“They had best not! What would I do if they made me to go to the Domus? Who could live off the pittance the king supplies those poor sots?”
“One wonders if the king truly wishes to support his converts or to starve them.”
“Aye. I do not wish to see for myself.”
“I did not come to talk to you of this.” Crispin heard the man’s shuffled step move closer to her and his voice dropped. “I came to talk to you of . . . Odo.”
“Not him again! Why must it be me?”
“I’ve told you before, Berthildus. There is no one left of our people here. It must be you.”
“I can’t control him anymore than you can.”
“But you must. That Tracker has been sniffing about.”
“Tracker? I ain’t seen no Tracker.”
“He’s been asking things. You must keep an eye on Odo.”
“He’s his own man, as you well know.”
“But he has been to the northbank. To Westminster.”
“What? How do you know that?”
“There was trouble. Tell him he must stop whatever it is he is doing or it will be the ruin of us all.”
There was silence for a moment. Crispin listened hard before he heard the door creak open. He scrambled to the other side of the hut and pressed against the wall.
“I’m counting on you, Berthildus. We all are. Here. I know it has been difficult for you with Hugh away.”
There was the soft clink of coins exchanging hands.
“God grant that he returns soon,” she said.
“Yes. God keep you.” His slushy steps moved away and Crispin waited, wondering if he should question Berthildus, if anything could be gained by it. Clearly he had prodded a nerve when questioning the Jews in London. But who was this Odo and why did they both seem to fear him? Something clicked in Crispin’s head, and he thought he might just know this Odo after all.
“Master Guest.”
Crispin whipped around. Blindsided, he stared into the face of the stranger from the carriage.
“I hoped I would see you again,” said the man. And before he could answer, a fist snapped hard into Crispin’s face. Stars exploded in his vision and he fell to his knees, blood rushing down his nose and over his lips. The taste of copper flooded his mouth.
A shadow glided over him. Crispin looked up blearily into the face of the carriage driver.
The man looked down at Crispin, drew back his arm, and finished the job.
15
Crispin knew he had been dragged away. He just wasn’t certain by whom or where he had landed. The blow had not knocked him out completely. There had been vague images of alleys, ditches, and people, but he had been powerless to make any resistance. Instead, he had hung lifeless in their arms and dragged a long way.
He felt cold damp under his back when he was roused enough to care. His face hurt and his mouth was sticky from drying blood.
Raising a hand to his face, he heard the stirring in the dark room. Someone moved across the floor. He turned his head in time to see a boot jabbing toward him. A soundless cry opened his mouth as the boot sunk into the flesh between his ribs, not hard enough to break bones but enough to garner his attention.
Breathing became the first priority.
The thickened voice above him gave a mirthless chuckle. “That is for stabbing me. A man, after all, must know his place.”
Gasping seemed to work. Coughing ached his already bruised ribs so he tried to avoid it. Wrenching open his eyes, Crispin glared at the silhouette above him. “You have me at a disadvantage,” he rasped, adding with vinegar, “your Excellency.”
That seemed to satisfy the man, and he drew back, enough to show Crispin he wouldn’t kick him again. For the moment.
Slowly, Crispin rolled to his side and gingerly pushed himself upright, wary that the man would lash out at him again. Once he was standing, his eyes quickly took in his dim surroundings. A stable. Disused by the look of it. There was straw under his feet and the stench of moldy hay permeating the air. A place whose walls might well swallow his cries. But when his hand brushed against his scabbard, he was surprised to feel the knife still there.
“You have my attention,” he said guardedly, wiping his mouth with his sleeve. Where was that damned driver? “What is it you want of me now?”
“I was very disappointed with our last encounter, Master Guest. Very disappointed. When I encouraged you to continue your investigations, I did not intend for you to follow me. That was very . . . discourteous.”
Crispin made an abbreviated bow in apology, but never said the words. “I cannot help, your Excellency, if my investigation led me to you.”
“Nonsense. Your insatiable curiosity led you to follow me. I’ve no doubt that this will someday be your downfall.”
“My lord, may I remind you of my current circumstances in London? I met my ‘downfall’ ages ago. And I have arrived . . . intact. More or less.”
“Less, I should think.” The man cocked his head. Crispin saw the briefest of shimmer in the blond locks. Golden, one might even call them.
“What were your intentions with that child?”
Crispin was used to the dark by now. He saw the gleam of teeth with the man’s smile. “My intentions were my own.”
“Then you can understand why I was reluctant to let you escape with him.”
The man nodded and lowered his head. He contemplated the floor for quite some time. “I suppose your intentions were noble and could therefore be forgiven. In time.” The man limped a little to reach a stool and sat with a grunt. He regarded Crispin with a shadowed face and glittering eyes. “What an unusual man you are. Perhaps I underestimated you. A dangerous thing to do.”
Crispin shrugged. He looked around the room pointedly, what he could see of it. “So what now? I have apologized. May I be on my way?”
“One wonders what you could possibly be doing here in Southwark.”
Still in Southwark, then. “Come, your Excellency. A man makes many a pilgrimage to the stews without this much fuss.”
He thought he could see the man’s face wrinkled in distaste. “Blessed Jesu. More sin, Crispin? May I call you so? We seem on more intimate terms now, you and I.”
“And yet I still do not know your name, Excellency.”
“You seem to be making little headway. Why have you not found my parchments?”
Sudden thoughts of Julian flooded his mind. He needed to get back to Westminster, but there was some question as to whether he would be escaping this stable at all. He gave it another inspection but the dimness made the edges of the walls disappear. It smelled of rat piss. An unpleasant place to spend his last hours.
“It is difficult finding a murderer,” said Crispin. “Find the murderer and find the parchments. But I think I am closer than you think.”
“Don’t try enigmatic with me, Master Guest. I invented it.” He rubbed his thigh, the one Crispin stabbed. “No doubt you think me too young to have such authority—”
“I was lord of my manor at quite an early age. And the king gained the throne when only ten years old. How can I begrudge you your authority? Whatever that authority is.”
The man looked at Crispin as a cat studies a mouse. “Just so.”
“You wish for me to continue my investigation? Or rather, are you hindering it? And to what purpose? These are the things that keep me up at night.”
“Are they?” The man bent forward and rested his clasped hands on his knees. “So I must conclude from your words that you suspect me of the heinous crime of murder.”