Crispin stepped into the street. He pulled up short and yanked them both back when a cart rumbled swiftly by, kicking up clods of mud. “I have acquaintances in many places. Perhaps no longer in the finer halls of court, but I do have loyal friends in the scullery.”
“Ain’t you full of surprises.”
He said nothing to that. When the way was clear, he herded the women into the street, thinking about how he was to accomplish the impossible. He chuckled to himself. Impossible feats were his specialty. After all, surviving treason had been an impossible feat and here he was.
He dodged an arrogant-looking man on a fine white stallion. Pulling both women clear of the horse’s heavily shod hooves, he bowed low. The man never once looked his way.
Yes, here he was.
They traveled through London’s gates without exchanging any words and crossed the Fleet, making the long walk to Temple Barr into a descending fog. Westminster was still a good walk hence, giving him plenty of time to think. Why had Miles run from court just to find the scullions? There must be some greater plan afoot. It was easy enough for Miles to come and go. It made Crispin grind his teeth at the audacity.
He adjusted the arrows in his belt—three now with the one that nearly speared Livith. She must have noticed, for she grabbed one of the arrows and pulled it out. “What you doing with these?”
He stopped, took it out of her hand, and thrust it back in his belt. “They are the arrows the killer used. I know the maker and he can identify for whom he made them by the marks on the shafts.”
She whistled. “ ’Slud! So you don’t know who the killer is.”
“I’m afraid I do. But I would have solid evidence.”
“Who then?”
He looked at her heavy brows, dark near her nose’s juncture. They tapered outward, ending in a slight upturn, echoing the angle of her long lashes. They were faeries’ eyes, almond-shaped, impish. Her angular cheekbones caught the spilled light from an open shutter and directed his gaze downward toward her small mouth, the top lip with its two sharp points, and its bottom sister, round, pouting, as if some passionate stranger bit it.
“I suppose you have a right to know. It is the king’s own Captain of the Archers.”
“Christ’s bloody hands! Does the king know?”
“Not yet. You see now why I must have absolute proof?” He placed his hand on the three arrows. “That is why I need to take these to Master Edward Peale. He is the king’s fletcher. He will know.”
“You can’t go into court with arrows in your belt. Especially looking like the ones what shot the king.”
His fingers teased the hawk feathers. “You may be right.” He yanked them from his belt and broke them over his knee. He tossed the pointed ends into the gutter and stuffed the remaining fletched portions into his empty money pouch. “Let us go, then.”
Grayce stopped. “You’re going to leave them arrowheads in the gutter?”
“Come on, Grayce.” Livith grabbed her arm and glanced up at the surrounding rooftops slowly disappearing in the gray-white fog. “Make haste, now, Master Crispin. I don’t like being out in the open.”
They walked in silence for a time, just another set of travelers along London’s streets. Crispin felt Livith looking at him and after her long scrutiny, he turned toward her curious expression. Her face did not exactly inquire but hid more than it told in the slight smile that turned up those appealing lips.
She pushed a strand of blond hair out of her eyes. “What sort of man is a ‘Tracker’? It’s a strange-sounding profession.”
“No more, no less than any other.”
“You’re like the sheriff but you ain’t the sheriff. You’re not even the sheriff’s man. It don’t seem right, you on your own.”
“It’s the way I like it.”
She rubbed the ban dage at her side, grunted from pain, and shouldered her bundle again. “You think I don’t know who you are, but I do. There’s not a soul in this part of London who don’t know you—and that you used to be a knight before you committed treason.”
“And?” His voice dropped into a threatening tenor, but he didn’t care. If she wanted to fish this pond she’d better take the consequences.
“And here you are. Working for me. Don’t that gall you?”
He eyed her sidelong, but his lids never raised more than half. “Sometimes.”
That made her smile, slow and easy. “Ah you’re a one, you are. You’re hard to reckon. Why not become an outlaw on the highways? Other knights struck by poverty take to it readily enough.”
“That is not my way.”
“ ‘That is not my way,’ ” she mimicked. “You know there’s no chance in hell I’ll have your sixpence—and now it’s got to a shilling at least. Why do it?”
