“I don’t know,” said Gautier. “He has never been to England before.”
“Then this killer has obviously been to France.”
Laurent nodded. “So it would seem.”
“Do you know a man named Miles Aleyn?”
The Frenchmen looked at one another. They slowly turned toward Crispin and answered, “No.”
Crispin eyed them steadily and it was Gautier who dropped his eyes first.
“Indeed.” Crispin glanced at his empty cup and left it where it sat. “What of this other companion of yours, the one searching for the relic. What is his name?”
After a lengthy pause, Crispin looked up again. The men stared at one another. Laurent stuck out his lower lip. “I do not think we are at liberty to say.”
“No?” Crispin stared pointedly at Gautier who shuffled his feet. “We have our instructions,
“I see.” He rose. “I thank you, gentlemen, for your time and your . . . trust,” he said with a sharpened expression.
“But you
Crispin turned to Laurent. “Oh I shall. But I do not need to tell you that the more information you can provide the easier it shall be for me to discover the culprit.”
They were both as tight-lipped as before, though their gaze was steady on Crispin’s.
“Very well,” he said and bowed to both Frenchmen, put up his hood, and took his leave.
He stood outside their closed door and stared at it. What plot were they hatching that they would not divulge the reason for their stay at the King’s Head or the identity of their fourth companion? Did it have to do with the attempt on Richard’s life? Yet they seemed genuinely surprised by that news. Strange. And Miles Aleyn. The name had caused a spark of recognition in their eyes. They might not have killed their companion but they were hiding a great deal. Just what it might be, Crispin was yet uncertain.
The situation was getting more complicated than need be. It should be simpler. Miles did it. He had been in France. He told Crispin as much. He must have killed the Frenchman because the courier could identify him. Simple.
And the arrows? He stole them to deflect any identification from him.
But a bigger question remained. If it were a plot all along to kill the king, why the attack on Livith and Grayce? If they knew something, saw something that might incriminate the killer, then the scullions were in far more danger than he thought.
Where was that fourth courier?
He scrambled out of the inn and ran full tilt back toward Westminster Palace.
CRISPIN ENTERED THE PALACE kitchens easily and hurled down the steps. He scanned the room. It was even busier than before.
There, Livith was giving orders to Grayce while Grayce happily accepted them. They looked too busy to notice him. They were safe and none the wiser for their danger. Crispin bent over to grasp his thighs and breathed. He had imagined them both dead, arrows protruding from their necks. But now his thumping heart was tempered with annoyance. If only that damned Livith would let him force the information from Grayce’s stubborn mind.
Blowing out a sigh, he straightened. Livith was probably right. Grayce was too dull-witted. She said she didn’t remember, and in all likelihood she didn’t.
The urge was strong to bundle them both and send them into the country, but where could he send them? He knew no one outside of London who would do him a favor.
He tapped his finger on his knife hilt. There was little choice in the matter. He had done what he could. Hidden in the largest kitchen in London was surely an adequate hiding place.
A scullion shoved Crispin none too gently out of the way. Crispin didn’t take offense. He was the invader into their territory, after all. He was no longer a lord to be catered to.
The coming feast plunged the kitchen into raucous activity. Every hearth, every brazier vaunted roasting meats with a licking fire under bubbling pots. Servants scurried from one post to another, while women, wiping sweat from their foreheads with their bared forearms, stood over large cauldrons stirring two-handed with large wooden spoons, or sat on stools peeling onions and carrots.
Onslow Blunt spotted him. “Oi, Sir Crispin. Back again?”
“It’s a fine feast you are preparing.”
“To be sure. Mustn’t let the world see the court is afraid.” Onslow stared at Crispin and seemed to read his face. “Hungry?”
Crispin made a nervous chuckle and rubbed his belly. “As it turns out, yes, I am.”
“Let’s see how the capons are doing.” Onslow wrapped the end of his apron around an iron rod that served as a spit, and with his wide hand, slid one of at least twenty capons off the rod and onto a long rectangular worktable in the center of the room. The plucked bird steamed and a pool of juices puddled beneath it.
“Geoff,” said Onslow, stopping a boy hurrying to some task. “Bring us both a jug of wine. Get it from my larder, lad. Make haste, now.”
Onslow turned back to the capon and in the middle of the busy kitchen chopped it in half with a handy butchering knife. He slid one half toward Crispin. “Here you go. It’s been awhile since you’ve enjoyed my cooking, eh?”
“Too long.” It was hot, but Crispin was famished. The small hocks that Jack managed to get hadn’t quite been enough. He handled the capon’s steaming flesh tenderly. The meat seemed to melt in his mouth. He licked the succulent juices from his fingers. “It’s the pastries I miss the most,” he said, mouth full.
“Oh, aye. I’ve got something special tonight, too. A miniature of London, all done in spun sugar and cakes. I’ve been working on it for days.”
“I can’t wait to see.”
“Are you staying?”
Crispin sucked the last of the meat from the bones and wiped his hands on a cloth just as the boy Geoff returned with drinking jugs. They both saluted each other. The wine tasted smooth and rich. Was it thicker? Was that possible? It was nothing like the fare at the Boar’s Tusk. Most likely this wine was imported from Spain or France.
“I will be here, but unseen, if you get my meaning,” said Crispin.
“In the kitchens?”
“In the kitchens, in the hall, in the corridors. You see—” He leaned in toward Onslow and Onslow matched his conspiratorial angle. Crispin’s voice dropped to a taut whisper. “I think the assassin will try again.”
Onslow’s eyes rounded, revealing the whites all around his blue irises. “Christ bless me! You don’t think that has anything to do with Master Peale?”
Crispin pulled the wine jug away from his lips. “What has this to do with Master Peale?”
Onslow dropped to a whisper. “Hadn’t you heard? They found him dead not more than an hour ago.”
15
CRISPIN SET HIS WINE down. Peale dead and his secrets with him. “By an arrow?”
“No,” whispered Onslow. “Throat was cut. But not much is spoken of it. Most of the palace do not know, and the king wants it to stay that way.”
His throat cut? “That’s my fault,” Crispin muttered. “I should have taken better care. I should have thought of this.”
“How can it be your fault? No man can possibly blame you.”
