19
Crispin stared at the letter. For how long, he did not know. His hand shook as he let the parchment slip through his fingers. The first word from his mouth was a whispered, “No.”
Jack. That fool, Jack. God in heaven. What had Crispin done?
He flung open his door and raced down the steps. Blindly, with snow smacking his face and eyes, he ran up the street toward the frosty edifice of Newgate. He didn’t quite remember crossing the threshold, or pounding on the door, or just why that great oaf William was pushing him back and why the man suddenly had a black eye.
But Crispin seemed to come to his senses when he was standing in the sheriff’s chambers, breathing hard and raggedly, heard but did not feel the fat logs crackle in the hearth, and the scowl on Exton’s fish face and the nervous finger drumming of Froshe’s stubby little digits on his bejeweled belt.
“You come here, thrashing your way through our men,” Exton was saying, but Crispin cut him off by slamming his hands on the table.
“I need a horse!”
“What, by the blessed Virgin, do you mean barging in here?” Froshe suddenly grew some backbone, only it was entirely the wrong time. Crispin glared at him, which made Froshe take a step back.
The Fishmonger narrowed his eyes. “You had better have information on that child killer, Master Guest. Or this tirade of yours might be better served in a cell.”
Exton, too, seemed to have learned a thing or two, except now there was no time! “Will you listen to me! I need a horse. I must rescue my servant Jack. He has been abducted by that very child murderer.”
Exton came swiftly around the table. “And who is the murderer?”
“Giles de Risley. Now will you give me a horse?”
“Giles de Risley? You mean Lord de Risley? Of Sheen? Are you mad?”
“He confessed it. His man confessed it. It is he. Only there is no proof. But he will kill my servant if you don’t give me a goddamned horse!”
Froshe rustled his considerable jowls. “There is no need for blasphemous language, Master Guest.”
“Help me. Come with me to Sheen and see this despicable dog for yourselves.”
Exton took his seat and Froshe followed suit. They were more concerned with studying the contents of their table with its many parchments and seals. “I am certain this all seems quite urgent to you. But you must understand. We have only been in our office for two months and to accuse one of the king’s courtiers in his own house? No, no. That would be intolerable.”
“It occurs to me, Master Nicholas,” said Froshe, his small eyes darting to his companion, “that we have yet to pay Master Guest for his services. Perhaps some gold might appease this sudden bout of urgency.”
“No, you fools! I need your help, not your gold!”
Exton rose and raised his small, pointy chin. “Sir! May I remind you of your rank? Must I bring in one of my sergeants to tutor you?”
Crispin blinked at them. They weren’t going to help him. They were going to sit there like a couple of toadstools and let a good lad die. The horror of it struck him like a blow to the face and he stepped back. Pivoting on his heel, he pushed his way out the door and stumbled down the chamber stair.
Out into the cold of the bustling street, Crispin felt lost and helpless. The king’s retinue was no doubt halfway to Sheen by now if not there already. The king himself must have taken his barge. The others would be on the road following the twisting Thames southwest.
Crispin needed a horse and damn the consequences. He did not have enough coins to hire one. He’d steal one, then! But perhaps . . . The thought came to him like a thief in the night, creeping slowly upon him.
He had to try.
He ran, dodging carts and people. He found the street of well-kept shops and houses, and pursued the sloping lane to the large shop at the corner with its own wide courtyard. He hustled to the entrance and wondered if he shouldn’t have gone to the servant’s entrance instead. But it was too late. He stood knocking, praying he would not be turned away.
When the door opened and the servant eyed him he thought of pushing him aside and searching for the master himself, but instead, he took a deep breath and bowed. “Is Master Wynchecombe here?”
The servant said, “You are Crispin Guest, are you not?”
“Yes. Please, I must see him.”
The servant, bless him, was more understanding than most, and motioned Crispin into the warm entry. The man led him to the parlor and told him to wait. Wynchecombe would either have him thrown out or come to investigate out of curiosity.
It wasn’t long until he heard a clatter and the heavy footfalls of his former rival, and then the man was standing at the threshold.
“Crispin Guest. What the devil are you doing in my place of business? Haven’t I seen the backside of you for the last time?”
Crispin was almost grateful for that familiar and grating tone. He bowed and when he rose again, Wynchecombe looked surprised. “Master Wynchecombe, I am in urgent need of your help. The sheriffs of London will do nothing.”
“Ha!” Wynchecombe stepped into the room and made himself comfortable in his chair. “How I have longed to hear you say that. You are now someone else’s problem. I do not see why you come sniveling to me—”
“Simon, for the love of God! Please listen to me.”
Wynchecombe seemed to take in Crispin’s desperation for the first time. It made him squirm a bit on his chair. “Have your say, Guest, and then get out.”
Crispin paced, drawing his fingers through his snow damp hair. “My servant, Jack, is in trouble. Desperate trouble. He got it in his head to trap a child murderer by being the bait. I need a horse and your help to arrest the murderer.”
“And why is it the sheriffs will not assist you?”
“Because the man I accuse is a courtier.”
“Goddammit, Crispin! And now you would draw me into your foolish plots? And have
“My lord! You know I would not be here if it were not the direst of circumstances. Jack Tucker is an innocent lad. He will be used most foully and then slaughtered like a spring lamb. Help me, Simon. Help
Wynchecombe stared. Clearly he was not used to such emotions from Crispin and Crispin was certainly not used to showing them. He would rather cut his own throat than expose himself so to Wynchecombe, but he had little choice.
Simon rubbed his hand under his bearded chin. “God’s teeth,” he muttered. “Where have they gone?”
“To my . . . my old estates in Sheen. Giles de Risley purchased them for his own. It is not far from the king’s court. I will return the horse in good order. You know I will. Simon—”
“I have given you no leave to use my name,” he muttered, thinking. “You have proof?”
“I had a witness. But Giles killed him with his naked blade before my eyes. He is a cruel man without a shred of mercy. He told me how he likes to kill them, likes to make them suffer while still alive. I cannot let that fate befall Jack Tucker!”
“All you want from me is a horse—”
Silence. How long did they face one another? Crispin’s rapid pulse beat out the time as precious moments slipped away. How long would Jack Tucker have?
