She eyed Crispin again, frowned, and pulled her hand from his. “I don’t remember!”
“You must! You saw what happened to him.”
“I killed him!”
Eleanor gasped and drew back into Gilbert’s arms.
Crispin clutched Grayce’s shoulders. “You little fool! You didn’t! Can’t you remember what happened?”
Livith’s hand grasped Crispin’s shoulder like a hawk’s talons and pushed him back. “Stop it! She can’t remember. Not anymore.”
He expelled a long breath and stood. “No. I see she doesn’t.” Livith clutched her side but when she noticed Crispin looking she withdrew her hand. “That hurts you more than you like to admit,” he said softly.
“It don’t.”
He took her shoulder. “Let’s take you to your bed. Where is it?”
“Crispin,” said Gilbert. His brows lowered over worried eyes, eyes that darted toward Grayce who rocked herself and moaned in soothing tones.
“In a moment, Gilbert.”
Livith looked over her shoulder at Crispin. “Master Gilbert gave us a bed in the mews. Our things are down there.”
“I’ll take you, then.”
“No you won’t.” Livith pulled away or tried to, but Crispin’s grip tightened.
“No knight in shining armor, but I still remember how to act like a knight,” he said.
She cocked her head and smiled, an easy slow one. She leaned into him. He didn’t mind the feel of it. “If you will,” she conceded and he led her to the stairs.
The mews were dark. Only one candle in a wall sconce burned. Crispin took it and lit the rest of the way down the steps, but at the bottom of the stairs the light fell on something white and misshapen.
“What’s that?” she whispered.
“It looks like a blanket.”
He pushed the candle forward. A bowl, upturned and near the casks. A spoon lying in a distant corner. Stockings torn apart and lying flayed on the stone floor darkening from a puddle of wine.
Livith made a noise of surprise in her throat and Crispin instinctively pushed her behind him.
He raised the candle. All of Livith and Grayce’s belongings lay scattered, torn, or broken across the cellar floor.
Crispin’s lips pressed tight and he flared his nostrils with a breath. “You’re not staying here.”
12
“I DON’T LIKE THIS, Crispin,” said Gilbert, looking back down the darkened stairwell. Crispin left the sisters below to gather what remained of their goods. “This Grayce says she killed a man.”
“She’s like a child, Gilbert. She doesn’t know what she is saying.”
“All the same—”
“All the same I must get them someplace safe until I can reckon why the killer wishes to eliminate them.”
“What safer place could there be than court?” said Livith, her tone, as always, as mocking as her posture. She stood at the top of the stairs and clutched her shredded bag over her shoulder.
Crispin stared at her. Her expression was filled with scorn, always seemed to be. Determination, too, set her eyes like gray quartz, translucent yet hard and milky. They were eyes that knew how to keep secrets, and for a moment, Crispin allowed himself the luxury of wondering about her, where she came from, what her life had been like caring for a dull-witted sister. He never used to wonder such things when he was a lord. Creatures like her could only be found in the bowels of his manor, never seen, seldom heard, but necessary to the smooth running of a large household. She was like one of many who had cooked his food and cleaned his floors. He never thought twice about them before except in the casual way of a lordling about his people. But Lancaster’s household had been different. Crispin had gotten to know the cooks and valets to serve his lord better. Even at Westminster Palace he had made friends in the kitchens, though little help they could offer once he was cast out of the place.
What did Livith think of him when she heard him speak with his court accent and worldly expressions? Did she see him as a lord in rags, or as merely the man who would save her and her sister?
But Livith’s words caught up to him at last and he considered their worth. Court, eh? Court was a busy place, like a maze. People milling in all directions. The back stairs was busiest of all. And didn’t he have to find a way to see Edward Peale, the king’s fletcher? What better excuse to get into court than under the guise of a kitchen worker. If the guards are looking for an assassin, they will not suspect a man and a couple of scullions.
He smiled. “In truth, that is a good idea.”
“What?” cried Livith. “I was only jesting. Are you completely mad?” She looked at Gilbert for confirmation.
“Aye,” said Gilbert. “He is mad.”
“No. It’s an excellent idea. The killer would never think to look for you at court. What is more invisible than a couple of scullions?”
He dragged her past the stairs, through the tavern, and over the threshold with one hand and Grayce with the other. He made a backward nod of thanks to Gilbert. “It’s closed up secure with extra guards,” he assured. “The killer won’t be looking for you in the kitchens, not at court, at any rate. He’ll be concentrating on the king.”
“But if it’s closed up so tight how will we get in?”
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.”