Free Prince of Darkness by Sharon Penman Page B

mostly with my lady’s men. Mayhap if you tell the monks that you’re queasy, they’ll let you have a bed in the infirmary. No, not a stomach ailment,” he corrected himself, with a grin, “for then you’d get naught but broth for supper. Tell them you’re feverish.”
    Morgan’s jesting was wasted on Justin, for he’d stopped listening at the words “my lady’s men.” “I heard the Lady Emma was staying here. Are you in her service, Morgan?”
    “Aye, I am. Not for long, just since Christmas. But she says I am the best of her grooms, and of course she is quite right!”
    That explained Morgan’s empathy for the abused carthorse. “I am seeking an audience with the Lady Emma,” Justin said, and Morgan gave him another quick smile.
    “Well, mayhap you’re in luck, after all. Come, I’ll try to get you in,” he offered, so obviously proud of his standing in Emma’s household that Justin was touched in spite of all he knew about the Lady Emma. He followed Morgan into the guest hall, and watched as the groom approached one of Emma’s handmaidens on his behalf. He was back so soon that Justin knew his news could not be good.
    “Lady Mabella says Lady Emma is dining with Abbot Hugh, so you’ll have to wait till the morrow. Let’s see if we can talk the hosteller into squeezing you in with the other grooms—”
    “You!” There was so much fury in that one word that Justin and Morgan both spun around in alarm. At the sight of the wrathful figure limping toward them, Justin suppressed a sigh, for Oliver was no stranger to him. The aging Norman knight was Emma’s faithful retainer, bodyguard, and co-conspirator, perhaps the one man whom she truly trusted.
    “I cannot believe my own eyes! That you would dare to show your face after all the grief you caused my lady!”
    I know; it was very unchivalrous of me to thwart her plans to steal the king’s ransom. The sarcastic retort hovered on Justin’s lips and he had to bite the words back, for Emma and John’s scheme had not been publicized; John’s crimes rarely were. “At the risk of being rude, I do not answer to you, Sir Oliver.”
    Oliver’s mouth thinned. “Ah, yes, I know. You answer only to the queen. But you also answer to the Almighty, and that day of reckoning may be sooner than you think!”
    By now they’d become the center of attention. Several monks were rapidly approaching, and Justin decided that a strategic retreat was in order. Morgan was staring at him, but he did not acknowledge their acquaintanceship in front of the furious Oliver, and Justin gave him credit for good sense. While avoiding the appearance of haste, he exited the hall before the monks could descend upon him.
    Outside, he paused to consider his options, concluding that he had no choice but to return the next day. Before leaving the monastery, he slipped into the great abbey church and offered a prayer at the altar of St Winifred, or Gwenfrewi, for he’d become fond of the little Welsh saint who’d died in defense of her honor and then been reborn so long, long ago. Afterward, he decided to go back to Shrewsbury Castle, for it was now fully dark and he did not want to be shut out of the town when the gates closed.
    There were still people about, all hurrying home before the curfew horn sounded, and Justin joined the flowing tide of humanity. By the time he’d retraced his steps to Gombestole Street, the crowd had thinned considerably. Making his way past a cook-shop, he remembered he hadn’t yet eaten, but it was tightly shuttered.
    His steps slowed as he approached the entrance to Grope Lane, for the narrow footpath was a favorite shortcut into the Fleshambles, Chepyn Street, and the town marketplace. He was tempted to take it, for the wind was picking up, but it was more than a popular haunt for street harlots. So many cutthroats lurked there after dark that locals called it Ambush Alley. Wisely bypassing this dangerous detour, Justin continued on.
    Wet snowflakes