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?
He stared at Hoode’s desperate face and somehow grew courage from the man’s fear.
“Yes, John. I know what he meant. Do me the kindness of telling Jack to meet me at the bridge.”
26
Crispin hurried out of the Walcote estate and trotted toward the Thistle on his way to London Bridge. He praised God when he spotted a familiar ratlike figure lurking near a brazier trying to keep warm while at the same time remaining unobtrusive to the other men warming their hands.
“Lenny!” cried Crispin across the avenue.
Lenny cringed. The others at the fire turned to look at him and edged away.
“Now Master Crispin,” he said in low tones. “What you go and point me out like that? I just got them gentlemen to forget all about me.”
“I need your help.” He grabbed his arm and steered him into the shadows.
“Anything, Master Crispin. You know old Lenny. Always here to help.”
“I need you to get a message to the sheriff.”
“The sheriff?” Lenny squinted and darted his glance up and down the quiet lane. “Oh, now, Master Crispin!” he said in the hushed whispers reserved for a church. “I don’t go to Newgate. Not if I can help it. You’d best send someone else.”
“Lenny, you know I wouldn’t ask unless it was dire.”
He shook his head vehemently. “Don’t ask me to do it, Master Crispin. I ain’t going to Newgate and that’s
