A rustle overhead made him whip his head around. A pair of gray doves squeezed through a hole in the roof. They flapped and settled on a beam, sending feathers and dried bird droppings showering around him. He ducked, peering over the side again. The men concentrated on the girl, not on anything above them.
Crispin smiled grimly.
He turned back to the loft. The rope and pulley hung from a beam over the stable floor, but it was too far out for him to reach it. He cast about and spied a wooden pitchfork thrust into a pile of straw. Being careful to tiptoe along the edge of the loft where the joins were strongest and not liable to squeak, he made his way to the pitchfork and slowly pulled it free. With the pitchfork’s handle tight in his grip, he leaned precariously over the edge, and thrust the pitchfork up into the gloom, its tines just touching the rope. Holding his breath, he inched the fork forward until he maneuvered it in front of the rope and coaxed it back toward him, all the while keeping an eye on the knights below as they surrounded Anabel.
Her hands were tied tight and her fingers moved restlessly, wrists squeezed by the rough hemp.
He pulled the rope in and grasped the heavy block and tackle with its iron hook and wrapped one arm around it. He gripped the pitchfork in his other hand like one of Hell’s demons. Before he could change his mind, he clutched the rope, backed up as far as he could to the stable wall, and ran like the Devil himself leaping out over the stable floor and swinging in a wide arc.
The rope rolled out of the block and tackle with a whir, sending him downward fast while at the same time arcing him toward the post on which Anabel was secured.
The knights looked up. He slammed into the first one, feet first. Like kayles pins, they crashed into the other, toppling each, shouting with surprise and confusion.
While they were still twisted together on the floor, Crispin landed on solid ground and brandished the pitchfork.
“We seem to meet too frequently for my liking, gentlemen,” he said. “Kindly remain on the floor. Except you.” He jabbed the blond scarred one with the tines. The knight grunted. “Cut her loose.”
“Crispin Guest,” he growled. “I think you are not long for this world.”
“No? Then best go out fighting.” He jabbed a second time. “I won’t ask again. Get up and release her.”
Without tearing his glare away, the knight rose and staggered toward the girl. Drawing his dagger, he paused.
“Careful, now,” said Crispin. “Only the rope. Or your belly shall be wearing this pitchfork.”
Reluctantly, the knight sawed slowly on the bindings until they fell away. Anabel moved quickly to scramble behind Crispin.
“Toss it over here,” said Crispin, nodding toward the blade. He waited till the knight complied. It skidded along the hard-packed dirt floor and stopped at Crispin’s feet amid a hatching of straw. “Back on the ground, then, like the dog you are.”
The man trembled with fury. His hands stood away from his body and flexed, looking as if they’d grab the sword, unable to decide to do it or not. Crispin’s hands tightened around the pitchfork and he raised it slightly as if ready to jab.
With a second glance at the fork, the knight got down on his knees but he would not lie back.
“If I hear of any more trouble associated with Mistress Coterel or her father, I will have the law upon you.”
“Guest, you don’t know what you are talking about. And you certainly do not know who you are crossing.”
“Oh? Care to enlighten me, then?”
The knight closed his mouth. His chin jutted forward as if clamping down on a misspent breath.
Crispin reached behind and groped for Anabel’s hand. Once his fingers closed over her wrist he backed away, holding the pitchfork forward. When he reached the door, he tossed the fork into a rounded pile of fodder. He inclined his head slightly. “I’m sure we shall meet again.”
“Yes,” said the knight. An unpleasant smile crept across his face. “I am certain we will.”
Slamming the door, Crispin took off at a run, dragging Anabel behind. He headed for the Boar’s Tusk and crashed his shoulder into the door, throwing it open. He ran into another patron who cursed at him, but Crispin did not take the time to stop and apologize. Instead, he plowed his way through the people, kicked aside benches, and made his way to a curtained doorway that led outside. They traveled through a short covered walkway into the back courtyard kitchen.
