Crispin chuckled at the boy’s audacity. “It is a diagram of what transpired so far and those involved. It’s everything you just talked about.”
“God blind me!” Jack stared at the slate with renewed interest, though Crispin knew he could not read the names.
“You said you came to a conclusion, Tucker. Do you now name a different murderer?”
“Well, sir, you say it is Stephen St Albans but I think it is the anti-pope’s men. They are the ones that wanted the grail so badly. For the murderer must know something of the grail as it seems of great import. Whether it exists or not. And as you said, Stephen don’t seem to know ought of the grail.”
“I see.” He eyed Jack with admiration. Not only was Jack greatly skilled with nimble fingers, but his mind seemed equally so. Crispin supposed it would have to be for Jack to have survived on his own in London at so young an age.
Crispin looked at the slate and pushed his hair back from his forehead, flattening the dark locks with his hand. “I thought this list would help. There is still something missing. Something I am forgetting.”
Slurping his wine, Jack returned to the fire. “I say that you do not worry further over it. You have captured your murderer and will get your revenge. Either Stephen is lying about the grail or there is no grail. Either way it don’t affect you. Forget the grail. Take the money you have and go in hiding for a time until this blows over. You will be in good stead with the sheriff and you will have made some coin from it all. And you will remain alive.”
“But what of Rosamunde?”
Caught in mid breath, Jack deflated. “Ah now. The lady. I did not consider…”
“It doesn’t matter,” he said tossing the slate on the table. “She no longer loves me and will not have me. She said so.”
“And Lady Stancliff?”
“Lady Stancliff,” he said, though it came out a growl. “I must go to see Lady Stancliff. I need some answers. I’m off to the Bell. Stay by the fire and warm yourself, if you like. You have earned it.”
Crispin headed down the lane toward the Bell, never considering what he was going to say. Instead, his emotions took over and bubbled in his chest like a kettle’s dancing lid. The feeling of being a cuckold remained strong, though the lady had a husband and only Lord Stancliff had the right to any feelings on the matter. But still. If de Marcherne paid her a call… Crispin thought of that night at the inn when Vivienne met a mysterious man. He was now fairly certain it was de Marcherne.
Crispin talked briefly with the innkeeper and found her chamber door. When he knocked, he heard her voice calling out, expecting a servant.
Crispin entered, closed the door behind him, and leaned against it. “Vivienne.”
She whirled. “Crispin!”
He noticed chests and baskets packed and stationed by the door. “Yes, Madam. It’s me.” He strolled forward and, with a smile, curled his arm around her waist and yanked her hip against him.
She tried to extricate herself. “Crispin. What an unexpected surprise. How did you find me?”
“I am the Tracker. Is a lost lady so difficult?” He nuzzled her neck, sniffing first the aroma of lavender, then perspiration. “Vivienne.” He raised his face and kissed her, though he noticed the return of that kiss seemed distracted and less ardent than before. “Since last we met,” he whispered and nipped her lips, “I have not been able to get you out of my mind.”
She stood stiffly against him with his arms wound tightly around her. “Truly? That is very flattering, though I regret we should have become so entangled. I am a married woman.”
Crispin drew back to look at her askance. “Surely this should have occurred to you before. It is rumored that I am not the first.”
“Well. Rumors….”
“Are you leaving, Madam? I see your baggage is prepared.”
She laughed nervously and touched her throat. “I must return to my estates. I have been too long away.”
“But the object of great value? Did you find it?”
“Alas, no. I must leave it for now and return at a later time.”
His hand inched toward her wrist, grabbed it, and shoved her arm up her back. She cried out but he yanked her hard against him. “What troubles you, sweeting?” he said, teeth clenched. “It did not tax you to be so close to me the last time.”
“You are hurting my arm!”
“Am I? It is only to impress upon you the seriousness in which I take my work. Though I was diverted before, I will keep my attention focused this time.”
She struggled but could not free herself. In any other circumstance, Crispin might have found such physical contact delightful, but he knew he had to keep his anger in check. He did not wish to inflict any real damage. Not yet.
“So tell me,” he said, tightening his grip on her wrist. “Did you find what you were looking for?”
“No. I told you…”
“I hope you do not intend to lie to me further. I have no more patience for it. Tell me again. Do you have the grail?”
“The what?”
“The Holy Grail. Where is it?”
She smiled even in her agitation. “Holy Grail? You can’t be serious.”
“I am extremely serious.”
“You thought I sought the Holy Grail? Blessed Virgin!”
Crispin still held her tightly, but now he began to doubt his reasons for doing so. He released her and stepped back. Vivienne lowered her arm and rubbed her wrist.
“What, then? What had you to do with Gaston D’Arcy?”
She raised her shoulders but only to heave a great sigh. She turned from him. “Is it so important?”
“If your neck is at all important to you, for I shall surely break it if you do not say!”
Her lips evened to a tight line. “Gaston D’Arcy was my lover. Is that what you wanted to hear?”
Expected, but it still hurt. “Did you know he was a Templar?”
“No! I knew he was a secret knight, for he kept his armor hidden and I saw the cross upon his surcote, but it was a game to me. Never could I have dreamed…”
“Then what went awry? Did he tire of your promiscuity?”
She delivered a hearty slap to his face. Crispin did not react except to feel the cold sting of her hand and the hot aftermath that radiated outward from his cheek.
“As a matter of fact,” she said, resting her fist in her hip, “I tired of his.”
Her expression appeared defiant, but with an underlying streak of pain, the kind on a child wrongfully punished. Something about it stabbed his heart with empathy. He knew he should say something. He wanted to ask about de Marcherne, but somehow, to utter his name now when she looked so vulnerable, seemed unnaturally cruel. Instead, he said nothing.
He approached slowly. She did not react at first, but allowed his arms to encompass her. Stubbornly, she would not raise her face to his, so he captured her chin between his thumb and forefinger and lifted it. Silver tears glistened on her cheek, darkening her long lashes. Her eyes were her history, written in the pain of almost as many hurts and humiliations as he had suffered.
Her red lips parted. To curse him? He would never know. Leaning forward, his mouth took possession of hers with unexpected fervor. It did not take long for her arms to encircle his neck, and once they did, his arms tightened about her and mashed her breasts against his chest.
He remembered unlacing her gown, and she pushing his shirt out of the way, and very little else but the sweetness of passionate oblivion.
When Crispin awoke, he forgot where he was. He raised his head and noted the darkness of the room. No candle burned and the fire had dispersed to warm ashes.
Wrapped in the sheet and nothing else, Crispin lay for a while. Once the cloud of pleasure dissipated from his head, his memory returned.
A sinking feeling suddenly thumped his gut. “Vivienne?” he called weakly.
But even a cursory look about the room confirmed that she, along with her baggage, had vanished.