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.