“You heard him. He refused to say.”
“And that is good enough for you? Why did he need rescuing? And where is the grail?”
Wynchecombe leapt from his chair. “God’s teeth, Crispin! Are you still bringing that damn grail business into it?”
“Yes, my lord.”
The sheriff gestured into the air. “I’ll have none of it. Does the thing even exist? Rumor is not enough. I will believe only when I see it.”
“So said Doubting Thomas.”
“Nevertheless.” Wynchecombe reached for his wine and paused. “I have never seen this side of you, Crispin. Why are you so willing to believe?”
“You saw the grail knight.” He shouldered into the room and hovered near a chair long enough for Wynchecombe to relent and offer it to him.
Crispin sat heavily. “And I talked to other Templars, his companions. It’s not that I believe in the grail itself, but that there is a cup that has been stolen. Surely it is valuable to these men for they wish for me to find it.”
“You would make of this a conspiracy. I say lay it to rest. The murder is solved.”
“Is it?”
Wynchecombe’s wine poised at his lips when he slammed the goblet on the table. Red splattered onto his papers. “Now see here! Enough is enough. The murderer is in that cell.”
“It remains to be seen.”
“You heard him. He would not speak of it.”
“A man is not necessarily guilty just because he is silent.”
“And that’s where you’re wrong. According to the law, silence is affirmation. If he has nothing to hide, why not speak?”
“Perhaps he has something else to hide.”
“Crispin…” Wynchecombe shook his head and rubbed his eyes with the heel of his palms. “Why must you always make more of it than there is? Is it the six pence? I already said I’d pay you extra for your trouble. Just take the coins and vex some other worthy.” He tossed them to the table and Crispin watched them clatter and land, gleaming in the fire light.
“It is not for that, my lord, and you know it!”
Wynchecombe gulped from his goblet and gazed at Crispin steadily. “What is it that truly vexes you?” he said quietly. “I know your history. All of court knows it. By the mass, all of London knows it. So why are you suddenly so reluctant when before you were hot for his blood? Come now. You might as well tell me.” He reached for his pouch and laid another two coins carefully on the pile already on the table.
Crispin licked his lips, eyes darting toward the bounty. “Stephen-despite my feelings and my personal history-has always been an honorable man. If he were guilty…I think he would admit it.”
The sheriff glared at him, grinding his teeth. He jolted to his feet. “Very well. We will get it out of him. Now.”
Crispin moved swiftly to block him. “Allow me to do it.”
The sheriff guffawed. “I should let you interrogate him?”
“Commission me then.”
“And what will that cost me?”
“My lord…” Crispin closed his fists and bowed his head. “I give my word as a tool of your office to interrogate him and behave in a fitting manner. For no fee.”
They both fell silent. Even the crackling flames muted in the still air. Wynchecombe considered. His brows fumbled and his mustache buried his lips. He took his time deciding.
“Very well. See to it, Guest. But I tell you now, if you are wrong and he complains to the king, it’s your head in the noose, not mine.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Jack hurried through the streets, a tight happy feeling filling his chest. Four years ago, he hadn’t wanted a master. The slovenly man his mother had served wasn’t interested in cultivating an apprentice and certainly had no need of Jack, nor of feeding, housing, or paying him. The man was as relieved as Jack was when Jack left him for good, though it hadn’t been long after that he would have gladly doffed his pride and begged to be back for the scraps to eat and a warm fire to sleep by.
But here was a master worth having! Master Crispin seemed like no ordinary man. And his vocation was strange and unusual. Jack knew he could learn the habits of a varlet but he liked better doing such tasks as Crispin had set him to today. Finding Lady Vivienne and following her would be simple, for he knew the streets of London better than the rats. Yes, it was good to find a home at last. He found he wanted to make the man proud of him, for he had the feeling that Master Crispin didn’t suffer fools, and neither did Jack.
Crispin had said that Lady Vivienne would go to the Spur, an inn on Friday Street. Jack made his way there with no hesitation.
He held his chin up. For once, he was not skulking in the shadows, creeping upon his prey. He was walking in the clear light of day, taking in the passersby, watching curiously as boys-some his age, some younger-worked furiously for their masters by fetching water, carrying heavy loads, or sat crouching over tables and working their nimble fingers on some intricate trade.
The smells of the mid-morning wafted around him. Smells of cooking fires, dead fish, horse dung, sweet hay, wet wool, and roasted meats, all swirling together in an odor that said “London.” Church bells began to chime, each claxon making its own unique sound, but all telling him it was terce, well before noon. He squinted up toward the gray sky but it was overcast and offered very little in the way of warm sunshine.
From West Cheap he turned down Friday Street and slowed as he neared the inn. A painted wooden spur hung from an iron hanger right before the inn door and Jack scanned the street around him. It was a strange thing, this task. For always before, he felt he was a little bit invisible. By necessity he had worked hard not to be noticed. But for some reason, now he felt gilded with a motely of colors, as if all eyes were upon him and knew what he was about. He tucked his hood down almost over his eyes and shuffled in place, kicking at a stone and stuffing his hands into his sleeves for warmth.
Don’t be daft, Jack. No one’s looking at you any more than they ever did.
He warily stole a look out from under his hood and saw that it was true. No one paid him any heed. He was just a boy, after all. What mischief could he be up to? Drawing his hands from his sleeves he adjusted his tunic and stalked forward across the dung-littered inn yard as if he belonged there. He crossed the threshold and pushed open the door.
The inn’s hall was a riot of noise but the warmth and savory smells of food drew him in further until he was standing beside a table with a group of laughing men. They were enjoying their beakers of ale and spooning pottage from wooden bowls. Jack watched them for a moment, licking his lips, his belly growling, before he lifted his gaze to the rest of the hall. Tables and stools, all occupied with mostly men in traveling clothes. Some nuns sat off to the side and kept to themselves, their veils hiding most of their faces in shadow. Some other women in cloaks and sturdy gowns laughed alongside their male companions with bright eyes and smiles on their faces. Gowns in blues and cheerful crimson, yellow stockings, green cotehardies, gaily embroidered houppelandes. It reminded Jack of colorful chickens clucking in a barnyard.
He moved slowly through them, itching to cut a purse that was so carelessly hanging outside a cloak, or nab those laid on a table without a protective hand covering them. He pulled himself up short. He was here for a purpose, one Master Crispin had set him to and he was going to perform it as best he could. He rubbed his palms instead, keeping them occupied.
He listened as he moved, wondering if he’d catch some word or phrase that could help him. But it seemed a futile move, for nothing told him of Lady Vivienne. What made Master Crispin think she would come here?
He went to the stairwell and stood at the bottom. A gallery above the hall wound about three sides. Doors were tucked up there in the smoky gloom but they told him nothing.