The sheriff swung and caught Crispin’s jaw with his fist.
Flashes of light, motes of black. Crispin looked up at the sheriff from the floor.
“That’s for your ill manners,” Wynchecombe said and walked around the table, but not to help Crispin up. Instead, he kicked him hard in the side. Crispin rolled away with a gasp and curled inward to protect the damage.
“And that is for using me.”
He grabbed Crispin by his collar and lifted his shoulders off the floor long enough to snap his fist at Crispin’s face a second time. He let him fall back down. His head hit the wood floor with a bang.
“And that is because I felt like it.”
Crispin lay on his back and groaned. He tasted blood and probed his teeth with his tongue, searching for loose molars. His jaw swelled. The room spun and his bruised side caused nausea to tighten his belly.
“Now,” said the sheriff standing over him. To Crispin’s blurry vision, he looked like a dark, shaggy bear. “Tell me again why I must release Stephen St Albans.”
Slowly, Crispin moved his hand to feel the floor, making certain he knew exactly where it was before trying to push himself into a sitting position. Once he sat up he gave himself a moment to quell his uneasy belly. “My lord,” he began, and gingerly touched his jaw. He glanced admiringly at the sheriff. “Stephen may have had a motive and the means, but he never would have dishonored himself by using poison. He covets his honor almost as much as I do.” He tried to smile but his jaw hurt and he winced instead.
Wynchecombe jerked his head in a satisfied nod and offered his hand to Crispin. When Crispin hesitated the sheriff thrust it forward. “Come now. Take it.”
Crispin slapped his hand into the sheriff’s and allowed Wynchecombe to haul him to his feet. He stood unsteadily, surprised when a wine cup was thrust into his hand.
“You have made a proper mess of this, Crispin.”
Crispin slurped the wine and nodded, wiping his face with the back of his hand. “I admit as much. I was fortunate that the servant Jenkyn all but confessed. He knew he was caught.”
“That is all very well for you but what of me? Sir Stephen has no love for me for throwing him in prison. If he goes to the king…”
“I might be persuaded to influence Stephen to press no countercharges.”
Wynchecombe studied Crispin. “I see.” He nodded and released a sound not quite a chuckle. “How much will this cost me?”
Crispin dabbed his sleeve on his bloody lip. “I require no payment.”
“Not in coin, eh?”
Crispin said nothing. He blinked and touched his fingertips gently to his swollen jaw.
Wynchecombe scowled. “What about this Jenkyn, then? Are you certain this time?”
“As certain as I can be. Jenkyn knows too much to be completely innocent. We will have to thoroughly question him.”
“Then I will send my men with a description of him. He will be apprehended anon.” He cleared his throat and postured beside his chair. “I will release the prisoner. But I tell you truly, I shall not arrest him again if you are wrong.”
The Boar’s Tusk was crowded full of men drinking and making merry. Crispin edged his bruised body through the throng and found a quiet place in the back. He eased down onto a bench and cradled his face in his hand, hoping he could dull the throb in his jaw with Gilbert’s wine.
“Crispin, dear.” He looked up at Eleanor through his fingers and he saw her tick her head at him while planting one hand on her ample hip. “Tsk! You look awful. What happened?”
“The sheriff and I have come to a mutual understanding, is all.”
She waited for more explanation, but since Crispin offered none she asked, “Will you have wine?”
“Ah, such sweet words,” he sighed. “I will have wine. And plenty of it.”
She left for only a moment. When she returned she set a wooden bowl before him and poured wine into it. She did not leave the jug as expected. Instead, she cradled it in a ragged cloth and stared at him worriedly until he gestured for her to put the jug down.
“I don’t know, Crispin. Mayhap you should just go home.”
“I am home. And since I am home I am master here. Put down the jug.”
“Now Crispin-”
“Down!” He slapped the table with the flat of his hand.
She hesitated a moment more before slowly setting the jug beside the cup. “I should bring you something to eat. You look like the ragged end of a battle.”
“I don’t want food.”
“But Crispin-”
“Madam, please!”
She swiped once at the table with her apron as if to punctuate her hurt feelings and thumped away with hard steps.
“Bless you,” he said, barely realizing her absence, and then filled the half empty bowl to the rim. He lifted it to his lips and drank gratefully, rolling his upturned throat in long swallows before he set the empty bowl down. He refilled it and settled more comfortably on the bench.
After a few minutes his jaw did not feel so sore and he relaxed and closed his eyes. Alone in his dark corner, he felt the companionable solace from so many men sharing the same experience. The low murmur of their voices and laughter resonated in his chest. A bagpipe merrily played and further eased his mood.
The wine did its work, and the ache of his body and the anxiety of his mind relaxed into the distant haze of alcohol. He sat with eyes closed for some time, simply enjoying the peace of the place he called home until a tingle of discomfort and the sense that someone stood over him ruined that peace.
Rosamunde. A corona of candles flickered behind her, and with her position above him and alcohol warming his senses, it looked like a halo glowing behind her head. He lifted his bowl to her and smiled his crooked grin. “Hail, saintly Rosamunde! How fare you?”
But her saintly demeanor soon changed. Her face grew almost as scarlet as her gown. She sat hastily beside him. Her white fingers clutched the table. “I fare not well at all! How could you? It was not bad enough that you arrested my brother, but you have to abuse my servants and arrest them too?”
“Jenkyn is not arrested. Yet. He escaped, but not for long.” His tongue cleaved to his mouth and did not seem to want to cooperate with his words. They slurred on the pleasant flavors of the dark wine. “And what do you care? He is merely a servant. He is nothing to you. Why should you care that he has done you a service out of loyalty?”
“Done me a service?”
He slammed his free hand on the table. “Do not play games with me.” He eased back and chuckled unpleasantly. “I happen to know that saintly Rosamunde spent her free time swyving Gaston D’Arcy.”
This time she slapped his face. He expected it, relished its sharp thwack and the sting. He smiled broader and slurped the wine. “Such coy games you used to play with me. Only letting honorable Crispin go so far, touch only so much. What was the matter? Was I not comely enough for you?” He slid closer and looked her over like a man scrutinizing a tavern wench. His hand snaked forward to capture her waist and he pulled her snuggly against him. “How about now?” He tightened his grip and kissed her noisily and sloppily, prizing open her cold mouth and stabbing in with his tongue. When she would not react, he let her go and sagged back. He smiled again. “No. I didn’t think so.”
He drank his wine and poured more into the bowl. “Will you drink with me, Rosamunde? Like old times?”
“You’re drunk.”
“Maybe. Maybe. But not quite as drunk as I intend to be. Not yet.”
“And this,” she gestured distastefully to him, “is what stands in the way of freeing my brother and my servant? You. Look at you. Bruised and beaten from some tavern brawl, no doubt. You, of all people, are a witness to their character and their actions.”
He nodded and chuckled. “Yes. Amusing, is it not? I am the witness, who has witnessed so much in this life already.” He raised his head unsteadily to look at her. Her eyes were dark like coal smudges on her pale face, and even the candlelight could not warm it with its generous yellow tones. “You have a look on your face, my dear. Do I disgust you?”