He dropped out the window, the cup in his hand. His men fought in earnest. Edwin slashed one man across the chest and he dropped with a groan. Without thinking, Crispin snatched up the discarded blade and stood beside the old Templar. With a feral smile, Crispin raised the blade with remembered skill. The sharp sound of steel on steel rang out in the little room. An abrupt appetite for blood swelled in Crispin and he gathered all his aggression.
He chopped unmercifully and countered each blow before he backed his opponent against the window. Just when Crispin raised the sword for the final strike, the man slipped backwards over the sill, sliding along the broken roof tiles in a whirlwind of crashing slate.
The other two engaged by the Templars turned tail and fled down the stairs, leaving their wounded comrade behind.
Edwin stopped only to wipe his forehead and to grab Crispin’s arm with his sword hand. “You fought well, Crispin. I am only sorry your servant did not have your strength of courage.”
Crispin stopped to catch his breath and only then did he raise his hand to his bloody neck. “He followed his conscience and his loyalty. I cannot fault the boy for protecting me.”
“Yes. But what is lost today! We must follow him.” Edwin nodded to Crispin and directed his fellows out the door. They darted down the stairs in pursuit.
Crispin stood panting, sword still in hand. He looked at the empty window, then the doorway, and finally toward Jack cowering in a corner.
“You won’t beat me, will you, Master? I only did what I thought best. I don’t know naught about no grail but I do know you’ve been right good to me. I didn’t want that harm should befall you.”
Crispin lowered the sword and tossed it aside. He pressed his bloodied hand on Jack’s shoulder. “Peace, Jack. I am not angry with you. I am gratified that you feel such affection for me, as indeed…I feel for you.” He patted Jack a moment before he felt his legs give out and he fell into the chair. “This has not been an easy day,” he admitted. He glanced at the injured man groaning on the floor. “I will keep him at bay while you fetch the sheriff, eh, Jack?”
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
It took a long time to explain fully, especially since the sheriff wanted Crispin to repeat several parts of the tale again. They took away the injured man to Newgate, and the sheriff’s men dispersed. Wynchecombe sat on the chair leaving Crispin to sit on the edge of the bed.
“Crispin. You promised to make no more mistakes.”
Crispin studied his hands. Grimy creases. Palms smudged with dried blood and dirty sweat. “Jenkyn knew what happened. How could I have guessed? How could I have made the leap?”
Wynchecombe, in a rare show of parity, shook his head. “I know. Such a betrayal.” He raised his face to Crispin. His gaze steadied. “She will hang, you know.”
Crispin felt a cold hand clutch his heart. “I know. The law is the law. And she deserves the punishment.”
“Leave her arrest to me.”
“No. I will do it.”
“Crispin-”
“Simon. Give me this. It’s owed me.”
Wynchecombe breathed a long sigh through his nostrils. Crispin knew the sheriff’s thoughts: that Crispin would find an opportunity to let her go and escape the king’s justice. He couldn’t be certain he did not entertain such thoughts. But in the end, Crispin knew he would bring her in. He knew her. She would not stop with his attempted murder. When she tired of her new husband, what would stop her from eliminating him?
“‘It is not always the same thing to be a good man and a good citizen,’” quoted Crispin wearily.
The sheriff huffed. “That damned Aristotle again.” But Crispin nodded and rose. He looked about the shattered room in the ragged first light of morning; at the blood spattered on the wall and the broken end of the chair. A shelf hung aslant from one hook. Crispin’s razor and soap cake lay on the floor. “It wasn’t much to look at, but your fee may repair what is here.”
“Yes,” Crispin answered mechanically. He did not look up when the sheriff left, nor did he stir when Jack cautiously returned to the room and straightened what he could.
“Would you have me fetch wine, sir? I can run to the Boar’s Tusk with the jug.”
“Yes, Jack. Do that.”
Jack hoisted the jug-miraculously untouched in the melee-and hugged it to his chest. “I’ll go now, shall I?”
Crispin nodded but Jack made no move to leave.
“Master,” said the boy, “it is a sore thing to lose your lady. But in truth, you lost her long ago and not in the way you think. The moment she thought you were less than her, that is when you lost her. A true love would not have felt so. A true love would have moved Heaven and Earth to stay with you.”
Crispin turned a tender smile on Jack. “When did you become such a philosopher?”
Jack blushed. “Well, I’m no such, but I heard a thing or two in me day.” He made for the door and stopped on the threshold. “Don’t be hard on yourself, Master. You solved the murder. You did the best you could for the grail. It was I what lost it.”
“Don’t fret, Jack. I am well. At least I will be.” Stoically, he rose and went to his basin to sponge away the blood from his neck.
Jack made a half-hearted smile. “There’s….there’s always that Lady Vivienne, Master. You said you were fond of her. And she is back at court.”
Crispin nodded. Yes. And he wondered why, though of late he seemed to have no time to wonder. He unbuttoned his coat and yanked off the dirty shirt blotched with dried blood, and replaced it with a cleaner one. He pulled on his coat again, buttoned it, and brushed it with a rag.
“Sometimes,” Jack went on, “my wanderings take me to Westminster.” He ducked his head and blushed. “Er…I’m a man of habits, Master. Best not to ask what I was about.”
Crispin closed his eyes briefly. “Go on.”
“Well, I saw Lady Vivienne-Lady Stancliff-at Westminster Palace.”
“And so I saw her myself. What of it?”
“That is true, Master, but she was with that vile Guillaume de Marcherne. I suppose…we could let it lie.”
Crispin rubbed his fingers into his eyes. “What I wouldn’t give to let it lie.”
Jack perked up. “Will we go? We don’t want that villain coming back to haunt us.”
It took only a moment to decide. “Yes, we’ll go.” Anger propelled Crispin. He’d had quite enough of all of it. To deal first with this was to put off having to see Rosamunde, and that was something his sick belly could delay for a long time. Was there no one to be trusted? No one he could be certain of? Well, he was certain of one thing: he wanted to stop Guillaume de Marcherne. One way or another.
Crispin and Jack made the journey to Westminster, avoiding the front gate altogether. Throughout the long walk, Crispin tried to decide what it was that was going on between Vivienne and de Marcherne. She lied, that was plain enough. Her “other business,” no doubt. But what hold did de Marcherne have over her if she had her ring? Was there something more?
They entered the palace by the tradesmen’s entrance, skirting as many wide eyes as they could. “What I need to discover,” said Crispin, “is where Lady Stancliff is lodged. And I am uncertain exactly how to do that.”
“Oh, that’s easy!”
Surprised at Jack’s flippant observance, he allowed the boy to do his will. Jack moved toward a gaggle of serving maids gathering cots and hay-stuffed mattresses from the alcoves in which they were hidden. Crispin watched him talk to them, a swagger in the young boy’s bearing. The maids-girls, really-responded with giggles and coy expressions, swaying their ragged skirts and fanning their fingers before missing teeth. Jack bowed to them and they curtseyed back, and then he trotted to rejoin Crispin.
“South wing,” said Jack and led the way.