He had to agree with that. Livith’s meager income could never match his fee, and he lived or starved by that fee. He huffed a breath, watching the cloud of cold air wisp up past his sharp nose. “For the challenge,” he said at last, surprising himself for uttering it.
Livith laughed, hearty and guttural. The kind of laugh a wench might press against your chest in bed. Crispin nudged his cloak open to get a flush of cold air.
“The challenge?” Livith shook her head. “What stupid nonsense! That’s just the sort of rubbish a nobleman might mouth. A man’s got to eat and that’s that.”
“You are clearly not a man.”
She laughed that deep laugh again and nudged him with her elbow. “I hoped you’d notice.”
Crispin raised a brow. “What I mean is, men need a challenge. They need to feel useful, that they fill an important place in the world.”
“And this is yours? Helping poor folk what don’t have a pot to piss in? You’ll never get rich that way.”
“I admit. It isn’t the most sensible of professions. But it is mine.”
“You’re a strange man. But I like you, Crispin Guest.”
He sniffed the cold air. The smells of the Shambles lay far behind them now. They neared Lancaster’s old palace, the Savoy, at least what was left of it after a peasant rabble burnt it to the ground three years ago. The air smelled of the familiarity of court, his old home.
She smiled. A dimple dented one cheek. A pleasant smile, a smile reminding Crispin to keep his warm cloak open. “There’s a lot to you,” she said. “I’ll wager those cockerels at court don’t know the half of it.”
“Nor would they care.”
“And they’d be fools. But you already know that. No, they don’t know what they gave up when they sent you away. I suppose they’ll be sorry one day, eh? You’ll make ’em sorry.”
“I don’t see how.”
“You’ll best ’em, that’s what. Somehow, some way, you’ll best ’em. And they’ll know it. And they’ll be sorry.”
Her face flushed and her eyes stared ahead determinedly. Crispin wondered if this vehemence came from some recent hurt or one of longer ago. “The only one responsible for sending me from court was his Majesty.”
“He just might be sorry, too, someday.”
Crispin caught her eye and offered her a lopsided grin. “Now you’re speaking treason.”
“Am I?” She crossed herself. “Well, God preserve me, though I don’t know why He would. I blaspheme enough, too.”
They spoke no more the rest of the way to Westminster. Nearing the palace, Crispin counted far too many men-at-arms pacing the mouth of the street.
“We’ll never get through,” hissed Livith in his ear. His sentiments, but he didn’t agree aloud.
“Say nothing,” he said. He threw his hood up over his head and dragged it low to cover his eyes, and moved ahead of the women toward the palace courtyard. They were immediately stopped by two soldiers in armor and helms, visors up.
“I said clear off the street!” said one, raising his gauntlet-covered hand to Crispin.
Crispin bowed, and in his best imitation of Jack Tucker, said, “Ow m’lord! We was just returning to the kitchens f
rom a long trip to me ailing aunt. What’s amiss?”
The soldier snorted. “Do you know nothing? There has been an attempt on the king’s life. No one enters here.”
Crispin portrayed the appropriate astonishment and turned to the women. “Did you hear that? Then his Majesty will be wanting his favorite dainties for sure.”
“These are cooks?”
“Ow no m’lord.” Crispin chuckled good-naturedly. “These is scullions. I’m one of the cooks. Just ask Onslow Blunt. He’s the head cook. Go on. Ask him.”
The soldier eyed the women and inspected Crispin with a sneer. For once the absence of a sword served Crispin well. The man stepped aside. “Very well. That way, then. To the kitchens.”
Crispin bowed several times and dragged the women with him. “Thank you, good Master. God bless you, good Master. God save the king.” Out of earshot Crispin straightened. “He’ll need it.”
Livith turned a grin at him. “I didn’t know you did voices.”