The warm smells of cooking filled his senses only momentarily. He scanned the small room with its large hearth. Ned, the tavern’s servant, snapped his head up, recognizing Crispin but not the woman he dragged behind him. A servant girl stood with a dripping serving spoon in her hand, staring at Crispin.
“Where’s Eleanor?” he asked.
Behind him came a gasp and he twisted round to look. Eleanor Langton, the tavern keeper’s wife, stood in the doorway. Her plump pink face was framed by a white kerchief carefully pinned in layers over her head and down like a cascade of hair to her shoulders. “Crispin, what are you doing?” But then she must have noticed the bruises on Anabel’s face. “My dear child, what has happened?”
Before she could speak, Crispin thrust Anabel’s hand into Eleanor’s. “Nell, please look after Anabel. I will be back in a moment.”
“Crispin!”
But he was already out of the kitchen and back in the Boar’s Tusk doorway, looking the room over. He stayed just behind the ragged curtain, staring hard at the door. But no one came in. No knights hell-bent on damage.
He relaxed a little and spied a friendly face. Pushing the curtain aside he headed toward the table where the clerk, Lucas Stotley, sat, drinking with some other men. The man looked up and smiled. “Master Guest!” He lowered his voice and added, “I hope all is well. From the other day.”
“Well enough,” he admitted. “My apprentice is none the worse for wear. He is, after all, a hearty young lad. But I meant to thank you for intervening on our behalf.”
“Tut! It was nothing, sir.” He took in the men with him. “Won’t you join us, Master Guest? We would hear your brave tales as the Tracker. And of the young lady you brought in.”
The others—men he had seen before in the tavern—chuckled and all agreed with cups raised and nodding heads for Crispin to join them. They had entreated many times in the past, but he had never done so.
Crispin saluted them. “I thank you for your kind offer. But at the moment, I have something to attend to.” They laughed again, elbowing each other. He bowed and left them, returning to the kitchen, glancing back over his shoulder once more at the door.
He found Anabel being attended to by Eleanor, who had a basin of water in one hand and was dabbing an impatient Anabel’s face with a wet cloth in the other.
Crispin crouched beside her and the look of relief on her face made his heart flutter. “Mistress Anabel. Are you well?”
“Yes, God be praised.” She rubbed the red welts at her wrists grimly. “Please, madam,” she said to Eleanor, moving her face away. “I am well.”
Eleanor took the hint and dropped the cloth in the basin and set it aside. “A little wine, then?”
Anabel nodded but kept her gaze on Crispin.
Eleanor motioned to Ned, who scurried to fill a jug from the mews below. Standing aside with her hands plunged into her apron, wiping them in slow strokes, Eleanor looked from Crispin to Anabel and back again.
“Eleanor, this is Mistress Anabel Coterel, from London Bridge. She has had a … mishap.” He saw Eleanor drop her sharp gaze to Anabel’s wrists but she said nothing. She lifted her face to Crispin again, expression neutral. “I appreciate your care of her, Nell.” He was about to depart with her when Ned returned, proffering a wooden goblet of wine. Crispin thought it might be a good idea and took the goblet himself, handing it to Anabel.
If he had not known better, he might have mistaken the glimmer in her eye for amusement. But she ducked her head and drank, all the while pushing at her hair and smoothing the
untidy strands that had escaped her careful plaits.
Eleanor returned to ordering her servants, casting a wary glance back at Crispin and his charge. Moving closer, Crispin spoke quietly for Anabel’s ears alone among the clattering of pots and the shouts of Eleanor. “Do you know who any of them were? Seen any of them before?”
She shook her head and lowered the goblet to her lap. “No, Master Crispin. Knights have come and gone to Roger’s shop. Many of them.” She set the cup on the table and sighed. “These are clearly the ones the others spoke of. The other two knights called the blond one by name.”
“Indeed. What is it?”
“Sir Osbert. Only that. No surname.”
Crispin ran the name through his memory but could come up with nothing. He did not know this knight. Not unusual, being out of court life for over nine years.
“What did they ask you?”
