Radulfus glared.
Giles shook his head. “It’s unbelievable. This can’t be true. Cornelius? Did you know of this?”
Cornelius turned away from him and sobbed.
Giles blinked hard at the man and then spied the bloodied clothing on the floor. He stooped and gingerly took up a tunic in his hand, turning it over and over. “Horrible. You would give testimony against my cousin here? Yes, surely you must.” He took Cornelius’s arm again. “Except for one thing.”
Cornelius jerked and gurgled, twisting like an eel on a spit. He fell to the floor with a flood of blood and bile rushing from his side. With a dispassionate flick of his brow, Giles looked down at his own bloodied dagger and sleeve.
Cornelius choked and writhed, face wet with blood and tears. He reached his hand toward Crispin, tendons straining against his pale hand, eyes beseeching. It had happened so fast. There was nothing Crispin could do. He watched in horror as the man sunk down, twisting as death took hold. He bled out, his cheeks growing pale, until his eyes rolled back.
Giles coldly wiped the blood on the child’s tunic and dropped it to the floor. “So much for your witness.”
“Giles!” The horror of it finally reached him. Cornelius had been surprised that Crispin thought Radulfus was the culprit.
He had not meant Radulfus at all.
Giles sheathed his dagger and shook his head. “Crispin, Crispin. Why could you not leave it alone?”
“Giles.” It was a nightmare. How could it be true? Friendly rivals they had been, even stubborn rivals. Giles had stolen away Crispin’s lover and there had been words and fists exchanged. But that had been young men out to best the other. Surely Giles was not capable of this horror. He was not that man.
Was he?
Giles strode up to Crispin and grabbed him by the tabard, twisting the cloth in a fist. His bloody hand imprinted the material even as his breath ghosted over Crispin’s face. “Why couldn’t you leave it alone? We must have no witness, Master Guest. And no arrest.”
“But Giles. For God sake. Why?”
He took in his pale-faced cousin to his right. “Why? Oh Crispin. So much has happened over the last seven years. So much. When Margaret died in childbed, there was much to think about. She had brought a fine dowry to the marriage, as you know. But gold seemed to slip through my fingers. My coffers emptied. There was ruin around every corner, until-”
“Cousin,” warned Radulfus.
Crispin lunged forward. “Giles! I beg you. You must stop these vile crimes! To kill these innocent boys! To. . to do the things you are doing to them-”
“But I like doing what I am doing to them!” he screeched, his voice slightly hysterical. Gone was the innocent mask he had worn. Crispin saw him as he now was. Something had changed him. Something had rotted him from the inside. He was not the man Crispin had known, and the fearful realization of that stilled his heart and sickened his belly.
Giles drew himself back and barked a laugh, bringing his cousin into his shared laughter. “The quivering flesh of these young, fresh-faced creatures. It is like taking a maiden, Crispin. Better. You should try it. I think you will find it pleasing.”
“You disgust me!”
“And the blood. No, I never thought to find such enjoyment in it. The young boys, yes. I have had that proclivity for some time. Even before Margaret. Oh she was a prize, indeed. Something to best you at. I never thought to find such success. I had finally beaten you at something. How it burned me to fail again and again. But Margaret was a willing sacrifice. And I saw how it hurt you.” He smiled. “Did she die in childbed? Did she?” Crispin tasted the bile in his throat but he could not lose himself to retching. He had to stay alert.
Giles chuckled. “I suppose you’ll never know. There was much blood in the bed that night. Blood. And I found the idea of it. . pleasing. The battlefield was never as pleasing as this.” He strutted now, walking up and down before the still body of the astrologer. “Do you know why I cut out their entrails?”
“Giles!” hissed his companion.
“No, no, Radulfus. I think Master Guest should know. At least some of it. After all, he’s worked so hard to get this far.” He stepped forward and Crispin, a bubble of horror filling his chest, took a step back. “Have you ever held the quivering entrails of your enemy in your hand, Crispin? No? I know you have killed many men. And surely you have seen it. But to never have held them? Such a pity. Do you know that viscera is not merely warm, it is hot. It holds such heat that steam rises as the hot blood oozes over your fingers. That’s because the boy is still alive. You can feel the blood pulsing through the viscera. It is fascinating, truly. They are drugged, of course, so they cannot ruin my fun.”
Crispin could not look away. Even as the slick blood of the astrologer filled his nose with a metallic scent, his eyes met Giles and he saw demons within.
“And witnessing the moment-that very moment-that life leaves them,” Giles continued, his voice drifting dreamily. “It’s the eyes, Crispin. They dull. Their gloss seems to fog over, as if a veil shrouds them. It is at this moment that I like to feel the slick entrails in my fingers as they cool. And then I cut them out and save them in jars for my own amusement. Later, I can look at them.”
Crispin thought desperately. What could he do? This monster could not be stopped! If these boys had been the sons of wealthy merchants perhaps something could be done. But no one would come forth for these boys. De Risley was unreachable. Crispin snatched a glance at the dark-eyed cousin, Radulfus. Both were looking curiously at the cooling body of the astrologer.
“I suppose we shall have to call someone about Cornelius,” said Radulfus. He stepped back, trying not to soil his boots with the pool of dark blood. They both looked up at the same time. “We could blame him for it,” he offered.
“I could not do that to an old friend,” said Giles. “Even if we weren’t truly friends.” He gave Crispin a chilling grin. “Hurry you now, Crispin. We will tell them that we caught Cornelius stealing from us. Consider it a debt paid. But I might just as easily change my mind.”
Throat dry, Crispin made one last frantic attempt to think of something, but Radulfus shifted toward him. “Out, Master Guest,” he said, sliding his hand seductively over the hilt of his sword.
Crispin cast a sorrowful glance at his dead witness, and with a feeling of disgust at himself, could do nothing more than stumble through the door. He shuffled like a dead man through the crowded corridors, scarcely marking the chaos around him. When he made it to the Great Gate he looked back at the bustle of oblivious servants and noblemen, turned to the wall, and vomited against it.
He held the wall to steady himself, and when his belly was empty he wiped his mouth and pushed away. “Margaret.” He had not loved her, had not thought of her in years, in fact. They were paramours, exchanging favors in the others’ bed. But he could have fought harder to keep her, to save her. Had Giles truly killed her or was that more taunting? Crispin didn’t know him at all. Hadn’t ever known him. How could he have been so wrong about someone? Was nothing as it seemed?
The cold was even worse now. The chill wind slashed against the rawness of his cheek. The futility of it all. What good was being this damned Tracker if he could not protect the citizens of London? He could go to the sheriffs, he could explain it as clearly as he could, but he knew, he knew there was nothing the sheriffs would do. Not against a nobleman. There was no evidence against him for murder. True, if the sheriffs could arrest both Giles and his cousin Radulfus, torture could extract the truth, but neither sheriff would do such a thing on Crispin’s say-so.