He was certain the fare that Gilbert and Eleanor served would be delicious. But it would be small portions of goose and cheese and perhaps coarse bread and a crumb pudding along with their sharp tavern wine, never tasting quite as good as he recalled from casks he had enjoyed from Gasconne.
No. He could not bring himself to go.
It began to snow. Not gentle, lacy flakes, but melting blobs of ice, smacking his cheek like a challenge from an opponent. He almost missed the carriage as it lumbered along the road in the opposite direction. A fine draft horse, a driver, the flaps secured tight on the windows to the barrel-shaped conveyance. Just another rich lord or lady taking a shortcut down Newgate Market.
The carriage slowed and then stopped. Crispin passed it without a second glance until out of the corner of his eye, a window flap rose.
“You there!”
Crispin kept walking, ducking into his hood so that the leather would take the brunt of the slushy flakes.
“You there!” said the voice more sternly.
A shadowy figure through the window beckoned to him. Crispin looked over his shoulder just to check that it was, indeed, himself the man wanted, and then he stopped. He stepped forward but kept a decent distance. “You called me?”
“Are you . . . Crispin Guest?”
Like a cloak, a sense of caution enveloped him. “Who asks?”
A chuckle, deep and melodious. “May I offer you a ride?”
Crispin eyed the driver, who stared straight ahead, never looking down at him. He wore no livery, gave no clue as to the inhabitant of the carriage below him.
The doorway of the carriage lay open, a dark rectangle offering nothing. Were there more men within? An ambush, perhaps?
He studied what he could see of the shadowy face in the window. “You are not going in my direction,” Crispin offered.
The chuckle again. “We can circle about. Whither do you go?”
“To Westminster.”
“Mmm. Get in.”
Crispin stood his ground, the snow piling around his feet. “Who are you?”
“I would never have guessed that the great Tracker was so cautious.”
“Nor so foolhardy.” The man was baiting him. Was it worth it?
The gloved fingers on the sill tapped a drumbeat before gripping the side. “Get in,” he said again, sternly but still somewhat friendly.
Swearing under his breath, Crispin edged toward the doorway, hesitated one moment more, and then climbed in.
As soon as he sat, the carriage jerked and started again. He saw no one but the man. There was no attendant. No guard, save the driver.
The carriage’s shadows covered most of him, but as Crispin’s eyes adjusted to the darkness, he detected more of the stranger. A man perhaps younger than Crispin, bundled in a black, fur-trimmed gown. A high collar came up under his clean-shaven chin. Blue eyes considered him under lazy lids. A felt cap covered his fair hair. He seemed small in his clothing, as if he were made of sticks, not flesh. He said nothing as Crispin studied him. The carriage pitched and rolled over the rutted street. It wasn’t a comfortable ride by any means, but it was better than walking. Just barely.
Crispin clutched the seat and sighed. “Well then? I am here. As you bid.”
The man leaned back and regarded Crispin leisurely. He smiled. Even as the carriage bounced and he along with it, he didn’t look ruffled. “You’re a strange man, Guest.”
Crispin shifted on his seat, looking for a comfortable spot on the scant cushion. He couldn’t find one. “As you say.”
He chuckled again. “And you don’t even bother to deny it. You don’t think that strange?”
“What is strange is this conversation. You have not yet introduced yourself, sir. Or is it ‘my lord’?”
A gloved finger traced down his chin. The ring on it bore no signet.
Crispin waited. He glanced out the doorway and saw that they were now headed for Westminster. He sat back. “Clearly there is something you want of me.”
“Clearly.”
Amused silence emanated from across the carriage. He clenched his jaw. If there was one thing Crispin couldn’t stomach, it was the playing of these games. He shifted again, making a show of impatience. But the stranger appeared to have all the time in the world.
Crispin started when the man spoke again even though he had been waiting for that very thing.
“I believe you are one of the few men who can appreciate order.”
Games, then. “I doubt I am one of a few. Most men crave order. God in his Heaven. The king on his throne. His lords around him. Even the lowliest villein appreciates order knowing that all is well.”
The man drew his hands together like a prayer, touching his lips with his fingertips. But he said nothing.
“I know you find this strange coming from the likes of me—” Crispin began, trying to bridge the unhelpful silence.
“No, I do not. As I said, I knew you could appreciate . . . order.”
“And be wary of the lack of it?”
“Indeed.”
Their exchange was rather like moves across a chessboard; nothing to be revealed too soon.
Crispin watched the face that did not change. Perhaps his questions needed to be couched like chess moves. “And what lack of order, pray, must I be wary of?” he tried.
The smile was back. “A lack of order can be very bad. For a parish, for a kingdom. Those who do not follow the order defy God. Would you not agree?”
“The Almighty molds our lives. Those who rule over us are anointed to do so. Those who defy this order . . .” Crispin offered a wry smile, “suffer.”
“Indeed, Master Guest. You know this well. A pity you could not have reminded yourself of that fact before you committed treason.” Crispin’s smile faded, but the man went on. “It is no matter. You have served London well in the years following your appalling disgrace.”
Much thanks, thought Crispin with a sneer.
“We must have order,” the man went on. “Without it, we are like a castle whose walls are undermined. The foundations crack, the walls topple, and the enemy rushes in.”
Crispin waved a gesture of agreement. He tried to surmise the man from his clothes, but there was nothing to indicate his affiliation or family name. Nor did his person boast of any parish fraternity. His pouch was simple, his girdle nondescript, his dagger plain. He was wealthy enough to own a carriage, but why not the usual display of his family’s arms all over it? Why was the driver not liveried? And why were there no other servants abroad with him?
The man also wore no sword. He did not feel the need to arm himself then. In a land where even the king wore a sword, this man had none. What manner of man did not carry a sword? Surely he could afford it, unlike Crispin who felt the lack of a sword daily as if a limb had been hacked off. The man was also young, though his age seemed indeterminate. He was younger than Crispin, older than Jack. At times, when he turned his head just so, he seemed quite young indeed, but at other times, when the dim sunlight caught his eyes, the intelligence there would seem to mold him into something a great deal older.