Crispin stood at the bottom of the steps to the raised platform. The last time he stood so close was on that day, seven years ago. A presence emanated from the throne like some malevolent creature pitched out of Hell.
Richard. Crispin’s ire for him was more marked today than seven years earlier, when all he had wanted was his mentor on the throne. Was Abbot Nicholas right about Crispin? Did Crispin keep tidings of Miles to himself not to appear the hero but to let him kill the king?
He didn’t like that feeling creeping into his veins, the feeling of culpability. Was he responsible for setting in motion again the very treason that cast him out of his place at court? A sneer curled his lip. No. That kind of thinking could freeze a man solid. And there was nothing static about Crispin.
He rested his foot on the lowest step and leaned on his thigh. The throne—marble, cushioned. So much more than merely a chair. Some men coveted such a thing. Maybe even some of the men caught up in the conspiracy. Maybe some of them fancied themselves covered in ermine and wearing a crown, and Lancaster was only the tool to get them there.
He made a disgusted snort. What did it really matter now? Few men could change the tide of history. He was certainly not one of them. Might have been once, but not now. But Lancaster was such a man. He headed armies and won and lost the day many a time. The son of a king, he was always destined for greatness and he achieved it. It was on Lancaster’s shoulders that the tide of history turned, not on the shoulders of underlings, for though Crispin’s rank had been high, his personal ambitions had never achieved the status of such as Lancaster or his ilk, nor was it designed to.
If Richard lived or died, what possible difference would it make to Crispin’s life now?
But suppose Richard did die. He’d been married little over a year and the queen was not yet with child. What if she never was? Who then would be the heir? Would it be Lancaster after all?
Crispin closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Such thoughts bordered again on treason. He would not allow himself to dwell. Better to protect the throne, whoever sat atop it.
Two servants scraped a trestle table across the floor and Crispin snapped open his lids. The many tables were arranged around the braziers in the center. Everything, of course, piloted the eyes toward the head table on the other side of the room on its raised platform, to Richard.
Crispin had been a guest at the head table many times before, when Richard’s grandfather, Edward of Windsor, was king. He recalled chatting with the ladies and high-ranking men at that table while breaking his meats with them, drinking fine wine, absorbing the entertainments.
No more.
No more because of Miles Aleyn and his seducing lies.
Crispin chuffed a hot breath. He wanted his life back. Killing Miles wouldn’t grant that, but the deed would make his suffering a hell of a lot easier.
He felt the weight of the arrows in his pouch. A smile peeled back his lips. He needed to pay a visit to the king’s fletcher.
He put his hood up and left the hall. The garrison’s courtyard was where the archers congregated. The Master Fletcher would certainly be there.
He headed toward the garrison’s yard as if he had made the journey only yesterday. His feet took him without question in the right direction. He passed under an arch, down the steps, and into the open courtyard.
Men walked freely across the gravel quadrangle. Blacksmith stalls, armorers, and carpenter and wheelwright stalls lined the courtyard’s walls. He turned when he heard the unmistakable whistle and thud of arrows hitting their targets. Two archers, both wearing green chaperon hoods with short liripipe tails, practiced shooting arrows at straw butts. The men wore leather tunics lined with metal plates, but the broad-shouldered one seemed too big for his tunic, thick arms bursting through the tunic’s crenelled cap sleeves. A dark fringe hung below the hood’s brim and small dark eyes like a ferret’s peered out from under bruised lids.
Long sandy hair draped in lackluster strings over the other archer’s brows, and though his eyes were set wide apart in a concentrated stare, he did not look the brighter for it.
Crispin ambled along the wall toward them, leaned his shoulder into a wooden post, and watched the arrows meet the target one after the other. They were fine marksmen, as fine as any of the king’s archers. Good enough to shoot a man in an undercroft at close range.
They ran out of arrows and chatted in an easy camaraderie born of longtime service together. Crispin emerged from the shadows. “I beg pardon, good sirs.” The men turned. The bigger man’s small eyes grew smaller. He clutched his empty bow.
Crispin tried a smile. He wasn’t certain if he succeeded. “Would either of you know the whereabouts of the Master Fletcher, Edward Peale?”
The archers exchanged looks. “Sometimes he’s at yonder booth,” said the sandy-haired one, and gestured with his bow. Crispin turned and examined the empty booth. “But he isn’t there today,” continued the archer. “Try the armory.”
This time Crispin’s smile was more sincere. “Yes. I will do that. Much thanks.” He turned toward the direction of the armory and wondered why the first burly archer’s hand had curled around his arm.
“Say!” said the archer. “Didn’t you used to be somebody?”
Crispin’s face warmed. The urge to snap his arm out of the man’s grasp was strong but he did not move. They recognized him, ruining his plan of stealth. Maybe they wouldn’t recall. Maybe he’d get away after all without humiliation.
“I know who he is,” said the other. “He’s Crispin Guest. The Traitor.”
No getting away today. The word was meant to sting, and sting it did. Crispin leveled an icy glare at the sandy-haired one.
“Now, now, Peter,” said the other. They let Crispin go and stepped back, but only to assess him as one assesses a horse. “That was a long time ago. I hear tell he’s that private sheriff they talk of.” His tone mocked. As an archer, he had been lower in rank than Crispin. There seemed to be no end of men who were below Crispin in rank and who relished rubbing his nose in his change of status.
Peter made a doubtful expression and rested his hand on his dagger. “Why do you suppose he’s here then, Wat? Traitor and all.”
“Maybe he’s inquiring about the attempt on his Majesty.”
“Or maybe,” said Peter, drawing his dagger, “he’s the one who tried to kill the king.”
“Gentlemen.” Crispin stared at the dagger pointed at him. Wat also drew his and the two archers maneuvered to block off his escape. Crispin quickly measured the courtyard. Open avenues there and there. He could outrun the big man Wat, but the lanky Peter he doubted he could outmaneuver. Crispin lifted his empty palms and took a step back. He used the only weapon left to him: his inbred nobility. “I am here to investigate. But I have an urgent need to speak with Master Peale. If you have a dispute with me—” With two fingers he lifted his dagger from its sheath, flipped it up into his hand, and postured. His smooth and practiced movements were obvious even to the archers, and they hesitated. “Then let us meet our troubles here head on.” He took a step forward and smiled when they took a step back. Two against one and they were still frightened of him. He wanted to laugh but didn’t want to spoil the mood. Instead, he slammed his knife back into its scabbard. “But if there is nothing more . . .” He backed away, eyeing the men with their bobbing blades. They made no more provocative moves, and when Crispin turned, he heard Wat say, “Peter, you best go find Master Miles.”