“He thought it was Nick.” Clarence stared into the room with a haunted expression. “How proud Father would be. What a den of wolves are we.” He rose and approached the sideboard, reaching for the flagon again, but paused halfway and lowered his hand. He dropped his cup on the sideboard. The bowl spun, wobbled, and finally stopped. His face grew long, and though his eyes seemed lazy and saturated with drink, Crispin noted a change in his mood and the first sincere expression he’d seen Clarence wear. “I think we Walcotes deserve each other,” said Clarence softly.
“I need that box, Master Clarence. Can you get it for me?”
He faced Crispin and seemed to slowly rise from his melancholy. “That will make Maude madder than a wet hen.” He smiled. “I’ll gladly do it.” He marched toward the archway, but before he crossed under it, he turned to Crispin. “By the way, what happened to her? That chambermaid?”
Crispin stiffened and scowled. “She’s found temporary employment. But I fear for her safety.”
“What? Why? She’s got nothing.”
“She is a pawn in a much larger game. That box might help her.”
“An empty box?”
“Just trust me, Master Clarence. I know she harmed your family. She perpetrated fraud. But I do not think you would wish to see her killed, especially for something for which she is entirely innocent.”
Clarence screwed up his mouth and toyed with his dagger. He nodded and left the parlor.
Crispin felt the need to pace and made several circuits of the room. Philippa. He wanted to concentrate on Mahmoud and the Italians, but such thoughts proved impossible once her image slipped into his consciousness.
She looked so forlorn when he left her at the Boar’s Tusk. Why didn’t he take her in his arms? Why make such a fuss about a kiss? Plenty of men kissed their women on the streets. Plenty of plain, hardworking men.
Knights kissed women on the streets, too. But those women were last night’s conquests at stew houses, not courtly women.
He looked up at a wall painted with a family scene of people romping in a garden. Painted servants worked nearby dyeing fabric in vats. The wealthy family was turned out in their best furs and scarlets. The female servants cavorted, barefoot, skirts hitched up, ankles and calves revealed. Hounds of high pedigree frolicked with the wealthy patrons, while mongrels nipped at the heels of the drunken male servants toting bolts of cloth under their arms. The peasants hung on the necks of the donkeys pulling carts, while the rich merchants held delicately to the reins of their sleek, white horses.
Try as he might, he could find no pleasure in the antics of the riotous peasants gamboling across the wall. He knew in his gut that he belonged to the sedate and wan faces of the wealthy; painted with just as many brushstrokes.
The candle flame shifted at the same time a floorboard creaked. Crispin was suddenly aware of someone behind him. He cocked his head and saw Clarence. Crispin guiltily adjusted himself, feeling as if his thoughts were spattered across the wall.
“Oh the fuss she made,” snorted Clarence. He presented the box to Crispin. “I knew it would be worth it. Of course, I did not tell her the purpose it was being put to. She would have tossed it in the fire for spite.”
“Yes. It is foolish to burn things for spite.”
Clarence crossed to the sideboard, but stopped midway. He angled his head to look at Crispin. “I’m curious. About you.”
“Oh?”
“Yes. I mean, your clothes. And you’ve got this strange title—what is it again?”
“The Tracker.”
“Yes, that. Just who are you, anyway?”
“A man of many talents—and none of them for riches and success.”
Clarence laughed. “Yes, I am your brother in that.”
“Does not the cloth business suit you?”
“Oh yes, I do well enough. Nothing like Nicholas did, rest his soul.” He glanced around the parlor. “Or even this fellow who played at him. I suppose I haven’t the head for business. Lionel’s right, I reckon. I would have run the business into the ground.”
“I hear he has done no better.”
Clarence snapped his head up. “Eh? Where’d you hear that?”
Crispin said nothing.
Clarence nodded and smiled. “I see. Part of those many talents of yours, eh?” Clarence grew thoughtful and toyed with the flagon but never quite poured from it. “If Lionel is guilty of this murder,” he said slowly, “what will happen to him?”
“He will most likely be hanged.”
Clarence shivered. “Christ’s toes.” He seemed to freeze on the spot, looking nowhere in particular, nor moving his hand to pour wine. “That’s a hell of a way to inherit all.”
“It is legal. It is better than murder.”
“Yes,” he said softly. “Better than murder.” He looked at the flagon in his hand as if seeing it for the first time and decidedly set it down. He wiped his hands down his coat and ambled toward the arch, never quite looking at Crispin. “Does he…will he…” He closed his eyes. “Master Crispin. I am unacquainted with the doings of the law. Will it be swift, or will he endure in prison a long time?”
“Were he a high-ranking nobleman, he might well languish in prison. He is a wealthy merchant, which makes him nearly as important, though I should think that all shall move swiftly. Your inheritance will be awarded just as speedily.”
“No, no. It isn’t that. It’s just that I’m actually feeling sorry for the bastard.”
Crispin shifted forward. “Best not to say anything to Lionel, Master Clarence. Or to anyone. The sheriff would be very displeased if the culprit should be warned. And don’t feel too sorry for him. He could easily turn on you, too.”
Clarence raised his head and nodded. “Yes, it has occurred to me. God keep you, then.”
“And you. If I were you, Master Clarence, I’d lock my door.”
Clarence’s face drained of color. He glanced up the staircase and its dark shadows and even darker secrets. He rested his hand on his scabbard and took to the stairs as if they were a gallows.
Clarence. Such a man made Crispin wonder what the real Nicholas must have been like. Was he gruff and all business like Lionel? Or did he have a sensitive side as indicated by Clarence’s surprising sobriety? Crispin cast a glance about the chamber. Its riches were evident in every corner, every stick of furniture. No doubt Nicholas was as ruthless as any lord. No one got this rich doing kind deeds.
He wanted no more of the Walcotes and their ceaseless bickering. He’d take care of Lionel soon enough, but this business with Visconti overrode all, and time was running out. When he turned to leave, he nearly smacked into a boy, the one from the kitchens he’d talked to before.
“Master Crispin.”
“Yes, lad. What is it?”
“Master Hoode would speak with you, sir. He’s awaiting you in the kitchens. He says it is very urgent that he see you now.”
“Very well. Much thanks.”
Crispin followed the boy across the hall to the kitchen close and trotted through the low-ceilinged passage.
John Hoode stood in the flickering light of the large hearth. He looked whiter than usual. The firelight caught the edge of his fair hair and blazed it with light. The others must have gone on to their beds. He saw only another boy sleeping on a pile of straw near the storage rooms.
“What is it, John?”
“Crispin! I think something has happened! There was a message from your man Jack. He said that Mistress Wal—that Philippa was abducted by the Saracen. You are to meet those men—he just said ‘those men’—at London Bridge to make the exchange. Do you know what he meant?”
Crispin’s bravado sizzled away and his knees felt weak. All he feared. She was supposed to be safe at the Boar’s Tusk. How could she have been taken right out from under everyone’s noses? And if she was, then where were Eleanor and Gilbert?