‘Not the boy’s fault, though,’ he decided, nodding his head. Jack didn’t deserve him. He didn’t deserve Jack. Only the two thoughts meant something entirely different.
He reached into his hood to scratch at his hair. What was he doing here again? Oh yes.
He staggered forward, checking the signs hanging before the shops. A plump woman with a furred chaperone hood slammed into him. ‘Why don’t you watch where you’re going, churl!’ she said, righting herself and inspecting him.
Crispin did his best to bow, but with nearly two jugs of wine in him, it was sloppy at best. ‘I beg your mercy,’ he said.
She scoffed. ‘Drunk!’ Pushing past him she ambled up the lane.
He bowed to her retreating figure with a ‘Madam!’ He watched her move along the muddy street before he swiveled back to survey the signs above the shops. Surely he should be looking for a coil of rope. Ah! There! A knotted rope, then. A piece of rope, as thick as a child’s arm, hung from a hook above a door, dripping rainwater. Crispin checked and two doors down was a man with eels in a barrel, rolling those barrels into his shop for the night.
In between, was a door with no sign at all.
His shoulder was knocked again, this time by a man in a dark, billowing cloak. The man barely looked up from under his hood and grunted an apology. Crispin bowed with his hand over his heart, but the man continued on. Crispin tried to mind where he was going, waiting as a man pulling a rope leash tied around the horns of a particularly stubborn goat tugged his charge, splashing up mud and water until, with an angry grunt, he got behind the creature and kicked it. It trotted forward and he jogged to keep pace with it.
Once all was clear, Crispin walked up to the blank door and knocked. He waited, but after a time there was no answer.
The eel man had finally moved his barrels and turned toward Crispin. ‘You’ll never get an answer that way. Go in and up the stairs.’
He swiveled toward the man, a stout fellow in a blood-stained apron. He smelled of the Thames. ‘Should I?’
‘It’s only a covered stair. Private like. It’s never locked.’
‘Oh. Much thanks.’ He offered a jerky bow and pushed the door open. It was, indeed, merely a staircase with arrowslits in the wooden walls to let in the light. Crispin hugged the wall and trudged upward into the darkened passage, slipping only once. At the top of the stair he found another door and knocked.
The door opened, and a woman in a blue cotehardie stood in the doorway. He might have gasped in surprise at her unexpected loveliness, but he couldn’t be certain if he truly had or simply imagined it. Large eyes enquired, and the curl of her brown hair lay over one shoulder, picking up the firelight behind her in a golden haze. ‘Yes? Who are you?’
He rallied and bowed. ‘I am Crispin Guest, demoiselle. Do I have the pleasure of addressing Elizabeth le Porter?’
She leaned against the doorsill and quirked a smile. ‘The pleasure, is it?’ Her speech was common, that of a merchant or servant, but it didn’t detract from her beauty or her bearing. ‘Aye. That’s me. Oi, Crispin Guest. I’ve heard that name before.’
‘No doubt. I am called the Tracker.’
‘Oh! I have heard of you, then. Have you come here tracking?’ It was said with a sly grin. Appealing.
‘Well …’ The money pouch was still in his hand. ‘The thing of it is, demoiselle … may I come in to talk?’
She stepped aside and he found himself in a modest room, with a warm fire, a table, a coffer, and a sideboard. There was another room beyond with a bed with bed curtains. It was certainly better furnished than his own one-room lodgings. She closed the door, and the play of light touched her face with gold, the contours with shadow. ‘Will you have ale?’
Thinking he already might have had too much to drink, he nevertheless nodded. ‘If it’s no trouble.’
‘No trouble,’ she said, and moved to the sideboard. She poured from a jug into two ceramic cups. She gave him one while she sipped hers. ‘Sit, Master Guest. It is an honor to entertain you in my humble lodgings.’
He did so, gratefully. She sat opposite. It was comfortable in this warm room before the generous fire. He wondered what it was she did for a living, for the room was well-appointed, unexpectedly so. ‘Demoiselle, I have strange news to impart to you.’
‘Do you?’ She seemed more amused by his presence than anything else. ‘It’s rather exciting, isn’t it? A visit from London’s celebrated Tracker. And so late in the day.’
