By the men’s expressions, Crispin could well see that they recognized his name. The men-at-arms exchanged a silent consultation before the first man licked his lips and gave a curt jerk to his head for Crispin to follow.
Crispin was only slightly surprised but did not stand by musing over it. He hurried across the muddied field behind the man-at-arms and traipsed between the tents, where they met another guard.
The man gestured back toward Crispin. “Crispin Guest to see Lord Henry.”
The new guard, wearing the Lancaster colors, openly assessed Crispin.
“Please,” said Crispin. “You know who I am. You know I would never betray him.”
The guard studied him for a long time before he said in a gruff voice, “I will announce you.” He turned and walked away, leaving Crispin to stand on the chill plain with the single guard behind him.
It wasn’t long until another man in livery arrived. He, too, looked Crispin over. “I am Hugh Waterton, Earl Derby’s chamberlain. What makes you think that Lord Henry will see you?”
“He will.”
Again, Crispin stood under scrutiny. Waterton glanced out over the encampment, where his gaze finally landed on the man-at-arms standing by. He gave him a dismissing nod and turned to Crispin. “Come with me.”
Crispin followed him through the aisles between more tents and finally to a large pavilion, whose sides rippled with the wind. Waterton pushed aside the tent flap and held it open for Crispin.
Crispin bowed to the man, held the flap for himself, and ducked through. The flap fell back in place behind him.
The floor was covered in carpets. A large oak table with folding chairs encircling it sat in the middle of the tent, but there was still room enough for a large bed, coffers, and several cots. Candles burned from sconces beside an altar at the far end, where a man knelt at a prie dieu. He was enrobed in a long cloak that draped over his feet. A sword hilt poked out and lay across the carpeted floor.
After a long moment, he turned.
Henry.
He rose quickly, smoothly, and strode across the tent. A frown furrowed his brows. “Why did you come here?”
“Forgive me, my lord. But I had to warn you. I did not want to send a message that might go astray.”
“Well, then?”
“There are assassins who seek you.”
He barked a laugh. “This is not news.”
“Their origin is. It’s Oxford. He is sending them.”
“What?” His hand went to his sword hilt.
“It does not please me to relate this to you, my lord. But Oxford is behind all the schemes of late in London. The poisoning, the missives you received, and the men sent to kill you.”
“How … how does he dare?”
“He is loyal to Richard.”
“Does Richard know?”
“I … don’t know. But I doubt it. I think Oxford is doing this on his own for his own interests as well as the king’s.”
Henry’s hand closed into a fist as he stared at the floor. His shoulders rose and fell in a quick succession of breaths. “Who else knows that you know?”
Crispin shrugged. “No one but you and me.”
“My men have told me that Oxford and Suffolk are preparing to leave court. They might be gone already.”
“Why, Henry? What is happening?”
He lifted his head. “I have a message to deliver to his Majesty. Today. An appeal of treason on his advisers.”
“Don’t go, Henry. Send others to do it.”
“How can I not go? Especially when one of the names is Oxford. You see, Crispin, I already know what a swine he is.”
“I beg you, Henry, don’t go.”
“Because of what it will look like?”
“It will look like you are making a move on the throne.”
Henry paced away from Crispin. His long cloak feathered along the carpeted floor after him.
“I don’t … want to know whether it’s true or not,” said Crispin. Henry looked over his shoulder at him, brows raised. “I don’t.”
“It’s not,” he answered quickly.
Crispin breathed again. He licked his lips. “Don’t go to court. He’ll arrest you.”
“Whom should I send, eh? If not myself?”
“Send your uncle, at least. As a show of good faith to Richard.”
“Who else?”
He shook his head. “I do not know who your commissioners are. Not all of them, anyway.”
“Richard Fitzalan, Thomas Mowbray, Thomas Beauchamp. Should I send them all and not go myself?”
“Send Arundel and Warwick, then, along with your uncle. A small delegation. Not too intimidating.”
“But I think rather that they should be intimidating.”
“The message is intimidating enough, don’t you think? Richard will not take it well.”
A small smile formed on his face. “Would it interest you to know that my uncle Gloucester made all the very same arguments? I suppose I should take that advice, then, if the both of you are in agreement.”
“Gloucester and I have agreed on so few things. Perhaps this is the time to listen.”
He nodded. “Very well. I’ll send the message. And I’ll stay here. For now.”
“What will Suffolk and Oxford do?”
“God knows. I know what I would do.”
“And what’s that?” But Crispin already knew the answer.
“Bring back an army,” said Henry.
Crispin took his thoughts with him back to Fleet Street. Before he reached it, however, he heard a noise and looked up. Above the rooftops were not the dark, dense clouds full of rain, but great billowing, choking clouds of smoke from a fire. Like many others on the street, he started running. A fire in the city could easily spread from street to street in the tightly packed parishes. Any able-bodied man was required to help.
His fear doubled when he saw the roof of Flamel’s shop engulfed. Sooty men were passing buckets of water to one another and tossing their contents on the blaze flickering through the doorway.
Crispin ran up to a man who seemed to be in charge. “The people?” he asked. “Did the people get out?”
“I don’t know. I came upon it when the fire appeared to start. I called out but heard no one within.”
The smoke and fire in the doorway parted for only a moment, and Crispin leapt through.
“Wait! Damn fool.”
Inside, the place was like the pits of Hell. Fire leapt from every surface. Heat surged all around him. He put his cloak up over his mouth and nose, but his eyes stung from the smoke. He squinted through the tears and cast about. “Is anyone here?”
He kept low, below the rolling smoke, searching in all the corners. When he could find no sign of anyone, he grabbed the ladder to the loft. He was coughing now and closed his eyes as he climbed each rung, saving his eyes the pain from the heat. Once he gained the top, he looked around. “Flamel! Jack!”
Flames licked at him from the railing and the now rickety floorboards. In the smoke, the brass planets continued their slow progress, oblivious to the carnage around them.
Crispin looked up. In the rafters he caught sight of a square that looked like the sky, and when he coughed enough, and blinked enough, he saw that it was the sky. A trapdoor to the roof yawning wide open.
He stumbled his way toward it, trying to breathe only through his damp cloak, and stood under the door. No ladder. The remnants of it were burning nearby. They must have made their escape that way.
He looked back the way he had come.
The flames covered the railing now, engulfing the ladder to the loft. That way was barred. And the fire was gaining on the floorboards. Already some of the floor had given way and gaping holes with spitting flames were all around him. The roof was his only exit, but how to reach it?
Everything was aflame. Even the bed was smoldering … but not yet engulfed. He grabbed it and pulled it away from the wall. It was heavy. It dragged across the floor with a great groan. All at once, part of the floor gave way, and one corner of the bed sank into the fiery hole. Crispin grabbed hold of one post and heaved. It swiveled on its one axis in the breached floor and one post was suddenly poised under the trapdoor. That would have to do.