raised his chin. “No. I am called the Tracker. I recover lost objects. Find estranged relatives. Investigate for the sheriff.”
“God’s teeth! That’s
“Devil take you, Miles!” Crispin looked back at the guards. Maybe one blow would be worth it.
Miles’s face drew on a mask of indifference. “Surrender to it, Crispin. It’s all in the past. There’s truly nothing you can do about it now. Who would believe your word against mine at this point?”
“All the more reason to simply kill you.”
“Is that a challenge?” Miles withdrew his sword, inching it from the scabbard.
Crispin stiffened. “I don’t have a sword, you turd.”
Miles smiled. “So you don’t. Keep your little knife where it is then, and there will be no difficulties, eh?”
Miles whipped the air once with the blade and sheathed it. He chuckled. “Good to see you again, Crispin. God keep you.” He turned on his heel, reached for his horse, and mounted. He glared down at Crispin and yanked on the reins. The horse arched his neck and Miles turned him, dug in his spurs, and galloped the beast away.
The men-at-arms followed at a trot. They glared back at Crispin but left him alone. Crispin clenched his fists so tight they shook. With a hissing breath through his teeth, he opened his cold fingers and allowed the blood to rush back into them. Pins and needles jabbed his hands until they warmed, warmed as much as a cold September on a London meadow would allow them. He stood a long time, so long the sun burned off the mist, leaving a clear path of trod turf back to town.
He cast a glance toward the grassy butts with his arrows thrust into its center wreath. If only that were Miles’s heart. Yet surely the man didn’t have one. No wonder he was so difficult to kill.
He snatched the bow from the ground and stomped toward the target. He didn’t even bother to watch for flying shafts as he grabbed all five arrows and yanked them free. He hunted for Martin’s misspent arrows and found only the two in the ditch in front of the target. The one in the woods was lost.
He turned toward London and strode across the vast field. No question as to where he was going now.
THE DOORS OF THE Boar’s Tusk yawned open as if inhaling the first breaths of winter, though winter was still months away. The opened maw welcomed Crispin and he walked through, found his usual seat with his back against the wall, facing the door, and slammed bow and arrows to the table.
A man sitting on the bench beside him gestured toward the weapon. “It ain’t right the king should decree a man go forth today. It ain’t a Sunday, after all. When’s a man to work?”
Crispin never looked at him. “When have you ever done a day’s work?”
“That ain’t friendly, Master Crispin.” He pulled his hood down to his brows.
Crispin rubbed his crusty eyes with the heels of his hands. “It wasn’t meant to be.”
The man rose, and with an indignant and drunken swagger, departed and nearly bumped into Gilbert.
Gilbert sidestepped the drunk then looked Crispin up and down and motioned for Ned to bring wine and bowls. He sat opposite Crispin with his arms folded over his chest, and after a long, silent pause, Crispin raised his eyes. “What?”
“You’re in a sour mood, is all. I was merely waiting for you to tell me.”
“Tell you what? That I’m a pauper? That I’m nothing in the eyes of the court? This you already know.”
Gilbert eyed the bow and arrows. “What’s amiss, Crispin? Is it the archery practice that vexes you?”
Crispin ran his hand over his chin. He felt the spot he missed while shaving. He pictured Miles on the ground and himself above him. Why didn’t he slit the bastard’s throat when he had the chance? And who, by God, was Miles protecting?
Crispin looked at Gilbert. “I ran in to an old acquaintance today.”
“I take it this old acquaintance stirred foul memories.”
“He did indeed.” Crispin’s voice dropped in volume though it wasn’t a conscious move. “This man I saw today . . . I have not seen in some seven years.
Gilbert hunched forward, cupping their dialogue within his bowed shoulders. There was no need to distinguish which “Plot.” “No!”
It was the first time Crispin spoke about Miles to another human being. What did it matter? Miles was right. Who would believe Crispin now after so many years?
Crispin searched over Gilbert’s shoulder. Where was Ned with the wine? Such a distasteful subject needed the satisfaction of spirits. “Paid by someone to start the deceit,” Crispin went on, “he was the unknown conspirator whom none of us divulged even under torture.”
Gilbert’s face, so round, so naturally jolly, elongated with horror. “Torture?” he murmured. “I did not know they tortured you, Crispin. You never said. You never spoke much about it at all.”
Crispin’s belly rumbled uneasily, remembering. The smell of fear made of sweat and piss; the odor of burning flesh. He shut it away again and bolted the memory behind his hate. “It is of no consequence. It turned out to be the least of my worries.”
“But Crispin, why wouldn’t you say? Why not reveal the scoundrel at the time?”
“I hadn’t realized his full guilt then. It was only sometime after it was all over that I knew. Perhaps, even if I had known, I wouldn’t have revealed his name.”
“For God’s sake, why not?”
Crispin looked up, taken aback. “It would not be the honorable thing to do.”
Gilbert snorted. “Your honor. It hasn’t gotten you very far.”
“If I have not that, then what is left to me?”
The wine arrived but not by Ned. Livith faced Crispin and leaned far closer to him than necessary to put the drinking jug on the table. He inhaled the scent of hearth smoke on her clothes and sweat on her skin. When she bent over, he noticed perspiration dotting the tender flesh between her breasts. She put two bowls down, taking longer with Crispin’s. “Would you have me pour?” she asked.
Thoughts of torture and Miles Aleyn suddenly receded to a far place in Crispin’s mind. A tentative smile wiped away some of the day’s rancor. “Yes,” he said. She slid the bowl to her, scooped it up to her breast, and poured the wine.
Gilbert squinted at her. “None of your tricks now.”
She cast a wearying glance at Gilbert and lowered the cup to the table. She had to push the arrows and bow aside and glanced at it before raising her eyes to Crispin. “Ah now. This brings back memories,” she said, sliding her finger suggestively up the curved weapon. “Me dad was an archer in the king’s army. Always fiddling with a bow and arrows. Talked of nought but.”
Crispin eyed her fingers lightly sliding up the bow. “What happened to him?”
“Died of sickness in his bed. Not the way he would have wanted to go.” She sighed and shook out her apron. “And now all this trouble with archery practice. It’s a shame, it is.” She gave Crispin a smile and sauntered away, looking back over her shoulder in a casual manner, not exactly looking all the way nor catching Crispin’s eye, but Crispin knew well what she was about.
“She’s trouble.” Gilbert shook his head.
“Yes,” said Crispin into his bowl. “Maybe the kind I’m looking for.”
“Don’t get mixed up with her, Crispin. She’s got a sly way about her that doesn’t sit well with me.”
“Never fear, Gilbert. She’s not the sort I usually favor.” But he watched her disappear behind a curtained alcove and thought long about her slick lips and sweat-misted flesh. Gilbert was talking to him, yet he did not hear his words. He rose with his bowl and walked toward the kitchens when Gilbert grabbed his arm.
“Crispin,” he warned.
Crispin merely smiled and when he moved again Gilbert’s hand fell away.
He reached the doorway and cast aside the curtain. The alcove led to another door and to the kitchens in a small outbuilding situated too close to the tavern to do much good if it caught fire. He leaned in the open doorway and scanned the tiny space, smaller than his own lodgings. Ned and a female servant were busy roasting and basting meats over a fire burning within the high-arched hearth. Black iron pots, pans, and cooking tools hung on hooks beside the arch, swaying with the smoke rising from the turning meat. A large kettle hung from a rod, its lid rattling from steam.
Grayce sat on a stool by the hearth, peeling turnips. The peels piled in her apron-covered lap like autumn