“Only the same question over and over. ‘Where is the Spear?’ But I do not know what spear they speak of.”
“Did not Master Grey discuss his work with you? Of schemes not directly related to his making of armor?”
“No. Roger would never speak of his business. He was a close-lipped man.”
Too much so. “And you know nothing of any kind of spear; anything that Grey might have mentioned?”
“No! I told them and I am telling you. I know of nothing like that! What is it, Master Crispin? Why is it so important that they would molest a woman and kill a man and his apprentices?”
“Men desire power and prestige. If they can add to that with a simple object…” He considered. Best to keep it to himself. “Never mind, damosel. It is not your concern.”
“Not my concern? My entire world has collapsed! My betrothed is dead, my landlord is bent on evicting us, and strange men threaten to kill me over this thing you would hide from me. I demand to know what it is!”
“Leave it, damosel. I think it wise if you and your father stay elsewhere until this is resolved.”
“What? We have nowhere to go!”
“Find an inn, then.”
“Without money?” Her expression was grim and he could hardly blame her.
The foolish feeling was creeping over him again. When he reached for his scrip she closed her fingers over his hand. “Oh no, Master Crispin. You mustn’t.”
“You can’t go home. Not until this is solved. Go to the Unicorn Inn on Watling Street. I’ll send your father after you with your things.” He pinched some coins and took up her hand. Placing them in the cup of her palm he closed her fingers over them. “Tell them Crispin Guest sent you. That name holds a little weight with them. I did them a service not too long ago.”
She stood with the coins clutched in her hand, staring at him. She had lost her veil somewhere and her hair, parted in the middle and pulled taut for the braids on either side of her temples, gleamed in the failing sunlight from an open window. Her gaze softened. She reached up with her free hand to balance it on his shoulder and bent over to kiss him on the cheek. The supple lips stayed perhaps longer than was polite, but she withdrew quickly and lowered her eyes. “I thank you, sir, for your generosity. I know you were once a knight. In my eyes, you are still one.”
He rose and surveyed the room, hiding a blush with the shuffle of his feet. “Make haste. I do not trust those knights to leave you be. In fact … Eleanor!”
The woman must have had half an ear bent in their direction, for she was at his side in an instant. She made no secret of the wary eye she directed at Anabel. “May I borrow Ned from you for about an hour?”
“Here!” perked Ned. “What you want me for?”
“I shall need you to escort Mistress Anabel to the Unicorn and then get a message to her father on the bridge.”
Ned rubbed his stumpy nose and turned to Eleanor with an expectant face. The lad knew a coin was in it for him but he also knew he could not go unless his mistress approved of it.
Eleanor knew Crispin well and all she needed to do was to look at his expression to agree. “Very well, Ned. You make haste, now, and don’t dawdle. Master Crispin is not a patient man … is he?”
Crispin offered her a grin. “No, he is not.” He handed Ned several coins and informed him of the message to Robert Coterel and then he sent him off. Anabel looked back at him with a doleful look in her dark eyes and Crispin remembered her lingering kiss to his cheek just as she disappeared through the doorway.
Eleanor ticked her head. “Crispin, need I warn you again or will it fall on deaf ears as it has so many times before?”
He straightened his coat. “I have no idea what you are talking about.”
“Crispin—”
“Eleanor,” he said with a bow. “I regret I cannot stay to talk. I must take my leave. Give my greetings to Gilbert.”
“Very well. We’ll be here when you need us.”
What was the woman implying, he wondered as he stalked through the covered walkway and entered the nearly empty tavern. Did she think he would need their sympathetic ear, their wine to drown his sorrows in, when his foolishness culminated to its ultimate conclusion?
He pushed open the doors more harshly than intended. Well, she may have a point. If he was honest with himself he had been in the same position many times before. He could not seem to help himself when it came to women who found themselves in trouble. He mixed in their lives and when it all went to hell he was left with the broken shards. Why did he continue to do it time after time?
