reminded by her stomach that it had been long since she had broken her fast, decided to postpone asking why Manette had made such a curious remark.
“I thought I was going to have to go upstairs, sword drawn, and set you free,” Brys growled when his squire at last clumped down the ladder that led to the rooms where the serving wenches entertained their customers in a more personal manner.
“Pardon, my lord, but the woman was insatiable.” Maislin’s grin was unrepetentant. “She said it been too long since she had had a man as well-equipped as I.”
Brys nearly choked on his ale.
“’Tis the truth, my lord, I swear she said it!” he protested in an aggrieved tone. “I have the scratches on my back from that she-cat to prove it! And the tricks she knows…” Maislin sighed, still grinning. “If I died tonight, I should die happy. She’ll do until the right lady comes along, at least.”
“The right lady won’t be happy if this wench’s given you the pox,” Brys retorted, then realized he sounded like a sour old man. Was he envying his squire’s carefree hedonism, after encouraging him to indulge this once in it? It wasn’t as if Maislin ever shirked his duties. “But we’ve dallied long enough. ’Tis getting late—I’d thought to press on toward Kent, but now I think we’ll stay the night at my London house, and depart in the morning.”
“Yes, my lord. We’re going to visit Stephen’s queen?”
Brys nodded. “I think it’s time I checked to see what Matilda of Boulogne is up to while her lord husband is imprisoned. She isn’t one to take this enforced separation lightly. Perhaps she’ll have a letter she wants delivered to Stephen at his Bristol gaol—” He stopped speaking as a pair of men-at-arms in waist-length shirts of boiled leather strode into the tavern, ruthlessly shouldering aside an old man who was just leaving.
“Ho, tavern master! Ale, qvick!” one of them said, his accent thickly foreign.
“Flemings,” Brys breathed.
“I wonder what they’re doing here?” Maislin muttered, eyeing the two who had their backs to them. “I heard Queen Matilda had sent for Flemish mercenaries, but I thought she kept them with her at her stronghold in Kent?”
“So I thought, too. Let’s just keep our mouths shut, and see what we may learn from these blustering blowhards.”
“Here you are, my good sirs,” the tavern master said, handing the Flemings their mugs with anxious alacrity. “A farthing apiece will call it even.”
“Ve pay ven ve leave,” growled one of the foreigners, whose greasy, tow-colored locks hung to his shoulders.
“Very well…going to pass the evening drinking, are you? Rose will take care of your needs, good sirs, when your mugs are empty,” he added as the serving wench Maislin had just been upstairs with returned to the public room. “And if you have other needs,” he added with an unctuous leer, “she’ll be happy to attend to those, as well.”
“Come, pritty gurl!” commanded the greasy-haired Fleming, pulling Rose onto his lap and shoving a hand down the loose neckline of her gown.
Opposite him, Maislin’s hand tightened on the dagger he wore at his belt, and he half-rose.
“Don’t be a fool!” Brys growled in a low voice, reaching a restraining hand out to his squire’s shoulder. “We’re not getting in a brawl over a tavern wench’s favors. Look—she doesn’t seem the least bit unwilling,” he added, as the woman giggled at the foreigner’s pawing.
Maislin set his jaw, but to Brys’s relief, did nothing further. Poor Maislin—minutes ago he had been a strutting cock, and now he meant nothing more than a well-earned penny clinking against others in the woman’s pocket.
“Welcome t’ Lunnon-town, me fine sirs,” Rose cooed to the avid-eyed men-at-arms. “Ye’re Flanders born, are ye not? Tell Rose why ye’ve come to the city,” she coaxed. Then, unseen by her new audience, she winked in Brys and Maislin’s direction.
Why, Maislin must have been bragging to the tavern wench about his exploits in Brys’s service, damn his foolish hide! Maislin, I’m going to wring your neck at my next opportunity, you thick-brained oaf, Brys silently vowed. But first, he’d take advantage of what he could overhear.
“Ve serve Matilda,” one of the Flemings was boasting, tapping his massive chest.
“What, the empress herself?”
“No, foolish gurl—Queen Matilda, vife of King Stephen.”
“But I thought she was holed up in the southeast? I’m hearin’ the empress owns the city now.”
The two Flemings guffawed. “Soon, no. The qveen comes to meet wit’ that German Matilda. If she does not gif’ the qveen what she wants, there vill be trouble here. You too pretty to see such trouble. Come back sout’ wit’ Jan, yes?”
Maislin bristled at the words. “As if she’d go with the likes o’ them! And the empress isn’t German—she’s King Henry’s true daughter! I ought to go acquaint that Flemish bastard with the facts—”
“Do so, and you’ll be looking for another lord, you mutton-head,” Brys snapped, still keeping his voice low.
“No, I don’t think so,” Rose was saying, “but thanks just the same. A plague on all rulers, I say.” Now the look Rose leveled at Brys over the seated Flemings’ heads was weary. “No matter what they do, it all means trouble to the ord’nry folk.”
They listened awhile longer, but learned nothing more that could be useful. When it looked as if Rose was going to go upstairs with the Fleming who’d called himself Jan, Brys decided it was time to leave. He didn’t want to watch his squire’s anguished face any longer.
As they strode into the deepening shadows of a summer twilight and went to reclaim their horses from the youth they’d paid to guard them, Brys said, “Look you, we were in the right place at the right time, and because we didn’t waste our time brawling, we learned something useful. Therefore, we won’t be making a useless journey to Kent on the morrow.”
“What will we be doing instead?”
“Learning where Stephen’s queen is staying while she waits for an audience with the empress.”
“Then we’ll go and attend her?” Maislin’s brow was furrowed with concentration, and he had apparently already forgotten about Rose’s faithlessness.
“Yes…we’ll offer to carry a letter to Bristol. But tonight we’re going to go and warn the empress that trouble may be brewing in London,” Brys said as he swung up into the saddle.
“Tonight.” Maislin’s tone was neutral, but his crestfallen face told another story. Having drunk his fill and tupped a wench, Maislin was clearly ready to head for Brys’s nearby London house with its clean beds and excellent meals, not back to Westminster at this late hour.
“But my lord,” he protested, even though he was already reining his horse in the direction of London Bridge, “whether we go on horseback or take a boat, by the time we reach Westminster, the empress will be abed.”
“Then we’ll just have to wake her,” Brys said, imagining just how ill Matilda would take such effrontery. “Hours may count, so the empress needs to know as quickly as possible. We’ll have to be well away before ’tis fully light, too. I don’t dare be caught at Westminster rubbing elbows with Stephen’s rival by Stephen’s queen.”
Maislin sighed. “My lord, why do you do it?”
“Do what, Maislin?” Brys asked. “I thought I just explained why we were going to Westminster now.”
“Nay, not that. I understand your purpose well enough, even if ’tis my opinion it could all wait upon the morrow. I meant serving the Empress Matilda.”
“My father vowed