He only raised a brow in reply and led them through a long alleyway between the palace walls and the palace itself until he came to another small courtyard where the kitchen outbuildings stood. Standing before a large wooden door, he didn’t bother trying the handle, reckoning that it would be barred. He knocked and waited only a few beats when a scullion boy answered. “Whose knocking?” he asked and then looked up. “Oh! It’s Sir Crispin! What did I say to Master Onslow? I said, ‘This wretched business with the king is just the thing for Crispin Guest. He’s that Tracker and I’ll wager he can find this man with the bow.’ That’s what I said.”
Crispin smiled a grim smile and pushed over the threshold. “And what did Onslow say?”
“He wagered a farthing you wouldn’t come. I’ve won that, I have!”
“So you have.”
Crispin stepped in farther and Livith and Grayce entered. The boy stared at them. “And what is all this, Sir Crispin?”
It was useless to tell the lad not to call him that. “Where is Onslow, Freddy?”
Freddy scratched his mane of brown hair. “He’s at the hearths. I’ll take you.”
Freddy moved ahead but couldn’t help look over his shoulder at the silent women. Livith merely stared ahead of her, but Grayce rolled her eyes, looking at all the new sights.
The aromas of roasting meats and savory pottage billowed toward them. It was warmer as they neared the fires. A tall, strapping man with flaming ginger hair and an equally flaming beard flung his arms over the chaos of the kitchens. Staff scrabbled in all directions trying to keep up with his shouted orders. Kettles bubbled over the fire. Three-legged cauldrons shot steam out from under iron lids. Two young boys, no older than four, took turns turning the gears to a great iron spit roasting three pigs and four goats over one of the larger hearths. There were six hearths in all and a few separate braziers with smaller fowl dripping juices from prongs.
Crispin stood behind him, fists at hips.
“And move, you!” Onslow bellowed. A young boy, face dirty with soot, carried several large platters in his outstretched arms. Crispin feared he would drop them and earn a beating, but the boy had obviously been at this for some years, and moved nimbly past his master.
“You, Onslow, are the very picture of an Egyptian taskmaster.”
Onslow swiveled. His face screwed up in preparation for a barrage of curses . . . when it all loosened into a jovial slant. “Sir Crispin! Mother of God, what are you doing here? It has been many a day!”
“Yes, in the days when I could rightfully be called ‘Sir’ Crispin.”
“Aw now.” Onslow reddened. He grabbed Crispin’s shoulders, but thankfully did not enclose him in a hug. His apron looked too greasy for that. “You’re not here for what I think you’re here for?”
“And what do you think I’m here for?”
He sidled up to Crispin and spoke in low tones. “You know. The king? Someone tried to put him out of his misery.”
“I thought you did that every day with your cooking.”
He smacked Crispin’s shoulder affably, but the wallop nearly sent Crispin reeling. Onslow’s hands were as large as some of his platters. He laughed but stopped and drew on a serious expression. “That’s not a funny jest, Sir Crispin. I could be dragged into prison for suspicions like that.”
“You haven’t yet,” he said.
“You never said as much when you sampled my food before taking them to his grace the duke.”
“No, admittedly, I was better behaved then.” Crispin’s smile turned grave. “Now I have a favor to ask. These women”—he thumbed behind him—“they need work.”
Onslow’s face brightened. “You’ve come to the right place. We always need extra hands.”
Crispin spoke in quiet tones. “They need a private place to sleep. Away from the others. No cots in the great hall, nor may they clean in the hall. Let them work only in the kitchens, nowhere else. Understand?”
Onslow didn’t, but Crispin had known him a long time and he counted on that. Onslow’s eyes worked it out and he gave a final nod in agreement. “I’ll get Freddy to show them their place. I suppose you’ll tell me all about it over a beaker at the Boar’s Tusk.”
“Soon. Livith. Grayce. This is Master Onslow, the best royal cook of all time.”
“Any friends of Sir Crispin’s—” He urged them forward and then gave a whistle for Freddy, who remarkably heard it above the clatter. “Join me in a cup now, Sir Crispin?” Onslow asked over his shoulder.
Crispin shook his head. “That would cheer me greatly, but there’s no time now. If I may, I would like to look about.”
