“There are times,” he said, voice husky, “that I feel alone.”
“How brave of you to say. It makes me think…” The tip of her pink tongue pressed against small teeth. “No. That, too, is foolish.” She toyed with the brooch. “Have I spoiled your trust in me because of our kiss?”
Crispin clasped his hands together. “Not exactly. I was surprised, to be sure. But I know what manner of woman you are.”
“Oh. I see.” She threw back her head, but instead of laughing she heaved a sigh.
Crispin’s attention drew to her shoulders and neck, and then down to her neckline moving in rhythm to her breaths.
“A young woman marries the wealthy old man,” she said. “The butt of many jests. Certainly ambition plays its role at court. But you must remember it was not by my choice I married, but by my uncle’s. A woman is always at the mercy of her kin, unless she be an orphan. And if she were, she had better be a rich one.”
He gazed into her brown eyes but thought instead of green. “Yes. I know well how a woman is not her own master.”
“Just so.”
“Then who is the man you fear?”
“Stephen St Albans.”
Crispin heard the timbers crack in the walls, until he realized it was not the walls but his teeth clenched in his jaw. “Stephen?” he asked calmly.
“Yes,” said Vivienne. “I think you know him.”
His jaw would not loosen. “Yes.”
“Then you know he is dangerous as well as heartless. The object he has belongs to me. Well, if not to me, at least it will keep me safe.”
He fisted his hands, not knowing whether he should curse or punch the wall. Shuddering to control himself, he stared at her, unsure of himself in the veil of her vulnerability. “Whatever this object,” he said cagily, “I will see it returned to its rightful owner.”
“Good. But I wonder,” she said, eyes downcast artfully, “what his sister was doing here.”
“You know Lady Rosamunde?”
“Only by sight.”
A heartsore sensation lingered in Crispin’s chest when he mentioned Rosamunde’s name. “You have nothing to fear from her. It is…other business.”
She smiled. “I trust you. You are all that they say about you. No matter what the king did, you remain a knight in my eyes.” She breathed a sigh. “How clever you are. Such an interesting life you lead. It makes a woman jealous of her own drear life in the quiet of solars. You must discover some thrilling mysteries. Interesting objects. Any of late you would tell me of? It is only that my own life is so sheltered. Your antics are like those of a minstrel’s song.”
He doubted very much that her life could be all that sheltered, but he shook his head. This was the second time she asked this. “Nothing, I fear, that would interest you and your…sheltered life.” He stepped closer to her, painfully aware of the scent of her and that red mouth. He remembered kissing her before. “What am I looking for?” he whispered. It seemed to be many questions at once. He wanted a kind of certainty from Vivienne, some clue that he pursued something tangible and real. The grail was a dream, part of the ethereal mist of Camelot. Rosamunde, too, was unreal, like a dream. He needed something to grasp, something substantial to believe in.
She slanted forward and touched her lips to his, and whispered, “You will know when you find it.”
He had more questions but he couldn’t seem to grasp them from his foggy mind. His mouth joined to hers and he kissed her deeply, like he had wanted to before.
She did not caress or pull him into an embrace. Instead, she clutched wildly at his clothing and yanked open the collar.
He hauled up the folds of her skirts and shoved her hard against the door.
Jack Tucker spent the night on the cold landing after all.
Vivienne left before Crispin arose. Amazingly, the boy was still on the landing. Crispin let him in to warm himself by the fire and offered him some cheese and a heel of bread. While he shaved, he endured Jack’s quiet scrutiny, and then shook his head at himself as he left the boy alone in his lodgings in order to search for Stephen St Albans at last.
Crispin stood outside the Rose a long time before going in. The innkeeper spied him first and raised his arms in greeting. “Sir Crispin! My lord, it has been many a day since you have graced my humble establishment.”
Crispin cringed. Jesu. He hurried to meet the innkeeper, stifling the next declaration by laying a hand on his shoulder. “A long time indeed. But as you well know, Brian,” he said, lowering the volume of his voice, “I am no longer ‘Sir’ Crispin. Nor am I ‘Lord’ Crispin.”
Brian’s merry demeanor melted, replaced by a humiliated mask. “Forgive me, my lord…I mean, Master Crispin. I would not wish to harm you with my words any more than…”
“Peace, Brian,” he said reflexively, patting the man’s arm and maneuvering him to a bench. How many times over the years had he played out this scenario with others? No wonder King Richard thought it a fine Hell for him. A never-ending ritual of mortification and dishonor.
“I have only come this morning to ask you some questions.”
“Anything for you, Master Crispin.”
“Thank you, old friend. I seek Stephen St Albans. Has he been here?”
“That whoreson.” Brian spat and folded his arms over his chest. His pale freckled face pouted, wrinkling forehead up to his receding hairline.
“Now Brian. I would not have you disparage one of your loyal patrons.”
“Now, Master. It was he-”
“I know well what he did. It is important I find him.”
“If it is so, then I will help you. But alas, we have seen nothing of him for days.”
“Has anyone seen him in, say, a sennight?”
“Here!” Brian called to a servant. “Rolf, bring Master Crispin some wine. And then tell us if you have seen hide or hair of Sir Stephen St Albans?”
Rolf’s face broke into a smile. “Master Crispin!”
Crispin raised his hand in an attempt to stave off another scene. “Rolf. It is good to see you, too. But I must not delay. Can you tell me about Sir Stephen?”
Rolf scratched his head and pushed a cup in front of Crispin. He poured wine from a leather jug. “Aye,” he answered. “He hasn’t come in for at least two days. And him coming regular all these years. Mayhap he’s off to France.”
Crispin leaned in. “Why would you say that?”
“Oh, often he’d talk to his fellows about France and his business there.”
“Did you happen to hear the nature of that business?”
“I know not. As soon as I come with the jug they’d all commence to talk that French talk.”
“Who were these fellows of his?”
“Lords, I suppose. Men from court. Serious men. They came to talk and did very little drinking.”
“Did they arrive together?”
“No. They’d meet here and depart separately.”
Crispin tapped his fingers on his wine bowl and scowled into the ruby liquid. “Is there anything more you can tell me, Rolf?”
“No. That is all. Except for Lady Rothwell.”
“Lady Rothwell came here?”
“Aye.”
“How often?”
“In the last week, almost all the days he came.”
“How about two days ago?”
“Aye. She was here.”
He made a sound much like a growl deep in his throat. “Did they lapse into French when you approached?”
“Aye. That they did.”
He thanked Rolf and Brian and took his leave, promising to return, though when he scanned the room and the darkly shadowed faces of squires who looked down their noses at him, and at knights who scowled and jabbed each other in the ribs when he passed, he knew he would not come again.
Like a spirit, Crispin traversed London, stopping only occasionally to partake of food from a purveyor of meat pies, or of roasted meat on sticks. He did what he should have done days ago, and slipped into the alleys to question those who knew the man, who had dealt with him, but his meticulous inquiries yielded nothing.