At Chancery Lane the driver stopped and waited at the end of the street.
Crispin leaned against the wall of a shop, his shoulder resting against a closed shutter.
In time, the man emerged from the carriage, yet he appeared as only a gray spirit in the enveloping fog. A small boy, another ghostly figure, carried a bundle across the lane, dropping one of his packages. The stranger paused and appeared to be merely looking at the boy. After another pause, he moved forward, stooped to retrieve the package, and returned it to the stack in the boy’s arms. He spoke and the boy listened attentively.
Crispin’s senses prickled. The driver stood as a lookout, effectively barring the street’s entrance with the carriage’s girth. No one but the boy and the mounted man could be detected on the hazy street, now clouded with fog. The stranger seemed to engage the lad with a friendly air. He pressed a hand to his scrip and after a moment, took something from it—a flash of silver. He held it forth. The boy stepped closer, and every nerve in Crispin’s body had the sudden urge to scream out a warning to him. They became one silhouette, man and boy, against the gray. The horse turned its large head and chuffed an icy breath before shaking its head. The jangle of his harness was the only sound to travel so far, not the soft tones the man spoke to the boy, who moved closer as if under a spell, transfixed by the offered coin.
The boy reached up, his arm extending in a soft arc. The momentary tableau could have been the mirror of a sacred carving. A shepherd boy entreating his lord; the child Jesus speaking to the men in the temple.
But the gentle picture suddenly shattered.
The man’s hand shot forward, capturing the boy’s wrist. Another clamped over his mouth. The packages flew. The child was only able to squeak out one surprised sound before he was dragged toward the waiting carriage.
Crispin’s dagger was in his hand and he was running before he could gather another thought.
The driver turned and got a fist in his jaw for his trouble. He wheeled back, falling into the horse. The horse whinnied and pulled on the harness, jostling the wagon.
Crispin wasted no time on the fallen driver. He lunged for the boy and grabbed a flailing arm. “Release him!” he shouted.
The bishop turned white-rimmed eyes toward Crispin. Gone was the haughty expression he’d worn for Crispin’s benefit. He scowled and pulled harder on the child, thrusting his foot onto the carriage step.
Crispin clamped a death grip on the boy and raised his dagger. He plunged it deep into the man’s thigh with a meaty sound. He screamed. The boy fell from his grip. The knife bobbed in his leg as he struggled, half in, half out of the carriage. Crispin pulled hard on the child’s arm, wrenching him back and flinging him away into a snowy bank. Crispin spun back toward the man when a booted foot caught him in the chin. He staggered back, stars exploding in his vision.
The fog thickened about them. Cold. Deathly cold. The man’s features were lost in gray. Still lingering in the carriage doorway, he pulled the dagger from his bleeding thigh and pitched it to the ground. He slid painfully to the bottom step and came at Crispin again with a snarl.
Crispin recovered and swung, his fist hitting solid flesh. He heard the man grunt and double over, but he wasn’t down long. He exploded upward and slashed out with his arm. Crispin detected the flash of a blade and leapt back, his body flexing and scrambling.
A slice of silver and Crispin jumped back again. How he wished he had not left his knife in the man! Only God knew where it was now.
He chanced a look behind him for weapons or defense and saw nothing in the swirling mist. He felt the man swinging before he turned and nearly caught the blade arcing toward him. He flung his foot upward and connected with a wrist. The knife went flying and Crispin reared back, his fist ready.
The man was faster and sank a punch deep into Crispin’s belly. Dropping to one knee, Crispin’s breath whooshed away, and he raised his arm in defense, feebly trying to ward off another strike.
He never saw the driver rush up from behind. When that blow fell, the world slanted, and the wet street came up to meet his face.
* * *
Crispin didn’t want to awaken. Clearly it would make the ache in his skull that much greater. But with someone bathing his forehead in a cold cloth and cooing softly to him with a whispered song, he could not seem to help himself.
He blinked, his eyes feeling hot even for the cold cloth. When they focused, he did not expect the knot of people surrounding him. And then fear made him jerk to a sitting position. “The boy! Is he safe?”
A gentle hand pushed him back, and his pounding head was more than grateful for it.
A small voice at his side said, “I am, my lord. I am safe. Because of you.”
“I am not a lord,” he replied automatically.
“You are to me, good sir.”
“And to me,” said a woman’s voice, the one who soothed his brow with a cool hand.
The small feeling of satisfaction was offset by his bewilderment. He had been embroiled in a violent encounter with that vile stranger. Once down, he had not expected to rise again, but obviously, he had somehow come out the victor. “Where is that man? The would-be abductor?”
“Gone,” said the woman at his side. “Once you fell, he and his man made off.”
A mercy, then. His head felt an ache like an ax slowly wedging further into his skull. A small mercy.
“I do not suppose there is such a thing as wine?” he asked hopefully, closing his eyes against the throbbing pain.
Not long after his plea, something was pressed against his lips. He gulped it gratefully before it was pulled away. He opened his eyes carefully again and tried to make sense of his new surroundings. The room looked to be a workroom of sorts, with shuttered windows through which dim light filtered in angled, pale shafts. Heavy beams held up wide rafters. Benches lined one wall.
“What . . . is this place?”
Glances were exchanged above him. Worried brows told him he would not receive the truth. He looked them over: men, women, children. Wardrobes of every stripe, from that of servants to the rich in furs like a merchants’ garb. What the devil? Could this still be Chancery Lane, or had he been brought elsewhere? His eye snagged on a man who immediately slipped behind another, ducking his face. Even Crispin’s pounding head could not hide the fact that he recognized that face. But from where? His muzzy mind would not allow him to sift out the answer. He dropped his forehead into his palm, trying to squeeze away the pain. He’d give up all the gold in the world for relief from the splitting ache in his poor head . . . wait. Gold? Goldsmith! He raised his head again and speared the man with a narrow-eyed stare. “I know you. You’re—” What was the name? “Middleton. Matthew Middleton.”
Accusing faces turned toward the hapless goldsmith trying to become smaller behind a man with a broad hat.
Crispin rose and rested back on his elbows. “Days ago I questioned you. About the dead boy. You’re that goldsmith.”
The man eased away from the others, his hands placating gently. “Aye, good sir. I am he.”
“What are you doing here? What is this place?”
Middleton looked to the others and cautiously approached. “A place of safety, Master Crispin. We are indebted to you for saving the boy. Surely when you are well enough you can be on your way.”
Crispin pushed the soothing hand away and sat up, throwing his legs over the side of the pallet. It was a mistake. His head swam but there was nothing for it.
It also did not go without Crispin’s notice that the crowd blocked his way out.