Jack stood at his shoulder and looked down at the Crown. His hands fumbled forward as if trying to protect it. “But it touched Jesus’ head, Master. I wouldn’t—You shouldn’t be touching it.”
Crispin clenched the Crown in his hand. The dry rushes crackled. He wanted to heave it against the wall. He wanted to see it splinter into a million pieces. And he didn’t know why he was so angry at such a thing. It certainly wasn’t the Crown’s fault he was in this situation. After no choices for so long, he had chosen to become this “Tracker,” and it had been his saving grace. He could use the acuity of his mind, his fighting skills, and his knowledge to fight injustice. He was proud of his accomplishments. Miles was evil and had tricked him as he tricked all those other knights, now dead. But it wasn’t the Crown’s fault. It was only because of those couriers. That’s how he got the Crown.
The French couriers. What had they to do with this? He wondered where they were.
With a sigh, he slipped the Crown unsteadily back into its casket, closed the lid, and put it back within the wooden box. He packed the straw around it again but snatched his hand back with a sharp inhale. A bead of blood appeared on his finger. He’d pricked it. He looked in the straw and found a stray thorn. It must have fallen out of the Crown when he manhandled it. He drew it from the straw and dropped it in his pouch.
He concentrated his hate on Miles. Surely it was all Miles, not Lancaster. Jack was right, had to be. Lancaster was an innocent pawn in this.
There was much more to be learned. He needed answers not more questions. And if he was to learn anything he had to know more about why that Crown had not immediately been taken to court as it should have been.
He had to find those couriers.
14
THE KING’S HEAD WAS blazed golden by the late-afternoon light, but it belied a grimy interior, more so even that the Boar’s Tusk. When Crispin entered, a haze of wood smoke hovered over the tables. Men hunched in a circle near the fire and lifted their heads from stooped shoulders long enough to look Crispin over before they gave him a dismissive flick of their lids and turned back to their coven.
A woman approached Crispin. Mislaid strands of her hair hung in lifeless strings before her eyes and she wiped her hands on her apron. She might be the innkeeper’s wife, or just another wench who worked in the tavern’s hall. It was hard to be certain. “Good day. What will you have?”
“I would speak with your Master.”
She sighed. “Aye. He’s in the back.”
He followed her leisurely steps through a ragged curtain. The innkeeper was there filling jugs of ale from a keg. He was a tall man, bald, with a beaklike nose. He aimed a milky blue eye at Crispin. “Eh? What’s your business?”
“The Frenchmen. Are they here?”
The man shot to his feet. “You’re the one.” His finger thrust toward Crispin’s face like a dagger, and when he got close enough to make that finger uncomfortable, Crispin took half a step back and laid his hand on his own weapon. “You’re the one that took my scullions. And I just hired them two. Where are they?”
“They needed to be kept safe.”
“Safe!” He snorted. “After killing that man. Now I’ll never be rid of those foreigners.”
“They are here, then?”
His face squinted. He mashed his lips before spitting at the fire. He missed. “Aye, they’re here.”
“Where?”
“Top of the stairs.” He leaned forward. “Oi. No trouble, mind.”
Crispin showed his teeth. “No trouble.”
He parted the curtain and trotted up the stairs to the gallery. He knocked politely. A rustle. A chair scraped. The door opened a sliver.
Crispin nodded his head in a slight bow. “Mes seigneurs. Bonjour.”
“Ah!” said the man in French. “It is that smart Englishman.”
“Will you allow me in?” continued Crispin in the same language.
The man closed the door in his face. Crispin heard him confer with his companion and then the door opened again. “Come in.” He stepped aside and the other man scowled as Crispin entered.
Crispin assessed the two men, the table with its two beakers of wine, two bowls of half-eaten fare. “You had a fourth companion. Where is he?”
“He is not here,” said the first. His dark hair, lustrous in the firelight, remained brushed away from his wide forehead.
“Any new insight as to why your friend was killed?”
“Gautier had an idea.” Laurent turned to the other man with the dark hair and sour disposition. Crispin raised his face to him.
“Well?”
Gautier shrugged. “I thought I heard him say he saw someone he knew.”
“Where?”
“I do not know. I was preoccupied.”
“With the wench Livith?”
“I do not know her name.”
Crispin looked at the first man. “What of you, Maître Laurent?”
“I was similarly occupied. I did not notice our companion was missing for quite some time.”
“You were supposed to be guarding this most holy relic for your king. Now your negligence has cost you. And us.”
Gautier hooked his thumbs in his belt. “What’s another battle with England to us? This war goes on without ceasing.”
“This relic was a goodwill gesture,” said Crispin. “It could have meant lasting peace.”
There was a pause, and then both Frenchmen erupted in laughter. Crispin’s solemn face broke into a smile, and then he joined them. The Frenchmen pointed at him and Laurent clapped Crispin on the back.
“Sit,” said Laurent. He pulled a jug from the shelf. “It is English wine, but it at least has spirits.” He poured three cups and handed one each to Crispin and to Gautier. “To peace?” he said, raising his cup.
Crispin stood. “To the King of France.”
The other two stood with cups raised. “To the King of England,” said Laurent. They all chuckled and clanked cups.
They sat and Laurent refilled their cups. “A sensible Englishman. I never thought to find one.”
“Oh, we do exist. Few are at court.”
Gautier leaned forward. The hand clutching his cup had square, flat fingernails. “So. What is your interest in this? You are not the sheriff.”
Crispin kept one eye on the door. It would not do well to have his back to it if their fourth companion returned. “No. It is my vocation to solve riddles. My name is Crispin Guest.”
“You would solve the murderer of a Frenchmen? Why do you care?”
“I care about all crimes. Especially when they have to do with the assassination of my king.”
“Sang Deu! Someone has tried to kill your king?”
“Have you not heard?”
The Frenchmen looked at one another a long moment before Laurent shrugged. “I suppose we have,” he said in heavily accented English.
“So you do understand my language,” said Crispin, also in English.
Gautier rubbed his smooth chin. “When it is convenient.”
Crispin settled in. “I see. Well then. Let us speak plainly. Why did you come to the King’s Head instead of going directly to court?”
“We told you,” said Gautier with a frown. “We were to prepare for the English court.”
“And that ‘preparation’ involved going off in separate directions to get your companion killed and the relic stolen?”
Laurent stared at Crispin. His dark eyes narrowed. “Are we being accused of this?”
“Did you kill Michel Girard?”
Laurent knocked back his chair as he jumped to his feet and drew his blade. “He’s a spy for the crown of England!”