Crispin knew the feeling.
He ran his hands along the stone walls, looking for crumbling mortar. Reaching above his head, his fingers caught on a loose stone and he used his nails to pry it free. A hole barely big enough for his purposes, he nevertheless took out the folded cloth and did his best to stuff it in the hole. “If this is your face on this cloth, Lord, then I beg your mercy,” he grunted, pushing the stone block back into place. It teetered, trying to fit. Crispin withdrew his dagger and used the pommel to pound it in the rest of the way. He craned his neck to look at it and decided it needed mortar.
Under the window, a permanent mud hole collected from streaks of dribbling rain running down the discolored wall. He used his dagger again to scrape some with his blade and pasted it between the joints. He worked at it for a few minutes and then stood back to admire his effort.
He wiped his blade on his coat, sheathed it, and clapped the mud from his hands.
“Miss the place?”
Crispin stepped back, his hand on his dagger. He looked up at a squint-faced guard with a three-day beard and a leather cap slightly askew on his head. Ginger hair peeked from a tear in the cap, sticking out straight from his head like a sentinel.
“I am only looking around, Malvyn.”
Malvyn tapped his knife on the side of his face, scratching his unshaven chin. The blade was nicked and stained. Crispin wondered if he ever cleaned it.
“And here is his lord, standing in a cell again. What do we make of that? Shouldn’t you be in the sheriff’s hall?”
“I am not seeking out the sheriff today.” Crispin crossed the threshold and stood upwind of the gaoler before he turned his back on him.
“Now, Crispin. I thought we had become friends while you was here.”
Crispin chuckled with bared teeth. “We were never friends. I loathed the air you breathed.” He waved his hand before his own sharp nose. “I still do.”
“Now, now. Rudeness? That was never tolerated when you was a prisoner here.” He grabbed Crispin’s arm.
The cold feel of the man’s fingers closing over his skin flooded Crispin’s mind with memories he had no desire to revisit. He stiffened and spun. With a much stronger grip than Malvyn’s, he captured the man’s wrist and twisted until he sank down on one knee with a yowl.
“I am no longer a prisoner here!” Crispin growled. “And I will thank you not to touch me.” Crispin twisted the arm once more simply because he enjoyed it. With a feral grunt he released him, tossing the captured hand aside.
Clumsily, the man rose and found his footing. He scowled, face reddening as he wobbled toward Crispin to spear him with his finger. “You’ll come to regret this,” he snarled.
Crispin straightened his coat and turned on his heel. He didn’t look back as he strode down the passage. “That I doubt.”
Crispin took the stairs to his lodgings two at a time. He was anxious to see Philippa and tell her…tell her what? That he loved her? He’d said it once and didn’t know how it could be true. But didn’t he feel his heart leap when he looked at her? Didn’t he admire how she had lifted herself from her hardships? He wouldn’t speak of it again. Maybe she wouldn’t either. He chuckled at that. Wishful thinking. At least she would be relieved the Mandyllon was gone.
He opened his door carelessly, expecting to find both Philippa and Jack.
He did not expect the man across the room or the one behind the door.
20
Dark-haired and dark-skinned, the men wore livery. Crispin thought he recognized them.
But more notably, they both carried crossbows, and the weapons were cocked and aimed at him.
“Gentlemen,” said Crispin. “If I knew you were coming I would have prepared better hospitality.”
“You are to please come with us,” said the one across the room. His accent was thick with the sunshine and olive oil of the southern part of the continent.
Crispin slowly shook his head. “I do not think I would profit from that.”
“It is not a matter of what you think. It is a matter of who is better armed, no?”
Both foreign men smiled and raised their weapons higher. Crispin smiled, too, and nodded, all the while wondering where the hell Philippa and Jack could be. He decided he wouldn’t fancy ending up at the bottom of the Thames with two quarrels in him. That would help no one.
The closest man made a move toward him. With blood pumping madly through his every fiber, Crispin tensed and before the man could grab him, Crispin darted his hand forward and closed it around the wrist with the crossbow. With all his strength, he slammed it hard against the wall—once, twice. The man protested in Italian and was wrenched off balance by Crispin’s unrelenting blows. He nearly fell into Crispin, still holding tight to the weapon.
With an inarticulate shout, the man across the room lifted his crossbow and aimed.
Crispin spied him over the struggling man’s shoulder. With widened eyes, he yanked his attacker in front of him.
A whoosh and a thud told Crispin the bolt struck true—and hit square in the back of the man he pinned. The man cried out, twisting, clawing at the bolt in his back. But his thrashing grew weaker. Blood darkened the back of his coat.
The face of the other man parched white in horror and he lowered his weapon for only a moment before he snapped to and struggled to reload.
With a groan, Crispin’s attacker slumped to his knees, but without missing a beat, Crispin snatched the weapon from the man’s limp hand, aimed the crossbow, and pulled the trigger.
Both bodies hit the floor at the same time.
The room suddenly fell to silence. One of the men was whimpering. Crispin could not tell which one.
Panting, Crispin stepped back and stared at the bodies now littering his floor. Blood was seeping over the floorboards. And urine. He could smell it. At least one of them was already dead and the other soon would be.
He hefted the crossbow in his hand and studied the compact weapon with a sense of giddiness at having escaped the sharp scythe of Death once more. The gears and windlass of the crossbow interested him for only a moment. A fool’s weapon. Give him a dagger or a hunting bow any day.
He dropped the crossbow on top of the closest man.
The hard stillness was broken by the sound of slow, deliberate clapping, one hand striking the other. Crispin jerked toward the doorway, his hand on his dagger.
Abid Assad Mahmoud leaned in the jamb as if he had been there a long time. Perhaps he had. He stopped clapping when Crispin glared at him.
“My compliments,” said the man. “Well played.”
“Your crossbowmen, I presume?”
“Yes, but”—he looked them over and tutted—“mine no more.”
“Have you come to finish the task?” Crispin’s hand had not left his dagger.
“No. Only to tell you how disappointed I am. The girl was a special bonus. And now, well, there is nothing left with which to extort her.”
“No, your game is done.”
“Not quite. There is still the matter of the cloth.”
“And so. You admit it at last.”
