and the sight of that heaving, wheezing animal, lathered and bloodied, stirred his anger. He was shoving his way toward the cart when another man darted from the crowd and grabbed the carter’s whip as he lifted it to strike again.
    “Do that and by God, I’ll make you eat it!” he threatened, wrenching the whip from the carter’s grasp and flinging it aside. The carter was sputtering in outrage and the spectators elbowed closer, anticipating a fight. The newcomer was of only average height, several inches shorter than the carter, but he was broad-chested and well-muscled, and the coiled tension in his stance communicated a willingness to see this through to the bloody end. The carter hesitated, glancing around for allies. Not finding any, he began fumbling with the knife at his belt. It was obvious that he did not really want to unsheathe it, but Justin knew that pride and the jostling bystanders could prod him into it if the confrontation were allowed to ferment.
    Swaggering forward, he said loudly, in his best Luke de Marston manner, “Who is the fool blocking the road? Carts are stacking up like firewood! What are you all waiting for—Easter? You, you, and you—”
    Pointing at random to the closest men, he directed them to help him free the mired cart, and so convincing was his assumption of authority that no one thought to question it. The carthorse’s champion had taken hold of the animal’s reins, coaxing it on as men put their shoulders to the wheels. The cart was soon free, and he reluctantly turned the reins over to the carter. But his grey eyes blazed when the carter started to clamber up into the cart, and Justin swiftly intervened again, pointing out that the hill was a high one and the horse would do better if it did not have to lug the carter’s weight, too. The carter scowled and swore under his breath. He dared not challenge Justin’s under-sheriff imitation, though, and walked alongside the laboring horse as they started up The Wyle.
    “You did what you could,” Justin said to the carthorse’s defender as they stood in the street watching the cart lumber up the hill.
    “I suppose...” The other man shook his head, keeping his gaze fixed upon the slow-moving carthorse. “But you know damned well that lout will waste no time finding another switch.”
    “True, but the last I heard, they still hang horse thieves,” Justin said, and got a stare in return, followed by a quick smile.
    “Aye, so they do,” the man said, conceding that the carthorse’s fate was beyond his control, and then, “I am Morgan Bloet.”
    “Justin de Quincy.”
    Falling in step, they began walking down The Wyle. Justin judged Morgan to be in his early twenties. He interested Justin because he seemed such a mix of contradictions. His given name was Welsh, but his French was colloquial, with no hint of a Welsh accent. His hair was dark, but his skin was fair enough to sport a few freckles. His garb was plain but finely woven, not homespun. He had no sword, but when the carter had been groping for his knife, Justin had seen Morgan’s hand drop instinctively to his left hip, where a scabbard would have been worn. He looked like a man who’d be handy in a brawl, but the carthorse’s plight had moved him almost to tears. And most intriguing of all, he seemed vaguely familiar to Justin, even though he felt sure they’d never met before.
    They talked amiably as they passed through the town gate and onto the bridge that linked Shrewsbury with the abbey community of St Peter and St Paul. After paying the toll, they continued on toward the abbey’s gatehouse. “If you are in need of lodgings,” Morgan cautioned once they’d been waved into the monastery precincts, “you’re out of luck. The guest hall is full to bursting,