Another perusal made Crispin’s lips part with dismay. “God’s blood!”
All of his clothes were gone as well.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
“It’s not like me to say ‘I told you so,’” Jack rattled, “but breaking one of the Almighty’s commandments never bodes well.”
“For God’ sake, be still, Jack!” Crispin’s angry voice muffled under the shirt he pulled over his head.
“Master Kemp was kind enough to give you them clothes and shoes. A proper payment should be made to him to set things aright.”
“Why don’t you just ‘come by’ more of his coins and balance the books!”
“I would, Master, but you told me not… Oh, I see. You are angry with me. Well, don’t kill the messenger.”
Crispin wrestled with the shirt’s laces. “No. I am not angry with you, but with myself.” He sat heavily on the end of the bed and pulled on each stocking, tying them to the braies’ waistband. “I let myself be duped by a woman!”
“She could not have gotten far.”
“The tavern keeper said she left before nightfall.”
“Then she would have to stay at an inn or a monastery along the way to her estate, eh, Master Crispin? You said they were near Chelmsford.”
“Yes.” He yanked on the oversized coat and pulled mercilessly on the buttons. “But I will never be able to catch up to her without a horse and that takes money.”
Jack absently brushed the dust from Crispin’s shoulder. “There’s the money from de Marcherne.” Crispin’s glare told him that topic was prohibited. “Or…er… you could talk to the sheriff. He might see his way to lending you an animal if it was on the king’s business.”
Crispin sighed heavily and sat back. His body sagged, crumpling the coat. “That is good advice, Jack. And I must pursue her.”
“Aye, Master. This makes me reluctant to tell you that Lady Rothwell has sent a messenger saying she wants to see you.”
Crispin dragged his hand over his head and down to the back of his neck. His muscles stiffened and ached. “I am compelled to see her first.” What would the boy do now? Stay at Crispin’s side? He certainly proved his worth by bringing him some clothes.
“You may…do what you will, I suppose. Er…return to my lodgings, if you wish.”
The lad’s grateful expression smoothed his own sour temperament.
“Or perhaps go to the sheriff and tell him…”
Jack frowned. “I’d rather not, Master. The sheriff gets me skittery.”
“Yes. He gets me equally ‘skittery.’ But if you will, go ahead of me and wait outside Newgate. I will hurry back as quickly as I can from the White Hart.”
Pinched and drawn, Rosamunde’s face looked like a mummer’s mask. “Crispin. I thank you for coming.”
“My lady.” He bowed and waited. She wrung her hands and paced. He could hear Jenkyn and her maidservant behind the anteroom’s curtain. When Crispin served as a page many years ago, he had ears only for the needs of his master. Any other conversation was sacrosanct, though he could not vouch for the integrity of servants of a lower class. He flicked his gaze toward the still curtains and frowned.
“Yesterday I went to see Stephen,” she said.
He thought he could, but when the moment arrived, he could not look her in the eye. He listened to his own breathing, and felt the strangeness of his feet in borrowed shoes and his body in Martin Kemp’s long shirt and coat.
“Oh, Crispin,” she whispered. “How could you have done it?”
“The evidence-”
“Damn the evidence. He is my brother. He has done nothing. I know it.”
“He knew the dead man, he argued with him, and he was the last to see him alive. There is little left to infer.”
“He did not do it. He could not have done,” she pleaded, wringing her hands. “Poison, Crispin? You know Stephen well. Would a man of honor use poison?”
“A jury must decide.”
“He told me you captured him.”
At first it had felt good to apprehend Stephen and escort him to prison; to see him in that cell, a cell similar to the one Crispin resided in all those years ago. It did feel good, but only briefly. Now he stood before Rosamunde like a schoolboy awaiting the rod. He entwined his fingers. “That is so.”
“I hate your vengeance. I hate your anger. Is your revenge for me, too? To make me suffer so?”
“A crime was committed.”
“And yet you would hang an innocent man.”
“He has not proven that!” Crispin jerked away from her scrutiny and stood by the window. The open shutters threw a wash of pale light across the floor before him. “He says nothing. He is as stubborn as you are.”
She moved to him and raised her delicate hands. “Once, you loved me. You were even Stephen’s bosom friend. We were to be family. All of us. But your selfish, stupid act ruined it all. We barely recovered from it.”
“Bless me.” He exhaled into the cold air of the open shutter. “What a pity. You barely survived. Well. I must say a rosary or two in repentance for that.”
“Do not jest…”
“No, indeed. I do not jest. What a pity that your honor barely survived.” He turned to her then. “Do you know what living hell I endured for the last seven years? I starved, Rosamunde. I took scraps from almoners before I could find some kind of work to feed myself. I slept in church doorways and nearly froze to death. And the very first employment I got-and I was damned lucky to get it-was mucking out latrines for one penny a day. And do you know what I discovered, Rosamunde? Shit is shit no matter who expels it, king or beggar.” He tore away from her and walked stiffly across the room.
“After three months of that I became a henchman for a rich burgess. It was my duty to protect him and, on occasion and for extra pay, I beat nearly to death his debtors.” He rubbed his knuckles absently, remembering.
“The next year was better. I was a scribe and worked for merchants. They were kind to me, for the most part. I received more generosity from their little gestures than can be found in all of court.” He heaved a breath. “I can assure you, my dear lady, that you, too, would muck out a privy if it meant one more day alive. So do not weep over your poor little life. Because I know what it is to hang from the lowest rung.”
She shook her head slowly. “I felt so sorry for you once. How bitter you have become.”
“Bitter?” He grabbed his hair in frustration and bellowed out a guffaw. “You have a great gift for understatement!”
She pressed her hands together prayerfully and touched her fingertips to her lips. “I asked you here to plead for my brother’s life.”
He straightened and brushed off his coat. “Why come to me? You would have greater luck petitioning the sheriff.”
“I know you. At least, I used to.”
“Yes, yes. While your honor suffered so.”
“Crispin, please. You know he could not have done it. Surely there are other suspects.”
His gaze was steady. “How do you know Gaston D’Arcy?”
“I met him at court.”
“And how do you know Lady Stancliff?”
“I told you before. Also from court. We do not know one another well.”
“What is it you spoke to D’Arcy about?”
Her hands were still linked in prayer. The skin was white and veined in blue. Her wedding band encircled her left ring finger. “I cannot say.”
“Damn you, Rosamunde! I cannot help you unless you speak!”
“There are just some things, Crispin, that cannot be said aloud.”
“Yet you said it to him?”
“Try to understand.”
“Never, Rosamunde. Never!” Only now he recalled their devilish arguments. Why did he fail to remember that until this moment?
He grabbed his beard-stubbled chin and rubbed it raw. He simply could not stomach deceit. She never hid anything from him before. What was so terrible that she could not say? He wanted it to be the key to the case, but he feared it was only his frustration at being cast aside.