But Onslow’s lighthearted expression turned somber. “Er . . . Sir Crispin.” He looked around and motioned Crispin aside. “It has been many a year, true. And for the last four years you have been well known, honest as the day is long. But sir . . . you were cast from court because . . . because . . .”
“I would have seen the king deposed,” Crispin said quietly.
“Aye, you see the point. Deposed or . . .” He leaned closer and whispered, “Or dead.”
Crispin nodded. “I see the difficulty. Perhaps this is why I am here, eh? To finish the job begun seven years ago?”
“Never jest about it! It could mean our heads.” His eyes darted this way and that but no one was close enough within the noise of the kitchens to overhear them. “But I have known you since you were a page in Lancaster’s household. Treason or no, you are a man of character. And if you swear to me by our Lady that you will do no harm to the king, then I will believe you.”
Crispin steadied his gaze on Onslow’s gray eyes. He placed his hand upon his own breast. “I solemnly swear to you, Master Onslow, on the soul of our dear Lady, that I will do the king no harm. I am here to protect him.”
Onslow let out a long breath and his cheeks rosied again. “There now. That assures me better than any priest’s oath.” He gestured toward the stairway leading to the great hall. “You know the way.”
Onslow didn’t stop to observe Crispin depart. He returned to shouting orders to his army of cooks at the hearths and cooking pots.
Freddy ushered the women away to their third lodgings in two days. Crispin’s thoughts could now concentrate on a crowd of images. Miles Aleyn, for one. But he also gave a thought or two to the French couriers. Where were they now? Did they make it to court? Return to France? He’d have to make inquiries.
Miles knew something about the women and pursued them to the Boar’s Tusk. If he thought Grayce had seen him, why did he not try to kill Grayce? If only she would speak! If he could only get her to say what she saw. Alas. He’d be just as likely to get a mule to speak, though a mule was bound to be wiser! Poor Grayce. Poor Livith. He gave the sinewy sister an extra thought and turned back to catch a glimpse of her in the clutter and scrambling of Onslow’s cooks and scullions, but she was lost amid the rabble and savory steam.
He made the short walk across a courtyard and then up some steps that took him from
the kitchens to the great hall. An army of servants hustled there almost as much as they did in the kitchens. There were trestle tables to set up, benches to put in place. The trestles whined as they scraped across the stone floor. Servants with linens were carefully draping them over the tables, smoothing the wrinkles away with clean hands. Men on ladders were fitting large wax candles into candelabras as big as saplings, while their assistants were scrambling about bringing more candles. Still others worked tirelessly with brooms at the perimeters, sweeping away the dust and dirt.
No one took notice of Crispin.
And so. Richard wanted his feast to show the court he was not afraid. “But he should be,” Crispin muttered. The killer was not through.
Crispin looked out across the huge room with its high ceilings of open timber arches supported by two rows of pillars. Large, arched windows, with reticulated clear glass, lined both long walls north to south. Raised steps with Richard’s marble throne stood at one end and heraldic drapery of banners and tapestries hanging from iron rods ran along both sides down the length of the hall, some flat against the wall and others protruding like banners before a battle.
He wondered where Miles might be. Was he quartered in the palace or with the garrison? He couldn’t very well ask. But he still wanted to know. He wanted to know so many things. Why did he wish to kill the king? Was the old plot unfolding all over again? But if killing the king was his only objective, why waste time slaying a French courier?
He looked again at the throne, and like a moth drawn to a flame Crispin walked with slow steps toward the chair.
No guards. Stupid. Reckless. But so was Richard. He was seventeen now. Though no longer considered a child, it would be four more years before he was considered in his full majority. He made decisions for the realm relying at first on his uncle Lancaster. And though Parliament refused to make him regent, Lancaster continued to counsel the boy and hence ruled the realm, though from what Crispin heard, the king’s former tutor Simon Burley and Richard’s Chancellor, Michael de la Pole, had taken over those duties. That surely did not sit well with the duke. Rumors from court suggested that the nobles felt shut out of the king’s decisions. Richard more and more used the counsel of his friends over that of the nobles. That sat well with no one.
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