“There should be no reason in your lying now that you have your ‘object of great price’.”
She clutched it in her fist and held that fist to her heart. “You have saved my life. I thank you.”
He bowed. “You are welcome.” When he lifted his head his mouth hardened. “Did you kill Gaston D’Arcy?”
The fist lowered to her side. She opened her hand and stared down at the ring for a long time before she took it from her palm and placed it on her finger. “Why do you ask me such a question?”
“I have asked so many today. Surely one more will not break you.”
She paused. “I certainly had good reason to.”
He had wanted so badly for Stephen to have worked alone that he did not wish to entertain the possibility that the crime might also include her.
“You are displeased,” she said. “Is it because I left you as I did?” She smiled and waved her hand in dismissal. “No, that is not the reason. Very well. I will give you cause to celebrate. I did not kill him. But I cannot say I am aggrieved to see him dead.”
“Vivienne, for the love of Christ, if you are lying to me I will find you out.”
“I know.” Her bravado faded. “And so I do not lie to you now. I killed no one. And I should not hang for a crime I did not commit.”
“Did Stephen act alone?”
“I know nothing of it. I should think the sheriff would know more than I.”
“If Stephen did it, then why?”
She shrugged. “For the grail?”
“He knew nothing of it either.”
“Then for another reason. As I said, Gaston had many lovers. Maybe Stephen’s woman was one of them.” She lifted her hand to examine her ring. “Do you believe me, Crispin? Or will you arrest me? I know that is why you came.”
He crossed his arms over his chest. “I thought you had ties to Stephen.”
“No. Not beyond this ring. It was all I sought. It was all I ever sought. De Marcherne be hanged. I only wanted my ring. He can look for his grail on his own.” She looked at him with squared shoulders. “Do I seem like the kind of woman who needs to resort to murder?”
Vivienne was resourceful, to be sure, and competent. But he agreed that her wilier nature was capable of much more intricate means to serve her ends.
“I confess I used you ill,” she went on. “I am sorry for that. But I am only sorry for lying to you…not with you.”
He paused before he approached her.
“Will the sheriff arrest me?”
He sighed. “Guillaume de Marcherne is a dangerous man. But I suppose you already know that. If he threatened you in some way…”
She sighed, a world-weary expulsion of breath and soul. Moving toward the fire she stood before it, head bowed, gown gathered tightly about her. “And if he did?”
“Vivienne. You must tell me.”
“Why? Why must I? Is not our business now over? I’m leaving as much for your sake as mine.”
“He did threaten you. Extortion? Worse?”
“Do what he says, Crispin,” she whispered. “I fear for you.”
“For me? Do not worry over me. I can take care of myself.”
Her brightened eyes roamed over his borrowed coat and stockings. “Of course,” she said.
He took her shoulders and turned her to him, gently this time. Her head hung listlessly. “He forced you to try to get the grail from me?”
“He only wanted to know if you already possessed it. But he frightens me. And extortion or no, I fled London. I am not brave like you, Crispin. I thought I could fool my husband for a time should de Marcherne make good on his threats.”
“But now you have your ring. His threats are groundless.”
She smiled. “Thanks to you.”
“If I were you, I would stay on your estates for a good long time. With your husband.”
Her smile sagged.
“And I will deal with de Marcherne in my own way.”
He turned to go but she stopped him by touching his arm. “If someday…I should find myself a widow…and in London…”
He did not face her. He gathered his things in silence and left.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
After leaving Vivienne, he decided to accept the convent’s humble hospitality. Once the morning light brightened his small room, he donned his own garments and stuffed those donated by Martin Kemp into the saddle bag. He could now happily return the clothes to his landlord and owe nothing.
But as he stretched into the damp morning and pulled himself into the saddle again, he could think of nothing better than Gilbert’s wine and the comfort of the Boar’s Tusk. Of course he would have to first return the horse to the sheriff and explain why he did not have a prisoner.
His hips rolled along with the mare’s gait. “I do not have to tell him the whole truth,” he muttered, and put up his hood.
He rode silently, reviewing his diagram in his head and rearranging the names to piece together the new information. The least initial deviation from the truth is multiplied later a thousand fold. How many lies were there now? How many more were there to find?
He arrived in London after sext and slowed his mount to a dull plod before dipping down toward Newgate.
He left the horse in the stable courtyard with a groom, and took his time reaching Wynchecombe’s hall, but when he neared it, he heard him arguing with someone.
Rosamunde.
Flattening against the wall, Crispin considered. He certainly did not wish to challenge Rosamunde again, and the sheriff would not be pleased that he returned empty-handed. The Boar’s Tusk was looking better and better. He felt a bit of a coward when he turned on his heel, but he consoled himself that another confrontation with Rosamunde was bad for his disposition and a bowl of wine was the only cure.
Crispin pushed his way through the throng blocking the entrance to the Boar’s Tusk. After finally freeing himself, he staggered into the room and scowled at the crowd still pushing their way in.
All he wanted was some peace and quiet. What the hell was all this?
He spotted Gilbert near the back doorway and tried to make his way toward him, but the crush of people overwhelmed. No way through. He jumped up onto a long table instead and walked across the planks to the next table until he reached him.
Gilbert looked up just as Crispin leapt to the ground.
“Sweet Jesu, Gilbert. What goes on here?”
“I do not know,” he shouted back over the noise. “There is a rumor about the wine. Now everyone wants it, but I am nearly out. I fear a riot.”
“The wine? Surely not yours.”
He shook his head. “I know not. People have come saying they were healed of infirmities, and they think it is my wine.”
Crispin scoffed. “All because of rumor?”
“Aye. But the casks are nearly empty. What can I do?”
“You may have to call in the sheriffs.”
Gilbert cast his gaze across the heads and faces angrily shouting for drink. “What will they do to my place?”
“I don’t know. I only came for the peace and quiet. And of course your excellent wine.”
Gilbert looked at him and suddenly laughed. “Come with me,” he gestured, and Crispin followed him through the back courtyard and down a staircase to the lower mews.
“At least it is quieter here,” he said, leading Crispin to a table and stools. Oil lamps lit the store room and shadowed the large casks that lined the walls. “If it is wine you want, wine you shall have.” He took a jug from a shelf and filled it from a spigot. He raised the jug triumphantly and brought it and two clay cups to the table.
“So now your wine has miracle properties, eh? I always thought it was the water.”
“There now! You know I do not water my wine.”
They both drank. Gilbert’s face concentrated on the flavors. Crispin found himself doing the same and trying to discern anything new.
“This is madness,” Crispin said at last, putting the cup down. “There is nothing to this wine. It is a miracle if it tastes good.”