Jack’s face was as sorrowful a mask as Crispin had ever seen. He bit the inside of his cheek to keep his own emotions in check.
“Leave London? Where would I go?”
“I don’t know. You’re a smart lad. You’d get by.”
“But Master, I’d never leave you.”
“Jack, if I’m arrested there will be very little left to leave. You’d need to fend for yourself.”
“But I’d stand by you. I’d not have you die alone.” Jack’s eyes welled. Two large tears rolled down his dirty cheeks.
Crispin closed his eyes and cursed. “Don’t, Jack. We haven’t got time. Just promise me you’ll leave London. That’s a command!”
“I won’t make that promise!” He shook himself free of Crispin’s hand and threw himself down the steps at a run.
Crispin swiped at his eyes once with the back of his hand before he turned to the room with a trembling breath. He gathered the courier bag with its two boxes and hauled the strap over his shoulder. He rushed down the steps, hoping to see Jack one last time, but the boy was too swift. There was no one and nothing on the blue-gray street but the silver shimmer of moonlight on puddles.
Crispin wondered if a life of sin had led to this moment. He wasn’t much of a praying man. In fact, his prayers more often than not became blaspheming tirades to the Almighty. But as he glanced skyward, thinking about what had been in the box slung over his shoulder, he again asked, as he had asked so many times before, “Why me?”
Why had he stepped into trouble time and time again? Always, he thought he was doing right when it was always so wrong. Hadn’t he tried to help Richard this time? Was his intent not good enough, his heart not pure enough?
He stopped when he turned the corner and spied the Boar’s Tusk. The building sat quietly in the gloom, its bright windows dark except for the faint glow of candle and hearth behind the shutters. He swallowed a lump in his throat. “Well, I’ve had a good run. I can’t say I won the race, but neither did I lose it.”
He adjusted the courier bag and headed straight for the door. It wasn’t barred and so he opened it. Four white faces turned to him. The only one who stood was Wynchecombe.
“Ah!” said the sheriff. He gestured to the table and Crispin brought the bag over and put it down where Wynchecombe pointed.
“My Lord Sheriff, there is something I need to tell you.”
“Oh?” Wynchecombe was distracted by the boxes, especially the gold one. He set it on the table and put his hand on the lid.
Crispin rested his hand over Wynchecombe’s. The sheriff looked up with a quizzical expression. “My Lord, this is the courier box—intact as you see it. But the Crown, alas, is gone.”
“What?” He flung the lid open and looked inside. He drew his dagger and grabbed Crispin’s shoulder cape. “What game do you play, Guest?”
“No game. It is gone. Stolen.”
“You’re hiding it.”
“No, my lord. On my honor.”
“Honor?” He threw Crispin back. “You have none! I’m a fool to have trusted you.”
“I would never sacrifice my friends. Take me, if you must, but for the love of the Holy Rood, do not hurt these innocent people.”
The sheriff glared at Crispin, turned to the white-faced Gilbert, to Eleanor who clutched Gilbert’s arm, to Ned who sucked on his fingers.
“Where’s the cutpurse?”
“He hasn’t got it. I swear by our Lady.”
“Where is he?”
“I sent him away. If I couldn’t save myself—”
“You’re the fine nobleman, aren’t you?”
“I came back, didn’t I?” Crispin thrust his chin defiantly, perhaps his last act of defiance.
Wynchecombe cocked his head and pursed his lips. He swiveled toward the others. “I knew you’d be back.”
“Then you also know I’m not lying. I am at your mercy. You know that, too. To come back meant I’d be walking to the gallows myself.”
“Crispin.” He nearly purred it. He shook his head.
Damn the man! The sheriff wanted to arrest him. Truly wanted to see him hang . . . Or
The sheriff continued shaking his head until his smile turned to a frustrated sneer. “You are the damnedest man I ever met!” He paced, stood before the fire, paced again, then stopped before Crispin and aimed his finger at him. “You
Crispin’s heart beat a step faster. “You will not pursue me?”
“No. But remember”—he gestured with his head toward the others—“I know where these live.”
21
THE THISTLE WAS DARK. Crispin hovered under the eaves, considered bedding down in the stable, but decided against it.
Then he heard it. A step. He saw a figure moving among the shadows and he pressed against the wall. The short figure moved along the edges much like a rat would do and Crispin lowered his hand from his dagger. He crouched and slid along the wall right behind the shadow and when they both reached the darkest corner, Crispin said, “Greetings, Lenny.”
Lenny jumped. His arms flailed and his cloak blew out. He looked like a waterlogged bat falling from a belfry.
“Master Crispin!” His hushed whisper cut across the space between them in a spitting cloud of fog. He pressed his hand to his heart. “I nearly shat m’self. What by blessed Christ are you doing?”
“Trying to stay alive.” He leaned against the wall and looked up into the drizzling sky. The moon had disappeared behind a ragged sea of clouds.
“Oh, aye. I heard. You ain’t a safe man to be hard by, beggin’ your pardon.” Lenny turned to go, but Crispin touched his arm.
“Don’t discount me yet. I haven’t quite given up.”
“Your trouble is you don’t know when to surrender.”
Crispin smiled for the first time that night. “No.”
“Now take me, for instance. When you told me to stop me thieving ways, I give it up, now didn’t I?”
“Was this before or after I had you arrested? Three times.”
Lenny chuckled and rubbed the spot where an ear had been. “Well, I take a bit o’ convincing.”
“And your being out well after curfew. That couldn’t mean anything sinister, could it?”
“ ’Course not, ’course not.” He waved his hand in dismissal but an object fell out of his sleeve to the ground and both he and Crispin bent to get it. Crispin was faster.
“What’s this?” Crispin raised the small metal goblet into what remained of scattered moonlight.
