“My mark is my mark, young man.”
“So it is,” he answered absently. He crushed the arrows tight in his hand. Perhaps if he could crush them altogether he might still the thumping of his heart, the pain throbbing there. Lancaster couldn’t be involved in such a plot. Unthinkable. What had Miles to do with Lancaster?
“I thank you, Master Peale.” He looked toward the empty doorway. “For everything,” he added pointedly.
Peale inclined his head and then turned back to his work as if the encounter had never happened.
“Oh. One thing more,” asked Crispin. Peale continued his inventory but never looked up. “Did you have the opportunity to examine the arrow that was directed at the king?”
The fletcher shook his head. “No. The fools. They destroyed it. They aren’t as clever as you.” He turned his head, and Crispin thought he saw him wink.
Crispin thanked him again and left the armory. He dropped the arrow pieces into his pouch and brooded as he walked. Miles was the shooter. Crispin felt it in his bones. When Crispin had examined the roof where the archer had treacherously fired on Crispin, he found light-colored strands of hair—hair that matched the archer’s.
Perhaps Miles had used Lancaster’s arrows. And this would not be so troubling a thing if it weren’t for a rising note of conspiracy. For Miles would have little to gain for killing the king, just as he would have had seven years earlier. Unless he was paid by someone to do it. Someone with enough wealth and influence. Someone who would have something to gain.
Crispin looked up and saw Miles turning a corner and striding in his direction. He slipped back and slammed himself against a wall. He didn’t want Miles to see him just yet. His clear case against him had suddenly become muddied.
Cautiously, Crispin stole into a side passage. He had to get out of the palace. His mind was not on the task. That kind of carelessness might get him killed.
HE MADE HIS WAY back to the kitchens, keeping his hood low over his face and his head down. When he left the kitchens no one remarked on it. No one remarked his passing through the Great Gate and he was safe to make his way through Westminster and back to London. He arrived at his lodgings by late afternoon.
Walking in the door, he inhaled the heady aromas of two hocks of pork roasting over the fire.
Jack turned from his basting and smiled. “Master, what’s the news?”
Crispin took off his cloak and hood, hung them on a peg, and fell into a chair. He sighed. “Much has happened, Jack. I’ve had to move the wenches again.” He related the story.
Jack listened and took one hock. Laying it on a slab of hard bread, he handed it to Crispin and then fetched a bowl from the larder shelf and poured wine into it from the jug. He put the bowl beside Crispin and then prepared his own supper.
Crispin chewed the meat, keeping his eyes on his food.
“So,” said Jack, settling beside Crispin. “When are you going to tell me the rest?”
Damn the boy. “The rest?”
“Aye. The rest you’re trying so hard not to tell me.”
Suddenly the pork didn’t taste as good. Crispin tossed the bone into the fire. He rose and went to the water jug and basin, pouring the icy water over his hands and shaking off the wet. “I discovered from whom the arrows came.”
Jack gulped his wine and settled expectantly on his stool. “Well?”
Crispin shook his head, tried to chuckle. “It’s absurd,” he said, returning to the table and sitting. “There is a simple explanation.”
“Aye. There could be. If you’d just tell me.”
Crispin stared at Jack, at a face that didn’t seem to belong to a young boy anymore. Jack’s eyes were wise. Well, sympathetic, at any rate. They did not show impatience as they should. They only waited. Who was this boy? As alone in the world as Crispin was. Clever. Resourceful. Just born on the wrong side of the Thames.
Crispin sighed. “Very well, Jack. Master Peale was quite insistent that the arrows were made for . . . the duke of Lancaster.”
No protestations, no jumping up with shouts of denial. Jack was calm, even nodded thoughtfully.
It irritated like hell.
“The duke’s arrows, eh? That’s a sly trick, that. Stealing his arrows so he’d appear to be guilty.”
The simplest of explanations. Crispin’s gut was so tangled that he had not been able to dredge up such an uncomplicated rationalization.
“So,” said Jack, mouth bulging with food. “Whoever stole his grace’s arrows is the killer.”
Crispin bobbed his head inattentively. “It’s as good a conjecture as any.”
“So what you’re saying is, there ain’t no way to trace them to the Captain of the Archers now, is there?”
Crispin gritted his teeth and took a swig. The wine—turning quickly to vinegar—burned down his throat. “In truth, no.” He slammed the table with the flat of his hand. “Damn!”
“Then you’ll have to catch him in the act.”
He looked up at Jack. The boy’s face wore all the confidence in Crispin that Crispin did not have for himself. Jack’s chin jutted in pride, the same pride he’d seen on the faces of squires watching their masters at tournament or on the battlefield.
Crispin leaned back in his chair. His fingers toyed with the rim of his wine bowl. “There is the possibility that he will not strike again. Not any time soon.”
Jack chewed thoughtfully until his jaw slowed and stopped. “You may be right, there. He might lie low for months!” Jack scratched his head. He slowly pivoted his glance toward the buried reliquary. “Master! What are we going to do with that? We can’t keep it for months.”
They both looked at the unassuming pile of straw.
“The longer we delay giving it back,” said Jack, “the worse it will get.”
“For ‘us’?”
“Well, I deem m’self in your care—and you in mine.”
Crispin’s smile flattened. “You’re right, of course. I’ve kept it too long already. I suppose I can leave out how I acquired it.”
“Will the king accept that?”
“I don’t know.” He scowled. “God’s blood! It’s looking more and more like I should surrender it to the sheriff.”
“It would take the blame from you.”
“And the credit!” He shot from the chair and paced the small room. Finally he lighted in front of the hearth. He leaned forward and pressed his hands against the wall and stared into the short flames. “I have so few opportunities—so few chances to prove myself.” He laughed but it came out a bitter sound. “Who am I fooling? No matter what I do—even if I announced the Second Coming myself—Richard would never allow me back to court. Never give me back my—” He made an airless chuckle. “My title and knighthood.” He shook his head, a smile still pasted on his mouth. “I am nothing,” he said quietly. “That’s what they told me, Jack. ‘You are nothing.’ And only God can make something from nothing.”
He hung his head between his outstretched arms and closed his eyes. What foolish pride had made him think he could overcome this Hell with a simple return of goods? His head whipped up and he glared at the straw pile. He stomped toward it and cast the straw aside.
“What are you going to do?” asked Jack’s worried voice behind him.
“Why do these things curse me?” Crispin opened the box. He lifted out the golden casket and threw open the lid. He snatched the Crown of Thorns and turned it in his hand. “Look at this. It should be so treasured a thing. But look what it’s done to me. It gave me hope. I promised myself I would allow no one and nothing to do so ever again.”