“Well, it isn’t an ordinary dead body.”
“What’s so extraordinary about it that it lightens your mood so? One of your enemies?”
“No.” Crispin studied Jack’s frowning features and wondered at the lad’s sudden concern. He stared at Jack’s blue coat, its crisp colors seeming to fade before his eyes. He squeezed his eyes shut and opened them again. No. Jack’s coat looked as it always had. His eyes turned to the street, following the rhythmic strides of two Franciscan friars in gray gowns with black hoods, walking side by side. Men stopped and bowed to the clerics before moving on. It was an ordinary scene, something he saw every day. He raised his chin and sniffed the air. Before, the street had smelled like the preparations in a kitchen, warm, inviting, with meat ready for the spit. But now, it smelled more like a charnel house.
The lighthearted feelings glowing in his chest chilled. He found himself wondering why he had challenged a man in the street for no reason but for the desire to do so, and nearly gotten into a knife fight for it.
He looked back toward his own lodgings though he could no longer see them beyond the curve of the road and the uneven magpie colors of shop fronts and houses. He touched the wounds on his forehead, but they no longer bled. His body suddenly felt heavy. He used to feel that way after a battle once his high blood was spent.
Taking a deep breath he could barely find the strength to face Jack. The boy stared at him with mouth gaping. “Why do you look at me like that?” Crispin asked.
Jack clamped his mouth shut and shook his head. His thick ginger hair jostled. “I ain’t looking at you with aught. If you must needs go to the sheriff then let us go and get it done with. You know how I dislike Newgate.”
Crispin nodded, rolled his shoulders, and shook off the odd feeling. He looked back one last time, and gestured for Jack to follow.
He said nothing as he continued up the lane to where it became Newgate Market. These were the same shops and houses, the same gray faces that greeted him every day. Why had it seemed so different only moments ago?
He looked ahead. Newgate prison lay before him at the end of the row; a gate in the great wall that surrounded most of London. Jack shivered beside him as Crispin nodded to the guard and passed under Newgate’s arch with its toothy portcullis.
At Crispin’s urging, Jack followed him up the stairs to Sheriff Simon Wynchecombe’s tower chamber. Newgate conjured unpleasant memories for both of them, but Crispin had learned over the years to ignore his discomfort.
The sheriff’s clerk waved the pair by without looking up, familiar with Crispin’s comings and goings. They entered the sheriff’s shadowy chamber, and Crispin moved directly in front of the hot fire before Wynchecombe could look up from his table and stop him.
Too late. The sheriff lifted his eyes from his documents and scowled upon resting his gaze on Crispin. “Ha!” he snorted. “I thought I’d see you here ere long. You must have something to do with this dead French courier.”
Crispin sighed. Good news traveled fast, and bad news even faster.
4
“FRENCH COURIER, LORD SHERIFF?” Crispin raised his chilled hands to the fire and tried to inhale the toasty aromas from the spitting logs, but all he got was smoke. “I do not know your meaning?”
Jack Tucker made himself scarce in the shadows.
“Don’t play thick with me.” The sheriff rose. He seemed to enjoy his imposing stature—both in height and rank over Crispin. His dark mustache and beard blended into his dark houppelande with its black fur trim and its long sleeves draping down to the floor.
The sheriff glanced once at the cringing Jack Tucker, dismissed him, and moved to the fire, standing beside Crispin as if comparing his rich garb to Crispin’s shabby attire.
“A French courier was found dead this morning at the King’s Head Inn on Thames Street. A man was seen stealing away from the vicinity with the two women who lived in the room where the corpse was found. A man of medium height, medium build, clean-shaven, black hair, and wearing a disreputable red cotehardie. Sound familiar?”
“It could be anyone.”
The sheriff eyed Crispin’s red coat and black hair. “Yes. Anyone.”
Crispin stared into the bright flames. “Do you accuse this man, my lord?”
“Of murder? I don’t know. But the women certainly have something to do with it. And I would know what that is.”
“It seems you must find these women.”
The sheriff chuckled. “I shall.”
“If I may ask, what was so extraordinary about this courier?”
Wynchecombe sauntered to the sideboard and poured wine into a silver bowl. After a second thought, he poured a splash into another bowl and handed it to Crispin. He gestured toward a chair, inviting Crispin to sit.
Crispin had, by necessity, grown accustomed to wine with a more strident taste, especially the Boar’s Tusk’s vibrant fare. He drank the sheriff’s wine greedily, savoring its refined flavor of dark currants and cherries. He settled into the chair.
The sheriff eyed Crispin like a hawk sizing up a mouse. “Why should I accommodate so readily?” said the sheriff. “Just what might I gain from being so forthcoming?”
Crispin drank, licked his lips, and rested the bowl on his thigh.
The sheriff made a sound like a growl and settled his arms on the table. He gazed steadily at Crispin. “This Frenchman was transporting a relic from the French court. A loan from the King of France.” The sheriff set his wine bowl aside. “You’ll never guess what that relic is.”
“Don’t keep me waiting.”
“Bless me,
“A crown of thorns?”
“Not
“Holy Christ!” Crispin blurted it before he could stop himself. He raised his hand and lightly touched his forehead, but he felt no blood, no scarring.
“Just so,” said Wynchecombe. “It was a sort of peace offering from King Charles of France to our King Richard. His Majesty was supposed to take whichever thorn from the Crown he wanted. But now the whole damn thing’s missing.”
“Oh?” Crispin sat back, consoling himself in his bowl of wine.
“Yes. Whoever killed the courier took the relic. Word has reached court and it is said that Richard thinks the affair a deliberate slight. But the French ambassador thinks Richard stole it.”
“It’s been a busy morning.”
“Yes. And it’s going to be a long one as well. I have here a decree from the crown to commence daily archery practice for the kingdom. Immediately.”
“But this is already law. ‘Every man between the ages of sixteen to sixty is required to practice archery on