He drank down his ale and set the cup aside. Leaning forward, he tried for a solemn expression, but it was difficult when faced with those expressive brows, that playful smile. ‘I shouldn’t quite characterize it in that way.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Demoiselle, this may come as a shock. But earlier this evening a man came to me with payment and instructions to find you. To find you and … dispatch you.’
‘Dispatch me? What does that mean?’
‘To kill you.’
The cup lifting to her lips stopped. ‘Kill me?’ There was shock on her face, but something else as well. He had the impression that perhaps she wasn’t all that surprised. ‘And … are you going to kill me, Master Guest?’
He sputtered. ‘Of course not! I came here to warn you!’
She sat back in her seat again. ‘Well, that is a relief.’
‘Do you know of anyone who might wish to do such a thing? And to hire someone to do the deed?’
The smirk was back, and she lifted the cup all the way and downed the ale in one. ‘Aye. Maybe I do. They’ll not get away with it either! The nerve.’ She looked hard at him. ‘Tell me, is this the sort of thing that I can hire the Tracker for? But then again, I already know the vile cur what did this. It’d be a fine thing to send the Tracker to him. Leap out of his skin, he will. Teach him to try to frighten me.’
Crispin measured the money pouch in his hand and finally dropped it into the empty pouch at his belt. ‘Indeed. And don’t worry about payment. I have already been paid.’ He patted the pouch.
Her eyes lingered there for a moment. ‘Well now!’ She rose. ‘This calls for more ale.’
Crispin didn’t complain as she filled his cup again. She sipped and watched him. He concentrated on sitting upright. ‘I’ve heard quite a bit about you,’ she said.
‘Oh?’ He drank. Either he was reviled for his past or distinguished for his present vocation. It was obviously the latter this time.
‘Tell me.’ Her voice was like dark silk. ‘Tell me of some of your adventures.’
He sighed and sat back, laying his head against the chair. ‘Shouldn’t you rather tell me whom you suspect of sending an assassin to your door?’
The cup was at her lips. ‘That can wait.’
He considered. He should be leaving. After all, he had discharged his duties. But he found himself still sitting. ‘As for adventures, there are many. But, er, should we not concentrate on your safety first?’
‘But I am safe with you, am I not? Tell me.’ She scooted farther to the edge of her seat.
What to say? His first thought was to get her out of her lodgings, situate her somewhere else. But that thought fled through his spirit-muddled mind. Instead, he was awash in her flattery and the eager press of her excitement, her parted lips, her wide curious eyes. He wasn’t usually given much for flattery, but a pretty woman offering it, and he in his muddled state …
‘Well, a time or two I was in fear of my life.’
‘You? Afraid? I find that hard to believe.’
‘It’s true, demoiselle. There are some miscreants that are worth fearing. Caution is always wise. It keeps my wits sharp.’
She leaned so far over she was able to touch his hand, and then her fingers curled around his wrist. ‘The tales I’ve heard … you were so brave. Truly a knight.’
‘As you know, demoiselle – indeed, as all London knows – I am no longer a knight.’
‘And that was brave, too.’
He scowled. ‘Treason isn’t brave.
’
‘But you rose above it, didn’t you? King Richard thought to best you, send you low. But you made something of yourself. He can’t take that away.’
‘I beg you, demoiselle, not to speak those sentiments aloud. That is dangerous talk.’
She tossed her head back. ‘I heard the stories. How you fought for your mentor, the Duke of Lancaster. You supported him as king. And you paid the price.’
He hated speaking of it. Wanted to rise and take his leave, but the wine was settling hard within him and he couldn’t muster the strength. ‘That was a long time ago.’
Her hand was still on his wrist, but now it was caressing salaciously up and down his arm. ‘Let’s have a story, then. Tell me of your last exploit.’
‘Demoiselle …’
‘Elizabeth,’ she said shyly.
‘Elizabeth. I think it wise that you find other accommodations for the night. I don’t think it safe for you here. The man who paid me might discover his mistake.’
‘Where would I go?’ There was less of a question and more of an invitation in her gaze.
