Cruel As the Grave Read Free Page A

midst. Secrets did not fare any better on Gracechurch Street than at the royal court, and only the very old and the very young did not know by now that Justin de Quincy was the queen's man. But he'd been befriended by two of their own - Gunter the smith and Nell, who ran the alehouse - and their friendship was Justin's passport into their world.
     
    Gunter was alone in the smithy, sharpening a file upon a whetstone. A lean, weathered man in his forties, he was taciturn both by inclination and by experience, and he greeted Justin with a nod, then went back to work. Justin led Copper, his chestnut stallion, into one of the stalls, set about unsaddling him. He would usually have gone on then to the cottage he rented from Gunter, but the wind now brought to him the muffled chiming of church bells; Compline was being rung. "Stop by the alehouse later," Justin said, "and I'll buy you a drink." Getting one of Gunter's quick, rare smiles in acknowledgment, he hastened out into the April night.
     
    He crossed the street, then ducked under the sagging ale-pole, entering the alehouse. It reeked of smoke and sweat and other odors best not identified, and was deep in shadow even at midday, for Nell was sparing with her tallow candles and oil lamps; she had to account for every half-penny to the parsimonious, aged owner. As Justin paused to let his eyes adjust to the gloom, a dog erupted from under a bench, barking joyously.
     
    Grinning, Justin bent to tussle playfully with the capering animal. "I should have known I'd find you over here," he said, and Shadow wriggled happily at the sound of that familiar voice. He was the first dog Justin had ever had, a young stray he'd plucked from the River Fleet and taken in temporarily. Although Justin still talked occasionally of finding the pup a good home, Shadow knew he already had one.
     
    "I ought to be charging you rent for that flea-bitten cur," Nell grumbled, sidestepping Shadow as she carried a tray of drinks toward some corner customers. "He swiped a chunk of cheese when my back was turned, then nearly knocked over a flagon with his tail. And if he had, I'd have made a pelt out of the wretched beast!"
     
    "I ought to be the one charging you," Justin countered. "How many alehouses have the free use of such a superior watchdog? If not for Shadow, the place might be overrun with cutpurses, prowlers, and vagabonds."
     
    Nell cast a dubious eye upon the dog, sprawled belly-up in the floor rushes. "I think I'd take my chances with the prowlers." Justin had found an empty table by the hearth and she came over, set an ale down, then took the seat opposite him. "How did that happen?" she asked, pointing toward the fresh bruise spreading along his cheekbone. "And do not tell me you ran into a door!"
     
    Justin hid his grin in the depths of his ale-cup, amused as always by the contrast between Nell's delicate appearance and her bold, forthright demeanor. She was barely five feet tall, with sapphire blue eyes, flaxen hair that invariably curled about her face in wispy disarray, and freckles she unsuccessfully tried to camouflage under a haphazard dusting of powder. With Nell, nothing was as it seemed. She looked as fragile as a child, but was tough-willed enough to run an alehouse - and to have helped Justin catch a killer. For all that she had a sailor's command of invective, her bluntness was armor for a surprisingly soft heart. A young widow with a small daughter, she was of a life that had not been easy, but then she had not expected it to be. She had little patience with fools, no sentimentality at all, and no education to speak of, but she did have courage, cornmon sense, and a pragmatic realism that made her a sister under the skin to England's aging queen. Justin could well imagine Nell's disbelief if ever he told her that she reminded him of the elegant, imperious Eleanor. But in truth, she did, for both women had a clear-eyed, unsparing view of their respective worlds, and neither one