“Perhaps I shall. And to do that properly—” he turned to Giles, “I will need the accused, Lord de Risley. If you would be so kind as to tell your friend, my lord.”
Giles grabbed the man’s arm again. Crispin’s heart had not stopped its clamor and it stumbled once when he thought that Exton’s brief reprieve was only that. Would the man run him through anyway? Defy the sheriff and Giles just for spite?
Exton didn’t press the matter. He waited, expression vacant. His horse impatiently tamped the courtyard.
With a sigh and the tilt of his head, Radulfus pulled back his blade and very deliberately sheathed it. Crispin coughed a breath, which only tore the skin at his throat. He felt the hot blood dribble down his neck.
De Risley helped Crispin to his feet, but Crispin shook him off, flushing darkly. That Giles should witness his moment of weakness!
The sheriff pointed to the slushy snow. “Pick up the book.”
Crispin cursed under his breath. The precious book that Abbot Nicholas had entrusted to his care was now wet and muddy. He leaned over and raised it from its mire, shaking off the excess water.
“I have this now in hand,” Exton prompted, a little surer of himself.
Giles seemed in no hurry to leave the scene. “Crispin, I—”
“My lords,” Crispin said with a bow, dismissing them.
Radulfus laughed and Giles glared at him and at the sallow Cornelius, who looked nervous near Radulfus.
Finally, the three mounted. They reined their horses about and looked back at the sheriff over their shoulders. “I trust you know what to do with lawbreakers, Lord Sheriff,” said Radulfus.
“Indeed I do, my lord.” He bowed to the men before Radulfus and Cornelius trotted away toward the palace gate. Giles looked back with an apologetic expression.
Exton watched anxiously until he saw the back of them and turned angrily on Crispin. “Master Guest. Your behavior is untenable.”
Froshe edged forward at last. “Just what is it you did to prick his ire?”
Crispin rubbed his neck, wiping blood across his palm. “I did nothing, my lords. Nothing but cross his path, the bastard. I never set eyes on him before today!”
Exton whipped around, glaring at the crowd. “Disperse! All of you. Unless you wish to be arrested for disturbing the peace.”
The milling people quickly fled with none looking back, hiding themselves in shops or into alleys.
“You might wish to speak more quietly—” warned Exton.
“And cautiously!” piped Froshe.
“Yes. Much more cautiously if you intend to insult courtiers in the streets. Whether you know their names or not!”
“He is a bastard. And more.” The bleeding would not stop and he stooped to gather snow to press it to his sore neck. “And what I said was the truth. My mere existence seemed to compel him to violence.”
“I am beginning to know just how he feels! Need we go to Westminster Abbey to prove what you said about that book?”
“Of course not!” The skin at his neck was numbed by the cold snow, feeling like a corpse’s skin. He let the crimson snow fall and brushed uselessly at the mud and sticky snow at the back of his cloak. “The abbot loaned it to me. I’d swear to it on my sword, if I still had one.”
Exton scowled. It was beginning to resemble Wynchecombe’s. He glanced along the street again. No one was close enough to overhear them. He leaned over the saddle pommel and said quietly, “I take it you are here to investigate the . . . you know.”
Crispin stretched his neck tentatively. The numbness was still there but no amount of snow could temper the humiliation that still flushed his cheek. “Yes.”
Froshe leaned over. “Are you making any headway?”
Crispin scanned the street himself and his eye fell on a familiar and gratifying sight. “No. But if you leave me to it, I can carry on.”
They both straightened. The scowls they cast at him could melt ice. “That’s the thanks we get for saving your wretched life?” said the Fishmonger. “I should have let him stick you to the ground.”
Crispin composed his features and faced Exton. In his best courtly posture, he bowed low to him. “I am deeply grateful, Lord Sheriff.”
“Hmpf. I’ll wager you are. My advice? Stay away from de Risley and his ilk. Just do your job,” he added with a harsh whisper before looking at the crowd again. “Report to us tomorrow. If we are to spend coin on you, Master Guest, I want to see results!” He wheeled the horse and trotted away with Froshe following quickly behind him. The retreating hoofbeats drummed hollowly in Crispin’s chest.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the ginger-haired boy approach, wearing the tabard of the duke of Lancaster. “Master,” he said tentatively. “Master Crispin . . .”
Jack’s face was a feast of sorrow. Clearly he had witnessed his disgrace. He clutched tightly to a bundle, his teeth worrying his chapped lips.
Crispin felt ill at ease under the boy’s scrutiny. He tried to shirk the memories of the last few moments but it stuck to him as tenaciously as the mud that was ground into his cloak. He turned away on the pretext of surveying the square. “Jack” was all he said.
“The livery,” said Jack. He raised the bundle slightly. “I’ve got one for you, too.”
“Good.” Across the street there was a narrow close. He headed for it, motioning Jack to follow. The walk was good for him. It allowed the clammy humiliation to slip from his shoulders. He left it back there in the street, discarded like chewed bones. When they’d reached the shadows, Jack handed him the bundle and Crispin shook it out. Another tabard with the Gaunt arms. Unbuttoning his cloak, he slipped the livery over his head, fitting it over his shoulder cape and over the scrip, keeping it safe. He whirled the cloak back over his shoulders and buttoned it again. He glanced down at Jack. “How do I look?”
Jack shrugged. After all he had seen, it didn’t seem as if he knew what to say.
Crispin laid a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “You stayed out of the way. That’s as I would have it.”
“I didn’t protect you! I was . . . afraid.”
The vehemence and the words from so small a source stunned him. He took a moment to collect himself, mulling the sentiments. “Jack,” he said quietly, his grip firming on the young shoulder. “You do your best. But in such an instance, it is wisest if you stay clear of me.”
“But—!”
“No, Jack. No arguments. It’s my command. And my wish.”
Jack blinked rapidly, his eyes glistening. With mouth clamped tight, he gave a curt nod. Crispin gave him one in reply before he turned to the busy street in front of them and set out for the palace.
9
With his hood over his head and Lancaster’s arms painted across his person, Crispin and Jack slipped unquestioned through the great portico, past guards and pages. Jack spoke not a word. Crispin sensed his fear. He was not beyond a little healthy fear himself. At every turn he was in dread of encountering Giles and his wretched cousin again. What would the man make of Crispin’s new livery? Would he be accused of stealing it? There would be no sheriff to stop Radulfus’s vengeance then.
The great hall was bustling with people, talking in small groups, citizens hoping for an audience with certain nobles, pages milling near their lords, servants trying to stay out of the way.
But it was the servants Crispin wanted to question. He headed toward a door he knew led to a narrow passage through which the workers often passed. Jack was at his heels, sticking close, like a calf to its mother.