Giles chuckled. “I suppose you’ll never know. There was much blood in the bed that night. Blood. And I found the idea of it . . . pleasing. The battlefield was never as pleasing as this.” He strutted now, walking up and down before the still body of the astrologer. “Do you know why I cut out their entrails?”
“Giles!” hissed his companion.
“No, no, Radulfus. I think Master Guest should know. At least some of it. After all, he’s worked so hard to get this far.” He stepped forward and Crispin, a bubble of horror filling his chest, took a step back. “Have you ever held the quivering entrails of your enemy in your hand, Crispin? No? I know you have killed many men. And surely you have seen it. But to never have held them? Such a pity. Do you know that viscera is not merely warm, it is
Crispin could not look away. Even as the slick blood of the astrologer filled his nose with a metallic scent, his eyes met Giles and he saw demons within.
“And witnessing the moment—that very moment—that life leaves them,” Giles continued, his voice drifting dreamily. “It’s the eyes, Crispin. They dull. Their gloss seems to fog over, as if a veil shrouds them. It is at this moment that I like to feel the slick entrails in my fingers as they cool. And then I cut them out and save them in jars for my own amusement. Later, I can look at them.”
Crispin thought desperately. What could he do? This monster could not be stopped! If these boys had been the sons of wealthy merchants perhaps something could be done. But no one would come forth for these boys. De Risley was unreachable. Crispin snatched a glance at the dark-eyed cousin, Radulfus. Both were looking curiously at the cooling body of the astrologer.
“I suppose we shall have to call someone about Cornelius,” said Radulfus. He stepped back, trying not to soil his boots with the pool of dark blood. They both looked up at the same time. “We could blame him for it,” he offered.
“I could not do that to an old friend,” said Giles. “Even if we weren’t truly friends.” He gave Crispin a chilling grin. “Hurry you now, Crispin. We will tell them that we caught Cornelius stealing from us. Consider it a debt paid. But I might just as easily change my mind.”
Throat dry, Crispin made one last frantic attempt to think of something, but Radulfus shifted toward him. “Out, Master Guest,” he said, sliding his hand seductively over the hilt of his sword.
Crispin cast a sorrowful glance at his dead witness, and with a feeling of disgust at himself, could do nothing more than stumble through the door. He shuffled like a dead man through the crowded corridors, scarcely marking the chaos around him. When he made it to the Great Gate he looked back at the bustle of oblivious servants and noblemen, turned to the wall, and vomited against it.
He held the wall to steady himself, and when his belly was empty he wiped his mouth and pushed away. “Margaret.” He had not loved her, had not thought of her in years, in fact. They were paramours, exchanging favors in the others’ bed. But he could have fought harder to keep her, to save her. Had Giles truly killed her or was that more taunting? Crispin didn’t know him at all. Hadn’t ever known him. How could he have been so wrong about someone? Was nothing as it seemed?
The cold was even worse now. The chill wind slashed against the rawness of his cheek. The futility of it all. What good was being this damned Tracker if he could not protect the citizens of London? He could go to the sheriffs, he could explain it as clearly as he could, but he knew, he
And these victims. A beggared victim was little good to him. There would be no one to pay the bribes to the sheriffs, no one to put forth the accusations that would hold any weight.
With a frustrated cry, Crispin wrestled the tabard from his body and heaved it to the dirty snow, ignoring the strange looks from those milling outside the gate on the street. A waste! What good were the duke’s arms to him? None of it was any good to him. If he had only been a knight he could have properly faced Giles, could have accused him. But Giles was right. He was nothing. Less than nothing. If he could not bring criminals to justice then what was his purpose now?
He left the tabard in the snow, paying little attention as a half-starved urchin pounced upon it and slipped it over his shivering shoulders. Better to give it to beggars. It did more good on them than on him.
He plodded back toward London, bypassed his lodgings completely, and turned up Gutter Lane. When he pushed open the doors to the Boar’s Tusk and sat by the fire with a bowl of wine in his hands, he felt safe to surrender to his despair.
His face was pressed to the table. There was drool wetting his cheek where it rested against the rough wood. Crispin licked his numbed lips. Something had awoken him but in the haze of alcohol, he wasn’t certain what.
A voice. Two voices. They were talking to each other over his head and he heard his name. He raised a finger to his flaccid lips and sent a sloppy “shhhh” their way.
The talking ceased and he sensed eyes upon him.
“He’s been like this for hours,” said the deep male voice above him. “He would not speak when he arrived. He ordered his wine and he had a look about him like death but he would say nothing to me.”
“Bless me,” said the young voice in the harsh accent of the streets. Jack. Must be. And the older was Gilbert. But he wouldn’t open his eyes. Keep them closed and don’t move. Moving would remind him why he was here.
“And you say he’s been like that for hours?”
“Yes. I wish I knew what was troubling him.”
“It must be this case,” said Jack softly.
Crispin feared they’d let slip something. With supreme effort, he opened his mouth and uttered a slurred, “Be still!”
Jack crouched low toward him. Crispin could smell him; adolescent sweat and hay. “Master! Master Crispin! Tell me what happened. What is amiss? Is the sheriff on his way?”
“No!” he bellowed. “No! Don’t talk about it!”
“But Master! The murderer. We cannot allow him to get away. You said—”
Damn that boy! He
“NO!” Crispin lurched up, spittle trailing in a long iridescent tether from his mouth back to the puddle on the table. He wiped unsteadily at his mouth with his hand. “Damn you, Jack! Can’t you let me forget?”
Gently, Jack laid a hand on his shoulder. “But Master Crispin, what happened?”
He felt the bench creak behind him and the warm presence of Gilbert blocked his other escape. There was nothing for it now. He straightened, tried to focus his eyes on the table, and reached for the wine jug. He sloshed the red liquor over his hand and into the waiting bowl and drank it greedily. “Jack,” he said, doing his best to enunciate. He swayed and turned his head. “Gilbert. My friends.” He dropped his head and sighed. “I fear the name of Justice is no more in the city of London.”
The man and the boy exchanged looks. Gilbert rested a large paw on his arm. “Crispin, what can you mean?”
“I mean,” he said, shaking off the man’s hand and climbing precariously to his feet, “that Justice is damned, along with everyone else in this stinking town!” He used Gilbert’s shoulder as leverage to step out of the bench and lurched toward the hearth. Jack launched himself to his feet to prevent Crispin from pitching headlong into the fire. But he shook Jack’s hands off of him, too.
“Le’ me be!” he growled. He leaned unsteadily over the flames, letting them roast his thighs and knees. It didn’t help. He still felt cold and numb. Dead. He was a corpse already. Should have let Radulfus kill him in the street. Then the pain of that unspeakable ache in his chest wouldn’t feel so bad now. “Let me be,” he whispered.
“What happened at court, Master?” asked Jack, positioning himself beside him.
“What happened? You wish to know what happened? Very well. I was emasculated, that’s what happened.”