Because you’re a fool, was the simple answer. But he knew it was more than that. It was inbred in him as much as his skills with weapons had been, as much as his horsemanship, though both had been too long ago. He had been taught courtly ways, a chivalric code, and some of that included protecting the weak.
But these women who had crossed his path had not been weak in the least. Especially not Philippa Walcote. She had climbed from the lowest position in society to become the wife of a wealthy merchant. But he had been drawn in by her plight nonetheless. Why had it been so? He admired her fortitude, certainly. He would have admired anyone in similar circumstances; at least he had always told himself so. But would he have? Did it also have to be accompanied by a pretty face and a clever wit? Was he doomed to make this mistake over and over? As he pushed his way through the streets, past sellers of roasted sausages, singers singing their tales of far-off places, and the crowds that gathered to listen—some little noticing as their purses were cut and stolen away by dark men—he thought of the little portrait of Philippa he kept in his room. Ridiculously sentimental. Was he to play the lovesick paramour in a romance? Was he to suffer and sigh in the style of court peacocks? He was lonely, dammit! And yes, while it was safer to long in silence for a love that could never be his, he could do something about it instead.
He liked Anabel Coterel. She had an innate vivacity that seemed to give her strength. Sera nimis vita est crastina; vive hodie. “Living tomorrow is too late; live today.” He had to live now. But love? Did that come but once a lifetime?
He huffed a cold breath out to the street. Wasn’t he putting the cart before the horse? He had several things to do first. He had a murder to solve, for one, and the location of this damned relic to discover for another. The rest of it could wait.
His head jerked up with the sound of shouting. A man came tearing around the corner in a curious but familiar gait and right after him came Jack Tucker, long limbs swinging, face red but determined, chasing after.
Lenny.
15
THE OLD THIEF RAN as if his life depended on it, and by the look on Jack’s face, it might. Londoners stepped aside to watch, leaving a crooked path of escape for the thief. But when Lenny looked back over his shoulder to measure how far back Tucker was, Crispin stepped into the street and stuck out his foot.
Lenny saw too late, struck it, and soared over the road for an instant before careening into a wattled fence.
Crispin was on him instantly. He grabbed his uneven shoulders with a shackling gri
p and hoisted him to his feet. “Got you at last, you knave.” Lenny whimpered. Crispin cast about for a place to take him. The Boar’s Tusk was the most convenient and he twisted the man around, stalked back up the street, and shoved him toward the large doors.
They burst through and the remaining men at the tables looked up, glaring.
“Clear the room!” Crispin demanded, but only white surprised faces greeted him. “I said all of you out!”
Crispin slammed Lenny onto a bench. The thief cried out and tried to get away but Crispin backhanded him hard. He hit the table, knocking over a discarded horn cup and spilling the ale across the wood.
The men jumped to their feet, ready to defend, but Crispin drew his blade. “Who will argue with me?”
The few men in the tavern looked at one another and in a moment of silent agreement, shuffled toward the exit, skirting wide around Crispin’s table. They pushed open the door just as a panting Jack Tucker entered, staring at the dispersing men. When the last one left, he lowered the beam over the door.
Gilbert Langton came rushing forward from the kitchen, wide-eyed and furious. “Crispin! What is the meaning of this? This is my business you’re disrupting.”
“And this is murder.” He grabbed Lenny’s grayed shirt with a fist and shoved his knife toward his face. “We’re going to have a talk. And you are not going to lie to me.”
“Mercy, Master Crispin.” Lenny raised his hands. The palms were scored with dirt in all the creases. He was nearly toothless and what hair he still had on his head hung in long strings to uneven shoulders. His bald pate was bruised and dirty. “You’ve always been a reasonable man.”
“You’ve been avoiding me. Why?”
His hands were still raised, protecting his face. He shook his head. “I haven’t been avoiding you, good master. Old Lenny just had a lot to do.”
Crispin knocked him in the side of the head with his blade, pleased to see a bruise forming. “Tell me another.”
“Ow! That hurt! I always avoid you when I can for just this reason.”
Crispin did it again and Lenny bent over, keening.
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