‘I …’ Was he fool enough to offer? Better to put her up at an inn. He had the coin now. But there was something about her earnest expression that stayed the proposal. ‘I could … stay here … I suppose. If you think it fitting.’
She threw herself from her chair to kneel at his feet. ‘Very fitting. Ah, you are a gallant knight, Master Guest. Crispin, if I may call you so.’
‘Not a knight,’ he grumbled, but her compelling gaze caught him, enchanted him, and he leaned over to take her outstretched hands. ‘I will do what I can.’
‘Will you?’ Was she leaning closer? That charming smile softened until her lips were parted most fetchingly. He wasn’t certain who moved the rest of the way, but he found himself suddenly kissing her.
As her moist lips meshed with his, he tried weakly to reckon why he was kissing her, but with the opening of her lips and her tongue’s exploration, he soon left off thinking altogether. His arms encircled her, and he heaved her up to his lap. That was better. He didn’t have to lean over in that uncomfortable manner, could get considerably closer to her, fill his nose with the musky scent of her. A familiar heat carved down his abdomen and pooled below his belly with a surprising warmth. She shifted in his arms, and her fingers tugged harshly at his hair, keeping his mouth tight to hers.
Soon eager hands were at his cotehardie, unbuttoning, and lips followed those hands, nipping at his throat. He let her. There hadn’t been opportunity of late to indulge in such pursuits. And he was too drunk to scold himself as to exactly why he shouldn’t now.
He stumbled up from his seat, and still kissing, she maneuvered him to the other room, toward the single candle that lit the space with its soft golden glow, to the bed, to sweet rapture, and then oblivion.
His head pounded to the rhythm of the church bells. Fearing to open his eyes lest he vomit, he dug his face into the coolness of the pillow to hide from the sunlight coloring his lids, and he wondered vaguely if Jack was up and making a porridge as he did most mornings. It might settle his stomach. He certainly needed some ale to sluice his dry mouth.
‘Jack?’ he croaked. Where was that knave? ‘Jack!’ He opened his eyes and blinked, lifted a hand and rubbed at them.
This wasn’t his lodgings on the Shambles under the shadow of St Paul’s. Where the hell was he?
He lifted his face from the cold spot of drool he had left on the pillow but let it fall again when the pounding became sharp stabs into the backs of his eyes. Now wait. Wait. Think, Crispin. Last night he had gone to the Boar’s Tusk and had drunk his fill of wine. Of course he did. And then … ‘The man,’ he rasped. That strange dark man had pressed a coin purse into his hand with instructions to …
With divine effort, he pushed himself upright, balancing on his two arms. He looked down. He was naked.
Then he remembered the woman, Elizabeth. He remembered creamy limbs, a long throat, and a sultry laugh. ‘Demoiselle?’ he said softly. He turned, but the bed was empty. The indent in the pillow told of her past presence. He crawled to the edge of the bed and sat. ‘Elizabeth?’ he said louder to the outer room.
He swallowed, took a breath, and stood. He wavered there for a moment, wondering what his stomach would decide to do. It roiled but stayed where it was. Grateful, he scratched at his hair and shuffled to the doorway.
‘Demoiselle, I … I apologize for … for last night …’
She seemed to be lounging before the hearth, her chemise rucked up to her knees. The fire didn’t seem warm enough to keep a chill at bay from all that pale flesh. ‘What are you …?’ But as his eyes focused, he realized the angle of her limbs was all wrong. He sucked in a breath and slid to the floor beside her.
‘Elizabeth!’
Legs lay one way, but her torso was twisted the other. She was looking up blank-eyed to the ceiling. Dark bruises purpled that otherwise creamy neck. He didn’t need to touch her to know that she was dead.
TWO
Thursday, 15 October
Crispin pushed his hand through his hair again. He stared down at her body. Her corpse, he corrected. What the hell happened? Why couldn’t he remember? He knew he had been drunk, but …
He fell back into one of the chairs, panting. How could she be dead? Strangled? It couldn’t have been … it wasn’t …
He held his trembling hands before his face and stared at them. Surely … surely he couldn’t have done it? Not even drunk could he have done it. Could he?
