“And I urge you to curb your tongue,” he said. “The Boar’s Tusk may be on Gutter Lane but I do not tolerate gutter language.”
“You don’t?” Her lips twisted artfully. “Well, I beg his majesty’s pardon.”
Crispin’s frown deepened. “You think this a game? It’s your sister’s life you gamble with.”
Livith dropped her eyes and toed the ground with her muddy wooden shoes. “We’ve never needed some knight in shining armor rescuing us.”
Crispin’s frown firmed into a tight line. “Well, I’m no knight.”
“Grayce and me have done fine on our own. It ain’t our fault some poor bastard got himself killed in our lodgings. What are we to do? That was our life back there. And just like that it’s snuffed out.”
“There is little I can do about the circumstances. And though it may not be your fault a man died in your lodgings, it certainly does not help your cause when your sister keeps confessing to the crime. But if you don’t need my help—” He straightened his shoulders and pulled at his patched coat. “I’ll be on my way.”
He took several steps before she grabbed his arm. She lowered her face and bit her lip. He had a feeling she wasn’t used to asking for help. “It’s not that I’m ungrateful,” she said. This time he sensed her sincerity. “But I—I—”
“Don’t know how to be grateful?” He snorted a halfhearted chuckle. “Neither do I.”
Her face changed when she looked at him. Her demeanor seemed to lighten, finding a kindred spirit, perhaps. How long had she suffered with her dim-witted sister? Grayce did not look more than twenty and Livith maybe a few years older, though the worry line that divided her brow and the dark pouches under her eyes added years to her. She managed a smile. It took those years off again. “Lead on, then,” she said and gestured him forward like a noblewoman.
Crispin hid his smile and proceeded on, helping her over the bigger puddles in spite of himself. Grayce followed, carrying the heavy bundle of their goods.
The Boar’s Tusk crouched on its corner of Gutter Lane like a great sleeping turtle. Long before Crispin’s day, it had boasted the patronage of knights and lords, but the passage of time changed the parish, and now only ruffians made the Boar’s Tusk their home. Crispin preferred it that way. Its timber frame was grayed from the weather and the speckled daub had needed refreshing for years, but its great oaken doors were as strong as ever. Needed to be to keep out would-be thieves at night.
He pushed open the door and scanned the low-slung room. Dark, except for a few sputtering oil lamps on the tables and a large hearth burning with decent-sized logs. The heavy beams above seemed as old as Merlin, and Crispin often wondered with their weathered and cracked state if they had the integrity to uphold the roof at all.
Under the uncertain beams, uneven rectangular tables crowded together and were sparsely filled with men hunched over their horn cups, eyes shadowed by hoods or dark deeds.
The tavern’s owners, however, were the opposite of its dilapidated plaster and frame. Though they trafficked in the rougher elements of Gutter Lane, Gilbert and Eleanor Langton were kind and generous souls. They somehow did not belong where their sad tavern gripped its foundations, but it would be a poorer place indeed without them.
Crispin spied Eleanor sweeping the floor with a gorse broom and yelling at a servant over a spilled tray.
Crispin approached. “I hope I’m not interrupting.”
Eleanor spun. “Oh Crispin! Bless my soul.” She grinned and hugged him. The white linen wimple, wrapped about her face in folds and tucks, revealed only her face’s smooth contours. An ageless face. Crispin reckoned she might be thirty like himself, but he wasn’t certain. “I was just telling this knave,” she said, gesturing with the broom toward the servant, “what a wastrel he is, dropping good food onto my floor.”
The servant glanced up with hangdog eyes. He scooped a swath of debris onto his tray. “She was ‘telling’ me awful loud.”
Crispin nodded. “I have been under that glare myself, Ned, many a time.”
“Make haste, Ned,” she barked and smoothed her spotted apron. She looked up and only then noticed Livith and Grayce standing behind Crispin. Her brows drew down and her wimple with it, making her face appear only as a small horizontal oval. “What’s this?”
Crispin pulled her aside and said quietly, “Nell, I have a favor to ask.”
“Oh no, Crispin. Not again. Why do you use our poor establishment as a dumping ground for your discards?”
Crispin drew himself up. This was the second time this morning a woman accused him of lechery. Not that he wasn’t often guilty, but his innocent protestations today seemed to fall on deaf ears. “They are not my ‘discards,’ ” he said in a rumbling tone. “They are my clients. They need my help and I need yours.”
She rolled her eyes and folded her arms over her chest. “What will Gilbert say? I tell you, Crispin, you take too many liberties.”
“That may be so, but this is urgent.”
She clutched the broom and made a few conciliatory sweeps. “It always is.”
He considered offering money in compensation, but the thought didn’t stay long. He had no money at the moment and, indeed, owed Gilbert and Eleanor much already. He softened his tone. “Nell.” He smiled. A foul trick, but it usually worked. “The sheriff will be after them, and they need a hiding place. Can you find it in your heart to hire them and keep them here? I would be grateful. It is only temporary until they can return to their lodgings and their situations.”
“Aw now, Crispin.” She glared at the women. “Well, if it’s to grate Wynchecombe. But only temporarily, mind. Ned is enough trouble for any establishment. Costs are high and payments—few,” she said pointedly, rubbing her fingers together.
Crispin bowed formally. “Thank you, Eleanor.”
Livith pushed Grayce behind her and raised her sharp chin proudly. “You called us your clients. That means we must needs pay you. What is your fee?”
Crispin thought briefly of declining payment as a chivalrous act. But it had been a long time since he could afford the luxury of chivalry. “Sixpence a day. Plus more for expenses.”
She drew in her shoulders and sighed before reaching for the small purse attached to her belt. She poured out its contents into her palm. Four pence, one farthing. She raised her face. “That’s all I have.” But her eyes traveled back to the bag on Crispin’s shoulder.
Crispin scooped up three of the coins to change the direction of her thinking. “I’ll take thruppence now. You can pay me later. You’ll earn your food and board here, so you will have few expenses.” He slipped the coins into his own purse and cleared his throat. “Off with you now. I’ll see you here from time to time to let you know the tidings.”
“And when can we return to the King’s Head?”
“That may not be possible.”
The sisters looked at Eleanor.
Crispin made the introductions. “This is your new mistress, Eleanor Langton. Nell, this is Livith and her sister Grayce.”
Eleanor frowned. “Very well. Off to the kitchens with you.” She gestured with the broom.
The sisters headed toward the kitchen, but Livith looked back at Crispin. “What about that box, then? You can lick more gold off of that than can be had in this place.”
Crispin tightened his hold on the strap. “I say again. This is not your property, nor mine. In fact, were either of us to be found with it, it would most certainly mean our deaths. Is that what you want?”
She looked once at the satchel over Crispin’s shoulder and shivered. “Aye, I get your meaning at last.” She turned and disappeared through the archway.