Miles’s brows rose. “You think I killed him?”
“And tried the same on me. But Miles. With an arrow?” He shook his head. “Of course, that is the cowardly way. I’d expect that from you.”
The corner of Miles’s muddy lip raised in a sneer. “I can assure you, when I choose to kill you, it will be face to face so that you may see it coming.”
Crispin tapped the sword point into Miles’s chest with each word. “Tell me about the French courier.”
“You’re repeating yourself. I don’t know anything about that or the—” Miles bit down on his cheek. He glared at Crispin and the sword blade at his chest.
“Or the what?” smiled Crispin.
Miles made an unconvincing grin. “The object from the French court. As you said.”
“On top of everything else, you’re a bad liar.”
“Oi!”
Crispin turned. Several guards came running up the street, weapons raised. Crispin turned back to Miles and smiled. “Time to go. We’ll meet again.” He jammed the sword into the mud and leapt for the roof, leaving Miles to react a hairsbreadth too late. Crispin hung on a corbel and swung his legs up to the slate, grabbing hold of the roof’s edge. With the strength of his legs, he pulled himself up over the eave the rest of the way and rolled onto the slick tiles, gripping with his fingers so he didn’t slip off. Miles stood below him, a shocked look on his face. Crispin saluted him with a grim smile and ran up to the roof’s peak and down the other side, leaving the guards and a sputtering Miles behind.
He didn’t need Miles or his false testimony. All he needed was the arrow. One he already possessed, but the one that killed the courier would be best. That would convict Miles right well.
He slid on his backside down the roof to the edge and leapt off into a haycart. He rolled out of the hay and righted himself on the ground, brushing the mud and hay off his shirt before he straightened his cloak.
He listened but could not hear anyone following him, neither over the roof nor around the corner. So much for the king’s guards and the Captain of the Archers.
He took a deep breath and looked up the lane one side and down the other. Now where would Wynchecombe have put the body?
“IT’S A SIMPLE QUESTION, Lord Sheriff.” At least Crispin thought it was.
“I’ll make you a bargain, Guest.”
Ah. Here it comes.
“I’ll tell you where the body is if you tell me where those women are.”
“Now my Lord Sheriff, I told you I was protecting them—”
“Do you truly want to be thrown into gaol again?”
Crispin sighed. He stood before the sheriff in his Newgate chamber. Wynchecombe had not offered him a seat, so he stood. “I prefer to remain a free man if given the choice.”
“That choice is slipping away.”
“I told you I’m protecting them.”
“From whom?”
“From you, my lord.”
Wynchecombe sat back. His eyes whitened at the edges but the incredulity was not there. “Why should they need protecting from me?”
Should he say? Always difficult to decide how helpful the sheriff would be. Crispin stared at his boots. “The one who found him is dull-witted, my lord, and she, well, she seems to think she killed him.”
“What!” The sheriff shot to his feet and slammed his hand on the table. His candle wobbled and the flame flickered. “God’s teeth, Guest!”
“My Lord Sheriff, with a bow and arrow? A kitchen wench?”
Wynchecombe glared. His bushy brows lowered over his eyes until they cast a shadow. “Hmph” was all he said and sat heavily. His sword clanked against the chair.
“I need that arrow from the dead man. I think I know who killed him.”
The sheriff recovered and leaned forward. “Who, then?”
Crispin smiled grimly. “I cannot say just yet.”
Wynchecombe sat back slowly. “Were you always this annoying, Guest, or did you come by it only after the king dealt with you?”
“ ‘Annoying,’ Lord Sheriff?”
“Never mind. Very well. Come with me.”
The sheriff rose. He led Crispin down the wooden staircase outside his tower chamber and through several passages, then down another staircase to a dark undercroft lit with a few pitch torches. Ahead, Crispin saw a bier set up with a sheet-covered body. The cloth glowed like pale moonlight in the torches’ illumination.
“The French ambassador wanted the body returned to France,” said the sheriff gravely, “but the king refuses to release it.”
Crispin snorted. Politics.
Once he neared, he noticed the arrow still protruding from the corpse. “No one removed the arrow?”
“Why should we do that?”
Crispin shook his head. “Why indeed.” He cast back the sheet. The dead man’s dry eyes stared upward. Did he see angels or demons?
Crispin grabbed the arrow’s shaft but it stuck solid in the dead flesh. He yanked out his dagger and ripped the dead man’s blood-soaked surcote from the neck down to the arrow.
Wynchecombe grabbed Crispin’s dagger hand. “Holy Mary! What are you doing? Why do you not simply break it off.”
“I want the entire arrow. Do you mind?”
Wynchecombe released him with a rumbled sound in his throat. “Desecrating a corpse? I mind not at all. You’re certainly bound for Hell at any rate. Why should I try to stop your progress?”
Crispin continued pulling the blade through the layers of bloody fabric, now stiff and brown. There had been a lot of blood considering the arrow pierced the man’s heart. Crispin sawed the blade into the fabric all the way down past his chemise to the man’s skin. He used his hands to tear the material away from the arrow wound. The man had not been cleaned and the dried blood rusted his chest and the punctured flesh. The rest of his skin shone white and ashen in the pale light. Crispin tugged on the arrow again but still it would not yield. He glanced once at Wynchecombe. The sheriff shook his head slightly at what he surely knew Crispin was about to do, but Crispin turned back to his task and thrust the tip of his dagger into the wound next to the shaft and worked the blade around, ripping open the flesh. He supposed it was like any other bit of dead meat on his supper table, meat that would not bleed. But knowing it was human flesh made his belly a little uneasy.
He grabbed the arrow again and wiggled it, rocked it, until the arrowhead tore upward. The body rose slightly as Crispin pulled the shaft. The flesh made a distasteful sucking sound until he yanked the arrow free.
He examined the metal broadhead and its glistening blood. He wiped his blade for an extra few seconds on the dead man’s surcote and sheathed it.
“What do you plan to do with that?” asked the sheriff. He didn’t mask his grimace.
“I know the maker. I wish to have it identified for assurance.”
“Isn’t that the province of the Lord Sheriff’s office?”
Crispin wiped the arrow on the sheet and shoved it through his belt. “Only should you insist.”
Wynchecombe looked at the arrow now secured on Crispin’s person. He leaned closer and his face dropped into shadow. “What of the Crown of Thorns? Have you found it yet?”
“Not yet. You can be sure that once I have, everyone will know.”
“What does that mean? What are you plotting, Guest?”
“Nothing, Lord Sheriff. Do I have your leave to go?”
Wynchecombe glared and inhaled deeply. The exhale through his nostrils ruffled his mustache. “I know you look for trouble, and I’d see you hang yourself. As long as it doesn’t drag me in with you.”