bursting with energy. Strange, these feelings. But not unwelcome. Oh no. To feel such a sudden surge of fire in his blood brought him back to his knightly days when his hand curled around a sword hilt and he sped into battle, Lancaster at his side. Yes! It was very like that feeling. He was giddy with it. He hopped down into the street to take it in. He had a bright awareness of the world. The colors of garments were deeper. The smells of the street were stronger but not unpleasant. The men hurrying along, their bundles over their shoulders, seemed infinitely more interesting than before. He took a step into the muddy street . . . and stopped.
Martin Kemp’s plump daughter Matilda blocked his progress.
Crispin’s abrupt elation was sucked away like water down a gutter, especially when her gaze roved over him, a gaze that might hold more than insolence.
“Going somewhere?” she asked. Her small, piggy eyes blinked with what he thought was an attempt at coquette. On her it was a sloppy interpretation. “You’re always off somewhere. Out ‘Tracking,’ eh?” She giggled. It reminded Crispin of chickens clucking.
“Indeed.”
Still her wide hips blocked his path. “Oh. You’ve hurt yourself.” She pointed to the wounds along his forehead. He felt a trickle of blood and wiped it away. “You should put something on that,” she said. “It looks painful.”
“It isn’t, I assure you.”
“I could give you something. I could make a poultice.”
He gave a brief, insincere smile. “No, thank you.”
Once more, he tried to sidestep her but she moved to block him. “Always, you are so busy, so much in haste,” she said, twining the end of her apron around her fingers.
“I must work for my keep. As do you and your family.”
“Why is it you never take board with us? You’ve lived here four years and you’ve never done so.”
“I do not pay for board. It makes the rent cheaper.”
She shrugged, as if money were of little consequence. “You don’t always have to eat here. I sometimes sup with my friends. Sometimes at the Rose. And sometimes even at the King’s Head, though Mother would hide me good if she knew. You might want to come, too.”
“I do not advise your going to the King’s Head today. There may be trouble.”
She giggled again, an unpleasant rumbling of her throat. “You’re always after trouble, aren’t you? My father says that you were once a knight, but I don’t think that’s true.”
Crispin rested his hand on his knife hilt. He itched to draw it, but he snipped off the ends of his words instead. “Oh? And what drew you to that conclusion?”
She eyed the street and wrinkled her nose. “No knight would live here, to be sure. And you used to do my father’s books. I’ve never seen any lordly men about here looking for you. Come now. Weren’t you a steward and just liked to pretend you were more?” The last was surely her mother’s voice. He’d heard that tone too many times before. “It doesn’t vex me, of course. You can pretend to be whoever you like.”
For a moment, he started his usual reaction to her uncouth comments, which meant a low growl and getting out of her way before he sputtered an inappropriate reply. But a surge of self-assurance swelled his chest again, pushing back the subservient tilt of his head. With a pounding heart, he remembered such a feeling, the very same he felt on the lists just before the charge, lance at the ready, blood rising, horse beneath him toeing the earth.
He loomed over her, his mouth set in a scowl. “Listen, you spoiled whelp. I
Her mouth flopped open. She put her trembling pink fingers to her throat but made no sound.
It felt marvelous. He’d wanted to mouth those words to her for a long time. Something had always curbed his tongue. But not today. He fisted the hilt of his dagger, though it took all his strength not to draw it.
“Now. Are you going to get out of my way, or do I have to throw you aside?”
She shrieked and tumbled after herself to scramble out of the way. Crispin caught a glimpse of a blue stocking before she made her escape back into the Kemp family quarters. He heard her muffled screech to her mother beyond the walls and took this as the perfect moment to leave.
He swaggered onto the muddy street, feeling as proud as a cockerel. There was nothing more satisfying than brutalizing Matilda Kemp, except for, perhaps, Alice Kemp. Poor Martin. The tinker would get the brunt of it. With a disgusted sigh, Crispin knew he would eventually have to apologize with promises of good behavior. He needed these lodgings. They were all he could afford.
He smiled. But he didn’t have to apologize just this moment, and causing that horror on her face
Pleased with himself, he dug into the street with sure steps, until a large man casually bumped him. The tall, wide-shouldered man continued on but Crispin whirled, grabbed his arm, and spun him. “Here now,” he said, pulling his dagger at last. “You did not apologize for jolting me. I think it’s owed.”
The squared-jawed man stared at Crispin. “Unhand me. I owe you nought.”
“This dagger says you do.”
“You threaten me?” The man pulled his blade and he looked down at Crispin. His stout arms looked as if they could snap Crispin like a twig, yet Crispin felt no fear of him.
Crispin even smiled. “I have not drawn another’s blood in at least a sennight. And my blade is thirsty. Do you apologize?” He showed his teeth. “Say no.”
Perhaps it was Crispin’s confident posture, or his refined speech that gave the man pause. Whatever the reason, the broad man dropped his dagger to his thigh and inclined his head. “I beg your pardon. I did not see you. I meant no harm.”
Crispin took a disappointed breath. With a huff, he saluted with his blade and sheathed it. Without further words, he turned on his heel and proceeded up the avenue. He peered into the shops and stalls he passed, inordinately interested in the commonplace: a butcher drew his knife down the skinned corpse of a pig hanging upside down from a hook; a poulterer held chickens by their feet and waved their struggling bodies to potential customers, wings spread like an angel’s; a young apprentice walked carefully to the back of a shop with a tub of blood; a fishmonger briskly scaled a gudgeon, scales flinging into the air like faery dust.
Crispin took it all in, the coppery scent of blood, the sounds of chickens cackling, the slippery rush and splash of a fish in a bucket. This was no fine street of grand houses. These were the shops of laborers, tradesmen. Their many shops along the Shambles were as tired and as worn as their occupants. Narrow structures, shouldering one another in tight proximity. Their stone foundations were speckled with mud; their daub the color of parchment and their timbers a dusky gray from weathering. An autumn sky sputtered beams of sunshine through its cloud cover, recoloring the shop fronts with alternating stripes of sunlight and shadow.
“Master!”
Crispin heard the voice from far off but there were many men called “Master” by their apprentices along any avenue in London. Slapping steps approached from behind and the voice called again, this time more recognizable.
He turned. Jack Tucker approached at a run, his face long with concern. He pulled up short in front of Crispin and panted, hands on knees. “Master Crispin, didn’t you hear me?”
Crispin shook his head. “No. I’m afraid I did not.” He smiled, thinking of Eleanor’s words. Perhaps Jack’s stealing could be curbed with more concern. God knows Jack’s own parents were long dead. “Jack.” He lunged and gathered the boy into his arms in a bear hug.
Jack squirmed like the devil was after him and wriggled out of Crispin’s grasp. “God blind me!” He lurched away and positioned as if to run. “Are you drunk?”
Crispin opened his arms to encompass London. “Why does everyone think I’m drunk? I’m just merry.”
Jack cringed and studied Crispin. “
“What nonsense. I am perfectly well. I’m just on my way to the sheriff. Must tell him about a dead body.”
“ ’Strooth! You seem awful cheery about it.”