Dropping his head into his hands, he breathed hard through his fingers. His mind stalled. He couldn’t imagine himself in such a state, especially when intoxicated, but there was no other explanation.
Unless …
He raised his head. That man. That man from the Boar’s Tusk. Crispin’s head hurt, but he screwed up his eyes and concentrated. Yes. He recalled it. And gave him … ‘A bag of silver!’ He ran back into the bedchamber and scrabbled amidst the bedclothes that had fallen to the floor. He cast them aside to search for his cotehardie, his belt, his money pouch … there! He grabbed the pouch, still heavy from the bag of coins and wrenched it free. He sat back on the floor against the bed, sighing with relief.
But wait. All it proved was that he had been paid a sum of coins to kill this woman … who was now dead. It didn’t look good for him. Not at all. He lay back against the bed’s post and stared at the ceiling. What was he to do? He had to get the sheriffs. But tell them what? Tell them he had wandered by and guessed there was a dead body in this room? Tell them he was called by an unknown person to investigate?
Tell them … the truth? And hope for mercy?
‘Blessed Lord God,’ he whispered, ‘if there was ever a time You were listening to me, I beg of it now. What, by Your precious blood, am I to do?’
He sat that way for a long moment before he creakily rose. First things first. Get dressed. The simple act of pushing legs into stockings, buttoning his cotehardie, fastening his belt, served to calm. Dressed once more he approached it logically. He checked the bedchamber first. The window was shuttered and locked. Had it been that way when he had first entered it last night? ‘Think, Crispin,’ he muttered. He glared at it and seemed to recall the darkness of the room, lit only by a candle. Yes, yes, he was almost certain it was locked. It was closed at least.
He took a steadying breath and crossed the threshold into the main room again. Her body lay sprawled unnaturally before the dwindling glow of the hearth.
He knelt and gently touched her arm, the one farthest from the coals. Quite cold. He attempted to move it. Stiff. Made sense. He had arrived near Vespers and it was nearly Terce now, more than thirteen hours ago.
He touched the bruises gently, so bright against her now especially pale skin. Did she fight her assailant? He examined her hand, the more movable one by the fire. Blood and skin beneath her nails. Yes, she fought. Crispin felt his face and neck. Nothing. No scratches, and equally none on his chest and arm
s. Relief as he had never known flooded him. It wasn’t him. He hadn’t done it! Thank Christ for that!
But … that still left some unknown assailant that had crept into the room while he slept and she had … what? Gone to the door? Opened it in the dead of night?
He shot a glance toward the door. Closed but not barred. But of course not. Only Crispin remained in the room. The assailant had strangled her and left, leaving her for dead to be discovered this way. A husband, maybe? She wore no ring. A lover, who saw Crispin abed and dead to the world? But too much of a coincidence what with the man who had hired Crispin to kill her. Had Crispin been made to be a dupe, to be blamed for the murder? How did they know Crispin would stay, would be in this precarious state? Unless the man who paid him was also her lover.
It was too much for him. He couldn’t do this on his own. Sheriffs … or Jack?
He fixed his chaperon hood over his shoulders and lifted the leather hood up over his head. Eyes scanning the room, his gaze fell again on her. I’m so sorry I didn’t protect you, Elizabeth. But I swear to you that I will find the one who did this.
He scanned the room once more, looking for clues, trying to leave it as he had found it. Except … He stalked to where he had left his cup of ale. He cast the dregs into the fire, dried it with his cloak, and set the cup back on the sideboard. Just in case.
And now he had irretrievably compromised the room. Whatever investigation ensued from this, the truth was forever tainted.
He shook his head. He was the truth. He knew what hadn’t happened at least. But could he prove it?
When he reached the door, he opened it a sliver and peered down the private stair. No one there. He closed the door silently behind him, tread lightly down the stairwell, and when he got to the bottom, peered cautiously around the edge of the door. The eel monger was busy elsewhere, and he saw nothing of the roper. Hood up, cloak about him, he stole onto Watling Street, feeling as guilty as any thief or ruffian that ever was.
A Maiden Weeping Page 2
